The Unwitting Canadian

I didn’t choose to be Canadian. I was only four years old, clinging to my mother's hand, on July 20, 1951 when she marched me down the gangplank of the MS Nelly and into the immigration hall of Pier 21 in Halifax.

We were just two of the 1,324 immigrants on the Nelly from German DP (Displaced Persons) Camps after WWII.

My father had arrived earlier, on another ship. Canada had given him a job as a logger, with the promise of citizenship after two years of hard work and good behaviour. He was waiting for us in Timmins, Ontario.

The dream of a new life for many immigrants, like us, in the 1950s was tainted with one phrase - DP. Most Canadians, French and English alike, didn’t want us - and if they wanted to make their feelings known, calling us DPs was a favourite insult.

But they didn’t kick us out, either. Eventually, we all learned to accept each other and get on with building this country. And, together, what a country we built - and are still building! 

I was remembering what it was like in those hard-scrabble days as I wrote my book, The Golden Daughter. I was remembering my mother and I becoming Canadian citizens on Valentine’s Day, 1958.

By then, Canada was my Valentine. And since then, my love and pride in this majestic country has never faltered. I had the good fortune to travel the world for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. But I never saw anywhere that touched my heart and fed my soul as much as Canada does.

There is a quiet strength and resilience in Canada that will get us through anything, as long as we stick together.

Vive Canada! Incredibly strong, and always free.