Hosting a Ukrainian refugee family reminds me of my own family's journey 70 years ago
Supporting them feels like a way of paying forward the debt my family incurred
This First Person column is written by David Hoppner Hart, who lives in Halifax. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
It was an unusually warm and sunny day in April 2023 as I drove Kirill Rumezhak, my new Ukrainian house guest, to a table tennis meet-up I had looked up for him. I knew he was tired. His family had come as refugees to Canada and I could tell that communicating in a foreign language, negotiating appointments and finding work was weighing on him.
But this evening, Kirill looked excited to play table tennis at a local club. He was going to do something fun — something just for him. Turns out, table tennis is a big sport in Ukraine and he used to play semi-professionally.
When we arrived, it seemed many players were already in the midst of games and not much inclined to welcome a new face. But finally, someone invited Kirill to play. It didn't take long for the others to see that a pro had arrived.
In short order, he was spirited away to play with the best. Kirill had a huge smile on his face, and at that point, I left knowing he was in good company and one of the players offered to drive him home.
Kirill had just come into our lives several weeks earlier.
Halifax, where my spouse and I live, is experiencing the same housing crisis growing across Canada. At the same time, Halifax has welcomed hundreds of refugees from Ukraine.
In the midst of this dual crisis, a friend called to tell us of a young couple from Ukraine with a little boy who desperately needed a host family. They knew our daughter had moved to Montreal and that we had room, so they asked us if we would consider it.
We had enjoyed our previous experiences hosting newcomers to Canada. The church where I worked for many years had sponsored various refugees from places such as Columbia and Syria. Our family had also hosted exchange students attending our daughter's school.
But foremost in our minds was the awareness that both sets of our parents had come to Canada from Germany in the 1950s.
My father was in his early 40s when he immigrated to Canada after the Second World War. He had been doing low-level, post-war intelligence work for the British government and, like many Germans during that time, was worried about a Russian incursion into Western Europe.
When my parents arrived in Sault Ste. Marie in northern Ontario, they had one young son and my mother was three months pregnant with a second. They, too, were desperate for a place to live and a kind family hosted them for several months before they found a place of their own. It was that same family who helped my mom find a doctor for the birth, helped her learn English and provided some support with the newborn.
Meanwhile, my father — a self-taught linguist, fluent in multiple languages — began working as a general labourer and spent his first Canadian winter pouring concrete. It took some months before he found work in an office as a dispatcher for the local railway.
Four years later, I was born. My parents often spoke of the family that helped them with deep affection and they stayed in touch long after we had left the city.
So, given our family background, the thought of hosting a Ukrainian family didn't feel strange to me and my spouse. In fact, it was an opportunity to pay forward the debt my family incurred when they first arrived in Canada.
However, when we received the actual request, we had to think through the implications. Would they be trustworthy and reliable in caring for our home when we were away? Would they require more assistance from us than we were able to give in our busy lives? How long would they stay?
In short, did we want to risk opening our lives to strangers? As it turned out, our fears were entirely unfounded.
Kirill and his wife, Yevgenia, were delightful, respectful, wise and caring.
We helped Kirill find his first job by connecting him with friends who owned a factory and assisted Yevgenia in finding a doctor. We encouraged our friends to share with them used baby clothes and nursery furniture. In the process, we ended up creating a shared life that was a blessing to us both.
One day over supper, as I was sharing with them the story of my parents' immigration, I was struck by the parallels in their respective experiences.
Both feared a Russian invasion. Both brought children to start life in a new land. Both my mother and Yevgenia were pregnant with a second child on their way to Canada and needed help to find a doctor. And like my father, Kirill — an engineer in Ukraine — could only find work initially as a general labourer. In both cases, a family like us put aside their misgivings to help ease a difficult time in their lives.
My parents are long deceased and I am retired. Life in Canada brought them great sorrow with the drowning death of my two older brothers, but also much joy. I sometimes wonder if they had known what Canada was to hold in store for them, would they have come? But I am glad they came nonetheless, because it meant I was raised in this wonderful country.
Hosting that Ukrainian family for three months has reminded me that we are a country of immigrants, with the majority of families having roots elsewhere. And there has always been someone here willing to lend a hand in the difficult transition upon arrival.
Reflecting on my parents' experience has made me doubly grateful to be able to assist this young family. And in the process, too, we developed a much deeper appreciation for the challenges refugees and immigrants face coming to this country.
A year later, Daniele and I meet up occasionally with Kirill and his family. When Kirill's dad visited from Ukraine, we took them around on an outing around Nova Scotia.
We hope and pray Canadians of all stripes will continue to open their hearts and lend a hand to the strangers who arrive on our shores seeking a better life and who eventually become our dear neighbours and friends.
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