Like the protagonist in his book, The Clothesline Swing, Ahmad Danny Ramadan is a hakawati, a storyteller, at heart. He has listened to countless tales of hardship and love, and has carefully crafted his own novel—and life—around them. From his house in war-torn Damascus to the pride parade in Vancouver, he has dedicated much of his life to making a difference in the LGBTQ-refugee community.

Ramadan is Syrian-Canadian author, journalist, public speaker and LGBTQ-refugee activist living in Vancouver. He volunteers with the Rainbow Refugee Society, helping to bring LGBTQ-refugees to Canada. His annual fundraiser, “An Evening in Damascus,” has raised over $100, 000 in support of refugees since 2015. For his efforts, he was the Grand Marshal for the Vancouver Gay Pride Parade in 2016.

The Clothesline Swing, his most recent novel published in May 2017, explores the life of a storyteller and his dying partner, dealing with the aftermath of the Arab Spring. With Death lurking in the background, the protagonist shares stories each night of his childhood in Damascus, of the homophobia he faced in Syria, of war, and how he met his partner. His next book, The Foghorn, is expected in 2019.

This spoke with Ramadan about his experiences with refugees, his writing, and more.

You left Syria in 2012 for Lebanon and arrived in Vancouver in 2014. Why did you leave when you did, and what was your life like before you came to Canada?

I left Syria when I was 19, travelled a bit from the Middle East, and went back to Syria in 2011, specifically because I wanted to be part of the revolution against the regime of [Syrian president] Bashar al-Assad. At the time, the revolution was led by free thinkers and social justice activists—folks who really wanted to change the country from the dictatorship that it has been under for 40 years, to a democracy, the way that Syria was in the early 1950s and ’60s.

I found myself quite interested in representing the lesbian, gay, and bisexual, trans [and queer] (LGBTQ) community. I found the community had been struggling quite a lot because the Iraq war around Syria denies any kind of information from accessing the country and denies people who identify outside of the social norms from understanding their own identities to begin with. I was fortunate enough to be travelling around the world to know more about what happened within the queer community, and I wanted to spread that knowledge.

I turned my house [in Damascus] into an underground LGBTQ centre where I was sharing this knowledge. We had a lot of gathering circles where everybody shared their stories, whatever they were comfortable sharing. We had an illegal movie download night, where we downloaded new and illegal movies to watch together. We had playing card tournaments, chess tournaments, and party nights. It was it was actually quite the loving community until I was arrested for it. Part of my terms of release was that I had to leave the country, so I left Syria in 2012.

How long were you in jail?

Six weeks.

What was your refugee experience like in Lebanon?

I used to be a journalist back in Lebanon, Syria, and Egypt, so I ended up being hired by the Washington Post, which helped me avoid ending up in a refugee camp somewhere. I ended up living in my own little apartment, which slowly but surely turned into an extension of the house that I used to own in Damascus. It became this beautiful place where a lot of folks with refugee experience would come crash for a while, until they could stand on their own two feet.

A lot of queer folks, a lot of lesbians and gay people would hang out in my space and find refuge there. It was it was a very eye-opening kind of experience: You hear all of those beautiful stories and you connect with all of those beautiful people, and at the same time you are faced with the xenophobia of some—not all—of the Lebanese folks (which, to be honest, is an understandable reaction towards the Syrian refugees because Lebanon is a tiny country). You can fit five Lebanon’s on Vancouver Island, and then two million Syrian refugees just cross the borders into it. Basically there are almost as many refugees as people in the country.

Imagine if Canada had 35 million refugees landing here overnight. It would cause a lot of reaction from the community and it would be an understandable reaction because that’s a huge number of people. So I understand why I was seen as a foreigner and I understand how they reacted to that. But at the same time, I created that safe space for myself and I managed to survive in it.

With the recent influx of Syrian refugees in Canada, is that same response an understandable one?

It’s a different circumstance. We’re talking about, I don’t know, 40,000 or 50,000 refugees who came here to Canada, mostly from minority groups, and all of them through legal ways. Nobody swam across the ocean to come here. So it’s not an understandable reaction here in Canada. I haven’t actually seen that strong of a reaction against the Syrian refugees. If anything, the Canadian people were quite welcoming and continue to be welcoming of Syrian refugees.

If the same reaction came through, it would be difficult to understand, because the Canadian community is a one that is based on many immigrants coming here and settling on the lands of the First Nations people. Welcoming new immigrants and opening the doors for folks is what made Canada the beautiful country that it is.

So you think we should keep our doors open?

If anything, we should open the doors even more. There are seven million refugees at the moment in host countries across the world. Countries that are designated as first-world countries took only one or two percent of that number. So it’s a drop in the bucket. Most of the refugees that left because of the civil war in Syria ended up in Turkey, Lebanon, Egypt, and Jordan. And those are countries with their own challenges, and they don’t have the resources or the ability to support all of those refugees. Here in Canada we actually do. And we actually need them. We need new refugees. I’ve supported 22 refugees since I came here, and every single one of them is paying their taxes; they’ve got jobs, are getting to know the communities here, renting houses and adding to the economy, and bringing their beautiful stories to Canada.

How does the experience differ for LGBTQ refugees?

When you’re a queer or trans refugee, the easiest challenge to face is that when you come here, you don’t have a community to belong to. If a family of say, four—a father and a mother and their two children—ended up here in Vancouver, they will find support from the community that arrived here before them. Many Syrian immigrants who came here ages ago or who arrived a year or two ago form communities, they can get to know each other. They can have a social structure that is similar to their homes, which will ease the burden of the integration experience.

But a queer person who wants to live their full identity can’t actually belong to the same community. They can’t go to the Syrian communities and say, “I’m queer,” because the same community will bring with them the homophobia that is a part of the Syrian tradition. Which is not to say that this is acceptable, but it is the reality of things. I always felt like an outsider in Damascus as a queer person. So I carry with me the trauma of feeling like an outsider throughout my life, and that is challenging and changes how I’ve dealt with the refugee experience.

How do we end any stigma towards refugees?

Read our literature. Eat our food. Get to know who we are. Start to regard it as an interesting and productive part of the Canadian community. Recognize that we are trying our best and we’re not coming here to be a charity case, we’re coming here to become bigger than who we are and to become something beautiful.

Could you touch on your experience with the Rainbow Refugee Society?

I saw a lot of challenges in my first year here in the Vancouver, and the members of the Rainbow Refugee Society are the people who stood by me, who carried me forward, and who helped me get where I am at the moment, so I carry that that privilege and that good will of them forward.

I also run an annual fundraiser called “An Evening in Damascus.” It’s going to happen for its fourth year this coming July. It is a way to introduce the Vancouver community to what it means to be Syrian, and to change the mainstream narrative from civil war, desert, bearded men, beheadings, and all that horribleness, to a culture of beautiful music, yummy food, lovely dancing, storytelling, and spices. And to get them to donate a lot of money so I can sponsor some refugees.

What role, if any, does your book, The Clothesline Swing, play in your activism?

I’m a person of many hats, and one of my hats is that I am an author. I see myself as an author and as an activist, and I believe that my identity as a queer person of colour with a refugee experience informs both sides of my personality. But I wrote the book because I thought of a great story that I wanted to tell, and I do activism because I felt a great cause that I can support. So I think the only connection between the two is really my identity and how it forms the work that I do and the structure I want to put into my life.

How much of it was shaped by your own experience?

It’s modelled after my own journey. I would say it is a fictional telling of many true events, but those true events are not necessarily mine. I have met many queer and trans refugees from Syria, who shared with me many beautiful stories, and the book has a lot of resilience, a lot of courage, and I can’t claim that to myself. I dedicated the book to the people who shared their stories with me.

You are in the process of writing your next book. Will it share the same concepts as Clothesline Swing?

I am quite comfortable being typecast as a gay author. I have four books in my mind. The Clothesline Swing is the first of them. The Foghorn is my second book, and all of the books will be led by queer people from Syria with refugee experience. It’s the Damascus apocalypse and it is going to be told.

 
Photo by J. Walton

It has been nearly one year since the Liberal government enacted a program to admit 25,000 Syrian refugees arrived in Canada. In their first year, many of the families faced several challenges to overcome: getting to know a brand new country, finding suitable accommodations, and trying to find a job in our country’s tough economic climate, all while facing systemic racism upon arrival. The resettlement process is not easy, and many are still trying to find their way here in Canada. While the Canadian government and private sponsors have helped—offering financial assistance, medical coverage, and housing—the biggest challenge many Syrians have faced is finding community.

What often connects community members is a good home-cooked meal. The table is where we gather, not just to eat, but to talk, share, and connect. Food gets people talking; it facilitates conversation. Many Canadians are privileged enough to forget our ready-access to kitchens and supermarkets filled with endless foodstuffs, and the power it has to bring communities together.

After witnessing in the Canadian media many Syrian refugees stranded in hotels and with little opportunity to cook and gather for regular meals for weeks at a time, Len Senater, owner and operator of The Depanneur, offered his drop-in kitchen space for Syrian women to cook. From there, Toronto’s Newcomer Kitchen was born.

It has been almost six months since Newcomer Kitchen launched and in that time, several families have utilized Senater’s space as their own. The program has given many newcomers the opportunity to not just cook alongside other Syrian families but to carve out and build for themselves their own identities and communities here in Canada. The kitchen has become a space to gain agency and legitimize traditions in a new country.

For the refugees who have come through the space, the act of cooking was simple and natural. In many Syrian homes, the kitchen is a focal point, and food brings loved ones together at the end of the day. A home-cooked meal can be seen as a seal of friendship. The space emphasizes the need to celebrate this culture—not to assimilate and mask it.

Many of the women who have used Senater’s space have not only connected with one another but also disconnected from the everyday struggles they face in the resettlement process. While Westerners often try to dismantle the gender stereotypes about women’s roles in kitchens, the Newcomer Kitchen program empowers women to showcase their culture. And it has created opportunity: those involved in the program catered 1,200 meals during Toronto’s Luminato Festival, and cooked for Toronto Mayor John Tory.

Meanwhile, some newcomers have started their own enterprises. In Hamilton, Ont., three Syrian women—Manahel Al Shareef, Dalal Al Zoubi and Rawa’a Aloliwi—launched a new catering business , along with co-founder Brittani Farrington. Their meeting was a bit cosmic in nature: Farrington explains she had planned a welcome dinner for a handful of displaced families at her church. Yet, it was these families who ended up cooking for her and the other volunteers that evening. The food planted a seed with the newcomers, as Al Shareef shared with CBC via Google translate: “We weren’t surprised when you were happy trying the Syrian food, because we know very well that the Syrian food is the best, especially if we are cooking it.” That evening spurred the creation of Karam Kitchen.

The catering company, which markets itself as a way to “empower Syrian newcomers to build a new life in Hamilton and contribute to [the city’s] vibrant community,” is just getting off the ground and recently launched a Kickstarter campaign that brought in $6,500 to fund its capital costs. Since its launch, the founders have worked on refining their catering menu to include a mix of Syrian classics and recognizable dishes to locals, such as tabouleh and hummus. So far, the business model is paying off, and the women have a packed few months ahead of them. “We Syrians are such a hard working people, we love to work and earn our own money and build ourselves even in the worst circumstances,” Al Shareef told CBC. As more Syrian families are welcomed into Canada and face the adaptation and acculturation process, these newcomers face the task of finding employment—and these kitchens can change that. “The biggest barrier to employment is a lack of a network, whether that be social, professional, or otherwise,” Jeremy Dutton, program coordinator for Immigrant Services Calgary’s integrated mentorship program, told the Globe and Mail. By connecting and networking through these programs, newcomers are building a professional network they need to make and create professional opportunities for themselves.

Utilizing their own skills, culture, and cuisine, these women have created the opportunity to not only build a community but build a career from it. Food has connected these families with other Canadians—and it is bound to continue empowering these Syrian-Canadians to create opportunities for themselves in the future.