Ami - 36

"You can't tell anyone about this."

I was five when Papa told me we were leaving the country. He swore our family to secrecy. No one could find out. 

We belonged to a religious minority, chased by a corrupt government, and threatened with violence and kidnapping. And we were getting out.

We went to a motel. My dad dedicated himself to making phone calls, pulling every favor he could to get us the visas we needed without tipping off the wrong people. 

The day came. My parents woke us up at night. They whispered in the dark as we drove, wondering if we'd be pulled over on the way to the airport. 

All this might sound terrifying. But for five-year-old me, it was exciting. Like we were the characters of an action movie.

After we arrived and began building a life in Canada, the secrecy didn't end. The mantra repeated to us over and over was, "Don't tell anyone too much about us. If you say the wrong thing, you could get us all sent back."

If a friend's mom asked, "How come your family decided to move to Canada?" I answered vaguely. I would feel guilty for how much I said...and embarrassed I couldn't say more. No one could relate anyway.

If there is such a thing as refugee trauma, my family experienced it. Worse: we weren't officially refugees — and we couldn't share any meaningful parts of ourselves with anyone.

As I grew up, all feelings of adventure and excitement wore off. I began to crave an ordinary childhood. My parents, genuinely afraid, swore me to silence to protect us. 

Filipino national hero Jose Rizal once said, "He who does not know how to look back at where he came from will never get to his destination." 

My parents inadvertently scrubbed me of all cultural understanding to keep me safe. I didn't know how to look back. I spoke English—no other languages. We had very few family friends—and none of the same cultural background. Even the name they gave me obscured my ethnic and religious background. 

I grew up isolated by the secrecy and lack of identity.

Then I fell in love with a girl who showed me a different kind of family. 

She could trace her roots back four generations. She knew the misadventures of her great-grandparents. She grew up under the gaze of sepia-toned portraits hanging on the walls. You can find her ancestors on Wikipedia and in books dating back to the foundation of British Columbia as a province.

She knew where their roots went. And I wanted that. 

As I became an adult, I started asking questions about my heritage. I asked my mom about her parents—the grandparents I never met. I asked my dad why his father moved from a peaceful country into a war-torn territory at the height of the conflict. I asked about the details of my great-grandfather's adoption. I did a DNA test and spoke to distant cousins in California and England. 

These efforts filled a few branches of the family tree. But huge sections are still missing.

Being an immigrant is hard. Being mixed race is hard. But having a weak sense of heritage made it all even harder. If Jose Rizal's quote was true, I felt doomed.

Then, that same girl — now my wife — told me we were having a baby. I come from two ethnicities. 

Our kids would have four ethnicities to decode. 

How could I provide a connection to their roots without teaching them our ancestral languages? How could I instill a sense of pride without meaningful cultural stories? 

And then…they came. 

First, our son Taj, then our daughter Safiya. While they have questions, they don't have my complex relationship with the past. 

A few weeks ago, my wife cooked adobo for them. Sure, it wasn't a family recipe, but she worked hard on it, and we shared a moment reflecting on why this dish is meaningful. 

We dance to new Spotify playlists from musicians who speak the languages of our ancestors. 

As they grow older, we plan to prioritize trips so they can discover their own stories and cultural connections.

"He who does not know how to look back at where he came from will never get to his destination." When I first read this, I felt a sense of doom. But as my children grow older — and I grow older, too — my perspective shifts. 

As I write this, my son is nine, and my daughter is five. Five was the age I was when I got off the plane in Vancouver. 

And I realize:

If I can be open with them and share everything I can without fear — maybe their sense of having roots can begin with me.

Music - Ami's music choices during our photo session included Robert Johnson, Billie Holiday, Ray LaMontage, Tom Waits and The Teskey Brothers.