Vancouver Foundation

2 0 1 7 I V a n c o u v e r F o u n d a t i o n l p a g e 1 5 O n a sunny evening in late August, about 60 people are gathered in Karen Reed's East Vancouver backyard. ey sit in chairs – around tables on the patio and on the grass in tight circles – and stand near the open doors of the home. Most of them are neighbours, chatting easily about renovation nightmares, travel plans, new movies. A rich assortment of foliage, blooms and mature trees around the perimeter of the yard gives the gathering a sense of intimacy. e conversations lull as Reed introduces two women that most guests know already: Carmen Aldakhlallah, a 25-year-old with a vibrant array of curls, and her mother, Hayat Shabo, who conveys warmth and energy without knowing much English. It's been almost a year since the two of them stepped on a plane for the first time in Beirut, leaving their war-torn Syrian home and arriving in Vancouver as refugees. ey were sponsored by about 25 of these neighbours, who raised funds to cover their travel and living expenses and then helped them adjust to their new lives. But to Reed, their presence in this community has added a new and welcome dimension. "ey are a gift," says Reed to the gathering. "ey have enriched our lives in so many ways." Over the next several hours, the neighbours enjoy an immense feast of Damascus cuisine, prepared by Shabo and Aldakhlallah. e platters include: yalanji, rice and veggie mix painstakingly wrapped in grape leaves; kebbeh, thin squares of minced beef with spices and walnuts; freekeh, roasted grain with lamb and almonds; hummus and home- baked pita. Several of the individually crafted entrees appear so festive that many guests mistake them for cookies. Food is a central point of many community gatherings, but it has extra significance for Shabo and Aldakhlallah. Shabo began the preparation for the Sunday meal on Wednesday, and she is unfazed by the task of feeding dozens of people. "My mom was famous in Damascus," Aldakhlallah explains. "ey liked her kebbeh because it was so thin." In Syria, Shabo cooked out of her home, supplying a tourist hotel with traditional delicacies and preparing meals for parties. She trained and employed several women to help her keep up with demand. But all of that was put on hold during the civil war that began in 2011. At the time, Aldakhlallah was 19 and starting a degree in French literature at Damascus University. "I just thought, OK, I don't care what's going on. I want to go to university," she recalls. "Because you might die when you're in your place, so why don't I go out and enjoy my life?" Her mother, however, was worried and cautious, phoning her every time she heard a bomb or a helicopter. During a time of more intense bombing, she and her husband, Bassam, did not allow Aldakhlallah to attend her final exams, and so she had to study an extra year before graduating. She had just started her master's degree in French translation when Shabo, who had hardly left her home for three years, was struck and seriously injured by shrapnel in a missile attack. All three of Aldakhlallah's older sisters had already left Syria, two of them eventually settling in Victoria. But after the tragic loss of her father, who died in an attack, she and her mother decided to leave as well. For nine months they went back and forth between Damascus and Beirut, a four-hour drive, because they needed to be out of Syria to apply for sponsorship but their visas wouldn't allow them to stay in Lebanon for more than 10 days. Finally, they connected with a church in Calgary, which had been approved by the Canadian government as a Sponsorship Agreement Holder. Karen Reed's neighbourhood group had made an application to the same church, and they were matched up with Aldakhlallah and Shabo. In September 2016, they made the journey to Vancouver. For Reed's group, the decision to sponsor refugees emerged from years of community building. In 2011, soon after moving to Grandview-Woodlands, Reed started hosting soup nights in an effort to get to know her neighbours better. at small effort grew to an annual progressive dinner, with a series of courses hosted at different homes. Reed found her own connections deepening. "I had a vision," she says. "Could you grow the neighbourhood to the point where it functions as extended family?"

• Cover