Alfred once told us that the lantern festival had just passed, and he was sad to be away from his family during the celebration. He told us about the flavour of the sweet buns filling their mouths as they lit and released lanterns into the night sky towards the first full moon after the Lunar New Year glowing upon the river in his village. Mother translated that all of his cousins and his two brothers did not live in the village anymore. They worked in the cities and only saw each other at the new year that everyone returned home for a reunion dinner. Alfred said that his oldest brother always brought a box of kites for the village children to fly. The sky would be dancing with colours. He loved the affectionate protests of mothers in the village that their grown children were too skinny and worked too hard. And he loved hearing women shout across the lanes to inform everyone that someone was home. At night, Alfred and his brothers and cousins would set off fireworks on the rooftops. Each household would try to last the longest, saving their largest explosions for last. Once the fireworks were spent, music would stream into the streets and people would come out to dance, even in the cold. Neighbourhood quarrels were set aside, and riches were shared. Then the men would sneak away and don their lion costumes and prance among the crowd, slithering in and out of each home, spreading good luck and prosperity for the upcoming year.

Alfred’s eyes welled with sadness because this was the first year he’d missed the celebration. He worried he might never experience another Lunar New Year with his family. He lamented that there was no end to his journey, no certainty of where he would go, except that he knew he could never go home again.

This brought tears to Mother’s eyes. She turned to me and said, “I used to love making paper lanterns with my family and setting them free in the starlit sky. I should have gone home more often, to pay respect to my elders. All those years lost being here.”

“We can celebrate here, Mom,” I offered.

“I want to make lanterns,” Bea agreed.

“It’s not the same,” Mother said, brushing us off. She turned to Alfred and spoke to him in Mandarin. They embraced, their tears braided in a grief and longing unknown to me.

几Table

BEA AND I JOINED MOTHER, AUNTIE MIRIAM, AND ALFRED for the trip to Calgary for his refugee hearing. We had to leave before dawn to reach downtown in time.

Alfred’s lawyer, Elaine Wong, met us pulling a large suitcase behind her. She wore some blush on her cheeks and a suit with a blazer that gave her shoulders some height. Mother told us to address her as “Ms Wong.” Bea and I were not to fidget, talk, or do anything disrespectful.

Ms Wong spoke Cantonese and some Mandarin, so she welcomed another Mandarin speaker in Mother to ensure that the translation at the hearing would be accurate. In the waiting room, she asked Mother to translate: “Alfred, you made your claim at a lucky time. The Supreme Court of Canada ruled that all persons claiming refugee protection are entitled to a hearing, and the government created the Immigration and Refugee Board. The Supreme Court brought some justice to the refugee system by obligating the government to hear directly from all refugee claimants in their own words. It is so new that this is only the second time I have appeared here as a lawyer.”