For frightened teen from Bulawayo, Canada became a beacon of hope

Dumo Siziba fled Zimbabwe at age 16, fearing for his life. Welcomed into Canada "with open arms," the now 30-year-old lawyer is working to pay it forward.

Happy birthday, Dumo Siziba.

The Zimbabwean-born Canadian turns 30 today.

And despite a recently torn Achilles tendon that's still giving him some problems, Dumo has much to celebrate.

For starters, he's now a dad: Elija Zibusiso, which means "blessings" in Ndebele, was born the day before Father's Day, his wife in labour over the course of three World Cup matches. Dumo, who injured that tendon playing soccer, jokes the timing of his son's birth is a sign that he, too, might play the sport.

There are other reasons Dumo is happy: he has a wife he's head over heels in love with, a law practice, a full life. And he has all of those things here, in the country he loves.

"When did I know Canada was it for me? From Day One," he says. "Canada was my version of a utopian society. But I didn't know whether Canada would accept me."

We can be grateful Canada did.

Growing up in the city of Bulawayo, his divorced mother emphasized some solid lessons that would serve him well. Do your best at everything you do in life. A simple lesson, repeated often.

But there were obstacles.

Dumo grew up in a country that was, and to a certain extent still is, riddled with political and tribal violence. Get yourself marked as an enemy and the spectre of death is a constant.

At the time, tensions between Robert Mugabe's ruling Zimbabwe African National Union-Patriotic Front and the opposition Movement for Democratic Change parties were incendiary. Sporadic murders, police-supported arson attacks and widespread intimidation were the backdrop to life in Bulawayo - atrocities human rights observers laid at the feet of Mugabe. Dumo's family was politically active with the opposition, leading to specific threats. The teenager had become a target.

"I was fearing for my life in Zimbabwe at the time."

His family shared that fear, and felt there was but one way to protect Dumo: remove him from the threat by getting him out of the country and to a better place. Canada, which his mother saw as a beacon of democracy, peace and stability, became the goal.

Dumo hadn't travelled much, and he had certainly never travelled alone. The thought of leaving his family for an uncertain future terrified him, but the terror of Zimbabwe was even greater.

On July 12, 2001, the time had come. His mother gave him clear instructions to keep his passport safe. Dumo zipped the document into his pants and divided his money between his suitcase and his wallet, which he kept in his jacket. Everything he had, everything he could take, was with him.

It was an emotional departure as the bus prepared to leave for Johannesburg, where Dumo would take a flight to London, then Toronto. His mother was on board for a final goodbye, neither of them knowing if they would ever see each other again. Not surprisingly, there were tears. Others could not help but notice.

"One of the older folks on the bus turned around and said to her: 'Don't worry. We're going to look after him,' " Dumo recalls.

It helped reassure his mother, and Dumo as well. The bus rolled off, his mother and his past life receding (he had not seen his father in years). He felt, he was, alone.

"The reality is you won't see some of these people you left behind. It was the whole idea I might never see my parents or my mom again, might never see my brothers again. I was in shock, to say the least."

Near the South African border, the bus stopped so passengers could take a break. Dumo got off. When he returned, he found that older man - the same kindly soul who had looked his mother in the eyes and gently said he would watch out for the boy - going through his jacket.

"And I couldn't confront him. I was powerless. I (still) had my passport, but I had lost most of my cash - about $40."

That was how Dumo's trip began. Sitting, alone, near the man who had robbed him.

In Johannesburg, he was met by relatives. He spent the day with them before boarding a jet bound for London. It was the first time he had flown, and his English served him well as he navigated the complexity of Heathrow to transfer for the flight to Toronto.

He did not know what awaited him. But Dumo had been told, repeatedly, that the moment he saw someone in uniform he was to tell them he wanted to make a refugee claim. He did exactly that, and was ushered to a secondary screening room.

There were others in that room, people from other parts of the world, for the same purpose. Eventually, Dumo's name was called (with a dreadful mispronunciation) and he found himself sitting in front of someone from Citizenship and Immigration Canada (now it would be someone from the Canada Border Services Agency, created in 2003).

Dumo explained that he was fleeing violence in Zimbabwe and making a refugee claim. The man was pleasant - "honest and upfront," Dumo recalls. When the interview was complete, the officer looked at the young man.

"He said: 'What are you doing here?' And that's the time I started to cry. I said to myself: 'I didn't have a choice. I didn't want to come to Canada.' "

When the tears subsided, the man said: "All right, Dumo, we're done. You can take your things and go." Done? Done? What do I do next? Where do I go? Where will I stay? A flood of questions tumbled from the 16-year-old, who realized the next step was out the door and into a world of which he knew nothing.

The official printed out some listings for shelters and agencies. Dumo looked at the strange numbers. 905, 416 . . . It was, he says now, "like Mandarin at the time."

Clutching the papers, Dumo recalls having a blank look on this face. The man spoke.

"He said: 'My job is done. If you go outside there are buses. Get the directions, take a bus, and then go to a shelter.'"

In a daze, Dumo walked into the outer room and found a pay phone. He had never used one, did not know how. At one point, he thinks he tried stuffing a banknote from his suitcase in the coin slot. He couldn't make the call. Panic started to creep in.

He turned to some of the other refugee claimants and said he did not know what to do next. They looked at the confused and frightened teenager, and then told Dumo to come with them.

"It was a blessing," he says.

He was soon on the TTC with the only people he knew in this country - strangers. They boarded a subway, and then a streetcar, Dumo staring awestruck at this unfamiliar place.

They reached someone's home, someone Dumo would remain in touch with for many years, and started calling shelters. They called the Salvation Army, then Seaton House. But his temporary host wanted to reach Covenant House, a Yonge St. shelter that deals with homeless youth. They were told there might be a space available, but that Dumo would need to be there within the next three hours. He was.

"And that," he recalls simply, "was my first night in Canada."

For a young man who had led a fairly protected life, Covenant House was an eye-opener. Pot and other drugs were around, and one teen quickly advised: "'Dumo, don't snitch. Don't ask, don't tell, and you won't have any trouble.'"

Despite the downsides, Dumo is quick to stress the many positives at Covenant House. One was that other young refugee claimants, from Zimbabwe and other African countries, were also there. Dumo felt less alone.

Covenant House was a godsend in other ways. Staff helped Dumo find a doctor, a lawyer, apply for legal aid and many other tasks critical to a newcomer.

After about two-and-a-half months, Dumo moved out with two other men from Zimbabwe to share an apartment. He enrolled at Jarvis Collegiate after being assessed at a Grade 12 level.

He qualified for a welfare cheque of $520 a month. His share of the rent at the Flemingdon Park two-bedroom apartment was roughly $400. Factor in a monthly Metro Pass, and he had between $40 and $50 left per month.

"So $30 went to groceries and $20 to other expenses like paying for the phone."

It was not enough to feed himself.

"We survived on food banks," he says. "We knew where to go and when to go there." He also knew, from his time at Covenant House, that the shelter ran an outreach program that included meals. And so, on many days after classes at Jarvis Collegiate, Dumo would make his way to Yonge St. and head to the basement program to eat.

Food was one issue; the home situation another. His roommates were older, in their early 20s, with interests other than studying. Dumo doesn't elaborate, but it was not an ideal environment for a student.

"I'm not going to make any disparaging remarks," he says, "because I'm not an angel, either."

To top it off, the refugee claim was proceeding very slowly. Dumo had signed those initial documents at the airport at the age of 16; but one had not been forwarded to the Immigration and Refugee Board. There was also the issue of a guardian: Dumo didn't have one.

"I would call the IRB and they would tell me: 'We have no idea who you are.' And it was like this for many months."

During this time, Dumo watched other applicants get their cases resolved while he remained in limbo. He was also trying to save money to send back home to help other targeted family members leave Zimbabwe. He started working night shifts at a factory.

"This was particularly difficult because I would work from about 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. and go to school for 9:30 a.m. I was always tired and usually fell asleep during classes. I was always hungry. I recall surviving on one meal a day."

A dark veil began to envelop him.

"I was slowly, slowly being pushed into depression," he says. "At one point, I was about to give up. I can't go back to Zimbabwe, I can't stay here . . ."

During this period, word reached Dumo that his mother was in poor health. A trip back to see her was impossible. It was agonizing for him.

When his cumulative absences raised a red flag at school, he was called to the vice-principal's office. Dumo recalls that Bharat Mathoo told him he had never seen a student with that kind of attendance record. Rather than simply crack the whip, though, Mathoo asked Dumo to tell him why - what was troubling him.

"I had a one-on-one, told him about my situation at home," says Dumo. "(That) there were times when I would basically go without eating because we didn't have money. To go from that environment and come to school, while worrying about accounting, was very difficult."

Mathoo listened. Offered support.

"He became my mentor, said 'What can I do?' " says Dumo.

"Generally, we have been sympathetic to students who have found themselves in dire straits," says Mathoo, now retired. "Especially in cases where a student shows promise."

Dumo was part of that final double cohort, so he had an extra year of OAC classes. There, he met another mentor, economics teacher Loui Dallas. He took Dumo under his wing, encouraging him to keep pushing ahead, to use those ample brains and build something. Dumo you can do it, just apply yourself.

"I remember thinking, 'Wow, this kid is really special,' " says Dallas, who is now a lawyer. "I saw how hard he was trying. I really respected that."

Then, on one memorable day, synchronicity or fate - or just plain luck - intervened.

Dumo walked into a branch of the Royal Bank near Yonge and College. Standing in line, he noticed a man with a long beard, a man who looked remarkably like his father. He had not seen him much since his parents divorced about a decade earlier.

Of course, it couldn't be. His father was in Zimbabwe. Still, there was something about this man. He had to ask.

"I approached him," he says, almost reliving the trepidation he felt. The man turned to look this teenager in the face.

"And it was him."

Dumo's father had been successful in an immigration lottery and was living in Toronto. (So, too, was one of Dumo's cousins, who was attending Jarvis at the same time. They would become fast friends.)

Dumo moved in with his father, who became the guardian needed to nudge the application forward.

"It was only then that I was referred to the Immigration and Refugee Board. It was only then that I got my day in court."

Dumo waited anxiously for that official envelope with the decision. His entire life would hang on that single slip of paper. In June 2002, Canada Post delivered his future. He was at home when the envelope came. He left it sealed for an entire day, scared to open it. He called his mother, who told him it was like a Band-Aid, and to just tear it open.

Here, Dumo relives the moment: he closes his eyes gently, a smile starting to overtake his face. He recites what he remembers as the first few words: "'The Refugee Division determines that the claimant…'" He's beaming now, eyes still closed, and he pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more intense. And filled, even now, with gratitude.

"It was the happiest day of my life. I remember that I cried so much. I was so grateful for Canada. And one promise I made to myself: Whatever I do in my life, I want to pay back Canada for what it has given."

That indebtedness and that closure infused Dumo with a renewed sense of purpose and mission. His mother's lesson, Do your best at everything you do in life, again became a beacon.

Dumo pushed through political science at York University. He met his Egyptian-born wife there ("It was fireworks," he recalls). With Dallas cheering him on, he went to law school at Osgoode Hall. He is now a practising lawyer, specializing in immigration and criminal law.

Dallas believes Dumo serves as an example.

"I think there is an unconscious stereotype, among many - for lack of a better word - 'mainstream Canadians,' " he says. " 'Oh look, a refugee . . . oh look, an immigrant. This is just going to be trouble for the Canadian social system.' Well, here's proof positive that no, lots of refugees come here and make something really good of themselves."

Today, Dumo volunteers at Matthew House, a home for newly arrived refugees. He is an integral part of the mock Immigration and Refugee Board hearings, a basement session to prepare people for their appearances at the real thing. He also gives freely of his time at Interval House, which helps abused women and children, the Salvation Army, The Canadian Centre for Victims of Torture, and elsewhere. Though some critics occasionally label refugees as people who come here to take, it is Dumo's mission, his nature, to give.

"I cannot stress loud enough, I cannot overstate, how coming to a country and being welcomed with open arms affected me. I told myself, whatever I do in life, I have to pay back."

This, Dumo Siziba does. With interest.