Peddling to Make Ends Meet
It was a stormy and blustery cold night in the late 1920s. But this was the prairies of southwest Saskatchewan, and the weather had arrived as would be expected. The storm roared as our family sat huddled around the fire blazing from our coal and wood stove. There was no one around except our family. To keep our minds off the cold, my mother and father were recounting stories of the old country.
The author as an infant (right) with his mother, Shams, and brother Adib (Eddie), in a 1924 passport photo.
We learned of the olive trees and the figs, grapes and quince, fruits and vegetables that we could only picture in our mind. The stories held us spellbound, especially when my mother would begin to sing the songs of her childhood. Sometimes the songs would bring her to tears with memories of Qaroun, her and my father’s town of birth. But ironically, these tears and stories brought them together with happy nostalgic memories of their life in Syria. The sadness turned into laughter as they continued to reminisce.
On this particular evening, my father began to tell us his own story of how he ended up in Canada and began working as a peddler.
It had all started with a letter that arrived from a relative in Canada. David Salloum was looking for help on his homestead that was just south of Vanguard, Saskatchewan. Added to this were the political, economic, social conditions and other circumstances that prompted Dad to make his decision to emigrate.
Our interest was piqued. We knew David Salloum was a cousin, but we had no idea that he was part of Dad’s decision to immigrate to Canada. As for the ‘other circumstances,’ there were many. First and foremost, according to my father, was that ‘life was hell’ living under the French Mandate that had been imposed on Syria after the First World War.
The agenda of Sykes-Picot that took effect after the war had left Syria under colonization and French occupation. Syria, my parents’ land of birth and tradition, was now subject to the whims and interests of others. Corrupt, weak and inept Ottoman leadership was now replaced with a Mandate by the French colonial powers to control the lands of the East for their own purposes.
Looking back, I see that my parents’ life was one of living under occupation. It was their land, but at the same time, it was not. Syria was in the hands of ‘others.’ The Ottomans had ruled for centuries. Life as farmers, and for all peasantry, was no easy task. The economy was declining. There were more taxes and tax collectors. There was turmoil, unrest, tension and instability.
Author’s father, Jiryas Ya’qoub Sallum (George Jacob Salloum) (standing) in a threshing crew, 1924.
Despite this, my father continued to work hard so that both he and my mother could raise a family and not worry about where the next mouthful of food would come from. He was both farmer and merchant-trader. He wanted to be master of his own destiny.
My father worked the 2 1/2 hectares of land that had belonged to his father, Ya’qoub. He sowed the fields with wheat, lentils and chickpeas.
He also went from town to town in their area of the Biqa’ Valley. He went to Zahle, Sidon in Syria, and even Palestine, trading and selling merchandise and goods.
I remember thinking how lucky my father was that he was able to go to all these locations. With the snow and wind pounding against our farmhouse and the biting cold seemingly getting colder, I could only dream of these far-off places.
The Ottoman army conscripted Dad, and things only got worse. There was rarely anything to eat, and sometimes days would go by with no food, not just for the soldiers but also for the majority of the people of Greater Syria. My father told us of how, to compensate, he and his fellow soldiers would take the horse’s feed of chopped oats, mix it with water, and cook it on the outdoor stone hearths to have food for themselves.
And then he became afflicted with malaria. The British embargo had left Ottoman-occupied Syria with little or no medicine. There were no doctors in the field, and he was left for dead.
That is, until three Bedouin women found him and took him to their tent and nursed him back to life. He returned home and made the decision that would be a life-changing one for the family. He would leave his native land and settle in a country free of economic unrest, tension, upheaval and the generally depressed conditions. This was around the time when David Salloum’s letter arrived.
We were intrigued. Dad was telling us everything – the missing links from our past to our present. I remember my mother passing around to us our favourite snack of chickpeas that she had soaked and then roasted on the stove. Despite crunching on the chickpeas, we continued to listen intently.
Chickpeas with Tomatoes and Sweet Peppers – Hummus ma’a Banadoora and Flayfla.
Dad explained that David Salloum owned a homestead somewhere south of Vanguard and north of Hazenmore. He had received it due to the Rehabilitation policy for veterans. Apparently, he was not cut out to do farm work and had moved to Vanguard. His letter said that he was ready to sponsor anyone who would work for him on the farm.
Also, in Saskatchewan was Moosa Salloum, my mother's uncle, who had a general store in Gouverneur. He, too, said that he would sponsor my father. But Dad did not want to owe anyone anything. He decided, instead, that he would pay his own passage to Canada.
To do this, he began to sell produce and fruit and other merchandise. He went town to town all over the Biqa' to make enough money for his ticket. He even sold one of his donkeys.
He promised Mother that he would send for her and Adib (Eddie), my brother, as soon as he could. He made sure Mother was taken care of because, at this point, she was pregnant with me. My father would not meet me until the three of us arrived in Canada.
Dad arrived at Vanguard. There were quite a few relatives in the surrounding area who had come from the Biqa' Valley. Some had settled in Hazenmore, Pontiex, Aneroid and Gouverneur.
My father wanted to own his own land and farm. To do so, he needed to make money, especially if he wished to homestead. He tried to work for his cousin on his farm but did not like working for him, especially since he was not being paid regularly. He needed to find something else to do, something to get him started financially so that he could send for us.
Burghul and Tomatoes - Burghul bil Banadoora. Burghul was an important food that would eventually help the Salloum family survive the Depression years.
A friend of my father's suggested he try his hand at peddling. Peddling was not some obscure profession that was foreign to my Dad. Although not commonly referred to as 'peddling' in Syria (the word we used in Syria was ‘mukaarii,’ one who drove his donkey, mule, or horse from place to place selling his merchandise), the country's geographical location between east and west had always made it a centre of trade, buying and selling. My father had heard that a lot of Syrians who had immigrated before him were making money peddling. Of those, many had gone from successful peddling to opening up their own stores to sell the dry goods they once carried on their backs.
There was no future store in mind for Dad, only a future farm. He had not anticipated that he would fall into the same sort of work. But, he realized that peddling required no training and little English and that he could leave it whenever he wanted. It was a type of 'free enterprise' and independence since he did not have to answer to anyone, except himself.
Rural homesteaders were always in need of something. Their isolation from the outside world did not allow them quick access to domestic necessities. Especially since at the time he arrived in Saskatchewan, there were no automobiles to take a quick trip to the city. The peddler usually carried with him whatever the household needed.
Yet, most important, Dad's success would be a credit to himself. He decided to give it a try, and with the few dollars his friend lent him, he bought what he could from Moosa and from whoever else would sell to him at the lowest price.
My father always said the most challenging part was when he peddled by foot trudging along in the winter in snow and ice. He would be lugging some sort of heavy bag or backpack that held clothing, needles, thread, and other household notions and knickknacks. Everything and anything useful for any home. Dad never had a sleigh like some other peddlers. He told us that sometimes he would slip and slide on snow and ice just to get to a farmhouse.
The hot summer months were just as bad. The heat would be so bad that sometimes he felt as if he was going to buckle under due to the pounding rays of the sun.
It was difficult, but he was committed. Occasionally he traded what he had for something he needed. These items would serve their purpose later on when we eventually homesteaded.
He did make enough to buy passage for the three of us. When we arrived, Dad had rented a one-room shack in Gouverneur from Moosa Salloum. With a family of four living in one room at this point, my parents became more intent on owning their own home and farm.
So, Dad continued to peddle. Eventually he was able to buy a Democrat buggy, a light wagon with a horse pulling it, so that he no longer peddled by foot. He peddled from farm to farm on south Saskatchewan's prairies, mostly to those sparsely populated rural areas and sometimes to towns, trying to reach every farm he could.
Democrat buggy in front of a store. Image courtesy of the Western Development Museum WDM-1980-NB-144.
Sometimes he would be gone for two or three weeks. My father admitted that it was hard for him to leave us for days on end, but there was no other way. He had to sell his wares to save the money for a farm, and this was the only way he could do it. He had heard stories back home that 'Amrika's' streets were lined with gold. A few days after he arrived in Canada, he realized that those were only imaginary tales.
My father confessed that his English improved day by day as he peddled. He liked the small children who would be excited upon seeing him walking down their homestead path. He did not know if it was because he was a type of welcome relief to their mundane daily routine of life or because inside his pack were 'hidden treasures' waiting to be shown.
Peddling also opened the window into seeing how others lived, their customs and manners, a type of acculturation, at least on a Canadian farm. He was making money and saving it. But his proudest moment was knowing that he owed no one any money or anything. This was his brand of personal success, and he stuck to it.
Yet, even though he was making a fair income peddling, he hated it. It was hard work, and the worst part was that he felt, at times, that he was begging people to buy. At times, he would have to clarify that he was Syrian because some farmers would assume him to be Turkish and would refuse to buy from him. Every so often, a prospective buyer would realize he was, in fact, Syrian, and ask if he had religious items from Palestine. He hated the disappointment in their faces when he would have to tell them no. Sometimes he walked many miles to finally reach a household, only to be turned away, frustrated, because he had no rosaries or crosses from the birthplace of Christ.
There were the odd times when the door was closed in his face, but there were also the better times when a farming household would invite him to eat dinner and stay overnight to get his rest. My father always praised the farmers of Swedish and Norwegian origin. They were invariably kind and hospitable to him and would rarely let him go without a good meal and a good night's sleep. These people, he told us, had 'good hearts.'
Salloum family on the homestead, 1930. Left to right: Rose, Habeeb, Helen, mother Shams, Mary, Fred, and Eddie (standing behind Fred).
But Dad's intent was still to be a farmer and own his own land, the dream he carried with him when he left Qaroun. He told us, that night, that to work as a farmer is much nobler than being a peddler. We also learned, that same night, an expression he repeated in Arabic - 'wishing does not make a poor man rich.' With this realization, he was determined to work and save until the right opportunity arrived.
And it did. Ironically, it was on one of the peddling trips that my father learned that the Government was selling homesteads approximately 40 miles south of Gouverneur. He went out and saw the land, paid $10.00 and purchased a quarter section homestead. But he saw that there was nothing on it and that it would not be productive. So, he located another quarter section about 3 1/2 miles northwest of the homestead (1/2 Section 13, Twp. 6, Rge. 13, west of the third meridian). It was close to the Burnabrea post office run by Donald Salmon, a veteran and farmer. This second quarter he bought for $25.00 from a fellow named Jack McEwen.
We now owned 50 acres of broken land, with the rest being pasture. It also had a small unfinished house on it. As well, Dad had saved enough to buy a team of horses, a wagon and a plow. This second homestead became our first true living on a homestead and the beginning of fulfilling Dad's dream to be a farmer on Canada's western plains.
This is not to say that he stopped peddling. He continued to do so for the next couple of years whenever he had the extra time and needed the extra money.
I remember looking at Dad when he stopped and took a sip of his hot tea. There were a lot of memories floating around, and it seemed that my parents, as my father was telling his story, were reliving those first few years.
I took this break as a chance to ask my Dad a question. "Dad, how did you feel when you stood on that piece of barren and empty land? No one was around you. You had relatives and friends in Qaroun that you would see every day. Now there wasn't even a neighbour's house in sight?"
My father turned to me and said, "You hear your mother's whispering cries at night? You hear me get angry more than not? That's how we cope with reality and our new life here in Saskatchewan."
The story of my father's life is one of a demanding and grueling struggle to become an independent farmer, all of which he did on his own.
It stands in stark contrast to derogatory descriptions of the Syrian as a "parasite" who is "averse to work of any kind…will never work at hard physical labor,"[1] or as an "undesirable class" with "low intelligence."[2] These are ignorant and disparaging remarks bordering on bigotry and prejudice, by those who had a silver spoon feeding them from birth.
[1] Allan J. McLaughlin, Popular Science Monthly 65, 1904, p. 441.
[2] J. D. Whelpley, The Problem of the Immigrant, 1905, p. 144.
Salloum family in 1962, after all the children had left the farm and made their lives in various urban centers. Back row, left to right: Eddie (Adib), Rose (Ramza), Habeeb, Phyllis (Furzliya), Fred (Fuad), and Albert. Front row, left to right: Mary (Miriam), mother Shams, father George (Jiryas), and Helen (Hilli).
All photos are courtesy the author, except where otherwise noted.
We are saddened to tell you that the author of this article, Mr. Habeeb Salloum, passed away in December of last year. It was a loss not only for his family and friends, but for all those who love Saskatchewan and Canadian history. In addition to his many other accomplishments, his writings share important immigration history that has not yet been brought into the public eye nearly enough.
His daughter, Muna Salloum, wrote to us that “my father took pride in the fact that what he experienced growing up in Saskatchewan could now be emphasized, in his own words, in print. He felt that this is the way to write history, that is, the history of immigration: Its effects not only on the immigrant but on the new society into which the immigrant has settled. The aftermath of this provides learnings for moving forward into the future."
You can view Habeeb Salloum’s obituary here.
Habeeb Salloum is a Canadian author who grew up in Saskatchewan, joined the RCAF during the Second World War, and then worked for the Canadian Department of National Revenue for 36 years. For the last 30 years, he has been a full-time Author and Freelance Writer specializing in food, history and travel. Besides 12 books and 20 chapters in books, he has written hundreds of articles about culture, food, travel, history and homesteading in western Canada.
Among his most important published books are: From the Lands of Figs and Olives: Over 300 Delicious and Unusual Recipes from the Middle East and North Africa (Interlink Publishing, 1996; to be redesigned and republished in 2017) and Arab Cooking on a Saskatchewan Homestead: Recipes And Recollections (CPRC, University of Regina. 2005),
In November 2018, his new cookbook The Scent of Pomegranates and Rose Water: Reviving the beautiful food traditions of Syria (Arsenal Pulp Press, 2018), co-authored with his two daughters, was released.
In September 2018, Habeeb was awarded the Governor General of Canada’s Meritorious Service Medal for his ground-breaking research and publications about the early Syrian immigrants to Canada, adding a new area of study in Canadiana studies.
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