OTTAWA — When he headed home after work in Kandahar, Ghulam Wali Noori would never take the same route twice.
As an interpreter working with the Canadian military, he was a prime target of insurgents looking to punish Afghans involved with coalition forces.
When he made it to his family home, he and his three brothers would take turns guarding the door, working in shifts of three hours each to ward off any attempts at intimidation.
Now, his front door is protected only by a buzzer coder and his route home is almost always the same — Ottawa public transit.
Noori is one of about 28 interpreters now settled in Canada, more than a year after the federal government launched a program to help Afghans working with the Canadian mission in Kandahar immigrate to Canada.
Before moving to Ottawa, Noori had been living and working in Kabul as an adviser in the Karzai government. But from 2006 to 2009, he worked alongside Canadian soldiers training the Afghan National Army.
“We were Canadian,” Noori, 28, says of the hundreds of Afghan interpreters who have worked with the Canadian mission since 2002.
“Ethically, it is the (government’s) responsibility, humanitarily this is their responsibility: to rescue, to save those people who worked with them in dangerous situations.”
The special immigration measures for Afghans working with the Canadian mission in Kandahar were announced in October 2009 by Immigration Minister Jason Kenney.
They were to acknowledge, he said, that Afghans face “extraordinary personal risk as a result of their work in support of Canada’s mission in Kandahar.”
The risk is real. In December 2009, an interpreter working for the Canadian Forces was gunned down in Kandahar City. Local police blamed the Taliban.
At least six interpreters have died alongside Canadian soldiers and an unknown number have been wounded by bomb strikes.
Others have seen their family members kidnapped or assassinated, a direct result of their ties to coalition troops.
They earn between $600 and $900 a month, but they rarely tell their family or friends where the money is coming from.
In the field, they keep their faces covered at all times and only use nicknames. They refuse to be photographed.
Noori was known as Mike.
“We were the language of the mission,” Noori said. “We were the voice of these people, the war. If you did away with the interpreters, the mission would fail.”
Of those interpreters who have now made the move to Canada, around a dozen have settled in Ottawa, with others choosing Toronto or Vancouver as their permanent home.
Several of those who have now settled in Canada declined to do interviews, still fearful of disclosing their real names or whereabouts.
To come to Canada, the interpreters have to apply in person with the International Organization for Migration, an intergovernmental agency.
Their file then gets reviewed by a committee made up of officials from the departments of National Defence, Foreign Affairs, International Development and Immigration and Citizenship.
To qualify, the interpreters must have 12 months of continuous service in support of the mission, rendering many of them ineligible to immigrate, as contracts can often be piecemeal.
One estimate places the number of interpreters who have worked with Canadians since 2006 to be as high as 6,000.
To date, about 250 interpreters have applied to leave Afghanistan, but only 50 applicants have so far been accepted.
One they arrive, the government provides income and housing assistance, plus the same array of settlement services provided to all new permanent residents.
The adjustment to Canada mirrors that of many new immigrants.
Prices are higher than at home; a pair of jeans that costs maybe $20 in a Kandahar market costs over $100 here.
An easy stroll over to the local mosque for prayer has become a confusing puzzle of public transit, the whipping winds of winter making it easier to just stay home and pray alone.
Technology does help keep families connected.
Several of the interpreters were turned onto Facebook by Canadian soldiers and now use the social media site to keep in touch.
But many of the men were the sole sources of income for their families in Afghanistan, and now have the pressure of trying to quickly find jobs in Canada so they can start sending money home.
Some have little education past high school, having joined up with the coalition military when they were as young as 16.
The soldiers haven’t forgotten them.
Col. Wayne Eyre, currently commander of 2nd Canadian Mechanized Brigade Group at Canadian Forces Base Petawawa, northwest of Ottawa, stopped by to see Noori before Christmas.
The two worked together when Eyre was in charge of the program to mentor ANA soldiers in Kandahar in 2007.
He said he feels the government has done the right thing in helping Afghans come to Canada, but there needs to be a balance.
“Some of the best-educated people in that country are drawn to the interpreter role,” he said in an interview. “We have to be careful not to encourage a real brain drain on the country’s future leadership.”
Initially, the program was to end in July 2011, with the conclusion of Canada’s mission in Afghanistan. But the start of a new training program in Kabul is likely to still require interpreters and Kenney has mused about keeping the program going.
The current cost of the program is $3 million annually.
Not all of the ‘terps, as they are known, worked for the army.
Some have also worked with the Foreign Affairs Department or the Canadian International Development Agency.
Now they are looking for work wherever they can find it.
Some say they’d one day like to move back to Afghanistan, which Eyre says could be a positive thing.
“They get exposed to Canada, and all the good and different ways of doing business, and they get to see a different future,” he said.
“And they can bring back some of the ideas that we have here back to their own country as well.”
The 50 interpreters who have applications currently moving through the system will bring with them to Canada a total of 75 eligible family members, according to Citizenship and Immigration Canada.
Noori came with his three young sons and his wife.
In a sparsely furnished apartment in Ottawa’s east end, Hasina serves chai tea and nuts to a visitor, her green velvet shalwar khameez bright against the clean white walls.
She speaks no English and plans to enrol in classes while the children attend a nearby public school.
But she gives a bright thumbs up when asked in halting Pashto whether she thinks the move to Canada was a good idea.
The two of them, Noori says, were “born in war, grew up in war,” and it is important to finally live in peace.
But it also comes at a cost, he says.
“This kind of situation is the … worst situation in (Afghanistan’s) history,” he says.
“If everyone is leaving Afghanistan, so who will be there for peace?”
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