P O S T C A R D S   to   S A M A R A 

    A number of years ago, I spent some time teaching ESL to young adults from various countries in Toronto. This experience, following two years of teaching English in Japan, was a bridge to obtaining my teaching qualifications for the public school system. During that time, I took a brief trip to Vancouver to visit family and friends, as this was where I grew up. And so one afternoon I was walking with an old friend along the ocean shore in an area called Deep Cove, almost the farthest eastward reach of North Vancouver, shadowed by the Coastal Mountains. And it was there that my friend and I spotted a small plastic jar drifting near the shoreline, with what looked like a piece of paper inside. Intrigued, we managed to retrieve it from the water, and we twisted it open with some degree of anticipation. We then unfolded the paper to find some crudely drawn pictures and writing, scribbled by a four-year-old girl named Samara, with notes added in the margins by her mother, describing the unfortunate loss of a stuffed animal named Whale Shark. The note revealed that this toy, clearly well loved by Samara, had been lost, and the message in the bottle was a plea for help in finding the stuffed animal. In order to placate her daughter, the mother had told Samara that Whale Shark had gone to the ocean to find a wife and have babies. As well, the mother asked that, if anyone were to find this note, to send a postcard to Samara telling her that he loves her very much, and to sign it with the name Whale Shark. With a quiet sense of wonder I placed the note in my pocket, not quite sure of what to do next. 

    

    This event turned out to become a catalyst, upon my return to Toronto, to take some form of action to resolve Samara’s dilemma. Given my work situation at that time, an opportunity presented itself to me. With a series of blank postcards that I had previously purchased in Japan, I decided to ask a number of my ESL students, upon returning to their various home countries, to attach a local postcard to mine, place a stamp on it, and send it to Samara. Each of these was written in the same handwriting, my own, from Whale Shark to Samara. And each of these postcards described wondrous adventures across the oceans of the world, and a quest for a wife and family. Over the following year, these postcards were then sent from various points around the world, from my former students in Asia, Africa, South America, Europe and beyond. 

    Ultimately I had to leave that teaching job, and so I had one final postcard sent to Samara, telling her that I was going deep into the ocean to look for a wife and family, and that she might not hear from me for a long time. That was, reluctantly, the end of my correspondence to Samara. 

    At various times over the intervening years, I have tried to locate her, each time unsuccessful, and thus I have never discovered if any, or all of those postcards reached Samara, who would now be in her mid-30s. But the thought that maybe, just maybe they did, keeps me hopeful. And hope is a good thing. 

    Quite recently I became aware of a story with interesting parallels to my own. Legend, or fact, tells of an event in the life of Franz Kafka. According to the account of a woman who lived with him, while residing in Berlin, Kafka visited Steiglitz City Park one day, and happened upon a young girl who was crying over the loss of her doll. Kafka saw in this an opportunity, not unlike my own, to affect in a positive way, someone previously unknown to him. Kafka calmed the young girl by telling her that the doll had gone on a journey to see the world. The doubts of the girl were assured by Kafka’s promise that he had a letter from the doll, and would bring it to her the following day. And this he did, and continued to do so for the following two weeks. Each evening, Kafka would write another letter from the doll, and then read it to the girl the following day. Finally, as a means to bring some closure to their interaction, Kafka gave the girl another doll, although clearly different, and assured her with a final letter that said, “My travels have changed me”. And, as truth or legend has it, some years later the girl found a note hidden within the doll, which read, “Everything that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form”. 

    And so now, in these most uncertain times, with a pandemic transforming the world, and political upheaval in so many places, there remains something that both gives and heals, and that is kindness. And both the giving, and the healing of kindness are reciprocal. It is, in a way, both selfless and selfish. Franz Kafka likely slept better each of those nights, despite whatever concerns troubled his mind, most likely aware of the effect of his act of kindness. And this is so for me as well, resting better in the assurance that one seemingly simple act can have a significant effect on the life of another. And thus, whether or not my postcards reached Samara, it remains my hope that love has returned to her in some form, even if different. 

    It is also my hope, in these times of great change, and possibly great loss, that this will be true for us all. I’m tempted now to find an ocean, and a small plastic jar, to wish it so. 

Samara's Letter