Head chef Raghda Hasn (right) embraces Elena Akfaly, kitchen manager at Tayybeh, a Syrian restaurant in Vancouver’s Kitsilano neighbourhood, on Dec. 24.Jennifer Gauthier/The Globe and Mail
The hot pink tables and sinuous melodies of Fairuz, the Lebanese diva, announce the unabashedly feminine brand of Tayybeh, a new Syrian restaurant in the heart of Vancouver’s Kitsilano neighbourhood.
On Dec. 13, the all-female kitchen was abuzz with news of President Bashar al-Assad’s sudden downfall. To celebrate, smiling servers in magenta aprons were handing out free baklava and rice pudding. Syria’s 13-year civil war left more than a half-million dead and scattered millions of refugees abroad, including the more than 100,000 who settled in Canada. But the sense of joy and hope at Tayybeh last week was tempered by caution.
“The Assads are monsters,” says operations manager, Elena Akfaly, 34, a Christian from Aleppo. “But the people now in charge are the same people who killed our beloved ones, who kidnapped my friends.”
Abducting Christians for ransom was a major source of income for Hayat Tahrir al-Sham, the rebel movement that spearheaded the overthrow of the 54-year al-Assad dynasty.
“I don’t trust them. But I have hope. All I want is for Syria to be safe. To be peaceful,” says Ms. Akfaly. “But if they start mixing religion and politics, it’s over. That’s the basis of all our problems in the Middle East.”
Nihal Elwan, the firebrand behind Tayybeh, met Ms. Akfaly and her other staff while volunteering with Syrian refugees as they began arriving in Vancouver in 2015. At the time, Ms. Elwan was consulting for the World Bank.
In 2016, she launched Tayybeh – the word can be translated from Arabic as both “delicious” and “kind” – as a monthly pop-up dinner catered by Syrian refugee women. The community dinners quickly grew into a catering company and food truck serving Syrian favourites like creamy labneh and chicken shish tawook. The West Side Vancouver restaurant opened last February.
“The food piece is not the goal,” says Ms. Elwan. “The mission is to give these women the chance to use their talents to become financially independent, to be fulfilled, to start feeling integrated.” One of her drivers worked as an investment banker in Damascus before the war.
Ms. Akfaly was 21, with a brand new degree in finance from the University of Aleppo, when fighting broke out in the northern city in 2011. Her mom, a tailor with a small shop, called in a panic: “They’re killing people in the Old City,” she screamed into the phone. Ms. Akfaly thought she was joking.
The bloody, years-long siege that followed made Aleppo a byword for savagery.
“There was no food, no water, no electricity,” says Ms. Akfaly, who shared a home with her mom and younger sister. Relentless nighttime shelling made it “impossible” to say goodnight, Ms. Akfaly recalls, her wide, pale green eyes filling with tears. She never knew whether mom and sister would be alive when she woke. Eventually, the three began sharing a bed. That way, they figured, none would be left to face the war alone.
When the main highway out of Aleppo reopened in December of 2013, Ms. Akfaly fled to Lebanon: “I couldn’t stay. I was dying a little bit each day.” Her sister, then 15, was too young to make the perilous trip.
In 2019, an opportunity for the Akfalys to resettle together in Edmonton came up. The sponsor church warned Ms. Akfaly that they had just $10,000 to help the family settle in Canada. “I don’t care about money,” Ms. Akfaly told them. “We’re strong women. All we need is a safe place. We have dealt with so much worse.”
In the Alberta capital, they joined a bustling community of 30 Syrian Christian families who met for lunch after church every Sunday. Ms. Akfaly learned English by watching Netflix. She got a job at Victoria’s Secret. She loved her new friends, but couldn’t take the blizzards and biting cold. On a short trip to Vancouver, she fell in love with the ocean, and convinced her family – including her new fiancé – to move to the coast. That was five years ago.
Vancouver can feel hard. It’s expensive. It’s busy. It can be so lonely. Ms. Akfaly has learned the hard way not to ask Canadians how much money they make, or whether they are Muslim or Christian. Her Jamaican-born manager once caught her staring. “You’re the first Black person I’ve ever seen,” Ms. Akfaly explained – “you’re so beautiful.” Her new manager burst out laughing: “Girl, I got you,” she said.
Still, Ms. Akfaly has no desire to return to Syria. “We lost so much.” Her family home is still standing – but it’s unlivable, trashed. Her friends have scattered. Some are dead. “I won’t go back,” she says. I just want to keep looking forward.” This is also a survival mechanism.
Tayybeh just finished its best year yet. In the new year, they’re launching a new line of frozen halal meals. They’re aiming to become Vancouver’s largest catering company.
The war changed Ms. Akfaly in ways big and small. She used to treat possessions – a new iPhone or pair of shoes – with reverence. Last year, she bought her first car: a silver Honda Civic. The first thing she did was crack the window, and light a cigarette. “Are you crazy?” her sister shouted. “It’s a brand-new car!” Ms. Akfaly ignored her. I’m alive, she thought. You’re alive. Nothing else matters.