Bulla Mustakys ...the oldest ESL student.

We, my family and I, and the family of my friend and colleague were granted, ministers permit to come to Canada as government sponsor refugees. Our jobs as a human rights lawyers had put a target on our backs. To protect us the Canadian government sponsored our immigration. The two families traveled together.

Shortly after our arrival, and thanks to local contacts we had secured through our work in El Salvador, organizations such as the Jesuit Centre for Social Justice and the Inter Church Committee for Human Rights in Latin America, we were able to connect with a supportive community. Through these relationships, we secured a house where the two families could live together in community.

Our new home in Toronto was in a neighborhood on Jones Avenue near Danforth Avenue, in what is known as Greektown. There was relief in finally having a place to call home, a space where uncertainty began to settle into something more stable, more hopeful.

Once we had housing, our next step was to register for English as a Second Language (ESL) classes for adults. Fortunately, the school was located in an old Catholic school building just a short distance from where we lived. That first year of our Canadian life became completely dedicated to learning English, I felt the necessity to avoid a common practice among immigrants that their children become their translators. Thus with a mix of determination, vulnerability, and courage I embraced my second language.

On the first day at school, we were assessed to determine our level. We were placed in Level Two. Later, we learned that Level One was for those who could not yet read or write, either due to limited literacy or because their first language did not use the Western alphabet. 

We met Bulla Mustakys on our second day. She had just been promoted from Level One to our class and was beaming with pride. Although none of us could communicate clearly with one another, her joy transcended language. Her excitement about moving to Level Two was contagious, it lifted the room and reminded us of all of why we were there.

That was the beginning of our friendship with Bulla, who would soon become a source of inspiration. She approached learning with a childlike openness that was both beautiful and humble. She sang English songs louder than anyone else, volunteered eagerly to pronounce new words, and always came prepared with snacks to share. Her generosity and spirit made the classroom feel warmer, more welcoming.

Bulla, her husband, and their four children had arrived in Canada as refugees from Greece in 1964. At the time, they were in their mid-forties, raising teenagers during a period marked by the intercommunal conflict between Greek and Turkish Cypriots. During that era, the United Nations Peacekeeping Force in Cyprus, which included Canadian peacekeepers, worked to maintain a fragile buffer zone. For many, including Bulla’s family, leaving was not a choice but a necessity.

They settled just north of Danforth Avenue. By the 1960s, the Greek population in Toronto had grown to around 13000. The Danforth was a vibrant mosaic of cultures, Estonian, Lithuanian, Italian, Chinese, Finnish, each community adding its own rhythms and traditions. By the 1970s, many of these groups had moved elsewhere, and the area became known as the largest Greektown in North America.

Bulla’s husband, a trained nurse, quickly found work at a local hospital, while Bulla devoted herself to raising their children and caring for the home. For decades, she lived comfortably within the Greek-speaking community. She went to church, shopped, and socialized in her native language. There was no urgency to learn English; life unfolded within familiar boundaries.

But everything changed in 1990. By then, Bulla was in her late sixties. She had lived in Canada for over twenty-six years. Her children had long since moved away from Greektown, and the year before, her husband had died. The loss was profound. Alongside grief came a growing sense of isolation. The neighborhood itself was changing rapidly, and suddenly, the world felt less accessible.

For the first time, Bulla recognized the need to learn English, not out of obligation, but out of independence. She didn’t want to rely on her children for every small necessity. They had their own lives, and she wanted to reclaim hers.

So, with quiet determination and remarkable courage, Bulla enrolled in ESL classes.

One day, I asked her why she had chosen to learn a new language at her age, especially while still living in her longtime home in Greektown. Her answer has stayed with me ever since, simple, powerful, and deeply moving:

“It’s never too late to learn.”

The last time I saw her we were finishing level four of our ESL classes. 

It was the beginning of December of 1990. I hope Bulla had a long and happy life.