Our Broken Bond

By Marlene Cheng

In this warm and engaging sequel to Our Precious Bond, accomplished author Marlene F. Cheng closely follows the life stories of three characters who are as unique as their names: Raven, Oriole and Tree.
Raven is the now-grown son of Geneva, from the first book, and his NHL hockey star father, known only as “Y.” He turns one day from a PhD path and impulsively joins the Canadian army, eventually becoming a superior sniper. And even though his parents are nonplussed at his new life choice, he never looks back through two harrowing tours of duty in Iraq.
Oriole is a downtrodden refugee camp survivor who miraculously emigrates to America one day, sponsored by, of all organizations, a college fraterity. There, he finds new brothers to replace the family that was brutally gunned down so many years before by rebels, when he was a child in his native Sudan.
And Tree? She is the U.N. relief worker who discovers Oriole in the dusty back byways of the refugee camp, aids in his emigration, and finally follows him to Canada.
This is an epic saga filled with endearing characters and lyrical writing. About Raven’s skills as a sniper, the author says he is “as fast as a flitting firefly, as silent as falling snow.” And Raven’s mother, in a wistful moment, describes her ache for the relationship that ended when Y returned to Sweden to be with his original family:
"When I watch the moonshine on the water, a nostalgic longing comes over me ... a strong yearning that moves me to tears.”
Five-plus stars to Our Broken Bond. Like its predecessor, it is rich with complex characterizations and compelling narrative that puts the reader squarely in the middle of a sweeping tale of duty, honor, love, compassion and hope. -- Publishers Daily Reviews.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marlene Cheng
• Release date: Jan 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370173549

Marlene Cheng

My formal learning began in a one-room schoolhouse, on the Canadian prairies, during the Second World War. There must have been something good about that. My curiosity got piqued, and I have never been able to get it unhooked. Over the next seventy-something-years, I’ve been satisfying my curiosity in many, more sophisticated settings, and I’ve been ‘around the block a few times, in the school of life. In all these great institutions for learning, it was the interaction with people that made my day. And I had the privilege of doing this: in universities, technical schools, hospitals, clinics, cancer research centres, dentist offices and in the large classroom of the world. In the School of Hard-Knocks, I learned to recover from a terminal illness. The doctors gave me six months, so I had to be a quick learner. The many and varied hats I’ve worn astounds me: University Graduate; Registered Medical Technologist; Research Technologist; Teacher; Registered Massage Therapist and Energy Therapist; Office Manager; Author; Traveler. (The most memorable Traveler’s was my African Hat—4 months in the back of a truck, camping out through the Sahara Desert, through the savannah, through innumerable countries to arrive in Nairobi, Kenya for Christmas, not so clean in body but pure of soul.) And most precious is the ‘Easter Bonnet’ I wear as a daughter, a sibling, a wife, a mother, an aunt, a grandmother and a friend. Today, wearing the “WRITER’S HAT” is my passion. I’ve tried to educate myself, so as to be worthy of donning this particular role-adornment. I’ve taken umpteen ‘creative writing’ courses at brick-and-mortar institutes and online—mostly via webinars. And for the umpteenth time in my life, I’m back at school again. I’m taking Jack Canfield’s Course—BESTSELLER BLUEPRINT PROGRAM. Jack Canfield is the author of the CHICKEN SOUP BRAND, and I’m taking Linda Hollander’s Course—ATTRACT CORPORATE SPONSORS SYSTEM. Linda Hollander is the, very successful, Wealthy BAG LADY. I belong to a number of organizations that support, teach and motivate: 1. NORTH SHORE WRITERS ASSOCIATION. I meet other authors and take advantage of this association’s many programmes that help authors. Their DARE TO BE HEARD allows authors to read and to get feedback. 2.NORTHSHORE WRITERS COOP is a group of writers who exchange ideas and expertise on marketing their books. 3.Federation of BC Writers. The Vancouver Writers Festival. 4. LIONS BAY ARTS COUNCIL expands my base and helps me meet other people interested in the arts. I had a table at their ANNUAL FESTIVAL and I intend to continue to do this. 5. LA TIMES ANNUAL BOOK FESTIVAL. I had a booth, and was able to give away 100 signed books, to help expand my base. I would like to continue to do this. Also, I would like to go to the TORONTO BOOK FESTIVAL—WORD ON THE STREET, and do the same thing. 6.NORTH SHORE WRITERS FESTIVAL. I had a table at this year’s festival, where I was able to present my books and sell them. I intend to do this annually. 7. Canadian Authors Association—Metro Vancouver

Book preview

"…and if I were a bird, I would fly about the earth" -- George Eliot

OUR BROKEN BOND

CHAPTER ONE

I'd decided. I would go to South America. It was my goal to visit every continent, and deep down, I had started to admit that time was running out. I bought airline tickets. If I had heard about the Zika virus before putting down my money, I, more than likely, would have changed my mind. I’m so glad that the virus threat or the thoughts of such a long, gruelling flight didn’t deter me.

I think that T.S. Eliot is credited for coining the saying, The journey, not the arrival, matters. I find that phrase more than a bit irritating. When I’m travelling to where my adventures will begin, all I want is to get there as quickly and unencumbered and as comfortably as possible.

But to be truthful, I must say, that experience has taught me otherwise. I’ve learned that embracing the unplanned and living in the moment can be a wonderful journey, all on its own.

Thinking about Eliot’s phrase, his poem from a long-ago Christmas concert in a one-room schoolhouse in a cold winter, in the middle of the Canadian prairies sometime during the Second World War, when I was but a grade-schooler, suddenly came to me:

"A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter."

The poem was about the three wise men, travelling to deliver gifts to the baby Jesus.

How odd is that? I thought. I can’t remember where I set my teacup, as I wander about my house; yet, I could recite those words, from so many years past, without a hesitation. Weird.

"Westward leading, still proceeding,

Guide us to thy perfect Light."

I hummed/sang the well-known carol that came to me, seemingly, from out of the blue.

Wait a minute, I thought. Am I getting a message here?

I have been sort of spirit deprived for some time now. Maybe I wasn’t meant to go traipsing around South America. Maybe I should be going, once more, to visit the maroon-robed monks and trek their most sacred mountain, Jomalhari. Ah yes, Butan — the unique miniature kingdom nestled between China and Tibet. How well I remember.

But, but... I further thought, I have already paid for my ticket to South America, and my Mother comes from Scottish blood — as tight-fisted as they come. I’m told, often, that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. There’s no possible way that I would waste the cost of that ticket.

Also, my mother was fond of saying, Whit’s fur ye’ll no go past ye. This translates to: Whatever is meant to happen to you, will happen to you. Therefore, for sure, unless some massive earthquake blocks my way, or I drop dead, I know that I’ll stay true to my prudent nature, stick to the plan, and head south.

I’ll just put off the spiritual quest a little longer. I’m not yet a centenarian. Surely time is still on my side. What the heck. Maybe I could just pack a soul-searching book. That would kill two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. I wouldn’t waste my ticket money, and I would be able to do a little soul-searching, vicariously, through Castaneda’s book, The Active Side of Infinity.

But why would I travel through South America with my nose stuck in a book? My mother probably had words for opportunity lost.

Enough, already. Time to pack.

Packing is such a tedious affair, and I’m not good at it. How can I possibly project into the future? Does anyone know what they might want to wear a week Wednesday? I’ve travelled enough to know that the sun, the rain, and the winds pay absolutely no attention to meteorologists. Apparently, these weathermen study everything that falls from the sky. It beats me. Why don’t they stick to meteors, and leave the weather be. It does its own thing anyway, without their interference. I figured that out, a long time ago.

I sat on my still-empty suitcase and let my mind wonder. Daydreaming is far more pleasant than packing. It is, to be truthful, one of my many addictions. It goes back a long way. I remember in grade-school, my teacher tried to warn my mother about my daydreaming. She told her that for older students, daydreaming was part of the creative process; but for the younger ones, she was afraid that it was an escape mechanism. Young minds allowed to indulge in this practice (so she explained) were not able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality.

My mother was too busy to concern herself about one of her children’s daydreaming, and, probably the teacher was also too busy to pay much attention to me. I daydreamed. I don’t know if it was ever a part of my creative process, but I still (healthy or unhealthy) can while away a rainy afternoon with my mind in the clouds. It’s amazing what comes up.

CHAPTER TWO

At the Dallas Fort Worth Airport, I was making a transfer from my Vancouver flight to the Santiago Chili connector.

At the Vancouver terminal, it had already become obvious that it's not a good idea to avoid extra luggage costs by over-packing your carry-on and handbag. When I had to manoeuvre the humongous airport in Dallas, what had been obvious became unmanageable.

The sky link is just up the escalator, I was cheerfully informed.

The escalator was three stories, straight up. The pitch, I'm sure, wouldn't pass any Canadian code.

My dilemma was how to get on, pull my heavy luggage, and, at the same time, keep my over-stuffed handbag from swinging off my shoulder, upsetting me. I could imagine tumbling backwards, blocking the upwards rush, mid-air.

I hesitated a moment, adjusted things, and freed a hand to grasp the railing. The crowd circled, cutting me off. Under-the-breath mutterings jostled me. What is the difficulty? the racers seemed to be saying. If a simple escalator confuses you, old lady, step aside. Take the stairs.

Really!!!............. Miss Manners, and Mr. and Mrs. and all the kids have just taken the downward stairs to hell, crossed my mind. What is this world coming to, anyway?

At the top, I stood triumphant, trying to figure out how the train worked.

It must be simple. No one else seems to be puzzled. The train stops. People get off. People get on.

I was a bit too hesitant. The door was closing, and a fellow rider, reviving my faith in humanity, rescued my carry-on just as it was being crush-threatened. Automatic doors! What if I had been a second later?

Never mind that the doors had almost crushed me. Inside, we were packed tighter than sardines – smelly but safe. I couldn’t think about where I should disembark. We were like so much flotsam and jetsam in a tsunami, and when the sardine can burst open, the powerful wave would push us out.

The God of the seas must have been smiling down on me. Even though I was belly up and flapping, I washed up at Terminal D and came face-to-face with yet another security check.

When I left home, my handbag was well arranged and neat (a place for everything and everything in its place), but after going through Vancouver’s security, it was in disarray. My on-going boarding pass had to be in there, someplace.

Taking precious time, I sat on the floor to rearrange my handbag and to find my boarding pass.

Sitting there with all my stuff lined up in front of me, I had a flashback.

I was sitting on the ground with all my earthly belongings lined up around me at the frontier between two countries in the middle of Africa. I don’t recall exactly, but it was maybe between Niger and Nigeria. All the border crossings were difficult, but when I think of that one, I get a facial tick. So, bingo, that’s probably the right one. Trigger-happy young boys, dripping with weapons, were pretending to be men of authority, and had commanded us out of our truck with all our stuff. We had been through this routine before. We knew what they wanted. It was our resolve to stop the harassment of tourist trucks at border crossings, and we had hid transistor radios, watches, rings, and the like.

However, we had learned that tourists, a week ahead of us, in their refusal to cough up their processions, had been driven into the jungle, and all were shot. They had coughed up their processions, their truck, and their lives.

So, we were willing to relent, somewhat. We left a few items around, to be found. The above incident had become world news, so that should have been a deterrent to any reasonably-thinking border guard. But who could count on these crazed boys to think, let alone be reasonable.

When they discovered that I carried a Canadian passport, their mood changed completely. The rifles came down, and they vied for my attention. In their naivety, they thought I could sponsor them to come to Canada. I went along with the ruse, giving them false addresses and phone numbers. I had a code I used, in case I had to duplicate them — my parents’ names and birth dates came in handy.

Nonetheless, we sat at that border for days, and I remember sorting through baskets of eggs that the locals sold us. I floated them in water to sort-out the rotten ones. If they floated, they were tossed. If they sunk but stood on the pointy end, they were used first.

I can detect a gas leak in a flash — the smell of rotten eggs has never left me.

Found it. The boarding pass stated that I was aiming for Gate 23. And I had 20 minutes before liftoff. I saw a sign that read, Passengers 70 years of age, as of a certain date, don't need to remove their shoes. Good, I thought: that's one less hassle. I'm wearing running shoes with doubled-knotted laces -- I hate it when my laces keep coming untied.

The first attendant said to me, Shoes and jacket, in the tub.

I pointed to my BD in my passport. I was well over 70.

If you're able, you must remove your shoes. Your age doesn't matter. And your jacket.

OK, but you see this is a sports top, not a jacket. I only have a bra on, underneath. I'm expecting it to be hot in Santiago.

I, unintentionally, must have irritated him. I got the whole shooting match -- drug scan, pat-down, and full-body x-ray. I had to display all my prescription drugs and needles. It didn't matter that I might need Boost if my blood sugar dropped. It wasn't prescription -- so it was confiscated. What's this powder in the envelope? Metamucil. I guess constipation isn't an acceptable ailment on his list -- it also was confiscated.

But, being a polite, compliant Canadian, I didn't argue.

When they were finished with me, both my handbag and my carry-on were in total disarray. Shoeless (I need to sit down to tie my runners), I was left to put everything back in my bags.

Then I was told, curtly, to pick up a needle disposal carton on the plane.

I wanted to tell him that he needn't be concerned. I swallow them.

My blood sugar must be getting low -- I'm becoming crotchety, ornery, vinegary, tetchy, surly and cantankerous -- a venomous-thinking old lady.

I was already the entire Thesaurus, and I still had to face that long flight.

He should have let me drink the Boost.

Time was whittling away.

I was a bit concerned about hearing my boarding time. I can never figure out what airport announcements are saying. And boarding methods are anything but routine. They certainly are not consistent throughout the industry. American Airlines, apparently, has started to board by groups. I'm in Group A.

I needn't have worried: the moment I arrived at the gate, only the stragglers were left to get on.

I had to find Row 55, Seat B. This aisle, the attendant said helpfully. It's all the way to the back. Your seat is on your right.

You would have thought that because I had arrived just on time, that the aisle would have been empty, and I would have had clear sailing to the back.

However, that wasn't the case. The aisle was an obstacle course that seemed to go on for several city blocks, and I was halted every few inches, waiting for the people in front of me to get organized. And the row and seat markings were miniscule. It didn't help that I was still wearing dark glasses and, at this point, had no idea where my regular ones might be. I had to resort to asking other stalled passengers what row we were at. They looked at me a little sceptically; but given my age, and because, I'm sure, I looked totally bewildered and frazzled, they most cheerfully told me where I was.

My shoulder began to ache. I had an inch (at least) indentation from my handbag strap.

Eventually, one of those kind individuals, bent on being of assistance (an angel in our midst), announced, with slow clear diction: Here you are. Here you are, my dear. Seat B is there -- just past that gentleman who has already got his seat belt fastened, ready to go.

Overhead bins were not designed for little people with negative biceps and a weighty, overstuffed carry-on. If I ever got mine up there and squeezed in, I had images of it bursting open. All my unmentionables would come raining down on the heads of disgusted passengers.

Again, I needn't have worried. There wasn't an inch of space left in any of those bins. An attendant took my carry-on. She was going to stow it someplace else. Good luck, I said with relief. I was thinking that, perhaps, she should just throw it out the window.

Surely, I have everything I'll ever need, in my handbag.

I showed my boarding pass to the gentleman in Seat C, and pointed to the seat where I was supposed to sit.

His grumbling was inscrutable, but it was obvious that he was unwilling to cooperate. He shifted his white, sized-10 shoes an inch, maybe.

OK, thought this venomous-thinking old lady, here I come. I dropped my 50-pound handbag in his lap, stepped on his white shoes, twisted my body into a pretzel, and plopped down into my 18-inch-seat. Row 55, Seat B.

Oh, I said, sourly. Thank you for holding my purse. Now, do you think I can remove my seatbelt out from under your ass?

He had really got my dander up. And I was without my Boost. More succinctly, I was without my Metamucil. The worst is yet to come, Mr. Helpful. You have no idea, I thought, suppressing an evil grin.

When I finally calmed down and was able to give the guy some slack, I thought that maybe he had serious, bad things happening in his life; and instead of grumbling about his great misfortunes, he chose to be grumpy about small annoyances. If that were the case, I could forgive his making mountains out of molehills. However, his attitude wasn’t worth catching. I was already heavily endowed.

CHAPTER THREE

I was on American Airlines Flight 945 headed to Santiago, Chile, I hoped. It's a basic economy class, ten-hour-6-minute red-eye with little seat tilt, no wiggle room, zero inflight service, and a toilet eleven rows up, after I've climbed over the impediment in Seat C. Ten hours without a toilet break is a daunting thought for a barely-in-control diabetic. Apparently, there is usually a toilet behind, but it’s out of order.

Without my hearing aids, I am practically deaf. Therefore, I have a great fear of losing these tiny inserted devices. If I took them out, where would I put them? Wrap them in a Kleenex and stick them in the seat pocket in front of me? With my more-than-slight dementia, I would probably deplane sans hearing aids. Yikes!

Using the plug-in earphones over the devices in my ears produces thick static and, consequently, makes listening to music (or the television) a nightmare. Instead of being entertained, I decided to sleep my way to Santiago. Thus, when I arrived, I would be better prepared for the busy day.

Vertical sleeping is not my forte, especially when I can’t adjust my body parts or wiggle my way into a comfort zone. And the flashing lights from the televisions in the row in front of me didn’t help matters. Finally, I gave up, and decided to see what the young man (my assumption, because of the army-like haircut and camouflage shirt) in row 54, Seat C was watching.

He was watching what seemed to be a TV war documentary. A Canadian soldier was being interviewed.

I can’t hear what is being said, but because of my deafness, over the years, I’ve become somewhat adept at lip-reading. Just adept enough that I have experienced many weird conversations.

If the camera is on the person speaking, I can sort of get the gist, and can amuse myself by filling in the blanks with whatever comes to mind. It’s like opting for a sense of what is being said over an accurate word-for-word translation. It can be interesting.

I decide to give it a go. I would try to follow the interview. Why not? I’m a captive audience -- I’m not going anywhere. Hopefully, I’m going to Santiago; but what I mean is, I’m stuck in this seat for the next ten hours. I’ll probably get a neck kink from nosing in on someone else’s paid-per-view.

CHAPTER FOUR

TELEVISION IN ROW 54 SEAT C

RAVEN

The well-respected CBC interviewer, who I recognized, asked the soldier how he would like to be addressed.

Please call me Raven. I’m named after the bird — the raven. When I was a baby, my First Nations surrogate father gave me that name. When I turned 16, I could choose to use my Christian name, or I could choose to be called Raven.

I was a bit confused when the soldier asked to be called Raven. I wondered if he was saying Gavin or something like that, but when he clarified it by saying he was named after the bird, I thought that it was a strange name; and being judgemental, I didn’t think that he looked at all like he could be First Nations. Maybe this lip-reading thing is not such a good idea. I missed the interviewer’s next question, but Raven continued to talk:

"My father was a NHL hockey player, and he groomed me from a very young age to follow in his footsteps. He taught me to lace and to tie my skates. I preferred waxed laces with moulded tips because I could pull them hard for a tighter fit. He taught me to protect and respect my sticks. Taping them was a ritual that I treasured. To me, taping was an art, and waxing the blade was a science — lightly, ever so lightly, to deter snow buildup but not to impede my puck control.

"And my own art, I hid beneath the grip tape.

"When I was about 12, I started painting a night-black raven, there.

"My father was often absent, when I was growing up, and, as I have mentioned, I had a First Nations surrogate father. My surrogate father had told me that I should embrace the blackness of the raven and its talents, and not to be distracted by colourful songbirds. He also told me that ravens eat anything, but they prefer flesh. However, he warned me, many times over, that I was not a raven that relished blood. I was a large, bold bird of strength that could cleverly defend itself. The raven under my grip was my constant reminder.

"I never allowed any colour but black to adorn my main stick, but whenever I achieved something in hockey that I deemed important, I painted feathers, bright red, yellow, and green, on my backup ones.

"Well past my 16th birthday, I was still called Krys; but I had a deep longing, especially when I played hockey, to be Raven.

When I was still at school, I thought it would be too confusing to change my name, but when I joined the forces, I knew it was the perfect time to use the name that I most wished to be called. On all my military papers, my name is Raven. Please call me Raven.

"That's very interesting. Thanks for clearing that up for me. I thought that Raven was your last name."

It's just Raven -- no first name, no last name.

So, Raven, would you brief us on your background? Can you tell us something about your family, your upbringing, and something about your schooling, perhaps?

"I’ve been given every possible opportunity in my life. I’ve been given everything required to succeed. I was sent to an elitist school where academics, sports and arts were given equal emphasis.

"I liked the sciences; especially physics. There was a time, then, when I thought I would like to be an astronomer.

"I loved sports, and played junior-level hockey. At that time, I dreamed of playing in the NHL.

But languages were my passion. Fortunately, my insightful teachers thought I had a talent there, and they took an interest in supporting me in that direction. I spoke English, Swedish, and Filipino (my nanny was Filipino) before I went to school. I was in the French immersion curriculum at school, and took extra speaking and debating classes in French, as I wanted to become fluent. Arabic was also offered at the school. It fascinated me so much that I thought I might also enjoy learning Chinese characters, so I took the bus to Chinatown and enrolled in a Mandarin class. We practised the characters by writing Chinese philosophical sayings. I think it was at that time that I became interested in great thinkers," and the seed was planted for the direction I thought that I would take in university.

"For Grade 12, I stepped outside my comfort zone, and went to Neuchatel Junior College, a Canadian High School in Switzerland. It was the best place for a spoiled, dependant, only child. Because my mother was a single mom, some people thought that my involvement with her was excessive, and being parted would be good for both of us.

"Under the expertise of great teachers, I learned to be independent, explored many countries, debated in the Model UN, skied in the Alps, and played hockey In the Swiss town of Zermatt, at the base of the Matterhorn. I had learned in grade school that the Matterhorn was the symbol of Switzerland, and I had to pinch myself to make sure that I was real, and was truly playing hockey in view of that renowned mountain. I had the same feeling when I first climbed the Eiffel Tower in Paris. These famous places were no longer just pictures in a book. I was there.

As a school trip, we visited Flanders Fields Cemetery. I realize that, at the time, I was an impressionable youth; but that place touched me to the core of my bones. It is still imprinted somewhere inside of me. Many of those young men were my age when they paid the ultimate price to stop a diabolical dictator from taking over the civilized world. They gave their lives for their country, for peace, and for freedom.

Me Here

For a moment, I stopped the difficult task of lip-reading, and let my mind wander. I was thinking about my own visit to that cemetery. I don’t think that it matters how old you are. I was well past my youth; yet I was shaken to tears, anger, and to an irreconcilable sadness which I feel even now, when I hear Raven talking about it.

When I focused again on the TV, Raven was still speaking:

"After my visit to that cemetery, I became obsessed with the English poet and First World War soldier Wilfred Owen. I carried his book, War Poems and Others, with me everywhere. In my travels that followed high school, that book was my Gideon’s Bible. All alone, in some strange place, in some strange country, and often fearful, I found comfort in Owen’s war poems. They gave me courage. I read his Anthem for Doomed Youth so often that I could recite it by heart. Those words were my companion, when I needed one:

"—Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifle’s rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons."

And I learned that orison is the archaic word for prayer. My imagination accompanied those dying boys into the cold, rat-ridden trenches and onto the mud of the battlefields, crying out to a God who did not exist, or wasn’t listening."

Me Here

I had been wondering how Raven had become a soldier. Obviously, the seed had been planted while he still was in high school. Early impressions can be very powerful.

CHAPTER FIVE

TELEVISION IN ROW 54 SEAT A

DADAAB

I glanced to my left to see what the lady in a flowery-sleeved top was watching. She was flipping through the channels.

A headline flashed:

Sociopolitical journalist interviews a UN worker who once worked in DADAAB -- the refugee camp in Northern Kenya.

The flowery sleeve clicked on.

"No, no," I wanted to cry out. "Let’s watch and see what they have to say about the refugee camp." But the sleeve wasn’t listening. The screen flashed onwards.

Since the terrorist attacks on the Westgate shopping mall in Nairobi and the slaughter of 148 students at Garissa University College in Northern Kenya, Dadaab had recently become renewed news.

The Kenyan government claimed that the terrorist came from Dadaab, called it a nursery for terrorists, and vowed, for the umpteenth time, to close the camp and send the refugees home.

Since the U.S. is the main funder of the camp, and given that the UN has strict rules about when refugees can return home, a whole rash of geopolitical debates have surfaced, everywhere, and Dadaab is once more headline news.

By now, the media had probably exhausted all their top governmental leads, and were reduced to interviewing a former UN worker from the camp. What could a worker offer to the Big Debate? UN workers wouldn’t be allowed to even touch on the politics. Nonetheless, I thought that it might be more interesting than the dry, reveal-nothing talks, I had already heard on the subject.

The flowery sleeve kept clicking. I decided to turn back to the other television. Raven was speaking.

CHAPTER SIX

TELEVISION IN ROW 54 SEAT C

RAVEN

"As I have said, after high school, I travelled. For a year, I went into any country in Africa and the Middle East that would allow me access. When I travelled, I tried not to be a naïve interloper. I read about the places that I visited, and participated in as many cultural events as possible. I became aware how fascinating people are.

"Probably because of my travels, I decided to study social sciences at university. As an undergrad, I progressively learned the language of the social sciences and swallowed my professors’ thoughts. This language and these thoughts ruled. I submitted. I read, discussed, and wrote these thoughts in the required language, ad nauseam.

"I began to question my validity. Was I a thinker? Hardly.

"I realized that I was a regurgitator.

"And once I became a professor, what would I do? Teach others the language? Teach others to regurgitate?

"How on earth could this possibly contribute to society; to the world society?

"I began to question my cloistered life behind walls fortified by ivy.

"I began to itch for something more tangible; something more meaningful; perhaps something out in the real world.

"I had a longing to somehow get my hands dirty.

"For my PhD thesis, I had chosen to write on W.E.B. DuBois’ The Souls of Black Folk. Dr. DuBois was a black American scholar whose prose was artistic and touching; but most of all, it was revealing. DuBois had a desire to show, in a practical way, how social change, for the better, could be created for the American black masses.

"However, DuBois’ critics claimed, because he was an academic, he couldn’t possibly understand the marginalized experiences of the black masses.

"One day while I was thinking about this, a EUREKA moment came to me. How could I write, convincingly, at an academic level when I had such a limited experience of life? I felt like I was just manipulating words and concepts to obtain a given result.

I left the university. I joined the Canadian Armed Forces.

Me Here

Wow! You knew it was coming. After his visit to Flanders Fields and his obsession with the war poet, you knew it had to come. But because he had spent so many years in academia, one might be forgiven if they thought that he had lost all interest in being a soldier.

Maybe he hadn’t been ready.