Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul Read Free Page B

and write secretly taught those who did not. Many people managed to hide some of their beloved classic books before they could be destroyed.
    “Many villagers dreamed of immigrating to Canada where they believed people were allowed to make choices and work hard to make a life for themselves. Although we were prevented from leaving with threats of imprisonment, many people attempted to flee because we were starving in the homeland. Grandpa and I and our six children were among those who made plans to escape.
    “Our village was twenty miles from the border. We would have to walk and sneak past the border guards. On the other side of the border, we would be met by people to whom we paid our life’s savings to help us travel across the land to the ocean, and across the ocean to Canada.
    “Crossing the border was extremely dangerous—the guards were ordered to shoot anyone caught trying to pass illegally. For this part of the journey, we were on our own.
    “Late at night, taking only what we could carry, we left our home and quietly stole out of the village. Because three of our children were still quite small, it took us five days to reach the border. When we arrived, we hid in the trees on the edge of a mile-wide open area that ran along it. We planned to wait until dark before trying to cross.
    “As the sun began to set, my husband and I carried the three smallest children while our other three joined hands. We could see the border and began to run across that mile-wide open area towards freedom. Just as we reached the borderline a bright spotlight flashed on and caught in its glare the two older boys running with their younger brother, who was literally suspended in midair between them. A loud voice boomed over a bullhorn— ‘Halt! Immediately!’—but my sons paid no attention and continued to run.
    “Gunshots rang out and continued even after we had crossed into the neutral country on the other side. The light still followed us and suddenly found me as I ran carrying the baby. When our eldest son, John, saw this, he let go of his two brothers and yelled for them to run. Then John began to draw the guards’ attention by jumping, yelling and waving his hands. The bright light settled on him as the rest of us finally reached the protective barrier of the trees on the other side of the border. As we turned back to look, several shots rang out. John, my ten-year-old son, fell to the ground and lay still.
    “Thankfully, the guards left my son there, because he lay outside their jurisdiction. Your grandpa crawled out and dragged John back to where we were huddled in the trees. My child had been hit by one of the bullets, and he died there in my arms. We wept in agony, but our hearts were filled with pride for his heroism. If not for John’s selfless actions, the baby and I would have certainly been shot. He gave his life that night so the rest of us might live.
    “After we buried John, with heavy hearts we continued on and eventually found our way to Canada, and so to freedom.”
    When Shelley’s grandmother finished her story, I had tears in my eyes.
    “Since arriving in Canada I have enjoyed my freedom immensely,” she continued. “I take great pleasure in every single choice I have made—including the time I took an evening job scrubbing floors so that Shelley’s father could go to university.”
    As she clutched at her heart, the dear lady then expressed great pride in her second oldest son, who was eight during the family’s flight to freedom. Out of gratitude for their new life in Canada, and because of the horror of seeing his brother shot down so long ago, he had enlisted in the Canadian army to defend his new country with his life.
    Grandma confided that she valued her right to vote as very dear to her heart and had never missed her chance to have “her say.” She told me then that she viewed voting as not only a right and a privilege, but also a responsibility. By voting, she believed she could