I was born in the northern Punjab region of India in 1956.  Most of the four million people living there were Sikhs, a religion greatly overshadowed by India's vast Hindu population.  There was a long history of oppression and violence surrounding the two groups, each more militant and aggressive with each passing century.  In the early 1980's, to preserve my faith I decided I must leave the congregation, and planned an escape that would require years of dedication to achieve.

In late June, 1987, I left the persecutions of India behind me forever.  Accompanied by others who had also sold their land and possessions in pursuit of a common dream, our dangerous trek to the Dutch port of Rotterdam went exactly as planned.  We made arrangements with Castor Lasalle, the skipper of the 497-ton Chilean ship Amelie, who demanded the equivalent of $2000 Canadian from each of us for his services. 

Early one morning, 173 men and an 18-year-old woman left Rotterdam's harbour unannounced, hidden deep in the Amelie's belly while a Costa Rican flag flew high above us.  We sat in the darkness for nineteen days, nibbling on rations as the ship slowly rolled with the Atlantic swell.  We never knew the ship’s location throughout the trip, or were told what final destination awaited us. 

A growing fear spread through the hide-out as sanitary conditions worsened and water supplies dwindled.  We constantly reminded each other of the sacrifices we'd made to be there, further sacrificing rations and clothing along the way for those needing them most.

Finally, in the black morning hours of July 12th, Rolf Nygren and Jasvir Singh, the commissioned men who had arranged our voyage, led us up to the ship's deck.  Castor Lasalle, under a thick blanket of fog and night, guided the Amelie close to shore before signaling deck-hands to lower the lifeboats.  We sat motionless as the creaking boats settled into the water and sliced through the fog towards shore.

The skipper promised our feet would soon be on Canadian soil, a relief to those familiar with harsh US refugee policies.  The lifeboats, seemingly small dangling on the Amelie's deck, were suddenly large near the rocky shore and offered no hope of a dry landing.

One by one we jumped waist-deep into the cold sea and waded ashore.  None of us were prepared for the damp and chilly air of a Canadian morning; our thin clothes and shoes, though neat and stylish, were defenseless in this new latitude.  We emptied the water from our shoes and stood shivering near shore.  While our bodies were cold and exhausted, our broken spirits had warmed at last.

We gathered near the shore, unsure of what to do.  A dog was barking nearby, and we started walking in the direction of the noise.  We soon reached a road and followed it, moving quickly to fight the chill.  A house appeared on the right, the barking dog tied in the yard. 

A light came on, a shadow appeared, and we shouted: "Hello!  Refugees!  Hello!"  The news of our arrival spread quickly through the small village of Charlesville which, with a population of just under 100, had suddenly doubled in size.

A man named Vernon Malone approached us a short while later.  The first Canadian we met, Mr. Malone's kindness confirmed his country's global reputation.  He said he had called the Mounties, to which of course he got no reaction.  A sharp-dressed man in a uniform soon drove up to the barking dog's house, and the Mounty mystery was solved. 

The man told Mr. Malone to stay away from us, but he was ignored as Mr. Malone led us to his son's nearby home.  After fetching some blankets to sit on, Mr. Malone handed out water and first-aid supplies; several in the group had cut themselves jumping from the boat.

We were taken to the Wood's Harbour Fire Hall after sunrise and again treated to unexpected hospitality.  A woman named Rosalie Stoddard, the Hall's former kitchen supervisor, served peanut butter sandwiches and Kool-Aid with help from other local volunteers. 

More importantly, Mrs. Stoddard helped us cope with the journalists and reporters that soon arrived.  She was a calming presence as the crowd grew and cameras flashed, shouldering the many questions directed toward her strange guests.

The villagers had mixed reactions about our arrival.  This particular area of Nova Scotia was unaccustomed to mingling with unfamiliar cultures and races, and some angrily told us to leave.  We understood that our turbans and long beards indicated Sikh traditions the local church likely disapproved of.

No strangers to religious differences, it was easy for us to accept criticism in the absence of guns.  For the most part, our reception was warm and generous.  When a fellow refugee asked where he could catch a taxi to Toronto, the mood in the Hall lightened considerably.

At around 10:00 am, buses arrived and took us to the Canadian Forces Base in Halifax.  Mendel Green, the famous immigration lawyer, accompanied us on the trip and prepared for the coming court hearings. 

He and The Maritime Sikh Society successfully argued for our immediate bail.  We were individually interviewed in the months that followed as immigration officers decided which of us could remain in Canada.  Most were granted asylum and permitted to work in Toronto and Vancouver, but a few were sent back to India and the suffering they had tried so hard to escape.

Many Canadians were outraged by our illegal arrival and applauded a promise from the government to pass legislation tightening admission requirements for refugees.  The bill, however, has still not passed; foreigners reaching Canadian soil can continue seeking refugee status until every possible appeal is carried out, which can often take up to four years. In most cases, refugees are granted citizenship, and studies have proven them, on average, more valuable to society than the burdens many Canadians see them as.

After pleading guilty to violating immigration laws, Rolf Nygren was sentenced to a year in jail.  Jasvir Singh received three months and the ship's skipper, Lasalle, got a 30-day jail term.

The Maritime Sikh Society paid tribute to Rosalie Stoddard, affectionately referred to us as the 'Peanut Butter Lady', during a ceremony in Halifax.  She has received poison-pen letters and hate-mail over the years from as far away as England since her act of kindness that morning back in '87.

On July 12th, 2004, I helped organize the reunion of seventy of my fellow refugees and family members with the residents of Charlesville.  Vernon Malone, true to character, welcomed us fondly. He bought air mattresses, borrowed bedding, and put up forty of us in his basement.  Many of his neighbours provided camp trailers and tents to ensure everyone was looked after.  During a two-day backyard party, the residents of Charlesville and my Indian friends traded cooking recipes and discovered a lobster curry that's still talked about today.

I now live in Toronto, running a construction company.  There are plans to erect a proper memorial to thank the village of Charlesville, and some of my fellow stowaways have expressed interest in helping with odd jobs around the community. 

Here in Toronto, surrounded by many different cultures and races, I sometimes take my Canadian citizenship for granted.  I have to remind myself that it didn't come easy.  I'm free to pursue my Sikh faith and traditions openly, and that alone makes me very proud of this country and the people I share it with.

My name is Avtar Sandhu, and each day I find a quiet place to reflect back on the morning my life forever changed.  I see the Peanut Butter Lady, rushing here and there with blankets and food, and I see Mr. Malone waving for everyone to follow him.

And later, when I walk outside my apartment, I see a country whose shores millions like myself would risk everything to wash up on.