{"product_id":"the-boat-people-isbn-9780525432463","title":"The Boat People","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eGlobe and Mail\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller, \u003ci\u003eThe Boat People\u003c\/i\u003e is an extraordinary novel about a group of refugees who survive a perilous ocean voyage only to face the threat of deportation amid accusations of terrorism\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen a rusty cargo ship carrying Mahindan and five hundred fellow refugees from Sri Lanka's bloody civil war reaches Vancouver's shores, the young father thinks he and his six-year-old son can finally start a new life. Instead, the group is thrown into a detention processing center, with government officials and news headlines speculating that among the \"boat people\" are members of a separatist militant organization responsible for countless suicide attacks—and that these terrorists now pose a threat to Canada's national security. As the refugees become subject to heavy interrogation, Mahindan begins to fear that a desperate act taken in Sri Lanka to fund their escape may now jeopardize his and his son's chance for asylum.\u003cbr\u003e     Told through the alternating perspectives of Mahindan; his lawyer, Priya, a second-generation Sri Lankan Canadian who reluctantly represents the refugees; and Grace, a third-generation Japanese Canadian adjudicator who must decide Mahindan's fate as evidence mounts against him, \u003ci\u003eThe Boat People\u003c\/i\u003e is a spellbinding and timely novel that provokes a deeply compassionate lens through which to view the current refugee crisis.\u003ci\u003e\"The Boat People\u003c\/i\u003e is a burning flare of a novel, at once incendiary and illuminating. With a rare combination of precision, empathy and insight, Sharon Bala has crafted an unflinching examination of what happens when the fundamental human need for safety collides with the cold calculus of bureaucracy. In the best tradition of fearless literature, it shatters our comfortable illusions about who we really are and reveals just how asymmetrical the privilege of belonging can be. This is a brilliant debut – a story that needs to be told, told beautifully.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Omar El Akkad, author of American War\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Probing...Timely...\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Timely and engrossing...This is a powerful debut.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Rooted in actual events, Bala uses the tools of fiction to excavate the human truths hidden under the headlines...\u003ci\u003eThe Boat People\u003c\/i\u003e is a book perfect for our times, essential reading to bring context to questions which we are, perhaps, more inclined to ignore.\"\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Toronto Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This earnest debut novel forcefully explores the issues surrounding immigration…deeply moving and nuanced, \u003ci\u003eThe Boat People\u003c\/i\u003e asks what price a country is willing to pay when public safety comes at the cost of human lives.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"A multifaceted debut novel...Cinematic details transport us to a tension-rich drama...Bala moves fluidly from past to present, mixing memories with current crises...Such juxtapositions build and maintain suspense all the way to the last line, where readers are left hanging, as if justice is in our hands.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—BookPage\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A deeply honest story that speaks from the soul of the refugee. Sharon Bala paints a picture of love, strength and struggle so vividly and so powerfully with her words, that it has the ability to be a catalyst for a deeper conversation and change about issues surrounding immigration today…Bravo to Bala on a phenomenal début that gives life to every one of us who wants people to have the opportunity for a better life.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eFredericksburg Freelance-Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eSharon Bala lives in St. John’s where she is a member of The Port Authority writing group. Her short story “Butter Tea at Starbucks” won the prestigious Writers’ Trust \/ McClelland \u0026amp; Stewart Journey Prize in 2017. \u003ci\u003e The Boat People\u003c\/i\u003e is her first novel. Please visit SharonBala.com.\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eBeginning\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eJuly 2009\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     Mahindan was flat on his back when the screaming began, one arm right-angled over his eyes. He heard the whistle and thud of falling artillery, the cries of the dying. Mortar shells and rockets, the whole world on fire.\u003cbr\u003e      Then another sound. It cut through the clamor so that for a drawn-out second there was nothing else, only him and his son and the bomb that arched through the sky with a shrill banshee scream, spinning nose aimed straight for them. Mahindan fought to open his eyes. His limbs were pinned down and heavy. He struggled to move, to call out in terror, to clamber and run. The ground rumbled. The shell exploded, shards of hot metal spitting in its wake. The tent was rent in half. Mahindan jolted awake.\u003cbr\u003e      Heart like a sledgehammer, he sat up frantic, blinking into the darkness. He heard someone panting and long seconds later realized it was him. The echoing whine of flying shrapnel faded and he returned to the present, to the coir mat under him, back to the hold of the ship.\u003cbr\u003e      There were snores and snuffles, the small nocturnal noises of five hundred slumbering bodies. Beneath him, the engine’s monotonous whir. He reached out, instinctive, felt his son Sellian curled up beside him, then lay down again. The back of his neck was damp. His pulse still raced. He smelled the sourness of his skin, the raw animal stink of the bodies all around. The man on the next mat slept with his mouth open. His snore was a revving motorcycle, so close Mahindan could almost feel the warm exhales.\u003cbr\u003e      He put his hand against Sellian’s back, felt it move up and down. Gradually, his own breathing slowed to the same rhythm. He ran a hand through his son’s hair, fine and silky, the soft strands of a child, then stroked his arm, felt the roughness of his skin, the long, thin scratches, the scabbed-over insect bites. Sellian was slight. Six years old and barely three feet tall. How little space the child occupied, coiled into himself, his thumb in his mouth. How precarious his existence, how miraculous his survival.\u003cbr\u003e      Mahindan’s vision adjusted and shapes emerged out of the gloom. The thin rails on either side of the ladder. Lamps strung up along an electrical cord. Outside the porthole window, it was still pitch-black.\u003cbr\u003e      Careful not to wake Sellian, he stood and gingerly made his way across the width of the ship toward the ladder, stepping between bodies huddled on thin mats and ducking under sleepers swaying overhead, cocooned in rope hammocks. It was hot and close, the atmosphere suffocating.\u003cbr\u003e      Hema’s thick plait trailed out on the dirty floor. Mahindan stooped to pick it up and laid it gently on her back as he passed by. Her two daughters shared the mat beside her; they lay on their sides facing each other, knees and foreheads touching. A few feet on, he passed the man with the amputated leg and averted his gaze.\u003cbr\u003e      During the day the ship was rowdy with voices, but now he heard only the slap of the electrical cord against the wall, everyone breathing in and out, recycling the same stale, diesel-scented air.\u003cbr\u003e A boy cried out in his sleep, caught in a nightmare, and when Mahindan turned toward the sound, he saw Kumuran’s wife comfort her son. With both hands grasping the banisters, Mahindan hoisted himself up the ladder. Emerging onto the deck, inhaling the fresh scent of salt and sea, he felt immediately lighter. From overhead, the mast creaked and he gazed up to see the stars, the half-appam moon glowing alive in the sky. At the thought of appam--doughy, hot off the fire--his stomach gave a plaintive, hollow grumble.\u003cbr\u003e      It was dark, but he knew his way around the ship. A dozen plastic buckets were lined up along the stern. He squatted in front of one and formed his hands into a bowl. The water was tepid, murky with twigs and bits of seaweed. He splashed water on his face and the back of his neck, feeling the grit scratch his skin.\u003cbr\u003e      The boat--a sixty-meter freighter, past its prime and jerry-rigged for five hundred passengers--was cruising through calm waters, groaning under the weight of too much human cargo. Mahindan held on to the railing, rubbing a thumb against the blistered rust.\u003cbr\u003e      A few others were out, shadowy figures keeping silent vigil on both levels of the deck. They had been at sea for weeks or months, sunrises blurring into sunsets. Days spent on deck, tarps draped overhead to block out the sun, and the floor burning beneath them. Stormy nights when the ship would lurch and reel, Sellian cradled in Mahindan’s lap, their stomachs tumbling with the pitch and yaw of the angry ocean. \u003cbr\u003e      But the captain had said they were close and for days they had been expecting land, a man posted at all times in the crow’s nest.\u003cbr\u003e      Mahindan turned his back to the railing and slid down to sit on the deck. Exhaustion whenever he thought of the future; terror when he remembered the past. He yawned and pressed a cheek to raised knees, then tucked his arms in for warmth. At least here on the boat they were safe from attack. Ruksala, Prem, Chithra’s mother and father. The roll call of the dead lulled him to sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He awoke to commotion and gull shrieks. A boy ran down the length of the ship calling for his father. Appa! Appa! There were more people on the deck now, all of them speaking in loud, excited voices. \u003cbr\u003e      The man they called Ranga stood at the railing beside him, staring out. Mahindan was dismayed to see him.\u003cbr\u003e      Land is close, Ranga said.\u003cbr\u003e      Mahindan scanned the straight line of the ocean, trying not to blink. Nearby, a young man stood on the rail and levered his body half out of the boat. An older woman called out: Take care!\u003cbr\u003e      After all this time, finally we have arrived, Ranga said. He grinned at Mahindan and added: Because of you only, I am here.\u003cbr\u003e      Nothing to do with me, Mahindan said. We all took our own chance.\u003cbr\u003e      Mahindan kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. At first he saw the head of a pin, far in the distance, but as he kept watching, the vision emerged. Purple-brown land and blue mountains like ghosts rising in the background. The newspaperman came to join them as the slope of a forest appeared. Mahindan had spoken to him a few times but could not recall his name. Someone said he had been working for a paper in Colombo before he fled.\u003cbr\u003e      We will be intercepted, the newspaperman said. Americans or Canadians, who will catch us first?\u003cbr\u003e      Catch us? Ranga repeated, his voice rising to a squeak.\u003cbr\u003e      But now there were people streaming onto the deck, squeezing in for a view at the railing, and the newspaperman was jostled away. Mahindan edged aside too, relieved to put distance between himself and Ranga.\u003cbr\u003e      There were voices and bodies everywhere. Women plaited their hair over one shoulder. Men pulled their arms through their T‑shirts. Most were barefoot. People pressed up around him. The boat creaked and Mahindan felt it list, as everyone crowded in. They stood shoulder to shoulder, people on both levels of the deck, hushing one another, children holding their breath. The trees, the mountains, the strip of beach they could now make out up ahead, it all seemed impossibly big, unreal after days and nights of nothing but sea and sky and the rumbling of the ship. Nightmares of rusted steel finally giving way, belching them all into the ocean.\u003cbr\u003e      Sellian appeared, squeezing himself between legs, one fist against his eyes. Appa, you left me!\u003cbr\u003e     How to leave? Mahindan said. Did you think I jumped in the ocean? He picked his son up in the crook of one arm and pointed. Look! We’re here.\u003cbr\u003e      The clouds burned orange. Mahindan squinted. People shouted and pointed. Look! \u003cbr\u003e      There was a tugboat in the water and a larger ship, its long nose turned up, speeding toward them, sleek and fast, with a tall white flagpole. The wind unfurled the flag, red and white, majestic in the flaming sky. They saw the leaf and a great resounding cheer shook the boat.\u003cbr\u003e     The captain cut the engine and they floated placid. Overhead, there was a chopping sound.\u003cbr\u003eMahindan saw a helicopter, its blades slicing the sky, a red leaf painted on its belly. There were three boats now, all of them circling the ship, a welcome party. On the deck, people waved with both hands. The red-and-white flag snapped definitive.\u003cbr\u003e      Mahindan gripped his son. Sellian shivered in his arms, from fear, from exhilaration, he couldn’t tell. Soon Mahindan was shaking too, armpits dampening. His teeth clattered.\u003cbr\u003e      Their new life. It was just beginning.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eInshallah, Mr. Gigovaz\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGigovaz’s Subaru was idling at the entrance of her low-rise when Priya came down from her apartment at 4 a.m. A police cruiser had pulled up alongside and both drivers had their windows lowered like characters in a cop show.\u003cbr\u003e      Standing under the shabby green awning, Priya tugged on the building’s door to make sure it had locked before walking out toward the curb. Wind blew the rain sideways, the drops bouncing in tiny white splashes off the asphalt. The cop pulled away as she climbed into Gigovaz’s car.\u003cbr\u003e      Nice area, he said.\u003cbr\u003e      Priya didn’t know how to reply and said nothing as they drove east on Hastings past hobbled shopping carts and vacant storefronts, sleeping bodies huddled in doorways. She held her travel mug with one hand and fumbled the seat belt into the buckle with the other.\u003cbr\u003e      Gigovaz had the radio tuned to an easy-listening station.\u003cbr\u003e      Avishai Cohen, he said.\u003cbr\u003e      The name meant nothing to Priya, but since she hadn’t wished Gigovaz good morning, she said:      It’s nice.\u003cbr\u003e      He nudged the volume up and Priya took it as a sign she was exempt from small talk. Rain thrummed a steady beat against the roof. The inside of the car smelled like stale coffee and wet dog. Big Mac wrappers were crumpled into paper cups. There was a pilled blanket stretched across the backseat, a fine layer of dust on the dashboard, and a ziplock of Milk-Bones on the floor, half the biscuits crushed to crumbs. It was her first trip in Gigovaz’s car and Priya was thoroughly unsurprised. \u003cbr\u003e      The rain let up as they drove south past Richmond. In the distance, there were container ships and construction cranes, golden dots of light shining through the fog. On the radio, a three-tone melody announced the national news. The refugees were the lead story \u003cbr\u003e We took control of the vessel twelve nautical miles off Vancouver Island, a spokesman for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police said. The migrants were taken into custody and we are now conducting a deep search of the ship.\u003cbr\u003e      The news reader cut in: The ship bore no visible flags or numbers--a sign, officials say, that those aboard were hoping to enter Canada unnoticed.\u003cbr\u003e      Gigovaz turned off the radio. A massive cargo ship with hundreds of people, he said. I’m sure that was their plan--to slip in unnoticed.\u003cbr\u003e      At the ferry terminal, they were waved into line behind a blue Camry. A Canadian flag was taped to the antenna, waggling in the breeze. It was properly morning now, the sky a mild gray. The lot was nearly empty, only a few commuters out on this holiday Wednesday. Gigovaz rolled down the window to wipe the side mirror and Priya did the same, then dried her hand on her skirt and stifled a yawn.\u003cbr\u003e      Today was supposed to be about sleeping in, eating pulled pork pancakes, and watching the Canada Day fireworks from the beach at Kitsilano. Today was not supposed to be about refugees and Gigovaz and an O-dark-hundred commute to Vancouver Island.\u003cbr\u003e      Gigovaz had been comatose in a staff meeting two days earlier when Priya first spotted him. The partners at Elliot, McFadden, and Lo were congratulating themselves over five columns of numbers on a PowerPoint and Priya was leaning against a wall at the back, ignoring her pinched toes and thinking about an affidavit she was trying to track down, when she noticed Gigovaz, slumped into a chair, chin on chest, a mug dangling off his fingers. In a room full of crisp pinstripes and sharp ballpoints, Gigovaz looked blurred at the edges, soft folds overflowing in every direction. McFadden said, Billable hours rose 47 percent, and the room exploded in a round of applause. Gigovaz startled awake and Priya found herself staring into a squinted pair of bleary eyes. She turned away and started clapping, but a moment later, when she snuck a peek, Gigovaz was still watching her.\u003cbr\u003e      Later, he caught up to her in the elevator and made her labor out the syllables of her last name.\u003cbr\u003e      Raja, she said.\u003cbr\u003e      Raja, he repeated.\u003cbr\u003e      There were half a dozen people in the elevator and no one else was speaking.\u003cbr\u003e      Say-kar.\u003cbr\u003e      Say-kar.\u003cbr\u003e      An.\u003cbr\u003e      Rajakaran, he said.\u003cbr\u003e      Raja-se-kar‑an, she corrected.\u003cbr\u003e      Her own name sounded foolish to her, all the individual syllables rendered embarrassing and meaningless by repetition.\u003cbr\u003e      You’re Sri Lankan? he asked.\u003cbr\u003e      I’m Canadian, she said, standing up a little straighter.\u003cbr\u003e      Gigovaz turned a dimpled hand over itself in the air and said, Yes, yes. But your family is originally from Sri Lanka, right?\u003cbr\u003e      The elevator stopped and one person got off.\u003cbr\u003e      Yes, she said. They were ten floors away from her desk and every single button on the side panel was lit up.\u003cbr\u003e      Tamil? he asked.\u003cbr\u003e      Yes.\u003cbr\u003e      She compressed her lips and clasped her hands in front of her. Gigovaz was senior counsel, but there was also a chocolate smear on his collar. It was difficult to know how to act around him. But one more ignorant question and she would get off and take the stairs.\u003cbr\u003e      You’re a law student, in your last year? And before she could answer, he asked if she had taken Refugee Law in school.\u003cbr\u003e      The doors opened and they stepped aside so a woman at the back could squeeze between them.\u003cbr\u003e      I’m specializing in corporate, Priya said.\u003cbr\u003e      You didn’t study IRPA? he asked.\u003cbr\u003e      IRPA. She tried to recall what the acronym stood for and came up with Immigration Refugee Something Act.\u003cbr\u003e      We did the Divorce Act.\u003cbr\u003e      Who’s your principal? he asked.\u003cbr\u003e      Joyce Lau, she said. Mergers and acquisitions.\u003cbr\u003e      Joyce Lau wore her hair in a bun and drove an Audi. She was the youngest senior counsel in the firm’s history and Priya had beaten out five people in her class for this job.\u003cbr\u003e      Gigovaz rubbed a hand under his chin. Joyce Lau, he said. Impressive, impressive.\u003cbr\u003e      When they reached her floor, Gigovaz got off too and veered toward Joyce’s office. Pack your things, Miss Rajakaran, he said. You’re moving to the seventh floor.\u003cbr\u003e      Priya stewed as they boarded the ferry, cursing her skin color and the whim that had caused her to glance Gigovaz’s way in the meeting. When she’d asked Joyce Lau why he didn’t want someone who understood immigration law, Joyce had just shrugged and said: Peter requested you. No one had signed up to intern with Gigovaz and now he’d found a sneaky way to rope Priya in.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Anchor","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305475625189,"sku":"NP9780525432463","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780525432463.jpg?v=1767738429","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-boat-people-isbn-9780525432463","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}