Beyond the Border of War

Tougher still was the question McDowell continues to ask himself:

"What does it mean to desert the Army and abandon your country?"

How Many Deserters?

Since the United States invaded Iraq in March 2003, more than 16,000 troops -- mostly Army -- have deserted. Antiwar groups contend the number is much higher, with many of the runaways quietly discharged.

How a case is handled is left to the discretion of each unit's commander. Some deserters are returned to duty with a mere reprimand; others face court-martial. A felony conviction can carry a five-year prison sentence. Under extreme circumstances, desertion is punishable by death.

"We do not actively look for deserters," the Army acknowledges in a written statement, "but they can be returned to military control by civilian law enforcement -- this normally happens when police check the identification during a traffic stop."

The Army has prosecuted only 837 deserters from Iraq, with about half pleading their charges down to AWOL.

Canadian immigration officials and the courts so far have denied asylum to the deserters here, concluding that the soldiers didn't exhaust legal remedies in the United States and that there is no evidence they would be treated unjustly or inhumanely if returned.

No one has been deported yet, pending a House of Commons debate on a motion that would grant permanent residency to any "conscientious objectors fleeing service in war not sanctioned by the United Nations."

'A New Canadian'

Lee Zaslofsky was part of a mass exodus of up to 90,000 Americans who sought refuge in Canada during the Vietnam War. Most were draft dodgers, and the majority came home after the United States granted amnesty. Zaslofsky is one of some 25,000 who stayed behind.

They settled down, grew old and, for the most part, remained invisible, integrating so thoroughly that no enduring subculture ever took root.

"I told myself I could never go back. I didn't want to be an American in exile. I wanted to be a new Canadian," Zaslofsky says. "When I refer to Americans, I say 'they.' I've been here 38 years now."

His days as a campus demonstrator enthralled by the beat poetry of Allen Ginsberg is a fond memory, but "I'm more radical now than I was then," Zaslofsky declares. After years of advocacy on behalf of AIDS patients, Zaslofsky has shifted his attention to antiwar efforts and the plight of the American deserters caught in political limbo here. Reaching out has meant connecting for the first time with his own lost tribe, as well.