Daniel Gallant, 2014 ©
This is an excerpt from my Masters Thesis and upcoming autobiography.
Since I have completed my Masters I am going to post the last story section of my Thesis. This piece is officially copyrighted and cannot be copied in part, nor in it’s entirety, without my specific and expressed written consent. It is publicly accessible thus I ask that you only share this with people through the actual website.
If you seek further permissions please contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org
Throughout my university career, which I started at age twenty-six, with a grade seven education, my interest in watching and listening to storytellers led me to the Weaving Words Aboriginal Writing Festival. I attended the event two years in a row. Maintaining an anonymous presence at the festival was the most natural engagement for me. Sitting quietly in the sidelines. Listening to others’ stories, connecting and relating to them, while on my own. Previous to attending the University of Northern British Columbia, where this writing festival takes place annually, I had attended the University of Alberta.
While at the U of A, an invitation from my cousin led me to a reading by First Nations writer Richard Van Camp. While listening to Richard I felt compelled to talk with him, but did not do so. Afterwards my cousin Zach and I went to the bookstore and bought a copy of The Lesser Blessed. I enjoyed the book. Years later at the Weaving Words festival at UNBC Richard Van Camp was one of the annual readers. I found him funny and entertaining. He engaged my spirit in a way I had never known before.
During one of my courses at UNBC, in the First Nations Studies program, we had a guest speaker in class. This was on the first day of the Weaving Words Aboriginal Story Telling Festival. Garry Gottfriedson, a renowned Secwepemc poet, came and read some of his poetry to our class. It was intimate and raw. It was about the streets of East Van. I could smell, see, taste and touch the words and phrases he read out about some corners and alleys in the lower east side. Lower is such a good way to describe that area of Vancouver. It is hard for me to know and remember that as a child I was alone on the streets on the lower east side. It was like I was back on the streets of East Van when I listened to Garry read. It took everything in me to not break down with shattered tears in class. Immediately after Garry was done reading, my feet carried me to retreat in the washroom. Tears streamed down my face. Finally someone in the university spoke my language. I was compelled to talk to Garry, but did not do so. Instead my introverted retreat sewed my lips shut. My fear crippled me. I had no idea what the fear was about. It was apparent that it was simply overwhelmingly a response of fear to Garry’s words. Perhaps the fear of returning there to the streets, or the fear that other children, will endure similar experiences.
The following year both Garry and Richard were reading again at the festival. I was excited. After one of the readings the crowd converged to a local campus coffee shop. As we all stood in line Richard was standing there with several of his peers. He looked at me and smiled. I gave him a responsive forced half smile. He looked down towards my crotch. My first thought was “what the fuck are you staring at?”
Then he looked in my eyes while pointing at my pocket, “Hey, that’s a nice knife you got going on there.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
“Can I take a look at’er?”
I pulled the fold up blade out of my pocket. I handed it to him. “Whoa, look guys!”
He showed the knife to his friends. “It’s a camo knife. ohhh, so cool!,” he said with utter excitement. I could not tell if he was fucking with me or if he was being genuinely nice. “Can I open it?,” he asked.
“Ya man knock yerself out.”
Richard slowly pulled the blade of the knife open, with a huge energetic smile. You could feel his enthusiasm illuminate the room. “Whoa! Man! That’s the coolest thing ever! Look guys! The blade is camo even. Awesome knife man! Are you a hunter? My uncle is a hunter even. Whoa! This is so awesome!”
My heart was pounding. I was building up to an uncontrollable desire to punch him in the face. My heart felt like it was trying to jump out of my chest with every beat in order to reach out and smack him in his lips. He folded the knife up and handed it back to me. “That’s a wicked cool knife man. I want one like that someday. It would make a great gift for my uncle.”
I had never felt so patronized as I did in that moment. It felt like he knew about me. That he identified my knife in public to teach me a lesson. “Why the hell was I packing a knife at school for, anyways. What the hell was I afraid of. Was it necessary? Why the fuck was this son-of-a-bitch bugging me.”
Him and all his friends ordered their drinks and left to the large table nearby. I was so relieved when they walked away. They were all laughing and joking at the table. I felt like they were laughing at me. Everybody knew. They all knew Daniel was crazy. He packs a knife at the university, does he think he is tough or something. I got my tea and left. I split like lightening. I got about thirty paces down the hall. I stopped dead in my tracks. A voice spoke inside my head: “You have to stop packing knives Daniel. You need to look at your fear son.”
I took a deep breath in, and released all my pent up energy in a single exhale. My fight was gone. It felt like I was going to cry. I knew my fear had to be relieved through letting go.
Letting go is not an easy task. Usually it comes with a lot of tears and intrusive self-destructive thoughts. I feared in that moment that someone would try to hurt me if I put my knife away. Besides what’s the point in owning a knife unless you carry it with you. The voice of knife spoke again. “Give it away to Richard. He is the one who just called you on your bullshit. You’re in university and your life is different now. Why the hell are you carrying the streets with you here in these hallways. Let it go. Give it away. That’s the Cree way. Face your fears son.”
I marched over to Richard while he sat at the table, they were all laughing and joking around. I slammed the knife down in front of him. It felt like the sound travelled through all the halls in the university. The entire school went quiet and glared at me. They all had seen me. Everyone knew. I felt busted. “This is for you,” I said.
I spun around immediately, and stepped away one foot in front of the other before Richard could respond.
“Hey! Hey man, thanks, but what is this for?”
I side-stepped and spun around while walking backwards. “It’s for you man. It’s my gift to you. It’s yours now” Then I saluted him and walked away.
“Whoa guys look! This knife is so awesome! Look!”
I could hear his bullshit as I walked away. Reluctantly that night I slipped into another one of Richard’s readings. I had to. The guy pissed me off so bad and got under my skin that there was no choice but to face the demons inside me. The festival ended that night.
A year later, I attended the festival again. Both Richard and Garry were there. The opening event was a number of First Nations poets from all over Canada. Garry was reading that day. I needed to attend this one for sure. Garry’s readings brought me to places I did not want to go. But I knew those places needed to be re-visited again. Being haunted by the streets every day of my life is a curse, intrusive memories and grotesque recalls are continuously summoned. But during Garry’s picturesque poetic description of the real world seemed like a healing time to visit those horrible spaces.
As I walked in and sat down, Garry glanced over at me. Immediately he jumped up from his seat in the auditorium and quickly came over to where I was sitting. He plopped down beside me. “Hey, I want to talk to you. I been trying to get to you for two years in a row now. So after the reading make sure you don’t run off like you usually do immediately after. Ok?”
I smiled, “Ya, you bet. I will stay in my seat till you’re not busy afterwards. Just don’t forget about me waiting”
“I won’t. k. I gotta go talk to those people over there before my reading”
I sat there in tears. Finally someone had seen me. It was a relief. It had been several years since someone seen me, and made the action to approach me. The last time that had happened was with Gary Moostoos and Jerry Goodswimmer, in Edmonton (Gallant, 2012a). I felt validated in my existence from the one simple fact, Garry saw me and had articulated that he wanted to talk to me.
We hung out and chatted for several hours. Then he asked for a ride to his hotel room. As we drove down the university boulevard, a hill that is stretched over four kilometers of a sloping downward grade, our conversation got deeper and deeper. Soon our conversation shifted to our histories of childhood abuse. We were in to some pretty dark details. Then Garry talked about the healing properties of writing. I knew what he was talking about.
We talked about how our writing helped us and why we initially started to write in our lives. We talked about how later in life the red road led us to further healing, and helping others. He was shocked to hear that Cree culture influenced my life. Then he asked, “Do you got any of your writing with you?”
“Ya, of course I do. I write everyday in class. Otherwise I could not sit in class if I did not write poetry. I couldn’t process the social work bullshit without my poetry,” Garry smiled. “OK! Grab your bag. Come up to my room and read me a few pieces. Then I will give you some feedback”
I had my backpack on and ready to go. We went up to his hotel room. My heart pumped fear because I had never read my work out to anyone before. We were in his room. He dimmed the lights. Set me up at the table. He laid on the bed, on his back. His hands were clasped together, his fingers on top of his chest. His eyes were closed and he said, “Read the first one.”
I recited my poem: A Letter to Matthew.
“Ok. Good! Read the next one.”
I read my poem about gossip.
“Ok. Good. Now read the first one again”
I recited it one more time. I was feeling anxious to hear his feedback. Intuitively I knew it was going to be good feedback, but my fear and self-talk screamed that he would not like my writing. I had never read my poetry out to anyone before. I had been writing since my first psych ward stay when I was fourteen. Now thirty-six-years-old and reading poems out loud for the first time.
“You have an important voice. Here is what we are going to do. At Christmas time you are going to come stay with me. You will spend the holidays with me for three weeks. We will edit your writing and build you a manuscript”
I was smiling ear to ear. I was found. I was seen. I was heard. My whole life was spent trying to be heard, and now, it was coming. I was going to have a loud voice. We agreed that we would both commit to this offer. “There is one stipulation,” he said. “You have to call me every week until Christmas time. Otherwise I know you will not come”
I smiled. I knew in that moment he saw me. All of me. He understood me.
The writing festival continued the next day. Garry went home. Then on the last day of the festival I attended the last event, alone. Richard Van Camp was going to be reading at the wrap-up for the festival. I was pumped. As soon as the reading was over I rushed off to the washroom. When exiting the restroom Richard said, “Hey! I wanted to talk to you. But you keep vanishing every time I turn around. You’re like a ghost ‘ir sumthin.”
I laughed, “My friends on the rez used to sing a Stompin’ Tom Connors’ song every time I would walk in out of the blue: I am the wind.” Richard and I cracked up. Our bellies laughed. It was like standing there with one of my Cree cousins from the rez when I was a kid. Relaxed and real. I felt at home with Richard.
“Hey I wanted to thank you. Hold on, I brought something for you.”
He ran over to his bag and a group of people surrounded him. “Hold on a few minutes. I just gotta talk to this guy before he disappears on me again.”
Funny enough, it was about three seconds before my feet were gonna high tail it outta there. He came and sat with me. He handed me a folded cloth. It was dark blue. Then he pulled it away from me when I went to grab it.
“This is spiritual tobacco. It was a gift given to me from the six nations. It was grown by my friend. She honored me. Now I am honoring you. You gave me a gift. Now I am giving you a gift. That’s our way.”
I interrupted him. “Richard. Can I tell you something first?”
His eyes looked into my curiously, “Yes, of course. Go ahead”
I continued, “You know last year when you gave you that knife. I was mad at you. Real mad.”
Richard’s pupils dilated huge, “Whoa. What? Why? What did I do?!!”
Then I explained to him what had happened for me. “I have to tell you the story. You made me look at myself by being yourself. You are genuine. So was I. It was an internal clash for me. That day I learned something from you. You helped me. By simply being your beautiful self. I did not understand till awhile later. You gave me a gift and that’s why I gifted you your knife. You helped changed my life.” I was choking back the tears. But my eyes could not hold them back. My right eye poured out tears down the outside of my cheek. I looked in Richard’s eyes, “Thank you” I said.
Richard’s eyes were welled up and he softly said, “Thank you. That is some real powerful stuff.” His eyes then pushed the tears to the edge of his eyelids. The only thing holding back the waterfall of cry was the upward curve of his eye lashes, “That’s beautiful. Mussi-cho”
He handed me the tobacco. Then his shoulders flung back, his backbone instantly straightened, his eyes wide open and then his open hands moved upward in excitement. Then he went on to say, “Now I gotta tell you what I was going to say to you when I brought you these sacred seeds. The knife you gave me. It’s in a sacred place now. I had the knife in my pocket. I carried it everywhere because I knew it was looking for it’s home. Did you know? Knife has a spirit eh? I have even heard stories that there are knife people.” His eyes were smiling.
“This is so cool. What you told me really fits. This is so important. Knife has a spirit. Everything does. And that’s why we are here. That is why you are important to me. Now I got to tell you. Your knife. My knife. She is with medicines now. I was with my friend and he was looking for his knife. He was so upset. No one ever goes into his medicine bag. But somehow his knife went missing. No one ever touches his things. He even lives alone. So no one touches his stuff. Ever! Weird eh?”
Some things just happen for reasons beyond our understanding. People are put on our paths. Richard continued, “So I pulled the knife out of my pocket. My friend said “ahhh cool. But the knife has to be sharp. My medicines are tough.” So I opened the knife. I stroked the knife on my thumb to see if it was sharp. And holy man! It was ever sharp. We nearly became blood brothers. You know! Like in the old indian movies. So my friend said: “perfect!” Richard smiled.
“So that’s where your knife is. With the medicines. So now I understand why that knife is where it is. But I need to know something. Where did you get the knife?,” Richard asked.
I told him I was teaching a young First Nations guy to hunt. “I met him in school. He was in a heavy metal band and they played a lot of concerts in Canada and all over the continent. Their band, Giybaaw, always came into contact with white supremacists because of the type of heavy metal fans that went to the shows. And some of the bands were Nazis. So they asked me for help cuz I know about that stuff, eh? Then the next thing I know we became such good friends. I took him up north to teach him how to hunt. I realized I needed a pocket-knife. So we stopped at an old gas station in the middle of nowhere and I picked that knife. It had a perfect edge and beautiful tip.”
Richard smiled and stood up. He put is hands out to the sides and waved me in for a hug.
“I thank you Daniel. You’ve honored me with your story. Mussi-cho nechi”
I hugged him and quietly said, “hiy-hiy. You honored me today too.”
I continued on with my day. I was so grateful. Life was going where it was supposed to be going. The spirit of the knife told me this. Three and a half months later I went to Garry’s. We hit the work hard. We edited over a hundred poems in nine days, while we developed the manuscript. I also wrote many new poems. It was beautiful. Ten to sixteen hour days for nine days straight. We even did eight hours of work on Christmas day. After we were done we talked about the experience together. De-briefing all of our emotions and spiritual gratitude for having our paths intersect. I told him how much the Weaving Words festival meant to me that year, and why. I told him about the story with Richard and I.
Garry’s eyes filled with tears. He shook his head as his neck shivered,
“You know what?!”
I looked at him confused.
“Your knife is with my medicines.”
We looked at each other in shock. We both knew in that moment, these paths of the red road were healing trails. This was the spirit of the knife at work. This is what medicine means. Knife has a healing spirit, with an edge.
This Book Review is now published on Violent Extremist Exit Resources website.
“We’ll tear her to shreds.”
~ CSIS Toronto Region Investigator speaking of eighteen year old Elisa Hategan, whose affidavits implicated CSIS agent Grant Bristow in criminal activity. CBC’s The Fifth Estate, October 1994~
Race Traitor: The True Story of the Canadian Intelligence Service’s Greatest Cover-Up was a pleasure to read. Elisa Hategan has delivered an upfront account of her personal lived experience that definitively checks out with other sources within the public body of knowledge on this topic. A true account of government corruption, and security and law enforcement cover-up. The blatant role that the Canadian system had in establishing what could be said to be the most notorious neo-Nazi organization since WWII. It is noteworthy that Elisa starts her autobiography by explaining the difficulty she had in attempts to publish her book.
Publishing companies shy away from stories like this. In my own personal experience, publishing companies were resistant to my autobiography as a former violent racist skinhead. I am inspired to consider self-publishing, in a no-holds-barred way, much like Elisa. I want to start off by saying to Elisa directly:
“Thank you for your honest and courageous modeling, you are a living inspiration of true change. Your path is unique and beautiful. I commend you, and hope to honor your work.”
This story includes the detailed ins-and-outs of a CSIS conspiracy that involves the planted agent, Grant Bristow, within the Heritage Front. In fact, Elisa does what no one else would do. She brings together many of the fragments of facts to tell ‘the’ story in its most comprehensive form to date. Her facts are hard. Her sources are solid. She does a fantastic job of calling out poignant politicians, security agencies and law enforcement for their role in establishing one of the largest neo-Nazi organizations since WWII. This is a true account of CSIS and politicians who were involved in, and with, a Canadian domestic terrorist group. This book leaves many questions that should be asked in public spaces:
“How deep does systemic white supremacist ideology run in Canadian society?”
It could be said that former Heritage Front members are still at the center of the Canadian white supremacist movement. Many of its members are still in operation. The fact that CSIS funded, at minimum, some of the operations of the Heritage Front is troublesome, although, Hategan’s story reveals a grotesque abuse of Canadian tax dollars. Moreover, Elisa’s exposé on the cover-ups ordered by those at the top of security operations is very troubling. Her lived experience, combined with both her writing and research skills, presents an enthralling story that is raw.
Elisa’s ability to include comedic interludes throughout the story was superb. I have never literally laughed out loud while reading, until I read Race Traitor. Elisa captures the reader with her vulnerability. She is real. An authentic voice that is amplified through her fact based presentation of Tory corruption within the Canadian government, security forces and law enforcement.
In my opinion the most important facts embedded this story include the following points:
- insights into the process of radicalization and deradicalization
- most people in the movement come from fairly ‘normal’ lifestyles and backgrounds
- in the highest ranks of hate groups and white nationalist movements there are working relationships between violent right-wing extremists and other ‘non-white’ groups and individuals, which may result in a lack of perceived threats from ultra-right factions by the general public
- the most important people who supported and assisted Elisa’s exit were anti-racist activists, a journalist and members of the American Indian Movement
Book Review Author’s Bio:
I myself had spent nearly a decade in the white supremacist movement, shortly after the Heritage Front fell apart. Little did I know that an 18-year-old girl, a journalist and a handful of committed anti-racist activists would dismantle the terrorist group that the Canadian government funded and helped to create. Since leaving the white supremacist movement well over a decade ago, I have achieved two university degrees and have researched the historic relationship between the Canadian government and what we now call violent right wing extremist networks. My area of research also includes the analysis of former violent white supremacists autobiographies. It is my opinion that Elisa Hategan’s autobiography is the most important autobiography of this category to date.
The grim reality is that white supremacy, racism and anti-Semitism runs deep within our Canadian Society, and Race Traitor reflects how deep that is. This is a must read for every counter-extremist/terrorist scholar and researcher in North America; especially for those who are studying extremist/terrorist disengagement and deradicalization in the North American context. Scholars who are studying right wing extremist networks need to focus on the context that our society breeds right wing extremists, quite literally. This is not only my opinion, but is shared and reflected through several North American scholars who specialize on this subject; furthermore, this point is driven and exemplified through Elisa’s story. Elisa Hategan deserves national attention and acknowledgement for her sacrifices that resulted in dismantling the largest terrorist network in Canadian history, which was in part funded and founded by the Canadian government and CSIS.
Race Traitor is a must read for anyone concerned with CSIS’s operations, systemic racism in Canada and corruption of both government and law enforcement. I believe that every First Nations activist and like-minded allies would benefit greatly by reading Elisa Hategan’s story. Further insights into structural racism could be gained from this story.
I have recently established an organization that works towards developing deradicalization resources for those who have disengaged from violent right wing extremism. Deradicalization means to unlearn and re-constitute one’s worldview and self-identification; moving away from a violent right wing ideology to a non-violent and less schismatic worldview. Challenging the fundamentals of right wing worldview is a long process, one that I know intimately. My work and life are centered around educating the public on how deep white supremacist and anti-Semitic ideology run within Canadian society and culture. I believe this book, by Elisa Hategan, is a powerful contribution into the conversations that need to be had amongst those involved within counter-violent-extremism. Elisa Hategan is a primary example of true deradicalization that supersedes any other current former white supremacist autobiography I have read.
Scholars should take note of this autobiographic story as a poignant insight into gaps within scholarship on right wing extremist networks; we as scholars often buy into the myths and stereotypes of what a white supremacist is and does; like the general population. Race Traitor gives us an insight that breeches the common perspectives of who is in and around the ultra-violent right wing. Elisa’s literary contribution offers us some core challenges to re-consider from what is commonly believed about white supremacy and anti-Semitism.
This book is also great for anti-racist activists who want to learn more about the twisted, manipulative and coercive nature of the extreme right ideology and networks that plague North American society. Progressive critics of Canadian society, security services and the overall establishment may benefit from reading this book. The contentious facts contained within the book are verifiable. The facts Ms. Hategan presents can be cross-referenced with other sources. As I have already had a working knowledge on the topic at hand, both through old personal contacts and research experience, I know the facts in this book are solid. The book is clearly a ‘tell all’ about Elisa’s experience and dynamic relationship between CSIS and the white supremacist network in Canada. Elisa offers a state of vulnerability and authenticity, which reflects her resiliency, self-reflective and reflexive nature. She is a bold strong woman filled with courage that is only contended by her own demons.
Lastly, while reading Race Traitor, I thought to myself it is no wonder why the Canadian government and intelligence communities focus their counter-extremist/terrorist efforts towards both First Nations and Muslim communities. Looking at the ideological connections and direct social networks shared between the Canadian government and the extreme ultra-violent-right-wing may just be ‘too close to home’. Perhaps with more digging, Canadians will see how deep the roots of archaic and schismatic worldviews of our society go; views and behavior that contradict our stated policies of inclusive multiculturalism and human rights.
Elisa was sixteen years old when she was recruited into the Heritage Front, one of Canada’s most infamous white supremacist groups. As Elisa points out, the HF was infamous for trying to change the brand and face of the white supremacist movement in Canada. People such as David Duke, Wolfgang Droege and others were strategically changing the identifiable brutish reputation of the extreme far right. A new face to the white supremacist movement was being promoted in order to manipulate recruitment into the violent and racist network. The newer face of the violent right wing movement claims to be made up of revolutionaries fighting a courageous war of ideals; the author does a great job at showing that this self-righteous and self-imposed proclamation is just yet another white lie.
This brings to surface another core issue I discovered halfway through the book. This story reminded me of an old ‘made for TV’ movie I had watched several years back. It was called White Lies (1998). Elisa’s book reminded of the movie. I hadn’t never thought about the movie since I had seen it years ago. The movie was a poorly written and failed production. The tale of a young middle class ‘white girl’ who was recruited by a white supremacist organization as a magazine writer. From my recollection the only differences between Elisa’s lived experience and the story of the girl in the movie, played by Sarah Polley, was that the character in the film came from a middle class home and had sex with white supremacist skinheads. Other than that, this movie was Elisa’s story. After further inquiry, I discovered that the CBC produced TV movie, White Lies, was loosely-based on Elisa’s lived experience. Moreover, the CBC had not compensated Elisa in any way. I discovered that CBC fictionalized a lot of things in order to avoid paying for the story rights.
I send out a big boot to CBC for exploiting this woman’s, or at the time might I say “girl’s,” story. I appreciate the CBC in many regards and value the news provided by the semi-progressive broadcast network, but this is an abhorrent scenario that should be resolved. I was thoroughly disappointed when I learned about this history.
Elisa’s experience as a young recruit brought her into the heart of the Canadian white supremacist movement. She hung around Wolfgang Droege, who was born in Austria and had previously spent time in a USA prison for a failed attempt to overthrow the Dominican government. In 2005, Wolfgang was shot to death by a drug-using associate, not a surprising end for a man who lived a violent and hateful life.
Elisa also spent time in the home of Ernst Zundel, who has been on the run in almost every country he has lived in. He is a hate-monger who considers himself a ‘revisionist scholar.’ A revisionist who constructs a fictional argument that attempts to claim the number of people who died, as the result of the totalitarian Nazi regime in WWII was false. Unfortunately these holocaust deniers are grotesquely fueled by a perverted sense of direction that propagates hateful anti-Semitic propaganda. Young Elisa forged close relations with these grotesque people; she was a socially isolated child and they were emotional predators that spoon-fed her hate.
Elisa tells her story of being lost and alone, a child who was marked by these manipulative and coercive leaders. Boldly, Elisa informs us that her case was not common within the circle she ran with. In fact, she tells us that her experience was the anomaly. She was the only street kid she had met, especially to be groomed for leadership. The majority of the members of this extremely racist movement were people who lived relatively ‘normal’ lives prior to joining the Heritage Front; this is an important insight for those academics familiar with the radicalization process and hate crimes stats. Of course she tells stories of brutish, violent and ignorant skinheads, crusty old hateful people and the manipulative and abusive nature of men who operated like a cult; The Heritage Front was a political cult.
A Lighter Flavor
Elisa talks about some of the inner workings of the Heritage Front. I was glad to read that she included that there was a color-coded system used by the racist skinheads. Bootlaces and suspenders codified their self-identified standing within their gangs, along with racist tattoos. Elisa also offers some comedic pun elements that lighten up the heavy load of the books content. As a reader this brings in some humor in order to make the reading journey of her horrible experience a little more palatable.
First Nations Community
Interestingly enough, Elisa did not initially seem to buy into the lies that were being fed to her when she was recruited at sixteen years old. She was bold enough to question the information that these de-bunked leaders were throwing at her. This speaks to Elisa’s resiliency and the strength of her character, which is echoed at the end of the book.
I was astounded to learn that she stood in solidarity with First Nations during the injustices of the Oka Crisis, prior to her recruitment into the Heritage Front. I believe this further speaks to Elisa’s inherent progressive thinking, which through my own perceptual lens considers is probably due to the fact that she, like me, understands what it means to be beaten down; thus, can at least in part empathize with people who have been systemically abused by the colonial racist Canadian government.
Identifying with the political plight of First Nations peoples has been poignant in my own process of transformation, after leaving the violent white supremacist movement in Canada. Of course, the chief manipulators in this story prey upon Elisa’s young mind and try to convince her that First Nations peoples are drunkards and losers. Interestingly enough, the climatic point of the book for me was when the American Indian Movement (AIM) were the only people who offered her effective protection and support. In both my own personal story and Elisa’s story it seems that the people who were abused the most by the Canadian government and RCMP were rescuers who had a deep understanding of structural racism. Thus, in my experience I know there is a lot of respect offered to people who reflectively consider their role as an overt oppressor and work towards making a profound change to expose racist corruption and to engage public conversations about historic and contemporary racism in Canada.
Elisa’s account of the Heritage Front’s involvement in the global context is what I consider to be one of the most profound aspects of her literary contribution. She explains that the white supremacist movement was directly tied to Khadafy’s regime. Most people would not understand, know, nor even heard of this. The Libyan dictator seemed to adore the Canadian white supremacist movement, most likely due to anti-Semitic ideology. Khadafy was responsible for inhumane treatment of Jews in Libya, like his predecessors who implemented laws that identified the Jews as a race, and then systemically abused them. To most people this is shocking to learn about, but those who have an intimate history with violent right wing doctrine and networks know that there are many relationships forged in the name of anti-Semitism. I argue that the core thread of right wing ideology is the fictionalized Jewish conspiracy that the world is led by an alleged ZOG (Zionist Occupied Government). Most people do not understand the historical roots of the information they are taught that leads to anti-Semitism. Elisa’s autobiography reflects that indeed, anti-Semitism is at the core of the white nationalist movement.
Elisa tells us that Ernst Zundel had a young Orthodox Jewish boy, David Cole, visit him every couple of weeks. This broaches that very important misconception people have of the white supremacist movement. What most people believe about neo-Nazi, and white nationalist, networks is not the way these groups actually function. Hitler’s Nazi regime had many alliances with Japan, some Muslim militias and other armies; all of which were anti-Semitic at their core. Moreover, the current right wing extremist network is fraught with seemingly contradictory connections that confuse most people, until they learn how these ideological threads of anti-Semitism operate as alliance vehicles. These are an insidious and very real threat that threads extremist and terrorist organizations together all around the world. Elisa offers her insights into the inner workings of the Heritage Front and how this CSIS funded domestic terrorist organization was connected to a global network of anti-Semitism.
The white supremacist narrative at its core is anti-Semitic and is built upon a legacy of racist stereotypes that blame Jews for the problems of the world. Scapegoats are necessary because the ideology of the extreme right wing is built upon deception and coercive information that does not withstand the application of progressive critical lenses. The archaic racist science and ideological lineage of the far right wing doctrine is reinforced by contemporary mainstream belief structures. This can be seen throughout Canadian history and the foundations of the Canadian government. Canada has a long historical function of applying racist social policy, which is still a contemporary mainstay, and relationships with what are now referred to as extremist right wing groups.
Elisa Hategan’s book Race Traitor: The True Story of Canadian Intelligence Service’s Greatest Cover-Up offers an invaluable perspective that does effectively counter all of the hate she previously promoted.