Love Wins

The following is the commencement address I gave for the graduation ceremony at LCBI High School. I wanted to share it with everyone because I believe firmly in its central message: we are all part of a single human family and love will overcome hate.

Distinguished guests, faculty, colleagues, friends, families, and of course, the graduating class of 2019, welcome. I’d also like to acknowledge those who could not be with us today. You are in our thoughts and occupy a special place in our hearts.

You’re a special class: there’s a world ranked racquetball player in there somewhere; a budding poet, essayist, teacher and engineer or two; there are artists, athletes, musicians, mechanics, thinkers and builders; a provincial hockey champion; a soccer player turned slam dunk artist; the host of a popular hunting channel on YouTube; and of course, a sleepy and bespectacled would-be theoretical physicist whom we’ll call Stephen. I see you’re organized into rows: have you figured out which rows contain the smartest students yet?

All kidding aside, you’re a fun, quirky, insightful, frequently feisty and intelligent group of young people. I look forward to working with and challenging you every day. I’ve particularly enjoyed our time spent in English together: there’s something about this particular classlikely the philosophical and theological aspectsmaking me feel what we were doing is meaningful and important (even necessary).

Over the last 20 years I’ve taught at a variety of schools; and in that time I’ve come to appreciate schools are a lot like people: each one has a unique personality. Some you like more than others. Some you look forward to seeing every day while others you’d just as soon avoid. LCBI is one of those places a person looks forward to seeing; and I take a lot of pride in what we do here, and what God accomplishes through us. Despite teaching here so long though, I’ve found it nearly impossible to explain why this place means so much to me. I’ve always felt I loved it here but for one reason or another failed articulating exactly why (like when you fall in loveit just sort of happens, no conscious explanation is necessary).

At the end of the second semester back in 2014, I gave my senior English students an opportunity to write an exit essay. The essay’s question was “What does LCBI mean to me?” There was no minimum or maximum length. The essay wasn’t for marks. I just wanted to give students an opportunity to reflect on their time here knowing that, at least in my experience, it can be difficult for many to say goodbye. In the process there were a number of wonderfully written and heartfelt responses. One such response, in particular, has stood out for me over the years. Kayden Johnson wrote a single word: family.

In a single word KJ captured perfectly what makes LCBI so special. Whether you identify as Christian or not, whether you practice a religion or not, we are part of the same family, you and I; as the Apostle Paul observes in First Corinthians we are brothers and sisters belonging to a single family brought together by Christ Jesus; and that family is built on faith, hope, and above all, love.

With that said, and based on how big of a weirdo some of y’all can be at times, there’s something else about this school making me feel particularly at home and at ease. Martin Luther observed we are free because we are fully forgiven children of God. We are no longer compelled to keep God’s Law out of fear in order to obtain salvation. Paul tells us we cannot earn salvation anyways; it’s an underserved gift given freely to us through Christ’s sacrifice on the cross by the grace of God. “A Christian,” Luther wrote, “is perfectly free, subject to none.” Yet, Luther presents us with a caveat: although we are “subject to none” we still have a responsibility to look after and care for one another.

The freedom of being Christian comes with responsibility. Thus, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to share some of my thoughts relating to that responsibility to love one another as members of a single human family.

Several years ago someone in Pakistan placed an ad in a newspaper offering a reward to anyone who killed a Canadianany Canadian. The ad was likely a response to then Canada’s involvement in the War in Afghanistan. Interestingly, an Australian dentist published an editorial responding to the strange request. He wanted to define what a Canadian was so non-Canadians would recognize them whenever they encountered one. I’d like to share part of that response with you today:

A Canadian [the Australian writes] can be English, or French, or Italian, Irish, German, Spanish, Polish, Russian or Greek. A Canadian can be Mexican, [Nigerian, Congolese, Cameroonian, Kenyan, or South African]. They can be Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Korean…Iranian, Asian, Arab, Pakistani or Afghan. A Canadian may also be an [Inuit], Cree, Metis, Mohawk, Blackfoot, Sioux, Dakota, or a member of one of the many other peoples known collectively as First Nations.

A Canadian lives in one of the most prosperous [countries] in the history of the world. The root of that prosperity can [in part] be found in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms which recognizes the right of each person to [pursue their individual happiness in a society governed and secured under the rule of law].

A Canadian is generous and Canadians have helped out just about every other nation in the world in their time of need, never asking [anything] in return. Canadians welcome the best of everything, the best products, the best books, the best music, the best food, the best services and the best minds. But they also welcome the leastthe oppressed, the outcast and the rejected.

These are the people who built Canada.

You can try to kill a Canadian if you must…but in so doing you could [well] just be killing a relative or a neighbor. This is because Canadians are not a particular people from a particular place. [Canada is an idea.] Canadians are the embodiment of the human spirit of freedom. Everyone who holds to that spirit, everywhere, [is] a Canadian.

Now to my reckoning being Canadian means becoming a citizen of the world. Also, I think, as this short article implies, to be Canadian is to try and make a positive difference in that world. For example, in the wake of the Vietnam War in the 1970s, Canada accepted over 50,000 Vietnamese escaping communism. In 1956 Hungary unsuccessfully attempted to push out the occupying forces of the Soviet Union. Soviet tanks ruthlessly crushed the uprising displacing tens of thousands. Canada provided a haven for 50,000 Hungarians fleeing the subsequent reprisals and political repression.

During the middle of 20th century hundreds of thousands of people from every continent immigrated to Canada in the hope of making a new life for themselves and their families. Between 1890 and 1914 approximately two million people from countries like China, Japan, India, Ireland, Scotland, England, America, Poland, Germany, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Ukraine immigrated to Canada; they helped build Canada while contributing to the evolution of a new kind of countryone not founded upon the Old World model of “blood and soil” but one constructed upon the New World principles of freedom and liberty.

It’s vitally important to possess an understanding of our history, like the process followed by our ancestors who made Canada their home, in order to appreciate what’s happening in the present. However, at the risk of sounding pessimistic and to quote Hegel, if there is one lesson history teaches us it is we do not learn from our history.

In 2011 a civil war broke out in Syria displacing millions. Between 2016 and 2017 Canada welcomed 40,000 Syrian refugees fleeing an absolutely brutal conflict. Many Canadians felt a combination of compassion and unease in the wake of this particular wave of immigration. I’m not naive. I understand current events well enough appreciating the risks, actual and perceived, associated with Canada opening its borders in this way. Some Canadians, ones calling themselves nationalists, cautioned we shouldn’t accept so many Muslims. Nonetheless, the idealist in me, the Jesus in me, believes we did the right thing (despite the fear mongering).

And do not underestimate how thankful these men, women and children are to Canada for giving them a home. In May of 2016 a wildfire devastated the City of Fort McMurray. Rita Khanchet Kallas, a Syrian refugee who arrived in Calgary with her husband and son in December of 2015 wrote a message in Arabic on a Facebook page for a Calgary-based Syrian refugee group. “Canadians,” she wrote,”have provided us with everything and now we have a duty. We must help the people who lost their homes and everything in a fire in Oil City. Get ready, it’s time to fulfill.”

Within hours of posting the group was mobilized assembling food hampers, toys, clothes, and furniture to aid the families of Fort McMurray. This act was particularly gracious. You have to understand, the small Syrian community in Calgary had very little themselves. But they understood first hand what it meant for an entire city to lose their home. That’s something they could easily relate to because they went through the exact same thing themselves.

History teaches us is we do not learn from our history.

Social media is definitely new, but xenophobia (or hatred of the foreigner or the alien) is not.

I’ve watched, dismayed, as some Canadians with European sounding last names post fear-based stories to their social media timelines while complaining about how people with Syrian sounding last names were going to ruin the country.

We’ve been here before: many of the same Canadians complaining about Syrian refugees today are themselves the descendants of immigrants who were likewise labelled dangerous, strange, people who were going to wreck the country. The irony of this should not be lost on anyone possessing either a modicum of compassion or a basic knowledge of their own history; and just so we’re clear I’m not trying to be provocative or mean or single out how either this or that person is bad. I am just observing which, I suppose, is something of a resident hazard of being a historian.

And so we forget our history (particularly when times are difficult); and a country without a sense of its history is doomed to repeat its past mistakes.

There has been an unmistakable rise in the forces of nationalism and tribalism in the Western World over the last ten years; and it appears democracy and pluralism is in retreat everywhere. Populist governments are gaining more and more support because people can’t seem to come together to solve their problems. I find it troubling so many of us seem to be coming increasingly more tolerant of things a decade ago would’ve seemed impossible. I worry most in this moment for my Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters. I wonder what the future holds for them if hatred and hate speech is ever again allowed to go mainstream or become “normal”.

A friend of mine was working at a fruit stand when a lady came up and asked if any of the cherries were grown by Muslims. She was asking because she didn’t want to support Muslim businesses. This is how you destroy the democratic spirit: unlike dictatorships which end with the death of a single tyrant, democracy dies the death of a 1,000 such wounds.

This Muslim cherry episode reminds me of how Roman emperors once persecuted Christians whenever Rome’s economic or political situation wasn’t favourable. If Romans were focused on hating Christians they’d spend less time worrying about the emperor’s ineptitude.

Does that sound eerily familiar? History doesn’t necessarily repeat but it seems to rhyme.

Since the American presidential election in 2016 Canada has seen a 30% increase in the number of hate groups in the country (six of which are right here in Saskatchewan); and hate crime rates are correspondingly increasing–jumping a staggering 47% in 2017 alone, according to Stats Canada, and there’s no indication of this trend reversing any time soon.

Homo homini lupus. This Latin phrase first appeared in the Third Century BCE but could just as well have been written in 2019; translated into English it means “man is a wolf to man.”

Whether we’re talking about the ancient or the modern world, societies continue reverting to the politics of division; they do this so complex social issues like immigration or identity can be boiled down into simple solitudes and simple hatreds. The two recent attacks on synagogues in the United States, and the mosque attack in Quebec last year, point disturbingly to the reality the West has a long way to go after all when it comes to justice.

To the Graduands: St. Augustine once observed “hope has two daughters whose names are Anger and Courage: Anger at the way things are, and Courage to see they do not remain as they are.”

Therefore, do not be apathetic when hatred shows its cowardly face; do not allow yourselves to become accustomed to or accept hate speech or meanness as normal; what and how we say what we say matters; and I’m not trying to be politically correct. I’m appealing to common decency and Jesus’ commandment: love one another as I have loved you.

Do not turn a blind eye to injustice: evil only succeeds when men and women of good conscience sit back and do nothing; be willing to think in nuances, not platitudes; do not dismiss out of hand those who disagree with you. Too many of us are too easily offended; understand disagreement doesn’t make us enemies, it makes us human. So don’t argue to win, argue to learn. Be willing to change your mind…

It occurred to me there’s another reason why I love LCBI: Jesus. Jesus taught me, more than anyone else, to include the excluded; to fight for the underdog; to defend those incapable of defending themselves; to show compassion, patience and understanding; to delight in the success of others; to encourage because I’ve been encouraged; forgive because I’ve been forgiven; and to love because I am loved. Be fearless then, and courageous, in the face of prejudice and discrimination wherever you encounter it; and if you remember only one thing from our time together this afternoon, and it is implied by the quote written so boldly on the wall behind me, remember this: love wins.

“Let us realize”, Martin Luther King, Jr. observed, “that the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice.” Thus, if you’re ever unsure what to do when confronted with any of the situations I’ve talked about the right answer is always to “love your neighbor as yourself.”

Before closing I have one favor I’d like to ask of everyone gathered here this afternoon: whether you know them or not could you take the hand of the person or persons sitting next to you?

[Promote a figurative “crossing of the aisle” between the rows separated by the center aisle.]

One of my favorite moments in A. A. Milne’s The House on Pooh Corner is when Piglet is trying to catch up to his friend, Winnie the Pooh.

“Pooh?” Piglet whispers.

“Yes, Piglet?”

“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. “I just wanted to be sure of you.”

Building a better world means, at least in part, removing the barriers to our understanding and accepting one another. The awkwardness you’re possibly experiencing right now, holding the hand maybe of a complete stranger, captures perfectly the nature of that barrier towards building a better world: it is a mental and psychological one. Change our thinking and we can change the world. My challenge to you, right now, is to weaken that wall by turning a potential stranger into a friend. So gently squeeze the hand of your neighbors and reassure them, “I am sure of you.”

The transcendental quality of lovethrough even the simplest of gesturesfills me with hope because, even if you try to improve the world in some measure and fail, you can still take some consolation you’ve allied yourself with Something greater. I suspect love, in a certain sense, even survives the Cosmos’ end: hugs transcending time; joy outliving the joyful; gentleness and acceptance persisting past the end of all things; and the gravity of a deep upwelling of feeling flows even past the bounds of a finite physical universe.

And so here we are, at the end: grads do you recall back in September when I told you today would come faster than you thought? I told you not to be in too much of a hurry to finish the year because endings, when it comes to LCBI, are particularly emotional experiences. I know this because I’ve said goodbye to my fair share of colleagues and students who I miss, love, and who occupy my thoughts whenever the sentimental impulse takes me. Thus, “I will not say do not weep,” J. R. R. Tolkien’s Gandalf explains to his friends while preparing to leave Middle Earth forever for the Gray Havens, “for not all tears are an evil.”

Be thankful we’ve had this time together understanding that when one one door closes so opens another.

Thank you.

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Stan Lee’s Poetic Super Powers

Perhaps one of the biggest reasons humanity is so flawed (and one of the reasons even the most effective education fails to increase one’s awareness) is because we all believe ourselves to be the star of our very own narrative in some measure; if only others saw the world just as I do then they would suffer uncertainty no longer and all would be well. There is no such narrative and my story, albeit meaningful to me, is not the only tale to be told; we live as a collection of stories…

Stan Lee wasn’t just a storyteller or comic book artist. He was also a teacher: his lessons came in the form of characters who were super but also flawed; his work echoed G. K. Chesterton’s aphorism that faery tales aren’t important because they tell us dragons exist; rather, faery tales (or comic books) are important because they tell us dragons can be defeated.

Even the greatest obstacle can be overcome: Lee’s character Spiderman, more than any other character, had the single most important thing to teach young people thumbing through pages of colored newsprint: with great power comes great responsibility. This particular lesson, how the great have responsibility, applies equally to the small, to real people, people like you and me. Lee’s recent passing reminded me of this simple lesson: we all have responsibility—a responsibility to stick up for people who might not be in a position to stand up for themselves.

I mentioned G. K. Chesterton previously. He was a renowned poet. Poetry, surprisingly enough, can teach us a lot about standing up for the little guy. Poetry is likewise uniquely suited to provide readers with insights in to the emotional, psychological, spiritual and intellectual experiences of the poet. This is important because by getting to know others better we grow in our own self-awareness. Poetry thoughtfully considered leads us to ask such questions as:

  • What makes us who we are?
  • How do we define ourselves?

Questions like these are important to ask because they nudge us closer to self-knowledge. For instance, consider the following lines from the Metis writer Gregory Scofield’s poem Women Who Forgot the Taste of Limes [2]:

ni-châpan, if I take ki-cihcânikan,
press it to their lips,
will they remember the taste of limes,
sea-salt bled into their grandfathers’ skin?

If I pull from this bag of rattling bones
the fiddle, the bow bone,
if I go down to the lazy Red,
lay singing in the grass

The first line of the first stanza is written mostly in Cree (translated into English as “my ancestor, your fingerbone”). Clearly Scofield is referencing his ancestors in Cree to demonstrate how powerfully and meaningfully he connects to his past. This idea is further developed when in the fourth line of the same stanza he refers to his grandfathers in the plural, possessive. He is not talking about only the father of either his mom or dad; rather, he is talking about all of his forefathers (a synonym for nation). Again, Scofield wants us to view the past not as some fleeting memory but as a real, living testament of the past’s importance to our understanding of the present; and finally, in the second last line of the second stanza, Scofield alludes to the “lazy Red” (or the Red River) which was the life blood of the Red River settlement (a place he considers is his ancestral homeland).

Why should Scofield’s thoughts or feelings about his ancestors matter to us? And why should we care what he remembers while lying down in the grasses by the “lazy Red”? Reading his thoughts helps us appreciate the fact human experience is a shared experience.

On the outside we might all look quite different from one another; however, on the inside we are cut from the same cloth, we are made of the same fundamental substance. Certainly, our unique experiences and perspectives make us actually quite different from one another. Yet, at the most fundamental level one thing makes us all the same: at root we are all meaning-making creatures sharing the same human nature; therefore, when Scofield feels sadness you and I can appreciate why; when he expresses joy we can experience it, too. Consider what Scofield himself says about the personal significance of his poem Women Who Forgot the Taste of Limes (Scofield (102-103)):

My claim to Manitoba as ancestral homeland dates back at least four generations, to the establishment of the Hudson’s Bay Company and the Country Wives—Cree women whose Indian names have long since been forgotten.  In 1863 ni-châpan, my maternal great-great-grandmother Mary Mathilde Henderson, was born in the Red River Settlement, just as her parents and grandparents were.  Many years later, my grandfather George Scofield (Cusitar) left Manitoba to escape poverty and discrimination.  My mother knew little about her father’s childhood, or of the half-breed women who lived in the marrow of memory.

 

I recently went on a reading tour in Manitoba with seven other First Nations writers to promote awareness and appreciation of aboriginal literature to both Native and non-Native communities.  I viewed the tour as an opportunity to bring y poetry “home,” to give something back to the people, land and sky of my ancestors, to honour the bones that I’ve been given to sing.  When the tour ended in Winnipeg, I visited the Exchange District’s antique stores.  I have a love of antiques, believing in the sharp memories of trees, iron, clay, cloth, and stones; the craftsperson’s hands; stories created from flesh and bone.

 

I spoke to one store’s owners at length about my collection and my desire to find a small candle table.  The women were so gracious and helpful that I felt I’d found kindred spirits.  They did a phone search for the table, and after finding a store that sounded promising, I asked them to call me a taxi.  They grew silent, looking at me like I’d said something terribly wrong.  One of the women busied herself behind the counter while the other one cleared her throat: “You may want to reconsider that.  The Indians around here use taxis like public transit.  They’re really dirty.”

 

I felt as if I’d been slapped.  I often take taxis; so had my late mother.  I could see her sitting in the passenger seat wearing her beat-up cowboy hat with faux turquoise hatband, arriving home with bags of groceries and her six-pack of Old Style.  I was tongue-tied and tearful.  All I could do was present a black and white photo of my mother, cowboy hat and all, from my wallet.  I left the store in a daze, hating myself for appearing weak, for not speaking up.  I wandered the streets back to my hotel, counting the cracks in the sidewalk and considering the generations of my family who had helped to create this province and country.  On the corner of Portage and Main, I saw an old half-breed woman holding a bag of bones.  From her bag she withdrew her finger and said, “ni-châpanis, take this and make good medicine.”

Scofield’s experience in the antique store regrettably is not unique. For whatever reason, many Canadians continue looking down and mistreating Metis and First Nations people. Although I have not personally experienced persecution or bigotry, I have seen it. I recall one afternoon many years ago riding my bike along Broadway Avenue in Saskatoon:

I stopped at a traffic light waiting for my turn to cross at an intersection. On the opposite side of the street, a First Nations man stood there quietly minding his own business. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until a white man, safely ensconced within the cab of his pick-up truck, started yelling, “Hey Indian?!  Hey Indian?!” The First Nations man kept looking forward, appearing unaffected. Undeterred, the truck driver rolled his window all the way down jutting his head out and yelling even louder, “Hey Indian?!!  Hey Indian?!!”

Strangely, I did not feel anger but a sense of shame. I felt ashamed because the truck driver looked like me; and if he was capable of doing such a stupid thing then maybe I was, too.

One of the reasons we read poetry, and why reading writers like Scofield or Chesterton or Lee is important, is not only are we potentially that man driving a truck barking insults but, potentially at least, we are also a First Nations man standing on a corner minding our own business.[3]

We have a responsibility, you and I, to not be silent. Like Edmund Burke observed back in the 18th century, all it takes for evil to win is for men and women of good conscience to stand back and do nothing. Refuse to do nothing.

___________________________________

[1] The Red River Settlement was established in 1811.  This small colony was located in Rupert’s Land (Manitoba).  The Red River area was continuously settled by First Nations and Mêtis before the settlement was officially established.  In 1870 Rupert’s Land was purchased from the Hudson’s Bay Company by the Canadian Government.  Mêtis and First Nations people suddenly found themselves becoming citizens of Canada; immigration of English and Scottish Canadians to Red River followed shortly thereafter.  Consequently, many Mêtis and First Nations were displaced or pushed out (and moved west in to what is now known as Saskatchewan to “start over”).

[2] Scofield, Gregory. “Singing Home the Bones.”  Canada: Houghton Boston, 2005.

[3] Many political theorists measure the health of a democracy based on how minorities are treated.  The reality is the rights of the majority and minority(s) are inextricably tied, i.e. if the majority is able to arbitrarily take away or limit the rights or legal protections of a minority, what would stop a minority (if it were capable of seizing power) from doing the exact same thing?  A society built on the principle of the rule of law does not give groups power but rather gives individuals protection from interference from those groups and from government.

The Problem With Refugees

We are a nation of immigrants; it’s a fact: go back far enough every single one of us—European, African, Asian, even First Nations and Inuit—can trace their origins to somewhere other than Canada. Humanity explores, it puts down roots and calls wherever it happens to end up home. People attach a lot of importance to their home; this is where they raise their families, form their worldview, worship, work, play and build a life for themselves. Thus, it isn’t terribly surprising when we encounter strangers living among us one of our first instincts is to become defensive as opposed to open.

Canadians might be awfully polite but they certainly aren’t immune to xenophobia or fear. There were three major waves of Irish immigration to British North America: the first came around the time of the American Revolution in the 1780s; the second took place during the 1840s when a potato famine drove approximately 1.5 million Irish Catholics to Canada. My ancestors on my father’s side arrived in the United States during the third wave in the 1890s; they established a farm somewhere in the American Midwest eventually moving north to Canada to take advantage of free land on offer in the Canadian West. In all three cases, the Irish were not generally well-received: in the context of both Canada and the United States, English Protestants felt threatened by the sudden influx of non-English Catholics to their countries.

The Irish were thankful for the opportunities afforded to them by their adoptive countries; nevertheless, inevitably their presence elicited negative reactions among Americans and Canadians alike. Newcomers always force us into uncomfortable spaces by challenging us to re-evaluate ourselves and our priorities; they compel us to ask questions around what it means to be a people and a nation. In the present day, some of us are responding as well as can be expected to Syrian refugees (and, more recently, to others groups escaping to Canada because of an uncertain future in the United States). Most of our problems when it comes to dealing constructively with one another is the result of a certain inability to empathize with one another. The people best responding to the recent influx of refugees are those capable of seeing something of themselves in these new immigrants—people displaced by famine, war, and repression in their home countries; yet, there are others of us who aren’t responding so well: ironically, some Canadians on social media are using the self-same arguments against Syrians that previous generations used against their own Irish, Norwegian, Swedish, German and Ukrainian ancestors, e.g. these people aren’t like us; they didn’t work for what we have; we owe them nothing; they’re wrecking the country; everything was so much better before they came; they’re stealing our jobs; they’re lazy, smell, speak funny, and don’t look like us real Canadians.

The idea of a real Canadian versus a fake one is a strange concept to me; it’s not like we can freeze time and say there, back in the 1820s (November to be exact) during the colonial period, that is what Canadians should strive to be, we should all be white, English Protestant United Empire Loyalists; or wait it’s 1867 and Canadians can be French Catholic now, just not too French, but it’s tolerated; or it’s 1945 and the end of World War II, England is less important to us and out of compassion we’re welcoming Hungarians and other dispossessed persons to Canada because they need our help, we didn’t like them so much in 1905 but times have changed; or it’s 1965 and we have a new flag and First Nations peoples are no longer willing to be second-class citizens and the majority of Canada’s immigrants are from Africa and Asia and, without us even realizing it, we’ve moved from biculturalism to multiculturalism. We didn’t even notice the change (and certainly didn’t plan it). But we are, and will continue to be, a multicultural society whether critics like it or not.

Friedrich Nietzsche observed humanity is in essentially a continuous state of revolution (or paradigm change); we don’t recognize these changes because what once appeared as revolutionary eventually becomes the basis of a new normal. Thus, a Canadian born in 1840 naturally answers the question “What is a Canadian?” differently than say one born in 1867, 1919, 1945, 1965, 1995, or 2017. If there’s a standard definition of what constitutes a true Canadian, it’s a floating one and it definitely isn’t as simple as saying it is someone who is white, English-speaking, and Christian. With that said, the recent wave of Syrian immigration to Canada is taking place during a time of significant stress: the recovery of the global economy from the shock it received during the Great Recession (2009) is still in doubt and we continue living with its legacy, e.g. wealth continues to become increasingly concentrated in fewer and fewer hands, Canadians and Americans are becoming more and more desperate because of a sense of financial insecurity, and where the economy goes so too goes our seeming capacity to practice tolerance and pluralism; also, we are also confronted by the specter of climate change and an inability to deal with it effectively or its secondary effects, e.g. 21.5 million people are currently displaced worldwide and considered climate change refugees (some of whom are seeking refuge in North America and Europe); this number is bound to grow as climate change’s effects become increasingly severe and ubiquitous; and right wing political movements—secular and religious—are growing in popularity as though we’re taking part in some sort of macabre replay or dress rehearsal for World War III; given all that’s going on it’s little wonder so many people have such mixed feelings about helping strange Syrian refugees when existing Canadians themselves don’t feel secure enough about their own or their children’s futures.[1]

So where does this leave us? I suppose at one of those revolutionary periods Nietzsche mentioned. The great irony is we possess all the knowledge and understanding to solve every single one of our problems; yet, it seems we’re doomed to repeat past mistakes instead of learning from them because of a fundamental lack of collective character or imagination to conceive of new ways of living with and treating one another. There’s not much historical precedent when it comes to nations or societies becoming selfless or other-centered in times of significant economic downturn, political upheaval or when confronted by an existential crisis as significant as climate change. However, I would argue we can use how we eventually decide to treat refugees and immigrants as a litmus test for our future prospects. Some political theorists argue history is on the side of democracy. I like the sentiment but I would add the following caveat: history is on the side of those who want to survive. The great irony is most people think survival means circling our wagons, siding with the tribe and pushing strangers out. The truth is the world is a much smaller place in 2017 than it was in 1917. For this reason, I believe, if we’re going to survive we’re going to have to find ways to do it together; it’ll be cooperation not competition that’ll determine humankind’s direction and whether there’ll be a Canada or a United States for future generations to immigrate to.

 

Notes
[1]
http://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/syrian-refugees-poll-trump-1.3988716