Short Solo

The solo travels of a man from Winnipeg

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  • Freedom of Expression and the Workplace.

    Freedom of Expression and the Workplace.

    Illustration – Fei Liu, photo – Justin Sullivan

    My dad had the hardest work ethic I’ve ever seen. On many nights he’d work overtime at Canada Post from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m. sorting mail, then head straight to Northwood Community Centre to volunteer his morning hours flooding the ice.

    I’ve been working in some form or another for about thirty-five years, and my dad treated work ethic like a cornerstone of character. When I lived up to it, he made sure I knew. When I didn’t, he made sure I learned. I still remember, with uncomfortable clarity, the one time I truly felt I’d let him down. I quit a summer job without notice just to spend more time with a cousin visiting from Nova Scotia. It seemed harmless in the moment, but he was disappointed in a way that stuck. He told me that choices like that feel like short-term gain, but they can turn into long-term pain because they reveal something deeper about who you are. That lesson has lingered with me ever since.

    It should come as no surprise, then, that I’ve built a strong work life of my own. I’ve been seen as loyal, hardworking, and dependable. In fact, the only times I’ve ever been called into a superior’s office about my performance were to be offered a promotion or recognized for something I’d done well.

    That changed one morning in 2021—two years before October 7, 2023—when a senior leader called me in to talk. The first few minutes of that meeting are still a blur. All I could hear in my internal dialogue, over and over, was the implication that I was being labeled antisemitic. The fear hit immediately and hard; it’s the kind of accusation that can end a career before you even understand what’s happening.

    The Palestinian Exception to Free Expression

    I rarely talk about my career with anyone—partly because I’m a bit of a recluse who doesn’t talk about much at all, and partly because I’ve always kept my professional and personal lives firmly separate. On social media, I speak only as an individual. I never reference my workplace, and I never want anyone confusing my personal views with my professional role.

    The recent release of Razing Palestine: Punishing Solidarity and Dissent in Canada has been a welcome read. It reminded me that I’m not alone—many Canadians have been made to feel like social outcasts simply for speaking up for Palestinian lives.

    The book brings together essays that show just how far different institutions in this country—government, police, media, and employers—have gone to silence anyone who affirms the value of Palestinian life while offering legitimate criticism of the State of Israel for its erasure.

    Leila Marshy, the book’s editor, writes that a true history has to include our lived experiences. The timing of its release feels almost deliberate, coinciding with the National Book Award for Non-Fiction going to One Day, Everyone Will Have Always Been Against This by Canadian author Omar El Akkad.

    Together, the two books form an unintended historical pairing. If, as El Akkad suggests, “one day” everyone will claim they were always against the genocide, then there must also be a day when people were not against it. And unfortunately, we are living in those days right now.

    Razing Palestine lays out a well-documented history of a Canada that aligned itself with Israel—a history that will show how Canadian leaders and institutions went along with a genocide they were watching in real time. It captures a moment when expressing solidarity with Palestinians, or voicing anger at Israel’s actions, could cost you friendships or earn you the label of “terrorist.” And at worst, it could cost you your job—or your presence at a protest treated as a crime.

    The weaponization of antisemitism will ultimately be remembered as a tool used to silence and criminalize thought and dissent. “Antisemitism” has been stretched into a catch-all accusation hovering over every discussion, action, or political position, functioning as a shield Israel has long benefited from. The irony is stark:

    (a) Some of the most passionate advocates for Palestinian life are Jewish, drawing on their own religious and moral traditions to condemn war crimes.

    (b) Many people in my generation champion universal humanity precisely because we absorbed the core lesson of the Holocaust—that “never again” must apply to everyone, everywhere.

    Yet today, that history is routinely invoked not to defend human dignity, but to shut down criticism of a state’s actions.

    Razing Palestine opens with a powerful forward by Gabor Mate – the Hungarian Canadian physician who specializes in trauma – who lost many family members in the Holocaust.    

    One of the strongest entries – “Policing the Window: the Case of the Indigo 11” demonstrates that policing can quickly lose neutrality to promote a specific political agenda.

    In November of 2023, activists protested Indigo CEO Heather Reisman by damaging the Toronto bookstore’s windows with anti-war messaging.  The total cost of the damages was in the range of $9,000.    The fact that Reisman has sent over $200 million – subsidized by Canadians in tax deductions – to members of the Israel Defence Forces was missing from the narrative. 

    Hours after the vandalism, Reisman made a phone call directly to Chief Myron Demkiw of the Toronto Police Service.  Within hours, the TPS’s Hate Crimes Unit was mobilized, and that “Project Resolute” (a policing operation) expanded its mandate to include protests related to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict — entangling the incident with broader policing and protest surveillance issues. 

    The Toronto Police press releases were political from the jump—using the word “hate” 26 times and even citing charges like “Hate-motivated mischief over $5,000,” a crime that doesn’t actually exist.

    Officers were reassigned to the Hate Crime Unit and spent weeks of overtime conducting 70 raids and multiple arrests—including targeting members of Jews Say No to Genocide, who we’re apparently meant to believe are among the country’s leading antisemites. Most charges were later dropped. Others ended in conditional discharges.

    But the message landed all the same:

    Any protest that challenges Israel is treated as a hate crime—worthy of the full weight, and full resources, of a major police force. Canada is not the only “free” nation to criminalize words of protest.

    Statistical estimates of arrests in western nations for antisemitism (e.g. saying phrases like “from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free)”

    Adding Antisemitism to my Resume?

    Politics shouldn’t enter the workplace — I genuinely believe that and always abide by that. However, in a world of social media the boundary is blurred. I use social media for self-expression within a small circle of colleagues, family and friends — and I never comment on matters related to my employer. I’m there to serve the workplace, not editorialize about it.

    In 2021, I re-posted a Toronto Star article on LinkedIn about the legality of the University of Toronto rescinding a job offer to Valentina Azarova — a human-rights lawyer hired to lead the International Human Rights Program.

    Visual representation of a shrinking Palestine that human rights scholars like Valentina Azarova study.

    That story presented Azarova as the most qualified for the job. Her expertise included the subjects of migrant rights, border violence, EU funding of war criminals — and more critically — work on Israel’s permanent occupation of Palestine.

    Dean Edward Iacobucci — son of former Supreme Court Justice Frank Iacobucci, who handed me my U of T graduate diploma in 2005 — cancelled the search.

    Months later, it emerged he had acted under pressure from David Spiro, a major U of T donor and sitting Canadian Tax Court judge who intervened because he opposed hiring a lawyer critical of Israel. The Canadian Association of University Teachers (CAUT) censured the U of T citing this as a grave violation of academic freedom and human rights.

    Normally, sharing an article about a termination that clearly raises freedom-of-expression concerns wouldn’t be controversial.

    This is literally the terrain I’ve spent my entire academic and professional life navigating — the legal framework around termination and the limits placed on employers. However, promoting Palestinian equality and holding Israel accountable is treated differently than any other conversation.

    The next day I was summoned to a senior leader’s office (keep in mind this is before October 7, 2023). I discovered the leader had converted to Judaism. They told me that criticizing Israel — could be interpreted as antisemitic and end my career.

    I immediately believed they genuinely thought it was helpful – a way of warning me that criticism of Israel isn’t allowed. And in all honesty that advice was correct – albeit in my opinion, illegal. The very Azarova case I posted demonstrated the point: employment costs are real for people who speak critically about Israel.

    I calmly explained that my job is unrelated to Israel; that I financially support Jewish organizations critical of occupation (Independent Jewish Voices Canada); that I’ve hired Jewish employees who’ve been the best candidate for the job and that Manitoba’s Human Rights Code and the Charter protect political speech that isn’t discriminatory- and I believe I have a strong record that will demonstrate that. I’ve also been non-violent my entire life and spoken against violence.

    Clockwise: U of M encampment and three photos of UBC encampment

    I said that in this context I would welcome the chance to respond to any upcoming job action taken against me for political beliefs. I reminded them of the purpose of speech laws – they are there to protect speaking truth to power. Nothing I speak about regarding a foreign country impedes my ability to do my job in Canada serving other Manitobans. If free speech doesn’t allow criticism of a foreign nation- then I’m not sure what those laws would protect.

    That’s when the tone changed. They invoked respectful workplace policy. They listed Jewish leaders and staff who likely had family or had known someone killed by Palestinian militants over the years. They suggested that I’m likely not aware of the violence Israelis face daily and the emotions I trigger when I support groups that are violent.

    I reiterated that I oppose violence — as do many Palestinians — and added that our Muslim and Christian colleagues have also lived through terrorism, in some cases by Israel’s military. How would they feel knowing they were implicitly ranking whose suffering “counts”? I then added that I do know of violence in Palestine. I’ve been there and seen an Israeli soldier forcibly drag a Palestinian woman off a bus by her hair at a check point.

    They grew more and more agitated. They gave me a reductive history of post-Holocaust settlement in Palestine and repeated the myth that Israel is: “a land without people for a people without land.” I pointed out the inaccuracy in that information and provided my own knowledge of the Nakba when 700,000 to 900,000 were violently forced off their land to create Israel. After back-and-forth they had enough and closed with: “Decide if you’re a Palestinian activist or an employee here.”

    I was proud of myself for calmly using objective facts to make my argument. I immediately replied: “my decision is that Manitoba’s human rights legislation and the Charter allow for both.” They sent an email the following day to the entire division that we should be cautious in sharing views on social media. Some colleagues knew he was talking about me – and I thanked a coworker who came to empathize saying his father had been pushed out of a job in the early 1980s because of his support for Palestine.

    The truth is: whether or not I was actually fired — I knew I could be. And the fight would be costly. Manitoba’s Human Rights Code has capped damages at $25,000 – and in fairness to Manitoba – it’s one of the only jurisdictions that covers political speech and action. A Charter challenge isn’t accessible without big legal fees.

    The employer would need to prove my freedom of expression amounted to discrimination within or harm to the organization. However, I knew that if academics with tenure are facing employment consequences for opinion, then freedom of speech is in trouble for any other occupation – mine included.

    When Russia invaded Ukraine, that same leader immediately held an employee meeting to offer supports and discretionary leave for those emotionally impacted. I burned with internal rage – Ukrainian and Israeli lives elicited empathy. Arab ones were invisible. I wanted to respond with an email reminding folks to take caution expressing political beliefs at work. I wanted to respond to the irrationality of feeling deeply for Ukraine but feeling nothing for Palestinians living for over 80 years under Israel’s occupation of Palestine – I restrained myself worried about getting fired. However, it was clear – they felt that Israeli and Ukrainian lives were worth more than Palestinian lives.

    From that point forward I walked on eggshells — anger and anxiety grew. I started to self-censor myself on many topics. I eventually went on an extended leave, overwhelmed by fear of being terminated for lawful — and globally standard — human-rights views. For the first time in my career – I felt unwelcome at work and the reality that I may be terminated sunk in. It wasn’t long until I decided to move on from that job.

    However, the meeting with me did what it intended – it put a chilling effect on my political action and has contributed to a sense that in a free country I’m not really free to express my thoughts. I now go through waves of frustration and I’ve broken free of the need to self-censor – at least on most days. This is one of the reasons for this post.

    Conclusions: Principled Approach to Human Rights

    In Razing Palestine, Marshy notes something Canadians increasingly accept: we no longer hide from our colonial past. Land acknowledgements, reconciliation training, and the broader public reckoning with Indigenous history have shaped how we understand power, harm, and state violence — for better or worse, depending on who you ask.

    And today, the smartphone is our collective set of eyes and ears. We’ve all seen the collective punishment inflicted on every man, woman, and child in Palestine. Many of us can’t help but think: if smartphones had existed in the years after Columbus, we’d have witnessed similar images of Indigenous peoples being slaughtered — only then there was no camera, no record, no global audience and no drones.

    It feels performative or cognitively impossible to work on Indigenous reconciliation in Canada while supporting colonialism anywhere including in Palestine.

    Razing Palestine captures the truth our great-grandchildren will see with absolute clarity: those who stood on principle against genocide—no matter who held the power and who suffered—often paid a price. But that price was nothing compared to the cost of silence, and certainly nothing compared to what Palestinians have endured at home and in exile.

    Humanity demands a shared responsibility to reject collective punishment, because it is always indefensible and morally wrong.

    And, painfully, many other great-grandchildren will confront a different reality: that their loved ones were complicit – considering themselves liberal and progressive when it costs them nothing – only to turn into the “Good Germans” who remained silent when their voices were needed the most.

    Or, more likely, they’ll try to rewrite their family history and insist those loved ones were part of the vague “everyone” who supposedly stood against this all along.

  • And the Monster of the 20th Century goes to…

    And the Monster of the 20th Century goes to…

    Clockwise: Stalin, Hitler, Kim Il Sung, Mussolini, Mao Zedong.

    The 20th century stands out as one of the most violent in human history — an era when authoritarian leaders routinely turned entire populations into scapegoats, justifying mass slaughter in the name of social order or national pride.

    That level of violence hadn’t been experienced since the 16th century ethnic cleansing / genocide of people indigenous to the land. European colonialism across the Americas led to the deaths of an estimated 60 million Indigenous people between 1492 and 1600.

    If I were asked to comment on the single worst villain of the 20th century – I’d immediately say Hitler. In fact Hitler is the only world leader I can remember studying in elementary school.

    I remember the Cold War mostly through the lens of pop culture — the Soviets were the villains in hockey and WWF’s Nikolai Volkoff was the cartoon version of the “enemy.” China, to me, was the distant country people disliked for communism and the One-Child Policy.

    What I didn’t grasp at the time was the scale of what those regimes actually did to their own people — the purges, the engineered famines, the campaigns that starved or executed tens of millions. These weren’t just strict communist governments; they were systems that reached power and maintained it through mass violence on a scale that, in sheer numbers, exceeded even Hitler’s atrocities.

    The chart below shows the worst villains of the 20th century. Leading is Mao followed by Stalin and Hitler.

    Calling every political opponent “Hitler” — a common and, in my view, reasonable criticism of parts of the left — has diluted the term to the point where it’s lost much of its moral weight. The danger in cheapening that comparison is that it blinds us to the real lessons of history: there have been many leaders who brutalized, starved, or terrorized their own populations without fitting neatly into the Nazi analogy.

    What matters is recognizing the patterns that lead societies down that path. We need to make sure our own country never becomes a place that collectively punishes segments of lawful, ordinary Canadians. The warning signs aren’t about left or right — they’re about any system that begins treating entire groups as problems rather than individual people.

  • The Dark Days of Travel

    The Dark Days of Travel

    Mugged, extorted, and global reactions to terrorism from afar

    Toxic positivity – a byproduct of social media – amplifies the best parts of life while self-censoring the struggles. Letting the good times role serves as a marketing strategy for personal happiness that omits reality of life’s ups and downs.

    Travel rarely goes according to plan. Sometimes the mishaps become the highlights—the stories you retell for years. Other times, they’re buried, moments of embarrassment that you’d rather forget or escape from.

    Robbed at knife point

    Durban – a coastal city on the Indian Ocean is home to around 4 million South Africans. The daily high temperature ranges from 26 to 30 Celsius. It’s among my favorite cities.

    Yet, beneath the sun-soaked beaches, Indian Ocean breeze and friendships— is the memory of personal fear that I carried for years and I’ve since stored away.

    Durban, Kwa-Zulu-Natal, South Africa

    For the most part, I stayed vigilant about my personal safety in South Africa. Meeting South Africans before leaving Canada, during a week of orientation in Ottawa, shaped that protective mindset. Everyone seemed to speak at length about violent crimes. The first weeks of daily life reinforced it. Gated communities and armed private security at businesses and homes was common. I also learned that driving at night required caution – many drivers slowed at red lights but didn’t stop, fearing carjackings.

    This criminal element is closely linked to extreme inequality, poverty, and chronic unemployment. South Africa’s official jobless rate has hovered between 25% and 35% for years. When entire communities face so little economic opportunity, desperation hardens — and crime becomes a predictable outcome. You see that pattern worldwide — and it often manifests in brutally direct ways.

    One night I let my guard down to those realities. I was out with colleagues for dinner. We met a group of women at Nando’s — the Portuguese-inspired chicken chain founded in Johannesburg in 1987 — and we all got talking. Drinks followed. Eventually the night splintered into smaller groups as we wandered out onto the pier and the beach.

    It wasn’t long afterward that I glanced left as a kid was talking in my ear — I couldn’t even make sense of what he was saying. Then I looked ahead, and another kid was holding the tip of a knife just under my jugular. At the same time, someone behind me was going through my pockets.

    There was no chance to run, and I didn’t fight. I froze — a reaction that later became a point of criticism from friends.

    Clockwise: Nando’s flagship restaurant in Johannesburg…photos with new friends Thami and Ike an hour before the mugging.

    Moments later, I saw the backs of four street kids — none older than 14 — sprinting away, flinging everything from my wallet except the cash and credit cards. The entire scene lasted maybe 60 seconds.

    Not ten minutes later we were all reunited, and my friends were instantly furious with me. “You need to fight for yourself!” one snapped. Another cursed himself for leaving his gun at the hotel. In their view I had disgraced myself by letting my property be taken without resistance. From my perspective, I’d gotten off easy — I lost about 70 Rand (roughly $10 CAD in 2002) and the cards were cancelled almost immediately.

    Once the adrenaline drained away, I was left with months of lingering shame, anxiety, and fear. For a while I even worried I’d embarrassed myself in front of the woman I was with — but that concern vanished the next day when she invited me to dinner.

    The Bangkok Tailor Scam

    Tourists are easy marks for scams — extortion is often the common thread. Most of these schemes fall somewhere on a continuum: from heavy-handed pressure all the way to real force and actual threats. I’ve experienced both ends.

    Generally, I try to prepare. Before visiting a country, I research the most common cons and street hustles. For example, when I went to Thailand I already knew about the infamous Bangkok tailor scam, which helped me recognize the setup fairly quickly when a tuk-tuk driver tried to pull it on me.

    The approach is simple: the driver offers a ridiculously cheap ride — in my case to an out-of-the-way Buddha shrine and then on to my actual destination. The “catch” is that he detours to a tailor shop. Your “payment” for the cheap fare is supposedly just stepping inside and browsing for a moment. Once you enter, the pressure begins. Staff block the exit and push knock-off suits under the guise of “custom tailoring,” followed by hidden charges and shipping fees. It’s all designed to trap you long enough — and squeeze you hard enough — to make you buy something you never wanted in the first place.

    In my case, the driver took me to the shrine, I wandered inside, and when I came back out he was nowhere to be seen. Another tuk-tuk driver appeared and casually explained mine had gone to the restroom. While we waited, he made small talk — including asking if I knew where Armani suits were made — then hinted there were “amazing deals” just outside Bangkok in the fashion district.

    He disappeared just as my original driver re-emerged. The engine started, and we were suddenly on our way again toward my supposed final destination: Khao San Road, the infamous backpacker drinking strip. By that point I knew exactly what was coming — the tailor shop detour was inevitable.

    Sure enough, he eventually turned down a street lined with fashion storefronts. He admitted he’d earn a commission if I simply stepped inside. I pushed back — calmly — telling him I’d paid for a ride, not for a detour or thirty minutes trapped in a tailor shop. I offered 100 baht (about $4 CAD) — twice what I’d paid for a similar route the day before — to end the charade and take me straight to my stop.

    Instead, I got a “life-in-the-fast-lane” joyride through Bangkok’s traffic, weaving between cars and motorbikes until he screeched to a halt in front of a random bar and shouted what I’m sure were some colourful Thai swear words. I climbed out into a street full of vendors trying to sell Buddha trinkets.

    The Paris Pig Alley Shakedown

    Another well-known Thailand hustle is the Ping-Pong Scam. Tourists are ushered into bars with “no cover” and a first drink “on the house.” Once inside, they’re treated to a bizarre show featuring a nude performer ejecting ping-pong balls from “down south.” It’s become a rite of passage — The Hangover Part II practically mainstreamed it.

    The trouble comes when the bill arrives. Tourists assume drinks two through five will be a few bucks each. Instead the bill is four figures — every beer listed at hundreds of dollars, plus exit and entertainment fees. I once watched a group of Australians sprint out of a bar and end up in a brawl with bouncers when they refused to pay. I avoided that trap entirely.

    Clockwise: Distant view of the Montmartre. Neighbourhood bar and Moulin Rouge in Montmartre.

    But unconscious racial bias worked against me elsewhere — I assumed western Europe was safer, more regulated, more predictable. That’s how I fell for the equivalent scam in Paris — in Pigalle, the seedy strip of Montmartre. Had I done even basic research, I would have known allied troops literally called the neighbourhood “Pig Alley” during WWII because of its red-light reputation and it’s been a questionable area in the Paris night since.

    On my last night in Paris in 2015, I’d been drinking in a bar near the Moulin Rouge, listening to a French guy — in a kilt — belt out Bruno Mars. Around 2 a.m. I left with about 20 euros in my pocket. A gorgeous “barker” outside a club waved a coupon for a free beer and no cover. I figured: free drink, buy one more, enjoy a quick show, call it a night.

    She led me to a tiny “club” — really just a small room with a few tables — and I was the only customer. I immediately got uneasy and tried to leave. This wasn’t the type of stripper bar I’d been to in Winnipeg. A huge Russian man stepped in, handed me an already opened beer, and told me to sit. A dancer with a different Eastern European accent sat down on my lap. I said clearly I did not want a lap dance — that I thought there’d be a stage show — and I wanted to go.

    She vanished and returned with a bill for 375 euros. “Your drink was free,” she said, “but you were touched — lap dance fee.”

    I protested — said I never asked for that and I wanted to leave. The next ten minutes were among the most tense of my life. When I stood up, a thick Russian voice roared: “Pay up!” The door was blocked. A second man joined in. The dancer shouted, “You get services and don’t pay?! Pay now, fucker!”

    The only thing I could think to do was pull out my passport and say I wanted to call the police to help us settle this.

    That made it worse.

    The man at the door charged me and shoved me hard to the floor. He ripped my shirt picking me back up, then slammed me against the wall by the throat. I repeated that I wanted the police — not realizing I was inches from getting properly beaten.

    “Open your wallet.”

    All I had was a single 20-euro note. He demanded my cards — to drag me to their ATM — and I emptied my pockets to show I had none. (By pure luck I’d left my cards in the hotel safe.)

    They finally grabbed the 20, hurled me toward the door and literally threw me out onto the street like the sabertooth tossing Fred Flintstone out into the street.

    The actual violence was mild and brief — the shame stayed longer.

    I haven’t told that story to many people because of that embarrassment – which is exactly what makes those scams so successful.

    9/11

    And so I’ll return to an evening in Durban South Africa on September 11, 2001. Rather than return to Amanzimtoti, the oceanfront beach we were staying at, a few of us went to Spur – a chain of popular South African family restaurants based on stereotypes and the appropriation of Native American culture, all at affordable prices.

    The waitress, assuming we were Americans, came over and said we should really look at the TVs. Footage of planes striking the World Trade Center towers in New York played on a loop.

    In the weeks after 9/11, the attack itself was replaced by observations of how the world was changing. The natural beauty of Durban’s oceanfront clashed with the nonstop roar of U.S. news anchors, who pushed for the rebranding of French fries to freedom fries and abandoned analysis for flag-waving shouts of “Cowards! a line soon echoed by President Bush.

    I found myself drawn into debates about global politics and the consequences to come. In Pretoria, I saw the American embassy construct an armored vehicle perimeter. In Cape Town, I saw Bin Laden’s face spray-painted on walls reflecting the reality that many believed he was a hero.

    I felt conflicted. My anti-violence values and disgust for the war crime of collective punishment made the attacks horrifying, yet as a critic of American foreign policy I could also understand the geopolitical context that contributed to them. I did my best to resist the swelling chorus of revenge and deliberately dropped the superficial, jingoistic anthems—Toby Keith’s “we’ll put a boot in your ass” among them. Music that celebrates killing civilians or overthrowing governments with no connection to 9/11 is reprehensible; it offers spectacle, not justice.

    Instead, I turned toward lyrics of reflection. Bruce Springsteen’s words stayed with me: “A little revenge and this too shall pass. Better ask questions before you shoot. Deceit and betrayal’s bitter fruit. It’s hard to swallow, come time to pay. That taste on your tongue don’t easily slip away.”

    Springsteen foreshadowed what has become the era known as “the war on terror” that’s defined global politics throughout most of my adult life. Hundreds of thousands of lives lost in 22 nations including America’s longest war ever in Afghanistan, the massacres and regime change in Iraq, and interventions in Syria, Pakistan, Yemen, Libya, Somalia.

    Springsteen’s 2002 album, The Rising – provides his reflections on 9/11

  • The Democratic Party’s True Colours

    Mamdani’s win is quite something given that all establishments were against him. And most disturbing, the race laid bare the Democratic Party’s real character…yet again.

    Despite winning the nomination, the candidate still faced a vicious, well-funded smear effort — including pressure from Democratic billionaire donor Bill Ackman, who previously privately demanded NYPD crack down on campus anti-war protests at Harvard and Columbia.

    At the same time, party leadership continued to signal support for Andrew Cuomo long after the primary, even though he lost and had previously resigned following an independent investigation that substantiated sexual allegations of unwanted touching and harassment involving 11 women.

    And none of this should surprise anyone — not after the 2016 primary, when DNC insiders and Clinton-world donors made it clear Bernie Sanders didn’t have a chance as Hillary was the pre-selected nominee before a single vote had even been counted.

    Every time a progressive tries to advance policies that materially help working people — for example, shifting spending from war and corporate subsidies toward universal health care and education — the Democratic establishment reveals itself as simply a different aesthetic version of the GOP: similar policy priorities, better orators of speeches.

    What should be seen as positive is that despite being home to the largest Jewish population outside Tel Aviv — and despite older voters remaining staunchly Zionist — New York still elected a Muslim candidate, in part because younger Jewish voters helped power Mamdani’s campaign.

    Unfortunately, Mamdani now wakes up to calls for Trump to deploy the National Guard — with smears designed to fuel panic, including the false claim that he would “open the gates at Rikers” and unleash criminals onto New York’s streets. The darker irony is that many of the most damaging actors are already roaming freely — not in Rikers, but in the offices of Wall Street.

  • Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat

    Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat

    Louis Armstrong’s unwitting participation in the Assassination of an African Prime Minister.

    When I was a kid, documentaries were a form of entertainment I’d avoid at all costs — slow, serious, and guaranteed to elicit a nap. Somewhere along the line, that flipped completely. Now I rarely watch anything but documentaries.

    ‘Soundtrack’ Academy Award Nominee (2024).

    At the 97th Academy Awards three of the five nominees for Best Documentary Feature — No Other Land (Palestine), Sugarcane (Canada), and The Soundtrack to a Coup d’État (Belgium)— confronted the lingering ghosts of colonialism. No Other Land was timely by exposing ongoing colonialism under the Israeli occupation and theft of land in the West Bank while the world watched live streams of mass slaughter in Gaza. Sugarcane tells the story of the ongoing trauma of residential schools and the erasure of people indigenous to the Americas.

    The Soundtrack to a Coup d’État quietly slipped beneath the headlines — a film told not through protest footage or archives, but through the pulse of Jazz and an American vs Soviet proxy war.

    An “independent”Congo?

    History books will tell you that the Democratic Republic of Congo won independence from Belgium in early 1960. The documentary covers the months before and after independence. That independence was always questionable.

    It’s impossible to discuss the Congo’s geopolitical situation without reference to its vast mineral wealth. The Second World War’s grand finale – the weapons of mass destruction used in the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki – required Congolese uranium deposits.

    Belgium business interests ensured that the newly independent nation’s wealth — particularly its vast mineral reserves — remained in private hands. Just days before independence, the Belgian parliament rushed through legislation that effectively locked Congo’s mineral wealth under foreign control. The new laws transferred ownership of key mining interests from state to private Belgian shareholders. By doing so, Belgium insulated its corporations from the political uncertainty of a free Congo while ensuring that the country’s richest resources would continue to benefit Brussels rather than Kinshasa.

    The powerful Union Minière du Haut-Katanga, a Belgian mining conglomerate, continued to dominate the extraction of copper, cobalt, and uranium, maintaining a financial stranglehold long after the colonial administration had departed. Independence, as the film suggests, was more symbolic than sovereign — a shift in political formality rather than economic freedom.

    Prelude to an assassination

    Patrice Lumumba, first Prime Minister of the Democratic Republic of Congo

    The newly formed Democratic Republic of the Congo was led by Patrice Lumumba, an African nationalist who played a pivotal role in transforming Belgium’s colony into an independent republic. Yet his tenure as the nation’s first prime minister lasted only 73 days.

    Lumumba, sought to nationalize resources and unify a country already fractured by colonial borders and outside manipulation.  His nationalist message terrified Western powers during the Cold War — a young, charismatic African leader openly aligning himself with the Soviet bloc and liberation movements elsewhere. He was friends with adversaries, including Fidel Castro, Nikita Khrushchev and Malcolm X.

    Intelligence services—including the CIA and MI6—along with hired mercenaries and even the United Nations, circled plans to restore Western control over the new nation.

    The new prime minister, Patrice Lumumba, was hailed by his people as the National Hero of the Congo — a symbol of unity, pride, and self-determination.  His bold vision to reclaim control of the nation’s resources and his refusal to bend to Western influence made him a lightning rod in the Cold War.  Congo quickly became another proxy battlefield between the United States and the Soviet Union.

    To Washington, Lumumba’s overtures to Moscow made him dangerous.  Within weeks of independence, declassified communications show U.S. officials discussing how he should be “neutralized” — a chilling euphemism repeated throughout the film.  Meanwhile, Belgian agents and corporate interests worked hand in hand with Congolese rivals to isolate him politically and physically.

    In a surprising display of openness – prominent intelligence figures of the day go on the record disclosing their entire playbooks and involvement in planning and executing his demise.

    Daphne Park, (aka as Blonde Ghost) was an MI6 agent who provides a basic rule in removing a threat:

    You pit people, very discreetly, against one another. They destroy each other.

    Larry Devlin, CIA Station Chief in Congo describes an influence campaign to remove Lumumba from office when they thought they had the votes.

    The night before the vote we counted heads. We had the election. But the following day we only had two (votes).

    Devlin is asked if the CIA paid for the votes and he smiles replying:

    I’m not going to answer that one. Sorry. No comment. I lost.

    Larry Devlin, CIA Station Chief in Congo

    The belief that politicians took the money and ran isn’t surprising. However, it spoke directly to Lumumba’s popularity.

    The Jazz Connection

    The documentary tells its story in a strikingly original way — intercutting scenes of political intrigue with footage of jazz legends at their peak.

    During the Cold War, the CIA frequently enlisted internationally acclaimed artists to help win hearts and minds abroad.  In one scene, Nikita Khrushchev, during his visit to America, quips that jazz “gives him gas.”

    The U.S. State Department’s response was almost junior high.  They organized a “goodwill” tour of the Congo featuring leading American jazz musicians — a clever but cynical move that doubled as a Trojan Horse for covert operations.  While the music played, U.S. intelligence operatives quietly pursued their own missions under the cover of cultural diplomacy.

    Side note: my own immaturity made it impossible to watch the Khrushchev clips without softly singing Elton John’s, “Oh Nikita, you will never know…”

    At the centre of it all was Louis Armstrong — perhaps the most famous musician in the world — recruited as the star of the tour.  Only later did Armstrong learn that the trip had been a front for U.S. intelligence activity.  Furious and humiliated, he openly criticized his government’s manipulation and even considered renouncing his American citizenship.

    Louis Armstrong’s Congo music tour turned out to be the start of a CIA driven coup to assassinate the first democratically elected prime minister.

    Cold War Assassination

    American ambassador to Congo, William Burden – who had side gigs as the CEO of a mining company in Congo and as a CIA agent – recalls:

    “The Belgians were toying with the idea of seeing that Lumumba was assassinated. I went beyond my instructions and said, I don’t think it would be a bad idea either. Lumumba was such a nuisance. It’s perfectly obvious that the way to get rid of him was through political assassination.”

    On January 17, 1961, Lumumba and two of his closest allies — Joseph Okito and Maurice Mpolo — were taken into the Katangan bush, lined up against trees, and executed by three firing squads under Belgian supervision.  Belgian police commissioner Frans Verscheure allegedly fired Lumumba’s fatal shots himself.  To ensure no grave could ever become a rallying point, Belgian officer Gérard Soete dismembered their bodies, dissolved them in sulfuric acid, and kept two teeth and a finger as macabre souvenirs.

    For decades, Belgium denied its involvement.  It wasn’t until 2002 that the government admitted “moral responsibility,” and in 2022, more than sixty years later, Lumumba’s tooth — the only known remnant — was returned to the Congo for a state funeral.

    The assassination allowed the Americans and British to claim they abandoned their own plots for assassination (at least that’s the formal narrative). In truth, the will of many western nations colluded to remove him regardless of how it was accomplished or who shot the bullets.

    Lumumba’s death stands as a brutal reminder that the fight for independence did not end with the lowering of a colonial flag — it merely changed its weapons, from armies and chains to corporate charters and covert operations.

    Verdict on the Documentary

    There are a few obvious things to mention to causal movie fans. Clocking in at 2 hours and 33 minutes – it’s a documentary that isn’t for everyone.

    The movie has many quotes and music videos interchanging with political footage. It takes a bit to get on the rhythm for that viewing. The film has some scenes in non-English languages that don’t have subtitles. It doesn’t fit with the flow of an otherwise excellent documentary.

    The best part of this documentary is the light it shines on harm done to Africa – an often overlooked continent. American Jazz musicians – who were almost exclusively Black – had a lot in common with the Congolese – namely to get basic legal rights from white populations in their nations.

    The Congo continues to fight to escape cycles of violence. Today it’s less about uranium and more about control over minerals required for the production of the iPhone and other battery dependent technologies.

    The film opens with, and returns to, the moment in February 1961 when singer Abbey Lincoln, drummer Max Roach, writer Maya Angelou, and 57 other protesters disrupted a meeting of the UN Security Council to protest Lumumba’s murder.

  • Hiding in Plain Sight – My Mornings with an American Fugitive

    Hiding in Plain Sight – My Mornings with an American Fugitive

    2016 Documentary on the 13th amendment

    One of my favourite Netflix documentaries is The 13th. The film examines the 13th Amendment, which abolished slavery and involuntary servitude—except as punishment for a crime. The documentary argues that this loophole enabled the continuation of free labour, a foundation of the American economy. In turn, laws were crafted to criminalize everyday behaviours, effectively targeting Black Americans and ensuring they remained a controlled, unpaid labour force.

    In the documentary, James Kilgore — an expert on the economics of incarceration — highlights one of the most striking examples of racial disparity in U.S. sentencing laws: “The same amount of time in prison for one ounce of crack cocaine that you would get for 100 ounces of powder cocaine.” In practice, this meant that a young Black man selling small quantities of “crack” could be sentenced as harshly as a major drug trafficker — a system designed to punish poverty and race rather than crime itself.

    The last time I watched the documentary, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the name James Kilgore sounded familiar. After a bit of reflection, it hit me — it brought me back to the summer of 2002, when I was living and working in Cape Town, South Africa.

    Friday Night Police Lights

    Most days in Cape Town followed the same rhythm. I’d wake up, down a drinkable yogurt, shower, and leave a small pile of clothes for the housekeeper to wash and iron. Then I’d rummage through a stack of burned CDs—the kind that squeezed a hundred songs into a file format so small it seemed like magic—and load one into my portable Discman for the walk ahead. It took about half an hour to reach a colleague’s house, where I’d catch a ride to work.

    Friday, November 8, 2002, began no differently.  Being a Friday, though, there was a little extra lightness in my step, and I knew post-work beers were the norm.  Cape Town was officially in the last weeks of spring, but the season had already surrendered to summer. The sky was flawless, the sun relentless, the air thick and bright—about twenty-eight degrees by noon.

    My Cape Town home 20 Dunluce Road, Cape Town – South Africa

    I didn’t know my neighbours well. A polite wave or nod was usually enough to keep up social protocols.  Across the street lived a man I vaguely knew worked at the University of Cape Town. To me—back then everyone older than thirty seemed middle-aged—he was simply the friendly guy with the big smile and the large glasses. Most mornings our routines overlapped: me locking my front door just as he loaded his car to leave for work. I can’t say for certain it happened that Friday, but chances are that we gave a wave or nod to each other like most mornings.

    James Kilgore and his home at 9 Dunluce Road – Cape Town, South Africa

    That evening, I got home around seven-thirty after dinner and post-work beers. My street was blocked by police cars. The commotion was centered on his home across the road. I couldn’t see him, only the officers standing guard at the door. The easy rhythm of the day, the heat, the lightness—all of it suddenly felt distant.  I would later learn that he had been arrested and taken away just moments earlier.  

    These were the days before social media and smartphones. I had almost forgotten about the incident until I picked up the Saturday edition of the Mail & Guardian—a leading South African newspaper. Even then, it took me a moment to fully connect the dots and realize that I had witnessed the aftermath of the arrest they were reporting.

    The front-page headline read:

    Symbionese Liberation Army Leader Arrested in Cape Town.

    The article described an arrest in the middle-class suburb of Claremont. I thought to myself, 

    “Wait—that’s my neighbourhood!” 

    Other media reports were more specific, stating that a terrorist had been arrested on Dunluce Road in Cape Town.

    “That’s not just my neighbourhood,” I thought, “That’s my street!”

    In disbelief I realized that my neighbour had long been wanted by the American government as certain phrases in the article jumped out at me:

    “FBI” — “Interpol” — “lived under an alias” — “wanted for murder, armed robbery, and possession of explosives (homemade bombs)” —“Patty Hearst.”

    Living Next to America’s Most Wanted Fugitive

    I had been living next to James Kilgore—arrested under the alias Charles William Pape—one of the longest-standing fugitives on America’s most wanted list. He had evaded capture since the mid-1970s.

    Kilgore was a former leader of the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA), a small, far-left militant group that the FBI labeled as the first American-born left-wing terrorist organization. Active between 1973 and 1975, the SLA saw itself as a united front for leftist causes: feminism, anti-racism, anti-capitalism, and more.

    In practice, however, the SLA was short-lived and—by most accounts—highly amateurish in both its goals and operations. The group murdered Marcus Foster, one of the first Black school superintendents, whom they branded a fascist for introducing student ID cards in Oakland schools. That killing alienated them from the very Black communities they claimed to support.

    The SLA also funded its operations through bank robberies, during one of which Myrna Lee Opsahl, a customer, was killed. In 1974, six SLA members died in a televised shootout with the LAPD.

    Despite all of this, the group is most infamous for the 1974 kidnapping of Patty Hearst, the heiress to the Hearst publishing fortune. The abduction was aimed at gaining publicity and leveraging demands for the release of jailed SLA members. Hearst would later join the group, reportedly helping to make explosives and acting as a lookout during a bank robbery.

    Her involvement sparked years of controversy, particularly around her claim of suffering from Stockholm Syndrome—a contested psychological condition where hostages come to sympathize with their captors. While some believed she had been brainwashed, others remained skeptical. Hearst’s federal sentence was eventually commuted by President Jimmy Carter, and she was fully pardoned by President Bill Clinton.

    Kilgore fled the U.S. in 1975 under indictment and remained a fugitive for 27 years, living in Zimbabwe, Australia, and South Africa. During that time, he reinvented himself as John Pape—an academic, author, and respected activist. His work focused on labor movements, poverty, and—ironically—incarceration.

    Those who knew him as John Pape spoke highly of his contributions. Tony Ehrenreich, leader of the Western Cape Congress of Trade Unions, said: “John is an important activist who made a huge contribution towards the workers’ struggle in South Africa.” Even Archbishop Desmond Tutu, the Nobel Peace Prize laureate, wrote a letter of support on his behalf.

    When police finally arrived at his home, they asked, “Are you James Kilgore?”
    He reportedly replied, “Yes, that’s me.”

    Some say he felt an immense sense of relief—no longer having to live as a fugitive.

    Kilgore was extradited to the United States, where he served a prison sentence until 2009. While incarcerated, he became a respected prison educator. After his release, he began working at the University of Illinois.

    Controversy arose in 2014 when news of his past led to protests against his employment. The university withdrew its job offer. In response, over 300 faculty members signed a petition demanding his reinstatement—and he was ultimately rehired.

    Left: James Kilgore (1974) Right: Patty Hearst (1974)

    This memory reminds me that we never truly know the full story of a person. Some people change and go on to live entirely different lives. Others master the art of disguise — wearing virtual masks and new IDs that let them hide in plain sight.

  • The Road to Palestine:

    The Road to Palestine:

    As told through travel, politics and sports.

    “Keep politics out of sport” is the rallying cry of fans who want to escape after a long week of work.

    In the U.S. and Canada, that’s the norm—broken only by individual acts of resistance like Colin Kaepernick taking a knee.

    The Winnipeg Jets show how sport can unite a community regardless of culture, religion, or class. But in many parts of the world, that unity is harder to find.

    Winnipeg Jets defeat St. Louis Blues
    Game 7 (2nd OT)
    I’m one of the fans wearing glasses (May 2025).

    South Africa: Post-Apartheid

    From 2001 to 2003, I attended sports matches while living in South Africa. Apartheid—modeled in part on Canada’s ethnic cleansing of Indigenous peoples—had ended just seven years earlier, at least on paper.

    When I went to matches, the makeup of the crowds told its own story. From a visual glance, almost all the rugby fans were white, the cricket fans were largely Asian, and the football (soccer) crowds were overwhelmingly black. It wasn’t just about sport—it was about history, culture, and identity.

    Rugby had long been the pride of white Afrikaners, tightly bound to privilege under apartheid. Cricket carried a strong following among Indian communities, especially in Durban, where the game had taken root generations earlier. And football belonged to the Black majority, played in the townships and cherished as a game of resilience, access, and pride.

    The politics of inequality was experienced in all of them.

    Cricket

    At Newlands Cricket Grounds – Cape Town, while waiting in line for a drink, I struck up a casual conversation with an Indian man about bowlers. When Makhaya Ntini’s name came up—the first Black bowler to make the national team and still a record-holder—the exchange shifted.

    Instead of celebrating Ntini’s rise, he launched into a kind of “Make South Africa Great Again” monologue. For him, the benchmark of a better time was when Black communities were “kept under control” by apartheid, when cricket remained insulated from what he called “crime-ridden” neighborhoods.

    Over time, I began to notice that the most racist incidents I observed didn’t come from white Afrikaners, but from Indian men directing hostility toward Black South Africans. It jarred me at first—until I raised it with neighbors who offered some perspective.

    They explained how, under apartheid’s rigid categories, Indians were slotted above Coloured and Black South Africans, but still below whites. That precarious middle position fostered a sense of identification with Afrikaners, a way of aligning upward on the hierarchy rather than downward. For some, it seemed easier to side with power than to share in the struggles of those even more marginalized.

    It revealed a deeper truth about the social architecture of apartheid: it didn’t just separate groups, it cultivated rivalries and resentments between them. Racism, in that way, became less a singular force than a ladder—one where each rung was taught to fear or disdain the one beneath it.

    The view from my seats!!
    Newlands Cricket Grounds – Cape Town (2002)

    Football

    To say the experience went much better at Ellis Park, Johannesburg in November 2002, would be an understatement. South Africa men’s national football team faced Senegal before a crowd of 40,000.

    With the Ellis Park Disaster still fresh, stadium security employed strict crowd-control strategies. A year earlier, nearly 120,000 fans had overwhelmed the 60,000-seat venue, leaving 43 dead. That dark and tense mood over the crowd soon changed.

    The match was a Nelson Mandela Challenge that raised money for charity. I don’t recall much of the play—other than South Africa losing on penalties—but I’ll never forget the awe I felt when Nelson Mandela was announced before kickoff.

    He joined the ceremonies and anthems, and the stadium erupted. Then, to my surprise, he circled the pitch in a Pope-style secured vehicle, drawing the loudest, most roaring sustained ovation I’ve ever witnessed. I hadn’t known he would be there in person.

    He carried the weight of unmatched experience. Once branded a terrorist and imprisoned as one, he was later recognized as a freedom fighter jailed simply for demanding humanity and responding with dignity and force if necessary. He went on to unite the factions of men in prison, around compassion and the power of peace. This led to his leading a new nation as President under those principles and becoming a global rock star for humanitarianism until his passing. He was the father the world needs today. The game reflected hope for a more equitable future.

    I had never been overcome by that much emotion in public before, and never with tears of joy. At first, I worried the neighbor who brought me and his family would think I was a weirdo—until I saw they were crying too. They were born into the legal classification as South African “Asian,” and in that moment we opened up more with each other than our superficial meeting.*

    *The World Cup sparked our first meeting during South Africa’s clash with Spain. The kickoff came at 1:30 in the afternoon Johannesburg time, and workplaces let people out early so no one would miss it. I started the match at a crowded bar but slipped home for the second half. When South Africa scored, the entire apartment block erupted—neighbors spilling outside to cheer together in unison. We met in the middle of that celebration.

    Wearing my Orlando Pirates kit
    (South African Premiership team)

    Rugby

    At Ellis Park again, Nelson Mandela showed the world the kind of leader he was through the unforgettable story of the 1995 Rugby World Cup

    In 1995, only a year after the end of apartheid and South Africa’s first democratic elections, the nation hosted the Rugby World Cup—the sport’s biggest stage at a time when the country’s fragile transition could tip toward peace or violence.

    President Nelson Mandela saw the Rugby World Cup as an opportunity to unite a fractured nation. Wearing the green Springbok jersey—once reviled by the Black majority—he threw his support behind the team. Against all odds, South Africa triumphed over New Zealand in the final at Ellis Park, where Mandela presented the trophy to captain François Pienaar in a moment that came to symbolize national reconciliation.

    President Nelson Mandela awards the 2025 Rugby World Cup to Springbok captain Francois Pienaar

    This would have to have an impact on many South Africans. However, statistics suggest the immediate bump in unity was overshadowed by continuing distrust and hatred between citizens. Anecdotally I’d have to agree.

    The most blatant racism I witnessed came at a rugby match in 2002. None of my friends had ever been to one—neither had I—so I brought them to a professional game at Loftus Versfeld Stadium in Pretoria, South Africa’s capital.

    The stadium held about 35,000 fans, and I’d wager all but three were white. At least in our section, that was certainly the case. None of us knew the rules, so we entertained ourselves by rating the best tackles.

    I couldn’t tell you much about the game—not because I was awestruck by any Mandela type figures, but because of an incident that reflected the attitudes he spent his life fighting.

    We didn’t last past halftime. By the second ‘accidental’ beer spill from the fan behind us, it was clear it was deliberate. The rising chorus of the ‘K’ word—the Afrikaner version of the N-word—confirmed it. We left, only to have a full beer hurled at us as we went.

    I felt awful—I’d bought the tickets as a surprise, never imagining what would happen. It was the complete opposite of the hope found in the football experience. My friends were gracious, assuring me it didn’t bother them anymore; it was simply what they had come to live with.

    Dumisane, Safiso and Ingo
    Loftus Versfeld Stadium

    University above an electronics store

    Cape Town Offices

    I came away with many positive memories – and many unfortunate ones that helped me build a resolve to be active against human rights abuses. One of the most lasting was my ‘re-education on Palestinian issues’ as told by South Africans who lived through apartheid.

    I worked out of a small Cape Town office—just a few rooms above an electronics store in Athlone, a Black community. We often hosted community-building events there. During one of those gatherings, the conversation turned to the Middle East. I repeated the old Israeli phrase, “a land without people for a people without land.” The room instantly fell silent. The lively discussion stopped, and I was met with stunned faces.

    Housing Co-operative members planning changes needed in housing legislation.

    The weeks that followed became my re-education, pushing me beyond the limits of Western propaganda. I came to know the Palestinian people and their struggle, learned of the bond between Arafat and Mandela, and heard claims that Palestinians lived under a system even harsher than apartheid South Africa. This connection helps explain why South Africa would later lead the charge at the International Criminal Court, accusing Israel of genocide.

    That awakening reshaped my perspective and has defined my interest in Palestine ever since.

    Mandala & Arafat meet two weeks after Mandela is released from prison.

    The Glasgow Celtic

    Sports and politics collide when teams themselves are born from culture, religion, or class divides.

    Glasgow Celtic, Scotland’s powerhouse club, was born in the shadow of the potato famine—its modern supporters still mindful of the civil rights abuses the Irish faced under the United Kingdom.

    British policy turned Ireland’s crop failures of 1845 to 1852 into mass starvation. During the famine, one in four Irish fled the country; about 125,000—roughly 10%—landed in Scotland, many settling in Glasgow’s East End.

    Celtic were founded in 1887 as a charity to ease poverty among Glasgow’s Irish Catholic immigrants, many still facing discrimination, joblessness, and poor housing. Folklore suggests many signs across the UK read, “No Irish, No Blacks, No Dogs.”

    Celtic Park – Glasgow, Scotland
    Brazen Head Pub – East End, Glasgow – Home pub of Celtic Fans and the Scottish Cup in years that Celtic are reigning champions (April 2025).

    Celtic supporters often test the limits of political expression at matches. Earlier this year, they faced legal scrutiny after honoring Brendan Bik McFarlane, a Belfast Irish Republican Army (IRA) freedom fighter.

    Bik later emerged as a peace process leader, but in his prime he was involved in some of The Troubles’ (1968-1998) most violent acts—targeting British loyalist paramilitaries and civilians alike in urban guerrilla warfare. For many Irish, those loyalists reflected a privileged class in a system where they were second to British settlers in law, politics, and society.

    In 1975, McFarlane orchestrated the Bayardo Bar Massacre on Belfast’s Shankill Road, killing five and injuring more than 50. His violent legacy—and that of other IRA fighters—remains a flashpoint in Loyalist Belfast, a Protestant community still segregated today.

    Our Uber driver from the bus station to our accommodations was quick to remind us of Belfast’s open wounds. An Irish Catholic, he questioned why we chose the British side of the city. He admitted he felt uneasy driving us there, recalling how Catholics were excluded from economic life—taxi medallions monopolized by Protestants, a system more recently democratized by peace and new ride-share technology.

    The street of our accommodations

    In 1976, McFarlane was sentenced to life in prison. There he rose as a leader among IRA inmates and orchestrated the UK’s largest prison break—one of the IRA’s greatest propaganda coups.

    In 1983, McFarlane led the Maze Prison escape, using hostages and a food truck to free 38 Irish Republicans—a breakout later dramatized in the 2017 film Maze. Rearrested, he became the prison’s longest-serving IRA inmate before his 1997 parole, as peace talks advanced.

    It takes less than ten minutes to pass through the wall dividing Protestant and Catholic communities—still locked at night. Soon you’re on Falls Road, IRA territory, where men like McFarlane are seen as heroes.

    On Falls Road, a mural of Bobby Sands—McFarlane’s protégé who died on hunger strike—covers the side of Sinn Féin’s offices. The hunger strikes drew global pressure on Margaret Thatcher, forcing limited reforms to conditions for political prisoners.

    The Belfast separation wall (Catholics to the left and Protestants to the right).

    I walked on to The Rock Bar, an Irish Catholic pub founded by Frank O’Neill, part-owner of Glasgow Celtic. The bar was the other side of The Troubles—regularly bombed and even hit by a Loyalist rocket in 1994 that, unbelievably, killed no one.

    The Rock Bar remains a community staple, honoring traditional music and the Irish struggle with its “Rebel Sundays.” Over a pint of Guinness, I watched Bik McFarlane—his mic stand draped with a Palestinian kufiya—take the opening slot in what was the last years of his life.

    Brendan (Bik) McFarlane playing Irish rebel songs – July 2022.

    The evening almost over – I started the walk back to our accommodations – the last thing on the Irish Republican side is a demonstration of solidarity with the people of Palestine.

    And so we return to Glasgow, where fans raise the Palestinian flag in solidarity with a people facing discrimination, apartheid, and hunger—struggles not unlike those once endured by the Irish.


    Celtic Park – 2016
    Me and my son Nolan Celtic Park – 2025

    Chilean Football’s Palestinian Connection

    Santiago, Chile

    I’ve never been to Chile, though it’s long been on my list. Santiago, the capital, rests at the foot of the Andes and within reach of the South Pacific. Its airport is one of the few gateways to Easter Island. My desire to visit began well before I understood Chile’s deeper connection to Palestine—and to sport.

    I bought what I thought was a Glasgow Celtic alternate third jersey to support Palestine. The jersey has the Celtic look with the addition of kufiya-inspired stripes and the Palestinian flag.

    It turns out the jersey wasn’t Celtic at all, but an alternate third kit from Club Deportivo Palestino, a professional football club in Santiago that competes in Chile’s top-flight Primera División. They were showing their support for the Celtic who have always supported Palestine.

    Palestino was founded in 1920 by the Palestinian community in Chile as a space for recreation and connection. After 1947, when Britain’s withdrawal and the creation of Israel raised fears that Palestine was being erased from the map, Father Raúl Hasbún—a young Chilean-Palestinian priest who would later court political controversy—pushed to professionalize the club. His goal was simple: “Palestine is being erased from the map. In Chile we have to put it back on the map.”

    He understood that turning Palestino professional would keep the name of Palestine in the media every week—first in Chile, and eventually across South America. The club entered the second division, but quickly won the championship and earned promotion to the top flight. Since then, Palestino has gone on to win two Primera División titles.

    In 2014, Palestino’s jersey was banned by the league after complaints from the Israeli government and local Zionist groups. The controversy centered on the number “1,” which the club had stylized to represent the full map of historic Palestine. Officials ruled the design “too political,” but the decision only amplified Palestino’s symbolism. Fans rallied behind the team, sales of the banned jersey surged, and the club leaned even more openly into its role as a cultural and political emblem for the Palestinian diaspora.

    Full Circle to Palestine

    Each of these moments—Mandela lifting the Webb Ellis Cup, Celtic supporters raising Palestinian flags in Glasgow, and Palestino’s fight to keep their identity stitched into a jersey—are not isolated stories. Together, they map a path that continually led me back to Palestine. What began in South Africa as an awakening to injustice became clearer with every connection: that sport can be a mirror of oppression and resilience, and a stage where the erased reclaim their place.

    The path to Palestine is not just geographic; it is written in the struggles and solidarities of communities across the world.

  • The 24-Hour Rule and the Conservative Influencers

    Emotions are the only thing we truly control—yet we often let them control us. I used to vent to a mentor about interpersonal conflicts. Her advice was always the same: “Sleep on it—give it 24 hours.”

    That pause created space. It allowed me to respond with clarity rather than react from ego or instinct. It helped me override my biological fight-or-flight response and reflect who I am, not just what I felt. Pearl Jam captured this perfectly in React, Respond:

    “As the light gets brighter as it grows, the darkness, it recedes.
    When what you get is what you don’t want—don’t react, respond.”

    Reaction vs. Response in a Culture of Violence

    Giving society the benefit of the doubt, I want to believe the online vitriol—cheering a man’s death or demanding vengeance—is a temporary reaction. One that will fade. But history, and the American narrative, suggest otherwise.

    On each anniversary of 9/11, we’re reminded that many Americans continue to blame all Muslims, ignoring the vast diversity within Islam and the geopolitical context behind the attacks. It’s easier to chant “USA! USA!” and reduce entire populations to cartoon villains jealous of “freedom.” This kind of blind nationalism is exactly what power structures—and the war industry—depend on.

    Consider the recent push to ban TikTok. Much of the urgency centers around the fact that young Americans discovered Bin Laden’s “Letter to the American People” and began asking uncomfortable questions. Most Americans have never read it, much less acknowledged its argument: that 9/11 was a violent and tragic response to decades of U.S. foreign policy—policies that have toppled governments, installed dictators, and collectively punished entire nations. Often with little provocation, other than protecting American business interests.

    In this context, the letter serves not as justification, but as a disturbing mirror. It reflects the same logic behind America’s legacy of retributive violence— part of Eisenhower’s warning about the extent of power in the war machine.

    If American foreign policy is driven by violence and the use of the American public’s emotion instead of reason, then it’s no surprise that political disputes increasingly escalate to violence rather than debate. Most American students today believe opposing views shouldn’t even be allowed on campus with 1/3 believing violence is legitimate to stop abhorrent words.. And so, we find ourselves bracing for the next tit-for-tat—walking on eggshells in a cycle that feels almost impossible to escape.

    Tucker Carlson & Nick Fuentes: The Calmness That Breaks the Storm?

    Just hours after the assassination, far-right influencer Nick Fuentes postponed his show, urging his followers to “sleep on it” and return the next day for his full response. Known for openly antisemitic, homophobic, and extremist views, Fuentes is banned from nearly all major platforms—Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, YouTube, Twitch, PayPal, Airbnb—and was a speaker during the January 6th Capitol riot. Yet, he remains one of the most streamed political commentators in America through Rumble and Truth Social. Fuentes and Kirk were foes in the conservative movement. Kirk was considered a moderate in the MAGA movement. Fuentes a white supremacist.

    As the country braced for reactions, Fuentes’ Thursday night stream drew over 1.4 million viewers. I was among nearly 140,000 waiting well before the stream even began.

    The unexpected twist? A message of restraint.

    Fuentes, visibly shaken, opened by calling Charlie Kirk—longtime adversary—“the most influential and respected voice of the MAGA movement.” Then he delivered a rare, direct warning to his followers:

    “To all of my followers, if you take up arms, I disavow you. I disown you. In the strongest possible terms.”

    Acknowledging his own volatility, he encouraged calm, not rage:

    “Don’t be angry, wrathful, vengeful, or judgmental. Show kindness, compassion, and understanding.”

    Reacting to liberal influencer Dean Withers—who tearfully pleaded for nonviolence while watching the assassination video—Fuentes said:

    “Good on him. That’s a good kid… a kid with a conscience.”

    He criticized progressives who attacked Withers:

    “He said we shouldn’t kill people for disagreeing with each other. But that’s divisive now!?”

    Fuentes grounded his appeal in Christian belief:

    “Vengeance belongs to God who is merciful and just…
    We all want our loved ones to survive… Liberal or Conservative—we all want to be around for Christmas.
    We all have a place in this. Everyone must condemn this violence.
    I will stand shoulder to shoulder with every one of my enemies.
    The left, the right, the centre —everybody must say: this needs to stop.
    Death is ugly…a bullet rips through your neck and it’s over in an instant…
    None of it is promised. We cannot live by the sword, because you also die by the sword.”

    Carlson’s Parallel Message

    This call for restraint echoed what Tucker Carlson expressed on The Megyn Kelly Show. Carlson described how he had spent hours angry and consumed by hateful posts on X, until a text from his cousin reframed everything:

    “I don’t pray for your safety… I pray for your wisdom and your restraint.”

    His wife also weighed in, texting their family group chat a passage from Luke 6—a reminder that loving those who love you is easy, but loving your enemies is what defines true Christian grace.

    Carlson concluded with a simple truth:

    “We need order, as that is always the path to peace.”

    Final Thoughts

    Whether Fuentes followers are able to give us that guarantee is still unknown.  Approximately 60% of comments from his followers are disappointed with him expressing an expectation that he endorse the start of retribution.  Additionally,  many on the left have already dismissed his comments as insincere contrasting his words to past remarks and doubling down by blaming Kirk’s hate speech instead of the shooter and his gun.  

    The shooter is in custody.  Commentators are left wondering – will history remember Tyler Robinson as the man who started a new level of domestic strife and violence or will the nation start to heal?    

  • The Murder of Charlie Kirk

    My immediate family never ritualized or discussed religion. The two exceptions from my childhood were attending two days of Sunday school—after my mom enrolled me at a local Baptist church—and spending a week at a Bible camp in Alberta as a pre-teen while visiting family who were religious.  I went to one service and a BBQ, as an adult, to show respect and admiration for the pastor who is a close friend.   

    I didn’t enjoy Sunday school, I felt out of place. I remember sitting in a circle, listening to other kids recite Bible verses from memory, while I barely understood what most of the words even meant. Camp was a different experience. I had a lot of fun swimming, hiking, and joking around with the other kids, and I got to know one of my cousins much better. But much like Sunday school, I couldn’t connect with the religious parts—especially the daily game where a camp leader would recite a Bible verse and award points to whoever could name the book and chapter the fastest.

    Both experiences felt distant from real meaning or relevance in real life—except, perhaps, for the emphasis on memorization. In that sense, they mirrored the way our education system often rewards those who can memorize best.  

    I’ll admit that I accepted Jesus as my savior toward the end of camp—mostly because that’s what all the cool kids were doing, and it meant I got extra ice cream that night to celebrate. My maternal grandma gave me a new Bible afterward, and I felt good about it because she was proud of me. I haven’t opened it since.

    Does this mean I have no principles or moral compass?

    Society’s Moral Compass

    Freedom of religion—and freedom from religion—is a basic human right that everyone should be able to experience. Some religious individuals argue that religion is essential for shaping ethical people with a strong moral compass.  Many say other religions cause problems. From that belief, they conclude that their own religion should play a larger role in public institutions, often blaming secularism or {insert other religion/belief system} for many of society’s problems.

    This idea is nonsense. Heathens (like me), Pagans, and followers of many of the world’s major religions all share a common ethical principle: treat others the way you’d want to be treated. Shift a few words or swap in a different cultural reference, and you’ll almost always land on some version of the Golden Rule.

    The Golden Rule whether you’re an atheist, agnostic or from any of the major religions is being threatened globally (a laughable and privileged comment to the eyes of individuals across the globe who have experienced that for years).  This is terrifying for anyone wanting peace and security for their family.

    Charlie Kirk

    The assassination of Kirk, one of the most influential leaders among young American evangelicals in decades, understandably set off a firestorm. The anger from the right stems from the fact that he was seen as a “family values” conservative who embodied the MAGA movement’s aspirations—someone they believed could one day become president. To them, he is now a martyr, a symbol of everything they feel is under attack in a diverse America.

    Anger from many others, however, comes from a belief that Kirk was a monster—someone who espoused views steeped in misogyny, racism, and even genocide. Some say he got what he deserved.

    I strongly disagree on principle.  I live life by the Golden Rule (for reasons of preserving the sanctity of life, empathy and self-preservation).

    A functioning democracy, especially one that claims to be open and free, must include speech that makes us uncomfortable—even speech we interpret as hateful. People should not be murdered for what they say, no matter how abhorrent their views may be.

    To be clear, this is not an endorsement of Kirk or his ideology. I detest his views. But if I don’t stand firmly against his murder, then I’m implying that speech which upsets me can carry a death sentence. And in today’s political climate, that logic puts everyone at risk. If I show up to my Member of Parliament’s office to protest his support for Israel, does that mean a Zionist has the right to shoot me? This is how the cycle begins—and it doesn’t end until people are exhausted from living under the constant threat of death (a major reason for the post WW2 order).

    Ironically, Kirk’s assassination may result in a crackdown on exactly the kind of speech I consider progressive. It’s already fueling calls to outlaw left-wing organizations, infiltrate peaceful protests, and even justify violence against liberals. Kirk’s murder is the worst thing to happen to me and my own self-interest.

    Ultimately, if Charlie Kirk’s assassination is considered justified simply because someone believed he was evil, then so is mine—because someone might believe I am too.

    Diversity of The Golden Rule:

    Christianity:  In everything, do to others as you would have them do unto you; for this is the law of the prophets (Matthew 7:12)

    Judaism:  That which is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah, and the rest in its interpretation (Talmud, Shabbat 31a)

    Islam: None of you truly believes until he loves for his brother what he loves for himself (40 Hadith 13).

    Hinduism:  One should never do to another which one regards as injurious to one’s own self. (Brihaspati 13.113.8)

    Buddhism:  Hurt not others in ways that you yourself would find hurtful (Udanavarga 5:18)

    Wicca:  Ever mind the rule of three.  Three times your acts return to thee.  This lesson well, thou must learn.  Thou only gets what thee dost earn.

    Ahmed Hassan – Yemeni Houthi

  • Human Rights (and antisemitic)?

    As I approach 50, I’ve started reflecting on how well people really know me—what drives me, what breaks me.  Mental health is a big part of that story, but this isn’t that post. This one is about a key factor that has impacted by mental health as it is a major part of my life:  equality and justice, and more specifically, Palestine.

    Yes, it’s true—my life is deeply shaped by the suffering of Palestinians. I see my own parents, children, friends, and sibling in their faces.  My time, energy, donations, books, films, music, art, food, and activism all center around this cause.  I attempt (poorly) to cook Mushakhan (roasted sumac chicken), I subscribe to Watermelon Pictures to stream Palestinian films,  I do my best to attend at least one protest per month, even though it pushes me really far outside comfort and drains me with anxiety.  Palestine isn’t just a cause to me—it’s personal.  

    Some say this level of focus is unhealthy. Some worry I’ll lose my job. Some University friends won’t talk to me. Others assume I’ve converted to Islam, as if religion—not human rights—is what motivates me (I’m still not religious).  I can live with all of that.

    What I struggle with is the accusation that this passion makes me antisemitic. I regularly cycle through emotions of fear (job loss) and anger (the holocaust is why I support human rights).  However, I cannot let those emotions derail support for Palestine at all costs. 

    Modern legal definitions, like those adopted by our provincial and federal governments, include many things as antisemitic:  calling Israel a racist state, holding it to a different standard, or comparing its policies to Nazi Germany.  According to these definitions, much of what I say and believe qualifies as antisemitism.  And it is Orwellian insanity that these are considered antisemitic. 

    Palestinians—Christian, Muslim, secular—deserve the same rights as anyone else, including Jews who’ve immigrated from abroad.  It’s absurd to say it’s antisemitism to say what is objectively true…Israel’s entire legal system is racist.  Palestinians in the West Bank are impressioned for years without charge while illegal settlers get due process (if they get punishment at all).  I could write an entire essay on the racist apartheid system.   

    Gaza, under siege and deprived of basic needs, is a concentration camp, the same as any Nazi camp.  The only difference is the ethnicity of the people doing the oppressing and those being oppressed. Why would anyone be prevented from using objective comparisons? 

    Finally,  boycotting the country of my choice (and asking others to do the same) is a democratic right of free speech protected by the Charter and provincial human rights legislation.   The craziness to make it legally wrong to criticize a foreign country (Israel) while allowing citizens of Canada to say whatever we want about our own country. 

    My focus on Palestine doesn’t come from hatred—it comes from history, empathy, and personal conviction.  I reject hatred. I reject antisemitism (treating people differently because they are Jewish).  I hope the travel choices I make to commemorate mass suffering demonstrates those values.   But I also reject the idea that calling for Palestinian rights is inherently antisemitic.

    In a future post I will explain why my history, empathy and personal conviction focuses so much on Palestinian* suffering.

    *Palestinians are also Semitic.

    Nablus – West Bank
    Knafeh in Nablus
    Me at U of M encampment
    Me at UBC encampment
    Banksy Bethlehem
    Banksy – Bethlehem
    Bethlehem
    Checkpoint on route to Ramallah
    Taybeh Brewery
    Nablus

    Nablus

    Yasser Arafat’s Tomb