In a modern society, everything and everyone is connected. All those who live in big metropolitan areas are like nodes in a net. We depend on each other. We survive, prosper and flourish or we stagnate, linger on and die together. The metaphor that suggests that a country like Canada is like a net has been used before but, more than ever, it serves the purpose of taking the pulse of this culture that boastfully talks about its multiculturalism, its cultural mosaic and its immigration policies.

A net, as Manuel Castells defines in his book The Rise of the Network Society is an “open structure capable of limitless expansion, assimilating new nodes as long as they can communicate inside the net”.

The debate around immigration, multiculturalism, assimilation, expatriation, mono-ethnic or Africentric education and ghettoization is a long way from over, despite the fact that it is recurrent all over the media. Doug Saunders published an article in The Globe and Mail (February 28, 2009) on the subject of single-ethnic communities, showing that the people he interviewed are not all experiencing the situation the same way. Some state that they perceive their ethnic neighbourhoods as traps “in a culturally isolated island of poverty and permanent segregation”. Others regard their ethnic enclaves as an option, “where people choose to live among fellow immigrants in order to forge ties to the new country.”

Countries like Canada, prone to accept immigrants and proud of cultural diversity are, eventually, bound to face cultural clashes. But the fault for this friction should not always be attributed to the society that received the immigrant. Quite the opposite. If the adopting nation is the net, the new node is guilty in this scenario because of what Castells mentions: lack of ability to communicate with other nodes.

Obviously the process of choosing a country for immigration is difficult and time consuming. Or, at least, it should be. Why come to Canada? If, primarily, it’s not because of a healthy admiration for Canadian culture, then all other reasons should fall, and eventually will, like a castle built of a deck of cards. To abandon a former life, city, country and culture in exchange for the dream of the mighty Dollar, power, and public recognition is part of a wild goose chase. It’s the same as hunting clouds of smoke on a windy field.

This kind of immigrant tends to resist assimilation by the new country, has difficulty with the language, speaks with a heavy accent even after years of arrival, expects and asks more of the authorities while those that immigrated pursuing personal growth or who really took their time to decide where to immigrate to, seek a fast and efficient path to assimilation through hard work and constant exposure to the culture and language of the adopting country.

But is there a line, a limit, where a node without abilities to communicate with its surrounding nodes disrupts the net? The answer is yes. A person proficient in English, faced with a non proficient English speaking immigrant in a situation that is culturally distant from his or her reality, will, generally, under the auspice of Canadian politeness, look the other way or, if possible, put some distance between the “stranger” and himself.

Neil Bissondath published in 1994 a controversial book called Selling Illusions: The Cult of Multiculturalism in Canada. He is adamant, and Stephen Henighan in his book A Report on the Afterlife of Culture agrees, that “tolerance requires not knowledge but wilful ignorance, a purposeful turning away from the accent, the skin colour, the crossed eyes, the large nose.” Both authors walk the same line when they state that understanding, in opposition to simply tolerating, requires effort, a far more difficult proposition that, nevertheless, may lead to acceptance.

Henighan, in the same book goes one step further: “To tolerate people is to fail to engage with who they are and how they differ from you.” And in Canada, how do you engage the person, how do you try and understand the strangeness, how do you bridge the cultural gap if both nodes don’t have in common at least the proficiency of the English language? It’s understandable that an immigrant stay for a while in his ethnic enclave for support while getting his bearings in the new country. But the limit, the line in the sand is drawn when he garrisons himself in that community and spends the rest of his life berating the land that he chose to live in, unable to communicate, unwilling to try to either understand or adopt the culture he supposedly chose to be immersed in.

And a question comes to mind again: Who’s to blame? The net or the node? The guilty are all those that have come to Canada without preparing themselves further or who simply don’t appreciate Canadian culture. And, on the other hand, but to a lesser degree, all those who noticed something different in a newcomer, something new, something strange and, by omission, hardly uttered a word.

Is he an experienced diplomat or a perfectly honed marketing tool? He found a way to visit a market and even bought cookies to take to his daughters. As a matter of fact, he tried to buy the cookies. He even gestured over the counter with a crispy green 20 Canadian dollars bill when the woman that handed him (the now internationally famous) brown groceries bag, waved him off.

Despite the fact that Obama gets a mindboggling 80% approval rate among Canadians (Harper’s is a timid 40%) he generates the most diverse responses in the public. He gets unrestricted support from housewives to politicians, cab drivers to lawyers. Even from a CBC reporter that spotted the president’s motorcade on the highway and, on the air, shouted “I saw him, I saw him” like a Mick Jagger groupie. On the other hand, he receives disparaging criticism like “internet’s phoniest political product”, or what a Brazilian journalist said: “Barak Obama is a product president, built by marketers and ‘imagineers’ like those guys that create Disney’s rides.” It almost sounds like next Christmas we’ll find Obama action figures in department stores. Let’s hope they carry an American constitution, and not a bazooka; more Ghandi, less Schwarzenegger.

So Obama inspires the idea that change is possible. What’s wrong with that? Have we been under dark clouds for so long that we forgot what it is to bask in the warm bright Sun? It feels good to smile. It’s a delight to see hope everywhere. Is he a politician? Sure he is. Does he have skeletons in a closet, in a very safe place, under very heavy armed guard? He sure has. So what? What was America’s alternative? To vote for the Conservative Party lap dog? To feel, as cold fingers on your back, the certainty of a downright fall towards economic catastrophe, social upheaval, and generalized armed conflicts in several fronts? No sir. Long live Obama.

But is he a diplomat or a rock star? To tell the truth, he’s neither. Obama took over the United States in one of its lowest points in history. The American dollar, as the American culture, people and ideals are hated around the globe. It will be very hard, if not impossible, to present the world with alternatives based on a perception of continuance. Obama has to “reposition” (to steal a marketing expression) the whole country. From the immaterial concept of hope to dealing with the Iraq War and the Middle East, the American President has to sell a New America.

Borrowing the title of a bestselling book by Og Mandino, Barack Obama, at this point in history, has to be “The Greatest Salesman in the World”.

Obesity leads to cancer. Is it a rule? For you, it most definitely is, if you are part of the 33.33% of Canadians who are now undergoing chemotherapy due to a cancer related to obesity problems. That is a fair assessment from the report released last week in London by the American Institute for Cancer Research and the World Cancer Research Fund.

Based on 7,000 studies, the report calls on governments to legislate healthy living, such as mandatory walking and cycling paths, better prices for healthier food, bans on ads and built-in exercise opportunities for children in schools. The report authors, in a bold move, noted that individuals bear responsibility for health and should change their lifestyles accordingly.

Is it pleasant to wake up in the morning and have the government in your kitchen forbidding you to have peanut butter as part of your breakfast? Or not allowing you to buy a six pack at LCBO? Of course not. But the thing is, obesity, especially in Britain, as reported in December 2008 by the Information Center, has reached numbers that resemble an epidemic. And like an epidemic it will be treated. Which means, a decisive and firm action is about to be taken by the English Government.

According to the Canadian Community Health Survey (CCHS), 23.1% of Canadians aged 18 or older, an estimated 5.5 million adults, had a body mass index of 30 or more, indicating that they were obese. Were it a contagious disease affecting 5.5 million adults, let alone children, what would be the Canadian government’s response? It would take immediate action. Maybe it is time to picture, in vivid colors, a government official raiding your kitchen cabinets, looking for “CC”: candy contraband.

Civil libertarians cries’ will reach high heavens, but we should consider the strain that this epidemic is about to create on the health care system. Heart attacks, diabetes, back problems and, of course, cancer, will have to be treated. The question is: who should pay for an illness created by a lifestyle? Pathologies aside, we all can differentiate between a healthier salad and an “instant-heart-attack” kind of meal. Are we up to the task?

They live with us since December 2000 and we feel responsible for them. Besides cat food, litter and water, their only demand is a vigorous scratch behind the ears, a little bit of our attention and a small space above a radiator by one (or more) window sill to watch the snowflakes float by.

They came to Canada 3 days after us and, as soon as we rescued them from the Air Canada Cargo building, we took them to a cattery (yes, the word is in the dictionary) in Oakville where they spent the next two weeks. The people at the pet hotel call themselves “a cat spa”. I wouldn’t go that far, but the place was clean, the price (always the mighty buck) was reasonable and the staff seamed to genuinely care about their feline friends.

As soon as we got a place we went to pick them up. We had to rent a car (money, money, money) and when we released them from their private cages (don’t say a word) and they performed the usual room exploration followed by the already expected indignant meows, in no time they were already sitting by our side on the couch.

Now all we have to do is register both cats in City Hall, buy and implant a micro-chip on each one, buy special collars, a health plan, take them to their first visit to the vet…

Man! It’s ok, it’s ok. Easy… deep breaths… one… two… they are our friends. We want the best for them… came on, Fabio! Don’t forget your mantra! Feline furry fuzzy friends… feline furry fuzzy friends…

But at this rate it would be cheaper to put a daughter through college. And give her a car. And pay for the wedding. At least she would be there to take care of us when we go broke.

Omar, 21, lived many years in Canada but resides, for now, at the Guantanamo Base in Cuba. He is in prison because, when he was 14, he was accused of throwing a grenade that injured one and killed another American soldier in Afghanistan. His father, a close friend to Osama Bin Laden, was what is called a “freedom fighter”. He died in the battlefield. Omar’s brother lost a leg fighting the coalition forces near Kabul, and his mother and sister, who live in Toronto, openly preach war against westerners, mainly through suicide bombers. The young the attacker, the better.
Eduardo lives with an “aunt” and her boyfriend in a 3 by 4 meter cement box. There is no bathroom. No toilet. There is only one bed. The “aunt” is a transvestite and the boyfriend a pimp. No one knew Eduardo’s father, and his mother died in an armed robbery at the market where she worked as a cashier. The “aunt” and the boyfriend frequently molest Eduardo, sometimes at the same time. They have already found a way to take pictures and distribute them on the internet.

There is evidence that Omar was tortured in prison. Rumours are that he has a dislocated shoulder. His cell is 3 by 4 meters; he has a bed with clean sheets that are changed once a week, his food is edible, he can shower everyday and has his own toilet.

Eduardo lives in Santa Marta, one of dozens of slums that encroach Rio de Janeiro, and that are called “favelas”. He has already killed two enemies from another gang, a cop, and Aristides, his best friend, during a practical joke with a grenade that went terribly wrong. Eduardo is one year younger than Omar when he was in Afghanistan.

The “Canadian boy’s” situation has divided public opinion and created a tremendous uproar in almost all the media outlets in the country. Even cartoons published in newspapers have portrayed him as a kind of hero that should be welcomed with opened arms. The government should take care of him, feed him, clothe him and put a roof over his head. Praise to Omar, the “child soldier” who suffered so much.

Eduardo almost certainly will die horribly under his “aunt’s” boyfriend’s sweaty and heavy body, after snorting one cocaine line too many. Or he might perish in a police ambush, or under a hail of lead from the enemies of the neighbouring favela. Let’s not forget the possibility of practical jokes with automatic weapons and grenades.

Next week, when Harper and Obama meet in Ottawa, Omar will be there, at least as part of the negotiations between the United States and Canada. Omar is the “child soldier” who will eventually come home.

In Brazil, Eduardo is only one more abused kid that works for food and was “adopted” by a drug lord in a favela of a big Brazilian city. Eduardo is neither a soldier nor a freedom fighter. There’s no glamour in his life, and his death will be unfairly anonymous. He is a line in a statistics spreadsheet. He is not even a child, because a number doesn’t have a soul.

Despite their best efforts, bills are starting to pile up. Mary “The Web Designer” and Harry “The Speech Writer” are turning into “The Juggler Couple”. And they are working harder than ever to avoid becoming “The Insolvent Couple”.

Their life is the archetypical fairy tale. She was born in Canada, moved with her family to Australia, Brazil, New Zealand, England and, 10 years ago, back to Canada. He was born in Australia and jumped with his family all over the world including, of course, the same countries Mary lived in (or their marriage wouldn’t be the archetypical fairy tale). They lived in England at the same time a few blocks away from each other. They were members of the same gym, bought their books at the same little neighbourhood bookshop, and even attended a book launch by their favourite author. They were in line to get an autograph roughly at the same time.

They met in Toronto waiting for a table to have brunch and read the Saturday paper at Shopsy’s at Yonge and Front. It was a freezing, late January, gray, good for nothing morning. He arrived one second after her. Mary was with her back to the door, stuffing her backpack with several layers of clothes. She let her long dark brown hair flow freely and its perfume was the first thing that Harry noticed. The second was that his wristwatch got caught in it when he removed his coat.

Lightning struck. Thunder clasped. Angels sang. And a waitress asked: “Table for two?”

Mary and Harry try to go to the same Shopsy’s with the whole family now and then but with all that is going down with the economy it’s been a few months since they managed. Mary’s cascading brown hair is gone and rarely makes an appearance as anything but a ponytail. Harris’s greying hair reminds them that time never stops. So does his growing pot belly, attributed to all those hockey nights, the Maple Leafs’ poor performance and copious amounts of Keith’s.

Kids get sick. They need attention and doctors. Mary takes thyroid medicine and Harry’s blood pressure is way above what it should be. Gym? No time, no will, no money. Two weeks ago they had a fight. Another fight. They went way past the “we-need-to-talk” talk, into “I’m-taking-the-wedding-band-off-until-you-decide-what-you-want-to-do” talk.

They love each other. They love their family, their life, their stories, and their past. They don’t know about the future. Money is a big problem and they don’t remember the last time they had an “alone time”. It has been a rough couple of years.

But they are fighters. They fought over space and time until that freezing morning when they met. They are sure they can make it work. That’s why Mary and Harry are going to meet, at the Shopsy’s at Yonge and Front for a brunch on Valentine’s Day. That will be the central pillar, in the middle of the river, that will keep their bridge up. Forget “The Jugglers Couple”, “The Insolvent Couple” or “The Fighting Couple”. Here comes “The Happy Couple”.