Anytime I meet people who got to make the deliberate choice

Host: The snow fell in slow, deliberate flakes, each one glowing under the faint amber streetlights that lined the old Toronto café. It was late — the kind of late when the city exhaled and the streets emptied, leaving behind only the whisper of tired cars and the faint hum of a distant train. Inside, warm light flickered off the brick walls, and the smell of roasted coffee mingled with that quiet sense of reflection only winter brings.

At a corner table, Jack sat with his usual posture — slightly slouched, hands around a steaming mug, his eyes fixed on the window as if he could see through the dark. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink gently, the spoon clinking softly — a small, steady sound against the hollow silence of the café.

Host: The moment was still, until Jack finally spoke, his voice low and rough, like a worn-out record.

Jack: “You know, Trudeau said something the other day — about being jealous of people who got to choose Canada. Said it’s more meaningful when you choose it instead of just being born into it.”

Host: Jeeny lifted her eyes, dark and still, as if the words had stirred something deep beneath her calm.

Jeeny: “I remember that. He said it was an amazing statement of attachment — to choose this country, this home.”

Jack: “Yeah. But that’s the kind of sentiment only someone born into comfort can afford. People who choose Canada — they don’t do it for symbolism. They do it because they have no choice left.”

Host: A small pause, filled only by the crackling of the fireplace.

Jeeny: “That’s not always true, Jack. My parents chose Canada. They left everything — their language, their friends, their certainty — not just because they were forced, but because they believed in something better. A choice like that isn’t desperation, it’s faith.”

Jack: “Faith?” (he let out a short, bitter laugh) “Faith doesn’t build foundations, Jeeny. Visas do. Passports do. People choose Canada because it’s safe, because it offers jobs, education, and healthcare. It’s not a love story. It’s a transaction.”

Host: The café door opened briefly, a gust of wind sweeping in, carrying with it the scent of snow and a momentary chill. Jeeny drew her shawl closer around her, her eyes never leaving Jack.

Jeeny: “You talk as if security and love can’t coexist. What if it’s both? What if it’s survival that brings people here, but belonging that keeps them? My father once told me — when he stepped off that plane, the first breath of cold air felt like freedom. Not comfort. Freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom is a word politicians toss around when they want applause. Ask someone working two minimum-wage jobs if they feel free. Ask the indigenous people here if they feel this country was ever chosen by them. You see, Jeeny, choice only means something if you have power. And most people don’t.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she set down her cup. The steam between them seemed almost like a veil — separating two truths colliding.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe not everyone gets to choose freely. But isn’t it still powerful when someone decides to call a place home despite its flaws? When they choose to build rather than just exist? There’s courage in that.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t change the fact that they’re chasing stability. You don’t call it courage when someone clings to a lifeboat — you call it instinct.”

Jeeny: “But what about gratitude, Jack? What about that deliberate feeling of belonging — of deciding to love something because you understand what it costs? Maybe that’s what Trudeau meant. People who choose Canada know its worth, because they’ve seen what life is without it.”

Host: The tension between them grew, like a quiet string being pulled tighter, note by note. Jack leaned forward, his face partially caught by the firelight, his eyes grey and unyielding.

Jack: “You talk like home is a poem. But home is just coordinates, Jeeny. Latitude and longitude. You’re born somewhere, you live somewhere, and you die somewhere. The rest — the emotions, the meaning — that’s just what we tell ourselves to make the waiting bearable.”

Jeeny: “That’s cruel.”

Jack: “That’s truth.”

Host: The word hung there — truth — like a shard of glass catching the light.

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack. Why do people still cry when they get their citizenship papers? Why do they hold that small flag and tremble? Why do they whisper thank you to a country that doesn’t even know their name?”

Jack: “Because humans are sentimental creatures. We attach emotion to symbols. That’s not proof of meaning — it’s a symptom of hope. People need to believe in something, even if it’s a flag.”

Jeeny: “You make hope sound like a disease.”

Jack: “Sometimes it is. It blinds you. Makes you think the world owes you something for believing in it.”

Host: The snow outside had thickened, flakes swirling under the streetlight like slow-burning ash. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered, not from tears, but from the reflection of the fire.

Jeeny: “You think too much with your head, Jack. But home isn’t logical. It’s felt. It’s in the way you miss the smell of a bakery at dawn, or the sound of a language you don’t even speak fluently anymore. It’s in the way you see your mother smile when she finds mangoes at the supermarket after years of missing them. You call that a transaction?”

Jack: (softening slightly) “It’s… adaptation. People adjust. They carry fragments of what they’ve lost. But I still think choosing a country doesn’t make you more Canadian. It just means you’re trying to belong somewhere.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that?”

Jack: “Nothing. Except when people pretend it’s something noble. I mean, it’s survival — not sainthood.”

Host: Silence again. The kind of silence that feels alive, pressing against the chest like snow that refuses to melt.

Jeeny: “You always hide behind logic, Jack. But even you — with your numbers and pragmatism — you must have something you’d choose, deliberately. A place, a person, an idea.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “...Maybe not a place. But a person, maybe.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened. The cold air outside pressed against the window, fogging the glass as if the world itself wanted to listen.

Jeeny: “Then you understand. Choosing isn’t about possession, Jack. It’s about commitment. It’s saying — I could be anywhere, but I’ll be here. That’s what my parents did. That’s what every immigrant does. It’s not the place that’s sacred. It’s the act of choosing it.”

Jack: (quietly) “So you think choice defines belonging?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because birthright is luck. Choice is love.”

Host: The fire popped, throwing a brief shower of sparks that danced across the air. Jack stared into them, his expression unreadable, torn between agreement and resistance.

Jack: “You make it sound so pure. But if choosing is love, what about the ones who never had that choice? The refugees, the displaced — they didn’t choose. They were pushed. Are they less attached?”

Jeeny: “No. Their choice came later — when they decided to stay, to build, to forgive. That’s still a choice, Jack. Maybe the bravest one.”

Host: A faint smile touched the corner of Jack’s mouth, though his eyes stayed fixed on the window, where the snow continued its silent descent.

Jack: “You always win these arguments, don’t you?”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “No. I just refuse to lose what matters.”

Host: The café clock ticked. Outside, the snow began to ease, the streets softening under a new blanket of white. The world seemed quieter now — as if it, too, had listened, and learned.

Jack: “Maybe Trudeau wasn’t wrong after all. Maybe choosing something — even a country — really is a kind of attachment. Maybe it’s not about geography. It’s about investment. You care more for what you fight for.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Choice gives love its weight.”

Jack: “Then maybe I envy them too. The ones who got to choose.”

Host: The camera would linger here — on the two of them, sitting amid the soft glow of the café, the steam rising between their cups like the last breath of a long, necessary argument. Outside, the city slept under its snow, indifferent yet somehow alive, as if quietly acknowledging every heart that had ever chosen to call it home.

Host: And in that silence, something unspoken was understood — that to choose a place, a person, or a life, is to declare: I am here, and I mean it.