As Canadians who proudly demand the equal treatment of

Host: The snow had started to fall again, slow and deliberate, each flake descending like a thought unfinished. The café windows fogged softly against the chill of the Ottawa night, blurring the streetlights into warm, diffused halos. Inside, the air hummed with the quiet murmur of late conversations, the steam of coffee machines, and the faint rustle of newspapers filled with headlines about promises, trade deals, and things conveniently forgotten.

At a corner table, beneath the muted glow of a pendant lamp, Jack and Jeeny sat across from one another — their reflections faint in the glass, doubled against the falling snow. Between them, a folded newspaper lay open, the ink still fresh, the column marked in Jeeny’s looping handwriting. She read the passage aloud, her voice soft but steady:

“As Canadians who proudly demand the equal treatment of minorities, religious freedom, gender equality and basic human rights for its citizens — allowing our political leaders to shamefully ignore these values in the name of business abroad, falls short of the high standard we rightfully set for ourselves.” — Jagmeet Singh

Jack: (quietly) Noble words. But ideals don’t keep economies alive.

Jeeny: (meeting his eyes) And economies without ideals don’t keep humanity alive.

Jack: (smirking) You sound like a campaign speech.

Jeeny: (gently) No, I sound like someone who still believes we shouldn’t sell our conscience for convenience.

Host: Her voice carried the faint tremor of conviction, the kind that burns quietly, without theatrics. Jack leaned back, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, eyes distant — the flickering candlelight playing across the sharp lines of his face.

Jack: (after a pause) It’s easy to talk about moral standards when you’re not the one signing trade deals. Politics isn’t about purity, Jeeny. It’s about compromise — the least dirty way to survive.

Jeeny: (softly) And what if survival keeps costing pieces of the soul?

Jack: (leaning forward) Then at least the nation’s still breathing. You can fix corruption; you can’t fix collapse.

Jeeny: (quietly) But corruption is collapse — just slower, quieter.

Host: The snow thickened outside, drifting past the streetlight like confetti for the cynical. The world beyond the window looked muffled, muted — as though truth itself had been buried beneath a white, deceptive calm.

Jack: (sighing) You know what I hate about statements like Singh’s? They sound like moral absolutes in a world made of grey. “Equal treatment, human rights” — I believe in those things too. But I also believe you can’t always practice them without consequence. Sometimes doing business with the devil keeps the lights on at home.

Jeeny: (fiercely) Then maybe the lights aren’t worth keeping on if they blind you to the suffering of others.

Host: Her words cut through the warmth of the café, sharp and clear. The flame between them wavered, as though unsure whose side to take.

Jack: (quietly) You really think any nation can live by its principles without blood on its hands?

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe not. But we can at least choose whose blood it is — and stop pretending our comfort isn’t paid for by someone else’s pain.

Jack: (grimly) That’s the kind of thinking that collapses governments.

Jeeny: (with fire) And silence is the kind that collapses humanity.

Host: The tension in the air was palpable, as if the conversation itself had weight. Jack stared into the candle’s glow, his expression hard but tired, the look of a man who wanted to believe her but had seen too much of the machinery behind her hope.

Jack: (after a long pause) You think it’s hypocrisy to trade with countries that don’t share our values?

Jeeny: (nodding) It’s hypocrisy to preach equality and then price it out of the market.

Jack: (quietly) The world doesn’t change by turning away from power, Jeeny. Sometimes you have to sit at the table with monsters to keep them from eating the room.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe. But sitting with them too long makes you forget what side of the table you’re on.

Host: The snow outside began to soften, layering the streets in quiet white — pure to the eye, but heavy underfoot. Inside, the glow of the café seemed almost sacred — two souls wrestling not with politics, but with conscience.

Jack: (rubbing his forehead) You really believe Singh meant it? That he’d actually risk trade, alliances, security — for moral consistency?

Jeeny: (gently) I think he knows the price of inconsistency. His own story’s built on it — being seen as “other,” told to be grateful, while watching your country preach equality from one side of its mouth and deny it from the other.

Jack: (after a pause) You’re talking about empathy in a system that rewards indifference.

Jeeny: (softly) Then maybe empathy is the only rebellion left.

Host: Her voice broke slightly on the last word. For a moment, neither spoke. The snow outside caught in the amber light, each flake spinning like a suspended truth.

Jack: (quietly) You always talk like we can still fix it.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Because if we stop talking that way, we’ve already lost.

Jack: (after a beat) So, what — nations should act like people? Follow their conscience instead of their hunger?

Jeeny: (firmly) Nations are people, Jack. They’re just reflections of the ones brave enough to hold them accountable.

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and something in his expression softened, the way a wound softens just before it scars. The candle between them flickered lower, its light thin but resilient.

Jack: (quietly) Maybe that’s what Singh’s trying to say — that morality isn’t politics, it’s memory. You break it too many times, and you forget who you were supposed to be.

Jeeny: (whispering) And when you forget, the rest of the world remembers for you.

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, the sound faint beneath the low hum of the café’s heater. Outside, the last of the snowfall had settled, leaving the world white and still, as though daring them to believe in its purity.

Jack: (softly) You think we’ll ever live up to the standard we set?

Jeeny: (after a pause) Maybe not. But the failure to reach it doesn’t mean we stop trying. That’s what makes it a standard.

Host: The candle finally went out, leaving behind a thin curl of smoke that rose like a prayer into the quiet. For a long moment, the world held its breath — two silhouettes in the dark, still arguing, still believing.

And as they stood to leave, Jagmeet Singh’s words seemed to echo softly in the stillness — not as accusation, but as a reminder:

That principles are not meant to be convenient,
that integrity is not a brand,
and that a nation’s true value is measured not by the trades it makes,
but by the truths it refuses to sell.