I can understand why immigrants would want to bring the rest of

Host: The train station was alive with movement — voices in dozens of languages, the echo of luggage wheels, and the sharp scent of coffee and diesel mixing in the cold morning air. Sunlight streamed through the high glass roof, falling in slanted gold on tiled floors worn smooth by countless journeys.

Jack stood by the arrivals gate, a man between moments. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his coat, his eyes scanning the crowd like someone searching for a familiar face that lived only in memory. Jeeny stood beside him, clutching a small bouquet of white lilies — fresh, delicate, trembling in the draft that swept through every time the doors slid open.

Host: Trains arrived. Doors opened. People cried, laughed, embraced. The language of reunion needed no translation.

Jeeny: “Maxime Bernier once said, ‘I can understand why immigrants would want to bring the rest of their extended family here, including older ones who will benefit from our health-care system.’”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s not politics. That’s empathy, disguised as policy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He’s not talking about numbers — he’s talking about belonging. About the pull of home, even when you’ve built a new one.”

Jack: “You think most people understand that?”

Jeeny: “No. Because they’ve never had to lose a place before they could love one.”

Host: The loudspeaker crackled overhead — the distant, hollow voice announcing an arrival from Montreal. Jack’s eyes lifted automatically, a flicker of something old, unhealed.

Jack: “My grandparents came here in the sixties. No English, no money, just a suitcase and a photograph. They worked themselves raw for the promise that their children would never have to start over.”

Jeeny: “And did they?”

Jack: “No. Every generation starts over — just from a different kind of poverty.”

Jeeny: “What kind?”

Jack: “Loneliness.”

Host: The word lingered, heavy as the sound of a train slowing to a stop. Steam rose from the platform like a sigh.

Jeeny: “That’s why people bring their families. Not to take advantage of systems — but to survive separation. To build something whole again.”

Jack: “But people see only the policy. The cost, the burden. They forget what it means to grow old in a land that never spoke your language.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The human part gets buried under paperwork.”

Host: The doors opened, and a stream of travelers poured through. Faces from everywhere — brown, pale, wrinkled, young — each carrying the quiet defiance of movement.

Jeeny: “You know, I remember when my aunt brought my grandmother over. She used to sit by the window every evening, staring at the horizon like she expected to see the ocean that separated her from home.”

Jack: “Did she ever get used to it?”

Jeeny: “She did. But not because the world became familiar — because the people did.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? Home stops being geography. It becomes proximity.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Who you’re near, not where you are.”

Host: The air shifted as another train rolled in, the metallic screech softening into stillness. The smell of steel and rain filled the space.

Jack: “You know, people talk about immigration like it’s strategy. But it’s just longing in motion. It’s the human instinct to move toward love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And Bernier’s words — they’re simple, but layered. He’s acknowledging that instinct, not condemning it. He’s saying: I see why. I get it.”

Jack: “And that’s rare. Understanding without agenda.”

Jeeny: “Empathy without condition.”

Host: A woman nearby wept quietly into her daughter’s shoulder — her sari catching the light, her hands trembling as she whispered in another tongue. The little girl laughed softly, repeating English words back to her — bridging two worlds with the easy grace of youth.

Jack: “You see that?” (nods) “That’s what policy can never capture — the miracle of translation. Two lives learning to understand each other without losing where they came from.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real immigration story — not the paperwork, but the patience.”

Jack: “The patience to belong twice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To carry the past without letting it crush the present.”

Host: The crowd began to thin as people reunited, their voices melting into laughter and the shuffle of steps toward exits. Only a few remained now — the stragglers, the watchers, the dreamers.

Jack: “You know, my grandmother used to say something I never understood as a kid: ‘The hardest part of starting over is remembering where to put the ghosts.’”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think she meant that memories don’t vanish when you move — they travel with you. You just have to learn how to live with them in a new language.”

Jeeny: “And the older generation — they’re not burdens. They’re translators. They carry the culture we might forget.”

Jack: “Exactly. They’re the bridge.”

Host: He looked out toward the platform again, where an elderly man was stepping off a train — slow, deliberate, carrying a small bag. A younger woman ran toward him, her laughter slicing through the station like sunlight. The man’s face softened — a smile decades overdue.

Jeeny: “See that? That’s what Bernier meant. That right there.”

Jack: (nodding) “The politics of tenderness.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The recognition that families aren’t just emotional units — they’re survival systems. In every country, in every culture.”

Jack: “You think the world will ever see it that way?”

Jeeny: “Only when people remember that migration isn’t foreign. It’s the story of everyone’s ancestors.”

Host: The old man and his daughter disappeared into the crowd — slow, steady, side by side. Jack turned to Jeeny, his voice low, reflective.

Jack: “You know, I used to think the word immigrant meant outsider. But watching them… it looks more like returning home.”

Jeeny: “Home just keeps changing shape. It’s wherever love is willing to wait for you.”

Host: The station lights dimmed slightly, casting long shadows over the polished floors. The last train for the night was announced — its whistle soft and melancholy.

Jack: “You know, Bernier’s quote — it isn’t about policy. It’s about permission. The right to gather again what distance tried to break.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To rebuild not just families, but the circle of care that keeps us human.”

Host: They stood in the silence that follows meaning — the kind that hums with everything left unsaid.

Jeeny: “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast,” she murmured, echoing an earlier truth. “But in this case, maybe slow is sacred.”

Jack: “Maybe it always is — when it comes to love.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The city was quiet, save for the distant hum of a cab engine and the faint rhythm of footsteps on wet stone.

Host: And as they walked away from the station, Maxime Bernier’s words followed them — simple, pragmatic, yet luminous with humanity:

Host: that immigration is not just movement, but reunion;
that the true wealth of a nation is measured in compassion, not currency;
and that behind every policy, every number, every debate —
there is always a family waiting to feel whole again.

Host: For in the end, civilization survives not through borders —
but through the hands that keep reaching across them.