I stated that aboriginals deserve protection under Canada's human

Host: The sky over Ottawa was the color of iron — cold, unforgiving, motionless. The Parliament buildings stood against it like the bones of an old dream, sharp and solemn beneath the fading winter light. A few flakes of snow drifted down, slow and deliberate, like ash from a distant fire.

Inside the ByWard Market café, the air was thick with heat and murmurs. The smell of coffee and wet wool mixed with the hum of conversation about politics, taxes, and weather — the three eternal Canadian obsessions. In a corner booth by the frosted window sat Jack and Jeeny, facing each other across steaming mugs. Between them lay a folded newspaper clipping, the ink smudged from being read too often.

Jeeny read softly, the words crisp, deliberate:

Jeeny: “‘I stated that aboriginals deserve protection under Canada’s human rights laws and that the record dollars that the government is spending on aboriginals should reach the people in need.’ — Pierre Poilievre.”

She looked up, her brown eyes steady, her expression a mix of thought and fatigue.

Jeeny: “It’s such a simple statement. ‘Protection under human rights laws.’ You’d think that would be obvious by now. But somehow, it still isn’t.”

Jack: “It’s politics,” he said, voice low, gravelly, his fingers tapping the mug. “Everything looks simple until you try to fix it. Money’s easy to announce, hard to deliver. Especially when it’s tangled in bureaucracy, corruption, and centuries of guilt.”

Host: Outside, a snowplow passed, its blade scraping against the road — the sound of civilization maintaining itself by force. Inside, the heat vents hissed, the café fogging with the breath of those who still believed debate could save anything.

Jeeny: “Centuries of guilt, yes. But also centuries of theft. That’s the part that never makes it into political statements. Governments talk about record spending like generosity — but most of that money is just returning what was taken.”

Jack: “You can’t keep living in history, Jeeny. At some point, you have to move forward. If the money’s being wasted by corrupt band councils or inefficient bureaucracy, then yes, it should be reaching the people — not the middlemen.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the myth, Jack — that the failure lies with the people, not the structure. Every dollar still passes through a system built on colonial logic — control, not empowerment. How can you ‘move forward’ when the road is still owned by someone else?”

Jack: “Because you can’t fix injustice with indignation alone. You need results. Systems. Accountability. You can’t just write a cheque and call it healing.”

Jeeny: “Healing doesn’t come from cheques. It comes from trust. And Canada’s been overdrawn on that account for generations.”

Host: The lights flickered, casting their faces in gold and shadow. The snow outside had grown heavier now, softening the sharp edges of the world. Jack’s expression was hard but not unkind — the look of a man who wanted to believe in logic even as logic failed him.

Jack: “You think every politician who talks about reform is lying?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, shaking her head. “But too many talk about ‘helping’ Indigenous people as if they’re saving them, not listening to them. Poilievre’s words sound noble — human rights, efficiency, accountability — but who decides what ‘need’ means? Who decides who deserves protection?”

Jack: “The law does.”

Jeeny: “The same law that once made it illegal to hire a lawyer to fight for your own land?”

Host: Her voice cut through the café’s hum like a blade through silk. Jack looked away, the window fogging between them, blurring their reflections together — one figure of reason, one of empathy, bound by the same uneasy truth.

Jack: “You know what frustrates me? Everyone says ‘the system is broken,’ but no one can agree on how to fix it. You tear down the Indian Act, fine — what replaces it? You return autonomy, and people accuse you of abandonment. You maintain funding, and people call it paternalism. Either way, someone bleeds.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because we keep mistaking management for justice. We want efficiency where we need equality. We’re scared of the cost of real change, so we throw money at the problem and call it virtue.”

Host: The snowfall outside had thickened into silence, muting the sound of the city. Inside, Jeeny’s voice softened, the anger replaced with sorrow.

Jeeny: “You know, when my grandmother went to residential school, they took her name. Her language. Her hair. She used to say, ‘They left me clean but empty.’ You can’t put a price on that kind of emptiness, Jack. You can’t fix it with budgets.”

Jack: “And yet we have to try,” he said quietly. “Because if we stop trying — even imperfectly — then we admit defeat. Maybe that’s all Poilievre meant. That the intent still matters.”

Jeeny: “Intent without humility just repeats the same story — it just sounds better.”

Host: The clock ticked, its sound soft and deliberate, marking time in a place already heavy with it. Jack leaned forward, his voice lower, almost tender.

Jack: “Then what’s the answer, Jeeny? You’ve got to give me something more than guilt. What does justice look like to you?”

Jeeny: “It looks like listening. It looks like power being shared instead of lent. It looks like the money actually reaching the hands of the people who know what to do with it — mothers, teachers, elders, healers. Not ministers.”

Jack: “You’re describing something fragile.”

Jeeny: “So is reconciliation. So is every truth worth facing.”

Host: The rain of snow continued — relentless, quiet, cleansing. The window glass glowed with the faint reflection of Parliament Hill in the distance, its lights pale against the storm.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a pause, “I used to think government was about efficiency. But maybe it’s really about endurance — about how long we can keep trying to repair what we’ve already broken.”

Jeeny: “Burke would’ve called that compromise. Douglas would’ve called it morality. Washington would’ve called it liberty. I call it survival.”

Host: A faint smile touched her lips — not of triumph, but of weariness that had learned endurance. Jack nodded, almost imperceptibly, the cynic in him finally giving a small bow to the believer.

Jeeny: “Maybe one day, those record dollars will mean something. Maybe one day, ‘protection’ won’t sound like pity.”

Jack: “And maybe one day, politicians will stop needing to remind us that equality is a right, not a project.”

Host: The café door opened, and a rush of cold air entered — sharp, bracing, honest. They both looked up, their eyes meeting one last time before the night reclaimed its quiet dominion.

Outside, the snow had blanketed the world in white — pure, deceptive, forgiving.

And as Jack and Jeeny stepped out into it, their breath rose in twin clouds, mingling in the frozen air — two witnesses to a truth still unfinished:
that the promise of justice, like the promise of Canada, remains only as strong as the hands willing to keep passing it forward.