Oh, I think Canadians look like all sorts of people. That's the

Host: The snow fell like feathers, slow and deliberate, each flake catching the faint light of a distant streetlamp. The city — quiet, crystalline, and patient — exhaled in white breaths. In a small coffee shop tucked between two aging brick buildings, the windows fogged with warmth against the cold outside.

Inside, the air smelled of cinnamon, espresso, and something else — belonging. The kind of belonging that feels both fragile and eternal.

Jack sat by the window, a half-empty mug before him, the steam curling in lazy ribbons toward the glass. His grey eyes reflected the falling snow, though they seemed fixed on something deeper — an inward weather.

Jeeny entered, brushing the snowflakes from her hair, her scarf wrapped in deep burgundy. She smiled faintly at the warmth as the door chimed behind her. She saw Jack and walked over, her boots leaving soft prints on the wooden floor.

Jeeny: “Jagmeet Singh once said — ‘Oh, I think Canadians look like all sorts of people. That’s the beauty of Canada.’”

Jack: “A politician’s poetry. But for once, it’s true.”

Host: The wind pressed gently against the window, as if the night itself leaned closer to listen.

Jeeny: “You sound surprised.”

Jack: “Because most nations talk about diversity like it’s decoration. Something to celebrate when convenient. But Canada… somehow, it’s managed to wear it honestly — most days.”

Jeeny: “Most days,” she echoed, settling into the chair opposite him. “But that’s the thing about beauty, isn’t it? It’s never constant. It has to be protected, or it disappears.”

Jack: “You’re talking like inclusion is fragile.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every generation has to rebuild it — with words, with action, with empathy. Multiculturalism isn’t a gift; it’s a practice. A constant negotiation between who we are and who we want to be.”

Jack: “That’s idealism, Jeeny. People like to think the world can be plural, harmonious. But underneath it, every tribe still clings to its own myths, its own fears. Scratch the paint, and you’ll see the old walls.”

Jeeny: “Then keep repainting them. That’s the point. You don’t give up because the past is stubborn. You change the future by reimagining it — one color, one story, one shared language at a time.”

Host: The espresso machine hissed softly, the sound mingling with laughter from a table nearby — a young family, their voices warm and lilting, switching between English and Punjabi. The mother’s scarf glimmered with tiny threads of gold; the father’s hands were calloused but gentle as he poured hot chocolate for their child.

Jack glanced at them — quietly, thoughtfully.

Jack: “You know, when I first came here, I thought Canada was cold — not just in weather, but in spirit. Everyone polite, no one personal. I didn’t realize politeness could be its own form of respect — a kind of shared silence where difference breathes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not uniformity that defines a place like this. It’s coexistence. That’s what Singh meant. The beauty of Canada isn’t that it’s one shape — it’s that it’s all shapes, learning to stand together without melting into sameness.”

Jack: “And yet, the cracks still show. Racism, inequality, forgotten histories. The ghosts of indigenous lands under every skyscraper. Can you still call it beauty when it’s built on buried sorrow?”

Jeeny: “Yes — because it’s honest. Beauty doesn’t mean perfect. It means true. And the truest kind of beauty is one that acknowledges its shadows.”

Host: The rain outside had turned to snowflakes once more, falling thicker now, soft and unhurried. The lights of the café reflected off the frost-covered window, making the world beyond look like a dream painted in pale silver.

Jeeny: “You know, my mother used to tell me — when you see someone who doesn’t look like you, don’t think difference, think story. Every face carries a migration, a memory, a miracle.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. Almost too poetic for politics.”

Jeeny: “It’s not politics. It’s survival. Because when people stop seeing each other’s stories, they start fearing them instead.”

Jack: “And fear is what builds borders.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Singh isn’t just talking about Canada. He’s talking about the possibility of every nation — what happens when a country stops guarding identity and starts celebrating it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, rubbing his thumb along the mug’s edge, thinking. The café’s light flickered across his face — one side shadowed, one side warm.

Jack: “I used to think identity was fixed — born, not built. But maybe it’s more like architecture. Something you construct, room by room, adding windows for others to look through.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she smiled, “and sometimes, you invite them inside.”

Host: The young family at the nearby table began bundling up — laughter, scarves, mittens, the soft clinking of mugs. The child pressed his tiny hand against the glass, leaving behind a small, perfect print. Jeeny watched, eyes tender.

Jeeny: “That’s the beauty Singh was talking about. Not flags, not borders — but that handprint. That little mark saying, I belong here, too.”

Jack: “And yet, for some, belonging still feels borrowed. Temporary.”

Jeeny: “Then we teach them permanence — not through documents, but through dignity. The right to exist without apology.”

Jack: “You sound like a manifesto.”

Jeeny: “No. Just a witness.”

Host: The music changed — a soft guitar riff, something slow and familiar. The café glowed golden in the dim world outside. Jeeny’s reflection shimmered on the glass beside Jack’s — two different faces, two different stories, merged by light and circumstance.

Jack: “You think one nation can really embody that? Diversity as identity?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not perfectly. But perfection isn’t the goal. Coexistence is. The beauty of Canada — and any place that tries — is that it keeps trying. That’s what makes it alive.”

Jack: “So, what does a Canadian look like, then?”

Jeeny: “Like you. Like me. Like the man pouring hot chocolate for his child. Like the woman who crossed an ocean for a chance to speak her name without fear. There isn’t one face, Jack. That’s the point — there never should be.”

Host: The camera pulled back — through the café’s steamy window, out into the snowfall, where the world blurred into gentle white. The voices within became soft echoes — laughter, conversation, belonging.

The snowflakes fell heavier now, blanketing the streets in a hush that felt like peace, or maybe the promise of it.

And over that silence, the truth of Singh’s words resonated — not as a quote, but as a heartbeat:

that a country’s beauty is not found in its borders,
but in the faces that fill its streets,
in the languages that mix mid-sentence,
in the courage of difference standing side by side.

Host: The scene faded slowly — Jack and Jeeny still by the window, two silhouettes illuminated by shared warmth — the city outside gleaming beneath a snowfall that erased every line of separation.

And for one quiet, infinite moment, Canada looked like everyone.