Let’s discuss the meaning of the word patriotism.

I would like to suggest two suitable synonyms for the English meaning of this powerful word: love and devotion. In fact, to be patriotic, according to the Oxford English Dictionary is to possess a “marked devotion to the well-being [i.e. love] and interests of one’s country.” In other words, to be a patriot, you must show love and devotion to your country. Rather vague terms, wouldn’t you agree? But, there it is, the denotation of this elusive word…patriotism. And yet, I still wonder: what does it truly mean to be devoted, interested, and concerned for the well being of your country? And for that matter, what constitutes your country? Can we have a legitimate claim to just one section of the world? Or, ought we even to think of patriotism in such limited, dichotomous terminology? Let us break this down even further.

Apparently, humanity believes that we can legitimately take one piece of land as ours, thus implying that it belongs to no one else. Indeed, observe any western map (I cannot vouch for eastern renditions) and you will find evidence of this “sectioning off” human mentality. If you look at any landfill, any construction site, where new houses are being built, you will see this dualistic mentality again. We take what was once the “country” of others (animals, plants, insects, life) and in so doing, destroy their land to be patriotic to our own. I am not an expert; I do not dare venture too deeply into the discussion of war and patriotism. I feel I haven’t the credentials. So let me, most humbly, suggest only this topic of contemplation for you to take “home”: the themes of Canadian literature and poetry. Is this our land; where is “home?” (If you’re interested, I recommend Thomas King’s essay, The Truth about Stories and Margaret Laurence’s novel, The Diviners.)

Now that we have loosely looked at the concept of “sectioning off” land, I’ll let you think about it, for I certainly haven’t the answers. For isn’t that all patriotism is? Arbitrary lines for humanity’s (in)convenience? But, now that we’ve looked at patriotic dualism, I would like to offer another word for consideration: home, a synonym for “country” also, perhaps, a synonym for unity. If “our country” is “our home” and if to be patriotic is to be devoted and loving to our country, are we truly being devoted and compassionate to our “country” today?

Where is home? I am of the Buddhist opinion that “home” is the peaceful and mindful balance between mind, body, and spirit. Indeed, home is the holistic, balanced awareness of our own peace, as well as our interdependence with all organisms upon earth. This is home, this is our country. Earth, the only truly legitimate place we can all call “home,” and should be patriotic towards, and yet, are we? Most of us do not love ourselves: most of us are not compassionate about the food we eat, the ground we tread, the air we breathe. We abuse it, take it for granted, wage war upon ourselves, upon the earth, upon each other. So I ask again, what is patriotism and where is home?

James Rose is a bad bad man
Mustachioed, bowtied, firm jawed
Villain of Chapleau
A rail man, a hard-working man, keeping
Sugar lumps and cream at table
For tea, pennies in a Mason jar
Forty three, nimble and spry
James Rose hops from car to car
Sweetens every morn to see his girls, his wife
Stiff satin bows bedecking heads
Bent over porridge, girls well-fed off CPR
Coin, Chapleau’s northeastern belles
Village of Chapleau, 3000 souls
Circa 1913: mirage of lumber, card
Parties to keep the wives from wandering
Into the bush: bad for the nerves all those trees
Marooned in Algoma, far enough north to put a
Lump in the wife’s throat, spoil the girls’ porridge
Creamy stone pillars ring a scrubby orchard
Vigorous shows of hard-earned pay
Buffed brick walls, that octagonal porch broad
Enough to host the Eatons for tea
Rose House, damn biggest thing in town –
(You’d think the man is compensating for something)
Rail thin, Mrs. Minnie Rose keeps
The table set, cloth laid, scones baked
Picks out the bad currants, bad words,
While her husband observes, surveying
Her tight white skin, little lump breasts,
Firm kneading touch to dough
Bowed over musty books, jaw set,
The eldest girl plans, keeps her thoughts
Stored up for happenstance, the looming war
Tabula rasa, before the storm of young men
Troops into Chapleau, leaves her father behind
James Rose is too old for Amiens
Hair bobbed above the jaw, wiping down tables in Toronto
An honest wage for a Chapleau girl circa 1918
Pennies perhaps, but enough to pick and choose her own bad bad men

And yet…

And yet one best not insult the high priest with which we call the nation-state, “our true north strong and free”. For from far and wide this is canada, and we will stand on guard for the idea that this is the only means in which to gaze upon relations in society. We will stand on guard as good patriots and nation-statists. We will stand unthinking, flag in hand, ready for the master’s call.

Patriotism is perhaps most emblematic of a fury of nationalist hysteria that leaves all semblance of rational thought and action behind. To be a patriot is to accept the status quo and actively seek to maintain the hegemonic power of the state. It is to accept the veneer of justice, history, and freedom that only a flag can grant. It is our flag, and only it may grant us the ability to denounce all others. It is our banner, our strength. It binds us together, while binding our hands and mouths. It blinds us with its propaganda and marches us to the drums of war. It ensures that the stolen land we are on remains ourselves forever more.

To think otherwise is to be accused of not thinking, of “hating our country” and the “freedom” it provides. Either you are with us or against us. We will not entertain another option. This is patriotism.

Patriotism means that you do not need to think and can enforce the hegemonic discourse of the nation-state on to all others. It means that you defend the sanctity of the nation-state, while negating its history of systematized oppression and continual denial of freedom and justice. It means to begin to identify with the forces of oppression more so than forces of freedom (and I don’t mean the freedom to enforce the same hierarchy every election cycle). Patriotism means that you will die for your country without realizing that your country has been doing the killing the whole time.

It is the same with “our troops”. To think otherwise or propose an alternative mode of thought, or any semblance of critique for that matter, is to be trampled on by the sanctity of militarism that has manifested itself within society. “Perhaps if you don’t support our troops you should stand in front of them”, the saying goes. And it is right. If that means standing in solidarity with those committed to freedom, anti-oppression and justice and against the military dogma of the nation-state, then in front I shall stand.

Patriotism is not some commitment to a higher notion of justice, good and belonging. It is to relish in the destruction, oppression and genocide that is the nation-state -our patriotic lie.

And it is time we considered standing with the forces of freedom.

Fuck patriotism.

Why do I study Canada? That is a question I have been asked a lot and it is a question I frequently ask myself. I am about to finish my undergraduate degree here at Laurier as a Canadian Studies major and I plan on continuing with my studies at graduate school in the same field. Canadian Studies is an odd program as Canada is an odd subject, never quite fitting into one specific discipline.

So, why do I study Canada?

I love this country. I always have and I always will (unless it becomes a hot-bed of right wing conservatism, then I might move to Sweden). Barring that however, the identity of this nation will always fascinate me and it will always be my home. I am not a nationalist, for nationalism breeds war and distrust. I am a federalist and a Canadian, the definition of the latter being still yet undefined. I take pride in this place and I don’t see there being anything wrong with taking a little pride in one’s home.

It would be easy to just focus on the negative aspects of this country, and as a feminist, tree hugger, and activist it can be difficult to not see past the major suckage and systemic oppression that pervades nearly every aspect of it. I could choose to only focus on our horrible treatment of native peoples and immigrants; the rampant Islamophobia, the deep-rooted sexism and misogyny, racist government policies, the embarrassing percentage of people who live below the poverty line, lack of government support for environmental issues, the list could go on. These are important issues that deserve to have a discourse around them, and need to be addressed by activists and policy makers together. But to only see that, those negative components, is to ignore some of the great things about this country. Canada is not just a place of oppression and evil – there are always two sides to every coin and to disregard that other side is to be pessimistic.

So, why do I study Canada?

While I do study the negative misery-laden topics, I try to also study the positive or at least try to find the positive. Canada isn’t in the systems; it is in the little moments.

Why do I study Canada?

Because every time I see that CBC logo, I get a little thrill.

Because Colm Feore is a brilliant actor (and handsome to boot).

Because when I was working in Brampton this summer I saw a bunch of children playing together in a residential park, all from different backgrounds, and their mothers were sitting together on the benches, talking.

Because we call it ketchup, not cat-sup.

Because institutions like the National Film Board and the CRTC work to ensure that a Canadian memory is recorded for future generations.

Because gay marriage was made legal here and no one blinked. Harper even wanted to overturn it but didn’t because it wouldn’t have been a good move for him politically.

Because we spell words with a ‘u’.

Because Trudeau was friends with Castro and not just to piss off the Americans.

Because despite its flaws, we do have universal health care.

Because Battlestar Galactica was pretty much made entirely by Canadians. Frakk’n eh.

Because Dr. Henry Morgentaler received The Order of Canada.

Because of Rick Mercer.

Because of those Heritage Moments (“I smell burnt toast”).

Because Camille Turner (read: Miss Canadiana) is overturning our flawed perceptions of identity.

Because women got the right to vote in 1917, except in Quebec, which was decades before some other nations.

Because underground Canadian hip-hop is truly fantastic (go YouTube Shad’s ‘Brother Watching’ for proof).

Because of Deepa Mehta.

Just because.

I could go on and on. There are so many reasons why I study Canada. And you might be thinking that these are superfluous reasons that don’t reflect the nation as a whole, and sure, you might be right. At least though I try to see the positive through the negative.

Try to keep things in perspective; Canada isn’t the worst place in the world to be. Try a find something that gives you a little bit of joy. Embrace the cheesy myths that are propagated by the government and find new ones for yourself. Throw on some Fiest (or Celine Dion if you want to take it old school), watch an Atom Egoyan film, eat a butter tart followed up by some samosas, then look around you and don’t feel bad if you feel a little good. Canada is still a work in progress.

What does it mean to be a citizen of Canada? Or a citizen of the world? I think that to even approach an answer, we need to first ask what it means to be a non-citizen, a secondary citizen, or a so-called ‘undesirable’ citizen.

Canadians, particularly white Canadians, like to tell ourselves stories about what Canada means: we’re multicultural, a cultural mosaic, a land of immigrants. But rarely are these tropes investigated further. Who is multicultural, and what does that mean? What makes up our “mosaic”? And who is the kind of immigrant that becomes a “Canadian”? When we don’t interrogate what these statements mean, and who gets to make them, we allow ourselves to ignore the power dynamics at play when decisions are made regarding who is Canadian.

Thus, when people talk about multiculturalism, they talk about food, music, or clothing and accessories—cultural products that can be consumed, maintaining the status quo of consumerism, with a superficial nod to the celebration of difference. Is this the mosaic? A million unrelated cultural objects stuck together for people to buy? Multiculturalism has little to do with anti-oppression, fighting against racist policy and practice, or centering the experiences of new Canadian residents in social and cultural discourse.

So, who gets to be Canadian? There is an assumption within our collective mythology that says all Canadians are equal. We’re not. Those who are born here, especially if they are white, can live comfortably with the belief that the government is meant to work for them, and that it will be accountable to them. Particularly in the post-9/11 world of hyper-security and paranoia, it is dangerous to not be a citizen, especially if you are a person of colour. Those without the protection of citizen-status (or those for whom the colour of their skin allows others to call this status into question) run the risk of having taken from them “the right to have rights” as Dr. Jasmin Zine described in her lecture at this year’s Global Citizenship Conference. If security means racial profiling; arrests based on vague suspicion, not proof; and the risk of deportation for residents without citizenship, then in what capacity can we call ourselves a nation of immigrants? Moreover, in what capacity can we call ourselves just?

Canadian identity isn’t about Tim Horton’s or hockey or talking about the weather. It’s a strict, regulated hierarchy, with ever-changing rules about who is in and who is out, who counts and who does not. When we talk about “Canadians” we need to ask ourselves who we mean. Residents? Taxpayers? White people? People who were born here? Undocumented immigrants? People who vote? Those with citizenship? Each of these categories and identities holds a series of assumptions, and we need to confront those assumptions, about who belongs here, who gets to make decisions about Canada (including defining it), who is a desirable citizen, who is undesirable, and what the “cultural” part of multiculturalism really looks like. People’s rights and lives are at risk, and we need to start asking questions of ourselves and the government about how we are discussing citizenship, and the harmful effects it is having on all of us.

Growing up my parents told me I was Korean-Canadian. I resented that. Why couldn’t I just be Canadian like the other kids? I mean, like the white kids in my neighbourhood. They didn’t have to eat rice and kimchi, bow to their elders, or go to Korean school. They got to play Nintendo, eat spaghetti and talk back to their parents. They were so cool. I just wanted to be Canadian.

My high school class was pretty much Asians, and Italians. And remember that time South Korea won over Italy in the 2002 FIFA World cup? Ssssss. Walking down the hallways where the ginos were tall and tough, a tiny Korean girl who liked soccer got pushed, cursed at. Where were the Canadians during that? Had Canada qualified, just, suspend your disbelief for a moment, would that have united us all, cheering for the land in which we live? Canada, this community of communities, a collection of fragments, could we be united in our differences? Did this cultural mosaic exist?

Then university. Wilfrid Laurier University. A sea of attractive white girls and guys who like their Hollister and TNA, with the brown kids and Asians in business and science, all conveniently tucked away. And then there was the token Asian in English. Hi! But I didn’t smell like rice or curry. Well, no one noticed, and I got by. Except when we got to talking about white privilege, and suddenly I was on the flip side. This girl – yellowww. I had been doing so well too, blending in, you know?

I used to think of myself as a twinkie: Yellow on the outside, white on the inside. I used to think this with pride! Shit. I was so “Canadian” – Yo what does that even mean? To be “Canadian”?

Looking back, I see the facts from my life – it was being white-washed. To conform to the dominant ideology of the ruling aristocracy of upper-middle class white people. Have a house in the burbs, kids that play hockey and soccer, and use the Tim Hortons drive-through. Is that not what it is to be Canadian?
And the harsh truth, if you happened to be from an “ethnic” group, meant giving up your mother tongue, not flaunting your different, non-Judeo-Christian practices, learning how to cook spaghetti and meatballs, not feeding your white friends curry or seaweed. (Uh, Gross!) It meant pretending that you had an equal chance no matter your “ethnic” background. It meant pretending that it was not at all because you weren’t white that you couldn’t be cast as Mary Poppins in your elementary school musical! True story! (…I’m not bitter…) It meant pretending that you, too, could live in a “multicultural” society whilst pledging allegiance to the maple leaf, to our home ON native land.

So where did I stand? I fell for so many of our Canadian narratives. Multiculturalism – Pierre Trudeau. Peace-keeping – Romeo Dallaire. Hockey – Wayne Gretzky, Mario Lemieux, Stevie Y, Martin Brodeur, Jarome Iginla. The English language…

You know, I study English. I can give you a great overview of the English canon, of the lauded English writers and poets. You know they’re mostly men. White men – but that’s another issue. The point is, after four years of OSAP-funded academic indoctrination, I realized what English could do for me, for once, finally. I could use it. I hijacked it, English. It became my tool to overrule our ethnic differences, through speech. And despite the fact that I learned it because my parents immigrated to Canada, a land of colonialism, I could take these words I learned and use them for my freedom.

Freedom from the canonical works that allow only the dominant voices. Freedom from our differences that alienate. Freedom to decide the words that came out of my mouth, and to create, myself.

White privilege is not mine. No thank you! I don’t want that stuff. I’ve had my share of those consequences, and that’s been more than enough.

All I need are my words that give me a privilege beyond skin colour, beyond Canadian identity politics. That my grasp of English, this language spread over the world colony by colony, is now my key. The key that brought me to poetry, this space, where I am finally free. My key to the language that allows me to speak up and tell you my story.

Hey there. My name’s Jordan. I just started highschool this year in my hometown, Fort McMurray. But I’m not there right now. My family and I—that’s me, my parents and my little brother Mikey—are off to the Vancouver Olympics! It’s really exciting. In school we’ve been talking about supporting our athletes and cheering for Canada—I get to do it all live! And my family’s even more connected to all of it than lots of people, because my dad works for Petro Canada, and my mom works for RBC. They’re both supporting the Olympics. Cool, eh? The drive only takes two days!

“So Jordan, what are you looking forward to the most?” my dad asked.

“Um, the hockey game—and the figure skating. Oh and seeing all the trees and the mountains!” It was all going to be exciting.

“Well, we’ll be at both of those events in just a few days! But you’ll be right in the heart of the mountains before you know it—we’re coming up on the Sea-to-Sky Highway now!”

Sea-to-sky. I love that name. And soon enough, we were driving along that very highway. The mountains were all around us. And trees too… just that more were cut down than I’d pictured. Some big areas were all gone… Hmm. Well, it was still pretty, for the most part. I could picture all kinds of cool animals living in the forest.

“What’s that?” asked Mikey, sounding kind of grossed out.

“Oh. Son. I, um, I think that was a grizzly bear. Must’ve wandered out into the highway. But you know what they say, natural selection, right?” Dad answered.
I didn’t think that a bear would want to be so close to the highway. It was really sad. But we kept driving, and my parents changed the conversation.

“Hey kids, do you remember what you’ve been learning in school about the Olympics? It’s important to know why they’re so great! Can you tell me what they do?” mom asked.

“Ooh, I know!” Mikey said. “Lots of athletes come from all over the world and all compete together. It makes more people want to be athletes, too.”

“Great!” Mom responded.

“We talked about about how they’re a part of world peace, too. They make all the countries sort of get along well, at least for a while,” I offered. “And we learned about how Canada’s such a great leader in this, because we do lots of, you know, peace stuff.”

“That’s right Jordan, Canada’s like peacekeeping central!” my dad responded. “And they’re even cancelling Parliament so we can all just pay attention to the Games!”

We were driving into the centre of Vancouver now. We went in to the exhibit, to see all the torches from Olympics before. It was neat—there were lots of different designs. But the oldest one seemed a bit strange to me…it said it was from the 1936 Olympics, when Hitler introduced the torch relay.

“Wasn’t Hitler a bad person?” I asked. “Isn’t this, like, Nazi propaganda?”

“Yes, Jordan, he was a very bad person,” my dad answered. “But that stuff’s all in history—Hitler’s not running the Games now, is he?”

“No,” I conceded. I guess he’s right—we have Harper, who’s a good leader, not Hitler.

After seeing all the torches, we decided to go check into our hotel. When we got there, I was impressed. It looked pretty fancy. I mean, we were paying a lot for it—I think it was $5000 for the week—but “for the chance to see the Games that’s what you pay”, my dad said! And all the streets were so clean—no garbage, and there weren’t even any homeless people.

On a telephone pole in front of the building as we were going in I saw a poster that read, “Homes not Games”. This wasn’t something we’d heard in school, so I asked my mom what it meant.

“Oh, that nonsense? It’s just a bunch of complainers. They don’t understand how good the Olympics are, and they want to spoil it for everyone else.”

Hmm. That’s not an answer, I thought. But now we’re just going to go get settled into our room.

After we got our stuff put away, my dad said he was going to check out the neighbourhood. My mom, Mikey and I decided to watch some of the pre-Games coverage on CTV. They were talking about all the different sports, and it made us all really excited to go to see them the next day!

Dad wasn’t back yet and we were hungry, so we went to McDonalds for a Quatchi Burger. After dinner we ran into dad! It was kind of weird, because he was coming out of a house where a bunch of women were dancing in a window. We don’t know anyone in Vancouver so I didn’t know what he was doing inside. But his clothes were all ruffled and my mom seemed pretty mad at him. They didn’t want to talk about it, though. We just went back to the hotel and went to bed so we’d be ready to see the Games.

It’s the first day of the Games now! We’re going to see the hockey game first, but we’re going to get there early and check out all the merchandise.

Our way there was a bit slow. There were lots of police and military vehicles—some of them from the U.S. This was a bit creepy, but my dad reminded me that they’re here to keep us safe. We did make it over to where they had all the crafts on sale though.

“Oh Jordan, come look at this, you’ll really like it!” my mom said.

She was pointing to a bunch of sweaters with a Native design on them, in the Aboriginal Crafts section. I looked at the tag to see if it came from right here in B.C.—that would be cool. It said “Made in China”. I guess they have to do that to make enough, right? I don’t know…in school we learned about how all the local businesses were going to benefit from all the tourists spending money, but this isn’t local, so I don’t really understand how that’s happening. My mom bought us all sweaters, though.

“Hey team! Let’s get going to the hockey game!” my dad called. “Ready to cheer on Team Canada?”

We started walking to the arena. I could hear cheering as soon as we got outside. But when we got to the main street I could see a crowd of people walking towards us. They were the ones chanting. Police were all coming towards them, too, with batons and plastic shields and scary masks. As they got closer I could hear what the protesters were saying—“No Olympics on Stolen Native Land”. I didn’t understand why they were saying that really—didn’t we trade them stuff for the land? Weren’t there treaties and stuff? I asked my mom.

“It’s Canada’s land, I mean, we’re in Canada right now, aren’t we?” my mom answered. “And really, it all happened before any of them were born—can’t they just get over it?”

One of the protestors came over and handed us a flyer. It said, “RBC, Environmental Criminal: Greenwashing the Olympics and the Tar Sands”. I thought RBC was a good company, too, I mean, my mom works for them!

Things got pretty scary then. The cops started pushing back the protesters. I saw a girl in the crowd that looked like one of my friends from home, and one of the cops shoved her to the ground and started punching her. I didn’t think she’d done anything wrong—weren’t they just saying what they thought? Isn’t that, like, a charter right or something? Free speech?

My dad pushed us away though, and we finally made it to the hockey game. The teams were ready to play, and everyone got ready to sing the anthem. The big screen was on, too, so we could see the singer up close. It was sort of weird to be singing something cheerful after it was so scary outside. The music started playing. And then all of a sudden a bunch of people stood up on their seats and held up a huge banner that also said “No Olympics on Stolen Native Land”. Then the big screen went different and a guy came on and said how many Indigenous Youth and their settler allies were resisting the Olympics, and then some other people stood up and held their own banners—they said things like “Smash the Police State”, “Homes not Games”, and “Resist the 2010 Corporate Circus”. The rest of the crowd all started singing the anthem anyway, and the louder they sang, the more the protesters yelled.

I was confused…

I thought Canada was a country that took care of its people, all of them, no matter how much money you had.

I thought people could speak their opinions here, and that that was protected.

I thought women had the same standing as men, and weren’t bought and sold.

I thought Canada was a peacekeeping nation, and a human rights champion.

I thought Canada was an environmental leader.

I thought Canada respected Indigenous people, and that we even helped them.

I thought Canada was a great country, something that we should celebrate.

“Why aren’t you singing the anthem, Jordan?” my mom asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

But I knew exactly why.

Olympic Facts

• Homelessness has increased more than 300% in Vancouver since 2003 when the games were awarded. Homelessness has been criminalized.
• The 2010 Games will cost more than $6 billion dollars. $4 billion+ of that will be public funds.
• The final bill for policing will exceed $1 billion dollars. CSIS has harassed activists at work, at school, at home, in jail, and on public transportation.
• The Four Host First Nations Corporation was formed after the BC Union of Indian Chiefs refused to endorse the Olympics.
• The 125 000+ trees cut down will never be replaced. The fragmented wetlands have forever lost crucial ecological value. The environmental assessment process did little to protect the environment.
• Men’s sexual violence on women increases at all recent mega-sporting events.
• 10,000+ more armed policing agents will occupy the unceded indigenous land that is the Vancouver-Whistler corridor. 5000+ rent-a-cops will be invading privacy of tourists and locals.
• We do not have to do all of these things to see who can move the best over frozen surfaces… The Olympics are not about sport, they are transferring wealth, land, and power from the masses to the few.

I can distinctly remember quarrelling with my eldest cousin over the concept of patriotism. He told me it was something I absolutely had to feel—there was no option and no argument. Of course, he didn’t know whom he was up against. As a child I was relentless; no debate could be long enough and the barrages of questions (and snide remarks) were never ending—especially with him.

Our debates on Pakistan were always centered on the idea that, although I had never lived in Pakistan at any point in my life and couldn’t read or write Urdu, I had to be a proud Pakistani. Of course, at the time that pretty much just meant cheering for the Pakistani cricket team, the barometer of national pride. But for me, those faces in the crowd with the painted-on green and white flags didn’t really mean much. I didn’t feel a sense of kinship. Maybe because I hated cricket, I don’t know. But I’m sure that on some level, I was just being a typical rebellious teenager.

The debates never really went away as I grew older, but became less about rebellion and more about identity. I was attempting to figure out who I was. Nationality was more of an unknown variable than religion or sexuality; it was what I was most confused about. There were no clear answers: I had a Pakistani father and an Indian mother. I was born in Kuwait, but lived my entire life in the UAE studying at an international school. I had a Pakistani passport, although I never saw it as more than a travel document. I will always remember my mom telling me after my umpteenth complaint about my ‘useless’ passport, “say what you will, but if we’re ever again in a situation like we were in Kuwait, we’re heading straight to Pakistan.” And that was it. I always knew that despite all my bickering and questions of identity, when it came down to a time of need, Pakistan is where we had looked before. In 1990, when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait and started the Gulf War, my family left our entire lives behind and joined a caravan of refugees heading to Pakistan. We drove for over a week from Kuwait City to Lahore and were handed food and money by the Pakistani army at checkpoints along the way. Eventually, we settled in the UAE and Kuwait was history. Of course, this only added to the confusion in my head.

Another thing my cousin would use as part of his argument was the fact that since my father was Pakistani, I was de facto one too. That’s where my inner feminist would step in and bitch my cousin out over his flagrant disregard for the validity of my mother’s nationality. Not that I was particularly attached to India, but I just didn’t appreciate his understanding of patriotism in such a restrictively masculine way. It didn’t help that Indian culture is heavily weighted towards a concept of “motherland”, which in effect made me Indian. Once again, the expectation was an instant and immediate bond; something my mind evidently had somewhat of a chronic allergic reaction to.

I think eventually I just gave up on the idea of finding a label to identify my nationality. Now that I’ve become a permanent resident in Canada, it’s even more of a blur. While my family was still floating in limbo during the painfully lengthy Canadian immigration process, I continued to doubt if I would suddenly develop a national bond with the country we were trying to so hard to become a part of. I guess I had taken enough global studies courses to know that ethnicity, nationality, and nationalism were not three sides of the same (three-sided) die.

As it stands now, I have been a PR for exactly a month and a half, but I was connected to Canada way before I did my landing. As an international student at Laurier, Canada is where I discovered myself and expressed myself. It is where I was free to be whoever I wanted to be and believe or not believe in whatever I wanted to. But home will always be the UAE and Pakistan and India will always be the raw materials with which my entire value system was created. But when it comes to a question of patriotism, I’m still at a loss. Perhaps it’s because by definition it is limited to one country or maybe I’m still trying to figure it out on some level but either way, I think patriotism is a topic best not debated; unless you’re my cousin, because then I will fight you.

The crowd pressed forward as the
Worship leaders emerged
To lead them in
Song and Dance,
In honour of the
Red and White…
Bottle.

“Open a Coke; Open Happiness”
Came the refrain.
“Open Coke today. Change tomorrow.”

And the people bowed and prayed
To the sugary god they made.

It’s the new Red and White:
It will solve all our problems,
And you can buy it
In a bottle.

“Open Happiness”, they sang.
But suddenly, through the flock
Came a flame.
Oh, right: the Torch.
They had forgotten they were here
For the Sport.