“I’ve lived in Canada for 18 years now—long enough to shed my illusions, but not long enough to stop being stunned by what I see. When I first arrived, I thought Canadians were polite—too polite, almost unbearably so. The endless “sorrys,” the soft tones, the careful avoidance of conflict. It felt harmless at first, even charming in contrast to the bluntness of my Hungarian, German, or Eastern European roots. But then I realized something deeper, something darker: Canadians apologize too much for the meaningless, and never for what matters.
They say sorry when they bump into you, when they’re five seconds late, when they interrupt. But they do not apologize when they abuse power. They do not apologize when they destroy someone’s life through bureaucracy, cowardice, or complicity. They do not apologize when they ostracize courage, when they punish truth, when they betray integrity. They apologize for nothingness—and when the moment demands moral courage, they hide.
They hide behind procedure. Behind policy. Behind institutions. Behind NDAs. Behind committees, processes, protocols. Behind phrases like “we’re reviewing this internally” and “that’s beyond my authority.” They hide behind the pretense of empathy while quietly perpetuating injustice. They hide behind performative busy-ness: “I wish I had time,” “I’m swamped,” “I’ve been unwell.” There is enormous power in powerlessness—and Canadians wield it masterfully.
I used to think this country was built on the legacy of bold nations—the literary depth of England, the fire of Ireland, the courage of France, the principle of fraternity, equality, democracy. But those roots have withered under the snow. What’s left is a culture that confuses niceness with goodness, procedure with justice, and quiet compliance with peace.
This isn’t the land of Shakespeare anymore, nor of Napoleonic visionaries. It’s a land of castratos—polite, sterilized souls who prefer comfort to confrontation, and optics to truth.
Canada’s greatest tragedy is not its cruelty, but its cowardice.”
