Tag Archives: Canada

Another Sad Jack Layton Blog

via FTP

A couple people have expressed surprise that it’s taken this long for me to write about the death of the man who, as far as I’m concerned, really WAS the greatest Canadian who was never prime minister (no offense, Tommy Douglas).

Forgive me. It’s just that… well, I’ll be honest: I kinda feel like I’ve lost an actual family member, and I wanted to keep my grief private for a day or two. Besides, what could I have possibly written that hasn’t been covered already, by hundreds of bloggers, thousands of chalk-wielding Torontonians, through tens of thousands of tweets? Read more »

Randomandomalities

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After a tumultuous half year of helplessness, anger, heartbreak, tentative hope, healing and finally, strength and newfound happiness, the desire to write is slowly returning to me. However, I’m still feeling a bit disjointed (and my heart’s all aflutter, but that’s a story for another day) so I’m going to ease back into it slowly, if that’s okay with you, with a series of what I like to call randomandomalities. Read more »

How Far Would You Go To Protect Yourself?

Imagine yourself in physical or mortal danger. If you don’t do something to protect yourself, serious harm or death will befall you or your family.

How far would you go to protect yourself? What would you do? I’d do anything to save my family, you’re  thinking. I would kill to save my son. I would do whatever it took. No questions asked.

Would you lie? Cheat? Steal? Would you defend yourself physically, even if it meant the harm or death of your attacker?

What if your attacker were your own child? Would you kill your own child to protect yourself, if your child were trying to kill you?

Seems a little far-fetched, even to me, that this would happen. I mean really, what child would try to kill its mother? And what parent would, in turn, place more value on her own life than their child’s, and actually kill that child to save their own soul? I can’t imagine that ever happening.

Unfortunately, I don’t have to imagine it happening. Reality has supplied us with this exact scenario in Calgary, Alberta, where Aset Magomadova, a refugee from Chechnya, stands accused of killing her fourteen-year-old daughter Aminat by ligature strangulation [link] in what she calls self-defense.

[link] Toronto Star article
[link] Global News, Calgary

According to the media, the fourteen-year-old girl had a history of drug abuse and regularly took crystal meth, which is known to cause erratic, violent behaviour in users [link], as well as mood swings and unpredictability. The articles go on to say that the police had been called to the home five times in the last five months, by the mother, who feared for her safety and that of her young son, who has muscular dystrophy. Aminat was often brought home by police, high, after violent fights with her mother.

This family obviously had a lot of problems, but despite repeated visits from police for domestic disturbance, no authorities were ever brought in to assist the family, despite Aset’s desire for intervention. She felt she could no longer control her daughter, and with the help of her sister, attempted to convey this fear to the police. She even stayed in a battered women’s shelter for a few days, less than a month ago.

Nobody ever referred her to the appropriate social services, such as the Calgary and Area Child and Family Services, or the Domestic Dispute and Cultural Resources units of the Calgary Police. This family could have been helped. This girl could have been saved.

How did Calgary fail this struggling family after it survived refugee untold horrors at the hands of Russian soldiers? Who knows the horror in that girl’s mind after living through what we can only imagine in our worst nightmares. It’s no wonder she turned to drugs to alleviate the damage done by terror. But it all went horribly wrong.

Now, the girl’s mother is in jail, charged with second-degree murder, and her wheelchair-bound son is in foster care. It breaks my heart. However, I am torn.

I’m trying to put myself in this woman’s shoes. I imagine that Gwen Junior is older, the same size as me, and prone to violent drug-induced rage. I imagine that she beat me. I imagine that she smashes furniture, breaks windows, and runs away constantly, only to be brought home by police time after time. I imagine her coming at me with her fists or with a weapon, hatred and rage in her eyes, intent on causing me physical boldily harm. What would I do? Would I allow her to hurt me? Would I try to protect myself without causing her pain, if it were at all possible? Or, with my backagainst a wall, would I fight back?

The thought haunts me. What would be more powerful: maternal instinct or fight-or-flight response?

* Article originally written in March 2007



This Is Who I Am

I am a single woman in my early 30′s living in the greatest city in Canada. A real multicultural urban civilized fantastic place that’s bustling with millions of people and countless more opportunities. I don’t have a driver’s license because public transit is more eco-conscious. I dress with style, I raise a daughter with pink hair,  I have a very frou-frou professional government job. I go to yoga classes and wine bars and comedy clubs, to television premieres and clothing line launches, to rallies and protests armed with a megaphone and a flag. It’s not because I’m cool or rich, oh no! Only because I’m living in such a great city, with so many opportunities. I enjoy my life so much!

This is who I am now, but it’s not who I was then.

Far to the north in the Great White Wasteland, I was raised with wolves and skidoos and ice fishing and bears. We ate moosemeat and had three channels, two of which were French. Growing up, our babysitter was a great big black Newfoundland dog named Charlie, who barked for my dad if we got too close to the road or the electric cow fence.

Every year my grandpa, who drove snowplow for the township for a living, made a twenty-foot snow mountain in our yard so we could toboggan off the roof into the pasture on the east side of the barn. One year in March when it began to melt, my grandma and my younger brother carved and whittled it into a fifteen-foot penguin ice sculpture, complete with black and yellow spray paint.

We picked blueberries in the summer, and pine cones too, because you could sell them to the Ministry of Natural Resources by the bucketful. They sold the pine cones to companies that either harvested the nuts for food consumption, or shipped them to Japan for something.

Sometimes in the winter it would be a snow day not because it was snowing, but because it was too cold to risk going outside or even starting the school buses. I went to an all-French Catholic school. It’s not as great as it sounds.

I was a baton twirler. Not for parades, but choreographed baton twirling dance/gymnastics routines. I was an assistant coach for a little while too.

I have mucked out barns, collected eggs in chicken coops, watched any number of animals being born and being killed, climbed trees, shot birds, reeled in a big one, gunned the exhaust and slept under the stars.

The people you love most are genuine. You know  them as they really are.

But… you might not know them as they once were.