This is the story of a Québécoise I met while doing my small jobs in Canada. It was at Maxi. This “friend” is divorced, childless, and lives alone.
Yesterday, thinking of her, the idea of poverty in Canada resurfaced in my mind. I more or less understood that poverty in Canada leads directly to hell. Let me explain why I think so: a segment of the population—let’s say at least 70%—is so poor that they cannot afford to travel and discover the world. What they do instead is offer themselves a window to the world. That window is television—through the TV set and the smartphone. In doing so, unknowingly and certainly unwillingly, they invite through this little screen a vision of the world crafted for the poor. This large population is repeatedly exposed to a curated view, an image tailor-made for the poor. One of the main intentions behind this crafted vision is to divide the proletarians of all nations. It is to isolate the Canadian proletarian to better exploit them. Because to keep the poor Canadian on a leash, the rich offer them the comfort of comparison with the poor in Africa and other regions. The idea is to brand into the consciousness of Canada’s poor, in bold capital letters: “Consider yourselves lucky not to be poor in Africa or Asia.” This is the only happiness offered to them, because no one is bound to the impossible. There will always be poor people, and right now, you are the poor—but be happy to be our poor.
By ingesting this slogan daily, in homeopathic doses, the soul of the poor Canadian becomes saturated. It ends up sheltering itself in the shadow of this “charitable” vision where the soul finds comfort. And each day, it builds a mental fortress dressed in these deceptive rags. Thus, the poorer the person, the more elements of misery they add to this lie turned conviction. Such a person will sink so deeply into mental poverty that they will seek only poverty—even when good providence, by some magical twist, manages to extract them from the prison-like environment of poverty. This is the case of my “friend” in Quebec.
Recently, I met her again. She told me she had just spent a week on vacation in Cuba. She didn’t seem radiant for someone who had just treated herself to a holiday. But I made no unpleasant remark. In her enthusiasm, she told me how poor the Cubans were. And then I smiled faintly, but cried in my soul. They got her, I thought. Good heavens—after years of sacrifice and often inhuman effort, the only thing she had managed to offer herself was… more poverty? Instead of breathing the fresh air of the Cuban waves performing their national ballet for tourists, my “friend” had only thought through the yoke of poverty carefully crafted for her in her own country. Never did she manage to offer herself the leisure of free enjoyment. Never did she savor the vibrant sunset in the Hispanic and Creole fragrance of that sky, which holds so many secrets and myths to share with those who look freely.
My “friend” saw only her poverty—the one she carried from her homeland, the one that shares her daily intimacy. Sitting on the fine sand of Cuban beaches, she pulled from her mental bag a projector and watched a film in which she believed the actors were people other than herself. Without knowing it, she had once again refined the path to Gehenna for herself. For instead of opening herself to the love of others—that sure path to paradise—my “friend” had only gathered more beams to build solid dikes in her eyes. And there, instead of seeing the saving hand of Christ extended in mercy, she grasped the hand of Satan, master of hell, to which she clung with all her strength, without restraint.
Fortunately, my “friend” is not the only one to whom this happens, for my soul would never find peace knowing she was later alone in hell. She already suffers in her earthly solitude. What misfortune if that solitude were to become eternal. No, she is not alone in her case. She will find faithful companions in Gehenna. And I, like poor Lazarus, will regret that she did not grasp the lifeline of salvation on the land of the living.
By Serge Daniel
Original Text (La pauvreté au Canada) translated using Copilot