ZGram - 12/14/2002 - "Welcome the the Great White North"

[irimland@zundelsite.org]

ZGram - Where Truth is Destiny

December 14, 2002

Good Morning from the Zundelsite:

Welcome Back to Canada: A Run-in With Caplan's Stasi

by Paul Fromm / Director of the Canadian
Association for Free Expression

	On November 10, I flew into Toronto after a trip to the U.S. 
A number of
populist activists like me seem to be targetted for special secondary
inspection, not always, but quite often. This quiet Sunday night was no
exception. While there had been a number of East Indians, Arabs and a few
Blacks on the flight, I was the only one to be sent for secondary
inspection. I had truthfully declared my few purchases -- a carton of
cigarettes, some books, a Country and Western C.D. Immediately, I was asked
to open my briefcase.

	I clip newspapers in the long hours I fly and compile files later to be
used in my writing and research. I would later ask the name of the hefty
dough faced blonde who pawed her way through my clippings. She snottily
said it was against policy to give names -- "for security reasons. "You
know you're dealing with an oppressive force, when its operatives don't
have names. You, of course, have had to fully identify yourself and produce
your passport. I did get her badge number -- #15918. She donned surgical
gloves as if my papers might have AIDS, which, come to think of it, our
authorities wouldn't even screen for if I was a "refugee".

	My newspaper clippings were of great interest. She pawed 
through a stack
two inches thick, one by one. Every now and again, she sourly and
suspiciously demanded what I did. "I'm a Director of the Canadian
Association for Free Expression," I told her and helpfully offered her my
business card.

	"What does that mean?" she demanded. I explained, to make a long story
short, that my research focused on immigration and free speech. She waved a
National Post article about four Jamaicans "known to the police" who had
recently been gunned down by another Jamaican illegal with the fetching
street name of "Heavy D". "What did this have to do with immigration?" she
demanded, certain she'd snared me. [What did this article have to do with
the  interdiction of contraband, firearms or drugs, I wondered to myself?}
Well, I pointed out to Dough Face this was an immigration story as the four
dead men were immigrants and criminals. "But, they're the victims," she
shot back.

	"Still, they probably should not have been here," I added.

	"But, you can't say all people from abroad will commit crimes," she
persisted.

	"Look," I said, "I don't want to argue with you."

	"What's this?" Dough Face demanded having seized a button 
"Justice for the
Wichita Five."

	"Oh, they were five Whites murdered horribly by black 
criminals in Wichita."

	"I never heard of that," Dough Face declared, suggesting I 
was a liar, as
if I had said her boss Fat Elinor has lost 200 pounds and joined Georg
Haider's Freedom Party.

	By now 40 minutes had elapsed. "You know, these really are 
just clippings
from the Globe and Mail and the National Post -- mainline stuff," I offered
helpfully wondering whether I could avoid an item by item examination.
Dough Face ignored my helpful comment. Along came someone who appeared to
be her superior, a busty East Indian female. Again, I'd like to be able to
give a name, but she too told me in a most surly fashion that I was to be
kept ignorant of the names of my tormentors -- "security" [theirs!],  you
know. A whispered consultation followed between Dough Face and Miss Bombay.

	"I don't understand the problem. I'm not a terrorist. I'm not 
bringing in
drugs, or guns or contraband. These are just newspaper clippings."

	"I'm not talking to YOU," Miss Bombay snapped at me. Properly put in my
place by Bombay, I would have doffed my cap in deference to my betters in
the Stasi had I been wearing a hat.

	"That's not all we're looking for," Dough Face sneered at me 
with an air
of superiority.

	"Oh, I get it;" I replied resignedly. "It's political persecution."

	"How do we know you're not a terrorist?" Dough Face asked.

	"Check my passport in your computer," I advised.

	Miss Bombay disappeared with files from my briefcase, some mail, some
medical records of a procedure I'd been going through, and several
electronic tickets. No sooner had I mentioned political persecution than
Dough Face squealed: "You're harassing me."

	"I'm not harassing you, Miss," I replied. "I'm speaking in a 
level tone of
voice. You're harassing me. I didn't ask to be the only person from my
flight hauled over for a secondary inspection." Again, I was told to be
quiet while Dough Face continued to paw through my goods.

	Eventually, Miss Bombay returned. My files were in a mess. My mail had
been ripped open. There were more whispered consultations. Now I was to
know my fate. Suddenly, Dough Face seized on the September, 2002 issue of
the Free Speech Monitor. She gazed at it and pondered it as if it were
written in Lithuanian. She showed her find to Miss Bombay.

	"See," Bombay said, "waving her hand contemptuously at the newsletter.
"Pedophiles, homosexuals. That's typical hate propaganda." So, having
barely examined the newsletter for three seconds Miss Bombay had delivered
her weighty legal opinion. The item in question had dealt  with the
decision of the Canadian. Human Rights Commission ordering the gagging of
John Micka's website for his criticisms of homosexuals and pedophiles.

	I was informed that 25 "Immigration Can Kill You" cards from the Canada
First Immigration Reform Committee, the September, 2002 Free Speech Monitor
and four micro cassettes were to be held and sent to Ottawa for a
determination as to whether they were "hate propaganda." Having been
ordered to be quiet, I didn't bother to tell them that the cassettes had
been scrubbed clean. No point in denying the snoops and censors their
voyeuristic pleasures. A "Notice of Detention" -- the goods, not mine,
apparently -- was handed to me. Miss Bombay smiled and patted Dough Face
congratulating her on her eagle eye and, apparently, for having intercepted
a dangerous chap -- myself.

	"Go," Dough Face ordered me with a fat paw pointing to the exit.

	{"Da, Tovarich," I wanted to say, but knew that the jab would 
be lost on
this grim operative.) "Well, I must have fallen asleep and landed in North
Korea not Canada that has a Charter of Rights," I said.

	This shook Dough Face into a fury. "Go," she ordered, "or you'll be
escorted out."

	"But you've left my briefcase in a mess," I complained.

	"That's your responsibility," I was advised.

	I had now been there an hour and 10 minutes. I left.

	Six weeks later, I received a notice from Ottawa from the "Prohibited
Importations Unit" of the Stasi. The letter, signed by Officer #16001,
Senior Programme Advisor, another no name wonder, informed me: "It has been
determined that the extract from the newsletter and the 25 business-sized
cards do not fall within the prohibitory provisions of tariff item
9899.00.00. Their importation into Canada, is, therefore, acceptable." The
letter went on to note that the cassettes were blank. The goods were to be
returned to me.

Not to quibble, but the items seized were not being "imported"; they 
had all originated in Canada.  -- Paul Fromm