Canada’s Customs Stasi are Now Seizing German Myths
Paul Fromm, C-FAR newsletter
Dear Free Speech Supporter:
On Sunday, February 22, I was returning from the American Renaissance conference in Washington, D.C., where I’d been one of the speakers. It had been a wonderful, uplifting weekend of fellowship with people from around the world concerned about the immigration invasion of the West.
Not long after Air Canada 1097 landed at Toronto’s Pearson Airport at about 6:30 p.m., I was rudely reminded that I was back in Absurdistan, a burgeoning police state. Forty-four people got off this flight and went through Canada Customs and Immigration. I know because I heard the stewardess announce the count, because the rest of the passengers had to stay on board and continue on to Ottawa.
Arriving passengers go through a primary check where passports and customs declarations are presented. Most people are just waved on. You don’t know your fate until you pass the customs official at the end of the baggage claim area. There the cryptic scrawl on your customs declaration tells whether the official directs you out or to a further lounge for a secondary inspection.
As a targetted politically incorrect activist and White male to boot, I am almost always directed to the secondary inspection. Today was no exception. The secondary inspection area was a lackadaisical lounging area of idleness. Of six or so agents, only one was occupied. He was pawing through clothing in several suitcases belonging to a White couple in their '30s.
The Boss, a short man with greying hair, who turned out to be one of the supervisors, announced to a coffee slurping customs agent: “It’s been a quiet day and we want to keep it that way.”
I was directed to Baldy, an agent with a slight French Canadian accent. I have to give these cowards names as none of them will give you a name. Bullies and tyrants find their tasks easier if they’re anonymous. It difficult to referring to “this guy” and “that guy”. Thus, I have to give them descriptive names.
Baldy begins an examination which will eventually keep me detained for close to two hours! He paws through my briefcase, examining the agenda of the AR. He roots through my suitcase and discovers a number of books including five subversive copies of Jacob Grimm’s Germanic Myths. He’s vaguely heard of Grimm.
“He’s one of the authors of Grimm’s fairy tales. This book deals with descriptions of some of the characters in these tales — fairys, norns, etc.,” I tell him helpfully.
He summons over Charlie Chan. Now I’ve dealt with this snotty-faced young Oriental agent before and he doesn’t like me. Badly and Charlie Chan go into a backroom for consultations and a phone call. Some higher up has apparently told Charlie Chan to hit the computer and e-mail for information. His efforts consume at least 20 minutes. They return and look some more. Another trip inside for a consultation, more work on the computer.
I decide to use my cellphone to call and let a colleague I was to meet know I’ll be late. Immediately, another lanky idler Delbert McDork appears and is shouting at me that I’m not allowed to use my cellphone.
Baldy gets into too. “It’s not allowed,” he tells me.
“Hey, even in prison, they’re permitted their one phone call, “ I snap back, not inclined to put up with any guff from the Stasi.
The next thing I know there’s a short balding man with a shred of reddish crew-cut. I know this diminutive bully too. He’s Soldier Wannabee. I had a run in with him in the fall. He’d ordered me away from the examination paper, refused to allow me to read any of my newspapers and ordered me to sit on the penalty bench. “We had this argument three weeks ago,” he barked at me.
“I’ve never been told about making calls on my cellphone,” I answer Soldier Wannabee.
“Yes, I did. In December. I told you two or three times.” he snaps.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” I say, trying to ignore this aggressive little wasp.
The bully circles and frowns and postures. Eventually, he takes up his post at one of the kiosks. Soon, he’s busy eating his burger and what looks like a salad. His only work other than showing me what a tough guy he is, involves a young White couple. The girl is quickly cleared. However, the fellow had failed to check off “meat” products and Soldier Wannabee is making a big fuss about this, with officious threats about what could happen to him for not having filled out the form correctly. The terrified White youth is clearly shaken by the dwarfish goon’s diatribe. After about half an hour, the quiet, soft spoken youth is sent on his way.
A brunette female, Coffeetime Cathy does nothing but sit at her kiosk and slurp coffee in the nearly two hours I’m there.
Finally, the Boss returns. I appeal to him to be able to use my cellphone. He’s more reasonable and lets me make by call.
Delbert McDork walks through once or twice more and then is seen no more.
A bulky Negress sweeps through 15 minutes into my ordeal and announces to her co-workers (using the term “worker” very loosely): “I’m off on my break.” I don’t see her again either.
Oriental Princess, a youngish Chinese woman with a touch of red streak in her otherwise black locks, is summoned by the Boss. She’s assigned to the far kiosk. She sits, sips coffee, and except, for one quick referral, has no work for a whole hour.
I continue to wait while Baldy and Charlie Chan root through my material, make more phone calls and consult, like some weird coach and pitcher in a tight baseball game.
I recall that, on my way through the luggage area, I’d noted that a flight from Cuba had arrived, undoubtedly laden with returning vacationers. I keep watching for some of the returning tourists to be referred for a secondary inspection. Are there no drugs in Cuba? Might nobody be seeking to sneak in a couple of extra bottles of rum?
More excitement! Finally, some business. Three more White men each pushing a luggage laden baggage cart have been sent for further scrutiny. They are Americans and seem rather in a hurry. There’s some scrutiny of some import documents. There appears to be a few minor problems. After about 15 minutes, the three businessmen and their luggage are on their way.
Only the original White couple and I remain. Finally, a silent Charlie Chan stacks up all my books — that’s right ALL, including the 5 copies of Germanic Mythology. They are to be “detained” — I love the pompous term for stolen — and sent to Ottawa for further evaluation. Also “detained” and sent off to censorship central in the Rideau are two copies of The Origin of the English Nation and two copies of a fine collection of quotations by Robert Lenski entitled Toward A New Science of Man.
As my remaining stuff is packed up, I ask Baldy: “Is there anything else you want to steal. I have a couple of breath mints.”
“I don’t think that’s funny,” Baldy says.
“I’ve told you before, it’s not stealing. The books are being detained for examination,” Charlie Chan interrupts.
“These books are mine. They’re not yours. Now, I don’t have them. You do. That’s theft,” I try to set Charlie Chan straight.
Some of the positions taken by the union representing the Customs workers actually make some sense. So, I ask Charlie Chan for the e-mail of his union. No answer. “I guess I’d better ask someone who speaks English,” I comment.
I ask the Boss. “I’m not union,” he says.
Off I go into the night to my now very much delayed supper.
In nearly three hours, perhaps nine people have been referred for secondary inspection, all of them White. Meanwhile, hundreds of arriving passengers have poured through Terminal 2 U.S. and International arrivals. The stated purpose of these inspectors is to have as slack a day as possible. They’re clearly not in the business of protecting Canada from drugs or weapons smugglers. They show eagerness only in intercepting ideas and books uncomfortable to their political masters, and the minority lobbyists who pull their strings. To call Canada a political police state, therefore, is no exaggeration.
— Paul Fromm