A Letter to the Unfallen

Year: 2049

Written from what was once Ontario, Canada

Dear friend,

I hope you’re still free. I hope your streets are still your own, your daughters still walk without head coverings, your churches still ring their bells, and your citizens still speak without fear. I pray you’ve held the line. That the wave hasn’t reached you yet.

I write this not to beg for rescue - we’re beyond that - but in the desperate hope that you will not become us.

We used to say Canada was a beacon. Peaceful, polite, multicultural. And it was, once. But we misunderstood what made us strong. We thought if we just said yes to everything, erased our rough edges, and turned the volume down on our own identity, that others would meet us with the same grace.

They didn’t.

They saw the vacuum - and filled it.

Now I sit in the shell of that same nation, and I write to you under candlelight - because the power grid is no longer consistent, and digital surveillance is too dangerous to risk.

You must have heard by now. The caliphate is not just theoretical anymore. Sharia is not just an idea or a slippery-slope debate on cable news. It’s law now. In our schools, in our courts, in our homes. Not by democratic vote, but by a slow surrender - drip by drip, fear by fear, silence by silence.

We gave it away. All of it.

In the name of tolerance. In the name of guilt.

We apologized ourselves into extinction.

Our leaders called it “inclusive.” They said our past was too dark to defend. Colonialism, racism, slavery - real sins, real pain - and so, in our effort to atone, we opened every gate, silenced every critic, and rewrote every law.

We thought we were building a better world.

But we were digging our grave.

It didn’t start with violence. It started with deference.

Don’t question the hijab - it’s cultural expression.

Don’t criticize political Islam - that’s Islamophobia.

Don’t talk about demographic shifts - that’s bigoted.

First came the small accommodations - nothing unreasonable, nothing worth fighting over. Religious exemptions. Dress code allowances. Cultural sensitivity policies. We didn’t want to offend. We wanted to be inclusive. Good-hearted. Evolved.

Then came the guilt.

About our colonial past. About residential schools. About slavery, Islamophobia, homophobia, patriarchy, Christianity - every stone of our foundation became a wound we were told to repent for. The only way to prove we had changed was to dismantle everything that came before. 

We made a religion out of regret.

Now the mosques are full and the churches are ash.

The laws are sacred texts.

The media reads like scripture.

The rainbow flags have been torn down.

And the women… oh, the women.

At first, we said nothing when public swimming pools introduced “women-only hours.”

Then came the dress codes.

Then employment restrictions.

Then travel permissions.

Then curfews.

Now, we’re erased.

Our daughters cover their hair - or risk public lashes.

Our sons memorize verses - or risk detention.

Our art, our literature, our films, they’re banned or burned.

Our gay friends? Gone.

Our Jewish neighbors? Fled - if they were lucky.

All of it happened so slowly we didn’t believe it was happening at all.

Until it did.

And now, it’s too late.

I write to you, not out of hatred for Islam - but from horror at what political extreme Islam becomes when no one dares to confront it. I know there are Muslims who mourn this with me. But their voices were the first to be silenced - seen as traitors to the cause.

We didn’t lose our country in a war.

We lost it in a thousand acts of self-erasure.

A thousand denials.

A thousand shames.

You must not do the same.

You can still love, still welcome, still coexist - but with your eyes open and your spine straight. Defend your laws. Protect your speech. Speak the truth, even when it burns your tongue. Your past has shadows, yes - but so does every culture. Don’t trade guilt for bondage. Don’t mistake surrender for virtue.

I miss bookstores where opinions battled it out on shelves.

I miss teachers who taught how to think, not what.

I miss art that challenged, comedy that offended, and holidays that meant something.

I miss watching my nieces run through sprinklers in tank tops and shorts, without being called immodest and disrespectful.

I miss my country.

But most of all, I miss the feeling that I was allowed to speak. That disagreement wasn’t hate. That freedom wasn’t selfish.

Please learn from our failure.

Be compassionate - but with discernment. Be open - but with eyes wide open. Protect your laws, your language, your culture - not because they’re perfect, but because they’re yours. Because once they’re gone, you don’t get them back without blood.

If you still have time.

If you still have a voice.

Use it.

We didn’t.

And now the silence is deafening.

With all the hope I have left,

B