Go Go Canada

Boys, chants, and unhappy thoughts

I had a meeting downtown today. I knew this was the day of the Canada vs Qatar FIFA game in Vancouver, so I took the bus. It was uncomfortable to see the Qatari flags on our streets. One of my favorite Middle Eastern political commentators said it well: Qatar is not a real country; it’s a terrorist organization’s bank account.

After the meeting, I stayed around to get a sense of the FIFA vibe. If you know me even a little bit, I don’t really care about soccer; I was looking for Palestinian flags. I didn’t find any, but I found some Khalistani ones. Same same, but different, but still the same. Or as the Russian saying goes, same eggs, but in profile. In Russian, we also say that a pig finds dirt everywhere.

Then, as I was walking towards the stadium, I struggled to remember the last time I had seen so many Canadian flags in Vancouver. Maybe never. It saddens me that sports and the hatred of Trump seem to be the only things that awaken so much patriotism in Canadians. I was walking through crowds of joyful, carefree, smiling people. I was hoping that their mood would rub off on me.

It didn’t. It was bright and hot, but I felt like a stranger in my city. I wasn’t even dressed in the right colors. As I walked, I was noticing the cops – Vancouver Police, RCMP reinforcement, and private security. Wondering – were there bollards on the streets during the 2010 Olympics? Or are they the natural outcome of the calls to globalize the Intifada revolution?

Granville Street is closed for traffic. The mostly red and white crowd flows up and down. Suddenly I heard chanting and clapping. Boys, about two dozen older teenage boys walking up the street yelling ‘Let’s Go Canada!’ They are noisy, they are jumpy, they are energetic! They are so energetic that their wild, uncontrollable energy is bursting and spilling. I follow them, filming, run around their marching crowd, as they keep chanting and singing – not for the camera, but because this is what they are here for.

They don’t even have tickets to the game, it seems. They are not Vancouverites. Where is BC Place? Let’s go there! And they race off in the opposite direction. They are still boys, but on the very verge of becoming men. They have this massive, untamed, restless, young group energy.

On an unusually empty Vancouver Art Gallery plaza, for a few quick seconds, they form a disorderly line and a girl in a short denim skirt takes their photo. Then they notice a shaved ice truck on the side of the plaza and run towards it, hopping, almost flying, over the benches on the way.

I walked away, towards my bus stop, and before I could realize why, I started crying. Yes, right there on Robson Street passing by the high-end fashion stores. The anniversary of D-Day had been a little over a week earlier. I remembered seeing a photo of young men, all about 18, on a boat. Also young faces. It’s a still black-and-white photo, but their young male energy is palpable. About 90% of them didn’t survive the day.

A pro-Hamas protester asked me once: “So, you are ok with innocent civilians dying at war?” He was so outraged that he could barely breathe, but It wasn’t the gotcha he thought it was. Only a spoiled, ignorant person, completely detached from reality, can think that wars are avoidable and that casualties are avoidable in wars.

Civilians die at war. Soldiers die at war; a soldier isn’t some lesser species, unworthy of living. A soldier doesn’t stop being innocent when he puts the uniform on. People die at war. Armed and unarmed people die at war. Innocent people die at war. It’s not a matter of whether they do; it’s only a matter of how many.

As I wait for the bus, I think about Iran, the MOU, the ballistic missiles, the terror proxies. These soccer fan boys are oblivious to any of it. I picture my own boy; he is only slightly younger, but similarly noisy and energetic; a little clumsy at times because he grew tall so suddenly and so fast that he isn’t fully used to it yet. He spares no thought for today’s war or last century’s war either. But at the end of the day, if it comes to that, it will be these smiley, naive boys going to war. I bite my lip and I pray to God that it doesn’t come to that. I don’t even know if I believe in God, but I pray to God that none of these boys have to get on the boats, planes, tanks…

And then I think of my friends’ sons and daughters on the front lines. And I feel so guilty, so ashamed of my stupid thoughts and my stupid tears. I look through the bus window, the sun is shining, cafes are full, Canada won the game 6:0, and this whole universe feels as artificial as a modern art exhibit.