Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has probably forgotten his promise to differ from Harper by basing decisions on evidence, to heed scientists, not fire them or use flawed databases, to restore the census long-form, and nurture reliable sources of information. Yet, his government has imposed sanctions against 27 Syrian officials, severing contact and freezing any local assets.
Foreign Minister Chrystia Freeland, whom PM Trudeau seems to regard as infallible, is reported by Canadian Press as sure that Assad used “indiscriminate

violence” against his people, despite his consistent denial, claiming instead that the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons (OPCW) had destroyed his government’s stock, after the 2013 Damascus (East Goutha) incident and Syria’s agreement with the UN to do so. No objective observer has come so firmly to blame Assad. His enemies assert that he caused repeated occurrences of poisoning. But why not blame his enemies, like Israel (Mossad) or Saudi Arabia, known to have sarin and a base (or bases) in Jordan, or Turkey; they know that this is a sure way of maligning Assad and changing Trump’s election promise to help eradicate ISIS. Prime Minister Justin Trudeau has probably forgotten his promise to differ from Harper by basing decisions on evidence, to heed scientists, not fire them or use flawed databases, to restore the census long-form, and nurture reliable sources of information. Yet, his government has imposed sanctions against 27 Syrian officials, severing contact and freezing any local assets.
Foreign Minister Chrystia Freeland, whom PM Trudeau seems to regard as infallible, is reported by Canadian Press as sure that Assad used “indiscriminate violence” against his people, despite his consistent denial, claiming instead that the Organization for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons (OPCW) had destroyed his government’s stock, after the 2013 Damascus (East Goutha) incident and Syria’s agreement with the UN to do so. No objective observer has come so firmly to blame Assad. His enemies assert that he caused repeated occurrences of poisoning. But why not blame his enemies, like Israel (Mossad) or Saudi Arabia, known to have sarin and a base (or bases) in Jordan, or Turkey; they know that this is a sure way of maligning Assad and changing Trump’s election promise to help eradicate ISIS.
Freeland and NATO should heed the statement in the preamble to the 2013 UN resolution on chemical weapons, viz.: “Reaffirming its strong commitment to the sovereignty, independence and territorial integrity of the Syrian Arab Republic…” and get out of Syria, and let the nation resolve its domestic problems without obstruction by hostile powers.
Canada’s action seems high-handed; there is no confirmation that the Assad Government deliberately gassed its citizens at Idlib, and no proven air strike. All we have is US White House rhetoric; strident declamations in the UN from Nikki Haley, the hawkish US representative; and US media inputs, after a delay long enough to concoct a likely fable – Mr. Trump’s “fake news”– all as expected. Goebbels would be envious, and Bilderberg proud.
The US wants to acquire Syria and Iran, the last stumbling blocks to its total control of the Middle East, and vigorously opposed. Hence the US litany that they “must go” and expensive efforts to produce supporting evidence! Remember the Bush build-up of anti-Iraq hype? Uncannily similar.
To replace Assad with a compliant head, a slave, like Temer in Brazil, CIA-backed “rebels” launched the revolt in Syria, which Assad, the elected President, resisted, as any leader would, like US President Lincoln in 1861-65, to restore order, good government and national unity. That it has taken so long confirms the massive US/NATO aid to rebels, fattening financiers of war and arms and munitions makers, while impoverishing ordinary Americans. Americans tend to slight foreign leaders. But Assad is far from stupid and fully knows that he will lose by attacking innocent people, worse yet when he is winning.
Trudeau’s government is excessively hawkish, as if to suck up to Trump, a unique act of sycophancy. Canadian PMs, pre-Harper, had an independent voice and usually acted in moderation in world affairs, not slavishly backing the US. By destroying a Syrian Air base, the US has stymied forensic studies to confirm its role in the alleged flight, and allowed the US to deposit enough sarin at the base, as evidence for later “proof” of guilt.
Could it be that the attack on Idlib was made with a drone, as in Yemen, and launched from an Israeli-Saudi site in Jordan, or Turkey, a suggestion ascribed to US soldiers in Syria.
Further intimidating the world and beckoning Armageddon, Trump dropped a MOAB megabomb on Afghanistan, while his Pacific fleet heads to frighten North Korea. Who’s next?
In less than three months Trump has wreaked major havoc on the world. Mind you, he did as he promised, got shafted on the healthcare bill and is now frothing at the bit to succeed in the others. But can he handle three major offensives? Not likely, with the mental lightweights he uses, like Jeffrey Lord on CNN: what a buffoon! Logic is not his trump suit; and reason has avoided him; while Nikki Haley rants at the UN, where her resolution was vetoed by Russia, a real irony that the world has only Russia to restrain the megalomaniacs.
Syria’s compliance with UN resolutions is not likely to be better than Israel’s; demands might be easier if the West treated it with equal respect, a thing not likely to happen as long as the Bilderberg agenda remains incomplete, Israel expands its influence over the West, maintains chemical weapons, and Corporations, Hollywood and their allies control US and Canadian media and money.

Miss Nellie loved her plants. Wherever she travelled, either on foot, or by bus, or in her youthful days before I was born, and when the trains were still running, she always returned home with a cutting from a plant, or a handful of seeds, or a “flowers-plant” with its roots gently but securely wrapped with damp newspaper.
Meet her on the road in the middle of the day and she would be too busy to greet the inquiring eye and the alert nose of a too-neighbourly housewife, who with time on her hands was showing all indications of wanting to idly stand by the front gate for at least one hour.

“Why hello, Miss Nellie! What making you walk away so fast this afternoon?” But Miss Nellie had no time to linger for gossip. She would wave quickly, flash her false teeth, and not stop to talk “shoo-shoo” over the neighbour’s front gate.
Instead, she continued with her rapid pace, her head and body bent forward, eyes focused ahead, one agile foot stepping quickly after the other so the heels of her shoes sent out the Morse code for busy, going “tock-tock, tock-tock” on the asphalt, heading home with a plant sticking out of her purse like a chicken wilted with the humidity, its stems and leaves similarly drooping like the brim of her wide, floppy hat.
Miss Nellie’s quick pace and her steps told us she was determined to find shade for both herself, and the latest addition in her purse, to the botanic garden that was her front and back yards.
She would mumble, “I don’t have time to talk right now. I have to go home and water my plants.”
My friend Big City and I were young boys then. Later in life I decided to give him this playful nickname after the famous character in Sam Selvon’s, The Lonely Londoners. Together we would follow Miss Nellie’s rapid pace along the street, having surmised correctly she was heading home with a newly acquired plant.
By then we knew the faster and more determined her pace, the more likely two things had occurred. One, either the plant was a really frail acquisition, and following the trauma of being uprooted, putting it quickly into a bucket of cool, nourishing water would make the difference between revival and death.
And secondly, and this was a more likely explanation for her haste, she had purloined a cutting (she kept a small, sharp knife in her purse for this purpose), and was hell-bent to her house with haste, pursued as she felt she was by imaginary law enforcement officials who were solely dedicated to apprehending plant-loving and opportunistic old ladies like herself.
In my day there were many ladies like Miss Nellie who roamed the land, constantly vigilant with roving eyes and ready knives, who stole cuttings, or filched seeds, at times uprooting an entire plant in the blink of an eyelid and with healthy muscularity, from public places as roadsides, or school yards, or even someone’s cherished front yard.
But mostly from those places that were landscaped outside government offices such as health and community centres, fire stations, and post offices. Or worse, not only for its outright theft, but for the nerves of steel it took for a law-abiding old lady to walk boldly up to the front door of a law enforcement building itself, and with a green-thumb wielding a shiny, sharp blade, to then with blatant disregard hack with murderous effort at an unwilling shrub, or to chop down half of an entire hedge of sweet-scented flowers from right out under the watchful eyes and the discerning noses of officers vigilant over our welfare, in whom we daily entrusted our well-being, the security of our houses and property, and indeed, the very tenuous lives we were living.
“See how fat her purse is this time? I wouldn’t be surprised if she has stolen a whole ‘cocoa-and-nut’ tree and hidden it inside her purse,” Big City said.
Even then I was at pains to explain naming basics to this disbelieving, defiant version of Big City.
“I have told you enough times. The coconut tree has nothing to do with the cocoa plant. And peanuts come from the ground. You’re confusing three different trees.”
“So why the tree is called a ‘cocoa-and-nut’ tree if it does not bear cocoa, or peanuts? You answer me that question!”
“It is not a ‘cocoa-and-nut’ tree. A coconut is not cocoa or peanut!”
We had arrived at Miss Nellie’s rainforest. The front yard was in the shadow of a canopy. Vines hanging to the floor trailed off to find solid rooting on the house. The wings of small birds flickered in the light penetrating the canopy. Miss Nellie’s yard was inaccessible, its entire front wall covered with the spiky, thorny bougainvillea.
Big City said: “We can’t cross the bog to get to Miss Nellie’s villa.”
“What did you say?”
“These vines – it’s ‘bog-and-villa’. We can’t cross this bog to get to her villa.”
I shook my head, side-to-side, with growing despair.

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