Canada's fear of Dissenters
from Paul Fromm, on how freedom of speech in
Canada has disappeared:
Dear Free Speech Supporter:
Elinor Caplan's Stasi, Canada Customs continues to
harass and hassle me every time I cross into Canada.
Since becoming publicly a part of Ernst Zündel's
defence team in early March, I have been a constant
target of the border snoops. Fat Elinor is a strident
Zionist, winner of the Yad Vashem "Woman of the Year"
Award in 1998. As I see it, it's punishment time
for defenders of free speech and anyone who crosses
the Zionist agenda.
On Thursday, October 9, I returned to Toronto by air
from a trip to the U.S. As usual, I was the only one
of about 50 passengers on my flight pulled over.
The Customs Stasi are not exactly hard workers. Of
seven agents present, two were sitting at their posts.
The others were chatting, drinking coffee. One seemed
to be catching a snooze. Few people are sent over for
secondary inspection. Some East Indians bring in
illegal gold and jewels; some Jamaicans or their drug
mules bring in marijuana or cocaine. No, the big
focus is not on dangerous goods but on dangerous
Few people, especially Third Worlders ("we don't
racially profile") are pulled over. The sad victims
are usually White, middle class and middle age
-- the very sort of person not likely to complain.
Recent press reports show that some of Caplan's Stasi
at this very airport, Pearson International, have even
been involved in drug smuggling themselves.
An eager young man is to be my official underwear
checker and clipping monitor. He goes through my
briefcase, clipping by careful clipping. My subversive
hoard is composed of articles from the NATIONAL POST,
THE GLOBE AND MAIL, and THE TORONTO SUN. You see, I
read and clip my backlog on flights. I had a few items
left over from my talk at David Irving's Real
History Conference (a tape of my speech on the Zündel
case is available for $6.00 from CAFE, Box 332,
Rexdale, ON., M9W 5L3). The programme of the Irving
conference and two photocopies of an article from a
book handed out by another speaker go into a growing
pile of questionable items.
After nearly an hour, I protest. "You have no mandate
to search my clippings. Newspaper clippings are not
drugs, weapons or undeclared goods. This is just
harassment." Busybody Billy -- none of the cowardly
censors, at least the grunts, will admit to having a
name -- is surprised. He has gone off to consult with
mysterious persons behind a wall on several occasions.
He finally returns with a Superintendent Crawford. At
least, this one has a name.
Crawford informs me that years ago, he used to be
involved in opening Ernst Zündel's mail from the U.S.
(Gee, I thought I'd missed the plane to a police state
like North Korea!)
Crawford seems apologetic. He quickly dismisses the
pile of clippings as of no interest and promises to
get me on my way as quickly as possible.
However, the thought police must have something to
show for their snooping and violation of my rights.
Thus, the latest victims of Canada's thought police
are a California monthly "Community News" published by
Walter Mueller of Sacramento, California,. I was
carrying the September issue and it had an article
on the arch Satan of Canada's new politically correct
religion -- Ernst Zündel. That was enough to have it
confiscated --or, in the bizarre Newspeak of Caplan's
Stasi, "detained" -- and sent off to Ottawa for
The second suspicious item that was seized was AMERICA
EXTINGUISHED: MASS IMMIGRATION AND THE DISINTEGRATION
OF AMERICAN CULTURE, a book by one of America's best
informed populist writers Dr. Samuel T. Francis,
editor of THE CITIZENS' INFORMER and, like me, a
Director of the Council of Conservative Citizens.
"This book was already cleared on several previous
searches," I protest to Supt.Crawford. It's no use.
With my "Notice of Detention" in hand, I finally
escape into the less-than-free Toronto air. The super
censors at thought control central have 30 days to
pore through COMMUNITY NEWS and AMERICA
to determine whether they constitute
propaganda" and should be banned from Canada.
On Thanksgiving morning, I find myself on an unusual
trip to Niagara Falls, N.Y. I have someone to see and
also must purchase a package of office supplies as
there are no Office Depots open in Canada on that
By late morning, I'm making my way back across the
border. The Customs official checks my licence plate.
After the usual questions about where I live, how long
was I away and how much did I buy, I'm directed over
for a secondary inspection. My total purchases were
$20 -- permissible for a short visit. I'm the lone
victim of a secondary search. No one comes to see me. I
wait 10 minutes and finally a female Customs employee
tells me there's a shift change and someone will
"help" me soon. [I don't need "help". I need to get
out of there.] I'm in a car park. A sign tells me
to turn the engine off. Why should I? If the Stasi are
going to inconvenience me, I'm going to keep the
engine on and listen to my Country and Western radio
The lanky Stasi who'd pulled me over approaches. He's
either on a coffee break or pit stop. "Does anyone
work here?" I ask. "I'm in a hurry."
"Someone will be out shortly," he snaps.
"Today?" I ask.
"Can't you read the sign. Turn off your engine."
I ignore him. "I'm listening to the radio while I
Eventually, a short cantankerous man with a balding
brush cut approaches. "Get out of the car," I'm
ordered. I do. "Step away." I do. "No, step up on
the sidewalk." I do.
Barney Rubble -- he has no name either -- searches the
trunk, the glove compartment, the floor. He doesn't
even look at my package of office supplies. He's
finished, obviously disappointed that he didn't find
whatever he was looking for.
"Why was I pulled over?" I ask. I get no answer. "It's
just political harassment." Rubble scoffs. "I see
you're picking on White males today." "Yes," he says
sarcastically." "I guess, I took a wrong turn and
ended up in Cuba," I say. "Do you have a name?" I ask.
"No," he snaps and turns and leaves. A moment later I
follow, thinking the door opens into the main Customs
house. However, it's a private kiosk where
he and the lanky one are talking or drinking a coffee.
Barney Rubble explodes. He comes flying at me. "You
get out of here. Leave!" "And a Happy Thanksgiving to
you, too," I shout as I speed away.