Despite promises made public and made to me privately over the decades, I still have not been notified of why the Government of Canada teamed with Jewish Central, the foremost terrorist organization of all time, and robbed me of my entire adult life through a regime of persecution that makes the Holocaust look like a game played by children to amuse themselves.
This is causing me to hark back to moments in my journey
through hell; to instances that refuse to slide into oblivion along with what
else is beginning to fade from my memory as I move onward into old age. Amid
all this, however, a series of moments I still remember vividly began to unfold
when Professor Jay Leyda, who considered me to be the best student he ever had,
wanted me to move to the United States where he said I’ll do very well. To that
end, he gave me the name and phone number of a person I should call in New York
when I get there; someone who’ll guide me to play it right and succeed.
Given that long distance communication by telephone was
not done as easily then as today, I did not call. Instead, I filled a shoulder bag
with clothing and took the bus going to New York City. Long before we get
there, something happened that told me it was not going to be an ordinary trip.
The bus stopped in Buffalo, New York and was boarded by an officer of the
border patrol. He walked around looking into the faces of young men as if
trying to identify someone. He found him, and it was me. He asked if that was
the only bag I had, and I said yes. He took it to the booth, came back ten
minutes later, gave it back to me and allowed the bus to go on its way.
It was afternoon when we arrived in New York City. I
looked around for the nearest hotel where I rented a room equipped with a
telephone I could use. To my dismay, I discovered that the phone number I had
with me was not a direct line to the person I came to talk to. It was that of
the switchboard where the receptionist spent time trying to locate the person
whose name I gave her. She finally reached the office where he was working. Like
getting kicked in the gut, I heard the man’s assistant inform me that he was on
vacation, and will be back in two weeks.
I spent the afternoon and early evening watching local
television. As I tried to go out and sample the nightlife of New York City, someone
grabbed me by the collar and told me to stay in because something’s happening,
and it’s dangerous to be out there at this time. I went back to my room and
watched television but saw nothing happen that was unusual. I reasoned that
after the Buffalo incident, American security agents were told to keep an eye
on me. They feared that if something happened to me, even by accident, they’ll
be blamed for it. And so they did what they could to protect me.
The next day I took the bus headed for Toronto, and the
return trip turned out to be even more bizarre than it had already been. We
stopped at the terminal of a small town where a number people came off the bus,
and new ones boarded it. One of those was a weasel-like, very Jewish-looking
diminutive man. As I was sitting on the right side of the bus near the window,
he sat beside me on my left. The bus started moving again but filled me with
suspicion because the driver seemed to negotiate the streets of the small town
rather than head for the highway. The bus stopped and was boarded by a big,
bodybuilder kind of man that happened to be of African descent. He sat behind
the weasel as if to protect him from I don’t know what.
An hour later we were on the highway when the Jew first
addressed me. He said he was of Lebanese descent, and his mother, who was still
alive, liked to cook Middle Eastern foods. She gave him rolls of stuffed grape
leaves, considered a delicacy in the region. Thinking that he would not dare
poison me in a bus full of people, I ate the thing to go along and see what
exactly he was trying to accomplish. He revealed his hand when he started
talking about contraband. At times he seemed to ask if I were engaged in such
activities; at other times he seemed to ask how interested I might be to engage
in such activities. I played dumb and asked him if he was trying to smuggle his
mother’s stuffed leaves into Canada without paying import duty. He shut up.
Years later, I had moved from Toronto to Montreal.
Sporting a beard and walking alone on the street near where I lived, I
encountered Pierre Elliot Trudeau, the Prime Minister of Canada. He too was
walking on the street but not alone. Walking along a few meters away was his
bodyguard. Guess who that was? It was none other than the weasel-like, very
Jewish-looking diminutive man, the dumb-dumb who fed me grape leaves and tried to
entrap me by enticing me to break the law.
I mentioned my name and Trudeau recognized it. We
exchanged a few pleasant words, and moved on. A few weeks later, I saw him on
television, and he was sporting a beard. I knew whom he was copycatting and
told nobody till now.