The Dance of Destiny: A Mother's Death and the Slumbering State

In the great northern expanse of Canada, where comfort breeds complacency and bureaucratic machinery grinds with the dull precision of a sleeping giant, a tale unfolds that speaks volumes of our modern malaise. A mother of six, branded with the cryptic initials F.J., has perished in a Turkish cell, far from the children whom the state, in its infinite wisdom, deemed worthy of salvation while condemning their mother to exile.

Behold how the shepherds of society, those who claim to protect the herd, sacrifice the wolf-mother! They fear her wildness, her potential for transformation, while embracing the docile sheep who pose no threat to their carefully constructed order.

The tale weaves itself thus: Global Affairs Canada, that grand temple of mediocrity where decisions are made by those who would rather count risks than embrace destiny, determined that this woman posed too great a threat to their carefully maintained garden of tranquility. They separated mother from child, a act of such calculated cruelty that it betrays the weakness of those who perpetrated it.

See how they cower behind their desks, these last men of bureaucracy! They who say "We have invented happiness" - and blink. They who would rather manage risk than face the storm of human potential.

Lawrence Greenspon, a voice crying out in the wilderness of legal proceedings, speaks of "unnecessary tragedy" - but what tragedy is necessary? The mother, deemed unworthy of return by those who slumber in their offices, found herself acquitted in Turkish courts only to perish mysteriously within 48 hours of her vindication.

In the land of the sleepers, where citizens drift through their days in peaceful ignorance, the machinery of state grinds on. Former CSIS analyst Phil Gurski speaks of resources and management, of surveillance and control - the very tools that keep the masses in their somnolent state. "Forty people to manage a threat," he declares, as if human souls were mere numbers in a ledger.

How they measure and calculate! How they weigh souls on the scales of their small fears! But what of the greater fear - the fear of becoming, of transformation, of rising above the common lot?

The children, now orphaned by policy and circumstance, reside with a foster family in Quebec, their mother's fate sealed by those who claim to protect them. The great irony unfolds: in attempting to protect their garden of earthly delights, the guardians of society have created precisely the kind of tragedy they sought to prevent.

Alex Neve, who witnessed the bond between mother and children in the Syrian camp of al-Roj, speaks of heartbreak and loss. Yet in the land of the sleepers, such words fall upon deaf ears, for they disturb the pleasant dreams of those who believe they have created the best of all possible worlds.

Let them sleep on, these contented ones! They who cannot imagine that safety might be found in danger, that life might flourish in risk, that greatness might emerge from chaos!

The official response comes wrapped in the silk of "privacy concerns" and "security risks" - those gentle euphemisms that mask the violence of state power. They speak of management and control, these last men who believe that all wild things must be tamed, all dangers must be contained, all risks must be eliminated.

And now, in death's stark presence, they call for investigations - as if truth could be found in committees and reports, as if wisdom could emerge from the grinding wheels of bureaucracy. Senator Kim Pate and others demand answers, but they seek them in the wrong places, in the wrong ways, with the wrong questions.

What investigation can reveal the truth of a soul's worth? What committee can measure the cost of separated bonds? What report can capture the tragedy of potential denied?

The story ends, as all stories must, but it leaves behind a testament to our time - a time when safety is preferred to strength, when comfort is chosen over courage, when the management of risk has replaced the embrace of destiny. F.J.'s death stands as an indictment of a society that would rather sleep than wake, rather manage than transform, rather control than create.

Let this tale be a lightning bolt to pierce the slumber of the satisfied! Let it awaken those who still can wake, who still can rise, who still can become!

And so the wheel turns, and the sleepers sleep on, dreaming their dreams of security and control, while somewhere, in the vast expanse of possibility, the spirit of transformation watches and waits for those brave enough to wake, to rise, to become.