by Gillian Smith-Clark for The 44 North
Editor-in-Chief
"Young Canadians, in particular, are acutely aware of this permeability. Many consume U.S. news in real time, encounter the same viral footage, and experience the same unease when democratic norms appear fragile. The fear is not that Canada is identical to the United States, but that no democracy is immune to erosion—especially when power begins to justify itself rather than explain itself."
“Yet our greatest threat isn’t the outsiders among us,
but those among us who never look within.
Fear not those without papers,
but those without conscience.”
—“For Alex Jeffrey Pretti, Murdered by I.C.E., January 24, 2026”
In the wake of at least 32 people dying in the custody of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) in 2025, came the deadly killings of two civilians—Renée Nicole Good and Alex Pretti—in early 2026. The Orwellian echoes in the Trump administration’s response to both deaths reverberated far beyond the borders of the United States.
In Canada, and elsewhere, the reaction has been a mixture of rage, grief, disbelief, and deep unease. Not only because lives were lost, but because of how they were lost—and which lives were publicly named, mourned, or quietly omitted. Conflicting official accounts, disputed video evidence, victim-blaming, and the rapid hardening of narratives left little room for accountability, introspection, or restraint.
What has also gone largely unexamined is who has been missing from much of the coverage. Keith Porter, a Black man, and Silverio Villegas Gonzalez, a Mexican immigrant, were also killed in the context of immigration enforcement—yet their names have been far less widely reported. Whether through indifference or intention, this silence compounds the violence itself. It suggests that some deaths demand explanation, while others are simply absorbed into the background noise of enforcement.
What makes these events so unsettling is not simply that violence occurred; it is what they suggest about a broader shift in how state power is exercised and justified. When lethal force is deployed against civilians in the name of law enforcement, and transparency and accountability lag behind, trust erodes quickly—not only within the communities directly affected, but across borders. Minneapolis, in this sense, is not an isolated flashpoint. It is a critical juncture.
Over the past several years, immigration enforcement in the United States has become increasingly militarized, with expanded authority, aggressive tactics, and limited public oversight. Federal agencies tasked with civil enforcement now operate with levels of force once reserved for national security operations. At the same time, rapid expansion and accelerated hiring have raised troubling questions about training, qualifications, and oversight. These shifts have unfolded gradually, often justified as necessary responses to crisis or disorder. But their cumulative effect is profound: the normalization of state violence in spaces where civilians expect protection, not confrontation.
For Canadians watching closely, this raises uncomfortable questions. Canada often defines itself in contrast to the United States — as more restrained, more human-rights-focused, more humane in its approach to immigration and policing. And in many respects, those distinctions matter. But proximity matters too. The two countries share deeply intertwined roots: colonialism, families, economies, media ecosystems, and political currents. What happens in the U.S. does not stay there—not culturally, not economically, and not psychologically.
Young Canadians, in particular, are acutely aware of this permeability. Many consume U.S. news in real time, encounter the same viral footage, and experience the same unease when democratic norms appear fragile. The fear is not that Canada is identical to the United States, but that no democracy is immune to erosion—especially when power begins to justify itself rather than explain itself.
This broader sense of rupture was articulated by Mark Carney in his recent address at the World Economic Forum. Speaking to an audience grappling with global instability, Carney argued that the assumptions underpinning the postwar international order—shared rules, dependable allies, and a baseline commitment to human rights—can no longer be taken for granted. The world, he suggested, has entered a period in which power is more frequently asserted than constrained.
In that context, Carney called on so-called “middle power” countries like Canada to rethink their posture—not by retreating into isolation, and not by clinging uncritically to old alignments, but by building strategic autonomy: the capacity to act independently in defence of national interests while remaining anchored to core values such as human rights, sovereignty, and the rule of law. He acknowledged the understandable impulse toward protectionism, but cautioned:
“A world of fortresses will be poorer, more fragile, and less sustainable. And there is another truth: if great powers abandon even the pretense of rules and values for the unhindered pursuit of their power and interests, the gains from transnationalism will become harder to replicate.”
Strategic autonomy is often misunderstood as a turn inward. In reality, it is about resilience and choice. It means diversifying partnerships so that no single relationship becomes a point of vulnerability. It means ensuring that economic security and diplomatic decisions reflect democratic values rather than sheer necessity. And it means strengthening institutions at home so that rights are not contingent on political mood or external pressure.
The relevance of this framework becomes clearer when viewed alongside events like those in Minneapolis. When even close allies act unpredictably—or in ways that challenge shared norms—alignment alone is no longer sufficient. Despite the claims of a vocal minority, values cannot be outsourced, nor can accountability be assumed. Strategic autonomy, seen in this light, is not about distancing Canada from the world, but about ensuring that engagement does not come at the cost of founding principles.
Why This Matters Now
Borders don’t stop instability.
Events in the U.S.—especially those involving state violence and civil liberties—reverberate outward and cross borders. For Canadians, geographic and cultural proximity means exposure, whether we welcome it or not.
Values require action.
Human rights and accountability depend on both institutions and individuals willing to defend them, particularly when norms begin to erode elsewhere.
Strategic autonomy is about protection, not isolation.
It is the ability to act with clarity and independence in a world where power is increasingly transactional.
Young people are inheriting this landscape.
The generation coming of age now faces overlapping crises—democratic backsliding, climate instability, and rising state coercion. Understanding how power operates is no longer abstract. It is urgent and personal.
Final Thoughts
What is unfolding in Minneapolis is not simply an American story, nor is it one Canadians can afford to watch with detached concern. It is a reminder that rights often erode quietly before they disappear loudly—and that proximity to power does not guarantee protection from its excesses.
It is also a moment to think seriously about what both our shared and individual values actually are. A starting point may be the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which reminds us that “the recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world.”
Canada’s task in this moment is neither complacency nor moral superiority, but clarity: recognizing that human rights, accountability, and dignity must be actively defended, even when doing so is uncomfortable or costly.
Strategic autonomy, as Carney argued, is ultimately about responsibility—the responsibility to choose principle over convenience, to resist the normalization of violence, and to insist that power remains answerable to the people it claims to serve.
That work is unfinished. It must not be abdicated. And it belongs, in different ways, to all of us.
We can all insist on naming what institutions often erase—the people who disappear not only from life, but from memory:
“Somewhere, in the pitched deep of our grief,
crouches our power, the howl where we begin,
straining upon the edge of the crooked crater
of the worst of what we’ve been.”
—“For Renée Nicole Good,”
killed by I.C.E., January 7, 2026
