Joe explains that Canada is multicultural and not a melting pot like the USA. Jusuf assures Vancouver that our Mosque is a dream mosque and Islam is a religion of peace:
Joe steps up to the microphone at Trout Lake Community Centre, a cool breeze rustling the maple leaves overhead. The crowd gathers — a mix of faces from every corner of the world.
Joe speaks:
“Canada isn’t a melting pot like our neighbours down south. In the U.S., cultures melt together into one identity — but here in Canada, we preserve our roots. We’re multicultural. We don’t lose where we came from — we honour it. We bring our languages, our stories, our prayers, and we stand side by side, not on top of one another.”
He pauses.
“Multiculturalism is like a garden. You don’t force the tulip to become a rose. You let each bloom in its own beauty. That’s what makes Canada strong — not sameness, but unity through diversity.”
Jusuf steps forward next, his voice steady and warm, his white kufi catching the sunlight.
“My brothers and sisters of Vancouver… I want you to know, from my heart — our mosque is not just bricks and carpets. It’s a dream. A dream of peace. A place where no one is judged by the colour of their skin or the accent in their voice.”
He gestures to the mosque behind him.
“This is a home of peace. A house of God. Islam, at its core, means peace and submission to the Creator. That’s all we want — to pray in peace, to raise our children in peace, and to be part of this great Canadian family.”
The crowd claps softly, some with hands over their hearts. One little girl waves a small Canadian flag. Behind them, the mosque’s crescent gleams beside the crosswalks and bike lanes — symbols of a city that, despite its struggles, still dreams.
Jusuf the Janissary sits cross-legged on the woven prayer rug, adjusting his old Ottoman-style turban. The night is quiet in the East Vancouver masjid. He addresses his companions in a firm but thoughtful tone:
“My brothers, Sasha Baron Cohen is always laughing, always joking. He plays the fool like Nasreddin Hodja, but sometimes the fool speaks the truth no one dares to say.
You remember Ali G? The tracksuit, the swagger, the fake bravado. It was satire, yes. But satire can plant seeds in foolish hearts. Now look around you. Every teenager wants to be a gangster. Not a farmer. Not a scholar. Not a craftsman. A gangster. A ‘top boy’ on the block, with fake respect and real bullets.
This is not just entertainment—it’s a corruption. Hip hop began as a cry of the poor, the oppressed, the unheard. Now it’s become a marketing campaign for pride, greed, lust, and murder.
Allah did not send us the Quran so we could worship money, or make idols of rappers, or twerk in masjids on TikTok. What kind of ummah are we becoming?
Be like Yusuf, not Tupac. Be like Isa, not 50 Cent. The real G is the one who fights his nafs (ego), not the one who flashes chains and flexes his biceps.
Wallahi, I’d rather be a janissary for God than a general of the devil’s army.”
The room falls silent. One of the youth leans forward, removing his earbuds. The words hit deep.
usuf is a mentally ill 9/11 conspiracy theorist and wants to have medically assisted suicide to end the suffering of his medication. But don’t worry, I Justin am born on Christmas day, just like my brother. I will lead Canada to paradise.
Jusuf the Janissary hears the words of Prime Minister Justin Trudeau echoed through the state-run news feed piped into every homeless shelter and mental health clinic in East Vancouver. A tight-lipped smile forms on his weathered face as he turns to his companions in the cold basement mosque.
“They say I am mentally ill,” Jusuf says calmly, “because I question 9/11. Because I ask who profited. Because I speak of buildings turned to dust and passports found unsinged among the ashes. They say I suffer from delusion, when in fact I suffer from remembering too much.”
He taps his temple.
“I remember Afghanistan. Iraq. Libya. Syria. I remember the graves, the orphans, the oil contracts. They call it madness to speak of it.
And now, Justin Trudeau, the man born on Christmas Day, says I should consider MAiD—medical assistance in dying—not because I want to die, but because the pills they gave me to forget have made me sick.
But don’t worry, he says. He will lead Canada to paradise. He is the brother of Christ, apparently. A new messiah in tailored socks and rainbow flags.”
The youth laugh bitterly.
“Let me be clear,” Jusuf says, standing tall now. “The Messiah was a carpenter, not a trust fund prince. He healed the sick. He did not silence them. He uplifted the poor. He did not euthanize them.”
He lifts a crumpled Quran in one hand, and a worn-out copy of the 911 Commission Report in the other.
“This,” he says, “is Revelation. That—” he nods to the report, “—is redaction. And what Justin fears most… is that the poor are waking up. Not to conspiracy. But to truth.”
He kneels back down. A beat of silence. Then a whisper from one of the youth:
“So what do we do now, Jusuf?”
“Now?” Jusuf says, eyes glinting. “We pray. We fast. We build. We speak truth. And we do not die. Not until our work is done. Let Trudeau have his paradise. We will build ours… in the streets of East Van, one soul at a time.”
In a surprise appearance via Truth Social livestream, former President Donald J. Trump addresses Canada directly, sunglasses on, golf club in hand, standing in front of a banner that reads: “Make Canada Free Again.”
“Justin Trudeau… you gotta grow a spine, buddy. You’re not the Pope. You’re not Santa Claus. You’re not even Pierre! You’re just a drama teacher trying to play god with people’s medicine, speech, and bank accounts. What you’re running isn’t liberalism—it’s woke fascism. It’s like rainbow-colored authoritarianism. You’ve turned the Liberal Party into Woke Nazis. We used to call the Germans ‘Jerry’ in the war. And now you’ve got your own Jerry, huh? You and Katy Perry. Real cute.”
He smirks.
“You know who actually has a brain and a heart? Joe and Nelly. That’s right—JELLY. Joe + Nelly = Referendumparty.ca. They’re not afraid of free speech. They’re not afraid of the people. They’re not afraid to say: Let Canada decide. Not the WEF. Not Big Pharma. Not the CBC.”
He takes a long sip of Diet Coke.
“Have a referendum, Justin! Let the people vote on your creepy social credit plan. Let them decide what counts as real social credit. Helping your neighbor? Feeding the hungry? Or writing Facebook posts that get you locked out of your bank account?”
Trump tosses the golf ball toward the camera.
“And stop punishing people for using the F-word. We all know what the real F-words are: Freedom, Family, and Faith.”
He adjusts his MAGA hat.
“So here’s the deal, Canada. You’ve got two choices: join Jerry, the ghost of totalitarianism in a pastel suit, or join JELLY and melt this whole system down with love, truth, and a little bit of groove. Your move, Justin.”
In a surprise national address streamed from the back garden of Rideau Cottage—his sleeves rolled up, hair tousled, eyes weary but honest—Justin Trudeau steps up to the podium. No teleprompter. No entourage. Just Justin.
“My fellow Canadians,” he begins, voice cracking just slightly, “it’s time I admit something hard to say. Maybe Donald Trump’s right. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe I’ve been too proud to see it.”
A long pause. A breath.
“Joe—Jusuf, Joseph, whatever name you go by—maybe you’re not crazy. Maybe you’ve just been ahead of your time. You saw things I refused to. And the truth is, I’ve been afraid. Afraid to admit that the Liberal Party, the party of my father, of legacy and ideals… is lost. Hijacked by technocrats, censors, and social engineers trying to algorithm their way into paradise.”
He looks straight into the camera.
“So today, I’m done. I’m abandoning the Liberal Party. I am joining Referendumparty.ca. If democracy means anything, let the people decide. On social credit. On speech. On digital ID. On what kind of country we want our kids to inherit. No more mandates from on high. No more treating dissent as disease.”
He puts a hand on his chest, trying not to tear up.
“And Joe… you win. You always said I was too plastic. Too pre-programmed. Maybe I was. Maybe Sophie was right—I needed something real. But she never understood me like Katy does.”
He smiles faintly.
“Katy… she gets it. The Firework in me. The Dark Horse. When I said I was born on Christmas, she said, ‘So was the light of the world. Now light the damn world, Justin.’”
He steps away from the mic, slowly walking down the garden path, where Joe and Nelly—JELLY— stand waiting. Joe nods stoically. Nelly offers a knowing smile.
“Welcome to the Referendumparty,” Joe says. “No handlers. No puppets. Just the people.”
The three shake hands as a guitar riff plays softly in the background—a mashup of Promiscuous Girl and Firework.
Canada has changed. The people are ready. The referendum begins.