Madness – Hungry Canada

Joe:
This place is losing its mind, Nelly. Homes aren’t homes anymore—they’re chips on a casino table. People work all week just to stand still, and still the floor drops out from under them.

Nelly:
I feel it too. Everyone’s tired, but nobody’s resting.

Joe:
A third of the people worry about food now. Food. In a country that grows wheat to the horizon. Parents choosing between rent and groceries like it’s normal. Like it’s not a quiet emergency.

Nelly:
That kind of pressure makes people shrink inside themselves.

Joe:
Yeah. The economy talks numbers, but the numbers don’t talk back about dignity. Houses cracked into debt traps. Neighbours lining up at food banks pretending it’s temporary, pretending it’s not structural madness.

Nelly:
And you’re angry because you know it doesn’t have to be this way.

Joe:
I’m angry because it feels engineered. Like the system forgot what it’s for. Shelter. Bread. A future you can plan more than three months ahead.

Nelly:
Still—you see people helping each other. That hasn’t died.

Joe:
No. That’s the miracle. The system’s broken, but the people aren’t. Not yet. And that’s why it hurts so much to watch.



Joe:
We used to be G7—one of the richest countries on Earth. That meant something once. It meant security. It meant you could work, save a little, breathe.

Nelly:
And now?

Joe:
Now it’s like the title stayed, but the substance leaked out. Paper wealth. Inflated numbers. Real people falling through the cracks while economists argue semantics on TV.

Nelly:
I don’t understand how hunger even enters the conversation here.

Joe:
That’s the madness. Look around—endless wheat fields, Nelly. You can fly for hours over gold oceans of grain. We feed the world. And somehow we’re starving at home.

Nelly:
That’s not a supply problem.

Joe:
No. It’s a distribution problem. A priorities problem. We turned food into a commodity first and a human right second. Maybe third. Maybe not at all.

Nelly:
It feels like betrayal when abundance exists.

Joe:
Exactly. You can accept hardship in a poor land. But this? This is a rich country pretending scarcity is natural. Like hunger just… happens. It doesn’t. It’s designed.

Nelly:
And people still blame themselves.

Joe:
That’s the cruelest part. A nation rich in land, poor in mercy. Wheat rotting in silos while families ration dinner like they’re at war. If that’s progress, it’s hollow.

Nelly:
So what do you do with that truth?

Joe:
You say it out loud. You refuse to normalize it. Because once a rich country accepts hunger as normal, it’s already fallen—no matter what the rankings say.

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Adriatique

Joe leans on the stone balustrade, the Adriatic breathing blue below them.

Joe:
“Nelly… how come you’ve never sung in Croatia? Never let your voice drift over the blue Adriatic—the same blue as your eyes. It would wreck people, in the best way.”

She smiles, half-shy, half-curious.

Nelly:
“I don’t know. Life just… pulled me elsewhere.”

Joe:
“They love you there. Truly. You remind them of Gospa—not the marble kind, the living kind. Gentle. Protective. Like a presence that shows up when the sea is calm and when it’s rough.”

She looks out at the water, sunlight flickering like notes on a staff.

Nelly:
“That’s a heavy thing to say.”

Joe:
“Only because it’s true. You’d sing once, and they’d swear the coast remembered you. Like you’d always been part of it.”

The wind carries salt and promise. She doesn’t answer—just lets the blue look back at her.

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Hand of God Healing

Joe looks at the frozen strip of land like it’s already been looted.

JOE:
“I can’t build a garden in Canada, Nelly. Not a real one. And even if I did—what’s the point?”

Nelly turns to him.

NELLY:
“What do you mean?”

Joe lets out a dry laugh.

JOE:
“I mean it would get stolen. All of it. Bit by bit. Tomatoes gone overnight. Herbs ripped out by the roots. Someone hopping the fence at dawn telling themselves they deserve it more.”

He gestures to the neighborhood.

JOE (cont’d):
“You grow food here, you’re not a gardener—you’re a donor. Unofficial food bank with no locks.”

Nelly studies his face.

NELLY:
“That sounds like mistrust.”

JOE:
“That’s hunger.”

He exhales slowly.

JOE (cont’d):
“My family home in Croatia—completely different. You plant something, it’s still there in the morning. Neighbors respect it. They’ve got their own gardens. No one’s circling your tomatoes like vultures.”

He shakes his head.

JOE:
“Here? People are desperate. Canada’s slipping into a famine and everyone’s pretending it’s just a ‘cost-of-living issue.’ Ten million people going to food banks, Nelly. Of course it gets stolen. Hunger doesn’t ask permission.”

A pause.

NELLY:
“So you don’t even feel safe growing food.”

JOE:
“Safe? No. What I’d feel is watched.”

He looks around again.

JOE (cont’d):
“You fence it, you’re selfish. You don’t fence it, it’s gone. Either way, you’re the bad guy.”

He scoffs.

JOE:
“And while people are stealing tomatoes to survive, you’ve got Rockefeller stooges in white coats telling everyone health comes from a prescription.”

Nelly sighs.

NELLY:
“Doctors.”

JOE:
“Quacks. Too many of them. They treat symptoms and invoice despair.”

He softens, just a little.

JOE (cont’d):
“A garden is supposed to give you dignity. Here, it turns you into a target.”

Silence settles.

NELLY:
“And Croatia?”

Joe’s voice drops.

JOE:
“In Croatia, growing food meant security. Here, it just reminds you how fragile everything’s become.”

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