Yet where is this overholding? That’s what I want to talk about today. Why?

Because I want to underhold (entertain) you, and perhaps myself as well.

Why do people entertain each other, or hold forth among themselves? Well, there’s curiosity about stories and information. Most members of Homo Sapiens-kind are affected by this.

What’s politics up to?
How are things in order over at neighbour Stettler’s marriage?
What, did the order get mixed up?

But entertainment can do much more than just exchange stories. In the old days, such people were called “conferenciers,” or simply entertainers. People who, for a few hours, made life pleasant, exciting, or downright delightful. Then a person becomes under-held. Through a conversation or a delightful evening.

So was that the original idea, when it comes to under-holding? No, it wasn’t.

The first idea behind building the verb “to underhold” was to support someone, or to keep something in working order, or to provide for it.

Oh, really?

Of course. Just think about why we speak and write of road maintenance, or maintenance paid through alimony.
That was the necessary, original version — maintenance making itself useful.
Only much later, somewhere along humanity’s long road, did the wish come along: to pass the time pleasantly.

Entertainment, on one hand, brings joy — and on the other, maintenance makes roads and lives safer. And safer.

So where is the word “overholding”?
If a conversation or a clown act can keep someone’s head above water, wouldn’t that term be fitting? The Duden shrugs its dog-eared shoulders. “Never heard of it.”

That’s odd. If a term begins with “under,” then surely its upper cousin, named “over,” should exist too. Suppose he did exist, just more hidden away — what would this cousin get up to all day long?

Overholding as a disposition? Language could stand to be a little more consistent: where one stands below, one should stand above too. Where there’s an Under, there should be an Over. Best case, one with holding.

This cousin is what I wanted to become, even as a child. As a teenager, I heard the question far too often: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I didn’t quite understand the point of the word, and understood the questioner’s motive even less. “But I already am somebody!” my adolescent mind would protest, a little annoyed.

What’s more, the term “overholder” was already missing from the Duden back then.

Still, I had a clear picture back then of what my future could look like. I wanted to become an overholder. That is, a person who entertains people with holding, but without any need for recognition. No, not from the stage, but seen from the wings, or the background. In Basel, they’re called the “vom Daigg” — old, established money that stays anonymous and still manages to accomplish quite a bit. I’m not just thinking of the Oeris, since they’re known by name and occasionally caught in the spotlight of a donor plaque. No, I mean those anonymous, quietly amused people who make things better for everyone.

One example that comes to mind is the concert hall at the Stadtkasino. Whenever a tram came rattling down the Steinenberg and its wheels began to screech around the curve, the listening pleasure in the hall was over. This bothered a wealthy person in the audience too. For one whole summer, the tracks along the Steinenberg and around the curve toward Barfüsserplatz were torn up and cushioned with springs. The idea was that the tram’s vibrations would no longer be felt during a concert. In my mind, in my imagination, I can see that first concert after the tracks got their spring treatment, when not a single disruptive vibration clouded the pleasure. And that anonymous spectator in the hall enjoys the concert as pure experience. And nobody knows that this person made the new sonic pleasure possible: an overholder.

Overholders of all countries, unite — and cushion many tragedies.

That would have been my dream job.

I was only missing one thing: a fortune worth millions.

^{Tracks rebuilt at the Steinenberg in Basel, Switzerland by Bertschmann AG}

At some point one of these bearded fellows had a thought, and immediately sensed it was hyper-powerful. He lowered his voice and whispered the not-yet-clearly-defined idea into the other men’s ears.

“How about, gentlemen, we hold a demo that leads to a cracy, and so hand rule over to the people?”

Ouch, this idea nearly brought about the twilight of the gods, because Zeus had extremely well-trained ears. And spies. At least I think so.

So, so — people’s rule was founded and grounded in sunny Greece, was it? Well, the newly defined term democracy had a subtitle, to make the matter a bit clearer. I don’t know the ancient Greek phrase, but translated it means “participation in the forming of political will.” Though — no, the Greeks would never have gotten this tapeworm of a sentence past their lips. They’d have written a fat book out of it, if the printing press had existed yet.

I’m especially fond of the first half of democracy. When the people are offered possibilities, by way of demonstration, for how every single capable citizen might take part in the affairs of the authorities — how appealing is that? Yes, the word “rule” takes some getting used to, since ruling sounds drastic. On the other hand, the demo shows how seriously citizens are taken when they’re asked their opinion on matters of government. The system of demo and cracy has developed dramatically further since then.

Say the citizenry isn’t particularly fond of this or that behaviour from the government. Then they simply reach for the tools of democracy and organize a demonstration in the street. Strikes and protests included. That way, misconduct gets rubbed loudly and plainly under the rulers’ noses.

Well, bravo — that’s demonstratively called the evolution of humanism, and it works.

Looking more closely at the term democracy and its effects, a faint smile tends to creep across many an observer’s face. Because under the philosophical microscope, democracy means nothing other than “the power of the people over the people.”

Originally it simply stood for the common weal. Full stop. And this “weal” kept watch over the authorities, so that those authorities wouldn’t plan, or even commit, any “weal-lessness” against their own people. But at some point in modern times, this loose kind of demo-and-cracy got declared a political system. A system usually stands for systematic execution. Yet here, exactly the opposite happened.

Democracy as a form of government wrestles with variants of the original idea. The grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the Greek idea barely resemble each other today. Mostly, the democratic variants have been laid out differently from nation to nation.

Why? Because the people run the show? Yes, that’s certainly part of the variant-fantasy.

No, that’s not something I want to get into this morning at half past five. But the idea itself is fascinating, when people are willing to try experiments. That’s called progress and process — when even nations can be persuaded that a better political landscape can emerge if citizens get to take part in it. Not just as taxpayers, but as co-creators.

A demonstration of democracy for planet Earth?

Gladly.

^{Von Dashing24 - Eigenes Werk, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=160852381}

Oh yes, I’m happy to be odd. Someone who follows gut feeling rather than general trend. What, flashy? No, that’s not the point I’m after. My own kind of living has to do with the way of life. That doesn’t require wisdom, though a little wisdom never hurt anyone.

So what would be the alternative to oddness? Ah yes, the uniform, the even, the unremarkable life with style. Uniform is a word that breathes down my neck. Not because of the fabric — because of what it demands. When the uniform life is demanded, imagination and creativity are the first to be left behind. And they slowly wither away. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time that creativity and the extraordinary have found themselves in the crosshairs. It has never worked though, this attempt to root out these two traits of being human. Creativitators have survived quite well in the underground of society too.

Yes, it takes some courage to turn toward an individual, odd kind of life. The joy taken in oddness makes other people somewhat suspicious and irritated. Why is that, though? No one takes up too much space in the visibility of daily life. The odd ones take up exactly as much room in their surroundings as uniform or normal beings do on our not-so-grey planet. And yet, in plain view, they’re the ones who give off a feeling for living that makes people restless. They make full use of their freedom to shape their lives however they please. As long as the oddness poses no threat to life, limb, or one’s ethical sense, how then is “That just won’t do!” justified?

There’s a story from my boyhood I’ve never forgotten. The three-year-old child, that is, me, sat in the Globus department store, right in the middle of the fashion floor, on the bottom step of a staircase. My mother, the seamstress, was once again on the hunt for clothes she could sew herself on her machine.

Odd, my mum.

Suddenly a bright yellow something appeared between the racks of clothing. My child’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets trying to place this odd and thoroughly eye-catching being somewhere. The heavily made-up face, an enormous, brightly coloured pair of glasses with a thick frame, and the womanly movements were all being put on display by a man. I had no drawer to file him in. My child’s brain searched, found none, and gave up. Who or what was that? My mother’s answer was: “That’s the odd fashion designer from Rheinsprung.”

What left me in happy wonder then, and still does now, is the courage to bear the lightness of being in one’s own kind.

Because one’s very own kind is always manifold.

Kind also means art.

And artists have never properly learned to spell “conformity.”

When my gaze, with or without a sideways glance, lands on someone odd, my curiosity, my wonder, and with it my interest are awakened. Isn’t that a direct invitation to freedom and to breathing easier, when someone can live out and enjoy the peculiarities of their personality?

No corset. No armour. No prison. Only the sheer delight in a life of outrageous diversity lures the individuals out of hiding.

“There’s nothing to hide here,” Fred Spillmann would call out today, somewhere between the racks of clothing.

And he’s right.

^{Patrick Fockler and Glenn Marais - for instance.}

The landlords: St. Mary Magdalene in Schomberg and Christ Church in Kettleby form the Anglican Parish of Lloydtown. Their priest is Rev. Gregory Fiennes-Clinton, known in the parish as “Father Greg.” Lloydtown, according to Wikipedia, is the site of the Rebellion of 1837, said to have been carried by reformers around Jesse Lloyd.

Jack sent me a footnote afterwards — the best kind. Lloydtown was indeed one of the places where the Upper Canada Rebellion of 1837 was organized, with Jesse Lloyd, the village founder, as one of its leaders. The complaint: a small, closed circle called the Family Compact held the political, economic and judicial power. The rebels lost. Lloyd fled south and died in exile. The idea stayed. Lord Durham’s report followed, and in 1848 responsible government. A country that took a few wrong turns, then learned to settle such arguments in parliament. Even a Swiss, with a referendum for everything, can respect that.

Well now — John and I, invited into a stronghold of rebellion? How exciting is that? Mind you, the rebels of back then aren’t available anymore, I’ll guess blindly. But the people in the hall were alive and kicking. And wide-awake with interest.

Jack and Kim asked whether I’d have a conversation in front of the Schomberg audience about my journey from Swiss to Canadian. Anyone who knows me probably knows that at words like conversation and communication, I’d never shake my head no. John and I decided on an interview instead of a lecture. John asks, I answer. John was also the man keeping strict control of the schedule. Because rambling on is one of my beloved hobbies.

At eleven in the morning, the first visitors surfaced in the hall. John, Jack, and I inspected the site of the interview attempt — screen, projector, and a large visible clock — this we deemed the essential infrastructure.

And what was talked about? John asks me the first question. Well, as a grateful Swiss-Canadian and a great believer in serendipity, I spoke of my journey from Basel to Newmarket. “The Swiss Who Came to Stay” was the title of the invitation.

One word runs through my stories like a red thread through a sweater: serendipity. My dear friend Theresa taught me the term and explained it. Naturally, I spoke about the city that held me under its wing for sixty years. Basel is a bordering border city, with France and Germany as the great neighbours. Growing up in Basel, a city with borders that felt open, shaped me deeply. As a child, I learned early that borders can be mostly passage points, not limits.

After regular school came the school of life, and the music business. Future, career-wise? Either a record shop or a stationery store. Mont Blanc pens and fine paper still enchant me. In 1980 I travelled to Canada to find vinyl LP suppliers, and stumbled upon Don, co-founder of Records on Wheels. My first supplier in North America. A friendship with Don began — but the customer stuck around too.

Of course I also spoke about my deep business fall into the bottomless. The falling itself wasn’t the worst part — the human disappointments left marks. Extremely welcome marks.

In 2016 I immigrated — no, flew — into Toronto. And out of Switzerland. Christian the tourist became SwissChris, the permanent resident of the nation of Canada. Tourist yesterday, tomorrow a staffer for Leah, the MP in Ottawa.

Again and again my gaze drifted across the faces before me in the audience. That was the truly fascinating part of yesterday in Schomberg. Faces following my words, without me having to threaten these kind people in the least.

Naturally — since SwissChris talks — I had to speak about my life’s project: CANARTA lives by the line Young Arts Deserve A Story. And my late sister Esther got her place too: with her, I founded the Fairy Trail Walk for Esther, long before I knew how much I’d need it.

Whoever offers a story doesn’t get lost.

When John and I discussed the event beforehand, we prioritized the topics. Because we had one hour available — measured with something close to Swiss precision. And lo and behold, my other favourite topic didn’t get short shrift either. What is it about hippie philosophy that has made my life more positive? My years of learning and wandering made clear to me that community and friendship can outshine any status. Borders, I tend to see as invitations.

46 years ago I arrived as a customer, then as a tourist. I became the neighbour and found friends. The Swiss who came to stay — that’s the essence of serendipity.

Oh yes, John and I kept to the full sixty minutes. There was room too for a good number of questions from the audience. Very good questions. What stayed with me: those audience questions, showing just how much community lives inside a parish hall in Schomberg.

The people of Schomberg, the fine lunch included — they gave me more than I brought with me.

Thank you, Schomberg.

Where do you see yourself in three years?

The question itself is simple, but sneaky. Who really knows what might develop in thirty-six months? If the answer is “I don’t know,” the door to the outside quietly opens. The supposedly right or expected answer is always some small life plan pointing upward.

“In your chair” isn’t an answer that lands well either. It’s a test with no right answer, but plenty of wrong ones.

To this day I don’t see the point of this question. Too many possible — and above all, logically impossible — answers are standing in the queue. I think this questioning is really more of a power test, with a side order of pitting employees against each other.

Today I’m turning that same question in a different direction. It’s not aimed at one person, but at two countries. My two countries, Canada and Switzerland. And the question doesn’t target a career vision, but the temperature of nature.

So, Canada and Switzerland: where do you see yourselves in three years, that is, in November 2029? The following year, 2030, is when the exam, the test, takes place. Yes, you picked that date yourselves.

Since yesterday, everyone’s back at the table in Antalya. COP31, the thirty-first climate conference, is once again playing “Good COP, Bad COP.”

Both my countries are present. Germany’s Merz shines by his absence.

So, how’s it going with the homework, dear countries? The smaller one first. Switzerland, if you please!

Switzerland arrives at the interview with a fairly tidy résumé. After all, the little country can boast 27.3 percent fewer greenhouse gases than in 1990. That’s what the Federal Office for the Environment states, black on white. Houses heat more cleanly, industry puffs out less. So far, so keen-student. And here comes the uncomfortable question: can you reach the 2030 target of minus 50 percent, dear Switzerland?

No.

From 27 to 50 in six years, after it took thirty-four years to get the first 27 percentage points? An official from the federal office said it plainly last November: the target will be clearly missed. Honest, at least. In a job interview, honesty would be a point in your favour. With glaciers, somewhat less so.

The glaciers are sitting in the room too, melting away with glee. They lost over five percent of their ice last summer. Scientists counted it out meticulously. Switzerland has warmed by 2.8 degrees since pre-industrial times, roughly twice the planet’s average. On May 28, 2025, the Birch Glacier had had enough, and the chunk of mountain, ingredients included, slid into the Lötschental and buried the village of Blatten. In response to the scorching summer, the Federal Council tabled a full fifty-six measures against climate warming two weeks ago. Critics called it band-aid politics.

Where does Switzerland see itself in three years? As so often, Swiss policy sits mid-table — rank 26 out of 63 on the international Climate Change Performance Index. Grade: middling and modest.

Now Canada enters the room. Enormous and friendly. Canada’s résumé doesn’t shine with good results. Still, a full 685 million tonnes were emitted in 2024. That’s seventeen times more than Switzerland, with only about four and a half times the population.

That math never adds up. Against 2005 levels, Canada sits roughly ten percent lower on its climate targets. The target eventually set for 2030? A cut of 40 to 45 percent. Ten out of forty, after nineteen years? And last year the number dropped by a laughable 0.3 percent. Zero point three. Oil and gas climbed at the same time.

In the spring of 2025, a man took the political helm who ought to know better. Mark Carney, central banker, warned insurers about climate change in London back in 2015. He was one of the first bankers carrying a warning sign in his luggage. Ten years later, as Prime Minister of Canada, he scrapped the consumer carbon price and the emissions cap on the oil industry. The electric vehicle mandate went with it. With Alberta, he agreed that industrial carbon pricing would rise lower and slower.

His environment minister resigned on the spot. The old plan had been too costly and too divisive, said Mark Carney. That reaction is partly understandable. After all, tariffs out of Washington have been reshaping a country that above all needs to hold together. Team Canada, indeed. The target will likely be missed, said PM Carney. Honest, but not enough.

Where does Canada see itself in three years? Rank 61 on the same index. Grade: very low. In June, Canada’s environment minister said it was finally time to move from promises to action. That’s the line you say in your annual review as a statement of intent, when you’ve missed last year’s targets. I know that line. I’ve used it myself.

So where’s the catch? In a job interview, the question is asked by the people in charge. The holders of power. Here in Antalya, it’s being asked by the mountain above Blatten, by the wildfire smoke that in some summers made breathing in Newmarket a challenge.

For an employee, “I don’t know” is an honest answer. I’d even call it the best and most honest one there is. For countries, it’s different. Because countries do know. The bare numbers sit on the table, calculated by their own agencies. They know exactly where they’ll be in three years if they keep on puttering along as they are.

So what’s the point of asking where-to at all? So that at least once a year, someone asks the uncomfortable questions and calls the other side to action.

Where do I see myself in three years? Here. In Newmarket, on my bike, with both passports. And with the same question for the same two countries. I hope I get to write differently by then. The Swiss said yes at the ballot box in 2023 to net zero. Canadians elected a climate banker in 2025.

We know what we want. A world our children can still carry on their shoulders. It sounds that simple — until you see the numbers.

Well, knowing and doing are two different things.

And a future of people in hardship and despair, if we stop at knowing. That’s not the answer I want to find myself giving in three years.

Stereotypes rarely hit the mark. A handful of examples of outrageous or annoying behaviour from a few people, and suddenly that’s supposed to stand for an entire nation? Where does this idea even come from?
Probably from one single stereotype with a know-it-all complex.

The dreadful Canadian is a stereotype that hasn’t managed to get much of a spotlight in world history so far. Because the prevailing stereotypical view has always been that Canadians, as a whole or at their core, belong among the friendly and the kind.

They do, too.
In principle.
As a passionate nation of immigration and peace, niceties and friendliness are just part of the daily behaviour.
I mean, in what other country do complete strangers say “I love your shoes!” — just like that, in passing?
Well, exactly.

But now one of the politically most powerful men south of Canada has suggested that this image shouldn’t hold, neither as stereotype nor as reality.
Canadians, as a country including its people, are supposedly just plain nasty and dreadful.
What on earth changed about the Canucks that a stereotype suddenly turned into a verdict?

No more compliments.

No more holding doors at the mall.

No more friendliness.

Was the orange man in the White House onto something?

And if so, where did the man get his facts for the Oval Office?
Could us Canadians maybe have a look at those?

Oh no?

Then allow me, not just as a rookie Canadian, to withhold my faith both in this stereotype and in the man himself.
My own experience with the Canadian people and its citizens looks rather opposite.

Ha!

After all, I’ve been “studying” the Canadian soul for forty-six years.
Ever since I first set my soles on the ground in Québec in July 1980, I’ve had plenty of encounters made in Canada. Over time, friendships have grown that have held up to this day.

Of course there are a few things I don’t appreciate about Canada. It would be strange if I liked absolutely everything. One of these “nasty things” is the Caesar.
No, not the Roman stereotype out of ancient Rome.
It’s that famous, typically Canadian drink that I don’t even want anywhere near me. I’ve had to apologize for this more than once, politely but firmly declining the offer: “Do you want a Caesar?”

Sorry.

While preparing my application for the Permanent Resident visa, one particular fear kept surfacing: that at the immigration office I’d be made to drink a Caesar on the spot and then prove my nonexistent talent as a hockey player.

OK, I’ll admit: there were a few more fears about failing immigration with bells and whistles. After all, I brought along a considerable number of years: Old man seeks homeland. On top of that, the requirements of Canadian immigration aren’t exactly easy to meet. Those dark clouds over the skies of Ontario kept catching up with me.

Spoiler: neither Caesar nor slapshot were ever required. Shame, really.

Oh yes, I do like hockey. But always from a seat in the stands.

What’s fascinating about the players on the ice is the transformation.
Before these men and women squeeze themselves into their padded gear, they’re the friendliest, most courteous people around. But the moment they’re gliding on the ice, things shift by a hundred degrees.

The players stop playing. They fight. And how.

After the game is before the game: the most courteous of people… you know the rest.

And what would the guy in stereo, in the White House, have to say about that?

What keeps fascinating me, living the Canadian life for real, is the sheer diversity.
I used to travel a lot, eager to understand foreign cultures and people better.
But now, here in Newmarket and the surrounding area, I no longer feel such an urge to travel the world. Because the world is already present here in Canada.

I, too, was once a newcomer — and I enjoyed achievements that still astonish me today. I remember well — because it’s burned into my memory — one particular email from Immigration.

The first paragraph read: “Congratulations! You are now a permanent resident (PR) of Canada!”

So this is the rhetoric of the ‘Nasty Canadians’?
Sounds more like a marriage proposal.

And here’s a little bouquet for my former hometown of Basel.
The Baslers, the Bebbis, spent sixty years preparing me for Canadian life.
Although Basel borders both Germany and France, we Baslers were never fenced in or hemmed in. A quick trip to Alsace or to Lörrach was an everyday thing.
Especially on Saturdays.
And it’s exactly that openness toward strangers that shaped me deeply.
Because strangers become people once you talk to them.
The foreignness fades, the person remains.

That was my lesson from Basel.

My conclusion?
Bebbi and Canuck are friendly, peaceful, welcoming-culture kind of people.
Full stop.

Oh right, the word “total” has something to do with total, too.
And the sum of numbers is also a total. But this time as a noun, because this is a serious business: the summing of money, revenues, statistics, and other number games.

So is the term “total” an accounting word, then?
Yes, certainly. But not only that, because the word — like so many other words — was lent out to other disciplines and schools of thought. Or handed over entirely, for good.

Total doesn’t hide under a bushel, but it usually sits below the line.
Because that’s where the sum of all things — or some things — gets given as a number.
The total.
The sum.

Power in the Total

In the 18th century there lived a man who knew his way around totality: Immanuel Kant. From that grew the battle term “totalitarian,” which had to serve as cover for the power-hungry and for dictators. “Do you want total war?” was one such dreadful sentence, one that already let the first part of the word ring through. Since we’re already on the subject of Latin, this story absolutely deserves a mention. In the 1920s, the liberal politician Giovanni Amendola suggested that the government under Mussolini wanted to erect a “sistema totalitario.” The regime didn’t take this as an attack but adopted it as a badge of honour — into its vocabulary, and into its practice.

Whole and Wholly

Language, as we all know, is a very lively thing. Unless it’s called Latin or Ancient Greek. A language expands its vocabulary with new terms and promotes others to the rhetoric graveyard. Young people especially are extremely keen to toss new terms onto the fairground of words. I still remember well back when youth-grown terms like “totally good,” “totally forgot,” or “totally hammered” were sprouting up. Total stood for the highest rung of the ladder. Nothing was perched any higher that could describe a state even more extreme. It was the total top position in the language hierarchy.

But as with all things used too often, they eventually wear thin and lose their total effect. The whole — that is, the total — in everyday speech became a hollowed-out term. Hardly anyone speaks in “totals” anymore, except people in the world of film. A “total” there has a quite different meaning than a rung on a ladder. There, the whole picture is simply meant to be shown.

Totally Perfect.

No, this isn’t some Doppler effect. These two words are neither related nor in-laws, although they pass themselves off as relatives. In reality, the two terms mean the exact opposite of each other.

Oh really?

Total leaves nothing outside. No gap, no edge, no outside. There is no outside, because total is a term for quantity. And quantities are contents within a sum. Quantities are contents that close themselves into a sum.

The word “perfect” has Latin parents named “perficere.” That means “to bring to an end” and “to complete.” Something is finished, and also turned out well.

What’s the point of this excursion into comparisons anyway? Hey, it’s half past five in the morning and I can understand the question, but not answer it.

But I’ll try anyway, after all this is a morning splinter.

The totalitarian system sees itself as the incarnation of perfection. After all, a kind of totality is established here, because nothing and no one stands outside the system. Or lives. So if nothing is outside anymore, there’s also no yardstick, no comparison left, against which a result could be measured. The total or totalitarian state isn’t perfect — it has simply abolished every possibility of comparison. How totally clever is that?

With “totally good,” the same thing is meant on a small scale: not “good measured against something,” but “good without comparison” — ergo without scrutiny.

Whoops, what a total muddle my little head has gone and made here? As a Swiss-Canadian, I have to call on my Swiss origins a little, so as not to totally lose the overview.

The Swiss citizen, as such, trusts sums — that is, totals — but not wholes. There, the Helvetic soul grows a bit suspicious. Just ask Gessler and his hat.

A sum can be recalculated. A whole you have to believe in.

The Swiss are used to every receipt ending with the word “Total.” So far, so arithmetical.

When “total” drifts into the political, the Swiss grow wary of the term. A small country like Switzerland affords itself four languages, which could be called the total of its official languages. It also affords itself many parties, so that “total” cannot find a sneaky path into politics. Switzerland affords itself no fewer than seven heads of state, for the very same reason: so that no single person can stiffen into a totalitarian system.

Switzerland: a country that trusts the total and mistrusts totality.
Total nice, eh?

«How dare you?»

After my apprenticeship, I was looking for a job. The interview with the HR manager was relaxed, and the man was likeable. Inside, I kept wondering when he’d finally bring up my long hair.

«When I walk past the Klagemauer in Basel, I see all these young people sitting there. Would I recognize you, Mr. Wehrli?»

Bam! That was a fine but scalpel-sharp critique of my appearance. I swallowed hard at first and had to admit that I looked like all the other hippies. Jeans, jean jacket, long hair, and a symbolic attempt at a beard. The sting of his question wasn’t the appearance itself, but the idea that I was going around in uniform, and therefore conforming.

No, I wasn’t offended, but I felt caught, caught out, and exposed to my very core. Me, a hippie in uniform?

Greek for Beginners.

«Krinein» is the name on the Greek birth certificate of the word criticism. Back then, criticism had no idea how negative and unwelcome its existence would one day become. Narcissists and the hypersensitive broke out in mental sweats the moment a critical remark appeared anywhere nearby. «Critics ruin every idea and every action.» Well, now I ought to criticize that view. Critics aren’t naggers, they’re sorters. They direct their attention at a person, a situation, and at another perspective. That means critical voices take an interest in moments and examine them with a critical spirit. That, at least, was the practice since criticism was born. And what’s left of it? Today criticism aims at the person, instead of the situation. And it has become toxic. Criticism bent on effect-chasing is pretty much worthless and harmful.

So says criticism.

«Gäll, das isch nid bös gmeint»

I often heard this typically Swiss line in its appropriate cantonal dialect (This is not ment to be mean). And it always left me fearing the worst. The line is about as ominous as «mir bliibe Fründe, gäll?» when love dissolves into thin air (We can remain friends).

A critical remark among friends is especially delicate. Yet criticizing — that is, correcting — ought to be exactly the foundation of a friendship. Trust and affection, support and — criticism! It took me a long time to understand the “nerve” of a friend when they spread their critical observations of my actions or my attitude toward some topic across my sandwich. «Isch nid bös gmeint» didn’t help much there. Only later did I recognize the positive side of the critical remark. Friends didn’t want to watch me drift into disaster with my eyes wide open. They care about my well-being and my health. Just as I make an effort toward my friends’ well-being. Criticism is a service.

Welcome, dear criticism. You’re not mean. You just sound that way.

«Sorry, but…»

The Canadian school of dealing with people and situations is always friendly and polite. A pleasant thing in itself, how Canucks treat each other. Does that mean criticism has no business being around in Canada? Oh no, that would be fatal. Oh yes, Canadians absolutely criticize, but always wrapped nicely in words. And often with a fine, humorous note packed along. Reading between the lines is a basic requirement for recognizing the criticism at all.

For bilinguals like me, a particular challenge.

I learned my English strictly from rocking music and lousy movies. Listening alone, grammar and vocabulary came up a bit short. Yes, that’s criticism of me. From me.

I like it when Canadian friends and acquaintances criticize me. As long as I can actually recognize it.

When the Shoulder Shrugs.

Basically, I like criticism. With a few exceptions, of course. But when it’s entirely absent, when no critical remark appears on the horizon or anywhere else, then I grow suspicious. The situation gets tricky when I myself harbour critical thoughts about my own actions and ideas. That’s when I always hope that people close to me, and people living further away, will likewise draw my attention critically to this or that.

And if nothing comes? Absolutely nothing? Or pure agreement without the slightest critical remark?

Oh yes, that disappoints me a little. But it rarely happens.

I experience criticism as positive interest, not as an attack.

Whoever allows no critical thought at all is probably indifferent to me. Or they lack the courage to mention it to the person being criticized.

«I’m not indifferent to what you do!» That, and nothing less, is the sentence of a true critic.

Telling Instead of Judging?

Actually, the question mark in this headline is entirely out of place. Because criticism, and its perspective, is a story. A critical observation born of focus and a lot of thought. Someone took the trouble to look at an idea from several sides before passing judgment. Then that same person draws a conclusion that leads to the criticism.

Most of the time, criticism told as a story comes equipped with a few hints that can lead toward solutions.

How helpful and positive is that, really?

Criticism is the story of the critic’s view, not the verdict.

Every morning, starting at five o’clock, I tell my first story. As is well known, it’s provoked by a word or a sentence in an otherwise empty brain. From that I piece together stories like this one, with the help of ten-finger blind typing and letting my thoughts run free. That’s all there is to it.

I keep an eye on only two things: grammar, and unfair criticism.

After all, I want to lay out my perspective, not communicate with the world and its creatures as the eternal know-it-all. But above all, I always hope earnestly for critical comments on my stories. Flattery is highly pleasant, sure, but learning happens with criticism. I enjoy reading critical remarks, because they send my thoughts drifting in new directions.

Either I still stand behind my story, or I change it, because the critics made a good point.

Criticism, then, is neither negative nor toxic. It is attention held under a critical magnifying glass. And that leaves me grateful.

No, I didn’t cut my hair or change my style after that job interview. But the HR manager’s critical little story has stayed with me to this day.

Because it was meant honestly and personally. And it has held up, to this day.

Thank you, dear Mr. HR Manager.

The German word for message, Botschaft, already carries this seemingly new word “bot” within its structure. You know, those gadgets in cyberspace that handle tasks computer-style as self-employed contractors called “roBOTs.” Self-employed means that we, the Homo sapiens among us, play no role in it. Because these bots are autonomous, that is, automated. Chatbots answer customer inquiries or simulate human conversations without asking or informing anybody. Social bots, the social variety of bots, roam around social networks spreading messages or commenting on other people’s posts. Oh yes, also self-employed, without asking us.

I won’t even get into the toxic and malicious spam bots.

And what are we doing in the meantime?

We, the humane ones among all the animals (so the legend goes), try hard to understand these seemingly new stories of world events.
Any Idea?
Then ask the AI.
It doesn’t have one either — but it sounds more convincing about it.

It usually answers in a flash, leaving you to suspect that this depiction of human intelligence hasn’t thought at all before the answers get flung onto the screen.

The thinking — and especially the skeptical eyeing of results — is then our job again. I always needle these AI things with the question: “Are you sure?”
Guess how often the result then corrects itself.
Exactly: more often than I’d like.

But back to the bots, that is, the messages. I do like taking words apart into their components. Let’s see what might come of it. Because a word often hides a different core, and with it a more nuanced meaning, than you’d suspect from its everyday use in rhetoric.
And that’s where language and its history get even more prickling.

The other day I stumbled across a short speech by US Congressman Jamie Raskin — and got stuck on it.
He put the heckling of his opponents on the dissection table.
The diagnosis he makes is so simple it almost hurts.

When a term gets caught grasping that its own core already carries a message, the associations light up under a glaring spotlight.

A fellow politician from the Republican side said to Jamie: “You’re not a bad guy. The trouble with you is that you’re a liberal.”

Jamie’s answer: “You’re damn right. I’m a liberal. The core of the word means liberty, that is, freedom.”

Well, look at that. And Jamie got going, taking on more terms that get fired off all around as political ammunition.

“That guy’s one of those progressives!”

Oh yes, the word is handy for snipping away at things. After all, “progress” means making progress. Surely a better option than just standing still on the tasks at hand and waiting around.

“XY is a radical!”

Even better.
Because what does the adjective “radical” really mean?
It means getting at the root of the problem, to find its cause. The carpet gets pulled back from over the root that was hiding underneath.

“Somehow I’m a conservative.”

Well, look at that. Or several of those.

Let’s imagine what the original meaning of “conservative” actually is.
Conserving — that is, preserving things of value — is commendable in itself.
Rarely does that mean the money itself.

No, conserving land, air, and water is already a good start.
Or preserving the climate system, protecting fundamental rights, sheltering social security, and keeping the health of people running as a system.

So, how does conservative sound now?

Not to forget the preservation and care of fundamental rights such as the constitution, the Universal Human Rights, and of course democracy’s elixir of life: the right to vote.

Since I count myself among the dissectors of terms, I’ve become more careful about dishing out terms with a toxic undertone.

By now I know just how much harder rhetoric can wound.

Words can turn into weapons.

Let’s turn back to the core of the message.

Collateral damage from rhetoric really doesn’t have to happen.

We can do much better with positive words.

Which lobby do these busy bees work for? Oh, the field is wide: alcohol, labour, nuclear, banks, energy, weapons — a matching necktie for every conflict of interest. And what exactly do they do to help these sectors?

The job description shows just how demanding and time-consuming the daily work of lobbyists is. The basic task of the lobby team is to influence decisions made by politics and administration entirely in the interest of their employers. This is meant to keep relations between various interested parties running smoothly.

Ah, I see. That sounds good and efficient.

The lobbyist as such is kept fully busy watching for possible new bills or consultations. They loiter in the hallways of parliaments or show up on the golf course, cultivating direct and useful relationships. They are, so to speak, the nursing staff for political actors and their willingness to decide.

Nursing staff indeed. Except the patient rarely knows he’s being treated.

The second chapter of the lobbying handbook is devoted to information. Lobbyists move in formation to deliver expert knowledge, numbers, and argumentation kits to parliamentarians and other officials. Some specimens among the busiest lobbyists go so far as to draft entire bills, ready to go. This saves the guild of politicians a good deal of tedious work.

Now that really is nice, and ever so helpful.

Point three of the little lobby handbook is relationships — the nurturing and tending of the useful network. Since lobbyists generally come across as tidy and likeable, they have direct access to holders of power and influence. And there, the same language is spoken — just with different goals. At first, anyway.

Paragraph number four of the advanced lobby handbook is the coalition-building kit. No, this has nothing to do with the Australian bear. Or only at the margins. Because those sought for coalitions are meant to become allies. Often these new allies are rather unusual, but useful.

And then the crowning discipline number five of the lobby manual: public pressure. No, not the pressure of the manual — pressure on the public. The toolbox has valuable things on offer to carry out this important work of influence. Campaigns, for example, help spread lobby-tinted arguments. And naturally, media work helps along the way. Selfless? No idea. And finally, the so-called grassroots of the public get mobilized. That is, party members, sympathizers, and those affected by the bills receive simple, emotional messages that flip the switch into active mode.

OK. The mockery ends here.

And who exactly commissions these lobbyists? In Canada, amusingly enough, it’s the employees of organizations themselves who carry out a large share of the lobby work. Two years ago, there were nearly nine thousand people who had been engaged at least once as a consultant or in-house lobbyist. The Lobbying Act defines what counts as lobbying. But even here, the real size of the lobbying community is fairly unknown.

In Switzerland, there’s a third party sitting right in the chamber. In the militia parliament, council members themselves hold association or administrative mandates. But the truly Swiss system of active lobbying is the so-called Götti badges. Each council member may hand out two such access badges. The 26 cantons weren’t about to miss out on that, and since 2012 they too may send a representative of their interests to Bern.

Is that proper? Apparently so — nobody has ever handed back a Götti badge.

Now, the lobbyist as such isn’t the villain in the room. The idea behind it was that parliamentarians only possess general knowledge. To gain deeper insight into the issues or the wishes of various industries, lobbyists can help.

The practical side shows that access to parliamentarians is distributed unequally. Whoever has money, lots of money, and staff at their disposal is present daily in the goings-on of parliament. Those affected by future laws, however, are hardly present at all, neither through representatives nor through lobbyists.

I think, fundamentally, the idea of lobbying as a civic right is understandable. But only as long as it happens in daylight, that is, stays public.

But in the lobby of world affairs, it’s not only influence through arguments that’s common practice. Because alongside arguments, something more tangible flows too: donations, mandates, gifts, trips.

Allow me a brief comparison here between Canada and Switzerland. Oh yes, partly just for fun.

In Canada, only individuals are allowed to donate. Not companies or unions.

In Switzerland, companies and associations may also donate freely. Even upwards of 100,000 francs.

There are, however, upper limits to this donating enthusiasm. Canadian parties may collect $1,500 per year, per party.

Swiss parties know no ceiling and no restrictions on donations.

In Canada, a donor’s name and address are reported once a contribution crosses the threshold.

In Switzerland, by contrast, donations of 15,000 francs or more have been published by the Swiss Federal Audit Office since 2023.

Cash amounts over $20 are banned in Canada, and in Switzerland anonymous and foreign donations are banned.

There are further rules still, for lobbyists and those who want to become one. But in both Canada and Switzerland, there’s a lively distrust of too much concentration of power and influence.

The Swiss reflex: fewer bans, more light instead. Civic sense instead of bureaucracy. From this stance, Swiss freedom would be defensible, provided the threshold comes down and income from mandates becomes visible.

Canada’s ceiling fits its basic distrust of concentrated power.

Is that enough to curb direct influence on politicians? Hardly — transparency is no bouncer.

Or as Robin Williams put it:

“Politicians should have to wear sponsor jackets like NASCAR drivers, so voters could immediately see who owns them.”

This morning has reflexes. The Canadian reflex? Relief. The second reflex showed up in the doorway a second later: what does this election result mean for us Canadians? The answer is sobering: less than hoped and more than feared.

America voted. Canada watched. As always.

Relief is one thing. Power is another. Because: Congress is not Customs.

These tiresome punitive tariffs sit in neither the Senate nor the House of Representatives. They squat in the White House. That lesson we, and the rest of the world, already had to learn back in February. The House voted against the tariffs on Canada, but the veto from the Oval Office was stronger.

So does anything actually change for Canada come January 2027? Well, the noise level out of Congress will certainly get louder. The hearings will line up, the budget fight will escalate, and politics will sit in the shop window for a while. Take the Swiss Parliament: it can annoy the Federal Council, block it, put it on the spot — but it cannot remove it. Congress sits there much the same way: loud, but without a key to the Oval Office. The same holds in Washington when Congress irritates the sitting U.S. President. Full stop.

That was today. What comes is two years off yet.

But which scenarios will turn up on the American political floor come January 2027?

Elbows Up — or Elbows weary already?

The real question in the room is how Team Canada behaves. The phrase borrowed from hockey, “Elbows Up,” was 2025’s answer to no end of threats from the south: the 51st province, the punitive tariffs, the toxic mockery. The threat hasn’t vanished — it’s just put on a tie and moved into the office. From pure rhetoric, the Elbows Up has slipped into administration. The slogan still holds, but with different content: it’s no longer the hockey dad bellowing at the rink’s edge, but politicians calmly, soberly reading the contract.

Elbows Up is not a stance against America, but one for Canada. And whoever instructs their diplomats to no longer shake hands with a U.S. candidate has understood: the elbows today protect the face, not the fist.

My coffee has gone lukewarm by now. My coffee has gone lukewarm. My mood hasn’t — it’s been boiling since I saw the numbers out of Congress. Naturally I’m pleased with the outcome at our southern neighbour’s, that the Democrats finally have some power back, enough to prevent the worst and bring better policy into Congress.

America voted, Canada looked south. Oh, but looking on doesn’t mean standing idle.

Switzerland has been practicing this for centuries: watch, read the contract twice, amend a clause, smile — and keep the elbows up.

“The elbows stay up. But the hands are free.”

My neighbour in Newmarket said: “Elbows up? I’m sixty-eight. My elbows are always up. Thank you, Arthritis.”

When the neighbour coughs, Canada and most of its elbows get extremely attentive. I sit in and stand on Newmarket. Today I’ll be holding my breath more than usual. Because in the United States of America, today is election day — members of Congress and the Senate. And all this in a two-party system between right and left, between red and blue, with no shades in between.

These midterm elections have always stirred up the American political landscape. But this year the commentary reads as though there may or may not be a future after this vote. Americans are used to having their political fever checked every two years. Either a new president is confirmed, or members of the Senate and Congress are confirmed, or new candidates are elected.

A process that never fails to astonish.

And we Canadians hold our breath for a moment.

Quite unlike the statistics of election forecasts and results. In eighteen of the last twenty midterm elections, the sitting president afterward became a lame duck. Because a majority of the non-governing party’s members could reject nearly every presidential decision.

These elections feel like more is at stake than just two chambers of Congress. Not only within America, but here up north, or even across the whole globe. There are voices beforehand saying the outcome of the election hardly matters, because the US president will call the results rigged and fraudulent anyway. And announce it as such.

For Bern and Ottawa, such an expectation is barely imaginable, because in these capitals of Switzerland and Canada, nothing of the sort has ever happened. Elections are cast by rightful citizens into a secure system. And that is exactly why no one questions them.

Knowing? No. Only guessing, commenting, hoping. That’s all anyone has left — myself included.

So, now I’m going outside to pump the good Canadian air of Newmarket deep into my lungs.

Ergo: today I’ll lounge around a bit.

Either I sit on the chesterfield of life and think, “It’ll be fine.” Oh dear. That sounds more like pure passive hope, seasoned with a pinch or two of fatalism. Or I get up, put on my shoes, and make sure myself that it’ll be fine.

Oh no, is a seminar on life management lurking around that notorious corner?

Hmm, let me think. No. Certainly not. I’m just thinking, on this cold November morning at half past five. And I’m looking back on my own history, to see which of the two models — optimism or pessimism — has served better. As I said: just for my own life. The verdict comes out fairly clear, and fairly optimistic.

Sorry.

Since my own personal drama of complete defeat, this little sentence kept showing up whenever the problems gathered into a mass demonstration in my head. “Giving up is for letters at the post office. Not for me.”

With that, I tickled not just my optimism gene, but my fighting spirit. Why should I give up? Because the problems seem too numerous and unsolvable? Well, that would be one option. But not mine. After all, evolution handed me a more or less well-equipped brain. And in the human brain there are departments busy with imagination, ideas, and coincidence. That was, essentially, the equipment that coloured me optimistic.

I haven’t counted how often I heard the sentence: “You’ll never get yourself out of this mess.” Or “Just give up!” Of course I listened, and wondered whether such comments from friends and from officials were justified. Well, the comments certainly were, since after all a few heads had done some thinking once they got to know my story. I always found that a good thing too — when empathy leads to conclusions.

The usual back-and-forth of thoughts is a fine fitness program for the synapses. And it often leads to a laying-out in the cerebellum under the heading: “So what does this look like, then?”

Mostly these thoughts led to what I call conclu-quotes — short sentences that got me moving. And, naturally, tons of notepaper, so as not to lose a single one of the optimistic-constructive ideas in the haystack.

One of these sentences was: “Optimism lets chances arise.” Or opportunities, ways out, approaches for tackling one or several problems. By the way: problems like it when you take care of them. Because they themselves aren’t happy going through the world forever labelled a problem. They want to be solved. Well then!

At some point the first three letters, OPT, made themselves more noticeable. Option — that was the helpful hint for how to approach problems.

How so?

Well, I can only point to my own situation, and it’s anything but scientific. I believe experience is the word of the hour. Looking at this laid-out array of problems, I’d ask myself: So, what comes to mind? Then the train of synapses got moving and staged a chaotic-looking synposium. All the synapsters pushed, shoved, and dashed about the imagined room. Chaos in its purest state isn’t much help, but it’s a good show.

At some point, amid the tohuwabohu, a few splinter-thoughts surfaced from the uniform mass of the brain. Aha, there’s something! I still think back, now and again, to that time of searching for a way out. Again and again I discovered a little door I wanted to open. And behind it waited more questions still, but also answers, or possibilities.

Every time, my heart and my imagination would leap when I got hold of a corner of some option. Oh, that could be a possibility. Or maybe that one over there?

This circus of opportunities is one of the most refreshing moments optimism offers me. And it still does, even though my problems these days have settled back into a normal range.

Since then I’ve been pleading for more optimism, with activism as its partner. The two of them are busy searching every single day. They look, they weigh, they offer up results that are willing to be developed further. Why would I give up functions like that?

Sometimes someone asks me: Why not just ask artificial intelligence?

No, I’m rather fond of my natural and limited intelligence. We’ve known each other for seventy-one years and we trust one another. What’s more, I like that feeling of happiness when the two of us — my intelligence and I — have tinkered together and shaped up some options.

And in certain moments, serendipity joins in, and then the party really gets going.

How about you — optimist, pessimist, or somewhere in between? Write to me: story@swisschris.ca

“I made an attempt!” is often read by society as a sign of weakness.

Why is that?
After all, someone has gone to the trouble — often put some money on the line — and stepped into unknown territory. Risk is always included.
So what about all the non-attempters of this world?
The people who won’t even consider engaging in an attempt? Experimenting, testing, trying things out, and finally the attempt to get to the bottom of something or to realise a plan.

How exciting is that?

I admire people who get caught, again and again, in the act of attempting. Entrepreneurs attempt to keep their business successful.
Politicians attempt to keep the promises they made during the election even after it’s over.

Admirable.

Oh, and what about evolution?
It’s made up of nothing but attempts — and has been for billions of years.
Is that held against it as a weakness?

Evolution doesn’t know what it’s doing.

Exactly. That’s why it’s busy attempting things 24/7.

Admirable.

At some point, a resourceful mind — or a man of the cloth — turned to the next stage in the evolution of the attempt: temptation.

Suddenly the carousel of moods spins in a different direction.
Now at least two poles stand opposed.
Temptation on one side, giving in on the other. Over time, variations of temptation came onto the market of vanities.
Terms like allure, with its own claim to leadership.
Because the meaning reveals that nobody voluntarily pursues a temptation in order to succumb to it.

Oh no.
The poor human is lured and led toward temptation.

How treacherous is that?
And this is exactly where the immune system — if one has it — gets put through the wringer. How is an untrained person in the temptation business supposed to resist without any training?
Temptation is cunningly programmed and knows its way around cravings and allurements better than anyone.

Where’s the handbook on temptation when you need it?
Surely it would contain precise guidelines on how a person can or should deal with the thing.
Oh yes, morality also has a hand in it. Eroticism and greed, naturally.
A veritable package of pleasures, which, according to the instructions, must be parried.

At least that’s the tenor of the moralists and theologians. And of the justice system.

How did that go again, with the two opposing figures on the shoulder?
Both whisper into the ear of the shoulder’s owner about what he or she should decide next. Or ought to.
Both operate at a highly professional rhetorical level.
And the figure in between is you. Is me. Is all of us.

Dilemma, get thee behind me!

OK. I like temptations, because they’re part of the human fitness program.
And the decisions challenge mind and body alike.
I like that.
Because that way, at least, I have a part of my daily workout ahead of me.

Work it out!

Those five letters have crept into other words that have nothing to do with war. We use expressions like “kleinkriegen” — literally “to small-war someone” — when somebody wants to flex a little power. Or the question “hast du das mitgekriegt?” — literally “did you war it along with you?,” meaning simply “did you catch that?” — when heated discussions are steaming through people’s heads.

And today it’s not just the word but the images and videos that bombard us daily in the media. Especially in the social media. Again and again I try to imagine how parents and children feel, having to live right in the middle of a war. When ordinary life is nothing but a memory. When the sirens warn of the next attack. What it’s like to wake up every single day that might be your last.

Do I even get this, with my power of imagination?

No, hardly. Because my life so far has had nothing directly to do with the brutal, deadly war going on right now. And that’s only because I happened to be born on the safe side of the map. No merit of mine. Just luck.

Do I get this packed into words?

Kurt Tucholsky, whose sentences cut like razor blades, brought the horrors of war closer to me. Not with sound and image, but with words. With mockery, poems, and reportage, Kurt Tucholsky described war. And in doing so, he opened the door for me to one of the darkest chapters of human history. Ever since I devoured his books, I’ve been repulsed by any kind of fascism or appetite for war. That’s why I refused to enter the Swiss Army as a recruit. Not because of the fabric, the colour of the uniform, or the levelling of everyone to the same mould. But simply because I did not want to aim at something that breathes. I still remember clearly having to report to the barracks to be “assessed.” I prepared well for that assessment, because under no circumstances did I want to become a member of an army. Six months in detention for refusing service? Sure, bring it on. My small stomach ulcer at the time spared me a stint in a cell. Yes, my stomach is perfectly fine again now.

What remains of all that?

Shooting at a person or an animal still strikes me as hideous. Yes, yes, I know the story about self-defence.

Do they get that pulled off?

And today, in the 21st century? War is once again an everyday word, one that barely contains the hideousness of the practice.

Sometimes the question nags at me: how might the history of war have unfolded if women had shaped political power over the last tens of thousands of years?

What might a matriarchy have made war look like, as an instrument of political power?

When I look at the design of weapons, one shape forces itself on you, impossible to overlook. Bombs, rifles, revolvers, spears and cannons all seem to have borrowed from the same blueprint for their layout.

Would women have developed the same arsenal for waging war?

Oh yes, what certain politicians to the south are spouting these days robs me of my sleep. The idea of solving some problem in the global political situation by means of war strikes me as far too simple. Treating destruction and death as a means to an end feels pretty inhumane and unimaginative.

Now, there are of course examples where the armed violence of war did remove a problem from the world. Perhaps other political solutions, with less bloodshed, might have been possible. But throughout human history, conflicts and wars have repeatedly been offered up as the only possible solution.

The Second World War, when the Nazi regime was stopped by military force. Or the American Civil War, which ended slavery in the US, but not its consequences. Oh, and then there’s Switzerland in 1847, with the so-called Sonderbund War. A short war that led to the Federal Constitution of 1848.

And still — despite the Sonderbund, despite the Civil War, despite everything war has supposedly solved — I still prefer an old line: Make Love Not War!

That line is still lodged in my ears and my memory.

And as long as it stays there, not everything is lost.

Toblerone is beloved. The conglomerate is not.

When Swiss people show up abroad, one of those enormous Toblerone bars is a popular gift. It’s bulky, nutty, and carries the full taste of chocolate-land Switzerland within it.

The mighty, sweet symbol of Swiss mountain and valley is known the world over.

And then along came teenager Catherine Dodd, out of the vegan corner of Walberton in Sussex, England, who founded her brand “Catherine’s O’bar!” So far, so sweet. The full-time mother of three kids had come under financial pressure, since a job was out of the question. The famous, infamous lightbulb moment gave birth to a business idea. How would a vegan version of a chocolate bar land with the public? Well, the idea — and Catherine’s O’bar — landed, and landed so well that the owner of Toblerone sat down with its lawyers. The trademark infringement claim arose because the shape itself looked too similar to the original Toblerone. And so one of those lawyer’s letters, the kind that threatens cease-and-desist orders and legal consequences, fluttered into Catherine Dodd’s mailbox.

Protecting a brand, after all, is no small matter. Building a brand costs a great deal of money — that’s one side of it. Maintaining it, keeping it recognizable and undiluted, is the other, costly side. Brands have many qualities that make up their value. Consumers want to be able to trust “their” brand.

Catherine and her small chocolate outfit didn’t let themselves be intimidated. She sees her product as “O for Original,” not as a Toblerone knock-off. The point of contention, she says, is mainly the shape and the peaks on Catherine’s products. She explains that her “peaks” represent the upper part of an O for Original.

Catherine has built her business — marketing, tone, design, all of it — herself, while raising her children. Her confidence and her fighting spirit to defend her company, and above all her product, are correspondingly large.

When a billion-dollar conglomerate squares off against a mother of three over a few peaks, you already know who stands to lose more.

I hope the sweetness agrees with common sense.

How high would that sum have to be if an entire keg of beer arrives 48 years late? It was delivered in October 2026. But the brewery sent the keg on its journey back in the year of the beer 1978. The recipient back then was the Schwarzensteinhütte, at around 3000 m in the Zillertal Alps, on the South Tyrolean side. A helicopter had the keg on a cable, meant to supply thirsty mountain hikers at the Schwarzensteinhütte with well-earned beer. But as chance sometimes has it, there was a crevasse in the way, somewhere along that long path through the alpine air. As the helicopter crossed the crevasse, the keg came loose from the cable and vanished into the ice. The crevasse must have closed up again afterward, it seems, because nobody could ever find the then-young keg.

The keg resurfaced after forty-eight years of its odyssey, in October 2026, below the Schwarzensteinhütte. It looks dented, but is intact, and bears the engraving “1978” — the year it was filled.

The beer supplier back then was the South Tyrolean beverage dealer Harpf, from Bruneck. The company Harpf wasn’t about to pass up the chance to announce this find on Instagram. The dealer suspects, “with high probability,” that the keg came from its own warehouse. Why the guesswork here? Even after almost fifty years, there’s surely a delivery slip or an invoice that sent the keg on its way.

And who found the keg? Daniel and Michael, two men fond of climbing mountains, are said to have stumbled across it. And there, the word serendipity gets its well-deserved moment of relevance. The two men were after all out for a high-altitude adventure — but certainly not hunting for an ancient keg of beer. The finders carried it back down into the valley, and it was tapped in the circle around the beverage dealer Harpf. “O’zapft is.”

The beer, it’s said, was still drinkable. A glacier likes to give a little something back now and then, over the millennia — tools, bodies, and apparently, beer too.

“Isn’t that right, Ötzi?”

One of the many legends about beer is the claim that there’s no beer in Hawaii. Well, that may be so. Or it may not. But when a glacier, perfectly cool about it, releases its beer reserves after all that time, that’s alpine generosity, lived out in full.

And not a bad-beer idea at all.

Nine questions it was, at first, then ten – as if the provincial government under Danielle Smith had hesitated while drafting it. No, not with itself, but with the Albertians, that is, the citizens living in Alberta. The original thinking behind this political action was that Alberta no longer belongs to Canada like a teenager among the provinces. A province strikes out on its own.

Before this ten-question referendum was launched, a court had struck down the separatist petition. Now, the referendum has failed clearly, with almost 75% against.

Yet the term “referendum” stays lodged in the synapses. Naturally, as with most people of Swiss stock, the thought surfaces at once: “Who invented it?” This question, on endless loop, has a genealogy behind it. Spoiler alert. Switzerland did not invent the referendum, but in the 16th and 17th centuries the Three Leagues of Grisons and Valais would take decisions “ad referendum.” They could not decide themselves, but the local administration could refer the matter back.

The referendum as a term was, once again, a forerunner from antiquity. The ancient Greeks and Romans apparently had time to spare – enough, at any rate, to dream up new words for old questions. The ancient economy of Athens and Rome consisted of philosophies and their generations of words. Yes, a manual for application was included.

The referendum as a basic idea is a popular vote on a concrete question of substance. This covers small matters like a law, a correction to the constitution, or, should it need to be a bit bigger, even a state treaty. The word “referendum” itself comes from Latin – where else? – and means to briefly refer back to the one who gave the task, to ask what is meant or wanted by it.

The referendum, in practical and theoretical application, is not identical everywhere. Of course not – that would be almost Swiss-simple. No, in Switzerland, for example, the referendum is an instrument of the people, used to slow down and brake decisions of parliament with loud tones. The ingredients are fairly simple. Take 50,000 signatures standing under the referendum text, and the vote gets cranked up.

Outside Switzerland, a referendum is often launched by the government itself. The aim is to gather possible backing from the people for its plans. “Hey folks, can we do this or that?” With this motivation, the referendum comes dangerously close to the plebiscite.

So what, then, is a plebiscite? The term sounds more like a contagious disease than a political concept. The plebiscite picked up considerable fame when Brexit went down in Great Britain in 2016. But it’s true, the plebiscite has carried a bad reputation ever since its introduction by Napoleon the Third. Because he wanted to use the instrument to legitimise his power.

Back to the referendum. In modern times there are plenty of examples of how the term becomes active in political practice. The American state of Massachusetts had its constitution confirmed by the municipalities in 1780. With that, the referendum became one of the first ratifications of a constitution by the people.

And in modern Switzerland? There, in the middle of the 19th century, the right of veto arose in the cantons of St. Gallen and Basel-Landschaft. Well, look at that. In 1848, the canton of Vaud introduced the constitutional referendum.

Conclusion: Switzerland did not invent the referendum. It made it its house brand all the same.

And in Alberta, Canada, the referendum was put to a dramatic and nearly divisive test on October 19, 2026.

Refer to an End. Ummm...

Every morning it lies in the hallway, sometimes hefty and thick, sometimes thinner and more unassuming. But it cannot be overlooked. The newspaper feels fresh off the press and wants to be leafed through. That’s in the nature of the newspaper. A collection of writing, researched, written, edited by many practitioners of the journalism trade, and finally slid into the printing press. Such a newspaper is a small factory of stories – assembled anew each day. New every day. Current every day. But above all, delivered punctually to the front door.

Otherwise, it’s done for.

Reading the newspaper is almost a meditative act. The eyes pick out a story from the oversized page. It gets read – sometimes with the help of a finger, so as not to slip a line. Every turned page announced, with a rustle, that the reader had learned a little more about world events or the local story. The rustle in the forest of pages delivers the stories that shape opinions and stoke hopes or fears.

And then the second-to-last page gets turned. The back page of the newspaper is the closing bouquet of the flood of news. Then it’s over. The printed and folded work of journalistic information wanders onto the pile of other outdated newspapers.

The end.

And then I look at my phone.

Yes, the printed newspaper still exists. Even though the hyperactive, naggingly nervous flashing of short bulletins on every possible channel demands something of my head. Or at least sets the contents of my brain into a hectic tension.

The leafing and rustling has been replaced by scrolling. It no longer crackles, it explodes, flashes like the market criers of earlier times.

I honestly don’t know how my head withstands this inexhaustible screaming for attention. An end is never in sight. The headlines keep outdoing each other with superlatives. I see headlines like “7 Things That…” or “The 5 Best…”, trying to steer my clicking behaviour. Or when my curiosity is meant to be hooked, up pop sentences like “You won’t believe what happens next…”, “The reason will surprise you…” and “Did you know this?”

Not to forget those emotion-grabbing buzzwords like “shocking”, “scandal”, and “disgrace”.

Clumsy are these time-pressured prompts like “Only today” or “Before it’s too late.”

The carousel of incentives for the clicking finger is endless. There is no last page and no pile onto which the collection of videos, TikTok clips, or Instagram pictures wanders. The circus is on the screen, not just in town. About the infamous algorithms, I won’t even start writing.

What I truly miss on this wild ride through the social-media jungle is the happy ending for my synapses. That redeeming feeling when the newspaper has been consumed and the last page turned down.

I have informed myself. And I have surveyed all the pages. That satisfies me and leaves me with the illusion that I’ve already done my morning’s share for the state of the world.

My view of the things of the world is accompanied by the rustle from the forest of pages.

I like that.

Why should I leave the topic of politics lying there, left or right, untouched? After all, democracy was introduced into the marketplace of society precisely to ask about people’s needs and opinions. And to let them vote.

If we all leave politics to the experts — lawyers and other such people — what happens then? Politicians shape laws and rules. Or at least they have them shaped. And for whom do these laws apply? Oh yes, for the citizens, for people, for everyday life. Ergo I want to, and should be able to, at least have a say and possibly help shape things. Or not?

Since Canada started shaping my life, the word has taken on an extra layer for me. Because the first part of the word poli-tics contains the wonderful word “polite.” Politeness. The very essence of living alongside other beings shapes communication and behaviour. Canadians are still, by and large, “polite” — courteous and well-meaning. Not always. Not all of them. But politeness does seem to sit somewhere deep in the Maple Leaf soul.

Now suppose, just suppose, that politics held politeness as part of its very meaning? How pleasant would the cooperation be, the atmosphere, and above all the results, in the daily politicking of the professionals?

“Politicians are polite!”

That would be my demand, for a start.

Now back to the term politics itself, in the rear-view mirror of history. The view isn’t uniformly pleasant, because the notion of “I’ll get that!” has, in practice, too often led to a lust for war. Why war should have anything to do with lust is still a mystery to me. And yet human evolution has nonetheless brought improvement. Yes, through politicians and the systematics of democracies.

Democracy literally means: rule of the people. And a people who get a say tend less toward war — they have too much to lose. When a system lets its citizens weigh in and asks for their voice, that in itself is already an appealing version of politics.

For two years now I’ve been doubly privileged when it comes to politics. After all, two whole countries are interested in my opinion and my vote. Switzerland has been since my eighteenth birthday, and Canada since my naturalization. I don’t let a single chance go by to make my voice heard on paper. Even in Switzerland, even though I no longer live within its borders. My former home country, and its community of citizens, still interests me.

Canada is a bit more reserved when it comes to votes. The initiative system isn’t nearly as active here as it is in Switzerland’s direct-democratic setup. Still, my gut and I feel a ticklish little thrill whenever we’re asked for our opinion.

But tickling alone doesn’t elect a government. Politics only really begins when the little cross on the ballot becomes a law. After all, political means are meant to regulate people’s lives through laws. In theory, democracy runs like an old bike: it creaks, but it moves forward. Still, a democracy will rarely, if ever, satisfy the needs of everyone involved. The diversity is simply too vast. But on the fundamentals — rights and duties — quite a lot, and mostly good, has been achieved.

When I look back at my parents’ lives, especially my mother’s, and then look at their children and grandchildren, the progress in freedoms and possibilities is more than welcome.

This look back is uncomfortable — it forces me to see the present more soberly than my gut would like.

Because our felt sense of the state of the world is rarely objective. I know this opinion doesn’t sit well with feelings.

I live in a country, in a city, and within a network of people. Different people. How exciting is that? And with that comes responsibilities, whether I like it or not. I’m responsible for getting along with the people around me. No, it’s not just about compromise, or about giving in. Quite the opposite. Living together requires understanding, listening, and communicating. And it requires the community I live in and with.

All of that is highly political, my friends. Because it’s always about community, about people and their needs, rights, and duties.

No, I will not leave politics out of the game.

Otherwise I’ll be the one left out.

And wouldn’t that be a shame?