Canadian Books Made Me Canadian
Back in January, I felt like I was living in two countries at once. Trump said he wanted to annex Canada and waged an economic war. In response, Canadians bought local with patriotic fervour. But in Alberta, where I was living, it felt like the opposite sentiment was swelling. I noticed more voices calling for U.S. annexation. On X, I saw posts from former neighbours and friends of friends cheering on the idea of becoming the 51st state. A few were even planning a “patriotic” lunch at Jack in the Box. I didn’t know what future Canada would choose.
Right now, this country is taking a long, hard look at what it is and its place in the world. On instinct, we’ve turned quickly to governments, community leaders and policy experts for direction on how to be a nation. But we’ve forgotten one of our most powerful tools: literature. The Canadian canon offers clarity, a sensibility grounded in reflection and empathy. In the midst of our resurgent nationalism, its stories may just hold untapped potential in shaping our country’s identity.
In the Literary History of Canada, published in 1965, the critic Northrop Frye described a “garrison mentality” as a defining feature of Canadian writing. He argued that early settlers saw themselves as isolated, vulnerable and surrounded by threats—both real and imagined—and that this ethos shaped Canadian literature. Instead of tales of individualism, heroism or conquest, we told stories of endurance, traditionalism and the strong communal bonds that hold people together. Frye didn’t love that. He thought the garrison mentality made for limited, even didactic, art. I disagree. There’s plenty of imagination and complexity in these stories.
More than that, the garrison mentality resists the hyper-individualism of modern life. It pushes back against authoritarianism—not with slogans or policy proposals, but with the everyday ethos of caring for each other. You can’t survive alone in a garrison, and you can’t thrive alone in a country like Canada. The harsh climate forces people to work together. The garrison mentality is a framework for community, a necessary counterbalance to the atomization that defines much of late-stage capitalistic life.
I speak from personal experience. Ten years ago, I moved to Alberta from Russia, a place where literature deeply informs national identity. When I arrived in Canada, I noticed that people didn’t seem to pay much attention to their homegrown novels. But I turned to Canadian fiction to make sense of my new country. It taught me that community is not only central to Canadian identity, but part of what holds us together when everything else falls apart. It was through reading Canadian that I became Canadian.
In 2012, I was living in Samara, a large city with more than a million people in southwestern Russia, nestled along the Volga River. I had just earned a degree in Russian literature and was working as a curator at a large literary museum devoted to Aleksey Nikolayevich Tolstoy, a Soviet adventure and science fiction writer and a distant relative of Leo Tolstoy.
If you grew up in Canada, chances are you’ve never been to a literary museum. It’s exactly what it sounds like: a museum devoted to a writer’s life and work. It’s usually set up in a place where the writer spent time—their home, summer estate or place of exile. Inside, there are often archives, manuscripts, personal items and historical artifacts connected to the writer or the literary culture of the region. There are likely several hundred across Russia, from major national institutions to smaller collections housed in schools. Museums like these are one of the clearest expressions of the country’s reverence for the written word.
Alexander Pushkin—Russia’s most revered poet—has around 15 major museums dedicated to him. Some are in sites where he lived. Others are in places he only passed through, like the Alexander Pushkin Memorial Dacha Museum in St. Petersburg, located in the summer home where he honeymooned with his wife for six months in 1831. Literary giants are not the only ones who get this treatment. There are museums for lesser-known writers, too—names that might not mean much outside of Russia, like Dmitriy Mamin-Sibiryak, Gleb Uspensky and Nikolay Dobrolyubov.
These figures are part of everyday Russian life. Even if people don’t read their books, they know their names. Streets and public spaces are routinely named after writers. You grow up on Pushkin Street, go to school near Tolstoy Square and shop on Turgenev Highway. That kind of cultural imprint sticks. It reminds you—subtly, constantly—that books matter.
For the government, literature can be both a powerful tool and a dangerous threat. During the Soviet era, the regime used writers like Maxim Gorky and Aleksey Tolstoy for propaganda. At the same time, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago was published in the West in 1973—after being banned in the Soviet Union—exposing the brutality of the country’s forced labour camps, where millions of Soviet citizens died. It eroded support for communism and left-wing parties across Europe and undermined the legitimacy of the Soviet state.
The fraught relationship between literature and state power persists today. At the opening ceremony of the 2014 Sochi Winter Olympics, the government included a lavish segment about Russian literature, naming giants like Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy and Chekhov. Under Putin, literature is used to project national pride, ideological strength and imperial ambition. But authors who criticize Putin’s regime often face exile, while titles with LGBTQ+ themes are restricted or quietly removed from bookstore shelves. In Russia, literature has always been serious business—so serious, in fact, that many have perished for what they wrote.
In 2013, Alexei Navalny was still alive and free, the war in Ukraine hadn’t yet begun and writers like me were often able to work without censorship. I wrote one story for Golos, a non-profit that defended voters’ rights and the only election watchdog that wasn’t affiliated with the Russian government. I analyzed bills proposed by the local administration and, although my conclusions did not flatter officials, the article was published and I remained untouched.
At the time, I was dating a guy named Oleg. He’d foreseen that Russia was headed for authoritarianism long before I had: a few years before we’d even met, he had already applied for permanent residency in Canada, as it was one of the few countries with an open immigration policy. We got engaged in 2013 and married the following February in Samara. It was a joyous celebration, but the most vivid moment from that time was when we were on our honeymoon, watching the news as Putin announced his decision to annex Crimea. I knew something dangerous had been set in motion.
My country had become stifling overnight. As I worked in a government-funded institution, it suddenly became mandatory for me to participate in regime-backed rallies—something I refused to do. While the authorities turned a blind eye for a time, it was obvious that this couldn’t go on forever. Eventually, I would have to either fall in line or leave.
When my husband accepted a software engineering position in Calgary, I packed my bags and followed him to a country where I knew no one. Leaving my family, friends and the country where generations of my ancestors had lived was incredibly difficult. I knew that my career in Russian literature wouldn’t transfer easily either. But it was the right choice. One month before I left, Russian police raided the Golos offices. A year after that, a court ordered the complete liquidation of the organization.
Right before I moved to Canada, Alice Munro became the first Canadian to ever win the Nobel Prize in Literature. This was before shocking revelations about her personal life had damaged her reputation; at the time, her Nobel win made me proud of the country I was about to call home. I’d read some of Munro’s work back in my university years. Her quiet, powerful storytelling had made its way into Russian translations in the ’80s, and she was often compared to Chekhov, which is probably one of the reasons why she’s beloved in Russia. I thought, Perfect! I may not know much about Canada, but I know Alice Munro. That’ll be my go-to conversation starter. Of course, I was being naive—very few Canadians I’d met seemed to care about her.
In his novel The Dean’s December, the Canadian-American author Saul Bellow writes about a university dean as he reflects on his life in the U.S. and Eastern Europe—particularly how the East endures the ordeal of totalitarianism, while Western countries face the challenge of freedom. I found this to be true in my own life. Escaping totalitarianism was one thing; learning to live with freedom was another. It was a relief to walk down the streets without fear of corrupt police. What was more remarkable was to live in a country whose sole ambitions were to have peace and prosperity—one that had no appetite for post-imperial nostalgia, took no pride in its weapons or war victories and wasn’t longing for a former glory.
But I’d never been to North America before. I wasn’t used to a city like Calgary, with its shiny new skyscrapers, expansive highways and baffling lack of sidewalks. I’ve always been a walker, someone who wanders aimlessly through streets. In Russia, I could start my stroll right outside my front door and keep going for miles. But in Calgary, I often had to drive somewhere just to enjoy a decent walk.
Russian literature wasn’t a viable way to make a living here. In a moment of desperation, I placed an ad offering private tutoring in Russian. I ended up with two students: a middle-aged barber who wanted to learn Russian because he thought Putin was “a cool and tough guy,” and a security guard in his early twenties who had an online relationship with a Russian girl and hoped to impress her father, who he called a “tough man.” Both were drawn to the “toughness” they imagined in my country—and both dropped the lessons once they realized that Russian nouns have genders and verbs conjugate.
Soon after, I started volunteering at the Calgary Public Library. One day, I was talking to an older lady, another volunteer, about how fascinated I was by Alberta’s prairie landscape. Without prompting, she gave me a book recommendation. “Why don’t you read Who Has Seen the Wind?” she said. I immediately borrowed it from the library and, just like that, W.O. Mitchell’s classic from 1947 became the first Canadian book I read after arriving in this country.
Set in a 1930s Saskatchewan town, the story follows Brian O’Connal as he grows from a quiet four-year-old into a teenager wrestling with the weight of mortality. Along the way, he loses his father, his grandmother and his beloved dog—each death shaping his desire to find meaning and order in an otherwise senseless life. For all its sorrow, I found the book deeply heartwarming. Its message was profound: that we can only truly be human once we accept life and people in all their complexities. It reassured me that, despite the existential solitude and despair we all experience, connection remains possible. Life, in the end, is impossible without a community made up of kind, cruel, saintly and sinful people alike.
Who Has Seen the Wind? hooked me on Canadian literature. I finished it and immediately reached for the next title on my Canadian shelf: No Great Mischief by Alistair MacLeod, another book that explores individualism and a longing for community. Set in Cape Breton, the story traces the legacy of the MacDonald family from their patriarch, who fled the Highland Clearances in the 18th century, to his modern-day descendants. This beautifully written novel, like Canada itself, is linguistically polyphonic, blending English, French and Gaelic, reflecting the cultural tensions that have shaped the country’s history. At its core, MacLeod’s work meditates on fractured community and the aching search for forgiveness, peace and kinship in an increasingly individualistic world. As the MacDonalds struggle to reconcile their Gaelic heritage with their Canadian identities, I also struggled to maintain close ties to my homeland while adapting in a new society.
After many months of consideration, I enrolled in graduate studies at the University of Alberta’s Digital Humanities program, which blends technology with the humanities. The program allowed me to take classes in various literary fields. That’s when Alice Munro briefly returned to my orbit. We were discussing literary awards in one class, when someone asked who from Canada had won the Nobel Prize. I was the only one who knew the answer—and I’d barely lived in Canada for a year. I’m not suggesting that my classmates were uninformed. Far from it: I met so many smart people during my time there. But it’s hard to ignore that Canadian literature lingers on the periphery of scholarly attention.
For our critical theory class, we were given a list of novels for an assignment. One of them was The Break by Katherena Vermette, a haunting portrayal of modern-day Winnipeg that centres on a Métis family whose lives are shattered by the brutal assault of a 13-year-old girl. Told from multiple perspectives, including the voices of Indigenous women from Manitoba, the novel paints a painful picture of trauma and resilience. Though The Break takes place decades after Mitchell’s and MacLeod’s stories, the central theme remains the same: a lost community that comes alive in times of crisis. My husband and I were drawn to Canada’s reputation for multicultural inclusivity. But this novel offered a sobering counter-narrative, exposing the harsh realities many Indigenous communities still endure, shaped by colonialism.
There are many other Canadian writers who helped me understand this country: Mordecai Richler, whose witty, adventurous voice helped me grasp the nuances of Canadian cultural identity and the tensions between tradition and individualism. Robertson Davies, who introduced me to the world of Canadian universities and intellectuals, as well as Canada’s place within the broader European cultural tradition. And, of course, Margaret Atwood, who taught me that the relationship between people and wilderness shapes both personal and national identity. These authors helped me navigate not only the geography of my new home but its emotional and cultural landscape.
During my university years, as I devoured book after book by Canadian authors, I came across Northrop Frye’s concept of the “garrison mentality.” It was one of those moments where the right words perfectly capture a feeling you’ve been circling around for years. In the context of the nation’s community ethos, everything I’d read suddenly made more sense. Back then, I had no idea the term was widely used or even hotly debated by literary critics and scholars. I just thought it was a brilliant, all-encompassing way to describe Canadian literature.
Today, amid the buy-Canadian craze, I wonder why people are so quick to rally around Canadian beef, Canadian alcohol and Canadian clothing brands, but not Canadian novels. After all, our literature has long offered a blueprint for Canadian identity. It captures our sense of community and national anxieties, much like the garrison mentality—a feeling of isolation, yes, but also a shared connection and sense of collective belonging.
I live in Alberta, the stronghold of Canadian conservatism. During the federal election this year, it was nearly impossible to spot a red or orange campaign sign on any front lawn—an ocean of blue and purple dominated the streets. My friends confessed that they were afraid to put up Liberal signs, fearing that people would damage their properties.
From the outside, Alberta might seem gripped by free-market ideology and rugged individualism. Yet, even here, I see a steady resistance to extreme libertarianism in the form of the province’s strong volunteer culture. A 2020 report by the Government of Alberta found that half of Albertans over 14 years old volunteer, which is higher than the Canadian average of 44 per cent. Every year, more than 1.6 million Albertans volunteer around 262 million hours, contributing about $5.6 billion to the provincial economy.
The communal spirit in Alberta is perhaps best embodied by the grand Calgary Central Library, which opened in 2018. It’s more than just a repository of books. It’s also a civic hub that offers free programs like Indigenous services, a newcomers’ desk, financial literacy workshops and youth volunteer programs—all of which address mental health, social integration and community engagement. I feel fortunate to live in a city and raise my child with access to such a wonderful library. It’s my son’s favourite place to go to—where he learned his first letters, made his first friends and borrowed his first books. He can’t get enough of the Franklin the Turtle book series and Robert Munsch’s wacky tales.
I doubt that Alberta will ever separate from Canada—no matter how loud the separatist voices may get. Beyond political and legal reasons, the enduring grip of the garrison mentality binds us together. Alberta’s bond with Canada isn’t just historical. It’s psychological, forged in a shared experience of mutual survival amid vast, unforgiving landscapes. We have a resilient cultural bond that transcends political frustrations.
In her memoir Reading Lolita in Tehran, Azar Nafisi tells the story of how, after the Iranian Revolution, she organized a secret seminar with her former students to discuss banned English-language books. They read Nabokov, Fitzgerald, Austen and James—works from different times and places in a country where you could be beaten for something as simple as painting your nails. They found these books spoke to their lives. Nafisi calls literature a “pocket of freedom” in a repressive society. Canadian literature is that refuge for me—a “pocket of freedom” within freedom itself. It has taught me not just to cherish liberty, but to use it to strengthen community. Freedom isn’t just something to hold; it’s something to cultivate, defend and pass on. Not in solitude, but with other people.
