Floor crossing in Canada is not a procedural footnote. It is political theatre at its most intimate. One figure rises, walks a few quiet steps, and the balance of power shifts in full view of the nation. We like to pretend we elect individuals, but our reactions tell the truth. We cheer for jerseys. We invest in teams. And when someone abandons ours, it feels like a personal insult.

Belinda Stronach’s short walk in 2005 kept a minority government alive and sent shockwaves through the Conservative ranks. David Emerson moved in the opposite direction just months later, taking his seat in a Conservative cabinet while the paint was still drying on his Liberal lawn signs. Few acts in politics trigger such a mixture of outrage, admiration, and disbelief. And almost none end in a triumphant return to the ballot box.

Floor crossing does not break democracy. It reveals it, in the tension between conscience and loyalty, between party and principle, between who we elect and who we believe we elect. The walk is brief. The judgment, as history has shown, is far less forgiving.

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The real power isn’t in Ottawa or Québec City. It’s down the street, at city hall.
Municipal politics decides how your street looks, how your taxes are spent, and how your community grows. This is the level of democracy you can walk to, and the one that most voters ignore.

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In the midst of a political party’s convention, National Council elections tend to be shoved into the corner like a spectre at the feast, an unpleasant reminder that a political party is, underneath it all, a business.

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