Opinion

I moved to Harbourfront almost a year ago. It was around May 1, 2025. I found this neighbourhood stunningly beautiful. As a writer, I had this simple belief: water can always be inspiring. And it was. Like many people in this world—which, unfortunately, often feels painted by agony and pain—I found this place to be something else entirely. A phenomenon. What I like to call the visionary music of nature.

Walking around the lake soon became a ritual for me. Not in a spiritual, life-changing, Instagram-caption kind of way—just a quiet, repetitive habit. The kind you don’t question. I was enjoying how the sun danced playfully on the water, as if it had nothing better to do. The birds, meanwhile, were being birds—circling and gliding, occasionally appearing as if they were secretly observing their own romantic drama reflected in the water!

Speaking of the birds—if I’m being honest, I’m not a big fan of them.

I mean, I admire their beauty. I respect their manoeuvrability. And yes, there’s something deeply impressive about a creature that casually ignores gravity while I can barely deal with standing on a glass balcony. But still, I don’t know them. I was never good at birdiology!

Quite the opposite, actually.

I have a strong feeling birds know me very well.

Because twice—on two completely peaceful days—some small, swallow-like birds decided, out of nowhere, to attack me. Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Physically. Direct, precise, well-executed aerial operations.

Later, I found out I had been walking under their nests. Apparently, I had entered their airspace without clearance. And honestly, considering it as trespassing, I can say they had every right to defend their territory. If anything, they showed admirable efficiency.

I gave up. I never got close to those nests again! (I just watched The Birds again; it is a classic. Take advantage of the chance to watch it if you haven't seen it yet, by the way!) Unfortunately, not all of their competitors are as cooperative as I am.

The repetitive news I hear these days keeps circling around something much louder than birds: Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport.

At first, I didn’t think much about it. Planes were just there—distant, controlled, almost polite like disciplined versions of the same birds that attacked me. But recently, the tone has changed. People are talking. The media is analyzing.

Just recently, I read an analysis on TVO by Steve Paikin asking why Canada and Mark Carney’s Liberals seem reluctant to take a clear position on the airport’s future. I’m not here to take sides—but the framing stayed with me.

As the analysis suggests, the situation appears to be less about aviation itself and more about political hesitation layered across different levels of government. On one side, there are signals—particularly from Doug Ford—leaning toward growth, expansion, and a larger role for the airport. On the other side, the City of Toronto and many waterfront residents remain cautious, concerned about noise, environmental pressure, and what exactly happens to a place like Harbourfront when “more” quietly becomes “too much.”

And then there is the federal government.

According to the article, Ottawa’s position is not exactly opposition, nor quite support. The emphasis repeatedly returns to the need for agreement among all parties—the city, the province, and the airport authority—before anything significant happens, which sounds fair. And also, in a very Canadian way, it sounds like a beautifully structured pause.

That was the impression the analysis left on me.

I’m just… walking by the water.

Because from where I stand—usually somewhere between the lake and a slightly suspicious bird—this doesn’t feel like a policy debate. It feels like a quiet question of coexistence.

A feathered bird on a railing.

A metal bird in the sky.

And somehow, both are convinced they belong.

The birds, of course, never waited for permission.

They didn’t consult stakeholders.

They didn’t commission reports.

They drew an invisible boundary and defended it—with impressive speed and absolutely no interest in diplomacy.

We, on the other hand, prefer something more complex. We analyze. We negotiate. We expand. We optimize. We admire nature, and at the same time, we gently redesign it—always carefully, always intelligently, always with the confidence that balance can be engineered.

I am not into politics. Though, like many things, politics seems to be in me.

Regardless of the outcome of these conversations—which I personally have no stake in—I can’t help but think we have already objectified nature more than enough. We’ve studied it, measured it, framed it, and optimized it.

Maybe this is the moment we learn something simpler.

Respect.

Not the abstract kind.

The practical kind.

The kind that stops you from walking under a bird’s nest twice.

And frankly, I forgive those aggressive birds.

In fact, I respect them.

They knew exactly what they were protecting.

They didn’t hesitate.

They didn’t negotiate.

They just made it clear.

And maybe, just maybe, as conversations about expanding Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport continue, we could learn something from them.

Or at least look up a little more often.

Because in the end, somewhere above Harbourfront, the question is still quietly hovering:

A feathered bird…

or a metal one—

That is the question.