the legal system often reflects the interests of the elite rather than serving as a truly democratic or constitutional safeguard for all citizens.

One of the central tensions in modern society is the paradox between individual self-preservation and the need for global cooperation. Thomas Hobbes famously framed the state of nature as "nasty, brutish, and short," where self-interest drives human behavior in the absence of order. While Hobbes advocated for the social contract as a way to mediate this chaos, modern systems—such as global capitalism or international relations—often exacerbate this tension by fostering competition for resources in a way that mirrors colonialism. Frantz Fanon, in his critiques of colonialism, emphasized how the colonizer and the colonized are locked in a violent dialectic, where both parties are dehumanized by the process.

The globalized world demands a new form of territorialism—not in the sense of controlling land, but in controlling narratives, resources, and identities. In this sense, territorialism has evolved, but the underlying psychological need for dominance remains the same. The solution to this, then, is not to deny territorialism but to understand how it can be transformed into systems that do not rely on exploitation. This can be achieved through Ricoeur’s notion of recognition—creating systems where individuals and nations are recognized for their contributions without resorting to domination.

In Canada, the notion that the rule of law is neutral and universally applied is, in many ways, an idealistic narrative.

In practice, the legal system often reflects the interests of the elite rather than serving as a truly democratic or constitutional safeguard for all citizens. The legal and academic institutions in Canada, like those in many other nations, are influenced and sometimes dominated by those in positions of power—both financially and politically. This reality shapes how laws are crafted, interpreted, and applied, leaving the average citizen at a disadvantage while the elite navigate, influence, or outright shape the system to their benefit.

Canada’s corporate sector wields significant influence over policy and regulation, which often bleeds into the judicial system. The energy industry is a prime example. Corporations involved in oil, gas, and mining have historically been able to leverage their economic importance to shape both provincial and federal regulations. For instance, the Alberta oil sands have long enjoyed a regulatory environment that, despite public outcry and environmental concerns, remains favorable to corporate interests. Studies have shown that lobbying from oil companies has been a powerful tool in ensuring that their operations continue with minimal interference, while those opposing these industries (such as Indigenous groups or environmental organizations) face significant legal and financial obstacles in challenging these practicesr, regulatory capture—where regulatory agencies are dominated by the industries they are supposed to oversee—remains a real concern. In Canada, the National Energy Board (now the Canada Energy Regulator) has faced criticism for being too closely aligned with the energy sector, undermining its role as an impartial regulatory body. This relationship between corporate power and legal oversight undermines the rule of law in a way that privileges the elite, suggesting that laws are not applied or enforced with the fairness or neutrality the Constitution promises

The terms republic and democracy are often used interchangeably, but they represent different systems of governance with important distinctions. The primary difference lies in how power is exercised and the role of the people in making decisions.

A republic is a form of government in which the people elect representatives to make decisions on their behalf. The leaders and representatives are accountable to the people but act within a framework of laws that limit the power of both government and the majority. The rule of law, often codified in a constitution, is paramount.

Democracy, in its purest form, refers to a system where decisions are made directly by the people through majority rule. In a direct democracy, every citizen votes on every issue or law, giving them direct control over governmental decisions. In a representative democracy, citizens elect officials to represent their interests, which makes this similar to a republic but with subtle differences in the balance of power.

In a republic, governance is always representative. Citizens elect representatives to make laws, govern, and create policies on their behalf. These representatives are bound by a constitution or legal framework that limits their powers and aims to protect individual rights.

While direct democracy allows citizens to vote on laws and policies directly, representative democracy allows citizens to vote for representatives, similar to a republic. However, the distinction lies in how decisions are made and constrained (see next points).

A republic emphasizes rule of law. The constitution or legal framework limits the actions of the government and protects individual rights, regardless of the majority’s will. This prevents the “tyranny of the majority” by ensuring that the majority cannot infringe on the rights of minorities or individuals.

A democracy focuses on majority rule, especially in its direct form. In a democracy, decisions are made based on what the majority of people want, and there are fewer constitutional safeguards to protect minority rights. In a pure democracy, if 51% of the population votes in favor of a law, it can be enacted, even if it infringes on the rights of the remaining 49%.

In a republic, the government is constrained by a constitution or system of laws that cannot easily be overridden by the majority. These protections often include individual rights like freedom of speech, religion, and the right to a fair trial, ensuring that basic liberties are protected.

In a pure democracy, there is less emphasis on a constitution, and decisions are more fluid based on popular vote. This means there are fewer barriers to changing laws, which can make the system more responsive but also more prone to majority domination over minorities.

A republic often features a system of checks and balances between different branches of government (executive, legislative, judicial) to ensure no one branch or group has too much power. These checks are often enshrined in the constitution.

While representative democracies may have checks and balances similar to republics, pure democracies often do not have these formal mechanisms. In pure democracies, the focus is on majority rule, which could allow one faction to gain overwhelming control without the same legal or institutional constraints.

A republic often places a strong emphasis on individual rights and freedoms. The constitution or legal structure guarantees certain rights that cannot be easily overridden, even by the majority.

In a democracy, the collective will of the people is often the highest authority. While individual rights might be respected in some forms of democracy (like a representative democracy), they can be more vulnerable in a direct democracy if the majority seeks to limit those rights.

The United States is an example of a constitutional republic. The U.S. Constitution establishes the framework for governance, includes protections for individual rights, and limits the power of the majority through a system of checks and balances.

Ancient Athens is often cited as a historical example of direct democracy, where citizens participated directly in the decision-making process. Modern countries like Switzerland include elements of direct democracy with frequent referendums.

• A republic focuses on elected representatives governing within a legal or constitutional framework that protects individual rights and limits government power.

• A democracy, particularly in its pure or direct form, emphasizes majority rule, where the people have direct influence over laws and policies, with fewer constraints on what the majority can decide.

In practice, most modern nations are representative democracies or constitutional republics, blending elements of both systems. The key difference is that a republic tends to prioritize the rule of law and protections for individuals, while a democracy emphasizes the will of the majority.

A constitutional republic is a form of government in which the people elect representatives to govern them, and the powers of these representatives and the government itself are constrained by a constitution. This structure is designed to limit government power, protect individual rights, and prevent tyranny, whether from a majority or a minority.

1. Elected Representatives: In a constitutional republic, citizens do not directly make laws or decisions about governance. Instead, they elect representatives who make these decisions on their behalf. These representatives are accountable to the voters and must act within the bounds of the constitution.

2. Constitutional Framework: The government operates under a constitution, which serves as the supreme law of the land. This constitution outlines the structure of government, the powers it holds, and the rights of the citizens. It acts as a safeguard to protect individuals from the potential overreach of both government and the majority.

3. Rule of Law: In a constitutional republic, the rule of law is paramount. This means that the government and its citizens must follow the laws as set out by the constitution. The law is applied equally to everyone, including government officials, and no one is above the law.

4. Separation of Powers: Constitutional republics often have a separation of powers between different branches of government, such as the executive, legislative, and judicial branches. This structure is designed to prevent any one branch from becoming too powerful and to provide checks and balances. Each branch has distinct powers and responsibilities, and they can hold each other accountable.

5. Protection of Individual Rights: A core feature of a constitutional republic is the protection of individual rights, such as freedom of speech, religion, assembly, and the right to a fair trial. These rights are typically enshrined in the constitution or a bill of rights, which means they cannot be easily taken away or altered, even by the government or the majority.

6. Limited Government: The constitution in a constitutional republic explicitly limits the powers that of the government. This prevents any one individual or group from amassing too much power and helps ensure that the government serves the people, rather than the other way around.

Example: The United States

The United States is a well-known example of a constitutional republic. The U.S. Constitution outlines the powers of the federal government, divides it into three branches (executive, legislative, and judicial), and includes a Bill of Rights that protects individual freedoms. The government operates within these limits, and any changes to this structure must go through a rigorous amendment process.

Ah, the rule of law—the cherished cornerstone of any republic, the comforting myth that ensures order in the chaotic swirl of human ambition. Let’s not kid ourselves, though. The idea that a neat little thing like the Constitution or any legal framework actually “prevents tyranny” is laughable when you peel back the layers of the facade. Sure, on paper, the Constitution is there to check the government’s power and protect individual rights. But in practice? The rule of law is nothing more than a backstop for when things fall apart, a sort of after-the-fact clean-up crew for injustices that already occurred.

Take Dred Scott v. Sandford (1857), where the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that Black Americans, whether free or enslaved, could not be citizens. The rule of law not only failed to protect individual rights but actively sanctioned oppression. It wasn’t until after the fact, through civil war, the 13th and 14th Amendments, that any justice came close to being served. And this pattern repeats—whether it’s Jim Crow laws that were later “fixed” or mass surveillance justified post-9/11 and addressed only after years of intrusion. The courts swoop in like heroes well after the damage has been done.

Justice is a post-hoc farce. The mechanisms that are supposed to protect us often seem like they’re just there to retroactively adjust to what’s already been lost. Think of qualified immunity, where public officials, particularly police, are shielded from lawsuits for violating someone’s rights, so long as there’s no “clearly established” precedent that what they did was illegal. Translation: you only get justice if someone’s already been screwed over in exactly the same way before.

And how about corporate regulation? After decades of regulatory capture, big industries basically write the laws that govern them. So, when things go south—massive oil spills, financial crises—it’s “oops, time to legislate!” Then suddenly the rule of law steps in like a parent catching a kid’s party long after the damage is done. The legal framework adjusts itself, but only in the rearview mirror, creating the illusion of accountability after everyone’s already cashed out.

Ultimately, rule of law is an idea we cling to because we need to believe in structure, in fairness, in some universal protection from tyranny. But the reality? The real work of justice is a slow, reactive process. Things don’t get fixed before the harm; they get patched up after the system breaks. What we call justice is often little more than a postmortem, a public show of course correction in a system that was never designed to preempt or prevent abuse. It’s a farce we live with because the alternative—accepting the chaos—is too uncomfortable. But in truth, we’re just playing catch-up with justice, always a step behind the latest wrong.

rule of law—sold to us as this impartial, universal protector of justice, when in reality, it’s just the rule of the elite dressed up in high-minded rhetoric.

Let’s not pretend that the law operates on some neutral plane, blind to power and wealth. The dirty little secret of constitutional law is that it’s more about who holds the pen than it is about any lofty principles of democracy or fairness. The Constitution? Sure, it outlines rights and limits, but it’s been interpreted, bent, and outright ignored by those in power whenever it suits their needs.

Take the way corporations navigate the legal system. They don’t just play by the rules—they often write them. With armies of lobbyists and lawyers, the elite craft loopholes, bury regulations in fine print, and ensure that laws protect their interests. Citizens United v. FEC didn’t just open the floodgates for money in politics; it sanctified it under the guise of “free speech.” The law’s not protecting the people here; it’s protecting capital. It’s democracy in name only, where wealth buys influence, and influence molds the law to keep wealth safe.

And how about the legal immunity enjoyed by financial elites? When the 2008 financial crisis hit, the architects of the collapse—executives at the big banks, for example—faced virtually no legal consequences. The system came to their rescue, not to the rescue of the millions of people who lost their homes and livelihoods. Justice? More like a get-out-of-jail-free card for the wealthy.

Even within constitutional law, there’s the ever-present reality of who interprets it. The U.S. Supreme Court—a handful of justices, unelected and largely unaccountable—hold immense power in deciding how the Constitution is applied. The decisions they hand down often reflect not democratic ideals but the ideologies and interests of the elite class that put them in their seats. Over time, we’ve seen how their rulings have shifted based on the political and economic climates of the day, often favoring the status quo over transformative change.

So, no, the rule of law isn’t about protecting individuals from tyranny or ensuring a just society. It’s about protecting the existing power structures, the elites who sit comfortably behind their wealth and influence. The law, as it stands, is their weapon, their shield. And the rest of us? We’re left hoping for crumbs from the table of justice, when really, the game has been rigged from the start.

Consider the concept of freedom is often invoked by different political factions, but what does it mean? Is freedom the right to free speech, the right to bear arms, or the freedom from government interference in personal lives? Each of these interpretations represents a different language game in which political actors negotiate meaning to align with their own interests.

Much of what we believe about justice, especially in the framework of a constitutional republic, can be seen as influenced by remnants of hierarchical and oppressive systems like slavery. While constitutional republics emphasize the rule of law, protection of individual rights, and separation of powers to prevent tyranny, these systems are not free from historical inequalities. The elected representatives, constitutional frameworks, and legal structures that define justice in modern society were often shaped by those in power, and the legacy of past social structures continues to influence how justice is distributed today.

Thus, from a postmodern lens, justice in a constitutional republic is not a neutral or purely rational system but is constructed by and for those who historically wielded power. It remains subject to the dynamics of power, controlling power.

A constitutional republic sets limits on government power through the constitution, but historically, many of these structures were designed by and for elite groups. In the U.S., for example, the founding framework was created by a relatively small group of wealthy landowners, many of whom owned slaves. This has led some critics to argue that foundational ideas of justice are tainted by the need to maintain social order that primarily benefited these elites.

The idea of elected representatives in a constitutional republic can be viewed as a way to grant the appearance of empowerment to the masses while maintaining control over actual decision-making. Historically, many citizens (such as slaves, women, and non-property owners) were excluded from the democratic process, which shaped the system in a way that served existing power hierarchies.

In a constitutional republic, the idea of justice is often tied to the rule of law, which is meant to limit the power of the government and protect individual rights. However, this system’s historical origins are rooted in societies where power was concentrated among elites, many of whom owned slaves or were complicit in oppressive structures. As you mentioned, critics argue that foundational concepts of justice were often developed in the interests of wealthy landowners and elites. For instance, in the U.S., the Constitution was drafted primarily by landowning men, many of whom benefited from and upheld systems like slavery. This has led to ongoing disparities in how justice is applied today, with remnants of those hierarchies still influencing modern systems.

Historically, the constitution protected “property rights,” which often extended to the ownership of human beings. Justice, as conceived in that framework, was not initially designed to apply equally to all people, which creates enduring legacies of inequality that still affect the legal and justice systems today. Even as slavery was abolished, the legal structures created to maintain racial hierarchies (e.g., Jim Crow laws) persisted, influencing modern policies and practices such as mass incarceration and the school-to-prison pipeline.

Postmodern critiques of justice highlight how the rule of law—a cornerstone of constitutional republics—can be seen as a tool to maintain social order rather than a system to ensure fairness and equality. Laws are often written by those in power, and while they are meant to protect individual rights, they frequently serve the interests of the ruling class. As Michel Foucault argued, law and justice systems can act as mechanisms of control, reinforcing power dynamics by determining who has the right to punish and who benefits from legal protections.

For example, mass incarceration in the U.S. disproportionately affects racial minorities, particularly African Americans. This can be traced back to systems like slave codes, which criminalized Black existence during and after slavery. Even though those explicit laws no longer exist, the prison-industrial complex and policing strategies continue to disproportionately target marginalized communities, demonstrating that remnants of these old power structures persist within modern justice systems.

The idea of elected representatives in a constitutional republic is meant to ensure that the people have a voice in their governance. However, from a postmodern perspective, this can be seen as a facade of empowerment. Historically, many groups, including women, the poor, and enslaved people, were excluded from the democratic process. Although modern systems have expanded voting rights, critics argue that gerrymandering, voter suppression, and the influence of money in politics continue to limit true representation. These factors can perpetuate the interests of powerful elites, rather than those of the general populace.

This ties into Nietzsche’s critique of slave morality, where the powerless seek justice not necessarily to achieve true fairness, but to counteract historical oppression. The modern conception of justice, with its emphasis on equality and fairness, might reflect this reactive morality, where past hierarchies are addressed symbolically but not fundamentally dismantled.

One of the central critiques of the rule of law from a postmodern perspective is that laws are not applied equally across all social groups. Wealthy and powerful individuals often have more access to legal resources, better representation, and greater influence over legal outcomes. Systemic racism, class inequality, and gender bias further skew how justice is experienced by different groups. While constitutional republics emphasize the protection of individual rights, the legal framework continues to reflect historical biases.

There is a critique of colonialism as an oversimplification in modern discussions of power and justice & it is valid, especially when examined through an evolutionary psychology lens.

Evolutionary psychology suggests that human behavior, including how we engage with power, land, and community, is deeply rooted in our evolutionary past, shaped by survival and reproduction strategies. The tension between territorial control (like the “that’s my land” mentality) and inclusive cooperation reflects a complex interplay of instincts that have been advantageous in different contexts throughout human history.

Humans, like many species, evolved to be territorial. Early human societies had to protect resources critical for survival—food, shelter, and land. In prehistoric times, controlling land meant survival, and competition over resources was a common evolutionary strategy. This “us versus them” mentality is deeply ingrained because it provided a survival advantage for small, tightly-knit communities.

However, as societies became more complex, humans also developed mechanisms for cooperation, which allowed larger groups to work together, creating more stable and prosperous societies. The “that’s my land” mentality still reflects a very basic evolutionary impulse to secure resources, but in a modern, interconnected world, this approach is increasingly seen as incompatible with global cooperation and inclusivity.

Colonialism, in historical terms, reflects the collision between Hobbesian self-interest and global dynamics of power. The justification for territorial expansion was often framed in terms of civilizing missions, but psychologically it was deeply tied to the anxieties of the colonial powers themselves—an anxiety of cultural and economic survival. In the post-colonial context, thinkers like Achille Mbembe argue that the legacy of colonialism persists in the form of necropolitics—where sovereignty is exercised through control over life and death.

This is where modern territorialism intersects with human rights and equity. Globalization challenges traditional notions of territory, as power is increasingly diffuse, flowing through corporations, financial systems, and even digital spaces. The struggle now, for many, is no longer about reclaiming physical land, but about reclaiming space in global narratives, economic structures, and political systems that continue to marginalize certain populations.

In the context of colonialism, territorial expansion was driven by the desire to control resources and wealth, grounded in these evolutionary imperatives. However, in today’s world, territorialism often stands in opposition to inclusive global policies that focus on human rights, equity, and justice. The challenge is reconciling these deep-rooted instincts with the modern need for cooperation and inclusivity.

At the core of human existence, territorialism and the struggle for survival are not simply primal instincts but are deeply entwined with how we define identity and power. Philosophically, this can be connected to Carl Schmitt's concept of the "friend/enemy distinction," which underlines the idea that political identity is formed through conflict. Schmitt argues that groups define themselves through the perception of an "other" that threatens their existence, which can justify extreme actions such as war or colonization. The critical point here is that territorial expansion, as seen in colonialism, is a manifestation of this need for self-preservation and identity formation.

Psychologically, Ernest Becker’s work in The Denial of Death offers insight into how humans cope with the inevitability of their mortality by seeking symbolic immortality through cultural and territorial dominance. Colonialism can be seen as a projection of this death anxiety, where controlling land, resources, and people provides a temporary buffer against the existential fear of insignificance or annihilation.

In both cases, the human drive to expand and dominate is not simply about greed or power, but about a deeper need to assert meaning and secure identity in a chaotic and threatening world.

Evolutionary psychology also tells us that cooperation and inclusiveness have been key to human survival, especially as societies grew larger and more interconnected. For instance, inclusive societies that fostered cooperation across groups (rather than focusing on exclusion or domination) were better able to trade, innovate, and protect themselves from external threats.

Fighting back against oppression or dehumanization can be a form of reclaiming one’s agency, but it must be understood in more complex terms than simply reactionary violence. Paulo Freire’s concept of conscientization—the process of developing a critical awareness of one's social reality through reflection and action—provides a pathway for oppressed groups to fight back not through violence, but through education and empowerment. In this framework, survival becomes an act of reclaiming autonomy and dignity, rather than merely engaging in the same power dynamics as the oppressors.

The solution is not a simplistic fight back but a more sophisticated understanding of how territorialism, identity, and power have evolved. Rather than relying on outdated models of control, we need to develop systems that allow for mutual recognition, where survival is not zero-sum. This requires rethinking territorialism in non-physical terms—recognizing how digital, economic, and narrative territories shape power and agency in the modern world.

This path forward requires not only psychological and philosophical reflection but also institutional reform. Global systems, from trade agreements to human rights frameworks, must be designed to account for the fact that everyone is engaged in a personal and collective battle for survival and becoming, often against forces much larger than themselves.

By grounding these reflections in specific philosophical and psychological theories, we can create a framework that doesn’t dehumanize individuals or groups but instead acknowledges the complexity of human experience in the face of modern and historical challenges.

In today’s globalized world, inclusiveness means recognizing the value of diverse perspectives and ensuring that different groups, regardless of their background, have a say in shaping society. This inclusive approach is not only morally imperative but also aligns with evolutionary benefits that come from reducing conflict, increasing cooperation, and sharing resources efficiently.

Modern-day power struggles, whether they involve nations, corporations, or social movements, are often framed in terms of justice and equality. But underneath these struggles are ancient drives related to status, competition, and survival. Groups may seek power and resources, justifying their actions with moral arguments that appeal to justice, when in fact they may be acting from a place of evolutionary competition for dominance.

The key challenge in finding truth and justice in a modern context is to recognize these underlying evolutionary motivations. Groups that cling to exclusive power (whether economic, political, or territorial) often do so out of fear of losing resources or status—just as in the past, when losing control of land or resources could mean death or starvation. On the other hand, those pushing for inclusiveness often do so because inclusivity fosters stability, economic growth, and social harmony in an interconnected world.

An inclusive approach to justice must take into account the fact that territorialism, while an understandable human impulse, is no longer a sustainable way to operate in a globalized world. Nations or groups that prioritize cooperation and multilateralism are generally more successful in navigating today’s complex global challenges—whether those challenges involve climate change, economic inequality, or geopolitical conflicts.

A constitutional republic, if functioning inclusively, can be a model for balancing the competing demands of territorialism (or individualism) and inclusiveness. By placing limits on power, protecting individual rights, and promoting democratic participation, constitutional republics can act as safeguards against exclusionary or authoritarian tendencies, encouraging broader participation in the political process.

In summary, both territorialism and inclusiveness are rooted in evolutionary psychology, and each has played a role in shaping human history. While territorialism reflects a survival strategy grounded in competition and exclusion, inclusiveness represents a broader, more cooperative survival strategy that is increasingly necessary in an interconnected world.

The idea of rewarding leaders who advocate for a return to barbarism—a system driven by territorialism, exclusion, and competitive survival strategies—runs counter to the evolution of human cooperation and inclusiveness. Throughout history, the tension between territorial control and inclusive cooperation has shaped societies. Territorialism, often grounded in the idea of competition over resources, reflects a more primitive survival mechanism. It aligns with a mentality of control, exclusion, and zero-sum thinking: if one group wins, another must lose.

Rewarding leaders who seek a return to territorialism, xenophobia, or competitive dominance is dangerous in today’s globalized context. Such leaders capitalize on fear, scarcity, and the othering of different groups, promoting conflict rather than cooperation. In contrast, leaders who foster inclusive policies, protect human rights, and encourage cooperation are more aligned with the evolutionary drive for broader survival, where group success is enhanced by collaboration.

In today’s world, where resources are more interconnected than ever before—whether through global supply chains, climate cooperation, or international security—a return to barbarism would not only undo centuries of social progress but also disrupt the collaborative systems that hold modern societies together. Leadership should reflect the values of inclusiveness, equality, and collaborative growth, as these are the values that will sustain future generations in an increasingly interconnected global landscape.

Sources of data on the benefits of inclusiveness over territorialism can be found in works from Steven Pinker, who argues that human violence has declined due to cooperative strategies. Similarly, the World Economic Forum discusses how inclusiveness in leadership and policy leads to more stable and prosperous societies globally.

Thus, justice in a modern constitutional republic should strive to reflect the inclusive, cooperative side of human nature, while recognizing and mitigating the dangers posed by our more primitive territorial instincts. The challenge is to build systems that balance these evolutionary impulses in a way that fosters stability, cooperation, and global fairness—ultimately making the world safer for all possible outcomes and scenarios.

The case involving Peter Nygård, the former Canadian fashion mogul, raises significant questions about the Canadian justice system and its intersection with elite power. Nygård was charged with a series of serious crimes, including sex trafficking and assault. His case has drawn attention to how the legal system handles accusations against wealthy and influential individuals, with many observers questioning whether his wealth and connections delayed or distorted justice.

For years, despite numerous allegations surfacing, Nygård managed to evade serious legal consequences. This delay in action—despite mounting evidence—highlights how the rule of law, in practice, often moves slowly when the accused holds significant financial power or political connections. The initial hesitation by authorities to fully investigate or prosecute Nygård could be seen as evidence of a system that tends to protect the elite, with legal proceedings only gaining momentum after media investigations and public pressure became impossible to ignore.

Nygård’s ability to operate unchecked for so long has led to broader reflections on how wealth insulates individuals from accountability. For instance, prolonged legal battles and complex litigation are more easily accessible to the wealthy, allowing them to stall or manipulate legal outcomes. Nygård used his resources to maintain a façade of innocence, threatening and silencing victims through legal means. This kind of legal bullying—using the law not for justice, but for intimidation and delay—is a tactic available only to those with significant means, reinforcing the idea that the law, in many cases, bends to the will of those with the deepest pockets.

The Nygård case also brings into question whether Canada’s justice system is genuinely equitable. When contrasted with the treatment of marginalized communities, such as Indigenous peoples or low-income individuals, the stark difference becomes apparent. Wealthy elites like Nygård can afford legal teams capable of exploiting every loophole, delaying proceedings indefinitely, and overwhelming opponents with paperwork. Meanwhile, those without financial means often face a much harsher and swifter application of justice.

In light of these issues, the Nygård sentence prompts a deeper reflection on how the Canadian legal system might cater to the powerful while leaving others to navigate a system that was designed to uphold fairness but often fails to do so in practice. This case illustrates the gap between constitutional principles and real-world outcomes, where justice is frequently delayed, manipulated, or outright denied when wealth and influence enter the equation.