By Nyan Reynolds

News Americas, NEW YORK, NY, Fri. Feb. 27, 2026: It was Saturday, January 24th, and my niece was hired for her first job. At seventeen years old, she stood on the edge of something new. Her first paycheck. Her first taste of independence. Her first official entry into the workforce. There is something sacred about that moment. It is a quiet declaration that childhood is slowly giving way to responsibility.

She asked me to help her fill out her I-9 and tax documents. Not because she could not do it herself, but because she wanted to make sure everything was right. That she would be compensated properly. That she would not make a mistake. I sat beside her, and together we moved through the paperwork line by line.

Then we reached a section that asked for either a passport number or an A number.

She paused.

“What’s an A number?” she asked.

I told her, “It means Alien Registration Number.”

She laughed lightly.

“Alien?” she said. “Like aliens?”

There was innocence in her question. The kind of innocence that only comes from not having to think about such things. For her, the word alien belonged to science fiction. To movies. To creatures with large heads and distant galaxies.

I explained to her that she does not have an Alien Registration Number because she was born here in the United States. But I do. Her mother does. Many of our loved ones do. We were born elsewhere. We came through the immigration system. And when we did, we were assigned a number.

That number begins with the letter A.

It struck me in that moment how casually the term is used. How normalized it is. How bureaucratic language has made something deeply human feel technical and sterile. But there is nothing sterile about the word alien. It carries weight. It carries history. It carries implications: Alien.

In its most common understanding, it means foreign. Not from here. Other. Sometimes even strange. Unfamiliar. Separate.

And yet that word is stamped across documents that define millions of lives.

The Alien Registration Number follows you from the moment you enter the immigration system. It appears on your green card. It appears on immigration notices. It is part of your permanent file. And even when you become a naturalized citizen, when you stand in a room full of strangers and raise your right hand and take the oath of allegiance, that number does not disappear.

You surrender your green card. You receive your naturalization certificate. You walk out as a citizen of the United States.

But your “A” number remains.

Often printed clearly on the very certificate that declares your new status.

There is something paradoxical about that. You are now fully American in the eyes of the law. You have pledged loyalty. You have been sworn in. You have become part of the nation’s civic fabric. And yet the document that confirms your belonging still carries the identifier that once marked you as an outsider.

A lifelong alien in America.

That phrase lingers in my mind.

What does it mean to be an alien for life, even after you become a citizen?

It means that your journey into this country is permanently recorded. It means that your identity contains a layer that those born here may never have to confront. It means that, in some quiet corner of a federal database, you will always be someone who arrived.

For some, that is not painful. It is simply administrative. A number. A file. A record.

But for others, it is deeply symbolic.

Because immigration is not merely paperwork. It is a sacrifice, it is departure. It is leaving behind language, food, culture, and familiarity. It is stepping into a place where your accent may be noticed before your intelligence. Where your name may be mispronounced before it is understood. Where your story is summarized into a category: Alien.

Today, immigration dominates headlines. Debates rage about borders, about enforcement, about who belongs and who does not. But rarely do we pause to reflect on the emotional weight of the system itself. On the quiet psychological reality of carrying a label that suggests foreignness long after you have pledged allegiance.

When I took my oath, it was one of the proudest days of my life. To stand there and affirm loyalty to the Constitution, to become a citizen of a country that had given me opportunity, education, and growth, meant something profound. It was not casual. It was not transactional. It was sacred.

And yet, printed on my naturalization certificate, in clear text, was my Alien Registration Number.

It did not invalidate my citizenship. But it reminded me that my path here was different.

There is humility in that reminder, gratitude too. Because I know what that number represents. I know the paperwork. The waiting. The uncertainty. The interviews. The fees. The documentation. The hope that everything will be approved.

And I know that somewhere, someone is still praying for that same opportunity.

For millions worldwide, an Alien Registration Number is not an insult. It is aspiration. It is evidence that they have entered the system. That they have a foothold. That they are visible to the law instead of invisible to it.

People risk their lives for that visibility.

They cross deserts. They board overcrowded boats. They leave behind family. They endure detention. They wait in limbo. All for the chance to one day receive documentation that begins with A.

So perhaps the weight of the letter depends on perspective.

To some, it sounds dehumanizing.

To others, it sounds like hope.

But what unsettles me is not the administrative necessity of a number. Governments require systems. Systems require identifiers. I understand that. I respect the structure.

What unsettles me is how easily language can shape perception.

When you call someone an alien, even in official terminology, you subtly reinforce the idea that they are not fully from here. That their belonging is conditional. That their identity contains an asterisk.

And over time, those subtle signals matter.

They influence how we see one another. They influence policy debates. They influence whether we approach immigration with empathy or suspicion.

My niece laughed when she heard the word alien. She had never thought about it before. Why would she? She was born here. She has a Social Security number. She checks the box labeled “citizen” without hesitation.

But that conversation gave me an opportunity to explain something deeper. To explain that many of us carry stories that begin elsewhere – that America is filled with people whose first documents here included that letter; that behind every A number is a journey.

And that we must not take that journey lightly.

There is also a quiet strength in being someone who came from somewhere else and built a life here. To adapt. To learn. To contribute. To serve in the military. To pay taxes. To raise children who will never have to think twice about their status.

Perhaps that is the hidden beauty of the lifelong alien. Not the label itself, but the resilience it represents.

Because once you become a citizen, you are no less American than anyone else. The Constitution does not rank citizens by birthplace. The oath does not contain an asterisk. The law recognizes you fully.

But emotionally, you may still carry awareness of where you began.

You remember the first time you held your green card.
You remember the anxiety before an interview.
You remember the relief of approval.
You remember the pride of naturalization.

And you remember that number.

It follows you not as a scar, but as a reminder.

A reminder that belonging can be earned.
A reminder that citizenship can be chosen.
A reminder that identity can expand.

When I think about the thousands and millions who are still dreaming of that opportunity, I feel gratitude. Gratitude that my family navigated the system properly. Gratitude that I was able to stand in that room and take that oath.

And I feel responsibility.

Responsibility to speak carefully about immigration. Responsibility to teach younger generations what these terms mean. Responsibility to humanize what bureaucracy can sometimes flatten.

Because at the end of the day, an Alien Registration Number is not a creature from outer space.

It is a record of arrival.
It is proof of process.
It is a marker of transition.

And for those who carry it for life, it is a testament to a journey that reshaped everything.

My niece will never have that number. She will move through forms and applications without pausing at the letter A. And that is a privilege I am grateful she has.

But I hope she always remembers the conversation we had; I hope she remembers that some of us began our American story with that letter. I hope she understands that immigration is not abstract. It is personal.

Because somewhere tonight, in another country, someone is filling out paperwork and praying for approval. Someone is hoping to receive that number. Someone is risking everything for the chance to one day hold a certificate that still carries the mark of where they started.

And if they succeed, they too will become lifelong aliens in America.

Citizens. Voters. Workers. Parents. Neighbors.

With a story that began with A.

 EDITOR’S NOTE: Nyan Reynolds is a U.S. Army veteran and published author whose novels and cultural works draw from his Jamaican heritage, military service, and life experiences. His writing blends storytelling, resilience, and heritage to inspire readers.  

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 By Ron Cheong

News Americas, TORONTO, Canada, Mon. Feb. 23, 2026: Memories are short in Guyana as elsewhere.  In the daily churn of corruption allegations, political theatrics and partisan outrage, perspective is often the first casualty. But a country on the cusp of historic transformation cannot afford amnesia – especially as another charade unfolds, with the leader of the official opposition trying to block the US government’s extradition request on charges of fraud and gold smuggling.

The New Demerara River Bridge commissioned on Sunday, October 5, 2025 in Guyana. (DPI image)

So even as development is progressing at a whirlwind pace, it is worth pausing deliberately and unsentimentally to look back at the calamity avoided – to examine the past decade and the country’s remarkable comeback. Guyana could have continued along the 2015–2020 trajectory of stagnation, fiscal contraction, stalled growth and political deadlock. Instead, beginning in 2020, the country pivoted aggressively toward expansion, social investment, housing acceleration, infrastructure build-out and unprecedented economic output.

The difference is not rhetorical. It is measurable. 

The Years Of Stagnation And Regression

The coalition government was in power when oil production began in December 2019. The contract was inked on its watch – Guyana entered the petroleum age on its watch.

But even that milestone later revealed a failure of leadership that let down the Guyanese People’s interests.

The administration was resistant and unprepared to answer legitimate public concerns about the oil contract and revenue management. The creation of the Natural Resource Fund was necessary, but its structure left unresolved questions about transparency. When citizens demanded clarity, they received defensiveness.

From 2015 to 2020, when not inert, governance was ineffective.  Infrastructure expansion was modest. Social reform was limited. The controversial closure of sugar estates displaced workers without delivering a credible economic transition plan. Fiscal conservatism may have reflected limited pre-oil revenues, but strategic imagination does not require surplus cash.

Then came the defining failure.

The 2018 no-confidence vote and the protracted 2020 election crisis were not minor political scuffles. They severely tested the country’s democracy.  For five months, Guyana’s reputation teetered. At the exact moment when oil required institutional strength and investor confidence, the country projected instability and constitutional brinkmanship.  The conflict was finally resolved through the intercession of CARICOM countries, including Mia Mottley – Barbados, Ralph Gonsalves -St. Vincent, and Keith Mitchell – Grenada, the US, the UK, the EU and others.

Oil did not destabilize Guyana. Politics nearly did.

By the time the coalition left office, production had begun, but trust had eroded. The country had entered the oil era, but the government was without a plan or a strategic vision.

A Remarkable Recovery

When the current administration returned to office in 2020, it inherited both oil revenues and institutional strain. Unlike its predecessor, it did not hesitate.

From 2022 onward, Guyana recorded the highest GDP growth rates in the world – over 60 percent in one year, above 30 percent in another, and more than 40 percent in 2024. Oil production surged from under 100,000 barrels per day in 2020 to well above 600,000 barrels per day within a few short years.

But numbers alone do not tell the story.

The difference was visible. Roads expanded. Bridges rose. Housing schemes multiplied. Hospitals were commissioned. Pensions increased. Cash transfers were rolled out. Scholarships widened access to education. Public investment moved at a speed that would have seemed implausible during the previous administration.

This was not reticent governance. It was an assertive deployment of government potential.

Critics rightly warn about inflation and procurement oversight.  Oil wealth, if poorly managed, can distort institutions as easily as it builds infrastructure. But even critics concede the obvious: execution under the 2020-2025 administration has been faster, more coordinated, and more ambitious.

The Ali government did not merely preside over oil production. It operationalized it.

Yes, there are thorny issues to deal with on an everyday basis:  There is systemic corruption, the country is caught between a rock and a hard place geopolitically, the coast which is under sea level is even more prone to flooding with climate change, and the country is challenged by the large influx of Venezuelans fleeing their country and elements of associated crime – to name some of the issues.

Also, despite record GDP growth, poverty remains stubbornly high. Entire communities, particularly in rural and hinterland regions, still struggle. Oil has expanded the state’s balance sheet faster than it has equalized opportunity – an indictment of how difficult structural transformation truly is.  But the administration is working on these gritty issues.

Competence Is Not Partisan

Strip away party loyalties and the contrast is stark. The earlier period was marked by:  Historic opportunity met with limited strategic boldness, political instability that shook democratic credibility and Institutional inactivity bordering on paralysis

The latter period has been marked by: Aggressive scaling of production and spending, visible infrastructure transformation and decisive executive action

One government seemed reluctant to move. The other has moved rapidly. History will not treat these periods as equal.

The first government will be remembered for ushering in oil. It will also be remembered for allowing political miscalculation to overshadow that milestone.

The second government will be remembered for converting oil revenue into visible transformation. It will also be judged on whether that transformation becomes sustainable and equitable.  

Learnings That Inform Future Prosperity

Guyana’s first oil decade has revealed something uncomfortable: economic destiny can change faster than political culture.

Oil did not make Guyana great. Governance determined whether oil translated into momentum or mismanagement.

Between inertia and acceleration, the country has seen both the fragility and the force of political power. The lesson of 2015–2025 is that leadership matters. Guyana now stands richer than ever before. The question is no longer whether the country can grow. It is whether its leaders, present and future, can continue to build institutions and govern competently

The 2015-2020 experience and the current political distractions reinforce and make clear that democracy, competence, and people-centered governance are the crucial bedrock for the country’s continued development and prosperity.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Ron Cheong is a frequent political commentator and columnist whose recent work focuses on international relations, economic resilience, and Caribbean-American affairs. He is a community activist and dedicated volunteer with extensive international banking experience. Now residing in Toronto, Canada, he is a fellow of the Institute of Canadian Bankers and holds a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Toronto.

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By Dr. Isaac Newton

News Americas, NEW YORK, NY, Fri. Feb. 20, 2026: Few public officials anywhere in the world and the Caribbean hold the trust, respect, and admiration of their people for fifty years. Fewer still do so without pursuing it as a personal goal. Antigua & Barbuda’s Sir Robin Yearwood achieved this quietly, shaping a legacy built on purpose and service rather than recognition.

Sir Robin Yearwood has resigned as Member of Parliament for St Phillip’s North, Antigua and Barbuda.

I first met Sir Robin during my college and post-university years. For more than thirty years, I watched a man whose leadership was guided by character, informed by conviction, and measured by attention to the lives of those he served. Whether in opposition or government, he acted with intelligence, courage, and attentiveness. He encountered challenges that might unsettle most, yet he faced them with calm deliberation, careful judgment, and firm  responsibility.

Sir Robin was more than a politician. He was a mentor, a guide, and a steady presence in his community. I remember his words, spoken in his own dialect with clear, deliberate force: “Dr Newton, always care for the people. Do not let them unsettle you. Never be so distant in principle that you cannot connect with them or serve them.”

He lived by these words. His home welcomed everyone. He attended funerals, graduations, weddings, and baby christenings without distinction. He stood as godfather to children of every faith and shared in both the successes and struggles of his constituents. His presence offered calm and reassurance. He turned leadership into a space where authority met humanity.

Sir Robin’s life offers three lessons for those who seek to lead.

The first is to lead with both heart and mind. Leadership is measured in presence, in listening, and in responding with thoughtfulness. Sir Robin built trust not only through speeches and initiatives but through relationships and deliberate acts that made people feel acknowledged, supported, and understood.

The second is to serve with integrity rather than ambition. His fifty years of service were never an exercise in titles or prestige. They showed that influence arises from steady commitment and moral clarity. Leaders who act from principle leave a mark far beyond the transient rhythms of politics.

The third is to remain grounded while anticipating the future. Sir Robin nurtured the soil of his own community while shaping the broader landscape of his nation. From supporting agriculture and animal husbandry to introducing innovations such as free incoming calls on APUA cell service, he combined careful stewardship with vision that embraced possibility. Leadership requires this balance between tending to what exists and guiding what can be.

Throughout his career, Sir Robin embodied strength and subtlety in equal measure. He was expansive in understanding, deliberate in manner, resolute in conviction, patient in approach, fearless in pursuit, generous in spirit, and discerning in judgment. His humor, humility, and faith deepened his leadership, making it both effective and human.

Fifty years of public service, countless offices held, initiatives advanced, and lives affected. Yet Sir Robin remains, first and foremost, a man connected to the people he serves. His legacy endures far beyond power and position. He constructed a life in which leadership and humanity were inseparable.

Those who aspire to lead can learn from him that service demands attention, that authority requires integrity, and that enduring impact requires navigating the needs of today while shaping the possibilities of tomorrow. Sir Robin Yearwood has shown that the measure of leadership is both in recognition and in the depth of transformation it brings to others.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Dr Isaac Newton is a globally experienced thought leader, Harvard, Princeton, and Columbia trained strategist, and advocate for social justice and leadership excellence. With over thirty years of experience bridging cultural, economic, and ideological divides, he brings a nuanced perspective to complex issues shaping global and regional landscapes.

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By NAN NEWS EDITOR

News Americas, NEW YORK, NY, Thurs. Feb. 19, 2026: US President Donald Trump is facing renewed criticism after appearing to confuse two nations in the Americas – The Bahamas and Bermuda – during of all events- a White House Black History Month event.

While recognizing former NFL star Herschel Walker, who currently serves as U.S. Ambassador to The Bahamas, Trump stumbled over the name of the country he represents.

“Herschel Walker… he’s ambassador to the Bahamas. I don’t know. Bahamas, Bermuda, Berhamas, whatever. A nice place!” Trump said, drawing attention for both the confusion and apparent dismissiveness.

Small business owner Arnetta Bradford of Hope, Arkansas speaks alongside U.S. President Donald Trump during a Black History Month reception in the East Room of the White House on February 18, 2026 in Washington, DC. The president issued a proclamation recognizing Black History Month on Feb. 3. (Photo by Chip Somodevilla/Getty Images)

The Bahamas and Bermuda are distinct nations with separate governments, histories, and geopolitical roles. The Bahamas is an independent Caribbean nation of roughly 400,000 people and a key U.S. regional partner. Bermuda, meanwhile, is a British Overseas Territory located in the North Atlantic and operates under a different constitutional and diplomatic structure.

For Caribbean observers, the moment carries deeper symbolic implications beyond a simple verbal slip.

Small island nations in the Caribbean have long played outsized roles in global finance, climate diplomacy, tourism, and regional security cooperation with the United States. The Bahamas in particular is central to U.S. maritime security, migration management, and financial regulation cooperation.

Such misidentifications risk reinforcing longstanding frustrations among Caribbean leaders and diaspora communities who have often argued that the region is treated as interchangeable or peripheral in global political discourse, despite its strategic importance.

Diplomatic recognition, Caribbean analysts say, is not simply about protocol but about respect.

In recent years, Caribbean nations have increased their influence globally, particularly through climate advocacy, financial diplomacy, and economic partnerships. Leaders such as Barbados Prime Minister Mia Mottley have emerged as prominent voices in international forums, while countries like Guyana, Trinidad and Tobago, and The Bahamas are playing expanding roles in energy, finance, and regional development.

The Bahamas itself maintains deep diplomatic and economic ties with the United States, including cooperation on banking regulation, tourism, law enforcement, and national security initiatives.

The appointment of Walker as ambassador underscored the importance of that bilateral relationship. However, public confusion about the country’s identity – especially at a Black History Month event intended to recognize Black leadership and contributions – has prompted broader reflection on how Caribbean nations are perceived within U.S. political consciousness.

For many Caribbean Americans, the moment highlights a larger issue of visibility.

The Caribbean diaspora has made enormous contributions to American society, from civil rights and politics to medicine, business, and culture. Yet, Caribbean nations themselves often remain misunderstood or overlooked in public discourse even as the US has turned the region from a zone of peace into a region where boats are being bombed without real cause, leaving several Caribbean nationals dead to date. Since September last year, the United States has carried out at least 36 similar strikes in Caribbean and Eastern Pacific waters, killing more than 120 individuals suspected of involvement in drug trafficking, according to U.S. military data.

The incident also comes at a time when the Caribbean is gaining increasing geopolitical relevance amid shifts in global energy markets, climate negotiations, and nearshoring strategies. Ultimately, while political misstatements are not uncommon, moments like these resonate deeply in regions whose histories have long been shaped by external powers.

For Caribbean nations that continue to assert their voice and sovereignty on the global stage, recognition – accurate and respectful – remains an essential part of partnership.

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By Ron Cheong

News Americas, TORONTO, Canada, Tues. Feb. 17, 2026: For more than sixty years, Cuba has endured relentless external pressure from the United States. The embargo, designed to strangle trade, cripple the economy, and punish a population for the choices of its government, has long made daily life a struggle. Today, the situation is more difficult than ever: fuel shortages have grounded planes and paralyzed public transport; tourism, a crucial source of income, has all but collapsed; and the economy teeters under layers of scarcity and deprivation. Decades of hardship have forged resilience in the Cuban people, but the severity of these pressures makes one wonder: can Cuba survive this new trial, or are these dark hours edging it closer to the brink?

Despite these extraordinary challenges, Cuba has preserved a surprising measure of moral and social integrity. Health care remains universal, education is free and widely accessible, and violent crime is low. The government, while politically centralized and media tightly controlled, has consistently prioritized the welfare of its citizens over elite enrichment. In practical, people-centered terms, Cuba remains morally and functionally resilient, even under extreme external duress.

The U.S.: A Democracy Under Siege From Within

Contrast this with the United States, once hailed as the world’s premier democracy. Formally, Americans enjoy freedoms enshrined in law: free speech, press protections, competitive elections, and an independent judiciary.

But these formal liberties are increasingly being hollowed out in practice: There have been unprecedented calls to “nationalise” US elections and talk about cancelling the midterms – even as the blockade of Cuba is being justified as “pressuring the Cuban government to hold free elections.”  At the same time, American civic trust is being battered – protests are met with militarized force as in Minnesota, while the blockade of Cuba is also unashamedly being justified in the name of “Promoting human rights and political freedoms.”

Wealth is concentrated in the hands of the top 1%, which dominates political donations, lobbying, and policy outcomes. Media ownership is similarly consolidated in the hands of a few, producing shallow, sensationalist coverage that leaves large swaths of the population misinformed. Judicial appointments are increasingly partisan.

In other words, the United States is showing the signs of a democracy under stress, much like historical empires before it: Rome, Tsarist Russia, and the Soviet Union all exhibited elite capture, norm erosion, and civic disengagement before systemic collapse. Formal freedoms exist, but meaningful self-correction has become compromised. Citizens may vote, speak, and organize, yet their ability to influence outcomes is heavily filtered through wealth, media bias, and institutional manipulation.

The Moral Challenge

The contrast is striking. Here is a small island, subjected to decades of external aggression and severe deprivation, yet maintaining a society that, in practice, prioritizes the collective welfare of its people. Meanwhile, a wealthy, globally dominant democracy – free in principle – struggles to ensure that its citizens’ basic needs are met and its political system functions equitably.

Cuba’s one-party system and state-aligned media are often cited as moral deficits. Yet what moral weight do political freedoms carry if the society that claims them fails to meet the basic needs of its people? The Cuban system, despite restrictions on political plurality, has consistently delivered healthcare, education, and security – the material foundations of dignity and life.

Historical Lessons: Decline, Inequality, And Moral Authority

History teaches that empires and states rarely fall suddenly; decline is usually the cumulative effect of inequality, elite capture, and norm erosion. Rome’s senatorial elites insulated themselves while ordinary citizens struggled; Tsarist Russia refused reform until the system collapsed; the Soviet Union stagnated under rigid institutions and external overreach. In each case, the formal structures of governance persisted even as the underlying moral and functional legitimacy deteriorated.

The United States now exhibits eerily similar patterns: economic inequality has hollowed out political influence; media concentration distorts public understanding; civic trust is fractured; and institutional norms are under strain. Ironically, it is the US rather than Cuba, which has survived decades of external punishment, that faces internal moral and systemic fragility – a democracy that risks eroding from within.

Kant wrote, “The worth of a person consists in being a subject capable of reason and moral choice, not merely a means to an end.” By this measure, America’s moral authority is increasingly compromised: citizens are treated less as moral subjects with agency than as data points filtered through the lens of wealth and influence.

King Kong Vs. The Island

Even if we take it that Cuba’s government system is seriously flawed, the metaphor is unavoidable: the United States, a global behemoth wielding overwhelming power, functions as a predator – King Kong – crushing a small, vulnerable island beneath its weight. The embargo and aggressive sanctions on Cuba reveal a democracy that has abandoned moral principle in favor of domination. Meanwhile, Cuba, the small animal beneath the shadow of that predator, has demonstrated resilience, cohesion, and a people-centered ethic that the predator itself increasingly lacks.

Cuba has survived decades of punishment and deprivation. But the current crisis – fuel shortages, economic paralysis, and a collapse of tourism – may be the severest it has ever faced. Will the island endure these dark hours? History shows that resilience is possible, but the strain is immense, and the outcome is uncertain.

A Moral Reckoning

The contrast could not be starker: a wealthy, formally free democracy showing cracks in its moral and functional foundations, juxtaposed with a small, embattled island maintaining social cohesion and prioritizing human welfare under extreme external pressure. The United States has long claimed moral and political superiority; today, its claim rings hollow. It’s democracy, once celebrated, risks being remembered as a system where freedom existed in theory but was undermined by the concentration of wealth, the distortion of information, and the erosion of institutional norms.

Meanwhile, Cuba, despite political limitations, demonstrates that people-centered governance, moral integrity, and social cohesion have so far survived even under extraordinary external duress. The moral lesson is stark: power alone does not confer legitimacy; justice and care for citizens do. If the U.S. continues to prioritize domination, wealth, and spectacle over the well-being of its people, it risks becoming a giant whose size conceals rot, while a small island showed what resilience and moral governance truly look like.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Ron Cheong, born in Guyana, is a community activist and dedicated volunteer with an extensive international background in banking. Now residing in Toronto, Canada, he is a fellow of the Institute of Canadian Bankers and holds a Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Toronto. His comments are his own and do not reflect those of News Americas or its parent company, ICN.

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