As the United States retreats from being a unipolar power, the prevailing global order is at a crossroads. For Canada, it’s time to start thinking about what comes next and what it means for Canadian policy. The Hub is running a new essay series to grapple with these seismic changes and offer a new clear-headed direction for Canadian foreign policy.
Had two Canadian prime ministers chosen differently in 1962, the Canada of today might not be the soft power peacekeeper and “51st state” plaything of the current U.S. president, but rather a nuclear power demanding the world’s respect.
We readily criticize John Diefenbaker for the cancellation of the Avro Arrow and his decision to not accept American nuclear warheads during his time in office; Lester B. Pearson, meanwhile, is practically synonymous with peacekeeping and moral persuasion in international affairs.
But suppose both men, confronted by the Cold War’s stark realities, had abandoned their respective notion of Canada remaining a “beautiful soul” (oh so ethical but untouched by hard choices) and agreed that Canada ought to become a nuclear military power.
Had history unfolded as imagined below—however unlikely—one thing is certain: Donald J. Trump would have chosen his words much more carefully when addressing us. The changing world order is upending decades of assumptions about who Canada can rely on to protect our sovereignty. Suddenly, outsourcing our security to the U.S. does not seem like such a cost-less arrangement. Without the ability to project hard power and back up our resolve with actual capabilities, our words remain just words, easily ignored.
So, how could a nuclear-armed Canada come to be?
An imagined past
The time is 1962, nine months before the Cuban Missile Crisis that will terrify the world. Opposition leader Pearson requests to meet with Prime Minister Diefenbaker privately; even their staff are kept in the dark. Diefenbaker has been grappling with the decision to accept—or reject—U.S. nuclear warheads on Canadian soil.
Responding to his weak stance, President John F. Kennedy has made Diefenbaker painfully aware of what it feels like to share a bed with an elephant. Since receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, Pearson has grown uneasy with his assumption that peaceful rhetoric alone can protect a huge country with weak defences. He realizes as a diplomat that consequential conversations in the halls of power only take place among equals. He hates representing an enormous country that isn’t seen as an equal.
During their meeting, Pearson persuades Diefenbaker that Canada cannot merely hope to charm or lecture a world armed to the teeth with atomic weapons. Relying on the protective American umbrella while NATO’s attention is focused on its eastern flank, Canada is being left a secondary player in existential questions of war or peace.
That revelation draws the two political rivals together. They see the illusions gripping the country for what they are: if Canadians cling to the idea that friendliness alone ensures security, they might discover too late that power only respects power.
“We risk becoming a ‘beautiful soul,’” Pearson intones philosophically, referencing a character described by Hegel as someone who cherishes moral purity, but who sidesteps the messy engagements of real life. Diefenbaker, known for his heartfelt populist nationalism more so than familiarity with German philosophers, grasps the contradiction admitting that Canada demands independence, yet surrenders critical defence decisions to an ally. They decide that Canada will become a nuclear power.
What also helps Diefenbaker change his mind is the recognition that his Northern Vision—increasingly just talk without any concrete measures—will ensure him a legacy.
The two leaders agree: Canada must write its own fate—even if it requires forging a nuclear deterrent, reanimating advanced aerospace research, and staking a bolder claim to the Arctic.
In their ongoing private conversations, Diefenbaker and Pearson sketch out a vision for Canada that unites the West, Quebec, and the North under a more assertive federal mandate.
The result would mean a formidable aerospace sector, an empowered navy in the Arctic, and domestic nuclear capabilities.
“This is not about warmongering,” Pearson tells Diefenbaker. “If we actually want a seat at the top table, let’s bring more than polite conversation.”
By the end of their discussion, they emerge with a rough blueprint: Avro Arrow 2.0, a homegrown nuclear research program, and a strategy to keep Americans at arm’s length on critical defence issues. Canadians, they believe, will come around once they see the dangers of the global standoff.
Following the dissolution of the Parliament in the spring of 1962, Pearson and Diefenbaker, acknowledge there will be a significant opposition to their proposal and agree to form a national unity government. The NDP remains the pacifist option and wins an unprecedented 40 percent of the vote. However risky a gamble it was, over half of the votes are cast for Liberals and Conservatives.
How do Pearson and Diefenbaker justify a nuclear arsenal to a populace that was ready to embark on a long vacation from history? They articulate three core principles:
1. No outsourcing survival. By producing warheads and upgraded Avro Arrows, Canada ensures it will never be relegated to a junior partner in defence arrangements. Accepting American warheads, in Diefenbaker’s view, merely traded one dependency for another.
2. An Arctic imperative. Both leaders see the North as critical for asserting sovereignty. They sketch out the need for nuclear submarines —long before such plans even cross the real-world horizon of Canadian defence policy.
3. A seat at the global table. Pearson knows that controlling nuclear arms will elevate Canada’s voice in NATO and East-West negotiations alike. Good intentions go further when underwritten by strategic capabilities.
Avro Aircraft V.P. Engineering, James Floyd signs autographed schematics sketches for visitors commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Arrow at the Toronto Aerospace Museum in Downsview Park, Saturday, October 6, 2007. J.P. Moczulski/The Canadian Press.
This bold doctrine clashes with the peacekeeping myth that would eventually define Pearson in our own timeline. Here, he’s no starry-eyed idealist, but a statesman who believes that moral leadership without power is as fleeting as an Arctic thaw.
Their first step is to reverse the 1959 cancellation of the Avro Arrow. The program, once dismissed as too expensive, now becomes the cornerstone of a new national project. Engineers who had started looking south for opportunities are coaxed back.
Wartime-level budgets are earmarked to refine the Arrow’s aerodynamics, avionics, and weapons integration—shifting from a purely defensive interceptor into a platform capable of delivering nuclear warheads. But the cost is staggering. New laboratories are built, nuclear reactors are expanded, and ballistic missile prototypes for potential Arctic launch sites are planned. Industrial spinoffs proliferate. Factories in Montreal, Toronto, and Winnipeg churn out advanced components, while Saskatchewan’s uranium mines supply the raw material for warheads. Test ranges pop up in remote northern regions, angering environmentalists and Indigenous communities, but the Diefenbaker-Pearson coalition pushes forward, insisting that real sovereignty demands real sacrifice. They take a page from Charles De Gaulle’s “Force de Frappe.”
Under this alliance, large-scale defence contracts catalyze breakthroughs in reactor design, rocket propulsion, and high-end electronics. The Avro Arrow becomes a family of supersonic jets, each iteration more advanced and eventually nuclear-capable. Students grow up hearing about the Arrow not as a heartbreak but as the pride of the nation—much like Swedes revere their own high-tech jets from Saab.
But the transformation isn’t without turmoil. Protesters fill university quads, decrying the new nuclear labs. Northern Indigenous groups sue the government over land appropriation for test sites. Quebec nationalists bristle at a policy that seemingly funnels resources into the West and the Arctic. Yet Diefenbaker and Pearson, buoyed by a core of supporters who see this as Canada’s moment to stand tall, press on. “We’re forging a different Canada,” they proclaim. “One that no longer relies on illusions or borrowed shields.”
Relations with the United States become a balancing act. On one hand, Ottawa’s independent nuclear policy aggravates Washington, which would prefer a more docile ally. On the other, an armed Canada might prove useful in NATO’s broader Cold War agenda, forcing the Kremlin to consider one more nuclear threat along its radar. Smaller NATO partners resent the newcomer nuclear state, but Pearson’s diplomatic heft helps soothe alliances. At the United Nations, Canada’s moral voice is tempered by realpolitik: the new deterrent policy shifts it closer to Britain and France—two other mid-tier powers with nuclear weapons.
Pearson, ironically, becomes the public face of a more muscular Canada, arguing that nuclear arms can be harnessed responsibly. Disarmament, he insists, requires a credible seat at the table; Canada, with real leverage, can shape those talks in ways a powerless moralizer could not.
The real world
In reality, Canada took a much different approach—eschewing nuclear weapons and nurturing a self-portrait of moral guardianship. Yet this alternate path sees us discarding illusions: if you want actual independence, you cannot outsource your defence.
This departure from “peaceable kingdom” narrative would have no doubt scandalized some Canadians, but it would have ushered in a new national myth, more akin to French or British confidence. Critics would call it Canada’s fall from grace; supporters would hail it as Canada’s coming of age. Arctic submarine pens, advanced Arrow fighters, and an indigenous nuclear deterrent would have transformed the entire strategic landscape. Instead of politely asking whether Canada “matters,” the world would have seen Ottawa as a genuine force—complex, heavily armed, and not to be overlooked.
Had these two prime ministers embraced a nuclear path in 1962, the consequences would have rippled through decades of policy. “Being nice” is never a guarantee of safety. That lesson hovers today as we watch new debates about our Arctic defence deficiencies.
In the face of that, one can imagine Diefenbaker and Pearson from a distant vantage, nodding in unison: illusions about untainted hands only go so far. Sometimes, a country must carry its own big stick—just in case. It’s an unsettling vision of Canada, but also an undeniably powerful one. If Canada wants to leave an imprint, it really does need to bring some heavy boots along.
