Who Speaks for Battle River–Crowfoot?

Trading a Hometown Hero for a Has-Been Hack

As many of you know, I was born and raised in a small town—a farming and mining community. I’ve lived in cities, traveled widely, but my heart has always been small-town. These days, we split our time between two places: a thriving metropolis of nearly 4,000, and a city that shrinks from 5,000 to 600 when winter rolls in. I’m rarely more than a few minutes from horses, cows—and yes, even pigs. We had options. And we chose to raise our kids rural. We lived in Europe and had a choice of where to live, we chose a 500 year old apple/dairy farm on a mountain top in the Black Forest.

Country life isn’t easy to explain to city folks. And to be honest, most rural Canadians aren’t too concerned with explaining themselves. There’s a sense of community—an ethos—borne of interdependence, shared history, and interwoven lives. There’s a certain freedom in watching a big city disappear in your rearview mirror—its yellow haze behind you, blue skies and fields ahead.

I can’t say I know Battle River–Crowfoot firsthand. I may have passed through it on my way between Edmonton and Saskatoon, but that doesn’t give me any claim to the people here—other than the fact that I was raised in a small town in a region just like it.

My wife’s family has farmed and mined in Canada since the 1800s. They followed the railroad north and stopped when it reached the mines. Some of her cousins still work the same land their great-great-grandfathers cleared. At a reunion a few years back, there were 76 first cousins in attendance, almost all who live within a 30 minute drive of each other. That’s a world most urban dwellers can’t begin to comprehend.

My grandfather was a Progressive Conservative to his core, back when that meant something. He wouldn’t recognize what the party has become today. I stayed through the Reform years, tried to hang on through the Harper years—but finally had to walk away when loyalty to principle was replaced with loyalty to power.

And if he were alive to see what’s happening now—to see Pierre Poilievre parachuted into a riding after being rejected by his own, to see the party treat local democracy like a game of musical chairs—he’d be furious.

It’s a bait and switch.
And he wouldn’t have stood for it.
Neither should you.

Because this isn’t about personalities.
It’s about process.
It’s about respect.

A man Battle River–Crowfoot residents chose—who earned his way, who lived among you, who brought Alberta’s voice to Ottawa—is being replaced. Not by vote. Not by request. But by order.

That’s not how democracy works.
That’s what entitlement looks like.
And if it can happen here—it can happen anywhere.

The rest of this article is not about anger. It’s about facts, precedents, and choices.
And by the end, you’ll have three.

What You Chose – Damien Kurek

You didn’t vote for a stranger.
You didn’t vote for a placeholder.
You voted for someone who already knew the smell of harvest in the air, the silence of rural roads at night, the stretch of winter that comes early and leaves late.

You voted for Damien Kurek.

Not because someone told you to—but because you recognized him.
A fifth-generation farmer from Consort. Born on the land his family has worked for over 100 years. Raised in the church. Schooled in hard work before he ever stepped into Parliament. His roots weren’t just local—they were generational. He grew up watching what it means to steward something that belongs to future generations. Land, livestock, faith, family, community—they weren’t slogans to him. They were inheritances.

You sent him to Ottawa not because he was loud, but because he was anchored.

There was something in his youth that felt like promise—not arrogance, but readiness. He wasn’t trying to skip steps. He took the long way around, the right way. He worked behind the scenes, served as a staffer, took notes, made calls, listened. By the time he ran for office, he’d already spent years walking beside constituents and learning the tempo of life here—slow to speak, quick to work, and never one to ask for more than you’re willing to give.

When he entered the House of Commons, he brought the gravel dust of Alberta with him—not as performance, but as proof. He didn’t ask for attention. He asked for clarity, for results, for answers. And every time he stood up to speak, you could hear where he came from. The cadence of someone who'd spent time at the grain elevator in Killam, the post office in Sedgewick, the farm auction outside Alliance. He didn’t need a press secretary to explain your concerns—he could name them before they hit the floor.

Damien Kurek was never flashy. But he was faithful.
Faithful to the families who brought their folding chairs to town hall meetings.
Faithful to the grain farmers worrying about rail capacity.
Faithful to the volunteer fire halls and rural health clinics holding on by a thread.

He championed Bill C-234, fighting to exempt propane and natural gas used on farms from the carbon tax. Not because it would get him headlines, but because it was the right thing to do. He supported conscience rights in healthcare, protections for first responders, better funding for rural broadband—not to signal anything, but because they were issues his riding actually lived with, every single day.

He understood that a carbon tax doesn’t just raise numbers—it decides whether a farm survives a dry year. That broadband isn’t a convenience—it’s a lifeline. That the difference between a grant getting approved and a grant getting buried in red tape can shape whether your local rec centre reopens, or your senior mom has to drive two hours for a doctor’s visit.

He made those things his problem, because he knew they were yours.

And more than anything—he showed up.

He showed up to the Stettler fairgrounds, to the Camrose chamber of commerce, to 4-H speeches in Wainwright, and Remembrance Day ceremonies in Hanna. You saw him in the grocery store. You bumped into him at the co-op. He didn’t hide behind staff or screens. He didn’t tweet in your direction—he listened to your face.

He treated this riding like it mattered. Not because it was safe, but because it was his.

You could see it in how he raised his kids, in how he spoke about faith, in how he handled disagreement—with steadiness, not fire. He didn’t waste time performing. He spent it learning. Leading. Showing that a young man from Consort could carry one of the largest electoral mandates in the country—and do it with humility.

He was part of something rare: a generational renewal rooted in old values.

And you noticed.
Because you showed up for him, too.

You didn’t send him to Ottawa with hesitation. You sent him with one of the highest levels of support ever recorded in this country. Not because he was famous. Because he was familiar. Because he came from the soil you walk on, and he carried your trust like it was something breakable.

And now, he’s gone.

Not because you failed him.
Not because he failed you.
But because someone else—someone outside—needed his seat more than you did.

No consultation. No vote. No nomination meeting in the town hall. Just a quiet announcement and a new name on the signs.

That’s not succession. That’s not strategy. That’s not leadership.
That’s a substitution—without consent.

You chose Damien Kurek.
A voice raised in your image.
A life lived in your rhythm.
A future that looked like yours.

And look what they want you to accept instead.

What You’re Being Offered – Pierre Poilievre

You didn’t ask for Pierre Poilievre.
And until two weeks ago, he’d never asked for you.

When he lost his Ontario seat in Carleton—a riding he’d held for nearly 20 years—he didn’t reflect or regroup. His constituents didn’t suddenly become Liberals overnight, they just reached a point where they had tired of his divisive politics, his victim mentality, his blame games, his lack of substance. He didn’t take responsibility. He didn’t ask the people who knew him best why they turned the page.

He just looked for another seat.
One that was safe.
One where the party could count on silence.

He could have chosen any riding, but he needed one the Party believed even he couldn’t lose. He landed on Battle River-Crowfoot. And now he wants to claim the seat that was meant for the man you elected and who stood for you?

Not because of shared values. Not because of connection. But because the math worked. Battle River–Crowfoot was chosen for him—not as a community to represent, but as a platform to reclaim his position. A fallback. A rescue. A parachute.

He didn’t earn your vote. He inherited your riding.

And if that weren’t enough, take a look at the record. This isn’t just a story about geography—it’s a story about priorities. About who he is, and who he isn’t.

Pierre Poilievre has spent nearly his entire adult life in federal politics. First elected at 25, he built his career in the corridors of Parliament—not in the halls of town councils. In two decades, he never chaired the agriculture committee. Never led a rural caucus. Never tabled a bill focused on farm policy, municipal infrastructure, or small-town health care.

He speaks often about freedom;
He speaks rarely about farming; and
He has never spoken about this riding—until now.

When supply chains were under strain, Poilievre didn’t focus on grain movement or rail access. He focused on cryptocurrency. When farm input costs were rising, he blamed inflation—but offered no proposals for targeted relief for ranchers, seeders, or producers. While rural hospitals were shuttering, he was making campaign videos about gatekeepers and the WEF.

That’s not rural conservatism. That’s national grievance politics.

And when the Freedom Convoy rolled into Ottawa, he didn’t hesitate. He backed them—without condition. He called them heroes. Brought them coffee. Filmed his support. Not just for lawful protest—but for a movement that illegally occupied a capital, blocked borders, and disrupted trade.

He wasn’t on the side of farmers trying to move product across Coutts.
He wasn’t on the side of truckers trying to do their jobs.
He wasn’t on the side of peace officers defending infrastructure.

He stood with the blockade.

And now he wants to occupy the space of the man who was dedicated to standing for you?

That’s the offer.

A man who spent two decades in Parliament and can’t name a grain bill. A man who praised a protest that choked farm exports and hurt rural businesses. A man whose platform is built not on solutions, but slogans.

And the party thinks that’s what you’ll accept.

No nomination. No local input. No explanation. Just an announcement—your homegrown representative replaced by someone who didn’t grow up here, didn’t fight for you, and didn’t earn the trust he’s now being handed.

It’s not just presumptuous.
It’s revealing.

Because if Pierre Poilievre had truly been aligned with this riding—its concerns, its industries, its sense of fairness—he wouldn’t have waited until he lost somewhere else to show up.

He came here because he needed a seat.
Not because he saw a future here.

And that’s the difference.

Because the truth is, he may have come up with Harper, but Pierre Poilievre isn’t offering conservatism anymore.
He’s offering something else entirely—a politics built on distrust, on outrage, on permanent opposition to whatever he feels gets in his way.
He isn’t promising to build, fix, or deliver. He’s promising to blame.

And while that may win clicks, it doesn’t build clinics.
It doesn’t expand broadband.
It doesn’t help farmers bring crops to market or fight for trade corridors or deal with drought insurance.

That’s the danger here. Not just that he’s out of place—but that he’s out of alignment with the practical, principled, rural conservatism this riding has always stood for.

He’s not just the wrong man for the job.
He’s the wrong politics for the place.

An overwhelming majority of the citizens of Battle River-Crowfoot chose someone who showed up for you.
The Conservative Party is offering someone who only shows up when he’s out of options.

The Insult – Party Over People

They didn’t ask.
They didn’t explain.
They didn’t even pretend to consult you.

They just replaced your representative—your choice—with a man who lost somewhere else. As if your vote were a token. As if your trust were transferrable. As if this riding existed only to solve the party’s problems, not to choose its own voice.

That’s not leadership.
That’s entitlement.

There was no nomination process. No local competition. No town hall. Just a decision made in a backroom, rubber-stamped at the top, and dropped into a press release. And suddenly, Battle River–Crowfoot—known for principled, community-minded conservatism—is expected to fall in line behind someone who never lifted a finger for it.

That’s not strategy. That’s disrespect.

What makes it worse is how open they are about it. The logic is simple: It’s a safe seat.
Translation: You’ll vote for whoever we tell you to.
Translation: You don’t need a say—you’ve already been counted.

That’s what this is really about. Not ideology. Not qualifications. Control.

And here’s the problem: if you accept this once, they’ll do it again.
Not just here. Across the country. Every time a leader stumbles, every time a riding becomes inconvenient, every time the numbers are close—they’ll look for another “safe seat” to solve it. Another place where voters are expected to follow orders, not principles.

It’s not about Pierre Poilievre.
It’s about who gets to choose who represents you.

Because this riding has never been afraid to choose. You’ve elected conservatives by huge margins—but not blindly. You chose Kevin Sorenson. You chose Damien Kurek. You chose people who earned their way in, who were known, who stood up first here—not after failing somewhere else.

This is different.

And the party knows it.

That’s why they’re trying to move quickly, quietly, and without accountability. Not because they think you’re apathetic—but because they’re betting you’ll stay loyal anyway.

But loyalty, when taken for granted, becomes leverage.
And if that’s all this riding is now—a number on a spreadsheet—then what’s left of grassroots democracy?

Your loyalty is to your family, your neighbours, your legacy, your representatives—and your party, in that order.
Not the other way around.
Because when the message becomes Party First... where do you fit in?

This isn’t just about rejecting a candidate. It’s about restoring respect. It’s about reminding the party that you don’t rubber-stamp replacements. You choose them. And your choice can’t be assumed, inherited, or reassigned.

Not by the leader.
Not by the whip.
Not by anyone but you.

The Unexpected Crossroad

No one can tell you how to vote.
But someone tried to decide for you.

The party didn’t consult you.
Pierre Poilievre didn’t win your confidence.
And now they expect your silence—your automatic support—as if nothing’s changed.

But something has.

This riding had a voice. It had a future. It had a man who worked for you, lived among you, and stood where he stood because you put him there. Now they want to swap him out like a defective part—because they need to salvage a leader who couldn’t hold his own seat.

And you get to decide what happens next.

There are three options.

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Option 1: Vote the party line

Some will do that. Out of habit. Out of party loyalty. Out of the belief that it’s the only real choice.

And that’s your right.

But if you do, understand what it means: you’re not choosing a candidate. You’re validating the removal of your agency and right to self government. You’re saying it’s acceptable to replace a trusted local representative with a parachuted national figure—and ask nothing in return.

If that’s the message you want to send, send it.
But don’t let anyone tell you it’s the only choice.

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Option 2: Stay home

It may feel passive, but it’s not. It’s a refusal. A quiet, personal no.
No to a party that didn’t ask.
No to a candidate that didn’t earn it.
No to a process that expected loyalty without listening.

If Pierre Poilievre wins with a fraction of the support Damien Kurek earned, it will be noticed. It will be an unmistakable message. And it will last.

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Option 3: Vote for Brent Sutton

Brent Sutton isn’t trying to be a celebrity.
He’s a working man who understands rural values—because he was raised with them. Born and raised on a farm in Saskatchewan. Lives and works in Alberta. Knows what it means to show up, shut up, and get the job done.

He’s not a career politician.
He’s not part of a machine.
And he’s not asking you to change your values—he just wants to defend them.

Sutton has said from day one that his job is to represent this riding’s voice—not speak over it. He’s talked about defending agriculture, restoring respect in government, and being a rural voice inside a national conversation that too often forgets communities like this one.

And now, under this government led by Mark Carney, the opportunity is real:

• Investment is flowing into agriculture, agri-tech, and rural infrastructure

• Local health care and water access are part of the Liberal rural platform

• The next four years could be decisive in how rural Alberta is treated—and who gets heard

A vote for Sutton doesn’t make you a Liberal.
It makes you someone who believes that trust should be earned, not assumed.
That your voice matters—even if it’s only for one election.

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You’ve chosen well before.
This riding knows how to send messages that matter.

If this one matters to you, make sure they hear it.

Not from the party.
Not from the pundits.
From you.

Whatever you choose, send a message that Battle River–Crowfoot isn’t any party’s lackey.
Acknowledge the disrespect shown to you—your neighbours, your riding, your interests, your way of life.

My grandfather would urge you to not let them get away with it.

~Wayne