Why, year after year, do our New Year’s resolutions seem destined for failure?

Humans have been making New Year’s resolutions for thousands of years. About 4,000 years ago, ancient Babylonians made New Year’s resolutions; they are considered the first people to do so. March, when the crops were planted, marked the start of the new year for the Babylonians. To celebrate, they would hold a massive 12-day religious festival in mid-March called Akitu. During Akitu, they would crown a new king or affirm their loyalty to the reigning king. At this celebration, Babylonians would also make promises to their gods, willing to pay their debts and return any objects they had borrowed. If they followed through on their promises, the gods would show them good fortune for the coming year. If not, they risked falling out of the gods’ favour.

When Julius Caesar established January 1 as the beginning of the new year in c. 46 B.C., Romans began to offer sacrifices to the two-faced god Janus, making promises of good behaviour in the upcoming year. By the 16th century, for early Christians, January 1 became the traditional day for reflecting on one’s past mistakes and resolving to do and be better in the future.

Despite a rich history of New Year’s resolutions among human civilization, humans have long ignored a critical aspect of the etymology of the word “resolution.” “Resolution” directly originates from the Latin noun resolutionem, which refers to the “process of reducing things into simpler forms.” The noun comes from the verb resolvere, which literally translates to “to loosen.” By the 1540s, resolutionem became associated with a method of problem-solving, in the sense of solving a mathematical problem. In the 1780s, the word “resolution” in the context of the New Year had evolved to mean a “specific intention to better oneself.”

Herein lies a problem. Humans have continuously interpreted “resolution” by its noun and verb forms, leading to its association with a promise to better oneself in the New Year. Even as early as 46 B.C., when “resolution” had yet to be explicitly paired with the New Year as we know it today, Romans made sweeping promises of good conduct for the upcoming year. These large-scale promises can be overwhelming, leading us to give up on our New Year’s resolutions shortly after we set them. Like the Romans did in 46 B.C., we, too, tend to make ambitious promises to ourselves each New Year that can prove difficult to achieve.

What if we focused on the adjectival form of resolution instead? Both the noun “resolution” and the adjective “resolute” come from the same Latin verb resolvere, yet we tend to separate the two when it comes to making New Year’s resolutions.

This is a mistake: the adjective “resolute” holds a great power that is distinct from the meaning of “resolution.” The word “resolute” means “marked by firm determination” or “determined in character, action, or ideas.” Is this not the most fitting way to view New Year’s resolutions, as something to be achieved with staunch determination?

For too long, we have interpreted New Year’s resolutions as broad, sweeping promises to do and be better. We need to reframe the way we think about New Year’s resolutions by focusing on the adjective “resolute” instead of the noun “resolution.” Why not think of New Year’s resolutions as actions we want to achieve with resolve, determination, and willpower? Rather than aspiring to make a positive change to our lives or characters each year on a vague scale, we should set concrete goals for ourselves and work to achieve them resolutely. If we set action items for ourselves – like aiming to meditate for five minutes a day, or to go on walks outdoors three times a week – perhaps we would have higher success rates in achieving our New Year’s goals.

As we move into the end of January, it is worthwhile to reflect on the adjectival root of the word “resolution” in “New Year’s resolutions” to actually achieve what we set out to do in 2025.

The post An Empty Promise or Unwavering Goal? appeared first on The McGill Daily.

As I neared the bottom of the stairs, I heard a rustling from the garbage bins at the base of my building. Paper bags brushed against one another and the lid of a bin slammed shut. I smiled readily, eager to meet my new neighbours.

I approached the garbage bins but saw nobody. I frowned, gingerly holding the ties of my black garbage bag as I poked my head around the dark corner sandwiched between two brick walls. My sneaker slipped on the cardboard of an IKEA package, crunching against the concrete. A loud rip disturbed the quiet lull of the August evening.

As soon as I steadied myself, I saw them. Three, one by one, climbing out of the garbage bin, scurrying hurriedly along the base of the brick wall. Their tails curled neatly, their tiny feet flashing as their furry bodies ran past me. Astonished, I took a step back.

I had heard about the rats. As a ripe second year, I had just moved into my Ghetto apartment a few days prior. When I was touring houses in the winter of last year, my upper-year friends had warned me about the Ghetto rodents.

“Get ready for the rats,” one would say with a sly smile.

Another would laugh. “True. You can’t escape them, really. They’re everywhere.”

I would shiver, exchanging a wary glance with my future housemates. But I couldn’t help the way my heartbeat fluttered excitedly. There was something mature about the way my older friends talked about the rats, something so adult. Away from the cramped student residences of first year, upperclassmen had houses. They cooked pasta in tiled kitchens, hosted wine nights in each other’s living rooms, and dodged rats when they took their garbage out.

In August, when I mistakenly took the Ghetto rats for my new neighbours, I felt like I had officially been welcomed into a new community – one where furry bodies bonded fellow McGill students together.

At a housewarming party in early September, I hugged friends I hadn’t seen in months, a warm feeling of comfort permeating the dimly lit room. We talked about our summers before moving to the more pressing topic at hand: “How’s your house?” The question of the hour. I spoke to my peers about their new homes, their Facebook Marketplace furniture, their scuzzy landlords. Each person had unique stories of how they had turned their new spaces into a home.

But the through-line of every conversation was the rats.

“Did you get the notice?” they asked, referring to the slips of paper many of us received under our wooden doors, notifying us of rodents in the neighbourhood.

“I didn’t, but I saw them last night. Ten, I swear, right at the bottom of my apartment,” a friend added. We all nodded together, laughing at the quintessential Ghetto ritual of meeting our rodent neighbours.

As I settled into a new routine over the autumn months, I learned to take my garbage out in the mornings instead of at dusk. The night belonged to the rats, when they nestled between apple cores and egg cartoons, ready to spring from the heavy lids of the garbage bins at any notice. I learned to stomp a little extra loudly on the last step of my stairs, knowing to wait a few moments for the rats to scuttle out of the corners before stepping onto the sidewalk. I knew to be extra cautious when I walked through the Ghetto the night before garbage day, sidestepping rodents buried along open trash bags along the curb. In a bizarre way, rats had come to dictate the structure of my life.

Last week, my friends visited from out of town. It was dark when they arrived, and I led them through the narrow roads to the base of my stairs. I warned them to walk heavily up the steps to prevent rats from scurrying into our apartment, and they shared a look of surprise, exclaiming that they never had rats in their suburban university town. Rats were “so city,” they said.

I laughed out loud as I held open my door, acknowledging the banality of rats in Montreal. But I also felt a strange sense of pride. Rats, with their dirtied fur and coiled tails, had become intertwined with my everyday – familiar little creatures that now gave me a perverse sense of home.

I waited for the last of my friends to enter my doorway before following them inside. As I moved to close the door, I saw a small body hustle against the November wind, rushing into the crevices between the garbage bins. I smiled slightly before I shut the door.

The post Welcome to the Ghetto appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Moore expresses in her speech the pressure of not feeling “smart enough, or pretty enough, or skinny enough, or successful enough” in the industry. She then accentuates the need for women to “put down the measuring stick” and to stop comparing or conforming themselves to Hollywood’s surreal laws of beauty and perfection. She further emphasizes this in an interview with Variety by describing The Substance’s contemplation of “women and their value diminishing as they age.” She then describes how her character Elizabeth gave great value to “everything external and how she then internalized it.”

While Moore affirms that she did not feel personally tied to her character’s journey, her own ageless looks seem instead to express the actress’ embodiment of Elizabeth’s relationship to beauty standards.

Indeed, Moore’s words appear to tackle the industry’s demanding beauty standards; however, her smooth face at sixty-two seems to abide by them and confirm them… and money makes the process all the easier. While it is undeniable that Moore looks stunning, what I find the most striking is this out-of-reach and, dare I say, out-of-this-world pinnacle of surrealism and unfairness at which women’s beauty standards have risen.

Instead of praising the natural beauty of women at any age, her tricenarian looks communicate unrealistic expectations for everyday women to stay forever young. To my eyes, it illustrates the toxicity of the French expressions that describing a younger woman as une belle plante, a beautiful and fresh blooming plant, and an older woman as une fleur fanée, a fading, wilted flower. Moore’s seemingly unwrinkled and tightly lifted face takes us away from the recent embrace of aging gracefully and brings us back to this impossible state of running against the clock. Always worried that our good looks will fade with age. Always worried that we will not be relevant anymore if we do not look twenty-five. Always worried that we will be replaced by younger, fresher women. Always worried that we will not be sexy or dateable anymore, especially to the male gaze.

I will not deny that Moore’s speech can be inspiring, and I agree that it is ridiculous for women to measure themselves against that fictitious perfect woman Hollywood so desires and fantasizes about. However, to hear this coming from the lips of a woman who has clearly indulged in that very fantasy only highlights the hypocrisy of it all and further glamorizes these unrealistic Hollywood beauty standards. Many women in their sixties will not have by their side Moore’s talented and, no doubt, expensive plastic surgeon, as speculated. While many know her looks are not natural, her youthfulness at sixty-two is praised. Resultingly, such superficial, demanding beauty standards diminish the natural beauty of women at sixty.

An article in The Daily Mail collected reactions posted on X to Demi’s appearance at the SFFilm Awards. Many denounce the role that money plays in sustaining such youthful looks, with one user further condemning how it is “unfair to expect 50+ year old women to compete with 20 somethings on the dating market (sic)”. Another user addresses how these celebrities are exceptions to reality, but due to their constant representation in the media, “they shape our perception of what is normal”.

However, the comment section of a Facebook post addressing the same unfairness shows greater positivity towards her potentially surgically re-invented self. Many commenters highlight how “gorgeous,” “beautiful,” “amazing,” and “great” she looks, and some even express how the focus should not be on her looks, but on her acclaimed performance in The Substance. The latter appears to condemn this superficial hyperfixation people have with women’s looks at the expense of their professional value – in this case, Moore’s talent as an actress. Indeed, women are too often artificially defined by their outer image rather than by what really matters: their worth as a person and a professional.

These comments emphasize the contradicting space Hollywood women must navigate, where they are expected to respond to the assumption that movie stars must look glamorous and flawless, all while being criticized for it. How does one negotiate in this world? How can one make everyone happy? The comments supporting Moore also express how people should just leave her alone – it is her body and her money. She does not owe anything to anyone and should not be held accountable for doing what pleases her. However, did she lean on the likely shoulder of plastic surgery out of her own free will, or did she do so because of the conscious or unconscious influence of Hollywood?

I think it is important to remember that being a Hollywood star comes with a certain degree of responsibility. She is a woman whose fame has made her greatly influential. Her image is not neutral or innocent but carries the price of being looked up to and inspiring to many – whether for her success, her beauty, or both. Regardless of whether she wants to or not, Demi Moore’s professional and aesthetic decisions endorse certain life choices, and today it is the glamorization of an impossible youth.

The post The Impossibility of Hollywood’s Beauty Standards appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Three weeks ago, I was on a call with my cousin in the metro, imagining all the places we would travel to as a reward after graduating. While we are both Cantonese, only she had ever traveled to Hong Kong, reacting to my desire to visit as a “return to the motherland.” I entertained her joke, agreeing with the notion that it was my duty to visit the motherland once and for all. After arriving home, and considering what the term entailed, a knotted feeling soon bubbled from within. I pictured the bustling streets of Hong Kong, but not myself in them. It was more than a disconnect, but an inherently alien feeling of non-belonging.

At the age of 19, my father traveled to Hong Kong for the first time since moving to Canada when he was five. Throughout his trip, he immersed himself in the culture of his true motherland, something I fear I will never be able to do. My identity is not rooted among the Cantonese people. While I weakly participate in cultural engagements of Chinese New Year or Sunday dim sum brunches, the only semblance I have of these ethnic origins is in my appearance. When I watch Wong Kar Wai’s films, or others that capture the sentiment of Hong Kong at the turn of the millennium, I wish for something that I have never had: a true motherland, or a nation I can refer to as my home.

Identity, though, is construed in a web of entanglements. It exists externally and internally to us. While I spent much of my childhood and adolescence with my grandmother in Türkiye, despite speaking the language and engaging in the culture, my identity was always assumed; I was foreign — something they approached gingerly. However, they, of course, respected my effort of trying to assimilate. What I believed to be my motherland refused to welcome me. I wanted to identify with the Turkish people, but instead of being offered their warm embrace, I was shunned and forced to face a cold shoulder. Individuals spend their whole lives fighting for their belonging to a nation, but there I was floating in the abyss.

If our identities emerge at different levels, I would say the first is a belief that we exist in the world we live in. Our second-order identity would be belonging to a group, whether that is to one’s family, among a class, or linked to culture. After several failed attempts of trying to find that stereotypical “place I belong to,” I resorted to the belief that our identities are not chained to a nation, but are rather determined by the people you spend your time with.

Yet, the status of our identities is never that simple.

I look at the state of the world right now, and ask what am I missing? Palestinians are punished for wanting to retain the autonomy of their people and the land that has been violently taken away from them. Ukrainians seek to fend off Russian forces who want to seize the territory for themselves. Stateless ethnic groups, like the Kurdish, are repressed by regional governments amid their efforts for nationhood. There is constant opposition in framing one’s homeland against another, as a result of greed and power. For this, I believe, the homeland, or motherland, is critical to our existence in society.
Where has my motherland gone? Has it slipped through my fingers, or am I unconsciously averse to such containment? Growing up in the United States has further deteriorated my ethnic identity. No matter how white-washed I get, I will never be accepted by the masses. I have learned to bite my tongue and keep such apprehensions at bay. But as I watched Wong Kar Wai’s film reel echo in my living room with my father beside me, intently staring at the scenes of empty Hong Kong streets, a strange serenity entered my subconscious.

Perhaps our motherlands exist in a particular time and space. As we grow up, we are preprogrammed to reminisce on the memories we still remember of our quickly fading youths. But the world around us is constantly changing against our bitter wills. We almost beg for time to remain frozen. Rather than claiming my motherland is in Hong Kong itself, I have become attached to the media produced in the short period of Hong Kong’s handover to China. Wong Kar Wai and his contemporaries were able to portray the sentiment from that decade: a celebration of Cantonese culture and community, filled with unsettling dread from a population painfully aware of its imminent erasure.

Everyone has a motherland. Whether that exists in the land itself, or through a reproduction of that land in a particular era, these spaces are sanctuaries for our most primal sensations of belonging. We move through the world and operate under the assumption that the most fundamental aspects of our beings are contained to that land. Contemporary battles for the retention of this “motherland” are evident of its enduring power.

At long last, I have found my motherland. Maybe that motherland has found me, too.

The post What Wong Kar Wai Has Taught Me About My “Motherland” appeared first on The McGill Daily.

On November 8, McGill’s Palestinian Cultural Club (PCC) hosted their very first Palestinian Film Festival, If I Must Die, at the Leacock building. Hanging proudly and boldly, the radiant colours of Palestinian flags could be spotted from a mile away, as well as the attendees donning their kufiyahs.
“We gather to honour the resilience and resistance expressed through art, film, and culture,” said a member of the PCC during the festival’s inaugural speech. “We deeply believe that cinema and storytelling are forms of resistance. In these films, you will see glimpses of lives shaped by displacement, resistance, longing, resilience, and hope.”

On the first floor, the delicious aroma of msakhan rolls, zaatar manakish, and popcorn would give you a warm welcome as you made your way into the lobby. There were two tables with big trays of food being served. Smiling volunteers would greet you, offering to make you a plate of msakhan and stuffed vine leaves. They would point you to the popcorn station if you wished for a quick snack, or the table if you cared more for a sweet treat.

Walking around the area, you would come across vendors selling colorful kufiyahs, Palestinian-inspired apparel, and traditional Palestinian clothing, from thobes to kombaz (embroidered robes). The renowned auntie everyone calls Um Falasteen was also selling a variety of trinkets, from key chains to embroidered pouches, greeting everyone with her radiant smile.

“Give me your number,” Um Falasteen said, “and I will invite you over for dinner. In the mahjar (place of emigration), we must all stick together.”

Taking the stairs to the second floor, you would come across an art exposition titled “Gaza Remains the Story,” curated by the Palestinian Museum in Ramallah, hosted by the PCC. The exposition was one of the many ways the festival shed light on Palestinian culture, from detailing important events of Palestine’s history, to graphic photographs of their struggles, to beautiful art pieces by and of Palestinian people.

“We are proud to partner with the Palestinian Museum in Ramallah and the university of Pierre Zayed,” said a PCC representative. “This exposition brought us closer to Palestine and to the people of Palestine, especially the people of Gaza. It is our way to make them feel better to know that we are here, to make their voices heard.”

The Montreal Palestinian Film Festival was a long time coming, and so was the Palestinian Cultural Club. “Prior to last year, Palestinian students did not have a cultural club that was representing them on campus,” a VP from the PCC noted. “This, unfortunately, precluded our team from hosting events due to a lack of resources. However, following the tragic genocide that Palestine has been enduring for over a year now, we felt prompted, more than ever before, to showcase Palestine and make our voices heard. This drove us to ensure that the film festival was arranged with utmost intricacy and determination in the hope of delivering worthwhile messages.”

At around 7:00 p.m., everyone gathered to enter Leacock’s Great Hall, where the films would be screened. Almost every single seat in the auditorium was occupied.

“We were thrilled to have an incredible turnout of over 200 attendees, including students, families, members of Canadian Palestinian Foundation of Quebec (CPFQ) sponsors, and small business owners.”

From the podium hung two Palestinian flags and one Lebanese flag. Attendees all rose for the Palestinian and Lebanese national anthems. “We will also rise for the Lebanese national anthem to honour our fallen Lebanese brothers and sisters,” said one of the presenters. “Our cause is one, our people are one, our enemy is the same.”

The anthems were followed by a land acknowledgement, and a speech given in Arabic, English, and French.

“This festival is the very least that we can do here in Montreal,” said the PCC representative. “Through these films, we pay tribute to the people of Gaza who have been sacrificing their lives for freedom and justice. ”

A series of short films were shown: three shorts directed by Omar Rammal; the animated Checkpoint (2021), directed by Jana Kattan; and Palestine 4K (2023), directed by Muhamad Abu Chakra.
Checkpoint showcased the struggle a Palestinian girl, Layla, faces every day when trying to go to school. Kattan’s inspiration came from her own trip to the West Bank in 2019, which made her realize how much we take freedom of movement for granted. She put great emphasis on the Jaffa orange as a symbol of resilience and steadfastness.

A musical rendition of Refaat Alareer’s poem, “If I Must Die,” was performed by a Palestinian singer and songwriter. A short intermission preceded the longest film of the night, a documentary titled Where Olive Trees Weep (2024), directed by Zaya and Maurizio Benazzo.

“The response for the first edition of our festival was truly overwhelming and exceeded our and others’ expectations,” said PCC’s VP Academics. “We were able to gather funds for Palestine while also educating and harbouring a Palestinian environment for our attendees. Everyone seemed to be touched by the sequential display of short films, and one long film. The feedback we received was equally inspiring, as many expressed their appreciation for the carefully selected films that seemed to spark meaningful conversations and bonding.”

On November 17, the PCC hosted a Q&A with Ashira Darwish, a producer on Where Olive Trees Weep. The Q&A session was an intimate and engaging space where attendees asked questions not only about her work on the film, but also about her personal journey, motivations, and informative perspectives.

“One of the most memorable highlights of the evening was when the team had the opportunity to meet and speak with Ashira Darwish before the Q&A session began, creating a personal and meaningful connection,” said PCC’s VP Academic. “Additionally, Ashira’s powerful closing remarks left a lasting impression on everyone in attendance. She emphasized the importance of self-reliance, urging Palestinians to focus on developing their own skills and preparing future generations to build a stronger, independent foundation, rather than relying on external assistance. This message resonated deeply and gave attendees a profound takeaway to reflect on.”

Starting this year, the Palestinian Cultural Club will be hosting an annual film festival. The cultural club will also be offering Dabke dance classes in collaboration with SSMU, and will be partnering with Concordia’s Palestinian Cultural Club to establish a Palestinian library with books written by Palestinian authors or relating to stories of Palestine.

To get more involved or to keep up with upcoming events, visit the PCC’s Instagram and Linktree at @pcc_mcgill and www.linktr.ee/PCCMcGill.

The post If I Must Die: The First Palestinian Film Festival in Montreal appeared first on The McGill Daily.

At my ripe age of twenty, I still do not know where home truly is. I share my cultural baggage between a French mother and an English father. If you see my history, however, the data will start in the United States of America, lead you to Hungary, give you a brief few months in Paris, and finally eight years in Belgium. As a result, I am a French person who is not French and an English person who is not English. I am somebody who lived in Belgium but is not Belgian.

To the francophones, I am an anglophone. To the anglophones, I am a francophone. To my French family, I am English. To my English family, I am French. To some, I am even Belgian—though to the Belgians, I am a foreigner. On top of everything, I have more of an American accent than an English one. To me, I am lost. I am an impure product of my nations, the holy bastard of the Hundred Years’ War.

Yet, in Montreal I make sense. Despite not being Québécoise, I am a logical cog in this city’s intercultural machine. Montreal sits between the U.S. and anglophone Canada, while also having strong historical and linguistic roots to France. This results in an incredible blend of French and English actively fusing together to create Québécois French. The Montrealers switch from English to French with the same ease as putting one foot in front of the other. They dazzle you with the Bonjour, Hi greeting and own whatever English words they use as a natural extension of their French. For instance: “Es-tu down pour chiller?” meaning “Are you down to chill?”, or “Ça fait la job” meaning “It does the job.”

I indulge in this linguistic cocktail myself, having grown up in a dual-language household of French and English. My French teachers back in Belgium or my family back in France would penalize this expression as “des anglicismes” or “du franglais.” I have seen those words marked in red and underlined three times on my written papers countless times. However, this so-called “improper” French is very proper in Montreal.

I find myself right at home naturally switching from one language to the other. Starting a sentence in English and finishing my thought in French. Throwing in a random word from the other language, because I feel it is more fitting. All the while being understood and, instead of being looked down upon, being responded to in the same fashion. Over the summer, my childhood best friend, after witnessing this linguistic ballet, declared Montreal to be the most perfect city for me. She could not have been more right.

Montreal’s heterogeneous landscape does not stop there. When looking at the city through a magnifying glass, the influence of immigrant communities in building the foundation of Montreal is striking; Little Italy, Little Portugal, Little Maghreb, Little Latin America, Mile End Chavurah. These neighborhoods alone place Montreal within a dialogue of diverse cultural experiences, identities, religions, and languages. My own experience living for a year in Little Portugal has only highlighted this further. The Portuguese population was present not only through local businesses, such as bakeries and rotisseries, but also in church-centered festivities.

My old apartment was right by the Portuguese Mission Santa Cruz Catholic Church on rue Rachel. Throughout the summer, this church hosted a myriad of very popular festivals—as I would walk by, I would hear Portuguese everywhere in the air. Portuguese spoken between families and friends. Portuguese sung on stage by performers or projected through speakers. There was also a day when a Portuguese Catholic procession walked down rue Saint-Urbain. All these events showed me how such a public expression of Portuguese religious-cultural identity is not just confined to a church parking lot, but quite literally runs through the streets. A neighborhood bonus is that even the local Desjardins is called Caixa Portuguesa, with all the employees speaking Portuguese. Indeed, I was able to see how the Portuguese identity and language is entrenched in Montreal, proving how well immigrant communities have made themselves at home in this city.

My sister’s husband is Colombian, and the rest of his family continue to live in Montreal. Connecting with them has allowed me to gain insights into the well-established Latino community of Montreal, which I mainly have access to through food. I am amazed by how accessible Colombian food is for my family, despite living miles away from their homeland. For instance, they can buy frozen packages of pre-chopped and assembled ingredients for traditional Colombian soups, such as the Sancocho soup and the Ajiaco soup. They can also find fresh Colombian tamales, buñuelos, and pan de yuca. South American grocery stories, such as the Sabor Latino, Marché Andes, and Marché des Amériques, are central hubs for this preservation and expression of Latino tradition in Montreal. They allow immigrant families to stay connected with their culture and community through food, instead of losing touch and diluting into a homogeneous Montreal identity.

Montreal is a city that has so much to offer to third culture kids like me. It is built on a constant dialogue between different languages and cultures sharing the same space. This gives me the feeling that in Montreal’s great puzzle of identities, there is a place for everyone to fit in. It is a city where you are bound to find people who share your background or your journey, people who may come from the same places, share the same language, or have the same third culture experience. You may not be from Montreal, but Montreal is made for you.

The post Montreal Is Made For You appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Almost everyone has experienced what it is like to miss the place from which we came. To miss the feeling of a sibling’s embrace, the smell of your mother’s freshly baked cookies, or the sound of your dog pawing up the stairs. The warmth and familiarities of our childhood home, the people in it, and the place in which it resides serves as a guidepost from which we base so many memories of growth, childhood, and friendship off. Thus, it comes as no surprise that students living abroad will feel the ache of missing family and friends, and the so-called ‘simpler times’ – especially as the days get shorter and the work piles up.

Coping with homesickness is troublesome enough. Recently, however, it has grown in tandem with our reliance on technology. Through this entanglement with the digital world, we experience the paradoxical nature of being more connected than ever, yet at times, still feel disconnection and loneliness.

With the presence of cellphones in our daily lives, you can call home, FaceTime a friend, scroll through social media to see what people you knew in high school are up to – all within a Metro ride home from campus. Connection is immediate. At the touch of our fingertips, we can be transported. However, this instantaneous quality of technology also leads us to spend a disproportionate amount of time indulging in images on a screen, reminiscing about the past, and places we cannot physically return to at the moment. Tethering to the past restricts our ability to live in the present and furthers the loop of nostalgia that so often ensnares those who experience homesickness. But is this use of technology all bad? To what extent does it help or hinder the feeling of missing home?

Through one lens, the ability to use technology as a vessel to stay connected to home is a gift. I can’t count the number of times a random call to my sister made my day. A steady reassurance comes from the fact that no matter how far away in distance you might be, home is just one phone call away. We are also able to sustain memories and revisit moments through our camera rolls, or even indirectly check in on old friends from high school through their social media. Sometimes, that’s enough to feel close again, to feel home again, even if it’s for a fleeting moment.

However, like many things, this convenient comfort has its downsides. There is a dark side to this digital connection due to its ability to induce FOMO and create stagnation in our lives. While getting glimpses of home and reaching out to loved ones online is lovely, we might start to find ourselves becoming overconsumed by our need to feel connected. This overconsumption can prevent us from engaging in relationships and experiences the world around us has to offer. We may avoid new face-to-face interactions in favour of old ones, restrain from deepening our friendships, trying out new experiences, so much so that we miss the many opportunities in front of us. All of which further get us stuck in a loop where our coping strategy of dealing with one form of loneliness has created another. In short, the more we look back, the more we get lost.

Ultimately, in spite of the adverse implications, technology serves as a useful tool to navigate feelings of homesickness if used in a balanced and healthy manner. Rather than using homesickness as an excuse to withdraw and focus on the past, it can be used as motivation to accept and take on our future. The void we feel when we miss home can be the fuel that drives us to make new friends, establish new routines, and create new memories. These actions are not about replacing the old life with a new one; they are about growing to create your own sense of belonging and security wherever you go. Reframing our perspective to view the grief of letting go as an inherent part of growth can further aid us in this journey. The experience of homesickness, after all, is rooted in love. When we let go of things we love, grief inevitably follows. This is a simple truth: love and grief are two sides of the same coin. To be able to know the warmth of your grandmother’s hug, you must know the absence of her arms. To be able to know the sanctuary of your childhood bedroom, you must experience what it is like to be miles from it. Instead of letting ourselves sit in this longing, we can consider it a privilege; a privilege to have such fond memories, relationships, and places to cherish.

No matter the physical distance that may separate you from your home, the people and places you love will always be with you in some form. Experiencing homesickness is not a sign to cling to the past but to move forward with the understanding that your memories are always yours to hold. You can move through your world with the motivation to create new people and places to love whilst treasuring the old ones, knowing that nothing is ever really gone.

The post Reframing Homesickness appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Sarah Oirdighi has just turned 30, and has already crossed out 15 major life goals. She has lived in four countries, given a TedxTalk, shot a short film and won an HEC Cinema Prize. Her most recent achievement? Launching a podcast.

Yallah Habibti was created to give Arab and Middle Eastern women a platform to present themselves and discuss taboo subjects that their cultures, and even the West, refuse to tackle.

It is no secret that pop culture, in particular Hollywood movies, falls short when it comes to Arab and Middle Eastern representation. When films include Arab or Middle Eastern/North African (MENA) characters, they often tend to represent these characters as terrorists. Whenever MENA culture is actually included, it is often commodified, with films having no Arab actors present in the cast — such as in Dune (2021).

Dune is a 1965 epic science fiction novel by American author Frank Herbert, with the movie adaptation starring Timothee Chalamet released in in 2021. Herbert was inspired by many cultures while writing his novel, showing a great interest in messianic religions and Arab culture. The book is an obvious allegory for Western imperialism and environmentalism in the Middle East, drawing up heavy inspiration for the fictional Fremen of Arrakis from Middle Eastern culture.

And yet, Hollywood did not see it appropriate to cast a single MENA person in the franchise, going so far as representing a mangled version of the Arabic language and casting a white man as the lead. Unfortunately, this did not come as a surprise to any Arab or Middle Eastern person.

Yallah Habibti tackles this alienation. “Growing up, Arab and Middle Eastern women never had a chance to be represented to get some guidance,” Oirdighi says in her podcast introduction. “Our communities are either marginalized, sexualized, or not represented at all.”

Oiridighi was born and in Tangier, Morocco, and lived in three other countries prior to moving to Montreal in 2016.

When she was 20 years old, Oirdighi was completing a master’s degree in digital marketing from KEDGE Business School in Marseille, France. Creative and adventurous by nature, she was attracted by the opportunity her university offered to complete two semesters abroad.

Her first country of choice was Sweden. There, she encountered two Montrealers who encouraged her to complete her second semester in Montreal.

“There are so many cultures [in Montreal],” she says. “I felt represented and accepted for the first time in a long time. I immigrated to three different countries, and [Canada] was the first country where I felt like I belonged, even if it isn’t my home country.”

Once her student visa expired, Oirdighi had to go back to France, but she wouldn’t stay for long. At 22 years old, she packed up her bags, kissed her mother and aunties goodbye, and embarked on a journey to one of North America’s coldest cities to hone her creativity and pursue her dreams.

“There is a big sense of freedom in Montreal,” Oirdighi says. “A freedom of what to wear, where to go, of being safe on the streets, and a feeling of whatever you put your mind to it you can do. The city really helps with the motivation. People aren’t judgemental here, they’re very welcoming. It didn’t feel like that in France.”

She explained that Montreal’s authenticity and freedom allowed for her creativity to flourish, and ultimately inspired her to create her own content. To see artists everywhere in the streets led her to tap into her own artistry and focus on what she truly loved to do.

Once settled, Oirdighi threw herself into many content creator jobs, climbing the corporate ladder and achieving goal after goal – eventually burning out, handing in her resignation, and focusing on healing.

“I was so disgusted with anything that had to do with work. I needed to take a break, to feel like myself again,” she says. “I didn’t have any creativity in me anymore and that’s when I knew I wasn’t myself.”
As she attempted to navigate her loss of creativity while also managing her finances, Oirdighi took on another job working at Cirque du Soleil, a position that helped her get back on her feet.
“[Cirque du Soleil] was an amazing experience, and I learned a lot,” she says. “I mean it’s Cirque du Soleil, you know, it’s the literal circus. I got to see people hanging from the ceiling, and performing, and it was great! But when I took that job, I already knew I wasn’t going to stay, because I had made a promise to myself: to never let anyone else be responsible for the happiness I feel from my work.”
That’s when she started drafting a business plan to go out on her own, eventually launching her own business, Le Pouce Bleu (The Blue Thumb).

Le Pouce Bleu is a social networking platform that helps up-and-coming entrepreneurs shine on social media, grab as many opportunities as they can, and help them become the best versions of themselves.

“I wanted to help anyone find their voice, and be able to use it,” Oirdighi says. “To shine on social media, and grab as many opportunities as they can. Because to me, ultimately, that’s what we’re here for: to be the best version of ourselves.”

A strong desire to uplift people is a gift Oirdighi inherited from her late father, who passed away six years ago.

“My dad spent his entire life working to give [my siblings and me] this ability to have a future,” Oirdighi says. “He grew up super poor, and had to take care of his whole family, and didn’t get any opportunity to enjoy the life he built. But he always encouraged me to believe in myself, and to share that belief with people.”

Le Pouce Bleu is a way for Oirdighi to share her ambition and creativity, and inspire the online community she built to take the same leap of faith she took.

Yalla Habibti is a way for her to give back to the community she grew up with.

When Oirdighi worked as a communication manager in one of her corporate jobs, she was disappointed in the lack of representation and the absence of platforms given to Arab and Middle Eastern women. So, she decided to take matters into her own hands.

“If I work for someone who doesn’t even want to give people a chance to be represented when they claim to the world that they are doing the work, when in fact they aren’t,” she says. “Then let me do the work. Let me help somehow, let me give a voice to these women who are dying for representation and represent them.”

Yallah Habibti has, in a way, allowed Oirdighi to find the inspiration and role models she desperately sought when she was younger.

“As an interviewer, I don’t speak much and I love that,” she laughs. “I’m here to point some direction but I’m also here for the woman to speak. And I see a mirror. She’s talking about her traumas — the positive, the negative — and I needed that so much when I was a kid. It helps me grow and it helps me heal because I feel like [Arab and Middle Eastern women] have so much in common that we never talk about. I really like the way [the podcast] helps me create links between different women, cultures and generations.”

Sarah Oirdighi’s story with Montreal is not unlike that of many immigrants. To be surrounded by so many cultures allowed her to appreciate the one she grew up with, and to heal past wounds she didn’t realize she had.

“I started working on that podcast when I was still in Montreal,” she says. “And then when I went back to Morocco to visit my family, the experience was so different, but the same at the same time. Because when I see the women around me and the people I’m talking to about this project, I see how everything is connected. And that’s why I love the internet so much. Because it’s like this online space where everything can happen and everyone can share their thoughts. I feel like this project helped me connect the dots between my life here and my life there, and I hope I get to create more projects in the future to try to reconnect my cultural heritage with this new life that I’m creating here.”

To know more about Sarah Oirdighi’s story and keep up with any future projects, follow her on Instagram (@sarahoirdighi) and LinkedIn.

The post Yallah Habibti: From Morocco to Montreal appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Acts of civil disobedience are often met with hostility from the public. During the PATCO airline strike in 1981, travellers directed their anger towards the workers fighting for higher pay instead of the Reagan administration, who forced strikers to accept poor wages. White people in South Africa were in support of the government bans on anti-apartheid activists and protestors, in order to protect their own interests. During the Gilets Jaunes protests, Parisians complained not about the rising taxes but about the increased law enforcement responding to the protests.

The response to the past year of pro-Palestine activism at McGill University is no different. Whether it is online or in person, it is likely that you have encountered at least some frustrations with the increased security presence or cancelled classes – actions taken by the university to dismantle encampments and protests this year. Disagreements on the means used to achieve a common goal are nothing new, as they are a way to promote change and improvements. However, completely ostracizing the protesters demanding for McGill to divest from arms manufacturers can prevent productive discussions from taking place.

When discussing the demands of the pro-Palestinian protests, people often argue that large enterprises are not willing to lose economic gains by severing relationships to violent corporations. In response to this, there are different actions citizens will take to pressure enterprises to divest. Some will act on an individual scale by refusing to consume certain goods or services that have ties to unjust regimes. They will do what they can to not be complicit or contribute to these businesses. Sometimes, they may encourage others to do the same, such as when the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions movement was launched to economically pressure corporations in occupied Palestinian territories. Others may attempt to sever these relationships through negotiation, working with committees and writing reports. Students for Palestine’s Honour and Resistance (SPHR) initially took this approach to discuss McGill’s divestment from arms manufacturers. Nevertheless, after almost two months, the bureaucratic process was abandoned when McGill called off negotiations with SPHR in June.

Since then, McGill has taken additional measures to restrict SPHR organization. In September, the university demanded that SSMU withdraw SPHR club status. The following month, McGill was granted a temporary injunction banning SPHR demonstrations. Due to these actions, SPHR amplified pressure on McGill to divest. They organized walkouts, blocked classes, and informed new students about the movement.

As a response to these actions, many people may claim that disruptive demonstrations can reduce the university’s willingness to reopen negotiations. Yet, the purpose of civil disobedience is to urge authority figures to meet a group’s demands.

For example, in March 2011, Quebec’s provincial government launched a proposal to incrementally hike student tuition over a five-year period. This proposal led to student advocacy against this raise between 2011 and 2012. Over time, protests grew in size and strength to combat the government’s attempts to end the student movement, such as Bill 78. By requiring students to inform the authorities about upcoming protests, this measure intended to restrict the scale of demonstrations. However, the bill actually resulted in more assertive civil disobedience to exemplify student resistance. Although the protests led to violent escalations with law enforcement, these demonstrations turned out to be some of the largest student protests in Quebec’s history. The unflinching nature of the student movement eventually led to the cancellation of the student tuition increase and the revocation of Bill 78.

The decision to partake in a more forceful method is never made lightly. Protestors understand that by taking on a more confrontational approach, they risk losing the general public’s support and face a crackdown from the authorities. However, despite these two consequences, deviations can open the door for constructive dialogue. A thorough set of demands can enhance the depth and breadth of topics brought up at the negotiation table. Without mass mobilization, the strength of social justice movements will be weakened. Without these positions, we can fall victim to unsatisfactory compromises that fail to address structural violence.

Protests or acts of civil disobedience are meant to disrupt your day. They are meant to take socio-political issues out of the negotiation office and include the public. When directing anger to those with a common goal but a different method of achieving it, one can forget that the core issue is not with the different approaches to achieving justice but the issue of injustice itself. There is so much space for meaningful exchange that can take place on the nature, approach, and goal of student civil disobedience, and we need to ensure that it is being utilized.

It’s okay to be a little upset when a protest disrupts your plans. However, if all acts of resistance were tailored to every individual, nothing would ever get done. Prioritizing comfort and convenience will undermine the primary objectives of a political organization. Therefore, the next time you complain about protesters interfering with your schedule, I ask you to think about how much this disturbance will impact you in the long run. Although you will eventually be able to recover from it and carry on with your daily life, the victims of war, violence, and exploitation that protests are fighting for may not.

The post Redirecting Anger appeared first on The McGill Daily.

But is that really true? I think this is a passive attitude, one that assumes any kind of political action is out of our hands simply because we do not have voting power. Even outside the context of this specific U.S. election, I find it jarring how the onus of political change is often solely on the electoral process. After all, both the U.S. and Canada are home to millions of green-card holders and legal permanent residents who are affected by the same laws as citizens but are still refused the right to vote for their representatives.

Voting has always been considered the cornerstone of democracy in the West. Coming from India, where huge sections of minority populations are outright omitted from electoral rolls at the whims of the current government, I was not raised with this sentiment. I have always known real political change to come from grassroots movements — from people taking to the streets to fight for what they want. And now, watching the state of the U.S. elections, I am more convinced of this than ever.
Over 700,000 Americans agree with me — these are the people voting “uncommitted,” who are similarly disillusioned with both parties and what they stand for. “Uncommitted” is a voting option that allows citizens to express their dissatisfaction with either candidate, often by choosing “none of the above” on a ballot. While many voters feel obligated to choose between “the lesser of two evils,” the fact remains that “lesser evil” is still evil. Democrats and Republicans have both played a bloody hand in the ongoing genocide of Palestinians, with the Biden administration making more than 100 military aid transfers to Israel since October 7, 2023. Presidential candidate Kamala Harris likewise refuses to budge on her policies that continue to fund Israel’s genocidal campaign. In her recent Presidential Town Hall, she claimed that voters must accept her policies on Palestine if they want to see any kind of change on “other issues.” Harris has also previously responded to pro-Palestine protesters by saying, “You know what? If you want Donald Trump to win, then say that. Otherwise, I’m speaking.”

This dismissive attitude — treating the lives of millions of Palestinians as if they are simply another item on her political checklist — is understandably infuriating to those of us watching these atrocities unfold. Arab and Muslim voters in Michigan have lost faith in the Democratic Party after their continued complicity in Palestinian genocide. As one such voter asserts, “It is their job to earn my vote; it is not my job to fall in line.” And yet, plenty of liberal virtue-signallers continue to fault these citizens for not voting blue. Why should pro-Palestinian voters be blamed for the faults of a system that has failed to represent them? Why should they bear the brunt of scrutiny when the party they are supposed to trust cannot even meet basic demands — to stop funding the slaughter of Palestinians, to stop backing a genocide?

I ask: has a genocide ever been stopped by voting?

Voting is a function of the system, and when the system itself is inherently flawed, trying to “fix” it from within its limits will never work. No matter who wins this election, the United States government will continue sending military aid to Israel and profiting off of Palestinian suffering. It is beyond unfair to force voters to play a part in this genocide through the ballot box.

During this election period, many Americans are instead relying on alternate strategies, such as uncommitted voting or third-party voting, alongside organizing and raising funds for Palestinian aid. For the rest of us, who are not American citizens but understand the importance of stopping U.S.-backed Israeli occupation, we must join the fight on the streets. Montreal-based organizations such as Solidarity for Palestinian Human Rights (SPHR) and Montreal4Palestine, as well as transnational ones like the Palestinian Youth Movement (PYM), are important avenues of activism on campus and beyond. I encourage more students to get involved with such organizations, to take part in demonstrations, and to amplify Palestinian voices wherever possible.

The post The Ballot Box Has Failed Us appeared first on The McGill Daily.

“You don’t like tapioca?” she asked. “If I wanted balls in my mouth,” I said. “I would’ve
been straight.”

She laughed, looking into my eyes and giving me a shoulder nudge, or perhaps… Was that a shoulder caress? The beginning of a romance, the likes of which this town had never before seen? Smitten, I pursued her for four months until she showed me her saved folder of Timothee Chalamet edits. My heart was decimated. What I thought was a spark ignited by a gay witticism turned out to be pure imagination.

It’s difficult being a lesbian without a gaydar.

Gaydar is generally defined as a mythical sixth sense that predicts another person’s sexuality. The term originated in the 1980s, though queer people have been using it as a survival mechanism for many decades. Up until 1969 in Canada and 1985 in the U.S., homosexuality was illegal. As a result, before and after their existence was decriminalized, queer people had to look out for undercover police officers “playing gay” to avoid arrest. These cops would be sent into queer spaces with the intent of arresting unsuspecting queer folk. Hitting on the wrong person could get you assaulted or imprisoned.

So, how do you know the difference between an actual gay person and an undercover cop? You use your gaydar, if you can.

People tend to look for traits that signal someone as safe to approach. For queer people, this works as a survival strategy; for straight people, it’s a bragging right. There’s no need to come out to someone with a heightened gaydar. After all, they knew you were gay before you did! How are these people more confident in their gaydar than I am in mine?

The truth is, my gaydar is just too gay to work properly. It’s a function of hope. Thankfully, I don’t need to fear being arrested during romantic pursuits; I just risk getting rejected. A gay friend of mine with an excellent eye for these things stated that their gaydar can easily “recognize traits in others that I know already exist in myself.” I mulled over this strategy in the mirror, searching for my “gay” traits.

I have tried to categorize the difference between my “straight” and “gay” characteristics: a Jekyll-and-Hyde process that has resulted in two very different people. One is an evil force that would make an exception for Cillian Murphy and enjoys straight things like frat parties and dairy milk. The other one has shorter hair, cut to resemble both Stevie Nicks and Joan of Arc. She used the dating app Her for a while: a graveyard where straight men try their luck for threesomes and lonely gay high schoolers try to fill the hole in their hearts. At McGill, she tried out for the rugby team, despite never having played the sport before, simply because the girls advertising the club were attractive. She gave up after getting body-slammed at the first tryout. (Getting choke-tackled by a muscular athlete sounds fun in theory, but it ends up being a lot more painful than expected.) Even though she had no interest in the sport itself, she was desperate to find connections in a new place.

Neither of these people provide an accurate blueprint for heterosexuality or homosexuality. For one, Cillian Murphy is everyone’s kryptonite. Secondly, I don’t think having short hair or trying out for rugby makes you inherently gay. I still fail to recognise queerness until it is explicitly clear. This left me with one last resort: turning to the straights. Luckily, there are plenty of heterosexuals willing to boast “yes” when asked if they have a good gaydar. I just need to ask them how they can tell.

“I just can,” says one with downcast eyes and a suddenly uneasy expression. Many people can’t define their gaydar when pressed. They seem regretful and ashamed of their previous confidence. Or maybe they want to keep their method to themselves – a magician never reveals his tricks, after all.

Another straight interviewee claims, “It’s how they dress,” before quickly adding “So well! You know?” They force a smile that seems to say, “Take the compliment and please, for the love of God, do not ask me to describe how someone dresses ‘gay.’”

I’d try this strategy if it hadn’t miserably failed me in the past. The number of people I’ve assumed were queer simply because they dressed a little alternative, emo, or indie is almost homophobic. Likewise, I’ve hit on a lot of women in flannel only to quickly discover they didn’t have cottagecore dreams of growing old together on a farm.

The weirdest response – “it’s their voice” – was what helped me get to the core problem of gaydars: how gaydar serves as less of a compass and more of a mould. It’s a mental image of a gay person, compared against a living breathing individual. It’s a checklist of superficial traits like somebody’s style, their interests, or even the tone of their voice. It’s the stereotypical aspects of a person, either by choice or by birth, that ultimately mark them as “gay” in someone else’s eyes.

Is there harm in that? Is it accurate to say that a guy who does musical theater is probably gay? How about a girl who plays rugby – is she more likely to be gay than the theater guy? Is being in a musical “gayer” than playing rugby?

The answer to all the above is no. If I learned anything at the rugby tryouts – and I definitely did not learn how to play the game – it’s that rugby players are no gayer than ballet dancers. My assumptions were horribly misguided as a result of both projection and stereotyping.

To straight people who “can just tell,” keep your secrets. I don’t want to hear your thought process if it has to do with unchangeable aspects of someone’s character or their love of “gay” things. To my fellow oblivious queers, I’ll find you at Unity or Barbossa – or I’ll figure you out in a few weeks, months – maybe a year. The mystery is half the fun anyways.

The post Be Honest, Do I Look Queer? appeared first on The McGill Daily.

For 74 days, the student encampment protesting McGill’s ties to industries profiting from the ongoing genocide in Palestine was in full view from our offices at the School of Population and Global Health. At 5:00 a.m. on its 75th day, a private security firm hired by McGill forcibly removed protesting students and dismantled the encampment. In its place was a bulldozer guarded by police cars and officers. McGill justified these actions by claiming the encampment posed health and safety risks. As  PhD students in epidemiology at the School of Population and Global Health, we strongly believe that this weaponization of public health narratives to justify actions against student encampments must stop. The real public health crisis is the one unfolding in Gaza.

For months, McGill failed to convince police and courts to intervene and dismantle the encampment. At the same time, official emails to the McGill community became increasingly false and alarmist. On May 10, McGill sent an email detailing “the risks that the encampment pose[d] to the safety, security and public health of members of the McGill community.” Based on media reports and first-hand accounts of healthcare professionals who were on-site daily, we disagree. These included physicians, including one of whom stated in an affidavit that there was no threat to public health in the camp. In response to McGill’s email, nearly 150 members of our School signed an open letter denouncing the mischaracterization of the encampment as a public health threat and highlighting the dire public health crisis in Gaza. Even after they acknowledged receipt of our letter, the McGill administration continued to flood our inboxes with the same false claims.

The day that McGill dismantled the encampment, President Deep Saini cited an alleged rat infestation as a motivation for its actions. While we have not seen evidence of such a problem, McGill has been ignoring rat infestations across campus for years. If the administration is concerned about rodent infestations, we suggest they pay a visit to its student residences or the basements of any of its libraries.

Saini also claimed that “there [were] fire risks, including a propane canister and flammable materials next to tents.” Ironically, McGill itself partly created this risk. The administration shut off electricity around the encampment, including to the streetlights on lower campus. This forced students to use propane for cooking, leading to potential fire hazards. In fact, the students proactively practice fire safety, keeping fire extinguishers on site.

In the same email, Saini complained that “Unhoused individuals now make up most of the few people who are sleeping in the camp overnight,” elaborating that “two overdoses occurred at the camp (…) Syringes are visible, and illegal narcotics have been sold there.” These claims were not supported by any evidence, and given Saini’s history of making questionable statements to criticize and undermine the encampment, we have doubts about the reliability of these assertions.  Furthermore, the term “unhoused” rather than “homeless” is now used to reduce stigma by emphasizing people’s lack of housing rather than tying it to their identity. In an incredible show of hypocrisy, McGill used this destigmatizing term to justify dismantling the encampment due to its proximity to unhoused people. Authorities have often weaponized narratives related to public health to justify actions against unhoused people. Students at the encampment created a welcoming community, offering free resources (including food and water) to those in need. Blaming overdoses on the encampment and citing them as reasons for its dismantlement is also low. Overdoses are the tragic consequence of individual- and systemic-level factors, but they are not caused by student protests. The housing and drug crises have not disappeared since the encampment was dismantled—they are just no longer visible on campus.

While the administration spread false claims about public health threats, it failed to engage in any genuine discussion related to divestment from companies profiting from the ongoing genocide in Palestine. Students organized the encampment in solidarity with people in Gaza, who are facing indiscriminate bombing, organized starvation, disease outbreak, and the destruction of their healthcare system. These are actual public health crises. If McGill cared about public health, it would address this reality and stop funding industries profiting from it.

With contributions from Zeinab Cherri, Phoebe Friesen, Rina Lall, R.L., Y. S. Law, Kaya Van Roost.

The post How McGill Weaponized Public Health Against Student Protesters appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Last week, we were asked to reflect upon the “start of our legal education” and to “practice
concise writing” (something the university has mastered when it comes to providing students
with answers to their concerns about the strike). Feel free to disagree, but this strikes me as
premature. Despite speeches from the administration, a library information session, and
being called up one by one to receive a Civil Code of Québec, I hardly feel that my legal
education has begun.

Students at other faculties are experiencing their first classes, meeting their professors, and
starting their readings and assignments. Meanwhile, at the McGill Faculty of Law, first year
students are drafting their concise reflections, trying to hold on to any sense of normalcy,
unaware of when their classes will start and if their semester will be cancelled.

From the very first day of “class”, a large number of students formed a group in favour of the
professors’ union, went to their unofficial teach-ins, brought them coffee and baked goods,
made posters and joined the picket line, choosing to not attend the Dean’s presentations in
support of AMPL. Others, not wanting to take a stance, walked quietly past the profs and into
Old Chancellor Day Hall to receive another speech on how difficult this whole situation must
be for us and on how the start of this year is “unusual”. As if we hadn’t noticed already…

And what about the students who don’t support AMPL’s strike? I haven’t heard of any,
although I can’t say that I am surprised. The profs proudly advertise on social media and on
their website that their students support them, but these are the profs that will eventually be
grading our papers and assignments, which makes criticising their actions and not
supporting their union a risky proposition.

I know what you’re thinking: you don’t really expect me to believe that the profs would be so
petty as to retaliate against students who don’t support them, right? Although I don’t know
them personally, these are the same profs who waited outside the window of the Moot Court
to make noise with megaphones and ring bells for the entirety of the Dean’s Welcome
Speech on our first day. Realistically, what did they think this would achieve but ruin a
moment that students will remember for years to come, that they have studied and worked
hard for? These are the same profs who post memes of the McGill administrators on
Instagram and bring birthday cakes to their offices to facetiously thank them for their
cooperation. And then they wonder why McGill is so reluctant to give them a say in who
should be the next dean…

My criticism of the profs’ behaviour does not mean that I reject all of their concerns and
claims about the way they are being treated by McGill. In fact, I think that many of their
demands seem reasonable, based on the limited information that we have been given. But
what I will not accept is that they are doing this for the students. Both sides say that they
have the students’ best interests at heart and that they are doing their best to keep the strike
as short as possible, something I find very hard to believe.

The profs say that they are ready to stop the strike and go back to teaching if McGill
abandons its legal proceedings to decertify their union, which strikes me as very unlikely
since the consequences of having a union for such a small faculty would be far worse for
McGill than delaying their students’ education by a semester. In a recent email, Dean Leckey
asks students to “consider the bigger picture,” arguing very reasonably that if AMPL is
certified, over a dozen new unions could join the current 16, which would make labour
relations at McGill “unmanageably complex, cumbersome, and costly.” Funny, I could use
those same three adjectives to describe the situation we are in right now. And as for
considering the bigger picture, I hope that McGill is taking its own advice: a few first-year
students are seriously considering dropping out and applying to other law schools before the
end of the add/drop period. I just thought that the administration should know, since we
students know how horrible it feels to be kept in the dark.

As for AMPL, please stop pretending that you couldn’t stop the strike if you really wanted to.
I understand that McGill’s judicial review is a direct attack to your union, but there are
hearings set for December, where you will get the opportunity to present your case. If there
is a legitimate reason for you to be unionized, then you will win in court, and McGill will have
to admit defeat. Instead, you are determined to use the students as bargaining chips to get
McGill to fold. You say that going on strike again was such a hard decision, that you are
sympathetic towards the students receiving financial aid who will need to seek arrangements
if their schooling is extended by a semester. You say that you feel for the international
students who have paid a lot of money for a semester that might not happen. You say that
you sympathize with those coming from out-of-province who have just moved here, don’t
have a job to fall back on and can’t go home because they don’t know if they will have class
on the following day. I’m sorry, but I simply don’t believe you.

I urge you, members of the McGill administration and AMPL, to seriously consider the
consequences of your actions on the students you claim to care for so much. We should not
be your pawns in this labour dispute, but aspiring young professionals who have worked
hard to get where we are today, eager to start our legal education and learn at a faculty in
which we saw great merit. Please don’t prove us wrong.

A first-year BCL/JD student at the McGill Faculty of Law

The post Letter: Cui bono? appeared first on The McGill Daily.

As a trans girl, my journey to accepting myself as a woman was not a straightforward one. Being a woman wasn’t something that came all that naturally to me, especially toward the beginning of my transition. It felt weird to go from thinking that I was a man to being a woman all of a sudden. People expect a lot out of women and I was never sure how much I wanted to, or did, fit into those expectations. Internalized transphobia and misogyny also obviously played a trick on me, but none of that is what being a woman is truly about, is it?

Too often, people try to apply absolute definitions to things like “womanhood,” or “lesbianism,” or even “queerness.” In reality, I don’t think there is such a thing. Our identities aren’t mathematical equations, after all, and it’s only natural that the ways in which we define ourselves in regards to them will change as we grow.

I still sometimes struggle with the term, though there was a point where being a woman just started to make the most sense. There are all sorts of different women out there, each defining themselves and identifying with womanhood in a plethora of different ways. That’s part of the beauty of it all if you ask me. Though I know that some people will never accept me, my being a woman is an ode to the many experiences, positive and negative, that have defined my life until now. It’s an ode to those who have loved me, and those who didn’t. It’s as much of a desire to make my kin proud as it is a desire to rebel against everything they stand for. It’s complicated like that. I don’t think my mother will ever truly see me as a woman. She cried the first time she saw me wearing makeup and when she noticed I got my ears pierced. She didn’t like the fact that she was seeing me deviate from the gendered norms she viewed as right for me. But at the same time, she did always fight for me. My womanhood is an ode to that also.

My being a woman is also inextricably linked to my lesbianism. In truth, I’m probably more of a lesbian than I’ll ever be a woman. Lesbian spaces were where I sought refuge after facing rejection from my grandparents. Becoming a regular at the local dyke bar is what taught me what it meant to stand up for, and love myself. These spaces, and the people I met there, gave me an example of what healthy relationships could look like, and I would not be the person I am today if it weren’t for my reception into the lesbian world.

My womanhood is also an ode to all those lessons. It’s an ode to the friends who taught me what love could look like when you commit to it fully. It’s an ode to the lovers I met on nights out in the city who taught me that intimacy could also be nourishing. It is also an ode to every boundary I learned to respect and every friend I have since parted ways with. It’s a promise that I make to myself and to the world to be the best person I can be, a person I can only be as a woman of some sorts. My womanhood, as well as my belonging in women-only and lesbian spaces, is something that’s personal to me like that.

Since the pandemic, there has been an increasing amount of discourse on who belongs in which spaces, whose identities should be deemed as valid, who is deserving of community and who is not. This is as much within queer circles as outside of them. Trans women have been villainized for existing within lesbian spaces, and so have trans men. There has been an increasing amount of transphobic rhetoric in the media surrounding this trope of trans women being predatory invaders in lesbian spaces. Just last month, a new lesbian bar in London has sought to implement a “cis-women only” policy. It almost feels like a repeat of the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival in 1991.

Although it’s painful to see such rampant transphobia become so commonplace, I find it hard to feel all that implicated by it. Let me be clear, this transphobic rhetoric is having very real effects on the lives of trans people, myself included, but the notion that there is any sort of friction between trans folks and lesbians simply is not my experience. I don’t feel a need to go to a bar that prides itself in being trans-exclusionary and I find it humorous that some may think I should feel offended by this. If my transition has proven anything to me so far, it’s that community does exist for me in lesbian spaces. That’s not something that I feel is at risk of being taken away from me, so why should I care about what a bunch of TERFs think across the pond?

I think that as a community, it’s time that we start admitting to ourselves that our identities as queer people (and simply as human beings) can be complicated, and sometimes contradictory, but frankly that’s our own business. We can disagree with and have our own opinions on people’s specific interpretations of different identities and terminology, but there is no value in denying people acceptance or community. Being a lesbian is a lot more than simply being born with a certain set of genitals or being a woman who dates only other women. Being a woman is a whole lot more than having a certain set of chromosomes. Accepting the multi-faceted, and oftentimes ambiguous nature of identity is important as much for TERFs trying to deny trans women their womanhood, as it is for trans-medicalists trying to restrict transness to an arbitrary set of lived experiences. Unless we learn to accept that as individuals, we do not exist merely as a set of hard-lined characteristics and definitions, but as a complex set of realities, experiences and identities, we will never truly be able to grow as a community.

The post My Womanhood Is a Work in Progress appeared first on The McGill Daily.

With all of this unfolding, international pressure is more needed than ever, and boycotts are a tool accessible to civil society and students. In 2022, for example, the Palestinian-led Boycott, Divestment and Sanctions movement (BDS) forced the baked goods company Pillsbury to divest from a factory located in occupied East Jerusalem. At the same time, Michael Bueckert, vice-president of Canadians for Justice and Peace in the Middle East, highlights the need to be “very clear about our objectives.”

Important efforts to advance a boycott at McGill have run aground on avoidable errors. Both the 2021 Palestine Solidarity Policy and the 2023 Policy Against Genocide in Palestine passed with strong majorities through a student vote only to face legal and administrative opposition. The 2023 Policy is now caught up in litigation. A major roadblock, rarely discussed in student media, was raised a few years ago by SSMU’s Judicial Board. As is emphasized in the Board’s 2021 clarification on the legality of policies against the actions of a particular country, SSMU’s Constitution “favours specificity and precision over broad undefined policies that may or may not contravene equity concerns.” This poses a problem for the policy, which proposes a blanket boycott against “corporations, institutions, or individuals complicit in genocide, settler-colonialism, or ethnic cleansing against Palestinians.” The meaning of “complicit” is not defined.

As mentioned by Bueckert, vague policy risks unintended consequences. In 2019, for example, the University of Toronto Graduate Student Union refused to support a campus kosher food initiative, claiming it was “pro-Israel” and against “the will of the membership.” A student union is of course entitled to criticize a state and pursue policies accordingly. But in this application, BDS policy slipped into restricting and marginalizing basic Jewish community functions, and confusing Jewishness with pro-Israel sentiment. The union soon recanted under legal and public pressure, but this antisemitic incident is not anomalous to the history of student campaigns against Israel. The commonplace that “anti-Zionism is not antisemitism” obscures the rather more complicated facts of Jewish life as it exists. Anti-Zionism is not antisemitism, but the two are not mutually exclusive. Israel is a demographic, cultural, and religious center of modern Jewry. It is not hard to discover evidence of association if you look for it –– and for many, association means complicity in state violence. Boycotts that pay no mind to these complexities too often place the onus on Jews to prove their “innocence”. So, kosher food is too “complicit”, same with multi-faith chicken soup charity initiatives, Yiddish cultural centers, and so on. Such unforced errors are political and legal liabilities, damaging to both Jewish communities and Palestine solidarity activism.

These problems speak to the double-edged legacy of the historical boycotts against Israel. Many activists take inspiration from the well-known divestment campaign against apartheid South Africa — a landmark of collective civic action in which McGill students played a proud role. And Palestinian civil society has long organized its resistance around boycotts. At the same time, Middle Eastern writers have discussed the role of anti-normalization policy, which aims to isolate Israel and those who associate with the state, in the construction of autocracy and the liquidation of Jewish populations in Arab states. Leila Ahmed, noted Egyptian American scholar of Islam, argues in her memoir A Border Passage that the anti-Zionist campaigns of her childhood justified the expansion of the Egyptian secret police and “proclaimed implicitly our opposition to the ‘Zionists’ in our midst, Egyptian Jews.” Tunisian President Kais Saied recently proposed an anti-NGO law that protects his increasingly autocratic presidency under the cover of anti-normalization. The ancient Jewish communities in both Egypt and Tunisia have been reduced to shadows of their former selves.

At heart, the situation challenges McGill students to negotiate differences on a diverse campus. Similar challenges would arise should students decide on a stricter campaign against the Chinese state (for its treatment of Uyghur Muslims), the Moroccan state (for the occupation of the Western Sahara), or indeed any other state that persecutes specific marginalized groups. Ensuring the wellness and safety of Jewish communities is especially important given recent attacks against Jewish schools and synagogues in this city.

Yet there need not be any conflict between preserving Jewish communities and advocating for Palestine at McGill. Pro-Palestinian and divestment advocates have documented some institutions in McGill’s investment portfolio which are most complicit in human rights violations against Palestinians. Notable examples include Re/Max, which sells real estate on illegal Israeli settlements in the occupied West Bank; Mizrahi-Tefahot Bank, which helps finance illegal settlement building; and Motorola Solutions, which provides extensive support to Israeli military operations and surveillance. By proposing a boycott policy against specific targets, advocates for Palestine at McGill can bypass legal barriers and push forward an urgently needed divestment.

The post Boycott, Define, Specify appeared first on The McGill Daily.