Volume 45, Issue 8

The Fa i th & Spirituality Issue

CONCORDIAʼS INDEPENDENT

Concordia gallery council resigns in protest

Members of the Leonard & Bina Ellen Art Gallery Advisory Council name Palestinian solidarity suppression as reason for resignation

Geneviève Sylvestre

Five members of the Leonard & Bina Ellen Art Gallery Advisory Council resigned following the dismissal of gallery director Pip Day in November.

In their resignation letter sent to the administration on Jan. 9, the members claimed that they believed Day’s dismissal was due to “her support of artists, students, and community groups who have spoken out on behalf of Palestinians.”

e Link received con rmation of Concordia University’s dismissal of Day on Nov. 18, less than six months a er the start of her mandate in June 2024.

Ex-advisory council member Claudine Hubert claims that members were only noti ed of Day’s termination when reading an article in e Link

“ is disregard for our role, and for the institutional safeguards designed to prevent abuse, re ected a profound disconnect and lack of accountability within the administration,” Hubert said.

According to Concordia deputy spokesperson Julie Fortier, five of the council’s eight members resigned. Fortier clarified that the reason for Day’s dismissal cannot be disclosed as labour laws prevent the university from discussing “specific employee matters.”

“I want to reiterate that Concordia always respects its employees’

@gen.sylvestre

freedom of expression, as is quite evident from the diversity of views and stances regularly expressed by members of our community,” Fortier said, adding that the gallery has full control over its programming.

In the resignation letter, the advisory council noted that the university has failed “to recognize the legitimate right of the entire Concordia community to peacefully and meaningfully express their solidarity with the Palestinian people.”

A spokesperson for Students for Palestine's Honour and Resistance (SPHR) Concordia, who was granted anonymity for personal safety, agreed with the members’ statement.

“When tens of thousands of students go on strike for BDS (Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions) and continue to get repressed and ignored, it’s clear that the university is not recognizing the legitimate right of students to express solidarity with Palestine and its people,” the SPHR spokesperson said.

Fortier said that the university regrets that some members have opted to resign, but also regrets that some groups have “called on artists and curators to boycott a space that has long supported the role of art as a catalyst for cultural debate, instead limiting opportunities for artists to freely showcase their work there.”

e resignation letter listed a few “disturbing events” that were alleged to have taken place during the Fall 2024 semester. e rst was the university’s cancellation of a screening of the lm Resistance, Why? at the Concordia J.A. DeSève Cinema on Oct. 11. e lm screening was organized in partnership with the Montreal-based collective Regards Palestiniens.

Campus Safety and Prevention Services had sent Day a “postponement notice” for the screening on the evening of Oct. 10 because of “additional information regarding the event in question which necessitates further review.”

“ e ad hoc outdoor lm projection that took place instead was marked by a substantial security presence, re ecting a growing trend of securitization and surveillance at Concordia,” Regards Palestiniens member Claire Begbie said.

Begbie believes that censoring Palestinian lms compromises awareness of the Palestinian cause.

“Palestinian lms can serve as critical tools to teach students and other viewers about both the history and ongoing struggle of the Palestinian people against Zionism and its collaborators,” she added.

e resignation comes a er artists Miryam Charles and Ésery

Mondésir led a silent protest at the gallery on the evening of Nov. 21. ey were invited to speak about their work, but chose instead to share their frustration with the arrest of two students by the SPVM at a “Cops O Campus” rally on Oct. 31.

Hubert said she was in disbelief seeing the gallery used as a temporary detention centre for students and was unsettled by the images she saw a erwards.

“What message does an institution send when it summons police to its campus? [...] For students and faculty alike, watching peers detained within a gallery—or other spaces on campus—instills fear, shatters any sense of safety and fosters anxiety,” Hubert said.

Advisory council members also mentioned the arrests in the letter, claiming that the university did not protect Day from “numerous intimidating messages she received from external stakeholders and donors, criticizing the Gallery’s embrace of pro-Palestinian artists and causes.”

“What happened on that day is not only a clear violation of students' rights to protest, but turning the gallery to a detention centre and then blatantly lying about the reason [for] doing so is a beyond shockingly repressive behaviour from the administration,” said the SPHR spokesperson.

QUICKIES

The Tribunal administratif du logement recommended a 5.9 per cent increase in rental prices for 2025, the highest jump in the last three decades. Last year, the recommended increase was four per cent. Quebec Premier François Legault said that he would not intervene in this matter.

Supreme Court to hear Bill 21 challenge

The Supreme Court of Canada agreed it would hear a challenge against Quebec’s Bill 21—a law that guarantees secularism in the province. The federal government said it would intervene against the bill in court, while Quebec said it would defend the law “until the end.”

Amazon to close Quebec facilities

Amazon will shut down its Quebec facilities, cutting 2,000 jobs, most of which are permanent positions. The company said this decision is tied to cost savings, not the recent unionization of roughly 300 workers at Amazon’s Laval facility. One Amazon spokesperson told Radio-Canada the closures would happen in the next two months.

Muzique shuts down in February

The popular nightclub Muzique on St. Laurent Blvd. will close down in February after business difficulties. An owner told CTV News Montreal that road closures on St. Laurent Blvd., as well as the venue being on the “older side, and a bit run down,” had big impacts on Muzique. The owner noted the venue would reopen later under different owners. Tribunal recommends historic rent increase

Artiom “Arty” Carelov on cra ing music and community

The Moldovan-born indie musician is forging his own path and making space for other Montreal artists to do the same

Moon Jinseok @de_seoul_a_moontreal

On a quiet November a ernoon, Artiom Carelov, better known as “Arty,” came out from his studio, cradling a blue Epiphone Casino guitar.

It was his way of introducing me to the instrument that had become the backbone of the raw and melancholic atmosphere of his band, Azulov.

“Montreal has incredible bands that may not all be widely known, yet the city’s distinctive sound de nes it,” Arty said as he guided me to his studio, listing big names like Arcade Fire and Men I Trust. “I believe it is a source of pride for Montreal musicians to embrace that unique path.”

Montreal’s indie music scene is brimming with musicians, many of whom write their own songs and perform on local stages. Among them is Arty, a 29-year-old singer-songwriter and Azulov’s guitarist. Arty, more than just a composer and performer, also hosts open mic nights for musicians at the Bar de Courcelle in Saint-Henri every Sunday.

His studio, tucked away in the basement of his apartment, exudes the charm of an old building warehouse. In one corner, his main guitar, the blue Epiphone Casino, rests next to his computer. Across from it stands a small vocal recording booth, equipped with a Rode condenser microphone and two Fender ampliers linked to a pedal board. Adorning the space is a vintage Yamaha electric organ from the 1960s and an old Hammond organ from an unknown manufacturing year.

“My father played the guitar and o en sang, providing me with an inspiring example from a young age,” Arty said.

A er immigrating to Montreal from Moldova with his parents in 2006, Arty dreamed of joining a band. However, it wasn’t until the pandemic that he made the leap into the music scene, leaving behind a career in engineering.

At the beginning of 2022, Arty began performing at an outdoor open mic in Saint-Henri. Committing fully to his cra , he took singing lessons and later formed a band with “ alia” Rosaura Chaput, his vocal trainer. He named the band Azulov, with ‘azul’ meaning “blue” in Spanish.

“Initially, I wrote songs in classic rock, alternative rock and blues,” Arty said, taking a sip of co ee. “However, I transitioned to more melancholic ambient indie sounds, reggae and other styles. My in uences range from the electric and heavy sound of bands like Fat Dog to the classics of Dusty Spring eld.”

In 2023, at a time when Arty’s songwriting style was experiencing a signi cant transformation, Azulov also faced an important transition. It was at this time that the previous bassist, Khaled Belabbas, and the lead singer, alia, both le the band.

“Eventually, alia became increasingly busy with school, so we were almost disbanded,” Arty said.

Despite these challenges, he stayed in the band with drummer Brydone Charlton. Since then, Arty has created melodies and chord progressions, while Charlton has contributed to drum beats.

“Sometimes, I begin with a ri or a chord progression,” Arty said. “Other times, I start by writing the lyrics.” e two primarily worked

together, occasionally inviting other musicians, including keyboardist Jono Townsend.

With this new approach, Arty infused Azulov’s distinctive sense of melancholy and dreamy hues into his music. As a result, he produced ve singles: “Sitting on a Bench,” “Swimming rough Milk,” “Sleep Talk,” “Sun” and “Cocoon,” all released in 2023.

“‘Sitting on a Bench’ started as a joke song for my former roommate. For ‘Sun,’ I sat down and created the lyrics and melody in just 15 minutes,” Arty said. “I penned ‘Cocoon’ while camping with friends, where we spent nights in hammocks. We were trapped in our small cocoons for two days due to rain.”

Since guitarist Frisco Lee joined the band in 2024, Arty and his bandmates decided to further re ne their style, adding more dynamics to their guitar sound with constantly changing rhythm.

In their new single, “Parade,” Lee played most of the instruments, except for the drums and vocals. While Lee took the lead on instrumentation, Arty still played a pivotal role in coming up with ideas for the initial melody. Compared to their previous tracks, “Parade” features a rawer sound, with the guitar and drums adding a more intense edge while still maintaining their signature dreamy, ambient atmosphere.

Arty began writing “Parade” as a personal response to the Russian invasion of Ukraine, which a ected him on both a personal and cultural level.

“As a Moldovan, I grew up alongside Russian and Ukrainian friends,

and a lot of my family members still live there,” Arty said. “However, the war sharply divided the Russians, Ukrainians and Moldovans. It is like a knife cut.”

“Parade,” according to Lee, has a ‘70s arena rock vibe.

“We practiced with a full band several times, and it truly came together in recording. We trimmed the transitions and completely changed the intro, which initially sounded like “Sloppy Chuck Berry,’” Lee said.

Similarly to how they composed “Parade,” Arty said that most of Azulov’s tracks were arranged in their rehearsal space or his studio, usually through jam sessions.

“We improvise and generate different ideas during our jams,” Arty explained. “Later, we review the recordings, which sometimes inspire the creation of new songs.”

A er speaking about the songwriting process, Arty hinted at a new song he has been working on.

“Initially, my work revolved around channelling negative emotions. I focus on expressing positivity and upli ing emotions nowadays,” he said with a smile, picking up a pack of cigarettes on the table.

For Arty, one of the motivating factors for hosting open mic nights at Bar de Courcelle is the opportunity it gives people to channel their creative energy. Open mics were also where he rst started playing music in the city.

“What if a band shows up to perform and they nail it?” he said. “What if I give them that opportunity?”

Unlike most open mics in Montreal, which typically feature only

acoustic guitars or rely on backing tracks without live instruments, the setup at Bar de Courcelle allows for the presence of drums, keyboards, guitars and bass ampli ers. Arty believes that a wider range of equipment should be available at open mics to accommodate di erent instruments, helping to attract a diverse mix of musicians to open mics.

Joining Arty at the bar, I was able to witness just that—a sense of community and inspiration that encouraged local musicians to form new connections. at night, various artists performed songs spanning multiple genres, each accompanied by various instruments. Small tables were scattered on both sides of the stage while the audience gathered in the centre, dancing to the rhythm.

“Even when I arrive here in a bad mood, I always leave feeling happy and invigorated,” Arty said, holding up a list of musicians scheduled to perform at the open mic.

Johan Miranda Franck, an indie musician who arrived from the UK a few weeks ago, said that Arty’s open mic provides a supportive space for new musicians as well.

“ is open mic is by far my favourite because people tend to be quite cold in London and Brighton,” Franck said.

e crowd continued to grow and reached its peak at about 10 p.m.

“I enjoy seeing people come together at my open mic; they consistently return week a er week, even if they started as strangers,” Arty said. “Over time, they show up as a trio or a quartet, much like a band.”

ARTIOM "ARTY" CARELOV BEGAN HIS MUSIC CAREER BY ATTENDING AN OPEN MIC IN SAINT-HENRI. COURTESY ARTY

The history of “religion” and Quebec politics

In collaboration with Dr. Marcel Parent, Department of Religions and Cultures at Concordia University

When we think about religion in Quebec, often what first comes to mind is Bill 21, the infamous bill to limit religious expression for public workers.

While there has been equal criticism and support for this bill in Quebec, as a scholar of religion, I can’t help but try to connect the contemporary situation to broader historical processes.

For example, we can trace different traditions of Quebec’s proactive secularism in this bill, like in France. However, the bill also connects with the rejection of the hegemony of the Catholic Church in the 1960s Quiet Revolution. In my own scholarship, I have been tackling the question of religion from a postcolonial or decolonial perspective. I think exploring the history of religion from this decolonial perspective can give us some important insights into how we think about religion today in Quebec.

One of the fundamental insights of the study of religion is that “religion” as a conceptual construct has transformed over time. How we think of religion today is different than we’ve thought of it before, and outside of the West, historically, people didn’t map their conceptual worlds in the ways we think about religion now. Religion as we know it today has a fairly recent history that we can trace to the Enlightenment.

Seventeenth and 18th-century European Enlightenment thinkers transformed understandings about religion because they identi ed the cause of the 16th and 17th-century wars in Europe as “religious wars” between Protestants and Catholics. Accordingly,

Enlightenment thinkers started an in uential project to cut out religion from the public sphere and pushed to relegate religion to the private sphere as a matter of “individual conscience.” is is the origin of the idea of the separation of church and state. And yet, religion was still culturally important, so religion was also accorded a special status: protected from criticism, religion became a matter of faith. us, conceptual dichotomies were produced that remain today: reason versus faith, religion versus science, religion versus philosophy, religion ver-

about “religion,” who then projected that out onto the world as a universal category. This kind of universalizing projection is known as Eurocentrism and is a part of the colonial project. Colonials could evaluate colonized people, who had different understandings about “religion,” and find them lacking in comparison to the hypostatized European ideal.

Colonial discourse is always trying to find levers to justify colonial interventions, and at the level of knowledge, the binary constructs of civilized and

sus politics. Domesticated by the Enlightenment, religion could be managed by broader European society.

And yet, the influence of Protestantism transformed broader European ways of thinking about religion. Protestantism is famous for rejecting the authority and institution of the church, rejecting the mediation of clergy and belittling Catholic over-ritualization. For Protestants, the goal was to cut through the middlemen and go right to the source, where individuals could connect to the divine themselves, through the Bible.

barbaric, modernity and tradition, and East and West become tools for projecting onto the world the putative superiority of the West. The category of religion became one such tool. Where Indigenous “religion” didn’t look like the now secularized Enlightenment/Protestant framing of religion, the colonized were denigrated as barbaric, degenerate or more passively as not yet “caught up.”

Thus, often, how we conceive of “religion” becomes a tool for more insidious power moves.

tices; it was a matter of individ-

These “Protestant presuppositions,” as Gregory Schopen, professor of Buddhist studies at UCLA, calls them, transformed the understanding of “religion” in European ways of thinking. Religion became invested with these new normative understandings of what “religion” was: It was about doctrines, not pracual experience; it was centred in texts; it critiqued what we now call “organized religion;” and it posited an essence for religion. All of these and more became part of how Europeans understood religion and still shape how we think of religion today. It was also around this time that Europe was beginning to conquer the rest of the world in its colonial adventures.

Enlightenment ideals and Protestant presuppositions transformed how Europeans thought

In my current work, I reflect on how the modern development of the concept of religion becomes wrapped up in colonial race politics. From the early Iberian relegation of Black and Indigenous folks, through the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade and into the later

Enlightenment colonial project,

religion has been used as a litmus test of civilizational status based on race.

We see this even today where what scholars call the World Religions Paradigm (the various -isms of world religions) often relegates African Traditional Religion and Indigenous Religion to footnotes, if included at all. These hierarchies of race and religion are mobilized in connection with what decolonial thinkers call colonial capital. Global capitalism wants hier-

archies of labour: Who gets to work plantations, who gets to be an information technology expert, who gets to be the bosses—who holds capital? e contemporary politics of religion in Quebec are a little easier to understand when we think of them as another manifestation of this trajectory of the concept of “religion.” If we think of the Quebec government’s focus on discouraging overt religious symbols and how this disproportionately a ects Muslim women (while allowing Christian symbols in the public sphere as “historical”), we can think back to how European norms become universalized and applied to an Other. We can see how secularism in this context as

a post-Enlightenment discourse mobilizes religion in ways that connect with notions of race/ethnicity as a kind of colonialism of the nation.

public can norms applied how

Even for a secular society, there are “better and worse” religions, and these are coded to an everchanging set of norms mobilized to divide us for political gain. While nationalist discourses in the West attempt to determine who “fits” in a nation, they are inevitably inheritors of

QUEBEC SECULARISM POLITICS TODAY ABOUT RELIGION ARE EXTENSIONS OF A LONG HISTORY OF COLONIALISM. GRAPHIC MYRIAM OUAZZANI

Indigenous narratives, sovereignty and narrative sovereignty

Sovereignty over Indigenous stories is equally as important as sovereignty over Indigenous lands

Manoj Subramaniam

Ona frigid February day in 2020, when Nicolas Renaud heard the news of an injunction to clear a rail blockade in Kahnawake, he was angry.

The Mohawk people had been protesting in solidarity with Wet'suwet'en communities in British Columbia, opposing the construction of a gas pipeline in their territory for over two weeks.

His anger, though, was directed at the media coverage.

The 2020 rail blockade and the political debate around it had echoes of another Mohawk resistance movement from 30 years ago.

Gage Diabo, assistant professor in the English department at Concordia and a Kahnawake Mohawk, said that during the Kanesatake resistance, popularly known as the Oka crisis, in the summer of 1990, the media didn’t really tell the story of those protesting the encroachments into Indigenous lands.

history and peoplehood.

“The rules by which we come into being as a political group or as a community of minded people all emerge from those stories,” Diabo said.

According to Renaud, the stories teach that humans and the natural world are connected. ey informed generations on how to coexist and operate in the land.

“We had our APTN news vans and when we were there, people were like, ‘Oh, what's going on, what are you guys talking about?’” Michelin said.

In contrast, a Kahnawake community member once told him that their re ex when they saw the vehicles of other media outlets like CBC or CTV was to say, “Uh-oh, something bad is happening.”

more cinematic, it's more explosive, it plays better,” Diabo added. “There's a loss of rhetorical sovereignty there […] their intentions were probably as good as they could be, but something got lost when they warped the story into something else.”

The grand chief of Kahnawake at the time, Joseph Tokwiro Norton, had issued a statement asserting that the Kahnawake Peacekeepers—the only police agency with jurisdiction over the territory—would

Diabo believes that the 78-day violent standoff that ended with the Canadian Armed Forces being brought in was driven by manipulated narratives about the protesters.

“An important part of the heritage of traditional Indigenous cultures is that the dimensions of ourselves are not separated,” Renaud said. “You have to inscribe in human action a balanced web of relationships and connections. So spirituality and politics are kind of instructed by the same values.”

Michelin believes having Indigenous-led media like APTN is a form of narrative sovereignty as it makes community members feel represented and trust that a fuller and more nuanced picture will be shown.

While the media reported the grand chief’s statement, there was little explanation of the historical context of the chief’s statement. Missing was also any reference to the Great Law of Peace in the Haudenosaunee Confederacy— considered the political constitution of Kahnawake and five other

“In that sense, it [became] like a violent invasion of national borders,” Diabo said, “but also a fundamental misunderstanding or willful misrepresentation of the narrative that those land defenders were trying to share with the rest of the world.”

Like many Indigenous cultures, Diabo’s Mohawk tradition prizes storytelling. They grew up in Kahnawake hearing tales passed down generations through oral traditions. A lot of these come from or are about the natural

To many Indigenous Peoples, when the media covers these protests and neglects to provide the full picture, the issue becomes as much about being able to exercise narrative sovereignty as it is about land sovereignty.

“I always say if you're there for the triumphs, then people will be more receptive to you when you're there for the tragedies as well,” Michelin said. “If you only show the tragedies, you're not doing your job.”

Despite the struggle to hold onto narrative sovereignty, Renaud believes that the wisdom of Indigenous storytelling contains lessons for the current world fraught with climate crisis, political divisions and inequalities. However, he conceded that it might be “utopic” to think that Indigenous philosophies can change the world right now.

When it came to missing an opportunity to tell a fuller picture, Diabo felt that the example of the movie adaptation of the novel Indian Horse by Ojibwe writer Richard Wagamese was particularly illustrative.

Nonetheless, Indigenous stories—like the creation story that Diabo and Renaud grew up with—have survived centuries. Renaud believes that this is because the stories hold a lot of wisdom and are adaptable to di erent contexts despite their perceived simplicity.

"I always say if you're there for the triumphs, then people will be more receptive to you when you're there for the tragedies as well."

“[Narrative sovereignty] is having the ability to tell your own stories the way you want to tell them and to some extent to control stories that are told by others about you,” said Monika Ille, chief executive o cer of the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network (APTN). “So that means you're controlling what you want to say and what you want to share in your own way. It is not manipulated by a third party.”

However, it is not just about who tells the stories, but also whose voices are le out.

In the Clint Eastwood executive-produced movie, Diabo said that the three-part structure became a twopart story. It excluded the protagonist Saul Indian Horse’s childhood immersed in Ojibwe culture. It also missed the mark on the final part about healing and reconciliation after he becomes a hockey star and deals with substance abuse problems.

“[T]he more you look at it, it packs so many ideas,” Renaud said. “It actually holds instructions about how to make the world: What is inclusion? What is cooperation? What is a circular relationship with everything that lives? What [does it mean to respect] women at the centre of the human world for the

- Oswald Michelin, Inuk journalist

nations—that granted free movement and other rights that predate the confederation of Canada.

Renaud, an assistant professor of First Peoples studies at Concordia University, was disappoint-

“It just came across as nonsense,” said Renaud, who is of mixed Quebecois and HuronWendat heritage. “It's not just how it does harm, but that there will be a chance to educate and [the

not carry out the injunction. of ed with the media coverage. media] won't take it.”

world, such as the creation story.

In the Mohawks’ telling of the “greatest story,” as Diabo puts it, a woman named Sky Woman falls through a hole in the sky on the back of a turtle in a giant ocean.

“And as that story develops, she meets other animal players,” Diabo said, “and together they build up that back of a turtle into what we now know as Turtle Island (North America) or the Earth itself.”

Diabo explained that storytelling is the repository of Indigenous knowledge,

Often, the media repeats a certain narrative that starts with political leaders and makes its way to the general public without much analysis or Indigenous voices, said Renaud. “Or the media will show one side and then relay the other side, but not really dig in and deconstruct and analyze and allow people to understand,” he added.

That kind of deeper narrative can only come with fostering relationships, says Oswald Michelin, an Inuk journalist who directed the award-winning podcast Telling Our Twisted Histories. Michelin spent five years with APTN. During his time working for the APTN in Kahnawake, he saw firsthand the reception he and his crew got compared to other mainstream outlets.

THE SIGHT OF MAINSTREAM MEDIA VEHICLES CAN CAUSE UNCERTAINTY IN INDIGENOUS COMMUNITIES, ACCORDING TO OSWALD MICHELIN. GRAPHIC MYRIAM OUAZZANI

God gone corporate

How the rapid growth of Pentecostal megachurches exploits corporate tactics to fill a void of global disconnect

Mira Alden-Hull

Onany given Sunday in Longueuil, pastor Selvin Cortez greets a congregation of 4,000 with an infectious smile as the concert band behind him strikes its rst chord.

Cortez claps his hands over his head in sync with the band, gesturing to the congregation to join him in song and worship. At the same time, an audience of tens of thousands watches online.

Église Nouvelle Vie in Longueuil is one of 35 megachurches in Canada. e technical de nition of a megachurch is the size of its membership, a “sustained weekly attendance of 2,000 persons or more,” according to the Hartford Institute for Religion Research. Other characteristics of megachurches include multiple locations, online in uence, a charismatic pastor, and services that rely on repetition and invoking the mystique.

Just as fast-food chains grew to replace the local diner, megachurches emerged to ll a market demand for convenience and accessibility that smaller churches couldn’t compete with. Yet, the frequent criticisms of megachurches’ corporate expansion are dampened by testimonies of the strong sense of community they cultivate.

Nouvelle Vie has eight sites across the province, yet its online presence in other Francophone countries is arguably more in uential. A quick search of its YouTube channel brings up 256,000 followers and 1,700 videos organized into hundreds of playlists ranging from “Morning Co ee with Pastor Claude,” “ e Path towards Resurrection,” “Christian Songs for Children” and “Advice for Romantic Relationships.”

Emmanuel Hyppolite has attended Nouvelle Vie on and o for 20 years. A er several years of trying di erent churches, Hyppolite always returned to Nouvelle Vie.

Hyppolite described the community at Nouvelle Vie as a

“place where I was always welcomed, loved and accepted despite my mistakes, including my problems with addiction.”

“Its message is that no matter your past, no matter what you have done, we will welcome everyone,” Hyppolite said.

He claims that the connection to Jesus cultivated at Nouvelle Vie has helped him become a “better citizen, a better father and a better son.”

Most megachurches, including Nouvelle Vie, have their roots in smaller Pentecostal churches. Pentecostalism, the fastest-growing religious denomination in the world, is based on spirit-driven worship, with an emphasis on music, chants and a personal connection to Jesus.

While megachurches are commonly associated with the US, their true epicentre is the Global South— countries in Africa, South America, the Caribbean and Asia.

As the West has become more secular, historically colonized and missionized countries have experienced a momentous growth in church membership, according to Andrew Gagne, head of the theology department at Concordia University. In fact, Gagne explained that religious leaders and missionaries are now expanding their reach back to the West to “re-Evangelize those who missionized them.”

e US’s biggest megachurch, the Lakewood Church in Texas, maintains 45,000 attendees per week across its multiple locations. Yet this pales in comparison to the 120,000 who attend the Deeper Life Bible Church in Lagos, Nigeria, or the 200,000 who attend Yoido Full Gospel Church in Seoul, South Korea.

Critics, including evangelism and methodist studies scholar Laceye Warner, claim that megachurches have lost touch with any true biblical message, becoming hyper-focused on pro t and expansion.

In Gagne’s words, megachurches are designed to deliver the “Walmart church experience.” ey o er churchgoers neatly packaged Sunday entertainment that even covers childcare. Worshippers may simply sit back in the pews and watch the sermon ash on the teleprompter while taking in the opulent display of chanting and concert-quality music.

“ ese kinds of churches are essentially a franchise, and their leaders are like religious entrepreneurs,” Gagne said.

If megachurches have become a franchise, then Gen Z is one of their key target audiences. With its emphasis on music, experiential worship and acceptance of di erences, the Pentecostal model found in megachurches has a clear appeal.

Kaylee Booth is a devoted member and youth leader at the Hope City Church in Edmonton, a Pentecostal church with 2,000 to 3,000 weekly attendants across locations. Booth says the church has witnessed a huge increase in Gen Z membership. Hope

City’s youth group, e Project, grew from approximately 200 members to over 900 in just the past year. It is now the biggest Christian youth group in Canada.

Up until a year ago, Booth identied as an atheist. A string of fate—tied up with her love of worship music and a charismatic pastor’s son she met on Snapchat—led Booth to join e Project. Two months later, Booth was baptized. Now, a year later, she has applied to a bible college to pursue her own calling as a pastor.

Because of their large social media presence and accessibility, megachurches and their online preachers are o en Gen Z’s entryway into Christian-

ity. Booth believes that churches moving online is a necessary adaptation to modern needs.

“I don’t think it takes the sacredness out,” Booth said. “I mean, the Church is just a building. Going online helps us reach more people.”

For many Gen Z Christians like Booth, joining a church was a remedy to their sense of isolation and struggles with mental health.

“I just feel like our generation is quite lost,” Booth said. “We’re looking for answers and we can’t nd them and [we’re] lacking a sense of belonging.”

MEGACHURCHES EMERGED TO FILL A MARKET DEMAND

Faith and Palestinian resistance How Islam shapes the fight for Palestine

Youmna El Halabi

Omar regularly attends pro-Palestine protests in Montreal. As a devout and practising Muslim of Palestinian origin, he nds the Palestine resistance movement important.

“Palestinian resistance is the epitome of steadfastness and sacri ce for what is morally right and divinely mandated,” said Omar, who has been granted a pseudonym for safety reasons.

While he spent most of his adult life in Canada, his commitment to Palestine is unwavering.

“To me, it’s not just a political struggle; it’s a sacred duty and a form of worship. Resistance is about defending the sanctity of our lands, our people and our faith against occupation and oppression,” Omar said. “It is a profound symbol of hope, strength and the unwavering belief that justice will prevail because it is rooted in the promise of Allah.”

Islam is the primary reli-

gion in Palestine, with the vast majority following the Sunni branch of Islam, and small minorities being Shia Muslim or Ahmadi.

Incorporating Islam in Palestinian resistance

For Omar, spiritual, political or armed resistance is an act of obedience to Allah.

“[It’s] driven by the principle that oppression and tyranny must be confronted, no matter the cost,” Omar said.

However, protesters and activists are not in the ght alone. In Canada, many Palestinians and allies of different origins have come together throughout the past 15 months to show solidarity for Gaza in the form of weekly protests.

“What sets this movement apart is that it is deeply rooted in faith and principle,” Omar said.

“We don’t just seek justice for Palestine—we strive to maintain a moral and religious compass while doing so. is movement reminds people that our activism is not just political but spiritual.”

Grassroots organizations like

Montreal4Palestine (M4P) or Liberate Palestine 48 (LP48) in Toronto have stated the importance of Islam in their activism and actions.

M4P is a multi-generational community-based movement ghting for the total liberation of Palestine through awareness and education. LP48 is its Toronto sister, mobilizing strategic actions in the Greater Toronto Area to amplify the voice of the Palestinian people.

Both organizations work to ght for Palestine’s resistance and uphold Islamic values. For example, ‘duaa’ (prayer) is o en prioritized at protests and gatherings.

Ahmad Jarrar Hajahmad is one of the founders of LP48. Protesters o en nd him chanting into a mic or drumming at demonstrations.

“When we’re doing demonstrations, we truly believe we’re doing this for the sake of Allah and we want to be accepted, to the point where even when we’re drumming, we’re praying,” Hajahmad said.

“It’s not just about liberation from oppression but about preserving our ‘deen’ (faith), our dignity and the sanctity of our land,” Omar added.

Hajahmad also believes Pales-

tinian resistance, be it in the form of protesting as showcased with M4P and LP48, or armed as is shown in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank, to be highly motivated by the Islamic concept of ‘jihad,’ the Arabic word for struggle.

Jihad comes in two forms, all within the same umbrella of ‘aljihad sabil Allah,’ or “striving in the path of God.” e rst form, ‘Jihad al-nafs,’ represents the internal, spiritual struggle against the lower self. Its main dimension is ‘sabr’ (patience), and it is also considered ‘al-jihad al-akbar,’ or “the greatest struggle.”

e second form, ‘Jihad al-sayf,’ is the physical combat with the sword. Its main dimension is ‘qital’ (combat), and it is also considered ‘al-jihad al-asghar,’ or “the lesser struggle.”

According to Omar, resistance is a way of life. It’s in every action: raising awareness, speaking out, mobilizing communities and advocating for justice.

“Armed resistance, in particular, is not an act of aggression but a necessary defence of the oppressed, a protection of our people, and a ful llment of our divine obligation to safe-

guard what Allah has entrusted to us,” Omar said.

Alia, a volunteer with M4P who was granted a pseudonym for safety reasons, is a Shia Muslim from Tyre, Lebanon. She explained that her dedication to Palestine is unbreakable and undeniable, as it has always been a part of her.

“My land (the south of Lebanon) was occupied for almost 20 years,” Alia said. “ e same way I wanted my land to be free, I want my brothers in Palestine to be free.”

Palestine is recognized by Muslims as the Holy Land, as it is mentioned in the h chapter of the Qur’an, Surah Al-Ma’idah. Home to the third holiest site in Islam, Al-Aqsa Mosque, Jerusalem was the rst ‘qibla’ (direction) for Muslims, before the Ka'ba in Mecca.

“As a Shia, I always ask myself,” Alia said, “what would the descendants of the Prophet [Muhammad] think of me if they saw what is happening in Palestine, and they saw me minding my own business with the excuse that [Palestinians] are not Shias?”

Alia said that the people of Gaza inspired her to stop hiding the fact that she was a Muslim. Seeing Palestinians with their heads held high while in the worst of conditions, proudly stating they are Muslim, made her want to do the same.

“Islam provides the moral and faithful backbone that ensures resistance is not just reactive but purposeful and principled,” Omar said, adding that he believes that without Islam, resistance risks becoming misguided.

Omar believes this is why Palestinians continue to inspire the world despite their hardships, as their resistance is fuelled by unshakable faith.

“With Islam, resistance is elevated,” Omar said. “It becomes an act of worship, a duty to ght for justice and a means of seeking Allah’s pleasure.”

PALESTINE IS RECOGNIZED BY MUSLIMS AS THE HOLY LAND, AS MENTIONED IN THE QU'RAN. GRAPHIC MYRIAM OUAZZANI

Closure of Z Annex causes adjustments to the Multi-faith and Spirituality Centre

Students and MFSC staff find ways to connect despite closure

Robert Toto @robtoto89

Concordia University’s Multifaith and Spirituality Centre (MFSC) has had to make significant adjustments since last year, following flooding in the Z Annex building.

Still, sta and students have been nding alternative ways to keep activities going.

e Z Annex at the Sir George Williams campus housed the MFSC and Sustainable Concordia, but water damage has caused the building to be o -limits since the beginning of May 2024.

As a temporary solution, sta at the MFSC have been sharing a space with the Equity O ce in the Faubourg Building. e LIVE Centre in the Hall building also provides space for students on weekdays from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. Meanwhile, weekly events such as Spirituali-Tea now occur in the Dean of Students Kitchen on the sixth oor of the Hall building every Tuesday from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m.

Despite these new spaces, the closure has le some students searching for alternate spaces to study or relax.

English literature student Isabella Presley says the MFSC provided her with a safe space to hang out on campus and is heartbroken about the original space’s closure.

“I found it was always quiet and a cozy place to be,” Presley said. “Everyone was respectful to each other. I can make friends there.”

She added that she hasn’t used the MFSC’s alternate services as she believes their current spaces do not feel sacred enough.

“ e connection is lost [since the closure],” Presley said.

Presley believes that the MFSC can accommodate their situation by nding an o ce on the lower end of the Hall building that is quieter and easier to get to, particularly for people with mobility issues such as herself. Although it provides a space for students to hang out, she says that the vibe of the Hall building's seventh oor is much more hectic compared to the calmer setting of the Z Annex. Mobility is an issue for Presley, and she is concerned that when the escalators break down, she will have a hard time accessing the new location.

Azfar Adib, a PhD student in electrical and computer engineering, echoes Presley’s feelings about the Z Annex being like a second

home. He described the building as a “special space” that holds many fond memories for him.

“I assume that we all have many memories in the Z Annex as it was the home of the MFSC—all the events, including breakfast, community meals or just relaxing and meeting with my friends [were there],” Adib said.

Being a graduate student, Adib says that he has less time for social interaction, but that the MFSC was a good place to connect and make new friends. He feels that the MFSC is doing a great job accommodating activities, though he wants a space like the Z Annex back.

Reverend Jennifer Bourque, the chaplain and coordinator of the MFSC, says that although the Z Annex is closed, the centre continues providing services.

“We have multiple events, such as Spirituali-Tea on Tuesdays and the ‘Breath, Body, Mind: An Introduction to Mindfulness’ course once a month,” Bourque said. “We also have the annual multi-faith fair on Feb. 6 at the LB atrium, and students can reach us anytime via email to make an appointment and speak to our sta .”

She understands that students miss the MFSC’s old location but that stu-

dents can still go to the seventh oor of the Hall building to relax and get a cup of tea or co ee. Students can also keep in touch by following them on Instagram at @cu_mfsc and subscribing to their newsletter to learn more about their upcoming events.

According to Concordia media relations, the current nancial situation at the university is causing delays in costly repairs to the Z Annex and no timeline has been released for its reopening.

THE MULTI-FAITH AND SPIRITUALITY CENTRE RELOCATED ITS ACTIVITIES DUE TO FLOODING IN THE Z ANNEX IN 2024. PHOTO ALICE MARTIN

Rebekah Walker

Christian symbols, pagan roots A photographic exploration of pagan influences in the iconography of Montreal’s Catholic Churches

Christian iconography is fused with religious devotion, becoming synonymous with the faith itself. But how and from where have these symbols originated? Many symbols, such as the Ichthys and the Latin cross, have come to symbolize Christianity over the centuries. However, many of these symbols—derived from existing cultures and pagan religions—were incorporated into Christianity as it spread worldwide. Dubbed “syncretism,” this phenomenon is present in the iconography of Catholic churches across Montreal.

Cherubs

e Notre-Dame Basilica hosts this painting of Mary and Jesus surrounded by cherubs, or cherubim, a type of Christian angel. Existing also in Islamic and Jewish literature, cherubs were likely inspired by Ancient Roman illustrations of Cupid, or the Ancient Greek God of love, Eros.

Grapes

e grapevine and cluster are incorporated into the painted and sculptural decoration of an altar in Saint Patrick’s Basilica, as it is an important plant symbolizing the Christian sacrament of the Eucharist. Wine was also a major aspect of Ancient Greek and Roman life, and was instrumental in worshipping Dionysus, the Greek God of wine.

Lambs

e Lamb of Christ, found on an altar at Saint Patrick’s Basilica, represents Jesus’s devotion to guiding and leading the Christian people to salvation. In Ancient Greek and Roman pagan traditions, the lamb was associated with both the deity Apollo and the mortal Orpheus, who were o en depicted carrying or leading a lamb.

e Sun

e sun is a prominent icon across religions, symbolizing light and purity. e ceiling of the pulpit in the Notre-Dame Basilica features radiating golden beams around the Hebrew name of God. ese radiating beams may have been in uenced by pagan depictions of the Roman God Sol, who had beams of light emanating from his head, similar to the Christian halo.

Shamrocks

e Shamrock motif is found across Irish traditions and decorates Saint Patrick’s Basilica. It is said that St. Patrick arrived in Ireland and used the three leaves of the shamrock to teach the Irish people about the Holy Trinity. However, the symbol was used long before his arrival as the pagan Celts were strong believers in the power of the number three, making the plant sacred.

Finding ancestors through clay Cosmovisión

Kimberly Orjuela’s sculptures are inspired by pre-Columbian Indigenous artistic traditions

Olivia Johnson @24601ivia

When Kimberly Orjuela works with clay, she doesn’t feel alone—her Colombian ancestors guide her cra .

Spiritual Roots, an exhibit inspired by pre-Columbian traditions and ceramics formed before the arrival of Christopher Columbus in the Americas, is currently on display at Galerie Hugues Charbonneau. The exhibition uses the symbolism of jaguars, alligators and birds to discuss topics such as Indigenous ancestry and the impacts of colonialism in Colombia and other Latin American countries.

“I got really fascinated with pre-Columbian ceramics just because it was a way for me to connect with my ancestry,” Orjuela said.

At the exhibit’s centre is an installation of three birds surrounded by burnt soil.

“It came from this idea that birds can be seen as our ancestors,” Orjuela said. “ ey guide us, and they have a di erent view of what's going on in the world than we do. I created this myth of these birds that don’t come from here. ey're from outside the earth, and they came down to the planet. And they're judging us. ey're confronting us.”

Orjuela is a Colombian-born visual artist based

in Montreal who received her bachelor of ne arts from Concordia University in 2023. Her work has been exhibited at the Outsider Art Fair in New York City and is included in collections such as Montreal’s Collection Majudia and Toronto’s Gardiner Museum.

“She’s only 26 and already she’s had interest from museums, and she’ll have her rst exhibition at a museum in the United States this year,” gallery director Hugues Charbonneau said. “ is is the type of thing you hope by 40.”

Orjuela uses terracotta, a material found in pre-Columbian art. She minimizes the use of glazes— the material used to give ceramics a glossy nish—because it requires many mined materials. Instead, she decorates her pieces with coloured clays or terra sigillata, a type of clay slip made of ne clay particles mixed with some natural oxides. is gives her sculptures a matte nish.

According to gallery coordinator Mariah O'Brien, there’s a sense of a relationship with each of the works and a feeling that the sculptures are communicating something to the audience.

“I also love the way that Kim is playing with scale,” O’Brien said. “I nd it very unexpected in her work. Sometimes you see a photo of a piece, and then when you ‘meet’ these gures in real life, there's a really different feeling, because sometimes they're small but very powerful.”

Orjuela moved to Canada as an infant and lived in Montreal for four years before moving to the suburbs. She explained that they were one of the few immigrant families in the area and she faced a lot of racism and prejudice. She spoke Spanish at home with parents who were very proud of their Colombian culture, but when she stepped outside, Orjuela felt she had to erase this part of herself.

Growing up, she wasn’t familiar with the history of colonialism. She explained that her education was always “from the colonizer's perspective,” and she was taught that “Indigenous people died because Europeans were just stronger.” It wasn’t until she went to CEGEP, where she took an English class focused on Indigenous cultures, that she began to hear history from an Indigenous perspective.

“One day, in re ection in English class, it just sparked like a question: Do I have Indigenous ancestry?” Orjuela said. “I started thinking about the history of Colombia, and it started this journey of asking questions.”

Orjuela began researching the perspectives of colonized people in Latin America, and the impact of colonialism on their communities and culture.

“It angered me so much that it took me 19 years to nd out about my people,” Orjuela said. “I entered a grieving period, a whole week of grieving about the pain and frustration that I had. en I decided to make my art about my ancestors because at least with me, they're gonna live on, and whoever sees it is going to see that history with me.”

is moment of grieving marked a turning point for Orjuela, who said she had felt disconnected from her ancestry. is led her to nd ways to nurture her culture.

“I had to nd a way to connect to it in another way, and clay has allowed that to happen,” Orjuela said. “I don't feel like I'm alone when I create. It feels like a team. I really do feel supported by my ancestors.”

Spiritual Roots will be on display until Feb. 22 at the Galerie Hugues Charbonneau.

Yael T. Uribe

“En un principio, toda agua (o sangre) que circula en el mundo proviene del mar, de la diosa madre que se (auto)sacri ca arrojándose contra la roca blanca de San Blas para revivir como el rocío y las nubes que se levantan al cielo”

It was a woman rst—

Marvelous in depth and majesty

Where water blends with the sky

Oh the motion of the clouds (inhale exhale) the Earth takes in a breath— its soul

e Earth was young and tender Innocent as she was— Still warm from the womb

White steam— Our human and serpent Mother Lifeforce in one entity

Mother is staring into the east e ancestral Gods know it She breaks against herself

Sacri ced her shape and form e impact vibrates so intimate she Becomes one with the rock

wixarika, Johannes Neurath

You were born from Wirikuta With the awareness that e sea is more than salt and breeze

You address her like family— She knows blue and purple are your colours a language for celebration

A stroll at twilight will soak you By mid-day your heart is dehydrated but How holy is the winter solstice—

Harvest

It was a woman rst—

A wife and the goddess of the sky

You see her as an eagle

We come from Wirikuta e visions told them we belong to the blood they spilled for us And turned into water

GRAPHIC MYRIAM OUAZZANI

THE EXHIBIT SPIRITUAL ROOTS USES TERRACOTTA ANIMAL SCULPTURES. PHOTO OLIVIA JOHNSON

Preserving kakiniit from Quaqtaq to Tiohtià:ke

Inuk tattoo artist Arsaniq Deer takes the journey of acceptance one marking at a time

Julia Silva

As a kid, Arsaniq Deer would draw fake tattoos on herself with a Sharpie marker.

For a moment, she dreamt of becoming a tattoo artist, not knowing she would be one of the women marking the revival of an Inuit tattoo tradition that barely held on.

“ at was my dream when I was 12, to become a tattoo artist at a tattoo parlour,” Deer said. “But I didn’t know about our Inuit tattoos at the time.”

Kakiniit, as it is called in Inuktitut, are hand-poked tattoos done by women, for women. In her hometown in Quaqtaq, Nunavik, Que., Deer did not see people with kakiniit growing up. Talking about tattoos was taboo, and knowledge was rarely passed on.

Many Inuit traditions were weakened and lost a er the European colonization of Turtle Island. e aggressive e orts of the Canadian government and Christian institutions ensured that their languages were eroded and traditions like tattooing slipped away.

Because Inuit tattoos weren’t part of Christianity, they were seen as evil and the church sought to abolish the practice. From then on, mastering the

tradition became as simple as nding a needle in a haystack.

Deer had her own reservations and deliberated for a long time before getting her face tattoos in 2019. Since then, she has faced her fair share of hostile remarks and intrusive questions from strangers. Some even come from elders in her own community.

“I’m still very sensitive when people say things like that to me,” Deer said. “But I try to remind myself that it is not my pain to carry.”

Deer lived most of her life in Montreal. She rst moved to the city at seven years old, moved back to Quaqtaq at 12 for a few years, and nally returned to Montreal for good in 2015.

Treated as an outcast for being Inuk, Deer struggled to accept her identity. It took time for her to heal those wounds and to learn about her culture. Deer’s acceptance of her identity came only a er learning about kakiniit, its signi cance and how it was lost, eventually leading to her realization of the beauty of Inuit traditions and her mother tongue.

“I feel like I took for granted that I’m uent in Inuktitut,” Deer said. “But in Nunavik, I’m very grateful to have experienced knowing my language, and eating our traditional food.”

As a multidisciplinary artist, Deer works on drawings, water-

colour painting, sewing traditional clothes, sh skin tanning, beadwork and tattooing. She incorporates elements of Inuit culture into her work every possible way, sharing the knowledge that, for her, feels like a privilege to have learned.

“Realistically, we’ll never know everything, absolutely everything, because a lot of it was lost,” Deer said.

Deer started tattooing ve years ago. It all began a er meeting Hovak Johnston, the Inuk woman who led the Inuit Tattoo Revitalization Project, whom she had looked up to for many years.

When Johnston came to Montreal in 2019, she tattooed black lines on Deer’s temples. ey were Deer’s rst tunniit, or face tattoos. e following day, while Deer’s mother was getting child-bearing tattoos, Johnston asked if Deer wanted to try marking a line on her mother’s thigh.

Without hesitation, Deer said yes.

“I think I got a little adrenaline rush just from doing that one little tattoo,” Deer said with a twinkle in her eye.

Later that night, while helping clean up, she watched as Johnston showed her how to make the tattoo needles.

“I asked her why we’re making the needles when we’re not going to tattoo anymore,” Deer recalled. “And then she just said, ‘You’re going to tattoo me.’”

Deer tattooed a line on Johnston’s wrist, alongside lines done by her other apprentices.

”I felt so honoured, and also humbled,” Deer said. “I’m grateful for this journey in my life that she really pushed me into.”

Deer nds it weird to call people she tattoos “clients.” Rather, she views her long tattoo sessions as a time to develop trust and build friendships with those she marks. Deer’s cousin, Sevim Ilgun, was one of the rst people she tattooed.

“I told her that if she wants to be good, I want to be one of the rst people to give her the opportunity,” said Ilgun, who o ered both of her hands to Deer.

ey were Ilgun’s rst kakiniit, done spontaneously in her sister’s kitchen, with Deer helping her

choose the designs she wanted.

Given kakiniit's evolution over the years, Deer said that kakiniit was, and still is, very spiritual.

“With poking, it’s very sacred,” Deer said. “It’s beautiful, it’s calming, it’s healing.”

Kakiniit has strong roots in Inuit folklore, mythology and superstitions. Markings meant di erent things, from acting as amulets for hunters and protection from evil spirits to honouring Gods like the sea Goddess Sedna.

According to Deer, each marking tells a di erent story from one person to the next—stories that are deeply personal and shared only with those who would understand.

Tracing the black lines on her chin, Deer shared how she got them to remind her of strength a er one of her cousins had passed. e lines on her chin remind Deer that all pain eventually passes, even when it doesn’t feel like it will.

“I think a lot of them have meaning to me, and some don’t,” Deer said about her tattoos. “Some I just got because it’s beautiful, and that’s what I heard from elders before: It was to make a woman beautiful.”

Since rst learning how to tattoo, Deer has developed a neo-traditional style, o en adding a modern twist to the original patterns and symbols. At the start of every session, she draws out the symbols, explains their meanings and creates the design together with the person she’s tattooing.

While many people voluntarily share their stories, Deer still tries not to ask what the tattoos symbolize.

“Sometimes, it can open up a trigger or trauma that they’re trying to release,” Deer said. “It would be the reason that they’re getting this marking—to release that, and to heal from whatever they’ve been through.”

Alyssa Carpenter’s rst markings were also from Deer, as well as most of her other tattoos. Many of those markings re ect milestones and elements of loss. Her rst tattoo was to help her navigate the grief of losing

her brother to suicide.

“She’s someone who shares stories like that, and she helps release or absorb those stories for people. She’s done it. I’ve seen it many times,” said Carpenter, whom Deer met through the Western Arctic Youth Collective a few years ago.

Carpenter said that before getting her markings, Deer had o ered to tattoo her whenever she felt ready—both about her grief and acceptance of the tradition.

Carpenter, who is Inuvialuit and Gwich’in, grew up in Sachs Harbour and Inuvik, N.W.T. Both of those communities carry heavy tattoo stigma, which made getting markings, especially on the face, a di cult decision for Carpenter to make.

Carpenter believes the sense of readiness is essential when getting traditional markings, describing the process as both a deeply healing and overwhelming experience.

For this reason, Deer ensures she approaches every tattoo session with the best intentions, leaving all negative energy out the door.

“If I’m having a rough day, I try and release it before the session,” Deer said.

More importantly, Deer knows that the learning process will never come to an end.

In the fall, Deer plans to go back to school. She is applying for the Journeys: A First People’s College Transition Program at Dawson College and an online Inuktitut language course at the Pirurvik Centre.

“She’s creating and mentoring and encouraging so many people in our home region who are reconnecting to that aspect of our culture that is barely holding on,” Carpenter said.

ARSANIQ DEER'S TATTOOS ARE CALLED KAKINIIT. PHOTO CATE GRANSAULL

India Das-Brown

Ona dark winter evening, just days after January’s Wolf Moon, professional folk witch Mahigan Saint-Pierre invites me to see where the magic happens.

Candles icker in every corner, lighting shrines dedicated to di erent spirits—some of which, I learn, are very private, and I cannot ask questions about. e air is rich and warm with so ambrosial incense. I set a pack of cigarettes on a table nearby, an o ering I’ve brought for the spirits of Saint-Pierre’s at. Jars and jars of unlabelled oils, dried plants and herbs are crowded on and around a multitiered shelf, at the top of which is a small shrine dedicated to the Greek Goddess Hekate.

“Hekate is there in the corner because she just needs to be here for… reasons,” Saint-Pierre says, laughing.

The mysteriousness is something I will get used to throughout our conversation.

Saint-Pierre is the face behind Kitchen Toad, the storefront that has amassed 34,000 followers on Instagram retailing

Discovering a witch’s craft

Witchcraft is an art and a responsibility, says the folk witch behind Kitchen Toad

@india.db

Pierre describes being a icted by what they call “spirit sickness”—a condition that essentially strongarms you into becoming a witch. In their case, it was through intense apparitions and dreams.

“It's something that you'll see a lot in Indigenous cultures,” says Saint-Pierre, who is French-Canadian and Indigenous, and spent four years of their childhood on a reserve in northern Quebec. “You kind of get picked, but it's not a nice thing.”

Saint-Pierre and I sit cross-legged on the oor, their preferred way to sit and chat. eir cat, Spooky—who is rather more adorable than spooky— watches from the couch. Saint-Pierre describes the kinds of things spirits ask for: tobacco, liquor, and food, like cream, butter and chicken blood.

According to Saint-Pierre, it can get more complicated when spirits ask you to buy a certain piece of property and arrange it to their liking, or when they dictate where a house is built, where their shrine is put, what needs to be buried there and what needs to be arranged. Without discernment, the demands can snowball towards “bad things.”

“You’ll kind of be like an errand boy for a little while until you step into

fine sorcerous goods, spellwork and divination “for the Magician and Fool alike.” They have been practicing witchcraft professionally for almost five years. Born “one foot in the grave,” as their medicine woman godmother would say, Saint-Pierre has been interacting with the spirit world since they were a child. The beginning is nebulous.

“It was kind of just always a thing,” they tell me about getting into witchcra . at nebulous beginning, though, was not all sunshine, roses and magical herbs. Saint-

the responsibility of it,” Saint-Pierre says. “ e goal for anyone is to become able enough that you're not at the mercy of the spirits.”

Saint-Pierre has developed the ability to work with spirits advantageously. ey have spirits who bring the folk witch and their clients love, money and career opportunities.

“You can bargain with them, you can argue, you can tell them no,” Saint-Pierre says. “You can also be like, ‘ at's gonna cost a lot of money. I need twice that amount,’ and then you'll get it, you know?”

What separates pagans and witches, according to them, is that pagans

worship Gods, while witches are deeply practical in their practice.

Susan J. Palmer, affiliate professor in the department of religions and cultures at Concordia University and member of the religious studies faculty at McGill University, echoes the sentiment of witchcraft as a practical exercise.

“It’s not pie in the sky,” she tells me. “ e concern in magic is the world right here and now, and survival and prosperity and health, and to control your life and your environment.”

However, according to Palmer, Wicca—under the umbrella of paganism—is a movement that emerged from a witch revival of ancient witchcra , credited to Gerald Gardner in Britain in the 1940s.

“Witchcra is an ancient phenomenon, of course,” says Palmer, who has taught the Witchcra , Magic and Religion course thrice at Concordia. “I mean, you can trace it back to the ancient world where priests and priestesses and people, hunters, would use magical techniques for material ends.”

e word “pagan,” says Palmer, was used by the Romans to refer to “people who weren’t Christians yet.”

Saint-Pierre, however, is Catholic, and grew up in a Catholic family that was also very folk-magical. In this way, they are “dual-faith”—a concept they’ve borrowed from anthropological texts.

“We don't really have priests, so it was old sailors and housewives that did sermons,” they say, describing “weird folk charms” like putting baby shoes in our bags and having roses grow into arches for protection.

“Where I'm from, we believe in the saints, and we believe in Jesus and God and all of that stu , but we also believe in fairies, and we believe in trolls, and we believe in mermaids,” Saint-Pierre says, smiling. “It gets interesting in practice because sometimes you're praying to a spirit, but then you're using Catholic prayers, and then that gets kind of funky.”

The folk witch did not initially embrace Catholicism. It was ancestor work—the spiritual practice of connecting with and honouring one's ancestors as a source of guidance, protection and wisdom—that compelled them.

“Getting into ancestor work, you kind of have to pull on the language that they understand,” Saint-Pierre

explains. “When I started doing very in-depth ancestor work, I started incorporating, you know, Our Fathers, Hail Marys and Rosaries, and all of that kind of stu .”

I ask them about the rows of beads around their neck, one of them with a cross. ey can’t tell me anything about them, they laugh. I am not permitted to photograph the shrines of Christian Saints Expeditus and Peter, of hoodoo spirit High John the Conqueror or of Saint-Pierre's ancestors. e spirits seem to protect Saint-Pierre just as much as Saint-Pierre protects them, a mutual guardianship that appears to be deeply caring.

“I’m not trapped with them, they’re trapped with me,” Saint-Pierre chuckles. “It’s not just like I’m subservient to anything.”

Beyond the practicality, for SaintPierre, art is intrinsic to witchcra .

“It’s called witchcra ,” they say emphatically. “You always end up picking up, like, a hundred hobbies because you'll have a spirit that wants a speci c type of cloth that hasn't been produced in ages, so then you have to learn how to weave. Painting is big for depicting spirits and icons.”

For Crowley Balint, a Montreal-based witch who has been reading tarot for 10 years and practicing

spellwork since 2019, witchcra and tarot are deeply symbolic.

“Symbolism is very, very, very important in tarot because each little thing on the card means something else. ere's a reason why tarot handbooks are this thick,” says Balint, holding their ngers several inches apart.

Beyond its art and utility, witchcraft has traditionally had a reputation as a dark facility meant to summon evil spirits and demons to inflict misfortune on others. As a witch, SaintPierre turns down most curses and megalomanic requests from clients because, in their words, it’s “a pain in the ass.”

“We are open to performing all types of work, from positive workings to male cia, although the latter is considered with much scrutiny, and comes at its cost,” writes Saint-Pierre on their website.

That cost is something they touch on with me, describing the “monkey’s paw effect,” where irresponsible wishes have a price.

“Most of the time, if you do magic for a very, very large sum [of money] and you don't state that you don't want to harm someone, the only way that can come to you is by someone dying, and that will happen very often,” they say.

According to Saint-Pierre, the age-old saying that everything has a price is very true; sometimes, they explain, it's a price that you don't notice until you pay it. ey don't believe in “dabbling” in witchcra . If you want to dabble, they advise you to hire somebody experienced, because you'll save yourself “a lot of trouble and a lot of money.”

“Be prepared to feel very out of the loop with the world around you, but also incredibly contextualized by it in a way that other people aren't,” Saint-Pierre says. “I always say, if witchcra presents itself to you, then you should pursue it. But if it's something that you're seeking out for some reason, you should probably leave it alone.”

THE SHRINE TO SPICA, THE STAR OF HARVEST AND ABUNDANCE, IS LIT. PHOTO INDIA DAS-BROWN

SAINT-PIERRE HAS LIT A SHRINE TO HEKATE, THE GREEK GODDESS OF MAGIC AND WITCHCRAFT. PHOTO INDIA DAS-BROWN

Fate in divine hands

Stingers women’s basketball team members put special trust in their God

Jared Lackman-Mincoff

The Concordia University

Stingers women’s basketball team is not your run-of-themill basketball team.

Your run-of-the-mill basketball team hypes each other up in the moments leading up to the start of a game, encouraging one another and getting focused on their opponent. The Stingers women’s basketball team, on the other hand, adds a moment of prayer to that, eyes closed and heads down.

Your run-of-the-mill basketball team digs in immediately during team meals. The Stingers women’s basketball team takes a moment to say grace.

Your run-of-the-mill basketball team praises each other after a win, and thanks all their teammates for their hard work. The Stingers women’s basketball team is likely thanking someone else, too.

“ ey know that I'm a believer. I don't shy away from making that known because I do believe it's important to believe in something and to believe that there's a higher power watching over you, protecting you, guiding you,” head coach Tenicha Gittens said.

Gittens attended Sunday

school at her Protestant church growing up because her parents wanted her to be immersed in her religion. But as she got older, life got in the way and she found herself distanced from her religion—albeit unintentionally.

“Basketball, for example, we’d have games on Sundays, so I wouldn’t attend church as often on a Sunday because I’m busy with basketball or something like that,” Gittens said. “So as you get older and you start to do other things, it pulls you away.”

Despite these conditions, Gittens started making a conscious e ort to get closer to God. It has become a part of her daily routine, and even nds its way onto John Dore Court.

“I don't go to church every Sunday or anything like that, but I do take time out of my day to give thanks, to pray,” Gittens said. “I'm always praying at some point. I'll be praying when I'm on the bench, coaching on the sideline.”

e players on her team are certainly aware of Gittens’ passion towards her faith.

In fact, even h-year guard Dalyssa Fleurgin knew how important faith was to Gittens before she joined the team two years ago. Fleurgin transferred to Concordia from Ontario Tech University for the 202324 season.

“ is is one of the reasons why I committed to Concordia for my last

two years,” Fleurgin said, “because we share some similar values with [Gittens] and the fact that she believes in God was one of the big ones.”

Fleurgin attended church regularly when she was young, but also gradually stopped as she aged. At a certain point, she decided to start attending church again and got baptized in 2017.

She o en prays and talks to God, and she reads her Bible every day.

Since joining the Stingers, she has found connections with other team members who share her passion and belief in a higher power. It has made her feel right at home.

“It gives us something more that we can believe in all together, knowing that I’m not the only one who believes in God,” Fleurgin said.

One of those teammates is fourthyear centre Serena Tchida.

Tchida considers herself a “baby Christian.” She has always believed in a higher power but only started deeply connecting with God roughly two years ago.

“I'm still, like, growing in faith,” Tchida said. “I don't think I'm there yet. I don't think there's a way to get there, but I'm still growing in baby steps.”

Her relationship with God hit a speed bump when she tore her Achilles tendon during the 2022-23 season and had to sit on the sidelines for the entire second half of the campaign.

“I got mad at God because I couldn’t nd anything [else] because it wasn’t rational for me: popping your Achilles during a random ursday game doing a move that I usually do every day,” Tchida said.

Tchida eventually understood that her injury was simply part of her journey, and stopped looking for a reason to understand why it happened. She dedicated her energy to putting in the work to recover, and believing that everything would work out.

She still applies that attitude today, by “just trusting the work that I put in,” Tchida said. “And then trusting that God is going to make things work for me and being conscious of doing the right thing.”

Furthermore, Tchida appreciates that Gittens understands the importance of her faith. Before the current season began, Gittens allowed Tchida to miss practice to attend a spiritual retreat.

“She understood because she knows that I'm growing in my faith and that I'm learning, I'm still in my process with God,” Tchida said.

Gittens says that she and Tchida share a favourite Bible verse, Jeremiah 29:11, and that she connects deeply with Tchida and Fleurgin because of their strong passion for their faith.

A big reason for that is how vocal Tchida and Fleurgin are about their beliefs. @jared_lm02

“They’re OK expressing that, whether it be via social media or otherwise,” Gittens said.

Gittens has been at the helm of the Stingers women’s basketball team since 2015, but because of her connection with God, she does not believe that her job is to simply coach basketball.

“I was put in a position of leadership and God opened the doors for me,” Gittens said. “ at's my belief, and it's given me the opportunity to lead young women.”

Although Gittens loves to win and hates to lose, God also helped her realize that basketball is not the be-all and end-all.

“I'm a competitor 24/7/365, but I know that it's not all there is to it,” Gittens said. “And if my happiness or my faith or my sense of value and purpose is literally based on the big wins or the big losses, I wouldn't be a very happy person.”

Gittens’ strong belief de nitely rubbed o on Tchida, and Tchida feels she is better o because of it.

“ is program really helped me get closer to God,” Tchida said, “and I’m really grateful for that.”

FOR TCHIDA, HER SPIRITUAL BELIEF WERE AN INTEGRAL PART OF HER BASKETBALL JOURNEY, ESPECIALLY AFTER A BAD INJURY. PHOTO CAROLINE MARSH

TCHIDA DRIBBLES PAST A BISHOP'S UNIVERSITY PLAYER. PHOTO CAROLINE MARSH

Orisa Thandi

Downwards-spiralling dog

Exploring the cultural appropriation and loss of spirituality in modern-day yoga

@orisa_thandi

There’s a clear growing popularity for yoga in Canada.

A compilation of yoga statistics on Finances Online shows that one in ve Canadians say they practice yoga, with US practitioners spending up to $90 each month on the practice. Some of the many bene ts of regular practice include an increase in strength, heart health and even better sleep.

With an ever-increasing focus on the health bene ts of this ancient form of movement, its original purpose— spiritual well-being—is largely overlooked by Western populations. Originating in Northern India over 5,000 years ago, yoga was developed by Rishis (wise Hindu sages), who made use of asanas (yoga poses) to prepare their bodies for dhyana (meditation). is form of spiritual devotion is still practiced today in Hinduism.

Meditation is an important yoga practice that helps to calm the mind and connect practitioners with the present moment. Within Buddhism, it helps followers practice the Buddhadharma, a series of teachings from the Shakyamuni Buddha that guide Buddhists towards liberation from su ering.

Today, the concept of yoga as a deeply spiritual practice has evolved from its arrival in North America in the late 19th century. It is frequently praised as a tness trend rather than a spiritual practice with an Eastern history, which has raised concerns about cultural appropriation.

Dr. Danielle ompson-Ochoa is an associate professor at Gallaudet University whose research focuses on the connection between yoga and cultural appropriation. She found that capitalism prevents and distracts practitioners from yoga’s core messages.

“Today in the West, there is the idea that we have to pay [for yoga] to get the health or spirit-

ual bene ts,” ompson-Ochoa said. “Here, people can spend upwards of $75 per class, not to mention having the ‘right’ clothing and equipment. is can put limits on who accesses classes, reinforcing the idea that yoga is a middle-class hobby. In India, yoga is practiced by people of any caste or social class.”

In Buddhism, meditation, rather than poses, is a way to actively connect with the Buddha’s teachings.

“Although Buddha taught 84,000 teachings for curing all aspects of the mind, anyone can take just a bit of it and practice that, even if they are not interested in the rest of it,” said Guèn Kelsang Chögyan, a Buddhist nun at the Centre de Méditation Kadampa in Montreal.

Chögyan also champions the Buddha’s belief that people from any background, religious or secular, can turn to meditation practices whenever they need.

“Some people come [to meditation classes] because they see a title like ‘Overcoming stress’ or ‘How to deal with a di cult coworker,’ because that’s their reality, even if they are from a di erent faith,” Chögyan said.

is is supported by a Pew Research Centre study, which showed that 40 per cent of Americans of all religious backgrounds meditated at least once per week. e practice helps to lessen the burden of every-

day problems—not just to attain spiritual strength.

Addressing cultural appropriation

e Canadian Yoga Alliance has a membership of over 2,000 quali ed yoga instructors. Each has their own style of teaching, ranging from traditional Hatha and Vinyasa yoga practices to the more contemporary hot yoga.

“I started doing yoga as a form of therapy. Each time I practiced it, I would be releasing emotion and crying. at’s the magical aspect of yoga, I think. It’s so healing,” said Emma Ryan, a newly trained Tantric yoga teacher based in Montreal.

Ryan noted that, during her training, her mentors emphasized the importance of not appropriating a culture that is not theirs.

“We learnt about the history of yoga, going all the way back from the earliest text in Hinduism and followed that all the way through to the present day,” Ryan said. “I really think that having a thorough understanding of yoga’s history as a teacher forms a strong foundation for your practice.”

Although Ryan focuses on Hindu-based spirituality in her teaching, some instructors fail to emphasize the deep importance of Hindu and Buddhist traditions in yoga. In an

op-ed in e Guardian, yogi Nadia Gilani spoke of this appropriation as a 21st-century form of colonialism. Gilani explains that Westerners continue to pro t from yoga today, even though there was a time when the British had banned the practice in India.

“I’ve watched YouTube videos of yoga practices online and some of the teachers don't include any Sanskrit, which is the ancient language of yoga,” Ryan said. “ ere's a lot of simple ways as a teacher that you can just place a little seed of history into your physical practice, like taking the time to translate traditional Sanskrit names for poses.”

Yoga and better mental health

Yoga is a physical activity, with each asana encouraging exibility, strength and balance. But there are several mental health bene ts, with yogis experiencing an increase of “feel good” chemicals in the brain, such as dopamine and serotonin, through regular practice.

“I think in a world where we're always in a hustle and grind culture, being intentional about these moments of pause is very, very important,” Marie Michel ermil, a dance instructor and personal development consultant who practices yoga in Montreal.

Yoga practitioners like er-

mil agree that they should be aware of the origins of yoga.

“Yoga can be such a white space,” Thermil said. “I feel like there's not an appropriate recognition of the cultural baggage that yoga carries here in Canada.”

ompson-Ochoa also emphasizes that the relationship between yoga and capitalism should be re-examined.

“ e provision of free or community-based classes can bring yoga back to its original intention of helping people nd calmness from various di erent backgrounds,” ompson-Ochoa said.

For people who don’t subscribe to Buddhism and Hinduism, it can feel daunting to start learning more about the spiritual history of yoga and meditation.

“To enrich your teaching of yoga, you could include a little blurb on the relationship between an asana and a deity and translate it into English or French,” Ryan said. “ is plants a seed of history into the physical practice without it being the focus of the class.”

“Everyone has a limitless potential of universal love, compassion and deep wisdom,” Chögyan said. “Anywhere we start is a good place to start.”

SHIVOHAM SHIVA TEMPLE IS THE LOCATION OF A 65-FOOT TALL STATUE OF THE DEITY SHIVA, PATRON OF YOGA, MEDITATION AND ARTS. COURTESY WIKIMEDIA COMMONS INDIANHILBILLY CC BY-SA 3.0

The Olympics’ shift in spirituality

The Olympics have strayed away from its original purpose of worshiping Gods

Marco Deveaux

The Olympics are a place for the world’s best athletes to be recognized globally, and to compete against the best opponents.

But thousands of years ago, the international competition was meant to worship Greek Gods. Participants would look to honour the deities through boundary-pushing athletic feats and beautifully sculpted bodies.

According to the International Olympic Committee (IOC), the Olympics were originally located at Olympia, the centre of worship for Zeus, the king of the Greek Gods. Olympia was a sacred place that o en hosted religious ceremonies and the Olympics themselves, which according to experts were a religious festival in the beginning.

How the Olympics began

e origins of the games are debated, but the IOC upholds three main theories— the oldest of which centres around Idaios Daktylos Herakles. Kathleen MacDonald, a

classics professor at Concordia University, explained that this theory involves Herakles and his four brothers, collectively known as the Daktyloi. ey were entrusted with protecting baby Zeus from his father, Cronus.

“ ey were said to be the rst to race at the site of Olympia,” MacDonald explained.

e Daktyloi crowned victors with a “wreath of wild olive.”

e second theory begins with a ght between Cronus and Zeus for the throne of the Gods, which Zeus eventually won. MacDonald pointed out that this theory came from an ancient geographer named Pausanias.

“To celebrate [Zeus’s] victory, he held these games,” MacDonald said, “and other deities like Apollo, Hermes and Ares participated.”

e third and most widely accepted theory, according to MacDonald, involves Herakles, son of Zeus, who performed the 12 labours. One of these labours was to clean King Aegeus’s stables. MacDonald explained that Herakles went on to complete his 12 labours, but returned to King Aegeus and killed him and all of his sons.

“To celebrate his victory, [Herakles] established the Olympic Games

in honour of his father and raised six altars to the 12 gods,” MacDonald said.

MacDonald highlighted the importance of worship at the Olympics, and its origin as an event dedicated to the Gods, with a huge temple dedicated to Zeus.

“ e whole site was sacred to Zeus,” MacDonald said. “He had a huge temple there, a very important temple, a very lavishly decorated temple.”

A

change in spirituality

Boxing was one of the original sports featured in the ancient Olympic Games.

Herby Whyne, owner and head coach at boxing gym Hard Knox in Montreal, believes there were upsides to the Olympics as an event of worship.

“[ e Olympics] should’ve kept that tradition,” Whyne said. “It could’ve also been a peaceful gathering, where we come together as whatever spirituality or religion you are, and we all play together [in the name of] faith.”

To him, the Olympics have become the “prestige accomplishment” of an athlete. The old importance of worshipping the Gods has been lost—but what has been found is the dream of inter-

national recognition for one’s abilities.

“What pushes athletes to better themselves? A dream,” Whyne said.

Faith has not been completely lost, though; it simply has shi ed. Whyne said many boxers do have faith—with some sports legends like Muhammad Ali and Manny Pacquiao having been open about their experiences with Islam and Christianity respectively.

Boxing is not the only martial art that has ties to spirituality. Shaolin kung fu is another. While Shaolin kung fu is the most famous form of kung fu, another form of kung fu, Wushu, will be tested in the Dakar 2026 Summer Youth Olympic Games to be included in future Olympic programmes.

Olivier Raymond, a Shaolin kung fu instructor at the school of Shaolin Wing Chun Nam Anh Kung Fu, explained that the ultimate goal of his school is to reach the white belt, which is mastery of the spirit. Unlike other martial arts where the black belt is the last goal, at this school, the black belt is achieved rst, and the ultimate goal is to achieve the white belt.

On the other hand, the black belt represents physical mastery and includes three levels. The second belt of three is red and represents energy,

which has nine levels. Raymond is presently at the fourth level of the red belt.

“We descend directly from Bodhidharma, the founder of Shaolin kung fu, who is also the founder of Zen Buddhism,” Raymond said.

Raymond explains that compassion is one of the fundamental values of Buddhism. To him, Shaolin kung fu remains a spiritual journey.

“We have the image of the angel and the demon sitting on each shoulder,” Raymond said. “We call that the lazy one and the master. e lazy one says, ‘I’m tired, I want to go home.’ e goal is to surmount that voice, to conquer one’s weaknesses and go further. at’s an integral part of our spirituality.”

Raymond understands that his training comes down a line of ancestors who have trained before him and passed down the teachings. Raymond’s school even has shrines dedicated to the ancestors, in the same way that Olympia has altars for the Gods.

GRAPHIC PANOS MICHALAKOPOULOS

Julie Raymond

Sitting cross-legged, uncomfortably leaning against the window, my eyes are glued to the small airplane icon that is completely immobile.

Yet, although I cannot see it, I know the plane has moved because I am now halfway through the journey between Doha and Montreal.

In exactly six hours, I will be back on Canadian soil. It almost feels as though the icon is mocking me, staring back at me with its glaring symbolism. Equidistant between Qatar and Canada, I am forced to re ect on my conversion to Islam, and how a decision that I made a year ago has completely shattered my perception of self, splitting it between faith and identity.

My journey started two and a half years ago when I began looking into Islam without the intention of ever converting, initially self-identifying as an agnostic. A er a year and a half of extensive theological research, I took my shahada, a decision that I made entirely by myself. Until that point, I innocently believed that this choice would not, could not, a ect any other realm of my life, except for the spiritual one. A er all, I grew up surrounded by people, in a society that claimed it was accepting of everyone. I quickly learned that this acceptance was conditional.

I could be Muslim, as long as it was not apparent, meaning I could not pray, wear the hijab, fast for Ramadan; the list goes on.

One of the rst comments a coworker made upon learning I was Muslim was, “You must really love him if you are doing that for him.”

Without even knowing my relationship status, the assumption they made was that I could not have willingly chosen this path for myself. e underlying belief, whether explicitly stated or not, was that Islam oppresses women. erefore, as a woman, it

Only tolerated if invisible

The dangerous portrayal of Islam in the West

would have been impossible for me to make this decision without a man being part of the equation. Although I doubt this individual was ill-intentioned, the reality is that those preconceived ideas probably stemmed from narratives cra ed and perpetrated by Western media.

In television and lm, we o en see tropes presenting Islam as a “force of evil,” a problem that needs to be xed. ose tropes tend to dominate the discourse. Movies and shows that do not revolve around the villainization of Muslims, Islam, and, by wrongful association, Middle Eastern or North African culture are rare, if not nearly non-existent.

When Muslim characters are depicted in such contexts, they tend to fall into either two categories: the embodiment of barbarism and violence or the oppressed in need of saving. While Muslim men tend to be attributed to the former, Muslim women, especially if they wear the hijab, correspond to the latter.

Quintessentially, the Spanish show Elite showcases Nadia Shanaa, a Muslim teenager, in a one-dimensional light, her character’s only arc being to “escape” her religion. Despite her school forcing her to remove her headscarf,

Nadia becomes more con dent, stronger when she takes o the hijab. Nadia’s transformation compares with the meeting of her own saviour, Guzmán Nunier Osuna, epitomizes the saviour complex of the West when it pertains to Islam. e audience’s constant exposure to similar archetypes has the power to create real damage, crystallizing these images as the only “logical” representation of Muslims.

But these narratives are not limited to ction. roughout the past few years, media organizations and governments have contributed to perpetrating those very tropes. e language used by news outlets to describe acts of violence carried out by Arabs, who are therefore directly presumed to be Muslim, is both speci c and unique.

On Dec. 20, 2024, a man drove a car into a crowded Christmas market in Magdeburg, Germany, killing ve people and injuring more than 200. Shortly a er the suspect had been identi ed as Saudi Arabian, the media was quick to tie the attack to “Islamic terrorism.” Although the man was later identi ed as an ex-Muslim spreading Islamophobic rhetoric online, biases had already been exposed: Terrorism

can only exist when a perpetrator can be linked with Islam in the slightest way. School shootings, despite many being motivated by hatred, bigotry and other political ideology, are almost never labelled as terrorist attacks.

e choice of using the adjective “Islamic” before speaking of terrorism or to use the word “Islamist” is inherently problematic. “Islamic,” according to the Oxford English Dictionary, means “relating to Islam.” us, when used with “terrorism,” the claim then becomes that terrorism nds justi cation within the religion. Similarly, “Islamist” is o en used interchangeably with “extremist.” e su x “ist,” generally meaning “involved with,” added to the name of the religion, consequently embeds Muslims and Islam within violence and barbarism.

Language has the ability to shape perception.

Depictions of Muslims and Islam both in ction and news have fuelled Islamophobic rhetoric and given birth to legislation targeting the community. We can see its impact in Quebec too. Although Bill 21—the bill that forbids civil service employees from wearing

religious symbols—was enacted to a rm the secular status of Quebec, the law has disproportionately a ected hijabis, coercing them to infringe upon their own beliefs.

An Association for Canadian Studies survey on the perceptions and impacts of Bill 21 included a sample consisting of individuals from various faiths. As they observed the data collected from 2019 to 2022, they found that twothirds of Muslim women reported having been a victim of or witnessing a hate crime. Meanwhile, 73 per cent of them admitted to feeling less safe in public spaces.

According to the O ce of the Special Representative on Combatting Islamophobia, “Canada has the heartbreaking distinction of having the highest number of deadly targeted attacks on Muslims of any G7 country.”

It is time for us to start re ecting on our own biases. Continuing to educate ourselves remains as important as ever. Let us not allow Islamophobia to become so rampant that we become numb.

THE WEST AND ITS MAINSTREAM MEDIA PORTRAYAL OF ISLAM IS PROBLEMATIC. GRAPHIC MYRIAM OUAZZANI

Zach Fortier

Queer people of faith deserve to worship communally

@zach_fortier

Ibegin most mornings by fastening my little silver cruci x chain to my neck. Having grown up in the Greek Orthodox Church, wearing religious symbols has always been a no-brainer.

I had never questioned my faith until I was 12 years old— around the time I realized I was gay. Until that point, religion had always been something I associated with positively. As I began holding space for queer media, I was made aware of the horri c abuses so many queer people faced at the hands of religious institutions.

The Gay Pride movement itself is a repudiation of the Church’s views on sin. It dismisses the paternalistic and violent attitudes displayed by a great deal of heterosexual religious people

towards our community. Organized religion is painted as archaic, despotic and too restrictive for queer lifestyles. What has resulted is the concept of gaytheism: the belief that the only way to be authentically queer is to renounce your religious background and modernize your belief system.

Whenever I go on dates with men wearing my little cross, I o en get asked about my religious beliefs. Something I nd interesting, though, is the sort of person asking those kinds of questions. I’ve noticed that white, gay men are far more likely to be hostile toward the pendant, while queer men of colour relate to it a lot more. For many queer men of colour, queerness is an add-on to their cultural identity, which includes the faith in which they were raised.

You do not have to renounce your religious beliefs to be authentically queer—authentically yourself. A ma-

jor downside, however, is how isolating it can be to exist as a queer person of faith. So many of our religious institutions have made it clear that we are not welcome. When Greece legalized gay marriage last year, the loudest homophobic screeds came from the Church. anks, guys.

My queer Muslim friends have it just as bad, feeling like they cannot openly identify as both without fearing ostracism or abuse.

e result is what I would call a Protestant default: A situation where if we still want to be religious, we must do so by faith alone. We don’t feel comfortable entering religious spaces or forming a community with straight practitioners for fear that we will be shunned. Eventually, because we lack the structural support to uphold our beliefs, the lack of upkeep leads to a washing away of our commitment to our faith. Homophobic

pushback from the institutions we have grown up in leads us to accept the gaytheist worldview. e other option is to sit and hide. Last May, Pope Francis apologized for repeatedly being caught jokingly using the word “frociaggine” while referring to closeted gay men’s heavy presence in the Catholic Church. e word translates to faggotry, which I would usually nd hilarious were it not for the Church’s extremely anti-queer stances. We have always been present in organized religion, and asking us to repress a core part of who we are is inhumane.

Let me get one more thing clear. Homophobia spewed by religious people is not merely a reaction to our so-called sinful nature. Go into any religious establishment during a time of worship and you will nd a plethora of abusive, cruel, fundamentally

The Protestant default Quebec’s bastardized secularism

ungodly people congregating. It has never been about gay sex. I’m not ready to give up on God just yet. I’d like to think that a divine brick could eventually land on the head of some obstinate bishop, but I’m not too optimistic. Until our institutions are ready to bring us into the fold instead of making us choose sides, we must do our best to nd one another and spread love.

Reflections on religious bias in Quebec under the guise of secularism

Rhea Romero-Giuliana

WhenI think about secularism, I find myself agreeing with the concept.

Legislating policies with the absence of religious influence is important as it highlights that no one faith is superior to another. However, secularism is greatly misrepresented in Quebec. In this province, secularism tends to mean the erasure of religion, a distortion of its true definition.

I would firmly argue that Quebec is not a secular province at all. Quebec uses secularism to cover its racist and Islamophobic agendas.

When Bill 21 was first introduced in 2019, my initial thought was, “Wow the Coalition Avenir Québec is really going to pass legislation to sow religious division in the name of secularism. That’s rich, considering Quebec is not even close to being a secular province.” Secularism seemed to only be used in conjunction

with religious minorities, and not religion in general.

It’s imperative that we interrogate which religions these bills and ideas are most affecting. It’s clear that they primarily target Muslims and other religious minorities.

When I speak to members of my family who are in favour of Bill 21, I realize that they only share this opinion insofar as it doesn’t impede on their Christian expressions. For them, secularism means the absence of all other religions because we are a Christian nation. In trying to explain that religious freedom and secularism are not mutually exclusive, the fallacious straw man argument of, “Well, in their countries, we’d have to abide by their customs, so they should do the same here.”

This begs the question: Why are Muslims the ones mainly targeted?

Ultimately, they are one of the most religiously visible people. And despite them being only 3 per cent of Quebec’s population, it highlights how our government is biased against religious min-

orities. Meanwhile, Catholics constitute 82 per cent of Quebec’s population.

Let’s take teachers as an example. New Muslim teachers won’t be permitted to wear a hijab. However, a Christian woman who wears a cross necklace can easily hide it. The reality is that these new rules and policies affect Muslims the most.

Religious minorities aren’t only affected by the ban on wearing religious symbols or objects. An often-forgotten example is statutory holidays. Many of them are based on Christian traditions like Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter. If Quebec was truly interested in secularism, wouldn’t they remove those as well?

If Quebec was truly secular, couldn’t every public employee just receive five days they can choose to take off whenever works best for them? Why force everyone to have these days off on particular days, if we are planning on erasing religion and our freedom to express it?

I was always made to understand that being secular just meant that not

everyone had to worship the same way, that buildings aside from places of worship could not carry religious symbols. The separation of religious beliefs and the state is promoted by Quebec, yet they chose to pass a bill that limits religious expression, which is frankly government overreach.

If there is a separation, it should extend to policy making, and not based on how someone chooses to express

If you are also a queer religious person, remember that you are loved for who you are and don’t have to change to t those around you. Find your people—allies included—and cherish them with all your heart. Keep the faith, baby! their own freedoms on their own bodies.

As a mom, I want my son to see folks of all kinds of religions, and be exposed to cultures different from our own.

So, no, Quebec is not and never was secular; it simply wants to allow certain religious expressions to be valid while others are erased.

RELIGIOUS INSTITUTIONS HAVE MADE IT CLEAR THAT WE ARE NOT WELCOME. PHOTO LINK ARCHIVES

SHOWCASING YOUR RELIGIOUS SYMBOLS IS ONLY A PROBLME WHEN YOU ARE A MINORITY. GRAPHIC EMILY

Nelly Owusu’s journey back to basketball

The Stingers guard embraces love and leadership after years away

Conor Tomalty @conor_tomalty

Nelly Owusu remembers the 2021-22 Réseau du sport étudiant du Québec (RSEQ) women’s basketball semi- nal like it was yesterday.

e Concordia Stingers women’s basketball team sat at a 9-3 record, and was the rst-place favourite against a Université du Québec à Montréal Citadins club who only managed to go 6-6.

When the nal buzzer sounded, however, the underdog Citadins had shocked the Stingers, winning 75-68 despite the Stingers’ homecourt advantage. e upset not only ended the Stingers’ season but marked the nal game of Owusu’s undergraduate career. At the time, she assumed it was the last time she’d ever walk o John Dore Court as a Stinger.

“We had no words, to be honest,” Owusu said, reminiscing on the silence in the locker room a er the loss. “We were just sitting in that locker room crying, upset. It was just a lot of emotions that day.”

Owusu rejoined the team ahead of the 2024-25 calendar year, although the decision to use her nal year of eligibility three seasons later was not as simple as an email to her head coach. She had to rst breathe in the next chapter of her life, a career a er basketball that allowed time for growth.

Owusu entered the workforce following graduation. She initially employed her child studies degree and found work as a special needs educator. Owusu liked working with children, but the hours and workload proved heavy.

“Imagine nishing school, and then going back and working in a school,” Owusu said. “I didn’t really have a break per se, the break that I wanted. at’s when I realized that it wasn’t a break from basketball that I needed, but more a mental break.”

Owusu started working for Adidas, and, thanks to healthier work hours, travelled the world, while simultaneously exploring opportunities to ex her creative muscles. She landed an internship with the Toronto Raptors as part of a creative design program and spent a month in Detroit, Michigan learning the trade.

“I got a certi cate at the end,” Owusu said. “It was a great experience, and from there, I gured

that I wanted to go into a business, graphic design workforce.”

It was here that she contemplated returning to school, but before she made that decision, she also had one last nagging issue to deal with.

Owusu dislocated her shoulder in 2019. Since then, she had grown accustomed to her arm bone popping out of place, and the discomfort was gruelling. She wore a brace while shooting, but the pain would set in within the rst few reps.

“ at was one of the [other] reasons why mentally I couldn’t take it for basketball,” Owusu said. “I was putting my body at risk, but the two years that I was o , I had the time to have surgery.”

It took Owusu roughly six months to recover a er going under the knife. e rehabilitation gave her time to scope out her next path forward. She regularly attended Stingers games to support her roommate, then-Stingers guard Areej Burgonio.

“She never missed a game,” Burgonio said, speaking enthusiastically about the support from her roommate. “For me, the biggest thing is giving back for what she did for me in my two years [without her]. She’s doing one year so I’m trying to be at every game and be that supportive teammate and best friend.”

Owusu also attended a senior night celebration at Dawson College, her alma mater, and it’s here that she crossed paths with Stingers head coach Tenicha Gittens. She hinted at wanting to return to the Stingers, but her coach was not fully convinced at rst.

“I said, ‘Nelly, don’t play with me,’” Gittens said, laughing while recounting their interaction. “If it was a year removed, OK, but you haven’t played in two years. at could be a little scary.”

Owusu told her former bench boss about the successful surgery, and a er a few minutes, Gittens realized how serious the guard was. eir relationship is that of an older and younger sister, as Gittens described it. It was due to this trust that Owusu was given the green light.

“I was like, ‘You already know, you always got a spot with me,’” Gittens said.

Owusu enrolled in Concordia

University's graduate business administration program, and rejoined the team for summer training in 2024.

“I did have a lot of nervous hesitation,” Owusu said. “I haven’t played ball in two years. at means two years of no cardio, two years of no shooting.”

Owusu also faced the di culty of acclimating to a new team. Yes, she may have reclaimed Stingers status, but the roster was not so familiar upon her return.

e slew of veterans compiling the basketball roster in 2022 had come and gone. e likes of Caroline Task, Myriam Leclerc and others were replaced with a young team. Gittens deployed a short bench in the 2023-24 season, meaning that even incoming second-year players had little experience at the U Sports level. With Owusu’s return, however, it allowed for the now fourth-year guard to dawn the role of veteran.

“I am older compared to a lot of girls on the team,” Owusu said, acknowledging that she is soon to be 27. Despite this, and still going through rehabilitation post-surgery, she took a self-sure approach instead of dwelling on what-ifs.

“It’s just more about being condent in myself,” Owusu said. “And also being like, ‘If I can’t physically do what I have to do, then at least the wisdom that I have, I can teach it to the younger generation.’”

In her nine games played, Owusu is averaging a respectable seven points and four rebounds, while converting over 30 per cent of her eld goals. e Stingers sit in fourth place in the RSEQ standings at 3-6, but Owusu is not solely focused on success. In her true nal year, Owusu has chosen to be compassionate and take it all in.

“ ere’s this Bible verse that I really love, 1 Corinthians 16:14,” Owusu said. “It says to do everything with love [...] When it comes to basketball, do it with love. When it comes to my friendships and relationships, I will show a lot of love.”

“She does exactly that,” Gittens said. “Nelly is love, and she’s love unconditional [...] When you look up the de nition of love, and we think of love, love is beyond what Disney Channel tells you it is. It forgives all, it holds no judgment. at’s what Nelly literally is.”

STINGERS GUARD NELLY OWUSU RETURNED TO THE TEAM FOR 2024-25 SEASON FOLLOWING A TWO-YEAR HIATUS. PHOTO CAROLINE MARSH

Uncensored: I don’t owe you my coming out

The pressure to continuously come out in various personal and professional settings creates an ongoing emotional strain

Yael T. Uribe

Igrew up in a small, conservative Catholic town in northern Mexico, and from a very young age, I knew I was queer. is set me on a complicated journey of coming out in small steps, only to retreat back into the safety of silence each time I felt the weight of judgment or fear. Navigating this duality became an ongoing struggle, as I tried to reconcile who I was with the expectations of those around me.

Ever since, I have encountered instances where men approach me under the pretense of friendship, only to reveal ulterior motives. Once they learn that I’m queer and uninterested in men, they feel deceived. is reaction underscores a troubling pattern: queerness is framed as a form of dishonesty or betrayal. By demanding that queer people disclose their sexuality upfront, these individuals shi the blame for their own assumptions or predatory behaviours onto us. is dynamic places a burden on queer individuals to constantly

Ajustify their identities, as though we owe others an explanation.

A 2017 Duquesne University study has shown that even a er coming out and embracing their sexual identity, many individuals experience periods of uncertainty, leading to trust issues within themselves and those around them. It implies that “coming out” is far from being a one-time experience. It is a process that is forced upon individuals over and over again, one that straight people don’t have to go through.

QTPOC individuals face unique cultural stigmas or heightened scrutiny from within their communities. Moreover, systemic inequalities, such as lack of access to a rming healthcare, legal protections or economic resources, can make coming out feel like an even greater gamble. ere is a potential for devastating consequences to their mental health, safety and livelihood. ese fears o en lead to silence or cycles of coming out and retreating, as we weigh the risks of authenticity against the potential loss of connection and security. Ultimately, the choice to come out—

or not—belongs solely to the individual. People should have the freedom to share or withhold this part of their identity as they see t. For me, the act of coming out has become less about announcing my identity to others and more about claiming space for myself in environments where I feel safe. When I feel secure, I’ll share my truth freely, because safety hasn’t always been guaranteed—for me or for countless other folks.

I FEARED

THE AWKWARDNESS OF HAVING TO RE-COME OUT TO OTHERS. GRAPHIC MIRA DE KOVEN

ma er of solidarity

Supporting striking workers is necessary for workplace protection

Sean Richard

The holidays were a busy and tumultuous time for people due to the month-long Canada Post strike.

Many had their packages waiting in warehouses and were unable to use Canada’s postal services. Businesses were also unable to receive shipments of goods.

While understandably frustrating, shouldn’t this situation create solidarity with the striking workers’ demands?

The strike began on Nov. 15 after the Canadian Union of Postal Workers (CUPW), representing 55,000 workers, declared that Canada Post “refused to negotiate real solutions to the issues postal workers face every day." It ended four weeks later when Labour Minister Steven MacKinnon sent the Canada Post dispute to the Canada Industrial Relations Board (CIRB). The CIRB ordered the employees to return to work after the board decided that negotiations had reached a deadlock.

However, as worker demands remain unmet, an industrial inquiry commission will be appointed to gen-

erate recommendations for the labour dispute by May 15. For its part, Canada Post has stated that existing contracts will be expanded until May 22, and that it is proposing a five per cent wage increase for Canada Post employees.

Canada Post workers have demanded wage increases of nine per cent, a cost-of-living allowance, 10 medical days and seven days of personal leave. Additionally, they would like an increase in short-term disability payments up to 80 per cent of regular wages, and improved rights for temporary workers and on-call relief employees.

One major misconception of the strike is the belief that workers go on strike simply because they are “lazy” or do not want to “work harder.” Striking and establishing picket lines is an ordeal, one that does not immediately lead to gains. It involves the withholding of labour to demonstrate the value workers generate for their employers. Strikes are a last resort effort for workers to get their demands met.

Negotiations between Canada

From a young age, I knew I was queer, but it wasn’t until I was about 13 years old that I fully came to terms with that part of my identity. Still, I kept this knowledge to myself. Growing up, I had seen how other girls who came out—whether willingly or under pressure—were harassed and sexualized. From my young perspective, queerness was something others could use against you, so I decided to stay silent for my own safety.

When I started university and moved away from home, I was nally able to explore my sexuality without the fear of immediate judgment or surveillance. e experience was liberating and confusing at

Post and its employees had started as early as November 2023. CUPW National President Jan Simpson had hoped that “we wouldn’t still be bargaining now but we still have [not] really seen any movement at the bargaining table.”

According to Simpson, when CUPW issued a strike notice, Canada Post withdrew their employee benefits, which included wages and benefits for short-term disability employees. I believe this is an important signal to stand in solidarity with these workers, as the threat to strike can make other corporations engage in the same behaviour. In that case, allyship and solidarity are important reminders for workers to never feel alienated and alone.

According to Prof. Adam Kind writing for The Tyee, the Canadian government has also undermined its Crown corporation by allowing other private delivery firms to subcontract delivery drivers, paying them by delivery instead of by the hour. For example, private firms that work with Amazon

the same time. I realized that the label “bisexual” no longer felt right for me, but the anxiety of nding the “correct” label lingered. I feared the awkwardness of having to re-come out to others, as if this confusion of mine imposed a burden on them or made me seem inconsistent.

Coming out isn’t about ful lling other people’s expectations—it’s about protecting ourselves. Not coming out doesn’t mean denying who one is; it’s about prioritizing one’s safety in a context that’s not always welcoming. e emotional toll of repeatedly disclosing my identity, o en without regard for my comfort or safety, underscores the weight we carry. For many of us, especially those at the intersection of multiple marginalized identities, this battle is even more intense. e demand to come out is not a one-time event—it’s an ongoing negotiation for space, security, and the right to de ne ourselves without the burden of others’ assumptions or demands.

can evade work regulations and thus make it difficult for Canada Post to compete with such low labour costs. CUPW calls this a “gigification” of the post office, which prevents independent workers from unionizing and collectively bargaining.

This harms workers on strike, making their requests sound superficial as the Canadian government sides itself with corporations exploiting other workers. There is no respect given to the Canada Post workers while corporations like Amazon continue to exploit job security for workers. Amazon recently announced the closure of all its warehouses in Quebec, which many believe was done to suppress union efforts. While regulation has been intro-

duced for gig work in other Canadian provinces such as British Columbia, the federal government has not passed enough legislation to protect delivery workers from exploitation.

The importance of solidarity is not simply a notion of courtesy that should be extended to Canada Post workers. It is a fundamental principle to guarantee protection for all Canadian workers. We must not forget that child labour laws, workplace safety laws, minimum wage and pregnancy leave exist due to the efforts of past workers.

While this strike may have disrupted your daily routine, standing in solidarity with the workers is a small price to pay for better work conditions.

If you’re reading this, it's not too late, go to the CSU’s SGM

On Jan. 29 at 6 p.m., e Concordia Student Union (CSU) will host a Special General Meeting (SGM) where students can vote on the implementation of the Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions movement (BDS) at Concordia University.

For over a year and a half, students have been demanding Concordia disclose, divest, defend and declare. ese demands have manifested in protests, demonstrations, walk-outs, strikes and art events.

e SGM was organized as the result of a petition created by Solidarity for Palestine’s Honour and Resistance (SPHR) and sponsored by Academics for Palestine. As the petition garnered over the necessary 250 student signatures, the CSU was mandated to organize a meeting.

e CSU membership hasn’t seen mobilization of this size in years and the work is far from over. e last time the CSU called a SGM was in 2012 to prolong the tuition hike strikes and failed to meet quorum by 100 students. is cannot happen again. You must wonder why this is important.

e implementation of a BDS motion will allow the CSU to ofcially add a BDS position to the CSU Positions Book. It will also empower the CSU to bring the demands that students have been ghting for to Concordia’s Board of Governors (BoG).

While the university aunts the excuse that it doesn’t directly invest in weapons companies to avoid tackling the issue of divestment, it is important to remember that it

indirectly invests in and supports companies and institutions like BMO—complicit in the murder of over 45,000 Palestinians.

We, as students, have the moral obligation to support our fellow activists who have been ghting to make their voices heard. Students have been assaulted and targeted by campus security, suspended by the university for protesting and dehumanized by mainstream media for ghting for Palestinians’ basic human rights.

Even if Palestine isn’t a topic you are interested in debating, even if you don’t care much for politics, this vote comes down to one thing: demanding that the university listen to its students. is vote needs to show the administration that students have the power to demand change from the institution they frequent and fund. A successful and safe learning space for students is dependent on the university’s commitment to their well-being.

Over the past year, Concordia has time and time again prioritized pro ts over the needs of its students. From the shuttle bus service schedule reduction to class cuts and the constant repression of pro-Palestine voices on campus, student mobilization is needed now more than ever.

In addition to these extremely important reasons to vote, an SGM is the best way for students to exercise their democratic power. Re-

gardless of your political stance, all students have the right to vote in this meeting and have their voices heard. Whether you have voted at every CSU election or none, mark your calendars. is is not one you can miss. e SGM’s quorum is 450 people. Without nearly 1.2 per cent of the undergraduate student body present, the result of the meeting will be null—following in the footsteps of the 2012 SGM.

But, if the vote passes, the decision will be on the agenda at the next BoG meeting on Feb. 6. e board that governs Concordia will be forced to discuss BDS. Does that mean that BDS will become a reality at Concordia as of Feb. 7? No. We cannot guarantee that outcome. However, it would be a major step in the right direction.

Students have su ered enough on account of expressing themselves politically and it is time to vote for a more transparent and ethical university.

e Link has encouraged its team to attend and vote in this SGM and to exercise their democratic right. As journalists, we are obliged to uphold democracy and cover important stories. It is also our right as students to have a say in how our university shapes itself and contributes to the larger political sphere.

e Link urges all undergraduate students to attend the SGM and exercise their right to vote.

Now is your chance to tell the administration and your student union how you feel. e Link will see you there.

Volume 45, Issue 8 Tuesday, January 28, 2024

Concordia University

Library Building, Room LB-717 1400 de Maisonneuve Blvd. W. Montreal, Quebec H3G 2V8

Editor: 514-848-2424 x. 7407

Arts: 514-848-2424 x. 5813

News: 514-848-2424 x. 8682

Business: 514-848-7406

Advertising: 514-848-7406

TheLinkis published twelve times during the academic year by TheLinkPublication Society Inc. Content is independent of the university and student associations (ECA, CASA, ASFA, FASA, CSU). Editorial policy is set by an elected board as provided for in TheLink's constitution. Any student is welcome to work on TheLinkand become a voting staff member. Material appearing in TheLinkmay not be reproduced without prior written permision from TheLink.Letters to the editor are welcome. All letters 400 words or less will be printed, space permitting. The letters deadine is Friday at 4:00 p.m. TheLinkreserves the right to edit letters for clarity and length and refuse those deemed racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic, libellous or otherwise contrary to TheLink's statement of principles.

BOARD OF DIRECTORS 2024-2025: Voting Members: Jessica Hungate, Miriam Lafontaine, Iness Rifay | Non-Voting Members: Hannah Vogan, Varda Nisar, Jonathan Cook.

TYPESETTING by TheLink PRINTING by Hebdo-Litho.

CONTRIBUTORS: Conor Tomalty, Dr. Marcel Parent, Julia Imee Silva, Julie Raymond, Manoj Subramaniam, Marco Deveaux, Mira Alden-Hull, Moon Jinseok, Olivia Johnson, Orisa Thandi, Rebekah Walker, Rhea Romero-Giuliana, Robert Toto, Sean Richard, Yael T. Uribe, Youmna El Halabi, Zachary Fortier.

House Ads: Myriam Ouazzani, Panos Michalakopoulos

Cover: Cate Gransull, Panos Michalakopoulos, Myriam Ouazzani. Cover features Arsaniq Deer.

Corrections: On p. 6 in the article "Canada's 'ugly vegetable' problem," Rais Zaidi's name was misspelled in the pull quote. The Link regrets this error.

SCOTT-TALIB CLAUDIA BEAUDOIN INDIA DAS-BROWN JARED LACKMAN-MINCOFF LORY SAINT-FLEUR ANDRAÉ LERONE LEWIS MATTHEW DALDALIAN MYRIAM OUAZZANI

THE LINK IS URGING STUDENTS TO GO VOTE AT THE CSU'S SGM ON JAN. 29 AT 6 P.M. PHOTO ANDRAÉ LERONE LEWIS

January 29, 1:30 P. M.

Held in-person at LB-717 and online. Contact us for the Zoom link

Dorothy Mombrun With Speaker

February 5, 5:00 P. M.

Held in-person at LB-717 and online. Contact us for the Zoom link

Elias Grigoriadis With Speaker

Ethical Visual Storytelling

SAFETY, CONSENT, AND AGENCY IN PHOTOGRAPHY

How to transform your sports recap into a story