Depoliticization also props up mainstream feminist rhetoric that revolves around “leaning-in” and breaking glass ceilings within the confines of neoliberalism. According to this brand of feminism, our society has changed but our economic system stagnated. Many prefer to disregard the final signs of late-stage capitalism, which first appeared in the 1950s, such as the increasing austerity measures exploiting the poor as well as the working class, the failure of the welfare system to provide for them, and a political system devoid of actual content but rather regulated by the global market. Economic justice and labour rights seem to be an afterthought for some feminists, instead choosing to question if women can truly “have it all.”We praise the women CEOs but fail to be critical of their actions. While the Sheryl Sandbergs and Marissa Mayers of this world continue to tell us to “lean in,” we must remember that gendered and racialized inequality within the class system is a feminist issue that will not be resolved by adhering to the principles of capitalism.

Criticism of mainstream feminism, and the privileged few who lead it, is not new. In contrast to the ideals of second wave feminists, women of colour have always worked to create a movement for the masses and not the few. Feminist struggles encompass social welfare, state violence, education reform, workers’ rights, and other societal ills that are inherently tied to the subjugation of women. In today’s movement, many of those at the forefront of grassroots feminist organizing centre these intersections in their work, including the organizers of the March 8 strike. While commendable and crucial, there are limitations to organizing around intersectionality in a system that rewards individualism and encourages hierarchical specialized labour. Evidently, to reduce racial and gender oppression to by-products of the class system is false, hurtful to the cause, and ahistorical. However, as “A Day without a Woman” proves, class power underlies the privileges – whiteness, access to education, wealth – afforded to those striking. For this reason, detractors of the strike called it useless, impossible, and irrelevant in a society that no longer organizes through unions and is hostile to the welfare state. However, considering the current political climate and changing world order, shouldn’t the impossible be worth trying?

As such, many women could not participate in the action, which evidently warrants criticism and a re-evaluation of organizing tactics.

Striking as a tool for change is one that has been used since the Industrial Revolution. The March 8 strike was meant to denounce the privileged feminism of Hillary and Ivanka, the kind that uses feminist language to further capitalism, a violent system which actively disenfranchises billions of women. At different stages of capitalism, women worldwide, and not only the privileged few, have withheld production as a form of dissent. Even in recent times, most social movements have been led by women risking jobs, careers, and family for the cause. For instance, queer black women are at the forefront of the Black Lives Matter Movement, Indigenous women are often frontline defenders in the fight against climate change, and teachers’ strikes across North America have been spearheaded by women, especially women of colour. With that being said, should the burden of fighting against oppression fall on the oppressed? No. The idea that we have unbridled ownership of our livelihoods and living conditions is a meritocratic principle used by capitalists to justify oppression, exploitation and evasion of dissent. It is against this very principle that strikes are often organized. Striking should render visible some of the barriers working against a marginalized portion of society.

Strikes in a globalized and increasingly divided world may seem irrelevant or even illustrative of the very privileges they seek to address, which gives us even more reasons to give them a chance. In terms of visible collective action, striking, if done properly, can put an actual strain on the system. However, there is no denying that much has to change for striking to be effective in 2017 while still being done in solidarity with all women. First and foremost, a collective effort must be made to put historically marginalized voices at the forefront of labour organizing, which means that those with the privilege and capacity to do so will have to facilitate and create an accessible space. This effort can take the form of legal reforms and increasing unionization which allows more women to strike without fear of repercussions, radical and disruptive direct actions that increases visibility of the labour movement and raises social consciousness, and an understanding that racial and gendered inequalities within classes were created deliberately and thus, must be dismantled purposefully.

The […] strike was meant to denounce the privileged feminism of Hillary and Ivanka, the kind that uses feminist language to further capitalism, a violent system which actively disenfranchises billions of women.

Viewing class struggles through an intersectional lens can help revive a feminist movement that has strayed from its roots. The failings of the March 8 strike generally stemmed from rush organizing – meant to leverage the momentum of the Woman’s march – that didn’t allow for the implementation of workplace safeguards which would have allowed for more women to partake. We may no longer be able to organize under unions and a strong labour movement, but those spearheading grassroots movements are learning from these actions and adjusting the organizational structures of our predecessors so as to benefit all women. In the meantime, we should continue to put on actions despite their supposed impossibility. Neoliberalism convinces us that collectivity is unattainable and that the only way to demand rights and freedoms is through a system put in place to disenfranchise us and maintain power for the few. A movement advocating for the 99 per cent has no other option but to take into consideration the intersections of women’s oppressions. After all, the current state of the world calls for us to be ambitious as well as radical, disruptive, and self-critical.

The post We don’t lean in, we strike appeared first on The McGill Daily.

We then spent the rest of 2016 playing the blame game: who was responsible for this mess? Everything and everyone, apparently – identity politics, increasing economic disparity, growing distance between the rural and the urban, corruption, greed, neoliberalism, fake news, social media, racist legacies, white supremacy, colonialism, liberal backlash, the electoral college, the incompatibility of democracy and hyper-capitalism, and most of all, the Universe. The end of the year saw think-pieces, tweets, blog posts, articles, listicles, memes with the same fraught personalization of 2016 as simply “the worst.” After all, 2016 was supposedly the year of realizing things, and that’s never an easy task. Here are some things that we ‘realized:’ having a Black man as president of the United States did not, in fact, mean that racism was over; the western world is experiencing a crisis, and the liberal democratic principles it supposedly espouses – those same seeds of democracy that it so generously sowed across the globe, without being asked to do so – are failing; and the fall of neoliberal capitalism seems inevitable at this point, maybe it was never really sustainable after all. It felt like 2016 was just one truly shocking truth after another.

Most of us know it’s too easy, as well as absurd, to think we’re leaving all of 2016 behind; none of us expect that the social construction of time and arbitrary measure of the Gregorian calendar is enough to shield us from the inevitable continuity of last year’s events and, ultimately, that of history. However, maybe compartmentalization is what some of us need right now to survive. Adhering to this conception of a new year as a fresh start is not a delusion, or even just a form of self-care – a term that essentially lost its meaning when it was co-opted by capitalists to justify ‘wellness’ programs and products used to improve worker satisfaction and productivity. Rather, saying goodbye to yet another year is a mechanism that allows us to continue our work and our lives in an increasingly unfamiliar setting, and that we must.

The next few years will require radical actions. It will require awareness and a critical look at our capacities and our socio-economic positions. Although we find ourselves in seemingly catastrophic times, the consequences will not affect some of us, namely the relatively wealthy and privileged, and their children and grandchildren – at least not in the ways that it will impact the world’s most vulnerable. While we’re all allowed to grieve and process our emotions accordingly, it is worth questioning our increasingly public expressions of outrage and reactionary behaviour in times like these. The personification of 2016 as nearly apocalyptic, at least according to Twitter and Facebook feeds, often came from those least likely to be affected by the urgent climate crisis, xenophobia, Islamophobia, racist migration policies, threats to reproductive rights, police brutality, mass incarceration, a rise in far-right political parties and white supremacy. Sure, all of these issues warrant outrage, but the reactionary loop within which we found ourselves at the end of 2016 seemed counterproductive at best. Generalizing all knee-jerk reactions as feigned indignation would be inaccurate, although not entirely false. Some of us, in some way, felt guilty or wanted to distance ourselves from ‘the ones’ that caused this mess, while others were justifiably upset by the injustice and the fear of imminent danger. Plastering our anger and grief on social media in times of crisis is a valid form of expression; however, how do we stop this reactionary loop from lulling us into a false sense of engagement, or even inhibiting concrete actions by overwhelming us with reactionary and inflammatory affirmations turned facts meant to outdo one another?

We could disengage with the news, our Facebook and Twitter feeds, and take a look within our own communities. As citizens we’re made to feel guilty and irresponsible for not keeping up with breaking news, which seems to occur at dizzying rates lately, but this year disproved that too. We consumed an incredible amount of political content on all platforms, but echo chambers, fake news, and a cycle that feeds on reaction over action has left us deflated, emotionally burnt out, and frankly, exhausted. Unfortunately, we can’t afford to make half-hearted efforts to find bandaid solutions.

In some way, the years to come will require all of us to become activists within our capacities and circumstances. We will have to step outside our ivory towers, behind our liberal smokescreens, away from our comfort zones, and listen to those who have been warning us for years. This will be hard. It will require introspection, doing away with previously-held beliefs on identities, redirecting our energies from semantics to laborious emotional work, and re-evaluating the efficacy of our political actions within the confines of neoliberalism. Most of all, it will require us to face uncomfortable truths and surrender to the discomfort. It feels disingenuous to keep an optimistic outlook, and nihilistic to admit defeat; maybe remembering that the world and all that it holds is in constant motion, and that collective actions will continue to direct its course, can provide us with some comfort.

The post Reflections on 2016 appeared first on The McGill Daily.

We’ve all heard versions of this sentiment in recent years – this one comes from Ilana, the Jewish and white protagonist of Broad City , the seminal text on the millennial psyche.

Being mixed-race is increasingly commonplace, and there’s an assumption that within a few years it will represent the ‘face of the human race.’ Mixed-race people are often fetishized and are inaccurately presented as harbingers of a ‘post-racial’ utopia.

While mixed-race people are thought to be a ‘modern innovation,’ the evidence of a post-racial society, people forget that there already exist countries and regions where the so-called ‘general population’ is entirely composed of ‘mixed-race’ people called Creoles. Creole is a complex and debated term encompassing race, culture, language, ethnicity, and diverse colonial legacies. You can find Creole people in Haiti, the Caribbean, in the United States and on islands in the Indian Ocean. All of us have diverse histories and cultures, and can’t be grouped in one category. However, our existence stems from the same source: the slave trade and colonialism. We are descendants of European colonial settlers and/or the slaves and indentured workers they uprooted and relocated to the colonies.

I identify as Mauritian Creole, a subset of the population of Mauritius Island that is often homogenized and dubbed the ‘general population’ – those who don’t fit the official categories of Chinese Mauritian, Indian Mauritian, and Muslim Mauritian. However, Mauritian Creoles are an incredibly diverse group of people, divided within themselves, despite claims to the contrary by the government and national history. Colourism plays an important role in creating those divisions. In part due to colonial legacy, Creoles with lighter skin, such as myself, have the privilege to access higher social and economic status than those with darker skin. Specific ‘mixes’ of races are also valued more than others; for instance, Creoles who are direct descendants of French colonizers still occupy a dominant position in Mauritian society. While these divisions are blatant and commonly known by most Mauritian Creoles, we continue to be homogenized, by non-Creoles and Creoles alike, as the ‘general population’ for convenience and a lack of understanding. This homogenization is a constant source of anxiety for Creoles who are unable to place their bodies in the greater context of the world. We are lumped together as a rootless people to either be ignored, because we don’t fit neatly into boxes of ethnicity or nationality, or romanticized as evidence of a successful colonial experiment; one that produced an ideal and seemingly ‘harmonious’ society composed of people belonging to no nation.

The lack of clear connection to a greater historical context and our ethnic ambiguity is what ties us together. Often considered ‘rootless hybrids,’ we serve as bodies on which to project myths and identities for nationalist purposes. Our bodies are submitted as evidence of the possibility of a harmonious, multiracial, ‘post-racial’ society. However, it is often forgotten that these bodies were born from colonial violence. My ancestors were forcibly uprooted and any ties to their original homeland, culture, and community were purposefully destroyed to disempower them. Without the violent history of slavery, and the exploitative nature of the colonial project, we would not exist. The idea of a utopic Creole society erases the very root of our existence.

My culture is a collection of reconstructed traditions from Northern India, Eastern Africa, Madagascar, Southeastern China, and France; the supposed – it was only transmitted through word of mouth – birthplaces of my ancestors. When placed in the communities of my ancestors, such as when attending weddings, New Year’s celebrations or dinners, I’ve learn to mirror them and perform these cultures. These communities are welcoming, and feel comfortable, but something is always off. I do not look like them, I do not speak the language, I do not share the same historical context, and I have no ties to a homeland. To the best of my abilities, I mirror the practices and norms of these communities, but I am, and always will be an outsider. I have no substantial claims to any of these cultures, because I stand at the periphery of all of them. My combined ancestry is not enough for me to be considered part of those communities. My physical features – my brown skin with yellow undertones, my black curly hair, and my dark brown eyes – often undermine any claims I have to be part of some of them. Instead, identities are projected onto my body.

I am used to hearing: “You don’t speak [insert language historically spoken by brown people]!” No, I don’t. I speak the languages of my colonizers, French and English. My parents never taught me my island’s local Creole dialect, not finding much value in doing so, because it is not spoken outside of the island or the diaspora. My ‘culture’ is one where my family celebrates Chinese New Year, Diwali, Easter, and Christmas.

After I’m told I don’t speak the language I’m ‘supposed to’, the next thing I usually hear is, “You look like [insert nationality here], but not quite!” Right, my features aren’t quite right to fit anywhere. “Something is off.” You’ll spend the next twenty minutes trying to figure what it is exactly. Don’t worry, I’ll wait. When you can’t figure it out, you’ll shrug. I’ll shrug. We’ll move on. My body comes close to fitting in, but never quite does.

I was talking to my mom, who was born and grew up in Mauritius, about this recent identity crisis. She reassured me that this was normal, that I came from a long line of Mauritian Creoles who have felt the angst of being rootless and living at the periphery of cultural communities. She said that even now, in her forties, she still feels that emptiness of broken ties to pre-colonial communities, families, and homeland passed on from one generation to the other. However, she also acknowledges that my siblings and I face a new set of challenges as immigrants to Canada. Here, our bodies are perceived differently than they would in Mauritius, and finding community here is even more difficult. She gave me three choices: I could choose to embrace one particular community of our ancestors and perform that culture; I could recognize the richness in me and choose to align with the national stance of the “rainbow people;” or I could continue to live in that ambiguous “something is off” space – the space created by forced assimilation and intermixing to advance the colonial project, and that now stands between me and a coherent collective identity.

After consideration, I have chosen to place my body and its histories in that “off” space. For me, it is the only space that doesn’t excuse or ignore the violent colonial history of the Creole people in Mauritius. If I were to embrace one community over another, it would erase the trauma of my ancestors, and if I conformed to the national slogan of the “rainbow people,” I would ignore the continued impact of colonial structures that are still in place, and validate the results of the colonial project. Idealizing or denying my multi-racial, multi-cultural, and so-called ‘post-race’ body would erase colonial violence felt by the generations before me and the legacy that still stands. Instead, I choose to acknowledge that it exist in all its multiplicities and sit in the discomfort that it brings.[special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”piece_footer”][special_issue slug=”body_special_issue” element=”init”]

The post On being caramel and queer appeared first on The McGill Daily.

“I didn’t want to compete anymore […] in a rigged game,” said event organizer Malek Yalaoui in an interview with The Daily. The world of competitive spoken word, in which Yalaoui was a long-time participant, has always been largely dominated by mediocre white men. Feeling alienated by the prevalent racism and misogyny, Yalaoui was inspired to “create […] spaces [of storytelling] for other racialized, Black, Indigenous WOC.”

The night began with the sharing of tobacco and a land acknowledgment by Moe Clark, a multidisciplinary Metis artist. By and large, acknowledging the unceded land on which these events take place and recalling the traditional holders and keepers of the land and waters – the Kanien’kehá:ka people – is often limited to a short statement made at the outset. This event, in contrast, strived to take more concrete steps towards decolonization by having Clark help situate the audience “in relation to the land and its keepers,” and remind us of the ongoing settler-colonial violence perpetrated on stolen Indigenous land.

[There] are many parallels that can be drawn when it comes to the treatment of the land and that of BIWOC/BIFOC by settler-colonialist societies.

The showcase took place at the Jardins Cra-Terre, an urban farm tended to by Coop Bioma. Co-organizer Dona Nham found inspiration from “this piece of land […] and [wanted] to do something here.” The agricultural land, bordered by bridges and train tracks, created a stark contrast between the illuminated stage and the intertwining industrial landscape, providing a surreal backdrop to the performances. The three organizers Yalaoui, Nham, and Harleen Bhogal, brought to the forefront the complex relationship between the land and racialized, Black, and especially Indigenous women and femmes; there are many parallels that can be drawn when it comes to the treatment of the land and that of BIWOC/BIFOC by settler-colonialist societies.

The stage, made of stacked crates, twinkling lights and accent lampshades found in the middle of an urban farm on Hutchinson, was a testament to the grassroots efforts that made this event possible. One after the other, Black, Indigenous, racialized women and femmes of colour took to the stage to tell their stories of struggle, resilience, healing and survival through poetry; the crowd, mostly composed of racialized women and femmes, absorbed every verse, shedding tears, nodding in understanding and erupting in applause at the end of every poem. As the spirited emcee, Yalaoui established a milieu where both performers and audience felt held, heard, and recognized.

In a society where Black, Indigenous, and racialized women and femmes are continuously marginalized, othered, and rendered invisible, safe and accessible spaces like these ought to exist.

Many present at the event expressed the need and the desire for more spaces like this. “This is the only space I can recall that centres Black, Indigenous, and women and femmes of colour that is organized by them as well,” says Nham. Giving space for women and femmes of colour to write and realize that their experiences are worth sharing “allows us to make linkages with each other and see the value and legitimacy to [our work],” says Yalaoui. “Not only in our experiences but in giving them the time, care, and weight that they deserve. […] And what blossoms after that is incredible”. As an audience member, being surrounded by other women and femmes with common struggles is a welcomed escape from predominantly white and masculine spaces. This sense of belonging and empowerment can serve as a powerful catalyst for community-building and mobilization by BIFOC/BIWOC.

In a society where Black, Indigenous, and racialized women and femmes are continuously marginalized, othered, and rendered invisible, safe and accessible spaces like these ought to exist. Kata Kunhert, an attendee, said “when the space fits the needs of the audience and performers […], the spirit of the event has room to breathe in the life and love created there.”

[Being] surrounded by other women and femmes with common struggles is a welcomed escape from predominantly white and masculine spaces.

For instance, the accessibility infographic shared on social media and elsewhere prior to the event was indicative of the effort made by the organizers to provide an accessible space. In a world built without regards for universal access, creating accessible spaces is a continuous process of unlearning, recognizing limitations, and collective effort. Kunhert agreed, “one thing that I thought was amazing was how aware the organizers were about accessibility needs.” In fact, Yalaoui, Nham, and Bhogal were open about accepting more suggestions and admitting limitations, such as not being able to provide some accommodations, including captions for the hard of hearing. “That’s why events like this are so important,” Kunhert continues, “because they bring [the] realities [of an ableist society] out of the shadows.”

Accessibility efforts included providing “accessible taxis,” having active listeners on site, including content notes and trigger warnings, and taking into account chronic illness and fatigue. Whisper translation and childcare were also offered. The event was pay-what-you-can with food by donation provided by beat:root, a catering service started and staffed by racialized women and femmes striving to decolonize food preparation by creating “nourishing foods infused with love, using natural whole-food ingredients and traditional methods of preparation.” The site itself was wheelchair accessible – while the terrain was uneven, the organizers did remove rocks and added additional wood chips to the grounds. “Our goal is to set the standard for accessibility, so we’re aiming as high as possible,” says Yalaoui.

Throughout the evening, the grey skies loomed large over the crowd but only gave way to a bit of rain towards the end of the event, as the last poet performed. As the organizers took to the stage for final thank you’s and last words, Bhogal mentioned that they had been weary of the rain because it was not the kind of storm that was needed, because the storm needed was here, among us; a storm created by the stories of struggle, resilience and survival, a storm that washes everything clean.

An earlier version of this article failed to identify Harleen Bhogal as the source for a quotation in the last paragraph. The Daily regrets the error.

The post The storm was needed appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Among them, a baladi dancer named Alexandre, reclaims what he calls a disappearing art form. Alexandre tells the story of how he came to the creation of his bellydance routines that have brought conservative audiences to embrace a man performing an art form traditionally danced by women. Alexandre built a space, where there hadn’t been one, to express himself, and in turn allow others to do the same.

The necessity to create a space for art in hostile political environments is an overarching theme of Interrupt This Program. In fact, the show succeeds in not only portraying alternative art, but also bringing to attention the creation of platforms for artistic expression by artists like Alexandre. Overcoming the societal perceptions of the gendered body, Alexandre’s show is a testament to reclaiming traditions and using them as a platform to carve out identities and narratives that incite change.

The necessity to create a space for art in hostile political environments is an overarching theme of Interrupt This Program.

Reclaiming cultural identity is also a driving force behind street artist Yazan’s work. A talented writer, Yazan revels in recreating a sense of Arab heritage through calligraphy. Having to distinguish his work from the sheer volume of tagging that followed the end of the Lebanese Civil War in 1990, Yazan’s creations are composed of intricate letters that combine to form the portraits of prominent Lebanese artists, notably Fairuz, Kahlil Gibran, and the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish.

Despite the brevity of scenes focused on Yazan, the viewer is able to understand the significance of his work in the greater context of Beirut. His art serves as more than just an homage to various figures; it is an attempt to recapture the identity and culture of the city following the civil war. As shots of a bright and sunny Beirut are shown, Yazan is seen painting an eight-story mural, a portrait of the well-loved actress and singer Sabah. Yazan conceives new ways to fill the city with his narrative. In contrast to sectarian rhetoric that divides people on social fronts, artists like Yazan seek to open discourse surrounding art and pop culture.

These hidden narratives are exactly what Gaffar Toufar, a Beirut-based hip hop artist, strives to expose. While telling the story of witnessing an Indian woman being racially profiled and unjustly arrested, Toufar displays the anger inspired by deep-rooted racial and class-based injustices that continues to compel artists like him to create. The show conveys that creative imperative throughout the episode, bringing the viewer into a space where artistic expression becomes urgent.

As shots of a bright and sunny Beirut are shown, Yazan is seen painting an eight-story mural, a portrait of the well-loved actress and singer Sabah.

In need of an outlet to express this anger, Toufar channels his passion into lyrics and beats. In the absence of an established hip hop industry, Toufar is given free reign on his artistic process and expression. Tinted in rich hues of blue and red, Toufar’s scenes are mesmerizing displays of lyrical power and the driving energy of struggle. Performing in an underground nightclub, he is the embodiment of wild artistry, one that is only possible in a setting where societal norms are subverted and new rules are set by artists just like him.

The next episode premieres Friday, November 20 at 8:30 p.m. and is also made available online for viewers every week.

The post Beirut’s underground art scene flourishes appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Sharing the stage with Solano were Pearl Eliadis, a human rights lawyer and member of the McGill Centre for Human Rights & Legal Pluralism; Aniseto López, a Guatemalan activist; and Jennifer Moore, coordinator of the Latin America Program for MiningWatch Canada.

MICLA, in partnership with MiningWatch Canada, the Committee for Human Rights in Latin America, Voices-Voix, and many other organizations, held the event in the auditorium of the Otto Maass Chemistry building, where over 200 students and community members gathered.

Solano’s talk focused on the damage perpetrated by the Vancouver-based company Tahoe Resources Inc., and the complicity of the Canadian government, transnational corporations, and military contractors in the crisis taking place in southeastern Guatemala.

Solano said, “The Tahoe Resources project is not only a mining project but a part of a greater economic model in Guatemala, […] repeating a pattern found across the world.”

“The Tahoe Resources project is not only a mining project but a part of a greater economic model in Guatemala, […] repeating a pattern found across the world.”

Tahoe Resources Inc. acquired significant land concessions in Guatemala in 2010, when it bought the Escobal silver deposit from Goldcorp Inc., another Vancouver-based company. Solano said that the Escobal project was then undertaken without the consultation and consent of the local communities. In fact, according to Solano, many locals were unaware of the project or the nature thereof until a few years after its construction.

Since 2010, resistance and opposition to the development and the continued operation of the mine have been met with repression, criminalization, and militarization, despite the peaceful nature of the protests.

“They detained people illegally. They get the public ministry support to authorize these arrests, they create these lists of ‘troublemakers’ that they give to the military to arrest them,” said Solano. “It sows terror among people.”

To draw parallels between Guatemala and Canada with regards to governmental action against activism, Eliadis brought up the role of Canada’s anti-terrorism act Bill C-51, which can potentially criminalize environmental and Indigenous activism. As such, said Eliadis, mining companies can destroy the land and perpetrate gross violations of human rights with impunity.

“They get the public ministry support to authorize these arrests, they create these lists of ‘troublemakers’ that they give to the military to arrest them.”

According to the speakers, land defenders in Guatemala are criminalized and labelled as terrorists, and have been targeted by security contractors hired by Tahoe Resources Inc. and the Guatemalan military forces.

However, according to Solano, the problem is “not just military, it’s much more complex; it’s a spiderweb of counterinsurgency.”

Aidan Gilchrist-Blackwood, a U2 Political Science and History student and member of MICLA who attended the event, said in an interview with The Daily, “The criminalization of land defenders is an important human rights issue, but it gets very little coverage in the Canadian media. […] It’s having a major impact on Indigenous peoples both in Canada and around the world.”

Addressing students about the importance of collective action, Eliadis said, “We must assure that there is no impunity, that’s where you all come in.”

The post Luis Solano speaks at McGill appeared first on The McGill Daily.