If you’ve ever taken a high school language class, you’ve maybe encountered a form of close reading dissecting the many devices used in literature. Does the author use formal or colloquial language? What motifs are used in the text? How do form and content work together?

You aren’t asked these questions because you’re expected to pursue a career in literature. You aren’t asked to do most assignments, like write an essay, for example, because you’re expected to make a breakthrough on problems exhaustively studied by experts. Writing helps develop your own analytical voice. Understanding how to methodically work through a question is a muscle that needs to be constantly trained.

Yet in light of the rising critiques of the bias, disproportionate representations, and scarce job prospects seen in traditional journalism, masses have, as a response, begun to rediscover this form of textual analysis to make sense of our current social and political sphere. Old and new writers have found a home on Substack, where they can freely express their opinions without the constraints of an editor at their back. Many of us, disillusioned with major news outlets, have discovered newsletters covering marginalized voices and underrepresented stories. So while the “oversaturation” of writing platforms like Substack or Medium has exposed smaller communities to a newer, wider audience, I like to think that the abundance of people wielding their intellectual freedom outside of a formal classroom has the potential to create accessible spaces where knowledge, curiosity, and creativity can openly thrive… So why doesn’t it?

The resurgence of blogging in the last few years has naturally led to a mass migration of social media users to essay-format platforms. This past year, Substack amassed over 2 million new paid subscribers and currently has a total of over 20 million subscribers. To sustain this upward trajectory, and perhaps prevent shortened attention spans from pivoting elsewhere after experiencing the writer’s high, Substack introduced new features to keep its newfound audience seated. The On Substack publication run by the platform’s management team credits the addition of notes (basically tweets) as one of the drivers of Substack’s significant growth. Instead of merely publishing articles, users can now also put out status updates on subjects ranging from midnight musings to quotes from other publications. Notes provide a simple way to share one’s thoughts on any subject matter and receive engagement without the added task of research, drafting, or editing. Following their introduction, these short, sharp, and often morally superior attacks on current culture have begun to dominate the app’s discovery pages. Occasionally, these notes will be extracted from a longer essay expanding on the same point. Often, this longer essay will just be one out of the thousands on the app that advances the same general takeaway, which leads me to my second problem.

I am by no means a stickler when it comes to what people write about on their page. I also would not expect every newsletter I read to make transgressive breakthroughs, as I don’t have those expectations for myself. However, I do object to claims overstating the recent strides cultural commentary has made this past year in developing spaces for progressive discussion.

I won’t deny the fact that Substack has achieved some significant strides in reviving many people’s love of writing. Substack has additionally exposed me and so many others to great ideas while allowing writers to monetize their content and make a living doing what they love. But the excitement of reading articles on the app began to subside once I realized that I was reading the same conclusions reached in the same manner. Think essays on performative femininity, parasocial relationships with media figures, the correlation between trend cycles and consumerism, etc. None of these topics are inherently flawed, and I’m sure there are interesting points to be made about each. Yet when cultural commentary writers are pigeonholed into social media analysis and fail to apply any historical research into the topics covered, you begin to ask yourself, does this observation aim to reveal pitfalls in modern-day society, or are these just repeating trend cycles and masquerading it as commentary? I don’t believe the recent growth of users is exactly to blame for the redundancy I’ve seen on Substack. As previously mentioned, the newcomers led to more frequent updates undertaken by Substack’s team, such as trending pages, direct messages, and newsletter rankings to secure the app’s growing popularity. Substack became a viable competitor to other social platforms, but instead of upholding what made it so unique, Substack caved into the algorithmic and fast-paced rhythm seen on TikTok, Instagram, and Twitter. While they were intended to maintain the stamina of Substack’s growth, these developments simultaneously fostered an environment where quantity has triumphed over quality, and devoid, sweeping, almost superficial aphorisms have replaced curiosity. Substack, like most other social platforms, was ultimately plagued by the internet flu, or in other words, the online philosophers’ problem of the week, quickly exhausted once the same point was recycled over and over again.

Besides my basic frustrations over the repetitive content seen on the app, the trend cycles piercing platforms centering art, politics, and all other forms of analytical writing do reveal some worrisome consequences. In the act of reiterating what’s already been said on the news, online, and in our circles, we weaken the muscle of writing to the point of paralysis – a point where eventually, all we can critically consider with a careful eye is what’s familiar. We step into the process of writing an essay with a set conclusion, and consequently no curiosity. Capitalism or anti-intellectualism become the foundation of the piece, a base that we build our analysis atop of, rather than being the end conclusion reached after research and investigation. Consequently, when the focal point of such analysis presents itself, with its many faces in the real world, there is little independent written about the matter. Capitalism and its consequences are only examined when discussing low-quality clothing from SHEIN and the death of personal style, rather than the devaluation of local textile markets in African countries for cheaper Chinese goods (which are typically produced in horrific working conditions). Anti-intellectualism is reduced to American college students’ inability to finish a novel, and the global cuts to education and research are seldom considered. We distance ourselves from the topics we aren’t informed enough on to make an opinion on, and in the end, writing and the skills acquired through that process are no longer transferable.

When considering what I personally would like to see in independent journalistic writing, I often fall back on Toni Morrison’s advice to young writers. Morrison, who despite mostly receiving accolades for her writing, was also a skilled editor at Random House. She also often provided young writers with a plenitude of advice. In a 2013 interview with the New York Public Library she said, “You don’t know nothing. So do not write what you know. Think up something else.” Morrison explained how she would usually say this to the creative writing students she taught, and I know the kind of online newsletters that fancy themselves in cultural criticism don’t necessarily concern themselves with creative non- fiction. Still, I do think there is some benefit in going into a writing project with a basic idea in mind and a strong motivation to gain more knowledge because naturally, the more you learn about a subject the more your opinion will change. The cycle of “trending discourse” that has afflicted many bloggers today reveals a larger issue with the way opinion writing is treated today. When we run with the idea that one must develop a clear thesis and layout before undertaking the drafting process, an idea that has been drilled into the minds of young writers and academics for as long as anyone cares to remember, we kill the potential of so many possibly insightful projects. Deciding that our own limited, probably one dimensional, perspective is the most important perspective will drive us to solely seek information that supports our main argument, or engaging with those that challenge it in a superficial manner.

The post The Substack Essay appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I first met Evelyn at a Daily outreach event in September 2024. It was my first month at McGill, and I had been eager to find a new writing community. At the office, I entered a welcoming space that would end up becoming my new little sanctuary on campus. There, I also met Evelyn. They were inviting, stylish, and had a buzz of warmth around them that made me feel as if we already knew each other. As one does after meeting someone new, I followed Evelyn on Instagram that evening and was not the least bit surprised to find out that they were an artist. Since then, I’ve been quietly keeping up with their work: liking their posts, reading their blog, going to a few pop-ups, and supporting their endeavours from a distance. But when they completed “A Portal to the Free State,” their newest ceramic artwork, I was touched so profoundly that I knew it was time to finally put on my big girl pants and reach out to them again. 

“A Portal to the Free State” is one of Evelyn’s most ambitious projects yet: an earthen-green ceramic vase with a lighter, tea-green spiral at its centre. The vase sits atop a large piece of cotton with the title of the work embroidered in a fine red floss. Charms, representing the women in Evelyn’s family, surround the fabric. The piece was first displayed on December 13, 2025, at Scatterbrain’s “cocoon/chrysalis” showcase, with an artist’s statement stating that it aimed to “show the love that Black women pass on to their daughters.” Evelyn believes this love between Black women is a “kind [of love that] preserves, teaches, creates new possibilities and new worlds.” I spoke to them about how “A Portal to the Free State” can take us into one of those worlds. 

This interview had been edited for clarity and conciseness. 

Ingara Maidou for The McGill Daily (MD): Before we delve any deeper, could you try to explain how “A Portal to a Free State” came about?

Evelyn Logan (EL): I was taking this class called “Race, Gender, and the Practice of Power (HIST 429)” with Professor Melissa Shaw. In that class, we were examining Black women, Black marginalized people, and the way that they show up in historical records. Something that came out of that class was me realizing that there’s such a huge depth of knowledge that actually isn’t present in the archives, but that comes from my ancestors, and all the people that came before me, and that I have within me. 

Something else that came out of that class was the idea of a free state. I’m not very religious, though I was raised Christian, and I think there is this idea that, with all of this insurmountable oppression that Black people face, there has to be something else out there. There has to be another space, or mindset, or way to access the loved ones that you’ve lost — but also a way to access all of that knowledge, beauty, and power that comes from being Black. So I guess that’s kind of what the project was born out of.

MD: By being a student at university and having been raised in the church, do you feel as if those structures, where knowledge is transmitted in such particular ways, influences the way you go about your art? 

EL: I think for me, there is always going to be that tension there. Especially because, since moving to Montreal and starting university at McGill, I have become more disconnected from the church (but not necessarily from spirituality in that sense). So I think when I look at my art practice and the various things that I’m researching, I always want to get to other voices, not necessarily just the empirical sources. I will use Instagram, Twitter, and oral histories because there are so many barriers to higher education and to being published, or even just getting your voice out there. For me, it’s more about trying to genuinely listen, and not just hearing the loudest voices. 

MD: I read your artist’s statement, where you talk about how your mom, your grandmother, and your great-grandmother all influenced this project. Tell me about these women — what are they like? What qualities of theirs did you admire?

EL:  So on my mother’s side, there’s my mom Pamela, and her mother Cleo, and my mother’s two grandmothers, Meroe and Cora. I never knew my mom’s mother, as she ended up getting Alzheimer’s and then passed when I was a bit younger, but I’ve learned so much about her through this project and by asking my mom everything there was to know about her. Cleo was a schoolteacher, and she was very involved in the community. My mom recounted all these times where Cleo would drag her to the elders in the community to visit them, talk to them, or cook for them, and how my mom would help set up her classroom. Cleo was extremely loved and well-known in her community because she was very involved. Another thing that stuck out to me about her is that she was a seamstress. She sewed so well that she would often sew not just for my mom, but also for other mothers and children in their community in Maryland. That really stuck out to me because I’ve always wanted to learn to sew. 

Cleo’s mother was Meroe, and Meroe was alive during sharecropping. She wasn’t a sharecropper, though. She owned a store, which was kind of crazy because at that time most Black women were doing domestic work, or they were working in fields, or maybe they were teachers. My mother’s other grandmother, Cora, was a domestic worker. She worked throughout Mississippi nurturing people, taking care of kids, et cetera.I guess something that I got from all of them is this teaching spirit, which at first I was very proud of. Then for a while when I thought back, I didn’t know if I should be as proud of it, because teaching was one of the only jobs that Black women could do back then. But now I’m like, “Yeah, should I be proud of that!” because to have gotten that skill and that passion passed down…that’s special. 

MD: Why ceramics and tangible art? 

EL: I started doing ceramics when I was in early middle school because I wasn’t very into sports. I needed an after-school activity, and I had tried painting, but I didn’t like that and I wasn’t very good at it. So I was like, “Let me try this.” Um, or not me, my parents were like, “You’re gonna try something else.” I think it kind of stuck with me, especially because [making] ceramics is such a process. — you start with wedging your clay, and then you’re putting it on the wheel, and then you’re shaping it and centring and doing all these other things. What’s so important for me about tangible art is the touch. To form something like that from your brain… it takes quite a while to be able to make what you envision. But I love the experimental aspect of it, and I love the tactility. I was in a period of my life that was already quite rough. Then we went into COVID, and I felt very isolated as well. So being able to have something that was just mine felt so special and unique to me. I just fell in love with the idea of being able to make something, which I didn’t have in any other part of my life. Even when I was feeling so shit, if I just had my headphones on, and was just touching the clay, I could be chasing that moment where I would be pretty much centred. I would centre with my eyes closed, because it helped me focus on the feel. I guess it’s almost like prayer…I’m not religious, but I’m still very spiritual, and it’s almost like prayer. 

MD: One thing I’ve always enjoyed is how much you bring us along in the process of your work, for example with the unglazed pieces you often post. Those photos always gave me a bit of a whimsical and youthful feeling, a bit like watching clay-motion animation. So when you referenced Nathalie Batraville’s face jugs as one of your inspirations, it all started to click for me, this love for the imperfect. Therefore, I wanted to ask: what called you to document the process of making your art, and not just the final product?

EL: Well, that’s what I love the most about it: the documenting. Also, I love Natalie so much. She’s so talented. I’m a good glazer, but I’m not good in the sense that when I’m making a ceramic piece, what is in my head will just come out, which is very frustrating. So I always joke and say that, when I glaze a piece, it’s ruined. But that’s not actually why I don’t post my finished pieces. It’s just that I like the process so much better. I’d been doing ceramics for a long time before I decided to make it a career, and for a while I just got really caught up in having pieces done immediately. I feel like when you start producing content, you always have to be having something new come out that’s finished and good. And I didn’t want myself to stay in that mental hole, because I was totally in the hole. So now I’m trying to get myself to focus on the process, which also helps me get better. I’ve noticed I get so much better when I can focus on that. I find the process much more enticing now than a finished product, because there’s just so much more that you learn and so much more beauty in the process.

MD: Where do you throw? Could you tell me a bit about your studio? 

EL:  Studio 3 Tables. It’s the best space ever. It’s in this old mattress factory, and it’s an all BIPOC studio, which is super important because pottery is so white. I think most of the art world is white, but pottery is so white. So it was crazy for me to have found this space on Instagram. 

When I joined 3 Tables, I mentioned how I was interested in teaching, and the owner set me and another person up to teach, and they mentored both of us. That was such a good experience. I had my own class this past fall, and I was just beyond happy. Everybody’s so sweet, and it’s just so special because we love this specific craft and we’re all friends. I’m still getting to know everybody because I haven’t even been there for a year yet, but it’s so warm and fuzzy. It’s also been so inspiring, because everybody is so talented. And I feel like every time I step into this space, I’m ready to learn. 

MD: Talk to me about your previous ceramic sculpture series “HeLa”, inspired by Henrietta Lacks’ contributions to cancer research. Did that series influence “A portal”? 

EL:  I always wanted to do a project about Henrietta Lacks. How many lives is she saving all the time? How much money are these pharmaceutical companies making? Her family’s not seeing any of that. At the time that her biography (The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks) was written, her family was living in poverty. That’s so fucked up. That’s why I wanted to make a project about her. And then when I got the opportunity to do “A Portal”, I was thinking I’d continue not only the work that I was doing in that class, but also building upon the “HeLa” series. I want to keep making people think about Black women in a different way.

MD: I feel that Black identity and perceptions of Blackness operate in such a dynamic way. What differences have you noticed between navigating the world as a Black person in the U.S. compared to Canada?

EL: In Georgia, where I went to school, I was considered “lame” because I was just very nerdy. I loved what I was doing, but I was so lame. Then, when I came to McGill, all of a sudden everybody thought I was really fucking cool. They think I’m the coolest person ever, and they all want to be my friend because I’m so cool, which is just because I’m Black. Here in Montreal, if you’re Black? You’re cool. But in the States, especially in the south, there are so many Black people that you can be lame, you can be cool, you can be nerdy, or all these different things.

Going into McGill, I told myself:, “I’m gonna make all of the Black friends.” But I really struggled because I didn’t feel like I connected with Black Canadians. And when I would meet people who were from Africa, or Francophone countries, they would ask,  “Well, where are you from?” I would say, “Georgia,” and they would be like, “No, girl, where are your parents from?” Then I would say, “Ontario and Maryland.” And they’d ask, “Why don’t you know where you’re from in Africa?” And I just said, “Oh, slavery.” It just felt like people here were Black in a different way that I hadn’t really interacted with, because even though I knew a lot of people in the States that were first-generation or second-generation African immigrants, they still saw themselves as Black American and not necessarily, like, Nigerian-American. So it’s different.

MD: In your artist’s statement for “A Portal”, you describe learning how to have faith in the idea of another plane or world. For yourself, what does this “Free State” look like? 

EL:  When I think about it, practically, it’s just a world where you’re not forced to choose against your morals. I broke my laptop, but I don’t want to buy a new one because it’s an Apple laptop and I don’t want to support all of their mining practices in the Congo. But if I need to write an essay, I can’t write it on my ass, you know? In a world where people who look like us — Black people — are suffering and constantly discriminated against, it’s even hard to find a way around that without creating more harm. So, I picture a world where you can just live and not harm anyone, where you don’t have to be anxious or stressed, and nobody is policing you, and you’re not policing yourself. What do I think it looks like in a fantastical way? It’s just lots of green things, and you can just be. There’s universal income, and there’s universal healthcare, and you don’t have to worry about your body or what you need to do to make it work. You can just live. 

I struggled with writing the artist’s statement for “A Portal”. I’m worried that I wrote it in such a way that I wasn’t conveying that I believed things can be changed. The fact that I can even have this idea means that things can change, and it also means that you can change them for yourself and for your friends and family. So I didn’t want it to sound too imaginary. I didn’t want to fuel any kind of nihilism, but I also think it’s very valid specifically for Black people to have. What I wanted to infuse in the project was that while you’re reflecting on the people that came before you, and you’re getting to that place and revelling in the fact that you came from something, you can take that power and create your free state. Not just so that you can access that free state from far away, but so you can bring it here. You can bring it here. So yeah, I guess that’s what it looks like for me. 

More of Evelyn’s work can be found on their website or their Instagram pages: @ev_irl & @studios_irl 

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James Baldwin crafted a literary career that spanned 30 years, and his popularity can largely be attributed to his style. Trained as a preacher, his words were devoid of lukewarm prose. His speeches came off as sermons, yet their subject matters always captured diverse audiences, whether they agreed with his views or not. His essays bled passion, accompanied by wit and a sharp analytical eye that solidified him as a master in his craft. Still, there has historically been less appreciation for Baldwin’s strength as a novelist, with Louis Menand’s recent profile on Baldwin articulating that the writer’s novels are “not books you are eager to get back to” and “less formally adventurous and far less entertaining…” than other texts of the time.

As I slowly work through his fiction backlist, I’ve grown more in disagreement with the negligence of Baldwin’s contributions to the literary world, with Menand’s opinion in particular being one of my least favourites. I’ve always found that the cultural fascination with the subversive style and content in Baldwin’s non-fiction is equally present in his novels. Similar to his essays and speeches, Baldwin’s fiction is deeply personal, political, and philosophical, acting as an extension of himself and his surroundings. His semi-autobiographical fiction debut, Go Tell It to the Mountain, utilizes religious themes to narrate his family’s complicated history. Other novels, such as Giovanni’s Room, and, in my humble opinion, his magnum opus, Another Country, also reflect elements of Baldwin’s life through their brutal examinations of queerness, masculinity, and race in Paris and New York, cities Baldwin spent significant portions of his life in. The author’s characters are often manifestations of hyper-masculine societies that have forced queer men to suppress desire, and while deeply harrowing and sometimes difficult to read, his fiction demands that we directly confront the darkest parts of humanity and observe how systems of power can aggravate individual pain and suffering.

One subtle, but nevertheless present, aspect of Baldwin’s personal life that permeates his novels is his distaste for naming. Like Menand discusses in his piece, Baldwin was not enthusiastic about labeling himself as gay. His discomfort with labels was not just limited to his sexuality. The police in If Beale Street Could Talk are not overtly called racist in the same way that Rufus in Another Country is never called a rapist. James Baldwin was not as interested in constative language as he was in experiences and their associated feelings, as he told Jordan Elgraby in a stellar 1984 Paris Review interview, “I don’t know what technique is. All I know is that you have to make the reader see it.” Baldwin understood that the strange prickling feeling all over your body, warning you that something is wrong, that you’re in some kind of danger, or that you’ve committed a social transgression, would tell you more about racism or homophobia in 1960s America than any textbook could. His fiction provides a balanced and thorough lens on the micro and macro structures that produce systems of violence, and his lack of descriptive language when examining such brutality forces his readers to do their own work in determining where to place the blame.

Critics have sometimes described Baldwin as bitter, seemingly harbouring immense hate for white America and its future. Yet, Baldwin’s anger bred action. His rage was not unique or isolated but instead stemmed from his desire for a more loving society as he wrote in his essay “Autobiographical Notes,” “I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.” Love was always one of Baldwin’s main concerns — a fact that shines clear as day in his novels.

The post The Power in the Unnamed appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Clauses regarding the proliferation of hate speech are notorious for how contestable, narrow, or vague they are. In Kenya particularly, the criminalization of criticism deemed as vilification has harmed activists in the name of quelling anti-government propaganda. Just last year, the Kenyan Police Department, as well as the National Guard, injured 361 people and killed 39 during the national #RejectFinanceBill2024 protests. This wave of demonstrations was one of the largest Kenya has seen since the 2007 election crisis, with protestors from 35 counties participating in the movement. Kenyans in Nairobi, Mombasa, Kisumu, and more took to the streets to reject the government’s proposed tax increase to pay off government debt to the International Monetary Fund. These tax reforms would have increased the prices of everyday essentials, such as a 25 percent excise tax on vegetable oil and a 16 percent value-added tax on transportation. With a poverty rate of 38.9 per cent, and many employed citizens belonging to the informal sector, the added financial burden of these taxes would have been detrimental for many Kenyan families. 

The current president of Kenya, William Ruto, ultimately retracted the bill, as Kenyan mobilization proved to be stronger than its police, military, and governmental opposition. Through social media, younger generations promoted popular education programs and organized crowdfunding initiatives to help those without transportation reach protest locations. With the help of Google, activists were able to translate the bill into local languages and utilize artificial intelligence to understand the bill’s provisions that contained complicated legal jargon. However, employing the internet to combat oppression has seen its own set of complications, such as the content moderation and systems of surveillance that arose following the Arab Spring, a movement of protests and revolutions in North African and Levantine countries in the early 2010s. The enhanced governmental monitoring of journalists and social media users put many activists in danger, forcing them to alter their original methods of spreading awareness on social issues in fear of government retaliation. 

Despite these consequences, the lessons from the Arab Spring uprisings influenced the current use of the internet to protect protestors today. In Kenya, the internet and social media have been utilized to simplify the sometimes intimidating entry into political activism. Activists such as Boniface Mwagi have become outspoken about the violence and intimidation the government has used against Kenyans who’ve exposed administrative corruption. In addition, bloggers have routinely used their platforms to inform new protestors about safety measures. 

Despite these successes, this June, a year after the #RejectFinanceBill2024 movement began, the sight of stones thrown in exchange for bullets and the sound of chants for justice silenced by tear gas have once again flooded the streets of Nairobi. The current wave of protests has emerged to demand justice for Albert Ojwang, a father, teacher, and blogger who was found dead in the hands of the Kenyan police force this month.   

On June 6, the Kenyan Police arrested Albert Ojwang in his hometown of Kakoth, near Homa Bay, and transported him to Nairobi as a result of Ojwang’s social media posts criticizing the Kenyan Deputy Inspector General of Police, Eliud Lagat. The following morning, Ojwang was found unconscious in his cell, and after being rushed to the nearest hospital, he was pronounced dead. The same day, the Kenyan Police Department announced that Ojwang’s death was a result of self-inflicted injuries. However, suspecting foul play, on June 9, thousands in Nairobi began to demonstrate, demanding justice for Ojwang and denouncing the police brutality in Kenya. Chants exclaiming “Stop Killing Us”, accompanied by signs displaying the same words flooded popular streets. Soon after, on June 11, these statements were verified to be rooted in truth when a pathologist’s report confirmed Ojwang died as a result of external injuries to the head, neck, and body. Investigators also verified that CCTV footage was tampered with on the night of Ojwang’s death. As of June 16, Eliud Lagat has stepped down as deputy chief of police, five officers have been removed from active duty, and 23 have been questioned for their involvement in Ojwang’s murder. 

The issue of police violence in Kenya, however, did not begin or end with Ojwang, nor did it arise as a result of Finance Bill protests. Kenya’s administrative service police was originally established in 1896 by the British Foreign Office to act as a colonial police force and has historically used extreme violence to suppress human rights and protect taxation laws. During the colonial era, the police aggressively cracked down on land protection uprisings, placing many in concentration camps. The police also enforced hut taxes on rural peasantry, which financed colonial infrastructure and administration. Over time, like most sub-Saharan countries, more Kenyans migrated to urban centers following rapid industrialization and as a result, police forces naturally began to subjugate those in large cities as well. In their research on the role of the police in Kenyan cities, Professor Kristine Höglund and Professor Emma Elfversson found that urbanites in Kenya tend to hold less trust in the police, as the over-policing of many communities has resulted in violent conflicts. 

Today, the protection of the elite and the silencing of civilians is still a major concern amongst Kenyan society. Isaak Hassan, Kenya’s Policing Oversight Authority chairman, stated that the Independent Policing Oversight Authority (IPOA) has reported over 20 deaths in police custody in the past four months. This, in addition to the 72 disappearances and the 104 cases of extrajudicial killings that took place in 2024 — mostly including people outspoken about the repression in Kenya — raises serious concerns about the validity of freedom of speech that the state claims to protect. 

While President Ruto publicly denounced the police brutality witnessed during the Finance Bill protests, the only changes in response to Kenyan police brutality have included the resignation and replacement of individual officers, with few structural changes addressing the culture of police violence taking place. Still, despite the slow administrative changes to policing, the general conviction of Kenyans has remained unchanged. Protestors, activists, and all who have witnessed the impoverishment, disappearances, and extrajudicial killings at the hands of the police remain steadfast in their demands for justice, with the state’s violent suppression doing little to curtail the stamina of Kenyan resistance. 

The post When Freedom in Kenya Kills appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Over the years, my expectations for comprehensive mainstream war coverage in Sub-Saharan Africa dwindled bit by bit. I lost patience hearing reporters reduce complex conflicts to tribal disputes. I grew tired of reading the gross abstractions about “never ending war” that often accompanies reporting on the Global South. Still, as the current M23 conflict in the East of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) has recently begun to receive more coverage from global media outlets, a small part of me expected to see proficient writing on the complexities of the armed conflict.

My hopes were unfounded. The passive reporting of sexual violence in the DRC has instead, left a new sour taste in my mouth; a taste that can specifically be attributed to the lack of structural analysis on root of sexual violence in war, as well as a lack of coverage on the local resistance against this deliberate act of violence. 

A documentary that partly avoided falling into the trap of obscuring wartime sexual violence was the first episode in Gloria Steinem’s “Woman” series, which investigated the instrumental use of rape in Eastern Congo. The episode focused on the Kivu region, a nucleus for conflict, where sexual violence has been weaponised to humiliate its communities and assert dominance. The episode was by no means comprehensive, as it admittedly failed to examine how the legitimation of sexual violence in Congolese society was the basis for its exponential increase during the war. It additionally does not report on UN peacekeepers’ sexual abuse of Congolese women. Despite this, interviews conducted by journalist Isobel Yeoung were still able to give viewers a first-hand account of the distressing toll that sexual violence has taken on Kivu. Yeoung also interviewed activists who worked to address the sexual crimes neglected by the government, covering the community response to the violence. For instance, Yeoung met with the Congolese activist Masika Katsuva, who founded the Association des Personnes Déshéritées Unies pour le Développement (APDUD) in 2002, which has rehabilitated over 10,000 women. The documentary further includes a notable interview with the Nobel peace prize winning Congolese gynecologist Dr Dennis Mukwege, as viewers learn about his role in founding the Panzi Hospital in 1999 aimed to treat victims of rape. 

Almost ten years after the episode was filmed, there is still a clear relationship between a rise in armed conflict and increased sexual violence. In early February 2025, male inmates raped and burned over a hundred female inmates in a prison in the city of Goma following a jailbreak. This attack took place in the midst of the current upsurge of violence between the M23 rebel group on one side, and the Congolese military, vigilante groups, and UN peacekeepers on the other. As of February 2025, the insurgency has resulted in over 7000 deaths and while no reports have linked the mass rape to a political organisation, the attack demonstrates the scale of sexual crimes during warfare.

Mainstream media tends to over-rely on legal frameworks to legitimise any real issue. This results in a lack of meaningful reporting into “unfounded” topics, such as the manifestation of sexual violence in communities. While the legally binding Article of the Fourth Geneva convention (1949) states that, “Women shall be especially protected against any attack on their honour, in particular against rape, enforced prostitution, or any form of indecent assault.”: there was still not enough reportage on wartime rape until the late 20th century. The Rwandan genocide of 1994, among other horrifying wars that took place during the decade, revealed how women are systemically abused in armed conflict.  During the genocide, an estimated 2500,000-500,000 women were raped within approximately 100 days, which gained international attention. Still, sexual violence in war was only considered a threat to peace and security in 2008 when UN resolution 1820 was passed. Since this topic has clearly not been a primary concern of international law, reporting on the roots of the instrumental use of wartime rape has naturally not received enough coverage in mainstream media. 

When these outlets actually address sexual violence during war, they present distorted representations of the women impacted by these atrocities. Rape victims are seen as collateral damage. They are given no name and no agency– as the reigning assumption is that they would surely never dare to resist their situation since it is “all they know.” Leela Gandhi’s essay Postcolonialism and Feminism, discussed this very topic through an analysis of the West’s conceptualisation of the “third world-woman” as she wrote that “such theory postulates the third-world woman’ as victim par excellence—the forgotten casualty of both imperial ideology, and native and foreign patriarchies.” 

Gandhi’s description precisely captures the passivity attributed to women in the Global South. It encompasses how the manifestation of gender based violence is often at best, treated as an afterthought and at worst, completely neglected. Take a look at the BBC article covering the Goma rape. Although no groups have taken credit for the assault, the article still contextualizes the ongoing insurgency and counterinsurgency in Eastern DRC. However, the article never addresses the culture of sexual violence in the DRC, nor does it acknowledge any acts of resistance. It does not mention findings about how “50% of women have experienced sexual violence in a domestic context” nor does it touch on the women’s marches calling for an end to the war. Instead, the use of passive voice treats the topic of rape as an incidental event in the conflict; and once again, rape is characterized as an arbitrary consequence of war. Women are presented as the unfortunate victims of this inevitable issue, with the article refusing to recognize the organized attack on women during war.

Wartime rape is often written about as if it were an individual rogue attack and not a system of violence worthy of political analysis. Yet whether one wants to admit it or not, wartime rape thrives off of government neglect. For example, UN experts on the crisis in the DRC affirmed the Rwandan government’s backing of the M23 group, one that has committed various human rights abuses including rape. The Human Rights Watch reported similar instances of sexual violence committed by Congolese soldiers since 2022. The UN itself confirmed that over 90% of sexual assault allegations against peacekeepers in 2023 originated from The DRC and The Central African Republic. Nonetheless, the consequences of mass sexual violence committed by government and IGO (Intergovernmnetal Organizations) agents lacks thorough investigation. Although there has been an increased recognition of sexual crimes, such as the ongoing trial of soldiers in the DRC accused of rape, governments still fail to take a closer look at the how the culture of sexual violence in armed conflict manifests.

Mass sexual violence during war is not incidental. It is a military strategy that humiliates and demoralizes women with the aim to humiliate and demoralize their societies. From the system of comfort women in imperial Japan to the increased rape in the DRC, women’s sexual subjugation has historically been magnified in military conflict. Therefore, it is entirely necessary for more in-depth analysis into the use of rape as a war tactic to be taken.

Media coverage must take a clearer stance when reporting the violence committed by soldiers and the failures to address the root of these crimes. We must reject the idea that Congolese women are unnamed victims. We must affirm the agency of women in the DRC conflict, as well as women globally. 

The post How Sexual Violence in War Journalism is Treated as an Afterthought appeared first on The McGill Daily.

These characteristics are a hallmark of Ousmane Semebene’s Black Girl (1966) and Djibril Diop Mambéty’s Touki Bouki (1973), two Senegalese films that explore the desire for a life abroad seen within many African communities.

When Black Girl’s protagonist, Diouana, steps off the boat in France, she only has a few moments to take the city in before the harsh reality of life abroad sets in. While Diouana comes to France expecting to work as a nanny for a couple, she is deceived into becoming their housemaid. She quickly learns that France is neither an escape nor her new home. France is ironing and laundry. France is cleaning the kitchen and bathroom. France is work.

Touki Bouki’s Anta and Mory are on the other side of the same dilemma. Dakar lacks opportunity, and the young couple can no longer envision a life of freedom at home. Therefore, with no money and unsupportive families, Anta and Mory connive to escape to Paris. Their desire to emigrate is not shaped by a lack of love for Senegal, nor is it determined by a measurable goal they hope to reach in Paris; it is simply the prospect of change that fuels their move.

Both Black Girl and Touki Bouki take place in the first ten years of Senegalese independence from France, a time filled with uncertainty for what the future of the country might look like. Yet, this newfound independence makes the audience wonder why these characters would want to move to France after finally gaining independence from French domination. What pushes people to leave home without certainty of success elsewhere?

Franz Fanon first coined the term “colonial alienation of the person” in 1952 to describe the internalized inferiority complex of colonized societies. The term has grown to be incredibly useful when examining the ways colonized peoples internalize harmful ideas about their cultures, view their societies through a colonial lens, and measure themselves based on their proximity to whiteness. The term is additionally beneficial in explaining why the Occident is held in such high regard. It is a clear way to explain why Diouana, Mory, and Anta are sure that moving to France is the key to a better life. However, while useful, it is important to not solely rely on the sheer power of Western brainwashing when examining choices made by Senegalese people post-independence. It is important to also recognize Senegalese self-determination and consider the rational approach many people took to the issue of immigration.

For instance, France has had a presence in Senegal since the 16th century, with Senegal only becoming an independent state in 1960. Interestingly enough, many Senegalese academics actually advocated for assimilation instead of independence. This did not mean that people simply forgot about the barbaric nature of imperialism. The understanding of Western hegemony was precisely why a moderate approach for greater Senegalese rights was taken and can account for why so many immigrants decided to move to France. As Aisha Balabare Bawa states in the article “From Imperialism to Diplomacy: A Historical Analysis of French and Senegal Cultural Relationship”, the policy of assimilation was adopted by Senegalese activists and leaders as a way for the Senegalese people to gain equality with French citizens in a non-violent manner.

The pretence of a European life being the best one was not just a misaligned viewpoint – it was, and still is, regarded as the determinant of success. Proximity to European standards determines a nation’s stage of development and immigration to Europe is many Africans’ only way of picturing a life of stability. Whether one profoundly believes in Eurocentrism or not, its stark influence on our day-to-day lives is unavoidable.

As most of the film takes place in France, Black Girl explores Eurocentrism from an immigrant’s perspective. Halfway through the film, we see a flashback of Diouana telling her lover that she will soon be working in France. While skipping around the city, Diouana anticipates that her lover will claim that she is submitting herself to domestic slavery. Diouana shakes these concerns off, as nothing can dwindle her excitement. Through these brief scenes of her life in Dakar, it is made clear that Diouana has internalized the idea of a French utopia imposed on so many colonized peoples. After all, she is willing to abandon the only home she knows for a vague and empty promise of a better life. Yet, her blissful optimism is not merely a result of ignorance.

When foreign powers have controlled your home, an attraction to the thought of immigration is perfectly reasonable. Diouana is not a fool for accepting the world as it is presented to her. While she is not particularly displeased with her life in Senegal, France is portrayed as a paradise, and it would have been foolish of her not to capitalize on an opportunity promised to be thrilling. The isolation she faces in France was not just a result of her ignorance but also of the lasting impacts of colonialism. Her mistress promises her a better life abroad, in the same way that French dominance promised to make the African continent prosperous. Through Diouana’s disillusionment, Sembene illustrates the social and psychological manifestations of the colonial alienation of the person.

On the other hand, Anta, the female lead in Touki Bouki, is a college student and belongs to a group of pan-Africanists. It would be naive to assume that her desire for a life in Paris with Mory is solely influenced by false notions of Western supremacy. In actuality, anyone watching Mambety’s depiction of Dakar through Anta and Mory’s eyes would come to realize that the couple deeply care for the city. For Anta and Mory, Dakar is driving in the sun and love on the beach. Their city is vibrant and marked with mischief. The love for Dakar seen in Touki Bouki is conspicuous, an aspect that, over time, complicates their decision to leave.

The root of Anta and Mory’s dissatisfaction is not with Dakar itself, but can instead be attributed to the elitism and hypocrisy within post-colonial Senegal. The couple only begins to receive acceptance by their community when they are draped in expensive European fabrics. Moreover, Anta’s so-called revolutionary classmates harasses Mory for his working-class status. While some traditional customs, such as animal slaughter and folklore, are still present in their society, the Senegal they once knew is changing. Like many immigrants, Anta and Mory come to the conclusion that they may not be able to grow with their home, so instead, they must leave it. Similarly to Black Girl, Touki Bouki highlights how a love for your country and a thirst for change are not mutually exclusive – our attitudes toward what and where home is are variable and can always be subject to questioning.

France currently has the largest African diaspora in Europe. The leap of faith Diouana, Anta, and Mory take when choosing to immigrate to France illustrates the core of the African diasporic experience: immigration is not solely a decision based on disregard for one’s home. The insatiable drive to leave home in search of socio-economic stability is taxing, and the alienation one can face after leaving home is burdensome. Immigration is a heavy choice for many. Yet, Touki Bouki and Black Girl magnetically depict the flexible idea of home in a time struck by revolutionary change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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