Stroking her green neon socks, Ahmed said, “I actually tried to go on vacation to PEI [Prince Edward Island] with my children [last summer]. I thought, nobody is gonna want to talk to me. But I’ve been nonstop busy since August.”

Ahmed has also worked in social services, using sports as a vehicle to support women and youth who have dealt with trauma and violence. Her work has been featured and discussed in The Guardian, The National Post, The Globe and Mail, VICE Sports, Jezebel, espnW, Media Diversified, Muslimah Media Watch and more.

McGill Daily (MD): You call yourself a sports activist. What does that mean to you?

Shireen Ahmed (SA): Advocating for equality and social justice by means of sports and advocating for the inclusion of Muslim and athletes of colour in sport. Sertaç Sehlikoglu, curator of Muslim women in Sports blog, coined the term.

MD: How long have you been playing soccer for?

SA: I’ve been a soccer player since I was five. I’ve always played, I play in gramma league now to be honest. But my experience was significantly altered when I chose to wear a headscarf when I was 20 and playing for the University of Toronto […]. At the time, there was no formal hijab ban, but there was nothing in the rules to allow me to play either. So I was left up unofficially to the referees. I suited up for a summer season in ‘98 and paid for twenty games and I was allowed to play three. I found that demoralizing, humiliating and frustrating so I moved on to rowing [which] didn’t have restrictions on what you could wear.

Quebec was the last province and soccer federation to [accept the end of FIFA hijab ban].

MD: And you’ve been playing ever since?

SA: I have. I went back formally a few years ago. [Before that] for a while I was playing pickup on an unofficial league called Muslim Youth Soccer League which actually gave women a place to play. It wasn’t affiliated with Ontario Soccer or Canada Soccer, because [those federations] followed the FIFA rules, and FIFA had until 2012 banned the hijab. But in July 2012, FIFA sent a memo to [its affiliates] about a temporary lifting [of the ban]. And then I joined a league and the they let me play. [FIFA] formally lifted the ban in 2014.

MD: How did these experiences impact the work you do today?

SA: I started reflecting on those experiences [as a social worker and a soccer player], got myself writing […].I started researching a lot about Muslim women in sport, politics, histories and misconceptions. I wasn’t really happy with the way [this writing] was being done because the landscape of Canadian sports media is very, very male and white… and let’s just say they lack a little bit of nuance. And I decided to do it myself and here I am.

I’m not pretending that I could’ve gone pro, but I’m saying that I didn’t have the choice.

MD: We are in the province of Charter of Values… What are these bans like in Quebec?

SA: In 2007, Asmahan Mansour, an 11-year-old soccer player from Ottawa, was rejected from a tournament in Quebec because she wears hijab. […] Her case went up to FIFA and this was the year that [hijab was officially outlawed]. How did they come to the conclusion? Because a bunch of guys just decided it wasn’t allowed. [In 2012,] with the temporary lifting of the ban, Ontario and BC were like, okay, wear hijab, it’s fine. The ban was lifted in March 1, 2014, and Soccer Canada and Soccer Ontario were very supportive. Quebec was the last province and soccer federation [to accept the ruling] and […] waited until [the ban] was formally lifted. Why? Because in the entire world, there’s only one other federation that doesn’t allow headcovers: [the soccer federation in] France.

MD: What are the reasons given for these bans?

SA: To this day there’s not one piece of empirical data that shows that hijab has been to the detriment of a player or the opponent. There’s none. I’ve looked for it everywhere! Same with basketball. There isn’t one piece of shred of evidence that a hijab that’s tucked into a kit has hurt anyone. People have been hurt by jewelry or long braids being whipped into the face, but not a hijab.

MD: What do these bans look like for university athletes?

SA: CCAA [Canadian Collegiate Athletic Association, the national governing body of sports in Canadian colleges] doesn’t adhere to the international federation rules, because [university athletes] are amateur level. For example, NCAA [National Collegiate Athletic Association, governing sports in colleges and universities in the U.S.] allows hijab. So FIBA [which has banned players from wearing the hijab] doesn’t govern NCAA so hijab is allowed, which is really bizarre because you had Division I NCAA basketball players like Bilqis Abdul-Qaadir not being able to go pro because of her hijab, so that was terrible. In a new movie [titled FIBA Allow Hijab] she’s very vocal about how stressed she was, how painful it was to not be able to play because basketball means so much to her […]I know this feeling because when I was told I couldn’t play because of my hijab, it was taking a piece away from me. I played soccer most of my life and I’m not as good at soccer as she is in basketball and I’m not pretending that I could’ve gone pro, but I’m saying that I didn’t have the choice. My daughter [who wears the hijab] works hard and will continue to work hard because she has an opportunity to play soccer professionally, she’s seen it be done. She’s seen in the FIFA U-17 Women’s World Cup in Jordan just this past year, she’s seen them play.

When I was told I couldn’t play because of my hijab, it was taking a piece away from me

MD: So how do you think universities like McGill better support Muslim athletes?

SA: By better understanding the needs and requirements of students and not just for the athletes, for everyone who wants to be involved in sports. […] How are we going to elevate sports for people? What can we do to reach out to more folks? You need to make your facilities accessible for people with disabilities. For student athletes [inclusion is] everything from dietary requirements to training in Ramadan. A good model, a high school football team in Dearborn, Michigan, majority of players are Muslim-Lebanese, so they had their training after dark. And it’s not just nutritional support, athletes of all intersections need the support they need to handle the culture of sports, which in this country is still very white. [Universities could ensure] athletes of colour have they need to navigate those systems.

MD: What are the biggest barriers to Muslim women’s participation in sports?

SA: For muslim women and women from ethnic communities in this country, from my research, the biggest barriers are access to equipment, financial support, a sports culture they’re not familiar with […] general toxic culture of masculinity in sports. [Muslim women] have to battle gendered islamophobia […] in sports. It can be a lot to handle. As far as Muslim girls go, [barriers] can be anything from body image, doubt. Young Muslim women suffer the same trials and tribulations as any other young woman, like lack of support from society to mixed messages to identifying what an athlete looks like.

The reason I looked to Jan Wong is because she’s smart but also because everyone else looked like Margaret Wente.

MD: And that brings us to role models and representation!

SA: Representation is crucial and that’s why Ibtihaj Muhammad [Black, hijab-wearing Muslim woman fencer on Team USA] is important to so many people […] Serena Williams is playing in a very white dominated field and conquering that field. I did a piece on Jeanne d’Arc Girubuntu who is not a Muslim woman but she’s from Rwanda. She’s the first female Black cyclist from the entire continent of Africa. All the other cyclists are wealthy white women. These representation open up doors and inspire people. They really make young women reflect and think, I think I can have this, I love this, why not. I would love to see young muslim women break it into hockey. But even before we get to Muslim women, Canadian Women’s Hockey League players aren’t paid. So let’s be clear, it’s not as if the North American model is a bastion of freedom for women in sports and exemplary in equality and feminism. Because it’s not. The strongest soccer team in the world, the American women, are not paid as well as the American men are for doing one-eighth as well. […] People new to this society may not want to throw their daughters into something that isn’t fair to begin with. Like how much of an uphill climb?

MD: How about representation in sports writing?

SA: When I was growing up in this country, the one writer I looked to was Jan Wong, she is a former writer for The Globe and Mail and is from Montreal, she is actually Chinese. I’m of Pakistani descent, we don’t look anything alike! The reason I looked to her is because she’s smart but also because everyone else looked like Margaret Wente. Now you have people like [The Globe’s] Denise Balkissoon, Hannah Sun who are brilliant, VICE’s Manisha Krishnan, but still the sports side is not as diverse. There’s one person at the Toronto Star’s sport desk who is a person of colour, Morgan Campbell, he’s great, I know him, and yes we’ve had coffee. There’s so few of us doing this and we all know each other.

MD: I find that as a writer of colour, it’s often very hard to have my voice heard. What are your thoughts on that?

SA: In a lot of circles in this country, white people are the gatekeepers. And how does [resisting] that work in sports? You make your own space. I had a friend tell me, I’ve never been given a seat at the table. And my advice is, build your own chair. Bypass that, get your work done […]. You’re not gonna get invited. The way it stands particularly in Canadian sports media, you’re not gonna get invited unless you make noise and to make that noise you have to work hard, you have to stand by your stuff, have diligent editors and publications that have your back.

Ahmed blogs at footybedsheets.tumblr.com. Follow her on Twitter @_shireenahmed_.

The post Sitting down with Shireen Ahmed appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The Hunting Ground, the groundbreaking movie on campus sexual violence in the U.S., opens with various shots of football players, looking hideous and sinister underneath their black helmets and shoulder pads as an ominous soundtrack plays in the background. The narrative of the sexually violent student-athlete isn’t unfamiliar to anyone who follows discussions of campus sexual assault. Male student-athletes tend to dominate the headlines and conversations. It’s only logical to wonder: do athletes rape more often?

We don’t even have to look too far for evidence. From the termination of the football season in 2005 over brutal hazing incidents to suspension of multiple players charged with sexual and domestic violence in the past few years, McGill student-athletes – particularly football players – have been consistently in the news due to Athletics’ poor treatment of sexual violence. This is while student-athletes make up a tiny proportion of the overall student body.

It’s been almost four years since the storm that took over campus about McGill’s treatment of the reports of a sexual assault by three R*dmen players, and a few months since the passing of McGill’s Policy Against Sexual Violence. So I had to wonder: how much has changed in Athletics since?

Why is sexual violence prevalent among student-athletes?

Since 1992, numerous studies have shown that male student-athletes are indeed more likely to commit  sexual violence. According to a review of the literature on college athletics and sexual assault by Kristy McCray of Otterbein University, male student-athletes are grossly overrepresented in official campus rape reports and are more likely themselves to admit potential or past sexually abusive behaviour than their non-athlete peers. Moreover, athletes are also self-identified as assailants by survivors of sexual violence at disproportionate rates.

The research McCray reviews attributes this violence to a variety of factors, such as the increased likelihood for athletes to be physically and sexually aggressive. Immersed in a male-dominated environment, they are more likely to feel the need to prove their masculinity, display misogynistic attitudes, receive and cave into peer pressure, have a sense of celebrity entitlement and believe in rape myths – false and widely held attitudes about rape. Athletes’ impunity is not baseless: often, athletics departments and universities do their best to protect their star athletes from criminal allegations or charges, as has been the case at McGill.

Last year, a study published in Violence Against Women showed that recreational athletes often display the above attitudes and behaviours seen in varsity athletes. In fact, the study found no significant difference in rape myth acceptance, attitudes toward women, and sexual coercion between the two types of athletes.

The study found no significant difference in rape myth acceptance, attitudes toward women, and sexual coercion between the [varsity and recreational] athletes.

All this research, however, is almost exclusively conducted in the U.S., and the similar studies in a Canadian context are scarce. Even the 2016 independent investigation funded by the Government of Ontario – considered as offering some of the most comprehensive findings  in Canada – barely mentions the unique nature of Athletics and the abusive dynamics that often exist in its culture. Now, unlike the U.S., Canadian university life is not centered around athletics and R*dmen particularly do not enjoy the same status and prestige of their American counterparts.

But I think this is exactly why we need to pay more attention to athletes’ sexual violence in Canada. It is in the absence of such athletic prestige that, time and again, R*dmen’s sexual violence has dominated headlines and galvanized the student body. If, in the absence of empirical data, our own university is to be a lesson for others, it is clear that something is wrong with the culture of Athletics at McGill, and it’s important to actively acknowledge and address that.

McGill R*dmen after 2013

In 2014, Ian Sheriff was employed at McGill’s sports summer camp for 6 to 15 years-old children while still undergoing investigation for the sexual assault with a weapon of a female Concordia student. This was the third summer Sheriff was working at the summer camp following his arrest. His hiring would have been censured by the guidelines of Quebec Association of Certified Camps, but McGill wasn’t affiliated with that association at the time.

The CBC revealed the news about Sheriff’s employment on July 23, 2014. Drew Love, the executive director of McGill Athletics at the time, was quoted by the CBC as saying that all new employees undergo background checks. However, he added, “We are bound by the presumption of innocence, and by an accused’s right to due process.”

The next day, Anthony Masi, who was  Provost of McGill at the time, chimed in to disagree. The hiring of Sheriff was now, according to Masi, a “lapse in judgement.” He also told the CBC about his call for a  “thorough review of the circumstances that led to this hiring at the sports camp and a full and complete examination of employment procedures at McGill Athletics and Recreation.”

This report, however, was never released to the public, and the administration did not respond to my request about these investigations.

Those of us who have been around long enough still remember the storm that took over campus when it was revealed that Sheriff, along with Brenden Carriere and Guillaume Tremblay, had been allowed to remain on the R*dmen’s roster and stay at McGill after being charged with sexual assault with a weapon and forcible confinement in 2011.

Even if the University doesn’t want to “comment on any individual case,” […] it ought to make the general conclusions and ramifications of these investigations public.

At the time, Deputy Provost (Living and Learning) Ollivier Dyens told the Montreal Gazette, “It didn’t happen on the McGill campus and she wasn’t a McGill student […].” He claimed to have been unaware of the charges. However, the Gazette claimed to have contacted McGill after the attack in 2011, and the then football head coach Clint Uttley was informed of the arrests in 2012. The publicity crisis resulting from Dyens’ comments, Uttley’s knowledge of the charges and the overall lack of transparency about the situation led to the athletes’ suspension.

In 2014, star athlete Luis Guimont-Mota was charged with domestic violence against his wife. This wasn’t Guimont-Mota’s first criminal charge: he had previously been been sentenced to ninety days of jail time – served on Sundays to avoid interference with his athletic career – and 240 hours of community service after pleading guilty to assaulting a man in 2010.

This time, the administration seemed to have learnt its lesson. “In line with the University’s varsity athletics guidelines,” read a statement released by Dyens, “effective immediately, this player is suspended from the football team pending resolution of his case by the Court.”

To be clear, according to my correspondence with Dyens about the Guimont-Mota case, there is no such clause in the “University’s varsity athletics guidelines.” This claim is likely an interpretation of section 21 of the Student Code of Conduct: students can be excluded from university premises if there exists  “reasonable grounds to believe that the student’s continued presence is detrimental to good order, or constitutes a threat to the well-being of others.’”

Dyens also told CBC news, “[Guimont-Mota] should not have come to McGill University. We take full responsibility for this.” Similar to Masi in the 2013 case, Dyens is reported to have called for an inquiry, this time into Guimont-Mota’s recruitment. He said, “We want to know who knew what, when and how.” According to Guimont-Mota and Uttley, the administration was aware of the charges at the time.

I requested an interview with Athletics’ eligibility officer, Caroline James, current football head coach, Ronald Hilaire, executive director, Marc Gélinas as well as Dyens regarding this investigation and the ramifications for future recruitment and background screening.

James and Hilaire never got back to me, Gélinas told me to talk to Dyens and Dyens told me that he can’t discuss the investigation. Let me reiterate: in response to publicity crises, the University’s senior administration reported the launch of investigations about the University’s most high-profile sexual assault cases. Now that everything has blown over, the University refuses to publish these findings, and puts a gag order on anyone else that may dare to speak of the incidents.

I believe that is important to be transparent about Sheriff’s employment at or Guimont-Mota’s recruitment to McGill. Even if the University doesn’t want to “comment on any individual case,” as Dyens told me, it ought to make the general conclusions and ramifications of these investigations public. This is not only because the University made a promise, but because, as students, we deserve to know.

Guimont-Mota, needless to say, was reinstated in early 2015 once the charges against him were dropped. This is while Dyens had said his recruitment had been a mistake in the first place. Guimont-Mota went on to play for R*dmen for the next season, as well.

McGill’s response to sexual violence in Athletics

In the Senate meeting of September 17, 2014, Dyens said that he won’t be institutionalizing consent training for athletes; he was “not going to target one group of students.”

In some ways, Dyens has changed his mind. He told me in an email that, since 2014, the University has offered consent and bystander prevention workshops to coaches. Athletes themselves, in collaboration with Consent McGill, have produced a consent video and other “educational information.” But that’s it.

That’s all that McGill’s accountability with regards the sexual violence committed by male athletes has consisted of: workshops for coaches, and making videos. In an article titled “#ThisIsNotHelping” published in The Daily last year, I have outlined the shortcomings of consent education in depth, particularly when used as the sole measure to combat sexual violence, and it seems to be the case at Athletics as well.

However, my skepticism of consent education’s effectiveness does not hinder me from believing that such training can indeed do some good in the case of McGill Athletics. Uttley, after all, was fully aware of Guimont-Mota’s conviction and the charges against Sheriff, Carriere and Tremblay. He just didn’t think it was important to do something about it. Perhaps if he had received some consent training – empirically shown to change attitudes about the gravity of sexual violence – he would have thought otherwise. But what if coaches are abusive themselves?

Let’s talk about the coach

There has been a lot of conversations on our campus about professors’ abuse of power to groom and sexually harass or abuse their students. Perhaps due to the disconnect between Athletics and the wider campus community, not much discussion has revolved around similar abusive dynamics between athletes and coaches.

The focus on changing coaches’ attitudes about sexual violence, as seem to be McGill’s focus, may prevent Uttley-like coverups in the future. However, attitude change can only take you so far, particularly when men are set on abusing their authority. No study has, to my knowledge, shown that consent education leads to long term behavioural change. Understanding this has serious ramifications for the role of coaches in sports and athletic environments.

Perhaps the most high-profile case of coach misconduct in recent memory is that of Penn State: in 2011, Jerry Sandusky, former coach for the school’s football team, was convicted of 52 counts of sexual abuse and sentenced to 442 years in prison. In the nearby City of Wesmount, it was only last month that  a class action suit against against the city representing the child abuse victims of the city’s former hockey coach, John Garland, was settled.

Attitude change can only take you so far, particularly when men are set on abusing their authority.

In a study published in Canadian Woman Studies, one in five athletes among the 1,200 Canadian national team athletes surveyed (ninety per cent of whom are female) reported having had sexual relations with people who held positions of power over them. Moreover, in the survey, the female respondents wrote four times as many accounts of harassment and abuse involving coaches (48, to be precise) than others.

What this all means that, coaches are likely to abuse the responsibility and power they are entrusted with. They are not always potential “active bystanders,” but potential abusers. And as others in position of authority over students, they ought to be subject to regular reviews and subject to an accountability process that prioritizes students’ safety over the University’s reputation.

On second chances

I’d like to end this piece with a note on second chances. Uttley resigned over Dyens’s statement that Guimont-Mota should have never been recruited. Uttley defended his choice of recruitment by saying that the University was aware of Guimont-Mota’s charges. He also said, “I believe in rehabilitation.”

I’m also of the unpopular belief that people do deserve second chances. However,  reintroducing or keeping an abuser in the community poses significant challenges and responsibilities to community leaders. Wrongdoings require meticulous investigation, monitoring and counseling. This form of rehabilitation also requires full transparency about the situation with the wider community – in this case, the football team, other varsity teams, McGill’s student body – and always keeping the safety of the victims and the community as a priority.

This is not what Uttley did. McGill, as well, has kept the results of its investigations confidential and neglected to introduce any meaningful measures to change Athletics culture or hold abusive students and coaches accountable.

A policy […] that doesn’t seek transparency about past and present negligences or addresses the special dynamics at work in Athletics, isn’t enough.

When I asked Dyens about the measures in place to increase transparency about male student-athletes’ criminal activity and holding them accountable, his first instinct was to remind of the existence of the Sexual Violence Policy. The policy, according to Dyens, demonstrates “McGill’s firm and ongoing commitment to increasing awareness of, and responding to, sexual violence across all parts of our campuses.” But does it really?

A policy, particularly one that doesn’t seek transparency about past and present negligences or addresses the special dynamics at work in Athletics, isn’t enough. You’d think that with such a troubled history, McGill Athletics may have learnt its lesson. Perhaps we need another scandal to get McGill to spring into action.

The post Are we waiting for another scandal? appeared first on The McGill Daily.

On top of that, Mehain is a member of the McGill Swimming team and a fourth year student in sustainability sciences. The Daily spoke to Mehain about her experience as a Paralympian as well as her views on invisible disability, media representation and sports activism.

McGill Daily (MD): How did you get into swimming? Did you find it to be an overall accommodating sport?
Sarah Mehain (SM): I swam from an early age but I didn’t always know about para-swimming. But then I had a coach that had previously coached a Paralympic athlete, and he got me into Paralympic swimming when I was 12. And at that point I knew that there were a lot of opportunities ahead of me, I had no idea before that. Swimming is a very big Paralympic sport in terms of the number of events and competitors and has a very good support system for the athletes. And it’s accessible to all different levels of disability. It’s a a very well-developed paralympic sport, and it’s easier to get into.

MD: How does the Canadian InterUniversity Sport (CIS) system accommodate disabled athletes?
SM: In CIS, teams rank themselves against each other using their points, but there is no opportunity for disabled athletes to contribute to those points. [This system] effectively prevents [disabled athletes] from being part of varsity teams. Technically, I can compete at the [CIS] meets with the [McGill] team but there’ll be no consideration for my disability. My time will be taken flat against everybody else’s and I’ll come in last so I won’t make any points for the team. [As a result] universities don’t want to take in disabled athletes because [disabled athletes] are not going to improve the ranking of the team. So what needs to happen is to have a point system that allows disabled athletes to compete for university teams and get points. The U.S. is working on allowing a point system [like this].

“I’m not telling you I’m in the Paralympics because I want to devalue myself, I’m telling you because I’m proud to be in the Paralympics.”

MD: So how did you get into McGill swimming?
SM: I had a very hard time finding a university that would allow me to swim with the varsity team. Peter [Carpenter], head coach of McGill varsity team, had worked with Valérie Grand’Maison [gold medalist at the 2012 Paralympic Games in London] before I started working with him. So he was already in the system, he already knew about the Paralympics, and he was willing to take me in and allow me to train with the varsity team, go to their meets, have a different schedule, and train me throughout the summer at a different time.

MD: Is participating in parasports and Paralympics political to you?
SM: In a way. Because you’re representing something that isn’t just a sporting movement, it’s an activism movement. I don’t have a lot of time to be very active in disability activism, but the best way that I can represent [Paralympics] right now is by talking to people. Every time someone introduces me and says, “Hey, this is my friend Sarah, she went to the Olympics,” I say, “No, actually, I went to the Paralympics, and this is what Paralympics is if you don’t know.” A lot of people don’t know what Paralympics is. I once went out with a guy and when I told him I had competed in the Paralympics, he said, “Oh, that’s awesome, so when are you going to go to the real Olympics?” To this guy’s defense, he thought that paralympics was ‘pre-Olympics,’ it meant the level before Olympics and it was a step toward going to the Olympics. A lot of people also tell me, “Oh well, [the Paralympics] is just as good!” Like you don’t need to tell me that. I’m so, so, proud of what I’m doing, I’ve put so much work into it, you don’t have to tell me that [Paralympics] is just as good as the Olympics. It’s different from the Olympics, for sure, but in my opinion it’s different in a good way. It’s not any less than the Olympics. I’m not telling you I’m in the Paralympics because I want to devalue myself, I’m telling you because I’m proud to be in the Paralympics.

MD: How do you view the mainstream representation of disability in the media?
SM: Currently the only examples we have in our media is either the promotion of elite sports for Paralympics, or representations where a disabled person is either a villain, or lonely, never a romantic interest, or they’re evil, or they want to end their life because that’s how bad having a disability is. They would rather not exist than have a disability. This type of media representation leads people to assume that [disabled people] can’t do anything so when you can make it into university or go grocery shopping they’re surprised that you can do normal everyday tasks. They say, “Good for you,” but no, I’m just living, I’m just doing my own thing. They wouldn’t say that if it was an able-bodied person. Paralympic sport organizations though are moving away from [‘inspirational’] type of branding. Especially Swimming Canada is moving toward promoting their athletes in a way that’s similar to Olympic athletes. So you’re focusing on high performance, excellence, hard work, and all the hours that go into this rather than focusing on the fact that you’re doing it with a disability. I think it’s really good that we are moving into that direction, but it’s also important to not forget the disability, because it’s a huge and very powerful part [of the sport].

MD: How have participating in Paralympics changed the way you understand your disability?
SM: If you grow up disabled, often you’re not exposed to other people with disabilities and often you’re isolated in your own experiences. You grow up surrounded by able-bodied people and you’re the only one that’s different – you play with Barbies with perfect bodies, you watch Disney movies with [able-bodied] princesses, and you have no positive examples in your childhood, in your young adult life, of people with disabilities. You think it’s just me, that’s why you don’t say anything. You keep getting the message that you should act a certain way to be disabled, be accommodating, kind, friendly, inspirational. Basically you’re objectified. As I tried to be involved in Paralympics, I saw examples of people that were doing amazing things with their lives – or not even amazing, but just normal things with their lives, like doing sports or getting married. That was the first time I was exposed to the possibility of having those things in my life.

MD: How does having an invisible disability shape your daily life?
SM: A lot of para-athletes have a very low level of disability. It’s enough that they couldn’t compete with able-bodied athletes. It’s not necessarily immediately visible so it requires a level of disclosure. The problem with disclosure is that right now, in order to get any accommodations to do something on an equal playing field, you have to disclose your disability. So if people can’t see your disability, they question it, they ask if you really have a disability, if are you really impacted, they attach a lack of authenticity to your disability. You don’t fit into the right narrative of disability because it’s not visible and you don’t fit the right narrative of [normativity] because you can’t do everything without accommodations.

MD: What do you think of accommodations system at McGill?
SM: With professors, it really depends on the person, because I’ve had professors that are really accommodating and really respect the fact that I’m doing sports. But then I’ve had profs that [required me] to write exams an entire semester late because I’d missed it for a swim meet. Overall, [accommodations] shouldn’t be seen as privileges. The students that need these resources, they deserve them, and it’s their human right, their right as students to access those. To improve, the OSD (Office for Students with Disability) could promote their resources better, and McGill could also create a standard method for dealing with accommodations with professors and for athletes.

MD: lastly, what is your best memory of Rio?
SM: When we arrived, it was incredible – the excitement that the athletes were greeted with. [In terms of] the number of people that actually came and watched, finals were sold out most nights for swimming. For the able-bodied, the Olympics, it wasn’t. What [the Paralympics organizers] did is that they made the tickets cheaper and affordable. It was incredible to have people interested to come and watch. I think people in Rio really got into the Paralympics.

* This interview has been edited for clarity and length.

The post On the ‘right’ way to be disabled appeared first on The McGill Daily.

On January 23, the Daily published a news story on Rape Aggression Defence (RAD), a self-defence workshop offered by McGill Security Services, which I was quoted in. This piece reflected the typical attitude in the feminist mainstream about self-defence: that self-defence is inherently bad, and it places the blame on victims. Overall, criticisms of self-defence are valid – don’t teach women not to get raped, teach men not to rape; sexual assault is often perpetrated by someone known to the survivor, etc. This being said, this characterization lacks specificity and context in its understanding of self-defence in general, and RAD in particular.

I attended RAD in winter 2014. Reflecting on it, I can say that the RAD curriculum is, unfortunately, terribly outdated. The facilitators have evidently never attended a sexual assault 101 workshop, and offer false information about the effectiveness or sensitivity of McGill administration or law enforcement in responding to disclosures. And, no, the workshop did not prevent me from getting raped a few months later.

However, not all self-defence is bad, and not all self-defence curricula are the same. The existing literature links self-defence training with a host of positive attitudes in participants: researchers have observed increased self-esteem, assertiveness, and ability to fight back in women – particularly in intimate partner violence situations. At a more holistic, feminist, evidence-based and survivor-centered level, feminist self defence or ‘empowerment self-defence’ has been shown by Jocelyn Hollander of the University of Oregon to reduce incidents of campus sexual assault.

I am especially worried that the focus on the problematic vocabulary of RAD facilitators, and the focus on proper words rather than actions in social justice circles, overshadows the impact of our work. Further, if I am to personally report assault, I would much rather be shamed for what I was wearing and how much I was drinking than have the administrators lie to my face and neglect to take concrete actions and provide me with accommodations post-assault – which is what happened when I reported.

Another critique of RAD focuses on the fact that it’s a closed workshop for women. Given that sexual assault is experienced by women 98 per cent of the time, I do not see an issue with having closed workshops to address scenarios experienced by women. I agree, however, that the sole focus on women leaves perpetrators – almost always men – off the hook. Self-defence offered in an institutional setting has to go hand-in-hand with holding rapists and abusers accountable. RAD doesn’t do this, but neither does any other measure at the university. Perhaps the newest and best proof of this lack of accountability is McGill’s lauded sexual assault policy, that places zero sanction on perpetrators. While indeed providing a structure for dealing with sexual assault, it is quite remarkable how the policy’s choice of feminist buzzwords and the latest social justice lingo effectively masks the lack of any sexual-assault centered disciplinary procedures.

I am further troubled about the double standard often present in discussions of consent education vs. self defence. I agree that self-defence is not by a long shot an end-all solution nor is it necessarily helpful in real sexual assault contexts. However, if we know the typical context of sexual assault, how is it that we still praise the attempts to drill the vague ideas of “Ask, Listen, Respect” into people’s head by plastering cute posters all over campus, or producing yet another consent video with an irrelevant analogy?

Take another example: while McGill’s Becoming an Active Bystander workshop is considered to ‘not [be] perfect but a step in the right direction,’ RAD is seen as inherently bad. However, while researchers have observed a change in attitude in bystander prevention workshop participants, no study has, to my knowledge, found links between these workshops and long time behavioural change. What I’m trying to say is that, RAD has problems, but so does virtually every other anti-sexual assault strategy on campus. And we can’t address one without the other.

I’d like to suggest that critics of RAD cut it some slack: if we want to interrogate RAD, we also need to critically assess the ‘good’ initiatives on campus – Rez Project, Becoming an Active Bystander Workshop, Policy Against Sexual Violence, Consent Week – that are almost always ignored by administration and educators. At the end of the day, the university strategically uses these methods to avoid liability and transparency. For example, McGill Athletics has consistently demonstrated its utter disregard of sexual violence in its community over the years. When I asked Deputy Provost (Student Life and Learning) Ollivier Dyens recently if there are any new concrete measures to respond to these issues at Athletics, he dodged my question by reminding me of McGill’s supposed “firm commitment” to responding to sexual assault through its “widely supported Policy Against Sexual Violence.”

An empirical investigation of the impact of all anti-sexual assault initiatives on behaviour at McGill is long overdue. But I’m sure the university’s senior administrators – most of whom are seasoned academics – know that very well. Moreover, I sincerely doubt that if the university believed RAD to be detrimental to its ‘survivor-center’ facade, it would hesitate, for even a second, to continue offering these workshops. We all know that the university only responds to money and PR crises. That’s why it’s on us, as activists – often with personal experience of trauma – to have the humility to listen to a variety of voices on anti-sexual assault initiatives and take constructive criticisms seriously.

This is especially important for student activists who are, thanks to their whiteness and respectability, in positions of power in the university due to their inclusion on various committees, panels, and advocacy groups. In the meantime, I’d rather know basic self-defence techniques while confronting assholes cutting line, being groped at a club, or being followed by men on the street, rather than putting #iloveconsent buttons on my backpack.

The post Self-defence workshops aren’t the problem appeared first on The McGill Daily.

This September at McGill, consent education will be in full force: first year students living in Rez will be participating in Rez Project – mandatory workshops that discuss consent, sexuality, and gender – and the #ConsentMcGill campaign will be holding Consent Week, aimed at preventing sexual violence on campus.

In previous years, I have been involved with consent education programming at McGill and Montreal as a participant, facilitator, and organizer. But I’ve long since lost respect for this kind of programming, and refuse to continue to support it. Firstly, because I realized no amount of consent education would have prevented me from getting raped. Secondly, because I have witnessed how consent education overshadows and replaces institutional transparency and accountability.

But most importantly, this year, after months of doubting the legitimacy of my disillusionment with consent education, I met other PWESAs, which stands for Person Who Has Experienced Sexual Assault, from all across the country who have been failed by consent discourse. As my friend Nina Hermes, who was sexually assaulted by her McGill floor fellow, recounts, “[My rapist] had already had two years of floor fellow training (around 60 hours of training each year) and had facilitated at least four Rez Project workshops, so he should have known better, right? Hell, he should have been an expert on consent!” So why wasn’t he?

What if for so many PWESAs, “healing” – something consent educators are so fond of – only looks like justice and accountability?

Beyond offering a theoretical framework to talk about gender and sexuality, consent education at Canadian universities persistently fails to offer real-life conceptualization of sexual violence. In many ways, it misinforms students about the true nature of sexual violence by watering it down to unrealistic scenarios, ridiculous analogies, individualized and one-off incidents, and de-politicizing its roots.

I’ve been told by consent educators, over and over, that consent education is like “planting seeds” that will grow into a robust understanding and practice of consent, and elimination of sexual violence in the long run. But what if these seeds are rotten? What if so many of us are already suffering? What if for so many PWESAs, “healing” – something consent educators are so fond of – only looks like justice and accountability? What if so many of us don’t have the privilege of “healing” without being compensated for all the money we lost getting our life back together after rape? What if so many of us can’t give a crap about preventing rape when we know there’s little point, since raping has absolutely no consequence for rapists on our campus?

The consent framework and the de-politicization of rape

The basics of what you learn at a typical consent workshop are simple. According to McGill’s Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention website, consent is “an affirmative decision to engage in mutually agreed upon sexual activity and is given by clear words and/or actions.” We can all probably recite the rest: consent is continuous, can be revoked at anytime, should not be assumed, should be enthusiastic, and so on.

And, just like that, rape becomes divorced from its social reality and de-centered from the conversation to open up space for consent – the golden key to good, fun, mutually respectful sex. Rape becomes a “campus sexual assault epidemic,” as if rape is a new phenomenon. Instead of being acknowledged as a tool of patriarchy, as a form of social control, as men enacting dominance over women and femmes’ bodies, rape is simplified to any sexual activity gone bad, by anyone.

Every other nuance becomes secondary or simply omitted. The role of rape in upholding white supremacy by falsely accusing and suspecting racialized – but primarily Black – men of raping white women, or its practice during slavery, or its use in warfare – mostly formally documented during the wars of the 20th century – are rendered irrelevant. Power dynamics created by age, desirability, sexual experience, or pressure to fit in are too ‘advanced’ to discuss in consent workshops, as is women’s socialization to please men or men’s socialization to be entitled to women’s bodies. We are all standing on an equal playing field – unless there’s a professor or frosh leader involved – ready to exchange sex.

Furthermore, in consent education’s eagerness to appeal to “everyone” – read: men, a.k.a. potential rapists – we are reminded, over and over, that men can get raped too, that one out of four ‘people’ get raped in college, not one out of four ‘women.’ And very little to no attention is paid to sexual violence against trans people.

Instead of being acknowledged as a tool of patriarchy, as a form of social control, as men enacting dominance over women and femmes’ bodies, rape is simplified to any sexual activity gone bad, by anyone.

Men do get raped, but according to a 2006 study from the U.S. Bureau of Justice, at a staggering rate of 98 per cent, men are almost always the perpetrators, not the victims. When they do get raped, there’s a 93 per cent chance that they’re assaulted by other men, according to the 2010 National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey. By avoiding any interrogation of male violence, we dilute our values and falsify the reality just to roll out a bigger welcome mat for would-be rapists.

Moreover, consent programming preaches that if you, as an individual, check in during sex with your partner, respect their wishes and so on, rape won’t occur. And if you, as an individual, feel violated, if you didn’t consent, then it’s rape.

While it is absolutely crucial to understand the validity of feelings and emotions, the focus on PWESAs’ individual actions instead of interrogating cultural and systemic problems lets rapists off the hook. How about we also ask why rapists pressure their targets, why they get off on dominating other people’s bodies non-consensually? Why do rapists rape?

Rape is part of broader sexual realities, and we need a more nuanced deconstruction of the culture of hookups, alcohol, and parties to understand sexual violence. Alcohol, drugs, and the highly sexualized contexts in which they are consumed are not solely responsible for rape – and I have no time for the likes of Brock Turner who blame their acts on “college drinking culture.” However, stopping at this statement is too simplistic.

The truth is, most rapists do rape while drunk or high, often in the context of the hookup culture pervasive on university campuses. In such environments, the lack of emotional accountability removes checks on people’s actions. The hookup culture game is so rigged that one of women’s main fears about hookups is “coercion,” which is, you know, just good old-fashioned rape. We also need to move beyond “sex positivity” to understand that, even when rape doesn’t happen, the sole focus on consent and non-consent ignores the vast array of technically consensual experiences that are just terribly sexist.

Consent as communication

There are only two stages of sex and sexual assault which are covered in consent programming. The first is during sex: preventing rape by teaching people to ask their partner “does this feel good?” and “can I do x to you?” The second is post-assault: teaching people to “support survivors” by repeating “I’m sorry you had to experience that” and “that sounds shitty.” Basically, anti-sexual violence work is all about talking – a lot of it. When we talk – or, in consent educators’ words, “communicate” – apparently, rape goes away. When it doesn’t, we can just keep talking until we “heal.”

If not raping is as easy as talking, then why on earth is rape so pervasive? If consensual sex is a result of “Ask, Listen, Respect” – #ConsentMcGill’s motto – then non-consent is the absence of those things. Or, in other words, rape only happens when we don’t communicate well enough.

In a 2014 study published in the journal Violence and Gender, one third of college men reported that they would rape if they knew they could get away with it.

The problem is that rape isn’t an accident or an unfortunate episode of miscommunication – the vast majority of college rapists, statistically, know very well that they’re doing something wrong. In fact, many rapists carefully premeditate their attacks and use sophisticated strategies to ensure the success of their plan – by physically isolating their victims, by feeding them drinks, by gaslighting them enough so they don’t say a word to others.

Even more chilling is that, in a 2014 study published in the journal Violence and Gender, one third of college men reported that they would rape if they knew they could get away with it. Rapists often display misogyny, lack of empathy, and a need to dominate women. They view sex as ‘conquest,’ and women as their ‘target.’ What does all of this mean? That your average rapist may know what consent is, or may not – in any case, for them, consent education is effectively redundant.

Consent in daily life

Consent discourse has shifted the focus away from sexual consent, and depoliticized and broadened consent education to include “everyday consent,” which includes asking for consent during daily interpersonal interactions, like giving someone a high-five or hugging them. As the magical consent umbrella gets bigger, it becomes less specific, less political, to the point that consent applies to everything and nothing.

Sexual consent is infinitely more complicated, and a lack of sexual consent is infinitely more traumatizing than the consent involved in giving a hug, taking a picture, or putting your hand on someone’s shoulder. It would be nice to always ask if someone wants a hug, but don’t you fucking dare suggest that a hug without asking, even a hundred hugs without asking, is even comparable to the trauma of rape, is remotely as violent or has the same history of domination as rape. That’s an insult. That’s misogyny. That’s rape culture.

Don’t you fucking dare suggest that a hug without asking, even a hundred hugs without asking, is even comparable to the trauma of rape.

While, often, speaking about “everyday consent” is supposed to engage those who don’t have sex, we need to acknowledge that everyone is affected by sexual violence, and that sexual violence takes different forms for different communities and people. Even though sexual violence on campus often takes place where hookup culture and alcohol are present, the narrative of the skinny white girl who once got “too wasted” and “taken advantage of” at a party should not dominate the conversation on campus sexual violence at the expense of overlooking other forms of sexual violence experienced by students, faculty, and staff.

Where does a married student or faculty member who is physically assaulted by her husband receive support on campus? Someone sexually abused as a child and uncomfortable having roommates in Rez? Someone who has to go home on Thanksgiving to witness the abuse of her mother? University campuses’ exclusive brand of consent activism is leaving people behind, and that doesn’t get solved by making a mockery of rape.

Feel-good awareness projects

Most people have seen the tea video where violating, overpowering, and humiliating women’s bodies is compared to pressuring someone to drink a cup of tea. Following this lead, a collaboration of several offices and groups at McGill produced a mandatory-to-watch consent video for Froshies that uses “a clever (and even at times funny) dance analogy,” according to McGill’s website.

While the fundamental problem with such awareness campaigns is their dilution of the gravity of rape, what is more concerning to me is that these videos are supposed to be ‘funny.’ If dancing without consent is an analogy for rape, and is oh-so-hysterical, then we are effectively laughing at rape or at least laughing in a context where rape is being discussed, because who would dance with or pour a cup of tea down the throat of an unconscious person?

There is absolutely nothing funny about rape. Rape ruins people’s lives. People drop out of school, develop drinking problems, resort to suicide because of rape. Any programming, regardless of methods, impacts, and intentions, that elicits laughter when talking about rape is reprehensible. Do people really take rape more seriously when it’s reduced to nonsensical mundanities? If they do, they’re the cause of rape culture.

Yes, it does seem illogical to dance with someone that doesn’t want to dance with you. But that’s because comparing rape to dance is fucking ridiculous. Rape has absolutely nothing to do with logic; it’s about violation. If anything, the logic in the mind of a rapist is to detect targets, isolate them, and loosen their inhibitions to ensure a successful conquest.

According to an independent investigation funded by the Government of Ontario, such “education and training ‘short cuts’ through, for example, online modules or student contracts, are not suitable and strongly discouraged.” But it’s surely too tempting to force students to watch a seven minute video for the good PR that results from checking the students-know-enough-about-consent box before throwing them in the binge-drinking festival of Frosh that is rampant with casual misogyny.

Athletics, fraternities, and Frosh at McGill

Such videos, virtually spewing out of every university in North America and babbling the same lines, often have a tendency to exonerate groups notorious for encouraging environments that breed sexual violence.

McGill athletics, fraternities, and Frosh have all produced such videos, and they all have a strange – but surely deliberate – erasure of the history and structures of violence facilitated by them. There’s, unsurprisingly, no systemic procedure to collect information about the nature and history of sexual violence at our campus. For example, how many of us know that, in 1988 and 1990, a gang rape at Zeta Psi and another high-profile rape at Phi Delta sparked national outrage, and that the sexual assault centre on our campus was established as a response to the disgusting misogyny and sexual violence happening within McGill’s Greek system?

Five years ago, a McGill student wrote in The Daily about her experience at a Rugby banquet where women were referred to as “rugby boys’ sluts” and the players chanted “I wish that all the ladies/ were like the statue of Venus/ because then they wouldn’t have any arms to shove away my penis!” Soon after, McGill made national headlines when it was revealed that three players from the varsity football team were permitted to stay on campus for a year and allowed to continue playing on the team after being charged with sexual assault with a weapon and forcible confinement of a Concordia student. Popping out a cute little video in the face of such aggressive misogyny doesn’t make rape go away.

While I’m sure that there have been efforts to make Frosh more ‘inclusive,’ sexual violence is rampant at events where alcohol is the main focus and chants are spiked with misogyny and promotion of rape, such as Frosh, E-Week, Carnival, Hype Week, and Science Games. Frosh is different because, statistically, college women are at a higher risk of getting assaulted during orientation week and the months of September, October and November – a period called the “red zone” – than at any other time in their undergraduate career. Does anyone tell first-year women about this reality?

Popping out a cute little video in the face of such aggressive misogyny doesn’t make rape go away.

Sadly, saying “things have changed” and “we are not as bad as the States” doesn’t solve McGill’s rape problem. I want McGill athletics, fraternities, Frosh, and binge-drinking festival enthusiasts to tell us what they’re actually doing to address sexual violence within their communities. Is there a special body governing and addressing complaints? How are abusers held accountable? What if they find out about a complaint before an important game, in the middle of a drinking event, during an end-of-the-year banquet? What if the abuser is a senior athlete, a coach, an E-Week team captain, or the president of the fraternity? Are abusers removed from the community? Are they allowed to just switch to another rape-friendly environment with nothing more than a slap on the wrist?

The role of institutions in facilitating sexual violence

Consent discourse is silent when it comes to the role of universities in creating an unsafe campus, probably because most consent educators are university employees. What is unique about campus sexual violence is that PWESAs and perpetrators are often in the same community, and without the school’s intervention – such as forcing the perpetrator to switch classes or dorms – PWESAs’ continued education could be hindered.

When universities fail to uphold their own charters that mandate them to ensure safe and suitable conditions of learning for students, they effectively betray their community members. Jennifer Freyd, a professor of psychology at the University of Oregon, defines “institutional betrayal” as “wrongdoings perpetrated by an institution upon individuals dependent on that institution, including failure to prevent or respond supportively to wrongdoings by individuals, committed within the context of the institution.” According to her research, PWESAs who experience such institutional betrayal also experience higher levels of several post-traumatic symptoms.

Consent discourse will never cover this kind of trauma. In fact, even though I should be exactly the kind of person consent educators are supporting, I have experienced silencing and even bullying by educators at McGill, Ryerson, and Queens, and my friends have experienced the same at University of Toronto, York, Mount Saint Vincent, and University of British Columbia. With bystander prevention workshops, rape becomes everyone’s responsibility except the university’s, and many consent educators effectively act as bystanders themselves by staying silent about institutional betrayal.

Moving forward

If the consent framework isn’t working, then what will? I’m not sure, but I know if a fraction of the resources devoted to educational programming was redirected to prioritize consultation and collaboration with PWESAs, we would know that we need a radical revisioning of Frosh and other drinking events, a pause to interrogate Rez culture, comprehensive and easy-to-navigate accountability processes, reporting procedures at all levels of the university, and a complete overhaul of consent educational programs on campus.

While I am happy for PWESAs who find healing in consent programming, I need people to acknowledge that it is not working for many others. Last year, two survivors penned an article in The Daily to express their frustrations with consent programming, anonymously, likely due to ever-present possibility of ostracization for those even slightly critical of the ‘leftist’ status quo. We need room to have non-oppressive, mutually respectful discussions about our work in leftist communities – something that is virtually nonexistent. Who is our activism for if only the most powerful among us get space and media attention, while the rest of us are left behind?

In 2015, a CBC investigation into the frequency of campus sexual violence excluded McGill from its data set, because our school was among the three universities nationwide without proper documentation of sexual assault reports. Earlier this year, former Dean of Students Andre Costopoulos said in an interview that his office is informed of 1 or 2 assaults per month – or roughly 18 per year. “In a town of 40,000 you’re going to have stuff happen,” he said.

Clearly, sexual assault is massively underreported at McGill. But let’s work with these 18 incidents of “stuff happening”: how many rapists involved in these cases have been removed from PWESAs’ classes, clubs, or residences? How many of these 18 incidents involved formal reports, informal reports, investigations, hearings, mediations, appeals, criminal trials, disciplinary charges, suspensions, or expulsions? Who do PWESAs disclose to? Do unsupportive disclosure recipients face any sanctions? Who sits on disciplinary committees? Which faculty, department, race, age, ability level is mostly represented among PWESAs and perpetrators? How do these 18 PWESAs perceive their experience with McGill?

Who is our activism for if only the most powerful among us get space and media attention, while the rest of us are left behind?

Clearly, transparency isn’t McGill’s best suit. But let’s go back to underreporting, because McGill fails miserably at accountability as well. Why would a survivor care to report, and why would a rapist stop raping, when we know that, plain and simple, rape is tolerated in this institution? Sadly, nothing seems to be changing; the administration has refused to include a single clause on reporting and disciplinary procedures in the Sexual Violence Policy, leaving too many things up to individual administrators’ discretion.

A letter published in 1991 in The Daily (after the Phi Delta Theta rape) reads, “If McGill cared as much for women’s rights as it did for its own reputation, there would be the reassurance of checks on university decisions.” In 1994, the University refused to adopt a sexual assault policy despite student activism, arguing that a general assault policy was sufficient. Last April, 22 years later, McGill rejected the sexual assault policy developed by students for similarly ridiculous reasons. Alas, when accountability and transparency – the signifiers of institutional health – are lacking at our university, when PWESAs’ trauma is McGill’s PR disaster, a painful history can repeat itself.

Use the hashtag #ThisIsNotHelping to join the conversation on consent education at McGill.

The post #ThisIsNotHelping appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Unlike many others, I got straight A’s my first year at McGill, and started fucking up my grades only after. So when people tell me that grad schools don’t often look at my first year–due to it often being a tumultuous time–I have to wonder, will  they also consider the grades that trauma, substance abuse, and institutional betrayal took away from me?

Two years after being sexually assaulted, and one year after reporting it, I, the victim, have had to pack up and travel across the world for a semester abroad – with the sole purpose of keeping myself sane and staying away from McGill’s toxicity.

I’m going to provide some gruesome details of rape to get the attention of the people who need to listen. I have tried more ‘respectable’ ways of demanding accountability from McGill, ways that honour my own dignity, and  they failed. At this point, I know nobody will listen unless I put my body on the line and make a scene.

In September 2014, I lay on a stranger’s bed, too drunk to understand what was happening to my body, and watched my limbs being maneuvered into different penetrative positions for what felt like many excruciating hours.  Since then, on any given day, I think of the blood-stained toilet papers, of being too sore to sit down, of the hangover the day after, the emergency room, the antibiotics, the kidney infection, the speculum.

Too many evenings, I have woken up dizzy and hungover from downing too many Advils and too much rum in the afternoon. I still have an extra pregnancy test from the package I bought at the time, thinking that I would need it in the case of being raped again; I’ve kept it, even though it’s expired. I remember too many things.I wish I would wake up one day in a psychiatric unit and be held down under electroshock therapy so I won’t have to remember anymore.

After I found myself in the same class as my assailant, I disclosed the assault to nine different people in charge at McGill: first sometime in July, then on September 4, September 11, December 31, January 15, January 16, and April 14. One after another, they lied to me, blamed me, shamed me, discouraged me from reporting my rape all together, or made empty promises to me. I still don’t know what the outcome of my case was. I still don’t know if there ever was any form of investigation.

I’ve written about my experience extensively elsewhere, but here’s the gist: I begged for help, over and over, but nobody listened. Many staff, administrators, and faculty – aware of the situation – stood by silently and watched me suffer. As a result, I did what people do when everything else fails: I went public and wrote about my experience, only to watch the most traumatic moments of my life get dissected by the lowest of the low on the internet.

Here’s another catch: McGill’s Charter of Student Rights, section five states that “The University has an obligation to maintain safe and suitable conditions of learning and study.”

That right did not apply to me.

A lot happens when you become your university’s poster child for rape. I’ve been getting more media requests than I care to reply to, met activists from universities across the country, and have been sitting on panels nationwide to voice what is actually happening on our campus with regards to sexual violence.

But while I do appreciate the recognition I get for my work, I can’t help but wish that the spotlight could have been on something I had set out to accomplish at the onset. What am I getting credit for right now: getting raped? Getting ignored? Being lied to? Being reduced to a moral story, a PR disaster, a statistic? For years, I had intentionally avoided anti-sexual violence advocacy because I knew every minute of it would be like picking at a scab, and that it has been. “Rape victim” was never something I wanted to be known for.

These days, I’m too afraid to consume alcohol, meet new people, or go to parties. Every potential daily activity boils down to one question: will I get raped while doing it? Potentially. Am I victim-blaming myself? Potentially – but I don’t care.

Getting raped at a university that doesn’t give a damn about you is expensive. If it hadn’t been for my parents’ financial support, I would have dropped out two years ago. I don’t have the money to waste on lost tuition again, and I can’t, for the sake of my future, have more failed or withdrawn courses on my transcript. But most importantly I know that, to quite literally save my life, I can’t go through what I went through again.

While people have been supportive, I couldn’t care less if more people told me that they believe me. The administration, my professor, my advisor: they all told me that they believed me and that they were all sorry for what happened to me. Rarely has anyone actually doubted my story. Did these affirmations actually make a material difference when I reached out for support from the McGill administration? Absolutely not.

I don’t care about active listening, tea videos, poster campaigns, “I love consent” buttons and consent weeks when I’m asking for concrete, material support. Instead of effectively jerking off to feel-good “prevention”campaigns with very little impact, I want to see energy being redirected to standing up and holding abusers and institutions accountable. I want sit-ins. I want alumni to withhold donations. I want people to contact administrators, politicians – I want them to demand change.

I want McGill to take responsibility for all the harm it has done to me and simply apologize. I want McGill to reimburse me for lost tuition, for therapy, for medication, for all the cab rides home because I gagged and blacked out as soon as I stepped foot on campus.

I want this institution to consult those who’ve been through the reporting process in regards to the sexual assault policy at McGill. We know best what we need. I want McGill to have crystal clear reporting procedures and redress regulations. I want McGill to make sure there won’t be another student on this campus whose access to education will be taken away because of rape, and that no student falls prey to sexually abusive professors.

But aside from what I would like to see, do I have hopes that McGill will actually do the right thing? Not really. All I can do is to look forward to April 2018, when I will leave this city immediately after my last exam, try to forget what happened to me between the ages of 17 to 22, and pretend my entire undergraduate career was a bad dream.

To survivors and victims: I’m sorry that McGill fails you so miserably. I have no words, there are no justifications. But please know that I’ve been fighting for you, for us, and they can’t stop me.

To first years: if you get raped and do report and get taken seriously, you’ve hit the jackpot. So let me know if you do get that lucky.

To those close to survivors and victims: if you have not, in any way tangible way, shown your support – be it by signing letters, speaking up, providing emotional labour, coming to panels, contributing to survivors’ legal funds – take your allyship and set it on fire.

To rapists and abusers – professors, staff and student alike: welcome back. Roam wild and free, your playground is open and the meat is fresh.

Finally, to those administrators that made me suffer and to those that watched me suffer through the 2015-2016 academic year, to the over 100 McGill Senators who ignored the email I sent them to explain my experience, to those who betray basic standards of morality for money and power and hide underneath “Consent is Mandatory” posters in their offices, to those that are happy to diss Jian Ghomeshi and Bill Cosby but stay silent when violence takes place within our own community: your lack of concern about this toxic campus, your reluctance to speak up and  support actual victims is sheer violence and is exactly what makes this campus a perfect breeding ground for predators. You may not be a rapist, but you are an accomplice to many, many rapists. Quite frankly, I don’t know which one is worse.

The post Welcome back, rapists. appeared first on The McGill Daily.

On May 30, the comedy show Rape is Real and Everywhere took place at the Medley Simple Malt bar for two hours of rape jokes, which were performed by survivors of sexual assault. In a comedy scene dominated by men, women’s representation is itself a rarity, let alone representation of survivors of sexual violence performing in a feminist environment. The night was emceed by Emma Cooper, the show’s co-producer, and saw three local comics, along with headliner Meg MacKay and Heather Jordan Ross – the other co-producer of the show, perform to a packed bar. Cooper and Ross have been traveling and hosting sold-out shows all across the country.

In a society where violence is a tool of gendered oppression, the ubiquity of rape jokes serves to further silence and take power away from survivors, who are often people with marginalized identities. On stage, Ross expressed frustration toward this reality, “It’s interesting how [people] defend telling rape jokes. They’re always like, ‘if you can tell a murder joke, you can tell a rape joke’,” Ross said. “And I’m like, okay, but I don’t know if one in three men in this audience have been murdered.”

Rape is Real and Everywhere made it clear that when it comes to rape jokes, it matters who tells them and who laughs at them. People cheered loudly when Cooper asked if there were survivors in the audience. The crowd responded compassionately to the stories that the comics shared, humming in agreement and validation when a traumatizing experience was shared. The whole dynamic spoke to the fact that the comics and the audience were not there to mock people’s trauma, but rather to poke fun at rape myths and share their stories in a safe environment.

“How many women do you know who’ve hit the jackpot by claiming they were raped? When was the last time you went on LinkedIn and saw ‘rape survivor’ under someone’s position?”

After each set, Cooper read out personal stories that audience members from the current or previous shows had shared with the producers proving that joking about one’s own experiences of sexual assault with the right audience can be incredibly empowering. The response from the crowd was overwhelmingly supportive. As Ross expressed, “There are a few ways to cope when you’ve been sexually assaulted. You can tell a friend, you can go to a therapist, you can tell the police, or you can put on 20 pounds, drink yourself to sleep […].” For her and the other comics, comedy has become a tool of healing.

More than a therapeutic method, the jokes told throughout the show also packed a revolutionary punch. In a reversal of the power dynamics typically embedded in rape jokes, the comics were able to expose the common assumptions about being a survivor of sexual assault. Robyn Flynn, a Montreal-based comic, took a jab at the popular myth that women lie about their sexual assault for financial gains. “How many women do you know who’ve hit the jackpot by claiming they were raped? When was the last time you went on LinkedIn and saw ‘rape survivor’ under someone’s position?” said Flynn.

“How the fuck is it my fault if this guy goes and rapes somebody else? […] Why is it always our fault to actually do something to prevent it from happening?”

By turning these myths into punchlines, the comics revealed them as ridiculous, false assumptions and exposed their harmful impacts on the lives of real people. As Ross pointed out, there is immense pressure “for victims to come forward after they were sexually abused […] right away, and do it properly […].”

Similarly, Flynn tackled the tendency to shame survivors for not reporting their assaults to authorities, as well as being blamed for their assailants’ future predatory behaviours. “How the fuck is it my fault if this guy goes and rapes somebody else? Did you guys get tired of asking us if our shirts were too short or that we were staying out too late, gotta move on to something new?” asked Flynn in frustration. “Why is it always our fault to actually do something to prevent it from happening?”

Rape is Real and Everywhere made it clear that when it comes to rape jokes, it matters who tells them and who laughs at them.

In a society that normalizes rape and treats certain bodies as disposable and consumable, sexual violence can take a variety of forms, including the complicity of bystanders. Natalie Willett, another local comic, explained that when she was sexually abused as a young girl, a bystander stood a few meters away, watching and smoking. “This was the early 90s […]. If it was more recently, she would’ve been filming and live-streaming it […] as a lot of bystanders are doing nowadays,” Willett said.

She continued, “I was really afraid that other people would come, which is a fucked-up thing, because […] I’d already internalized and figured out that if more people would come by, it wouldn’t have meant help for me. It would’ve meant more participants, or more bystanders.” Willett reminded the crowd that, while everyone could be potentially complicit in sexual violence, bystanders do not have to be – they could be mobilized to provide support for the survivor, as the comedy show itself has done.

Other topics addressed included masturbation, mental health, fat politics, politics of desirability, and queerness, although sexual assault was the primary focus of the show. The show made clear that while making offensive and oppressive rape jokes is easy, having a nuanced conversation about sexual violence is difficult. The Rape is Real comics reclaimed their experiences in front of a supportive audience while unpacking the myths of sexual assault and challenging the systemic injustice that continues to silence survivors everywhere.

The post Laughing, healing, resisting appeared first on The McGill Daily.

According to PAJU’s Facebook event page for the demonstration, “Palestine has been subjected to a systemic ethnic cleansing operation at the hands of the Zionist movement for the past 68 years. In a blink of an eye, Palestine was wiped off the map.”

“The Zionist movement has announced the creation of the Israeli state on Palestinian territory through the destruction and expropriation of over 500 villages and towns and the expulsion of over 750,000 Palestinians to refugee camps all over the world,” the page continued.

“Israel’s military supremacy is the spearhead of its occupation of Palestine.”

Hala Yassin, a member of PAJU, addressed the crowd in French prior to the march, condemning the federal government’s turning a blind eye to Israeli military actions against Palestinians.

“Israel’s military supremacy is the spearhead of its occupation of Palestine,” said Yassin. “It allows Israel to act with impunity. The Israeli army is proud to collaborate with arms manufacturers that brag to clients about testing its products in the field [the Gaza Strip].”

“Can you believe that? Products tested on humans, on Palestinians!” she repeated.

Around 150 people gathered outside the Mont-Royal metro station for the demonstration. Notwithstanding a heavy police presence, the demonstrators chanted “Israel terroriste, Trudeau complice!” in French, (“Terrorist Israel, Trudeau an accomplice!” in English) as they marched from Rue Saint-Denis to Rue Sainte-Catherine and looped back through Boulevard Saint-Laurent.

“Can you believe that? Products tested on humans, on Palestinians!”

“We have to remember that this movement of Zionism, the State of Israel, was not created by the Jewish people that followed the traditions of their forefathers,” said Neturei Karta rabbi David Feldman to the crowd before the march. “These were people who attempted to transform Judaism from a religion into a nationalism.”

“As Jewish people who do practice our religion, we say that that the state of Israel does not represent world Jewry,” Feldman continued. “These people do not speak in the name of our people, they’re not supported by all Jewish people, and certainly the crimes that they are committing are not condoned by Jewish religion.”

The police initially blocked the march at the intersection of Rue Sherbrooke and Rue Saint-Denis, instructing the demonstrators follow their route west of Rue Sherbrooke. After a brief confrontation, the police succumbed and demonstrators continued marching down Saint-Denis, shouting “A nous la rue!”

“As Jewish people who do practice our religion, we say that that the state of Israel does not represent world Jewry.”

The demonstrators stopped in the middle of the intersection at St. Laurent and Mont Royal, blocking off the street to hear a spokesperson for Women of Diverse Origins, Dolores Chew, speak about the importance of the Boycott, Divestment and Sanction (BDS) movement.

“BDS is what we need to struggle for,” said Chew. “For our communities and all organizations and all our institutions in our church groups, in our political parties – we must push for BDS to be adopted.”

“Israel is really afraid; this is the only thing that is going to make a difference,” Chew continued. “Women of Diverse Origins stands in support of Palestinian women, and their families ask us to take a stand and struggle and not to give up.”

“Israel is really afraid; this is the only thing that is going to make a difference.”

Montreal municipal bylaw P6 (section 2.1), requires march organizers to disclose their route prior to their event. However, Anna, a demonstration organizer, told The Daily in a Facebook message that P6 is “political repression, plain and simple.”

“They want to scare, discourage, and punish people for protesting, so [we] refuse to acknowledge and give power to such a law,” Anna said.

She went on to discuss the connection between refusing to abide by such laws and protesting the Israeli occupation. “All of our adversity is connected to the same systems of oppression and repressive audacity of authority,” she explained.

“They want to scare, discourage, and punish people for protesting, so [we] refuse to acknowledge and give power to such a law.”

Members of the Young Communist League of Canada were also present at the demonstration. Speaking to The Daily, Adrien Welsh, a representative of the League, asserted “To us it is important to denounce [the occupation], first to show our solidarity with the Palestinian people, but also to show that we are active, that we are able to do things although we are geographically far away.”

“It is important to support the resistance through such actions like this demonstration and BDS, and to demand for at least the creation of a Palestinian state, at least within the borders of ’67,” Welsh added.

The post Night demonstration commemorating the Nakba sees clashes with police appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Lucie Lastinger, a member of the SAP working group, said that the policy was expected to be brought to Senate for approval on the day that the administration retracted their support.

“We demand that McGill acknowledges that rape culture lives on this campus, and we demand that they do something about it.”

“We’re here today to tell the administration that enough is enough,” Lastinger said, addressing the crowd. “We’re here telling the administration that we’ve gone on for too long without adequate resources and support on this campus.”

“We demand that McGill acknowledges that rape culture lives on this campus, and we demand that they do something about it,” added Lastinger. “We demand a policy that is pro-survivor, proactive, accessible and intersectional. We’ll be here for every Senate meeting from today until our policy gets passed.”

“For far too many people who will experience sexual assault during their time in university, campus will be a site of violence and injustice, rather than healing and support.”

At the rally, the Association of McGill University Support Employees (AMUSE) President, Molly Swain, denounced McGill administration’s refusal to support the SAP.

“Going to school or work should not be dangerous or traumatizing activities. However, for far too many people who will experience sexual assault during their time in university, campus will be a site of violence and injustice, rather than healing and support,” Swain told The Daily in an email, on behalf of AMUSE.

Students inside the building handed out flyers and buttons to Senators. Cecilia MacArthur, another member of the working group, said this was “an attempt to raise awareness about the policy, the process, and the administration’s recent refusal to move it forward.”

“This was largely motivated by the fact that we’ve been working exclusively with the administration, so other members of Senate – professors, staff, and even other administrators […] – have been largely excluded from the process,” MacArthur explained to The Daily.

“[This was] an attempt to raise awareness about the policy, the process, and the administration’s recent refusal to move it forward.”

Talia Gruber, also a member of the working group, told The Daily that students attended the Senate meeting after the rally.

“At the Senate meeting, there was a commitment to bring a policy on sexual violence forward by the end of 2016, ‘based on our document’,” Gruber said. “There was a question about resources, and the Provost said they would use the resources currently in place.”

“So in my opinion, they only addressed one of our three demands, but people felt hopeful,” Gruber continued.

“Establishing a presence at Senate was an attempt at making our policy, and the need for a sexual assault policy more generally, known,” MacArthur told The Daily.

The demands of the working group include hiring additional staff dedicated to sexual assault prevention and response, a transparent and collaborative review process for determining the best sets of policies for supporting survivors, and forming an ad-hoc Senate committee with student-staff parity to pass “a pro-survivor, proactive, accessible, and intersectional sexual assault policy” before the end of 2016.

“Establishing a presence at Senate was an attempt at making our policy, and the need for a sexual assault policy more generally, known.”

According to some observers, Dean of Students Andre Costopoulos was seen using a side door to enter the Leacock Building to avoid the demonstration. There was also increased security in place at the Senate sign-up location.

The working group released an open letter to the McGill administration earlier this month to denounce their withdrawal of support and reiterate their demands to the administration. The letter was signed by over 1,500 people.

The post Students rally in support of Sexual Assault Policy appeared first on The McGill Daily.

I have spent the last two years in a fight, struggling to accept that I have been sexually assaulted by another student, and that I am worthy despite what has happened to me. The first year, the fight was with myself, and I won; the second year, it was with McGill, and I lost miserably. It has become abundantly clear to me that, following the shameful example set by the Canadian justice system, McGill breeds predators, lacks adequate mechanisms to support its students, and refuses to put any in place. And in the past year, I have watched myself fall through its cracks.

In the first few months after the assault, I was in denial. I couldn’t even tell my therapist what had happened to me – she still doesn’t know. I spent most of my days sleeping, drinking, and smoking. I dodged my family. I regularly watched entire seasons of shows on Netflix in mere days. I had unpleasant sex with random people as I desperately attempted to regain control over my body. I took handfuls of Advil just to feel numb. I gained weight. I couldn’t concentrate for long enough to read a single page of a course reading in one sitting. I was weeks behind in my classes, and ended up withdrawing an entire semester worth of credits. I was toxic to my friends, and I wondered if killing myself would make them feel the pain that I was living with every day.

Some days I remember something new: a colour, another object in his room, another word that was exchanged. Some days I wonder if it was all a bad dream.

It’s been almost two years. I still have to leave my classrooms whenever sexual assault is brought up without warning, and I regularly puke after seeing rape scenes in movies. Some days my anti-depressants don’t drug me enough to be able to walk across campus without panicking at the sight of every white man I see. I avoid certain buildings on campus that he frequents. I still cannot verbalize how it happened, though I still see it projected on the ceiling over my bed at night. Those are the most vivid memories I have of anything I’ve ever been through. Some days I remember something new: a colour, another object in his room, another word that was exchanged. Some days I wonder if it was all a bad dream.

No, I won’t tell you “what happened,” because it shouldn’t matter. Because your next question shouldn’t be about how I acted, or what I wore. Because you shouldn’t be evaluating the morality of his act of rape based on what I did before or after it happened, because you should trust women – and science – when we speak of the nature of memory, abuse, self-hatred, and trauma.

But since I’m going to be accused of lying no matter what, I will tell you this: let’s assume I have made this all up, for attention, for “revenge,” or any of those goals that women are supposedly so desperate to achieve that they resort to publicly lying about rape. McGill had no way of knowing that my story was false. They treated me the way they would treat a “perfect victim” that is raped at gunpoint in a dark alley wearing a skirt and shrieking in resistance. Now, may I continue?

***

In the first week of the Fall 2015 semester, following the instructions I received from an administrator, I went to see a disciplinary officer (DO) to file a cease-and-desist order against my assailant. Let’s call him C. This order would not get C expelled, since sexually assaulting another human being is not reason for expulsion at this institution – though plagiarism is – or have any effect on him after he graduated. It would only prevent him from contacting me, and to me, that was enough. I was afraid of running into him, being harassed, receiving booty calls or replies to my comments on public McGill-related Facebook groups or pages. But, really, I shouldn’t have to justify why I want the reassurance of not having to hear a word from the person that sexually assaulted me for as long as he is a McGill student.

The first thing that I asked the DO was whether C had graduated. She told me that this information could not be disclosed, not even if I filed a sexual assault case against him. It seemed as if my safety on campus, for which McGill is responsible, mattered less than a rapist’s confidentiality. I hastily messaged a friend that knew him. He was still on campus.

It seemed as if my safety on campus, for which McGill is responsible, mattered less than a rapist’s confidentiality.

“What happened?” The DO asked as she sat back and crossed her arms, not mirroring my body language at all – which is what you would do if you’ve been trained in active listening – but actually asserting her power. If only what happened was that easy to remember and retell. As I collected myself and shifted my focus to the grimmest day of my life, I requested a more specific question.

Did it happen on McGill property? No.

Did it happen at a McGill event? No.

Apologizing, she stated that since the incident hadn’t taken place in a “McGill context” (meaning on McGill property or at a McGill-related event), there was not much that McGill could do. This policy is bizarre, unrealistic, and inapplicable to our university, where the majority of students do not live in a “McGill context.” Next time I’m getting sexually assaulted, I should have said, I’ll make sure to pause so we can move it to Rez or a couch in a student lounge – if that’s what it takes to have McGill acknowledge my pain and address my needs. How convenient for McGill to only take responsibility for students’ conduct toward each other when it occurs on its own property, and ignore the impact of students’ off-campus interactions on their academic performance and safety on campus.

The DO went on to justify this policy by comparing my mental and bodily integrity to an inanimate object: if I had my backpack stolen by a McGill student off campus, I was informed, the hands of the administration would be tied. I am a person, not a backpack, I should have said, and I would be happy to give her my backpack – tens of backpacks, actually – just to undo what happened to me. But instead I bit my tongue. I bit my tongue enough times at that meeting that it bled.

A cease-and-desist order against C could only be imposed until a tribunal, after which point it would expire, she told me. I would lose the tribunal for not having been sexually assaulted in a “McGill context,” I was informed, and I surely wouldn’t want to give C the pleasure of knowing that McGill couldn’t do anything for me? I was having a head rush. I said, I don’t know, I guess. My bodily integrity had been taken away from me; now, with her suggested advice, it seemed that so had my ability to make my own decisions about how to respond to this situation.

I bit my tongue enough times at that meeting that it bled.

The DO asked me if there was a reason I didn’t file a police report. Yes, I should have said, because of people like you. But I was speechless at the DO’s ignorance of the reality of the criminal (in)justice system’s treatment of survivors. She told me that there is a staff member in Security Services that could tell me honestly and confidentially if my case could have any legal weight. Except that I already knew it didn’t.

She asked me why I had waited an entire year to file a report, as if the passing of time delegitimized my experience. She asked if any recent interaction with C had triggered me. I was already on trial. Sorry, I should have said, next time I get raped I’ll make sure the first thing I do immediately after is to run to your office. She didn’t seem to know that you have to take time to heal to even be able to utter the word “sexual assault” while talking about yourself.

She asked if I had a fear of C harming me. She generously clarified, “And by harm I don’t mean if he’s going to rape you again.” When I heard the word “rape,” which I had not used at that meeting nor verbally in any other context to describe my experience, I started scratching my thighs over and over, until I could feel the dead skin gathering underneath my nails. I don’t think so, I said, thinking back to the last time I had a nightmare of that incident.

Then she asked me if C had contacted me lately at all, and when I said no, she asked me why I was there. I didn’t know why I was there anymore either. I said, “You realize that he is still out there, doing the same things.”

She replied, “Even if we kick him out, he may not be raping McGill women anymore, he’s still going to rape Montreal women.” Let me paraphrase: rape is tolerated in this institution because rape is everywhere.

She asked me, in a pitying voice, if I was seeking support. I was frustrated. I was there for concrete action, and I certainly hadn’t taken an entire year to process trauma only to go to a DO for mental health advice. Workshops on anti-oppression, active listening, consent, and allyship happen all over campus all year round, and I could tell that the DO had probably not attended a single one of those. Was she required to undergo such training before being trusted to meet with survivors of sexual violence?

“Even if we kick him out, he may not be raping McGill women anymore, he’s still going to rape Montreal women.”

I couldn’t get the phrase “rape you again” out of my head. I apologized and left the DO’s office in tears. I was ready to let go of the cease-and-desist order before I found out that I was in the same math class as C. There was another section available that I could switch into, but anyone who has ever taken a math class at McGill knows that it is common for students to attend other sections of a class or go to the office hours of the other sections’ professors and teaching assistants. Plus, I hadn’t done anything wrong, why did I have to be the person switching sections? Switching would have been an acceptance of C’s continued domination over my body. I couldn’t let him win. Trauma had turned my life into a competition. I wish I had switched, if only to spare myself from the suffering that was to follow.

For two weeks, I cried myself to sleep the nights before my math class and got over my anxiety by burning my ankles with cigarettes in the morning, only to spend the entire lecture scanning the room for C. I panicked every time someone entered the classroom. After class, I ran out of the room quickly and took stairs connected to other buildings to lower the chance of potentially running into him. I was afraid to stay after class for a clarification, of going to office hours, of walking into class late lest I’d have to be the centre of attention. This wasn’t sustainable.

In mid-September, I went to see a member of the senior administration. He had forwarded my email about a request for a meeting, which included a note about my sexual assault, to his secretary without my consent. The DO, I learned, had actually given me false information about what McGill could do for me. The administrator told me that he would meet with C and ask him to switch sections.

Despite sending him a reminder email two weeks later, he never contacted me about his meeting with C and the situation with my class. I shouldn’t have to justify why I didn’t send him more than one reminder to do his job, but I will. I had come to fear this email so much that I rarely even checked my McGill email anymore, afraid of being blamed, shamed, or accused of lying. This had dragged on for so long that the semester was about to end. If no meeting with C had taken place yet, there was little point in arranging one now. But also, in mid-November, C disappeared from the class list of both sections of my course. Had he withdrawn from the course? Had the administration removed him from the class list to fool me? Had he left McGill?

For two weeks, I cried myself to sleep the nights before my math class and got over my anxiety by burning my ankles with cigarettes in the morning, only to spend the entire lecture scanning the room for C.

I didn’t go to class all semester, nor did I go to office hours or tutorials. I missed my midterm to write the make-up exam just to lessen the chances of being in the same room as C. I wrote my final exam in a state of panic expecting to see C at any minute. And I failed the course. My professor, although sympathetic, told me that he couldn’t raise my grade to a passing one since apparently being too afraid to go to class is a “matter unrelated to the course.” I wasn’t looking for an unearned raise, but perhaps another chance, some special considerations short of having to write a supplementary exam in May after my other finals.

In January, an advisor implied in an email to me that, since I had failed my math course, I was academically incompetent to take computer science courses. I told her all I needed was safety in my classes, and that if the administration had done their job right, I would have, too. She never replied. How many other stories of sexual assault are heard by the administration in this school and swept under the rug?

I didn’t have the mental or emotional stamina to pursue this any further. My friend contacted the Sexual Assault Centre of the McGill Students’ Society (SACOMSS) on my behalf and corresponded with them throughout the semester as their volunteers met with the administration. While the administration was often incredibly unresponsive, I also took too long to decide how to proceed at different stages. I wanted to bury this story and never look back, not to remind myself of it over and over as I navigated the many ambiguities of McGill’s administrative channels. But I had to. I already had five “withdrawal” grades from the earlier semester on my transcript, and I didn’t want to jeopardize my future further by having a low GPA as well.

It was already spring break by the time the administration offered to negotiate accommodations with my SACOMSS representatives, but I couldn’t make a meaningful decision without knowing what information about me had been exchanged between the administration and C. The semester was going to be over in a few weeks. I was confused, lost, and tired.

How many other stories of sexual assault are heard by the administration in this school and swept under the rug?

Earlier in the semester, the administration promised to take care of having the F on my transcript E-flagged – meaning, even though it would still be on my transcript, the F would not affect my GPA. Later, they told me that it was my obligation to contact an advisor about my request and, aware of my experience but insensitive to it, suggested that I contact the same DO that I’d talked to earlier. I knew that if it was left to me, I would never be able to recount and relive my rape once more for another stranger, so my friend wrote the text of the email for me. Since I don’t have an assigned advisor, I sent this email to a general email address that could be read by any Arts advisors and god knows whoever else.

Despite a vague email an administrator sent me immediately after I called him out publicly on a Facebook event, I still have not been updated with meaningful details about my case. I don’t know if there is a cease-and-desist order against C in place and I don’t know when he graduates. After eight months of requests and reminders for accommodation and information, not only have I lost all trust in this administration, I would also not believe them if they communicated with me now.

***

In the U.S., Title IX, a portion of a law that forbids gender-based discrimination in federally funded educational institutions, often comes in handy when students protest their university’s disgraceful treatment of survivors on campus. In Canada, we don’t even have that. Here, universities are not even required to make statistical information about campus crimes public, a disclosure mandated in the U.S. by the Clery Act. In Canadian universities, the fate of survivors is entirely at the mercy of whoever happens to hold relevant positions in the administration, and the corporatization of our universities has stripped administrations of the decency required to treat their students as more than a mere revenue source.

Sexual assault is an unfortunate rite of passage for many young women. Rape happens here more often than we think, committed against people we know, by people we trust. Yet, McGill has no official policy on sexual assault. Just this month, administrators explicitly refused to bring the Sexual Assault Policy drafted by student activists to Senate due to its emphasis on being intersectional and pro-survivor. Without this policy, I cannot in good conscience encourage anyone to report their sexual assault and to put themselves through McGill’s maze of outdated and inefficient policies and insensitive and untrained administrators that offer nothing but cheap words, empty promises, and conflicting information.

If I hadn’t reported, I would have still suffered, but I would have at least suffered without feeling disposable to, and dehumanized by, my university. I have been stripped of my self-worth once by C, and once more by McGill. Reporting didn’t make me feel safer, but more vulnerable. Reporting didn’t benefit me at all, and, because I did report, there are now people on this campus who see me as the “liar” who “changed her mind” after sex, as the girl who “cried rape.”

If I hadn’t reported, I would have still suffered, but I would have at least suffered without feeling disposable to, and dehumanized by, my university.

I wonder to this day, McGill, what other terrible thing needed to have happened to my body in order for it to be worthy of your attention? To be bruised and covered in blood? To get pregnant? To get raped in front of the administration – how’s that for a “McGill context?” Go on, McGill, go on and protect rapists that roam freely on this campus looking for fresh meat. I won’t be chasing a justice that is impossible within the current system anymore. You’ve worn me out. Go on, McGill, and cover up your complicity in sexual violence by adding to a trauma that will take me years, if not a lifetime, to heal from.

The post McGill feeds a cycle of sexual violence appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The open letter has over 1,300 signatures at the time of this article’s publication. The letter reads, “The administration’s refusal sends a clear message that McGill does not support survivors of sexual assault and is unwilling to commit the resources required to adequately support survivors and address sexual violence on campus.”

The demands of the working group include hiring additional staff dedicated to sexual assault prevention and response, a transparent and collaborative review process for determining the best sets of policies for supporting survivors, and forming an ad-hoc Senate committee with student-staff parity to pass “a pro-survivor, proactive, accessible, and intersectional sexual assault policy” before the end of 2016.

“For him to turn around and say he does not support it in this iteration was surprising, and incredibly disappointing.”

Cecilia MacArthur, a member of the working group, told The Daily that she was frustrated that the administration has used their labour to bolster their own image in the past two years.

“There were definitely benefits for them in purporting to support the policy all along; considering in any article written about sexual assault across Canada, McGill was always cited as ‘developing a policy,’ or something along those lines,” MacArthur wrote in an email to The Daily. “But the administration – namely [Costopoulos] – also made concrete commitments in the past […] so for him to turn around and say he does not support it in this iteration was surprising, and incredibly disappointing.”

According to the open letter, the administration has instead offered an “aspirational document,” a one-page outline of a policy prepared by Costopoulos, as a compromise. However, Students’ Society of McGill University (SSMU) VP University Affairs Chloe Rourke told The Daily that the document is “very watered down and nonspecific.” The alternative to the “aspirational policy” would be developing an entirely new policy through an ad-hoc committee of Senate.

Among the administration’s objections is the incorporation of intersectionality in the policy. Intersectionality, according to the SAP, “is an approach which recognizes that individuals may experience oppression differently due to their membership in different social and cultural groups.” In accordance with this recognition, SAP includes the right “to have access to resources that accommodate [one’s] particular experiences and identities” among the list of rights survivors should be provided.

In an email to The Daily, Campbell explained her objection to the current incorporation of intersectionality in the SAP.

“For her to say she tried to work on intersectionality with us is truly a mystery to me.”

Campbell said, “Incorporation [of intersectionality] into any policy or procedure must be done carefully and responsibly to ensure that the interests of all equity-seeking groups, especially those affected by intersectionality, are identified and foregrounded.”

“The University did not reject the integration of intersectionality within a policy addressing sexual assault, but in dialogue with the working group, indicated that more work and discussion are required to accomplish the goals set above,” Campbell continued.

While the administration has been in touch with media about the SAP open letter, according to Talia Gruber, another member of the working group, it has not reached out to the working group itself.

“The only meeting [Campbell] ever came to was this last one [on March 22]. We invited her to at least three other meetings which she did not attend,” Gruber told The Daily in an interview. “So for her to say she tried to work on intersectionality with us is truly a mystery to me. The only time she even brought it up was at the last meeting to justify not passing the policy.”

“We intentionally named people to ensure that they are adequately represented in the policy and in all measures within it.”

At the March 22 meeting, Campbell objected to naming historically marginalized groups in the SAP. Gruber told the Daily that the inclusion of these terms is important for the working group.

“We intentionally named people to ensure that they are adequately represented in the policy and in all measures within it,” Gruber said.

Campbell has also objected to including a definition of consent in the policy that could potentially conflict with the legal definition of consent. However, according to the working group, McGill Legal Services has already approved this use and other universities have included a definition of consent in their policies.

Gruber mentioned to The Daily that the working group was willing to let go of its request for the addition of another staff member for responding to sexual violence on campus.

“All the things admin are saying they can’t have in the policy are all things that the working group openly agreed to take out or change. The problem isn’t those things – it’s just an unwillingness to fight for a policy created ‘untraditionally,’ i.e. not through Senate,” Gruber said. “The only things we really didn’t agree to change were the intersectionality bits and the pro-survivor [clauses].”

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Ethics in criminal sexual assault trials

On March 29, McGill Law students Anna Goldfinch and Nazampal Jaswal hosted a panel called “Beyond Ghomeshi: Creating Ethical Practices in Criminal Sexual Assault Trials.” The panel featured crown prosecutor Sara Henningsson, criminal defence lawyer Suzanne Costom, Constance Backhouse, a law professor at the University of Ottawa, and Toronto-based community activist, support worker, and artist Chenthoori Malankov. The panel was moderated by Alana Klein, a criminal law professor at the McGill Faculty of Law.

Henningsson said that “the [Ghomeshi] trial received so much attention that it is difficult to plow through and prosecute the case.”

In the verdict, Justice William Horkins questioned the three complainants’ credibility and said they were “less than full, frank and forthcoming” in their version of events. At the panel, Costom argued that “complainants, if caught in a lie, throw their whole testimony into doubt, even if it is about something as small as the weather.”

“We still search for the ‘worthy victim,’ but it is now masked in the language of credibility.”

Backhouse, a legal historian, suggested that the scrutiny of the complainants’ credibility was motivated by sexist norms of disbelief towards survivors of sexual assault. “We still search for the ‘worthy victim,’ but it is now masked in the language of credibility,” she said. “Our deeply sexist culture is reaching back into history.”

While discussions of the fairness of the verdict have been polarizing, Goldfinch told The Daily that “there aren’t actually ‘sides’ to this issue per se, but rather complex societal issues and a criminal justice system that is not always equipped to acknowledge and address these issues. Law can be overly clinical sometimes, and it can forget to address historical context, or issues of systemic discrimination, and trauma.”

She continued, “This is why in addition to bringing in lawyers who practice criminal law, we also brought a legal historian and a community activist and support worker to humanize the discussion.”

Jaswal told The Daily in an interview, “It was important for me to come into the space wanting to learn. While the panel discussions were going on, I was confronted with points of view and information about the realities of the court process that I hadn’t considered. Hearing a range of perspectives, I now feel better equipped to enter into this discussion myself.”

Demonstration at McGill

On March 31, the Sexual Assault Centre of McGill Students’ Society (SACOMSS), as part of its annual Sexual Assault Awareness Week, organized a demonstration in support of survivors as a response to the Ghomeshi trial. Held in Community Square, the demonstration aimed to create a space to discuss the failure of the criminal justice system and the McGill administration to support survivors of sexual assault.

On the Facebook event page for the demonstration, the organizers wrote, “In the wake of the Ghomeshi trial, we are reminded that our criminal justice system, and our society at large, do not support survivors. We are reminded that our own university does not have institutionalized mechanisms to deal with sexual violence, nor has committed to the pro-survivor, intersectional support we need.”

Students’ Society of McGill University (SSMU) VP University Affairs Chloe Rourke spoke about the University’s lack of cooperation with regard to the Sexual Violence Policy, formerly known as the Sexual Assault Policy.

“No matter how many articles are written, no matter how many student leaders speak up, no matter how much research we show them, it seems that they still refuse to listen, and that is so incredibly frustrating to me.”

“No matter how many articles are written, no matter how many student leaders speak up, no matter how much research we show them, it seems that they still refuse to listen, and that is so incredibly frustrating to me,” Rourke said.

She continued, “We shouldn’t need a public scandal to happen [for survivors] to be listened to. And we don’t want change that comes from harm. We want change and we want it now.”

Sara Sebti, an Iranian McGill student who attended the demo, noted that Ghomeshi is Iranian, but that the Iranian community has been silent on Ghomeshi’s actions. In an email to The

Daily Sebti spoke of grappling with the fact that “the men of colour in my life […] who were beacons of hope for a generation, simultaneously harmed those they loved behind closed doors.”

Sebti wrote, “Where do we start, what is the goal, how do I have these conversations with my family? I am afraid and at times I feel bitterly alone.”

“Cry-in” to voice grief for survivors

The same day as the demonstration, a “cry-in” was held in Phillips Square for people to voice their grief for the four women who testified against Ghomeshi and all survivors of sexual assault. The event was inspired by a similar cry-in organized in New York in March 2015, in honour of Ana Mendieta, a Cuban-American artist. Mendieta was allegedly killed by her husband, who was acquitted based on grounds of “reasonable doubt.”

Tessa Liem, an organizer of the event, explained to The Daily in an email that the goal of the event was to reclaim crying, typically seen as a sign of feminine weakness, as an act of protest and healing. “Our sadness is meant to be a form of resistance. It is also meant to acknowledge the very real pain of survivors and allies,” wrote Liem.

Around 15 people sat in a semicircle facing the sidewalk at Phillips Square with signs explaining their action. “We were received positively for the most part,” noted Liem. “Passersby shared their own stories with us, two young men sat with us for a few minutes, another man said, ‘it’s not easy what you’re doing’ and congratulated us.”

“I realized I didn’t want to cry, I wanted to scream with rage,” Cherie, another organizer of the event, told The Daily in an interview. “For me this was the most epic part, and the part that felt the best for me, in terms of getting out my feelings that were bottled up in me. So I just started screaming, like rage power hardcore screaming and then everybody was letting loose, and it was ricocheting off the skyscrapers.”

“So often we are told that we should be composed, ‘keep it together,’ and many of us do compose: we write essays, stories, poems,” said Liem. “But really the event was about asking people to acknowledge that these traumas are devastating.”

An earlier version of this article misspelled Constance Backhouse’s name as “Blackhouse” in one instance. The Daily regrets the error.

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Over a year later, I do not consider myself “a smoker,” although I enjoy smoking socially – I usually bum a cigarette during my drunken Friday night shenanigans, and rarely turn down a friend offering a cigarette on a study break. I go for long periods of time without smoking and it is not an addiction; rather, it’s something pleasant that I like to do to unwind, just like some people indulge in watching porn or sleeping in.

Admittedly, when I first heard about the Students’ Society of McGill University (SSMU)’s investigation into the possibility of a smoke-free campus, I rolled my eyes. Since then, I have read more on the topic and have learned that the regulation of smoking spaces is a valid approach to an important problem, given the effect that second-hand smoke can have on some people’s respiratory conditions, allergies, and other health problems. Indeed, organizers of many events that seek to be more accessible ask attendees who have been smoking to take off their jackets before entering a space. Unfortunately, the manner in which the smoke-free campus initiative has been raised and negotiated at McGill takes a very medicalized approach centred on health and addiction, instead of one that respects the needs and autonomy both of people who smoke and people with respiratory illnesses.

Throwing the words “lung cancer” at smokers and smoker-shaming more broadly are parts of a larger culture obsessed with a particular construction of health, fitness, and cleanliness that prescribes a fixed set of “healthy” behaviours instead of putting forward a holistic view of health sensitive to individualized contexts – one that understands that health looks different to different people. This view arbitrarily pathologizes the everyday choices and behaviours of certain groups of people. How many times have we heard that smoking and smokers are “disgusting”? Undoubtedly, this is why the proposal for a smoke-free campus gains more traction than other accessibility-related proposals, such as installing ramps and elevators in inaccessible buildings on campus. I am aware that the objectives of the smoke-free campus initiatives are not to shame smokers, but this is certainly the effect that the implementation of such a project would have in practice. Introducing support for quitting has been mentioned as a solution, but not all smokers are trying to quit and the non-smoker/smoker-trying-to-quit binary is simply false.

What is at stake is two different groups’ bodily autonomy – one’s freedom to be safe from harmful chemicals and the other’s to engage in smoking.

Many people start smoking to deal with stress. Is that bad? I don’t know and I don’t care. It is not up to anyone to tell others what to do with their own bodies. People make decisions based on complex factors in their lives, and they know their conditions and their body best. To support them adequately, we need to meet them where they are. Most importantly, shaming them will not help alleviate their stress or their anxiety at all.

One of the proposed solutions is having smoking shelters. Forcing people to go to a shelter to smoke is stigmatizing and also unpleasant, because nobody, not even the degenerate smokers want to hotbox themselves in a small space full of tobacco smoke, unable to have a conversation not overheard by everyone around them. Because of this stigma, many people may also not wish to display themselves as smokers in designated public locations. They’ll have to either walk far away from campus at each study break, or just continue to feel anxious while trying to study at the library.

Measures have been taken to have a “clean” campus by the smoke-free McLennan-Redpath terrace and have already failed. People do smoke beneath the Redpath underpass, but maybe that’s because expecting smokers to stand in the dark at night and away from a shelter from the rain and wind is unreasonable. Smokers may actually be much more receptive if smoking was allowed on the terrace or in some areas of the underpass, like closer to the McLennan walls. Both of these locations are isolated enough to retain smoke-free access to the library. And if someone without a health condition is bothered by the mere proximity of a cloud of smoke, honestly, that’s too bad. I’m also regularly bothered by people who talk in class, people who ask me to watch their stuff at the library, and people who don’t hold doors open for other people, yet I’m not suggesting that these behaviours be banned.

There is also the argument that normalizing social smoking on campus is harmful because it exacerbates peer pressure to smoke. However, while I have definitely seen a few people feeling ashamed for not knowing how to smoke properly, we don’t live in the 1950s anymore and smoking isn’t really considered to be that cool. More importantly, a much more pressing issue is the rampant alcohol culture on campus. There are numerous campus bars and frequent events that focus on binge drinking – also a harmful behaviour – that are organized and promoted by SSMU and other student associations. In contrast, there are no social events where smoking is a comparable requirement for participation. There is a clear double standard here, and the emphasis on smoking is misplaced and exaggerated.

I am glad that efforts have been made to make campus more accessible to those with respiratory issues and smoke sensitivity. However, we need to keep in mind who the proposed policies will affect. Given, for example, that up to 50 per cent of queer people smoke, banning smoking on campus disproportionately affects marginalized people that resort to smoking as a way of dealing with, you know, life. However, respiratory issues also affect racialized people disproportionately – though there hasn’t been any discussion of that in the SSMU initiative. When there is no solution that can benefit everyone, we need to more carefully examine whose health and whose needs are at stake if we implement or don’t implement a smoke-free campus to reach a more reasonable solution.

What is at stake is two different groups’ bodily autonomy – one’s freedom to be safe from harmful chemicals and the other’s to engage in smoking. The burden should not fall solely on smokers to change their lifestyle. Instead of arbitrarily penalizing a group, the two should come to a mutual compromise – through the mutual recognition of each other’s autonomy and each other’s needs, not through the pathologizing of their choices.

I guess, more than anything, I think back to myself last year. I was seeing a family doctor, a psychiatrist, and a psychotherapist while on a variety of medications. At the height of my suicidal ideations last spring, smoking had become the only activity that I ever looked forward to – it gave me a sense of time in my otherwise disoriented head. I had a tendency to self-harm, and sometimes I convinced myself that smoking was enough harm. Is self-harm bad? Probably, but to someone who cuts that is irrelevant. What they need is support, love, information, and resources to do what’s best for them given the factors affecting their lives as opposed to a blaming finger. Was I smoking for the wrong reasons? Honestly that’s the least of my concerns. I survived and every god damn day of my life I’m grateful that I am still breathing, even if my lungs are not as “perfect” and “healthy” as they could be.

Paniz Khosroshahy is a U2 Women’s Studies and Computer Science student. To reach her, email paniz.ksy@gmail.com.

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Abdo’s talk focused on the Western feminist rhetoric on Palestinian women’s struggle and the push-back to this discourse by Palestinian women. Abdo also discussed the importance of using oral history as a research method to highlight the struggle of Palestinian women who are political prisoners.

Land and genocide in the Palestinian struggle

Abdo introduced the concept of “politicide” as important to understanding Palestinian women’s anti-colonial struggle. She explained that politicide is a form of genocide committed against Palestinians by the state of Israel through the erasing of Palestine as a political entity and through erasing Palestinian geography – for example, Israel’s renaming of many Palestinian towns and villages with Hebrew names.

“At the heart of the [struggle against] settler colonialism is the loss of land and struggle to regain the land,” Abdo said.

She linked the politicide of Palestine with the lack of criticism of Israel in the Western world. “Such politics have gone hand in hand with an Amero-European politics of a deafening silence toward Israel’s policies,” Abdo said. “We all have, as academics, in one way or another felt the pressure on our freedom of expression when it comes to [when we] critically think and publicly speak about the Israeli state.”

“At the heart of the [struggle against] settler colonialism is the loss of land and struggle to regain the land.”

Abdo also mentioned that a result of such a a lack of an anti-colonial analysis in discussing settler-colonial states like Israel and Canada leads to the conflation of anti-Semitism and anti-Zionism.

“You criticize Canada left and right, but you are not to touch Israel,” she said, referring to some activists’ propensity to speak out against Canada’s policies, but their silence on Israel’s occupation of Palestine.

Orientalist and imperialist feminism

More specific to the topic of women’s anti-colonial struggle, Abdo spoke about “orientalist feminism,” which she defined as the essentialization of Arab and Muslim women. Orientalist feminism, said Abdo, imagines Arab and Muslim women to be under patriarchal and cultural oppression. In addition to problematizing this type of feminism, Abdo also spoke about imperialist feminism. While orientalist feminism focuses on culture, Abdo argued, imperialist feminism is a result of a political ideology.

“Imperialist feminism is a 21st-century feminism developed in response to the so-called War on Terror. [It is] the linking of resistance to colonialism [to] acts of terror; everyone who resists colonialism becomes a terrorist,” Abdo said. “[Imperialist feminism] uses women’s bodies and sexuality for ideology, for racializing and dehumanizing Palestinian freedom fighters.”

Abdo concluded her talk by saying, “While the state can erase the physical marker [of Palestinian land], they can’t erase [the Palestinian] vision and memory. Memory of the land, the home, the olive and the cypress trees, of the hills and mountains from the collective conscience of Palestinians.”

“I sometimes find that Western interpretations of people’s experience can be a colonial one, whether intended or not.”

Amal, a Concordia student present at the talk, told The Daily in an email that she disagreed with Abdo’s point that one doesn’t have to have lived an experience or be from a community to write about it.

“Very often the voices of those concerned are drowned out by Western academics because they have more opportunities to publish and discuss their work,” said Amal. “Basically, there are enough academics and writers who can give a more complete representation and analysis of an experience, and I sometimes find that Western interpretations of people’s experience can be a colonial one, whether intended or not,” she continued.

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On March 24, the Students’ Society of McGill University (SSMU) Legislative Council discussed a motion to stand in solidarity with Black Lives Matter Toronto. Other items on the agenda included a motion regarding the adoption of a policy on Indigenous solidarity and a motion to condemn the McGill Board of Governors (BoG)’s refusal to divest from the fossil fuel industry.

Solidarity with Black and Indigenous groups

Having consulted with the Black Students’ Network (BSN), VP External Emily Boytinck brought forth a motion of solidarity with Black Lives Matter Toronto (BLMTO), which has been camping at the Toronto Police Service headquarters for almost a week to protest anti-Black racism and police brutality in the city.

Earlier in the week, the organization had called on allies to stand in solidarity with the action.

Explaining that while he personally was not for or against the motion, VP Internal Omar El-Sharawy said that consultations with students and groups have shown that students want “SSMU to be more fun, and less political. […] It just seems that this semester we have become more political and I think this is something to consider.”

In response, VP University Affairs Chloe Rourke pointed out that defining whether something is political or not is not an objective decision.

“The argument for being less political is quite often used by people in positions of privilege to reduce solidarity with marginalized communities that have experienced oppression for literally hundreds of years,” Rourke said.

The motion passed with six abstentions.

“McGill’s increased recruitment of Indigenous students should go along with McGill’s increased support for Indigenous students.”

Council also discussed a notice of motion to adopt a Policy on Indigenous Solidarity, which, according to SSMU Indigenous Affairs Coordinator Leslie Anne St. Amour, was drafted in consultation with Indigenous students at McGill.

The policy mandates SSMU to undertake public awareness campaigns that aim to “recognize underaddressed components of Indigenous history, better support Indigenous students, and lobby the University to prioritize Indigenous solidarity in service provision and academia.”

St. Amour explained that the policy mandates SSMU to acknowledge that meaningful advocacy can only be done in consultation with Indigenous communities. St. Amour also highlighted the importance of support for Indigenous students from the University.

“McGill’s increased recruitment of Indigenous students should go along with McGill’s increased support for Indigenous students,” St. Amour said. “You can’t really do one without the other.”

The motion will be discussed at this week’s Council meeting on March 31.

Sexual Violence Policy stalled

In her report to Council, Rourke brought up concerns regarding the Sexual Violence Policy (SVP), formerly known as the Sexual Assault Policy. Rourke mentioned that the SVP has been stalled due to the administration’s reluctance to keep clauses related to intersectionality in the policy and to create an office overseeing cases of sexual violence on campus.

“What has been told to us is that it is the decision of [Provost and Vice-Principal (Academic) Christopher Manfredi] to decide whether to create a new office or position, so we need to get approval from the provost, […] which [the administration] implied that they will not due to budget constraints,” Rourke told Council.

Rourke said that, with the administration’s lack of cooperation and the departure of Dean of Students André Costopoulos, the future of the SVP is uncertain.

Continuing toward divestment

On March 23, the BoG’s Committee to Advise on Matters of Social Responsibility (CAMSR) decided that climate change does not cause “grave social injury.” At Council, Boytinck introduced a motion to condemn CAMSR’s lack of transparency and mandate SSMU to continue working with Divest McGill to lobby the University to divest from the fossil fuel industry.

The motion was passed.

Revised 2015-16 budget

Councillors were also presented with SSMU’s revised 2015-16 budget, which projects a $130,000 deficit for this fiscal year, as compared to the 2014-15 deficit of about $50,000. VP Finance and Operations Zacheriah Houston mentioned that much of this deficit is due to less revenue from student fees as a result of lower student enrolment rates, and losses from the Student Run Cafe (SRC).

“SRC sales are increasing every month, but they are not increased enough to offset the cost of salaries. The cost of labour is high, especially because we are paying staff in the summer when it’s closed because they are employed full-time,” Houston said.

Houston noted that SSMU should look into the SRC’s sustainability.

An earlier version of this article incorrectly stated that Council adopted a Policy on Indigenous Solidarity. In fact, Council only discussed a notice of the said motion and will vote on its adoption on March 31. The Daily regrets the error.

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