The artist was born and raised in Montreal Nord’s vibrant community, which played a role in developing her narrative voice early on, writing intimate and cinematic songs straight from the heart. Armed with unbreakable determination and a pure love for music, Cinzia has amassed a dedicated following, as well as strong streaming numbers throughout the years. She has performed at major festivals including Festivoix, Ottawa Bluesfest, Festival sur le Canal, and St. Roch X. Most recently, she performed at Cafe Campus on March 3.

In late 2025, Cinzia released “When I Think About Us,” followed by “Runner” — both tracks included in the newly released EP, The Wax, which was released on March 20, 2026.

“When I Think About Us” kicks off The Wax with an upbeat tune reminiscing on a love that never could be, in spite of its greatness. On the other hand, “Runner” is a slow introspection of the writer’s unhealthy attachment to emotionally unavailable partners. Both singles pave the way for “Thread,” the latest single Cinzia released before sharing her completed EP. The Daily spoke with Cinzia about The Wax, why “Thread” means so much to her, and what the listener should look out for while listening to her work.

This interview has been edited for clarity and conciseness.

Youmna El Halabi for The McGill Daily (MD): How did the idea of your new EP come to be? Why “The Wax”?

Cinzia: Most of what I do with Cinzia & The Eclipse is based on the magic of the moon and her cycle. The waxing crescent actually begins this Friday so I thought [it would be] a perfect time to take her beauty and [immortalize] it within the music that we’re sharing.

MD: How did you decide that “Thread” would be the lead single?

Cinza: “Thread” is the song that means [more] to me than anything I’ve ever written for myself. There was something extremely cathartic and therapeutic about writing [about] how I really fell to my knees at one point and would’ve done absolutely anything for the person I love. I know people say that, but in that last relationship I really understood what it meant to love someone unconditionally. I saw every scar, every crack, every ounce of heart, hurt, beauty and ugly of this person, even the parts he thought he was hiding, and I have to admit I loved this person. I would’ve quite honestly walked through fire if it came to it. So when we wrote “Thread,” I didn’t even know I was writing about myself and that relationship. I really thought I was just writing a cute little song until I started to piece the lyrics together and be like, “Ohhh, she was me!!”

MD: What was the people’s response to “Thread,” and what are your thoughts on their reactions?

Cinzia: People locked in, which was really incredible. I had people messaging me in tears because of the chorus, which honestly fills me with gratitude because that chorus is truly a beg. You’re begging for someone to stay, that you’ll become whatever they want. I think the music driving those words and the repetitions really captures the anxious state of mind you end up in when you’re so in love and begging someone to stay.

MD: You’ve put out several EPs throughout the years, and I’m guessing with each one there was a unique process that was followed. What was it like for The Wax during production?

Cinzia: To be honest, I was a pain in the ass with this EP. I’ve become really confident in the sound and elements that I want in my music. These songs have evolved into exactly what I want them to be. In the past, I’ve had a little more of a pop sound, but it never spoke to me as an artist, even though everything [producers] Markybeats and Luca did with those songs is absolutely everything. It’s always a great pleasure to work with friends because they understand me without me having to explain [my vision] too deeply, so I’m really grateful for their talent and friendship.

MD: Describe your writing process from inspiration to creating a song.

Cinzia: I don’t know if I have a process. I think it’s just being real, getting in a room, having real conversations and spinning that into cool lyrics and melodies. That’s the beauty of the arts in my opinion. You’re kind of spinning something out of nothing, something you just pulled out of a subconscious place. I think the more in tune you are with yourself and the universe, the easier it is to tap into songwriting and connect with people. We’re in a hub where all thoughts and experiences cross over. That’s why songs can become so relatable! We’re all living some of the same experiences.

MD: What do you hope people get from the album?

Cinzia: Some closure, maybe some spells they can repeat and chant. I hope people have fun with it and get whatever they need at the time they hear it.

MD: What is your favourite part about performing your new songs versus your old ones?

Cinzia: I’m an impulsive person, so doing anything new will always be where a lot of my excitement lies. I also think these songs are the most real and honest I’ve been, so it’s nice to be able to play music that truly resonates with me as a human.

The Wax is available for listening on all platforms. Cinzia & The Eclipse will resume touring on April 26.

The post The Wax Talk appeared first on The McGill Daily.

“You never know if you’re going to be in the news or not that day…if [the IOF (sic., a pejorative term for the Israeli Defense Force)] will try to pull a trigger.”

In October 2025, Giancarlo Cininni packed his bags and headed to Ramallah, in the West Bank of Palestine. Cininni worked as a volunteer for the International Solidarity Movement (ISM), a Palestinian-led movement founded in August 2001. The ISM’s main objective is to provide support for Palestinian resistance against apartheid through direct action including protests, disruption and on-the-ground volunteering. In addition, they documentation of current event in Palestine such as journalism in the form of photos and volunteer testimonies. 

Cininni is a freelance journalist based in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Having studied journalism at King’s College during the Gaza genocide in 2023, he wrote a piece for The Dalhousie Gazette criticizing the events that led up to October 7th. As a millennial in his 30s, Cininni vividly remembers the 9/11 incident, and the global “war on terror” that ensued — something he couldn’t help likening to the ongoing genocide in Gaza more than 20 years later. 

“9/11 didn’t have the same historical context in the same way that October 7th did,” he clarifies. “But the way the media was just gathering the troops essentially, and trying to get everybody in line, and was spreading hate towards a specific group, was similar to 9/11,” Cininni noted in an interview with the Daily.

“I would say October 7th was probably worse [in regard to scapegoating] because the context of the Hamas attacks was very much in line with [resisting the oppressor]. There was the Great March of Return in 2019 and other struggles. Anybody with a brain would be like, ‘[Gaza’s resistance] is a powder keg waiting to explode’. It’s only a matter of time. And there’s strategic significance to the actions on October 7th, what with the normalization happening.”

Cininni’s piece sought to give the public some type of context on what the state of Israel is doing in Gaza, and how their actions amplified the violence that occurred on October 7th. 

“Most Canadians are probably not well-versed in the complicated histories of Israel and Palestine,” he wrote. “Which makes our population an easy target for the management and manipulation of public opinion via unbalanced coverage. This involves several factors — Israeli lobbyists, Western governments, and news media.”

The piece goes on to give clear statistics provided by the United Nations, from 2008 to 2020, comparing the number of Palestinian casualties with Israeli ones. The numbers show a clear disparity. 

“United Nations Ambassador for Palestine, Riyad Mansour, responded to much of the world’s reaction succinctly,” writes Cininni, “saying, ‘History for some media and politicians starts when Israelis are killed. Our people endure one deadly year after another.’”

A year into the genocide, a collective feeling of despair and depression was felt amongst activists, as the possibility of a ceasefire seemed farther than ever, and death tolls rose every day. That’s when most people would either opt out of doing anything at all, letting helplessness take the reins, or try even harder to find a  tangible way to help. Cininni chose the latter. 

“I didn’t hear about ISM before,” he told The Daily. “About a year into the genocide, a lot of people felt this kind of collective depression of hearing about another genocide happening, specifically a Western-backed genocide, which means that we’re all kind of culpable, like our societies are very much more culpable. In this case, there are conditions as to why we might feel more culpable than other things, because it’s your governments that are actually actively arming [Israel’s] government to do these actions. And so I did feel that there was a sense of powerlessness.”

Cininni then stumbled upon an interview on the left-wing podcast TruAnon with Daniel Santiago, a US citizen who was shot by an IDF soldier in Nablus, while volunteering with Faz3a, a Palestinian-led initiative providing on-the-ground civil protection from Israeli violence based in the West Bank.

“When I listened to that episode, I was like, wait, you can actually go down there. You can actually do stuff, you can have an action,” he says. “You can actually do something against this [genocide]. And even though it’s the West Bank, it’s not in Gaza; that’s a different type of activism that you will have to participate in that’s a lot harder to get, but in the West Bank, there’s still a lot going on. Israel has no rhetorical justification for what it’s doing in the West Bank. There is no Hamas there. What are [the IOF] doing? Why are they terrorizing a civilian population that explicitly just wants to live a normal life on the land that they have lived in for generations? What’s the justification there? Why?”

“And so I heard about this [opportunity] and I kind of find it funny, because I think that a lot of people would be like, what you heard this guy got shot doing it and like, that’s what made you go, but for me, it was just like, oh, here’s an opportunity for direct action, and as someone who’s kind of skeptical of a lot of Western activism, I find it’s harder to find stuff that is actually super practical.” 

Cininni applied to join Faz3a. But by the time his application went through, the organization  had ceased its operations and was not taking on any more volunteers. That’s when Faz3a  referred him to the ISM.

“I emailed [ISM] in early winter of 2025,” he mentions , “and did my onboarding in a hotel room in April, while I was in Newfoundland with my girlfriend. It was like two hours, and during those two hours, you learn about what [the organization] does, and some of the risks [of being a volunteer]. There’s a lot of talk about the cultural sensitivities that you have to be aware of. [The Palestinian people] are not looking for Western cultural kinds of colonialism. They’re not looking for Western feminism either, which could be something that happens in [other] Muslim countries. Essentially, they’re saying that you have to know what you’re here for. Palestinians are actively asking Westerners and people from all over the world to come here to show solidarity. Presence. They’re asking for our assistance and for our participation.” 

Cininni told the Daily that the onboarding process was heavy with information as a way to triage the volunteers and assess who was willing to stay on. Once the ISM presented a clearer idea of the mission, they dove into the training sessions. One was virtual, and the other on the ground in Ramallah. 

“By October, I flew to the Levant,” he added. “I flew to London, then to Jordan, crossed the border, made it into Palestine, and I did my training in Ramallah, which was pretty heavy and detailed. They were like two eight-hour days, and one happened to last 12 hours. We were all in a group house, sleeping on mattresses on the floor.”  

Along with the onboarding and training sessions, Cininni’s experience with the ISM also included lessons on what to expect once he was  on the ground and how to be prepared for any scenario. As activists volunteering for a Palestinian-led organization, they were not the most well-liked in the West Bank by the Israeli Occupation Forces. 

“I had to learn a lot about phone hygiene,” Cininni says. “How to use Signal, how to use encrypted software to message each other, how to use aliases. We had to learn how to make ourselves as untrackable as possible. I learned a lot about weapons, tear gas, and what weapons might be used, what to look for. You want to look at a soldier’s hand, if the safety [on their gun] is on, if they’ve got their finger on the trigger. That is the extent of the violence there.” 

Cininni went  on to commend ISM’s consensus-based process, thinking of it almost like a direct democracy. Dynamic, intra-group discussions, and encouragement to share ideas were key to making their mission a success. It helped with the learning process, Cininni found, and bonded the volunteers in the face of serious risk of injury. 

“The thing is, you don’t know what it’s like out there. It’s like a lottery,” he says. “One person from Canada had her ribs broken by the IOF…I was not subject to any violence because I was lucky, but I did see some people get grabbed at a protest in Nur Shams Camp in Tulkaram. At one point at this protest, the IOF came from behind and took some international [volunteers] and basically brought them to their side, checked their passports, went through their stuff, and interrogated them.” 

While the ISM does assess and take into account one’s risk tolerance to protect its members, volunteers have no absolute guarantee of safety. 

“It’s not every man for himself, because as an organization, we have each other’s backs,” Cinninni says. “But I would say, you can’t really [proclaim] you’re in an organization because Israel doesn’t really want us there. It puts a target on your back eventually. Israel does not want human rights activists there.”

In spite of the dangers he faced, including almost being held at gunpoint, Cininni looks back quite fondly on his experience in the West Bank.

“I’m a pretty seasoned traveller,” he says. “I’ve been to four continents, and I found that the Palestinian population was the most accommodating. It does not even compare. They go above and beyond, they are so generous, so nice to talk to, and so friendly. I had nothing but good experiences with Palestinians.”

He praises Palestine’s beauty, from its land to its people, while also appreciating the community he built there with his fellow volunteers, and the sense of accomplishment he felt. 

“It’s very nice to feel like some activism is actually making real strides and real difference, and people are working together and not splitting up and policing each other too much,” he says. “Which I think is what we hear regularly through the media. It seemed like people were really active and tried to work together and have a good time, and I think it’s one of those paradoxes, where everything’s so stressful, everything’s so bleak.”

A volunteer’s attempt to make the best out of a stressful, dangerous situation bears a striking resemblance to the Palestinian reality. The country is beautiful, full of kind, generous people, but the looming occupation deprives them of all the joys their surroundings bring — and so Palestinians make the best with what is offered.

“It’s pretty inspiring to see that there’s a lot of people who do care, in the face of everything,” Cininni adds, “and are willing to go to this extent, to fly to a pretty dangerous place and to do this kind of work. It gave me a lot more confidence in a lot of ways, and it made me personally want to do more of this type of work.” 

The International Solidarity Movement is always looking for volunteers from across the globe. A registration form can be found on their website. 

The post On the Ground in the West Bank: A Testimony with Giancarlo Cininni appeared first on The McGill Daily.

What does “home” mean to you? 

Is it a person? Where you have lived for decades? Where you were born? 

And what if home was something you could not return to, but carry with you always? 

Such is the sentiment of Yasmeen, “Yas” Kanaan’s most recent exhibition, Carrying Home. Through her art, Kanaan recounted a beautiful story of belonging, the passing down of culture, and resistance. She derives stylistic inspiration from renowned Palestinian artists like the late Ismail Shammout and Sliman Mansour.

This interview has been edited for clarity and conciseness. 

The Daily spoke to Kanaan about her exhibition’s theme: “For me, art is a form of culture. And culture is a form of preserving identity, and preserving identity is a form of resistance against oppression. So basically, art is my tool and that’s how I chose the theme for this exhibition.” 

Kanaan is a Palestinian artist with a bachelor’s degree in Visual Arts from the University of Jordan and a master’s degree in Art History from Concordia University. From a very early age, she learned to conceptualize and express her feelings on a canvas. She admired artists like Palestinian political cartoonist, Naji al Ali, best known for his famous caricature Handalah; Kanaan’s patriotism for Palestine drew the attention of her high school teacher. 

“When I was very young, my passion used to come out as anger, and frustration,” she says. “And then I had a teacher, a genuinely good teacher, the type that changes your life, who told me that passion without direction is kind of useless. He taught me how to turn my passion into an educational tool, into something useful for society. And that’s when I unlocked, and started thinking how can art be used as a way to tell a story?” 

After graduating from Concordia University, Kanaan worked as an art historian for six years before applying herself to painting again. 

“Being an art historian and art curator takes me down a different path, and gives me a different perspective on the arts than being an artist,” she says. [But] “ I still have so much to offer as an artist. So I chose to go back to it. And the first painting that I did is the watermelon piece.” 

Long live the Watermelon (2025) is one of the pieces featured in Carrying Home. It shows two watermelons, one cut up in 3 different pieces, ready to be served, and another ripe for the taking, with a beautiful background showcasing embroidery patterns that are anything but random. These patterns are inspired by Kanaan’s mother’s Palestinian embroidery designs, called tatreez, which was the artist’s first love. It was her way of incorporating the importance of passing down heritage and culture, as well as preserving memory – the core themes of her exhibition. 

“My heritage and my art were never separated,” she says. “That’s kind of my automatic identity. 
Every single element in my pieces is part of my everyday life. Even the embroidery pieces, they’re reminiscent of my mother’s jacket that I wear.” Another example Kanaan cites is the frame piece, which she calls “the most important art piece in the exhibit.” “There’s nothing inside it, and it’s over like 60 years old and lived through different exiles from different cities. It was with my family during the Naksa, [also known as the Six Days War of 1967, and] now in Montreal. So, this is part of my identity. It’s carrying home.”  

The theme was also heavily inspired by Palestinian writer Ghassan Kanafani’s novel, Return to Haifa, which dealt with questions centering around the idea and definition of home. 

“What is home?” Kanaan asks. “Is it the table that’s been there for so many years that became part of the furniture of the house? Is it the language? What is the concept of a home? What is [its definition]? The answer in the book is ‘the will.’ It had an impact on me because I’m also a traveller. Wherever I go, I have my baggage, my home is my bag…It’s no longer a physical place. It’s a collection of traditions, values, recipes, clothing and embroidery, altogether in a bag.”

To be featured in the 11th edition of Montreal’s Filministes Festival was very significant to Kanaan. 

The Filministes Festival is an annual film festival organizing discussions on contemporary feminist issues in Montreal through the screening of cinematographic works, which began in 2015. The festival promotes films and directors from here and abroad, while creating spaces for discussion and reflection for audiences of all kinds. Ultimately, its specificity lies in bridging feminism and cinema.

“This feminist festival is really going for it, and is supportive of otherwise controversial topics,” Kanaan says, “especially in the current context and political climate, where there’s so much anti-immigrant hate. There’s currently a lot of people and policies fueling hate against Arabs [and] Muslims. But the people that I worked with at the festival are very supportive, alhamdulillah.”

“I feel like a lot of feminists like to carry the idea of feminism without actually incorporating the values,” Kanaan continues. “It’s become like a commercial motto for a lot of women because it doesn’t make sense for someone to be a feminist and not take into account causes like the genocide in Sudan, or in Palestine, yet defend someone like Taylor Swift. When it comes to justice, they forget all about feminism. For me, it’s very feminist of me to choose the topic of Palestinian identity as a woman. And even if I wasn’t a woman. I think the cause of Palestine should be directly affiliated with feminism.” 

The Festival Filministes opened its doors from March 4 to March 14, with Carrying Home available for viewing from opening night to March 9. 

For any and all future exhibitions by Yas Kanaan, you can follow her Instagram page for updates. 

The post Carrying Home everywhere she goes appeared first on The McGill Daily.

As one of North America’s leading documentary festivals, the Montreal International Documentary Festival (RIDM) seeks primarily to “promote and reflect on the most stimulating and diverse visions of documentary cinema.” Last year, the festival was held from November 19, 2025 and November 29, 2025. Their selections bring a newfound renewal of the audience’s relationship with the world and with documentary as an art form. On November 27 and November 29 RIDM screened Partition at the Cinémathèque Québecoise, in collaboration with Festival International Du Film Ethnographique Du Québec (FIFEQ).

Allan is an anthropologist by trade, who has worked for the duration of her professional and scholarly career with Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. The focus of her work has been documenting histories of displacement and dispossession in the camps across Lebanon, focusing on the testimonies of first generation refugees, dating back to the Nakba.

Partition has been in the works for many years in collaboration in camps across Lebanon. At the time the footage was filmed, the British Empire shot a number of films to document their colonial operations. However, much of this footage is not quite clear, and the images do not appear to be originals. That is because Prof. Allan filmed the footage from her own laptop, shot from digitized archives. The videos were then edited alongside resistance songs and the voices of Palestinian refugees in Lebanon — culminating in a project that challenges colonial authority. 

Partition is not concerned with preserving a linear narrative. In true oral history fashion, it recalls over a century of occupation and displacement through the sounds of echoes and overlaying  perspectives. It was described by the festival as “an invitation to rewrite Palestinian history through a decolonial lens, reflecting on the logic of the colonial gaze and the image’s complicity in its development.”

Partition is the fruit of much beautiful and creative labour, with the editing initially taking place in Lebanon and ending in Canada. Mahmoud Zeidan, a Palestinian refugee residing in Ain-al-Helweh camp in Lebanon, was co-editor on this project. Zeidan and Allan also worked together to co-found the Nakba Archive project in 2002, which comprises over 1,100 hours of footage with first-generation Palestinian refugees in Lebanon. Julian Flavin, associate director of Critical Media Lab (CML) at McGill University, worked closely with Professor Allan on Partition as the project’s sound designer. Finally, Lisa Stevenson, co-director of the CML, also played quite the role in the film’s making. 

On November 29th, it was revealed that Partition won the Grand Prix of the national competition at RIDM.

On January 19, The Daily sat with Professor Allan to know the woman behind the lens, and understand the documentary’s ultimate goal. 

This interview had been edited for clarity and conciseness.

Youmna El Halabi for the McGill Daily (MD): How did the idea come about to make the documentary in the first place?

Professor Diana Allan (DA): All my work as a filmmaker and as an anthropologist has focused on histories of dispossession and displacement and exile. In addition to testimonial work, I’ve also worked as an ethnographer for many years with Palestinian communities, also in [Tyre,] Beirut, mainly in [Palestinian refugee camp, Sabra and] Shatila in Beirut and in Jal al Bahr, [attending] one of these informal gatherings called the tajamua’at in the South. 

My work has also been about memory, about processes of memory, and ephemeral forms of memory; highlighting the kind of narratives that maybe don’t form part of these canonical narratives of displacement, but are to do with childhood and love and labor, that are maybe less politically resonant, but are very important. I’ve been very interested in the processes of memory, and how photographs shape it. So this film kind of grows out of that, and is about what it means to encounter a kind of colonial archive from your past, from which you’ve been denied access, and what it means to experience that past, re-experience it, and reinvest it with Palestinian history and experience.

So it’s really about re-temporizing the Nakba as something that has been going on for 100 years, not 78, and scrutinizing the role that the British have played. I guess also as a British scholar, and filmmaker, I am scrutinizing my own formation within this imperial imagery as a British citizen, and it has periodically come into my work, but in a very marginal way.

As a British citizen, Allan had to consider her own relationship to these histories of Palestinian dispossession, and the fundamental role that the British have played in this history, which is often forgotten. The Palestinian plight is normally considered to have begun with the establishment of the state of Israel in 1948, often referred to as the Nakba, which means catastrophe in Arabic. However, Palestine has been under a nakba long before the established Israeli state, with British rule beginning in the 1910s.

MD: You mentioned that your work revolves a lot around memories and preserving memory. The movie is shot from the actual archives, and the zoom lens conveys that they are not original shots. How does the preservation of memory manifest in the way you chose to present the documentary? 

DA: Who do these histories belong to? Who do these materials belong to? These silent films were shot between 1917 and 1948 so I came across this collection sort of randomly. I’d heard that they’d just digitized their films. I came across this material that was amazing and revelationary to me in many different ways. When I contacted the archivist, and they quoted me a really exorbitant sum for use of this material, even after I’d explained that it was for an educational project — that it wasn’t for broadcast on television —  it was still exorbitant. At that point I was just like, I’m not paying a British government institution a huge amount of money to make a film about their dispossession of Palestinians. And one has to ask, well, who are these materials being preserved for? They should be preserved for stakeholder communities. 

This is a decolonial project. This is about bringing these histories back into contact with Palestinian communities. And so, I felt entirely justified in reclaiming them, exhuming them from this collection, and then bringing them back into circulation, bringing them back into relation with the people whose histories are being held in these collections. 

MD: How has winning the Grand Prix changed people’s perception and reception of the documentary? 

DA: It has made my work more visible to my colleagues, both in my own department and in the Faculty of Arts. They sent out a notice about the award in the arts newsletter, and that was very nice. The screening at the CML [on January 16] was really packed. Partition is the first fully-fledged film that has come out of the lab, in which a community of people who are working in film and sound is really being built. It was exciting to feel the force of that community and that kind of commitment.

—

Partition was more than just a documentary reclaiming Palestinian history. In a way, it works as a sort of epic, told through blurred images, and the enchanting voice of a woman singing Palestinian folkloric songs. While tragic in its reality, it is also a story on the importance of resilience and preservation of memory – and it is a must-watch.

The post Partition by Dr. Diana Allan: Reclaiming British archival footage appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Founded in 2017 and achieving its final lineup in 2019, Old Soul is a mischief-loving foursome comprising vocalist Loreta Triconi, bassist Joseph Bottaro, drummer Ryan Palfavi, and guitarist Peter Rallis. Inspired by the psychedelic soundscape of the 1960s and 1970s, Old Soul’s artistic mission is to “set out with a unified vision to ignite nothing short of a rock’n’roll revolution.”

The band’s live performances prove to be nothing short. Triconi’s vocals, reminiscent of Janis Joplin or Jefferson Airplane’s Grace Slick, take the audience back to a time where bell bottoms, chunky belts, and platform boots were still all the rage. Palfalvi’s wild energy on the drums almost always translates to his ending the show shirtless and drenched in sweat. Rallis’ guitar solos never fail to leave anyone, whether it be his bandmates or the crowd, hungry for more. Meanwhile Bottaro’s bass line, intricate and executed with intense precision, carries the whole ensemble forward as he joins Triconi in headbanging with his own silky black bob in true bassist fashion.

Outside of the limelight, however, they’re just four friends excited to make music together, pursuing a shared passion with their chosen family. Old Soul released their debut album, Overgrown in February 2023, and have since been featured in publications such as The Suburban, Wavy Magazine, and Forget the Box while performing at music festivals across Ontario and Quebec. They were also part of the lineup in both 2023 editions of McGill’s Open Air Pub (OAP). 

Earlier this year, they released their single “Blue Bossa,” a consummate blend of sounds inspired by their usual 60s rock jams along with hints of Brazilian bossa nova and blues influences. Shortly after, the band announced their second album, coming November 6, titled Undercurrent; a further departure from the colours of Overgrown. The album’s cover art, which features a model posing as a mermaid surrounded by water, is almost violently blue — a stark contrast to the warmer hues of its predecessor. The Daily sat down with all four members of Old Soul in order to find out more about the band’s story, as well as their hopes and dreams for their newest ventures.

This interview has been edited for clarity and conciseness.

Youmna El Halabi for the McGill Daily (MD): What was the main inspiration behind Undercurrent? 

Joseph Bottaro (JB): I think it was just because at the start of writing the new songs, we all collectively thought of the color blue. We felt like the songs were just…blue. It was a kind of synesthesia where we were all like, “Okay, these songs are just really blue. Starting with “Talking to Myself” — that was blue. And then “River” — also blue. 

Ryan Palfalvi (RP): It’s very moody, very introspective music as well. So there’s the idea of being “under,” within the subconscious. It’s more of an introspective record.

JB: And we used to practice and record in a basement, until that basement got flooded. It got covered in water, all of our equipment was submerged, and it was almost completely destroyed. Then we started relocating to different practice areas. I think Undercurrent really came together once we started to record the first few songs at a cottage up north, while it was snowing outside. There was a whole body of water there with a river covered in ice. We were taking a walk outside when we saw this tree branch underneath the see-through, icy water. And it was just like that — we said, “oh, that’s Undercurrent.”

MD: So what was going on in your mind when you were writing the songs featured on Undercurrent, as opposed to the Overgrown songs?

Loreta Triconi (LT): Undercurrent was written while Overgrown was being recorded and produced. Because some of these songs we’ve had since like 2020. For the more moody songs, we felt like they didn’t fit with Overgrown so they kind of became separated in their own way. A lot of those songs were ones that we had written while in isolation, during the lockdown, but some are newer. 

Peter Rallis (PR): It’s weird. The songs (on Undercurrent) are either four years old or they’re six months old. Half of the album is six to eight months old, and the other half is, like, three or four years old. And that’s also why writing this album was different. We didn’t come in with all the songs prepared. We had those — I don’t want to say leftovers, but — [these older songs] were a different sound which didn’t feel like part of the first record. It was still interesting to see, nonetheless, what new songs we kind of wrote on the spot and just managed to put out there.

MD: So, from what I understand — unlike your last three singles, “Talking to Myself,” “The River” and “Blue Bossa,” which you guys produced with Brandon Barsoumian, the new album is entirely self-produced. What old, reliable creative tools did you reuse for this album that you used in the first one, and what were some new ones that you learned?

RP: Well, I think the common thread would be that we’re always in the same room together when we write our music. So I think there are some ideas that each individual member brought forth for certain certain songs, but I think everything is done organically in the room when we play it together. And then the newer things would be what we’ve figured out in production and in recording ourselves. 

JB: Everything in the production sense was completely different from what we did for Overgrown. It wasn’t thrown out the window, but it was a different process entirely. We were recording in spaces such as our basement or makeshift studios in an Airbnb. So it became more creative and more tactile and hands-on in that way. We were literally standing on chairs to hang overheads on the drum kit and putting duct tape on the ceilings to record Undercurrent, whereas in Overgrown we would be eight hours in the studio [with equipment.] Undercurrent was a longer process, so we were taking more time to put things together, and it was more DIY. 

MD: It’s interesting how your first album was recorded in a studio, but the second was purely DIY. Do you feel like that changed something in you, as musicians? 

RP: For sure, because everyone was responsible for learning on the fly. I think there was less hand-holding, because everything became the responsibility of all the members of the group. In the case of our first experience, we were happy but there were still some things it left us wanting. So maybe [transitioning to DIY] could be perceived as going backwards in a sense, but it also allowed us a lot more creative control, and a lot more of an ability to express what we felt without having so many other mechanisms involved.

PR: I feel like when we went into the studio for the first album, we weren’t able to communicate how we felt about a lot of things, and we found it difficult and intimidating. There’s certain things that you look back on, and you say: “I wish I could have done it more hands-on, or more myself, or I could have been more involved”. And that offers you a different side of understanding when you’re making music, which goes into the final product, and that has to be taken into account. But we were also able to kind of make our own schedule without relying on anyone else, which gives a certain sense of flexibility.

MD: And what would you say was the most challenging part of the new process? 

RP: With having flexibility in our own schedule, we learned from trial and error a lot. You need to be ready to work and to work very hard, because the responsibility of engineering your own project is a lot. Joe [Bottaro] had a lot of sleepless nights mixing this project. It’s a whole other level of workmanship that’s not just being a player and not just being a composer — you’re crafting the entire piece now. Everything that we’ve done [for this album] has been independent.

LT: You have to trust each other and trust that you’re all gonna be ready to show up and do the job, and work together as a team. Because it’s not always easy. Sometimes you have a vision, or sometimes you have a way that you want things to be done, and before, we were able to talk to the producer to get an “unbiased” opinion. But now, it’s all us. It’s a lot of back and forth, and sometimes you get charged arguments. But we make it work eventually.

MD: And how was curating everything for your upcoming release party on November 13 at Le Balcon? You’ll have The Space Wizards opening for you guys, a band you’ve played with multiple times!

LT: Well, we just wanted to make this show spectacular. So we needed to go with a cabaret-style, fabulous venue. This one’s going to be inside a cathedral. That speaks for itself. It’s going to be in the heart of the city. And for The Space Wizards, we just wanted a cool band we’ve played with before that’s been on the scene for as long as we have — even longer, actually, than us. And we enjoy their sound and playing with them. So it’s going to be an honor to share the stage. 

RP: They’re a good vibe in that they’re more than reliable. They’re people that you can lean on. They’re also people who just love to get up there and play. And they get the crowd moving.

MD: And what do you hope your listeners get from Undercurrent?

PR: I hope people can find a soft place inside them, where they start picturing things, and their eyes are closed, and they can start feeling emotions that they didn’t know they could feel. Like connecting to the things that they haven’t connected to before. It’s like reading a beautiful novel where things are just popping up in your head and you’re taken to another place. I hope they’re just going to go on a whole entire trip from the beginning to the end, and make whatever they can from it — gather whatever they want from it, just to have their perspective, you know.

JB: The music kind of speaks for itself on the album. It’ll take you through a journey. It’ll take you to unexpected places, especially coming from us. 

Undercurrent is set to be released on November 6, and the first live performance will take place at Le Balcon on November 13.

The post A Talk With Old Soul appeared first on The McGill Daily.

In Montreal, we’ve had our share of cultural disappointments this year, with institutions like Blue Dog closing down, and noise complaints hailing from across town, threatening to kill the nightlife Montreal is known for. 

That being said, we still have bands bringing in the heat and staying loud and proud.  A great example of that is none other than Dali: a new wave rock band known for their gravelly rock textures, soulful melodies and contemplative lyrics. Dali is fronted by singer-songwriter and rhythm guitarist Naïla, with David on lead guitar, Indiana on bass, and Pablo on drums. 

The band was originally a two-person guitar duo formed by Naïla and David. The pair would attend open mics in Montreal with just two guitars and a hunger for performance. At that point,  singer-songwriter Naïla had already written quite a few songs and was itching to play more shows with a bigger band. 

“David brought on Pablo, who came to one of our rehearsals, and it really clicked,” says Naïla. 

“Indie and Pablo are dating, and she also happened to have a bass, and we needed a bassist. It just worked. It was not really planned.” 

Dali has been tearing up a number of Montreal bars this summer. From Quai des Brumes, to L’hémisphère gauche, to TurboHaus, you can find their tunes rushing crowds into moshpits and dance breaks. 

Youmna for the McGill Daily (MD): Do you find that you all have similar musical tastes for you to become a band, or is it very eclectic throughout, and then you agreed on the sound for the band?

The four of us have a lot in common. Most of us like bands like Radiohead, The Strokes, Arctic Monkeys. But we are also very different in certain aspects, especially when we’re writing songs. While coming up with solos, one of us could think of a certain Metallica phrase or riff or whatever that maybe the rest of us don’t necessarily know or listen to, but we all roll with it, and for whatever reason, it works with the tune. So, we guess both statements are true. Musically, it works because of bands and songs we have in common, but it also works because of our different influences.

MD: How would you describe a typical songwriting session with all four of you?

A: We have this new song, and we just jam to it. We created it this way pretty much, but we don’t write that much together. We’re trying more and more to collaborate even more on every aspect. We’ve had a few spontaneous moments and it feels so good once it comes all together organically. Also, sometimes [we] set out with a plan, and then the plan completely changes, and then “Woah”. 

MD: What do you love most about playing live? 

A: Playing live is really fun. We’re with different crowds all the time. Sometimes it could be people our age. Sometimes it’s that weird 47 year old guy that brought his friends, you know, but they’re really funny. soIt’s definitely cool to navigate all the different personalities of the crowd because they’re the one feeding the energy to the band.

MD: What’s one thing you would change in your gigs? 

A: Maybe the fact that the crowd is mostly the one feeding us energy. We shouldn’t wait to receive energy to give it.

MD: What’s your favorite moment when you’re playing live in general? 

A: Playing live is such a big release of energy. There’s a little bit of nervousness at the beginning, but then you release and then you have all this energy with the crowd, and it’s very powerful. 

MD: What would be your song that made you fall in love with music and fall in love with making music? 

P: I got into music kind of because of destiny. I just kinda fell into it. I was struggling to truly find the motivator that would propel me forward. And then I ran into the album Swimming by Mac Miller. I went deeper into his discography and him as an artist just kinda lit a little fire under me.

D: When I was 11 years old, I heard “All the Small Things” by Blink182 for the first time and it blew my mind. I was playing Guitar Hero on the Nintendo DS, like, the worst way you could play Guitar Hero and that’s what I played. The audio was really bad, but I heard the song and I loved it. I just thought it was so energetic [and] so catchy. It just stuck in my head. I remember my mom took me to see them when I was 12, and they played it. 

N: When I was younger, I listened to a lot of psychedelic rock and I wanted to play a tune. I also listened to a lot of Quebec francophone music. I love to play and sing. I: I kinda always wanted to play music as an activity, and I did for six years. But when I was 15, I went to high school, and that’s when I met people that were 18 and they were making it their job. And I was like, “What? You can be a musician that young and play gigs at, like, 19? Okay. I’ll get serious.” And I did. An ex-boyfriend of mine got me into a conservatory. I did classical upper bass, and then I just continued. My mom is a photographer, so being an artist is normal. Even if she wanted to keep me away from it, she couldn’t, clearly. 

MD: So why the name “Dali”?

A: It’s like Salvatore Dali and the clock painting. When you listen to a song or you play one, you’re kind of suspended in time, and time can feel different. Depending on the arrangement of the song, it can feel longer than three minutes. It’s just the way music can almost manipulate time, almost like a melting clock or something.

Be sure to follow Dali on their socials to keep up with their upcoming performances!

The post Dali: Montreal’s up-and-coming eclectic band! appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Lower field: bell-like peals of laughter, the faint aroma of grilled burger patties, and a snaking queue of students stretching around the perimeter of what looks like an outdoor party with an endless waitlist. Friends separated over the summer reunite with shrieks and hugs to the exhilarating soundtrack of musicians playing just steps away. It’s no surprise some McGill students, and the event itself, call Open Air Pub (OAP) the “Best Place on Earth”.

Since 1987, OAP’s legacy has resonated across generations of McGill students as the stage for golden memories. Ivan Zhang, one half of the Head Management duo for the most recent edition of OAP, tells us he found the first documented mention of OAP in the 1980 McGill Yearbook, which at the time was a gathering of engineers at Three Bares Park for Welcome Week 1980. Now organised by the Engineering Undergraduate Society (EUS), OAP has grown exponentially in scale, taking up half of McGill’s Lower Field and attracting thousands of McGill students, alumni, and their external plus- ones alike.

The COVID-19 pandemic halted OAP for a few years, which was enough to weaken the event’s influence and place in the collective McGill consciousness. “We saw a few years of not-great profitability and lower capacities post-COVID,” says Zhang. “Right after COVID, there was a bit of a lull where McGill students didn’t even know what OAP was, especially the new ones coming in.” Now, after some time and vested publicity efforts, it’s back and bigger than ever, renowned for its cheap (though warm) alcohol, good food, and overall vibrant ambience.

As one of the few large inter-cohort McGill social events, organizing OAP is, naturally, a massive endeavour. From supplying various food and beverage options to recruiting managers, bands, and artists to spray the iconic OAP stage graffiti, the 13-member team works tirelessly both on and off the ground to ensure the event runs smoothly. Most recently, the OAP team has implemented new environmental initiatives which have, according to Nicole Shen, OAP’s food manager, earned them a Gold certification from the McGill Sustainability Office. These developments include the introduction of new mats to protect the grass on Lower Field, the recycling of cans (rather than giving out plastic cups), and the use of propane rather than charcoal grills for food, among others.

Providing the soundtrack to this one-of-a-kind student festival are a variety of bands, singers and DJs. This year, OAP hosted 26 amazing acts. From soulful harmonies and acoustic covers to head-banging rock tunes and DJ sets, there was truly something for everyone. A few of the acts actually found their
start at McGill, despite the predominantly academic environment. DJ Clément Gabriel, who describes his music as “dark and euphoric,” learned how to mix in an hour before a party at his former fraternity. In addition, rock band Dollhouse recruited their bassist Sacha when drummer Emilio spotted him walking around with his bass at Activities Night last year.

In fact, the significance of OAP within the McGill community means that many performers had already attended the event from below the stage. Of course, this means that they are or were McGill students themselves, lovingly carving out time between tutorials and lectures to hone their craft. Still, the process of becoming an OAP act is complex and multilayered, with the OAP team having to sift through a substantial number of applications and music samples.

OAP has provided a platform for students to test the boundaries of expression and find their own unique voices. Experimental DJ trio Dance Engine describes OAP as “a really nice musician[‘s] playground” where they can showcase “what they really want to do” because of the “easy to win” receptiveness of McGill students to novel ideas and new music. Similarly, DJ Nina Baby closed this year’s OAP Boiler with “music that [she’s] rarely had the chance to play”, sharing her infectious electronic sound with the McGill masses.

OAP has even pushed new voices to the forefront. The common pursuit of a good time across all involved parties fuels OAP’s lively and accepting atmosphere. Compared to other festivals, the beauty of OAP is that the person on stage could also be your friend, which makes it all the more exciting. Acoustic folk duo Dave and Sarah (whose names are neither Dave nor Sarah) describe the sensation of performing at OAP as “not even comparable” to their previous gigs, not just because of OAP’s sheer scale but also because “everyone knew [them], which made it scarier but also so much fun.”

The added layer of thrill as a result of being surrounded by familiar company rings true not just for OAP’s performing artists, but for their patrons, who get to commemorate the end of summer (or winter, depending on when you go) by letting loose amidst a crowd of friendly faces. “As a student, I love that I get to hang out [at OAP] with my friends, and also play there as an artist,” house-inspired DJ Dante says. By playing for the community he is part of, he feels like he can stay true to the sound he loves. “You can kind of tell when you’re in the that the positive feeling people experience kind of rubs off on each other.”

Moreover, OAP’s relatively relaxed format extends music and performance not only to those who practice it professionally, but to anyone with love and respect for the craft. “We are engineers, but we have hobbies,” jokes Nella Craft, one of OAP’s music managers. As mentioned, many of the acts are McGill students or alumni from various faculties and disciplines.

GarageMDs, for instance, is a band made up of McGill medical students – not your usual candidates for a school band, given the rigour of their program. Moreover, Gianni, founding member of dream rock band Flying Dream, is a post-doctoral fellow in the McGill Faculty of Engineering. “Academia and research are fascinating, but they’re very rigid […] Music is more free, and you [have room to] explore.”

That being said, OAP’s free-flow is also calculated. As one of the main goals is to keep the audience entertained, the event’s management must curate cohesive sets throughout the event. Niney, a Montreal-based DJ, says he enjoys this aspect of the festival. “The goal is to bring it from zero to on the way to the tech house,” he shares, “so I had to get [the crowd] dancing, to sing songs they may or may not know.” Niney describes himself as an avid dancer, and changing up his style to get a crowd warmed up and grooving is one of his favourite things to do. OAP allows for this part of him to shine. “As a DJ, you can never have too many styles.”

However, music serves many more functions than just inducing hype in a crowd. It provides the soundtrack for our morning commutes and gym sessions, sets the mood at our local cafes and bars — it surrounds us, giving it immense and intrinsic power. Mica, a disco music DJ says, “Music exists in many forms in every aspect of my life. Study nights, kickin’ it with friends, football games, preparing food — no matter what I’m doing, there’s always a perfect soundtrack.” With the growth of streaming services and subsequent increased accessibility of music, it has become so integrated into our daily lives that we might not fully appreciate its special quality. Music has the capacity to influence our thoughts and emotions, not only stimulating our senses but acting as a mode of idiosyncratic expression.

This is no different amongst the performers of OAP, to whom music is a multi-functional tool that holds a special place in their hearts. When asked how music has enriched his life, Owen, founding member and lead guitarist of Montreal indie rock band Willy Nilly, joked, “My depression now has a musical twist to it,” referencing songwriting’s critical role in conveying his personal realities. Dollhouse’s genre-bending songs, composed and arranged by the entire group, also tackle a plethora of issues like mental health and activism, among others. “It’s just like, we hear you,” says Nikita, the band’s singer, “‘cause we all have our own kind of struggle. It translates into our music.”

And isn’t that what all this music and all this partying is about? It’s all to be heard, to be seen. While it might sound a little corny, the tunes and the booze and the (very good) corn on the cobs at OAP are all designed and calibrated for a specific purpose: connection. This is the crux of OAP, the secret sauce that makes it as celebrated and anticipated as it is by the McGill student body.

This sentiment was echoed by almost everyone we talked to about OAP’s impact and legacy. “In the back of my mind, OAP was a sort of dream,” contemplates Gabriel Jon, a folk and R&B singer and McGill Engineering student. “It was a big step towards my goal of not overthinking things too much and just going for things that I want to do.” Similarly, GarageMDs comments, “There’s something special about seeing your friends and classmates cheering you on, creating moments that remind you we’re all in this journey together […] that make this experience so meaningful.”

“Seeing the impact that [our performance] can have on people who come to the shows means the world to us,” relates The Howlin’ Gales, a country rock band from Toronto. In an increasingly divided world plagued by individualistic ideals, to be seen by your community and to have your voice not just heard but uplifted is perhaps what we all yearn for. The bond between a performer and their audience, therefore, is made all the more sacred, as the effort and love invested by a performer into their craft is rewarded by the energy they receive from their audience. “What I hope to gain is a deeper connection with that crowd, because they’re the true supporters, the ones who come alive no matter the circumstances,” puts Clément Gabriel.

Beyond this, there are also the little points of connection between patrons, which all OAP attendees can attest to. “It’s the one place where I’ll actually see all of my friends, who you can never really combine in one room all together at McGill,” explains Claire Levasseur, VP Services for the EUS. From chatting with strangers in the (more often than not) hours-long line to bumping into dear friends scattered across the field, the spatial configuration of OAP is one built for interaction. “I hope OAP is remembered like that, where you can meet new people from so many different types of programs, so many different places.”

And not just students! Karl, a security guard from OAP, recalls feeling heartened by the warmth students showed him in their brief interactions entering and exiting the venue. When checking McGill IDs, he recounts seeing a string of 6 people with the same birthday as him — Valentines’ Day, which he says is rare. “At events, people usually try to avoid talking to security,” he says, “but here, I get to interact with cool people, young people.”

Love it or hate it, OAP is a McGill cultural staple that is here to stay. While seemingly just a superficial student festival on the surface, OAP’s purpose is much deeper than that. As a critical facet of McGill culture, it weaves a golden tie between decades of McGill alumni all the way to the present, strengthening an already formidable bond that exists between us students. It promotes local and student artists, ensuring a steady stream of art in a world where creative expression is unfortunately deemed less productive and therefore less valuable. OAP also fosters inter-faculty and inter-cohort interaction and connection, ensuring that people get the opportunity to form new bonds and strengthen old ones. “We take a lot of pride in being able to put OAP on and create a space that so many people can enjoy, that connects everybody,” expresses Josh Negenman, the other half of OAP’s head management duo.

So, OAP. You may or may not have attended, but you sure as hell have heard of it. In any case, it’s energetic and lively, with an atmosphere best described as electric – a buzz on your skin, a welcome high.

Is it really “The Best Place On Earth”? Nothing’s perfect, of course, but we’d say it comes pretty damn close.

The post Open Air Pub: Where Music Meets Community appeared first on The McGill Daily.

On a chilly Saturday evening, all cozied up with a hot bowl of homemade chilli, I finally watched John M. Chu’s Wicked (2024), four months after its theatre release. Don’t judge me.

I was already somewhat familiar with the original Broadway play that opened in 2003 with Idina Menzel and Kristin Chynoweth, starring respectively as the Wicked Witch of West, Elphaba, and the Good Witch of the East, Galinda (Glinda). I also just discovered it was based upon Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, a novel published in 1995 and written by Gregory Maguire.

However, I was unprepared for the rollercoaster of emotions that the movie put me through. It’s always interesting to see how one experiences the same work of art at different stages of their lives.

When I was first introduced to Wicked, the musical, my first impression of it was very superficial. The political undertone of the story was completely lost on me, although I always understood that Elphaba was ostracized because she was “different” and Glinda was loved because she was always “just right.” 

This time around, I saw Wicked for all its realistic and dark glory, and came to the conclusion that Elphaba isn’t just a green witch. Elphaba is an icon and inspiration for all women of colour.

Elphaba’s journey throughout the movie is nothing surprising to the women of colour who do not conform to the delicate, petite and pixie-like beauty standards revered by society. Her looks, however, are not the only thing that people run away from. It is her unapologetically loud and deviant attitude, in addition to her powerful nature.

Having grown up shunned and hated by her father all of her life, Elphaba is no stranger to society casting her out. However, she doesn’t act meek. Quite the opposite — she is quippy and sarcastic, beating everyone to the punch.

Upon everyone’s first impressions of her, Elphaba simply answers with, “Fine, might as well get this over with, no I’m not sea sick, yes I’ve always been green, no I didn’t eat grass as a child.”

Her green skin represents an allegory for anything in one’s appearance considered “different” or “out of the ordinary” (whatever that means!): a slightly bigger nose than average, a darker complexion, freckled skin, textured unruly hair … the list goes on. In modern world terms, ya ain’t white.

People only seem to start noticing Elphaba more positively when Glinda gives her a makeover so she can be “popular” among her fellow students. Elphaba starts wearing her hair down in a half-updo, just like her blonde counterpart, even going as far as emulating Glinda’s signature hair flip to seem quirky and cute.

But what really struck me wasn’t the physical makeover, nor was it the change in the students’ attitudes once Elphaba and Glinda started becoming close.

It was Madame Morrible’s treatment of Elphaba.

Madame Morrible — powerful sorceress, headmistress of Crage Hall at Shiz University and cohort of The Wizard of Oz — in all her grey haired glory, takes Elphaba under her wing for the entirety of the film, after first witnessing the latter’s powers at Shiz’s great hall.

As the story goes, we are made to believe that Madame Morrible is just honing Elphaba’s craft so she can become a better sorceress. But upon closer inspection, Madame Morrible doesn’t teach her anything. She just taunts her student, trying to gauge how her powers work and what can activate them, like when she reminds Elphaba of the hateful message left on Dr. Dillamond’s board to see if the anger will get her to cast a spell.

This all comes to a head in the final moments of the movie, when Elphaba and Glinda go to the Emerald City to see the wizard. Elphaba reads a spell in the Grimmerie, giving wings to the monkeys against her will. Once she realizes she’d been used, she rebels and runs away, leading Madame Morrible to vilify her in front of all of Oz, painting her as a wicked witch.

The moment becomes a brilliant depiction of what happens when you defy the system, when  your talent does not serve them anymore. Madame Morrible used Elphaba’s powers for her own agenda, but once she realizes Elphaba could not be subdued, she decides to shift her focus to what she could control: the reputation around the Green Girl.

And it got me thinking just how many women of colour throughout the years have been  villainized and criticized. Because they refuse to conform to the system that was oppressing them, denying against  their own erasure. It got me thinking how many times those same women are still villainized in everyday life, but become praised when shown on the big screen, mimicking the irony of it all.

So this is for all the Elphabas out there as this Women’s History Month comes to a close. Keep on defying gravity –  even if you’re flying solo, at least you’re flying free.

The post Elphaba Defies All Gravity appeared first on The McGill Daily.

On March 18, they flooded the streets again, at the same starting point. But the general sentiment wasn’t joy: it was outrage.

Early Tuesday morning, the clock read 2:10 AM when the people of Gaza woke up to the deafening sound of air strikes — sounds they didn’t think they would have to endure any more.

Israeli raids targeted the northern, central, and southern governorates of Gaza. According to Al Jazeera Arabic, Israeli tanks also shelled the town of Abasan in Khan Younis. The world awoke to Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s announcing that the war on Gaza had resumed.

By Tuesday afternoon, Gaza time, the Palestinian Health Ministry reported “404 martyrs and 562 injuries arrived at Gaza Strip hospitals so far,” adding that “a number of victims are still under the rubble.”

This continuation of brutal attacks comes two weeks after Netanyahu blocked aid from entering Gaza, just as Gazans were preparing to celebrate the holy month of Ramadan.

As of March 21, the rising toll of martyrs has reached nearly 600, with the majority of casualties being children.

The Islamic resistance group Hamas stated that “Netanyahu and his extremist government are making a decision to overturn the ceasefire agreement, exposing prisoners in Gaza to an unknown fate.” They called on people in Arab and Islamic nations, as well as the “free people of the world,” to take to the streets to protest the assault.

On Tuesday afternoon, at exactly 5:00 PM, Montreal4Palestine (M4P) rallied up Montreal residents in front of the U.S. consulate in response to this call. They expressed their frustration and anger concerning the escalation.

“Brothers and sisters, we are standing here today as a show of dignity, because we cannot just stay at home, and watch as these atrocities happen,” said one of M4P’s chanters. “I am fasting, and many of you are fasting right now, but that doesn’t stop us [from showing up]. Whether we’re fasting, whether it’s cold, whether it’s raining, we will continue to resist, we will continue to fight, because that’s what Gaza teaches us.”

“Today marks day 528 of the ongoing genocide in Gaza,” stated one of M4P’s organizers, noting that while the ceasefire technically went into effect on January 19, the aggression never stopped. “Only one truth stands clear: this is not a war on Gaza, this is an American-backed genocide. The Zionist enemy’s renewed aggression is not an isolated event. It is part of an ongoing war of extermination, targeting our people, targeting our cause, [and] targeting our resistance.”

Reports have suggested the Israeli government alerted the White House before launching the attacks, completely breaching the ceasefire agreement. U.S. President Donald Trump purportedly gave a green light to Israel’s moves.

“This is not ignorance, this is complicity!” continued the organizer. “The United States has once again proven that it is not a broker of peace, but a partner in war crimes, and genocide. Because with every
bomb that falls, every child under the rubble, every mother holding her dying baby, they all bear the fingerprints of American weapons.”

Montreal residents’, rejoicing only a few months back, now carried the weight of dozens of news headlines reporting rising death tolls. People screamed “shame!” in condemnation of the attacks, affirming the message of M4P’s organizer’s speech.

One speaker took the mic to say her piece in French, listing previous U.S. acts in complicity with Israeli aggression and violence towards Palestinians: “On December 6, 2017, Trump, then also President, recognized Jerusalem as the capital of the so-called State of Israel. And yesterday, he gave the green light to resume attacks on Gaza. So to try to separate the U.S.’s actions from what is happening in Gaza is to veil your face and deny that the so-called State of Israel is nothing more than an American colonial project.”

Many hecklers tried to disrupt the demonstration, yelling out obscenities at the chanters. They were met with M4P’s popular chant that goes, “All the Zionists are racist. All the Zionists are the terrorists,” to the beat of White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army.” The chant has been a crowd favourite, used as rebuttal whenever Zionists attempt to cause chaos and invalidate the peaceful protest.

“They have tried and failed to crush our resistance, they have bombed our hospitals, they have wiped entire families,” said M4P’s organizer. “But they have not, and they will not, break our people and our resistance.”

Prior to the resumption of the war in Gaza, U.S. aggressions on Yemen have escalated, with the U.S. bombing Sanaa — the capital city controlled by the Houthis — and its surrounding areas, as well as the northern governorate of Saada and the port of Hodeidah. The U.S. government claimed to have been targeting Houthi leaders, their attacks resulting in the death of 53 people so far, including children, and nearly 100 injured.

Abdul Malik al Houthi, the leader of the Houthi movement, stated that the U.S. and Israel were “seeking to impose the equation of permissibility on the region and its people.”

“We will respond to the American enemy with missile strikes and targeting its warships and naval vessels,” he said.

The Houthis have been launching attacks on shipping containers along the maritime corridor in the Red Sea since 2023, in solidarity with Gaza, and had stopped when the ceasefire was announced in January.

However, ever since the breach of truce, and the Israeli blockade of aid, they resumed attacks. They have declared they will not stop until aid deliveries in Gaza are allowed back in. They have also carried out a missile attack on Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv. Hamas also launched three rockets into the city, their first counterattack since Israel’s breach of ceasefire. No casualties were reported.

The post Montreal Stands in Solidarity with Gaza appeared first on The McGill Daily.

My mind kept going back to that quote as I binge-watched the second season of Mo on Netflix.
Mo is an American comedy-drama television series that premiered on August 24, 2022 on Netflix, starring Mo Amer as the titular character, Mo (Mohammad) Najjar. The series is loosely based on Amer’s own life as a Palestinian refugee living in Houston, Texas.

In Season Two, Episode One, Mo is desperately trying to get a laissez-passer: a permit allowing him to get back into the US in order to make his court hearing. During his time in Mexico, Mo was selling falafel tacos from a cart – a fusion platter, combining his Palestinian and Levantine heritage with Mexican cuisine.

Fast forward a few episodes later, and Mo is back in the US, to find his Mexican ex-girlfriend is dating a new man. Not just any man, however, but an “Israeli” chef named Guy, who owns a “Middle Eastern restaurant.” Mo is livid: he cannot shake the feeling of betrayal. Not only is his ex dating another man, but she chose to be with someone whose identity is at the core of Mo’s suffering.

In another episode, Mo is sleeping over at his childhood friend Nick’s house. In search of a midnight snack, he opens the fridge, and to his horror, sees a takeout bag from Guy’s restaurant. And what does he find? There, wrapped in aluminum foil, were falafel tacos. Before knowing who Guy was, Mo had met him outside a housewarming party Guy was catering. While sharing a cigarette, he noticed the Middle Eastern food, and Mo shared that he had spent time in Mexico selling those tacos. Seeing his stolen invention in his best friend’s fridge drives Mo to the brink of insanity. Nick doesn’t understand his outburst and calls him overdramatic, blaming his anger on his jealousy.

This part made me angry. Partly because I have experienced similar dismissal from friends who did not share my cultural background, did not understand what it is like to have a colonial entity steal your culture and claim it as their own.

One of my favourite Lebanese dishes is called moghrabieh, a pearl couscous dish with chickpea, chicken, and chicken stock. The name moghrabieh is in reference to the Maghreb, as in Morocco, to give credit to where the platter’s rolled-up dough comes from. When I would describe it to people, their faces would express confusion first, before exclaiming proudly, “Oh! You mean Israeli couscous?!”

No. No, I do not. And whenever I would react to this statement, I would be met with the same dismissal as Mo. They would claim that Arabs are too sensitive about food (have you met Italians?), and it wasn’t that deep, considering the Levant shared the same type of food in different varieties.

Granted, people from the Levant do share the same food. But there is a difference between sharing and appropriating it. Slapping your name on it and saying we’re alike. Slowly and cunningly seeping into a culture that is not yours and calling it your own.

In the Levant, food isn’t just something you enjoy — it is a form of resistance.

Take the Palestinian maqluba, for example: in December 2017, Palestinian women would serve the national Palestinian dish to protestors in front of Al-Aqsa Mosque, in the Israeli-occupied East Jerusalem, during a demonstration against Donald Trump’s decision to move the US embassy to Jerusalem.

One of the women, Hanadi al-Halawani, said, “I made sure to serve maqluba to the young protesters as a way to underline that Jerusalem is the capital of Palestine, with all its people, food and culture.” The dish would then be called the “dish of spite” by both Palestinians and Israelis.

To some of us, food is recipes that stood the tests of time and oppression. It is our grandmother’s hands rolling the vine leaves. Our grandfathers picking out the olives from the trees. Our mothers’ hands mixing the parsley with the tomatoes and the onions. Our fathers standing on the grill, making sure the meat is cooked just right.

Because when your literal existence is being erased, everything you do is an act of resistance.

The post Food is Political: Thoughts While Watching Netflix’s Mo appeared first on The McGill Daily.

“Who taught you to hate yourself from the top of your head to the soles of your feet? Who taught you to hate your own kind? Who taught you to hate the race that you belong to, so much so that you don’t want to be around each other?”

As a woman of colour, although not Black, this sentence truly resonated with me.

I was born and raised in Lebanon, and moved to Montreal in 2015. For the longest time, I was not proud of my heritage. At 18 years old, I felt the need to separate myself from the Lebanese community as best I could.

I would get angry when someone pointed out my slight accent when I spoke English. For some reason, I was adamant on rejecting my Lebanese identity — even around other Arabs. If I heard anyone speaking Arabic, I would run the other way to avoid my accent slipping, and “exposing” myself as “one of them.

I always described myself as “anti-racist.” Yet, I was racist towards my own kind.

However, the longer I stayed away from the Arab community, the more I became an outsider to other cultures.

Working at restaurants, customers would ask for my name. When I would give it to them, their smiles would change into grimaces, right before asking: “Christian Arab or Muslim Arab?

Working at call centres, I would answer the phone to an angry client. When my name would be uttered, it was met with a deafening silence — a silence that visible minorities, or anyone with an “ethnic” name, know all too well.

People I thought were my friends would use the term “not like us” behind my back, because I wasn’t of the same ethnicity as them.

In my naive and idealistic brain, I believed all cultures were the same. I believed myself to be accepting of all races, and all humans. So why was I ashamed of my own?

Then October 7, 2023 changed everything.

While the history of the Palestinian plight did not begin on that day, the winds of change began to blow in my own life from then. I do not mean in terms of advocating for a free Palestine, which is something I’ve always believed in. But October 7 was the slap in the face I needed to obliterate every ounce of self-hatred I had. The aftermath of the Al-Aqsa Flood, to be more precise, encouraged me to be protective of the culture I so desperately tried to separate myself from.

A specific event after October 7 pushed me over the edge. I was riding the metro on my way to work, FaceTiming with my mother who still lives in Lebanon. The metro car was nearly empty, with most people wearing headphones and minding their business. No one cared that I was having a conversation in Arabic with my mother — except for one lady, who tapped me on the shoulder and said in French, “Can you speak that language somewhere else?”

I was speechless. My mother’s face fell as my lips started to quiver, trying to find a rebuttal, but I couldn’t. A lump formed in my throat. I wanted to disappear.

That day, the people-pleasing veil of remaining in the “good Arab” category, where my mother tongue wasn’t seen as violent, and I wasn’t seen as a “terrorist,” was finally lifted. I didn’t care anymore about how I came across. Racism doesn’t base itself on facts, but on prejudice — something acquired from adamantly refusing to understand people for who they are, not what we believe them to be. I embraced the accent when I spoke in English or French. I stopped laughing at the racist bomb jokes affiliated with the Middle East. The community I ran away from began calling out to me, and I leaned into my heritage even more.

And then the most beautiful thing happened.

Falling in love with my culture led to me loving myself in ways I had never experienced before. Things I tried to tame at 18, I let flow naturally at 26 and 27. My voluminous, frizzy, curly hair; my big brown eyes; my olive skin; my loud, boisterous laugh — all the parts of me that were deemed “uncivilized” became the best things about me.

My culture is not without its faults. It is not perfect, and its people are flawed. But that’s the beauty of it all — with all its flaws, and with all its challenges, if I were given the choice to be anything in the world, I would still choose to be Lebanese.

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Qatar’s Prime Minister, Sheikh Mohammed bin Abdulrahman bin Jassim Al Thani, confirmed the ceasefire deal would come into effect on January 19. Final votes and sign off were expected on January 16.

The deal includes a temporary ceasefire, allowing for a pause on the destruction inflicted upon Gaza, as well as the release of captives held in Gaza and a great number of prisoners held by Israel. It will also allow for displaced Palestinians who moved South to return to their homes in the north of Gaza.
Montreal’s residents took to the streets to celebrate, with Montreal4Palestine (M4P) calling for an emergency protest at 6 PM, on Wednesday evening, in front of the U.S. consulate on St. Catherine street.

M4P is a multi-generational community-based movement fighting for the total liberation of Palestine through awareness and education. Originally founded in 2021 under the name “Canada Sanctions Israel,” this grassroots organization is the project of a group of friends who met during a Montreal protest for Palestine when six Palestinian families were forcibly evicted in the occupied East Jerusalem neighbourhood of Sheikh Jarrah in May 2021. This movement has been holding protests every Sunday since the Al Aqsa Flood on October 7, 2023, calling for a ceasefire, enforcing an arms embargo on Israel, and sanctioning the State economically and politically.

While emergency protests during the middle of the week are not something new for M4P, the general vibe of this protest wasn’t the usual anger and frustration — it was hope.

Resounding drum sounds in the busy St. Catherine streets were accompanied by protestors performing the folkloric Palestinian dabkeh. Trays of baklava and knafeh from the Palestinian-owned Knafé Stop were going around. People were embracing each other, smiling to one another, and screaming “Mabrook!” “Alf Mubarak!” (‘Congratulations! Thousands of congratulations!’).

“467 days of the most brutal genocide known to mankind,” said one of M4P’s founders, Mahmoud Khalil, in a speech addressing the protestors. “I am very honoured to stand in front of you all today, and say, clearly and loudly, that Gaza is victorious! Our resistance is victorious! Allah’u akbar!”

“Allow me to say, Montreal4Palestine, our beautiful community, our beautiful family, mabrook, congratulations to all of you! Not only on our victory, but on your humanity.”

Following his speech, M4P’s organizers played an audio from a Gaza resident, thanking the Montreal community in Arabic for never forgetting about Palestine and for always showing up on the streets: “All the love from Gaza’s grounds to you. To every individual and person, every man, every woman that went out on the streets during these times of war.”

Although the overall sentiment was one of celebration and joy, speeches also stated the importance to continue the fight, to honour the fallen martyrs, and to not forget about Palestine — all 27,027 square kilometers of it.

“We will continue to do this [protesting] until liberation, insh’Allah,” said one of the protest chanters. “The blood of our martyrs, the tears of our women will not go in vain. Our resistance, fighting for the sake of Allah, will not be forgotten.”

The ceasefire is set to take place in three phases. The first phase:

• Will last six weeks.
• Thirty-three Israeli captives, including women, children and civilians over the age of 50 – taken during the Hamas-led attack on October 7, 2023 – will be released.
• In exchange, Israel will release a larger number of Palestinian prisoners during this phase, including prisoners serving life sentences; around 1000 were detained after October 7.
• Israel will withdraw its forces from Gaza’s population centres to areas no more than 700 metres inside Gaza’s border with Israel. However, that may not include the Netzarim Corridor (militarized belt bisecting the Strip and controlling movement along it), the withdrawal from which will take place in stages.
• Civilians will be allowed to return to their homes in the north of Gaza, and the surge of aid will be authorized into the enclave – up to 600 trucks per day.
• Wounded Palestinians are to leave the Gaza Strip for treatment, and Israel will open the Rafah crossing in Egypt seven days after the first phase’s implementation.
• Israeli forces will reduce their presence in the Philadelphi Corridor — the border area between Egypt and Gaza, and will then withdraw completely no later than the 50th day after the deal is put into action.

Both the second and third phases are entirely dependent on both sides meeting conditions agreed upon in the first phase. Although less developed than the first phase, the second phase of the agreement so far includes:

• Hamas releasing all remaining living captives — mostly male soldiers, in return for freeing more Palestinians held in the Israeli prison system.
• The document also requires Israel to “completely withdraw” from Gaza.

The third phase remains unclear, but the main points include the return of the bodies of the remaining captives, with a three-to five-year reconstruction plan of Gaza, conducted under international supervision.

However, these conditions are still debated within Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netenyahu’s cabinet, with far-right-wing members expressing their discontent and complete disagreement. Israel’s far-right National Security Minister Itamar Ben-Gvir has threatened to resign from his position if the ceasefire deal is ratified.

The Israeli cabinet was set to sign the agreement on Thursday, but it was then moved to Friday, January 17, after Netenyahu called off the vote, claiming that Hamas was “reneging parts of the agreement.” Following this statement, senior Hamas official Izzat al-Risheq clarified that the Palestinian group was committed to the ceasefire agreement announced by mediators on Wednesday.

While the ceasefire agreement was declared on January 15, Israeli forces have since intensified their attacks on the city of Gaza, bombing about 50 sites throughout the Gaza Strip, 24 hours after the announcement was made. At least more than 100 civilians, to date, have become fallen martyrs – proving that the ceasefire does not mark the end of Palestine’s struggle.

The post Ceasefire in Gaza, Celebratory Protest in Montreal appeared first on The McGill Daily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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