Wint began the workshop by asking participants if they had ever been in love. The participants’ varied reactions revealed something interesting about these kinds of heavy questions — their most articulate answers were involuntarily expressed in non-vocalized language. Averted eyes, a half-smile, or even hesitation can hint not only a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ but also makes clear the layers, complications, and oftentimes painful messes that love imparts on the human existence. Wint, seemingly aware of this, was smiling warmly as he explained the question, “Love is the truth. Anyone who has been in love or pursues love in their lives is a dreamer and a truth-seeker.”

“Love is the truth. Anyone who has been in love or pursues love in their lives is a dreamer and a truth-seeker.” — Brandon Wint

He also gave an explicit, if indirect answer to his own question, disclosing, “I’m a lover. Love is my truth and the language I speak.” But even Wint had to admit that love’s nature is profoundly difficult, characterized by blessings and euphoria at its beginnings and cursed for the inevitable pain when it ends. The experience of love was likened to learning a difficult language, where humans tend to create and suffer immeasurable pain because in practice, they often mess up. A lot.

But as the workshop progressed, so did an understanding of how poetry, healing, joy, and truth could be fundamentally linked to the elusive and suspect Love. The room’s dreamy air of tenderness and vulnerability snapped into literary enthusiasm when Wint shared the powerful adage, “Good poetry communicates before it is understood.” Poetry is a unique artifact of language, it seemed, because its understanding has very little to do with its mastery as a language, or even mastery of language at all.

Before the participants got to writing, Wint asked them to think of “writing as a testimony to the joy and healing you are experiencing,” suggesting that practicing self-care is as much of a vigourous process as is the development of writing. He advised authenticity and sincerity in cultivating both, but especially self-love. He also reminded participants to be aware of falling into the trap of finite expectations — that writing for personal healing and joy doesn’t always result in a finished product that is tangible, or always ‘good.’
“I’ve never written myself into healing. Healing for me is, instead, the process of writing over and over again, in my head and on paper, what my needs are for healing and what it looks like.” Self-love is key because it is the natural, albeit demanding .outcome of writing, which must come from the heart rather than forced intellectualization. It is the process in which the writer understands their self and the “magic within” them, as Wint encouraged.

The room’s dreamy air of tenderness and vulnerability snapped into literary enthusiasm when Wint shared the powerful adage, “Good poetry communicates before it is understood.”

This sentiment was echoed by the organizers, who had clearly exerted themselves to overcome broad access barriers for the workshop participants. The workshop was open to all racialized and people of colour from the general public, and provided participants with writing materials, childcare services, stress-relief objects, and even delicious Jamaican cuisine for dinner (the organizers made sure to seek out everyone’s dietary needs prior to the event). All of their graciousness came at zero cost to participants.

Yarde explained the rationale behind this model of accessibility: “Making events widely accessible is part of a larger cultural shift to start valuing people over dollars. It uplifts and centres the voices and experiences of marginalized people on campus, and reimagines who a McGill student could be. The beautiful energy created after three hours in one room was an example of the power in people of colour, especially when we come together and show how much we can do with so little.”

As the workshop’s name suggests, poetry can be used to realize true joy, which Wint described as the marriage of one’s needs and wants, at precisely the most opportune moments in life. Perhaps the most fulfilling way to achieve happiness is by allowing it to form naturally upon expressing sincere love for one’s self and others. It also involves reckoning with the truth of one’s own existence. For Wint, love expressed through poetry is the universal truth in which he finds himself liberated, adding to his purpose in life by sharing his experiences onstage and in circles like this one. The truth, if understood by Wint, ultimately does set one free. This sense of liberation is what Wint hopes his audiences achieve through understanding their own relationships to writing and poetry.

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Four decades later, the haunting lyrics of being “close to the edge” and of trying to keep one’s head up despite generations of marginalization have a continued relevance. Police violence against Black people has escalated in number and resulted in more fatalities in recent years. Although many of the most publicized cases are from the U.S., Canadians – especially those in Quebec – would be amiss to think that the problem is less severe here in the north.

The Rap Battles for Social Justice are a collective of local Montreal artists, musicians, activists, and organizers who use music to turn the limelight on these realities. On February 15, the Battles challenged the very existence of police violence in their event, “Rap Battle Against Police Brutality.” Here, activists and survivors of police brutality battled fiercely against this unjust form of systematic oppression with clever rhymes, smooth beats, and even some comedy. Hundreds came out to Le Belmont that evening, making the venue a full house. While most performances were rhyming face-offs, performers also expressed themselves through spoken word poetry, group performances, and towards the end of the night, freestyling.

Canadians – especially those in Quebec – would be amiss to think that the problem [of anti-Blackness] is less severe here in the north.

The atmosphere was welcoming, as was the program, and members of community groups like Montréal Noir came on stage between acts, offering brief but sobering reminders of the need for such events by talking about their organizations efforts for the community, and what remains to be done.

Topping off the night was veteran Montreal emcee Scynikal, battling on a ‘pro’-police front for the final showdown of the night. Complete with a plastic badge, leather jacket, and verses that revealed the darkest side of police brutality, Scynikal’s flow was impressive and jarring in its revelation of the deep hatred and fear of racialized bodies entrenched in state institutions and the minds of authorities. The performers who took the mic against him expressed intense frustration with police violence and racism.

To be clear, no professional police officers were rapping that night, nor were any of the costumed ‘pro-police’ performers actually trying to defend police brutality. Some used their blue hats to bring some comic relief to the night, like Marley C’s ‘Officer Cocopuff’ who claimed he had “never heard of” police brutality. According to organizer Vincent Stephen-Ong, who also founded the local musical collective Urban Science, part of the purpose of the battle was for the musicians to “play a role” in order to keep in line with the “theatrical side to the Rap Battles for Social Justice.”

Activists and survivors of police brutality battled fiercely against this unjust form of systematic oppression with clever rhymes, smooth beats, and even some comedy.

Everything about the event was focused on engaging with and empowering the community of listeners. To foster an atmosphere of unity, the vivacious emcee Meryam Saci encouraged audience participation in the performances and even coming on stage. Some performers turned the space into an intimate setting by sharing testimonies of their personal experiences with police brutality. It was clear that the goal wasn’t only to have a good time or showcase local talent, though both were successfully accomplished. The event’s atmosphere carried an impassioned mission for performers and audience members to take their songs, stories, and battles beyond the walls of Le Belmont and into their daily lives.

Raising awareness for cycles of injustice drives many of the artists who performed. Mags, a member of the all-woman trio Strange Froots, explained how seeing other artists share socially-conscious music at a previous Rap Battles for Social Justice event served as a wake up call for them to do the same. “Now we have more of a grasp on how important it is that we are visible in the scene as three Black women; that in itself is a statement that should be reflected in our songs. And that is something we did.”

Everything about the event was focused on engaging with and empowering the community of listeners.

When asked about the connection between police brutality, social justice, and hip hop, Stephen-Ong recalled: “A friend of mine once said something like, ‘you’re not that valuable as an artist if you don’t make use of your position to bring about social change.’” Stephen-Ong believes that lyrical content and musical genres hold great responsibilities. They are the “gateway drug” to what he serendipitously calls “the message” – something that has been embedded within hip hop since its birth. “The message,” as Vincent and so any other artists see it, is not bound to a single definition, or to a particular time or context of struggle. The message is hidden within the act of reclaiming one’s voice when it is being forced into silence, and each rhyme carries a definition that is a piece of the artist as much as it is a part of the message.

Despite the fact that hip hop and police brutality both share racialized histories (albeit with very different expressions), “the message” is not just about revealing this link, but also involving everybody in its dissemination. The message has been consciously and purposefully carried on by artists and collectives like “The Rap Battles for Social Justice,” whose experiences in the music industry and the activist landscape help involve the community in their fight. These artists, collectives, and community-driven events encourage audiences to actively take part in spreading, contributing, and inspiring change.

The post Fighting fire with words appeared first on The McGill Daily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This message of anti-racism is regularly erased by corporations and artists who are oblivious to the concept of “appropriation” – commonly seen when non-Black pop singers make irritating attempts at rapping in African American Vernacular English or partaking in traditionally Black dance-moves despite being obviously out of character. It’s evident that these people don’t realize or care about the consequences of making a spectacle of marginalized cultures and using people of colour and visible minorities, validating themselves in the act.

[Hip hop] is a movement that tries to [challenge], in beautifully and sometimes painfully human ways of expression, the dominant structures which sustain the status quo.

The issues unearthed whenever an artist appropriates Black culture are beyond a matter of missing credit where due – it’s a dismissal of one of the most pertinent social justice struggle in modern history, as well as hip hop’s role in its modern era. It’s “art” devoid of any artistic element;it extracts capital from harmful and racist representations of African Americans that remain justifications for their continuing oppression.

Among the pushback on these negative portrayals are some of the most eloquent, talented, and passionate works that mainstream hip hop has produced, and thanks to the groundbreaking work of artists like Kendrick Lamar and J. Cole, awareness of hip hop’s politico-racial roots is growing, as well as its transcendence from being a music genre to a movement for racial justice.

Within the movement, however, one issue that deserves attention is the treatment and place of women in hip hop culture. Though misrepresentation, erasure, and exploitation of women is neither inherent nor necessary to hip hop, there is an unmistakable disparity between the portrayal and value of men and women in relation to one another, and this gender gap grows as it continues to be ignored.

Within the movement, however, one issue that deserves attention is the treatment and place of women in hip hop culture.

On June 2, a panel discussion ran by Queens Creation (QC) sought to address the marginalization of women in hip hop, as part of Montreal’s perennial Under Pressure (UP) hip hop festival. QC, which runs a series of events each year for the festival, aims to spotlight the works of women street artists, dancers, singers, poets, writers, and DJs in Montreal’s urban scene. In all its work, QC aims to prioritize inclusion, support, and the sharing of ideas.

The all-women panel discussed the status of women in hip hop culture though the sharing of personal experience, followed by an exposition of artwork by women artists. Each of the five speakers came from a unique background, and were invited for their contributions to the community: Melissa Proietti, founder of QC and integral member of Under Pressure; Wüna Nawü, a self-taught graffiti artist and founder of several street art collectives; Kate Lynx, legendary Montreal B-girl and dance teacher; Shelley Miller, a visual artist whose sugar-based murals have been on urban displays internationally; and Melodrastik, an eclectic DJ.

Nowhere amidst the points on equality, visibility, and allyship provided in the discussion outline was any mention of race, and how women of colour – and especially Black women – fit into the conversation […].

According to Proietti, the goal of the panel was to connect women artists with one another and to reflect on where they see women in the greater space of hip hop culture. The structure was interactive, the panelists and audience comfortable, and the setting relaxed. But a problem was noticeable from the moment the event began, and was confirmed during the discussion: not a single speaker was Black or of colour. Though the panel was meant to be inclusive and offer a place of support for female artists frustrated with inequality, it is difficult to understand how and why the exclusion of Black voices on a panel discussing hip hop could have been possible.

Nowhere amidst the points on equality, visibility, and allyship provided in the discussion outline was any mention of race, and how women of colour – and especially Black women – fit into the conversation, and the lack of representation was only addressed when an audience member posed the question. In response, Proietti provided the only real acknowledgment of QC’s faltering, stating, “any struggles faced by [white] women in hip hop are magnified tenfold for women of colour.” Though her response appropriately criticized the panel’s racial homogeneity, the silence of the other four panelists following her answer was a loud cry proclaiming the long road left to true female empowerment.

Non-Black, and especially white female artists must acknowledge that their membership to the hip hop community requires deep introspection and the realization of the context within which they work.

Despite the lack of input from women who are part of the racial and socioeconomic community to which hip hop is indigenous, the discussion on the struggles faced by women as a whole was interesting and fruitful. There was valuable insight on the nature of status quo trappings, such as the insistent use of “B-boys” as a universal term for dancers, revealing subtle misogyny within a greater system. Panel and audience alike agreed on the issue of constant objectification that creates pressure on a woman’s artistic output to fit criteria which are too often hypersexualizing, in order to earn the approval of more powerful, usually male, figures – and by extension, the community. Artists shared how they found their work held to higher standards than that of their male counterparts, suggesting that “we don’t belong, and we need to prove to everyone that we do”, as B-girl Lynx expressed.

The struggle for gender equality will go nowhere if we do not […] seek to break down the systems of oppression which provided hip hop’s impetus in the first place.

On affecting change, the panel emphasized educating youth, particularly boys, on systems of oppression and how they function, as well as the need to properly address and break down the incorrect but prevailing prejudice that feminism is a movement ‘against men’. The struggle for gender equality will go nowhere if we do not willingly and genuinely seek to break down the systems of oppression which provided hip hop’s impetus in the first place.

Although the well-intentioned panel provided valuable insight and an opportunity to meet with a few interesting and talented local female artists, there was a less encouraging but important message that was expressed by its shortcomings. Non-Black, and especially white female artists must acknowledge that their membership to the hip hop community requires deep introspection and the realization of the context within which they work – though all women in hip hop share an uphill battle, the struggles of all white artists, in relation to those of artists of colour, are experienced from a place of tangible (socioeconomic, among others) advantage because they belong to a privileged race. The failure to acknowledge this, as non-Black but self-proclaimed hip hop artists, strays precariously close to cultural appropriation. Understanding the varying systems of oppression and how they affect members of one industry in extremely different ways are crucial for maintaining collective interests over individual, which is the soulful transcendence in hip hop that so many talk about but few really understand.

The issues unearthed whenever an artist appropriates Black culture are […] a dismissal of one of the most pertinent social justice struggle in modern history […].

Hip hop’s roots are diverse and interconnected. It is a movement that tries to dismantle oppression through challenging, in beautifully and sometimes painfully human ways of expression, the dominant structures which sustain the status quo. QC’s panel was made up of talented artists with genuine intentions of helping to put an end to gender discrimination. Though they failed to acknowledge, let alone address, unique racial and economic complexities of how inequality is experienced in hip hop, this was not a conscious dismissal of that reality on QC’s or UP’s part. It was, however, indicative of how the systems responsible for maintaining discrimination are so deeply imbedded, that even efforts to resist them from members of the community still have a long way to go in terms of education.

Hip hop is, in essence, “by the dispossessed, for the dispossessed,” which means that white female artists who remain silent on the intersectionality of race, gender, and class struggles when addressing hip hop’s misogyny can inadvertently inflict even more harm on women of colour. The real mic check will start with Black women of the community lead the discussion on misogyny in hip hop, in a way reminiscent of the legendary artist Jill Scott’s beautiful delivery:

“I am warm
I am peace
From the roads of Botswana from 23rd Street
From inside the third eye
Ever watching this wicked wicked system of things
I do see.”

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When asked to consider what Donald Trump represents, it would be easy to stop at self-obsessed extravagance; his words are often better categorized as juvenile, thoughtless remarks than well-thought out political judgements. But in looking beyond the headlines, it’s clear that his persona reflects the paradox of a public backsliding into reactionary politics as the ‘progress’ of globalization yields exponential increases in wealth and social connectivity among the most powerful in the world. The essence behind Trump’s ridiculous words has the support of many regular American citizens, and, perhaps more urgently, that of individuals who may even trump Trump in terms of power, prestige, and influence.

Global parallels

Trump’s stance on immigration and refugees would be a good place to start (or stop, if you’re in favour of his elegant “great wall” plan) to highlight the parallels between his words and others’ policies. While it seems ridiculous to believe that a wall between the U.S. and Mexico would actually be built, we don’t have to look far to see the erection of physical, political, and social barriers for immigrants and refugees. Between his plans for a wall and promise to send back Syrian refugees if elected, Trump’s attitude toward immigrants and refugees during what the UN has called “the worst refugee crisis since the Second World War” is horrifying, but not unique. The approaches to refugees and immigration of many real politicians are not all that different.

From American and Canadian to European contexts, it is becoming harder to dismiss the growing number of comfortably intolerant, hateful people.

For instance, former Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper made headlines when infuriating reports surfaced that he had halted the applications of UN-screened refugees fleeing Syria for no defensible purpose (it is not the job of the Prime Minister’s Office to ‘vet’ refugees). There’s no need to send them back if you don’t let them in in the first place.

Europe, which some consider the most progressive, has probably had the most disappointing reaction to the refugee crisis. Several right-wing parties have exploited the plight of refugees from Asia and Africa to gain significant electoral benefits. Others have actually erected physical barriers, like the new fence between Hungary and Croatia, and even human barriers like the “human wall” demonstration that temporarily blocked refugees at a port in Finland. Perhaps not as “great” as Trump’s vision for his wall, these barriers reflect the same sentiment.

Further, parties such as France’s Front National and Britain’s UK Independence Party (UKIP) have bolstered Islamophobia and fears of terrorism that have pushed xenophobia and far-right rhetoric into the mainstream of Europe’s political discourse. These types of beliefs have violent consequences. Consider the harrowing reports of refugees being tear gassed by police at Hungary’s fenced border, spates of violence against German refugee shelters, and soaring firearms sales in Austria as citizens report paranoia over the presence of refugees.

Fuelling American racism

What about in the U.S.? At a town hall held by Trump in New Hampshire during the fall, an audience member said, “We have a problem in this country. It’s called Muslims. […] You know our current president is one. You know he’s not even an American.” Not only did Trump fail to correct the man’s long-debunked assertions about Obama, he actually said that he needed the question and told the audience member that he’d be “looking at that and many other things.” Trump is revealing what the U.S.’s actual problem is: American attitudes toward minorities.

Indeed, Trump wouldn’t be the first to “look at” the American Muslim population. The monitoring of American Muslims, as Trump suggested with his “Muslim database” in November, has effectively been going on for nearly 15 years. After 9/11, the New York Police Department undertook a decade-long clandestine surveillance program targeted at Muslim Americans, whose communities consequently suffered immensely.

Many perpetrators said they were inspired by Trump, whose response to brutality in his name merely referred to the events as the actions of “very passionate” fans.

Trump’s campaign to win the nomination has also embodied the persecution of Black and Hispanic communities in the U.S.. In the multiple cases of violent attacks on peaceful Latino protesters and attendees at Trump’s political events, many perpetrators said thy were inspired by Trump, whose response to brutality in his name merely referred to the events as the actions of “very passionate” fans. This is not only alarming, but reeks of incitement that gives his “make America great again” slogan a new, more directive meaning.

For many, the U.S. is synonymous with racial inequality. The emergence of the Black Lives Matter movement, which has been dubbed the new civil rights movement in the U.S. and calls for an end to the unchecked violence against Black people in America, comes at a time where inequalities between races in the U.S. are growing. Not only are many U.S. schools and communities resegregating at an alarming rate, for years reports have been unearthing disturbing evidence regarding the skewed application of the justice system, placing Black Americans at the wrong end of the gavel.

This really comes as no surprise, as it’s occurring against the backdrop of the heartbreakingly long and ever-growing list of Black American lives lost to extrajudicial killings by racists, whether citizens or police officers. So-called progressive leaders remain divided on the Black Lives Matter movement, with U.S. president Barack Obama finally making public remarks on the movement a timely two years after its official inception, while Democratic presidential candidates Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders’s initial response to the movement has been a defensive one, and they have been reluctant to embrace it. It’s not even worth going over the responses (or lack thereof) of Republican candidates to the movement, other than to note that they have only dismissed and criticized it, which should come as a shock to nobody.

Ultimately, Trump’s slogan, “Make America great again,” exemplifies the reactionary undercurrents of the racism and xenophobia that pervade today’s political discourse; it idealizes the America of the past where the status quo stood on more solid ground and an even narrower group of people held rights and power. From American and Canadian to European contexts, it is becoming harder to dismiss the growing number of comfortably intolerant, hateful people. Embracing this trend is not an option, and resisting it will take a great deal of creativity, determination, and patience. However, it is necessary if we are to move forward to a future that is great for all, not just a few. Or at least greater than it is now.

Zahra Habib is a U2 World Islamic and Middle East Studies student. To contact her, email zahra.habib@mail.mcgill.ca.

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