Claudia Beaudoin

Montreal ceremony remembers Hiroshima and Nagasaki after 80 years

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Members of Shima no Taiko MTL perform “Sanya” during the Hiroshima and Nagasaki memorial ceremony at the JCCCM on Aug. 9. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Japanese and Canadian communities honour lives lost and highlight the importance of nuclear disarmament

The Japanese-Canadian Cultural Centre of Montreal (JCCCM) and the Quebec chapter of the National Association of Japanese Canadians (NAJC) held a ceremony on Aug. 9 at the JCCCM to mark the 80th anniversary of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

On Aug. 6 and Aug. 9, 1945, during the closing stages of World War II, the U.S. dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, respectively. The attacks killed an estimated 150,000 to 200,000 people, the majority of them civilians. These remain the only instances in which nuclear weapons have been used in war.

While Montreal holds its annual Aug. 6 Peace Memorial Ceremony at the Botanical Garden—timed to coincide with Hiroshima’s ceremony—this year’s commemoration extended to Nagasaki’s anniversary as well, bringing together performers, organizations and community members for a full day of remembrance.

The afternoon opened with welcoming remarks from Hisako Mori, secretary of JCCCM, followed by a message from Akihiko Uchikawa, consul general of Japan in Montreal. 

Uchikawa began by offering his condolences to all those affected, recalling how the bombings reduced the cities to ashes and stressing that such destruction must never be repeated. Preventing it, he said, requires understanding the consequences of these acts.

“We must make all our efforts to bring about a world without nuclear war and a world without nuclear weapons,” Uchikawa said. 

He closed his remarks by expressing his hope that attendees would find both meaning and peace in the day’s tribute. 

This event held special significance due to Montreal’s longstanding bond with Hiroshima—two cities united in a shared commitment to peace since 1986, when the mayor of Hiroshima delivered a speech at the International Conference on Peace and Security in Montreal. The relationship was formalized in 1998, when they officially became sister cities.

Following Uchikawa’s speech, Mariko Komatsu—a Hiroshima native and peace education advocate who studied in Montreal for several years—shared a five-minute video message from Hiroshima, expressing gratitude to Montreal for giving her the language skills to advocate for peace globally. In her work, she often invokes the tragedies of Hiroshima and Nagasaki as reminders of the human cost of nuclear war

Akihiko Uchikawa, consul general of Japan in Montreal, delivers a message on nuclear disarmament and offers condolences. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Komatsu’s words resonated with the day’s larger message, one echoed by Mori. 

“The politics of the world are unstable, and there are still nations that are producing nuclear weapons, which I think is absolutely unbelievable that after such catastrophic loss of life, that this is still continuing,” Mori said.

The ceremony continued with a 15-minute performance of “Sanya” by Shima no Taiko MTL, with the resonant beats of taiko—traditional Japanese festival drums—filling the room. Traditionally played outdoors in the evening, the drumming’s deep tones carried enough sound to merit the distribution of earplugs by volunteers.

“Sanya” portrays a mother’s desperate search for her daughter after the Hiroshima bombing, culminating in the devastating moment she finds her body.

“It’s one thing to talk about the need for nuclear disarmament and the need for peace, but we can get kind of caught up in the rhetoric of it,” said Sara Breitkreutz, a member of Shima no Taiko MTL, the NAJC and the JCCCM board.

“I think when you can experience a story in this more visceral way, it can have a really lasting impact on people,” Breitkreutz added.

Katsukuni Tanaka, a Hiroshima survivor who was just 10 months old when the bomb fell, also addressed the guests with the help of a French translator. Though he has few personal memories of the bombing, he lost close family members, including his aunt, who worked at a post office and whose remains were never found.

Tanaka has dedicated his life to advocating for peace.

“We hope to prevent this from happening again, which is why it’s important to build networks and get involved, because when there is war, the victims are always the civilians,” Tanaka said.

He concluded his talk by removing his blazer to reveal a shirt with bold writing, where the word “peace” stood out clearly, leaving a strong visual statement with the audience.

The ceremony continued with a collective screening of Okurimono, a 2024 Canadian documentary directed by Laurence Lévesque. The film follows Noriko, a Japanese Canadian woman who returns to Japan after her mother’s death to better understand her mother’s experience as a hibakusha—a survivor of the atomic bombing of Nagasaki in 1945.

Every item on the program carried a direct thread to Hiroshima or Nagasaki, inviting attendees to remember, mourn and confront the weight of nuclear war. During the screening, the room shifted between quiet stillness and audible sniffles.

For the organizers, the purpose focused on the creation of spaces where the past could speak urgently to the present.

“There’s a younger generation of people who are not as familiar with the history of World War II and what happened,” Breitkreutz said. “It’s important for us to keep that memory alive, the further and further it recedes into the past, because it’s a really important lesson for all of us.”

The ceremony concluded with three songs by the MTL Shamisen Project, showcasing the shamisen—a traditional Japanese three-stringed instrument known for its unique, expressive tone. The performance ranged from serene, reflective pieces to an original composition that inspired strength and resilience.

Once the ceremony concluded, attendees were invited to share conversations and enjoy refreshments at their leisure. Despite the day’s heavy topic, people connected warmly, thanking one another and reflecting on the ceremony.

When asked what she hoped people would take away from the event, Mori reaffirmed the importance of remembering past tragedies, keeping conversations on disarmament alive and strengthening global solidarity.

“It’s important to maintain this message of hope and reconciliation,” she said, “and to remember that we must take care of our earth for future generations.”

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La traversée du siècle turns Montreal into a living archive

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One of Marlène Gélineau Payette’s 72 photographs from La Traversée du siècle, part two, displayed in front of Théâtre du Rideau Vert. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Recasting Michel Tremblay’s world with Marlène Gélineau Payette’s lens

This summer, theatre has stepped off the stage and into the city.

Seventy-two large photographs by Montreal still photographer Marlène Gélineau Payette have been installed outdoors across a network of streets and public spaces linking the Plateau, Quartier des spectacles and adjacent neighbourhoods. 

Each image captures a suspended moment from La traversée du siècle—a bold, 12-hour theatrical epic written and directed by Alice Ronfard in close collaboration with the late André Brassard. 

Woven from Michel Tremblay’s best-known novels and plays, the play follows three women—Victoire, Albertine and Thérèse—whose lives span a century of Quebec’s social and cultural evolution.

The production moves seamlessly between tragedy, comedy, intimacy and grandeur. It paints a wide and detailed portrait of Quebec society, touching on issues like identity, class, queerness and the struggle to survive. Though firmly rooted in Quebec’s history, the themes still echo today, reflecting ongoing social and cultural conversations.

To document the project, Gélineau Payette followed each of the seven stagings, capturing emotional fragments that now form a citywide exhibition. Installed near the very theatres where the play ran, the photographs also trace a path through streets mentioned in the story itself.

“I feel like everything just seemed to come together easily when I started building the project,” Gélineau Payette said about the location of the different exhibitions. 

The seven theatres also form a rough square across the city, with La Fontaine Park—another central setting in Tremblay’s universe—at its heart.

Accompanied by a six-part podcast produced by Espace Libre—equal in length and structure to the performance—the exhibition becomes more than a memory. It’s a theatrical experience meant to be walked, heard and seen across the city.

For Gélineau Payette, it’s that very connection to the city that makes the project so special, rooting it with a deep sense of attachment and place.

“When you follow the characters through the Plateau Mont-Royal—which Tremblay wrote about in the ’70s and ’80s—it’s exactly like my parents’ families. That’s where we come from. So, there’s definitely a sense of belonging,” Gélineau Payette said. “And then, when you’re out for dinner or just walking around, you start noticing things.”

The project began as a photo book, intended as a gift for the actors and collaborators—a behind-the-scenes keepsake capturing not only the play itself, but also its backstage moments and raw in-betweens.

After often seeing photographs displayed while walking through the city, Ronfard suggested to Gélineau Payette that the images should live on in public space, sparking the idea of turning them into an exhibition.

“I find it beautiful to see actors taking over the city with a true story. What’s also wonderful is that the creative work is a project that moves around. It’s multifaceted,” Ronfard said. “It starts as a novel, then becomes a play. After that, it turns into a photo album, and then those photos become part of the city.”

While Gélineau Payette loved the concept, bringing it to life came with its own set of challenges. The displays across the city are managed by different organizations, meaning she had to navigate various people, approval processes, and, at times, even cover costs out of pocket. 

Creatively, the project made sense, but distilling the story into just 72 photographs required tough decisions.

“At one point, I found myself stuck. I really liked a photo, but the podcast audio clip didn’t work well with it,” Gélineau Payette said. “I was really working on both in parallel—the audio and the image. I listened to it again and again, trying to make sure I was giving people enough context to follow the story.”

And this careful curation has resonated across the city all summer long. 

Quebecois comedian and director Martin Faucher happened to see two sections of Gélineau Payette’s exhibition while walking along Mont-Royal.

“I can only repeat that La traversée du siècle is a major event in Quebec theatre,” he said. “It’s fantastic that this moment was captured through [Gélineau Payette]’s sensitive eye. Now, a new audience has access to Tremblay’s universe, but it’s also a celebration of the actors, the theatres and the very spaces that make up our urban fabric.”

Even if you’re unfamiliar with Tremblay’s work, La traversée du siècle can serve as an immersive entry point into his artistic universe. 

The emotional depth of Tremblay’s characters—their struggles, hopes and humanity—was something Gélineau Payette felt keenly while crafting the exhibition.

“Many people talk about Tremblay’s characters as living in hardship, but they’re human,” she said. “It’s like Les Misérables, it’s about misery, yes, but also about resilience and hope. These are characters who hope.”

When asked what she hopes newcomers will take away from her play, Ronfard encouraged curiosity about Quebec’s literary heritage.

“What matters, for me, is inspiring people to read his works, to read Michel Tremblay, and to understand that he’s a poet who has deeply influenced francophone Quebec theatre,” she said.

The exhibitions will not remain on view for the same amount of time. Parts 1 and 2, along with Part 5, will remain until spring 2026. Parts 3 and 4 come down on Aug. 27, while Part 6 wraps up on Sept.16. That leaves just under a month to experience the full sweep of the project. 

Thinking back on how she felt at the end of each performance, Gélineau Payette took a deep breath.

“Oh my God, what an extraordinary journey we’ve shared,” she said—a journey anyone can still experience throughout the city this summer.

La traversée du siècle turns Montreal into a living archive Read More »

Exploring clay, creativity and queer connection at Wild Pride

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Ash O’Gorman (left) puts their teachings into practice while leading a handbuilding workshop at Studio 3 Tables on Aug. 16. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Participants experimented with handbuilding and painted vessels in a Kindred Sagas workshop guided by Ash O’Gorman

About twenty people sat around clay-dusted tables at Studio 3 Tables in Montreal on Aug. 16, learning to shape vessels side by side.

The workshop brought together Kindred Sagas, a new intergenerational series connecting LGBTQIA2S+ elders and younger folks through shared meals and creative projects, and Wild Pride, Montreal’s alternative Pride rooted in anti-colonial, anti-capitalist and intersectional solidarity. 

Guiding the group was Ash O’Gorman, a disabled and queer ceramicist who has spent the past four years working with clay. Throughout the afternoon workshop, O’Gorman leaned into the atmosphere of experimentation, moving between tables, offering tips and encouragement and reminding participants that handbuilding isn’t about perfection. 

“Handbuilding is so organic, you can see your fingerprints on it, you can see everything, and it’s not about having a piece that you got from the store that’s perfectly symmetrical,” they said.

O’Gorman demonstrated a variety of building and decorating techniques, such as pinch pots, coil vessels, and the use of slip—a stickier mixture that helps attach decorative elements or add surface designs. They guided participants on when to apply it, how to smooth it, and encouraged experimentation with layering and textures. 

“Clay is resilient,” they reminded the group as they pressed and shaped the soft material. 

They also emphasized creating art through the body, noting that as a disabled person, they had learned much through trial and error, discovering techniques that worked best for them. 

“It’s not about getting it right. It’s just about understanding what actually feels comfortable for you,” O’Gorman said. 

The session unfolded in steps: participants first sketched their designs, then moulded the clay, and finally painted and decorated their vessels. Throughout, O’Gorman reminded everyone to keep their clay moist and to approach each stage with patience. 

“Pressure to do things the correct way stops people from exploring and creating,” O’Gorman said. “I’m trying not to have that in this space by allowing people to learn, work with their own bodies, and trust that each person knows themselves and their abilities best.”

Meseret Abebe, founder of Kindred Sagas, had followed O’Gorman’s growth as a ceramicist and knew they would be the perfect guide for the workshop.

“They (O’Gorman) have this goal of making pottery adaptable and accessible, and especially when we’re talking about intergenerational connection, we need adaptable and accessible activities,” Abebe said. “I felt like this was a perfect project for them to showcase adaptable pottery skills.”

Accessibility was another central focus of the workshop, highlighting the importance of inclusive art spaces.

“To start, having spaces that are wheelchair- or reduced-mobility accessible matters, because infrastructure is often the first barrier many people face,” O’Gorman said. 

For Abebe, accessibility also extends to organizing.

“Having people from different walks of life be part of the building and creation of the event is how you make it more accessible,” Abebe said.

Some attendees were new to ceramics, while others came with experience. Everyone dove into creating—from incense holders and mugs to duck-adorned trays.

“Everything I saw was amazing. I was really expecting people to just make bowls, but no—people were like, ‘I will make a tray with ducks on it,’” Abebe said with a laugh.

Conversations flowed from past Wild Pride events and the significance of inclusive spaces to more casual topics, like where to find the best vegan food nearby.

Finished vessels rest on the table, ready to be placed in the kiln in the coming weeks. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

“It’s so clearly needed—everyone was so jazzed to be here and be doing this kind of Pride event,” said Ty Sundquist, a volunteer at the event. “Some more mainstream Prides don’t offer this kind of thing, so it’s really lovely that Ash, Kindred Sagas and Wild Pride put this together.”

A spread of tacos and fruit gave participants a chance to pause and connect while creating, reflecting a key element of Abebe’s vision for Kindred Sagas.

“My goal in the end is just to make workshops that reach different generations and offer a space for connection, but also have the opportunity to eat together, because food scarcity is a really big thing right now,” Abebe said.

By the end of the afternoon, vessels of all shapes and sizes filled the room, each a reflection of the maker’s touch. The creations will be fired in the kiln in the coming weeks.

“What we need in a vessel is always going to be different, so I guess I’m just trying to be intentional about that,” O’Gorman said. “Allowing accessibility to be a very intentional and beautiful part of creation, and not just an inconvenient afterthought.”

Exploring clay, creativity and queer connection at Wild Pride Read More »

Cho Dem’s intergenerational celebration of cuisine and culture

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Ban Nhạc Dân Tộc Montreal kicks off one of their weekend sets with traditional Vietnamese instruments. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Montreal’s Vietnamese food festival returns for its third edition

Back for its third year, Cho Dem, Montreal’s Vietnamese food festival, took over the Peel Basin from July 18 to 20.

The air was filled with the scent of sizzling skewers and bánh xèo as visitors weaved between booths serving pandan matcha lattes and sugarcane juice. With close to fifty vendors, live music and workshops, the event recreated the energy of a Vietnamese night market in the heart of the city.

A group of young Vietnamese Montrealers launched the festival by forming the nonprofit Association Vietnamiens Québécois (AVQ), dedicated to supporting projects rooted in community and culture.

Charles Nguyen, one of Cho Dem’s cofounders and AVQ’s vice president, said that there hadn’t yet been a festival centred on Vietnamese food and culture. That absence was what sparked the idea of Cho Dem.

“We felt that it would be important for our members to be able to unite under one roof, or should I say in this case one place… where we can assemble around food and around the arts because it’s a great way to convey the culture,” he said.

This year, in particular, carries a deeper meaning, as it marks 50 years since the arrival of the first Vietnamese refugees in Canada following the fall of Saigon. Many settled in Montreal, where the community has continued to grow steadily. What began as a wave of displacement has become a multigenerational presence, deeply tied to the city’s life. 

Nguyen highlighted how Montreal’s Vietnamese community spans three distinct generations: the refugees who first arrived, their children, and the more recent arrivals who didn’t experience the war firsthand. These groups haven’t always connected easily.

That sense of connection is reflected in the festival’s growing popularity. Nguyen estimated that attendance doubled from 25,000 last year to around 50,000 this year.

The festival stretched across two docks at Peel Basin. The south and smaller dock, called the Chợ Bến Thành, felt intimate with its shaded tent, artisan stalls and a cosy stage. The north and larger dock opened up with rows of individual tents, the main stage, the majority of food vendors and a diverse mix of artisans.

Strings of lanterns crisscrossed overhead, glowing softly as they guided visitors to the main stage. On one side, Montreal’s skyscrapers rose sharply against the sky, their glass reflecting the afternoon sun. On the other side, the bright red Farine Five Roses sign stood out against the skyline.

Each summer, Montreal’s calendar is filled with food festivals that spotlight different Asian diasporas, such as the Chinatown Night Market in August and Yatai, a Japanese food festival held each June. 

The food stall XeoXeo serves up bánh xèo hot off the grill. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Over the span of three days, festival-goers could wander between food stalls, hop into a spice workshop or catch live performances. One of the most striking details was the blend of modern and traditional music—from Yogomi, whose angelic, aurora-like vocals lean toward folktronica, to Ban Nhạc Dân Tộc Montreal, who played traditional Vietnamese instruments.

“A lot of Vietnamese people know these songs, but they don’t know where they come from,” the members of Ban Nhạc Dân Tộc Montreal said before playing the second song in their set.

For Vy Nguyen, one of the dancers in the traditional Vietnamese fan dancing group Pray’NSlay, this intergenerational space is what made the event so meaningful. 

“It’s so hard to get our elders to come out of their homes, out of their comfort zones,” she said. “Just seeing them spend the time and energy to be here with us, out in the sun, on a hot day like this, is so touching.”

She also expressed gratitude for the festival’s space.

“The biggest thing for me is that Montreal has given us such a big, lovely stage,” Vy said. “So that we can promote our local Vietnamese businessmen and women, our local artists, because I feel like Montreal is so underrated. We have so much talent, and we’re always the underdog. This is the opportunity for Vietnamese Montrealers to come up.” 

Vy Nguyen, left, dances with Pray’NSlay, a Vietnamese traditional fan dance group. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Chhea-Pichpeakdey Ly and Raquel Nueva attended the festival together, with Nueva bringing Ly for his first time to enjoy Vietnamese food, a favourite for both.

What stood out to them was the festival’s organization, especially the waste triage system. Vendors served food and drinks in reusable cups, plates and bowls, and multiple sorting stations made it easy to separate waste and return reusable materials.

“And the location is great,” Nueva said, noting the canal as a scenic backdrop.

While hopeful about the festival’s future, Charles Nguyen emphasized the ongoing challenges of organizing an event run entirely by volunteers without a permanent venue—a common hurdle for many Asian food festivals. He expressed the need for “more active dialogues with the different levels of government to help,” especially as the festival continues to grow.

“The merit to having a permanent place to be able to host these, so that way it’s done in a great manner where people are not only enjoying it, but it’s also safe,” he said.

Despite the challenges, the festival continues to be a space for discovery and connection.

“At the end of the day, that is our hope, to spark just the right amount of curiosity,” Charles Nguyen said, “for every festival goer to learn one new thing, whatever it may be.”

Cho Dem’s intergenerational celebration of cuisine and culture Read More »

Yomogi sways between folk roots and electronic winds

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Yomogi and vocalist Holly share the stage for the first time on July 18 at Cho Dem, a glimpse into a growing collaboration. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

The Montreal artist joins Holly on stage for a first glimpse of their upcoming album

On July 18, singer-songwriter Yomogi and her vocalist, Holly, shared a fleeting glance on stage just before the beat dropped into one of their unreleased songs.

Both wore face paint—dots tracing lines down their foreheads and beneath their eyes—like markings drawn from the earth itself. Barefoot and draped in flowing garments, they swayed to a slow-building beat that pulsed beneath layered synths and soft vocals.

Their voices rose together, quiet at first, then swelled into a smooth, echoing crescendo. When the beat broke loose, they launched into a swirl of sweeping arms and flowing hair. It was a moment suspended between the wild and the intimate.

That night marked the first time they performed together on stage, but their sound felt full, lived-in—like it had been shared before.

“We started practicing like a week before the performance that you saw,” Yomogi tells me a week later, sitting across from me with Holly at the café Le Brûloir.

Their creative partnership runs deeper than that night’s set. The pair first met in the blur of Montreal Comiccon 2018, both volunteering support for a mutual friend Lia, a Japanese artist flown in from Tokyo.

Holly was on makeup; Yomogi was a runner, darting through backstage chaos with last-minute errands. The pace was relentless, but something between them settled quickly.

Orbiting through shared circles without realizing how much they had in common, they drifted in and out of each other’s lives for a while.

“All of my close friends are her close friends,” Yomogi says with a smile, looking at Holly. “And we only realized that later on.”

The two had sung together before in casual settings—often in the after-hours of McGill University’s music rooms—but only recently did Yomogi officially ask Holly to join her as a vocalist. 

Despite a few sound issues during their first set at the Vietnamese food festival Cho Dem, Yomogi says sharing the stage with Holly brought a new kind of energy.

“It adds a lot of power—a kind of depth to the whole performance,” Yomogi says. “I really felt much more in my element when I was performing.”

The pair moved in sync, mirroring each other in sweeping, instinctive gestures that felt more like ritual than choreography. Their movements carried the music, unfolding through every motion.

“For those more dancey songs, you want the crowd to feel your energy—you want to convey that to them,” Yomogi says of their performance. “And for the quieter parts, you just really want them to listen. Even if they can’t understand or hear the lyrics, you want them to feel it.”

Yomogi’s music resists classification, ranging from folktronica to synth pop, and shifting fluidly between moods and tempos. Some tracks lull you into a kind of trance; others make you want to get up and move.

“Everything that is a social issue or controversy or taboo, all of the things that are hard to speak about or are hard to put into words: I’m the type of artist who likes to translate them through music and make the world a more open place,” Yomogi says.

One of Yomogi’s unreleased songs, “Orphan Heart,” draws from her experience with isolation. 

“In the end, I think we are all alone in a way,” Yomogi says. “We only have ourselves to rely on, even though we have family and friends who care and support us.” That isolation, she says, also comes from the emotional weight of being hurt by those we trust. “Orphan Heart” leans into the quiet search for a place to call your own.

“When people break your spirit—not out of anger necessarily, but out of love—it can hurt even more,” Yomogi adds. “It pushes you further into the idea that, okay, I only have myself.”

From unreleased songs to a cover of Aurora, one of her biggest inspirations, Yomogi’s first set with Holly felt like a glimpse into both her music and the friendship behind it.

Cat-Linh Nguyen, a volunteer at the show, described Yomogi’s music as “ethereal.”

“I couldn’t look away even though I was supposed to be working,” Nguyen adds with a laugh. 

That presence on stage is something Holly knows well.

“Her voice is so versatile and powerful. She listens to something, works on the technique, and she’s got it,” Holly says. “She’s so expressive and always able to convey emotion.”

Yomogi is currently working with Holly on her next album, planned as a two-part release—one in fall 2025, the other sometime in 2026. Three times a week, they head to their producer’s studio in the morning and don’t leave until nightfall.

Yomogi explains that it’s rare to find people in Montreal who fully commit to music in a way that takes risks, but she sees that drive in Holly. 

She describes Holly as a perfectionist.“Even though she thinks that’s a flaw, I think that’s what you need to make your music expand beyond the average,” Yomogi explains.

Their friendship is built on this shared passion and mutual inspiration, and both often remark on how much they appreciate where their ears lead them creatively, pushing each other to explore new sounds and ideas.

“She has the potential in her to make a big impact, and I really want to see where she goes,” Holly says, looking at Yomogi. “So I want to be there pushing her along.”

Being a small, growing artist in an oversaturated industry takes a lot of resilience, and Yomogi often turns to journaling to reconnect with her purpose in music, asking herself why she does what she does.

“It’s always about the world and how it’s headed, where it’s headed, and obviously it sounds very grand and as one person you cannot save the entire world, but you can create a movement,” Yomogi says. “You can create this community or a unity that will bring change, and that’s the whole point for me.”

Yomogi sways between folk roots and electronic winds Read More »

Stuck in the trend loop

Local Journalism Initiative / / /

Graphic Myriam Ouazzani

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

The impact of TikTok’s rapid-fire trend culture

Time might march on at its usual pace, but TikTok trends race ahead, leaving many of us struggling to keep up.

Online culture has carved out a new kind of in-group, where you either catch on or are left behind.

It comes as no surprise that algorithms are becoming pressingly faster, and our attention spans shorter. We spend far less time talking about one subject before we move on to the next, whether that be news, memes or drama. The speed at which we discuss topics reflects the rapid nature of trends, leading to a situation where both small and significant subjects are quickly overlooked as they fade from the spotlight in a matter of days.

I have actively been trying to reduce my consumption of online content for years now, but doing so raises some challenges. 

While TikTok trends have certainly helped people find their niche and connect with others, it’s difficult for me to focus solely on the positives. Instagram has been my only connection to the digital world for the past four years, and even with that, I often feel like I’m missing out. The trend I just discovered? It’s already weeks old and no longer relevant—why am I still speaking about the mob wife aesthetic? With the sheer volume of content, even when I’m active, it’s easy to feel out of the loop. It can be overwhelming, not very mindful and certainly not demure.

When I’m in a room with people of different ages, I realize how disconnected TikTok trends are, almost sounding like a foreign language to those who aren’t online. Yet, perhaps that’s part of their appeal. Because they are so niche, they create a strong sense of belonging for some. Still, this does leave others feeling left out. The humour that often goes viral is very specific and subjective. What I find funny might not resonate with you, but now there’s this unspoken expectation that we should all be on the same page.

Have you seen this trend? No? Now it’s awkward. Wait, I’ll dig through endless streams of videos, hoping to land on the one clip that will somehow explain the joke.

I’ve heard people describe this exact humour as “braindead” or being “chronically online.” It’s not that it’s inherently bad, but it often requires a deep familiarity with online culture to fully get it. 

Beyond my confusion—a sentiment I share with many non-TikTok users—it’s clear that these trends have a deeper impact, especially in terms of consumption. Fashion, once guided by a 20-year cycle, has been thrown off course. Now, in just four years, we’ve sped through multiple phases and aesthetics from E-girl to cottage core. Amazon storefronts encourage us to buy the latest trendy gadgets, things we’ll likely use once and forget about in a month. This constant motion desensitizes us to time and space, making it all feel fleeting and disposable.

Yet, of all things, underconsumption has recently become a trend—perhaps signalling a shift. Or maybe it will fade as quickly as it emerged.

I don’t have a bone to pick with any specific trend. While some might glamorize things that shouldn’t be glamorized or normalize problematic behaviours, like filming people without their consent, there are positive trends as well, like the recent surge in running. 

However, it seems that moderation and critical thinking are where we struggle. Social media thrives on keeping us engaged, often pushing us to label, overconsume and categorize everything as an aesthetic. How can we move beyond this cycle—stopping the labelling, resisting overconsumption and letting go of the pressure to cringe when something falls out of trend? 

I’m not here to yuck anyone’s yum. But maybe we could all benefit from touching grass a little more, disconnecting, and remembering that these trends are online for a reason.

Stuck in the trend loop Read More »

Chews for views

Local Journalism Initiative / / /

Mukbang serves as a reminder of our physical constraints. Courtesy of Éditions tête première

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Fanie Demeule’s Mukbang exemplifies the detrimental outcomes of digital personas

Disclaimer: This article mentions themes of binge eating.

There couldn’t be a greater contrast between technology and a physical book—but when these two worlds collide, you get a unique and compelling read. 

Fanie Demeule’s novel Mukbang uses QR codes to enrich her storytelling, filled with references that resonate deeply with those who have grown up online. 

Demeule is a Quebec author who writes in French, with some books translated into English. Her work often tackles contemporary issues such as body image, mental health, social pressures, intimacy and the impact of being online.

One of her latest novels, Mukbang, was published in 2021 and translated in 2022. Demeule introduces us to Kim Delorme, a young girl who is completely captivated by her computer. Delorme spends her childhood glued to a screen, slowly pulling away from the real world. It’s a story that hits close to home for many of us who grew up in the digital age, feeling that same sense of isolation as we lost ourselves in the realm of online videos and games.

The term mukbang originates from the Korean word ‘meokbang,’ with ‘meokda’ translating to eat and ‘bangsong’ meaning broadcast. Mukbangs are also widely associated with live-streamed videos where a host consumes large quantities of food while interacting with an online audience. This trend is particularly popular on YouTube and has been adopted by content creators around the world.

The QR codes are an added layer to the experience, pulling you back to random YouTube videos from 10 or 15 years ago—oddly specific, niche content from that era of the internet;making the story feel even more immersive.

Our main character eventually decides to start her own YouTube channel, beginning with vegan and health content. But when she notices the rising popularity of mukbang videos, she shifts her focus. What began as a hobby quickly spirals into something dangerous, and an online feud pushes her to the edge.

At times treading the line with the unhealthy, some content creators have been shown to gain excessive weight due to the recurring binge eating. Mukbang is all the more relevant today with the recent case of Nikocado Avocado, a well-known figure in the mukbang industry. Avocado uploaded a video on Sept. 6 showing that he had secretly lost 113kg off-screen. His story closely resembles that of Delorme, but with a different ending than the journey Demeule carries us through. 

Demeule’s writing is straightforward yet gripping, moving quickly enough to make Mukbang a book you can devour in one sitting. Despite being only 179 pages long, it’s packed with complexity. Every page is equally compelling and vivid with some unsettling content.

Along the way, we meet side characters who are just as multifaceted as the main character, and we witness each of their inner struggles. They also serve as a reminder of our own media consumption and limitations—often forgotten as we roam the web.

Demeule mixes surrealism with realism in a way that poses the question of what’s real and what’s not. As you read, the line between the fantastical and the everyday starts to blur, leaving you wondering if the events could actually happen. Her storytelling keeps you on your toes, pushing you to rethink your perceptions and explore where reality ends and imagination begins.

Reading a story set in Montreal is always a real treat, and it’s wonderful to dive into the works of local authors who deserve more recognition. Demeule is not just accessible and engaging—she’s a natural storyteller with the ability to make you crave both the food she describes and the story she tells.

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 2, published September 17, 2024.

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True crime: Interest or unhealthy obsession?

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Graphic Sara Salsabili

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Consuming murder for breakfast is not the right way to honour victims

If you’ve ever felt ashamed of something trivial you’ve done in the past, or felt as if the whole world was against you, remember—even the worst kinds of people have their supporters

From notorious criminals to murderers, everyone has fans. 

The obsession with true crime is real, and it has only grown in popularity over the past few years. YouTube is filled with creators who casually discuss the most gruesome murder cases while doing their makeup—blush, torture, lipstick shade, cause of death. Does it sound insensitive? It just might be.

While this trend has died down somewhat due to growing criticism over the lack of sensitivity toward victims’ families, it doesn’t change the fact that the true crime genre continues to profit from these horrific cases—often cutting corners to maximize gains.

An example is Netflix’s Jeffrey Dahmer documentary. Many victims’ families weren’t informed about the documentary’s release until after it aired and were traumatized reliving the events. Not mentioning that it wasn’t the first time a retelling of this case had been released as a series. 

More recently, Netflix’s May December, a fictional movie involving a teacher who preyed on a young boy, sparked controversy for its strong resemblance to a real-life case. The film, which came out in 2023 and gained traction in 2024, drew criticism from real-life victim Vili Fualaau. Fualaau expressed his frustration with the media for not reaching out despite the story closely resembling his own.

Big corporations do this all the time, but what does that say about the audience? Who are they catering to? 

Why are we so obsessed with true crime? What is this fascination with the violence? I’m not here to conduct my own scientific research, but from what others suggest, our fascination seems to stem from an evolutionary instinct. We seek out the details of such horrors as a way to better protect ourselves and those around us. We’re driven by a desire to understand the motives of these individuals and how such events unfold; knowledge is power.

It turns out there’s even a term for people who fawn over criminals like Ted Bundy: hybristophilia, which describes an attraction to individuals who have committed heinous crimes.

Another theory suggests it may be the ability to control our fear in a safe environment. Experiencing the intense emotions that come with each new episode of our favourite podcast can be incredibly appealing, perhaps even a little addictive.

Yet, I still can’t justify the popularity of these stories. Sure, I indulge in celebrity drama or other cases to get that rush of adrenaline, but becoming desensitized to the point where you find comfort in listening to horrors just doesn’t feel right.

Fictional books and movies exist for a reason, but when it comes to real-life stories with real victims, is it appropriate to use these as entertainment? Where do we draw the line?

Additionally, murderers often get more media attention than their victims, overshadowing the true impact of these tragedies. A recent study in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences journal looked at 189 mass shootings in the U.S. over the past two decades. Researchers found that many of these attacks were carried out with the goal of gaining fame. 

Unfortunately, there still is not enough research conducted on the subject matter to explain the exact cause of this true crime obsession. It gets harder to define the line between awareness and sensationalism. 

Normalizing or even romanticizing atrocities certainly won’t bring peace to anyone—not even yourself.

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 2, published September 17, 2024.

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Navigating the reality of ADHD

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Experiences of ADHD diagnoses differ. Graphic Olivia Shan

Racha Rais & Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Highlighting systemic barriers to diagnosis and treatment

At the age of 16, Daniel Gonzalez received a diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD), a process made easier thanks to his mother’s discovery that he could still see a pediatrician before turning 18.

Now, at age 22, he’s deeply grateful for that timing, knowing how challenging it can be to secure a diagnosis as an adult. He says that, while everyone’s experience is different, he always sensed something was off for him. 

“If my mom never got me the diagnosis, I’d be in a way worse place than I’d be right now, but I also feel like [it] would have probably taken until I was, like, 30 to do that kind of thing because it’s a nightmare, especially how the healthcare system is right now,” Gonzalez says. “I could not imagine myself bothering to go through all of that.”

While ADHD is increasingly being recognized, Canada currently lacks formal data on the prevalence of ADHD in adults. Research from IQVIA, a Canadian health data firm, indicates a rise in ADHD medication prescriptions—15 per cent more people sought treatment from 2021 to 2022 alone. Their research also shows that Quebec leads the country in psychostimulant prescriptions. 

James-Olivier Jarry, 21, looks back on his childhood and acknowledges that his ADHD diagnosis explains a lot—especially when it comes to the hurdles he faced in the classroom. Back then, it wasn’t so much about feeling different; it was about learning to navigate a mind that was always distracted.

“You’ve got to work two times harder to get the job done,” Jarry says.

He explains that his parents had their suspicions early on, but remarks that even a decade ago, ADHD was less understood, and few people were tested for it. 

The evolving understanding of ADHD reflects broader changes in medical recognition. The National Institute for Health and Care Excellence only officially acknowledged ADHD in adults 16 years ago. In 1994, ADHD was divided into three subtypes: inattentive, hyperactive/impulsive and combined. In 2013, instead of strict subtypes, ADHD was recognized as something that can change over time in the fifth edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. 

Gonzalez recalls that information on ADHD diagnoses wasn’t easily accessible, and his mother only learned about it “through a friend of a friend.” He adds, “Schools could definitely be more integrated with helping undiagnosed kids. I had to struggle my entire high school life being completely undiagnosed.”

His experience highlights a significant gap in support for students with ADHD, an issue that healthcare professionals echo. In 2019, several doctors in Quebec signed an open letter to other medical practitioners, teachers, parents and the government addressing the rise in ADHD medication prescriptions, urging the public to consider the issue beyond the higher rates alone. Prescriptions don’t necessarily equate to diagnoses and it’s unclear how many people receiving ADHD medications are formally diagnosed. 

A 2024 survey commissioned by the Ohio State University Wexner Medical Center found that 25 per cent of adults in the U.S. believe they have undiagnosed ADHD.  However, navigating the diagnosis process is challenging. In Canada, public services are often short-staffed, leading to longer wait times for assessments. Meanwhile, private evaluations can cost $2,000 on average. This financial barrier can prevent many individuals from obtaining the necessary support. 

Gonzalez also reflects on the ongoing challenges he faces, even with a formal ADHD diagnosis. 

“I made this analogy a couple days ago, but it’s like if a deaf person had to call somebody to get deaf accommodations,” he says. “These systems are designed by people who are neurotypical, so it just seems 10 times more difficult.”

To change his medication, Gonzalez says he needs to navigate a lengthy process, often waiting weeks to reach his doctor after realizing his current prescription isn’t working. He says that this process can be especially frustrating since these medications are meant to be taken daily. 

“They’re not psychiatrists; they can only prescribe. So as someone with ADHD, you have to push against your own disability to figure out what might work best for you,” Gonzalez adds.

In academic settings, obtaining accommodations for ADHD can be particularly challenging. Individuals must first provide proof of their diagnosis. Once this is achieved, Gonzalez highlights that he had to independently seek out the resources available to him.

Concordia University provides workshops for students with learning disabilities, giving them access to resources offered by the Access Centre for Students with Disabilities. 

Registered students with proof of their diagnoses can attend workshops that help them manage their time during studies and exams, develop note-taking strategies in class and learn how to control their anxiety and focus better.  

However, these resources can come with limitations. Gonzalez notes that while he was accommodated based on the support he received in previous school settings, such resources lack transparency on what they offer. 

“It’s kind of like a blind game of chess because you have to poke and see, ‘What’s the most accommodation I can get?’” he says. 

Some teachers take the initiative to address these challenges themselves. Hisako Noguchi, a professor in the Concordia linguistics department, says that the university provides expert-led workshops for students and faculty. 

“I believe I have a better understanding of the challenges students are facing,” Noguchi says, explaining that she applies certain techniques she learned to adapt her teaching methods. 

For instance, she incorporates different colours and uses a standard serif font to enhance readability. She also selects images to illustrate concepts, recognizing that visual elements can aid understanding.

However, Gonzalez points out that ADHD is still widely misunderstood, with the term itself feeling like “a blanket statement,” that doesn’t fully capture the diverse ways it affects people. 

“It’s not hyperactivity, it’s dysfunction. It’s getting overwhelmed easily, it’s getting really frustrated very quickly and very easily,” he says. “Emotional dysregulation is a very common thing for people with ADHD.”

Clinical psychologist Dr. Thomas E. Brown explains in his educational videos on the Understood YouTube channel that ADHD is not simply a behavioural issue. Brown explains that the disorder involves the brain’s executive functions, which manage focus and self-regulation. In people with ADHD, the default mode network—the brain’s active network when the mind is at rest—often becomes overactive, interfering when concentration is needed. 

To counteract that, stimulants are the most commonly prescribed medications for treating ADHD, typically taken daily. However, non-stimulant options are available for those with adverse effects, though the choice depends heavily on individual health needs. 

Gonzalez says treatment has been transformative for him, and he urges others to seek help if they suspect they might have ADHD. 

“I seriously did not realize how much ADHD was hindering me in my own functionality,” Gonzalez says. “You might not realize how much it affects you; I can’t understate how huge it is.”

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 5, published November 5, 2024.

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Am I the main character?

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Social media is feeding our ego. Graphic Sylvia Dai

Claudia Beaudoin
Local Journalism Initiative,

Social media’s tendency to fuel egocentrism

You are the main character of your life—but can you recognize that, beyond your own perspective, billions of other “main characters” live unaware of your story?

In an era dominated by self-focused social media, it’s easy to get lost in our own narratives, fuelling a culture that is breeding a narcissistic generation.

From a perfectly curated profile for others to see to the constant presence of photos and videos in daily life, egotistical behaviour manifests itself in various ways, making you hyper-aware of your appearance at all times.

I’ve had many comforting moments of sonder—that sudden realization that every passerby has a life as rich and complex as my own. Social media, however, tends to pull us in the opposite direction, making us take ourselves too seriously and convincing us that the world is much smaller than it really is.

A popular message circulating on social media is the idea that anything that “no longer serves me” can simply be discarded. While shedding toxic aspects of life can be healthy, this mindset sometimes feels overused—even misplaced. It suggests that conflicts or challenges, like a disagreement with a friend, aren’t worth working through if they don’t immediately serve our needs. This attitude risks fostering an expectation that life should always cater to us, as though we’re owed a frictionless experience.

On the other hand, “romanticizing your life,” also popularized by social media, is a concept that I actually support. This mindset is not purely a product of the internet. Long before social media, people found ways to add beauty and meaning to their everyday lives. It’s a wonderful outlook to have, but the danger lies in becoming too self-oriented and neglecting essential connections.

Despite being more interconnected than ever, genuine interest in others’ lives seems to be fading. We seem to be in a “texting burnout”—many of us are exhausted and no longer want to answer our messages. I’ve noticed fewer people reaching out just to ask how someone is doing; texting to catch up has become rare, almost burdensome. 

It’s strange that we now rely so heavily on social media to give us daily updates about each other, removing the intentional effort to directly check-in. On the rare occasions that we actually reach out, we leave each other’s messages unanswered for days, leaving conversations fragmented and divided by lapses in time.

Not everyone slips into these patterns, nor do I believe it’s always intentional, but it’s worth taking a moment to reflect on how we connect with others.

When we really look at our habits, we might realize just how much we’re missing in each other’s lives and how absorbed we are in our own.
 

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 6, published November 19, 2024.

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Basics beyond the binary

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Rae Hill, founder of Origami Customs, going through the steps of creating a pair of underwear. Courtesy Origami Customs

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Rae Hill has spent most of their life reshaping gender-affirming fashion

The remnants of work linger in Origami Customs’ old factory room. 

Sewing machines rest patiently at their stations, foot pedals tucked beneath them, spools of thread lined up in quiet anticipation. The rhythmic ticking of a machine hums in the background. 

It’s a Saturday, and the workshop is empty, its stillness only briefly interrupted by our presence. 

Sitting on a small stool, Rae Hill gently holds the fabric down with two fingers, adjusting their grip every few seconds to guide it smoothly under the machine’s humming needle. Their foot presses lightly on the pedal as the needle rises and falls, piercing the fabric in precise, even stitches. Their eyes shift in and out of focus, sometimes following the seam closely, other times drifting as muscle memory takes over. The machine, the fabric, and their movements become one—a seamless rhythm, a perfect symbiosis. Five minutes to take shape, 10 minutes to hold form, and 15 years of underwear.

Hill is the creator of Origami Customs, a Montreal-based company specializing in creating custom products for a gender-diverse audience. The team is made up of eight queer and trans individuals who are trained in crafting personalized items tailored to the unique needs of their customers.

“We have created patterns over the last 15 years that support people in their authentic expression, but also to make them feel comfortable and safe when they’re using these products,” Hill says. 

The underwear industry has seen a growing demand for health-conscious designs that prioritize comfort and breathability—trends that Origami Customs has been incorporating into their products for years. According to a report by Cognitive Market Research, this shift is reflected in the broader market, where North America accounted for over 40 per cent of global underwear sales in 2024, generating $43 billion in revenue.

Unlike the trained professionals in the workshop, you don’t need to be an expert in customization to get the perfect fit. On Origami’s website, you’ll find an easy-to-follow guide that shows you exactly how to take your measurements. Once entered, the measurements are saved for future orders.

“Even in the manufacturing process, we often have people say, ‘I started HRT (Hormone Replacement Therapy) and my body is really different than it was a couple of weeks ago when I ordered this piece. Can you update my measurements?’ And we’re always happy to make modifications for people because we understand,” Hill adds. “It’s a really beautiful part of working for, with and by trans people in every step of the process. There’s a lot of empathy and understanding for what people are going through, and we’re creating garments that we wear ourselves.”

Origami Customs began as a swimwear business on the coast of Honduras, where Hill took a longer-than-expected gap year after falling in love with scuba diving in a small town called Utila. What started as making swimsuits for themself and friends quickly grew into a small boutique in a tight-knit scuba diving community.

After a few years spent in the laid-back rhythm of Honduras, Hill moved from the quiet corners of the island to the more dynamic pace of Costa Rica. There, they connected with many people in the clothing industry, which led them to learn more about online selling. Using the online platform, Etsy, they tapped into a new audience—bigger than the small boutique they had been running. As the business grew, so did their vision, and eventually, Montreal became the next stop for expansion and rebranding.

Then the pandemic hit and Hill saw a shift in the market. Hostility toward the trans community grew, and they realized the need for a decisive change: to dedicate Origami Customs to serving trans people. With so few businesses catering to this need, it was about creating a space where trans people could be prioritized and understood.

Holding up a ready-to-ship gaff, a specially designed piece of underwear that helps flatten the genital area for transgender women and create a smoother, more feminine appearance, Hill shows me the difference in the fabric. They explain that garments like these, or compression binders, can become restrictive or harmful if not designed properly.

“A lot of my friends were like, ‘We see you designing all these pieces, but we’ve been DIY-ing our own stuff for a really long time. Can you help us design swim shorts that you can wear a packer with? Or like a binder or gaffe?’” Hill says. “And I was like, ‘Actually, yes, this is my specific skill set.’”

Hill’s designs are driven by both function and community needs, blending practicality with comfort.

“This is one of my favourite pieces, it’s a jock, so this is made out of bamboo as well, with a nice thick waistband, double gusset in the front and then, like, a totally open butt in the back, which I love,” Hill says.

Origami Customs also offers free underwear to community partners worldwide, ensuring that those who can’t order directly from the website still have access to the products.

Wrapping up the tour, Hill settles onto the well-worn couch in the dining area, sunlight streaming across our conversation. While they’ve stepped back from the hands-on making process in recent years, Hill’s focus has shifted to advocacy, speaking on topics like gender diversity in the workplace, sustainable fashion and gender-affirming clothing. Despite their enduring passion, recent years have been challenging. Hill highlights how algorithm changes have fuelled an increase in transphobic discourse, from the lack of hate speech moderation to their posts being flagged. 

“When a video of a trans woman in underwear gets flagged, but Victoria’s Secret can post whatever they want, this is an issue that we need to be talking about. Why are people not noticing?” Hill says.

By collaborating with professionals, they’re able to implement new policies and approaches that specifically address the needs of the gender-diverse community, using their own experiences as what they call “a roadmap” for others to follow.

“What we have in the studio is a really specific microcosm and space, where we’ve essentially decided that primarily it will be a place to support gender-diverse, queer and trans people,” Hill explains. 

Beatrice Warner, a customer of Origami Customs and an occasional model for the small business, says that underwear is typically designed with either a cisgender male or female body in mind, even when custom-made.

“It’s really important to me as a customer that I have an option for me, not only coming from someone who is trained specifically to work with bodies like my own but also, frankly, people who have bodies like my own, so they can really experience it for themselves,” she says.

Warner reflects on her initial reaction to Hill’s modelling offer as a moment of clarity. She recalls how it suddenly felt real. It wasn’t just about posing or showing her body—it was about revealing who she truly was. For her, this was deeply connected to the dysphoria she’s long struggled with. 

“I felt not only comfortable, but I felt sexy, beautiful and powerful because I felt safe with the other models, and safe with the photographer because of the atmosphere that was being created, which, of course, was led by Rae,” she says. 

Once the pictures were revealed, Warner said she felt “energetic” about the shoot. For her, it wasn’t just about the underwear or the photos; it was about the incredible energy of the project itself and what it conveyed.

“I feel like there’s a huge gap especially when it comes to queer bodies in the mainstream clothing industry, so it is very important to have a company like this that is actually catering to their audience in a way that actually fits our needs,” Taj Taylor says, a past content collaborator with Origami Customs.  “I was really impressed by the quality of the material, the fact that it’s custom-made and the fact that it’s by queers for queers, I absolutely love that about them.” 

As we lock up for the weekend, the workshop quiets, but Hill’s work is far from over—with trans advocacy talks on the horizon and policy-making projects in motion. Their work doesn’t end when the sewing machines go silent.

“We are trans. This is a trans-run company that’s trans-made, and we’re making garments that are very popular because they don’t exist in the world,” Hill says.

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Safety or legality?

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In Canada, some people turn to self-defence tools despite the looming risks of legal repercussions. Graphic Lyna Ghomari

Why some people decide to carry self-defence tools despite legal limits in Canada

In Canada, carrying or using many self-defence tools remains illegal, including most knives, pepper spray, stun guns, maces, keychain batons and kubotans with concealed knives.

Pepper spray is classified as an illegal weapon under the Firearms Act, making its manufacture, sale or use—including homemade versions—a criminal offence. Only Canadians who acquire a Possession and Acquisition License can own and carry pepper spray. 

Yet, the legal risks have not stopped people from engaging with these tools in the face of safety concerns. 

An individual who was granted anonymity for safety reasons told The Link that she owns and carries a keychain baton. She bought it online as part of a toolkit that included an alarm and a seatbelt cutter.

“I just wanted to feel safer because I know I often go out at night or finish class later,” she said. “I knew a knife would be too illegal.” 

She explained that, to her, the connotation of carrying a knife is much different from a tool like a baton. Even though she knew that carrying a baton was also illegal, she wanted something that could help her feel more secure and in control, especially when walking alone in the city.

“I’ve never used it, but I’ve had many occasions where I took it out of my purse or my bag,” she said. “I always feel unsafe, but about once a month is when I have really creepy situations where I’m being followed.”

According to a 2020 Statistics Canada report, only 33 per cent of women in Montreal felt very safe walking alone after dark, compared to 60 per cent of men. The same report found that women in Montreal were significantly more likely to experience unwanted sexual conduct in public than men. However, carrying a concealed weapon is also prohibited in Canada under section 90.1 of the Criminal Code.

“Sometimes [possessing this tool] makes me feel more at risk,” she said, referring specifically to her presence at protests. “I feel unsafe for having it in my bag […] because I’m so afraid that I might be untruthfully arrested for something.”

She expressed her fear of being illegally searched, which is why she leaves her self-defence tools at home during those moments—even though doing so strips away what she calls her “only sense of safety.”

Robert Razgoev is the general manager of CANARMOR, a body armour manufacturer in Ontario. Their products serve directly as defensive measures against potential attackers.

“Everything is meant to defend,” Razgoev said. “We don’t mean to offend—not to attack—just to defend. So, that makes our products legal.”

He says that, since most weapons are illegal, whether for self-defence or not, the only resource left is body armour.

“All we have left is just to buy something—some piece of protection—to protect our bodies until we have a safe place to hide,” Razgoev said.

The Criminal Code of Canada defines a prohibited weapon as any device designed to injure, immobilize or incapacitate a person. 

Even so, sentiment differs on the use of this definition for self-defence tools. Catherine Raymond, a Montreal resident, expressed confusion over why a temporary tool like pepper spray is categorized as a weapon, noting that it could provide marginalized communities with a chance to escape dangerous situations.

Raymond is not alone in wanting tools like pepper spray to be legalized. In 2021, former Alberta justice minister Kaycee Madu sent a request to the federal government to amend the criminal code to allow carrying pepper spray for self-defence. Ottawa denied the request. 

The limited legally permissible tools for self-defence in Canada include alarms and flashlights, as well as dog spray which can be used against wildlife but not on people. 

“It’s just a self-defence tool, it shouldn’t be illegal,” Raymond said about pepper spray. “It’s gonna save more lives than hurt someone’s eyes, you know.” 

With files from Hannah Vogan

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 4, published October 22, 2024.

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Letters as lifelines

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Prisoner Correspondence Project fosters connection between the queer community and queer incarcerated individuals. Graphic Lyna Ghomari

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

PCP’s queer pen pal network for inmates fosters a continent-wide collective of support

Prisoner Correspondence Project (PCP) is a Montreal-based organization facilitating pen pal connections between incarcerated 2SLGBTQIA+ individuals and the broader community since 2007.

Based out of the Quebec Public Interest Research Group’s (QPIRG) Concordia office on Guy St. and run by volunteers, the project currently has 4,897 members and works with 386 prisons across North America. 

What began as a helping hand to a similar organization with high pen pal demands in the United States has evolved into over a decade of letters, advocacy and support for incarcerated 2SLGBTQIA+ individuals.

“A lot of activists live very busy lives. So, I think it can be really grounding to actually sit down and write physical letters,” said Rain Huff, a collective member of PCP since 2022 and a pen pal since 2020. “There’s one person who’s been involved for 17 years, it feels like it’s something that can be a really long-term movement and that’s what really drew me in.”

A 2017 study by the University of California found that 2SLGBTQIA+ individuals are three times more likely to get incarcerated than their non-2SLGBTQIA+ counterparts. Once behind bars, they often face heightened risks of violence, abuse and neglect, with research also showing higher rates of mental distress or mental health issues.

Over 3,000 members are waiting to be paired, some dating back to 2017. People can sign up through their website by filling out a form and browsing their database which includes blurbs of each member. PCP encourages new pen pals to prioritize older requests when possible, while also promoting connections based on shared interests and experiences.

Dana, a collective member of PCP for over a year and a pen pal for the past nine months, said that the work can, at times, be heavy. 

“When people are signing up to be a pen pal, sometimes they include their whole life story, and especially just cases of people who were incarcerated when they were a teenager, and 20 years later, they’re still in prison. They never got a chance at life,” Dana said. “It just makes me want to go back and do more next week to make something at least a teeny bit better for someone else.”

Every Tuesday, PCP hosts volunteer hours at their office to assist with paperwork. Huff said they receive numerous requests from people waiting to be paired, ranging from requests for printing documents to asking when they might be matched with a pen pal.

“My pen pal is in a medical centre in Texas. We often don’t talk about what he’s in there for, but I get play-by-plays of his life and what it’s like there,” said Melissa Kravetz, a pen pal and volunteer at PCP since the spring of 2024. “I’ve created a Spotify playlist of all the songs that he recommends me.”

Kravetz has two pen pals from Texas, one she hears from weekly and another she has only exchanged letters with twice.

Once a person is matched, it can sometimes take longer for the first letters to arrive, and in some states, sending letters can be challenging. 

For over a decade, states like Florida and Missouri have banned pen pal programs for inmates, with similar restrictions in Indiana, Montana and Pennsylvania. 

“It’s stopping people from creating a super basic connection,” Huff said. “People are shuffled around from one unit to another, so we get stuff sent back. [Prison systems] are not trying to forward the mail. They’re not trying to help us out. They’re not trying to do anything. […] They just make things hard for people. Every single step of the way.” 

Research by The University of Warwick has demonstrated that pen pal programs play a significant role in the rehabilitation of incarcerated individuals, offering emotional support, fostering connections and reducing feelings of isolation.

“I’ve heard from people who are on death row […] and yet they’re so filled with a zest for life. And it inspires me. It really, really does,” Kravetz said.

To support new pen pals, PCP hosts workshops that guide participants through writing their first letters.

“It’s really meaningful that people want to share their stories with us,” Huff said. “If someone is capable of committing to that basic connection, you’re going to create a relationship that can be meaningful, that can bring a lot into your life.”

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 4, published October 22, 2024.

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A culinary homecoming

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Nestor Lewyckyj, founder of Perogie Lili, sitting in front of Kur & Kul Arts’ mural. Photo Claudia Beaudoin

Claudia Beaudoin,
Local Journalism Initiative

Perogie Lili offers more than food—it’s a tribute to Ukrainian heritage and family tradition

In the 1950s, in an apartment on Waverly St. in Montreal, Lili Lewyckyj, a Ukrainian mother, prepared meals for her four boys. Her goal was to offer them a taste of their distant home and culture.

Little did Lili know, she was leaving a deep and lasting impact on her youngest son, Nestor Lewyckyj. Her tradition of preparing classic Ukrainian meals would shape the Mile End neighbourhood long after her passing. This inspiration culminated in Perogie Lili, a new restaurant dedicated to sharing Ukrainian dumplings, known as ‘varenyky’ in Ukrainian, or more commonly, perogies.

Lewyckyj had long dreamed of opening a restaurant that would present Ukrainian cuisine in a fresh way to Montreal. It was only after seven years of planning and the onset of war in Ukraine in 2022 that his dream truly began to take shape.

Alongside his business partner Gregory Bedek, who previously organized the last nine years of the Montreal Ukrainian Festival, Lewyckyj meticulously brought every detail of the restaurant to life, from the food and decor to the location itself—just a block down from where he grew up.

“I wanted it to look like some Ukrainian grandmother’s kitchen,” Lewyckyj said. “We want to give people that vibe, that they’re coming back to something wholesome, something real.”

Perogie Lili opened its doors in August 2024, revealing a restaurant with multiple layers of significance. 

At its heart, the restaurant serves as a tribute to Lewyckyj’s mother, after whom it is named.

Lili was part of a wave of immigrants who fled Ukraine during the Second World War. She spent five years in a displacement camp in Germany, with immigration proving to be no easy feat. When the war ended, many like her were reluctant to return, fearful of what awaited them under Soviet occupation. With no place to truly call home, Lili boarded a ship to Halifax in December 1950, then took a train to Montreal, where she settled at just 19 years old. 

Lili passed away in 2022. 

Honouring the culture Lili passed down to her family, Perogie Lili serves recipes that taste as authentic as they are familiar to those of Ukrainian descent. 

The cosy diner also highlights Ukrainian artistry, from the music playing in the background to its striking murals. The current art features work by Kur & Kul Arts, a Ukrainian couple known for their vibrant representations of Ukrainian culture. At Perogie Lili, they’ve created a mural that spans the seasons, blending traditional Ukrainian symbols like Easter eggs and carolling with Quebec icons such as apple trees in fall. The mural even includes a nod to Lewyckyj’s dog.

Lewyckyj plans to refresh the mural every six months to keep the restaurant dynamic and engaging; this is just one of the ways he aims to create a constant flow of change at Perogie Lili. 

Another way is through the menu. While offering traditional Ukrainian flavours, he also plans to introduce new varieties of perogies regularly.

“My pinnacle would be to make a foie gras perogie,” Lewyckyj said with a laugh.

The restaurant is also actively involved in humanitarian aid efforts related to the war in Ukraine, with 2 per cent of their sales going to the Canada-Ukraine Foundation. 

“The whole point is to create something real and also to advertise to people that Ukrainians are here. We’re part of the community,” Lewyckyj said. “The war is still going on and the genocidal invasion by Russia is still real; there’s still people dying.”

Lewyckyj notices that many young Ukrainians have embraced the restaurant as a meeting spot, and he already sees groups coming in to find a sense of community. Among the six employees are three Ukrainian refugees who have found their place at Perogie Lili.

Anna Semenova Kozak arrived in Montreal in 2022 as a refugee. She initially struggled to find employment in Quebec due to the language barrier. She spent her first year focusing on French language classes before finally coming across Perogie Lili.

“It helps me to connect to my own culture and also to discover more people,” Kozak said. “We have here a very vibrant mix of Canadians, immigrants [and] Ukrainians, so it’s just delightful.”

The restaurant is the first of its kind in Montreal. Customers have flocked to the restaurant, drawn by curiosity and radio buzz. Some even make the journey from as far as the West Island just to experience the Ukrainian dish.

For Helen Mourikis, a regular customer, Perogie Lili has become a weekly Saturday tradition. She was there on their Aug. 23 opening day and keeps returning.

“I look forward to it,” she said, noting that she often thinks about the food in the days leading up to Saturday.

“The best reaction that we have, which happens multiple times per shift, is people will come and they’ll get one option—maybe potatoes because that feels safe and familiar. And then they’ll eat it and be like ‘That was so good,’ and they’ll get another one or try something else,” said Hannah Kirijian, one of the Montreal workers. “I find [this] shows just how good the food is, that people are coming back in an hour to get more.”

Lewyckyj explains that, for many, the taste of perogies evokes their own pasts. It transcends time and space, transporting people back to their childhood homes or homeland with a simple taste of soft dough and potato filling. 

Perogie Lili’s logo features a woman holding a perogie close to her chest with a warm, inviting expression. 

“Ukrainian culture in general has a very positive, warm kind of feeling,” Lewyckyj said. “Like our logo, it’s a maternal kind of soft, something you would have at home.” 

Lewyckyj is always deeply touched when clients tell him his perogies are as good as the ones their grandmothers or mothers make.

“I always say, you could not pay me a better compliment,” he said.

Amid the bustle of Fairmount Ave., Perogie Lili begins its story, grounded in a history far richer than its new look suggests. As Lewyckyj reflects on his mother’s legacy, he simply says, “I’d hope she’d be proud.” 

With each perogie served, the restaurant not only honours Lili’s memory, but also continues a timeless tradition, bringing a piece of the past to the present with every taste.

This article originally appeared in Volume 45, Issue 2, published September 17, 2024.

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