Moe Pramanick

It’s late May, a Friday and the fourth day of Canadian Union of Public Employees (CUPE) Ontario’s 2025 convention. As the minutes tick toward five o’clock and the meeting draws to a close, quorum is slipping away. Anticipating their long commutes, delegates from across the province are trickling out to beat the traffic – a nerve-racking situation for anyone with a motion yet to be decided on.

But Ashlee Verma, co-chief steward of CUPE Local 1281, a small union that represents about 300 individual members, wasn’t worried as she watched people line up behind the designated “pro” microphones in the Sheraton Centre Toronto Hotel’s Grand Ballroom to speak on Local 1281’s emergency resolution on prison labour. Two “pro” mics and two “con” mics were set up on either side of the hall so speakers could access whichever one was closest to them, depending on whether they wished to speak for or against the proposal at hand.

Not one of the approximately 1,000 attendees stood behind a “con” mic. 

“It got so much of a positive reaction,” says Verma, who wrote the rationale for the resolution. “So much so that I didn’t even ultimately get to speak on it.”

Full labour rights

Local1281 was compelled to act when it learned in May that CORCAN, the agency within Correctional Service Canada (CSC) that provides work and training to federal prisoners, was expanding its wildfire safety program from the Prairies into Ontario. Since the deadline to submit resolutions for debate at the CUPE Ontario convention had already passed, they drafted a strongly worded emergency resolution, a type of resolution designed to address matters that may crop up between the deadline and the start of the convention, condemning Canada’s increasing reliance on prison labour. 

CORCAN pay maxes out at $6.90 per day, but most federal prisoners take home less than $3 a day after mandatory deductions for things like their food and accommodation, the phone system, an inmate welfare fund and a meagre savings plan for after their release.

The resolution called on CUPE Ontario to condemn coercive prison labour, and to advocate for its end through public statements, lobbying efforts, and education. It also urges investment in publicly delivered emergency services staffed by fairly paid workers with full labour rights and calls for collaboration with prisoner advocacy groups to ensure incarcerated individuals are treated with dignity and respect. 

CORCAN pay maxes out at $6.90 per day, but most federal prisoners take home less than $3 a day after mandatory deductions for things like their food and accommodation, the phone system, an inmate welfare fund and a meagre savings plan for after their release. They’re also not considered employees under labour law because their work is considered part of their rehabilitation, making them some of the most vulnerable workers in the country. Carve-outs like these undermine the basis of minimum labour standards and rights for everyone.

“This follows an exploitative model which does not protect public safety,” charged Local 1281 in a news item posted on its website that announced the successful passing of their emergency resolution. “Prisoners deserve full labour rights and [Ontarians] deserve real climate responses.”

The resolution passed with applause from delegates, and was expected to be presented at the CUPE National convention in early October. However, according to a source at CUPE 1281, there wasn’t enough time to get to all of the resolutions during the national convention. Leftover resolutions – including the one on prison labour – are referred to the national executive board.

The carceral Left

Jordan House is an assistant professor of labour studies at Brock University who has extensively researched prison labour in Canada. His first response to learning that Local 1281’s emergency resolution had passed? Surprise.

“It's very rare that the Canadian labour movement has commented on prison labour at all in the last several decades,” he says. “I thought it was a very positive development.”

It came at an important time for all the reasons that the resolution lays out, House explains. “If there’s going to be this expansion of prison labour utilized in response to climate change and this need for labour to mitigate climate disasters, then this is certainly an issue for public-sector unions. You know, it raises all sorts of questions about what the public sector is for.”

Despite a common interest with prisoners in strengthening labour rights, public-sector unions have in some cases advocated to expand punishment to the detriment of the social safety net, according to Bronwyn Dobchuk-Land and James Wilt in a 2020 article for Briarpatch. For instance, the Manitoba Government and General Employees’ Union, which represents about 32,000 workers, has become “the leading advocate of jail-building in the province even though correctional officers have only ever made up 5 per cent or so of its membership.” The pair argue that the rise of the social democratic left’s involvement in policing and jails “provides clues about what happens when lines are drawn (and walls are built) between those who are imagined as deserving of solidarity and those who aren’t.”

On May 23, CSC announced that CORCAN planned to expand its wildfire safety training program into Ontario for summer 2025. The program had already been operating in the Prairie region since the spring of 2024, and according to an emailed statement from CSC, currently operates in Saskatchewan, Alberta, and British Columbia. The Ontario expansion was to begin in October.

“The purpose of the program,” according to CSC’s statement, “is to equip offenders with the skills necessary to pursue post-release employment in this field, should they choose.”

The “Type 3” training provided by CORCAN is an introductory level that would equip “an ad-hoc fire-fighting force with the basic skills needed to provide support, mop-up and patrol operations when wildfires have been contained.” Over the course of five days, only one of which is in the field, students learn fire behaviour, trenching, how to use a firehose, and how to maintain their own safety while fighting fires. So far, 36 prisoners have received the training in Saskatchewan, 15 in Alberta, and 30 in British Columbia. Nine prisoners enrolled for training at Collins Bay Institution in Ontario in October.

But some see the training program as a signal that Canada may follow in California’s footsteps in using prison labourers to deal with climate disasters.

As House and Lydia Dobson, a lawyer and law professor at the University of Ottawa, write in The Conversation, the United States has increasingly responded to environmental disasters like fires and floods by sending prisoners to the front lines. Early this year, the nearly 950 California inmates who fought the Los Angeles fires with non-incarcerated fire crew earned only about $10 a day for their equally dangerous and courageous work. Aside from poor wages, incarcerated fire workers are much more likely to be injured on the job or suffer from smoke inhalation than their professional counterparts.

There is reason to worry that, once trained, Canadian federal prisoners could find themselves fighting wildfires prior to their release. Provincial prisoners in British Columbia already support firefighting crews by maintaining and inspecting equipment and camps.

Through its fire camp program, the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation allows incarcerated people to reduce their sentences by serving as firefighters. A similar reward is not offered in Canada. In fact, there is no mechanism whereby a federal sentence can be shortened based on a prisoner’s good behaviour – this practice ended in 1992 – though once two-thirds of a fixed-length sentence is served they may be released under supervision.

Prisoners in federal custody do, however, face all sorts of coercion in relation to their labour. Correctional plans, which each federal prisoner serving two or more years receives at the start of their sentence, have employment built into them. That means, says House, that “every prisoner in federal custody has to work and has to work to the satisfaction of the administration if they are going to have a reasonable chance at early release.” Failure to perform work can result in administrative sanctions, he explains.

For its part, CSC insists that its “offender employment programs operate under the principle of free consent and do not occur under the threat of penalty.”

Even though the choice to participate in wildfire training is offered, Verma wonders if prisoners “know what they’re getting into based on what they’re being sold.”

There is reason to worry that, once trained, Canadian federal prisoners could find themselves fighting wildfires prior to their release. Provincial prisoners in British Columbia already support firefighting crews by maintaining and inspecting equipment and camps. And prison labour has been used in response to wildfires in Ontario from the late 1960s through to the mid-1970s. 

Identity

Still, some incarcerated fire crew members have told the media that they’d rather be fighting fires than sitting in a cell. Though many prisoners describe their labour as akin to modern slavery or indentured servitude due to their poor pay and lack of freedom to refuse to work, House explains that some prisoners report that firefighting is very rewarding. 

“It’s skilled labour, and despite the fact that they’re prisoners, they do get some level of [recognition] as firefighters, and that’s all powerful and important to people,” he says.

Philip Goodman, a sociology professor at the University of Toronto, interviewed 45 prisoners, 12 officers, six forestry crew leaders, six correctional supervisors, and two administrators across five of California’s fire camps for his seminal 2012 scholarly paper, “Hero and Inmate: Work, Prisons, and Punishment in California’s Fire Camps”. Goodman found that typical sentiment about prison labour – namely, that it is exploitative due to poor wages and poor labour rights – cannot be broadly applied in the case of wildfire fighting, because workers can find their labour both exploitative and rewarding. While he found a sense that prisoner fire crews worked harder, were made to do less desirable work (such as mop-up) than their non-incarcerated teammates, and were sometimes even treated poorly by them, they also told him that they saw their work in the fire camps as giving back and a way to gain career skills. Beyond that, they were proud of their work saving property and sometimes lives.

“Many camp inmates view the work they perform as simultaneously heroic, dignified work and a form of labor exploitation,” he writes. 

Still, whether prisoners take pride in their work, they should not exist as a convenient and cheap source of labour for the state.

Until her comrade in Local 1281 proposed bringing the emergency resolution on prison labour to the CUPE Ontario convention, Verma hadn’t been involved in any other prisoner advocacy. But she was no stranger to the plight of prisoners: her mother worked long shifts overnight at a halfway house for more than 20 years in the U.K. Growing up, Verma heard the stories of the people with whom her mother worked. Her mother says they left for work in the morning and returned home “absolutely discouraged” by the treatment they received on the job. 

“That’s why, when I wrote that resolution, I think what I was trying to do was use what I was hearing when I was younger and say, ‘How are we still allowing this to happen?’”

It’s now up to CUPE’s national executive board to decide whether Local 1281’s resolution should be taken up at the national level. Verma is hopeful. 

“National, of course, has the resources – the voice – to be able to take it further,” especially in terms of lobbying the federal and provincial governments to put an end to current iterations of CORCAN employment programming and instead invest in giving incarcerated labourers full labour rights and fair wages.

As Verma writes in her rationale for the resolution, “A worker is a worker is a worker.”

Daniella Barreto

Public health advocate, organizer, and producer Daniella Barreto is the righteous force behind a fierce, independent podcast. Politically powerful and expertly produced, Public Health Is Dead details the failures of Canada’s public health systems since the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic.

The show’s premise seems obvious enough: the foundation of public health is supposed to be preventing, reducing the spread of, and eliminating diseases. But early in the pandemic, public health leaders downplayed airborne transmission and did little to correct public misperceptions about how SARS-CoV-2, the virus that causes COVID-19, spreads. Though effective infection controls such as masking were eventually advised, public mask mandates were rolled back nationwide by 2022. And despite some health experts urging that masking be reinstated during later surges of the virus and their temporary return in some health-care settings, leaders like former prime minister Justin Trudeau insisted mask mandates were not effective enough alone to restore nationwide – despite proof that collective masking is effective. 

Predictably, SARS-CoV-2 infections continue to create post-viral issues, ranging from chronic fatigue to air hunger to severe neurological damage. And of course, COVID-19 continues to kill. Marginalized working people remain on the front lines of a pandemic most are now willing to ignore, enduring its ongoing impacts with little or no improvement in basic workplace conditions.

Diseases have been eradicated before. Public Health Is Dead asks: what if public health officials had spent the past few years working to educate the public and actually stop the spread of a preventable, novel illness? Why did we end up here, and what better future can we imagine and demand? Barreto spoke with me about the squandered opportunities of the early years of the pandemic, the ongoing long COVID crisis, and why it isn’t too late to demand cleaner indoor air and masks in health care.

This interview has been lightly edited and condensed.

Britta Shoot How has your personal, professional, and organizing background influenced how you’ve experienced the COVID-19 pandemic?

Daniella Barreto Organizing and working in HIV, harm reduction, anti-Black racism, and COVID-19 are all fundamentally the same issue: demanding life in a system that is incentivized to leave some of us for dead. A common phrase in organizing, especially around racial justice, is “we keep us safe.” Governments have proven time and again that safety is not equally distributed and the “public” is not necessarily everyone. Government abandonment of people who have been placed in harm’s way, closer to death, is a familiar story. 

But injury can also be caused by disease and is often the result of poor public health, especially in the workplace.

I think about the history of HIV activism and the gruelling work of demanding a response to a deadly plague in a system that does not value queer, Black, or disabled life. I hear echoes of that abandonment in the long-lasting impacts of SARS-CoV-2 infections. People are still dying from COVID-19. People are racking up new health issues including the array of post-viral issues commonly known as long COVID. Most people still don’t understand airborne transmission or how to interrupt it by cleaning the air, improving ventilation, and wearing respirators like N95s. 

Institutional public health has washed its hands of dealing with COVID-19 and has left us to play along and suffer, or to resist and suffer. I choose to resist preventable death even if it’s not easy and it’s not comfortable. Through creating the podcast, I’ve found many people who want the same. 

BS I really appreciate how you frame the concept of public health – as a discipline that exists to understand, prevent, and mitigate diseases. Would you say a bit about the podcast name and why public health is dead? 

DB Thank you! In addition to diseases, I’d add injuries. My podcast and background is specifically in infectious disease. But injury can also be caused by disease and is often the result of poor public health, especially in the workplace. 

“Public health is dead” is a phrase I have said a lot and heard others saying often since COVID-19 arrived, with institutional public health’s refusal and reluctance to acknowledge and act upon airborne disease transmission or run communication and education campaigns about how to interrupt it. While the field has not always lived up to its lofty goals, which include eliminating and eradicating disease, the past few years have seen public health fully captured by the demands of capitalism, to its own detriment. 

And I didn’t intend for the name of the show to become more relevant, but Canada’s measles elimination status is currently at risk. The destruction of public health in Canada and beyond will impact all of us, if it hasn't already. If you wanted to kill a lot of people, dismantling public health – and trust in it – would be precisely how.

BS You’ve noted that your podcast was explicitly created for listeners who understand that the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic is one of many overlapping existential health crises. But I’m guessing a lot of listeners are initially drawn to the series for its title or for other reasons. What unexpected feedback have you received?

DB I've heard from people within the British Columbia Centre for Disease Control. Someone at the director level said they are a listener and that many people there ask themselves whether they’re part of the problem or part of the solution every day. I really wonder if they understand the power they have. They could use it. I’m just a podcaster with a public health degree. 

I also didn't expect the enthusiasm I've received about the show. I've made podcasts in the past, and this one has blown the others out of the water in terms of engagement and downloads. The name sticks and has been the best way to find the show’s exact audience – people who really want something like this. 

In a recent online talk about migrant worker rights, [activist and author] Harsha Walia asked a really important question: who is expected to do dangerous, essential work? In Canadian society, that’s often poor, racialized people.

I've had the privilege of speaking to people I never dreamed of and have documented some pretty phenomenal first-hand public health stories, like how Dr. Lyne Filiatrault, her team, and WorkSafeBC staved off a SARS outbreak in Vancouver in 2003. Importantly, listeners have told me the show makes them feel less lonely, especially if they're the only one still taking COVID-19 seriously among people they know. Many people really wanted a podcast like this and I'm happy my skills and experience converged into having the precise ingredients to make it.

BS I’ve been thinking about what experts said versus what they did in recent years, and the ongoing harm of that misalignment. For example, in 2020, political leaders and public health officials made bold pronouncements about protecting front-line workers. But many essential workers were infected on the job due to inadequate mitigations, and many either passed away or have endured years of post-viral symptoms like former cook and Black Indigenous Racialized COVID Health (BIRCH) founder Hazie Thompson. Why was it important to include their story in your episode about Long COVID?

DB Hazie’s story is emblematic of so many other people in the hospitality and service industries who are marginalized in some way and due to the nature of their work. So-called essential workers were sacrificed to make a profit. They continue to be, because many people who must interface with others in person every day often are not provided with effective protections. Dr. Ziyad Al-Aly, the researcher featured in the same episode, talks about how important it is to listen to patients if you want to know the right questions and the right answers. There's no way I could have made that episode without including Hazie's voice and experience.  

In a recent online talk about migrant worker rights, [activist and author] Harsha Walia asked a really important question: who is expected to do dangerous, essential work? In Canadian society, that’s often poor, racialized people. And I do wonder if this is part of why doctors are so reluctant to admit that COVID-19 is airborne. Doing so would mean acknowledging that they’re working in dangerous conditions, and they’re not supposed to be the “disposable worker” that many people who are not doctors are understood to be. 

Ignoring the health of workers is leading to labour shortages, including in health care, and is bad for the economy in the longer term. Regular emergency department closures due to a lack of workers is not something we used to see.

“Episode 4, How to Stop an Epidemic: When SARS Came to the ER” is all about what public health in Canada should have learned from the SARS experience in 2003 and just how important worker safety is. We had a playbook right under our noses for how to manage a pandemic, yet public health leaders ignored it. 

BS Do you want to say more about the way influential public health professionals minimized the threat of COVID-19, downplayed the need for mitigations, and lost the public’s trust? Specifically, I’m thinking about the missed public policy opportunity to improve workplace protections, and how that continues to impact marginalized working people.

DB We could have changed so much about our current trajectory in the early stages of the COVID-19 pandemic. During the time when we were encouraged to minimize gatherings and stay home, governments should have been in overdrive addressing transmission, especially for people who were not able to stay home. They could have been installing and upgrading air ventilation and filtration systems in all public buildings; collaborating with occupational hygienists, engineers and aerosol scientists; creating a powerful communications campaign to educate the public about airborne transmission, the difference between a respirator and regular surgical masks; and providing respirators and COVID-19 tests for free. We could have avoided a lot of death and health damage by taking the opportunity to intervene with non-pharmaceutical protections, in addition to developing and deploying the first vaccinations to seriously limit COVID-19 transmission. 

Bonnie Henry and the B.C. government were challenged about failing to educate the public about long COVID, airborne transmission, and high-quality masks by former B.C. Green Party leader Sonia Furstenau in 2022. COVID has been the biggest failing of public health leaders in B.C., across Canada and around the world. In the face of overwhelming evidence that COVID-19 and many other diseases spread through the air, they have refused to adequately and effectively acknowledge and intervene in airborne disease transmission and communicate the impacts of COVID-19. If the government really is concerned about the economy, wouldn’t they want workers to be healthy and not make them unable to work? The health impacts of COVID-19 have already had a significant economic impact and will continue to if we do nothing. 

In my opinion, this is a monumental public health disaster driven by a combination of arrogance and political expediency. Ignoring the health of workers is leading to labour shortages, including in health care, and is bad for the economy in the longer term. Regular emergency department closures due to a lack of workers is not something we used to see. One U.K. study suggests one in three health-care workers have long-lasting impacts from a COVID infection. That’s concerning for them as well as their ability to provide quality care. For example, cognitive damage from repeated COVID infections at work may interfere with a surgeon’s ability to do their job. 

And as you mention, this is a serious issue for marginalized workers. Canada’s health-care labour force is made up of a significant number of racialized women, and many are immigrants. This is clearly an equity issue, and deaths are not the only measure of harm. Workers continue to suffer through poor public health policy and unsafe workplaces. Workers like Hazie Thompson, who had little access to sick leave and health benefits, also have little support when it comes to dealing with disabling long COVID in the aftermath.

BS What might improved labour protections against airborne illnesses like COVID and measles include? Do you know of any workplaces maintaining basic mitigations, such as high-quality air filtration?

DB Like any health and safety issue, workers should be afforded protections in the workplace so that forced exposure to preventable illness is not a condition of employment. We should create conditions where it becomes hard for pathogens to spread from person to person. In addition to tools like vaccination and respirators, improved protections against airborne illnesses could include installing high-quality indoor air filtration and increasing ventilation. 

Evenings & Weekends Consulting has a COVID-19/public health policy based in disability justice that prioritizes remote engagements, requires KN95/N95 masking for in-person events, and encourages good ventilation and non-attendance when sick. To be transparent, this is where I currently work. But I hope it can be an example for others to consider, including those in health care and unions. COVID-19 is harmful, it is airborne, and breathing is not optional.

THRWU general meeting / THRWU

Sarah Ovens starts off our conversation recollecting Raffi Balian’s legacy. “He was really one of the grandfathers of harm reduction in the city […] and also one of the most brilliant people I’ve ever known,” she says.

Ovens was a founder of Ontario’s first supervised consumption service – the initially unsanctioned Moss Park Overdose Prevention Site – and a member of the now-defunct Toronto Harm Reduction Workers’ Union (THRWU). Balian, the man she speaks about, helped start the harm reduction program at the South Riverdale Community Health Centre and was himself an active drug user. He played a large role in building the peer programs that became a cornerstone of harm reduction work. 

“[Balian] was one of the people that really had motivated the starting of the [THRWU],” Ovens explains of the world’s first harm reduction union, self-organized by harm reduction workers across the city. The last X activity by THRWU, which mourned the loss of Balian in February 2017, occurred shortly before its own folding – a foreshadowing of the difficulty of this type of labour organizing which is stymied by provincial policy that fans the flames of the toxic drug supply crisis. 

Forming THRWU 

The THRWU, formed in 2014, was affiliated with the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW). Founded in 1905, the IWW organizes across industry rather than by individual workplaces and started with the organization of “unskilled workers” – because unions at the time only organized people considered skilled labourers, offering other workers no chance at protection from egregious working conditions. 

Matthew Tracey, a PhD candidate in health policy and founding member of THRWU, speaks of three core tenets that informed the IWW: if workers are in solidarity across a sector, it’s more difficult for employers to divide workers and continue business operations; the IWW aims to be democratic in its structures (e.g. voluntary dues); and the IWW is attuned to direct action. In 2013, the IWW showed up in solidarity with a unionized group of fuelers at Porter Airlines. Workers were blockading the entrance of the airport and other transportation routes to the airport to cause flight cancellations. This direct action participation and emphasis on solidarity in the IWW influenced some of the THRWU founders toward this model of unionization.

Tracey explained that THRWU’s creators used pre-existing connections to develop THRWU – many of the members were also involved with the Ontario Coalition Against Poverty – and hosted meetings to collaborate on what an appropriate model looked like for the organization. Jordan House, an assistant professor of labour studies at Brock University and member of THRWU, recalled mapping and charting – a conventional union organizing strategy – to determine where the harm reduction workers were in the city, and who was sympathetic to their campaigning. On November 11, 2014, workers from both the South Riverdale and Central Toronto community health centres informed their employers that they were a part of THRWU. In December 2014, THRWU was formally announced to the world as the world’s first harm reduction workers’ union. 

Some of the issues they wanted to address were discrepancies in wages, access to basic health benefits that workers needed, and ending discrimination against workers due to the lived experience for which they were hired. 

Why a grassroots union?

THRWU worked to address the gaps left by traditional unions that left some front-line workers exposed to unaddressed workplace grievances. Their composition also differed from that of traditional unions – it included volunteers, part-time and casual workers, and full-time staff. There were no limitations on who could be a member. 

Despite the institutional emphasis on hiring people with lived experience of drug use – it looks good for organizations that offer health services to claim they are employing people with this lived experience – these employers don’t offer, nor do their unions advocate for, positions that accommodate the lived realities of people actively using drugs. 

THRWU also had tiered membership dues to account for varying wages – dues were based on the level of your income, but nobody was left out of the system. In 2014, they held a GoFundMe campaign that raised $4,066, with notable donations from IWW chapters around the world.

They also addressed workplace grievances on a case-by-case basis with direct action being their tool of choice. Rather than union stewards, they had worker councils at each workplace. No collective bargaining agreements were administered by THRWU.

These were conscious choices made in recognition of the failure of traditional union structures to address the unique needs of individuals with substance use struggles, which can lead to further instability in their employment. Although there are supposed legal accommodations for this, their practical implementation is lacking. Employers in Canada have a duty to accommodate and adjust rules, policies, or practices so everyone can fully participate in the workplace, but workers aren’t always afforded the accommodations they may need. As a long-time peer support worker who asked to remain anonymous for fear of job reprisal shares, “If you're going to have [workers] with lived experience, you've got to be able to have the patience to talk to them, to show them ‘this is what you can do; this is what you can get.’ Nobody did that with me.”

Mskwaasin Agnew, Anishinaabemowin for Redstone, a Cree and Dene and a band member of Salt River First Nation and a harm reduction worker at Toronto Indigenous Harm Reduction agrees. “[Peer workers] are doing grueling front line work. It's not easy, and there's no support for grief."

Active drug users may need additional work accommodations. For example, if someone has encountered a toxic drug supply, or lost access to their drug of choice, or is in need of a detox bed, their ability to attend and complete their work is hindered. Workplaces that engage in harm reduction work do not account for these gaps in scheduling. Despite the institutional emphasis on hiring people with lived experience of drug use – it looks good for organizations that offer health services to claim they are employing people with this lived experience – these employers don’t offer, nor do their unions advocate for, positions that accommodate the lived realities of people actively using drugs. 

Harm reduction work requires flexibility. Front line workers are doing grueling work that comes with immense trauma and grief that can linger over their lifetimes. According to previous Briarpatch reporting by Mick Sweetman, “A study sponsored by the Calgary Homeless Foundation and published by professors at the University of Calgary and Athabasca University showed that 36 per cent of front-line workers [in Calgary] reported symptoms of PTSD.” Mskwaasin Agnew, Anishinaabemowin for Redstone, a Cree and Dene and a band member of Salt River First Nation and a harm reduction worker at Toronto Indigenous Harm Reduction agrees. “[Peer workers] are doing grueling front line work. It's not easy, and there's no support for grief. There's no support for the trauma that they’re watching. There’s absolutely ways to accommodate people - you have to be better at scheduling your workers and have relief staff.” 

On January 7, 2015, a THRWU member named S. was terminated from her job without cause two days before her six-month probationary period was to conclude, according to a blog post from the union. In the post, THRWU detailed the following: Within the agency at which she worked, S. had advocated for better treatment of workers. The employer offered S. two weeks of severance pay, in exchange for silence on the matter but S. refused to sign the document obliging her to silence. She shared her grievances with THRWU which then coordinated a direct action to approach the executive director and demand that S. be given her termination pay, with no requirement for non-disclosure. About 25 THRWU members flooded the lobby of the agency and supported S. in reading her demands to the executive director. S. ultimately got one week’s termination pay, with no requirement to remain silent.

A former THRWU member who participated in the action recalled, “When people are isolated [in] pushing harm reduction in some of these organizations, feeling like they were part of this bigger movement […] was really empowering.”

There were also other material wins such as demanding that peer workers be able to access keys to the building as a symbolic and simultaneously pragmatic gesture that informs workers they are in control of their own work. When they can go where they want and do what they want without having to seek permission, it is a form of empowerment. Members who were a part of this string of wins were left feeling the momentum of the organizing. 

When workers die

Despite these victories, when the overdose crisis reached a pivotal point in 2017, members could no longer sustain union activity, particularly after a number had passed away from the toxic drug supply. Their passings were among the 53,821 toxic supply deaths recorded nationally from 2016 to March 2025, as well as the 868 deaths in Ontario in 2016 and 1,270 in 2017. THRWU stopped operating in 2017. Members were forced to deprioritize their rights as workers to address the toxic drug supply crisis on the ground, with some members transitioning to volunteer alongside the Toronto Overdose Prevention Society to create the Moss Park Overdose Prevention Site. 

Zoë Dodd, a Toronto harm reduction worker and a founding member of THRWU recounts, “We had a lot of workers lose their jobs. We could have had more union support when harm reduction was under attack – it was a labour issue.” 

In 2024, Ontario recorded 2,231 deaths from the toxic drug supply crisis. Instead of compassionately addressing this crisis, on December 4, 2024, Ontario adopted Bill 223, which prohibits 10 supervised consumption sites from distributing clean needles, offering supervised consumption, or providing a safe drug supply. Ontario put into effect an alternative funding program – an abstinence-based model called homelessness and addiction recovery treatment [HART] Hub, with zero support for those who need drug consumption services.

In June 2025, the Ontario government enacted Bill 6, the Safer Municipalities Act, which creates additional pathways to criminalize individuals experiencing homelessness and using drugs. In Saskatchewan, the Safe Spaces Act came into effect on August 1, 2025 and lets municipalities opt-in to give police the power to seize "street weapons" which include hypodermic needles, as well as arrest anyone in possession of them. In April 2024, British Columbia recriminalized the use of drugs in public spaces, also claiming it was to address public safety concerns. These measures do not truly address issues of safety, but rather, are a means of criminalizing those who don’t have the means to use drugs in private. 

As the crisis continues, labour rights are relegated to the back burner as community members and workers become casualties to these intersecting crises created and exacerbated by policy decisions. Zoë Dodd, a Toronto harm reduction worker and a founding member of THRWU recounts, “We had a lot of workers lose their jobs. We could have had more union support when harm reduction was under attack – it was a labour issue. We've been losing so much of our work. We've lost a lot of workforce to overdose and grief and loss and mental health challenges. And then on top of it, we lost a workforce to the closure of the sites.” 

THRWU’s story is a testament to labour organizing and simultaneously a lesson about what does and doesn’t work. Though the union may have folded, it’s a marker of the possibilities of organizing: how workers can dream beyond institutional unions, create organizing rooted in direct action, empower workers, and promote harm reduction to sustain life. 

Immortalized on his personal website, Balian’s words read, “My stories are one of survival under a state of constant, relentless, corrupt[ion] and an insidious war waged on me and my friends.” Eight years after his passing, his words ring truer than ever. We must remember that harm reduction organizing and labour organizing are threads of the same cloth, and we must build a vibrant solidarity between both.

In December 2021, the workers at Winnipeg’s Canada Goose facilities voted overwhelmingly to unionize. Eighty-six per cent of workers voted in favour of forming a union under Workers United Canada Council (WUCC). This historic victory was achieved by and for a largely immigrant and female workforce that persevered throughout a tumultuous union drive despite facing hostility and precarity in their workplace. This is their story. 

Working conditions at Canada Goose

Before forming the union, workers described a climate of fear in Winnipeg’s Canada Goose facilities. Reporting in outlets such as Canadian Dimension and Vice exposed union-busting and unsafe working conditions at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. Workers have also experienced aggressive and disrespectful behaviour from management. Rose*, a shop steward at Canada Goose, recalls, “Before the formation of the union, the management and supervisors acted like the lords. Scolding employees in public was common.”

As the workers describe, “acting like lords” translated to managers engaging in power-tripping. Workers could not question management or express their concerns about workplace conditions. As Rose shares, “No, we had to follow [their rules]. We workers did not have a voice.” Linda*, a sewing machine operator, tells us, “You couldn’t talk back to them. Like you just want to cry. You couldn’t report them. Who could you report them to?”

Along with the way that management treated them, workers felt that they were disposable as they saw their co-workers lose their jobs easily. They also felt that their ability to keep their jobs was determined by how efficient they were. Seeing other workers losing their jobs made Jane*, a sewing machine operator, nervous about her own job security. “I had this one co-worker who was called [to the office] and then was escorted out. That was it, they couldn’t do anything. So, every time we got called to the office, we got nervous,” she recalls.

“I was determined to form a union for us. However, [my co-workers] were afraid. So, I alone, with the organizer, would go to their houses.”

The workers had many other issues with the company, including unpaid breaks that lasted less than the legally mandated 30 minutes and stagnant wages. Workers could not go on compassionate leave, which was important to them as immigrants who may need to return to their home countries for family emergencies. Instead, workers were encouraged to quit and reapply for their jobs when they returned to Canada. During the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, a report from Vice revealed health and safety violations in the facilities, such as having no personal protective equipment or sanitation for workers.

These conditions at Canada Goose are not isolated; rather they’re symptomatic of the rise in unstable or precarious work in recent decades, especially for racialized, gendered, and immigrant workers. Although unionizing could make their jobs more stable, the very precarity that unionizing could improve creates barriers to participating in unions for marginalized workers. 

Forming the union

Confronting these conditions, the workers at Winnipeg’s three Canada Goose facilities began a union drive under WUCC in 2019, starting in the facility located on Mountain Avenue. The union drive was initiated because Vivian*, one of the shop stewards, connected with an organizer from WUCC through her community. After asking other workers if they would like to form a union within their facility, workers and organizers began collecting signatures on the union’s application card. 

This was not an easy process: workers involved in the union drive devoted a lot of time and effort after work toward convincing their fellow workers that unionizing would be beneficial for their collective protection. Vivian, as a shop steward, was involved in the union drive and recounts how she would accompany the organizer from WUCC after her shifts even when she was tired. “I was determined to form a union for us. However, [my co-workers] were afraid. So, I alone, with the organizer, would go to their houses.”

Canada Goose used various tactics to suppress the union drive in its Winnipeg facilities. One major challenge during the pandemic was that one of the union leaders was temporarily laid off because of factory closures and, unlike other workers, did not receive a call to return. This led to a widespread, successful social media campaign that brought awareness to the working conditions at Canada Goose, compelling Canada Goose to reinstate the union leader. Not only were union leaders terminated, but workers were actively encouraged by management to sign letters objecting to the union drive. This led the union to successfully file an unfair labour practices (ULP) complaint against Canada Goose which, in December 2019, resulted in a $2,000 fine.

Beyond being faced with an actively union-busting employer, workers faced the challenge of recruiting their co-workers. Many were often afraid to get involved in the union drive for fear that they would lose their jobs. Martha*, a shop steward who was involved in union leadership in past jobs, shared her hesitancy to organize at Canada Goose. She tells me, “Most of them are newcomers so they are depending on Canada Goose. […] I stayed away from organizing. I don’t want people to run out of jobs because […] that’s the only means of their living,” she says.

At first, workers were hesitant to support the union drive because they were concerned about the deductions from their pay for union dues. Most workers were being paid minimum wage and as immigrants, their pay not only supported themselves and their immediate families, but also their families in their home countries through remittances.

The union faced other challenges such as expanding their union drive to the other two facilities in Winnipeg and changing their recruitment strategies because of the pandemic. Because of COVID-19 restrictions, organizers recruited workers by leaving union application cards in workers’ mailboxes and talking to them over the phone. 

As a result of tireless recruitment efforts from union leaders, workers eventually came to support      unionizing. A central part of the union drive was building a network of relationships and trust between the union and the workers. For example, Vivian shared that in every production line, she would identify potential union leaders who could then recruit other workers in their respective lines. Rose, who used a similar strategy based on ethnocultural lines, recounted, “I recruited groups of Chinese workers, groups of Korean workers […] I had connections who were Indian, whatever ethnicities there were.” Building solidarity across ethnocultural lines and the shop floor was essential to the success of the union drive. The organizers at WUCC also ensured that union leaders were trained in organizing to build their confidence in talking to other workers.

Beyond the Canada Goose facilities, the union received messages of solidarity during their online campaign to reinstate one of the union leaders. Local labour organizations such as the Association Of Employees Supporting Education Services and the Manitoba Federation of Labour showed support by sharing the campaign online. Groups in the U.S. such as New England Joint Board UNITE HERE and Massachusetts Jobs with Justice also marched at a      Boston rally in 2021 to show solidarity with Canada Goose workers in Winnipeg. This form of coalition building helped the workers feel emboldened during the union drive.

The union today

Through building these networks of trust and relationships within the workplace and with other labour organizations, workers at Winnipeg’s Canada Goose facilities overcame these barriers and successfully organized a union in their workplace. Since 2022, they have been under a collective agreement and have a voice in shaping their own working conditions through their shop stewards. As Jane points out, “because we are union members, we can now speak. Whatever we want to fight for, we can now voice out. We now have something to lean on because we have a union.”

The union has also ensured that its shop stewards come from diverse ethnocultural backgrounds, with one shop steward, Tina*, sharing that the union had Filipino, Chinese, and Ukrainian representatives “because those are the major ethnic groups in Canada Goose [factories]."

Workers now feel more secure in their jobs than ever before. Because they fought to have bereavement leave and vacations included in their collective agreement, workers do not have to leave their jobs to return to their home countries as they had done before. Today, the union represents their interests within conflicts and grievance procedures. Workers believe that unionizing has balanced the unequal power relations between them and management. As another worker, Hannah*, explains, “The impact of the union is really huge for us in keeping us feeling secure [where] we are working happily. It’s not scary where a small mistake immediately gets you fired […] Today, that doesn’t happen because they fight for you.”

Beyond these tangible improvements, having a union has also made a difference through educating workers about their rights, with one worker saying, “It is very helpful for me to get to know more [about] the [collective] agreement […] so that when we’re just in trouble, we can speak up.” Workers also feel empowered because of their involvement with the union, and for one of them, and it has helped connect them with their ethnocultural community: Julie* shares, “They always see me as their leader. They come to me […] So, I feel like they are more confident in me […] they trust me, and I do feel like I need to help them.”

What makes a difference for the workers at Canada Goose is that they are represented by people with whom they share identities and communities. The women working at Canada Goose were more comfortable bringing their concerns to women shop stewards because they felt that they would have a better understanding of the issues women face. The union has also ensured that its shop stewards come from diverse ethnocultural backgrounds, with one shop steward, Tina*, sharing that the union had Filipino, Chinese, and Ukrainian representatives “because those are the major ethnic groups in Canada Goose [factories]. And some people who speak in Punjabi from India.” 

Futures for the movement

The workers at Canada Goose have shown us what can be possible for the broader labour movement in Canada. As work becomes increasingly unstable and more precarious for racialized workers, unions must ensure that these workers, such as those at Canada Goose, are organized and represented by union leaders who understand the specific conditions that immigrant women who make up a large percentage of the workers face. Only through fostering solidarity with marginalized workers through understanding their demands will unions truly be able to fight for the new working class in Canada.

*This article draws on confidential interviews from the author’s Master’s thesis project, funded by the Manitoba Research Alliance. Because of this, pseudonyms are used in place of participant names. Some of these interviews have been translated from Tagalog by the author.

This project would not have been possible without the collaboration of Workers United Canada Council and Canada Goose Union. Funding for this project was provided through the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council grant “Community-Driven Solutions to Poverty: Challenges and Possibilities” administered by the Manitoba Research Alliance.

Felix-Antoine Coutu / Pexels

Union leaders in rural and small-town Canada are struggling to hold their locals together. Over the past 20 years, the number of unionized jobs have gradually declined across the country, and rural unions face unique challenges that make combatting this harder. Rural bargaining units are often physically and psychologically distant from their parent union, and their smaller size makes it more costly to organize them relative to their bargaining power. In small towns where almost everyone knows everyone else, and employers are celebrated for “creating jobs,” workers also face social pressure not to organize.

A related problem comes from rural consciousness and the rise of right-wing populism. An ethic of self-reliance common to many rural communities leads workers to pursue solutions other than unionization when they face conflicts at work. Even more troubling are reactionary attitudes that emerge at a local level, fracturing solidarity between marginalized employees and their co-workers. These issues often take place in legal and policy environments that deny workers in certain sectors, such as agriculture, the same rights as workers in urban industries.

Despite these challenges, rural union leaders throughout Canada have developed strategies to meet them and have fought to organize workers in areas least hospitable to unions.

Small town, big problems

Throughout Canada, one reason that rural areas and small towns have lower union density than large cities is that rural workplaces are usually smaller in scale and employ fewer workers. In Alberta, for instance, 75 per cent of rural bargaining units have fewer than 100 members, while 53 per cent have fewer than 50 members. Meanwhile, in the same province, only 56 per cent of the urban bargaining units have fewer than 100 people in them. 

[Suzanne Mills] explains that at the time, [the United Steelworkers] were not interested in organizing northern mines due to the cost, effort, and relatively low number of workers. Instead, “their strategy was focused on organizing university workers, such as [teaching assistants] and other [higher membership] groups.”

Smaller bargaining units can take more effort to organize, have higher servicing costs, and remit fewer dues back to the parent union. These considerations factor into the cost-benefit analysis of unions when they are deciding which workplaces to organize.

“I remember in 2014 talking to people from the United Steelworkers, who represent a lot of mining workers in southern Canada,” recalls Suzanne Mills, a professor of labour studies at McMaster University. She explains that at the time, they were not interested in organizing northern mines due to the cost, effort, and relatively low number of workers. Instead, “their strategy was focused on organizing university workers, such as [teaching assistants] and other [higher membership] groups.”

In any local or bargaining unit, ensuring that the members are engaged and involved in running the union can also be a challenge. This problem is magnified in small, rural locals where there are fewer members to rely on to fill positions or to take on the work of union activities.

The scale of rural communities and workplaces not only makes organizing less financially viable, but it can also promote social dynamics that inhibit unionization. In a small town, employers are more likely to be viewed as co-workers or neighbours instead of bosses.

“I would say the main challenge in union organization would be membership involvement,” says Lorraine McMillan, chief union steward for Ontario Public Service Employees Union (OPSEU) Local 403, located in Quinte West, Ontario. “Our members want the union and the protection and benefits that the union brings but nobody wants to get involved. Union positions on the executive are volunteer and nobody wants to volunteer their time to do so. We also have very low involvement [in] our regular meetings.”

Rural workers often have long commutes and must travel great distances to reach their workplaces. This disincentivizes involvement in union activities, because they have less spare time. In sectors where work sites are remote, like extractive industries, this problem is worse. Employees in those industries may not have shared work spaces or the opportunity to interact with each other.

“For fly-out operations and mines, organizing is extremely difficult since people are coming from different places, and they are not located in one space,” Mills observes. “Workforces are small, and there is a lot of subcontracting. Subcontracting has become institutionalized in new mines.”

The scale of rural communities and workplaces not only makes organizing less financially viable, but it can also promote social dynamics that inhibit unionization. In a small town, employers are more likely to be viewed as co-workers or neighbours instead of bosses. Unionizing is also not always seen as community building, as it involves a confrontation between workers and employers.

The lack of employment opportunities in some rural regions grants additional social capital to employers who, as “job creators,” are credited with bringing those jobs to the region. This translates to greater social pressure on workers to not rock the boat and jeopardize those jobs. In a small town or work site, you can expect to run into your boss at the grocery store or bar, making it harder for employees to compartmentalize and escape from stressful periods of conflict at work.

On the other hand, while the majority of rural workplaces and bargaining units are smaller, this is not uniformly the case. In industries like meat-packing a workplace might employ thousands.

“The majority of these meat-packing facilities are in rural locations,” says Derek Johnstone, special assistant to the national president of the United Food and Commercial Workers (UFCW). “Once upon a time, Toronto was called ‘Hogtown’ because the St. Clair area was the meat-packing district. Those days are long gone. That has moved to places far from Toronto, and to communities where these meat plants are out of sight, out of mind, but will employ a couple thousand people.”

Unions have sought to meet these challenges mainly by structuring the union itself to facilitate organizing. One way that this is accomplished is by consolidating resources in large, centralized locals while maintaining smaller bargaining units. Although the UFCW has bargaining units that are as small as two people, most of its locals are in fact province-wide in scope.

“‘Local’ is basically a misnomer now. Provincial unions are what they are,” notes Johnstone. “Once upon a time, there were many locals in a province, but over the years through forming the composite local they’ve essentially pooled those resources. And as a result of that they have the capacity to have their own organizing departments with full-time organizing staff and an organizing director! With that, they can really help workers in any community throughout their jurisdiction.”

Spatial interests often override class interests for those living in rural areas and small towns. [...] While an urban worker may only need to move across their city to take up a new job, rural workers often have to move farther to pursue opportunities, taking them away from their friends and family who live nearby.

This centralization and pooling of resources enables the parent union to compensate for the challenges of organizing comparatively small rural workplaces. The servicing costs are mitigated by reducing bureaucracy at the local level, and the union has greater capacity to assist bargaining units. 

Similarly, by building enough union density in a specific sector, unions can pursue sectoral bargaining, wherein unions negotiate a collective agreement that includes every worker in a sector. More common in Europe, sectoral bargaining can be contrasted with enterprise bargaining, which focuses instead on one workplace. Workers in certain industries in Canada have had success with this approach. In Alberta, for instance, construction workers mainly engage in sectoral bargaining. The advantages of this approach for rural workers are similar to those that come with large locals: concentrating bargaining power and resources compensates for the small size of rural workplaces.

Rural consciousness and right-wing populism

In addition to the challenges of organizing workers in small, remote communities, there are also ideological factors that inhibit unionization. Rural culture has themes of rugged individualism, an attitude that promotes self-reliance over collective action. This attitude is especially prominent in certain industries. In the oil and gas industry, for instance, this self-reliant mindset inhibits union organizing. In the energy sector, there is frequently enough work available that people take it upon themselves to quit and find another job when they face trouble at work, rather than joining a union.

Spatial interests often override class interests for those living in rural areas and small towns. Rural workers are less likely to be willing or able to relocate for work for fear of losing their social connections and support networks. While an urban worker may only need to move across their city to take up a new job, rural workers often have to move farther to pursue opportunities, taking them away from their friends and family who live nearby. Likewise, property ownership can discourage rural workers from relocating. Faced with the complicated nature of navigating the rural real estate market, it is often simpler to remain in their current job or find another nearby. 

“What happened in my study was that there were queer workers who would be frustrated because they’d say: ‘My union says it’s amazing on LGBTQ issues, and that it does all these things, but at the local level there is nothing.’”

This lack of mobility dovetails with the increasingly scant employment opportunities in rural regions to make workers apprehensive about acting in ways that might harm their employment prospects. While an employee in a major city can expect to find other work if their employer frowns upon their union activities, rural workers have fewer options. In small communities, someone with a negative reputation among employers for union organizing may end up unable to find other work. The situation is worse for migrant workers, who make up a significant portion of Canada’s agricultural workforce. Legally bound to a specific employer, they are often threatened with deportation for union activities.

A more significant hurdle is right-wing populism in rural Canada. Rural workers and union members are typical targets of conservative messaging that frames them as victims of urban elites. This rural alienation and socially conservative wedge issues are leveraged by right-wing politicians to convince working-class Canadians that they are allies while at the same time passing legislation that undermines unions’ ability to advocate for working-class rights. Ontario Premier Doug Ford has publicly denigrated public-sector unions while making overtures to private-sector ones. However, Ford’s populism is aesthetic and cultural rather than material. His buck-a-beer policy and permitting liquor to be sold in corner stores appeals to a caricature of what blue-collar workers value while failing to improve their lives.

The social conservatism that is more prevalent in rural locals and among their membership alienates minority workers and undermines solidarity. A recent study conducted by Dr. Mills found gaps between the messaging of unions and the reality in their rural locals regarding LGBTQ issues.

“What happened in my study was that there were queer workers who would be frustrated because they’d say: ‘My union says it’s amazing on LGBTQ issues, and that it does all these things, but at the local level there is nothing.’”

This right-wing populism has less of an impact on primary agriculture – which includes activities that produce raw materials, like fruit harvesting or caring for livestock – where many employees are foreign workers. Migrant workers, largely from Mexico, the Caribbean, and Central America, are insulated from Canada’s domestic politics. Right-wing populism also has nativist and anti-immigrant components that have little appeal for immigrant agricultural workers. 

As Johnstone explains: “Migrants can’t engage with the political system in Canada. Their focus is going to be on their experience as workers, and their ability to participate in anything that resembles a democratic process is whether they join the union, and whether or not they vote in favour of a collective agreement. That is their only chance to engage with the democratic process.”

Some unions have responded to this increase in populism by pursuing a more transactional approach with those in power. For example, in Ontario, the Carpenters’ Regional Council announced its endorsement of the Ontario Progressive Conservatives a month after securing $14 million from Ontario’s Skills Development Fund. Similarly, labour scholars Stephanie Ross and Larry Savage have argued that Unifor has weakened in its traditional support for the New Democratic Party (NDP) while making inroads with other parties. Nevertheless, there is little evidence of a widespread realignment of unions with conservative parties.

Legal and policy hurdles

The legal and policy frameworks governing unionization in Canada are determined at both the national and provincial levels. At the national level, the Rand formula holds that in workplaces with union certification, every worker covered by a collective agreement must pay dues. This 1946 Supreme Court judgment eliminates the issue of workers receiving benefits of collective bargaining without paying dues to the union. The decision also means that provinces cannot follow the lead of some U.S. states and pass “right to work” legislation which allows workers to opt out of paying into the union. A right to union certification is also enshrined nationally: when the majority of employees vote to unionize, their employer must engage in collective bargaining.

However, the provinces also have considerable discretion over many other rules concerning unionization. Crucially, provinces can alter the rules that govern how voting is conducted for union certification or decertification. For instance, they can determine whether it involves a “card check,” in which unions are certified by collecting signatures or union cards from a percentage of workers, or a vote by secret ballot. The former is more conducive to union certification because certification by secret ballot creates a delay in which employers have time to organize an anti-union campaign.

Some prototypically rural sectors of the economy, such as agriculture, have also been excluded from provincial legislation in ways that affect work conditions and whether workers can organize.

“Agricultural works are excluded from Ontario’s Labour Relations Act,” notes Johnstone, “which governs how workers can join a union and compels employers to bargain in good faith. It’s a long story, but the UFCW took this exclusion to the Supreme Court, and ultimately the [Dalton] McGuinty government was compelled to remedy this. What they then did was create a separate law that met the bare minimum directive from the Supreme Court: the Agricultural Employees Protection Act.”

“Agricultural workers were fully excluded from Ontario’s Occupational Health and Safety Act until 2006. That only ended because the UFCW fought for it. To this day, though, the inclusion of agricultural workers in the Act is very limited.”

A key factor in overcoming these hurdles is having a sympathetic government, particularly at the provincial level. In British Columbia, for example, NDP governments have addressed some of the policies that exclude rural workers, and agricultural workers specifically, from legal protection. There, agricultural workers are included in the B.C. Labour Code, and therefore have the same right to join a union as workers in any other sector, and employers must bargain with them in good faith.

When facing governments that are unsupportive of rural worker’s rights, Canadian unions turn to the courts and lobbying efforts. In addition to taking the McGuinty government to court to challenge the exclusion of agricultural workers from the Ontario Labour Relations Act, the UFCW is currently suing the federal government over the lack of training that agricultural workers receive when handling pesticides. Unions representing rural workers also make an effort to lobby different governments, but unions and worker advocates are outnumbered in this realm by employer associations.

Grounds for optimism

Despite these obstacles, those organizing rural workers remain optimistic. At OPSEU Local 403, McMillan is inspired by the solidarity of those fighting for compensation after the repeal of Ontario’s Bill 124. The 2019 bill capped pay increases for public-sector workers at 1 per cent for three years. After being successfully challenged twice in court, Bill 124 was repealed in 2024 – yet thousands of public-sector workers in Ontario are still waiting for the wages that they are owed.

“We’re in the middle of a campaign with 13,000 members against the Ford government for retroactive pay and better wages, after Ford enacted Bill 124. There are 70 units in bargaining right now and we all filed a joint conciliation together. It’s pretty amazing to be a part of such solidarity.”

Johnstone finds similar inspiration in the UFCW’s recent successes in organizing rural workers: “Last year, we had a group of migrant workers from the Global South – in the mushroom industry – organize. They had the tremendous courage to rise up, reach out to a union, and exercise their fundamental labour rights and join the union. And they’ve become the largest group of farm workers in Canadian history to join the union. It’s incredible!”

In my final class studying international human rights law, I shared my paper analyzing Ukraine’s law on Indigenous people which, while imperfect, protects the territorial and language rights of Crimean Tatars, Karaites and Krymchaks. In the class discussion, a friend and self-proclaimed Marxist wearing a keffiyeh asked if I knew that the Russian language was broadly oppressed in Ukraine. Despite their rightful support for Palestine and correct criticism of colonial governments, they tended to be sympathetic to a different colonial, imperial power by repeating one of Russia’s falsified justifications for engaging in an unprovoked war of aggression.

Expanding our critiques beyond western colonial empire is important as we struggle to find alternatives to any form of oppressive, centralized power. As fascism balloons in our own backyard, we can learn from Ukrainian people actively resisting a fascist authoritarian state. And as we try to comprehend how to dismantle an empire here, we can well be reminded that the problem isn’t one empire or another; rather, the problem is empire itself. As one empire coerces Ukraine into a minerals deal, another empire is currently shooting ballistic missiles at shopping centres in Ukraine. 

The following resources have helped me understand Ukrainian resistance as removing itself from under the foot of centuries of a colonial power.

Russian Colonialism 101 (2023)

Hanna Perekhoda: “The fight for freedom in Ukraine is intimately linked to the global struggle against fascist forces” (2025)

While the Western left has generally expressed support for Ukraine, in some anti-imperialist circles, dialogue is often immobilized when someone associates Ukraine with NATO, Nazis, or nukes. In this interview, Hanna Perekhoda, a Ukrainian socialist and historian, succinctly addresses some of the most controversial among these stumbling blocks. She explains supposed Russian-language oppression and Russophobia is akin to the anti-white racism rhetoric rising in the West. Perekhoda speaks to Putin’s claim that Ukraine is overrun by Nazis, a propagandist justification for the war hearkening back to Second World War mythology. She acknowledges Ukraine’s far right, noting they have repeatedly proven to be a fringe movement. Given that problems with the far right exist everywhere, she questions whether this justifies a full-scale invasion or a withholding of military support or other aid. She notes that what really risks a rise in fascism is a long-standing war waged by a fascist Russian regime where common Ukrainians are radicalized by years of military occupation and systematic oppression. As Perekhoda makes clear, what is needed is support for Ukrainian lives, autonomy, and resistance.

Ordinary People Don’t Carry Machine Guns: Thoughts on War (2025)

On March 10, 2025, at midnight, I went on strike for the first time in my life. I was not alone; in its nearly two decade-long history, my union, the Public Service Alliance of Canada Local 901 (PSAC 901), had never taken this form of labour action. 

Together with fellow graduate student workers Rowan Li, Milka Njoroge, and Justyna Szewczyk-El Jassem, and two negotiators from PSAC, I was part of the team that negotiated the collective agreement for 2,000 graduate student workers at Queen’s University. Our unit, Unit 1, consisted of teaching assistants, research assistants, and teaching fellows. Unit 2, consisting of post-doctoral scholars, had finished their collective bargaining under threat of a university lock-out just months before. We knew we were up against an institution set on budget cuts and hiring freezes. Being on strike during a period of university-wide austerity measures would be difficult.

We were forced to walk away from the bargaining table, triggering what would be a six-week strike against unfair wages, inadequate compensation for our teaching fellows, a lack of retroactive pay for a year’s worth of stolen wages from an expired collective agreement, and the most perplexing issue of all: the employer’s consistent refusal to add caste as a ground for discrimination in our anti-discrimination clause, housed in Article 20. 

Institutions of higher learning are not free from caste-based discrimination. In 2021, students at the University of California, Davis (UC Davis), found evidence of caste-based discrimination among students and self-organized to push the university to address caste-based discrimination.

The employer’s refusal to acknowledge a five-letter word in an already established clause initially confounded the bargaining team. We stayed up late at night poring over draft proposals and wondering why the employer was digging its heels in on this. The answer slowly became apparent as Queen’s continued to refuse to bargain in good faith: discrimination is part of the very foundation upon which Queen’s – a colonial project built as an attempt to cement British imperial presence in Canada – is established. Acknowledging caste-based discrimination not only unsettles this foundation by pointing out the inadequate policies in place to protect students and workers, but also compels the university to actively undo the elitism, classism, and racism that created its wealth. 

Caste stratification

Sociologist André Beteille defines caste as “as a small and named group of persons characterised by endogamy, hereditary membership, and a specific style of life which sometimes includes the pursuit by tradition of a particular occupation and is usually associated with a more or less distinct ritual status in a hierarchical system.” Caste encompasses groups of people who inherit a certain social status at birth, which then directly affects everyday life by restricting who they can and cannot marry and their occupation. This system of social and economic stratification informs the structure of much of Indian – and specifically, Hindu – society. Casteism can be found in Indian Hindu diasporic communities in the West, where it becomes a distinct form of discrimination that is harder to recognize, albeit just as exclusionary and dehumanizing. Caste discrimination has elements of classism embedded within it, as it affects the types of occupation a person can obtain, their social status, and the economic conditions they inhabit. Yet, the totality of the caste system, in which caste identity informs daily behaviour (diet, speech, and social interactions with others), makes this form of discrimination pervasive and difficult to detect, especially in a Western/European context. 

Caste-based discrimination is found globally, leading to international movements against this form of discrimination. In Canada, caste-based discrimination persists. Institutions of higher learning are not free from caste-based discrimination. In 2021, students at the University of California, Davis (UC Davis), found evidence of caste-based discrimination among students and self-organized to push the university to address caste-based discrimination. They were successful. UC Davis now formally recognizes caste as grounds for discrimination in its policies.
At Queen’s, we reached a ratified collective agreement after six weeks of labour action. As a result of picketing every day for six weeks in rain, sun, hail, and storms, we won a new collective agreement that guaranteed intellectual property recognition for research assistants, wage increases, and a streamlined grievance process that protects our members. These wins represent a small proportion of the reforms we had hoped for as a bargaining team, but we managed to win on caste-based discrimination, which is now grievable under the collective agreement. The language allows the union to hold the employer accountable for caste-based discrimination that our members experience in the workplace. 

The letter of agreement (LoA) recognizing caste as grounds for discrimination is a landmark for our members, all of whom, as a collective, have fought alongside anti-caste discrimination grassroot organizations and activists for this LoA to be in our contract. This agreement was unprecedented; no other unions at Queen’s had a collective agreement that included caste as grounds for discrimination in the workplace. While cemented in place through the bargaining process, it took more than labour negotiation and action to arrive at this point. This success was a result of rigorous community education, organization, and mobilization that took place over the course of a year on a campus where many didn’t even know what a collective agreement was. 

From the beginning 

The organizing and mobilizing work for this LoA began under the leadership and guidance of Kavya Harshitha Jidugu, a Dalit Ph.D candidate at Queen’s and previous co-lead steward at PSAC 901. Jidugu was the founder of the Ambedkar Reading Circle at Queen’s, an anti-caste discrimination group that helped bring the issue of caste-based discrimination to the bargaining table. She is now the equity officer of the local.

I first learned about caste-based discrimination from Jidugu. As stewards, we were expected to attend Steward’s Council, a monthly meeting where union representatives discuss grievances and ongoing labour issues with the employer. This was also where I, along with other stewards representing graduate student workers employed in departments across the university, learned from Jidugu and her scholarship on caste-based discrimination and its effect in the diaspora. 

A union has to adapt to the diverse set of struggles its members carry, especially with a large number of our membership coming from South Asia as international students. This includes changing our approach to what labour encompasses. “All equity issues are labour issues when people are labourers,” asserts bargaining team member Li. “Caste is particularly important because [...] Harshitha’s research has shown that it’s an under-addressed but rampant form of prejudice and institution bias at the postsecondary level.”  

Working with Jidugu, I put forward a motion in Steward’s Council to change the local’s internal statement of harassment to include caste as a protected ground against discrimination back in February 2024, a year before any negotiations took place. 

“The union took it as an issue before the employer. We were already trying to implement something internally. The second step was to compel the employer to recognize it,” 
remembers Szewczyk-El Jassem, who was also a member of the bargaining team.

Communal effort

Faculty, support staff, graduate student workers, and students came together and played their own parts in generating the momentum needed to get people talking about caste and the serious, global impact that caste-based discrimination can have. Following change within our union, the next task was to educate our employer about a form of discrimination that is virtually invisible to them.

“The uphill battle that we had, with just five people on the bargaining team on the opposing side, [was] trying to convince them that caste, a) exists, b) is actually important, and this kind of discrimination happens,” says Szewczyk-El Jassem. 

Jidugu’s expertise and research was invaluable in this education campaign. In a negotiation session with the employer, she presented her research to help the employer understand the gravity of caste-based discrimination. 

“One thing that Harshitha really tried to do is to decentre Canada and decentre Queen’s, and be like, ‘No, no, this is something that is beyond you. This is something that has existed for centuries. People die everyday because of casteism,’” says bargaining team member Njoroge. “Harshitha made sure that we understand that it is a global problem.” 

The changing temperature among our membership in the strike also meant that we had to be tactical about what issues continued to be pressure points in negotiation.

Bargaining was not the only strategy that made policy changes happen. Simultaneous mobilization of grassroots organizations exerted additional pressure on the employer to accept that caste-based discrimination must be addressed institutionally. “There [was] a lot of other organizing happening. The bargaining definitely gave it a spotlight [and] we were conveyors for some of those things, but there were petitions from students [...] sent to the administration. And I think this is what was very good about the campaign,” said Szewczyk-El Jassem. 
Without our community partners and organizers, I believe it would have been a harder, perhaps impossible, battle to have caste-based discrimination recognized at Queen’s. The union was a great instructor of policy reform that benefited workers, but a majority of the organizating efforts and tactical mobilization around caste fell to general members, who came together to fight for their collective rights. 

Even so, the concern over caste-based discrimination was not shared by everybody in the membership. We had a diverse membership, and with that diversity came ideological differences when it comes to what counts as a labour issue. “It was a period of intense discussion and pushback,” recalls Njoroge. 

Being on strike changed the landscape drastically for some members, and that shock was reflected in some withdrawal of support for issues not traditionally seen as labour issues.
“People became disillusioned by the harsh reality of the picket line,” Li remembers. “They folded very quickly [...] Naturally, people are going to have a lot more priorities before a strike than during.” 

The changing temperature among our membership in the strike also meant that we had to be tactical about what issues continued to be pressure points in negotiation. The circumstances – an increasingly burnt-out picket line and an antagonistic university administration that continued to use delay tactics and misinformation to fuel mistrust within the campus community – necessitated a strategic manoeuvre from the bargaining team. 

From article to LoA

The bargaining team’s initial plan was to have caste added as a protected ground against discrimination. In our collective agreement, anti-harassment and anti-discrimination fell under the jurisdiction of Article 20. We originally drafted a proposal for “caste” to be added to this section.

As pressure mounted and the strike went on, our priorities had to change. The team had to weigh the physical, emotional, and psychological toll of the picket line alongside trying to negotiate with an employer who would rather spend money hiring private security to surveil us than come back to the bargaining table. 

The employer continued to reject our proposal for caste to be added within the collective agreement, citing that other grounds of protection already covered caste due to “intersectionality.” Their statement was made public to our members, as the bargaining team was engaged in transparent, semi-open bargaining through a live tracker on our website. This became an excellent conversation starter on the picket line that helped our members to understand the level of frustration the team encountered every time we headed to the table.

Instead of accepting our proposal, the employer came back with a LoA on caste. I can still remember the moment the team saw the LoA on the table. Months prior, we had explicitly stated to the employer that we wanted to avoid LoAs in case they were overlooked by members because of their placement as an appendix to the collective agreement, as opposed to within its body. 

Yet, as tension continued to mount and our members experienced unprecedented levels of burnout and intense surveillance on the picket line, the team decided that an LoA would be a strong stepping stone to have caste introduced to the collective agreement. We strengthened the language in the LoA so that members reading it would understand that caste-based discrimination is now grievable.

The mental shift to accepting the LoA as a team came unanimously, as we saw it as a platform for future bargaining teams.

“LoA is a way to normalize something without fully normalizing it,” explains Szewczyk-El Jassem. “Queen’s was ready to take a step, but it was not ready to keep it in the main body of the collective agreement, even though [LoAs] are as grievable as the main body of the collective agreement.

“Since we don’t have an expiry date on this LoA, it essentially became part of the collective agreement indefinitely.”

What comes next

As with many labour rights issues at the workplace, the scale is often tipped against workers. That is also the case in terms of enforcing this new LoA. 

“I don’t think we really convinced [the employer that caste discrimination] actually exists,” laments Szewczyk-El Jassem. “How much work would it be on folks who are already experiencing this discrimination?” 

As a bargaining team, we see this LoA as a win, but for a different reason. 

“I am of the opinion that it is more of a victory for the members to believe that their union is treating it as a serious issue and making efforts as a union institution to become educated on it so that union officers can better represent and protect workers, rather than assuming that the institution will bear the burden,” Li explains. 

Even though we compelled the university to recognize caste-based discrimination through union labour action, we still have much work to do. What comes next is the hard work of enforcing this LoA to ensure it does not fall into obscurity. It is not up to the university to protect us; we protect us. 

“This is everybody’s job to figure out what does it mean now that we have put this [language] in the collective agreement? How do we make sure that all the 14 executive members understand? Everybody should be familiar with this,” says Njoroge. 

Community involvement was what helped us win this fight, and it will continue to be key in sustaining the enforcement of this LoA. Li explains, “There’s an action fit for every aspect and every role of the individual that is able to move things forward. 

“Bargaining isn’t the only time that a labour union can power change over the workplace.” 

While bargaining for our local union has now concluded, it is not the end of activism against caste-based discrimination. As my colleagues pointed out, advocacy work continues beyond PSAC 901, beyond Queen’s, and beyond Canada, as caste-based discrimination continues to affect the lives of millions across the globe. It is a win for us here at PSAC 901 to have this LoA, but we owe it to ourselves and our colleagues to push for more, within and outside of collective bargaining. 

The workers, united, will never be defeated. 
 

“The state waits for submission.
We answer with endurance.”

That’s how the Drug User Liberation Front (DULF) describes their fundraising efforts in support of their anticipated constitutional challenge to the Controlled Drugs and Substances Act – which criminalizes drug use – infringes upon section 7 life, liberty, and security of the person and section 15 equality rights of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. As of October 13, 2025, following a month-long desperate push to raise $350,000, they managed to get close with $294,216. 

In an attempt to prevent overdose deaths due to British Columbia’s toxic drug supply crisis, DULF piloted an initiative in 2022 to provide a safer supply to a small compassionate club, both to the knowledge of politicians and public health officials and with the intention of the public health system eventually being used to scale it up. 

B.C. premier David Eby, under whose New Democratic Party government founders Eris Nyx and Jeremy Kalicum were arrested in October 2023 on charges of illegal distribution, acknowledged, “It’s unfortunate because they were providing essential life-saving work. But they were also breaking the law, which we will not tolerate.” Eby’s pandering to right-wing narratives about drug use while simultaneously acknowledging that DULF was patching holes in his government’s own social safety net demonstrates the hypocrisy of a government for which vote-courting trumps human life.

Online outlet Drug Data Decoded reports that as Nyx and Kalicum’s criminal trial was recently wrapping up, presiding Justice Catherine Murray remarked that “everyone knew what was happening. It seems like [Nyx and Kalicum] are being hung out to dry.” With their verdict set for November 7, 2025, Drug Data Decoded notes, “If the verdict is guilty, it is expected that DULF will seek a constitutional challenge. If successful, this could overturn the Controlled Drugs and Substances Act, which has stood since 1996 as the central apparatus of drug prohibition.”

Despite calls to legalize supply – and thereby deflate the power of organized crime and the need to access an illegal supply – politicians and the mainstream media instead throw their weight into vilifying and criminalizing those most harmed by the toxic drug crisis. A groundswell of people who understand that the criminalization of drug users hasn’t made anyone safer have rallied around DULF with myriad fundraisers and donations. But how much could be accomplished if labour unions extend their efforts from stopgap solutions that occasionally help a worker or two and harness their full institutional power?

Two of our stories in this issue explore different facets of the impact of punitive drug policy on workers and how inextricable the fight against the war on drugs is from the fight for labour rights.

Miru Yogarajah writes about the now-defunct Toronto Harm Reduction Workers Union (THRWU) which aimed to fight for the labour rights of harm reduction workers and expand our understanding of who deserves labour protection outside of traditional union structures. However, this doesn’t exempt traditional unions from stepping up; as harm reduction worker Zoë Dodd tells Yogarajah, “We had a lot of workers lose their jobs. We could have had more union support when harm reduction was under attack – it was a labour issue.”

Meanwhile, in this issue’s cover story, Byron Wood argues that workplace drug policies hurt workers and provide boons to privatized health care. Workplace monitoring programs have not changed since the 1980s, Wood writes, and give workers two choices: agree to be surveilled or lose your job. 

Additionally, these policies do not account for how workplace conditions can contribute to workers self-treating or creating a dependency on substance use in the first place. Wood explains, “Those working in the construction, trades, and transportation industries – where work is physically demanding and injuries are common – have experienced the highest rate of opioid overdose deaths. Workers denied paid sick leave sometimes seek opioids to treat their pain quickly so they can keep working. Employers then punish them for doing so.”

To stem this war on drugs, all tools are necessary and all hands needed on deck. According to an Instagram story posted by DULF on October 22, 2025 just before this issue goes to print, while donations have been trickling in, they still have about $40,000 more to go on their fundraiser. From pushing unions to step up, taking the streets, or challenging the failed status quo from within the legal system, we must, in DULF’s words, “answer with endurance.” 

In solidarity, 
meera eragoda, Editor

Order our November/December 2025 issue here.

Mirabel Sirois

On February 14, 2025, Queer Yukon Society (QYS) signed its first collective agreement. As an organization that promotes, supports, and organizes events for the 2SLGBTQIA+ community in the Yukon, it was important for QYS workers, along with their union, the Public Service Alliance of Canada (PSAC) and its component, the Yukon Employees’ Union (YEU) to fight for some immense wins such as sick leave for gender-affirming care, Indigenous-led alternative dispute resolution, and the right for workers to participate in social justice movements. 

When the team began the bargaining process, I had started with a self-imposed limitation of what I thought we could ask for, but the more we discussed our workplace issues, I started asking myself “well, how far can we go?”

Mira S.

I'm proud of the work we did. Our bargaining team was exceptional – my co-workers including Austria Lopez, the community engagement coordinator for Watson Lake, along with our PSAC negotiator Erna Post and of course you, Paige. Mixed in with my pride is a curiosity to see the collective agreement’s enactment and how it can serve as an example for other workplaces.

The negotiating process was really illuminating for us as a group of radical people trying to translate our values into a legal framework. This exercise had us understanding what is possible within the framework of labour law. Erna was a great negotiator. She allowed us to have endless conversations as a team before getting to the table with the employer and she was able to help us figure out what was possible from the union’s perspective. I think we did an excellent job of moving past asking for the bare minimum, while pushing forward as far as we could. Our goal was to protect what we had, prior to unionizing, while also creating protections for things we had yet to experience. 

When the team began the bargaining process, I had started with a self-imposed limitation of what I thought we could ask for, but the more we discussed our workplace issues, I started asking myself “well, how far can we go?” I think that is the sentiment I want to take forward and leave for whoever comes next – push until you hit a barrier. If you can blow past that barrier, blow past it, but never put barriers in front of you before the employer does! 

How are you feeling, now that the collective agreement has been signed?

Paige G.

I'm definitely feeling proud. This was three years of thoughtful care and intentions.

I've been advocating for a “for us, by us” model in unions. This experience was the first time I had the opportunity to see it actualized. Our bargaining table in its representation alone, was revolutionary – all members are queer, trans and for some, racialized. 

Like you, I’m excited to see how the articles we debated will be put into practice, how the collective agreement will evolve in future negotiations, and the precedent this collective agreement sets for all workplaces. 

Sick leave and gender-affirming care

Paige G.

Talk to me about pushing for the inclusion of paid time off for gender-affirming care and psychological health care in the sick leave policy.

Mira S.

I think the sick leave policy was one of our biggest wins. 

I have had to go on extended leave to accommodate recovery times for gender-affirming care (GAC). Anyone who has gone through a major surgery knows it puts you out for a long time and is costly.

There are costs associated with GAC that are not covered by the Yukon government. To access GAC, one must travel out of territory. The Yukon government’s medical travel program covers up to a certain amount but it's inadequate. The program reimburses a small fraction of the costs and doesn't account for food, medical recovery supplies, prescription medications, bed pads, gauze, abdominal compression underwear, compression binders for top surgery, and other essentials for a good recovery. 

In my experience, workplace policies on sick leave are never enough to accommodate the worker. Banked sick leave has its limits. My first GAC intervention was a two month minimum, three month recommended time away from work. I had saved up as much sick and vacation leave as possible and it still only covered one out of the two months. I should not have gone back to work at the end of the second month, but I had to. 

And having depleted my vacation and sick leave, I was stressed about getting sick and having exhausted all my leave. This new policy both accommodates the time needed to recover and also stipulates that the worker will have their sick leave regenerated instantly. This is a massive win! 

As workers, we should not be in a precarious financial situation, nor have to choose between having sick leave or gender – and therefore, life – affirming care. I hope that many of us learned through COVID-19 that coming to the workplace sick is a risk and safety issue for everyone.

Solidarity and equity

Mira S.

I'm curious if you can share your process in drafting the article on equity and diversity in the workplace.

Paige G.

As the regional organizer, I wanted mentorship for union negotiations. Erna (PSAC negotiator) supported my learning by tasking me with drafting the employment equity article. At first I thought, “Oh yeah, that makes sense. I am a consultant and community educator on the subject matter. My work and activism is rooted in practices of equity.” I had to check myself. 

My first instinct was to research workplaces similar in queer focus and organizational practice to QYS for their equity statements and policies. I also looked at universities and student unions as I believed them to be spaces that tend to push further than the trend. Their statements seemed empty and inadequate for what I thought would resonate with the bargaining team as well as with Yukon’s queer and trans communities.

Our bargaining dates coincided with the 50th anniversary of drafting of the document “Together Today for Our Children Tomorrow” which pushed the federal government to negotiate a modern-day treaty. The 50th anniversary commemorated the journey to Ottawa taken by the Yukon First Nations delegation – leaders whose vision and determination have had an unprecedented and immeasurable impact on the lives of Yukon First Nations and Yukoners alike. 

In crafting and negotiating this collective agreement, the bargaining team’s focus was to have protections and rights in which queer and trans workers are made whole and able to come into their workplace as their full selves – which includes their activism.

The work of these visionaries was instrumental in drafting this article as it had me thinking of equity beyond mere statements or written policy. Because of the document, “Together Today for Our Children Tomorrow,” we incorporated local context into a workplace through land recognition and the Indigenous-led dispute resolution mechanisms. In the end, and in negotiating with the employer, we collectively drew from action plans drafted by various Yukon groups – such as the Calls to Action of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the Yukon government’s plan for LGBTQ2S+ inclusion – and named them in page two of our collective agreement as a way to demonstrate the various models of equity at a territorial and national level that the union and the employer seek to emulate and draw examples from. 

Mira S.

In Article 38 (on workplace equity) we make reference to multiple action plans to enable employees to point to the employer’s written commitment to provide support and resources for employee-led efforts to align the work of QYS to Indigenous-led calls to action on a national and territorial level. In this spirit, we wanted to enshrine within the collective agreement reference to “Together Today for our Children Tomorrow,” the Calls to Action of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, the Calls for Justice of the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls Commission, the Yukon’s Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women, Girls, and Two Spirit+ People, and more. I am proud that our team fought for the inclusion of these groundbreaking documents.

Paige G.

Those are really good points. Referencing those action plans forces management, workers, and the union to familiarize themselves with them to fully comprehend the intent and implementation of this article in the collective agreement. In a way, the collective agreement serves as an archive for action plans.

Our safety in the workplace

Paige G.

As queer, trans, racialized, and marginalized people, we are never made whole in our workplaces. We're always asked to check our identities at the door. In crafting and negotiating this collective agreement, the bargaining team’s focus was to have protections and rights in which queer and trans workers are made whole and able to come into their workplace as their full selves – which includes their activism.

Art is always up for interpretation but it is never made in a void; it is never made without intent. I think that's similar for this collective agreement. I think that context is important: who put it together, what work has influenced it, what history that led to it, and so on.

Mira S.

There's been a lot of solidarity actions for a free Palestine in the past year and many queer organizations are struggling to do something beyond a simple statement as many actions could jeopardize their funding. It feels contradictory to work for an organization where you don't feel like your values align. Article 11 of the collective agreement “No Discrimination,  on political belief, political association, or political activity,” can allow for the protection of someone acting in solidarity of Palestine, or in solidarity of queer and trans experiences, etc. But it could also allow for people to potentially argue that they're in solidarity with far-right values, that are, in essence, hate speech. My fear is how the language of no discrimination could be turned against us. 

Paige G.

There are so many ways that I find the right is able to twist things. The left works tirelessly to fight for rights, dignity, and freedoms, whereas the right works to remove and rescind them. The openness of the left in fighting for rights, dignity, and freedom opens the opportunity for our language and movements to be co-opted. 

There's always the risk that the collective agreement could be used in bad faith. But I sleep well because I know that the collective agreement we negotiated is giving the workers the space to make a decision on how much of themself they want to reveal at work, and hopefully we, in some way, allowed those folks to also come to work as their whole selves.

Mobilizing now and for the future

Paige G.

Do you think the bargaining team’s intent of creating solidarity across social justice movements, protecting queer and trans’  workers’ rights, and archiving action plans mentioned previously, is apparent? 

Mira S.

I hope it is! When you look at a piece of art, you typically have the artist's name, bio, and statement to contextualize the piece. However, without that context, there's going to be a lot you won't understand. Art is always up for interpretation but it is never made in a void; it is never made without intent. I think that's similar for this collective agreement. I think that context is important: who put it together, what work has influenced it, what history that led to it, and so on. I hope that when people look at the collective agreement, they'll see the organization that it came from and they'll see the people who helped create it. People may look at it and interpret it differently than intended but we can't control that. At the end of the day, I know that the intent of the document is good.

I’m curious to see what issues of contention will come up in the day-to-day implementation of the articles in the collective agreement. In its use, we will learn about how it can be improved and how to push it further in future years. 

Paige G.

I agree; collective agreements are not static. They have expiry dates and are meant to be amended and polished. What we’ve achieved with this collective agreement can set a precedent for organizing queer and trans workers across the country.

Celebration and reflection

Paige G.

As a union organizer, it isn’t often that collectively, we celebrate, debrief, and examine our wins of the first collective agreement. Union organizing, similar to many social justice movements, is fast-paced and organizers often have this idea of moving on to the “next one.” I'm happy that you and I can be in conversation today and that you're proud of the work that was done despite these moments of turbulence and change for the organization and attacks on the existence of queer and trans people. 

Mira S.

Something I struggle with in doing this work is feeling like everything is an emergency. Sometimes it is and we’re fighting for rights that are long overdue. It’s complicated though because thoughtful work takes time but we are often not given that time. We often fault ourselves for not doing this work faster but we need to remember the arc of history is long. Slow work is important – doing things thoughtfully with care; having the conversations that need to be had to make sure we can be proud of  what comes together; and reflecting on and celebrating our wins together.

I likely won’t be around to see trans liberation but I need to remember that it's not just for me; it's for the collective, it's for the children. 
We are the trans elders for the new generations of queer and trans youth and then they can carry on our work and be those elders for the next generation.
That's that legacy of the work. That's the impact.

Photojournalist Salama Nabil Younis relies on his phone for work since his camera and laptop were destroyed in airstrike. Photo courtesy of Younis.

“A working day in Gaza for a journalist feels like waiting to be executed on the gallows.” This is how 27-year-old photojournalist Salama Nabil Younis describes the brutal reality he faces each day. For front-line journalists like him, reporting from Gaza isn’t just a professional challenge – it’s a psychological, emotional, and existential burden. 

Younis earned his bachelor’s degree in media from Al-Aqsa University in Gaza City, where he began his career in photography and editing. Before the war, he focused his lens on documenting life: weddings; community festivals; youth programs; and the vibrant beauty of the Gaza coastline. “I wanted to show the beauty of our place,” he tells me. “The sea, the celebrations, the nature. We love life.”

But since the escalation of violence in October 2023, everything has changed.

“We live through very frightening circumstances,” he says. “There’s a lot of bombing. We lack even the basic necessities of life. Still, we must find a way to make our voices heard.”

These targeting patterns have made Gaza one of the most dangerous places in the world to be a journalist, particularly for those working independently or without the protection of major international outlets.

He now works as a photojournalist for the Turkish Anadolu Agency and several local media outlets in Palestine. The nature of his work has fundamentally changed. Gone are the days of staged photo shoots and joyful ceremonies. Now, he captures destruction, mass displacement, and death – on a phone. With his laptop and camera destroyed in an airstrike, and no access to replacements, Younis does everything on his mobile device: filming, editing, and sending files to agencies, often with great difficulty.

Journalists in Gaza are not collateral damage – they are deliberate targets. “We journalists are directly targeted,” he says. “The occupation beats us, wounds us, threatens us, and kills us. There is no immunity.”

In the six months following October 7, 2023, more than 100 Palestinian journalists have been killed in Gaza, according to Reporters Without Borders. Many more have been injured, displaced, or psychologically broken. The targeting of media workers by Israeli forces has been widely condemned by international press freedom organizations, yet the violence continues.

This is not the first time journalists in Gaza have faced grave danger. During the 2008-2009 war, known as Operation Cast Lead, at least six media workers were killed, and dozens more were injured or detained. In the 2014 conflict, the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) documented at least seven Palestinian journalists killed in Israeli airstrikes, including some while reporting from clearly marked press vehicles. These targeting patterns have made Gaza one of the most dangerous places in the world to be a journalist, particularly for those working independently or without the protection of major international outlets.

“We are not superheroes. We are not made of steel. We are afraid every second,” says Younis. “We cry. We live in terror.

But while these deaths make international headlines, the deeper, longer-term psychological trauma remains largely invisible. What is it like to live every moment expecting to die? What does that do to a person’s sense of safety, purpose, and humanity?

The toll of war reporting

Anthony Feinstein, a professor of psychiatry at the University of Toronto, has spent decades researching these very questions. His work on the mental health of war correspondents is foundational and captured in his book Journalists Under Fire: The Psychological Hazards of Covering War. Through extensive clinical studies, Feinstein has identified a broad range of psychological risks for journalists in conflict zones: PTSD, anxiety, depression, substance abuse and moral injury. 

In a 2002 study published in the American Journal of Psychiatry, Feinstein and his co-authors found that nearly one-third of war correspondents developed post-traumatic stress disorder, with even more showing symptoms that impaired daily functioning. Repeated exposure to extreme violence, trauma, and personal risk corrodes mental stability over time.

“We are not superheroes. We are not made of steel. We are afraid every second,” says Younis. “We cry. We live in terror.”

Feinstein also emphasizes the ethical weight that journalists bear during conflict reporting. In Journalists Under Fire, he explores how moral injury can emerge not only from witnessing atrocities but from being unable to intervene. This helplessness – observing children dying, families being bombed, communities displaced – without the power to stop it, creates a distinct kind of trauma. Journalists are trained to observe and report, not act, but in humanitarian catastrophes like Gaza, the line between professional duty and human compassion becomes increasingly blurred. 

Feinstein notes that freelance war journalists are prone to developing acute PTSD symptoms – nightmares, emotional numbness, hypervigilance – but may recover significantly after receiving counselling, taking time away from assignments, and undergoing structured debriefings. This indicates how significant the presence of post-conflict care is. By contrast, journalists in Gaza face similar or worse levels of exposure without any of the psychological scaffolding Feinstein identifies as essential for recovery. The absence of support structures turns treatable trauma into chronic suffering.

No safety net for Gaza’s journalists

Life under siege has compounded the trauma. Gaza has been under Israeli blockade since 2007. Movement is restricted. Electricity and water are unreliable. Basic services – let alone mental health care – are in short supply. “We are conveying people’s stories, hopes, pain, and ambitions,” Younis says. “But the world does not visit us, and we do not visit it. We are completely isolated.”

According to the World Health Organization, “Gaza faces a critical shortage of mental health professionals, with less than one psychiatrist per 100 000 people pre-conflict, worsened by war casualties and displacement.” Mental health services have been chronically underfunded and understaffed for years, a situation made worse by repeated bombardments, displacement, and the long-term effects of blockade. In this environment, journalists suffering from trauma often have nowhere to turn for professional support.

For journalists working for international news agencies, trauma is often mitigated by institutional support: therapy, debriefs, leave. But for freelance journalists in Gaza – who make up a significant portion of the press corps – these protections are non-existent. There are no trauma response teams, no clinical psychologists, no days off.

“Every story we cover affects us deeply,” Younis says. “We live it. We see it. We feel it.”

He describes walking for hours just to find a working power outlet or a patch of internet signal to file a report. He often sleeps in borrowed spaces, sometimes on the street. His work is conducted while under the constant threat of airstrikes, with no assurance he’ll survive the day.

“I was homeless, hungry, injured, and I had lost all my dreams. But every day, I felt compelled to continue,” he says. “I try to help my people with the only thing I know – telling their stories.”

“I want to stop filming destruction, tears, and screams. I want to film nature. Seas. Mountains. People laughing,” he says. “That’s what I want to do with my life.

Younis continues to resist despair. He is currently enrolled in a master’s program in media at Al-Aqsa University – while the university has been destroyed, many students are navigating online study. He studies English in his spare time, and has recently resumed editing projects for international clients. “I want to leave Gaza and live a beautiful life. I am preparing for that day,” he says. “I’m learning advanced editing, graphics, scriptwriting – anything that keeps me dreaming.”

Purpose as a shield

Feinstein also notes that many journalists in war zones view their work as morally purposeful, which can serve as a buffer against psychological harm. In Journalists Under Fire, he writes that reporters who frame their experiences through a sense of mission or moral responsibility are often able to maintain a sense of coherence amid chaos. This psychological anchoring can reduce the risk of long-term trauma. For journalists like Younis, who speak of storytelling as a duty to the oppressed, that moral framework may be one of the few remaining forms of protection.

Despite everything, Younis remains committed to telling the truth. “Many times, I have thought about quitting,” he says. “I’ve wanted to stop filming blood and rubble. But there is no safe place here. Even at home, we are not safe. The war finds us wherever we go.”

His dream is to return to storytelling – not of war, but of joy.

“I want to stop filming destruction, tears, and screams. I want to film nature. Seas. Mountains. People laughing,” he says. “That’s what I want to do with my life.”

In the final minutes of our interview, his tone changes. It becomes softer.

“Tell the world that we are people with hearts. We are not made of steel. We are afraid every second. We want the war to stop. Please, tell them not to forget us.”

*This interview was conducted in Arabic and translated by the author.

Huber and other pro-nuclear leftists argue that the centralized nature of nuclear is necessary for taking action on climate change and working toward a decarbonized environment; that the workforce for nuclear power in North America is heavily unionized; that nuclear power is more reliable than renewables; that new nuclear technology is safer and cleaner – two big buzzwords in the pro-nuclear world; and that claims of cancer from accidents at nuclear plants like Fukushima and concerns over radioactive waste are exaggerated.

Global nuclear resurgence

This growing nuclear-curiosity within the left is unsurprising given the global resurgence in enthusiasm for nuclear electricity generation over the past decade. As nuclear physicist and professor M.V. Ramana explains in Nuclear is Not the Solution: The Folly of Atomic Power in the Age of Climate Change, capitalist states are increasingly turning to nuclear power in an attempt to reduce carbon emissions and mitigate the climate crisis. 

The German government recently reversed its long-standing opposition to using nuclear power as a climate mitigation strategy in European Union legislation and policy. The question of nuclear power’s role in energy transitions was the source of significant conflict between Germany and France, the two largest economies in the European Union. While Germany began phasing out nuclear power after the Fukushima disaster in 2011, France continues to produce 70 per cent of its electricity with nuclear reactors.

"My bottom line is that nuclear energy, whether with old reactor designs or new faux alternatives, will simply not resolve the climate crisis."

The government of Canada has similarly embraced nuclear power as a solution to the climate crisis. In early 2025, Jonathan Wilkinson, then federal minister of energy and natural resources, issued a statement arguing that the environmental concerns associated with nuclear electricity generation “pale in comparison” to the “existential threat posed by climate change.” The federal government has provided generous subsidies to support the development of new small modular reactors. The provinces of Ontario and New Brunswick have likewise invested in the construction of small modular reactors, while governments in Saskatchewan and Alberta have signalled their interest in introducing nuclear power to their energy grids. 

Nuclear is not the solution

Ramana’s book cuts through oft-touted claims cited by governments and industry about nuclear power, arguing clearly and convincingly – and for a non-specialist audience – that nuclear cannot and should not drive energy transitions. 

“My bottom line is that nuclear energy, whether with old reactor designs or new faux alternatives, will simply not resolve the climate crisis. The threat from climate change is urgent. The world has neither the financial resources nor the luxury of time to expand nuclear power. Meanwhile, even a limited expansion would aggravate a range of environmental and ecological risks. Further, nuclear energy is deeply imbricated in creating the conditions for nuclear annihilation. Expanding nuclear power would leave us in the worst of both worlds.”

According to Ramana, nuclear electricity generation is too costly and too slow to build to significantly reduce atmospheric carbon emissions in a meaningful time frame. Further, he argues that it is a complex, dangerous, and environmentally risky technology that cannot be uncoupled from its ties to nuclear weapons. 

Nuclear is Not the Solution makes two broad contributions to public knowledge about nuclear energy and climate change. On the one hand, it critically debunks the notion that nuclear power offers a viable and desirable solution to the climate crisis. On the other, it seeks to explain why states continue to support nuclear power despite all of the problems it poses, highlighting the entanglement between private industry and governments. 

An undesirable solution

Ramana argues that nuclear power is an undesirable solution to climate change because of the risks it poses to the environment, human health, and global security. According to Ramana, proponents of nuclear power often argue that large-scale accidents like meltdowns are now impossible and that previous accidents at Chernobyl and Fukushima had minimal impacts on the environment and human health. Pointing to an increase in thyroid cancers following both disasters, he suggests that the effects of these disasters were in fact severe and claims that the possibility of major accidents will remain so long as nuclear power exists. While Ramana acknowledges that the Japanese government has claimed that increases in detected thyroid cancers following Fukushima were due to an increase in screening, he suggests that this points to a deeper issue: it is “nearly impossible to trace any specific cancer to radiation exposure” making it “easy to sow doubts about any relationship between the two.”

The challenges of dealing with radioactive wastes like spent nuclear fuel and uranium tailings are cited as additional risks. 

An infeasible solution

Ramana argues that nuclear power is not a feasible solution to the climate crisis because of the high costs and long periods of time required to build and operate new nuclear reactors. The window to effectively mitigate climate change by reducing global carbon emissions grows smaller each day. Ramana demonstrates that new nuclear reactors frequently suffer from (sometimes absurdly long) construction delays and cost overruns.

“The result of these economic and temporal realities is that nuclear power capacity has largely been stagnant, with a falling share of electricity production; this trend will continue into the future. Thus, I conclude, even if one were to ignore the undesirable outcomes associated with nuclear energy, the technology cannot meaningfully contribute to mitigating climate change. Pursuing such false solutions only lowers the chances of dealing with the environmental problems at hand.”

He argues that state intervention into the nuclear industry always unfolds in ways that “allow the owners of capital to make more profits.” 

Ramana argues that small modular reactors, thorium reactors, and other emerging technologies reproduce the problems associated with ‘traditional’ reactors: “no reactor design can solve the multiple problems confronting nuclear energy, including high costs, safety, proliferation, and waste.”

Socialized costs and risks

Ramana claims that nuclear power is only profitable because its costs are socialized through a combination of high residential electricity bills and significant public expenditures. Because of government patronage, even nuclear reactors that fail to generate electricity can still produce profits for investors. 

In many cases, it is the same corporations profiting from nuclear and fossil fuel electricity generation.

“[C]ompanies view nuclear power as an attractive investment as long as the costs of building and operating nuclear plants are foisted on the pocketbooks of the public, either in the form of higher electricity bills or in the form of taxes, and the multiple environmental and economic risks associated with the technology are socialized.”

He argues that state intervention into the nuclear industry always unfolds in ways that “allow the owners of capital to make more profits.” 

“It is not just electricity companies that profit from nuclear power. The list of other corporate interests vested in nuclear power is long: starting from financial ones buying up and selling businesses, to consulting companies offering advice about how to go about building a nuclear plant, to Wall Street banks loaning money, to law firms writing contracts, to insurance companies that take a cut for agreeing to hold part of the bag in the event of an accident.”

In many cases, it is the same corporations profiting from nuclear and fossil fuel electricity generation. As a result, Ramana argues companies with interests in nuclear power often oppose energy transitions and are hostile to the growth of renewables.

The military connection

The close relationship between civilian and military nuclear programs, Ramana argues, explains why so many states continue to finance and politically support nuclear electricity generation. According to Ramana, nuclear power can serve as a “gateway” to military uses because infrastructure, materials, technical expertise, and personnel used in nuclear electricity generation can also be used to produce nuclear weapons. 

Instead of nuclear power, Ramana promotes a green energy transition premised on expanding renewables and challenging capitalist inequalities and imperatives for endless growth. 

“The connection between nuclear energy and nuclear weapons derives from the fact that any technology capable of enriching uranium-235 from 0.7 percent to 3 percent can further enrich it, even up to the levels of concentration needed to build nuclear weapons. This potential ability to use uranium-enrichment technology for making either nuclear fuel or nuclear weapons materials was the underlying technical reason for concerns about Iran’s centrifuge program.”

He cites the additional examples of India’s and Pakistan’s nuclear weapons programs, where the development of nuclear weapons has relied on the reactors, fuel, and scientific experts associated with their civilian nuclear power programs.

Renewables and capitalist growth

Instead of nuclear power, Ramana promotes a green energy transition premised on expanding renewables and challenging capitalist inequalities and imperatives for endless growth. 

He acknowledges that renewables are “no panacea” and that rapidly expanding renewables could come with significant environmental costs, most notably from the extraction of so-called ‘critical’ minerals. 

“Absent fundamental changes [in the global distribution of wealth and power], the impacts of the extractive processes associated with any form of electricity generation will only continue to accelerate. Capitalism is based on continuous economic growth. For this continuous economic growth to take place, capitalism needs energy and materials to feed ever-expanding production. But material and energy use cannot keep growing continuously on a finite planet. Renewables might not produce carbon dioxide when they generate power, but they do have their own material requirements.”

He concludes that there are no solutions to the climate crisis that “will allow everything else to stay the same, from the energy we use to the financial structures that govern its production.” 

At the end of the day, there is no easy technological fix to the climate crisis. Addressing it will require us to significantly reduce our energy consumption in the Global North. This means not only resisting the siren calls of nuclear power advocates but also radically rethinking the way we live our lives and challenging the growth imperatives of capitalism.

Quickly receiving royal assent on March 26, 2025, Bill 12 – An Act Respecting Advanced Education and Research, commonly referred to as Bill 12, became law. Blunt in its execution, the Act requires that research, work, and governance of all post-secondary institutions across the province align with the economic objectives of the government – and capital. Opposition swiftly arose with both workers and students voicing their disapproval. Exposing the irony of the Act’s title, David Robinson, executive director for the Canadian Association of University Teachers (CAUT), says in a press release, “The government’s actions represent unacceptable political interference in the internal educational affairs of universities.” Robinson explains that university independence is necessary for basing high-level decisions “on educational priorities, not political diktat.” Similarly troubled by the legislation, the Canadian Federation of Students Nova Scotia framed the law as nothing short of a “sponsored erosion of democracy” as it hands the provincial government “unbridled authority” to obstruct resources, programs, and academic freedom.

After decades of federal and provincial abandonment, only one-third of Nova Scotia’s current university funding is derived from public coffers.

This expanded government capacity to influence the mission of the university, while trying to control the activities of those within it, is not unprecedented in Nova Scotia. Augmenting legislation from a decade prior, the PCs have built upon pre-existing anti-labour measures enacted by the Liberal party. Moving Bill 100 in 2015, the Liberals hampered the ability of unions in this sector to engage in collective bargaining. When applied, the legislation made it unlawful for workers to withhold their labour-power as a means of negotiation.

Over ten years, Liberal and Conservative legislation has weakened what few critical and class-based actions are permitted in the workplace. Now the PC government is empowered to instruct what is admissible outside it. Rather than perceiving either party, or their rule, as materially different, it is vital to understand the ways those in political office serve capital. 

Warnings About Universities

After decades of federal and provincial abandonment, only one-third of Nova Scotia’s current university funding is derived from public coffers. In 1978, roughly 80 per cent of the funds going to Nova Scotian universities came from federal and provincial sources, according to a report from the Nova Scotia Post-Secondary Education Coalition. Across Canada, this dropped to the 70 per cent range during the 1980s. From 2008 to 2018, provincial assistance weakened further, wavering between 42 to 47 per cent of total university revenue in contrast to the nation-wide average of 57 percent. Present data highlights how this pattern of decline continues, as 2025 saw the provincial government shore up only 33 per cent of university funding. Since 2001 to 2020, the province’s total expenditure on post-secondary education averaged just over 1.2 per cent of GDP. With these overall declines in state-supported funding, the cost of attending university stretches further out of reach for (too) many students. 

Whether uttered by a relative at the dinner table or published by a think tank promoting the free market, narratives about the alleged unproductivity of a liberal arts program or oversaturation of degree holders in the applied sciences are nothing new. What stands out of late, however, is the number and tone of reports chiefly aimed at the working class, which detail the individual fiscal burden, if not impracticality, of an undergraduate education. As tuition rates rise every year, so does the financial and mental toll of attending university. Understandably, all this can prevent many would-be working class students from enrolling (or finishing). 

To ensure the continuity of maximum profit, capitalists must exert pressure over more than the means of production they privately control; they need capital’s “ruling ideas” to become widely accessible and normalized.

These reports subtly send the working class a message that critical thinking is irrelevant or even worthless. Intentionally or not, they suggest that attending university defers or interrupts a need to face the real world. Emphasizing only the monetary challenges that await those who pursue post-secondary study obscures other social and political benefits: the relationships; endless forms of knowledge; global insights; and alternative outlooks derived from the lived experience of campus life. Such omissions are telling. 

The last two years have dramatically demonstrated the poignancy and power that can be wielded across classrooms and quads. While not the only sites to hone political agency, universities have been influential in formulating critiques about climate change, the failures of liberalism, fascist horizons, and an unceasing genocide. More than that, they have enabled hundreds to come together to harbinger something different. Take, for example, the many organized encampments erected across the country in solidarity with the people of Gaza. More than spaces of informed collective agency, the power of these encampments demonstrated a material and ideological threat to the status quo and dominant interests. In reaction to their existence and potential, a vast number of pre-emptive policies and violent spectacles were levied to silence any that would struggle against imperialism and settler-colonialism or contest Palestinian erasure. 

All of this begs the question, if universities are truly irrelevant, why the concerted effort toward defunding, obstruction, and legal intervention? The answer, in part, is to stabilize capitalist hegemony.

“Their Ideas are the Ruling Ideas”

To ensure the continuity of maximum profit, capitalists must exert pressure over more than the means of production they privately control; they need capital’s “ruling ideas” to become widely accessible and normalized. Arm in arm with the State, this small owning class tries to bias “intellectual, moral and political” lines of thinking to sustain some measure of power over the working class they exploit. 

Yet, as one reads the Act more closely, it becomes evident that these priorities are not democratically chosen through a committee of researchers nor with the input of members of the broader community. To the contrary, they are to be vetted and handpicked by the office of the minister of advanced education.

To expand authority, they leverage public institutions in their favour; particularly those associated with post-secondary education and research. This influence of capital is especially apparent in the university landscape of the Maritimes as names etched across campus buildings tell a clear story: those that concentrate ownership and enclose resources prove to be more than authoritative titans of industry. 

Apprehending its value, efforts are made to steer the post-secondary system to capital’s benefit. In doing so, this capitalist class reveal a latent fear toward said institutions. Universities are not singular or static centres of capitalist social reproduction. They are home to analysis, debate, and heightened critical scrutiny. Dialectically, the university reveals the many contradictions and vulnerabilities generated by the same political and economic system that seeks to exploit it. Left uncontrolled, such consciousness can become a concern to those in power. This is not to imply that the university is in any way the epicentre of class struggle, but, like any location engaged in the exploitation of current or future workers, it houses a capacity for resistance. With this potential ever present, economic and political interests must develop ways to stabilize their existing social power – in manufacturing, extractive industry, or, in this case, a set of universities in a small Atlantic Canadian province. 

Bill 12: Shackling Academia to Capital

While much legislation drips of an unfamiliar legalese, even a surface appraisal of Bill 12 reveals layers of political and economic interference imposed over an already compromised university system. In it, the province claims a willingness to “organize and co-ordinate the funding of research to support and advance key provincial research priorities.” Specifically, as a Research Nova Scotia explainer makes clear, the province wants to see productivity and economic growth in the priority areas of: natural resources, climate change and clean energy; life sciences and health sciences; and construction and transportation. Yet, as one reads the Act more closely, it becomes evident that these priorities are not democratically chosen through a committee of researchers nor with the input of members of the broader community. To the contrary, they are to be vetted and handpicked by the office of the minister of advanced education. Moreover, aside from single-handedly dictating what exploration will be worth valuing, the minister can personally appoint several members of Research Nova Scotia’s board of directors. Bill 12 biases not only what is financed but the very makeup of who oversees the provincial distribution of said funds.

Outside of screening what research is supported (or not), the province has widened its power over the “governing body” of every university in the province. The Act gives the minister authority to appoint up to 50 per cent of each board of governors at Nova Scotia’s ten institutions. The legislation also requires every post-secondary institution to “provide a plan satisfactory to the Minister” clearly identifying how research and work being done across all faculties, departments, and programs demonstrate “a strategic connection between the social and economic priorities of the Government.” If a board fails to submit this plan, Bill 12 empowers the minister to initiate a government-run top-down “revitalization planning process.” If any institutions contravene, the minister can withhold or refuse its grants. 

Leaving little doubt whether academic freedom was still on the table, the government declared that research priorities included handing publicly funded knowledge and innovation over to industry, greater association with trade and exports, furthering the commercialization of research (including the manual and mental production of ‘intellectual property”), and, needless to say, increasing provincial GDP.

In February, prior to the bill becoming law, the minister said, “in no circumstances will we be asking them [boards of governors] to eliminate programs.” While technically accurate, this careful wording obscures what the Act is able to do. While not directly engaged in the gutting of research and teaching deemed unfavourable to capital, its enactment of Bill 12 has both influenced and enabled university administrations to initiate and justify such actions. Within days of the legislation’s passing, Saint Mary’s University pre-emptively cut roughly 50 arts and humanities courses. According to CUPE 3912, the university is now offering 80 fewer courses than it did in the 2023-2024 school year, with a 56 per cent cut in part-time jobs. Not public at the time of this writing, other university administrations have not only instituted hiring freezes – nullifying all tenure-track and part-time appointments – but have called for the workers within existing academic units to take on the emotional and physical labour of identifying and self-imposing a minimum 5% budget cut to their own departments and programs.

In addition to the government determining the province’s research priorities, it has granted itself authority to alter and change those priorities at any time. In total, the Act gives the provincial government license to constrict the allocation of public funds, influence areas of research toward its societal, fiscal, and political interests, and fluidly redirect or revise anything it chooses. Within weeks of the bill being enacted, the province had finalized its academic priorities. 

As of May 1, 2025, the province mandated that all funded research must “contribute to measurable changes in provincial economic growth or productivity.” Leaving little doubt whether academic freedom was still on the table, the government declared that research priorities included handing publicly funded knowledge and innovation over to industry, greater association with trade and exports, furthering the commercialization of research (including the manual and mental production of ‘intellectual property”), and, needless to say, increasing provincial GDP. Adding insult to injury, the government attached an addendum requiring evidence of said benefits to be demonstrated. In addition to their work as academics, scholars receiving funding must also act as accountants to provide proof that the province’s desired outcomes are being achieved. 

Academic freedom requires the autonomy to design and perform research and subsequently teach about its findings in pursuit of “knowledge and understanding for the public good,” as Peter Ives argues in Rethinking Free Speech. It is clear that this will no longer be the academic climate in Nova Scotia.

Testing Disposability in the Maritimes 

Through Bill 12, the province is testing means of control and eventual disposal of critical perspectives and scholarship. This process restricts Nova Scotia’s universities and reconstructs a black and white classification of academia; one where all researchers, courses, and publications are either burdensome or beneficial to a specific agenda. It is an operation that purposely stifles critique to bolster the supremacy of capital. 

Such legislation devalues academia. Roberta Hawkins and Leslie Kern, two distinguished scholars who have bravely criticized the contemporary university system in Canada (with the latter making the decision to leave it entirely), encapsulate this sentiment brilliantly in their book Higher Expectations: How to Survive Academia, Make it Better For Others, and Transform the University. Through their insight, one can see how Bill 12 values select departments more highly than others by rewarding “certain types of work, people, and knowledge while making others invisible and insignificant.” The bill turns each board of governors into managers, repositions students as customers, whittles the public to shareholders, and modifies research into a tool for monetization.

As CAUT’s former president Peter McInnis told CBC News, “[Bill 12] seems to be picking up some of the more unsavoury trends across the country [...] It seems to be part of a certain amount of anti-democratic legislation.” With various interventions being waged against the post-secondary sector as a critical and public medium across the country, Nova Scotia can be framed as a regional fissure where “the goals of academia” – and its “core purpose […] to contribute to the common good of society by producing and disseminating knowledge and critical thinking” – are taken out of the hands of their producers and put to the service of power and profit. 

There is a confidence that Canadians and other nations will ignore this out-of-sight out-of-mind province. Nova Scotia is, then, home to a strategic pilot project; a control site to externally assess if people will notice and tolerate the further suppression of labour power in the Maritimes.

Possibly due to its Maritime origin, Bill 12 has been underreported and largely unnoticed elsewhere in Canada. Nevertheless, it follows a familiar blueprint where government figures direct post-secondary educators to allow “private sector actors more of a voice in university governance under the pretense that universities are now de facto public-private institutions,” as Chris Hurl argues in The Canadian State. Rather than prioritizing a recalculation of immediate and long-term societal needs, the public money once earmarked for public institutions has been purposely limited. This leaves an opening for private interests (often encouraged) to fill a void manufactured by the State. This planned defunding has not only left Nova Scotian universities susceptible to “a commercial ethos” but the government itself has legislated the structural incorporation of capital into their operations.

Wholly transparent in its intent to stabilize political and economic power, the Nova Scotian government states that if such measures are not met and sustained (that is, the research community increasing its work in service of capital), then foundational finances can be reappropriated. Through an ultimatum that threatens to withhold public funds, and the ability to cut programs, the State claims dominion over ideas. 

While this is happening in a pocket of Atlantic Canada, Bill 12 does not exist in a vacuum. Similar intentions have been shared openly by federal politicians. For example, in a platform promise geared toward Quebec voters, the federal Conservative Party boasted that “a Conservative government would put an end to the imposition of woke ideology […] in the allocation of federal funds for university research.” Within hours of this statement (or dog-whistle) going public, workers across the province began organizing and denounced the declaration “as a direct threat to academic freedom,” framing such pronouncements as authoritarian “echoes” of “recent actions taken in the United States,” according to reporting in the Montreal Gazette.

Response to Bill 12 has been much quieter. Hoping inaction and silence prevail, those who passed this legislation believe Nova Scotia to be an ideal testing ground. There is a confidence that Canadians and other nations will ignore this out-of-sight out-of-mind province. Nova Scotia is, then, home to a strategic pilot project; a control site to externally assess if people will notice and tolerate the further suppression of labour power in the Maritimes.

While those in power may perceive the Maritimers as complacent, this is no time to give way to a sense of powerlessness. To the contrary, this moment provides an opportunity for radical experimentation across these ten institutions, as each is a necessary site for class struggle. Bill 12 is firm in its opposition to diverse modes of thinking and its disregard of any segment of the proletariat. Be they existing or would-be students, full-time faculty or staff, workers trying to survive on per-course appointments, part-time librarians, precarious instructors, community members, and so on, all those seeking to protect critical thought and prioritize pedagogical principles have a role to play in resisting the power that would exploit and repress it for private gain. While the expectation is compliance, now is the time for dissent.

Those of us in the anti-globalization movement in the late 1990s to early 2000s were grappling with an infinite array of free trade agreements. The emergence of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) in 1994 was seen as a template for other forms of free trade agreements. In the following decades, it felt like capitalism had won, with increasing powers given to corporations and minimized protections for workers and the environment. 

So, it felt like a bit of a shock when U.S. president Donald Trump announced NAFTA’s end during his first presidency, replacing it with the Canada-United States-Mexico Agreement, claiming to bring factory jobs “back” for American workers. Taking office for a second term in 2025, Trump has been raising tariffs against almost every country as a continuation of this agenda. 

The immediate result has been a resurgence of Canadian nationalism, as many vow to buy Canadian-made products. Yet the history of the struggles and grassroots resistance to free trade remains invisible in mainstream media. 

The debate about whether tariffs are good or bad is meant to divide workers around the world. Rather than buy into “Canada-only,” perhaps we need to reflect on how Canadian policies have furthered the exploitation of Canadian workers and, even more so, workers in poorer economies. 

As part of this reflection, let’s explore how we can build stronger forms of international worker solidarity – rather than having Mark Carney tell us what’s good for us – how we can struggle for worker participation and democracy for everyone and the Earth. 

Zapatistas: Rebellion from the Grassroots to the Global

Tangled Routes: Women, Work, and Globalization on the Tomato Trail

This is an underrated book that more activists and anti-capitalists should be reading. By following the trajectory of the tomato – a fruit we often take for granted in our grocery stores – Deborah Barndt is able to clearly map out the impact of free trade. 

Starting with the innocence of the tomato, she slowly takes readers through an incredible story of environmental and labour impacts and exploitation as the tomato journeys through various chains to reach our stores and bellies. It’s an accessible book that reads almost like a detective story, while exposing the impacts of tomato production in Mexico through a feminist lens on women workers from Mexico to the U.S. to Canada. Barndt connects the dots on how one product’s chain impacts workers differently from poorer to richer countries, helping readers visualize supply and commodity chains and how the integration of our economies has meant continued exploitation and colonial relationships for workers in Mexico. 

Barndt’s research and writing on the various workers in all three countries is an eye-opening testament to the transformative impact of NAFTA on both workers and consumers.

Eating NAFTA: Trade, Food Policies, and the Destruction of Mexico

On Imperialist Globalization: Two Speeches by Fidel Castro

One of the ironies of the discussions of many free trade agreements involving Latin America or the Caribbean is that they often exclude Cuba and the impacts of U.S. sanctions on Cuba’s sovereignty and economy. This book features two speeches by Cuban revolutionary Fidel Castro, written in 1999. Castro spells out the continuation of imperialism through economic means as a way to maintain control and exploitation to benefit the few, showing how imperialism is rooted in globalization through pressure from the U.S. and other Western nations. While capitalists will often emphasize the benefits of more jobs, Castro reminds us that these jobs still create a billionaire class and an economic system that continues to exploit poorer countries. 

Citations Needed: Episode 186: Nativism in Media (Part III) – IMF, NAFTA, and Global Inequality By Design

Beehive Collective Poster: Free Trade Agreement of the Americas

This poster is a large-scale graphic narrative created in the lead-up to the 2001 Quebec City protests against the proposed free trade zone of the Americas, referred to as the Free Trade Area of the Americas (FTAA). Using insects and other animals to describe the destruction to life with these agreements, the poster is an interactive and accessible way to understand the power dynamics and forms of exploitation present in free trade agreements. The poster comes with instructions for its use and members of the Beehive Collective have hosted popular-education workshops on how to understand free trade as a system of exploitation. Tools like this are crucial for activists to integrate into on-the-ground storytelling as they provide a more compelling way to help audiences understand how free trade systems work, rather than the exclusionary and benign way economists and politicians talk about them.

Alin Andersen / Unsplash

To deal with a polycrisis of climate collapse, biodiversity loss, ocean acidification, and the overlapping social and political realities of rising inequality and authoritarianism, we don’t have to change the way we live. The good news, according to the politically and economically powerful, is that we just have to wait for the right technological fix to come along. 

This hubristic technosolutionism, premised on the belief that we can outsmart nature, is embedded within the very structures of our modern world. As we bump up against the limits of our physical environment, we are increasingly living in the social and political fallout of capitalism’s firm grip on a shrinking pool of finite resources – food shortages and famine, mass migration, authoritarianism, fascism, and war. Radical, urgent change is needed if we are to limit warming to the 1.5 C (or even 2 C) recommended by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change so we can better mitigate its impact. 

Degrowth does not advocate for a complete absence of growth globally, but for powerful settler-colonial states to drastically decrease their emissions and energy use; thereby making space for states in the Global South to develop more social and physical infrastructure and to reduce inequality worldwide.

But there is a clear place to start: using less. We can and must begin to meaningfully consider how we use resources, who is using them, and to bring that use in line with planetary boundaries. 

Degrowth is a useful political framework for taking up that challenge – a simple, though not easy way forward. Degrowth seeks a planned reduction of energy and resource use in targeted ways that prioritize justice, decolonization, redistribution of wealth, and bringing the economy into balance with the planet’s ecological limits. It is a critique of hegemonic economic thinking, and as a political project it is both anti-capitalist and anti-imperialist. 

Anti-capitalism is a central tenet of degrowth; that is, any approach that does not centre redistribution becomes a policy of austerity and perpetuates our unjust colonial and imperialist systems.  

The term itself has its critics –  many made in bad faith without engaging with the movement’s theories and specific policy proposals, which include radical reductions in working time; repair centres; provisions of basic services; participatory planning; co-operative workplaces; and larger transformative strategies to combine policies, transitional electoral strategies, and social movements. An oft-repeated criticism is that degrowth is inherently anti-progress and akin to austerity. Yet the term’s extreme perception can also be its strength as it directly challenges the ingrained ideology of growth and the capitalist logic of accumulation and makes it harder to co-opt. It resists common conceptions of growth as an unquestioned good. It makes explicit the need to transition out of capitalism as essential for the health of the planet and all the living things on it. 

Degrowth does not advocate for a complete absence of growth globally, but for powerful settler-colonial states to drastically decrease their emissions and energy use; thereby making space for states in the Global South to develop more social and physical infrastructure and to reduce inequality worldwide. Degrowth is intertwined with the movement to cut colonial ties and prevent the Global North from further looting labour and materials from the Global South. 

A more interesting concern is how degrowth movements can meaningfully engage existing labour movements; rather than replacing socialist efforts, degrowth marries them to climate movements. Anti-capitalism is a central tenet of degrowth; that is, any approach that does not centre redistribution becomes a policy of austerity and perpetuates our unjust colonial and imperialist systems.  

In fearing change, we are clinging to what Greta Thunberg identifies as “fairy tales of eternal economic growth,” of that rising tide that will lift us all.

Incorporating degrowth can strengthen socialist movements by prioritizing the reality of climate collapse and addressing the anxiety and lived experiences of those concerned with climate change. It also makes space to reconsider what makes a good life. Instead of envisioning only sacrifice, degrowth imagines positive visions of the future, of more considered ways to conceptualize pleasure (eg. Kate Soper’s “alternative hedonisms”), and, importantly, new theories of abundance. There is research showing that after a certain standard of living is met, “more” has diminishing returns at best. Instead, how can we shift to thinking about an abundance not of things, but of education and health care, of leisure time, of space for regeneration, care work, and community?  

As far-fetched as degrowth may sound, the world we are living in now is predicated on myth. In fearing change, we are clinging to what Greta Thunberg identifies as “fairy tales of eternal economic growth,” of that rising tide that will lift us all. Meanwhile, we’re living in an inherently exploitative capitalist economic system that relies on imperialism and colonialism, continuing to create enormous wealth disparity both globally and within the Global North. It is quite literally stealing from the future. 

Change is coming, but that change will not come for all of us equally. While the richest will not only be insulated from climate collapse, but profit off of it; the world’s poorest are already experiencing its devastating effects. Degrowth soberly confronts the future and is putting forward ways to better manage it.  

We can have a beautiful future. Getting there requires doing the work to enact a mess of alternative paths forward. Even if many don't work out, every failure will be evidence of hope, of a vulnerability to try, of believing in our own agency, and of knowing that another world is possible. 

Degrowth is not a perfect term, and it is not a perfect solution. Rather, it is a radical way forward that imagines a long-term future that is both socialist and within ecological limits.

Cover illustration by Ibrahim Abusitta

“Speak up for us and don’t let us down. We are not numbers [...] each of us has a sacrifice and a story,” writes Salama Nabil Younis, a freelance photojournalist in Gaza, in an Instagram tribute to four journalists killed by Israel in late August 2025.

Those four journalists – Hussam al-Masri, Mariam Abu Dagga, Moaz Abu Taha, and Mohammed Salama – were killed by Israeli forces on August 25, as were Middle East Eye reporter Ahmed Abu Aziz and Al-Hayat Al-Jadida correspondent Hassan Douhan. Just two weeks earlier, on August 11, 2025, Israeli attacks also resulted in the deaths of journalists Anas al-Sharif, Mohammed Qraiqeh, Ibrahim Zaher, Moamen Aliwa, Mohammed Noufal, and Mohammed Al-Khalidi. All told, in the 14 days while this issue of Briarpatch was going through its fact-checking and copy-editing cycle, the Israeli army killed a dozen members of the press in targeted attacks, adding their names to the hundreds of other journalists and media workers killed by Israeli forces since October 2023.

In this issue’s cover story, Shanzae Zaeem discusses the psychological toll of war reporting with Younis; namely, the impacts of trying to get the world to see the truth of the genocide while living it. In the interview, translated from Arabic, Younis tells Zaeem, “I try to help my people with the only thing I know – telling their stories.”

By telling Younis’ story, Zaeem highlights the reality journalists and media workers in Palestine face daily. At the same time as Israel bans foreign journalists from Gaza, the occupation has killed over 200 journalists since October 7, 2023, according to reporting from Reporters Without Borders. This is Israel’s attempt to control the narrative by punishing those telling it, deliberately targeting and threatening them and, in some cases, their families. The perseverance of Palestinian journalists in the face of such conditions reminds us we have no excuse not to continue to resist. 

Closer to home, resistance is required in different ways, as James J. Brittain reports in “Ruling ideas in Nova Scotia.” Brittain sounds the alarm on Nova Scotia’s passing of Bill 12, an Act which shackles academia to the economic priorities of the government. Brittain warns that this legislation could have far-reaching consequences, but due to the rest of Canada’s sidelining of news from the Maritimes, it continues to fly under the radar.

States often try to exert control over the public discourse, by legislation, by force, or by other means. Efforts to suppress truthful reporting, genuine inquiry, and critical thinking are efforts to change how the public thinks and reacts to the world around them. In that respect, we must resist however we can.

In this landscape of increasing government control and cuts to funding, being able to continue publishing alternative, grassroots reporting and analysis means leaning on the reliably excellent people who want to help bring that work to fruition. The work we do would not be possible without our fact-checkers, and Briarpatch would like to extend a big thank you to Emma Schultz who has been fact-checking pieces for us for eight years. Thank you Emma; we’ll miss your fact-checking eye around here!

In solidarity, 
meera eragoda, Editor

Order your copy of the September/October 2025 issue here.

The CCGS Amundsen is Canada’s only icebreaker dedicated to research. The field school participants were part of the second half of its last leg back from Resolute Bay to Quebec City last fall. Photo by Meral Jamal.

The last day we are all together is a quiet one. It is late October along the coast of Newfoundland and Labrador. The Torngat Mountains are around us, Ungava Bay firmly behind, and the captain of the Canadian Coast Guard Ship (CCGS) Amundsen has just announced we will be arriving in Quebec City, the icebreaker’s final destination, a day early. 

After five days together on the ground in Kuujjuaq, Nunavik and eight aboard the Amundsen, the 26 students and professors who have come together for the International Graduate School on the Emergence of Innovative Blue Economies in the Arctic seem simultaneously eager to be onshore and reluctant to leave the vessel and their newfound community.

Philippe Archambault understands these feelings and addresses both sentiments, reminding the group that learning about Inuit knowledge is a necessary first step in finding the gaps in scientific research and data collection across the region. 

“The blue economy often involves competing interests, such as conservation efforts versus commercial exploitation,” he says.  

Together with Gérard Duhaime, a sociology professor at Université Laval who co-developed this school, Archambault invites the team to a sharing circle in the officer’s lounge that afternoon. The hope is to encourage them to think deeply and holistically – beyond their specific, often narrow disciplines – about their time together. 

“I was absolutely certain that by meeting Nunavimmiut, students will have to see the connection between, for instance, water nutrients and fishing, hunting, sharing harvests, and good health and good spirit,” he says. 

Thinking critically about a “blue” economy 

By taking students to Nunavik, Duhaime says he wants them to better understand and learn from Inuit who have been managing their own ocean resources ethically and effectively long before the term “blue economy” was coined and long before researchers like himself began studying the region. 

He also wants them to challenge the concept of a “blue economy” itself, because in the North and across the Arctic, the idea is being promoted “as a way to invite business people to improve their practices, to avoid creating inequalities […] the reality is not the same thing.” 

The adoption of the term “blue economy” is fairly new; it was conceived a little over a decade ago at the United Nations Conference on Sustainable Development in Brazil in 2012. Since then, the UN has also announced the UN Decade of Ocean Science for Sustainable Development (2021–2030), seeking “to stimulate ocean science and knowledge generation to reverse the decline of the state of the ocean system and catalyse new opportunities for sustainable development of this massive marine ecosystem.”

Governance in a global blue economy 

This growing interest in the blue economy and blue growth in coastal communities, many of them Indigenous communities, masks ongoing social, political, and historical issues and is of concern for many researchers. 

“[Ocean management] is not a new thing – for decades Inuit have been saying ‘We know how to manage the resources ourselves. We know the animals. We know how much we can take and when, and when people among us take more, then they can distribute it,’” he says.

An article on marine policy entitled “Enabling Indigenous innovations to re-centre social licence to operate in the Blue Economy” notes “increasing economic activity in coastal areas and seas [...] creates opportunities and poses potential environmental and social risks and inequities, particularly relating to coastal communities and Indigenous societies.” In Canada, this has meant reduced opportunities for wild fishing, thus diminishing Indigenous communities’ ability to pass their cultural activities to successive generations; a tension between First Nations’ collective ownership and that of private companies; and government policies that have historically led to a loss of Indigenous communities’ access to resources. Consequently, this has fostered generalized distrust of government among First Nations and risks to culture and territorial sovereignty, particularly in the context of unresolved land claims, which are among the primary objections to aquaculture development in communities. An inclusive, sustainable, and equitable strategy, the article argues, includes Indigenous resource ownership and a proper distribution of benefits. 

Another research paper, looking at how the development of a capitalist blue economy in the Caribbean led to subsequent inequalities, points out that establishing the foundations for shared ocean systems and regional development “will require confronting and redressing colonial and postcolonial histories of systematic underdevelopment.”

As Duhaime notes, sustainable use of ocean resources is already compatible with the Inuit worldview. The challenge is connecting these resources to an economic model without further limiting the social agency of Inuit. 

“[Ocean management] is not a new thing – for decades Inuit have been saying ‘We know how to manage the resources ourselves. We know the animals. We know how much we can take and when, and when people among us take more, then they can distribute it,’” he says. 

Local solutions 

A locally led and community-driven solution that has both connected Inuit in Kuujjuaq to the blue economy and ensured it is they who benefit first is the Napukaaliuvik Kuujjuaq fish hatchery. 

Spearheaded by Allen Gordon, an Inuk historian and former president of the Nayumivik Landholding Corporation, the hatchery began in 1999 with the goal of increasing fish stocks in the Nepihjee River watershed near Kuujjuaq. 

While char is available in communities around Nunavik, it had been inaccessible to Inuit through fishing in Kuujjuaq prior to the hatchery. Gordon began working 25 years ago to reintroduce a culturally significant fish for Inuit in a way that would benefit the community economically. 

According to Gordon, the project built off the work of the late Geoffrey Power who was working with the federal government in the 1960s to address job scarcity for Inuit and find alternative means of economic development. The University of Waterloo professor was studying estuarine salmon in the region. Finding that the salmon would keep travelling down to the mouth of the river and back, he extended this research to char. 

“[Geoffrey] wanted to survey streams where char go upriver because there's a lot of streams that float on Ungava Bay – he wanted to check to see if there were streams that had problems for char to go up,” Gordon said.

The team found trout and white fish were present but char were unable to migrate upstream due to a set of high rapids and waterfalls. 

The solution was simple: using dynamite to clear two channels through solid rock that would create a path for the fish to travel through. 

“You could just touch your fingers along the char’s belly and the eggs were just coming out.

Yet it took over two decades and Gordon becoming the president of Nayumivik Landholding Corporation to achieve this vision. Like many Inuit-led and Inuit-focused economic development projects, the lack of funding made it impossible for communities like Kuujjuaq to pursue important solutions immediately. According to Gordon, both the federal and provincial governments refused to fund the hatchery. 

Once the path was cleared for char to travel upstream in the watershed, Gordon said the next step was boosting the char population for Inuit to be able to fish sustainably. Gordon began working with a commercial fisher from the Gaspésie region of Quebec who was creating char incubators in Kangiqsualujjuaq, another Nunavik community that already had access to the fish. 

After finding a location for the incubator in an old water plant, Gordon got permission from the neighbouring village of Tasiujaq to collect 30,000 fish eggs from a spawning site in Finger Lake. Alongside his brother-in-law, he travelled to the community and using headlamps and dip nets, collected 5,000 eggs on the first night. 

“You could just touch your fingers along the char’s belly and the eggs were just coming out.”

“We collected about 25,000 eggs the next night […] we brought the eggs back and that was our first batch at the new arctic char fish hatchery.” 

In the time since, Gordon said the hatchery has had an over 90 per cent success rate in the eggs hatching each year. Inuit in the community have been able to enjoy fishing for char but the benefits have also gone beyond – younger generations have been introduced to the hatchery in school and through public visits, learning it’s possible to make a difference for their community while working independently. 

“We started knocking on the doors of different federal departments, and even [the Quebec government] and the answer was always […] ‘We don't want to support hatcheries for overfishing,’” he said. 

“We were trying to explain, this is not overfishing. We're creating a new char fishery for the village. The hatchery is to seed and enhance and speed up the introduction [of char for our community].” 

‘[But] then we just said, the government won’t help us, we'll just do it locally. We've done it all locally [since].” 

Breaking the silos in Northern research 

Despite a global interest in and enthusiasm for local and global blue economies, Duhaime says it’s important to note the process of building any kind of economy or scaling up economic growth is far more challenging in the Canadian Arctic, especially in front-line communities like Kuujjuaq, where Inuit continue to fight colonialism and climate change. 

Issues with housing, infrastructure, and education may seem recent but these communities were facing these challenges even 46 years ago, when Duhaime first arrived. 

The blue economy field school was, in many ways, a crash course for the student researchers and mentors. It was the first time many were visiting Kuujjuaq and Nunavik, the first time they were working across disciplines, and the first time they were given the space to think deeply about the blue economy and its impacts on Indigenous community agency. 

Participants met with local research partners that Duhaime has worked with, including Makivvik Corporation’s vice-president for the department of environment, wildlife and research Adamie Delisle Alaku; Kativik Regional Government chairperson Hilda Snowball; Nunavik Elders’ Committee member Martha Greig; and Kangiqsualujjuaq mayor Maggie Emudluk. 

PhD student Samantha Farquhar is studying the relationship between commercial fishing and local food security in Kuujjuaq, and has already been speaking with Nunavimmiut about the interconnectedness of fisheries and access to safe, healthy, and nutritious food. What she’s found is “there’s two sides of the blue economy in Nunavik.” 

“You have this traditional side in the sense that people have been utilizing resources for their benefit for thousands of years. And then you have the capitalist side, where you do have Makivvik, which is a development agency and they have tried a couple of different ventures [geared toward] commercial fisheries,” Farquhar says, noting that in her research she found the corporation has had two business ventures – a bioscience company and an ocean tourism company. 

“Of course, the traditional side of the blue economy has been existing for thousands of years and so then there's the question of, well, can these two things actually integrate?” 

“The blue economy is a political program, it’s an economic program, and it's an ideological program. It's a program to continue this system based on profit, based on economic growth. Yet we all know that economic growth is one of the basic problems that the environment is facing,” Duhaime says.

Questions still remain about the potential of a blue economy in Ungava Bay, one that benefits Nunavik Inuit and is built on their traditional knowledge and way of life instead of taking from it. 

Farquhar said leaving with these questions may in fact speak to the success of the school in reflecting the complex realities that Nunavimmiut experience on the ground. 

For Duhaime and Archambault, what matters most is challenging students’ perspectives and reshaping how they work to better serve Nunavimmiut. 

“When you try to analyze a specific situation like in Nunavik, you have to be very humble when you know the reality [only] on the surface,” Duhaime said of this process, encouraging students to remember that the region is different from the rest of Quebec in being remote, facing a high cost of living, being inundated with businesses that send their profits down south, and being seen as separate from the rest of the province as well as the country in a larger sense. 

“This housing crisis that you've heard about, all the other social problems that maybe you have heard about, all the public services that are not there is because each time [a community in Nunavik] needs a nurse, each time they need a truck or sewage, each time they need any infrastructure – they have to prepare a file, ask evidences, have a business plan, go down to Quebec City and see a deputy minister and sell the project,” Duhaime continues. “We can imagine that we will transform the economy for the best by adopting a blue policy, a green policy [or] green practices and blue practices but Inuit don't even have the basic services in the region.”

“The blue economy is a political program, it’s an economic program, and it's an ideological program. It's a program to continue this system based on profit, based on economic growth. Yet we all know that economic growth is one of the basic problems that the environment is facing,” Duhaime says. 

“If profit stays at the centre of all action, then the situation will continue to worsen,” he adds. 

“We would appreciate to be asked ‘What research do you need to have done?’ instead of somebody just out of the blue wanting to research something that’s [not important] for us,” Greig says. “Nunavimmiut like to collaborate with everybody. But it also has to come back to us too.”

Dozens of cultural workers at the launch of No Arms in the Arts in front of Hot Docs Cinema on Bloor Street. Photo by Yuula Benivolski.

On March 26, 2024, Scotiabank-sponsored Hot Docs announced its slate of festival programming to a crowd of media and industry regulars. As the scheduled remarks came to a close, dozens of artists, filmmakers, writers, and cultural workers took over the street outside the Bloor Street cinema. In front of a backdrop featuring a pattern of bloody Scotiabank logos and bombs, we launched No Arms in the Arts, a campaign to demand that the bank divest its stake in Elbit Systems, Israel’s largest weapons manufacturer – a holding then valued at US $402.1 million. 

“Here today, we remind each other that the arts industries are nothing without artists,” says Thea Lim, novelist and former Giller Prize finalist, opening our press conference, “that this meagre platform of ours actually has serious weight if we stand together and we recondition ourselves to find meaning in our collective power.”

In the preceding weeks, artists waging cultural sector battles were mostly focused on challenging the censorship of Palestine solidarity at leading arts institutions. In November 2023, as Israeli forces raided Al-Shifa hospital, a handful of protesters were arrested after taking the stage during the CBC live broadcast of the 2023 Giller Prize gala. They held signs that read “Scotiabank Funds Genocide,” in order to draw attention to the fact that Scotiabank was Elbit’s largest foreign investor. A few days later, hundreds staged a sit-in at the lobby of Scotiabank’s downtown Toronto headquarters. These ad hoc initiatives were formed through a sense of urgency. Though powerful, they often lacked the structure and strategy to win broad demands that required sustained pressure.

No Arms in the Arts built on that momentum by bringing these various formations together around a common target and a clear, material goal. There were several major Scotiabank-funded festivals and prizes scheduled throughout the year, which meant that we could build pressure over an extended period, bringing in more people at each juncture. By forming a loose coalition of groups which were already building a base across cultural sectors, we could adapt our tactics to suit the context. For example, because filmmakers rely on major festivals for distribution, the campaign focused on using Hot Docs’ platform to call attention to its complicit sponsor, rather than to boycott the festival entirely. Since writers don’t rely on prizes in the same way – and there are far fewer beneficiaries – a boycott of the Giller Prize was more viable. By positioning our launch against that of Hot Docs, we drew press attention from the industry event, and announced a sustained, escalatory campaign to flip the script on Scotiabank’s artwashing of its investments. 

As of today, the campaign comprises a number of different groups, including: Artists Against Artwashing, CanLit Responds, Film Workers for Palestine, Musicians Against Artwashing, and Toronto Writers Against the War on Gaza. 

Our work – published, exhibited, screened, accrued – makes up the raw material that arts institutions require to function. It is the collective withdrawal of our work, not only its content, that underlies our leverage in forcing institutions to reckon with our demands. Through strategic boycotts, direct actions, and collective organizing, our campaign has chipped away at the individualizing idea that artists’ political contributions are limited to their artistic creations alone. 

As two initial organizers of the campaign, we are now sitting down nearly a year and a half later to reflect on our successes and failures, and chart the course ahead.

Scotiabank divestment

By late spring of 2024, our campaign had become a familiar sidebar in mainstream arts and culture stories. Renowned filmmakers had stood on Hot Docs stages, calling attention to the incongruity between the ethics of their films and its sponsor’s investment. Several artists and organizations had pulled out of their Scotiabank-funded CONTACT Photography Festival exhibitions, partnerships, and residencies. As of the end of June, Scotiabank’s asset management company had cut their original Elbit stake by over half, representing a total divestment of around US $329.4 million since October 2023.  

We built this momentum through hundreds of organizing conversations with cultural workers, maintaining open lines of communication and challenging our own assumptions about who was likely to join and who could be moved.

While Scotiabank claimed the decision was unaffected by external pressure, Elbit’s CEO has attributed falling stock prices to the work of pressure campaigns in Canada, saying, “Some investors, fortunately only a few, experienced political pressures of some sort and decided to sell, for example the Canadian fund that sold a large number of shares and pushed the share price down.” After several quarters of divestment, Scotiabank retained about US $113 million of Elbit stock, about a quarter of the value of its 2023 stake. 

Meanwhile, by July 2024, the Giller still hadn’t addressed the over 2,000 authors who had signed a letter calling on the prize to drop charges against the Giller protesters, or 2023 Giller Prize-winning author Sarah Bernstein’s claim that the prize had tried to stifle any mention of Palestine at her scheduled book club event, which led her to cancel.  

It was only after 37 authors with 2024 prize-eligible books – along with eight former finalists and winners – boycotted the prize that the Giller was compelled to respond. In September 2024, the Giller dropped Scotiabank from its name while retaining the sponsorship, attempting to disguise performative PR as progress. Despite months of coverage aimed at undermining the boycott – including one screed for the National Post in which Conrad Black argued that the Giller “must not cave to terror-supporting elites” – the boycott swelled to hundreds of authors by early 2025. Following the departures of two 2025 prize jurors in February 2025, the Foundation announced the end of its 20-year Scotiabank partnership. Two months later, Hot Docs quietly acknowledged that Scotiabank had relinquished recognition rights for the 2025 festival, and that it would be their final year as a festival sponsor.

We built this momentum through hundreds of organizing conversations with cultural workers, maintaining open lines of communication and challenging our own assumptions about who was likely to join and who could be moved.

In order to fight against the austerity measures that have been imposed on the sector, we have to understand that arts funding isn’t driven by benevolence alone.

In CanLit Responds, many of these conversations involved thinking through questions like why we needed a boycott of the Giller Prize in order to build power toward a common set of demands, rather than passively allowing Giller and Scotiabank to part ways while leaving its other Zionist funding like Indigo Books and the Azrieli Foundation intact; or why it would be more impactful for authors to join the Giller boycott instead of holding out for the unlikely possibility of winning the prize and making a statement onstage. 

“As a writer, reaching out to my fellow authors and having conversations is really where the work of organizing happens,” CanLit Responds organizer Cassidy McFadzean stresses, noting that social media posts aren’t comparable. 

Former 2025 Giller juror Aaron Tucker emphasizes this point, in accounting for his departure from the jury: “I realized when I was put in conversation and actually had to speak my reasons for being on the jury aloud, that those rationales were almost immediately insufficient and weren’t nearly strong enough to justify continuing. I needed to hear myself say those things before I was able to understand I needed to leave.”

Some have argued that pressuring institutions to cut ties with genocide is pushing large sponsors out of the arts in an already precarious funding landscape. While they may be rightly concerned about the future of arts funding, these critiques ignore the decline in corporate arts sponsorship that has already been developing for over a decade. Prior to our campaign’s existence, Scotiabank had notified CONTACT Photography Festival that they would not be renewing their funding past 2024. In an article on the decision, sponsorship experts told the Globe and Mail’s Josh O’Kane that "potential sponsors are paying more attention to social causes they believe will boost their brand, while the well-heeled world of pro sports offers more eyeballs and data to prove returns on investment." What good is an arts sector that must be a reliable, safe investment to survive? In order to fight against the austerity measures that have been imposed on the sector, we have to understand that arts funding isn’t driven by benevolence alone. It’s impossible to realize our leverage if we can't identify what funders are getting in return.

Refocusing in our context

By the end of 2024, Scotiabank had changed course from previous quarters’ divestments, quietly increasing its stake in Elbit from 557,400 shares at the end of September 2024 to 700,100 shares (valued at over US $268 million by March 2025 due to increasing share prices). This comes amid Israel announcing its goal of total conquest of Palestine following Trump’s election, a sharp increase in Elbit’s profits, and commitments to increased military spending among NATO countries.

Here, we see both the uses and the limitations of a campaign that’s grown to become synonymous with a single target. Scotiabank’s 1832 Asset Management makes investment decisions regarding Elbit that are difficult for us to fully explain or predict. Even if Scotiabank were to fully divest from Elbit, another investor would buy those shares. This means that a divestment win might not affect the target company’s profits or translate directly into reduced financial and military support for Israel. Nevertheless, divestment campaigns influence standards and ethical norms around investments in arms manufacturing and in Israel – for example, earlier divestments by major European banks and pension funds brought Elbit’s international law violations into mainstream financial sector conversations, potentially constraining their access to capital.

We wanted No Arms in the Arts to be a structure within which we could fight campaigns against multiple targets with material ties to Israel, including the HESEG Foundation which supports the Israeli military through its “lone soldiers” program, and the Azrieli Foundation, a charity whose corporate arm profits from illegal West Bank settlements. We initially targeted Scotiabank for strategic reasons, but never intended it to be our sole focus.

In a recent report, Just Peace Advocates revealed that between 2019 and 2023 alone, Indigo CEO Heather Reisman and her husband Gerald Schwartz sent over $43 million to HESEG through their own private foundation. But when Indigo Books and the Azrieli Foundation were included on the Giller boycott’s list of demands, some authors were confused about why, and hesitated to sign on. One year in, we haven’t yet moved everyone who mobilized against Scotiabank toward these additional targets.

Israel is the top yearly international recipient of Canadian charitable donations, from charities and foundations whose non-profit status facilitates their ability to send millions of dollars to Israel.

Canadian charities and foundations directly funnel millions of dollars toward Israel – a paper published by Miles Howe, assistant professor in sociology at Brock University, reveals total donations in 2023 were $271 million. Israel is the top yearly international recipient of Canadian charitable donations, from charities and foundations whose non-profit status facilitates their ability to send millions of dollars to Israel. For decades, charitable status has been used by such groups to fund Zionist political objectives, which contravenes Canadian charity laws. 

This gap in understanding of charities’ role in bankrolling Israel remains a challenge. This is in part because we don’t know exactly what compels the Canada Revenue Agency (CRA) to open an investigation on a given charity. The CRA claims that public pressure does not play a role, even though decades-long campaigns like the one against the Jewish National Fund of Canada have had recent successes. Howe, whose current research focuses on Zionist Canadian philanthropy, suggests that the International Court of Justice's recent ruling deeming Israel's occupation of Palestinian territories illegal may have been a factor, since it implicates member states that support it. 

Nevertheless, No Arms in the Arts organizing has put pressure on art institutions like the Toronto Arts Foundation to cut ties with the Azrieli Foundation. This work has made many more people aware that the Azrieli Foundation’s namesake and sole funder is the Azrieli Group, Israel’s largest real estate company which has significant investments in Bank Leumi, an Israeli bank financing illegal settlements in Palestine; and that the foundation funds Zionist organizations like HonestReporting Canada and Im Tirtzu, a far-right Israeli organization involved in blocking aid to Gaza. 

It’s critical to understand the ways these organizations insinuate themselves into the cultural conversation, in order to grasp the impact of excluding them. Reisman and Schwartz are afforded cultural legitimacy by running a supposedly benign bookseller like Indigo that is crucial for their broader project; why else would they continue to operate a franchise that has consistently recorded financial losses? That legitimacy, coupled with HESEG’s charity status, provides the cover to operate in contradiction. 

Art – and artists – are often positioned as a political and ethical compass. It’s part of what makes this sector a potent space to organize, and why the state has worked so hard to depoliticize it.

Indigo markets itself as an indie-supporting bookstore with a hyper-Canadian identity, most recently forming a lobbying front with the Canadian Independent Booksellers Association against U.S. book tariffs. Meanwhile, the company has not only been part of the decimation of Canadian independent bookselling over the last two decades; it has also made independent publishers dangerously reliant on it for promotion and distribution. Reisman has positioned herself as an Oprah-like influencer within Canadian literature –  highlighting authors via her “Heather’s Picks” stickers, podcasts, and public events – in a way that’s unique compared to the CEOs of other book monopolies. She fosters an image as a benevolent, progressive champion of Canadian literature, while simultaneously working to criminalize dissent against Indigo and HESEG and offering scholarships to foreigners serving in the Israeli Occupying Forces and nearly maxing out political donations to the Conservative Party of Canada in 2024.

Cultural power at scale

In 1975, the Central Intelligence Agency’s head of covert action commented, "Books differ from all other propaganda media, primarily because one book can significantly change the reader’s attitude and action to an extent unmatched by the impact of any other single medium.” 

Art – and artists – are often positioned as a political and ethical compass. It’s part of what makes this sector a potent space to organize, and why the state has worked so hard to depoliticize it. 

In his book On Zionist Literature, Ghassan Kanafani, a Palestinian writer, revolutionary, and member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine who was assassinated by Israeli forces in 1972, analyzes the ways in which novels have served to bolster Zionist political objectives. He claims Zionist literature serves the double purpose of both providing material for, and simultaneously justifying, Zionist writers’ racist and nationalist ideologies. This makes the publishing industry an active site of imperial politics.

As conditions worsen, how can we resist the allure of self-preservation and affirm Mohammed el-Kurd's directive to “run toward Gaza, not away from it” with the understanding that there is no 'other side’ where art can flourish on top of a siege without end, or resolution, or any accounting for what’s been lost?

Even as our campaign pressures arts organizations to cut ties with funders that materially and ideologically prop up Israel, we know that to truly contend with the influence of Zionist institutions, we need to meaningfully build alternatives. We must scale up and coordinate our disparate organizing efforts, rather than moving in ad hoc opposition from prize to prize, festival to festival.

From the 11-day No Arms in the Arts Festival counter-programming in April and May 2024 to its book clubs that have been part of the Boycott Giller campaign, artists and writers have shown that it is possible to share our work outside of prizes and festivals beholden to corporate funding or non-profit co-optation. These events were not one-off happenings, but tactics aimed at dispelling the notion that artists can only ever speak truth to power. We’re looking to build our own power instead.

In her statement to Hyperallergic on withdrawing her work from the CONTACT Photography Festival, artist Sophie Sabet said, “These are not the conditions in which I want to make art. These are not the conditions that support me as an artist or my community. This is a direct link to the genocide of so many other artists and people that are living in Gaza.”

Sabet’s comments are in line with a conversation that we continue to have with artists and cultural workers over a year later. Under what conditions can artists make work? How do we support artists – especially those who are emerging or precarious – who are not only losing work as a result of their political organizing, but also facing the brunt of increasing surveillance and repression? As conditions worsen, how can we resist the allure of self-preservation and affirm Mohammed el-Kurd's directive to “run toward Gaza, not away from it” with the understanding that there is no 'other side’ where art can flourish on top of a siege without end, or resolution, or any accounting for what’s been lost?

In 1960, Beirut hosted the Third Afro-Asian Writers’ Conference. The conference’s final resolution on Palestine called on attendees to stand against writers who had betrayed “the honour of the written word” by serving the interests of the Zionist movement; to build an anti-Zionist cultural front and take strong, material action toward Palestinian liberation. 

If we want to get serious about winning, we have to recognize ourselves as cultural workers with labour power, and cultural boycotts as labour actions. We have to try – with our work, not only our words – to heed this call.

Matheus Cenali/Pexels

I have in my mind the memory of one Christmas Eve. Thick snowflakes were coming down and the sun was starting to set. I was running around getting last-minute items on Avenue Cartier, a street dominated by restaurants and bars, in Quebec City’s Montcalm. There was a group of carollers singing Ça berger outside of my favourite grocery store, Provisions Inc. 

Provisions Inc. always dressed up for the season, that year covered in soft yellow lights and adorned with evergreen boughs. People were rushing in and out. Founded in 1949, the grocery store was then run by the third generation of the Drouin family. In a neighbourhood that boasts three other grocery stores, a specialty cheese store, a butcher shop, and two fish markets, Provisions Inc. had survived seven decades as an independent store. I passed the carollers on my way in. 

But the grocery industry is difficult and the Drouin cousins were tired of operating Provisions Inc. They put the store up for sale and, to this day, it remains empty. The couple who last bought it from the Drouin family tried to operate it and then fled Quebec, claiming through their lawyers that Provisions Inc. financially ruined them. 

Indeed, it will always be a hard go for a new, independent grocer in a world that is dominated by IGAs, Costcos, Maxis, Metros (a Provisions Inc. neighbour), and wholesalers tailored to the needs of large corporations. 

About a year ago, the neighbourhood council asked residents what they wanted to replace Provisions Inc. The discussion coalesced around one idea: a grocery store run publicly and/or not for profit. The city would need to be involved, we reasoned, either through purchasing the building or perhaps even running it.

This is the logic behind Zohran Mamdani’s promise to bring public grocery stores to New York City. The socialist state representative is running for mayor and a public grocery store in every borough is one of his promises.

City-run grocery stores may be rare, but the idea is having a moment. In some parts of the United States, alternatives to large, corporate grocery chains are seen as a way to fight food deserts – areas where people have limited to no access to fresh and healthy food. As a result, residents are forced to rely on canned or processed foods, which creates serious health disparities. These neighbourhoods are also overwhelmingly poor.

In Winnipeg, for example, one study estimated that 9 per cent of urban Winnipeggers live in a food desert. 

I’m the board chair of the Canadian Centre for Policy Alternatives, a research institute that promotes alternative policy ideas including public ownership in many different industries, so I called up Niall Harney, senior researcher with the CCPA-Manitoba to see what role he thought public grocery stores could play in Canada.

In total, that’s $11.7 billion in profits in just two years, taken from average people and pocketed by Canada’s biggest grocers.

“A public retailer with a public mandate to provide cheap groceries in food deserts would be huge,” he said. “Often, low profits drive big retailers out of low-income communities, creating food deserts, and being able to offer people fresh food with profit cut out of the equation could make a big difference.”

This is the logic behind Zohran Mamdani’s promise to bring public grocery stores to New York City. The socialist state representative is running for mayor and a public grocery store in every borough is one of his promises. These stores would be located in vacant lots or buildings, be exempt from property taxes (because they’re publicly owned), and benefit from economies of scale through city-wide bulk purchasing of materials. Erion Malasi, an Illinois policy and advocacy director, quoted in The New Republic, argues that with enough time, publicly owned stores could become cost-neutral, and the break on property taxes could be enough of an edge to help them resist the pressure of the large grocery chains. 

Harney has been reading the proceedings of the federal Standing Committee on Agriculture and Agri-Food, which grapples with the high cost of food in Canada, and he is struck by how badly the system needs competition. Because of how few players exist within Canada’s food wholesale industries, companies operate in lockstep, pushing up the price of the cost to place items on shelves.

And critically, a public grocery option could change how people see food in Canada: from something that is a commodity to something that is a human right that all people deserve access to, regardless of their income. 

In 2023, Loblaw made $2.5 billion in profits. That number rose to $2.6 billion in 2024. In 2023, Metro made $1.01 billion in profits. That number fell to $972.9 million in 2024. In 2023, Sobeys made $727.1 million in profits. That number fell to $681.6 million in 2024. In total, that’s $8.5 billion in profits in just two years, taken from average people and pocketed by Canada’s biggest grocers.

A public option would inject competition and force these corporations to reduce their prices as they fight for access to Canadian shoppers, he reasons. 

There would be other benefits too, like using the system to shore up Canadian supply chains through privileging Canadian farms and food manufacturers, or paying decent wages, thereby raising average wages within the grocery sector.

And critically, a public grocery option could change how people see food in Canada: from something that is a commodity to something that is a human right that all people deserve access to, regardless of their income.  

Creating this system would be difficult. Industry owners would furiously resist it, as it would undercut their profits. The National Supermarket Association in the United States has called Mamdani’s plan “Soviet,” and John Catsimatidis, a Trump acolyte billionaire who owns grocery stores in the U.S. has mocked. 

But look beyond the self-interested naysaying of entrenched stakeholders, and the outcome could be delicious.

**Correction, August 6, 2025: A previous version of this article stated the total revenue figures of Loblaw, Sobey's, and Metro, as opposed to their net earning figures. This has now been corrected.

**Correction, November 1, 2025: This article has been updated to reference the adjusted net earning figures of the grocers referenced.

As intense criminalization and suppression of the pro-Palestine movement is occurring in North America and Europe, “protest bubble” bylaws have been either drafted or introduced in cities across Ontario – like Ottawa, Brampton, and Vaughan – under the guise of curbing antisemitism. Toronto is the latest city to adopt this legislation, which limits protests to be a certain distance away from religious institutions, schools, child-care centres, and other sites in need of extra protection from Jew hatred. In Thornhill and Montreal, protests have been held outside of synagogues that host events for the sale of illegally occupied homes in the West Bank. Despite being attended, and in some cases organized, by Jewish protesters themselves, these demonstrations were deemed antisemitic by mainstream media and politicians. In Thornhill, a Zionist used a nail gun to threaten pro-Palestine demonstrators and was subsequently arrested. This detail seemed to drop from some subsequent retellings of the event. 

After nearly two years of live-streamed atrocities in Gaza, the West Bank, and Lebanon, it is hard for me as a Jewish woman to contend with the discourse of antisemitism that continues to be held up as a dire imperative in the face of a genocide.

These were not the only demonstrations in support of Palestinian life deemed unsafe for the Jewish community. Again in Toronto, members of neighbourhood group Eglinton-Lawrence and Don Valley 4 Palestine were arrested and barred from waving Palestinian flags on an area overpass. Again, these actions were portrayed by Jewish groups, city councillors, and police as being directed against the Jewish residents of the neighbourhood and were thus forbidden. But when a Palestine protest followed the typical protest path in Toronto and a single protester climbed on top of a ledge outside of Mount Sinai Hospital to wave a Palestinian flag, this too became an area in need of protection from Jew hatred. Then-prime minister Justin Trudeau condemned the protest as reprehensible and antisemitic. Toronto mayor Olivia Chow accused protesters of targeting Jewish institutions with antisemitism and hate (the hospital is open to patients of all faiths). Meanwhile the front entrance to the hospital is only open until 6 p.m. and had been locked before the march briefly passed by at 8 p.m. No corrections were issued by any politicians.

Weaponizing Judaism

After nearly two years of live-streamed atrocities in Gaza, the West Bank, and Lebanon, it is hard for me as a Jewish woman to contend with the discourse of antisemitism that continues to be held up as a dire imperative in the face of a genocide. I have seen too many murdered and dismembered babies to worry about antisemitism right now. Yes, antisemitism is real and it is a problem. And yet, as I listen to my friends from Gaza list the dozens of family members they have lost, my concern about the genuine antisemitism that exists seems unimportant. At a moment when tens of thousands of Palestinians in Gaza have been murdered in cold blood, why is decrying antisemitism a reasonable response to the chants of “from the river to the sea,” calling for freedom for Palestinians? 

As Israel does everything in its power to conflate Jewish identity with the militaristic fascism occurring in Palestine, I wonder if perhaps Israel is not responsible for the new wave of actual antisemitic incidents. Conflating all Jews with the actions of the State of Israel is antisemitic, but that is the exact conflation Israel makes when it argues that any opposition to the actions of the Israeli state constitutes antisemitism. As an anti-Zionist Jew, I’ve spent the past near decade seeking to explain the difference between anti-Zionism and antisemitism. I’ve been part of Jewish organizations that exist to denounce the notion that wanting Palestinian liberation is antisemitic. But over 18 months into a livestreamed genocide, continuing to talk about antisemitism has become deeply problematic.

But as proud as I am of my Jewish heritage and understand how it draws me to activism, I’m no longer certain of the merit of organizing from a Jewish identity. I am calling for a free Palestine as a human who has seen and heard the atrocities happening to other humans.

Zionists claim that any mention of Palestine is an attack on Jewish people – that Jews cannot be safe unless an entire population is exterminated. This is the discourse that most Jews have been fed their entire lives, and many truly believe it. The fear some Jewish people feel in this moment is real, even if the source of the fear is misidentified. And the accusation of antisemitism, no matter how farcical or based in racism and Islamophobia, continues to act as a silver bullet through which any action against Israel is quickly deflected. For cities like Toronto, the threat of possible antisemitism even trumps the actual curtailment of civil rights. I myself am scheduled for court-ordered mediation to understand how my actions caused harm to the local community when I protested a Jewish-owned weapons office that supplies Israel. 

This protest included many Jewish protesters and utilized Jewish song and prayer. But as proud as I am of my Jewish heritage and understand how it draws me to activism, I’m no longer certain of the merit of organizing from a Jewish identity. I am calling for a free Palestine as a human who has seen and heard the atrocities happening to other humans. I am demanding the Canadian government enact a two-way arms embargo. I am no longer pleading with Zionist Jews to stop enacting white supremacist tropes of victimhood. 

When any group in Canada seeks to discuss the current genocide in Palestine or the 77-year history of oppression that led to this moment, they are accused of “Jew hatred.” With antisemitism lawsuits being launched on unions and universities across Canada, lawfare is used to silence those who dare to speak out against Jewish supremacy. 

In order to quell these accusations, many groups feel obligated to present two sides in any discussion on Palestine. As an anti-Zionist Jew, my identity and placement in these conversations helps offer a “balanced” perspective while deplatforming Zionists. As a member of Independent Jewish Voices (IJV), a large part of what I and other members have been doing for years is speaking out publicly about Palestine and correcting the notion that doing so is antisemitic. We work to decouple the notion of Zionism as integral to Judaism and encourage others to speak up without fear of seeming antisemitic. We support those who are punished for their stance on Palestine and assure them that calling for freedom for Palestinians from the river to the sea does not harm the Jewish people.

When Jews are invited to discuss the Holocaust, we are not asked to share the stage with Germans. We don’t ask the Indigenous people of Turtle Island to share the stage with Catholic priests on the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. None of these events or days are seen as a threat to the existence of Germans or Catholics.

Yet in 2025, the entire discourse on Palestine has changed. No longer is it a fringe issue. No longer can people claim ignorance or believe this is a conflict between two equal sides. Where previous protests were mostly just Arabs and anti-Zionist Jews, today Palestine is a mainstream topic. Even over 18 months into this genocide, mainstream media continues to report on Israel’s vicious actions. Today, many more people know about the oppression of Palestine and the newfound popularity of this topic has allowed for more conversations, panels, and workshops outside of Palestine-focused organizations. I used to fear violent retaliation for displaying a Palestinian flag at my home, but for the last year and a half it has been flying proudly without incident. One neighbour even complimented it. The current popular display of support for Palestine is something I never imagined and is a sharp contrast to the last major attack on Gaza in 2021. Accordingly, the work of IJV has increased tremendously, as well as our invitations to speak about Palestine. 

On their own merit

But at a moment when tens of thousands of Palestinians in Gaza have been murdered, I wonder why is it still deemed appropriate to talk about antisemitism in the same breath as Palestine? Despite countless international organizations including Amnesty International naming what is happening in Gaza as genocide, groups like the Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs insist that any challenging of the state of Israel as a racist endeavor is an attack on the entirety of the Jewish people and therefore antisemitic. 

However, speaking alongside Palestinians who are directly impacted every single day by Israeli occupation inadvertently feeds into anti-Palestinian racism. When Jews are invited to discuss the Holocaust, we are not asked to share the stage with Germans. We don’t ask the Indigenous people of Turtle Island to share the stage with Catholic priests on the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. None of these events or days are seen as a threat to the existence of Germans or Catholics. We could speculate it’s due to Palestinians taking up armed resistance but so did Jews during the Holocaust. Ukrainians, too, took up armed resistance, using Molotov cocktails against Russian forces who invaded in 2022. When even the Geneva Convention acknowledges the legitimacy of armed struggle against occupation, why are Palestinians subject to the double standard?

Jews and Palestinians are put on stage together as though this genocide is a shared experience between us both. Do those experiencing mass slaughter in real time not deserve to have their stories shared on their own merit?

Placing me on stage next to a Palestinian simply by virtue of my Judaism obscures the colonialism and imperialism at the heart of the Zionist entity and instead mischaracterizes the ethnic cleansing of Palestine as a religious conflict that cannot be understood without deference to the genocidal state dropping bombs with impunity. It also delegitimizes the lived experiences of Palestinians, the very thing these panels are actually seeking to uplift. Jews and Palestinians are put on stage together as though this genocide is a shared experience between us both. Do those experiencing mass slaughter in real time not deserve to have their stories shared on their own merit? 

My grandma surviving the Holocaust has no actual bearing on what is happening in Gaza. And while it is important to share her story and remember her experiences, it need not be combined with discussions about the current genocide in Palestine. Indeed, there is no shortage of Holocaust museums, remembrance days, or mandatory education. Where are these same considerations for the Nakba or the current genocide in Gaza? I would happily participate in a panel that also includes Palestinians, Kashmiris, Eelam Tamils, and Rwandans, but I have seen no such event in the past 20 months. Just as we need not discuss men’s rights on International Women’s Day, we do not need to discuss the plight of Jews every time we talk about Palestine. Palestine and the lived experiences of Palestinians deserve to stand on their own. Palestinians don’t need me to validate their experiences.

It is everyone’s duty to speak out about Palestine and I will continue to do so every chance I get. When I speak at events on Palestine, I often do so beside Palestinians who are actually personally impacted by this genocide. We speak about the oppressive conditions in Gaza and Palestine both before and after October 7, 2023, and the history and context that led to this moment. Often, we share many of the same points, riffing off each other to explain the current genocide in the context of settler colonialism and imperialism. I am forever honoured by these invitations and fundamentally believe that Jewish people have a role to play in the movement for a free Palestine. And yet I hate giving these talks. I hate centring myself and talking about antisemitism while Palestinian babies are dying every day. I’m sickened at how I insert myself into the narrative while the speaker beside me lists the dozens of family members they have forever lost. 

My role here is simple: I am a checkmark that provides “balance” and “two sides” to this conversation. But why does a discussion on genocide require two sides?

Photo by Fight for Farmland

“We’re not just losing farms, we’re literally stabbing a stake in the heart of the most productive farmland in the country,” says Kevin Thomason, an advocate for Fight for Farmland, a group resisting a large-scale agricultural expropriation in the Township of Wilmot. 

In March 2024, owners of six farmland properties and six residential homes in Wilmot Township received knocks on their doors. Canacre, a consulting firm with offices in the U.S. and Canada, handed them an ultimatum: either sell their farmland for $35,000 an acre or be expropriated. They were given ten days to decide. These knocks sparked over a year and counting of protest and strife within this rural community, extending far beyond Wilmot and raising questions often left unasked about rural solidarity and agricultural advocacy across Canada.

Wilmot is a small rural township bordering Waterloo Region in southern Ontario. It relies on agriculture and trucking as its two major industries. Like many other rural townships across Canada, everyone knows everyone, and most families have been in the region for generations, including the farmers threatened with this expropriation. It is classified as Class 1 or prime farmland under Canada’s designation system, the top class of farmland available and which only covers 0.5 per cent of Canada’s soil – however, this statistic has been circulating since the late 1970s and with the decline in farmland in Canada and a lack of updated information, it’s unclear whether this number has stayed the same. This is the only farmland able to grow vegetables with minimal limitations, making it essential for Canada’s food sovereignty. The impacted farmers grow cabbage alongside many other vegetables and produce cheese from the dairy farms both on and surrounding the outlined land for expropriation.

Rural agricultural expropriation takes on a special character; not only are these homes, these are livelihoods and long regional legacies.

Wilmot also lacks extensive infrastructure. The entire township’s drinking water runs on a waterline through the Waterloo aquifer. The vast majority of the township’s roads are older tar and chip rather than asphalt, with many being gravel and unsuitable for heavy industrial traffic. There are only a handful of small public schools scattered across the township, and there is a single van running on weekdays that serves as the only bus source in town, running from the grocery store at the edge of New Hamburg to the borders of the closest urban area, Kitchener. Housing and social services in the area are already under immense strain. This past year, Wilmot citizens spoke out against a proposed property tax hike of 51 per cent due to the township’s ongoing financial crisis. 

This is not a township that can handle the strain of a large-scale industrial site but the regional and provincial leadership thinks industrial development is one way out of the crisis and has deemed it too weak to fight back.

Fight for farmland

Upon receiving Canacre’s notices on behalf of the Region of Waterloo and Wilmot Township – and funded by the provincial government – the landowners immediately contacted each other. They went together to the township offices to ask for an explanation but were met with silence – the township councillors were bound by non-disclosure agreements (NDAs), requiring them to not reveal the purpose of the expropriation. The landowners went further, to the regional Waterloo government, only to find that they too had signed NDAs. Residents and farmers were set to lose their homes and livelihoods and nobody would tell them why. 

Fight for Farmland formed here. All those who had received knocks and threats of expropriation collectively refused the offer to sell. 

Rural agricultural expropriation takes on a special character; not only are these homes, these are livelihoods and long regional legacies. Expropriation involves uprooting entire family histories and lifelong, if not generational, careers. “They are basically threatening to take my life away from me” says impacted farmer Stewart Snyder. 

United and backed by hundreds of community members, the farmers and residents began advocating together against the threatened expropriation of their combined total of 770 acres of land. They organized protests at every council meeting, tractor convoys to Kitchener, Ontario slowing traffic to the city for up to six hours, a mini-documentary series, and letter and phone campaigns. 

Supporters filled the seats at the most recent International Plowing Match, flooding the audience for Premier Doug Ford’s speech with shirt after shirt declaring “NOT WILLING HOSTS” for the unspecified industrial site. Twenty-one times, they have had their requests for information almost entirely denied by the regional government – and the province has enforced the region’s NDA, even as Ontario premier Ford claims to be confused by the lack of transparency. 

“We're not getting tired. I think they’re trying to tie us up and that's not happening,” says Eva Wagler, neighbour and supporter of the farmers facing expropriation. 

With every farm that is lost, local food systems weaken. As more of the population is distanced from farming and an understanding of how crops are grown and livestock is raised, agricultural sovereignty is increasingly threatened.

To this day, no one knows how the land would be used if expropriated. Theories of a Toyota plant or an electric vehicle battery factory have been floated and dismissed again and again. 

One piece of the puzzle

This opaqueness should, and does, concern many in the area, as the expropriation continues. Importantly, the Ontario chapter of the National Farmers Union issued a statement in solidarity with Fight for Farmland and has been regularly compiling information to facilitate access for those looking to keep accurately informed on this case. Other organizations such as Citizens for Safe Ground Water, the Ontario Federation of Agriculture, and the Waterloo Federation of Agriculture have also issued solidarity statements, standing with Wilmot farmers in this fight against expropriation. Their solidarity not only supports those whose land is at risk of expropriation, but it sets a precedent for other cases that may follow.

This is because Wilmot is part of a much wider, longer trend of food sovereignty coming under threat within Ontario and across Canada. In the province, as of 2020, urban sprawl (which has faced dramatic upticks throughout Ford’s premiership) lead to an average of 319 acres of productive farmland being lost every day, the equivalent of one family farm. The province of Ontario has a diverse range of soils due to the geography of the province, yet at this rate all of Ontario’s farmland is set to be lost within the next 100 years. This is a creeping but significant loss to the provincial economy, as the agricultural sector supports roughly 11 per cent of the provincial workforce and contributes more than $50 billion annually in economic activity. 

With every farm that is lost, local food systems weaken. As more of the population is distanced from farming and an understanding of how crops are grown and livestock is raised, agricultural sovereignty is increasingly threatened. Food chain issues during initial stages of the COVID-19 pandemic exposed an overreliance on broad global food networks and amid our national affordability crisis, rising grocery store prices serve as a reminder of just how inaccessible fresh and affordable food is becoming. Local food networks are essential for the reliable food systems we need to sustain us. 

Wilmot is a clear case study within a much larger, much broader erosion of local food networks to make room for large industrial operations. Member of provincial parliament Catherine Fife calls the Wilmot land expropriation "this government's next Greenbelt scandal. Wilmot has become ground zero for farmers across this province.” 

Although there are regional differences, many farmers and municipalities across Canada are facing similar challenges. Quebec and British Columbia are also facing immense pressures of urban sprawl eating into farmland, along with infrastructure projects depleting the capacity for food production. Nova Scotia is dealing with sprawl on top of losses of essential agricultural support services such as food processing facilities and vet clinics. Succession planning, land affordability, and barriers to entry for the upcoming generation of farmers are impacting farmers in Saskatchewan and Manitoba, and increasing severe weather events, disasters, and wildfires across Canada are now annually damaging farms and critical transportation infrastructure, frequently wiping out entire crops and orchards.

Wilmot Township should concern agricultural areas across the country. If this can happen on Class 1 farmland, this same action can easily happen in other regions – on differently classed farmland, in more remote areas, with less public support. This level of land expropriation has only been possible through Premier Ford’s early 2024 enactment of Bill 162 (the Get It Done Act), which expedited expropriation and the need for public input. Wilmot’s land expropriation is neither an inevitability nor an age-old and unsolvable problem. It has been enabled by legislative changes occurring within the last few years under the current premier, but these can be resisted and changed. This should serve as a cause for solidarity from farmers in other areas of Canada seeing similar trends occurring in their regions.

Stumbling but Not Falling

Last July, one of the landowners broke and sold their land to the Region of Waterloo. In what farmers are calling an act of “brutal destruction,” the region quickly hired a company to plow the cornfield upon the transfer being made, destroying 2.8 million pounds of corn across 160 acres, a massive financial loss at roughly $160,000. The crop was just weeks away from harvesting. The Waterloo Region Record reported, “For a community that is all about caring for the land and cultivating crops, it was seen as an act of aggression and intimidation, said Alfred Lowrick, a spokesperson for Fight for Farmland.” No apology from the region has followed, and demands from community members for an inquiry only resulted in a report that was sparse at best and made flawed claims.

This is the solidarity that the Region of Waterloo cannot fully grasp – a solidarity that gets increasingly expensive for them if more and more companies refuse to help steal land from their friends and neighbours.

The plowing incident has faded into the background for Fight for Farmland supporters as questions around international tariffs, provincial and federal elections in both Canada and the U.S., and new municipal issues continue to change the discursive landscape. Since then, more of the 770 acres has been purchased by the Region of Waterloo in preparation for development.  

However, this incident should not be so easily dismissed or forgotten. Its tragedy also highlights a key component of the fight within Wilmot and one that the Region of Waterloo finds difficult to anticipate and quantify – the solidarity and collaboration of farmers and residents. The company hired to do this sudden plowing had to be sourced from over 100 kilometres away in Strathroy as farmers in closer proximity had refused on principle.

This is the solidarity that the Region of Waterloo cannot fully grasp – a solidarity that gets increasingly expensive for them if more and more companies refuse to help steal land from their friends and neighbours. Wilmot Township is an area with a strong history of protest and a strong identity as a proud farming town. It is in this same area, and in the same rural southern Ontarian spirit, that community members lined up their plastic lawn chairs in front of entrances to proposed gravel pit sites known to contaminate local air and water, forming an effective blockade that resembles and functions as yet another porch social. 

And they will do just the same for this fight. 

Protests have not slowed or dwindled over time – Wilmot’s community members remain steadfast in their commitment to protect and fight for each other. To prey on people who make a modest living off their land year after year, lacking the formal degrees, suits and ties, or deep connections to politicians in the region may appear to be simple – but these are the people that Wilmot respects the most, and in this struggle, they have become emblematic of the township’s character. (Throughout my childhood in Wilmot I knew I was close to home whenever we passed a rusted-out billboard on the edge of town that read “Don’t Bitch About Farmers With Your Mouth Full.”) I have been seated in town halls that have devolved, as they often do, into bickering and yelling and tears as participants grapple for time at the microphone, shouting over councillors and township staff, and I have witnessed everyone fall silent when one of the impacted farmers stands up to speak, watching people move aside from the microphone to prioritize and centre their voices.

This does not just stop at Wilmot, however. This ongoing land expropriation case should worry areas far and wide. Wilmot’s case is a clear, documented example of undemocratic governance and exploitation of rural community members. These community members are also exercising all their civic avenues to democratically oppose this action by various levels of government. 

Efforts to oppose the expropriation show that communities are watching and willing to support impacted farmers. Like those who refused to plow their neighbours’ fields, these networks are strong and are only bolstered in the face of this expropriation battle. In the context of an ongoing Ford premiership, alongside other premiers similarly interested in furthering the exploitation of farmland and those living on it, Wilmot’s land expropriation is a litmus test. If industrial development proponents can win here, they gain a valuable precedent to win elsewhere, continuing this trend of undemocratic and exploitative land expropriation. This is a well-publicized case, with plenty of ongoing well-organized and high-energy public support, yet the farmers still have not gained access to crucial information and the case continues to be stalled.

There is no end in sight. However, farmers continue to protest, and community members remain on standby to react to whatever development will occur next. But they do so in solidarity with each other, prepared to do all that is in their power to stop this expropriation from occurring. 

And as Wilmot farmer Arjo Van Bergeijk says, farming continues. “Once the weather blows, I’ll be planting corn. That’s what I’m going to do.”