Author: Gabriela Villarroel

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Arts

Squid Game’s striking portrayal of modern capitalist society

Squid Game has captivated audiences across the world with it’s twisted mix of Korean childhood games and violent massacres, but the show’s hidden message says more than audiences might think

Warning: Spoilers ahead, but no violent details will be discussed. 

If there is one series that has been on everyone’s lips, it’s no doubt the record-breaking Netflix show Squid Game. With more than 111 million viewers across the world, the visionary Korean series by Hwang Dong-hyuk has turned into the streaming service’s biggest debut show of all time.

The show is a striking mix of violence, pastel-coloured playgrounds and cinematic suspense, exhibiting masterful storytelling throughout. Despite only having nine episodes, the plot allows for immense character development; no one is painted one-dimensionally in Hwang’s explosive universe. In fact, the human complexity of each character is possibly one of the show’s greatest strengths.

The main character, Seong Gi-hun, with his irresponsible spending habits and poor parenting skills, doesn’t immediately tug at the audience’s heart strings; however, as the game progresses, we discover his light-hearted humour, good intentions and the almost foolish extent of his trust, all of which end up endearing him to us.

Meanwhile, the main character’s childhood best friend, Cho Sang-woo, isn’t the kind of person we would expect to fall into financial ruin. A business graduate at the top of his class, Cho is intelligent and clearly ambitious, but he finds himself trapped by excessive debt after his investments and business plans go wrong.

The range and contrast of characters prove that it isn’t only the most vulnerable which are affected by our society’s economic system. In fact, the show does a great job of showing a compelling and deeply symbolic interpretation of modern capitalist society overall.

For every single character, the world beyond childhood ultimately becomes a competitive hamster wheel in the search for economic stability. Eventually, financial failure marks their inevitable downfall into oblivion.

At first glance, it might be our instinct to blame the characters for their demise. It can be tempting to dismiss the players of the game as people willing to ditch their moral compass for money — but Hwang highlights an important distinction, making it clear that it’s not simply greed driving the players. When each person stares at the 45.6 billion won reward ($38.6 million USD), each one of them sees a different kind of salvation.

Abdul Ali, a Pakistani immigrant in the show, goes to South Korea in search of a better life, but is trapped by an exploitative boss. Unable to provide for his wife and newborn son, he joins the game to provide for his family.

One of the show’s more reserved characters, Kang Sae-byeok, is a North Korean defector. We are told that she flees North Korea with her little brother in search of a better life, but she ends up losing all of her money trying to broker an escape plan for her mother, who was returned to North Korea.

Kang turns to the game as a way to get her brother out of the orphanage he’s living in and rescue her mother — she has no great plans for spending the prize money otherwise. When asked about her wildest ambition she simply says she’d visit “Jeju Island” a South Korean tourist destination she once saw on the TV.

The point is, Hwang’s characters are not bad people, they’re just human. Their circumstances and poor financial decisions don’t mean that they deserve to live in perpetual poverty. The real question is why the capitalist system gives them no chance at redemption.

Much like in the game, if they stumble or fall, they end up eliminated from the race.

Squid Game might seem like a radical alternate universe at times, but as viewers we’re being asked to compare our society with that in the game; on the one hand you have the game exploiting people’s desperation for entertainment, on the other you have our society exploiting  people through loans, gambling and debt.

At least the game asks for the players’ consent before participating, and offers them some kind of financial compensation. Meanwhile, capitalist society fails to offer financial freedom to every character on the show, and never asks for consent before imposing itself upon them.

Society’s economic disparity is so evident on the show, that the rich sponsors of the game are convinced that they are doing the players a favour by creating a game where there is a small chance for them to improve their lives — even though the consequence is death.

Despite this, the show provides us with glimpses of hope in the form of individual acts of kindness. Beyond the violent executions and dramatic blood-splatterings, several characters display a level of compassion which has no other reason than a core desire to be kind.

Throughout the show, Seong consistently watches out for Oh Il-nam, an elderly man hopelessly participating in the games. Oh’s vulnerability is in sharp contrast to the game’s violence, and his fragility ends up moving Seong into aligning with him. Even though we know that the alliance is not strategic, we still root for Oh’s well-being because he appeals to our humanity.

Creator Hwang gives us several other glimpses at the characters’ better nature, early on in the show we see Ali rescue Seong during the red light, green light game by preventing his fall when he accidentally trips while running. By holding on to Seong, Ali risks his own life, but this one act of courage allows the main character to keep playing the game.

The insinuation is that, although human nature might have ruthlessness, it also has kindness. Our economic and social systems can bring out either one of these two streaks, and in an ideal world — one where the Squid Game wouldn’t seem like a possibility —  our society would guide us into being better, more compassionate people, where economic ruthlessness alone doesn’t determine our fate.

 

Graphic by James Fay

The loudest silence: how the Gabby Petito story echoes the absence of missing Indigenous women

Amid the media frenzy surrounding the murder of Gabby Petito, the striking silence on missing and murdered Indigenous women feels louder than ever

The Gabby Petito story is a tragedy that has captured people’s attention across nations, as the missing persons case of the 22 year old American influencer, on a seemingly picturesque trip across the US with her boyfriend Brian Laundrie, unfolded.

Outrage ensued, and her story became a viral sensation — why does her supposedly perfect boyfriend have nothing to say? Was Petito’s well-curated social media hiding a darker truth? One week after her parents officially reported her as missing, her body was found in Wyoming’s Bridger-Teton National Forest, and suddenly, her boyfriend fled and was nowhere to be found.

The demand for justice in Petito’s case continues to grow as social media platforms and news outlets persevere in keeping her story alive, giving a voice to the public’s anger and grief. That is, of course, the superpower of the media: to create urgency, and evoke public concern for something they might not have noticed otherwise.

Petito’s case undoubtedly sheds light on the greater conversation of femicide, and opens the door to a discussion about the continuous need for elevating the rights of women. After all, if our society’s social progress still amounts to the frequent murder of women and girls, then we have clearly not progressed enough.

However, even with the massive spotlight being placed on this story, the conversation behind the disappearance and homicide of women still lacks nuance — the racial dimension which permeates the issue. 

What is desperately missing from the conversation is intersectionality. Clearly, both mainstream and social media have the power to rally behind a missing woman and demand justice, but in this scenario the woman happened to be white. The problem is not her whiteness — the problem is the stark silence of the media when it comes to every other kind of woman. This issue has no better illustration than through the treatment of missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls.

The park where Petito tragically went missing and was later found is located in Wyoming, a state which has seen over 710 Indigenous women and girls disappear in the last decade. Their stories never garnered the kind of desperation and disbelief which Petito has thankfully been afforded, and consequently their cases were never given the same kind of dedication or persistence.

If the media’s role is to bring urgency to the stories which demand it most, then the silence with which Indigenous women have been met is a profound failure. The Native Women’s Association of Canada estimates that since the 1980s more than 4,000 Indigenous women and girls have gone missing or been murdered.

That’s 4,000 stories like Petito’s, which we never got to hear.

Canada’s 2017 National Inquiry into Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls concluded through the use of statistics and testimony from 2,380 family members and survivors across Indigenous communities that the rates of violence experienced by Indigenous women amounted to a “Canadian genocide.”

According to Amnesty International the homicide rate amongst Indigenous women is roughly 4.5 times higher than any other demographic of women.

The evidence makes it clear that in any proportional news system, we should have seen far more stories about missing Indigenous women than are currently being reported. Yet the reality is that many of those stories are never heard outside of the spaces of First Nations communities.

It is too great a burden to expect the stories to stay within those spaces alone, especially when the problem lies externally — and so does the solution.

We chose to give Petito a voice, a voice which she deserved, and which was stolen from her unjustly. And we can choose to extend that same right to Indigenous women. The spotlight does not have to be limited, with the truth being that women of all demographics can fit within its light.

Whether it’s by learning their names and faces, the posts we make on social media, or even the stories we choose to read and write, our actions can rally urgency when it comes to valuing the lives of missing and murdered Indigenous women. We must do these things, so that one day soon, we can hopefully see justice not only for Petito, but for the many women like her.

 

Graphic by James Fay

 

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News

Legault Government to invest $1 billion incentive into the nursing industry

In an attempt to attract more nurses to stay in Quebec, new incentives are being created by the provincial government.

On Sept. 23, Premier François Legault promised a $1 billion investment into Quebec’s nursing system, as part of a plan to make up for the province’s nurse shortage.

Quebec is currently in dire need of medical staff, facing a shortage of over 4000 nurses. As part of the incentives promised by the Legault administration, nurses would receive bonuses of up to $18,000.

Despite these promises, the The Fédération Interprofessionnelle de la santé du Québec (FIQ), which represents 76,000 nurses, disagreed with the plan because it failed to improve on the mandatory overtime laws currently in place for Quebec nurses.

The law requires nurses to stay longer than their mandated shifts if deemed necessary. However, the long hours have proven to be difficult for many amid the fourth wave of the COVID-19 pandemic, which has seen over 600 daily cases throughout most of September.

The plan comes not only as an attempt to prevent current nursing staff from leaving the public health sector, but also to secure the interest of new graduates in joining the field.

In the Sept. 18 press conference introducing the bill, Health Minister Christian Dubé said his mission was to make workers in the medical sector proud of Quebec’s health network, and to help them “want to stay in it, or come back to it.”

That same week, both Legault and Dubé were intentional about highlighting the benefits of the new plan for  both retired nurses returning to the field, as well as nurses choosing to work in the private, rather than the public, sector for economic reasons.

According to Statistics Canada, the effects of the COVID-19 pandemic on the labour force are still evident in many of Quebec’s industries. The health care and social assistance industry reported 119,500 more jobs than it did compared to August 2020, showing a clear demand for more workers in the healthcare system.

Despite this slight increase, many students considering joining the medical field are still hesitant about establishing a future in Quebec.

Temkhuleko Mthethwa, an international student from Eswatini, is completing her major in biology. Although she hopes to pursue further studies in medicine she does not see a future in Quebec.

Mthethwa believes that language, not finances, is the biggest obstacle for international students looking to join the healthcare workforce in Quebec.

“It’s just so much easier to connect with your patients when you can understand and communicate with them,” said Mathethwa.

“It’s not like I know French — the language barrier is about more than just the finances, it’s about feeling like you belong.”

Canadian students coming to Quebec from other provinces seem to have a similar perspective; 22-year-old Université de Montréal student Braxton Phillips has been completing his masters in neuroscience. He believes the incentives from the government won’t really have a deep impact on who chooses to stay in the province.

“I think the people who would want to stay here in Quebec to pursue medicine would have done so with or without the incentives,” he said.

Phillips thinks that the Legault government would have better results through the creation of more bilingual laws for Quebec’s healthcare system.

 

Graphics courtesy of Madeline Schmidt

Categories
News

Montreal’s Bocadillo restaurant continues to be a beacon for Canada’s Venezuelan community

“No one else did it the way we did, it was beautiful,” said restaurant owner Marco Russo

Prevailing over tough circumstances is nothing new for Bocadillo, a family business born from the fires of political upheaval, migration and perseverance. What started 13 years ago as an unprecedented effort to bring Venezuelan cuisine to the Montreal scene, has proven — in the middle of the pandemic — to be a triumph for Venezuelan entrepreneurship.

At 6918 St-Laurent Blvd., the doors to Bocadillo Bistro are closed for the day. The lights inside the restaurant are off and the occasional passer-by stops to glance at the immense and colourful menu pasted on the restaurant’s front window. The inside is a scene of patriotic elegance, composed of Venezuelan art on the walls, and wooden tables scattered across the length of the large establishment, clean and intact.

Across from one of the tables sits Marco Russo, the owner of it all. He speaks with ease and patience, in his native tongue of Spanish.

“We owned a flower shop, back in ‘78 I think it was, in Las Mercedes,” he recalls.

The scene conjured by Marco Russo is one of nostalgia — what used to be the Venezuelan capital’s commercial centre; a beautiful scene of bustling businesses and life.

“My father owned an Italian restaurant there too,” adding, “for about 35 odd years, my aunts were the cooks and it was very successful.”

Success for the family businesses lasted through the 80s and 90s, then in the 2000s it was Russo and his wife, Laura Uzcategui de Russo, who were continuing the legacy. But political turmoil in Venezuela soon upended stability for many businesses, including theirs.

It was the time of the nation’s socialist revolution, when the election of Hugo Chavez as president in 1999 changed the face of small and large Venezuelan businesses alike. The socialist fever for nationalization overtook many industries, and private businesses were put under pressure by the Chavista administration.

“There was so much insecurity, and not just economic,” sighs Russo. “The government had these committees in place, they’d close businesses at will and you’d have to pay them to let you open, It became difficult to even exist.”

The turning point came in 2008. Russo nonchalantly describes in detail the everyday dangers he faced amid the social unrest of the country. “I was mugged several times, kidnapped once, until finally the danger affected one of my kids and that’s when I knew things had gotten too ugly, and we left,” Russo recalls.

They came to Canada in search of better opportunities; their story reflecting that of Venezuelan immigrants across the globe. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), over 4.6 million Venezuelan nationals fled the country between 2016 and 2019 alone.

Meanwhile, the idea for Bocadillo came at a time when Venezuelan food was far from a Montreal staple.

“Like all beginnings it was very difficult, we thought we’d close. People didn’t understand Venezuelan cuisine, they didn’t even know what an arepa was,” he said, explaining that in those days the restaurant would make a mere $20 to $30 daily.

Arepas are the star dish of this Montreal restaurant. Made from pre-cooked corn flour, this traditional food is shaped and cooked into a semi-flat circle, which is then cut in half and stuffed with a variety of fillings such as minced meat, cheese or black beans. It has been, as Russo calls it, “the comfort food” of Venezuelan people since pre-Columbian times, and it is considered to be a staple of the likes of bread, being served for breakfast, lunch or dinner across the country.

The main counter at Bocadillo’s sister location, nestled in 3677 St-Laurent Blvd., is a mosaic of beautiful photographs showing customers what different kinds of iconic arepas actually look like.

Temmy Mthethwa, a second-year Biology student at Concordia University, said this particular Bocadillo location was a fantastic first-taste of Venezuelan culture.

“It definitely made me want to try more Venezuelan food, I’m looking forward to seeing what else they’ve got to offer.” Mthethwa said that the arepa in particular was a real change from the cuisine of her home country, Eswatini.

This kind reaction is not unusual. Russo explains with a smile on his face that it was the wonders of Venezuelan cuisine which saved the restaurant from going under in its early days. Just two weeks before they were supposed to close they received a review in the Montreal Gazette, “The writer liked our food so much we told us he’d come back on the weekend.”

The article, which included a raving review and photographs of Russo’s food, brought a stream of customers to Bocadillo that very weekend. “That review was our guardian angel, it saved us,” he laughs.

From then on, the restaurant took flight. Creating not only a popular demand for Venezuelan food, but also establishing itself as a cultural embassy for Venezuelan art, music and performances. The business made a tradition of booking Venezuelan artists to perform throughout the year.

Russo pulls out his phone, looking for a video to show what the artistic spectacles used to be like before the pandemic. He presses play and a symphony of drums, maracas, harps and guitars begin to blast from the phone’s speaker. The video shows the restaurant we’re sitting in, packed with customers dancing to traditional Venezuelan music on the main floor.

The events would gather anywhere from 150 to 180 people, with customers frequently coming in from the street to see what all the commotion was about.

“For Canadian people, those kinds of experiences were incredible. It’s something they would only have seen on vacations or in movies,” said Russo with excitement. “No one else did it the way we did, it was beautiful.”

For now, COVID-19 restrictions have left Bocadillo Bistro unable to host such events, but Russo’s memories of the glittering potential are enough to fuel his optimism.

“We were always happy to let artists express themselves here. It was an investment we really wanted to make, and hope to make again in the future someday.” Russo adds.

Although Bocadillo’s Little Italy location cannot currently show its usual flare, Russo said their St-Laurent branch — which will reach its 13th anniversary soon — is still thriving because of how unique it is.

“At this stage our business is very well established. Even with the pandemic we can keep going,” he said confidently.

Although the business has taken its share of impact from the pandemic, Russo said they have persevered by looking towards the future.

“It’s a shame what’s happened to many restaurants because of this pandemic, but we have to be willing to reinvent ourselves,” said Russo. “You can have a traditional way of doing things, but you also have to be able to evolve and change.”

Bocadillo’s origin story and their path to success is a ray of victory for Venezuelan entrepreneurs across Montreal, and leaves little doubt as to the restaurant’s ability to persevere and triumph through these difficult times.

Photographs by Gabriela Villarroel 

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News

Algerian protests in Place du Canada mark the re-ignition of Algeria’s opposition movement

Algerian organization plans to continue the protests on a weekly basis

On March 28, an Algerian organization based in Montreal known as “Tous unis pour notre Algerie” held a protest in Place du Canada in opposition to Algeria’s current government, which has been under the administration of President Abdelmadjid Tebboune since December of 2019.

The protests are a continuation of Algeria’s previous unrest in November 2019; the Algerian community postponed demonstrations until recently due to the surge of COVID-19 cases and restrictions.

Sara Sebbah, an Algerian national and frequent attendee of the organization’s events, was among one of the many protestors. She expressed her excitement at the reignition of the demonstrations, saying, “We stopped in 2019 to protect our country from COVID-19, but now they won’t suppress our protests and we’re not going to stop until we achieve freedom for our nation.”

According to an article published by Africanews last month, the anti-opposition sentiment has been fuelled by the fact that Tebboune is seen as a continuation of the nation’s previous president, Abdelaziz Bouteflika, who throughout his 20-year rule was accused of corruption, suppressing freedom of speech and interfering in democratic elections to preserve his presidency. 

The article estimated that during the Feb. 3 protests, over 2,000 Algerians defied lockdown measures in the city of Algiers to demand the removal of Tebboune, but were met with violence.

“Our protests are always peaceful and public,” explained Sebbah. “But they provoke us, they make the police use force against us.”

Sebbah left Algeria over a year ago and has been living in Montreal ever since. Her situation is not uncommon among the community; a majority of the protestors were first generation immigrants.

Rajaa Elahmar, one of the volunteers handing out warm drinks to fellow protestors, had a similar story to tell, having immigrated to Canada 15 years ago.

“My hope is a free, democratic and civil Algeria. Not a military state,” said Elahmar.

A mother of three, Elahmar explained the severity of the situation by saying she would not consider Algeria a good place for her own children.

“The way things are now, no,” she explained, shaking her head. “Our children are here, but this protest is for all the Algerian children currently living in Algeria,” she said.

The organization announced that it has plans to continue their activism here in Montreal. Their next large demonstration will take place on April 20, and will be a march from Place du Canada to the Algerian Consulate on St-Urbain St. 

 

Photographs by Gabriela Villarroel

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