Thursday, December 08, 2022

New food technologies could release 80% of world’s farmland back to nature

Opinion by Chris D Thomas & Jack Hatfield & Katie Noble 

Dec. 7 (UPI) -- Here's the basic problem for conservation at a global level: food production, biodiversity and carbon storage in ecosystems are competing for the same land.


Longhorn cattle on a rewilding project in England: if we got most of our protein and carbs through new technologies, this sort of compassionate and wildlife-friendly farming could be scaled up. Photo courtesy of Chris Thomas/University of York© of Chris Thomas/University of York

As humans demand more food, so more forests and other natural ecosystems are cleared, and farms intensify and become less hospitable to many wild animals and plants. Therefore global conservation, currently focused on the COP15 summit in Montreal, will fail unless it addresses the underlying issue of food production.

Fortunately, a whole raft of new technologies is being developed that make a system-wide revolution in food production feasible. According to recent research by one of us (Chris), this transformation could meet increased global food demands by a growing human population on less than 20% of the world's existing farmland. Or in other words, these technologies could release at least 80% of existing farmland from agriculture in about a century.

Around four-fifths of the land used for human food production is allocated to meat and dairy, including range lands and crops specifically grown to feed livestock. Add up the whole of India, South Africa, France and Spain and you have the amount of land devoted to crops that are then fed to livestock.

Despite growing numbers of vegetarians and vegans in some countries, global meat consumption has increased by more than 50% in the past 20 years and is set to double this century. As things stand, producing all that extra meat will mean either converting even more land into farms, or cramming even more cows, chickens and pigs into existing land. Neither option is good for biodiversity.

Meat and dairy production is already an unpleasant business. For instance, most chickens are grown in high-density feeding operations, and pork, beef and especially dairy farming is going the same way. Current technologies are cruel, polluting and harmful to biodiversity and the climate -- don't be misled by cartoons of happy cows with daisies protruding from their lips.

Unless food production is tackled head-on, we are left resisting inevitable change, often with no hope of long-term success. We need to tackle the cause of biodiversity change. The principal global approach to climate change is to focus on the cause and minimize greenhouse gas emissions, not to manufacture billions of parasols (though we may need these, too). The same is required for biodiversity.

How can we do this?

Cellular agriculture provides an alternative, and could be one of this century's most promising technological advancements. Sometimes called "lab-grown food," the process involves growing animal products from real animal cells, rather than growing actual animals.

If growing meat or milk from animal cells sounds strange or icky to you, let's put this into perspective. Imagine a brewery or cheese factory: a sterile facility filled with metal vats, producing large volumes of beer or cheese, and using a variety of technologies to mix, ferment, clean and monitor the process. Swap the barley or milk for animal cells and this same facility becomes a sustainable and efficient producer of dairy or meat products.

Animal cruelty would be eliminated and, with no need for cows wandering around in fields, the factory would take up far less space to produce the same amount of meat or milk.

Other emerging technologies include microbial protein production, where bacteria use energy derived from solar panels to convert carbon dioxide and nitrogen and other nutrients into carbohydrates and proteins. This could generate as much protein as soybeans but in just 7% of the area. These could then be used as protein food additives (a major use of soy) and animal feed (including for pets).

It is even possible to generate sugars and carbohydrates using desalination or through extracting CO₂ from the atmosphere, all without ever passing through a living plant or animal. The resulting sugars are chemically the same as those derived from plants but would be generated in a tiny fraction of the area required by conventional crops.

What to do with old farmland

These new technologies can have a huge impact, even if demand keeps growing. Even though Chris's research is based on the assumption that global meat consumption will double, it nonetheless suggests that at least 80% of farmland could be released to be used for something else.

That land might become nature reserves or be used to store carbon, for example, in forests or the waterlogged soils of peat bogs. It could be used to grow sustainable building materials, or simply to produce more human-edible crops, among other uses.

Gone too will be industrial livestock systems that produce huge volumes of manure, bones, blood, guts, antibiotics and growth hormones. Thereafter, any remaining livestock farming could be carried out in a compassionate manner.

Since there would be less pressure on the land, there would be less need for chemicals and pesticides and crop production could become more wildlife-friendly (global adoption of organic farming is not feasible at present because it is less productive). This transition must be coupled with a full transition toward renewable energy as the new technologies require lots of power.

Converting these technologies into mass-market production systems will of course be tricky. But a failure to do so is likely to lead to ever-increasing farming intensity, escalating numbers of confined animals, and even more lost nature.

Avoiding this fate -- and achieving the 80% farmland reduction -- will require a lot of political will and a cultural acceptance of these new forms of food. It will require economic and political "carrots" such as investment, subsidies and tax breaks for desirable technologies, and "sticks," such as increased taxation and removal of subsidies for harmful technologies. Unless this happens, biodiversity targets will continue to be missed, COP after COP.

Chris D Thomas is the director, Jack Hatfield is a postdoctoral research associate and Katie Noble is a PhD candidate at the Leverhulme Centre for Anthropocene Biodiversity at the University of York.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The views and opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of the authors.
Oneida First Nation woman sues London, Ont., police, alleging officers sexually abused her for years

Story by Kate Dubinski • 

A 67-year-old Oneida Nation of the Thames woman has launched a $6-million lawsuit against the London Police Service (LPS) in southwestern Ontario, alleging three officers sexually assaulted her for years and officials did nothing to stop it.

Two officers sexually assaulted her over the course of 18 months starting when she was 12 and a third officer's abuse continued for five years, starting when she was 30, Elaine Antone says in her lawsuit.

Antone says she first reported the abuse to police and Ontario's police oversight body in early 1994, when she called the then police chief, Julian Fantino, and said she was worried one of the officers, the one who abused her in her 30s, was harming other women, according to documents filed with Ontario Superior Court.

"I have an excellent memory, and I wish I didn't," Antone told CBC News. "I thought police officers were supposed to help people."

Oneida Nation of the Thames, an Iroquois community that's home to about 2,200 residents, is about 30 kilometres south of London.

Antone's lawsuit names the LPS and the three officers: the estates of Brian Garraway and Keith Bull, who have died, and Edward (Ted) Lane, who is retired. A separate lawsuit asks for $4 million in damages for Antone's two daughters, who she says were fathered by Lane.

The allegations have not been proven in court. CBC has also reached out to all the defendants, but all have refused to comment because the matter is before the courts.

In a statement of defence filed with the court, lawyers for the LPS have denied any wrongdoing, saying the officers were screened and trained properly, officials didn't know about any sexual abuse, and that if it did happen, the officers were acting entirely on their own "without the knowledge or acquiescence of LPS."

But Antone's lawyer, Joe Fearon, disagrees, saying police had at least four separate occasions to investigate the officers since the late 1960s and did nothing to stop ongoing abuse or investigate allegations.

"It goes against every ounce of Elaine's dignity for her to have to go through that, survive that, live a life surviving that and the consequences of that, and to report it, and for the chief of police to do nothing," said Fearon, who is based in Toronto.

Antone shared her story in 2018 with the national inquiry into missing and murdered Indigenous women and girls (MMIWG), naming the officers she says sexually assaulted her.

"I'm Indigenous and because of my criminal record, they figured that they had the OK, that nobody was going to listen to me," Antone said in the recent interview with CBC. "I believe that there might be other victims, maybe not victims of Bull or Garraway or Lane, but other victims of the London Police Department, and I feel that they should have a platform to tell their stories also."

Abuse began at age 12, woman says

Antone lived in Oneida with her grandmother until she was five, a childhood she describes as happy and carefree.

"I loved sports. I wanted to be a high school math teacher because I loved numbers," Antone said.

But when she moved with her mom and siblings to London, she said, life got tougher — Antone's mom was addicted to alcohol and police were often called to the family home for domestic disturbances.

When she was 12, Garraway came to the family's home, asked if Antone was alone, and took her into a bedroom, Antone alleges.

"He locked the door and he didn't do too much talking," Antone recalled. "He took his gun off and put it beside me on the mattress, and he forced me to have sex with him. He was on duty. The scariest part was that the gun was there, and I was petrified."

Abuse by Garraway and similar sexual assaults by a second officer, Bull, continued over 18 months, Antone alleges.

At one point, an officer found Antone in Garraway's vehicle, Antone said.


"She was brought back to the station, but no investigation was done," Fearon told CBC News. "When you find somebody with a 12-year-old Indigenous girl in the car, and they have no explanation as to why they're there and that person is a police officer, there should be an investigation."

Eventually, Antone was sent to the Ontario Training School for Girls (later called the Grandview Training School for Girls) in Galt, Ont. — a provincially run reform school for girls aged 12 to 18. Survivors, including Antone, allege abuse and neglect at the school. It closed in 1976 and in 2000, the Ontario government formally apologized to the hundreds of girls sent there. Eight former employees were eventually charged with various offences and two guards were convicted.

Antone said that by the mid-1980s, she was living in London, using drugs to cope with years of childhood abuse, and had frequent run-ins with police officers, including Lane.

Allegations in the lawsuit

"Antone alleges that commencing in or about 1985, when Antone was approximately 30 years of age, and on many occasions over the following approximately five years, the defendant Lane repeatedly sexual abused, battered, assaulted and molested the plaintiff, Antone," the lawsuit states.

"The plaintiff Antone alleges that the defendant Lane impregnated the plaintiff, Antone, twice, leading to the birth of two children."



Joe Fearon, from the law firm Preszler Injury Lawyers, is working on Antone's case.© Kate Dubinski/CBC

According to Antone, Lane at first denied he was the father of her two daughters, but after paternity tests proved he was, he was ordered by a family court judge to pay child support.

"At all material times, it would have been obvious to the defendants that the plaintiff, Antone, was a vulnerable person," the lawsuit says.

The three officers used their positions of authority and trust to make sure that Antone didn't tell anyone about the abuse, and "interfered with her normal upbringing solely for the purpose of their own gratification," it claims.

The defendants were in positions of power because of her age and family circumstance, and because they were police officers, the lawsuit alleges, and she trusted them and was dependent on them for safety and security.

The LPS didn't properly supervise the three officers, investigate their backgrounds and characters, or document their shortcomings as police officers, the court documents also claim.

The lawsuit also alleges the London police chief at the time knew that Lane repeatedly sexually assaulted Antone after she reported him, but didn't investigate or reprimand him and allowed him to remain on active duty.

Lane retired in 1996. CBC News has tried repeatedly to get in touch with him, but has been unsuccessful. He is not represented by a lawyer in this lawsuit and has not filed a statement of defence.

Antone said that in 1994, she had reached out to Fantino and Howard Morton, head of the then new Special Investigations Unit (SIU), which investigates incidents when police interactions lead to serious injuries or involve allegations of sexual assault. She had called both men at home to report she had run into Lane at a bingo and she was worried he was harming other women. Antone said she couldn't remember how she got their home numbers.

According to a letter filed as part of the court documents, Morton wrote to Fantino: "Ms. Elaine Antone contacted the director Mr. Morton at his residence on Nov. 20, 1994, and complained of a sexual assault by Const. Ted Lane. She indicated she met Const. Lane in April 1985 and although they had intercourse, it was without her consent. She stated that she has two children fathered by Const. Lane, who does pay child support. Ms. Antone fears that Constable Lane might be assaulting another woman, but has no proof."

Morton's eventual report to Ontario's attorney general that's dated Jan. 30, 1995, states Antone "does not wish SIU to investigate the matter nor does she wish to complain to the police complaints commissioner." Because Antone didn't want the matter investigated, Morton writes, "I have determined that no further action is warranted by my office and I am, therefore, closing our file."

In another letter to Fantino that's contained in the lawsuit documents, Morton suggests "it would be perfectly in order" for the chief to discuss the matter with Lane. There is nothing to indicate whether that was done, and the London police have not turned over any records to indicate that an internal investigation was done or that Antone's allegations were investigated further.

Lane remained on duty for another year.

CBC News reached out to Fantino, the police chief in 1994 and 1995 — the years the correspondence was dated — and the deputy chief at the time, Elgin Austen, who was in charge of public complaints.

Fantino said he didn't recall such a situation, and even if he did, he could not comment because of the ongoing legal case. Austen said he remembered Antone as a troubled teen that officers dealt with. He also said he had no knowledge of Lane fathering her two children and didn't recall her allegations against the officer.

Morton remembered the phone call from Antone because it was so unusual to get a call at home, but he couldn't recall what happened with the case. Lawyers for the estates of Garraway and Bull said they couldn't comment because of the ongoing lawsuit.

'Trying to keep my spirits up'

Antone's voice is steady as she tells her story. She's told it many times before — at the MMIWG inquiry and to classes of criminology students because one of Antone's best friends is a professor.

She is in touch with her daughters and loves playing with her grandchildren. She writes poetry and watches television in her apartment.

"Health wise, I'm not doing well. Emotionally, I'm trying to keep my spirits up," Antone told CBC News. Still, she said, she has bouts of severe depression for about a week every month, the symptoms keeping her from performing her daily routine.

At a minimum, the LPS should pay for Antone's counselling while this case winds its way through the court system, Fearon said.

This week, he will be back in court to try to amend the claim to include allegations that the LPS breached Antone's charter rights. Lawyers for the police oppose that amendment.

A trial date will be set shortly.

A mix of worry and hope as Iranians in Canada watch an uprising from afar

Story by Katie Nicholson, Marie Morrissey • Nov 22

Sara Shariati stares intently at her phone screen, willing it to connect to her grandfather in Iran. The University of Toronto student hasn't been able to get ahold of the 95-year-old for two weeks. When the call doesn't go through, she tries a text message and shakes her head.

"The message doesn't even deliver. Their internet is shut," Shariati said, her voice catching.

Shariati is one of the nearly 90,000 Iranians who have settled in the Greater Toronto Area, according to Statistics Canada. Only Los Angeles has a larger Iranian population outside of Iran.

For many in the wider Iranian diaspora, the last three months have been rife with worry, anger and frustration as they watch the ongoing cycle of protests and violent crackdowns in Iran sparked by the in-custody death of Mahsa Amini on Sept. 16.

The 22-year-old died while she was in the custody of Iran's morality police after she had been detained for reportedly wearing her headscarf incorrectly, violating the strict public dress codes imposed on Iranian women. Her death has sparked outrage in and outside of Iran.

"So many years that we had to be worried about whether the colour of our shirt is too bright, whether our toes are showing because we are wearing open-toed shoes or whether our hair is showing too much," Shariati said. "And now this generation is saying enough is enough."

Shariati is proud of the stand many in the country are taking, but she also worries about the safety of her friends and family in Iran and feels guilty about her own relative safety in Canada.

"Some of my friends have been arrested. We have no news of them. Some of them have been injured. There has been so much tear gas into university dormitories," she said.

"I keep thinking when I'm walking on campus [here] that, 'Oh my God, how safe I am and how normal life is here.' And they have to worry if they can even be alive tomorrow," she said.

Shariati is doing what she can to bring attention to the protests in Canada and pressuring the Canadian government to do more, including helping organize three protests.



Members of the Iranian community gather in Toronto on Sept. 20 to protest after the death of Mahsa Amini. The 22-year-old woman died after being detained by Iran's morality police, reportedly for wearing her headscarf incorrectly.
© Darek Zdzienicki/CBC

She also knows her work to amplify the voices of revolt in Iran has put a target on her back.

"When I go to Iran, I will probably be arrested at the airport. And I know that. And my family knows that. But I keep thinking in my head, what have I done to deserve this?" she said.

'Impossible' to stay in touch with friends, family

Human Rights Activists in Iran, a group monitoring the ongoing protests, estimates at least 388 people have been killed and more than 16,000 have been arrested since they began nearly two months ago.

There are few Iranians in Canada who understand the price of standing up to the Iranian regime as well as Azam Jangravi. In 2018, the young mother climbed on top of an electric transformer box in Tehran, removed her headscarf and was promptly arrested.







Jangravi escaped with her daughter to Turkey and now lives in Canada. Watching the events unfold in Iran has filled her with worry and hope.

"You know, I broke my silence. This is the key. Now every Iranian broke their silence," she said. I think they are so brave. They know they might be killed, but every day, they come back to the street."

It has been hard to get a good sense of what's really happening on the streets of the country. Like so many, Jangravi depends on social media posts and WhatsApp messages from friends to get a sense of what's happening, as information trickles out between government-imposed communications blackouts.

It's also made it near impossible to stay in touch with friends and family on a regular basis.

"When I called and I don't know what happened to my family or to my friends, I am really frustrated. I am worried. I cry," she said.

Even when people successfully manage to get in contact with loved ones in Iran, it's not always safe to talk.

Protests 'on everybody's minds'

In his usually bustling Persian grocery store Khorak Supermarket, Sam Fayaz describes how cautious his in-laws in Iran are when they speak with his wife because of fears their phone might be monitored by the Islamic Republic of Iran.

"It becomes a one-way conversation where when you ask the other side 'hey, what's going on over there,' a lot of them, my brother-in-law, won't talk, right? So he'll avoid the questions," he said.

The months-long unrest and violence has put a damper on the wider Iranian community, Fayaz said.


Sam Fayaz, whose Persian grocery store Khorak Supermarket in Toronto is a hub for the Iranian community, says the protests in Iran weigh heavily on the minds of everyone who shops here.© Katie Nicholson/CBC


"Everybody's upset. Everybody's down," Fayaz said, gesturing around the store. "Things quiet down, right? I mean, it's Monday. My store's supposed to be a little bit busier than it is right now, but, you know, we're not."

"It's on everybody's minds. Nobody wants to go out and party. Nobody wants to go to, you know, go to a concert. A lot of events have been cancelled because people are just… it's on their minds," Fayaz said.

A poster hangs in the door of the store reading "Women, Life, Freedom" and "Be the voice of the Iranian people." Fayaz isn't shy about his own support for the protesters whose voices he says he tries to amplify as much as possible.



This poster hangs in the window of Khorak Supermarket, a Persian grocery store located in north Toronto. Owner Sam Fayez says he does everything he can to amplify the protesters' voices.© Katie Nicholson/CBC

"The more this gets shared, the more likely the, you know, external governments such as the Canadian government, the U.S. government, hopefully, you know, different parts of the world will impose stricter sanctions on this regime and bring change," Fayaz said.

As snow falls from a grey Toronto sky, Shariati thinks about what more Canada and the world could do to help the Iranian protesters.

"Canada has done a lot. A lot more than many European countries. A lot more than even the U.S. But I think there can be more. I think they can push for more action from other countries as well because Canada has a strong voice in international platforms," she said.

Canada has issued five sets of sanctions on Iran this year in response to what Global Affairs Canada calls "ongoing gross and systematic human rights violations and continued actions to destabilize peace and security." The sanctions lists include businesses and leaders associated with the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC).

"There can be more targeted sanctions on the leaders. IRGC can be recognized as a terrorist group," she added.

She also wants to see UNICEF and the United Nations step up their involvement.

"Statements don't cut it. We need a lot stronger action."
Federal NDP leader says Alberta sovereignty act 'a distraction' from real problems

CALGARY — Federal NDP Leader Jagmeet Singh says Alberta's proposed sovereignty act is undemocratic and an unwelcome distraction from the struggles residents of the province are facing.


Federal NDP leader says Alberta sovereignty act 'a distraction' from real problems© Provided by The Canadian Press

After a meeting Friday with union leaders in Calgary, Singh took aim at the bill Premier Danielle Smith introduced on Tuesday.

Smith has described it as a deliberately confrontational tool to reset the relationship with a federal government she accuses of interfering in constitutionally protected areas of provincial responsibility, from energy development to health care.

But Singh said that at a time when Albertans are suffering from record-high inflation and an overloaded health-care system, the proposed legislation makes no sense.

"I think it is a bit of a distraction at a time when we're seeing unprecedented record inflation, at a time when people are having a hard time buying groceries and people are using food banks more than ever," Singh told reporters Friday.

"At a time like that, Danielle Smith chooses to bring in this act. It really shows a lot of heartlessness."

Smith has rejected accusations that the bill amounts to a power grab.

“Every decision that is going to be made has to first get the validation from this assembly,” she told the legislature earlier this week.

If a resolution passes in the house identifying a federal matter deemed unconstitutional or harmful to Alberta, the bill grants cabinet powers to unilaterally rewrite provincial laws without sending them back to the legislature for debate or approval. Cabinet would be allowed to direct public agencies, including police, municipalities, school boards, post-secondary institutions and health regions, to flout federal laws.

It would also give cabinet wide latitude on how to interpret the resolution it receives from the assembly. It says cabinet should follow the direction of the house, but doesn't mandate it. Instead, cabinet is told to exercise its new extraordinary powers however it deems "necessary or advisable.''

"It's dangerous and it's undemocratic, and there was no mandate for this," Singh said.


Kaycee Madu, Alberta's deputy premier, has said amendments may be needed to clear up confusion over some aspects of the proposed legislation.

However, Singh said the bill "shows a callous behaviour" by the governing United Conservative Party.

"I think it is intended to be a distraction from the real problems people are faced with," Singh said.

"The worry I have about Danielle Smith as premier is about people being left behind — and I really mean it."

Last month, the provincial government announced payouts of $600 for middle- to lower-income families to help with the increasing costs of living.

Those with a household income of less than $180,000 a year are to get $600 for each child under 18 over a period of six months. The same income threshold and benefit applies to seniors.

The government also promised to remove its provincial gasoline tax and to continue providing electricity rebates. It has also earmarked $20 million to help food banks.

This report by The Canadian Press was first published Dec. 2, 2022.

Bill Graveland, The Canadian Press
'She didn't hesitate': The untold story behind a Black Canadian woman's wartime portrait

Story by Ashley Burke • 

Thousands of people have seen it over the past 70-plus years: a dramatic oil portrait from 1946 of a Black Canadian woman in a military uniform, standing behind a canteen counter.

Her arms are crossed. Her face is stern. Decades later, the portrait still conveys an image of strength.

It's one of the most famous canvases to come from the brush of Molly Lamb Bobak, Canada's first female war artist. It's been exhibited in galleries and museums around the world.

But while the painting itself is familiar, the story behind it — of its subject, Eva May Roy — is far more obscure.

"This painting of Private Roy has been part of the public imagination for decades," said Laura Brandon, a retired curator of war art at the Canadian War Museum. "It's well known, but Private Roy's story is not."


Sgt. Eva May Roy's photo remains in storage at the Canadian War Museum.© Pierre-Paul Couture/CBC News

Roy died in 1990, having retired from the military with a sergeant's rank. She's one of many Black women who served in the Canadian Forces during the Second World War — people whose stories are largely missing from the public record.

Roy was a trailblazer, serving overseas at a time when it was rare to see a Canadian military woman working in Europe.

"She was right in there with everybody else doing the same thing," said her granddaughter Shannon Roy. "She didn't hesitate...She commanded respect."

Stacey Barker, Canadian War Museum historian of art and military history, recently combed through Canadian Forces records to uncover more about the person behind the painting.

She learned that, after the war broke out, Roy left her job as a presser in a laundry to become a machine operator and fuse assembler at the General Engineering Co. munitions plant in Scarborough, Ont.

Roy enlisted in 1944 and joined the Canadian Women's Army Corps (CWAC), a new division created just three years earlier. CWAC had 50,000 women in its ranks during the Second World War in support roles ranging from cooking to decoding.

Historians say that before the CWAC was created, the only option available to Canadian women looking to get involved in the war effort was to serve as a nurse — and it was nearly impossible for Black women to get that training.

Roy trained as a cook and served in military canteens in Canada, the United Kingdom and Holland.

"That was pretty unusual," said Mélanie Morin-Pelletier, the acting director of research and chief historian at the Canadian War Museum.

"Only one in nine Canadian women in the army served overseas. So it was amazing that she was able to do that."

Related video: 'She commanded respect': A Black Canadian woman's untold wartime story (cbc.ca)
Duration 2:16  View on Watch

Roy's military records show that the stern image presented by her portrait was a little misleading. She had an outgoing personality, was enthusiastic about the army and loved to sing.

She was posted for a month to audition with the Army Show, an in-house performance troupe that entertained Canadian soldiers overseas. But no one would teach her the routines, the museum said.

"There's no official reason why she didn't make it, but we have to remember she would have been the only Black woman in the chorus," said Morin-Pelletier. "So it's easy to read behind the lines."

After returning to Canada in January 1946, Roy worked as government postal clerk in Toronto, the museum said. Almost a decade later, when CWAC launched another recruiting campaign, Roy re-enlisted, served from 1955 to 1965 and attained the rank of sergeant.

Shannon Roy said her grandmother wasn't the type to be pushed away from something she wanted to do.

"It was a different time back then, and unfortunately there was a lot of racism," she said. "So the fact she was able to make the rank of sergeant is just incredible in my mind.

"You think they may hold her back, but I'm sure she wouldn't have let them because that's just the type of person she was. She would have stood her ground."

She has another painting of her grandmother hanging in her house. Her photo albums are filled with black-and-white images of Roy in her uniform and doing track-and-field.

Those photos show a side of her that Bobak's portrait does not — confident, calm, always smiling.

"People would gravitate toward her," said Shannon Roy. "Just for her smile alone."

Her family describes Roy as an outgoing, determined and hard-working single mother who lived in Cobourg, Ont. for more than 25 years. Roy worked at the Queen's printing shop and was known for having the "best laugh," said Marney Massy.


Molly Lamb Bobak's preliminary sketches of Roy, which are still in the Canadian War Museum archives.© Ashley Burke/CBC News

Massy's grandmother, Joan Cork, lived with Roy. They were both single mothers with military experience. Cork served in the reserves, her family said.

"They had a lot in common and helped each other out during tough times," said Massey.

Roy's son Peter was known in town for his support for the Royal Canadian Legion and for helping with the annual poppy campaign in his mother's memory.

Before he died in 2018, he travelled to Ottawa to see his mother's portrait in person.

"He was so happy to have another picture taken with his mother," said his wife Hilda Roy.

That painting of Roy is so evocative, so filled with life, it casts a spell on almost everyone who sees it.

Tanya Lee, who runs a national book club for high-risk teens, first saw a photo of the painting in a book 20 years ago. She said she couldn't believe she hadn't known before that Black Canadian women served in the Second World War. It was never taught in school, she added.

"When I looked at that first, I was looking at her and wondering what it must have felt like to fight for your country ... knowing that at home you're still considered a second-class citizen," said Lee.



Tanya Lee runs a book club in Toronto for high-risk teen girls who can't afford books of their own.
© Ashley Burke/CBC News

Lee spent years learning about Roy and is now working on a pitch to make a documentary about her life. She said plans are also in place to bring Black veterans in to meet her book club in the new year, to ensure Roy's story is shared with a new generation.

"It was a missed opportunity back then, but it's an opportunity now," said Lee. "Only certain people's stories are honoured and we need to revisit that conversation."
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‘We’re doubling down’: how abortion advocates are building on midterm wins

Story by Melody Schreiber • YESTERDAY

Renee Bracey Sherman answers the phone and apologizes – is it OK if we speak while she drives? Like many abortion advocates, she tends to keep a packed schedule and talk at lightning speed – the next initiative, the next law, the next policy on the horizon. Ask advocates how they felt in June after the Dobbs decision sharply curtailed reproductive rights across the US, or in November after wins in the midterm elections signaled strong public support for abortion, and they’ll answer immediately: We knew this was coming; but the fight’s not over.


Photograph: Evelyn Hockstein/Reuters© Provided by The Guardian

What Bracey Sherman – founder and executive director of We Testify, a group focused on the leadership and representation of people who have abortions – and her colleagues in the pro-choice movement don’t spend much time doing is elaborating on the past, or how they mourned or celebrated, because it’s already in the rear-view window. Their eyes are laser-focused on the future.

“We’re doubling down,” Bracey Sherman said.

Abortion was a central issue in a midterm election that saw Democrats retain the Senate and relinquish only a narrow majority in the House. In Kentucky and Montana, voters rejected anti-abortion initiatives on the ballot; and in Michigan, California and Vermont, voters chose to establish reproductive rights in state law. Over the summer, Kansas voters similarly rejected a ballot measure to remove abortion rights from its constitution.

“When abortion was on the ballot, it won, so that was fantastic,” said Elisa Wells, co-founder and co-director of Plan C, an organization that helps access abortion medication. Those wins “really demonstrate that legislators are out of touch with what the majority of Americans want. They support abortion access, and understand that it’s basic, common medical care.”

So pro-choice advocates are taking the fight to new areas, principally access to abortion care, which is now heavily restricted in many places, and support for abortion seekers in states that have criminalized it.

The focus is squarely on the states. For the next two years, with Congress divided, it’s understood that little will get done at the federal level.

“The state level is probably where abortion rights advocates will need to work, and have had some success in the last year,” said Shana Kushner Gadarian, professor of political science at Syracuse University.

Ballot initiatives were one of those real successes. It’s important for organizers “to get things directly in front of voters, because they seem to be winning on that side”, she said.

They were successful in two ways. First, reproductive health can be an issue that stretches across partisan lines, with Democrats, Republicans and Independents alike voicing some level of support for abortion – especially when it comes to opposition to total abortion bans.

But the Dobbs decision also drove a surge in voter registration, especially for Democrats, and it made abortion rights a more salient voting issue, even beyond ballot initiatives, Gadarian noted.

That translated into results. Voters opposed anti-abortion candidates in several states: Arizona, Kansas, Michigan, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin elected Democratic governors who could veto anti-abortion legislation, while Republicans in Arizona, North Carolina and Wisconsin failed to reach a supermajority in both the state senate and house, making it impossible to override such a veto.

That’s a strong message to candidates in future elections. “Politicians care about re-election,” Gadarian said. “They want to make sure that they’re not going so far ahead of the public that they are going to get punished during the next election cycle.” That could mean instituting less-encompassing laws in conservative states, such as Florida’s 15-week restrictions, she said.

Anti-abortion advocates went too far by creating state-level bans, which are extremely unpopular, and even pushing for a nationwide ban, said Bracey Sherman. “They overplayed their hand on everything.” There was also an unprecedented number of candidates and elected officials who were open about their own abortions – “a historic moment” for abortion support, she said.

Advocates in at least 10 states with restrictive abortion policies are now considering ballot initiatives. In Oklahoma and South Dakota, abortion advocates have asked to add initiatives to 2024 ballots; while several key leaders in Missouri, which has a near-total abortion ban, are up for re-election in two years, and the state could also see ballot initiatives in 2024.

New ballot initiatives could enshrine abortion rights into state law in New York, New Jersey and Ohio, a proactive move that several states have taken. In some states, citizens can put forth the proposals to be added to the ballot, or they may ask their state lawmakers to add them.

Next in Kentucky is a legal challenge to the near-total abortion ban after six weeks that has no exceptions for rape or incest and that only allows abortions under a licensed physician’s care and if life-saving organs are threatened. Even if that challenge is successful, the next ban in place is on pregnancies after 15 weeks – so the fight would need to continue, advocates say.

One important takeaway from places like Kansas, the first state to put abortion rights to a vote this summer, is that long-term community organizing and education was highly effective. Other grassroots organizations are taking note. The Afiya Center, a reproductive justice organization in Texas that had to stop its work as an abortion fund due to new state law, is focusing more on community mobilization, voter registration and education campaigns.

“We are actually launching a voter engagement campaign at the top of the year, called ‘I am a reproductive justice voter,’” said Cerita Burrell, director of programs at the Afiya Center. “We need to educate folks more on the electoral process. It really comes down to policy and lawmakers – getting the right people in office that understand the right to full bodily autonomy.”

Elsewhere, the pro-choice movement is not just entrenching but pushing as many laws as they can, “and they’re sticking”, Wells said. “So why don’t we go on the offensive?”

Some groups are focusing on shield laws to protect providers who prescribe abortion medication via telehealth. In July, Massachusetts passed a sweeping law that shields providers who offer care to residents of states where it’s restricted. “With this new law in place, we’re helping get a group together of providers who would then be able to legally provide telehealth care into states that restrict access,” Wells said. Other states should do the same, she said.

Plan C advocates for exactly that, as well as pushing to remove federal regulatory limitations on medication abortion. Some international organizations like AidAccess already ship to places where state law restricts abortion.

Abortion pills are “safer than Tylenol, safer than Viagra – it doesn’t need to be as highly regulated and medicalized as it is”. Wells said. “Why are these restrictions still standing on this extremely safe and effective technology? It’s politics.”

She would like to see abortion medications available over the counter. “Our philosophy has always been you really need to push the envelope and try these things, because they might stand up,” Wells said.

Courtrooms, not coat hangers

With medication and self-managed abortion, safety is not the concern it was in pre-Roe America. The current challenges are not about back-alley abortions and coat hangers, advocates say.

“Self-managed abortion now does not look like what it looked like in the 70s,” said Jennifer Lim, the communications and media director of Indigenous Women Rising, a reproductive justice organization that runs an abortion fund. “We don’t lean in towards, ‘We won’t go back’, because we don’t have to – the future looks very different than what it used to. Abortion pills are very safe, they’re very effective. But the criminalization aspect is a whole different part of it.”

Criminalizing pregnancy was a rising threat even before Roe was overturned, and the Dobbs decision could see prosecutions jump.

So legal assistance in a rapidly changing and often confusing landscape has become a huge new area of focus.

“We need to stop criminalizing people for their pregnancy outcomes,” Wells said. “We need to not have criminal charges falling on a person who needs healthcare in our country.”

And those who have been marginalized – people of color, people living in poverty, gender-variant folks, younger people, immigrants – are the most likely to experience challenges like these. “It’s people who lack access and resources and face obstacles who are left with fewer options,” said Jill Adams, executive director of If/When/How, a legal resource for reproductive justice.

The organization’s Repro Legal Helpline has seen a 14-fold increase in inquiries since the Dobbs decision. “We expect that higher level of interest to maintain, and we have been staffing up,” Adams said. The jumble of reproductive laws in the US is puzzling to anyone attempting to navigate care, Adams said, and many callers at first “need to understand what the legal landscape is – what, if any, legal risks they face so that they can make the decision that’s best for them,” she said.

If/When/How also has a Repro Legal Defense Fund to provide financial assistance to people who have been criminalized for abortion, including partners, friends and family members. The fund supports pre-trial release, with bail bonds and bail alternatives, as well as the full costs of legal defense. More money is going into that, too, Adams said.

Abortion was a “hot topic” in the midterm elections, with politicians relying on the issue to turn out voters, Lim said. “How do we get folks to stay engaged and understand that this is a long-term battle?” she asked. “​​We don’t want to lose momentum.”
On the brink: Why abortion access in Ontario is under threat

Story by Jasmine Pazzano • Tuesday

When the U.S. Supreme Court overturned the Roe v. Wade abortion rights earlier this year, Canadians speculated that this country would become a destination, if not a safe haven, for Americans who could no longer get care in their home states.


A collage showing a silhouette of a woman, a map of Ontario, a calendar, a health-care worker holding someone's hand, and a ovary diagram.© Janet Cordahi/Global News

As it stands, though, the system in Canada is struggling to provide for its own patients.

Experts on abortion access highlight a rural-urban divide: in remote parts of the country, surgical abortion providers can be few or non-existent. As a result, patients resort to a domestic kind of medical tourism, travelling hundreds of kilometres at a considerable cost to a city where access is presumably more reliable.

But in reality, the divide is more of a blur.

“People discuss abortion access issues in Canada as a rural versus urban problem,” said Dr. Geneviève Bois, a Quebec abortion provider and activist. “This dichotomy, this notion that access is resolved in urban settings – that is not correct.”

To test that argument, Global News used the Greater Toronto Area as the measure. Canada’s most populous region, the GTA is home to most of Ontario’s independent surgical abortion centres.

A months-long investigation revealed a system at risk. Facing financial neglect, some facilities are fighting every day to stay open. At the same time, the stakes are high: one in six Canadian women say they have had a surgical abortion.

“When we’re talking about abortion, it means it’s under threat,” said Daphne Gilbert, a University of Ottawa law professor focused on researching reproductive justice in health.

Read more:
Abortion or carry to term? Most women say they made the right decision, poll suggests


Ontario fully funds only half of its eight freestanding surgical abortion clinics, meaning the province pays for rent, salaries and equipment. The four unfunded facilities, however, rely on the province to reimburse them for each procedure covered by the Ontario Health Insurance Plan (OHIP). But that’s not always enough to stay in business, especially during the COVID-19 pandemic. Some centres without funding say they have no choice but to ask the public for donations. One of them even started a charity last year.

“Trying to get money out of the government is not easy, so this seemed like an easier way to get money to help these patients,” said the clinic’s owner.

The funded surgical centres are mostly clustered in Toronto. Another is in Ottawa. The unfunded businesses are also in the Toronto region.

Sources say this split in financial treatment for these clinics stems from the early-to-mid 1990s, when Ontario fully funded its abortion facilities. But the province later cut its health-care spending across the board – and the newer private surgical abortion centres never received overhead money, experts say.

Staff at the non-funded clinics say they are stretched to their budgetary limits. While they say they will always try to treat every patient and will accommodate same-day requests, they also try to fit in as many people to keep revenue flowing and their doors open. Some of these centres will overbook, so even if people do get appointments, they may have to wait for hours.

"When we're talking about abortion, it means it's under threat."

One unfunded facility Global News spoke with said it can only afford to deliver surgical services a few days a week, so people who call will have to wait until the next available day or try another place. In some extreme circumstances, waiting may mean not getting an abortion at all.

Then comes the tricky issue of fees: who picks up the bill for the procedure? On paper, this service is fully covered by OHIP, but unfunded clinics end up asking patients for money. Payment is optional, and many people can't afford it anyway.

While Ontario insures abortion care, fees charged at clinics go toward maintaining uninsured services, including dispensing medication and running a 24-hour hotline for patients. Without charging fees, some businesses say they would close.

The manager of one of these centres has asked the province for financial help twice, but he says it has never given him firm answers.

“Especially in places like Toronto, if we’re not getting that kind of funding, we are definitely threatening access and the existence of clinics,” said Omar, who asked to conceal his last name and where he works. “If we were forced to shut down, I cannot imagine where all those patients would go.”

Read more:
Risk of losing abortion access can be stressful, experts say. Here’s how to cope


As a matter of personal safety, Omar and many other staff members at abortion clinics asked to keep their facilities' names – and at least part of their identities – out of this story. Many of these sources spoke to the media for the first time. Global News has agreed to safeguard these sources' names and has given some of them pseudonyms.

The need for anonymity fits a larger trend of stigmatization and controversy, which are added burdens for people working in this field. Even though a recent poll shows that more than half of Canadians support abortion access whenever it’s wanted, the country has a history of violent attacks against providers. To name just a few examples, the former Toronto Morgentaler Clinic was destroyed by arson in 1992, and two years later, Vancouver gynecologist Dr. Garson Romalis was shot through the window of his home. He was also stabbed in 2000.

Two decades later, many current staffers say they feel unsafe at work, although Ontario has had legislation since 2018 that’s meant to protect abortion providers from potential threats.

A partner of one of Omar’s patients called in this year and threatened his main doctor, he says. A clinician at his facility told him that for more than a year, she was so scared that she wore a bulletproof vest during her commute.

Safety needs set their jobs apart, employees say. But while unfunded clinics Global News spoke with say they can’t afford to pay for a security guard, a funded centre says it can.

Omar’s facility put in a $3,000 security camera and lock system.

“These are the precautions that we have to take,” he said.

Experts say that stigma concerns may prohibit some hospitals from providing abortion services, which is why some freestanding centres opened. They absorb the overflow.

The Canadian Institute for Health Information (CIHI) says almost three out of four Ontario abortions in 2020 were reported from non-hospital settings, including clinics. The actual statistic may be even higher, the institute says, because some abortions are not included in its reporting.

Ontario’s abortion centres provide either medication abortions, surgical abortions or both. But experts say clinics delivering surgical care play an especially critical role: most abortion doctors recommend this procedure for people who want to terminate a pregnancy above 10 weeks. The province is one of the few places in Canada offering abortions for pregnancies that go to or extend beyond 24 weeks.

Read more:
As U.S. abortion bans take midterm centre stage, a clinic helping Canadians faces a crunch

“There is no replacement for surgical abortions,” Omar said. “This is the most efficient and foolproof way of making sure the procedure is done properly.”

Abortion clinics in the Toronto area face immense pressure to stay open. The GTA's population accounts for nearly half of the province’s and is expected to grow by three million people in the next 25 years.

The investigation raises this question: if reliable abortion care is not guaranteed in a place as big as the Greater Toronto Area, where is it?

How Ontario got its two-tiered system of abortion clinics


Back in the early 1980s, advocate Carolyn Egan campaigned with Dr. Henry Morgentaler, the late leader of the Canadian abortion-rights movement, to help overturn Canada’s 1969 federal abortion law, she says. They were taking aim at a ruling that permitted abortion under two conditions: if a committee of doctors decided that continuing the pregnancy may endanger the person’s health or life and that it be performed in a hospital.

Egan was in the courtroom alongside Dr. Morgentaler in 1988 when the Supreme Court struck down the legislation as unconstitutional. This decriminalized abortion care.

“You win a victory, but it’s not a victory for everyone,” she says. “I don't think there's any doubt that there's better access now than there was then. And the fact that there's no law regulating it is hugely important. But does it mean that everyone has the access they need? It does not mean that.”

She says she has been fighting to make this service accessible to everyone in Canada, and with the spotlight on abortion care right now, “this is the moment to make a change.”

Soon after the 1988 Canadian Supreme Court ruling, Ontario lawmaker Gilbert Sharpe said that while eating pizza, he wrote scribblings on a napkin that would later become the backbone of a law called the Independent Health Facilities Act, or IHFA. The director of legal services for the province’s ministry of health from 1980 to 2000, Sharpe said he wrote this because the private abortion clinics were charging patients fees to help cover the centres’ overhead. He said he wanted to create legislation that would instead require the province to fund these expenses.

“The IHFA was an abortion bill,” said Sharpe, who now teaches law and medicine at the University of Toronto. “The idea certainly was that women do not pay.”

After the act was proclaimed in 1990, Premier Bob Rae’s NDP government rolled out the IHFA. Under this legislation, the province fully funded the five freestanding surgical abortion clinics that existed around that time: four in Toronto and another in Ottawa.

Four other private surgical abortion centres, all in the GTA, have opened since Ontario financed the first handful. But when the Progressive Conservative government of Mike Harris came into power in 1995, it made sweeping cuts to health care, which Egan says included limiting new IHF licences.

She says she thinks this was a deliberate, ideological decision to curb funding for abortion care.

Harris was unavailable to respond to Global News' questions.

Video: Woman carrying skull-less fetus denied abortion in Louisiana

Only half of Ontario’s freestanding surgical abortion clinics now receive provincial overhead money under the IHFA: those licensed in the 1990s except for Toronto’s Scott Clinic, which has since closed after its main doctor fell ill, Egan says.

Sharpe said he didn’t know about the disparity. “That is disgusting.”

When asked why only some facilities are funded, a media relations coordinator with the Ontario Ministry of Health did not offer a direct response.

What’s similar, and different, about funded and unfunded clinics

Of the four clinics that provided patient volumes to Global News, three reported similar numbers: the weekly averages range from 55 to 64 abortions. This is regardless of whether they receive overhead money or not.

But one unfunded centre says it delivers around 125 abortions a week. This is the only way it can stay profitable. Its owner, Kelly, a pseudonym to protect their identity, says they wanted to hide their business name, too. They say their numbers will probably go up because of the high demand for the service.

Although Omar said his facility is operating fine as is, his head doctor said, “You have to work like a dog.” The doctor did not want to reveal their name.

Read more:
Melanie Joly addresses abortion, sexual violence in closing speech at United Nations


Omar says his clinic’s yearly overhead costs are $978,000, his highest number yet. The COVID-19 pandemic saw people worldwide scramble for medical equipment, which inflated prices for everyday materials: tubing, for example, used to cost $5, but now it’s $10.

“There isn’t a lot of money left over,” Omar says.

For funded centres, on the other hand, Ontario sets patient targets and gives them budgets in line with those numbers, staffers say. Choice in Health Clinic, an IHF, says it has an operating budget of $1.6 million to provide abortions to more than 2,000 insured patients a year.

When subsidized abortion centres fall short of making their expected client numbers, they say they face possible budget clawbacks from the province – not the prospect of completely shutting down.

A source connected to Toronto’s Cabbagetown Women’s Clinic, who asked to remain anonymous, says it was having trouble making its patient targets three years ago. And then came COVID-19 lockdowns and isolation requirements, which kept numbers down. It was seeing about 70 per cent of its usual volumes.

By fall of 2021, Ontario started withholding some of Cabbagetown’s money. The source says this felt appropriate given how low its numbers became, and this did not hamper services or staffing. As soon as the centre started seeing an influx of patients in January of 2022, the province stopped the clawback, the source says.

Lee, whose name has been changed to a pseudonym, works at a funded Ontario abortion clinic. They also wanted to keep the facility’s name out of the story to protect the safety of their staff. They did not give details about their overhead, but they said it’s so big that their clinic “wouldn’t exist without government funding.”

Burden of paying for abortion care is “falling on the public”

At unfunded clinics like Omar’s, they bill the province for insured services only – so, the abortion care itself. But there are other expenses his facility needs to cover that the government does not subsidize. Omar says this is why he asks patients to pay a fee of about $60.

“If we don’t charge, we cannot survive,” his main doctor said.

Omar says he considers this to be “more of a donation,” adding his team is explicit with patients that this fee is optional.

But he says, “With the demographic that we deal with, a lot of them are not able to pay.”

“We give … the same level of care for every single patient, whether they pay or they don't pay.”

In contrast, Lee says their facility is so well funded through the province that there are no uninsured services – and there's no need for fees.

“Clinics should not be put in a position to charge anything,” said Jill Doctoroff, the executive director of the National Abortion Federation Canada. “It’s not the clinics. It’s the system that does not adequately fund them to give the care needed.”

"If we don't charge, we cannot survive."

As with Omar's clinic, Kelly also charges patients an optional fee for services that Ontario doesn’t cover. As a business that’s close to breaking even, they said they would have otherwise gone into debt last year.

But they believe health care should be free, so they say they have started a charity to help collect money to cover their expenses. Their hope is that they can take in sufficient donations to stop charging people these fees – a goal that’s proving to be difficult. So far, they’ve raised around $4,000, but to completely get rid of the extra charges, they said they would need to raise a few hundred thousand dollars a year.

Read more:
Drop in virtual care fees could lead to ‘unintended consequences,’ Ontario doctors warn


Frédérique Chabot, the director of health promotion at Action Canada for Sexual Health and Rights, says because the province neglects to properly finance these clinics, the burden of funding abortion care is “falling on the public.”

When Global News asked the Ontario Ministry of Health to respond through email to Chabot’s claim, a media relations coordinator did not directly answer the question.

Not enough to go around


Many reproductive-rights advocates and clinic staff are now pushing for the ministry to fully finance all of its freestanding surgical abortion centres.

“We have access,” said Gilbert of the University of Ottawa. “We just need to fund it. We just need to make sure it’s equal.”

But this demand comes at a time when Ontario’s wider health-care supports are crumbling. The ministry of health says the system is “extraordinarily strained.” Many hospitals are grappling with upticks in COVID-19, influenza and respiratory virus cases, all while operating at critically low staffing levels. A recently leaked report shows hospital wait times are worsening, and most pediatric centres will be scaling back planned surgeries to try to safeguard critical care beds.

“Everyone is saying they need funding right now, but whose voice is going to be the loudest?” said Abi Sriharan, a health-crisis leadership expert at Toronto’s Dalla Lana School of Public Health. “Who is going to get attention at the end of the day?”

The pediatric problems have to be Ontario’s priority right now, Sriharan adds. “That said, abortion issues are huge issues and women’s health is involved.”

Abortion care falls prey to “all the problems within the health-care system right now – and worse because it can be stigmatized and dangerous,” Gilbert says.

"We have access. We just need to fund it. We just need to make sure it's equal."

If the unfunded abortion centres in Ontario had to close, Omar said, “I don't know where the overflow would go. With only four publicly funded clinics, how could you possibly see all the patients?”

Funded or not, all facilities said they share the same goal: to provide a safe, reliable space for people to receive controversial medical care.

“It speaks to the commitment of those who are providing the service … because they're meeting a need,” Egan said. “They're doing it even though they're being financially stretched to provide it, and that's just unacceptable in today's world.”

“They give me hugs,” Omar’s lead clinician says tearfully about their patients. “I don't do this for the money. I’m an old-fashioned doctor. I love them so much. They need me.”

Omar says he’s unsure how long his clinic’s head doctor will be working in the field. Once that physician leaves, he fears that finding an equally passionate replacement will be tough, as many surgical providers are aging into retirement. He says if he can’t find a replacement, his centre will have to shut down permanently.

“That’s the bleak future we’re looking at unless we receive public funding.”
Newfoundland's fishing towns were built to survive, but Fiona changed the game

ST. JOHN'S, N.L. — For generations, Cory Munden's family has been building and living on the same piece of oceanside land in the southwestern Newfoundland town of Port aux Basques.

Newfoundland's fishing towns were built to survive, but Fiona changed the game© Provided by The Canadian Press

The town is a former fishing village, and like many of the houses destroyed by post-tropical storm Fiona on the morning of Sept. 24, the Munden family home was built by fishers. The land on which it stood was bought by Munden's fisherman grandfather because it was close to where he worked, and it was protected by an offshore island.

For 70 years, the houses on that land withstood the worst weather Newfoundland had to offer. Then Fiona hit.

Munden is now among those who worry storms like Fiona — forecast to become more frequent as the climate changes — will change the face of Newfoundland for good, wiping away its historic, weather-hardened fishing communities one by one.

"All of the traditional living-near-the-ocean spots, those are all old properties that dated back since the dawn of time, right?" Munden said in a recent interview. "That's where all the fishermen settled."

The island of Newfoundland is rocky, rough and unforgiving. Most of its communities are former fishing villages, tucked away into coves, bights and bays along the coastline.

"They settled in these secluded places because they were aware of the power of the ocean," said Andrea O'Brien, the Heritage Foundation of Newfoundland and Labrador's provincial registrar. "They built their homes far enough back from the high tide and from any kind of storm surges so their homes will be protected."

Fiona upended centuries of that wisdom in a single morning, she said. Looking to the future, O'Brien said she's particularly concerned about the fishing stages that often dot the waterside in these communities. A fishing stage is a shed-like building often sitting atop a platform that reaches out over the water, held up by wooden posts. Fishermen would unload their catches there, splitting their fish on sturdy wooden tables.

Colourful fishing sheds have come to define the province's historic allure; they're easy to spot in tourism ads. O'Brien said she doesn't know how they'll ever withstand storms like Fiona.

"I think with those buildings gone, it really does change the face of how this place has been for centuries," she said, adding that she's not sure what, if anything, could be done about it.

Related video: New fishing rope technology could help protect whales (cbc.ca)
Duration 2:03   View on Watch

Munden points to the dormant fishing community of Petites, which is about 40 kilometres east of Port aux Basques along Newfoundland's remote southern shore.

Petites was resettled by the provincial government nearly two decades ago. Before then — and before the 1992 cod moratorium that put an end to many of these communities' local economies — the town had been home to fishers since the mid-1800s.

Fiona destroyed buildings and stages in Petites that had withstood over 100 years of ferocious Newfoundland storms, Munden said. "That was a sheltered harbour," he said. "And this Fiona storm came in and levelled it."

Port aux Basques was settled year-round in the 1700s, and it was a thriving fishing town until the 1992 moratorium. The community is now home to about 3,500 people, down from about 4,000 people five years ago. Before Fiona plunged it into the headlines, it was perhaps best known as the place to catch the ferry to Nova Scotia.

A narrow island sits just offshore from the town's most densely populated area. Until Fiona hit, the island shielded those homes from the sea for centuries.

Munden said he worries for those whose homes are still standing but could be hit by the next big storm. Like many whose homes were destroyed by storm surge, his family was denied any insurance coverage for their loss. Storm surge coverage isn't an option with most insurers.

"I mean, what are we going to do, we're going to move every property that's on coastal water? That's impossible," he said. "People need protection from these type of events. We can't leave them high and dry like this."

Amanda Dean, the Insurance Bureau of Canada's Atlantic vice-president, says insurance providers want to partner with the federal government on a program to cover those whose homes are now in harm's way as the climate changes.

That should happen alongside discussions about where people should build in the future, Dean said in an interview.

"Just because we've been building in a certain way for several hundreds of years doesn't mean that that's necessarily the way we should be building going forward," she said. "It's an awfully tough conversation to have."

Meanwhile, the Newfoundland and Labrador government announced plans Tuesday night to help those on the southwest coast denied by their insurance companies. The aid includes compensation for the land on which destroyed houses stood, or help finding a new lot to rebuild on.

Munden said some are simply moving away.

"It's changed the community, it's changed the landscape, and it's going to change the dynamics," he said.

This report by The Canadian Press was first published Nov. 17, 2022.

Sarah Smellie, The Canadian Press
Montreal committee says toppled statue of John A. Macdonald should not be put back


MONTREAL — A downtown Montreal statue of Canada's first prime minister that was toppled by protesters in 2020 should not be put back, a city-mandated committee said in a report released Monday.


Montreal committee says toppled statue of John A. Macdonald should not be put back© Provided by The Canadian Press

Montreal should distance itself from the policies of assimilation and genocide against Indigenous Peoples that were championed by Sir John A. Macdonald, the committee of experts, public servants and academics recommended.

"Considering the assimilative and genocidal policies Macdonald implemented against Indigenous Peoples, and the discriminatory acts he perpetrated against several other groups of people, the consequences of which are still painful and palpable for many communities, the committee believes … it is necessary to distance ourselves from this legacy," the committee wrote.

Protesters toppled, beheaded and defaced the statue at the end of an August 2020 demonstration calling on cities to defund police departments, and the base on which the statue stood has been empty since. The statue --- first installed in Place du Canada park in 1895 — has been sitting in a municipal warehouse while the city prepares a new framework for memorials of historical figures.



















Macdonald was an architect of Canada's residential school system. Some of his other policies included intentionally starving women and children to clear the path for settlement in the West. The debate in Canada over what to do with public memorials of Macdonald was rekindled in May 2021, after the discovery of the remains of 215 children in unmarked graves on the site of the former Kamloops Indian Residential School.

The committee — which included Sen. Michèle Audette and Dinu Bumbaru, policy director at Heritage Montreal — suggested that the statue be replaced with an artistic reinterpretation that rejects the colonial vision of Canada put forward by the country's first prime minister.

"The committee does not rule out the use of the bronze statue or its image in a renewed interpretation. If this project does not involve the reuse of the bronze statue, what will happen to it remains to be determined."

On Dec. 7, the committee will hold a public meeting to present its findings and recommendations.

This report by The Canadian Press was first published Nov. 21, 2022.

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This story was produced with the financial assistance of the Meta and Canadian Press News Fellowship.

Marisela Amador, The Canadian Press
From jihadism to far-right violence: Montreal anti-radicalization centre shifts focus


Montreal's anti-radicalization centre no longer occupies the same spacious offices that once received high-profile visitors such as then-UN secretary-general Ban Ki-moon.


Louis Audet Gosselin, the centre's scientific and strategic director


To reach its current office, visitors have to navigate the corridors of the concrete pyramid that is the city's former Olympic Village, past pizza and sushi shops, other offices and a grocery store.

The new venue is one of many changes that the Centre for the Prevention of Radicalization Leading to Violence has undergone since it opened in 2015 to great fanfare. Its creation came as a wave of young Quebecers was leaving to join the Islamic State terror group in Syria and after attacks in Ottawa and St-Jean-sur-Richelieu, Que., that were inspired by the terror group.

After a period of organizational turbulence, the centre has continued its work, with a lower profile, a smaller budget, and a focus that has increasingly shifted from radical Islam to the far right and conspiracy theorists.

Louis Audet Gosselin, the centre's scientific and strategic director, said that while the fear of young people leaving for Syria was the "spark" that convinced authorities to fund the centre, the institution very quickly made it clear that its scope wasn't limited to one threat.

"Pretty soon, the centre found it really important to communicate that radicalization was something way beyond that specific moment, and that specific ideology of jihadism, or a form of political Islam," he said.

"Every type of ideology, of social or political idea, can have a radical and an extremist trend and can lead to radicalization."

Audet Gosselin said the COVID-19 pandemic "democratized" the notion of radicalization by making people realize that it could happen to someone of any age or background. Calls to the centre in 2020 — the first year of the pandemic — doubled from the previous year. The centre's annual report credited the spike to "a fraying of the social fabric" that led to violent acts, conspiracy theories and polarized debate.

While demand for its services remains high, the centre is carrying on its work with little of its initial visibility after a turbulent period that left its survival in question. In March 2019, the city abruptly announced that the centre's then-director had been removed from his post. Most of the board of directors also resigned.

While the city has refused to publicize the report that led to the change of management, Audet Gosselin — who was not employed by the centre at the time and says he has not seen the report — believes the issue was largely financial, related to overspending on things not directly related to the centre's mandate, as well as a difference in vision from newly elected provincial and municipal administrations.

In the end, both the provincial and municipal government decided to continue to fund the centre — but with a narrowed focus on Quebec and a reduced budget of $1.3 million in 2021, down from around $2 million at its peak.

Today, the centre's 15-member team includes researchers, people who conduct online training for schools and community groups, and support team members who take calls from people concerned about friends or family who they think are becoming radicalized.

Amarnath Amarasingam, a professor of religion at Queen's University, says most of the network of organizations dealing with radicalization in Canada sprung up to deal with the "foreign fighter" phenomenon. But concern about the far right has been growing quickly, he said, following the election of Donald Trump in the United States as well as the 2017 Quebec City mosque shooting, during which a white gunman killed six Muslim men.

"I think there was some critique overall that this entire kind of apparatus was built with minority communities in focus and that there was a blind spot when it came to these far-right movements — which is starting to change," Amarasingam said in a phone interview.

He praised Montreal's centre as a useful resource, noting that it has had success in getting into schools, which can be difficult due to a reluctance on the part of teachers and educators to discuss extremism with young people.

Both Amarasingam and Audet Gosselin say the process of helping someone who is going down the path of radicalization is similar, regardless of what ideology they are attracted to.

Audet Gosselin says that while each radicalized individual is different, many of the root causes of their extremism are the same: a feeling of being marginalized, excluded or deprived, as well as a distrust of democratic institutions.

Currently, Audet Gosselin says he's worried by what he calls the "anti-government and anti-authority trend" that has risen in Canada throughout the pandemic. While it's inspired by the far right, it's less organized, and it's tied to general distrust of institutions, he said.

While this movement hasn't resulted in "big acts of violence" yet, he said, the rhetoric can be violent and include calls for mass executions or violence against journalists, politicians or doctors.

He said he also feels that Canadian authorities aren't concerned enough about rising threats to the LGBTQ community, which have led to violence in the United States with the fatal shooting at an LGBTQ nightclub in Colorado Springs.


When working with potentially radicalized people one on one, the centre tries to address the person's needs, whether that means connecting them with a mentor, a therapist or a job. Because radicalized individuals are often isolated, it also means helping them build healthy social connections and ways of expression, he said.

In response to the rise in conspiracy theories, the centre put together webinars, training and a discussion forum for families.

But Audet Gosselin said that just because public attention has shifted to new forms of radicalization, doesn't mean the others have disappeared.

"We have this idea that 2015 and 2016 were more jihadism, 2017 and 2018 were the far right and then 2020 and 2021 were conspiracy theories," he said. "But the jihadists are not gone, the far right is still there, and we still have calls for every one of these broad ideological families."

This report by The Canadian Press was first published Nov. 29, 2022.

Morgan Lowrie, The Canadian Press