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The video of the memorial shows the attendees heaving with sobs as a band plays a somber, classic Persian tune, while the foreground displays a haunting life-sized photo of the couple on their wedding day. Feghahati had insisted that her husband come with them, but he decided to stay in Toronto to work so that they could pay their bills with comfort. Masoumeh had spoken to friends about how excited she was that her sister would be joining her in Halifax.

She was eagerly preparing for the apartment they would get together. I can imagine that Mandieh was riddled with nerves at the prospect of leaving her home for another, but perhaps she was comforted that she was in the company of her sister. Mohammad was a passionate and hard-working student at the Faculty of Medicine who was actively involved in several organizations that contribute to the community. Zeynab was equally brilliant — a brilliant student, mental health advocate, and humanitarian worker who was sure to be a pioneer in her field.

They both died as they returned from a visit home to be with their families over the holidays. Mohammad and Zeynab lived in my building. We probably took the same route walking to school, shopped at the same grocery store, and went up the same elevator every day.

They both had also resided in British Columbia. They moved to Canada just a few years after I did. We had so much in common, and yet their lives were so unjustly cut short. I walk home now, knowing that a flat in my building is empty, the former home of two bright minds. The list of heartbreaking stories goes on. A brief survey of the victims aboard the flight paints a telling portrait of the calibre of human and intellectual potential that was lost in this tragedy.

The passengers included students in Canada who left their families to study in their respective fields of science, engineering, and medicine. Some were families with small children. The passengers also included the beautiful couple that had been in Iran to get married, whose wedding photos stood out amidst the charred debris of the flight that scattered across the landscape. The gravity of this tragedy goes beyond the collective national mourning in Canada. It has brought together Iranian residents in Canada of all walks of life — the wealthy, the poor, the politically engaged, and those that have distanced themselves from Iranian politics.

We were all united not just because of some shared feeling of national belonging, but because any one of us or our loved ones could have been aboard that flight, leaving Iran for Canada. This tragedy holds an immense symbolic pain. It is a loss of potential, of human life, of human kindness, of shattered hopes, dreams, and possibilities. We weep not just because we feel solidarity with the victims — we weep because their stories were our stories, their loss is our loss.

Filled with nervous anticipation — excitement over the prospects of a new life and new freedoms in our new homes — but also holding a deep discomfort in the pit of our stomachs as we left behind our homes, our families, and our collective histories and cultures.

I wonder if Mandieh had similar anxieties. Perhaps, like her fellow passenger Nasim Rahmanifar, she was wondering whether she needed a warmer winter jacket to face the infamous Canadian winters. Maybe she wondered when the next time she would be able to come to Iran would be. It is heartbreaking because some of the victims had likely come to Canada to escape the horrors of the Islamic Republic of Iran, to live safely and without fear of losing their lives to political incompetence.

And yet they fell victim to it nevertheless. For what reason? For going home to celebrate a wedding? For surprising their mother during a brief break from their studies? We mourn their loss. We all feel their loss. And we will bring justice. This immense, unimaginable grief has rightfully inspired an anger among Iranians, both abroad and in Iran. Iranians have taken to the streets to mourn the victims and to protest the immense political negligence that caused this senseless tragedy.

They are being met with violent repression. While Canadians come to memorials attended by our prime minister, public officials, and politicians, the government that has hijacked our home instead shoots mourners. Anti-regime protests are not new in Iran. Little over two months ago, approximately 1, Iranians were killed by the regime during mass antigovernment protests. The Iranian people want accountability, democracy, and freedom, and have been fighting for such for a while, always inevitably facing gunfire and repression.

But this time, it feels different. There is an unprecedented anger over this injustice — the Islamic Republic of Iran has taken away innocent, defenseless lives. This tragedy is truly inexcusable. I apologize for lying to you on TV for 13 years. The profoundness of the impact of this loss on Iranians across the world is not to be abased. It has inspired a camaraderie so powerful that it is a force to be reckoned with. As an Iranian Canadian who left Iran as a child and tried her best to distance herself from Iranian politics but has since felt an unassailable force drawing her to engagement, I say this: the end of the tyrannical rule of the Islamic Republic of Iran is inevitable.

Not because of foreign intervention or war or economic motivations, but purely because of the unparalleled strength of Iranian solidarity and compatriotism. Our empathy, care, and solidarity for one another is stronger than any missile or bullet the regime can employ, and eventually, the oppressor will fall, and a free Iran will rise. An Iran that all the Iranians aboard Flight would have been proud to call home. However, there are currently no statistics for the number of students who come from rural areas.

Even as domestic students, rural students still undergo an acute sense of culture shock and change when moving to urban areas to attend school. In order to attend university, rural students have to leave their family and friends, and face financial challenges due to the relocation. The Varsity interviewed two U of T students who shared their stories about transitioning from rural to city life. It has a population of roughly 3, people, according to a census by Statistics Canada.

There are only a few stores, ranging from a hardware store, to an LCBO and a few restaurants. Growing up, the activities were largely outdoors-based. I enjoyed fishing, building forts in the woods, tending to chickens and horses, riding a dirt bike, and like everyone else, video games! However, he found that adapting to the pace of city life was not as big of a pendulum swing as expected. If all else fails, Uber is an option. In Toronto, he commutes an hour from Scarborough each day, with an extra cushion of 30 minutes for potential delays.

But back in Watervliet, he had his schedule whittled down to the minute. When features thevarsity. In , there were , students enrolled at the undergraduate level at Canadian universities. In , there were , students.

For the — academic year, Statistics Canada estimated that 2. Changes in the labour market and the demand for a highly skilled and educated labour force have driven this growing trend in participation in postsecondary studies. This demand has increased the value attached to university degrees, drawing more people from all backgrounds to postsecondary education. The promise of opportunity that being at U of T brings rings true for both Wildeboer and Hiler. My courses have taken me into the Ontario wilderness, to Turkey, and this year, South Africa and Australia.

Something that he looks forward to when going back is home-cooked food. Hiler also identifies his experience as being between two worlds. Something he especially misses about being back home is the nighttime. Back home in Watervliet, the night sky is a place of silence and respite. Mystical women remained virgins throughout their lives or returned to celibacy after a period of sexual activity — perhaps a marriage — because chastity was seen as a sign of spiritual value.

They also often inflicted themselves with crippling pain. Take, for example, Beatrice of Ornacieux — driving nails through her palms, Dorothy of Montau — contorting her body to hang like a cross, or Serafina of San Gimignano — exalting her own paralysis. Last winter, I grew quietly obsessed with these women. The aesthetics of their self-mortification fascinated me; the reproductions of their pain — in paintings, drawings, or narratives — blinked wetly from my laptop screen, ready for adoration.

What is it that Susan Sontag talks about regarding the pain of others? So this is about me, not you. What makes a picture if not a border and what makes a border if not a caption? That it sucks for the viewer. In most religious traditions, mystics — those with a special connection to the divine — hold a particularly potent kind of authority: the ability to declare a state of exception, to challenge dogma from within.

As such, their presence may endanger the authority of the religious institution to which they claim membership. Some individuals theorize that women mystics used extreme mortification to demonstrate the authenticity of their experiences. To prove they were not just crazy. Yet, women mystics engaged with suffering for a variety of interior reasons far beyond proving their spiritual legitimacy.

They suffered in the image of Christ, for Christ, to renounce the mundanity of the world which bound them. Spiritual pain afflicts the soul as well as the body. Psychic distress rots from the eyes-in, which anyone with a smartphone knows.

This thought was a great comfort to her. I read this in February and looked around at my empty apartment. We — the collective unknowable we — maintain a salacious interest in and discomfort with women who violate themselves. Maybe the whole internet is about it. The physical sites of this, the women who share their stories, might get 50 or 75 bucks in return for words on the worst experiences of their lives. They mortify themselves online.

Perhaps this is an attempt to demonstrate the authenticity of their experiences, the rawness of womanhood or whatever. But who does this serve? No — Jezebel. To secular readers, the maceratory practices of these medieval women seem obscene. We want our women to suffer under the hands of others. But we also must question the normative nature of that which we may hope to encounter in history.

We can put their delicate little faces on tote bags and mugs, embroider them on t-shirts and charge for the privilege. However, as the lives of these Christian mystics demonstrate, the agency of women lies not only in how they can resist norms, but also in the various ways they may inhabit them. Coins, trinkets, baubles, artifacts, and amulets of possibly cursed origins: the stuff of personal legend, meant to be passed down from generation to generation.

Yet, the world has become a lot less physical over the years, and heirlooms have followed suit. I used to watch my dad traverse pixelated worlds in the darkness on our old living-room MacBook, the low-resolution screen painting both of our faces a pale blue. I hid behind his back on a stool, looking on as our afternoons and evenings passed slowly into the night. On one occasion, I watched him take on hellspawn of all sorts, crowbar his way through portals to hell, and save innocent civilians and Earth from certain disaster.

I would come to know this as the plot of Doom, an eventual classic. Over his broad shoulders, I would come to this viewing party many times, each time visiting a new locale, a new story, and a new plot. I was too scared to play the games, of course, but my dad could kick demon butt, so with him behind the keyboard, I had nothing to worry about.

I became so comfortable watching that I actually neglected to ever play video games myself. My childhood best friend used to play Sonic Adventure 2 on the GameCube for hours while I sat on his bed, content to watch from the sidelines. I would pick up the controller every now and then when he asked me to, but at that time video games were a spectator sport to me. By the age of 10, the only games I played were online and very superficial.

Neopets, Toontown, and FusionFall kept my boredom to a minimum throughout my childhood as a digital native, but nothing made video games especially stand out, save for the soft spot in my heart where I held the time with my dad. As a portly four-foot sixth grader with no fashion sense, I think he sussed out the necessity of a hobby for his lonely little son. Both boxes contained multiple CDs, both took hours of time to set up and play, and both ignited a part of me that continues to burn brightly today.

Before The Sims and Star Wars, the world of video games for me was all first-person, focused on running, shooting, and fighting. The games of my dad and my best friend had movie-like linear plotlines and, just like films, they were a joy to watch. But I seemed to be missing out on the operative part of a game, video-based or not: participation.

They engrossed me like nothing ever had before. And from there it snowballed into the intersection of all of my interests. I picked up the indie-legend Minecraft a year later, which flexed my creative muscle in unimaginable ways. With a near-infinite world at my disposal, and countless available modifications to tailor it to my choosing, my penchant for meticulous design shown through for the first time in my life.

Later games in my repertoire included RPGs such as Skyrim and Fallout: New Vegas, both of which became decade-defining in their own right. These games ask players to navigate civil wars, negotiate difficult ethical dilemmas, and discover on their own terms what it means to be a saviour.

As I grew up, video games became the glue that stuck so many of the best parts of my life together. Mini Metro added to my alreadyastounding adoration for public infrastructure design. Stardew Valley tied my friends together over shared custody of a family farm, bonding us over chicken raising and crop sales. Animal Crossing taught me the importance of patience, of planning ahead, of simple beauties in little things. It became increasingly clear to me that what made video games special was not simply their gameplay — which, in the end, is just a gimmick.

Video games are just like paintings, sculptures, drawings, and the other media I would end up studying. They are, in fact, pieces of art. Video games carry with them a message, a theme, an idea. They are, just like any work of art, ultimately vectors for the humanity imbued in the project. Video games, however, have the benefit of near-universal application. The rest is up to you. Video games can be beautiful, breathtaking, or downright vapid, but so can all forms of art. They are all equally important, and equally necessary, in a world teetering on the edge of the unknown.

In his earlier political career, he was a congressman for Florida from until He registered further on the national radar when former President Trump endorsed him for governor in the election, a decision Trump reportedly made after seeing DeSantis speak on Fox News.

His controversial COVID stance has been a selling point for some in the business milieu, including some who spoke with Fortune, who perceive him as being particularly pro-business. Some of the business and entrepreneurial crowd who moved to the state over the past couple of years praise the way DeSantis has governed. When asked about that stance regarding issues that affect employees, like abortion and the overturning of Roe v.

Large companies from financial titan Citadel to Elliott Management Corp. DeSantis has, however, taken aim at the investment management industry—specifically deriding ESG-focused investing , which takes into account environmental, social, and governance factors, in a ban for State Board of Administration SBA fund managers to consider ESG when investing.

But regardless if donors are saying it out loud yet, in terms of the zeitgeist, media attention, and polling, DeSantis has emerged as the key candidate to battle it out with Trump for the next election. Gavin] Newsom. Or Jeb Bush in [20]16? Who had higher name recognition and more money than Jeb Bush?

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