(For more information on this story please visit the original Spectator story here by Susan Clairmont. )

Last Friday Jan. 28, McMaster flew its flags at half-mast in honour of the death of Ljubica Savic. Ljubica Savic was a McMaster cleaner, a mother of two, and a Croatian immigrant. On Jan. 20, she died of cancer at Juravinski Hospital. I was saddened to hear of her passing, but angry to see such a short post in the university’s Daily News sharing this news. And I want to tell you why.   

Last year, Ljubica Savic complained to the university that her supervisor, Godson Okwulehie, had physically assaulted her during a late-night shift. She claimed that he had yelled at her and then proceeded to physically harass her. The university dismissed her allegation against Okwulehie, and he continued to work for the custodian services at McMaster. Human resources and the security department did not report the incident to the police.

With the help of the Building Union of Canada that currently represents some workers at Mac, she laid a private charge against him in court. Unfortunately, because of her death, she was not able to testify and all the charges against him will be dropped.

Since Savic was brave enough to come forward, an internal security report conducted by McMaster found that since 2000 there have been ten individual complaints against the same supervisor by women who worked for him, creating a pattern of sexual and physical harassment.

The university released a report last year that stated that the female cleaners thought that these allegations had not been addressed properly. The supervisor is only now on leave, and a McMaster spokesperson says there are no plans for his return. These allegations are not proven in court. And because of Savic’s death, Okwulehie will not face his day in court, and maintains that all allegations are false.

But the gravity of the situation lies in the number of allegations against Okwulehie, ten to date, and the university’s inactions when faced with them. All of these allegations were made by the most vulnerable members of the McMaster community, who have to support themselves and often other members of their family on a job that only recently started paying a living wage.

I’m not writing this to speak on behalf of Savic’s relatives, her children or her family. But as a member of the McMaster community, I am nothing short of disgusted. When we talk about gender issues, violence against women, we’re not just addressing sexual assault or harassment against female students. All women should be safe and respected at McMaster, and sexual harassment or assault allegations should never be ignored. It shouldn’t take 14 years and ten allegations to start treating the people who clean up after you like they mean something.

This case shows not only a complete disregard for the wellbeing of workers, but also a despicable level of disrespect towards staff members. The Ministry of Labour conducted an investigation which concluded the university has the programs in place to deal with these issues. Yet Susan Clairmont, a reporter for the Hamilton Spectator, reported that the investigation “failed to determine whether the program is being implemented.”

In my opinion, the university did not act to protect these workers, and in doing so, failed to show its commitment to creating a safe and equitable campus.

Savic died without getting her day in court. She also died without the university acting to protect her. To lower the flags in “honour” of Savic and fail to address the issue at hand is utterly hypocritical. To have honoured Savic would have meant to have treated her with the respect and due diligence she deserved when she came forward. It would have meant to not let ten instances of sexual and physical harassment go unaddressed by failing to react to each individual case. Andrea Farquhar, a McMaster spokesperson, said that the President and Vice-President of the university were not aware of the internal report and “this has to change in the future.” There is no excuse for this lack of responsibility and the university needs to be held accountable.

So I’m asking the university to address this issue publicly. I’m asking them to release a statement explaining how something of this degree could take place and why it’s taken 14 years for the university departments to finally see “the big picture” as Farquhar said. Why should we believe that we attend a university where this will not happen again? And what will it do in the near future to show its commitment to the fight against gender-based violence and to address issues of sexual harassment and assault on campus?

Of course, the issue does not lay solely in gender-based violence. This is, above all, a labour issue. It is utterly despicable to pay Labour Studies professors hundreds of thousands of dollars to research inequity in the workplace, and to run a university that appears to perpetuate these very same problems. As a student, this event tells me that our academy doesn’t believe in its own theories, and more importantly, that it doesn’t value the lives of our workers.

I cannot tell you how it will end. But recently, I heard it.

My room’s closet is connected to the attic, and often someone has to get a chair, climb up there, and clean out the traps. Mouse traps more specifically. Down come the dead bodies, usually every weekend. Most of the time there are none, but once and a while a fellow Hamiltonian is pulled from their home with a broken spine and empty hands from trying to get the peanut butter that the trap beguiled.

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This weekend was different. From the attic there lies a little crevice, smaller than a human hand, that forms from a detachment of the house’s frame. On one side, the closet wall. On the other my drywall and house frame. It is smaller than a fist, but large enough for a mouse.

And so this predictable story goes, a mouse fell in. Down it went, an Alice like rabbit hole that ended in likely a few broken bones. No trap, no peanut butter, just squealing. I have never heard an animal cry out in pain, crying to whomever a mouse can when it is injured. This happened at 2 a.m, and confused, I put earplugs in thinking it was my dog.

The next morning I woke to scurrying, it trying to climb up to heaven or at the very least, where mama keeps the peanut butter. I listened, drop-out-of-medical-school-stethoscope in hand, to the scratches at the wall. I heard it scurrying. I heard it panting. I heard it beating. I think. To be honest I could not distinguish its heartbeat from my own. I was amazed - life, there, in my drywall.

And then I realized the mouse was trapped, unable to escape its fate. And this is the story, I suppose, with enough preamble on how a mouse died in my room. It took four days, and over those four days I was unsure what to do. I got angry with myself, unable to rescue the mouse. Afraid of property damage, afraid of my inability more so, I would curse myself for letting the mouse die. I gave it food on the first, pushing bread in the crevice, but realized I was only making its pain perhaps more acute.

I tried playing it music. Classical, and it scurried faster. Rap, and it moved more. It wanted out, and I did not know how to provide that.

Over the course of those four days, the mouse listened to me as I programmed shitty web apps, got frustrated at not understanding math problems, and it listened to my panting as I masturbated. It heard me eating quinoa chips, my laughs, my tears for it.  It heard who I was.

And I kept asking myself, what does it think of me? As it scurries, slower and slower as the days progress, did it know how I fantasized of saving it, how I dreamt of smashing the drywall as if it belonged in Berlin, rescuing it with all the cheese and wine necessary for a union, how I would nurse it back to health with its mouse sized cast and IV, how we would be friends, and I could keep it for a long time, because it knew me.

When I left the house, I texted my brother, “Brother, there is a mouse in my room, behind the drywall. It is dying, and I don’t want it to be alone tonight. If you have time, please stay with it.”

I don’t really know if this is a story worth telling. I don’t even know what kind of opinion I am trying to say. What it is not is an argument for animal’s rights or on the suffering of animals. As far as I can see it, I am just trying to tell you that this mouse, in my drywall, as it scurried its last time, made me cry. It made me realize how pathetic I was, and am, sometimes. And it made me try to be better.

For it only takes an observer, no matter how small their squeal, to make you reevaluate yourself. As soon as someone is listening in on your life, you have to impress them. Or at the very least, make it worth the fall.

It was one year ago this Valentine’s Day that I found my grandpa’s body.

On an otherwise usual Thursday, I arrived home after an anthropology tutorial to find him laid down by a heart attack at the side door of the home we shared. He hadn’t made it inside.

A lot of things changed on that day. I lost my housemate, my grandfather and my friend. The world lost a scientist, a beer-connoisseur and a remarkable human being. As anyone who has lost loved ones will know, that day was the first day of a journey I didn’t choose to embark upon; one I didn’t even realize was in motion until long afterwards.

Such journeys, of course, are not without their ups and downs – some immediate, some down the road. I found out what it feels like to ride in the front of an ambulance in a state of shock. I know what it’s like to hold the hand of a person you’ve known your whole life, when their hand has no life left in it. I realized the inanity of the things we cling to, as I grieved the melting of the snow bank into which he had fallen.

I discovered what it is to have the association of an innocent object trigger a wave of uncontrollable sadness, and that this is inevitable as much in private as it is in public. I became anxious that I would lose more people that I loved suddenly, soon, without warning. I also questioned the fact that grandpa died on Valentine’s Day.

“Why did it have to happen on Valentine’s Day?” I repeatedly asked myself. I suppose I was worried that this celebratory day would be spoiled by sadness, or that the inescapable nature of such a heavily advertised day would be hard to bear.

I’ve discovered that neither is the case. In fact, my feelings are quite contrary.

I’m now glad Valentine’s was the day. For what other day of the year is entirely devoted to love? Behind the commercialism, superficiality and fanfare of February 14, the essence of love remains.

Valentine’s has become a reminder of my wonderful, supportive friends, of the strength of my family and the love I have for them, and of the romantic love I share with my partner. Valentine’s isn’t just for lovers - it’s for love of all sorts: friendly, familial and romantic. And it’s for the kind of love that lingers in my memory of a time, a place and a person who is lost but never forgotten – especially on Feb. 14.

Tyler Johnson, a 30-year-old engineering student, was fatally shot on Nov. 30.

An arrest has finally been made following the Nov. 30 murder of a McMaster mechanical engineering student.

Brandon Barreira, 19, has been charged with first-degree murder in connection with the early morning shooting and slaying of Tyler Johnson, 30, in the parking lot of Vida La Pita and Tim Hortons on King Street West near Hess Village.

Police, who now identify the fatality as a targeted murder, are using surveillance video to try and identify more suspects involved in the incident.

The following video has been released in an effort to identify remaining suspects. Police are "looking to identify two suspects described as white males walking in the video, one white male wearing a blue jacket and red hoody, second white male wearing a black hoody jacket."

[youtube id="lKMM7ZcScZY" width="620" height="360"]

Anyone with further information is urged to make contact with Detective Jason Cattle of the homicide unit at 905-546-4123 or to call Crime Stoppers at 1-800-222-8477.

Grief counselling is being offered to students affected by the death of their peer at the Student Wellness Centre in McMaster University Student Centre room B101. Appointments can be made at the Centre or by calling 905-525-9140 x27700.

 

 

Johnson, in a photograph he uploaded to Facebook earlier this year. (images from Facebook)

Last updated: Dec. 5

In the early hours of the morning on Saturday, Nov. 30,  McMaster student Tyler Johnson was shot during an altercation on King Street West and died on the scene from his gunshot wounds.

Johnson, aged 30, was a fourth-year mechanical engineering student planning to pursue his Masters at McMaster next year. At approximately 3 a.m. on Saturday morning, Johnson was involved in an incident between two groups of men outside of Vida La Pita restaurant near the corner of King Street West and Caroline Street, one block east of Hess Village, Hamilton's popular bar district.

Hamilton police detective Paul Hamilton said in a news release that the conflict occurring between the two groups, "quickly escalated when one man produced a handgun and shot the victim."

Johnson's body was found in the nearby Tim Hortons parking lot and was pronounced dead at Hamilton General Hospital. This is the second homicide in a two month period for this parking lot on King Street West. On Sept. 15, David Pereira, 18, was stabbed to death at 2:30 a.m. Raleigh Stubbs, 49, has been charged with his murder.

Ishwar Puri, Dean of Engineering, spoke on behalf of McMaster regarding the tragedy. "The University is expressing its condolences to the family and friends of Tyler. Of course, this will be upsetting news for those who studied with Tyler, those who many have taught him and known him," he said.

Details about the circumstances leading to Johnson's death and those responsible remain sparse.  Police are interviewing witnesses at this time and urge anyone with information to make contact with Detective Jason Cattle of the homicide unit at 905-546-4123 or call Crime Stoppers at 1-800-222-8477.

Johnson's family is holding a visitation at the Marlatt Funeral Home at 615 Main St. East on Thursday, Dec. 5, from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m. and 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. The funeral service will be held in the same location on Friday, Dec. 6, at 11 a.m. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA).

Grief counselling is being offered to students at the Student Wellness Centre in McMaster University Student Centre room B101. Appointments can be made at the Centre or by calling 905-525-9140 x27700.

 

Sarah O’Connor / Silhouette Staff

Last weekend, my eighty-seven year old grandfather died. He had been in St. Joseph’s for a month and after fluctuating from dialysis to getting off dialysis, from possibly coming home to never coming home, and he finally passed away. He wasn’t suffering anymore. His breathing stopped first, his heart soon followed.

My grandpa always read my articles in The Silhouette. When I told him in September that I would be writing for my University’s paper, he asked me to bring two papers each week I saw him. One for him, one for me. After reading my first article, it was my grandpa who said, “This is what you’re going to be doing for the rest of your life.”

He was a World War Two veteran – he helped liberate Holland. But this wasn’t something he bragged about. It was something we knew as a family, something we were immensely proud of. Every Remembrance Day, he would show us his war medals and tell us war stories. He always seemed so strong.

The war was in the past, but it was one day when he came for dinner with a troubled mind that he told my dad, “Some days, the war doesn’t leave you.”

He was alone for a long time. My Nana, his wife, passed away ten years earlier, and while he had his children and grandchildren, he missed her, and I know it was hard for him to live without her. My family and I comforted ourselves that he was now with my Nana and his brothers, who had died so many years earlier.

Death can really make you think. I was nine when my Nana died, and it was easy for me to believe that she went to Heaven. She was with God, she was healthy and she was watching over us. As an adult, it isn’t so easy to believe that dead relatives go to Heaven. It is still a concept I think of, and I still say that they’re both in Heaven happy now, but the world changes you.

When you grow up, ideas so simply believed as a child are no longer simple. All that has been learned while growing up has clouded faith. It’s too good to be true that a loved one can pass on to another world where there’s no pain, no stress, no worry. It’s too good to be true. But so many people believe it.

I believe it because it is my faith. Though I question my faith often, I need to believe. I don’t know who I’d be or how I’d function without it. But this makes me question why we believe these things. Faith is a good part of it, but I think it’s because we don’t want our loved ones to be forgotten.

We can’t let ourselves think that they are gone forever, their bodies rotting underneath the ground or their ashes carefully preserved in a wall. We can’t accept that they’re gone, no longer with us. We create an afterlife for them and for us so that death is no longer a mystery. There is a destination, an answer.

Is this the right way to think? Not necessarily. While people may have made up the afterlife as a way to cope, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. There is no way to prove it is there, though some people speak of ghost sightings and dreams from the dead. Those people could be telling the truth, or they could have an over-active imagination. We just don’t know.

But we don’t want our loved ones to be forgotten. So we buy thousand-dollar caskets, fancy tombstones and flowers for corpses.

Even in death, possessions mark if a person was loved or not, if they were wealthy or poor. Even in death we are judged. We try to keep our loved ones remembered, because we loved them so much. For them to be forgotten is a crime.

We try to seek an answer all our life – an answer to life and death. Both are unknown for us. We live trying to discover why life is hard and why bad things happen to good people, and we try to discover what happens after life. What is there? Is there anything? Both life and death are inevitable, and maybe if people decided to just live and die instead of seeking an answer and planning too far ahead, maybe, just maybe we won’t fear it. Maybe that’s the answer to both questions, to life and death.

I’m over-thinking. Death does that to a person. And whatever life and death is, in the end, our human desire is to be remembered. We don’t want to turn to dust with faded headstones, forgotten forever.

So I remember my grandpa, and others will too, most likely as a group for his duty to Canada so many years before, and some like me will remember him as an individual. And maybe you will too, as words on paper, a stranger you’ll never meet but a stranger you know. That is, if you’ve read to the end.

Brook Clairmount

 

Maybe I’m just being naïve, but I thought that when I moved from the widely varied population of high school to the relatively homogenous grouping of intelligent students at university, the students as a whole would make smarter choices.

It baffles me that so many smart people, people who clearly have the ability to understand the consequences of their actions, still smoke. There’s no high from smoking (or at least so I’ve heard; it’s not like smoking pot or other drugs), and there’s nothing attractive about coughing smoke at everyone within a ten foot radius. So, what’s the appeal?

Don’t give me the addiction crap–our generation has grown up hearing about the effects of smoking. Everyone smoking at McMaster made the choice to light up a cigarette and knowingly infuse their lungs with tar and cancerous chemicals.

That wouldn’t even bother me, except it’s my lungs you’re infusing with tar and cancerous chemicals, too. Personally, I couldn’t care less if someone wants to go and smoke in some far off corner where non-smokers aren’t affected. We’re all adults, so the decisions we make are our own business. What irks me is having to walk through a cloud of smoke to get to class. I don’t have the ability to make a decision to not inhale.

I was used to the smokers in high school–you know, the ones who always had something lit between their fingers. Quite a few of them are still in high school. But university students (especially ones with enough intelligence to get into a university as prestigious as Mac) consciously choosing to do the same is something that will take me some time to wrap my mind around.

And in the mean time, please try to keep your second hand smoke away from me.

Dina Fanara

Assistant News Editor

 

Researchers from McMaster University and the University of Tubingen in Germany have joined together to collaboratively and successfully uncover the long sought out secret behind one of the most catastrophic diseases of European history.

The genome most commonly known as  Black Death, but also known as the Bubonic Plague, or the Black Plague, was successfully extracted in its entirety and recreated by scientists from McMaster and Tubingen for the first time.

This is a critical scientific discovery, which will open the doors for similar progress to be made in the near future.

Between 1347 and 1351, the plague was responsible for killing over 50 million Europeans, between one third and one half of Europe’s population.

The group of scientists on the project, consisting of Kirsten Bos and Hendrick Poniar (also chair of paleogenetics in Canada) of McMaster University and Johannes Krause and Verena Schuenmann of the University of Tubingen, have managed to recreate the Black Death genome in its entirety.

This is the first time that scientists have successfully created the genome for an ancient disease, especially one of this magnitude.

This gives scientists a better sense of the evolution of modern diseases, which creates significant potential for future discoveries in disease control.

The team has managed to piece the disease back together by taking strands of DNA from bone fragments of those who initially died of the disease and extracting the fragments of this ancient disease, followed by sequencing of the DNA

The bones used for this research came from the British Museum of London, home of over one hundred victims discovered in a mass burial site from 1348-1350.

An evolved form of the Black Death still exists, killing roughly two thousand globally per year, a death rate much less than the common strands of the original flu.

The report on this discovery was initially published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Science in September.

This preliminary writeup was soon to be followed by an updated version of the report in the popular scientific journal Nature on Wednesday, Oct. 12.

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