A love letter to the library
Sarah McDonald, Science & Technology Editor

If you’d have told me when I first got to McGill that my closest friendships would be forged in a library, there is no way I would have believed you, not even a little bit. Surely I’d make friends through classes, residence, and sports teams—but the library? No way. 

Little me simply couldn’t fathom how a library—a space for silent studying and wistful peering out the window, wishing you were at Open Air Pub (OAP) instead of Schulich—could ever lead to anything more than a dutifully earned grade and a fluorescent-lighting-induced headache.

What I didn’t understand is how central the libraries are to community life here at McGill. They are, at least in my experience, more than just academic hubs; they are social epicentres. 

When half of my ENGL 311 class agreed to meet to edit one another’s essays last October, I expected to learn a favourite colour or two, fix our essays, and leave. What I didn’t expect is that over the course of the year, those same people would fill my camera roll, my living room, and my heart so completely.

What began as an editing session in a McLennan library room quickly turned into a Wikipedia deep-dive on our professor. This, in turn, morphed into a conversational spiral only a deadline and a sugar rush could inspire. We left that room with two entire inside jokes—not bad for a bunch of strangers.

For the rest of the semester, we prepped for every assignment—whether it be an essay, a midterm, or a final exam—together. The library rooms in McLennan and Redpath became our second home. Those walls watched as we printed and marked up essays, played and re-played Kahoots, and wrote first drafts. But they also watched as we talked and hugged and snacked and vented and laughed and laughed and laughed so hard someone probably cried. 

Even after we had long established ourselves as a real friend group, we still found ourselves returning to the library rooms. After dinner and ice cream one February night, no one really wanted to go home; our roommates were asleep and it was cold outside. What did we do? We booked a library room.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I will be the very first to say there is more to university than just the library. However, there is also more to the library than just solitary confinement. There is something to be said about the feeling of collective camaraderie that only the environment of a library can truly foster. I don’t care if I’m writing a research paper and you’re solving differential equations; when it’s 2:00 a.m. in a McGill library, we’re in the same boat.

Libraries are the centre of our community for this very reason. Whether you’re studying, crying, or keeled over laughing with those soon-to-be friends from your class, the libraries—or at least their talking floors—will welcome you with open arms. I will forever mourn the day my friends and I stop texting the self-explanatory ‘library?’—a place, a question, and a bid for connection all rolled into one.

Goodbye to McGill’s athletics community 

Clara Smyrski, Sports Editor

On Nov. 20, McGill Athletics and Recreation announced the decision to cut 25 of their varsity and club sports teams, effectively ending 202 collegiate varsity careers and the entirety of the 18-team club sports program. 

For many at McGill, this decision is a mere headline that may catch their eye but will inevitably be pushed to the back of their mind. For others, however, it’s a turning point in their university experience—one that cracks the foundation that has supported them through every challenge university life has thrown their way.

Sports are not just a way to stay active; they teach teamwork, accountability, determination, and perseverance. Sports are arguably one of the most effective community-builders in the world. Sports have the power to bring teammates from completely different backgrounds and contexts onto the same field—and the power to unite entire nations across political and religious divides.

On the McGill Field Hockey team’s Change.org petition, an alumna of the team, Catriona, commented on how field hockey has changed her life beyond university. 

“Playing field hockey was what made me finally feel at home at McGill. It has provided academic and professional mentorship and connections that I would never have had otherwise [….] I know employers that have specifically sought out student-athletes because they work hard, balance responsibilities, and commit to being part of a team,” she wrote. “I will seek [a field hockey team] out wherever I live for the rest of my life—but I would not be doing this had I not been given the chance to play in college.”

Similarly, on McGill Track and Field’s petition, one commenter, Nadine, wrote that universities would not be/universities without sport. 

“My involvement in university athletics had a profound impact on my life. Beyond the medals, memories, and friendships, training and competing taught me how to balance my time, set priorities, and develop discipline and a strong work ethic,” they wrote. “Post-secondary education is far more than what happens in the classroom, it shapes who you become.”
The athletic community at McGill is far from perfect. For years, it has been riddled with unequal resource distribution and tension between teams and their administration. But this decision takes an already crumbling athletics community and rips it down the centre.

Amidst a hiring freeze, Quebec’s new French proficiency requirements, and a nationwide cap on international study permits, both McGill University and McGill Athletics and Recreation are grappling with a new and harsh reality. But when at a crossroads where McGill Athletics could’ve used their international prestige to stand against the Quebec government for the sake of all its student-athletes, they instead chose to succumb to pressures at the expense of their student-athletes. 

McGill has long distinguished itself as an institution that seeks to bring international academic and athletic talent to the province. With this comes a privilege and a responsibility to protect students, professors, and researchers—both current and future. The varsity restructuring decision not only sets a negative precedent for university sports nationwide, but also sows a deep distrust between McGill student-athletes and their administration. McGill Athletics’ continued lack of transparency, their limited and vague communication with teams, and the absence of any accountability mechanisms or appeal processes fracture any sense of trust or community that was previously built.

The athletic community at McGill is invaluable. It is with the heaviest of hearts, a profound agony for a lost future, and a bitter taste in our mouths that we are forced to say goodbye.

Accidental traditions

Rupneet Shahriar, Web Editor

People are often puzzled when I describe myself as an optimistic realist, someone who hopes deeply but holds expectations lightly. Growing up, I moved too often to build traditions. I never decorated bedrooms fully, never sat in the same classroom two years in a row, never stayed long enough for rituals to form. I was always a visitor, carrying only a seasonal pass from one community to another. 

I thought community traditions meant going to church every Sunday or wearing pink on Wednesdays—rituals that stood the test of time. My own immediate family was far more unconventional. Other than wearing new clothes and eating good food on Eid, we didn’t have many annual traditions. But my grandmother did. The night before Eid, her entire house smelled of sugar, saffron, and ghee, each corner steeped in her belief that no one should ever leave her home on an empty stomach. She treated that responsibility like a badge of honour. These moments are the earliest traditions I remember, even if I didn’t see them that way at the time.

I often found myself feeling as though I had arrived after these traditions were already formed, stepping into inside jokes and routines I had no history with. It made the community feel closed off, like something you earned only by staying in one place for years. 

Then something unexpectedly softened: I started noticing moments of belonging I couldn’t explain away. Every Saturday, without fail, I find myself with a warm bowl of food and even warmer company. My friends and I pick a new spot based on the last TikTok we saw, letting our curiosity choose for us. It’s never planned far in advance, and yet it’s become the most reliable part of my week. What matters most to me about this ritual is simple: I am thousands of miles away from home, yet I haven’t spent a single Saturday alone. 

And it isn’t just the Saturdays. Every summer, I find myself back within the yellow walls of a Cheesecake Factory, sharing the same Louisiana Chicken Pasta with the same two friends. Despite twenty other lunch ideas each year, we always return to that same booth—an accidental tradition that has quietly become ours.

It took me a while to understand that community and traditions aren’t predictable. They can be as simple as starting a movie with my roommate and falling asleep twenty minutes in—what matters is that we chose to do it anyway. Traditions show up in the 10:00 p.m. library visits, when you sit beside a friend who’s drowning in notes just so they don’t feel alone. And sometimes, tradition looks like your friends turning off the lights and bringing out a birthday cake every single year. Small communities become something steady, even when nothing else is.

My home will never smell as decadent as my grandma’s, but I’ve learned it can be just as full of love and laughter. In building these small traditions, I’ve begun shaping my own definition of community. Community doesn’t appear once you’ve stayed in one place long enough; it’s about choosing people and letting them choose you back.