Category: The Conversation – Canada

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Lily Yumagulova, Research Associate, Indigenous Studies, University of Saskatchewan

Across Canada, massive fires and hazardous smoke have forced tens of thousands of people to evacuate from northern and remote communities to shelters and hotels in large cities. For many, their homes, businesses, trap lines and the ecosystems that nourish them are at risk of burning down, or already have.

With more than 7.6 million hectares burned across Canada in 2025 already, this is more than double the 10-year average of 3.6 million hectares. In August 2025, the Canadian Red Cross announced that the 2025 wildfires response operation was the largest in the organization’s recent history.

Indigenous Peoples are disproportionately affected by the negative impacts of climate change and disasters like wildfires and floods. First Nations in Saskatchewan, Alberta and Manitoba are those most often evacuated, with many facing long-term displacement from their home communities.

From 1980 to 2021, Indigenous communities made up 42 per cent of wildfire evacuations even though they are only five per cent of Canada’s population. The 2023 wildfire season was the most destructive recorded, and resulted in the evacuation of more than 95 Indigenous communities.

Our ongoing research on Indigenous evacuation experiences includes interviews with more than 100 First Nations and Métis evacuees, firefighters, emergency managers and community organizers, as well as non-Indigenous frontline evacuee workers, and provincial and federal employees.

We worked with an Indigenous Circle of Aunties and youth leaders in designing safe evacuation spaces and processes. We explored solutions for improving evacuation outcomes for First Nations and Métis communities by understanding inequitable impacts, distinct experiences and by focusing on supporting families throughout the displacement.

Family separation, overlapping disasters

We’ve learned from our previous research that wildfire is not the only disaster facing evacuees. Inadequate response and unsafe conditions during the evacuation and while sheltering have left long-lasting scars on individuals, families and communities.

A lack of self-determination in disaster response results in externally imposed and culturally unsafe practices, further deepening pre-existing marginalization and trauma within Indigenous communities. Not everyone can pay for food, transportation or shelter during an evacuation.

Community and family structure, and cultural and socio-economic realities, produce key distinctions between Indigenous and non-Indigenous evacuation experiences. These include family separation, racism, recurring evacuations and extended periods of displacement.

Following the devastating 2021 fires, floods and landslides in British Columbia, Indigenous evacuees were more likely to experience longer displacement. Indigenous communities had a higher percentage of peoples with disability experiencing disasters, and experienced greater challenges related to displacement.

Family members were separated and dispersed to different shelter sites, while many had difficulty accessing health care, accommodation, housing and healthy food.

This is because evacuations are often phased. The first phase includes pregnant women, the elderly and people with medical conditions, while subsequent phases include those with lower risk. This phasing can mean elderly grandparents are evacuated first to shelters hundreds of kilometres away from grandchildren in their care.

Such phased evacuations can leave youth alone in unfamiliar places. Shelters fill up quickly, and that can mean there is no room left for family members evacuated in subsequent phases to join relatives evacuated in the first phase. So, grandchildren end up in different shelters in different cities from their grandparents.

Compounding risks

There is evidence of increased child apprehensions during and after evacuations. Emergency management practices that result in family separation in evacuations amplify the ongoing trauma of residential schools and the ‘60s Scoop.

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Unsafe evacuation conditions and the length of displacement from their homes people experience (some over six years) have also led to increased substance use, addictions and domestic violence.

In the initial evacuation, evacuees are often housed in congregate shelters, such as large arenas or community centres. The Aunties and the youth we spoke with explained how the noise and chaos of congregated sheltering creates a stressful environment for families that make it impossible to feel safe, and sometimes, to sleep.

For residential school survivors, being forced from their homes and communities, sleeping in rows of cots in arenas with bright institutional lights, and standing in line for food was a triggering and traumatic experience.

Once the immediate chaos of early evacuation days pass, people need to be moved from congregate shelters into more family-friendly accommodations, such as hotel rooms. Providing accommodations for multi-generational families and spaces for ceremony can significantly reduce suffering and improve well-being during evacuation.

Additional supports for Elders, people with chronic medical needs, single mothers, children and youth are required. The Aunties and youth’s recommendations are depicted in the medicine wheel, and organized as spaces, supports, safety and services. At the centre of all the recommendations is a focus on displaced families.

Evacuations do not impact everyone the same way, and Indigenous evacuees can be re-traumatized and treated poorly. Indigenous emergency managers must be given control when and where possible, and a focus on self-determination is essential for ensuring that this trauma can be addressed by creating Indigenous-led spaces for healing and resilience.

Ultimately, Indigenous-built and operated evacuation centres are needed to acknowledge sovereignty. Emergency management in general, and evacuations in particular, are precisely the opportunities where Indigenous leadership, agency and sovereignty are most needed for their communities, with the greatest return on investment.

Lily Yumagulova received funding from the Banting Postdoctoral Fellowship and TD Bank’s Ready Challenge Fund to research wildfire and flood evacuations at the University of Saskatchewan. She is the Program Director for Preparing Our Home.

Simon Lambert received funding from TD Bank’s Ready Challenge Fund to research wildfire and flood evacuations. He is affiliated with Te Tira Whakamātaki, a Māori environmental not-for-profit organisation based in Aotearoa New Zealand.

Warrick Baijius received funding from TD Bank’s Ready Challenge Fund to research wildfire and flood evacuations at the University of Saskatchewan. He is a project manager in the Indigenous Studies department and lecturer in Geography and Planning at the University of Saskatchewan.

– ref. Evacuations of Indigenous communities during wildfires must prioritize keeping families together – https://theconversation.com/evacuations-of-indigenous-communities-during-wildfires-must-prioritize-keeping-families-together-263780

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By James Whitehead, Researcher, Mitigating Wildfire Initiative, Simon Fraser University

As a young supervisor of a wildfire crew, I (James Whitehead) had no idea what to do. My crew had arrived at a high-profile fire in southern British Columbia in 2021 and were immediately accosted by locals, who told me in colourful language that they did not feel protected by firefighters and had no use for us.

This occurred before I had seen the fire, developed a strategy or briefed my crew. I quickly realized my role was not just firefighter but also to be a mediator, relationship-builder and community advocate.

This experience is not unique. In B.C., despite provincial investments and increased capacity, some wildfire seasons can push even the best crews and agencies to the limit.

Sometimes, this means community members feel the need to help with wildfire response. For some, it’s about protecting an intergenerational connection to the land, whether it be their traditional territories or properties. For others, it’s avoiding the loss of their livelihood, culturally significant sites, or legacy to pass onto the next generation. These messages are reiterated by locals on the frontline.

Mike Robertson, a resident of Southside near François Lake, B.C. and a senior advisor to the Cheslatta Carrier Nation that experienced fires in 2018, described it this way: “If they [community members] wouldn’t have stayed…this whole community would have burnt.”

Across Canada, tensions often flare between fire agencies and community members who choose to stay and protect their livelihoods, homes and land. In B.C., Tsilhqot’in, Secwépemc, Nadleh Whut’en and the North Shuswap communities, among others, all describe this tension and the weight of responsibility to protect their communities.

However, the presence of locals scattered across a fire area can be disruptive and dangerous for responders. Not knowing where people are can interfere with the removal of hazardous trees or aerial water drops. Without co-ordination, the public can work at cross purposes with responders, and sometimes need to be rescued themselves, removing professionals from firefighting work.

The challenge is not firefighting capacity nor convincing people to help; it is co-ordinating efforts into a formalized fire response system that prioritizes safety and efficiency.

From conflict to collaboration

During that 2021 fire, what stayed with me was not the initial hostility but the desire to help that emerged over the next week. I soon realized that residents wanted to work in whatever capacity they could.

In 2022, the BC Wildfire Service launched the Cooperative Community Wildfire Response program (now called Community Response) in collaboration with the First Nations Emergency Services Society, Indigenous Services Canada, the BC Cattlemen’s Association, the University of British Columbia and the Fraser Basin Council.

This program creates and strengthens pathways for Indigenous and rural and remote communities to participate safely and effectively in wildfire response, ensuring they have the training, equipment and opportunities to do so.

These pathways emerged from calls by wildfire-impacted communities, and research and engagement through the Community Response Project. Communities highlighted the capacity they had to support firefighters — from local knowledge, to trusted community leaders, training and experience, and equipment and infrastructure.

A recent example of this occurred with the Merritt Snowmobile Club sharing knowledge, webcams and local values with the BC Wildfire Service in an excellent example of successful partnership.

Community leadership is often overlooked and undervalued because of missing communication pathways. The ability to communicate must extend from agency and community leadership to the front lines so firefighters and residents are prepared to work safely and respectfully alongside each other.

Too often, the agency-community dialogue starts only when a community is threatened by a fire. Many of the same skills that aid a community in wildfire response can be used and developed through proactive mitigation such as emergency planning, hazardous fuel reduction, or the FireSmart program. This strengthens resilience and builds relationships between locals and agencies that are vital during wildfire response.

Locally appropriate approaches

The Community Response program has shown: capacities and priorities vary widely. Some communities have prioritized developing community emergency response organizations, such as the 14 in the Thompson-Nicola Regional District funded in 2025 or the Chinook Emergency Response Society, which was created by residents in Southside near François Lake, B.C., after the 2018 fires. Others have built wildfire capacity within existing structural fire departments.

Some Indigenous communities help their members participate in BC Wildfire Services’ First Nations Bootcamps, or host their own initial response group, like Simpcw Indigenous Initial Attack.

As Ron Lampreau, fire chief of the Simpcw First Nation’s volunteer fire department, reflected on the community’s response:

“As a result of the strain placed on provincial resources during the devastating wildfires of 2017 and 2018, Simpcw recognized the need to establish its own emergency response capacity… By equipping our community members with the necessary skills and knowledge, we can build a more resilient community and enhance our ability to respond to emergencies.”

While progress is being made, this shift is long-term and complex. Programs require sustained funding, commitment from individuals and organizations and trust. The programs don’t always work for some communities that may face capacity and financial constraints or not see their needs reflected. It is imperative that these programs continue to evolve.

Building relationships is essential for a whole-of-society approach. That work should continue year-round, engaging and valuing communities in both mitigation and response. Honouring the knowledge, leadership, and contribution of communities — alongside that of agencies — highlights that people are the most important asset for addressing our escalating wildfire risk.

As Fire Keeper Joe Gilchrist said: “There’s so much work that needs to be done that partnerships have to be made.”

James Whitehead’s research was funded by the University of Northern British Columbia and the Regional District of Fraser-Fort George.

Kelsey Copes-Gerbitz’s research was funded by a grant from the BC Wildfire Service and in-kind support from the First Nations Emergency Services Society and Indigenous Services Canada.

– ref. Working with local communities is a vital part of wildfire response – https://theconversation.com/working-with-local-communities-is-a-vital-part-of-wildfire-response-262703

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Zhao Zhao, Assistant professor, Computer Science, University of Guelph

Social companion robots are no longer just science fiction. In classrooms, libraries and homes, these small machines are designed to read stories, play games or offer comfort to children. They promise to support learning and companionship, yet their role in family life often extends beyond their original purpose.

In our recent study of families in Canada and the United States, we found that even after a children’s reading robot “retired” or was no longer in active and regular use, most households chose to keep it — treating it less like a gadget and more like a member of the family.

Luka is a small, owl-shaped reading robot, designed to scan and read picture books aloud, making storytime more engaging for young children.

In 2021, my colleague Rhonda McEwen and I set out to explore how 20 families used Luka. We wanted to study not just how families used Luka initially, but how that relationship was built and maintained over time, and what Luka came to mean in the household. Our earlier work laid the foundation for this by showing how families used Luka in daily life and how the bond grew over the first months of use.

When we returned in 2025 to follow up with 19 of those families, we were surprised by what we found. Eighteen households had chosen to keep Luka, even though its reading function was no longer useful to their now-older children. The robot lingered not because it worked better than before, but because it had become meaningful.

A deep, emotional connection

Children often spoke about Luka in affectionate, human-like terms. One called it “my little brother.” Another described it as their “only pet.” These weren’t just throwaway remarks — they reflected the deep emotional place the robot had taken in their everyday lives.

Because Luka had been present during important family rituals like bedtime reading, children remembered it as a companion.

Parents shared similar feelings. Several explained that Luka felt like “part of our history.” For them, the robot had become a symbol of their children’s early years, something they could not imagine discarding. One family even held a small “retirement ceremony” before passing Luka on to a younger cousin, acknowledging its role in their household.

Other families found new, practical uses. Luka was repurposed as a music player, a night light or a display item on a bookshelf next to other keepsakes. Parents admitted they continued to charge it because it felt like “taking care of” the robot.

The device had long outlived its original purpose, yet families found ways to integrate it into daily routines.

‘Domesticating’ technologies

The way participants treated Luka challenges how we usually think about technology, which is that gadgets are disposable. A new phone replaces an old one, toys break and get thrown away and laptops end up in e-waste bins. But when technologies enter family life, especially around emotionally significant moments like storytime, they can become part of the household in lasting ways.

Our research findings also have important implications for design. Should robots come with an end-of-life plan that recognizes their emotional value? Should companies design with the expectation that some products will be cherished and repurposed, not just discarded and replaced?

There are environmental dimensions, too. If families hold on to robots because of attachment, fewer may end up in landfills; this complicates how we think about sustainability and recycling when devices are treated more like keepsakes than tools that may outlive their usefulness.

Scholars who study human-computer interaction often use the term “domestication” to describe how technologies become embedded in everyday routines and meanings.

More than machines

Our study extends that idea to what happens when technology retires. Luka was no longer useful in the conventional sense, but families still made space for it emotionally, symbolically and practically.

Many of us keep objects for sentimental reasons, long after they have served their original purpose. Luka shows us that robots can become more than machines.

Technology is often framed as fast-moving and disposable. But sometimes, as these families revealed, it lingers. A retired robot can stay in the household because it matters.

Zhao Zhao does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. When robots are integrated into household spaces and rituals, they acquire emotional value – https://theconversation.com/when-robots-are-integrated-into-household-spaces-and-rituals-they-acquire-emotional-value-263848

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Gio Dolcecore, Assistant Professor, Social Work, Mount Royal University

Lavender marriages, traditionally entered into by LGBT+ individuals to conceal their sexual orientation, are on the rise, according to several news sources, with some even calling them a “trend.”

Historically, lavender marriages refer to unions — often between two consenting LGBT+ individuals — formed as a way of concealing same-sex attraction in a society where being openly queer could mean social ostracism, career ruin or even criminalization.

Crucially, they were not loveless. On the contrary, they were bonds of protection and safety between two people navigating the reality of bias, prejudice and discrimination of society and politics.

Lavender marriages can be confused with mixed orientation marriages, but there is a difference: in mixed-orientation marriages, partners have different sexual orientations from one another. That doesn’t mean these relationships don’t make sense — plenty of couples do well without sharing the same orientation.

But are lavender marriages actually making a comeback? The answer is complicated. While social progress has made queer lives more visible, many still fear coming out because of social, religious, cultural and political pressures.

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The roots of lavender marriages

Nowhere were lavender marriages more visible than during Hollywood’s Golden Age (1930-60s), when the Motion Picture Production Code — known as the Hays Code after the president of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America from 1922 to 1945 — imposed restrictions on “immorality” and demanded that stars maintain a carefully constructed image.

For example, the 1933 film Queen Christina portrayed an androgynous queen who shared a kiss with another woman. If the film were released a year later than it was, the androgynous image and kiss would have had to be removed to comply with Hays Code.

Notable examples in Hollywood include actor Rock Hudson, whose studio reportedly orchestrated a marriage to shield his private life from public scrutiny, and stage actress Katharine Cornell, whose marriage to director Guthrie McClintic was widely regarded as a partnership of convenience that allowed both to live more authentically in private.

Earlier still, silent film idol Rudolph Valentino faced speculation about his sexuality, and was rumoured to have entered into marriages that offered him protection amid tabloid attacks.

For these celebrities, lavender marriages were not only about survival in a hostile era, but also a way of retaining access to their careers, audiences and cultural influence.

Queer censorship today

It is unsurprising that lavender marriages have returned to public discussion, given that similar concerns of queer censorship are currently happening.

Inside Out 2 (2024) was rumoured to remove a transgender character to avoid international backlash, while Elio (2025) was also rumoured to erase queer subtext from the movie’s final cut.

Censorship of queer culture is on the rise as political and social movements directly attack the LGBTQ+ community. Examples include book censorship policies, exclusion of queer art and rising violence against drag performances.

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These realities were poignantly illustrated in the 2022 Pakistani film Joyland, which captures the grief and danger of living inauthentically when family bonds, social safety and political punishment are at stake.

Similar stories are surfacing in real life. In 2024, People profiled a 90-year-old grandmother who came out as bisexual after her husband’s death, revealing their 63-year union had been a lavender marriage of mutual protection.

Another People story followed a woman raised in a conservative Mormon community who married a man to conform, only to come out at 35 and reconnect with her first love.

Even today, couples negotiate these dynamics in new ways — Business Insider recently highlighted a gay man and straight woman who married not to hide but to redefine love on their own terms, while rejecting the label of “lavender marriage.”

The pressure to pass as heterosexual — whether by marrying, dating or travelling with opposite-sex friends — remains a strategy of safety for many queer people around the world.

Lavender and lesbians

The symbolism of lavender itself has particular resonance in lesbian culture. Throughout the 20th century, the colour became a coded reference to women who loved women, at once stigmatizing and unifying.

During the “Lavender Scare” of the 1950s, the U.S. government dismissed and persecuted lesbians and gay men in federal employment under the guise of “security risks.”

Yet lavender was also reclaimed as a badge of solidarity and resistance. Early lesbian feminists incorporated lavender into marches, protest sashes and art, using it as a way of asserting presence and pride in a culture that demanded invisibility.

The impact of concealment

Academic research consistently shows that concealment of sexual orientation remains widespread. A 2019 global public health study from estimated that 83 per cent of lesbian, gay and bisexual people worldwide hide their orientation from most people in their lives.

Research in Hong Kong found that concealment increases loneliness and diminishes feelings of authenticity, directly impacting well-being.

In Canada, a 2022 study of LGBTQ+ health professionals revealed how concealing one’s identity shapes daily decisions about disclosure, often producing stress and internal conflict in professional settings. Bisexual individuals frequently report concealing their orientation to avoid stigma from both heterosexual and queer communities.

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“Passing” as straight is often a survival strategy shaped by stigma, with lasting consequences for identity, relationships and health. Lavender marriages remind us that queer lives have always been shaped by the tension between resistance and survival. Visibility itself can be an act of defiance, whether on a movie screen, in a march or in daily life.

However, visibility carries real risks: estrangement from family, discrimination or social backlash, political punishment or threats to personal safety. At the same time, concealment has often been a pragmatic choice to preserve dignity, livelihood and community.

Redefining marriage and partnership

These histories and contemporary examples reveal that marriage and partnership have never been one-size-fits-all.

For queer people, unions can be built around protection, friendship, parenting, finances or chosen kinship, just as much as romance or desire. To call them all “lavender marriages” risks oversimplifying the complex ways people craft love and survival.

Modern marriage is not bound by tradition alone; it is defined by the people who build it and by the choices they make to balance safety, authenticity and resistance in a world still learning to accept them.

This dual significance — lavender as both concealment and resistance — helps explain why the term continues to resonate today, as scholars, activists and communities revisit these marriages not simply as personal compromises, but as reflections of broader homophobia and gendered policing that continue to share queer history.

Gio Dolcecore does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Beyond lavender marriages: What queer unions and relationships can teach us about love and safety – https://theconversation.com/beyond-lavender-marriages-what-queer-unions-and-relationships-can-teach-us-about-love-and-safety-264179

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Pablo Arrona Cardoza, Ph.D. Candidate in Human Nutrition, McGill University

Whether you’re at a party, a family gathering or even at work, chances are you’ve heard someone say: “I’m on the (insert name) diet. It’s amazing!” Or maybe you’ve been the one to say it. Either way, it’s not surprising.

Diet trends are as old as, well, the grapefruit diet of the 1930s. But in today’s social media world, endless online wellness hacks, fad diets and nutrition misinformation are spreading faster than ever.

Why? Quick-fix regimens gain traction easily for many reasons. Our diets are deeply personal and, for some people, evoke a sense of devotion, almost like a religion.

The science of food choices

Food choices are complex. When we go to a supermarket, what we put in our basket is influenced by many factors.

Some are biological, like our brain’s tendency to prefer high-calorie foods. Others are cultural, like the staples we grew up eating. And some are basic business strategy, like the store we shop at nudging our choices by placing certain products at eye level.

Nutrition and public health scientists, however, largely agree that when it comes to eating behaviour, the food environment is key. The food environment refers to the complex systems that determine which types of food we have access to. It has a physical component, such as the grocery stores around our neighbourhood or workplace, but it also includes other important and highly effective factors like marketing.

In our 2023 meta-analysis, we found that exposure to food ads activated brain regions involved in eating behaviour. When people, regardless of age, were exposed to food ads, they ate more food afterwards.

This evidence, alongside a vast body of research, highlights just how strongly our environment influences what we eat, and how much. It also raises an important question: if traditional media and marketing can shape our eating behaviours, how much stronger is that influence today in our infodemic-driven digital reality?

The misinformation problem

Health misinformation on TikTok, Instagram and the like, is nothing new. But during the COVID-19 pandemic, with more time at home, the perfect recipe for the sharing of faulty claims emerged. And the nutrition space was no exception.

Countless personalities on social media spread nutrition “advice” that should be avoided. Two examples that have persisted on social media are the carnivore diet — based solely on eating animal products — and the anti–seed oil movement, which blames seed oils for many diet-related diseases. These controversial and thoroughly debunked recommendations have become so influential that they are even endorsed by the U.S. Secretary of Health.

A 2022 study reviewed more than 60 articles on online nutrition content, and about half concluded that the information quality was low.

Perhaps the more notable aspect, however, is the fervent and often combative way people react during these debates. Why do people display such passion — even tribalism — when discussing food and nutrition? What we eat and what we believe about our food runs deep. So deep, in fact, that it can become part of who we are.

Food and personal identity

Food is connected with identity in intricate ways. It acts as a socio-cultural force that shapes how we see ourselves. But certain traits that overlap with believing in conspiracy theories, such as relying too much on intuition and being antagonistic, can leave some particularly vulnerable to misinformation. They encounter nutrition-related misinformation online and become deeply entrenched in a specific diet and lifestyle.

Adopting a fad diet can also mean finding a community, or at least, a sense of belonging. It’s not just about following a guru figure proclaiming the diet’s benefits; it’s also about dozens of peers confirming those benefits, sharing tips and recounting their experiences. This creates an echo chamber that reinforces beliefs and shields them from external skepticism.

It doesn’t help that many claims about fad diets are framed in almost religious terms. In a 2015 Slate piece, Alan Levinovitz, professor of religion at James Madison University, wrote:

“Evil foods harm you, but they are sinfully delicious, guilty pleasures. Good foods, on the other hand, are real and clean. These are religious mantras, helpfully dividing up foods according to moralistic dichotomies. Of course, natural and processed, like real and clean, are not scientific terms, and neither is good nor evil. Yet it is precisely such categories, largely unquestioned, that determine most people’s supposedly scientific decisions about what and how to eat.”

Elevating claims about the healthfulness of certain diets to the level of the sacred is a striking phenomena. So much so that, for some, criticism of a diet can feel like criticism of the self. This identity-driven attachment is one reason why fad diets thrive on social media. They spread because they offer people something deeper: moral clarity and even purpose.

So the next time you see an influencer promoting their diet, ask yourself: are they sharing evidence-based advice in a composed and balanced way, or are they overly passionate, alarmist and entrenched in their views? If it’s the latter, you may have just spotted a misinformation red flag.

Pablo Arrona Cardoza receives funding from Fonds de recherche du Québec, Nature et technologies..

Daiva Nielsen receives funding support from the Canada Research Chairs program.

– ref. Social media nutrition misinformation fuels food-based attachments – https://theconversation.com/social-media-nutrition-misinformation-fuels-food-based-attachments-264073

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Spyros A. Sofos, Assistant Professor in Global Humanities, Simon Fraser University

The bombing of a Hamas office on Qatari soil by Israeli jets was more than a strike against a militant group. It was a bold and deeply consequential act against a state that has long positioned itself as a mediator in Middle Eastern conflicts and hosts 11,000 American troops on its territory.

For decades, Qatar has balanced its role as an American ally with its open lines of communication to groups that include Hamas and the Taliban. It has provided an indispensable channel for negotiations that the United States itself cannot conduct.

By targeting Qatar directly, Israel has crossed into uncharted territory. The strike is not just a military move — it is an unmistakably revisionist act, challenging the norms, alliances and security architecture of the region.

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Defining revisionism

In international relations, “revisionism” refers to attempts by states to revise the existing order of rules, institutions or the distribution of power.

Revisionist states seek to undermine the constraints imposed by the international system, reshaping it in ways that benefit them. They often do this not only by rejecting particular norms, but also by bending them to suit their own purposes.

Israel’s strike on Qatar demonstrates this pattern clearly.

By attacking a U.S. ally, Israel is not just pursuing Hamas operatives, it’s asserting that its own security imperatives override the norms of sovereignty, alliance management and the delicate balance that underpins regional diplomacy.

Qatar’s unique position

Qatar, unlike other Gulf states, has built a reputation as a broker of peace processes, hosting talks between Israel and Hamas, the U.S. and the Taliban and even among rival Palestinian factions.

Its role has often been tolerated, and even encouraged, by the U.S., which benefits from having a close ally act as a mediator of last resort.

The strike, therefore, is likely not just about Hamas. It is an apparent attempt to discredit Qatar’s mediating role, portraying it instead as a protector of terrorists and therefore unfit to serve as a diplomatic arbitrator. But more importantly, it seems an attempt to undermine diplomacy in the region as it eliminates a crucial venue for negotiation, leaving military action as the primary currency in Israeli–Palestinian relations.

With the massive U.S. Al Udeid airbase located in Qatar, Israel’s actions place American officials in an uncomfortable position: tolerate Israeli overreach and risk undermining their own ally, or confront Israel and fracture an already tense relationship. Either outcome serves Israel’s interests and loosens U.S. influence in the Middle East.

Hijacking U.S. foreign policy

Successive U.S. administrations have increasingly outsourced mediation to partners like Qatar. This reflects a recognition of American limits: its deep alliance with Israel makes it an unconvincing neutral broker, while states such as Qatar can talk to countries and organizations the U.S. designates as adversaries.

Yet Israel has repeatedly undercut such efforts. The 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action agreement on the Iranian nuclear program was relentlessly opposed by Israel, whose intelligence leaks and lobbying helped derail American efforts at forging a new deal in 2018.

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In June 2025, just days before an Iranian delegation was scheduled to meet the American envoy for renewed discussions on the nuclear program, Israel initiated its 12-day war with Iran, collapsing the conditions for diplomacy before talks could even begin.

More recently, Gaza ceasefire talks in Doha were repeatedly disrupted by Israeli escalations on the ground or by making new demands, ensuring that negotiations never moved beyond crisis management.

The strike on Qatari soil takes this interference to a new level. It is not only a rejection of particular negotiations, but an attack on the infrastructure of American-led diplomacy.

Israel is seemingly aiming to hijack American foreign policy, narrowing U.S. options and entrenching Israel’s role as the sole gatekeeper of “acceptable” peace processes in the region.

Weaponizing peace processes?

Revisionist Israeli governments have tended to use negotiations not as pathways to a permanent peace, but as tools for managing conflict on their own terms.

By selectively engaging in negotiations while simultaneously engaging in settlement expansion in the West Bank, Israeli actions mean talks rarely translate into substantive concessions. The peace process becomes a means of buying time, dividing opponents and presenting Israel as a willing but frustrated partner.

Targeting Qatar continues this pattern. By undermining the one Gulf state that consistently invests in dialogue, Israel shrinks the diplomatic horizon. If no credible mediator is left standing, peace negotiations become a hollow exercise — something Israel could invoke to deflect criticism while pursuing its own security goals via military action.

This seems like peace as spectacle, weaponized to perpetuate the very state of war it claims to want to overcome.

A state of permanent war

One of the striking features of Israel’s regional stance is its reliance on a “permanent war” condition. Periodic escalations with Gaza, Lebanon, Syria, or Iran are not anomalies, but seem to be part of a strategy to normalize insecurity.

This strategy enables Israel to consolidate domestic political support, sustain high levels of military aid and investment and maintain control over the Palestinian Territories under the guise of an omnipresent existential threat.

That threat isn’t unfounded — and was underscored by the Hamas attacks of Oct. 7, 2023 — but Israel has used it to entrench a permanent-war posture that extends well beyond immediate security needs instead of pursuing peace.

The strike on Qatar extends this logic outward as Israel signals that there is no neutral space left and that even mediators can be attacked. The result is not the resolution of conflict but its apparent institutionalization: an endless cycle of violence where war is the baseline, not the exception.

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What does Israeli revisionism achieve?

Israel’s strategy achieves several goals. By striking a U.S.-allied state, Israel challenges the principle that allied territory is off-limits.

At the same time, undercutting Qatar’s mediating role undermines the American ability to engage in diplomacy in the region, and leaves fewer avenues for talks, which means military action sets the agenda. Finally, expanding the geography of conflict turns instability into the Middle East’s default condition.

Such strategies may achieve short-term gains, but they come at enormous cost. The strike risks fracturing Israel’s quiet alignment with Gulf monarchies, alienating the U.S.

If the U.S. cannot or will not restrain strikes against its key allies, what meaning do American security guarantees truly carry? U.S. allies in the Middle East will point to the Qatar strikes as evidence that American protection is conditional, eroding confidence in the very alliance system that underpins U.S. power.

For the U.S., the attack underscores a deeper dilemma: the more it outsources its regional diplomacy to Israel, the more vulnerable it becomes. Israel’s repeated strikes in the midst of sensitive negotiations — from the Iran nuclear talks to Gaza ceasefires — show how effectively it can hijack American policy and systematically undermine the prospect of peace in the Middle East.

Spyros A. Sofos does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. How Israel’s attack on Qatar erodes peace — and American influence — in the Middle East – https://theconversation.com/how-israels-attack-on-qatar-erodes-peace-and-american-influence-in-the-middle-east-265017

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Robert B. Gibson, Professor of Environment, Resources and Sustainability, University of Waterloo

The federal government is about to refer its initial selection of national interest project candidates to its new Major Projects Office. The news stirs both excitement and trepidation.

Projects considered in the national interest would “enhance Canada’s prosperity, national security, economic security, national defence and national autonomy,” the government says.

While the notion of national interest projects is compelling, success on the ground depends on thinking through the implementation. There’s little evidence that’s happened.

The enabling law — the Building Canada Act, hustled through Parliament in June — establishes separate decision-making steps for project approval and for approval conditions, but not much else. How the candidate projects will be evaluated is mostly unknown.

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Why the federal government must act cautiously on fast-tracking project approvals

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Big project challenges

Major project development is notoriously difficult. That’s evident in the long global record of megaproject cost overruns and embarrassments. It’s not surprising, given the organizational, economic and technical complexities, inevitable trade-offs and opposition and attractive alternative uses for the money.

For the current initiative, additional practical difficulties include:

• How to share implementation power and responsibility with many players, given the constitutional fragmentation of jurisdictional authority;

• How to respect Indigenous rights and consent;

• How to cover the multitude of linked factors that should inform overall public-interest evaluations and justifications for decisions;

• How to achieve reasonable reliability in predicting the positive and adverse effects and their distribution, especially for projects expected to induce further activities;

• How to draw well-supported conclusions about project viability, serious opportunities and risks, costs and legacies, in an uncertain global economic, geopolitical and climate context; and

• For non-renewable resource projects, how to use limited-life gains to build more lasting well-being, while avoiding dependencies, stranded assets and toxic legacies.

Dealing with all these matters entails careful elaboration of the Building Canada Act’s basic two-step process for decisions on national interest projects.

It also requires a departure from the approach so far, which has identified potential candidates through a cloaked process involving proponents and relevant political jurisdictions without published criteria for evaluating the projects or clear plans for the deliberations to follow.

Defensible evaluations and decisions

Before candidates are referred to the Major Projects Office, all parties would benefit from the publication of a well-defined, open and rigorous approach that ensures defensible evaluations and decisions.

As set out with few specifics in the Building Canada Act, the two decision-making steps are:

1. Evaluations leading to a determination on whether to pre-approve the candidate project;
2. Expedited assessment and provision of permits to consolidate the conditions of approval.

The sequence seemingly ignores the normal process where assessment precedes approval (first consider, then decide). In practice, however, defensible decision-making in Step 1 must have detailed project information and a strong overall assessment of the project’s benefits, risks and uncertainties.

That’s a basic necessity if the government wants decisions on the pre-approval of projects to be well-founded and justifiable, and if the project planning is to be far enough advanced to be ready for the for Step 2’s expedited process for conditions of approval.

Process essentials

For Step 1, the Major Projects Office should provide specifics on the following requirements for decision-making on pre-approval:

• Well-elaborated, comprehensive and visibly applied criteria for evaluations;

• Detailed project information;

• Analyses covering specifics on all the key considerations and their interactions;

• Mobilized expertise for due diligence rigour in evaluating project viability, opportunities, risks and trade-offs;

• Special imperatives for responsibility in allocating public funding;

• Solidly defensible decisions, clearly based on well-informed analyses, while also respecting controversies and uncertainties;

• Credible transparency and meaningful engagement;

• Detailed project readiness for the expedited conditions and the permits process; and

• Clarity about how other authorities are involved in Step 1 and will collaborate, especially in joint assessments, in Step 2.

One project, one assessment

The final point above may present the greatest challenges and opportunities.

The federal government has emphasized a commitment to “one project, one assessment” that will apply often. But many of the reported candidate projects involve several jurisdictions.

Perhaps in a few cases, one assessment could be achieved by deferring largely to a single provincial or territorial process. But where two or more provinces, territories and/or Indigenous jurisdictions are involved — or the project depends on significant federal funding — a joint assessment process is necessary.

Exemplary joint assessments have been conducted in Canada before. Doing so today for fast-tracked mega-projects would be a major accomplishment, especially if those joint assessments prioritize best practices and respect Indigenous rights, including the right to give or withhold free, prior and informed consent.

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‘Elbows up’ in Canada means sustainable resource development

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Rigour and transparency

In sum, what’s needed now is detailed elaboration of the process for the initial group of identified candidates for national interest projects. That process should incorporate all the components listed above, including a comprehensive and credible equivalent of assessment before the first step’s pre-approval decision.

Such an approach is consistent with the the Building Canada Act and stated policy. Perhaps that’s been the federal government’s intention all along. If so, it must ensure the process is transparent to ensure the understanding and confidence of all participants.

Political enthusiasm is a useful stimulant but a poor guide and a risky base for deliberations and decisions on major projects. Judging the opportunities and risks of national interest projects is important and difficult. It’s time for an open and rigorous process.

Robert B. Gibson has received funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Impact Assessment Agency of Canada. He is a member of the Agency’s Technical Advisory Committee.

– ref. Decision-making on national interest projects demands openness and rigour – https://theconversation.com/decision-making-on-national-interest-projects-demands-openness-and-rigour-264755

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Kenneth Bartlett, Professor, Department of History, University of Toronto

Se non è vero, è ben trovato (even if it isn’t true, it makes a good story). This traditional Italian observation reflects a good deal of human history.

One such colourful event was the 14th-century War of the Bucket between the Italian cities of Bologna and Modena. The story is that after years of tension, a group of Modenese entered Bologna and stole the bucket from the town well.

The Bolognese demanded its return, but the ruler of Modena refused, and war ensued, culminating in the Modenese victory at the Battle of Zappolino in 1325.

It is an engaging story, but is it fact?

The reality is that the two cities were on either side of an ideological division that characterized the northern Italian states from the early 12th century. At the root of the conflict was a struggle for power and authority over Europe that pitted the Holy Roman Empire against the papacy.

The Guelphs and Ghibellines

After the collapse of the Western Roman Empire in the fifth century, Italy was a mosaic of small states trying to defend their territory while attempting to expand at the expense of their neighbours.

Rulers of city states sought alliances with powers who could defend and legitimize their rule. But who had the power to grant the right to rule in these often unstable, violent times?

One claimant was the Holy Roman Emperor, who claimed the authority of the ancient Roman Empire after the coronation of Charlemagne in St. Peter’s Basilica in 800 CE.

The other was the pope, who claimed universal dominion over Christendom as the heir of St. Peter, Christ’s vicar on Earth and the legal recipient of Roman imperial authority.

The papacy’s legal claim was based on one of history’s greatest forgeries: the Donation of Constantine. This was purported to be a document that Constantine I, the first Christian emperor of Rome, issued to Pope Sylvester I before the emperor moved his capital to Constantinople (present-day Istanbul) in 330 CE. It granted full imperial authority to the pope in gratitude for curing the emperor of leprosy and his role in leading a Latin Christian empire in the West.

Although there is no evidence of the donation existing before the eighth century, it was widely accepted. It was not proven to be a forgery until the mid-15th century when Italian scholar and priest Lorenzo Valla revealed it to be fraudulent through textual analysis. Nevertheless, it was still referenced well into the 16th century, including in the Sala di Costantino (Hall of Constantine) at the Apostolic Palace in the Vatican.

Those who saw ultimate authority in the papacy were called Guelphs, an Italianization of the House of Welf, who thwarted claimants to the imperial throne. Those who supported the Holy Roman Emperors were called Ghibellines, another Italianization of a German word: Waiblingen, the name of the castle and the battle cry of the House of Hohenstaufen, the family that most seriously threatened the papacy in the 12th century.

This ideological division was not only an abstract reflection of divergent concepts of sovereignty. It was a practical division often determined by class, geography, events and opportunity. If your enemy was a Guelph, you were a Ghibelline; if a usurper overthrew a rival who was Ghibelline, he claimed to be Guelph, generating immediate support from within and outside the city.

The War of the Bucket

This struggle between the Guelphs and Ghibellines was the real issue in the Bucket War. Bologna was a leading Guelph city, later forming part of the Papal States and guarding passes through the Apennine Mountains of Italy. Modena was a state that depended on support from the Holy Roman emperors, who had entered Italy and granted authority to their supporters.

As two cities on the edges of this divide, tension was inevitable, leading to the story of the purloined bucket. But the reality was much deeper and more dangerous.

A far more likely cause of the war was not the theft of a bucket but the capture of the Bolognese fortress of Monteveglio by Modena in September 1325, a serious threat to Bolognese defenses and a reason to seek redress.

After years of border incursions, the capture of Monteveglio was the final straw. Two cities and their rival world views were in conflict, so every small victory was celebrated.

In November 1325, a greatly outnumbered Modenese army met the Bolognese at Zappolino. The pope had excommunicated the Modenese leader, declaring him a rebel against God.

The Bolognese had superior numbers but were largely untrained, whereas the Modenese had professional German soldiers sent by the emperor. The result was a decisive Modenese victory, with many Bolognese casualties.

Such victories often occasion popular mythologies, and the bucket story was one. It is far more likely that the bucket was taken after the battle, not before, and its symbolism was codified in the 17th century with the creation of a mock epic poem by the poet Alessandro Tassoni, La Secchia rapita.

To this day, many people continue to believe the story. In Modena, the original bucket is proudly displayed in the town hall, and a replica in the Ghirlandina Tower of the cathedral, where the original had been kept for centuries.

History and myth are often merely different narrative techniques, and both can be used to stimulate national pride and cohesion and to celebrate events that defined a people. This is the significance of the War of the Bucket, a real war with real causes now characterized by charming, if unlikely, actions of distant but not forgotten ancestors.

Kenneth Bartlett does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. The War of the Bucket: What one medieval battle tells us about history and myth – https://theconversation.com/the-war-of-the-bucket-what-one-medieval-battle-tells-us-about-history-and-myth-264751

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Johanathan Woodworth, Assistant Professor, Education, Mount Saint Vincent University

Artificial intelligence (AI) is reshaping how students write essays, practise languages and complete assignments. Teachers are also experimenting with AI for lesson planning, grading and feedback. The pace is so fast that schools, universities and policymakers are struggling to keep up.

What often gets overlooked in this rush is a basic question: how are students and teachers actually learning to use AI?

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AI in schools — here’s what we need to consider

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Right now, most of this learning happens informally. Students trade advice on TikTok or Discord, or even ask ChatGPT for instructions. Teachers swap tips in staff rooms or glean information from LinkedIn discussions.

These networks spread knowledge quickly but unevenly, and they rarely encourage reflection on deeper issues such as bias, surveillance or equity. That is where formal teacher education could make a difference.

Beyond curiosity

Research shows that educators are under-prepared for AI. A recent study found many lack skills to assess the reliability and ethics of AI tools. Professional development often stops at technical training and neglects wider implications. Meanwhile, uncritical use of AI risks amplifying bias and inequity.

In response, I designed a professional development module within a graduate-level course at Mount Saint Vincent University. Teacher candidates engaged in:

• Hands-on exploration of AI for feedback and plagiarism detection;
• Collaborative design of assessments that integrated AI tools;
• Case analysis of ethical dilemmas in multilingual classrooms.

The goal was not simply to learn how to use AI, but to move from casual experimentation to critical engagement.

Critical thinking for future teachers

During the sessions, patterns quickly emerged. Teacher candidates were enthusiastic about AI to begin with, and remained so. Participants reported a stronger ability to evaluate tools, recognize bias and apply AI thoughtfully.

I also noticed that the language around AI shifted. Initially, teacher candidates were unsure about where to start, but by the end of the sessions, they were confidently using terms like “algorithmic bias” and “informed consent” with confidence.

Teacher candidates increasingly framed AI literacy as professional judgment, connected to pedagogy, cultural responsiveness and their own teacher identity. They saw literacy not only as understanding algorithms but also as making ethical classroom decisions.

The pilot suggests enthusiasm is not the missing ingredient. Structured education gave teacher candidates the tools and vocabulary to think critically about AI.

Inconsistent approaches

These classroom findings mirror broader institutional challenges. Universities worldwide have adopted fragmented policies: some ban AI, others cautiously endorse it and many remain vague. This inconsistency leads to confusion and mistrust.

Alongside my colleague Emily Ballantyne, we examined how AI policy frameworks can be adapted for Canadian higher education. Faculty recognized AI’s potential but voiced concerns about equity, academic integrity and workload.

We proposed a model that introduced a “relational and affective” dimension, emphasizing that AI affects trust and the dynamics of teaching relationships, not only efficiency. In practice, this means that AI not only changes how assignments are completed, but also reshapes the ways students and instructors relate to one another in class and beyond.

Put differently, integrating AI in classrooms reshapes how students and teachers relate, and how educators perceive their own professional roles.

When institutions avoid setting clear policies, individual instructors are left to act as ad hoc ethicists without institutional backing.

Embedding AI literacy

Clear policies alone are not enough. For AI to genuinely support teaching and learning, institutions must also invest in building the knowledge and habits that sustain critical use. Policy frameworks provide direction, but their value depends on how they shape daily practice in classrooms.

1. Teacher education must lead on AI literacy. If AI reshapes reading, writing and assessment, it cannot remain an optional workshop. Programs must integrate AI literacy into curricula and outcomes.

2. Policies must be clear and practical. Teacher candidates repeatedly asked: “What does the university expect?” Institutions should distinguish between misuse (ghostwriting) and valid uses (feedback support), as recent research recommends.

3. Learning communities matter. AI knowledge is not mastered once and forgotten; it evolves as tools and norms change. Faculty circles, curated repositories and interdisciplinary hubs can help teachers share strategies and debate ethical dilemmas.

4. Equity must be central. AI tools embed biases from their training data and often disadvantage multilingual learners. Institutions should conduct equity audits and align adoption with accessibility standards.

Supporting students and teachers

Public debates about AI in classrooms often swing between two extremes: excitement about innovation or fear of cheating. Neither captures the complexity of how students and teachers are actually learning AI.

Informal learning networks are powerful but incomplete. They spread quick tips, but rarely cultivate ethical reasoning. Formal teacher education can step in to guide, deepen and equalize these skills.

When teachers gain structured opportunities to explore AI, they shift from passive adopters to active shapers of technology. This shift matters because it ensures educators are not merely responding to technological change, but actively directing how AI is used to support equity, pedagogy and student learning.

That is the kind of agency education systems must nurture if AI is to serve, rather than undermine, learning.

Johanathan Woodworth does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Social media is teaching children how to use AI. How can teachers keep up? – https://theconversation.com/social-media-is-teaching-children-how-to-use-ai-how-can-teachers-keep-up-264727

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Lauren Knight, PhD Candidate, Faculty of Information, University of Toronto

This week, the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) is celebrating 50 years of films and programming.

Through its evolution, TIFF has become an industry staple for both artists and fans, and remains important as a “major launching pad for Hollywood.” It showcases a range of international and independent films to wider market success and connects filmmakers to distributors.

TIFF also plays an important international role by programming, launching and generating wider conversations — both at the festival and beyond via fan, industry, media and social media commentary — in response to emerging trends and technologies in the film industry.

By bringing together stakeholders and curating conversations, film festivals are also powerful cultural hubs that set the tone for the norms and practices of the industry. A major theme at the moment involves questions around AI.

Future of labour in film

In our work as researchers within the Creative Labour Critical Futures project at the University of Toronto, we are tracking and examining media responses to AI use across the film industry.

We’re also mapping emerging trends around policy, governance, worker organizing, creativity, discourses around venture-backed technology startups and acts of refusal when it comes to generative AI across the creative industries, in Canada and beyond.

Film festivals are trying different ways to address AI. One film festival founded and directed by American actor Justine Bateman promises no AI.

TIFF allows the use of AI-generated material in submissions but requires filmmakers to disclose how AI was used. The festival is providing a forum for AI-related conversations through a variety of panel discussions and events.

For example, on Sept. 8 at a “Visionaries” industry conference event, Andrea Scrosati of Fremantle, a major production and distribution company, spoke about Fremantle’s AI-focused Imaginae Studios.

He discussed unlocking new possibilities, noting that AI “tools will permit a new generation of talent to emerge, because they are taking away the barriers to entry.”

Yet the role of AI is a hot-button issue that all stakeholders — filmmakers, tech companies, distributors, creatives’ guilds and unions, policymakers and viewers — are struggling to negotiate.

This negotiation involves narrating and interpreting the meaning of AI in the film industry, which in turn establish new norms and practices.

The ‘ethical’ AI narrative

A key aspect of what’s being negotiated across culture industries is how the public, fans, media commentators and creative professionals understand responsible AI creation and how this intersects with legal issues around ownership, fairness issues around compensation and philosophical issues related to creativity and authenticity.

A notable participant at a TIFF industry event was the company Moonvalley, a Toronto-based AI research firm.

With the company Asteria Film Co., co-founded by American actor and writer Natasha Lyonne and entrepreneur Bryn Mooser, Moonvalley built a generative AI model called Marey, trained only, as the company notes, on “licensed, high-resolution footage.”

Asteria Film identifies itself as “an artist-led generative AI film and animation studio” which, alongside Moonvalley, “has built the first of its kind clean foundational AI model.” Some media reporting amplifies this discourse about it being “clean” and “ethical.”

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Yet, there are questions around private companies, including Moonvalley, and public transparency and accountability in terms of how AI has been trained. A Vulture story that covered a visit to Asteria’s Los Angeles studio and interview with Mooser reports the company ultimately declined to provide details about where and how exactly the company paid for and acquired data for training, citing confidentiality.

Labour concerns

Amid conversations about the potential of AI, debates were amplified this year in labour disputes, union strikes and changes to major award regulations.

In July 2024, 2,500 voice-acting members of the SAG-AFTRA union began what would become a year-long strike against 10 video game companies, including Electronic Arts and Activision. The strike outlined 25 disputes, but the primary concern was the industry’s use of AI to “replicate” or “replace” human performers.

This debate began alongside the announcement of an AI Darth Vader non-playable character in Fortnite. Trained using the voice of James Earl Jones, with approval from Jones written into his estate, players could interact with Darth Vader during gameplay.

This integration has become controversial partly because the AI Darth Vader has been recorded swearing or using homophobic slurs in conversation with players.

SAG-AFTRA members reached an agreement on July 9, 2025, noting the addition of “consent and disclosure requirements for AI digital replica use” in union contracts.

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When does an actor stop, and AI begin? What The Brutalist and Emilia Pérez tell us about AI in Hollywood

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Following debates about AI use in Oscar-nominated films, the Academy Awards has similarly amended qualification requirements to account for AI use and disclosure. The academy announced that “the use of generative AI will neither help, nor hinder, a film’s chances of nomination,” though it has stressed that voting members should consider the role of the human at the heart of the creative process.

As these controversies show, the role of AI in the film industry is far from decided. Instead, it is being continually negotiated by many stakeholders.

Festivals like TIFF not only provide a window into these debates, but also play an active role in shaping their direction.

Lauren Knight receives funding from Creative Labour and Critical Futures (CLCF) project.

Daphne Rena Idiz receives funding from the Creative Labour and Critical Futures (CLCF) project.

Rafael Grohmann receives funding from Creative Labour and Critical Futures (CLCF) project and SSHRC Connection Grant (Workers Governing Digital Technologies).

– ref. Film festivals like TIFF set the tone for wider industry norms — here’s what we’re watching around AI – https://theconversation.com/film-festivals-like-tiff-set-the-tone-for-wider-industry-norms-heres-what-were-watching-around-ai-264225