The burlesque performer
Yael Perez, a.k.a. Miss Meow, is no wallflower. Shaking her feathers, strutting deftly across a stage under the gaze and leers of 100 adoring sets of eyes, she smiles, almost sneering-like, into the dark space filled with tables of hollering fans, before offering a coquettish spin, shedding her gloves to a rhythmic drumbeat.
With her curvy silhouette, black hair, and fiery red lipstick, she once captivated audiences as a popular burlesque performer in Montreal.
But after Oct. 7, 2023, her career, like parts of her elaborate costumes, fell south.
Perez started modelling a decade ago and later embraced burlesque. It was a hit—she performed every weekend, with a steady social media following. Her late parents supported her career, but it was the burlesque community that turned its back on her.
An office manager for a property management firm, she had been up late when news of the attacks broke. “I freaked out,” she recalls, and while her family in Israel was safe, she quickly realized that many of her friends were unaware of the scale of the attack. As media coverage was slow to pick up, Perez began sharing screenshots from sources she trusted.
At first the reaction was of sincere interest, “but I noticed all these people looking at my posts and not a single one messaged me to ask if I’m OK, or about my family.”
Perez isn’t alone. Jewish and Israeli artists have watched as the progressive arts community turned their back and lost the support of their friends in the industry and seen projects and bookings be cancelled.
Even Montrealers whose art might not be their day jobs, but rather side hustles and occasional gigs have seen opportunities dry up.
Social media has been a powerful force since the attacks, starting with the live-streamed atrocities and continuing efforts to spread propaganda, solidarity, or division. Perez, who uses social media “authentically” in both her personal and professional life, says, “I’ve always been clear—I’m not just a ‘pretty person’ online. I’m a whole person, and I was open about being terrified and traumatized.”
What people didn’t realize was that this wasn’t just ‘news’ to her—she was worried for her family staying in bomb shelters. The lack of support from friends and colleagues in the progressive burlesque community felt dehumanizing. “No one checked in, and I noticed something else,” she recalls, her voice betraying a surge in emotion. “Some people began sharing antisemitic content right away. On Oct. 7, they were posting about ‘liberation.’ The same goddamned day.”
Performers she’d worked with for years, with whom she’d never discussed the Middle East, began retweeting pro-Palestinian accounts that were clearly part of a coordinated narrative. “They were celebrating, saying ‘Amazing job.’ I couldn’t believe they were justifying the attacks.” She tried explaining the impact on her family, but people doubled down, saying it didn’t matter.
Colleagues, including one scheduled to perform in her show, posted increasingly extreme comments. Perez called them out gently, only to hear, “I’ve watched documentaries, I have a nuanced view. Palestinian resistance is justified.” Perez could accept opposing views, but “you’re saying what happened to my people was deserved?” She felt horrified and unsafe, questioning if she could continue working with such people.
The concert reviewer
Amir Amozig also felt a shift after Oct. 7, though more subtly. While he didn’t face direct hostility or “Free Palestine” shrieks, he noticed a change in the atmosphere while continuing his decade-long gig reviewing local bands in Montreal’s west end.
By day, the 51-year-old works in accounts receivable for a telecommunications company, but at night, he and his pen and notepad are a staple at local bars, reviewing bands with his encyclopedic knowledge of rock, blues, and pop. “I was extremely traumatized by Oct. 7,” he said. “There was a deafening silence around me.”
Some musicians did make public statements minimizing the atrocities, which outraged him, and overall, he felt isolated in an industry that leans far left, even though he considers himself liberal. His mistrust led him to consider leaving, but Israeli family and musician friends reminded him of his passion for music. “If you let life’s challenges rob you of your passions, you’re giving in to what terrorists intended from the start,” they said.
Mindful of cancel culture, Amozig navigated it with care. He was shocked to see anti-Israel propaganda in some venues, including one that seemed a “pro-Hamas shrine” post-Oct. 7. “I never set foot there again.”
Though he felt isolated, he stayed in the music scene, feeling distanced from the Jewish activist community as it shifted right, but remained committed to traditional liberal values.
#WATCH: "We have a responsibility to be a voice for all the hostage families,” says Amir Amozig, as Montrealers gathered on Sunday to honour those who were killed in Israel during the Oct. 7 Hamas attack. @swiddarassy reports.#Montreal #Quebechttps://t.co/9hiRkZ6iTI
— CityNews Montreal (@CityNewsMTL) October 6, 2024
Long before Oct. 7, he says, the arts community was strongly left-wing on issues like workers’ rights, racism, First Nations, women’s rights, the environment, and LGBTQ concerns. “The prevailing view framed the Middle East as an oppressor versus underdog conflict. While I disagree with some of their views on world events, I know many have a good heart, rooted in altruism, anti-militarism, and anti-nationalism,” which are core leftist values.
He severed ties however, with anyone justifying the events of Oct. 7, particularly those framing it in terms of oppressor and oppressed. “Some responses were reprehensible, while others came from a genuine concern for humanity.”
The flamenco dancer
Laurence Elmoznino, a 55-year-old public school teacher, was infuriated by the lack of knowledge and empathy she encountered after Oct. 7. “It was sheer stupidity,” she says, recalling the derision towards Israelis and the indifference to Jewish suffering that overshadowed one of her greatest passions.
A lifelong dancer, Elmoznino spent over a decade in ballet and has practiced flamenco for more than 20 years. Her first visit to Granada, Spain, felt like coming home, with flamenco’s connection to Jewish traditions through the shared history of persecuted Jews and Roma. “There was something very Jewish about it.”
Flamenco, with its intense footwork and lyrical expression, conveys raw emotions, from sexuality to passion, “but it’s not about being sexy,” she said. She loved the intensity and solidarity among the women she danced with.
“Flamenco here has a tight-knit community. We see the same faces everywhere—dancers from Spain for stages and shows. It’s intense with classes, practices, and performances.”
Fifteen months ago, she was performing with her group, loving every grueling moment. Then came Oct. 7. She watched the news, and “I thought my knees were going to buckle. In an instant, everything changed.”
As days passed, Elmoznino grew despondent, overwhelmed by pain for her community. “I couldn’t do anything. I didn’t want to dance. Many were still dancing, but I was in mourning.” Supported by a close-knit group of dancers and friends, she returned after weeks, receiving concern for her and her family. “But outside that small group, I’m still angry.”
After the Hamas attacks, she posted on social media about the slaughter, supporting Israel and sharing a photo from a volunteering mission. A dancer told her they could no longer be friends, saying she couldn’t support someone who “justifies terrorism.” Elmoznino was stunned. “Terrorism? Genocide? I had no idea she thought like this. I danced with her, she taught me, I saw her shows.” She responded firmly, calling her out: “How dare you? My family was in Gaza. You don’t get to lecture me about my people.”
This was coming from people she had known for 20 years, who knew her as a dedicated supporter and fundraiser for causes like helping fellow Montrealer Steve Maman working to free Yazidi women from ISIS captivity and supporting a Syrian refugee family. “I did the work—what have you done?”
She was furious and avoided classes. “I just couldn’t. It wasn’t just one teacher, but others voicing pride in seeing Tunisians shouting for resistance in Arabic or calling Gaza an open-air prison. It was too much.” This limited her dance opportunities and combined with knee injuries and the painful loss of a close friend, her flamenco career began to unravel. “I missed dancing, but my connection to Israel is deeper than anything, even flamenco. Every hostage, soldier, and family felt personal.”
It reaffirmed her deepest self-identity, with family roots in Spain as deep as her attachment to her Jewishness. In Granada, she met the late flamenco legend Mario Maya, who tapped her with his cane, asking, “Where are you from?” “Canada,” she replied. “No,” he laughed. “Where are you from?”
“When I shared my origins were in Córdoba, he said I resembled the local women, strengthening my sense of connection to the culture.” It reminded her that she was “La Sefardita.”
Yael Perez was proud of her achievements in burlesque, curating successful shows at Montreal venues like the Wiggle Room and Café Cleopatra, often selling out spaces for 100-120 people. But everything unraveled after Oct. 7.
“Burlesque isn’t a community, I always insisted. It’s a business,” she said, feeling vindicated “in a sick, painful way.”
Post-Oct. 7, many of her peers across Canada posted antisemitic content. “The worst was, ‘You deserve it.'” The idea that Israelis deserved to be pulled from their beds and slaughtered was mind-boggling. Perez had always supported causes like Black Lives Matter and Stop Asian Hate, even paying festival fees for performers of colour. “I knew some people face barriers I didn’t. I felt a responsibility to help.” Yet, among the hundreds she supported, no one publicly voiced support for her. “A few privately reached out, but within weeks, they were sharing pro-Palestinian posts and calling me a genocide supporter who should be shunned.
“I was the only Israeli. There were a few Jewish performers, but in a progressive, woke space, a couple who shared my views stayed silent to avoid what I was dealing with.”
It started with artists bailing on shows, rumours spreading that she supported genocide. Even an Arab-Jewish performer she had supported told her, “I can’t be associated with you. I have to quit all your bookings. No hard feelings.”
The final blow came that December, when dancers at Café Cleo told her that nearly all of them had been harassed for working with her. “This was after about 20 people had already quit,” almost half the talent pool.
“I shed so many tears,” she recalls. “I found out nearly every artist who worked with me was harassed. I had a breakdown backstage and cried myself to sleep. That show made me realize I couldn’t stay in this industry anymore. I couldn’t keep giving to an industry that doesn’t appreciate me.”
She began receiving harassing messages, with her social media stories prompting waves of Palestinian flags and responses of “Fuck Israel! Fuck you!” and threats to protest her shows. Anti-Israel posters were plastered backstage, and she knew people brought Palestinian flags to disrupt other events in the city. She worried about how to keep the audience safe when people were using such aggressive, threatening language.
Her last pre-booked show was in May, but her final performance came in February 2024, at Café Cleo. There, a stack of postcards urging Trudeau to stop the genocide and support Gaza sat by the bar.
It was all devastating for Perez. “It turned my life upside down. Being a performer, producer, and model was central to my identity—now it’s all gone. I lost almost all my friends—people I’d planned futures with, thrown birthday parties for. Losing my career was huge, but losing friends was worse. It felt overwhelming, but I realized I need new, more meaningful connections—especially more Jewish friends.”
Did she err by quitting? “No. It’s unfortunate and sad, and I’m still grieving that loss, but it was the right thing because nobody deserves to be treated that way, to be bullied by peers, and harassed. I had the ability to remove myself. They’re going to be assholes forever. I don’t have to be there for it.”
Pivoting their perspectives
Music scribe Amir Amozig found his voice for advocacy attending rallies after Oct. 7. His tight-knit circle remains strong, and now when covering a band with a Jewish performer, he feels a deeper connection. “If I know a musician is Jewish or Israeli, and shares my trauma, the bond is stronger.” He mentions a recent show by Israeli saxophonist Tevet Sela in Montreal. “There’s a bond you don’t have with others, and it makes you feel safe.”
Though quieter on advocacy than some, Amozig says no musician is unaware of his stance in Israel’s war. “They know where I stand, and so far, no major backlash. But I’m always aware of stories of cancellations, that chill in the air.”
For flamenco enthusiast Laurence Elmoznino, seeing fellow dancers celebrate murder and “Free Palestine” posters appearing around a studio dulled the shine on the art form she saw as her heritage. “I can’t get away from it anywhere, not even in my feel-good place. There’s even still a lot of antisemitism in Spain, where I got comments from indoctrinated types. I had a landlord who refused to believe I was Jewish, and a Spanish teacher asked me if a Palestinian child was standing in front of me, ‘would you shoot him’?”
Back in Montreal, she’s eyeing the calendar of flamenco events. “This stage I want to take, I know some of these women will be there. So fuck them, I’m going. I’m wearing my Magen David and standing right in front of your face.” Looking at it through a rear-view mirror, she says, “Their lack of intelligence repulsed me. I couldn’t get them to donate or support anything, and now they’re out picketing and protesting, denying rapes. They’re too far gone.”
These classes and events may be “much more their space than mine, but it is still my space because of my ancestry. This very much belongs to me.”
