Mephistopheles U: Where the Truth Goes to Die

A professor calls Hamas Nazis. For this, he is suspended, gagged, slandered, and erased—while the real hatemongers get tenure and tea service.

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In two weeks, I will have been suspended for seven months. Seven months without a hearing, a rebuttal, or even the theatrical courtesy of a kangaroo court.

My apparent crime? Daring to write, publicly and truthfully, that I stood with Israel, and that Hamas were ideological descendants of the Nazis—which, for those historically illiterate or morally compromised, happens to be accurate. The charge, you ask? Inciting violence. A danger to students. And for that, the human rights claim asserted that I should never again be allowed to teach.

Trying to find the connection? You’ll have better luck deciphering the Voynich manuscript.

Saying “I like chocolate pudding, therefore the lawn must be mowed” has more internal logic.

The other highlight?

I asked a university staff member to stop spreading defamatory lies about me, specifically, she was telling hundreds of students a pure and utter lie that I had assaulted a student in class and was escorted away by police. You might think this request would be met with either denial or remorse.

Instead, it sparked a bureaucratic avalanche. Within 48 hours, I received a letter warning me that further contact with employees would result in criminal harassment charges and intervention by the Toronto Police.

The University of Guelph-Humber refuses—flatly, arrogantly, and with the haughtiness only the deeply guilty can muster—to issue even the most meagre retraction or to instruct its staff to cease spreading cold, deliberate, reputation-shredding falsehoods about me to hundreds of students.

They will not correct the record because the lie is useful - a convenience, a cudgel, and a shield. It is the fig leaf for their institutional cowardice, the incense in their cathedral of hypocrisy. It gives their spinelessness a storyline and their malice a mission. Why abandon a falsehood when it animates your self-righteousness so exquisitely?

Welcome to Mephistopheles University—now proudly accepting applications from the morally bankrupt and the intellectually castrated and burning hot with righteous zeal since time immemorial. Here, truth is optional, cowardice is credentialed, and reputations are cremated in the service of the latest ideological bonfire.

This is no longer education—it’s sacrificial theatre. And the altar always needs a fresh name.

Let that sink in: a university—an institution supposedly devoted to truth, intellectual courage, and the pursuit of knowledge—has now sunk to openly sanctioning defamation. They do not merely permit the lie; they polish it, distribute it, and watch it metastasise through their classrooms like an academic cancer.

The administration stands by as students are told that I, a professor with over a decade of service, am a danger, a deviant, a figure to be whispered about and shunned. Not because of anything I did, but because I dared to speak a political truth they found inconvenient.

This is not a misunderstanding. This is not a procedural oversight. This is shameless, institutional malice—defamation weaponised by policy, made sacred by bureaucratic inertia and cowardly silence. The university now lies about its faculty, then refuses to acknowledge the lie, much less apologise for it. They have abdicated any claim to integrity, traded in the robes of academia for the rags of gossip and vindictive slander.

Truth be damned—there are reputations to ruin and mobs to appease.

And if you’re still pretending this is about safety, decency, or student well-being, then you’re either complicit or asleep. Wake up. The university is now a factory of slander, and the product is my name, fed into the gears, mangled, and sold back to the campus as virtue.

From where, exactly, did this Kafkaesque threat that I could be arrested emanate?

From the head of parking, public safety, or as she is likely not to prefer to be called, but is - the head security guard.

Yes, the campus commander of lots and lanyards—presumably promoted for their fluency in asphalt logistics—has now been deputised as moral overseer of faculty thought and professional reputation.

And what a splendid job they’re doing.

Once, I was a widely respected professor: thirteen years, sixteen courses annually, unpaid summers spent crafting tailored course materials, and countless evenings fielding student anxiety.

My phone—whose number is held by half the student body—became an impromptu help line, particularly in the lead-up to presentations, exams, and assorted academic panics.

And for that, I’m rewarded with the filthiest insinuation imaginable.

The investigator discovered that a female student had called me—yes, a telephone call, not a séance, not a tryst, not a tantric ritual—where I had been assisting the student the night before her presentation.

The university’s hired inquisitor, drawing on a mind marinated in suspicion, decided this act of utterly ordinary academic support must hint at sexual impropriety. No complaint. No victim. No evidence. Just a smear.

Not a charge. Not an allegation. Just a rancid whiff left hanging in the air. The kind that no one dares to name but everyone remembers. Because that, you see, is the genius of the innuendo: it doesn’t accuse, it infects. It doesn’t require investigation; it simply requires cowardice in the administration and a faintly raised eyebrow among the morally feeble.

The law firm behind this disgrace? Sherrard Kuzz, specialists, apparently, in weaponised insinuation.

Though one imagines they had to settle on that name after discovering that Mephistopheles & Partners: Demonic Counsel Since 1666 was already taken.

So now, I’m told I’m a threat. Not just an HR inconvenience, but Osama Bin Finlayson, Public Enemy #1. Oh, sorry, Osama is gaining popularity now, so that metaphor might not work. He is, thankfully, still dead.

It’s been quite the fall, albeit from a perch that was never exactly Harvard.

The irony is exquisite. I am banned—illegally, but thoroughly—from communicating with thousands of past, present, and future students, staff, or faculty. By the logic of this grotesque gag order, I am unable to speak to my neighbour.

If my daughter, heaven forbid, were to apply to the university where I once taught, sorry, gag reflex, I would be barred from discussing her future with the admissions committee.

Yet, when I ask for the university to stop its staff from broadcasting defamatory tales about my imaginary assaults, the response is a shrieking reprimand from some bureaucratic mid-tier inquisitor I’ve never heard of.

From most respected to radioactive in under a week. My courses have been reassigned. My name was erased. The same faculty who once praised my work now whisper to students that I am a violent predator, with the delicate caveat: “That’s what I heard.”

You see, by ending a lie with that phrase, it becomes harmless like finishing a poisoned pie with whipped cream.

Let us not forget that this all stems from one statement—an accurate one, incidentally—that if you stand with Hamas, you stand with Nazis—a statement rooted not in provocation, but in fact. The Muslim Brotherhood—from which Hamas sprang—was thick as thieves with Hitler. They helped birth the SS Free Arabian Legion. But historical accuracy now counts as incitement if it ruffles the right (or rather, the wrong) feathers.

So when I dared to question the narrative, I didn’t just attract criticism—I triggered a cascade of bureaucratic cowardice. The Associate Vice Provost, visibly rattled and apologetic, handed me my suspension letter while admitting he had not read the post in question. The letter followed immediately after my accuser sent his social media jeremiad to a group of senior administrators who behaved, I imagine, like a frightened clergy caught with copies of Voltaire.

Today, I learned that I will not be permitted to defend myself to the university’s external investigator. ¹This mystery woman, whose job was to complete the report by January 2024, remains behind procedural curtains.

Her process is a black box. Accusers, including those from outside the university, will remain anonymous. I will not know who they are, what they said, or be allowed to respond. But she will judge me anyway. Not on evidence—that’s so 1980s—but on “the balance of probabilities,” which is a lovely euphemism for

“Whatever feels right to the let’s crank up those billable hours, dear inquisition lady.”

It's as if darkness is setting in; you’re a child, and you only have a stick and a couple of cookies. You hear the wolves begin to howl.

And what do they say in justification? That hiring an investigator is not, as it grotesquely pretends, a pursuit of truth, but a pretext—a reputational fig leaf purchased to cover the flaccid indecency of a foregone conclusion.

They are not even embarrassed by the charade. On the contrary, they are proud—proud to announce that even if their hired hand has the inconvenient gall to tell the truth, to say the facts do not support punishment, they will still throw you to the wolves.

Why? Because the only thing more sacred to these institutions than justice is not having to admit they were wrong. Their original fit of administrative hysteria—unlawful, unreasoned, and emotionally incontinent—is clung to like scripture. They cannot retract it, so they double down. It is not the truth they serve, but precedent—their own, deranged precedent.

This is not a process. It is a performance—a ritual sacrifice dressed up in policy-speak. And even if the blade slips and the priest hesitates, the mob still wants blood. So you’ll bleed anyway.

This is the Salem model with wi-fi. If you drown, you’re innocent; if you float, you’re a witch. And God help you if you make someone feel unsafe. Because “unsafe” no longer means a dark alley at 2:00 AM on Winnipeg’s Pembina Highway in 1984.

No, today “unsafe” means you challenged a cherished ideological relic. You didn’t validate someone’s cultural aromatherapy, and they need smelling salts.

Drop a plate in the kitchen and they dive into the air-raid shelter.

Because trauma is now retroactive and transmissible, if someone once knew someone who cried during a debate about pumpkin spice lattes, your comment about Thanksgiving is an act of ideological terrorism.

And if you’re confused, just remember the First Rule of Modern Academia:

If it sounds like satire, it’s policy.

And when the mob declares you guilty, there is no due process, only damage control. No rebuttal, just threats. They will tell you it’s about “community standards” or “inclusive excellence”, but it’s just the tyranny of vibes.

And that’s the real point. It’s not about me. I am just the warning flare. If they can do this to me, what will they do to you? What if you question a climate hypothesis? Misgender someone in a hallway? Fail to praise the Prophet’s carbon-neutral composting habits?

What if you don’t kneel at the altar of “Islam Is Peace ™” with sufficient enthusiasm?

I have miffed one Palestinian activist, who teaches one course a year, never takes his office key as he is in such a hurry to depart after classes; he has called Jews filth, praised Hamas, and spread conspiracy theories that would embarrass David Icke.² He is lauded.

I, who taught 17 courses a year and stayed late to help suicidal students, am exiled.

That’s not a mistake. That’s institutional preference.

And while the union drones on about collective agreements and salary grids, I’m left watching my reputation being publicly dismembered by cowards, while administrators play bureaucratic dress-up.

University human rights panels are not judicial. They’re not even quasi-judicial. They are Alice in Wonderland without the whimsy—a collection of petty authoritarians who treat procedure as performance art. They write the rules as they go. They move the goalposts. They hide the ball. They then accuse you of cheating.

And should you express indignation, they say you’re angry. Should you remain silent, they say you’re cold. Should you defend yourself, they say you’re violent.

Their HR policies are written in the same dialect as Nigerian scam emails. “Cancel anytime (but not really).” “Free speech applies unless someone files a feelings complaint.” “Justice will be served, as long as it does not conflict with parking enforcement.”

My case, tragicomic as it is, is just one iteration. I’ve now joined the ranks of the damned—those who made someone feel emotionally brittle. The hammer of justice will not fall because I said something untrue. It will fall because someone—somewhere felt.

And for that, I must burn.

Would it be irrational or unfair if, at some point, the place formerly known as a university—now an ideological daycare for the emotionally incontinent—came to be known as the College of Hamas and Houthis? I mean no disrespect to the Houthis, who certainly pull their weight in the business of medieval barbarism. Still, it does seem a bit unjust that they always play second fiddle to the Hamas brand, which has better PR and, evidently, more sympathisers in faculty lounges.

But this isn’t really about me, is it?

What if, in some post-secondary institution near you, you dared to question the scientific orthodoxy of the age, not by denying climate change, but by pointing out that a digital thermometer from Costco might be slightly more reliable than guessing temperatures from rings in a tree that died during the Mesolithic period? Would you be corrected, or accused of heresy by the Church of Renewable Subsidies and the Climate Clerisy of Tenure-for-Life?

What if you mispronounce the benediction of the Church of Her Penis™—and I do mean trademarked, branded, and punishable by excommunication if uttered without the approved tone of reverence?

What if you forget to genuflect before the holy proclamation that “Islam is the Official Religion of Peace and Love,” and accidentally recall the actual statistical record, or heaven forbid, notice that the overwhelming number of recent terror attacks have not been carried out by ageing Anglican grannies upset about the hymnal? Do you honestly think your employment prospects will survive?

What if, at a staff meeting, you express the faintest disapproval of the Prime Minister’s latest idiocy—and someone across the table, whose family fled civil war under his father’s immigration policy, begins to weep? Your opinion is now an act of racist aggression. You’ve weaponised your words. Your white blood cells have committed a microaggression. Go directly to the Equity Tribunal; do not pass Go.

Human rights courts? They are not courts. They are not tribunals. They are ideological funhouses—ad hoc Maoist tumours dressed in HR drag. And the concept of a hate “crime” has been so debased that it no longer refers to crimes motivated by actual hatred, but to feelings bruised by someone’s failure to whisper the approved catechism with sufficient humility.

I’m not talking about genuine incitement to violence— my high crime of pointing out that Hamas, born from the Muslim Brotherhood, shares historical DNA with the Nazi regime, even forming a literal SS regiment called the Free Arabian Legion. Or that Hassan al-Banna, the Brotherhood’s founder, had a deeply affectionate pen-pal relationship with Adolf Hitler.

A firing offence. Report, report, report was what the kids said about me. Not to my face, that would take a scintilla of courage.

Not that they would know what “scintilla” meant.

But when the definition of a hate crime encompasses merely offending the wrong demographic—or saying something historically accurate but politically inconvenient—we have invited tyranny to tea and offered it biscuits.

Ah, but the technocrats have a solution: AI will fix it. Our machine-learning friends will parse every objectionable comment, distinguish between hate and harshness, and shield every delicate ego from harm. The algorithm will cradle your feelings like a Swedish nanny on diazepam.

But no, it won’t.

There are no boundary fences. No way to separate the loathsome from the merely controversial. This fantasy that we can codify emotional harm into legislation and enforce it with software is pure hubris. It’s like designing a ski resort at the bottom of a hill, then surrounding it with moats filled with man-eating, all-weather, ethically-sensitive alligators. The slope is slippery, the moat inevitable.

And once you’re in it, you’re not coming out dry.

Of course, we’ll ensure everyone halts before reaching the crocodile moat. Nothing will go wrong. Trust us. The regulators, the virtue-slingers, and the bureaucrats say so.

But this isn’t Aspen or Whistler; it’s not a ski resort at all. It’s digital, doctrinaire, and algorithmic. Speech itself is now the slope, and those who set the barriers have a peculiar habit of inching them closer and closer until only the mute and the ideologically obedient can pass without incident. Bill C-63 is not legislation—it’s alchemy: a bubbling, noxious broth of weaponised sensitivity and aristocratic prejudice against the unconverted.

Human rights tribunals are not merely flawed; they are psychological escape rooms curated by people who failed their poli-sci degrees and decided that vengeance makes for a viable career. They aren’t courts, nor are they judicial. They are a theatre of bureaucratic cruelty—tyranny on rubber feet, with Maoist undertones and the fashion sense of a rehabbed civil servant. Their game is gaslight and a mirror. The rules change daily. They are posted on the wall, rewritten, then deleted before you arrive. When you ask for clarity, you’re blamed for being confused.

Inside this funhouse of authoritarianism, your union rep is given a key ring. But rather than try all the keys, he tries one, shrugs, and disappears to his weekend retreat in Niagara Falls, where he splits his time between discussing the evils of Zionism and billing $400-a-night room service to your dues.

But this Kafkaesque nightmare isn’t about the unlucky few. It’s about everyone else—the people who *see* what happens to the unlucky few and decide to say nothing. Fear metastasises. Cowardice becomes protocol.

A Jewish colleague wrote to me, trembling in digital anonymity:

"Paul, I would support you, but I can’t. I’m afraid. I can’t risk what happened to you happening to me. I have a family to support."

And there it is: the true genius of hate legislation, not in punishing heresy, but in creating an atmosphere so drenched in anticipatory obedience that heresy doesn’t even dare draw breath.

It doesn’t just govern the campus or the office; it colonises the mind. It seeps into the picnic, the synagogue, the bank line. And money? Well, money speaks more fluently than a thousand tribunals.

Give the narrative engine to the right operators, and suddenly it’s not so hard to tip the ship of public consensus. One Keegstra here, one well-placed postdoc there. James Keegstra didn’t need Twitter. All he needed was time, a chalkboard, and a community of sleepy Canadians willing to believe the bile he spewed. Class after class. Church pew after church pew. Teller after teller, whispering about Jewish conspiracies over loan applications.

Culture does not evolve organically. It is shaped, nudged, funded, and, when necessary, threatened into obedience. Don’t be naïve: the game is rigged by the players with tenure, lawyers, and very deep pockets.

“We’d hate to see this student demographic leave your high-quality post-secondary institution,” they whisper to deans and VPs.

And because people are cowards by instinct, they nod.

But oh no, surely one or two organisations can’t move the great galley of culture? Nonsense. Of course, they can. They already have.

Keegstra did it with a blackboard. What might his intellectual descendants achieve with TikTok and tenure?

This quaint Canadian tendency to avoid discomfort must come to an end. It’s time we stopped being polite victims and started being defiant citizens. We need to be less Anglican lamb, more Israeli lion. Less "peace, order and good government," more "you will not do this in my name."

The comforting delusion that someone else will take the helm of this cultural ship is nothing more than cowardice dressed in optimism. It is self-interested, fear-motivated fear while toying with the safe word of wishful thinking.

Self-awareness is in dangerously short supply. And I wish—God, how I wish—people would grow a spine.

So next time you find yourself dabbing your eyes at the final frame of Schindler’s List, ask yourself this: if the knock came on your colleague’s door, if they were dragged to the alligator moat, if they were fed to the DEI wolves—would you speak?

Or would you whimper, piss yourself, and point at Schindler before scurrying off to hide behind the breakroom kettle?

At least have the decency to put the tissue down and admit the truth: in 1943, you would have turned him in. You still would in 2025.

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God bless Israel.

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1. Writing and editing months later, I got two hours of her time. She harassed me and threatened me, told me to turn over my “Jew contact” emails, and accused me insanely of filing against Ramadan out of retribution. And she later says, “I said, ‘I agree. ‘” “’ To say Anand is a liar is a statement I am proud to make publicly. She is. I said nothing of the sort. I did it for beleaguered Jewish faculty and students, and a general sense that calling for the extermination of a people is a bad thing in a university community. I did find out why Anand was so annoyed that I took up her time, it wasn’t the idea that after ten months I might be entitled to a defence after the university had engaged in a prolonged and well organised defamation campaign, it was that she had written her verdict the moment she signed her contract with the university all those months ago. It was the same reason she didn’t read any of my defence materials or speak to a single person I asked her to, or, for that matter, include evidence or particulars. The verdict came first, then it was just a matter of killing time and racking up the billable hours. An investigation? Not a chance.

2. Icke is most infamous for his claim that many world leaders, members of royal families, and other global elites are shape-shifting reptilian aliens from the Alpha Draconis star system. These reptilian overlords allegedly manipulate humanity through secret societies and control major world events.