by TIM McSORLEY

"I won't give money to an anti-Semitic school," said one graduate.

"I'm ashamed to tell people I graduated from Concordia," declared another.

"I'm Jewish and I'm scared to send my daughter back to school," stated a third.

To hear them speak, I wouldn't have thought they were talking about the same school I attended four days a week. Admittedly, the last 10 months had been fairly tumultuous, but to hear the graduates I was calling to ask for donations, Concordia - dubbed Gaza U by the media - was a battle zone where every man, woman and child had to fend for themselves.

Caught up in the fray

Five storeys above the Faubourg Ste-Catherine, Concordia's Alumni Relations Office seemed like a separate world when I arrived there for a job interview last September. The beige walls and carpeted floors seemed far removed from the turmoil engulfing the campus two blocks away on the corner of Mackay and de Maisonneuve.

I was applying for a position as a student fundraiser for Concordia, asking graduates to donate money to various funds, including libraries, athletics, scholarships and bursaries.

Only weeks before, violent protests had erupted at the school, preventing former Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu from speaking at Concordia. Pro-Israel students had declared him a hero in the fight against terrorism. Pro-Palestinian students decried him as a war criminal. By the end of the day, broken windows, nine arrests and a slew of riot police had propelled Concordia into the national and international news.

At the time it was hard to tell how this would affect our job of raising money for a school that even current students were trying to distance themselves from. In a speech from university rector Frederick Lowy, we were told how we would serve as the only link many graduates had to the school, that we weren't just fundraising - we were "friend-raising" as well.

Bearing the brunt

At the training following the speeches, we discussed how to deal with irate people, something returning callers had a bit of experience with.

The year before, they had experienced some heated reactions in light of Uprising, that year's Concordia Student Union handbook. Frank Dimant, national executive vice-president of B'nai Brith Canada, had likened the book to a training handbook for future Osama bin Ladens. Although many of those opposed to the book found his comments extreme, the seeds of worry had been planted.

"Last year, the handbook in the media kind of set a precedent for this year; people were ready to react almost," recalls graduating religion student Arianne Shaffer, who has worked at the call centre for two years. "They were unimpressed with what's happening at Concordia." But, she notes, "This year was definitely harsher."

As the only human contact many alumni had with post-Sept. 9 Concordia, callers bore the brunt of the criticism people were ready to unleash on what the media had painted as a troubled and deeply divided school.

"It's their vent," says Skyler Bushell, shaking his dread-locked head. "They're not particularly mad at you, but at the university."

As the story flowed through the media, and the fallout began, more and more graduates questioned why they should give money to a school they claimed not to recognize anymore.

Even then, most people we called were willing to at least discuss donating, although few changed their minds on the situation at Concordia.

More often than not, people were simply fed up with seeing their alma mater being torn to pieces by pundits, and many preached quick fixes and scary solutions. A standout: "I'll only give when the school starts sending some of those foreign students home," one graduate told me during a phone call in November.

Raging voices and rattled nerves

I was stunned. How do you respond to that? I tried, but the person on the other end of the line wouldn't hear any of it. He hung up.

Others were more specific: "I'm not going to give you any money until you stop letting Arabs in," is a line that sticks with Concordia fine arts student Beth Cross, who worked as both a caller and as a supervisor this year.

Even more troubling, she said, was the person the comment came from. "When I looked at the [profile] card," recalls Cross incredulously, "it said she was a school teacher."

"That's really surprising when you look at someone's profession, and you think they're a doctor or a teacher," says Shaffer, who was sitting next to Cross when she made that particular call. "People yell at you, swear at you."

Like any telemarketer, we had to remember not to take what people said personally. It wasn't us they were mad at, but the school. At times it became too much for some.

"He seemed really polite at first, asking me if I could hold on while his company left," remembers Diana Ramirez, a second year fine arts student at Concordia. "When he came back he just blasted me, saying how the school was anti-Semitic. I couldn't say a word for 20 minutes." With tears in her eyes, she eventually managed to pass the call off to call centre manager Roddy Doucet, himself a caller last year.

As the year went on, comments occasionally went from criticizing students to criticizing the administration. People would refuse to give money because the administration could not keep students under control or run the school properly. One elementary school principal told me he was certain he could run the university better than Lowy. Others were upset over what they viewed as a ban on free speech in the aftermath of the Sept. 9 protests.

Even if most of us weren't involved in the events of Sept. 9, it was still hard at times to hear the comments people made. Many of the calls remained shrill in tone and, on occasion, panic-stricken.

Hit where it hurts

As well, the problems we faced could have had serious fiscal repercussions for the school. In a time where nearly all public sectors are scrounging for dollars, particularly for education and health care, a hit to a university's fund-raising base can be devastating, especially when a large chunk of it is destined for student financial aid. As of right now, the amount of money we raised seemed to be fairly close to last year's total of over $500,000, although nothing will be certain until the final report is issued later in the summer.

"There's a palpable sense that it has been more difficult. The conversations are longer, the alumni had more questions," says Doucet. "As far as the financial impact goes, we won't know until the count is made. But yeah, it has been more difficult for sure."

Most of us feel that if we can come back next year, we will. Things seem as though they can only get better anyway, even if it wouldn't be quite as exciting. At the same time, I, like others, actually enjoyed the job. The exchange of ideas, although at times difficult, could be exhilarating and enlightening: when else will I be paid to discuss politics with strangers?

And, of course, there's the thrill of a challenge: to convince at least a small group that Concordia isn't so bad after all. As Shaffer put it, "I don't want them to think Concordia is shit."