Monday 30th June 2025
Blog Page 18

Journalism: A ‘dying’ art

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Articles are pitched from the comfort of quad-facing bedrooms. Ideas are mulled over glasses of cheap wine. Meetings are held in independent cafés or stuffy seminar rooms. Such is the world of student journalism: a space of institutional safety where voices compete and coexist, yet to what avail?

This luxury is not universal. In Palestine, journalism is no longer just a profession. It is a final act of defiance with life and death stakes. It is quite literally a “dying” art — not because it is becoming obsolete, but rather because it is a practice undertaken by Palestinians even in their final, dying moments. Still, they are not free of authoritarian suppression: a reality which forces us to reexamine what journalism means, and what it demands from those who practice it.

According to Roger Hardy’s The occupied press, there is a three-tiered system by which Israel regulates the Palestinian press. Through licensing, authorities decide whether a publication may exist at all. Through censorship, they determine what the publication may say each day. And through confiscations and distribution permits, they then control whether the product that has been approved by the censor may reach its readers. Each step strips Palestinian journalists of their autonomy and makes it almost impossible to create a free press. This suppression of journalism is a stark reminder of what is at stake when information is controlled: an outcome which student journalists, working within liberal democracies, are privileged enough to critique without fear.

According to the Palestinian Journalists Syndicate, more than 200 journalists and media workers have been killed by Israeli forces since October 2023, making it the deadliest conflict for journalists in recorded history. In Gaza, a press vest makes you a target. Your own words can kill you. In this war on narrative, Israel does not simply bomb hospitals, but memories and resistance. By combatting the uprising of the voices of the oppressed, the Israeli state continues to control the dominant narrative. Now, more than ever, the media has become a way for geopolitical events to be both warped and exposed.

At times, the privilege of journalistic freedom which exists within our own student publications makes me uncomfortable. How can I sit here and summarise a Union debate or review a student play, scroll through Canva templates or attend lay-ins, when scholasticide has deprived a state from a whole generation of students? In the face of global silence, what is the ethical obligation of those who can speak?

Hearing the haunting words “It’s Bisan from Gaza and I’m still alive”, on my phone in between lectures, or watching videos of citizen journalists in an occupied nation where all universities are either damaged or destroyed, is bitterly troubling. Bisan Owda, Motaz Azaiza, Hind Khoudary and Plestia Alaqad are a few of the many young journalists who have put their lives on the line, and understood that “dying” is what is at stake for this art. Their resilience is a call to action. Whilst their courage may have been acknowledged through Emmy Awards and UN recognition, the media outlets which surround them continue to betray the cause of independent journalists.

In April 2025, for example, the BBC came under fire for a headline on a story on Gaza, which initially read “Gaza hospital hit by Israeli strike, Hamas-run health ministry says”. Later, this was eventually changed to reflect the reality: “Israeli air strike destroys part of last functioning hospital in Gaza city”. The initial framing reflects more than editorial caution. It signals a systemic failure to treat Palestinian narratives with credibility, and magnifies the silencing of those who are already fighting to be heard. This, too, wounds journalism. When language fails, injustice thrives.

As mainstream outlets hesitate to report accurately, they create space for ambiguity where there should be none. The consequence is twofold: public perception is warped, and local journalists are silenced, despite doing the most life-threatening work. As residents of  a nation which exports arms to Israel, we remain complicit in the deaths of the same journalists. Complicity extends beyond government: because of the stories we choose not to tell, it reaches into the editorial rooms of our newspapers, into our lecture halls, and sidles into the comfort of apoliticism. 

When our own legacy media outlets fail Palestinian reporters with skewed headlines which euphemise genocidal actions, how can student journalists, who remain cushioned within their respective institutions, remain silent?

We, too, are killing journalism: an art which is repeatedly wounded by its consumers and contributors alike. The least we can do is prevent its burial.

Top Tax Tips for US Expats Living in the UK

Living in the UK as a US citizen can be a great experience. But when it comes to taxes, things can get a bit complicated. The US is one of the few countries that still taxes its citizens no matter where they live. So, even if you’ve moved abroad, you’ll still have to deal with both US and UK tax rules.

It helps to know the basics – like which taxes apply to you, how residency works, and what tax breaks you can use. This guide shares some helpful info for US expats in the UK, so you can steer clear of common issues and maybe save some money too.

Understanding your tax obligations as a US citizen living in the UK

If you’re a US citizen living in the UK, there are tax rules to think about in both countries. The US asks you to file a tax return every year, even if you’re already paying taxes in the UK. That’s because the US taxes all income earned worldwide.

In the UK, you also pay tax on money you earn there – like wages, pensions, or investment income. How much you pay depends on how much you earn. And just so you know, the UK tax year runs from April 6 to April 5 of the next year.

Worried about getting taxed twice? It’s a common concern. But the US and UK have a tax treaty that helps avoid that. Plus, there are things like the Foreign Earned Income Exclusion and the Foreign Tax Credit that can help lower your US tax bill. These tools are a key part of US expat taxation.

The impact of the statutory residence test on your UK tax status

The Statutory Residence Test, or SRT, is how the UK decides if you’re a tax resident for the year. This matters because your tax status decides what income the UK can tax.

The SRT looks at things like how many days you spend in the UK, whether you have a home there, and if you work full-time in the country. If you’re in the UK for 183 days or more during the tax year, you’re usually seen as a resident. But even fewer days can count if you have strong ties to the UK.

For US expats, knowing your SRT result is important. It affects whether you pay UK tax just on UK income or on your income worldwide. Luckily, the US-UK tax treaty can help if you end up being a resident in both countries.

Filing tax returns: US and UK requirements explained

If you’re a US citizen living in the UK, you have to deal with tax rules in both countries. It can feel like a lot. In the US, you need to file a federal tax return every year. This return includes all the money you earned anywhere in the world – even if you already paid taxes in the UK.

If you have foreign bank accounts that total more than $10,000 at any time during the year, you also need to file an FBAR (Foreign Bank Account Report).

In the UK, if you earn money that isn’t taxed automatically – like from self-employment or renting out property – you’ll need to fill out a self-assessment tax return. The UK tax year runs from April 6 to April 5, with deadlines in October for paper returns and January for online returns.

Mistakes that US expats often make with their taxes and how to avoid them

Many US expats in the UK make mistakes that can cost them money or cause penalties. One common mistake is missing the deadlines for filing tax returns or FBAR reports. The IRS is strict about this – late filings can mean big fines.

Another mistake is not reporting all your worldwide income or getting confused about what needs to be declared. Some expats miss out on tax breaks like the Foreign Earned Income Exclusion and the Foreign Tax Credit, which could save them a lot.

Mixing up your residency status or errors with the Statutory Residence Test can also lead to surprise tax bills. To avoid these problems, keep good records, stay on top of tax rules, and talk to professionals who know expat taxes in the UK. That’s the best way to file correctly and save money.

Other important considerations for US expats in the UK

Taxes aren’t the only thing you need to think about as a US expat in the UK. Estate planning is important because UK inheritance tax rules are very different from those in the US. If you own property or investments in the UK, there are extra tax and reporting rules to keep in mind.

Pensions and retirement accounts can be tricky too. The tax rules for these differ a lot between the US and UK. Without careful planning, you might end up paying taxes twice or face penalties.

Why professional tax help is crucial for US expats living in the UK is explained below

Handling taxes in both the US and UK is not simple. The rules keep changing. That’s why working with a tax professional who knows expat taxes in the UK can really help.

With over 20 years of experience and thousands of expat returns filed, a skilled CPA offers real, personal support – no robots, no guessing. They can help you avoid costly mistakes, stay compliant, and find tax savings you might miss on your own.

For peace of mind and smart tax planning over the long term, it’s best to partner with an expert who understands the ins and outs of US citizens living in UK taxes.

Some of the most talented people here are solving problems that don’t matter

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A little past 9pm, a recent Oxford graduate got home from work and called me. Long day at the office? Not particularly, he said – he gets in at 6.30am. 14-hour days weren’t unusual.

He fine-tunes AI models for high-frequency trading, trying to profit millionths of the value of a high number of trades. Making 10 pence of profit on a bunch of £100,000 trades would be a success.

Studying physics and maths, he wrote a thesis on deep learning applications and spent much of his time trying unsuccessfully to get access to the high-powered computers he needed to run his experiments. Now, he has access to a much wider array of resources, but can’t work on the problems that innately interest him.

“I put an extraordinarily large amount of effort over decades into becoming a really, really good physicist, and there’s no reason for the progression of my future or my career or my bank account to ever look at any of those books again,” he said. He finds the problems he works on now stimulating to solve, but says “they aren’t meaningful, and they don’t matter – like, at all.”

The majority of recent Oxford graduates in the workforce feel that their work is meaningful and important to them – 81% in the most recent Graduate Outcomes survey. But there is a large group who end up in lucrative industries with dubious propositions for how they add value to society. The most prestigious institutions in the world are taking high-achievers, and sending them into roles whose social value is at best abstract, and perhaps nonexistent.

Rutger Bregman thinks these people are wasting their lives. His recent book, Moral Ambition, encourages the highly-motivated strivers of the world to completely reorient their aspirations. Ditch the well-trod path from Oxford to the City; forget the grad schemes and internships at the Big Four accounting firms. Instead, address the biggest problems in the world, from factory farming to nuclear security.

Bregman told Cherwell: “The most important question is not how hard you work, or how talented you are, or what your grades were in university. No – the most important question is what are you actually going to work on? Will you work at one of those boring banks? Will you work on rich people’s problems in rich countries, or will you take on one of those really neglected global problems, such as preventing the next pandemic, or taking on malaria?”

Shifting moral values

Bregman is generally an optimist. One of his books was subtitled “A Hopeful History”. But he recognises that there used to be more people on his side here.

In the 1960s, an annual survey of American college students showed that around 40% considered “being very well off financially” to be “essential” or “very important”. Even as the world around them has gotten richer and more comfortable, around 85% have said the same recently. 

Britain’s old elite had a sense of noblesse oblige – that their privilege could only be justified by service to society. Today, many of those privileged to an Oxford education feel that they have earned their spot through merit, so can pursue their private interests and prestige above all else.

The author Bill Bryson, upon visiting Oxford in the 1990s, wrote that it’s “not entirely clear what it’s for, now that Britain no longer needs colonial administrators who can quip in Latin.” Much of that purpose now seems to be creating account managers to go down the M40 to the City of London. In recent years there has been even more competition among top talent for jobs in finance, consulting, and corporate law.

Those three industries are what Simon van Teutem, a DPhil student at Nuffield College, calls “the Bermuda Triangle of talent” in a recent book. He has seen many of his peers from his undergraduate and master’s years at Oxford get lost in the triangle.

“In freshers’ week I met all these brilliant people way more ambitious than me, way smarter than me with amazing dreams that they had already jotted down in their personal statements – politicians who wanted world peace, medics who wanted to cure cancer,” van Teutem said. “And then five years later most of my peers were not working for Doctors Without Borders, or a cool startup, or government, but were all at places like Morgan Stanley or Goldman Sachs or McKinsey.”

And so was he. van Teutem spent three summers working at banks and one at McKinsey. When he got a full-time offer there, he knew the ‘prestige escalator’ of pursuing higher positions might become his whole life.

“Everyone says ‘Oh I’ll just do this for two or three years and then I’ll get back to my dreams’ but in reality once they’re in that place, and their salary doubles every few years, and they’re surrounded by people who make more money than them, and they get accustomed to a certain lifestyle and have a mortgage… They might leave one employer, but then they go work for Shell, or BP, or Unilever, or private equity.”

“How Oxford grads are programmed”

van Teutem interviewed 212 people for his book. He identifies them as ‘insecure overachievers’ who have always been hard-working, ambitious, and anxious to win markers of high-status, whatever they may be. They are indecisive about careers, and consulting firms tell them that a job there doesn’t close any doors.

Elite universities are packed with them. An annual survey run by the Harvard Crimson show that in recent years, about 40% of graduates from America’s most prestigious university who go directly into the workforce take jobs in finance or consulting. The last few years, consulting hiring directly from Oxford has collapsed as the business model of having 22-year-olds tell other people how to run their businesses has come under question. Recent stats show that 12% of Oxford grads who take jobs immediately after graduating go into finance or insurance.

van Teutem said: “You have to understand how Oxford grads are programmed. Between 12 and 21, all they are doing is striving to jump through the next big hoop, reaching the next level. If you’ve been doing that for ten years, your natural impulse is like, ‘What’s the honours programme after the honours programme? What’s the Oxford after Oxford?’”

The student who makes AI models for high-frequency trading, anonymous to discuss employment, met a lot of highly-motivated and hard-working people at Oxford. They largely went down a few career paths.

“I know a lot of people who went into the finance industry in some capacity, and if you include law as well, it may even be most of the people I was close with at Oxford,” he said.

While he said his work is “abstracted away from impact,” he doesn’t think it is a totally ‘bullshit job’. If no one were to do it, investment would be more difficult and the economy wouldn’t work as well.

Bregman was unimpressed by that argument. He said that market makers, as with strategy consultants and corporate lawyers and the like, usually do provide some sort of value to the world. The tragedy is in the lost opportunities, which he tries to harness in the School for Moral Ambition.

“We’re talking about the country’s best and brightest, from one of the most prestigious universities in the world. And I think the world’s most ambitious people, the world’s most talented people, like him, should be working on solving the world’s most important problems. Is that really such a crazy thing to believe? It seems super obvious to me! If you’ve been given this extraordinary talent and privilege to go to one of the top universities in the world, maybe do something with it?” Bregman said.

While Bregman and van Teutem’s work is especially popular in the original Dutch, it is really tailored to an English-speaking audience. van Teutem says that while unrestrained ambition is encouraged in Anglo-American culture, in the Netherlands, one is not pushed to stand out as much.

But finding a normal but dignified vocation can be difficult too. Over the last few decades, jobs interacting directly with people or production have declined in number. Jobs sitting in front of a computer, from where it can be more difficult to see one’s impact, have become more and more common.

Of course, it’s possible that all that office work is just what it takes to organise a highly complex and prosperous modern economy, even if it isn’t immediately clear what everyone is contributing. But the late anthropologist David Graeber argued that a huge swathe of the world’s office work had been created for essentially no overall gain, not just a small number of talented lobbyists or advertisers. Graeber thought these ‘bullshit jobs’, perhaps making up 40% of all work in some countries and most of the office job nonsense you hear about, are an extraordinary waste of human time and potential that could be directed toward pursuits people genuinely care about.

So, if you want to have useful work for the decades to come, what skills should you develop now?

The murky future of work

The trouble is that no one knows. On the one hand, it’s easy: Bregman says that morally ambitious projects need all sorts of skills from PR and tax specialists to software developers. But today’s college graduates are facing an extra challenge: the rise of generative AI means it’s less clear than ever what the future of information work will be. How are you supposed to answer a job interview question about where you see yourself in a decade if you don’t know whether any of your skills will be useful then?

Fabian Stephany is a lecturer at the Oxford Internet Institute and researches the skills necessary for the future labour market. The problem is, even he isn’t sure what that future will demand.

He says that the most important skill is the ability to re-skill, but knows that’s not very helpful, and that it’s not anything new. Whereas previous waves of automation tended to disrupt manual jobs, AI is changing the labour market for recent college graduates.

Stephany told Cherwell: “I spoke to a partner at a law firm the other day, and he said, ‘yeah, we’re having problems right now justifying the costs that we’re putting on the bill for our clients’ because increasingly their clients say, ‘why is this costing us so much? Can’t this be automated? Can’t this be done by ChatGPT very easily?’ So the work of the paralegal, to name one of the entry positions, is under much more scrutiny than the work of an associate or a senior partner.”

An Oxford student who works virtually for a law firm is already feeling the pinch. His hours were recently cut after his firm got access to a new AI-based transcription service.

He told Cherwell: “My job used to be transcribing hours and hours of wire-tapped phone calls. Now, it’s going through and correcting the AI’s transcription, because it still makes a lot of big mistakes.” He doesn’t mind his hours getting cut because it has made the job so much easier. 

The ChatGPT you can get for free is far too inconsistent to do the whole job of a paralegal. That model still cites legal cases that never existed and makes arguments with sometimes flimsy reasoning. But models with subscription-based services are much more powerful, and improving quickly.

Unlimited access to Deep Research, a subscription-based OpenAI product, costs $200 a month (£150). The New York Times’s Ezra Klein said it can produce a research report in minutes that matches what his highly talented teams take days to make. Suddenly, $200 a month doesn’t look like much compared to the wages of a whole team of top college graduates. 

STEM jobs aren’t safe either. Many of today’s students were told as kids to ‘learn to code’ – the understanding was that this would inevitably lead to a stable and well-paying career in an ever-growing industry. But hiring in software development is now collapsing, perhaps because so much of it can be automated. At Google and Microsoft, AI now writes about a third of all code, a proportion that is rising fast. 

What if AI keeps improving at coding and modelling and figuring out promising routes for research, to where it’s much better than any human at… AI research? Once AI development is itself largely automated, some leading researchers predict that we will create an artificial general intelligence (AGI) that rapidly soars past human abilities at every single cognitive and physical task. If they’re right, all the paradigms of this discussion of integrating AI in human work would go out the window by the time today’s freshers graduate. The much more pressing discussion, they say, is about aligning a future superintelligence with human values so it eradicates disease and poverty rather than releasing a bioweapon that ends the human race in 2030.

Most AI watchers are sceptical of those projections. Although Stephany uses AI to help his coding and literature reviews, he doesn’t foresee a superintelligence-dominated world, or even one in which AI will replace everyone’s jobs. In the long-term, he thinks employee productivity will rise but there will still be work for Gen Z to do. Stephany says that people who harness new technologies always stay afloat. It used to be the weavers who used new machines who prospered, and Luddites who didn’t adopt them went out of business. Now, white collar workers will have to do the same.

Once, it was only the hype-men of Silicon Valley who were seriously thinking about AI-based changes as being on the scale of the industrial revolution (or greater). Now, that analogy is broadly pondered. Pope Leo XIV was inspired to take that name by concerns about “human dignity, justice and labor” in an AI era. As Leo XIII offered Catholic social teaching for the age of factories and steam engines, this era will also demand hard thinking for a new age.

Die with your tools in your hands!

In American folklore, John Henry was a Black man who had been freed from slavery and did long, gruelling work building railroads. One day, the boss brought in a powerful new steam drill that would replace his entire team. John Henry said he’d die before letting that happen – “did the Lord say machines oughta take the place of living?” He set up a race against the steam drill, and won! But he was so exhausted that he died with his hammer still in his hand.

A great tale of the dignity of human labour. But you could also frame it this way: humans once had to do work that was so hard that it could kill the strongest man around. With new innovation, they don’t have to. Still, John Henry got a sense of purpose from doing that work to feed his family, and the drill meant his friends’ hard-trained skills became useless and they had to find new jobs.

In this new age, we must choose what work we want machines to do, and what work we want to keep for ourselves.

But John Henry’s story is only powerful because he is building something useful and real: a new railroad track that will transport real people and goods. The story wouldn’t work if his labours were building a train that went nowhere, or more effective PR strategies for tobacco companies. As Bregman said: the most important thing isn’t how hard you work, it’s what you work on.

We are racing into a brave new world, that has people and machines in it, writing and coding and ‘thinking’ side by side.

This will remain the most important thing: make sure that the projects you work on together are meaningful – maybe even morally ambitious. Be of use. Use a hammer or a steam drill; write your own code or write a prompt. If we do go down in the AI apocalypse, let us die with those tools in our hands.

But whatever tools you use, make sure you’re using them to go in the right direction.

Making the new SU work: Why we’re running for student trustee

Oxford students deserve a Student Union that truly represents them. Yet according to the 2024 National Student Survey, only 40.7% of Oxford undergraduates felt they were represented well by the SU. That needs to change.

The introduction of the new Conference of Common Rooms (CCR) model gives us a real opportunity to transform how the SU works in a collegiate university like Oxford. We, Lucy Chen (Merton), Nick Lang (Keble), and Kush B Vaidya (St Catherine’s) are running to be your Student Trustees because we believe this new model only works if students who understand and believe in it are on the SU’s governing board.

CCR recognises that Oxford is different. Unlike other universities, the strongest form of representation here comes through our college common rooms. These spaces are where student concerns are heard and acted upon. The CCR model puts elected common room presidents at the centre of SU decision-making. It gives them a collective voice on major issues, such as how the SU spends its money, what policies it adopts, and how it advocates for students.

Lucy and Kush, as JCR Presidents, and Nick, as Secretary and now President-Elect, have worked closely with the SU to design, amend, and improve the new by-laws. This reform was driven by students, and we want to maintain that momentum. We have seen firsthand how much is possible when students take the lead.

But no matter how strong CCR becomes, the Board of Trustees will always remain the legal decision-maker. Under charity law, it can overturn student votes, block reforms, and control the entire SU budget. That is why it is crucial that the student trustees believe in the vision of a democratic, accountable, and transparent SU. If elected, we will work to ensure that the SU delivers on that promise.

We are standing on five core commitments:

1. Respecting Student Democracy
We will never vote to override decisions made by CCR or referenda unless absolutely required by law. Instead, we will support processes that give real power to student voices and make sure their decisions are implemented.

2. Transparency and Accountability
Students should always know what the SU is doing. We will push for regular updates on Board decisions and make sure this information is shared with CCR and the wider student body. We also support full editorial independence for student journalism, including The Oxford Student.

3. Supporting Student Initiatives
The SU has a budget of around £1 million and employs 11 staff members. Much of this money comes from student fees. We believe more of it should go directly to students through funding for common rooms, campaigns, and grassroots projects. We also support reviving dedicated funding streams, like the former Student Council Fund, which helped student-led initiatives succeed.

4. Empowering Common Rooms
Common rooms are the backbone of student life at Oxford. We want to make sure they receive the support they need to deal with college administrations, access SU resources, and remain independent. The SU should never impose policies on them without their consent.

5. Making the SU Visible and Accessible
For the SU to work, students need to know it exists. We will stay active in our common rooms, attend CCR and RepCom meetings, and be available to hear and raise your concerns.

Oxford SU is at a turning point. The changes introduced this year offer a real opportunity to make student representation more meaningful, but that will only happen if students remain engaged. It was disappointing to see that key RepCom elections had to be postponed due to a lack of nominations. These roles are vital in giving a voice to underrepresented groups and in ensuring that student perspectives are heard on the committees where real decisions are made. More than votes, what the SU truly needs is active participation. A renewed SU cannot succeed without students stepping forward, speaking up, and shaping the institutions that exist to represent them.

You can read more about our experience and pledges on the SU election website: www.oxfordsu.org/elections/2025elections. Voting is now open and closes at 8 p.m. on Thursday of Week 4 (22nd May).

Vote Lucy, Kush, and Nick for Oxford SU Student Trustees.

Ocean Vuong on kindness, Buddhism, and the limitations of writing as a medium

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Ocean Vuong is, without a doubt, one of the greatest literary names of our age. His past works have won him numerous accolades from major publications alongside a string of prestigious prizes, including the Mark Twain American Voice in Literature award and the T. S. Eliot Prize for poetry. 

However, it is not this literary acclaim that makes Vuong so revered; as a queer Vietnamese refugee who fled to America with his family, Vuong’s heartfelt portraits of American life reflect an exceptional sensitivity and nuance. So as a long-time fan of his work, the opportunity to speak to Vuong ahead of the release of his latest novel, The Emperor of Gladness, was not only the chance to meet one of my biggest literary inspirations, but also to understand more about the thinking and creative process that went into making his writing so lyrical, sincere, and human. 

We start with discussing the influences for The Emperor of Gladness. Centring around the unlikely friendship between Hai, a 19-year-old Vietnamese immigrant, and Grazina Vitkus, a Lithuanian grandmother with dementia, the novel showcases all of Vuong’s signature characteristics: deftness of prose, attention to the minute details of life, and rich, sympathetic characterisation. Right away, his responses about what inspired the novel were similarly poetic: “For me, the novel is a wonderful form, because it is very forgiving of multiplicity – a poem, particularly a lyric poem, can collapse if you put too much on it. I’m always asking my novel to hold maybe too much.

“But one of the central things I was thinking about is this idea of progress that we often ask the novel to perform – to me, it’s an arbitrary mandate. This false premise of ‘change at all costs’ is so worshipped in Western narratology. I wanted to write a novel that had transformation without change: nobody gets a better job, nobody ‘improves their life’ per se, there is no escaping to a city. If you deny all of that, what do you have? You have to have characters. You have to have people. 

“I was [also] interested in the idea of reciprocal relationships and debts. What do we owe each other? What is kindness without hope? It’s easy to be kind and generous when you have so much to give, and that generosity also doesn’t impact your life substantially if you have so much. What I’ve been interested in, growing up in the working class, was how and why people are kind to each other despite the fact that their kindness does almost nothing to substantially change their lives. I don’t know the answer, but… it becomes a philosophical question that I have in all of my work: what is the function of kindness when there is no reward for it, when there is no hope for anything around it? What does it do? Does it matter? Is it futile? These are the questions that this novel particularly is interested in.” 

I pointed out that this idea, of ‘transformation without change’, was not only counter to the pattern of the Western literary tradition, but also to the American mythos of meritocracy, and of the ‘immigrant narrative’ in particular. I asked whether he saw his work as opposing, or speaking back to this ideology. 

Vuong rejected this idea gently: “I am very skeptical, for myself, of total opposition. One of my favorite British theorists, Raymond Williams,… puts a scepticism on work that is always in opposition to power. I know this sounds like a fantasy, but what he says is that if you’re always correcting, then you will always speak second. You will never get to launch the proposal as an artist. You’re always cleaning up the mess of power. 

“We can’t afford not to do that in the material world – we have to vote accordingly, we have to fight for our rights, we have to be vigilant against the corrosion of civil liberties as is happening now in my country in America. But in art, we can; we can have this fantasy in art of asking the first question. When I sit down to write, I’m trying to get myself to think: what would I say if I could just say it on my own terms? What does that look like? Is it even escapable? We wouldn’t know unless we really tried. 

“One could argue that because I come out of this dialectic of power of the West, my physical body is intertwined with empire. That no matter what I say, I will be in a corrected position because my utterance is working towards self-dignity, self-validity, self-preservation, and all those things would not be necessary without power. So there’s the aporia, but so far in my career, when I sit down to ask [myself], ‘What else do I possess?’, I find myself more satisfied as an author.”

Vuong’s critique of Western narratology is supported by a deep immersion within it, and a comprehensive understanding of its concepts. While this should have no means been a surprise – Vuong is the professor in Modern Poetry and Poetics at the MFA program at New York University – what was interesting to me was how so much of his reflection on writing was grounded in literary and critical theory. Musing on the storytelling convention of catharsis, Vuong mentioned that originally, Aristotle conceptualised “narrative as a way to ameliorate the tension in the populace… to absolve their vexation of the state or their personal lives; in other words, [to] vanquish any revolutionary feeling through catharsis.” 

In another strand of the conversation, we talked about speaking to this audience. For Vuong, “literary production in the West, particularly in the Anglophonic tradition, is deeply rhetorical. Whereas at the same time, [there’s] Matsuo Bashō in Japan – you see the haiku poets, the Tokugawa period – and there are almost no rhetorics. There are no rhetorical gestures, it’s all image based.

“As a child in America, I was taught [that] you need to be convincing in your writing and you’re rewarded by that. The most convincing essay and short story poem was the one that got the best grades, was rewarded, won the prizes. I’m not interested in convincing anybody, and I didn’t know that you could do it any other way until I started reading the Eastern poets and about how influential they were.”

This lack of desire to convince was curious to me, given Vuong’s widespread acclaim. Clearly, his works are convincing, and to a wide audience of readers. His first book, a poetry anthology called Night Sky with Exit Wounds, was one of the New York Times Critics’ Top Books of 2016; it also won him the T.S. Eliot Prize and Thom Gunn Award, with three of the poems within the anthology winning prizes of their own. His first novel, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, also saw its own slew of awards, and was named one of the best books of the year by major publications, including The Guardian, The Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, and The Washington Post. Despite all of this, Vuong admitted that the fame hasn’t affected him as much as he expected. 

“I was expecting that to happen: this pressure of success,… having that paralyse you. I kept waiting for it to happen and I don’t mean to gloat – I think it’s more of a mental incapacity [for me] than any talent –” Vuong laughs at himself here – “but I’ve never been swayed by public reception or success because I don’t have a strong relationship to my work. 

“I think I have a strong relationship to the medium, but I don’t feel drawn to defending my work once it’s done. It’s like little ships sent down river: my first book, [my] second book – they’re just down river. Some people throw glitter on them, some people throw tomatoes at these little rafts, but all that is fine to me. I think it’s a Buddhist thing, this idea of non-attachment: you are not yourself, you are not your work, you are not your ego.”

As part of this, Vuong explained, he did not consider himself to be intrinsically ambitious. “I know it sounds disingenuous and glib, with all the success my work has had – I’m not going to pretend that it’s not there. But I never thought I could be a poet until my teacher came to me and said, ‘I think you can be a poet. Here’s how you do it. Here’s how you make a living.’ I never thought I’d be a novelist until an agent, Frances, reached out to me… She just came to me and said, ‘I think you could write а novel.’ And I never thought I’d be a teacher and then someone said ‘You’d be a really great professor, you should try it.’; same with script writing.

“Also the books – they’re calcified. If I were to lean into this thought, I would say, ‘How can you associate yourself with your work?’, because the work is fixed in time. My last book Time is a Mother is a collection of photographs of my psyche in February 2022, which is when I handed in my final edits for that book. So why would I have any strong relations, or why would I feel beholden to what my previous self has done? 

“…I think I’m more motivated by my desire not to let people who[m] I respect down, than my own ambition for myself. I was really ashamed of that early on. I just thought, ‘Gosh, I must not be a real artist if my own ambition is so weak.’ But now I look back – it’s been pretty productive, and I prefer that my motivations come from a relational crux, and that it’s about my relation to the people I love and people who believe in me. My desire to honour that is stronger than my private desires as an artist. I thought it was not very satisfying to have that as a motivation, but now I think I’m really proud of it.”

For Vuong, writing is an act of giving, a more selfless process than, perhaps, most writers are capable of. This idea also extended to his more recent photography debut in 2024, in a collection titled Sống. I asked why he had chosen to dip into the medium; as it turned out, Vuong had been taking photos longer than he had been writing. 

“I’ve been doing [photography] all my life, but [as] a private practice. At first it was a way to make my region and my interiority legible to my family, who were illiterate and couldn’t read my work. I took photos to show them my point of view, and also to show them where we lived, because they worked brutal hours. They couldn’t walk outside at 2pm unless it was a Sunday, and even then, working in nail salons, sometimes they were working on Sundays too. It’s kind of mind-boggling to me, that so many of my family members working in factories never experienced laying down in a park in the afternoon – I know it sounds so, I don’t know, dramatic, but when I tried to recount it, I’ve never seen them do that. So I literally just went out to show them the place that they supposedly lived in, but had no phenomenological experience of.

“When I met Nan Goldin, she encouraged me to start pursuing it seriously. Again, it [was] just her openness, I don’t think there’s anything special about me. I think she would have said that to anybody who came to her and said, ‘I’ve been taking photos for 20 years’ and she would just say, ‘You need to lean into it, share it and open that up.’ So again, it just followed the pattern of what’s happened in my life, and my career.”

In another reflection on his photographic debut in Cultured, Vuong also explains that the collection was a response to other photographs he had been exposed to. In contrast to Donald McCullin’s photo of a dead North Vietnamese soldier, Vuong recounts, the photos of the nail salon were perhaps an attempt to remember and to capture “the Vietnamese faces that fed me, the ones I kissed, the brows I wiped sweat from while they worked, alive.”

I asked whether any part of this choice to release his photographs was because Vuong felt that words were, in some sense, insufficient. His answer was, unhesitatingly, that “there’s days where [writing] feels absolutely futile.” But, Vuong added, “I think that’s important, to allow it to be. 

“There are days where I’m like, why am I doing this? Actually, a week ago I was feeling this way. I was like, am I depressed or am I just not believing in everything I do? And I think that’s okay. I think it’s healthy to question the validity of your medium, because then you can see the medium, right? We ask the art maker to make the world clearer. But I actually think art is the most powerful when it’s not so much the gesture of ‘look out the window’, but of ‘look, it’s a window’. The artist points more productively [in] pointing out the window, rather than through it.”

It’s a sentiment that Vuong has expressed before, in an interview about photographer Robert Frank. “What’s often not talked about in successful art-making,” Vuong said, “is daringness. If you don’t throw the dice, there’s no point in playing. You owe it to yourself to keep questioning whether what you’re doing is truly enough.”

All these reflections seemed to be coming back to the idea of pushing yourself, of extending the medium, of testing the limits of narrative in speaking back to power. I circled back to Vuong’s idea of ‘speaking first’, and what he wished to say, if he could truly do so on his own terms. 

“I would borrow from Walter Benjamin’s ‘dialectical image’, where he goes against this Hegelian dialectic of conflict creating innovation… Benjamin says, in fact, that the revolutionary image or the radical image is the one that’s ejected from that dialectic. It’s the one that is a rupture. It’s the spark when you’re sharpening your sword. It’s the new possible image, the new possible idea,… the ejection from the conversation. [This] is what could potentially spark a new fire and create an upset of systems. I really believe in that. 

“I can see my own life this way. I am ‘ejected from’ because of the Vietnam War – [ejected] from the synthesis of Vietnam. I wouldn’t be alive without the war, right? I am a kind of error. And I’m interested in that, in the Benjamin-ian sense: error and errancy, circuitous lack of place as practice, as a potent site of making rather than deadness or wrongness or futility. I think the idea of being in the wrong place is actually an engine from which one can create.”

Vuong’s final response captured so much of what makes his writing so resonant, particularly to queer communities, to immigrants and the children of immigrants, and to anyone else on the margins. It asks to speak back to power, to reclaim some private, shared space where love, kindness, and generosity without reward prevail. It asks who we are, outside of the labels and stereotypes assigned, perpetuated, and at times violently enforced by the West. It asks, what could any one of us write, if we could also have the bravery to take on the endeavour of speaking first?

Oxford’s summer scene: The season of open-air performances

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Trinity term at Oxford University is defined by wisteria, wild swimming, and warmth. Students find themselves torn between revelling in weather that is finally outdoor-seating-at-the-pub acceptable and piles of revision notes, the unwelcome signal of incoming examinations.

During our unexpected (but lovely) heatwave in late April, my friends and I found ourselves on the quad, writing our essays and solving our equations in the presence of the blooming tulips, blissfully unaware that the grass was slightly too damp. The sun was out and so, naturally, were we, making the most of spring amidst our workloads. Our quad, the backdrop of Balliol’s history, became the court for impromptu games of catch, the talk-show-armchair for our shared anecdotes, the concert hall where we blasted our premature summer playlists. The quad was no longer simply the quad. Nature had taken hold, beckoning us to stay a while, and, in doing so, transformed the square of grass into a stage, each of us performing our part. Real-life theatre occurring in real time.

Open-air performances capture this sincerity, whether it’s the authenticity of a conversation between friends or an argument between lovers. When the wind riots around the actors on stage, when the hubbub of city life strikes as a character storms offstage, there is no greater confirmation of how honest theatre can be in relaying the human condition. Last summer, I was fortunate enough to see ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ performed at The Globe. There is certainly a difference between reading a play and performing it, perhaps most profoundly understood when perceiving Shakespeare’s works in their intended form. Costumes in their full vibrancy and certain words of certain lines enunciated just so. I remember the warmth of the day, the humidity of late July blanketing the onlookers within the circular playhouse, a comedic scene timed perfectly to an airy breeze, sending a wave of cheer and relief across the audience. 

While there is wonder in being enclosed in a small, dark room or a grand, embellished hall – especially in our winter months – with the performance happening in front of you, there is something deeply spirited about theatre that occurs around you. The same breeze entangling in your hair as the actors’, who are portraying characters hundreds of years old. Within Oxford, open-air performances are most frequently found within colleges. A quad, however big or small, once enveloped by the produce of spring, is the most serene backdrop. When paired with the surrounding architecture, to watch an open-air production in our city is to be truly awestruck by your surroundings, and (as a result) to surely miss the first few lines of the play, absolutely enthralled by the pleasant mix of the setting sun, violin strings, and the familiar chime of Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter. 

Returning to Oxford this term, the final term of my first year, was an overwhelming feat. The eight weeks stretched ahead of me, days bookended by examinations and dogeared by a homesickness that had already settled in my bones. There is no immediate cure to this condition; Trinity term is known for its dichotomy. Mercifully, Oxford offers an olive branch in the form of outdoor theatre and open-air performances. Whether it be an established ensemble in a college’s gardens, or a conversation between friends splayed on the quad, theatre is everywhere in Oxford. If you are fortunate enough to be relinquished from the hold of examinations, even just for an hour or two, be sure to seek out open-air theatre. Its spirit will be sure to carry you through to summer.

Over 10% of Oxford offers come from just 14 schools

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Many schools across the country dream of sending just one student to Oxford. For some, though, it’s an expectation.

The image of Oxford as a training ground for the elite has somewhat withered, and the stereotype of the likes of Eton and Harrow as feeder schools is arguably less persistent. This can, in part, be put down to the drive for equality of opportunity, recruiting the most promising students from a range of backgrounds. If this is true, however, why is it that of the 3,721 offers given out by the University of Oxford last year, over 10% came from just 14 schools?

The 14 schools that make up over a tenth of Oxford’s offers are comprised of eight private schools, with the likes of Eton College and Westminster School, of course, placing highly. Cherwell’s analysis of data from recent Oxford admissions cycles reveals an unsettling trend, where a few powerful institutions have a chokehold over the entire recruitment process.

The top schools 

Westminster School topped the list of schools with the most offers, an infamous fee-paying institution that has educated the likes of Louis Theroux, Nick Clegg, and Helena Bonham Carter, to name a few. Westminster received 38 offers last year, having submitted over 100 Oxford applications – its offer rate sits at 37%.

An alumnus of Westminster School, currently studying at Oxford, explained to Cherwell that “there is definitely a widespread feeling that Oxbridge is the goal. If you’re sitting in a classroom, either you, the person to your left, or the person to your right is likely to get in, statistically”.

The student told Cherwell that the admissions process for Westminster School itself is somewhat geared towards Oxbridge admissions in the first instance. Prospective sixth-form students sit a TSA, the same style of admissions assessment that Oxford uses for many of its courses, like PPE and Economics and Management. When it comes to university admissions at Westminster, students are supported by regular sessions alongside others applying to the same course, interview practice, and general preparatory aid.

Another one of the schools with the most offers was Harris Westminster, a state school situated just down the road from the aforementioned Westminster School. The school was founded in 2014 with the aim of achieving the same Oxbridge rates as its neighbour, which has supported Harris Westminster for the past decade. It is highly selective and students are chosen through a rigorous interview process. 

The school had an impressive 32 offers, which amounts to more than the more traditionally prestigious Harrow, Rugby, Charterhouse, and Sevenoaks combined. One Harris Westminster alumnus who is currently studying at Oxford told Cherwell that “from my experience, the support was extensive but also quite high pressure. Unlike regular sixth forms, it was mandatory and scheduled into our weekly timetables for us to partake in societies as well as ‘cultural perspectives’ – two extra classes on a specific academic
topic, such as feminist philosophy.

“As much as it was a privilege to partake in these, our days were already roughly 8:30-5 including (a half day of) saturday school in Year 13. A lot of teachers really pushed coming off as ‘well-rounded’ for our personal statements, but the timetables that we were on meant most people
were generally exhausted and burnt out.

“There was certainly also a cultural dimension of the preparation for Oxford – our terms also had silly names, we grew accustomed to weekly assemblies in Westminister cathedral, and were held to a certain level of professionalism that I haven’t understood to be the case from any friends attending other sixth forms.

“The culture around Oxbridge was uniquely cut-throat at Harris – it wasn’t just that we all went to a selective school, but that many of us were low-income, first-gen, or
generally from underprivileged backgrounds – we had the academic expectation of a private school but very often
without the safety net of a well-off or suportive family.”

Another Harris Westminster alumnus, currently in their first-year at Oxford, told Cherwell that during the admissions process, “a lot of resources are available. Mentors are assigned, and you have talks about applying.” However, the student did not believe that there was pressure to apply to Oxbridge, and their form tutor even said that “Oxbridge was not the be-all and end-all.”

Harris Westminster benefits strongly from its relationship with its pricier neighbour – the former sends students to take A-Levels in the latter, in subjects that it cannot offer due to having less resources. Even on their website, Harris Westminster’s Executive Principal, Gary Savage, describes Westminster School as “the solid ground [they’re] built on”, and states that without their support, Harris Westminster would be “less scholarly [and] less confident”. Where, then, does that leave the thousands of other sixth forms that don’t have equal resources?

The inequalities

Of the 14 schools that constitute over 10% of offers, all but two are in the south of England. In fact, the school situated farthest north is King Edward VI School in Stratford-upon-Avon, just south of Birmingham, and the only other non-southern school is in Singapore. Six of the fourteen schools are in London – this can be, in part, blamed on population density, but the concentration of such powerful educational institutions in and around the capital points to a deeper problem – the disproportionate allocation of elite educational resources to the affluent south.

Oxford’s feeder schools are not inherently private, but rather, they are overwhelmingly southern, selective, and embedded in networks of privilege. This results in a de facto regional divide, where promising students from the north, regardless of talent, face a tougher climb to higher education. Oxford’s access efforts may be well-intentioned, but they continue to overlook structural disadvantages facing entire regions of the country. 

Cherwell found that parts of the north of England were underrepresented in applications to the University, with applications from Yorkshire and the Humber making up only 5% of applications and 8% of the overall population. Moreover, Cherwell revealed that colleges’ outreach programmes did not reflect the regional underrepresentation in applications, with more colleges being linked to London and the South East than any other region, despite these regions’ overrepresentation in the statistics. 

These inequalities have only deepened in recent years, and after 14 years of Conservative government, 70% of schools in England in 2024 had less funding in real terms than in 2010. Given its reputation for elitism and historical ties with the establishment, it is no surprise that Oxford comes under scrutiny for its access and outreach efforts given it lags behind the national average number of state educated students by over 20%. In fact, in 2021, it had the seventh lowest proportion of state educated students in the Russell Group. Within these abstract percentages, there lies an even more pressing issue that is difficult to solve – how Oxford guarantees diversity within the state sector itself.

The University has implemented outreach programmes like the UNIQ programme and Opportunity Oxford in the last two decades, and each college has their own outreach programmes in order to combat these issues. However, Cherwell found through Freedom of Information requests that despite individual colleges increasing their outreach to state schools, applications from state schools have barely increased, and admissions from state schools have stayed the same. 

Education and the government 

Secondary education in Britain received sustained investment under New Labour, whose top priority was ‘education, education, education’. When Blair came to power, schools were renovated for the first time in a quarter of a century, class sizes shrunk, and money spent per pupil doubled from 1997 to 2008. Blair had a vision – he wanted to transform all state schools to the point that even those affluent enough to send their children to private school would choose not to.

Blair took inspiration from a Swedish model of education, where schools are largely autonomous units that compete to be the best. A large proportion of the Labour party was still wedded to uniformity, and the word ‘choice’ shook the core of the party. The likes of John Prescott, Deputy Prime Minister until 2007, feared that the Blairite vision of academies would make them into grammar schools with a different badge, as the label of ‘good school’ is strong enough that middle-class competition becomes rife.

The left of the Labour Party were therefore wary of creating a ‘two-tier’ schooling system by introducing academies, though a multi-tiered system did already exist given the influence of faith, postcode, and region within the state sector itself. 

One key figure in shaping New Labour’s education policy was David Blunkett, who served as Blair’s inaugural Secretary of State for Education and Employment until the next general election, when he was promoted to Home Secretary. Blunkett told Cherwell that when he was put in charge of education over 25 years ago, one of his missions was to “challenge the very narrow access to colleges at Oxford and Cambridge from across the UK”.

Blunkett explained to Cherwell that instead of providing funding to individual colleges, it was decided that the central University should be responsible for overall finance and developing access policies. Since then, all universities have been asked to develop such programmes, overseen by the Office for Students, which was set up under the Conservative government back in 2018. However, Blunkett lamented that “sadly, things have not worked out as intended!”

He told Cherwell that “gestures have certainly been made in the direction of engaging with very specific schools, ticking the box of ethnicity or deprivation, or both. In other words, to be able to say, that the University, and specifically individual colleges, have reached out to recruit students from sixth forms or sixth form colleges in the state sector, and to display just how well they’re doing.”

However, for Blunkett, these attempts to widen access have merely been a facade, improving the chances of just small numbers of young people. “Unfortunately, this is all smoke and mirrors. Whilst some young people have benefitted – almost wholly from the south of England – the same old procedures continue to favour a slightly wider group of private schools than was true of the past, and a modest improvement in access from those educated in state funded secondary schools.

“But the overarching message remains the same. If your family has a historic connection with the University, if the school has built up a direct link with the University, and if you live south of Birmingham, then your chances of getting a place will be substantially greater than an equally bright young person from a different background living somewhere else. 

“It is not that admissions tutors don’t care, nor that the University haven’t tried. It’s just that it’s built into the DNA. If you think you’re doing the right thing, you can justify, in your head, just about anything. That is, of course, if psychologically, as someone employed at the University, you’ve made the necessary adjustments to affirm your own pathway to success, and the position you now hold.”

Next steps

The Student Union (SU) told Cherwell that these admissions statistics demonstrate the inequalities across the UK “that Oxford has not only been shaped by, but has historically upheld. While the University has made some strides in advancing access, the disproportionate number of offers going to a handful of highly resourced schools shows how far we still must go in dismantling systemic inequality”.

The SU also highlighted that “it is crucial that Oxford continues to publish more granular admissions data, especially to distinguish between different types of state school. Transparency is fundamental to accountability and reform, and is something that we should encourage across the sector.”

An Oxford University spokesperson told Cherwell: “Oxford is committed to ensuring that our undergraduate student body reflects the diversity of the UK and that we continue to attract students with the highest academic potential, from all backgrounds. We know that factors such as socio-economic disadvantage and school performance can make it difficult for some students to access their full potential before applying to university and therefore use a range of contextual information to help us to better understand students’ achievements. 

“Oxford also offers one of the most generous financial support packages available for UK students, and around 1 in 4 UK undergraduates at the University currently receives an annual, non-repayable bursary of up to £6,090. In 2023, 511 UK offer-holders participated in Opportunity Oxford and OppOx Digital, our academic bridging programme developed to support students from under-represented backgrounds in their transition from school or college to our university.

“We continue to build on and expand our access and outreach activities in support of equality of opportunity for all talented students, and last year launched new initiatives in regions of the UK where fewer students currently go on to Oxford. We have also published a new Access and Participation Plan, approved by the Office for Students, which provides a renewed focus in attracting and supporting students currently under-represented.”

For many schools, an Oxford offer still remains a distant hope. The University can preach meritocracy, but as long as its doors are open only for a handful of privileged schools and remain shut to most others, that meritocracy remains a major work in progress.

Easter Eggs

“The costume smells like vinegar. I don’t know why; it just does.” 

Matted, white fur is draped across my upturned arms. I take an experimental, cursory whiff: vinegar, body odor, stale caffeine, and a hint of mint. Easter Bunny, my ass—this is a medieval torture chamber. 

“And, don’t ask for a spray. It is a tried and untrue method. You’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

My new boss gives an unapologetic, “sucks-to-be-you-but-what-can-I-do” shrug. He adjusts his name-tag—a metallic clip-on with engraved “Benjamin (Ben) Moore, Public Relations Manager” —with all the double-edged arrogance-insecurity of a workaholic. Wasn’t an “empathic disposition” a prerequisite for this job?

“The school arrives at noon, with the scavenger hunt beginning at one, so the morning will be slow. But, don’t expect to be sitting around doing nothing. The moment the costume goes on, you’re on, understand?”

I give a firm nod, satisfying Ben who proceeds to explain the scavenger hunt event in more detail and the associated duties and ethics of donning The Easter Bunny Suit. 

In the life of a broke and aimless recent college graduate (in English, no less), the Easter Bunny life didn’t choose me; I chose it. Living with my parents, with no prospects or lofty goals, and equipped with the lexicon of someone who has read a bit too much Victorian literature, it is safe to say that I needed to fill all this free-time somehow. And, as my father insisted, I might as well earn some cash before actually making money. 

So, an opening at Riverside Playland—a small and local amusement park at the edge of town—for costume characters was perfect. 

After we leave the office, Ben stations me next to the bumper cars and reiterates my responsibilities, with a dash of public-relations wisdom. I am instructed to stay energetic (“you’re the goddamn Easter Bunny; I wanna see some spring in your step”), stay alert (“kids are ruthless and will grab your tail”), and stay professional (“five minutes: wave, hug, picture, egg, next”). In the case of an emergency, I should let my handler Carla, a freckled and muscled middle-aged woman whose sharp and smile-less face reads more bodyguard, take the lead. 

Ben ends his spiel with a stern “Don’t lose the basket” before hurrying off to the Easter Chick manning the log-flume entrance.

Now unsupervised, I am tempted to engage Carla in some polite conversation, but she quickly averts her gaze in a clearly “not-interested” way, so I mollify myself with the very astute observation that rabbits do not talk, anyways. 

Thus begins my 10-hour shift: in silence. Since the crowd of scavenger-hunting children will not arrive until the afternoon, I spend the morning bored and jittery. I trace the cracks in pavement until they are too blurry to follow; I count the number of times the coaster crests; I watch, from my periphery, the bumper cars spin and collide. Every now and then, a kid visiting with a parent or grandparent comes up for a picture, as do a couple of giggling teenagers. I play the enthusiastic Easter Bunny as best I can, which consists of exaggerated waves and hops, a predilection for hugging, and a repertoire of poses (hands up, hands down, hands on the hips, hands chest-height and flicked down). Carla monitors the situation, interceding only when one six-year-old is determined to scale my back and yank my ears. 

By the time 1pm rolls around, I feel comfortable, if not confident, in my suit and skills. The smell, once overpowering and nauseating, has faded into the background, nearly negligible, and I had managed to draw a smile—well, a twitch of the lips—from Carla. So far, smooth sailing. 

When Ben returns to remind us that the scavenger hunt will begin shortly, I am prepared for a slight increase in attendance. What I am not prepared for is chaos. Who would’ve thought that a Wednesday afternoon—the Wednesday after Easter, no less—at some local, low-cost amusement park would draw such crowds. Hordes of children, all sporting St. Vincent’s Prep uniforms, swarm me; they grab at my tail, shove snot-covered fingers into my egg basket, and wrestle each other to get the closest to the Easter Bunny. 

However, we manage to survive the next couple of hours, and it is as the crowd thins, the clouds becoming overcast, that an unassuming girl (pig-tail braids, freshly ironed skirt, and soft smile) walks up to Carla and promptly vomits on her. Without a word, she rushes to the bathroom, and I am, for the first time, alone. 

“I know you’re not real.” 

It comes from behind, a boy no more than seven with rosy cheeks, fiery orange hair, and glasses perched crookedly on his nose. Like his classmates, he wears a blue St. Vincent’s Prep shirt and beige cargo pants. He stands cross-armed and glaring, forehead pinched and chapped lips ready to castigate any pretensions I might have had to be the real Easter Bunny. 

I am in a predicament. Such cynicism demands retort, which I would have readily delivered if not for the fact that I, as Bunny, must remain silent. He waits for an answer, and I resort to shrugging my shoulders and covering my mouth in mock confusion and shock. 

He is unmoved, repeating, “I know you’re not real,” and adding, “So, you’re lying, and it’s a sin to lie.”

Slightly panicked, I look around for Carla and, hell, Ben, but the park is desolate save for a few families and a group of high schoolers smoking by the Snack Shack. And, the boy must have detached himself from the rest of the school because I spy neither staff nor students in the vicinity. I rack my brain for some public-relations protocol for dealing with juvenile contrarians but turn up empty. Screw it—time to ad lib. 

I squat down, leveling myself with the boy and put on a sweet, airy voice. “Now, why do you say I’m not real? I’m right in front of you!” 

That must have been the wrong thing to say, because his jaw clenches and then starts to wobble, bravado turning into petulance. “You’re not real, and I know it!” His eyes go glassy, and he sniffles, “You never came to my house.” 

At the sight of tears, I am momentarily paralyzed. This is probably a good time to get help, but Carla and Ben are still MIA and now the boy has started kicking my shin. He whines successive “You never came,” and I am forced to gently grab his shoulders and put some distance between us. His rosy cheeks have gone red with the exertion; he has fogged up his glasses. 

My first instinct is to apologize, which I do. “I’m really sorry I missed your house. Even the Easter Bunny can make mistakes.” Then, to start some non-violent conversation: “What’s your name?”

Some of the angry energy has dissipated, and I feel his body deflate in my arms. “Eric,” he croaks, before continuing, albeit softer and more somber, “There were no eggs.” 

My throat tightens. “Well, Eric, I apologize for missing your house this weekend.” I grab my basket I had placed on the ground. I dial my enthusiasm up. “But, see here, I have some eggs now for you! They’re for you—please take some!” 

There are distant, muted screams as the coaster crests; another round of chattering people enter the bumper car track. Eric gingerly grabs two eggs, one red and one blue, in each hand. He traces the plastic, the ridge that divides each egg into two halves. “Red is my favorite color,” he says. 

I lightly tap the other egg. “And, blue is my favorite.”

That makes him smile. “So is mommy’s.” He then shakes the egg, jelly bean rattling from within. I encourage him to crack the egg open, to have some candy, but Eric resolutely refuses, protectively bringing both eggs closer to his chest. 

Something troubles him still. In a soft voice, a near whisper, he outlines a rudimentary logic: “No eggs means no Easter Bunny. No Easter Bunny means it’s not real.” But, of course, I pose a problem, and he looks at me and wonders, “Who are you?”

He continues to stare, as if piercing through the matted, white fur and vinegar stench, as if searching for an answer. I see his mind whirling: the divot between his brows; his pursed lips; his scrunched-up nose. Then, he states: “I haven’t seen Mommy in a while.”

I am, strangely, at this moment reminded of high school English—figurative language, the power of metaphor, meaning and meaning-making inscribed on our very tongue—and I almost blurt out a butchered, Faulknerian “Your mom is the Easter Bunny,” when footsteps sound behind us, and I whirl to see a young women rushing over. Carla speed-walks behind her, shirt wet with sink water.

The young woman—a sticker name-tag reads “Ms. Walker” —crouches down next to Eric. He shyly turns into her arms as Ms. Walker softly chides (“You can’t go running off like that”) and soothes (“Everything’s going to be okay”). She grabs his hand and whispers a quick “Sorry about that” and “It’s been a tough time for him” before walking back to join the group of St. Vincent’s Prep children watching wide-eyed. 

Carla asks, “What happened?,” and I, silent Easter Bunny once more, just shrug. When Ms. Walker and Eric finally rejoin the school, he turns to me, blue egg in hand, adjusts his glasses, and waves. 

I grab my own egg—this one yellow—and wave back. And, as a gentle chill glides across the pavement, we each cradle an egg in our hands. We protect them from the cold. 

Review: An Anthology of Pairs – ‘Two’s a Party’

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There’s a particular theatrical magic that comes from two people simply talking in a room. No stage tricks, no elaborate plot devices – just language, chemistry, and the slow unveiling of character. Juliet Taub’s An Anthology of Pairs leans into this stripped-back power, offering three duologues that still feel more sprawling and expansive than many plays with a full cast and multiple set changes. What begins as a conversation between lovers blooms into a meditation on faith, culture, womanhood, and the hard-earned wisdom of generational conflict. It is a masterclass in intimacy, both emotional and theatrical, quietly echoing the kind of psychic architecture Virginia Woolf spent her life mapping – the way rooms, and what’s said inside them, shape who we are.

We open with Rach and Tai – university students wrapped up in the sweet, familiar mess of early love. The scene unfolds in Rach’s student accommodation (the university itself is never specified). The audience’s position feels almost voyeuristic – like we’ve wandered into the living room of two real people and haven’t yet been asked to leave. Rach (Caeli Colgan) and Tai (Ezana Betru) have an undeniable spark that makes the early back-and-forth jokes about boring essays and awkward professors feel improvised, even lived. But Taub’s script knows exactly where it’s going. The lightness curdles slowly, and before we realise it, we’ve stumbled into a minefield.

Rach, culturally Jewish but spiritually adrift, bristles at Tai’s relationship with Islam, which she sees as selective, even convenient. Tai shoots back, accusing Rach of weaponising the very people-pleasing persona she claims is just self-effacing. The debate is painful in its realism: not polished, not didactic, but jagged, like all good arguments are. They circle questions of compromise, of who is allowed to change and why. The most powerful tension isn’t between their religions but between how religion lives inside each of them: part inherited, part chosen, all tangled.

Then it happens – they say they’re each other’s favourite person. For a second, you believe that maybe this is the part of the story where things work out. But Taub is far too honest for that. Love, An Anthology of Pairs reminds us, is not always enough to outrun difference. They break up, and you’re left dazed in the silence that follows, like the moment after a door clicks shut. Familiar, final, and oddly private.

A scene change jolts us: we’re in an airport. A new pair, a new room. Rach’s mother, Sarah, played with aching restraint by Lorna Campbell, is crying next to a stranger – the character of Mike (Luke Bannister). Mike is a witty, slightly jaded gay man who introduces himself as a freelance journalist, though we suspect the “freelance” part might be doing a lot of heavy lifting. The scene begins like a setup for a joke: woman crying in an airport, man offers tissues, and yet what unfolds is a beautifully paced unravelling of Sarah’s life.

Campbell’s Sarah is a study in contradiction: devout but disillusioned, maternal yet deeply lonely, fiercely intelligent but emotionally stunted by years of silence. Her line, “I love my husband the same way I love the colour of my childhood bedroom” is a tiny detonation – equal parts nostalgia and resignation. Mike, with his outsider status, becomes the unlikely confidant she never knew she needed. Bannister keeps the tone light without ever flattening the stakes; his charm masks the same bruises Sarah carries, just arranged differently.


This middle scene is the play’s most formally traditional, even a touch sentimental in its “strangers sharing secrets” dynamic. But it earns its pathos. As Mike gently prods Sarah, asking the quietly devastating, “Do you like your daughter?” we begin to see the cracks that stretch far beyond the mother-daughter disagreement over God or culture. Sarah’s religious life is both her shield and her shackle. Her children don’t speak to her. Her husband won’t talk about her affair. The silence between them is deafening, and its weight hits all the harder now that we understand the agonising roots of Rach’s own estrangement.

In the final scene, five years later, Sarah visits Rach in a new apartment. Time has passed, but the wounds haven’t scabbed over entirely. This is no Hollywood reunion. There are olive branches, yes, but also barbs. Half-sincere jokes about dietary restrictions, failed relationships, and what it means to believe in anything. Sarah, still devout, wonders aloud whether she still has a place in Rach’s life if Rach no longer believes in God. It’s the play’s central question, and perhaps its most quietly devastating one. If our parents represent the foundations of our world, what happens when we remodel? Can love outlast the scaffolding?

Visually and technically, the production leans into its minimalism: two chairs, a single bed, some austere stage lighting, and the occasional offhand sound effect. It doesn’t need any more; the conversations are the spectacle. In an era of high-concept theatre and maximalist sets, An Anthology of Pairs embraces the quiet and lets it resonate. It is, above all, a play about dialogue. Not the performance of talking, but the real thing, the kind that’s hard, unfinished, sometimes cruel, often necessary. It reminds us that conversation can be an act of love, an act of violence, or both. It shows us that outgrowing our parents is not a victory or a betrayal. It’s just growing. And growth, as this play so tenderly shows, is rarely tidy.

What makes An Anthology of Pairs truly remarkable is that it never seeks to answer the tough questions it raises. Instead, the play sits with them. Leaves them to breathe and ache. Juliet Taub doesn’t offer neat resolutions, nor does she romanticise despair. Her characters are flawed but never trivialised, each trying to do their best with the tools and traumas they’ve inherited. The play doesn’t moralise or proselytise. It listens. And in that act of listening, it becomes quietly radical.

Mini-crossword: TT25 Week 3

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