Friday 3rd April 2026
Blog Page 493

Hajj during a pandemic

Itrisyia Dayini
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Hajj during a pandemic

Encircling the Holy Ka’aba, the House of God, seven times whilst reciting prayers is one of the rituals of the annual Hajj pilgrimage in Mecca. Pilgrims form never-ending orbits of devotion, each at their own pace; yet it is always counter-clockwise, halted only for the five compulsory daily prayers. As one of the five pillars of Islam, it is a religious obligation for all financially and physically capable Muslims to undertake the Hajj at least once in their lifetime. The Hajj pilgrimage has never been cancelled since the foundation of Saudi Arabia but amidst the Covid-19 pandemic, the Kingdom announced that it will hold a ‘very limited’ Hajj. Restricted to a quota of only 1,000 pilgrims who are residents of the Kingdom, the Hajj was shut off to the rest of the world.

The Hajj is a spiritual and sacred journey where Muslims from all around the world seek to show their dedication to God by undertaking the pilgrimage to Mecca, Islam’s holiest site. “Hajj” stems from the Arabic word which aptly means “to set out with a definite purpose”. The rituals of the Hajj were first laid down by the Prophet Muhammad, but based on the Qur’an, they can be traced back to the actions of the Prophet Abraham. The pilgrimage entails a re-enactment of events in the lives of the Abraham, Hajar and Ishmael. Muslims see Islam as the legacy of Abraham, who during biblical times is said to have rebuilt the Ka’aba, the silk-clad black stone structure at the centre of Mecca’s Masjid al-Haram symbolising the oneness of God.

Various types of Hajj can be performed in different circumstances, but some key rituals are as follows: the pilgrimage begins with the tawaf – the seven orbits around the Ka’aba – believed by Muslims to be an imitation of angels circling in Heaven. It is then followed by a run back and forth seven times between two small hills in Mecca, re-enacting the story of Hajar’s search for water for Ishmael. Afterwards, pilgrims spend a day at Mina in devotion, another at Arafah where the Prophet Muhammad gave his last sermon, then move to Mudzdalifah to spend a night there. On the tenth day of Hajj, they return to Mina to throw seven stones at the pillars called Jamarat, a symbolic act of stoning the devil, re-enacting Abraham’s actions when Satan tried to dissuade him from obeying God’s command to sacrifice his son Ishmael. Pilgrims must then perform an animal sacrifice which signifies surrender to God, a custom also carried out by Muslims around the world who celebrate Eid Al-Adha on that day.

With the onset of the Covid-19 pandemic, religions around the world have had to adapt to the new normal by modifying rituals in order to curb the spread of the virus. Socially distanced gatherings or a move to online worship and sermons have become common. Congregational prayer plays an important role in Islam as Muslims believe it to be more rewarding than individual prayers due to its ability to foster ties of communal kinship. For Muslim men, congregational prayers on Friday are obligatory. But with the pandemic raging, religious scholars have made the difficult decision to shut down mosques. Now, as restrictions have eased in many countries like my home Malaysia, Muslims are now allowed to return to socially-distanced prayers and strict procedures.

As the Hajj can only be done during a specific period of the Islamic lunar calendar, millions are usually expected to arrive in Mecca each year, crowding the various religious sites. However, Saudi Arabia announced in June that it will impose restrictions on the Hajj due to the coronavirus. The implementation of strict health protocols, such as mandatory face masks and social distancing as well as frequent disinfection of the Masjid al-Haram, were necessary to curb the spread of the virus.

Though socially-distanced congregational prayers were permitted during the Hajj, it remains an unusual sight for the Muslim who is used to intimacy of the conventional prayers, which adds to a feeling of communal unity in reverence for God. The iconic image of the Ka’aba surrounded by a mass of pilgrims stands in stark contrast to the small groups of 50 filling up the vast space of Mecca’s iconic mosque, each spaced apart and eyed closely by healthcare workers.

The restricted Hajj has led to the devastation of many Muslims globally, as the chance to embark on the pilgrimage is hard to come by. Many only get the opportunity to perform it when they are middle-aged and financially stable, after long waiting lists and many years of preparation. My parents were due to perform it this year, but Malaysia had already pulled out of the Hajj due to coronavirus concerns before the official Saudi announcement. Malaysia manages the Hajj demand through the ‘Muassasah’ quota system run by the state Hajj agency, and pilgrims can wait up to 20 years in a queue. It was no doubt disappointing for my parents as they had undergone months of Hajj courses, medical screenings and other preparations for the trip, yet there was a hint of relief that the pilgrimage was cancelled amidst the health and safety hazards towards the greater Muslim community.

Saudi Arabia’s decision to still hold the Hajj during the pandemic is not only religious, but also political. Hosting the Hajj has bolstered the prestige of the Saudi regime – the custodian of the holy sites of Mecca and Medina since its formation in 1932 – while generating billions of dollars of revenue. Today, Saudi Arabia’s claim over the sites is contestable, and some believe that the management of the Hajj should be an international effort, led by the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation (OIC). As such, Saudi Arabia’s decision to limit the pilgrimage to nationals of the Kingdom has led to criticism, with calls for Muslim nations to have a say in decisions regarding the Hajj as the religious sites are sacred to all regardless of nationality.

Nonetheless, the restrictions were understandable to reduce the number of imported Covid-19 cases into the country. Many pilgrims who attend the Hajj are elderly, a demographic much more vulnerable to the coronavirus. It is a difficult decision to prioritise health and safety over religion, especially considering sites and customs so integral to the Muslim faith.

As the Hajj itself is meant to be a sacrificial journey for Muslims in remembrance of God, the determination to adapt the pilgrimage to the unprecedented times the world has found itself in highlights the steadfastness of the Muslim community. The powerful images of the socially-distanced pilgrims performing the journey of their lifetime during the pandemic send an important message to the rest of the world: that of faith overcoming crisis. As the Prophet Muhammad once said: “And the reward for an accepted Hajj is none other than paradise.” (Bukhari and Muslim)

Avonlea Revisited: what children’s classics offer for adult readers

Irene Zhang
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Avonlea Revisited: what children’s classics offer for adult readers

It is now consensus that children’s literature is a thoroughly valid field deserving of complex thought and serious considerations. I don’t claim to have consulted any academic sources before writing this; indeed, I probably should have. After all, I’ve been working over this long vacation as an online tutor for primary school students, whose parents are anxious to make use of this endless coronavirus summer and improve their children’s reading levels (or, let’s be honest, desperately in need of reasonably priced childcare).

For this reason, my reading over the summer has mostly composed of kids’ books. Initially this felt somewhat regressive: surely, as (half) an English student, I should be finally tackling Joyce or preparing for Shakespeare. However, after a month spent with Roald Dahl, E. B. White and L. M. Montgomery, I am now a humble advocate for returning to our childhood favourites: these stories’ well-known endings are soothing in our current predicament, offer intriguing intellectual dialogues that rival their adult counterparts, and are deeply revelatory in their explorations of the emergent self.

The poetic references embedded in Matilda completely flew over my head when I first read it at age 10, but it does appear that Roald Dahl had a true penchant for the Romantics. Miss Honey, the extraordinarily kind schoolteacher, recites Dylan Thomas as she leads Matilda into her barren cottage; meanwhile, the awful headmistress Miss Trunchbull is “neither a thing of beauty nor a joy for ever”, playfully parodying Keats’ Endymion. This general atmosphere of romanticism is made a subject of irony in the book as well: between magical practical jokes and beautiful walks in the English countryside, the core issues and conflicts in Matilda are surprisingly dark and relevant. Our heroine’s hilariously terrible parents are caricatures for the vapidity of unequal wealth, and in allowing the precocious Matilda to find salvation in public libraries and schools, Dahl makes an impassioned case for education as the keeper of our secular society’s collective soul. Remarkably, Dahl was also unflinching in his portrayal of Miss Honey’s abuse and trauma; having suffered ritualistic cruelty at the boys’ schools he attended, it is no wonder that Dahl finds it important, even necessary, to acknowledge pain and suffering as a part of many childhoods.

We often think of children’s literature as an idealistic realm; however, some of the genre’s most brilliant moments come from breaking free of a fantasy-dominated image and examining life among discomfort and sadness. The orphan hero, a well-known archetype, is imaginatively realised in Anne of Green Gables, and Anne Shirley is an amazingly complex child protagonist. Trauma makes another appearance: a foster child with a history of displacement, Anne is deeply afraid of being asked to leave Green Gables, and her moments of desperation and pining for a real home are heartbreaking. Her new parental figures, ageing spinster siblings Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert, must then attempt to deal sensitively with Anne’s past. While young readers may be entranced by Anne’s fantastical imagination, captivating personality and funny adventures on the idyllic eastern coasts of Canada, adults cannot help but see her daydreams and sense of wonder as mechanisms for mental escape from a childhood rife with abandonment. Anne’s story, in return, offers us perfect escape: hers is a kinder world tinged with old-fashioned Presbyterian morals, in which suffering is temporary, hard work is rewarded and nature is always brimming with delights. Matilda, moreover, takes escapism to a fantastical level: the children’s clever pranks never fail to make the most cynical adult giggle, and every exhilaratingly funny scene with Matilda’s parents provides sweet, sweet vindication.

By virtue of family-friendliness, children’s literature isn’t exactly known for being a baton of radical politics. However, as a returning adult reader, one becomes deeply, and sometimes painfully, aware of their coded omissions and whispered messages. Remember Miss Trunchbull’s bizarrely military style of dress? Might Dahl, a former RAF fighter pilot, have been privately poking fun at bellicose attitudes and warmongering? Also, did anyone notice the sheer depth of homoerotic undertones in Anne of Green Gables? Canada’s beloved redhead was proclaiming undying love for her female ‘bosom friend’ and swearing eternal devotion in picturesque woodlands long before ‘cottagecore’ became a lesbian TikTok phenomenon. Sure, she marries Gilbert in the sequels and they make an adorable icon of equal partnership by Victorian popular fiction standards, but Anne’s long string of exaggeratedly passionate friendships and instances of (mostly platonic) intimacy with women throughout the series make for fascinating queer readings. Before readers accuse me of that classic English-student blunder of overthinking, please note that even Margaret Atwood agrees: according to her, Lucy Maud Montgomery’s depiction of Anne and Diana “[recalls] not only the Book of Ruth but also Romeo and Juliet”.

Whether or not Anne and Diana should have ended up together, the models of friendship and personal relations offered to us by these children’s classics deserve attention. Matilda isn’t particularly lengthy, yet still provides us with unique iterations of the ‘sidekick friend’ and ‘powerful upperclassman’ through Amanda Thripp and Hortensia. Anne’s relationship with her adoptive family, on the other hand, clearly demonstrates that education is never one-sided: just as she needed a place to call home, her revelatory imagination and innocent wonder were the exact ingredients missing in siblings Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert’s lives. Their creation of an atypical family life, rife with innovations upon traditional hierarchy and attempts at adaptation to social expectations, remains deeply relevant to us today as heteronormative nuclear families are taken off the cultural pedestal and parenthood is unlinked from biology.

Childhood is a simpler time, but the foundational potential for love is introduced to little humans from their first lullaby onwards. Matilda and Anne of Green Gables both take on premises that appear to unsettle this assumption, yet they both end with protagonists finding love in non-normative places and relationships. Revisiting these childhood classics gives us an important reminder for these definitely non-normative times: seek happiness in the unlikeliest places. Love is patient, love is kind, but it is also a little shy and very, very funny.

Just don’t read Charlotte’s Web. Even for a grown woman, it’s way too sad.

Music in a foreign language: short-lived novelty or here to stay?

Lucas Jones
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Music in a foreign language: short-lived novelty or here to stay?

When it comes to most music, you realise quite quickly that the language it’s written in isn’t really that important. Maybe you wouldn’t get the exact details of Adele’s traumatic breakup if she was singing in Swedish, but I reckon you could listen to ‘Turning Tables’ in any language and still be in tears at the end of it. I sang along to Sia’s ‘Titanium’ for two years without getting a single word of bridge right, but it’s still one of my favourite songs. Brilliant artists get the point across regardless of the language they’re singing in – that’s a big part of what makes them amazing musicians.

So why don’t we hear as much foreign music when we go out in the UK? Go to most clubs in Western Europe and you’re certain to hear music in English, Spanish, and French. But go to clubs in London and you’d be lucky to hear one song that isn’t in English, unless you go to a night that is specifically dedicated to reggaetón, for example. The same goes for pop music here. In fact, the greatest stamp of approval for foreign songs that get really popular in the UK and US (think ‘Despacito’ or ‘Mi Gente’) is often for a bland English cover, released to satisfy our narcissistic obsession with our own language.

Perhaps part of the problem is our obsession with productivity. I study languages, and it seems like every time I recommend music that isn’t in English to other people they think I’m trying to inflict my study techniques on them. Not only does this turn foreign music from a relaxing experience to an academic chore, it also limits us to only listening to music in languages that we’re learning. I get it; I love French, and I love a lot of music in French. But I also really like music in Portuguese, a language I couldn’t order a drink in. Seeing music as a gateway to learning other languages rather than a musical experience in itself can actually be limiting rather than encouraging.

There’s also an issue with compartmentalisation, where English listeners will hear two songs in another language and decide that that sums up ‘x music’. It makes as much sense as listening to two Rebecca Black songs and swearing off music from America which, as appealing as the idea is, would only mean you don’t get to hear the amazing diversity of music produced there. ‘French music’ isn’t a genre; it’s a very vague grouping of every kind of musical style imaginable, from Rap to Folk music.

This diversity is what makes listening to international music so rewarding. Not only does it allow you to find a lot more music from the genres that you love, it also gives you the chance to hear styles of music most people in the UK couldn’t even imagine. Don’t believe me? Try Mongolian throat-singing/hard-rock fusion music. ‘Yuve Yuve Yu’ by The HU is a great place to start. 

Encouragingly, it seems that a lot of people have started to take the plunge. K-Pop has grown into a global phenomenon which isn’t just cultural, but political. Similarly, as Spanish becomes an increasingly common second language in the USA, a lot of popular artists are tapping into the demand for Latin music, resulting in artists like Drake and Cardi B singing verses, if not entire songs, in Spanish.

It’s going to be a long time before you can sit in a café in England and hear music in a range of languages. But it has also never been easier to get into international music on your own. Digital music platforms like Spotify host an incredible range of artists and languages, and if there’s a particular language that you’d like to hear, it’s never been easier. Spotify also has a feature called ‘song radio’, which compiles a playlist of songs that an algorithm has worked out are related to the song you are listening to. Even if you only know one song in a genre that you like – German Rap, for example – the song radio feature lets you find a variety of others to keep you entertained.

We are also lucky enough to go to a university that welcomes students from a range of cultural and linguistic backgrounds. The best musical recommendations I’ve received have been from friends with far more taste than I have (shout-out to Nadia’s ‘Arab Indiez’ playlist on Spotify). Diversify your taste; ask your friends if they have any recommendations. I strongly believe that normalising music in foreign languages in the UK is critical in the fight against the language-complex that sees British tourists expecting people in every country to visit to speak English. However, this can only happen once we reject that notion that it is a purely academic exploit, and start to treat international music in the same way we treat our own. 

Cameroon and the problematic nature of humanitarian aid

Henry Waddon
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Cameroon and the problematic nature of humanitarian aid

Prospective doctors and healthcare professionals are often asked about which particular field of medicine they hope to one day pursue. When this question has been posed to me in the past, I have often proudly announced that I would love to work around the world in the field of humanitarian aid, “providing help to those who need it most”. While it is true that thousands of humanitarian organisations undertake incredible work in times of unimaginable crisis, it is also irrefutable that the very existence of the industry has been built on the remnants of colonial history, and continues to perpetuate racist ideologies, such as the ‘white saviour’ complex and the notion of ‘voluntourism’. Indeed in recent weeks and months, it is only through the work of countless incredible activists that I have come to see the inequitable and often fundamentally racist nature of the humanitarian aid sector, and have come to question how I myself have internalised these problematic notions, and continue to perpetuate them in the discourse surrounding the field.

Humanitarian aid, by its very nature, creates a narrative based on status imbalance, forming a relationship between those who need help, and those who fly across the world to provide it. What’s more, the sector also serves as a vehicle for the erasure of professional and cultural expertise and excellence that already exists in these nations, as well as for the prevention of financial support and advocacy of grassroots, indigenous organisations that have first-hand experience of lived realities in these countries. The United Kingdom, a nation whose history is comprised of inflicting pain and oppression throughout its colonial empire, must reflect on how and why it is necessary to continue to assume authority in foreign territories in incidences of crises in today’s world in the form of humanitarian aid.

The UK’s Role

We needn’t go very far to observe the troubling role that the UK very often plays in international crises, and the even more distressing dialogue that can subsequently ensue amongst those in power in such moments. I write this article in a week in which the Secretary of State for the Home Department has promised to make small boat channel crossings undertaken by refugees “unviable”, describing the current situation as “appalling”. The lack of empathy and understanding that exists in the agenda of this message is made worse when we recall that many of these migrants are attempting to flee a conflict that was, at least in part, catalysed by wars that Britain helped to start. If we turn our attention to the ongoing situation in Cameroon, we see a conflict that exists between two factions, born out of French and British colonial rule respectively. This conflict exists because the harsh cultural and linguistic assimilation enforced onto this country has been made impossible by the incompatibility of two colonial regimes, and due to a colonial legacy of disparate distribution of financial resources and developmental opportunity between anglophone and francophone regions. Significantly, both British and French humanitarian aid organisations continue to work in Cameroon, and again, while much of this work is incredible, and can even very often save lives, it is only necessary because of the history of colonial maltreatment inflicted on Cameroon by these two nations.

What Can We Do Better?

On a macroscopic level, the most vital work is to ensure the relationship between all parties is one that is as equitable and cooperative as possible, and to act primarily on the experiences and insight of indigenous professionals and populations. As long as humanitarian aid is perceived as a field that provides assistance to fragile or vulnerable populations, its fundamental sentiment is in line with, and is therefore largely a continuation of, colonial rule. Instead, we can support and advocate for institutions that champion amazing grassroots organisations. These include organisations such as 1847 Philanthropic, which seeks to “enhance the long-term viability and financial stability of indigenous organisations in developing countries”, The Global Fund for Women, who “fund bold, ambitious, and expansive gender justice movements to create meaningful change that will last beyond our lifetimes”, and the Rainbow International Fund, who “make grants to small grassroots LGBTQ+ groups that are best placed to make a real difference with limited resources and often struggle to find funding.”

In addition to this, we can all (myself very much included) begin to ask more uncomfortable questions of ourselves and one another in relation to how we perceive the work undertaken by the humanitarian aid sector, and ask ourselves how damaging and racist prejudices exist in these narratives. Furthermore, we can remind ourselves of what the intended goals of the field are and, instead of defending this work where it falters, empower ourselves to seek out indigenous people that could instead assume these roles. We should in turn actively find avenues by which we can support, and be activists for, these organisations.

Further Reading (Articles, Podcasts and Books)

https://www.theguardian.com/global-development-professionals-network/2017/aug/04/grassroots-means-no-brains-how-to-tackle-racism-in-the-aid-sector

https://www.aljazeera.com/indepth/opinion/humanitarian-aid-system-continuation-colonial-project-180224092528042.html

https://nowhitesaviors.org/what-we-do/podcast/

Akala’s Natives: Race and Class in the Ruins of Empire https://akala.tmstor.es/cart/product.php?id=65051

Layla F Saad’s Me and White Supremacy https://www.meandwhitesupremacybook.com/

Opinion: Ignore those saying otherwise – coronavirus has proven that devolution works

Jack Vaughan
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Opinion: Ignore those saying otherwise – coronavirus has proven that devolution works

Crises have a tendency to throw devolution into the limelight. In 2014, the vote on Scottish Independence saw calls for greater Welsh control over internal affairs. Following 2016 and the EU referendum, rhetoric was much the same. There is, in a sense, a devolution paradox – precisely when it matters, its status comes under the greatest scrutiny.

So far, the coronavirus is shaping up as a crisis carved from the old block. In many ways, nobody is surprised. More than ever, the decisions taken at Stormont, Holyrood, and the Senedd enjoy a remarkable degree of everyday relevance. Devolution is no longer simply a political affair – now, it’s socio-economic too. For some, it seems, this is too much. 

Mark Reckless certainly appears to agree that devolution has gone too far. In an announcement unsurprising from a party seemingly bent on the dissolution of institutions of which they are a part, the leader of the Brexit Party in the Welsh Parliament described devolution as an institution now at a stage “so much further” than initially conceived. In Reckless’ view, the coronavirus pandemic means that “a lot of people who haven’t engaged with devolved politics now see the powers this place has.” He is, of course, by no means the first to question the future of devolution in the course of the pandemic. Daniel Kawczynski, Conservative MP for Shrewsbury, expressed a similar degree of contempt as early as May – albeit over the differing messages for his constituents around access to a beach, rather than any serious political concerns. Yet what Kawczynski and Reckless embody is a rising existential threat to the power of the devolved nations. Coronavirus, they argue, has exposed a fundamentally flawed system – as Rob Roberts, MP for the North Welsh constituency of Delyn puts it: “if we had taken that approach [a unified government], we would have avoided all of the mixed messaging, tit-for-tat and one-upmanship… which really annoys people.” 

Are we to pay heed to such an argument? It seems that those in Wales aren’t so sure. I put out my own survey, to which one respondent to a recent survey remarked: “I think the Welsh Government has handled the crisis with caution and good communication on the whole.” Kier Starmer certainly seems to agree, praising the ‘real contrast in how the Welsh government’ approached the pandemic, when compared to their English counterparts. Matt Greenough, political consultant for Words Matter and former Welsh government chief special advisor, goes one step further. “What will annoy anyone who actually understands devolution is the idea that the devolved institutions are deviating from the Westminster approach for the sake of it, to flex their muscles or demonstrate their political differences”, he warns. “Nobody is approaching this as a way to score points”. 

In fact, far from devolution frustrating efforts to deal with the spread of COVID-19, evidence indicates a remarkable degree of co-operation between leaders, be they in Westminster, Cardiff Bay, Belfast or Edinburgh. In a recent report, the Institute for Government (IfG) found that devolved bodies and central government in many ways demonstrated, perhaps for the first time, how an effective and successful co-operative form of governance can operate between Westminster and the devolved institutions. In March, the joint ‘Coronavirus Action Plan’ represented a collaborative consideration of approaches to both limiting the spread of the virus and to mitigating the impacts of it. The ‘Coronavirus Act’ too indicated a far more harmonious reality than that presented by Reckless, Kawczynski, and others – it was passed with the consent of the devolved nations under the ‘Sewell Convention’. What we see is not a failed and flawed system, but rather one under which effective and congruous government can and has taken place. 

Collaboration and harmony aside, there also lies the undeniable truth that, in breakdowns of regional success in dealing with the pandemic, it’s those in the devolved nations that consistently come out on top. Take Scotland – in a recent YouGov poll, some 74% of respondents felt Nicola Sturgeon had handled the challenges posed by COVID-19 well. This is perhaps unsurprising – on the day of writing, the death toll lay at a comparatively lower 2,491. In England, by contrast, just 45% expressed confidence in the approach of the UK Government to the pandemic. – a level of support understandable when their own death toll falls at 41,802. The simple fact remains that members of devolved nations have fared better than their counterparts in London. Sure enough, it could be argued that variations in population density lend themselves to a higher death toll – England undeniably has a far higher population than Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland combined. Nevertheless, proportionally speaking England still fares worse than its devolved neighbours in both cases and deaths. Is this indicative of a system worthily condemned by Rob Roberts for ‘confusion… tit-for-tat, and one-upmanship’? Arguably not.

Nobody is suggesting, of course, that devolution has worked flawlessly throughout the pandemic. This is politics after all. It’s true enough that exceptions have presented themselves to the success of the policy (think streets on the Welsh-English border, in which No.42 lies under the jurisdiction of Cardiff, whilst No.43 listens to Westminster). Yet these are minor aberrations when compared with the wider picture. In simple terms, devolved nations have come out of the pandemic in a better shape than England. Leaders in Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland have seen rising approval ratings. Boris Johnson has not. The common denominator in all of this? Devolution. Hardly indicative of a system in need of change. 

Few are convinced by Reckless’ comments. This is unsurprising – COVID-19 has, in many ways, been an endorsement, rather than an exposé, for the future of devolution. ‘The Welsh government has dealt with the coronavirus pandemic… [in] a more effective and more trustworthy way than England (and I’m English)’ remarked one individual in my study. Like most crises, Coronavirus has directed a spotlight at devolution – yet this has illuminated a system representative of political success, not failure. As an old Oxonian, Reckless lacks little in intelligence. Nevertheless, today, he doesn’t look too clever. 

An Oxford student’s guide to graduating in an economic crisis

Fonie Mitsopoulou
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An Oxford student’s guide to graduating in an economic crisis

When it comes to financial ruin you could call me a seasoned veteran. As a Greek, we did it before it was cool. Now, if you have any internet access at all, you’ll have read that a fun consequence of the coronavirus is the massive economic recession that is due to follow. Lucky for us, it’s timed exactly when most of us will be fresh on the job market- something which has earned our generation the very heartening moniker: “the Recessionals”. I come to you- like the Pythia of our time- as the bearer of bad news; while the Oxford name was enough to justify that History degree to your parents (“it doesn’t matter what I study if it’s at Oxford!”), it’s no longer sufficient. But fear not- all hope is not lost! I’m here to give you- the average, upper-middle class Oxford student (because, let’s face it, you’re probably the worst positioned to deal with this crisis), the tools to survive the fallout. 

  1. Stop reading the news
    Stop it! I know you’re tempted, just itching to read that Financial Times piece so you can “erm, actually…” an unassuming (and uninterested) girl later on (sapiosexualism isn’t a thing), but it’s not worth it. You don’t need to have the statistics to dunk on us, I promise you they’re not pretty. Make something up. Add a minus in front of it. You’re good. 
  1. Consider a degree in finance
    You said you wouldn’t be a corporate sellout, but demand for pundits is high. You looked down on your friends who unironically went to those networking events, but now you’d happily sell your soul for even just a hint of acknowledgment by a recruiter from anywhere named after two white men (is he from Morgan Stanley? I’ve got to go). The devil works hard, but E&M boys work harder (and they already have the devil on LinkedIn)- like a cockroach in the apocalypse, they’re absolutely thriving. 
  1. You’ll start to have a political opinion- don’t panic!
    It’s weird; you’ve never had one of these before. I mean, you never knew what you stood for, but you knew who you stood with, and that’s with whatever cute guy was delivering an impassioned rant at you last. Red starts to look like a really attractive color- and not in the way that Buzzfeed listicle with dubious sources claimed (28 Ways To Get Your Crush to Notice You if You’re a Disney Person and They’re a Harry Potter Fan Based Off Your Favourite Foods)… 
  1. Horror movies become a great way to destress
    Why did you ever even find these scary? I can take a murderous clown- another rejection letter, on the other hand….
  1. Make it part of your identity
    You know, I’ve found that taking every bad experience and trauma I’ve ever had and just internalizing it, letting it fester inside of me and never letting it go until it becomes an intractable part of my personality is an extremely healthy and fun coping mechanism!
  1. Consider another degree- any degree
    Did someone say: emergency masters? No, it’s not that I couldn’t get a job, I just really wanted to further my studies in…. 13th Century Catholic churches… 
    Bet you regret not following your mom’s wishes and applying for Engineering now, don’t you.
  1. Get used to the fact that all your favourite stores are closing down.
    Brooks Brothers went bankrupt because people didn’t need to buy the pants part of the suit anymore. What are you going to wear to every vaguely formal social event ever now?! 
  1. Become thrifty and resourceful
    When it comes to fashion, one man’s trash… Use those thrifting skills you developed back when it was trendy, and that deep social conscience you exhibit in your preachy instagram stories. If you can’t find anything cute, just crop the top and call it upcycling. It’s like Urban Outfitters Renewal, but for a tenth of the price and without the weird sense of guilt you feel in the back of your mind for funding a controversial company with some very unsavory scandals under its belt. 
  1. Date! 
    Gone are the days when you didn’t need romance in your life- when you were just focusing on yourself and your degree. Now escapism is definitely the answer. Why not burden someone else with the burning existential fear and uncertainty that has been plaguing you since the start of lockdown? Can’t afford a therapist? Get a boyfriend!
  1. Travel (as soon as you can safely do so) 
    Don’t worry, even if daddy’s business goes under, you won’t lose your second house on the Amalfi Coast- property won’t sell anyways. Sure, there’s a deadly global pandemic that’s absolutely obliterating the status quo, but it’s quite taxing to have to face that reality all the time. Take a break, sun yourself by the pool with a good romance novel (are they ever good?) and some lemonade. You deserve it!
  2. Everything is fine.
    It’s fine. Seriously, I’m fine. 

COVID-19 and Sexual Harassment: The Hidden Dangers of the New Normal

Eleanor Redpath
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COVID-19 and Sexual Harassment: The Hidden Dangers of the New Normal

CW: sexual harassment, domestic abuse

Catcalling, sexual comments, and even public groping are frighteningly regular occurrences when you’re a woman outside. So, I didn’t think much of the unwanted sexual attention I was receiving on my one government-approved walk per day, even blaming it on my re-dyed hair and new shorts until my feminist credentials took over. But then it started happening practically every time I left the house and culminated in an incident of indecent exposure, which I’d never experienced before. After about thirty seconds of research and a few tweets venting about what had been happening to me, I found that I was not alone. According to Plan International UK, one in five women in Britain have experienced street harassment since lockdown started, and over a quarter of women feel more unsafe outside than they did before. For women, COVID has made the outside world increasingly hostile in more ways than one.

Many women have reported feeling far less safe stepping outside since lockdown and social distancing measures were imposed in the UK. A woman who contacted me after relating to my rants on Twitter had previously only experienced catcalling once every three months or so, but over lockdown this increased to three times in the space of two weeks. She found that several men would stare at her in an unpleasant and threatening way or verbally harass her, and on one occasion, a man exposed himself and masturbated in her direction, only stopping when he noticed others were walking down the road towards them. All this, she says, has been incredibly jarring for her. 

One of my friends was recently waiting at a train station when a man deliberately came within 2 meters of her in order to verbally harass her – clearly violating boundaries and risking her health. She finds it frustrating that even during a pandemic, some men are prepared to put their own health and that of others in jeopardy when making unwanted and inappropriate advances. Another of my Twitter followers is 17 and has had similar experiences, being cat-called as often as three times in one week. Upon speaking to male friends about the issue, she thinks the rise in street harassment might be linked to the widespread social isolation lockdown has caused. The lack of other interpersonal connection, she believes, might be leading more men to approach and sexually harass women to prompt a reaction from them. She also thinks that face masks play a significant role. If most of your face is obscured, it’s probably easier to sexually harass women with the added confidence of relative anonymity.

While this trend might initially appear perplexing, the conditions created by lockdown make it far easier for men to sexually harass women without being noticed by others or held accountable for their behaviour. The rise could be attributed to the fact that at the height of lockdown, most people were only outside when taking their daily exercise alone, and it’s far more likely that a man will target a woman walking on her own than with a group. Moreover, many chose to take their exercise later in the day, to avoid encountering too many others at close distance, and it’s again far more likely for a man to go after a woman alone after dark than earlier in the day. Public spaces are now far emptier than they were before, so there are far fewer witnesses around to deter a man from harassing a woman than there would have been pre-pandemic, and there are fewer shops, cafés, or other public inside spaces for women to go to for safety if someone is following or harassing them. Statistically, women are also more likely to be in key worker roles, so spend more time in public-facing positions than men do.

But whatever the explanation behind the rise in street harassment, it’s an extremely disturbing trend, and yet another way in which women are disproportionately affected by lockdown measures. Experiencing unwanted sexual attention can be deeply upsetting or traumatising, yet because sexual harassment and violence services are now all operating remotely, lots of women are deterred from getting the support they may need after being harassed. Street harassment is also more likely to affect women of colour, who are more likely to be at higher risk of complications from the virus, and transgender women, whose rights have recently been endangered by the postponement of the reform of the Gender Recognition Act.

Furthermore, women are already far more likely to be tasked with childcare and home education even if they are working the same hours as their husbands are, and their careers are more likely to be adversely affected by months spent working from home or on furlough. Even more worryingly, domestic violence has risen by approximately 20% since the start of lockdown. This pandemic is changing all of our lives, perhaps irrevocably, but may prove to be a huge setback for women’s rights to equal pay, safety, and refuge from danger. Life for women, both inside and outside the home, has become more difficult at best, and highly dangerous at worst. 

Hooks and Hardbacks: a summer music reading list

Fred Waine
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Hooks and Hardbacks: a summer music reading list

For the music obsessives among us, the pieces of literature that stick longest in our minds are overwhelming those which take music itself as a subject. Austen’s Emma? Meh. Tolstoy’s War and Peace? Rather not. Jayson Greene’s 2018 Pitchfork review of Yves Tumor’s critically acclaimed third album Safe in the Hands of Love? Abso-bloody-lutely.

And when better for us to get our fix of musical nerdiness and obscure album facts than the summer vac? While everyone else is jetting off to Majorca or out for a game of tennis, you could be sat in your gloomy bedroom reading about the story behind your favourite band’s split-up (“Feel like pure shit just want Sonic Youth back x”)! With this in mind, I’ve picked out a few of the most insightful, poignant, and downright nerdy music books and publications that I’ve been fortunate enough to read in summers past and present, in the (admittedly faint) hope that there are people out there who care for this stuff as much as I do:

The brand of music book which has typically achieved the most commercial success is the (auto)biography. For me, however, this genre is all too often soulless and dusty, with publishers and writers paying little attention to what fans actually care about and reworking great musical stories to fit the same profitable tropes over and over again. Nevertheless, in the last few years I have really enjoyed reading Tracey Thorn’s Bedsit Disco Queen (2013) and Robert Forster’s Grant & I (2016).

In the former, ex-Everything but the Girl frontwoman Thorn details her suburban adolescence and concurrent political awakening, an excellent tableau of the late 70s and early 80s which puts EBTG’s eventual pop stardom in context; more often than not, the author herself seems bemused by her own success, making for an equally comic and affecting read. The latter is the history of Australian indie rock band The Go-Betweens, a group founded on the friendship between Forster and his co-frontman and songwriter Grant McLennan. Following McLennan’s tragic death in 2006, aged just 48, Forster began writing the story of the pair’s relationship, their struggles with the rock-and-roll lifestyle (clue: drugs and alcohol play a prominent part in the book), and the band’s agonising knack of narrowly missing out on mainstream success. As I read Grant & I  last summer, my love for The Go-Betweens blossomed, and they quickly became one of my favourite bands on account of this biography – perhaps the biggest compliment you can give to a music book.

One collection of books which in my experience is more or less guaranteed to initiate a love affair between its reader and a particular band or record is the 33 1/3 series, in which each title is dedicated to a different writer’s favourite album. Two personal standouts from the many 33 1/3 books I’ve read in recent years are Ezra Furman’s ode to Lou Reed’s Transformer (one legendary queer artist writing about another) and the edition dedicated to Dinosaur Jr.’s You’re Living All Over Me, written by St Catz alumnus Nick Attfield – who said Oxford students weren’t cool? My sister is currently reading Jovana Babovic’s Sleater-Kinney title, which she described as “pretty bad-ass” (if that doesn’t sell it to you then nothing will).

But if I had to prescribe a single music-related publication that everyone should buy this summer, it would without a doubt be UK-based hip-hop magazine BRICK. The latest 250-odd-page issue (one of two released each year) features artist interviews with the likes of IAMDDB, Thundercat, and Ezra Collective’s Femi Koleoso alongside works from a team of BAME writers/artists and, perhaps most pertinently, a guide to police abolition. What’s more, 100% of profits from this issue of BRICK (available here for just £12) are being donated to Black Lives Matter initiatives. Donating to an essential cause and bagging yourself one of the most innovative and exciting music magazines available right now seems like a no-brainer.

So, a sizeable selection of specialist reading for all you music lovers to dig into, if you wish. But, as dismissive of classic fiction as I was at the start of this article (soz for that, bookheads), I’d like to end by pointing out that music also has its place in the writing of the literary greats:

One section of my current read, Proust’s Du Coté de Chez Swann (still tempted by a response to Lucas Jones’ recent ‘Classic Letdowns’ article, I can’t lie), revolves almost entirely around a song. Un Amour de Swann (or Swann in Love), which functions as a self-contained novella-length love story, chronicles the relationship between the enigmatic aristocrat Charles Swann and the courtesan Odette de Crécy. Swann’s tumultuous love for Odette becomes synonymous with his admiration of a single phrase from a sonata by the fictional composer Vinteuil; the music acts as a beautiful metaphor for Swann’s alternating adoration and anguish, human desires and pleasures reflected in the swell of the song. This, of course, is the true joy of music, and of literature:

“The little phrase was associated still, in Swann’s mind, with his love for Odette…as soon as it struck his ear, [it] had the power to liberate in him the room that was needed to contain it; the proportions of Swann’s soul were altered; a margin was left for a form of enjoyment which corresponded no more than his love for Odette to any external object, and yet was not, like his enjoyment of that love, purely individual, but assumed for him an objective reality superior to that of other concrete things.” (Translation by C. K. Scott Moncrieff)

Music Reading List Summer 2020:

  1. Tracey Thorn – Bedsit Disco Queen (2013)
  2. Robert Forster – Grant & I (2016)
  3. Ezra Furman – Lou Reed’s Transformer (2018)
  4. Nick Attfield – Dinosaur Jr.’s You’re Living All Over Me (2011)
  5. Jovana Babovic – Sleater-Kinney’s Dig Me Out (2016)
  6. BRICK Magazine (2015-)
  7. Marcel Proust – Un Amour de Swann / Swann in Love (1913)

The Height of Ignorance: Why the Media is Fascinated with the Link Between Covid-19 and Height

Jemima Sinclair
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The Height of Ignorance: Why the Media is Fascinated with the Link Between Covid-19 and Height

A new study by data scientists in UK, US and Norway has just suggested that men over 6ft tall are almost twice as likely to get Covid-19 than others, and there’s a lot to unpack here. 

To begin with, and most importantly, this is potentially key evidence that the virus is airborne and spread through aerosols, something that may further our understanding of the virus and lead towards a quicker development of treatment and vaccines. Furthermore, the widespread reaction to this particular study highlights some of the major problems with media-driven responses to Covid-19; every major newspaper has focused on the extent to which height is a predicator for Covid-19, while severely underreporting the study’s other findings that link Covid-19 with activities typical of people of lower socioeconomic status, such as shared kitchen and living spaces. 

However, as a woman who is over 6ft tall, my knee-jerk reaction was not to consider either of these things. Instead, I headed straight into the Tall Girl mind-set that not only is being tall objectively terrible, as proven by the fact that we’re more susceptible to Covid-19, but being tall and female is worse, because female results weren’t even included in the study. So not only are we shafted by the disadvantage of being tall, but as girls, we’re also marginalised within the tall community because ‘so few women’ are over 6ft that there’s no point in studying them. Poor us.

But then I gave myself a metaphorical slap around the face. In times as bizarre and frankly dystopian as these, the audacity of someone just over 6ft complaining about a ‘disadvantage’ is laughable. Anyone who’s seen the 2019 Netflix film ‘Tall Girl’ (or more likely its hundreds of parodies on TikTok) will remember the backlash at the title character whining, ‘You think your life is hard? I’m a high-school junior wearing… men’s Size 13 Nikes. Beat that.’ One TikTok user succinctly replied to this, ‘I’ve got cancer’. In other words, minor inconveniences based on being slightly above average height are not grounds for believing your life is harder than anyone else’s. I’m not saying it’s always a joy to be a tall girl, especially in senior school – standing in the back row of school photos, occasionally being referred to as ‘giraffe’, and (most crushingly) watching my short friends date all the available tall boys were all part of the typical Tall Experience. But everyone has a terrible time for some reason in school, and out of that environment, the biggest height-related issue I face now is worrying the Top-Shop sale will run out of tall jeans. And I’m well aware that in the current circumstances, it would be an insane privilege to put energy into worrying about that. 

Not every tall person has it as easy though. My ‘little’ brother, 6’8 at seventeen years old, faces far more trouble in his daily life thanks to his height – doorways are too low, beds are too short, hardly any clothes are available in his size and so on – and yet at the moment his biggest worry is his future. As one of the Year 13 students confronted with cancelled A Levels and government-decided grades this year, he hasn’t got the luxury of worrying that his feet will be hanging off a single bed in halls; all he cares about is whether he’ll be going to university in the first place. 

Even if he did have time to worry about his height, there’s a good chance he wouldn’t: a wealth of evidence suggests that tall people have had happier childhoods, are more likely to succeed, and end up wealthier than average. Livescience, links greater height to better nutrition in childhood and suggests taller people are more likely to be hired for jobs, while a study from Exeter University in 2016 demonstrated that for men, every 6.3 cm in height added about £1,580 to their annual salary (the Guardian article which reported this adds, characteristically, ‘A smaller effect was seen for women’). This all seems to suggest what many people have suspected for centuries: people (especially men) who are tall, are more fortunate than those who are not.

Therefore, though this Covid-19 study demonstrates there’s a way in which tall people actually do have it rough, the universal tall experience is fairly decent. Beyond this, the fact that reports are downplaying the study’s other findings in favour of a focus on height suggests a more worrying trend. At first, this focus makes complete sense: it gives strong evidence that Covid-19 is an airborne virus, which is pretty ground-breaking. But it’s interesting that the connection between height and Covid-19 fascinates us more than the other links found in this study. Shared kitchens, use of public transport, and lower income levels are also reported in the study to be predicators of Covid-19, but these are relegated to further down the list in most of the articles available. Even in the stupor of a locked-down summer, it doesn’t take much thinking to realise that these other findings are fairly conclusively linked to lower socioeconomic status. 

With a cynical mind-set (the kind that can only come from months stuck at home watching the news with my parents), it could seem as though the sensational appeal of the ‘height link’ exemplifies the media’s boredom with talking about those pesky poor people. It seems reporters have reached their breaking point for pretending to care about the multiple studies showing that BAME people, the elderly, people with underlying conditions and those with lower incomes are disproportionally affected, instead rejoicing that finally, there’s an angle on Covid-19 that isn’t depressingly linked to poverty and disadvantage.  And as previously discussed, tall people statistically fit this profile far less than anyone else. 

The height focus may also imply that tall people (and perhaps by extension people of higher socioeconomic status) are seen as unfairly targeted by the virus, while those who are more disadvantaged somehow deserve it more. There’s definitely a sense that the government and media see other factors as preventable (Just travel by car! Just spend time in your own garden!), despite these solutions’ links to higher incomes. In contrast, height is seen as random, even though it can be anything but. 

It’s a fairly dark reading, but these are fairly dark times. Hopefully it’ll turn out that all this is just quarantine-brain talking, and the truth is people care about all these factors equally. But I won’t hold my breath to find out – even if it does halve the risk of Covid-19 at my height. 

SOURCES

The study: 

https://www.medrxiv.org/content/10.1101/2020.07.13.20152819v1

The Metro: 

Men over 6ft twice as likely to catch coronavirus, new study suggests

The Guardian: 

https://www.theguardian.com/science/2016/mar/08/genetic-study-shows-mens-height-and-womens-weight-drive-earning-power

Live Science: 

https://www.livescience.com/36616-height-cause-of-death-mortality-short-tall.html

The Daily Mail:

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-8568125/Men-6ft-TWICE-likely-infected-Covid-19-study-claims.html

Setting the Scene: When location becomes character

Sam Lapham
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Setting the Scene: When location becomes character

I can remember the first time I watched The Revenant in an empty screening at my local cinema. It was during the height of winter, and I remember making the conscious decision to order a hot chocolate rather than the usual strawberry milkshake from the ice-cream counter. A tactical move. I necked that hot chocolate quicker than I’ve ever consumed any alcohol at university. I’m unsure whether it was the briskness of the January weather or the placebo effect of watching a film about the extremes of the natural world, but less than twenty minutes into the first act I vividly recall enveloping myself in my thick puffer, clinging to it with the desperation of yielding the same warmth that Hugh Glass was getting from the animal carcasses he took shelter in.

Alejandro Iñárritu’s nature documentary (thinly veiled as a revenge thriller) was the first time I’d had a physical reaction to a cinematic experience that wasn’t caused by the broken heating or air con in the cinema screens. Watching Leonardo DiCaprio push the limits of human endurance as he refused to die of hypothermia for a second time in his career was remarkably raw, and I felt every rain drop and every crackling ember as man came to terms with his own existentialism.

Following that experience, the physical profundity of a film’s environment has rarely affected me on that level since (and that includes prompting me to invest in the extortionately priced hot chocolates). I have always found that Quentin Tarantino, the auteur who has become a genre in and of himself, has a spectacular ability to make you feel less like a viewer and more like a bystander, lingering in scenes for an unconventional duration as they unfold with a realistic sense of progression. Both the opening sequence and the bar scene in Inglourious Basterds comprise about 35 minutes of the film’s total runtime, and both are masterclasses in gradual tension and release. There is a beautiful claustrophobia to sequences that feel organically played out and not cut short for time constraints. Conversations are given room to breathe and build like real conversations. The Hateful Eight, the first film I grew out my facial hair for in order to feign the appearance of being eighteen at the cinema, spent nigh on three hours confining its characters to the apparent cosiness of Minnie’s Haberdashery, a location which simultaneously balanced hospitable comforts with an intensifying proximity. Devoting time to locations and sequences make them feel lived in , inhabited as opposed to fleetingly visited. With The Hateful Eight ,Tarantino delivered a narrative that didn’t deviate from its central setting, and consequently graced us with a location that was as equally fleshed out as the octet taking refuge inside it.

Time dedicated to exploring a setting not only contributes to the realism of the place but also the familiarity. Seeing the same sets used episode after episode in sitcoms is part of the reason they attain an unrivalled sense of comfort to watch. The overuse of the word ‘wholesome’ throughout Oxford makes me reluctant to use it here, but I think perhaps it is applicable. I never thought I’d have the sudden compulsion to work behind a desk until I watched The Office, or the resentment of college accommodation after living in the shared apartments of The Big Bang Theory and Friends for over 200 episodes. Sitcoms provide environments that become inseparable from the characters, mise en scène that constantly lingers in the background without ever intruding, yet remains essential in our identification of it. For many, locations like Central Perk will be as iconic as the characters themselves, particularly more resonant when scenes are performed in front of a live audience. A relationship is then forged between mediums as stage and screen clash, with location bridging the gap and audiences actively engaging on the periphery.

Perspective is everything. It is a well worn trope that accessing a new film environment (usually a fantastical or futuristic world) works more effectively when you are viewing it through the lens of a character equally unfamiliar with it (think Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker, Frodo Baggins) because the exposition and world building is justified rather than painfully shoehorned. But we are sometimes quick to forget that locations exist first and foremost for the characters, and as soon as a world has to be lectured to us we are made self-aware of our own position as outsiders.

Location and aesthetics can be subtly intimate, designed to reflect the way a character views their world and operates within it. Take Baz Lurhman’s The Great Gatsby, a film which excessively exploits the CGI trend of the early 2010s to create a stylish, but at times artificial, re-imagining of the Roaring Twenties. In hindsight, it was a perfect decision, adding a sense of superficial and materialistic polish to the film, a sense of modernism which seemed incongruous to the era. Bolstered by the fact that Gatsby is in and of himself a dreamer, a man refusing to take the world as it is and using that malleability to transform it into the romanticised paradise he expects it to be, the film’s colourful gloss is almost tragic. It reeks of a man out of his own time, a man suffering in the fantasy of his own reality as the glamour of the city on screen seems tainted with delusion and falsity. We indulge Gatsby’s colourful lifestyle because we can’t see anything to the contrary.

Setting transports and film surpasses the stage for that simple reason. Characters feel more alive because the world they live in feels like a world, whether that be big or small, real or fictional. The tangibility of a setting allows us to accept that the environment we are watching is no less real than the cinema screen we have planted ourselves in. To quote Frank Underwood in the pilot episode of House of Cards, ‘it’s all about location, location, location’. It can make you feel glad to be detached from the world via the screen, or feel agitated by the fact that the screen stops you from accessing it. It makes you feel like ordering a hot chocolate to counteract the frostbite you’ve diagnosed yourself with. But most importantly, it makes you feel.

Image via Flickr

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