Friday 18th July 2025
Blog Page 1014

Against Using Bells to Tell the Time

William Brown
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Against Using Bells to Tell the Time

Every fifteen minutes during my waking hours (and sometimes when I would rather be asleep) I am forcibly reminded of the time. I have no choice in this. It is the curse of the Oxford student to be inescapably surrounded on all sides by heritage clock towers and their perennial bells.

The clock in closest proximity to me, at about a couple of hundred feet, is that of Queen’s College. In fact, my bed and window are so aligned that I have a direct view of Queen’s clock tower – thus adding to my sonorous grievance the sight of its perpetual perpetrator.

It is in the nature of using bells to tell the time that the actual length of the period of the disturbance increases with each passing hour; first as midday approaches, and then again towards midnight. It is midday that marks not only the zenith of the sun’s path across the sky, but also the apotheosis of the day-long interruptions to whatever it is I might be concentrating on, and the climactic fulmination of my brewing indignation. At that time I must endure no less than four ‘ding-dings’ (indicating quarter-hours) followed by twelve complacent ‘dongs’ – about forty seconds of accumulative ringing altogether – forty seconds each day that I would much rather not have to spend leaning out my window, gesticulating and shouting profanities at the clock in a blind rage.

Of course, we all need to be constantly aware of the time in order to continue to abide by our long-standing national obsession with punctuality. However, the last time I checked, western civilisation had managed to come up with something called a ‘watch’ for precisely this purpose.

Why, then, do we persist in the indulgence of such an antiquated and unnecessary mode of time-telling? Perhaps it is out of some nostalgic sentimentalism? Such inclinations are all well and good, but only insofar as they don’t involve the forcible participation of everyone around you. I am reminded of a quip I heard about religion: ‘Religion is like a penis; it’s fine to have one, and it’s fine to be proud of it, but please don’t whip it out in public and start waving it around’...

Indeed, to follow this line of thought, the disquieting truth of the matter quickly begins to unravel when we consider who it is that owns and operates the bells and clock towers. That’s right – the Church. In every village, town, and city, the Church wields a monopoly on bells, and has therein surreptitiously garnered itself an unwitting captive audience – that is, anyone with ears. It hardly seems a coincidence that we find such an instrument in the hands of people whose livelihood entails in large part reminding us of our fallen state.

Using bells to tell the time, then, is little more than a horological ruse for the subliminal delivery of ecclesiastical didacticism. Certainly, the more discerning (or agitated) ears will hear in the ringing of the hours their true, ominous purpose: an over-eager, anticipatory knell to perpetually herald our impending demise.

In light of this revelation, the quip that ‘religion is like a penis’ takes on an even greater congruity. I’m sure you don’t need me to explain the pertinence of clock towers to a comparison between religion and penises… But just as clock towers sound off unnecessarily, so will I deign to indulge: if the church is the ‘body’ of Christ, then the church clock tower is, without a doubt, his raging, ringing erection in anticipation of judgement day. And then will all the bell-ignoring heathens find their just punishment in the fire and brimstone.

‘What’s wrong with being hopeful?’

Charlie Willis
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‘What’s wrong with being hopeful?’

When I see the milk-coloured candles of blossom on chestnut trees, I am back with you. In early June, when the evening sky was dusky pink and the air was both heavy from the day’s heat and cool with the nearing of the night. And I see you lying in the long grass in the field behind your house, your arms flung out and your red hair ragged and loose. There were lime green smudges on your dress and you rolled your eyes when I mentioned them.

“They’ll wash out,” you said and then you smiled at me. I never told you that your smile made my eyes sting and my heart swell out across my chest like a hot balloon that threatened to burst if I took another breath. I think I was holding a daisy, or a little buttercup. Sometimes I am annoyed with myself for not being able to remember the type of flower it was. I picked off the petals one by one and then I was left with just a tiny golden orb on a stem. I lay down beside you. The earth smelt sweet beneath me.

“I feel sad when the blossoms are out on chestnut trees,” you said and I remember laughing and then the laughter catching in my throat when I saw the crease in your brow. I wanted to ask you why it made you sad but I was afraid you’d think me too stupid to work it out for myself. A silence hung between us as I stumbled around trying to think of something clever to say in reply.

“Why?” I asked when the silence began to ring in my ears.

“I love seeing them so much,” you sighed. “It’s my favourite time of year, when the chestnut trees are covered in those little towers of blossom.”

“So why does it make you sad?” I asked and hated the clumsy thickness of my voice. You didn’t reply. A magpie gargled in the thicket behind us. In the wings of my vision I could make out at least one chestnut tree beyond the thicket that was decorated in the upturned cones of white blossoms. The soft, sharp scent of the flowers slipped across the evening air.

“I suppose it’s just because I can’t look forward to them anymore,” you said. At the time I thought this sounded like something someone would say in a film and I wished people were watching us as we lay there. I tried very hard to think up my next line, to think of the words my character would say to make you feel better.

“But you’ve got other things to look forward to now,” I said, “like autumn.” I wished I had suggested something more interesting and specific like “toadstools” or “amber-coloured oak leaves.”

“But then I’m always looking forward to things and I’m never actually enjoying things,” you said. “It’s sad,” you added. A breeze brushed through the strands of grass around us and the pearl peach sky seemed to suddenly shift to a darker shade.

“At least you’re always full of hope,” I said. You turned your face towards me and frowned.

“Always full of hope,” you repeated. Neither of us spoke for a long time. And I remember I was feeling irritated then, and perhaps, for the first time, more with you than with myself. The hissing of the traffic on the distant motorway grew louder.

“What’s wrong with being hopeful?” I asked. You sat up and ran a finger through your hair, your face turned up to the sky.

“It’s just an empty way to be,” you said and then scrunched your nose at me and stood up. You brushed at the bright grass stains on your skirt and then began to walk away. “Come on,” you said, over your shoulder, “it’s getting cold.”

So now I feel sad too when I see chestnut blossoms in springtime. And not because I have acquired your habit of mourning for the anticipation of things but because I can only think of you when I see them. I remember that last time I saw you, in that twilight of early June. I can only remember one or two aspects of your face, like the apricot lipstick you used to wear and how the colour of your cornflower blue eyes was like a bruise. I can only hear your voice saying one or two words, and even then I hear it only faintly like a shout that’s swept up in the wind.

And so I dread the end of May and the way the flush of spring creeps across the countryside. The cherry trees outside the church now are thick with blossom that clings to the twigs and bows like pink snow and the hawthorn in the hedgerows is frosted with bunches of cream flowers. The chestnut trees beyond the thicket are tense in their green richness. Even though the air is still crisp enough in the mornings for my breath to billow out in blooms of steam, there is a whisper of warmth on high, hanging just above my head.

Web Series World – Nothing much to do

Naomi Gee
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Web Series World – Nothing much to do

Now finally to write about my favourite New Zealand creators, Candle Wasters, and the king of online Shakespeare adaptations, Nothing much to do.

I was always going to love this series. Since GCSE, Much ado about nothing has been hands-down my favourite Shakespeare play. Indeed truly the relationship between Beatrice and Bennedick is all I aspire to in a relationship. And Candle Wasters as a team have pulled this off so well, even adding a sequel based on Love Labours Lost, enchantingly named Lovely Little Losers.

As tends to be the trend with web series, this adaptation has more than filled its LGBTQ+ quota, with the blossoming relationship between Balthazar and Pedro, Hero’s lesbian parents and the list doesn’t stop there. The series picks up on some fairly serious themes, picking out parts of the original Shakespeare that I originally somehow failed to see. The most notable example is Claudio’s aggressive slut shaming of Hero. The point made here, that even if she had cheated, publicly calling her out on it at her 16th birthday party would still not have been cool. My perhaps favourite part, is that once the series is over Claudio and Hero do not end up together and he finishes with a rather unpleasant sounding girlfriend – just as it sensibly should be. Hero throughout is completely adorable, raving about room tours and make up videos, as you kinda would expect of a modern day Hero. I love that kid.

The central romance between Beatrice and Bennedick is splendid, particularly the way you watch it develop over the entire series. The addition of homemade music videos by each of the protagonists was a really lovely addition; a perfect adaptation for a modern audience. I also really appreciated the varying camera quality, which again added to the believability of the series and is something you will never see in a polished Hollywood Blockbuster, or even the best BBC adaptation.

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To conclude, all I can really say is these guys really get the essence of Shakespeare. I cannot explain the degree to which you become emotionally involved in the lives of these characters, just because they seem so real and present. So thanks Candle Wasters for all you have done. It takes a lot to get me this invested, and I hope the next adaptation of a Midsummer night’s dream (Bright Summer Night) is just as gripping.

Why I’m a … Christian

Nathan Chan
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Why I’m a … Christian

I am a Christian. I grew up in a Christian family and I guess it is fair to say that I have, more or less, been a Christian pretty much all my life. But that does not mean that my acceptance of the faith was one that came naturally. In fact, quite the contrary. My journey of faith has been a rocky one, one that has been filled with much hesitation and pain. I have constantly questioned the God that I so profess to believe in, and no doubt will continue to do so. I have doubted Him, disowned Him and even downright rejected Him. But here I stand as a Christian nonetheless. I believe in God, and I believe in the Bible.

Before I get potentially bashed for my statement of faith, I would like to first make a few disclaimers. This article is by no means intended to be the stereotypical testimony of how a prodigal son rediscovered God in the midst of debauchery. My story on how I came to find and accept God, though eventful, is honestly quite plain and probably not worth a read. This article also is not intended, nor is it qualified, to be a robust defence of the Christian faith. Many before me, all of whom are eminently knowledgeable and needless to say, more well-informed on God than I am, have provided what I consider apt justifications and rationalisations of Christianity. Should you wish to read something along the lines of such, I suggest that you turn to the very enlightening writings of individuals such as Ravi Zacharias, John Piper and Oxford’s very own John Lennox.

I do not intend to engage myself in the grand ever-going debate on whether God exists. But rather, this article, quite simply, is the reflections and ramblings of a young Christian on what it means to be who he is, his continual wavering, or for want of a better word, his continual battle between acceptance and doubt, and ultimately how his faith shaped and will continue to shape his life.

It is admittedly very difficult to be a Christian, mainly because most of what the Bible preaches is so seemingly out of place with contemporary societal standards, or more specifically how we, as university students and young adults, typically go about in out daily lives. We’re supposed to observe the Sabbath (which is, in a secular term, Sunday) and rest? God, that’s impossible. I have two essays due the next day, and I can hardly afford spend my day meditating and praying. We’re not supposed to get drunk? Jesus, come on, then what’s the point having a night out at Park End? Men are not supposed to have long hair? Christ, come on, I just want to look good.

Being a Christian, at times, means alienation from the mainstream, or in milder terms, a withdrawal from what most people are doing. It seems that being a Christian often equates to being at odds with the rest of the world. The Bible acknowledges this by telling me that I ought “not [to] be conformed to this world” (Romans 12:2), and consequently, “the world hates you” (John 15:19).

But what inherently is wrong with the world? Is there necessarily a dichotomy between being a Christian, and being a perfectly normal and ordinary member of society and of this world? The whole notion of being “set apart” from the world seems almost condescending.

As a Christian, I am expected by the big guy up above to be different. It is by no means easy. In fact, it never was meant to be easy. Having the Bible tell you that if you choose to follow the Lord, you shall be “persecuted” (2 Timothy 3:12), is surely not an assuring thing to hear and accept. So am I supposed to just acquiesce to a life expectedly abundant with hardship? Am I supposed to just suck it and see, in return for some unseen divine reward?

Usually when I find myself asking these questions, which is most of the time, I turn to the powerful writings of Paul, a titan of a Christian, whose literary prowess, even from a secular point of view, is undubitable. As Paul puts it very aptly, I believe that notwithstanding it being difficult to abide my faith, all things work together for good (Romans 8:28). Though outwardly I am indeed having a difficult time, or as Paul puts it – “wasting away”, yet inwardly I am being renewed day by day.

One of the many reasons why I am and still remain a Christian is that the divine promise that it will definitely and surely work out towards the end is a very reassuring and comforting thought. I am constantly encouraged by the fact that I, however little I might think of myself, am actually a priceless gem, so to speak, in the eyes of someone much higher than us. He tells me, “You feel worthless? Don’t be. Just look at my hands, and look at my side. You are worth my life”.

I apologize if my article leads nowhere, as upon rereading it, I do realise that it is neither a justification for the faith itself, nor is it a compelling personal story of my journey of faith. I do not wish to gloss over some of the very powerful arguments put against Christianity, but that being said, I would like to conclude by saying this:

You are most certainly entitled to disagree with my faith. You might think that my faith is for the weak, for those who lack reassurance and stability, and for those who are unloved and isolated. However, I urge you not to categorically reject everything “Christian”. Heck yes, I admit that I am, indeed, weak, insecure in life and even clinically depressed. But that does not mean I turned to Christianity as some sort of “last resort” to “feel good”. If you are unconvinced with what you see of Christianity, fair enough – for such a conscious rejection ought to be respected. However, the same respect should be also levelled towards those who consciously and mindfully accept it. Approach Christianity with an open mind, reflect upon it, question it, challenge it even. I did that, made some very important decisions, and now I am and will continue to be a practising Christian.

Hollywood: Beyond the Pale?

David Lawton
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Hollywood: Beyond the Pale?

The film industry has a problem with representation. #OscarsSoWhite brought to the fore the disgusting reality of white domination in Hollywood. However, the problem affects not only awards, but also films themselves. Stonewall attracted opprobrium for whitewashing – the choice of a white male protagonist, Danny, is a classic example of a film being made more accessible to white society.

Then there is the problem of typecasting. Whilst white, straight cisgender actors are given room to explore, and are applauded for, “challenging” depictions of minority groups (think Redmayne), people of colour and minorities regularly find themselves typecast – often into stereotypical, one-dimensional roles. I hope my readers agree when I say this must stop. It is a simulacrum of white power.

The idea that a role or award should go to the most talented actor who applies for it appeals to our most liberal pretensions. It rests on the false equation that ‘meritocracy’ equals fairness. Anyone one has studied societies past or present will tell you that meritocracies never equate to equal opportunity. ‘Talent’, in any field, acting included, is never natural. Successful actors need to have been to the right schools, have the right friends, and know the right people. On top of this they often need a fair amount of Daddy’s capital invested to keep them going in an expensive city, without a regular source of income, while they try to make it. Just talent? I think not. Want to know why the film industry isn’t diverse? This is why.

Beware of anything with the word ‘natural’ preceding it. ‘Natural talent’ is a myth with a malodorous whiff of geneticism about it. Talent is created, not immaculately conceived. Creating a talent in the 21st century is expensive. Lots can and should be done to make the acting world more diverse, but these things are ultimately sticking plasters.

The root cause of this issue is economic. Whites control the means of production. Whites put the money in. Whites call the shots. Hollywood is perhaps one of the most culturally significant achievements of the American nation. This is not saying much. America was, after all, a state built upon the twin pillars of slavery and genocide. What else should one expect of it? Sure if we could reform Hollywood as a cultural institution that’d be great. But wouldn’t it be more rewarding to reject it altogether?

Cinema’s Resurrection?

Ellie Siora
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Cinema’s Resurrection?

Despite being my first all-night movie marathon, I never felt unsure of what to expect. I anticipated a charming vibe of artistic souls, aesthetically matching the quaint velvet seats of the Prince Charles Cinema (PCC). I imagined a microcosmic encapsulation of my superficial romanticisation of Soho. But I must admit my attendance was partially to rebel against my own revision timetable. On arrival, I was as excited for the immersive experience ahead as much as the spectacle on the screen.

But to my surprise, the atmosphere actually sparked a nostalgic resonance of pre-teen sleepovers; where friends gather in determined solidarity to watch films all night. In scenes reminiscent of 11 year old slumber parties, the PCC’s Wes Anderson all-night marathon constructed the very same enchantment over its audience.

Cinema has been referred to as ‘dead’ for years. Pockets of resistance like these, reasserting the importance of the space of the cinema, are timely and necessary. Cinema has been reduced to a mere social arena, losing its power as a form of cultural expression. Its capacity to micrify the audience, offering them escapism in the film has been undermined with the growth of home cinema and the Netflix/Piratebay ethos. Films have become associated with the background of the every day, reducing cinema-going to a passive pastime – no longer an experience in itself.

Cinema’s survival rests on something innovative and captivating to spark its rejuvenation. The Wes Anderson all-nighter expresses all the crucial elements to achieve this. As movies have become more accessible, a symptomatic shift has occurred in our cinema-going habits. We now only fork out for something we truly consider ‘worthy’ of the big screen.

Yet paradoxically, we invest large blocks of time indulging in the cultural habit of the ‘Netflix binge’, gorging ourselves on seemingly unending TV series’. They feed our contemporary obsession for ‘going all out’ when we do devilishly decide to be unproductive. I suspect this trend is all built on a foundation of procrastination.

The ‘All-Night Marathon’ is part of a much wider alternative screening movement, reasserting the power of the cinema as a space. The likes of open-air cinemas, and screenings resembling immersive theatre, all share a desire to make cinema thrilling again. Perhaps it was just the sugary style of Wes’ films, but for me this novel, all-night experience seemed to echo the wonder felt cinema’s inception in the early 20th century. To survive this era of passive viewing and binge-watch culture, cinema needs to embrace more eclectic content and more radical screening experiences to regain its cultural importance.

Racial equality in the queer community

Simran Uppal
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Racial equality in the queer community

Out, Attitude and Advocate are three of the biggest magazines aimed at gay men. Over the past five years they have each had so few cover models who are not white that straight, cisgender men have outnumbered people of colour by nearly five times, as the pop culture website Fusion reported.

The gay community is not some sort of progressive paradise, and queer people of colour are widely erased and treated poorly. The horrible and paradoxical message LGBTQ media largely sends out is that queer people of colour do not exist, and that even when we do exist, we don’t matter. It’s worth noting here the extent to which LGBTQ people from black and minority ethnic backgrounds have one of the highest rates of depression, suicide and self-harm of any demographic.

Oxford’s gay scene is not miraculously better: if you talk to queer students of colour, you quickly rack up stories about feeling unwelcome and othered in queer spaces. The LGBTQ Society’s weekly drinks is one of the whitest spaces in Oxford, and I’m sorry to say that. I’ve been lucky in Oxford and I’m normally pretty comfortable in being a different ethnicity to the norm, but those drinks made me look at my skin colour and feel truly unwelcome.

Gay men – and I suspect not just men – have internalised and promulgate racism as much as any other group does. Telling me that I’m your friend’s ‘type’ because I’m brown, however you phrase that or joke about how problematic it is, is flat out unacceptable. As much as I welcome the break from being seen through the all too common (trust me) lens of ‘desexualised South Asian man’, objectifying someone via the skin colour that marginalises them in our society is unquestionably harmful on a wider level and, to be frank, personally.

The current president of the LGBTQ Soc is a woman of colour, and it’s great that she and anyone else finds that space to be theirs or manages to make it theirs. What’s not great is that her feeling of belonging is limited to such a small number of individual people of colour, and only the boldest and most outgoing ones. She admits that “not enough” has been done but hopes to move forwards productively over the coming year, and I, for one, have great confidence in her.

Being queer and happening not to be white runs not only against mainstream cultural expectations, but also against the supposedly rebellious and accepting gay scene. There’s a reason early queer liberationists picked the rainbow flag, but the LGBTQ scene in Oxford right now is a little less colourful.

The human consequences of our border laws

Alex Marshall
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The human consequences of our border laws

As the Brexit debate waffles on and European governments show increasing panic and confusion over how to react to the sheer scale of human movement towards the continent, it’s worth asking what a ‘border’ actually is. What is their physical presence, since there are no red lines in the dirt or floating out at sea? What does ‘strengthening’ one actually involve, given they aren’t some impenetrable force field? Borders are political entities, and one of places this is most apparent is at Campsfield House Immigration Removal Centre in Kidlington; a place where various types of migrant are detained pending deportation or decisions on their case, often indefinitely.

On and off for the past few years I have visited people inside. Here is a collection of some of my experiences.

Campsfield House is a long way out of town. Unlike the prison in my hometown, a big castle-like building ten minutes’ walk from the station, detention centres tend to be tucked away, easy to overlook or forget. Immigrants are essentially stored away from the public eye, hidden along with the practices the state uses to protect our borders from people who have already crossed them. On the last Saturday of every month since it opened in 1993, the Campaign to Close Campsfield has held a demonstration outside the centre. A group of us have got a dedicated phone, and painted the number on a bedsheet. We stretch this out between a lamppost and a chain-link fence using washing line and bungee cords, so it is visible from the front windows, and shout the number through a megaphone, asking people to call and offering visits.

Firstly, the ways these men (it’s an all-male centre) arrived in Britain, and then the detention system, does not always neatly fit the conventional categories within which many place migrants. I have met international students who took the opportunity to study abroad to escape trouble in their home country. One attended a ‘scam’ college, one of the ‘visa factories’ the government occasionally cracks down on, which threatened to cancel his visa if he didn’t pay £ 200 for a textbook. I have met a man whose spousal visa expired when his marriage to a British woman fell apart. Another man’s immigration status (“I’m not going to lie, I got here illegally”) came to the attention of the authorities when a business rival reported him for a fictitious terror plot. One detainee, with a distinctive Brummie accent, didn’t even know he wasn’t a British citizen until he started to get in trouble. Another, who I talked to on the bus back after he’d just been released, felt a weird nostalgia driving through north Oxford, as he’d been here for his Master’s. I have met a man who made enemies back home by working as an interpreter for British and American forces, and one who fled smugglers after reporting them for supplying a group widely recognised as a terrorist organisation. Another promptly and correctly filled in all his visa renewal forms, but only found out his solicitor had forgotten to post a letter when men arrived at his door to arrest him.

Secondly, life in detention takes a toll. Of a pair of friends I visited, one chattered anxiously all through the visits, while the other, who had spent his first few days just lying on the floor, became increasingly silent, at one point too anxious to attend the visit at all. He eventually took advantage of the ‘voluntary return’ programme, hoping the danger to his life back home had blown over. Another spoke in dull monotone, having been prescribed a higher dose of antidepressants than anyone I’ve ever met. One was essentially having a midlife crisis in there. A large proportion of detainees, almost all, suffer from mental health issues. Sometimes this originates before they reached the UK (‘Rule 35’, prohibiting detention of victims of torture, is routinely ignored or sidestepped); sometimes it is brought on or compounded by the indefinite nature of detention.

A detainee’s stay in Campsfield is often short, disrupting relationships. Since it’s one of the UK’s nicest detention centres, relatively speaking, and detention centres essentially function as an archipelago, people are moved there for good behaviour, often shortly before being bailed. Others will be transferred again to another centre or ‘removed’ (distinct from deportation) within a few weeks of arrival. Detainees may spend many months (two-and-a-half years for one man I met) moving between centres, but only spend a fraction of that time in Campsfield.

A former detainee who had been in a Category D (open) prison before was shocked by the level of security (you have to go through six locked doors or gates to reach the visiting area). Campsfield is run for profit by a PFI company, Mitie, which runs other centres, as well as outsourced cleaning services. Detainees can work in the centre, contributing to its upkeep, running the library, computer room, kitchen, and so on. This gives them something to do and earns them the princely sum of £1 an hour, which can be used along with any savings they might have to buy phone credit or other luxuries.

Meals are close together, and one detainee explained that after one you are usually still full by the next, and so end up eating less. One detainee carefully explained to me the differences between what you were actually given and the menus Mitie show the Home Office in official budgets and reports. Between dinner and breakfast, however, there are over thirteen hours, and detainees cannot take food, even a yoghurt, back to their rooms for later. The (detainee-run) tuck shop charges full retail price.

What do detainees want? All of them want out, obviously. Some want little else, and one of the most dispiriting parts of what we do is telling them we’re just students, not lawyers, and can’t really help their case, but thank you for calling us anyway. A lot, however, are startlingly grateful for visits, for the demo, for the solidarity, for the fact anyone even knows and cares that they exist. One started the phone call, joining in on our chant, by just shouting “freedom!” A couple suggest telling the papers about this place, and explaining the general sense of routineness and indifference around immigration detention is hard. This, after all, is hardly the first article in Cherwell about the place.

Yelling “freedom now!” back and forth across the fence is a simple, effective and honest demand, but it is not the only one. As well as unlocked doors and legal rights, detainees want recognition of their moral right to justice. The fight against immigration detention – and we unequivocally oppose all immigration detention – is not just about freedom, but also dignity and recognition of mutual humanity.

Oxford University shows solidarity with Orlando victims

Marianna Spring
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Oxford University shows solidarity with Orlando victims

A vigil in solidarity with the victims of the shooting at a gay club in Orlando will be held outside the Radcliffe Camera on Wednesday, whilst a number of colleges fly rainbow flags after the massacre.

OUSU’s LGBTQ Campaign have organised a vigil at 8.30pm in order “to remember the lives of victims” and to “mourn the violence that seeks to destroy our community”.

49 people were killed at Pulse nightclub in an act of terrorism in the early hours of Sunday morning.

The gunman, Omar Mateen, pledged his alliance to ISIS during the shootout.

There will be trained peer supporters at the vigil, followed by a welfare event where LGBTQ people will have a chance to discuss the attack in a safe space.

OUSU’s LQBTQ officer Catherine Kelly told Cherwell, “We’re holding a vigil on evening at 8:30pm outside the Radcliffe Camera because we felt it was important to honour and remember the victims of the attack in Orlando, most of whom were queer people of colour. We also want to give the LGBTQ+ community in Oxford a space to grieve- it has been incredibly hard for all of us to watch violence destroy the spaces we build. We will pass out candles, and read out the names of the victims. Everyone is welcome to attend the vigil, but we’re asking people to respect the welfare event in Wadham as an LGBTQ-only space.”

The event description also specifies that “there is no space at this vigil for Islamophobia or racism” and “we will stand together and support one another as we have always done in times of crisis”.

A number of colleges have decided to fly their rainbow flags in solidarity with the victims including Balliol, Somerville and Hertford. Christ Church and Pembroke have also both chosen to fly their flags at half-mast.

Ele Saltmarsh, LGBTQ Officer at Balliol, told Cherwell, “After news of the attack came, I was trapped in that little bubble of anger, and fear, and sadness, trading revision time for tears. The silent cry started somewhere else, and our people took it up, turning their sorrow into solidarity. By the time I looked at what was happening outside of my little world, there were people everywhere; organising vigils, singing on Cornmarket, raising a flag.”

“Each of us individually has been affected, and the community was left reeling in the wake of such a violent, repulsive blow. But it’s come back, stronger and full of love, looking out for each and every one of us. There’s been no space left for Islamophobia, for homophobia, for hate.”

“All I can tell you about the decision to fly the rainbow flag at Balliol was that it wasn’t much of a decision, more an unanimous agreement to let the world know that we were here, still full of love.”

Chloe Funnell, LGBTQ rep at Somerville, commented, “I decided to fly the flag because, firstly, at Somerville we have a large and diverse LGBTQ+ community, and I know it has affected some of us. Secondly, I think it’s important that the LGBTQ+ community, as well as allies, show their solidarity and respect after events like these. In doing so, we can demonstrate to others that we, as a community, will not be silent in the face of such hateful behaviour.”

In addition to these displays of solidarity, students united against anti-homosexual preachers who were speaking about the attacks on Cornmarket Street on Monday.

Approximately 100 counter-protesters gradually gathered around the preachers.

Draped in rainbow flags, they sung and held up banners that read “Love is Love” and “Love conquers hate”.

Jack Schofield, a second year at Christchurch, said, “Yesterday I heard that US ‘Christian’ hate preachers had chosen the aftermath of this attack to speak out about ‘morals’ and ‘sin’ in our city centre, I thought it only right to go and join the crowd that had already gathered in countering their message, and I’m sure the vigil organised for tomorrow evening will be very poignant and moving as our university and city show our solidarity with those affected.”

“The news from Orlando was absolutely devastating and my heart goes out to the LGBTQ community of Orlando, their families, friends and the city as they try to heal, as well as for Muslims, who are likely to face a backlash for this tragedy. The attack, the largest killing of gay people in the West since the Holocaust, reminds all LGBTQ of the challenges we still face and the prejudice, which remains so pervasive and must be called out.”

Review: Mustang – confronts the sexualisation of innocence

Alice Townson
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Review: Mustang – confronts the sexualisation of innocence

FOUR STARS

Mustang is the story of five sisters; orphans, living with their grandmother and uncle in a large house ‘1,000 miles from Istanbul’. The film begins with the idyllic, wide, blue ocean, filled with the innocent flirtations of schoolchildren, but the viewer’s security is shattered almost immediately when they return home and are beaten in order of age by their grandmother. Sexual curiosity is sin and the girls are quickly imprisoned in what the youngest, Lale, dubs a ‘wife factory.’

The film is undeniably political – daringly so for a directorial debut. Deniz Gamze Ergüven is unapologetic about her desire to address the perceived problems surrounding womanhood in modern day rural Turkey. However, impressively, this doesn’t leave the film lacking in humour and warmth. The viewer cannot help but laugh at Selma’s unashamedly sullen and apathetic face, as she is bargained into a marriage she could not care less about, and Lale’s stuffing of her sister’s fluorescent pink bra is unavoidably charming, as well as funny.

It’s difficult not to compare the girl gang mentality evoked by the five sisters to Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides (2000). The girls in both films share a sense of innocence that becomes demonised by their elders, who constantly sexualise them, as well as attempting to block them off from popular culture.

Ergüven’s camerawork is testament to her statement that “women are perceived through a filter of sexualisation.” The girls’ bodies are neither sidestepped nor sexualised, but confronted with honesty. The girls are given the agency to decide how they want to be perceived – Lale decides that the baggy, brown dresses they are forced to wear by their grandmother are “the colour of shit,” but that doesn’t stop Sonya ripping in side splits. Lale climbs onto the roof and the camera films from the below – surprisingly, this doesn’t feel voyeuristic or uncomfortable. The girl’s tactile relationships to each other neutralises their bodies, in opposition to their uncle’s insistence on virginity tests.

The film is mercifully un-graphic, despite its confrontational nature. All of the most upsetting scenes take place away from the eyes of the camera. The plot line surrounding the girls’ uncle Erol is uncomfortable, but handled with grace and subtlety. We hear the bang of a gun, but none of the gory aftermath. The only criticism that could be made of the film is of Lale’s voice-over, which is often unnecessary and painfully literal, simply recounting to the viewer exactly what they can see in front of them. However, it’s not hard to see why Mustang was nominated for a Golden Globe. Ergüven has created a beautiful, provocative and playful piece of cinema.

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