Wednesday 20th August 2025
Blog Page 1197

Has student politics got it wrong?

Yes

Patrick Mulholland

Brief though my spell as an undergradu­ate has been, if I have but one insight it is this: student politics is not fit for purpose. A strange thing to say, though less strange than when a 20 year old Politics and Public Policy student from the University of Glasgow unseats an incumbent Shadow Foreign Secretary. Yet, that is politics, this is student politics.

Left wanting, the voices of our university communities are carefully packaged within a select few individuals, the avatars of stu­dent consensus. I bet you’ve heard of them, the BNOCs, propped up by a bulwark of Facebook ‘likes’ or shot down by a Daily Mail article. Rhetoric-ridden calls for ‘revolution’ and social upheaval on one hand, outmoded conservatism and priggishness on the other – it’s all the same. By now, it must play like a broken record. Admittedly, much of this behavior is reducible to grandstanding, or at least, in my naïvety, I should hope so. Anyhow, these showy expositions betray a certain prejudice – an unwillingness to listen and learn, as well as speak.

However, this is not the plight of the few, but the many. Caught in the tumult, we forget where we are. University is a forum for us to challenge ourselves, not just others. Configured as it is, newly matriculated stu­dents funnel off into their comfort zones and confirmation bias ensues. Unchecked, un­challenged and unrevised, our shallow pre­conceptions become our firmly entrenched beliefs. That is my first point. Don’t buy it? Well, in a General Election survey conducted by the Oxford Student, the voting intentions of 578 students were sampled. 36 per cent of classicists sided with the Tories (compared with 24 per cent of students in general) while 78 per cent of English students expressed a preference for left-leaning parties (53 per cent Labour, 25 per cent Green). It comes as no coincidence, or indeed shock, that these two sets of students veer off on opposite sides of the political spectrum. Of course, such discrepancies are fine so long as they are informed decisions, which are arrived upon after lengthy consideration. It is a critique of narrow-mindedness, not of parties.

With Cherwell showing fairly similar results – overall figures in the range of 31.6 per cent Labour, 24.2 per cent Conservative – it also seems peculiar to ponder the efficacy of student politics in light of the election. Had Labour won a major­ity, I suspect the debate would follow along very different lines. For example, people might argue student politics helped to mobilise elec­toral victory. In truth, a sizeable OUCA contin­gent of 12 activists op­erating from 4:50am on 7th May probably went a long way to securing a 4.5 per cent swing in favour of the Tories. The success of student politics ought not to be closely wedded to the success of Labour, if that is what is implied. Rightly or wrongly, student opinion is not superimposable on one strand of thought, whether it’s on the left or the right.

That same Cherwell sur­vey also listed students’ priorities when taking to the polls. Predictably, Labour voters were pri­marily concerned with social welfare and the NHS while Conservative voters emphasised tax, jobs and government borrowing. Recognition of why those who vote for certain parties do so, rather than mutual demonisation, would maybe, just maybe, bring about a workable solution. There is a middle ground to be reached, and you will have to forgive me if I say it’s more blurred than unequivocally to the left or to the right. On both sides, the tone of the message and how it is pitched dissuades and intimidates those who perhaps need to hear it most.

In terms of structure, student politics is clustered around a handful of institu­tions. Namely, the Oxford Union, OUSU and the NUS. While the former is optional, the latter two are not. OUSU and the NUS claim an implicit mandate to represent us, yet a centrist, apolitical student union appears to be off the cards entirely. Undoubtedly, more than most, OUSU and the NUS have contributed to a healthier campus atmosphere, championing issues ranging from access to general welfare.

These are admirable endeav­ours. However, their wider ideological bent is clear. At times, the NUS more closely resembles the Palestine Solidarity Campaign or the UN than what it is: a student union. Regardless of politics, this is neither the time nor the place. Case in point: take the NUS’s ‘Liar Liar’ campaign – £40,000 of anti-Liberal Demo­crat propaganda issued on our behalf. Such misuse and squandering of NUS funds is un­justifiable. Instead of representing students, a lot of student politics, albeit not all of it, is geared towards ‘going to the people’ with preconcieved beliefs about the best course of action, regardless of the situation. Rather than seeking to represent students, the left and the right diagnose the other with a kind of ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ and then venture to cure them.

In this respect, student politics is a wretched business. Yes, from time to time something valuable may be achieved but unfortunately, unproductive bickering and egoism tends to win the day. Organising with a single voice can be advantageous, but advantageous to what end? If changes ought to be made, let them be made. But we must tread cautiously with the narratives and views we promote, especially en masse. For me, the object of student politics should be more about exploring your beliefs and gar­nering experience than simply promoting your own rigid views. Student politics at the moment simply does not do this.

 

No

Annie Teriba

When expressing my disdain at the re­cord of the Conservative party, I re­ceived a curious response. A friend, a Tory, asked me if I had campaigned at all for a political party. My answer was no, and with good reason. This election, like many others, was a lose-lose situation for those on the left, though some losses are obviously worse than others. I bring up this example because I think it teases out an angle of this debate often neglected. The re-election of Da­vid Cameron, this time with a majority, is a political reality we have to face up to. But we must also shake off this notion that politics is that box we mark once every five years, and face up to the fact that our day to day lives are political grounds in which multiple power dynamics are constantly at play. Rather than having to accept what gets thrown at us in between each election, we can push back and let our discontent be known.

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Students play a key role in these broader political struggles. We are in the position of having more time and resources available to us than those who are primarily targeted by austerity. In this sense, those of us who are committed to a better world have a duty to fight, not because it feels good but because it works. We can do more than conjuring im­ages of student sit-ins demanding desegrega­tion, of huge Vietnam demos as the spirit of ‘68 swept through the left. We can look to Canada where the 2012 Quebec student gen­eral strike forced the government to reverse a 75 per cent hike in tuition fees. We can look to Chile where university students organised with high school students to force the need to de-marketise education onto the agenda and got rid of a terrible education minister in the process. We can look to Cambridge, where students from FLY, a student forum describing itself as ‘Cambridge University’s network and forum for women of colour’, alleged that a student had been sexually assaulted by one of the staff of the Gardenoa Cafe and organised a boycott.

Most importantly, we can look at how the history of activism at our own university has shaped the institutions here today. We got our student union after a seven day sit-in at exam schools of 350 students, with the threat of more. The University was afraid of a central students’ union for two reasons. Firstly, it would hold the University to ac­count – outrage had been sparked when, in 1961, the Proctors had attempted to ban ISIS from publishing reviews of lectures. Secondly, the Proctors were worried that it would be used to promote student activism, like offering our rooms to picketing miners and supporting staff strikes. The University was well aware of the power students had when they looked beyond the fortress and worked within the community. Solidarity is a powerful thing.

Here’s the thing, student politics isn’t just the glitzy demos and the occupations. I re­call a conversation with Hilary Wainwright about her time here in the 60s. She said the first political activity she remembers was drawing up a questionnaire and going out to Blackbird Leys to find out what the com­munity wanted. While we must show our discontent with whatever this government tries to grind us down with, student politics has other facets. We cannot forget the need to build solid links with the community – there is no justification for waiting on revolution when Tory cuts are biting now.

So please, please, please get involved – look out for demonstrations and occupations to join. Get involved in direct action. Volunteer at local soup kitchens and shelters. Join the fight against UKIP’s pervasive racist rhetoric. Stand in solidarity with our scouts who have to work with terrible conditions, earning in a year what Andrew Hamilton, our Vice Chancellor, makes in 12 days. Join with our academic staff who had to see their wages cut in real terms year on year. All of this stuff is political, all of this stuff allows us to stop complaining from our ivory tower and actu­ally do something to make the world a better place.

The International Student – Hungary’s by-election

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General elections around the world tend to be covered in more detail than ever before, yet by-elections receive far less attention than they deserve. In particular, this was the case for Hungary’s by-elections this April in the region of Tapolca, which culmi­nated with a frankly quite terrifying result.

It was the first time the radical right-wing party, Jobbik, had won a parliamentary man­date in an individual constituency. In itself, this doesn’t sound that awful; all countries seem to have their own, local Clacton. What does render things unpleasant though, is that whilst UKIP is still generally unpopular despite their win in Clacton, Jobbik managed to become the main beneficiary of protest votes in Hungary, as the Eurosceptic party known for its nationalist foundations is no longer perceived as extrem­ist.

The newly elected MP, Lajos Rig, however, does not come across as overly prone to moder­ate views; sharing a conspiracy theory on his Facebook page about “Jews using Gipsies as bio­logical weapons to conquer Hungary” seems not to raise any red flags. He is not alone. Some members refer to the Holocaust as the “Myth-o-caust”, whilst others demand the listing of MPs of Jewish origin.

Clearly, these are acts to be condemned – but who is there to condemn them? The Prime Minister, who wants to keep the question of the death penalty on the agenda? It appears that whilst Jobbik tries to shift towards the centre with their new, so-called ‘cuteness campaign’, the ruling coalition, Fidesz-KDNP, is moving towards the right.

Although the result in the western part of the country has shocked many Hungarians, a na­tional trend is emerging. “It is worth pondering about what the situation could be in eastern Hungary” were the ominous words of the party leader after their victory, referring to Jobbik’s stronghold. As a nationally representative study conducted by Ipsos this March indicates, Jobbik – with support rising to 18 per cent – has become the second most supported party in the country, only 3 per cent short of Fidesz.

The increasing dissatisfaction with the current government should thus not neces­sarily be welcome, since the only significant contender appears to be Jobbik. Moreover, the pro-Russian party does not merely want to reshape domestic issues – their geopolitical initiatives reach beyond Hungary. The party leader is not afraid to call the EU “treacherous”, and one of their MEPs even supported the inva­sion of Crimea.

With Jobbik in power, which is becoming a more and more realistic nightmare, Hungarian minorities would not be the only ones with rea­sons to fell threatened. None of the members of the European Union have ever had such a radical party in government. The Conserva­tives may have more bargaining power when it comes to negotiations, but underestimating the potential harms Jobbik could cause to a vulnerable EU would be unwise.

Interview: Sahar Hashemi

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As part of the Oxford Women in Business group’s series of talks this term, I went to listen to Sahar Hashemi, founder of Coffee Republic and Skinny Candy, as she told us the story of her rise as an entrepreneur.

Hashemi was keen to stress that she was not a natural businesswoman. “I never had this idea of myself as an entrepreneur. [There was no] special DNA. I did not make my first million in [the] playground, I was not even a school drop out.” She followed “a very traditional path” to study Law, and then worked at a law firm. But the legal world was not to Hashemi’s taste. “I couldn’t understand why no one was having fun at work… I refused to accept that, these were meant to be the best years of my life!” It was her father’s unexpected death that spurred her to try something different. She quit the law firm with no other job to go to. “My motto in life” she claims, “is jump first, and the net will appear.”

On a trip to the USA, Hashemi was entranced by American coffee bars. “I was hit by a wave of freshly made coffee in the morning…I remember going to the bar and being asked ‘Soy cappuccino, latte, espresso?’ I fell in love with it.” When she returned home, she complained to her mother and brother that there were no coffee bars in London. “Bobby turned to me and said ‘Right, we’re doing this. We’re going to bring coffee bars to London.’”

At first, Hashemi was not impressed. “I was just like ‘Hang on Bobby, you’ve got me completely wrong, why doesn’t someone ELSE open a coffee bar for me to go to it?’ I didn’t see why I had to provide a solution to my own problem.” But Hashemi was unemployed, and Bobby offered to pay her to do some market research. “I simply got an all-day tube pass for the circle line, and got off at every stop to see what they offered. It was disgusting filter coffee in polystyrene cups, and people were drinking it!” It was at that moment, Hashemi says, that she thought it would work.

It was a time for action. Bobby quit his job, they both rented out their flats and moved back in with their mother. I ask Sahar how her mother reacted when her two adult children moved back home. “She was always so supportive. People have often asked me who my mentor was, and I always said I didn’t have one, but my mum died recently and I’ve come to realise it was her.”

They knew nothing about coffee, and so gave themselves three months to learn as much as they could: “I nearly died OD-ing on 26 espressos during a coffee tasting course – no one told us we had to spit them out, so Bobby and I just drank them all.” Hashemi stands by “the importance of being clueless”, saying, “Never let your ignorance stop you. You can teach yourself, and then you have the asset of a fresh perspective.”

The bankers were not convinced by their enthusiasm. Of the 40 loans they requested for £90,000 to open their first coffee bar, only one banker said yes, “because we were a nation of tea drinkers” – Hashemi rolls her eyes – “but I had done my market research, and saw that coffee consumption had increased decade by decade.” Coffee Republic was the first coffee bar of its kind to open in the UK. “It was a disaster,” Hashemi tells us. Bobby and Sahar needed to make £700 per day to break even: they averaged £200 for the first six months – and that was including her mother, who gulped down several espressos a day just to keep the business afloat. Sourcing their products would also prove a challenge. Everything they did was “bootstrap”. Hashemi tells me, “We made our own coffee cups because no company knew how to make American-style coffee cups, no bakery knew how to make muffins.

“I had to get my cousin to send me cook books from America, and I found a woman who would make muffins in mum’s house every morning, which I would deliver to the store.” They stole their first two employees from Pret à Manger, because only they knew how to work a coffee machine.

To get the setting just right, Sahar and her cousins posed as tourists and took pictures of several American coffee bars to replicate the set-up in the UK. But after several years, the Coffee Republic became a thriving buisness, opening thousands of stores round the country. “We converted one customer at a time.” Now it’s difficult to imagine an age without coffee shops.

Sahar and Bobby sold their shares in 2001. “It was very traumatic… suddenly I felt redundant.” Hashemi remembers crying in the airport reading her own story in the Financial Times. “People were looking at me, wondering ‘What on earth could be so sad in the Financial Times?’” With more time on her hands, Hashemi could reflect on the meteoric rise (and eventual collapse) of her company, and wrote her book Anyone Can Do It, which has topped the Amazon best-seller list in the business category.

Hashemi describes it as her “anti-Richard Branson book”. She aimed to de-bunk myths about entrepreneurship. “I thought I was going to have to go to business school to do this. My brother said to me ‘Sahar, you’re going to the best business school in the world – you’re starting your own. You do not have to be an inherently special person. You just have to have an idea, determination, and be prepared to work very hard.”

Some might question whether it is fair for Hashemi to claim that “anyone can do it”. She had a professional background, a supportive family, and, most importantly, some financial assets. Some might say that the “net will appear” is a fine motto to have when you’re in your late twenties with a law degree; having the faith to leap with dependents or financial insecurity is another matter entirely.

But what one has to admire is her enthusiasm, inspiration and utter determination to succeed as she continues to expand her current business, Skinny Candy.

An unexpected coup and an uncertain future

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Only hours before the polls closed, a Facebook friend invited me to join the People’s Assembly Against Austerity’s demonstrations to make sure that the Tories would not ‘Occupy Downing Street’ without a Parliamentary majority. People envisaged mass political strife as David Cameron, akin to the ageing dictator of some banana republic, looked poised to cling onto power against the will of a Labour/SNP dominated Parliament. Facebook groups emerged saying ‘F*ck the Tory Government – No to all cuts – Yes to real democracy’ and many Oxford students were urged to man the barricades: to join a people’s revolution.

There was a Tory coup on election night; but it was one that nobody had expected. Far from tanks on the streets, the Oxford and National Left woke up to find that it had dramatically misinterpreted the views of the electorate. Ordinary people, not the establishment, have rejected the prospect of a Labour government, and Ed Miliband has been forced to resign his leadership. Given that the BBC polls as late as last Wednesday had the Conservative and Labour Parties at 34 and 33 per cent of the vote respectively, the Tory majority from the election has deservedly caused a stir. Two great revolutions happened at the ballot box; and in each case the Labour Party lost out.

Most importantly, to anticipate the future that will emerge from this dramatically changed British political landscape, we first need to understand why this democratic coup has happened. The first inklings of the unex­pected result came from the exit poll released by Ipsos Mori just after the polls closed. After months of debate and the promise of parliamen­tary grid lock, a sudden swing to the Tories sug­gested that they would win the election based on the views of undecided voters. The election was won, mainly in England, through the last minute decisions of ordinary people; a gut reaction against the financial policies, leadership, and reputation of the Labour party.

As much as any­thing, amongst the last minute Tory voting students I have talked to, English voters were afraid of the preponder­ance of Scottish Nationalist interests in a possible Labour/SNP coalition and therefore voted against this outcome. It is possible to argue that the Conservatives even­tually secured their majority through fears of the instability of a Labour government, rather than because of any particularly positive mes­sages given off by the party. For the voters that counted, a Tory majority was the lesser of many evils.

However, though some may be relieved by the stability a majority government will bring, I fear that a Tory government secured by English votes will further speed up the breakup of the United Kingdom. Although perhaps less of a surprise, the SNP’s 56 Scottish seats threaten to polarise dramatically the politics of our two nations. UKIP may only have managed to secure one seat this time around, yet this belies the fact that they secured as much as 12.6 per cent of the national share of the vote. Farage may have failed to secure South Thanet, but UKIP’s emerging role as an English nationalist party in response to the SNP is very real. As much as anything, the difference in the results between 2010 and 2015 for these two parties reveals that nationalism is on the march in Britain.

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The most significant result of last week’s Conservative victory is that it has created the conditions for a referendum on Britain’s status as part of the EU in 2017. While the Conservatives may be more trusted to manage the economy than the Labour party, it remains the case that the agendas of those on the right of the party have the potential to seri­ously undermine Britain’s future global status through a narrow-minded drive for an EU exit. As far as pragmatism has meant that the silent masses of ‘shy Conservatives’ have swung this election for the Tories, we must also hope that pragmatism prevails in 2017. Leaving Europe would be a disaster for the economy, and for the millions of Britons that rely on the freedoms of movement, work, and speech guaranteed by the EU. Looking forward from the result, we need to begin to stand up for the rationale of reform and the European project before we let ourselves be overwhelmed by the irrational xenophobia of the Right.

Yesterday’s result may indeed have been a surprise; a coup for the realist voter hoping for a coherent economic plan and a stable majority government. It should also, however, be seen as a call to arms. The result is a recognition that both the Union and Britain’s position in the EU stand dangerously compromised by advancing nationalist groups across the country. In the town halls of Britain, people have cleared away the debris of Election Day. What at first appeared an unexpected Conservative victory will doubt­less settle with the dust on the now redundant campaign posters. Yet, we moderates cannot af­ford to sit back and relax. The campaign for the defence of a better future has only just begun.

How to… go on a crew date

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As with every part of our damned society and miserable life, Oxford has a hierarchy. And the worst thing that could possibly happen to you would obviously be being stuck on the wrong rung of that fancy and elusive ladder. The first step into the esteemed and crucial heights of Oxonian hierarchy is a crewdate. If you don’t crewdate, don’t expect to be featured on VERSA’S Top 10 Coolest Students (now that is the real dreaming spire). Don’t expect freshers to know your name. Don’t expect anyone to attach any worth to you. 

Now. You’re on a crewdate. (Well done). If you want to fit in, there are several traditions you need to learn about. 

First is simple and must be followed with the utmost of casual and false spontaneity. This is pennying. Pennying derives from the unit of currency – a penny, and is used in crewdates. The idea is to throw a penny into someone’s drink when they have their hand clasped around the glass. They then must down their drink. This is in the hope that you will a) get bronze poisoning b) catch Ebola c) swallow the penny, and consequently throw up everywah (erupting both the penny and your dignity out of your mouth).

So that’s pretty easy. Make sure to go to the bank in advance, and change a couple of £20 notes into pennies. This will emphasise the root of the tradition, which is erudite debauchery. It’s often successful if you chuck the penny into someone’s drink whilst laughingly crying, “Ha! I have so much money! What to do with it all?”

Sconcing is a step up from pennying, because it relies upon more than just alcohol consumption. Sconcing is a game where the group try and ridicule others, and also find out what super banterous legendary events others have committed. The best advice for this is just consistent and unceasing dishonesty. Drink constantly. At every sconce down your drink. Make sure to drink at length, so that the whole table may see that you indeed have committed said named act. 

If people seem to be starting to doubt you, then give a little laugh and exclaim your disbelief that everyone knows your stories so well. At a few points in the evening, it will be necessary for you to sconce someone yourself. If you are not indeed friends with anyone on the crewdate, the best thing is to simply make up very elaborate and niche stories (my usual one is “I sconce anyone who had sex on the Cheese Floor whilst eating a kebab”). Then if no one else drinks, just drink yourself and say, “Whoops, I forgot that was me!”

These stories will be remembered, which means the more crewdates you go on, the more people can sconce you. And then it becomes less dishonest. I mean yes, admittedly you still didn’t do any of these things, but if they all believe you did, then soon you will believe it too. And that, along with the crewdates, will bring you one step closer to being cool.

Creaming Spires TT15 Week 3

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 An ill-fated night at Bridge, perhaps? Freshers’ week had seen no action for yours truly, a young gay man, whose few sexual experiences had previously entailed a Grindr-based, and wholly unsatisfying, series of sexts (oops, do you think the Tories will arrest me? Thank God for anonymity, eh?) and the odd kiss from a straight and questioning friend. I arrived at Bridge, surrounded by new Fresher friends – the week’s conversations had seemed to revolve around who Tina had pulled and what Sammy had gotten up to with that guy from Camera the night before. A series of complaints saw a large number of wing-men and women convincing me, reassuring me, doing their best. Telling me it will be alright; you’re not unattractive. Platitudes of this ilk seemed to have confronted me all week, as once again your author thought to himself, oh, if only if I was quiche. Your author is no longer the naïve fresher who went to Bridge with Tina and Sammy – he wouldn’t do either now. Oh Freshers’ Week regrets, eh – more to come. 

So, we’re in Bridge. I’ve downed a pitcher of Sex on the Beach – a cruel substitute, I thought. Suddenly, the rugby team from one of the colleges entered, having just completed initiations. This is the end, I thought. Bridge, this surprisingly tiny and inadequate club everyone in the year above idolises as a college tradition, was now overrun with the rugger lads – what hope is there for a potentially nice and friendly little gayman who will reconfirm my confidence? Oh, so little. Not that little, as it turned out. Suddenly, a new-friend approached, bringing along a rugby pal. It feels like a school-friend reunion so we all look on and think how ‘nice’ it is that at Oxford some people have half their school with them. (Lovely. Hmm.) We dance. We dance more and more – in fact, I catch the two talking. He looks at me and suddenly I can feel the sex on the beach flood through my veins. Coincidentally this is the date which made me realise that maybe a pitcher was too much. 

We dance together and kiss. He asks me to go home straightaway and naturally I assent – thank God, finally some action, I thought. We walk home and just outside Worcester (a red herring, perhaps?) we kiss again, only this time I start to realise that perhaps it wasn’t a very good kiss. Still hopeful we plow on and arrive back at mine where we go upstairs and get off a bit more before we decide mutually this was a mistake and move straight to sex. As he mounts, I suddenly realise there is no way this is going to work. No one is in the mood anymore. Him lying on top of me, I grab my phone. He continues to attempt some kind of oral pleasure on me, but I’m much more interested in Doodlejump. A high score. Perhaps the night wasn’t as wasted as I thought.

#NotGuilty: it’s not just strangers

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TW: Rape, sexual assault

On 24th December, 2014, I was raped by two men, both of whom I considered to be very dear friends of mine. All three of us went to high school together, and I had known them for four years. They were also ‘friends’ of my boyfriend, who also went to high school with us. All four of us had been hanging out together regularly for years, and I trusted them wholly. 

That night, Daniel* and Jesse* invited me over to Jesse’s house to drink with them. My family wasn’t celebrating Christmas Eve that night, and my boyfriend was spending the evening with his parents, so I agreed to go. When Daniel and Jesse picked me up from my house, they handed me a bottle of Jack Daniels and told me that I needed to “catch up” with them. I took a couple of swigs from the bottle on the way to Jesse’s house, and when we got there, we briefly spoke to Jesse’s family before heading upstairs to continue drinking. After taking a couple of shots with Daniel and Jesse, I began to feel very intoxicated. I told them repeatedly that I couldn’t drink anymore, but they kept telling me to take more shots and insisting that I needed to “catch up” with them. I remember taking one more shot, for a grand total of three shots, before I had to sit down on the bed and feeling like I couldn’t stay awake. I remember feeling someone get on the bed, and opening my eyes to see Jesse staring at me, watching me intently as if he was waiting for something. I closed my eyes again, drifting out of consciousness, and felt Jesse move in for a kiss before my memory goes blank (later I would conclude that I was drugged). 

The next thing that I remember is coming to, lying face down, with my pants around my ankles, while Jesse was on top of me. When Jesse finished, I remember laying on my side, pants still around my ankles, thinking, “Did that just happen? Is that what I think it was? Did Jesse rape me?” I felt so confused and disoriented; like I was dreaming, and I wasn’t sure if it had actually happened or not. Then, I felt Jesse lay down behind me in a spooning position, and start to touch me, initiating sex again. My memory goes blank again after that, and the next thing that I remember is hearing Jesse say, “Daniel, you can come out now.” After that, my memory becomes very unclear, and I just remember a series of flashes of what happened. I remember one of them being on top of me while the other one was shoving his penis in my mouth. I remember not being able to hold my head up, so whomever was in front of me seized a fistful of my hair to do it for me. I remember them taking turns on top of me and me not knowing which one of them was on top of me. I remember hearing them laughing, like they had some kind of inside joke that I wasn’t in on, and I remember hearing them moaning. I remember thinking, “I need to stop this,” but I felt totally paralysed and powerless; I felt frozen, like I couldn’t speak or move. At one point, I mustered up the strength to slur out “Stop! Stop! Stop!”, and one of them responded with something along the lines of “We’re almost done”. When they were finished, I laid face down on the bed, pants still around my ankles, feeling exposed, and burning with humiliation. I remember thinking “I need to pull my pants up” but, again, I felt paralysed. I’m not sure how much time passed, but sooner or later, I felt one of them pull my pants up. After that, I remember going into the bathroom and throwing up and then asking them to take me home. I don’t remember how I got home or how I even got inside my house, but my family told me that when I got home, I was crying and that I couldn’t sit up or stand; they told me that I had to be helped to the bathroom and held up to throw up so that I didn’t choke on my own vomit. 

My mum convinced me to report it to the police the next day, Christmas Day. After I made a police report and Daniel and Jesse were questioned, I was told that no legal action was going to be taken because there was no “probable cause” to make an arrest. Daniel and Jesse’s stories matched mine, except according to their versions, I took off my clothes and put them back on myself, and it was consensual sex. Because it was two against one, and there were no witnesses, there was no case. 

After doing some investigation of my own, I came to find out that Jesse had been charged with sexual assault in high school, and that he almost wasn’t allowed to walk at graduation for an incident in which he exposed himself at school. I also learned that another girl came forward and said that Daniel had raped her two years earlier. Upon presenting this information to the police, I was told that there was still no probable cause for an arrest. Today, my rapists walk free. 

*The names in this article have been changed

Picks of the Week TT15 Week 4

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Ashmolean LiveFriday: Social Animals – Friday, 7pm, Ashmolean Museum

If the opportunity to recreate stone age music isn’t enough for you, this event also offers performances, workshops and more. 

Mapping Motion: Impulse, Object and Trajectory – Tuesday, 5.30pm, Jacqueline du Pré Building, St Hilda’s

Leading British choreographer Kim Brandstrup gives a presentation on balancing music with the body in the choreographic process. 

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Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck – Monday, 9 pm Ultimate Picture Palace

The controversial piece compiled from the Nirvana frontman’s home movies, recordings and journals comes to Cowley this week. 

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Mess at The North Wall – Thursday, 8pm, The North Wall Arts Centre

This funny yet poignant semi-autobiographical piece about anorexia comes to the North Wall in Summertown having gained rave reviews on its tour around England. 

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Milestones: Claude Cahun

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The Surrealists certainly didn’t shy away from metamorphosis. Salvador Dali’s The Persistence of Memory, with its dream-like desert scene, clocks melting and bending into the indistinct earth, remains one of the most enduring images from the early years of the movement. The Spanish innovator is instantly recognised by his eerie and ethereal paintings and of course, that ubiquitous moustache. At the same time there was a master of disguise quietly climbing through the ranks of the crowded surrealist scene in France. Claude Cahun refused to stay silent for long.

Born Lucy Schwob in Nantes at the turn of the twentieth century, the accomplished artist gained renown for her shape-shifting persona and the multiple aliases she assumed. From ‘Daniel Douglas’, drawing inspiration from the English author Lord Alfred Bruce Douglas, famously the lover of Oscar Wilde, to ‘The Unnamed Soldier’, an anti-Nazi propagandist on Jersey during the Second World War, Cahun was a chameleon.

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Just as irreverence and subversion characterised her photography and writing, frequent physical transformations ensured that she and her work consistently escaped comprehensive definition or the constraints of a fixed genre. Ever the enigma, Cahun revelled in reinvention, casting herself as the lead role in the series of self-portraits that she assembled into montages over the course of several decades. She makes the effortless transition from a shaven-headed gamine to a strikingly made-up Marlene Dietrich look-alike, never failing to surprise the viewer with her refusals of consistency and convention. It is for this reason that Cahun is widely credited for her defiance of traditional gender norms; her playful approach to the expression of the non-binary aspect of her self succeeded in rooting her firmly in the canon of intersectional feminist art.

Among her most well-known works is I am in training. Do not kiss me, an image which depicts her resting a pair of weights on her shoulders, sporting a slicked-back cowlick hairstyle and the melancholic gaze of a Pierrot clown. Adopting a role commonly perceived to be masculine while retaining some feminine aspects of her appearance, Cahun refutes the idea that gender identity is permanent, restrictive and assigned at birth, instead favouring flux and transience.

As well as conquering the visual arts with her creativity, Claude Cahun’s forays into prose were equally experimental. 1925’s Heroines was a tongue-in-cheek take on the presentation of female characters in myth and fantasy, rewritten to reflect the pressures of the contemporary period. Cahun inherited this voracious appetite for literature from her family, and found a supporter and collaborator in Suzanne Malherbe, who was to become her lover. The years that followed Cahun and Malherbe’s move to the Channel Islands were marred by the repercussions of their political engagement: they were imprisoned and sentenced to death by German forces prior to their eventual liberation. Cahun was tormented by her arrest and harrowing detainment until her death in 1954, and put her work on hold. Now, over a century after she began, Cahun’s oeuvre remains just as modern and influential as ever. 

Mexico’s changing faces: the surrealist work of the 40s

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It may be trite to say that Mexico is a country of change, but at the beginning of the twentieth century, it really did have to put up with a lot. World War Two sent a stream of Spanish-speaking European refugees its way, looking for a new home away from the oppression of fascism. Within its own borders, revolution bubbled away under the surface, exploding into the 1910 civil war, and again in various armed conflicts even after the appearance of peace in the form of a constitution in 1917.

The reaction to, or rather celebration of, this constant flux of change came in the form of the infinite bodies of the Mexican surrealist artists. While artists such as Diego Rivera were producing massive socio-realist murals to emblazon public spaces with messages of support for the revolutionary government, surrealism in Mexico went against the expressionist grain to embody everything ‘unembodiable’ about the country’s changing identity.

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Results came in the shape of Gilberto Navarro’s urgently colourful crowds, created out of bulbous circular shapes which defy delineation in their shared torsos, and scrambling disjointed limbs. José Luis Cuevas’ grotesque line drawings, where the bodies are larger than they are tall, and the giant Where-The-Wild-Things-Are-esque proportions of each character, are tragically confined by the limitations of the page. Rafael Coronel’s almost hyper-realist wizened old men look through their mask-like faces at tiny birds and insects, with a similar poignancy and nod to the distortions of ageing as in the more absurd scenes of King Lear. Alfredo Castaneda’s bleak landscapes and domestic spaces are populated by black bearded figures merged in sympathy, or disintegrating through acts of mitosis into multiple replica faces. Like fiction’s magic realism, surrealism’s lack of boundaries allowed Mexico to explore its own anthropology, with variably gruesome, comic and unsettling results.

In viewing Mexican culture as invested with an innate sense of the unreal, or seeing its art as dominated by themes of magic and mysticism, we might risk participation in the unwilling creation of a Mexico that wasn’t fully existent. André Breton, on hopping off a boat on his trip to Mexico, superciliously declared that it was “a surrealist country by nature”. He proceeded to set up an exhibition in Mexico City in 1940 under the general title of Surrealism and persuaded Mexican artists such as Frida Kahlo to show their work alongside his. So began the obsession within the Surrealist movement with the idea of ‘the Americas’, and pre-Columbian, pre-Hispanic artefacts and structures, such as Antonin Artaud’s misguided decision to join the ancient Tarahumara people. Breton’s disembarking in Mexico was the start of a kind of artistic colonisation, as he went with the decided view that he would find all of the visceral primitivism and surreal folklore that he required to complete his own preconceived vision of the city. Kahlo herself felt averse to being viewed through the lens of a movement alien to her own individual identity, as well as her nationality. 

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Despite this, the use of the surreal as an artistic technique, rather than as a sign of conformity to a particular movement, remained a method of exploring identity away from the rigid confines of socio-political doctrine. Mexican female artists in particular wielded the brush when all else failed them such as their marriages and their mental health in particular, with striking surrealistic results. While Breton patronisingly summed up Kahlo as “a ribbon around a bomb”, she actively evaded this objectification through her self-portraiture, stating, “Really I do not know whether my paintings are surrealist or not, but I do know that they are the frankest expression of myself.” The contemporary disregard for female reality is addressed in the witty commentary on expectations of beauty in the work of Remedios Varo, in the cosmic significance of the domestic in Leonora Carrington or in Kati Horna’s focus on dismembered female body parts in her surreal photography.

The changing faces of Mexico during this period of unrest can be seen reflected in these similarly disparate works. In its resistance to being homogenised into a singular body, the Mexican surreal refuses clear definition in the same way as the country that produced it.