Tuesday, May 6, 2025
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Oxford Diplomatic Society visits Russian Ambassador’s Residence and Pakistani High Commission

Humza Jilani
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Oxford Diplomatic Society visits Russian Ambassador’s Residence and Pakistani High Commission

With a crisis brewing at Russia’s border with Ukraine and as Afghanistan stands at the precipice of humanitarian disaster, fifteen University of Oxford students got a sneak peek at the delicate art of diplomacy at work in London.

Over 100,000 Russian troops are stationed at the country’s border with Ukraine, raising the spectre of the largest land war breaking out in Europe since the end of the Second World War. American, British, EU and Russian officials have shuttled throughout the continent in search of an elusive solution to bring down the temperature and avert an outright war. At the same time, United Nations officials have warned that Afghanistan, under international economic isolation since the Taliban wrestled back control in August, is on the brink of a mass famine.

A delegation from Oxford’s Diplomatic Society (DipSoc) went straight to the sources and got the first-hand perspectives of British, Pakistani, and Russian diplomats shaping the narratives of these issues in London. Their itinerary included stops at the Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office (FCDO)’s headquarters in Whitehall, followed by a trip to the High Commission of Pakistan in London and a tour of the Russian Ambassador’s residence.

“As crises unfold in Ukraine and Afghanistan, we were very interested in getting different points of view on the current situations in Ukraine and Afghanistan, “ said Tiril Rahn, the founder and president of the DipSoc.

At the FCDO, UK diplomats outlined the government’s position on the dual crises unfolding. They emphasised concerns over instability and refugee flows, and reaffirmed that the UK was committed to finding a diplomatic solution to ease suffering and panic.

Later that day, the group was treated to a reception at the High Commission of Pakistan. They heard the High Commissioner of Pakistan’s thoughts on the humanitarian situation in Afghanistan, and they were treated to an assortment of Pakistani appetisers and pastries.  

Then, they hopped on the tube for a scheduled tour of the Russian Ambassador’s residence. Russia rents the complex, a regal 19th century townhouse in Kensington, from the United Kingdom for a token £1 per year. Standing outside of the residence, the excitement was palpable, Rahn said. The delegates debated which questions to ask and speculated about how forthcoming the officials would be, given how sensitive the Ukrainian topic is. The event was under Chatham House rules, so specific details cannot be provided. 

“To our surprise, they answered all of our questions! But the answers were essentially what has been out there in the media anyway,” said Rahn. 

“The event really showed us how unique it is to live close to London, the world’s major diplomatic hub. While the conflict feels geographically far away, the energy in London makes the world feel quite small, with politicians and diplomats coming in and out for meetings and discussions,” Rahn added. 

Oxford’s fastest growing society, the DipSoc’s membership has ballooned from three to over 700 since its founding in December 2020. The roster includes seasoned diplomats from the foreign services of tens of countries, aspiring diplomats seeking to forge connections, and others eager to learn more about and contribute to diplomacy.

“It is really special to be a student of diplomacy, because you can ask any questions you want. While real diplomats work in the interest of their country, students can be neutral actors, and broach topics that might otherwise be taboo,” said Rahn.

Image Credit: Tiril Rahn

Haute Kosher: Rediscovering a family

Tamzin Lent
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Haute Kosher: Rediscovering a family

I never really thought to ask about my family. I knew that some of us came over from Russia, Ukraine, Poland – but I never suspected there would be any actual answers even if we looked really hard. My grandparents don’t talk about it much, or don’t even know that much. I remember once that I searched up the various family last names on the Auschwitz database (we have a few, seeing as many Jews names were forcibly changed when entering the country because the British authorities couldn’t pronounce them). I had gone on a trip to visit Auschwitz. A number of probable relatives came up on the system. I turned it off – I don’t think I wanted to know, to be honest. But something remarkable happened last term. My mother had been searching a little about her family, and typed in her mother’s maiden name – Bomzon – to Google on a whim. It led to a discovery which has really transformed our lives.

SEQ Figure \* ARABIC 1 Sitting: Enta and Israel Abram Bomzon, Standing: Chawa (Eva), Bajla, Estera and Lejb

We came across a blog post about “Jewish Plock”, a small town in Poland. Before World War II, it was home to 33,000 people, including 10,000 Jews.  The post was about the Bomzon family, and in particular Izrael Abram Bomzon (1861-1913), who was the son of a gingerbread baker. He fell in love with a woman called Jenta who owned the bakery he worked at, and moved in with her in Plosk before having eight children: Bajla Sura, Hersz Fajwel, Dwojra Ides, Estera, Chawa, Brucha, and Chaim. Each and every one of them had the most fascinating lives before the war. I saw pictures of my family there for the first time. They looked uncannily similar to me and to other members of my family – and there was footage of them laughing, smiling, dancing. They sit around a table laid for lunch, their faces looking up at the camera. One can almost hear the cameramen telling them all to pull a silly pose. An entire video of their life in Plock exists, and I am fascinated as I watch them gleefully splash around in the water together in a river nearby as late as August 1937. Of this entire family who remained in Plock, only two survived.

I wanted to understand what happened to each member of the family. Chawa (Eva) left Plock to come to London before the Second World War when she was only 18, and moved to the East End of London, working in a pickle factory. Eva’s siblings remained in Plock. Of Bajla’s eight children, two survived the Holocaust by escaping to Russia in 1940 after the frontier between Poland and the USSR was opened for refugees. It saved their lives. After the War, one of the sisters – Hinda – returned to Plock, where she lived until her death  in 2002. So did Estera, who died in 2005. The two sisters are buried there. I have always been fascinated as to why someone would return to this place, so full of family memories, with no family left. Why did they return to the place where their brothers and sisters and parents were taken away to die? If only we had known they existed, maybe we could have spoken to them – we could have heard their stories, including the pain of begging their mother, Bajla, to flee with them, and her telling them that they needed to go, but she couldn’t bear to leave their grandmother Jenta.

Chawa (Eva) Bomzon in London in her 20s

The Germans established a ghetto in Plock in September 1940, forcing Jews to live in brutal conditions: Jews had pieces of flesh cut from razor blades, were locked in crates, and thrown down stairs; a Jewish home was forcibly converted into a Nazi brothel where Jewish women were raped; in 1940, all of the mentally ill and terminally ill people were taken to the forest and shot. In 1941, the Plock Jews were all deported. Adam Neuman-Nowicki remembers that “the Nazis hit us with truncheons and rifle butts… old people or sick people who could not climb onto the trucks were shot on the spot…. Jews were leaving Plock forever, the town where their ancestors put down their roots over 700 years ago.” He recalls that one of the mothers, unable to get on the truck whilst holding her baby, left it momentarily in the stroller as she hurried on. A Nazi seized the baby and “threw it to its mother so hard that it was immediately killed.” It wasn’t an isolated occasion–“They took babies away from people and threw them out of windows.” 10,000 Jews from Plock were deported to Działdowo, in trucks where people were strangled and choked to death. For most, this was a transit stage. From 1942, further deportations took place to Auschwitz-Birkenau and Treblinka, where the family was all exterminated.

But each of them must have had their own story. Take, for example, the story of Hersz–Bajla’s brother – who was a member of the revolutionary faction of the Polish Socialist Party and was arrested by the Russian secret police for four years. Or their sister Dwojra, who took on running the family bakery before being deported to Treblinka, and her son Szmył Szłojme (Sam), who was the only member of his family to survive the Holocaust, and emigrated to Los Angeles in 1949. From Estera’s four children, only their son Izrael Abram survived the Holocaust, fleeing to Tel Aviv to become a fruit farmer, where he died in 2003. Of Lejb’s children, one was liberated from Buckenwald in 1945 and had a son– my cousin Arieh, and the writer of the blog post that brought us all together. They emigrated to Australia, and then to Israel–where they still live. We managed to organise one of the most unusual family Zoom calls I have ever experienced, with all of the generations assembled. It was so painful to hear my relatives speak about their lives: the silence and trauma of growing up in a household with parents who were unable to talk to them after facing unimaginable experiences in concentration camps. Yet, for all my family, to find out they had relatives – a whole side of the family that they never knew even existed – was an experience none of us will ever forget.

Image Credit: jewishplock.eu.

Haute Kosher: On the politicisation of Jewish identity: or, why sometimes I wish I could care less

Leah Mitchell
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Haute Kosher: On the politicisation of Jewish identity: or, why sometimes I wish I could care less

CW: Antisemitism

Being Jewish isn’t an easy gig. Or at least, it doesn’t always feel like it. That doesn’t mean I don’t also love being Jewish – it’s part of me and of my family history, and I’m fiercely proud of it. But there are times when it feels too hard, too exhausting. I distinctly remember during the escalation in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict which occurred last May (and which I’m sure many of those in the West who are neither Jewish nor Palestinian nor Israeli, but who were so keen to throw in their two cents at the time, have already forgotten) that one particularly difficult afternoon, turning on my phone to see more news headlines and viral infographics, the thought flashed through my head that I wished I could just opt out for a day. Or a week.

What gave rise to this feeling, I think, was my sense of the burden of care. I suspect that this is something which many people experience, particularly if they are at all engaged in politics, and even more so if they are inclined to follow the news and to use social media. These days we are bombarded with information all the time on terrible situations we can do very little about directly, and it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. But what exacerbates this feeling for me is being Jewish, and also knowing the extent to which antisemitism is underreported and misunderstood, and the Israeli-Palestinian conflict mischaracterised and politically weaponised by those who have almost no direct connection to or real knowledge of it. Because this isn’t simply another news item for Jews; it’s our lives. 

More than that, I think sometimes it feels like our duty to care, and to care more than anyone else. Part of this derives from the antisemitic notion that Jews as a collective are to be held responsible for the actions of the Israeli state (and sometimes also, deplorably, for the antisemitism they experience). We are not given a choice to stand aside from politics; whatever our personal beliefs, as a group we are treated by left and right alike as simultaneously a conveniently tokenisable talking point and an easy punching bag. However, part of it also comes from the very real sense that we as Jews have a vested interest in our continuity. We have a duty to live for those of our ancestors who could not owing to antisemitic violence, and to ensure that Jews now and in the future can experience the protection they did not have. And, for those of us who owe a debt of gratitude to Israel’s existence for our very lives (which is many of us), we feel (or should feel) the need to  make sure that the country which means so much to Jews all over the world is a place which upholds justice and dignity for all. If you love something, if you depend on something, you have to be willing to strive for it to be better. But at what point will we collapse under the strain? 

I am by nature a person who cares about politics, because I care about people. Only the most inordinately privileged among us are granted the option of true apathy; for the rest of us, our rights, our security, our very lives hang in the political balance. Even if I could care less, in general I wouldn’t want to; what kind of a life is it not to care about the world around you? Not to care about the lives of others and the values according to which society is run? Moreover, not caring feels decidedly un-Jewish. Jewish values mandate that we take care of others, and Jews have been driving activism and social justice movements for literal millenia, from resistance against violent oppression in ancient Judea and 20th century Europe to the fight for better labour conditions for working-class factory employees following the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire of 1911, the key allyship of Jews in the American civil rights movement, and the prominence of Jewish women in leading feminist activism. 

Our own experiences of subjugation and discrimination throughout history have, at our best, made us compassionate and devoted advocates for justice. They also, at our worst, have made us fearful to the point of paranoia and bullishly defensive. The impact of intergenerational trauma is enormous; in fact, the concept of intergenerational trauma was developed by studies of the descendants of Holocaust survivors, who have been shown to be disproportionately predisposed to mental health problems. Our pain is literally imprinted on our psyches and epigenetics, with sometimes disastrous consequences. As a result of this and of our own experiences, news regarding antisemitic incidents or escalations in the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict can send us easily into a tailspin of stress and very real fear. Compounded by how such events tend to encourage a global rise in antisemitic rhetoric, the targeting of Jews, and the sharing of misinformation and gaslighting by Western ‘activists’ who have no relationship to these issues and even less knowledge of them, sometimes it all feels too much. 

Being Jewish can be exhausting. Arguably I make it harder for myself than it needs to be; it is true that other Jews don’t always talk about antisemitism as frequently or track it as obsessively as I do. I’m also very outspoken about my political beliefs, and always have been, which I’m sure doesn’t help. But very few Jews can switch off their engagement with these matters, and the emotions they provoke, completely. All of us are bound up in this web of care somehow. For me, whether owing to some quirk of my personality or something else, the only possible response has seemed to me to be, somewhat paradoxically, resisting by giving the people what they want. You want to politicise my Jewishness? I’ll politicise it myself and reclaim the narrative. You just read up on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict via a two-minute infographic and want to give me your hot take? Joke’s on you – I’m out here talking about it year round. You’re annoyed that I won’t pipe down about my Jewishness or allow you to tokenise it for your political agenda? Tough luck – my Jewishness is mine, it’s beautiful, and it’s here to stay. 

Maybe I can’t simply care less; but I can celebrate the joyful parts of Jewish existence and identity, and that’s so much more powerful than any brief moments of tiredness and despair. There is a Jewish blessing which celebrates the rooster, because the rooster tells us the boundary between night and day. The point here is that the rooster knows and confirms, while still in dark, that the light is coming. Jews, like the rooster, know in our moments of darkness that there is still light; we know in our fear that there is still hope. It’s ok to be exhausted and frustrated; it’s ok sometimes to want a break from the weight of care. Because I know that this is never permanent – light is coming.

The how-to guide to Hilary: How to live your main character life

Uma Gurav
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The how-to guide to Hilary: How to live your main character life

You may not have noticed, but they happen to be filming a movie in Oxford at the moment. 

I remember Charlie and the Chocolate Factory being read to me as a bedtime story at an age when I was still young enough to believe that I might one day sail down chocolate rivers, or that squirrels really were quality-checking walnuts in a Sorting Room somewhere out there, and that Oompa Loompas were alive and kicking. There is still a part of me that opens every chocolate bar with the hope that there really will be a Golden Ticket in there. 

Yet like most of us, I am sure, I have been walking around the centre of Oxford watching the filming of Wonka over the last few days with an air of feigned exasperation, tutting and complaining about how inconvenient it all is. Oxford is abuzz with the frustrated cries of: ‘Oh, how will I ever get to the libraries?’ or ‘He is not even that famous’. And I can only wish I had a pound for every time I have heard the urgent whisper of some new pronunciation of ‘Timothée Chalamet’ (how do you pronounce it anyway?) over the last few days. 

Honestly? I have to confess: I am finding it all rather exciting. There is something captivating about knowing that the city we live and work in is being transformed into the setting of a story that will be brought to the screen. I admit it, I am one of those annoying people who simply cannot resist the urge to linger around the sets for a moment too long, even as the marshals desperately try to usher people away from the Radcliffe Camera. There is something simply magical about the Sun beaming down on the (fake) snow-covered streets around the Bodleian and the costumed actors parading up the library steps like a vision from a bygone era. Surrounded by the lights, cameras and the action, it has been so easy to make life in Oxford seem like its own charming movie. 

Storm Eunice has had other ideas. 

You would think we would be used to dealing with disappointment by now. Cancelled plans seem to have become an old friend over the last couple of years. I often think back to the first thing I remember being cancelled at the beginning of the pandemic – Hertford Ball – when my friends and I were still freshers, bristling with excitement as the thought of going to an Oxford Ball. A lot of things have been cancelled this weekend, a stark reminder after the restrictions of the pandemic that there are things other than coronavirus which can disrupt our lives and our plans. Rowing races, netball matches, walks in the park – the stuff of movies – have one-by-one been cancelled over the last few days. 

Sometimes, life seems so disappointingly far from the movies that captivate us. If this was a movie, this weekend would just be a sped-up montage section which only showed brief shots of us staring gloomily outside from our window seats or sighing deeply with our chins on our knuckles as we all waited for the storm to pass. 

My roommate and I were laughing over whether we thought we would be the main characters in a movie the other day – we decided we definitely would be. In truth though, we are all the stars of our own lives – even if there are slightly fewer musical interludes or spontaneous dance numbers. True, maybe not every day is a packed action-thriller or a tear-jerking romantic-comedy. 

Dance down the streets; read in a coffee shop as you are illuminated by the first rays of sunshine; throw your head back and smile as the first drops of rain begin to fall one day. Or maybe, just take a deep breath as you draw your curtains in the morning, sigh as you sit down to work in the library and hum under your breath as you scan your weekly shop at the Tesco self-checkouts. Remember: you are your own main character. 

The thing about tales like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is that, as good as they are, you always tend to be able to predict how things will end. After the storm – that moment where the main character has to overcome their challenges – you know they will ultimately find their inner strength, defeat the villains and win their true love (or something like that). Real life is far more exciting – you never know quite what is going to happen next. 

When Wonka hits the cinemas next year, I will definitely be going to see it. Not for the star-studded cast or to annoyingly point out to my family all the spots I recognise –  (did you know I have been inside the Radcliffe Camera?) – but because it has reminded me that life is not like those fairy-tales that we see on the big screen: it is better. 

Storms, disruptions and cancelled plans have their own special place in our lives. Disappointment is just a reminder that we can look forward to things, that we relish the anticipation of plans and that we are capable of taking such genuine pleasure from so much in life. 

So the next time you get stuck outside a barricade in front of the Bodleian, linger for a minute or two. Have your main character moment. And maybe, just maybe, you will get a glance of Timothée Chalamet. 

Image Credit: Tejvan Pettinger, CC BY 2.0

Douze points: What makes a good Eurovision winner?

Josh McGrane
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Douze points: What makes a good Eurovision winner?

For a contest with a history that spans over sixty years, it’s unsurprising that there have been a diverse range of winning entries spanning countless genres and languages. But what is it that makes a Eurovision entry a winner? Over the last ten years or so winning entries have included Portuguese jazz, Italian rock, and Swedish pop. On the surface it seems difficult to make any form of generalisation behind what makes a winner. 

Before continuing I highly recommend having a look at the interval act from the 2016 contest held in Stockholm: in ‘Love, Love, Peace, Peace’, hosts Mans Zelmerlow and Petra Mede hilariously parody what makes a good Eurovision song in perhaps one of the most memorable intervals in recent years. 

The first question is what language should someone sing in? Many would suggest that considering English is the most spoken second-language in Europe, then that is the obvious choice for getting popular to relate to the song and therefore vote for it. However, I’m not sure this is necessarily true. Some of the most famous winners, such as Rybak’s ‘Fairytale’ (Norway, 2009) and Loreen’s ‘Euphoria’ (Sweden, 2012) have been English, but the highest scoring winner ever was actually Salvador Sobral’s ‘Amar pelos dois’ (Portugal, 2017). Similarly, in 2021 four out of the top five songs were sung in languages other than English, including the winners Italy. Personally, and I am sure many would agree, I actually prefer it when countries send songs in different languages as it adds a greater level of diversity and excitement to the contest. Plus, who doesn’t want the opportunity to pick up the occasional phrase from another language?

As alluded to genre it really seems that anything goes. Eurovision isn’t the cliched, generic display of pop music that its detractors like to paint it as. You can have as much success sending a dance-pop track about female empowerment like Israel did in 2018 as if you were to send a heartbreaking ballad such as 2019’s winner ‘Arcade’. To once again look to the most recent contest as an example, the top ten in Rotterdam had acts ranging from Ukrainian electro-folk to French chanson and Finnish nu metal. In a contest that is all about standing out, having a unique and memorable song is really the minimum that needs to be done to get a good result, let alone win!

Although having a great song is all well and good (it is a music contest after all) it’s also Europe’s biggest television event. It doesn’t matter how good you sound if you don’t have a memorable looking performance, and staging has often been the make-or-break factor behind many acts. In 2021, Malta was one of the overwhelming favourites to win, and bookies weren’t focusing too much on Ukraine and Italy. Then came rehearsals. Both Ukraine and Italy hugely impressed audiences with their staging whilst Malta felt somewhat lacklustre. The end result? Malta came seventh, whilst Ukraine and Italy were fifth and first respectively. 

Perhaps the greatest staging that the contest has ever seen was Sergey Lazarev’s in 2016. Although he didn’t go on to win the entire contest, he was the winner of the televote and finished in a very impressive third place. The concept of the performance was relatively simple: it involved him performing in front of an interactive screen. Doesn’t sound all that exciting, does it? Well, he eventually starts climbing and singing on the wall itself. If that’s not memorable, I don’t know what is! A more recent example of incredible staging is Kate Miller-Heidke’s in 2019. For her dramatic pop-opera ‘Zero Gravity’ she was placed, alongside two dancers, on large poles that they would use their body weight to move, giving the impression of them almost floating in the air. That, in combination with the space-themed visuals made a truly stunning performance.

I feel like it’s impossible to talk about what makes a Eurovision winner without looking at the most recent example, and probably the most successful Eurovision act since Celine Dion and ABBA. I’m talking, of course, about everyone’s favourite Italian band Måneskin. Firstly, for everyone who says that taking part in Eurovision is damaging to an artist’s career, I’d like to point them to the two BRIT nominations that Måneskin received,as well as their upcoming Coachella performance. But what made them win, and how have they gone on to become so successful outside of the Eurovision bubble?

I can distinctly remember listening to their song, ‘Zitti e Buoni’ after their victory at Sanremo and being pleasantly surprised, rock music has never been the most common genre at Eurovision, which has the benefit of making it easy for rock entries to stand out. It quickly entered my top ten favourites prior to the contest, but even then I wasn’t expecting too great things from them. As enjoyable as the song is, and it even ended up near the top of my Spotify Wrapped for 2021, it was going to face tough competition from the likes of early frontrunners France, Iceland and Lithuania.

And then came rehearsals, and everything changed. 

As mentioned, staging can make or break a performance, and for Måneskin it certainly did the former. It elevated what was already a great song into something polished, professional, and Måneskin certainly seemed to be challenging for the victory with their dynamic performance. It really comes as no surprise that they soon found themselves climbing up the odds and eventually emerging the winners on the night of the final.

It seems fitting that the secret to winning at Eurovision appears to be quite simple: sending something authentic that stands out, and you’re on your way to a winner.

Image Credit: Bruno, CC BY-SA 2.0

Pens, paper and panic: Contamination OCD

Ciara Rushton
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Pens, paper and panic: Contamination OCD

Contamination OCD is commonly understood as a form of OCD wherein the obsessions and compulsions experienced by an individual orientate around catching and spreading germs and disease. It’s a commonly depicted form of OCD in the media, and compulsions resulting from these obsessions can often include excessive hand washing, cleaning, and viewing random objects or items as ‘contaminated’ and avoiding them. Some estimates suggest that contamination OCD affects around 46% of those who experience OCD, making it one of the most common forms of the condition.

When I was younger, I went through a phase where I was washing my hands nearly eighty times a day. Most days I averaged between fifty to sixty, but it could go even higher. I couldn’t touch certain surfaces in my house, with a special discomfort regarding the kitchen counter, and I wouldn’t dare touch the tables in the school canteen. Rationally, of course, I knew these surfaces weren’t dirty or contaminated, but my OCD told me that they were, and so they had to be avoided or fixed with compulsions. At the worst point of my contamination OCD, I would leave lessons regularly just so I could go wash my hands. Though my experience of contamination OCD was not as severe as some others, with some individuals prevented from even going outside because of their fear of contracting illness, it was still an incredibly debilitating experience.

The worst of my contamination OCD passed a few years ago now, not through the exposure therapy often used to treat such forms of the condition but through more talking therapy techniques. However, just as many others with OCD also found, the advent of the COVID-19 pandemic significantly impacted how much and how often I felt these forms of obsessions and led to the development of new compulsions, as well as the return of older ones I had such as the excessive handwashing. It is fairly natural, I think, that a time in which we were told to be constantly aware of a virus and to do everything in our ability to prevent ourselves and others from contracting it led to the resurfacing of many compulsions designed, to a person with OCD, to do just that, no matter how irrational they actually were. COVID-19 has been recognised by many mental health charities including Mind – and several medical professionals – as a significant trigger for OCD.

At home, it had been much easier to keep safe from the virus. Although my town is fairly large, we lived slightly on the outskirts and therefore could mostly stay away from people if needed. However, coming to university and to live in a city in which thousands of students live in close proximity was a completely different ballpark. I physically, and also for the sake of my mental health and social life, couldn’t prevent contact with other people, and I also naturally didn’t want to. As I write this, COVID cases have been rising significantly across the university, which has been a source of great anxiety for myself and others I know with OCD. In such close quarters to a virus, compulsions can spiral out of control and patterns of behaviours long established can worsen.

A particular problem was caused by nightlife. To someone with OCD, as much as I love dancing and enjoying music, a club can feel like a hellscape of disease and germs, especially when you’re in such close proximity to everyone around you. Trying to enjoy any form of nightlife when your brain is telling you that it’ll make you contract an illness requires an almost rewiring of the brain that I think I was only really able to achieve having thankfully been able to access years of counselling and therapy for my condition. 

The most useful thing I have found in regards to allowing myself to enjoy nightlife with contamination OCD is knowing when I need to take a break or go outside, and having a friend who knows about what I’ll be experiencing and who will support me with that break. I find that I can become very overwhelmed in these situations, which is why I find being able to go outside and take a break so important. It also prevents the arising of compulsions such as handwashing, as I remove myself from a situation, at least temporarily wherein I may be triggered.

Contamination OCD and breaking the cycle of compulsions relating to it is something I am still dealing with on a daily basis, but over the years, as is the case with OCD, understanding my condition and working on breaking this mental process has helped to lessen some of the symptoms I have relating to it. 

In my next column, I will continue my focus on my experiences of OCD at university, looking into the actual academic encounters I have and how that interacts with my condition.

Image Credit: Ivabalk via Pixabay

Reflections on rustication: Dating with untreated mental illness

Zahra Lahrie
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Reflections on rustication: Dating with untreated mental illness

CW: Depression, eating disorders.

It is commonly said that in order to love another, one must love themselves. In fact, loving one-self is somewhat viewed as a prerequisite to becoming involved in romantic relationships.

As someone who has struggled for unending years with eating disorders and depression, accompanied with the typical low self-esteem and self-hatred, this approach to relationships scared me. Although I once could not see a life past twenty, the thought of growing old without anyone to hold, simultaneously frightened me. In retrospect, the thought probably conjured fearful emotions because I viewed it as a manifestation of my isolation. Yet, as a malnourished sixteen-year-old, I lacked such insight and simply knew that dying alone felt miserable.

Thus, a question that chipped at me constantly was whether I could love someone else, when I definitely knew I did not love myself. Could I be in a relationship when I had suffered from a slew of mental health issues, let alone while possessing the baggage of untreated mental illness? The answer is complicated, as most dilemmas of life can be described.

At one point, I considered myself an exception to the above-mentioned maxim. Though I did not love myself, my heart was full of love to give to another. On one hand, my compassion, empathy and warmth are traits that I value within myself. I realised these traits are key to a healthy relationship. However, I believed, or rather deluded myself into believing, that my possession of these attributes meant I was adequately prepared for relationships, even though I was struggling with my own inner battles (and losing).

With the deadly combination of a fear of loneliness, untreated mental illness and a big heart, I rushed into far too many relationships. Only in hindsight did I realise that I was probably too emotionally immature for the commitment that accompanies relationships. I was probably wearing rose-tinted glasses, thinking that the right relationship could “cure” my mental illness; love was to be my remedy where all other medications failed. There is a sad truth that underlies the idiom that hindsight is 20/20; there are times where I wish I could broach the wall dividing the past and present, to prevent myself from making certain decisions.

Regardless, the inability to change the past has equipped my present self with profound lessons about love and mental illness, which I hope to anecdotally share here. First, untreated mental illness results in unhealthy attachment styles, usually either avoidant or anxious. I found myself continuously falling into the latter type of attachment style. A mental illness, whether because of stigma or because of the innate vulnerability that accompanies it, is often suffered silently. When dating, you learn more about your partner and indulge in each-others vulnerability. Trust blooms. There reaches a point where you may feel comfortable disclosing your plights with your mental health. However, when that mental illness is untreated, sharing such a private aspect of your life becomes an unduly monumental step. I felt like I had tied myself to my partner. How could this person leave when I had just shared my deepest darkest secret? From here, it is a slippery slope into dependency, an inattention to the other’s mental health and a lack of boundaries. Untreated mental illness can be consuming, and when that is shared with another, it can be difficult to stop it from engulfing and suffocating them too.

Second, dating with an untreated mental illness is ridden with insecurity. This is when it dawned upon me why people say you must love yourself before you can love another. I was so anxious to lose the person who knew all about my dark secrets, that I convinced myself that they would inevitably leave. Every other person was prettier, smarter, funnier and more caring than me. Of course, they would seem so to me, when I considered myself the equivalent of damaged goods. My insecurity inspired volatility; I would shower partners in affection in an attempt to hold onto them, then turn cold when I had fooled myself into thinking they would leave any minute.

Upon learning these two lessons, I had to swallow a hard pill: mental illness can unknowingly transform you into a toxic partner. As you cling onto the other person as the only source of light in the darkness of mental illness, they become drained of their independence. With each boundary that is crossed, each vile insult that is uttered out of insecurity and each moment offloading mental illness onto another, I grew more toxic without ever knowing it.

These relationships, unsurprisingly, came to an end. With each failed relationship, it became easier to paint a dreadful self-portrait and picture one-self as undeserving of love. It is hard to assure yourself otherwise when such a perception is confirmed by years of mental illness. However, untreated mental illness often does not make you a bad person. Usually, it just means that you have the tendencies of a bad partner. It is difficult to prevent the negative influences of mental illness from spilling into your relationships, romantic or otherwise, when you do not have the resources to self-regulate and help yourself.

Finally, coming to the question posed towards the beginning; can one love when they have a mental illness? While reflecting during my rustication, I realised the answer is positive. Nonetheless, there is fine print that needs to be read before entering the dating world. Dating with a mental illness requires one to take an active approach to improving their awareness and general mental well-being. Mental health issues should not remain untreated, full stop. However, a romantic relationship and an untreated mental illness is a match made in hell, for all the above-mentioned reasons. Only with an active attitude of self-improvement can one avoid falling victim to the unique pitfalls of dating while managing a mental illness.

On the other hand, I have personally found that there is no need to feel “cured” of mental illness. Sometimes, it can feel like one can never free themselves of their mental health issues, even if they have been stifled into remission. There is a life-long vigilance that needs to be taken to your own mental health, that those who are not neurodivergent do not need to possess; your memory has unhealthy coping mechanisms stored away in a dark cabinet that can be unleashed and wreak havoc like Pandora’s box.

Crucially, loving yourself can be tricky when mental illness distorts one’s perception of themselves. However, challenging this poisonous hallucinogen that our brain feeds itself, through seeking (often professional) help for your mental health can create contentment. The effects of mental illness become clearer to your trained eye. You can spot how your mental illness manipulates your own actions, and those of others. With this deeper awareness that comes from working on being in-tune with one-self, and partnered with other healthy attitudes towards relationships, dating while having a mental illness is certainly possible.

A better love-guru maxim for those handling mental health issues would be that you cannot love another, if you do not want and do not put effort into loving yourself.

Image Credit: Rabiem, CC BY 2.0

South Asian upbringing: Communal munch

Krisha Hirani
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South Asian upbringing: Communal munch

“Once upon a dinner time…no that’s cringey, don’t use that. I’ll disown you.”

Tea, dinner, munch, whatever you call it, is better when it’s shared – no matter how cringey it is to admit. Some of the best conversations of my uni life have been over a communal munch – some of my hardest laughs too. In fact, it’s where that classy one liner up top came from.

We eat here like I’d eat with my family at home – just without the dinner table and with the cutlery – and every single time the first question to come about is: oh my god, how did you make this?

So, here’s how I make it.

The first layer of flavour of all Indian cooking will always be dried spices cooked in oil.  It can sometimes be poured on top of the dish after it has finished cooking but making it the foundation means that the flavours will infuse into the dish – especially into the ras (sauce). In Gujarati, we call this spice base the vaghar; in Hindi-Urdu, tadka. (N.B. everything italicised will be in Gujarati, because that’s the language my mum taught me the kitchen in.)

Take 2tsp of oil on a medium flame and add ½ tsp of mustard seeds before covering the pot. If you have curry leaves, toss in a few here. Wait till the seeds start popping before uncovering to add some asafoetida and ½ tsp of cumin seeds. You have about 30 seconds before it all burns, so you’ll want to move quickly here and throw in your green chilli, ginger and garlic paste. If you’re cooking with onions, add them now and cook them off. 

Bhindha nu saak – fried okra

Once you’ve finished the vaghar, throw in the bhinda (okra) and season with salt, red chilli powder, cumin powder and turmeric. Keep mixing on a low heat until the slime is cooked off and the okra are left soft. When they’re half cooked, add in some tomato puree for colour. When they’re three-quarters cooked, add in a shot of lemon juice. 

Chana nu saak – chickpea ‘curry’

It’s the same routine here too – vaghar, tomato tin and seasoning. Cook off the tomatoes for around 7 minutes, until it has bubbled all the way through before throwing in some canned chickpeas. Cook off until the chickpeas are soft, before adding lemon juice and kasuri methi (fenugreek). 

Daar – lentil stew

If we were to be making a daar, which is also a huge crowd winner, we’d start with the same vaghar, tomato tin and seasoning before mixing in some already cooked lentils. To save time, I always pressure cook my lentils – cooking time varies between the types. The cheapest red lentils from Tesco (we look out for our bank accounts here) take 6 minutes in a pressure cooker with a 1:3 ratio of lentil to water.

Laccha Parotha – Layered Flatbread

Now we’ve got the mains, we need something to serve it with. Rice is a staple in Indian cuisine, we always back it up with some kind of flatbread.  

Like all flatbreads, we start by kneading a dough from wheat flour, salt, oil, and water before leaving it to stand for half an hour. Then, make fist-sized dough balls – and make sure they’re all even. 

Take one dough ball into your rolling board, dust it with flour and roll it into a thin disc about 8 inches in diameter before applying some oil onto the surface and sprinkling some more flour on top. From the top edge, start pleating the disc. Roll the pleated dough into a tight circle, flatten it straight down and start rolling it out again.

Once it’s evenly rolled, it’s ready for the tawa (frying pan). Keeping it on medium heat, put the parotha on the tawa to cook the first side, before flipping it after around 7 seconds. This second side should cook completely before you flip it over to the first again. Here, the parotha will rise with some air pockets, which you can gently press down on before removing from the tawa and layering them in some margarine, butter or ghee.

Pista Halvo – Pistachio Dessert

This one might be on the spenny side, so make sure you’re up for the commitment.

Take 1 cup of shelled pistachios and soak them in boiling water for 30 minutes before draining and finely chopping or blending them. Take ¾ cup of semolina into a bowl and mix in the sliced pistachios. 

Melt 1 cup of sugar in some water (with vanilla extract if you want to be extra boujee) and gradually pour the hot syrup into the mix while consistently stirring it until it thickens enough to pull away from the sides of the bowl.

Let it cool completely before flipping the bowl onto a chopping board to cut it into pieces and garnish with additional chopped nuts.

Keri nu ras (Mango Pulp) – or Mango Lassi (Mango smoothie)

Peel the mangos and chop them into pieces before blending them into a smooth paste and sieving the mixture – or pick up a kesar mango pulp tin that’s already done it for you. Mix in a can of coconut milk, some cardamom and nutmeg and mix to blend and infuse.

Image Credit: thefoodplace.co.uk, CC BY 2.0

Oxford and Southhampton Universities begin search for volunteers for COVID-19 pill trials

Cecilia Catmur
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Oxford and Southhampton Universities begin search for volunteers for COVID-19 pill trials

Oxford and Southampton universities are looking for volunteers to trial Molnupiravir, a potential treatment for COVID-19. The trial is being led by Oxford’s Nuffield Department of Primary Health Care Science, partnered with the NIHR (National Institute for Health Research).

The antiviral drug Molnupiravir (brand name Lagevrio) prevents the virus from spreading and growing. The drug interferes with the Coronavirus’ genetic code, affecting its ability to replicate. As a result of it not being able to multiply, the virus levels in the body remain low. Therefore, the severity of cases and symptoms are reduced. The pill’s ability to treat infections, and reduce symptoms in high-risk cases, could be critical to nationwide progress in combating the virus.

The drug is the first of its kind to be approved for further trials for COVID-19 treatment. It is a small, oral antiviral drug which can be taken at home. The course requires four tablets to be taken twice a day over five days.

Analysis of the interim ‘Phase 3 MOVe-OUT’ trials published in ‘The New England Journal of Medicine’ reveal that ‘Molnupiravir’ proved effective in reducing COVID-19 symptoms if taken within 5 days of their onset. Further investigation by Merck and Ridgeback reveals the risk of hospitalisation was reduced by around 50% in those who took Molnupiravir compared to the placebo.

These trials have so far revealed no major safety concerns. The only people whom it is not recommended for are those in pregnancy or breastfeeding. Hence, if the results of further trials are similarly favourable, Merck hopes to be able to administer 10 million people with the drug course by January 2022.

The results of the first volunteers in these more recent trials are promising. In some cases, symptoms have reduced within 48 hours of the pill being taken. Volunteers have commended its ease and efficiency. Side effects are minor; headaches, dizziness, diarrhoea, nausea and vomiting only affect 1 in 100 people who take the drug.

Five days ago it was reported by the BBC that 8000 recently diagnosed volunteers are already taking part in the current trials, yet more are needed. It is estimated that 10,600 will need to be recruited in total. Volunteers must prove they currently have COVID-19 through a PCR or lateral flow, alongside symptoms which have lasted a minimum of five days. The search is for those over 50, or for 18-49 year olds with underlying health conditions. According to trial results, the most common risk factors for COVID-19 which this drug will be authorised for are obesity, older age over 60, and diabetes mellitus.

Whilst this drug is key in combating COVID-19, it does not replace vaccinations. The push for vaccinations and boosters nationally continues. 

Image credit: Christina Victoria Craft


John Evelyn: 5th Week, Hilary Term 2022

John Evelyn
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John Evelyn: 5th Week, Hilary Term 2022

Well it’s been more of the same filth in the Union, but John Evelyn did promise that this week’s entry would be a little less raunchy. So, wild tales of the sexual deviance of committee will have to wait for another day. John Evelyn knows a few people who will be happy about that. Instead, we turn to the second most important thing in the Union: politics, ugh. 

But with elections just two weeks away things are hotting up for our lovely hacks. The Univ Queen’s crown has been slowly slipping, as after finally finding a rather Rad(ley) final officer candidate, disaster struck as he had a change of heart. The Garbage Collectors are now digging deeper and deeper into the bin, checking each piece of trash again and again to see if it could make a good officer candidate. Rumour has it a particularly stinky Fish carcass has been inspected somewhere around 8 times.

After a slow start to their hacking, forgetting to host any dead library bops or attend any Hayek not-sex parties, Connect 2.0 have launched themselves into the game with a huge play on the pages of this very publication. John Evelyn can confirm that with the assemblage of Union hacks and student journalism we are now officially at the very centre of hell.

Secretary’s committee is always a fun place to hang out in the weeks before an election, as senior hacks attempt to convince junior hacks that, no, it is really worth going into you social capital overdraft to earn the honour of sitting in endless meetings all Monday. Here too, it’s been more bad luck for the Univ Queen, with the LMH Enforcer going full Clyde Barrow and snatching her only seccie. Rumour has it he has found his Bonnie somewhere on seccies committee.

Meanwhile, the Ultimate Bromance has had to make the crushing decision to have one half pull out of the contest, as their love was too strong to bear competing with each other. This term has seen the usual number of spiritual awakenings on secretary’s committee, as most choose not to run on. John Evelyn hears there are some cushy appointed positions from which to collect great gossip, if anyone is interested.

Just a little bit more to come. John Evelyn x

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