Tuesday, May 13, 2025
Blog Page 252

A glance at the Lancers: Oxford’s American Football team

Sam Day
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A glance at the Lancers: Oxford’s American Football team

As David Ojeabulu sauntered past a string of helpless UCL defenders on his way into the end-zone last Sunday, I couldn’t help but think how easy it all looked. Although I doubt that the American version of football uses the phrase “hat-trick” like most English sports do (it has its very own mystifying language that takes a while to get used to), the big running back – a third year maths undergraduate at St Anne’s – had reached the equivalent milestone by scoring his third touchdown of the day, this time without any opposition players laying a glove on him. More importantly for the Oxford Lancers, his score, worth six points, had put the game well beyond the reach of their London-based visitors, who now trailed 26-6 with just a few minutes of the final quarter remaining. As Oxford’s defence comfortably saw out the rest of the match to seal a comprehensive 20-point victory, I reflected upon my past week of covering the Lancers for Cherwell, and realised that my impression of ease did a great disservice to everyone involved with the team. Ojeabulu undoubtedly oozes the natural pace, power, and dedication which typically characterise top athletes, exemplified by his first touchdown – reminiscent of a bulldozer – which left at least two UCL defensive backs in sorry heaps on the 4G surface of Abingdon’s Tilsley Park. However, whilst the immense talents of players like Ojeabulu should not be taken for granted, this win could not have happened without the tireless behind-the-scenes work and oversight of various members of Oxford University’s American football community, who have quietly been putting together a project that appears to be going from strength-to-strength.

Chief amongst these protagonists is the club’s long-serving President, Stewart Humble. As his surname conveniently attests to, the larger-than-life Biomedical Sciences DPhil student from small-town Louisiana retains an air of humility when talking about his two-and-a-half years in charge of the Lancers, as he repeatedly stresses that he does not want this article to focus upon himself. Nevertheless, it would be impossible to ignore Humble’s huge contribution towards the unlikely progression of the Lancers throughout his tenure as boss. As we chat in the café by the main entrance to Iffley Sports Centre before the team’s weekly Wednesday evening training session, his vision for the club becomes more and more apparent, and a typically-American ambition shines through most of what he says. It soon becomes clear that Humble’s exciting plans for the Lancers revolve around three major priorities: 1) on-field performance, 2) financial sustainability, and 3) improved playing facilities.

Happily for Humble, success in the former sphere has not been hard to find recently, as the Lancers’ results this year speak for themselves. Coming off the back of a 36-0 demolition of Cambridge in the Varsity Bowl last Trinity Term, Oxford have now won all four games this season (a “four-and-O” record in American-speak), including comfortable Michaelmas victories against Chichester Spitfires and Kingston Cougars. A fitting illustration of this upward trend, the hammering of UCL Emperors represented a major reversal of fortunes in comparison to the previous encounter between the two sides, when the Londoners condemned Oxford to a narrow defeat in their final outing before Covid-19 ended the 2019-20 campaign prematurely.

Such on-field progress is the obvious outward manifestation of a slick professionalism instilled into the club over the past few years. Central to this polished set-up is the Lancers’ impressive team of nine coaching staff – led by the amicable Ian Hiscock – who each oversee a separate section of the football team. Before turning up to a session, I had been expecting relatively rudimentary training equipment and well-meaning but low-quality instructors. Instead, I was taken aback by the talent and competence displayed by all concerned. As unpaid volunteers, the dedication of these men left me in awe, as most seemed to donate huge chunks of their lives to both the Lancers and the sport in general, despite juggling such commitments with work and family life.

First to experience my naïve questions about this alien sport was Pat McAleer, the team’s offensive co-ordinator. Although probably a very busy man in his day job as an actuarial recruiter, McAleer has seemingly found enough time to scour the internet’s entire archive of football coaching forums and Youtube videos, which provide inspiration for his sizable catalogue of training exercises. His enthusiasm is reflected in his piercing attention to detail, somewhat evocative of Dave Brailsford’s famous “marginal gains” approach to the Great Britain Olympics team. For example, before the game against UCL last Sunday, McAleer spent ten minutes in the changing rooms with the gentle-giant offensive lineman Josh Abioye. As I eavesdropped, I quickly realised that this chat was neither motivational nor tactical. Instead, Abioye was receiving intricate advice about the relative effectiveness of different thumb angles when grappling opponents. Very little is left to chance!

Similarly extraordinary is the Lancers’ former head coach, Adam Goldstein, who has undoubtedly helped to facilitate the rapid development of hat-trick hero Ojeabulu in his current position as trainer of the running backs. Goldstein’s love for American football is indisputable, and must surely brush the fine line between passion and insanity. The man is a self-described National Football League (NFL) superfan who has written two books about the sport’s partisan supporter culture. Incredibly, he once visited all 32 NFL stadiums in one season – racking up 65,000 miles in the process – as he criss-crossed the United States in a renovated old school bus. A man in the UK with more knowledge about American Football would be hard to find!

Finally, with football knowledge and technical detail exceedingly well-covered, one would be forgiven for wondering whether the team’s health and fitness regimen lives up to the same standards. Fortunately however, the Lancers benefit from the expertise of Ben Wright, a strength and conditioning coach who commutes to sessions from Northampton, where he lectures and conducts research towards a PhD in physiotherapy. By drafting in a qualified physiotherapist to conduct specialist warm-up and warm-down activities, the Lancers have substantially reduced their injury frequency whilst simultaneously improving the physical performance of the squad. Such focus on fitness is further highlighted by the club’s successful navigation of the challenges posed by the Covid pandemic. According to Humble, no other Oxford University sports team was more active throughout the depressingly regular cycles of lockdowns and social distancing, as the squad kept up their regular schedule of twice-weekly training sessions. On-field activities were replaced by DIY workouts on Microsoft Teams, which conveyed a huge advantage for the one-off match against Cambridge when restrictions eased. Moreover, Wright’s physiotherapy work is complemented by the club’s recent acceptance onto Oxford Sports Federation’s prestigious Blues Performance Scheme. This development finally gives American footballers access to the same performance, nutrition, and conditioning programmes previously reserved for the likes of the Blues football, rugby, and netball squads. 

Off the pitch, the Lancers’ integration into the Blues Performance Scheme represents a giant stride forward in the club’s relationship with the university’s sporting administrators. Humble suggests that whilst American football may formerly have been viewed as something of an outsider in comparison to the more traditionally British sports listed above, their reputation is now growing quickly. In fact, Sports Fed’s generous attitude towards the club’s training programme has been mirrored by parallel developments that support the President’s additional two priorities for the Lancers’ future: financial sustainability and high-quality playing facilities. During his first year in charge, Sports Fed more than doubled the annual funding that had previously been made available to the American football team. Furthermore, with health and safety of paramount importance, Humble has also overseen the purchase of 50 new helmets – costing thousands of pounds – after a ground-breaking study by Virginia Tech researchers concluded that the Lancers’ previous helmet model failed to adequately prevent concussion and its longer-term impacts. This topic is of particular significance to Humble, whose own DPhil research focuses upon the molecular neuroscience of degenerative brain conditions.

As one would expect, financial issues are also inextricably intertwined with the problem of acquiring a new site to host American football in central Oxford itself, which would be immensely preferable to the current coach trek out to Abingdon’s Tilsley Park complex. The Lancers’ past travails in finding somewhere suitable to play are well recounted by head coach Ian Hiscock, who has been involved with the club since the early-2000s. Back then, the team – known as the Oxford Cavaliers – were composed of a mixture of Oxford University and Brookes students, because the former institution lacked sufficient numbers to field a full squad. In fact, Hiscock himself first joined whilst studying at Brookes. Over the years, the head coach tells me that the Cavaliers/Lancers have variously played and trained in locations as diverse as Brookes’ Wheatley campus, a patch of land behind a community centre off the Botley Road, and on poorly-maintained astroturf pitches at St Gregory’s Catholic School in deep Cowley, which risked serious injury to anyone attempting a tackle. In addition, the Lancers have more recently attempted to play on unmarked fields in Marston, which regularly flooded during winter, and at Wolfson College’s on-site sports pitch, which sadly lacked the posts required to kick field-goals or conversions. Unfortunately, this nomadic existence has posed significant problems for the club’s progression by discouraging potential recruits from making the effort to attend training and matches at far-flung and sub-par locations.

As a result, Humble has devoted considerable time and energy towards establishing a playing facility in the centre of Oxford, which would attenuate many of the issues described previously. Tentative first steps towards this goal were achieved last spring, when negotiations with the central university resulted in the Lancers gaining permission to use University Parks for their Sunday morning training sessions and the Iffley Sports Centre on Wednesday evenings. Nevertheless, the President’s most ambitious venture seems likely to be completed over the coming months, with the anticipated opening of a purpose-built American football field in Uni Parks itself. After discussions with the park’s groundsmen, Humble realised that the south-eastern pitch by the Linacre gate had been severely damaged by mole-hills and therefore could not host any sporting fixtures. Consequently, as part of a mutually-beneficial deal, the Lancers have agreed to fund a complete renovation of the area in exchange for the creation of a new pitch with American football-specific lines, stencilling, and goalposts (imported from the USA). As an added bonus, the park groundsmen have also received a box of official Lancer’s-branded baseball caps! Intriguingly, the funding for this £50,000 project has been donated by an anonymous alumnus of the Lancers, which represents the successful culmination of Humble’s primary plan to raise money for the club by lobbying wealthy former players. If all goes to plan, it is envisaged that the new pitch will be ready for play by the end of April, just in time to host preparations for this year’s Varsity Bowl! 

Finally, whilst true that on-field performance and off-field investment are at the heart of the Lancers’ future, it would be unfair to ignore the simultaneous emphasis upon inclusivity and enjoyment, which runs throughout the heart of the club. For example, during the pandemic the executive committee organised a succession of high-profile guest speakers including the likes of Jason Bell, a former NFL player who now presents the BBC’s coverage of the sport. Furthermore, there appears to be a great camaraderie between all team members, irrespective of their position in offense or defence (who are essentially two entirely separate sides), which reflects a curious fusion of British and American cultures. This togetherness is best displayed by the pre-game team huddle and the subsequent Bod Card check, during which coach Goldstein announces each player’s name in the style of a darts promoter. To their credit, the coaches were also more than willing to get me involved in training activities, which led to a few scary encounters with the imposing offensive linesmen as I pretended to be an opposition linebacker. Most of all though, the friendliness of many of the players and their eagerness to explain the sport’s various nuances left me feeling welcomed and part of a wider community. Vice President George Newick went out of his way to describe the tactical defensive tweak that shut down UCL’s offense on Sunday, whilst Secretary Eric Hembling – a United States Air Force officer – impressed me greatly with his thoughtful comments and good-natured conversation, although his Texas-inspired trainers somewhat divided opinion. Thanks to such geniality, I can’t deny that I am now heavily invested in the Lancers’ on-field success, and I am looking forward to seeing the transformation of University Parks over the next few weeks!

Image courtesy of Sam Day

The question of protest in a post-pandemic world

Maggie Wilcox
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The question of protest in a post-pandemic world

This article began as a critique of the proposed Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill’s erosion of free speech and freedom of assembly. Then in late January the House of Lords rejected numerous clauses of the act, particularly those pertaining to stricter policing of protests and protesters. With only about two months left in this Parliament, pundits do not think that the Police and Crime Bill will become law. If it does, the most controversial elements, like those rejected by the Lords, would not be part of it. This is an act of good fortune for the British public, unfortunately not for my article. 

While I was procrastinating writing about a now doomed law, something dramatic began to happen in my home country, Canada. Hundreds of people assembled in trucks, vans and cars to protest in Western Canada on January Ninth against vaccine mandates for truckers and COVID restrictions. This group swelled to thousands as the so-called “Freedom Convoy” converged on the capital city, Ottawa, starting January 28th. The movement has since began to block various border crossings with the US, severely impacting trade and disrupting day to day life in Ottawa and the other major cities occupied. 

This is an example of the type of protest the proposed Police and Crime Bill would have criminalized in the UK. Amongst the clauses voted down by the House of Lords were the creation of new offences for “obstructing the construction or maintenance of major transport works” or “for a person to interfere with the use or operation of key national infrastructure, including airports, the road network, railways and newspaper printers”. Hearing stories of supply chain shortages, closing factories and hostility from boisterous protestors from family and friends back home, such harsher penalties begin to seem logical, maybe even necessary. And, there was talk of other trucker convoys popping up in other countries, including the US and the UK. Suddenly, the Police and Crime Bill is less of a cut and dry issue. This turn of events has forced me to grapple with a new question: what should protests look like in 2022? 

Over the past few years, the Internet has become the leading way to make one’s voice heard. Online petitions and social media ‘slacktivism’, consisting of reposting articles, photographs and hashtags, has been steadily rising since the dawn of the Internet and especially over the past ten years with increased social media usage. Unsurprisingly, when the COVID-19 pandemic pushed so much of life online, protest followed in part. The typical re-posting trends denouncing racism, foreign conflict and climate change made the rounds on  social media in the first half of 2020. Then, the murder of George Floyd and the re-invigoration of the Black Lives Matter movement laid bare the weaknesses of digital activism. The infamous “Blackout Tuesday”, where social media users were encouraged to post a black square to protest racism and police brutality, was a disaster. Important hashtags and information were impossible to find in this sea of dark images. While the internet was indispensable in organizing the mass protest movement over the summer of 2020 across the US and abroad, it was still real-life marches which showed the widespread and profound desire for change.

But movements and civil disobedience like this, that gave life to revolution and civil progress in the 20th century are dying out. The first in-person protests after the COVID-19 shutdowns were those of anti-lockdown and anti-maskers, not too dissimilar from the groups that now compose the Freedom Convoy. These were, and continue to be, fuelled by misinformation, conspiracy theories and sometimes even harm those involved by spreading the very disease many of the participants did not believe in. Black Lives Matter protests too became deadly, though often due to clashes with those who opposed them. After months, years now of isolation, our pent-up anger has found a way to spill over. 

Yet, another worrying answer to this question of protest in 2022 is that protests may decrease. The Police and Crime Bill, which carries some truly worrying clauses, like the ability for police to search anyone “without suspicion” at a protest, elicited little public outcry in the UK. Right here in Oxford, last month’s demonstration against the Immigration and Borders bill was fiery and well-publicized, but the crowd never exceeded 60 or so people. Oxford is no stranger to student protests going back to the St Scholastica Day riots of 1355 to the NUS demonstrations against tuition rises in 2010. Yet it is not a hotbed of student activism akin to American universities such as Columbia and Berkeley of the 1960s. Still, a growing apathy or fear of protest seems to be taking root here and around the world. 

The very increase in a certain kind of bombastic and newsworthy public dissent over the past three years is to blame for this. Groups like the Freedom Convoy have given rise to the myth that protest is inherently extreme, destructive and selfish. At the same time, social media, the pandemic and political dysfunction have catalysed the polarization of Europe and North America. So, only the most desperate or angered among us go out. 

But as the Black Lives Matter protests showed us in 2020, protest movements can only have success when they are supported by large, diverse groups. With this in mind, I come to the answer to my question of what protests should look like in 2022: there need to be more of them. Back in Canada, we have already seen proof of this approach. Opposing the Freedom Convoy in Toronto were a group of healthcare workers, who staged a counter-protest in order to escort staff and patients safely to hospitals. This public display of solidarity coupled with general growing pressure pushed Premier of Ontario, Doug Ford, to issue a state of emergency on February 11 which could finally force the convoy to stop disrupting trade and travel. Only by showing each other and ourselves that we can make our voices heard in a peaceful, yet forceful manner can we save our right to dissent. 

Image credit: StockSnap via Pixabay

Covid and the crisis of compassion

Leah Mitchell
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Covid and the crisis of compassion

We are all familiar with the devastation Covid has wreaked: the millions of lives lost, the millions of lives curtailed, the sacrifices we have all had to make to protect public health, the financial damage and precarity that will haunt us for years to come, the enormous strain placed on our health services, and the terrifyingly huge mental health toll. These things are solid facts; grievances we can point to and complain about together, as victims alike of suffering imposed on us from above by the forces of the universe (and the government). 

But what about the violence Covid has done to our compassion? When will we talk about how Covid has stripped so many of us of our sensitivity towards suffering, of our true concern for others? And can it be refound?

For many of us (myself included – I hold my hand up, though not with pride), case numbers became almost meaningless a long time ago. Even mortality statistics, reduced to jagged peaks and troughs on a graph, failed to spark much emotional response. Their enormity combined with their constancy made it impossible to process. On top of the detached flatness of life under various degrees of lockdown and the general misery we were more or less all experiencing, our brains could simply not cope with more. Our grief and anger became channelled elsewhere – sometimes rightfully so, in light of the callousness, irresponsibility, and lack of foresight or even common sense with which our authorities have at points acted. But one side effect of this was that we became dangerously practised in a form of compartmentalisation – perhaps to some extent necessary to allow us simply to carry on existing, but in its stronger concentrations a force which allowed many of us, in ways big or small, to prioritise our own convenience over the safety of others. 

In the first few months of the pandemic, I was terrified. I dealt with this terror by rigid adherence to Covid protocols, desperate to control what little was left for me to control, and by a consequent sense of moral righteousness – I might still get Covid, but at least I had Done All The Right Things. My sense of righteousness, I might add, was only fuelled by the perhaps inevitably moralising messaging being fed to us: Stay Home. Protect the NHS. Save Lives. I was saving lives, and I was incandescently furious with anyone who was failing to do the same. I could only imagine that their actions must derive from some perverse and inhuman selfishness, as well as a sense of superiority or exceptionalism which, rather ironically, got under my skin like nothing else. 

But then. Ah, but then. I found myself around the early summer of 2021 forced to abandon my mental “black list” of those who had infringed Covid regulations, and therefore my neat and tidy moral code; partially because I literally lost count, but partially also because I suffered the crushing realisation – obvious now, but something I was incapable of seeing for a long time – that there was in fact no clear moral binary. Sure, some people behaved in particularly selfish ways and egregiously flouted the rules more than others. But at the end of the day, we were all guilty of the same core thought process – or failure of thought process – to lesser or greater extents. I might not have technically broken any rules, but come that summer I, like everyone around me, was being a little less careful, a little more emotionally detached from it all. I avoided looking at news headlines and case numbers. I still in some abstract sense cared about people, of course; and I still took public health measures seriously. But I didn’t really feel these things anymore. I trotted off to get my vaccinations, I avoided crowded events, I wore my mask indoors as required. But I no longer felt the crushing fear or the bitter anger. It was great. 

Except at the same time, with the alleviation of restrictions and the return of quasi-normalcy, I no longer felt a true connection to those still suffering immensely under the long shadow of the virus. I no longer felt the full weight of my compassion, because it had become too much to bear. Too much for us all to bear. We’re all implicated in this mess – in perpetuating the emotional disconnect that enables the harming of our most vulnerable.

With the pandemic far from over, how can we pull ourselves out of our apathy and into our empathy? I’m not sure I really have the answers, except that we must walk the tightrope between burning ourselves out and avoiding all emotional responsibility. We’re still connected to one another. Our government may represent a morally bankrupt failure of leadership; but that means we must lead ourselves. We must reach back into our communities, and into our most compassionate selves. We must rid ourselves of our numbness, and together remember our humanity.

I admit that it still feels overwhelming, and maybe impossible. But it is worth remembering that empathy, like apathy, is a mental habit we can practise. We won’t always get it right; we’re not perfect. But perhaps we can start with one small action – checking up on an isolating friend, perhaps – and gradually expand our compassion outwards. We can at least try. And if more and more of us tried – really tried – wouldn’t that be something?

Image credit: fernandozhiminaicela via Pixabay

Business Secretary blocks Oxford Professor’s appointment to research body

Suzanne Antelme
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Business Secretary blocks Oxford Professor’s appointment to research body

Business Secretary Kwasi Kwarteng reportedly blocked the appointment of Oxford Professor Jonathan Michie to a research council, allegedly due to disagreements over Michie’s political affiliation.

Professor Jonathan Michie was selected by an independent panel to become chief executive of the publicly funded Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC), which uses its annual budget of about £200m to finance research across the social sciences. Michie, a Professor of Innovation and Knowledge Exchange and President of Kellogg College, recently received an OBE for services to education and lifelong learning and has been in academia for 30 years, but – in a move the FT dubbed as opening a “new front in Britain’s culture wars” – had his appointment to the ESRC vetoed by the Business Secretary.

An ally of the Business Secretary claims that Kwarteng’s decision was driven by concerns that Professor Michie has alleged links to Jeremy Corbyn’s circle and leftwing political organisations.

Michie was university friends with Seumas Milne, who later served as Corbyn’s head of communications. In 1989 the pair co-authored with Nicholas Costello a book, Beyond the Casino Economy: Planning for the 1990s, that featured a foreword by former Labour MP Tony Benn.

Professor Michie told Cherwell: “I’m afraid that I have no knowledge of that at all, other than the speculation that I’ve read, the most informed appearing to be that published by Research Professional [News].”

“I have accordingly never publicly expressed any political views of note, and do not belong to any political party.”

Susan Michie, Professor Jonathan Miche’s sister, tweeted, “Why is supporting ‘Corbyn’-type values rather than this Government’s values a reason to not appoint brilliant academics to leading academic positions? What kind of society are we drifting into? Dystopian & scary. I hope academics resist this politicisation of our culture.”

Professor Michie was selected for appointment by an independent panel that included former advisor to Boris Johnson and pro-Brexit economist Gerard Lyons alongside a senior employee of the ONS and both the former chair of UK Research and Innovation (UKRI) as well as their current chief executive – UKRI being the departmental public body of which the ESRC is part.

James Wilsdon, a Professor at Sheffield University and director of the Research on Research Institute, told Research Professional News that this independent panel was “hardly a Marxist cabal” and that “to penalise senior academics based on their friendships or political positions as students 30 or 40 years ago is ridiculous – and reflects little more than the insecurity, paranoia and narrow-mindedness of Kwarteng and those advising him. It’s also a further sign of the creeping politicisation and corruption of the public appointments system.”

When asked for comment, a spokesperson for the Business Department would only say that “while the initial recruitment returned a strong field of candidates, none were ultimately suitable. Another campaign will start shortly with a view to attracting a wider range of candidates.”

A UKRI spokesperson told Cherwell that appointment to the ESRC’s executive chair is a matter for the Business Secretary, who has not yet responded to Cherwell’s request for comment.

Secretary Kwarteng’s office was approached for comment.

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

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