Tuesday 24th June 2025
Blog Page 362

Why we should listen to the activists of 2020

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As 2020 came to a close, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon: not one, but two, but three approved Covid-19 vaccines. The end of the pandemic seemed in sight, and a wave of optimism for 2021 set in. But two months in, not only is the Covid-19 crisis still as present as ever, but we are increasingly realizing that the pre-Covid status quo was no less racist, sexist or Paris-Agreement-compatible than the present.

A history of arbitrary discrimination

A crisis is a condition of instability or danger on a socioeconomic and/or political level. Some crises are external, such as Covid-19 (to a certain extent). But crises can also be internal, meaning that they are (re)produced by the very system they affect. Many structural crises are a product of our history of arbitrary discrimination; unfavourable treatment of a group for reasons unrelated to the basis of discrimination. Contemporary arbitrary discrimination includes race increasing the risk of being incarcerated and women earning less than men.

It’s not just that race and gender are irrelevant in determining a person’s criminal or professional profile. It’s that race and gender don’t exist as biological traits like height or hair colour do – they exist purely as social constructs. These constructs were created to justify exploitation; race was created to justify racism and slavery, and gender to depict women as being “naturally submissive”.

Protesting against injustice in 2020

To fight this injustice, movements such as Black lives matter, NiUnaMenos and Fridays For Future protested throughout 2020, undeterred by the hurdles of the pandemic.

1. Black Lives Matter

“Race does not exist but it does kill people.”
Even if it is a social construct, race continues to perpetuate oppression. UK residents with BAME backgrounds are twice as likely to die from Covid-19. George Floyd, Eric Gartner and Breonna Taylor would not have died if they were white. This reality was never hidden. But it was largely ignored, and still is. The Black Lives Matter movement, demanding that this injustice finally end, gained incredible momentum in 2020. An estimated 15 to 26 million people attended the protests in the US.

Politicians rushed to be seen taking the knee in solidarity, and Instagram was flooded with #BlackLivesMatter and #BlackOutTuesday. But sustainable solidarity – listening and enforcing demands to defund the police and to instead increase spending on social programmes – has fallen short. In January 2021, images of Donald Trump supporters storming the US capitol – facing a stark lack of law enforcement services – shocked the world. But when contrasted against the deployment of the national guard during the May 2020 peaceful Black Lives Matters protests, the situation seems even more perverse. The movement’s global network rightly called out “the hypocrisy in our country’s law enforcement response to protest.”

2. Abortion protests and green Wave

2020 also saw loud cries to end gender inequality. In Argentina, the movement #NiUnaMenos (‘Not one less’ – meaning not one woman more lost to gender violence) brought almost a million people to the streets in 2018. The green headscarf used in protest alludes to the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo movement, who protested successfully against the disappearance of their children during the 1976-83 dictatorship. The resulting ‘green wave’ of feminist activism helped lead to the landmark achievement on the 30th of December 2020: the legalisation of abortion. Abortion remains altogether prohibited in Honduras, Nicaragua and El Salvador. Despite momentous protests, the Polish conservative PiS party passed a near-total ban on abortion in October 2020.

3. Indigenous rights and climate justice

There are also less evident forms of structural discrimination. The climate crisis – or those contributing to it – indirectly discriminate based on age or nationality. 

Fridays For Future is a global climate justice movement inspired by school-striker Greta Thunberg. It brought millions of people to the streets in 2019; the pandemic required the movement to take different measures. In April, German activists had the biggest ever online protest, with over 200 000 viewers. But the climate crisis will have its biggest impact, not on rich, northern nations, but will disproportionately affect poorer people and the global South – even though these nations have lower emissions.

Yet perhaps the most perverse effects are on indigenous peoples. The impacts of the climate crisis make many traditional ways of life – which are usually low carbon or carbon-neutral – impossible. Not only does it alter entire ecosystems, but it makes predictions and decision-making very difficult. The Nenets, who have lived with their reindeer herds for generations on the Yamal Peninsula in Siberia, are having to cope with increased forest fires, shorter periods in which they can travel on frozen rivers, and a rise in floods.

In Canada, climate activists and indigenous people joined together in a wave of civil disobedience in February. They erected rail blockades to protest against a new pipeline in the Wet’suwet’en territory.

4. Belarusian protests

Corrupt politics is a different type of structural oppression. It is not one societal group being arbitrarily oppressed by another. It is a whole population (with the exception of the profiting elite) being intentionally oppressed through governmental power-structures.

Belarusian President Lukashenko has long been referred to as “the last dictator of Europe”. In August 2020, his rigged reelection – he has been in power since 1994 – sparked momentous protests. The colours of the opposition, red and white, dominated the protests, which resulted in roughly 25 000 arrests. Red and white symbolise the historical Belarusian flag, abolished when Belarus first became a part of the Soviet Union.

Even after their ‘break-up’, Belarus and Russia have, in general, stayed relatively close economic partners, with Russia buying Belarusian loyalty through cheap oil prices. But it’s not just corrupt elites who work together – the current protests against Putin in Russia may be drawing their inspiration from Belarusian activists’ bravery.

Yet even as mass demonstrations in Belarus have quieted, activists continue to spread pictures of snowmen dressed in red and white on Belarusian Telegram Channels. Telegram gained massive popularity as a communication medium when Lukaschenko blocked most internet sites and services as news of the rigged election began spreading.

For the time being, the protests have, in some ways, had opposite effects. The instability worsened it’s already poor currency ranking, making Belarus even more dependent on Russia for currency credits. 

Moving forward

Don’t clap. Listen. 

We have a tendency to glorify activists. Perhaps it’s because we like supporting the underdog, or because we feel better if we know someone else is addressing the problem.  But just like health care workers, they don’t need our applause – they need things to change.

Ending discrimination requires giving up privilege

Privilege and discrimination are two parts of the same coin. If we condemn structural discrimination as being based on arbitrary factors, then acknowledging the resulting privilege is simply not good enough. Our silence allows structural oppression to continue.  We all need to be protesting against and condemning it.

You don’t need to “be an activist” to take action. You can educate people, sharing calls to action or resources on your social media channels. You can donate time or money to existing social movements. You can organise pressure on institutions (e.g. the university) or politicians. You can – and should – make sure to call out racism, sexism whenever you see it.

And yes, that may be uncomfortable. But that’s better than being comfortable in a world of structural injustice. And if we manage that, then, maybe, 2021 will be a little better after all.

Image Credit: John Englart via Wikimedia & Creative Commons. 

 

General Motors’ stake in China’s Electric Vehicle market

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The Wuling Mini EV is a small, nifty $4500 city car currently on sale in China. It is manufactured by SAIC-GM-Wuling, a joint venture between the American firm General Motors (GM) and two Chinese firms, SAIC and Wuling Motors. It saw record sales in 2020, surpassing all competitors in unit sales in the Chinese market except the Tesla Model 3.

This electric car has somewhat of an odd but likeable look (it looks like it has been compressed from back to front), and it represents a very successful foray for the quintessential American firm GM into the Chinese market. Apart from its significant stake in Wuling Motors, GM also has a significant stake in Baojun, another Chinese auto brand that has its own EV models.

Thus, when I read that GM plans to transition to all-electric vehicles by 2035, it struck me as a strategic move that sought to take advantage of growing global interest in EVs, at the same time as drawing on its established links with its EV subsidiaries in China. In fact, the data shows that a significant proportion of their current EV sales are going to China. It seems that in the future they will be looking to take advantage of the growing Chinese market and expand its market share there.

Other Competition? 

GM is not the only automaker committing to all-electric vehicles. Jaguar has announced recently that they will be an all-electric brand by 2025. These announcements are perhaps motivated by a recent surge in EV automaker’s stocks, suggesting that they are designed to ride the current wave of EV optimism.

Tesla remains the global leading automaker in EVs with the highest profile. It saw a huge rise in its stock price in 2020, increasing nearly ten times, making Elon Musk the richest man in the world.

However, there are also huge hopes being placed in China EV market and automakers. China currently has the largest EV market in the world, with nearly half of the global stock of EVs and twice the market of the US. Its current percentage of EVs on the road is around 5%, higher than the US’s 2%. Although the Tesla Model 3 remains the favourite EV model there, Tesla faces stiff competition from local Chinese automakers.

These companies have also seen a huge rise in their stock price in the past year. In terms of market-capitalisation, while Tesla takes the number one spot, Chinese automakers Nio (7th) and BYD (5th) are in the top ten. In particular, Nio, an EV-only manufacturer, has seen its stock rise so much that it now surpasses the market value of more well-known brands like BMW and Volvo. 

Nio’s high share price cannot be justified by its number of global units sold, only selling around 44000 units, compared with BMW’s 2.3 million units. It can only be explained by the very high hopes currently being placed in China’s EV future, and in the future earnings of these Chinese EV firms.

It remains to be seen if Nio’s share price is a bubble waiting to burst, but there are some indicators that China will continue to lead the world in the major transition into EVs in the future. I experienced it first-hand when I went to Fuzhou, China in 2019, where I was surprised to find that most of their public buses in the city were all-electric buses. I was impressed by the quietness of the journey and also by their swift acceleration.

China’s EV Future: Misplaced Optimism? 

One reason for worldwide optimism of China’s EV future is the enthusiasm and support from the Chinese government for EVs.  The Chinese government has implemented a huge range of policies including EV quotas for vehicle manufacturers and importers, tax exemptions and subsidies, government procurement, and promoting the development of EV charging infrastructure. This sets the stage for even more widespread adoption of EVs in China. In particular, its infrastructure implementation has been particularly impressive. As of 2019, 82% of global fast chargers were located in China.

One gets the feeling that the Chinese government will have the resources and will to implement the necessary investment and policies for the long-haul transition to EVs. As Liu Jing, a professor at the Cheung Kong Graduate School of Business in Beijing says, “[when it comes to the car industry] the most important thing is what the government does”. In the US, there are some promising signs with Biden pledging to turn the federal fleet to all-electric vehicles, but the future remains uncertain depending on the stance of subsequent elected governments.

China’s automakers are poised to take advantage of a rise in demand. The country has the industrial production capacity suited for a huge rollout of EVs, as it is currently the leading maker of big battery packs for EVs and the leading producer of electric motors. China also has control over the world’s production of key raw materials needed for EVs including the rare earth metals lithium and cobalt. So, China has all the necessary ingredients to become the world’s largest EV automaker in the future.

In addition, Chinese firms are competing with Tesla to be the foremost innovators in EV technology. Battery swapping technology, where instead of charging the battery, the depleted battery is swapped with a fully charged identical one in a booth, has recently seen significant uptake in China. Tesla first showcased its own battery swapping technology back in 2013 but so far has failed in the US due to a lack of customer demand. Nio, on the other hand, have built their own battery-swapping stations around China and now offers battery swapping services to all those that buy its cars. It remains to be seen if this can become the mainstream service for battery replenishing.

How do the EV industry prospects of the US (home to GM) compare with China? In my opinion, out of the two markets, China has bigger growth prospects. Their government is, on the whole, more committed to the EV transition and they have promising start-ups. I forecast that China’s EV market will continue to lead global demand and there will be a rise of Chinese automakers.

Can General Motors Compete?

Where does this leave GM, in its move to become an all-electric car company by 2035? Since GM has joint ventures in China, it will certainly be able to carve out some market share there. However, GM is the home to iconic car brands like GMC (Hummer) and Cadillac. Will these all be put aside in favour of foreign offerings such as the Wuling Mini EV?

The recent unveiling of the Hummer EV would suggest not. In fact, when I first heard of the Hummer EV, I immediately dismissed it, saying that surely macho fans of the original Hummer would not be welcoming of a quiet non-revving electric car. However, on seeing the press release video, I warmed to it. To me, the Hummer EV is coolness personified. It has the look of a car from the future (in a different way to the Tesla Cybertruck), but at the same time keeps the character of the original Hummer. Its features such as the crabwalk, which allows its wheels to move diagonally add punch to the whole package.

Where I see firms like GM being able to compete with Chinese automakers is not in the realm of cost or technology. Chinese firms, with their access to their efficient production facilities, have an edge on cost, and they are swiftly catching up to the US in technology. Firms like GM have to compete in terms of design and branding. This is why Tesla still remains the most popular EV today even in China, due to its iconic brand name.

However, it is not certain whether offerings like the Hummer EV will achieve significant sales in either the US or China due to its large price tag (starting at $112,595). The profitability of an all-EV line-up is still in question. Nonetheless, the Hummer EV is a positive affirmation that GM will stay true to its iconic brand in the future. In doing so, there is hope that domestic consumers will warm to EVs along with being attractive to the foreign Chinese market.

Image Credit: David290 via Wikimedia and Creative Commons. 

The Next Giant Leap

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On the 14th of December last year, a routine coronavirus briefing in Thailand became significantly less mundane when a Thai minister accidentally announced an ambitious plan to build, launch and operate a lunar orbiter within seven years. This was met with near-universal scorn from Thai people on social media as yet another of the crazy policy by the kingdom’s hugely unpopular military led-government. The program itself was not meant to be announced until early this year – but, slowly more details have steadily been released before all was unveiled on January 13th. With a budget of 3 billion baht (approximately £72 million, or $100 million), it aims to launch a craft massing 300kg, ferrying microsatellites to lunar orbit to carry out observations and gather data.

Unsurprisingly, another torrent of criticism followed the release of all the details. Some questioned its small budget and fast timeframe. Predictably though, most questioned the fundamental value of a lunar orbiter. This was a project already undertaken by other space programs, with the reasonable assumption that government funds should be spent on better things in a country with a bleak economic outlook.

Of course, these criticisms have some validity. Nonetheless, there are arguably more merits to programs like these for developing nations than would be apparent at first glance. Many lunar programs, such as the Apollo project, and the corresponding Luna programme of the Soviet Union did cost far more than the allotted Thai budget, or than any nation short of a superpower could ever afford to spend on a program.

It is not the 1960s anymore, and more recent lunar lander programs, by India’s IRSO, and Israel’s ISA, are much more comparable in cost, with budgets around $100 million (the two programs took seven and eight years, respectively). True, both countries have much more experience in launching and manufacturing as well as longer history of lunar operations than most developing nations; still, they also were building lunar landers, which are much more technically complicated (evident by the fact both landers crashed on their landing attempts).

The claims that developing nations have more important things to spend their money on also have some legitimacy; but, of the 200-odd nations in the world, for 130 nations, it would account for less than half a per cent of government spending over seven years. For Thailand, India, and Israel, the relative or projected costs of their programs account for less than 0.02% of government spending over a seven-year timescale. This is not a small amount of money but contrasted with the budget for the king of Thailand, Indian corporate tax cuts, or Israeli corruption scandals, it is a rounding error.

Now, this of course does not mean that it could not be spent better. Yet, if other space programs are anything to go by, their return of investment directly and indirectly alone justifies the money spent. The Apollo program has been estimated to have a return of investment of anywhere from $2 to the dollar to $40 to the dollar as a result of the direct and indirect employment; the spinoff technologies and companies spawned by the advances in research of the program. A less sensational and more modern program, like the United Kingdom’s Space Agency (UKSA), has been touted to have a return of investment for space science programs as anywhere between £2 to £4 directly, with £4 to £14 indirectly, for each pound spent. Considering that the UKSA accounts for 0.04% of the total budget, it is much more of an apt comparison than NASA and the Apollo project, which peaked at 5% of the US budget.

Despite strong evidence that investment in space is a good form of investment for development, there are more persuasive reasons for a program like this. These types of programs are ambitious, and, in all likelihood, will overrun, both on time and budget. Only seven agencies (six national agencies, and the European Space Agency) have achieved lunar orbiters before. For both Israel and India, the success of their programs was much to the surprise of the rest of the world, especially compared to the conventional wisdom which informs the gargantuan budgets of ROSCOSMOS and NASA. Developing nations just simply have seldom attempted things like this before. These programs, however, would be a good chance to set up governmental, industrial, and academic infrastructure that would place them at the frontier of development in space.

One of the most important aspects which have been overlooked most in the commentary around space programs is the chance to stem the brain drain that plagues many developing nations. Space programs have always been inspirational and are great ways for governments to retain national talent and inspire more people to get into scientific fields. Space programs are also great ways of creating national investments, as many space agencies are limited to only citizens. Many companies founded in the expansion of a space sector are partially or fully government-owned. This means that investment will stay grounded in the country and no profits and benefits will be sucked up by foreign companies.

Lunar programs would be a great opportunity for any developing nation if handled well by their government; but, many developing nations are beset with corruption scandals. An additional obstacle to any developing nation is the lure of just buying services and products from western companies to further a theoretical lunar program; this is what many developing nations have done previously for terrestrial satellite projects. Whilst this may be an attractive option, as it utilises western experience and established industry, it does not bring any of the development to the nation and may end up in the budget-overrun hell that too many western projects have ended up in recently.  This would defeat the main point of the program and would result in little benefit outside the direct impact of the satellites: telecommunication infrastructure and earth observation data.

The case is clear for developing nations’ involvement in space exploration and programs like India’s, Israel’s, or Thailand’s are exciting. Such programs drive innovations in low budget space exploration and spread the budding space sector boom to more nations. Developing nations can also leverage the space sector as a tool for national investment in high-class research and development capabilities. The barrier to space is lessening and will continue to do so in the years to come, and developing nations should look to not get left behind.

Image credit: NASA via Wikimedia & Creative Commons. 

Oxford organisations respond to the death of Sarah Everard

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CW: Sexual Violence 

Over 300 people attended an online vigil on Saturday evening hosted by OSARCC, Reclaim the Night Oxford, and It Happens Here, in memory of Sarah Everard. The event brought together both student and city groups, and replaced a planned in-person vigil, although a representative for OSARCC stated that in-person events will be held once COVID-19 restrictions allow. 

This follows some of the in-person commemorations that have taken place in the city, including the laying of flowers next to the Radcliffe Camera, organised by Oxford SU’s Women’s Campaign. Ellie Redpath, Chair of the Campaign told Cherwell: “Sarah Everard’s disappearance has affected us all, because so many of us have felt unsafe walking home at night, and we should not still be in a position as a society where women and non-binary people can go missing just because they werewalking down the street alone.” 

Of the commemoration efforts organised by WomCam, Redpath said: “It’s important that we show our solidarity in tragic times such as these, and hopefully by placing flowers in such a central location in Oxford, we can pay tribute to Sarah and show our solidarity.”

A representative for It Happens Here told Cherwell: “It Happens Here was involved in the creation and organisation of the vigil alongside OSARCC and Reclaim the Night Oxford. Three generations of our Co-Chairs spoke in turn about the work IHH does, as well as their personal experience and thoughts on the sexual violence women and girls in Oxford sadly continue to face.”

“We were deeply moved by all the women who took the time to share their own experiences, and by the hundreds more who were present, if virtually, to support one another, listen and commemorate the tragically short life of Sarah Everard. Although it’s a shame we weren’t able to meet in person, we continue to believe in the importance of creating spaces, in-person and virtually, where women can grieve, support one another and come together as a community in times like these.”

“The flowers that still lie outside the RadCam remain a poignant physical and visible tribute to Sarah’s life, and we’d hope to return to physical and in-person events as soon as it is safe to do so. Meanwhile, It Happens Here will continue to work with the other incredible organisations in Oxford to support survivors, create platforms to share experiences and remember those we’ve lost.”

The Oxford University Sexual Harassment and Violence Support Service can be reached by emailing [email protected] and offers free support and advice to any student at the University who has been impacted by sexual harassment or violence.

OSARCC is also available as a free support service which is distinct from the University.

It Happens Here can serve as an unofficial and informal point of contact for students with any concerns about the issues discussed in this article. 

Councillor Shaista Aziz has been contacted for comment.

Image Credits: Top, Anvee Bhutani, In-line, Ellie Redpath

This isn’t Music

I listen to a lot of music which falls under the category ‘noise music’, and something I’ve heard more than once when others have (by design or otherwise) been exposed to it is: “this isn’t music” or “did they think this was good when they wrote it?” Past any immediate, stinging insecurity regarding my own taste it might cause, this kind of statement is very interesting as an indicator of what we generally ‘accept’ as music, and how we approach art and creative work as a whole. 

Landing on a concise, encompassing definition of noise music is essentially as impossible as dissecting any other generic label; for the sake of this article, noise music is music which features noise as a sonic feature (defining noise itself is, again, difficult, but the first thing which comes to mind is probably apt- heavy distortion, ‘unmusical’ sounds like that of a blender full of nails, a feline yowl, etc.).

This isn’t intended as an encyclopedic appraisal of noise music as an artistic field, and especially not as a justification or apology for noise, but instead an (insultingly) brief look at how it might work and what it might be saying in itself, and how this might reflexively inform or illuminate our critical habits.

One thing worth addressing is the inherently contrarian nature of noise. Artists create deliberately; the abrasive, venomous sound of noise is not included in a piece as an accident, a failure of sound engineering; it is employed for a reason. So what is the point of making music which sounds unmusical, which is unpleasant? Isn’t music supposed to be ‘enriching’ in our lives, a form of emotional self-indulgence where we are willingly coerced into feeling a certain way? Surely none of that works if the sonic quality of the music itself is this abrasive. I’d argue that this is the point. We often think of music, and in a more general sense art as a whole, as something which has been made for us as consumers. It is produced in a transactional system where the experiential pleasure a piece of media on behalf of its audience is exchanged for the continued, legitimised economic status of its creator — if people don’t like your music it doesn’t get plays on Spotify, if it doesn’t get played then you don’t get paid. 

So noise, broadly, is a rejection of this. It’s music which doesn’t owe you anything, which prioritises the expressive spirit of its creator over the pleasure or ease-of-listening of its audience (of course this isn’t to say that noise is the only kind of music which prioritises the creator’s expression, but is perhaps the most glaring example of such an approach, exacerbated by its intrinsically pugilistic features). 

With this in mind, I’d like to examine some actual pieces of noise music, and how they are a representation of this prioritisation, or might be interpreted as such. One of my personal favourite groups of all time is the currently-active, Dublin-born Girl Band (all male). Girl Band effortlessly combine noise features with the typical struggle between urgency and ennui of post-punk songwriting, all with a genuine tongue-in-cheek delight in the music itself, and some decisively monolithic crescendos. Girl Band’s approach to noise is one which I, as might be leaking through here, am particularly fascinated by. In several cases they have created pieces which, as they progress, are essentially wrought out of noise, in that they feature a strong current of noise throughout, from which something we might more readily accept as ‘musical’ is steadily built. In songs such as ‘Paul’, ‘Why They Hide Their Bodies Under My Garage’, and ‘Handswaps’ (all brilliant), noise seems to have a presence prior to the piece itself, as if it is not being generated instrumentally but instead summoned or reigned in. Perhaps a clearer analogy is that of sculpture, that from the massive brick of noise chunks are methodically and exquisitely hewn away to form the silhouette of music. Of course, the noise in these cases is being generated instrumentally — sound is not actually a material which musicians seize and manipulate with their hands like clay.

Even so, this analogy of sculpture presents in turn another worthwhile interpretation; that of these songs as a record of their own creation, starting as noise, being noise, and becoming something other than noise all whilst retaining something of its original matter. Music is often delivered to us in a ‘complete’ state, a devised sequence of rhythms, repetitions, melodies, etc. which has been constructed in full before its presentation to the audience. However, in this case the audience is treated to an insight into, or perhaps simulation of, the song’s creation itself, a reminder that it is not a phenomenon which exists separate to its artist but is instead a projection and continuation of their own existence — in truth you only have one degree of separation from every artist you listen to, through their music. 

Whilst this is only a minute selection of pieces, and an even more minute appraisal of them respectively (which does not reflect anything particularly on, say, the immediate, beaten-into-submission noise of Death Grips or the rapturously invoked noise of Lightning Bolt), it can lead into an appreciation of noise as a kind of abstract substance which reveals not only something about artistic approaches but a wider philosophy of existence. The above sculpture-analogy is essentially a creation-myth, where the oceans and firmament of music are separated from the preceding chaos of noise. Imagine, then, that we are surrounded by an endless field of noise — every person, whether they can ‘hear’ or not, is moving through this field of non-musical sound, the raw chaos of natural existence — and that although this chaos may not offer itself as pleasurable, it is necessary, and, for that matter, does not care what people think about it, with the moment of experiencing noise music itself being exposed to a natal image of transcendent noise. Understanding this gives you the opportunity to retreat from critical bias and conceive of yourself as a miniscule object in a vast and indifferent ocean (into which noise music is a merely human-sized porthole), whose expectations are justified only in themselves, and to in turn examine what exactly it is you value — not to berate or exalt yourself, but simply to understand on a deeper level what constitutes your taste and as such your identity. 

In other words, noise is a cold but not unwelcome reminder that the world does not revolve around the customer, the audience member, the individual, you. 

How you take or respond to this is, of course, up to you. 

That’s the point.

Image credit to the author.

As a non-Zionist Jewish student, David Miller’s rhetoric harms me too

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CW: antisemitism.

If you asked me to sum up what I think of when considering my own Jewish identity, the images that would come to mind are of my mum making latkes, dressing up for Purim as a child, visiting my grandma in America annually to celebrate Passover, and the dramatic search for the afikoman (a broken piece of matzah (think enormous cream cracker) hidden somewhere around the Passover seder venue that children compete to find) which would always occur. I would picture people gathering at my house for Hanukkah, preparing for my Bat Mitzvah, watching Fiddler On the Roof so many times the DVD cracked, saying a short version of the Shabbat blessings every Friday night, having a mock-Hannukah celebration with my uni housemates and introducing them to the joys of playing dreidel, trekking around Oxford with a Catholic friend of mine in a long search for the free challah available on Shabbat, and baking hamantaschen for the first time. You will notice that I mention Israel, Palestine, or Zionism nowhere.

For the purposes of understanding this article, it is important to provide a basic definition of Zionism. However, it is crucial to note that it is impossible to comprehensively define Zionism in one short paragraph and no one definition will ever be completely perfect. For a fuller understanding, I recommend engaging with a range of wider reading, starting with varied sources which will be listed at the end of the article. Zionism can be defined (not exhaustively) as a national movement for Jewish self-determination aimed originally at re-establishing and currently at preserving a state for Jews, also described as a ‘Jewish homeland’, in the region of Israel-Palestine to which Jews have an indigenous link. There are many forms of Zionism including religious Zionism, liberal Zionism, and green Zionism. An example of a Zionist stance is the belief that a) a state of Israel should exist and b) that it should be a Jewish state. Zionism is, however, highly complex, exists in many forms, and means completely different things to different individuals – the only way to truly know what an individual thinks is to ask them. Furthermore, being a Zionist does not equate to being a supporter of the current Israeli government or its actions.

For me, like many other British Jews, the issues of Israel, Palestine, and Zionism do not play a great part in my life; they are not the cornerstones of my identity. And yet, despite having never publicly expressed a view on Zionism until this article, I have been personally blamed for the suffering of Palestinian people from the age of 6. From my own experience, I know how easy it is for people to see any random Jewish person as a personification of the state of Israel; if people could do it to me as a Jewish child who did not even know what Israel or Palestine were, I know they can do it to any of us.

This is precisely why I do not accept the arguments of David Miller. He is a professor at the University of Bristol currently facing enormous backlash via open letters and petitions from students, MPs, and other academics regarding what an open letter from the University of Cambridge describes as “the latest manifestation of a long and ignoble tradition of conspiracy theories concerning Jewish individuals and institutions which he teaches to his students. He argues that these statements and theories are not antisemitic but just anti-Zionist, and furthermore that the campaign by Bristol University students for him to face disciplinary action is in fact a secret sinister campaign by “pawns” of Israel to silence him rather than students acting of their own accord.

Another crux of his argument is that his antisemitic statements only impact Zionists and that his crusade is an effort to protect anti-Zionist and non-Zionist Jews such as myself, amongst other groups, from the tyranny of the Union of Jewish Students (UJS) and Jewish societies (JSocs).  This characterisation of the apparently nefarious secret motives of the UJS and JSocs is also an overt example of the centuries-old ‘dual loyalty’ antisemitic trope, which claims that all Jews are primarily loyal to Israel (or a similar Jewish collective) before their own countries and thus use their influence to advance that of the Jewish collective to the detriment of their own countries. This trope has been employed as far back as in the first century CE by the Romans and has constantly been used as an excuse to mistrust, mistreat and enact injustice against Jews. Let me be absolutely clear here: I would obviously, given my stated stance, have no problem if Miller’s words were only academic opposition to Zionism, but his statements go beyond that and into the territory of undeniable antisemitism.

The people whom Miller riles up via his legitimisation of antisemitism are not going to stop and ask me what my precise views on Zionism are before seeing me, a Jew, and attacking me in some way. If I go to a supermarket and take with me the first random tote bag I grab, as so many of us do, and that bag happens to be the UJS tote bag I got in freshers week, is someone who believes that the UJS is a scheming and malicious secret agent of Israel hell-bent on promoting its agenda through every constituent JSoc going to stop and ask what I personally think before making their move? Of course not. If someone launches an attack on an in-person Jewish group event (when these are allowed), will non-Zionist students magically not be harmed? That notion is laughable. Even taking Miller’s arguments at face value, it should also go without saying that someone being a Zionist is never a justification for carrying out an attack against them.

When I speculate regarding physical attacks, I am not pulling wild scenarios out of thin air. Miller’s statements such as calling UJS and all its constituent JSocs the “Israel lobby”  and “formally members of the Zionist movement” which “campaigns to silence critics of Zionism”, taken together with his view that “the Zionist movement…are the enemy of the Left [and] world peace…and they must be directly targeted” clearly amount to a call to arms which encourages people who view themselves as leftist and against oppression to “directly target” all JSocs, including my own in Oxford, as a means of defeating this “enemy” ideology.

As a non-Zionist student who is involved in Oxford JSoc and goes to our community centre for events, this instils fear in me and most certainly does not ‘protect’ me. This rhetoric reminds me of why it is necessary for every Jewish space in Oxford to be protected by tight security both online and in person – something Miller also denounces as Israeli interference. It is a matter of routine that our community centre does not publicise its address on its events. When I arrive, I have to give my name to a security guard before being allowed to enter. There is a reason why we have to go through security guards to enter our place of worship. In spite of Covid-19 restrictions, the UK total of 1,668 recorded antisemitic incidents in 2020 alone is the third-highest ever recorded by the CST (a charity which provides security for British Jewish spaces and acts as a place for Jews to report instances of antisemitism and receive support – Miller says this organisation “exists to run point for a hostile foreign government in the UK”).

This is why it was so hard for me and my Catholic friend to find the free challah we knew was available in Oxford – we had not given our information to the right people beforehand and so had to be treated as a potential threat. Miller’s rhetoric forces me to hide my Jewishness from view and be constantly on alert. If I do accidentally grab that UJS tote bag, I consciously carry it so that only the plain back of the bag is visible. I do not wear a Magen David necklace, despite this being a staple symbol of Judaism and Jewish identity. I ought to be as comfortable wearing this as a Christian student is wearing a crucifix necklace.

The truth is, all David Miller’s polemical rhetoric does for me is attempt to remove the few safe Jewish spaces I have found at university and, on a more personal level as someone who grew up always being the only Jew in my year at school, remove the sense of community I have found within them. Contrary to what David Miller and people like him would lead you to believe, you do not have to swear an oath of loyalty to Israel or to Zionism before being welcomed into a JSoc, nor do you have to pledge to spread the agenda of Israel to everyone you know before being given your free Shabbat meal. Shocking as this may be, there aren’t even special JSoc trips to Palestine where we hunt children and revel in their blood (another example of an antisemitic trope from the Middle Ages that should not have made it to the modern world) – a revelation, I know. Yes, this is a real accusation that has been levelled against Oxford JSoc and an example of the blood libel myth. This myth was started by the Catholic Church in the 12th century and stipulated that Jews regularly kidnapped Christian children to drink their blood. This accusation directly led to violence against individual Jews, the shunning of Jews in wider society, and in extreme cases the forced removal of Jews from entire geographic regions through pogroms. Rather, JSoc was the first organisation that ever made me feel comfortable being Jewish and not a Zionist. Every JSoc member I have encountered has always assured me that not being a Zionist does not make me a bad Jew or a less valid member of JSoc. The Oxford JSoc, just like the broader UJS, is welcome to Zionist, anti-Zionist, and non-Zionist Jews alike.

The Oxford JSoc is explicitly apolitical; it has members with a wide range of views on Zionism and each of these members is equally welcomed and accepted. JSoc has not given me an influx of malicious propaganda, but instead provided my first safe space to have open and honest debates about Zionism and Israel with people who I know are engaging in good faith with the goal of having constructive discussion. As a result of this community, I have been able to have productive conversations with Zionists and anti-Zionists about the most contested elements of the topic. JSocs give Jewish students a safe place to question Zionism and discuss it constructively without being accused of treachery or having to carefully monitor every word said to avoid being wielded as a token ‘Good Jew’ – a Jewish person who says things that, coming from a non-Jewish person, would be entirely questionable, and so is tokenised opportunistically by antisemites to legitimise antisemitism when it is expressed by non-Jews – by antisemites.

However, the most important point to be made about JSoc is that it is not what people like Miller would have you believe. It bears a far closer resemblance to the Jewish experience I detailed in the opening of this article than to some antisemite’s horrifying vision of a bunch of young hook-nosed Israeli lobbyists constantly congratulating ourselves on propagating an Israeli Zionist agenda. The events run by JSoc are apolitical, and the vast majority of them have nothing to do with Israel at all. JSoc is, fundamentally, a Jewish society. As it is false and antisemitic to automatically equate all Jews with Israel (the ‘dual loyalty’ trope), the same logic applies to JSoc.

It may be convenient to forget that the cornerstone of the Jewish community is our shared link to the religion of Judaism and/or Jewish history and culture – but this is the case. JSocs hold events ranging from discussions of controversial elements of Jewish theology, examination of particular parts of scripture and how much influence the Torah should have over intellectual life, discussions on how to eat healthily and ethically while staying kosher, and the hosting of Jewish academics to speak on various aspects of Jewish history and other areas, to Hanukkah card-making events, group baking events for challah and hamantaschen (especially chaotic over Zoom), and celebrations of important festivals in the Jewish calendar. These events are about celebrating and engaging with our shared Jewish culture. While JSoc does very occasionally promote events on Zionism and Israel, these are not done to convince members of a certain ‘correct’ view as Miller would have you believe. They instead are open to all political views and act as a way to start constructive dialogue around the issue. It is incredibly rare any such events would be promoted anyway due to Oxford JSoc’s entirely apolitical stance on Zionism and Israel more generally.

Fundamentally, it was through getting more involved with JSoc and making more Jewish friends (with whom I could have constructive and insightful discussions about Zionism) that I came to define myself as non-Zionist. Therefore, if we accept Miller’s tangled web of Israeli interference the Oxford JSoc ought to be fired from the Israeli secret agent network for its disastrous failure. Sarcasm aside, the labelling of our JSocs as malicious agents of a foreign government intent on proliferating a certain ideology which should be “directly targeted” not only puts Jewish students at a very real risk, it also threatens one of the few organisations that allows young Jews to build a sense of community – often for the first time in our lives – and safely and constructively question our own relationship to Zionism.

For wider reading about Zionism, I would recommend this introductory article from the Anti-Defamation League, alongside this piece from Vox which attempts to define Zionism within the context of the conflict between Israel and Palestine. This piece links to a larger group of articles around the topic which I recommend also reading. The Anne Frank House’s discussion of why ‘Jew’, ‘Israeli’, and ‘Zionist’ should not be mixed up or used without context is also helpful. This piece also explores some of the potential differences between anti-Zionism and antisemitism. Furthermore, I do not endorse all content within each of these articles – they are useful starting points for beginning to think about Zionism.

Image Credit: screenshotted from YouTube. Miller has previously claimed that an interfaith venture where Jews and Muslims made chicken soup together in a London mosque was “an Israeli-backed project to normalise Zionism within the Muslim community”.

Review: Weezer’s “OK Human”

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There are two Weezers: the first is the legendary alternative rock band with universally acclaimed landmark releases such as the genre-defining Blue Album and Pinkerton. These classics managed to tactfully combine the catchiest pop melodies with an edgier embrace of noise and angsty lyricism. The other, unfortunately, is characterized by a painful mediocrity, occasionally supplemented by abrasively immature lyricism. Their output in the latter half of the 2000s (Raditude, in particular) seemed to represent an all-time low and could have been the band’s demise. Since then, though, Weezer have remained musically prolific.

In the last five years, Weezer have not strayed from the polarity that has defined most of their discography. The universally acclaimed White Album in 2016 was followed up with critical duds, 2017’s Pacific Daydream and, two years later, the Black Album. There was even an awkward covers record in between. 

For the most part, however, Weezer’s releases since the 90s have maintained some stylistic consistency, with the same signature ‘Power Pop’. The release of the first single from the delayed album Van Weezer, a tribute to the band’s pop-metal influences, changed this.

OK Human, recorded during the summer of 2020, represents such a deviation. Weezer has always referenced the catchy melodies of the Beach Boys and The Beatles as a key influence in their music; but in OK Human, that influence is elevated to another level. The band’s signature electric-guitar centric instrumentation and loud power chords is replaced with straight-up baroque instrumentation with a full 38-piece orchestra. Beyond the obvious sonic differences in this approach, the band seems to have reflected certain themes present in the album; they even stated on Twitter that “OK Human was made at a time when humans-playing-instruments was a thing of the past. All we could do is look back on ancient times when humans really mattered and when the dark tech-takeover fantasy didn’t exist.” The album title also plays into similar themes, referencing Radiohead’s OK Computer.

The opener and lead single, “All My Favorite Songs”, released a week prior signalled some cause for optimism. The lyrics are typically emblematic of teenage angst, “I love parties, but I don’t go. Then I feel bad when I stay home.” The chorus itself catchily laments the contradictions present in the speaker’s life: fundamentally, that “Everything that feels good is bad.” This culminates in great uncertainty and a lost sense of direction. While the subject-matter evidently is nothing new for Weezer, the songwriting built around delicate strings certainly is. It’s an effective combination, with the lush instrumentation complementing the moodiness of lead singer Rivers Cuomo’s vocals.

The second track, “Aloo Gobi”, employs even grander instrumentation, which is almost jarring at first. The impeccable arrangements and mixing, however, prevent this from seeming too gimmicky. The chorus is anthemic, while the subject matter is uncharacteristically mature. Cuomo ponders over the monotony that has taken over his life. This is something that seems increasingly poignant in the age of lockdowns and social restrictions.

Next, “Grapes of Wrath”, a relatively lighthearted tribute to Audible audiobooks, alludes to the Steinbeck novel in its chorus. The instrumentation maintains the grandiose arrangements from the previous tracks, presented with a more dramatic chord progression. This is followed by “Numbers”, an initially more stripped back and introspective ballad about feelings of personal inadequacy. As the almost Radiohead-esque chorus hits, elaborate strings emerge, and Cuomo employs his falsetto. The track builds up seemingly to an end, before a final stunning iteration of the chorus hits. 

While the remainder of the album is perhaps not as memorable as the opening tracks, there is still a consistent quality and a considerable amount of highlights. “Playing My Piano” is a dramatic ballad about immersing oneself in a passion. “Here Comes the Rain” is a motivational anthem that tributes The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun”. The closer, “La Brea Tar Pits” also stands out, with subtler instrumentation, and Cuomo using the California landmark to ponder mortality. Throughout OK Human, the transitions between tracks are also worth commending. 

Ultimately, the album is about the human experience: the joys and monotonies; the passions and anxieties; the connection and solitude. OK Human represents a successful foray for the band from the formula they have set for decades. The instrumentation is lush and compliments Weezer’s typical songwriting styles, as well as their occasional attempts at greater maturity. The chorus melodies are catchy as ever, and Cuomo’s vocal performances memorable. Looking forward, it is undeniably difficult to predict the quality of any releases from Weezer. However, given the precedent set here, there is reason to remain cautiously optimistic.   

 Image credit: micadrew via Flickr & Creative Commons.

“Nothing Important”? An Introduction to Richard Dawson

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Richard Dawson is a singer-songwriter based in Newcastle, and if you want to know much more than that about the man himself, you’ll be hard-pressed to find it in his music. His songs are never autobiographical (or at least, not mostly), and he moves so casually between personas that you’d need to be someone with an almost intrusive level of personal acquaintance to separate fact from fiction. The music itself is idiosyncratic enough: he plays guitar with a harpist’s fluency, his untamed voice is more beautiful for being so, and his lyrics are full of singularly strange imagery that might’ve been rustled up from the bargain-bin alternative to Yeats’ Spiritus Mundi.

And yet, in keeping with the folk tradition he draws on, Dawson employs his unique voice, not as a blunt instrument for self-expression, but rather as a tool for the imagining of other, different lives. Former Oxford Professor of Poetry Geoffrey Hill used to quote with approval a phrase from the choreographer Mark Morris: “I am not interested in self-expression. I am interested in expressiveness.” Dawson, in my view, conforms to this ideal. But what exactly does he express? Within the limits of a word count, it’d be a mild but forgivable exaggeration to throw back the question: what doesn’t he?

The issue of where to begin with Dawson’s eclectic discography isn’t easily resolved. 2011’s The Magic Bridge showcases Dawson in full Blakean visionary mode, though the narrative is always played out at a personal level: a grandfather on his deathbed, someone picking apples in a graveyard. Out of the early stuff, 2013’s The Glass Trunk is the folkiest, but not mawkishly so; ‘Poor Old Horse’ describes an instance of equine murder more barbarous than Raskolnikov’s bleakest nightmares.

His breakthrough, 2014’s Nothing Important is made up of two songs, bookended by two instrumental tracks, and provides perhaps the most direct line to Dawson’s coarse, plaintive brand of what might just fall under the rubric of ‘folk-rock’. 2017’s Peasant is set in the medieval kingdom of Bryneich in the north-east of England, exploring lives that, though sunk in ritual and superstition, don’t in some ways differ so greatly from our own. His latest album, 2019’s 2020, is heavily rock-flavoured and probably his most accessible, a collection of thumbnail sketches that takes in, among other things, a civil servant, an anxiety sufferer, a UFO-spotter and a cuckolded spouse.

Dawson’s lyrics aren’t poems; the music is too important to the cadence and stress of the lines for the words to retain their power without it. Still, they do pass that age-old test which can be used upon a line of verse to distinguish the animating spirit of poetry: they’re often almost impossible to gloss in prose. How can I hope to do justice to such a sentence as “Outside the chip shop Thaddeus Wagstaff fractures my cheekbone”, except by quoting it? How would you reconfigure the verbal economy of a statement like “I dream of bashing his skull into a brainy pulp with a Sellotape dispenser”? Faced with the quasi-Yeatsian terror of the declaration “Slow is the black dog in the sky / Who pisses and slobbers all over the world”, what more is there to say?

And yet, as I said before, the words still aren’t quite the same, mutilated and torn from their native element; if you want the full effect, you need to catch them as they’re carried by the distorting medium of Dawson’s voice. His falsetto, in particular, is a thing of beauty: on ‘Wooden Bag’, it falters into being, grows more substantial but never quite secure, until at once it fizzles out into a husky barely-croak. If you don’t like ‘bad singers’, then this probably isn’t for you. But if you can find something to like in the rough as well as the smooth, then there are few artists working today who so assuredly navigate the interplay between the two.

The only contemporary analogue I can think of is Joanna Newsom: she never borders on tunelessness quite like Dawson does, but both are fond of the same vocal one-two punch, in which a lively and somewhat precarious – often, in Dawson’s case, distinctly off-key – section gives way to a single, sustained, diatonic note: clear as a bell, certain as death and taxes. It’s enough to induce shivers.

They’re not comfortable, these songs: most of them have an uneasy, transitional quality, like milk on the turn. Dawson’s only real motive, it seems to me, is to fashion what’s mundane into a more interesting shape. He can do it with sympathy, as in his portraits of little lives which play such a large role in 2020, and he can do it with strangeness, a hallmark of his stuff from the very start. Both are usually somewhere in the mix, in truth, and the more you start to think about Dawson’s music, the more necessary they both begin to seem.

Doesn’t imaginative invention almost always begin with sympathy – even if it’s just for somebody you’ve made up? Dawson writes himself into the heads of people who aren’t exactly like him or like us, and in doing so gives us a view of life seen from multiple perspectives at once: pagan superstition, poetic transformation, grizzled cynicism, child-like wonder. Of course it’s uncomfortable. It’s meant to be. Walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, you’d expect the heels to rub a bit.

In 2020, the most plangent laments are reserved for those who have been forced by the modern world to adopt daily rhythms of life-denying drudgery. Set against our own ‘boring dystopia’, Dawson’s world is a realm with its horizons of possibility blown wide open: a place where it seems only right that the manifestation of “a horse-headed figure / holding aloft a flaming quiver of bramble silhouettes” should materialise against a backdrop of Newcastle United-themed wallpaper.

A mark of the true visionary, I think, is that they can have you questioning how far reality’s limits might extend. William Blake saw angels over Peckham Rye. In Richard Dawson’s mind’s eye, I like to think, Alan Shearer sometimes sips a pint with a pagan deity. Does the 21st century deserve a singer-songwriter so delightfully attuned to life’s weirder possibilities? It’s a question. That we might all benefit from spending a little more time in Dawsonland, though, seems as clear as day to me.

Image Credit: Paul Hudson via Flickr & Creative Commons.

Sponge Baker to Slater Creator

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I’ve never really understood cooking – I firmly established myself as a sponge-baker aged 11, bookmarked a veggie chilli recipe, and called it a day. Compared to the delights of leftover cake-mix or an inhalation of icing sugar, real, proper cooking seemed oniony, long-winded, and a bit unglamorous; I was happy to fill myself up with something carby and let the pudding do the talking. 

When I moved into my second year flat I suddenly had a kitchen without a resident mouse (we named the Wadham one Alan), a variety of food shops along Cowley Road, and flatmates who taught me about the wonders of gochujang (and more importantly, how to move on from my weird obsession with plain pasta and soy sauce!) I started cooking more – and enjoying it. When virhilary hit and I realised I was going to be at home for the foreseeable future, I decided to try to keep it up. I was having too much fun discovering new things with exciting, fairy princess-esque names (trofie? burrata? aquafaba?). I couldn’t stop. 

I thought that if I wanted to level up from BBC GoodFood aficionado to something a bit more sophisticated, I probably needed to take the plunge into the world of cookbooks. But browsing the Blackwells website, I was a bit overwhelmed by the sheer volume of options – an army of groomed people toting huge fish and massive leeks grinned out at me from the screen, daring me to take on their ‘plant-power prescription’ or to eat my Christmas tree (yes, a real book…). One volume stood out among all the rest – a simple, small, orange book with a big gold paint-splatter across the front. Nigel Slater’s GreenFeast: Autumn, Winter seemed much more welcoming. It had the look of a period-drama journal, and my sentimental little heart was captured (and it was on sale, which honestly cinched it for me. Why are cookbooks so expensive? A conversation for another day). 

Slater writes about food with captivating, Tennessee-Williams-style solemnity and pathos. Reading GreenFeast feels like reading confessional poetry, or having a warm bath. Slater meditates on the faintly felt slide into wintry eating in his introduction: “the change starts late on a summer’s evening when you first notice the soft, familiar scent of distant woodsmoke in the sudden chill of the evening air”. We know exactly what he means, and he suggests food is the cosseting antidote to the unsettlement of a changing season. We are instructed to “mash beans into buttery clouds’’ and “bring dishes of sweet potato to melting tenderness in spiced cream”. 

There is a marked physicality to all of this, but one very different from that of other food writers – we can’t imagine Nigella’s exciting and sensuous recommendation to “cut crosses in figs […] so that they open like bird-throated flowers”, or Meera Sodha’s quip that folding spinach into a pan is like “pushing a duvet into a magical handbag,” surfacing in GreenFeast. There is a quieter sense in Slater’s writing that he is describing things faithfully and gratefully, experimenting and unsure, but enjoying the tactile experience of cooking and eating. I think I relate to this somewhat basic response to food more than to anything more ornamented. It feels calm and encouragingly intuitive. I’ve particularly enjoyed Slater’s respect for the meditative qualities of chopping (tofu is great for this – mind-numbing) and for the rituals of the kitchen. He never suggests that his dishes should be dinner-party centrepieces, or ostentatious shows of time management, ingredient-sourcing or dexterity. Every single dish seems well-suited to the sofa. Which, in lockdown, is apt. 

The sense of achievement I’ve felt making these recipes massively outweighs my actual creations – mostly ten-seconds-in-a-blender things – but I feel great about them. Any guilt or qualification surrounding food disappears for me when I make something which I’m proud of and which I’m proud to eat. A word to the wise is that almost everything has an entire pot of double cream in it, and there’s a recipe for fried cake. So, to any fellow non-cookers, tentative-cookers, or soy sauce pasta eaters – properly cooking could be a great, caring thing to do for yourself. And I would recommend letting Slater’s dulcet tones guide you through. 

Image credit: PIXNIO

 

The Love Language of Chopsticks

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I am not adept at fine dining. Even after a couple of terms of formal meals in college (albeit curtailed by the pandemic), I still haven’t quite grasped how to neatly balance a pile of peas on the back of my fork, which is apparently the European style. There seems to be such a vast grammar of cutlery knowledge, from spoons to wine glasses to napkin arrangement. 

Frankly, I think I’m much more accustomed to the simple language of chopsticks. Simple, however, is by no means straightforward. To me, the humble art of chopsticks conveys more than any elaborate silverware ever could.

My grandfather’s love language is to teach. One of my earliest memories is of him teaching me to use chopsticks, the proper way. “Only your first two fingers should be moving”, he tells me “and your two chopsticks must never cross”. He can use the chopsticks ambidextrously. He shows me chopstick tricks and we play chopstick wrestling (trying to pry a pea from the other person’s chopstick grip). In the grasp of his skilful hands, there is no need for any other cutlery. There is no need for knives at the table when even slippery noodles can be sliced clean with a pair of chopsticks.

My grandmother’s love language is food. In her hands, the wooden chopsticks are no longer just cutlery, but a vehicle of her concern: “Come, eat more. I cooked this especially for you”. She teaches me not to waste food, to 省, to save. Though she knows little of the origin of chopsticks, they were invented for this very reason — to scrape the leftovers from the bottom of the cooking pot. Leftovers do not exist, however, in this household. For in spite of all the nagging that she gives my grandfather, when he comes home from a long day’s work, what really matters is how my grandmother gently places the best ingredients onto his plate with her chopsticks, and takes the remainders for herself. There is no need for grand gestures, when the simplest emotion of all can be expressed with a pair of chopsticks.

There are all sorts of ways you can use a pair of chopsticks. The custom of using chopsticks differs across cultures, across countries, even across households. But wherever you are, using chopsticks takes practice, patience and perseverance. After more than fifty years of marriage, my grandparents are still figuring it out, with every meal and every mouthful. Deciphering the code of chopsticks takes work, and perhaps nobody is ever really an expert — but isn’t that the beauty of it? That though our chopsticks may cross from time to time and we might drop the food on the table, we can always pick it up and try again.

Artwork by Rachel Jung