Friday, April 25, 2025
Blog Page 435

Going for a run – a reality check

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‘Running’, says American long-distance champion Kara Goucher, ‘allows me to set my mind free. Nothing seems impossible, nothing unattainable.’ Now, I’m not sure how she feels when she enters the second kilometre of a five-kilometre run, but whatever it is, does it come in pill form? No, safe to say, as I shuffle out the door in my dad’s old trainers, avoiding eye contact with my year 5 teacher, who seems, alongside what can only be described as everyone I’ve ever met, to have picked this exact moment to walk past my house in a government-compliant parade, a great many things seem impossible, returning with my dignity, and my ankles intact most definitely amongst them. 

I don’t think it’s hyperbolic to say that by 300m in I’m on the brink of cardiac arrest. I’ve seen Big Little Lies, and I can tell you that going for a jog looks as much like Reese Wetherspoon and Nicole Kidman dramatically powering down the California coastline as Ben Mitchell looks from one episode of Eastenders to the next. Running, in popular culture, is almost ubiquitous with meditation, with getting some quiet time to oneself, with setting your mind free. Part of me wonders whether any of these script writers have, you know, run, before. Even Claire Underwood, far from pulling one of her intercostal muscles from manically inhaling after two laps of the park, manages to plot the overthrowing of Xi Jinping or something – I never really watched House of Cards. If these characters sweat, they glow, and most of them, somehow, go for runs in the morning: if I went for a 5km run at 8:00 then, upon returning around lunchtime, I’d be incapacitated for the rest of the day, wondering if I can blame the woeful performance of my respiratory system on psychosomatic coronavirus. I was promised that running would clear my head, but, as I approach the third kilometre of what can probably only be called a jog with Holly Willoughby levels of optimism, not only am I equally stressed about essays/exams/the impending recession as I was on the sofa, but I’m also in agony, absolutely knackered, and bordering on the tachycardic. 

It’s not just my shins that running ruins, either. Through some perverse Pavlovian conditioning, the songs on my running playlist, when they screech out of the radio, make me come out, somehow, in both a cold sweat and a hot flush. The first bars of ‘Break my Heart’ by Dua Lipa now immediately raise my blood pressure to levels that probably constitute a pre-existing health condition. 

This self-flagellation in the name of being able to nonchalantly ‘go for a run’ – as if I lived next to Battersea Park, returning home to my walnut milk and mango smoothie, before sitting down to begin work for whatever sector of the finance industry I happen to have sold my soul to – coincided almost with leaving the house becoming illegal. It was as if, now that exercise was restricted to once a day, I was immediately compelled to actually use this gift in the name of individual liberty. Now, I thought I was doing pretty well by about week three: sure, I was working at a pace only a few orders of magnitude off the half-life of Xenon, but at least I was running, right? Then, with the kind of catastrophic impact I presumed confined to the Cretaceous period, that ‘Run 5, Nominate 5, Donate 5’ challenge spread through Instagram like a – well, it spread quickly. Suddenly, my half hour 5k runs were not ‘a step in the right direction’, but a pathetic, directionless shuffle. Friends who I can absolutely guarantee have never even powerwalked, let alone run, were posting times which I’m pretty sure qualified them for the 2024 Olympic team. ‘Yeah,’ I laughed with them, ‘isn’t my time tragic? … damned shin splints…’ 

When I first ran in under half an hour, I thought I was basically on par with Kara Goucher. I knew I wasn’t that fast, but little did I know I was running at the pace of, and I quote this from a friend, ‘my diabetic mother’. ‘Join Strava!’ they said, ‘we can track each other’s runs!’ Frankly, I think this is the kind of thing George Orwell feared in 1984. I’m already haunted by the Alexa-like voice in my earphones that updates me on the quality of my run: ‘Heart rate: maximum’, she tells me, with a tone I can only compare to the safety video on an Easy-Jet flight that tells you to remain calm and breathe normally on the off chance you’re hurtling into the Atlantic ocean, ‘Intensity level: 5. This exercise is extremely strenuous for you, be sure to rest after! Distance: 1.8 Kilometres.’ To make matters worse, at the end of each run, she has the audacity to tell me that I’m ‘below average’, and that, get this, that run decreased my fitness by 4%. I tell myself, naturally, that this is a GPS error. It’s the tech that’s malfunctioning, not my heart. I turn Dua Lipa off, try not to vomit, and limp back home like a wounded elephant. My face the colour of the BBC breaking news banner that scrolls across the screen whenever Boris Johnson/Dominic Raab/one of the other ones walks into the press briefing, Hollister tracksuit bottoms drenched with sweat, I ring the doorbell:
‘How’d it go?’
‘Yeah, it was good: nothing felt impossible, nothing unattainable, you know, the usual.’ 

Image credit: Tirachard Kumtanom via Pexels

The true cost of moving the Tokyo Olympics

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In March, the news was declared, inevitable yet disappointing, that the Tokyo Olympics, scheduled to take place this summer, would be postponed due to the impact of the coronavirus pandemic. It was indubitable proof – not that we needed it – that Covid-19’s effects were of global magnitude. The first time that the Games have been postponed, and the first time not to take place on schedule out of the war-time years, the decision has sent shockwaves throughout Japan and the sporting community across the world.

The financial impact of moving the Games is huge; one estimate from a Japanese economics expert places the additional cost at around £4.7billion. Organisers now face the challenge of footing the bill for the upkeep of the forty-two venues planned to be used for the Games, with some, including those for wrestling, fencing and beach volleyball, needing to be dismantled or freed up for other usage in the interim.

Yoshiro Mori, president of the Organising Committee, commented in an interview that if the Games had to be postponed again in 2021, they would have to be “scrapped”. An eight-year gap between Games would be a long wait indeed, and for athletes whose fragile window of sporting excellence relies on the carefully honed four-year build-up to the tournament, the news will have derailed many a precisely-planned training schedule.

International swimming and athletics associations have already confirmed that their scheduled World Championship competitions next year will have to be pushed back until 2022 to avoid taking place too close to the Olympics. These economic and logistical effects, the unwieldy iceberg beneath the tip of the IOC’s announcement, will have a lasting impact on the sporting world for years to come.

For sports like gymnastics, where female athletes tend to peak in their mid-teens, a year is a lifetime. US swimmer Ryan Lochte, due to turn thirty-six this summer was aiming to become the oldest gold medal-winning swimmer in history, but a year may rule out the possibility of him, and other athletes at the end of their careers, of being in with a competitive chance of attending the Games.

But perhaps giving the spotlight at this moment to athletes like Lochte (who, incidentally, was banned from competition for ten months after the last Olympics for falsely claiming to have been robbed at gunpoint whilst in Rio de Janeiro for the Games) removes attention from those who will be more impacted by the postponement. Sports and athletes with limited funding may struggle to continue until next summer; USA Cycling have reportedly furloughed or laid off 40 percent of their staff, with USA Rowing similarly cutting down their staff by a third.

Even more overshadowed are the Japanese workers who will lose out on business and financial security as a result of the postponement. The organising committee employs around 3,500 people, and with the added financial strain of the unexpected change in plans, many will lose their jobs.

The question that emerges from all this is, of course, who will pay? Expenses rise and stadiums and arenas are lying dormant as the world waits for the corona-storm to wane. The official figure for the total cost of hosting the Games is £10.4billion, although reports estimate that in actuality it is nearly double this; more than half of this money has come from Japanese taxpayers, and any increase in expenditure will surely leave them more out of pocket. 

However, amidst it all, there are positives to take away from the situation. The New York Times reported that swimmer Rudy Garcia-Tolson, a five-time Paralympic medal winner, had decided to retire after Rio 2016, but had taken news of the postponement to use the next year to get back in training and give it one last shot. The Games, when they do take hopefully do take place, will be the ultimate symbol of triumph despite adversity. Japan, whose success in securing the Olympics in 2013 was partly down to the IOC’s aim of bringing hope after the misfortunes of 2011, when the country was hit by an earthquake and tsunami, killing 20,000 people and triggering the Fukushima nuclear disaster, is a nation used to overcoming challenges, and their vision for the historic tournament will no doubt be carried through, albeit a year later than scheduled.

Debate over whether or not the Games should have been postponed is a non-starter; the risk to all involved remains unquestionably high. But the real question now remains of who will pay the price, and bear the cost, of the Olympics’ unexpected legacy in Tokyo.

Student art: only for the privileged few?

Whether you love it, hate it, or love to hate it, it is undeniable that the student art scene remains a fundamental space for young creatives to explore their self-expression while at university. The breadth and diversity in voices, the chance to define and redefine yourself and the potential to be subversive is what makes student art so incredibly fascinating for myself and many others. However, amidst the highly competitive nature of “putting yourself out there”, the question of who exactly these spaces are for all too often gets brushed under the rug.

In an ideal world, art would be for everyone. We even hear it in the way that we describe our artist friends as “gifted”, “talented” and having “a natural flair.” Natural talent doesn’t discriminate, and anyone can be born a creative genius – or so it goes. In fact, after decades of funding cuts to state schools, the skinning of arts departments and subjects, and a lack of lower class and state-educated representation in the creative industries, it should come as no surprise that those from privileged backgrounds are given a leg up in the art world as early as university.

According to a BBC survey of over 1200 schools, 9 in 10 admitted to cutting back on lesson time, staff or faculties in at least one creative arts subject, and the gradual decline in those taking arts subjects has been well-recorded. Like many other state school students, I was warned against “narrowing my options” when I expressed an interest in taking an arts subject instead of an extra science at GCSE (a concern that definitely was not echoed when I suggested taking history or computer science instead). Yet how can pursuing a career path in the creative industries be deemed as a one-way ticket to an impassable dead end, when that same industry brought in over £111.7 billion to the UK economy in 2018 alone? Clearly there’s opportunity there – but for who?

In a world where the arts will always be first on the funding hit list, countless students are not given the adequate resources or spaces to explore their creativity in an uninhibited way, purely for personal development, without the pressure of matching a specific style to attain the correct grade and ensure the school meets its targets. Though it is far from the fault of the dedicated arts teachers working their hardest, for many, school art classes bring back memories of frayed paintbrushes, limited and well-worn materials and dossing around with friends for an hour. A disadvantaged background further exacerbates these problems, as the necessity for part time work around studies and expenses of materials or classes means that students are often left without the opportunity to develop their creative skills beyond a limited classroom hour a week.

In comparison, advantaged and privately educated students can afford extra-curricular classes to compensate for cuts, attend schools where donors and fees ease financial pressures on departments, and have adequate classroom sizes and spaces for studios and stages. These privileges help students develop the confidence to network, as well as provide the tools to explore and express themselves in articulate and creative ways from a young age. Of course, this is not to deny the amazing hard work, talent, and dedication of these students. But when given ample opportunity to practice, the likelihood of finding friendly faces already involved in the scene at your chosen university, and experience in working with a variety of styles and mediums, it is natural that the process of getting a foot in the door may be a bit easier. For those with nobody to instruct or invite them to the right events, limited access to materials and time, and little prior exposure or experience in various approaches, the student art scene can appear utterly baffling at best; inaccessible at worst.

Student art is brilliant because it is an expression of the student voice. Arguably, we will never have as much opportunity to experiment and try new things as we do at university. Yet when one group of people has an advantage over the other, part of the student voice is muffled, and creative industries truly do become the “narrowed opportunity” our teachers warned us about. As other pervasive structural inequalities, from race, sexuality and gender, reinforce these problems, the result is that the artistic voices of minorities end up being ventriloquised and sanitised through a predominantly privileged perspective.

Whether it’s through establishing more beginner’s spaces or holding more workshops on how to respond to commissions and pitch, we need to ensure that our student art spaces are accessible and enabling. We need to create an environment in which everyone can have the confidence to put their work forward, regardless of experience, and receive the feedback and exposure that’s needed to grow. After all, art can never be representative of the student voice if only one type of voice is heard.

No refunds for £57,200 Saïd Business School MBA

Students studying on the Saïd Business School MBA programme have been told that they will not be offered a partial refund on their £57,200 course fees, despite 98% of students believing that the quality of education has become “worse” or “significantly worse” since the School moved teaching online due to the coronavirus pandemic.

The School has further asked students to find pledges for stipends to support themselves if they want to participate in internships this summer. A survey conducted across the MBA student body revealed that just 6% of students would participate in a self-funded internship, compared to almost 60% who would participate in an internship if supported by a stipend from the Saïd Business School.

MBA students voted in a ‘steering committee’ after tuition went online in mid-March. An open letter to the Dean stated that they wanted to “…work with you to find ways to make up for the online-only experience, which has already fallen below our expectations”. Of their concerns, financial assistance was the priority (refund, stipends and a hardship fund), as well as the possibility of course flexibility, and other issues caused by the online-only format of tuition. 

Following a meeting on the 27th of May, the Dean of the School, Peter Tufano agreed to personally provide £10,000 in support of the stipend program, as a symbolic gesture of support. However, a cost analysis conducted by members of the MBA course shows that this would provide sufficient funding for approximately 3 internships. The same analysis estimated that between 100 and 200 students want to take up an internship with the School this Summer.

By comparison, Harvard Business School has offered to subsidise internships for any MBA student undertaking an internship by $650 per week for up to 12 weeks.

Students have also raised concerns about the management and communication from the Business School. Shortly after the announcement that the MBA course would move online, the Dean, Peter Tufano, hosted a virtual ‘town hall’ where, students were told, administrative officials would “answer any questions you may have to the best of our abilities”. However, Cherwell understands that the Dean did not answer the four most popular questions at the event, concerning refunds, and the lack of representation of the Covid steering committee at the event. These questions were instead answered in writing and posted on a forum for students to access following the event.

Regarding refunds for MBA students, a spokesperson for the SBS told Cherwell: “The School is following university policy on refunds and focusing all its resources on protecting the long-term future for its programmes, their students, and alumni. While we have had to deliver the MBA in a different format to the one we all envisaged at the start of the year, we are proud of the way our faculty, staff and students have come together to make this the best experience it can be in these extraordinary times.  We have not altered the content of courses or the rigour of the assessments.”

Responding to a request for comment Peter Tufano, the Dean of the Saïd Business School, said: “I did promise to students that I would work with the MBA class on raising funds to pay for unpaid internships with deserving organizations.  Indeed, I am working with some excellent students and Oxford Saïd colleagues on this plan, which we have labelled the Oxford Saïd Service Corps.   This work is in process and I am personally involved with it, as I had promised.”

The Saïd Business School is Oxford University’s business school. It offers a number of courses, with its MBA (Master of Business Administration course) being the most popular. The School is the most subscribed-to department for postgraduate study, with almost 3,000 students applying for the 850 places offered in 2018.

Friday Favourite: Revolutionary Road

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If I were to tell you that this novel is great because it’s ‘mesmerising’ and ‘powerful’ and ‘you simply can’t put it down’, you might just smile politely, say you’ll read it and soon forget all about it. Like so many brilliant pieces of writing, Revolutionary Road has often been reduced to a few meaningless (albeit well-meaning) clichés. If I were to tell you that it’s great because it’s probing, suffocating and at times unbearable, you might think twice about reading it. Now, more so than ever, books are a mode of escape. Richard Yates’ book doesn’t give us a warm, comforting literary landscape to flee to when we fall on hard times. Instead, what emerges is an unsettling, topical interrogation into the nature of conformity, set in an ‘age of anxiety’ which seems rather too similar to our own.

First published in 1961, Revolutionary Road is a story of ordinary circumstances. We’re cast into the landscape of the 1950s post-war boom: an age of optimism, consumerism and the growth of the suburban America which we might recognise today. In this shiny landscape of gleaming cars and new housing estates, the protagonists, Frank and April Wheeler, though restless and unwilling to conform to the expectations of small-town life, find themselves falling into the trap of banality. Frank works in a corporate office job in New York; April, falling pregnant seven years earlier than intended, is a housewife and a “mildly talented” drama school graduate. A seemingly comfortable, though monotonous, life is characterized by visits from nosy neighbours and drinks with friends.

From the outset, we sense tragedy. The “final dying sounds” of the opening scene and the toe-curling failure of April’s am-dram performance give an undercurrent of something darker bubbling beneath the surface of their daily life, from time to time rising up and threatening to submerge the characters and readers alike. Yates cleverly conceals how this tragedy might come about, often concealing its lurking presence as the plot winds its way through various false hopes and nostalgic flashbacks. Even after the lights go down on the high school stage of April’s performance, there continues to be a profound sense of actors stumbling about a stage which dissolves all around them, straining to reach a concrete ideal which evades them throughout. The only power they have, it seems, is the pain they can inflict upon each other.

In face of this futility, Frank and April revel in highbrow discussion. The epigraph taken from Keats, warns us of a story where “passion is both meek and wild!”. Frank, envisioning himself as smooth-talking Sartre, appears passionate about the “hopeless emptiness” of modern day America, often descending into empty rhetoric about the “endlessly absorbing subject of Conformity”. They enter into Meaningful, Intellectual discussions, purely designed to illustrate their own superiority which transcends the lowly, wasted existences of those who surround them. These discussions culminate in a grand plan to escape to Paris. The reader, as foolishly as the characters, is briefly caught up in the whirlwind of believing that things could be different, that they could reach Paris and have a whole new life outside of the cage of suburbia. Believing in the characters’ dream is the equivalent to believing in our own far-fetched fantasies. Yet the prose, which continually slips between an impersonal narrator and Frank’s continuous reveries, betrays his true, meek desire. Frank doesn’t want to go to Paris; he wants to live in a society where he understands his prescribed role. He wants to hold a “tamed, submissive girl […] who promised to bear his child”.

There’s never been a shortage of repressed women in literature. Madame Bovary, Yates’ favourite novel, depicts the trials of a woman trapped in provinces. Just like Emma Bovary, April is determined to flee to Paris. And just like Emma, though we see the beauty in April’s dream, the patriarchal structure which defines her husband’s worth and her own lack of independence means this desire is futile. An early manifestation of toxic masculinity, Frank’s insecurities make a life beyond the boundaries of ‘typical’ family roles an acute threat to his very being. April’s own thought process is kept hidden from us until the very end, until it’s too late. When the lurking tragedy suddenly comes to fruition, the reader must witness its transformation into a mere piece of neighbourhood gossip, by the society April despised so much.

In this new ‘age of anxiety’, where we’re increasingly invited to consider our own roles and beliefs, Revolutionary Road reflects on what it means to conform. Along the way, Yates’ disturbingly perceptive prose points us in the direction of uncomfortable truths. As much as we may resent it, we recognise aspects of the characters in ourselves. Though our societies may change and develop, human nature does not.

Andrà Tutto Bene: Coronavirus and the Italian Spirit

When I think of Italy, I think of the rolling green hills of Tuscany where my family once lived; of vibrant locals, distinctive gelaterias, and of an irrepressible sense of tranquillity. The Italy I imagine is a far cry from the Italy of present.

The COVID-19 pandemic has augmented pre-existent economic and ideological fissures in Italy, both domestically and in its relations with other member states of the eurozone. The pandemic comes just a decade after the eurocrisis, the impact of which is still being felt by several European economies. However, the current crisis differs from the previous one in numerous fundamental ways. It constitutes a symmetric shock to member states of the eurozone, and it is not the result of policy or governmental failure. Crucially, this crisis also has a distinctly humanitarian element, rather than being solely fiscal. Yet while the initial threat posed by COVID-19 may have been symmetric, the pre-crisis financial burden already felt by some member states has led to an asymmetric fallout, with southern countries such as Italy, Spain and Greece being most severely affected. Real GDP forecasts issued by the European Commission on the 6th May estimate a 7.7% shrinkage in the euro area as a whole; Greece, Italy and Spain are predicted the highest fallout, with an estimated reduction of 9.7%, 9.5% and 9.4% respectively, according to the Spring 2020 European Commission economic forecast.

With southern member states topping statistics for economic shrinkage, it is clear the COVID-19 pandemic has widened the gulf between northern and southern countries, exacerbating tensions within the bloc which have boiled over in the recent ‘coronabonds’ controversy. At the heart of this debate lay rhetorical distinctions between ‘mutualised’ debts, on the one hand, and ‘joint’ or ‘several’ debts on the other. Coronabonds, if approved, would allow for the combining of securities and collective guaranteeing of debt across the eurozone, as requested by the leaders of nine member states in a letter to the European Council on the 26th March. Yet fears that this may lead to a situation in which certain member states with smaller economies may be held responsible for the debts of all others – or even one in which all eurozone debts become permanently mutually held – have fuelled intense opposition to the request, spearheaded by Germany and the Netherlands. Dutch finance minister, Wopke Hoekstra, reportedly suggested that Brussels should investigate why some countries were unable to combat the economic downturn ensuing from the virus, refusing to support coronabonds on the grounds that they undermined ‘incentives for sensible policy’.

While there are some reasonable fiscal concerns arising from coronabonds, there is no denying the fact that the response of Germany and the Netherlands constitutes a breach of the ideological principle of solidarity underpinning the European Union. The justificatory ethos propagated by this opposition is not dissimilar to ‘every man [or member state] for himself’. Such a rejection has, understandably, led to feelings of betrayal within the hardest-hit member states and their supporters, which in turn could encourage a rise in Euroscepticism. Mark Dowding, chief investment officer for BlueBay Asset Management, insightfully turns the mirror back to those countries rejecting this request in his assertion that Euroscepticism ‘eventually sees fears of a break-up getting priced in. As an investor, I think that dynamic is more important than the finer points of any eurozone deal.’ He thus highlights the economic as well as ideological argument for solidarity between member states, suggesting that fears of fragmentation could discourage future investment, affecting all members of the eurozone – not just those currently in need. Ultimately, a threat as ubiquitous as COVID-19 surely demands a response that is equally united.

Such a context informs the current economic and political climate in Italy. With a death toll of over 31,000 (the second highest in Europe after the UK, and third highest globally), Italy has been viewed as the epicentre of the crisis in mainland Europe. There are numerous factors underlying the intensity of this fallout. For one, Italy was already suffering from strained public finances and economic uncertainty before the pandemic, contributing to the spiralling fiscal repercussions of the virus the country now faces. After the outbreak, Italy notably suffered from an initial supply-side shock; combined with the economic consequences emanating from production shutdown and other containment policies, such repercussions mean Italy is now set to enter a deep recession. Another significant underlying factor is Italy’s population demographic: with a median age ranked fifth highest in the world, alongside one of the lowest birth rates, the burden on financing requirements such as care homes, focal points in this epidemic, is substantial. Yet such factors are long term and therefore, in a sense, unavoidable. By contrast, Italian Prime Minister Giuseppe Conte has been criticised for perceived shortcomings in his early lockdown strategies; such measures involved dividing the country into ‘red’ and ‘yellow’ zones, according to the perceived threat in various regions. Subsequent containment measures were thus determined with respect to these categories, with regions in the ‘red’ zone such as Lombardy and Veneto being placed on full-scale lockdown. Whilst these measures were in place from 8th March, Italy was not placed under national lockdown until the 22nd, leading some to criticise Conte’s policies as reactive rather than proactive, potentially facilitating the spread of the virus between regions.

Domestically, Italy has also been hit by one of the largest frontline healthcare crises in Europe – if not the world. In the early stages of the virus, Italy’s hospitals became overwhelmed by the exponential spread of cases and inadequate resources; this was particularly the case in Lombardy, which saw the highest concentration of virus cases in the country. In the days after Italy had been put on official lockdown over 2500 Italian healthcare workers tested positive for the virus contributing, in part, to its further spread. Italian filmmaker Olmo Parenti’s short documentary, entitled Coronavirus From One Meter Away, looks inside Milan’s Polyclinic, one of the key hospitals fighting the pandemic in Italy. Parenti used extreme close-ups to film many of the patients, stating that ‘I wanted to capture the painful reality of seeing this virus in action… When you’re three feet away from a patient, you see all the tiny things that speak so loudly about the pain and struggle they are going through’. His documentary gives an important and highly emotive insight into the individual realities of the virus, which are all too often subsumed by macrocosmic data analysing overarching death rates, and politico-economic trends. It is important to remember that, despite the significant fallout, this crisis remains humanitarian at its heart. Such a mindset, if applied, helps encourage empathetic responses to the crisis both domestically and trans-nationally.

That being said, it should be recognised just how transformative the coronavirus has been across a multitude of domains, be they economic, political or cultural. For example, a significant by-product of the pandemic is a strenuous ideological questioning, as reflected in the increasing Euroscepticism arising from tensions in the eurozone. Such a trend represents a significant departure from the ideological principle of unity underpinning the eurozone, and constitutes a fundamental threat to an institution which has been in place for over twenty years.

In Italy, a Tecnè survey reported that the number of Italians agreeing that EU membership is a disadvantage rose from 47% in November 2018, to 67% in March 2020. While it cannot be stated that the current pandemic was the predominant cause of this, such dates certainly imply a high degree of correlation. Moreover, increasing governmental tensions arising from the virus are adding to an already strained political environment, reflected in conflicts between the anti-establishment Five Star Movement on the one hand, and the rising popularity of the anti-EU, right-wing party Matteo Salvini’s League on the other. Conte’s production of a unified response to the pandemic has therefore been complicated by the need to navigate this increasing Euroscepticism and mediate between the demands of different political parties. The government’s delayed announcement of a 55 billion-euro stimulus package, promising to boost business liquidity and aid vulnerable families, was finally broadcast by Conte on May 13th. It is thus apparent in Italy – as in many other countries – that COVID-19 poses a substantial threat to all spheres of daily activity, contributing to significant politico-economic and ideological scrutiny.

In the face of such a climate – in which the economic, political and humanitarian principles of Italy stand under threat – the cultural response which has emerged is rendered all the more incredible. Stories of individual and communal reactions to the pandemic stand out as beacons of hope in a predominantly dark tide of media coverage. ‘Andrà tutto bene’ (‘everything will be alright’) are the words painted on flags draped from citizens’ balconies, encapsulating the resilience of the Italian spirit. Everyday at 6pm, since the beginning of the official lockdown, inhabitants in Rome have opened their windows and sang together. This tradition is mirrored in various forms across the country. In Siena, at the heart of Tuscany, a recent viral video shows the townspeople singing a traditional folksong together in the dead of night; in Florence, Maurizio Marchini gave a powerful performance of Nessun Dorma from his balcony; in Turin, an opera singer and violinist played from the window in their block of flats. Across Italy, neighbourhoods are coming together from the confines of their households to play instruments, dance on their balconies, and remind each other that they are not alone, in spite of unprecedented social isolation.

Music is not the only outlet the people of Italy have turned to in solace. There are numerous stories of philanthropic ventures connecting different social groups across Italy. In Rome and Milan the app Next Door is being used to connect millennials with elderly generations, enabling the supply of food and medical deliveries to the vulnerable. In Geneva, the closure of Luzzati Garden led to its president Marco Montoli re-creating the cultural space online; the ensuing ‘Good Morning Geneva’ page has more than 20,000 followers, and provides yoga tutorials, debates, concerts and craft workshops amongst other content. ‘Good Morning Geneva’ has also functioned as a platform against domestic violence, with Manuela Caccioni (head of the Mascherona anti-violence centre) using the page to highlight the ways in which their work is continuing virtually, and encouraging victims to reach out to them.

Such enterprise is also unfolding on the frontline. Francesco Caputo, a psychotherapist with the refugee NGO Mediterranea, launched a hotline in late April to provide mental and emotional support to those impacted by the crisis. This venture recognises the very real psychological repercussions emanating from COVID-19, as manifested in medical reports of increased anxiety, insomnia and panic attacks amongst survivors and their peers. Rome’s Spallanzani infectious diseases institute is one of many hospitals in Italy offering therapy sessions for patients who are not in the intensive care unit, aiming to confront fears arising from the virus. Doctor Tommaso Speranza, a psychologist for the hospital, epitomises the communal response to the crisis in an interview with BBC News: ‘We try to transform [fear] into hope, telling them they’re not alone.’ Across Italy, from the claustrophobic confines of hospitals and houses, blooms creativity, enacted in artistic, technological and charitable projects.

Italy stands as an example of the irrepressible human spirit. Faced with an hitherto inconceivable crisis, with economic strain, political fracture and a very real physical threat, Italy – along with many other countries of the world – has responded with hope. While this virus pervades every corner of daily life right now, and has undoubtedly caused fractures at many levels of society, we should not overlook the overwhelming number of positive endeavours that have arisen in response. Such ventures project an optimistic image for a future in which society is a little more empathetic, creative and united.

When I next return to Italy, the rolling green hills of Tuscany will be the same; but the people that inhabit them will be irrevocably changed. COVID-19 is going to radically redefine what we conceptualise as normal, in economic, socio-political, and cultural terms. Yet, at its heart, Italy remains the same emblem of communal resilience.

Come what may, andrà tutto bene.

Wild Flowers

Join me as I walk past the best of gardens
Its tulips nod my way
But their colours filter through my sunglasses
And don’t quite hit me as they should
– The way you and yours could

I want you to know how they grow
Those wild flowers of my imagining
Spread in senseless smatterings
Beneath your wordless battering
Watch as touch-starved tendrils reach
And meaner hands meet
Crying for the fingers that
Intertwine
Forged by the blossoming
Of these lines.

Watching, Seeing

I wonder why it matters so much to me that they’re watching. When I picture you, pulling up at the side of a cobbled street after all those years apart, I picture them too. Watching from the windows, noticing how your eyes linger over my face, how long we hold each other, how the silence between us seems weighted with emotion. I imagine their comments to one another, about how we’re really, truly in love, their eyes fixed on a scene of epic proportions. And what’s worse, much worse, is that I imagine their inner monologues, the wistful twinge within them when they see something they wish they had, something they can never share in. Something that is ours, yours and mine, mostly mine, something that they desperately ache for in their all-too-human souls, just as I have ached, just as I have screamed and writhed and sobbed with frustration, just as I have slouched hopelessly and let my fire die, die and resurge, always with a desire to eat something – 

It’s not that I take pleasure in their pain. I don’t think. So what is it? It’s the sense of peace that comes with the close of a door which was slightly cracked open. It’s knowing that they understand the thing you always wanted them to understand. That you are not worthless; you are a real, valuable human being, you deserve to be seen, and what’s more, some people do see you. Proving that you exist and that you can love and be loved. Because when you don’t know whether they know that, when you suspect them of glazing over you like they do every other inconsequential acquaintance they happen upon, scattered patternlessly throughout their daily lives – well, it leaves you screaming. Writhing and questioning. What am I? A face within a teeming mass of faces? God, God, no. 

But when you did drive up shakily in some old blue car, taking a little too long to park, on a day that came with an uncomfortable mix of strong wind and feeble rain, they weren’t watching from the window. And you didn’t hold me like I wanted you to. You were thinking about other things: the weather, the luggage, the practicalities. It wasn’t just me. 

Of course, it was me. It’s just that it was also you. And it was a thousand other people and their thoughts, their swarms of love and worry and passion that don’t live to justify my existence, or any existence, not in full at least. Nobody watched us as I helped with the bags, as you told me about the trivialities, the way the roads had been, the way you’d had to carefully manoeuvre it all to ensure you weren’t more than half an hour late. And yet I was glad they weren’t watching, because all of a sudden I felt unsure. I couldn’t let that uncertainty be cemented in the minds of others.

You can’t make an identity out of imagined things. 

Nobody was watching us later, in the warm darkness, when the light of a candle brushed against your strawberry blond hair. Nobody was watching when your hands on my shoulders burned me up with deep bodily pain and light, other-worldly pleasure. Nobody heard the things you whispered in my ear, the things I had to write down later and keep forever because they were so damn beautiful. I wonder what I whispered back. I wonder how you remember it, how you remember it all. 

Yet I don’t worry that you’ve forgotten. No, you can’t see through other people’s eyes, can’t understand the significance they place on certain things, can’t see exactly what you mean to them. But there are times when you know. You aren’t completely alone. There’s a reciprocity somewhere down the line, there’s the closest you can get to what they call understanding, seeing. It’s not something you need to build an identity. But it can help, on the days when you feel a little shaky, when you’re screaming somewhere. Pacifies the hunger. 

Nobody was watching as you were leaving. Maybe they were, but by that point I no longer cared where anyone was looking, except for you. I wished I hadn’t been so critical at the start, that I hadn’t wasted energy longing for a sky without rain and a version of you that could read my body without effort. Because every stupid, oblivious thing you did that morning we knew was the last, like talking about your plans for later rather than telling me what I meant to you, like playing a song I’d never heard rather than the ones we’d listened to together on the cusp of a gentle sleep; they were all the most perfect things you could have done. And only I was watching. Not them, not even you.

For a better future, activism must thrive online

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“Is there hope for the next decade?” a debate at the Oxford Union asked in January, just weeks before panic began to spread over the escalating coronavirus crisis. By March we were under lockdown, yet in this debate visions of the future remained untainted by the prospect of a pandemic.

Now, it looms over our everyday lives, our thoughts, plans and hopes for the future; it dictates the present, but our angst also lies in worrying how it will dictate the future. The next decade suddenly takes on a very different form in our imaginations. Uncertainty, fear and dread: these feeling don’t leave much room for hope and optimism.

But the hope we do have, to quell our fears of the unknown, is that things will soon ‘return to normal’. That we will watch the news and not be confronted with a mounting death toll, that we will see our families again, that our worlds will open up once more.

While we of course long for this harrowing reality to be replaced by our old, ‘normal’ one, questions are starting to be asked about if this ‘normal’ is really what we should be aspiring to. A Google search of ‘new normal’ flooded me with articles about how the world will adapt to a post-pandemic age and what our new reality will look like in terms of transport, work, and socialising. But what about a more drastic, fundamental change to our ‘normal’? Could this pandemic be a turning point, a moment to reject the abhorrent, shocking traits of our pre-COVID-19 world?

Into the measures we take to ease this crisis and ‘return to normal’, can we incorporate our visions of a more equal society? Can we close the wealth gap, topple the patriarchy, embed compassion into government policy, banish greed and invest in the NHS rather than just clapping for it? And on a personal level, can we take what we have learnt about the value of community into the future?

These questions join the countless others swirling round our collective conscious. And like all the others, our answers and speculations are shrouded in doubt, undermined by unpredictability.

But what is certain is that this presents an opportunity for drastic reform. Disasters and upheaval pave the way for change, good or bad. Our modern welfare state took shape after the crises of the Great Depression and Second World War. But as we pick up the pieces in the aftermath of this crisis, and face the oncoming recession, activism and social change may not stand in the foreground of our focus.

Activism in the time of lockdown and social distancing is more challenging than ever. With street protests – one of the most powerful and tried ways of creating change and raising awareness – banned, and activists reliant on the online realm of social media to continue their work, the question of hope for the future does seem uncertain.

A brief look at the history of social movements shows that fighting for justice involved leaving the house and gathering en masse. The French Revolution, the Suffrage movement, the Civil Rights Movement, the Occupy Movement, Extinction Rebellion: all have involved taking to the streets. Now, not only are we limited to our homes, but ‘taking to the streets’ has completely new associations, of rebelling in the wrong sense, putting the lives of others at risk by ignoring collective responsibility.

That said, powerful displays of defiance and protest have taken place within the parameters of social distancing and lockdown. In Belgium, doctors and nurses at the Saint-Pierre hospital turned their backs as Prime Minister Sophie Wilmès walked past in an effort to bring recognition to their efforts on the front line.

Likewise, activism online has grown and taken on new significance. The Friday For Futures movement, which saw school strikes in 7,500 cities to protest the lack of action against climate change, is now gaining momentum online with the #DigitalStrike. Its effectiveness, compared to physical protests, is perhaps questionable – it has 50 to 100 participants each Friday, and gains less attention from governments distracted by the pandemic – but in times like these all we can do is adapt, and they have done so with determination and hope.

We are now more embedded in the online realm than ever, and activism is clearly no exception. If there is hope for the rest of this decade depends, however, on if movements for change can thrive online, during a pandemic and its aftermath, and if they can achieve a better, more equal ‘normal’. Perhaps it will be a combination of activism online and in the community – which we have seen already through peoples’ acts of kindness and solidarity in the past months – that will propel us towards a better future.

Perhaps out of this time of pain, loss and fear, will come the opportunity to create a better world. But it may be years before we know. Fundamental change may be hard to see, but with hope and adaptive activism, it is possible.

Slightly Stained

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My breath is since-soured coffee and yours is sweet cigarette smoke. Stale and sleepy and sweating sticky heat, we curl        – in that vast walloping, enveloping duvet, you know the one, that smells like Polish washing powder –                                             bodies wound together, entwined, intertwined, like great gangly grown up fetuses twisted and coated in the folds of that too big, yellowing duvet. We are wrapped in soft green Polish hills, asleep in fluffy clean Polish clouds. Anatomical specimens, suspended, glistening green and gold in the contents of their jar, still – silent, glazed like sugared doughnuts, alive and yet deader-than-dead, Fine membrane separating our slimy, conjoined bodies from outside air. Let in, and we are spoilt. We are stained somewhat yellow; moulding, souring, curling at the edges, a fog of yesterday’s breath. We fell asleep to early rumblings of the dual carriageway chorus, no toothpaste kisses for us. Air of sweat and last night’s fucking, the remaining smog of lust and living. We are inside a kaleidoscope, Trapped within a jewellery box, Viewing a world from behind a stained glass window. Prostration at the altar of the Saint-Chapelle. Worshipping those glowing wet reds, and purples, and blues As we stew, inside this orange, and brown, and beige. My breath in your mouth, your breath in mine. You gave up coffee a long time ago, and I never smoked.