Friday, May 23, 2025
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Opinion – We need to change the conversation around censorship

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A recent headline warned ‘it’s time for Boris to tackle the tyrannical silencing of free speech on our campuses’. Having not realised I was studying in an institution which the article went on to tell me was comparable to the Soviet Union (thank you Telegraph journalism), I was moved to look further. In Michaelmas alone, Oxford experienced a flurry of incidents that attracted national attention in the form of articles, tweets and sound bites warning of the dangers of ‘snowflake culture’.

In January, Merton College made an ‘overt statement that debate is not welcomed’, at least according to one Oxford historian. In closer examination, this looked like a code of conduct for a conference at which speakers must ‘“refrain from using language or putting forward views intended to undermine the validity of trans and gender diverse identities”. Given that this was a talk to explore ‘perspectives on trans intersectionality’, it seems like a moderate request that the existence of the identity of members of the panel and audience was not up for debate. What would have been added to the discussion by forcing a trans activist to spend half their time defending their existence? More recently, Amber Rudd was disinvited by the UN Women for her role in the Windrush Scandal. Oxford University voiced their disapproval, saying ‘we encourage students to debate and engage with a range of views’. This is again misleading.  Students did not protest the content of her speech, but rather the platforming of a deeply controversial character in an uncritical and didactic manner. Sara Sadoxi, a committee member of Oxford Feminist Society, drew the distinction best; “All the promotional material spoke about Rudd’s role in encouraging women to get involved in parliament and the UN,” Sadozai‎ said. “Under that context, it didn’t sound like it could ever be an open debate where views are challenged.”

I chose these examples, not to make the case for or against the decisions, but to reflect the dissonance between the dialogue as it occurred on campus and the headline that made it to the eyes of the nation. At the heart of the reporting and responses to both examples is a disagreement around the space which public figures are entitled to, and with this, a misuse of the term ‘no-platforming’. There is an irony that in these disputes ‘freedom of speech’, established in the UK by the Magna Carta for ordinary people to hold monarchs to account, is used often to advocate for figures like Rudd, who generally go quite well represented and are already in positions of economic, political and social power. The very outrage that is provoked when such figures are disinvited shows the entitlement that these interest groups still feel over academic platforms, and the other-isation of groups who shouldn’t have to feel unwelcome in these spaces. This is not an attack of freedom of speech. The issue was not that Amber Rudd speaks – no one can escape her views – but that she was given the spotlight by an international women’s organisation for an uncritical celebration of her past. For such a context, are we really supposed to believe there was not a more valuable and inclusive voice that could have been heard? More importantly, the refusal of any empathy as to how this event might impact students of colour shows that the respect Rudd felt entitled to did not seem to go both ways.

‘Politically-correct’ is a popular buzzword, although it seems an odd turn of phrase when we consider how our PM’s list of ‘un-PC’ comments have not held him back in his quest for political office.  An infuriating aspect to this issue is that the narrative being spun that ‘student thought is limited by PC culture’ is as least as prevalent as any student consensus around the importance of being politically correct. Those who are the first to label this culture over-sensitive are also often those who can’t stomach the notion of trigger warnings. This seems an odd combination of opinions, I find it difficult to believe that two innocuous letters put beside an article impact anyone apart from those they can be a great aid to. Those who complain that students are over-invested in identity politics have no such qualms around undermining us collectively as ‘privileged juveniles’. It was not only passionate fans of ‘The Female Eunuch’ who use the ‘no-platforming’ of Greer as an example of the illiberalism of the left. It’s important to ask – if there is agenda in this narrative, assuming it is not for the uninhibited discussion of second wave feminist theory – what is it?

One impact of the undermining of student culture is the implicit undermining of the causes that generally thrive within it. ‘Social justice warrior’, like ‘millennial’ or ‘snowflake’ has become an accusation which trivialises and thus delegitimizes the argument a young person wishes to make before they have opened their mouth. Remove the negative perception, and those on the right would have to make a greater effort to engage with the arguments themselves.  But it is all very well to complain that social justice interests are misconstrued.  The larger danger here is the weaponization of outrage – that the unlikable, ivory-tower student image is having a guilt by association impact on other issues. In the run up to last year’s election, The Times reported that the Conservative Party was said to have polled LGBT issues to see if legislating against this group could be used to win votes in Northern, working-class constituencies. Such speculation should be incredibly alarming and points to a culture war that attempts to divide traditional left-supporting groups. There is a truth in that principles alone don’t cause change, that activists must be actively conscious of how they are received by the wider public.

The first step to reclaiming agency around media narrative, which I hope I have given fair reasons to be concerned about, is to meet in the middle with mainstream concerns around free speech and dialogue. Bridge building is quickest as a two-way process, and one that we must engage in if we don’t want to end up stranded and ineffectual. When attempts to engage with this question are treated with the dichotomising response that I outlined at the beginning of this article this is disappointing and frustrating, but makes it even more crucial that our push back comes from the centre rather than being forced to a similarly illiberal extreme. We shouldn’t be led by the nose into conceding the untrue claim that to defend a diverse 21st century student body we have to destroy founding academic liberties and principles, but fight for the middle ground which preserves a vibrant educational climate whilst respecting everyone’s dignity.

Moreover, if we understand that trigger warnings, selective platforming and re-appraisal of core literature all have a place in at university, then we must also understand that, if we don’t want to live up to the caricature painted of us, this is a delicate and nuanced process of give and take. My experiences as a white, British woman don’t give me the education to reckon where this line should be drawn on a university level compared to students who face more aggressive, harmful and insidious bigotry.  In my own degree, reading Classics prompts a difficult negotiation between reading as a wannabe academic and as a 21st century woman. However, I am also aware that when I read a rape scene in Ovid, whilst I find it repulsive and upsetting in one light, I can use it to aid my understanding of the gender dynamic of the era. Less palatable and equally true, is that I know that is not the main justification for why I read it – that there is a literary quality that is not mitigated by the misogyny it is partially shaped by with.

The University’s free speech charter and even the recent SU motion are both overly vague in setting out a criteria for the trade-off between the inherent literary or academic value of a text and the dangerous or upsetting content that it may also contain – the process is thus ongoing as we decide where the boundary between these concepts must fall. Part of the danger of the binarising process that we can see playing out in mainstream media is that it  makes it harder to address these types of questions without being aligned to the camp of ‘overly-PC’ or ‘oppressive’. For example, after he signed a letter in support of Germaine Greer’s lecture at Cardiff University in 2015, Peter Tatchell was ‘no-platformed’ for his stance on ‘no-platforming’. I have to question if Fran Cowling, the LGBT representative from the National Union of Students, thought that she was making the best use of her limited airtime by refusing to share a stage with a man who was arrested 300 times in the fight for LGBT+ rights. Some can make the argument that Tatchell committed a trans-unfriendly act in signing the letter but there is no case that he is a transphobe. It is horribly wrong that a man who, attending Pride in Moscow, was beaten to the point of brain injury by neo-nazis could be the subject of a tweet; ‘I would like to tweet your murder you fucking parasite.’ Attacking established leftists for differing not in visions of what the world should look like but of the best mechanisms to achieve this leads to the accusations of arrogance that end up alienating this generation of activists from the last.

After her invite was rescinded, 56-year-old Rudd urged students to “stop hiding and begin engaging”; an example of perhaps the most pervasive misrepresentation that students are subject to. Students do not hide, and the claim that they do is ironically used to avoid engaging with them. This was the route taken by Rudd, who at no point took her disinvitation as a suggestion to apologise for or even acknowledge the harm and alienation that her political career had caused the young women who her talk was supposedly to represent. The snowflake image does a huge disservice to the efforts and achievements of young activists around the world. The media need to stop getting away with claiming otherwise.

Oxford’s bike black markets and other vicious cycles

When you find yourself locked in a stranger’s car, alone, behind an MOT station 30 miles away from college, half an hour until your tute; something’s gone wrong. 

Frustrated by my pedestrian existence, I decided to buy a bicycle. What I didn’t know was that this decision would take me on a very Oxford odyssey: encounters with angle-grinders in Garsington, thinly veiled hostage negotiations in a field in Abingdon, and a chat with a 9 year old about the Nigerian Naira’s dependence on petroleum exports.

I got Jeremy’s number from a mate in college. Jeremy was evidently the go-to man, the real McCoy. I was assured that he had sold somewhat functional bikes to at least three vague acquaintances. They were also cheap. With these strong endorsements, and negative 1.5k in my Santander account, I boldly sent off my first text.

“Hi Jeremy, I’m looking to buy a bike in Oxford and my mate X gave me your number. Best, Alex”.

3 hours later, the cogs of Jeremy’s tightly run global business empire whirled into action:

“Hi Alex, here is my address for the bikes – OX4 XXX, XXXXX Road. I’m open all day. Let me know if you need to be picked up or you are unable to use your own or public transport. If you use a taxi i will refund. Thanks.”

Professional. Responsive. Transparent. Flexible. Generous. What else should I have expected from Oxford’s premier bike merchant? I scoffed at my initial hesitation to contact him; I was in the hands of a pro. I googled the address and saw that it was 15-minute drive out of Oxford. It was too far to walk, so I had a choice: the generous offer of a refundable taxi, or being picked up? I eventually opted for the latter, in a bid to strengthen my position in subsequent price negotiations. Also, since his job was literally selling transport to people because they had no other means of traveling, asking for a lift couldn’t have been an uncommon request.

“Thanks for your swift response. Would it be possible to pick me up from Holywell Street at around 4:30?”

“Yes I will pick you up at 4:30pm. Can i pls have the post code? Thanks” – I admired his stylised informality: selective decapitalisations and general aversion to punctuation. Every interaction exuded confidence and a relaxed manner indicative of vast experience.

At 4:27pm a text comes through: “Sorry im rushing for emergency at the hosp. Can we pls do tomorrow?”

 An emergency! And at the hospital! How dreadful! I needed a cigarette and a lie down before I was able to compose a response. I eventually found solace in his confidence that we would be able to “do tomorrow”, since it at least implied that the medical emergency was not life threatening. I messaged him the following morning and after minimal back and forth, he arranged to pick me up at 1:30pm.

At 1:42pm a black Honda (whose back window had been repaired/replaced with cling film) eventually screeched to a halt outside New College plodge. It was at this moment I had my first inkling that this bike deal might not go as smoothly as I had hoped. But I nodded at the driver and confidently got into the (bicycle) dealer’s car. (Full disclosure: I also took a furtive photo of the car so I could lecture my friends on not judging books by their covers whilst they salivated over my gleaming bike.)

The 15 minutes flew by. He gave me a potted history of his life: his childhood in Lagos, his wife, his children, and his aspirations to graduate from a masters programme next year. I was inspired by his story and chatted with an ease I have failed to muster with any hairdresser or trained psychotherapist since. To my disappointment he made no mention of yesterday’s ‘accident’, but this modest reticence only added to my admiration of his resilience and professionalism. 

Eventually the car stopped, and I was somewhat surprised to be led through the front door of a small suburban house. It only got stranger from there. He proceeded to guide me through to the back garden of what he now referred to as his home, where I was greeted by the sight of over 300 bicycles. Each bike exhibited a different stage of decomposition: most of the frames were missing at least one wheel whilst others had surrendered to rust decades ago. Presumably some were also camouflaged by the tetanus-riddled fauna of spokes, chains and brake wires. Through this metallic morass, Jeremy nimbly waded. He plucked out one bike (or most of it) after another until he found one which I liked. At a distance of 10 metres, I fell in love with a battered old racing bike frame, mottled in chipped sunset paintwork. The fact it was missing both front and back wheels phased neither me nor Jeremy, who set about finding suitable substitutes. Within minutes he had assembled a beautiful new mongrel before my eyes, never before ridden. I was encouraged to take it on a ‘test drive’.

I hadn’t ridden a bike regularly since I was 5. I am naturally lanky and malcoordinated. I will also do anything to avoid a situation in which I am publicly seen to be making a fuss. This cocktail of hamartia meant that the ‘test drive’ consisted of me wobbling along the pavement for ten metres, falling off whilst trying to disembark, and then blurting out “it’s perfect, I’d love to buy it”. He asked for £80, I offered £50. We met in the middle at £65 and shook hands. This might have been where the adventure ended had there not been one further, minor wrinkle to be ironed out.

On inspecting the bike more closely, I discovered a unique feature which Jeremy had neglected to advertise: there was a “kryptonite D-lock” still secured through the bike frame. But before I could raise an eyebrow, Jeremy anticipated my fears and reassured me that the bike was an old one of his brother’s, and he had simply lost the key. Out of the 300 bikes in his back garden, the likelihood that I should have picked out a family heirloom seemed like an extraordinary piece of fortune indeed. However, without waiting for my response, Jeremy immediately started to search for tools to remove the lock, with a speed and alacrity which confirmed that no impediment would prevent this sale from going ahead. On even closer inspection I noticed that the D-lock was not only attached to the bike frame, but also to another ring of metal–similar to the sort that are sometimes nailed onto walls for cyclists to secure their bikes. A cynical observer might claim that the bike looked like it had been forcibly ripped from the side of a building.

From the comfort of your lockdown boudoirs, I imagine it is easy for you to say what you might have done instead. I promise you it is much harder when you are actually in a man’s kitchen, with no alternative means of getting back to college, whilst he road-tests various weapons from his power tool arsenal in front of you. It gets harder still when one of his children comes downstairs and makes you a cup of tea whilst you wait.

After 15 minutes of fruitless angle-grinding, bashing and hacking, the ever-resilient Jeremy devised a new plan. He explained that he had ‘friends nearby’ in possession of the requisite tools to remove the lock. At a certain point you just have to accept that you are in too deep to bail. So, once again, I boarded the Honda, bike in tow, and went to meet Jeremy’s ‘friends’.

Jeremy’s description of ‘nearby’ turned out to be as flexible as his conception of what constituted the saleable condition of a 2nd hand bike. We drove for a further 30 minutes, deeper and deeper into the Oxfordshire countryside whilst he elaborated on his political leanings. I was interested to discover he was a “One Nation” Conservative and an ardent advocate for corporal punishment. Halfway through his assessment of the Thatcher administration, I spotted a sign saying that we were passing through Garsington. Three turns later, he pulled up behind an MOT garage. Springing out of the Honda, Jeremy whistled at his friend who slid out from beneath a car, and the two of them wheeled my bike around a corner into the sunset, leaving me locked in the car, alone. 

After 40 minutes with no sign of man nor bike, I shared my live location with a friend on facebook along with a signed will that any remaining organs should be donated to science.

However, once again, my fears were unjustified, and our returning hero Jeremy rolled into sight. He proudly encouraged me to examine the recently unfettered bike and asked me if I was happy with it. As a prisoner in his car, parked on the private land of his ‘friends’ ’ MOT station, I did not think it polite to demur.

3 hours after Jeremy originally picked me up, I was returned to Holywell Street. 24 hours later, the bike’s rear hub decided to stop working. Naturally this happened whilst negotiating the Cowley Roundabout, calculated by the Department of Transport to be “the Second Most Dangerous Roundabout In Britain”. The bike is now rusting in my garden instead of his. If you recognise any of its parts (the wheels don’t match so it must have a minimum of 3 previous owners) then let me know and I can return the relevant remains to you. Unfortunately, I strongly suspect that cutting off the D-lock removed the only working thing on that bike. 

A man’s best friend

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As a child, I developed a strange habit: whenever I wanted anything, I would make a PowerPoint. My younger self had a compulsion to set out an argument that developed over twenty slides, replete with rainbow gradient backgrounds and fancy transitions. I would then come downstairs and solemnly ask my family to convene in the living room for some important business; I would present my masterpiece in all seriousness and await my parents’ verdict. When I was ten I successfully persuaded them to take my brother and I to CenterParcs. Intoxicated by the sense of omnipotence this victory gave me – an ability to momentarily topple the power dynamics of the family unit to get my own way – these PowerPoints were henceforth prolific. I think my parents must have been secretly laughing at me, but whatever it was, something worked. If I wanted something I didn’t pout or cry; I retreated to my father’s study and made a presentation.

One day I set my sights on my biggest task yet. I wanted a dog. I gathered my family in the living room and went through my carefully prepared slides. I got my brother to hand out accompanying visual aids (cute puppy pictures I’d found on Google). I even drew up a contract which I was willing to sign, pledging to walk the dog every day, clear up its mess, love it forever, etc. My parents said no. I stopped making PowerPoints and told them I would never speak to them again, then probably went to my room and cried.

It wasn’t until a year later, when we moved to the countryside, that my parents changed their minds. It was a compelling need to fit in with the local residents, rather than my immaculate PowerPoint, that made the difference. We moved to a place with more pets than people; every single one of my neighbours has a dog.  Acquaintances are recounted in relation to their animal: ‘you know – Smudge’s owner’. On walks, dog is invariably greeted before the human. Christmas cards are signed by every member of the family – including the dog, often in a different handwriting that attempts to emulate some form of canine cursive. As a teenager I earned more money dog-sitting than baby-sitting.

Initially, I think it was mostly a desire to be socially visible that my parents rescued a three year old Jack Russell called Freddie. Over the years I watched my parents, previously cat-people who hated mess, become absolutely enraptured by this four legged, fourteen kilogram animal. Every morning I could hear my dad go downstairs and talk to the dog while he made his breakfast, asking how he slept, what his day was looking like, did he have any strange dreams? I doubt my dog had complete comprehension as to what my dad was saying – but dogs do have a talent for understanding; it is usually just an ability to perceive what is beyond words. I always thought my dog could feel how I was feeling. If I was sad, he knew, and would come and sit with me quietly, occasionally giving me a little affectionate head-butt as if to remind me he was there for me, that I mattered to him. In peak A-Level stress season, my mum had two ports of call for advice: ‘do some exercise’ or ‘go sit with the dog’. The latter was always the preferable. In very basic scientific terms, I believe this was because time with pets is said to increase levels of oxytocin (a stress-reducing hormone) and decrease the production of cortisol (a stress hormone which I discovered in abundance alongside my Chemistry A-Level). 

Essentially, in a world that is full of complexities, stresses and changes, one constant is canine affection. Every time they see you, you are the most important person in something’s life. Imagine feeling like that every time you walk through the door. I think we all have some innate narcissism that tells us we are the centre of the universe – a system of belief that is ironed out by existence in what my parents term ‘the real world’. But to Freddie I really was the centre; his existence seemed to orbit around loving his family. And when he sneezed it was so cute my heart would hurt.

Whenever Freddie got overexcited, he would run outside and chase his tail – once or twice he even caught it. He would sit on your feet under the dinner table because he didn’t like to touch the cold tiles. He ran in his sleep. He always had the hiccups when we were watching television. When we walked along the sea, on a promenade about two metres above it, he would sprint along the edge, barking at the unremitting waves.

When my twin brother and I went off to university, my mother worried about empty nest syndrome. I think she coped by turning the dog even more emphatically into her baby. When we returned after the first semester, we were shocked to find her pushing him around in a pram. He had started having trouble walking, and the vet suggested this so that he could still get out and see the world. He was still very happy, but by now he was an old dog and needed a lot of care. For the last several months of his life, my parents put as much on hold as they could to spend time with him. Some relatives and friends found this difficult to understand – surely he’s just a dog? But Freddie was part of the family. I think a lot of it was gratitude; this dog had enriched our lives since the day we got him. But how can you say thank you to a creature that doesn’t understand gratitude? Loving us was just something he did.

When I made that PowerPoint I was desperate for a dog – I thought it would provide an endless source of cuteness and bragging rights over my pet-less friends (I was a very mean-natured eleven year old). I envisioned dressing it up, teaching it tricks and frolicking in a couple of sunflower fields. I wanted a golden retriever: I would call it Princess. Instead we got Freddie – he didn’t like wearing bandanas, and could just about manage to ‘sit’ when bribed. But I am so grateful for him. He simply made every day that bit happier.

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.