Wednesday, May 21, 2025
Blog Page 851

Race to the Red Planet

In 1898 H.G. Wells published ‘The War Of The Worlds’, a story of Martian invaders descending upon Earth to harness its resources and cure the crippling overpopulation on their home world. Decades after the story was concocted, we are close to it becoming reality, almost.

A manned mission to The Red Planet would be the single most important moment in human history, shadowing all that came before. Not buried under mounds of political motivations, religious beliefs or rampant ideology, it will be the point when our species escapes the shackles of our pale blue dot and become a multi-planetary civilisation. NASA say they will conduct such a mission in the mid-2030s and announced that their plan would consist formally of three steps.

The first, using the International Space Station to further research on the effects of space travel on the human body. If anyone is going to make it to our neighbouring planet, they will need to survive months in a weightless environment. Since the body has almost no resistance to movement in such an environment, the muscles atrophy and bone density diminishes. Even balance is affected,  as the sense is largely decided by gravity and orientation, rather than sight. I recall a story of a recently returned astronaut closing his eyes in the shower and falling over as a consequence. While the Earth’s magnetic field protects us from harmful cosmic rays, in open space no such protection is offered. Both the Sun and deep space would bombard any Mars crew with subatomic particles, increasing their risk of cancer later in life, or even causing acute radiation poisoning. The terrestrial way of blocking radiation is to use lead as shielding. But lead is heavy, and therefore incredibly expensive to fire into orbit, much less send to Mars. NASA is currently experimenting with lighter substitutes, such as Hydrogenated Boron-Nitride Nanotubes, but these are still a while away from practical use.

NASA have plans to expand their reach beyond the orbit of the Moon. Beginning in 2020 with the Asteroid Redirect Mission. This is the second step. When thinking of asteroid fields, science fiction dupes us into thinking of areas of space densely populated with large clumps of rock, only navigable with the help of a Wookie. In reality, asteroid fields are quite sparse, and mostly made of dust. ARM will attempt to move a large enough specimen into a stable orbit with the Moon. Once there, all the technology for a Mars mission can be tested in cis-lunar space.

The final step consists of being able to truly abandon the safety of Earth. It is an attempt to create a hospitable environment that is not reliant on the Earth replenishing supplies every few months. This entails generating all of life’s essentials; oxygen, food and water, on the seemingly barren wasteland of Mars. Details of this process remain vague, as although a manned mission will almost definitely take place in the 2030s, Earth ‘independence’ will presumably take decades, if not centuries.

One cannot talk about a manned mission to Mars without mentioning Elon Musk and his company SpaceX. Founded in 2002, SpaceX is the only viable contender with any chance of beating NASA. Winning a contract over competition like Boeing to supply the ISS has given SpaceX the funds to pursue rocket technologies that are both cost-effective and efficient. As the majority of the costs from space travel comes from the spacecraft, not the fuel, Musk and Co. have devised an ingenious system to combat the current wastefulness, where much of the spacecraft will break-up during the initial launch. The bottom section of the SpaceX rocket lands itself on a floating barge in the ocean, allowing it to be refuelled and reused. The first successful re-flight occurred last month, and it is the probably the first of many. Musk’s innovations have set in motion the necessary large scale colony on Mars within a few decades. The rocket of choice will be SpaceX’s soon-to-be-built Interplanetary Transport System and is a mammoth piece of design. It will be bigger than any rockets built today, including NASA’s Saturn V, and will have a cargo capacity of a Boeing 747. No, that doesn’t mean it could carry the same as a 747. It means the ITS will be able to carry 747s as cargo, giving a further insight into the rocket’s size. Musk is certainly a credible player in this modern space race and if he wins, economists predict the opening of a massive private market for space exploration, overtaking anything which has come before.

With all of this talk of Mars, one would well within their rights to ask: Why? Why are we spending so much money and time to get to a place with temperatures that can fall 70°C below zero, an atmosphere that would kill any human within a minute and pressures so feeble that one’s blood would boil? There are two answers to this question. The first, to ensure the survival of our species, history and culture, in the face of mass extinction events. A meteor has once eliminated 75 per cent of all plants and animals, if we wait long enough it will certainly happen again. Having a permanent settlement on Mars will significantly increase our survival chances. The second reason, less pragmatic than the first, is to say that we, as a species, are destined to explore and to push the frontier. Carl Sagan once said, “Your own life, or your band’s, or even your species’ might be owed to a restless few—drawn, by a craving they can hardly articulate or understand, to undiscovered lands and new worlds”. His words should echo in our minds as we travel further than ever before.

Summer VIIIs stories you may have missed

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Christ Church and Wadham won the headships at Summer VIIIs last week, and most of the attention was on those two feats and Keble JCR’s boat-burning motion. However, several other events took place that are just as worthy of coverage:

Balliol M4 bump Balliol M3

Photo: Ben Hubbert [Facebook]
At the bottom of Men’s Division VI, Balliol M4 managed to bump Balliol M3 on Saturday, with the two crews winning Blades and Spoons respectively.

After bumping St Catz’s M3, Merton M3, New M3 and St Hilda’s M2 on the first four days of the competition, the so-called ‘Beer Boat’ that Balliol had fielded was suspected to be filled with some of the College’s superior rowers. And after a disastrous first three days, in which they were bumped thrice, the Broad Street College’s third boat went into Saturday’s racing low on confidence. It was no surprise, then, that a bump occurred early on in the race.

“You love to see it,” Balliol Boat Club tweeted, clearly appreciating the comedy of the situation.

However, it was a successful week for Balliol’s rowers overall, as their M1 boat also won Blades. Indeed, some 4,000 people watched the YouTube footage of Balliol’s bump of Magdalen: cox David Horwich was launched into the Isis in dramatic fashion.

Christ Church-Keble Instagram war

Photo: Christ Church Boat Club [Instagram]
Keble and Christ Church engaged in an intense Instagram battle before this year’s competition, as the pair’s M1 boats prepared to compete for the headship. The account ‘Keble4Head’ posted a series of memes belittling Christ Church, Oriel, Wolfson and Pembroke, whilst proclaiming their own chances of the headship.

One such image featured a comparison between the crowds at Donald Trump and Barack Obama’s inaugurations, with the two labelled ‘Oriel 2016’ and ‘Keble 2017’ respectively. The account proclaimed that this was “irrefutable evidence that the people are behind Keble going [for] head.”

Meanwhile, the account ‘Keble4Bank’ hoped that the Parks Road College managed to crash—their bio read “New empacher: £40k. Blues rowers: £200k. Watching them plough into the bank: priceless.”

However, it was Christ Church Boat Club’s account that had the last laugh—their video of Saturday’s Division I race, which featured a middle finger being pointed in Keble’s direction, garnered over 250 views within a day.

Jesus M2 bow ejector crabs

Photo: Ben Tucker, Jenyth Harper Evans [Facebook]
After bumping on each of the first three days of Summer Eights, Jesus’ M2 boat entered Saturday’s racing with a chance to secure the boat’s highest finish since 1961. They were chasing Linacre M1, but they bumped out before the Turl Street College were able to catch them. That meant that on the final straight, there was a vast distance between them and Keble’s M2 boat.

However, with nothing to lose, Jesus rowed hard for the finish.

But bowman Ben Tucker pushed himself if anything too hard—“I’m still unsure how it happened,” he told Cherwell.

“I think my blade hit a big chunk of a wave when it was square and the oar rotated completely upside down,” he continued.

“I had very little time to get it back square in time for the catch and the blade must have been slightly off square to cause the crab.” The race was klaxoned, but not before an iconic photo was taken.

Keble win headship—for fines

Photo: Wikipedia

Whilst their Blues-heavy M1 boat eventually fell short of Christ Church in the battle for the Head of the River, Keble College Boat Club did secure one headship this Eights Week.

Indeed, they opened up a lead of £29 over Oriel in the fines leaderboard, which dates back to the 2005 Summer VIIIs competition.

Oxford University Rowing Clubs (OURCs) have an extensive list of reasons to fine College boat clubs, with Keble racking up a £215 bill this week alone.

The reasons for these fines included an extra bank rider wearing Keble stash, late umpires, dangerous circulation, cutting up other crews near the bungline, and absent marshals.

Keble have been fined £1040 in the past twelve years, with Oriel just behind on £1011. Pembroke sit third on £965, with Balliol, New and Exeter making up the remainder of the top six.

“Its clear, accessible acting makes intelligible a foreign tongue”

In a certain sense, I shouldn’t be writing this review: after all, Mistero! is a play in Italian (although with English summaries provided in the programme), a language which I categorically do not speak. I should also provide the caveat that any details of what may have been going on onstage I provide in this review are, at best, speculative, based on those summaries, the consistently good acting and the odd word I recognized and felt inordinately proud of myself about. I am only comforted by the fact that the large majority of those who may want to come and see the play over the course of its run at the BT Studio this week will be in the same position—indeed, may have initially been put off by Mistero!’s feared incomprehensibility. If you, gentle reader, are of this mind, I would very much encourage you to take a chance on this, the third annual iteration of the Oxford Italian Play, regardless.

Instead of a play written as such, Mistero! takes the form of a series of vignettes, each based on a short story by the comparatively little-known Milanese writer Dino Buzzati. These vignettes, which involve various members of the cast and are entirely unconnected to each other in terms of plot, are interspersed with narrations and monologues by a figure representing the author himself (Paolo Torri), who opens the play slumped over his typewriter before being joined, one by one, by his characters. Torri fills the role with personality, with a devilish delight in his eyes when something awful is happening to one of his characters, but really shines in Il critico d’arte, where he plays a progressively drunker and more fulsome critic endeavouring to put words to the work of the avant-garde artist Leo Squittina (which, hilariously, appeared to be played by an upside-down Mondrian).

Awful things happen to the characters in this play more often than not: the sketches range from the very funny, such as Una lettera d’amore, a classic tale of intense endeavour constantly interrupted by an escalating series of visitors and phone calls made golden by its absurd conclusion and by Monia Stefanelli’s vast and impressive library of exactly the kind of voices you do not want to hear droning down a telephone at you; to the chilling revelations of Incontro notturno and of Il mantello (the latter making use of one of the few notable moments of lighting direction in the play, which on the whole was lit effectively but not eye-catchingly); to, finally, Sette Piani (Seven Floors), the show’s last sketch.

This is a Kafkaesque tale of uncontrollable bureaucratic forces ruining a life, but it’s also an interesting exploration of a sort of placebo effect: as the synopsis asks: “Is Giuseppe ill because he is moved to the lower floors, or is he moved to the lower floors because he is ill?”. As well as its fascinating plot, this vignette is notable for the starring role played by Benjamin Ashton, who throughout the play provides some of its best pure acting—especially good is his turn as a ‘ugly and lonely child’, complete with rolled-up trousers, in Povero bambino. As Giuseppe Corte, Sette Piani’s protagonist, Ashton provides an excellent portrait of degradation—from confidence and good health to something entirely other. No matter whether comedy or tragedy was each particular sketch’s tone, however, there was always a darkness present, a pessimism that perhaps comes with the close marriage of journalistic realism (Buzzati worked as a journalist all his life) and the ever-so-slightly fantastic and surreal.

I came away from Mistero! wishing that I spoke Italian—it would unquestionably have been a richer and more interesting experience had I known what the characters were saying, and the Italian speakers in the audience certainly seemed to be having a good time—but absolutely not feeling like I had gotten nothing from it without that fluency. By its clear, accessible acting alone, Mistero! makes intelligible a foreign tongue.

“Pleasingly thoughtful and thought-provoking”

The soft, meditative tone in which Elli Siora discusses her new play at its preview forms an appropriate introduction to a drama both pleasingly thoughtful and thought-provoking.  Rewritten is designed as popular theatre, Siora hopes that: “people leave and think ‘I could have written that’”.

This is accessible, the people’s theatre, or rather the students’. Rewritten celebrates and analyses the student experience through the lens of casual sex and its surrounding miasma of miscommunication, confusion and deceit. Conspicuous Company, the production team behind Rewritten, promise to offer “contemporary theatre and film that is entertaining and thought-provoking but still remains in touch with student-produced messiness”; an aim that Rewritten is primed to deliver.

The celebration of student drama’s potential for messiness is offset by an overarching attention to detail. Audiences will appreciate the devoted care with which Rewritten has been staged. Symbolic nuance is pursued in a set which incorporates Siora’s interest in cinematically visual memory. Crusty towels, an old microwave, and dog-eared dominos boxes are scattered over a carpet cut into large puzzle pieces which are lightly suggestive, of memory as something puzzled over, or rearranged in fragmentary pieces. The psycho-symbolic fuses smoothly with a credible representation of the real. The set reflects the submerged experience of the Michael Pilch studio itself, exploring fragmented and buried memory under the weight of student accommodation.

This is an innovative and multisensory approach from a play which deftly explores memory— how good memories are ‘rewritten’ in the light of later events. This detail will prove highly effective. Siora describes how she was drawn to the layout of the Pilch studio, (with spectators facing each other with almost claustrophobic closeness) as reflecting a conversation with two sides, like the dysfunctional relationship at the centre, open to two readings.

The central rewriting structure of the play presents a challenge. As with all forms which use the device of repetition with variation this must be managed sensitively. Engaging performances, particularly from Alannah Burns in the leading role ensure that the audience’s attention will remain rapt for the ‘B’ version of events, alert to and gratified by small changes.

The rewriting style places tone and physical performance under close scrutiny and offers the opportunity for this strong cast to demonstrate their flexibility. The performances hold the sense of the relatable and even mundane in tension with accomplished technical precision and a smooth delivery. The scene in which Fowler and Burns have an argument about big, unsolvable problems within a tiny cramped bath is perfectly scripted and delicately executed.

The discussion is one all too familiar to an audience well-versed in the emotional, unvoiced side of the casual dating scene. Fowler’s character’s self-serving protestations of “honesty” and desire to be “clear” about the situation of being “just friends” whilst in a bath together gets to the heart of the creative use this production makes of ambiguity.

The charm of this play, and the quality which will hold audiences’ attentions (and embroil them in heated post-play discussions) stems from the production’s ability to teeter on the edge of the quotidian but offer a revitalized perspective on entirely relatable events. It is refreshing to see a student production which is so introspective, reaching back into the lives, experience, and psychology of its audience—with references to Oxlove and snatches of the Friends theme tune serving as beautifully integrated links to this audience’s shared cultural experience.

With a stellar cast, engaging script, and hypnotic live musical accompaniment this play will be a joy for audiences to both watch, and to interpret their own spin on its teasingly myriad versions of the same story.

Almost half of Oxford students to back Labour in June, Cherwell poll finds

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An overwelming margin of Oxford students plan to vote Labour in the general election on 8 June, a Cherwell poll has found.

The poll, which surveyed 784 Oxford students, revealed that 48.5 per cent of those eligible to vote said that if there was a general election tomorrow they would vote Labour, compared to only 18 per cent for the Conservatives, and 23 per cent for the Liberal Democrats.

Support for Labour did vary between the two main Oxford constituencies, as 54.2 per cent intend to vote for Labour candidate Anneliese Dodds in Oxford East, while just 18.2 per cent backed Marie Tibdall in Oxford West and Abingdon. Students in Oxford West, which contains a minority of Oxford colleges, backed the Lib Dem candidate Layla Morgan by a margin of 40.8 per cent.

Of the students surveyed, 38 per cent thought that Jeremy Corbyn would make the best prime minister, while only 25 said this about Theresa May. In fact, at Theresa May’s old college, St Hugh’s, the Tory share is lower at 13 per cent, with Lib Dems and Labour tied at 38%.

Student support for the Labour Party appears to have increased since 2015, when 31.6 per cent of Oxford students said they were voting for Ed Miliband’s party in a similar Cherwell poll.

According to the survey, Oxford students consider Brexit to be their biggest concern in the election. Of the students surveyed, 38.8 per cent think the EU or Brexit is the most important issue facing Britain, compared to 19.5 per cent who said inequality, and 14 per cent who were most concerned about the NHS.

Pro-EU Lib Dem supporters may be dissppointed that while 82 per cent of those surveyed voted Remain last year, only 26 per cent of them are voting Lib Dem on 8 June.

Despite concerns over the number of young people registering to vote, 98.9 per cent of those who took part in the survey, which ended before the deadline to register to vote on 22 May, said they were on the electoral register.

Labour support with students in Cherwell‘s survey appears to be on a similar level to that estimated by pollsters nationally. A recent poll suggested 55 per cent of students across the UK were planning to vote Labour on 8 June.

Landlords, neighbours, and noise complaints

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I remember the first day I moved into my house in Cowley. I smelt the fresh, clean carpets as I marched into my new home, and sat brimming with optimism and excitement, thinking of all the memories yet to be created within these walls.

The very next day we received our first noise complaint. A short, white-haired, angry little lady came knocking on our door at exactly ten am. “You kept me up with your music ‘til two am!” she jabbed. As far as I remember, three of us had stayed up until midnight chatting. Maybe Miriam—whose real name has since been forgotten—was playing hard ball, like the new teacher at the start of the year who puts her foot down lest her students think they can push it. Either way, “that bloody conservatory amplifies all the sound inside it”, she explained. And that wasn’t a lesson we learnt in one sitting.

After that morning’s telling off , I got on my bike and cycled into town. “Ah, the new commute,” I thought. “This will never get old”. I was—at that moment—every naïve, optimistic new Cowley student resident, yet to realise that as much fun as living out is, the novelty of almost every aspect of the experience has a sell-by date. I do still enjoy the cycle into college. On a crisp spring morning it’s a lovely way to start the day. However, the dependence you quickly develop on your bike has a dangerous side effect.

Most people are familiar with what I call the Oxford-trek phenomenon: by virtue of the fact that Oxford is such a small city, for most people here (perhaps not at Hugh’s) even a ten minute walk feels excessive— we are used to rolling out of bed into the library, taking the 20 metre trip to hall at lunch. Starting to use a bike produces a similar effect. You estimate any trip from any part of Cowley to any part of town, without fail, as five minutes. Yet to brush your teeth, you see the clock at 9.53am, and somehow remain confident you’ll make your tute at 10. By the end of a year living out, you’re an expert in the student triathlon: a dip in the shower, the cycle into town, and the dash to your tutorial.

A major barrier to beating your own personal best is an occupied bathroom. No matter how big your house is, or how many people you live with, you inevitably end up getting on top of each other. I don’t mean sex. Sex with housemates is a big no-no. Thankfully none of mine are my type. What I mean is getting in each others way. The strange thing about living with people is that you notice things about them that you never would have otherwise. Little habits, and patterns of behaviour, which can range anywhere between amusing and infuriating. With my room downstairs near the kitchen, I’ve started to be able to tell which one of my housemates has come in, not from the way their footsteps fall, but from the way they drink a glass of water.

On a bad day, however, even the largely harmless habits of your cohabitants can irk you. I never realised how much I hated people not putting the bread tag back on the bag. After it was discovered that one of my housemates was putting empty jars back in the cupboard, the house meeting that we called quickly descended into a kangaroo court show trial. It took four months for us to set up a joint account for bills and general shopping. To this day I have never used the debit card. During its creation, the debate over whose name the account would be in (only two available slots between four of us) was heated. Thinking of my future credit rating, I made the smart move and bowed out.

One of my regrets is letting myself be persuaded—at the very start of our tenancy—that we weren’t the kind of house who needed a washing up rota, only to be trapped in a four-way prisoners’ dilemma just weeks later. Don’t be fooled if a friend comes out with the same. Everybody thinks that they’re the house who can live as a commune, washing up, not out of a sense of duty, but out of compassion. It doesn’t exist. Get a rota.

All that washing up comes from somewhere though, and with a real kitchen at your disposal—as opposed to a crappy little kitchenette—you suddenly start to release your inner Heston. Being able to properly cook is one of the joys of Cowley life, and there’s nothing like a nice homecooked meal as a house. Recreating Christmas day with a house at twice capacity was one of the best days I’ve spent in Oxford. As we approach the end of our tenancy, however, our already semi-Stalinist landlord has only got worse. It took us three attempts to get the house up to his germaphobe standards for his last inspection, and now he’s making noises about a “professional standard” before we move out.

This is all despite the fact that for four weeks we had no lighting in our kitchen, most radiators are useless, and there’s literally a tree growing through our conservatory. He also wasn’t best pleased when our neighbour complained about our last party. Apparently we were breaking our tenancy agreement. We’d had more success the last time, when all we received was a noise disturbance letter from Oxford Brookes, now proudly pinned on our notice board House parties are a normal part of student life, and obviously you don’t want to be complete pricks to your neighbours (buy them some wine beforehand, and start to turn things down when they ask), but second year is the year for them.

Cowley is a nice, vibrant place, and there are plenty of good pubs, restaurants and cafés on Cowley Road. It’s not, however, Manchester’s Fallowfield—the student areas of large cities put Oxford’s to shame. It is perhaps telling that Oxford’s student area is actually named after a town a few miles down the road. Given Oxford’s intense academic focus and its small size, it does tend to feel like you are splitting your time between town, where you actually do things, and Cowley, where you sleep. The more this can be avoided the better

As I sit here in my house, looking out into our grassless garden, surrounded by drying washing, and my best friend trying and failing to defrost some frozen noodles directly into a wok, I can say that—despite its drawbacks and its frustrations—the experience of living out is a wonderful one. The sense of genuine independence that it gives you is the one that the university experience as a whole promises. Only once you’ve walked in to a kitchen piled with washing up, or a living room strewn with empty cans, does university deliver on that promise.

College Insider at St Anne’s

SOS—if this letter is found please send help (51°45’43.6”N 1°15’45.4”W).

It’s been 54 days since we lost contact with the rest of Oxford. In that time we have seen no sign of life save for a few squirrels (which we have taken to eating raw out of pure desperation) and the odd Hugh’s student, on whom we have given up taking pity—they truly are a lost cause and I hear they already have a conch. We huddle on the quad in order to shelter ourselves from the bitter north wind where, if you’re lucky, the masses of people block out the sight of the brutalist monstrosities which, in all honesty, look better now they have been left to decay.

A new principal has arisen from the anarchy and we gladly obey her, fearing the wrath of her law enforcement background. Between you and I, if anyone is in fact reading this, I fear an uprising. As food supplies run out and tensions build, certain members of the college have only grown in self-importance. A journalistically-minded student has donned his blazer and has begun discreetly spreading his agenda through a crudely constructed pamphlet of propaganda, using dry leaves and what I presume is pigeon blood from the grotesque red colour.

The new library looms tall over us, a cruel reminder of a future that might have been. But, despite the hope it was intended to create, its box-like structure is a daily reflection of the Jericho cage in which we are trapped, cut off from society.

It is well known that Anne’s chose to build a coffee shop in favour of a chapel, which is a cruel kind of irony now that we are in such dire need of salvation from a higher force. We pass around an iced latte as a sort of communion wine, but the effect is not the quite same.

I have been writing these letters daily, in part for my own sanity, and attaching them to the back of Ali’s kebab van, in what is probably vain hope of rescue. I fear that, once supplies run dry, things might take a turn. Luckily, due to our foundation as a women’s college, I am unlikely to be chosen as the first sacrifice.

Please, if you find this, contact the authorities. Faces look increasingly gaunt, and the men look increasingly nervous.

Not Wong: Banal racism

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When we talk about racism, the most vivid imagery which springs to mind tends to be the usage of racialised slurs, violence carried out on the basis of ethnic and racial lines, and a ‘backward politic’ associated with individuals who endorsed the movements of le Pen, Trump, Farage, and such. More imaginative and informed minds may see racist flashpoints and undertones present in incidences of conflict between law enforcement and citizens (e.g. police brutality in America), or immigration controls implemented by governments such as the current one in the UK. But a commonality persists—from a liberal point of view, racism is distant; it is evil; it is extraordinary. And in many ways, the liberal movement—whitewashed and dominated by individuals exempt from the most pernicious forms of racism—understandably posits that racism is an issue of moral wrongness, of absolute abhorrence, and of relative rarity.

Imagine there’s no heaven,

It’s easy if you try.

But that’s rarely, if ever, the case. For the subjects who act as vehicles to the deeply entrenched power relations it exemplifies, racism is proximate, banal, and ordinary. It is not merely the outcome of someone who is capable of great evil and incapable of moral remorse. It is not merely found in the most extreme and rare of circumstances. It is not merely a social issue, a political topic, or an agenda item to be incorporated into a movement which could do with some greater political capital. It is real, and wraps itself around the victim’s experiences, perspectives, and decisions. The kind of racism I’m talking about is mundane and boring—it is banal, and it is the banality of racism that makes it so universally destructive.

No hell below us,

Above us, only sky.

Racism exists in the form of relational assumptions which define the interactions between individuals. Here in Oxford, that translates to cases where, as a Chinese student, you may be asked if you’re looking for tourist directions or ‘the wrong college’ when trying to enter a college for a tutorial. Or cases where the restaurant waiter rocks up and decides to speak very, very slowly to you, even though you are clearly more than fluent in the language, or when you’re told by the shop owner that you speak very good English for a Chinese person. Note that none of these cases is an instance of malicious intent—the porters are not evil, and neither is the waiter nor the shop owner. Indeed, upon hearing of your discomfort, many may argue that you’re overreacting to these cases. After all, surely these people are merely being friendly, right?

Imagine all the people living for today,

Imagine there’s no countries,

It isn’t hard to do.

But racism doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t work in the form of non-victims policing the emotions and reactions of victims, and telling the victims that their experiences are non-representative and have been over-interpreted. The subject of racism is, ultimately, more than merely material harm. And the assumptions about one’s identity, based purely upon how one looks, are acts of violence in and of themselves. When persons of colour have to take on additional burdens of emotional labour not only to explain their intentions—but also the presumptions of why they are entitled to operate, live, and act within certain spaces—that imposition is inherently unfair. And these additional burdens are particularly pernicious when you’re expected to react in a non-confrontational and ‘respectable’ manner as you try to convince the deeply cynical porters that you really are not trespassing into some college’s territory, or the police officers passing by you at night (particularly if you’re in America) that you are not an illegal immigrant or a drug dealer, or the professors and students you meet in certain institutions that you are not merely there as a result of quotas. Note that, once again, in none of these instances are the perpetuators of racism evil. Neither are they extraordinary. Nor are they distant and removed from the so-called liberal bubble we inhabit.

Nothing to kill or die for,

And the worst forms of banal racism are ones that are disguised in the rhetoric of justice and morality. Take the US, for instance, where racialised violence perpetuated by the state is framed in terms of the police carrying out their duties of law enforcement and peacekeeping. Let’s be very clear here. An overwhelming majority of policemen are not evil—they do not intend to or wish to carry out acts of unjustifiable, excessive violence. Instead, they are merely cogs within a greater machine, banal participants in a wider game, performers within a performance which is structured to create confrontations and unjust killings that harm both police and civilians of colour. Through norms, rituals, and practices that implicitly condone racialised policing (e.g. stop and frisk, targeted and sweeping profiling, and imperfect regulation of arms usage), the system propagates itself through individual actors who often have no malign intentions. And when the system becomes challenged and called out, the default defence is the view that these policemen are not evil people. Of course that’s true­—but that means nothing in the wider scheme of the pursuit for justice.

And no religion, too.

Or take the Manchester shootings, where the actions of a radicalised, bastardised individual who happens to adhere to a twisted and poisoned version of Islam somehow entail a moral burden on behalf of the Muslim population in the UK to perform grieving and mourning. It is as though, if they fail to mourn as expectation demands that they do, the mere failure to mourn would serve as evidence that the entire Muslim community is to blame. I think it is imperative to show collective solidarity in times of crises, and believe that individuals— regardless of religion or ethnicity or race—ought to mourn the victims of the vile, abhorrent act carried out last Monday. But, at the same time, the banality of racism percolates and takes root through the emotive fervor of grief, by instilling the expectation amongst us that Muslims ought to grieve particularly hard so as to justify the fact the terrorist who carried out the attack is an outlier and not the norm. Note—the racism here embodies no malicious intent, and, if anything, it is driven by (I hope, at least) a desire for reconciliation and harmony. But this absence of malice does not absolve it of its wrongness—the wrongness of imposing unjustifiable expectations on a community purely based on their ethnicity or race.

Imagine no possessions,

I wonder if you can,

No need for greed or hunger,

A brotherhood of man.

An objection may be that Islam is not a race, and criticisms of Muslims ought not be taken as evidence of racism. But let’s not neglect the fact that the dog whistles and prompts used to discuss Islam are often couched in poorly disguised, racialised language. Every time an episode of domestic terrorism occurs, the issue of immigration inevitably becomes dragged into the picture, with critics of cultural pluralism gleefully hopping on to the bandwagon to attack cultures using racialised stereotypes and references to the ethnicity of the terrorist. Islam is not a race, but the ways in which Muslims are attacked—banally and ordinarily, in many cases—are inherently racist.

Explicit racism is repugnant and abominable. But in many ways, it is far easier to identify and call out than banal forms of racism. Banal racism is when someone raises placards at a protest condemning racism, and then continually perpetuates stereotypes and myths about persons of colour over a pub conversation or casual chatter with friends. Banal racism is when someone glibly asserts the beginning of a ‘post-racial era’ whilst persons of colour live under complex webs of prejudice, barriers and discrimination that they must navigate on a daily basis. Banal racism is when someone decries that racism is no longer “the most important thing to care about today”, and allows their privilege to taint their performative allyship with blatant ignorance. Above all, banal racism is when racism continues to thrive in the post-Trump era, and yet so-called allies resign themselves to singing performatively, in a Kumbaya circle around a campfire.

You may say I’m a dreamer.

But I’m not the only one.

I hope some day you’ll join us.

And the world will live as one.

Evoking emotion and rejecting repression through art in the Middle East

In our modern-day culture of reverence for empiricism, the arts are often unfairly judged to be inherently inferior to the sciences. Leaving aside the obvious counter-argument that, in fact, many large corporate firms such as McKinsey, Barclays, or even Google employ scores of humanities graduates in top positions, there is an additional, two-fold case to be made for the necessity of art, which might be equally utilitarian as the case usually made against it. From the freemen of Ancient Greece to repressed citizens in the conflict areas of the near East today, the arts have remained an integral cornerstone of humanity’s survival.

The importance of visual art for the beholder lies in its ability to evoke emotion through recognisable scenarios, associations, or empathy. By evoking those emotions, the observer has the opportunity to release them (together with other pent-up emotions) rather than keeping them in, which results in a certain mental purification (usually called catharsis). By experiencing these emotions in a more ‘sterile’ environment, rather than in real life where they might have consequences, it is then possible to be more level-headed in day-to-day life. An important and concrete example of this phenomenon would be the art published in the Turkish satirical publication Penguen, of which two authors have recently been charged with insulting President Erdogan. By dealing with negative emotions concerning the regime in their country in a humorous way—humour is one of the best cleansers of the mind, as the authors of Greek comedies already knew—the Turkish citizens are less likely to have this bottled-up anger come out in ways that might have dangerous consequences, and the burdens placed upon them may seem more tolerable.

Another form of art, different from comedy and satire, that is of great importance for those under oppressive or repressive circumstances would be the kind of art expressing endured suffering, uncertainty, and other negative emotions. Any burden is made more tolerable by the knowledge that there are others struggling in similar ways and visual art uniquely allows, due to the exact associations and evocations varying from individual to individual, for the portrayal of the experiences of one to be a reflection of the experiences of many others as well. The Syrian artist Ammar Azzouz, for example, recently had his work ‘Chaos of War’ on display in London, where he now works as an architect. This watercolour painting portrays an abstract, disfigured body, which would evoke different substantivized memories and fears for each, yet speaks of shared and recognisable pain.

Art also has the ability to convey strong emotion, being a form of self-expression for the creator. This is particularly evident in works produced under repression, since they tell us about their necessity through both their contents and the circumstances of their creation. It is clear that culture produced by individuals suffering indescribable horrors is very important to preserve their experiences.

For art allows the artist to experience a certain catharsis by sharing their ordeals (much like a therapy group can help against traumas), and makes it easier for others to start to compre- hend through feelings, rather than reasoning, what suffering exists in our world. A second point, however, deserves far more attention than the cold reasoning above: in many cases, artists in oppressive regimes are risking their very lives to create their art, highlighting the fundamentality of creativity to humanity.

This is currently evident across the near and middle East. Ali Farzat, a Syrian cartoonist, was pulled from his car in Damascus by masked men, presumably security forces, on the 25th of August 2011. They beat him severely and left him by the side of the road, where passers-by later found him and took him to hospital. These masked men told the artist it was just a warning. They ordered him to “stop satirising Syria’s leaders.”

Farzat responded that he would not give up on his art, and would continue to oppose the regime, despite the risks. Many other artists standing up for free speech have suffered similar fates, such as sketch artist Youssef Abdelke, who spent two years in jail under the regime of Al-Assad. Nevertheless, Syria’s artists go on, just as some artists have always done under repression: the human instinct to express themselves through art can in some cases even overpower the fear of death. Not to mention, their works help others in similar situations to cope with reality.

In conclusion, denial of the importance of art is also a denial of a fundamental part of humanity in the observer—who can use visual media as a release from the emotions of everyday life—and therefore. also an invalidation of the immense sacrifices made by artists creating this art. Not to mention it rejects the urge and mortal need of the creator to express themselves in any way possible, especially when circumstances do not leave many options open to this end. Anything that is worth risking death at the hands of a repressive regime should be taken very seriously. The sciences further our understanding of ourselves and the world around us in physical terms, but if we want to understand concepts beyond the grasp of measurements and direct perception, if we want to understand our humanity itself, the humanities are invaluable.

The extraordinary life and lenses of Robert Capa

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Robert Capa once said that ‘if your pictures aren’t good enough, you’re not close enough’, and, indeed, his extraordinary lifelong proximity to war produced some of the most famous photographs of the 20th century. May 25 2017 marks 63 years since he was killed by a landmine explosion in Vietnam. Capa’s untimely death is emblematic of his fearless search for meaningful photographs throughout his career, working as a war correspondent for Life, Time magazine and other esteemed publications. He dared to go further than any other photojournalist of his generation, and it is thanks to his bravery that we now have pictures of such historic moments as the 1944 D-Day landings on Omaha Beach, where no other photographer was present.

Born in 1913 in the Jewish quarter of Budapest, Capa left Hungary at the age of 18 to study in Berlin, a move which would mark the start of a restless life of travel. As anti-Semitism swept through Germany, he fled to Paris, where he met and shared a darkroom with Henri Cartier-Bresson and David Seymour. Almost immediately, his photographs showed a fascination with the individual—his first published photograph was an intense close-up of Leon Trotsky giving a lecture on the Russian Revolution. In 1936 Capa took on his first war assignment documenting the Spanish Civil War.  Perhaps his most famous photograph, of a Spanish Loyalist at the moment of death, was taken at this time, and Capa was proclaimed as the world’s best war photographer.

It was also during this early period that war began to influence the young photographer’s personal life. While covering the Battle of Brunete, Capa’s professional partner and wife-to-be, Gerda Taro, was killed. Capa was traumatised and never married after the tragedy. Despite, or perhaps because of this personal tragedy, he continued his work as a war photographer until the end of his life. He, too, was to die prematurely while photographing the Indochina War in 1954. He met his end in conflict, like the very people he captured on film.

Undoubtedly, one of the most striking aspects of Capa’s work is his closeness to his subjects, both physically and emotionally, which allowed him to capture what Cartier-Bresson called ‘the decisive moment’. In doing this, he gave the concept of ‘war’ a new association in the minds of those outside it—that of the human faces behind statistical masses. Capa’s photographs are emotional, and illustrate his belief that ‘in a war, you must hate somebody or love somebody: you must have a position or you cannot stand what goes on.’

At the same time, however, his photography remains that of a restrained observer. Despite his own feelings and those of the American soldiers around him, his photography maintains a level of detachment, allowing for the viewer to form their own opinions on the war. His photographs of dying German prisoners of war are as sensitive and tragic as those of Allied soldiers: they are not ‘the enemy’, but humans who found themselves born in a certain place at a certain time. Likewise, his images of collaborators in liberated France, with their shaven heads, are perhaps not what we would expect. They are simply ordinary people, often women who had had babies by German soldiers. It is up to us, as viewers, to reflect on the way they were treated. As Capa himself said: ‘The truth is the best picture, the best propaganda.’ This is true not only of the suffering of war, but also its victories. The idea of France’s liberation, for example, may fill our imagination with images of immediate, unbridled happiness and freedom, but Capa does not hide the real messiness which accompanies even the most triumphant moments.

The celebrations after the liberation of Paris, for instance, were interrupted by a sniper attack, and he risked his life to document it. Similarly, his photographs from Naples in October 1943 highlight the cost at which the city’s liberation came. His pictures of joy are overshadowed by those of grief and despair at the loss of life, which he believed to be his ‘truest pictures of victory.’ Moreover, Capa manages to convey the sense that world events—even those as great and all encompassing as war—are only ever the consequences of individual actions. By the time they reach newspapers or history textbooks, these actions are forgotten: they are buried in the anonymous narratives whose characters are countries, pacts, and armies. Through his images, Capa preserves some of these moments, and reminds us of the personal level at which the events of war take place. One side’s defeat is not an abstract event which takes place instantly. It is rather a discussion between two generals, or two officers from opposing armies waiting for instructions. As Capa’s photography demonstrates, D-Day wasn’t just a political turning point on a time line. It was the physical wading of thousands of men towards a Nazi-lined shore.

After the Second World War, Capa found himself unemployed, which he described as ‘a war photographer’s most fervent wish.’ He co-founded Magnum Photos in Paris with partners including his long-time friends David Seymour and Henri Cartier-Bresson, and became president of the co-operative in 1952. Yet, two years later, he made his fateful return to the front to cover the Indochina war in Vietnam. War made his career what it was, but also cut it short.