Saturday, May 17, 2025
Blog Page 919

Not Wong: Eternal vigilance guarantees no freedom

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Eternal vigilance guarantees no freedom, but to abandon our duties of vigilance is to abandon the last barrier that stands between us and the curtailing of important moral and political values that we have held so dear to us, as liberals and conservatives alike. Donald Trump’s inauguration on 20 January 2017 was a moment of farce, anger, shock, and—above all—a wake-up call from reality that we ought not ignore.

I was in London the day the Women’s March happened. On my Facebook newsfeed I saw hundreds of slogans, signs, banners, and posters that called for the defiance of Trump. Sadly, I was unable to physically attend. The march itself was beautiful, and epitomised contentious politics at its very best: dynamic, vibrant, performatively defiant, and united in difference. It gave a voice to those in the American subaltern fighting back against a new reincarnation of an old Establishment who has sought to and will continually seek to dismiss their voices through championing a privileged conception of “free speech”. It was testimony to the power of psychological solidarity in an age of contentious politics, by subverting the precarity of millions of women living under a “pussy-grabbing”, “locker-room-talk” President and reclaiming the rhetoric of sexual violence historically used to endorse pernicious assaults upon women’s dignity and honour. Above all, it provided psychological comfort and much needed catharsis to both the thousands who attended marches all across the world, and the many millions more who observed in mournful silence.

But beyond the warm glow I felt as I parsed images of individuals defiantly calling out the nefarious hypocrisy of the Trump administration, beyond the moderate reassurance that the cause for egalitarianism and feminism has not been lost—yet—I was deeply troubled by an underlying sense of paranoia and deep-rooted fear. I was struck by the fact that if we were to hold the Trump administration to account, the Women’s March was nothing but a mere first step amongst the many hundreds and thousands more we have yet to make in fighting the good fight for the upcoming four to eight years. No doubt it is essential to maintain a strong, feel-good factor as a morale boost—sharing, commenting, and liking on social media; shouting chants in the March; performing Queerness outside Pence’s mansion—these actions are necessary in sustaining both the normative purpose and motivational solidarity that structure our ongoing fight.

But against a regime that is seeking to overthrow past Executive Orders and legislative decisions concerning protecting ethnic minorities and the Queer populace; that deems Climate Change a “hoax” and prioritises asserting its “Alternative Facts” whilst shutting down dissenting media views—activism that prioritises our short-term gratification and immediate consumption could only get us so far. If we were to believe that expressive demonstrations alone are “enough” in “expressing our solidarity” and “showing that we are not afraid of Trump”, then the future could never be any more bleak for the liberal movement. Don’t get me wrong—we must keep marching on. But marching alone would ultimately achieve nothing.

First, we must recognise the intersectionality of oppression that would only become more prevalent as the rise of the far right persists. There is Trump—but there’s also Farage (UK), Petry (Germany), Wilders (the Netherlands), Salvini (Italy), and more. Intersectionality—contrary to popular belief amongst certain circles—is not the glib belief that ‘all minorities should come together and sing Kumbaya, hand-in-hand’.

Instead, it is the recognition that whilst white women are clearly victims of far-right authoritarianism—which has sought to strip them of their basic healthcare (cf. Planned Parenthood), deny them their rights to access equal economic opportunities (cf. Trump’s plans to scrap legislation designed to facilitate better female representation in corporations), and transform their reproductive rights into subjects of masculine fetishisation and monopoly (cf. abortion), women of colour are additionally affected by problems such as the re-institutionalisation of the school-to-prison pipeline and explicitly racialised policing methods under Trump; it is the acknowledgment that female immigrants and refugees would be faced with increasingly harsh threats of cruel repatriation into warzones, as well as violent abuse in camps without due processes; it is the realisation that the particularly pernicious means in which the purging of gender-neutral facilities and gender reassignment surgery will be systemically attacking non-cis women who do not fit comfortably within the gender binary or the heteronormative order of relations.

The Women’s March was a march for the Woman, but for whom does this Woman speak? And who will speak for those who will be living under constant fear of Trump’s authoritarianism, as he seeks to cut down on Section 8 housing (council housing) and obliterate medical safety nets with an alternative that has little beyond being “bigly” and “the best plan ever”? And who will march for those who face increasing racialised profiling and abuse, who find themselves walking down a street being told to “f*ck back to where they’re from”; told that a nation with which they have identified for no longer has any space for their presence; and coerced into apologising for their sexual orientations, gender identities, ethnicities, and races?

Let’s be very clear here. To recognise that oppression operates in an intersectional manner does not—under any circumstance—entail that we dismiss the experiences of suffering of one minority or another. We could oppose racism without being sexists; sexism without being racists; classism without queerphobia; queerphobia without classism. Justice is not a zero-sum game. It is a collective effort.

Second, we must mobilise capital for political change. This is where the global nature of contentious politics kicks in. Social movements are crucial—but they could often only succeed when they successfully map themselves onto the political opportunity structures of countries (as Tarrow and Tilley prophetically noted). Keep protesting—but let’s target the protests at those individuals who must truly be held accountable. Keep calling for reforms and justices—but let’s replace the often vacuous, idealistically vague slogans with focused visions and specific demands. Keep mocking the figures that have, and will continue to make our lives miserable—but let’s not squander our credibility and moral capital by bizarrely abusing the likes of a 10-year-old son and a woman whom we seem to mock because of their associations with an authoritarian villain (how misogynistic, ironically, is the trope that wives somehow deserve to be blamed, attacked, or vilified on the basis of their husbands’ characters?). Keep signing online petitions—but also reach out to your Senators and MPs, your local politicians and party leaders. When 2018 comes around, vote for those who could genuinely defend the rights of the 99 per cent; when 2020 comes around, vote in the good faith that you could expel the impostor who—four years ago—claimed to be able to help those that he will have done very little for by 2020.

Some say we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt. And we did—from 2015 to that fateful November night, and from 9 November to 20 January, and today: we have given this incompetent mess of a man far too much benefit of the doubt, and I dare say it’s high time we abandoned any deluded possibilities that Trump would somehow magically ‘pivot’ back to making moderate compromises—this man would not pivot back to pragmatism and commonsense, let alone compromise. So why dream on?

Above all, we must remain vigilant. Vigilant, in recognising that the most pernicious forms of oppression often come not from the State, but the civil society; vigilant, in giving a voice to our brothers and sisters, comrades and fellow human beings where they could not be heard. Vigilant against mendacious ‘Alternative Facts’; against the post-truth conceit in the post-modern era; against the damned lies told to us again and again by blatantly wrong politicians—and against the tides of darkness that threaten to undermine our most fundamental values of decency and common respect for each other as human beings.

Eternal vigilance guarantees no freedom.

But all it takes for Evil to prevail is that good men do nothing. 

Harry Potter and the Procrastinators’ Tome

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The extent to which re-reading Harry Potter for the millionth time this term has helped me through collections has been a reminder of just how comforting children’s books can be. Whether as a break between course reading, or a way to evade new year life crises, or just as wonderful stories in their own right, we never really grow out of children’s books.

One that perfectly illustrates this is Framed by Frank Cottrell Boyce. Incredibly funny and warm, Framed follows the life of Dylan Hughes, a young boy living in a tiny Snowdonian village. His naivety and earnestness, as well as his love for his family and village (insignificant as it may seem to outsiders) are so endearing, and watching him begin to understand some of the tougher realities of the adult world is oddly poignant. The book is filled with genuine laugh-out-loud moments, such as when Dylan is mistaken for an art enthusiast after naming his chickens after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, that make for a lovely silly read.

Where Framed offers the perfect comfort reading for when term-time workloads get too much, Michelle Paver’s Wolf Brother is a compelling, although at times heartbreaking, read for all ages. Set in an ancient hunter-gatherer civilisation, Wolf Brother follows Torak, a boy left isolated following the death of his father, who befriends a similarly vulnerable wolf cub. Throughout her quest-based narrative, Paver tackles the ideas of community and social exclusion, survival and friendship. We experience the novel through the eyes of several of the main characters, including Wolf, which offers a very unusual and fresh reading experience, as Paver imagines the consciousness of an animal. The relationships built within the extreme and challenging situations encountered in the novel, such as vast frozen seas and demonic caves, are beautiful and intense.

A different but familiar imaginary landscape is inhabited and upturned in The Book of a Thousand Days by Shannon Hale. A novel that combines a fairytale world, complete with princesses locked in towers and evil shape-shifting princes, with realistic well-developed characters. We follow the story of lady’s maid Dashti, locked up in a tower with her mistress, who is being punished by her father for her refusal to marry as he chooses. The novel confronts the issues of gender and class that typically cement characters’ positions within fairytales, and it is satisfying to watch Dashti become far less convinced about her supposed inferiority as her illusions surrounding the aristocracy are demystifi ed. Dashti’s character-growth and increasing self-respect, as well as her pride in her native culture, support for her friend, and impressive bravery are all a delight to experience. Indeed, the novel is remarkable in general for engaging and multifaceted female characters. The usual romantic tropes of fairytales are played with, but ultimately abandoned in favour of a much more personal and rich central relationship.

Another recommendation to retreat away from the library with is Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer—fun, clever escapism, with an imaginative and colourful array of characters, varying from a child genius to a techie centaur to a kleptomaniac dwarf. Colfer’s subterranean world fi lled with technologically advanced faeries is wonderful to explore, as is his modernisation of traditional myths and fantasy tropes. The perspective fl icks between characters, giving a broad view of coexisting events, and making the reader uncertain of who to root for. Exciting, fast-paced, and ridiculous to just the right degree, Artemis Fowl is perfect for avoiding admitting that you’re an adult now another year has ended. And, since it is the fi rst in a series, you can hide from reality for that bit longer.

Continuing in that quest, The Universe Versus Alex Woods by Gavin Extence follows the improbable yet somehow believable events of the protagonist’s child—and teenhood—as he gets knocked unconscious by a meteorite, founds the ‘Secular Church of Kurt Vonnegut,’ and ultimately finds himself stopped at border control with 113 grams of marijuana and an urn full of ashes. For a book filled with unexpected adventures, it’s incredibly insightful and tender, handling tough ethical questions unflinchingly, yet with grace. We see Alex grow into a wonderfully principled, and at times almost uncomfortably logical, young man, and the reader can’t help but understand even his most surprising of decisions. One to remind you of the grimmer elements of teenage culture if ever you yearn for those days of lighter workloads, yet as with so many children’s books, ultimately an uplifting story.

Recipe: caprese mac and cheese

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Macaroni cheese is one of my all-time favourite dishes— it’s the perfect combination of the best two foods in existence, cheese and pasta. So, keeping with this week’s theme, I’m going to share perhaps my favourite macaroni cheese recipe, one that never fails to lift my mood and truly shows how superb this dish can be. It puts a twist on this classic by adding some Caprese flavours of mozzarella, tomato, and basil to the mix to really kick it up a notch.

Ingredients:

For the cheese sauce:
100g butter
70g plain flour
1 litre milk
1 bay leaf
½ onion
5 black peppercorns
A pinch of nutmeg
150g gruyere/other strong, mature cheese, grated
Salt & white pepper to taste

For the tomato layer:
400g tin whole peeled tomatoes
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
As most college kitchens aren’t equipped with blenders, you can use 400g of passata for the same effect

For the macaroni cheese
500g pasta of your choice (I use the classic spiral-shaped tube), cooked
1 cup of cooking water reserved
8 ripe tomatoes, thinly sliced to around ½ cm
95g basil pesto
150g mozzarella of your choice

Method:

1. To make the sauce, first warm the milk with the bay leaf, ½ onion and black peppercorns.

2. Melt the butter in a saucepan, and then add the flour.

3. Whisk this mixture until it starts to thicken, reaching a roux-like consistency.

4. Slowly whisk in the warmed milk until it has been fully incorporated.

5. Turn the heat down, add the nutmeg and allow the sauce to simmer gently for 10 minutes.

6. Turn down the heat then add the cheese, salt and pepper and stir until the cheese has melted.

7. Mix the sauce with the pasta. If the sauce is too thick, you can add some warm water to thin it out.

8. Pre-heat the oven to 200°C.

9. To make the tomato layer, add the salt and sugar to the tomatoes and blend with a stick blender until smooth. Or simply pour your passata mixture in the bottom of an ovenproof dish

10. Place half of the pasta in the dish on top of the tomatoes then top with half of the tomato slices and cheese. Dollop on the basil pesto.

11. Top with the remaining pasta.

12. Top with the remaining tomatoes and cheese then place in the oven.

13. Bake for 20-25 minutes until the tomatoes are roasted slightly and the cheese has melted and is golden brown.

14. Remove it from the oven and allow it to sit for 5 minutes before serving

15. Enjoy the best macaroni cheese in existence.

Review: The Standard

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Oxford’s food scene is full of secret gems—small independent businesses that put any ubiquitous restaurant chain to shame. One of my particular favourites is the Standard, a long-standing family-owned restaurant that specialises in Bengali and South Asian cooking.

Located half-way down Walton Street in Jericho, the Standard is part of a cluster of exceptional independent restaurants, that also include Manos’ Greek deli and Mamma Mia’s pizzeria. Having eaten at the Standard an almost unquantifiable number of times—and ordered it on Deliveroo even more often—I feel like I’m entitled to call myself an authority on the place.

With apologies to those unlucky enough not to live five minutes’ walk away from Jericho, I would definitely recommend eating in, if only to have your food in its fresh, piping hot glory. The restaurant is one small, nondescript room with simple décor: it’s the food that does all the talking.

After the obligatory poppadum, my go-to dish is the chicken shashlik—perfectly grilled chicken off a skewer, with peppers, onions and tomato, all with the just right amount of char on the edges. Having eaten this dish in the restaurant itself, in my room during an essay crisis, and on a Friday night before drinks, I can safely testify its consistent outstanding quality.

Among my friends, we all have our favourites: without fail one orders brinjal bhaji (soft spiced aubergine) with prawn dupiaza (a curry with spiced onion and peppers), another swears by the palak paneer (spinach with paneer cheese) and peshwari naan combination (sultanas, almonds and coconut).

This is definitely a vegetarian-friendly joint, with an extensive vegetarian dishes list and the option to have a vegetable curry of any choice. You can also save money by ordering a vegetarian dish as a side plate, which is £2 cheaper than a main (I told you I was an expert).

The Standard’s reasonable pricing is a huge draw, with a generous meal including main course, naan and rice costing around £15. However, by some skilful manipulation of the menu (see above), you can get a highly satisfying meal for half that amount. Inevitably, the restaurant gets busy at dinnertimes, so I’d recommend either going for lunch or booking in advance. Overall, not only is this Indian incredible value, but it sets the standard for independent restaurants in Oxford.

The Standard, 117 Walton Street, Oxford, OX2 6AJ.

Home is where the art is: Helen Pinkney

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On the wall of my room in Brasenose hangs a framed watercolour of Old Quad with the Radcliffe Camera behind. Back at home, in front of a large high resolution photograph of a bud on the cusp of opening, there sits a birthday card composed of 18 busts of Homer, each with a candle emerging from the top of his head. A large print portraying a bent metal teapot amid a forest of stalks and leaves hangs above the armchair in the sitting room. I am dog-walking on a misty morning with the artist behind these works: Helen Pinkney—my artist-godmother.

Amused at my sudden formality when I ask her a clumsy question about her beginnings as an artist, she recalls how her father, a furniture designer, used to make her playdough. The giraffe she formed at the age of 3 hinted at future proficiency in the field of ceramics—this early masterpiece prompted her mother to run down the street, displaying it proudly to the neighbours. More mature creations include the sculptures of chickens she used to own, poking out from the shrubbery, and later still, a series of abstract ceramics.

She objects to my use of the word ‘abstract’, insofar as it implies divorce from reality as it first appears. She has held true to a precept learnt from her father: “Never make up a line”. Every curve, every pattern is derived from some wave or leaf recorded in her sketchbook. Keeping each piece grounded in observation results in a strong sense of the “spirit of a place” running through her work.

Looking at my Brasenose watercolour, I am amazed at how she can suggest depth and detail with very few strokes. Helen leaves gaps for the mind to fi ll, and in so doing allows it to inhabit the space she observes.

Her style is intimately connected with a wish to record, as she says, “physical space and movement through it”. This is a way we can make sense of our lives. The path she pots is principally understood in terms of cycles of destruction and renewal, explored recently in her exhibition Things Fall Apart. Here, a kiln malfunction which left several pieces warped was accommodated as the presence of the title in both process and product—a demonstration of ruin’s productive potential.

Just as Ai Weiwei pronounced one of his sculptures more beautiful after it had been demolished by strong winds, so Helen, unlike so many artists of the “join-the-dots” school, allows the character of her material and its response to circumstance to actually have a voice in her art.

The title “Things Fall Apart” comes from the third line of Yeats’ “The Second Coming”.
During our brief conversation, we touch also on Ted Hughes, Alice Oswald, and J.M. Barrie.
Helen’s ability to draw just as easily from the chickens in her garden as from Yeats’s cosmological model of widening gyres is symptomatic of the artist’s condition. She suffers, she tells me, from “a compulsion to create things all the time”. Long may it afflict her.

‘Enter First Lobster’

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I have never been in a play. Fourteen years of state school education, and my  only acting experience is from faking injuries to skive PE. Most people make their acting debut in their primary school nativity play as a sheep, or if you were lucky, Mary. Despite being the best choice to play Mary (I’m an Arab and literally named after her), the teachers always gave the part to one of the cute blonde girls. Once the lead roles had been dished out, the class was divided into those who could sing, and those who couldn’t. I was stuck in the sweaty ranks of the choir for every primary school show, de- prived of the chance to star as mute donkey. I’m not bitter at all.

In secondary school, it got no better. Drama lessons were just one hour every two weeks, and since the drama teacher was on maternity leave, we were stuck with supply teachers who made us play pointless drama games instead of actually ever doing any act- ing, directing, or writing ourselves. The closest we got to real acting was reading parts of An Inspector Calls aloud in English class. Friends had tragically relatable anecdotes: “the teacher would say, ‘let’s pretend to be a sweet in a sweetshop… how would a sweet be moving?’ I always wanted to work from real scripts and put on plays instead”.

Drama games can be great teaching aids, although I’m not sure how a sweet would be moving, especially for warming up the class and getting the shy students to open up. But this kind of drama can’t make up for the ex- perience of actually being in a play. I remember seeing my first production at Oxford, and being shocked at the level of professionalism—not just the acting, but the lighting, set design, and costume. I met people who went to state schools, but had already directed, produced, or stage managed five or six plays. Obviously, it is understandable that private schools have far more resources for things like drama and sport. But why is there so much disparity between the opportunities within the state sector?

I think the answer lies somewhat in the increasing focus on statistics, on commodifying and measuring education. Schools which are regularly termed ‘failing’ or ‘satisfactory’ on their inspection reports are under more pressure to get those hallowed five A*-C grades for every pupil. Teachers pump all their energy into English, Maths, and Sci- ence, rather than encouraging participation on extracurriculars. The arts subjects are timetabled for once a fortnight, or left off altogether so more hours can be allotted to the core subjects.

But it’s more than that—students are increasingly being told that the arts don’t matter. Politicians focus on promoting STEM subjects, and the Russell Group website tells us that ‘facilitating subjects’ like Maths are preferable to ‘soft’ subjects like Drama. My form tutor told me to swap my Music and Art GCSE options to History and French, if I wanted a chance at getting into Oxford. If you go to a poorly performing state school, where few people go on to Oxbridge, you take this advice at face value.

Now that we’re here, we can see that we’ve been cheated out of our arts education. I’ve met so many people at Oxford who took ‘soft’ subjects. In fact, on my English course, I’m pretty sure those with a grounding in the arts have a big advantage. Let’s set the record straight and stop robbing students of the confidence, team spirit and empathy which an education in drama can give you. And please, can someone give me a non-speaking role in their play?

Sport Science: Creatine

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Creatine is a naturally occurring molecule which is produced in the kidneys and the liver at a rate of about two grams per day. Creatine is manufactured by a reaction of glycine with arginine (two non-essential amino acids), generating guanidinoacetate. Guanidinoacetate reacts with ornithine to form creatine. Creatine travels in the blood stream and is mainly transported to skeletal muscles, but also to the heart, and other types of cells. When it enters muscle cells, it gains a phosphate group to generate phosphocreatine. Phosphocreatine acts as a phosphate carrier: it can donate this phosphate to ADP to form ATP in the absence of oxygen. ATP is the energy currency of cells, required for essentially every biological process, including muscle contraction. During the first two to seven seconds following an intense muscular contraction, ATP is generated via this process. Due to this short time interval, there is often insufficient ATP in our muscle cells to complete a gym workout of more than four to five reps. This is when our bodies crave that extra creatine supplement to enable us to manufacture ATP for an additional ten seconds. The alternative option that skeletal muscle cells use to replenish ATP levels is the breakdown of glycogen into glucose; glucose can then generate ATP through respiration. Creatine builds muscle indirectly; it provides energy so that we can lift heavier weights, increasing muscle growth. It is important to mix creatine with carbohydrates to increase the amount of fuel in your system, important for the muscle recovery process. What are the side effects of creatine? In fact, research is yet to find negative side effects directly linked to creatine consumption. Experimental trials have disproved a correlation between recommended creatine intakes and damage to the kidneys or liver. Thus, do feel free to take creatine responsibly.

Author of the week: Halldór Laxness

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In post-WWII Reykjavík, a mix of young anarchists, kind strangers, and squirming politicians welcome Ugla, a girl “from the country” into urban life. So runs the opening of Halldor Laxness’ 1948 novel, The Atom Station, a compelling satire of the Icelandic bourgeoisie and its politicians in the wake of their decision to allow America to build a nuclear base, or as the protesters sing, “sell the country”.

With much of his writing examining the nature of Icelandic identity, Halldór Laxness is viewed as one of the country’s most important writers. Born in 1902, he wrote prolifically throughout his life in a range of forms. Perhaps his most famous novel, Independent People (1934) is an epic retelling of Icelandic history and the powerful sway of the sagas in its depiction of rural life. Permeated also with a sense of hardship and distrust of materialism, it paved the way for the critical perspective of Ugla in The Atom Station. Initially blacklisted in America upon publication, the novel highlights a divide between tradition and potentially threatening modernity through the trace of an individual’s disillusionment.

However, Laxness’s writing doesn’t cling unfailingly to a sense of the old, important as it is. The best parts of The Atom Station are its flickers of friendship and feminism, and a balance of vividly imagined characters with satire and realism that characterises the best of Halldór Laxness.

Worthwhile resolutions

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We all made New Year’s resolutions but, halfway through January, let’s be honest with ourselves for a moment. Those new running shoes are definitely just for show and the closest they’ll get to proper use is that ‘half-walk, half-jog’ you do when the green man goes red.

You might think your diet is going well but those post-night out chips and cheese definitely do count, no matter whether you remember eating them or not. And ‘be happier’? Come on, as if you can coerce yourself to even smile at tute sheets.

So this year, we need to make promises that we can stick to, that will actually better our lives and those of others. Being well-meaning is fine until suddenly it’s December and you’re still lying in bed surrounded by crisp packets and self-loathing.

Obviously, Oxford is home to many students but if you actually look up from your Prêt coffee or your textbooks once in a while you might notice that there are other people in the city. Some of these people, for one reason or another, need help.

Specifically, the homelessness issue in Oxford is so explicit that even the most rose-tinted glasses won’t hide the problem, no matter how hard some people try. We spend our days walking past people who have lives, and stories, but crucially no homes.

It can seem, as a student, that this, although distressing, is something not within our control. We may occasionally buy a Big Issue or throw a few coins into a hat, but the feeling of underprivileged guilt, for some people, can prove shamefully easy to swallow down and ignore.

Even for those willing enough to look into their options to make a difference, the thought of dedicating time to anything whilst wrapped up in ‘hectic’ Oxford life is a scary one. It feels like meeting someone for coffee requires rearranging three things, an all-nighter, and cutting two other friends completely out of your life. But is a few hours a week really all that much? Let’s be honest, you probably spend that amount of time each day looking at Buzzfeed.

So, my suggestion is to take the plunge. Sign up as a volunteer at somewhere like The Gatehouse, a cafe for homeless people. People here provide hot meals and drinks for those without a home and get to know the names and stories behind the faces we pass every day.

It’s only a few hours a week and the charity understand that you might only be in Oxford during term-time, so it’s perfect for students (as long as you are prepared to make the commitment). It could just make you organise your time better, forcing you to kick that procrastination addiction, and it certainly will do a lot of good for a lot of people, including yourself.

Information about The Gatehouse can be found at oxfordgatehouse.org

Through the Looking Glass: Benazir Bhutto

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The name conjures up an image of a poised, elegant woman, seemingly demure in her trademark white headscarf, with eyes that gave away her sharp intellect. This is the Benazir I saw in Pakistan after she returned from her self-imposed exile, twelve years after her second term as Prime Minister. But the “fiery and fun” woman who had taken Oxford by storm in her yellow (or “snot-coloured”, as MP Alan Duncan recalls it) MGB convertible was lost to me, and I tried to reconcile the serious stateswoman with the vivacious youth that had captured the attention of many at Oxford.

Bhutto came up in 1973, and read PPE at Lady Margaret Hall. For most of her Oxford acquaintances, the memory of Benazir is tied to her “beautiful” yellow convertible. Unable to make any claims about faulty WiFi networks, she once told her tutor that someone had stolen her essay out of her sports car. This same convertible was used to drive to weekend excursions to Stratford-upon-Avon to watch Shakespearean plays, or to Baskin-Robbins in London, her favourite ice cream parlour. Other favourite pastimes included picnics at Blenheim Palace, punting and boathouse parties, and, perhaps most significantly, debating at the Oxford Union, of which she became later became president.

Bhutto made history by becoming the first Asian woman to become the president of a club that had only started admitting women in ten years ago. According to biographer Walter Isaacson, a Rhodes Scholar at Pembroke at the time who helped her with her campaign, Bhutto was determined to prove that a former member of the colonies could become president of the Union.

However, whilst much of Bhutto’s life at Oxford was just like anyone else’s, notwithstanding her position at the Union, in many ways it differed hugely. In March 1977, while she was busy painting the president’s office blue, and using a green and white theme (the colours of the Pakistan flag) for term-cards, her father was contesting elections. This was followed by riots in Pakistan, which endangered not only his life, but Benazir’s as well. She was paid a visit in Oxford by officials from Scotland Yard to make arrangements for her safety.

Although she claims in her autobiography that “Pakistan seemed far away” whilst she was at Oxford, it preoccupied her mind as much as tutorial essays and Union politics, and she poured over English and Pakistani newspapers most mornings in the St. Catz MCR. The debating chamber at the Union—where her portrait hangs today—became a second home to Benazir during her time at Oxford, and indeed, prepared her for a life beyond it: the first Asian female Union President was to go on to be the first female Prime Minister of Pakistan. Bhutto could be “fiery and fun” or serious and solemn—she was a dangerous woman in every sense of the word.