I saw a GP on Friday. She was fairly useless, aside from the fact it seemed like I was wasting her time, she seemed to think that I should just sit tight and wait. She might be right; eventually I may just start speaking again, it may just come back as quickly and as suddenly as it went. She may also be wrong, a possibility that is as terrifying as it is growing increasingly likely.
It's hard to explain what it feels like to be entirely trapped inside one's own mind, unable to bridge the gap between what I am thinking and the operation of my vocal cords. There are plenty of people far wiser than me who have said something about feeling lonely, even in the presence of others. I guess that is what comes closest to describing it. People can talk at me and try and work out my response from my facial expressions. They can wait as I type out a response to read what I write and the patience required to do so is immense. They can sit in silence with me, smile every so often and venture a guess as to what I might be thinking. Many have. But I still cannot quite explain it. Sometimes to be with others, despite a complete inability to engage meaningfully is all I crave. Other times I crave a solitude that I cannot escape. Most of the time it's a mix between the two; having someone there should I want to type anything or need to see a smile and feel the assurance that it is going to be okay, even though no one can guarantee that, but being under no obligation to endure the frustration of talking to them via message even though they are sat or stood right in front of me.
Few things keep me going. I await the delicious irony of being phoned by the mental health service I have apparently been referred to in order to talk about what is wrong. The prospect of having profound "first" words is quite attractive though, in truth, the only thing I try and say at the moment is, "Just want to be able to speak." Hardly inspired.
Monday, 15 February 2016
Saturday, 13 February 2016
Pppphhhhillllooosssssopppphy....me and my stutter
When I applied to study a Masters in Philosophy, I considered there to be many positives that I shan't bore you with here. I never considered the positive that it would be especially difficult to say with a stutter, allowing me to make the joke (albeit with poor comic timing and with great difficulty) that I should have picked a subject that would have been easier to say should I ever develop a stutter. When I did, in America, after a panic attack that saw me visit A&E in America more times than I had in the UK, it was reassuring to those I was with that I was still making jokes. Or at least trying to. I hope that remains the case.
I never thought that I would be in the situation again. You see, I am genuinely not an especially anxious person. In fact, I can be annoyingly relaxed about exams or essay deadlines and I get the feeling the majority of my friends would put anxious as one of the characteristics they least expected me to possess. Indeed, I would consider them correct. Having said that, after a panic attack on Monday, I began to stutter again. I made the Philosophy joke and got, perhaps sarcastically, perhaps with a tinge of sympathy, called a comedian. I thought that was the end of it. I didn't expect it to come back. I didn't expect, after waking up on Tuesday speaking as normal, that by noon my speech would begin to deteriorate again. I didn't expect that by Tuesday evening I would be in tears on the phone unable to say words at all. And I certainly did not expect that by Friday, after a visit to A&E on Thursday, that I would be unable to make even a sound and would be reduced to ordering my tea by writing out a note on my phone and handing it to a bemused looking barista and communicated via typed messages, even when in the presence of those I was communicating with.
I can form sentences in my head. I can sing (badly). I can say a pre-agreed phrase at the same time as someone else. I can even speak absolutely normally when on my own. But left to my own devices, when forced to try and link the thoughts in my head to speech coming out of my mouth, I can barely get out air and just struggle until I need to take a breath. I have never been more frustrated in my entire life. It is not that I have anything important to say. When you cannot speak, you realise how little of what you say actually adds to the conversation or is worth saying. I am perfectly content, for now, to sit in silence and let the conversation pass me by, as lonely as that feels. Of course, I miss opportunities to make comments I thought were funny. Of course, I cannot thank people and on Shabbat require someone to explain the situation so people do not think I am being rude. Of course, I cannot engage in conversation full stop. All of that is true. The frustrating thing is, though, that I get false hope. Every so often I feel words bubbling near the surface. I phone my Dad with great hope. I open my mouth to start a sentence in the presence of friends with great hope. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And it is soul destroying to think you are so close to having speech back and for it to be cruelly taken away from you. I've broken down crying a couple of times because of it. The struggle to get words out. The feeling of utter aloneness one gets from not being able to respond or partake in a conversation. The look of pity some people give you in stores when all you want is a cup of tea. It's a struggle. Apparently it will go as suddenly as it came, but for now, I am literally speechless. And it kills.
It would be a far cry to say my blog is infamous in J-Soc. It's been mentioned a few times, usually with a derogatory comment. People often go out of their way to tell me they saw it but haven't read it, usually with a degree of humour but still. But it is certainly somewhat known. I go on about it enough. Sure this is a blog about the fact that I cannot talk. It is also a thank you. I do not tend to name people on my blog and I shan't change that policy now. If you feel like you are owed a thank you, then this blog is for you. I am genuinely grateful to anyone and everyone who has helped me; spoken at me; tried to interpret what I am trying to say; explained the situation to others; sat with me and put up with me; gone to the Doctor or A&E with me; and, in general, to everyone for making me feel so welcome as a Masters student. It's the reason I was desperate to stay and the reason I remain wishful some stroke of luck will mean I can.
Update: Apparently I am terrible at charades. Thanks Dad. Thanks a bunch.
I never thought that I would be in the situation again. You see, I am genuinely not an especially anxious person. In fact, I can be annoyingly relaxed about exams or essay deadlines and I get the feeling the majority of my friends would put anxious as one of the characteristics they least expected me to possess. Indeed, I would consider them correct. Having said that, after a panic attack on Monday, I began to stutter again. I made the Philosophy joke and got, perhaps sarcastically, perhaps with a tinge of sympathy, called a comedian. I thought that was the end of it. I didn't expect it to come back. I didn't expect, after waking up on Tuesday speaking as normal, that by noon my speech would begin to deteriorate again. I didn't expect that by Tuesday evening I would be in tears on the phone unable to say words at all. And I certainly did not expect that by Friday, after a visit to A&E on Thursday, that I would be unable to make even a sound and would be reduced to ordering my tea by writing out a note on my phone and handing it to a bemused looking barista and communicated via typed messages, even when in the presence of those I was communicating with.
I can form sentences in my head. I can sing (badly). I can say a pre-agreed phrase at the same time as someone else. I can even speak absolutely normally when on my own. But left to my own devices, when forced to try and link the thoughts in my head to speech coming out of my mouth, I can barely get out air and just struggle until I need to take a breath. I have never been more frustrated in my entire life. It is not that I have anything important to say. When you cannot speak, you realise how little of what you say actually adds to the conversation or is worth saying. I am perfectly content, for now, to sit in silence and let the conversation pass me by, as lonely as that feels. Of course, I miss opportunities to make comments I thought were funny. Of course, I cannot thank people and on Shabbat require someone to explain the situation so people do not think I am being rude. Of course, I cannot engage in conversation full stop. All of that is true. The frustrating thing is, though, that I get false hope. Every so often I feel words bubbling near the surface. I phone my Dad with great hope. I open my mouth to start a sentence in the presence of friends with great hope. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And it is soul destroying to think you are so close to having speech back and for it to be cruelly taken away from you. I've broken down crying a couple of times because of it. The struggle to get words out. The feeling of utter aloneness one gets from not being able to respond or partake in a conversation. The look of pity some people give you in stores when all you want is a cup of tea. It's a struggle. Apparently it will go as suddenly as it came, but for now, I am literally speechless. And it kills.
It would be a far cry to say my blog is infamous in J-Soc. It's been mentioned a few times, usually with a derogatory comment. People often go out of their way to tell me they saw it but haven't read it, usually with a degree of humour but still. But it is certainly somewhat known. I go on about it enough. Sure this is a blog about the fact that I cannot talk. It is also a thank you. I do not tend to name people on my blog and I shan't change that policy now. If you feel like you are owed a thank you, then this blog is for you. I am genuinely grateful to anyone and everyone who has helped me; spoken at me; tried to interpret what I am trying to say; explained the situation to others; sat with me and put up with me; gone to the Doctor or A&E with me; and, in general, to everyone for making me feel so welcome as a Masters student. It's the reason I was desperate to stay and the reason I remain wishful some stroke of luck will mean I can.
Update: Apparently I am terrible at charades. Thanks Dad. Thanks a bunch.
Friday, 22 January 2016
MAD MAD MAD
There are only four things that I find it hard to calmly debate and argue about, without becoming increasingly annoyed: how to use literally correctly and why it's important; gun control in America; Feminism and specifically whether a woman is ever asking to be raped (I mean, literally by definition you cannot ask to be raped); and whether we should abolish Trident. Indeed, whenever I take those political quizzes that proclaim to be able to tell me which political party I am closest to, my support for abolishing Trident somewhat skews the results. Yes, that's right. I would abolish Trident. And I don't think there is a single good argument (aside from the fact it seems to monumentally annoy the SNP) for keeping the expensive waste of money. Frankly, I'm not too fussed about the cost actually. I think the billions could be better spent. Maybe we could give those junior doctors a bit more money or stop charging people £9000 a year for the privilege of a university education. Or actually, here is an idea. Let's give all those people who will apparently now lose their jobs a huge payout. As if Trident's main purpose was to provide people with employment. But I suppose that's neither here nor there though of course I do believe it's an utter waste of money. And no, I don't think, if we abolish it, we will usher in a new era of calm and peace (Sorry Jezza, maybe whilst you're talking to Daesh about whether they would mind terribly if they stopped killing homosexuals and raping women, you could ask them not to nuke us) where the US and Iran become Facebook friends and instead of launching nuclear war against each other, decide to hit the poke button and have a poke war that eventually Iran wins after President Donald Trump is caught in a dilemma over whether to comb his hair or invade Portugal and completely forgets to log into his Facebook account. I can even forgive the fact it appears to have been named after a brand of chewing gum.
No, my main issue with Trident is that it is not a deterrent. It is not a deterrent for a number of reasons. And if a nuclear deterrent isn't a deterrent then it serves no purpose. We may as well keep the warheads filled with all those plastics bags we are now saving because of the 5p charge for all the good it would do.
Reason Trident is not a deterrent number one:
Mutually Assured Destruction is an outdated idea that sounds like a perfectly good idea to those we are apparently trying to deter. In other words, it would not and does not deter countries like Iran or North Korea or terrorist groups and I think a nuclear deterrent is highly pointless if it only works as a potential nuclear retaliation. Mainly because they are fairly certain we would never use it (see below) but also because they are not bound by the incredibly volatile politics of MAD.
Besides, if you look at the nuclear powers or close-to-nuclear-powers in the world that might think a nuclear holocaust is a good idea, the majority hate America more than they hate us anyway, so I think we might be safe. Despite expanding over vast swathes of the globe and making life pretty miserable for most of the world's population in our not-so-distant past, we are remarkably still preferred to the USA. Anyway, apparently we don't have to worry about Iran anymore (unless you're Israeli...then you have to be very worried, but who cares about Israel?), North Korea are hardly a threat (I'm more concerned about the very real possibility that Donald Trump may be allowed into the UK after it transpires that only the Home Secretary can ban him and that three hour commons debate was entirely pointless. The havoc it would cause) and even if Russia and China were, Trident would be utterly useless and we'd need the Americans anyway. We may as well turn up to a nuclear war against the Russians with a glow stick and a McDonalds happy meal toy.
Besides, if you look at the nuclear powers or close-to-nuclear-powers in the world that might think a nuclear holocaust is a good idea, the majority hate America more than they hate us anyway, so I think we might be safe. Despite expanding over vast swathes of the globe and making life pretty miserable for most of the world's population in our not-so-distant past, we are remarkably still preferred to the USA. Anyway, apparently we don't have to worry about Iran anymore (unless you're Israeli...then you have to be very worried, but who cares about Israel?), North Korea are hardly a threat (I'm more concerned about the very real possibility that Donald Trump may be allowed into the UK after it transpires that only the Home Secretary can ban him and that three hour commons debate was entirely pointless. The havoc it would cause) and even if Russia and China were, Trident would be utterly useless and we'd need the Americans anyway. We may as well turn up to a nuclear war against the Russians with a glow stick and a McDonalds happy meal toy.
Reason Trident is not a deterrent number two:
We would not use it. Sure that's an assertion, but so is the claim that we would use it. I struggle to believe any British Prime Minister could sanction the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent people who pose no threat to us in a single strike. Besides, couldn't we just invade Iraq again if we wanted to cause murder and chaos on such an unimaginable scale? I think it might even be *cheaper* than renewing Trident. The serious point there is that *even if* we could bring ourselves to sanction the death of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, we could do that in so many other ways. I hear barrel bombs are fairly effective, eh Mr Assad? But seriously. I wouldn't use it. I don't think anyone could do it.
In any event, we always assert our moral superiority over our enemies. We are not fooling anyone into thinking we would strike with a nuclear bomb, trust me. And aside from anything else, does anyone actually believe we would use it? I do not think so. It, therefore, does not work as a deterrent. It's not stopping anyone.
Given we would never use it, what is the point in actually having it? If you support Trident, you support using it in response to a nuclear strike. Ask yourself what good that would do.
In any event, we always assert our moral superiority over our enemies. We are not fooling anyone into thinking we would strike with a nuclear bomb, trust me. And aside from anything else, does anyone actually believe we would use it? I do not think so. It, therefore, does not work as a deterrent. It's not stopping anyone.
Given we would never use it, what is the point in actually having it? If you support Trident, you support using it in response to a nuclear strike. Ask yourself what good that would do.
Reason Trident is not a deterrent number three:
Our biggest threat comes not from Iran (unless you're Israel. Then Iran is your biggest threat, but who cares. You're only Jewi...Israeli) or North Korea or even the French. In fact, they might even all agree nuclear Holocaust is a terrible idea, (relevant, of course, only if they were our biggest threats) and therefore abide by MAD. In which case, good thing the Americans are on our side and look like having a trigger happy bumbling fool in the Oval Office come January next year. If anything is a deterrent, it's Donald Trump with the nuclear codes. Although, he probably thinks they're his numbers for this week's powerball...But no, they aren't our biggest threat. Or even a threat (unless you're Isra...you get the point). No, our biggest threat is terrorism. It's a nuclear weapon falling into the hands of Daesh, the bastards. Or Al Qaeda, also bastards. Or any set of suicidal medieval maniacs with no fixed state territory to strike back against. All bastards. Trust me, Daesh are not deterred by the prospect of us striking Syria or Iraq. Who exactly are we going to condemn to death? Syrians? Iraqis? The Spanish? Or have we developed precision nuclear weapons that can identify a Daesh terrorist and explode a tiny mushroom cloud on his/her (I'm an equal opportunities terrorist accuser) head, ensuring we both make our point and eliminate the threat? Our biggest threat comes from an enemy that doesn't necessarily even have nuclear weapons or the capacity to launch them, don't care about a retaliation even if they did and have no clear or defined territory to strike back against in any event. Seems Trident qua nuclear deterrent isn't quite working out for us.
Reason Trident is not a deterrent number four:
I've alluded to this above. Trident is fairly pathetic. Not only do only four out of five dentists even think Trident is good for your oral health, our so-called independent nuclear deterrent relies on the US for some actual muscle. This begs the question why we don't just rely on the US anyway, we seem to when it comes to deciding whether to invade other countries and virtually every other foreign policy decision, so why not when we apparently want to use a particularly devastating weapon?
Can we not just murder our civilians more conventionally? Apparently Aldi Jaffa Cakes taste basically exactly the same as the real thing. I don't see why we can't apply the same logic when it comes to murdering innocent civilians in a retaliatory strike that would never happen. Maybe Lidl do a range of really cheap, really powerful bombs like the ones we are currently using to destroy Daesh? Who knows. Sure as the hell that would freeze over before we dropped a nuclear bomb on Syria because Daesh attacked Warrington, we do not need Trident. If it is not a deterrent, which - given we would not use it and given we could not use it effectively even if we wanted to against our biggest threats - it is not, then it is about as useful as these potential alternatives to Trident:
- Employing Wayne Rooney to negotiate with any entity who looks like they might strike
- Teaching my (dead) pet goldfish Krav Maga as our first line of defence
- Banning Donald Trump from entering the UK to prevent the radicalisation of youngsters so outraged by him being a buffoon (I mean what were MPs thinking. Do they honestly believe anyone takes them seriously anymore after they dedicated three hours to debating whether we need to protect the sensibilities of an increasingly pathetic and easily offended set of students and others so morally outraged by anyone who dares not be a disabled transgender homosexual ethnic minority, so much so that apparently rape is absolutely bloody okay if it is carried out by refugees and we need to have safe spaces absolutely everywhere?)
- Sending Piers Morgan on a world tour to piss off everyone by name dropping every other sentence and then exiling him to an abandoned island in the Atlantic where everyone would decide to launch their entire nuclear arsenal (somewhat ironic, given his love of a good Arsenal performance) against him, thus preventing them from doing so against us
In fact, I have a radical solution. Let's pretend to renew Trident. We can have a huge ceremony, Cameron can cut the red tape in a massive political statement against regulations in an attempt to win over his party. Political leaders can all fall over themselves to assert the historic importance of the event, reference the Cold War needlessly and inaccurately and tell us how vital it is that we can strike at the heart of Andorra should they ever threaten to win a game of football and cease to be the only team more dull and predictable than England. Everyone can have an extra day off, whip out the bunting, organise street parties and generally have a merry old time akin to the Royal Wedding but without the kiss on the balcony at the end. Just don't tell Corbabes, he might get drunk and tell Daesh or Assad. Nightmare. Plus he might explode if he thinks we are renewing Trident, which I quite fancy watching. All an elaborate double bluff that keeps everyone happy. Our enemies all still believe that we have this apparently effective deterrent and therefore would not dare trying to find out otherwise because, you know, they are suitably deterred. Unless we think they will strike regardless of whether they believe we have a nuclear deterrent, in which case it isn't a deterrent (hang on, I'm fairly sure I've heard that argument somewhere...) and we can all argue about the merits of blowing up Baghdad or Tehran or Rome from the rubble of our destroyed homes. Someone could start a petition and we could watch MPs debate it for three hours before all deciding unanimously to ban Donald Trump.
So come on. Let's stop pretending that Trident serves us any good and go back to arguing about something useful like the disaster that Bake Off leaving BBC is. Or I don't know. The football. I hear United are doing badly at the moment. Ferguson retires and we end up wth Daesh rampaging through Syria and Iraq, the potential for the special relationship to be between Donald Trump and Boris Johnson (I'm not sure what happens if they were to ever meet), Jezza Corbs in charge of the Labour Party and an especially cold winter. I'm not saying there's a link, but you do the maths.
This post has been updated 10 times, including most recently on the 28/09/17. Please note that the football analogy at the end was current at the time of initial writing.
This post has been updated 10 times, including most recently on the 28/09/17. Please note that the football analogy at the end was current at the time of initial writing.
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
Did you know? I write a blog.
How do you know someone writes a blog? Don't worry, they'll tell you. Probably more than once. In fact, in order to write a blog, you have to be perfectly comfortable with the sort of self-promotion that Tony Blair would be proud of (Rule Number One: Have no shame). Or you have to write good articles. Anyway, 2015. It's nearly over. It's the perfect excuse to write a blog (Rule Number Two: never miss an opportunity to write a blog) and hope people are too caught up with the "10 things we learnt in 2015" type articles that, frankly, bore the Hell out of me (I mean, I hope I learnt more than 10 things in 2015, but potentially not), to notice the post.
This is not a year in review. Or, at least, I am not going to bore you with countless irrelevant anecdotes and I am not going to go through a list of amusing things that happened this year, to me or to other people. Rather, I am going to use this blog as an opportunity to shamelessly repost my blogs of the past year (Rule Number Three: Use present blog posts to quote from past blog posts) and make tenuous arguments for reposting even older blogs (see rule number one).
The year, as it always does, began in January. For me it began with a post on Anti-Semitism. Curiously enough, I was writing one of my more sobering pieces on my mother's birthday. She probably asked me to write a post in honour of her birthday as I had done the year before but, instead, I wrote about anti-Semitism. A belated Happy Birthday Mother. I hope I wrote you a card this year.
I wrote about how it has not gone away. I wrote about how we have failed to learn the lessons of the Holocaust despite being faced with Holocaust deniers who claim to want the next one. I wrote about how Jews, condemned to suffer anti-Semitism are equally condemned to be told we "complain" about anti-Semitism too much and have the right of defining what constitutes anti-Semitism taken away from us. Rarely do I write something that I believe has as much importance as this. A year on and I strongly believe my post rings as true as ever. Just over a month ago, the world was shocked by events in Paris. Twitter, meanwhile, was busy finding ways to blame the Jews. If you are ever having an especially good day, say your faith in humanity has been restored, twitter search 'jews' followed by a tragedy that has just occurred, whether it be a natural disaster or a terrorist attack. Somehow, somewhere someone will have found a way (or, ways) to blame the Jews. Anti-Semitism is alive and well and we continue to ignore it, downplay it and - worst of all - partake in it by telling Jews that they overplay anti-Semitism.
Given I began the year in sobering fashion, it seemed only fair that I write what has become one of my favourite pieces in February (Rule number Four: Lists are always an easy way to write something). I had a dissertation chapter to write and if I remember correctly a deadline was looming, so it seemed only natural to have a short rant about elections at Warwick. Student politics is insufferable. In fact, the only things more insufferable than student politics itself are the election campaigns that accompany them. A week of avoiding anyone with a leaflet, any major areas of campus and generally keeping your head low out of fear of being ambushed and implored to vote for someone whose policies only differ from their opponents because of the colour of the font on the online manifestos. I look forward to passing on my advice for next year's election week (Rule Number Five: Anniversaries are as good an excuse as any to repost a blog).
In March, I flew to Israel to vote for Bibi. As an Israeli citizen, I exercised my democratic right to choose my leaders. My mum and sister, both - would you believe - women, also voted. My uncle, born in Iraq, also voted. One of my uncle's employees, who happens to be Muslim, not that it matters, also voted. Naturally, I wrote a post about why I voted for Bibi, a choice more than slightly controversial. It has a stupid football related title, that I do not think anyone actually understood, but I stand by the argument. Criticise the Israeli electorate all you want, but at least they have the opportunity (usually fairly often, given Israel's political system is - somewhat ironically - seemingly modelled on Weimer Germany's) to exercise a democratic right so lacking in the region. It's also one of my most read posts of the year. (Rule Number Six: Annoying people will lead to more read posts).
I then did not write a post for a few months. Three to be precise. Rule Number Seven: Always leave people wanting more. Labour then decided that it would be a load of fun to put Jeremy Corbyn on the ballot paper in the leadership election. I wrote a post. Truthfully, I do not think it is much good, but I'll link it here anyway. I still agree with the central premise, that there was nothing inherently good about increasing the options on the ballot but I suppose the less said about the article the better.
Unlike the period in the year before, I did not write a post over summer. Partly because I was busy making sure kids did not jump into a lake or try and roast marshmallows with their hands but also because Israel and Hamas did not have the sort of military skirmish that has become all too common recently. I wrote about Israel and Palestine at length the year before. I wrote about the tragedy of it all, perhaps most painfully summed up in this post. There's plenty more. (Rule Number Eight: If you write about Israel-Palestine, you will be able to repost your posts, unfortunately, on a regular basis and pass them off as new material. Rule Number 10: Learn to count).
I did eventually write about my summer. The post is a bittersweet memory for me, because I wrote about the bad points as well as the good points, as I felt obliged to do. Having said everything, and despite the very strong feelings I had and still have, Tel Noar was an incredible experience, one I will genuinely treasure and, in moments of nostalgia I convince myself I want to have again. I would happily do the eight weeks again. Alas, life gets in the way.
I then went to university again. Over the deafening cries of my mother asking when exactly I planned on GETTING A JOB, I began a Masters in Philosophy and proceeded to tell (and show) everyone who would listen (and read my facebook messages) that I had a blog. Mainly to distance myself from their preconceptions of Habs Boys. I probably told them about muck up day as well. That place really does follow you around. (Rule Number 11: Write about Habs).
Which pretty much brings us to December. I wrote about sexism (again). (Rule Number 12: Learn how to end your blogs well).
Happy New Year!
This is not a year in review. Or, at least, I am not going to bore you with countless irrelevant anecdotes and I am not going to go through a list of amusing things that happened this year, to me or to other people. Rather, I am going to use this blog as an opportunity to shamelessly repost my blogs of the past year (Rule Number Three: Use present blog posts to quote from past blog posts) and make tenuous arguments for reposting even older blogs (see rule number one).
The year, as it always does, began in January. For me it began with a post on Anti-Semitism. Curiously enough, I was writing one of my more sobering pieces on my mother's birthday. She probably asked me to write a post in honour of her birthday as I had done the year before but, instead, I wrote about anti-Semitism. A belated Happy Birthday Mother. I hope I wrote you a card this year.
I wrote about how it has not gone away. I wrote about how we have failed to learn the lessons of the Holocaust despite being faced with Holocaust deniers who claim to want the next one. I wrote about how Jews, condemned to suffer anti-Semitism are equally condemned to be told we "complain" about anti-Semitism too much and have the right of defining what constitutes anti-Semitism taken away from us. Rarely do I write something that I believe has as much importance as this. A year on and I strongly believe my post rings as true as ever. Just over a month ago, the world was shocked by events in Paris. Twitter, meanwhile, was busy finding ways to blame the Jews. If you are ever having an especially good day, say your faith in humanity has been restored, twitter search 'jews' followed by a tragedy that has just occurred, whether it be a natural disaster or a terrorist attack. Somehow, somewhere someone will have found a way (or, ways) to blame the Jews. Anti-Semitism is alive and well and we continue to ignore it, downplay it and - worst of all - partake in it by telling Jews that they overplay anti-Semitism.
Given I began the year in sobering fashion, it seemed only fair that I write what has become one of my favourite pieces in February (Rule number Four: Lists are always an easy way to write something). I had a dissertation chapter to write and if I remember correctly a deadline was looming, so it seemed only natural to have a short rant about elections at Warwick. Student politics is insufferable. In fact, the only things more insufferable than student politics itself are the election campaigns that accompany them. A week of avoiding anyone with a leaflet, any major areas of campus and generally keeping your head low out of fear of being ambushed and implored to vote for someone whose policies only differ from their opponents because of the colour of the font on the online manifestos. I look forward to passing on my advice for next year's election week (Rule Number Five: Anniversaries are as good an excuse as any to repost a blog).
In March, I flew to Israel to vote for Bibi. As an Israeli citizen, I exercised my democratic right to choose my leaders. My mum and sister, both - would you believe - women, also voted. My uncle, born in Iraq, also voted. One of my uncle's employees, who happens to be Muslim, not that it matters, also voted. Naturally, I wrote a post about why I voted for Bibi, a choice more than slightly controversial. It has a stupid football related title, that I do not think anyone actually understood, but I stand by the argument. Criticise the Israeli electorate all you want, but at least they have the opportunity (usually fairly often, given Israel's political system is - somewhat ironically - seemingly modelled on Weimer Germany's) to exercise a democratic right so lacking in the region. It's also one of my most read posts of the year. (Rule Number Six: Annoying people will lead to more read posts).
I then did not write a post for a few months. Three to be precise. Rule Number Seven: Always leave people wanting more. Labour then decided that it would be a load of fun to put Jeremy Corbyn on the ballot paper in the leadership election. I wrote a post. Truthfully, I do not think it is much good, but I'll link it here anyway. I still agree with the central premise, that there was nothing inherently good about increasing the options on the ballot but I suppose the less said about the article the better.
Unlike the period in the year before, I did not write a post over summer. Partly because I was busy making sure kids did not jump into a lake or try and roast marshmallows with their hands but also because Israel and Hamas did not have the sort of military skirmish that has become all too common recently. I wrote about Israel and Palestine at length the year before. I wrote about the tragedy of it all, perhaps most painfully summed up in this post. There's plenty more. (Rule Number Eight: If you write about Israel-Palestine, you will be able to repost your posts, unfortunately, on a regular basis and pass them off as new material. Rule Number 10: Learn to count).
I did eventually write about my summer. The post is a bittersweet memory for me, because I wrote about the bad points as well as the good points, as I felt obliged to do. Having said everything, and despite the very strong feelings I had and still have, Tel Noar was an incredible experience, one I will genuinely treasure and, in moments of nostalgia I convince myself I want to have again. I would happily do the eight weeks again. Alas, life gets in the way.
I then went to university again. Over the deafening cries of my mother asking when exactly I planned on GETTING A JOB, I began a Masters in Philosophy and proceeded to tell (and show) everyone who would listen (and read my facebook messages) that I had a blog. Mainly to distance myself from their preconceptions of Habs Boys. I probably told them about muck up day as well. That place really does follow you around. (Rule Number 11: Write about Habs).
Which pretty much brings us to December. I wrote about sexism (again). (Rule Number 12: Learn how to end your blogs well).
Happy New Year!
Friday, 18 December 2015
Jose Mourinho, Sexism and Jeremy Vine
Jeremy Vine has written an open letter to Jose Mourinho. It's the sort of emotive tosh that passes for good writing nowadays and I cannot say it is particularly worth reading, but you can find it here if you so wish. It had no impact on me until I read the paragraphs on the club's former doctor, Eva Carniero, which I quote in full here:
"And then something utterly unhinged happened. I had to explain to my young daughter why you had exploded at the popular team doctor (one of the most prominent women in the Premier League) and I could not give her a decent reason. You did not just demote her and cause her to leave, you humiliated her. You should not have done it and I believe the players were also at a loss as they tried to explain it to their young daughters."
I have not made any comment on the Carniero case, but I thought it was pathetic at the time and I think it is pathetic now. I do not believe for a minute Jose criticised her because she is a woman. In fact to suggest as much is ridiculous - Jose criticised a male member of the medical staff at the same time and in his post-match interview said everyone had to understand the game and it did not matter who you were. I do not think Vine is suggesting this, but rather is telling us that for some reason he could not explain this criticism to his daughter, as if somehow women are incapable of suffering and dealing with criticism, or indeed, should not ever have to.
Vine states she was "One of the most prominent women in the Premier League." I do not doubt this. However, I hated the fact she was one of the most prominent women in the Premier League. I hated it because she was one of the most prominent women in the Premier League because a good number of male football fans are sexist wazzocks. I hated it because she was known as Chelsea's "fit" doctor, defined by her looks. I hated it because she was used to explain why Drogba liked to fall over and pretend his groin was hurt. I hated it because she was a prominent woman not because she was good at her job, which I assume she was, but because she was a woman who seemed to care about football and was, apparently, 'fit'.
But this is not the issue. The issue is that it is completely irrelevant that she was a woman. It is completely irrelevant that she was a prominent woman in a male dominated industry where it was only a few years ago that two of the most prominent men in the industry questioned and joked about a woman's ability to understand the offside rule. Her sex is not relevant. Her ability to do her job is relevant and is all that should be relevant. We all know why Mourinho criticised her (and, for what it is worth, a male member of the medical team as well) and that was to deflect attention from another poor result - and it worked. However, whether or not we agree that she was or was not wrong to run on to the pitch, the fact that she is a woman should not enter our consideration.
Imagine the paragraph read as follows:
And then something utterly unhinged happened. I had to explain to my young son why you had exploded at the popular team doctor (one of the most prominent men in the Premier League) and I could not give him a decent reason. You did not just demote him and cause him to leave, you humiliated him. You should not have done it and I believe the players were also at a loss as they tried to explain it to their young sons.
We would think Vine ridiculous. Why are we treating women any differently? Why do women need to be protected as if they are weak and vulnerable and unable of looking after themselves? Mourinho's reaction to Carniero's running onto the pitch was motivated solely by the running onto the pitch, not by her being a woman. Our response to it should be to criticise Mourinho for criticising the running onto the pitch or to criticise the running onto the pitch. To respond by complaining that we cannot explain Mourinho's actions to our daughters is absurd. It simply does not matter that Carniero is a woman and by treating her differently because she is one, by suggesting she should be immune from criticism and Mourinho's overreaction (something we would never do if it were a man), we are suggesting women need to be protected and looked after, because they cannot do it themselves.
So perhaps, Mr Vine, you could tell your daughter that sometimes people overreact, that sometimes they do stupid things. Maybe you could tell your daughter that in life you may get an incredibly emotional boss who says what s/he is thinking without qualification. Perhaps mention that life can suck and sometimes your boss will suck too. You could even tell your daughter that sometimes she will make mistakes and pay a heavy cost for those mistakes but that is okay. Please, I beg you, do not suggest that women need to be treated differently from men, that women need to be protected or looked after or somehow are worthy of a different reaction. You become part of the problem when you do that.
"And then something utterly unhinged happened. I had to explain to my young daughter why you had exploded at the popular team doctor (one of the most prominent women in the Premier League) and I could not give her a decent reason. You did not just demote her and cause her to leave, you humiliated her. You should not have done it and I believe the players were also at a loss as they tried to explain it to their young daughters."
I have not made any comment on the Carniero case, but I thought it was pathetic at the time and I think it is pathetic now. I do not believe for a minute Jose criticised her because she is a woman. In fact to suggest as much is ridiculous - Jose criticised a male member of the medical staff at the same time and in his post-match interview said everyone had to understand the game and it did not matter who you were. I do not think Vine is suggesting this, but rather is telling us that for some reason he could not explain this criticism to his daughter, as if somehow women are incapable of suffering and dealing with criticism, or indeed, should not ever have to.
Vine states she was "One of the most prominent women in the Premier League." I do not doubt this. However, I hated the fact she was one of the most prominent women in the Premier League. I hated it because she was one of the most prominent women in the Premier League because a good number of male football fans are sexist wazzocks. I hated it because she was known as Chelsea's "fit" doctor, defined by her looks. I hated it because she was used to explain why Drogba liked to fall over and pretend his groin was hurt. I hated it because she was a prominent woman not because she was good at her job, which I assume she was, but because she was a woman who seemed to care about football and was, apparently, 'fit'.
But this is not the issue. The issue is that it is completely irrelevant that she was a woman. It is completely irrelevant that she was a prominent woman in a male dominated industry where it was only a few years ago that two of the most prominent men in the industry questioned and joked about a woman's ability to understand the offside rule. Her sex is not relevant. Her ability to do her job is relevant and is all that should be relevant. We all know why Mourinho criticised her (and, for what it is worth, a male member of the medical team as well) and that was to deflect attention from another poor result - and it worked. However, whether or not we agree that she was or was not wrong to run on to the pitch, the fact that she is a woman should not enter our consideration.
Imagine the paragraph read as follows:
And then something utterly unhinged happened. I had to explain to my young son why you had exploded at the popular team doctor (one of the most prominent men in the Premier League) and I could not give him a decent reason. You did not just demote him and cause him to leave, you humiliated him. You should not have done it and I believe the players were also at a loss as they tried to explain it to their young sons.
We would think Vine ridiculous. Why are we treating women any differently? Why do women need to be protected as if they are weak and vulnerable and unable of looking after themselves? Mourinho's reaction to Carniero's running onto the pitch was motivated solely by the running onto the pitch, not by her being a woman. Our response to it should be to criticise Mourinho for criticising the running onto the pitch or to criticise the running onto the pitch. To respond by complaining that we cannot explain Mourinho's actions to our daughters is absurd. It simply does not matter that Carniero is a woman and by treating her differently because she is one, by suggesting she should be immune from criticism and Mourinho's overreaction (something we would never do if it were a man), we are suggesting women need to be protected and looked after, because they cannot do it themselves.
So perhaps, Mr Vine, you could tell your daughter that sometimes people overreact, that sometimes they do stupid things. Maybe you could tell your daughter that in life you may get an incredibly emotional boss who says what s/he is thinking without qualification. Perhaps mention that life can suck and sometimes your boss will suck too. You could even tell your daughter that sometimes she will make mistakes and pay a heavy cost for those mistakes but that is okay. Please, I beg you, do not suggest that women need to be treated differently from men, that women need to be protected or looked after or somehow are worthy of a different reaction. You become part of the problem when you do that.
Wednesday, 2 September 2015
Summer Camp, American Style
It is virtually impossible to summarise the eight weeks I spent at Camp Tel Noar into a blog of an acceptable length that remains interesting and worth reading. When I sat through mainly unhelpful-for-the-job-I-was-hired-to-do talks and so on during staff week a few buzz phrases were mentioned repeatedly and have stuck with me. One of those is that you cannot understand camp unless you go to camp. Tel Noar is a special place, one that I now have many great memories from and can look back upon with fondness. It is also one that I could not even begin to explain to you, but I will try anyway.
When I signed up for Camp America just under a year ago now, I did not fully understand what I was signing up for. I had never been to camp. I had no idea what it entailed. At the time, and to an extent still now, I thought I had no skills that were of relevance and was unsure how to even begin the application. I remain firmly of the belief that very few people who sign up actually have any discernible skills but are able to sell 'know how to play football'. My exaggerated skill was nature related based on my time in the Combined Cadet Force at school. I could vaguely put up a tent and am fairly competent at putting one foot in front of the other and calling it hiking, so I decided that would have to do. As it turned out, the majority of my responsibilities would include neither and I was quickly taught how to fish and start a fire when I arrived at camp. Questionable ability to actually do the role I was hired for aside, I was happy with nature staff and looked forward to camp.
Camp is, and always will be, about the campers. And the kids at CTN are a remarkable bunch. I had a kid who called himself Taco; a set of twins who looked out for each other, so convinced the other was completely incompetent forgetting they were both as bad as each other; and a camper so obsessed with British people that he used to actively try and stop us from going on our days off. Looking after the younger kids meant I could convince them of absolutely everything from being kidnapped in Israel to spending a night in jail where we managed to forget 3 people for a week to starting a fire in an army base kitchen. Story time was amongst my favourite moments with my campers. I can never remember loving stories as much as these kids, but watching them hang on your every word, refusing to believe a word of it isn't true is something I will treasure and remember for the rest of my life. I do not consider myself a particularly good storyteller, but that was not an issue. I realise we were there for the campers, but sometimes it felt like the campers were there for us and that we should be paying for the privilege of witnessing them be cute/funny/generally kids about things.
They teach you in Philosophy that there is no such thing as a stupid question. After a summer of kids asking me if they could jump into the lake or hold their marshmallow in their hands to roast it because they could not find a stick or, after singing G_D Save the Queen, one camper asking me if I was actually British I have begun to have my doubts. It also taught me that kids are basically the same in that they all want to do stupid things. The difference is that the younger ones often ask you before they do, not to seek permission per se but to let you know that this is where their mind is going and what they are likely to do next. It is almost as if they actively know that whatever they are about to do is stupid and they are forewarning you so you can be there when they inevitably do it. There is no easy way to explain the kids at Tel Noar. They were so much fun, so cute and generally wonderful summer companions, even if they did give my patience a run for its money at times.
Camp, at times, made me so happy and proud to be Jewish. Friday night and Saturday afternoon singing, whether the song was related to Judaism/in Hebrew or not was a wonderful experience that I will treasure. Seeing everyone stood up, swaying and singing along gave me goosebumps and I looked forward to it every week. I enjoyed services, though the kids were often restless and only wish we were given more of an education into what the services and prayers meant/why we were saying them. Save for the occasional announcement and English translation in the Siddurs, which offers no reason behind the prayers, no such education seemed forthcoming, which I thought was a shame.
I had a meeting with the assistant director shortly before the end. I expressed to her my deep regret at how camp ended and that when I came to write this inevitable blog post it would not be solely positive. There are things I can ignore, things I did ignore. There are some that made me very unhappy, both because I felt they were not right but also because they tainted my opinion of camp. I expressed these to the assistant director in my meeting, in a letter to the director himself, to the head of the Cohen Camp Foundation and in an online, external survey I had to submit at the request of the camp. Those who know me may not be surprised to hear my letter to the director totalled some 8 pages. I need not go through everything here. A few things upset me the most. First, that I felt the director either refused to listen or did not care about what counsellors had to say, complaints they may have had and opinions they wanted to offer. Not necessarily because he genuinely did not care but rather because they way he dealt with these things made it seem like he did not care, which is just as bad. He openly admitted he could not handle confrontation. This is not a quality desirable in a leader and left me, on numerous occasions, feeling alienated, irrelevant and ignored. At the time of writing, I have had no response to my letter, which I hope is simply because he has not had the time to read it yet. Given one of my complaints was about not even receiving an acknowledgement of receipt of a letter I wrote whilst at camp, I hope to receive one this time. Second, that there were times I felt camp neglected its duty of care towards campers and counsellors. The most obvious, though there are too many examples, was the first time that nuts were allowed onto a nut-free camp (this happened on two separate occasions that I knew of). The reaction I received was one of apathy and, "well, what do you want me to do about it?". I was shocked that something so important could be so ignored. Finally, that the bond to camp returning staff members have is being exploited. For Americans, they cannot just go to another camp - they grew up at Camp Tel Noar - and I felt, at times, that their service to camp was assumed and exploited.
Despite everything, I still miss camp. I don't miss decisions that were made or how it made me feel towards the end. I don't miss the way things were run or the direction I think it was heading. It upsets me how it ended, that my experience was soured but the more distance I have from camp, the more I miss "it" and what is truly important to it. I miss the kids, how wonderfully entertaining they were. I miss my co-counsellors with whom I forged great relationships. I miss other counsellors and members of staff with whom I become friends in such a short space of time. I miss running activities, getting kids to shower, story time, having cake for breakfast on Saturday and instantly regretting it. I miss my choice between carbs and cheese before ultimately always picking salad. I miss colour war, making jokes about missing letters and how Americans have ruined English. I miss a lot of things that make camp what camp is - a special, unique place to spend your summer. So thank you Camp Tel Noar. I am sorry I am unlikely to be back with you next summer, but I had an amazing, valuable and rewarding time that I am grateful for and will treasure.
Camp, at times, made me so happy and proud to be Jewish. Friday night and Saturday afternoon singing, whether the song was related to Judaism/in Hebrew or not was a wonderful experience that I will treasure. Seeing everyone stood up, swaying and singing along gave me goosebumps and I looked forward to it every week. I enjoyed services, though the kids were often restless and only wish we were given more of an education into what the services and prayers meant/why we were saying them. Save for the occasional announcement and English translation in the Siddurs, which offers no reason behind the prayers, no such education seemed forthcoming, which I thought was a shame.
I had a meeting with the assistant director shortly before the end. I expressed to her my deep regret at how camp ended and that when I came to write this inevitable blog post it would not be solely positive. There are things I can ignore, things I did ignore. There are some that made me very unhappy, both because I felt they were not right but also because they tainted my opinion of camp. I expressed these to the assistant director in my meeting, in a letter to the director himself, to the head of the Cohen Camp Foundation and in an online, external survey I had to submit at the request of the camp. Those who know me may not be surprised to hear my letter to the director totalled some 8 pages. I need not go through everything here. A few things upset me the most. First, that I felt the director either refused to listen or did not care about what counsellors had to say, complaints they may have had and opinions they wanted to offer. Not necessarily because he genuinely did not care but rather because they way he dealt with these things made it seem like he did not care, which is just as bad. He openly admitted he could not handle confrontation. This is not a quality desirable in a leader and left me, on numerous occasions, feeling alienated, irrelevant and ignored. At the time of writing, I have had no response to my letter, which I hope is simply because he has not had the time to read it yet. Given one of my complaints was about not even receiving an acknowledgement of receipt of a letter I wrote whilst at camp, I hope to receive one this time. Second, that there were times I felt camp neglected its duty of care towards campers and counsellors. The most obvious, though there are too many examples, was the first time that nuts were allowed onto a nut-free camp (this happened on two separate occasions that I knew of). The reaction I received was one of apathy and, "well, what do you want me to do about it?". I was shocked that something so important could be so ignored. Finally, that the bond to camp returning staff members have is being exploited. For Americans, they cannot just go to another camp - they grew up at Camp Tel Noar - and I felt, at times, that their service to camp was assumed and exploited.
Despite everything, I still miss camp. I don't miss decisions that were made or how it made me feel towards the end. I don't miss the way things were run or the direction I think it was heading. It upsets me how it ended, that my experience was soured but the more distance I have from camp, the more I miss "it" and what is truly important to it. I miss the kids, how wonderfully entertaining they were. I miss my co-counsellors with whom I forged great relationships. I miss other counsellors and members of staff with whom I become friends in such a short space of time. I miss running activities, getting kids to shower, story time, having cake for breakfast on Saturday and instantly regretting it. I miss my choice between carbs and cheese before ultimately always picking salad. I miss colour war, making jokes about missing letters and how Americans have ruined English. I miss a lot of things that make camp what camp is - a special, unique place to spend your summer. So thank you Camp Tel Noar. I am sorry I am unlikely to be back with you next summer, but I had an amazing, valuable and rewarding time that I am grateful for and will treasure.
Tuesday, 16 June 2015
Jeremy Corbyn? I can't think of anything worse
As my friend Richard Black notes, it is tempting for Conservative supporters to support Jeremy Corbyn and the disaster that his leadership would be for the Labour party. We should, however, be content with the fact enough Labour MPs supported Corbyn to allow him to make it to the ballot paper. This is enough to suggest something seriously wrong with those who sit in the opposition benches, we don't need the party to go ahead and elect the terror, Iran, Assad, Hamas, Hezbollah and anti-Semitism apologist to demonstrate that. It takes a lot for me to think that maybe broadening the debate isn't worth it. The things that Corbyn stands for are more than enough for me to think the Labour party leadership debate is better off without him.
Amongst the more bizarre reasons to support a Corbyn nomination, are that he is a "nice guy" and he has a good beard (Owen Jones' quality analysis). It is worth noting, of course, that virtually every tweet and status and comment I have seen supports Corbyn being nominated but either stops short of supporting his candidacy or explicitly rejects it. His views are great for debate but G_D forbid we actually let him lead the party with them. It's a bit like inviting a McDonalds enthusiast to a Weight Watchers class to increase the options for dinner. I have trouble believing he is a nice guy, mainly because I find it hard to believe anyone whose list of friends include Assad, Iran, Hamas, Hezbollah, anyone who hates Jews and a number of terrorists (see here) can be a nice guy. If you happen to support a man who is responsible for a war that has killed over 200,000 civilians and displaced millions (like Stop the War, of which Corbyn is the chair) then you can say please and thank you as much as you want, but you are not a nice guy. To be blunt, I am disgusted at the number of people describing him as a nice guy. He is most certainly not a nice guy.
This is a man who hides behind a cloak of anti-Zionism when preaching anti-Semitism. A man who stands up for Assad and Iran. A man who calls terrorists his friends and hosts extremists, supporting and promoting their views. This is not a man who is good for debate. That 36 members of the Labour party are ignorant of the views I detail here, willingly chose to ignore them when making their nomination or, and most worryingly, actively support some, or all, of what he stands for is immensely worrying, disturbing and a good representation of just how out of touch Labour are.
I look forward to him blaming Israel and claiming he is not an anti-Semite when he, hopefully, does not win.
Amongst the more bizarre reasons to support a Corbyn nomination, are that he is a "nice guy" and he has a good beard (Owen Jones' quality analysis). It is worth noting, of course, that virtually every tweet and status and comment I have seen supports Corbyn being nominated but either stops short of supporting his candidacy or explicitly rejects it. His views are great for debate but G_D forbid we actually let him lead the party with them. It's a bit like inviting a McDonalds enthusiast to a Weight Watchers class to increase the options for dinner. I have trouble believing he is a nice guy, mainly because I find it hard to believe anyone whose list of friends include Assad, Iran, Hamas, Hezbollah, anyone who hates Jews and a number of terrorists (see here) can be a nice guy. If you happen to support a man who is responsible for a war that has killed over 200,000 civilians and displaced millions (like Stop the War, of which Corbyn is the chair) then you can say please and thank you as much as you want, but you are not a nice guy. To be blunt, I am disgusted at the number of people describing him as a nice guy. He is most certainly not a nice guy.
This is a man who hides behind a cloak of anti-Zionism when preaching anti-Semitism. A man who stands up for Assad and Iran. A man who calls terrorists his friends and hosts extremists, supporting and promoting their views. This is not a man who is good for debate. That 36 members of the Labour party are ignorant of the views I detail here, willingly chose to ignore them when making their nomination or, and most worryingly, actively support some, or all, of what he stands for is immensely worrying, disturbing and a good representation of just how out of touch Labour are.
I look forward to him blaming Israel and claiming he is not an anti-Semite when he, hopefully, does not win.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)