Part 2 - Oxford: At Odds with the Real World

OXFORD AND ITS WAYS…

Was I apprehensive about Oxford? Yes, in many ways I was.

                One of my friends at church when I told him I was going to Oxford said, “You’ll be the first black person there!!” Hilarious, but gives you an idea of the kind of impression that Oxford gives people of its racial mix-up.

I am used to being the only chocolate person in a milk-coloured environment, though. Although my first primary school was majority black, my second primary school was in a small, upper-middle class white town and I was the first black student they had there in 101 years, by the time I joined! (If you were wondering why, it was because my mum worked in the next town and logistically it was just easier.) At my secondary school I don’t believe we ever had more than 13 black students in a school of around 1,300. (I counted. And there were no black teachers.) There were two of us in my year (and we happened to be in the same form), until we got to sixth form. Then it was just me.

                It didn’t bother me at all. I had my friends, and it didn’t matter to them what colour I was. And as Manchester is a very diverse city culturally and ethnically and my school wasn’t far from Manchester, ignorance wasn’t something I had to deal with very often. (Definitely less than in some other circles).

It was just as well I’d gotten used to being the only black people in a lot of my social circles, as I was very often the only black person in a lot of places in Oxford. I was the only black person doing Italian in my year and I was the only black person in choir. In many other circles I was one of about two or three black people.

                Although I was pretty used to being the odd one out colour-wise, I realised that in Oxford I was pretty much that ALL THE TIME. You could literally play a game of “spot the black people in Oxford”. No joke: it literally became a thing walking down the cobbled streets of Oxford that when you passed a fellow black person you’d give them a little nod and smile, as if to say, “Well done for getting here, I know there aren’t many of us!” On the other hand, some black people seemed to quite deliberately avoid all other people with the same colour of skin as them. Guess they were trying to play a game of assimilation.

                And of course such a lack of diversity plays into abundance of ignorance. I was shocked after my first term at Oxford at the plethora of actual stupidity I heard every time I went to an Oxford Union debate. The things that people would stand up confidently and say about ethnic minorities and women and working class people would actually leave me speechless. It’s largely because of the culture of places like the Oxford Union that I say that Oxford is a rich white man’s paradise.

The Oxford Union

                The Oxford Union (not to be confused with the Oxford University Student Union, which I’ll talk about more later) is one of the oldest debating societies in the world. Founded in 1823, it prides itself on having brought great thinkers and speakers to the doorstep of Oxford students for centuries. I loved going to Oxford Union events, but the Union was also a very large thorn in my flesh.

                The Union is really tailor-made for members of the elite. For one thing, membership currently stands at £262.65. Admittedly, this is life-long, meaning that once you have been an Oxford Union member you remain so for the rest of your life. HOWEVER, everyone knows students are not exactly the richest people in the world, and not many people just have £262 to give away. I debated for some time over whether it was going to be worth becoming a member, but decided in favour in view of the fact that: one, Freshers in the first few weeks were eligible for a discount which reduced the membership price by about £30; secondly, I could go to a large range of events with people present that I would possibly never meet anywhere else; thirdly, I could go to these types of events as many times as I wanted.

                The Oxford Union was honestly one of my favourite things about Oxford. I got to meet people that I had admired and respected for years: Doreen Lawrence, Greg Rutherford, Emeli Sandé… The most riveting event I went to was a Black Lives Matter panel we had in my final year where the mothers of young black men murdered in America addressed us, including the mothers of Trayvon Martin and Sandra Bland. I cried in that one, I was so moved. I even went up to Trayvon Martin’s mum afterwards and gave her a hug; so much did I feel her pain.

(Below is a video of Sandra Bland's mother speaking at that riveting Black Lives Matter panel.)

 But it was also the bane of my life.

                As well as the assumption that everyone has that much money – OK, so the Union now has a special Access membership rate, but I don’t remember that being a thing when I was a Fresher – the Union was obsessed with flaunting this image of opulence that was completely unnecessary. At every debate the President, Librarian and other members of the Standing Committee would dress in white tie – so the guys in black suits, and the ladies in posh ball gowns. If you were a girl on the Standing Committee, you’d be expected to wear a different dress to every debate. OF COURSE this puts off those who don’t have the financial means to own eight different posh gowns. It also makes a lot of people feel like they don’t fit in. Most people that end up having positions on the Standing Committee come from a private school background, and from some of the most prestigious in the country – think £30,000-a-year Eton, St. Paul’s…

                The best way I can explain the very prevalent attitude which annoyed me so much in Oxford was that which comes from “living in a bubble”. I’m not slating people for going to public schools, but I do slate them for the wilful ignorance that their background enables and perpetuates. So many people, by virtue of having gone to schools where they only interacted with rich white young boys like themselves, simply had no inkling of how “the other half” lives. They knew nothing of prejudice, living on a regular income, had no shame in talking about women any which way…

SERIOUS SEXISM

Towards the end of my first year in Oxford, the then President of the Oxford Union was arrested on charges of rape and attempted rape. The whole thing kicked up a storm which abated only once the charges were dropped months later. In the whole event, the student refused to take a leave of absence, which angered many.

                Irrespective of the fact that he was released without charge, such an influential figure being accused of so serious a sexual crime threw the epidemic of “laddish culture” into the limelight in Oxford. Now, laddish culture isn’t something that runs rampant only in Oxford, of course. It’s a problem in universities across the country. But the brash arrogance that it is coupled with in elitist institutions like Oxford doubles its force.

                In my second year in particular, things appeared to take a turn for the worst. I’ve only recently discovered just how bad things were and actually that I knew (or thought I knew) some of the people that were responsible. At my college there were supposedly a group of boys that latched onto the Freshers in particular, but specifically took advantage of younger girls. I’ve even heard people talk of “pimps”. What was going on led my college principal, Alice Prochaska (love her!) to talk to the media about the very worrying behaviour taking hold on our university grounds: she wrote an article for The Guardian (available here: Tackling Laddish Culture, Alice Prochaska ) and spoke on Radio 4’s Today programme. Sexual consent workshops are now standard in Oxford.

So, we’ve made headway in that department. Things are changing for the better. But there’s no doubt that it’s a work in progress.

RIDICULOUS RACISM

      On race-related issues, you can forget it. Oxford gets a big thumbs down from me. I’m talking about Oxford, the institution, the power – not individual colleges or individual people.

      Fortunately I generally had a good experience as a black person in Oxford. I didn’t come up against some of the downright malicious comments that some of my friends had to deal with. But I did come face-to-face with ignorance very often and as a black person, was made to feel collectively marginalised.

      I’ll bring the Oxford Union up again as an example.

      Why, tell me please, did the Union have to invite the French right-wing nationalist Marine Le Pen to speak uninterrupted for 45 minutes on her very, very worrying views? Why give a platform to someone of her nature in a place where ethnic minorities already feel marginalised and unwelcome? What, you just want to air her nasty views because “everyone has a right to free speech”? You mean to say by letting her give a speech on why it’s OK to be racist and Islamophobic you are not condoning her views? OK, so why didn’t you have her as one of the speakers in a debate with four people on each side as you so often do?

      Some say that giving someone with unintelligent and unfounded views a platform to speak and then pointing out the holes in their arguments actually makes them look stupid. OK, maybe so. But how exactly does that work when the person chooses the questions she wants to answer and ignores the rest? And how does it work when the woman barely speaks any English and thus you have to do everything through a translator; her own translator, who can water down what he likes as he communicates from one party to the other? Come on, now.

      I didn’t go to that event, if you didn’t guess. I actually went outside the gate – to PEACEFULLY protest, believe it or not.

     An invite from the Oxford Union is a big compliment to anyone. It says, “You are important. People like you and want to hear your views. WE, a prestigious institution, like you enough to want to have you address our members. We value what you have to say.” Ask anyone that’s been invited to the Oxford Union and they will definitely not tell you they took it as a snub. 

So, ahem, WHY, did Marine Le Pen receive this honour? (And yes, if you were thinking, “I bet Ruth’s glad Le Pen didn’t get elected French President this year”, you were right.)

That oh-so-dearly-loved princess-of-the-people polemicist KATIE HOPKINS has been invited to the Oxford Union TWICE. And that’s twice in the time I was there. For all I know, they might be planning to have her again.

WHY on Earth would you want to hear something new that someone that referred to thousands of migrants drowning in the Mediterranean as “cockroaches” has to say?

All of this is worrying enough.

But I haven’t told you yet about the infamous “Colonial Comeback” cocktail.

That debacle led to even the Oxford Union condemning itself as “institutionally racist”. You might have seen the national headlines which came about as a result of what happened on that night in May 2016.

Along with some friends, that evening I went to a debate entitled:  'This House Believes Britain Owes Reparations to her Former Colonies.' It was set to be a big event. And of course, due to the nature of the topic, there were more BME students there than normal. The mood was lively, spirits were high: there was an anticipatory flavour in the air.

And then we saw it.

Laid out on the wooden tables in the bar were promotions of that night’s specially concocted drink. Coupled with an image of black hands in chains, “the Colonial Comeback!”

I was speechless. I was mad, but the kind of mad where you don’t have words. The kind of mad where you just find yourself trying to figure out what on earth was going through someone’s mind when they decided that on the night of a debate held to question whether or not Britain owes reparations to her former colonies, it was a good idea to advertise an alcoholic drink trivialising the atrocities of slavery and colonisation. There was also another advertisement for the same drink which had a map of Africa partitioned amongst European powers.

I was flabbergasted at the thought that not only had someone come up with this idea and then printed out the leaflets, but someone else had seconded it and laid them out on the table. And it took a group of mainly BME students sitting in the bar to sound the alarm bells. I mean, what were they thinking?

Well, it’s not hard to imagine that we got pretty annoyed. A couple of the people I was with got up and asked why on earth such things were there. There was quite some consternation before the debate began, and the President apologised before the debate began that such an insensitive promotion package had been put forward at all.

But to be honest, I wasn’t happy with that “apology” and neither were my friends. It was just some little “we’re sorry” without understanding the gravity of it. The idea of suggesting that the aggressive foreign policy of colonisation, which involved plundering people’s land, maiming human beings and destroying the culture and livelihood of many people, should COME BACK, is not something we ought to take lightly. 

Well, some people quite literally did not take that sitting down. A small group of the people I had been with in the bar stood up in silent protest. It was that night that the Rhodes Must Fall in Oxford movement began. [You can read more about what went down at that debate here, in an article I wrote for the British newspaper ‘The Voice’.] 

It was largely due to the nonconformist boldness of those four people at the debate that the dialogue surrounding race and racism in Oxford started to change. Flyers for Rhodes Must Fall were handed out after the debate and it got a strong following thereafter. People were waking up to the epidemic of racism in Oxford and wanted to do something to help cure it. If some of the things said at that debate and “The Colonial Comeback!” cocktail weren’t enough, the affront of an attendee in the bar after the event, labelling a student in my year “a black barbarian”, underpinned just how bad things were.

It was obvious to all of us, but the Oxford Union took a while to see it our way. It ended up making three apologies because the first two missed the mark. The third apology was made after a 5-hour meeting in which the Union’s Standing Committee met with leading groups for social change in Oxford, including the Student Union’s Campaign for Racial Awareness and Equality (CRAE) and of course, Rhodes Must Fall. In this apology, the Oxford Union Society condemned itself as “institutionally racist” and committed to holding mandatory race and anti-racism workshops as part of induction into the committee. Good, positive change.

But as much I’d like to say that Oxford’s love affair with racism ended there, it did not.

Not long after all of this happened, I went on my year abroad and so was out of Oxford for a year, and watched events from the sidelines. So hopeful for change when I left, over the course of the year I got more and more frustrated with the system’s stubbornness to change.

Rhodes Must Fall

Rhodes Must Fall really did get up and running in that year. Yet, it was met with so much hostility from every side. People just didn’t want to engage with the issue at hand: that Oxford as an institution celebrates and benefits from the horrendous actions of slave-owners and colonialists to this day. I’m not going to go into it here, but basically Cecil Rhodes was the architect of apartheid and enabled the deaths of millions of black people in Southern Africa. Yet his name is all over Oxford, and a huge statue of him emblazoned on his former college, Oriel, lords it over the High St.

Our Chancellor didn’t get what the problem was. According to him, the last colonial administrator of Hong Kong, people that didn’t like Rhodes being celebrated “should think about being educated elsewhere”. Oh, he’s also known to have claimed that having more BME students in Oxford would “erode standards”. Translated: if we let more ethnic minority students into our universities, everyone will get dumber.

It’s probably not much of a surprise that in a place where views like this are given a platform, change doesn’t go very far.

In December 2015, Oriel College finally started listening to the protests of Rhodes Must Fall: considering the significance of affording such a place of high esteem to an undeniable racist, and recognising Rhodes’ position as emblematic of institutional racism within the university as a whole. We got excited. They said they would consider removing the statue and that in the meantime they would remove the plaque celebrating him, and would place a notice clarifying who Rhodes was and how the college did not condone his actions; moreover that his views were “incompatible” with the “inclusive culture” of a modern-day university.  A six-month discussion, involving the council, alumni and other parties was to take place before the final decision would be made.

Fast-forward six weeks, and it had all been cancelled. No more. Why? Oxford always bows to the power of money. The very, very rich donors to Oriel College were fuming that a colonial racist who is known to have said things such as “I prefer land to ni****ers" might actually lose his position as revered god, and immediately began to threaten to remove their generous funding to the college. Response of Oriel College, and Oxford the institution? “Hold on, we’ve changed our minds. Money, money, money, we need your money, it’s a rich man’s world.” Because OF COURSE, in Oxford, money comes before ethics, compassion, before all else.

I was a lot more hopeful back then about change in Oxford than I am now, a few months after having finished my four-year degree. [For more on Rhodes Must Fall and the aftermath of that decision, you can read the feature article I wrote for ‘The Voice’: Rhodes Must Fall].

My final year was the year in which, like I said before, I truly got fed up of Oxford. I couldn’t wait to leave. Don’t get me wrong: despite the things I have talked about, I had missed Oxford on my year abroad. I had missed my friends, missed being part of the groups that were so intrinsic to my time there: the Christian Union, church, choir… But not long after I came back, the reality of Oxford and its strange ways hit me again.

In the second term of my final year, one of my friends, who had graduated the summer before, had a CCTV image of him circulated around the entire mailing list of his friend’s college, where he had stopped by for the night. He tells the story best himself: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2017/feb/10/oxford-university-circulate-criminalised-image-black-man. As Femi says, there is no other reason that a porter would send out an email warning staff and students to “be vigilant” and “alert a member of staff [...] or call Oxford security services” if they saw him other than that they feared he was dangerous because he was black. This was the last straw for me. It’s not uncommon at all in Oxford to be stopped around the university grounds because you are black. Most have their own story. I’ve been stopped when walking into college grounds when others, that are white, can walk straight in – because there is this question in some people’s minds of, “Is she in the right place? She’s black, she can’t belong here.” I remember another time I was walking around a college with a friend (her college) and we were asked if we were in the right place, if we knew where we were going. We knew we wouldn’t have been asked that question if we were white.

I would laugh things like that off, though sometimes they did irritate me. I found it amusing and silly that people would get me mixed up with the only other black girl around. That type of thing, and worse, was documented in an initiative called ‘I, too, am Oxford’ in my first year [available here http://itooamoxford.tumblr.com/.] But something as bad as someone’s CCTV image being circulated around an entire college as representative of someone to be afraid of simply because he was black, that was different. It wasn’t a “micro-aggression” or something to wave off lightly.

It made me mad. I was properly mad for more than a week. It wasn’t just this, it was this combined with feeling marginalised by the university as a whole up until now. It was the incident itself combined with the fact that there was no apology made. It was Oxford and its relentless pursuit of “othering” people of colour.

In my second year – which was my favourite year in Oxford, more on that later – I harboured a real sense of optimism about the state of things in Oxford. I believed in change, and was a part of taking steps to make it happen. By my fourth year, I had lost it completely. I was fed up and disillusioned with the static status quo. Now I say: I don’t want my future kids to go to Oxford. Not unless things change. People have been saying the same thing about Oxford for the last 20 years, and the 20 years before that (“when I was there the racism was terrible”, “I felt I didn’t belong because I wasn’t rich, etc etc”) and there still doesn’t seem to be much hope of change. Do I want my kids to experience the same sense of not belonging and continued othering at their university? No. I’d rather they experienced life at a university which is more like the real world. Oxford is not the real world.

CULTURAL CAPITAL

                So many people take their privilege so much for granted that they fail to realise the cultural capital that they have over their counterparts.

                Though English is my native language and I was born and bred in the UK, I am a product of the background I am from. My parents emigrated from Nigeria to study in the 80s and so though although we speak English at home, we don’t speak upper-class Southern English, like some people in Oxford might hear at home.

                Sometimes in classes some idiomatic expressions would come up that I had never heard before, probably mostly because they aren’t widely used anymore, but also because they are used most often by the upper classes. And people would look at me like I had two heads because I didn’t know what they meant. Soz mate, I’m from Manchester and we don’t speak the Queen’s English there. I remember being laughed at by a fellow student once in a translation class because I didn’t know the difference between certain types of guns. It’s like, I’m sorry, but I didn’t grow up in a mansion where the family activity was shooting!

                Now I’m from a middle-class family and I felt like I didn’t fit in with the general cultural capital in Oxford. I mean, I have nothing against them – indeed, a lot of them were and are my friends – but the majority of people in Oxford come from London, Surrey, and Kent. I tell you, every time I heard anyone with the slightest tinge of a Northern accent, I would latch on to them. We were rare.

                If you’re working class in Oxford, I think it’s fair to say you would feel like you didn’t fit in a lot of the time. Some people would be made fun of because of the way they spoke. Think about the amount of balls and formal dinners we have in Oxford each term and that makes you realise even more how much you can be excluded from the opulence of Oxford because of your background.

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Part 3: Oxford Quirks (Good and Bad)

Part 1: An Introduction to Oxford

Prologue 

Around 2002, a little 7-year old girl sat in the attic-library of her home, surrounded by books. She peered closely at two large ones in particular. One was a thick book with the words ‘OXFORD’ imprinted on its bound spine in bold, and the other was a Cambridge Companion. This sight made the little girl ponder on something, and she uttered the words: “Mum, which one is better, Oxford or Cambridge?”, turning to her mother, who sat a few metres away.

Her mother responded after some thought, “Well, for English Oxford is probably better, Cambridge is generally better for sciences.”

From that moment on, this little girl decided she wanted to go to Oxford.

That little girl was me.

I’m 22 now and I recently graduated from Oxford, so you could say a long-cherished childhood dream came true!

But… All that glitters is not gold. Oxford wasn’t exactly what I had hoped for and expected. I’ve talked about writing about my reflections on Oxford for a long time and here it is, that long-awaited post.

In this post I’ll be telling you things from my point of view, and not very differently to my usual way, presenting things transparently. This is an unfiltered collation of my thoughts and reflections on Oxford, that prestigious and ancient institution known world-over. They don’t have to be the same as other Oxford graduates’ opinions, or the opinions and experiences of current students. I also don’t speak for every female Oxonian, or every Christian Oxonian, or every black Oxonian.  Or every Mancunian or Northern Oxonian. Or every black female Christian Northern Oxonian. You get my drift. This is “Reflections on Oxford, Ruth Akinradewo style”. My opinions and experiences aren’t being put here for debate, they simply are MY OWN opinions and experiences.

OK, now we’ve got that straight… Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

The Prestige of Oxford

                When my mum answered my question about 15 years ago, I thought I would be studying English at university. I have always loved reading and writing. But in fact, towards the end of my school years, I realised that I loved languages too much to let go. French was my favourite subject, and English (Literature) came a close second. Initially I had thought I would keep up English at university alongside French, but after much advice and contemplation, I decided upon French and Italian. Heads up: I didn’t learn Italian at school, so my degree was in French and BEGINNER’S Italian. Craziest decision I ever made I think. Do you know, before electing for that choice I had told myself at all the open days I went to that I would NEVER pick up a language from scratch? Too much stress. I had started learning French at the age of seven; why would I start studying another language at the age of eighteen and then hope in four years to have reached the same level in the first language? No, thank you. Well, a few months down the line and my schoolteachers and my mum had convinced me it was a good idea for me to study two languages to give myself more opportunities, assuring me that I was well capable of learning another language quickly and efficiently.

                Four years later and I have GRADUATED in French and Italian! Crazy tingz.

                I don’t recall many days of my four-year degree going by without me taking a moment to thank God in amazement that this was actually my university. I mean, like I said before, this was a childhood dream, to go to Oxford. Oxford, the university which had existed since the 1000s and was known all over the world. Oxford, the university where some of the greatest world-changers had been educated. Oxford, the location which had unashamed links to the furtherance of the gospel.

                Oxford was MY university. Me, little Ruth who defied almost every possible stereotype of the typical Oxonian. Black, Northern, a Christian, from a state school . . . It amazed me that against all the odds I had ended up in this place. I was awestruck by the amount of opportunities that lay right at my fingertips simply by nature of me being there. I was amazed that I was studying at the same college of the UK’s first female Prime Minister, India’s first female Prime Minister and countless other world-changers (of course Margaret Thatcher did a lot of things that I didn’t like and that most Somervillians despise - but I do have to give her Kudos for being a strong woman in a man’s world!). I could go to the Oxford Union and listen to speakers of the calibre of Jesse Jackson, Malala Yousafzai (who, as it happens, has just been accepted to study at Oxford!), sit in a hall where Malcolm X and Winston Churchill had spoken . . . The history of this place was amazing! Just a few doors down from the oldest debating society in the world was the Methodist Church where heroes of the faith Charles and John Wesley had started their ministry. Oxford breathed history and every day I walked in the trail of it.

My college, Somerville! (On a rainy day.)

                But in the history and age of Oxford also lies some of its greatest undoings. Oxford is the place most stubborn to change that I have ever known. In my final year there I was well and truly done with it.

               People ask me now, “Do you miss Oxford?” No, no I don’t. I will miss my friends, I enjoyed my degree, I loved my church, and I have many great memories of my time there. But four years as an Oxford student is enough for me. I do get quite bewildered when people tell me that they’re going back for a Masters, or a PhD, but Kudos to them if that’s what they want to do – I know being there isn’t easy! But as much as Oxford can bring good things, I would definitely not choose to go back.

            I am generally a positive person and I’m not saying that Oxford was all bad – not at all. Am I happy that I ended up at Oxford? Yes. It was one of my greatest dreams and ending up there helped my confidence.  It helped me believe in myself more and see myself as capable.


The Journey There...

It wasn’t easy to get into Oxford. It isn’t easy to get into Oxford. Even though it was five years ago that I applied to the university, I haven’t forgotten the rigours of the process. There’s no place like Oxford (though Cambridge is pretty similar). I started my degree in October 2013 but I in fact started applying to Oxford around September 2012, I believe it was.

                I started earlier than most, because I applied for a choral scholarship before the academic application began. For those of you that don’t know, a choral scholarship is a (usually) monetary award given to singers to sing in a choir at the university. Thank God, even after my ridiculous nervousness during my audition (I hyperventilated after my audition and had to breathe into a bag – that had never happened to me before and has never happened since, thankfully) and a nerve-wracking interview, I was awarded a choral scholarship at Somerville College, Oxford [I’ll explain the collegiate system later, it is pretty confusing].

                As a result I was told that I should apply to Somerville for the academic round of my application. But oh no, applying for a place was not easy – no sir! BA applicants to any other uni had until the 15^th of January to apply – but if you were applying to Oxford you had to have your personal statement ready by the 15^th of October to apply. (NB: You can’t apply to both Oxford and Cambridge; the rivalry between both of these institutions is REAL.)

                As well as doing the personal statement WAY before everyone else, you had to send a marked essay both in English and one in the language you were already studying (so French for me), and do a Modern Languages Aptitude Test (MLAT). Ah, but because I was to learn a language from scratch, I had to be tested even further. As well as being tested on French grammar, I had to complete a test measuring how easily I would be able to pick up a foreign language by: figuring out a completely made-up language. Yes, you read that right. There were a bunch of sentences configured in a make-believe language and a couple of sentences would be translated in English. From the translated sentences you had to figure out the language patterns and match them to new sentences that followed the same structure. My specimen practice paper made me cry. (Library study buddies of Sale Grammar, you may well remember.)

                I only got through half of the weird bit of that MLAT, but somehow I still got to the interview stage. I had two interviews, one for the French side, and the other for Italian. I had 15 minutes before going into each interview to read and prepare some poetry for discussion. Unexpectedly I was given the English translation for the French poem as well as for the Italian one, which was nice! For my first interview, I think we spent about 5-10 minutes discussing my thoughts on the poem – in English, and then about 5-10 minutes discussing my personal statement in French, and then the final 10 minutes or so were in English. In my Italian interview I didn’t have to speak any Italian, thankfully! (Considering I was only just getting to grips with the language.) For some reason there was a German tutor in my interview, which I’ve never quite understood, but perhaps it was precisely because all of the conversation was to be in English that it was set up that way!

                It so happened that the poem I was given in my Italian interview I had already seen during prep for my Oxford interview, so that was reassuring! Though it seems I hadn’t quite understood the point of it, as the Italian tutor seemed to be trying to get me to say something else – I still to this day don’t know what that poem was about!

                So, fast forward about 6 weeks and on the 11^th of December I found out I had gotten into Oxford! Our college (Somerville) in fact mistakenly posted out our letters second-class so we would have had to wait until the Monday instead of discovering whether or not we had gotten in on the Friday, as everyone else did – if not for the fact that they decided to spare us the agony of waiting to find out over the weekend by sending us an email instead.

When I opened that email and read what it said, I can tell you, I SCREAMED like never before. My mum was upstairs and she heard me screaming from downstairs and by the time I had rushed up to her room, I was crying. (I don’t usually cry from joy, but that was one of the rare occasions I did!) And of course from my reaction, when I said, “I’ve got news from Oxford”, she thought it was bad news. In between my tears and crazy emotion I told her that it was in fact good news. And I think she probably started screaming at that moment as well.

                On Results Day I learnt my hard work had paid off and I had obtained the grades I needed – so in October I was off to Oxford! But before that, I had a reading list to get through. I don’t know anyone at any other uni (but Cambridge is likely to be the same) that had a reading list before they even started studying there!! And of course, as I was studying French and Italian, I had to read a whole lot of books in a foreign language – and that takes a lot longer!! 

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Part 2 - Oxford: At Odds with the Real World

Reflections on Oxford

This is a series entitled "Reflections on Oxford", separated into 8 posts (there was too much to talk about!) plus a short conclusion.  You can come back to this page to find the next in the series. Hope you enjoy and learn from the read!

Part 1: An Introduction to Oxford

Part 2: Oxford: At Odds with the Real World

Part 3: Oxford and its Quirks (Good and Bad)

Part 4: Student Life in Oxford

Part 5: Sub Fusc and other Weird Oxford Traditions from the Medieval Times

Part 6: The Work.

Part 7: Finals.

Part 8: Oxford and Mental Health.

Conclusion

Why I've decided to stop calling myself a feminist.

It’s no secret: I am very much in favour of female empowerment and the equality of the sexes. However in spite of this I decided a few months back to no longer go by the name of ‘feminist’ when pressing for these goals.

Strange really, because the definition of “feminism” is: the advocacy of women’s social, political and economic rights, with the aim of bringing about equality of the sexes. And I’m all for that.

I used to be one of the people that just couldn’t get their heads around why some women or young ladies would say they were in favour of equality for the sexes but that they weren’t feminists.

I thought of it as being like me, a Christian, deciding that because there have been Christians who have behaved in anything BUT a Christ-like manner yet still go by the name of Christian, that I would no longer call myself Christian. It seemed ridiculous. Because there have been evil people who used the Bible to justify 400 years of the transatlantic slave trade, decades of colonisation, the Crusaders, homophobic yells calling for all homosexuals to be killed – all inhumane behaviours  – in the name of being Christ-followers I should claim that I was not a Christian? Just because people have messed with the real and original meaning and turned it into a warped version that suits their own ends, I should separate myself from the pure meaning of what it really means to be a Christian? No! The fake Christians should move along and stop giving the rest of us a bad name.

That’s how I felt about calling myself a ‘feminist’. Yes, there have been EXTREME feminists out there that have said a whole lot of out-of-this-world things. (Literally.) I studied Sociology at A-Level and we learnt about some very interesting theories from what are called (for very good reason), radical feminists – including that we should rid the world of men and send them to Mars, and that all women should set up lesbian relationships and use

place which makes creating babies possible? What were they gonna do, call Mars and get them to post what was needed to make a baby? And did they not consider that with these pregnancies, just as well as girls boys could be created?  What were they going to do with the boys born then?

So I think it’s fair to say that we would all consider that a load of rubbish. I dare say there are very few feminists that would align themselves with this kind of thinking. So we would tend to push such radical thinkers to the side and get on with the real job in hand: advocating women’s social, political and economic rights, with the end goal of bringing about the equality of the sexes.

That’s what I used to say until a few months ago. I agreed wholeheartedly with a meme I saw somewhere that compared using the term ‘feminist’ to the appellation of the doctoral profession, with someone called Aziz Ansari saying:

“If you believe that men and women have equal rights, and then someone asks you if you’re a feminist, you have to say yes. Because that’s how words work. You can’t be like, “Yeah, I’m a doctor who primarily does diseases of the skin.” “Oh, so you’re a dermatologist?”  “Oh that’s way too aggressive of a word, not at all, not at all.”

You might be reading this and thinking, Yeah, this all makes total sense. So why did she change her mind then? Well, I’ll tell you. And the reason is, ‘feminist’ is no longer synonymous with “person pushing for equality between the sexes”. It’s become more than that. Much more. In many cases it’s become about making women superior to men “because women are historically the oppressed sex”. So what, because men have historically oppressed us we should start doing the same to them? Don’t think so. I’m not the only one who doesn’t agree. Many of my friends and I refer to this party as ‘feminazis”; women who are always shouting men down and preventing the discussions that need to take place from being had because they think it’s time to do away with (they say it in much stronger terms) “the patriarchy”.

History of Feminism

When feminism started in the 19^th century it was because the female sex really barely had any rights at all. In the UK, we didn’t have the right to property, to divorce in cases of abuse or adultery (only the man was able to do this), even to have access to our children should a divorce ensue. Women were prevented from going to university and they were heavily discriminated against in the workplace. Women over the age of 21 did not get the vote until 1928.

Now, in most countries at least, we have these opportunities. So feminism is becoming a much more comprehensive issue. However, it is now dealing with some things that I don’t feel have anything to do with feminism (see definition used above). 

What is Feminism really about?

Now, if you know me, you’ll know that one of the things that I talk most about when talking about the treatment of women is how we are continually reduced to little more than sex objects. We live in a constant eddy of images selling our bodies for cold, hard cash. From the advert of the woman who is depicted as the victim of a gang rape to get people to buy a Gucci perfume to the topless woman in The Sun whose intimates stare you right in the face, to the singer who poses provocatively on the latest magazine cover to promote her new album… Our bodies are commercialised cheaply as though they mean nothing; as though we – our intellect, our character, who we each are as people  – don’t matter.

Of course these media images don’t end there. They trickle down into the society in which we live: meaning thousands of women grow up with a negative body image and with a constant need to be validated for their looks, to assure that they are good enough. 

Do you think this doesn’t affect how men see us?

Rape, sexual assault, harassment… They don’t seem to be going down.

We are shouted at in the streets, hollered at by passing drivers, stared at lewdly in public places, propositioned at bus stops, at work, walking home… We are almost daily reminded that the society that we live in values us for our anatomies primarily. I don’t like that. And I would think that most ‘feminists’ wouldn’t like it either.

1. Female Sexuality

But now I see more and more feminists saying that women should “embrace their sexuality” and become the leader in their relationships, because then they can assert their power and have it the way they want. Beyoncé, they say, is not reducing herself to a body as she twerks and writhes around as a sexual being on the stage, she is controlling how she wants herself to be presented. OK then. (I’m not part of the Beyhive, if you hadn’t noticed.)

I don’t believe that a woman can use the very puppet strings that men have used for decades to push us into a corner to “empower ourselves”. I’ll give you a surprising example to illustrate my point. I recently came across some research on that two-piece outfit so ubiquitous on our beaches and in our swimming pools in the summer: the bikini.

This research was carried out by professors at Princeton University in the States (don’t worry, I’m not going to talk about Donald Trump… -_-), with the participants being male students at said university. The objective of the research was to reveal the varied manners in which the brain reacts to seeing people in various amounts of clothing.

The bikini was an obvious choice, being the “outfit” which covers the least of the female body (often less than underwear). Some interesting bikini facts for ya: No. 1: it was named after the atomic bomb testing that year (1946), “Bikini Atoll” – because the public’s reaction of the day was expected to be like the explosion of an atomic bomb. No. 2: The creator claimed that his invention “wasn’t a true bikini unless it could be pulled through a wedding ring”. No. 3: It was so scandalous at the time that only a stripper would model it.

How times have changed. In the 18^th and 19^th centuries, women’s bodies were prized to the point that ladies would use “bathing machines” on their outings to the beach. They would wear long dresses over their swimming costumes and ride in carriages measuring 36 square feet right up to the shoreline, before removing their dresses and climbing directly into the water so that they would maintain their discretion. They were in charge.

Are women really in charge of their own bodies now? Is there really “power” in wearing the bikini? Is the woman really “in charge of her sexuality”, as some feminists would have us believe?

That’s what this research set out to discover.

Brain scans showed that when men were shown pictures of scantily-clad women, the region of the brain associated with tools, like screwdrivers and hammers – lit up.

When they saw women wearing bikinis, some men showed absolutely ZERO brain activity in the medial pre-frontal cortex – the region of the brain which lights up when one ponders another’s thoughts, feelings and intentions.  Researchers found this shocking, because they almost never see this region of the brain shut down in this way.

One of the professors put it like this: “It’s as if they are reacting to these women as if they are not fully human. It’s consistent with the idea that they’re responding to these photographs as if they were responding to objects, not people.”

In a separate Princeton study, researchers found that when men were shown pictures like these they tended to associate them with 1^st person action verbs, like I push, I grab, I handle. That is scary to me. All the evidence would point to the fact that when women are presented in such a way that their bodies become the primary focus of attention, men are inherently likely to forget that they are people and start to think of and treat them like objects. On the other hand, when women were more fully clothed, men associate images of them with third-person verbs, like she pushes, she grabs, etc.

At one time women were kicked off the beach for wearing bikinis. Now they are kicked off the beach for wearing burkinis. (I’m looking at you, France, and I’m very ashamed.) That’s not the kind of “female empowerment” I’m in favour of.

Apparently, the annual spending on the bikini in the United States totalled 8bn dollars in US in 2012.

So that to me would show me that women cannot in fact be in charge of their sexuality and the way they would like to be treated by peeling off more layers of clothes and saying that they’re in charge because they’re the ones that chose to take them off. We live in a society which tells us to take off more layers of clothing to get where we want – how is listening to that making your own decision? It’s just following what you’re being told but telling yourself that you’re doing it on your own.

If women want to do that, that’s their prerogative. But please, don’t call it feminism.

The real feminists spent years working for women to be more than mannequins. Please don’t undo their work.

This idea has descended even further in recent times – to a feeling of nonchalance or even support, of prostitution, or what some now term “sex work”. Now this I don’t get. Some people say that some people have to prostitute themselves because they have no other options. I don’t agree with this.

Aside from the fact that I believe as a Christian that sex should be between a man and woman in the context of marriage, I can’t imagine how it can in any way be healthy or satisfying for men and women  to be treating an act so intimate and personal with any triviality.

When our society gets to the point that it says that people without THE MEANS (without much money) must resort to selling their bodies for sex, rather than creating DIGNITY-ENCOURAGING opportunities for women that find themselves in dire straits to me is a troubling thing.  Some people say that women should be able to do whatever they like and shouldn’t be judged for it. They say that some women find pleasure in opening their legs several times a day for strangers rather than treating this phenomenon as worrisome. I think if we’ve gotten to the point where women feel like there is no other job that they can do to provide for themselves and their families then there is something seriously wrong with the societies that they live in. When a woman can’t use her intellect, her character and her humanity to earn a living but can only use her body and her ability to satisfy a man’s sexual desires, then I think we went wrong somewhere – don’t you? Shouldn’t we be investing in public schemes that help women get out of this trap and provide them with a meaningful life, instead of shrugging our shoulders and saying this is the way that it has to be?

Are the women that claim to be feminists whilst advocating this popular opinion really putting the interests of their fellow women at heart or are they simply trying to find a reason to continue the repeated exploitation of women by means of their sexuality?

I don’t call that feminism. Or at least, if that’s what people nowadays want to call feminism, I’d rather stay out of it. 

2. Feminism and Abortion

Here’s another reason why I’m shying away from the term “feminism” nowadays: I don’t agree with abortion. Don’t ask me any more questions about why, just go to my post I’m Pro-Life, and I don’t see why that’s a problem. You’ll find all my opinions and responses to comments there.

Now, abortion is just seen as a given and compulsory part of the feminism code now and I’m out. I wholeheartedly disagree with the taking of another human being’s life and I don’t see how by doing so I am in any way at conflict with the advocation of equality and respect for women. In fact, femicide is a form of abortion that is frighteningly on the rise these days (the termination of embryos simply because they are female). So how can the feminists hold their fists up in support of a practice that is killing more and more of us X chromosomes by the day?

Now women everywhere – and particularly in the West – are going about calling abortion “reproductive rights” and saying that they have a choice to do what they want with their own bodies. Yes, you do. Usually the choice that you have is not having sex if you don’t want to get pregnant, but somehow we’re supposed to ignore that, or it’s supposed to be unfair. (Of course I realise that the woman does not always have a choice and that the horrific act of rape does sadly happen to some women, and this cannot be taken lightly, but you can read my thoughts on that on the post I linked above.) We talk about choice for what we want to eat or how a mother wants to deliver. These encompass your “right to choose”; yes absolutely. But in the context of deciding whether or not you’re going to let a child live or take their life in the womb, is that really a “choice”? Is it really a “right”? Even though the child a woman carries is a product of her, he or she is also another human being and has the same-sized DNA of another person flowing through their blood. So how it becomes simply the woman’s “choice” is beyond me.

Again, on this some of us may have a difference of opinion, and I accept that. But if the “right to abort” is now becoming a fundamental precedent of feminism, then I’m out.

3. Shaving

Now I’ve talked already in some detail about being a woman means that you are subjected to sometimes a horrific amount of sexual objectification (don’t get me started on what it was like in Italy, for example). But I haven’t gone into detail about the double standards that so often result from that.

Sure, our culture nowadays pushes both men and women to take good care of their appearance. But it can’t be denied that the standard women are held to is on a completely different scale to that which women are measured up against.

For example, I’ve written in a previous post about why I don’t wear make-up (here). That’s most definitely counter-culture. I was even interviewed by the BBC on this point some time after I published it. Such a decision is so out-of-sync with what most people are doing that it was considered newsworthy.

There are a lot of things that women are expected to do to maintain their appearance that I don’t do. I don’t wax my eyebrows or draw them on for that matter, and ooh – wait for it… I don’t shave my legs. Or my arms.

Yes, I am still a woman.

Yes, I am feminine.

No, I don’t believe that the God-given hair that grows from my limbs is disgusting or unhygienic. When was the last time you told a man to wax his legs? …

Exactly.

In fact, body hair is a very helpful biological asset to have. I don’t get why we should be forced to put ourselves through pain to remove it when it actually does it quite a lot of good.

The hair on our arms and legs actually work to regulate our body temperature. I, for one, am very sensitive to temperature changes so when I get cold, I get really cold. I shiver and chatter. And that’s with my hairs still intact – can you imagine what I would be like without those trusty, thin little lines? They even have muscles of their own, which is what makes our hairs able to stand up on end when we get cold or scared. Body hair also helps us cool down in hot weather: as we sweat, it can work to wick moisture away from the skin. That’s not what you thought about armpit hair, is it? Hehe.

Oh here’s another random one, which provides more evidence that human nature is never far from considering the best way to find a suitable partner of the opposite sex to construct a life with: see my blog post on the differences between men and women here – apparently underarm hair and the hair down under act to catch and then dry hormones secreted by the body so that they can ride through the air and reach the olfactory senses of that special someone. I’m not kidding. I just thought it was a funny one to tell you. What can I say, God thinks of everything?!

Do you wanna hear some other pretty interesting things about body hair?

Apparently the more body hair you have, the more intelligent you are. Well, that’s what a study on men with varying amounts of body hair found; that there was a correlation between these two factors. So women, do we want men to have another reason to say they’re smarter than we are?

Our body hair also acts as a sense organ, and helps our body’s defences and the immune system. 

And it contains gold??! No joke, scientists have found that our hair contains nanoparticles of gold. Gold is my favourite colour; the more hairs the merrier!

Scientists also say that underarm hair reduces friction between the upper and lower arm during vigorous motion and covers exposed parts of the body with vital arteries. Dr. Mona Gohara, an associate clinical professor of dermatology at Yale University says: “When you shave, you can get irritation, folliculitis, rashes, inflammation, and even infections from dirty razors. We do it [women] because it’s a societal norm, but there really isn’t any biological reason to remove that hair. There’s this false association that hairlessness equals cleanliness, but that’s not actually true as long as you’re clean. Men wear deodorant, have underarm hair, and don’t smell – there’s no biological reason women can’t do the same.” (Check this out for more: http://www.goodhousekeeping.com/beauty/a32910/female-armpit-hair/)

In fact, once people start shaving their hair only grows back more quickly and thicker and pricklier than it used to (and even then it’s still thinner than male body hair)! Too many times I’ve been with friends who start to get freaked about because they’re wearing a skirt and they’ve just realised they forgot to shave that morning. They’re sitting there with their few prickly hairs that I didn’t even notice and I’m sitting there having never shaved my legs wondering what all the fuss is about.

Do you wanna know why women even started shaving in the first place? It all started around the 1920s, during the Flapper era, a time when women were gaining more and more independence and the sleeveless dress was emerging as a fashion.  In 1915, Harper’s Bazaar, a magazine aimed at the upper and upper middle classes (and still in existence today), published an advertisement featuring a woman dressed in a toga-style outfit raising one hand high above her head to reveal her hairless armpit. The advert read: ‘Summer dress and modern dancing combine to make necessary the removal of objectionable hair’. And that was it. In order to be considered ‘women of refinement’, as the advert put it, women started to flock out to get the new Gilette razor and other products that would remove the hair that was suddenly objectionable on them but not on men.

It’s all a scam. Capitalist companies and people in power make money off making women feel uncomfortable and insecure in their own bodies and convincing that it’s only after hours of “maintaining themselves” that they will be fit to be seen in public. So-called feminists buy into these lies. 

A study in 2008 revealed that American women who shave (and supposedly even using the cheaper methods of hair removal) will spend, on average, more than 10,000 dollars and nearly two entire months of their lives on managing unwanted hair. As for the woman who waxes once or twice a month, she will spend more than 23 thousand dollars over the course of her lifetime. Click for more info: http://www.alternet.org/books/why-have-americans-gotten-so-extreme-their-obsession-hair-free-bodies 

Frankly I think I’m saving a lot of money by not listening to a culture that tells me I need to spend money on so many extra things to simply be. As well as saving myself a lot of time by not wearing makeup or shaving relentlessly, I reckon I’ll have a lot more money to give to charity and to spend on other good causes over the course of my life by not spending money on these.

I thought there was supposed to be a large element of sisterhood included in the idea of feminism. But women bash each other more than men bash us sometimes! I could talk about how people criticised superstar gymnast Gabby Douglas when at 16, she won an Olympic gold medal and black women kept going on about her curly baby hairs (I’m absolutely a naturalista, if you didn’t know – take a look at this for more) as one example, but I’ll focus here on how worked up some women get when they see hair that grows on their own bodies on other women’s bodies.

I remember watching a talk show on which a woman that shaved religiously and one who didn’t were interviewed about the topic, and the woman who shaved was visibly repulsed by seeing the hair that she had never allowed to grow on her own body. I just don’t get it. Neither does this lady, who realised how strange it was that she was so bothered about seeing other women’s body hair and wrote this article: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/alexandra-allam/why-women-shave-their-legs_b_7575456.html

 I don’t get people that stare at hair on women’s legs either. It’s rude, just like it is to stare at a black person for ages because they’re different from you. You don’t like it? Look away and get on with your life. Don’t think that by staring at them you’re going to change them.

If any woman wants to shave that’s her prerogative. But it’s not right to think that it’s in the handbook for “How to be a Woman”. It isn’t. Should people who consider themselves to be feminists be so hard on women that decide not to stick to the status quo?

4. Chivalry

OK, so now I’m going to go on to my fourth point, which demonstrates that feminism and I aren’t walking on the same path anymore.

Chivalry. What happened to the knight in shining armour?

What happened to men being allowed to be gentlemen to ladies?

What happened to guys opening the door for women being a good thing and not a sign of rude arrogance?

Some feminists hate it when a guy offers them a seat on public transport – even if they’re pregnant. Because, just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I’m weak and stand on my own two feet! Come on ladies, really??

When a guy wants to pay for the lady when they go out he’s being rude and presumptuous? What happened to the value of being kind and generous? Some guys are now scared to be chivalrous because they don’t want to get their heads bitten off. It’s such a shame, because chivalry is such a rarity these days as it is, and the few nice guys out there feel afraid to be gentlemen because of the angry “I can do it myself, and better than you!” rhetoric of feminism.

I for one, quite like it when I’m struggling with a massive suitcase in a bustling train station or at an airport and a guy offers to help me with it. (Of course I have to keep an eye on it to make sure they’re not going to make a run for it with all my stuff, but aside from that niggling caution, it’s all good!) I don’t want to be associated with a movement that has started to tread upon gallantry.

I actually think that the man should be the one that takes the lead in relationships. A lot of women and girls these days feel they have to scramble for the attention of any male they’re interested in because otherwise someone else will get him or the guy will just not get the message. I think we should let guys do the wooing. Call me old-fashioned, but I think he should be the one to pursue in hopes of a long-lasting relationship. I don’t think the girl’s way of attracting a guy should be to scream, “Look at me! I’m over here!” I believe we can give men the benefit of the doubt; I reckon if they were just allowed to look out for themselves they would spot that girl across the crowded room that they wanted to be their wife.

True, there are a lot of spineless guys out there that won’t get up and move to pursue women and capture their hearts. But feminism has contributed to that, in my opinion, by emasculating men.

There are guys out there that can be knights in shining armour if allowed to be. But feminism isn’t doing a great job of celebrating them, so I’m getting off this ship now.

5. Motherhood

So yes, I want to get married and have kids. You got a problem with that, feminism?

Well, a lot of feminists clearly do. They think that a woman should spend all of her life getting ahead in the workplace and no time at home looking after or even having kids. (I mentioned that notion in this earlier blog post.)

Sorry, I don’t agree.

If a woman decides that she doesn’t want to get a job and wants to stay at home and look after her children, then that is her lifestyle choice. She isn’t weak and brainless because of it. (Do you know how much strength it takes to be a mum?) And if she chooses that she wants to be a working mum and amazingly manage two jobs at once then kudos to her! But please don’t act like making babies is something that women should run away from, feminism. I’m not about that life.

To finish off…

So, there you have it. I’m passionate about women having social, political and economic rights which allow us the dignity and opportunities we deserve and protects us from sexism. Things like, us not being treated like sexual objects and not continuing to disproportionately be targeted as victims of violent abuse at the hands of men. But feminism isn’t doing a lot of what it was made for any more.

As far as I'm concerned, if feminists are saying or doing the wrong thing, then men and any of us are justified in rejecting what they’re saying. Like for me, if feminism is becoming about a baby being considered simply a part of the woman’s uterus and something she can do whatever she likes with, then man, you disagree with her all you like! I also don’t want to be associated with a movement that is trying to strip away the differences between men and women, because I believe that we were created differently for a reason and that there is beauty and equality in those differences. Feminism has a part to play in emasculating men and I ain’t here for that.

So, in a nutshell, the people shouting the loudest in the feminist movement are shouting in favour of a lot of things I don’t stand for, and in fact, some of the people that consider themselves feminists are oppressing others – the oppressed are becoming the oppressors.

I’m a woman who cares a lot about seeing women treated with the dignity and respect that they deserve but not whilst treading on others. I guess that just makes me a caring human being. You can join and be one too with me if you want. (Clue: you don’t have to be a woman to care.)

Le Terrorisme: une menace à la paix n’importe où est une menace à la paix partout.

Below is the translation into French of a post I wrote last November after the attacks in Paris. You can find the original (in English) here: 

http://thechannelforchange.blogspot.co.uk/2015/11/terrorism-threat-to-peace-anywhere-is.html

Je suis assise, paralysée et consternée et j’écris le lendemain des attaques de Paris qui ont jusqu'ici tué 128 personnes. Des personnes innocentes se sont fait tuer pendant un match de football au Stade de France, deux kamikazes ont ouvert le feu et leurs actions ont été d’une telle violence que la nation française a du mal à comprendre. Des bombes ont été détonnées, de nombreux coups ont été tirés dans six endroits ciblés autour de Paris, laissant des corps gisants dans les rues, du sang sur les trottoirs, et la peur dans les cœurs des Français.

J’habite en ce moment en France, pour mon programme d’études à l’étranger et je réside actuellement à Marseille. Je suis donc loin de toutes ces atrocités. Ma première réaction quand j’ai appris ces nouvelles a été le choc. Le premier attentat dont j’ai entendu parler a été celui qui s’est déroulé immédiatement au dehors du stade durant un match amical entre la France et l’Allemagne. Ma première pensée a été que ceci avait été une attaque minutieusement planifiée : pour que les auteurs d’attentat-suicide ciblent des hordes de gens innocents, tout simplement à pour regarder un peu de foot, ensemble avec leurs amis et leur famille, cela a dû exiger beaucoup de préparation. J’ai abandonné toute idée de me coucher de bonne heure,  me suis assise attentivement devant la télé et j’ai regardé le déroulement des événements aux infos. On y a dit que les attentats s’étaient passés à plus grande échelle, y compris dans une salle de concert, dans des cafés et des restaurants. Mon attention s’est immédiatement tournée vers mes amis : cette année beaucoup d’entre eux passent leur année à l’étranger à Paris. En entendant l’écho des coups de feu sur les vidéos et en réalisant l’échelle du désastre, j’ai craint le pire pour eux. Je me suis inquiétée : sont-ils dehors dans ces mêmes rues qui clignotent à travers l’écran plasma?

Je suis allée sur Facebook pour vérifier qu’ils allaient bien. J’ai été soulagée de trouver confirmation grâce à leur statut Facebook m’informant que certains amis étaient sains et saufs, mais je me rendais aussi compte de tous les autres qui n’avaient pas encore confirmé. J’ai commencé à taper des messages frénétiques pour être sûre qu’ils étaient loin du danger. Heureusement en une heure et demie, tous m’ont contacté.  C’était rassurant à chaque fois que je voyais qu’un autre ami s’enregistrait « en sécurité » sur Facebook et je poussais un soupir de soulagement. Cependant la gravité de la situation a vraiment fait mouche quand j’ai lu les réponses de certains de mes amis : certains étaient si proches qu’ils ont même pu entendre les coups de feu des terroristes. J’étais de tout cœur avec eux et au-delà du deuil et du choc tout ce que je pouvais faire était de prier pour eux et pour Paris.

Bientôt, tout le monde a été happé par le drame ; ceux au Royaume-Uni qui n’avaient pas su au début ce qui s’était passé et ont commencé à publier des statuts pour encourager tout le monde à prier pour Paris (#prayforparis) et, à juste titre, à condamner les actes des psychotiques qui avaient pris tant de vies ce vendredi 13 novembre. Des amis ont même vérifié si moi aussi j’allais bien.

Après que le choc initial s’est estompé et que j’ai été rassurée de savoir que tous mes amis étaient en sécurité, je ne pouvais m’empêcher de penser, Voici ce que des gens en Syrie et en Libye vivent tous les jours. La semaine précédente, l’école de l’église où je travaille à Marseille avait reçu une visite du directeur de l’église chrétienne, « L’École de la Paix », avec qui nous sommes associés et que nous aidons en Libye, . L’école a été installée à Tripoli dans une période où la Libye était complètement en ruine : tout avait été réduit en cendres ; il n’y avait pas d’écoles ; les hôpitaux avaient été endommagés et la ville avait sombré dans l’anarchie. Pendant le discours du directeur, mes yeux se sont ouverts à la réalité quotidienne d’un pays déchiré par la guerre et la terreur. Les enfants de cette école n’avaient que des journées scolaires de quatre heures car s’ils se mettaient en route trop tard il y avait un risque élevé que quelqu’un ne les abattent avant qu’ils aient même atteint le seuil de l’établissement. Le directeur de cette école lui-même avait été touché par balles puis menacés d’une arme pendant que ses deux jeunes enfants étaient dans la voiture (l’aînée n’avait que sept ans). Et tout ça se passe dans un pays où la police en pratique n’existe pas et où on ne peut pas enquêter sur des crimes. Je m’imaginais passer mon enfance dans cette situation, me trouvant dans une bataille quotidienne entre la vie et la mort. 

C’est ce que je suis en train de penser maintenant, le jour après les attentats à Paris. Le terrorisme n’est pas quelque chose de nouveau. C’est une réalité quotidienne pour beaucoup de gens. Cela fait des années que nous entendons parler de suicides à la bombe en Iraq, en Afghanistan, en Palestine, en Israël, en Syrie, en Libye… Pourquoi, quand cela se passe à Paris, tout d’un coup, nous réveillons-nous à la réalité et à la gravité de la situation ? Les bulletins d’informations le confirment bien : la France (bien sûr), le Royaume-Uni, les États-Unis, tout le monde pense en bleu, blanc et rouge.

La dernière fois que Paris a été frappée, c’était en janvier 2015. Douze journalistes de Charlie Hebdo ont perdu la vie le même jour que des civils innocents, près de 2,000, ont été massacrés par Boko Haram, le groupe de l’extrémisme islamique terroriste, à Baga, au Nigéria. Je n’ai pas beaucoup entendu parler des attaques à Baga mais j’ai bien été tenue au courant de celles de Paris, et j’ai vu des chefs d’État qui envoyaient leurs condoléances à la capitale française, alors que le peuple nigérien a souffert en silence. Quasiment personne n’a pensé en vert, blanc et vert.

Aujourd’hui, à la suite des attentats à Paris qui ont laissé 128 morts, je suis accaparée toute la journée par les dernières infos des assassinats qui ont eu lieu hier. Les frontières françaises ont été fermées et les chefs d’Etats les plus connus ont annoncé leur solidarité avec la France. Mon fil Facebook est plein d’amis qui ont couvert leurs photos de profils avec le drapeau français pour exprimer leur unité avec le peuple de Paris.

Je suis contente de voir cette humanité. Cet esprit partagé qui prend soin de la souffrance des autres et appelle nos cœurs à prier pour la paix, au point que même ceux qui s’identifient comme agnostiques ou même athées prient pour Paris. Mais je vois aussi l’ironie de tout ça : cette humanité était-elle endormie quand nous avons vu les bulletins d’informations lors de la dernière décennie qui nous avertissaient des attaques suicides à la bombe et la terreur pour les civils innocents en Syrie, en Libye, en Egypte, en Palestine, en Israël, en Afghanistan ( et la liste est longue) ? Moi aussi je suis coupable : je sens un pincement de douleur et de choc quand je vois ces bulletins mais après quelques instants je continue avec ma vie parce que ça ne me touche pas. Ma famille au Nigéria est loin des attentats de Boko Haram donc après un temps j’ai développé une certaine immunisation, même à ça.

Paris m’a ému : ça m’a fait comprendre le sentiment de vivre dans l’effroi lorsque ceux que tu aimes sont en danger de mort aux mains de ces terroristes fous. Cela m’a rappelé que ceci est seulement un exemple parmi tant d’autres. Cela a montré une caractéristique de la nature humaine : nous prêtons le plus d’attention aux choses qui nous touchent directement. Il aura fallu voir l’horreur près de chez nous pour nous rendre compte à quel point c’est horrible.

Les attentats à Paris ont marqué un nouveau tournant : la prochaine fois que je vois ou j’entends parler des attentats terroristes en Syrie ou en Palestine ou dans d’autres pays, je n’écouterai pas seulement pendant quelques secondes puis continuerai à vaquer à mes occupations. Je leur donnerai le temps qu’ils méritent, juste comme j’ai passé du temps à suivre les nouvelles de ce qui s’est passé à Paris, tout en sachant qu’ils partagent les mêmes maux, que ces attaques sont odieuses et perpétrées par des individus malavisés sur des personnes innocentes. Je ne me satisferai plus de ne pas en savoir assez sur la crise au Moyen Orient pour suivre ce qui est en train de se passer. J’irai m’éduquer. Le meurtre est horrible, quel que soit la couleur de peau sur laquelle c’est infligé et quel que soit le pays.

J’aimerais espérer que plutôt que de penser juste en bleu, blanc et rouge nous penserons dans les couleurs du monde. L’idée novatrice de couvrir les photos de profil des couleurs de la République est un excellent moyen de montrer de la solidarité et du soutien avec la France, mais cela laisse les histoires jamais racontées des pays qui vivent cette terreur tous les jours. J’aimerais voir introduire les rayures de défi des drapeaux syrien, libyen, iranien, palestinien, israélien, nigérien, etc. sur les profils Facebook.

La même humanité qui m’a amené à prier pour Paris me poussera à prier pour les autres.