Of Bread And Circuses

Juvenal referred to it as ‘bread and circuses’, George Orwell characterised its worst excesses as prolefeed, and Victorians despaired of the corrupting influence of the penny dreadfuls. It’s plain to see, then, that our love affair with escapism through entertainment is almost as old as society itself.

Marxists, echoing Juvenal’s and Orwell’s sentiments, fear that focusing on the narratives of fiction – be it classic literature, blockbuster films, or soap operas – would distract the proletariat from their struggle towards revolution. In many ways they’re correct; even now, the politically aware cringe as the country invests more attention in TV talent shows than in the comings and goings of our politicians. But perhaps we overlook a significant point – perhaps these distractions are important precisely because they allow us to escape from our reality.

Times are hard, and they’re hard for almost everyone. Perhaps what we really need is to escape into someone else’s life for a while; to try out a different set of burdens like a different suit of clothes, to look out on the world from behind another pair of eyes, to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

The shoes may take us across Dartmoor pursuing a gigantic hound, or to Stonehenge with our doomed love, or to the shores of Innsmouth fleeing unthinkable horrors. They may stand on the green grass of the Shire, the cobbles of Edinburgh, the grey earth of Winterfell or the dusty concrete of London Below. But they bear us away from our own lives, our own problems, and permit us to lose ourselves in impossible and fantastic worlds.

We submit to almighty terrors, to wrenching losses, to every twist and machination of vindictive fate, because we know we can close the book and walk away. We can explore our own strength and character without having to experience what Shakespeare called “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to”. Here we test our emotional fortitude, pitching ourselves against blow after blow to examine how well we weather the storm.

We solve mysteries, protect the innocent, play the hero or the villain. Often we don’t decide which we are until the end. We meet soldiers, lovers, wizards, murderers, queens, poets, tyrants, heroes, angels, vampires, monks, prostitutes, revolutionaries, scholars, searchers and seekers, mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, children. And in time, inexorably, we begin to care.

We dedicate precious time and space in our minds to these characters. We despair that the word ‘character’ makes them sound so flat, so trivial; to us, they are people. We give them sequels, films, TV shows. We make them real in our heads and then we try to make them real in the world. We share them with our friends, discuss incarnations and iterations – are Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, and John Rebus really so different? Whose face does each of those names conjure up?

We need stories. Like dreams, we use them to explore and make sense of the world. They speak to us about human nature, the subtle dance of interaction and disclosure that takes a lifetime to master. Stories are how we investigate and memorialise our humanity. Stories are what make us human.

Too Many Protest Singers, Not Enough Protest Songs

Today we buried one of the most politically important Prime Ministers this country has ever seen. That, I’m afraid, is the last good thing I can find to say about her. Like many people who were left high and dry by her policies, I had little time for Thatcher, her cabinet, or her legacy. While I agree that it’s distasteful to publicly celebrate her demise, I was secretly pleased to observe that her detractors marked the occasion with a uniquely British and increasingly popular form of protest – inflating the sales of a particular song to register their protest through the UK Top 40 chart.

In a post-Blair society where a million people can march on Westminster and be utterly ignored, it seems the nature of protest has changed. The UK pop charts, formerly the record of an important yet ephemeral cultural progression, have become the battleground for all manner of political and personal rebellion.

For years, music has been an indicator of politics, ideology and cultural identity. Now it’s become a means of registering dissent in a public arena in a manner totally removed from its previous efforts. Gone, perhaps, are the protest songs of Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan; here instead are Cowell-baiting online campaigns featuring Rage Against The Machine, inspired and perpetrated by web-savvy millennials who have identified the potential that rapidly advancing technology can provide.

A disenfranchised public, seemingly aware that placards and chanting no longer carry as much weight as before, can now convey their anger and disapproval by purchasing a 79p download from iTunes. Surely even the most broadminded futurologists would have failed to envision such a development in technologically-enabled civil disobedience.

It’s not a flawless system by any means – on this most recent occasion, the BBC declined to broadcast the entire song, and their track record for banning controversial songs has been a matter of discussion for decades. Fortunately for those trying to make a point, the nation’s news media have not been reluctant to publicise the campaign; even as they condemn it for its disrespect, they provide the oxygen of publicity.

Of course, the nature of the legal download system – the only way to perform the act of protest is to purchase the track from a recognised provider – means that to register our dissent we must indulge in a singularly undemocratic act; we pay to protest. But contrast this with the alternatives and the recommendations of the new process become clear – rather than travelling to London, marching and chanting, and risking arrest if the protest degenerates into violence, the objector can make their point simply by clicking the button marked “buy”.

Should we be shocked that political dissent has now been rendered marketable, and that profit can be derived? Maybe, but we should be more grateful still that individuals still want to protest.

Why Every Day Should Be World Book Day

“You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.” ― Ray Bradbury

When I was a child, my parents used to hide my books while I slept. It wasn’t out of malice or sport, but necessity; hiding the books was the only way to avoid spending the entire day reading them to me. I didn’t learn to read until I was five years old and attending school, mostly because my mother doubted her ability to teach me, but once I had there was little that could stop me. Independently of the National Curriculum, I read Tolkien at age 10, Dickens at 12, Shakespeare at 14 and Chaucer at 16. Words had power, I knew, and they could take you places.

Today is World Book Day in Britain and Ireland; something of a contradiction, since the rest of the world celebrates it on April 23^rd. We’ve been marking the day since 1995, and I remember the first event. I went as pre-transformation Cinderella in an apron made from an old blue sheet – a poor substitute for my first choice of costume, the peach from Roald Dahl’s James and the Giant Peach. It was precisely my kind of event; from the moment my parents had read me The Very Hungry Caterpillar, books had been my favourite thing in the world. I appeared to be in the minority there, though.

For a bibliophile like me, it was never easy to get along with the other kids at school. I liked reading; I wanted to read the books they disdained. They wanted to watch obnoxious TV shows and talk about ephemeral boybands. It only got worse once I reached senior school. It wasn’t cool to know things. It wasn’t cool to actually understand and enjoy the Shakespeare the others pretended to read. They didn’t want to learn; I did. I wanted to go onto college and university and do nothing except inhale and exhale words for the rest of my life; I’d wanted to do nothing but that since I was eight years old.

The society I grew up in displayed – and still displays – a rabid anti-intellectual streak that imperils the potential of every intelligent, curious child within it. It’s not cool to be intelligent; a large vocabulary is a burden, not a blessing. Grammar is something that happens to other people. We communicate in writing more than ever before. We read more than at any other point in our history. We are never far away from words on a screen, if not in print, and yet so many people still struggle to make themselves understood. Eventually I found a place where I fit in, surrounded by university lecturers and creative types in pubs filled with vibrant conversation. There was no going back.

Books are amazing. They take us to places we could never go by ourselves, places that only exist in the landscape of the mind. I’ve been to the Shire, Wonderland, Narnia, the Discworld, other planets and other times. I’ve spoken with witches in the Highlands of Scotland, watched young lovers swoon in Verona, charged across bloodied battlefields in France and accompanied pilgrims to Canterbury. I’ve shivered in the trenches of World War One and battled dragons under mountains at the edge of a different world. I’ve run through moonlit woods with werewolves and hunted in the night with countless vampires.

I’ve solved murder after murder and tracked the course of endless lives and loves. I’ve burnt books with Ray Bradbury, spiralled between blissful highs and desperate lows with Sylvia Plath, been on a boating holiday with Jerome K Jerome, and fled from unspeakable horrors with H P Lovecraft. I was in 1930s Paris with Anaïs Nin, 1900s Dublin with James Joyce, and 1970s Las Vegas with Hunter S Thompson. I’ve lived more lives than anyone has any right to, and there’s no way I’m stopping now. The feel of a book, of paper under fingers, is a trigger no less powerful than the kiss of a lover, and I am not ashamed to feed the addiction.

Basildon Hospital Have My Gallbladder, My Trust, And My Thanks

A week ago, I had my gallbladder – and the numerous large gallstones within it – removed. For geographical convenience, the procedure was performed at Basildon University Hospital, part of the beleaguered Basildon and Thurrock NHS Trust. It wasn’t my first encounter with the hospital – I was born there, I’ve had migraines and disc prolapses treated there – and I doubt it will be my last. It was, however, possibly the best.

Speaking as the owner of long-standing and problematic phobias of both hospitals and needles, the experience was never going to inspire feelings of hope and contentment. No-one likes going to hospital, of course, but my fear was liable to make me tense, anxious, and, regrettably, unco-operative toward the medical staff treating me. To give this some perspective, previous visits have demonstrated that it requires no fewer than four qualified, experienced clinicians to insert a cannula into the back of my hand. I was never going to be Basildon’s biggest cheerleader, and stood a decent chance of becoming their fiercest critic.

In the weeks immediately preceding my visit to the hospital, Basildon and Thurrock NHS Trust were named in the enquiry resulting from the Mid Staffs investigation – one of five NHS Trusts to be singled out for special attention. Concerns were initially raised over the hospital’s “persistent high death rates”, but as the story progressed, former patients came forward with tales of unchanged dressings, unheeded toilet requests, missed medications and Legionella outbreaks.

None of this inspired me with much confidence as the date of my operation drew closer. Gallbladder removal – or Laparoscopic Cholecystectomy, as it’s known to professionals – is a relatively commonplace procedure, but is not without risk. An unexpected bleed or overly large gallbladder can compel the surgeon to move from keyhole surgery to an open procedure, increasing healing time and necessitating a longer hospital stay. Given the reports circulating at the time, this wasn’t a possibility I was relishing. As it turns out, and to my considerable relief, the procedure went well.

It now remains only for me to credit the staff of Basildon Hospital and the extended NHS Trust for ensuring that I’ve had such a smooth ride over the last nine months. My GP, for taking my bellyaching seriously, for pushing on for ever more diagnostic tests and anti-emetic drugs, and for calming me down when I thought I’d inherited the liver tumour that killed my grandfather. My surgeon, for answering my nervous questions when he was obviously up against it and keen to get on. His Senior House Officer, for talking to me like an intelligent, autonomous, informed adult with a degree of insight into their own condition. His registrar, for ensuring that the SHO had gone through absolutely everything I needed to know, and then drawing me a diagram so I was absolutely clear.

Beyond the surgical team, there’s also the Day Unit nurses who clerked me in and helped me push my dodgy leg into the restrictive TED stocking. There’s the nurses in the blood clinic who looked after me when I began to faint in their chair, and didn’t even mind that needles make me panicky and subsequently ridiculous. There’s the Endoscopy team who were doubtless frustrated beyond the bounds of patience when they eventually abandoned all attempts to perform the biopsy I needed, particularly the nurse who succeeded with the cannula where six previous efforts had failed. There’s the doctor in the ultrasound clinic who finally confirmed a diagnosis of gallstones, showed me them on the screen, and looked only a little surprised when I laughed and told her I’d won a bet.

There’s the theatre nurse and anaesthetist who did everything they could to keep me calm when panic really set in, just before I went under. Most of all, there’s the nurse on Laindon ward who was there when I woke up, helped me to the lavatory when I was still dazed from the anaesthetic, carefully and attentively performed observations on six woozy patients every 30 minutes, brought me endless glasses of water, called my family to reassure them when she really didn’t have to, gave me the only painkillers my body would tolerate, kept me calm while she removed the cannulas from my hand and wrist, and discharged me professionally and patiently whilst running the ward single-handed and still called everyone “darling” like she meant it.

Basildon might be struggling as a hospital. It might be a victim of circumstance, or it might genuinely have a minority of staff members who are incompetent or lazy or both. In this way, it differs from no other workplace. But what it also has is staff who are dedicated to their jobs and their patients, even difficult patients like me. Many of their staff are probably overstretched and likely feel underpaid, and many departments are underfunded and potentially understaffed sometimes, even if only due to occasional staff sickness. Basildon has its problems, but it also has a body of staff who perform difficult and often unpleasant jobs with professionalism, dedication and grace, and without whom all patients would be at a complete loss. When you denigrate Basildon Hospital, you denigrate them too.

Words Matter

Some time ago, I got involved in a Facebook debate over offensive humour, which rapidly disintegrated into an argument over free speech. We managed to avoid invoking Godwin’s Law, but we did successfully provoke the following comment, which typifies the public attitude to free expression: “FREEDOM OF SPEECH means you can say anything to anyone! That does not mean you are right or even moral but you can say it!”

To anyone that’s encountered the UN’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the error will be obvious. Free speech is not an absolute right - most countries have laws which state that freedom of expression may be limited in "the interests of national security, territorial integrity or public safety; the prevention of disorder or crime; [or] the protection of health or morals”. Most mouthy schoolboys and drunken racists will insist that they have a right to say what they like about who they like, but a quick examination of statute will reveal that it's simply not so.

Additionally, the Malicious Communications Act and recent Hate Crime legislation, not to mention defamation law for attacks on specific individuals, have clarified the law on what you may or may not say in a public arena such as Facebook or Twitter. Freedom of speech should be invoked in countries where you're imprisoned indefinitely without trial for criticising your government, not bleated about by people who are cocky enough to think that their need to be funny is more important than respecting the feelings of other people around them. Freedom of speech is a conditional right, not an absolute one, and when you think about it, there’s a good reason for that.

The truth is, words matter. Words are how we make contracts, build relationships, connect with others, and describe the human experience. We’re by no means the only species that communicates meaningfully, but we’re the only one capable of such subtlety and nuance. Albanians, for instance, can distinguish between 15 different types of facial hair, and are similarly specific about eyebrows. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Italians can name 500 different types of pasta, and the descriptions of colour in Webster’s dictionary are a symphony of shade and comparison.

There are currently more than a million words in the English language, their ranks swelled by new coinages like “vajazzle” and “selfie”. A tabloid newspaper will use about 8,000 individual words in a single edition. The average person regularly uses 35,000, a university graduate 50,000, and a writer as many as 75,000. Many are beautiful. Some are ugly, inelegant, or too often overlooked. All are powerful, but some are more powerful than others.

Of course, with great power comes great responsibility. Some words can comfort, praise, and reassure, but others can sting, wound and affront. For some people, it’s difficult to respect the broad vista that language opens up for us. They would use it like an indentured servant, all the while claiming that by doing so, they protect its freedom from those who want to see it muzzled and caged.

Instead, we must treat language – all language – like the rare and delicate gift that it is. Where in the past we’ve hurled shards of it at women, disabled people, those of other races, religions and sexualities, to mock the wounds it makes on impact. The time has come to pick up the pieces. This isn’t being ‘PC’ or ‘leftie’ or any other such ridiculous notion; this is about not deliberately insulting the other people we share the planet with. It’s easy to imagine that our house, our marriage, our family is a tiny ship tossed on a stormy sea of outsiders, battered by the wind and waves – in fact, that’s how we should view our planet.

In an unimportant solar system, in a modest galaxy, in one corner of an infinite and uncaring universe, intelligent life has struggled from a swamp and established an empire greater than that of Rome or Britain – the empire of the Earth. We have developed language, enabling us to begin to comprehend the vastness of our reality, or just gossip about inconsequential details. As I’ve said before, we have only each other – seven billion of us against the infinite coldness of space. We are fellow passengers on that storm-tossed sea, and yet we don’t huddle together for warmth and security; we keep confined to our quarters, the doors and stairwells blocked by obstructive, angry words. The worst of it is, we put them there.

What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is best summed up by a seasonal message that we let our children sing but never actually heed. We’ll pick it up, remove its historical gender bias, and repackage it for use all year round. Dickens said it, Dawkins implied it, and I can only echo it: peace on Earth, and goodwill to all humanity.

Rape And Responsibility

In today’s Mail on Sunday, Mariella Frostrup’s column focuses on a report prepared by Deputy Children’s Commissioner, Sue Berelowitz. The report, entitled Child Sexual Exploitation in Gangs and Groups, was released last week and describes the number of girls forced into sexual activity by gang members. In response to the report, which is no doubt truly disturbing reading, she argues,“we need a Man Army determined to change cultural stereotypes, full of blokes that boys revere – footballers, musicians, actors and even Top Gear presenters (not normally short of opinions) – saying, loud and proud, that rape is for cowards, child abuse is despicable and treating girls like pieces of meat is simply unacceptable.”

Frostrup presumes that men can be immunised against committing rape by seeing anti-assault messages from men they respect and admire, an approach that suggests that men commit rape because they believe it’s somehow acceptable. She is sorely mistaken – men commit rape precisely because they know it is not acceptable. The power imbalance implied by the act, the misuse and subjugation of a victim by that assault, is very often entire focus of the act.

For rapists of this type, rape is rarely about sex or the lack of it; it’s about power and domination, control and shame. It’s about telling a person that they mean so little that they can be used in whichever way their attacker chooses. Sexual assault, like domestic violence and emotional abuse, is a way to dehumanise someone; their aggressor shows them that they have so little power that they cannot prevent their own mistreatment. They become, as the article suggests, a piece of meat, lacking agency and control – the shock of rape emanates as much from the complete denigration of the victim’s personality and humanity as it does from any violent physical act.

There is, of course, another type of rapist – one who misreads signals, assumes consent where none has been given, or fails to notice that his partner has lost interest in continuing. These men are not psychopaths, nor do they necessarily set out to cause harm, but the effect on their partner can be no less powerful. Some of these men notice their partners’ waning interest and stop in good time, some never notice and so continue, and some notice and make a conscious choice to keep going.

Some months ago, a discussion on Reddit emerged that allegedly contained contributions from men who had committed rape. Most were from young men who took a previously consensual act too far; few seemed to exhibit the psychopathic aggression we’re led to expect – perhaps these men were present but declined to post, understanding the negative reaction they’d receive. All those who posted were aware of what they’d done, and many knew they were committing rape when they were still in the moment of committing it. The following quotes are taken directly from the discussion, and seem to make little effort to excuse the acts of each correspondent.

“I ignored her and did it. She realized what was happening and tried to clamp her legs shut, but it was too late and I was much stronger than her.”

“My hormones were going insane, I didn't have any empathy in my heart at that moment just my own concerns. She wasn't a person anymore just a path, a tool, a means to an end. Then once again, I can't remember. I don't remember what happened, I never asked her. I almost don't want to know. But I know I got off. I hate to say it but after it was done I went to bed, she stayed up crying. It wasn't until two days later that I realized I had done something awful.”

“Most girls don't really understand how horny guys are, how much stronger guys are, how guys will rationalize what they do. I see feminists and women on the Internet saying that no means no and women should be able to get as drunk as they want and not be sexually assaulted, and I couldn't agree more. But the reality of the situation is that women have to be careful because guys are one way when they're hanging out and another way when they're horny or worse drunk and horny.”

“My rapist (ex's best friend) told me he knew it was wrong, but would have probably done it again given the chance. He also was surprised that forced sex didn't make me want to be his girlfriend.”

A further objection can be raised to Frostrup’s assertion that perpetrators of rape and sexual assault “steal their [victims’] innocence and their futures”. In recent decades, the feminist movement has made efforts to transform the perception of the raped woman from ‘victim’ to survivor’ – a semantic shift, but one that can make a powerful difference to the way a woman experiences the time following her assault. Tell her that her life is ruined and she may well believe you, but tell her she can recover and you give her the power to overcome the experience; it’s not difficult to imagine which is the better impression to give someone in that position.

The kind of person inclined to commit rape for power will not be swayed by the words of a TV presenter or a football player, particularly words that have been put in their mouths by well-meaning authority. When one person decides to violently assault another, logic and government-sponsored messages play no part in the thought process. The kind of person who commits rape through misreading signals is unlikely to consider such advice in the heat of the moment; how can they, if they don’t realise they’re doing anything wrong?

Rapists commit rape for various reasons, none of which excuse the trauma they inflict upon their victim. Some do so to intimidate or punish, to inflict fear and denigrate their victim. Some do so because they misread signals or inaction from their partners, some do so because they simply don’t respect their partner’s wishes enough to stop. None of these situations can be remedied by a public service announcement or advertising campaign.

Rape is a cultural problem, but one that occurs in all cultures and throughout history. It’s not the job of public figures to tackle it with good intentions and a public service announcement; instead it’s the job of parents, teachers, sex educators, and then the media. From films like Greaseonwards, certain media products have positioned men as pursuer and women as the person who must exercise control and resistance; through these stories, we normalise sexually threatening behaviour. Young women come to expect and tolerate it, and young men feel they are excused to act as their hormones allegedly dictate.

To lower rape statistics, we much challenge the culture that excuses male sexual aggression and tells women that they must take sole responsibility for their own safety. We must abandon the macho culture that places to much emphasis on sexual experience, and instil a sense of respect and consideration for one’s sexual partners. It’s a difficult task, given the extent to which modern life is permeated with messages about sexual behaviour, but it can be done. We must start at the beginning and maintain a consistent message, and in doing so we can ensure that another generation of young women aren’t exposed to the same fear and exploitation as the ones that went before them.

How We Failed Savita Halappanavar

On October 21^st, Savita Halappanavar walked into Galway University Hospital complaining of severe back pain. A week later she was dead, fallen victim to septicaemia and e. coli. But Savita could have lived had she been offered one simple and common medical procedure – termination of a failing pregnancy.

When Savita was examined upon admission to the hospital, she was found to be miscarrying, but doctors could still detect a foetal heartbeat. For this reason, she was denied the termination – Ireland’s strict abortion laws forbid the procedure unless the mother’s life is in imminent danger. Instead, she was left to endure the pain and sorrow of a miscarriage, refused the option of inducing labour to hasten the process.

The distress of the experience, prolonged by those who doubtless wished they could help her, is unimaginable to someone that hasn’t experienced it. Savita’s husband, Parveen, said that she dealt with the situation well, even discussing trying for another baby. Savita seemed determined not to let the experience ruin her life; instead, it ended it.

The doctors and nurses who cared for Savita surely saw how she suffered; even though they must have been wracked with compassion and remorse, an unclear law said they could not help her. Whatever their personal politics and morals, regardless of their religious position or Hippocratic oath to protect life, they were compelled to manage and oversee the death of a young woman that they could otherwise have saved.

Savita's foetus was not viable, there was no hope of survival; instead of working to save one life, her doctors were forced to witness the end of two. They will have worked to combat the septicaemia that is believed to have killed her; they will have tried to keep her liver and kidneys healthy and functioning for as long as they could. But the awful truth is that one procedure could have obviated the need for all of that, and she was denied it - not by her doctors, but by the law.

Had Savita refused a termination, we could respect the decision that she had made, assured that she had her reasons for doing so. Had her doctors performed the procedure, there would be no news story; Savita and Parveen could have returned home and slowly come to terms with their loss. Instead, Parveen has lost not just his wife and his child, but his hopes and dreams for the future; everything he thought his life would become has been taken from him because of cruel and unsympathetic legislation.

Ireland's legal position on abortion is well-known; a historic cause for concern. For generations, girls and women have been forced to scrape together all the money they could and travel to England in secrecy - once by ferry into Liverpool, now by Ryanair and Easyjet flights into Heathrow and Luton. We cannot know their stories, but we may be assured that every one was different: some were young girls in the first flush of love who hadn't expected to conceive, some were victims of rape who now faced an additional burden of Catholic guilt to add to their trauma, some were women whose physical and mental ill-health meant that the strain of carrying a baby was an unthinkable challenge.

Thousands of men and women have marched in London, Dublin, and New York in Savita’s name. Across India, political and journalistic voices have been raised, questioning the Irish system. Savita’s parents and her husband have challenged the Irish authorities to explain why an Indian Hindu should be killed by a law intended for Irish Catholics – they have yet to receive an answer.

No-one who claims to respect the sanctity of human life could pardon this unpardonable offence. Anyone who believes that Savita's death was justified and that Irish law is correct has no right to call themselves pro-life; they are pro-foetus, no more and no less. We have permitted a religious position to influence the state, and by doing so ensured that a Christian moral has killed a Hindu woman. If we do not insist on the reassessment and abolition of this murderous legislation, we lose our claim to humanity and empathy.

It would be easy for us as atheists to exploit Savita's death to serve our own moral argument; we must resist the urge to do so. As feminists, we could hold her experience up as damning evidence of the sheer ignorance and foolhardiness of the pro-life movement; we must not. We must instead act in Savita's memory to ensure that this miserable, barbaric chain of events never befalls another woman.