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Boomerang November 2021

Deck the Halls with Oliebols by Ida van Zwetselaar

Illustration © Ida van Zwetselaar

As the days are getting darker and colder (ew), and the dire need for comfort food increases, you may have already noticed these popping up around Utrecht: oliebollen stands. Essentially, these sweets are a kind of spherical donut (they literally translate to oil balls) that Dutch people traditionally eat during new years. They usually are made with raisins or booze inside - or without, your choice, your loss. When I was little we would always have them at my grandparents’ house, and I still very much believe the taste of these OG oliebollen is unbeatable. Nowadays they remind me so much of the mandazi I miss from home, and actually many different places have their own version of this pastry, which is why I decided to dedicate this whole article to them. When walking in the city center the other day, I was suddenly struck by the overpowering smell of deep-fried goodness. So, high on nostalgia, I followed my nose to the kraam at the Neude Square in front of the central library. However the experience would not turn out quite as I expected. Don’t get me wrong, this stand was wonderful when it came to all the baked goods they sold: appelbeignets, chocolate-covered waffles, tiny pancakes (poffertjes), churros, deep fried cake, and much more. The only problem was that, after placing my order in English with a mate, I felt quite disrespected when the person that was frying our oliebollen started talking shit to her coworker about how too many people are unwilling to learn the native tongue while living in the Netherlands. When I later confronted them in their own language about

the fact that it’s rude to speak about customers while they are standing right there, she half threw the bag of treats my way and mumbled something grumpy, then shouting “NEXT!”, even though there was noone else around… So much for happy childhood memories. Don’t be alarmed though, the family-run stand at the Vredenburg Square (which I believe is there every Wednesday, Friday and weekend) has kinder employees. As international students in the Netherlands, I really hope you try a fresh oliebol at least once during your time at UCU. I’d highly recommend gathering your friends (as

I’ll gladly show you, however I cannot guarantee they’ll be as lekker as the ones my opa & oma make. If you’re not into the vibe of temporary oliebollenkraampjes, many bakeries have started to sell them too. Check out Bakker Roel, Bakkerij Neplenbroek and Ijssalon Lorenzo. At the last one they apparently also sell Dombollen, made with apple and cinnamon. So, my final takeaway from this whole monologue on oliebollen is to perhaps brace yourselves to face an unfriendly person working behind the counter, but please don’t be discouraged by this: the reward of biting into one of those steaming, oily, powdered-sugar-coated balls of perfect dough fritters, in my honest opinion, outweighs the fleeting disappointment of unsatisfactory customer service any day. Main pro: access to authentic Dutch food culture AKA warm sweet snacks. Main con: opening times and temperature (meaning how long ago they were fried) are sometimes unpredictable.

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well as checking the weather forecast) and going to Nick’s Oliebollen at the Maliebaan - it only takes about 15 minutes to walk there from campus! And if you don’t have anybody to go with, hit me up and

We are Town & Gown, the committee basically nobody knows exists (not for long though!) but everyone could benefit from bursting the UCU bubble and getting to know your surroundings. We’ve decided to start publishing personal experiences and suggestions in and around the city of Utrecht in the Boomerang to inspire you. If you have a place, story or event to share, contact us on Instagram @town_and_gown

I Felt Safe at UCU Last Week

How to Deal with Loss

Confronting Complicity

Unfiltered

A Day Off

Into the Queer Apocalypse

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The Boomerang | November 2021

UCU's Hookup Culture Through Waves of Body Dysmorphia by Perlei Toor

An infatuated kiss, captured through a brief flash of light piercing the darkness and fuelled by a surge of passion, lust, longing. In this moment you place your beauty in the hands of another. Just for a while, until the moment fades, the hookup passes, and you are both off, smiling in the darkness. The light lays on your lips. You feel beautiful, sexy, desired. They have assured you of your undeniable radiance. You shone, united, yet you casually shrug off the glow. It was just a hookup, a fusing together of two beautiful bodies. Passing and finite, it is nothing more than a shining moment in the night.

achieve. I flinch at the thought that somebody thinks I am beautiful. Yet, when I pull back, it isn’t because I’m not interested, but because I fear you will find out what's behind the image I’ve presented to you. If you find me attractive, I must have been lying to you. How will you feel when, in an hour, my body changes? When you uncover the lies that lured you into my presence in the first place?

When you’re living with body dysmorphia, this need for validation is strong. It takes hold of you, pulling you up into the sunlight and dropping you from a terrifying height back into darkness. It shakes you until your view of the world is distorted and the mirror becomes blurry. It is so easy to rely on that moment in the dark, where a stranger stands in front of the mirror, holds their hands on your face, looks you in your eyes and tells you ‘you’re okay’. Their vision of you, for that dark moment, is enough.

So as I recover from anorexia, and years have gone by since I’ve touched another person, I question my value. UCU presents its hookup culture party scene, and I navigate the waters with a knot in my stomach. I flinch when I’m kissed, for it must mean I exude the very thing I’ve spent years convincing myself I can’t

I step, wet, soaking and nakedly into body neutrality. I don’t flinch when I am kissed, for they

Illustration © Layla Al Ammari

Although things I know to be true are limited, girls are often conditioned from a young age to believe that if we want people to listen to us, we have to be beautiful. Through the evidence of my life, I realised soon enough that I had to be thin with perfectly placed female curves. This narrative in my mind was elevated through years of navigating all the misguided shapes and forms of love, sex and admiration. Over the years, I developed an eating disorder as I clung, desperately, to the attention that walked hand in hand with beauty. I understand that if I want people to spend time with me, physical attraction surely must lie somewhere in the fine-print, hidden underneath the clutter of years of baggage.

When hookup culture offers you a moment of light and validation that shines on your body, it affirms to me the deeply damaging rule I know to be true. So instead, I swim. I swim like Alice in her own tears, the sea level rising through years of self loathing and pressure. I swallow mouthfuls of water as I reach my hands out. I search for a connection, somebody to tell me I’m more than my body. Somebody who lusts with passion and desire for my mind. I can let go and breathe as they pull the plug, disputing the fact that the body is the most important thing about me.

are warm and comforting and familiar. When they kiss me, they cover the mirror with a towel and I know that they are here for more than my body. I know they will stay no matter what size I am. I eat joyfully and lay down my weapons. I stop destroying myself to fit into a mould. I accept and I love freely, loudly, openly.

The physical manifestation of this imposter syndrome reveals itself in a focus on my body that hookup culture elevates. Your validation hardens the blow when I look at myself in the mirror later that night and see a different body. A body that could never earn your desire. How then, am I to find peace with the war that rages in the space between myself and the mirror?

So as you search for a moment in the darkness, I envy you. I envy the unification of two beautiful bodies. I envy the joy with which you kiss a stranger as I battle my discomfort. One day, when my room of tears has finally been drained, I may join you in your moment, glowing and finite.

A University College Student Association Magazine

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I Felt Safe at UCU Last Week

by Kimberley Snijders

During our transition in June, the baby Student Council board decided to go off campus and go to Emma’s house in Doorn. Away from campus, surrounded by nature and with few disturbances of day to day life, we talked very openly about why we decided to run. As we sat in Emma’s living room, we looked at each other and felt a shared sense of responsibility to act upon the change in the atmosphere we had felt on campus. A semester full of protests, emotional confessions, and heavy conversations could not go by unnoticed. To blame these events on the lonely nature of the pandemic would be overlooking the nature of the concerns that were raised. At the same time, however, how can a group of six newly-elected members help reduce the feeling of unsafety on the campus?

"nothing will change without an open and honest conversation" As the day progressed, the idea came up to organize a safety-themed week together with CAR and the UCSA during the Fall semester. Our aim was to facilitate conversations and host workshops in order to bring students back in touch with each other, as well as provide everyone with some tools to feel more safe. To organize a week full of events with external parties

in a short time span was, to say the least, hectic. Yet, during the conversations we had with staff, the Management Team and students prior to the week, we realized our efforts were also very necessary and appreciated.

"if we get into heated conversations about these topics, it’s primarily because we care about the wellbeing of those around us" I was personally involved in the community session, the workshop about racism and the Freedom of Speech event. The weekend before Safety Week I became insecure. What if we were about to host a week full of emotional triggers? What if no one showed up to the events? What if the week turned out to cause even more polarization? Was I good enough of a moderator to lead such important conversations? Safety Week is completely new and no one knew exactly what to expect. However, as I stood on the stage of the auditorium and saw students and staff talking to each other casually waiting for the event to begin, I realized an important step was about to be made. I am not under the illusion that safety week reached the entire UCU community, or that we magically made everyone feel safe and welcomed at UCU. However, what it did

point out is that there are many more conversations to be had at UCU. Racism is an institutional problem, steps need to be taken to help sexual assault victims, and if the freedom of speech of one student impairs that of another, we need to have a conversation about this. At times I felt like conversations had to end right when they were about to get interesting. Still, if there’s anything I personally took away from Safety Week, is that we are all more alike than we might think. And if we get into heated conversations about these topics, it’s primarily because we care about the wellbeing of those around us. "A semester full of protests, emotional con-

fessions, and heavy conversations could not go by unnoticed"

Safety week might not have solved UCU’s problems, but it started some very important conversations that I hope we will all continue to have — not just with our friends, but also with all students, teachers and College Hall, because although it’s incredibly hard to open up about feeling unsafe on campus, nothing will change without an open and honest conversation.

Illustration © Monse Martinez

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The Boomerang | November 2021

Confronting Complicity

by Alida Kromberg Underwood, Sophie van Lennep, Pleun Strik, Ellinor von Strowel many turn to anger and disgust. The administration receives a lot of resentment and there are definitely problems that should and can only be solved by the administration or the “people higher up”, yet a big responsibility lies with various individuals and groups of people on campus that lack self-reflection or perhaps simply lack courage.

We decided on this topic because we were concerned about the culture of sexual misconduct on our campus and we wanted to educate ourselves on this problem that so many students especially women - face while they are studying; not just here, but at any university - especially those where students live in the same place they study and where the bar is a three minute walk away from their rooms. The documentary offered a look at the culture of sexual misconduct in general, how it is prevalent on our campus specifically, what measures were taken - or will be taken - by administration, and how we are all somehow complicit in the end.

There is this problem of fragility where the main response is to get upset, angry, to point at others and to dismiss it to the behaviour of individuals, instead of actually reflecting or acting on the problem. We should focus less on what others can change and instead start looking at our own behaviour or that of our direct friend group. Maybe you have behaved inappropriately with someone in hindsight, maybe you have thought “but maybe she is just overreacting” when hearing a story; and even some of us writing this article have done this - or other things that were wrong when looking back. These kinds of reactions are those that contribute to a culture on campus where sexual misconduct is normalised or covered-up. It can be painful and awkward to admit faults in

The nature of the documentary was never meant to be investigative, but rather to look at the issue from different angles and to either get a conversation going, or rekindle one that may have once already been started. It is incredibly important that we keep on spreading awareness as now almost five months since we made the documentary in a (what seemed to be) more conscious community - the conversation around the topic seems to be fading but the issue itself is certainly not. One of the most important questions of our documentary was “how are we, as students, complicit, and in what way do we contribute to the problem?” When confronted with the topic,

"We should focus less on what others can change and instead start looking at our own behaviour or that of our direct friend group"

one’s behaviour, to genuinely self-reflect, but it is necessary if we want to see a change. Finding a single solution to the issue, the one ‘correct’ thing to do, is incredibly hard when there are so many factors at play - factors that are integrated into the very fabric of society. There is an urgent need to get actively involved in the conversation, to realize you’re complicit. Turn anger and empathy into actual deeds; how can I change the role I play in this culture on campus and help prevent the progression of it? We are far from having accomplished change around Sexual Misconduct on Campus but there are changes we, ourselves, can make. You are not fighting against a culture of misconduct by merely ‘cancelling’ the problem; you have to actively participate in an ongoing self-reflection. As a community we need to learn how to reflect. And how to learn.

Dearest Campus, So we’re reaching the end of November. Initiations are over and done with (thank God those a-holes have finally stopped screaming in the middle of the night, am I right?) Halloween already seems like a distant past, and Oliebollen have entered centre stage. Is it really true that a tree will be planted for every pet picture? I don’t know, but please people, keep ‘em coming. The moment we’ve all been dreading, yet probably expecting, has arrived. My only wish is that this partial lockdown be brief and that you are all well and safe. Maybe flipping through this edition with a cup of tea will bring you some comfort in the newly frosty nights. Or perhaps it will only serve as impromptu decoration for your living room table. In any case, I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you take good care of yourselves. Yours always Giulia Martinez-Brenner Editor-in-Chief

Illustration © Noor Hofs

During the last semester, the issue of sexual misconduct became a widespread - and long overdue - point of discussion after multiple UCU students came forward about having been assaulted on campus. Since then, the topic still has the tendency in most circles to be pushed aside instead of actually showing up in a conversation. Last summer, we created a documentary about the issue of sexual misconduct at UCU for our course The Audiovisual Documentary. Anonymously shared stories of sexual misconduct were read out loud by other students, followed by an interview with the dean and a focus group.

A University College Student Association Magazine

WORLD

What Happened to the Wunderkind? by Monserrat Martinez Medellin Back in primary school, it was a tradition to hand out diplomas (mere printed A3 sheets with stock illustrations and your name printed on it in Comic Sans) to the kids with the highest grade average of each month. There was a tier, naturally: third, second, and first place. They would be handed out in a small ceremony on the last Friday of the month, and the awardees would be given some candy along with the diploma. I always made first place. The diplomas piled and piled up, so much so that my parents were forced to shred some to make room for new ones, or cut them up and use them as post-it notes. I knew I’d never get to know what being a gifted student would be like, but in times like those, I came close. A kid even made a bet with the teacher once: if I got a perfect grade on the biology test, he would shave his head. He lost. I know this will sound like a flex, but please realize that the gestures were meaningless and would end up backfiring years after.

In 2019, I marched into UCU with no intention clearer than to meet them. I had a plan, a study schedule, and I was riding the high only ACDC Econ and Khan Academy videos could provide. When the first introductory courses felt okay, and I let out relieved sighs whenever I checked OSIRIS, I (mistakenly) thought the hardest part had passed. Drunk on this delusional comfort, I became convinced that it would be smooth sailing from then onwards. I wouldn’t be writing this article if that had been the case. Of course it was not, and I was an idiot for assuming it would be. “Whatever happens, do not compare yourself to others,” my Introweek parents said over and over. It’s like I didn’t listen. Now I think back to the diplomas, to the kid in my class and his dumb bet,

"The diplomas piled and piled up, so much so that my parents were forced to shred some to make room for new ones, or cut them up and use them as postit notes" It worked. It worked, because I got good feedback from teachers and loud cheering when my name was read out at the graduation ceremony. It worked because I felt useful, and feeling useful meant feeling smart, and feeling smart meant feeling successful. You made it, kid. You’ve got what it takes. You’ll go places, that’s for sure — whenever I heard words like these, my ego would grow. However, so would the expectations to do them justice. Expectations not from others, but from myself.

"I was riding the high only ACDC Econ and Khan Academy videos could provide" I look around me and see politicians in the making, musical theatre performers with Broadway potential, and dancers who would easily get the Golden Buzzer if they performed at a talent show of sorts. Van Gogh and Da Vinci reincarnates galore. I see natural event planners, award-worthy video editors and musicians, and innate interior designers by the dozen. Why do I get to rub shoulders with such talented people? What have I done to deserve that kind of honor? What happened to that wunderkind? I wonder if she would like where she is now. I think of her often, but I doubt she would like the person I have become.

Illustration © Jana Fragoulis

In high school, things shifted. My grades slipped, not to the point where it was concerning, but enough to make me miss the diploma days. Whenever I felt myself losing control of my academic prowess, I tried filling the void that surfaced with something else. A game of tit for tat. I joined the high school musical productions and aimed for lead roles. I asked to sing the solos at the choir performances. I wanted to serve the full Rachel Berry fantasy, and more. I volunteered to helm events, assist with tutoring, spearhead projects — anything to make my name known. Anything to make up for whatever I lacked. Or, as the author Suzanne Rivecca once wrote, anything to make up for the fact that it was me.

Blackboard. I look in the mirror, catching the twitch in my eye I’ve inherited from my dad, and realize how big of an imposter I feel like.

and to the shadow I cast unto myself, still unfilled. The void returned, except this time there is no feasible way to patch it up. The spots I would vie for are taken by those who deserve them: people who have their life together, who do their thing so seamlessly it looks easy. Nowadays, checking OSIRIS terrifies me. I utter a prayer to whichever saint might be listening before hitting Submit on

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The Boomerang | November 2021

A Day Off

by Giulia Martinez-Brenner

I have seen such an increased awareness and sensitivity to this issue that fills me with hope. I have seen younger people so much more comfortable setting healthy boundaries, knowing their limitations, and giving themselves a break. It is not an exaggeration to say it’s an admirable stance. I feel second hand pride, and real respect, when my peers not only listen to their needs, but act upon them– when they allow themselves to take the space and time necessary in a moment of mental distress. And yet, the fog of cynicism always finds a way to block out some of the light. There are certain things I must ask myself. I will tread lightly, I know I must be careful with this topic, and it is not an easy matter to speak of. But squint through the mist with me, and let’s tentatively pull some things out of the dark. My first point of friction always involves definitions. When someone speaks about a “mental health issue”, what exactly do they mean by that? Now I do not mean something has to be diagnosed to be valid, nor do I want to undermine anyone’s subjective experience. What I have noticed though is that there is a tendency to medicalize the normal, to toss the words “depression” and “anxiety” around without a second thought.

"Being sad because of a breakup is not the same as depression, just as being nervous before an important presentation is not the same as anxiety" I recently spoke to someone who talked about having mental health issues because they had broken up with their partner and was having a hard time adjusting. But is that a mental health issue? Or is that a perfectly natural reaction to an upsetting situation? Negative feelings are part of the messy and fallible human condition.

The problem arises when they are groundless and unbearable, when the reaction is disproportionate to the cause. Being sad because of a breakup is not the same as depression, just as being nervous before an important presentation is not the same as anxiety. Sure, there is no distinct line to draw between the normal and the abnormal, yet it is precisely because of this that I want to raise the issue.

"Everywhere there are people who use the stress card and others who cannot afford to do so having to pay double the price" While mental suffering may have been ignored or invalidated before, and that divide was very much skewed to one extreme, now it has shifted to the opposite end, where natural vulnerabilities are automatically problematized. My reason for discomfort does not concern the great steps mental health awareness has made, it involves the type of frantic self-diagnosis that causes people to run away from any form of discomfort, denying themselves those feelings of tenderness or pain which constitute the imperfect act of living in itself.

Illustration © Tara Sitindjak

I never expected to see generational differences in the span of a year. At risk of sounding like an old ninny, I must admit that I am noticing specific contrasts between me and those just a couple years younger, and the one I want to reflect on here, is the relationship to mental health.

can take a day off or not, nor am I anyone to judge their reasons to do so. This is not just about UCU either. Everywhere there are people who use the stress card and others who cannot afford to do so having to pay double the price. Does this mean the need to take a break should not be more normalized? Not necessarily. On the contrary, that may even be the answer, but for now, I’m arguing that to be able to take that self-care day, at the slightest agitation, is a great privilege. On the other hand, it might be a great downfall as well.

And not only the act of living, which brings me to another aspect that I have noticed. For recently, I’ve seen many instances in which this newfound sensibility is actually being used as a release from responsibility. Here, my question is not just about definitions, but also who is actually in the position to use them?

For instance, I have always wanted to protect my two younger sisters from any kind of hardship and suffering. It’s natural to want to run away from a potentially painful experience. But I have had to learn to trust in their strength, just as I would want someone to trust in mine. To let them face their obstacles as I have done, and to be all the wiser for it. This is not me saying to “shut up and deal with it” when it comes to serious problems. And that’s just it, I would never let my sisters feel they were alone in anything. But I do think there is value in some discomfort, and power to be found. And if not value or power, well, it really is just part of life.

That overwhelming stress that I think most of us may be familiar with, is a big problem. And parts of it can definitely be attributed to unhealthy societal standards. However the ability to just “take a break”, to “have a self-care day”, to detach and switch off, is something that not everyone can afford to do. I am no one to legitimize when one

So this is not a rant against mental health days, I hope I have at least been clear in that disclaimer. I guess the point of this is to become aware that we still have far to go; to remember that each seeming step forward may still hide disparities. And because of this, every reassessment of normality / abnormality must always be critically examined - with caution but without fear.

Thakuma, Paratha & Other Drugs by Avantika Bhowmik I. At any given instance, if I were to fish out a memory buried under layers of perplexing kombols (blankets), I would pick this one. My thakuma (grandmother) adjusts the ends of her sari as she flips the paratha (Indian flatbread). It’s this time of day where ma and baba have found their way to the bank and didi (affectionate term for sister) is absent. I dare not move, sitting still behind my grandmother as she spreads butter on

the paratha. It is her speciality. It isn’t round. It is a triangle. Then as she always does she would sprinkle these crystals of sugar on top. I have yet to find these crystals of sugar elsewhere. Just as calmly as she’d come into the kitchen, she’d make her exit. I would carefully carry the plate to the hallway and sit cross-legged on the floor. It was everything. The slow burn of time and alienation. Thakuma’s hands shuffling to make

paan, slow tears would follow suit and I’d bite into it and we’d sit in the very last light of a Monday afternoon, her with her paan dabba (leaves of the betel plant wrapped around tobacco, fruit, etc. and chewed, especially because they have a pleasant effect like a drug) and I would cradle my steel plate with the paratha. article continues on page 7

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We wouldn’t speak. We hardly ever did but in the silence that travelled between us, I would realize that in my red sari she would be the only one to hold me. We are polar beings reliving different realities in the small revolutions pickling in empty apartments in Kolkata. Whether in silence or as an afterthought I would recognize that if this isn’t the purest manifestation of love, little else is.

"We are polar beings reliving different realities in the small revolutions pickling in empty apartments in Kolkata" Ask me about my favourite shape and I’ll tell you the same. It is a triangle.

CULTURE

II. My grandmother hates soap operas. My grandmother also watches them with great intent at exactly 7 pm. The living room would be cleared, guests shooed, the table wiped clean and Thakuma would find herself on the sofa in her white sari, her glasses in tow. The soap opera would begin and she would almost seem unbothered, as if she is almost compelled to watch it. When I would inquire, she would always say “Kitty, I don’t even care what happens. I’m just watching it because I always have”. The answer would never perplex me. Nothing about her ever did. I would sit next to her for what would seem like the end of a summer con

stantly irritated by the sheer foolishness of the plotlines. In the span of the summer, the main character would fall in love, get married, die and come back to life. Yet, there was really nothing that could stop me from finding myself situated between thakuma and her glasses at exactly 7 pm. It was in this infliction of time, I felt like I knew thakuma. I knew that she’d gotten tired of watching these soap operas but she wouldn’t stop watching them because she knew I would sit right next to her. I think it was the days when my head would hit her lap that she would make sense of the plot of that forsaken show. However, I severely doubt that because a protagonist can only die so many times until they reincarnate into their very own evil twin.

How to Deal with Loss by Stefania Pica

I never understood death. Never got the pain of loss — someone is there and then they're not —, nor that one day, anyone we love might stop breathing in our superficial, basic, human form. But it's not the bodies we miss. It's the sound of their voice, their call. It’s the way they made us feel, their random gestures of joy that just reminds us of them, maybe a swear or a song they would always mumble. It's the part of themselves they left with you by just being.

"Whatever path you have been together on, at some point you will go alone hanging on to the little bits of life they left in you" Nowadays, I believe it was the display: what is a name without the nuance of the person's smile attached? What is a profession without the constant echoing of their job complaints? What is their hometown without the memories you have together there? What is living without them?

Did you forget about those? That's them. It is not their age, partners, birthplace or eye color. Each connection is intrinsic. We give and we receive part of us in the exchange of bonding. Each day may be grey until the light of their presence comes your way. The jokes, the laughs and the fights. Whatever path you have been together on, at some point you will go alone hanging on to the little bits of life they left in you, forever missing the ones you gave them. "We give and we receive part of us in the exchange of bonding" And I think that's death. The absence of absence.

Illustration © Maja Anuszewska

I never suffered because of death. Luck, indeed; no one especially close to me died. When someone I never met — a distant relative or a family friend — died, I knew I was supposed to feel sad, to mourn or suffer. But I couldn't. To me, their death meant nothing, and I couldn’t pretend to feel sorrow. I had the idea that I might be a bad person, a sociopath, because everyone felt it. They were all sad.

Tell me your memories together, like the person they liked in high school who friend-zoned them or their way of pronouncing "r" as if it burned their throat. How they collected leaves on their way home; the passion in their voice when they described their favourite song and the drunk dance moves that would remind you to take an Uber home.

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The Boomerang | November 2021

Cinematic Waffle

by Yağmur Zubaroğlu

Hey there! I have been looking for a creative way to help you all get through this dark and rainy November. I found the answer in Hong Kong cinema. Neon lights, fast phases, saturated colours: Chungking Express (Wong Kar-Wai, 1994) is your cure this month. A photo-novel. True pulp fiction. In Chungking Express, Wong Kar-Wai tells us two parallel love stories. Running through the busy streets of Hong Kong, we meet Blondie, Faye, Cop 223, and Cop 663. Blondie guides us through the intricacies of fakery and fraud while Cop 223 shows us how to properly go through a miserable breakup. Cop 663, the cool dude, talks to his kitchen towels and teddy bears at night, and Faye is always ready to create chaos. Foolish heartbreaks, love from afar, cheerful melancholy, that warm feeling when you look out of the window when it’s raining – they’re all included in this masterpiece. The genius director Wong wrote the film’s script to take a break from the hideous montage process of Ashes of Time (1994), an extremely high-budget film that he had been working on for years. The filming process for Chungking Express was extremely short: write in the morning, film at night, repeat. Funnily enough, the masterpiece-to-be Ashes of Time was overshadowed by the beauty of the last-minute miracle Chungking Express. Hong Kong cinema was introduced to the West thanks to this film. If you do end up watching Chungking Express,

or if you have seen it already – in which case, well done – you might realise that it resembles Tarantino films. That is because Tarantino was rightfully obsessed with Wong Kar-Wai, especially with this particular film. Wong tells us heart-warming love stories through film noir iconography, creating the perfect film noir parody. Emerging from the post-war US, film noir is characterised by the feeling of loneliness and lack of belonging in big cities. These discomforts are visualised by temporary places such as cheap motels, rental rooms, gas stations, isolating restaurants, and any other lonely and miserable places you can think of. In this film, Wong’s characters are losing their sense of belonging, they are lost in the fast city life, just like classic film noir characters. We don’t know anything about their background– not even their names! Chungking Express is somewhere between a happy-ever-after and a melodrama. The film is incredibly fun, but never funny. How can a film be this sad and simultaneously be our November cure, you ask? That is the magic of Wong Kar-Wai. The film starts with Cop 223’s never-ending obsession for cans of pineapples with the expiration date of exactly 1 May 1994, longing for his ex-girlfriend May who loved pineapples. Even after our friend finds himself another love to obsess over – the one and only mysterious Blondie – the image of the expiration date keeps recurring.

Chungking Express was filmed in 1994, only three years before Hong Kong’s transfer to China from the UK. In this period of uncertainty in Hong Kong, the film addresses the shifting concept of belonging. As it turns out, belonging can be defined in many ways. As times of change come around the corner, Chungking Express captures the last minutes of heartbreaks and last minutes of love set in the backdrop of this vibrant city. On that note, how about the expiration date of love? We promise each other not to change, but how can we stay the same when everything around us is changing constantly? In Chungking Express, we see characters catching and letting go of moments they hold dear. They have the tedious task of having to keep up with the incredibly fast pace of Hong Kong, so they change constantly with the city. Everything always moves, and sometimes, when you are lucky enough to turn the right corner at the right time… And at last, Cop 223 asks, “If memories could be canned, would they also have expiry dates?” Cinema is a collection of canned moments, and in the case of Chungking Express, there is no expiration date. P.S. "California Dreamin’" will never be the same after watching this one.

Human Rights Talk Is Usually Meaningless by Mats Meeus “We must respect bodily integrity!” is one of those statements you can’t really challenge without sounding like a Nazi. Bodily integrity, you see, is a human right, and human rights are universal (and equal, fundamental, inalienable — the authors of the declaration didn’t skimp on qualifiers). Human rights have their enemies, but that’s what we have Amnesty International for, right? And when righteous indignation does not prove sufficient, one can always slap on some sanctions and do a drone strike. But something scary is happening. Allegations of human rights violations are finding their way out of the Middle East and into our television studios, and with them something scarier still

has landed: human rights discourse. The core strategy in human rights discourse — whether intentional or not — is derailing practical discussions with hopelessly abstract platitudes. Let’s say you’re discussing measures to deal with the rising COVID caseload. Might a (partial, indirect) vaccine mandate be in order? There are some very serious, practical objections to taking this step: it might increase political polarization, cause civil unrest or become untenable in the future due to new variants, to name a few.

fy-sounding ideas like vaccine mandates is to bring up human rights. By mentioning bodily integrity during a discussion about vaccine mandates, you can turn a conversation about very real people who are dying very real deaths into a fun language game about terms made up by a bunch of UN delegates seventy years ago. This conversation will almost inevitably dissolve into meaninglessness, because there is only one acceptable response to “we must respect bodily integrity” — “yes, of course.”

This is not, however, the kind of objection you will hear. The most common reaction to if-

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That’s because we should respect bodily integrity. World War Two was bad! The crux of the issue lies in two words: fundamental and inalienable. Because human rights are fundamental and inalienable, we tend to treat them as terminal values and refuse to assign an explicit worth to them, although implicitly that’s practically all we do. Take the curfew that was imposed last winter: it was arguably the most drastic curtailment of human rights since the war. Nevertheless, the government thought it was the only way to prevent overflowing hospitals and thousands more deaths.

prices for human rights and civil liberties; the problem is that we never talk about them.

That means that the government assigned a certain price — a specific number of hospital admissions and deaths — to the right to free assembly, which the curfew violated. If you thought the curfew was imposed too soon, your price for free assembly is higher than the government’s, and if you thought it was imposed too late, your price is lower. Everyone who’s ever thought about COVID policy has implicit

So we can bring this maddeningly abstract statement down to earth with a very simple response: “yes, I agree. How many deaths, precisely, is it worth to you?” This is the fundamental question: we all agree that bodily integrity is important, but most of us also agree that, at some point, the pile of bodies becomes a bit too high. When is that point? Where is the cutoff? Because of the way human rights are sold to us

Suppose “we must respect bodily integrity” was said during a discussion about vaccine mandates, which, if implemented successfully, would probably end the pandemic in this country. If the pandemic was over, less people would die from COVID, less people would die from suicide and less people would have their livelihoods destroyed by lockdown measures. And the only thing we would have to sacrifice is an abstract value!

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— as fundamental and inalienable — we don't like to think about this.

And although this kind of thinking feels wrong, we already do it constantly; the process is just implicit. Making it explicit is the only way we can prevent these discussions from becoming completely nonsensical. “We must respect bodily integrity” is a cowardly phrase because it is an abstract statement of values pretending to pertain to a practical discussion. In practical terms, all it really means is “yes, I’m willing to let some people die, but I won’t tell you how many.” So, what’s your price? It might sound callous, but you’ve probably already made your decision — it’s the only real question in COVID policy. How many people are you willing to let die for human rights?

Unfiltered by Elisa Uccello My fragmented memories of childhood include numerous conversations where I, alongside classmates, friends, or strangers, listened to adults reporting how difficult the lives of engineers, lawyers, and doctors are, and how much we would have to study if we wanted to successfully become a professional in these prestigious areas. Now I come to realize they overlooked some important possible interpretations of the word “difficult”. My sister is convinced she wants to pursue a degree as a physician. I would never undermine her effort: the countless hours she spent sitting at her desk and reading through thick textbooks, full of words I do not understand nor want to. It would be unfair to not recognize the sacrifices she has made, coming up with excuses to forgo hangouts with friends to make sure no time was wasted, staying up until way past the ideal bedtime to be able to finish all her school work, not having time to read or watch movies for long weeks before important tests to go over every piece of unusable information. Her drive and hard work are no short of admirable. She cares about the numbers written under her name in report cards, she is willing to spend her time studying the material her teachers didn’t dive too deep into, she thinks being on social media, Netflix, or mobile games is a waste of precious time.

As a consequence of her effort, my sister was the valedictorian of our school. Every time her name was called in Academic Awards Ceremonies, be it for excellence in biology, extraordinary effort in chemistry, or the prestigious honor of being considered the best student of the entire student body, my heart filled with pride and I smiled from ear to ear as I stood up to applaud and whisper “that’s my sister!”. But in a world of relativity, it’s hard carrying the same last name as the IB perfect 45 predicted, Ivy League admitted, future neurosurgeon, overachieving student of the year. Some years ago I came to the conclusion that I have hematophobia. I don’t like wounds, cuts, injuries, or blood. I’d just rather not look at anything that might cause physical pain, even if it’s just a scratched knee. Of course, that means I’m definitely not following in my sister’s footsteps. In fact, I think being a doctor must be absolutely awful. Still, I can understand the appeal: appraisal, respect, and economic stability. Instead, I like writing. That’s what I want to do – write. But writing is an art, and like any form of art, it is ever-underappreciated. This is what the adults in my reminisces overlooked: parents will proudly tell anyone they encounter about their child going to med or law school, but unless you write a bestseller, paint a Monalisa, or make it on the billboard, I doubt we’ll be seeing your parents going around proudly mentioning that their kid wants to be an artist.

The path to becoming a doctor, engineer, and lawyer is very demanding. Long hours of study and dedication are necessary, and even after getting a degree, the work must be exhausting. But future doctors, engineers, and lawyers are praised, supported, and glorified in their schools and homes. But future artists? Pff, go find something useful to do with your time kid. There have been countless nights where I’ve felt worthless and stupid for not having higher grades, not studying more, not wanting to be an engineer, doctor, or lawyer, not having my sister’s resilience and drive, or sharing her opinion on the importance of school. But at the end of the day, the system was never built to favor everyone, and even though we do have to comply to a certain extent, no one should be deemed wrong for spending their time on things that make them happy. I hope any kid out there who thinks they’re not good enough because their passion is undervalued knows that the worst thing we can do is give up whatever sparks the fire in our souls. Our time is the only thing we truly own. Let us not waste it living the lives others have dreamt for us. Let us not waste it trying to fulfill foreign expectations. Let us not waste it putting effort into things that will bring us nothing besides approval. And let us not waste it extinguishing our sparks.

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The Boomerang | November 2021

Kindle-ing by Anonymous Genre: Fiction, Magical realism First line: ‘Oh gosh, is that the time? Sorry, I have to go,’ the man mumbled evasively, as he stood up and reached for his bag.' Stars: Coffee and time travel stars for this one, with some nice cover stars on the side too. In a small unassuming Tokyo café, tucked away underground in a back alley, coffee has been on the menu since its opening in 1874. As urban legend has it though, this untouched charming little café is not an ordinary place. Toshikazu Kawaguchi’s novel Before the Coffee Gets Cold doesn’t begin with a dedication to a parent or friend, just a question. “If you could go back, who would you want to meet?” The story follows four visitors and staff members who have an answer to that question, and walk into the café with a desire for another chance. There’s Fumiko, a sharp businesswoman who is heartbroken. Kohtake, a nurse who wants to speak to her husband while he can still recognise who she is. Then there’s Hirai, who works at the café and has been avoiding her sister for

far too long. And finally Kei, who wants to meet her unborn baby. You should know there’s also a café ghost who sits around reading, and only leaves her seat to go to the toilet. Kind of great. The mechanics of time travel in this story are slightly more limited than those of DeLoreans, blue phone boxes, or antique chairs wired with fancy contraptions. Travelers are not allowed to leave their seat at any point, and they can only speak to those who have visited the café before. Their visit begins after their coffee is poured, and they must finish their whole drink while it is still warm. Breaking the rules brings dangerous consequences, but I like that. Time travel tends to be a messy thing in fiction, and challenging the fabric of the universe should be risky and dangerous, even when nothing the characters say or do in the past can actually change the present. This was one of the first times I’ve seen that condition applied to time travel in a story, and the doubt that came with it resonated with me. What is the point of time travelling without the ability to change anything in the present? It’s a question the main characters must grapple with. However, in the end they all sit down in

that chair and ask the waitress to pour them a cup of steaming coffee. I think they feel the risks are outweighed by the chance to speak their mind, to see someone they miss, to hear their voice again. Maybe imagining yourself reliving an important moment like that puts a dull weight into your chest. Maybe it instills you with longing. I don’t know, I think bearing your heart to someone is very difficult, but realising you haven’t been able to in time is much worse. These four stories, interlinked as you will see, give a poignant fictional expression to that sentiment, except that in some way they do get their do-over. Just for themselves. This book was a moving, bittersweet read for me, with ordinary, realistic characters and honest, clear writing that took my mind off the stress of life right now. It’s setting in a windowless basement, unchanged across the centuries and steeped in a permanent sepia hue, makes for a great bit of escapism and chance to get to know the regulars. I hope you find something in it that will land with you too. Say what you need to say to people, and take care as the days get darker!

Pondering with Jane by Jane Cole

In light of the recent disappearance of one of UCU’s very own trees, last seen lingering outside of Locke, the question begs to be posed: What is going on with the trees? Something must be wrong, considering the time of year and the number of leaves still on their branches. The clock has turned back an hour, the people have already put on their sweaters, but the trees seem to have missed the memo. A while back I was listening to a podcast, ‘Smarty Plants’ from Radiolab (can recommend), and I discovered that trees may be able to hear with the little hairs on their roots (similar to the hairs in our ears) leading the trees to, among other things, water sources. They don’t only pick up sounds of water, but their little root hairs work with underground fungal networks to share water and nutrients and even communicate with other trees, sending distress signals. To top it off, studies have been reporting associative learning in plants (just look up Gagliano et. al, ‘Learning by association in plants’, 2016, and be mind-blown). I then can’t help but ponder, what if we could communicate with the trees? Perhaps we should be the ones telling them it’s time to let go of their leaves. Perhaps they would listen to us. We know what it’s like to go through low

points in our lives, especially around winter when we are missing the sun. Are they hanging onto something they don’t want to let go of? A memory or a loved one? Maybe it finally hit them that these little leaves are all grown up and about to leave home, but now the trees have decided they aren’t ready to release them into the wild. Or maybe it’s not just the trees that don’t want to let go of their leaves, but the leaves that don’t want to fall. What if winter doesn’t come? Or what if it is extra cold this year? Looked at from that perspective, I would want to stay with my tree too. Or maybe some of the trees finally found a bit of decency. Have they been slut-shamed into rejecting their skimpy, yet natural, winter outfit? If this is the case, we should reach out to the trees and tell them their bark is beautiful. Or what if their leaves heard of some deep dark secret, and now the trees don’t want to drop them out of fear it will spread to the worms or whoever else lives in the ground? Come to think of it, what about the worms? How must they be feeling about this? Just yesterday I saw a dead worm under the tree right outside my room. If you ask me, it looked like it was desperately lacking in leaves. And if the

worms can’t eat their delicious decay, the birdies can’t eat their yummy worms. The domesticated cats then won’t be able to participate in their favorite bird killing sport and then where will we be? With a bunch of depressed cats! That’s problematic to say the least. Could there be anything else at the root of this? Could it stem from something other than the trees’ feelings and desires? Well, there is another mechanism in place worth mentioning. It’s the temperature that decides when it’s time for the leaves to fall, for the health of the trees, and all the other cycles connected to the trees, including our own. If the temperature does not drop enough in the fall, the trees won’t know it’s time to stop producing chlorophyll or when to develop their abscission cells. If the scissor mechanism isn’t developed in the leaves, rather than dropping with a quick snap, they simply hang on until they die—a less healthy outcome for the trees. Maybe the trees aren’t trying to talk to us, but maybe we should learn to listen anyway. There are signs all around that the choices being made by humans are damaging the environment. Something is wrong with the trees—but maybe it’s humans who are missing the memo.

A University College Student Association Magazine

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Day 5 Into the Queer Apocalypse: Conversations Among the Queerios of Campus by Cate Zanardi Issue 2: Call it a love story. UQS #2, student, 19 y/o, she/her. Soundtrack: “Loving Is Easy”, single, Rex Orange County ft. Benny Sings, 2017. Think of the first time you heard the word “crush”. Elementary school, recess gossip - that type of aesthetic. But in this version of the scenario, your young, closeted self (wearing capri pants, perchance?) is substituted by two 8-yearolds who are ready to own and share their love for each other. This is the beautiful, beautiful story of my friend Unidentified Queer Subject n. 2 and her first love, A. Why A? To symbolize an incipit, the first of a long series of Queer Crushes on this column. Ah! But A. was way more than a crush, UQS#2 corrects me. A. was her girlfriend, and nothing less, and to do justice to the tale of how these two kids fell in love, we shall proceed with order.

But this dare gets UQS#2 thinking. She thinks about how she would reply to the question. Who would be that person? The answer seems to have something to do with the face smiling on the other side of the iPad – it’s the first decade of the 2000s and so I will not accept smartphones in this re-constructed fantasy, all right? Later in the night, UQS#2 asks her brother what he would think if her crush was a girl. The brother is supportive, as much as an early teen can be, and thus, UQS’s first coming out is consummated. And here I would like to pause for a second. Would this have been the end of this story had her brother said something homophobic to her? Or something simply short of understanding, something he might have not thought through much? Our close surroundings growing up have such a power to shape our perception of shame and safety – but while this can lead to terrible outcomes, the contrary is also true.

It’s hard to erase from my mind a negative paradigm for a queer childhood. I don’t think it’s far-fetched to posit that there's a collective imagination to what it means for you to feel differently than you are supposed to at age 6, 10, 15.

As it was once said at the dawn of all gayness: In The Beginning, They Were Friends. Best friends. They go to class together, go to each other's place, and get to know each other's families. One night, UQS and her brother are calling A. over facetime. They are playing truth or dare and UQS’s brother dares A. to confess to their current crush. (No offence to UQS's brother, but these types of games kinda smelled like over-sexualization growing up? Anyways). A. laughs and takes time, evades the answer. The call ends without a reply.

And the positive effects of this sibling power (es- Even when I don’t want to, my thinking flashes to silence and shame the moment that one of us pecially older sibling!) can be amazing. starts telling me about their early years. The morning after, the two best friends are queuing at the school library to take out their That’s why I think this is a great story to tell. Our books, like they do every week. It is then, in the Unidentified Queer Subject #2 drops the tale of space of absent chatter, middle-of-the-day or- her first queer romance over drinks on a Friday dinariness, that A. starts: "You know yesterday night just like that, like it wasn’t one of the most when your brother asked me to confess to my heart-warming things I ever heard. It’s a story of crush…". I imagine my friend UQS#2 suspend- two children in love, who for luck and courage ing her intake of oxygen for a sweet 30 seconds, did not think hiding was their best viable option. before A., faithful to all that is sacred in child- And I never thought I’d say that about an 8-yearhood, honours the rules of truth or dare – and old juice box drinker, but I think we should take them as a model. If not for ourselves, for those confesses to her as her first crush. who will come after us. After that, the story blurs away in my friend's memory. She remembers managing a "Me too" after this revelation and getting suddenly shy. Until next time, They would stay together until my friend moved to a different country, sometime in the following Cate school year. Even apart, they would still facetime, and spend their summer holidays together, up until they were 15. Try not to call it a love story.

P.S. I know the collectivity wants queer artists in that soundtrack entry, I know. I have been found guilty, once again. But Loving Is Easy has just a very extremely happy and wholesome energy that just fits. But if in the future you might feel inspired to teach me the ways of Queer Sound (as subjective as it might be) you are welcome to add your own titles to this collaborative playlist.

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The Boomerang | November 2021

"What keeps you ler warm in these coo months?"

"My therapist" - Sophia

"My fluffy monke y socks" - Anna

“My period blood – Kira

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"My burning loins" –

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Boomerang uses wind energy printers The Boomerang is a periodical newspaper. It comes out eight times a year. This is the second issue of the academic year.