The newest British idiocy.

We are barely a month into 2017 and I want it to end already. 

The British Medical Association caused an uproar amongst the crowds both in the medical field and the general public upon publishing its brand new “Guide To Effective Communication: Inclusive Language In The Workplace”. In fact, the BMA discourages doctors from calling pregnant women “expectant mothers” or “mothers-to-be” to avoid displeasing transgender and intersex individuals. Instead, the term “pregnant people” should be used.

Excuse my French but this is bollocks.

screenshot-from-2017-01-31-195810

Maternity – as defined by the Oxford Dictionary – is motherhood. Moreover, “mother” means “a woman in relation to her child or children”.

It might seem irrelevant to some (if not most) of you and before getting triggered, think outside the box. English is a beautiful language rich in vocabulary. If you are familiar with George Orwell and 1984, you probably have an idea of what I am building up to. We have come to the point where we are advised not to utilise certain terms to abstain from offending the minorities. Although it is fairly philanthropic, I do not agree with it. Apart from defying normality, we are being told to use appellations that overgeneralise a case and there is undoubtedly a chance of eradicating certain phrases and words from our vocabulary in order to be oh-so politically correct.

Implying that in the near future, other ‘offensive terms’ will be revised to become more gender-neutral as well.

Note: for the peasants who have not read the novel,“Newspeak” is an alternative version of English with a lesser vocabulary that was “designed to diminish the range of thought”.

+Notes: “thoughtcrime” is the occurrence of nonconformist or controversial thinking, considered as a criminal offence or as socially unacceptable, one of the many terms specifically created for Newspeak.

“Don’t you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it. Every concept that can ever be needed will be expressed by exactly one word, with its meaning rigidly defined and all its subsidiary meanings rubbed out and forgotten.”

 

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The newest British idiocy.

January.

Back in May 2016, I was still following the International Baccalaureate Diploma program. My old English teacher was a very tenacious and perfectionist lady who I grew to adore. She stood beside me at all times and had also suggested the topic of the following essay.


RATIONALE

My literature based Written Task was inspired by the photographic realism and pathos within Wilfred Owen’s trench poems, namely: Dulce et Decorum est, Anthem for Doomed Youth, the Send Off, Exposure, Disabled and Mental Cases. I chose to impersonate a high-ranking war veteran who fought in the British Army in World War I and I imagined an extract of his memoir published in the Daily Telegraph, five years after his son’s death in action.

Appearing in a daily newspaper reaches out to a wide audience even though the broadsheet style of the Daily Telegraph appeals to the more educated public. I believe that every single person should be aware of the atrocity that war caused. I tried to convey my own message while keeping well in mind Owen’s work. I did not want to make direct references to his poems but create subtle echoes instead. I opted for a newspaper publication because I wanted the war veteran to share his story. I wanted to show that he is devastated and that he will never find his peace of mind. I wanted to find a way to display his suffering. I wanted the reader to be able to put himself into the veteran’s shoes and feel the horror. I wanted to create a true empathy towards him.

It was a fairly hard and sensitive topic because it is incredibly hard to imagine, absorb and recreate the horrors of trench and chemical warfare which characterise WWI. Like Owen’s trench poem’s, the memoir denounces chivalric images of war. Since the burst of modern warfare axed all ideals of bravery, far from the “war to end all wars”, the first global conflict amply proved how “patriotism is the virtue of the vicious” – Oscar Wilde.


MEMOIRS OF A WAR VETERAN: FIVE YEARS.

Lt. Gen. William George Camberson.

“Fire, bend, refill and rise. Pierce the soft and innocent bodies of boys who were not much younger than yourself and feel proud. You are rescuing your fatherland by killing the enemy. Do not fear the darkness and emptiness that death is, for there is no greater glory than that of dying for your nation.”

I believed and trusted every single syllable and repeated them passionately. I was a Lieutenant General back in 1917, the most diligent of all. I had joined that army years before the war broke out when I was a young boy myself, aged seventeen. I have been decorated multiple times for my gruesome achievements.

Needless to say, I adored the recognition. It is appealing for a man to be called “brave” and “exceptional”.

Now, I am an old man whose only purpose was to win. Win what? Even I am unsure of that. Win wars. Win the respect of my superiors. Impress and attract the prettiest girls. All I have won is the title of a murderer.

My most loyal friend died in front of my eyes. If I could have, I would have given my life and soul up to him.

I have seen many cry out in agony before drawing their final breath. It was no heroic sight. Their corpses often rotted away before we had the chance and energy to bury them. It was the norm. The unpredictable storm of shells shattered the little peace and hope that we had. We did not want to dig our own grave next to theirs. The greatest pain was that of their relatives. But we, officers of any rank, we had orders to follow. We did not have time to sympathise with the dead. We had to be firm and strategic for the bold and the living. We did not even bother to learn the names of the weaker ones. We saw too many new faces. They would not last. We did not care.

I took the lives of hundreds of children because that is what they really were. Boys who have not yet experienced what it feels like to be loved unconditionally. Ingenuous, harmless, children who were on the enemy’s side. Boys who did not have enough time to dream. Children like yours and mine.

Today is the fifth anniversary of my son’s death. He was beyond wonderful.He was born to lead… He was born to die. He was as young as the boys I led to their graves.

For endless months, I turned my back on God and what he represented. I could not believe how ungrateful he was. I had given up my vitality for my nation. I had given up my youth. I had given up my conscience for the better future of this nation. I came back with letters of love and admiration. He awarded me with an angelic wife. He gave me a wholesome son. Then he decided to take my son away from me. The flesh of my flesh at an age when his place was on the football field. And revelling in the company of pretty girls. Surely not to die horrifyingly on a battlefield.

Eventually, I began to understand that my son’s life had been taken away by no one else than myself. I had put into his head that there is no greater glory than that of serving your country till the doomed day. I was the hero he looked up to. He wanted to follow in my footsteps. He wanted to make me proud. His mind was corrupted just like hundreds of thousands of other boys’ minds became corrupted by the war propaganda machine. “Answer the call.” The colourful posters all forgot to mention that if they enlist, they were digging their own graves.

If I could go back and change the past, I would. If I could give my life in exchange of all of the fallen, I would. I have been a blind fool. The smoke from the explosions blurred my reasoning. Today, I am aware that words can cause worse wounds than bullets. They slaughter happiness. They massacre hope. They create a carnage in people’s brains. The more beautiful the rhymes are used, the more lethal to the juvenile mind. I no longer believe in Dulce et Decorum est pro patria mori. I no longer feel pride in my deeds.

Dear all, I do not have long before my own demise. Thus, I would like to give you some advice. Fall not into the trap of war propaganda. Do not believe the ruses used by men who never held and have no intention of ever holding a single gun, let alone enlist.

War has no benefits to the nation, but to the powerful men who rule us. Their cravings of authority and dominance over more lands and more wealth justify how they carelessly sacrifice human lives. I am not powerful enough to change this world. I can not perform miracles. But you, all of you united together, you can. I had been too naive to realise that I sent boys marching to their own tombs. I had often blamed them for wasting our resources when they aimed badly. I often quarrelled with them when we had to retreat because too many had fallen.

What a bloody fool I was. My hands will remain crimson. My name will forever be gory.

Props to Hewer for a couple of rectifications 🙂

January.

November.

As part of my English assignment, I had to write a descriptive essay and I chose the title « The Hospital Ward ». I went slightly out of point but I felt like completing it and sharing it.

The Hospital Ward

As I strolled down the exhausting ward, I watched the familiar faces disappear into the void of the clinical labyrinth, which, to an outsider, seemed like a maze of madness that solely the sane could escape. The various framed paintings of lunatic patients still hung high on the icy walls, as if they were tributes to their existence.

The mental hospital had not changed much since the first day I stepped into it. The endless murky and eerie aisles of rooms and foyers, burst with sharp cries of agony as if the devil itself was tearing their minds apart. Even today, I am unsure as to whether I could qualify them as people or not. They can no longer distinguish between reality or fiction, they are neither alive nor dead. They are stuck in a limbo of insanity, which gradually deprives them of consciousness of thoughts and leads them to possess no more. They would sit and rock on a chair in the corridor, murmuring to themselves atrocities that would give a normal person nightmares. The paint on the walls was peeling off slowly, but gradually, exposing the ghostly alabaster that was used to build the hospital. It was not an inviting environment and I had my doubts about its effects on the patients’ well-being.

The cool tones that decorated the windows – a gradient of blues, from sapphire to aquamarine – forbidding the sunlight from peeking in. The marble floor reflected the coldness of the curtains. In fact, the whole ward had a rather austere atmosphere. Happiness was a concept that was unknown, however, the pain was deeply engraved in the rock. Even the gentle wind, swirling from one ward to the other seem to carry a sense of fatigue but then, there was her. An old patient who went by the name of “Margie” made me realise, a few years ago, what hell really felt like. Margie was a beautiful woman with a long, luscious copper mane that she brushed religiously every morning. She was slender and sensual; the breeze she created as she passed by left everyone out of breath. Margie could be described as an energy vampire. She would suck out all your strength while whispering endearing stories that could have rivalled with the most stunning ballads. Margie was of an extreme pallor. Some used to say it was because she had been interned here for so long that she became a permanent part of it, almost as if she were a banal piece of furniture.

The wards were a dream of mine since I was a teenager but they became a golden prison, my own maze, in which I lost my sanity. I gave up my peace of mind. All these years, my immaculate blouse acted as a protection against emotional attachment and kept me from pitying the cases. However, it became a sanctuary that engulfed me in its blinding alabaster. I may be a doctor, but I am no hero. My hands are dirty with indifference and my eyes adopted an eternal dimness.

November.

Did curiosity kill the cat? Moreover, how do we know the cat existed in the first place?

Unless you lived in a cave your whole life and had absolutely no access to books nor Internet, in which case you wouldn’t be reading this, then you heard about Schrödinger’s cat already. If not, please do me a favour and Google it, easy peasy.

How does Schrödinger’s cat relate to History, anyways?

The only way to find out whether the cat is alive or dead is to open the box, right? But if it’s kept close, then, we are in a state of uncertainty. Picture this: History is the cat locked up in a box. We do not have the power to open the box – except if we invent a time-traveler. Therefore, we will live our whole unsure about what actually happened. Think about this, how do you know that what you were taught is the truth? Even worse, how can you be sure that what you believe in is actually exists? Hell, I could dig deeper and ask how do you know that you really know anything at all? I do not have the answers and neither do you. In actual fact, doubt and knowledge co-exist together, as an eternal paradox just like Schrödinger’s cat. Just like hundreds of theories about our existence and our origins. They can be both be true and false at the same time. Innocent until proven guilty, right?

My argument is, everything we know we created it ourselves. Our language, our culture and our History. We are brought up in society and we are taught the norms. In my opinion, we got to a point and time where norms are being altered and cultures are changing to adapt. What was deemed as « not normal » 60 years ago is almost totally accepted today. In the same way, History could have been modified to suit society’s views.

Did curiosity kill the cat? Moreover, how do we know the cat existed in the first place?