Somerville History Society has been condemned for sending out provocative emails advertising a talk on Islamic extremism.
The talk was delivered by Dr Faisal Devji, a St Anne’s Reader in South Asian history, and focused on Jihad and militant Islam.
In an email advertising the talk, the Society claimed it would be “explosive” and accompanied this with a picture of a bomb.
Continuing this theme, the Presidents of the History Society referred to themselves as ‘Ayatollah’, ‘Caliph’ and ‘Mullah’.
This apparent joke attracted the ire of many Somerville History Society members. Mathew Tansini, a Somerville historian, took to Facebook lambasting the email as “inappropriate”. Tansini claimed that the presidents were “just using their to authority” to fill the email with “not-really-ok jokes about the speaker’s subject”.
The historian went on to argue that Somerville History Society emails ought to “take into account the suggestions and requests of its recipients”. It seems other History Society members agreed with 11 ‘liking’ Tansini’s comments and others commenting in agreement.
Tansini refused to comment further on the matter.
Lucy Gaughan, a Historian fresher, thought that the email’s ‘jokes’ were “just a cheap ploy to get more attendees”.
Another critique of the Somerville History Society came from Vitan Blagotinšek who criticised “the fact that free wine is available is seemingly more important than the occasion itself”.
A senior member of the Society hit back on Facebook saying “I can assure you all…that no offence was intended”. They claimed that “tonight’s talk will only be explosive in the historical/academic sense” and asserted that there would be no “physical” explosions. With 12 people liking this comment, the Society’s leadership evidently still has support.
When asked for comment, the co-president of the society assumed full responsibility for the email, explaining that the email’s co-signatories were not involved in its authorship. They also claimed that the email has drawn ‘little attention in college’ and that the History tutors have not reprimanded him for it.
Dr Faisal Devji had not seen the email but when the OxStu showed it to him he responded “I think it’s meant to be funny, but as you know humour doesn’t always translate from intention to the written word”. Dr Devji stated “there were no such jokes at my talk, which was followed by a serious discussion with students in the audience”.
Somerville JCR President, Rachel Dickenson, did not respond to requests for comment.
It is no exaggeration to say that Nelson Mandela, who lies gravely ill in the hospital bed of the country he once saved from itself, has come to define morality for innumerable people the world over, and brought new hope to the lives of Africans everywhere. Over the past few weeks, eulogies have poured in for the great leader who is close to death with a lung infection picked up during his infamous toil on Robben Island. Whilst the words of the many are undoubtedly stirring tributes to an eminent peacekeeper, it is a passage that Mandela himself isolated that tells us most about this brave and powerful man.
Found in what later came to be known as ‘The Robben Island Bible’, a collection of the works of Shakespeare in which Mandela and other anti-apartheid leaders isolated passages with particular resonance to themselves or their messages, a small signature alongside an extract from Julius Caesar which reads:
‘Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.’
Mandela’s commitment to this passage is all the more resonant when taken alongside his electrifying speech in a sixties courtroom that he was fully prepared to die for what he believed in, if that’s what it took. As determined as Caesar, the young Mandela took a stance against the apartheid regime that inspired millions and secured his place in the bastion of human history.
Though his relatives have somewhat sullied the Mandela name of late, the hero is aware of his monumental symbolic presence, something that he believes is overstated. Way back in 1996, a lifetime ago by African standards, Mandela said that the country would no doubt manage just fine without him, suggesting that ‘what nature has decreed should not generate undue insecurity’. This should be inspirational to the new generation of South Africans, who can look forward to a future all the more brighter for Mandela’s influence on it, rather than looking back with grief and sadness at the passing of a great man.
Like Madiba, today’s South Africans should adopt a ‘no fear’ policy and work towards the life that he always dreamed of: that of peace. As a unifying force in a country wracked with poverty, civil warfare and other problems, the death of Mandela strikes the general populace as troubling. For many, it’s terrifying. As a symbol for the ‘rainbow nation’, this small and frail old man represents the very best of humanity, and it is only natural that the people of South Africa struggle to envisage a world without him in it. Nevertheless, whilst Mandela may be the best of men, he is but a man, and time will inevitably take us all. Mandela understands this better than most, as the Shakespeare quote shows. In explaining the depth of meaning of the aforementioned ‘Robben Island Bible’, fellow anti-apartheid activist and prisoner Eddie Daniels said:
‘Shakespeare brought home to me the frailty of the human being — ‘Out, out, brief candle’. No matter how great we are, like Mr. Mandela, or how unknown we are, like me, fate & time will eventually remove us from the stage of life — ‘That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more’. Our bodies will become dust — or ash. Our names and deeds, mine far sooner than Mr. Mandela’s, will eventually be erased by the sands of time.’
Herein lies the beauty of Mandela’s message. Knocking on death’s door, he feels no fear or wariness. He knows only that life, for the rest of the world, goes on without him. A powerful symbol, staunch activist and model to many he may have been, but he will soon pass into the upper echelon of human history, and take his rightful place alongside (amongst many, many others) his literary inspiration. In his death the South Africans of today may find new life for his words and messages, and move unencumbered by fear towards a better tomorrow.
For one of Oxford’s largest societies, the History Society sometimes seems surprisingly overlooked. A fact that is especially surprising given that one our primary objectives is the liberal distribution of free wine and cheese at every event. Not to mention the termly champagne and chocolates night. Or the cocktail party. I’m sure you can see a theme developing here.
History Soc is also appealingly good natured. Elections to committee positions are utterly unspoiled by the vicious backstabbing that some societies are notorious for. I have risen to the heady heights of secretary and have never once had to fight a contested election. This probably has its roots in the friendly characters of committee members and the fact that all meetings are fuelled with a generous allowance of biscuits.
This is not to say that the society can’t pull its weight. We attract several speakers every term who are very often the leading experts in their fields. A few talks every term are mainly of interest to those studying history. Many, though, are of interest to everyone. Martin Davidson, who commissions history programmes for the BBC, was fascinating (and a valuable contact for anyone planning a career in television). Only the coldest of hearts could have failed to have been touched by Orlando Figes’ gripping account of a love story conducted across the walls of a Russian gulag.
It is at the annual dinner that the society really pulls out its big guns. Last year David Starkey proved a fascinating (if periodically controversial) dinner companion. This year, Dan Snow regaled us with tales of his time at Oxford. This talk proved depressing to the less active among us as it turns out Snow rowed for the University, achieved a double starred first with bells on with barely any revision and then left straight for a career in television. Exciting for the career minded among us, he also told us that he is currently developing a First World War app with a student he met at a History Society dinner.
As if you could need any more encouragement, our TGM is Saturday of 7th week. Come along and get involved!
[caption id="attachment_36049" align="alignnone" width="255"] Photo/ Clara Don[/caption]
You may be sickeningly loved up this February 14th, or you may be still riding solo and heading to Bridge in search of true love/a mediocre one-night stand. Perhaps you just don’t care, and are more excited about your hot date with the library. But what is Valentine’s Day actually all about?
Although today’s commercialised candy and cupid fest may seem a touch on the saccharine side, the festival originates from a much darker, bloodier and more naked affair. In the Ancient Roman tradition of Lupercalia, which took place from 13th-15th February, young men would sacrifice animals, particularly goats, whose hide they would then use to whip unmarried women – according to superstition, this would make them fertile.
St Valentine’s Day itself started out without any romantic connotations – it began as a Christian celebration to honour the martyrdom of two saints of that name. But it became merged with Lupercalia following efforts by the Church to get rid of the pagan festival.
It wasn’t until centuries after that things took a turn for the lovey-dovey. During the Middle Ages, it was a commonly held belief in France and England that February 14th was the beginning of birds’ mating season, which kicked off the whole idea of a day dedicated to romance.
The holiday was later romanticised in the poetry of Chaucer and Shakespeare, who alluded to the tradition if two single people meet on Valentine’s morning, they will marry. After this, the holiday grew in popularity throughout Britain and Europe to become the festival we now know today.
And what better place than the city of dreaming spires to celebrate this Thursday? Oxford being Oxford, it is naturally full of its own bizarre Valentine’s traditions. According to local folklore, if an unmarried man crossed the threshold of a house on February 14th, he would marry the youngest daughter who lived there within the year.
Back in the 17th century, when the tradition of Valentine’s cards started to spread, in Oxfordshire it was customary instead to recite rhymes to their loved ones, with verses varying across the local villages. Children would go round the city singing these rhymes in the hope of receiving coins or small cakes.
Oxford has retained many romantic connotations, with films such as An Education and of course the Brideshead effect perpetuating the image – after all, if it’s good enough for Charles and Sebastian, it’s good enough for you and your sweetheart. So, whether you choose to celebrate this holiday in the manner of Brideshead, Shakespeare, or even the Ancient Romans (on second thoughts, let’s not go there) Oxford is probably one of the best places to spend it.
[caption id="attachment_35409" align="alignnone" width="300"] Photo/ Christopher Cheung[/caption]
When you think of the many times when you walk in the streets of Oxford in a state of boisterous intoxication at night, you can imagine that there must be a local resident or two being woken up by the noise of discordant singing and wondering to themselves why they haven’t already moved out of this city infested with so-called students more preoccupied with drinking than studying. You’d think that this would be a relatively recent phenomenon, caused by the inexorable nationwide decline in the quality of students. In the past, university students should be the scholarly elite buried in books all the time. In the age of popular education and grade inflation, it is only natural that more students become the subject of disdain for local residents.
Surprisingly, student nowadays are much gentler than those of yesteryears. A look back at history will reveal the extent of the open hostility between town and gown. This Sunday marks 658th anniversary of the riots of St. Scholastica’s Day, where many students and locals died. The trigger of the riots was a dispute between two students and a taverner on 10th February, 1355. The two students, named Walter Spryngeheuse and Roger de Chestefield, were having a drink at Swyndolnestok Tavern, near the corner of St.Aldate’s and Queen Street. The quality of the wine was not up to their standards, and when the students decided that verbal insults were not enough, they literally poured their dissatisfaction onto the taverner John Croidon by throwing the liquid in his face. The conflict escalated when Croidon got assualted by the students.
Croidon was not going to put up with this. He got the townspeople on his side, and eventually the mayor John de Bereford had to step in. The mayor had no power over students, so he asked the Chancellor of the university Humphrey de Cherlton to arrest the two students, who rang the bells of St. Mary’s to resist facing their due. In a great act of solidarity, about two hundred students responded to the two student’s plea of help. Some accounts claim that the students attacked the mayor. The day ended without any deaths as the townspeople backed down.
The following is a reminder of the fact that every historical source is biased. Accounts differ on the development of the events, so we will never know for certain which side provoked which side first. Let’s just say that the townspeople started it all for the sake of continuing the story. Some of them hid in St. Giles Church and attacked the students with bow and arrow. Others coming from the countryside marched into the city with black banners. Students did not have enough weapons to resist the rage of countrymen, who stormed into premises of the university and wrecked “havoc, havoc”, part of the slogan they cried out in their protests. Eventually, 63 students and a number of locals died. Surviving students left Oxford in terror. The townsmen were victorious.
Not so quick. If they were victorious, why does the university still exist?
King Edward thought preserving the university would be valuable for the country, so he made concessions, such as granting impunity to those students who committed crimes in the riots. He also ordered that an annual commemoratory mass, which the mayor and other important townspeople had to attend, to be held from that year onwards. They were to each offer a penny for every student who died in the riots. The penance, intended to be used partly as scholarship for the poor, was not corrected for inflation and if it still continued today, it would have been laughably meagre. In 1852, the mayor had the foresight to flatly refuse to pay, and so somehow this whole thing was forgotten and now students and locals live in peace.
There is animosity between town and gown in other university cities as well, but none other than Oxford can claim to have as violent a chapter in history as St. Scholastica’s Day.
[caption id="attachment_34944" align="aligncenter" width="300"] PHOTO // motoyen[/caption]
Gold. Oh, what captivating images such a word conjures. Great hoards of it lying at the feet of the dragon as a knight comes charging in on his white horse. Traders from Ancient Greece setting sail with ships of gold to sell in Persia, Babylon and Egypt where it would be made into jewelry and sold back again. Magnificent temples gleaming with the stuff, their ornate baroque facades shimmering in the faint cathedral light and Jesus on his cross in the middle of it all, illuminated in the metal’s shiny aura. Gold taken to Europe to sponsor centuries of conquest, discovery, and war. Gold in California and Alaska and men gone wild digging, digging ever deeper for the shiny yellow metal, a fever spread faster than influenza or malaria. Gold on wedding bands and bracelets, necklaces and earrings. Oh, the images that gold conjures – those wonderful mirages.
But in all those musings, I don’t suppose quiet little Oxfordshire crops up too often. And certainly not a dusty little clay pot, cracked with time and caked in mud. But, perhaps, that little pot will illuminate gold’s little-known presence in Oxfordshire.
The year is 1995 and the town is Didcot, in South-East Oxfordshire, just a few minutes away from the Old Roman Road. It may be raining, because it usually is, but perhaps not. A team of archeologists walks alongside the road with metal detectors after years of archival research and excavation at the remains of a Roman village. They’re looking for jewelry, really, not much else. Just a glimpse of what people would have worn and lost on their way to a party, not too different from what students today lose upon returning home from a night out. And the detector goes off. “Here! Here”, it screams in that annoying beep of a voice, “You found it!” And the archeologists start carefully digging and find: A pot.
A little unassuming clay pot. It’s grey; perhaps to match the day, but perhaps not, and caked in brown mud. And they turn it around in their hands, surprised by the weight, and a little disappointed that it’s not actually metal, but perhaps, there is metal worked into the clay. Then one of the archeologists asks: “So, are you going to open it?” What? Open the pot? It’s a pot. What is there to see? Best take it to the lab for chemical analysis of whatever is inside. Maybe learn about the composition of the clay. “Come on. Open it,” the archaeologist urges, “open it,” impatient and demanding.
The hands carefully ease the lid off, though it was almost glued shut by mud and time, and for all the care, the lid jerks off at the end. Coins spill out. 126. One hundred and twenty six coins, all gold, all about the size of a five pence piece. It’s a hoard. A hoard of gold kept in the equivalent of a shoe box and buried in the back yard. This is way better than a piece of jewelry; it’s a hoard of gold. The archeologists eagerly tear through the hoard, examining the coins, so little, so tiny. They were all minted sometime between 56 and 160AD, when the Romans ruled Britain and were probably buried around 169AD. If a Roman legionary collected all his pay for ten years and never spent any of it, then it might be almost this much money. As it is, this hoard represents the collection of a lifetime. What was it doing buried in a pot? What happened? Why was it never collected?
As far as hoards go, this one is rather unimpressive: the baby dragon’s collection of toys, not exactly Smaugian. But the mystery of it sure is exciting – the one thing that makes this small collection stand out from more than 2000 found in England alone.
But in 2003, another hoard was discovered in Oxfordshire. Amateur archeologist and coin collector from Chalgrove, Brian Malin went for his weekly long walk with the metal detector searching for lost coins. And that day he was lucky. He stumbled across not one, but two giant hoards, spaced only 100 feet apart. The first was rather unexciting, but the second… 5000 coins. A huge amount of money and all in a humble clay pot. Not only that, but these coins were particularly interesting.
Five thousand coins minted with the profile of Roman Emperor Domniatus. “Emperor Dominatus, who’s that?” you might ask and I wouldn’t blame you: he’s the Lady Jane Grey of the Roman Empire. Emperor for nine days before he was beheaded and then quietly erased from history books. When Malin found that second hoard, you see, he changed our understanding of Roman history. The only other coin to bear proof of Emperor Dominatus was a simple piece found a century previous in France and everybody though it was a French hoax on the archeological world. But Malin’s discovery proved that the French archeologist who found the coin was neither a conman nor a fool and that Dominatus did indeed exist and mint many coins before his beheading. Again, this hoard was a collection of a lifetime buried in the back yard and never spent. Who? What? How? But mainly, why? Why did whoever it was bury these coins? Did they ever plan to return? Why did they not? So many questions, and yet so few answers. But that’s the way it is with gold. So many stories, so many lies, so many twists and turns and so few answers. So many images we see that blind as much as illuminate. And so much to discover still – especially about all the gold in Oxfordshire.
These stories and more can be found in the “Money” exhibit in the basement of the Ashmolean Museum.
Despite the success of Andrew Marr’s documentaries on the formation of modern Britain, the BBC could have overreached itself this time. A history of the world is always going to be awkward, and even though Marr has managed to draw comparisons between recognisable modern ideals and less identifiable ancient ones, the show is still drawn into the quagmire of generalisation and simplification that TV history is plagued by at the moment.
Suffering from excessive broadness of focus, Marr’s effort can seem like an attempt to throw everything possible together. In episode two, within ten minutes, the audience are taken through Alexander the Great and Confucius. While modern ‘pop-history’ is successful in establishing an interest in history, this is usually due to a coherent narrative being established by the presenter. Compared to Ian Hislop’s history of the British national character, Marr’s account is clouded and unable to find a unifying theme.
The best example of popular history on the box at the moment is probably Sky Atlantic’s attempt, The British. Instead of relying on the likeability or perceived journalistic clout of one host, it combines grand CGI and dramatic reconstructions with contributions from leading British cultural figures. Rather than Andrew Marr’s impressions of a Norman lord, we have views on peasant revolutions from Russell Brand and Frank Lampard. TV history shouldn’t really be about academic discussions. The most successful shows of the past decade or so (History of Modern Britain, Making of Modern Britain, and Simon Schama) along with more irreverent shows (The Mark Steel Lectures) have all focused on a narrative – the formation of the welfare state, the move toward a recognisable Britain or a ‘sideways glance’ at a well known figure – that audiences can engage with. Marr attempts to introduce a narrative with each episode, but this is at the expense of examining deeper issues. The second episode, focusing on the first empires and the rise of some of the major religions of the world contains an interesting look at the presence of monotheism before the generally accepted decline of polytheism. However, due to the sheer weight of coverage, nothing is explored in anything approaching detail. At times, the programme feels like a Year 9 R.E class that has wandered onto national television. Nonetheless, Marr has at least devoted time to Chinese history, something many ‘histories of the world’ fail to do.
Ian Hislop’s examination of our national character is harder to classify. While certainly a blessing for any History students studying Brit V, it doesn’t rely on reconstruction or visual appeal to the extent of the other two. The current vogue among historical programmes is either for national self assessment or simple entertainment. Hislop’s effort is more mature in having a stated aim and a coherent starting and end point – namely the development of what it means to be British.
To compare the dramatic reconstructions of History of the World and The British seems almost unfair. Marr’s focuses on the individual characters recognisable to most people – Alexander or Croesus – whereas The British does not invite you to identify with William the Conqueror, instead using ‘average citizens’. Marr’s history seems to be a history of the few rather than that of the many, and loses a great degree of effectiveness as a result. Sky have built a historical narrative based on the observations of Dame Helen Mirren and Jeremy Irons, Tim Roth and Ken Follett coupled with research and spectacle. Today’s historical television is at an awkward crossroads between populism and purpose.
Should History be compulsory in schools? As both an historian and politician, I’ve begun a campaign to push for the subject to be studied to 16 by all pupils. A debate was held in Parliament in January, in which both the Schools minister and the shadow Schools minister expressed an interest in discussing further whether history, like maths, science and English, should become a compulsory subject. And with the National Curriculum review ongoing, promising the biggest shake-up of the curriculum since 1990, there has never been a better time for making the case for history.
Nor indeed has there been a more urgent time. Last year, the number of pupils just taking History GCSE, let alone passing the subject dropped below 30%- this isn’t a sudden decline; even in the 1980s and 1990s the percentage of pupils studying the subject never reached 40%. But what we are witnessing is an increasing gap between more affluent schools and areas where subjects such as history are being widely studied, and disadvantaged areas where pupils are not getting the chance to study the subject at all. A report I published late last year, History in Schools— A School Report, demonstrated that in 159 schools, not a single pupil was entered for GCSE History; and in areas such as Knowsley, out of 2,000 pupils studying A-levels, only four passed History. There are more statistics: but they all point to the fact that not only is History becoming a dead subject in areas of the country, with a new educational divide is opening up in our schools, with core subjects such as history are being denied to those pupils from disadvantaged backgrounds who are in greatest need of being given that equal chance of studying the same subjects that are taken in selective or independent schools. History is a subject which should unite us as one nation: instead it is becoming a subject choice of two nations. We should be offering every pupil a comprehensive education to 16, and this includes having a secure understanding of the past.
Compared to the rest of the world, there would be nothing unusual in doing so. In fact, we are the only country in Europe apart from Albania that doesn’t make history compulsory beyond 14. If we can begin from this starting point, making History compulsory, we can decide whose history, what history, and the details of what should be in a curriculum, not forgetting that probably the more crucial aspect of Key Stage Four is having credible GCSE exams which actually test a broad chronological sweep of history rather than merely Hitler or Stalin. Key Stage Three History provides a stable grounding in the basics of British History, but in reality there simply isn’t the time to teach a broad-based and complete chronological span of our national history within three years (and there is the worrying trend that some schools seem to be cramming it into two). Making History compulsory to 16 would allow for far more space to be dedicated to teaching a chronological approach, establishing a coherent framework through which to teach rather than taking the ‘Dr Who’ approach to history of time-travelling across the centuries.
History should not be an option: it is a compulsory part of our shared knowledge and culture, forming our national identity. To continue down the road of its slow eradication in schools is to risk losing this common identity for future generations. We should follow the rest of the world’s example, and give history the recognition it deserves.