On Journalism It was a warm, bright, sunny day. The light was filtering through the milky white shades, illuminating the small room. The gentle sound of soft feet came pattering in. The old lady looked around the small room, her eyes catching on the ancient decor, the old porcelain plates which had never quite been cleaned properly. They hung sadly on the walls, little pink flowers painted all over them. In the corner of the room sat an archaic rocking chair. The old lady made her way slowly to the wooden rocker. It squeezed as she sat down. The fuschia wallpaper gave the room a gloomy feeling. On the wall lay hanging a picture frame. The frame was simple, wood painted black. What was held inside was very special. It was a slip from a world-renowned newspaper. The print on the slip had faded from a once rich black to a sad, pale grey. Pride swelled in the old lady. That small slip of cut out newspaper told the story of her work. When there was injustice in the world she sought it out and wrote about it. She wrote for those who were wronged, for those who could not write. She was an artist. Her medium: Journalism. She remembered when she first encountered her art. It was in a school magazine with a funny name. She wrote for that magazine and learned how to write for those without a voice. She found her passion in writing these articles, the ones that are printed on those small slips of newspaper. In her long career as a journalist, as a voice for the people, she uncovered many truths and sought out the many wrongs. She was proud. Thanks to that funnily-named magazine, she left the world a better place than she had found it. Avi Johnston
Edna Johnston, Form III
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A College Diary In December we got a no-snow appearance at the end of school in 2018, but we were entertained by the Christmas pantomime. Many of the teachers played a role. As well as being humorous, it was well-acted. Before the pantomime we had a pleasant Christmas dinner and all went well. How about we start from the beginning. When all the new students in first year like me joined the college, it was a little bit overwhelming but in a good way. You were the deer in the headlights and everything was new and different. From the safe enclosure of primary school, it was nice to have freedom and be more responsible. After a couple of days I felt confident enough to walk around freely, knowing which direction I was to put my feet and the next week we went on the Northern Ireland science trip. It lasted for three three days and it was really fun and educational.
Once the pantomime came by we were all glad to say the end-of-year events went smoothly. The next day, we packed up our items and we all said merry Christmas and a happy new year to our friends. Then we went home. My first few months have been amazing and thrilling but there have been challenges too; it’s reality and we all have them, even those of us who don’t want to admit it. But as my motto goes, nothing’s impossible! Vivian Tuite
The next month flew in, which was October The same routine went by: Lessons, break, getting to know each other and finding your place. Even with the busy schedule, St. Columba’s still managed to put on a fundraising Halloween event at the end of the month, which Beresford house had to organize. We all had a fantastic time and we raised a good amount. November came in and… wait, you know it It was Christmas examinations time. Everyone was anxiously awaiting the tests. Studying was the main priority. When that was all over and done with, everything went back to normal. The next thing everyone was awaiting was the Christmas pantomime in December.
Avi Johnston, Form III
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THE EARTHQUAKE IN ITALY THAT NO ONE TALKS ABOUT. 24th of August 2016. A massive earthquake destroys most of the central region in Italy. The regions of Lazio, Abruzzo, Campania and Umbria are shaken by this earthquake. We usually hear people on tv, in newspapers or in magazines talking about earthquakes in countries like Japan, Turkey or Indonesia. However, it often happens that people don’t even know how bad the earthquake in Italy was. Every single time that I explain it to people they always tell me the same thing: “I didn’t know it was that bad!” The natural disaster had a massive impact on most of the Italian citizens. A lot of people died, many lost their families, their houses or their friends. People affected still don’t have any accommodation. Now, I’ll make a statement for describing how bad the situation is: More than 30,000 people still do not own a house two years after the earthquake. The Italian government decided to steal the money from these men, women and children. The Italian government built just 3,000 provisional houses in two years that don’t even have electricity yet, so people don’t have access to water or radiators in winter. Organized countries like Japan would never leave their citizens like this. People who have lived all their life there still do not own an actual house. They don’t have a real job and after two long years, they don’t even have hope anymore. A little city called Amatrice was completely destroyed. Organized countries such as Japan have systems that aid in preventing earthquakes. They build special infrastructures for these kinds of disasters. We don’t have this kind of thing. The citizens there live in a state of fear every day. The only thing they can do is pray. The reason why we don’t have these systems is because the Italian government is genuinely corrupt. The money that was donated for these people has been used by politicians. None of these politicians have been sent to jail for this and no one had said anything about it.
I remember watching the news and seeing the images and the videos of this catastrophe. I couldn’t believe that all of this had happened near me. An entire city was destroyed. Not even people in Italy talk about it anymore, because we have accepted that this situation is actually normal, that this is the usual. But we cannot forget about this, never. My dad was there. I am not going to lie, that day was probably the scariest day of my life. My dad was in Avezzano, in the region of Abruzzo, one of the most seismic regions in Italy. He could have died that day. He told me that he heard the earth shaking and that he feared that the building that he was in that day would have collapsed. That wasn’t his first time in an earthquake, as in that region earthquakes often happen, so he knew what to do. He told me that he quickly jumped into the car and started driving to a safe place. Not everyone made it like my dad. Giorgia, a six year old girl, was saved by her eight year old sister called Giulia. The rescuers found them after 16 hours under the rubble. Unfortunately Giulia died but she saved her little sister by protecting her from the bricks of their house. Sveva Ciofani
Estelle Yu, Form V 3
Ted Bundy (Sinead Cleary) People have a morbid fascination with murder. We watch horror movies, read true crime, follow trials on the Internet… Murder has a strange sort of celebrity that nothing else seems to be able to replicate. We tut at reports of murder on TV, but do not usually change the channel. We are horrified by murder, but we are also completely invested in it. It is a phenomenon we can trace most directly back to the seventies. In the United States, rates of violent crime were at an all-time high. The Seventies produced figures that have become household names ‒ Charles Manson, Ted Bundy, John Wayne Gacy, the Zodiac Killer… Decades since, after the first wave of terror, people have come to romanticize them rather than fear them. Ted Bundy, in particular, has a following to rival that of the Kardashians. He’s everywhere. Movies, documentaries, BBC specials, T-shirts, books, Tumblr fan accounts, rap lyrics, bumper stickers, coffee mugs, socks, a new Netflix docu-series called Conversations With a Killer: The Ted Bundy Tapes, and a much-hyped Sundance flick called Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile. A man who has killed more than thirty women is idolized and iconized by two generations of murder enthusiasts. Of course, most of the people who create Bundy merchandise and media will claim that it is a tactic for awareness and is in the interest of the public. Perhaps declaring how horrible he is in press conferences make up for not doing the same in the movies. Either way, there is no denying that there is certainly a flattering undertone to them. Creators get away with this by reiterating that Ted Bundy was characteristically good-looking and charming, which was how he lured in female victims before murdering them brutally. The wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing element of his personality has indeed become part of what makes the murders so terrifying. It is also, however, a thinly-veiled excuse for profiting on a delusional fanbase of thrill-seekers. In my opinion, of course. Along with being conventionally attractive and charming, Ted Bundy was also a “nose-picker, a law school dropout, and a necrophiliac who often mispronounced words”. I wonder if creators would still be as keen on portraying “the real Ted Bundy” if they had to include these less marketable qualities. Creators are not the only ones to blame for this disgusting trend, however. Teenagers and adults who like to think they’re special craft accounts, websites and blogs dedicated to their obsession with the mass murderer.
Margot Aleixandre, Form V
You don’t need to go to the dark web to find disturbing content. Among childish fan edits and video tributes are genuine passionate essays demanding his release (during the time he was still incarcerated), as well as posts claiming to “finish his good work” and love letters. Even before the crazed obsession was expressed on the Internet, it was rampant. Bundy groupies were showing up at his courtroom appearances, swooning every time he grinned at them. The year he was arrested, the New York Times called him “Kennedy-esque”. The high school musical heartthrob Zac Efron plays him in a prestigious film festival forty-one years later. People treat Ted Bundy like he’s a film character. He doesn’t seem real. He’s the star of an incredible story. It’s his name emblazoned on the front page, not the names of his victims and the families that suffered for decades after from grief and trauma. The victims’ stories stop after his execution, and yet his legacy continues. He’s immortalized in the movies and books and documentaries. His Internet fanbase shower him with affection day after day. Dozens of copycat killers continue his reign of terror. He’s won.
Continued on page 9 4
The Jump There was a constant beeping sound growing louder and louder as I started to flicker back into consciousness, slowly becoming aware of my surroundings. I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to sleep some more but it wouldn’t stop. Its shrill tone kept on, invading my skull and dragging me out of this warm sleep. Irritated, I tried to open my eyes. They wouldn’t peel back. They felt heavy, leaden. I didn’t even have the strength to open an eyelid. That was when the panic started. I was trying my hardest to peel an eye open. Nothing worked. The total black canvas still lay in front of me, I couldn’t see the light of day. Panic was welling up inside of me. What is this? What’s happening? I thought… until a warm hand clasped mine ‒ An act so little, so normal, that it instantly calmed my fragile mind from fear to tranquillity. I heard the familiar voice of my mother calmly, softly calling my name, the same voice that she used when I was younger when I had fallen over and grazed my leg. Reassuring, soothing words telling me that all was well and there was nothing to be afraid of… it was then that I knew something had happened, something had gone wrong. But still, I couldn’t remember, couldn't think. My mind was blank. I tried my hardest to lift my body up but nothing seemed to happen. I couldn’t feel anything but a numb sensation, like I wasn’t even real. The release came when finally, I delicately lifted up my eyelids. Everything was a blur. Was it a dream? Was my mother waking me from the horrors of a bad dream? It was worse. A nightmare. My life had just ended. I woke up to find hazy figures staring at me, prodding me. They were doctors. My mother was there but at that moment I didn’t recognise her. Some part of me knew it was her, though, as I stared into her blue eyes while falling back to sleep. I knew I had to lift myself up with all my might from being a decaying soul lying in a soulless, cold hospital room back to being the girl who skis downhill from vertical slope to slope, competing against the best for a place at the Winter Olympics. As the memories came back to me, I felt I was back in the moment.
I’m sixteen years old. I’ve spent the last eleven years of my life training for this moment. I was curious from the age of five; Ski Sunday was always on the television late in the afternoon, the theme tune humming from the television, Eddie the Eagle flying off the jump mid-air, landing impossibly at the bottom... I had thought to myself, ‘I can do that.’ Oh, what an idiotic idea that was! Mentally and physically, I am ready. The beeper goes once, twice and a third time, the bar is released, my adrenaline is pumping ‒ I am off, picking up momentum as I slalom pass the first pole, my skis inches apart. The second turn is easy. The edge of my blades slices through the hard snow. Black ice. My balance is momentarily lost. Come on! I say to myself. This downhill race is the most dangerous slope in the world. The Mausefalle jump is ahead, with a grade of 85 percent; not for the faint-hearted! My speed is close to 80 mph, this race is being watched all over the world, the crowd below of 45,000 people spectates with bated breath. This is my moment. This is what I have trained for. Flying over the Mausefalle jump like a bird, I see the crowd below. I’ve misjudged it. I’m going to crash, I’m going to fall. I career off through the barrier and into the darkness below. It is all over. The doctor tells me the injury that I sustained is a severe concussion and that I may not live. For hours I waited in my dark hospital bed, paralyzed by the fact I had to rely on a complete stranger to determine whether I lived or died. Finally, the doctor came into the room. My heart was pumping like I had just finished an 800m sprint. I saw the doctor standing in the doorway sideways, chatting with my mother. Meanwhile I was sitting on my bed, unaware of what was about to happen. The doctor knelt down on one knee, giving me a faint smile. I was about to find out if the injuries were fatal. He told me the operation had gone well; The injuries I received could have been fatal if I had landed in slightly different position. Every muscle in my body was released after the suspense of waiting. I will survive. Poppy Gleeson
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A PSA about Sharks The Fear of Sharks
Why humans kill sharks
Scary fictional films about sharks being cold blooded killers are just not true. I mean, they do kill other marine animals, but they gotta eat, right? You have more chance of getting killed by a coconut falling from a tree while eating sushi then getting eaten by a shark while swimming in the ocean. Really, it should be that sharks are afraid of us: Only about 6 people get killed by sharks every year, but us humans kill an average of 3.17 sharks per second. THE GRAPH BELOW SHOWS WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW. IF HUMANS LET THEIR FEAR WIN, IMAGINE WHAT WILL HAPPEN.
There is actually no positive social and economic impacts (except for eating them) from killing sharks. People of different beliefs, however, still kill sharks: 1.
Prevent cancer, but it is proven that sharks get cancer is well
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Fin soup and shark meat
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Killing sharks for sport
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Decoration
What if sharks are gone? At one point you might wonder what the point is of keeping sharks on the planet. Look at this quote by Albert Einstein: If the bees disappear off the surface of the globe then man would only have four years of life left. No more bees, no more pollination, no more plants, no more animals, no more man. Take it a simpler way: If sharks die, then the fishes that sharks eat will overproduce and eat up all the smaller fish and soon, when they don’t have anything to eat, they will die off too. Most food webs are much more complex than just ‘big fish eat smaller fish’, so it’s really hard to predict what will actually happen.
Calvin She
Denis Cully, Form III 6
Analog It has been several dark years since that short momentous escape to that serene, wonderful landscape. We drove for how many hours? I know not, my mind was set on never-ending dark thoughts of difficult situations social and physical. Mentally and spiritually as much as I fought the excursion I can now admit that I required an escape, a release, anything to give my mind peace. No matter how momentary. As each mile passed able was I to look back and across the sea. Not even a fifth of the path we follow to be free yet followed and already excruciatingly aware of effort squandered and love lost. Contact with family, friends and father annually representing the same fraction as my time fleeting. And as I thought with fleeing, flying clouds and and wandering hills passing by, occlusion lessened. It is hard to explain while remaining at least interesting and to those who for whatever reason care, not threatening. The following morning I awoke two centuries prior, not that I found it easy to connect normally. From then on ‘til our return I absorbed literature, listened to music and linked as one external at a then relatively extraordinary pace; one day away and already I had been brought back to the uncomplicated days when life was analog. Most mornings we left our abode as if chased by Helios himself. Throughout the week there was not a town or attraction within reach to which we did not rush and breach. Life was analog again. I no longer wanted to run. Every morning began as the night had ended; re-tracing each page that once I had pored over; the rest I spent with my family playing card and other games long since past my time. One day we trekked across the vast fields and valleys of the Burren.Across where we trod I recall the most massive boulders scattered like discarded pieces of Lego, arrayed around were smaller shard like shattered flakes discarded, as if from a wall struck by one with no knowledge of honest relief. In one breath, a reminder of a wondrously simple time almost lost from memory... And in the next, the rocks almost rose up as if a Rogue wave of inescapable emotion and life's true inevitability had manifested and decided to strike, and to strike true to give me early the eighth day to rue. In our time we experienced much and to ensure that all is made clear, not a word will I waste. First we visited:
Thea Walsh, Form III
A small roadside chocolate maker with enchanting personnel and presentation to match, but with a bitter taste and sour patronage, life was forced upon us. Second: A perfumery lost in the wilderness, surrounded by blackened, dead matter with not an animal in sight. Within were three women with naught to offer but a lively, unfamiliar scent and a sense of unease or adventure, nevertheless, it was an old wonder. Third: Cliffs with a meter up for each year back, standing far above alternating waves and dark concealing caves. Each powerful wave punctuated with a shocking blast of air, each demonstrating power to shake mighty Atlas. Now with all said about being done I return now to the Burren, a fixture said to have been created by giants. No giants then nor now, just the passage and the advancement of understanding. And now as I look back, a different person with the same pains building a weak, pitiful heart that soon will give way to rending. As much as it pains to say, the feelings are of one whose only salvation is that which brings one back to simpler days. Alas, I am different now, work I must, no time to look back; labour is difficult with whiplash. Analog. Noah Leach
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Mortality
Avi Johnston, Form III
In that instant, everything stopped and started again in the matter of a few minutes. The numb sensation at the beginning was almost tranquilizing, then the feeling of my bones shattered into lost fragments, my head lamenting as the pain from the tough hard soil struck me, my memories shifting away as I desperately grasp at them. The strain was too much on me. I can't remember anything and all I can think about is the painful sensation of everything in my body being misplaced. I felt a cold liquid under me, and with whatever function in my ,body I had left, I identified the pool resting calmly under me. The dark crimson colour dripped from every opening in my body and tasting it in my mouth, I knew it to be the metallic taste of blood. It felt almost natural under me, as my body went cold, as the remainder of my eyesight flickered away. Clutching deep shallow breaths, I attempted a breathing pattern where I could find myself able to calm down so I could give myself time to feel. I struggled to do so, and that's when I realised the resounding noise that filled the air, a shrill scream in pain as I tore my lungs out, calling out for a soft hand, a warmth that would give me peace ‒ but it never came. Losing consciousness, I close my eyes, blocking away the piercing sunlight. I feel my heart drop as my body is numb once again. In that moment, I recounted the words commonly said by those who have never experienced the torture. “Go towards the light�. But there was no light to be found, just unending, drifting darkness. Did this mean I was going to burn forever in eternal torment and pain or would I find myself among the clouds leading a life of happiness? Or perhaps I would see light again in the form of something else or someone else, able to start fresh, leaving behind old baggage. Or perhaps this was it. It was just the end. I would be empty, and so would everything else. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to reminisce about. Nothing to think about. As I stop feeling the blood flow through my fingers or the lost bones in my body, I stop hearing sound, I stop feeling the sun on my face, I stop seeing darkness, I stop thinking. I stop living.
Camila Garcia Herrera, Form V
Thando Khumalo
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Continued from page 4 People who profit off suffering have won as well. The most recent movie on Ted Bundy will be making millions in the coming year, just as the people who created the Ted Bundy Tapes on Netflix are doing now. Companies that make T-shirts and other merchandise with Ted Bundy motifs will continue to thrive off this disturbing trend. The detectives, policemen and citizens that got Bundy incarcerated suffered from PTSD years later from memories of the horrific crime scenes. Survivors, victims and their families never fully recovered from the incidents. They didn’t suffer to see the outcomes they have seen. Romanticizing Ted Bundy and other murderers not only disrespects these very people, it disrespects who we are and what we have come to be as a generation. We’ve come to be people who pay producers and manufacturers to honour vicious killers. We’ve come to be people who find entertainment in suffering. If we are to put a stop to a legacy of murder, it starts with what we support, directly and inadvertently. The movies you choose to see, the things you retweet, the T-shirts you buy… Everything factors in. Don’t feed the beast. The next time you go out, don’t watch Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile. Don’t binge the Ted Bundy Tapes on Netflix. Report Bundy fan accounts on Tumblr. It’s not about policing people and their interests, it’s about being
considerate of real people who were involved and harmed by a very real, very cruel guy. It’s about putting a stop to an unhealthy obsession. It’s about teaching the next generation and our own to idolize individuals who actually deserve it. Instead, honour victims and families who remained strong. Honour people who have battled paralysing fear and unspeakable pain to speak out against the man who caused it. Kathy Kleiner, for example. Kleiner was nearly killed by Bundy. She witnessed and grieved the deaths of close friends who were murdered in Bundy’s sorority rampage. She had her jaw broken in three places, rebroken, wired shut and healed. And yet, she stared Bundy down when she testified against him in court. Her testimony was crucial in him getting executed in the electric chair on January 24, 1989. She protected tens and probably hundreds of other women from being murdered and violated by Bundy. She gave over thirty dead women their justice. Bundy was a coward. He murdered and raped and hurt. He took lives for his own pleasure. He ran from the law. In honouring him, you dishonour Kathy Kleiner. Karen Sparks. Lynda Ann Healy. Donna Manson. Susan Rancourt. Roberta Parks. Brenda Ball. Janice Ott. Denise Naslund. Nancy Wilcox. The list is endless. Pay them your respect. Sinead Cleary
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Edited by Avi Johnston 13/02/19
Barnardos St. Columba’s visit article On Wednesday the 9th of January 2019 a Barnardos guest speaker, Emma Brown, was welcomed to our college by Avi Johnston and Thea Walsh. She gave a small speech to the entire college in our chapel and then one to a smaller group of third formers and a class of second formers. The speech which was given in the Big School Room was about how we could donate help to Barnardos and what the charity of Barnardos worked for and stood for. In the speech, Emma explained how Barnardos helps children in need, and how those children are still being helped even if they don’t contact Barnardos directly. The children that Barnardos attempts to help usually deal with a wide range of problematic situations that they encounter in their lives, ranging from abuse to addiction. Barnardos uses a specially planned format called “Roots of Empathy”. This is a programme that aims to reduce stress levels in children by increasing their emotional and social competence. This is done by leaving a baby in the care of the children to show them that the baby is full of emotions. This has been shown to work for people from Kindergarten to Grade 8 (roughly second form). Barnardos also attempts to help the parents of the troubled child during a one year service time. Barnardos works with the government but out of every one euro that is donated to them, 1 cent is spent on the government and 12 cents goes towards funds; 87% is directly spent on children’s needs. Over 60% of Barnardos’ funding is supplied by the government. Facebook advertisement also makes up a large percentage of the income that Barnardos receives, as it operates independently. An example of the work Barnardos does is when the charity helped twins that got expelled from their pre-school for their troublesome behaviour that was caused by being badly treated by their own family. Now Barnardos is expanding to a post adoption service in Galway. They’re hoping to expand more and more and reach as many children as they can. After the speech, the group which brought the guest speaker to the school also donated a hard-earned €100 from a combined effort put in by many third form pupils. A pop-up tuck shop project that took place right before the Michaelmas half term break helped to raise the funds. Wolfgang Romanowski
Form III
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Caption This! Bootleg edition because I had to draw this in like 5 minutes
“___________________________________________________________________________” Send your funniest one-liner to submarineSCC@gmail.com and be in with the chance to win the first ever Submarine caption competition. 1st prize: 1 free item of your choice from the tuck shop (courtesy of Mr. Swift) Also, if you have any original cartoons/photos that could fit this competition, please send them to submarineSCC@gmail.com as well! They could potentially be the subject of the next round of “Caption This”... In other words, please save me from having to draw more awful cartoons
! Letters to the Editors !
Editor’s note
So we didn’t get to do letters this time around. We were banking on that one assembly to announce this column but evidently, the matter of white socks was far more important.. If you have your own statements about uniform, observations about areas of college life or really just anything interesting that you want to get out there, write us a letter! Hopefully you know the drill by now: Send an email to submarineSCC@gmail.com to have your letter featured on this page. Avi, Edna or I may even reply to some of them.
Hi everyone! I hope you’ve enjoyed this.. well, this rather dark and sinister edition of the Submarine. Many of your articles had quite serious themes, contemplating mortality, murder or extinction. I believe these are products of the cold and dark winter months that we’re just emerging from now. With that in mind however, Spring is on the way. It was nice to end with the good news of Form III’s interaction with Barnardos and I hope that the school’s charitable spirit will only grow stronger in the brighter months ahead. I’d like to thank Avi and Edna Johnston for being wonderful editors and also, I must thank all the contributors for this edition of the Submarine!! There were a lot of you and it’s good to see some familiar names in there. Keep up the amazing work, encourage your friends to submit things and keep having a blast Tania 11