Ministry of Truth

HEROïNE

STUDENT MAGAZINE OF LITERARY AND CULTURAL ANALYSIS

Year 5 nr. 2 Ministry of Truth

Colophon Year 5, Volume 2 2018

Text editors: Nela Zielinska, Nikole Wells, Serina Tatham, Matija Stojanovic, Eivor Slågedal, Lara-Lane Plambeck, Eveline Mineur, Kat Lybanieva, Nikki Kerruish, Boriana Hadjieva, Shelly Chuang, Carlota Font Castelló.

Image editor and design: Kat Lybanieva Illustrations: list on p. 51 With special thanks to Fabula Rasa.

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Table of Contents

Editorial

the editors The Puppet Show Boriana Hadijeva Hole in the Sky

Lucas Tonks Conductor Within

Nils Rehlinger The Moral Law Vs. The Medusa Review

Max McGinn Verzetsheld

Michael van der Hoeff The Honey Room

Eivor Slågedal Essayer: Bumpy Butt Soft

contributor: Eveline Mineur Cat Got Your Tongue

Serina Tatham

4 5 6 12 14 17 20 21 27

Self-Esteem Therapy anonymous Poems

Lara-Lane Plambeck Homergasten

the guest: Daan Wesselman The Word Cunt

Matija Stojanovic Let’s Talk About Ukraine

Kat Lybanieva A PISSWIFE on Censorship

Pisswife And the News Goes On Lara-Lane Plambeck Ministry of Truth Serina Tatham Strangers Are Allowed

the editors

28 30 32 35 37 39 45 47 50

Editorial From 1984 to 2018, censorship and taboo are of all times. The collection of works we received for this issue of Heroïne explore the forbidden ideas based on moral or religious beliefs and their suppression, including but not limited to issues of agency and use of our bodies, talking candidly about mental health, and the concept of death.

The role of censorship in language is put under scrutiny, including what is impolite, politically correct, institutionally and self-censored. While putting this issue together, we started having our own unrestricted conversations about the restructuring of Heroïne into a magazine that, for one thing, involves the implementation of the cultural aspect of LCA as well as the literary aspect. A magazine that speaks for and to all Literary and Cultural Analysis students and not solely to the literary interested. The pursuit of these ideas materialised in our cultural calendar ‘Strangers are Allowed’, a visual abundance and the from now on recurring feature ‘Essayer’ with student written essays.

With this second issue of the year, we present a magazine that continues to strive for quality while serving as a trusting and encouraging learning platform for all LCA students, and as a stepping stone to the publisher’s and magazine maker’s world. For a more detailed account of the ideas and ambitions of an ever-changing Heroïne, have a look at our revised Manifesto, printed in this issue. But enough about us, reader, we invite you to enjoy these forbidden fruits of your fellow student’s creation. ~ the editors

•5

The Puppet Show

by Boriana Hadijeva

The door creaks open. A fleeting splash of light Traces round the contours of a man.

He causes silent murmurs of delight.

He walks from left to right, and slowly scans For the perfect puppet for his show.

His eyes look up, and then they settle down.

His gaze stands still for everyone to know He looks at me. A puppet on the ground.

I’m the chosen hero of his story.

He dusts me off and paints me royal blue.

A crown, a sword, the look of youthful glory, And by the end I look completely new.

When the curtains open to the crowd He pulls my strings in a majestic pose.

I’m a master swordsman, brave and proud In gruesome fights, with lifted chin and nose.

He pulls my legs to where he wants to go.

I use my jaw for when he wants to speak.

I promptly gesture to what he wants to show.

When he is strong, how could I be weak?

My heavy words are stopped by plastered smiles, My wooden feet are made to jump and fight.

My boiling thoughts, then, coat my throat in bile.

My silent screams might never see the light.

6•

Hole in the Sky

by Lucas Tonks

A middle-aged man, who went by the name Alornerk, which was also the name of his father, sat next to a large river, clutching a long spindling stick. The stick stretched outwards, with a line wrapped around and drooping from it across the placid surface of the water. The land on which he was perched had the appearance of an icy cataract, resting upon the crust of his homeland. Each day he sat waiting for hours, always with a pipe clenched between his teeth and, to pass the time, a cheap paperback book from his wife Cupun’s collection from the hut.

Alongside this book he would bring a worn dictionary, the edges dog-eared and the spine cracked from years of use. Alornerk

was not an educated man - his family had been too poor - but through his beloved Cupun, he had learnt to read.

Whatever he caught with the pointed hook and bait was used to feed his family.

If struck with luck, there would be a surplus which could be traded for other food and an infrequent pitiful but meaningful gift for Tonraq, their son, usually a small ivory carving of some animal. To do so, however, Alornerk had to make a two-day trek away from their remote hut to the village through the white wasteland.

Luckily it was cold enough for the catch not to putrefy during the journey.

On what appeared to be a normal day, whilst sitting on the edge of the ice, Alornerk spotted a strange sight along the horizon. Upon the distant surface of the water a minute, black speck grew. His eyes, weakened by years of squinting at

impenetrable small print texts, could not make out what this strange shape was in the distance. His wind-cracked hand began to tremble, the pole loosening in its grip, nearly falling into the cold expanse.

Perhaps he had smoked his pipe for too long today. Whilst standing to walk back to the hut to tell his wife of the odd object in the distance, an engulfing wave of nausea passed over him; his legs shifted beneath him, causing him to slip. Kneeling upon the ground, the ice digging into his knees, he began to retch and cough, but nothing rose up from within.

Whilst Alornerk was in the hut informing Cupun of the strange sighting and recovering from his sickness, the object had grown into something much larger than the initial black speck resting upon the chalky horizon. It waded through the ocean, breaking into shards the glaciers that blocked its path, spraying clumps of

Lucas Tonks • 7

ice and snow into the surrounding ocean.

The ship entered the mouth of the river, travelling downstream, sending engulfing currents across its surface, seeking a suitable place to rest its aged motors. It entered a natural harbour, opposite the bank of the river upon which Alornerk had been fishing. The bow of the ship ploughed through the ice, sending echoing cracks throughout the landscape. Eventually it halted, wedging itself into the opening.

An unnatural presence had disturbed this natural land.

The proceeding weeks in the lives of the family were acted out in their normal manner. Sitting upon the bank each day, Alornerk watched the ship rest, indifferent to the movements of the water that would normally have swayed a boat from side to side. Unbeknownst to him, amongst the bowels of this black mass plans were gradually being formulated and unravelled.

Whispers from within dared not penetrate the iron walls that surrounded them, but Alornek heard the cracking, scraping and groans that echoed through the night, emanating from the depths of the ship.

Alongside the vessel a dark structure rapidly developed into a coagulated mass of iron and steel, casting a deep threatening shadow over the river; a malignant body on the unscathed land. As its towers grew, the shadow crept steadily closer to the hut. With his mouth agape, Alornerk gazed at the imposing towers that had emerged from the ground. Never before had he seen such a monstrosity, nor had he seen something built at such a pace; he could not grasp at how this had possibly been achieved. Alornerk thought that the tower, one day, would puncture a hole in the sky.

Ice, reduced to a dense sludge, sat at

the edge of the river. Water ate away at the bank, licking and chewing off oversized chunks of grey matter. Stray crumbs scattered, sinking into the darkness. The land receded. _______ A sudden thudding at the door awoke Tonraq from his sweaty slumber. He writhed, his yellowed sheets clinging to his legs like wet paper, a result of ceaseless perspiring which the illness he had contracted had caused. The once crisp air outside the hut had began to suffocate him as he ran and played in the snow, reducing him to the darkness of the hut, no environment for a child his age to reside in day in day out; he needed fresh air that didn’t burn his lungs. Cupun arose from her chair by the fire, swiftly opening the door, hoping her child would only momentarily awaken.

8 • Hole in the Sky

“Are you the resident of this property?” the man at the door spoke with an unfamiliar accent, his voice nicotine stained. The man’s fingertips and nails were also yellowed from years of habitual smoking. Ignoring these features, one would describe him as a man of immaculate appearance. Boots that almost reflected the sun from a morning polish, trousers pressed with a fine crease running straight into his buttoned leather coat, black as coal and militaristic. His hair slicked and combed back, providing a gleam similar to that of his boots.

“Yes”, replied Cupun bluntly, “what is it that you want? My child is ill and trying to sleep. Can you not see that we do not want to be bothered? Did my husband send you?”

“No, and I do not plan on being here

for long. I want to give you this. We apologise for the damage that may have been caused to your land. We hope you shan’t tell the others in the near village about what has happened. Take this, and help your child. If we hear that the news has spread we will be back. I hope you understand”. The leather clad man shoved a small brown parcel into Cupun’s hands.

Before she could ask what the news was, he had pivoted on his heels and was pacing in the direction of the river.

Alornerk burst in through the door, panting, his brow collecting beads of glistening sweat, forgetting to close it behind him. The gust of wind that followed blew out the few candles that were lit within the hut.

“The fish, they’re black. Every single one I pulled out had turned black, some float on the surface amidst a rainbow. A

rainbow on water? Something bad has happened, Cupun, something wrong is happening, I’ve felt this for a while. It’s that building. I knew something was wrong!”

Cupun spun around, grasping the parcel the man had delivered to the house earlier. She explained feverishly to Alornerk about the man’s visit, and that they couldn’t tell anyone about what was happening. Within the folds of the brown paper were a couple of golden tablets.

They both knew they needed them; the gold would provide food and medicine for their son for weeks.

Outside the walls of the hut the snow fell to ground gently. It was grey, ashen.

The wind reduced to a light breeze.

Weeks fell timelessly; Tonraq lost his fever, but was still weak, the air still made him dizzy and burnt his lungs and eyes.

Lucas Tonks • 9

The river grew in size rapidly, but there was nothing the family could do. The fear of that mysterious man from the factory grew, its roots grasping the minds of Cupun and Alornerk. They knew it was wrong to stay silent, but they dreaded what would happen if they spoke out. Water lapped close to their hut, threatening to consume the only thing they had. _______ Water streamed in ceaselessly through every crack it could find in the hut, the wood creaking and cracking under the pressure. The weighty table lifted up from the ground and was thrown against the wall, leaving a gaping hole, allowing more water to furiously flow in. It was pushed back towards the bed of Tonraq, crushing his fragile body, releasing a loud crack before he had a chance to move. Alornerk grasped his wife’s hand as she attempted

10 • Hole in the Sky

to rescue Tonraq’s body, cascading around the house, turning the water a murky red.

It looked as though a shark had savaged a man in the ocean, the blood mixing amongst the green and black froth. As the couple were able to wrestle themselves out of the hut, pushing themselves against the great force of the river, Cupun noticed a figure she had seen before. It was the man in leather, the black figure, balancing on a raft, barely shifted by the force of the river.

It seemed he had known what was about to occur. Once again, the man in leather provided for them in their time of need, yet simultaneously Cupun and Alornerk knew he was responsible for these things that happened to them and their land.

But they had no choice. That was the man responsible for the destruction - he came from the darkness of the factory - but also a man of hope and promise.

The family, reduced to a couple,

were led into the shadows by the man in leather. Machines and pipes screeched and strained around them, sending deafening echoes down the hall. Except strips of red lights that lit their way, the darkness surrounded them.

grabbed by the guard who had accompanied them thus far. Both were dragged down the separate corridors, wrestling with the strange men, fingers prying at fingers, feet flying and kicking, screaming, biting and scratching, but to no avail.

At the end of the corridor the couple were pushed through an artery red door, a valve leading to the deeper crevices of the factory. On the other side of the door the corridor split into two veins leading in opposite directions, each pulsing with its own set of lights, pipes and wires. As if sweating, the walls oozed grease, dripping down into a collective sludge on the ground.

Alornerk was confined to a dingy furnace room in the depths of the factory, forced to feed the very fire that he knew was responsible for the murder of his son, the separation with his wife and the destruction of his home. He worked tirelessly day in and day out, shovelling the never-ending pile of coal into the gaping mouth of the wrought iron dragon. Its flames and smoke spewed out into the room, along with dust that blackened his lungs and skin, and accumulated under his nails. He attempted to dig it out, but it never seemed to disappear. Once a day Alornerk received a meal alongside a heap of coal from the strange men in leather,

Another man in leather - almost identical to the other - emerged from the corridor on the left and grabbed Cupun’s arm, his nails digging into her skin. Before he could take any action Alornerk was also

Lucas Tonks• 11

whom he knew were watching him whilst he worked.

Then came a delivery that was not quite the same as the others. As the strange men wheeled and unloaded the carts into the corner of the room, the coal appeared to struggle to form into the mountain shaped pile it normally did; lumps slipped and tumbled over one another, clattering to the ground. The men chose not to leave the room in their usual silent fashion - aside from the slam of the door and the thud of the lock slotting into place – but closed the door from the inside, planted their feet firmly, and ordered him to work. Alornerk, confused at why they would stand inside rather than watch him through the slot in the door, cautiously stepped over to the pile. Before he even touched it he noticed a pale patch amongst the coal. Whilst scooping the obscuring layer onto the floor in order to reveal the object, an arm fell

limply to the ground, making a cold slap.

Partly in shock, partly out of curiosity, he kicked the pile and took a sharp step back.

Coal scattered across the floor, partially revealing a head of long brown hair, and although greasy, clumped with browning blood, Alornerk recognised it.

Cupun’s body was eaten swiftly by the flames. Her body fed the ravenous factory.

Her ashes mixed with that of the coal, and bloomed out of the ominous tower that loomed over what used to be her home.

She was consumed by the very thing that had consumed her son, her home, and would inevitably consume her husband.

Across the river, away from the factory and its growing shadow, the ice continued to shrink, as if it feared the cold, inky black touch of the water crawling further inland. The region in which the house of Alornerk and Cupun used to sit was

now completely submerged in the liquid depths. The ship set sail from the factory, sending waves that cascaded against the banks. It chugged and crept across the river until it sat above the sunken house, its black bow digging violently into the ice. An anchor dropped down, splashing through the surface of the river, crashing silently through the hut before digging into the river bed.

12 • Shrill sounds shrieking in my head for how i sank. my conscious, my Conscious, where do You come from?

Everywhere You are. my Emotions, my thoughts, Conductor of my being.

What must i do to be spared of this disharmony? i know, i must play well your sacred melody.

You are The Source of every sound i make. i know, for You. Just for your heaven’s sake.

Conductor Within

by Nils Rehlinger

• 13

14 •

The Moral Law Vs. The Medusa Review

by Max McGinn

This article is ostensibly about censorship, culture wars and creative expression.

Before I get into all that, some backstory is required.

I am writing this from Glasgow; having returned, like the prodigal son, from a brief study exchange at the University of Amsterdam. Arriving back in the hilly, fog-bound wilds of central Scotland felt strange after so long spent wandering the rainy canals of Amsterdam; soon enough, I was casting around for something to do, other than drinking heavily.

My first week back, I got chatting to a fellow Literature student, who I had not

spoken to for about two years. I knew him mainly from a brief, unsuccessful stab at writing poetry in late 2016, when we had been in the same Creative Writing class.

We saw each other’s conversation as the only respite from an otherwise excruciating seminar on eighteenth century aesthetics.

He told me he was starting a new student magazine, called “The Medusa Review”. It was to bring a more humorous, oppositional voice to the dull world of student media, till then preoccupied with inane campus politics and CV building hackwork. I was offered the position of Poetry Editor, which I happily accepted over a few pints (the conversation having left the seminar room at this point, and migrated into the nearest pub).

Soon enough, the first issue was printed and distributed around the

University of Glasgow. I had made a small contribution of a few poems, and was to assume my editorial position more readily in a mooted second issue. However, the emergence of the Medusa was immediately mired in controversy. This is where censorship, culture wars and contested creativity come into the story; I apologise for the delay.

Unbeknownst to myself, the first issue contained a very explicit dramatic monologue describing the rape and murder of an unnamed woman. This was the primary prose contribution to the paper’s creative writing section, standing alongside the poetry myself and others had submitted. Immediately, the issue was pulled from campus. The Medusa was accused of promoting gender-based violence, and several angry opinion pieces began to circulate from the usual suspects, alleging the Medusa to be a reprehensible

Max McGinn • 15

far-right screed. This resulted in the paper being disaffiliated from the university — a pretty clear-cut case of censorship.

The fact that the rape-murder monologue was written by a woman, and carried a trigger warning, carried no weight in the ensuing campus dispute, alongside the fact that the piece in question had already been submitted and marked, as part of an official creative writing course. The fate of the Medusa hung in the balance.

Initially, I was incensed by this attempted silencing of a publication which had, by this point, become pretty important to me. The Medusa offered me both a closer involvement with poetry and the prospect of several new drinking companions, and I wasn’t going to let it go without a fight.

Therefore, this very article you are reading was, originally, to be an angry rant against the censorious students who act as the Moral Law on campus. I was to

16 • The Moral Law Vs. The Medusa Review

describe the Medusa as a kind of poetic renegade, fighting back against the suffocating campus authorities determined to stifle the free expression of art. However, the fate of the Medusa was to become more complex. I was informed by a friend that, in a recent gathering of the political society Students for Liberty, the Medusa was passed around eagerly by a crowd I can charitably describe as far-right morons. The Students for Liberty, seeing our paper as a potential ally, had moved to co-opt the Medusa into their quixotic culture war against the malign forces of Leftism. Unfortunately, this new association seemed to be strongly welcomed by certain editors of the Medusa, seeing in conservative reactionaries an ideal market for our new student publication. This new political alignment made me uncertain about fighting the Medusa’s corner in the pages of this very magazine. The moral force of my anger against censorship had

suddenly become much more uncertain, and remains so today.

However, I still believe in the free expression of art, and strongly condemn those who initially sought to destroy the Medusa. Art exists for art’s sake alone, and those who seek to censor on the basis of personal offence are the enemies of creative expression. Even if the paper I had such high hopes for continues to mire itself in a reactionary culture war, my beliefs in this regard have not been tainted. In these uncertain times, art must stand above the censorious instincts of those on both sides of the political spectrum. A world where creative expression is stifled and made to conform to political ideologies can only result in a world where art means nothing, and universal darkness buries all.

• 17

Verzetsheld

by Michael van der Hoeff

Nauwgezet en in opperste concentratie pakte de jongeman zijn zwarte rugzak in. Het was belangrijk dat hij niets zou vergeten. Anders zou zijn plan mislukken. Toen hij het lijstje bijna afgewerkt had, brak hem het zweet uit. Het laatste item ontbrak. Hij wist niet meer waar hij het rolletje ducttape had gelaten.

Paniekerig doorzocht hij alle keukenkastjes en -lades. Hij keek als eerste in het rommellaatje, waar behalve een schaar, een paar pleisters en een doosje aspirines, nog een verdwaald stuk papier lag.

Hij pakte het op. Het was een recept, dat dateerde van maanden geleden, en was voorzien van de stempel en handtekening van Frau Doktor Rosenbaum. ‘Die

stomme trut’, mompelde hij, terwijl hij het recept verscheurde. Dacht ze nu werkelijk dat hij die pillen ooit daadwerkelijk op zou halen bij de apotheek? Een echte man kan wel tegen een stootje, zo dacht hij. Bovendien, hij voelde zich kerngezond. Licht geïrriteerd ging hij verder met de zoektocht. Nadat hij bijna alle kastjes uitgekamd had, vond hij uiteindelijk wat hij hebben moest. Hij vinkte het item af op zijn lijstje, en deed de rol ducttape in de tas. Niet dat hij van plan was het te gebruiken, maar het kon altijd van pas komen. Minutieus controleerde hij vervolgens nog een paar keer of alles er wel in zat. Het was maar goed dat er niemand in de buurt was, want normaal gesproken werd zijn omgeving gek van zijn obsessieve perfectionisme.

Gisteren had hij nog heel de dag gefilosofeerd, en teruggedacht aan zijn jeugd.

De schoolvakanties die hij doorbracht bij

zijn grootouders in het Poolse provinciestadje Radom, waren zijn gelukkigste jeugdherinnering. Hij hield ervan als zijn grootvader hem verhalen vertelde over de Tweede Wereldoorlog, en over zijn overgrootvader die in het verzet zat. Hij herinnerde zich de tranen van vreugde in de ogen van Grootvader, toen Lech Kaczyński verkozen werd tot president van de Republiek Polen. De president was de zoon van ingenieur Rajmund Kaczyński, een verzetsstrijder die betrokken was bij de Opstand van Warschau. President Kaczyński was op zijn beurt weer betrokken geweest bij het anticommunistische protest en de Solidarność beweging. Hij begreep al snel wat Grootvader zo ontroerde aan de Kaczyński’s: de patriottistische familietraditie, die doorgegeven werd van vader op zoon. Hij wist dat Grootvader verdriet had van de weg die zijn zoon had gekozen. Vader leefde immers ongehuwd samen met Moeder, een Duitse, in Keulen.

18 • Verzetsheld

De jongeman wist dat zijn vader zich meer Duitser dan Pool voelde. Als Vader al de moeite nam om naar het Poolse consulaat te gaan om te stemmen – iets wat hij enkel deed voor de verkiezingen van de Sejm, want de presidentsverkiezingen interesseerden hem überhaupt niet – dan stemde hij Burgerplatform, en niet Recht en Rechtvaardigheid zoals Grootvader. ‘Jouw vader is geen patriot’, had Grootvader eens gezegd toen het onderwerp ter sprake kwam. ‘Jouw vader is een kosmopoliet’.

Hij herinnerde zich nog de verachtende blik die Grootvader in zijn ogen had toen hij die zin uitsprak. ‘De kosmopoliet is als een kameleon. Opportunistisch als hij is, past hij zich aan in elke nieuwe omgeving waarin hij komt. Hij is ontworteld. Zijn roots zijn doorgesneden.’, zo had Grootvader uitgelegd. Nooit zou de jongeman zo’n opportunistische kameleon worden.

Hij zou patriot worden, dat had hij zichzelf en zijn grootvader beloofd.

Nu hij alles van het lijstje ingepakt had, ritste hij de rugzak dicht. Hij voelde nog even in zijn broekzak of hij zijn Semesterticket wel bij zich had. Anders was zijn plan bij voorbaat al gedoemd te mislukken. Hij deed zijn jas aan, nam de rugzak op zijn rug, en liep de deur uit. Eenmaal onderaan het trappenhuis, twijfelde hij of hij de voordeur wel op slot had gedaan. Of eigenlijk wist hij negennegentig procent zeker van wel, maar die ene procent onzekerheid bleef toch aan hem knagen. Hij wist dat hij zich heel de dag onrustig zou voelen, als hij nu weg zou lopen, en dat kon hij op een dag als deze zeker niet gebruiken. Hij besloot terug te lopen naar de deur, en controleerde of deze op slot zat. Dat was het geval. Opgelucht liep hij voor de tweede keer de trap af.

Het was een vrij lange treinreis,

maar nu was hij eindelijk in Mainz aangekomen. Gespannen liep hij op het grote ZDF-gebouw af. Eenmaal binnen wilde hij direct doorlopen, maar een beveiliger hield hem tegen. Gelukkig had hij zich tijdens lange brainstormsessies al ingebeeld dat dit zou gebeuren, en had hij zich voorbereid. Uit zijn rugzak haalde hij een briefje, en gaf het aan de beveiliger. ‘Is dit een grap?’, vroeg de beveiliger nog, toen hij de eerste zinnen gelezen had.

Maar toen hij het wapen zag leek hij te beseffen dat het menens was. ‘Ik schiet je niet in je rug als je voor me loopt’, beet de jongeman de beveiliger toe. ‘Oké, dan gaan we maar’, antwoordde de portier.

Zijn plan leek te slagen. Hij werd een studio binnen geloosd. Hij herkende de ruimte van tv. Het tweede deel van zijn plan zou nu in werking treden. Het was immers oorlog. Geen oorlog met wapens, tanks en militair machtsvertoon, maar een oorlog van woorden. Een propagand-

Michael van der Hoeff • 19

aoorlog. En in tijden van oorlog was alles geoorloofd, had Grootvader hem ooit verteld. Dit was zijn enige kans om door de muur van censuur heen te komen. ‘Ik heb een boodschap voor de Duitse bevolking’, begon hij. Nadat hij die woorden uitgesproken had, verstokte zijn adem. Hij dacht na over wat hij nu ging zeggen. Hij had zijn speech nog zo goed geoefend. Hij zou vertellen over de manier waarop ZDF en de andere Duitse publieke omroepen de bevolking manipuleerden met hun fake news. Over hun leugens over de Russische aanslag op president Lech Kaczyński in Smolensk. Hun Brusselse propaganda waarin ze grove beschuldigingen uitten aan het adres van het kabinet van minister-president Szydło. Hoe de omroep met hun tsunami van fake news en hun felle propaganda de Duitse publieke opinie stuurde. Maar voordat hij ook maar iets kon zeggen, was het al te laat. Gewapende agenten vielen de studio binnen. Vanaf dat

moment ging het erg snel. Het neppistool liet hij meteen vallen, in een fractie van een seconde. Dit ging waarschijnlijk zelfs de agent te snel, die nog zeker een paar keer ‘Laat je wapen vallen!’ schreeuwde vanaf het moment dat het pistool de grond raakte. Niet veel later voelde hij hoe metalen handboeien strak om zijn polsen

gedraaid werden. Toen hij eenmaal geboeid afgevoerd werd, en de verschrokken gezichten van de mensen in het gebouw zag, drong pas enig besef tot hem door. Mijn God, wat heb ik gedaan?, dacht hij. Het was zijn eerste heldere, rationele gedachte sinds maanden.

20 •

The Honey Room

by Eivor SlĂĽgedal

the bed.

the floor.

the door.

first: he braids my hair with threads of silver

first: my body grinds like a mill of desire

first: his eyes change from ocean to iron

second: he puts lilac petals down my spine

second: I beg bitterly, with silenced eyes

second: posessed hands spread my legs

third: he leaves yellow marks on my memory foam skin.

third: strong arms refuse to face defeat.

third: honey tongue. nauseous bones. fourth:

• 21

In Esssayer a student written essay, article or analytical paper is featured. In this issue Eveline Mineur proposes a closer consideration of the entanglement between cellulite skin and the orange in her article “Bumpy Butt Soft”, originally written for the course Art, Science and Technology.

Yesterday night, when I came home to a dark apartment, I stepped on something which squashed beneath the heal of my shoe.

It was an orange. My porch still smells like Christmas and Sunday breakfast.

The orange is rich with associations.

The roots of the orange tree are long and flexible, and stretch out in many directions: from the emblem of the Dutch monarchy – the House of Orange-Nassau – to its harvest season, winter, when the fruit studded with cloves simmers in mulled wine and signifies the comfortable, cosy side of winter. The roots also shoot into a health-related direction. Due to its reputation as a rich source of vitamin C the orange is often treated as a medicine. It is part of a fruit basket accompanying a hospital visit and seen as a crucial element of a healthy breakfast. However, at the same time the characteristic texture of orange peel is used to indicate the skin condition cellulite. In vernacular this oft-occurring skin condition, characterised by the puckering and dimpling of the skin in areas with more fat capacity like the thighs, hips and buttocks, is known as ‘orange peel skin’ (sinaasappelhuid

in Dutch and peau d’orange in French).

The connection between cellulite and the orange is primarily textural: the puckered and dimpled skin on the rounder areas of the (often) female body resembles the surface of the orange peel. In this article I want to propose a closer consideration of this entanglement between this skin condition and this fruit. In my following of the possible connections between cellulite and the orange and their effects I take my cue from Elspeth Probyn, who wrote a both inspiring and informative exploration of the human encounter with the oyster in her book Eating the Ocean (2016).

When cellulite is absent, vertical connective tissue keeps the fat cells in the skin equally distributed, which results in a tight skin surface. With an excess of body fat, the connective tissue cannot maintain the tightness of the skin and a dimply skin surface appears. Even though cellulite is

22 • Essayer: Bumpy Butt Soft

considered to be an object of cosmetic rather than medical concern it is briefly mentioned in the 1992 edition of the Textbook of Dermatology: “It [Cellulite] has been widely publicised in lay press as a ‘poorly understood disease’ but instead it is a normal manifestation of obesity” (Rook et al. 2140). Currently, cellulite is no longer considered to be a “manifestation of obesity”: Braun-Falco’s Dermatology (2009) describes the skin condition as “not a disease but an almost normal finding. […] When the skin is pushed together, an orange-peel appearance (emphasis added) becomes more pertinent” (Braun-Falco 1127). In these two medical textbooks cellulite is clearly presented as a cosmetic rather than a medical condition and is consequently not considered to be an interesting subject for scientific research.

Apart from emphasising the cosmetic status of the skin condition, the fragment from Braun Falco’s Dermatology also

shows that it is not just in popular language where the connection between the appearance of the cellulite skin and orange peel is made, but also in medical jargon.

Both in texture and structure the orange is comparable to human skin, and cellulite skin in particular. The dimply texture of the exterior layer of an orange reminds of human skin (fig. 1.1), which is littered with pores, the tiny holes from which the hair sprouts and tallow and sweat escape. Since pores in general are not spread over the skin surface densely enough to create a dimply and puckered appearance, the cellulite skin with its dimply appearance is visually even closer to orange peel. Though it is not just the texture which the fruit and the human skin share. Think of the dimple at the top of an orange, where it was attached to the tree.

The ‘scar’ is comparable to our own belly button. The ‘belly button’ of the orange is where the fruit was attached to the ‘mother

tree’ and received the nutrients it needed to grow into a ripe fruit. The links between the fruit and the skin condition however, might go further than their appearance.

Aside from its parallels in appearance, the human skin and the orange share similarities in their functions. The main function of the skin is protection. The skin protects the body from harmful influences from the outside like dehydration, infections, hostile elements like bacteria, and temperature fluctuation. The orange peel shares this protective function with the human skin. From the start of the fruit’s growth until its inevitable consumption by micro-organisms in the soil to which it drops, or its confrontation with picking birds, the gnawing jaws of ants or the prying fingers of humans, the peel forms a barrier between the ‘hostile element’ and the fruit and seeds which it offers protection. The same goes for the human skin, even though it is not as sturdy as orange

Eveline Mineur • 23

peel, the skin is protecting the veins, muscle tissue and other vulnerable body elements from the outside world.

When considering the orange peel and the skin both as covers protecting a vulnerable inside from harmful elements from the outside, the interior-exterior binary becomes the main structuring framework. This is in line with the conception that dermatology, as opposed to internal medicine concerns itself mainly with the outside of the body, since the skin can be seen as the most outer layer of the body. Dr. Bruynzeel, dermatologist in the Groene Hart hospital, nevertheless rejects the idea of dermatology being exteriorly focused: “Most skin diseases are caused by something within the skin, but also as symptoms of internal diseases. An example is a rare type of pancreas cancer, which causes a distinct rash on the buttocks.”

Apparently another function of the skin is as serving as a canvas for symptoms of

internal diseases. Dr. Bruynzeel continues: “Another example is that when problems with the thyroid arise, ‘myxoedema’ [an accumulation of fluid, which results into puffy skin] on the lower legs often accompanies these thyroid problems. The skin can also react to medicines with an allergic reaction.” Rather than a presumed dominance of the exterior in the interior-exterior binary, the condition of the skin is determined by the interaction between inside and outside, or even between the inner body, the outer layer of the body and exterior elements. The orange can be seen from this same perspective. The peel is the layer between the vulnerable inside and the often hostile environment which functions as a protective layer, as a mediator between the two and as a symptomatic canvas, just like the human skin.

Now that the connections between the orange and cellulite have become more clear, I will deepen the understanding of

the metaphor of the orange peel for cellulite skin. Evidently the fruit and the skin condition share their dimply texture, but indicating cellulite with the words ‘orange peel skin’ must have other effects than merely emphasising the textural quality of the principal subject. Following Max Black I consider the orange peel metaphor to consist out of two ‘systems of things’: the phrase ‘cellulite’ and the phrase ‘orange peel’ both carrying their own semantic field of associations. The orange peel skin metaphor applies to the original subject (cellulite) a system of “associated implications” characteristic to the subsidiary subject (orange peel). It does this by emphasising certain implications, like the texture, and suppressing others, like its healthiness and its protective function (Black 291). However, in repeated use of the metaphor it might become clear that certain unsuspected characteristics of the subsidiary subject have transferred

24 • Essayer: Bumpy Butt Soft

to the principal subject. Even though the intended transferred meaning of the orange peel metaphor is the texture of the peel, there are additional meanings which come uninvited with the intended meaning and influence the way we look at cellulite skin. The orange peel metaphor could for instance encourage a body-negative reading of cellulite skin, as something which can or even should be ‘peeled off’, or as a layer which ‘hides our true self ’.

The suggestion that the negative consideration of cellulite is related to and maybe even partly caused by the metaphor used for its indication is interesting and doubtlessly fruitful, but unfortunately requires a too elaborate research to take on in this article. Nevertheless, cellulite skin is generally seen as something to get rid of or to hide, while like the actual orange peel it might be surprisingly rich in vitamins and minerals, which are stored in the fat cells which women who undergo some

Eveline Mineur • 25

sort of cellulite treatment are so anxious to eradicate.

The orange peel metaphor is extended into the cosmetic treatment of cellulite. In the practice LipoTherapeia in London, Georgios Tzenichristos treats cellulite with a combination of radiofrequency, ultrasound cavitation (creating cavities inside fat cells to destabilise them) and injection-free mesotherapy (“About LipoTherapeia”). Even though the LipoTherapeia website does not make use of the orange peel metaphor extensively, the Daily Mail, which devoted an article to Tzenichristos and his cellulite treatment, did. Apart from the Daily Mail’s reporter Lucy Cavendish statement on “puckering and orange peel on the backs of my legs” (Cavendish, “A Cure for Cellulite?”) she describes the treatment she undergoes at LipoTherapeia as the “Orange PeelBusting Treatment”. This description is a combination of the orange peel meta-

phor, and the idea of the “busting” of the fat cells, which the treatment entails.

The hands of Georgios Tzenichristos, who received the epitome “the man who to cellulite is what St George is to dragons” (Cavendish) in the same Daily Mail article, ‘peel off’ the skin of grateful women for ₤2,000 per 12 treatments and accompanying creams (Cavendish). This phenomenon shows how much some women are willing to pay to be delivered from their bumpy skin.

On the other side of the spectrum operates an interesting subculture, consisting of a number of young overweight women. They celebrate the texture on their thighs and encourage each other to embrace their cellulite, mainly through Instagram and blogposts (figure 1.2). In an article in favour of embracing cellulite on the women’s blog Bustle Courtney Mina describes cellulite not just as a normal, but even as a beautiful skin feature: “a

little cellulite adds a certain fluffy element to one’s look, and sumptuous texture to a woman’s unique voluptuousness” (“11 Photos Of Women With Cellulite Because Texture Can Be Gorgeous, Too”).

This ‘body positive’ consideration of cellulite skin, brings us back to a last connection between the orange and the skin condition. Like many fruits, the orange can be related to female sexuality.

Beneath the touch of the hand the fruit is round and firm. Its roundness discourages the peeling at first, but once an entry point is found with a sharp nail, a twitching finger, the peel satisfyingly comes loose.

The sturdy texture of the peel makes the soft fruit beneath the peel appear to be even softer than imagined at first. This soft, sensual approach to cellulite skin could be the answer to the negative effect afflicted upon the cellulite body by the orange peel metaphor itself.

26 • Essayer: Bumpy Butt Soft

As has become clear, the connections between orange peel and the cellulite skin are more various than the uneven landscape they share. (Cellulite) skin and orange peel both function as a protective layer and a symptomatic canvas, and are both mediators between the vulnerable inside and the often hostile outside. The use of the orange peel metaphor can have body-negative effects, or can at least sustain the generally negative image of cellulite skin.

However, when further extended, the orange peel metaphor can become an incentive to celebrate bodily texture, even if only to appreciate the underlying softness it disguises.

Works cited Black, Max. “Metaphor”, Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, New Series, Vol. 55 (1954 - 1955), pp. 273- 294, Oxford University Press.

Braun-Falco, Otto, Braun-Falco’s Dermatology, 3rd ed. Edited by Burgdorf, W., G. Plewig, H.H. Wolff and M. Landthaler, Springer Medizin Verlag, 2009.

Cavendish, Lucy. “A cure for cellulite?” 25 June 2015, Daily Mail Online, dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-3137917/ A-cure-cellulite-Mother-four-48-putsorange-peel-busting-treatment-test-delighted-results-set-2-000.html. Accessed 5 January 2018.

Mina, Courtney. “11 Photos of Women With Cellulite Because Texture Can Be Gorgeous, Too” Bustle, 11 August 2015, bustle.com/articles/102034-11photos-of-women-with-cellulite-becausetexture-can-be-gorgeous-too. Accessed 6 January 2018.

Rook, Arthur, D.S. Wilkinson and F.J.G. Ebling, Textbook of Dermatology, 5th ed. Edited by R.H. Champion, J.L. Burton and F.J.G. Ebling, Blackwell Scientific Publications, 1992.

Tzenichristos, Georgios. “About LipoTherapeia”, lipotherapeia.com/about-us.

Accessed 6 January 2018.

• 27

Cat Got Your Tongue

by Serina Tatham

What’s the matter?

Cat got your tongue?

If by cat you mean The government, The Church, Social media.

So yes, Cat does have my tongue.

It has yours as well.

28 •

Second Manifesto of Student Magazine Heroïne

At the start of academic year 2013-2014 something was brewing amongst the students of the Dutch-taught Literary Studies of the University of Amsterdam. Here they were, in the literary capital of their country, getting acquainted with literary works from all over the world and writing daring analytical papers about them. However, they were lacking something which studies like Dutch Language and Culture, Philosophy and even Art History did have: a student magazine. The former Literary Studies magazine SLANG had gone rogue, shaken of the university ties and was being sold in Athenaeum and elsewhere, leaving a void of literary and graphic output at Literary Studies. Therefore, on the 9th of October of the year 2013 a select group of young lovers of the written word gathered and founded student magazine Heroïne. These ideological youths were Giuseppe de Bruijn, Erik Post, Joep Harmsen, Emma-Sophia Nagels, Chi Nguyen, Sharona Badloe, Circe de Bruin, Lisa Smit, Thomas Grol and Twan Stiekel.

During that first meeting of the editorial board-to-be, the biggest topics of discussion were the question of continuity versus creativity, and how accessible the magazine should be. ‘Every week a new beginning’ was pitched as a motto, connected to the idea to publish one magazine a week. Experimentation with graphic design was advocated, alongside jokes for the literary in-crowd. What we can learn from these promising debates 5 years ago, is keeping a balance between the lust for change and experimentation and the upsides of continuity and fostering ideas

that work. It can perhaps be an incentive to have a good look at what the magazine is today, and what it perhaps should be. One year after its foundation, at the meeting of the 8th of December of the year 2014, the editorial board of that time wrote the First Manifesto of Heroïne Magazine (Grondbeginselen Tijdschrift Heroïne), to provide guidelines for the continuance of Heroïne Magazine. Present were: Erik Post, Merel Borst, Giuseppe de Bruijn and Circe de Bruin.

Five years have passed ever since, and those 5 years of magazine making have seen fundamental changes of both the studies, which have been renamed and restructured into English-taught Literary and Cultural Analysis, and of its number of students, which has grown from roughly 30 Dutch first years to a hundred from whichever global direction. In order to hang on to the original Heroïne values while similarly developing alongside these tides of change, the 2017-2018 editorial board of Heroïne Magazine believes these structural changes call for a rewriting of the original Manifesto. The magazine landscape of the Faculty of Humanities is as diverse as ever, judging from the abundant magazine and folder mess at the magazine stands. New magazines come into existence, which call for a distinction. What are these Heroïne values the editorial board seems to be so full of ? What is this magazine, claiming to be addictive on your Facebook news feed? This Heroïne issue is as good as any to come clear with our beliefs, aims and ideas. We humbly present to you, dear reader, the Second Manifesto of Student Magazine Heroïne.

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1. Heroïne is, and will remain, a student magazine striving both for quality and to be a learning platform for the Literary and Cultural Analysis students. The entire process from sent-in submissions to the presentation of the final version of the magazine is taken care of by LCA students. This process entails editing, illustration, graphic design, promotion, acquisition, distribution and event planning. We believe these are all practical qualities which function as a good addition to the Literary and Cultural Analysis studies.

2. From this aim we can draw two general directions for the magazine, which can lose track of each other, but should always meet again, forming an intricate pattern like the canals of the city of its foundation: to both form a balanced, better fitting reflection of the studies Literary and Cultural Analysis itself and to launch well-equipped LCA students into the publishing and writing spheres. The foregrounding of the literary aspects, itself a result of the content of the Literary Studies program along which the magazine was founded, will be countered by a healthy, gradual dosing of cultural analytical content, and a foregrounding of the visual aspect and of non-literary artwork.

3. After five years of continuous, laudable magazine-making Heroïne should become even more so a site of experiment in writing, drawing, painting, photography and other art-forms. A site where students are challenged, but where they will feel heard and welcome enough to entrust the magazine with the fruits of their in-between-two-analytical-pa-

pers creation. The level of artistic novelty will be encouraged by Heroïne and by the way the magazine will present itself from now on.

4. This renewed emphasis on experimentation, which was to be expected so close to the notorious seven-year itch, also derives from the realisation the magazine is in an extremely fortunate position: it receives sufficient financial support from the University of Amsterdam to publish several hundred copies per issue, without any stipulation on its content. This unusual circumstance for any magazine should be the incentive to experiment, provoke, attempt and fail: in short, to push the flexible boundaries of a magazine which can possibly reinvent itself every three months, or as suggested in that very first open meeting of Heroïne on the 9th of October in 2013: become anew every week.

Yours faithfully, ~the editors

30 •

Self-Esteem Therapy

by Anonymous

“So, what are your plans for today?�

Well, some of them are: - Leaning against the wall in a small space with scalding hot water pouring down my skin. Because it makes me feel something close to an orgasm.

- Losing contact with friends because I poured my emotions out and trusted them too goddamn hard.

- Staring into space, hating the fact that I am taking so much time in deciding whether it is safe enough to go out there.

- Looking at my naked body in the mirror and wondering if it is something someone else could love.

Aware of your eyes on me, I secretly hope that you are in actuality asking how I

am. Although I hear you are really asking me to smile and perform. I hesitate, hating to wonder if you will ask again. This is precious to me because I have an overblown sense of self-importance that swings like a pendulum from thinking it is worthy to bully you, to thinking I am unworthy of breathing fresh air. For the hundredth time I imagine you saying that there is nothing wrong with me, because this time, it could mean that my brain will finally stop relying on outside support for confidence.

I talk too much about myself, seeking reassurances while not caring enough about you. I use you as my own self-reflective mirror as just another perspective on myself and I am only just starting to become consciously aware of it. Not only am I far from am a saint, I am worse than a scoundrel. And feeling guilty for doing such things will have no effect on my actions.

As my vision blurs and I stop feeling

nervous about my social performance, I feel the taut string loosening and thoughts bubble out. I lose track of the things that pour out of my mouth. This is the only way I can currently be the upbeat and lively me. But even more detrimental to my mind than the zoning out, is that I enjoy the sensation. I am not holding on to any sense of hopeless fragility nor sinking down. I finally feel weightless and I do not see anything wrong with it. It is not perfect to disconnect from your surroundings but it is better than being hyperaware of the eyes in the room and it is just as annoying for me to forget as it is for you to constantly hear my apologies.

I have to act erratic because it is the only way to be present in social situations and beat the dark corners of my mind acting on every offhand comment heard from others and taken to heart. It is crucial to be disassociated like this and not anxiously listening to the inside of my

• 31

head. Otherwise I will be tossed under the harrowing emptiness of not being able to care more than I already do.

I also phase out in distress in crowded social settings when microscopes are focused on me. I see gorgeous bodies, and then the difference and therefore the inadequateness of me is stinging with every action I take. Suddenly everything seems dreamlike and conversations around me are only misty pinpricks I hear. My sensations are concentrated on my emotions and begin to weed out the movement around me. Memories are places of regret when only transparently experienced and half lived.

I can be obsessed with defending my emotions when I trickle after people in a group and dwell on inner thoughts that pull me down to murky and painful depths. I fight to keep a happy face for everyone as I wonder if I will always be isolated. Feeling the crushing weight of

the raw darkness descending, it is easy to dwell in sorrow when the voice in my head in the loudest and no other outer dialogue affects me enough yet to drag me out of the deep black of selfishly feeling sorry for myself.

I am good at convincing myself that I am alone when alone. It’s the reason for the bottles standing beside my bed and the messages sent in a fit of despair. I know I could easily drive you away when I act like this. Still, receiving anything back is the only thing that drives me away from the jet black thoughts and I hang on to that life jacket too much.

I hope you are thinking I am an egocentric peculiarity. If you are, it makes it easy for me to justify my self-deprecation without appearing to be too much of an anomaly.

I find it hard to explain to myself that I like to be not okay, let alone to someone else. And besides, the loss of another

friendship still goes deeper than veins.

And so, I feel like I have no choice but to smile and perform.

32 •

Inner Incorrectness

by Lara-Lane Plambeck

Sometimes I don’t like to talk about gender or politics or rights

And just carry on as an ignorant person laughing about dumb, discriminating things

Sometimes I just want to ignore what’s on the news enjoy myself, not think of the problems of anybody else

Sometimes I don’t want to hear about political correctness what its effect is and what it does

Sometimes I don’t want to think about what’s right and what’s wrong

I want to be a “bad“ person sometimes that does not care about anybody – I am sorry.

• 33

Untitled

by Lara-Lane Plambeck

The word in my head The word in my mouth The words on my tongue The swords of my mind Will never be released Won’t ever fight a war Because of a system With a strict law The words that critique That go against Will have to be kept – Don’t widen the lens!

A world full of reason, science and chance?

Can it be such if we must keep our words inside our head – is that how it works?

Let’s say what we think Scream it out loud to make everyone hear To make ourselves proud.

34 •

Homergasten

the guest: Daan Wesselman In Homergasten we ask a guest contributor about a personal favourite in the realm of literature, theatre, film, TV, or otherwise. In this issue Daan Wesselman from the Faculty of Humanities presents the novel as bourgeois propaganda and suggests a different approach towards the genre in his submission titled “I Don’t Like Novels”.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

I cannot stand this famous opening line – not just because of its explicit affirmation of the heterosexual matrix (I know full well it should be read ironically – that doesn’t change much, though), not just because I find Jane Austen’s writing boring or because the smugness of Colin Firth as Mr. Fucking Darcy is repugnant. I cannot stand this line because it is the opening line of a novel, and I can’t stand novels.

This attitude raises eyebrows whenever I share it with colleagues or students. After all, since novels are the mainstay of what we think of as “literature” (for confirmation, just look at the shelf space devoted to poetry in your local bookstore) it sounds as though I am a literary scholar who rejects the majority of his own field. The reason I don’t like novels is not professional selfloathing, though, but because they are

bourgeois propaganda. I’m dead serious; and I’m by no means alone in this attitude.

It’s just that many readers these days tend to prefer the easy approach of focusing on politics in literature rather than taking on the politics of literature.

The idea of the novel as a bourgeois form is explained lucidly in Ian Watt’s classic The Rise of the Novel from 1957 (but few people actually read classic scholarship these days). Watt’s book is an example of a proper – old-school – literary study of form. Watt takes stock of the tradition of realism as connected to the English novel – a mode that departs clearly from previous modes of literature – which reflects that the reading public of novels is different from other forms of literature. In a nutshell, Watt shows how literary aesthetics cannot be separated from their socio-cultural and political situatedness. The content of novels tends to focus on the relatively ordinary lives of

Daan Wesselman • 35

middle-class or socially upwardly mobile individuals (the “possession”, “good fortune”, and “want” in the Austen quote are not coincidental); the form of the novel is geared towards a literate middleclass audience. Economic advances, the concomitant development of an education system, techniques for easier and cheaper printing and wider circulation of the written word in journalism and novels: they all worked together in shaping what we now understand as the novel form. No kings, princes or poetry with fancy rhyme schemes for this newly emerging, affluent, educated, privileged middle-class readers.

Instead, they get their own lives and ideology fed back to them in 200+ pages of narrative fiction. Simply put: literary form and content are part of a bourgeois feedback loop here.

This ideological functioning of the novel form remains dominant today and is even openly embraced by many readers,

including the average literature student at university. This view was voiced neatly by then-president Barack Obama in an interview with Marilynne Robinson in the New York Review of Books: When I think about how I understand my role as citizen, setting aside being president, and the most important set of understandings that I bring to that position of citizen, the most important stuff I’ve learned I think I’ve learned from novels. It has to do with empathy. It has to do with being comfortable with the notion that the world is complicated and full of grays, but there’s still truth there to be found, and that you have to strive for that and work for that. And the notion that it’s possible to connect with some[one] else even though they’re very different from you.

It’s easy to subscribe to the second half of this quote: novels show you complexity and otherness. Sure. Yet the framing of that view is more telling: novels are under-

stood as being didactic on the one hand and framed in terms of citizenship on the other hand. In other words, novels are conceived as tools for ideological dissemination. Obviously, what is assumed here is that “citizenship” comprises a set of generally-understood, if not universal values – attached to what we call the liberal humanist subject.

The alignment of novel/bourgeoisie/ liberal humanism is equally visible in the Austen line: “truth universally acknowledged.” In other words, this concerns a professed belief in the self-evident value of “truth”, rooted in Enlightenment views of rationality and knowledge (also key in the Obama quote); in turn, this truth is elevated by a belief in the existence and value of “universals” that ironically need continuous affirmation through “acknowledgement” despite their universal status.

Austen’s opening line could be the start of an introductory course called “liberal

36 • Homergasten

humanist imperialist epistemology 101”.

What I loathe most about this ideology-in-book-form is its apogee: the fetishization of “character”. The still-dominant tradition combines the liberal humanist subject (Obama’s “citizen”) with a Romantic penchant for celebrating an oh-so-special individual (exemplified in the Byronic hero) with the narcissistic-ideological need to deflate any genuine uniqueness to what you might call “relatability” through Realism. Novels simultaneously feature individuals in scenarios that are singled out (so: separated from reality), with the purpose of these individuals being read as though they were people (so: tied back to reality). The special representing the common, in a feedback loop predicated upon likeness, mimesis, sameness. This leads to embarrassingly adolescent statements like “I can really relate to Elizabeth Bennett/Holden Caulfield/ Bridget Jones/Harry Potter/etc.” Even

if characters are read as not-relatable – Meursault and Humbert Humbert come to mind – reading them as characters reinforces the model nonetheless. When novels show you otherness (as Obama points out), it is via sameness nonetheless.

Part of the problem here is the silly confusion of words on paper with anything resembling a person (someone with actual hands, organs, dimensions, whom you can prick, tickle, or poison, for example), which I think is simply bad reading; if you’ve ever seen a Cubist painting and no longer mistake paint on canvas for reality, then why on earth would you think that ink on paper is any different? More importantly, the ideological charge obviously lies in the fact that you might be conditioned into thinking that novelistic characters are like you, but of course such reading entails the reverse: you are like them.

The mimetic trap is a two-way street; the prominence of “character” disciplines you

into self-perception as a bourgeois subject.

Hence, in my view, novels are best avoided. But if you absolutely must read novels, please read them aesthetically first and foremost: consider form, poetics, techniques, conventions – all the stuff that’s out of fashion in the study of literature – and read those aesthetics for what they do socio-culturally, what discourses these forms propagate or are complicit in.

Read novels themselves as politics – and critique those politics. Or better yet, read novels that aren’t really “novels” – High Modernist experimentation, the Nouveau Roman, Oulipo, postmodern metafiction, etc. – works that instead interrogate precisely the constraints and effects of the genre. Or read short stories instead, or poetry. (If you want coffee, don’t drink pumpkin spice lattes; drink espresso.) In any case, don’t simply read novels for their “content” – they’re just bourgeois propaganda.

• 37

The Word Cunt

by Matija Stojanovic

First question: “How do you feel about the crowds in Canada?” “Ah man, you got some rowdy cunts here but the cunts back home all know us, so it’s a different vibe.” Second question: “Where did you get the best crowds?” “Man, we had some mad cunts in Vancouver, real mad cunts over there.” Fourth question: “Any projects after this tour?” “Ah well there are a few cunts we’re working with back home, but probably we’ll just crack on with our mates once we’re back, miss those cunts.”

Most important question: how the fuck am I going to play this on the radio?

I was interviewing these guys in Toronto and except for a few run-ins with drunk Australians, it was my first real cunt

experience. See, Canadian radio allows for quite a few liberties but there are still some limits. You can lace your program with as much everyday profanity as you want but once you venture into cunt territory, things get tricky. It’s one of the few words that still has the power to shock; broadcasters almost always say “the c-word” rather than cunt itself. But in Australia it seems to be a key sentence enhancer; there’s even an Australian song called “You Can’t Say Cunt In Canada” describing the sad state of affairs.

Now I’m sure it’s not entirely proper there either but it certainly doesn’t have the same exaggerated impact, as it actually has a common use. These guys used cunt in place of mate or man but the Canadian cunt still offends people despite having no common usage: the weight is just attached to the fact that you’re not allowed to say it.

Cunt may have once had a wider derogatory usage, but I’ve never heard it used this

way by anyone except old men in dives.

When I burn myself or fall off my bike I’ll usually yell out “Fucking cunt” without thinking about it, not because I have a problem with actual cunts or somehow blame them for me falling and eating shit - I say it subconsciously because it’s the worst word I know, regardless of meaning.

Even so, the old connotation means that there are some valid arguments to limit it in broadcasting. But those arguments lose traction when you have people using cunt with a completely different meaning.

So despite the interview itself going well, the cunt question returned to me on my way back home and when I got to editing the interview I had a pretty hefty task snatching out all the stray cunts. I couldn’t see why it needed to be censored, as cunt wasn’t used in the way which the CRTC (Canadian Radio Telecommunications Commission) objected to. The Australian cunt meant something different

38 • The Word Cunt

than my cunt; I could have recorded them saying the word man and substituted it in and none of the meaning would have changed. Instead, I had to chop the interview to pieces to try and make it pass regulations. I tried putting in a censor bleep but the interview turned into about a quarter bleeps, which was even worse.

Although the finished product wasn’t worthless, there was something missing. All the good answers, all the good anecdotes and jokes had a fine layer of cunt in them; every time the guys got friendly and gave a personal answer, they slid a couple of cunts in there. After taking them all out, what was left was a fucking Wikipedia article. It was a shame; was it really such a problem?

Obviously I think it wasn’t, and those Australian cunts sure thought it wasn’t. What sense does it make to filter some 19-year old Australian’s speech through the sensibilities of some middle-

aged Canadians? Even if you are to grant cunts their Canadian weight, when a word is used so impersonally and so frequently as these guys used cunt, doesn’t that dull the meaning? If I’m a cunt, he’s a cunt, she’s a cunt, me, we, they, us, all of us equal cunts, what can it really mean anymore?

It just becomes another word. Their cunt may share the same sound as the banned cunt but it’s an entirely different word.

The CRTC is trying to prevent obscenity in general and Canadians happen to show this sentiment through their cunts. But if Australian cunts represent the opposite, there should be no reason to ban them.

Unfortunately, the CRTC doesn’t share this view. To them any cunt is a Canadian cunt, regardless of a Canadian cunt being another thing entirely from an Australian cunt. Whether the word cunt should be allowed on public radio in its derogatory context is questionable, but there is little reason to maintain a blanket

ban on the word. I hope the regulations will eventually loosen up, but until then I’ll remain bitter about having my interview censored by some CRTC cunts.

• 39

Let’s Talk About Ukraine

by Kat Lybanieva

The only thing I was ever afraid of was war. Growing up in post Soviet Ukraine, memories of it were all around me and the horrors of it slipped into everything, from school syllabus to my great grandmother’s stories. One year, on the 9th of May, which is considered to be the Victory Day in World War II, my classmates and I were going around veterans’ houses to offer them flowers and celebrations. One of the women we visited broke down crying when she saw us and wished for us never to experience what she had to go through as the child of war.

I was lucky I didn’t.

When an armed conflict broke out in Kiev in 2014 I had already lived abroad

for 5 years. None of it really affected me personally. Watching the city burn and the country in which I grew up fall apart felt like watching a bad Hollywood movie.

What at first started as a peaceful protest that demanded the president to sign a trading partnership with the EU, soon became a battleground against Berkut (Ukrainian special police force). With half of the city in rubbles, civilians throwing Molotov cocktails at the officers and mysterious strangers shooting at medics trying to help the wounded, the country turned into a mess. Being far away and melancholically watching events unravel on the Internet, I was thinking about how screwed up and unreliable media was.

Donny Miller said that “in the age of information, ignorance is a choice”. How could people, who have unlimited access to multiple sources of information blindly believe what the prime channel news, controlled by the government, is saying?

Especially in the case when it is the prime channel of a different country that is clearly not interested in treating your own country justly? Most Eastern Ukrainian cities (I grew up in one of those) are mostly Russian speaking and for years prior to the conflict they had been watching Russian news and television. The brainwashing they were subjected to only became evident in 2014: the citizens refused to believe anything the Ukrainian government stated and even felt victimized and oppressed by it. While there were protests sparking up all over Western and Central Ukraine, the Eastern cretins inhabitants suddenly and inexplicably felt that all this time their core identity was Russian. Terrified that their own government would force them to speak Ukrainian (!!!) they decided that they wanted to become a part of Russia.

Of course, I am not a political scientist, but I don’t think that this is how division of territory works. Naturally, Russia

40 • Let’s Talk About Ukraine

was not too keen on the idea of them joining, since the whole region of Donbas barely produces anything, so by voting, Donetsk and Lugansk had proclaimed themselves two independent republics.

The result was quite pathetic. As the events in the capital finally started to calm down and a temporary council elected from those people leading the protests was established after the president ran away (to Russia, surprise, surprise), the East became a total mess.

No one really knew what was happening and who was fighting whom. Nevertheless, everyone seemed to have a strong opinion about the current events. While the pro-Russians believed that Ukrainian troops were invading to make them them join Ukraine once again and pro-Ukrainians were afraid of a Russian invasion, all the sane people left the country (the ones who were able to of course). The ones who were left behind were the elderly, the

disabled and the poor. Not to mention all the prisons suddenly opened, so a ride on a public bus could cost you the contents of your wallet and possibly a gun shot.

To this day, both “republics” that believe themselves to be “New Russia” are not recognised by any real country, except South Ossetia, which in itself is a partly recognised state. The supporters of the states, or separatists, are considered to be terrorists by the Ukrainian government and generally have trouble entering or leaving Ukraine.

A few words about the Russian involvement: by analysing multiple sources of information it seemed like the Eastern cities became a battleground between the Ukrainian troops trying to hold back the Russians, who were sent undercover to cause even more mayhem. The Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe (OSCE) monitors encountered personnel in eastern Ukraine openly iden-

tifying as Russian regular military. In the media, however, the conflict was portrayed as “civil war” in which “rebels” started mindlessly attacking the central government.

Sadly, Ukraine will take a while to recover from this unrest. Having gone through a “civil war” that resulted in one third its territory separated, it has lost any chance to join the European Union or to disassociate itself from Russia. The worst part though, is that neither Russians nor Ukrainians are able to learn from their or each other’s mistakes and seem to be stuck in the ever repeating tragic circle of events.

1 https://www.kyivpost.com/article/content/ war-against-ukraine/south-ossetia-recognizes-donetsk-peoples-republic-353815.html

42 •

A PISSWIFE on Censorship

by PISSWIFE

Opinions are tricky things; every opinion demands space to be heard, to be considered and, maybe, eventually dismissed when other arguments prove them wrong. It can get very tiresome having to explain your opinions to others who have not spent the amount of time and effort reading about the topic of debate as you have yourself, especially when discussing certain topics, such as gender equality, with which an entire lexicon of names and terms comes and floats to the surface. It can be hard to discuss your own arguments with people who do not understand this lexicon the way you yourself do.

It is especially tiresome when the topic of the debate is something very close to

PISSWIFE • 43

home. People who do not share your position as the actual topic of discussion and try to silence you with their arguments can feel very frustrating. Constantly defending your identity or your opinion in an environment that does not take into account how exhausting it is to keep hearing the same counter arguments, to constantly feel like you are being outnumbered and to generally receive hostile reactions is utterly demotivating and sometimes even depressing. No one would want for that to continue forever. Therefore, it is necessary to create spaces for the people that experience this on a daily basis; spaces they can turn to, to find, meet and converse with like-minded people that may share experiences or that simply listen and try to understand. This is one of the reasons we have created PISSWIFE: a feminist platform that strives to be a space for every feminist out there and wishes to be the one to tell them that yes, your experiences

and your opinions matter. Being a feminist platform is a learning process and there are many pitfalls. Today, in this issue of HeroĂŻne, we will talk about censorship in feminist spaces.

It is so important to be cautious with the power dynamics that grow within your feminist community. A major danger is turning out to mirror the power dynamics that you were trying to free yourself from in the first place. Any safe space undeniably needs to be policed and curated to a certain extent to keep the space actually safe; otherwise anyone could barge in on the personal stories of people seeking shelter in the space in question and flood it with negativity and hostility. Intruders of the safe space that show they have bad intentions should be removed immediately; they have violated the friendly environment and damaged the trust, safety and comfort that the community had

created in their space. Everyone should be held accountable for their actions whether they intended to do harm or not, but responding to someone who violated the inclusive nature of an intersectional space is also a delicate matter, especially in a learning environment. There is a large difference between premeditated hurtfulness and willingness to do the right thing but simply falling short. This difference deserves recognition from the curators or moderators of the safe space. People who fulfill the function of curating a safe space and judging the actions of each person in it take on a difficult and time-consuming job, often on a voluntary basis. This deserves respect, but it should not imply that the bar for the moderators/curators is set lower when it comes to judging the people in that space. In order to keep the space safe and accessible for everyone, the moderators need to take into account that not everyone in their space has the same

44 • A PISSWIFE on Censorship

perspective and knowledge that they have.

In taking on the task of moderator in a safe space and subsequently removing or silencing people that use the “wrong” rhetoric lies the problem of using your authority and stature to exclude valuable opinions and thoughts of people that are less familiar with the community and the appropriate language to use. In a safe space that substantially revolves around people’s feelings and experiences, there is no place for censorship towards people that work towards the same goal as the moderators do.

1 Within identity politics, it could occur that an identity is being discussed in a distanced and political manner, while for you it is a lived reality.

2 Structures of power relations, ‘power dynamics’ refers to the way power is divided in a certain setting.

Expecting everyone who wants to join your space to be aware of everything you are aware of, leaving no room for growth or education from the community, is ignorant. Creating a threshold, an interrogation on the doorstep of a space, is counterproductive behavior. Questioning people and their knowledge on theories surrounding social justice, or making them feel like they should have known such terms, is suggesting that your safe space is intended only for a privileged audience; a social justice elite, if you will. In the end, feminism and creating a feminist platform is a learning experience altogether. Therefore, PISSWIFE strives to be a space where people can not only express themselves and voice their opinions, but can also listen, learn, and watch each other grow.

What are your experiences with feminist communities or spaces? What mistakes are you seeing happen too often, or what makes you feel unsafe in such a space?

Please contact tessel.pisswife@gmail.com and your contributions could be featured on our website.

• 45

And the News Goes On

by Lara-Lane Plambeck

I am standing in a dark room. I know I am asleep. I have now entered my personal parallel world of fear and despair. And just as I do every other time, I try to calm myself down by repeating the words: “It’s just a dream, you know that.

Just go through it, take it as an adventure.

You can’t die in here. Just wake up when it’s too much.” But as usual, I cannot help feeling cold and scared. There is a chair, I am sitting down. My mother enters the room, smiles at me and says: “Hello beautiful. How wonderful to see you. I’ve missed you, Darling. I wish you came home more often.” She pats my hair and looks at me the way your mother does, the look that should give you feelings of secu-

rity and warmth.

But something keeps me from feeling that way. Something is weird about this situation, I think to myself, and I can suddenly feel the seat I am sitting on tilting back. It is now that I realize I am on a surgical chair. I want to say something, move, but I cannot speak. I cannot make a sound. I cannot move! Absolute silence is surrounding me. Darkness. My mother, who has been showing me her back, now turns around, smiling - what is it that she is holding in her hands? Tongs. Suddenly her smile does not look very motherly anymore. The smile seems frightening, the eyes purely cold. This is not my Mum, is it? With a weird and frightening calm voice she says: “Let’s fix this mess. I think we have to get rid of all of them, my poor Darling. Don’t worry, you will feel a lot better afterwards!” Whilst saying that, she and her frightening smile are coming closer. A silent scream is stuffing my

throat. I can feel her pulling out my teeth violently, one by one, and my jaws feel like they could break any second if she keeps going. All I can hear is the cracking noise of breaking teeth and blood filling up my mouth. Everything is getting blurry… I am drifting somewhere in the dark. I thought this was a dream. I cannot manage to wake up. My mouth is an empty, fleshy mess.

I am back in my room, feeling bare, paralyzed by the dream I just got out of. I need to hear something to bring me back to reality. The TV might be good for that. I turn it on and immediately the annoyingly girlish, highly excited, squeaking voice of Jennifer Aniston in Friends makes me wince. I cannot deal with this right now, I need something to wind down slowly, some calming voice from a documentary or news program maybe, where I don’t have to prepare myself for any unpredictable disturbances.

Alright, the news is on. The speaker says

46 • And the News Goes On

something about “Defend Europe” and “die Stimmen der Identitären Bewegung werden zunehmend lauter” (“The Identitarian Movement is increasingly gaining voice”)¹. Accompanied by a picture of sympathetic looking students of my age, holding up a sign claiming the preservation of their ethno-cultural identity.

Again, my body is being shaken by a silent scream. A scream trying to release the paralyzing fear of an unpredictable future of hostility. But there is no scream, there is silence. And the news goes on.

1 The Identitarian movement is a white nationalist movement which has been started in France in 2003. Since then it has spread all over Europe and North America. Especially in Germany, the members are seeking to change the political system back to having strict and closed borders so that immigration and thus cultural mixing cannot be possible anymore. As a side-effect to the refugee-crisis as well as Globalization in general, the Identitarian movement has increasingly been gaining strength and has particularly been attracting young people. Members are afraid to lose their “national identity” as well as traditional cultures through immigrants entering their country. They have been fighting under slogans like “Defend Europe” and work close with the right-winged parties.

• 47

Ministry of Truth

by Serina Tatham

The ‘Ministry of Truth’ was the most feared yet most respected corporation in the city. It acted as a judge of sorts, where serious criminal cases were brought when no verdict could ordinarily be agreed upon. It was effective, sure, but inhumane and unethical. But truth was more important to the government – truth above all else.

How were they so effective? Truth serums. A drug called scopolamine (or ‘Devil’s Breath’ as it was most commonly referred to) is constantly pumped into the cells via the air supply to make those being held obedient, and also causes them to wake up and not remember the previous day. Sodium thiopental is what is injected into the accused just before the trial and makes them compliant to pressure and forces them to tell the truth. The serum is lethal, hence why many call the Ministry unethical, with only a 60 percent survival rate.

The Ministry’s next victims were a notorious gang known as the Brass Rose Brotherhood. Well, they can hardly be called a gang now as there was only one member left – Joey the Cobra. Whether or not the man in cell 63 was actually Joey the Cobra was debatable as he had been pleading ‘not guilty’ for months, but it was that 10% chance that he was lying which fed the Ministry.

‘Joey’ was brought to the Ministry of Truth on an appropriately cold and miserable day in October. Those on trial are held there for a week to allow the lab technicians time to concoct the truth serum as it needed to be as fresh. Before coming to the Ministry Joey had heard rumours of mistreatment during the week people spent in the cells; those who had been found not guilty returned home with cuts and bruises covering their bodies and no recollection as to why.

Joey’s week flew by, helped by ‘Devil’s

48 • Ministry of Truth

Breath’, and his trial fell on a Wednesday.

The sodium thiopental was injected as the jury took their seats. Trials were usually very quick and to the point, and so the judge asked Joey, “Are you or are you not Joey the Cobra, of the formed Brass Rose Brotherhood?” The silence that filled the room was deafening.

“No, your honour, I am not. My name is Joey, and I lived down the same road as the Brotherhood, but I never did anything.

I swear.” These same words had come out of his mouth many times this year, as multiple judges had asked him the same question, all yielding the same response.

The jury expected to find him guilty.

The judge expected to find him guilty. But alas, Joey was not. He had told the truth as he had done many times before, and a Mexican wave of shocked faces emerged.

“Joey, I find you ‘not guilty’ of any involvement with the Brotherhood.” The judge struck his gavel on the sound block

and guards came to release the accused.

He let out a sigh of relief, but couldn’t help but feel that it wasn’t over.

When Joey returned to his family his mother threw her arms around him and asked how he was. She then proceeded to check him over for bruises, of which he had many. When asked where he got them, Joey replied, “The guards were sure I was guilty and treated me like shit.”

They gasped, not because of his abuse, but because he could remember it.

“Joey”, his mother said softly, “do you remember what happened to you this week?” He thought about this for a moment and a strange look passed between the two.

“Yes.” They stood in silence for a moment. She asked her son more questions and he was surprised as how easily the answers came flooding out. He was ashamed at how weak he had been against the guards and didn’t want to tell his

mother, but he did.

“Mum,” he said meekly, “I don’t think the serum is working.”

“What are you talking about? Don’t tell me you lied! Don’t tell me you were a part of that gang! If you so much as –” He cut her off.

“Mum shut up and listen to me for a second!” Exasperated, he continued.

“Devil’s Breath makes you forget, but I haven’t…” He trailed off, wondering what this might mean for the Ministry.

“You’re saying you remember everything? Does that mean others might remember too?”

“I don’t know.” How could he? He was released little more than four hours ago. “I’ll get in touch with those in the cells at the same time as me.” He felt strangely excited – the Ministry had finally made a mistake.

The trials at the Ministry of Truth were very high profile and were often

Serina Tatham • 49

televised, so it wouldn’t be hard for Joey to find others like him. He made a list of numbers and addresses and visited them one-by-one, building up an ‘army’. As it turned out, they all remembered, and they all had an urge to bring down those corrupt officials.

At first, they took to social media, documenting what had happened to them with an appropriate hashtag so others might come forward. And they did. People in their thousands reported family members returning from trials with strange bruises covering their body and no memories to go with them. Next, they took to news broadcasters and accused the Ministry of Truth of the unlawful treatment of those in their protection.

The trial was to begin at 3pm on Friday 12th November. External laboratory technicians were brought in to concoct the serum and it was injected into the testifiers along with several Ministry

guards. Unsurprisingly, the guards were unable to keep the truth down and blurted out details of the horrible punishments they had been dishing out to the undeserving prisoners in their ‘care’. When the guards were arrested they were to be taken outside of the court house to police cars, but when the doors to the outside world were opened they could barely move for the road and the steps up to the building were blocked by angry protesters who, when they saw the guards in handcuffs, gave out a loud cheer.

A month after the most famous trial in governmental history, an external review of the Ministry was conducted and covered by the BBC, documenting the innumerable flaws that it had accumulated over the years and which resulted in its termination. At the official closing of the Ministry of Truth, Joey gave a speech addressing those who had been tormented by the corporation:

“Some people think that eventually the ‘truth will out’. That may be the case, but at what cost? Should we really be endangering people and forgetting about the value of human lives in order to gain knowledge? Is truth really so important that we forget our morals so that we might gain another speck of insight into something which will probably prove insignificant? Do we really have that little confidence in the human race’s ability to be honest? With the closing of the Ministry of Truth comes something new – faith.

Faith in ourselves, faith in each other, and faith in the government. Cheers!”

The protesters raised a glass of whatever they were drinking, most likely a flask of coffee, and toasted to a new future where the government was no longer corrupt and controlling.

50 •

Strangers Are Allowed Cultural Event Calendar

Heroïne presents a scramble of both odd and official cultural events taking place in the near future. Some are LCA only, but to the happy majority strangers are allowed.

March 31st till July: Exhibition at Tropenmuseum on Body Art March 26th to April 29th: The Width of a Circle and Snake Games Art Exhibits at W139 April 19th: Evening on Art-Knowledge: Art, Culture and Ecology at Perdu, Fokko + You Should Get To Know Us Concert at Vondelbunker April 20th: Poetry and Fiction reading by International Artist’s Collective at Boekhandel Van Rossum, Eigengrau Techno/House Night at OT301 April 22nd: Ghostemane, Wavy Jone$, Horse Head & Nedarb at Patronaat Haarlem April 26th: We Come One Music Festival at OCCII, SHAME Concert at Melkweg April 30th: Yellow Days at Sugarland May 11th: Garden Mum Album Release at Vondelbunker May 18th-19th: Gin Festival at Undercurrent May 24th: Spoken Word Poetry Night at Word Up 24-26 May: As Slowly as Possible at VU May 26th: Freak Heat Wave and New Fries at Melkweg May 31st: Evening on Art-Knowledge: Art & Education at Perdu

Every Monday: Wasteless Culture Nights and Dinner at Dokhuis Gallery Every Tuesday: Alternative Cinema at Cinema of the Dam’d Every Wednesday: Queer Nights at Vrankrijk, Storytelling at Mezrab, Wasteless Wednesday Dinner at Dokhuis Gallery Every Thursday: Voku at Joe’s Garage, Underground Cinema at Filmhuis Cavia Every Friday: Punk Nights at Vrankrijk, GAAF Hip-Hop Bar at Molli Chaot, Underground Cinema at Filmhouse Cavia Every Saturday: Alternative Cinema at Cinema of the Dam’d

• 51

lllustrations: Dasha Zaharova (@dashazaharova): p.2, p. 19, p. 24 Sam Alexandra (@samalexandra):p. 4, back Nikole Wells (@artbynikolew): p. 5, p. 20, p. 21, p. 26, p. 50 Kat Lybanieva (@katominart): p. 9, p. 12, p. 15, p. 41 Julie Bronkhorst: p. 13, p. 38 Boriana Hadijeva: p. 27, p. 47 Eivor Slågedal: p. 32, p. 33 Zep de Bruin: p. 34 Tessel ten Zweege: p. 42 Sílvia Tarín: p. 46 Dominic Tatham: p. 51 Layout by Kat Lybanieva The summer break is fast approaching, which for many LCA students means the prospect of touching home base. The final Heroïne issue of this year will thus be centred around Homecoming. We are eager to read your stories and impressions of this notion in all its shades of meaning. From Odysseus’ mythical return home and the American high school tradition, to the bare act of coming home: what does Homecoming mean to you? Bring the concept home to us, we are looking forward to glimpsing your visual odes, reading your nostalgic poems and being poked by your prickly essays. Send in your submission (text or image) to: redactie.heroine@gmail.com