Big Issue! Would anybody like an issue today?
Music, theatre, sport, news and many other features too.
Would anyone like a Big Issue? Don’t be shy, come buy folks.
Something different, to read later on maybe?
Would anyone like a
Big Issues in society today, where we can go home and say
that it’s okay for someone to be on the street in the cold,
hoping you’ll stop and pay for a magazine he can’t even read,
because he’s “working not begging” even though he’s grey and old,
Did you ever stop and count the issues he sold?
Not half as many as the rubbish we’re sold by the press,
by men in suits trading souls for gold.
Would anyone like a big issue in their life?
Would anyone like to think about their wife
working on the street in his situation,
sleeping on a bench in an underground station.
Where the only thing done about her plight,
was to write about it, to write about
Something different, to read later on maybe?
Hard to see amongst the music, theatre, sport, news and
many other facial features staring gauntly out of the grey pages,
speckled black with meaningless words
promising hope and a future, and the first year’s credit absolutely free,
and the answers to your prayers with cosmetic surgery that will make you look fine,
So you can use your pile of gold that you got after remortgaging your soul on a falling market
to buy some time to lie down
before the bell chimes, telling you “your time is up number 32,
Please come in now, this is the end of your trip, have a nice day,
don’t forget to visit our gift shop on your way out,
don’t forget to pay,
don’t be shy, come buy folks,
Don’t be shy, come buy failure written down,
turned around and sold by someone who missed you whilst you were away,
wrote a big issue about you,
cried into a shirt-sleeve about you,
about the time you ran away,
about the time you didn’t say why my time had come,
about the time I stood in the rain,
About time to go- just leave,
amd in the long caresses of the night-time weave a web of dreams
for all the people in the world to walk upon,
still soft, though relics of a time long gone,
Tread oft the halls of solitude but fear not the dark,
as you wear nothing but sway stark naked into the distance,
He shall be your ark and watch over you,
and spread flowers beneath your feet,
and wash your hair with spring water,
whilst his daughters waft perfumed sweetness into the air,
and the heady scent strokes your mind to rest,
with a pillow of silk and a bed of tissue.
Dream on, and dream not of your big issues.

by Tristan Withers

His high cheek bones fought for prominence with the baby fat still swelling underneath. His hair was tangled and matted, and Quito took great pleasure in using the greasy chaos to form sculptures of writhing curls and jagged straights that stood erect like gargoyles atop his forehead. But the most fascinating feature of Quito’s face was those eyes, darkest brown, yet with a light so appealing it drew gringos towards him without their realisation. White women would look quizzically into his face, wondering what it was about this small child that compelled them to give only him time, to buy only his candyfloss. After a long while they would come-to, and look around the square in a daze, gradually filling-in shapes and sharpening colours until all was as it should be. Then they would look back down and realise that the reason for their absence from this world had been the boy. With a last guilty look, they would turn with embellished grandeur and hurry off in embarrassment.

This was Quito’s life. Every day was the same: a lift in a Toyota truck down the mountainside and through the cacophony and rancour of the outskirts; over the bridge and into the deformed order of the real town. Market vendors hugged the road, porn dvds were sold alongside Hollywood pirates. Chickens stood oblivious under a basket’s woven roof, while next door meat hung and flies sucked and wasps fizzed. As the slope became gentle the market petered out and gave way to open shop fronts. Putrid coloured clothes stared out with knowing desperation, hoping that the tasteless music might convince some gringo to enter.

Eventually the crowded square would present itself. This was where Quito could woo the throng. He would stand on the edge of the steps to the church, watched by the Almighty, hoist his cross of candyfloss onto his slim shoulders, and open wide those innocent eyes. It was a competition – of course. Only a short distance away stood the man with the balloons; but he was no threat. He had an unfortunate habit of plunging his hand into his pocket and conspicuously rubbing his crotch, sometimes for ten minutes at a time. While he did this his face exposed a knowing resignation, a consistent glumness that portrayed the death of dreams and the hateful staleness of reality. There was competition from other children too: Silvia and Rosa would sit either side of a gringo, their furry skirts stroking snow white legs, and then the bracelets would come out, some ‘special deal’ in the offing. Quito watched this charade with particular curiosity: the simple trap; the familiar routine; the same giggles and touches. And yet the tourists played the game, seemingly unaware of the make-believe that only Quito thought he knew.

The sun was fading, colossal shadows stretched from mountain to mountain, dousing the colours of the courtyards and colonial colonnades. A final breath of warmth swept through the valley, and Quito felt his candyfloss stir. He let it be borne up, blown to and fro, beckoning him on. Quito succumbed, and soon he was sailing around the square, led by the thronging manifold shapes of his desire. Every way he went there was new excitement. A whirlpool here, a great wave there, and each one Quito felt with wondrous vitality. No-one else existed. He was a solitary captain with nothing more than his body’s ship and his ecstatic sails. And now the square was gone, boreas led him into un-chartered waters. Higher and higher he sailed. Against the slope of the falling sea, his sails pulled him on. Faint noises swirled around, swallowed in the ocean’s raging joy. Now the waves became angular and jagged, the mast creaked and the sails cowed, but the ship strived onwards and upwards, upwards and onwards.

At last, the wind died, darkness prevailed, the waves dropped over the horizon and Quito was brought back. There was no light where he stood – alone. On both sides of him were the whitest walls and a cavernous roof loomed above. Some scent overcame his nostrils; sweet pine resin and candle wax. He gingerly stepped forward, toward a greater ship and its mast at the end. Those luminous eyes revealed a fearful soul, unable to fathom what mystery lay in that darkness at the end.

Then he reached it: a wooden cross barely lit by a lonely candle on an altar. Quito peered up at his own cross, his mast, his livelihood, his oppressor and his saviour. The candyfloss hung limp. Confusion clouded his mind with ideas and thoughts he had never met before. He struggled to hold onto one simple idea before the next had interrupted; forms and figures jostled for position before his eyes. It was torture, and as the crescendo of confusion reached its climax Quito threw himself into the hard bosom of the ground.

Quito lay still for a long time. And then, without warning, he ripped a bag of candyfloss off his cross and left the rest behind. His squinting eyes were small but clear now. Outside, the sky was a swirling mess of orange and red, for God had poured out his arteries so that Quito could see the bloodied beauty. Lights dabbled below, ducking in and out of view. The whine of taxis grew and faded. Quito clambered onto the wall at the edge of the hilltop to better survey the scene. As he ate his candyfloss and drank in the sounds and sights of his town, he became calm. This was life. This was beauty. This was re al. He glanced back at the ominous building within which he had suffered his awakening and, seeing for the first time, began down the steps to the square.

by Charlie De Rivaz

Our hunter-gatherer evolutionary past has engrained in us a strong sense of being influenced by our leaders and other strong orators. In other words, public figures can become conduits for social conduct. One has just to look at Hitler as an example of a bad idea sold well. Now I’m not comparing Jacob Zuma, the Republic of South Africa’s incoming head of state, to Hitler. But anyone who extols violent philosophies as part of an emotionally driven election campaign (some might say cynically contrived to shift the focus away from his corruption charges) misguides one’s followers. In a country with some of the highest rape and murder rates in the world, Zuma’s general demeanour does little to disavow the violence. He has been charged with rape (once) and corruption (ongoing), his rally song translates to “bring me my machine gun”, he is overtly homophobic (speaking at a Heritage Day celebration in 2006, he proudly told his cheering supporters that “if a gay stands in front of me, I will knock him out”) and he’s eerily chummy with some of the most fire-and-brimstone, ‘one settler, one bullet’ politicians in the country. Peace, and often democracy, is evidently not a value to be cherished by the next leader of the most ‘developed’ nation in Africa.

Zuma didn’t receive any education past primary school and joined the African National Congress (ANC) when he was just seventeen. In 1963 he was arrested by the apartheid government and sentenced to ten years imprisonment on the infamous Robben Island alongside Nelson Mandela. In 1999 Zuma was elected deputy president of the ANC and his path to presidency became clear. In 2005 both rape and corruption charges were filed against him. The accuser of the former was the daughter of a deceased apartheid struggle ‘comrade’ and was known by Zuma to be H.I.V. positive. The case was eventually dismissed after much controversy. When asked why he had knowingly risked contracting the AIDS virus he merrily replied “I took a shower afterwards”. In a country with the second largest AIDS epidemic in the world this is not an erudite statement from its next leader. And, if you enjoy irony, during this entire debacle Zuma remained the head of the National AIDS council.

On the 14th June 2005, Zuma was fired as deputy president by President Thabo Mbeki. Zuma’s alleged involvement in a financially beneficial arms deal, orchestrated in tandem with prominent businessman, Schabir Shaik, and then Chief Whip, Tony Yengeni, caused considerable consternation within the core leadership of the ANC but, oddly enough, not Zuma’s rank and file supporters. Perhaps this can be put down to Zulu loyalty. But zealous loyalty can go too far: at one court appearance in 2005, Zuma supporters burned t-shirts that bore Thabo Mbeki’s image, which only served to widen the chasm between Xhosas (Mbeki’s kin) and Zulus in South African politics. Such infighting is diametrically opposed to the concept of the ‘Rainbow Nation’. Yet Zuma seems intent on encouraging tribal politics through his wearing of traditional Zulu warrior skins and adornments at ANC conferences and by his donning of “100% Zulu boy” t-shirts in his leisure time. Obviously, there is nothing wrong with tribal allegiance. Except when it arguably impinges on democratic processes and facilitates cultural xenophobia.

And so the population of South Africa seems bedevilled by both the materialism glorified by capitalism and the brutal ideology heralded by so prominent a political figure. Zuma’s inflammatory rhetoric meshed with his personal life creates a dangerous eclecticism that arguably promotes anarchy and selfishness. For example, Zuma has been married at least four times, defending this fact by labelling himself a ‘polygamist’; and he has had numerous affairs, for which he paid with cattle. Paying for women with livestock is a traditional African practice called ‘lobola’ and is a way for rural communities to measure and transfer wealth. However, it probably did little for South Africa’s international image when Zuma purchased the services of Swazi Princess, Sebentile Dlamini, with ten cows in 2002. Zuma now has about nineteen confirmed children. Stating so vehemently that same-sex marriages are a “disgrace to the nation and to God” seems a little presumptuous then: Zuma’s allegations of rape, his multiple divorces, and his extra-marital affairs seem rather hypocritical when interpreting scripture.

It can be argued then, that Zuma’s antics facilitate the social conditions in which violent crime thrives. In doing so he disrupts the democracy that Mandela fought so hard to forge. Just last year, the head of the ANC Youth League, Julius Malema, threatened to “make the country ungovernable” if Zuma’s corruption trial went ahead. As Julius raced around in his Porsche, acclaiming communist slogans to his poverty-stricken followers, and angry mobs of xenophobic (‘Zuma’) Zulus ran amok through the streets of Durban, one couldn’t help but wonder: how far is violence in Africa a part of its leadership?

by Matthew Child

We demand that Cambridge University and its colleges disinvest from the arms trade in cooperation with the existing Cambridge (and colleges) Against the Arms Trade movement.

It might be argued that exploiting the crisis in Gaza to plug a completely separate campaign is a bit on the sneaky side, but the issue of disinvestment from the arms trade is certainly a serious one, at Cambridge University more than anywhere. Cambridge is one of the largest university investors in the arms trade, providing both financial support and research projects.

But why is there a problem? Weapons producers do have a bad ethical record, but so do many other multinational companies. Coca-Cola and Nestlé, for example. However, the very nature of the arms trade, lurking as it does in the shadows of national security, makes it highly susceptible to dodgy dealings. And we all know that once a trade is driven underground, it becomes a practical Petri dish of unregulated activity. Weapons producers have been linked to such internationally condemned activities as child labour, bribery, corruption and landmine production.

They are also notorious for their lucrative deals with questionable states. The relationship between the British arms company BAE Systems and the House of Saud is particularly well known. Many of the Saudi princes, including Prince Bandar (who incidentally is a Churchill donor – thank you TCS!) have reputations of less than halal conduct. BAE also supplied Robert Mugabe’s regime in Zimbabwe with Hawk jets.

To a certain extent, these kinds of deals are unavoidable. Arms companies produce weapons. To make money, arms companies need to sell those weapons. Who buys weapons? Defence departments of governments. The arms companies can’t really afford to be choosy about the nature of those governments. It’s not like they have a lot of opportunity to target new consumers. However, the dark side of this cold analysis is that arms are far from harmless. Indeed, their purpose is to kill, maim, or otherwise wreak destruction. The horrific results of their use can be seen today in Gaza. Over 1300 Palestinians have been killed, with many more suffering physical and psychological injuries. Perhaps the disinvestment demand of the Cambridge protesters wasn’t quite so irrelevant after all.

Do we really want our university and our colleges to be indirectly responsible for such a disproportionate and hideous use of violence? More than half of Cambridge colleges have no socially responsible investment policy at all, and only a handful actually condemns the arms trade. Indeed, Magdalene has somehow managed to create an SRI policy, and yet retain their investments in BAE Systems. However, removing certain companies from our portfolios need not be detrimental to college finances. Typical avoidance could exclude only 1.9% of the FTSE all-share. So at a minimal cost to colleges, the University could remove its support for an industry which, let’s face it, has an awful lot to answer for.

If this wasn’t enough to provoke you to support University-wide disinvestment from the arms trade, here’s a final incentive. Oxford University agreed to disinvest last March. It’s catch-up time.

by Soniya Ganvir

It’s hard to get accurate figures on the number of CCTV cameras currently silently watching us in the UK. In any case, it is a question of millions- some say as high as four or five. It’s become a part of our British identity. Only Russia, China and Malaysia, those bastions of liberal democracy, scored lower in a “Surveillance societies” survey comissioned by Privacy International in 2007. In fact, you can buy your very own CCTV kit in Aldi for £29.99.

The average Londoner is filmed around three hundred times a day . Merely walking down a high street, perhaps going into a department store, or sitting down, like I do, to work in my college library means being watched, silently and furtively.

And it’s not the Orwellian overtones, there isn’t one ‘Big Brother.’ In fact, there are lots. In 2004 a law was passed that gave councils more power to spy on their employees. It is so much part of our culture that surveillance is being used to make sure the neighbours don’t fly- tip, and Mary from accounts doesn’t pull a sicky.

Cameras, like anything else, are harmless in themselves. But if we accept the principle; that the cameras only bear witness to the guilty, which is what we do when we allow people to follow our every moves, then we let the gates open to a form of trial by trust in the government’s good will. This is seeping into our approach to legislation- calling a bill which changes the principles on which the police operate an “Anti- Terror” bill damns its opponents, implies that support for Habeas Corpus is terroristic, and masks the fact that detention, arrest and searching are things that are supposed to happen before you have been proven guilty, not with the assumption that you already are. Having a vague idea or suspicion, then giving yourself the benefit of the doubt, is not a firm foundation on which to build law.

The ease with which we accept the presence of CCTV on our roads, in the shops, where we work and, thanks to Aldi, in our homes, is nothing compared to the apathy we feel when civil protections going back hundreds of years are swept away with the wearied fatherly assurance of “National Security.” Everyone knows the drill: a brief storm in the media; the promise of “a full and thorough investigation,” public recriminations and pragmatic defences.

The Independent revealed, in 2006, that every year since 2001, thirty thousand people are stopped and their beings searched under laws purporting to be ‘Anti- Terror.’ And the same laws have been used in high profile cases. An old man screams “terrorist” at Tony Blair and is bundled out of the conference hall and arrested as one himself. The opposition politician Damian Green blows the whistle on Home office mistakes and is arrested for endangering his country and spreading fear of violent reprisal. In a bizarre twist on the conventional moral paradigm of principle vs pragmatism, Jacqui Smith invoked ‘the principle of operational independence’ to defend the illegal police arrest of Damian Green, breaking parliamentary privilege, and unashamedly pretending that the Home Secretary, who is head of the police force, was unaware that the arrest was due to take place, even though the police were brought in by… the Home Office.

by Pascal Porcheron