I've been asked pretty consistently over the past 2.5 years the same question: Why did I study abroad for university? And more importantly, why did I choose Edinburgh?
I never answer the question the same way and I've never really felt like I had the right answer. To be honest, it was a bit of a spontaneous decision to consider leaving the U.S. I never even thought it was an option. But a girl next to me during one of my classes junior year told me about her "college touring" trip -- all over Scotland. It sounded incredible. Top that off with the lower cost of attendance, and I was hooked. It seemed so much more glamorous, so much more foreign and adult, than U.S. colleges.
I wanted to go to England: LSE or Oxford or Cambridge. But the standardized testing requirements they set for international students were insane and I would have needed to spend another year in high school just to take the tests I needed to. So, Scotland was runner up. Honestly, I literally just Googled "good universities for politics in Scotland." Edinburgh came up alongside St. Andrews. And I really didn't do much research besides that...something I now regret. When I was accepted unconditionally to both, and received my acceptances (and most importantly, financial aid packages) from U.S. schools, it came time to decide: Edinburgh or UMass, right in my hometown?
I had two choices. Take a risk or stay where I knew I was happy? Leave everyone I know or go where I have a lot of friends? I realized that if I went to Edinburgh and I didn't like it, I could always transfer back to UMass easily. But, if I went to UMass and didn't like it, I couldn't go back to Edinburgh.
So, that's why I chose Edinburgh: because why not and I have a backup plan if it sucks. Not a
great story. No, I don't have family there, and I don't have any
Scottish heritage. I'm not especially interested in UK politics. I have no plans to live or work in the UK after graduation. To a lot of people, it doesn't really make sense for me to be there.
I'll often say that one of the reasons I wanted to leave the U.S. for
university is so that I could leave the Americentric bubble of politics.
Which is sort of true, and sounds nice for small-talk. But all that
happened was I moved from an Americentric bubble to a Anglocentric one:
the diversity that I expected to find was basically non-existent.
Another reason I'll sometimes throw in there is that I wanted to have the opportunity to travel, something which is much more accessible when you're already in Europe. And I have, which has been great: from the Scottish Highlands to Dublin to Vienna to Istanbul, and lots in between. But even though travel is cheaper, on a student budget it is very, very difficult.
More on why I don't like the University of Edinburgh (and a few reasons why I do!) coming soon....
Tuesday, December 22, 2015
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
post, post-11/13 thoughts
It's been just about a month since the attacks, and I've bounced back from where I was the last time I posted -- back to my overly-optimistic and at times naive self. I'm still quite cautious, jumping at loud noises or shrieks, and the constant sight of military personnel with large guns in the streets of Paris has been both reassuring and an unpleasant reminder. I've been staying in touch with many of the participants from Women2Women Belgium, who have been dealing with their own difficult situation in Brussels and beyond, and learning about the steps that they are taking to change their own communities, be it in education, philanthropy, or waste management. It can often be overwhelming to me to hear all the time about horrible people doing horrible things, an often unavoidable topic in the study of international relations. I think it's important that I work to focus equally on the people that are doing amazing things all over the world. I truly believe that the good outweighs the evil; just, sometimes, it gets a little hard to remember. I struggled a lot to find the goodness in people following the attacks, but I am lucky to know so many people who are doing life-changing things that it didn't last too long.
I've just returned from Paris back to Amherst, and now Maine, and am happily back in the throes of small-town life. The online debates about politics, welfare, social services still continue, though, and it's getting hard not to get disheartened or emotional about every insensitive comment made.
I babysit for a French family in Paris, and one day the father and I were talking about American politics versus French politics. He said that while he disagreed with many of the things Donald Trump said, he appreciated the fact that Trump's candor highlighted the true freedom of speech that exists in America. While Trump's statements are deliberately inflammatory, it starts off a discussion of real issues that are not restricted by political correctness. Conversely, in France, he believes that there is a real limitation of what is acceptable to be discussed and what is not. He says that because of these norms, there is not real freedom of speech. I thought that this was a really interesting perspective that I hadn't considered. So now, when I hear about Trump's daily antics, I try to focus on that importance of freedom of speech and push myself to consider the heart of the issues and disagreements instead immediately reacting emotionally. (Though it is hard sometimes to consider the opposite perspective -- for instance, 6 out of 10 GOP supporters agree with the ban on accepting Muslims into the US. Tell me again how that solves the current issue of extremism?)
All in all, the past year has been a very interesting time to be living internationally, studying politics, and really living the hot-button issues: from the 2014 Scottish referendum, to the refugee crisis at local camps in Paris and in the heart of Vienna, to the extremism seen in November. I feel very fortunate to be experiencing these controversies first-hand, to have my ideas consistently challenged, and to able to begin to understand these issues in a practical and realistic setting -- not just in a textbook. I am unmistakably lucky to have the education and support system that I do in order to process and reflect on these experiences.
I've just returned from Paris back to Amherst, and now Maine, and am happily back in the throes of small-town life. The online debates about politics, welfare, social services still continue, though, and it's getting hard not to get disheartened or emotional about every insensitive comment made.
I babysit for a French family in Paris, and one day the father and I were talking about American politics versus French politics. He said that while he disagreed with many of the things Donald Trump said, he appreciated the fact that Trump's candor highlighted the true freedom of speech that exists in America. While Trump's statements are deliberately inflammatory, it starts off a discussion of real issues that are not restricted by political correctness. Conversely, in France, he believes that there is a real limitation of what is acceptable to be discussed and what is not. He says that because of these norms, there is not real freedom of speech. I thought that this was a really interesting perspective that I hadn't considered. So now, when I hear about Trump's daily antics, I try to focus on that importance of freedom of speech and push myself to consider the heart of the issues and disagreements instead immediately reacting emotionally. (Though it is hard sometimes to consider the opposite perspective -- for instance, 6 out of 10 GOP supporters agree with the ban on accepting Muslims into the US. Tell me again how that solves the current issue of extremism?)
All in all, the past year has been a very interesting time to be living internationally, studying politics, and really living the hot-button issues: from the 2014 Scottish referendum, to the refugee crisis at local camps in Paris and in the heart of Vienna, to the extremism seen in November. I feel very fortunate to be experiencing these controversies first-hand, to have my ideas consistently challenged, and to able to begin to understand these issues in a practical and realistic setting -- not just in a textbook. I am unmistakably lucky to have the education and support system that I do in order to process and reflect on these experiences.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
post-11/13 thoughts
I don't really know where to start. I know that I am lucky. I know that I am scared. More scared than I should be. I wasn't near any of the places that got attacked. I wasn't mentally or physically traumatized. Yet I still feel too scared to go outside, cowering indoors with the shades drawn and rationing my food as though I am a prisoner
I'm questioning my future. I had always wanted to go to areas of conflict, from when I was a child declaring I wanted to be "a doctor without a border," to when I wanted to move to Rwanda at 13 after getting a pen pal from there, to when I began dreaming of going to Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan to become a journalist, inspired by the great Nicholas Kristof and his Half The Sky. I always believed that there would be a time when the world would be peaceful enough that I could visit my friends from Women2Women in Libya, Egypt, Pakistan, Kenya, Chad.
And now, suddenly, the conflict is too close to home. I feel selfish and weak, knowing that I have friends in Palestine and Lebanon and Kurdistan who know attacks like these intimately. And here I am, the sheltered American girl who can't handle one attack that, compared to the rest of the world, is truly a drop in the bucket. Part of me just wants to give up on my dreams to change the world -- it's too fucked up to even bother. Part of me wants to run away just so I'm never in danger. If you can get gunned down in a restaurant in Paris, at a concert, watching a sports game...who knows where you can ever be truly safe. This could have happened in Boston. This could have happened in Edinburgh. It still can. Maybe it will.
I'm heartbroken with the knowledge that this attack will make it infinitely harder for refugees to flee and come to a safer country. I am heartbroken knowing that there are people who fled IS in Syria, only to come to Paris and find them among us. I am heartbroken knowing that I am helpless, without any clues on how to change the system, how to help. I am scared that I no longer believe that people are good.
Though it felt, and still feels, wrong to focus on myself, last night I couldn't help but feel slightly cheered by witnessing how many people cared about my well-being. I had countless messages from friends near and far, some of whom I hadn't spoken to in years or had fallen out with, who knew I was in Paris and wanted to make sure I was safe. It was strangely comforting to know that if I had died, people would care.
I remember doing an interview project in ninth grade on the Cold War. I interviewed older teachers and librarians, asking what it was like to grow up during the height of the tensions. I remember every one of them individually telling me: "We practiced nuclear bomb drills in school. We knew conflict was inevitable. It was coming; there was no doubt of that." And I remember thinking to myself, well, that was silly of them -- clearly it didn't come. Only now I feel that same inevitability. With ISIS going global and extremism rising, an international refugee crisis, natural disasters in all corners of the world, and previously-eradicated diseases coming back to life...something is coming. We're on the brink of another world war, I can feel it brewing hot and heavy every passing day. Nothing will ever be the same from here on out. Our children will learn the same bomb drills that the generation before us knew. Yesterday I truly believed I could prevent that, that I could be one of many to help change the course of the world and bring peace and understanding, an acceptance of diversity. But today, I'm not so confident.
I'm questioning my future. I had always wanted to go to areas of conflict, from when I was a child declaring I wanted to be "a doctor without a border," to when I wanted to move to Rwanda at 13 after getting a pen pal from there, to when I began dreaming of going to Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan to become a journalist, inspired by the great Nicholas Kristof and his Half The Sky. I always believed that there would be a time when the world would be peaceful enough that I could visit my friends from Women2Women in Libya, Egypt, Pakistan, Kenya, Chad.
And now, suddenly, the conflict is too close to home. I feel selfish and weak, knowing that I have friends in Palestine and Lebanon and Kurdistan who know attacks like these intimately. And here I am, the sheltered American girl who can't handle one attack that, compared to the rest of the world, is truly a drop in the bucket. Part of me just wants to give up on my dreams to change the world -- it's too fucked up to even bother. Part of me wants to run away just so I'm never in danger. If you can get gunned down in a restaurant in Paris, at a concert, watching a sports game...who knows where you can ever be truly safe. This could have happened in Boston. This could have happened in Edinburgh. It still can. Maybe it will.
I'm heartbroken with the knowledge that this attack will make it infinitely harder for refugees to flee and come to a safer country. I am heartbroken knowing that there are people who fled IS in Syria, only to come to Paris and find them among us. I am heartbroken knowing that I am helpless, without any clues on how to change the system, how to help. I am scared that I no longer believe that people are good.
Though it felt, and still feels, wrong to focus on myself, last night I couldn't help but feel slightly cheered by witnessing how many people cared about my well-being. I had countless messages from friends near and far, some of whom I hadn't spoken to in years or had fallen out with, who knew I was in Paris and wanted to make sure I was safe. It was strangely comforting to know that if I had died, people would care.
I remember doing an interview project in ninth grade on the Cold War. I interviewed older teachers and librarians, asking what it was like to grow up during the height of the tensions. I remember every one of them individually telling me: "We practiced nuclear bomb drills in school. We knew conflict was inevitable. It was coming; there was no doubt of that." And I remember thinking to myself, well, that was silly of them -- clearly it didn't come. Only now I feel that same inevitability. With ISIS going global and extremism rising, an international refugee crisis, natural disasters in all corners of the world, and previously-eradicated diseases coming back to life...something is coming. We're on the brink of another world war, I can feel it brewing hot and heavy every passing day. Nothing will ever be the same from here on out. Our children will learn the same bomb drills that the generation before us knew. Yesterday I truly believed I could prevent that, that I could be one of many to help change the course of the world and bring peace and understanding, an acceptance of diversity. But today, I'm not so confident.
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