An unforgettable yet 'trivial' week

This has been a strange week, one that echoes the privileged position I and so many others are in. As war in Europe continues to rain down on the people of Ukraine, we are lucky enough to be able to switch off and think about matters less existential. We can go out, meet people, greet people, witness love and marriage and all the things that don't constitute living but make up what we know as life. In this context, it feels slightly silly - almost meaningless - to be writing about a hill and a concert among other things, aware that far more pressing, urgent issues lie beyond the Edinburgh ring road. But I want to make a point, it's just one that will take a few paragraphs.

I returned to Edinburgh on Tuesday, fresh from witnessing the certification of love into marriage, an archaic yet charmingly intense bond of commitment binding beloveds as tightly to each other as they wish to embrace. There was a somewhat surreal moment where, on the stag do before the wedding, fresh from an intensive game of laser quest, I found myself checking football scores as people around me discussed the logistics and mathematics of Russian troop deployment in being able to defend a Ukraine-sized piece of land from any possible insurgency. Everything then immediately felt so trivial, I felt so numb to the world which I was in. A viewer rather than a participant. It echoed Russell T Davies' 'Years and Years', where news flashes of civil wars and military conflicts were interspersed with complaints about the price of coffee. Yet our perspectives are warped by our lived experiences, our world understanding shaped by familiarities we can ground ourselves and seek comfort in.

On Wednesday, friends arrived from France, fresh from overcoming coronavirus - the other major life-changing event of the past two years. That evening, we ticked off an item on our respective bucket lists and watched a Scottish football match. As a non-partisan in this battle between Hearts and Aberdeen, I frequently caught my eyes wandering around the stadium. Before kick-off a couple of blue and yellow flags could be spotted in the stands, whilst the advertising billboards were similarly coordinated. The notion that sport is not political has always been somewhat hollow. It is a tactic often deployed by people who defend individuals or states suspected of atrocities and subjected to sporting boycotts. I'm thinking of the silence of Russian footballers, highlighted by Oleksandr Zinchenko. Or the inaction by Thomas Bach and the IOC in defending human rights and challenging China on its treatment of its Uyghur population in Xinjiang. It reminds me of when sports teams or music artists would play in Apartheid South Africa, either unaware or indifferent to the legitimacy they were affording the regime. 

Thursday and Friday were crashes back into a student reality as, after three weeks of strike action, classes resumed with the intensity of a Cabinet meeting in the Kremlin. Tutorials merged into each other, concepts were flown through and there remained a pesky midterm essay to write, draining any energy left in me. Only the unfiltered adrenaline rush of finishing that wretched document and pressing Ctrl-S could re-galvanise myself for the weekend ahead.

Amidst this, I bought a yellow and blue ribbon and a baked good at a bake sale organised by the Polish Society for the war in Ukraine. The cross-border sympathy and empathy that this war has highlighted has been heart-warming, a reminder that for all humanity's imperfections, there remains a lingering good among us that can't be stamped out by battalions and missile strikes.

As Friday reared its ugly head for a prolonged session of proof reading, news of a temporary ceasefire in Ukraine was soon overtaken by the (inevitable?) news that the ceasefire had broken down and more innocent civilians had lost their lives in this grand political game. That evening, I joined our French delegation for an escape up Blackford Hill, a place not worthy of frequent frequenting due to its mildly frustrating location and the fact that I live at the bottom of Arthur's Seat. Not to mention that I always forget how to get there.

At sunset, it was mystical. The sun was teasing its grand exit, creating a delightful purple haze through the underbelly of the surrounding clouds. All along from the Royal Observatory (Watchtower) to the summit point lies a panoramic of the city that emphasises the suburbia of Edinburgh that I rarely encounter. The Pentlands bear witness to it all, marking the historical boundaries of the city that has served as a sort of home for 18 months now.

Since starting university, I have come to consider 'home' as an increasingly fluid concept, the physical location acting as an embodiment for a place of inner contentment and familiarity. It is not so much the shops, streets and architecture as much as the friendships, contacts and memories forged over time. That's likely why every time I return to my hometown it feels less like a home. Not because it's changing - if anything it's almost all painfully the same - but because those friendships have moved to new locations and the memories are gradually being eroded by new ones. The privilege of having a physical home though, highlighted by recent events, is one to never take for granted

The delegation's departure on Sunday - back to their own warped student world of assessments and classes - was expected this morning, yet it still stung, knowing that the chance to make more memories with them has ceased for now, though will now doubt be resumed at a later date. It left me with a few hours to spend doomscrolling through tragedy, before breaking for early lunch. Afterall, I had a half-marathon to run! I signed up around six weeks ago, deciding that I wanted something to work towards whilst acknowledging that I wouldn't have time to train for another blasted marathon. And so, off I went.

The course itself was a short circuit around the Eastern half of the Meadows, multiplied by nine. My fear was one of boredom, that after three laps I would start to go mad at the repetition and lack of variation to my race. Adding to my fears was the knowledge that my run at home last weekend was my best for a while. Thankfully, in glorious conditions, with plenty of people for me to lap and to lap me, as well as a water station which I utilised abysmally, my mind was mildly entertained. The sight of familiar faces en route, all just going about their own daily lives, was also reassuring. In the end, I finished 16th overall out of 98 in 1:37:31, beating my inner goal of 1hr40 and setting a PB in the process. Upon completion, the awarding of a Tunnock's caramel wafer (known colloquially in our family as 'Nannie Joan biscuits') almost made it all seem worth it. 

Finishing shortly after me was a man in a yellow t-shirt emblazoned with a map of Ukraine. In the photo I took for him afterwards he stared solemnly into the camera, his thumbs and index fingers forming a heart which obscured the medal around his neck. It was and remains an outstanding if possibly unintentional metaphor. The notion that sport is not political has always been somewhat hollow.

There are few better ways to celebrate than by eating too much and lounging about for a couple of hours before galvanising what remaining muscles haven't been ruined and sauntering across town for a (thankfully seated) concert. The artist in question was Tangerine Dream - a German electronica band that emerged from the wider krautrock movement in the late 1960s, though with an emphasis more on the 'kosmiche' than 'motorik' end of the spectrum. Comparisons to Kraftwerk are common but do a disservice to Tangerine Dream and their prolific musical output, having released over 100 albums including around 60 film scores. Since founder Edgar Froese's death in 2015, the band has been continued by his designated successor Thorsten Quaeschning, a man who is 10 years younger than the band itself. Tonight though, that didn't matter.

Aided by extravagant lighting and video, tonight's set spanned a variety of genres, from the classical and ambient (we were after all in the grand Georgian-era Assembly rooms) to the morning rave. It was at various points reminiscent of  Eno, Bowie, Orbital, the Chemical Brothers and that other German electronic band. There were even elements of prog in the nature of the synthesiser solos. But this wasn't a macho display of skill as much as a gentle caressing of beauty, enabling the machine to captivate and transfer you from your seat into their musical universe. Accompanying Quaeschning, his four keyboards, two laptops and heavy boxes of analogue electronics was Paul Frick on drum machine, keyboard and laptop, and Hoshiko Yamane on electronic violin and laptop. Electro has gone digital.

I felt a little sorry for Yamane. As Tangerine went through their very broad back catalogue, she was sometimes reduced to only adding to existing electronica rather than carrying the melody on her own. What was notable though was the smiles and movements from the band. They were having fun, and glad to be back on stage.

If I hadn't ran a half marathon I could devote many more words to Tangerine Dream, discussing their history, journey, musical influences and why their encore (truly reminiscent of William Orbit's 'Water from a Vine Leaf') was dampened by chopped vocal sampling. But tonight is not the night for that, it's the night for appreciating the musical history I was able to witness and to hope that the musical soundscapes I heard will linger with me for longer, at least, than some of my memories from home.

Tonight was also possibly the longest I went for many days without thinking about Ukraine. It was brought to an abrupt end when, walking back, I glanced up at the castle and saw it lit up in yellow and blue. As I turned left, I saw that the clocktower on the Balmoral was lit in blue, standing above the omnipresent yellow halogen glow of the hotel lights. It sometimes feels like there's an inherent guilt to enjoying things when you're acutely aware of the suffering of others. A sense that your life, as fortunate as it may be to live in peace and freedom, is asterisked by the context it is surrounded by. 

Yet there is little to be gained by wasting the life we have. It is also both immensely valuable and important to be aware of tragedy. Because to recognise injustice is also to be galvanised by it, into either tackling these problems, raising awareness to others, or by organising to offer support. In their own small ways, I hope that my bake sale purchases and article here will go someway to achieving those. I also hope that I've demonstrated the power and importance of making the most of the opportunities, friendships and life that you have, while you have the chance. We live in the most temporarily unforgettable of times, and this week - like many others - was no different.

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The Red Cross home page on Ukraine

My piece last week for The Student newspaper on the invasion of Ukraine itself