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The wonder boys: meeting Winchester Cathedral's choristers

Being a chorister is hard work, and their commitment to their music tends to give them a startlingly mature outlook on certain aspects of life.

For a thousand years, people have come to cathedrals at the coldest time of the year to be reminded that something better is coming, that the light will return. Nowadays, the anticipation of that moment is punctuated by the arrival of TV adverts and the counting-down of shopping dates, but in all the festive cacophony, it is still possible to hear music – the kind that promises us that amid all the tinsel and tat there is perhaps still space for wonder.

Nothing does this more effectively than the pure, young voice of a chorister. Whether it’s on Classic FM or the annual BBC broadcast of carols from King’s, every year we pause for a moment to listen and marvel at the way these children can sing. Then we carry on with our own celebrations, giving little thought to the seven-year-olds for whom Christmas is, in essence, another day at work.

And it’s hard work, too. Church attendance is dwindling, so the rest of the year the choristers’ audiences may be small, but at Christmas everything is different. At Winchester Cathedral, they have to put on the same carol service three times to make sure all the thousands of people who want to attend can squeeze in.

The choristers, who are pupils at the Pilgrims’ School adjacent to the cathedral, return after the rest of their classmates have gone home for the holidays and stay until Christmas Day. They rehearse intensively during this period and sing in public – either for a service or for a concert, or both – every day. Given that they are all between seven and 13 years old, it’s a punishing schedule after a busy school term. The adults in the choir – known as lay clerks – are all professional singers and the children are expected to sing to the same standard.

For all their musical prowess, they are still children. Following a double file of small, cloak-clad figures as they make their way from the school to the cathedral, I watch the boys race and push and shove around me as they go. One raises a stack of plastic cups to his eye and pretends to be a Dalek, threatening to exterminate his fellows. Another stops to poke at something in the gutter with a stick and then runs to catch up, cloak streaming.

Inside the cathedral, the ribs vault over our heads like a whale skeleton, neck-achingly high, meeting in the middle to form a great ceiling of bleached, carved bone. The boys disappear briefly to change and then, still teasing and groaning, they gather at the foot of a dark fir tree. It’s only when the candles they hold are lit that they are suddenly no longer boys but choristers, a perfect Christmas tableau with puddles of light illuminating their white ruffs and crimson cassocks. As they begin to sing “Away in a Manger”, the air in the cathedral quickens and hums along with them.

If staying at school for weeks to do hour after hour of choir practice after everyone else has left sounds like the worst sort of torture, these boys certainly don’t see it that way. The staff who remain at the school to look after the boys do their best to make “choir time” fun. The boys excitedly tell me about how the school rules banning Nerf guns – which fire foam bullets – are relaxed and that they are allowed to turn the dining hall into a battleground, upturning the tables and benches to make forts as they declare war on each other. If the weather is fine, long games of “capture the flag” take place on the school playing fields, which are partly encircled by the ancient city wall. There are a few historic games, too – they follow hundreds of years of chorister tradition by angling for paper fish from the landing in the deanery and play a complicated coin toss game in teams to win a coveted trophy.

Their commitment to their music tends to give them a startlingly mature outlook on certain aspects of life. Paddy, who, being in year eight, is one of the older boys in the choir, admits that being a chorister has altered his perception of what it means to be busy. “All the choristers complain that we don’t get enough free time, but when we do, we don’t know how to use it,” he explains. “It’s actually quite fun,” agrees Alex, who is a year younger. “I’d rather be at school doing stuff than sitting at home doing nothing.”

Ice skating is also a popular activity and because of their daily work in the cathedral, the boys get after-hours access to the rink set up just outside its walls. They look almost too much like a Christmas card, shooting about on skates in their cassocks. On Christmas cards, though, nobody breaks any bones – but Paddy has a fresh cast on his wrist, the result of a slip on the ice. “When I went to hospital, they gave me a choice of colour for my cast,” he says. Ever the dutiful chorister, he picked red, “because I thought it would blend in with my cassock”.

On 25 December at the Pilgrims’ School, 17 small boys will wake up early and dash downstairs to empty their stockings. (Their parents will join them for lunch but, for the moment, the boarding master’s wife plays both mum and Father Christmas.) Outside, the deputy head will let off a big firework, an unusual custom that puzzles those nearby who are not in the know – what is that booming noise, so early on Christmas morning? But parents, friends and parishioners will be listening out for the bang and sizzle. They know that the same children who are capering around in their pyjamas, delighting at the explosion, will soon be in Winchester Cathedral, candles lit and voices raised.

Caroline Crampton is assistant editor of the New Statesman. She writes a weekly podcast column.

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Tweeting terror: what social media reveals about how we respond to tragedy

From sharing graphic images to posting a selfie, what compels online behaviours that can often outwardly seem improper?

Why did they post that? Why did they share a traumatising image? Why did they tell a joke? Why are they making this about themselves? Did they… just post a selfie? Why are they spreading fake news?

These are questions social media users almost inevitably ask themselves in the immediate aftermath of a tragedy such as Wednesday’s Westminster attack. Yet we ask not because of genuine curiosity, but out of shock and judgement provoked by what we see as the wrong way to respond online. But these are still questions worth answering. What drives the behaviours we see time and again on social media in the wake of a disaster?

The fake image

“I really didn't think it was going to become a big deal,” says Dr Ranj Singh. “I shared it just because I thought it was very pertinent, I didn't expect it to be picked up by so many people.”

Singh was one of the first people to share a fake Tube sign on Twitter that was later read out in Parliament and on BBC Radio 4. The TfL sign – a board in stations which normally provides service information but can often feature an inspiring quote – read: “All terrorists are politely reminded that THIS IS LONDON and whatever you do to us we will drink tea and jolly well carry on thank you.”

Singh found it on the Facebook page of a man called John (who later explained to me why he created the fake image) and posted it on his own Twitter account, which has over 40,000 followers. After it went viral, many began pointing out that the sign was faked.

“At a time like this is it really helpful to point out that its fake?” asks Singh – who believes it is the message, not the medium, that matters most. “The sentiment is real and that's what's important.”

Singh tells me that he first shared the sign because he found it to be profound and was then pleased with the initial “sense of solidarity” that the first retweets brought. “I don't think you can fact-check sentiments,” he says, explaining why he didn’t delete the tweet.

Dr Grainne Kirwan, a cyberpsychology lecturer and author, explains that much of the behaviour we see on social media in the aftermath of an attack can be explained by this desire for solidarity. “It is part of a mechanism called social processing,” she says. “By discussing a sudden event of such negative impact it helps the individual to come to terms with it… When shocked, scared, horrified, or appalled by an event we search for evidence that others have similar reactions so that our response is validated.”

The selfies and the self-involved

Yet often, the most maligned social media behaviour in these situations seems less about solidarity and more about selfishness. Why did YouTuber Jack Jones post a since-deleted selfie with the words “The outmost [sic] respect to our public services”? Why did your friend, who works nowhere near Westminster, mark themselves as “Safe” using Facebook’s Safety Check feature? Why did New Statesman writer Laurie Penny say in a tweet that her “atheist prayers” were with the victims?

“It was the thought of a moment, and not a considered statement,” says Penny. The rushed nature of social media posts during times of crisis can often lead to misunderstandings. “My atheism is not a political statement, or something I'm particularly proud of, it just is.”

Penny received backlash on the site for her tweet, with one user gaining 836 likes on a tweet that read: “No need to shout 'I'm an atheist!' while trying to offer solidarity”. She explains that she posted her tweet due to the “nonsensical” belief that holding others in her heart makes a difference at tragic times, and was “shocked” when people became angry at her.

“I was shouted at for making it all about me, which is hard to avoid at the best of times on your own Twitter feed,” she says. “Over the years I've learned that 'making it about you' and 'attention seeking' are familiar accusations for any woman who has any sort of public profile – the problem seems to be not with what we do but with who we are.”

Penny raises a valid point that social media is inherently self-involved, and Dr Kirwan explains that in emotionally-charged situations it is easy to say things that are unclear, or can in hindsight seem callous or insincere.

“Our online society may make it feel like we need to show a response to events quickly to demonstrate solidarity or disdain for the individuals or parties directly involved in the incident, and so we put into writing and make publicly available something which we wrote in haste and without full knowledge of the circumstances.”

The joke

Arguably the most condemned behaviour in the aftermath of a tragedy is the sharing of an ill-timed joke. Julia Fraustino, a research affiliate at the National Consortium for the Study of Terrorism and Responses to Terrorism (START), reflects on this often seemingly inexplicable behaviour. “There’s research dating back to the US 9/11 terror attacks that shows lower rates of disaster-related depression and anxiety for people who evoke positive emotions before, during and after tragic events,” she says, stating that humour can be a coping mechanism.

“The offensiveness or appropriateness of humor seems, at least in part, to be tied to people’s perceived severity of the crisis,” she adds. “An analysis of tweets during a health pandemic showed that humorous posts rose and fell along with the seriousness of the situation, with more perceived seriousness resulting in fewer humour-based posts.”

The silence

If you can’t say anything nice, why say anything at all? Bambi's best friend Thumper's quote might be behind the silence we see from some social media users. Rather than simply being uncaring, there are factors which can predict whether someone will be active or passive on social media after a disaster, notes Fraustino.

“A couple of areas that factor into whether a person will post on social media during a disaster are issue-involvement and self-involvement,” she says. “When people perceive that the disaster is important and they believe they can or should do something about it, they may be more likely to share others’ posts or create their own content. Combine issue-involvement with self-involvement, which in this context refers to a desire for self-confirmation such as through gaining attention by being perceived as a story pioneer or thought leader, and the likelihood goes up that this person will create or curate disaster-related content on social media.”

“I just don’t like to make it about me,” one anonymous social media user tells me when asked why he doesn’t post anything himself – but instead shares or retweets posts – during disasters. “I feel like people just want likes and retweets and aren’t really being sincere, and I would hate to do that. Instead I just share stuff from important people, or stuff that needs to be said – like reminders not to share graphic images.”

The graphic image

The sharing of graphic and explicit images is often widely condemned, as many see this as both pointless and potentially psychologically damaging. After the attack, BBC Newsbeat collated tens of tweets by people angry that passersby took pictures instead of helping, with multiple users branding it “absolutely disgusting”.

Dr Kirwan explains that those near the scene may feel a “social responsibility” to share their knowledge, particularly in situations where there is a fear of media bias. It is also important to remember that shock and panic can make us behave differently than we normally would.

Yet the reason this behaviour often jars is because we all know what motivates most of us to post on social media: attention. It is well-documented that Likes and Shares give us a psychological boost, so it is hard to feel that this disappears in tragic circumstances. If we imagine someone is somehow “profiting” from posting traumatic images, this can inspire disgust. Fraustino even notes that posts with an image are significantly more likely to be clicked on, liked, or shared.

Yet, as Dr Kiwarn explains, Likes don’t simply make us happy on such occasions, they actually make us feel less alone. “In situations where people are sharing terrible information we may still appreciate likes, retweets, [and] shares as it helps to reinforce and validate our beliefs and position on the situation,” she says. “It tells us that others feel the same way, and so it is okay for us to feel this way.”

Fraustino also argues that these posts can be valuable, as they “can break through the noise and clutter and grab attention” and thereby bring awareness to a disaster issue. “As positive effects, emotion-evoking images can potentially increase empathy and motivation to contribute to relief efforts.”

The judgement

The common thread isn’t simply the accusation that such social media behaviours are “insensitive”, it is that there is an abundance of people ready to point the finger and criticise others, even – and especially – at a time when they should focus on their own grief. VICE writer Joel Golby sarcastically summed it up best in a single tweet: “please look out for my essay, 'Why Everyone's Reaction to the News is Imperfect (But My Own)', filed just now up this afternoon”.

“When already emotional other users see something which they don't perceive as quite right, they may use that opportunity to vent anger or frustration,” says Dr Kirwan, explaining that we are especially quick to judge the posts of people we don’t personally know. “We can be very quick to form opinions of others using very little information, and if our only information about a person is a post which we feel is inappropriate we will tend to form a stereotyped opinion of this individual as holding negative personality traits.

“This stereotype makes it easier to target them with hateful speech. When strong emotions are present, we frequently neglect to consider if we may have misinterpreted the content, or if the person's apparently negative tone was intentional or not.”

Fraustino agrees that people are attempting to reduce their own uncertainty or anxiety when assigning blame. “In a terror attack setting where emotions are high, uncertainty is high, and anxiety is high, blaming or scapegoating can relieve some of those negative emotions for some people.”

Amelia Tait is a technology and digital culture writer at the New Statesman.