{"id":182741,"date":"2025-10-21T12:28:53","date_gmt":"2025-10-21T10:28:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.erasmusmagazine.nl\/en\/?p=182741"},"modified":"2025-12-19T11:27:57","modified_gmt":"2025-12-19T10:27:57","slug":"the-devils-trumpet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.erasmusmagazine.nl\/en\/2025\/10\/21\/the-devils-trumpet\/","title":{"rendered":"The devil\u2019s trumpet"},"content":{"rendered":"

Number one unsaid rule of being the model undergraduate student: go to as many social events as possible, and preferably reach the highest point of drunkenness you can. Growing up as a sheltered Muslim though, has effectively rendered the intoxication section null. However, sometimes unfortunately, not the social part.<\/p>\n

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\n\t\n\n<\/svg>\n<\/span>\n\tImage by:<\/span>\n\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tPauline Wiersema<\/a>, \t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\tLevien Willemse<\/a>\t\t\t\t\t<\/span>\n\t<\/p>\n<\/figcaption><\/figure>

In the spirit of comradery with friends I\u2019ve had from my first year, I step into their housewarming party.<\/p>\n

Immediately, I remember why I went sober on social outings.<\/p>\n

A writhing, shadowy rabble of bobbing heads and shaking hips awaits my entrance. I step into its yawning jaw and immediately my senses are swallowed whole by the sea of music. No, not music. Just noises sweeping into a heaving haze pierced with shrill conversations that eat at each other to stay afloat. The cords of my throat shrivel up in fear. However, armed with practiced smiles and extravagant comedic force, I courageously barrel my way into the beast\u2019s stomach.<\/p>\n

The rest of the night goes as expected. Ears ringing. Cheeks straining. Voice rasping. Heart full of chilling spite at the mosh pit that rooted itself in the living room and sprouted branches that quivered to the pagan beat of the mass, with the occasional stream of light from the bathroom filtering through its fingers. I solemnly contemplate the absurdity of Britney Spears\u2019 voice being the devil\u2019s trumpet that pumps life back to these barely-in-their-20\u2019s zombies.<\/p>\n

Yes, I suppose zombies is the most fitting word. These final year students have been condensed under the grave pressure of the great unknown of postgraduate life. But now, with Britney\u2019s Toxic <\/em>singing aloud, they snap and shake their stiff limbs while nodding jerkingly as the bliss overtakes, blanketing them with soothing ignorance of the world.<\/p>\n

Perched in the corner, while precariously balancing my weight on toes folded under my knees, I stare owlishly and wonder if I am the true monster. That my mind is the villain in this mad universe where worries are sin. That I am the real terror \u2013 a hollow specter hovering in a dark corner while spitting condemnation and assault at innocent souls who merely wanted a small, sweet reprieve from their fears of the future.<\/p>\n

My final verdict? I really am too sober for this. And that is my cue to go.<\/p>\n

Thus, my night ends with me cycling off into the deep indigo of the night, blessedly alone. And as the wind flushes my ears with white noise, a notch unlocks in my lungs and I finally breathe.<\/p>\n

I am content.<\/p>\n\n\t

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