fact or fiction

Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about women's health issues, sexism, gender roles, and the female experience.

The Day of the Viva
M Mehran Arham had always been a good student, but the word viva carried a special kind of fear for him. Written exams, he could handle. Multiple choice? Essays? No problem. But facing a professor across a table, answering questions with nothing but his mind and voice—there was something about it that turned his confidence into quicksand. The night before his final-year viva, he didn’t sleep. He sat at his desk, flipping through notes and highlighting lines that blurred together. Every fact seemed to slip through his memory like water through cupped hands. At three in the morning, he closed his books and whispered to himself: “You either know it, or you don’t. Just survive tomorrow.” --- The Waiting Room The next day, he joined his classmates outside the examination hall. The room buzzed with nervous laughter and whispered recitations. Some students paced back and forth, mumbling definitions. Others sat silently, staring into space as though rehearsing answers in their heads. Arham tried to look calm, but his leg wouldn’t stop shaking. His best friend nudged him. “Relax,” she whispered. “They’re not here to destroy us.” But that wasn’t true. Professors loved the viva because it revealed who had merely memorized and who had truly understood. For students, it felt like stepping into an arena with no shield. One by one, names were called. Students went in, some emerging pale and shaken, others smiling in relief. Arham’s turn crept closer, and with it, the pounding of his heart. --- Facing the Panel Finally, the examiner called: “Arham.” He stood, smoothed his shirt, and walked into the room. Three professors sat behind a table, notebooks open, expressions unreadable. The atmosphere was heavy, the silence stretching just long enough to unnerve him. “Good morning,” he said, his voice thinner than he wanted. “Good morning,” replied the head examiner. She adjusted her glasses and looked straight at him. “Let’s begin.” The first question was easy, almost too easy. Arham answered quickly, his rehearsed lines flowing. He felt a spark of hope—maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Then came the second question. A twist. Something buried deep in the syllabus that he had skimmed once, weeks ago. His throat went dry. He tried to recall the exact wording from his notes, but the memory slipped. He stammered, piecing together fragments. The professors exchanged glances. “Think carefully,” the examiner said. Arham’s palms sweated. He forced himself to take a breath. Instead of panicking, he spoke honestly: “I don’t remember the exact definition, but here’s how I understand the concept…” He explained it in his own words, connecting it to real-life examples. To his surprise, the examiner nodded. “Better,” she said. “Go on.” --- The Turning Point As the viva continued, Arham realized something important: this wasn’t a firing squad. It was a conversation. The professors weren’t trying to fail him—they wanted to see if he could think. The more he shifted from memorized answers to genuine reasoning, the calmer he became. He leaned into his explanations, using his hands to gesture, his voice steadying. When they challenged him, he pushed back with logic. When he didn’t know something, he admitted it and tried to analyze anyway. Minutes stretched into half an hour. At the end, the head examiner smiled faintly. “Thank you, Arham. That will be all.” He walked out, his knees weak, but this time it wasn’t from fear. It was from relief. --- Aftermath In the hallway, his classmates swarmed him. “What did they ask? Were they strict? Did you answer everything?” Arham shrugged. “They weren’t easy, but… it wasn’t as terrifying as I thought.” Later that week, when the results were posted, he had passed. Not with the highest marks, but with enough to feel proud. --- The Lesson of the Viva Looking back, Arham realized the viva had taught him more than any textbook. It wasn’t about definitions or memorized paragraphs—it was about confidence, adaptability, and honesty. Life itself, he thought, is one long viva. We’re constantly questioned—by circumstances, by challenges, by other people. Rarely do we get to prepare our answers in advance. More often, we’re thrown into situations where we must think on our feet, admit what we don’t know, and reason our way through. The viva had stripped away his crutches and forced him to trust his own mind. And that, he realized, was the real test. --- Closing Thoughts The fear of the viva never disappears completely. Even years later, when Arham sat in job interviews or gave presentations at work, he felt a flicker of that same nervousness. But now, instead of freezing, he remembered that day in the exam hall—the moment he stopped performing and started thinking. And every time he faced a new challenge, he reminded himself: Life keeps asking questions. Your job is not to know everything—it’s to answer with courage.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a year ago in Viva
The Absurd Liturgy of Digital Humans . Content Warning. AI-Generated.
No one asked me to speak, yet here I am. A nameless figure at the edge of the crowd, muttering at the digital parade. If you must imagine me, picture a man in a worn coat that never fits the season, with a face both forgettable and inconvenient. I am less a person than a leftover thought: the aftertaste of civilization once it has swallowed itself whole. Let us talk about you—the citizens of the great glowing rectangle. You wake, not by the call of birds or the warmth of sunlight, but by an alarm that shrieks from a device you cradle more intimately than your own children. Before your eyes have even adjusted to daylight, you are already thumbing through your notifications, your desperate fingers searching for proof that you exist. Perhaps someone liked your photograph of a coffee cup. Perhaps an algorithm, like a ghostly god, has decided you are worthy of attention. Congratulations: you are alive for another hour. Technology, you say, has connected the world. Nonsense. It has stitched together the planet in the way Frankenstein stitched together his monster—veins mismatched, nerves miswired, a lumbering creature desperate for approval. You are connected, yes, but like rats tangled in the same electric wire. The internet is not a network; it is a nervous breakdown with Wi-Fi. You ask me, “But doesn’t technology make life easier?” Easier for whom? For the corporations, certainly. For the advertisers who know what brand of toothpaste you prefer before you do, absolutely. But you—poor little flesh-puppet—have never been more harassed, never more surveilled, never more willingly enslaved. You whisper your secrets into microphones disguised as smart assistants, and then are surprised when the walls seem to answer back. The absurdity lies in how you defend your captivity. You queue overnight for the privilege of buying the latest version of the same glowing brick, a brick that spies on you better than the last. You tell yourself it is progress. Progress to where? You no longer walk anywhere without a map application holding your hand like a toddler. Should the servers collapse tomorrow, half the population would vanish into parking lots, circling forever like lost spirits, unable to locate their own front doors. You call it the “information age.” But what you have is not information; it is a landfill. You shovel data into your heads like junk food, mistaking the sensation of fullness for nourishment. You binge on headlines stripped of context, memes that sterilize thought, and opinion pieces written by unpaid interns who mistake provocation for wisdom. You are, all of you, intellectual tourists wandering through a carnival of noise. I am not nostalgic. Do not mistake me for one of those trembling romantics who wish to return to the candlelit past. The past was no better—only differently absurd. Men once worshiped kings, now they worship influencers; the stupidity is consistent, only the costumes change. But at least in the past, a man might know his own voice. Today your speech patterns are borrowed from trending hashtags, your desires assembled from marketing surveys. You speak like an echo and feel like an advertisement. And what of your bodies, these strange containers you seem so embarrassed by? You strap devices to your wrists to remind you to walk, to breathe, to sleep—functions that even a lizard accomplishes without prompting. You track your steps obsessively, as if salvation depends on crossing some magic threshold. Ten thousand steps and perhaps heaven will unlock like a fitness achievement. How many steps, I wonder, until you step back into yourselves? But let me not sound merely grim. There is comedy here too, exquisite comedy, as rich as any theater could stage. Watch a subway full of commuters, heads bowed not in prayer but in synchronized servitude to their phones, their faces illuminated like saints before a glowing altar. Watch the couples at dinner, photographing the meal they are too distracted to taste. Watch the child swiping at a glass screen before it can form words, already more fluent in the language of touchscreens than in the language of touch. The laughter catches in the throat, yes, but it is laughter nonetheless. You may ask: if I despise this world so much, why do I remain within it? Ah, but there is no outside anymore. Technology is not something you use; it is something you are. Try to discard it and you become an outcast, a lunatic mumbling on street corners. Even I, the mysterious critic, speak through a digital medium, my words carried by servers humming in sterile rooms where no human hand will ever touch them. To reject technology now is to vanish entirely, and vanishing is the one sin civilization cannot forgive. So I offer no solution, no clean exit. I am not a prophet. I am only an observer at the far edge of reason, muttering that the emperor’s new clothes are not only invisible but sponsored, manufactured, and constantly upgraded to version 2.0. My role is not to lead you out of the labyrinth but merely to remind you that you are in one—and that the walls are made of screens. Perhaps the most honest future is not salvation but collapse. Systems built on absurdity eventually exhaust themselves. Empires of distraction rot from within. One day the power will flicker, the network will sputter, and the glowing rectangles will all go dark. And then, perhaps, you will notice the silence. Not the silence of absence, but the silence of possibility. Perhaps you will meet your own reflection unmediated by pixels. Perhaps you will even learn how to walk without directions. Until then, you continue. Tap, swipe, scroll. Like obedient dreamers trapped in someone else’s nightmare. I will be here too, watching, laughing quietly, the strange man at the edge of the parade, whispering that the music is not music at all but static—and that you are dancing anyway.
By Suciptoabout a year ago in Viva
Critical Notes on Life’s Peculiar Circus. Content Warning. AI-Generated.
Life, in its infinite generosity, insists on giving us problems the way a deranged clown tosses cream pies: one after another, straight in the face, without explanation, and with a grin so grotesque it borders on divine. People say that problems make us stronger, though no one has ever explained why strength should be such a desirable state. After all, the strongest creatures on this planet are cockroaches, who can supposedly outlive nuclear winters. And yet no one erects monuments to them, nor do they get motivational posters. Humanity celebrates strength while quietly hoping never to need it—like buying a fire extinguisher and praying it will remain untouched, collecting dust and guilt in the corner. The truly absurd part is that most of our problems are manufactured by ourselves, in the grand tradition of self-sabotage that seems written into our genetic code. We invent money, then agonize over not having enough of it. We devise governments, then complain about their corruption as if corruption were some unexpected side effect rather than the natural flavor of power itself. We create gods, then tremble before them, puzzled when these gods resemble suspiciously tyrannical landlords. If an alien anthropologist were to visit Earth, their report would simply read: “The species generates puzzles for itself and then suffers indignantly when it cannot solve them.” There is a cruel irony in how the most pressing human problems are often invisible, unmeasurable, and almost certainly unsolvable. Loneliness, for example, is not counted on GDP charts. You cannot measure despair in liters, nor can you weigh meaninglessness on a kitchen scale. And yet these intangible torments drive people more effectively than hunger or cold. A man with an empty stomach may survive; a man with an empty sense of purpose may very well pull the plug himself. That is life’s joke: it demands that we continue breathing in a universe that can’t even bother to provide subtitles. The advice culture, of course, makes everything worse. Everywhere one turns, there are instructions for “happiness.” Ten steps, five hacks, three spiritual rituals involving Himalayan salt and goat yoga. They tell you to think positively, which is essentially like telling someone with a bullet wound to imagine rainbows instead of calling an ambulance. Positivity is not a cure; it is a sedative. We are encouraged to meditate while standing on metaphorical burning buildings. And when that fails, society simply says, “Well, you didn’t try hard enough.” The blame shifts neatly back to the sufferer, who is conveniently too exhausted to protest. Love, the great intoxicant, is another cosmic prank. People chase it as though it were oxygen, and perhaps it is, but oxygen at least does not abandon you after a heated argument over dirty dishes. Love promises transcendence but delivers paperwork, jealousy, and someone else’s snoring. It is a contract written in invisible ink, always expiring at the worst moment. And yet, absurdly, we return to it, again and again, as moths to a lamp that burns them every time. Perhaps we return because the alternative—solitary existence—is simply too humiliating to admit. To die alone is the greatest modern horror, which is laughable, considering everyone dies alone anyway, no matter how many clasped hands surround the bed. Then there is work: the great charade of productivity. We devote decades to filling forms, typing emails, stacking boxes, pushing digital numbers around like children playing with sandcastles that the tide erases. Work is presented as noble, when in fact it is a polite way of saying that without constant distraction, people would notice how futile existence really is. Capitalism, in its brilliance, has managed to turn despair into an economy. The fact that many spend more hours in fluorescent offices than under natural sunlight is proof enough of humanity’s submission to its own inventions. One wonders if future historians—if there are any left—will marvel not at our wars or technology, but at our willingness to sacrifice entire lifetimes to tasks whose memory dies the moment we retire. As for morality, it is perhaps the most absurd invention of all. Each culture scribbles a different rulebook, then insists theirs is the universal edition. Murder is wrong—except in war. Theft is wrong—unless conducted by corporations through loopholes. Lying is wrong—unless you’re a politician, a parent calming a child, or someone on a first date. What we call morality is merely convenience wrapped in poetry, a flexible code written by winners to keep losers in line. And yet, without morality, civilization collapses into teeth and claws. It is the ultimate absurdity: humanity trapped between rules it doesn’t believe and chaos it cannot survive. Death, naturally, is the only reliable solution, the full stop at the end of life’s nonsensical sentence. Yet it is the one subject that society avoids, as if refusing to mention it will make it vanish. Funerals are performed with mechanical solemnity, but no one truly believes the scripted platitudes. “They’re in a better place,” people whisper, as though eternity were a holiday resort with good weather. The reality is simpler: decomposition. Ashes, worms, and silence. The only mercy is that the dead no longer need to endure motivational seminars or office meetings. And so we continue, marching forward, inventing meaning as fast as it dissolves, clinging to illusions with white-knuckled determination. Cynicism, contrary to popular opinion, is not despair but clarity—the recognition that life is a play performed without a script, in which the actors argue over costumes while the stage itself burns. The absurdity lies not in the fire, but in the fact that the audience applauds anyway, too terrified to admit the show was never worth attending. In the end, perhaps the only sane response is laughter—not the joyous kind, but the sharp, bitter laughter of someone who has seen the machinery backstage and knows the whole thing is powered by rust and duct tape. To laugh is to admit defeat with style, to transform the unbearable into something momentarily tolerable. Because if life insists on being ridiculous, the least we can do is join the comedy troupe, smearing greasepaint across our faces as the curtain falls.
By Suciptoabout a year ago in Viva
The Songstress Who Guarded a Will
She had a voice that could quiet thunder.A presence that made you want to sit straighter, speak kinder, listen deeper.In real life, she was a songstress.In fiction, she was a guardian of fate.
By Black Vanillaabout a year ago in Viva
5 African Superstitions I Grew Up Believing — And What They Really Mean
Growing up in an African household means you don’t just inherit your family name—you inherit their beliefs, taboos, myths, and stories. Some of them are heartwarming. Others are downright terrifying. But one thing is for sure: they shape the way you see the world.
By Abdushakur Mrishoabout a year ago in Viva
Where Silence Speaks: Finding Peace Among the Trees
Where Silence Speaks: Finding Peace Among the Trees In the quiet embrace of the forest, every rustle and ray of light tells a story of calm, healing, and timeless beauty.
By Dr Zaland hameedabout a year ago in Viva
The Letter I Never Sent: A Daughter’s Unspoken Goodbye
Chapter 1: The Quiet Phone Calls It started with short phone calls. My mom’s voice, once so full of energy, sounded tired. She told me not to worry, that she just had the flu. But deep down, I felt something was wrong. I lived in a different city for college, and every time I offered to come home, she insisted I stay and focus on my studies.
By Waqar Khanabout a year ago in Viva
Is Beauty Realistic? – How Different Cultures Rate Beauty
Learn about the most important standards of beauty throughout history and across cultures. However, we can say that beauty standards vary according to the era. There are also some factors and requirements that greatly influence people's concepts regarding the ability to determine the characteristics of beauty and ugliness. Among the most important and prominent beauty requirements that have become common recently are long, soft hair, a well-proportioned body, and perfect teeth.
By Uchenna Cosmas Nwokafor about a year ago in Viva
become a better person. Content Warning.
Become a Better Person I chose this title not because I'm wise, but because that's what I'm trying to do right now: become the best version of myself-even though the road... well, it's winding and there are many traps.
By Rehany Rettya Putryabout a year ago in Viva
Top 7 Films Like Mission: Impossible – Action, Espionage, and Unforgettable Thrills.
Introduction: Why We Love “Mission: Impossible” The Mission: Impossible film series has been a hallmark of the action-spy genre ever since its 1996 release. It combines jaw-dropping stunts, intricate espionage plots, and the enticing charisma of Tom Cruise as Ethan Hunt. The perfect blend of globe-trotting intrigue, elite secret agents, double-crosses, and high-octane action scenes draws audiences to these films. But what happens when you’ve binge-watched the entire series and crave more?
By Krypton 2 years ago in Viva
The 5 Most Favorite Batman Actors of All Time: A Deep Dive into the Legends Behind the Cowl.
Introduction: The Everlasting Legacy of the Dark Knight Batman, created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger in 1939, has remained one of the most iconic and enduring superheroes in pop culture. With his brooding personality, unmatched detective skills, and moral complexity, Batman has inspired countless comic books, television shows, and films. But it’s the actors who have donned the cape and cowl that have left a lasting impression on audiences worldwide.
By Krypton 2 years ago in Viva
30 Self-Help Books to Read as a Form of Self-Care: A Journey to Healing, Growth, and Empowerment.
Introduction: The Healing Power of Self-Help Books In a world that never seems to pause, self-care has become more than just a buzzword—it's a necessity. While meditation, healthy eating, and exercise are powerful self-care practices, reading can be equally transformative. Self-help books offer insights, motivation, and practical tools to heal, grow, and thrive. Whether you're navigating anxiety, burnout, grief, or simply yearning for a more purposeful life, the right book can act as a companion, therapist, coach, and friend.
By Krypton 2 years ago in Viva