Editorial: What do Certificates Certify? (Parody)

This post is not intended to be taken seriously.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? is a Latin phrase found in the work of the Roman poet Juvenal from his Satires (Satire VI, lines 347–8). It is literally translated as “Who will guard the guards themselves?”

Is there a special place certificates have to go before they get the required certification to become a chartered certificate? (ACCA= Association of Certificate Collectors & Awardees)

What with the recent influx of students striving to accumulate as many certificates as possible, the overall market value might have diminished as a consequence.

Think about it in this way: If everyone in the country who studies under national curriculum achieves GPA 5, then the universities will raise the bar and set Golden GPA as a minimum requirement. Similarly, if all the students chase certificates and not excellence in a particular field, then they would be missing out on the full package while at the same time making things difficult for themselves as well as others. An analogy can be constructed: Certificates are a lot like currency in the sense that more doesn’t necessarily mean better. A Dollar is worth 77 Taka.

Do not misconstrue what I am attempting to express. In no way is participation a bad thing. However, if people take part in events with the sole objective of getting a certificate then the event might be missing out on its target audience. This does to a certain extent affect the quality of the event without the organizers being at fault.

There are those who are genuinely interested in a plethora of different subjects and would like to possess a diverse repertoire. And there are those who prefer to focus on a particular subject with a one track mind. Although, both kinds of students are different, as long as they remain focused on whatever it is that they are doing, and act with passion and curiosity, that in itself is an achievement. One which cannot be “certified”.

To redefine ECA, watch this video.

Meanie The Genie: Recycled Happiness

Written by Ruminator (Also known as Abrar)

‘What is true?’

That was all it took for a solitary thought to impart some semblance of meaning to me: truth is an ageless face with creases of worry sketched into its forehead. Truth no longer has any self-esteem. It suffers at the hand of a sycophant known to me as ambition. In short, Truth is not a chronic worrier, rather it is a chronic warrior, one that has been fighting from dusk to dawn just to remain free of bias. There is not a shadow of a doubt that Truth has fallen prey to the wily charms of its cousin the ever so sweet prevaricating lie.

Mother always told me that if I ever went in search of the absolute truth, the first place I should look must be our local convenience store. There I could purchase it at half the typical retail price.

                                                                        *

which brings me to this moment…

Riddled with bullet holes and smelling of moth paintball the gray curtains could not help but watch in horror as unadulterated daylight passed right through them. A rather opaque sight for the mind to digest. Then came the ghastly wind, giving the poor curtains goosebumps. Droplets of rain soon joined the fray soaking a chillingly cold cloth in acid rain. The general stationed in the sun must have noted the dismay in my eyes for he sent more troops. Before long sunlight burned through my ragtag defenses, spiraled and nose-dived into my eyes like a kamikaze pilot. I must have fainted because my mind went blank, kind of like your answers or lack thereof in response to a surprise math quiz.

Nothing works the way it’s supposed to. Nothing. I wouldn’t even be in this sorry mess if I hadn’t been ruminating all night. In fact, It was now impossible to tell if the real nightmare was just a bad dream or reality. More on that later, first let me kvetch about the situation at hand.

Picture this: Majestically lying inside the world’s most hygienic dumpster-a metaphorical one- was a kid. Littered all around him were pieces of scrapped paper. Either he had writer’s block or he harbored a grudge against trees. Had the RRRR- radical, reduce, reuse and recycle – environmentalists found him, they would surely have taken pity on him and upgraded his status from tramp to trampled. Safe to say, to the boy that topic- one rife with social justice warrior’s tears- was #1 on the list of tabooed taboos.

Who could the person in question possibly be?