Extremists attack schools and universities, and kidnap and murder pupils, teachers and academics because they fear genuine education. If we do not actively confront their abhorrent views they will take advantage of our silence. Young people will make up their own minds. We need to make sure they get the facts.
We urgently need documentary films about events that took place in the 1940s, 50s and 60s globally and locally, now because of the threat to living memory. Soon we will only be able to document new information from the sons and daughters of the era. And if I can't even recall my actions or find my notebook from three years ago, what hope do we have on a national or international scale of remembering the past?
Through examining 10 cases in Murderers and their Mothers, I have begun to unpick the complex fabric of the killer by pulling at the "mother" thread. Why such an emphasis on mothers? What about the fathers? Isn't this sexist? These are questions that I have encountered a lot over the past few months.
In 2014 my husband was kidnapped by ISIS. I do not know if he is alive or dead, and every day I pray for some news of his well-being. Eighteen months ago we made the difficult decision to leave. But the problem throughout the world is that nobody wants Syrian people. To the rest of the world Syrian people and their children are very cheap; their blood is very cheap. We don't come to Europe to eat, we don't come here to have a flat. I stayed for years in Syria without much food, we stayed for five years without a lot of things. I don't want to eat, and I can stay in the streets if I need to. But I don't want to see my children dead in front of my eyes.
Katherine Round's film explores a key issue of the modern age, the ever growing gap between the "have's" and "have not's", our obsession with wealth and the growing feeling that capitalism isn't working. It is shot beautifully, and this cinematography embraces and cuddles you as you follow the lives of people on both sides of the wealth divide.
Standing outside the room my palms were clammy, I had pins and needles in my face and could feel nausea rising from my stomach. I stalled - I couldn't go through the door. All those months in prison flashed through my mind, as well as the moment I threw the punch that changed our lives. Walking in and meeting Joan and David, the parents of 28-year-old James Hodgkinson who I killed with a single punch, was something I needed to do. I knew how important it was for me to tell them how sorry I was face to face.
After watching 'Life after Suicide', part of a BBC 1 series about mental health, I have to say this incredible documentary has changed something inside me irrevocably. Although suicidal ideation is habitual and I try to shield those around me from such dark thoughts, seeing this documentary was very healing and profoundly moving.
What is of most interest to someone like me, who found the image of being an Numan fan so helpful as I learned to love being disabled, is that it charts Gary's diagnosis of Aspergers Syndrome, which obviously influenced his image and attitude through out his career, and his battles with depression and anxiety as he struggled to rebuild his career.
A young boy - a 14-year-old - lay sobbing in his bed. For eight minutes he had been dragged, marched and restrained across the prison. Worse, as we examined the footage of the restraint we saw the fingers of a duty operations manager - one of the most senior floor staff at the prison - close around the windpipe of a 14-year-old, of a child. The boy was crying out "I can't breathe".
Professor Jean Pierre Tourtier, Chief Medic of the Paris Fire Brigade, had never spoken in public about the aftermath of the massacre at Charlie Hebdo. His precise descriptions of what he saw had a barely-suppressed intensity that took me by surprise: "The first thing I remember, even before I entered the Charlie Hebdo office - was the smell. A smell that was a mix of gunpowder and blood - that metallic smell of blood. Then I saw a pile of bodies. And someone at the back of the meeting room said - in a voice that was almost gentle - 'Monsieur, s'il vous plaît, aidez-moi'."