Wednesday 10th September 2025
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Stop sneering at the staycation

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Amidst the cost-of-living crisis, the once-attractive Mediterranean getaway has lost some of its lustre. Whilst Benidorm and Magaluf will continue to be quasi-British colonies, travelling within the UK is an increasingly respectable option again. But why did the staycation ever go away?

After the 1970s, when prime ministers would regularly holiday in the Scilly Isles, Thatcherite deregulation of the airline industry brought about the rise of the affordable international holiday. To stay in the UK was backward, boring, and sneered at as a mark of working-classness in a country where middle-class aesthetics were increasingly dominant. Remaining this side of the English Channel when there were cheap options abroad, fuelled by new short-haul airlines, was a mark of social inferiority in post-Big Bang Britain. Package holidays offered the allure of international travel without the prestige it once held when foreign travel was a more exclusive pastime.

But in a post-COVID world, the staycation is making a triumphant return, with interest piquing in options closer to home. For many Oxford students resident in the UK, their first thought would be London – it is their stomping ground, just 40 minutes away on the train. They’ve got knowledge of its fashionable boroughs to challenge a black cab driver’s. But ask about anywhere else in the UK, and you’d be confronted by blank faces. To them, the country is limited to a short radius around the M25, curving around areas more complicated than Notting Hill.

If you dare to venture outside of London, however, you will find that the four nations in the UK are diverse and culturally rich, teeming in activity and history. I visited Wales recently to discover the places where my father grew up. In the small town of Laugharne, on the south coast of Carmarthenshire, I found views that rival any you could discover after an hours-long flight. Wandering through narrow coastal paths, I discovered Dylan Thomas’ old writing cabin, his nearby house, and the pub he frequented in town, as well as seeing the place my grandparents first met. This story can be repeated all over these islands, almost all reachable by car, train, or ferry. From small alcoves, sheltered from the hectic mania of modern life, to exciting gems of activity, the UK has more than enough to offer for a lifetime of adventures.

If so much is available within the UK, what justification is there for an Oxford student to travel across the world to ‘discover’ a thin fragment of a country, devoid of context or history? The pressure of tourism has reached breaking point in many countries, with public push-back and official intervention attempting to stem the tide of travellers. Curious British tourists now emulate swarms of mosquitos, tearing through lovingly-preserved cities and draining them of cultural depth and, more importantly, housing. In search of some divine revelation to justify the exorbitant costs of such experiences, too often we imagine that whatever spiritual discoveries arrived at are the product of that environment. You could come to just as profound judgements in Kirkcaldy as in Kinshasa – travelling to the former just involves less cost, financial and environmental.

Yet, the staycation doesn’t need to involve travelling at all. There is plenty to do for most Oxford inmates over the long vac. Personally, I’d had a growing collection of books I intended to read, but failed to find time. This pile had grown so totteringly tall it had the structural integrity of the Titan submersible. I’ve been able to begin chipping away at this Babel-like tower of books while staying at home, which has given me the chance to nurture interests that I just wouldn’t have time for either at university or on a foreign holiday. Attempting to stuff all three stacks into a suitcase would’ve left me travelling dangerously light on clothes, and with a hefty excess baggage fine.

So, resist the allure of a foreign holiday. Organise something local instead, within the confines of a surprisingly full country. There is more in the UK than Heathrow and Gatwick can reasonably offer you on a two-week break, and for a lot less than the price of a flight to Malia. 

Gazan offer holders ‘relieved’ as government approves visas

Oxford University offer holders living in Gaza have told Cherwell that they feel “a deep sense of relief and hope” after the UK Government announced plans to approve visas for around 40 university-funded students living in the Gaza Strip.

These students include Gazans holding offers for the Chevening scheme, a predominantly government-funded programme for graduate students. Along with those on university-funded scholarships, they will receive assistance to leave the territory. The Home Secretary has also approved plans to assist around 30 students on privately-funded scholarships.

Despite the public announcement, Cherwell understands that the government is yet to contact Oxford offer holders in Gaza about the approval of their visas.

Loay, who holds an offer to study MSc Health Service Improvement and Evaluation at Oxford, told Cherwell: “After months of fear, uncertainty, and displacement, knowing that our academic futures may now be within reach is incredibly emotional. I am deeply grateful to everyone who supported and advocated for us.”

At least six students in Gaza and the West Bank hold offers to study at Oxford through the University’s Palestine Crisis Scholarship Scheme. These students, and other Gazans holding offers and scholarships to study in the UK, had been unable to provide biometrics necessary for obtaining a valid UK visa due to the closure of visa offices in the Gaza Strip in October 2023. 

Only those in receipt of offers and scholarships for full-time study will be impacted by the government’s plan. Consequently, Cherwell understands that at least one Oxford offer-holder with a scholarship under the Palestinian Crisis Scholarship Scheme will remain in Gaza.

The affected student, Salam, told Cherwell: “I want to express my disappointment at the decision not to grant visas to part time students. I truly thought there would be an understanding of the very special and extremely difficult circumstances students in Gaza are facing.”

Yesterday’s announcement confirmed that offer holders for full-time study will be taken to a third territory for visa biometric tests before being brought to the UK. However, a government spokesperson told BBC Radio 4’s Today Programme that “the process is likely to be complicated and challenging” and will require Israel to agree that each student can leave the territory.

A spokesperson for Oxford University told Cherwell: “The University is part of sector-wide efforts to support the arrival of students from Gaza and are in contact with our offer-holders who are facing the greatest difficulty. We hope to welcome several students from Gaza on full scholarships this autumn.”

The plan to approve the visas follows a public call from the UK higher education sector to remove the barriers facing students from Gaza, including an open letter signed by members of the Oxford University Student Union (SU) earlier this month.

Speaking to Cherwell, an SU spokesperson said that the “SU welcomes the government’s announcement”, adding that “this outcome underlines the importance of collective action” following the SU’s open letter.
Cherwell approached the Home Office for comment but they declined to answer.

‘Do Zombies Dream of Undead Sheep?’ at the Fringe

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★★★⯪☆

Do Zombies Dream of Undead Sheep? is a one-man, one-puppet musical journey through the apocalypse. After a ‘catastrophic’ magnitude 1-ish earthquake, the dead are reanimated, unleashing a zombie outbreak. John Butler takes us on this journey using original songs, accompanied by a backing track and live ukulele. The songs are performed against a backdrop of wonderful watercolour style animation projected onto a screen. Musical moments are interspersed with small scenes, often featuring a 2D-hanging puppet as Butler’s costar. 

The songs are lyrically entertaining and develop a pleasing story. Some include elements of humour and Butler has an enjoyable voice. They engineer a fun narrative, even if many of the songs sound similar. You may ask, how can one man perform a whole musical by himself? He doesn’t! There are plenty of moments of audience participation which certainly help to engage a Fringe audience. Audiences are informed of their fate at the very beginning and there is a certain tragic inevitability knowing that you are hurtling towards having to sing at the end of the show. 

Butler’s puppet is a fantastic element of the production. The puppet plays the role of Butler’s hero/saviour turned lover. It facilitates a wonderful story of two men finding love at the end of the universe. There is a great deal of comedy in the use of a (very-lifeless) puppet to play the living man while the supposedly dead zombies move freely around the screen. While a funny choice, this also poses the question of what actually makes the zombies so different from us? How can a cruel treatment be justified when they are more similar than expected?

These questions are explored through the plot which I found extremely promising. At first the show seems like a surface-level parody about the apocalypse. However, it quickly reveals itself as a well-structured, interesting story with subtle social commentary and sprinklings of political satire all while maintaining the silliness. You shouldn’t take the plot of Do Zombies Dream of Undead Sheep? overly seriously as it is certainly more silly than satire but it would be a mistake to dismiss the messages that are there.

So… do zombies dream of undead sheep?

I still don’t know. The zombies in this musical journey were certainly awake and ensuring that no audience members started counting dream sheep. This show is a great late night watch if you’re looking for a bit of fun. If you ever start contemplating the humanity of the undead, this show is the place for you.

My journey with British identity

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I was gently raised with the idea that Britain was fair and decent, a country that meant something good. This was likely shaped by growing up in Devon, somewhere green and small, where things felt familiar and a bit tucked away from the rest of the world. 

At the time of the Brexit referendum, despite being only twelve, I actually supported it. I remember feeling weirdly pleased when the Vote Leave campaign won, probably because my dad backed it and I wanted to be involved. It felt nice to have a political opinion. By the time I was 13 or 14, I had learnt more about the world. Within a year or two I was campaigning, going to protests, watching online debates – far too obsessed with Europe for a GCSE student. After all my passionate engagement, the 2019 general election crushed me, and I felt physically sick when the exit poll was announced. This was one of the first times I understood what it meant to be politically heartbroken.

In school, I was learning more about Britain’s past: empire, war, denial, and what hadn’t been discussed before. It didn’t feel right, then or now, that we were meant to be proud of something so full of harm. Spending time considering Britain’s legacy makes it hard to overlook how much damage it caused, and how present that damage still is, and I understand why many see Britain as something to push back against or renounce completely. But I’ve also never been able to fully abandon the idea that the UK could be something else. Not innocent or exceptional, but decent, welcoming, and internationally collaborative. The kind of place London probably felt like in 2012 when the Olympics allowed a modern form of Britishness to be publicised. I didn’t completely understand what was happening at the time, but I remember the feeling: that quiet sense we were doing something good. Looking back, that version of the UK felt positive and fun, and it shaped the way I grew up thinking about Britain.

Oxford has only confused that. In some ways, it’s the most English place I’ve ever lived. Not just in its history, but in its contradictions. I’ve found queer safety and possibility there. I’ve also felt silenced by the weight of tradition, and frustrated at the gaps in solidarity. Sometimes it feels like England distilled: beautiful and painful, magical and blinkered, stuck in its own story even when it knows better. Occasionally, I catch glimpses of the version of England I still believe in. Not in some perfect idyll, but in the messy, funny, unrepeatable energy of real life. A late-night walk through a city I love. A pub garden where accents clash and everyone’s a bit too loud. A countryside that’s gloomy and green and full of sudden joy. We have bad weather and plenty of flaws, but I love our music, our festival culture, our sense of humour – and our unique position in, and subsequent view of, the world. That version of England isn’t proud in a loud way. It just exists. And it’s better than the story nationalism tries to tell.

Then I moved to Germany, where the distance made everything clearer and more confusing at once. From the outside, the UK looked smaller and sadder. My Irish friends in Bonn saw it through the lens of something much more painful and political. While I’ll never be able to fully understand it the way they do, their perspective is not difficult to empathise with. The spectrum of views lay somewhere between a more generational opposition to the UK and those emphasising compromise and the new era brought by the Good Friday Agreement. It’s not really my place to have a strong opinion, but I support them because it just makes sense to me. 

The more I sat with that, the more it shaped my thoughts on the state of the UK today. I’m quietly in favour of the different independence movements, but it’s strange, because it leaves England, and I don’t really know what England is, or what I want it to be. I’ve briefly wondered whether Britishness could still survive in some softer, post-union way, a bit like how European identity is formed out of shared history and common culture. But without its own devolved parliament or institutions, English identity feels oddly shapeless, and it’s difficult to escape the historical weight of imperial oppression. This summer, we saw the Lionesses bring home the Euros trophy for a second time. It’s hard not to feel proud of our team; the scenes of the recent victory parade were a rare display of English pride that felt warm rather than uncomfortable. This may herald a new kind of patriotism, but the question of national self-definition remains a problematic one.

Since it’s no longer straightforward to move or work abroad within Europe, I don’t see myself living anywhere else long-term, except, perhaps, from Wales. I have spent quite a bit of time there, and it feels geographically and emotionally closer to the version of Britain I still care about. Learning Welsh during lockdown gave me a deeper appreciation for the unique culture, although I have no personal claim upon it. Yet I feel many English people who move to Wales do so either without a desire to learn or respect this, or in a way that edges towards cultural re-writing as opposed to integration. This is especially true in Anglesey, where I’ve spent the bulk of my time in Wales, and seeing this in practice is upsetting, even if I might be complicit myself. My granny shares my perspective on this; she is as Cornish as Cornish gets, and has faced similar frustrations at how Cornwall has changed, with locals priced out of coastal towns, often with no sensitivity to that fact or the privilege behind it. The rest of my family, however, are just vaguely English, in a way that’s both ordinary and hard to define. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been drawn to the smaller nations within the UK, the ones that seem more sure of themselves. But this is something that should be protected, not re-written.

I want a version of Englishness that isn’t about nostalgia or control. Something plural, curious, and reflective – while not asking for innocence or forgiveness. I just want to believe that the things worth loving aren’t already gone. That it’s still possible to be from here, to acknowledge the harm, and to actively choose a better kind of belonging. That we can still make something of the present. And maybe the whole idea of national identity is more fragile than we think. Maybe it fades, or shifts, or comes back in different forms. But even if it doesn’t matter in the long run, I still feel it. I think there’s a lot in the UK worth protecting, if we’re brave enough to change what needs to change and careful enough to keep what matters. I want to have a heritage of which I can be proud. Not one that erases the harm, but one that tries to reckon with it honestly.

‘Timestamp’ at the Fringe: Existing in the ‘now’

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★★★★☆

Timestamp is a part-theremin, part-dance exploration of womanhood, expectation, and time. Brought to the Edinburgh Fringe after a successful run in New York City by Emilee Lord and Karen Cecilia, it unpacks, in an hour, the ways in which the performers have dealt with being held to certain standards in their own lives, and asks us to reflect on how this pressure functions in ours.

The piece greets you with a rolling montage of women, including recorded interview extracts that discuss, among other themes, the pressures accompanying aging, and hypocritical standards of femininity. After this introduction, the performance begins properly with soft tones from the theremin, and choreography in a symbiotic relationship with the music. The choreography by Lord is wonderful to watch, her body seeming to flow with soft fluid lines, only to then contort into angular movements, evidencing a clear skill, control, and technique. Cecilia’s theremin somewhat responds to the ebbs and flows of Lord’s movement, and her intense gaze keeps the two performers in sync. I would have loved to see a more innovative use of the theremin, however, as I felt it was often more a tool for ambience than expression.

Lord’s dance is sandwiched between spoken word, art, and video material: the experience is broken up into small segments, with each subtly structurally different to the previous. The steady pace this provides ensures the audience’s interest, particularly engaged when Cecilia recounts the emotions generated by their mother’s death just before the first run of Timestamp in New York City. 

This one moment of vulnerability encapsulates what I feel Cecilia and Lord aim to put across. The encounter between expectation and grief, where we ask what a lost relative desired for us, is one of the hardest and most insightful parts of their exploration. Asking whether the dead met their own aspirations for themselves reminds us of the fleeting nature of our own lives. Cecilia’s monologue becomes its own ‘timestamp’, a symbol drawn out to mark the specific moment of change, and feels incredibly brave.

In fact, the entire piece is connected by the notion of time and evolution. Projected camera footage displays digital timestamps of minutes and seconds onto the wall; a chalk drawing on the floor illustrates an unconventional clock where hours are replaced with ‘timestamps’ which aren’t always chronological. Unfortunately, the camera did not always capture the entire stage, and, if you weren’t sitting at the front, the artwork could be unclear from the footage alone. Nonetheless, we are left with an appreciation of the subjectivity of experience, and reminded of how personal the passage of time can be. 

The performers establish a new timestamp: the present – the ‘now’. Instead of leaving us with a vague, impending message that we could procrastinate indefinitely, the use of ‘now’ makes it clear that we are to reflect in the moment. It reminded me that you can change and reflect on yourself at any time – it doesn’t have to be at the ‘right’ point.

 
Timestamp is a rounded performance that is accessible to anyone, even those who don’t count themselves versed in performance art and feminism. It left an important message behind: to begin reflecting on my own choices, and claiming full ownership of them, right now.

The Oxford offer holders trapped in Gaza

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CW: Violence, Death, Injury

Buying gowns, completing reading lists, googling the meanings of obtuse college lingo: this is what the weeks before starting a degree at Oxford University are like for most students. The reality could not be more different for Samah*, a Palestinian student in Gaza who holds an offer to study Genomic Medicine (MSc) at Balliol College. 

“Life in Gaza is centred entirely around survival”, she tells me. “Each day brings deep uncertainty; where to find clean water, how to stay safe, and how to secure anything at all to eat. The idea of ‘food’ has become secondary at this point, we’re simply trying to find anything to sustain ourselves.”

Samah is squeezing in time to talk to me during a short break on her nightshift in the emergency unit of a hospital. She has just urgently transferred two units of blood to a patient undergoing an above-knee amputation. His injuries are critical and she thinks he may not survive until morning. “This is our reality: responding to mass casualties daily, trying to help however we can, while carrying our own personal trauma.”

“After such shifts, we return to ask ourselves the same questions: where can we rest, is there anything to eat, and is there anywhere less dangerous to go?”

For Loay*, who holds an offer to study Health Service Improvement and Evaluation (MSc) at St Hilda’s College, life is just as perilous. Israel’s ongoing military offensive and blockade of aid trucks have resulted in him and his family being displaced 18 times. 

“The impact of the war has been devastating”, he tells me once he finds a few bars of precious internet connection. “I have lost my uncle, my cousin, and four close friends. These are not just numbers. They were people I loved, studied, and grew up with. The psychological toll of witnessing so much loss, destruction, and suffering is immense.”

Samah and Loay are two of 38 students in Gaza with full scholarships to study at UK universities. After succeeding against the odds, they have found  that they are unable to make the journey to begin their courses this September. In order to obtain visas, the students must complete fingerprint and photo registration, but the only UK government authorised biometrics centre in Gaza closed in October 2023. After the closure of the Rafah border crossing in May 2024, a total of approximately 78 UK offer holders are stuck in Gaza. As well as Samah and Loay, Cherwell is aware of another Oxford offer, Salam*, who is unable to obtain a visa.

This is only the latest roadblock in the students’ journey to Oxford. “Education in Gaza has always faced significant challenges, even before the war”, Samah explains. Shortages in resources, frequent electricity cuts, and restricted access to academic tools have always been a reality of her educational experience. But with the outbreak of war in October 2023, she says “the situation became catastrophic”. Israeli forces have damaged or destroyed more than 90% of schools and universities in Gaza, with many students forced to pause or abandon their studies altogether. Loay had just graduated medical school when war broke out. “I was due to start my role as a teaching assistant at the Faculty of Medicine”, he recalls, “but unfortunately, the university was completely destroyed.”

In Samah’s case, she struggled to complete her studies at the Islamic University of Gaza during the war whilst working in the laboratory and bloodbank unit of the Ahli Arab Hospital. “We operated around the clock, 24 hours a day. It’s difficult to describe how overwhelming this period was,  I often had no time to eat, sleep, study or even think. Every minute was spent trying to rescue injured patients.” She describes stealing what moments she could to sit on a bench in the microbiology department to study and complete assignments.

Image Credit: Samah for Cherwell

“Applying to Oxford during the war was incredibly challenging”, Loay explains when I ask him about the process. “Due to the severe damage to Gaza’s infrastructure, I had very limited access to the internet and often found myself completing applications from hospital corridors, where I could occasionally connect.” 

For both Samah and Loay, it was a desire to help others that drove them to undertake such a massive effort. “I’ve long been passionate about molecular and genetic medicine”, Samah tells me. “It encompasses vital areas like cancer therapy, IVF, and screening for congenital diseases, all of which are critically needed in my community.” Loay tells me that an MSc in Health Service aligns perfectly with his goal of strengthening healthcare delivery in crisis and low-resource settings such as Gaza. As for why this university in particular? “I want to study at Oxford because it’s Oxford! It offers world-class academic training, especially in health systems and policy.” 

When the news of her success came, Samah says it “felt like a light at the end of the tunnel”, giving her a renewed sense of purpose. But today, this joy is tainted by the uncertainty of her current situation. “Not being able to obtain the visa means everything is at risk for over 40 students from Gaza, our lives, dreams, and hopes can be lost in a matter of seconds.” 

Loay’s desperation is palpable. “I’ve worked hard for my place at Oxford, but the lack of a functioning biometric centre and the impossibility of safe travel from Gaza have left me stuck in a situation I cannot control.” He points to the fact that other nations such as the Republic of Ireland, France, and Italy have coordinated with Israel to evacuate students from Gaza. “The UK has the same ability to act. We are not asking for special treatment. We are asking for a safe and practical solution to access the opportunities we’ve earned.” 

Samah and Loay are not without hope. A campaign, headed by the activist group Gaza 40, has sprung up to publicise their cause. The organisation calls for the UK government to allow the students to defer the provision of biometric data until they have made safe passage out of Gaza. Over 70 MPs have signed a letter to Prime Minister Keir Starmer calling on the government “to coordinate an urgent evacuation route for this group of students”. They highlight that similar exceptions over biometric data were made previously for Ukrainian students. Recently, the government committed to evacuating nine students from Gaza whose scholarships are funded by the Foreign Office. Regarding the remaining scholars, the government has stated that it is “aware of these students and are considering how we can best support”.

As for Oxford University, both Samah and Loay say that they felt supported by the administration, who provided a letter of support and have reached out to the government about the issue. However, they also expressed their belief that the University could be doing more to raise awareness and place pressure on the government. A spokesperson for Oxford University told Cherwell: “The University is part of sector-wide efforts to support the arrival of students from Gaza and are in contact with our offer-holders who are facing the greatest difficulty. We hope to welcome several students from Gaza on full scholarships this autumn.” 

For Samah and Loay, whose lives are shaped by displacement, food insecurity, and the bombs of the Israeli military, everything is in a dangerous state of flux; nothing can be taken for granted. However, one thing is certain: the new academic year is fast approaching and with it the possibility of losing the opportunity of a lifetime. Samah is all too well aware of this: “Here in Gaza, we live with the reality that everything we work for can suddenly vanish. That’s why this means so much to all of us.”

“Securing a visa is not just about travel. It represents a light of hope, a chance to rebuild what has been destroyed.”

*The surnames of the students have been omitted at their request.

SU launches new community fund for society events

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The Oxford University Student Union (SU) is launching a new community fund to support student societies “to create exciting, inclusive events”. Societies can apply for up to £200 in events funding from this Friday – with applications for Michaelmas term closing on 5th September.

Alongside financial support, societies which receive funding will also feature in the SU’s MT25 term card, a new initiative which advertises student events across Oxford.

The fund is spearheaded by the SU’s President for Communities and Common Rooms, Shermar Pryce, who was elected in February. Upon election, Pryce said that he would address college disparities and give powers of society registration and funding to the SU instead of the University Proctors.

Pryce told Cherwell: “I believe student societies are a core component of university life at Oxford. The Community Fund is about giving them the tools and support they need to continue to bring people together and create memorable experiences. 

“We at the SU are very excited to see what societies will be able to create for students with the support from this initiative.”

Speaking to Cherwell, the President of the Oxford Economics Society said that the fund would be “very useful” and “much needed”. He added that “societies in Oxford pretty much have to fend for ourselves whereas other unis [sic] provide budgets worth several thousands to their societies”.

The President of the Oxford University Turkish Society also told Cherwell: “This grant would be a great boost for the Turkish Society at such an exciting stage in our growth. As President, my focus has been on making the society an inclusive and empowering space, and this support would really help us continue that mission

“The funding would not only cover essentials like event resources, travel and administrative costs, but also help us expand our reach, social media content and make the society as enriching and impactful as possible.”

The SU has encouraged societies to apply early to secure support for their events. More information about the fund, application criteria and how to apply will be available on the SU’s website on Friday.

Architectural and religious fusions in Andalusia and Oxford

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Oxford is a city deeply entwined with religion. With the first of its colleges founded as Christian institutions, a college without a chapel is rare. The city’s architecture survives as a testament to this past. This is not to say that Christianity is the only religion to influence the city’s history. Every year on the 1st May, Magdalen College Choir sings the Hymnus Eucharisticus to herald the arrival of spring. Celebrations of May Morning are rooted in Celtic paganism, while the lyrics of the Hymnus Eucharisticus are inherently Christian (with the hymn beginning with a dedication “Te Deum Patrem colimus or “We worship you, God, the Father”). Oxford’s religious syncretism is most obvious on May Morning through song and celebration – but in the Andalusian city of Granada, syncretism lives and breathes through its paint and stone. After a year of being consumed by my studies in Arabic and Islamic history and culture, the relief of summer after a long Trinity term crept into view. The idea of seeing Granada this summer – the last Islamic city to fall in the Christian Reconquista – grew clearer and more concrete.

For nearly eight centuries, cities like Córdoba, Seville, and Granada stood as centres of learning and beauty, shaped by the intellectual, cultural, and aesthetic values of the Islamic world. Today, in the region now known as Andalusia, the traces of Islamic civilisation are not just preserved, but define the region’s character. Granada’s Alhambra stands atop a hill, shielded by the mountains and overlooking the modern city, while serving as a vestige of Spain during the Islamic Golden Age. Walking in the space between the Nasrid palaces and the Alcazaba, one is not only astounded by their sight but by the sound that accompanies it. Hundreds of swifts can be heard singing from the towers and the treetops, the little birds permeating the complex with their euphony. One could easily be forgiven for forgetting their existence in the modern day, as one is immediately transported to an era of Islamic rule over Spain. The Alhambra complex is one of the best-preserved relics of the Islamic Golden Age, and this fact becomes evident upon wandering the sight. What most piqued my interest, however, were the Nasrid palaces.

In the Patio de los Arrayanes, the courtyard is symmetrical along a central axis – mirroring divine harmony as conceived within Islam. The rectangular pool serves as a mirror and a visual anchor that evenly divides the space, which is typical of Islamic Garden design. The pool, lined with myrtle hedges, serves as a reference to the Persian chahar bagh (or, “four-part garden”) which functions as a symbolic microcosm of paradise as described in the Qur’an. The stucco work in its arches are filled with Arabic calligraphy of Qur’anic verses, poetry, and Nasrid inscriptions – for Islamic architecture utilises (and indeed, relies on) text as decoration, transforming scripture and praise into visual experience. 

Why, one might wonder, does Islamic architecture rely on calligraphy or geometry for decoration? Why is there no figural imagery? Islamic art often practices aniconism: the absence of figural representation of religious figures, especially in sacred places like the Alhambra. This is because the Qur’an and ḥadīth discourages the creation of images on the basis that doing so may lead to idolatry. This is not a prohibition of all figural art, but within architectural ornamentation it’s avoided in favour of more abstract modes of expression. This practice is in direct contrast with, say, many examples of Christian ornamental architecture which favours figural imagery (such as in the Catedral de Granada, only a short distance away).

The Court of the Myrtles is a masterpiece of Nasrid architecture and is of an architectural style typical of the Andalusi oeuvre, but today it is overlooked by a cross atop the turret of a building beside it. The presence of this cross, in a space built for and by followers of Islam, is emblematic of the shift in religious affiliation of those who inhabited the complex, as well as the majority religious affiliation of the region. One becomes aware of the religious changes in the region while inside the complex through simply lifting their head, as ceilings of the Nasrid palaces are painted with Castilian and Christian figural imagery.

After wandering further and further into the heart of the Nasrid palaces, one of the paintings in a ceiling alcove in the Hall of the Kings (Sala de los Reyes) seems incongruent to the setting and its origins are somewhat unknown by scholars. This painting is in the central vault of the court and features a Christian courtly scene. There are chivalric images of knights and a castle, possibly alluding to European heraldic or Arthurian traditions. In the lower half of the image, in the centre, two figures can be seen kneeling to pray in a typical Catholic fashion. One might easily label this painting within an oeuvre of Christian art, but one ought to look further – for the painting, while rich with examples of Christian figural imagery, features images that are evocative of the Qur’anic descriptions of paradise (such as the birds, the trees, and the fountain at which the figures pray). 

What does this seemingly incongruent convergence of religion and culture represent? Convivencia. This term, translated as “coexistence” or the more literal “living together” refers to the syncretism of Muslims, Christians, and Jews in the Spanish Middle Ages. This painting is unique as it demonstrates the act of an Islamic court appropriating Christian artistic forms.

Having seen the representation of Christianity in originally Islamic spaces, when I came across the inverse of this – Islamic figures depicted in a Christian sphere – I was doubtlessly intrigued. Aside from being the burial place of Queen Isabella I of Castile and King Ferdinand II of Aragon, the Capilla Real de Granada also houses an impressive collection of artwork. What initially caught my attention was a smaller painting tucked away on the side of a wall in the chamber that precedes that royal crypt.

I refer to an oil painting, depicting Ferdinand III of Castile and Ibn al-Ahmar the first Muslim ruler of Granada – the founder of the Nasrid dynasty, and the same ruler responsible for the erection of the Alhambra complex. The artist depicts Ferdinand III as embracing al-Ahmar, whose attendant stands behind him. Al-Ahmar is wearing a red cape, which seems to be a reference to his epithet, and he is wearing a turban with a red rose and a feather. While we find men wearing turbans adorned with carnations in Ottoman art as a reflection of the current fashion, we have no evidence of it being the fashion for men of this period to wear roses in their turbans. Thus, this choice from the artist is emblematic of the artist’s depiction of al-Ahmar in the Spanish perception. One can also understand the adornments of al-Ahmar to refer to his high status. Ferdinand’s face is of centre view, and he is the largest of all six figures (as both rulers have two attendants behind them), showing that Ferdinand is intended to be the focus of the painting, rather than al-Ahmar. Ferdinand embraces al-Ahmar in a doorway, with Ferdinand and his attendants inside and al-Ahmar and his attendants on their way out of the door. 

The painting aims to depict the conclusion of the conflict by the Treaty of Jaén. By illustrating the moment of their embrace, the artist visually communicates the formal submission of Granada’s ruler to the Castilian king, symbolising the end of hostilities and the establishment of a fragile peace. This event not only reflected a shift in political power but also emphasised the complex coexistence between Christian and Muslim territories on the Iberian Peninsula during the 13th century. Through the composition and the positioning of the figures, the painting encapsulates both the assertion of Castilian authority and the nuanced diplomacy that followed the treaty’s signing. The painting’s place in the Royal Chapel is pertinent, as it contrasts the portrayal of Christians in the Alhambra, by Muslims, as a portrayal of Muslims in a Christian sphere, by Christians. While the painting in the Alhambra celebrated Convivencia, this painting in the Royal Chapel aims to show an assertion of power. 

Anyone can read about history, but there is something quite profound in seeing it and feeling it. It is not often that one can walk through a city and feel the presence of history so vividly – with cities like Granada and, doubtlessly, Oxford being the exception. Granada’s art and architecture is more than merely beautiful: it tells a story of succession, syncretism, and ultimately change.

‘HOLE IN THE WALL L’HOPITAL’ at Fringe

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★★★☆☆

Everything I write ends up being about grief – I suppose this review only proves that point. HOLE IN THE WALL L’HOPITAL, created by Chicago-based comedian Brendan Tran, pays tribute to his late father. This is his Fringe debut and though somewhat scrappy, it is full of vulnerability that makes it a worthwhile watch. 

Tran starts the set with a light tone, opening with a simple joke about aeroplane seats and punctuating each punch with a giggle. The routine was full of references to Star Wars, Wandavision, Game Of Thrones, and various TikTok memes: combining these in a way that only a Zillenial routine can. 

There were a couple of jokes that I’m sure would work better for an American audience. Some of Tran’s references flew over the audience’s heads, including the price of a Subway foot-long, the lore of Chicago’s Lincoln Park, Jared Fogle (which I did admittedly know a bit about due to my mild Aunty Donna obsession), and repeated mentions of a baseball player whose name still eludes me. Tran was not oblivious to this fact: he made a point of following up many of these jokes with a quippy “that would have killed in America!”. I am a big believer in writing what you know and I do not believe that these references should be cut just for the sake of an oblivious audience. However, in a show that tried so much to connect with the people watching it, the highlight of the cultural divide on either side of the stage left me with an odd feeling. 

I do wish that Tran had provided a bit more of a through line in the heavier section of the set: whilst the themes of grief and parenting one’s parents came across, the transitions sometimes felt a bit clunky. Despite this, the stories about Tran’s father shined through. The performer’s connection, not only with his late father but with the experience of grief, was palpable. These were the pieces which I enjoyed most: whilst not following the traditional stand-up format, they felt most true to the set and impactful for the audience. 

The staging was suitably no-frills. Tran wore a smart grey button down, accompanied only by a bum bag and a water bottle perched atop a stool. The lighting shifts were subtle but appreciated: Tran’s performance was somewhat static at points and the tech, though sparse, ensured the show held my interest. 

Tran himself appeared to be somewhat of a nervous performer. As someone who has been in Tran’s shoes, part of me wonders if this was because of the relatively small (but mighty!) audience. It can be tough to stand on a stage where you can see the whites of every audience member’s eyes – I wager it would make even the most experienced performers anxious. There were moments where Tran jumped ahead, repeated himself, stumbled over punches, preempted future jokes, and repeated himself. It is understandable that a show with this level of vulnerability would manifest itself in visible nerves, but I believe that more rehearsals would have helped to disguise the nerves and enable Tran to reveal them when they were needed for the set’s heavier sections.

I like to think I’m a performer’s audience member. I have never walked out of a show, I laugh loudly, I sit in the front and do my best to return the energy. Performing is exhausting at the best of times, and it is entirely true that a good audience can make or break a show, so I somewhat selfishly aim to be the audience member I would want to see. Unfortunately, my persona as the Perfect Audience Member somewhat conflicts with my role as a reviewer. After all, it is somewhat intimidating to see someone in the front row scribbling sentences into a little notebook in the dark. (In fact, comedian and Balliol alum Claire Parry riffed on this fear in her show I Am Claire Parry, by planting notebooks within the audience and gasping in shock at the sight of her reviewers.)

I like to think I’m a performer’s reviewer, then, too. So I will summarise the above in a takeaway, as Tran would call it: whilst the hour itself undoubtedly needed more rehearsal and polish, Tran succeeded in making the small Gilded Balloon room a place to share experiences of grief. 

The Fringe is relentless. You’re often on little sleep, walking quickly down the street to avoid flyerers, changing your usual routes to avoid the worst of the windstorm, and arriving home with a new hairstyle courtesy of Storm Floris anyway. It is impossible to find a routine in a place this non-stop: maybe shows like Tran’s are what we need. Sometimes you find a small reprieve in sharing vulnerability, sitting in a small theatre, and breaking down the walls together. 

5 Simple Fixes to Instantly Improve Your Reflective Essay

Reflective essays look easy on the surface. You write about your experience, say what you learned, and hand it in. But in practice? They’re some of the hardest to get right.

A lot of students either turn them into personal diary entries or keep things too shallow. Others over-explain the events but forget to reflect. The result feels flat even if the topic had potential.

If you’ve ever Googled do my essay after getting stuck on a reflective assignment, you’re not alone. This guide will walk you through how to write a reflective essay that’s personal, insightful, and structured enough to stand out.

Fix #1: Stop Telling, Start Reflecting

One of the most common mistakes is turning your essay into a timeline. Listing what happened doesn’t count as reflection. Your professor already knows how time works. What they’re looking for is what you thought or felt during the experience and how it changed you.

Instead of writing, “I joined the debate club,” ask yourself: What did that experience challenge in me? Did it shift how I see public speaking? Did I learn how to listen more than I talk?

Reflection isn’t about the event. It’s about the meaning behind it. Keep that as your focus from the first sentence to the last.

Fix #2: Add a Real Reflective Essay Structure

Reflective writing doesn’t have to be freeform. In fact, it reads better when it’s structured, especially if you’re reflecting on a longer or more emotional experience. Structure helps you stay on track, and it makes it easier for your reader to follow your thought process.

Here’s a simple layout that works:

  • Introduction – Give context and explain what experience you’ll reflect on.
  • Experience – Describe what happened briefly.
  • Reflection – Break down what you learned or how you changed.
  • Conclusion – Summarize your key takeaway or how it connects to your future.

This approach works especially well if you’re unsure how to start a reflective essay. Start with the facts, then build toward meaning.

Fix #3: Be Honest, But Don’t Overshare

Reflective essays are personal, but they’re not therapy sessions. You don’t need to include every detail of a painful moment or vent about someone who wronged you. Vulnerability is good as long as it supports your main point.

Stick to experiences that connect to a theme: personal growth, facing a challenge, learning a skill, shifting your mindset. Focus on how the experience affected your thinking, values, or behaviour.

It’s possible to be real without going too deep. Ask yourself: Would I be comfortable reading this aloud in class? If not, revise.

Fix #4: Use Specific Details

General statements like “It was a hard time” or “I learned a lot” don’t say anything useful. Specifics are what give your reflection weight and make it memorable.

Here’s the difference:

“The project taught me a lot about teamwork.”

“When our group missed the first deadline, I realized I was relying on others too much without checking in. I learned to manage expectations early.”

Details like that bring your essay to life. Think about sounds, moments, reactions, conversations, and all the little things that shaped the experience.

Fix #5: Edit Like You Mean It

Just because reflective essays are about you doesn’t mean grammar doesn’t matter. These assignments still need to follow a logical flow and avoid common writing issues.

Here’s a quick editing checklist:

  • Trim repetition
  • Fix awkward transitions
  • Watch tense consistency
  • Cut clichés (like “eye-opening,” “it hit me like a ton of bricks”)
  • Read it out loud, and you’ll hear what sounds off

Tools like Grammarly help, but don’t rely entirely on them. A reflective essay needs your voice: not just clean grammar but writing that feels natural.

Conclusion

A reflective essay can either be a powerful piece of writing or a rambling mess that says nothing. The difference is in how you handle the details, structure your thoughts, and choose what to focus on.

With these five fixes, you’ll have a clear process for turning your personal experience into something more impactful. It’s not about sounding deep. It’s about showing real thought.

Next time you’re stuck, skip the panic and come back to these steps. And if you still feel stuck on a draft, don’t be afraid to look for guidance.