Researchers from Oxford University’s Institute of Biomedical Engineering have recruited their first participants for a new study exploring the impact of head injuries on the brains of 11–18 year olds. This follows concern about a lack of research into the correlation between traumatic brain injuries (TBIs) in young people.
The study’s lead author, Professor Natalie Voets commented: “Despite the potentially important long-term effects, paediatric head injury has remained heavily understudied”. Researchers at The Podium Institute for Sports Medicine and Technology – which is part of the Institute of Biomedical Engineering – plan to scan a total of 60 patients and 60 control cases, all regular athletes aged between 11 to 18. The study will take place over the next two and a half years.
Most instances of TBI are scanned by computerised tomography (CT) in hospital to check for life-threatening injuries. But there is great concern that these CT scans are missing vital evidence of life long conditions, such as neurodegenerative diseases. In fact, many children whose CT scans appear normal can still experience lasting symptoms. This new study, conducted by The Podium institute, is using neuroimaging techniques and MRI scans alongside self-and-parent reported information on head injuries to both predict “clinical recovery and sports-related outcomes”.
Tim Lawrence, one of the lead researchers, explained that there was a chance of a “potential link between mild or repetitive traumatic brain injury and long-term cognitive difficulties or even early dementia”. The study hopes to catch the condition earlier to “diagnose more confidently”.
Sarah Rana is an MPhil student in global area studies at St. Anthony’s College. She is the author of her 2024 debut, Hope Ablaze, and of an adult fantasy trilogy to be released in 2026.
Cherwell: You studied Asian and Middle Eastern studies as an undergraduate and now you’re pursuing an M. Phil in a related field in economic policy. Do you feel like your degree in any way informs your writing, or is that something that you view as entirely separate?
Sarah: I want to make it very clear that my degrees are very separate from my creative writing. However, I think what’s so fun about being an author is you will find inspiration from anything and everything. So much of my undergrad econ class helped inform some of my writing I do now for my fantasy novel. [So did] the course that I took, contemporary Asian studies under the Asian Institute at the University of Toronto. So there’s a lot of flexibility there: I took a lot of history and contemporary politics courses, that looked at the economy and looked at modernity and looked at the transition of the political economy from the colonial era to modernity and studied infrastructure projects. It was a lot. It was crazy, kind of three different degrees in one.
But every single one of those really helped me in writing Hope Ablaze and my other books that will be coming out because you’re literally looking at the way that the world developed from, like, the 1800s, all the way to now. It’s 224 years of history right there – looking at politics, economy, social life. Given that my book has a historical point of view, and it looks at contemporary politics, literally all of that informed it. The troubling part when you’re a writer is taking large swathes of information and condensing it. So for me, the trouble was, you know, I didn’t want my book to sound so preachy and political. So I really had to, like, refine, refine, refine every draft with my editor. Even with my upcoming books, most of what I had to do was just cutting off a lot of information to make it very accessible for the reader.
Cherwell: Readers have reported being struck by how relevant the central premise became to the events of the 2024 election season. Several reviews pointed out, for instance, that the news of Muslim attendees being forcibly removed from Democrat events very closely mirrored the experience of your protagonist. What observations would you say led you to portraying this experience of exclusion in your novel?
Sarah: It’s very interesting that you bring that up, because I wrote the novel four years ago now. I was very young – I think I was in my second or third year of my undergrad when I first wrote it – so it was long before a lot of what we saw transpire in the recent US and UK elections and in the upcoming Canadian election. What I wrote was not an isolated experience. It’s something that many minorities (especially people of color) and Muslims after the war on Terror and 9/11 went through in virtually every election or any big event that has to do with politics. I experienced that being from Quebec, which has a lot of exclusionary laws targeting Muslims. But I also did grow up in the US and I got to see both dichotomies of that experience. And so I really wanted to reflect that in my writing, and it was just a coincidence that the book ended up debuting in the same year. In fact, I wrote it after Trump was elected and then edited it during Biden’s term. It just shows that a lot of these actions repeat, and they’re never in a vacuum.
Cherwell: Another element of your novel infused with renewed relevance by the election was the question of the “Muslim voting bloc”, and how contests for that bloc reflected a sort of tension between the ideals of liberal democratic representation and the actual practice of that inclusion in political spaces.
Sarah: Yes, so that was another story. That was another realization that I had. I did not expect with the election that the Muslim voting bloc would be so relevant again, because I think it was more relevant definitely eight, ten years ago. I wrote it in for two reasons. Firstly, I think it’s expected for any minority voting bloc, (“minorities” who are still a big chunk of the vote) to vote in a certain way. For Muslims, we’re often pigeonholed into voting with a more liberal party or left-wing party, because we’re seen as choosing the lesser evils, especially when it comes to foreign policy that hurts our people.
But what I wanted to point out was the striking hypocrisy in this rhetoric. I don’t endorse any one side, but I still think it’s important for me to point out that liberal governments and liberal parties will still demonize our people and countries overseas. We saw that happen in the Obama era with his destructive foreign policy: [he] bombed many countries in the Middle East, and near Middle East – Yemen, Somalia, Afghanistan, Pakistan (where my family’s from). I wanted to point out some of the striking hypocrisies in what is used in that rhetoric, that we have to vote in the lesser evil. It doesn’t mean that you vote for the other bloc either, that’s up to you, but I think people should feel free to come to their own decision, exercise their own vote, because that is the point of a democracy, and expecting us to vote a certain way, or just taking us for granted – even when you’re bombing people in the Middle East or spreading Islamophobic and anti-Arab rhetoric – does not mean you’re going to have our vote. And so I think this election really showed that they should never take us for granted.
Cherwell: In Hope Ablaze, poetry is both a living force and an integral part of the protagonist’s journey, blending personal expression with the magical realist elements of the story. The novel also engages deeply with political themes. What are your thoughts on the political function of poetry, both within your work and more broadly?
That’s a really interesting question. I think there’s a couple ways. Firstly George Orwell said that, and I’m paraphrasing here, that to say that art is not political is in itself a political act. And so I subscribe to this belief. I think this is true no matter what you write about, be it romance or anything. And so I don’t think writers should shy away from talking about political subjects.
Sarah: I don’t think we need to talk about politics for it to be political. In fact, while my book is politically charged, I don’t like to just call it a political novel. Because it’s a lot of things, you know? It talks about history, it talks about partition, it talks about sedition, it talks about politics, it talks about basketball. As for the role of poetry: it’s been used in resistance movements and revolutions, especially in modernity. Very famously, you’ve had poets as part of different resistance and revolutionary groups across Asia to overthrow colonial forces, like the French, like the British. You saw this a lot in Lebanon and Central Asia, both epicenters of poetry. You saw this in Pakistan and in different regions in the Indian subcontinent. I wanted to highlight that that tradition was a big part of the crackdown against artists.
Poetic symposiums, in the 1970s, I believe, were used to overthrow or to call out one of the most infamous Pakistani dictators. Art and poetry is so human that it is used as a tool to appeal to people’s emotions and call out oppressors. People use and try to weaponize our bodies against us, but the one thing they can’t take away from us is our tongues, and when they try to do that, that’s when art pushes back. My character’s arc is slowly realizing that, which is why she explores a lot of her ancestral history, her family history, and herself. She realizes she’s letting people use her body and her tongue against her, and as Foucault says in Biopolitics, one of the ways that the state tries to control someone is always going to be through their body. Art, I think, is very powerful, because it’s not physical. It can also be lyrical, it doesn’t have to take a physical form.
Cherwell: In a post on Goodreads around the release of your book, you described Hope Ablaze as a diasporic story. Amma’s voice is initially filtered through Nida’s perspective and marked by broken English, but she is later revealed to be a skilled poet whose complex verse resists translation. Could you discuss the role of language barriers in your work, particularly how poetry bridges – or highlights – gaps in translation and cultural transition?
Sarah: There’s a lot to unpack there because I think there’s three key concepts that you touched on. I think the first is the idea of the diaspora. On diaspora: modernity pulled large swathes of people from their ‘homeland’ to another region, often western liberal democracies, and now we have these culture wars where people of the homeland perceive these new cultures as watered-down versions of an original. I like to push back against that idea because I think diasporas are surviving and creating their own culture that while not necessarily the same as that of the homeland, is still a culture in its own right.
Two: many of us who grew up in the diaspora exist in that weird in-between where at home we spoke a different language, but at school we were speaking English. That means our native tongue, is sometimes broken, or we have an accent. I don’t speak, I can read a writer or do [understand them]. I love watching Pakistani dramas and I understand them pretty perfectly. But the way I speak it is so different to people from Pakistan itself and I would feel as though I’m not Pakistani enough. But looking back, I don’t think that’s true. Yes, I’m missing a very important part of culture because language is one of the ways that you access culture, but it doesn’t mean that what diaspora have isn’t authentic or true.
And so, on poetry: I think poetry is important because every act of translation is one of violence, as the saying goes. What you get instead is that you do lose bits and pieces of the intentions of the original, but the beautiful part is that it can be shared and passed down and new interpretations can be found.
And so poetry, even translated, can find different audiences. But I think the danger with that is that people can change it so much that it’s manipulated into losing its original purpose. Like Rumi, for instance. He’s one of the most translated poets in the world and very popular in the West. Rumi has been used by prominent Islamophobes against Muslims, even though he was a practicing devout Muslim who wrote poetry to talk about his devotion to Islam. So when you’re a translator you have a very high threshold of responsibility. The same can be said for writing poetry and art. When you’re writing it, it could be used against you or against other people. My writing and my words have – at Oxford, ironically enough, been used to accuse me of being a terrorist, or empathising with jihadist or whatever. But you know what? If people want to go after my art that way, that’s on them.
Cherwell: Your protagonist reckons with her Pakistani poetic heritage which has historically been rooted in spoken word and performance. This is reflected in the story through the spoken word and rap battles involving the main characters, which I thought was a wonderful touch. However, as a novel, Hope Ablaze presents poetry in a written, fixed form. Building on the idea of translation, do you think something is lost or gained when poetry transitions from being performed aloud to being written down and fixed on the page?
Sarah: I don’t perform my poetry, I get scared. Nida [the protagonist] and I are very different, but I think we have that in common. I have done maybe two readings with poetry and I actually thought it was so different. I had never felt or experienced my words that way. I did a reading for a library in New York, which was really interesting and it completely made me see my poetry in a different light, not just putting it in my head and writing it down. I do think it’s a good way to get the audience involved a lot because the community feels and sees the emotions. That’s why a lot of people, I think, enjoy the audiobook. The woman who performs it does a fantastic job. I haven’t listened to my own audiobook, though, because I get scared. Again, I get really freaked out listening to my own words. That’s why I haven’t read back since I published it. But based off of what other people tell me it’s so much more enrapturing and fun when it’s performed. I myself love going to watch spoken word. I think I prefer watching spoken word to reading poetry, actually.
Cherwell: Your next book is set to be released on January 26th. I’m not sure how publishing timelines work, so I’m curious – does that feel far away or very close for you? And is there anything you’d like to share about the book at this stage?
Sarah: Hope Ablaze is actually my second ever novel and the book that comes out next year was my first. It’s the one that’s the book of my heart, so it’s the one I’m most excited about. It is a different genre because at my heart and soul I’ve always been a fantasy writer. Hopefully this [book]is a bit of an anomaly. That’s why there’s magical realism in it, because I needed something fantastical. But I never write contemporary and I probably will not ever. That was just a one-off project that I did.
What I can say is it’s for fans of, you know, both YA and adult fantasy, so Game of Thrones, Shadow and Bone. I think anyone who loves, like, very politically-driven fantasies [will enjoy this], and martial arts! I love martial arts because I train in them.
It comes out January 2026. I wrote it a long time ago and I’ve been editing it, so a lot of what I’m doing right now at Oxford is I’ve sat in my classes, I’m running around libraries and coffee shops, trying to get my edits in time, just because we’ve multiple rounds of edits; we’ve been editing for about six months, seven months now.
I’m really excited. It comes out from Bloomsbury in the UK and by HarperCollins in the US and Canada. We’ll be doing some exciting stuff in the UK for it. It was supposed to come out in March of this year, but because I was so behind on my deadline due to work in Michaelmas term and we had to push back the date by almost a year.
Cherwell: So how are you managing that being a full-time student in a very demanding degree and a publishing author?
Sarah: I’m not handling it. I think I’m starting to get a better balance of things, but honestly, I am very overwhelmed. I also have a full-time job because my actual daytime career is very different. I work in finance. I could be a full-time writer, but I don’t want to because I really like that right now. It’s a passion, and it’s not, like, the only income that I rely on. I don’t want it to be just a job. I do most of my writing in the evening, or I carve out a few days in the week where I just go to a coffee shop, or, like, the Bodleian, or the Radcam, or the Taylorian, and I just get writing done.
I’ll be doing some fun stuff with the Bodleian Library about the book and my writing process, so, it’s fun being at Oxford and writing at the same time. I meet a lot of students at Oxford who want to be authors, which is great. I think they should try it out. I don’t recommend doing it while you’re in school, though. You could try, but like, I don’t think I’m balancing stuff. I am behind on my thesis. I have missed a lot of term time because I had to travel for book events. I don’t recommend it, but it’s definitely fun to write while you’re in school.
The interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Note: The name of Sarah’s novel, Hope Ablaze, was mis-printed in the Week 1 print edition as Hope of Blades.
Brian Cox is a classically trained Scottish actor, known for his roles as Logan Roy in Succession and Agamemnon in Troy. He has received numerous awards, including a Primetime Emmy Award and a Golden Globe.
Cherwell: You’ve previously criticised method acting for being disruptive to other actors; speaking to The Guardian about working on Glenrothan, the upcoming movie you’re directing, you said you thought you were more of a ‘curator’ than a director. How do you see the individual vs. the collective in the creative process?
Cox: Well, I’m a socialist, so I believe in the collective, and I believe that everybody has a role to play in that collective, and everybody brings a different thing to it. I think that’s one of the great things about the theatre.
My problem is with the American system, or ‘the system’ in general. And it’s not so much Stanislavski, it’s this absorption in the role, where it’s a discipline. You have to be absorbed, but you also have to be aware of what’s around you, you’ve got to be aware of the ensemble, because it’s not just you.
Even if you’re playing Hamlet, there’s also Fortinbras you’ve got to think about, and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are as important as anything else, and they’re all in their place. A lot of the time with the absorption, say you’re playing Rosencrantz, it becomes all about Rosencrantz. So you forget where your place is within the dramatis personae. It comes out selfish, but it isn’t necessarily selfish at all. It’s actually something else. It’s self preserving, as opposed to selfish, this feeling that you have to preserve your role and have to look after your character in a way, but you don’t have to. You can trust – trust yourself. A lot of it is about not trusting yourself, not trusting who you are within that framework. I think that’s what people suffer from, that not being able to get the trust that they need.
It goes back to Strasberg too. There was a great story, which is a true story, actually, about Stanislavski. The Group Theatre was a famous bunch of theatre professionals in America in the 30s – there was Elia Kazan, there was Strasberg, there was Cheryl Crawford, there was John Garfield. They were vulnerable, but they discovered Stanislavski, and they loved it. Stanislavski is great. I love Stanislavski as well. With Stanislavski, there was one thing that Strasberg focused on, which was called ‘affective memory’, which he translated as ‘emotional memory’. It was an exercise where he would get actors to relive the trauma of their childhood and how that would affect their acting. Now, it’s a laudable ambition, but it’s kind of pointless, you know?
So Stella Adler, who was an equally great teacher as Stanislavski, a wonderful teacher, she was a little bit worried about the situation. So she took herself to Paris because she knew that Stanislavski always went to Paris for the summer. The Russians allowed him to go there, and he lived in the Bois de Boulogne. So she goes to see him in the Bois de Boulogne, and she asks him about affective memory. And he says, “Oh, I got rid of that years ago. It interferes with the imagination.” The imagination is a flowing thing. It’s not an absolute thing. It flows. He said it stops that. So she goes back to the group, and they’re all there, and everybody asks: “So what did the great man think about affective memory, emotional memory?” And she says: “Well, he doesn’t use it anymore. He thinks it gets in the way of the imagination.” And Strasberg said: “Then Stanislavski is wrong”, and that’s where the split happened.
So he took it his own way and enabled a lot of actors, there’s no question. The James Deans and the Paul Newmans. You know, Newman had real problems as an actor in himself; he was very beautiful and good looking, but he had problems about his acting, about revealing himself. And he felt that Strasberg released him in a way. That was important, there was an element of that which was good, but also it becomes a sort of ‘thing’. Whereas nothing should be a ‘thing’, it should be a help, and it should have that sense of: you can leave it, or you can take it. But if you get locked into it, you suddenly become dogmatic. It’s like following a religious cult: “This is the right religion, not that”, and that makes a difference.
That’s what caught the American imagination. But it didn’t help the American imagination, because he said he wasn’t interested in the imagination. The imagination is it; when you look at children, that’s all they do. They imagine. They live in the world of imagination. And children are the best actors, to me. I love child actors, because they’re just so committed. That’s the great thing about Kieran [Culkin]. Kieran was a child actor, and he has that child actor’s enthusiasm, and it would be terrible to in any way curtail that.
Cherwell: You used the word ‘release’ there, that Strasberg ‘released’ Paul Newman, and it’s the same word you used in your talk [to the Oxford Union]. If a director’s job is to release an actor, how did that affect your own directing of your recent movie?
Cox: I’m going to take you up on the curator thing. When I started to direct this film – and I never wanted to direct this film, by the way, it wasn’t my idea. I was asked to be in it, but then I was asked to direct it, and I thought: “Oh, I didn’t expect that. But okay, I’ll have a go.” But then I realized there are so many talented people around you, and you have to give them the position. You have to get a group of people who are ostensibly on the same page, but who are allowed to do what they do more than anybody else. I had a wonderful costume guy, I had a brilliant set designer who did the most extraordinary things, she was absolutely amazing. You just say, let people do their job. That’s why they’re there. Don’t interfere. Let it go. Let them do their job. Then, of course, there will always be questions that you can ask, but don’t come in with a negative. Come in with something positive. Empower. It’s important to empower, that’s a key for me.
Cherwell: Do you feel if the collective has been set and the group’s been brought together, and for whatever reason the project isn’t working, is there a way the director saying no can make a good product, or is it just not going to be good?
Cox: It depends on casting. You know, the first thing the director has to do is to cast. Some directors are very good at casting, and some are not. I’m not necessarily good visually, but I am good at casting. I know shit from Shinola. I know what an actor is. I had a great cast. I had Alan Cumming, I had Shirley Henderson and the writer David Ashton. I found a wonderful fledgling DP, who did a fantastic job. So there’s an element of trust, there’s an element of risk, but you also have to do that. It’s like my editor, who I loved, who’s also great, I just trusted him immediately.
Now the problem with the editing is not necessarily to do with his job. It’s to do with the fact that, because we had a tight budget, there’s a lot of coverage that we didn’t get. I think that what’s going to happen is I’m going to be called upon to spend May doing some coverage on the shoot. But it’s about empowering people to do their best, not controlling them or not dictating the odds. If you see a talent, let the talent be. Don’t try and make it something else than what it is. You say: “Well, she knows how to do a room like nobody knows how to do a room”. So that’s a given.
Cherwell: Of the talents you worked with on Succession, you said [in your Union talk] you’d seen Kieran in A Real Pain. Jeremy Strong just starred in The Apprentice, and Sarah Snook was also in the West End doing The Picture of Dorian Gray. Did you see either of those things?
Cox: I only saw The Picture of Dorian Gray. I’ve seen A Real Pain, which is excellent. It’s really good, and Kieran is fantastic. He got the Best Supporting Actor at the Golden Globes, and I think he’ll get the Oscar, because it’s a wonderful performance, and it’s so committed. I’m just so proud of him, because he’s so released now as an actor. He just goes for it and does it. He can be naughty, but he’s brilliant.
Whilst for many, Iceland is associated with plane-grounding volcanic eruptions and sweeping landscapes, it is equally home to a surprising number of recognisable artists for just a small island of not even 400,000 inhabitants. Björk, Sigur Rós, Of Monsters and Men and KALEO are just a handful of the biggest names hailing from the land of fire and ice. But why is this small Nordic island such a hotspot for musical innovation?
Storytelling, as evidenced by the prolific Viking sagas, has always been an important aspect of Icelandic culture, with tales of adventure having been transmitted orally from generation to generation. Alongside this prose tradition, epic verse poems known as rímur date back to the 14th century that similarly reflected the awe and danger of the environment, mythological legends featuring trolls and elves as well as more human stories of love and loss, usually in an acapella singing style known as að kveða. As the culture of the Icelanders developed from the first Viking settlers, it was largely unspoiled by external influences, allowing it to flourish organically in all its eccentricity and uniqueness.
There is an emphasis on nature or rather naturalness that appears to characterize Icelandic music; as if it is something directly inspired by the Earth and all its beautiful, violent processes. In turn, Icelanders, perhaps more subject to the elements than people of less geographically shifting lands, are seen as more unpredictable, less restrained by artificial stability and therefore tending towards artistic expression. Whether or not this romanticised image is justified is debatable, but as a result, the creativity of all Icelandic musicians is inextricably linked with their nationality as Sigurðardóttir writes here. In fact, it is very difficult to identify a common thread between the warm jazz tones of Laufey and the electronic stylings of GusGus. It is perhaps this extraordinary genre diversity and success over such a wide variety of styles that begs for these justifications of nature instilling a certain creativity in its people, as the common link can only be their origins.
During my own travels in Iceland, I found that most people I met always had a creative passion that, even if it didn’t pay the bills, formed a key aspect of their identity. For some reason, it didn’t feel uncommon to encounter a fisherman who played bass in an experimental punk band at the weekends. Moreover, being a professional musician doesn’t appear to carry the same stigma it can elsewhere. The ‘don’t quit your day job’ mentality isn’t as prevalent, and artists aren’t seen as ‘wasting their time’ but rather actively encouraged to thrive in creative environments. Music schools are ubiquitous and supported financially by the city, instilling a value on musicality from an early age. Influential festivals such as Iceland Airwaves spotlight new talent annually, often the stage of both local and international hidden gems.
Reykjavík is a capital filled to the brim with young creatives that traditionally has many live music venues from intimate stages like Húrra and Gaukurinn to Harpa Concert Hall- an architectural marvel of glass shaped like basalt columns found in Iceland’s landscape. Yet, as one Guardian article has recently illuminated, some of these iconic venues have started to be “swallowed by tourism”, like Kex, an old biscuit factory turned hostel that sacrificed its stage for more guest rooms to accommodate the surge of tourism in recent years. 2024 also saw the end of LungA due to lack of funding, an art festival held in the tiny village of Seydisfjördur in the Eastern fjords that gave a stage to a wide range of the most popular to the most avant-garde artists. The country’s unique creative hotpot, historically fostered by geographical isolation and lack of external input, could now be in a Björkian “state of emergency” due to an overwhelming influx of international influence.
This album, composed in a lighthouse in the remote and wild Westfjords, is a soothing patchwork of innovative rhythms and instruments that produce ethereal, magical sounds.
Believe it or not, this is an article about hope. For hope to last, however, I believe that it must be earned. We thus begin someplace far from its optimistic light: over the vacation, Cherwell reported that 38% of Oxford students have experienced worse mental health since they arrived at the University. (“Only 38%?!”, we say in unison.) This may seem a baffling statistic to some outsiders – for instance, the unrelenting @oxford_uni commenters who seemingly spend their lives begging the university’s social media team to let them in. After all, by virtually all accounts, Oxford is one of the best universities in the world. Regardless of rankings of questionable validity, we undeniably bear regular witness to thousands of hopeful families making pilgrimages to our city, hoping to manifest erudite futures for their young, impressionable children. This – what we have achieved – is all they want. So why, once here, in a position of ostensibly great privilege, are we so unhappy?
Here, many will posit different theories. Some will blame excess workload. I suspect this may play some role, but it’s also an easy scapegoat with an inherent conflict of interest. On the other end of the spectrum, some self-appointed pedagogical experts on the Internet – coming out of the woodwork at every opportunity to shake their wrinkled fists – will blame the ‘laziness of the youth!’. I believe this answer is also misguided. (But don’t mistake my rejection of Boomer logic for permission to keep scrolling on your phone after reading this. We do, unfortunately, have to lock in.) Closer to the psychological mark, some will offer ‘impostor syndrome’ as the root source of our distress. I don’t think this is entirely wrong, but (1) because it wouldn’t lend cleanly to the conclusion I want to reach, (2) the editors are disillusioned by it, and (3) it’s my actual belief, I theorise that impostor syndrome is just one manifestation of the greater psychological issue at play.
The issue starts with our personalities (ouch): classically high-achieving institutions like Oxford select individuals with higher levels of neuroticism (in the technical sense), a mental breeding ground for overthinking. This lends us creative and analytic abilities which can be harnessed to engineer great innovations, but it can also exacerbate real or perceived conflicts within us and with others, serving as a source of great (often unnecessary) stress. This can be bad enough on its own, but luckily for us – it gets worse. In the individual, neuroticism increases the likelihood and frequency with which we become conscious of what philosophers like Camus term ‘the absurd’ – the feeling that the human condition, with our yearning for clarity in an irrational world, is a meaningless, Sisyphean task.
You likely worked hard to get to Oxford, perhaps grinding many years in preparation for your eventual application. But once you got here, the door opened to yet another application cycle, Russian doll style. Now you’re so caught up preparing for the next stage that you hardly have time to enjoy what you worked for so long to achieve. To make matters worse, maybe you’re getting rejected from internship after internship and don’t know why. Or, maybe you already have your post-Oxford plans confirmed, but you’ve realised that what follows is just another hedonic treadmill, wrapped in postgraduate or corporate packaging. This, you realise, is a cycle which continues until you die.
Bit dramatic, you might think to yourself – and what do we do with this information? (Here’s the preachy part.) Fundamentally, I think it’s difficult to argue with the assertion that “nothing matters”. I do not, however, believe that this reality constitutes a reason to despair, nor does it prescribe a nihilistic life of crime or other ‘amoral’ activities. If life has no meaning, we have the freedom to dictate our own purpose and create our own happiness. The main problem is that a lot of the time, we’ve been conditioned to look for these things in the wrong places. The cognitive trap I’ve found myself falling into time and time again is thinking that the external world is solely deterministic of my internal state. That, for example, getting into Oxford would make me happy. Sure, for a moment I was overjoyed; but in a world devoid of its own meaning, lasting happiness doesn’t come from simply ‘having’. Happiness is not something exclusively reserved for those who get into a top-tier university – that would be ridiculous – or even those who get the perfect job or partner. Happiness is internally generated; you can create it anywhere.
So, what fills you with joy whenever you do it? Whatever it is, maybe you can join me and try to incorporate a little more of it into your life this year. And full disclosure: if that statistic is anything less than 38% next year, I’ll be taking full credit. I close, as promised, with Camus on a hopeful note: “The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
In my first year, I was a regular Atik attendee, especially at Park End. Chris Duke’s shout-outs, the cheese floor and Ahmed’s chips on the way home were maybe not the highlight of my week, but certainly something I looked forward to. Last term, however, I did not attend a single Park End. While this is partly because I’m now in my second year, I do think Atik’s closure played a role. From my friend’s reports, it has certainly undergone some changes. Of course, my memories might be clouded by the rose-tinted glasses through which I viewed most of my first-year experiences. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Atik’s closure is the culprit. No one wants to go on two nights out in a row at the same club. But does this mean everyone is going out less? Has Atik’s closure cemented the decline of Oxford’s nightlife in general?
Part of me does miss Atik. This is mainly because, when it was open, it seemed like there was a wider variety of options to choose from on a night out, rather than because I loved the club itself. Let’s face it: Atik wasn’t exactly Ministry of Sound or Berghain. In fact, I’m sure about half of the student body openly welcomed its closure, its demise giving other venues a second chance. Ever heard of Thirst or Spirit? The only times I’d noticed these two bars was when standing in the queue for Atik, and they were always eerily empty. But last term, I ended up at a bop at Thirst. It was teeming with people and the DJ was great. Meanwhile, Spirit now offers crewdates, with entry to Bridge included. I don’t think we would’ve seen these bars take off while their big neighbour still dominated. Maybe there is still life on Park End Street after midnight – maybe it’s not all a picture of decline.
On the other hand, the Oxford nightlife scene can be so much more than just clubbing. Even last year, some of my best ‘nights out’ didn’t involve a foray into Bridge, Atik, or Plush. Bops in the college bar, where drinks are cheap and the whole college turns up are always a highlight for me. Or crewdates, where we end up drunkenly staggering to Spoons and rarely make it to the club afterwards. From this angle, the nightlife scene at Oxford seems to be as thriving as ever. Besides, for those club rats out there, Cowley still exists, with potentially better clubs on offer than any in the city centre. Hopefully, Atik’s closure has encouraged more people to venture outside of OX1 for a night out. Either way, the nightlife scene at Oxford is certainly not dead!
Matcha, rich in antioxidants and caffeinated, is my go-to when I don’t want anything espresso. Yet, not every store in Oxford sells it, and I have been a victim of many bad matcha lattes over the years. Here’s a ranking of the matcha lattes I’ve had in Oxford — not including bobas or Black Sheep blueberry matchas, though many places do matcha boba quite well. For this ranking, I rated lattes made with the cafe’s standard milk, which for the most part was whole milk.
10. Pret
Let’s get this out of the way. Who on earth decided that the green monstrosity they serve was matcha? How would you greenlight something like that without any remorse? Gentrified or not, a matcha latte should not be closer to white than green. And they only use coconut-rice milk – the worst one at Pret. Yet despite their best efforts to market this as a vegan, Asian-inspired alternative to coffee, it just tastes like weird water. Ugh.
9. Gail’s
The thing is, the matcha at Gail’s really wasn’t too bad. I tried to hate it as an opponent of gentrification. There is not too much milk within the latte, which many larger chains struggle with. I quite enjoyed the foam that managed to rise to the top as the barista drew a little heart in the milk. The matcha is of decent quality, but the price of Gail’s really doesn’t justify it.
8. Art Cafe
I actually haven’t had the Art Cafe matcha yet, but I have consistently been a big fan of their drinks: chai, coffee, etc. My friend said of their matcha latte: “It’s as if matcha was gentrified, but it’s still pretty good.” She likes her matcha more grassy, though, so take it as you will.
7. Oxford Brunch Bar
A little bit on the milky side, but I do really like their matcha overall. Yes, it’s always a bit cold, with less foam than I prefer, but if I could only have the OBB matcha or nothing, I would not be unsatisfied. Certainly, the powder they use is good quality, with the colour more sage than pastel lime.
6. The Paper Boat Cafe
One of my pet peeves – they called it just “matcha” on the menu when it’s a matcha latte. I was hoping for hot matcha tea. But the matcha is delicious: a bit more milk than I like, but rich and warming. They always put it at the perfect temperature. Their matcha is of high quality and the view of the river when having it in certainly doesn’t hurt.
5. Columbia Coffee Roasters
Columbia Coffee is not too bad of a location at a prime spot in the market, but the prices have always been expensive in the Covered Market. This matcha latte is no exception. It tastes great, with only a hint of bitterness. The colour leaves a bit to be desired, but otherwise, the experience is perfect if you’re willing to dish out a bit more. For the lovers of pure matcha flavour, this one’s for you— not too much milk makes the drink extra rich.
4. Independent Cafe
A bit more bitter than the Columbia one but equally good. Moved up in the ranks because it only costs £4, but not the highest on this list because the matcha wasn’t mixed properly: too much leftover powder in the end. I will assume the best of the baristas, though, who were very busy that day. The strawberry matcha is amazing, with a hint of sweetness that’s perfect for a Trinity revision break. Their turmeric latte also does not miss. This place is generally a hidden gem, and I’m definitely coming back more.
3. Formosan Tea
I know I said no boba, but the matcha (boba or not) at Formosa is really good. Ceremonial grade, grassy without being bitter, and the green is exactly what you picture when you think of matcha. The one downside is that it’s SO expensive, but it comes with tapioca and red bean if that’s any consolation for the £5 you’re about to spend….
2. Society Cafe
When I first told Oxfess that this article would be published, the comments said to go to Society Café. They were not wrong. It’s a very good latte. The matcha there is never too bitter and decently nutty. However, I personally think it’s a bit too grassy for me. If you want to try matcha for the first time, be warned if you are unsure about the flavour. However, if you’ve just missed the taste of good, strong matcha, this is for you.
1. Artisan Cafe
Okay, so maybe sentiment is part of the reason I put this on top – this is the first matcha latte that I’ve had in Oxford. I find this matcha to be hit or miss, but when it’s a miss, it’s still OBB-level. The milk is warmed to perfection, the powder is not overcooked, and the only hint of powder is on the foam on top. (Plus, their bacon mac and cheese has haunted my dreams for ages.)
Honourable mention: Barefoot Bakery
I haven’t had the matcha latte here, but I had their other rainbow lattes – warm turmeric and a slightly flowery butterfly pea (my favourite non-coffee drink here.)
As Martin Luther King Jr Day rolls around on another 20th January, we are reminded of his enduring legacy: a dream of equality, justice, and a world free of prejudice. His vision transcends boundaries, resonating not only in America but across the globe. Yet, as many celebrate Dr King’s vision, one uncomfortable truth keeps gnawing at me: the assumption that racism is a uniquely right-wing, Christian, Western or white problem.
Having spent most of my formative years in Africa, I grew up surrounded by a shared identity. But when I moved to a multicultural UK, I encountered an assumption that lingers in many conversations: the idea that oppressed or marginalised groups can’t be racist. For many, especially outside Africa, it’s hard to fathom that racism could exist within communities that have faced discrimination themselves. But that’s a myth! One I’ve seen unravel in painful and personal ways. Anti-Blackness is very real and can be observed both subtly and overtly within Arab, Asian and even African communities.
This MLK Day, I want to challenge that assumption and shed light on why it matters. Dr King’s call for unity reminds us that confronting biases within our own spaces isn’t just necessary; it’s urgent. It’s uncomfortable but an essential first step toward change.
Anti-Blackness today
The struggle against anti-Blackness is both historical and contemporary. Lasting from the 16th to the 19th century, the horrors of the transatlantic slave trade are well-documented and critiqued. Less discussed, however, is the trans-Saharan slave trade – a system of human trafficking that spanned from the 8th to the 19th century. This trade involved the capture and transport of enslaved individuals from sub-Saharan Africa. It left a deeply troubling legacy, where Blackness became associated with subservience. Even today, remnants of this mindset persist, with terms like “abd” (slave) casually used in some Arab and North African communities, perpetuating systemic bias and cultural prejudice.
In 2017, reports from Libya – a country grappling with political instability after the fall of Muammar Gaddafi – revealed the existence of a modern slave trade targeting Black West African migrants. These vulnerable people traversed dangerous routes, only to be intercepted and held captive and sold like animals to the highest bidders across the Middle East and North Africa (MENA). Despite the gravity of these atrocities, the global and regional responses remain alarmingly indifferent.
My experience with anti-Blackness
Growing up in Nigeria, I didn’t think much about race – Black faces surrounded me. My experiences were far removed from the brutalities of slavery, but the cracks were still there. Colourism, for one, was everywhere. Lighter skin was celebrated, and fairness creams were treated like a golden ticket to beauty or success.
When I moved to the UK, I found the same issues reshaped in different forms, particularly within other POC communities directed against Black people. This became clear after transitioning from a 95% white primary school to a much more diverse secondary school in the West Midlands. Children of Caribbean descent would distance themselves from Africans, mocking my accent and calling us “fresh off the boat”. East Asian children, often discouraged by their parents from befriending Black children, avoided us entirely, citing fears of “bad influence”. South Asian and Arab classmates would crack “jokes” about Black people being lazy or aggressive. I saw a social hierarchy emerge, where every minority group seemed to position itself closer to whiteness as a marker of superiority.
And it didn’t stop there. This wasn’t just playground banter – it followed me into adulthood. Even at university and the Oxford Union, I’ve seen how deeply these biases run, often cloaked in intellectualised rhetoric or empty attempts at justification.
I’ve experienced these biases firsthand during my own presidential campaign at the Oxford Union. In student politics, the usual stereotypes – aggressive, lazy, or lacking competence and professionalism – were often also wielded as campaign tactics by other minority groups, even when blatantly disproven by facts. When coupled with misogyny, however, these prejudices form an especially toxic and damaging mix.
What’s most insidious is the contradiction in these attacks. Black people are demonised as aggressive or threatening yet simultaneously reduced to subservient or overly compliant caricatures. Never seen as fully human, trapped in a binary that constantly forces you to navigate perceptions. Over time, the pressure bottles up, and despite your best efforts, it explodes instinctively. Living with this tension for years takes its toll.
The most painful experience came from someone I thought was an ally, a friend who championed anti-racism. During a disagreement about handling an issue, where I suggested a more productive approach, their cutting response was: “[Of course you’d say that] like the good little Black boy that you are.” I was stunned. At first, I didn’t recognise the undercurrent of anti-Blackness, but in hindsight, their complicity in racist jokes and silence in similar moments became clear. I was an equal, but only so long as I knew my place; being useful in managing their campaign for office and thwarting political measures against them. That betrayal stung, but I’m thankful it shattered my own veil of ignorance, forcing me to confront how pervasive anti–Blackness remains, even within circles of supposed solidarity.
Anti-Blackness isn’t exclusive to far-right thugs or historical slavers – it thrives in the most subtle places and mindsets. People who have experienced discrimination and should know better, those who’ve read the books, delivered the speeches and championed equality, still perpetuate tired stereotypes, exposing the glaring contradictions in their rhetoric.
The persistence of anti–Blackness
Across much of Arab television, Black individuals are often reduced to harmful stereotypes. Slurs such as the N-word are often thrown in, trivialising the humanity of Black individuals. Black characters are routinely typecast as housemaids, labourers, or criminals, rarely depicted as professionals, heroes, or leaders. An absence of positive representation reinforces stereotypes of the inferiority of Black people, creating fertile ground for more troubling forms of anti-Blackness to thrive.
One such is the exploitation of Black migrant workers in Gulf states where institutionalised racism is deeply entrenched. The kafala system ties workers’ residency to their employers, effectively stripping them of autonomy. Many sub–Saharan African domestic workers endure gruelling hours, physical abuse and withheld wages. Employers often confiscate their passports, leaving them trapped in exploitative conditions. One particularly harrowing case in Kuwait saw an Ethiopian domestic worker clinging to a seventh-floor balcony in a desperate attempt to escape abuse. Her employer, instead of helping, chose to film the incident – a stark example of the power imbalance and dehumanisation at play.
Language often plays a significant role in normalising anti–Blackness. Terms like “abeed” (slaves) and “Azzi” (a slur akin to “Negro”) are casually used in conversations, stripping Black individuals of dignity and perpetuating long–standing stereotypes. Beauty standards exacerbate these issues, with lighter skin often idealised and darker-skinned individuals, particularly women, excluded from mainstream representation. The aggressive marketing of skin-whitening products across the region and the whole of Africa reinforces the belief that Blackness is undesirable. Even cultural traditions play a role in normalising discrimination: in Lebanon, a popular sweet called “Ras al-Abed” (head of the slave) was renamed “Tarboush” due to its racist connotations but similar products elsewhere still retain the original name.
Why talking about this matters
In many places, discussing anti-Blackness remains taboo. Nationalist narratives often erase racial diversity, promoting homogenised identities that leave no room for acknowledging racism. In Morocco, for instance, authorities have historically denied the existence of racism altogether, dismissing it as a Western concept that doesn’t apply to their society.
Talking about this issue with some of my Arab friends highlighted just how deeply rooted, yet seemingly innocent, the inability to address anti-Blackness can be. Within families and social circles, raising the topic is often met with resistance. Terms like Azzi are brushed off as harmless jokes, while those who push back are dismissed as overly sensitive or divisive, creating a stigma around addressing the problem – much like what happens in Western nations like the UK.
Dr Martin Luther King once said: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” This truth resonates profoundly because it reminds us that combating anti–Blackness cannot be selective. It is not just a Western or white issue – it is a global one. If we are serious about justice, we must confront anti–Blackness wherever it exists, even when it is within our own communities. The first step is breaking the silence, no matter how uncomfortable it may be.
The FBI labelled Dr. King “the most dangerous Negro,” fearing the power of his uncompromising call for justice paired with his extraordinary capacity for forgiveness. His words endured because they didn’t shy away from hard truths – they demanded better. If we truly believe in equality, it’s time to hold up that same mirror to ourselves and confront what we see. Change begins when we stop making excuses.
In its early days, the University of Oxford was largely constituted by private religious halls, which post-reformation provided a space for Catholic and non-conformist Christian denominations to study at the University. In 1918, Oxford gave some of these halls permanent status, affording them lasting membership of the University, without needing to receive a royal charter to achieve full collegiate status. These halls remained partially responsible for their own governance, and held onto their religious identity beyond that of the University.
Today, there are four Permanent Private Halls (PPH) in Oxford University. The largest of the four, Regent’s Park College has aspirations of joining the ranks of Oxford colleges, and is often confused for already being among them. Next door, Blackfriars Hall, which shares a site with the a priory under the same name, is home to the white-robed friars spotted throughout Oxford. Wycliffe hall, on Banbury Road, is largely a hub for ministerial training, with 40% of students studying for ordination. Finally, Campion Hall, tucked away behind Pembroke College, is distinctive for its humble size, housing only 20 students. These PPHs are collectively home to just over 500 students.
PPHs are an area of mystery to most Oxford students and often subject of various myths. With some students previously having rumoured that “PPHs are cults”, and “Regent’s is being bought by St. John’s”, Cherwell spoke to the heads of all four PPHs to shed some much needed light on the smaller cousins of Oxford colleges. In looking at the governance, finance, and culture of PPHs, Cherwell found that while they formally and academically align with the University, some students are left feeling more pressured than welcomed by their hall.
Ownership & Governance
All four PPHs are either governed independently, or in part by a religious institution. Between PPHs, the specific role given to the governing institution varies. For the two largest PPHs, Regent’s Park, affiliated with the Baptist Union, and Wycliffe Hall, linked to the Anglican Church, their association starts and ends with their accreditation to train ordinands, ministers of the Church. The two halls are registered as their own charities, in effect existing and operating similar to other colleges. Emphasising their independent nature, Regent’s Park Principal, Sir Malcolm Evans, told Cherwell: “There is no sense in which the College can be said to be subject to any form of ‘religious governance’ or external influence beyond the University”.
By contrast, Blackfriars, affiliated with the Dominican Order, and Campion, affiliated with the Jesuit Order, exist under respective parent-charities which hold trusteeship. Accordingly, these PPHs give a greater degree of governance to the religious orders with which they identify. Blackfriars’ Senior Leadership Team is partially composed of members of the Dominican Order, and Campion’s Governing Body includes a permanent representative of the Jesuits in Britain.
The governance of PPHs is twofold, however, since they are all subject to Oxford’s “Regulations governing the Permanent Private Halls” additionally to their independent governing body, which includes stipulations such as as each fellow must be approved by the relevant faculty or department, as well as being subject to the University’s general policies on good practice, like all other colleges. As Blackfriars Regent, Fr John O’Connor explained, Blackfriars Hall “first and foremost” complies “with the letter and the spirit” of University policy.
Finances & Security
As subsidiaries of larger charities, Blackfriars and Campion lack their own endowments but receive funds directly. The Master of Campion, Rev Dr Nicholas Austin, told Cherwell that this arrangement affords them greater financial security than they would as an independent hall, like Regent’s Park or Wycliffe, since their patron charities have additional funds which may be allocated to the hall in times of need. The Regent of Blackfriars accorded with this view, explaining that whilst the Hall primarily generates its own income, the Dominican Order offers additional financial support by, for example, investing in premises that the hall can use at subsidised prices.
Figure 1: Wycliffe Hall & Regent’s Park endowments / student body number
The financial situations of the independent Regent’s Park and Wycliffe are less favourable. Since they lack full college status, PPHs did not receive the same attention in 2024’s Disparity Report. For the year 2023/2024, Regent’s Park reported an endowment of £4.8 million, a mere 2.9% of the average endowment amount at each Oxford college for 2023/2024 (£160.2 million). Similarly, Wycliffe’s endowment of £561,000 weighed in at only 0.3% of the college mean. Taking into account the comparatively small student bodies of PPHs, Regent’s Park’s endowment-student ratio of £22.7 thousand and Wycliffe’s £7.6 thousand were eclipsed by the college mean of £324.7 thousand.
The comparatively precarious situation of these PPHs is due, in part, to their exclusion from the College Contribution Scheme, a University-wide fund collected from colleges proportionally to their wealth, from which poorer colleges can apply for grants. When the Scheme was redrafted in 2019, Regent’s Park JCR advocated unsuccessfully for PPHs to be included, despite motions of solidarity being passed by colleges such as New College and Merton College. In his proposal, the then Regent’s Park JCR president, Noah Robinson, wrote “[the Scheme] seeks to help poorer colleges, but ignores the poorest of all”.
Whilst the Principal of Regent’s Park told Cherwell “the College copes perfectly well without these benefits”, a 2024 report on the experiences of students at PPHs noted that budget constraints impact the living standards of PPHs, visible in “the absence of gyms, bars, and sports facilities on-site… a lack of variety in dining options” and “fewer and less elaborate” social events. Further, the “book grants, travel grants, accommodation bursaries or other financial support” available to students at colleges remain inaccessible to those at PPHs.
Overall, students believed that these financial disparities impacted their social and, to some extent, academic experience. Whilst the report recognised that poorer colleges face similar challenges, it held that “these problems can feel more pronounced within PPHs due to their particularly small student populations and unique religious ethos”.
Culture & Environment
Whilst Regent’s Park rivals other colleges in size, with a student body just slightly larger than Harris Manchester College, the other three halls are distinctive for housing a comparatively few students – most markedly Campion, with a student body of only 20. These smaller PPHs agreed that their modest size was a strength, attracting students seeking a more community-oriented Oxford experience. “It thus allows us to offer highly personal services”, Blackfriars’ Regent told Cherwell; “students are known by name, not only by other students, but also by the staff”.
These three PPHs also saw the religious principles of their halls as an attractive feature for applicants, including those who identify with a different religious tradition, or none at all. For example, Rev Dr Nicholas Austin, Master of Campion Hall, explained that the Jesuit Order’s central value of cura personalis, or pastoral care, long precedes the University’s recent increased recognition of the need for student welfare support.
All four heads were keen to point out the religious diversity of their hall, as well as the lack of faith requirement for applicants. The heads of Campion and Regent’s Park told Cherwell that students who identify with their respective religious orders represent a minority in their halls, and the other two affirmed that their communities are by no means defined by a singular religious background. Nevertheless, they did not see this diversity as cause for secularisation, as other Oxford colleges have tended to. Instead, Campion, Wycliffe, and Blackfriars have an opt-out system in place whereby all candidates who applied to other colleges, but were pooled to them, are offered the opportunity to decline the PPH and be considered by a different college.
Rather than changing their culture to accommodate a wide variety of students, these halls instead ensure that all students are there of their own volition, though the SU raises concerns that the opt-out system does not do enough to ensure that applicants feel that they have full agency over their choice to study at a PPH. Blackfriars told Cherwell that in returning to the offer pool for consideration by another college, these students are not disadvantaged whatsoever in their overall application to the University. However, the SU report found that some applicants doubted this assurance, as one student accepted a place at Campion, having been pooled there from Blackfriars, and felt pressured to accept the place, recommending a consistent, University-wide opt-out system.
Regent’s Park differs from the others in this respect, since it lacks that opt-out system for pooled candidates. The Oxford Student Union recommended that these students should be given the choice to be reallocated in their report, recognising that “the smaller size and strong religious ethos [of PPHs] may not align with [pooled applicants’] expectations or personal interests”. As well as providing non-Baptist students with the option of a secular Oxford experience, an opt-out system would ensure “that these communities are filled with individuals who are excited to contribute to and benefit from the experience.”
Despite the recommendations of the SU, Regent’s Park decided against implementing an opt-out system, and students continue to be pooled to the PPH, without the choice to be reconsidered. Regent’s Park Principal disagreed with the SU’s view that students at the hall are denied a secular experience, since “coming to Regent’s does not make a student subject to any form of governance or influence other than that of the College and University”, defending the position that students may be readily pooled to Regent’s, just as they would to other colleges.
One undergraduate at Regent’s Park who spoke to Cherwell defended the decision, since the choice to opt out may result in diminished student numbers and diversity.
Tolerance & Inclusivity
The SU report continues: “Rather than an opt-out provision, undergraduate students conveyed that they would like Regent’s Park to adopt a more inclusive atmosphere to other religions and beliefs, rather than an atmosphere of simply tolerance.” Whilst there is no pressure to engage in religious life at PPHs, many non-Christian students felt marginalised, feeling merely “‘allowed’ rather than genuinely welcomed”. As well as a lack of Halal and Kosher provisions, students reported that non-Christian religious events across PPHs receive comparatively meagre funding and support.
Recently, Regent’s Park saw an incident of antisemitic graffiti. In his statement condemning the act, the principal wrote: “Mutual respect and toleration and the freedom of religion or belief is a central pillar of Baptist identity and thus foundational to the ethos of Regent’s”. One transgender Jewish student at Regent’s Park told Cherwell that the statement’s emphasis on the Baptist identity only left him, and other Jewish students, feeling more isolated, since “they once again centred Christianity even when the matter at hand was about an antisemitic hate crime”.
In response, the principal told Cherwell: “Whilst fully respecting this point of view, this was not the general reaction to the statement: indeed, many students and staff expressed quite the opposite view, commending the College for the support which it offered and the open and transparent stance that it had taken.”
The same student told Cherwell that their experience made them feel that the PPH prioritises a certain “religious identity & experience above others”. The student eventually negotiated a switch to Linacre College to complete their postgraduate degree, following the PPH’s handling of incidents which left them feeling “marginalised and excluded on the basis of [their] identities”.
Regent’s Park Principal told Cherwell: “we reject the suggestion that we only ‘tolerate’ those of ‘other religions or beliefs’. The very suggestion implies that there is a bias towards those of a particular faith or belief tradition, which is simply not the case. It is just plain wrong to suggest that those of some faith traditions, or of no religious faith, are prioritised over those of others, as generations of students who have studied at Regent’s can attest. We seek to provide for the needs of all our students.” Additionally, he drew attention to Regent’s Park being unique among Oxford colleges and PPHs for issuing a specific Trans Inclusion Statement. Blackfriars’ Regent also stated that the hall welcomes students and fellows of diverse sexual and gender identities.
Not all student experiences are uniform, however, as one Muslim undergraduate at Regent’s Park told Cherwell that the PPH’s religious associations have fallen in the background of their experience. Despite being the only undergraduate wearing a hijab in their matriculation photo, she said “I don’t feel bothered or ushered into the corner”, adding that the PPH accommodated her request for a room close to a bathroom for religious reasons, as well as a dedicated prayer room. Other than saying grace before formals and hearing the echoes of the chapel choir across the quads – trademark signs of any Oxford college – she found that Regent’s Park’s religious associations are, simply put, “not in your face”.
(Im)permanent Private Halls
For some PPHs, these financial and cultural tensions have reached breaking point. Greyfriars Hall, governed by the Capuchin Franciscan Order, closed in 2008, citing an “unsustainable level of investment required…, both in personnel and finance”. In 2022, St. Benet’s Hall, governed by the Benedictine Order, found itself in the same position, as the University decided against renewing its PPH status due to financial inviability, and its buildings were sold to St. Hilda’s College.
The following year, St. Stephen’s house gave up its PPH status, in order to be able to award the Church of England’s Common Award, transitioning to an Anglican theological college which only takes on ordinands and those already ordained.
By contrast, St. Peter’s College, Harris Manchester College, and Mansfield College were once all PPHs before they received collegiate status. Regent’s Park’s Principal expressed the hall’s ambitions to make the same transition. For him, the question was not ‘if’, but “how and when this is to be brought about”.
The heads of Wycliffe, Blackfriars, and Campion were comparatively content with the middle ground that PPH status affords. For Campion and Blackfriars, the arrangement allows them to benefit from the academic offerings of Oxford, whilst still existing as subsidiaries of their parent-charities. Any perceived tension, they insist, is mistaken since the orders’ values complement those of the University. For the independent Wycliffe Hall, Principal Rev Dr Mighael Lloyd explained the value of PPHs in terms of a symbiotic relationship, whereby “ordinands help keep Wycliffe the Christian community that the vast majority of our non-ordinands are looking for”, whilst non-ordinands ”help our ordinands to stay ‘normal’”.
PPHs stand with each foot in a different world: one in the modern, secular University, and one in the religion-centred communities. Whilst some, like Regent’s Park or St. Stephen’s, opt to commit to one over the other, for those stuck in the middle, the compromises leave a distinctive mark on their students’ experience.
