I was alone with the earth and the sun before you
came along: there was no life, no song, not even words.
My hope had been lost to the breeze, reveries strung up
on imagined poplar trees. Before war, before Ramses. You
were still nebular then, too embryonic to be captured by
the tip of my fountain pen. Before fear, before rain,
before prose or pain.
I was left to despair,
to beat hard ground until it yielded
love somewhere. This was before the Lord’s prayer,
before Lord—and I swear I cried gold on the day the moon
broke its mould and released you. Out of the strata of
the rock and the bacteria of yet uninvented livestock,
you came forth. My new sun.
Blog Page 34
In the Beginning
Loch Ness Monster less likely than Chewbacca: Oxford scientist
University of Oxford biology professor Timothy Coulson has recently argued against the existence of cryptids such as the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot, and the Yeti in an article written for The European. Coulson cites the lack of credible evidence and their incompatibility with evolutionary science, concluding that they are all just “fun figments of our imagination.”
Professor Coulson argues that the extensive effort to survey biodiversity, including the use of highly effective camera traps, makes it extraordinarily unlikely that any large, undiscovered species remain undetected. Hundreds of these motion-activated cameras have been deployed for years in areas where Bigfoot and the Yeti are rumoured to exist, yet not a single credible recording has surfaced. For these large animals, the probability of their absence exceeds 99% relatively quickly.
Professor Coulson told Cherwell: “It is more likely that somewhere in the universe, Chewbacca’s cousins are living on a planet they call Kashyyyk.”
At Oxford, Coulson is a Professorial Fellow at Jesus College and former head of Zoology. His work focuses on how changes in apex predator numbers impact ecosystems over long time periods. Coulson has just published his first popular science book entitled A Universal History of Us: A 13 Billion Year Tale from the Big Bang to You, which explores the origins of the human species by incorporating many different scientific disciplines.
In the article, he argues that biologically, Bigfoot’s existence is unlikely. Great apes evolved in Africa, Asia, and Europe, and the only one to reach North America is Homo sapiens, arriving just 16,000 years ago—far too recent for a new species to evolve.
Similarly, the Loch Ness Monster is frequently speculated to be a close relative of the plesiosaur, a marine reptile that went extinct 66 million years ago. While fossil evidence confirms that plesiosaurs existed before the dinosaur extinction, no remains have been discovered of the millions of plesiosaurs that would have existed since then if the species had survived up to the present.
Professor Coulson finds belief in cryptids amusing, noting, “You can’t have a sensible discussion with people who do not look at evidence and make up evidence-free narratives in their head. There is little prospect of changing the mind of such folk.” He has “more rewarding things to spend my time on than engaging in a futile debate.”
As for the Loch Ness Monster, scientific exploration has been far less extensive. While it’s impossible to rule out every unknown species, the idea that a large, undiscovered creature has gone unnoticed for decades is highly improbable. Professor Coulson tells Cherwell that people who still choose to believe in the existence of these creatures dismiss concrete evidence against their existence and pin their beliefs to hoax photos. He notes an anecdote of a large model of the Loch Ness Monster created for a film reportedly being lost in the Loch—potentially fueling mistaken sightings.
Unlike cryptids, Coulson acknowledges a “good possibility” that aliens exist. While we have thoroughly explored Bigfoot and Yeti habitats, we have only studied a “very tiny fragment” of the universe. Our search for extraterrestrial life has lasted just a century—a blink in the 13.8-billion-year history of the universe—and our technology remains far from capable of exploring it fully.
But regarding belief in cryptids, Coulson isn’t too concerned, remarking, “Let them believe their nonsense if it makes them happy.”
Mac Miller grapples with mortality on ‘Balloonerism’
When the ‘D’ rings out from the organ on the dream-like second track of Mac Miller’s Balloonerism, it feels like the beginning of an ascent into open heavens. It’s ironic but fitting that the artist’s latest posthumous release is one so outwardly concerned with his own mortality. Mac first speaks over five minutes into the LP, grappling with the inevitability of his own death. He treats his rise to fame as the opening of a Pandora’s Box that solidified his fate as a doomed star, musing:
“I gave my life to this shit, already killed myself.”
Miller spoke openly about his drug use during his life, and Balloonerism is no different from the rest of his catalogue in tackling the subject of addiction. Speaking on his Faces mixtape – recorded around the same time as Balloonerism in 2014 – Mac remarked: “every song is about coke and drugs”. Whilst Faces feels like the work of an artist in a downward spiral, Balloonerism sounds as if it were recorded in a state of purgatory. On the track ‘Excelsior’, Miller reminisces about his early life amidst the sounds of playing children: “Me I used to want to be a wizard, when did life get so serious? Whatever happened to apple juice and cartwheels.” This makes for haunting listening knowing the eventual outcome of Mac’s life – an outcome that Miller himself seemed already aware of – but also acts as commentary on his musical progression from the care-free to the introspective.
Sonically and stylistically, Balloonerism fills a gap in the Miller canon between the playful frat-rap of his early mixtapes and the sincerity of his later work. This is the work of a maturing musician, and an early instance of Mac using his craft as an outlet for his anxieties about mortality. No track exemplifies this better than ‘Funny Papers’, in which Mac jokes about seeing reports of a suicide in the ‘funny papers’ – a Second World War term for the cartoon section of a newspaper. There’s an effortlessness in the way he juxtaposes the joyful with the somber. Even in the wake of a first verse tackling a subject as heavy as suicide, it’s hard not to smile hearing Mac’s playful tone on the refrain: “The moon’s wide awake with a smile on his face as he smuggles constellations in a suitcase.”
Just as his lyrics tackle existential questions with almost childlike metaphor, Mac’s delivery glides between languid and upbeat throughout the album. The more upbeat ‘Stoned’ sees Mac rapping over a hallucinatory beat that fuses psychedelic chirps with a head-bopping guitar riff, but despite its hooks it is still clear this is not a grab for commercial success, but another fragment of an album that Mac is making for himself and his most devoted fans. This undeniable honestly persists in the final two tracks, with the hopeful refrain of “the best is yet to come” on album-highlight ‘Rick’s Piano’ bearing truth regarding the exceptional quality of Miller’s later work. It is after all impossible to listen to Balloonerism without lamenting not only the loss of the man, but of the music he was yet to produce.
The twelve-minute closer feels like the end of the ascent that began at the start of the album, with Mac’s words inevitably lingering on the mind:
“Living and dying are one and the same.”
Clear handballs, dodgy calls and ‘learn the rules’
“Fancy reffing my football match today?”
It was an innocent enough message. My footballing ability might not be much to shout about, but I know the game well enough. Plus, this would be a 2s match – and anyone who’s been involved in the reserves’ divisions knows the standard isn’t exactly elite.
‘Why not?’ I thought to myself. ‘I’ll head up there, run around a bit, and try something new. What’s the worst that can happen?’
So I arrived at the sports ground, where after introducing myself to both sides, I was helpfully given a whistle. It was at this point that I realised something I’d never properly appreciated about the role of the referee: just how lonely it is. There’s something indescribably humiliating about doing half-arsed heel flicks in the middle of the pitch by yourself, whilst 20-plus people perform equally begrudging warm-ups at opposing ends.
With the home team having the luxury of substitutes, two were co-opted to be my linesmen. It didn’t help that one of them didn’t know the offside rule, but it was better than nothing.
It all started off quite smoothly. There were a few teething problems, but the most contentious decision for the first half an hour or so was whether to award a foul throw (I didn’t – this is 2s football).
I gradually got used to keeping up with play, signalling decisions, and even found myself playing an advantage. Was it all really this easy? Maybe I’d missed my calling all along? I got to watch (an admittedly low quality) football game and be involved at the heart of it all, whilst laughing with players about their ability (or lack thereof, as I could sympathise with).
It was that false sense of security, however, that would prove my downfall. In football, things can change in an instant, and so when a player from the away side went down in the penalty area, I suddenly had a decision to make. It felt like time slowed down, with every one of the 22 players turning towards me, waiting for me to either point to the spot, or wave play on.
Now, I’ve not named the teams involved, but those there that day can probably deduce which match this refers to. If they have, they’ll know that of my short lived refereeing career, this was not my finest moment. I could make excuses as to how quickly it happened, and how my view was blocked, but the truth is I should’ve given a penalty. It was a foul, and whilst the attacker went down theatrically (something he didn’t particularly appreciate me telling him immediately afterwards), it didn’t matter.
At that moment, however, I froze. I decided that because I wasn’t absolutely certain it was a penalty, I couldn’t give it, regardless of the incessant calls for me to do so. So, with all of the confidence I could muster, I waved play on. “Not a foul!” I shouted, to the disbelief of the away side (and, more concerningly, some of the home team too).
For the next five minutes, it was all I could think about. I knew I’d messed up and whilst this match hardly had the highest of stakes, I was desperate not to be the reason why one team did or didn’t get a result. So when that same away side scored just before half time I was genuinely relieved. One player ran past and celebrated in front of me. “F*cking disallow that!” he shouted. Ignoring the fact I hadn’t actually disallowed any of their goals, I was nevertheless pleased that my decision was no longer the main story.
The second half is where things turned, with various fouls moving the game into more feisty territory. I did my best to control things (although, without actually having any cards to give out, this was a challenge), but tempers continued to flare.
Those tensions were only exacerbated when, at the very same end I had failed to give a penalty to the away team, I gave one for the home side. In my defence (which, funnily enough, none of the away players seemed to agree with), it was a pretty blatant handball, but upon being told to “learn the f*cking rules,” I don’t think I’d convinced most.
So it was 1-1, I’d given one team a penalty, failed to give a clear one to the other, and every five seconds I was having to blow for a foul to prevent someone’s legs getting broken. It wasn’t ideal.
The away team going ahead again got them off my back (briefly), but an equaliser soon after meant we headed into the final stages level. Frankly – and this is probably not an opinion I should have held as an ‘unbiased’ referee – I was happy with that. It meant neither side would be hugely aggrieved with me, and I could walk away without worrying too much about that penalty decision.
89 minutes had gone, still 2-2. It was getting closer. A few daft tackles slowed the game down even more, and I was not about to add on swathes of injury time. But then the home side found themselves on a counter. As I sprinted up the pitch, I prayed the attacker would miss.
So when the forward slotted it home, I stood motionless. Almost immediately, I had an away player jog past me: “That’s your fault, you f*cking idiot”. ‘Cheers for that,’ I thought.
There was, at this point, no time left. I blew my whistle, and breathed a sigh of relief that it was over. I shook hands with everyone, expecting more criticism. But to my shock, I got none.
In fact, I got praise. “Well done for dealing with that mate.” “Hard work with some of them.” Even the abuser-in-chief, who had just five minutes earlier blamed me for the loss, thanked me for coming down.
I’ve been guilty of it myself – becoming an entirely different person as soon as the game finishes. I even did it as a referee: I’m not sure I’d ever tell a group of people abusing me to “just calm down, lads” in any other walk of life. But for some reason, for 90 minutes, it becomes the norm.
So would I do it again? Probably not.
Would I recommend other people give it a go? Also probably not.
And would I do anything differently? Not really. Probably just learn the f*cking rules.
My Diary: Self-reflection or self-sabotage?
“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train” – The Importance of Being Earnest, Oscar Wilde.
Writing a diary is never a neutral act. Whether we aim for truth or “something sensational”, a diary is its own form of fiction – and it shapes our thoughts as much as it records them. The effect of this is often overlooked. We are told that keeping a diary does wonders for your mental well-being. In my case, it only made things worse.
Three years ago, I started keeping a diary. I intended to use it as a record of everyday life – it was my A level summer, and I was sure my newfound freedom would lead to experiences worth recording. But before long, my diary became something else entirely. It was no longer about events – it was all about emotion. I quickly became addicted.
It’s an easy trap to fall into: a diary encourages introspection in a way that conversation rarely can. A diary invites self-reflection, but without knowing it, I began to over-analyse. It was the literary equivalent of doom-scrolling – only, instead of refreshing a digital feed, I was trawling through the most uncomfortable spaces in my own mind.
I don’t think that my diary changed my perception of everyday life, but it did change the way I reacted to it. A bad day became worse as I sat down to write – to dwell in the possible problems – thinking I was helping myself. My diary became a breeding ground for negativity, inflating the importance of trivial problems. We’ve all had moments when a miserable day is lifted by a change of scenery – what seemed like a crisis solved simply by sunlight and fresh air. The way I was using my diary was akin to keeping myself locked inside – left to ruminate on feelings I unknowingly fuelled with each new entry.
Yet keeping a diary can be a beautiful thing. It is a space for reflection, a quiet sanctuary away from the constant noise of the outside world. When I write about moments of happiness, I find that I am able to extend them – reliving and savouring them in the slowed time of the page. Of course, limiting a diary to positive moments is equally unhelpful, undermining the very point of having a space where you can be completely honest. Used properly, a diary can be a tool: a form of silent therapy, a way to work through unresolved feelings and untangle emotional knots. It can be cathartic, too – sometimes, the need to unload is urgent, and the only place that feels safe to do so is within the pages of a book. And, often, as in the case of a child who scribbles down, in rage, a plot to kill their sibling, some thoughts are best kept private.
I used to think of my diary as a place where thoughts might spread freely across the page–a wild garden of ideas. But I have come to realise that by dwelling on what is negative, I had allowed the weeds to spread, crowding out space for growth. Self-awareness is important, but if untended, it can turn into hyper-awareness – a tangled, dark place to be.
A diary is the story we tell ourselves about ourselves. We shouldn’t ignore what is difficult, but we should be mindful of how we engage with it. Our thoughts work like algorithms – the more you think about something, the more it appears. In my early diary entries, I supercharged a cycle of negativity without even knowing. I’m not suggesting that we stop keeping diaries, far from it. Over the years, I have gifted many to a friend in need. But like all relationships, the one we have with our diaries should be conscious. A diary can soothe and create joy, but it can also intensify self-analysis. The key, perhaps, is to make sure we are balanced in the story we tell ourselves.
So, if you’re thinking of keeping a diary, give it a shot – only, make sure you know what you’re getting yourself into.
The purgatory between Oxford and the West Midlands.
When my “yahs” replaced my “yows” I knew I was in trouble. Last year, I wrote a poem about my Black Country accent. I started it before Oxford was even on my horizon, a distant fever-dream, only real for people smarter than me. A year later, I scribbled the end of it while hunched in my uncomfortable office chair, trying to imitate the language of my mother because I couldn’t rely on my own accent for the words anymore. After it was published, I realised something. I was trying to immortalise my background, make it permanent in words, just in case this Oxford thing sweeps me astray. It was a silent fear, but it was poignant, and it stuck.
I came to Oxford as a working-class, state student, thoroughly unprepared for everything. I didn’t know what pesto was, let alone the order you are meant to use the cutlery at a formal. I would stick out like a sore thumb – the girl on bursaries, intimidated by the Rad Cam (it didn’t help that my bod card wouldn’t even let me in the place). But to my disbelief, I wasn’t singled out for saying “yow” instead of “you”.
All of the sudden, the streets I’d known all my life became unfamiliar and unwelcoming. Going from concrete to cobbles changed me at every level. At work, a girl who clearly detested me just three months earlier leaned in and smiled knowingly, saying “you’ve really changed, Es.” At first I laughed and asked why. She said “I don’t know, you’re just…different.” It was amazing.
My accent shifted. I bought linen trousers off Vinted. I started to shop at Urban, although my frugalness doesn’t let me venture beyond the sale section. I put away my false eyelashes, my cheap makeup, my cheap perfumes. I started to understand the differences between wines. And then, after the most life-changing few months of my life, I came back home.
Oxford launches you into a completely other world. You go from being the second-smartest girl in your English class to an unremarkable student in a sea of intelligence. Amongst such smart people, your previous intelligence becomes mediocre. To everyone at home, I’m a bit of a miracle. To everyone in Oxford, I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed. Despite this, I wasn’t quite ready to be launched back to Earth so violently.
Last week, I invited my best mate from high school to visit me. He protested; “I wouldn’t fit in.” I asked, “How do you think I feel babe?”. He said “Yeah, but you blend in now. You talk posh.” I went bright-red and scowled. For someone who clings onto their stash puffer like someone’s itching to snatch it, being told I am what I so wanted to be absolutely breaks my heart. I’m liked, I’m accepted, I’m an Oxford girlie, but how much of my old self was abandoned?
I’m strung between two different ways of life. I can never truly go back home and exist as my parents did. But I’ll never properly be a part of the ‘Oxford class’ either. No matter how hard I scrub, I can never fully rinse away my accent and all the baggage that comes with it. I’ll hold on desperately to each part until I give in or I fall. I’m planning on neither.
The Secret History Characters as Oxford Tropes
Satire is at its best when it combines humour with an ability to razor the very real flaws of the world. Donna Tartt mastered this formula in The Secret History (1992). There’s a sense in which the novel has a connection to Oxford: both settings are cloistered, academic, moody, moneyed. Oxford is known for its Classics department and The Secret History features a class of (very rich) Greek students. If art mirrors life, then we should expect similarities in other areas. Turn to look at the cast of characters.
First is Henry, the super-scholar, a cold and calculated mastermind. Like every character in the book, he is a total self-parody, best summarised through a series of satirical vignettes. He loves Gucci out of lofty fascination: “I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity.” Another time he quips a helpful historical backlog to flesh out his brainstorming (“The Persians were master poisoners”, he explains, while strategising ways to murder his friend.) He is so engrossed in his own academic world that he has never even heard of the moon landing. (“The others had somehow managed to pick this up along the way,” adds Tartt pithily.) Brainy and commanding, he’s the one who leads the central murder plot.
This is what Tartt has to say about Henry: “Henry’s fatal flaw is that he’s tried so hard to make himself perfect […] he’s tried to hard to root out things in himself which he finds unpleasant or distasteful that he’s really managed to tear out a lot of what makes him human as well.”
Since Oxford has a lot of nerds who have been told all their life that they’re much cleverer than the people around them, it would probably feature quite highly on a global ranking of places with the most Henrys. Of course, by “most Henrys”, I don’t just mean sociopathic murderers. There are traces of Henry in every academic genius who lacks even one particle of warmth, in every involuntarily blunt tutor who speaks with a smug twist in their voice, in every disciplined scholar who has spent so long in the RadCam that they’ve lost touch with what they have in common with others. I absolutely feel for people whose commitment to efficiency and pragmatism can unintentionally appear to others as lovelessness. Less so for those whose efficiency and pragmatism has turned into actual lovelessness.
Second is Bunny, the archetypal dumb jock. Bunny is the source of more than half of the comedy; even in death his ironic stamp never leaves the pages. If your college has a “gap yah” crowd and a big sports team, then it probably has its own local Bunny. The narrative is a stream of constant subtle digs at him. It is specified the Greek class play Go Fish because it is the only card game Bunny knows. Early on in the book he steals a cheesecake with a taped note that says “Please do not steal this. I am on financial aid.” Chapters later, we hear him “explaining vigorously and quite unselfconsciously what he thought ought to be done to people who stole from house refrigerators.” He writes a spirited paper on “Metahemeralism”, which is not a word. With self-confidence that far exceeds his intelligence, Bunny is the college rugby player who gets into a lot of arguments and turns up to his tutorials with an out-of-charge laptop.
Finally, there’s Richard, the narrator. Like a lot of young people – and this is not specific to Oxford – he is anxious to fit in. But beyond that, he exemplifies a very specific Oxonian social dynamic: a desire to join the elite, Classics friend group. These people lament that they are misunderstood; Richard is all too happy to agree. He is mostly blind to their flaws, partly willfully, partly because he has something in common with them. By the time he realises that they are not brilliant, he has effectively cut himself off from everyone else in his college. Freshers: avoid this mistake, pick solid friends over shiny ones, and steer well clear of his “morbid longing for the picturesque.”
IKEA pledges £2 million to Oxford Refugee-Led Research Hub
The IKEA Foundation has pledged an additional £2 million to the Oxford Refugee-Led Research Hub (RLRH). Discussing plans for this funding, Rediet Abiy Kassaye, Programme Manager of the IKEA Foundation, told Cherwell the grant will especially enable “the RLRH to support its premises located in Nairobi […] and the expansion of its physical presence into the Kakuma refugee camp in Uganda.”
The RLRH – launched in 2020 with the financial backing of the IKEA Foundation – aims to address the lack of refugee-authored scholarship and the under-representation of student refugees in higher education. The RLRH seeks to redistribute opportunities to individuals from displaced backgrounds to enable them to effectively develop global migration policy and undertake individual research using their lived experience.
Only 1% of displaced people are in higher education, according to Universities UK. RLRH Research Officer Mohamed Hassan explained: “Growing up in Kakuma [Refugee Camp], I never imagined that I would return to the camp as someone who could represent what is possible for displaced people. During the outreach visit, the young people saw themselves in me […] for those who have experienced displacement, seeing someone with a shared background on the other side of the table is transformative.”
The RLRH has supported over 650 refugees in their progression into both professional and research careers. During its previous grant period, RLRH scholars produced twelve research publications, 8 of which have already been published. RLRH also expanded its hallmark academic bridging programme, RSC Pathways, which enrolled 120 students in 2024. This year, the course will be made publicly available to over 1,000 learners.
RLRH also facilitates the ‘Graduate Horizons’ support scheme. In 2024, over 40 participants of this project received offers to graduate degrees at universities, including many who have started fully-funded master’s and doctoral programmes at the University of Oxford. Kassaye told Cherwell: “All of this has demonstrated the effectiveness of the programme and its alignment with our grant-making goals.”
Nosferatu: From Murnau to Eggers
Over one hundred years since its first screening, F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu: A Symphony of Horror (1922) is not as terrifying as it once was, yet it retains a timeless eeriness. Max Schreck’s career-defining performance as Nosferatu inspired remakes, heightened public interest in the Dracula/Nosferatu story, and cemented itself as a pivotal film of German Expressionism. As The Count rises from his coffin, he ascends into a new genre – ‘horror’ – with all its repulsive, inhuman promise.
Werner Herzog’s remake, Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), continues to innovate. Klaus Kinski’s performance is a perfect subversion of the Nosferatu character – pathetic, depressed, and driven by a genuine desire for human connection. He is chilling not because he represents that lurking ‘Other’, but because he feels familiar, relatable even.
Herzog also adds material in the third act illustrating Nosferatu’s devastating impact on the town of Wisborg, accentuating the macabre horror for modern audiences. Rats swarm the town in silent, one-shot tableaus as townspeople form makeshift communities in full knowledge of the impending plague.
The classic tragedy of Nosferatu/Dracula’s conclusion is navigated perfectly by Isabelle Adjani’s Mina, who, in her final moments, is completely and utterly alone. In a subversion of the common ‘damsel in distress’ trope, Adjani cements herself as the determined hero of the film.
Robert Eggers’ 2024 remake treads a line between tradition and imagination. Considering Eggers’ reputation as one of the most innovative filmmakers working today, there was great potential here for a special kind of heightened storytelling. He tries to foreground genuine horror and grit, and thereby, like Herzog in 1979, provide something original and exciting.
But what might have been cutting edge instead folded into convention. The cinematography was disappointingly uniform, every shot as foggy, dark, and glacial as the next, leaving little space for the beautiful mise-en-scéne of other Eggers films. There’s also grounds to critique the film for over-stylising. Eggers’ signature close-up shots in particular are overused. In such a gloomy film, obvious stylisation undermines the realism so essential to horror’s chill.
The performances, too, are flawed. Lily Rose-Depp gives a good physical performance, but in sum appears wooden and miscast. The other actors are also forgettable: an especial shame given the caliber of the cast. Simon McBurney’s performance as Knock, although small, was a lively exception.
But these issues of casting and cinematography are not the main cause for disappointment with Nosferatu. Its greatest problem is the lack of innovation of a classic tale.
The Nosferatu story is too well-known to justify an identical remake. Like Herzog’s version, remakes need to say something new. And, sadly, Eggers’ film feels like something we’ve seen before. The minor changes that are made (like a naked Nosferatu – the real horror of the film?) do little to reimagine the conventional narrative.
Watching the three films in close succession highlights just how one-dimensional the 2024 Nosferatu is. Compared to the impact of Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922), or the dark twists of Herzog’s Nosferatu the Vampyre (1979), Eggers’ timid approach made for a frustrating cinematic experience.
Representation requires participation: A call to action from the SU
Lauren Schaefer is Oxford SU’s Vice President (Postgraduate Education & Access). Eleanor Miller is Oxford SU’s Vice President (Undergraduate Education & Access)
Much has been written about the SU in recent weeks – some of it misinformed, some a myopic interpretation of complex realities, and some insightful. A recent op-ed, published in this same paper, raises a crucial point that has been the topic of much internal discussion within the SU: student apathy towards the SU is a serious problem. Contrary to what you may be assuming, this is not a rebuttal to that piece. In fact, we agree with many of the points raised. The op-ed is a great articulation of the challenges that the SU faces, and we welcome the opportunity to discuss them.
Common Rooms indisputably wield significant influence within the Oxford collegiate system. This is not a flaw; it’s a feature of what makes Oxford so uniquely wonderful. We recognise this, and it is why we are working to bridge the gap between the SU and Common Rooms with our new democratic structure – a Conference of Common Rooms. The SU is not interested in duplicating the important work that Common Rooms do, rather it is working to amplify their voices and causes at a level where systemic change is possible, at a University-wide level.
We also want to counter the notion that the significance of colleges and faculty in students’ lives precludes the SU from having a tangible impact. This is a misunderstanding of how the University operates and the SU’s primary purpose – faculties and departments may make academic decisions, but the SU has a seat at the table of key decision-making committees, and is funded to provide student representation at the University level.
While our visibility may sometimes be limited (especially on committees bound by confidentiality), the SU is the connective tissue, one of the few bodies that has a voice at every level – University, division, and faculty – and without our presence and representation in these spaces, there would be no formal student voice advocating in these conversations. One of the central discussion points of the Transformation project thus far has been around how we can better communicate the realities of student representation to our members and speak about the real impact this representation has on you, the student body.
The recent report on student experience at Permanent Private Halls (PPHs), written by the VPs, is an example of this. The VPs conducted research with current students and wrote a report on the student experience at PPHs, subsequently presenting it to the University’s oversight committee on PPHs. The committee accepted two out of three of our recommendations. Since then, both VPs have been invited to sit on the panel for the next Review of a PPH, which is a review of Wycliffe Hall taking place in Hilary Term 2025. This is a significant improvement from previous panels and a primary example of structural change driven by students, for students.
It is no secret that our greatest challenge is engagement. We get it. Students don’t always follow our socials or open our emails. They don’t always vote in our elections or feel connected to the work we do. But the reality is that student governance is not a spectator sport. Unlike other Oxford organisations, the SU is not here to be performative or controversial, we are not in the business of grand displays. Representation requires participation, and if students disengage entirely, the ability of the SU to advocate for them is weakened. Decisions are made by those who show up.
That said, we understand that Oxford’s demanding academic culture makes it difficult for many to dedicate time to student politics. This is precisely why the SU exists: to ensure that, even when individual students cannot campaign for change themselves, their interests are still represented. The new democratic structure is designed to make this process more accessible, responsive, and attuned to the realities of collegiate student life here, and to provide additional support to ease the burden on elected collegiate representatives.
Feedback is feedback, whether it comes in the form of attending our All-Student Meetings (next one in Week 6!), completing our surveys, or writing an op-ed in the student media. We take every point raised extremely seriously and sincerely understand the scepticism. But before dismissing the SU and its work, we encourage students to engage with us. We might be the Officers of the Oxford Students’ Union, but YOU are the Oxford Students’ Union.
We will continue to represent each and every one of you, day in and day out, from our most to least engaged student. But we want to emphasise that like a lot of things in life, you get out what you put in. Whilst we accept your challenge to engage and communicate better, we challenge you, also, to show up. Get involved. Vote in our elections, come to our meetings, fill out our surveys. Engage with us, hold us accountable, and see what student representation at its best can achieve.
Editorial note: this story solely represents the views of the writers, not of Cherwell, which takes no position.
Have an opinion on the points raised in this article? Send us a 150-word letter at [email protected] and see your response in our next print or online.