Tuesday 1st July 2025
Blog Page 424

Oxford removes Graduate Application Fee

Mark Robins
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Oxford removes Graduate Application Fee

The University of Oxford has voted to abolish its Graduate Application Fee.

Graduate applicants were previously charged £75 to apply to Oxford, however the University’s Congregation has voted to remove the fee by 419-380 votes. The fee will be phased-out by the 2024-25 academic year.

The Congregation, Oxford’s highest-level decision-making body, had previously voted to maintain the fee during a meeting in March.

The resolution, “To commit the University to the abolition of the graduate application fee in its entirety by the Academic Year 2024–25 and to prevent further fee increases in the meantime”, was rejected by 100 votes to 50.

However, more than 50 members of the Congregation requisitioned a postal vote on the resolution, leading to the reversal of the original decision.

Prior to the vote, graduates could request to receive a fee waiver if they were applying from a low-income country or were a UK applicant from a low-income background.

The resolution was proposed by DPhil student Ben Fernando and seconded by researcher Michael Cassidy. Fernando said: “This is a wonderful testament to what a group of staff, students, and academics working together can do to achieve a fairer and more equitable university. I’m so pleased to have been part of this amazing team of volunteers!”

Oxford SU had campaigned to remove the application fee, saying that it acted as “a deterrent to pursuing an Oxford education”. In a Student Council vote in Hilary Term, over 90% of students in attendance supported removing the fee.

The SU welcomed the decision: “We’re thrilled to see that applicants will no longer face the barrier of an application fee when applying to Oxford. This is a very positive step in the University’s efforts to widen graduate participation and we commend all of the students and sabbatical officers who played a part in pushing this outcome forward.” 

Lauren Bolz, the SU’s Vice President for Graduates, added: “I’m excited to continue working with the University to further improve graduate access, particularly to expand the fee waiver to disadvantaged students from all countries before the fee is fully abolished in 2024.”

Oxford has over 11,000 graduate students and more than 30,000 people applied for graduate study in 2019.

The University’s Congregation acts as its ‘parliament’. It has over 5,000 members consisting of academic staff, members of college governing bodies, and senior research, computing, library, and administrative staff.

Image credit to: Mike Knell/ Wikimedia Commons

Cinematic activism: Wind River and the #MMIW campaign

Nina Holguin
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Cinematic activism: Wind River and the #MMIW campaign

CW: murder and sexual violence

While missing person statistics are compiled for every other demographic, none exists for Native American women. No one knows how many are missing – Wind River (2017)

I watched Wind River for the first time a few of years ago. Despite the film’s well-known cast and director, I hadn’t heard of it and I wasn’t prepared for the movie when I sat down for it: its harrowing depiction of could-be-true events was poignant and devastating. It’s a great movie, but importantly Wind River is a statement: the world is wrong and we need to do better.

This is nothing new; cinema has been used many a time to amplify unheard voices. However, it is rare for the focus to be on the current injustices of the Indigenous and Native people in America, especially Indigenous women. I wrote an article about it at the time and titled it ‘Why we should be talking about Wind River (2017)’. Three years later, as many are still ignorant of the #MMIW (Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women) campaign, the movie is as relevant as ever. So, I have decided to revise it.

Set in the Wind River reservation in Wyoming, 18-year-old Arapaho Natalie Hanson (Kelsey Chow) is found raped and dead in the snow by Wildlife service agent Cory Lambert (Jeremy Renner). Rookie FBI investigator Jane Banner (Elizabeth Olsen) is assigned to the case and works with Lambert to find her killer. Racial tensions are a constant theme throughout the movie, especially between Banner and the Tribal Police, but their misunderstanding turns into respect as the movie progresses.

Wind River is really well-made. The cinematography of the bleak Wyoming winter is atmospheric and Nick Cave and Warren Ellis’ soundtrack is ominous yet understated, never taking the spotlight away from the hard-hitting minimalism Director Taylor Sheridan employs. The acting is good, and the final scene of Renner and Gil Birmingham (playing Natalie’s father) is the film’s standout performance, where they mourn the brutally unfair loss of their daughters. There are few scenes more heart-breaking. The movie ends on the quote featured at the top of this article – missing indigenous women are not recorded unlike every other demographic.

However, the movie is not perfect. It definitely suffers from tropes of white saviourism: while the tribal police support the investigation, it is led by Lambert and Banner. Banner needed to be white to show the tension between the FBI and the Tribal Police, as well as the general tension between white people and those on reservations. In the original script, Lambert was a quarter Arapaho, but this was dropped when Renner was cast, instead leaving his ex-wife and children his only connection to the reservation. While Renner may have brought in additional press and beneficial coverage, I think it would have been better to have Lambert’s character portrayed by a native actor.

There has been a long history of white actors playing indigenous characters which continues today: Rooney Mara (Tiger Lily) in Pan (2015) and Johnny Depp (Tonto) in The Lone Ranger (2013). Wind River has received criticism after actor Kelsey Chow falsely claimed Cherokee ancestry, and thus continued this erasure of native people in film. Native reviewer Jason Asenap also criticises the movie, arguing that it perpetuates the ‘dying Indian’ motif, where Hollywood movies continually show Native people dying or present their culture as dying. While both have endured hardships that should be remembered, to a very much alive and dynamic group of people, this bombardment of death is unrepresentative and tiresome.

However, putting aside these merits and flaws, Wind River can be understood as an attempt at cinematic activism, which seeks to raise awareness for the MMIW campaign. There has been a well-documented history of violence and brutality against all native peoples of North America; for those unaware, take time to research it. However, violence against Native and Indigenous women, as Wind River reflects, is still phenomenally disproportionate.

In 2016, Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau established a National Inquiry into the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women. The background to this inquiry found that between 1980 and 2012, Indigenous women represented 16% of all female homicides in Canada, despite making up only 4% of the population. They also concluded that Indigenous women and girls were “disproportionally affected by all forms of violence”.[1] A 2011 Statistics Canada report estimated that, between 1997 and 2000, the homicide rate for Aboriginal women was seven times higher than other women.[2] No wonder it has been described as both a Canadian national crisis and a Canadian genocide.[3]

In the US, Native women are two and a half times more likely to experience violence than any other demographic and 61% have been assaulted in their lifetime, a statistic 9% higher than any other group of women. It is also reported that 34% of Native women are raped in their lifetime and 67% of the perpetrators are non-native. On some reservations, native women are murdered at rates of more than ten times the national average.[4]

From these abuses the campaign of Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women formed, demanding changes to hold those accountable and to protect some of the most vulnerable people. These include demonstrations, activism and creative responses like Wind River. However, this also includes legal changes: reauthorizing the Violence Against Women Act in 2013, the creation of the National Day of Awareness for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls and bills passed in Wisconsin, the state of Washington and Arizona.

#MMIW Act or Savanna’s Act, named after Savanna LaFontaine-Greywind who was brutally murdered in 2017, reforms law enforcement and justice protocols to address the crisis. Hopefully, this act will mean the missing person statistics for Native and Indigenous women will now be kept and better reported. However, it has taken too many years for this to be finally realised.

The Violence Against Women Reauthorisation Act attempts to increase tribal prosecution rights further than the one passed in 2013, but, in the Republican Senate, its progress has been stalled. The rights of reservations have been a longstanding debate. The lack of support and the gaps in protection are unsurprising considering its history and unfortunately the lack of support from the conservative right in America is, again, historically unsurprising.

Cinema has a long history of using its medium to raise awareness. The power of film lies in its ability to force you to view a situation from another perspective and give such a personal take on injustice and crises. I commend Wind River’s attempt to highlight an issue which is rarely talked about. The MMIW campaign (which is also extended to MMIWG2ST, to include girls, two spirits and trans people) is a powerful movement producing real changes, going relatively unnoticed.

Unfortunately, Wind River didn’t create the hype or the greater awareness it wanted to, but to the few that have seen it, it opened eyes and hearts. We shouldn’t need a story which perfectly highlights terrible injustices and intimate pain to empathise with a cause, but it certainly drills the message home.

Wind River is an activism entry point. It raises awareness, but like with anything, you shouldn’t stop there. You shouldn’t stop at just being nicely enlightened and continue as you were. Especially with something so far away from many of our day to day existence, effort needs to be put in to actually help, to support and amplify Native voices. Wind River is good but it’s far from everything. Watch it and use it as a foundation to learn more and do more, that is all anyone can do.

If you would like to support #MMIW further, follow the Red House on Facebook and Instagram and follow #MMIW.

[1] https://www.rcaanc-cirnac.gc.ca/eng/1449240606362/1534528865114

[2] https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/pub/89-503-x/2010001/article/11442-eng.pdf

[3] https://www.vice.com/en_ca/article/bn3b98/heres-what-the-missing-and-murdered-indigenous-women-inquiry-is-missing

https://www.cbc.ca/news/indigenous/genocide-murdered-missing-indigenous-women-inquiry-report-1.5157580

[4] http://www.ncai.org/attachments/PolicyPaper_tWAjznFslemhAffZgNGzHUqIWMRPkCDjpFtxeKEUVKjubxfpGYK_Policy%20Insights%20Brief_VAWA_020613.pdf

Image via Wiki Media Commons

A Prize of One’s Own: do we really need the Women’s Prize for Fiction?

Maebh Howell
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A Prize of One’s Own: do we really need the Women’s Prize for Fiction?

In 1929, Virginia Woolf famously wrote that “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction”. Whilst a lot may have changed since the 1920s, Woolf’s sentiment in her essay A Room of One’s Own, that in order for women to write as men have been able to, they must have their own separate place in which to write, still holds true. Whilst the issue of women having their own income and property is a lot less contentious than it was in Woolf’s time, the idea of a separate space for women, in which to express and celebrate their creative talents, still provokes debate; most notably with the annual announcement of the Women’s Prize for Fiction.  

The prize, which describes itself as “the UK’s most prestigious annual book award celebrating and honouring fiction written by women” was founded in 1996, inspired by the all-male shortlist for the Booker prize in 1991. This year’s winner, chosen by a panel of five leading women in a variety of fields, was Maggie O’Farrell’s Hamnet: a work centred around the death of Shakespeare’s son. Hamnet was chosen from a shortlist of six novels which included Bernadine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other; Angie Cruz’s Dominicana; as well as novels by Natalie Haynes, Hilary Mantel and Jenny Offill. However, after last year’s Booker prize was awarded jointly to two women (a historical moment in which Evaristo and Canadian author Margaret Atwood shared the prize), is a separate prize for women’s writing still necessary?  

In the prize’s description of itself as “celebrating and honouring fiction written by women” there is a conscious nod to the years of criticism and trivialisation targeted at literature written by women. The misogyny that pervades the publishing industry may be seen in the way “women’s literature” or “chick lit” is undermined; often thought of as being fluffy and overly domestic in theme.

Kate Mosse, a co-founder of the prize, attested to the fact that even though “the majority of consumers and library lenders are women”, the genre of ‘women’s fiction’ was “being under-represented” in mainstream literary prizes.  Whilst the suggestion that fiction written by women constitutes a separate genre perhaps speaks to the very marginalisation of women’s literature, the prize aims to remove the stereotype surrounding women’s fiction. In this way, the Women’s Prize for Fiction acts as a reparative or ameliorating institution; improving the perception of fiction written by women after years of negative press (or even no press at all).  Furthermore, given that over two thirds of books bought in the UK are purchased by women, it makes sense to have a prize that reflects this trend: a prize created by women for the women that consume the majority of literature published.

Nevertheless, since the prize’s inception, it has faced backlash from women and men alike, with accusations of misandry thrown at the gender criterion and with some critics suggesting that the prize is patronising and belittling to the women that win it. Furthermore, the very category of ‘women’ implies a strict and outdated gender binary that is not representative of many people’s experiences with gender. Our understanding of the fluidity of gender has progressed since the prize was founded in 1996. By relying on the binary term ‘women’, the prize risks excluding people who do not feel comfortable with such a label and are already marginalised within the publishing industry. It is fundamental that all good works are recognized, to celebrate a diverse range of voices within the writing community.

Author A. S. Byatt (winner of the 1990 Booker prize) has refused to have her work considered for the prize, deeming it “sexist” and accusing it of “assuming that there is a feminine subject matter”.[1]Other critics of the prize have suggested that the prize ghettoises women’s fiction, detaching it from bigger and more mainstream awards and encouraging separation of works as between genders. In fact, as others have pointed out, writers, readers, and publishers are overwhelmingly female; surely it should be young boys rather than girls being encouraged to read?  

I believe that the original motivation behind the creation of the Women’s Prize for Fiction has been forgotten; the focus having shifted to criticising the prize for its exclusion of men as opposed to addressing the sobering reality of a literary world which continues to employ male judges to choose male winners for mainstream prizes.  And why should the very existence of a prize for a specific group be condemned? The MOBO awards, which have celebrated music of black origins since they were first awarded in 1996, legitimise excellence in music for those who have traditionally been overlooked by the mainstream British music industry. Carving out a specific space for the recognition of achievements should not be viewed negatively, particularly when it celebrates art created by marginalised groups.

Another example of a prize which seeks to celebrate work done by often overlooked groups is the King Lear Arts prize, which was created this year in order to reach out to and encourage creativity in the over-70s by seeking to recognize their short stories, poetry, plays, art and music. This prize, as well as seeking to allay the boredom that many over-70s were experiencing during lockdown after being forced to shield, also seeks to create a space in the arts world for an older generation. This not only provides space and recognition for their work, but also encourages the very creation of art: something that should never be perceived negatively.  

Further criticism of the Women’s Prize for Fiction cites the fact that whilst the audience addressed by awards such as the MOBO awards or the King Lear prize share a cultural heritage or tradition, women have no common cultural background or heritage as such that deserves to be recognized.  This argument was raised by Cynthia Ozick, who pointed out that there are an abundance of prizes “for black writers, for Christian writers, for Jewish writers”, each of whom share a common cultural heritage, which women do not.[2]

Yet, once again, this serves only to advance the argument for the Women’s Prize. The fact that women, making up 52% of the world’s population, have no single, common experience is something that the Women’s Prize for Fiction should, and does, celebrate. The international reach of the prize is something that ought to be praised: the only criterion for nomination is female authorship and the prize seeks to recognize translated work. Byatt’s accusation that the prize assumes “a feminine subject matter” is grossly miscalculated in light of the prize’s global reach.

Last year’s prize was awarded to An American Marriage by African-American author Tayari Jones; a novel which deals with the effects of incarceration on a black couple and explores the reality of racial injustice in the US.  This book, which is both powerfully written and fundamental in exposing the deep-rooted racism in both the USA and the UK, shatters the common perception that women’s literature is trivial in theme.  

The importance of the Women’s Prize for Fiction is no better encapsulated for me than in Bernadine Evaristo’s Girl, Woman, Other.  The shortlisted novel, which follows the lives of twelve characters in the UK, speaks to the very multiplicity of being a woman.  Evaristo’s characters, whilst intertwined, all live very different lives, and the power of the novel lies in its exploration of the intersections of race, sexuality and gender across a host of women’s lives. Evaristo’s novel demonstrates why the Women’s Prize for Fiction is so important in creating space for a diverse array of voices, even within the bounds of the female sex and gender, which Evaristo demonstrates is far broader than we may think.    

Woolf, in her 1938 follow up essay to A Room of One’s Own, Three Guineas, argued that women ought to remove themselves from patriarchal society in order to thrive, “we believe that we can help you most effectively by refusing to join your society; by working for our common ends – justice and equality and liberty for all men and women – outside your society, not within.”  Woolf, across her two essays, establishes an important precedent for the validity of a separate Women’s Prize for Fiction. We can celebrate a broad range of female voices, whilst also seeking to elevate those who do not conform to such binary gender labels, in pursuit of a more diverse and accessible industry.  

[1]Charlotte Higgins& Caroline Davies, ‘AS Byatt says women who write intellectual books seen as unnatural’, The Guardian, 2010, < https://www.theguardian.com/books/2010/aug/20/as-byatt-intellectual-women-strange>.

[2]Cynthia Ozich, ‘Prize or Prejudice’, The New York Times, 2012, < https://www.nytimes.com/2012/06/07/opinion/prize-or-prejudice.html>.

OPINION: Boris’ Bill will shatter peace in Northern Ireland

Lucy McCaughan
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OPINION: Boris’ Bill will shatter peace in Northern Ireland

How far apart are your eyes? How do you pronounce the letter ‘H’? What do you call a Christian place of worship?

Your replies are as good as meaningless in every corner of the world, except for my home. Growing up in Northern Ireland, I have used the answers to these questions to unconsciously designate every person I meet as either Nationalist or Unionist, Catholic or Protestant, one of Us or one of Them. This prejudiced defence mechanism has been bred into me without my permission, and though I no longer care about the answers, I’ve learnt that ancestral habits are especially difficult to shake off. But I count myself lucky. My generation have to check our internal biases, rather than check under our cars for bombs. We have had the privilege of peace. And in no plainer terms, the Government’s latest Bill threatens to extinguish that peace before it has even reached its 25th birthday.

Last Monday, the Internal Market Bill passed through the Commons, propelling Johnson’s government one step further on its plan to override key components of the Withdrawal Agreement. Behind the political doublespeak which surrounds this Bill is one key proposal: allowing the Conservative Party to break international law. NI Secretary Brandon Lewis said as much himself, shamelessly stating that the Tories intend to ignore international legal obligations in a “very specific and limited way”.

If this Bill is passed into law, it will give the Conservative party free reign to unpick the painstakingly-crafted Northern Ireland Protocol, an essential piece of legislation designed to protect peace in Northern Ireland. The Protocol ended months of deadlock in negotiations by guaranteeing an open border on the island, effectively keeping Northern Ireland in the EU’s single market for goods. But in Boris’ world, these commitments were nothing more than a way to “get Brexit done”. Rule of law; reputation; respect for peace – all now meaningless as the Conservatives pursue an impossible vision of nationhood. In their desperate haste to cast off the chains of EU serfdom, the terrible troika of Johnson, Cummings and Gove have buried the philosophy of their own patron saint, Margaret Thatcher. She stated in 1975: “Britain does not renounce treaties. Our country’s greatness is the part it has played in spreading throughout the world…the rule of law.” The naked lawlessness of this Bill would have been utter anathema to Thatcher and her contemporaries, but for the Tories of today, charlatanism rhymes with statesmanship.

Should this Bill pass into law, and should the UK fail to reach a deal with the EU, then the return to customs checks on the Irish border is not just likely – it’s as good as promised. In a staggering display of solipsism, Johnson and Hancock have declared that the Protocol’s system of customs checks at ports unnecessarily disrupts trade and endangers the peace process. Such a claim adds insult to injury. The basis of peace on the island of Ireland is unfettered trade and passage across the 499 kilometre line separating North from South. As every person on that island knows, the only actual threat to peace is the resurrection of a hard border, of the kind which is enabled by this Bill. The imposition of customs checks along the land border following a no-deal Brexit would symbolise the regression of political healing in the North, and provide fair game for dissident paramilitary groups. If that sounds dramatic, that is because it is dramatic. John Major and Tony Blair, two major architects of the peace under which I have been so fortunate to live, put it better than any other: “this bill negates the predictability, political stability and legal clarity that are integral to the delicate balance at the core of the peace process.” Will it take another Brighton bomb for the British political elite to wake up to the fragility of the peace with which they so recklessly toy?

This Bill has been cooked up to protect neither peace nor trade. It’s about pursuing a Brexiteer wonderland where pure, unimpeded sovereignty exists. It’s about blemishing the image of your nation with the highest number of COVID deaths in Europe, and then scrambling to deflect attention. It’s about imperial nostalgia in the face of an increasingly disunited kingdom. And if left unchecked, the toxic nationalism of this Government is set to trample into the dust one of the most extraordinary peace accords ever agreed. If this sounds like hyperbole to you, then you are not as educated as you believe.

22 years ago, a unique meeting of minds across the islands of Britain and Ireland achieved the impossible. They gifted a generation of young people in Northern Ireland with the privilege of peace, and the chance to forge an integrated society. As a member of that generation, this Bill has confirmed our worst fear: the time when British politicians cared about peace in Ireland is now passed. I would bet my life that any member of the current government could wax lyrical about Henry VIII’s six wives, or analyse the illogical nature of the US electoral college, or recount the dictatorships of Hitler, Mussolini, Franco and more. I would also bet that they would fail to tell me which counties make up the tiny piece of land they apparently want to protect. They would fail to know when Northern Ireland was created, which parties are ‘green’, which are ‘orange’, and which are neither. They’d tell me they love Derry Girls – jolly good fun! – but they’d not recall the name of the 29-year-old who died by gunshot wound on the streets of that city a mere 18 months ago. Her name was Lyra McKee. She was the latest victim of the conflict which has paralysed and abused my beautiful home for almost a century. If this Bill goes through, if the Conservative party hurtles headlong into a no-deal Brexit, Lyra McKee will lose her status as the last victim of the Troubles. That is not a bet. That is a fact.

Image by David Dixon

Approaching sexual assault on screen: The triumph of I May Destroy You

Anna Robinson
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Approaching sexual assault on screen: The triumph of I May Destroy You

TW: sexual assault / rape

Michaela Coel’s I May Destroy You is what television’s been missing. Everyone should see this programme. It’s beautiful. It’s funny and it’s sad and it’s thought-provoking. It’s full of metaphor and meaning and feeling. It deals with sexual assault in a way I have never seen on television. Its characters are flawed and funny – they make us laugh at the most painful and surprising times; they can be selfish, insensitive, dishonest; they swear, smoke, drink too much. And Coel refuses to offer us the sanitised, tidy femininity we are used to seeing on television: we see things such as Arabella on the toilet chatting to her friends; we see period sex in all its realism. And we see sexual abuse in all its sickening ordinariness.

The series begins with Arabella struggling to deliver a draft of her book to her publishers. With hours left until the deadline, and her phone ringing with invites, she goes to meet some friends on a night out. Someone spikes her drink in the bar. The next morning all she remembers is a man on top of her, raping her in the bathroom stalls. We follow Arabella’s recovery, how she pieces together that night, and navigates her denial, her despair, her rage, her fear.

I love that Coel also explores kinds of abuse that don’t typically get air time. When Arabella sleeps with a colleague, Zain, she finds out after that he took the condom off without telling her. He gaslights her into believing it’s not a big deal. They carry on their relationship, but when Arabella discovers discussions of ‘stealthing’ online, she realises the she has been assaulted. As she later describes him, Zain is “not rape-adjacent, or a bit rapey: he’s a rapist”.

Coel reminds us that sexual assault is not always staring down at us from a bathroom stall. Sexual assault can be quiet, even subtle. It can be disguised with words to look ‘harmless’. Sexual assault can live hidden, unnamed in memories for years. Throughout the series, we hear Terry boast of her threesome in Italy – how she met two strangers and they went back to her hotel “and did things that prudish bitches don’t do”. But in a flashback we see that the two “strangers” appear to secretly know each other – “there was something about the way they left together”, Terry admits later. What Terry believed to be a spontaneous, unpremeditated encounter, was in fact planned and predatory. Terry “took the bait’” Her consent was gained through dishonesty. And that “still burns like it was yesterday”.

Kwame, one of Arabella’s close friends, explores the limitlessness of his sexuality with frequent Grindr hook-ups. He has consensual sex with ‘Hornyman808’, but the same man rapes him later in the evening. Three weeks later we see Kwame’s attempt to report it to the police. The scene is a masterpiece of discomfort. It crackles with awkwardness, sadness and disillusion. Magnificent and delicate symbolism operates throughout the scene to expose the flaws in the way the law handles sexual assault victims.

Under the lurid yellow light of the interview room, Kwame sits behind a large black table: its mass obtrusiveness seems to symbolise the barrier between the justice system and the people it is supposed to protect. We are made hyperaware of invasive background sounds; telephones ringing, conversations uttered. It is an auditory reminder than the average workday is churning on, all whilst someone is heaving their trauma out onto that black table in interview room one, ready to be dissected under the unsympathetic, disinterested light of the police officer – an officer who conducts half of the interview standing near the door, itching to leave.

This collision of the mundane workaday and raw trauma keeps the scene sparking with disquiet. The walls are a lifeless yellow and the room feels tired, worn down through usage. The wall behind Kwame is comprised of four translucent windows. Through the milky panes we can see the shadows of an office corner. Murky figures move past, resembling oceanic creatures swimming in shallower water above the claustrophobic depths of the interview room. The ghostly spectators of this clouded amphitheatre watch through the panes at the awkward vivisection about to happen.

The policeman is uncomfortable talking to a gay black man about rape. He chuckles under his breath, seems nervous, disapproving, and repeatedly ignores Kwame’s assertions that he has the rapist’s address, instead insisting that he need only gather the information asked for “on the form”. He asks about the extent of penetration, and is uncomfortable with the response: “you know, we have machines outside that you could have reported this on”.

He then asks Kwame if he needs anything – a glass of water perhaps? Kwame’s need for protection and justice is completely overlooked in the very place meant to provide these things, but at least his thirst can be quenched. The officer leaves out of an open door, with a sign which reads ‘ATTENTION: THIS DOOR MUST BE CLOSED AT ALL TIMES. YOU ARE PUTTING PEOPLE IN DANGER BY HAVING IT OPEN’. The officer fails to even shut the door for him: the system keeps breezing on, answering phones, filling out forms, but ultimately leaving doors open for offenders to walk free. Home Office statistics from 2019 suggest the alleged perpetrators of more than 98 per cent of rapes reported to the police are allowed to go free.[1]

Arabella’s experience with the police is less dismissive and more sympathetic, but it is ultimately just as fruitless. The day after she is spiked and raped in ‘Ego Death’ (the bar’s apt name), still in the depths of denial, Arabella reports “the man in my head” and what he did to her to the police. We see her in a hospital gown, having tests, samples and photos taken. She goes for a smoke, and sat next to her is another woman in a gown. There’s a large blood stain near her thigh. “Is this your first time?” the woman asks sympathetically. “Funny, isn’t it,” she continues serenely, “how nothing hurts and everything is beautiful?”

In a later episode, Arabella gets a call from the police asking her to come in. The original policewomen on her case walk in, one after another. They are both now heavily pregnant. Arabella and Terry screech excited congratulations. The officers ask to proceed with the meeting. “It has been nine months,’” Arabella is told, “since your first interview”. Reading from her folder the facts of the investigation – and never taking her eyes off the page – an officer informs Arabella that after testing the DNA of one suspect and it not being a match, there is “no longer an active investigation”. Arabella is asked if she would like her things back from forensics.

Their fat, fruitful bellies contrast with the withered, dried up, fruitless investigation. It takes nine months for a pinprick to gestate into a fully developed foetus; it has also taken nine months for the investigation to reach the stage of abortion. On one side of the table sits a rape victim, on the other two pregnant officers. We have the destructive and the constructive consequences of sex, juxtaposed across the desk. The babies will be born into a world where yet another rapist walks free. The officers’ pregnancies embody the fertile infertility of the justice system. Last year the proportion of rapes being prosecuted in England and Wales was 1.7 per cent.[2]

Michaela Coel, having been sexually assaulted herself, recalls going to the police station after the attack: “as we waited for the detective, I noticed him playing Pokemon Go on his phone. And that became the tone for the rest of my thoughts.”[3]

I May Destroy You traces a web of destruction and consequence, but Coel’s skilled and nuanced touch, her expert interweaving of comic relief and heart-warming moments with threads of darkness and devastation, prevents us from ever fully going under. The series brims with ordinary beauty and also the ordinariness of trauma. It is genuine and heartfelt. It captures the beauty in friendship and in finding your own power. A poster by Arabella’s bedside reminds us that we are made of 70% water. Throughout the series, water symbolises power: ‘we are made of the thing that can destroy us’, Coel explained in an interview. [4] In episode one we see Arabella flinching from the sea in Italy: later in the series, after her rape investigation is closed, we see her walking into the ocean, fully clothed. She submerges herself. ‘Going under’ is a prominent concept in the series: under water, under investigation, under the bed where Arabella throws all her things from forensics, under another person. Just before the scene ends, we see Arabella emerge from the water, ‘like a sea monster’.[5] We might be subsumed by the thing that can destroy us, but Coel tells us that we can, and will, resurface.

Art by Philip Olney

[1] https://www.google.co.uk/amp/s/www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/rape-prosecution-england-wales-victims-court-cps-police-a8885961.html%3famp

[2] https://www.google.co.uk/amp/s/www.independent.co.uk/news/uk/crime/rape-prosecution-england-wales-victims-court-cps-police-a8885961.html%3famp

[3] https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2020/jul/10/michaela-coel-i-may-destroy-you-bbc-arabella-assault-racism

[4] https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=GWNb6uGc748

[5] https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=GWNb6uGc748

‘The Most Important Thing to Do is to Keep Creating’: In Conversation With The Cast And Crew of ‘Songs From The Old World’

Clementine Scott and Grace Spencer
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‘The Most Important Thing to Do is to Keep Creating’: In Conversation With The Cast And Crew of ‘Songs From The Old World’

It is no secret that Covid-19 has put a strain on the UK’s live theatre, especially given recent restrictions legally limiting public indoor gatherings to six people. This is doubly true of student theatre, and the upcoming term promises to be a testing one for Oxford’s student production companies, given the necessity of hosting auditions and rehearsals, communicating with cast and crew and creating engaging theatre almost entirely on a virtual basis. Into this uncertain situation comes the virtual musical theatre cabaret Songs From The Old World, which is hosted by student company 00Productions a couple of weeks before the start of term. The show features songs from musicals whose productions, either professional or in the Oxford musical theatre scene, have been cancelled or delayed by the pandemic, and has the dual aim of exploring the potential of virtual theatre and music while also raising awareness of charities supporting the struggling arts industry. The Cherwell stage editors have (virtually) sat down with the cabaret’s director Imogen Albert, musical director Livi van Warmelo and two of its cast members, Alex Waldman and Trina Banerjee to discuss the triumphs and pitfalls of a virtual production, the important work of the charities which they are supporting and how we all can help UK theatre:

Why did you choose a cabaret format rather than presenting, for example, a virtual play or musical?

Livi van Warmelo: Coming off the back of The Last Five Years, I think we all felt like we’d explored all we could at the moment of that particular virtual musical format. We’d done what we’d set out to do and to another virtual musical would be like rehashing old material rather than coming up with anything new. That didn’t mean we were done with musical material in general though (or at least I hope not as I’d be out of a job), so we landed on a cabaret night designed to raise awareness of the arts and raise as much as possible for freelancers, practitioners and artists affected by theatrical shutdown. It also gave us much more creative freedom than ever before – we had a list of fantastic singers, a list of songs we’d always wanted to do and we had to piece them together. It was every MD’s dream – imagine if someone came to you and said you can do any song from any musical and we’ll put a full band together to accompany an amazing singer, plus you raise funds for a good cause. It’s a no brainer.

Imogen Albert: Although theatre as a whole is suffering, musical theatre particularly is struggling to find a place in the lockdown, just because of the restrictions in place. We knew we wanted to do some kind of musical theatre, and we were keen to branch out and not repeat ourselves after The Last Five Years. We also were eager to focus on charity and put on something with very low production costs so that we were able to raise awareness but also donate as much funding as possible to these charities, and from there the idea of this virtual cabaret seemed like the obvious next step. Once again none of us were ready to give up theatre, and the prospect of combining some of our favourite numbers from really any show was so exciting especially as many are from shows that we as students don’t always have the option to put on. What was especially exciting was being able to offer the cast opportunities to get involved and keep musical theatre alive, and for some of them this will be their first theatre experience which has been really rewarding for both sides .  

What were the pros and cons or a virtual format (from the perspective of both cast and crew)? 

LvW: Ha. Massive pros and cons for a virtual format. First off, despite being more prepared for a virtual show this time, one will always underestimate just how long it takes. You tick along thinking ‘it’s fine, I’ve got ages’ until you’re suddenly two weeks away with masses still to do. It’s also a lot more to get your head around – with live shows you rehearse the ensemble, the band as a whole, and it gets exported as one final product that is created in real time. With virtual shows, every additional person/instrument requires a whole extra thought process, keeping on top of individual rehearsals, recording, filming, cleaning etc. On the flip side of that though, there’s a chance to make a performance exactly what we want of it – we can go much more into detail with each performer to figure out what is exactly needed of a performance and go deeper into the intention of the song. You do lose the experience of creating a close-knit company that works together to achieve an end, but having these rays of sunshine on the other end of my Zoom calls laughing with me and singing at (not with, thanks to inevitable delays…) me has really brightened life away from uni. The other thing is it’s completely opened up the range of possibilities of what we can do with a show! Performers spread across the globe? Need 15 band members in one song and 2 in another? No problem! The only limit at that point is imagination and creativity, and luckily Imogen and Harvey [Dovell, the production’s producer] have that in spades.

Alex Waldman: Definitely strong points for both, from a technical perspective it’s always challenging organising and finding ways around things and communication is often hard, but this in itself is a pro as it means we’re experimenting in ways we never would have before. As Livi said there’s just a lot more going on at one time than if we were putting on a live performance, with everyone needing their own material for each song, even with ensemble numbers. While it’s really great to be able to give attention and to just be able to work with every single cast member equally it is a lot to get your head around, especially with everything being online, although when it gets to the night it’ll definitely be a lot less stressful and we can sit back and enjoy the show along with everyone else which is definitely a nice feeling!

I miss the strong camaraderie between cast members in live productions while learning the score, blocking scenes, etc. Without an in person experience, you don’t have the ability to play off of your peers while acting in a scene but rather have to imagine your scene partners. You are also unable to experience all the disparate aspects of a musical theatre number come together in real time. On the other hand, even though I do not get to participate in the growth of a musical number from start to finish, I have come to appreciate the element of surprise provided by the virtual format. I provide my contribution and subsequently get to witness a finished product. In addition, in comparison to live theatre, I have the unique learning opportunity to see myself on film where I am able to dissect my acting and movement choices. 

Trina Banerjee: This was pretty much my first time being involved in a musical. I’ve always been a massive fan of musical theatre, and try to catch every show that tours here in Singapore but have been way too nervous to try out for a musical performance before. The virtual format was quite exciting because the fear of auditioning was significantly decreased. I think this was such a great experience (although I’m sure it must have been a logistical nightmare) and I am very appreciative, and honestly I could see myself auditioning for a musical production in Oxford once things get safer. I suppose cons would include the huge time difference between where I live and the UK, which makes rehearsals a little difficult to arrange for sometimes!

How has it compared to your experience of in-person theatre and music?

AW: Let’s be real, we’re all missing live music and theatre a lot at the moment. All of the artists, actors, musicians, directors and techies know how important social interaction and response is to the perceived success of a show – if everybody’s at loggerheads or the production isn’t gelling then it shows. We’ve had to manufacture that social interaction – we have duets completed without people ever sharing a room, we have conversations that happen alone, and the only time that the company’s ever together is on the group chat when I message ‘tracks are up’ or ‘keep them coming’ or some form of self-deprecating humour. The best moment for me is hearing it all come together – hearing the harmonies work themselves in and a new track filling in previously empty space, and experiencing the closest thing to a live ensemble I’ve heard since lockdown began before anyone else does. And you’ll hear it too in a few weeks!

What sort of music can we look forward to hearing at the event?

IA: We were able to literally choose any song from any musical, it was an incredibly hard and long process, but it means we were really just be able to choose music that we wouldn’t normally have been able to do so you can expect a really wide range of music to classic songs that everyone knows to some hidden gems that honestly we were discovering for the first time. 

LvW: The beauty of this format is that we could closely match people’s voice types to songs they need to sing – I’m pretty sure our original setlist rounded out at about 4 hours just because of the amount of ‘but they need a solo’ and ‘what about this for them’ messages we bandied about. We’ve cut it down now into a very tight setlist, aiming to showcase old and new, romantic and funny, ensemble and solo, and more.

Are there any particular songs that you’re performing which mean a lot to you?

AW: Dear Evan Hansen was the last piece of musical theatre I was able to see live before the pandemic. I went with a close friend and had the most amazing day. Therefore, getting to sing ‘Sincerely Me’ brings about a bit of nostalgia and sparked joy during what has been quite a trying time.

TB: I am personally a huge fan of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s music, so being able to perform ‘Breathe’ from [his 2005 musical] In the Heights is genuinely such an honour and privilege. Mandy Gonzalez [who originated the role of Nina Rosario in the Broadway production of In The Heights] and Eva Noblezada [who has performed ‘Breathe’ on tour] are insanely talented, and I hope to be able to live up to the high standards. 

Tell us a bit about the charities your cabaret is supporting.

LvW: It was important to us that this event targeted as many theatrical practitioners that were affected and still are by this pandemic as possible. Firstly, we’re supporting the Oxford Playhouse; in order for freelancers to continue to work, they need somewhere to perform, and the OP as a frequent student haunt and collaborator seemed the obvious choice. For the freelancers, we have Artists Supporting Artists, a fund designed to support practitioners individually rather than relying on project-based grants, allowing them to survive and thrive even when the jobs are lacking (think: global pandemic). Finally, we’re supporting the National Black Arts Alliance, working tirelessly to bring the arts as learning tools to disenfranchised areas and change community perceptions of Black culture.

IA: It was really important to us to bring awareness to charities that are helping the arts and particularly theatre in this time. It is something that means so much to so many of us and the way that the arts has been treated since the lockdown is deeply worried and upsetting to many young artists hoping to pursue a career as well as those of us with a deep love for it. The charities we have chosen are ones that affect us personally as well as those supporting larger, more important causes which we felt needed people to be more aware of. Our wonderful charity coordinator Priya has researched the charities and made sure that our efforts will have the maximum effect. 

In general, what things can we be doing to help the theatre industry in the age of Covid-19?

LvW: More important than anything is to raise awareness for the arts outside of your art-centric circle. The greatest risk at the moment is that the general public misconstrues the arts as luxury and unessential, or that they view the practitioners as hobbyists and lazy, looking for a government payout to fund their easy-going lifestyle. Anyone who works in the industry or alongside knows how hard everyone involved works (I won’t begin to go into the crazy hours we’ve put in to make this happen…). Check out Public Campaign for the Arts, as well as signing any petitions you come across and making sure the freelancers in your life know that you’re at least rooting for them (really, it means a lot). If you can, donate to freelancer funds, buy gift certificates at your local theatre, go and grab a coffee there if it’s safe to do so – anything to keep the cash-flow manageable. And stay creative! 

IA: I personally will take any opportunity to get to the theatre and watch any productions that are being put on, not only for my own enjoyment but because at this stage every little helps, whether that be student productions or professional. We can all help by donating to charities like the ones we are supporting and the many many others that are fighting to keep theatre alive, but I think the most important thing we can do is to just keep creating and getting involved in any way we can with the arts and encourage others to engage as fully as possible. 

Songs From The Old World premieres on 19th September, tickets can be purchased here.

On ‘Three Kings’

Georgie Dettmer
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On ‘Three Kings’

“We are the breakers of promises… forgive us”: Patrick stares back out at us as we watch him stalk the stage, embodying those who have waltzed in and out of his life. Andrew Scott takes on this demanding role in Stephen Beresford’s new one-person play Three Kings, which is fresh and entirely fitting for a screen that’s standing in for the stage. The frame zooms in and out, focusing on the myriad faces and voices Patrick employs as he recounts his journey from childhood to adulthood, which reveals to us a disenchanting materialisation of his absent father. 

Three Kings starts with a pub trick: how to move three coins, each with a different rule. It’s passed from Patrick, the father, to his son. It’s a trick that resurfaces time and time again during the hour, the final time when Patrick shares it with his estranged half-brother, Patrick. Yes, Patrick again. These men, lives apart, not only share a name, but a pain and longing that binds them tighter than biological relation. Although Patrick despises his father, they are always drawn back together. Patrick calls his father on the telephone one night, drunkenly feigning nonchalance and tells him, “I’ve solved The Three Kings”. The father however can only reply, “Who is this?” 

Scott’s face moulds from one of child-like bewilderment and fascination, to one of repulsion. We watch a boy learn to despise the man he wanted so desperately to step back into his world, but who, instead, flitted from one life to another, leaving new and better heirs (or rather, more Patricks) behind him. 

There is something beyond a biological “passing-down” between the father and son; an embedded and intangible legacy which a parent shares with a child through nothing other than words, actions, or maybe something else I can’t quite put my finger on. This man has never raised him nor cared for him, but in an instant Patrick wants nothing more than to laugh alongside his father. As Scott weaves between the voices and expressions of Patrick senior and junior, the resemblance is embodied. Scott becomes a vessel for these two men whom Beresford unites through a searing pain of expectation and disappointment. 

There is nothing left behind when his father dies; there is no will, no letter, no conclusive goodbye. There is, however, a looming and palpable fear we see take shape in Patrick, a desire to liberate himself from the footprints his father left behind. Soon he embarks on a sort of painting by numbers expedition across the Spanish island his father called home, meeting with people who love him in a way Patrick never will. 

As the hour draws to a close, we watch the two junior Patricks recount tales together. And it is at this moment Patrick shares the three kings’ trick. He offers it, like a gift, to his brother, although he refrains from explaining it was his father who taught it to him – possibly too painful an origin. On the surface, it is a moment of filial bonding, but it also reveals that there is something left of their father that doesn’t have to be expelled. There are no remnants of the crushed child from the opening act, nor the blistering anger that grew with him through adolescence, only a silly pub trick. The legacy of something so simple lays heavy with the audience and Scott alike; we watch it sit with him as he offers it to his newfound sibling, who nobody is sure if he will see again.

Scott looks out to us confessing, as if in a bidding prayer, that “we are faithless, and dead to shame”. Patrick is alone, and no longer mimics the others in his life – all words are finally his own. It is only Patrick speaking, but the confession feels intergenerational; the unloading of a dark inheritance that has caught up with the child. We are suspended in this final frame, staring back at a man who comes to terms with what he can do for himself, regardless of the wreckage of his father. He looks to the aspirational, to the desperate, and he asks for mercy – a child carving out a space which is separate from an ever-present paternal legacy.

“We want to be kind. And natural. And easy. We believe that we could perhaps be honest in love. In life. If only someone would teach us that trick.”

‘Family’ Theatre: Patronising or Inspirational?

Emily Hassan
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‘Family’ Theatre: Patronising or Inspirational?

As someone with a fair few younger siblings I can safely say that I have a pretty wide experience of family-oriented performances. My personal favourites (and the ones that are often the most underrated) usually involve children’s versions of classic works. I was therefore upset to see after a quick Google that critics don’t often feel the same; my first Shakespeare performance of ´A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ in the Regent’s Park Open Air Theatre was described as ‘patronising‘ and prone to ‘melodrama’ by the Guardian.  Far from dumbing down such canonical texts, family adaptations introduce children to such works at a level to which they can relate – my own experiences of such pieces encouraged me to revisit the original texts with a greater degree of sentimentality later on. 

While other playwrights hâve of course been employed very successfully in introducing children to theatre, the fairytale quality of a number of Shakespeare’s works (from prominent use of fairies and witches to elements of the Cinderella story in King Lear and even the casket test in The Merchant of Venice) lends his tales particularly to the consumption of children. Opportunities for physical comedy and clowning also serve as a means of making performances more accessible, techniques that in many cases would have accompanied the original Elizabethan productions. Far from dumbing down complex works, such additions often make theirs way into mainstream performances and open up new avenues of debate. For instance, audience participation in the 2019 performance of As You Like It at the Barbican, far from merely awarding it a pantomime quality, helped to render some of touchstone’s more obscure humour more relatable. It also helped to unite the fool with the audience, drawing our eye to his dual role as a vessel for social commentary as well as for humour.

The timelessness of Shakespeare’s work specifically also allows plenty of room for adaptation in terms of staging. My first Shakespeare play was a 2008 staging of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Regent’s Park open air theatre, in which the production was set in a toy shop. Casting Hermia as a ballet dancer in a music box and Helena as a rag doll served as a physical manifestation of Helena’s self-loathing and perceived neglect. Such a visual contrast was an effective means of cutting through the often complex Shakespearean imagery; similarly, the fact that all the lovers were depicted as toys emphasised their passivity, rendering them marionettes subject to the whims of their fairy puppeteers.

While introducing children to drama is of course at the forefront of such adaptations, condensing a popular novel into a theatrical piece is not without merit. Children less keen to read are propelled into a fully formed imaginary world which encourages them at the very least to engage with literature even if not in its original form, and quite possibly to go away and read the book or others like it. A recent performance of A Christmas Carol at the Old Vic, complete with pitch perfect acapella carolling, a pantomime villain Scrooge and free mince pies for peckish audience members got my little brother reading more Dickensian adaptations (and in turn reminded me that I need to reacquaint myself with the ending of Great Expectations if I don’t want to be outdone by a nine year old).

Literary appreciation aside, specifically family-oriented productions are often shorter and earlier in the day, easing younger children into the theatrical experience, and often offering discounts to schools. Such tailored pieces, combined with the introduction of relaxed and sensory adapted productions for children with special needs, can at least go some way in breaking down barriers into a famously elitist industry, which now more than ever is in need of attracting new audience members. 

Don’t call me pretty: catcalling, womanhood, and alienation

Lily Kershaw
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Don’t call me pretty: catcalling, womanhood, and alienation

Recently, I’ve been waking up pretty early. I’ve always been an early riser, but regularly getting up before 6 am is almost totally new to me, yet I’ve decided that sacrificing a little bit of sleep just to guarantee my own comfort made sense. The reason for this early rise? Swimming. More specifically, swimming during a time when I can avoid a certain group of men who had made a habit out of making comments on my body while I was exercising: “you’re a very pretty young girl”, “If I was 50 years younger…”, “aren’t you lovely” etc. I realised that, if I got to the pool for 7 am, I could leave before any of them had arrived, and then I could swim in peace, without feeling watched.

It’s a lonely feeling to be watched but not seen, to recognise that, to some, you are not a person but an object. This is a feeling which I became accustomed to fairly early on, from walking alone when I was 11 and having a car honk at me, to having to change my route to school after the same van, every morning, would slow down in front of my bus stop and shout and kiss at me. It scared me, to have my body judged by people who I didn’t know, by people who thought catcalling a girl in a school uniform was appropriate. It was attention that I, and so many other women and girls like me, don’t want because, the reality of catcalling is, it is never a compliment, but rather a power play. The goal is never to seduce but to emphasise the control that one party has over another, the power to make them feel uncomfortable, to force schoolgirls to change their routine, the way they dress, the routes they take, just because it’s a bit of harmless fun.

35% of UK girls wearing school uniforms have been sexually harassed in public and I am one of them. When I told adults, I was informed that I should expect that sort of attention “now that you’re a woman”, but I wasn’t a woman, I was in year 7. My body, the ever-changing, ever-shifting mass that it was, was not something that I felt I could truly claim because, though it was definitely mine, it did not truly sync up with my internal image of myself; it was an object, but neither something that I wanted nor felt particularly comfortable in. Being sexualised only further aggravated the growing distance I felt between myself and my body because, maybe, if I rejected this body, if this vessel wasn’t mine, then maybe men wouldn’t try and touch me on the tube or stare at me on the bus. I felt like a caricature and, no matter how I dressed, I couldn’t cover myself up enough to avoid all those eyes and all those comments.

You can’t get used to catcalling because you can’t expect it. You shouldn’t have to expect some man on the street to start shouting after you when you’re rushing to the train station, you also shouldn’t have to expect to have old men comment on your body when you’re only 15 years old. To grow up having all these eyes around you, to be forced to come to terms with yourself while so many others, so many who should know better, take advantage of your apparent vulnerability, is uncomfortable. It is uncomfortable to attempt to breach that liminal space between childhood and adulthood while simultaneously being perceived as a sex object by total strangers.

In those moments when, out of nowhere, a comment is made on your body (while you are waiting at the bus stop, while you are jogging, while you are on your way to school) your sense of self shifts just a little as you are forced to remember that, to some people, you are just an object for their viewing pleasure. Can your body truly feel like your own when it is constantly being claimed by strangers? Is it possible to not feel some kind of alienation and resentment towards your own body while going through puberty? Is it possible to not associate catcalling and harassment with womanhood when you are regularly reminded that it is all just part of being a woman?

A part of me is scared that there will come a time when these comments stop being made, when men stop staring at me on public transport, when I’m just another face in the crowd. I fear that, when that time comes, I’ll be sad, that I will feel less like a woman; I resent the fact that harassment is so normalised that, deep down, I partially rely on this male gaze to affirm my femininity. Speaking with some of my friends who have never experienced catcalling, they express a fear that this makes them less of a woman and that sentiment is awful. Our womanhood and our sense of self should never be defined by the male gaze. I know that I am much more than what any stranger can judge me to be, we are all so much more than that uninformed judgment. 

One’s identity as a woman is not purely reliant on looks or age; womanhood is far more than that, and I am just as much a woman now as I will be in 50 years time. To limit the female experience to how we are perceived by others is to do all women a severe disservice. It acts to further objectify us by suggesting that we cannot define ourselves, instead, we are objects to be defined by others. Being watched and being seen are two very different things; While we should aspire to be totally self-defined, if we are to define ourselves by anyone, we should define ourselves by those who see and understand us, rather than by unknown outsiders who watch. That’s what makes catcalling so damaging – it is totally invasive, and the strange, confident familiarity with which catcallers address you implies a level of understanding which just is not there – “I know your body, therefore I know you”. No woman, no human being, can be judged purely on their external appearance.

Talking about this is incredibly uncomfortable and makes me nervous. I worry that some will see this as a non-issue, just complaining about a couple of compliments… even showing off. Equally, I am fully aware that being sexually harassed is not as bad as other experiences, yet, to compare is to belittle. I don’t deserve to be harassed, nobody does. It is a humiliating and totally disempowering experience, yet, and as much as I resent this fact, it has somewhat shaped me and how I live my day-to-day life. These experiences, my experiences, should be shared, if not to educate, then to support others in the same position. Unfortunately, statistically, I am not alone in all this. 

Having grown up a bit, I have come to see that my body is not to blame for this harassment, and I certainly don’t reject my body, myself, as much as I once did. This is not some story of bravery, I still don’t call people out and, for the most part, I keep my head down and avoid eye contact when it happens. I still wake up early because these men still exist and I still don’t want to see them… I still don’t want them to see me. 

I still have a long way to go before I can fully separate my womanhood from the male gaze but, until then, this is the best I can do.

Iffley Road Sports Centre will not be used for teaching in “major win for students”

Imogen Duke
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Iffley Road Sports Centre will not be used for teaching in “major win for students”

Oxford University has announced that Iffley Road Sports Centre will not be used for teaching in Michaelmas 2020, after students and the Oxford Student Union (SU) campaigned against proposals to use the sports halls for academic purposes.

The SU describes this as a “major win for students” after “significant lobbying efforts” from elected officers. Sabbatical officers opposed using the sports hall for teaching in consultations with the University, including at Michaelmas Co-ordination Group, Education Strategy Group, and the Estates Department and the Academic Registrar.

Students at the Oxford University Sports Federation Executive Committee, led by Isabel Creed, Christy Sadler, and Aisha Cooper, campaigned to keep use of the Iffley Road Centre for sports. The Save Iffley Road campaign open letter secured over 1500 student signatures, with representatives from 95% of registered Oxford University sports clubs.

The University states that sports halls may be needed for exams in Trinity term, which SU officers have acknowledged.

Ben Farmer, Oxford SU VP Charities and Community, said: “We’re delighted to have helped secure this major win for students which shows the vital importance of sports at all levels at Oxford. The inspiring student campaign from the Oxford University Sports Federation Executive Committee and the large numbers of students who supported this issue has been great to see and we’re pleased the University has recognised this in their decision.

“There are still some uncertainties which remain around the planned opening of the sports centre and other facilities as well as the procedures for both college and University sport. We will continue to work for students in lobbying the collegiate University on these issues.”

Isabel Creed and Christy Sadler, Welfare Officers on the Oxford University Sports Federation Executive Committee, said: “We’re really pleased to see that the University has made this decision which shows the importance of sport of Oxford. We’d like to thank all the sports clubs, students and alumni who got involved and share the campaign to help get this win and we look forward to working with the University on the return to sport at Iffley Road and beyond.”

The University states: “The health and well-being of our staff, students and local community is our top priority, and we are committed to helping students to get active as much as possible, whilst also ensuring activity is undertaken within Covid-safe arrangements. 

“Following ongoing assessment of space requirements, and in consultation with Oxford SU sabbatical officers, the indoor sports halls are no longer under consideration for potential teaching and academic purposes in Michaelmas term.

“During discussions, it was acknowledged and agreed by SU officers that there may be a need to use the sports halls for some examinations in Trinity Term – when sports hall use is reduced. However, no decisions have yet been taken, and further information will follow as we develop our plans for assessments in the next academic year.  

“We have well-developed plans for the safe re-opening of the swimming pool and outdoor pitches; and are undertaking detailed planning work on the safe provision of indoor sport when suitable processes and safeguards are in place. A new Oxford Sports app is now available, incorporating online streaming classes. 

“We aim to support student sport as much as possible, and the Sports Department is preparing contingency plans to support sports clubs in adopting safe practices in University and College settings.”

Image credit to Cyblocker/ Wikimedia Commons.

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