Sunday 5th April 2026
Blog Page 518

BP or not BP? Art Washing and the British Museum

Lucas Jones
-
0
BP or not BP? Art Washing and the British Museum

“Like smoke blown to heaven on the wings of the wind, our country, our conquered country, perishes. Its palaces are overrun by the fierce flames and the murderous spear.”

These words, from The Trojan Women, found a new home in the British Museum’s exhibition on Troy. Translated from Greek into Arabic and produced by a cast of Syrian refugees, the tale was retold as Queens of Syria. Pushed to the brink by their circumstances, these women are forced to rebuild their lives and repossess the narrative. The exhibition aimed to highlight the brutality of Trojan War, and its legacy in popular culture. Queens of Syria seemed perfect. The British Museum tried to use it to draw focus to the horrors of war. Instead, that focus was firmly placed on them. The director of the piece, Zoe Lafferty, published an open letter condemning the exhibition’s sponsor before it even opened. The British Museum was once again under fire for their infamous partnership with British Petroleum.

            British Petroleum (BP) is a multi-billion-dollar company specialising in the extraction and refinement of oil and natural gas. Founded in 1908 as the Anglo-Persian Oil Company, the company rapidly expanded from its base in Persia, subsuming smaller oil companies that previously held monopolies in former Ottoman polities with the help of the British government. In 1935 Persia became Iran, and Anglo-Persian became Anglo-Iranian. The name changed, but their stranglehold over the nation’s oil continued. By the end of the Second World War the company’s growth rate completely outstripped Iran’s.  Nationalist sentiment was blossoming throughout the Middle East, and Iranian nationalism soon took hold in the form of Prime Minister Mohammed Mossadegh.

            Mossadegh was appointed as Prime Minister by the Shah in 1951. While Iran hadn’t been formally colonised, the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company (AIOC) held complete control over the oil-based economy, and was Iranian in name only. Mossadegh considered it an unwelcome symbol of Britain’s iron grip over Iran’s economy; one of his first actions in office was its nationalisation. Britain’s revenge was swift, forcing other oil companies to implement an oil embargo on Iran and lodging complaints with both the International Court of Justice (ICJ) and the Security Council. The ICJ found it had no jurisdiction over the case, and the Security Council refused to act. Regardless, the UK’s actions on BP’s behalf plunged Iran into a recession that soon manifested in political unrest. With a helping hand from the CIA’s ‘Operation Ajax’ and MI6’s ‘Operation Boot’, Mossadegh fell from power in 1953 in a coup d’état. AIOC was now firmly entrenched in Iran, owning 40% of shares in the coalition of foreign oil companies that now controlled Iran’s refineries.

            So, why the history lesson? For the answer, check the BP website. Their own rundown of BP’s illustrious history tells the same story in very different terms. It describes the process of “evacuating staff and their families” in 1951, presenting BP as an innocent victim of Iran’s nationalisation. “Mobs in the street demanded the Prime Minister’s resignation”, it claims, ignoring that these ‘mobs’ were actually CIA thugs. It proudly notes that “the Iranian economy was in ruins”, suggesting that this ‘organic’ loss of revenue was at the root of their decision to “accept a new partnership proposal.” This revisionism is essentially propaganda that aims to make the company’s history more palatable to potential share-holders and investors. The website, however, is only the tip of the iceberg of a PR strategy that has seen BP sponsor some of the most prestigious cultural institutions in the United Kingdom.

            “BP,” says its website, “believes that access to arts and culture helps to build a more inspired and creative society.” As such, they have been building links with cultural institutions across the UK for the past 50 years. In 2016 this long-term “strategy” manifested in a five-year investment of £7.5 million shared between the British Museum, the National Portrait Gallery, the Royal Opera House and the Royal Shakespeare Company. The latter severed its ties to BP in 2019. The British Museum runs an annual ‘BP exhibition’, with recent titles including I am Ashurbanipal and Indigenous Australia. This money ostensibly allows exhibitions that might not be able to attract funding to go ahead, enabling the British public to engage with art and culture. BP uses this sponsorship to paint a picture of an engaged, socially-responsible company with a corporate strategy that extends beyond profit into cultural development. However, as their beneficiaries would undoubtedly remind them, art is subjective. Not everyone agrees with BP’s self-portrait.

            This artistic disagreement has manifested in real-life protests. The 13-foot Trojan Horse that creaked into the courtyard of the British Museum on the 9th February was a reminder to the institution of the danger of trusting gifts. An icon of deception, many activists consider it a more accurate portrayal of BP’s patronage.  The statue served as the figurehead of a 3-day “BP Must Fall” protest that saw 1600 activists occupy the British Museum, which is no stranger to protests. This one, the latest planned by activists from ‘BP or not BP’, was far bigger than previous actions.  

            Formed in response to the Royal Shakespeare Company’s (RSC) partnership with BP in 2012, ‘BP or not BP’ is a protest organisation that aims to sever ties between British cultural organisations and oil companies. It has been responsible for 59 actions, including a ‘stolen goods tour’ of the British Museum led by Aboriginal activist Rodney Kelly and a ‘living statue’ protest at a private function for BP members. The February protest saw lectures on decolonisation, an “unsanctioned art exhibition” called Momentum, and an occupation of the museum’s courtyard. All this took place in the shadow of the Trojan Horse, which contained activists who slept in its body to prevent it from being removed during the night.

This kind of action has worked in the past. The RSC terminated its contract with BP two years early, largely as a result of the group’s actions. The Science Museum cut ties with Shell in 2015; Tate Modern did the same to BP in 2017. Protesters from ‘Liberate Tate’ also forced the gallery to reveal that BP’s funding provided less than 0.5% of their annual income, undermining the argument that BP’s money was somehow ‘necessary’ for the continuation of these artistic projects. BP’s website claims that it has “enabled over 4.2 million visitors to attend a festival, an exhibition, display or activity” at the British Museum since 1996. While this may sound like an impressive contribution, it is a drop in the ocean for an institution that receives an average of 6.3 million visitors per year. The 2016 BP sponsorship deal only accounts for around 0.3% of the British Museum’s annual income. Activists see this as an unfair exchange: BP gets to boost its public image in exchange for almost negligible contributions to these institutions.

           They call this ‘artwashing’: a process in which companies and governments sponsor artistic and cultural endeavours in order to create a veneer of social engagement that deflects and distracts from criticism. It is one of the buzzwords of international protest against corporate sponsorship and gentrification from Los Angeles to London, but it is not their only issue. There is also a concern that companies like BP might seek to influence exhibitions with the same end goal in mind. Shell attempted this at the Science Museum in 2015, trying to put pressure on the Museum to avoid a discussion that would show Shell in a negative light. In this specific avenue, however, concerns about BP have proved unfounded. This ‘artwashing’ is simply another arm of BP’s overarching aim: public exoneration.

            The size of protests against BP’s sponsorship of the British Museum has grown at great cost to the institution. Ahdaf Soueif resigned from the Board of Trustees in July 2019, citing BP’s sponsorship as a key motive. Her explanation, published by the London Review of Books, perfectly summarises what activists long suspected: “The public relations value that the museum gives to BP is unique, but the sum of money BP gives the museum is not unattainable elsewhere.” Even artists whose work has been used as part of exhibition have criticised the museum. Zoe Lafferty’s open letter questions why the British Museum “inexplicably” continues its partnership with BP, emphasising the “impossible position” her team was in, having already agreed to allow the use of her work.

            Two months after the February protests I spoke to Sal. H, a member of ‘BP or not BP’. BP continues to sponsor the British museum.  Asked whether she thought their protest had been successful, she responded with a question: “what would success look like for us as an organisation? You could say it was divestment. You could say it was the return of all the stolen goods. What would those gains mean? My personal angle on it is that the British Museum and its sponsorship exists as a perfect way for us to illustrate and point out the long legacy of colonialism and the continued oppression of people who have suffered colonialism.” Their protests are opportunities to platform activists from around the world. ‘BP Must Fall’ saw people from Kurdistan, West Papua, and Mexico give talks on the colonial history of the British Museum and the impact of BPs actions on indigenous populations across the globe. Divestment is not the only goal: raising awareness and sparking discussion in the media are also critical. The end result of all this is consistent, negative press for the British Museum. The question at the heart of the debate seems simple: if being sponsored by BP means huge protests and high-profile resignations for a minimal return, why not just drop them?

            Soueif frames the partnership’s continuation as an attempt not to “alienate a section of the business community.” In Sal’s opinion, however, it runs deeper than a simple monetary relationship: it reflects the British Museum’s own status as an icon of colonialism and exploitation. The board of directors are “very happy to invite BP to private views and functions”, implying the existence of a political link that would explain the relationship. Each person suggests a different motive and without conjecture it’s impossible to give a coherent argument for the British museum to continue the partnership. Despite this, the relationship continues.

            The entrenched nature of BP’s sponsorship has forced ‘BP or not BP’ to get creative. The group’s main concern is that BP is misrepresenting themselves through their sponsorship. Although the easiest way to stop that misrepresentation is to terminate the partnership, if the group can engage the public’s imagination then BP fails anyway. The longer the British Museum retains BP as a partner, the larger the protests will get. Every protest is another opportunity for activists to grab the attention of the media and undermine BP’s narrative, preventing BP from achieving its goal anyway.

            While ‘BP or not BP’ has enjoyed successful protests, they are still a long way from this level of public engagement. In addition to this, protest has just become a lot more difficult. The 20th April marked the 10-year anniversary of the Deepwater Horizon explosion, which killed 11 rig workers. This would usually be marked by a huge protest, but ‘BP or not BP?’ was forced to commemorate the tragedy with an online protest. Around 100 activists took part in their video protest, with “thousands… posting to mark the day.” Their protest coincided with the moment oil values went negative in the USA for the first time in history in a huge blow for the oil industry. Some activists, however, see this as a nightmare scenario: cheaper fuel is far more attractive than expensive, green alternatives. The pandemic has also created more fundamental issues for the group, whose future online actions are “up in the air” as they grapple with the key question: can you justify campaigning against sponsorship deals while cultural institutions haemorrhage money?

            Covid-19 may have disarmed activist groups, but there is still hope for ‘BP or not BP’. Global demand for oil is plunging by millions of barrels a day due to the pandemic and BP’s contract with the British Museum expires next year. Whether the British Museum continues that partnership is a separate matter. “We’ll see,” Sal concedes, “it would look very bad if they renewed it.” BP has also committed to becoming a net-zero emissions company by 2050. Perhaps they mean it. Or perhaps this is another Trojan Horse. When I asked if she was cynical about BP’s promises, there was a hint of humour in her response. “Towards a profit-making organisation at the mercy of their stakeholders?” She grins. “Definitely.”

Artwork by Isabelle Lill

Cults: Blind Faith?

Caitriona Dowden
-
0
Cults: Blind Faith?

In popular media, cults are often the object of morbid curiosity, in the same category as serial killers, celebrity breakdowns, and the scandalous exploits of polygamous big cat enthusiasts. In 2018, Netflix’s Wild Wild Country shocked viewers with the story of the Rajneeshpuram commune, who took over a small town in Oregon in order to pursue their twin passions of meditation and bioterrorism. Many of Louis Theroux’s most watched documentaries deal with insular and extremist cult-like organisations, including the Westboro Baptist Church, the Church of Scientology, and white supremacist communities in the deep South. Our fascination with cults is partly due to the fact that they are, by definition, closed to outsiders. An advertising campaign launched by the Church of Scientology in 2018 ran the tantalising tagline uninitiated, ‘The only thing more interesting than what you’ve heard is what you haven’t’. In denying access to their inner workings, cults appeal to our desire to see behind closed doors.

These organisations also stand in stark contrast to the values of individualism and liberty that pervade Western capitalist society. In a cult, the individual is subsumed by the collective, voluntarily submitting to the will of a self-appointed authority figure (though coercive and manipulative tactics are often used). They give up personal freedoms, donating their property and wealth to the organisation, and cutting themselves off from family and friends. Perhaps what interests us is the question of what cults might offer in return – what is it that makes the loss of one’s individuality seem like a worthwhile trade off? It certainly suggests an all-consuming, unshakeable conviction in one’s cause, far exceeding the average person’s most sincerely held political or religious beliefs. Many of the most notorious cults of the last century have secured their place in history through extreme, and often violent, displays of devotion; the airstrip shootings and mass suicide committed by the People’s Temple Agricultural Project in 1978 constituted the greatest loss of American life until the 9/11 terror attacks of 2001. On the tape recording taken at the final meeting of the commune, Jim Jones can be heard calling his followers to commit revolutionary suicide, framing voluntary, dignified death as the ultimate rejection of capitalism. The ubiquity of the phrase ‘to drink the Kool-Aide’ is a testament to the cultural impact of the Jonestown massacre; it refers to the grape flavoured drink, laced with poison, that the residents were coerced into ingesting. But the People’s Temple were not unique in their act of self-annihilation. In 1997, 39 members of the Heaven’s Gate Cult died in an act of mass suicide, believing it would allow them to board an alien spaceship, and the Solar Templar Cult reached a death toll of 74 in a series of suicides between 1994 and 1997. To an outsider, it is difficult to understand how ordinary people could be convinced to behave in such apparently irrational, self-destructive ways in the name of their beliefs.

Religious cults give rise to questions about when a religious movement becomes something more sinister. According to the Pew Research Center’s Forum on Religion & Public Life, 84% of the 2010 world population were religiously affiliated. What is it that sets groups such as the Solar Templar and the Rajneeshpuram commune from the billions of faithful worldwide? Part of the difficulty in drawing a clear distinction is that ‘cult’ is generally used as pejorative term. It implies that the organisation in question is harmful, either to its members, the outside world, or both, and that it is guilty of coercion and brainwashing. To call a movement a cult is to delegitimise it, suggesting that it is not a respectable religion. Just as those accused of heresy during the Middle Ages did not identify themselves as ‘heretics’, cults rarely seem to regard themselves as such. For instance, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latterday Saints has often been called a cult by critics, whilst members of the faith consider themselves the true inheritors of the Apostolic tradition. It is for this reason that the term ‘New Religious Movement’ is used in academic discourse when referring to faith groups founded during the past few centuries. However, this categorisation doesn’t fully account for the distinction that many will intuitively make between a legitimate religion and what they perceive as a cult. The term includes Heaven’s Gate and Satanism alongside mainstream religious movements such as Conservative Judaism, and various Buddhist groups. So-called cults do have a lot in common with mainstream religion. Most religions call on members to make sacrifices in the name of their faith, be it Catholics abstaining from meat on Fridays, or Muslims fasting during the sunlight hours of Ramadan. People of faith might undergo initiation rituals such as baptism and wear distinguishing clothes to identify themselves as a member of a particular community who all share a single belief system. Monasteries are rarely considered cults, despite the fact that their members give up private property, live in ascetic communes, and devote their entire lives to God. Is it, then, just a matter of degree? The Church of Scientology is criticised for its practice of gathering collateral on its members, requiring them to give up deeply personal information, but Catholics regularly confide in Priests through the sacrament of confession. Perhaps a movement is classed as a cult when it imposes too many rules, becomes too rigidly hierarchical, or requires too much devotion to its leaders. Giving up chocolate for Lent is an act of self-denying sacrifice, as is committing suicide in order to placate an extra-terrestrial overlord, but one is rather more extreme than the other. The average parishioner might put some money in the collection pot at the Priest’s behest but would probably raise an eyebrow if asked to assassinate a member of Congress. The boundaries become even blurrier when considering the origins of mainstream religions; almost every major religion began as a small community following the teachings of a charismatic leader. Their beliefs were often extreme and self-destructive: early Christianity actively encouraged martyrdom, calling the faithful to rejoice in their gruesome executions rather than renounce Christ. A group that looked anything like Jesus’ disciples in the 21st century would surely be called a cult by outsiders; certainly, the gospels claim that Jesus was considered dangerous by his contemporaries and denounced as a blasphemer by Jewish authorities.

The criteria most commonly used to distinguish religions from cults is the organisation’s methods of recruiting and retaining members. Cults tend to have charismatic leaders, offer a transformative path to self-improvement, and manipulate recruits using tactics such as love-bombing (overwhelming potential members with a friendly and communal atmosphere). The content of a cult’s belief system might be very similar to that of a mainstream religion, but it is the way in which it communicates those beliefs and persuades members to adhere to them that renders cults harmful. These are certainly useful criteria which allow those targeted by dangerous new religious movements to identify them as such. However, it is also worth asking if there is anything in the structure of a movement’s belief system that contributes to the perception that it is a cult, separate from either its specific contents, or the ways in which it imparts its teachings. This is a matter of epistemology. The testimonies of former cult members suggest that many leave, not because they are disturbed by the manipulative recruitment methods, or the restrictive rules and regulations, but because they realise that they cannot justify their belief systems.

Megan Phelps-Roper, a former member of the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, sheds light on this phenomenon. Westboro is best known for its controversial practice of picketing soldier’s funerals, holding inflammatory placards with slogans such as ‘God hates fags’, and ‘America is doomed’. They believe that we should thank God for all of his judgements, including the deaths of soldiers, and atrocities such as 9/11. They fulfil most of the criteria used to identify cults: they were founded by Fred Phelps, who acted as a charismatic leader until his death in 2014, they live communally, and they condemn the outside world. Born into Westboro as the granddaughter of its founder, Megan Phelps-Roper spent most of her life attending the pickets and played an active role in the running of the Church. She personally wrote the lyrics to some of their bizarre pop parodies, adapting Lady Gaga songs to convey homophobic and apocalyptic teachings. She went on to run the Church’s social media, becoming particularly active on Twitter. In her memoir, Unfollow (2019), she explains that it was her activity on Twitter that eventually convinced her to leave Westboro in 2012; In the process of defending the Church’s teachings online, she found herself engaged in debate with users who sincerely wanted to understand where she was coming from and explain to her why they disagreed. She was used to hostility from the outside world – the pickets attracted angry counter-protests and even violent attacks – but the people she met on Twitter made her realise that not everybody who opposed her faith did so out of blind hatred. In a conversation with one user, she learnt that there were different translations of the Bible, she went on to study Hebrew in order to read the text more objectively. She attributes her rejection of the Church to those who compassionately exposed her to the inconsistencies in her beliefs. While acknowledging that the rhetoric of the Westboro Baptist Church is harmful to many, Phelps-Roper is a vehement advocate of free speech. She argues that censoring discourse on social media and in public will prevent people like her from escaping indoctrination. Any attempts to censor the views of the Westboro Baptist Church would only serve to confirm their belief that the outside world is against them. In turn, this would further convince them of their status as the chosen ones: ‘And everyone will hate you because you are my followers’ (Matt 13:13).

Megan Phelps-Roper’s account reveals that it is not only the way in which religious movements recruit and retain members that make them cults, but also the structure of their belief systems. In most mainstream religions, knowledge is derived from a variety of sources: scripture, along with scholarly interpretation of it, philosophy, and the decisions of appointed religious leaders, amongst others. For example, the Jewish Talmud records Rabbinical interpretation of the Hebrew Bible, locating authority in the scholarly writings of the learned. Mainstream Christian denominations derive their beliefs from the Bible, but also from the works of the theologians who have interpreted it throughout Church history. Whilst faith plays a significant role in all religious movements, those that could be called ‘moderate’ tend to hold their teachings to a standard of reason and consistency, at the same time acknowledging that not every mystery can be understood.

By contrast, the teachings of cult-like movements appear to be legitimised almost entirely through charismatic authority, a term coined by the sociologist Max Weber. A leader, or group of leaders, who claim to be imbued with superior spirituality, purporting to be the sole source of truth. Megan Phelps-Roper describes the increasingly contradictory practices that became more and more difficult to justify biblically. During a potentially ruinous lawsuit, Fred Phelps ordered church members to prostrate themselves and pray for the deaths of those prosecuting them. Whilst this is clearly incompatible with Jesus’ instruction to love your enemies, it became part of the group’s practice because their leader had declared it righteous. In a cult, knowledge is not acquired from scripture, scholarship, or critical reason, but from a charismatic figure who claims to have privileged access to the divine. This is consistent with the tendency of cults to discourage members from questioning their beliefs and their condemnation of the outside world.

In her bestselling memoire, Educated (2018), Tara Westover gives a similar account. She tells the story of her upbringing in a cult-like family in rural Idaho, in which her father acted as the charismatic authority. They were fundamentalist Mormon survivalists, dedicating their lives to apocalypse preparation, converting their money into gold, and stockpiling supplies. They were actively opposed to scientific research as a source of knowledge, refusing to take their children to hospital even when they sustained horrendous injuries at the family junkyard. Westover’s mother acted as an unlicensed midwife in the fundamentalist community, taking up new age healing practices as an alternative to scientific medicine. The children were home schooled, receiving little to no formal education, instead helping their father with manual labour. Despite these circumstances, Westover was accepted to Brigham Young University. Her memoir is a love letter to education and academia, recounting the effect her studies had on the way she viewed her family’s beliefs. In a psychology class, she realised that her father’s paranoia and erratic behaviour were symptoms of bipolar disorder, shedding light on his obsession with the imminent apocalypse and his fear of the outside world. She was awarded a Gates Scholarship, allowing her to study at Cambridge, where she went on to earn a master’s degree and doctorate in intellectual history. Much as Phelps-Roper came to doubt her extremist beliefs by realising that her family’s understanding of the Bible was one amongst many, Westover writes that her interest in historiography was a catalyst for her changing perspective. She began to question the distorted version of history she had learned from her parents and understand the way in which her family had manipulated her own memories of abuse through continuous gaslighting; the idea that there could be opposing interpretations of the past gave her the tools she needed to deconstruct the rigid beliefs she had grown up with.

Accounts such as these offer an interesting insight into the structure of cult belief systems. A mainstream Christian might share the belief that Jesus died to save humanity with a member of the Westboro Baptist Church. However, their reason for believing it is likely to be different. In a cult, doctrine takes its authority from those who claim to be spiritually enlightened in some way. Such a leader can make contradictory statements and dismiss any appeals to reason without losing credibility. Megan Phelps-Roper emphasises this in her account of the Church, describing their beliefs as ‘infallible’. But there is still a grey area when it comes to distinguishing cult from religion. All religious belief could be described as infallible to a degree. Religions tend to consider faith a virtue that should be able to withstand doubt, and criticisms of religion often target its tendencies to explain away the inexplicable by positing the unknowable will of a deity. Most religions did rely on charismatic authority in their early days and Scripture is usually considered as revelation, so religious teachings are hardly scientific. However, it is the movements that have engaged with new scholarship and philosophy that have endured over time, and not those that have rejected it.

Artwork by Justin Lim

Permanent Private Halls: the good, the bad and the ugly

Marnie Ashbridge
-
0
Permanent Private Halls: the good, the bad and the ugly

When meeting someone new in Oxford, students are most likely to ask “what college do you go to?” and “what course do you do?” In response to this, I inform people that I attend Regent’s Park College. Normally, I don’t even give them time to look at me in a perplexed manner as they try to figure out if I actually go to the same University as them or if I’m just making up a random name. I am quick to assure them in a bumbling fashion that ‘I know they have never heard of it, it’s very small, I mean technically it’s not a college it’s a private hall.’ To this, the most frequent question to follow is what life is like in a private hall and what similarities and differences can be found between private halls and colleges in Oxford. 

A permanent private hall (PPH) is an educational institution associated with The University of Oxford, but which is also affiliated with a Christian denomination. These have existed in Oxford since 1221. In 1918 a statute was put in place by the University allowing these non-profit private halls to become permanent features of the University. 

There are six PPHs in total in Oxford, of which five admit undergraduate students. The largest PPH is the one that I attend, Regent’s Park College, which has around two-hundred students. A common misconception surrounding PPHs is that they exclusively admit postgraduate students. This is simply not true; of Regent’s students, fifty-seven percent of the hall’s population are undergraduates. 

There is a lot of confusion surrounding the nature of PPHs for those who don’t know of or interact with people who are part of them. As a result of this, PPHs have grown to have something of a mythical status in several Oxford circles. In particular, many people I come across seem to think that because we are not an official college, we have fewer regulations to follow, as a result of which we become something of a cult. This goes hand in hand with another misconception I often receive, that PPHs are made up exclusively of people of faith. 

Myth Busting

Whilst colleges are managed and run autonomously, a PPH is governed mostly by a specific Christian denomination and is managed under the license of a charitable organisation or religious order. Regent’s Park College is associated with the Baptist Union of Great Britain, Wycliffe Hall with the Church of England and St Benet’s Hall with Roman Catholicism (of the Benedictine order). As a consequence of the religious nature of PPHs, they attract theologians as tutors, who will, in turn, attract students interested in theology, resulting in a higher intake of student’s reading Theological Studies or Combined Honours with Theology. Whilst it is common that religious people choose to study theology, being religious is certainly not a prerequisite of reading the subject.  A recent online poll of Regent’s Park College asked whether the students of the college would describe themselves as ‘religious’. To this, 64% said that they would not, out of a sample of forty-four people. Although the sample size may not be representative of the college more widely, the results indicate that the branding of Regent’s as a ‘religious’ institution does not in any way mean that the individual members of the institution are religious themselves.  

On average, the University of Oxford takes sixty-four undergraduate students a year to read Theology and Religion, Philosophy and Theology and Religion and Oriental Studies. In my year at Regent’s, nine people attend these courses. Other PPHs like Wycliffe Hall, however, offer exclusively theology qualifications. Relative to their size and in comparison with other colleges, there is a sizable proportion of students studying Theology or an honours degree associated with Theological Studies in PPHs. That being said, Benet’s and Regent’s do not only offer Theological Studies, they also welcome many humanities students to make up the rest of the student body.

Another prominent misconception associated with PPHs is their cult culture. The first thing that I heard about St Benet’s Hall was that on the first day of Michaelmas term, all of the freshers had bags wrapped around their heads and were taken and thrown in the Cherwell. I believed this up until third week when I met a Benet’s fresher who informed me, to my sincere relief, that no such activity happened at all. My own college, Regent’s Park, is also home to a number of cultish rumours, particularly surrounding “Regent’s Rabbits”, the all-female drinking society. During my first few weeks at Oxford, people from other colleges would often ask me whether I was part of this notorious and mysterious group. At first, I did not know what it was, but the rumours that I had heard about it were, in all honesty, pretty dodgy. But as I became more and more involved in life at Regent’s, I discovered that the notoriety of the group is far from deserved, the Rabbits are simply a collection of lovely girls who meet every week for a crew date wearing rabbit ears and who host the odd drinking event throughout the year. Whilst the rumours about PPH ‘cults’ are amusing, they are also flagrantly false.

A College Like Any Other

A lot of individuals hear ‘hall’ and immediately assume that PPHs are halls of residence. This usually results in people pitying us for not being able to experience the collegiate system in all its finery. This pity is misguided. PPHs are the same as colleges in most regards. We have a Junior Common Room with a President and committee which has weekly meetings to discuss issues and proposals, particularly relating to the distribution of finances and budgeting. Our dining hall serves meals three times a day, although a lot of people do self-cater, with our kitchens being comparatively better supplied than many other colleges. The dining hall is used on Friday evenings to serve our Formal Dinners. Three times a term the social secretary will organise a bop that manages to get everyone out, wearing ridiculous outfits and drinking from our dangerously cheap college bar (even people who are usually only seen in lower main kitchens at four in the morning). Traditionally, our bops consist of dancing to Blur’s ‘Park Life’ on the sticky floor of our JCR with the tattered brown leather sofas pushed to one side, before inevitably pouring out to Plush. Our bar itself is rated as one of the best college bars in Oxford, famous for its innovative cocktail combinations and cheap prices. Like any other college, we also have our own unique customs and traditions. A particular favourite of mine is ‘Pope’s’. This is when once a term an individual wearing an oversized Pope hat leads an invasion of Arzoo’s. The difference between life in a college and life in a PPH is often not as pronounced as people think.

The College Complex

However, for students and tutors who have what we refer to as a ‘college complex’, the prestige associated with collegiate status is difficult to cast aside. An inspiration to most PPH attendees is the success stories of college conversions; Former PPHs such as Mansfield College and St Peter’s College managed to gain collegiate status in 1995 and 1961 respectively. However, the most compelling reason that people want Regent’s to be made into a college is because of its financial implications. All colleges are financially autonomous corporations that run themselves, with their students and staff belonging to the greater body of the University which acts as the central government independent of internal affairs. The College Contribution Scheme (CCS) requires colleges that have a taxable asset amounting to £45m or more to fund the poorer colleges in the form of grants. Between 2016-17, thirty-eight percent of the CCS funding came from Christ Church, All Soul’s and St John’s. PPHs, without the status of a college, are not permitted access to these grants. In February 2019 an article was produced by Cherwell that documented the JCR motion passed by Regent’s Park’s JCR President William Robinson, which proposed the inclusion of PPHs in the CCS scheme. His argument rested on the fact that he did not “know how [the council] could possibly justify excluding literally the poorest institutions and the poorest student bodies in Oxford” from the scheme just because they were labelled as PPHs and not as colleges. I interviewed our now former President and he informed me that despite the passing of the motion, Regent’s have still not been given access to the scheme. His disappointment was clear,  arguing that “the hypocrisy of a scheme that sets out to assist less financially fortunate colleges is plain to see in Regent’s exclusion, given that we have an endowment less than half the size of even the poorest college, but cannot access the scheme due to the hall’s PPH status.” 

The value of PPHs

Many individuals, particularly in the PPH community, voice how unfair it is that their university experience differs significantly from that of wealthy colleges. Whilst PPHs have a lot in common with colleges at Oxford, areas of student life such as sport, travel grants and college counselling are all much more inaccessible for students who are studying at PPHs. For instance, Regent’s JCR spent the majority of last year trying to raise enough money to buy a new projector from several different sources. The projector was seen as something the JCR needed to function effectively and run meetings. A richer college may not have thought twice about funding such a vital piece of equipment, but for Regent’s, the process took much longer. The Regent’s Park endowment is currently at £5.4 million. To be able to apply to be a college, Regent’s Park would have to have a similar endowment of the poorest college in Oxford, Harris Manchester, who have assets worth £14.1 million. For a PPH like St. Benet’s Hall, the number is even further away, as they have assets totalling just £146,000. The road to becoming a college looks as if it will be a long one.

Are PPHs something that should be left in the past or do they still have a place in our University? Some feel as though the purpose of PPHs is no longer relevant in a modern context, that they are colleges in everything but in their the name and, therefore, deserve the same status and the same benefits that colleges have access to. Whilst Regent’s lack of wealth and lack of diverse subjects certainly play a part in why it has not yet moved towards collegiate status, the key reason is surely the college’s reluctance to renounce its affiliation with the Baptist Church. The PPH is involved in ordaining members of the Church to Priesthood and receive funding and guidance from the church body, activities which would have to cease if they were to become a college. Some feel that it is a fundamental part of the essence of Regent’s. This is why many, particularly those in the Senior Common Room, are extremely hesitant to push for collegiate status. Regent’s current working principle, Reverend Doctor Richard Ellis, argued in a Cherwell article released way back in 2010 that whilst “a college exists more in the mainstream of university life than a PPH, and has access to more resources”, “a PPH may want to preserve elements of its distinct ethos and this might be difficult as a college”. The views of the younger undergraduate student body who felt alienated from parts of college life were simply not being included in the discussion. 

The future of Regent’s, and other PPHs alike, should involve more autonomy and a strengthening of ties with the University. This would, inevitably, require Regent’s to move away from its religious associations. Little progress has been made in this regard and talks will undoubtedly continue for a very long time. But for the time being, it seems that I will have to keep on answering the inevitable onslaught of questions whenever I confess to studying at a Permanent Private Hall.

An unhealthy obsession? The cult of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s ‘Cats’

Alison Hall
-
0
An unhealthy obsession? The cult of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s ‘Cats’

I must confess – I am quite obsessed with Cats.

Not the animal, of course, but Andrew Lloyd Webber’s seminal 1981 musical and the 2019 film adaptation. I spent money on tickets to see the latter – twice. As if the 119 minutes I spent oscillating between varying states of horror and shame as grotesque Lovecraftian CGI felines writhed around on the screen in front of me wasn’t enough, I did it all over again. I can only compare the experience to that of watching a snuff film. I felt dirty – but I loved every second of it.

My love for Cats has spiralled into quite the fixation. Bustopher Jones, the Cat About Town, is living in my head rent free. I will admit that I have asked the Plush DJ to play ‘Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat’ on more than one occasion. I weep as I realise this year’s Jellicle Ball has probably been cancelled due to the ongoing pandemic. I could go on, but this has all the marks of an obsession, and an unhealthy one at that.

It brings me great joy to know that I’m not the only one afflicted by such a disease. The catastrophic failure (no pun intended) of this ice cream headache of film has meant that it’s on the way to achieving cult status. It is one of the most divisive musicals of all time, having run for twenty-one years on the West End and eighteen on Broadway despite it being slammed as – to put it simply – just plain weird. Although a complete critical and financial flop, the film’s release has spawned a new fan base; it’s a camp, hallucinogenic car crash, which is exactly why we love it.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show bombed at the box office upon its first release in 1975. Almost five decades later, it has come to be synonymous with the phrase “cult classic”. Like Cats, it reeks of camp and schlocky excess, and it only seems to grow more popular as the years go by. Midnight showings where raucous audiences dress up in their corseted finery, throw toilet roll and rice at the screen and sometimes act along to the entire film have become the norm, to the point at which the thought of a screening devoid of audience participation seems rather unsettling.

I can only hope that Cats achieves the same honour. Just weeks after its first release, independent cinemas started to hold “rowdy screenings” of the film, which saw (usually inebriated) audiences somehow belting out ‘Memory’, albeit while somehow screaming in abject terror at the same time. If the coronavirus pandemic hasn’t completely ravaged cinemas in fifty years’ time, perhaps Cats will still be considered one of these quintessential “midnight movies”.

Of all the quite horrendous musicals I’ve enjoyed over the last few years, Cats seems to shine brighter than the rest. It was one of the most notorious cinematic flops of recent memory – and everyone was talking about it. All being well, it will ascend to the Heaviside Layer to be reborn as a cult classic. And once we are reunited with our beloved cinemas, we can let its memory live again.

Coriolanus: Review

Allyson Obber
-
0
Coriolanus: Review

Coriolanus is set in the early stages of the Roman republic, in the midst of plebeian revolts for grain. Caius Marcius (Tom Hiddleston), nicknamed ‘Coriolanus’ in the course of the play, is a capable and inspiring warrior. He almost single-handedly wins the war against the Volsces, defeating their general, Aufidius (Hadley Fraser). Acclaimed as a hero, Coriolanus is encouraged to run for consul, one of the most important political roles in Rome. But what made Coriolanus such a great soldier – his unwavering pride, his direct, to-the-point speeches – are his fatal flaws as a politician. He is too arrogant, ‘too absolute’: this causes his downfall, leading him to join the Volsces and revolt against Rome.

Coriolanus is a brutal play, with physical fights and visually violent images, such as Hiddleston being drenched in blood for a good part of the play. Rourke gives it a very militaristic and grave tone, creating conflict in different ways throughout. At first, the play is very action-focused, and, as it gets more political, it gradually shifts on power plays to sustain tension, getting at the most personal and intimate point in the end. Some moments relieve the gravity of this harrowing play, but they are not many. They mostly come from Menenius (Mark Gatiss), a father figure for Coriolanus, witty and diplomatic, who shows great emotional depth and political acumen.

This production explores extremely well how it is not his lack of empathy for the lower classes that makes Coriolanus such a bad politician, but his inability to hide it. Pretence is unnatural to him, and he alienates common people by stating what he thinks: he despises them. Far from being a comically bad villain, he is not alone in his contempt for the lower classes: in reality, nobody cares. These aristocrats – even the tribunes, elected to represent the plebs – mock and disrespect the plebeians, and then manipulate them to obtain power. And on their part, the people follow through with the manipulation of the moment almost unquestioningly. Thus, Coriolanus offers an incredibly bleak portrayal of democracy, politics, and power, and it is not difficult to relate it to our contemporary world.

But the human element is always present in this grandiose tragedy about power and the corruption that derives from it. Hiddleston shows us a Coriolanus that is full of contradictions, but also has some genuinely good personal qualities. Coriolanus does not get to deliver as many monologues or soliloquies as other Shakespearean characters, so we can only guess and project our own convictions, but it would be too easy to cast him off as a villain. His intimate, delicate familial connections are constantly shown and explored. In the end, Coriolanus is confronted with a Roman matron (Jacqueline Boatswain), his wife (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen), his mother (Deborah Findlay), and his son (Joe Willis), begging him to stop the Volsces’ army. They are deeply emotional scenes, that do not suffer from a drastic tonal change – affection and love between these characters had been shown many times before. A wonderful Findlay, who is a joy to watch in every scene she is in, is every bit as prideful and determined as her fictional son. And Hiddleston’s interactions with his on-scene son and wife are a sweet, quiet performance of love and conflicted emotions.

Osborne’s scenography is simple, with a wall in the background, covered in graffiti that represent the people’s thoughts and needs of the time. The stage is very rarely empty, starting out with a painted red square in the middle of it and some chairs. Such a bare set gives the play a gritty, almost urban feeling. This, with the use of strong whites, blacks, and reds, accompanied the brutal tones of the play quite effectively. More puzzling were the costume choices, with a weird blend between modern and ancient. If it tried to make the connection between our world and theirs more obvious, it was very unsubtle; if not, it is difficult to find another purpose for such choice, other than a bizarre fashion statement.

Coriolanus is a great play, intense and direct in its critique at those in power, but also subtly touching with its portrayal of family and personal relationships.

The fourth wall: Looking beyond the lens

Ernest Lee
-
0
The fourth wall: Looking beyond the lens

Beautiful, sprightly music plays as the two protagonists of Pierrot Le Fou (1965), Ferdinand and Marianne, cruise around in the countryside in a stolen Ford Galaxie. The film is Godard at his cheeky best – bright colours, violence, making movies about movies. Marianne, Ferdinand’s ex-love and now partner-in-crime, is describing all the things they’ll do once they acquire a suitcase of money:

Marianne: Then, we’ll find a high-class hotel and have some fun!
Ferdinand, hands on the wheel, turns behind him and looks directly into the camera. 
Ferdinand: You see? All she thinks about is fun. 
Marianne: Who are you talking to? 
Ferdinand: The audience.
Marianne glances briefly at the camera too. 
Marianne: Ah. 

These moments are scattered throughout many of Godard’s films, almost offhandedly. At the same time, they’re fun and unobtrusive. Perhaps it’s just Ferdinand here being crazy, talking to a pretend viewer; Marianne, passionate as she is, plays along. Godard’s directing, of course, was neither the first nor last to innovatively explore and toy with the fourth wall. Breaking the fourth wall moves beyond realism, towards a form of transrealism self-reflexively commenting on the fiction and medium itself. In this light, a moment of audience acknowledgement like this can also be understood as part of the many ways Godard popularized many novel techniques – jump cuts, narrative sidelines, chaotic sound camera placement – departing from more formalist filmmaking techniques. Nonetheless, such techniques were for Godard his expression of ‘critical cinephilia’ and response to prevailing film theory, and breaking the fourth wall has been adopted in other films to varying ends.  

The fourth wall refers to the barrier between stage and audience, a gulf between fiction and reality. The term is not unique to filmmaking, having its antecedents in theatrical explorations of realism itself. Against the lavish, distinctly bourgeois set and lighting technology of the 1920s, German playwright Berthold Brecht sought to insert the occasional puncture of theatre’s fiction of its own insulation from the audience. Like other these mediums, the power of film in part derives from its relationship with its audience, namely its ability to – however momentarily – bring viewers into a cinematic world. Much has been written about the various techniques that help to immerse, to conjure up captivating, lively worlds. We are entranced, coming to be invested not just in the plot of a movie but in real stories, not just in the dialogue between Character A and Character B but in the psyches, the motivations, the fates of real human beings. No doubt, some have perfected these techniques – but the best art is what questions itself. 

Breaks in the fourth wall therefore thrive in comedy. Even gentle nudges worked brilliantly, characters engaging the audience, almost winking at their fictional nature. The eponymous character in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986) brings us through a day of playing hooky. Right as his parents fall for his malingering, and leave him for the day, he gets up. “They bought it,” he declares – the connection with the audience is instant, setting the stage for his self-assured, cocky romp around town. The next five minutes are comically instructional, taking the form of a follow-as-you-go tutorial, replete with on-screen text, of just how he’s pulled it off. Deep down the sentiments are relatable for any peer (“Who gives a crap if they’re socialists? Or fascists, anarchists… it still doesn’t change the fact I don’t own a car”). His charisma does not radiate from a distance, but almost as if we’re sharing in his delightfully teenage plotting.  

Yet, the peaks of playfulness are achieved not just through flippant, sarcastic banter between characters or our protagonist’s rejection of societal convention – no, it takes a complete irreverence towards the medium of film itself. True to his comic book self, Deadpool is full of these moments: “You might want to look away from this”, he cautions, right before a gruesome scene – and the cameraman (thankfully) obliges. Even when the credits roll, he lampoons the entertainment industry itself, stepping out in pyjamas. “You’re still here? Go home! … Oh, you’re expecting a teaser for Deadpool 2?”

However, other genres have broken the fourth wall to establish a dialectic between character and viewer, reversing audience’s gaze through an inversion placing us in the heads of characters themselves. Jungian notions of the unconscious feature heavily in the works of Ingmar Bergman. One of his first uses of the technique is in Summer with Monika (1953), as the titular character prepares to cheat on her husband. Godard, in his review, notes how she “stares fixedly into the camera, her laughing eyes clouded with distress, and calls on the viewer to witness her self-loathing at involuntarily choosing hell over heaven. It is the saddest shot in the history of cinema.” One grasps the deep impression the Swedish auteur left on his French contemporary, even as we can appreciate the distinctive ways both directors would toy with the fourth wall over their impressive filmographies. 

It is not that cinema has necessarily become more artificial: the medium itself was never separable from the rest of the film. But perhaps the nature of film-watching itself has changed. No longer must we enter movie theatres, purposive institutions of cinema, especially as streaming becomes easier and far more accessible. Actors become more recognizable, even larger than their characters, particularly with celebrities highly visible on social media. That’s not Winslow the lighthouse keeper, within a self-contained film about a lighthouse, it’s Robert Pattinson atoning for his Twilight sins. It seems trite to conclude that we live in an age of Post-Modern cinema, but the significance of the fourth wall (or lack thereof) is evident when we consider Post-Modern playfulness and absurdity amidst a fragmented, chaotic textual landscape. Today’s prevalence of metafictional explorations of the medium itself, and the fact that no film is sui generis, instead taking cues, motifs and influence from extant works, encourages us to look at breaking the fourth wall as another nod towards how our relationship with film will only continue to change. 

Image via Wiki Images

Review: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

Chloe Dootson-Graube
-
0
Review: The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes offers an origin story for everyone’s favourite evil-but-unequivocally-stylish dictator, President Snow. For the uninitiated, his achievements in the previous trilogy amount to mass murdering his citizens, losing control of his totalitarian state after a pretty solid 60 or so year run of oppression, smelling like roses, and being played by Donald Sutherland in the movie adaptation. In this book, however, he is simply Coriolanus, a young student in the early days of the war-ravaged Capitol, furnished only by the grandeur of his name and the ambition for wealth and glory. It all feels a bit anime, and in classic anime fashion he winds up getting involved in the Hunger Games, now in its 10th year with public interest and enthusiasm towards it waning. And even more anime than that, it is in this context that he meets our female protagonist, Lucy Gray Baird, a folk singer from District Twelve whom he has been given the challenge of mentoring. And then they fall in love, which causes all sorts of problems, yet none of this is particularly surprising because this is a Hunger Games book: Suzanne Collins’ fortune is founded on the mining of suffering, with particular regard to will-they-won’t-they-can-Gale-please-leave-I-hate-him love triangles. Don’t fix it, as they say, if it ain’t broke.

To briefly appraise the novel before we get into the meaty stuff: Collins’ prose is sparse and utilitarian, and every word serves a purpose. It is perhaps not beautiful, but it is practical, and it is a pleasure to read. It gives the book a rhythmic energy, building tension throughout the novel and creating a fantastic sense of unease. Collins has also done some masterful world building in here, leaving breadcrumb trails of lore tidbits that will leave both the casual fan and the fanatic appeased. I was particularly impressed by the ending; I spent most of the book dreading what horrible thing was going to occur, but as it built to a climax, I was satisfied that everything that needed to be resolved (or rather, made horrible) was resolved, and it was very exciting and VERY GOOD. That’s objectively, of course, because naturally content-wise it was grizzly and depressing. However, on the other hand, there are a lot of songs. Some of them are good, but some of them are very bad, and some of them, I’m convinced, are from Annie.

Anyhow, now, meaty stuff. So, the first thing that comes to mind, for me, is the consequence of writing a love story between a to-be dictator and a member of the oppressed under class. It’s obviously not going to end well, because he’s going to end up as President Snow, and since we have never heard of her before, we can assume that she is probably going to either die or be killed in some horrible way. Subsequently, it’s not an immediately pleasurably reading experience, as every word is so tinged with dread for the inevitable horrible demise that will strike both characters and their relationship. Indeed, this book was so depressing that even though it’s a young adult novel that clocks in at about 517 pages, it is much more akin in terms of an experience to reading something old, Russian, and double the length. Like a Tolstoy or a Chekhov where everyone dies or has an unhappy marriage and the main point is that modern society is not only a bore but also a plague. It’s that kind of vibe. I also just want to say, before I embark upon any of the big questions (what does it mean? why was it written? should we all be taking heed?), that the romance provided a really engaging emotional spine in an otherwise pretty bleak novel. It is the quintessential romance you might expect from a Hunger Games book, and though I pretended to roll my eyes and make loud cynical guffawing noises, in reality I want it to be turned into a liquid and fed directly into my veins through an IV. But aside from lightening the tone, what utility does this serve, and what point does this romance serve to make?

It’s been around a decade since the publication of the original trilogy. The movies have come and gone, and Suzanne Collins isn’t really, as far as I know, of the JK Rowling ilk where she’ll give out all of the secrets of the universe if someone asks her on twitter. So why now? There are two obvious answers. The first is that she a worshipper of the Canannite god of money, Mammon. We’re going to ignore that because that’s bullshit because everyone in our society is, we’re capitalists, we LOVE MONEY. The second is that a lot of time has passed since Mockingjay hit the shelves, and there have been a lot of dystopias that she has inspired since, and also the world has changed a lot since then (Trump, Brexit, wars, I grew up into a great mind and beauty, a recession somewhere, Trump, Coronavirus, Trump, TRUMP). I think it’s pretty clear that Suzanne has come back to have the final word.

The Hunger Games was borne out of the unlikely marriage of reality television and Iraq war coverage. It sought to make a point about our consumerist society and the commodification of suffering for entertainment. Is it fair to say then, that this was likely inspired by the Trump-some-wars-somewhere-probably-a-recession-Trump-present? We must examine this in the context of the world Collins has created. Fortunately, we do not live in that world. If we feel as though we have been failed by our states, we have the power to protest, to dissent, without having to fear for our lives. We have the choice to live as we please. In this respect we could never relate to Katniss or the people her world. I believe it was a bold and prescient move on the part of Collins to take this novel from the Capitol perspective, which might be perceived as being slightly more equivocal to the reader’s own experience.

Even more so, when it transpires towards the end of the novel that the crux of morality, as Collins describes it, comes from the act of personal choice. The world of Panem is created by the choices of men. The state in which we leave Panem is in the process of becoming a place to live in freedom and harmony with one another without fear. Coriolanus is surrounded by kindness, swaddled by it – from his cousin Tigris, from the Plinths, from Lucy Gray, and the Covey. But ultimately it is his choice to reject all of this kindness to satisfy his own ambitions that results in the world that we enter at the beginning of The Hunger Games. The moral that Collins is setting down in our laps by positioning the novel from the Capitol perspective, that of the privileged group, is that it is down to us, the reader, to ensure that when we make our choices, we must be kind. But if the idea of being lectured on morality by a young adult fiction author doesn’t appeal to you right now, worry not. If one of your trepidations about reading this novel is the forcing a laboured political point, throw that trepidation to the wind my friend, as it is pretty deeply hidden under layers of cynicism and an incredibly high quota of ‘yikes’ moments.

Overall, an enjoyable romp through a horrid totalitarian world with a moral for the current climate that is not only necessary, but positive.

Union presidential candidate hit by multiple allegations he called Secretary a ‘terrorist’

Cherwell News and Investigations Section Editors
-
0
Union presidential candidate hit by multiple allegations he called Secretary a ‘terrorist’

The current Oxford Union Treasurer, and Presidential candidate in Trinity’s elections, has been accused by a number of current and former Union committee members of calling the Secretary a “terrorist” on multiple occasions. 

Speaking to Cherwell, the current Secretary claimed that upon meeting him, “he was surprised by my name and asked where I was from. Upon informing him I am from Turkey, he said that then I am surely a terrorist.” This particular claim is supported by an ex-officer that asked not to be named. They were present during the conversation, and claimed that the Treasurer said  “oh, so you’re a terrorist”, upon learning of her nationality. The Secretary said that “I spoke to him privately after this occasion to tell him it wasn’t okay to call me a terrorist, and thought he was being receptive to this.” She has since posted a statement on Facebook laying out her claims. 

She went on to say that “This was a repeated behaviour. He showed that he in fact wasn’t receptive of my telling him it’s not okay to call me a terrorist. He later called me a terrorist on multiple other occasions, sometimes in passing.” This claim is supported by current Chair of the Consultative Committee, Louisa Broeg, who said that she was present when he called the Secretary “a terrorist but wasn’t confident enough to speak up about it at the time, because I was subject to his abusive behaviour myself.” Another ex-committee member, asked not to be named, stated that the Treasurer the Secretary “a terrorist during the Union’s vacation days whilst in the office with a small group of committee in the room at the time”.

In a comment to Cherwell, the Treasurer denied these claims. He stated “I did not call the Secretary a terrorist, and obviously see why doing so would be deeply, deeply unacceptable.”

The Treasurer has also been accused of making comments denying the existence of Palestine. The Hilary Term Access Officer, Mirza Sameer Baig Chughtai, stated to Cherwell that a comment in front of the full committee took place during Union vacation days. In the context of a discussion about the “importance of discussing the plight of the Uyghur population of China whilst also paralleling it to the Palestinian plight in order to demonstrate [a committee member’s] point about the importance of holding nations accountable to human rights violations”, the Treasurer “chuckled and stated that ‘Palestine does not exist’.” The Secretary also supports this point, stating that he “expressed that Palestine doesn’t exist”.

In response to these claims, the Treasurer said he was “believing (sic) that there is a recording of debate day that ought to be adduced.” The Bursar of the Oxford Union did not respond to a request to see the recording, or indeed confirm the existence of a recording. 

In a Facebook post on Wednesday, the Treasurer said: “Seeing everything in the past week, I’ve taken some time to reflect on views that I previously held and expressed. I know that in the past, I have made comments about Israel and Palestine that were insensitive and ignorant, and, more important than just being uncomfortable, began to invalidate people’s identities.

“For a long time, I’ve stayed quiet about this, and that unbelievably cowardly and self-absorbed. In calling out discrimination, I know the importance of actions and not just words. It’s easy to stay in the wings and to not speak when it is clear that I am implicated and have displayed problematic behaviours. 

“Without reservation, I am wholeheartedly sorry for this. I apologise to everyone who I made to feel alienated as a result of my own direct actions and comments, and I apologise to those who were ostracised by me being complicit in the legitimising of views that I know I should have never have given air to. 

“I am not giving any excuses because this statement is not about providing ANY justification whatsoever, or explanation, for what I said. In light of everything that has gone on the word ‘introspection’ has stuck in my mind. It would be hypocritical for me to call out others but not force myself to do better, which I am trying to, and will, do. In changing my views, I have started to look within myself and educate myself beyond the privileged bubble in which these views formed.

“I am, above everything else, incredibly sorry for this, and going forward will actively tackle discrimination in all its forms.”

Most recently, the Union Librarian resigned following a controversy on his slate over messages invoking the George Floyd killing and protests as a reason to register to vote. 

The Secretary stated: “I’m proud of everyone who has been speaking out about their personal experience and otherwise on racism and discrimination issues. I do not want to take away from the focus on the Black Lives Matter movement in any way.”

In a Facebook post in response, she wrote “I think this is no apology; I believe it is an attempt to save face considering he is running uncontested for President of the Union in the elections starting tomorrow. Instead of coming clean about the discriminatory speech that he is responsible for, Jack has offered nothing but platitudes. Not only does this lead me to believe that he never cared about how he made me feel with his offensive comments, but it makes light of issues of institutional racism that have recently been in the spotlight. A real apology would not reduce his racist statements to a simple political dispute and would acknowledge the racist comments that he has made against me.”

“It is shocking that an officer is allowed to continue holding office having made such comments and showing such biases, and even more shocking that they are running for higher positions. Having studied the rules, I believe there is no rule explicitly against those holding office from being discriminatory or racist. I hope this can be remedied in the future, and I think I’d want to play a role in that.”

Beatrice Barr, the President-Elect, commented that, “I have committed to the Union being an actively anti-racist space, using our international platform for good. This applies to speakers and debates, but also to the Union’s internal structures.The Union’s rules limit transparency in many ways, in particular by failing to allow members and committee to effectively hold their leadership to account. 

“Two weeks ago, I established a Disciplinary Reform Committee, to overhaul these disciplinary rules. This will work over summer to make huge changes, as part of which I intend to make racism an explicit offence – not just the current provision of ‘bringing the Union into disrepute’. Like many of the changes we are making at the Union, this change is long overdue. There is no place for racism at the Oxford Union: our members must know that, and our rules must reflect that.”

Image credit to US Department of State/ Wikimedia Commons.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Interview

Abigail Howe
-
0
A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Interview

Video may have killed the radio star, but Jazz Hands Productions’ radio play A Midsummer Night’s Dream aims towards resurrection, encouraging audiences to “escape the confines of lockdown for an hour or two and enter a world of magic and mischief”. It will premiere on 13th June and then be available indefinitely for free.

Cherwell spoke to Emma Hawkins and Felix Westcott – the co-directors, the producer Ana Pagu, and Darcy Dixon, who plays Titania. Studying subjects ranging from Fine Art to Earth Sciences, they’re certainly an eclectic group. Both Ana and Emma were originally part of staging Little Shop of Horrors but, to their horror, it was postponed from the third week of Trinity term. Emma expanded on this postponement, saying that after the news “we started to explore what forms of theatre were open to us in quarantine and radio seemed like an exciting medium to work with. The prospect of creating a show entirely out of sounds felt like it would be a really fun and interesting challenge”. The limitations of radio are clear in our fast-paced visual culture but Felix counters any doubts, crediting an “amazing audio guy”, other special effects featured and the importance of acting: “if the actor themselves can imagine/believe that they’ve been transported into this bizarre and magical world then that will take the audience there as well”. While being “transported” anywhere does seem unlikely under the current circumstances, it’s certainly a compelling prospect.

As with every piece of student drama this term, rehearsals have all been virtual. Felix has deemed this “very weird” but highlights that they are “using it to our advantage as much as possible… for example layering/distorting actor’s voices for certain lines”. Emma continues that “even things as small as the energy and buzz you get from being in a room full of actors and creatives is very different to when you’re on a Zoom call – but after a while it becomes the new normal… having to focus mainly on the actor’s vocals has been a really interesting experience and has made me much more aware of the power of the actor’s voice”. Darcy gives an actor’s perspective, saying that “though we know we are recording so only our voice will be seen, we still act out the words with our body in some ways – which helps translate what we are saying better”, making for some interesting Zoom rehearsals!

According to Emma, A Midsummer Night’s Dream was chosen as it is “one of Shakespeare’s most uplifting plays. It was really important to us to put on a show that offered the listeners a little escape from the troubles of quarantine for a few hours. Midsummer is magical, comical and transformative, making it the perfect play for now”. Darcy continues that the play “speaks of love, the importance of good communication, community and fighting for what you truly want”.

The production is currently fundraising for Mind, a charity “that provides support to anyone experiencing a mental health problem, by raising awareness, improving services and promoting understanding”. Emma expands on the connection between Mind and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, saying that “with everything going on in the world at the moment there’s a massive rise in mental illness and a lot of the charities that are there to help are now being swamped from this surge, coupled with the fact that a lot of them are losing fundraising opportunities like marathons and the like. Whilst Midsummer doesn’t directly mention mental health I feel it does act as an escape. The fun, comical story can help you lose yourself for an hour or two and relieve the stress of the darkness in the world at the moment”.

With theatres running out of funding, Ana commented on the future of performance: “to say that the current situation has affected theatre is an understatement – on all scales from student and community theatre to West End and Broadway, shows have been cancelled or postponed, sometimes indefinitely. As a theatre lover and especially as a producer, I find this very hard to see unfold. However, I have also been astonished at how the industry is pulling together in these difficult times and how much creativity goes into coming up with alternative forms of theatre. I have had two shows cancelled myself this term, and my advice to anyone in a similar situation is not to lose hope and to use their passion to think outside the box and keep theatre alive until the storm is over. The show will go on and it will be because of the passion, talent and perseverance of the people involved in it”.

Intriguing and magic, this production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one to watch (or listen) out for.

Oxford Chancellor criticises campaigns to remove Rhodes statue as ‘hypocrisy’

Imogen Duke
-
0
Oxford Chancellor criticises campaigns to remove Rhodes statue as ‘hypocrisy’

Oxford University Chancellor, Lord Chris Patten, has labelled calls to “throw the Rhodes statue in the Thames” as “hypocrisy”, because the Rhodes Trust funds 100 scholars each year, “a fifth of them from Africa”.

Lord Patten spoke today on the Radio 4 Today programme about protests over the Cecil Rhodes statue and Oxford’s colonial history. He stated that “in almost every aspect of history, you have to look at both sides, and normally there are more than two sides.”

“There are incredibly complicated issues and we actually have to have a sensible discussion, and I am pleased that it is turning into a discussion.”

He said that Nelson Mandela had supported the Rhodes Trust, setting up the Mandela Rhodes Foundation to help heal the divisions and using the South African Constitution to underline his point. Lord Patten described how Mandela looked at a picture of Rhodes when setting this up and said: “Cecil, you and I are going to have to work together.”

The Chancellor said, therefore: “If it was alright with Mandela, then I have to say it’s pretty well alright for me.”

Nick Robinson, Radio 4 presenter, asked Patten whether he was too dismissive a few years ago, because “a young generation of black and ethnic minority people are offended by these symbols.”

Patten said this should be taken seriously in a “proper engaged argument”, which involves “far more fundamental issues… like education, like public housing, like public health.”

When asked whether Oxford should follow Cambridge in setting up an inquiry into how the institution benefits from slavery and colonial wealth, he referred to the guided tours by “young undergraduates” which take visitors around the city explaining places which show the history “people don’t approve of”.

These are the ‘Uncomfortable Oxford’ tours, an independent organisation run by students across the university.

Lord Patten pointed out that the decision to remove the statue can only be taken by Oriel College and disputed claims that the refusal to do so in 2016 was influenced by alumni’s threats to withdraw millions in donations.

He acknowledged the problems Oxford has with racism and discrimination, explaining that it partially stems from the fact that “so few students of colour who are getting the requisite numbers of As at A-Level.”

He also invoked his own role as the last colonial governor, saying he had acknowledged that Britain had acquired Hong Kong in  “appalling circumstances”, but that “we did some good things in Hong Kong.”

Lord Patten spoke in light of the peaceful protest yesterday to remove the statue of Cecil Rhodes on the Oriel College building facing the High Street and the resurgence of the Rhodes Must Fall Oxford campaign.

Image credit to James Yuanxin Li/ Wikimedia Commons.

1...517518519...2,577Page 518 of 2,577

Support Student Journalism

Cherwell is Oxford’s oldest independent newspaper, established in 1920. We are entirely student-run. By supporting us, you will contribute to keeping our paper in print and online. Every donation makes a difference.

Donate

Explore

Follow us

More

Oxford Student Publications Limited © 2025 - All Rights Reserved | Privacy Policy

Website by Jamie Ashley