Forgotten

The video is horrifying, though it is the kind of horror now synonymous with the behavior of Israel, its military, its armed settlers, and society that has been conditioned to see the ‘other’ as subhuman.

Yet, this was not the typical viral video that emerges almost daily from occupied Palestine. The victim, this time, was not a Palestinian. She was an elderly French nun.  

On May 1, footage surfaced from Jerusalem showing a 36-year-old Israeli man running behind a French nun—a researcher at the French School of Biblical and Archaeological Research—and shoving her violently to the ground. 

In a chilling display of cruelty, the assailant did not simply hit and run. He walked away a few paces, then returned to the fallen woman to kick her repeatedly and mercilessly as she lay helpless.  

What was most astonishing was the sense of normalcy that followed. The assailant remained on the scene, conversing with another man who appeared entirely unperturbed by what should have been a devastating event in any other context. 

The video briefly imposed itself on the mainstream media scene, garnering perfunctory condemnations. Many explained the event as part of the larger landscape of Israeli violence, highlighting the ongoing genocide in Gaza as the most obvious example of this unchecked aggression.

But even the context of general violence does not fully explain why a French nun was targeted. She is not dark-skinned, she is European, she is Christian, and she holds no historical or territorial claims that would typically trigger the ‘security’ paranoia of the Zionist state. 

READ: Latin Patriarchate of Jerusalem files complaint over Israeli occupiers’ encroachments on church-owned lands in West Bank

Still, the incident was anything but ‘isolated,’ despite the rush by Israeli officials to label it a ‘shameful’ exception. To the contrary, the nun was attacked specifically because she is Christian. 

This raises the question: why? 

To answer this, we must acknowledge how Palestinian Christians have been systematically written out of the history of their own land.  

Palestinian Christians are not merely present in the land; they are among the most historically rooted communities in Palestine. They are anything but ‘foreigners’ or ‘bystanders’ caught in a supposed religious conflict between Jews and Muslims. 

In fact, the Christian Arab presence in Palestine predates the Islamic era by centuries. They are the descendants of historic tribes who shaped the region’s identity long before the advent of modern political labels.  

The marginalization of Palestinian Christians is a relatively new phenomenon, deeply linked to Western colonialism. For centuries, European powers used the pretense of ‘protecting’ Christian communities to justify their own imperial interventions. 

Consequently, this framed the native Christian not as a sovereign Arab with agency, but as a ward of the West—a narrative that effectively stripped them of their indigenous status and alienated them from their own national fabric in the eyes of the world.

Zionism added a lethal layer to this erasure. It has often projected itself as a ‘protector’ of Christians to avoid raising the ire of its Western backers. 

In reality, Palestinian Christians have been subjected to the same policies of ethnic cleansing, racism, and military occupation as their Muslim brothers and sisters. How else can we explain the catastrophic dwindling of the Christian population? 

Before the 1948 Nakba, Palestinian Christians made up roughly 12% of the population. Today, that number has plummeted to a mere 1%. During the Nakba alone, tens of thousands were expelled from their homes in West Jerusalem, Haifa, and Jaffa, their properties looted and their communities dismantled.  

A quick look at the map of Jerusalem and Bethlehem today tells the story of an ongoing erasure. Jerusalem is being systematically emptied of its native population, both Christian and Muslim. Christian properties and houses of worship are restricted, and the ‘Little Town’ of Bethlehem has been swallowed by a ring of illegal settlements and an 8-meter-high Apartheid Wall that has transformed the birthplace of Christ into an open-air prison. 

Yet, despite this, we rarely hear about the struggle for survival of Palestinian Christians. Instead, the world occasionally glimpses ‘incidents’—like the common habit of Jewish extremists spitting on foreign pilgrims and clergy in Jerusalem. This behavior has become so normalized that Israeli ministers, such as Itamar Ben-Gvir, have previously defended the act as an “ancient custom” that should not be criminalized.  

The reason the Palestinian Christian story is rarely told is that it fails to factor neatly into the convenient narratives used by Western governments. They are keen on presenting the ‘conflict’ as a Jewish state fighting for its identity against a monolithic ‘Islamic’ threat. Israel is heavily invested in this same ‘Clash of Civilizations’ trope, positioning itself as the vanguard of “Western civilization” against Arab extremism.

READ: Israeli army demolishes Christian monastery, nuns’ school in southern Lebanon

But some Palestinians—Muslim and Christian alike—are, to a lesser degree, also guilty of falling into this trap. The former often frame the Palestinian resistance as an exclusively Muslim struggle; meanwhile, some Christians participate in the very discourse that led to their marginalization in the first place. 

The Gaza genocide, however, has proven this logic not only erroneous but unsustainable. Throughout the slaughter, Israel has destroyed over 800 mosques, but it has not spared the Christian sanctuaries. 

On October 19, 2023, an Israeli airstrike targeted a building within the compound of the Church of Saint Porphyrius—one of the oldest churches in the world. 

In that massacre, 18 Palestinian Christians were killed, their blood mixing with the dust of a sanctuary that had stood for 1,600 years. It was a devastating reminder that the Israeli missile does not distinguish between a mosque and a church, nor between the blood of a Muslim and a Christian. 

The story of the French nun is worth every bit of the attention it received, as is the targeting of pilgrims. But as the headlines move on, we must remember that Palestinian Christians endure a suffering that is collective and rooted in the very soil of Palestine. They are now an endangered community, and Israel is the culprit. Without them, Palestine is not the same. 

The Palestinian homeland is only whole when it is the cradle of religious coexistence, and Palestinian Christians sit at the very heart of that history, dating back two millennia. Their survival is not a ‘minority issue’—it is the survival of Palestine itself.  

OPINION: Subjects of empire: Breaking the cycle of Arab dependency on US elections

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.

The long-forgotten adventure park was once ‘always busy’ and loved by thousands and Brits are recalling childhood memories from time spent there — now it’s completely unrecognisable.

Some places are built to spark immeasurable joy and excitement within humans and it’s safe to say theme parks rank fairly high on that list. Many theme parks around the world have given individuals core memories they hold on to dearly, even decades later, with cherished visits to funfairs forming the building blocks of countless childhoods.

One such theme park existed in the UK, specifically in Cornwall, and people who visited the funfair in its heyday recall having some of the best moments of their lives there. It’s a pity then, that this beloved theme park now lies forgotten, completely unrecognisable in its current form, a mere shell of its former glory.

Dobwalls Adventure Park in Cornwall’s Liskeard was a family-run theme park established in the 1970s which brought incalculable joy to thousands.

Founded by John Southern, the funfair commenced operations in 1970 and held the title of being Cornwall’s top visitor attraction for years.

The theme park’s highlights were its two miniature railway locomotive networks, which were complemented by recreational grounds and large play areas, both indoors and outdoors, as well as an art gallery and stunning woodland walks.

John established himself as a pioneer in tourism after he transformed his modest pig farm into one of the South West’s most loved (and earliest established) attractions.

Dobwalls Adventure Park’s hallowed grounds saw locomotives chugging along its two-mile tracks for over 35 years, and the funfair quickly established itself as a school-favourite destination for days out.

With one admission ticket, visitors could enjoy the Krazee Kavern play barn, take unlimited rides on the locomotives in the park, step into the Rocky Ridge water and sand play area, have fun with Mr Blobby, wander through the locomotive shed, and take in the wonders of the Steam Back in Time exhibition.

The steam and diesel trains however, remained the funfair’s star attractions through the decades.

There was a choice of two tracks for visitors to indulge — the Rio Grande and the Union Pacific Railroad.

The Rio Grande line became operational in 1970 itself, and famously featured a four per cent or 1:25 gradient, earning it the title of the world’s steepest ascent on any passenger-carrying miniature railway.

Tunnels and steep climbs only added to its undeniable charm, with the line weaving in and out of a forest in a bid to recreate the Colorado railroads.

The Rio Grande’s success spread like wildfire, leading to the addition of the Pacific track in 1979, which closely resembled the Union Pacific Sherman Hill line in Wyoming, USA, and had a ruling gradient of 1.51 per cent (1:66).

Whisking into canyons and over bridges and trestles, the locomotive lines gave visitors the kind of thrill one could only dream of in those days.

The adventure park’s theme itself was modelled on successful American funfairs, complete with ‘cowboys and Indians’.

Unfortunately, the beloved theme park began to see a decline in numbers and popularity, facing stiff competition from newer, bigger and better funfairs that were coming up across the UK.

Older cherished attractions like the Go Kart track also became defunct and added to the park’s decline.

By the end of 2006, the theme park began closing down its railway lines, and by June 2007, it was announced that Dobwalls Adventure Park’s redevelopment projects had been stalled, and the funfair would not be reopening in its original form.

All of the adventure park’s locomotives were put up for sale, and by early 2008, eight of them had been sold to a man in Dorset and were to be run at Dorset’s Plowman’s Railroad near Ferndown.

The locomotives have since been exported all the way over to Australia, with some users on social media claiming to have seen them in the Land Down Under.

The 22-acre site upon which Dobwalls once sat proudly was put up for sale in 2012 with a guide price of £400,000 in a sealed bid auction.

Now, Charteroak runs a popular holiday cottages accommodation, Southern Halt, from the site where the adventure park once functioned.

Abandoned but never forgotten

Scores of Brits still remember their time at Dobwalls Adventure Park, with several social media users taking to Facebook to reminisce over the theme park’s glory days and recall the countless cherished memories they made at the famous South West funfair.

In a post on the public group 7 1/4″ Railways , one Facebook user recalled: “It was always busy when we went. I remember my 1st visit and all the steam locos were in steam.”

While another visitor emotionally shared: “Loved my visit there as a kid in the summer of 1982. Fascinating place to visit. Never had that many holidays in Cornwall.

“Intended to return around ten years later to try and take some photos of the trains in operation, but found that much of the routes had been built over, so never bothered in the end. Just watched the Big Boy depart from outside the fence!”

Another user wrote, “Was a fantastic place when I visited in the mid 1980’s,” while one fondly recalled, “Only managed one visit but enjoyed every minute.”

One visitor who hoped to take their grandkids to the funfair wrote: “We went there many times when holidaying in Devon and Cornwall. Bought the t-shirts and other memorabilia. I had hoped to take my grandchildren there, but sadly that’s now not to be.”

Some even shared seeing the beloved locomotives in Australia, with one individual writing, “Saw one of the big diesels at Diamond Valley Railroad near Melbourne about 10 years ago,” while another shared, “Quite a few of them are in Victoria Australia.”

One user fondly wrote, “This was a fantastic place spent a lot of time in Cornwall and visited a lot,” while another shared, “Went there every year for probably ten years when we were going to vacation to Cornwall.”

The “forgotten” Dolomites lie to the east, far from the crowds of the Tre Cime di Lavaredo and Val Gardena. Belluno is the main gateway, two hours north of Venice by train or a drive up the A27. From here, the upper Piave valley leads into the quieter Friulian mountains. The land rises gently, opening into pasture, then stone lifting into spires above the meadows.

It was 6.30am, the cockcrow slot at Jubilee Park lido, and still not quite light. I hadn’t wanted to come this early – it was the only time I’d been able to book. But as I slid into the pool – heated to a delicious 29C – I realised it was a gift. Vapours rose dreamily into cool air laced with owl hoots and the whiff of dewy blooms, and I swam into a sunrise that became more vivid with every stroke. A man in the next lane paused to admire the reddening dawn too; he was hungover, he said, but had come to do his morning lengths nonetheless. A cure of sorts.

Bath, Harrogate, Buxton – Woodhall? This Lincolnshire village isn’t one of Britain’s headline spa towns. Most probably don’t know where it is – 18 miles (29km east of Lincoln, for the record. But at the turn of the 20th century, Woodhall Spa was among the most fashionable places to be seen, to be healed.

Those wellness-seekers didn’t come, as I had, for the 90-year-old lido (open April to November). They came for the springs. In 1821, a hopeful entrepreneur sank a mine shaft here, prospecting for coal. He discovered water instead, which was found to be high in iodine and bromine, thought to be beneficial for everything from rheumatoid arthritis to gout. The first proper bath house was built in 1838; trains arrived in 1855. Woodhall Spa was on the map.

The village’s Edwardian heyday is long gone. The railway has closed, the baths are no longer in use – the original building is now a beauty salon. But Woodhall Spa still has a deeply restorative feel. With its broad, leafy avenues, red-brick and half-timber villas, protective shroud of trees, numerous cafes and delis, and promise of simple, bygone pleasures, it’s like a safety blanket; a place to escape the world’s horrors for a few days.

Tina Delaney, a director at Woodhall’s Cottage Museum, agrees. She came here on holiday from Bedford six years ago and ended up staying: “My husband describes it as moving 100 miles north, 80 years back in time.”

The little museum occupies a rare 19th-century prefab of yellow corrugated iron and documents Woodhall’s history, from its early fortunes to its part in the second world war. The 1st Airlanding Brigade trained here for Operation Market Garden, the ill-fated plan to seize bridges in the occupied Netherlands; of the 2,500 men who left, fewer than 500 returned. Many became prisoners of war. Also, Squadron 617 – the Dambusters – were briefly stationed at RAF Woodhall Spa; the officers’ mess was in the grandiose mock-Tudor Petwood Hotel. I wandered there after the museum and sat on the terrace, looking out across the elegant gardens with a half of Petwood Bomber ale.

While officers hung out at the hotel, lower ranks frequented the Kinema in the Woods. This late-19th-century sports pavilion was converted into a cinema in 1922 and nicknamed the “flicks in the sticks” by airmen, who were shown top-secret reconnaissance films here. It is now a cinephile’s delight. The lobby is all rich reds and movie memorabilia, with separate counters for popcorn and ices. In screen one, deep-plush seats face a stage through which a Compton organ sometimes rises, played by the resident organist – but sadly not for my showing. There was an intermission, though, during which I devoured local-made Dennetts’ apple pie ice-cream.

When I emerged the owls were hooting again and I headed back to Bainland, an 18-hectare (45-acre) holiday park of reclaimed-timber lodges on the edge of the village, large but nicely done. My lodge was smart and cosy, set on a teeny lake. The next morning I breakfasted outside, listening to acorns smack the decking, watching mallards skim through perfectly reflected trees.

I was in no rush. My plan was to borrow one of Bainland’s bikes and make the most of Lincolnshire’s flatness. First, I headed north-east. The railway, so key to Woodhall’s former prosperity, may be defunct but its old trackbed forms part of the off-road Spa Trail, an easy ride (around three miles) to Horncastle, via ancient woods and excellent sculptures: there are steel Viking ships and oversized plants, nodding to Sir Joseph Banks, the botanist on Captain Cook’s first Endeavour expedition, who grew up near Horncastle. Banks also brought the canal to Horncastle, transforming it from backwater to busy market town. The canal, which I followed briefly, is quiet and unnavigable now; these days, the town’s main trade is antique and secondhand stores. I browsed around, wishing I had a bicycle basket to load with dog-eared books and comedy toby jugs.

I also cycled the Water Rail Way, a mostly traffic-free route following the former Lincoln to Boston Railway, by the River Witham. In the middle ages, Lincolnshire had one of England’s greatest densities of monastic houses – abbey-averse Henry VIII called it “the most brute and beastly shire” – and the greatest concentration was in the Witham valley. I started at one, Kirkstead Abbey, where the merest sliver remains, and rode northward for six miles to another, in Bardney, where there was even less. But it was a joyful pedal, along the river, fenlands spreading either side, dotted with more sculptures, swans and defunct stations that now serve only walkers and cyclists.

Finally, I followed the same route a few miles south to Tattershall, home to the enormous, light-flooded Collegiate Church of Holy Trinity and one of England’s first brick-built castles. My timing was good, arriving just as National Trust guide Nigel was starting a tour of the castle’s moated 33.5 metre-high Great Tower. It was constructed in the 15th century by Ralph, third Baron Cromwell, treasurer of England, who wanted a show-off home befitting his self-importance. Nigel described it as “ eight million bricks and a fashion statement” – exposed brick was avant garde at the time.

We climbed up the storeys, from the vaulted basement buttery (used as a prison during the civil war) to the turreted roof. A superlative lookout – and power move – for Cromwell, it’s still the highest point around; Lincoln Cathedral’s gargantuan towers, visible when it’s clear, are 18 miles away. I looked north towards Woodhall Spa, too flat to be perceptible amid the fuzz of green, hidden despite being so close. Indeed, the ideal spot to hide away.

The trip was provided by Bainland Lodge Retreats, which has lodges from £649 for four nights (sleeping two) and bike hire from £15pp. For more information see visitlincolnshire.com