Wattle 2022 by SASS Publications

We, the students of The University of Sydney, study and work on this stolen sovereign land. As we learn and teach, we remind ourselves that we will never know how much traditional knowledge has been lost since the European invaders ripped Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples from their land.

Following the invasion by the First Fleet in 1788, the land of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples was stolen and never returned. It has since been continuously occupied, as a country called ‘Australia’ was created through white supremacy, epistemic violence, and institutionalised discrimination. As people of colour, we recognise that sometimes we are complicit in perpetuating these systems, and that we must continuously challenge our beliefs, assumptions, and mindsets, standing in solidarity with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. The experiences of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples after the invasion are undoubtedly painful and horrifying, but to forget, or even worse, ignore these stories, is unacceptable.

In the spirit of reconciliation, Wattle acknowledges the Traditional Custodians throughout ‘Australia’ and their unique cultural and spiritual connections to land, sea, and community. We thank them for protecting this coastline and its ecosystems since time immemorial. We aim to tread lightly on this land that isn’t ours and stand in solidarity with its rightful owners.

This edition of Wattle was edited, compiled, and published on the occupied lands of the Gadigal people of the Eora nation. We acknowledge that sovereignty was never ceded and that the occupation is violent and ongoing. We give our deep respect and solidarity to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and to their Elders, past, present, and emerging.

This land always was, and always will be, Aboriginal land.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY

Images and some short quotations have been used in this book. Every effort has been made to identify and attribute credit appropriately. Te editors thank contributors for permission to reproduce their work.

University of Sydney NSW 2006 Australia

First published 2022 by Te University of Sydney Funded by the University of Sydney Union and the University of Sydney Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences

Email: sup.info@sydney.edu.au Web: sydney.edu.au/sup

Except as permitted under the Act, no part of this edition may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or communicated in any form or by any means without prior written permission. All requests for reproduction or communication should be made to Sydney University Press at the address below.

Fisher Library F03

Reproduction and Communication for other purposes

ISBN: 978-1-74210-533-8 Wattle

To those who have nurtured this journal and those who will continue to do so for years to come.

Crucialwhiteness.to

out of the disorienting period of the pandemic, this year has shed light on the continuing precarity of being a person of colour. While the past two years have seen the reignition of the Black Lives Matter movement and the Stop Asian Hate campaign, the commentary on race in 2022 has seemingly died down. As different issues rise to the forefront of our consciousness, we must remember that the impact of race, even when it is not widely heard or seen, can always be felt. We were shaken by the reversal of the Roe v Wade decision, which stripped away the

This year, Wattle weaves in multiple forms of resistance. It asks us to reconsider our relationship with the migrant experience and questions how culture and tradition can be handed down in diasporas. These pieces directly address questions of race and culture, and their place in our Eurocentric society. Other pieces take a step back, drawing us into a date night or the Philippines in the 1970s. In these works, race is not the central actor; instead, a person, a place, a story takes centre stage. They refute the tokenistic notion that people of colour can only operate in certain spaces. They show us that BIPOC creatives don’t need to confront race to be worthy of a platform. That our voices, in and of themselves, are worthy of being

our own resistance is the ability to materially realise our experiences as people of colour through writing and art. This creativity is a form of truth-telling and a potent defiance of the systems that attempt to keep us silenced. It is a chance to be freed of the joys and the burdens that we’ve kept locked up within ourselves; a chance to unfile and to unpick the white narrative; a chance to share it with others who would understand. We relish in the experience of being able to work on a journal like this and allow others to share in this creative resistance.

Resistance is inseparable from the BIPOC experience. It is associated with boldness, confrontation and reckoning – a fearless defiance of the status quo. However, a lesser recognised resistance has always existed, formed through our lived experiences. It is found in the way we hold ourselves and the way we see the world. As much as it is the protestor who stands firm at the picket line, it is the writer sitting in their darkened room at 2 am, composing the story of a musician or the artist, lovingly documenting their roommate folding wontons. It exists as the implicit resistance of us thriving and creating in a space that fundamentally favours

FOREWORD

Comingheard.

Yours truly, Amy Tan & Angela Xu 谭雅莉 & 许卓悦 Wattle 2022

Before we leave you to peruse these pages, we’d like to thank everyone who has contributed to this journal. To our contributors, we know your stories can sometimes be the most precious thing to give to other people. We thank you for lending them to us. To our editors, thank you for your talent, enthusiasm, and friendship, it has truly been a delight to work with each and every one of you. To our General Editors, Trinity and Carmeli, and our Creative Directors, Angel and Ibrahim, you have undeniably been the glue that has held this journal together. Thank you for your tireless work and support. And finally, to you, the reader, thank you for picking up this journal or opening it on your browser. You are as much a part of this journal as we are and we hope that Wattle 2022 makes you feel heard as well.

Simultaneously, we celebrated the 30-year anniversary of the landmark Mabo decision, which gave way to the creation of native title in Australia. The federal election granted seats to many diverse candidates, facilitating the highest ever number of Indigenous parliamentarians. These moments of triumph remind us of how far we have come and how far we have to go. This patchwork of success, precarity, and resistance is the backdrop to this journal, and we hope you can weave in your own experiences as you take in its rich and unique contents.

ToEditors-in-Chieflistentotheplaylist

the Wattle 2022 editors have curated, scan here:

constitutional right to an abortion for women across America. And we anxiously wait for the impending economic crisis as we watch supermarket prices skyrocket. It is undeniable that these events will be disproportionately felt by BIPOC communities.

Poetry

General Editors

Angel IbrahimZhangKhan

Melody Wong (Team Leader)

Janika TeresaKritikaFernandoRathoreHo

Prose

Trinity Kim

Faye MayaLucasTangKaoEspinoza

Non-Fiction

Iris Yuan (Team Leader)

Christine Lai (Team Leader)

Carmeli Argana

TEAMEDITORIAL 6

Creative Directors

Alice SandraNicoleParkZhangKallarakkal

Amy AngelaTanXu

Editors-in-Chief

Visual Art

Julie YasodaraMengyuanNguyenLiPuhule-Gamayalage

Amy Tan

This man in my skin Carmeli Argana Humanscapes Amy Tan

Amy Tan and Angela Xu

The Secret Garden

The Complicated Question of Accent and Representation

0410111215161827282932 CONTENTS

sea-coated tongue Angela Xu

On Turning Red: Nostalgia, Childhood, Truth

New Light Christine Lai

The Silent Lake Amy Tan

Lucas Kao

In the business of knowing Christine Lai

Foreword

Amy Tan

Little Red Book Olivia Mangholi

Carmeli Money

51504154484740

Circle of Life

Sandra Kallarakkal

Migrants must

Angel Zhang Keeper

Christine Lai

Ange Tran

Plum Cake Vignette

reframe our relationship with ‘Australia Day’

Labour of Love

Iris Yuan Afterword Trinity Kim and Carmeli Argana Editors & Contributors 6241 CONTENTS3638 8

Jennifer Chen and Angela Xu took-out-of-meDeep-rooted-shit-that-you-(withoutmypermission)

Amy Tan

Argana Paper

negative space

Janika Fernando

Dichotomy

Wattle

GardenSecretThe

Illustrations by Mengyuan Li 10

The Silent Lake

By Amy Tan 谭雅莉

Amongst her sea of manuscripts, Nian cradled herself beside her guzheng. An official envelope sent from her dream university rested beside her, stamped in red wax, silvered beneath the bitter afternoon sunset …

Nian’s little red book lay face-down next to her stool. An indent was folded in the corner of a page… ‘Revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay... It can’t be done elegantly and gently.’

Nian eased into her elm stool and smoothed ink smudges of her father’s handwriting at the corner of a manuscript… ‘If a man in the morning hears the right way, he may die in the evening without regret.’

It was easier to stare at the droplets of crimson and moisture fused together on her guzheng strings than to pay attention to the battered cries of Beijing’s mass street Outsiderallies.

Nian’s bedroom, her high school classmates marched through powdery snow down the stone paved streets and highways, their fists clenched red flags, their arms wrapped in red bands. She was familiar with the swarms of green uniforms and short haircuts. Red Guards. With wide eyes and smooth faces, the new generation of Chinese girls and boys cheered and chanted Mao’s slogans, echoes gushed along the gutters of her district.

In the corner of the four concrete walls of her room, Nian wiped the brittle blood off her guzheng’s strings with her white sleeve. Littered around her were her savant father’s Confucian parables amongst a swarm of her paper manuscripts. Most manuscripts were written by her father, published during the height of his international musical career. Once upon a time, her father returned daily to sing traditional confucian poems amongst the melodies and cries of Chinese fulvettas. Once upon a time, Nian pressed against her father’s side as the scarlet sun descended beyond her little glass window, comforted by the scent of stale rain on his shirt.

Envelopes and Temptation

***

LITTLE RED BOOK

By Olivia Mangholi

Beyond the frost of her handmade glass window, rainwater pierced onto the stone pavement like knives and gushed onto the streets of Beijing.

Beijing Music Conservatorium

It had been thirty years since Nian was rejected to her dream university.

It was the final day of her father’s sentence. And now, as a fifty year old woman, pressed beside their polyester couch, Nian held her Little Red Book. As she turned to its first page, her train ticket slipped onto her lap.

Nian’s calloused fingers carefully lined her cotton shoes beside her guzheng and mother’s orthopaedics, along the walls of their family home.

Train ticket

She reached for her ink bottle whilst acidic rain continued to flood the streets of

It was barely morning when the clouds passed their spirits to the grass and trees, Beijing’s hallowing winds whispered the nightmare of years ago.

***

She flicked the paper ticket between her***thumbs.

She was three hours early, and so observed the workers, families, school children,

Inked letters glared back at the resentment within Nian.

Fourteen days passed before Nian sat beneath the naked winter trees, lined along the train station tracks.

Dear Nian Zhen, Thank you… you are recognised for your talent... unfortunately, you have not been selected into our program due to your father’s political status…

Blurred window

who rushed home during Beijing’s rush hour. Some made their way to the station’s closely huddled food stalls – inhaled the egg and onion flavours of jianbing, Beijing’s signature crepe that steamed beneath their passing faces. Next to frosted parked bicycles, some embraced their loved ones amongst the crowd.

Illustrations by Julie Nguyen

An hour passed until the last night train roared into the snow enveloped station, opaque crystals shifted beneath Nian’s train station bench. After a screeching halt, Nian’s eyes searched through the ice-blurred windows of train carriages. Behind an opaque window, a familiar figure leant against the corner of the torn carriage seats in an ill-fitting linen suit. His forehead wrinkled as he rubbed his worn eyes.

Illustration by Ibrahim Khan

sea-coated tongue

by Angela Xu

English is the language of opportunity safety prosperity life bought with each double-edged homonym but tongues curdle and click each slipped th thrust away lisped sh hushed by sharpened gazes once it enveloped my tongue an accent that gathered misted sea foam at my lips rolling r’s yearning for the pit pat of lost waves licking the coast a belled chuckle before coming home to the yellow sea sentences curled at ends tones rose and fell away carried by the dinghy we took out to fish sea spray remains nestled in my gums but the musk of foraged clam the crackle of sea salt have sizzled and faded forgotten

English is the language of opportunity. It has brought me safety and prosperity, as my tongue has wrestled itself free of the sea.

I remember lining up in front of the hall for assembly on the first day of school. I stood out like a sore thumb – a buzz cut, glasses that would turn into shades when I stepped into the sun, and a bright red watch that I had bought from Daiso Japan a day ago. Everything about me was alienating. Kids would see me and see someone that was not the same. I didn’t speak to anyone for the first couple of weeks until I was at the playground one day, lining up as lunch ended. I stood at the back of the line, a boy stood in front of me, and I thought perhaps it was finally time to come out of my shell.

by Lucas Kao

‘My English bad, my name Lucas, let us be friend…’ I spoke in a poorly constructed sentence. He laughed and told me I was funny. I realised then that this alienation others had imposed onto me allowed me to mix in with them. The boy had found humour in the differences between me and him.

Back then, I didn’t know the difference.

Back in high school, I used to make my friends laugh by making fun of my parents. I would turn my L’s into R’s, adding ‘the’ to every other word, throwing my hands in the air as if I was about to discipline another child for not getting 100% in a test. I used to live off the laughter I would get from my little antics. Coming to this foreign land with next to no English ability, laughter was the easiest way to make new friends. But there’s a subtle difference between laughing together, and laughter that is one-sided at the expense of my heritage.

The complicated question of accent and representation

This is perhaps why many BIPOC artists – comedians especially – still practice the long tradition of accent jokes when telling stories of their past. In the hit TV series, Kim’s Convenienc e, both Mr Kim and Mrs Kim have heavy Korean accents despite being played by Canadian and American-raised actors. The show has received some criticism over its use of contrived accents. For example, the character Nayoung, the niece of Mr and Mrs Kim, despite being of Korean ethnicity, is portrayed as a stereotypical Otaku girl from Japan with a Japanese accent. This influenced some to view the use of accents on the show as punchlines rather than details that add to the story.

The use of my people’s accent is complicated. It is like a jail that has been constructed through centuries of false depictions of the Asian diaspora. Yet somehow, some of us have thrived in this imaginary cell, an almost Stockholmlike phenomenon. For many of us, we are still trying to find our way out.

Despite this critique of Asian representation on the big screen, the truth about such representation is that, in some ways, they are important to our current success in pop culture and our pride in our identities as part of the Asian diaspora. This success was built on years of stereotyped portrayals of the Asian community and limited opportunities for Asian actors and actresses. This is especially the case in comedy, where Asian comedians needed to perform ‘accent jokes’ to cross the line into mainstream success. The most notorious is the character of ‘Mr Chow’ from The Hangover series, played by Ken Jeong, who made his name by bursting onto the screen as the menacing Chinese gangster who spoke funny. Without these artists enduring what was required to survive, despite perpetuating orientalist, othering and controversial depictions of our community, there would be no Crazy Rich Asians or Everything Everywhere All At Once .

But I know, seeing the advancement of BIPOC in the mainstream, that the walls are finally cracking…

It sickened him to his stomach having to mark himself with the standard of the enemy every

by C meli Arg a, M ia C meli Pur ima Arg a

he had borne it. His sole reason for taking up this intelligence post as a spy in the Communist New People’s Army (NPA) was because of his desire to protect the Philippines from the threat of Communism. His father had done the same for Vietnam when Daniel was a teenager in ‘68, and had loved his country so much he had died for it.

But some days, he would catch sight of his reflection, warped in some shattered

On May 10, 2022, Ferdinand ‘Bongbong’ Marcos Jnr., son of the former dictator Ferdinand Marcos, won the Philippine presidential race in a landslide victory. He was able to win, in large part, because of an extensive disinformation campaign that aimed to reform his family’s image in the public eye. This campaign aims to rewrite Philippine history, absolving the elder Marcos of his many crimes, including (but not limited to) plundering public funds, imposing martial law over the country, and the numerous human rights abuses that saw many of his enemies imprisoned without trial, or outright killed without a trace.

Threeday.months

In the darkness of the early morning, Daniel rose and silently pulled on his uniform. First, the ill-fitting shirt he had been wearing for the last three months, the colour of festering leaves. Then his boots, caked with mud and already wearing away at the toe. And finally, the red handkerchief around his neck. It had been imprinted with the hammer and sickle when his commander, Ka Eming, first tossed it at him all those months ago. But the symbol had chipped away over time; the only thing that remained of it was a smudge of yellow. When the last shard of yellow paint had finally fallen away, he privately rejoiced.

Th m my sk

This story is set during the time of martial law under Marcos’ regime and is a fctional reimagining of some key events from that time. Marcos’ presidency wasn’t a ‘golden age’, as many false news stories suggest. It was a dictatorship that destroyed many lives and left the country in worse shape than before.July 4, 1972 Palanan, Isabela, Philippines

Hudas.1 His mind spat out the word as if it were a curse.

In spite of himself, the part of him that had always soaked up the approval of authority figures preened at the pride in his voice. He nodded in greeting. ‘Good morning, sir.’

Then Ka Eming looked up at him and smiled. ‘Buboy,2’ he called to Daniel. ‘The first one ready, as usual.’

Ka Eming gestured somewhere to his right, where they kept their food supplies. ‘Eat up while your comrades are getting ready. Today will be a big one.’

Daniel shifted uneasily. ‘Are we moving again, sir?’ They had been running out of supplies recently; bullets, guns and other weapons. They moved to wherever was friendly to the NPA. In return for helping the provincials around their homes, they would help the NPA restock, if they were able. But it was an unreliable means of supplying their guerrilla army.

1 Translation: Judas (Tagalog). The term is used as an insult denoting a traitor.

When he emerged from his quarters, Ka Eming was already outside, studying a set of maps in the dim light. Whilst most of Ka Eming’s crew consisted of boys not much older than Daniel – simple-minded peasants who had been swayed against the President, university students who had been radicalised by their treacherous teachers, runaway sons who had turned their backs on comfort for the sake of a twisted ideology. The commander was a man who had truly seen the bloodshed of war. He was a giant amongst them, with broad shoulders and fists made of steel, the vital force behind numerous successful attacks against the Philippine Army. Nobody knew his true name, but it was rumoured that he was once part of the army he now betrayed.

Ka Eming shook his head. ‘No. After today, we’ll be supplied for months,’ he said. Then a twisted grin pulled at his lips, and Daniel suddenly remembered why even the generals who had sent him here feared Ka Eming. ‘We’ve secured aid from China.

window of a provincial’s devastated home, or traitorously allowed himself to ponder the foul words from his mouth pledging allegiance to the NPA. In those moments, he would withdraw into himself and tame his blazing hatred into a simmering anger. His comrades had learned by now to leave him be when he entered those moods; one of the few mercies in this godforsaken place. ‘He’s too proud, for a boy as young as he,’ they would whisper when they thought he was sleeping. ‘Give him a few more months, and he’ll mellow out.’ They had no idea that their days were numbered.

2 A term of endearment for the youngest boy in a family.

3 Armed Forces of the Philippines. The official military force of the country.

Daniel counted the number of times the waves crashed onto the shore as they waited for the ship to arrive. Though the coastal winds provided some relief, it was not enough to remedy the scorching glare of the sun. On the way here to Digoyo Island, his comrades laughed and joked with each other about the strongest amongst them; who would carry the heaviest supply packages, how Ka Eming might distribute the weapons between them. Now they were scattered all around him, bare-chested and sweat-soaked, grumbling about the heat.

It took every ounce of Daniel’s willpower to control his horror. The NPA had been fighting using guerrilla tactics ever since its formation. Although it had led some successful raids, it had never amassed the numbers, nor the resources to present a real threat to the army. But with China’s backing, there was no telling what damage they could do. For the first time since taking up this post, Daniel felt truly afraid.

It was also the first time he learned to bury the beating thing inside of him.

The AFP3 won’t know what hit them.’

438, 439, 440…

***

392, 393, 394…

But not him. Although his body screamed for respite, it was as if the heat barely touched him. He would remain steadfast; a disciple in the Garden of Gethsemane, but stronger. His spirit would not bow to the weakness of the flesh. The day of judgement was imminent, and he refused to be found asleep.

A shape appeared in the distance, a dark blemish on the line of the horizon. Ka Eming signalled to the rest of the men and they all stood to attention, gathering behind him. As the ship drew closer, he saw the name on its prow, faded but still visible. MV Karagatan.

Another comrade emerged from their quarters, and Ka Eming was engaged once again. Daniel used the opportunity to slip away for breakfast, fighting the urge to scream, summoning his anger from before. Today, he welcomed it like an old friend, the familiar boiling in his blood, the hatred coursing through his veins. Today, it would give him the strength to do what was needed to protect his homeland. Today, it would keep him alive. Drown out his sheer terror.

‘They’re here!’

A second ship appeared on the horizon. Although it was still too far to make out its shape, Daniel knew it was a navy ship.

To his right, Ka Eming cursed and roared out a retreat order, cutting through the water like a knife. As soon as he and the rest of the crew reached the shore, he distributed the cargo amongst the men and plunged past the treeline.

‘Why have you stopped?’ Ka Eming growled at one of the delegates when the bangkas stopped coming.

The delegate’s eyes flashed dangerously, falling for the jeer. He turned back to the ship and signalled to the men on board to continue.

4 A small boat native to the Philippines.

Ka Eming let out a biting laugh, coarse and spiteful. ‘If I had known I would be dealing with weak, little boys who jump at anything that flies overhead, I would’ve sent a child to collect these supplies instead of my crew.’

A few more hours passed before a second plane pierced through the sky, its sputtering engine a discordant sound amidst the rhythmic thunder of the waves. Daniel looked up and something like childish glee rose in his chest. It was an American jet. One of the few that had been lent to the AFP Air Force.

They worked arduously for a few hours before the first plane was spotted overhead.

‘We were told there would be no disruptions,’ the delegate replied. He pointed at the sky. ‘That was not part of the agreement.’

The universal insult of emasculation. Daniel recognised it immediately.

The men delivering the supplies to shore began to move with desperate speed now, rushing through the waters with uneven strokes, all but throwing their cargo overboard. The ship had restarted its engine now and was manoeuvring closer to the beach. The delegate from before was blubbering to Ka Eming about their agreement before he was pushed overboard and disappeared beneath the water.

A small delegation paddled out ahead of the ship on a bangka.4 Ka Eming greeted them on the shore and exchanged a few words with them. Then one of them signalled to the ship, and the supplies came drifting to shore. Ka Eming gestured to the rest of his crew to help.

Perhapsbehind.

Daniel was almost relieved when the fighting finally started. It was what he had been trained to do, to be, in the Philippine Military Academy. He was a blade sharpened to a point, moving in those memorised formations that had been drilled into him since he was a boy, fighting to defend himself. It was so easy to fall back into routine, to let his instincts take over. In the corner of his eye, he saw an AFP soldier sneak up behind Ka Eming, poised for the killing blow. With a precision that was part skill and part gift, he pointed his gun at the soldier and pulled the trigger.

But that night, sleep refused to give him rest. He remained wide awake, inconsolable with rage and disgust and grief. He had always been praised in the Academy for his strength of spirit, but no operation he had faced had ever demanded so much of him. And although the beating thing inside him had not yet perished, he feared the day he would reach inside of himself, and feel nothing.***

The night was bitter and cold, and the ragged material of their uniforms provided little protection against the chill. His comrades were lined up before the camp, holding their heads high despite the tremble of their knees. Out of exhaustion, or the cold, or fear of what was about to happen, Daniel couldn’t tell. They shot him dirty looks; he was the only one above the Commander’s suspicion, exempt from judgement. Though they understood why, they still resented him for accepting Ka Eming’s favour and breaking the unspoken bond of brotherhood that had been expected of them all. Daniel knew that it was not wise to make enemies of them; not yet. But those thoughts had been pushed aside.

that was why it was no surprise the AFP finally found them.

This time, there was no laughter shared between his comrades as they journeyed through the mountains of Sierra Madre back the way they came. Ka Eming set an unrelenting pace through the trees, and the rest of them were forced to follow or risk being left behind. The usual stealth that characterised his movements was absent; he stumbled through the forest with little regard for the noise he made, the tracks he left

It was taking all of his strength to hold himself together after what happened in the mountains.

Many days from now, he would still be enjoying the favour of his commander; allowed his pick of the few ornaments they recovered, always first of the crew chosen to accompany Ka Eming into the villages, a permanent seat at his right-hand. He had earned it, after saving the commander’s life.

Then Ka Eming emerged. Something in the air shifted at his arrival, something that even Daniel, from his position of safety, could feel. As if its substance had changed, like being in the depths of the ocean, crushed beneath the weight of its pressure.

‘Comrade Armando.’

Gago,5 Daniel thought cruelly. But he couldn’t help the twinge of pity for the man. Armando had arrived at the base just a few days after he had. Their pallets were set up next to each other, and they were often paired together for chores around the villages they visited. He was everything the others thought Daniel was; young, eager, naive. Unbidden, the thought came to him before he could squash it – perhaps in another life, they would’ve been friends.

Armando didn’t seem to notice. ‘I am entitled to prove my innocence.’

The response was instant. Daniel did not look away as his commander pulled the trigger.

When Daniel would think back of this day many years from now, it wasn’t the bullet he had shot through that soldier’s head that would stay with him. It was the sight of 5 Translation: Fool.

Ka Eming began to walk back and forth before the line of men, a poisonous edge to his mouth. The grass seemed to wither beneath his steps. He suspected that there was a traitor among them, someone who had given away their well hidden rendezvous point to the AFP.

A small twitch, the slightest sign of weakness. Ka Eming spotted it immediately. He stopped before the offending man, the smallest amongst them.

The man dragged his gaze to his commander. ‘Sir.’ A squeaky syllable of an address. ‘Would you be willing to die in this instant in order to protect our cause?’

Armando paused for a moment, his gaze steady though his fingers were trembling. To his credit, his next words were stronger than his first. ‘I will not die for a crime I have not committed.’

Ka Eming remained impassive but his hand twitched over his gun. His eyes took on a new quality that Daniel had only seen a few times before. Bloodlust.

***

It was his second week at this post within the Philippine Constabulary, and he was grateful everyday for it. When he first joined the Academy all those years ago, this was exactly the job he dreamed of. His father had been part of the police before he was called to Vietnam. He had always told stories from work, the bad guys he’d bring to justice, the wild chases the force would go on. It was those memories he held onto when things got hard, that he brought out to admire like a picture of a loved one in his wallet.

The sky had already begun to brighten as the sunrise ushered in the day, bearing down on the military camp as he made his way to his office. His colleague greeted him as he arrived with his usual order of coffee and a red manila folder. Daniel took the folder and opened it to find a picture of a man who looked to be in his forties, paper-clipped to some documents. In the picture, his eyes were bruised and swollen, and his lips were busted open.

Comrade Armando’s blood, dark red spilling out onto the earth below.

Fort Magsaysay, Nueva Ecija, Philippines

‘We’ve got another tactical interrogation,’6 his colleague informed him. ‘A farmer from Ilocos. He insulted the President and his allies.’

Daniel sneered at the image, the old anger rising to his call once again. Though much had changed in the last couple of years, the one thing that would never break were his principles. He would always be the stone in the midst of the river’s current, the stake that corrected the growing vine’s path. Except these days, he was angrier. ‘Pathetic,’ he Hisspat.colleague guffawed in agreement. ‘Well, that’s the official reason on the Thispaperwork.’wasenough to stir his suspicion. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

6 During Marcos’ dictatorship, it was an open secret that a ‘tactical interrogation’ was a euphemism for torture.

At the first crack of dawn, Daniel pulled up in his usual parking spot. He quickly checked his reflection in the car’s mirror; his gelled-back hair, his blue iron-pressed uniform, his badge pinned to his chest, catching the first light of the day. Philippine National Police, it read.

It was certainly better than other memories he had.

Daniel suddenly felt sick.

His colleague’s eyes grew cold. ‘So what if he did? My cousin is an ally of the President; an insult to him is an insult to Marcos himself. The treacherous don’t deserve fairness or sympathy. In this world, there is only blood, which flows freely and runs thicker than water.’

Two men descended into the chamber, officers of the Philippine Constabulary. One was the bastard who arrested him, his mouth carved into a vile smile. The other was a young man who couldn’t have been older than his eldest son, although there was

‘I am the sole breadwinner of this family,’ the farmer would later tell him over dinner. ‘Without me, my family would perish.’

‘Your cousin asked you to arrest him?’

***

Imprisoned without trial and hidden beneath the grounds of the military camp, the poor Ilocos farmer lay in a dark chamber. He had been there for many days now, perishing slowly of hunger and thirst. His face was still bruised from the day he was arrested, his muscles still aching from when he unsuccessfully tried to fight off his attacker. The metal of the cuffs that bound his wrists and ankles dug into his skin. Without the means or ability to treat it, his wounds were sure to fester. He had long accepted his fate the minute he was bound and had made his penance with God. The only thing he regretted was that he had forgotten to kiss his children before he left that morning for the fields. Now, they would never know what became of him.

His colleague frowned at the sudden, unusual bite in his tone. But he didn’t push Daniel on it. ‘He called my cousin a pig. My cousin, the mayor of Currimao. As if a peasant like him has any right to do so,’ he replied. Then he waved his hand dismissively. ‘He’s been causing problems, stirring up discord amongst the commoners. My cousin has wanted him gone for a while.’

Unbidden, an old memory rose to the front of his mind. In a small village within Palanan, there was a young family of seven who tended the landlord’s farm. The monsoon season had significantly damaged their little shack, but they had neither the means nor the manpower to repair it. The father was needed on the fields, and none of the children were old enough to fix it. So his commander had sent Daniel and another man (Armando – the name came to him like a lightning bolt) to repair it. When they had finished, the mother had cooked for them the best meat she had available.

‘Kaawaan nawa ng Diyos ang iyong kaluluwa.’7

In his last moments, he saw the younger officer looming over him, a gun pointed at his head. There was more to his eyes now; something that revealed, if only for a moment, the bottomless depth of his suffering. In spite of himself, the farmer’s heart moved with pity. He closed his eyes and with his final breath, he muttered a final prayer for the boy.

A loud shot.

The metallic smell of blood filled the air. ***

Then the torture started. His already frail body was abused in a number of ways, too gruesome to recount. He screamed not because of the pain, not because he had already abandoned his last shred of pride, but because there was simply nothing else to do. And when he had exhausted his voice, he whimpered and moaned until that, too, became too much to bear.

The farmer’s name was Balindong. The sight of his blood shattered completely the beating thing inside of Daniel. A brokenness that could not be repaired.

Illustrations by Hana Rossi26

nothing of the youthful gleam in his eyes that the farmer found in his children’s. Unlike his colleague who was looking at him as a shark eyed its prey, the younger officer looked at him dispassionately, hollowly. Such an expression did not belong to a man as young as Thehim.farmer knew what they were there for. He closed his eyes and implored the Lord to release him quickly.

7 Translation: May God have mercy on your soul.

BYHUMANSCAPESAMYTAN 谭雅莉

Evening falls gently on the harbour, ships bearing witness to the lighthouse’s flash.

Aunt Rosalie always said, The white in the waves returns us to our frst loves.

In the business of knowing

As the stranger meets your gaze the tools of language are forsaken. Once held at an arm’s length words sit in an idle breath waiting for the comedown.

Seafoam carries the weight of longing in tempestuous stride, Salt air and the small craft warning of an oncoming wave gives you pause.

Time is measured out around them, variations of a simple desire to be close to be rapt to be Idealismfranksets up camp within a quiet hole-in-the-wall, and waits in the back beside squeaky chairs and tables –drink in hand.

Names are chewed on, and carefully pronounced.

Illustration by Nishta Gupta

Like the stretched ends of a blanket, language carries itself through the night in dreams and rapture.

by Christine Lai Thảo

The way a stranger can finish you off with unhurried stares and glasses of red, leaves little to the imagination

Ne w Light

Noah starts from scratch.

Her venture begins with a frantic search of available apartments in Sydney, and after a rapid stream of results, she decides on two bedrooms. She filters out studio spaces and larger-than-life places that would make her feel hollow, knowing most of her possessions can easily fit inside a Holden Commodore. She considers single bedrooms – after all, it would burn less of a hole in her pocket. But something stops her. She decides that doing so would only confirm her mother’s doubts – of her inability to do things on her own and her aversion to tiny apartments; they are inherently suffocating.

She could use a home office after all. Two it is.

by Christine Lai Thảo

Lived with a woman who didn't return my bond rent in advance and claimed I didn't clean. She was dating the landlord at the time, and both were running me ragged doing extra errands to keep my place. I was constantly looking over my shoulder and wound up eating frozen meals because then I wouldn’t have to hear about how I didn’t use the sink properly. Caution: She has questionable friends who are tied to the drug scene and smokes weed in the house. She didn’t care that I had asthma.

Safe to say that Flatmates is off the list. She scrolls through the sites as she lays on the couch, her legs sprawled across the leather-bound sectional. Wrapped in a towel, Noah finds the remote and lets the television blare to life while she continues to apartment hunt. Some show about fine dining is on and she half listens to the chef’s cheery approach to French cuisine as she puts in a few requests to tour the apartments that she’s managed to find.

Review: Honoree (Ticked off) in Newcastle

Flatmates.com.au and apartmenthop.com.au are both options that she could go for. But she’s heard sketchy things happening with ‘flatmates’, where people have been kicked out for not signing leases or issues with poor communication. She’d prefer to avoid that. One review has her in a stupor.

The last apartment her mother picked out for her was gorgeous, boasting hardwood floors, north facing windows, access to a rooftop pool and a sundeck with 180 degree views. She had to do a double-take upon first viewing. These came with many stipulations however. Attending a weekly luncheon with her mother’s friends, showing up at galas, joining the Women’s Association to help with baked cookies or hosting parties to gather donations for the alreadywell-off. She despised having her mother hold her entire life over her, and had decided shortly afterwards that whatever she would end up doing would be on her terms.

Masterfully renovated and designed to celebrate its idyllic waterside setting, this exclusive estate is private and features a remarkable lake. The High lands is a family entertainer and a sanctuary, boasting a large acreage. This rare haven of space, in its breathtaking beauty, is a short drive from the CBD, with an open design that seamlessly integrates the outdoors.

She swears that this kind of property is not far off from what Catherine, her childhood best friend, already owns with husband number three.

Rydges Lake House is the first that appears.

Curious about dream homes for people actively looking, she decides to change her search to five-bedroom homes in the metropolitan area and waits to see what comes up.

Catherine had offered hers and Johnathan’s apartment while they were off traipsing the world for their ‘renewal-of-vows-honeymoon’, and she had gladly

Thisaccepted.apartment

Apparently, this property has a poolside patio, chef’s kitchen, a living room with a ‘statement wood fire’ and a ‘renovated cottage at the back’. She can almost hear her mother’s tuts while she scans the place’s too-many-bedrooms-to-count grandeur with derision. She’s never understood why her mother places so much value on social capital, in dressing a certain way or going to a particular stylist on a Wednesday at 2pm every fortnight. Frankly, such things bored her and she’s never had any interest in resembling her mother in any shape or form.

isn’t even rented out to anyone else for most of the year. It has become the place for friends and family to stay whenever they need, during in-between times, for a change of scenery, a quick getaway, convenience to the city after a late night.

Noah decides to wait it out for a week, but gives in after two days and rings her mother. She dials the number, pressing the phone against her ear and waits for the call to go through.

Her mother’s piercing looks of disdain are pushed aside when the phone rings. She knew it would be coming, sooner rather than later. And yet, she finds herself staring at the missed call banner, deliberately dodging another call. They’ve never been particularly close, and their last conversation was quite onesided. She doesn’t know whether she has the energy for a repeat of that. But she doesn’t think she has it in her to ring back so she brings the phone to her ears, closes her eyes and presses on the voicemail.

Illustrations by Kritika Rathore 31

‘Hi Noah. This is your mother calling. It’s been three weeks since we’ve last spoken and I cannot wait any longer. Jamie mentioned that you’re currently staying at Catherine and Johnathan’s place. Next week I’m hosting a luncheon and I’d like you to come. You’re welcome to bring a friend, a partner, or both. It’s time we’ve mended fences.’

The longer Noah stays at this apartment, the more she becomes attached to a life like this. It’s not difficult to picture coming back from work to a place that has lights you can dial to become brighter or dimmer, a room stacked with books and a view of the skyline from the dining kitchen. But several other factors are amiss. She cannot imagine a partner waiting for her to come home, or vice versa. Her mum has always admonished her for her behaviour and would balance steel-glazed looks against disapproving head shakes whenever she’d mention a relationship that had ended.

Her mother seems to think there’s no value in listening to live music downtown, but there is value in organising baby showers. The irony is astounding. Noah would even go so far as to say that the anti-live-music-scene opinions that her mother harbours are due to her never having liked Noah’s ex, Mattie. She tolerated Noah’s ‘endeavours’ and ‘quirks’ after Noah had announced she was interested in both men and women but Mattie proved to be an anomaly, someone unable to be easily boxed in. Non-binary, with a preference to dress both masculine and feminine and a love for riding their motorbike down the streets; this was clearly too much for her mother to stomach. She would never bring Mattie up in conversation unless it was absolutely necessary. Funny that.

‘There’s more to life than supporting artists at the local pub or at the gallery. Don’t you want more? Don’t you want someone to do things with?’ she would ask.

This striking sequence of mouth-watering cooking is found in Pixar’s lovingly animated film Turning Red,1 which came out earlier this year. Turning Red is set in early 2000’s Toronto and revolves around Meilin, a 13-year-old Chinese-Canadian who struggles with the revelation that she has inherited the ability to turn into a giant red panda. While on the surface the film markets itself as a fun-filled hysterical romp about magic and friendship, the true heart of this story lies in its celebration of the Chinese diasporic experience and culture.

On Turning Red: Nostalgia, Childhood, Truth

Turning Red (2022) is a Pixar Animations Studio fantasy film based on a Chinese-Canadian teenager, Meilin, nav igating her newfound hereditary ability to turn into a giant red panda.

The Chinese and Asian grocery shops on the main street were so like those that my parents used to take me to every so often in Sydney, and that I still go to today. I can almost hear the murmurs and snatches of conversation (almost always in Cantonese, but on the rare occasion, in Mandarin) drifting in the air as aunties, uncles and grandparents chatted of the prices of veggies for that day, or what they were cooking that night. I always listened with a secret smile, warmth in my heart with the knowledge that Cantonese and being Chinese was not something strange or 1

by Amy Tan 谭雅莉

Whoosh…crispy green sheets of bok choy float in mid-air. Sssh…ripe red chillies hiss as they make their hasty descent to the wok. Meanwhile in the background, the throaty warble of rich soy sauce gurgles forth, straight from the bottle…

While watching this movie, I found myself constantly holding my breath. Why? Because I was afraid to miss the little nostalgic details hidden in the backgrounds of scenes and location designs that nevertheless became an intrinsic part of the story. Details that spoke to me, and my identity as a Chinese-Australian. Despite the fact that the film is based in Toronto, the experiences of Meilin’s Chinese-Canadian childhood is not unlike those of diasporic Chinese communities around the world.

2 Translation: maa4 maa4 - Paternal grandmother (Cantonese)

foreign here, but something normal and expected. Here – away from the whiteness of Australian suburbia and the underlying feeling of unbelonging, there would always be this oasis for us. There is a deep-rooted sense of home in the familiar bustle of Chinatown, and later Eastwood, with its delicious smoky sweet aroma of BBQ roast duck lingering in the air.

In a continuation of the cooking scene, you can see Meilin and her mother through the kitchen window, watching a Hong Kong period drama on TV. When I saw this, I couldn’t help but think back to those formative years as a kid sitting beside my 嫲嫲,2 both of us in silent anticipation, as we watched the intricate web of plotting and backstabbing unfold in front of us. This was the golden age of TVB3 and Hong Kong cinema, a source of constant entertainment for mainland and overseas Chinese everywhere. My 嫲嫲 kept a stack of tapes and later, CD’s in the cabinet, which were preciously bought from Sydney’s Chinatown, two hours away from where I grew up in

ButNewcastle.likethe

experiences of many immigrant families, Meilin and her mother have a complicated relationship – one that the film attempts to feature but unfortunately does so haphazardly. While white audiences may take away that the film encourages following your heart and not that of your parents, this narrow take ignores the true theme of the film – intergenerational trauma. This trauma is found in the controlling and unhealthy relationship between Meilin and her overly-protective mother, Ming. Ming displays core characteristics of a ‘tiger mum’.

3 TVB (Television Broadcasts Limited): Hong Kong television broadcasting company which was very influential over HK broadcast media and produced many iconic shows and movies during 1990’s and the 2000’s.

Illustrations by Angela Xu 34

Where Turning Red falters is the resolution of the film. The absence of a reckoning or acknowledgment of this intergenerational trauma is a disservice to the audience who would most relate to this film. The idyllic nature of the instantaneous reconciliation between Meilin and Ming, and the absence of any lingering effects of this parenting leaves the film’s message feeling hollow and inauthentic. It suffers from the same kind of blurring-over as Pixar’s other ‘culturally inspired’ film, Encanto.

While this film did feature intergenerational trauma as a more prominent theme of the film, the resolution of this trauma was still dealt with in a disingenuous, rushed manner which prioritised tying all the loose ends of the film into a neat little bow of a happy ending. In reality, intergenerational trauma has an ongoing, disruptive effect

4 Chua 2011. Chua 2011.

We can see this very clearly in the multitude of extracurriculars Meilin is juggling in the film: from maths clubs to flute ensemble and the presentation of her report card with straight A’s. The ability to transform into a red panda is an allegory for the intergenerational trauma that many Asian children with this overinvested parenting experience. Turning into the red panda is perceived to be a struggle that needs overcoming in the film, but it is also a metaphor for the children’s desire to reclaim autonomy in these stifling circumstances. Both Ming and Meilin struggle with their respective powers of transformation; the ability is a source of fleeting individuality and autonomy that cannot be restrained by their respective mothers, but is one which their respective mothers nonetheless seek to control, like everything else in their lives.

The term ‘tiger mum’ was coined by Amy Chua in her 2011 memoir, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom,4 and encapsulates the strict style of parenting that children of Asian households (both immigrant ones and motherland-bound ones) may be subject to. A ‘tiger mum’5 is an interventionist, extremely invested in the success of her children and willing to do whatever it takes to achieve this, often at the cost of the child’s happiness. This can be manifested in pushing her child to participate in a wide range of extracurriculars, both academic and otherwise, to ensure their success at enrolling in a good college or university. These sacrifices are often justified to be for the sake of a ‘good’ life and eventual happiness.

Bibliography

Turning Red may not be perfect or have the most accolades, but it does demonstrate how people of colour need to be portrayed authentically in the media. Its treatment of intergenerational trauma may lack nuance and accuracy, but it does allow us to start to address these themes in our own communities and help to disrupt the cycle of trauma for further generations. In short, it is a moment in time where heritage, art and healing can collide.

on those that have experienced it, and feelings of hurt and neglect can not be wished away by a swift reconciliation. However, despite its shortcomings, films like Turning Red can encourage more frank and open discussion on the experiences and effects of intergenerational trauma, and validate those that have grown up with it. This is especially important for diasporic Asian communities, where a study has shown that Asian Americans are the ethnic group that is least likely to seek mental health services.6 Conversations like this can not only provide a voice for them but also help break the cycle of trauma.

Chua, Amy (2011). Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. New York: Penguin Press.

Spencer, Michael S., Juan Chen, Gilbert C. Gee, Cathryn G. Fabian and David T. Takeuchi (2010). Discrimination and Mental Health-Related Service Use in a National Study of Asian Americans. American Journal of Public Health, 100(12): 62410-2417.Spencer, Chen, et al. 2010.

Shi, Domee (2022). Turning Red. Produced by Pixar Animation Studios and distributed by Walt Disney Studios Motion Pictures (US).

L A B O U R O F L O V E 36

b y j e n n i f e r C h e n a n d a n g e l a x u

许卓悦 37

谌润祺

Phương ảo

Me crossing your boundaries

I’m sorry I’m taking what you’re saying so personally, I just wish you could tell me how you feel and I understand that maybe you can’t do it here, how do I make it right for us?

Illustrations by Yasodara Puhule-Gamayalage38

Ah, that’s right. NYC in 2019. Cold frosted air. Night. I remember now. A mother screaming. People move around us. She wants something that I cannot give her. That I refuse to give. The blind obedience keeps me glued to the spot. Recalling this moment. Not knowing what to do except remain quiet.

You’re yelling

I’m silent, everything I have to say turns into ammunition But against who? It’s the city, there were people around us You tell me to come back You repeat, this time louder and angrier

out-of-meDeep-rooted-shit-that-you-took-(withoutmypermission)

It doesn’t have to be here but as long we’re working through it I want to be your priority because you’re mine You might just be the most important person in my life It’s ok that you don’t see it, I want to make you see it, I’m still working on it Everything is a work in progress Including me And you And us together

There’s trauma here, on both ends

We have responsibilities to work through them the trauma

2 months later… and it was these cycles That I neverletgo

I learned love from abuse and I never learnt to tell the difference Until I’m unbroken and telling you I can’t do this forever&more

I’m fnally fnding my peace (knowing that you will too)

It’s my favourite kind. You know the one with cashews halved, then pressed into soft brown flesh.

Plum Cake Vignette

I smile at you through mouthfuls of crumbling slices and tell you I miss you. You smile back at me, and tell me this is a dream.

Illustration by Julie Nguyen40

by Sandra Kallarakkal

In my memory, we are standing in a kitchen eating a store-bought plum cake.

1 Translation: Mother (Sinhala)

2 Translation: Father (Tamil)

Thevillage.

by Janika Fernando

Circle of Life

There were hundreds of individuals with pecan-coloured skin, brushed up against one another in the centre of the village. There were flashes of red, orange and yellow everywhere. On one side, the Tamil Tigers raised crimson flags embroidered with their namesake. They lifted their flags as if they wanted to reach the highest of mountains. They wanted to speak their own native Tamil tongue, contrary to the laws which only recognised the Golden Lions. Thus, the riot had begun in the

Although the Sri Lankans inhabited the same teardrop-shaped country, the Tigers and Lions could never be anything but pure enemies.

3 Traditional white shoulder cloth

My ammi.1 My appa.2 Where were they? I pushed back my long jet-black curls as I shoved my way through the crowd to find them. Beads of sweat clung to my short, cotton gold blouse and shawl. There was a tightness in my chest, as if a metal wrench was gripping it.

Tamil Tigers were yelling, shrieking and shouting as they waved their flags at the Golden Sinhalese Lions. As I scanned the crowd, I spotted glimpses of appa, cloaked in a white shirt and angavastra.3 A Tiger. He stood in stunned silence. He looked gravely across to the other side, at ammi. A Lion.

Ammi’s beautiful hair cascaded over her shoulders. Specks of red sparkled in her golden saree like stars in a galaxy. Earlier, I had watched her clip, pleat and tuck it. Against this backdrop of lurking hatred, the saree shone bright and lively. She locked eyes with appa for a moment. Fate had destined for them to be different, but perhaps difference was not a crime. Perhaps it was an opportunity to weave their own way, as the leaves on a bo tree weave a way of life.

As the Golden Lions chanted their own language, and grasped their authorial kastane sword, the Tamil Tigers knew the Golden Lions were different from them. The authority of the sword lay in the corrupt government whose old, bland beards and white cloaks did not capture the true essence of politics. The Golden Lions truly

The people. Our culture and our ways.

And how it was all lost.

I, an island princess of this teardrop country, only have one story to tell and that is of ammi and appa.

Ammi’s outstretched arms beckoned me to make haste as the crowd continued to push and trample one another. As my little hand was interwoven with the warmth of her big hands, the chanting grew louder and louder. I began to crave the long-lost days when our land was peaceful.

Our land.

Illustration by Angela Xu42

did not care about what happened to the Tamil minority.

As soon as we reached the entrance, we loosened the straps of our black sandals and left them lying on the mat with the hundreds of others. I remember the warmth of appa’s hand as we both brushed our bare feet against the sacred pavement of the temple. Light pierced through the white pillars. A ray of sunlight landed upon my Ammishoulder.entered

Before I could ask her why they were attacking the tree, ammi’s attention drifted to two bald men cloaked in orange saffron robes who had entered the temple. They sauntered towards us. Ammi motioned for me to kneel down with her.

Afterwards, ammi followed me out of the caves back to appa. He pointed his fingers to the centre of the temple. There lay an old tree, extending branches full of leaves of the most magnificent greenery. Perched on one of the branches was a gold flag.

one of the ceremonial caves. I broke free of appa’s grip to join her. As I entered the cave, the pungent smell of smoky incense penetrated my nostrils. I coughed, the sound resounding throughout the entire cave. Ammi smiled. She beckoned me to come closer. As she wrapped her arms around my shoulders, she pointed at the numerous paintings and statues of Buddha. One carving in particular drew my attention. A portrait of Buddha posing meditatively had been painted onto the wall with strokes of red and gold. Circles surrounded his figure. Above his head lay a green tree with red fruits. Numerous figures were painted around the tree. The figures cast devious glances at the tree, holding a spear as if ready to throw.

I remember the golden pots of flowers that lay in a circular fashion around the entrance of the Dambulla Caves. Orange, yellow, green, pink and white flowers smiled and danced as my dress wavered past them.

Ammi had woven a white lotus flower into the left side of my ear, intertwining it with some strands of my dark hair. She wore a beautiful white saree, and appa wore the dhoti4 with a formal white shirt. We always wore white to the temple.

I remember climbing the peach-coloured steps that lay at the mouth of the entrance. On either side of the steps were paw-shaped golden ramps with white claws to hold onto. I could feel two sets of eyes watching me from above, one of Buddha and the other of the entrance that lay beneath him.

‘What is it appa?’

4 Traditional lower garment wrapped around the waist and tied at the back

He led me to a small tap that lay in the corner of the temple and handed me a small, black clay pot from the bucket next to the tap. Appa opened the tap and filled each of our pots with water. My hands shook as I struggled to bear the weight of the pot; small drops of water spilled over its sides. He chuckled. The three of us circled around the bo tree. The green leaves danced along with the slight breeze, echoing a way of living, a way out of misery.

In that moment at the temple, where the three of us were one, our differences did not matter because their love was far stronger. I watched as appa caressed ammi’s hands. I watched as she ruffled her delicate fingers through appa’s hair, smiling at the darkness of his face, unashamed that he was a Tamil Tiger. I had never seen a more beautiful love than this. Theirs was a love that would last forever.

‘Bo tree… The Circle of our life, Duwa.5’

5 Translation: Daughter (Sinhala) Illustration by Angel Zhang44

I watched appa’s eyebrows twitch as he surveyed the contents of the Daily Mirror. Adjusting his reading lenses, he read aloud the headline:

Our home was a small dwelling shaded in white on the flat northern tip of the island. Jafna.

Ammi paced around the kitchen, fumbling with her clay curry pot and spoon as if she wanted to send fumes of spices drifting out the window. But she did not have the heart to do so, leaving the clay pot empty and my nostrils bland. I could do nothing but stare at our broken fan and attempt to fan away the vinegar-like sweat on my shirt.

The clock had only chimed at three in the morning. I lay in nothing but my green nightgown, exposing my hairy tawny legs to the darkness of my room. At first, it did not seem to matter that I was alone.

‘Amaya!’ Ammi screamed.

‘THIRTEEN SOLDIERS KILLED BY THE LIONS.’

When night came, the moon scarcely illuminated the pathway outside our home. Ammi and appa had dozed off without eating anything, still alight with nerves as they went to sleep. I decided to go to bed as well. Although I usually slept in their room, that night I had chosen to sleep alone.

I rushed to their room. She grabbed me with her arms, begging me to be quiet. We moved to the kitchen to check on the commotion. Appa approached the front of the kitchen, while ammi cowered behind the kitchen table with me. She clutched me close to her breast and I watched her expression turn grave. The door rattled.

A soldier broke down our wooden door with a swift kick. They had armed

But it was not long until I heard an engine roaring outside our home. I poked my head through the window to find a black jeep with blinding headlights. Adrenaline rushed through my veins.

Men tumbled out of a jeep with shotguns in hands, crushing the rubble ground with their military boots. The growls of the Golden Lions would soon make us cry for mercy, for a way out of the black path which they had created.

III

Within moments, his native tongue was no more, and I was left staring into the glistening abyss of where appa once stood.

Ammi started whimpering at the sight of the pointed gun. ‘ohu demaḷa jātikayeki?’6 The soldier muttered to his accomplices. Grabbing her curry pot, Ammi threw it at the man. Clay pieces cascaded over his broad shoulders. Faint blood emerged from his busted lip. His mouth curved into a sly ‘Aadhila,smile. stay still!’ Appa cried. ‘tayavu ceytu karunai!’7 He knelt down.

Translation:

7 Translation:

Ammi and I were both left staring at the blood which oozed down from his beard. His glasses lay on the ground. I watched the Golden Lions speed off in their jeep. The chuckle of appa that I had once known was lost to the air.

themselves with kastane swords. Nothing could stop them from unleashing the fury of the lions embroidered on their left breast, and ultimately in their blood.

6 He is Tamil right (Sinhala) Please be kind (Tamil)

by Christine Lai Thảo

The couple in the corner of the cafe bicker over whose turn it was last to wash the dishes. Three seats across, a mother chides her daughter for dodging her calls and skipping school. A nanny tries to keep three children at bay, selling stories of The Magic Faraway Tree in between spoonfuls of trail mix.

Keeper

48 Illustration by Angel Zhang

Sharp wire fences wrap around the shrubbery. Setting light to beacon, keeping perpetual watch of the newcomers. LongTourists.spring afternoons are divided between courtyard luncheons and Earl Grey teas.

A fleece cardigan, a polka dot sweater and two pairs of socks worn on top of the other. Winter breezes by. Days are patternless and operate on misspent time. Flower-pressed journals. A key held down on a piano for long enough that it begins to sound like a dull ache. There are some wrecks too big to fill. The sea gasps still.

A piercing sweetness reawakens the pleasure of youth. An unmade cup of tea. The open-endedness of want. The barefoot locals carry themselves with ease.

Overheard: At your age, I wore a long sleeve three sizes too big and slept under a sloping ceiling with glow in the dark stars for lights.

Seems they were cheated from the experience of vacation.

When they ask you to slot this into your life, where do you hold it?

spacenegative

tanamyby 谭雅莉

Of course, this isn’t the case with Australia. Goenpul woman and Indigenous academic Aileen Moreton-Robinson writes, ‘In the Australian context, the sense of belonging, home, and place enjoyed by the non-Indigenous subject — colonizer/ migrant — is based on the dispossession of the original owners of the land and the denial of our rights under international customary law.’ This uncritiqued and idealised notion of place, often juxtaposed against the lower quality of living conditions of our home countries, is part of how we benefit from the ongoing colonial project. The ‘place’ that we celebrate and claim as ours is the same place that was brutally ripped away from Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, its rightful owners.

When one has spent many years trying to unlearn the pervasive colonial myths of this country, it’s easy to forget that much of the nation still finds no fault in celebrating January 26. But every year without fail, I am reminded of this fact when I scroll through social media and see posts from relatives, high school classmates and family friends proudly smiling at the beach or throwing a barbeque at the park. Many of whom share a similar immigrant background to me.

I am a first-generation Filipino immigrant who moved here a year after I was born, and I have lived on stolen Darug land since. I’ve witnessed my family and others navigate the tedious process of obtaining permanent residency, face uncertainty as their visas neared expiration, or struggle to re-establish the careers they have left behind. All of this has occurred concurrently with the ongoing colonial dispossession and violence against First Australians, which my family has benefitted from.

As an immigrant from a postcolonial nation with its own history of violence at the hands of European imperial powers, it’s easy to draw a false parallel between

The notion of assimilating and ultimately belonging to the new country is often presented as an ideal to many immigrants; a goal to aspire to. However, this has the effect of obscuring its history and its discursive constructions. The result is an idealised and uncritiqued concept of the ‘new country’, one that has the appearance of being natural, inevitable and above fault.

A 2020 survey from the Australian Management and Education Services found that 68 per cent of recent migrants and refugees planned to celebrate Australia Day. For many of us, January 26 is the anniversary of when we gained our Australian citizenship. It represents the overcoming of the numerous hardships on the path to belonging, and being able to call Australia home.

Migrants must reframe our relationship with 'Australia Day' by Carmeli Argana, Maria Carmeli Purisima Argana

We cannot absolve ourselves from the bloodshed of the past by being ‘grateful’ for the benefits we enjoy now, benefits founded on that initial and ongoing loss. As long as we continue to detach the blessings that we enjoy now from the violence that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities suffer, we are participants in upholding the colonial project of Australia.

the plights of the Indigenous-Filipinos and Australia’s First Nations. But unlike postcolonial nations such as the Philippines, the land which we call ‘Australia’ is the product of ongoing settler colonialism.

There is, undoubtedly, much reason to be grateful and to celebrate in our journeys as migrants who have prevailed, and continue to prevail, over adversity. But we cannot celebrate the struggles that we have overcome on January 26 without also condoning the violence by the settler-colonial state on First Australian people. We cannot claim that our celebrations are unrelated to the genocide and dispossession of First Australian people from their land, because the very basis of our ability to celebrate socalled ‘Australia Day’ is founded on such dispossession and injustice.

January 26 is a day to unlearn the myths that the settler-colonial state of Australia has imbued within us. It is a day to learn the horrific and painful truth of this country that isn’t advertised in migration schemes or pathways. It is a day to do the uncomfortable yet deeply necessary work of reflecting on how we participate in upholding the settlercolonial apparatus that continues to deprive First Nations people of their land and country.

The familiar postcolonial narratives in our home countries of national heroes leading the liberation effort against the nation’s colonisers does not ring true in the context of Australia’s settler colonial history. Although Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples have a long history of resisting colonial forces, they have yet to achieve national liberation, such as that achieved in postcolonial nations. Instead, in a settler-colonial state like Australia, the violent and unjust theft of Aboriginal lands, culture and lives continues to happen today. Unangax̂ scholar Eve Tuck and Indigenous Professor K. Wayne Yang distinguish settler colonialism from other forms of colonialism: ‘[In settler colonialism], settlers come with the intention of making a new home on the land, a homemaking that insists on settler sovereignty over all things in their new domain.’

In Filipino culture, one of our values is the concept of ‘lakas ng loob’. Translating literally to ‘inner strength’, it refers to the courage, character and work ethic required to uproot one’s whole life in one’s home country in search of better opportunities elsewhere. Related to this is the value of ‘pasasalamat’, which describes the gratitude many of us feel at overcoming the difficulties of establishing ourselves and adapting to life in a new country.

Illustration by Yasodara Puhule-Gamayalage

is an edited version of an article that was first published in the student newspaper, Honi Soit.

AMESBibliography:Australia (2020). Australia Day Survey. AMES Australia Survey, 23 January. https://www.ames.net.au/ Moreton-Robinson,blogs/20200124-impact-australia-day-surveyAileen(2015).

Tuck, Eve, K. Wayne Yang (2012). Decolonization is not a metaphor. Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 1(1): 1-40.

Note:country.This

White Possessive: Property, Power, and Indigenous Sovereignty. Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press.

But this work should not be restricted to just one day of the year. We must never forget the cost of our blessings, and constantly work to dismantle the ways in which the settler-colonial state exists within us and within the institutions that govern this

[SKYPE RINGTONE]

Three, two, one. [clap]

Nick Yep.:

[PAUSE]

Nick:

Nick This:mango mochi is real good.

Narration: That’s my brother, Nick. He called me a few weeks ago from New York. It 袁曉淇

Nick Testing,: testing. Testing, testing.

Iris: Just… ok.

Yeah, it’s okay if you eat.

Nick I’ll:keep it to a minimum, but uh –

A reflection on tradition, ritual, and legacy in diaspora

Have you started recording?

Is it okay if I eat?

Iris: [overlapping] Just… don’t…

Iris:

by Iris Yuan NNN

Ok, I’ll count down from three, and then after one, we clap, right?

Iris:

PAPER MONEY

Iris:

1 Translation: cing1 ming4 zit3 - Tomb Sweeping Festival. (Cantonese)

[GENTLE GUITAR MOTIF]3

last decade, I was living in Hong Kong, just a train trip away from my extended family in Guangzhou – where we’d been able to observe the date with all the proper traditions. But now neither myself nor my brother are there. We are oceans apart from each other and our parents. He suggested then, that maybe we should keep a kind of record of these more obscure traditions – it’s not a festival that many Chinese overseas keep up, it’s not a public holiday, and it’s not a particularly festive occasion.

3 Excerpt from A Water Lily, by Jia Peng Fang. Album: ‘Friends’

[FADE IN MURMURING CROWD]

Nick: I feel like it took on a different tone after grandma died, Tomb Sweeping Festival…

We saw things during that time, we never saw in our lifetimes and to this day, never…

was the day after 清明節 1, and mum had called me an hour before to remind me of the date – not that I could really have done any of the things we normally do. 清明 2, in English, translates roughly to the Tomb Sweeping Festival, though it’s less of a festival and more of a date for commemorating and remembering our loved Forones.the

Narration: In my earliest memory of observing Qing Ming, the clearest thing was the crowds, pressing in on every side. It was April, I think, which meant sweltering heat in the lead up to summer. As one of the younger children, I’d been assigned to holding the least breakable offerings – paper money (joss paper). I remember my sweaty hands as I gripped the flimsy plastic bag, trailing after my mother through the throng of other mourners.

But maybe it’s still worth holding on to.

2 Translation: cing1 ming4 - Lit. Pure Brightness, Tomb Sweeping Festival, romanised as Qing Ming, or Ching Ming (Cantonese)

[FADE OUT MUSIC]

It turns to ashes. It flakes up into the air, like it’s on its way up into the sky to materialise right in front of the eyes of my ancestors.

I was raised away from your land, but I am your blood, I thought. And this is my offering.

[FADE IN ETHEREAL STRINGS]

I remember stepping up to the stone tablets with my ancestors’ names carved and painted over in a bright, bloody red ink. I bowed three times; incense clasped between my little hands. 拜祖先 4. Praying to my ancestors, I introduced myself. I told them my name – 袁曉淇 5.

Like the dew that forms at daybreak, I am made of all that came before me.

You see, that’s what the paper money was for – an offering. You burn it in a little basin – folded gold ingots, fake cash, fake clothes, fake shoes. Anything and everything they could want for.

4 Translation: baai3 zou2 sin1 - Rites involved with visiting the grave of an ancestor (Cantonese)

And then, the rites.

[FADE IN, SOUNDS OF PAPER BURNING]

I remember thinking, it must be so uncomfortable for my grandmother to spend the whole year in such a cramped space, surrounded on all sides by the ashes of strangers. And so, as we set her ashes down, and those of my great-grandparents, onto the table we’d claimed in the designated memorial site, all I could think was – what a relief it must have been for her to finally see the sky again. Our offerings were standard. A bowl of rice, a cup of wine. A roasted boar, or pig –I was never sure which was which.

5 Translation: jyun4 hiu2 kei4 - Surname 袁, given name 曉淇, meaning morning dew (Cantonese)

原諒我這一生不羈放縱愛自由也會怕有一天會跌倒 Oh No 背棄了理想　誰人都可以那會怕有一天只你共我8 6

I’m glad that we held onto this tradition, out of all the others we’ve left behind. Memory is a fickle thing – there are things that my parents tried to teach us that we just… forgot, over time. They spoke to us in Cantonese, my brother and I, when we were toddlers. But it soon grew unfamiliar on our tongues as we instead began using English.

Nick: It’s weird because I have distinct memories of these intense and – not too complex, but you know, fairly complicated to me now – phrases of poetry that would – I would recite to Mum and Dad in the mornings.

And I also remember the words – I remember knowing every single lyric to that one song by BEYOND. The… I dunno what it’s called. You know which one I’m talking about. the tune] FROM SONG: 海闊天空 (The Boundless Seas and Sky), BEYOND – 1993]7 A Water Lily, continued. One of the classic anthems of Cantonese rock, popularised especially in diaspora communities in the 1990s and early 2000s. Translation from Cantonese: (Forgive me this life of uninhibited love and indulgence of freedom) (Although I’m still scared that one day I might fall, oh no) (Abandoning all dreams of ideals, it could happen to anyone) (But how could I be afraid of there one day being only you and me?)

[CLIP

[GENTLE ERHU MOTIF]6

[singing

I would know all these, all these words to these Chinese poems, and the way that – that faded away so quickly within the span of like a few years is so crazy. Cause I remember the feeling of those words coming out of my mouth.

Could you do this all with other things? You know?

Nick: It’s interesting to think about maybe, maybe we’ll be adding things to these traditions. Maybe, maybe, when we do Qing Ming with Mum and Dad, we’ll, we’ll, we’ll bring them [laughs]. We’ll bring mum some, like, high tea stuff.

Nick: Yeah, right. I remember, I used to know every single word and I remember it. ‘Cause I remember because that’s tied to one of my first experiences with music as well.

Is it just a structure?

Narration: And while we were talking, we realised – we are the ones responsible for passing these things on to the next generation.

Nick: Yeah, that one.

Iris: It’s on my playlist!

[INSTRUMENTAL FADES OUT]

So that’s why I remember, I remember the feelings so much, but I don’t remember the actual lyrics anymore.

Nick: Cause she’s boujee. And dad loves a steak, you know.

Iris: Cause she’s boujee.

Iris: [laughing]

Nick: Do you reckon people do cocktails when they do that stuff? Or do people just keep it strict to tradition? That’s what I always wondered when I was a kid about Qing Ming. It’s like, all of this is a structure, isn’t it?

Listen here: 9 A Water Lily, continued.

At least, you know, that’s a very basic requirement. Okay. If you can’t find a little… You know what? No. You could easily 3D print Eames chairs.

[FADE IN ERHU MELODY]9

Anyway, but yeah, that got me thinking.

Iris: Well, we don’t know, because our grandparents – that’s what they had.

Nick: Yeah, yeah. So as a diaspora – if we keep all these traditions intact in the structure, right? Could we then morph and substitute those things with the things that we grew up with? You know what I mean? Like, yeah. I would love some basic-ass furniture and my little cubby for my ashes. But if my kids learn anything, it’s good interior design. They’d better give me a nice rug and some nice mid-century modern Andfurniture.hopefully,

Note: This is an edited and adapted transcript of an audio short, published first as a segment in The Junction Journalism’s podcast Making a Difference, and then in Salience.

[laughs loudly]

they’ll know me well enough to know that I’m a furniture snob. So, if it’s not a Thonet chair… at least. And since it’s paper, you could just print shit out. Or if you really cared about me, then you’d make it little paper models of everything.

Illustrations by Mengyuan Li

[MUSIC CONTINUES, FADES OUT]

Narration: We’ll make sure the legacy lives on.

[FIN]

Our goal is simple. We seek to appeal not to the many, but to the few; the few who look around and find themselves alone in a room of people who will never experience their lived realities. Our submissions are a bright motley of these lived realities – picturesque places, vignettes of the past and the present, hard-earned lessons and discoveries. Each piece reveals a contributor who has placed themselves vulnerable for this reality, for the spark of creativity that has come upon them, for a memory that must be immortalised or the chance to reveal the injustices of racist institutions. It has been produced with deep consideration; unencumbered by short timeframes and fast-approaching deadlines, every single thing about this journal has been perfected with care.

At heart, Wattle is a journal for BIPOC students. It is published within an institution that is inherently colonial and has notoriously been inhospitable to students of Indigenous or ethnic backgrounds. This year’s submissions are a celebration of our vibrant cultures, an affirmation of everything that has shaped our identities. But they also pull back the veil obscuring the structural inequalities that stain our experiences and dare to demand better. It is a journal that gives us a space to exist; to resist.

AFTERWORD

In a university renowned for its vibrant student culture, reflected in its abundance of societies and student publications, one might ask – why a journal? True, we do not have the same level of reach as other publications, nor do we attract the same type of audience. The submissions we publish are focused in their form and content, and we operate at a slower pace than other publications.

Wattle 2022 has become home to the stories of our cultures, a place of reflection and resilience. We celebrate the dreaminess of a store-bought

But the beauty comes with the ugly. There are reminders of our intergenerational trauma in the films we watch, or in the phone calls we don’t make when we move out of our childhood homes for the first time. Experiences too often ignored in many of our cultures.

plum cake and take in our surroundings as we sit on a beach, crowded by tourists. We ponder the stillness of a lake or find ourselves carried by the tide of packed streets in bustling cities. These memories can be easily forgotten, but this journal attempts to at least remind another person – to keep the memory alive.

Wattle is only part journal, a collection of pieces ready to be read. For it would not exist if not for the people, our wonderful community of contributors, artists and editors. To all of you, we are eternally grateful for sharing your talents, your patience and your stories with us. Special thanks also goes out to our beautiful editors-in-chief, Amy and Angela, for their tireless efforts and leadership this year – we would’ve been lost without you. And of course, to our readers, we hope you enjoyed this little labour of love from us, and remember that though it may feel otherwise at times, there will always be a place for you.

In love and solidarity, Trinity Kim & Carmeli Argana 김은수 & Maria Carmeli Purisima Argana Wattle 2022 General Editors

Amy Tan (谭雅莉) is a second year Arts and Laws student who likes design, nature and most of all, food!! She has a tendency to watch hour long analysis Youtube videos and her dream job is to be a foodie influencer!

Ibrahim Khan is a third-year Arts/Law student who has previously worked on ARNA and Wattle. His current obsessions include Scottish indie pop, Sally Rooney essays, and Five Roses tea, often all at the same time.

Carmeli Argana (Maria Carmeli Purisima Argana) is a fourth year MECO student, a student journalist and a proud Filipino-Australian. She has a range of editing experience across campus publications, including as Wattle’s Non-Fiction Lead last year, with ACAR Honi this year, and as an Honi Soit editor this year. Her work has also appeared in Pulp, Salience and The Junction. She loves this journal, her community of BIPOC students, and learning new things from all the articles she gets to edit!

Angela Xu (许卓悦) is a third year Arts/Law student majoring in History. She’s worked on a number of publications in the past, including ARNA, 1978, and Zami. She has watched How I Met Your Mother way too many times, is a very average plant mum and loves dogs, the Oxford comma and irony.

Angel Zhang is a third-year Arts student, majoring in Art History and Education. She enjoys making art and reading a good book in her spare time — with coffee as a bonus. She also has an interest in classical music and a soft spot for 18th-century art. Previously a contributor for ARNA, she is excited to be working on Wattle this year.

ODEITRS

Julie Nguyen (Ngân) is in her penultimate year (hopefully, maybe..?) of studying Media and Communications, majoring in Cultural Studies. She’s humbled to be able to help realise the magic of BIPOC stories in Wattle 2022 and reconnect with her artistic roots. She also spends a lot of time knitting, talking to people about knitting, and not-knitting.

Trinity Kim (김은수) is a third-year International Relations and Nursing student who has previously worked on ARNA, 1978 and Wattle. If you can’t find her struggling with a sudoku, she’s probably taking nap to a The Wombats playlist.

Yasodara Puhule-Gamayalage is a first-year Medical Science student majoring in Physiology. Perpetually adrift in a state of literary/artistic oscillation, she has currently returned to her obsession with Socratic dialogue and the astounding works of Remedios Varo. Of course, in her spare time, she indulges in an amateur pursuit in astrobiology and splodges paint everywhere to make what she calls “art”, whatever that is.

Nicole Zhang is a second year Speech Pathology student who spends lots of time browsing second-hand bookstores and even more time napping on train rides. In her spare time she loves reading all kinds of books, especially translated fiction, and possibly disturbing her neighbours with the home karaoke mic on full blast.

Alice Park (박소윤) is a second year Criminology & Law student. She has previously been published in the Re-Draft series and is excited to be reading so much lovely poetry from creative students! Over the last year, she’s been steadily growing her Pusheen plushy collection and she is a Kiwi born and raised.

Christine Lai (Thảo) is a writer and photographer who seeks to explore the spaces languages occupies in the relationships people form with others and moments of liminal space. She received an inaugural Sydney Review of Books Residency and her work was featured in the 2020 Bankstown Biennale. She has been published in SBS Voices and in Peril Magazine through Diversity Arts Australia’s I AM NOT A VIRUS campaign. She was one of twelve authors from Western Sydney who worked to create an anthology of works titled ‘The Wayward Sky’, a project which was recently launched and created from the virtual rooms of The Writing Zone.

Mengyuan Li is a second year Econ student who loves reading anything ranging from 20th century underground magazines to newly published social sciences books. You’ll likely find her painting on the scratch paper or writing a few lines of lyrics when she’s procrastinating in Fisher.

Sandra Kallarakkal ( ) is a third year Education/Arts student, majoring in English and History. They started reading and writing poetry out of spite, but in some strange turn of events ended up falling in love with it instead. In their spare time, they enjoy taking blurry photos of the moon and going on long walks at sunset. They are currently on a mission to uncover the secrets of successfully making Indian snacks.

Melody Wong (黃珮嵐) is a third-year Media and Communication student with a second major in International Relations. She has previously worked as an prose editor for Wattle last year, and part of ACAR Honi this year! She also has experience writing for Honi. If she isn’t occupied with work, you will likely find her napping or looking for stuff to do.

Faye Tang is a first-year Arts/Law student majoring in English who currently loves matcha lattes, 20th-century society novels, and, controversially, run-on sentences. She has previously worked on 1978 and is keen to be editing Wattle!

Lucas Kao is a second year Arts/Law student majoring in political economy. He has worked on Honi Soit and loves Grill’d (they’d have his vote if they run for the federal election).

Iris Yuan (袁曉淇) is a third year media/communications and sociology student and tends to procrastinate by pretending to organise next week’s schedule. She has worked as an editor previously on 1978, Wattle, and Arna, and is excited to keep helping the incredible works of her peers flourish.

Janika Fernando ) is a second year Laws and Arts student, majoring in English literature. She loves spending time with family, friends and writing stories on cultural experiences. Her previous publications include the short story, ‘Where I Belong’ in the 2021 USYD Anthology, and the Sydney University Law in Society Journal article, ‘The Merge: Questions of Violence, Inequality and Support’. She has been engaged in helping students to express their stories as the Prose Editor for Wattle 2021, and Editor of SULS Law in Society and MOSAIC Journals.

Maya Espinoza is a second year Arts student studying English and Japanese. This is her first time working on a student publication and she is excited to see what she can do. Maya is a proud WOC learning how to take up space in the world. She could possibly talk for 24 hours straight, is full of opinions, and her inbox is full of unread emails from things she doesn’t know how to unsubscribe to.

Teresa Ho is a second-year History and English student. Having previously contributed to Wattle and Honi Soit, she is keen to put her editing skills to the test. She is excited to help carve out a space for her fellow BIPOC writers. She first learnt about how beautiful language could sound after encountering the words “susurrus” and “sibilance” in Year 8.

Kritika Rathore ( ) is a third year MedSci student living on Gadigal land. She has been Editor-in-chief of ACAR Honi 2021 and artist for various publications. When not working or sleeping, you’ll find her consuming unhealthy amounts of forensic and psycho thriller media. She claims to have put the ‘pro’ in ‘procrastination’.

NOCTRIBUTORS

Amy Tan (谭雅莉) is a second year Arts and Laws student who loves design and all things pretty and has a particular soft spot for the Adobe Suite. She draws her inspiration from her Chinese culture and growing up with her close-knit multigenerational family.

Carmeli Argana (Maria Carmeli Purisima Argana) is a media student and a student journalist at the University of Sydney. On her off days, you can find her café-hopping around Western Sydney or listening to Taylor Swift. She loves this journal, this community of BIPOC students, and learning new things from all the articles she gets to edit!

Jennifer Chen (谌润祺) studies Maths & Computer Science, and although her majors are pretty different from the arts, she’s enjoyed getting to dabble more with her creative side! It’s her first time contributing to Wattle and she’s had a lot of fun!

Christine Lai (Thảo) is an Arts student majoring in English and Film. She enjoys watching British comedy panel shows (à la the likes of Sarah Pascoe, James Acaster) and has a penchant for purchasing tee shirts and novels on a whim. She chalks up this spontaneity to being ‘adventurous’ and says hello to every dog she passes by on the street. She’s been published by SBS Voices, Diversity Arts Australia, The Sydney Review of Books and more.

Angela (Ange) Tran (Phương Thảo) is currently studying Education/ Arts and romanticises her life in London on a daily basis and writes poetry as escapism. Her notes app has seen all the early drafts of her writing, and this is her first time her poetry will be read and perceived by others (which is both a terrifying and exciting ordeal).

Angela Xu (许卓悦) is a third year Arts/Law student who wishes she wrote more and watched Instagram reels less. You can find her listening to the same light academia playlist on Spotify, consuming way too much caffeine, and coming up with stories she’ll never put to words.

Olivia Mangholi is a second year Arts student majoring in Business Law and Politics. She loves spending quality time with family and loved ones, especially via exploring new places to eat and participating in new experiences.

Lucas Kao is a second year Arts/Law student majoring in political economy. He has worked on Honi Soit and loves Grill’d (they’d have his vote if they run for the federal election).

Angel YasodaraNishtaMengyuanKritikaJulieIbrahimHanaAngelaZhangXuRossiKhanNguyenRathoreLiGuptaPuhule-Gamayalage 66

Sandra Kallarakkal ( ) studies Education/Arts and enjoys watching the moon on their balcony. They were set on becoming an astrophysicist for most of their life until they realised they had to be good at Maths. In their free time they mourn the loss of Pluto’s planetary status, think about the ways in which food is a love language, and cry about both.

Janika Fernando ( ) is a second year Laws/Arts student, majoring in English Literature. Her passion lies in writing culturally diverse stories about Sri Lankan culture, family and love. She hopes for her stories to become a source of hope, motivation and wisdom for readers to embrace cultural differences and to give the Sri Lankan experience a more defined place in literature.

Iris Yuan (袁曉淇) is a third year media/communications and sociology student. She loves to overthink and use too much metaphor, and her favourite parts of any piece she writes are the tiny descriptive details.

Illustrators

Angel Zhang is a Chinese-Australian and an Arts student in her third year, majoring in Art History and Education. Art is one of her biggest passions, alongside literature and philosophy. She views art-making as having the power to bring mental comfort, as well as to express the ideas, experiences, and feelings that could not be adequately put into words.

Jenna Lorge, Thomas Israel and Trinity Kim, and all the editors that came before, for their wisdom and guidance,

SPECIAL THANKS TO

Amelia Mertha and Kiki Amberber, for creating this journal as a space for empowerment, activism, and creativity,

Angelina Gu and the SASS Team for all their support,

To each and every student that shared their talents with us, and of course, The University of Sydney Union, The Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, The Sydney Arts Students Society, The Sydney University Press