2018 Edition 3 by Farrago Magazine

FARRAGO EDITION THREE â&#x20AC;¢ 2018

CONTRIBUTE EDITORS@FARRAGOMAGAZINE.COM

MAGAZINE /FARRAGOMAGAZINE

RADIO /RADIO_FODDER

ART BY LIEF CHEN

VIDEO /FARRAGOMAGAZINE

CONTENTS CAMPUS

COLLECTIVE

4 5 7

2 3

7 8 8 9 10 11 12 14 15 16 21

News in Brief April/May Calendar The Unfair University ID Card Noni Cole and Ruby Perryman Student Impact Committee Launches Lucy Williams Batman is Reddy for Geddy Alain Nguyen Crisis at Burnley Valerie Ng Mixed Feelings Over Respect and Diversity Week Merger Yan Zhuang and Amelia Costigan Staff Industry Action Looms as NTEU Negotiations Stall Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal Degree in Prestige—Is it Worth it? Maggy Liu Unsafe Community Lucy Williams and Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal CAPS to Make Big Changes This Year Stephanie Zhang GSA Reforms Fail to Pass at SGM Monique O’Rafferty Office Bearer Reports The Grub

NONFICTION 19 22 23 24 25 28 30 32 33 36 38 40 42 68

CREATIVE 6 20 34 39 44 45 46 48 50 51 52 55 54

It’s Not Enough to be a Non-Fascist Andie Moore Ghosting My Birth Giver A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni Fodder Feature: Brit and Bogan Trent Vu Australian PMs Ranked by Hotness Danielle Scrimshaw A Shit Job Trent Vu More Than Mascara Sophie Raphael The Razor’s Edge Luke Macaronas Alien Asia Aesthetic Stephanie Zhang Blisters and Business Cards Kaavya Jha Fe***ism: A Tale of Two Classrooms Nour Altoukhi Breaking: Climate Change Still A Thing Katie Doherty The Darker the Berry Veera Ramayah The Inheritance of Grief Tilli Franks For and Against: Threesomes Clare Taylor and Sarah Foley

Editorial Team

56 58 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

Seasons / Autumn Rachel Morley Bard Times: Part Three James Gordon Photography: NGV Mega Safira Maybe Climate Change Won’t Be That Bad... Christina Schmidt Death and Molly Jocelyn Deane Dinosaur Exhibits for Confused 7-Year-Olds Jocelyn Deane Regular Abductions Daniel Beratis Tira el Cuello Hacia Atrás Alejandro del Castillo Renewal Nicholas Sujecki Art Raymond Wu Galileo’s Finger Matthew Wojczys A Union Esmé James The Colour of Grey Saampras Ganesan Photography: Mum and Dad’s Bedside Cabinet Jean Baulch Bananas Annie Liew Summer Sadness in St Kilda East Rebecca Fowler My Night Routine if I Were Tilda Swinton Morgan-Lee Snell Art Bethany Cherry My Feminism—More Powerful Than Two Cleopatras MICHA City Girl Chiara Situmorang Tooth Collection Alston Chu Flash [Non]Fiction Expose / Myanmar Ilsa Harun

ART BY SOPHIE SUN

COLLECTIVE

EDITORIAL

he first step to running a magazine is accepting that people aren’t always going to agree with everything you do. The response to our edition two article, ‘The Pub Crawl Problem’ by Jasper MacCuspie, reinforced this for us. “Pub crawls violate regulations set out by the University and the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) clubs and societies department,” we said. “Farrago hates pub crawls!” they replied. The Facebook angry reacts and comments poured in, and a pub crawl was held by the Lawn Bowls Club in response to the article, forgoing the usual disguise of a “historical tour” (the club isn’t affiliated to UMSU, so the usual rules don’t apply). Whether it was their intention or not, the Lawn Bowls Club gained us ~traction~, and we want to thank them for that. The article provoked debate and controversy, and that is what Farrago has always been about. Thumbs up to Jasper for taking on a contentious article and sticking by it. This magazine is made by students, for students, and we urge you to involve yourself in the campus debate—even when you disagree with us. Right of reply is an integral part of what we do. Our website, farragomagazine.com, now contains a “letters” subtab under the campus section. Email us your letters to the editor—whether it’s to point out an inaccuracy we’ve made, to tell us you absolutely frothed an article, or to rant about why you wholeheartedly disagreed with one. This being said—for fuck’s sake, don’t be a dick. Don’t send in or comment anything threatening, abusive or deliberately offensive. We want to involve you in the conversation, but our writers have as much of a right to speak on issues they care about as you do. We hope that you find Farrago critical, thought-provoking and subversive. If there’s a topic that we haven’t covered which you think we should, pitch it to us! Or, send us a tip-off if it’s something potentially newsworthy. We love our blessed educational institution, the University of Melbourne, but we’ve been gladly pointing out its wrongdoings for 93 years. Now let’s talk about edition three, what you’re really here for. In the campus section, ‘Unsafe Community’ (12) by Lucy Williams and Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal takes a critical look at the training that the University provides camp leaders. In important news, Valerie Ng talks to some Burnley students who are pissed off about the proposed cuts to their campus library in her article, ‘Crisis at Burnley’ (8). A monthly print magazine isn’t the most hospitable environment for the news cycle; you can find more (and more timely) campus news content on our website. In the nonfiction section, Trent Vu’s ‘Shit Job’ (26) is a hilarious personal essay on his experiences working in hospitality and retail. We’re mesmerised by Tilli Franks’ article ‘The Origins of Grief’ (42), an analysis of grief provoked by experiences in Sumner and Christchurch, New Zealand. In the creative section, ‘Bananas’ (58) by Annie Liew is for those who like prose but hate bananas. We’d also recommend Jocelyn Deane’s poetry about death, dinosaurs and molly (44 and 45). If you haven’t had a chance to check out the Triennial exhibition at NGV yet, Mega Safira has you covered with a spectacular photo essay (34). And if you’ve ever wanted to look inside your parents’ drawers but haven’t had the guts—Jean Baulch has done it for you (56). Thanks for picking up this small child of ours. We hope you love it, but if not—you know what to do. Ashleigh, Esther, Jesse and Monique.

BACKGROUND ART BY NICOLA DOBINSON AND EDITORIAL ART BY PHOTO BOOTH

COLLECTIVE

THE FARRAGO TEAM EDITORS

Ashleigh Barraclough Esther Le Couteur Monique O’Rafferty Jesse Paris-Jourdan

CONTRIBUTORS

Harry Baker Daniel Beratis Alston Chu Noni Cole Amelia Costigan Michael Davies Jocelyn Deane Alejandro Del Castillo Kareena Dhaliwal Sarah Foley Rebecca Fowler Tilli Franks Saampras Ganesan Alex Greggery Elizabeth Haigh Esmé James Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal Joel Lee Annie Liew Maggy Liu MICHA Valerie Ng Alain Nguyen Monique O’Rafferty Jesse Paris-Jourdan Ruby Perryman Sophie Raphael Danielle Scrimshaw Alex Shermon A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni Chiara Situmorang Nicholas Sujecki Clare Taylor Nina Wang Lucy Williams Matthew Wojczys Trent Vu Stephanie Zhang Yan Zhuang

SUBEDITORS

James Agathos Kyra Agathos Kergen Angel Elle Atack Georgia Atkinson Harry Baker Daniel Beratis Rachael Booth Kasumi Borczyk Jessica Chen David Churack Noni Cole Nicole de Souza Alaina Dean Jocelyn Deane Katie Doherty Emma Ferris Abigail Fisher Belle Gill Jessica Hall Jessica Herne Kangli Hu Jenina Ibañez Esmé James An Jiang Annie Jiang Eleanor Kirk Ruby Kraner-Tucci Angela Le Tessa Marshall Alex McFadden Valerie Ng April Nougher-Dayhew Isa Pendragon Ruby Perryman Sarah Peters Lauren Powell Rhiannon Raphael Danielle Scrimshaw Elizabeth Seychell Chiara Situmorang Greer Sutherland Catherine Treloar Sophie Wallace Nina Wang Mark Yin Stephanie Zhang Yan Zhuang

GRAPHICS

Alexandra Burns Lief Chan Minnie Chantpakpimon Cathy Chen Bethany Cherry Renee de Vlugt Nicola Dobinson Rebecca Fowler Lincoln Glasby Ilsa Harun Carolyn Huane Lauren Hunter Ayonti Mahreen Huq Winnie Jiao Clara Cruz Jose Asher Karahasan Sharon Huang Liang Lisa Linton Hanna Liu Kira Martin Rachel Morley Amani Nasarudin Mega Safira Christina Schmidt Nellie Seale Poorniima Shanmugam Sophie Sun Dilpreet Taggar Meg Tully Medha Vernekar Dinh Vo Raymond Wu David Zeleznikow-Johnston Qun Zhang

Ilsa Harun

COLUMNISTS

Nour Altoukhi Katie Doherty James Gordon Neala Guo (online) Ilsa Harun Kaavya Jha Luke Macaronas Andie Moore Ashrita Ramamurthy (online) Veera Ramayah Morgan-Lee Snell Ailsa Traves (online) Trent Vu

SOCIAL MEDIA

Zoe Alford Ilsa Harun Richard Hinman Jack Langan Angela Le Annie Liew Christopher Hon Sum Ling Alex McFadden Lara Navarro Lauren Powell Jade Smith

COVER

Farrago is the student magazine of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU), produced by the media department. Farrago is published by the general secretary of UMSU, Daniel Beratis. The views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of UMSU, the printers or the editors. Farrago is printed by Printgraphics, care of our guardian angel, Nigel Quirk. All writing and artwork remains the property of the creators. This collection is © Farrago and Farrago reserves the right to republish material in any format.

NEWS

NEWS IN BRIEF

MORE! FUN One of the major tickets in the student elections, More!, has elected its organisers for 2018. The organisers are Alston Chu, Isa Pendragon, Joshua Bruni and Yan Zhuang.

BYE ROWDY TABLE Say goodbye to the “do not study” table in the Rowden White Library, which is going back to the University after helping students relax for 50 years. LOCKED OUT Student media has been locked out out of the federal budget media lock-up once again. Farrago sent reporters to Canberra for the lock-up in 2015 and 2016, but our application was denied in 2017 due to “space restrictions”. Treasury is using the same reasoning again this year.

SIF RELEASED The University of Melbourne released its Sustainable Investment Framework (SIF) on 28 March, outlining the University’s approach to sustainability in its investment portfolios and processes. The SIF established that the University will not be be adopting a “strict exclusion approach” from investing in the fossil fuel industry, citing concerns around “financial strength”.

THE FUTURE IS NOW The University has launched an autonomous mini shuttle bus, which students and staff will be able to use for research into transport solutions.

CARLTON CONNECT The University will demolish the old Royal Women’s Hospital, which it purchased in 2012, to create room for ”Australia’s leading innovation precinct”, Carlton Connect.

THE BURIED BILL The government tried to pass the Higher Education Support Legislation Amendment (Student Loan Sustainability) Bill 2018 on the last sitting week of parliament. The bill, which proposed cuts to the tertiary education sector, failed to pass in time, so now the cuts will likely be put in the federal budget to be released on 8 May. FOSSIL FREE On 22 March, students from Fossil Free Melbourne University hung up their dirty laundry outside the Raymond Priestley building to put pressure on the University to divest from fossil fuels. KPI CONFUSION The ANU Student Association drafted a letter to the National Union of Students (NUS) stating that they would not reaccredit to the national union if it fails to meet a set of key performance indicators (KPIs). The letter was purportedly signed by seven other student unions, including the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). However, UMSU President Desiree Cai had not even seen the letter, let alone signed it.

ART BY REBECCA FOWLER

APRIL/MAY CALENDAR

CAMPUS

WEEK EIGHT

WEEK NINE

WEEK TEN

WEEK ELEVEN

MONDAY 23 APRIL

MONDAY 30 APRIL

MONDAY 7 MAY

MONDAY 14 MAY

Stress less week

TUESDAY 24 APRIL

TUESDAY 1 MAY

TUESDAY 8 MAY

TUESDAY 15 MAY

12pm: Women of Colour collective 1pm: Trans collective 4:15pm: Disabilities—anxietysupport group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga

12pm: Women of Colour collective 12:30pm: UMSU AGM 1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Activities—Bec Sandridge + BBQ 4:15pm: Disabilities—anxietysupport group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga

12pm: Women of Colour collective 1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Activities—The Avenue + BBQ 4:15pm: Disabilities—anxietysupport group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga

12pm: Women of Colour collective 1pm: Activities—130 + BBQ 1pm: Trans collective 4:15pm: Disabilities—anxietysupport group 5:30pm: Welfare—yoga Stress less week

WEDNESDAY 25 APRIL

WEDNESDAY 2 MAY

WEDNESDAY 9 MAY

WEDNESDAY 16 MAY

12pm: Women’s collective 1pm: Lunch with the queer bunch

All day: queer study group Stress less week

THURSDAY 26 APRIL

THURSDAY 3 MAY

THURSDAY 10 MAY

THURSDAY 17 MAY

12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Activities—Angie McMahon + BBQ 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective 1pm: Transfemme collective 4pm: Crafts, beer and queer

12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective

12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective 1pm: Transfemme collective

12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Arts collective 1pm: Disabilities collective

Stress less week

FRIDAY 27 APRIL

FRIDAY 4 MAY

FRIDAY 11 MAY

FRIDAY 18 MAY

Stress less week

ART BY REBECCA FOWLER

ART BY RACHEL MORLEY

NEWS

THE UNFAIR UNIVERSITY ID CARD NONI COLE AND RUBY PERRYMAN ON PROBLEMS ID CARDS POSE FOR GENDER-DIVERSE STUDENTS

he University of Melbourne’s administrative system requires a student’s name to be changed legally before it can be changed on their ID card, placing a financial burden on gender diverse students. This is because the University does not have a secondary system alongside their legal database that supports genderdiverse students by recording their preferred name. The current system does allow a preferred name to be listed. However, according to University of Melbourne Student Union’s queer office bearers Elinor Mills and Amelia Reeves, University staff often ignore the listed “preferred name”. “While this is obviously a nuanced issue, this policy hurts transgender students, who must choose between the expensive hassle of a legal name change or being regularly deadnamed on campus,” said Mills and Reeves. Deadnaming means referring to a gender-diverse person by the name they were assigned at birth, if they have taken a new name. While some students may be eligible for a free replacement passport with a new name after gender transition, they must present a Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages change of name certificate to receive it. It costs $106.10 for a Victorian adult to change the name on their birth certificate. This cost may be higher for international or interstate students. Many students, such as Alex McFadden, cannot afford to undergo this process, yet face regular distress due to the name on their ID card.

“I haven’t been able to legally change my name because of the associated costs. I have to save money to pay for exchange,” McFadden said. “My deadname is everywhere because of my ID card, and not only do I have to look at it but lots of other people get to see. My ID card currently has a piece of paper stuck to it to cover my deadname, but those who don’t know me don’t allow this as identification.” This issue extends to all University services including medical and counselling. “I went to the crisis councillor to speak about an issue. First, I was deadnamed. Second, I had to explain to them what non-binary was.” The University said that despite the complex nature of student ID cards and formal documentation, “The University of Melbourne supports gender diversity.” “However, as the student card is effectively an official document, which is also used to apply for PTV concession cards, credit cards and other forms of identity checking, the University is required to record it exactly in line with identity documentation. This is also important as a strategy to combat identity fraud.” Mills and Reeves had a different opinion. “The real fix would be to simply trust transgender students. We aren’t trying to pull a fast one on the University, we just want to be referred to by our own names without jumping through hoops.”

STUDENT IMPACT COMMITTEE LAUNCHES

LUCY WILLIAMS TAKES A CRITICAL LOOK AT THE UNIVERSITY’S NEW PHILANTHROPY INITIATIVE

he University is launching the brand new Student Impact Committee to help student volunteers understand philanthropy and its impact on the University of Melbourne community. While this presents an opportunity for deeper student engagement, some students have criticised the lack of financial remuneration. University of Melbourne director of alumni and stakeholder relations, Dr James Allan, says these roles will be on a voluntary basis. “We’re looking for people who want to make a difference to the community around them, while learning new skills that will help them in their future careers,” Allan said. Allan explains that the Student Impact Committee will provide support and professional development to students alongside valuable skills in negotiation, project management, fundraising and public relations, in addition to the connections offered through the program. The committee will try to communicate the opportunities philanthropy has afforded the University, deepen the student body’s understanding of its impact, and consult students regarding the future philanthropy within the community. This is loosely based upon previous programs such as Student Appeal which was run by students who collected funds for those in need within the University. “Like most universities, the University of Melbourne has an Advancement team who are tasked with engaging our alumni and friends in the work of the University, including seeking support in the form of financial donations,” Allan explained. Edmund Kwong, who worked with Student Appeal for five years before co-chairing the project in 2013, similarly outlined the roles and differences between student volunteers and the University’s paid staff. “The program itself was a leadership program involving managing teams and raising funds, and was purely voluntary,”

Kwong said. Desi Soetanto, who co-chaired Student Appeal from 2014 to 2015, explained that the appeal was one of her university highlights. “The fact that we were able to empower the lives of those who are less fortunate was a really rewarding experience,” Soetanto said, adding that the lack of payment was not an issue for her. Despite these positive experiences, a former student, who wishes to remain anonymous, raised concerns that this opportunity mirrors the growing trend of unpaid internships. The student, who has worked for the University, said that proper compensation for students can be beneficial for campaign marketing. “The University can say with pride that they are training students, and properly compensating them because it recognises the benefits this compensation can have for student welfare and career opportunities in the future,” the student explained. Conor Clements, University of Melbourne Student Union education (public) officer, said this program is “fundamentally less accessible for students with a lower socio-economic background”. “I’m not opposed to volunteering in principle; there are a wide range of things that can be achieved through volunteering, and I think it can be a great source of pride in communities, but when the University are paying senior staff as much money as they have and continue to do, I consider it ridiculous that students in these roles aren’t going to be paid for their services,” Clements said. “If you help reduce barriers to such opportunities for poorer students, they will likely be the ones working harder to support the cause because they know how much impact even a small amount of support can have on one’s livelihood.”

NEWS

BATMAN IS REDDY FOR GEDDY

ALAIN NGUYEN BRINGS YOU THE RESULTS

abor’s Ged Kearney has won a close by-election in Melbourne’s electorate of Batman, beating out Greens candidate Alex Bhathal in a seat that many predicted Labor would lose. Kearney defeated Bhathal with 54.43 per cent of the twocandidate-preferred vote, compared to Bhathal’s 45.57 per cent, which accounts for an overall swing of 3.4 per cent to Labor. The race stretched from Thornbury to Bundoora, with voters traditionally divided by the Bell Street demarcation, with the Greens doing well in the south and Labor doing strong in the north. This was especially true with the key polling booth of Northcote recording over 58.7 per cent primary votes to the Greens but at the expense of a six per cent swing to Labor. However, Labor saw a swing against itself in its traditional areas of Bundoora and Reservoir. Labor faced an uphill battle to retain a seat marred by controversy and only one per cent swing against them would have seen Bhathal elected. Indeed, Labor’s narrow victory during the 2016 election was the result of Liberal preferences flowing to them and a retention of strong areas such as Reservoir and Bundoora. However, the Liberals decided not to field a candidate for the by-election which may have affected the turnout. Bhathal officially conceded the election for the Greens at approximately 9:30pm on 17 March, the night of the election. “Regardless of the outcome we will have strong progressive woman representing us in this seat and I wish Ged all the very best in Canberra,” she said. Yet, Labor’s victory may be short-lived. The electorate is set to showdown once again with draft redistributions in 2018 by the Australian Electoral Commission showing Labor’s margin in 2016 being reduced to under one per cent. Despite gaining Labor-leaning areas such as Coburg North, the party has lost its traditional stronghold of Bundoora which has been subsumed by other electorates. Meanwhile, the Greens will enhance their momentum by gaining a larger threshold west of Clifton Hill. It will be interesting to see if Kearney’s victory will be replicated in the next federal election or there might be an upset brewing in a once Labor bastion.

PHOTO BY MEDHA VERNEKAR

CRISIS AT BURNLEY

VALERIE NG ON THE BURNLEY LIBRARY CUTS

he University library is planning on cutting working hours for Burnley library staff, drawing backlash from the Burnley Student Association (BSA). Following negotiations, the University and Burnley library staff have compromised by providing increased student access hours. The proposal stands to come into effect in semester two, giving librarians hours of 1pm to 5pm on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and 1pm to 6pm on Tuesday and Thursday, and swipe card access for staff and students from 8am to 9pm, from Monday to Friday. The BSA has launched a petition to fight the library cuts and is working with the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) to contact old alumni and raise awareness. “It’s the BSA’s position that out of hours access is insufficient because it leads to theft and loss of tracking,” said BSA Campus Coordinator James Barclay. “Librarians are more than just a bookkeeper … they are essential in helping students find what they need and also guide and study.” The University explained the cuts as a response to steadily tightening staffing resources and a decline in loans and service desk enquiries at Burnley Library in recent years. According to a University spokesperson, the current proposal is expected “to continue to meet the demand of students”. However, Barclay personally condemned these changes as “cutting into the resources to ultimately squash a campus that is otherwise seen as a liability”, and described the University as “more focused on making money than about providing quality education”. BSA Advocacy Officer Charlotte Bartlett-Wynne added that the number of loans do not reflect the number of people using the books, and that students “won’t actually be able to access most of the library” during the swipe card access hours. Bartlett-Wynne highlighted the importance of longer library access. “A lot of [students] have class for a lot of the day … and a lot of the books are really big and heavy, and so taking them home would be a problem for people who ride here, who take public transport,” she said. The National Tertiary Education Union is also against the changes, with Melbourne Branch President Steve Adams describing the proposal as “a further diminishment of the services available to students and another step backwards”. This isn’t the first time that the University has proposed cuts to Burnley library hours. In 2015, the University reduced Burnley librarians following their Business Improvement Plan, and sought to cut opening hours. Due to student backlash, the proposal was abandoned.

CONTENT WARNING: MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT AND SEXUAL HARASSMENT

NEWS

MIXED FEELINGS OVER RESPECT AND DIVERSITY WEEK T

YAN ZHUANG AND AMELIA COSTIGAN REPORT

he University of Melbourne’s decision to combine Respect Week and Diversity Week this year has garnered mixed reactions from students. In 2018, the once separate Diversity and Respect weeks ran in conjunction, from 19 to 23 March. In light of a renewed spotlight on sexual harassment and assault at universities nationwide, some students view the decision as a diminishment of this issue, given that Respect Week has historically been one of the University’s main platforms to raise awareness about sexual harassment and assault on campus. The University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) women’s officer, Kareena Dhaliwal, believes that the merging of the weeks is a natural consequence of combining two distinct, but related issues. “Just naturally when you put these issues together, everything you’re talking about has less time focused specifically on it,” she said. Respect Week, now in its third year, was conceived as a way to “promote the University’s policies and support structure around allegations of sexual harassment and assault”, forming part of the nationwide “Respect. Now. Always.” campaign by Universities Australia. In regards to the events the week has dedicated to raising awareness about these issues this year, Dhaliwal said “they are sort of getting lost in all the rest of this.” Some students have expressed similar thoughts. “In light of last year’s data about sexual assault and harassment it seems like a bit of a move backwards, considering that when that data came out there was such an uproar about it,” said Chloe Hunt, a second year arts student. Natasha Guglielmino, a third year environments student, echoes these sentiments. “This seems like a weird move, especially since sexual harassment and assault has been in the news a lot and is a really current topic. It just seems really tone deaf.” According to University documents, the move to combine Respect Week and Diversity Week aligned with discussions about how to “broaden the tolerance and inclusivity message [of Respect Week], without detracting from the core focus on sexual assault and harassment which will remain the main priority.” Whether this has been achieved is debatable.

In 2017, the Respect Week program included talks on domestic violence, workshops about consent, and the UMSU women’s department hosted a screening of The Hunting Ground—a documentary about sexual assault on college campuses in the United States. In contrast, this year there were only two events on the Respect Week calendar that related to sexual harassment and assault: a workshop on bystander intervention, and a workshop on staying safe on public transport. The week’s other events had a broader focus—events included “LGBTIQ People with Disabilities in Education and Beyond”, a live stream of the First National Virtual Disabilities Conference and “International Friendshipping Lunch”. While these events undoubtedly focus on important issues, they can be seen as emblematic of the shoehorning of various related but distinct issues of representation into one single week. This broad week, with vast and far-reaching aims, struggles to articulate its distinct place beyond the University’s yearround emphasis on a harmonious and inclusive community. “It’s like, what kind of ‘Diversity’? Because that can be a lot of things,” said Dhaliwal. Richard James, deputy vice-chancellor and chair of the Respect Taskforce defends the decision. “The whole principle of Respect Week is to recognise we have to have a tolerant and diverse community that is imbued with respect for difference. So it’s a very natural alignment, from my point of view.” Elizabeth Capp, Director of Students and Equity, says it is also an issue of practicality. “This year’s timing was chosen based on (1), our need to get the Respect message out as early as possible in semester and (2), taking advantage of the synergies that are evident between Respect Week and Diversity Week.” However, while the University did email students about Respect Week and Diversity Week in advance, some remain unclear about the message of the weeks and the events available to them. “I only knew it existed about an hour ago,” said Chloe Hunt, on the Monday afternoon of Respect and Diversity Week. “If I’d heard more about it I would be more interested in it, but considering I just heard about it today I probably won’t get involved.”

ART BY MINNIE CHANTPAKPIMON

NEWS

STAFF INDUSTRY ACTION LOOMS AS NTEU NEGOTATIONS STALL S

NURUL JUHRIA BINTE KAMAL REPORTS

taff at the University of Melbourne have begun the process of commencing industrial action, due to slow-moving negotiations regarding conditions of work with the University. Led by the National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU), this development is supported by a larger trend of dissatisfied higher education staff, as shown by a recent survey released by the NTEU. On 21 March, staff members at an NTEU meeting unanimously voted to conduct a Protected Action Ballot (PAB): a survey which assesses the interest of professional and academic staff in conducting industrial action, potentially leading to this outcome. This was a result of a mid-February meeting between the NTEU and the University, which concerned negotiations for a revised enterprise agreement for staff. An enterprise agreement is a formal agreement between University employees and management regarding the terms and conditions of their work. Since the PAB has been proposed, much more progress has been made at the bargaining table with the University, including productive negotiations around parental leave, domestic violence leave and gaining more secure employment for research staff. However, progress for the agreement is no closer to nearing the end, with negotiations now hitting its thirteenth month. Only 19 out of 103 clauses have been reached, none of which include the NTEU’s key clauses of increasing academic and intellectual freedom and having a set of employment targets for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander staff. The University intends on having two separate enterprise agreements, one for professional staff and one for academic. In an unlisted YouTube video, Vice-Chancellor Glyn Davis states that a “one-size-fits-all approach” is no longer “sensible today”, and that “academic staff need their own enterprise agreement, reflecting their particular strengths and needs and interests”. This action is unprecedented, and may result in varying pays for different staff, possibly leading to pay cuts and different working conditions. “[Staff] tell us [poor working conditions] impact negatively on their mental health and capacity to do their jobs well,” said Sara Brocklesby, branch secretary for NTEU at the University of Melbourne. “Many staff will put students’ needs before their own because they’re passionate about [their] education. It’s very frustrating when things like excessive workloads get in the way.” The NTEU released their biennial State of The Uni Survey

in late January this year, which profiles staff attitudes on employment conditions and workplace cultures within Australian universities. According to survey results, which received 1,199 UniMelb staff respondents, roughly half of higher education staff felt that they could maintain a work-life balance and manage their workloads. 18.5 per cent of academic staff found senior management satisfactory, and 50.3 per cent felt as though they were valued at their respective institutions. 84 per cent supported the statement that “job security is important if intellectual freedom is to be protected”, and 36 per cent of staff felt secure about their job. 84.1 per cent agreed that the quality of education has been reduced due to the pressure on universities to make money. Negotiations with the University will continue as the PAB is conducted. WHAT IS INDUSTRIAL ACTION? Think of it as a strike against the University. The staff may not completely abandon their work and start picketing, but it could be a possibility while the enterprise agreement is negotiated. On the NTEU’s “how to vote yes” card, the union has listed voting yes to actions such as stopping work for the University from between five minutes and 24 hours, and to a ban on transmitting student results to employers, working overtime, participating in University events and doing work on a smart phone. HOW IT MAY AFFECT YOU. Obviously, if professors and lecturers are missing in action it immediately affects students, though you can expect to receive notice if industrial action occurs. Should industrial action be voted down by NTEU members, here’s a quick rundown of the possible consequences of implementing the University’s proposed enterprise agreements. Firstly, there will potentially be unlimited sizes for tutorials and lectures, meaning “reduced access for students to teaching staff, and an overall poorer educational experience,” said Sarah Brocklesby of NTEU. Secondly, with fixed academic hours, staff may be required to work unpaid during peak assessment periods, or be unavailable to assist students outside of working hours. Finally, the cultural diversity of the University may possibly be compromised, as set targets for employing Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander staff will potentially be removed.

ART BY MINNIE CHANTPAKPIMON

DEGREE IN PRESTIGE—IS IT WORTH IT? MAGGY LIU ASSESSES WHAT UNIVERSITY RANKINGS ACTUALLY MEAN

n 2015, Excellence in Research for Australia found that over fifty disciplines at the University of Melbourne produced research that was “well above world standard.” This is a source of pride for the University, a fact they are more than eager to share with staff and students on their website. A less advertised tidbit of information, however, is that the University of Melbourne is having far less impressive results in surveys of its student support and teaching quality in the Good Universities Guide’s independent annual survey. Universities like the University of Sunshine Coast and the University of Wollongong are earning five-star ratings from graduate students in these categories, putting them in the top 20 per cent of Australian universities for student support and teaching quality. Meanwhile, Melbourne can be found closer to the bottom of the list for student support, fighting for last place with the University of Sydney with just 63.5 per cent of Melbourne University graduates giving the University positive reports for student support. Anna*, a third-year Bachelor of Arts student majoring in psychology, is not surprised about the University’s rankings. “The majority of the lecturers I have encountered in the past two years seemed very unpassionate about their job. I could not help falling asleep in every lecture, because it very hard to understand what the lecturers were talking about.” She was one of many students who were drawn to study at the University of Melbourne because of the prestige surrounding the University. In her year of admission, the University was ranked #33 in the Times Higher Education (THE) world rankings. In 2018, the University’s ranking has risen to #32, but what does that actually mean? If we refer to THE’s methodology, teaching only accounts for 30 per cent of what makes a university the “best” in the world, even less if we considered the relevance of all the subsections within teaching. On the other hand, a huge proportion of the score (60 per cent) is determined by the quality of research conducted at the University. Whilst producing influential research is definitely a key factor in assessing higher education institutes, and one our University is happy to market itself on, prospective students who want to graduate with a bachelor’s degree and transition into the workforce do not always gain additional value from this. Based off her experiences, Anna believes that “the bachelor’s degree at UniMelb does not provide enough knowledge for students to enter the workforce upon graduation.” Her views are backed by how the University fares in the Quality Indicators for Learning and Teaching (QILT), which, like the Good Universities Guide, is based entirely on the first-hand experience of graduates.

The University of Melbourne, when compared to our neighbouring universities, fared worse than Deakin, Swinburne and Monash in terms of overall quality of educational experience as well as graduate satisfaction, receiving scores under the national average in both cases. Dissatisfaction from graduates can perhaps be partially attributed to the University’s Melbourne Model, introduced in 2008, which encourages students to complete a broad undergraduate degree followed by more specialised graduate study. Under the model, undergraduate study is regarded as an opportunity for experimentation with a wide range of subject areas and disciplines, rather than purely a vehicle for gaining entrance to the workplace. While the reduced focus on graduate employability is off-putting for some, other students relish the opportunity for broad study. Third-year mechanical engineering student Hans Gao feels like his undergraduate degree has definitely been worth it. “The opportunities to study subject areas outside of my chosen field is something I really appreciate ... although I am studying engineering, I also have a passion for languages and the more arts based knowledge areas.” He enjoys filling his timetable with an eclectic selection of breadth subjects, dabbling in areas spanning phonetics, dance, French and pure mathematics. With that being said, he does admit that “sometimes you do indeed get lecturers and tutors who, although extremely knowledgeable in their field, are not able to relate to a student’s questions and problems.” Whether you agree with the results or not, something is clearly not adding up between our high scores on world level rankings, bolstered by research projects, and our abysmal results when it comes to satisfaction with University teaching as determined by authentic student voices. Finally, another factor to consider when weighing up tertiary degrees is that it is not just students who buy into the prestige of a Melbourne Uni degree. According to research by the Grattan Institute in 2016, differences in graduate income are influenced by what university you attended. “Differences among universities may not be directly due to teaching quality. Employers may simply believe, rightly or wrongly, that graduates from some universities are better than others, and favour them in job recruitment.” Although, in the same research paper it is noted that gender and degree type were both more influential factors in determining the earning potential of graduates. Ultimately, there is nothing wrong with consulting rankings when considering what university to attend, however it is important to consider how the ranking is determined and whether it is relevant to you and what you want to get out of your degree. *Name changed for privacy reasons

NEWS

CONTENT WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT AND SEXUAL HARASSMENT

UNSAFE COMMUNITY LUCY WILLIAMS AND NURUL JUHRIA BINTE KAMAL LOOK AT THE UNIVERSITY TRAINING SESSIONS WHICH LEFT SOME STUDENT LEADERS “SHOCKED AND CONFUSED”

f you were a camp leader and a student approached you to say that they had a non-consensual sexual experience with another student on the camp, what would you do? If they said that they were very drunk and had spent much of the evening passed out? If they requested the perpetrator be sent home from the camp, as they no longer felt safe knowing that they were there? What would you do? Every year, student leaders from University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) clubs and societies are required to undertake a compulsory training session, conducted by the University’s Safer Community Program (SCP). This training is held to educate student leaders on how to ensure University camps are safe for all participants, and how to respond to emergencies and situations that could put students in danger. The leaders are put into groups and given hypothetical scenarios, on which they work together to formulate a response and action plan. At this year’s training, the leaders were presented with a scenario: a female camp-goer has approached them to report that she had been sexually assaulted by another student at a party the night before. Many of the training groups proposed that they send the alleged perpetrator home, or that they would conduct their own investigation into the assault. The SCP, the governing body responsible for dealing with sexual harassment, discrimination and bullying at the University, instead recommended that student leaders were not to take any action. Leaders were advised to offer the hypothetical victim emotional support, information on where they could lodge a report and the option to leave the camp. The reason for this, SCP trainers suggested, was to spare the

University any liability should the alleged perpetrator find their treatment discriminatory. Jordan Tochner, events coordinator for the Melbourne Arts Student Society (M-ASS), attended the session and said it left her “shocked and confused”. “I was shocked that Safer Communities was acting as a mouthpiece for the University,” she said. Tochner expressed fear that these methods were being taught to every student leader involved in the annual camps. “It felt like they were just giving away liability,” she added. A University of Melbourne spokesperson assured that the issue is one they take seriously, stating that “sexual assault and sexual harassment are unacceptable at the University of Melbourne and anywhere else”. “The nature of the interactive scenarios used during training are complex,” the spokesperson explained. “Group discussion encourages participants to consider issues around the victim’s safety and wellbeing, as well as the importance of procedural fairness and natural justice if camp leaders are made aware of incidents”. This view of the leadership training process did not mirror the sentiment expressed by the students Farrago spoke to, who felt that more should be done to assist campers in such situations. A former club executive, Mary*, who attended last year’s training, also found it to be unsatisfactory. “The welfare training definitely fell short when it came to sexual assault,” she said. While the University’s spokesperson maintained that “camp leaders always have the option to ask a student to leave if their behaviour is judged to be inappropriate or presents a risk to others,” this did not appear to be consistent with what students had experienced.

ART BY QUN ZHANG

CAMPUS

“Older students were told that reporting of sexual assault was the responsibility of the victim and the victim alone,” Mary continued. “Furthermore, it felt like the University was covering its own behind when it came to dealing with the issue, rather than looking out for the wellbeing of students that fall victim.” With the issue of sexual assault becoming increasingly prevalent across Australian university campuses, it has become ever more important for the University of Melbourne to take a strong stance on the matter. According to a report originally undertaken by The Australian Human Rights Commission (AHRC) and Universities Australia in 2017—which was then summarised by the University of Melbourne—sexual harassment and sexual assault occurred most frequently in residential settings, which includes camps and colleges. While the report indicated that the SCP has been making positive progress, there is still much to be done. The SCP has planned future actions, including increasing awareness of the problem, improving student leadership training, increasing the confidence of students to come forward and finding ways to better respond to allegations by the institution. But beyond the issue of sexual assault, students made it clear that they had other misgivings with the leadership training program. Jane*, who attended this year’s training, described what she perceived to be other flaws in the program. “In the future, they really need to improve upon their conversations around disability and mental health, and the assumption that everyone on a camp is going to be fully able, while also treating the conversations around sexual assault with greater sensitivity,” she said. Jane recalled how, in 2017, student leaders were ill-prepared to assist a disabled participant on a camp because of a lack of comprehensive training. Even after this experience, she felt that there were no improvements made to the training for 2018.

Student leaders were also underprepared to deal with mental health issues and were not given sufficient training to deal with any problems. During camps, other than creating a physical “safe space” where participants could go to take a breather, nothing else was done to make it more comfortable for them. However, Mary suggested that the training in 2017 covered mild mental health issues well, adding that it was “relatively understandable that further issues arising from mental health weren’t dealt with, considering how differently each person’s mental health can manifest itself”. Aside from the lack of proper treatments for mental health and sexual assault situations, Tochner brought up that the trainings fell short on handling cases of intoxication as well. During the training sessions, student leaders were advised to call an ambulance when participants were drunk, rather than equipping them with the kind of first aid advice needed to immediately deal with such situations. Students felt this was too idealistic and given the frequency of such alcohol-related incidents, there should be more practical ways to assist campgoers in crisis. Ultimately, Jane felt that the training “focused more on the idea that clubs need to be protected from members doing bad things, rather than protecting students”. More than ever, it was important that the University take a strong stance in holding perpetrators accountable, acting in a sensitive and consistent manner, and making the training for student leaders as effective as possible to prevent this happening to students in the future. *Names have been changed due to privacy reasons If you or a friend have had an experience with sexual assault you can contact CASA’s sexual assault crisis hotline on 1800 806 292 (free call). You can find more resources at https://umsu.unimelb.edu.au/ support/survivors/

ART BY QUN ZHANG

NEWS

CAPS TO MAKE BIG CHANGES THIS YEAR STEPHANIE ZHANG ON THE UNIVERSITY’S COUNSELLING AND PSYCHOLOGICAL SERVICES

he University of Melbourne’s Counselling and Psychological Services (CAPS) is making changes this year in order to accommodate increasing demand. Students have criticised CAPS in the past for the excessive wait times. CAPS has implemented a new intake system this year where students can access initial consultations that are bookable on the day or one day prior in order to increase access for students with urgent issues. This comes after sustained dissatisfaction about waiting periods in previous years. The new system is a replacement for the daily drop-in system. “The issue is people will book two weeks ahead, but 10 per cent of those people don’t attend,” said Orania Tokatlidis, the manager of CAPS. “Part of this is that we hope we won’t get so many missed appointments.” CAPS is focusing on improving access into the service, but Tokatlidis said, “Ultimately though, you need more resources. All the services are in demand and we’re just trying to do things in an innovative way that works for people at the time.” Wait times have been a consistent concern. One student said they had to wait a month for their appointment after booking over the phone, and voiced concerns about the service’s inaccessibility for those who have urgent needs. Another student said they had to wait two to three weeks, which made applications to special consideration difficult. They found drop-in appointments to be inaccessible, causing undue anxiety as a session was not guaranteed on the day. They think the new system changes will make CAPS more efficient. The University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) welfare department echoes these concerns. Office bearers Cecilia Widjojo and Michael Aguilera said, “There have been complaints especially around week six of the semester, when there’s usually an influx as exams start to pick up, meaning that students may wait between three and four weeks for their first session.” They would like to negotiate with the University to allocating more funding towards CAPS. CAPS is also making other improvements. This year, the service is extending opening hours on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays by an hour until 6pm, as well as stationing a counsellor at Union House every Friday during the semester.

CAPS is also expanding its range of other services in an effort to improve broader help to students, like workshops, webinars and mental health training programs for students. It has employed new counsellors with specific portfolios for LGBTQ+ students, for neurodiverse students, and for responding to sexual assault for fast tracking external referrals. UMSU welfare is also planning to campaign for more resources to respond to the data about sexual assault at universities published by Universities Australia last year. “In the context of the Survey into Sexual Assault on Campus, we would like to lobby for a specialised counselling service to address the issue. Additionally we suggest improvements to the referral process between CAPS and Medicare’s Mental Health Plan, especially as the [University] cannot viably cater for long-term care,” they said. One student addressed concerns around providing resources for international students, given that they may need help settling into the country and external counselling can be more financially difficult. Students and UMSU welfare, as well as CAPS itself, are concerned about information not being advertised enough. UMSU welfare hoped to campaign for CAPS to employ a Mandarin-speaking counsellor for Chinese students, not realising that CAPS already employs one. Tokatlidis clarified that this is because they don’t want to advertise specific counsellors. “We don’t advertise, ‘come and speak to our Mandarin counsellor’, whilst not advertising every single skill and expertise of everyone else, because I just think that seems unfair on everyone. We just don’t want everyone ringing up like, ‘I just want to speak to that one person’.” Speaking of the service generally, Tokatlidis said that the CAPS website is the best place to obtain information, and that improvements will be made to it this year. But Widjojo does not believe this is enough. “There is room for improvement in the communication to students about the CAPS program—the available information can be hard to navigate and is often ambiguous. We think there are more effective means of delivering this information,” she said. Despite their criticisms, UMSU welfare expressed willingness to work with CAPS to increase visibility of information.

ART BY DINH VO

CAMPUS

GSA REFORMS FAIL TO PASS AT SGM T

MONIQUE O’RAFFERTY ON WHERE THE GRADUATE STUDENT ASSOCIATION GOES FROM HERE

he proposed governance changes to the Graduate Student Association’s (GSA) structure have failed after being put to a vote at their special general meeting (SGM) on 22 March. The meeting was attended by 151 graduate students, of whom 67 students voted up the constitutional reforms and 56 voted them down. “All enrolled graduate students were entitled to have their say on the proposal, and at the meeting, the new constitution was voted down. While the majority of students in attendance voted in favour of passing the resolutions, the required 75 per cent threshold needed to pass the constitution was unfortunately not met,” read a statement from the GSA in response to the failed constitutional changes. The GSA proposed these reforms after a governance review, paid for by a University Student Services and Amenities Fee grant of $112,702, found potential weaknesses within the organisation—such as an over-reliance on the CEO, and that the board of councillors were unskilled in governance and had a lack of capacity for long-term goals. The changes would have meant that the current governance system present at the GSA, in which a council of 15 elected graduate students govern the association, is replaced with a two-tiered system. The new proposed structure would split the the governance and representative roles by introducing a board of professionals from outside the University to “relieve student representatives of the pressures of governance”, according to a statement released by the GSA. Graduate student Emily Roberts, who is running on a ticket in the GSA election which supports the constitutional reforms, expressed mixed feelings about the changes. “[The changes] could have provided the GSA student representatives significantly more time to run events and campaigns which could benefit me and provide more ways to get involved, but there was a risk that an authoritative board and a complacent council could have potentially weakened the student voice,” she said. According to a statement from the GSA, the inaugural board was set to be comprised of four professionals and two students, with the seventh board member to be appointed after the SGM. Future board members would then be appointed via an appointments committee comprised of four persons, including a nominee by the vice-chancellor. “Ensuring that professionals are able to use their experience to appropriately scrutinise the CEO and internal matters means that students can be more confident in the operations of the GSA and that student reps can focus on what they do best: understanding what their fellow students need and lobbying the university to make it happen,” said graduate student Hannah Billett, who is also running on a ticket in the election which supports the constitutional reforms. “The SGM was a little frustrating because it seems like

some people came in with an agenda as opposed to wanting to participate in a discussion and listen to others.” The SGM’s proceedings included an issues list up for discussion, which indicated issues of constitution compliance, affirmative action, the appointments committee—specifically the vice-chancellor’s ability to nominate a member of the appointments committee—financial issues and an incident reported by Farrago in which a GSA council member offered students free beer to attend the SGM. A major issue raised by graduate student and former president of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU), Tyson Holloway-Clarke, was the nature of consultation. Attempts to reach out to the graduate student body were made through initial focus groups, but questions were raised about why other graduate groups and student organisations such as UMSU were not included in the discussion. Roberts was critical of the proceedings of the night. “The night was poorly run, it started late, considerably less time than was needed was permitted to answer questions and there wasn’t enough chairs for everyone present as well as no option for proxy voting. However, I did feel listened to and there was a decent amount of constructive dialogue and that the council displayed that they were committed to addressing students’ concerns,” she said. After the speaking list was cut short, it was evident that there were concerns surrounding affirmative action for women and free education. A memorandum of understanding was signed before the vote, in which the GSA agreed to change the constitution to reflect the current affirmative action clause, promote free and accessible government-funded education and have a majority of students on the proposed board. “The memorandum showed that council was willing to negotiate and work in good faith with those opposed to parts of the [proposed constitution] changes,” Billett told Farrago. Prior to the SGM, UMSU released a statement which was critical of the GSA’s proposed changes. The statement pointed out a number of issues with the new constitution, and advised students to “consider these changes and ask your own questions”. Despite this, UMSU President Desiree Cai told Farrago, “UMSU doesn’t have a particular view on the proposed structure, however it was good to see a lot of active engagement from graduate students with the process of change and the SGM, regardless of the result.” When asked what the future of the GSA will look like, and if the changes the to the constitution will continue to be pushed, GSA President Georgia Daly said, “The future of the constitutional changes is a matter for the new council.” “For the time being, everything will continue as normal at GSA”.

ART BY DILPREET TAGGAR

CAMPUS

OFFICE BEARER REPORTS PRESIDENT | DESIREE CAI Hey all, I hope you’ve been having a swell time as we head into the tail end of this semester. If you haven’t gotten involved yet (what are you doing!), take the time to pop down and get involved with UMSU, whether that be by attending one of our weekly Bands, Bevs and BBQs, or getting involved with one of our department collectives. All the departments have been hectically organising events for all of you throughout the semester, so take the opportunity now to attend one if you haven’t had the chance to yet. As always, if you need any support, UMSU has your back, whether that be through your student representatives, or the UMSU free advocacy & legal services.

GENERAL SECRETARY | DANIEL BERATIS We’re all hard at work making UMSU magic every day, and there’s plenty of ways you can get involved! Multiple working groups have begun, so if you’re in the mood for harm reduction, ethical sponsorship or policy frameworks, check them out on the UMSU Secretariat website! Students’ council is open to all students and continues to meet every fortnight to talk about issues that relate to you, so find out more about what your elected representatives are up to by signing up for the mailing list on the website or coming along to a meeting! And stay tuned for UMSU’s Annual General Meeting, which is only a couple of weeks away on 1 May at 12:30pm in North Court! Werk it.

ACTIVITIES | JORDAN TOCHNER AND ALEX FIELDEN

No OB report submitted.

BURNLEY | JAMES BARCLAY No OB report submitted.

CLUBS AND SOCIETIES | MATTHEW SIMKISS AND NELLIE SEALE

Clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs, clubs

CAMPUS

OFFICE BEARER REPORTS CREATIVE ARTS | FREYA MCGRATH AND ASHLEIGH MORRIS

The creative arts department has been having a beautiful, busy time facilitating art on campus. So far, we’ve held our first Pot Luck Open Mic Night, we’ve given away $2500 in arts grants to six amazing projects, gone on thought excursions through radical performance, artistic explorations in our arts collective, and learnt how to screen print! Coming up we’ve got our first “Talking Out of Your Arts” post-show Q&As and our crafty, boozy collaboration with the UMSU Queer department “Craft, Beer and Queer” on the 26th of April. Plus, our Life Drawing workshop, Grant round #2 and our next PLOM night on the 19th May. There’s so much creativity bubbling away, jump in and get amongst it!

DISABILITIES | JACINTA DOWE AND HIEN NGUYEN

As we march forward into April aka Autism Awareness Month, the disabilities department would like to remind everyone to support the Autism Network International and other autistic-run organisations, or just buy your local Autistic Person an ice cream or a small puppy. Autism is not a disease and you don’t need to cure it! Remember, Autism Speaks more like You Suck and Your Rhetoric is Extremally Damaging. Come to our event on 7 June—all about autism and relationships, how to communicate and understand one another across a neurodivide. New event Collective Launch! Mental Wellness Collective is a bi-weekly event for celebrating neurodiversity and supporting students with mental illness. Friends and supporters welcome! We have free food and useful resources.

EDUCATION (ACADEMIC) | ALICE SMITH AND TOBY SILCOCK

We mightn’t be the funnest department, but we’re damn busy. ALL your lectures should be recorded. If one isn’t, head to umsu.unimelb.edu.au/ support/eduacademic/report-an-unrecorded-lecture/ . We’re designing a survey on Stop1, Academic Services, and Career Services. It’ll be your chance to provide honest feedback on how you think the Uni is actually doing with these basic services. Stay tuned. The Uni’s looking to replace LMS. They’ve launched a survey on what you want out of it. Do it. We also run a collective in Union House every Tuesday on odd weeks (week three, week five, etc) in Union House. This means a free lunch and a chance to chat with others about higher ed. Check the UMSU Calendar.

EDUCATION (PUBLIC) | CONOR CLEMENTS

Hopefully you’re all taking care of yourselves and not stressing too much about your classes, although you should be stressing about the release of the Federal Budget on what will hopefully one day be Australia Day (8 May), which will probably see more cuts to funding for universities. Aside from this mostly grim news, there’s more grim news! The University are looking to cut the staffed hours for the Burnley campus library to between four and five hours a day. We don’t think a lot about our friends at Burnley, but they’re a very unique campus that have faced some pretty horrible reductions in services over the last few years. If you’re as concerned as us, sign this: http://bit.ly/saveburnleylibrary

ENVIRONMENT | CALLUM SIMPSON AND LUCY TURTON

All around us right now, we’ve been seeing the effects of corporatisation on higher education. The University is tracking your biometrics with the CADMUS program, they’re inviting the weapons industry to work hand-in-hand with the engineering department, and they’re gutting student services for students from all backgrounds, despite students asking for their needs to be met. This is what we learnt about at Radical Education Week; that the practices of our educational and research institutions should be for social good not for profits of industry partners. It was a well-attended event and thanks to all who helped out and participated. #CapitalismIsCooked

CAMPUS

OFFICE BEARER REPORTS INDIGENOUS | ALEXANDRA HOHOI

No OB report submitted.

PEOPLE OF COLOUR | REEM FAIQ AND HIRUNI WALIMUNIGE

Members of the PoC community, welcome back from your well-deserved breaks! If you’re looking to break up the monotony of your return to studying and add some colour back into your life, we’ve got activities, both old and new, lined up for the coming weeks. As usual, film screenings, Collective and reading groups will be on weekly. To add to these, our new Anti-Racism workshops will be held weekly (check Facebook for details). These workshops will be hosted by Collective regulars and will feature an array of topics and themes. Make sure to also look out for the opening date for submissions to our magazine, Myriad. We’ll be looking for artists and writers to showcase their work.

QUEER | MILLY REEVES AND ELINOR MILLS

The queer department, our beautiful editors Morgan-Lee Snell, Katie Doherty, and Ruby Perryman, and our gorgeous team of subeditors have been busy as bees crafting CAMP magazine for you darling homos. We also launched our Queer Political Action Collective, running fortnightly this semester! Details are on our Facebook page if you want to get amongst it. On 26 April we’ve got our joint event with the creative arts department—Crafts, Beer, and Queer. Or, as we’ve been describing it, come drink booze on the Departments’ dime and do some fingerpainting. For the conscientious gays amongst you, stay tuned for updates about our end-of-semester study groups!

VCA | NICHOLAS LAM

After minimal prodding from our department, two NEW cafes have opened after Easter! If you haven’t already checked them out, there’s one in the theatre building, right next to the student lounge, and another by Elizabeth Murdoch (the big, old white one). As I understand it, the theatre building cafe will offer generally healthier food. In other news, Stress Less Week is coming up! If you have any ideas for us to help you de-stress, don’t hesitate to shout out to us! And don’t forget that our weekly BBQs and yoga classes will be going on all year! Check our FB page to keep updated.

WELFARE | MICHAEL AGUILERA AND CECILIA WIDJOJO

Howdy y’all! We have been busy this couple of weeks! We have our harm reduction working group going on! Apart from that, we have held volunteer bonding day where scavenger hunt and dinner were served. Also, breakfast bar which runs every day except Thursdays and breakfast BBQ every Thursdays are buzzing! Our yoga, meditation and zumba classes are going well. We have expanded food bank to Burnley campus recently! We have been in contact with Tenants Vic and counselling on campus as well. We are looking forward to plan Stress Less week on week 11! And if you want to volunteer with us, it is not too late! Visit our website at https://umsu.unimelb.edu.au/support/welfare/ for more info.

WOMEN’S | MOLLY WILLMOTT AND KAREENA DHALIWAL

Are you into activism and want to join the fight for safety on campus? We have Women’s Action Collective every fortnight, and we’re holding a screening of The Hunting Ground followed by a panel and discussion. Do you like writing and making art? Get involved in the Judy’s Punch Collective! Want free lunch and solidarity? There’s Women’s Collective and Women of Colour Collective every week, and Transfemme Collective every fortnight! Want to hear what it’s like for women and non-binary people working in different career areas? Come along to our Networking Nights! There’s something for everyone*! *everyone who is interested in these specific events

CONTENT WARNING: FASCISM, ANTI-SEMITISM, RACISM

POLITICS

IT’S NOT ENOUGH TO BE A NON-FASCIST ANDIE MOORE ON OUR OBLIGATION TO DEFEND SOCIETY

orry guys, the title says it. It’s no longer enough to be a non-fascist. In fact, it’s never been enough to be non-fascist. If we want to keep our democracy, save the marketplace of ideas from internal decay and permit the endurance of liberal freedoms in all corners of society, we have to be anti-fascist. Let me be clear: this does not mean punching conservatives or starting riots. This means that citizens who hope to never see fascism arise again have to commit to preventing this possibility. Because it is a very, very real possibility. I have been a Melbourne University student for three years now, and lived in Carlton for two of them. In this time alone, I have seen six different waves of fascist posterings. They included messages like “it’s okay to be white”, “no n*ggers, no dune coons, no sh*t skins”, signs in Google-Translated Chinese telling international students to go home, and others asserting that gays are 30 times more likely to be paedophiles. The fact that people can confidently turn up at campus and distribute blatant neo-Nazi propaganda says something about our complacency in a multicultural democracy, and naiveté about fascism’s violent tendencies. These messages aren’t harmless: the neo-nazis involved have threatened to kill queer students, harassed women who dared rip down their propaganda and, in the most recent incident, spat on a Jewish student and promoted holocaust denial. The fact that this event can be publicly questioned is problematic, because this radically shifts the political centre. If revising the holocaust becomes thinkable by the new far-right, then what about previous far-right positions? It is a subtle tactic of the far-right—pushing the boundaries of public discourse. By publicly broaching increasingly radical positions (like sterilising Muslims) formerly radical positions (like deporting Muslims) appear more moderate. The aim of fascists is to become palatable —to capitalise on democratic complacency by allowing authoritarianism to be rationalised within liberalism. It means utilising free speech rights to promote fundamentally irrational and ahistorical narratives, from the New World Order and Jewish banking conspiracies to fearmongering over white genocide and cultural Marxism, all while appealing to “common sense”, pseudoscience and modern rationality. The overarching idea is to use liberalism against itself, slowly pushing societies into fascism. Previous posters have embodied this practice. The idea that gays are more likely to assault children is not far from the idea that, by nature alone, children brought up by gay parents will be worse off than children from a nuclear family.

The statistics cited (which have been repeatedly repudiated) actually come from a centre-right journal, Quadrant, by an evangelical professor at Murdoch University. This tactic of inverting liberalism works both ways. Not only are fascists openly presenting their genocidal positions in some posters to attempt to radicalise conservative sceptics, they are also moderating their positions for public consumption. The leaflets proclaiming “It’s okay to be white” reformulate white pride and white supremacy as an appeal to equality. If you can be proud to be gay, to be black, to be Asian, why can I not be proud to be white? Yet behind this slogan lies a slippery slope into reactionary racial politics. Besides the obvious objection that Australian pride, British pride and American pride are all alive and well, the posters prove further problematic by acting as a “gateway” to a narrative of racial conflict which runs something like this: Why are you ashamed of being white? Is political correctness stopping you from feeling proud? Think of all that white people have done for the world—other races should be thankful! Really, they are bringing us down—we’ve given them so much and they still feel we owe them. And now we’re under attack, and the “elites” want you to be quiet and let the white race demise! Wouldn’t the world be better if it was just us whites? Such proven untruths perpetuate discourses that turn societies against themselves. Without constant scrutiny, the most basic ideas can become a weapon against our society and our institutions. When anti-fascists are out shutting down these problematic ideas, they are stopping this narrative from developing. It is fundamentally about the marketplace of ideas. Ideally, free discussion means debating ideas to find out what is true—contributing to a dialectic, a game of back-and-forth between opposing arguments who battle for power—the result being enlightenment and social progress. But a society progressing through the dialectics of free discussion cannot allow falsities to be accepted, or legitimise ideas which have no legitimacy—particularly fascist ones. Such a society must remember from where fascism derives and from which innocuous ideas it originates. This is Karl Popper’s paradox of tolerance—that for tolerant societies to survive, they must not tolerate the intolerant. This is a call to action—when fascists are mobilising on campus, you have to shut them down.They cannot be left to themselves. An enduring liberal society requires the participation of its members. And if we never want fascism to dominate again, we have to actively make this impossible.

ART BY CLARA CRUZ JOSE

BARD TIMES: PART THREE

JAMES GORDON PRESENTS: “A POOR MAN’S RIGHT IN THE LAW; ‘TWILL HARDLY COME OUT” It was 1578. William Shakespeare was 14 years old when he left school. Then he disappeared. Between 1578 and 1582, there is no documented evidence linking the bard to any job or location. Nobody knows what Shakespeare did in those years. Until now.

he tram (a large coach pulled by invisible horses) rattled up Swanson St to the sound of mykis (an odd chime in staccato bursts). Shakespeare was seated in an uncomfortable chair, gazing out the window as they passed RMIT and some mass perambulation. He shielded this view with a book of Ovid’s poetry. “Unum surripuisse pedem,” Shakespeare chuckled to himself. The eye of a nearby passenger slithered across to read the joke too and rolled in its own coil. It returned its gaze to a joke on a phone: “tag a mate who hasn’t been laid yet”. The bard marvelled how the obscure joke entertained the cultured mind. Abruptly, the strange coach halted and a large man stormed through the magical doors. Thick hair dwelt on his chin and crept up his cheeks and a lanyard hung around his neck. “Mykis! Show us your mykis!” Shakespeare’s head tilted. From his understanding a myki was but a noise. How could he show one a beeping sound? How, indeed, could one even possess a beeping sound? His face advertised his guilt and the hairy man’s pupils dilated. “Sir, can you show me your myki, please?” “Marry, music is for the masses, mine ignorance has me unable to harness that sound upon my belt.” “How is music relevant?” “The chime it makes, you fool.” “Sir, you need to have a valid myki card for every journey you take.” “What is a myki but a melody?” “It’s a card, sir! I’m going to need to take down your details.” “I apologise for my dim mind; I’m not learned in this field. A card, you say?” “Sir, what’s your address?” “England, but what perplexes me is the nature of thy demand for an examination.” “Sir, talking back to an authorised officer is a serious offence.” “Prithee, do not arrest a heart led by good meaning.” His fellow passengers were handing up their green little cards with confident smiles during this exchange, a loosely clad child leant against a green machine surreptitiously. How envy grew in Shakespeare’s heart that they could avoid such confusing demands. “I’m going to need your name and birthday.” “My name is William Shakespeare. I was born in the April of 1564.” A nearby woman chuckled and a smattering of other passengers pretended not to watch, their eyes flicking up and down, lips twitching. “Do you have any proof of identification on you, sir?”

The bard fell silent. A few days earlier, Shakespeare was walking in the Baillieu Library, rows of colours and words and ideas stretching to infinity. He tapped his finger on the corner of a dusty red book and peeled it out from the shelf. Upon leaving the building he was beckoned back by a noise, a wrinkled finger pointing. “Are you going to borrow that book?” “A reason most absurd to hold a book I plan not soon to read.” “But will you borrow it with your library card?” “Such a card I do not possess.” The finger relaxed and a knowing smile possessed the man’s wrinkled face. “You’re Shakespeare, aren’t you?” “Indeed.” “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. I’m supervising your English tutor, Dan, with his PhD. Or at least I was until it vanished.” “Right.” “Now technically you don’t have a library card, because you don’t have a birth certificate or VISA. Am I right?” “This is but a Platonion dialogue and I am the other saying nothing but yes.” The man nodded his head slowly and carefully, as if it were fragile and balancing, unattached to his neck. He grew a wide smile and his eyes sparkled. “Keep this between us, but I’m going to get you a student card. It’ll be our little secret, okay?” “O-kay”, he repeated the word, it was foreign and new, but it rolled off his tongue like a beautiful verse. The eyes of the authorised officer were now so narrow they were but slits in a money jar, piercing the bard’s daydream. “Indeed, I possess a student card.” He handed it up smiling and proud to resolve such a mess, now free of a fate that bedevilled his brow. “Thank you, Mr Shakespeare. You’ll receive a fine in a few days.” He smugly drew the words out and Shakespeare softened his sorrow with his newly learnt poem, muttering “o-kay”. The authorised officer shook his head, “You really are a piece of work, mate.” Then he left. Our bard sighed, possessed by such a joy of relief that descended and lingered in his gut. The invisible horses halted outside the university and the magical doors opened once more. Shakespeare walked out and towards another day, his Ovid swinging by his side.

ART BY CLARA CRUZ JOSE

THE GRUB

UNAVOIDABLE 8AM TUTORIAL JUST MAKES RESIDENTIAL COLLEGE STUDENT’S LIFE SO HARD A

ccording to sources, University College student Isabella Jonas’ quality of life has been severely diminished following her placement in an unavoidable tutorial at 8am. “I can’t believe it’s in the Spot!” groaned Jonas, upon realising that the early morning slot was the only one available. “That’s so fucking far, I’ll have to get up at like 7:15!” “If I want both a shower and a hot breakfast, I’ll have to either shower for only 15 minutes or only grab one round of bacon and eggs,” sobbed the depressed student, while simultaneously showing irritation that the infinite wi-fi network to which she had unlimited access was taking unusually long to process her UberEATS payment. “I paid 28K to have as much goddamn bacon and eggs as I want!”

When advised to perhaps get more sleep and wake up earlier, Jonas was described as “outraged at the insensitive comments”. “It’s not my fault that the 200-odd students my age with whom I can meaningfully interact with incredible ease collectively get smashed the night before!” cried Jonas, with the wide-eyed despondence of a child who arrived late to dinner and couldn’t get a second schnitzel. “I’m just a victim of unfortunate circumstances that have created my shitty situation.” At press time, Jonas was reportedly messaging one of her six college brunch group chats, stating that she would miss the next one because she was “so fkn broke fml.”

PHILOSOPHY STUDENT NOT UNEMPLOYED BUT “CHALLENGING NEOLIBERAL PARADIGMS” A

ndrew Wilkies has boldly challenged the economic world order by refusing to consider the possibility of employment. “If I got an offer, I wouldn’t take it—you think I want to be a wage slave?” he told Grub reporters. “More money is taken in wage theft than by criminal theft, did you know that? I can’t participate in that.” Twenty-three and living with his parents, Andrew has no intentions of participating in a workplace governed by capitalist exploitation. “We’re expected to work, bred from birth to work, that’s all the media and all the schools ever tell us,” he said. “Ever since I learnt about Chomsky’s notion of manufactured consent last semester, and saw that horrifying Four Corners report on the Panama Papers, I knew that I could have no part in that.”

With no plans to get a job, Andrew is hoping to sign enough GetUp! online petitions to provoke a global change in modern society. His mother, Jessica, has reservations about his radical attack on the bourgeois elite. “I think he’s just going through a phase. He barely leaves the house, he just attempts to build socialism on the internet with his friends and has a go at me every time I buy something that isn’t organic, ethically produced, fair trade, all that shit,” she said. “I wish he’d just get on with it like the rest of us.” Despite these concerns, Andrew remains steadfast in his life choice. “Until the Earth is soaked with the blood of the pigs and the proletariat rise up and reclaim the means of production, I refuse to surrender my Youth Allowance.”

ART BY CATHY CHEN

GHOSTING MY BIRTH GIVER A

A’BIDAH ZAID SHIRBEENI GHOSTS HER OWN MUM

hh, ghosting. The act of ending a relationship by suddenly ceasing all contact. A technique commonly employed by Tinder dates, it’s impossible to avoid in our tech-dependent world: at some point you will be the ghost or the ghosted. But what if we applied ghosting outside of romantic relationships? In the name of student journalism, I tried to answer this question by ghosting my own mother. Mum is what Parents Magazine would define as a helicopter parent. She hovers, is overprotective and won’t let me sit through a movie date without calling. I am not an expert ghoster. I can’t mentally, emotionally or physically stand not replying to a text. Would the anguish I was about to unleash on both mother and daughter be worth the social experiment? Day 1 12:15AM. “Hello?” 12:23AM. “Are you home?” 12:26AM. “Darling, let’s video call?” 12:45AM. “Hello darling!” 12:54AM. “Are you asleep?” To which I casually responded: “NEW NUMBER WHO DIS?” Although I always hoped that I would use this line on an ex, there was something very cruel in sending it to my birth giver. Only 40 minutes into the experiment, I already felt like the world’s worst daughter. “Ummi...” she replied. “Helloooooooooooo!” I left another incoming voice call unanswered. Ignoring Mum’s calls became difficult so I switched my phone off and tucked myself into bed. Day 2 Even though I was ghosting my mother, I could still communicate with other family members, right? However, it’s hard for my brothers and I to have a quick, quiet chat. What start as sweet hellos become little jokes and funny insults, and we end up in a rather heated argument. Upon hearing my brothers bicker, mum came bursting in: “IS THAT YOUR SISTER?” I took that as my cue to leave and hung up, rejecting her calls. She quickly crept into my Instagram DMs. “Good morning! It’s past noon here in sunny Singapore!” Day 3 The Instagram stalking continues.

“Hello darling!” “Are you out shopping?” She began watching my friends’ Instagram stories. When she realised I wasn’t responding, she attempted to lure me back from the dead by sending me pictures of my favourite foods. Cashew kernels. Mum and I loved chomping on them whilst cuddling on the sofa, usually accompanied by a horror movie or the latest gossip in my romantic life. Nasi lemak. A Malay fragrant rice dish cooked in coconut milk and pandan leaf, it’s a Singapore classic. Mum first introduced it to me when I was eight and I’ve loved it ever since. Sour airheads. Mum hates them. The fact that they were in her office meant only one thing—she desperately missed me. Despite my craving for an authentic Nasi lemak, her tricks didn’t work. I resisted. Day 4 By day four, my guilt had reached an all-time high. My brothers were commenting on how she wouldn’t stop moaning and moping. I woke up to not one, not two, but three selfies of my mum giving me puppy eyes and pouting. Attached were messages: “Darling, why are you ignoring me? :’(“, “I love you” and “Please reply me.” Day 5 I received an Instagram DM, three missed calls on WhatsApp, three more on FaceTime and another selfie of her with puppy dog eyes. I was itching to respond. My heart ached to see her so upset and I wanted desperately to put her out of her misery. My family were appalled that I could do such a thing to my dear mother. That day, I was bombarded with 20 text messages with excessive heart emojis. I couldn’t take it anymore. I replied: “I love you, I’m so sorry.” I confessed that I was ignoring her so I could write an article. Mum, being the most understanding person on Earth, told me that it was okay and that she loved me too. And just like that, the tears streamed down my face. Sensing that I was feeling upset and guilty, mum changed the subject: “I’m hungry, what should I have for breakfast? :p” Anyone who can ghost someone they supposedly love either has a heart as hard as rock or an acquired taste for guilt. Social experiments should be reserved for desperate singles on Married at First Sight. You can ghost the Deans and Davinas of this world, but don’t you ever, ever, ghost your mother.

ART BY LISA LINTON

NONFICTION

TRENT VU PRESENTS...

FODDER FEATURE: BRIT AND BOGAN T

here are some iconic duos that were just meant to go together. Spongebob and Patrick. Lizzie McGuire and Miranda Sanchez. Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. But a Brit and a Bogan? It sounds like the start of one of those “walked into a bar” jokes. And you’re probably thinking that I’m trying to fake you out, only to talk about how well Brit and Bogan co-hosts Ellen Mann and Jack Brooks (or “Bogan Jack”, as Ellen called him) get along and lived happily ever after in the magical land of Radio Fodder. Honey, I ain’t that clichéd. The best part of this interview was watching how they interacted with each other, as they poked fun and frequently called each other out. And while chatting with them, I realised that they were indeed on very different wavelengths. But I think this odd dynamic works perfectly for their show. After meeting through mutual friends, Ellen and Jack developed the idea for Brit and Bogan. Now in their third season on Radio Fodder, the two debate current issues from each week, offering their contrasting perspectives on different topic, sometimes stirring up a controversy along the way. A question I ask everyone: Who is your #1 queen of music? Jack: Does MIKA count? Me: I will take MIKA. Ellen: Amity Affliction. They’re a post-hardcore band. How did you come to have a show on Radio Fodder? Ellen: I thought, “Let’s do some extracurricular activities, so I’m not just dying.” And then I realised that I’m not interesting on my own. So I thought, “Hm. Who’s really controversial and could probably spice things up? I know! Bogan Jack.” How did you settle on the idea for your show? Jack: Ellen had an idea, but it was kind of vague. So we talked about it and finally refined it to current events and what we’re passionate about. Then we put our own spin on them, which for me tends to be a bit of a tongue-in-cheek, controversial view. Ellen: And I’m the one that keeps everyone on track. So for example, something like North Korea. Jack was like “Let’s bomb the shit out of them.” And I was more like “Maybe we should take a democratic approach.” But that’s why it works so well.

What is one of your favourite moments from the show? Ellen: We had a Brit and Bogan book club. We each had to bring in a text that we thought was particularly spicy and read it out. And it was awful. I had Harry Potter erotica. And I couldn’t finish it. It was so bad. I couldn’t read it. I had to get [Jack] to read it. Jack: That was a really good episode. Ellen: It was one of those episodes where we were just like, “Fuck it.” Jack: I think that time of year, because it was at the end of last semester, with the whole [US] election ending and all that, current events just dried up. There wasn’t as much to talk about. Ellen: Mm, especially considering the election was in 2016. Have you had any big on-air disasters? Jack: When Ellen forgot to record an entire episode. That’s the worst one. Ellen: Shut up! No, no, no. The microphone wasn’t on. They’d switched [them] around, and [I turned the wrong one up]. So for half of the episode, all [the listeners] were hearing were my reactions to someone else speaking. Jack: And I’m just this murmur in the background. Ellen: And Jack’s gotten us nearly cancelled a couple of times for saying stupid, controversial things about communism. Have you got anything special coming up in season three that listeners can be excited for? Jack: Not really, because we’ve been— Ellen: Yes we do! “Not really”. Yeah, let’s plug the show with, “We don’t have anything coming up.” Jack: We’re doing the same thing! Ellen: No, we’re not. I think this season, we’re going to be more on top of the issues we want to talk about. I also want to focus a lot on the arguments against as well, so it’s not just us ranting about something we don’t like. So please listen! Jack: Please listen. Validate my existence. You can find Brit and Bogan on Facebook, follow them on Twitter @brit_and_bogan, and catch up on their podcasts on Mixcloud.

ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN

AUSTRALIAN PMS RANKED BY HOTNESS DANIELLE SCRIMSHAW ON THE UNSUNG HOTTIES OF HISTORY CLASS

never thought Australian history was interesting until I studied it in year 12, and now it’s a core part of my Australiana aesthetic (i.e. VB, wombats and Midnight Oil). This includes niche boring shit like our federal leaders—who cares, right? I do. And so I come to the question: How do you make prime ministers interesting to other people? If BuzzFeed has taught me anything, it’s to rank them by physical appearance. And so, although I’m usually against objectifying people, I’m going to do that right now. It’s okay. These people have, at some point or another, been the most powerful individuals in the country (except for the governorgeneral, who wasn’t that important until one time in the ‘70s, but I’ll get back to that later). This top-five list is based on which leaders I think are the most physically attractive and does not take into account their political party (though my bias does show within their summaries, so have fun with that). Note: Tony Abbott fails to make an appearance because, as one of my friends pointed out, “It’s illegal to fuck a reptile.” We additionally agreed that, though John Howard is also exempt, he gets points for “controlling his huge guns”. 5. Harold Holt (Liberal) You may recognise this name from that public swimming pool in Glen Iris, or perhaps one of the countless conspiracy theories that your grandfather told you over Christmas lunch. My personal favourites include: Holt was a Chinese spy, he was taken by UFOs and he was kidnapped by communist submarines. Harold is Australia’s token beach babe, though he may disappear for some time and not answer your calls. Then again, who doesn’t love mysterious guys? HOT: Amended the constitution to allow Indigenous Australians to be included on the census and gave the federal government power to legislate specifically on Indigenous issues.

NOT: Expanded Australia’s involvement in the Vietnam War because Harold was so chummy with American President Lyndon B. Johnson, saying he was “all the way with LBJ”. It sounds pretty gay so if you want to write erotic political fanfic for the next edition of Farrago, go ahead. 4. Julia Gillard (Labor) While composing this list my inner feminist guru pulled me aside to discuss whether or not we should include Gillard. Is it worse to objectify Australia’s first and only female prime minister or to exclude her purely based on gender? I concluded that no PM shall be free from my gaze so here she is. While Julia’s haircut during the Kevin ‘07 era was questionable, she grew it out and stepped up to be Australia’s baddest bitch in 2010. We know that she’s one tough gal to endure the amount of shit hauled at her throughout her leadership, so we can conclude that Julia offers solid support and protection. A majority of this criticism came from the introduction of a carbon tax, which was more due to the Greens. Not that the tax was even a bad thing. It was protecting the environment, you assholes. HOT: “Thank you very much deputy speaker and I rise to oppose the motion moved by the leader of the opposition. And in so doing I say to the leader of the opposition I will not be lectured about sexism and misogyny by this man. I will not. And the government will not be lectured about sexism and misogyny by this man. Not now, not ever.” NOT: Being against same-sex marriage until 2015, when it was too late for her to actually do anything about it. Thanks for that useless show of belated support, Julia.

ART BY CATHY CHEN

3. Malcolm Turnbull (Liberal) Are you struggling through your degree and looking into sugar daddies online? Look no further than Parliament House! Malcolm is a big ol’ billionaire (and no, not just because he’s PM—he’s been rolling in dough for years) and will definitely pay off your $100,000 degree and buy you a private jet. What’s that, you want an apartment in Sydney’s CBD? DONE. Gap year in Europe? YOU GOT IT. Progressive policies to be passed in government? You may have to wait for that, babe, he needs to check in with the boiz and maybe all of Australia. There is already a whole Vice article discussing whether or not Daddy Malcolm is hot, so if you’re interested I suggest you check it out. His younger self looks rather awkward and creepy (a photo literally exists of him lounging on a couch, and he just looks so uncomfortable and constipated), so I can only conclude that Malcolm is a man who becomes fine with age. Not unlike cheese or wine. HOT: ??? NOT: Has no spine. 2. Gough Whitlam (Labor) I found a photo of Gough in his air force uniform during world war two, and that’s why he’s second on this list. That photo. Go check it out—Gough was a stunner in the ‘40s. Also not entirely bad (albeit older than I look for in a man, though so are all our leaders) when he was prime minister 1972–1975. Gough Whitlam is the only prime minister of Australia to be dismissed by the governor-general (I told you they did things sometimes), something my grandad believes was a plot by the CIA because Whitlam was so progressive politically, to the extent that lefties today romanticise his era. Not difficult to see why, because the Whitlam Gov. was hot. HOT: Dismantled the “white Australia” policy, implemented free higher education, introduced Medicare, Aboriginal land reform and women’s rights (equal pay*, tax-free contraception, no-fault divorce), increased funding for the arts and abolished military conscription. NOT: The injustice of his dismissal (smh).

1. Paul Keating (Labor) Paul “I want to do you slowly” Keating obviously wins this one, as the only prime minister who was genuinely attractive while prime minister! Though, while I was editing this article, a friend actually said to me, “Why does Paul Keating look like Peter Dutton??” Ugh. What an insult to both Keating and my taste in men. Consequently, our friendship is currently undergoing a review. Just as hot are Paul’s words. While he didn’t actually write one of the greatest Australian speeches of all time (the Redfern Park speech, 1992), Keating was a true savage who loved to drag members of the opposition from the despatch box. There are curated videos of his zesty comebacks that you can watch at your leisure, and quite a lot are directed at John “desiccated coconut” Howard, which is an extra bonus (because I detest the man). It’s safe to assume that Paul’s way with words means he’s probably very good at sweet-talking and seduction, but not, like, in a man-whore way (this isn’t Barnaby Joyce we’re talking about here), and even if you get into an argument with him, Paul is well-practiced in reconciliation. HOT: Introduced native title to Indigenous Australians, removed ban on homosexuals in the military, greatly increased the social wage and family benefits system. NOT: In the 1960s he managed a band, but wasn’t in the band. Not as hot. Nobody fucks the band manager. Honourable mentions Robert Menzies (Liberal): Robbo’s eyebrows let him down this time. Apologies to the ex–private school kids who froth Menzies as much as lefties froth Whitlam. Alfred Deakin (Protectionist): Behind that huge beard I reckon Alf was surprisingly hot. Or is it the beard that makes the man? I can’t find any photos of him without facial hair, so I guess we’ll never know. Malcolm Fraser (Liberal): I actually can’t come to a final decision on this: Was Malcolm Fraser hot? I’ll leave it up to you. *to an extent… (the gender wage gap still exists (fight me))

CAPITALISM

A SHIT JOB TRENT VU ON WORKING IN HOSPITALITY AND RETAIL

y parents have always been big advocates for selfsufficiency. It’s definitely a weird communist Vietnam thing. They’ve always encouraged me to not rely on handouts, but to work hard for my own money. As soon as I was 14 years and nine months old, they threw me into the workforce and let me fend for myself, like how you can throw a baby into a pool and it’ll instinctually know how to swim. Although I’m not 100 per cent positive on that one, so don’t try it. I began emailing out applications to a bunch of places. Macca’s , Hungry Jack’s, Coles, Woolworths: I was pimping myself out to all the corporations. I didn’t get any responses though, probably because the only reference I had was my mum. Mum used to own a café and told me that it’d be okay to say that I worked there even though I was under the legal working age. She was even ready to vehemently deny that we were related if any twenty-something green-haired Macca’s manager was to call her.

Eventually, I got an email from KFC, which led to my first ever job interview. The store manager (I’ll call her “Kimberley”) loved me. I liked Kimberley too, even though her greasy hair was dyed in an awful pattern of black and bleached blonde streaks (who told her that was a good look?). I quickly acquainted myself to the role of customer service team member like a fish (or baby) to water. I didn’t mind working there. Sure, I was getting paid less than $9 an hour, and an angry customer threw an open container of coleslaw at me once (someone stuffed up his potato and gravy order, but unfortunately, I wore the consequences). But I really liked the people I was working with. That is, until I was almost fired for “stealing”. One day at work, I bought some food because your boy was hungry. I put through a popcorn chicken snack box on a register, not bothering to use my staff discount to save a measly 35 cents. I packed the box with some chips, and decided to top it off with half of the usual serve of popcorn chicken and a nugget.

“What are you having?” I turned around. Lo and behold, Kimberley was standing right behind me. “Just a snack box,” I replied. “Which snack box is that?” She was getting more serious. “I put it through as a popcorn chicken one,” I said nervously, probably sweating. I have a sweating problem. I should definitely get that checked out. “Well then, why is there a nugget?” I explained that everyone did this, and that I assumed we were allowed to half and half our snack boxes. She considered this “stealing”, and said that she would’ve fired me on the spot had I not been such a good worker. Kimberley put me on suspension for a week, and I quit soon after, because I just couldn’t deal with her anymore. All this drama over a damn chicken nugget. And let’s be honest, the nuggets at KFC aren’t even that good. Like, sure, fire me for “stealing” a Macca’s tempura nug, but you can have your two-hour old anemic KFC nugget back, Kimberley. I didn’t work anywhere for a while after that. And because I hadn’t had much work experience outside of KFC, I struggled to find a job. I was ghosted by a Foodworks owner, rejected by a coffee kiosk manager after a trial shift, and decided against meeting a guy from Gumtree who ran a letterbox drop because I was certain he would’ve kidnapped me. The next job I got was at Sushi Sushi. Although I was there for less than two weeks, that was more than enough time to scar me for life. Working there was gross and disgusting—not for the reasons you might think, though.

I could write a whole dissertation about how shit those eleven days were. When the owner of the store (I’ll call him “Albert”) wasn’t calling me “bro”, or asking me if I thought a particular girl walking past the store was “hot” (mind you, he was a married man well into his fifties with two kids), Albert would make me work twelve-hour shifts for shit cash-in-hand pay. And, he’d sometimes leave me to close up the shop by

ART BY SHARON HUANG LIANG

CAPITALISM

myself because he was “tired”, even though I’d been working there for less than a week. However, working by myself was better than when he left me alone in the shop with the verbally abusive sushi chef, who would often call me “stupid and “useless”. “Just ignore him,” was Albert’s response to the work place harassment. He wasn’t much nicer to the customers either; when he wasn’t serving them while wearing his headphones, and with the grumpiest expression on his face, he would yell at them and even called someone an “annoying bitch”.

On the morning of my twelfth day at Sushi Sushi, I called Albert, told him I’d had enough, picked up my pay and became a free man. Around that time, I saw a new cafe opening in my local shopping strip, so I applied and eventually got hired. Everything seemed to fall into place, which was exciting, because I was used to my life crumbling apart like a failed tart shell on My Kitchen Rules. This new café was trendy and modern, albeit a little pricey for the area. And speaking of which, why do people feel the need to complain about menu prices to the wait staff? What do you think I’m going to say to you? “Yes, soccer mum in Lorna Jane leisure wear, I will risk losing my job and change the price of your smashed avo especially for you.” I was happy I had finally graduated from fast food to a nicer café. But after the initial buzz, business started becoming quieter. The owners found some interesting ways to cut costs. For example, after I had thrown used serviettes in the bin, they would fish them out again for reuse. They would also leave focaccias in the display fridge, sometimes for almost a week. And a few times, I saw mould growing on the muffins, which they stubbornly tried to convince me was “flour”. All of that I could kind of deal with, even if it did gross me out. But I soon realised that not only were they horrible at managing their business, they were also horrible people. I’d worked there for almost a year when I woke up to a missed call. Assuming it was from one of them to ask me to cover a shift, I didn’t call back, because I had already organised to meet my friend Natalie that afternoon to plan our upcoming

trip to Japan. But after several rejected calls, an attempt at pretending to be asleep and plenty of begging, I caved in. There were two shifts each day—one in the morning and one in the afternoon—so I figured that I could still meet Natalie after I finished the morning shift. The owners told me that the girl whose shift I was covering (I should call her “Croissant”, because she was so damn flaky, but I’ll just call her “Becky”) had texted them at four o’clock that morning saying that she had food poisoning and was being “carried away by the ambulance”. I reckon she was just hungover. At around eleven, about an hour from when I was going to leave, the wife came up to me. “Okay, you can leave now.” Awesome. I had more time to get ready to meet Natalie. “And then, you can come back at twelve o’clock. Becky was meant to work the whole day, and no-one else can work.” “But I have to meet a friend today,” I feebly replied, my heart dropping it like it’s hot. After a stubborn back-and-forth, I eventually gave up and reorganised my meeting with Natalie. I was pissed, firstly because she tricked me into working the whole day even though they knew I had other plans, but also because I didn’t even receive an apology or a word of thanks. Safe to say that I bounced out of that godforsaken joint as soon as I could. After being treated like shit for years, I’ve developed a respect for hospitality and retail workers; they have to deal with rude customers and horrible managers. Plus, they’re probably getting paid, like, $10 an hour, so be nice to them.

Although I’ve left the hospo world for good, I’ve learnt a few life lessons I’ll hold onto forever, like that some people were just not meant to manage businesses, and should try something else that doesn’t involve traumatising teenagers for life. And, that if you want to get out of something, sending a text at 4am claiming you’re being carried away by an ambulance works. And, finally, that chicken nuggets are great, but not worth almost getting fired for.

ART BY SHARON HUANG LIANG

FILM

CONTENT WARNING: EATING DISORDERS, ANOREXIA, MENTAL ILLNESS

MORE THAN MASCARA SOPHIE RAPHAEL LOOKS AT TO THE BONE AND TALKING TO ANOREXIA

une 2017 marked my entrance into an annual winter cocoon. Sitting at my desk, I was wrapped in a well-loved, faded pink blanket, wearing Grinch print pyjamas and clutching a pug mug. With four months left to write my thesis, I was buried under scattered, highlighted articles, racoon eyes forming. In desperate need of a break one night, I retreated to YouTube in the hope of numbing my brain with cat videos. But no cerebral anaesthesia lay in store for me that night. First in my trending videos was a trailer for the highly anticipated Netflix film, To the Bone. For those who didn’t jump on the bandwagon last year, To the Bone is a 90-minute drama focused on the experience of 20-year-old Ellen, a young woman, played by Lily Collins, living with and attempting to recover from anorexia nervosa. The audience catches a glimpse of Ellen’s life as she enters residential treatment, struggling to come to terms with her illness in the face of family upheaval, tragedy, guilt and relationships. As I watched the preview, I shook my head with increasing ferocity, my internal monologue crying, “No, no, no, no.” My eyes immediately pounced onto close-ups of a starved, pale Collins as shots revealed her running up stairs, sculling water and picking at her nails over dinner plates. “I know you want it, so come and get it,” the background song repeated. Sharp, acid-tongued dialogue coursed through my headphones. “Two-eighty for the pork, 350 for the buttered noodles, 150 for the roll and 75 for butter.” “It’s like you have calorie Asperger’s…” “I’m not going to treat you if you aren’t interested in living.” I quickly realised there’d be no relief from my thesis that night. My work actually consisted of researching a phenomenon I first encountered during my own treatment for anorexia nervosa ten years ago. I vividly remember the copies of eating disorder memoirs that sat on patients’ bedside tables, thoroughly dog-eared and underlined, with passages often committed to memory. Yet, many sufferers did not view these harrowing accounts as recovery inspiration. Instead, they were used as manuals of disordered “tips and tricks”. Since recovering, I set out to investigate how and why this process of maladaptive interpretation develops, its place in

the psychopathology of anorexia nervosa and how writers can minimise the risk of their accounts of illness being harmfully interpreted. How to safely represent eating disorders is the debate migraines are made of. When the trailer for To the Bone was released, The Butterfly Foundation for Eating Disorders responded with a trigger warning statement in the first twenty-four hours. Similarly, youth mental health organisation Headspace expressed concern that the “portrayal of behaviours associated with an eating disorder … may be providing a how-to guide for adolescents who may be at risk”. However, some critics argue that the inclusion of trigger warnings based solely on the revelation of emaciated bodies may themselves be harmful, suggesting eating disorders to be purely image-centric, cultural phenomena, as opposed to lifethreatening illnesses. Critic Hadley Freeman claimed the film “reduces anorexia to an aesthetic expression”, leaning on “wearily, outdated tropes” while stereotyped characters are “ticked off with the regularity of hospital mealtimes”. Indeed, the protagonist of Ellen strictly aligns with the tried and true stereotype of a white, young, upper-middle-class female living with restrictive anorexia. Fellow patients do add a smidge of diversity to the film: there’s a male with anorexia, people living with bulimia, lesbians suffering from eating disorders and even an African American woman with binge-eating disorder. Intersectionality for the win, right? Well, not exactly. To describe these characters as “supporting” would be a stretch. Rather, they exist strictly on the periphery of Ellen’s spotlight. In turn, the film perpetuates the damaging notion that eating disorders only develop in one form, and affect only one type of person. It neglects the opportunity to raise awareness of a diverse range of eating disorders that affect an even more diverse range of people—especially considering that 97 per cent of eating-disorder sufferers do not meet diagnostic criteria for anorexia specifically. This focus reflects the inaccurate cultural attribution of thinness with eating disorders—the idea you’re meant to “look” unwell in order to be so. What about the exploration of eating disorders we can’t obviously see? Ultimately, To the Bone invalidates any eating-

ART BY NICOLA DOBINSON

FILM

disorder experience dissimilar to Ellen’s—if it doesn’t fit into a specific mould of her eating disorder, it’s deemed unworthy of screen time and broader social concern. Furthermore, the film offers insight only into the treatment options for the privileged. It is not uncommon for treatment costs to exceed US$40,000 per month—none of which is covered by major insurance companies. Where is the exposure to eating-disorder treatment for those without financial access to the best? Is there any way to recover if you can’t afford residency at these facilities? Such narrow representation only perpetuates the misconception that eating disorders are diseases of privilege, a glamorous illness to be healed by glamorous means. The film also fails to explore the connection between Ellen’s circumstances and her drive to starve herself. Rather than navigating the question of the why behind self-destruction, the film merely touches on surface symptoms. Therapy sessions make a minimal appearance (with the exception of a chaotic family-group session and a manufactured scene of uplift towards the end). To focus on only surface symptoms and fluffy treatment without any exploration of causation trivialises the psychiatric illness with the highest mortality rate of all mental disorders. When such representations are continually provided to the public, it’s no surprise that decades-old misconceptions about these illnesses prevail. Louis Theroux’s documentary Talking to Anorexia also premiered in late 2017—sans trigger warnings and media mania. Theroux circulated among two public inpatient and one outpatient eating disorder services in central London, acquainting himself with several clients in treatment. Theroux’s documentary similarly focused on restrictive anorexia, but it focused on the lesser-discussed and horrifically painful realities of living with the disease. The documentary featured many of the daily struggles I myself experienced during treatment: staff supervision of meals and bathroom breaks, strict meal plans, blind weigh-ins. Yet, what Talking to Anorexia explored that To the Bone neglected was the severe self-hatred, loss of life, joy and opportunity that imprisons sufferers of eating disorders. One sufferer, twenty-seven-year-old Jessica, had been living with anorexia for nine years. The trendy eyeliner, oversized sunglasses and acid-tongue of To the Bone’s Ellen were replaced by exhaustion, fragility, fear and shame. Cowering

in her seat and avoiding eye contact, she confessed, “I do 2,000 star jumps a day. I feel really ashamed. It’s quite hard to admit to it. It feels like a shameful secret that I have to hide.” Although a fully qualified teacher, she had never held a fulltime job due to her illness and cyclic periods of hospitalisation. Jess confesses, “It’s a self-punishment thing. I don’t deserve to eat. I don’t deserve nice things. I don’t deserve to enjoy myself. I restrict food and exercise as a punishment to myself.” A chill ran through me as I thought of my own adolescence, riddled with a deep, sincere wish for death, just to be free of my own self-loathing. Looking at Jess, I saw not only a reflection of the hopelessness I once lived with constantly, but the path my life may have taken if recovery never occurred. The research I did for my thesis stressed the importance of a writer’s self-awareness of their recovery stage, distance from illness and choice of material when recounting their experience. It begged a return to fundamental questions of what are we creating, how are we creating it, whom are we creating it for and why. When To the Bone and Talking to Anorexia were released last year, I was reminded of this topic’s natural extension into all forms of creation and a likewise need for personal awareness in conjunction with honest and helpful portrayals. Responding to claims that To the Bone glamorised eating disorders, Lily Collins said, “We would never set out to glamorise or encourage a disorder I and Marti [the director] went through, that was so negative. So, coming from that place, we hope to start a conversation.” Yet, it may be misguided to assume positive intentions, coupled with lived experience, is sufficient to produce work for a mainstream audience, including an at-risk population. It would be naïve to assume any writer or filmmaker has the capacity to ensure and extract a specific response from their audience. As Hadley Freeman wrote, attempting to eradicate all potentially triggering material is to engage in “an impossible game of whack-a-mole”. Yet, taking the risk of maladaptive interpretation into consideration when producing text or film centred on eating disorders is an issue requiring continual exploration. Less focus on sassy dialogue, mascara and biker boots and more on the psychological roots and suffering of eating disorders may make for more painful viewing, but it may also provide a glimpse into the reality of a life-threatening illness with a desperate need to be taken seriously.

ART BY NICOLA DOBINSON

THEATRE

THE RAZOR’S EDGE LUKE MACARONAS TALKS TO INTERDISCIPLINARY ARTIST ARCHIE BARRY ABOUT QUEER PERFORMANCE IN A BINARY LANDSCAPE

n Archie Barry’s Hypnic, the artist walks into a crowded gallery at the Australian Centre for Contemporary Art with their hands cupped in front of them, and shuffles over to a single member of the audience. Unpeeling their hands, they reveal a synthetic nose fixed to their palm with a lip wrapped around the inside of their thumb. As they begin to puppeteer the little mouth, a deep, yawning song emerges inexplicably from their hand. and I’m not really real and I’m not fake The audience soaks in the contradictory logic. Through Barry’s uncanny physicality, the tiny puppet becomes a second body in the room—one that is both artificial and yet emphatically substantial. Lifting the prosthetic mouth over their own, they create a doubling effect: their palm, melding with their face, melding with the puppet. Now placing their hand against their cheek, Barry joins the puppet in harmony. The lyrics seem to take on a new meaning, coalescing with Barry’s own experience as a non-binary, transmasculine artist. it’s enough to break me and shake me from my sleep where I dream that I’m awake

The duo sings an eerie lullaby, dissolving the barriers between the definite and the unknown, reaching at a space beyond recognisable language or image. It is something visceral and confronting to witness. The Melbourne-based artist tells me they are compelled by a simple question: “What happens when I don’t show up in the way that you expect I should? … I am in my body, in my self, but what will happen when I don’t make that available to an audience?” In works similar to Hypnic—such as Dreamboy, where Barry performs a character whose body is inverted, with a face on the back of their head, or Tatsache, in which they dance beneath colour-negative film—they confront their audience with a self that is distorted and contradictory. Meeting Barry is to encounter a different person again: someone reticent and yet fiercely articulate. With a shaved head and a long ponytail, they toy with our instinct to define. “To me the idea of what queer is, is partially against categorisation, or being dissenting in some way,” they explain. As a non-binary artist, Barry makes work that delves into the liminal spaces of queer identity, exploring what it means to inhabit a non-normative body. Frequently they draw on paradoxes, mining the space where everyday logic and assumption collapses. They call it “midsense”: “It’s not nonsense, but it’s not common sense. It’s in-between

sense—where I try and create phrases or sentences that have something familiar but at the same time are expansive.” Stepping into the divide between stranger and friend, real and fake, old and new, Barry defies what they describe as an “either/or mentality” to palpably assert the legitimacy of a transgender existence. Perhaps most crucial to this is the way that Barry seems to tap into something instinctive and shared; the little mouth’s song buzzes in the marrow of its audience. Originally practising predominantly in illustration, Barry found themselves drawn to creating performance art, calling on a what they call a “combination soup of techniques” to create a “non-binary artform”. Performance is crucial to the experiences and questions raised by Barry’s work, which follows a lineage of queer work that depends on its relationship to an audience. “Performance,” Barry explains, “is a really attenuated medium to explore queerness because it’s at the razor’s edge of the present moment, and it will disappear as soon as it appears, and [it’s] a form that can say things about presence and invisibility that perhaps other forms can’t do.” Its power rests in its insistence that art is a sensory experience—a process that exists not as something that is flat or static, but live within and responsive to, its audience. Barry’s art—which also extends to visual and multimedia artworks—constantly centres around their body. When I ask why, they break from the exacting academic register we have conversed in through most of the interview: “Because gender has been theorised to buggery.” We both giggle. “I think that there’s this sense that people feel like they have to have done a gender studies degree to be in ownership of their bodily experience. There’s so many words written, and spoken about, that it’s become very theoretical. And while I think that’s really cool … a body is where gender happens, and I think that it would be remiss not to put some attention on that.” The acute clarity with which Barry describes the intention of their work reflects the marvelous physical certainty their body occupies in their art. Discussion around non-binary identity frequently directs attention towards constructing or inventing new spaces for people who are gender nonconforming, but Barry offers a different way to understand non-binary identity that uproots these assumptions. Rather than creating a new space, their work reveals the constant presence of the non-conforming body within the mainstream. Exploring Barry’s work is a cathartic process, where the actions that form identities—voice, gesture, language—are picked apart, condensed, and performed in a way that makes them appear new. “I think artwork is a way to experience, or think about, living differently.”

ART BY AYONTI MAHREEN HUQ

ALIEN ASIA AESTHETIC STEPHANIE ZHANG DISSECTS TECHNO-ORIENTALISM

t’s the distant future, and Los Angeles is overrun by cyborgs. Japanese neon signs line the streets and ominously nondescript skyscrapers define the skyline, an ad for CocaCola covers a building and another features a geisha popping a pill into her mouth and smiling coyly. There’s a marketplace of exotic goods and exotic people, but the only person you really care about is Harrison Ford, walking down a dark, drenched street. It’s the seminal cyberpunk film Blade Runner. When I first watched Blade Runner, I didn’t realise it was set in LA—the Chinese graffiti, bustling streets and Asian extras made me feel as though I was watching a story set in Hong Kong, Shanghai or Tokyo. Hollywood likes to use and reuse this aesthetic to signify a distant, dystopian future, yet these images are already a staple of Asian cities—so, why? Speculative science fiction has used this trope of “technoorientalism” for decades. Movies use a cut-and-paste formula that perhaps isn’t as modern as their settings: a white protagonist alone in an exotic, oriental world, facing a foreign people. Except now, the foreign people are cyborgs rather than people of colour. Angelica Jade Bastien from Vulture points out science fiction’s uncomfortable history with Asian cultures, describing the way these cultures get “mined” for visual inspiration to create an “otherness”. Graffiti and signs in Asian languages signal to the audience, “Hey! This isn’t an important detail,” and really only function to tell us that the white protagonist exists in a scary, foreign landscape. Lisa Nakamura describes techno-orientalism as a “high-tech variety of stereotyping”— “cybertyping”, if you like. Japanese culture is reduced to window-dressing, and its people relegated to background roles of cyborgs and extras, while white protagonists are handed trite storylines of action and revenge. Just as Edward Said’s work on “orientalism” suggests, there is a dichotomy created— white protagonist against a Japanese or Chinese or Korean background (doesn’t matter since they’re all interchangeable). Orientalism at its heart is not about the culture it appropriates: it’s about projecting your own desires and fears onto a racial other. Thus, one theory is that these stories have emerged from a post-colonial paranoia. The cultures appropriated and fetishised are almost always East Asian, possibly because of technological and economic advances by countries like China, Korea, and Japan. The rise of corporate monoliths like Samsung mean they are now able to match companies from Silicon Valley like Apple, and the West is no

longer alone at the front lines. Perhaps most significant to this conversation is Japan and its history. In the 1980s, post-war technological research—in the absence of any military development—propelled Japan’s economy. However, Japan also suffered devastating losses in WWII. The shock of the atomic bomb hitting civilian areas not once but twice caused a huge hit to Japanese cultural identity. Writer Jon Tsuei argues Japan’s technological revolution was simply an effect of this shock to Japanese cultural identity— the nation was so desperately grasping for identity that the lines between technology and culture began to blur. And thus cyberpunk emerged as a genre suitable for an exploration of what identity is in a high-tech environment—something perhaps best encapsulated by Masamune Shirow’s original Ghost in the Shell. Ghost in the Shell asks: what is identity, if society is so evolved to a point where you can trade your body parts out for cybernetic parts? Japan’s complicated relationship with its technology industry echoes throughout science fiction works, its culture being replaced in Western representations with one that is cold, impersonal and machine-like. The post-colonial paranoia resonates, with Japan’s booming economy overtaking Western ones, and its culture refusing to bend to Western exploitation. It is non-Western, but also resists fitting the West’s mould of “oriental”—Japan’s leading role breaks all standards of modernity being a Western value. In filmmakers’ efforts to orientalise and exoticise technology and new techniques, they lose much of what is the heart of cyberpunk. Take the 2017 live-action Ghost in the Shell, and let’s put the whitewashing aside for a moment. It’s set in an unspecified megalopolis that has skylines filled with skyscrapers and holograms of geishas and folding fans—but none of this imagery means anything. The film essentially attempts to appropriate Asian cyberpunk stories by preserving the aesthetic—but not actually doing any of the legwork and exploring the themes that made Shirow’s original manga so compelling, themes about identity and technology and government and human agency. It’s not news that the 2017 Ghost in the Shell has been criticised to pieces. But the biggest issue is that stories like the original are not meant to be universal. These stories are confined to the countries and groups they emerge from. Divorced from that specificity, and you get a flashy setting without substance—a shell without its ghost.

ART BY CATHY CHEN

BLISTERS AND BUSINESS CARDS KAAVYA JHA ON AUTHENTICITY IN THE WORLDS OF HIGH FASHION AND HIGH FINANCE

“A

re you ready to go backstage?” I nod and maintain a nonchalant facial expression in the hopes of being noticed by street style photographers as we stride across the plaza. They snap a few photos, but I couldn’t find them on the sleek websites of ELLE or Marie Claire. Backstage is a thin room engulfed by vanity lights and startlingly bright pink Priceline Pharmacy cut-outs. Models scroll through Instagram as make-up artists splash their cheekbones with rose. My chaperone turns to me amidst the surprisingly relaxed preparations. “OK, you have 15 minutes to talk to whoever and do interviews.” My stomach feels queasy—what should I ask? I am reviewing the collection, focused only on texture and colour and silhouettes. But this sinking feeling is all too familiar. I am transported to forty-eight hours earlier: no longer at the Virgin Australia Melbourne Fashion Festival, but rather attempting to network at FMAA corporate cocktails, alone in a grand room filled with hundreds of students in identical black suits. High-fashion and high-finance, perhaps unintentionally, both enforce exclusivity through dress codes. At the Fashion Festival everyone—or at least everyone that mattered—wore variations of an identical outfit. I felt legitimised arriving in structured (tick!), colour-blocked (tick!) culottes (double tick!); yet chastised myself for wearing mules instead of leather pointed-toe heels, the owners of which did find themselves on “27 Best Street Style Looks Of VAMFF”. Fashion might take pride in enabling people to showcase their individuality, but only rewarded those existing within a strict framework. Often, students are expected to immediately be able to define themselves and their future. I dislike certain networking events because interactions seem to consist of: “This is what I can offer you and what you can offer me.” Sometimes, I just want to turn to the recruiter and plead, “Give me time. I don’t know who I am or what I want. I’m still trying to figure it out.” But with competitive job markets, students cannot afford to miss such events if they want a graduate offer. So, I scrambled to find a pair of shoes that fit the FMAA dress code. Arriving in closed-toe heels borrowed from a successful commerce friend, two sizes too big and stuffed with tissue paper, I attempted to follow the world’s most clichéd advice: “Be yourself”. Yet individuals are too complex to showcase entirely during an initial interaction; instead we can only

present the traits that will serve us best. The “me” at corporate cocktails was different from the “me” who went to the fashion show—is either less legitimate? I arrived at Crown Palladium unsure of where I was going, both literally and figuratively. Amongst shoppers ambling amongst designer boutiques, I spotted a group of self-assured young people in suits. Slightly intimidated, I asked if they were attending corporate cocktails. They were, and we exchanged friendly conversation heading to the event. I, “being myself”, told them I was a second-year at Unimelb, and that all my friends decided not to come, and that I was very scared. They laughed (must have thought I was joking…) and again when I asked what uni they went to, informing me that they were the investment bankers representing Morgan Stanley. Yikes. Conversely, those with influence may still be expected to conform to their perceived identity. At the fashion show, I am seated in VIP two rows behind Georgia Love from The Bachelorette and join in on what I think is a fan photo opportunity. It so happens the guy snapping the pic is her friend, even taking it on Georgia’s own phone. She waves, noticing me and we share a cute bonding moment. But did Georgia, with her girl-next-door TV persona, feel the need to maintain a bubbly demeanour in a public environment in the face of an invasion of privacy? Between sips of champagne at corporate cocktails, I skirted the edges of large huddles of finance students eager to talk to recruiters. The Morgan Stanley reps spotted me and indicated I could disregard the hovering students and join them. I knew people on the inside. It seemed safe to be the “authentic” version of myself and talk freely. We are all drawn to the familiar within the unfamiliar, to people with whom we relate even when trying to break out of comfort-zones. Genuine connections are made on common interest, not dutifully repeated questions from a Sponsor Interaction Guide. “I was on Neighbours a few years back,” the man beside me at the runway offers spontaneously. I see his media lanyard and am overcome with solidarity. The show starts and as he watches he sways forward and back when absorbed, snaps his fingers in glee when enthralled, and checks Grindr when bored. Afterwards, he encourages me to get in contact if I’d ever like to write for his business. I add his name to my iPhone notes. Networking!

ART BY RACHEL MORLEY

COLLECTIVE

ART BY MEGA SAFIRA

FEMINISM

FE***ISM: A TALE OF TWO CLASSROOMS NOUR ALTOUKHI ON THE UNIVERSALITY OF FEMINISM Bellevue High School, Washington State—2014 It was my first time, and things started off all right. As expected, they bathed us in statistics. Did you know that somewhere in America a woman is raped every two minutes? Or that women earn about 70 per cent of what men make in Washington State? I was pretty bored at this point because, frankly, none of the issues posed seemed relevant to me. I was a kid; I didn’t need to worry about unequal pay. I wasn’t yet aware that there were certain “expectations” placed on me, simply because I was born female. Then the word “feminism” crept into the discussion. I remember how warily our teacher uttered the word, almost as though she was a cop questioning a culprit. At this point in my life, I didn’t identify as a feminist. Neither did my peers. Within the walls of that classroom, we discussed how gender equality was important, how men and women should receive equal pay, how gendered stereotypes should be put to rest. Yet the thing that was said the most was “But I’m not going to be like those feminists who…” or “Yeah, but I wouldn’t say I’m a feminist.” And I remember wondering what was so scandalous about the term. What did these “feminists” do to make themselves so hated? Why was everyone collectively against them? Looking back now, I note that most of those who spoke up were male. (And white. I wasn’t well versed in white privilege at the time either, but it’s amazing the things you can’t unsee once you learn about them.) So it didn’t surprise me when they questioned the lack of discussion surrounding men’s rights, though I did wonder why they seemed unable to explicitly state exactly what rights of theirs had suddenly gone missing. So much of what happened in that class didn’t seem significant at the time. But what did stand out was the harsh classification of “feminism” as this bad word. My curiosity

was sparked, so I started to read up on the subject. Little did I know, this was necessary in preparing myself for the second time I did a unit on feminism, this time in Cairo. The American International School in Cairo—2016 By now I was recognising a pattern. Presentations on the weakened status of women’s rights. More facts. Did you know that 99 per cent of Egyptian women have been harassed at some point in their lives? Or that women make up just 23 per cent of the labour force? Mostly, my peers responded with shock, and it excited me that they were becoming more aware of such issues. Some remained silent, and some criticised the fact that we focused only on the injustices meted out to women and not to men. One of my male peers actually said, “What about men, though? Why is feminism so focused on women alone if we want gender equality?” Sure, I thought. Even if we’re doing a unit on women’s rights, we mustn’t exclude men. So, yeah, let’s discard the feminine root altogether in favour of the more inclusive “gender equality”. Great idea. Hell, let’s just take a trip down to Orwell’s Airstrip One and use the word “ungood” for “bad”. Because masked misogyny is clearly the key to equality, right, ladies and gentlemen? (Just so the gents don’t feel too left out.) Notice the irony? My newfound rage swelled as it met a developing awareness within me. And so I asked then, as I ask now: why flee the feminine root? Why are we so willing to alter the term “feminism” but not the term “misogyny”? Are we that ashamed of the female sex that we more readily accept the hatred of it over its rise to equality? Why on earth is “feminism” such a dirty word? I couldn’t answer those questions, but the fact I even had to ask them proves the need for feminism.

ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN

FEMINISM

You might think the concept of feminism exists only in Western countries. Many people I’ve spoken to in both Egypt and the United States thought so. Sadly, it goes even deeper than that, with academic writing on feminism often documenting the movement as though it were strictly American. I was in a tute the other day—here at the University of Melbourne—where the reading seemed to describe feminism as something created and exercised solely in the States. And that is part of the problem: this concept of exclusively Western feminism is detrimental to the feminist movement as a whole. In Egypt, women currently hold 15 per cent of seats in Parliament, while in the United States—arguably seen as the most “progressive” country in the world—women hold 19 per cent. That’s not much of a difference, is it? In fact, Egypt has an extensive feminist history, even if it isn’t explicitly labelled as such. Sameera Moussa, born in 1917, was regarded as the mother of atomic energy. Nawal al Saadawi, the godmother of Egyptian feminism, was a renowned rights activist, psychiatrist, physician and author. Lotfia el Nadi was among the first female pilots globally. Despite the West’s perceptions of predominantly Islamic countries as anti-feminist, I’d argue that Egypt has as much claim—indeed, has laid as much claim—to feminism as any other nation. To say that feminism is incompatible with our culture or religion is nonsensical. Sometimes the world seems painfully unaware of the fact that we are what determines a culture, not our setting nor the inanimate objects that surround us. As Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie said, “Culture does not make people. People make culture.” We add value to the cultures we create, and the death of equality comes from the desperate excuses we make to preserve this flawed sense of what culture is. We must return to the roots and realise that the purpose of culture is to unite us all as people. Feminism does not and can not belong to one nation in particular. Westerners should not think of it as exclusively

theirs, while we as Arabs should actively claim back access to this pivotal movement in our advancement as human beings. The inequality of denying feminism to certain cultures or parts of the world is just as damaging as the inequality between the sexes itself. It doesn’t make sense to pile one inequality on top of another. Just as we create culture, we create inequality, and thus we have the power to achieve equality. Obviously, this is harder than it sounds. Often equality seems impossible because we have seen nothing but inequality in our lifetimes, and we naturally reciprocate what we see in what we do. Look at it in the context of your tutes. If you take politics classes, notice how many male students tend to dominate the conversation. In your lectures, how many of the theorists studied are actually women? The majority of perspectives you learn are dominated by the male psyche. The fact that that’s “just the syllabus” and that’s “the way it’s always been” isn’t an excuse to keep the snowball rolling. If we could refrain from the belief that feminism is something innately exclusive, perhaps we would breed inclusivity. Then, perhaps, feminism would not be seen as exclusive to a certain place and a certain gender. And maybe the term “feminism” would be more a simple word and less a cause for resentment and division. The takeaway? We must negate thoughts of feminism as a club with exclusive membership. Gendered stereotypes are detrimental to men as well as women, and in turn, to us all. Feminism is just as much a necessity to people around the world as to those in Western countries. The movement is a means to equality, which means it’s pivotal for us to stand united, regardless of nation and gender. Just because it’s called feminism doesn’t mean it is exclusive to females. And just because academics write that it was established by Westerners and remains a Western concept certainly does not make it so. I am a human being; therefore, I am a feminist.

ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN

CLIMATE CHANGE

BREAKING: CLIMATE CHANGE STILL A THING KATIE DOHERTY ON THE 24-HOUR NEWS CYCLE

hen Hurricane Irma struck the Caribbean and the United States in 2017, killing at least 138 people and leaving chaos in its wake, it became a major international news event. Occurring as part of a cluster of hurricane disasters, shortly after Hurricane Harvey—the “costliest tropical cyclone on record”—and just before Hurricane Maria—the “most intense tropical cyclone of 2017”, which may have been responsible for as many as 1,133 fatalities—it was perfect for the 24-hour news cycle. Frightening and dramatic enough to hold people’s attention, the development of the story could be tracked continuously, through the tense build-up as we waited for the storms to make landfall, and on to the impact and aftermath once they had torn through. Excluded from the constant coverage, however, was much mention of how the hurricanes fit into a larger narrative—that of climate change. There were isolated articles, but generally it was overlooked in favour of the drama of immediate events. The underlying reasons for these hurricanes, and for other climate-related natural disasters, are complex, and it is hard to prove that a storm would not have happened in a world which was not artificially warmed. This is an issue with convincing people of the legitimacy of climate science in general, but particularly in trying to ensure it is visible in the media. The news media does not have the time or the will to interrogate how environmental issues underpin so many of the disasters that occur in the modern world, and which make up so much of the content that they broadcast. They certainly avoid reporting on the drier sides of the issue—the science and politics of climate change are era-defining issues, but they do not make for such captivating viewing as a school shooting or wildfires. If there is a major new development, it can be an excuse for media companies to break out their stock footage of starving polar bears on floating chunks of ice, but even this only holds the attention of the viewer for so long. The narrative of climate change does not fit any of the ways we know how to tell stories. It is too big and too messy,

and while it affects everyone, it is rarely obvious. This is true not only for the news media, but for other kinds—literature, film and so on. Author Amitav Ghosh, in his book The Great Derangement, identifies a number of ways the accepted form of the modern Western novel denies us the ability to discuss an issue such as environmental degradation. The insistence upon a specific sense of place, disconnected from the larger world; the focus on the inner machinations of individuals, disconnected from society or humanity as a whole; the relatively limited time stories are expected to span, which may be human generations, but will not “speak of how the continents were created”—climate change is a difficult narrative to express within these confines. This may be one of the reasons that most of the fiction we see about climate change is set in the future, in dystopian worlds ravaged by environmental destruction—it can act as a setting, rather than a plot point. It is much easier to make a conventional narrative out of the effects of environmental destruction, and the actions of individual humans in the face of them, than to make the slow progress of our changing climate the narrative. But to only portray climate change as an issue of the future suggests that it is something far away from us—seeming to call for prevention, rather than cure. To suggest that the dystopian face of climate change is not yet upon us is to ignore the climate refugees of the Carteret Islands, many of whom have been forced to flee to Bougainville in Papua New Guinea. It is to ignore the drought and famines which have ravaged the Sahel region of Africa. It is to close our eyes to already immeasurable suffering across the globe and suggest that it is the stuff of science fiction. Stories are a large part of how we understand the world, particularly that which is outside the scope of our personal experience. If the news media continues to skirt around the present realities of climate change, and our fiction tells us it is an issue for our grandchildren, we will continue to struggle to understand that we can and must tackle it now.

ART BY LINCOLN GLASBY

NONFICTION

THE DARKER THE BERRY VEERA RAMAYAH ON COLOURISM

he feeling of the sun on your face is one of life’s simplest, most affordable pleasures. But, not if you’re a brown girl. I remember being told by family, after seeing them for the first time in months, that I’d “better be careful” because I’d gotten so dark in the New Zealand sun. But it’s not as if they were trying to hurt me. This warning came topped with the biggest scoop of love and a sprinkle of concern. But, it was as if, to them, becoming dark was something to be afraid of. Colourism is the post-colonial monster that hides in the light. It prides itself on its insatiable hunger for brown girl insecurity, something that’s rampant in today’s bleached world. It’s a concept founded on the fundamental notion that lighter skin and Eurocentric features are somehow better and more desirable than darker skin and natural beauty. If all you’ve heard around you growing up is that “only light skin with European features is considered beautiful”, there comes a time when that’s what you’ll find yourself believing. I know what you’re thinking. Colourism, racism, quite a few “isms” floating around, right? Although they sound the same, colourism and racism are entirely different. Racism is inter-racial, it usually comes from someone who doesn’t belong to the race they are talking about. Whereas, colourism is intra-racial; it usually comes from a PoC, or is a samerace person talking about members of their own race in a derogatory manner. What makes colourism racism’s “uglier” sister is the fact that it’s a form of internalised racism. PoC have internalised European standards of beauty to the point at which anything that is a shade darker than milk is as offputting as having to pay one dollar extra for soy milk in your latte (disgusting, I know). Although, looking back, it’s not hard to see how we got here. European standards of beauty became normalised and desirable from as early as the 15th century, when European powers colonised India and other Asian nations. Masters and lords decorated Indian society, each powdered with a fine coat of “white”—pale skin, blue eyes and golden hair. The psychological effect that these societal hierarchies had on Indian society is mirrored in colourism. This is why PoC simply can’t “get over” the history of our native countries. “Bleaching syndrome” is a phenomenon where PoC invest in skin-lightening products. It’s a huge unspoken reality within our communities, and something that will continue to follow us for a long time. It’s something that isn’t helped by instances such as Vogue India choosing Kendall Jenner to be their cover girl for their tenth anniversary. Reinforcing yet again that it’s blonde, brunette and white that gets you on the cover, and the losing hand of all-brown everything gets you a tokenistic page-six feature. I’m not immune from basking in my own privilege. By PoC standards, although I am dark, I am still “light”, comparatively, on this intangible scale of skin hues. I used to revel in the fact

that my relatives would praise my lightness and look down on the visibly darker family members. This was my edge, I thought. It has taken so many years on the almost excruciating road of self-acceptance to unlearn this. My edge is not being brown, or relatively lighter. My edge is being me. My brownness became like a mud I tried to scrub off every waking minute of every day. I wanted to be light. I resented the summer months when I would play outside with my friends and return home 50 shades darker. I wanted to be worth more with a golden mop atop my head, reminding people of delicate chains of precious metal that glinted in the sunlight. I was able to dismiss my skin colour within my family because of my “light” privilege. But, outside the safety of home was a different story. The biggest lesson that any PoC will learn throughout their lives is that this skin never gives you the opportunity to dismiss it. It isn’t something you can hide behind, a secret weapon that only gets unleashed when you’re backed into a corner. In this black-and-white world, it’s your only defence against stares laced with bleach. But the moment I truly realised how far I’d have to carry the weight of this concept with me was when I attended a wedding and overheard some guests whispering, “She’s lucky she got married because she’s so dark.” And, I realised that not even on what everyone calls the “happiest day of your life” would I be able to escape from the clutches of colourism. To put it bluntly, I was pissed. Before I even opened my mouth, my skin colour had done all the talking and said volumes about my worth. Recently, I reunited with my Bharatanatyam (Indian Classical Dance) Guru (teacher) after not seeing her for the better part of four years. I remember walking up to her front door, anticipation and excitement threatening to bubble over, filled with the same desperation to impress her as I had when I was her student. I wondered if to her, I still looked the same, with significantly shorter hair streaked with bronze and a nose ring to match. I heard her approach the door, and suddenly, it was open. “Veera! What happened to you, you used to be so fair!” Her tone was shocked, almost sad. As if she was mourning the loss of the girl she used to know, the one who could dance in lighter salwaar’s because I passed the “brown paper bag test”. I’m the type of person who smiles and laughs whenever they’re in pain. And so, the only thing I could do in that moment was to stretch my mouth from ear to ear, while the memory of middle-school Veera was slowly tainted by my darkened skin. It was this exact moment that I stopped apologising and hiding away from what was literally right in front of me. I remembered a quote from one of my favourite spoken word pieces: “When they call you dark as night, tell them that without you, the stars would have nothing to shine for.” And I’ve never stopped sitting in the sun.

ART BY POORNIIMA SHANMUGAM

NONFICTION

CONTENT WARNING: DEATH, DROWNING, COLONIALISM, EARTHQUAKE

THE INHERITANCE OF GRIEF BY TILLI FRANKS

his summer, a 14-year-old boy drowned in the sea next to Sumner, New Zealand. He’d been swimming at the village beach one afternoon with a friend, in a stretch of ocean known for its strong currents. It happens almost every year; it’s usually people from the inner-city suburbs, who’ve made the drive out to the picturesque seaside village on sunny days, eager to soak up the summer heat. They don’t know what the locals know: the places where the rips and tides will drag you under and out into the cold Pacific waters. I was staying at my mum’s house at the time. I haven’t spent a lot of time there since I moved to Australia for boarding school when I was 16. My own kind of grief—the kind that came from the abrupt end of childhood—kept me away. For the past seven years, I’ve spread myself across multiple cities, and been in general pretty unrooted. It was strange to spend an entire three months in a place filled with childhood memories. A lot of tight-knit communities cropped up after the earthquake. Some lasted the test of time; others did not. I think Sumner did because of its geography, as well as the severity of the damage. It’s a while out from the city, with borders naturally defined by the hills between which it’s nestled. There’s really only one road in, which skirts the bottom of the cliff and edge of the ocean around from the neighbouring suburb. There’s one supermarket, a primary school, a church and a handful of restaurants, cafés and boutiques. It’s the kind of place where people wave as they drive past each other, where it’s safe for the swarms of kids who live up the hill—up past where the bus route ends—to hitchhike home after school. It’s the kind of place where parents feel safe letting their kids roam. They didn’t find his body for a week. The day after he disappeared, I watched from my deck as volunteers and lifeguards took boats and jet skis out to trace the rocky outcrops at the bottom of the sea cliffs, searching for him. Someone crowdfunded enough for a helicopter to go out over the bay every morning for four days. My bosses, from the upscale restaurant I spent my summer working at, took their own boat out to search for him in the first few days. I read online that, in total, around 93 boats went out to look for him.

The normally packed beach was almost deserted, with only a few tourists bumbling around. The locals seemed to keep their distance from the water too—even the regular, die-hard surfers who usually dotted the waves like lazy black seals morning and night. Maybe they avoided the surf because his mother had parked a caravan and a tent next to the lifeguard station, where she slept every night when he was missing. It was an unavoidable, stark reminder of her grief—her monument to him. Every day for a week, I checked to see if it was still there, on my way past it to and from work. I never saw her. I knew people were taking her meals, and I often saw others clustered on the lifeguard ramp, watching the ocean. Sometimes they would wade in, but never past the knee. On 22 February 2011, at 12:51pm, I was in the library at school in Christchurch when I felt the earth tense underneath me. Glass from the windows burst over my head before I had time to think. As books and bookcases toppled in crescendo around me, I staggered to a wooden door-frame, the blue carpet rolling under my feet. I thought I was going to die. I don’t remember how I got outside. I sat with 500 other girls on the school oval, waiting for news. Reports were trickling in from people who’d managed to receive texts before the phone lines cut out: buildings had gone down, people were trapped inside, people might be dead. We sat in the mud for hours, waiting for our families, not knowing if they had been as lucky as we had. When I found my brother, he was covered in brick dust. If he had been standing a few inches further back, he would have been crushed by a crumbling wall. Aftershocks continued to hit, and each time it seemed like the world was falling in around us. I saw dust rise up again from the city buildings as they shifted against the weight of the movement. I saw the ground split open, great gaping wounds of gravel and concrete and earth. I saw people lying on the street, crying, some covered in blood and dust. On the TV, I saw more people clustered in front of collapsing buildings, shifting around the rubble, calling out for the people inside. Everyone had some kind of lucky escape—except for those who hadn’t. For a while, there wasn’t any power, water or plumbing.

ART BY ASHER KARAHASAN

NONFICTION

Portaloos were set up on each street. Schools were closed. There were 185 people-sized gaps in the fabric of Christchurch: everyone had lost someone, or knew someone who had. We were a city with no city. We lived in a metropolis of traffic cones. We understand history as a series of traumatic events. Western-dominated history centres our collective-narrative around these: the crucifixion of Jesus, the Reformation, the French Revolution, the first world war. More recently, grief defines our identity in relation to events like Columbine, 9/11, the Arab Spring. Or a three-year-old boy, washed up on a beach in Turkey. Grief is a response to loss: of life, of lifestyle, of land. Different societies have different ways of knowing grief. We like to project the incomprehensible immateriality of our emotions onto something physical, tangible. Sometimes, through violence, like the Māori women who once showed their mourning by self-harming with obsidian and sharp shells, to ease the ferocity of loss. Sometimes, through monuments and memorials, like the Shrine of Remembrance down St Kilda road. Or through symbolism; the long-suffering history of the LGBT community is enshrined in the rainbow flag. Christians take communion to memorialise the death of Jesus. Grief becomes a part of our identity. Colonies, in particular, are built on grief: societies structured around the loss of some and the profit of others. In its aftermath in New Zealand, Māori and Pasifika people have used communities and collective action as tools of resilience against the consequences of colonialism. These issues range from poverty, high incarceration rates and violence, to the continuing dissolution of language, culture and contested land rights. The persistence of community and tradition in the face of ongoing racism is resistance in itself: the continual absorption of grief into life, rather than the absorption of life by grief. The endurance of Māori culture against the force of Europeanisation is a part of New Zealand identity and society. The proof of this was evident against the backdrop of chaos the earthquake brought. It was from the poorer and badly damaged eastern suburbs, with the densest Māori and Pasifika population, that the most significant grassroot efforts grew. The local iwi of Ngãi Tahu, specifically, felt a responsibility to their traditional land, and assumed a leading role in putting Christchurch back together again, through a community-based approach. They led the formation of the Māori Recovery Network, based on the principle of aroha nui ki te tangata—love to all people. This extension of their support

to all those affected did something to reassert their traditional authority in the Christchurch region, and to cultivate a longdeserved sense of respect within the general society. They helped provide things like shelter and supplies, with several tribe members going around neighbourhoods with groceries, and checking in on vulnerable households. Volunteer teams were organised to help shovel liquefaction, working alongside other organisations to clear the roads and organise transport. They even opened their marae as centres of assistance and outreach facilities. Despite the obstacles the Māori communities faced, like a lack of cooperation and sensitivity from the civil defence force, they remained persistent at the centre of earthquake recovery. It set a standard and an example for other communities to emerge, or strengthen, like in the village where my mother lives. In the age of Western self-interest and individualism, we forget that humans are, by nature, social creatures: in the absence of grief, we forget why we need each other. Kia kaha, we used to say during the months after the earthquake. Stay strong. This strength lies in the perseverance of Māori tradition through tribulation, traditions still harnessed by many local initiatives to combat social problems. Not just for post-earthquake resolutions, either: the boy who drowned had been part of an organisation called Bros for Change. It’s a program which aims at mentoring young people at risk, using Māori values, regardless of their background. Its founder, Jaye Pukepuke, describes it as giving kids a second chance, and creating real change. It comes back to the principle that people who feel connected and supported by their community will not fall into a maladaptive path. Delinquency and deviance are merely symptomatic of the inherent grief embedded in this system built upon inequality and loss. Community has become a channel of grief—whether for neocolonialism, natural disaster or individual tragedy—that Māori people have bequeathed onto us. It is resilience found in the most unlikely of places. One morning, they found his body. The newspaper said he was found by an early morning jogger. He was washed up on the village beach, not far from where he’d been swept out. In the end, it hadn’t mattered how much people had done to find him. He found his own way home, on the backs of white horses. Later that day, I walked down the beach to the spot where the rip stole him. At low tide, you can walk between the slippery rocks and on the damp sand usually covered by the sea. I thought about how scared he must have been. I wondered if he called for anyone. Did his body get caught between rocks, or tangled in seaweed, holding him down while the tide tried to carry him home? On the one-year anniversary of the earthquake, people placed bouquets in the tops of the thousands of traffic cones which redrew our city. On the fifth, they gathered to throw hundreds of flowers into the river that runs around the central park near the CBD. For the boy who drowned, they held a karakia—a funeral or religious chant—followed by a haka on the local beach. The surfing community organised a paddleout just after. His family joined them on a lifeboat, while others dropped flowers in the ocean from the jetty. Christchurch knows what it means to lose a loved one. We have learnt from a much stronger example what it means to survive loss. The inheritance of grief has given us the tools of community and resilience, at a cost. The relationship between Māori and Pakeha is still asymmetrical: colonialism now just manifests under new justifications and mandates. Grief is never temporary. It lasts as long as its memory; it sits like grit under even a stranger’s nails. We are made of the loss of everything that came before now: we are made of grief.

ART BY ASHER KARAHASAN

DEATH AND MOLLY BY JOCELYN DEANE I would collect you – provisional as china, gingerly offering my arm for 5 minutes between Star Mews and Stone Court, minding you say: two people crossing on a flight of stairs is bad luck – you can feel the ghosts trying to reach out through the sudden confusion of space – who is occupying, who is bequeathing— like a twenty-pound note in a card you would send as an unbirthday present. Sometimes you’d invite me in. Couldn’t enter otherwise – like has-been vampires – and even then you’d ferry me out as soon as humanly possible. I did get to see your dolls and the century-dust thick photos —indescribably specific— crammed into a small flat in a tiny corner of a tiny country, indivisible as an atom, split from incredible love. You invite me in. This time I stay.

CREATIVE

DINOSAUR EXHIBITS FOR CONFUSED 7-YEAR-OLDS BY JOCELYN DEANE I can tell you everything about natural history Museums – the two kinds of dinosaur hips: One, meat-eating, overly reptilian, movements assured Of sudden bursts of will, taxonomies of torn throats; The second, herbivorous and constantly Misconstrued by their gangling unearthers Bilingual in their number of legs, Defensive thumb-spikes fixed to Their snouts like the first woodcuts of rhinoceros When they were still just imaginary, Pelvis already bird-like, gizzards Hoarding pebbles serving their teeth, Enzymes and digestion, unsuited as They were to anything unmonstrous. Victorian Proto-palaeontologists hypothesised they Were dragons from before Noah’s flood, as if They’d be their own classificatory system for Geological epochs, brontosaurus Necks the best shorthand for deep time and The teeth that constitute a planet’s birthday.

ART BY ALEXANDRA BURNS

CREATIVE

REGULAR ABDUCTIONS BY DANIEL BERATIS

he wind—behaving like a wave, look closely—crashes into the pinstriped awning. The woman (let’s call her “she”) steps out of the reasonably-sized car, shoes settling on the asphalt. There is a wariness embedded within her; the passers-by drink it up. Her wariness is reasonably warranted. The streets are threatening. The world is safer all the time. All of life is dangerous to the touch, and every day, fewer men rot away. New government initiatives have reduced the number of plane crashes, children are regularly abducted from well-frequented public playgrounds and canned tomatoes are cheaper at the local supermarket. She rolls her neck—once, twice, three times if it matters, and it could very well matter. The wind, rolling off the sea, continues its surge and tide; the lilac and turquoise stripes above the storefront deform and misalign. A flutter—I think this is right—in the wind. And she is striding across the road now, asphalt underfoot (reasonably compressed and in reasonable disrepair, for the convenience of council workers and letter writers alike). She is striding—yes, I have that right—to the storefront, to the lilac and turquoise awnings, and the bouquets of flowers in the window, and the exciting discounts therein. She strides, not allowing deviation, with a thrust and a purpose and a drive. The car (a sedan) continues to rumble. The door swings shut, a click sounding out. The awnings rattle. The white door—was it off-white? Or cream? I recall it being white—has above it a single, brass bell: the kind you would buy from a pet store or garden emporium, or a farmers’ market for tourists and visitors and other persons unfamiliar with the streets and with the world. The bell is the kind with a single flat disc suspended within its curve—supple, I am told— within its supple curve; much the same as the bell of a church, the doors of which stay barred for fear of unauthorised prayer, or radical protest, or wind. The bell itself hangs loosely in front of the door—it was white, yes; not cream, not off-white—and knocks against itself in the wind (the wave). The wind, in its wave, snatches away all the sounds the bell might make. She grips the handle of the door, swings it open. A gust blows the bell—flipping it, suspending it—as she walks in, one hand on her reasonably full wallet, the other over her reasonably sized heart. The waves (winds) subside and the bell falls, becoming trapped between the door and its frame, with a metal—sorry, a dulled metal clang. Do I have this right? She is more measured now: her hands parallel to the wooden floorboards (which creak as planned), her arms at angles of mathematical value, her head slightly tilted. The sounds of the outside (dangerous and calming, if you believe the news bulletins and county newspapers and tinny radio sets) are trapped on the other side of the glass, the awning; only a slight whine is held as the wind washes through the crack of the door. It is the sound of a lone car driving by, and of waves crashing onto the sandy beach, and of an elderly man sitting on a bench, writing a letter with ferocity, cracked pen to withered page.

She approaches the counter of the store. A younger woman looks up. A single rose and two tulips—this is not right, but nevertheless—are limp between her fingers. A card on the counter (for the flowers) reads, “hello, these are for you, please enjoy”. The script is curt—no, stern—no, circumspect. The script is circumspect. The script is—yes, curt—no, circumspect?—circumspect— She asks for a tulip—What colour?—several tulips—What colours, I said—in lilac and—What was it?—a bunch, a bouquet of tulips in lilac and cream and turquoise and off-white. She does not look around—why would she?—but stares straight into the eyes of the younger woman—is she expecting someone?—the younger woman, with the limp fingers, and the two roses—and she looks straight—straight into the eyes—I am sure that this is right—the eyes of that woman. Is this right? This is right, I have this right—straight into the eyes—let me continue—I’m right— —and she stands there and she waits, and the wind whistles, and the waves crash from their reasonable heights (conjuring reasonable fears of reasonably deadly tides among the reasonably rational residents of—nevertheless) and she stands there, and she waits some more, and the minutes pass, and the hours pass, and still she could wait a little longer. And she waits a little longer, and she stands and ossifies—or I am told that is what she does—she ossifies as the weeds grow up around her and the vines intertwine and the flowers rejoin their natural home in the dirt and the potholes in the road expand and the letter writer passes on and the oceans freeze over and the oceans boil and the car door clicks open and the bell snaps in two and the door remains ajar and the asphalt decompresses and the neighbourhood gentrifies and the sun expands and the council rates fall slightly and the stars die out and the awnings stabilise and the potholes are filled and the crime rate falls and the buildings crumble down as the canned tomatoes rot. And the younger woman returns with a bunch—correction, a bouquet—of tulips in turquoise and off-white and lilac and cream. The older woman (‘she’—yes, “she”) grasps them, and exchanges them for a reasonable sum of money, which the younger woman—so I am told—shall save for a rainy day when a hunger takes her and she skips her lunch or dinner. And, holding her flowers, the woman (yes. “she”.) turns away, and begins to journey home.

ART BY NELLIE SEALE

CREATIVE

TIRA EL CUELLO HACIA ATRÁS y pregúntate qué fue de ella. Arroja los ojos al suelo, a un coche destartalado, al pavimento que tolera la torpeza de tus pasos.

La banqueta se desdobla frente a tu sombra, bajo tu hosca respiración. Pronto flaquearán tus rodillas, tus convicciones en la penumbra idiota del arrepentimiento. Deja de preguntarte qué fue de ellos a quienes obsequiabas tus secretos —qué fue de tus secretos. Qué fue de tu frente clara, sin surcos. A quién tiras tus migajas cada tarde, desde una banca decrépita. Tus manos enmudecen ante el temblor de tu conciencia. Sigue por ese tramo sin señalamientos. Oye esa carcajada espontánea, libre, que pasa junto a ti, que ya va lejos. Por qué te llenas de rabia. Es la misma banqueta—mírala, descolorida por tus mil escupitajos— que desemboca pálida, seca, en el umbral de tus párpados. No es entrada ni salida, tampoco una puerta: lo que atraviesas —cuando llegas a casa—es el recuento de tus intentos, rancias plegarias. La silla—aquella que descansa en ese hueco, sin propósito— gime de hartazgo bajo el hedor de tu cuerpo obsoleto. Finges no escuchar los muebles —viejos rencores mascullados con furia. Dónde dejaste el aceite que disimula el hastío de las cosas. Dónde los suspiros que te quedaban. Quién te lamió por última vez la dentadura marchita que cultivas todas las noches frente al lavamanos. Acaricia el picaporte otra vez. Entra o sal—lo que tú creas. Mira a los lados, tira el cuello hacia atrás. No pasan los pájaros.

POEM BY ALEJANDRO DEL CASTILLO 48

ART BY HANNA LIU

CREATIVE

TILT YOUR HEAD BACK and wonder

what happened with her. Turn your gaze to the street, to a ramshackle car, to the pavement that bears the clumsiness of your steps.

The sidewalk unfolds before your shadow, under your surly breath. Knees tremble and convictions waver. What happened to them, the people you trusted? Whereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your clear, unfurrowed brow? For whom do you scatter crumbs every night on abandoned park benches, your hands frail before the trembling of your consciousness. Go on walking without a sign. Hear laughter, spontaneous, free passing you by out of reach. Why are you so full of rage? It is the same path, look at it, a spittle-stained gray that flows pale and dry to the threshold of your vision. At home, in the darkness pretend not to hear the furniture old grudges muttered mutinously, dry, tired fury under the weight of your aging body. Stare in the mirror, and ask yourself who tasted for the last time your empty mouth, the ruined teeth you clean every night at the stained kitchen sink? Touch the doorknob again. Go inside, or outside, look to both sides then up at the sky: no birds.

POEM BY ALEJANDRO DEL CASTILLO ART BY HANNA LIU

CREATIVE

RENEWAL BY NICHOLAS SUJECKI To be jettisoned into space, disintegrating amongst the silence, bleached & violated by cosmic tidings, finally twinkling as stardust within the void. Or perhaps I should be thrust into the Earth, devoured by fastidious impetus, forgotten & dormant amongst the soil, lovingly sprouting life from my ribs.

ART BY LAUREN HUNTER

ART BY RAYMOND WU

GALILEO’S FINGER BY MATTHEW WOJCZYS You’d expect to find it in a natural history museum, perching among dry insects long extinct. The knuckles bend like a caterpillar lacing its glass chrysalis. Or, this last vestige of a fist could fit in the Neanderthal exhibit, the nail an arrow head chiselled by prehistoric astronomers hunting constellations. Instead, Florence displays Galileo’s finger in a bell jar, among instruments for reading stars, among spheres that reduce planets to arms on a clock. The years slipped by and eclipsed his eyes. Now his finger itches to hatch from its enclosure of moulting skin, inch up beyond the down lights to the paper-thin sky, where the orbs are aligned like Braille.

ART BY CAROLYN HUANE

A UNION BY ESMĂ&#x2030; JAMES Watching planets plummet into waves washing over my feet Jupiter tickles my little toe I communicate with light years through a seashell the comets are calling gossiping stars circling I have only good intentions to tell they shoot their way off into the abyss all is bliss. all is well.

ART BY CAROLYN HUANE

CREATIVE

THE COLOUR OF GREY BY SAAMPRAS GANESAN

hen he started out on his quest to observe and reflect upon the sunset, all I experienced was shades of darkness and light, which he called grey. The world was busy throwing out wetness at me. He seemed disappointed that the rain was interfering with his quest. It was on a rainy night that the love of his life left. An introspective mind like his would describe the scene as a world of black-and-white seagulls waywardly gliding around, white spider webs intricately engineered on black rocks, black-and-white penguins lounging under the black rocks, and black water subtly rising and falling in the sea, creating white froth upon walloping against black rocks. To him, it was a charcoal painting where the amount of charcoal at each point decides how black or white that portion is. In the midst of this, a small unworldly streak crept out in front of his field of view and kidnapped our attention. It was alien because I experienced it with an intensity that no grey had given me till then that day. To me, everything is reborn everyday. To him, it was a worldly orange streak that he was witnessing through his round old spectacles. The source of this orange streak was a miracle ball who was burning to rebel against the world of grey. To him, she was a source of shining possibilities in a grey and dark world. He was annoyed at the grey fogginess of the entire scene around him. “Thanks for the amazing weather, Melbourne!” Meanwhile, the sun continued her rebellion, ferreting out crevices in the greyness to let herself through. She began to perform like an expert magician, moving the streak of alien colour left and right. The streak grew in both directions before disappearing from the middle. An orange portal opened up from the middle and the first orange progressively got darker in its shade. There was at least one feature the alien colour orange and grey shared in common. The ability to grow darker or lighter. As the orange grew darker, he could feel my deep stillness. Shutting down the mind completely is no small feat. He took a deep breath and listened for his beloved. The streak started to get thinner and lighter, eliciting some disappointment in him and quashing his hopes of seeing a richer sunset. He liked richness and intensity in life. He realised that the orange was a perfect imperfection in a dark and grey world, and this tiny imperfection made the world all the more beautiful and blissful. Why evil is necessary to know the divine, melancholy to experience happiness, darkness to see light and hatred to feel love. The fogginess began to clear away and the world jumped into a higher resolution. This sudden clarity in vision quietened him, enabling us to have a unified experience again. He finally began to feel at peace with her sudden and heartbreaking demise. He saw a kaleidoscope of yellow, orange, blue and white, enveloped in grey. I was experiencing so many new shades of alien colours all at once. This was a peek at the transience of life, all thanks to her. The fog cleared away, producing an enhanced clarity of vision, while she was slowly bowing out. He contemplated this as a paradox, since, despite the enlivening sun setting and taking away its light along with it, the world became increasingly lucent. After all this time locked up in a dark room, colour seemed to enter him for the first time. He began to feel that this was a play of his beloved. She had inspired him to paint. She now seemed to pervade all that he experienced. His sparkling eyes were lost in her at that moment. He noticed a neat blanket of orange-grey enveloping all the buildings together in one part of the city while an orange-white appeared right opposite his initial field of view. When he turned back around to face the sea, a small dark orange line, resembling a fire streak, appeared out of nowhere. There was orange reflecting off the dark grey water, accompanied by a crimson orange portal opening up at the top in the sky. “She knows me too well,” he exclaimed, with excitement and tears. The contrast was enhanced as the surroundings got progressively darker. I could sense another alien colour, just above the orange, which I had not witnessed till then that day. To him, it was a sky blue. At that point, even the sea began to participate, carrying the sunlight towards us, through the waves. The beach was her favourite place and now became his too, after her departure. There were other colours of streaks appearing for the first time in the sky, such as the colour of blood devoid of orange. The dark grey of the surroundings had unwittingly been replaced by a pinkish grey and this was truly a mesmerising point of unified experience for us. The feeling resembled the pinkish warmth which had radiated from her cheeks. The only non-pink region left was the place of sunset, and it appeared bluish. It soon transformed to a light purplish tinge with a grey backdrop, while some vestiges of yellow remained above the sea. The world began to transition quicker than ever, finally giving way to darkness. The 70-year-old artist’s last ever dream was as rich and vivid as his usual reality. As he took his very last breath, he wondered, “What would it be like to experience this experience through the mind and senses of my beloved?” I knew the answer and he was just about to find out.

ART BY WINNIE JIAO

ART BY JEAN BAULCH

CREATIVE

BANANAS BY ANNIE LIEW

open my eyes. The bananas are still there: curved bodies and rubbery skins speckled with dark bruises, decay spreading from the inside. I tug at the smallest one but it doesn’t budge. With a quick, jerky movement of my fist I rip the banana away from the bunch, exposing a crooked line of flesh just below the tip. The distinct smell hits me immediately. I don’t like bananas. In fact, I’m physically repulsed by them. I hate all their curves and edges. I don’t like how they turn to mush when I bite into them, and I don’t like how they bruise so easily. When I see a banana my face contorts and my head screams. I can’t help it. I peel the banana skin, the foul odour penetrating my senses. My throat seems to close up when I am around bananas. Whenever I try one, convinced by friends and family that time must have changed me, my stomach squeezes and everything in my body rejects the sensation. It is as if my organs are independently attempting to purge this foul disease that has infiltrated by defences, infected my soul. I bite down on the coarse yellow tip and I spit it out. I want to like bananas. I hear they’re supposed to be tasty and I know they’re rich in potassium. I am also told that they taste great baked in bread. I’ve experimented with wrapping them in bacon to trick my body. I have closed my eyes and pinched my nose but the act of biting down into the sickly flesh of a banana shakes my core and breaks my spirit. I lick the sparsely speckled ring in the centre and cringe involuntarily. Eating the same thing over and over again expecting something different—that’s bananas.

ART BY KIRA MARTIN

SUMMER SADNESS IN ST KILDA EAST BY REBECCA FOWLER thursday i am sick, my body and mind exist on different planes. people come and go through the crack shack like family. jim sleeps on the couch and bums endone. dani is out until 8am. the crack on my wall continues to grow and the bathroom door is still broken. i am sleeping mostly, trying not to spend money. friday everything lined up tonight before shattering. sitting in the dying herb garden, i felt i were a hollow carcass, scraped raw of what i used to be. my brain, my eyes, my throat, chest ached as i implored the sky for answers. opened my empty shell and peaked – inside was a little girl, hidden under layers of change. i saw what i am supposed to do. the answer was somewhere between laughter and tears, leaves and dirt. saturday head. ache. grey. dazed. heart ache? scattered. unsure if what I’m doing is – ok? pass out. sunday we all drew that night, for hours upon hours i felt electric, craved a voice to cradle me to a state near sleep as the room spun and twisted and my mind was cruel the night that never ended the sun rising hotly revealing paintings done in a state near mania. monday wake up, no food, drink milk, out the door – dissociate on tram. did i tap on? can’t afford another fine. don’t know where i am though i take this tram every day. late to class, late to class. wake up more. clean, crisp. focused. hungry, fading. tram again. 16 via st kilda. fluorocents. green seats. buzzing, beeping. home, pick up, talk shit, smoke, eat a pizza, pass out.

tuesday my body feels as if it were hit by a truck yet my mind won’t slow down. wednesday when i wake up, dani and melissa scramble into my bed. half shaved legs sprawl over my ikea doona cover. melissa and i scream with delight as dani tells us why she was out until 9am. ‘stop screaming!’ she begs. it’s a ten minute walk to coles. we are lazy and catch the tram. we don’t tap on to go three stops and i’m looking over my shoulder the whole time. melissa has worn my shoes and i’m worried about stepping on glass. a layer of grime seems to cling to the footpath down this end of the street. above, the metallic wires belonging to the 16 via st kilda east zap and make me laugh. imagine growing up with those constantly overhead. at home, the house swallows us in cool shade. i’m sweating, plastic grocery bags sticking to my skin. milly appears at our gate with pink hair and a death-metal shirt. we all drink and smoke and talk about how he’s trash! we play angry anthems from 2008, when i was 13 and melissa was 9. melissa re-pots my dying plants: ‘you need to water them!’ she screams, louder and more vibrant than the birds outside my window. we lose the ‘good lighter’. i meekly ask upstairs for one and don’t return it for three days and counting. sheets and towels crowd the courtyard and fail to dry in the damp night air. thursday summer is ending soon, rain will flood our courtyard, smoking might retire (maybe). right now melissa’s heart is pulling her along, dani’s heart is in melbourne but her passport is dutch. dishes crowd our sink, which is clogged. we can’t go more than two days without the house descending into a messy clutter-house. i don’t mind too much. there are always bills to pay – that i mind, a bit. but there’s also always laughing, eating, sleeping, hugging, crying, drinking, singing.

ART BY RENEE DE VLUGT

ART BY BETHANY CHERRY

CREATIVE

MY FEMINISM—MORE POWERFUL THAN TWO CLEOPATRAS BY MICHA

I often find myself at a crossroads Destined to be forever in the middle until I’ve come to decide which social construct I wish to identify with Like arbitrary subject selection my core subjects became Gender conformity Minoring in Internalised misogyny Straight identification Which unbeknownst to me was not my idea of self-identification In my self-discovery, I stumbled across the term feminism: a word that has sparked discussion, garnered negative connotation Feminism was her music box A song of solitude that washed away the pain that tainted her skin like leopard print Feminism was her keepsake that reminded her what it was to be a woman Woman is as woman does Feminism was her reminder that another woman’s beauty was not the absence of her own in an arena that successfully pitched woman against woman Feminism was Beyoncé’s girls who run the world and unapologetic anthem in a man’s world Feminism on the days I don’t feel beautiful in Lauryn Hill singing more powerful than two Cleopatras Feminism is a million other black girls just like me looking for representation

ART BY CAITLYN PIERRE

CITY GIRL BY CHIARA SITUMORANG Orange painted sunsets and a depth of grey, A canvas of molten silver light Sigh of smoke spilling from her lips; colourless in the night, incandescent in the bright She was born as the chaos arrived Fiery temper, burning heart Memories of satin summers, silky rain golden laughter, a hurricane Pink painted sunsets and a sea of blue, A canvas of airy rolling waves Piece of horizon stolen from her eyes; She waves goodbye and sighs it in, a silent promise for what has been.

CREATIVE

TOOTH COLLECTION BY ALSTON CHU fertile ground where trichor flown from bitten tongue lands springs emnous remnants a toothsome luxury cthonia induced by friend nor foe alike; envy what crawls planting teeth in rooted feet sown serpentine in gum and ground for giant’s sweet the great secret of the Delphine earth: thine enemy is He that knows thyself divine and conquerer sovereign stone crush cruft of life from the meal crumb, spittle where long bristol bone run dry– so against the rocks dashed the baker’s wisdom– there’s life comes before work meet thy maker your teeth outlast my carpet’s glass knee holes and carpal cleft sole marks of passage now customs leave me disarmed deribbed & discarded

ART BY BETHANY CHERRY

FLASH [NON]FICTION PROMPT TWO: CREATIVE NONFICTION ALL THE TRUTH THAT YOU CAN FIT IN 100 WORDS AND UNDER

e kept a jar of my grandmother’s chilli pickle in the freezer while my father flew to Malaysia for her funeral. BY KAREENA DHALIWAL

TO THE LAST STITCH To the last stitch I knew him and his power behind the pompous rage. But nothing changed for what I knew.

LEASH t’s late at night, and I am driving. My sister is in the front and Mum is in the back.

“You were a delightful child,” says Mum, to my sister. “You”—to me—“were a little shit. We had to put you on a leash.” “No,” I say. “I was not a leash child.” “Yes you were,” my sister says. “Don’t you remember?” I think. I don’t remember ever being on a leash. “I can’t believe you don’t remember,” my sister says. “Why did you put me on a leash?” I snap.

Now I see him: a crown of horns to commemorate the last he had of it.

BY MICHAEL DAVIES

THE TASTE OF COKE was never allowed Coca-Cola when I was kid. I’m not sure why. Other soft drinks were allowed, but never Coke.

The only exception was when we visited Grandma and Grandad. Grandad and I would walk downstairs to the bar. He would pour the Coke into my special mug. As the years went on, I had to get the Coke bottles myself. He was always waiting though, smiling as he sat at the dinner table.

“Because you would have run away,” Mum says. BY JESSE PARIS-JOURDAN

He left behind his mark like prints clawed to their stony mount.

ou would think that the weather report had just warned us of an impending natural disaster.

Movement only resulted in sore feet. I had already stopped counting the number of times I had been bumped into as people squeezed by each other. The aisles were clogged with trolleys as hands stretched out to clear shelves of food. The supermarket was going to close the next day. For one day. I didn’t understand it. But my parents did. So I was stuck pushing the trolley. BY NINA WANG

Years passed. I remember standing with my parents and sister, looking at the bar, as we cleared out the last few possessions and then left the house for good. Sometimes, when I’m lucky, I have a sip of Coke and get the feeling again. I’m back there. And he’s smiling as we walk back upstairs and fetch my special mug, a bottle of Coke in his hand. BY HARRY BAKER

TO TASK Here, Dad, I’ll come to task, perhaps to a chin as Greek as mine, or instead of coins to maps: least one of Red Hill. I’ll manage each apace with change, which tantalises, like the place you grew-up. BY MICHAEL DAVIES

SEND US YOUR TINY WORDS: NEXT EDITION’S PROMPT IS ECOLOGICAL APOCALYPSE: THE END OF THE WORLD Send your 100-word and under cli-fi disaster fiction to editors@farragomagazine.com

ART BY ILSA HARUN

FOR AND AGAINST: THREESOMES FOR BY CLARE TAYLOR

he Three Musketeers. Destiny’s Child. Harry, Ron and Hermione. The Sex and the City girls—minus Carrie, of course, because she’s annoying af. THE HOLY TRINITY. Three is the magic number. 1. Triangles are the strongest shape. It’s physics. Look it up. 2. Threesomes make you try harder. Everybody wants to be the proverbial Beyoncé in the proverbial Destiny’s Child. This means everyone, especially Kelly, has gotta give their all. 3. Team work makes the dream work. It’s a fact. The above adequately explains why non-sexual threesomes work. Knowing this publication, though, I can’t make my case without addressing a good ol’ fashion ménage à trois in all its blood, spit and cum-stained glory. I have to admit, before writing this piece, I’d never actually had a sexual threesome. Thus, in the name of journalistic integrity, I posted on the college intranet in search of two lucky volunteers. The number of generous and detailed offers I received truly warmed my heart. I selected my candidates carefully. I didn’t want anyone too elite. I wanted your typical white-bread-nutella-and-anchovies threesome experience. Eventually, I found two people who were average enough in looks, agility and emotional resilience for this journalistic experiment. Being only beginners, we began with the standard manouvres: some gentle scalpel earprobing, sucking of the wenis and Hillary-Bill-Monica role play. The extra tongue, ego and fingers didn’t make things easier. The whole experience was an exercise in logistics rivalling my attempts to take a shower while folding origami for my secret crush (hint: her name starts with A and rhymes with “Mangela Merkel”). Everything eventually disintegrated into a Masters-and-Johnson-style masturbation observation chamber. And yep, it was even sexier than it sounds. I might have walked away four orgasms and three queefs short of my expectations, yet I’d never felt so fulfilled. Why, you ask? Because two people were willing to have sex with me. At the same time. After years of therapy, I’d never felt so accepted, so cared for, and so loveable. (That’s right, Mum. NEVER.) My verdict: Skip the cognitive behavioural therapy and opt for group sex with semi-strangers.

AGAINST BY SARAH FOLEY

eah, threesomes can be fucking awesome (how about that saucy Gossip Girl episode?). Warm soft bodies everywhere (cuddles, am I right?) and just the right amount of hands in orifices. However, speaking as a wisened, threesome-ed out sexy-time lover, threesomes bring out the worst in me. My first threesome only went down because I had a boyfriend at the time but sent nudes to his cute friend Cara, and the only way I could have sex with her was if he was there too. I wrapped my body around her and Brad awkwardly stuffed his fingers between our legs. We broke up soon after. If you’re a little on the sensitive side about your body, threesomes are here to make you feel shit. Unable to orgasm because you’re sexually stunted and have weird trust issues? Your two partners don’t care because they’re on a three-way path to pleasure town. Nervous queefer? The others have perfect control over their bodily functions. How about when your boobs are an easily grasped B cup and your sexual partner is a whopping, delightful-to-lay-on, G cup? Yeah, all this comparison sounds like soooo much fun. It also didn’t help that I was pretty high during my last threesome and wasn’t 100 per cent sure who was who. I ended up zoning out while he went down on her. I angrily fell out of bed and decided that Doritos and Kraft Mac & Cheese would make me feel better than watching my boyfriend finger my best friend. Even though they were both technically “there” for me, as soon as I wasn’t the centre of attention (which fortunately and unfortunately has been the case in all three times), I freaked out and demanded they look at just me and not each other. I ignored one person and then needed them both afterwards to admit they only wanted to have sex with me anyways. I became jealous. I became insatiable. I became a threesome nightmare covered in cheese sauce and corn chip crumbs. Turns out, I totally suck at threesomes. Maybe you’re less selfish and actually a decent human being capable of normal sexual experiences. Maybe you’d thrive having two bodies to adore. I’m just selfish and don’t really get this whole “sharing” thing. Good luck to all you beautiful sexual beings, go forth and learn to be less selfish than me xxxxx

ART BY DAVID ZELEZNIKOW-JOHNSTON

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