2018 Edition 5 (Yellow Cover) by Farrago Magazine

CONTENTS CAMPUS

COLLECTIVE

4 5 7

2 3

9 10 12 13 14 17 18 21

News in Brief July/August Calendar Posters on Campus Protest China Stephanie Zhang and Medha Vernekar Changing Course: University Mandatory Consent Module Underperforms Lily Miniken and Amelia Costigan UMSU International: Still In Transition Wing Kuang, Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal and Stephanie Zhang Phone Scam Targets Chinese Students Jasper MacCuspie and Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal #1234 Looking for Love Maggy Liu LSAT, GAMSAT, UMAT: Are They All That? Lucy Williams The Grub Alex Greggery and Joel Lee Office Bearer Reports I Am Brown Before I Am Human Anonymous

CREATIVE 6 22 25 26 27 33 42 45 46 47 48

NONFICTION 22 24 28 29 30 32 35 36 38 39 40 68

Making the Cut Aaron Bhat In Defence of Corporate Tax Cuts Andie Moore I Love Frankie Cosmos Tamara Reichman Fodder Feature: A Few of My Favourite Things Trent Vu To Be Real Luke Macaronas Less Is More Is Less Kaavya Jha Fair Enough? Dilpreet Kaur Taggar The Germans Called It Auschwitz Tilli Franks Why The Planet Needs You To Get Rowdy Katie Doherty The Earth Is On Fire—But We Have Bigger Problems Rohan Byrne A Day, A Cherry Hamish Litt For and Against: Straight White Men Trent Vu and Elinor Mills

Editorial Team

50 51 52 54 56 57 58 60 61 62 63 64 66 67

Seasons / Winter Winnie Jiao Bard Times: Part Five James Gordon Art Rachel Morley Photography Lauren Powell Art Tzeyi Koay Photography Caroline Voelker Photography Christopher Hon Sum Ling Sonnet XIV – Fleur Tian Du No Sick Penguins at St Kilda Pier Alaina Dean pyrrhus retention mechanism Alston Chu Noceurn Alex McFadden The Cost of Pearls Annie Liew water in my lungs Esther Kuok May Yan Albany Daniel Beratis Photography Yedda Wang what a magnificent view Natalie Fong banksia embrace Sarah Peters A Diary of Everyday Magic Greer Sutherland Jeremiah in a Church in Thornbury Darcy Cornwallis Hildegard Darcy Cornwallis A Lifelong Commitment to Self-Efficacy Georgia Cao Jebel Meerna Yousif Alice Sidonie Bird De La Coeur Flash Fiction: Ecological Apocalypse Expose / Japan Ilsa Harun

ART BY MEG TULLY

COLLECTIVE

EDITORIAL

elcome back from the hell that has been winter in Melbourne. Winter is cold and so are we. You may be wondering why there’s a photo of us naked covered in copies of everyone’s favourite News Corp newspaper, The Australian. Our edition four satire article ‘An Exhaustive List Of Whom We Shall Kill On The First Day Of The Revolution’ achieved national attention—labelled as a “kill list” which “upsets Melbourne Uni’s young Libs”. Despite our requests, The Australian neglected to include a link to the article they were criticising, meaning that it was taken out of context to appear as if we only mentioned conservatives. So now that we’ve been “exposed” by the Murdoch press, here we are, with the truth laid bare for all to see. But what have the editors been up to outside of Farrago? you may ask. Esther has been hibernating like a French peasant, like her ancestors who used to sleep through the winter. She has also been hanging out with her dogs. In the creative section, Georgia Cao’s visceral poem ‘A Lifelong Commitment to Self-Efficacy’ (62) and Greer Sutherland’s ‘Diary of Everyday Magic’ (58) are some gorgeous picks. In true news editor fashion, Ashleigh has been watching The Fourth Estate: The NY Times and Trump—which she highly recommends (you can watch it on SBS). She spends her nights existing in the weird world of Welcome To Nightvale, mainly because it helps her sleep. In the campus section, check out Stephanie Zhang and Medha Vernekar’s investigation of Chinese student dissent on campus in ‘Posters On Campus Protest China’ (7). If you’re obsessed with the Facebook page UniMelb Love Letters, we recommend you read ‘#1234 Looking For Love’ by Maggy Liu (13). Monique is sad because it’s cold and her plants aren’t growing. She has also discovered the delights of running into objects because she’s listening to audiobooks too intently. As for graphics, in a reversal of the usual order, Sarah Peters writes poetry in response to Alexandra Burns’ art in ‘banksia embrace’ (57) and Christopher Ling looks at Melbourne through the lens of a film camera (42 and 43). Over the winter break Jesse finally found a house in Brunswick, and reluctantly gave up a great lifestyle of freeloading at his boyfriend’s house. He also sent a painful stream of messages to our Facebook chat every time he had to leave his bed. In the nonfiction section, Dilpreet Kaur Taggar looks at skin lightening products and the industry around them (34). And for anyone who thinks we don’t represent conservative students’ views, Andie Moore has written a defence of corporate tax cuts (24). Winnie Jiao has outdone herself by not only producing one, but two magical covers. Make sure you get your hands on both. Some of you may also notice that Farrago is looking a little more colourful this edition, unless you are new and stumbling upon us for the first time. If so, welcome! Please find some warm solace between our toasty pages. And if you haven’t already, check out The Australian’s exclusive. Oh wait, you can’t, it’s paywalled. Ashleigh, Esther, Jesse and Monique

COLLECTIVE

THE FARRAGO TEAM EDITORS

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

CONTRIBUTORS

Daniel Beratis Aaron Bhat Sidonie Bird De La Coeur Georgia Cao Alston Chu Darcy Cornwallis Amelia Costigan Michael Davies Alaina Dean Nitul Deshpande Tian Du Natalie Fong Tilli Franks James Gordon Alex Greggery Elizabeth Haigh Nurul Juhria Binte Kamal Dilpreet Kaur Taggar Wing Kuang Esther Kuok May Yan Lewis Laurence Joel Lee Annie Liew Hamish Litt Maggy Liu Jasper MacCuspie Alex McFadden Elinor Mills Lily Miniken Andie Moore Sarah Peters Milly Muller Reeves Tamara Reichman Greer Sutherland Trent Vu Lucy Williams Medha Vernekar Meerna Yousif Stephanie Zhang

SUBEDITORS

James Agathos Kyra Agathos Kergen Angel Elle Atack Georgia Atkinson 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 Maggy Liu Tessa Marshall 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 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 Asher Karahasan Tzeyi Koay Sharon Huang Liang Hanna Liu Christopher Hon Sum Ling Rachel Morley Amani Nasarudin Lauren Powell Nellie Seale Poorniima Shanmugam Sophie Sun Meg Tully Dinh Vo Caroline Voelker Yedda Wang David Zeleznikow-Johnston Qun Zhang

COLUMNISTS

Rohan Byrne Katie Doherty James Gordon Neala Guo (online) Ilsa Harun Kaavya Jha Luke Macaronas Ashrita Ramamurthy (online) Ailsa Traves (online) Trent Vu

SOCIAL MEDIA

Zoë Alford Alex Epstein Ilsa Harun Jack Langan Angela Le Annie Liew Christopher Hon Sum Ling Lucette Moulang Lara Navarro Lauren Powell

COVER

Winnie Jiao

ART BY MINNIE CHANTPAKPIMON

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 the Nigel-est Nicholas Raftopoulos, who is standing in for Nigel while he is on holidays. 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 DISABILITY INSTITUTE The University has established the Melbourne Disability Institute—“a major investment in disability research and engagement with the ultimate goal of improving the lives of people with disability, their families and carers.”

VCA PERFORMANCE The University of Melbourne defended the showing of a Victorian College of the Arts student’s performance piece and rejected calls to cancel subsequent performances after it generated heavy criticism from the mainstream media and other public figures for “reverse racism”. RAMSAY CENTRE Students, staff and commentators are up in arms about the Ramsay Centre and its efforts to introduce degrees in Western Civilisation to Australian universities. The Australian National University was initially considering the proposal, but backed out due to the Centre wanting “controlling influence” over the course. The University of Sydney is currently considering the proposal, on the condition that they get to make the terms. University of Melbourne Vice-Chancellor Glyn Davis has stated that UniMelb “has not submitted an expression of interest” to the Ramsay Centre. RAP 3 The University has released its third Reconciliation Action Plan, which “represents a Universitywide commitment to using our expertise and resources in research, teaching and learning and engagement to make a sustained contribution to Indigenous development.”

MERGERS The University of Adelaide and the University of South Australia are in discussions about merging the two universities. The merger is backed by both the federal and state governments.

BILL DELAYED The government has been forced to delay bringing its student loan sustainability bill to the senate until the next sitting week of parliament, which is in August, despite securing the necessary crossbencher support it needed to pass the bill on 28 June. If it passes, the bill will reduce the HECS repayment threshold to $45,000.

CAPS CAMPAIGN The University of Melbourne Student Union welfare and disabilities departments have launched a campaign to call on the University to increase funding for the Counselling And Psychology Services program. According to the departments, “university Counselling Services all around Australia (including UniMelb!) are suffering from a lack of funding which puts a strain on staff and limits their ability to see students in a timely manner.”

Q&A Students attended Q&A on 18 June to protest “the ongoing privatisation and militarisation of universities”. University of Sydney Vice-Chancellor Michael Spence appeared on the panel, and was questioned about the University’s consideration for the Ramsay Centre for Western Civilisation.

MEDIA WATCH The Australian criticised Farrago edition four article ‘An Exhaustive List Of Whom We Shall Kill On The First Day Of The Revolution’, after Liberal Club students spoke to the News Corp newspaper.

ART BY SOPHIE SUN

JULY/AUGUST CALENDAR

CAMPUS

O-WEEK

WEEK ONE

WEEK TWO

WEEK THREE

MONDAY 16 JULY

MONDAY 23 JULY

MONDAY 30 JULY

MONDAY 6 AUGUST

UMSU ELECTION NOMINATIONS OPEN

TUESDAY 17 JULY

TUESDAY 24 JULY

TUESDAY 31 JULY

TUESDAY 7 AUGUST

1pm: trans collective 2pm: creative arts + UHT— winter warmer dance workshop 4:15: anxiety support group 4:30pm: Farrago edition five launch party

12pm: Women of Colour collective 1pm: trans collective 4:15: anxiety support group

WEDNESDAY 18 JULY

WEDNESDAY 25 JULY

WEDNESDAY 1 AUGUST

WEDNESDAY 8 AUGUST

10am–2pm: carnival day 1pm: lunch with the queer bunch 1pm: creative arts and disabilities—knitting workshop

12pm: women’s collective 1pm: lunch with the queer bunch 5pm: games night 5:30pm: enviro—green screen & play with your food

12pm: women’s collective 1pm: lunch with the queer bunch 5pm: speed friending

12pm: women’s collective 1pm: lunch with the queer bunch

THURSDAY 19 JULY

THURSDAY 26 JULY

11am–2pm: clubs expo 12pm: queer People of Colour collective 1pm: disabilities collective 2pm: enviro—activist history tour 2pm: queer—indoor picnic 6pm: creative arts—Arty Party

12pm: queer People of Colour collective 1pm: arts collective 1pm: disabilities collective 4pm: queer/enviro—gender free clothing exchange 5pm: media—wordplay 6pm: creative arts— imPLOMtu

FRIDAY 20 JULY

FRIDAY 27 JULY

THURSDAY 2 AUGUST

THURSDAY 9 AUGUST

12pm: queer People of Colour collective 1pm: arts collective 1pm: disabilities collective

FRIDAY 3 AUGUST

FRIDAY 10 AUGUST

On Sunday 5 August: Farrago edition seven submissions close

UMSU ELECTION NOMINATIONS CLOSE

ART BY SOPHIE SUN

ART BY WINNIE JIAO

NEWS

POSTERS ON CAMPUS PROTEST CHINA

STEPHANIE ZHANG AND MEDHA VERNEKAR INVESTIGATE CHINESE STUDENT DISSENT

osters protesting against Chinese President Xi Jinping’s recent abolition of the term limit were found around campus at the University of Melbourne. In early March, #NotMyPresident posters were found on the column outside Baillieu Library and on the notice boards in Union House. Chinese students studying abroad in Western countries started the #NotMyPresident movement. They explained that they started this campaign because they felt “the responsibility to let more people know about the current situation in China as well as to encourage young Chinese overseas to voice out their opinions.” This protest harks back to the “Not My President” slogan recently popularised as a result of the 2017 American presidential election of Donald Trump. Farrago spoke with Ma*, a Chinese science student at Melbourne University. He put up some of the posters outside Baillieu Library after finding out about the movement through his friends’ retweets. While he expressed similar concerns about the abolition of the term limit, Ma was cynical for both the campaign and the current situation in China. “Some people asked me what I can achieve by doing this but for the people that don’t know about this, it’s a reminder to them that China is not a normal country, not like Australia... So it’s awareness,” said Ma. However, Ma remains cynical about the movement’s efficiency: “I don’t think it’s very effective in any way. There’s no way it can be effective. But sometimes it just feels good to give them a finger.” However, the founders of the movement expressed their hope that the “campaign could to some extents tell Chinese that it’s time to throw away political indifference and care about what is happening in our country.” One Chinese student at Melbourne University, who wished to stay anonymous, opened up about China’s political atmosphere, telling Farrago: “On one hand I can see there is economic improvement, on the other hand I think the political and democratic development is much worse than before. I love my country, but I don’t think the current situation is good.” Ma too expressed his frustration. “I am seriously disgusted by him [Xi Jinping]. All of us actually knew that he was going to cancel his presidential term limits—we’ve been joking about him being the emperor of China for a couple years now.”

“He got into power in 2012 and I was talking about it since 2015. But I mean, he still did it. A day later, he still got re-elected into the presidency with two thousand votes or something and with no votes against him. So it’s kind of like going back to the 50s.” Xi was elected unanimously on March 17 this year, six days after China abolished presidential terms. Privacy and safety remain a concern for Chinese students who wish to speak out. Ma said he had two of his Chinese social media accounts deleted by the government after posting political messages, including content related to the 1989 Tiananmen Square Massacre. Chinese students are afraid of publically voicing political opinions, according to Ma. “I had a friend that went with me … [when] I was picking up the posters. I said, I’m going to take these posters and stick them up, come with me. He didn’t want to but I insisted so he stayed 10 metres away from me when I did it. He was scared. Of course he doesn’t like Xi Jinping but he’s also afraid of the consequences that he might face.” “It’s quite serious actually, if you do it in China and get caught. There are a lot of spies—I’m pretty sure there are Chinese spies in universities too,” said Ma. Chinese Students and Scholars Association (CSSA) did not comment on the issue when approached. The Australia-China Youth Association also declined to comment. “We definitely know that the majority of Chinese students tend to reserve their opinions on the issue … and we fully understand that,” said the founders of #NotMyPresident. “Considering the nationalist education we received in China and organisations like CSSA abroad monitoring students, we know how much it takes to just step up and post a piece of paper onto the bulletin board in the hallway. So far, we have not encountered any threats directly from Chinese government. They just blocked the news of the campaign as usual”. The number of participants is unknown, according to the founders of the movement. However, they have counted around 30 campuses worldwide who have engaged in the poster campaign, with different groups of students putting up posters in the Melbourne University campus. *Ma is the surname of a Chinese UniMelb student who does not wish for his first name to be used in the article as to not incite any negative comments towards him.

ART BY MINNIE CHANTPAKPIMON

ELECTIONS ARE COMING

Election season is almost upon us, and if you’ve been thinking that our jobs or the jobs of the people on pages 18–20 sound pretty sweet—this message is for you. Or maybe you just really like UMSU purple. Go forth and nominate yourself for a position within the Student Union. All students will be able to vote in the elections occurring 3–7 September. For more information, head to umsu.unimelb.edu.au/elections or contact returningofficer@union.unimelb.edu.au

NOMINATIONS OPEN 23 JULY–10 AUGUST

ART BY POORNIIMA SHANMUGAM

CONTENT WARNING: SEXUAL ASSAULT AND SEXUAL HARASSMENT

NEWS

CHANGING COURSE: UNIVERSITY MANDATORY CONSENT MODULE UNDERPERFORMS T

LILY MINIKEN AND AMELIA COSTIGAN REPORT

he University of Melbourne introduced Consent Matters, an online sexual consent tutorial mandatory for all incoming undergraduate students, at the start of 2018. The move follows the damning report into sexual assault and harassment on campus by the Australian Human Rights Commission (AHRC) last year, which revealed that one in two university students were sexually harassed in 2016. The interactive module has been marketed as part of a broader plan to overhaul a culture of sexual assault on campuses, and has been implemented by the University of Melbourne, the University of Sydney and Australian National University. According to a spokesperson for the University, the module “aims to raise awareness of students about policies surrounding sexual consent and where to go for help and advice.” Despite this, concerns have been raised about the nature of the module, which has received criticism from students for its tokenistic approach. The Consent Matters module functions as a guideline for how to understand the concepts of consent to foster a safe and respectful environment. The module uses a variety of animated scenarios to educate students about communication, boundaries, and respect. The only hurdle requirement after viewing multiple slides is 10 multiple-choice questions. Effectively, a student can pass the test without engaging with any of the information. According to a report from the University of Melbourne Respect Taskforce in March, approximately 40 per cent of commencing undergraduate students had completed the mandatory unit. Kate Crossin, women’s officer for the National Union of Students, has questioned the effectiveness of the program: “The consent module we are seeing universities purchase and implement is not proven to change behaviours on campus,” Crossin said. “It doesn’t meet any of the recommendations that have come out of the reports on sexual assault and harassment at universities.”

“It might start a lot of conversations, but at the end of the day it will not prevent assault or harassment,” Crossin said. The University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) women’s officers Molly Willmott and Kareena Dhaliwal, believe that more needs to be done in order to reinforce a proper understanding of the matter. “Consent modules are a good step toward tackling the issue of sexual assault and harassment on campus, but they are not enough on their own,” said Willmott and Dhaliwal. “They need to be reinforced with further education such as face-to-face training, which is practiced at many colleges throughout Australia.” The effects of the watershed #MeToo moment were felt on campuses last year as the commission’s report shed light on a culture of harassment. The AHRC report found that college students were around seven times more likely to be raped or sexually assaulted whilst at university. Dr Laura Tarzia, deputy lead of the researching abuse and violence program, echoes these concerns: “Prevention needs to be done comprehensively across campuses and at all levels, rather than just targeting the individual level as this consent module does,” she said. “[The course] says ‘evidence-based’, but I cannot find information about what that evidence is,” said Tarzia, whose research focuses on using technology as a form of early intervention in situations of violence against women. The University’s Respect Taskforce, which includes UMSU and the Graduate Student Association representation, recommended the Consent Matters module to the senior leadership following extensive research on good practice examples and advice from the sector both locally and internationally. “As the AHRC Report noted, there is no one solution to the complex issue of sexual consent. Consent Matters is part of a larger program of work in progress being led by the Respect Taskforce,” a spokesperson for the University said.

ART BY YEDDA WANG

NEWS

UMSU INTERNATIONAL: STILL IN TRANSITION NURUL JUHRIA BINTE KAMAL, STEPHANIE ZHANG AND WING KUANG REPORT

n 1 August, the new University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU) International committee will officially begin their term. With Jonas Larsen heading the team as president, they already have ideas for improving the organisation. But although the new committee offers a fresh voice, UMSU International is still working to position itself as an inclusive, representative body for international students. The organisation was founded in the 1970s as the Melbourne University Overseas Student Service (MUOSS). Since then, it has remained in a constant state of ideological and structural transition. While MUOSS originally emphasised actively advocating international students’ welfare, in 1993 it announced it would shift its focus from politics to the provision of services. In 1991, the organisation was officially acknowledged as the sole representation of international students at the University by UMSU’s predecessor, the Melbourne University Student Union. However, it was not until 2013 that the two peak bodies finalised their integration, and MUOSS was rebranded as UMSU International. Outgoing UMSU International President John Hee believes the organisation is still working on the transition. “Five years for an organisation is very short, so we definitely have not found our place yet,” said Hee. In the past year, UMSU International has continued its annual cultural and social activities, such as Festival of Nations and Night Market. It has also actively reached out to commencing international students during the University’s pre-departure events in their home countries. Moreover, the organisation has restored some of its focus on welfare advocacy. This past year in particular, the organisation has been working to combat sexual assault and racism. It has also worked with UMSU in the work rights campaign. However, Hee says collaboration between the two bodies can raise potential issues. “I think the primary issue is that UMSU and UMSU International have different election cycles, ” said Hee. “… when previous UMSU presidents [have] tried to do something with UMSU International ... there [has been] a switch of power and then everything resets.” Former international student representative of UMSU’s students’ council, Annie Liew, believes that the different

election cycles have both advantages and disadvantages. “I think the differing elections provide UMSU International better autonomy over their elections,” said Liew. “While it recognises UMSU International’s right to hold elections as they see fit, it also reminds us of the segregation of international and local students.” Liew was elected during the UMSU elections in September last year. In the past six months, she has voted on students’ council on behalf of all international students. However, she feels that the UMSU International president should be the representative of international students in UMSU, with the ability to vote on students’ council instead. According to the UMSU constitution, the UMSU International president is considered a non-voting member of the students’ council, like the other UMSU office bearers. “I think it may be helpful to consider having the president of UMSU International sit on council, regardless of political affiliation,” said Liew. “That is, having them represent international students without being elected in the UMSU elections but the UMSU International elections instead.” Unlike UMSU office bearer (OB) positions that receive honoraria payments, most UMSU International OB positions are voluntary and unpaid. Although the president’s position could be paid, presidents usually choose not to take the honorarium and instead put it back into the organisation. While UMSU International relies heavily on their volunteers, a member of the 2018 committee, who wishes to remain anonymous, says this has restricted their ability to contribute to the organisation. “Being an UMSU International committee member ... requires a lot of time and commitment and [members] might find it hard in managing their time well between UMSU International, studies, and other obligations,” the member explained. Furthermore, due to term limits and international students’ visa requirements to undertake full-time study, it becomes difficult for the committee to tackle welfare issues that require long-term commitment, such as international student housing and working rights. “With issues involving ... welfare, the solution is typically long-term [and] definitely can’t be done in a year, so what we really try to do is we push to raise awareness and to collect data,” said Hee.

ART BY DINH VO

NEWS

While UMSU International has attempted to increase its focus on welfare and student advocacy since being incorporated into UMSU, this has had its difficulties. The organisation’s governing body, the UMSU International central committee, consists of an executive committee and five departments: education and welfare (E&W), cultural and social (C&S), communications, partnership and sponsorship, and human resources. E&W and C&S are the largest departments, with the former working on international students’ education and welfare, and the latter organising flagship events. During elections, a contrast seems to manifest between the departments, with C&S garnering more attention than E&W. This year, the new C&S Vice President Wei Jen Lau received the largest number of votes (659). Conversely, the E&W vice president position has remained uncontested since 2017. Jack Phang, the new E&W vice president, was appointed due to a sudden withdrawal from his competitor. He acknowledges the difference between the two departments. “It might just [be] that different people have different interests,” said Phang. He added that being uncontested has given him the responsibility to prove his competence through his future work. Hee has also defended the E&W department and said its work is less visible than that of C&S. “E&W seems like they are not doing as much as C&S simply because the type of work they are doing is more hidden,” Hee said. In addition, this year students appeared to prefer to run for positions outside the executive committee, which includes the president, two vice presidents, treasurer and secretary. The rest of the central committee largely comprises officers, who hold significantly less responsibility. This year, 13 people ran for the four E&W officer positions, and 11 people for the six C&S officer positions. The position of president was also uncontested this year, as well as in 2016. “I was uncontested due to the lack of involvement from students outside UMSU International,” said Larsen, who was also the only presidential candidate from the previous central committee. “Whether this was because they were not aware of the election, or they did not feel qualified taking on the role of president as an outsider, I don’t know.” Publicity remains an issue for UMSU International elections. This year, the total number of votes accumulated over the three-day period was 1,699, amounting to 8.5 per cent of the 19,995 international students eligible to vote.

However, according to Hee the turnout has increased by an estimated 500 votes compared to last year. The incoming 2018-2019 central committee is considered to be Asian-dominated, with only one member not from any of these countries. In terms of gender representation, the committee has achieved relative balance with 11 males and 14 females representing the international student body. However, it should be noted that within this, both the E&W department and executive committee are currently male-dominated, with each including only one female. The gender imbalance potentially poses a representational issue. Currently, unlike UMSU and the Graduate Student Association, UMSU International does not have affirmative action requirements for women in the central committee. Hee does not view this as an issue, as he deems the election process democratic. Conversely, Larsen has different ideas regarding how the committee should work to bridge the gap. “We intend to compensate for our executive committee’s gender imbalance through ongoing consultation with female UMSU International committee members,” said Larsen. The incoming committee has since announced that they will be recruiting additional non-elected officers for the 2018–19 team. Applications are open until 25 July. Additionally, in 2017, the UMSU International president was given a seat in the University’s Respect Taskforce which deals with sexual assault and harassment on campus. Although issues concerning the integration of UMSU and UMSU International are ongoing, former UMSU International members are optimistic about its future. “I definitely think there is room for better integration. To my knowledge, UMSU International is the only representative division that operates separately from UMSU,” said Liew, who volunteered with the department before joining students’ council. “I believe more cooperation might be beneficial in better representing international student issues. This might also be a step towards closing the gap between local and international students.” Hee looks forward to seeing the new committee uphold its strength in activities and accept the challenge of the growing need for welfare advocacy. “I hope the new committee can sort of embrace ... and understand the need to push that change, and that they should not be afraid [of] pushing the boundary a little bit,” said Hee. “That’s what I hope they can do.”

ART BY DINH VO

NEWS

PHONE SCAM TARGETS CHINESE STUDENTS M

JASPER MACCUSPIE AND NURUL JUHRIA BINTE KAMAL INVESTIGATE A RECENT SCAM

embers of the Chinese community living in Australia, particularly students, are being targeted by a phone scam exploiting the fact that they are separated from their families. Several University of Melbourne students have reported receiving these calls or voicemails, always in Mandarin; not just limited to international students or those who speak Mandarin. This compounds a difficult year for those studying at the University of Melbourne from abroad, with a number of students’ enrolments terminated after being lured into purchasing fake doctor’s certificates. A Facebook post by the Australian Federal Police (AFP) details the methods used by the scammers: - The victims are told they are implicated in crimes in China. - The scammers then coerce the victims into a series of actions and make threats that their families in China will be harmed if they don’t cooperate. - The victims’ families in China are told by the scammer their family members have been kidnapped and will only be released if a large sum of money is paid. “In each case, the scammers communicate with the victims in Mandarin and falsely claim to be Chinese government officials,” the AFP stated. In a statement by Victoria Police, the Chinese Embassy and Chinese Consulate-General have confirmed that the calls are not from them. “[They] would never call Chinese citizens requesting personal information, such as bank account information or passport details.” Reeanna Maloney, principal lawyer with the UMSU legal and advocacy department, revealed further details about what makes the scam so convincing. “It is more sophisticated than previous scams because it uses technology that replicates real phone numbers for government departments, consulates and police services both in Australia and internationally,” Maloney said. The Chinese Embassy revealed that telephone numbers, specifically 02-62283999 and 02-6283948, originally the numbers of the Switchboard and Consular Assistance Phone of the Embassy, have been misused. These are the steps that callers frequently take: 1) Calls start with an automated message stating that the Embassy has an important notification for the recipient. 2) The message instructs victims to press nine for an operator, where the caller asks for victims’ names, phone numbers, passport numbers and personal information. 3) Callers inform victims that their bank cards or personal information have been stolen and misused, and that they are involved in a criminal case in China.

4) The victims are questioned by the fraudulent caller, who claims to be a member of the Chinese Public Security Department or the International Criminal Police Organisation. In some cases, victims are able to access a fake warrant, complete with their name, by logging on to a fraudulent website. 5) Victims are informed that they will need to transfer funds to resolve the issues. Andy Jiang is a Chinese-national student who has been targeted by the scam. “In the beginning, the other party’s service voice was particularly formal and friendly. At the same time, it was also very rational in the process of handling documents and communicating with me.” “In the eyes of the Chinese people, the embassy is a very reliable institution, and our sense of nationality comes from here,” said Jiang. Hanson Wang, vice-president of the Chinese Students and Scholars Association (CSSA) confirmed that the CSSA is planning to provide more information about the scam to Chinese students studying in Victoria. “We are likely to hold a lecture facing all Chinese students studying in Victoria at the beginning of next semester in regard of the scam call recently,” Wang said. Farrago has reached out to UMSU International and the Australia–China Youth Association for a comment but neither party responded. Maloney offered some advice to students on how best to avoid scams. “If students receive a call from someone asking for personal information, bank account details, passport information or requesting a transfer of money, they should hang up. If the call purports to be from a police department, consulate, embassy or other government department, they can call the organisation back and ask if the organisation previously contacted them.” “Scammers will try to emotionally manipulate people into sending money and providing personal information. Students need to be aware that any time money is transferred or given to someone else, it is almost impossible to get it back if it’s a scam,” Maloney advised. To help with the investigation, Victoria Police is also encouraging students to take screenshots of the messages delivered on the social media channels and retain phone call records. Anyone who feels they are being, or have been scammed, should contact their local police or consulate immediately. For tips on how to protect yourself from or report scams, visit Scamwatch at www.scamwatch.gov.au or contact the University’s Safer Community Program at safercommunity.unimelb.edu.au

CAMPUS

#1234 LOOKING FOR LOVE

MAGGY LIU ON THE FACEBOOK PAGE TAKING THE UNIVERSITY COMMUNITY BY STORM

f you are someone who automatically opens up Facebook when you are procrastinating, you may have already noticed a student-created Facebook page centred around love, gaining traction in the last couple of months. With over 11,000 likes as of July 2018, UniMelb Love Letters has managed to capture the market of bored university students hoping to live vicariously through their peers. Established only three months earlier, the admins were inspired by the success of Monash University and the University of New South Wales’ Love Letters pages and decided to create a localised version. Despite facing some competition to get off the ground with other students launching similar ideas at the same time, ‘Sausage Roll’, one of the admins I spoke to, believed it was “a couple of successful letters” gaining traction on UniMelb Love Letters at the very beginning that helped their page get ahead of the pack. Since then, approximately 3000 letters have been submitted. After removing spam messages and conducting general quality control, Sausage Roll estimates that about half the submissions make the cut to publication. From that point on, it is entirely up to the community and posters’ luck to determine which posts will go viral. It is certainly hard to predict, even for the admins, with successful letters ranging in content from genuine confessions to crushes and heartfelt advice, to humour and satire about the same topics. Ashwin Chhaperia, a Bachelor of Science student, is a regular contributor to the page. He has sent and received several love letters with his most popular submissions gaining hundreds of likes. He discovered the page, like many others, after he was tagged in the comment section of a post. Soon after, Chhaperia began submitting his own content, starting with a “joke” love letter addressed to a good friend, just for “shits and giggles”. His first proper submission however, sent a much more serious and important message. The submission was post #1381 and it was addressed to everyone on that page reminding them that they are special and that their family and friends love them. After a close friend attempted to end his own life due to the stress and pressure he was facing at University, Chhaperia wanted to use UniMelb Love Letters as a platform to spread kindness, support and friendship. “It felt really nice seeing that I made some people smile and feel good about themselves,” he said. On the opposite side of the spectrum, UniMelb Love

Letters is also well-liked for all of its memes. Chhaperia admits one of his personal favourites is the satirical love letter addressed to an anonymous, male, commerce or law student decked-out in Gucci gear where the sender hopes to be the ‘Louis to [his] Vuitton’ and wants to ‘(Gucci) slide into his DMs.’ Ultimately, the majority of the letters posted currently are still legitimate love letters, so I decided to challenge one of my friends, Aliana* to send one to her crush. Aliana, never one to half-arse a task, was the author of post #1091 where she openly praises her crush using choice statements such as: “No words can describe the happiness I feel from encountering such a fine specimen during my lifetime.” Her motivation behind writing the letter, aside from the fact that I suggested it, was because she couldn’t get him off her mind anyway. “I couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about him. So, I thought by writing about him, I could at least get rid of the feelings that were making me all hot and bothered—did not happen.” Upon reflection, Aliana described her mixed-feelings after the letter went live, both wanting her crush to see the letter but also being relieved that he wasn’t tagged in it. In fact, she believes the mixed feelings are what makes a platform such as UniMelb Love Letters as thrilling and captivating as it is. “I think it’s awesome because it depersonalises the sender…[but] it’s like a breadcrumb trail that will lead your crush to the love letter (assuming he/she is a stalker like you).” In Chhaperia’s instance, this has actually happened and he is aware of several love letters addressed to him. He still remembers the first letter clearly. “My friends tagged me and that’s how it came to my attention. Not going to lie, reading that letter was exhilarating.” For the sceptics who may doubt a Facebook page’s power to create offline romance, Chhaperia admits that he did end up contacting the sender and “it turned out really well.” His advice for genuine love letter senders and recipients is therefore to not give up. “Please don’t lose hope. Things can, and usually do, turn out well.” So if you have a person you want to get out of your head or a thought you want to get off your chest, perhaps you can look towards UniMelb Love Letters to find a trustworthy confidant and welcoming vibrant community.

*Name changed for privacy reasons

ART BY QUN ZHANG

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LSAT, GAMSAT, UMAT: ARE THEY ALL THAT?

LUCY WILLIAMS INVESTIGATES WHY ENTRANCE TESTS COST SO MUCH GODDAMN MONEY

SAT, GAMSAT and UMAT—you’ve probably heard them thrown around in worried sighs by future lawyers and doctors stressing over the tests that will decide their fate. But what are these tests actually measuring, and is their cost justified? Are they a legitimate filter ensuring the best suited applicants get into their course of choice, or a barrier preventing poorer students from aspiring to a career in law or medicine? So let’s meet this trio of tests that each seek to offer a standardised measurement of student aptitude in the fields of law and medicine. You might remember the Law School Admission Test (LSAT), from Legally Blonde’s gem of a montage where Elle Woods studies her pink heart out to get into Harvard Law. The half-day test is run globally six times a year and is administered by the not-for-profit Law School Admission Council (LSAC). The test, which consists of a series of logical reasoning sections, reading comprehension exercises and logic games, is used internationally to identify students with an aptitude for law. At the University of Melbourne, LSAT results are used alongside tertiary academic records to apply for the Melbourne Juris Doctor. The cost of sitting the LSAT in 20182019 is approximately $257. The Melbourne Law School offers fee waivers for students recognised as Indigenous Australians, and for those experiencing socioeconomic disadvantage. Then there are the two tests used as predictors of a student’s suitability for medicine; the Undergraduate Medicine and Health Sciences Admission Test (UMAT) and the Graduate Australian Medical School Admissions Test (GAMSAT). These test results are used in conjunction with previous academic results and interviews to apply for medicine. The two tests are coordinated by the independent, not-for-profit Australian Council for Educational Research. The UMAT seeks to assess student’s logical reasoning, problem solving and emotional intelligence, while the GAMSAT seeks to assess students’ proficiency in biology, physics, maths and writing. The price of sitting the UMAT in 2018-2019 is approximately $260, and the cost of sitting the GAMSAT is $505. Concession card holders are eligible for a reduced fee of $160 for the UMAT, though no similar discounts apply for the GAMSAT.

THE STUDENT PERSPECTIVE So how do students feel about these important tests? Nidhushie Tilak-Ramesh, a resident doctor at Bendigo Health, was critical of the suitability and cost of the UMAT. “I am still yet to see the correlation between the UMAT and medicine, I think the other requirements to get into medicine are reasonable, the interview and ATAR, but the UMAT is a really random exam and sometimes I feel like it’s luck more than skill,” she said. Like others Farrago interviewed, Tilak-Ramesh references the “steep” cost of the test, particularly for the UMAT’s typically high-school aged clients. “I feel the UMAT company and companies like MedEntry feel like they can charge as much as they want because they know students will pay, I almost feel like they take advantage of vulnerable students who will do anything to get into medicine.” Anusha Jayasekera, a resident doctor in Gippsland, echoed this view. “I understand that there are costs associated with running the test, however it makes me a bit uncomfortable that if you don’t have the money you automatically lose your chance to study a number of health courses, when finance has nothing to do with capability.” Jayasekera also had some qualms about how well the test assessed capability. “I know people who scored really well that are not necessarily great clinicians, but also a lot of fabulous doctors who scored quite poorly.” She finds issue with the common assumption that because the UMAT cannot be practiced for, it is thus an accurate measurement of natural talent, claiming that it’s “absolutely not true.” “My scores for section three would have probably inhibited my entry to medicine if I hadn’t been able to get extra tutoring, this puts people who can’t afford extra help at a significant disadvantage.” Shashank Murali, a third-year medical student with experience in both the UMAT and GAMSAT, claimed that the UMAT doesn’t accurately identify those capable of succeeding in medicine at all, and questioned the need for the test given that the ATAR already serves as a strong indicator of student ability. “I feel like getting a good year 12 score must show some sort of intellect in both comprehension and logical thinking,” Murali said.

ART BY RENEE DE VLUGT

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Murali added that some universities placed too much emphasis on the UMAT in their application processes, potentially screening out highly suitable candidates. He cited an example where, in the past, Adelaide University wouldn’t look at the ATAR unless you received a UMAT score of above 80, meaning that, based purely on a low UMAT score, a candidate with an exceptional ATAR and emotional intelligence would have been overlooked. “They use, or at least they used to use, the UMAT as a screening which I think is really unreasonable, as it is just one three hour test.” Student experience with the LSAT seems to be generally more positive. Katrina Bell, a first year law student, felt the test was a good measure of aptitude, though expressed some reservations around its cost. “I think the test allows students to demonstrate some skills that are really important to law school. While there’s obviously not going to be an ideal way to identify who’s going to be the best lawyer, I would say that these are all pretty crucial skills in law.” “I do think it was a little expensive, but I am also aware that it was possible to get a fee waiver for those on Centrelink,” Bell reasoned. Fortunately, the amount of free resources made available to students online are increasing. For example, LSAC is collaborating with the online platform Khan Academy to provide free LSAT preparation from 1 June. Nevertheless, the whole process remains expensive, with most students confronted with steep costs that only the better-off are able to easily afford. WHAT THE PROFESSIONALS THINK So, how are professionals justifying these high fees? Dr Edward Boyapati, the founder of UMAT preparation course MedEntry, explained that the fee charged to sit the test is necessary to maintain quality. “Writing questions for high stakes tests such as UMAT is an exercise which requires extensive expertise and is very expensive. For example, each question may cost $2500 each, so ACER has to recoup those costs,” Dr Boyapati explained. Dr Boyapati further noted that test fees were low in comparison with university subject costs. “Considering what universities charge for their courses, both the costs of the test and the preparation for the test are minuscule, when you

consider that these skills tested are invaluable.” Wendy Margolis, the senior director of executive communications and public affairs of LSAC, had similar things to say about the comparative expense and worth of the LSAT. “It is a very high quality assessment tool and there are many steps involved in preparing the questions, making sure they meet LSAC’s high quality standards, and making sure that the test accurately measures the skills it is designed to measure,” Margolis said. Dave Killoran, CEO of PowerScore and author of LSAT Bibles, said, “I’ve always felt the fees were overly high, and LSAC has built up a hefty reserve of assets over the years. They now have tens of millions of dollars USD in assets, so clearly they are making more than they spend.” Killoran however acknowledged that the LSAT was useful in predicting success in law school, and noted that, “Fortunately, LSAC spends quite a bit of time assessing the value of the test.” Associate Professor Anna Chapman, associate dean at Melbourne Law School, agreed that the test was an accurate tool, asserting that, “We know the LSAT, in combination with grade point average, is the best predictor for success, we have done the research exploring what best predicts success and it is the combination of our selection instruments.” She went on to add that the University had a strong commitment to maintaining accessibility. “When Melbourne Law School introduced the LSAT as part of our admissions process, we held a number of conversations with LSAC on the need for accessibility and we remain absolutely committed to ensuring that the policy of a fee waiver continues for those in need.” While fee waivers and discounts are positive steps, the question remains as to whether students should have to foot the bill for these expensive assessments at all. If we truly value these courses and the careers they lead to, perhaps the costs for entrance should be taken up by governments and universities whose financial position is far superior to that of the average student applicant. Unfortunately, for now most students will continue to have to pay these test fees. So, for the future doctors and lawyers out there: if price is proving a barrier to applying for your dream course, get in contact with your prospective schools, see what discounts and waivers are offered, and make the most of free university and online resources.

ART BY RENEE DE VLUGT

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BARD TIMES: PART FIVE JAMES GORDON PRESENTS: “I CAN SEE HIS PRIDE / PEEP THROUGH EACH PART OF HIM” 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.

hakespeare stood in front of the mirror sans a shirt. He had hair on his nipples. He clutched a stumpy device and rubbed it under his arms, for odorous fumes he was told he exuded. He’d fallen in failure’s arms the semester prior, and he was bracing his mind for the semester to come. The bard pinched some waxy cream and rubbed it about his pate. His brown locks were now pointed, dipping down upon his brow. He plucked some shaded glasses and snapped them over his eyes. ‘Twas a new semester, ‘twas a new Shakespeare. The bard strode across South Lawn, smirking and nodding as he passed fresh faces. His experience of a semester’s worth had made him shrewder than those new to the academy. He was clad in a crisp shirt, some baggy jeans and a splayed backward cap. His studious days were ebbing away. Dan was reclining heavily on a comfortable chair when Shakespeare entered the room, his neck craning down and gazing at the wall. “Well if it isn’t Shakespeare gracing us with his presence for another semester.” “I doth require your chair, Dan. It looks significantly more agreeable to my bottom cheeks than the other seats of the room.” “Well it’s the tutor’s chair, and I’m the tutor, William.” “On what art thou now writing thy PhD, Daniel? ‘Twould be a pity if, once again, I hadn’t the time to write one of my plays.” Dan stared at Shakespeare, tilting his head but maintaining his gaze. Our bard watched Dan’s brow, knowing beyond it were cogs appraising the threat. “Here, take it.” “I doth thank thee, Daniel.” “Yep.” Dan ruffled his air awkwardly, pretending not to be irked. He stood up and delivered his tutorial to a room of mostly fervent interest and the strident sighs of Shakespeare. Shakespeare ambled towards Union House, swinging his arms the way rappers do in those plays he’d seen in the ThouTube theatre. Few friendships are ever formed with a nerdy façade, but he needn’t comply with the decorum of his former abode. It took him too long to realise he’d been granted freedom from the societal norms of his childhood. He was now free to act as he chose. He smugly approached the UMSU offices and drummed his hands on the table. “I doth desire to inquire about affiliating the Shakespeare Appreciation Society.”

“Cool, I just saw Nellie a moment ago. I’ll go grab her for you,” said someone wearing purple attire. “Who is Nellie?” “Clubs officer,” they muttered while leaving the room. Our bard waited a bit, tapped his hand on the table, then someone else appeared clad in the same purple attire, this time with much darker hair. “Hello, so if you want to affiliate a club, just take a club affiliation form just here and have it in by August 10. You’ll also need to write up a constitution and attend a compulsory IGM information seminar on September 11. It’s all pretty straightforward.” “’Tis absurd the society doth not already exist.” “Yeah, crazy. Do you have any questions?” “Marry, the form demands 50 signatures.” “Yeah, you need 50 expressions of interest from students so we know it’d be a worthwhile club for the student body.” “I doth not know 50 people.” “Well there’s always the Shakespeare theatre group, you can join them if you like.” “Do they sit about appreciating and praising me?” “Well, sort of. I mean not really. They perform a lot of Shakespeare though.” “Oh, how I am undone. I shall join them for a while to see if they can fill my insatiable appetite for approval. I may or may not return.” Dan itched the corner of his eye, his nail picking at some crusty sleep. He was sitting with his research supervisor, anxiously tapping his feet as the professor lethargically scrolled through chapter two of his thesis draft. “Are you feeling okay, Dan?” “Nah, just a bit pissed at this kid in one of my tute groups this semester.” “Oh? What have they done?” “It’s Shakespeare, you know the little shit who ruined my original thesis?” “Ah…” “Turns out being a genius and a dickhead aren’t mutually exclusive.” “Yes, I had a chat to Shakespeare a few weeks ago.” “Poor you.” “Well I’ve got good news for you. He owes me a favour.”

ART BY BETHANY CHERRY

THE GRUB

STUDENT PRECINCT CONSTRUCTION DISTURBS ANCIENT HORROR LONG BURIED BENEATH THE EARTH P

rogress on the University of Melbourne’s new student precinct has hit something of a snag, with construction disturbing a long-dormant subterranean horror underneath the campus. The horror, whose name and physical manifestation cannot be comprehended by human minds, was inadvertently set free from its tomb after an overzealous jackhammer operator burst a sewerage pipe under the 1888 Building. Shortly afterwards, a sinkhole opened up where the University’s new landscaped amphitheatre is slated to be built. Reports suggest that looking directly into the ghastly abyss causes people to lose the very essence of their soul, leaving them an empty husk with no moral compass. Commerce students will reportedly be unaffected by this change. Currently, University leadership is engaging with the

highest authority on the subject—the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Appreciation Society—to formulate next steps. Vice-Chancellor Glyn Davis reports: “Last night’s pizza party was a constructive step towards tackling this grave horror, and we got up to the bit where Buffy and Angel break up. Next week’s ‘Cupcakes ‘n Stakes’ theme night should prove to be illuminating.” Some staff, such as communications lecturer Dr John Condom, find the University’s lack of action worrying. “My office overlooks the sinkhole, and I’m finding that the howling of anguished souls is interfering with my work looking for Marxist references in Phineas and Ferb,” he said. After being personally exposed to the horror itself, this author suggests that perhaps this supreme, evil entity is not so bad after all. As long as I comply with its demand for the lives of three pure individuals, everything will be alllllllllll right.

MIDDLE-AGED PROFESSOR CHEEKILY REFERENCES MONTH-OLD INTERNET TREND I

n an act of cheekiness, a middle-aged professor has used her last PowerPoint slide of the semester to reference a monthold internet trend. The professor, Angela Withers, who teaches health policy at the University of Melbourne, finished up her final lecture of the semester with a PowerPoint slide that contained nothing but the University of Melbourne logo and a single, stale meme. “It didn’t even make sense,” said Joel Zhou, a student who was in attendance at the lecture. “It was one of those ‘Who Killed Hannibal?’ memes with Eric Andre,” he said. “Except the first panel just said, ‘Bang bang!’ and the second panel was like, ‘Good luck with exams and have a great break!’” An awkward ripple of laughter reportedly went through

the lecture theatre, while students tried not to meet the eye of professor, who was clearly proud at her own audacity for creating the meme, which hasn’t been seen on mainstream Twitter for several weeks. The Grub reached out to the professor, who is definitely at least 45 years old, for comment. “I have a teenage daughter, so I understand a lot of things about young-people culture that some of my co-workers probably don’t,” she said. “I know it’s a bit cheeky, but I think it’s important to connect with students on their level.” “I get most of my memes from Facebook,” she said. “My favourites are the ones that have those little yellow creatures with goggles.”

ART BY CATHY CHEN

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OFFICE BEARER REPORTS PRESIDENT | DESIREE CAI Welcome back to semester two! I hope all returning students have had a relaxing break and are fresh and ready to get stuck into uni. For all you new students just starting now, welcome to University, and welcome to the UMSU community. Your Student Union (UMSU) is here for all your needs whether you’re looking for social events (such as our weekly Tuesday Bands), support (we have a free Advocacy and Legal service if you get into any trouble) or looking to find a community at university. UMSU is YOUR Student Union, our activities are paid by your Student Services and Amenities Fee (SSAF), so come and get involved.

GENERAL SECRETARY | DANIEL BERATIS Brr, it’s getting pretty fresh, but the chillest way to start semester two right is by getting involved with UMSU! There are working groups to get involved with and have your say about how UMSU works, so check those out on the UMSU website! There are also regular meetings of the UMSU Students’ Council, which makes decisions and represents you in the student union—any student is allowed to come and participate, so check them out! Watch out for a Special General Meeting, happening on 26 August, where every member of UMSU (that’s you!) can come together to decide the direction of the union. Stay tuned over the next few months as well, as we begin to review how we govern ourselves, and look out for opportunities to contribute! And, Winterfest is kicking off, so make sure you find and explore as much as you can, and see everything that UMSU can do for you!

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

Welcome back to semester two as the club’s department has hit the ground running. Thursday of O week (July 19) we overtake Union House with club stalls and special exhibitions featured through the building with over 100 clubs participating. Get ready for a Winterfest exploration adventure as you hunt down all your favourite new clubs to join throughout the building. Was the club you wanted to join not there? You should check out the blue clubs guides we have in the stands around Union House which lists all the clubs available. Is there a club you’d like to join but it doesn’t exist yet then why not start one? Swing by the Clubs office on level one of Union House and we’ll tell you how.

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OFFICE BEARER REPORTS CREATIVE ARTS | FREYA MCGRATH AND ASHLEIGH MORRIS

Creative arts department is here to warm your soul this Winterfest. Whip out your sweatbands because we’re buddying up with UHT to bring you a Winter Warmer 80s style dance workshop! On Carnival Day you’ll find us in the Arts Lab with the Disabilities department getting our knit together. Then on Thurs night it’s the biggest, artiest party of them all—ARTY PARTY 2.0! The theme is Old and Fancy, Location: Ida Bar. The following Thursday we’re bringing you our imPLOMtu Pot Luck Open Mic Night so you can dust off your guitar, sing your heart out, or tell us some jokes—we can’t wait for you to show off your PLOM! For more details check out our FB page: UMSU Creative Arts Department!

DISABILITIES | JACINTA DOWE AND HIEN NGUYEN

The disabilities department! Is! Asleep! Weekly collectives run in training room one, level four, union house: Anxiety support group/mental wellness collective: alternating Tuesdays 4:15-5:15 Disability collective: Thursdays 1pm, Joe Nap A. (Come nap with us. There will be free food.)

EDUCATION (ACADEMIC) | ALICE SMITH AND TOBY SILCOCK

Hi guys, you made it into another semester. Welcome! For newbies, we fight for and represent your education interests (lectures, classes, courses, etc) within the University. This semester—CADMUS! The Uni’s trialling new anti-cheating software which records your typing and location. Have to use it? Email us! Want to know more? Check our website! Education collective—free lunch and chats on education problems and activism—is Thursdays at 12pm. Check the Countercourse handbook if you’re still picking subjects—students reviewing subjects. Concept! All lectures should be recorded. If they’re not, fill in our web form. And just come and find us in our office on level one of Union House, or drop by our weekly stalls with issues or to say hi!

EDUCATION (PUBLIC) | CONOR CLEMENTS

Welcome/welcome back to semester two! I’m Conor, your education (public) officer. We’ve got a semester of campaigns and events ahead of us. Firstly, we’re going to be supporting the National Union of Students’ Books not Bombs campaign, which we’ll be using not only as an opportunity to draw attention to some of the disturbing links between university management and arms manufacturers such as BAE systems, but also to encourage management to reassess its attitudes towards punitive fees and other barriers it places in front of lower SES students. As for Winterfest—we’ll be re-launching our workers’ rights collective, Syndicate, on the Tuesday of either week one or two (final date TBC), with the help of UMSU welfare. Hope to see you at our events!

ENVIRONMENT | CALLUM SIMPSON AND LUCY TURTON

We’re excited to kick-off semester two! Be sure to find enviro at Carnival Day, come and get radical at the Activist History Tour, and enjoy a cooking class and film screening at our Green Screen/Play With Your Food. On Thursday in week four, North Court will play host to 2018’s Fair Trade Market. Come along for free food, fair trade samples and to learn about the importance of fair trade practices. Enviro Week: Beyond Climate Change, held in week five (20–24 August), will be an action-packed week of workshops, skill-shares and activities about the issues facing our environment and humanity. This week will highlight the breadth of environmental issues (land-clearing, nuclear waste, plastic pollution), their roots in capitalism and the intersections with societal issues. Please fill in the workshop submissions form on the website with any cool ideas for activities to hold.

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OFFICE BEARER REPORTS INDIGENOUS | ALEXANDRA HOHOI

Winners are Grinners! One of the biggest annual events on UMSU Indigenous calendar is Indigenous Nationals. Every year Melbourne University send a strong squad to compete and this year we brought home the Gold! Over five months of preparation and training went into the teams this year and we are very excited to say that it paid off. On top of a great week of competing, the students also had the invaluable opportunity to socialise and network with other Indigenous tertiary students from across the country. All in all a great week!

PEOPLE OF COLOUR | REEM FAIQ AND HIRUNI WALIMUNIGE

Welcome back to a new semester, and to those who are new to the University: welcome! The People of Colour department holds both weekly and one-off events during the semester where you can learn about and discuss issues related to PoC, as well as meet new people. Come along to our weekly collectives, film screenings and reading groups, or make sure to attend our lecture series and networking night. This semester, we are also excited to be launching the second issue of our department publication, Myriad Magazine. Check out our social media to get involved and for all information on activities. We look forward to meeting you!

QUEER | MILLY REEVES AND ELINOR MILLS

Welcome folks to semester two! The weather might be abysmal, but boy howdy does the queer department have some hot stuff lined up for you all! Come say hi and grab some bio-glitter at our Winterfest stall on Wednesday 18 July, and then join us for some tea and cake at our indoor picnic from 2pm on Thursday 19 July in the Queer Space. Then, Thursday 26 July, we’ve teamed up with UMSU enviro to jazz up your wardrobe at our gender free clothing swap. Plus, we have our regular collectives starting up from week one, with trans collective every Tuesday, lunch every Wednesday, and People of Colour collective every Thursday. So head over to facebook/UMSUqueer to keep up with all the fun!

VCA | LILY EKINS WELFARE | MICHAEL AGUILERA AND CECILIA WIDJOJO

Welcome back! We have been working hard over the break to get everyone riled up and ready for semester two. Start off semester right by getting involved in UMSU’s most wholesome department. Welfare will be running a ‘Test N’ Tag Fondue’ afternoon for Winterfest Department Day. The Launch Party for the Community Involvement Program (CIP) is on Monday 23 July. Please sign up on our website or on our FB Page. Syndicate: Your favourite workers’ rights action group is back to stick it to the bosses. On Tuesday 24 welfare and education will be launching our ‘UNIONISE UNION HOUSE’ Campaign. Also fill out our ‘Let’s Talk’ Survey so we can push UniMelb to improve their Counselling and Psychological Services.

WOMEN’S | MOLLY WILLMOTT AND KAREENA DHALIWAL

In week one, Smash the Pastry-archy returns! These are special versions of our weekly collectives, just with more cake. We hold all our collectives (Women of Colour, women’s, and transfemme) in the women’s room on level one of Union House. If you like free food and feminism, it’s the event for you. On a less fun note, 1 August is the one-year anniversary of the release of the Change the Course survey results, which provided data about sexual assault and harassment on university campuses across Australia. We’ll be reflecting on what progress has been made, and working with women’s officers nationally to keep pushing for change. To stay updated, join the UMSU women’s department Facebook group, or pop into our office for a chat.

CAMPUS

I AM BROWN BEFORE I AM A HUMAN ANONYMOUS ON ATTENDING THE UNIVERSITY OF MELBOURNE AS AN INTERNATIONAL STUDENT

he speech given at the University’s exchange program information night still makes me scoff: “Be prepared to be treated differently in America because you speak with an Australian accent.” Firstly, Americans love the accent. Secondly, I find it remarkably unfair how this is not something they ever had to worry about. Lastly, the colour of my skin always trumps my nationality, behaviour, and intelligence: I am brown before I am human. These are the words I often recite to myself to avoid further disappointment in this city, of which I am a rightful citizen. I am brown before I am human. This is something I’ve learnt to live with staying in Melbourne. It isn’t something I’m okay with. It shouldn’t be, but it is how I adapted to a society that often sees me as an alien. However, I didn’t realise how unconscious and involuntary this adaptation was until my exchange program in Wisconsin. Naturally, I was prepared for the worst, having heard so much racism on American news and my friends’ negative experiences in isolated small American towns. It was a lovely surprise though, when people in the University of Wisconsin— Madison treated me with respect and included me from day one. I was offered a part-time job after distributing resumes within a week. Even when I visited other cities, nobody looked at me like I was different. I was approached by strangers in classes, parties, and bars to strike up random conversations and to just have fun. In short, I was treated normally. I let my guard down and enjoyed myself thoroughly. I felt included. I didn’t have to put extra effort to looking “well-educated” during the day and “Western” and sparsely-clothed just so I could get into clubs after 11pm. No longer did I need to overthink my next sentence or figure out how to approach classmates first during discussions and keep them interested. I didn’t feel insecure when I didn’t want to drink alcohol or pay for an overpriced meal. I let my guard down because I no longer needed it. But, from the moment I landed back in Melbourne, I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. It dawned on me how feeling normal and included was a privilege for people who looked and spoke like me here. It’s not something we were taught

to endure growing up, we learned it as a form of survival. I’m always afraid of saying the wrong things to the white locals I see in my tutorial classes. Why do they keep to themselves? Why do they think I won’t understand their jokes and “intellectual” conversations? Why do I always get a surprised remark about the fact that I can speak proper English when I’m from a “third world country”? No, I’m sorry but I’m not Indian just because I’m brown. Please don’t say you feel sorry for us when we fast during Ramadan or look for halal meat or wear a hijab. Don’t try to convince us we’re being oppressed and unreasonable. There’s a reason we do it. And please don’t think you should be the one to proofread an assignment just because you’re a white Australian. I feared America because I heard of the frequent injustice that happens to people who look different. I was excited to come to Melbourne because it was voted the most liveable city in the world. Yes, Australia is known to be rather racist but the racism and exclusion felt by international students aren’t spoken of at all. This lack of awareness could be the reason locals don’t try to change or why international students think it’s normal to not be a part of the local community. We didn’t grow up here, so it shouldn’t feel like home, right? WRONG! We’re all in the same boat here. We are all working hard to get through university. We share similar vices: partying, sex, Netflix, splurging on food and other materialistic things. We struggle with our mental health. So, here’s a wild idea. If you grew up here or look and speak like a local, use your social status and privilege to help people around you feel included. Branch out from your highschool cliques and approach that non-white international student next to you first. Exchange your cultures and interests. Invite them to your next hangout. Actually introduce them to your friends instead of leaving them alone in a corner. You have the upper-hand here. Rather than handing out fliers and speaking about injustices, put some of your words into actions. Raise awareness and keep this topic circulating till it’s no longer a problem. All we want is to be human.

ART BY ILSA HARUN

MEDICINE

CONTENT WARNING: GORE

MAKING THE CUT

FIRST-YEAR MEDICINE STUDENT AARON BHAT DESCRIBES WORKING WITH DEAD BODIES

ou first notice the smell halfway up the third flight of stairs in the Medical Building. It’s a funny kind of smell, evocative of both a butchery and regurgitated wine. The further into level four you go, the stronger it gets, and once you pass through the dusty, cold linoleum of the walkway and into the clinical white atmosphere of the dissecting theatre, you realise you’re in a room where things happen. At the beginning of a session, there are always too many people to get a sight of what lies on the tables lining the room in long rows. Some people shift uneasily from leg to leg, others joke comfortably. This all takes place under the blanket of that all-pervading smell. I worry I won’t be able to get it out of my clothes. Once the introduction is over, people disperse in small groups to the metal tables covered in blue shrouds, each one with a bucket hanging from the end. Lifting the veil is a procedure in itself. It’s the most important, in some ways, as it reveals the human beings that lie underneath. They lie there, recumbent, with their mouths half-open, their eyes swollen shut. Their arms lay heavy by their sides, their bodies exposed. The most striking feature is how artificial the skin looks. The perverse thought crosses my mind is that these people look more like figures from Madame Tussauds than actual humans. It’s hard to imagine these figures as once living, breathing people, with the same motivations, fears, and desires as the people examining their bodies in this very room. There’s nothing artificial about this situation, though. A cut must be made, and someone must be the person to do it. The readings on what, how and where to do it, vanish from my head. My previous surety that I would cut into the chest of this woman in a swift demonstration of surgical skill quickly

evaporates. The skin feels so hard under my fingers, the bones so prominent, the muscle so thick. I begin to think I will never be able to make the cut after all. After someone else fearlessly slices windows between the ribs, another person volunteers to start on the body’s right. Now I, with my tail between my legs, must begin on the left. In a dark way, wielding the scalpel is exhilarating. Just one touch, and the waxy, luminescent skin of the body springs apart, revealing the cold, white fat beneath. The fat yields to the layers of fascia and connective tissue that support it, to the the tiny vessels and nerves that run through them. And then comes the muscle. If ever anyone ever needed a good enough reason to turn vegetarian, the sight of human muscle would be it. Dark. Fleshy. Streaked with fat. Everything we look for in a piece of meat sits just below the surface of our own skin. But even the layers of muscle must come to an end, and the scalpel must be put back down. Now, we come to the bones. The ribs—the bony cage in which our most precious organs sit—are a different kettle of fish altogether. Indeed, they call for recourse to a more primitive tool. I immediately think of my childhood. I think of my mother, a seasoned knitter, who used to wield a large pair of fabric scissors with long, serrated edges that seemed ready to mutilate anything that fell into their path. As a rather diminutive person, I was sure at that time that those were the most imposing scissors I would ever see. For the better part of fifteen years, they were. But as soon I got into the dissecting room, that all changed. The scissors that are designed to remove a person’s rib cage are sharp, chrome and grim. They are also very effective. The sound that a rib makes when it’s broken by these scissors is lodged firmly in my mind—for the most part because I didn’t expect

ART BY HANNA LIU

MEDICINE

it to sound like that. I had always thought of ribs as firm and strong, made of stone. Except, stone does not break with the sound of a bundle of damp twigs snapping. Stone cannot be wrenched away, cannot be prised open, to show the organs sitting underneath. In some ways, an anatomy textbook is an elaborate web of lies. The lungs look like pink cumulus suspended in the chest, while the heart appears as vital and strong as its function would suggest. Everything looks alive. Perhaps I was just naïve, but I didn’t realise that life would be a pale imitation of art for the simple reason that those organs were devoid of life. There is no dynamism or vitality in the organs in a cadaver. The lungs are blackened, wet and heavy. The heart sits, brooding, in a sac of fat. The aorta is hardened and whitish, and the cavity through which it runs is full of foul-smelling preservative that colours the surrounding air. Holding the organs outside the body feels wrong, almost sacrilegious. I quickly return them, looking away as quickly as possible. I don’t have the stomach to identify the various manifestations of disease they bear. Despite my initial reluctance, though, I eventually do turn to examine what’s lying on the table. I observe the lymph nodes that are slightly too large, the vessel that is dangerously hard to the touch. I note the lungs which, when cut open, sag under the weight of the tumours they hold. The tumours creep into the lungs’ cavernous, damp crevices, colonising the body of the person whose life they took. The image reminds me of the reality that disease is a cruel part of life, and one which cannot be avoided. I can’t help but wonder, how do we approach the human being on the table? How do we approach someone who lies there, having invited us to open them up violently, without

losing sight of the fact that only recently their body was inviolable? To me, the answer lies in maintaining a balance between a respect for other human beings, and moderated desensitisation. We are lucky at this university to have such a first-class anatomy department, with staff who constantly remind us of the humanity behind what we do. They both encourage and practise respect for the many donors without whom our educations would remain incomplete. Yet, this humanity must be somewhat put to the side during the actual act of dissection. When you cut into real, human flesh, a sense of detachment is needed in order to see the cadaver for what it has become: a corpse there for dissection, a tool for education, and nothing more. It’s this attitude that allows you to look at the body on the table in front of you through the lens of scientific engagement. It’s this detachment from the very human aspect of what’s right in front of you that allows you to dissect the body respectfully, to conduct your research properly, and, ironically, to to take one step more on the journey which may ultimately allow you to save the life of a human being not too dissimilar from the one right in front of you. And once the dissection is complete, and the donor is whole once more, we must remember that the person before us walked the same streets, breathed the same air, and lived with the same passion that we do. We must remember that we are here to learn from them, to grow through their generosity, and to ultimately heal others because of them. One day, we too will be like them, and ultimately, every incision made must be done in the hope of helping those who will one day walk, talk and breathe just like we do now.

ART BY HANNA LIU

OPINION

IN DEFENCE OF CORPORATE TAX CUTS

ANDIE MOORE ON WHY TAX CUTS DON’T ALWAYS MEAN JOB LOSSES, MONEY FOR THE BOSSES

las, I must admit that one of the Liberal Party’s positions has merit. The government is intent on sacrificing revenue to take less money from businesses. This is a policy opposed by Labor (who only eight years ago, promised similar things), the Greens and most of the crossbench. The policy has become a case where one man’s jobs package is another man’s attack on workers. But is that entirely the truth? Maybe tax cuts have some merit. Let me be clear first—the context in which taxes are being cut is not ideal. One of Labor’s main criticisms of the policy— that the government cannot afford it—is reasonable. There’s still a federal governmental deficit and the government is expecting a wafer-thin $7 billion surplus in 2021, so this might not be the right time to cut corporate taxes. However, the arguments for lower taxation have been completely mischaracterised by the theory of “trickle-down economics”. This is evident when you see it used both to attack corporate and income tax reductions, when consequential arguments for lower corporate and income taxes are quite different from each other. Arguments for lower taxes don’t hold that when businesses have more discretionary income, then that income flows to the bottom of society. Rudimentary economics holds that corporate tax cuts stimulates investment, and that investment pays wages. Every business decision is made on the margins. If a business wants to expand, take risks or start new ventures, it must weigh up its benefits and costs. It’s generally hard to tinker with demand—the government could give money to consumers to buy more, but that money would still have to come from somewhere, either from our taxes or from banks (which would mean there is less money to loan out to other households, and raise interest rates). However, it’s easy to tinker with supply. By lowering corporate tax rates, it’s directly cheaper to invest—so you make investment more attractive than before. This is the clearest reason to cut taxes, and the reason from which all other reasons to cut tax stem. We want there to be a low cost of investment, we want to facilitate wealth creation. Wealth creation is a collaborative process. For wealth to be created, products have to be sold. These products have to be designed and produced. Before profit is made, people have

to be paid—be that the receptionist, the builder or assembly manufacturer. Workers receive the profits from new projects well before capitalists accrue them—so they quite directly benefit from corporate tax cuts. Wealth does not trickle down—in every new project a business undertakes, the worker is the first to benefit. We also want people to take risks, to trial, to do research. Making investment cheaper means reducing the risk associated with new projects, and incentivising businesses to experiment and come up with new products that make life easier for consumers. It speeds up creative destruction—the process by which better products replace older ones—the magnificent process by which markets raise living standards. And we want lower prices. Lowering corporate taxes can prolong price wars—companies can compete more and push prices lower now the government is taking less from them in taxes. Lower prices also arise as it’s easier to start up a business where start-up costs are lower and challenge oligopolies. The new businesses launching because of lower taxes will also mean fewer people constrained to the wagelabour system. Not all companies will respond to a tax cut by investing more. Some might increase stockholder dividends to reward and incentivise further investment in their company. In rare cases, others might buy back their own shares to boost their market value. But these actions will only be taken if they benefit the company more than beating their competitor in the market—a structural problem about lack of competition which can be dealt with aside from the issue of tax cuts. By taking less from businesses, they can shift funds to where they yield higher returns. This differs from government wealth-creation strategies, where the government decides for the market where money should be spent by taking from others and not by creating any new wealth. Freeing up business allows for new exchanges to take place where people are even better off than before. It prompts wealth creation from mutual betterment. The timing isn’t perfect, but the logic of corporate tax cuts stacks up. It’s not a case of some trickle down magic— corporate tax cuts will create better products, lower prices, and prompt higher wages. So I say go for it—no ifs, not buts, unleash the corporate tax cuts!

ART BY CATHY CHEN

ART BY RACHEL MORLEY

ART BY LAUREN POWELL

ART BY TZEYI KOAY

MUSIC

I LOVE FRANKIE COSMOS I

TAMARA REICHMAN WRITES A LOVE LETTER TO ONE OF HER FAVOURITE MUSICIANS

was floating down the streets of Paris at 40 kilometres per second, my arms straining against his denim jacket, laundry powder and cigarette smoke and joyful fear. A thousand indie rock songs spinning in my ears. Like a dream from a movie where I couldn’t belong. I was in Paris in summer, and I was having the time of my life. He had curly hair and converses and he was Into Music. But not just any music… he was into my kind of music. And we were talking about all the music we loved, and he said, well of course you love Frankie Cosmos. I’d never listened to Frankie Cosmos before, but I said, of course, I LOVE her. Weeks passed and I left Paris, and the Cute Music Guy messaged me. Have you heard Frankie’s new album? Frankie Cosmos is a twenty-two year old New York singersongwriter who has been writing minimalistic, poetic, poignant guitar-based songs in her room (as long as I have). I’ve always had a thing about people who create things that are too similar to the things I want to create. Resentment, jealousy, bitterness at myself and my lack of productivity and/or success. I’d never heard a single one of her songs, but I knew Frankie would trigger this feeling. I opened Spotify on the tram, and Frankie filled my ears. And of course the Cute Music Guy from Paris was completely right. Frankie was everything I’d ever wanted to listen to and everything I’d ever wanted to write and sing and make. Her words were like the poems that fill up my word documents and her songs were like my thousands of voice memos crowding my phone. “I floated in and started living…” Frankie was narrating and analysing my true, idealised, sad, ironic, intense teenage-adolescent-twentysomething experience. It was winter when I came back from my summer in Paris, and I was very sad. I was lonely, and nihilistic, and I would lie in my bed in the room I’d just moved into away from my parents room because it was Time for me to Grow Up a little bit and it was dark and cold and I wore lots of turtlenecks and ate lots

of miso soup. And every morning on the way to the city on the tram I would put on Frankie. Over and over again. I wouldn’t say that Frankie Cosmos changed my life, because it was like she was there the whole time. Frankie, I love your lyrics that manage to be equally sad and joyful at the same time. I love your pseudo-ironic-selfawareness and your angst and your disillusionment and your idealism. But most of all I love my weird sense of possession over your music. I love that your words sound like my words. And when I listen to you I feel like I’m listening to myself. Or a best friend who’s too similar to me but too cool to hang out with me. I’ll always be sad that I didn’t write those songs first. Thank you for letting me cry on the train, and watch the rain, for numbing when I scrape my ankle on my bike, for making things mean something. Thank you for letting my emotions flow free on your clean production, shimmering and sparse and full of possibilities. Thank you for breaking my heart and filling it in the same breath. Thank you for your drums like my calm blood pumping, and your soft smiling crying voice and your simple chords, one four, one four, five, one, they go into my ears and through my brain and I drink them down my throat and into my oesophagus and digest them into my stomach, where they make my constant butterflies dance, hitting the edges of my insides, stroking my skin, filling me up, nourishing. I don’t need earnest legato violins to make me weep when I have your plain electric guitar. I don’t need distorted amplifiers to make me feel punched in the gut when I have your gentle drums and bass and chords. I don’t need to read novels when I have your six-line sonnets that tell my stories just as well. We don’t talk anymore, but I will always appreciate Cute Music Guy from Paris for introducing me to Frankie Cosmos, though I think her impact on my life will be far bigger than his.

ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN

TRENT VU PRESENTS... FODDER FEATURE:

A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS I

first met Jen Balcomb doing German in first year. German 5 was a bit of a train wreck, but what I loved most about the class was that I made so many friends out of it. We were all like newly born deer stumbling around UniMelb, struggling to find our feet after we bust out from the placenta that is high school. Our cohort quickly bonded over not knowing what the hell was going on. There’s something about late classes, old German literature and a very scary tutor that really fosters new friendships. Aside from her very impressive collection of print shirts, what stood about to me about Jen in particular was her bubbly, larger-than-life personality and a knack for storytelling. So, when I caught wind of her foray into the world of radio, I knew Jen would be a terrific host. Now as stale, beaten-down fourth years, Jen and I caught up to discuss her show A Few of My Favourite Things. Jen tells me how her first season on Radio Fodder went, talks about which episode she cries to, and compares herself to Oprah Winfrey. Who is your #1 queen of music? Definitely Florence Welch. What made you want to host a show on Radio Fodder? I knew a couple of people who had shows. Christian [Tsoutsouvas] had a show about linguistics, and Jack [Langan] and Peter [Tzimos] had Clickbait. They had me on as a guest a couple of times, and they said that it was really fun and they really enjoyed doing it. My uncle in Darwin told me that I have a voice for radio. So I thought, “Why not?” I also just wanted to have a chance to interview people I know that have interesting things to say, and give them a space to speak their truth.

things. Most people have a favourite thing they’ll ramble about. I find that really interesting, and I thought it would be really fun to get people on to talk about that. How have you found hosting the show? What have you enjoyed the most? What’s been challenging? Because most of the people that come on are my friends, I’ve really enjoyed trying to challenge myself by having a few guests that I don’t know to test my ability to interview them. I’ve found that really rewarding. But with people that I do know, it’s always interesting learning more about them in a legitimated context. They really bare their souls. It’s like Oprah basically. But I’ve found the technical side of it really challenging. You have to multitask, and I wouldn’t say that I feel like a digital native. Overall, having a show gives the semester a different flavour when you’ve got something else other than uni. And this was your first season on Radio Fodder. What were some of the highlights? Having my girlfriend on was really cute because she listens to the show all the time, so it was really lovely for her to come and see what I do and be a part of it. Now that she’s away, I like to listen to our show and cry. What’s some advice you’d like to give to the next batch of Radio Fodder newbies? Ask heaps of questions. The Radio Fodder station managers are a wealth of knowledge and also so lovely. So, take the chance if you’re a bit of a technophobe like me to learn all the cool tricks.

So, you’re kind of like Oprah? Exactly. Someone’s gotta do it now that she no longer has her show.

We’ve heard all your guests share their favourite things. What are some of yours? I’ll never tell. It’s the mystery of our age.

What’s the premise of your show? And can you tell me how you developed the idea? Each week, I get guests on to talk about their favourite

You can find Jen’s podcasts on Mixcloud by searching for “Jen Balcomb” or “A Few of My Favourite Things”.

ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN

ART

TO BE REAL BHENJI RA ON VOGUE AND DANCE, IN CONVERSATION WITH LUKE MACARONAS

henji Ra stands on stage in a bright red bikini, with goldsequined flames stretching around her hips and across her chest. A pair of red boots lace up to her knees, as she flicks a red fan in front of her face. She has been dancing—dipping and spinning along the runway—but now is still. Next to her is Leiomy Maldonado, “The Wonder Woman of Vogue”, with shining leather boots and an immense bouquet of silver gum leaves. Placing her hand around Ra, Maldonado speaks to the audience: “This woman right here, I am proud to call her my daughter.” As the crowd cheers, Ra places a hand across her mouth, closing her eyes. Maldonado continues: “Because she has started here, what I have done for the world.” It is difficult to capture a single image of an artist whose work extends across dance, installation, video and performance works, but this moment at Sissy Ball—curated by Ra as part of the 2018 Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras— gives a sense of Ra’s importance. So significant is the impact of her work, as a mother and artist, that the vogue community in Sydney, even the arts community in Australia, can be understood in terms pre- and post-Bhenji Ra. Vogue riffs on modern dance, cultural dance, magazine poses and runway walks. Ra describes it as an exhumation of the memories, histories and identities in the body, which are drawn out through dance, and then subverted, satirised, deconstructed and redefined. “It’s our most valuable tool of resistance that has been created,” she explains. Pioneered by black and Latinx LGBT youth in the 1980s, vogue is one part of an underground ballroom culture that forms much of the basis of LGBT+ activism and art. A ball sees artists compete in different categories, from “Sex Siren”—judged on sex appeal—to “Labels”—judged on the types and number of fashion labels they wear. Each strives for “realness”: a measure of the paradoxical truth of a performance that simultaneously satirises and earnestly inhabits normative social archetypes. Typified by extreme poses, elastic moves and an audacious confidence, vogue exists somewhere between the runway, the club and the concert. Originally studying at the Martha Graham School in New York, one of the oldest schools of contemporary dance in America, Ra quickly found herself caught up in this ball culture. She describes an instant affinity with vogue, which enabled her to locate her own experience, as a woman of Filipino descent, within her body. “There’s a generation that’s in your blood that has been doing it before you as well, [and] that’s what can carry you.”

Structured around the hierarchy of a family unit, vogue has become more than a dance style. “Houses” have emerged as part of the ballroom scene, in which “mother” figures support their “children”. These families turn artistic mentorship into a system of lifelong support, sharing influence, knowledge and guidance and offering the matriarchal support many girls were denied growing up. Ra describes this structure as a “blueprint that has been placed before us, that has given us the tools to survive, and shows us that we can survive”. It is a blueprint Ra has encountered and passed on. Returning to Australia, confronted by what was a wasteland of support and artistic output for trans people of colour, Ra set about finding girls and sharing the traditions she had encountered in the US, becoming a mother herself to a new community of queer people. Founding the House of Slé in 2015, Ra is the epicentre of a growing ballroom community. Ra’s work exists in the interstices in the excess of the club; her performance style responds to the sensory overload of the space from which it draws part of its inspiration. She explains: “I think when it’s blurred and I think when it’s fluid and I think when it’s in the dark and I think when it’s shifting, that allows for a sense of becoming—but a kind of magic and maybe also a queer sensibility that avoids this kind of finitude.” It is in the snatches of light and deafening music that Ra has the ability to perform in a way that rejects certainty. At any one time she draws on cultural dance, vogue and trans identity in a “pastiche of layering” aimed at destabilising and decolonising the non-normative body. To capture this process, Ra uses the term “archiving”, which means developing a cache of movements, histories and memories that can be constantly reassembled in her body. Ra’s practice centres around reimagining the personal and cultural narratives that exist in the Filipino and trans histories that form part of her experience. In the same way that vogue retraces “realness”, Ra chases authenticity: “It’s all archived and if I try and dig them all up at once I can re-layer them and remix them together to create something that’s more authentically where I’m at today.” Unlike the contemporary Western dance in which she trained, Ra’s approach to art making isn’t interested in creating a choreography that can fit to any body. Instead, she steeps her work in memory, history and identity, demanding that artists be aware of their relationship to their viewer, actively controlling the access given to a particular audience and working to create new spaces for expression. “You’re on the stage and everyone’s watching you. You’re ultimately the truth in that moment and no-one else can question that.”

ART BY AYONTI MAHREEN HUQ

CAPITALISM

LESS IS MORE IS LESS

KAAVYA JHA CHALLENGES MODERN MINIMALISM

am a hoarder. On the cluttered shelves above my desk, among stacks of loose paper and magazines, miscellaneous trinkets and nametags, I have a mason jar filled with twelve tubes of rainbow glitter from a dollar store in Brunswick. I’ve only opened one, using it as costume makeup during o-week 18 months ago. I doubt I’ll need this cheap glitter again— weekends as a second-year consist more of lounging around playing Mario Kart with friends than questionable fancy dress parties. But I refuse to throw out the glitter. It feels wasteful to get rid of an item that may have a future purpose. After all, those plaid trousers from my try-hard hipster phase have somehow cycled back into fashion. Conversely, minimalism has an entirely different yet somehow quite similar ethos. Instead of saving time/money/ effort by keeping stuff, there is a belief that you can save time/money/effort by not buying it in the first place. Both movements—and yes, I just called my casual hoarding a movement—oppose prevalent fast-paced consumption cycles. However minimalism has evolved to represent far more than its original philosophy, and can be divided into two categories: functional and aesthetic. The former is the lifestyle practice whereas the latter encompasses the way minimalism acts as a trend in industries like fashion and design. As we become increasingly aware of the global social cost of mass consumption, the guilt over partaking in this inequitable system is unavoidable. But for some, both functional and aesthetic minimalism become entwined to act as a self-perceived upgrade from mindless consumption without having to give up the luxuries of affluence. I’m tired of being told to look up to self-indulgent, hyper-curated white-on-white minimalist lifestyles, as if this personal performance art is accompanied by moral superiority. I’m tired of being told that this way of life is a cultural marker of taste, while simultaneously encouraged to redeem my guilty conscience through buying a MacBook Air and Scandinavian jeans. While I may be criticising followers of the minimalism cult for turning it into a frivolous trend, true functional minimalism has many benefits. It can encourage sustainability by eradicating single-use items such as plastic shopping bags— something Woolworths phased out in June! I truly believe functional minimalism and capitalism could become a greater power couple than Ariana Grande and Pete Davidson. Think supply and demand: if we become

accountable and demand fewer cheap mass-created goods, we encourage innovation in agreement with environmental and ethical standards. The KeepCup, a reusable coffee mug beloved throughout campus, was founded to combat excessive packaging waste. Unfortunately, businesses have preferred to embrace aesthetic minimalism. The thought that ‘less is more’ has become commodified seems contradictory, but businesses have still found a way to capitalise (pun intended) on this trend, targeting people who feel overwhelmed by consumption culture. Minimalism as a branding decision makes financial sense: Uniqlo and Muji have built their empires on the back of a simple, “unbranded” design. A lack of expensive packaging and decoration saves costs, while simultaneously enabling the business to charge premium prices, allowing customers to indulge in the fantasy of a faux revolutionary lifestyle. Furthermore, capsule modules can be viewed, rather cynically I confess, as a marketing tool to get consumers to purchase goods that cost more than what they would traditionally be willing to pay. Then, they must be updated for the seasons, or for workplace requirements, or fluctuations in weight, and so on. Buying a whole new wardrobe consisting of pieces each worth over a hundred dollars—especially when there is still no guarantee its manufacturers’ working conditions—isn’t the only solution to combatting fast fashion. Does minimalism make people happier? Is the lifestyle satisfying? Is it possible to avoid our overwhelming sentimental attachment to material possessions? Functional minimalism can be exciting. I love watching the ingenuity of tiny house designers on YouTube and learning about how tech giants like Google and Apple integrate minimalist approaches into their product development. However, it doesn’t get a free pass. This lifestyle is innately tied to wealth, or at least, financial stability. Even asking, “How can I rid myself of excess and only have what I need?” presumes that your basic needs are met; enough that you are considering whether you have too much. We can distinguish functional minimalism from simply living because the first is a choice, whereas the second often isn’t. The philosophy of only owning the absolute necessities assumes that if one item breaks, then you have the luxury of time and money to get another. Sure, there may be beauty in simplicity, but sometimes, life is better when you keep the glitter.

ART BY REBECCA FOWLER

ART BY CAROLINE VOELKER

NONFICTION

FAIR ENOUGH? DILPREET KAUR TAGGAR LOOKS AT THE DESIRE FOR LIGHTER SKIN

or more than 40 years, Curry Corner, a tiny store in Melbourne’s CBD that specialises in Indian imports, has been selling spices and lentils. But what catches the eye almost instantly is the large collection of skin-whitening products in the front right corner of the shop. From a skin bleaching cream for “instant golden glow” by Fem to a whitening cream called “Fair & Lovely”, there is a chemical formula available for every part of the body. Yes, even the privates. I looked at myself in the tiny mirror hanging on the wall and thought, “I love this chocolate flavour on me.” But I couldn’t resist reading the taglines on the products. Growing up with a darker skin tone, I was often told lightening my skin would accentuate my features. Some comments were even more overt, simply telling me I would look prettier with light skin. Before boarding my flight to Melbourne from Delhi last year, I stopped at the airport drugstore to buy myself lotion for the journey. Without knowing what I wanted, the shopkeeper pulled out a Nivea Skin Whitening Lotion which also offered a Nivea Underarm Whitening Deodorant for free. Now, back in Curry Corner in Melbourne, the retail assistant watches me inspecting the cream. “Everybody buys them,” the assistant says encouragingly. According to intelligence firm Global Industry Analysts, the market for such products is expected to reach US$31 billion by 2024. India alone has a $200 million strong skin-whitening product industry. Cherry, a pharmacist at Priceline on Bourke Street, says light skin is considered “good” in Asian culture. “La Roche Posay does have a skin whitening cream, but we’re out of stock at the moment. I think the target audience is mainly Asian women in Australia. It could be cultural issue or personal preference, it’s hard to say,” says Cherry while putting other La Roche Posay products on the shelf. But not everyone agrees that skin whitening products make huge sales. Sales assistant Narender Singh at ‘India at Home’ in Box Hill is one of them. “These products [pointing towards a shelf with skin lightening bleach creams] have been sitting here for a year, nobody is buying them.” “Why?” “Maybe people are getting over white skin,” Narender says, laughing. “Although, Ayurveda (natural) products for skin have been very popular, recently.” “Do they promise fairer skin?” After a long pause, Narender, seemingly surprised with himself says, “Well, yes.” Even DIY skin care remedies, made famous by Instagram beauty gurus and social media influencers, reek of a strong desire to have a lighter skin tone. Articles like ‘How to whiten skin from kitchen supplies’ are wildly popular. Lightening one’s skin is perceived to come with increased privileges and higher social standing. Hundreds of years of colonisation of People of Colour has led white skin to be linked to leadership or supremacy. Melbourne based spoken word artist, Sukhjit Kaur Khalsa, believes that white has always been linked to purity, and that is a problem. “I think purity is a big theme in South Asian religious ideologies and culture has dictated that pure = white = clean, and impure = black/ darkness = dirty. Even if you ask young kids to draw “God” they will immediately draw an old white man in the sky/clouds. Why is God a white man?” The desire to have lighter skin is normalised and sold everyday. From billboards to TV advertisements, we are

bombarded with “revolutionary techniques” for skin whitening, often featuring a scientist in a white coat, mixing chemicals in a sterile laboratory. In 2017, Dove received backlash after posting an ad that showed a black woman removing her shirt and being replaced with a white woman. The same year, an advertisement for skin-whitening pills with the slogan “white makes you win” made headlines. In the ad, Thai model Cris Horwang’s skin gradually darkens as she says: “If I stop taking care of myself, everything I have worked for, the whiteness I have invested in, may be lost.” Racism in ads for skin whitening products is not new. Australia’s share of such ads dates back to early 1900s. The Nulla-Nulla soap ad with slogan “Australia’s White Hope, The Best Household Soap”, shows a seemingly black woman with word “DIRT” wrapped around her neck. A white hand can be seen hitting the woman on the head. Wiradjuri author Kathleen Jackson writes that the most literal reading of Nulla-Nulla advertisement would be that it is a particularly good soap because it can clean even the dirtiest object perceived, which in this case is a black woman. Some countries have taken steps to discourage skin whitening and the harmful advertising practices associated with it. Last year, Ghana banned the use of hydroquinone, the primary chemical found in skin whitening bleaches and creams. Ghana is one of the three African countries to regulate skin whitening products, along with Cote d’Ivoire and South Africa. The chemical is also banned in Europe, but Australia has taken no such steps. The Advertising Standards Council of India (ASCI) prohibited cosmetic brands from communicating any discrimination based on skin colour through advertising in 2014. Given how widespread the advertising for fairness and skin lightening products is and the concerns of different stakeholders in society, ASCI took the decision seeking industry and public feedback. One of the main guidelines reads, “These ads should not reinforce negative social stereotyping on the basis of skin colour. Specifically, advertising should not directly or implicitly show people with darker skin, in a way which is widely seen as unattractive, unhappy, depressed or concerned.” Individuals are also working to change the culture of skin whitening. Indian activist Kavitha Emmanuel initiated a campaign in 2009 called Dark is Beautiful. It seeks to draw attention to the unjust effects of skin colour bias and celebrate the beauty and diversity of all skin tones. Kavitha says that even though banning these products might help, it is not the final solution. “We need to change the mindset. If people won’t be able buy skin whitening products, they will experiment at home, the DIY way. As long as they believe whiter skin to be better skin, such bans can’t stop them. What we need to do is change the thinking, that’s the real fight,” says Kavitha, over the phone. Almost a hundred years later and despite several awareness campaigns, the skin whitening industry continues to grow. Businesses avoid social responsibility by claiming they are simply exercising their right to do business. But in the process, they push a racist and anti-feminist system that forces one to confirm to Eurocentric standards of beauty. After analysing all the products himself, sales assistant Narendar says, “They shouldn’t sell these anymore. It’s not a nice thing to do, is it?”

ART BY AYONTI MAHREEN HUQ

HISTORY

CONTENT WARNING: HOLOCAUST, ANTI-SEMITISM

THE GERMANS CALLED IT AUSCHWITZ TILLI FRANKS TELLS THE STORY OF A VILLAGE

here is a village in Poland with a blue steepled church. It has a cobbled square surrounded by pastel buildings, with wrought iron lamp posts. There is a small café patronised solely by old men with greying moustaches and suspicious demeanours, and the busiest place is the Lidl just outside of the town centre. In the dead of winter, late January, it’s about zero degrees celsius on average. It’s so quiet it can’t be described as sleepy; more like comatose. They call it Oświęcim, but the Germans called it Auschwitz. We arrive in the middle of the night. The streets are lonely and dark, paved with fracturing ice. Our landlady leads us up concrete steps to a recently refurbished apartment, telling us that the building used to house the families of the guards who worked nearby. In the morning, we rise early and buy coffee and milk from the corner store. The man behind the counter chats to his wife in lilting Polish, and he uses his fingers to tell us how much we owe him. There’s a population of around 40,000, but we see no-one else. On our walk toward the compound, we pass a lone chair half-submerged in grass that winter has turned into a small frozen pond, and a school with dark windows and a deserted playground. It is only as we approach the visitors’ centre that we see busloads of people milling around, on day trips from Krakow mostly. Once they’ve done the tour, they will pile back on the bus without ever having to step foot outside of the camp. The story of Oświęcim begins long ago in the days before countries and nations existed. Europe has never been a stable patchwork of states. It has existed in constant flux, pulling towns and cities between empires and duchies and kingdoms. Poland has oft sat in the middle of these contestations, suffering through fragmentation, partition, and invasion; Oświęcim’s history reflects that. Now it is a town in the south of Poland, but it has not always been. Born to the patriarchs of Slavic tribes toward the close of the first millennium, it has belonged to Polish Dukes, Bohemian Kings, a powerful Polish– Lithuanian Commonwealth, Austrian Emperors and a German Führer. It has suffered the invasions of Mongols and Swedes, been razed to the ground and risen again. After the expulsion of the Jews from Spain beginning in 1492, Poland became home to many Jewish migrants, with the first synagogue built in Oświęcim toward the end of the 16th century. It was a period of religious and social

upheaval in Europe, and Poland, with its laws of tolerance, became a centre of Jewish life. With the first partition of the Polish–Lithuanian Commonwealth in 1772, Oświęcim was absorbed into the Austrian Empire. This was an arrangement unfavourable for the Jewish people in the Pale of Settlement, the territory which fell into Russian rule with the Commonwealth’s complete fragmentation in 1795. However, in the midst of the Enlightenment sweeping across western Europe, Austria was comparatively tolerant, and Jewish life in Oświęcim went on. After the dissolution of the Austrian– Hungarian Empire at the close of the Great War, Oświęcim was returned to the newly reunited Polish state. Yet the period of foreign rule had fostered widespread nationalism throughout the country, carrying with it polarising connotations of ethnic identity. Anti-Judaism had been a constant feature of Europe for as long as it had existed, but with the anti-religious nature of the Enlightenment came the necessity for a new justification for Jew-hatred. Populist rhetorics of race, associated with Darwinism and the ensuing Eugenics movement, transformed this rationalisation from deicide to blood and race. While Poland’s Jewish population expanded in the inter-war period, so did its anti-Semitism. Iron letters curve above me. Sunlight slips in between the skeletal tree branches as I tilt my head back to translate the German words which arch over the gate I am paused in front of. Arbeit Macht Frei. Work makes you free. When we move on to Auschwitz II about 15 minutes away, my first thought is how big it is. It stretches to the edge of the horizon, the rows on rows of brick chimneys spotted occasionally with remaining wooden bunkers. We begin the procession up the railway tracks which run right from the entrance to the crematoriums: the Judenrampe. On the 1 September 1939, the Germans came. Poland was carved up once again; the Soviets annexed the eastern region of Kresy, while the rest went to the Germans. Parts of western Poland were “reclaimed” into the German Reich as lebensraum: land that had once belonged to the German state of Prussia but which they had lost when Poland re-gained statehood in 1918. Oświęcim, however, belonged to the General Government. It was an area essentially intended to function as a colonial reserve of resources and labour. Barracks were built near Oświęcim in 1917 by the ill-fated Austro–Hungarian army. After 1918, they would house Polish

ART BY ASHER KARAHASAN

HISTORY

soldiers and migrant workers. When the Germans invaded, the resistance was so ferocious the old garrisons were soon turned into a camp to contain the numerous partisans. The first victims of Auschwitz were the 728 political prisoners who moved in, as the town and its surrounding villages were gradually cleared of inhabitants, to protect the horrors which were soon to come. For it was not until after the commencement of Operation Barbarossa—the Axis invasion of the Soviet Union in the summer of 1941—that the “Jewish question” was provided with a tentative “solution”. Because of Oświęcim’s location, with railroads that connected it to most of Europe—a reminder of its more prosperous days as an integral part of trading routes—the camp became an opportune spot for new forms of industrialised mass murder. In late 1941, the Germans opened Auschwitz Birkenau to accommodate their plans; by this point, the majority of the Polish Jewish population had been “liquidated” in the other death camps in Poland. Auschwitz, rather, was the murder site of international European Jewry. They came from France, Holland, Bohemia and Moravia, Belgium, Slovakia, Greece, Yugoslavia, Norway, Italy, and Hungary—all to meet the same fate. Estimates place the total murdered at 1.1 million.

foreboding figure of Auschwitz in the popular narrative of the Holocaust for decades. For the Holocaust did not begin with Auschwitz. Rather, Auschwitz was one of its lethal phases. Of all the death camps, it had the most survivors; because, like Majdanek, it was a concentration camp too. Few outlived the existence of the death camps of Treblinka, Sobibor, Chelmno or Belzec. Earlier this year, the Polish government passed a law which made it a criminal offence to accuse Poland of participating in the Holocaust. It was, after all, the Nazis who were ultimately responsible for the horrors of the Shoah. However, as many have protested, we cannot rewrite history. Perhaps the most disturbing reality of the crimes against humanity committed in Poland and the rest of Europe is the complicity of governments and peoples who were not Nazis. It cannot be denied that there were elements of society in all countries invaded by Germany who resisted and risked their lives to protect their communities, which at times included Jewish people. Yet, the Nazis could not have implemented their regime of terror without the collaboration of local populations. The question of blame is still one with which Europe continues to evade; the resurrection of far-right parties across the continent is evidence of the denial so many cling to.

Poland was left permanently changed by the war. Most of the land annexed by the Soviets in 1939 remained in their possession, and they quickly tucked the new Polish government under their thumb. Poland, once an ethnically diverse state, became homogeneous. On the eve of World War II, over half of Oświęcim’s population was Jewish: the town had been a place of many Jewish customs and traditions, creating a dynamic cultural life. After the war, only 77 Jewish people returned to their old home town; however, they soon found there was little left for them. The last Jewish person in Oświęcim passed away in 2000. In the nineties, there was an initiative to open a discothèque in an old tannery, where the Nazis had once run a workshop fuelled by Jewish slave labour expropriated from Auschwitz. Of course, the tannery had already existed; it, like Oświęcim, had a history before the Holocaust. As its proponents argued, the club did not fall within the “buffer-sphere” surrounding the camps, put in place after it was granted World Heritage status in the 1970s. However, the club’s operation was fleeting, before protests from a variety of organisations and governments shut it down. Many locals, particularly youth, complained of the stigma still attached to the town. At what point, they seemed to ask, does life go on? This is not just a question for the locals of Oświęcim: historians have been attempting to decentralise the

Time stands still here. Our tour guide, a woman with a heavy Polish accent, concludes our tour without fanfare, and we file back to our cars. We drive through the near-empty streets, and somehow, we end up back at Auschwitz Birkenau. As the sun sets behind the ruins of the gas chambers, the streetlamps which line the Judenrampe flicker on, illuminating the railway line. I came to this place as a student of history, searching for answers I’ve never found in books. Yet I am still utterly lacking the comprehension I sought; and I realise that the truth will always elude those who try to answer the questions that war has left behind. Oświęcim is a place where ideology and industrialisation turned on humanity. This place, while abandoned in some ways, will never be erased by life as it goes on. The people who died here will never be allowed to fade into the landscape of the Polish countryside. While it is maintained to be both a memorial and a museum, it will always remain a gap in time. It is human nature to grow over wounds and heal eventually, to take back what has been taken. But perhaps the very reason this place should never be allowed to dissolve into the dirt is because its existence was so completely inhuman; that there are just some parts of this earth that nature never wants back. This place has no flesh, it is only a skeleton. It will remain a town of bones, because what lies below the skin is out of human comprehension.

ART BY ASHER KARAHASAN

POLITICS

WHY THE PLANET NEEDS YOU TO GET ROWDY KATIE DOHERTY ON OUR POLITICAL OBLIGATION TO BE RUDE

n a national and international level, political action on climate change has been slow-moving and absurdly, fatally bureaucratic. The largest emitters, both currently and historically, continue to emit amounts of carbon that will condemn our planet to a future of unmitigated warming and climatic disaster if something is not done very, very soon. Unfortunately, most politicians are trying to maintain their popularity and be re-elected in the short-term, and the economic pain and social change that will necessarily accompany action on climate change is antithetical to these goals. Action will have to come from the people. There are many dedicated environmental activists currently working, but there are also significant challenges facing them. According to Lucy Turton, an UMSU environment department office bearer, “climate activism in so-called Australia is basically a lot of the same people taking on a lot of the work.” There is a widespread reluctance to become deeply involved in activist movements, which Turton believes is caused by “a combination of factors: lack of training, lack of time, lack of willingness or understanding about campaign strategy and direct action.” Additionally, she points out, “the negative press from the media and government regarding activism definitely doesn’t help people feel compelled to stand up and get in the way.” Too often, activists are portrayed as overly aggressive or unreasonably discontented. This perhaps explains why, as Turton suggests, “it’s usually people who are already vilified or discriminated against who are the ones doing this work... First Nations people, queer people, young people, People of Colour, retirees and the elderly.” They already know that when activists yell and throw things, they are not overreacting—it is what must be done in defence of innocent lives. Of course, it is not only negative media portrayals that drive people away from radical activism—it is also, undeniably, more difficult than engaging in other ways. “It’s 10 times easier to get solar panels and use public transport than it is to get people together, organise, plan, and undertake mass civil disobedience,” Turton says. She argues that there has been an exerted effort to push people who want to see change towards “individual micro-change”; that “corporate interests and the politicians who benefit from [them]… have convinced a lot of people to put their energy into lifestyle change by putting the burden of change onto individuals rather than corrupt

structures,” with the result that ”even a lot of activists... remain convinced that ‘change from within’, which is basically having some rallies and asking nicely, is enough to fix plenty of big systemic problems.” We need to see a change in our attitudes towards disruptive action—to stop seeing passionate activists as rude or pushy. We need to see them and admire their willingness to stand up and fight for what they believe in, for this kind of passionate engagement to be something we aspire to rather than shy away from. Turton believes that “activism is becoming kind of ‘cool’ in a hollow way, like ... with Stop Adani’s media presence getting to the point that wearing badges or buying earrings that say ‘Stop Adani’ is seen as trendy.” This could lead to a watered-down form of political engagement in which performativity passes for activism; however, Turton thinks “trading off the current ‘trendiness’ of self-identifying as an activist could be used to our advantage, so long as we meet that with actually training people in campaign strategy, community organising, and an awareness of tactics.” If activism is sexy now, this could help in breaking down negative perceptions—the idea of environmental activists as “dirty hippies”, for example. But attracting more people to the movement is not enough. “I think the issue isn’t so much about quantifying the amount of people involved in action on climate change, but rather the quality of engagement and the strategic value of that work,” Turton says. “It can be heartening to see millions of consumers using KeepCups or governments finally banning single-use plastic bags, or even large turnouts at rallies like the People’s Climate March … but as far as radical and long-term change-making goes … what needs to happen is more radical action that really gets in the way of business as usual.” In the end, the necessary changes won’t come from polite, government-approved marches. It will come from direct action—disruptive, confrontational, and often deeply uncomfortable for people raised to respect authority and not inconvenience others (as most of us are). We must remember that rudeness and rowdiness are not the greatest crimes we can commit, not by a long way. Future generations won’t remember activists as impolite or angry. They will remember them as the ones who made all the difference—or who tried to.

ART BY LINCOLN GLASBY

SCIENCE

THE EARTH IS ON FIRE— BUT WE HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS ROHAN BYRNE ON THE VOLCANIC ERUPTIONS IN HAWAI’I

f you’ve caught the last ten minutes of the news any time in the past six weeks, you may have noticed that Hawai’i is on fire. The culprit is Kilauea, one of the tropical island’s five volcanoes: a diminutive creature huddled on the east flank of the mighty Mauna Loa, and a remorseless slayer of volcanologists. Kilauea’s recent turn on the world stage is a timely reminder that we are all bound to a seething ball of fire whose underlying mechanisms are fundamentally unknown to us and whose temperaments have proven to be wholly unresponsive to our prayers. Well, technically speaking, we’re bound to two such roiling death spheres, but we can talk about the sun another time. While watching your house being incinerated by a river of flame may not be quite the thing to put you in an appreciative frame of mind, Kilauea’s exuberance is actually good news for Hawai’i: it means the island is still growing, and will not soon be swallowed up by the Pacific. The youngest (and consequently the biggest) in a long chain of volcanic islands, Hawaii owes its continued existence to a huge mantle plume—a column of particularly hot rocks—that stretches from the deep, deep Earth all the way to the surface. This fire hose of magma has been active in roughly the same spot for over 85 million years: as far back as T-Rex and the Flintstones. In that time, the ocean floor above it has drifted with the Earth’s tectonic plates, at first in a north-ish direction before rather abruptly jetting off toward the west. The result is a chain of volcanoes almost 6,000 km long, stretching from Siberia to the modern heart of the Pacific. Most of those volcanoes have long since eroded or subsided beneath the waves. Those which still jut above the water are now idyllic tropical paradises, perfect for cheap resorts, military airstrips, Indigenous cultures of incalculable worth, and atom bomb testing. As Kilauea’s rivers of lava surge into the sea, they cool and solidify almost instantly, adding dozens of square miles to Hawai’i’s east coast every couple of years. This new land, for those already speculating, belongs to the State of Hawai’i, at least until it is reclaimed by a process we humans actually can control—rising sea levels caused by climate change. Hawaiians for the most part have a sanguine relationship with their volcanoes and fatalities are rare. Locals tend to be much more animated about housing shortages, traffic gridlock, and the depredations of billionaire property moguls snuffing up beachfront “real-estate” like it was Wizz-Fizz; not to mention the wholesale annihilation of the island’s first peoples and the enslavement and immiseration of their descendants. For all their awesome terrors, at least volcanoes give back—in new land, spiritual inspiration, and incomparable beauty, not to mention their invaluable role in recycling Earth’s atmosphere into the deep interior and keeping this fragile little spaceship alive. One more thing on the topic of volcanoes. Next time you catch your heel on one of Melbourne’s many exquisite bluestone curbs, reflect on where all that volcanic rock came from. Victoria’s volcanoes were still erupting mere millennia ago—within the ancestral memory of our own First Nations. They were formed by another hotspot, carving down the east coast from Brisbane to Warrnambool as Australia rushes north to meets its Asian destiny. The very pretty results are well worth a daytrip. Just drive west—you can’t miss them. I grew up on one of those volcanoes—Mount Bellarine. Its beauty is exquisite. But it’s all covered in suburbs these days.

ART BY LINCOLN GLASBY

NONFICTION

A DAY, A CHERRY HAMISH LITT EXPLORES PERSPECTIVES ON FAITH IN THE CHERRY FARMS OF SOUTH AUSTRALIA

ne cherry went in the box. I picked up another from the crate, and put it in the box. These ones were mostly plump and round, deep red and juicy. A good premium bunch. The pickers must have loved finding this lot, gleaming out there in the sun, in the orchard. It was Christmas time and the sorting shed was humming with jingle-bell tunes. Lennon was singing on the radio, and then Mariah Carey. Some of us sang to ourselves, though Pete and Kerrie were musicians, so we let them sing unaccompanied when they wanted to. The cherries, when they were delivered in their boxes, sang to people too. Two kilograms—or more—went to the cheeky ones who promised: “It’s not all for me!” We were checking the cherries for size, colour, rot: a quick spin in the fingertips for a look, then roll them around like little red marbles on our palms. The best ones had those dark tones which made us ooh and ahh, and often those cherries would roll down inside us, and we’d pop up their remains into the rubbish bucket, an uncoordinated pip spit. Sometimes in the process we’d make awkward eye-contact with customers, dribbling the greedy remains of the fruit into the bin. “Smooth!” said Mimi. Mimi was standing across from me as we were sorting a crate together. Cherry check, spin, the top, sides, bottom. Mimi had round-rimmed glasses and two brown, quietly excited eyes that glanced up at you when you spoke. She laughed easily, and called it her nervous laugh, but it was really sweet: her piercings on her lip and nose momentarily moving with her mouth. Around the room was an assortment of sorters sorting cherry after cherry. The sorters were picked from around the country through familial connections, or friendship with one of the Arthur family. I was a coincidence, there because of Jasmine, who was their friend. Jasmine also happened to be taking the Modern and Contemporary Literature class I was in at the University of Melbourne a few months prior. I happened to question her further when she mentioned the words “summer”, “work” and “fruit-picking” in class. She was boxed up in Port Lincoln for the summer though, so I was there on my own. An earnest imposter doing her work. Not a Stella, or a Lapin, but a different variety: an odd Melbourne/Adelaide mix camping in the gentle soils of Yundi, South Australia. It was about time for a break, too. Uni felt like an endless news story by the end of the semester, what with the theories, the politics, the essays. The only result seemed to be a smog of uncertainty and frustration. I couldn’t figure it all out: how to filter this stuff, what to do with all this information. I suppose that’s what led me to the farm: a respite from questions. There were breaks from this work too. We’d have them several times a day—for smoko, lunch, the afternoon cuppa. Today was no different: the pickers, sorters, food-preparers, front-counter managers all passed through the kitchen, snacking, chatting. Even Shadow, the dog, came and went, nibbling here and there, carrying on. As the light dwindled, we slowed, got sleepy. The conversations from earlier on gradually phased out, and we fell into in our own little worlds. “Let’s call it a day,” said Kerrie. Each of us wandered back to our respective swags and caravans, where we stayed until dinner. I sat outside during this time, and those thoughts I had in Melbourne came back to me: how to exist there, what my place was, whether things would ever start getting clearer. Maybe tomorrow I would overturn a cherry and it would reveal a belief that I’d miscalculated, like Descartes’ bad apples.

Despite these vague worries, dusks were soft. Brown hills covered with lightly scattered, deep green forests stretched around the farm. Birds passed overhead. A ute would drive by, occasionally. Sometimes I’d drift between the raspberry patch and the cherry orchard. The sky was a sort of grey, but not oppressive enough to be called so—existing just enough to be called a sky. Some curious bugs flitted by, enjoying the summer warmth, like me. Surely nothing could be this good? The sounds of a boy calling us for dinner came. All echoed grace at the table. I couldn’t seem to believe in God, no matter how much I thought about it. What did it mean to be omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and benevolent simultaneously? The logic behind it didn’t make sense. Here, however, God wasn’t about church, or strict bible readings, or youth camps. Pete’s dad, more commonly known as K.A., had whispered to me once: “God is grace.” And they seemed so happy. They were pretty successful musicians, fruitful orchardists, and relaxed and benevolent people. Their lifestyle seemed impossibly good, being in such a beautiful place, and shaking things up with new adventures when they felt like a change. God seemed to be so contradictory, but did that matter? To them, there was no contradiction. Maybe it wasn’t religion, but being in the country that made their lives so great. Nature could massage anyone. Perhaps it was the consistent music making. Jacob and Jesse’s band, Ripcord, had gigs every week or so, and heavy rock was in their blood. Maybe it was all of them being super laidback. They had a little house, but they didn’t seem to care for anything huge, or super-fancy. It could’ve just been watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine every night, and being able to laugh at the antics of Holt, Diaz, Boyle. This particular night, as an episode was ending, the conversation ambled, and Pete spoke up. “Cos we want to provide good fruit for people. And why wouldn’t we? That’s what it’s all about, like, the smiles on people’s faces. And all the pruning, the rot, the year’s wait… is it worth it? For that, I mean. Yeah. No question about it.” I don’t think the self-service checkout at Woolies had ever said something so nice. I was sorting with Mimi again the next day, and I was thinking dully about her life, and what had led her here. I’d caught her drawing a nun in her sketchbook, going over the pencil with thick black texta until most of the page was covered with a habit. She would peer at me through those lenses of hers when she sorted cherries, but through them she saw that religious figure, too, and so much more, so differently. These thoughts came and went, swelling like an endless crescendo, decrescendo, over, and over, filled in with the ambient noise of the shop, or pop songs on the radio. A cherry would go by, and a crate, a box, a label, a bird, a smoko, a sunset. Time passed like a transient, waking dream. The farm was unbelievable; all I could do was enjoy the meantime. Before I knew it, the New Year was upon us, and it was almost time for me to leave. Melbourne would come again, and I’d go back to writing essays, learning stuff, having a stance. I still don’t know what to believe in. For the moment, though, there is a God, and that God says that I don’t need to constantly be on-the-go, or have all the answers, or be forever proving myself, like a good city boy. Here, out in the gorgeous Adelaide Hills, all I need is faith. Faith in the farm, the people here, the work to be done. Nothing else matters. And I think I can live with that.

ART BY RACHEL MORLEY

NONFICTION

ART BY RACHEL MORLEY

ART BY CHRISTOPHER HON SUM LING

ART BY CAROLINE VOELKER

SONNET XIV – FLEUR BY TIAN DU Night skies above me twinkling in splendour, Trillions of photons that offered me life. I yearned to be a star in the tender Vault, no longer rooted in mortal strife. Banished like inflamed Andromeda, I’m To dance upon galvanised tendrils of light, Pulsate through eons. A matter of time ‘Til energy creates cosmic playwrights. I was torn from my dreams by calloused hands, Flew through the pain of Freedom’s bloody heart Heading in the back seat to foreign lands. Indeed, life had stopped in order to start. Stale apartment, fluorescent light above Now just a pledge to unrequited love.

ART BY CAROLINE VOELKER

CREATIVE

NO SICK PENGUINS AT ST KILDA PIER BY ALAINA DEAN I take Hannah down to the foreshore to see the penguins. It is midday. I say that there may not be penguins. I can’t say there won’t be because once there was a sick penguin under a rock next to a small container of cloudy water, so I just say that there may not be penguins. The wind is biting and the pier is empty. Too windy for photos and conversation. We skip down the steps to the boardwalk. I point at a gap in the rocks. “That’s where the sick one was.” “Oh.” “There might be another sick one, just have a look.” We walk slowly. There are no sick penguins. At the end of the boardwalk, a bent old man fishes with a string. He watches us from under a greasy cap as he slowly reels his line in. A hook fashioned out of a paperclip glints in the sun. “Oi, see!” He has a thick German accent. He leans down and pulls a hunk of bread from a loaf in his bag. For a moment I worry he will try to feed us. Instead, he hunches down on his heels beside the rocks and I get excited. Maybe he is going to procure a sick penguin. “Hugo!” the man shouts, his accent affecting the H. “Hugo! C’mon, c’mon!” We wait. He looks up at us with a gap-toothed smile. He shakes the bread. “Hugo!” There is a scurry between the rocks. A whiskered face appears. Its nose twitches. “It’s a water rat,” I say to Hannah, but she probably already knows that. The rat pulls itself up onto the boardwalk and rests its little hands on the hunk of bread. Its stomach bulges. Hugo takes a nibble and then drags the bread down into the rocks. The white tip of his tail flashes. “He’s a baby one,” the rat whisperer says, straightening. His knees crack. Hannah and I both smile. A couple rugged up against the wind descend the stairs holding hands, eyeing the rocks for penguins. “Thankyou for showing us,” Hannah says as the man turns back to his fishing bag. He swats her thanks away with a flick of his hand. We climb back up the stairs to the pier. Behind us we hear “Hugo! C’mon!” as the couple holding hands wait patiently for the appearance of the water rat. Hannah and I watch as the man feeds more bread to the spoilt rodent. I wonder if he will manage to catch any fish today. “Sorry there were no sick penguins,” I say to Hannah, and we walk against the wind towards the tram.

ART BY ILSA HARUN

CREATIVE

pyrrhus retention mechanism BY ALSTON CHU faltering hearth fades the staunching but it’s not – watertight as such – flicker flames a hard sell for sacrosanction tendency surrendered to ghastly exhalants vesta confidence in kin, and bone, and flesh, no more soil bound & fired & tilled & & tremorous still with Roilty reveal babel brick embodies divine asset in density alone breath caught and bottle sated associated resting rates. in time find purchase in separate anxieties

ART BY ILSA HARUN

NOCEURN BY ALEX MCFADDEN

ou have been trapped in Noceurn long enough to know it’s bigger than it seems. You can’t traverse all of Noceurn in half an hour. You could walk from one end of Meliwoxer to the other in the same time span. The streets here are long, winding and interconnected, so much so you often stumble onto the street you are looking for without having to double back. You have been trying to figure out how it’s put together, but it’s been challenging. Noceurn wears on you. The regular vigour you have traveling seems to have evaporated, or been siphoned away. You have been around most of the Unified Nations of Granadina, walking at least 10 leagues every day, and traversed Warsudobih within record time but Noceurn is making you feel old, as if the years you had magicked away are being restored, slowly. The crows’ feet around your eyes are returning, it’s becoming harder to ignore the arthritis in your fingers, your satchel feels heavier each day. In all the time you have been using Alastair as a warlock he had never made a mistake but you’ll have to ask him to check the revlondir spell you had him cast for your last birthday. Your one wish of seeing all of Granadina could not be fulfilled on old legs… The list you stole when you were young is tattered but still has the names of 1387 towns, 943 of them with a small star, to show they’ve been visited. The list is organised alphabetically but you’ve been working through them all based on how close they are to one another. Your average of 19-and-a-bit towns each year is quite impressive. It took 48 years to get around to Noceurn and if you stay much longer that average would drastically decrease. Possibly even to the same as Peterson (who is barely managing eight towns each year). Noceurn doesn’t have many people for you to meet, which is fine, really, you do not travel to meet people, although you

do miss the opportunities to tell them where they rank in your favourite locations. The bartender at Meltaner is unlikely to let you back into the tavern since you told him that Sediz has better broth. The bartender here doesn’t offer broth; you have to subsist on the bread and vegetables you recover from bins. At one point your landlord, if that’s what they’re called here, asked where you were from and you had to say that you honestly could not remember but it must not have been good because otherwise you wouldn’t have had such a strong desire to leave. “You don’t miss home?” they’d gasped, and you replied a simple “No”. You miss good food, smooth, unwrinkled skin, feeling young, showing up Peterson and drawing stars on your list but not an abstract “home”. Noceurn has an entrance with very clear “no exit” signs. You entered through the giant, iron gates but you couldn’t find the “no entrance” signs anywhere in this horrid town... Not even signs to them, no “exit this way” signs or “thanks for your visit, we hope to see you again soon” signs like there were in Yevnerstinta. The city guard at the entrance gates was not very helpful: “Where can I exit Noceurn?” you asked politely. “Depends where ya’r goin’ next” he replied before climbing the tower beside the gate, ignoring you until you went away. You wander along the street where you think the cobbler is based; the soles of your shoes shouldn’t be able to wear but they are becoming thin and paired with your bad knees it is becoming more and more painful to walk. You eventually find the store on the next street over from where you estimated. “It was quite hard to find your shop,” you tell the cobbler. “I know, I struggle to get here every morning.” “Is home far?” you ask, wondering at how even locals can’t find their way.

ART BY CAROLYN HUANE

“Home is in Hewnart, so yes, quite far,” he says. You cannot tell how he feels about this, but you remember Hewnart, it was town 738 and it had the most exquisite food, you stayed there for 10 days rather than the regular seven… “Why’d you leave home?” you ask. “Thought to see a bit more of the world, somehow I ended up here. It seemed easier to just set up shop, ‘ken?”. You don’t know how to respond so you hand over your worn shoes and ask him to fix the soles. “Be seeing you” he says as you leave in your sandals. You get the sense he doesn’t just mean soon, a sense that he is resigned to being stuck here so he assumes you are too. You resolve to escape Noceurn soon. You think if you stay too long you might forget about the rest of your list and you are starting to feel bunions again, like Alastair’s spell was never cast... You have been travelling for so long you cannot let Noceurn beat you; you survived the Poctasurk attack in Helopskivs—all that spent time learning how the creature worked. If you can figure out how Noceurn works maybe you can survive it too. Pen and paper is scarce but you found some behind the desk at the cobblers, when you collected your shoes, and he did not seem to notice you taking it; you imagine even if he had he would not have cared. You spend the day mapping part of the town. You learnt cartography at a young age and you are an expert navigator so you make it through about 10 streets, labelling manholes, alleyways, stores and houses. The map is going to help you get out of here, you plan to return after resting and continue where you left off. You rise early, hoping to map fifteen more streets today. It is an ambitious goal but you already have the paper and you made a strong start so you should be able to work faster today. As you glance at your map, walking along trying to

figure out where to continue, you notice it is inaccurate. The map you made says that the apothecary is next to the menagerie but today there are three buildings between them, the alley that was beside the blacksmith’s forge has disappeared and there was definitely a manhole on this road yesterday but you can’t see one anywhere… You attempt the manholes next. Sewerage is horrible but it will be worth it if you can follow the underground pipes out of town. Abandoning your map you instead search for entrances to the sewers and find one outside the pawn shop. You pry open the manhole and immediately gag at the rancid smell. You hope the river of waste is shallow as you descend… Only your shins get covered in the waste and your satchel is safe as you wade through the channel... You walk for hours, looking up when there are windows of light. You come to a spot that has a ladder and hope when you ascend you will be outside Noceurn as the manhole opens to reveal the public baths. You return to the sewers and continue your journey to the next ladder. You clench your fists and the crescent moon indents marking your palm remind you not to aggravate your arthritis. You climb the ladder and once again see the public baths, you take the time to notice you are quite close to the pawn shop. You have been walking for hours and getting nowhere. It is not just what is above ground that moves in Noceurn. The baths are rather enticing because you stink. You enter despite having heard thieves are common. The only possession you care about is your list so you keep your satchel on you as you wash your shins, hands and face under a tap. Even as you wash the smell off you realise it will take a lot more than this tap to wash off the damage Noceurn is doing.

ART BY CAROLYN HUANE

CREATIVE

THE COST OF PEARLS BY ANNIE LIEW The sun shone. Bright yellow in the sky as frail, trembling rays of light filtered down to where it met the ocean. The churning waves crashed against each other in sloppy undulations. An eternity of movement swirling on the surface of a calm ocean. Thick and cold, the depths seemed still, motionless in comparison to the surge of movement on the surface. Delve just a tad bit deeper. Push your way through the bubbling waves and dense water and you find it, obscured behind the bright pink corals. The Oyster Reef. An underwater land mass spawned right under the gushing waves, an infestation of hard-shelled molluscs with mouths held, paused in prayer toward the light. An unmoving civilisation that sits frozen at the bottom of a fickle body, twirling humbly one moment and catastrophically ravaging the next. Graves growing from the rock in humble silence, But just off toward the corner at the edge of the civilisation, there is an oyster spread open like an opened mouth, soft tongue cradled between the lips. Exposed and vulnerable, it sits at the edge of the grey speckled rock, bathing in the cascading beams of light, unmoving against the rocking of the waves. This particular oyster is small and has barely begun its life, an infant to the rising and retreating tide. Spread open for the world, the curved shell a hand stretched out to the dark expanse of water, the gentle touch of the oyster crab and the cruel sting of the starfish. And in the unmoving depths of existence, both sides of the hardened shell inched closer toward the apex in fervent prayer, gasping forgiveness at its lips.

CREATIVE

water in my lungs BY ESTHER KUOK MAY YAN you are the feeling when i hover between water and air, my mouth,

never-ending

the

bridge between horizons

a personal gateway to somewhere beyond heaven and hell suspension. you make sinking feel like rising and so i search for you in places i shouldn’t be the saltwater kisses my lungs repeatedly, ebbing tides of “i love you”s over and over again, my tears, they leave my body and return faithfully like a scorned lover who loves more than scorns, i don’t know whose fluid breath it is that i inhale, mine or mother nature’s... is there even a difference? i never felt like anything but everything whenever i was with you. drowning. and you wonder why my personal definition of love is pain. how can water in my lungs feel like fire? how can breathing feel like burning? how can dying feel like flying? loving. you are the edge at which i stand, the very brim of my insanity yet it makes the most sense here. i wrote my name in the shores of your palms, over and over each time the ocean washed it out, a message she would soon turn into a lesson. you are

the

fine

line

death,

yet tell me why i’ve never felt more alive?

ART BY SHARON HUANG LIANG

CREATIVE

ALBANY

BY DANIEL BERATIS

o with the whistling wind ceasing behind him—the door clicking shut behind him—after giving his identification—a driver’s license, naturally—to the guard for what must be assumed to be for keeps, he steps through what should be a turnstile but is disappointingly a perspex gate, one hand in front, one hand behind. The hand behind is slightly cocked, palm face up, the fingers outstretched, the entire arm straight down, the profile of the body thereby having a more dramatic lilt, as six eyes regard him as he passes through the lobby. Viewed from the side, he looks unnatural—viewed from behind, he is the scenery. The hand in front holds another—a second. He walks forward slightly slower than what is realistic. He does not squeeze the second hand, as he is led, through the lobby, past the lobby, down a corridor lined with windows on either side. Beyond the glass, the Empire State Building stretches above the skyline, joining the rooftops and aerials and various aviation hazards of the other skyscrapers outside the window, due south. The Statue of Liberty, no doubt, is illuminated, to prevent the untimely deaths of scheduled arrivals at John F. Kennedy International Airport. The Hudson, where that man once landed a beautiful aircraft, no doubt glimmers at this time of night, the pinpricks of light distorting and shifting and collapsing into the waves, before re-emerging every second thereafter. The current headquarters of the United Nations— the centre of all life, Wall Street—the periphery of all culture, Broadway—the bars, the dives, the speakeasies—there they sit, no doubt, situated so beautifully amongst the great activity and work—the activity of career, the work of adulthood, far beyond collegiate immaturity—that now takes place in the balmy night of the summer, amidst the rattling cups of the homeless and the discarded suit jackets of the businessmen, skolling their drinks— “—was it cold out?—” “—I didn’t really notice—” “—okay—” The corridor, only years from destruction, veers sharply left, and right, and left, and the hand in front stays clasped onto the second hand, never tightening, never loosening. They move deeper, getting lost, exploring the maze, having no clear escape. There is an abrupt stop—the carpeted footsteps cease—as the second hand now lets go, searching for a key. Silence, for a while. The key slips in. The lock turns. The door opens. The inside of the room is sparsely furnished. There is still silence. A wooden chair is crammed into a small desk on the far end, three feet from a bed on the other side of the room, a window in between on the wall. The colours and décor are all mismatched—stripes here, block colours there, school spirit apparel haphazardly hanging—and soft music is playing from when the desk was abandoned, five minutes ago, to collect a visitor. An airplane distantly roars overhead, the noise of the jet engine barely muffled by the poor insulation of the building at large. The one in front (the second hand, if you recall) sits, a little too firmly, in the chair. The other, the one missing his identification, sits on the bed. The furniture has not changed in twelve years. There is silence, for a little longer. A mouth shifts. “What were you doing, before I got here?” “I have something due. I was doing research.” “That’s cool.” “Is it?” The conversation develops, slowly, hesitantly. They talk, first of their immediate past, of their—yes—night, and then of whatever crosses their mind. Neither reaches to grab the other’s hand, again. Neither moves towards the other. The music loops.

The window is slightly ajar. Outside, the rustle of a flammable tree. Small murmurs begin to emerge, before disappearing, the words never quite understandable, the conversation never quite clear. In the distance, a tinny speaker plays a DVD from a television in a nearby room. Elsewhere, no television tunes into a channel. The ABC affiliate is down. The NBC affiliate has poor reception. The CBS affiliate plays CBS shows. Half an hour passes. The chair’d person turns away, suddenly, looks at their assignment. A soft light from an iPhone reminder illuminates a shelf above, half-filled with dust-covered textbooks. The blue light of a rotating fan blinks. The music loops. The music loops. “I should get to work on this.” ”Okay.” The bed’d man—not bedded—stands, gathers his composure, moves towards the door. It is wooden, with a crumpled fire escape sheet hastily nailed into the timber. There is no fire escape for several hundred feet. If the building were to burn, they would perish. He opens the door, closes it behind him, not looking back. He wonders the corridors, unsure of where the carpet ends, where the lobbies begin, where his identification could be. He passes a cabinet in which sits a small trophy, with seven names of men long gone from this place engraved onto the base. He slows—looks around, sees nobody, leans in closer—examines a photograph next to it, taken some time in the seventies, of those same seven men plus an eighth who is not separated from the rest but who appears to simply be missing from the trophy. They are dressed as if for a sport, but it is not clear which sport they played. Behind them, the New York State legislature, in Albany. He reclines back, thinking of nothing particular. He moves on. In thirty-six years, the trophy would survive a fire in this wing of the building, although sixteen souls would not. Only one handle of the trophy would survive, the other having melted into its composite parts of gold and copper and steel. The photograph would disintegrate, the heat converting every pixel to ash, and every particle to nothing. Only four names on the trophy would survive the flame—some fifty years after, long after the Statue of Liberty is closed and the Hudson is raised, no soul would recall this group, save for their names alone. He turns a last corner, and recognises the guard with his identification. Four eyes regard him as he steps through the lobby, requests the laminated card. As he grasps it from the guard with one hand, his phone glows in the other, a sickly burnt-orange aura. The air is fresh but humid, balmy but crisp, as the doors slide shut behind him. In front is a stone staircase, leading down, lined with trees, out of the campus, into the world. The lights of the skyscrapers begin to vanish, one by one. The wind picks up, chopping the Hudson ever so roughly. Due south, a businessman stumbles out of a bar, and pukes. A child wails in the line at JFK, wailing, gripping the finger of their mother. A taxi driver, minutes before a crash, ignores a hail and rushes home. An aircraft flies overhead, partially obscured, engine whining. He sighs, rolls his neck. His lips pull back. His eyes grimace. He looks up, sees the pulsing red light of the plane’s tail. The leaves rustle around him as he begins to walk down. The broad lakes of Central Park, where the wind is not so strong, continue to lie flat, with only the occasional ripple betraying their vulnerability to the elements and to nature and to the world. The trees rustle less. He crosses the threshold, onto the street, hearing the honk of a car and gripping his phone evertighter, as he contemplates how else to waste his time.

ART BY SOPHIE SUN

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ART BY

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ART BY YEDDA WANG

CREATIVE

what a magnificent view BY NATALIE FONG we’re seeing the same things most times, except when he gets to sit up look out the window on his side of the room

the things he gets to do on his own always has to do with the side of the room I don’t know how to earn sides

there was a red-cloaked woman one day, he said, light drizzling, baby in arms, she takes the rain for her child,

another day he sees a barrage of people bundling eggs and turnips and sugar pops and leafy things, yellow fruits,

I sometimes forget people wear things that are not white on their skin, I sometimes forget wrinkles exist outside of

this emergency alarm button I can press in the middle of the night when I hear him gasping for breath – I know he is dying

that I should have pressed the button but I want so damn badly to sit up and look out the window, if only to know life exists outside this square sight and I let him die but I can remember his crusted sighs, in between his reporting what he saw, he had been so sure I’d never dreamed it could be a perfect lie.

I get to sit up every day at a specific time so I get to use my spine enough before I don’t have use for it anymore

I know he would die to be in my place, by the window, to see strollers, trolleys, human follies

we take the pain we can, if I sit up, I get to see something other than the blank ceiling I reason with every night,

I will tell him anything if it means he will listen, I talk myself out of my thoughts, out of this futility, this indignation,

these walks of life I have not had the time to live, nor the eyes to see, nor the mouths to be

but I didn’t expect it to be me to be part of a hospital room duo sometimes we are like room décor, stale and sober in bolstered realities, too long to sit up and see anything new outside the window I am running out of things to see I am afraid he will find out

Taking his place, I sat the first time, eager, in pain, numerous nurses cautioning me against curiosity, but all I saw out the window was a block of red bricks, a wall. a wall of non-existence, non-entity, non-fantasy. a neither monolith. I think I miss his window.

ART BY ALEXANDRA BURNS

banksia embrace BY SARAH PETERS I am not used to the lychee pink sunrise, The sound of galahs before 11am or the sunlight whispering for me to walk into their heart. But I could do it, you know? Take the banksia in my hands and vase it, for the chance of sucking honey from the world as we bow to one another. Open up a flower shop where the only thing I taste is the scent of bottlebrush and protea, that beckon me from darkness into the soft touch, of life.

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A DIARY OF EVERYDAY MAGIC BY GREER SUTHERLAND

n my scribbled to-do list is the task: “reacquaint myself with magic.” Then an arrow coils past “catch up on W9 lecture” and “finish Part C stats” and connects to “in the world, myself, etc.” It’s been some time, and getting to know magic is slow progress. In the golden morning light, steam ribbons up out of the kettle—silvery genie-breath—and this is my first sign. A problem: I don’t think I do believe in magic? But I want to believe it, and it seems that it being real is very much predicated on me believing in it, so it’s all very circular and leaves me half wanting to be logical and half… wanting. Just wanting. Cross-legged on the floor, I give my house-fern a haircut, snipping at the deadness. Close to the black damp soil, tiny new shoots curl in on themselves, green glowing delicately off them. Luminescent, nascent. I go to the library for a book on palmistry. Back in year 11 psychology we used to participate in ritualistic burning of phrenology and palmistry books. “Pseudoscience, pseudoscience!” we chanted, a warm feeling of contentment spreading through us as we realised that we budding psychologists were different from those charlatans because we used something called empirical evidence. I’m sure the physics class across the corridor also had a lesson about how physics is a legit science. Look, I’ll fight people who say psych isn’t a science, but at the same it’s pretty funny to watch its perpetual identity crisis and the whole discomfort re: what to do with Freud and his phalluses. I do feel some trepidation about borrowing this palmistry book, but then again—I’m just borrowing it. I find it in the mysticism section (which is upsettingly close to the science section) and discover it is far bigger than expected. No way is this thing gonna fit in my bag. There’s no squirrelling it away out of sight as was my plan, so I carry it around in the open like a hippie. “I’m just curious!” I want to tell people passing by who have neither the interest nor the visual acuity to figure out the book title. I’ve brought it home but am yet to read it because I’m concerned my life line will tell me I should’ve died a couple of years ago, which would be a nuisance. I think about the word “obsidian” and how it’s one of the best words ever. I write it in capital letters in my notebook, then scrawl over it again, the letters a bit bigger this time, then again. I find a big piece of paper and in a moment of cheerful chaos I fill it with OBSIDIAN. Everyday magic, you know? While knitting, an adrenaline-spiral thrills through me to think of the blanket which will one day exist from my current work, and the warmth I and people I love will get from it. Then I feel like a dork for experiencing a wool-induced adrenaline rush.

In the dead of night something wakes me up with its rustling. “Must be faeries,” I think, and consider offering up teardrops for them as a sacrifice. That might be dangerous. My thoughts leak back into the pillow. Turns out, it was actually a mouse which chewed a hole through the bag of Lindt chocolates stored under my bed. It then managed to unwrap and eat every chocolate in the bag (except the white ones which apparently it didn’t like). Side note: it appears it’s not really socially acceptable to publicise that there’s a mouse roaming around your room. Still, I’m rather fond of my magical mouse friend, even if she isn’t a faery and ate my chocolates. At least she didn’t develop an appetite for palmistry books. While researching tarot cards (out of interest), an ad pops up for a free tarot reading—not a scam—with three options: a reading for love, luck or wealth. Although I have no intention of clicking it, I ask myself which reading I would ask for (just for fun). Almost immediately, I dismiss luck and wealth; I’d only ever ask a psychic about love. Then I go into psych student mode and ask myself why. Maybe I feel in control when it comes to my career and money. Love feels like it’s out of my hands, and in fate’s (note: maybe something I should work on?). The cards might not be magic (they probably aren’t but I don’t want to say that because what if they are but only work if I trust them?), however because of them I learnt something new about myself, so if you think about it, they kinda did work in the end. Take that, scientists. My friend video-calls me and even though she’s on the other side of the world, it’s somehow a 2am conversation for both of us. We talk about politics and being exhausted of politics and dogs and people we went to school with, and I gleefully put the phone next to the typewriter so she can hear it clack. We talk about religion. “Okay, okay on a scale of zero to 20, how much do you believe in God?” she asks in such a way which suggests that the zero-to-20 scale is officially sanctioned by theologians. She herself claims to be completely non-spiritual and can’t understand the whole thing. So I ask what she believes about love, whether it’s purely a combination of chemicals in the brain, existing as a survival mechanism—or something more. “God, no, I’m not that cynical,” she replies. Later on it occurs to me that nobody can scientifically prove that chemicals themselves aren’t magic. But mostly because nobody can scientifically prove anything. I go for a walk. Above, on the telephone wire, sits a twodimensional bird. The neighbours’ roses are weeping dewdrops for joy. I swivel my head side to side; I want to see everything on my street from every angle, see every plant in every garden and every freckle of sun on every roof tile and every falling leaf in every moment of their fall. I’ll never see as much as I want to see, no matter how hard I look there’ll always be something hidden from me. I think, perhaps, the magic’s in the not-finding.

It’s a funny sort of battle, loving something and then constantly reaffirming its silliness.

ART BY LAUREN HUNTER

CREATIVE

JEREMIAH IN A CHURCH IN THORNBURY BY DARCY CORNWALLIS Night falls like the silence between rich choral notes, in the pause when sound collapses and drops to the pavement outside. Dusk is a held breath. Night falls and the day’s hangover glitters mystical and blue, hanging in streamers from the sky, like song suspended. Here the fading pews are washed in the ancient light of dusk. Light creeps down the walls and across the plywood altar. I feel a terrible dislocation again, one that lives slightly to the left of time, of desert sands and walls that shone in glory. Night falls across the land and I know I am become vile. I am spun with grief for this dead city which laments itself in every town. I am become vile. My veins and arteries are littered with corpses; they threaten to clog my brain in rotting mounds. Carrion pick through the rubble of my mind, the toppled temples, the crumbling music halls where once the choirs sang. The darkness webs from shattered homes in silence, and spreads through the petrol-stations and the pizza shops on Saint Georges Road. Night falls, but perhaps song will flood those streets again one day, perhaps this empty church will mean something to the dead. In truth, I like the dark, but it can’t be allowed everything. I’ll reach into the night and pluck a glimmering pearl. I’ll hold it so close to me. All ye who pass me in the street, behold! Inside my plywood cathedral I hold eternity in my breast.

ART BY WINNIE JIAO

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HILDEGARD BY DARCY CORNWALLIS They say your dreams were actually migraines, that those luminous sighs cascading before your eyes in burning heavenly rains were in fact a derangement of pain and shivering neurons. They say some muscular spasm could make an egg swallow up the sky and turn a song to ribbons of curling fire flying through all Creationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s desperate vista. When bubbles of agony swim across my eyes, I sometimes think I might sing them into pearlescent angels and imagine the streak of white iron driven through my brain is a dart of light that their tongues let fly. We know that the shuddering contortions of the brain can be turned to music which could melt the sky.

CREATIVE

A LIFELONG COMMITMENT TO SELF-EFFICACY BY GEORGIA CAO There’s only so much other people can do for you The first time I remember hurting myself my nose hit the timber separating tanbark and asphalt My blood came out orange and I wasn’t scared and it didn’t hurt so why was the teacher on yard duty telling me it was all going to be okay? Adults use that word when they don’t believe it themselves and I remember thinking in that moment that I was going to grow up with a nose like Owen Wilson’s and that wasn’t okay

When you grow up there will be so many jobs that don’t even exist yet The first sound I remember hearing is the spooky trills and beep beep boops of dial-up My sister and I pretended that there was an apocalypse whenever my father had an incoming fax The sound is so shrill you feel like you’re being abducted by aliens And we would draw the sounds we heard trying to find patterns in the madness but within the scribbles we found nothing worthy of an elaborate government conspiracy theory If you use your ring finger to press, you’ll never get a wrinkle The first time I remember embarrassing myself Reciting I love a sunburnt country but finishing each line would be relieving and starting the next my hands would clasp together because at home I would fumble between drought and flooding rains My father printed a copy for me and dog-eared, I could not remember because in class that day I must have felt at home Life has a funny way of working out The first time I cried in front of an adult who wasn’t family She tried to comfort me by telling me that she sleeps hooked up to a CPAP and it scared her boyfriend away, and that her father had recently been decapitated, a freak accident and I remember feeling sorry for her but sorrier for myself because why do adults think that coercing gratitude will make you feel better? as if hearing the worst things to happen to someone else will make me feel grateful or maybe she told me these things so that I could comfort her in which case I could not, for I was a child who had not yet made a lifelong commitment to self-efficacy

ART BY NELLIE SEALE

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JEBEL BY MEERNA YOUSIF My first memory taught me fear, A mother’s plea I cannot un-hear. Perpetually lost, somewhere unknown. The final remnants of innocence blown. Walls soaked in blood and unanswered prayers, lost souls salvaging what’s supposed to be theirs. All the comfort, the sum of what we created, with a sweep of a Persian rug, annihilated. A whisper of a life on a different sea. Sunken are the relics of who I’m supposed to be. Displaced wounds and fragmented scrawl. I grew up too fast and not at all.

ART BY CAROLINE VOELKER

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ALICE BY SIDONIE BIRD DE LA COEUR I It was almost summer and it was lighter for longer these days. The dying heat of the day wafted off the asphalt, bringing the evening down to a temperature where one could comfortably go without shoes. Nicholas didn’t have the luxury of a balcony, so instead he sat on his windowsill with his suit pants loosely rolled above his hairy ankles, dangling his sockless feet over the last of the evening traffic below. Alice was beside him as usual. They sat together like this every evening, watching men dressed exactly like Nicholas pour out of the subway. She was always there, perched on the windowsill when he returned to his apartment. He didn’t know whether she did anything else with her day other than watch the world unfold from her place on the sill. He never asked. He knew she didn’t smoke but offered her a cigarette anyway, only for her to decline his gesture with an exasperated blink. Nicholas drew on his cigarette with a small sigh. He was aware of how musky a day of work made him smell, and he hoped that Alice didn’t mind too much. She had never once complained, but he couldn’t help but be a little self-conscious about it. He shielded his eyes, sore from a day of squinting into the harsh light of a computer monitor, against the setting sun. He placed his other hand gently around her small body. It was during these peaceful evenings together that Nicholas realised he was falling in love with Alice. In the comfortable warmness of the summer night, when the dying sunlight reflected brilliantly off her grey feathers, the fact that she was a pigeon seemed inconsequential. II Before he met Alice, Nicholas had no one. His dinners were lonely and silent, except for the endless chatter of evening television and the monotonous whirring of his microwavemeal-for-one cooking. His apartment was neat, but only due to the fact that Nicholas did not spend enough time at home to make it look lived in. The only thing on his bedroom wall was a slightly torn calendar, with a red pen he used to cross through each box, counting down to nothing in particular.

Nicholas’ job in finance provided him with a stable income and nothing more. It had always seemed like a natural career path for Nicholas, his father had worked in the same field. Sometimes he would stare at himself in the mirror, and the older he got, the more it seemed as though it was his father staring back. Nicholas used to feed the pigeons on his lunch breaks. It started as a way to get rid of the stale bread in his kitchen without feeling guilty about wasted food. But he began to do it so frequently that there wasn’t enough time for the bread to become stale in the first place, and suddenly he was feeding the birds bread that was as fresh as his own sandwiches. Soon, a part of his heart depended on the activity that allowed him to avoid the uncomfortable crowds of people at his company’s cafeteria, and the routine kept him sane. Nicholas would often target the weakest looking pigeons in his bread-throwing, the ones with missing legs, grizzled beaks and no eyes. It was here that a certain pigeon caught his eye— the smallest of the flock, with a broken wing hanging limp at her side. Alice. Without so much as a second thought, he picked her up in one gentle motion and boarded the subway home. Holding the remarkably calm bird in one hand and his briefcase in the other, he stood amongst excited schoolchildren and perplexed tourists. As he swayed with the train, the small bird shut her eyes. He checked his watch. He was going to be late back to the office. But for the first time in his working life, he didn’t mind at all. III With Alice here, it seemed cruel to shut the window so Nicholas never did. Having the window open made his apartment feel three times bigger. The sounds and smells of the street poured in, filling the once stale air with the noise of life. Company gave him an excuse to pull out his mother’s old, handwritten recipe books. The microwave meals in his fridge

ART BY BETHANY CHERRY

CREATIVE

were gradually replaced with fresh meats, vegetables and spices—he bookmarked the meals that Alice appeared to like the most. As he cooked, he talked to her. Telling her about his workday, his hopes, his fears. She always listened, bopping her head as if nodding in agreement. Nicholas would often light the candle on the centre of the small dining room table that was now pushed up against the windowsill. As he did every evening, he set down Alice’s plate of salmon in front of her and smiled as she began to peck at it. Looking at her, framed by the window and backlit by the glow of the streetlight, she seemed like a work of art. As they ate, he talked more and they continued to bond. He could feel them becoming closer every evening. A unified entity, a couple. Nicholas and Alice. IV Nicholas worked amongst replicas of the same person, all typing in unison. Fluorescent squares in the ceiling lighting illuminated every identical cubicle. Today, Nicholas was frantically checking if the financial report he had asked his boss for three weeks ago had made its way to his desk. It hadn’t. Nicholas had already asked twice and was far too selfconscious to ask for a third time. Nicholas just sat there and made excuses for him in his own head—maybe he’s forgotten, he’s probably very busy at the moment, surely it will be here soon. He looked and watched his boss showing a co-worker pictures from his recent holiday on his phone. Surely it will be here soon. At work, he often found himself staring out the window to watch the pigeons preen themselves on the powerlines outside. Each day he hoped desperately that Alice might fly past, and the fleeting glimpse of beauty would prong reprieve during his weary workdays. But she never did. To take a break, Nicholas made his way to the watercooler which stood isolated in the corner of the sterile room. To his dismay, standing in front were two colleagues, laughing at a joke they had both heard before. Even though Nicholas wore the same suit, had the same haircut and owned the same brand of shoes, he always felt unwelcome in his co-workers’ presence.

Self-consciously Nicholas poured icy water into the plastic cup, ignoring the liquid that he had spilled over the sides and was now dripping down his arm. Then he stood, with a fake smile plastered onto his tired face and tried to join their conversation. These holidays I’m going to England to see the extended family. Oh, that’ll be fun. I’m going to Paris with the wife. Of course, the city of romance! That’s where I took Rosie on our honeymoon. Truly. I can’t wait to see the Mona Lisa. Pauline is very interested in art. Say something, Nicholas. You’ve been here too long to just leave and they’ll think you’re odd if you just keep standing here. My dad is buried in Paris. An uncomfortable pause. Oh, god. V The last slither of the sun wobbled over the horizon before slipping away completely, pulling a curtain of darkness over the city. There was too much light pollution to be able to see any stars, but the pair remained on the windowsill anyway, too content to call it a night just yet. He gently stroked her wing with one hand, petting her in the direction of her feathers. She shut her eyes, leaning her small head into his palm. Alice, I love you. And, I— Nicholas blew a long trail of smoke from his lips as he spoke, Mostly, mostly I love how I feel like you’re listening to me when I talk. I love that you care. I can’t emphasise that enough. I’ve never felt comfortable talking to people, ya know? It just… it just doesn’t feel like they’re really listening to what you have to say. Just like, they’re waiting for their turn to speak. As usual, Alice said nothing.

ART BY BETHANY CHERRY

FLASH FICTION PROMPT FIVE: ECOLOGICAL APOCALYPSE ALL THE CLI-FI AND END OF THE WORLD YOU CAN FIT IN 100 WORDS AND UNDER PRURITIC PARASITES e felt them inside his hands and legs, inside his chest, even inside his face. He saw them too, sometimes. Nobody else did. Only him. The miniscule worm-like parasites which had taken his body as their new home. He would never have noticed them had it not been for the unbearable itching. They slipped out of his skin to peak into the atmosphere, he felt them crawling on his skin. It would start itching. Nobody would believe him, even when he grabbed one of them and pulled it out (and caused a wound which had still not healed). Every test he underwent, told him he was normal, with nothing wrong with him. It would still itch. BY NITUL DESHPANDE

my lungs are mountains my lungs are mountains once they were alive filled with lush vegetation now, long gone

my lungs are mountains fire has ripped through the trees are carcasses life deceased my lungs are mountains heavy smoke lingers making it impossible to breathe

BY MILLY MULLER REEVES

BY JESSICA KEEM

DAY 0: Environmentalists prepare for spending final days in smug fear. DAY 1: Bank account values: all zero. No regrets though. Bizarrely, bitcoin holds out until day eight. DAY 2: Alien overlords flee shit-town planet. DAY 12: Death of 85 per cent of population makes Melbourne housing affordable again. DAY 25: Last spraycan used up, forcing art to go on hiatus. DAY 51: Hardcore apocalypse preparadoes disappointed as humanity works together to rebuild and adapt instead of immediately descending into Mad Max-ian helltopian torturescape ruled by violence and cruelty. DAY 857: Young, hip aliens begin moving to rapidly gentrifying earth. BY LEWIS LAURENCE

HERE NOW Smothered as rags of turf after the creek burst its banks the clouds were over the warm sky. Their grey breasts the feathery shadows of idle surfers beyond the break feeling as I am: that my feet are stakes in the earth my breath the edge of a chill wind. BY MICHAEL DAVIES SEND US YOUR TINY WORDS: NEXT EDITIONâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S PROMPT IS GALAXIES AND OUTER SPACE. Send your 100-word and under stories of the far reaches of the universe to editors@farragomagazine.com

ART BY ILSA HARUN

FOR AND AGAINST: STRAIGHT WHITE MEN FOR BY TRENT VU

traight white men are good for things other than news scandals and bro hugs. From a biological standpoint, a lot of you were conceived with straight white sperm, but us gays in particular have a lot of other things to thank straight white men for. Cut to me back in 2012—still in the closet with a huge crush on a straight white boy. He was a bit of a dick, but that probably made me like him even more. Nothing was ever going to happen, because, well, he was straight, but that didn’t stop my fantasising about the cute gay couple life we’d have—a beautiful house, extravagant holidays and, like, eight puppies. Needless to say, this crush was a painful experience, but I’m actually thankful for him, because he helped me come to terms with my attraction to guys. Furthermore, straight white men give us the gay representation in the media we so desperately want. Eric Stonestreet in Modern Family; Nick Robinson in Love, Simon; all the gay-for-pay performers in gay porn: we are indebted to these actors for giving representation to the gays. Plus, it’s a two-way street—we benefit from the visibility, and the straight white actor flexes their acting chops with a challenging role outside of their comfort zone. And sometimes, like Heath Ledger or Jake Gyllenhaal for Brokeback Mountain, it even nabs an Oscar nom. Everybody wins! According to every presidential speech in the history of ever, “Behind every great man is a great woman.” Ew. Nope. Bye. I offer this instead: “Behind every fave is a straight white man.” Hear me out. Gay icons Ariana Grandgay and Carly Gay Jepsen are managed by Scooter Braun—a straight white man. Britney Queers’ break up with Justin Timberlake led to the release of the pop masterpiece In the Zone and megabop Toxic. A very naked Orlando Bloom was literally kneeling behind Gayty Perry as he ferried her around on a paddle board one time. And I’m sure that at least one of the shirtless backup dancers that carries Mariah Carey onto the stage is a straight white man. That’s a pretty accurate visualisation of the necessary place that straight white men hold in our society. Straight white men are the unsung heroes of gay culture, so next time you see your token straight white male friend, give him a big bro hug to thank him for everything he’s done.

AGAINST BY ELINOR MILLS

he worst part of being bisexual is being attracted to men; lunks, frightened off by simple phrases like “the women in your philosophy tute are intelligent lifeforms”, “adult humans should know how to do their own laundry” and “it doesn’t matter if you drew a funny little tophat and monocle on it, it’s still an unsolicited dick pic”. Frustratingly, some of them are nice to look at, so to avoid the unique hellscape that is Having Feelings For A Man, I urge you to remember that straight white men are, in fact, completely obsolete. Firstly, straight people don’t exist. Research out of Cornell in 2012 demonstrated through pupil dilation that the majority of straight women might not be as straight as they think. This makes perfect sense to anyone who has ever looked at a woman. (Este Haim, call me.) Similarly, you would be shocked to learn just how many of my straight-identified male friends have sucked a dick or two. If you’re a queer boy exclusively attracted to men (my condolences), rest easy in the knowledge that your straight boy crush probably isn’t even very straight. And, we all know that the long march of history is really just the long march of white people (and especially straight men) doing their utmost to fuck up other cultures. Without People of Colour, we’d be living in a world without potato chips, water pistols, the novel and the number zero. What would we have without white people? Probably a lot less genocide. We’re pretty irrelevant to all the best parts of the planet, so why should we be a part of your romantic life? So, you say, you’re happy to critically evaluate the societal pressures that have led you to only consider straight white men eligible partners. But what about children, you ask? Don’t we need men for those? Nope! Firstly, the existence of trans people means that whatever combination of genitals you need to create a small being, it never has to involve a cis dude. However, us trans folks are a small and highly-soughtafter group, if the hundreds of “20 Sexy Trans People You Can Feel Morally Good For Wanting to Fuck” listicles I read prove anything at all. Luckily, modern science is tantalisingly close to making it possible for humans to reproduce totally separate from the typical sperm/egg situation. Straight white men won’t even be needed!

ART BY DAVID ZELEZNIKOW-JOHNSTON