FARRAGO
Acknowledgement of Country
Over these past few months, our campus has been the site of monumental protests, protests that for many of us have felt genuinely world-shaking. People from across the community banded together to assert their vision of what the University ought to be – somewhere that upholds the humanistic value of a liberal education, underpinned by a belief in virtue and nonviolence.
For this University’s entire history, it has failed in aspiring to this vision. Most notably, in its treatment of the Indigenous people of these lands, whom it has robbed and exploited, forcibly imposed colonial systems of knowledge and cultural production. Even just last year, the racism institutionalised within the Melbourne Law School led to the resignation of Larrakia, Wadjigan and Central Arrente professor Dr Eddie Cubillo.
Yet, there is also a proud history of Aboriginal resistance on this Country as well – one that is important to remember as we reflect on this recent era of protest. Aboriginal activists have been at the forefront of struggles for equality and land rights, amongst myriad other vital social issues, for decades.
Farrago therefore pays its respects to the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, on whose lands we write and study, as well as to the Boonwurrung, Yorta Yorta and Dja Dja Wurrung peoples, on whose lands the University also operates.
Contributors
Editorial
A note on OB Reports
Joel Duggan
Office Bearer Reports
Fear and Loathing in the Canberra CBD
Joel Duggan
A budget for students?:
Ombudsman, SSAF, HECS and paid placements among this year’s big reforms
Alan Nguyen, Ibrahim Muan
Abdulla and Joel Duggan
Farrago at the Gaza Solidarity Encampments
Joel Duggan
Inside Mahmoud’s Hall: Pro-Palestine Students
Continue Sit-In
Mathilda Stewart
A new chapter in student activism: The Pro-Palestine protests that crossed borders
Ibrahim Muan Abdulla
A Tale of Modern Romance
Eden Carter
Satire-in-brief
The Satire team
Featured photography
Mia Walton
Weiying (Irene) Lu
Xiangyun Li
Shun Fukui
Stephen Zavitsanos
CONTENTS
THE RUBS AND PATS
Oscar Marklund
Why Do You Train
Aaron Agostini
Blame Left on the Kitchen Floor
Elysha Kaye
You Become Shark
Pluto Cotter
Prejudice and Pride
Belle Schleter
She will be Loved
Nimrada Silva
data streaming in 3014
Michelle Yu
Honey Honey
Yu Zhong
migration to eastward sun (roll for charisma)
emily couzins
“Reflections Unveiled” Ghazal Ronagh
Possum poem
Blake Hohenhaus
My Nostrils are Unaligned
Bronte Lemaire
I am from April Schroeter
Billable Minutes
Elle Harkaway
The Process: Little Cat
Stories
Xiaole Zhan
The “Chasing That Feeling” Diaries: An Adult Who Doesn’t Dream (A Boy With Nothing But Dreams)
Lani Jaye
One Unimelb Year: Semester 1 - Week 12 bluehour
Omnis-phóbos (or) the fear of all: Thalassophobia, the fear of deep water
Wildes Lawler
It’s a murder on the dancefloor, and Shakespeare probably killed the groove
Melbourne University Shakespeare Company
Odds & Ends
Ashlea Banon
All Aboard
Rashdan Mahmood
Take Silliness Seriously
Rashdan Mahmood
The Persona Behind the Pages: Lessons Learned as a Debut Author
Lillian Lumley
Melbourne, I Love You Ayva Jones
Mom, I think I’m Elliot Page
Jayden Seah
“The Past You Know May Not Be True” - An Interview with Bamise
Jesse Allen
Kpop in Melbourne: A Youth Culture Persisting Chiaki Chng
Why I’ll Never Obey the First Rule of Fight Club
Fergus Sinnott
Is cheerleading feminist?
Elizabeth Browne
Battle Cries on a Boom Bap
Beat
Nway
Artwork
Maleea
Rodeo Fodder
July
Kien-Ling Liem
EDITORS
Gunjan Ahluwalia
Jessica Fanwong
Joel Duggan
Kien-Ling Liem
COVER Weiying (Irene) Lu
MANAGERS
Disha Mehta
Emily Hope
Harrison George
Hayley Yeow
Phoebe Sava
Lauren Williams
Maria Quartel
Ruby Weir-Alarcon
Stephen Zavitsanos
Weiying (Irene) Lu
CREATIVE
SUBEDITORS
Aditi Acharla
Ailene Catherine Susanto
Amelie Staff
Bronte Lemaire
Charlotte (Charli) Davies
Cushla (Cush) Scanlan
Danielle Holden
Emily Ta
Fantine Banulski
Felicity Smith
Fergus Sinnott
Hallie Vermeend
Isaac Thatcher
Isabella (Bella) Farrelly
Jack Jeffreys
Julianne O’Connor
Kartiya Ilardo
Kaz Bueman
Mary Hampton
Matthew (Matt) Chan
Olivia Brewer
Sophie He
Veronica Kwong
Wei Si (Erica) Liu
Yu Zhong
COLUMNISTS
bluehour
Donna Ferdinando
Iza Jablonska
Lani Jaye
Lola Sargasso
CONTRIBUTORS
Melbourne University
Shakespeare Company
Olivia Camillin
Sabine Pentecost
Sebastian Moore
The Provocative Inklings
Wildes Lawler
Xiaole Zhan
CONTRIBUTORS
Aaron Agostini
April Katrine Schroeter
Belle Schleter
Blake Hohenhaus
Bronte Lemaire
Elle Harkaway
Elysha Kaye
Emily Couzins
Ghazal Ronagh
Harvey Weir
Lillian Lumley
Luci Whitelake
Michelle Yu
Natalie Cm Fong
Nimrada Silva
Nishka Fernando
Nway
Olivia Di Grazia
Oscar Marklund
Pluto Cotter
Scout Manuel
Yu Zhong
ILLUSTRATORS
April Park
Amber Liang
Agustin Coscolluela
Chelsea Pentland
Emma Bui
Felicity
Georgia Bartholomeusz
Grace Hamilton
Harriet Chard
Jennifer Nguyen
Jessell
Lauren Luchs
Lee Chan
Leilani Leon
Letian (Lydia) Tian
Maleea
Mel
Ngochan Lam
Thomas Weir-Alarcon
(Cowry) Yanche Wang
Yilan Tao
NON - FICTION SUBEDITORS
Ailene Catherine Susanto
Amelie Staff
Aroma Imran
Asimenia Pestrivas
Audrey Goodman
Bella Farrelly
Chamathka Rajapakse
Chelsea Browning
Emily Macfarlane
Emma Berg Kaldbekken
Isaac Thatcher
Isobel Connor-Smithyman
Janice Hui
Layla Zain
Lilly Sokolowski
Maddie Barron
Madeline Barrett
Mary Hampton
Momoka Honda
Neera Kadkol
Rebecca Ramos (Becca)
Samson Cheung
Sheriline Lay
Srihari Mohan (Harry)
Stella Mcdonald
NON - FICTION STAFF WRITERS
Ayva Jones
Chiaki Chng
David Dodson
Elizabeth Browne
Elizabeth Pham
Fergus Sinnott
Iloé Caillard
Jayden Seah
Jesse Allen
Ledya Khamou
Linh Pham
Maria Quartel
Rashdan Mahmood
Srihari Mohan
William Kenyon
Zoe Quinn
PHOTOGRAPHY
Alain Nguyen
Chatarina Hanny Angelita Teja
Nirmalsinh Bihola (Nirmal)
Piper Jones-Evans
Yurong Xu
REPORTERS
Alan Nguyen
Anastasia Scarpaci
Annie Karkaloutsos
Arjun Singh
Ayva Jones
Billie Davern
Buena Araral
Chelsea Browning
Finley Monaghan-Mc Grath
Hanane Seid
Ibraham Muan Abdulla
Mathilda Stewart
Meagan Hansen
Mia Jenkins
Pryce Starkey
Ravin Desai
Romany Claringbull
Sam Irvine
Sana Gulistani
RADIO FODDER PRODUCERS
Anushka Mankodi
Dom Lepore
Isolde Kieni-Judd
Jack Loftus
Tom Weir-Alarcon
SATIRE
Aaron Agostini
Alexia Shaw
Eden Cater
Jasmine Bills
Jonathan Chong
Lucinda (Lucy) Grant
Oscar Marks
SOCIAL MEDIA
Duy Dang
King Shi
Larissa Brand
Thanh Thanh An Quach
Alan Nguyen
VIDEOGRAPHY
Christina Arthur
Deidre Chloe
Nirmalsinh Bihola
EDITORIAL
Joel Duggan:
What a fucken time to be a Farrago editor. In the eight or so weeks since we put together the last edition, we've witnessed some of the most significant student protests in Australian history. On top of that, Farrago spent the middle week of May at federal budget lock-up in Canberra; at one point, this meant I was in the very cool but incredibly stressful position of coordinating our Canberra budget coverage and our coverage of protestors taking over a building back in Melbourne. You can read about it all in this edition's News section. So proud, so tired -- let's see if Semester 2 tops it.
Kien-Ling Liem:
It’s hard to believe that we’re already halfway through our term as editors! The first half has gone by so fast, and while we still have so much more to accomplish, we’ve had a very successful first semester. Radio Fodder has really taken off with our very first Fodder trivia night and many more events to come, and the very underrated Reviews Department deserves more recognition for the hard work they do behind the scenes! I’m really proud of the progress the Non-Fiction Staff Writers have made as well as the Satire Team finally getting some appreciation and coming out from the background of Farrago! Above all, I think our most community-focused venture has been the Media Collectives. It’s truly heartwarming to see a real Farrago community forming and to be able to get to know all the people who work so hard to keep the magazine going. I’m so thankful for the many new friends I’ve made along the way and for the community to keep growing as the second half of our term progresses!
Jessica Fanwong:
No theme is good theme? This edition we have made the groundbreaking decision to abolish themes all together. The first time Farrago went themeless since 2021, and by far, it has been the most successful edition this year. Creative alone we have almost doubled the number of submissions, and now with an expanded team of subbies from round 2 recruitment, the creative department has been a hive of activity. Halfway through the year, 3 editions in and the momentum is only picking up… this edition has the most creative pieces so far, featuring some of the most incredible pieces by some very talented writers.
Gunjan Ahluwalia:
Submissions for this edition opened approximately 14 weeks ago, making this our longest production period yet. During this time, we’ve been up to some exciting projects, including preparing for “Below Earth,” a creative competition launched in collaboration with CLAWS, and a photography exhibition coming to the Arts and Cultural Building soon. We’re also thrilled to announce that we are halfway through our journey, having completed 3/6 editions. A big shoutout to my design team and to #media-general for sticking with us!
This magazine is made from 100% recycled paper. Please recycle this magazine after use.
Farrago is the newspaper of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). Farrago is published by the General Secretary. The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of UMSU.
If you want to raise an issue with the union and with the university, please contact the President and General Secretary. president@union.unimelb.edu.au secretary@union.unimelb.edu.au
Media | Joel Duggan
A note on OB Reports
“Office Bearer (OB) Reports” have been a staple of Farrago for many decades now. Historically, their intention has been to keep students abreast of what their elected representatives in the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU), including the President and the many departmental Officers, have been up to. In recent years, the pages that Farrago dedicates to OB Reports have become less of a proper UMSU update and more of a running inside joke—the pages that are always blank because half the OBs don’t submit their reports!
Perhaps there’s merit to even a mostly empty OB Reports section as some kind of accountability mechanism, a lighthearted name-and-shame of the OBs who couldn’t organise a few sentences in time for that edition. And yes—OBs are obligated to submit these under the Regulations for Student Representatives, so long as a week’s notice is provided. Notably, this has not prevented the sitting UMSU President from not once submitting a report this year!
I can see the argument for OB Reports as holding our representatives accountable, but I’m not sure if it outweighs the fact that a bunch of pages reading “Report not submitted” just isn’t great content, nor does it provide a genuine portrait of all the cool stuff the different UMSU departments are up to. As such, Farrago will be looking into alternative ways of keeping you informed about the various escapades of your UMSU representatives—hopefully, you will see this in action next edition.
With that said, four departments did submit their OB Reports this edition, which we have included--these four departments have consistently been proactive and timely with their OB Reports and have all of our love and some serious Farrago street cred. Shoutout to GenSec, Activities, Clubs & Societies and Welfare!
General Secretary | Enzhe (Kevin) Li
~ The mid-sem break is wrapping up and we will probably be welcoming back members, both old and new to campus by the time this goes out. It’s been a hectic few weeks for myself personally and for the union, particularly as we get into the run-up for orientation and Winterfest. As always, we could not have done this without the tremendous amounts of collaboration and support across our various student departments and staff roles. For external matter, AIG is particularly important as covered in a previous report, as it is looking at overhauling the entire process of prosecuting academic misconduct, as well as at total rewrite of the relevant policy. Since then, we have been going through the new policy line by line and pushing for changes to the policy to be more supportive, educative and rehabilitative rather than strictly punitive. I have also been working behind the scenes to organise various events in conjunction with other departments, including POC and Welfare. Also, let me just shout out CAFÉ (Coffee Appreciation for Enthusiasts)’s new merch! Coffee lovers should definitely sign up for the weekly free coffee!
Activities | Amy Peters
We’ve wrapped up an incredible semester, kicking off with SoUP and Bites and Bustles every Tuesday. We also celebrated IDAHOBIT, Mental Health Uni Day, Global Learning, Earth Day, Queer Movie Night, Arts and Craft Carnival, and of course BABBA. As the semester ended we supported students with Swotvac study sessions and capped off with the EOX, giving everyone a chance to have one (or two) too many drinks and a well-deserved boogie. A heartfelt thank you to Welfare and Media (Radio Fodder) for their consistent support on Tuesdays. Special shoutout to our super slay CME team, especially JJ Argent—you will be dearly missed. See you silly elephants soon! Prosh Week is in Week 5 - check out proshweek.org
Clubs and Societies | Azalea Rohaizam and Hanny Teja
At the C&S department, we have been busy reviewing procedures, policies and regulations involving grievances, new clubs and conflicts. Amongst all the paperwork and event planning, we recognise that running a club as a volunteer is hard work ! So we have been committed to try and give back to the volunteers in the world of Clubs and Societies. Currently, other than regs and policies, we will be focusing on WinterFest and Semester 2 prep to make sure that clubs can have a fresh and fun start to the next Semester! See y’all on the other side <3
Welfare | Divyanshi Sati and Joshua Stagg
UMSU Welfare has had an active first semester for 2024. We have pushed Union Mart to operate five days per week, four days at Parkville, and one day at Southbank. Union Mart has now served around 6500 students through normal operating hours and around 100 through the Reserve Fund. We continue to serve roughly 500 and 300 free meals to students on Tuesdays and Thursdays respectively. We have completed our Cost of Living Survey with over 1600 responses and are now finalising the first draft of the Cost of Living Report.
Fear and Loathing in the Canberra CBD
We FarraGo to Canberra for the 2024-25 Federal Budget
Words by Joel Duggan
Coverage by Alan Nguyen, Mathilda Stewart, Maria Quartel, Sophie Lack, Ibrahim Muan Abdulla and Joel Duggan
You don’t wind up being a student journo without having a bit of an ego. You enter the job with a sense of selfimportance inflated by your publication’s many years of illustrious history, by constant affirmations that “you’re doing important work” (for your stujo-inclined reader base of approximately two dozen people). Imagine how bruised that ego is after the federal government of Australia spends five years telling you you’re not actually that important.
This was the reality for student journos from across Australia, including Farrago, under the Coalition government between the years of 2017 and 2021. Prior to 2016, student journos were allowed to participate what we in the biz call “budget lock-up,” an invitation into Parliament House to get a sneak peak of the federal budget six hours before it’s announced. It’s a bit intense—you spend the whole time cooped up in a small room with only the budget papers and a laptop, unable to leave or connect to the internet because you could leak sensitive info or do some cheeky stock market manipulation. But for many student journos, it’s also the first time they get to feel like a “real journalist,” afforded the same opportunities as the mainstream papers.
In 2017, Treasury staff stopped letting student journos into lock-up with the big dogs because of “space restrictions,” a ban which was upheld despite consistent opposition until Labor’s first budget of their term in October 2022. Weird how there was suddenly space for us as soon as Parliament changed hands.
While some of our stujo compatriots at Honi Soit and Woroni were quick to get back on that lock-up grind, Farrago missed out in 2022 and 2023 because it turns out organising a budget trip to Canberra for a team of reporters is actually quite a lot of stress and effort for one News Editor. Fortunately, Farrago pulled through this year—three of our team (Alan, Muan and myself) were accepted into lock-up, while three others (Mathilda, Maria and Sophie) decided they wanted to come along for the ride and cover things from the outside. What followed was a week of us six being packed into an Airbnb I booked just three days prior to our trip, sustaining ourselves primarily on a steady diet of caffeine and nicotine. Our days we spent strategising, our nights we spent at the pub and at no point through it all was my heartrate even close to a healthy BPM range. Of course, trips were made to some Canberra cornerstones in our spare moments—Farrago, Honi and Woroni all had our kumbaya moment with a student media collab at Bounce, our team paid a visit to ANU to check out their Gaza Encampment (and an actually good campus bookshop?), and I acquainted myself with Braddon’s cheap vegan feeds. Unfortunately, an opportunity to hit up Mooseheads did not present itself but is on the cards for next year.
As News Editor, I’m very proud of everything we accomplished in Canberra this year. I was backed by a firstrate team of reporters who kept me going even when I was falling apart at the seams. I do believe, sincerely, that having student media in budget lock-up is important and I couldn’t be happier that Farrago had the opportunity to send a team this year.
On the next pages, you can find something more resembling “serious journalism” i.e. the article we wrote coming right out of lock-up. Across our social media, you can find our live coverage of the federal budget and everything that happened in the lead-up. On our Radio Fodder Mixcloud, you can find a recorded interview that Fodder host Angus Wagstaff conducted with me the morning after lock-up, talking through my experiences and personal thoughts on the budget. I hope you enjoy.
Slightly off the mark?
The first of many congregations at the pub
Joel lights worst cigarette ever, asked to leave Farrago budget reporter team
Future Prime Minister?
The scene at ANU
A budget for students?: Ombudsman, SSAF, HECS and paid placements among this year’s big reforms
by Alan Nguyen, Ibrahim Muan Abdulla and Joel Duggan
Student media from across the country have this week converged on Canberra to participate in the journo coming-of-age of budget lock-up–Farrago among them. Stowed away in a committee room in Parliament House, lock-up participants receive privileged access to budget documents six hours prior to their public release.
This year’s budget has in many ways been framed as a budget “for students”. Preceded by announcements of HECS relief and coming off the release of the Universities Accords Final Report, the Labor government is clearly keen to integrate higher education into its broader plans for domestic industrial policy and economic productivity.
It may be a welcome contrast to students’ slim pickings in previous budgets, but is it enough relief for the many young Australians struggling under the weight of poverty, exploitation and loneliness? Farrago is here to report.
Additional Payments for Students on Supervised Mandatory Placements
Announced before the budget’s official release, the federal government will provide $427.4 million to establish a payment of $319.5 per week (benchmarked to the single Austudy rate) from 1 July 2025 for students undertaking mandatory placements as part of their studies in nursing (including midwifery), teaching and social work.
Despite calls from the Australian Medical Students Association, medical students undertaking clinical placements will not receive any further support under this budget out of an intention to target fields with national skills shortages.
Debt Relief and Changes to HECS-HELP Indexation
Announced around the same time as mandatory paid placements was the incoming HECS-HELP debt relief
of $3 billion for students which will see their outstanding balance reduce depending on their studies and employment. The debt relief is expected to benefit over 3 million Australians, with the average student ($26,500 in debt) receiving $1200 off their HECS. This debt relief coincides with changes to HECSHELP indexation that will see debt indexed to the lowest of either the Consumer Price Index or Wage Price Index to ensure debt is not indexed higher than wage growth rates.
Possible Windfall for Student-led Organisations
The government will require higher education providers to direct a minimum of 40% of their Students Services and Amenities Fee (SSAF) to student-led organisations from 1 January 2025. Currently, there exists no minimum requirements for SSAF, with universities having the authority to distribute it between student organisations and university service provision how they see fit. While this newly announced SSAF minimum for student-led organisations does not have a direct impact on University of Melbourne student organisations, who already receive more than 40% overall, it could represent a serious lifeline for smaller, underfunded student organisations across Australia.
Uncertainty for International Student Enrolment Caps
Following changes to the international students enrolment scheme, the government has linked any increase in international students’ enrolments with providing purpose-built student accommodation which will be available for both domestic and international studies. The changes to the international student enrolment scheme are aimed at reducing the net overseas migration numbers from 528,000 in 2022-2023 to 260,000 in 2024-2025. The Department of Home Affairs
aims to maintain net overseas migration numbers at 235,000 from 2026-2027 onwards.
Are students part of a Future Made in Australia?
A significant focus in the budget is building a Future Made in Australia that embraces net zero and renewable industries, as well as diversifying the economy amidst global uncertainty. Part of this is a $1.1 billion investment to increase tertiary completion to 80% of the working age population by 2050.
To further aid students, the government has committed to needs-based funding of students from low socioeconomic backgrounds, First Nations students, students with disabilities and students studying in regional campuses.
Alongside this measure is an investment of $350.3 million over four years from 2024-25 to expand access to university-enabling and preparation programs through a new FEE-FREE scheme from 1 January 2025.
New Oversight Bodies and Responses
The government will establish a National Student Ombudsman as an extension of the Commonwealth Ombudsman from 1 February 2025.
The National Student Ombudsmen will provide a streamlined mechanism across the country to appeal grievance and complaints processes related to the administrative actions of education providers. Also introduced was a National Higher Education Code to Provide and Respond to Gender-based Violence from 2025. Another significant authority to be formed by the government is the Australian Tertiary Education Commission in 2025 to provide funding delivery and data collection. Details regarding participation and governance have not been provided.
Briefly mentioned was a future inquiry into antisemitism, Islamophobia, and racism to “examine the prevalence and impact of racism in tertiary education” – details of which have not as of yet been provided.
Increase in Commonwealth Rent Assistance
Recipients of Commonwealth Rent Assistance will receive an increase of 10% from September as part of a $1.9 bil lion
investment across five years. With many of Australia’s students renting amidst a housing crisis, such an increase offers some necessary but fairly limited relief for young renters.
New Digital Mental Health Service
A new free digital mental health service will be provided from 2026 for all Australians without the need for a referral. While details of what the service entails are yet to be released, the government has committed $588.5 million over eight years from 2024-25 and expect over 150,000 people will use the service upon commencement.
What was not in the budget?
Many of the policies for higher education that Labor brought to this year’s budget were a product of the Universities Accords process that was underway during 2023-24, with measures such as increased participation and debt reform among the key recommendations. However, with the government responding to 29 of the Final Report’s 47 recommendations, there are some reforms left off the table this year, including the establishment of a National Regional University and more Commonwealth Supported Places for regional medical schools. It is likely that the government is addressing these recommendations in blocks based on the forward estimates of the budget cycle. Additionally, there has been little movement on the welfare reforms called for by student organisations such as the National Union of Students, including lowering the Centrelink Age of Independence from 22 to 18. While many students will benefit from an increased Commonwealth Rent Assistance, the government has targeted much of its cost-of-living relief via tax cuts, which can miss low-income students with no to minimal taxable income. Overall, this budget represents a lot of small steps in directions that benefit higher education students in Australia. Yet, there remains that lingering question— is it enough? Farrago will leave that for you to decide.
Farrago at the Gaza Solidarity Encampments
by Joel Duggan
From the 25th of April to the 22nd of May, students and community members camped out on South Lawn in protest of University policy on relationships with weapons manufacturers with ties to Israel. For two of those weeks, some protesters maintained a peaceful sit-in at Arts West, to which they gave the name of “Mahmoud’s Hall” in memory of Mahmoud Alnaouq, a Palestinian student who likely would have attended the University of Melbourne had he not been killed in an Israeli missile strike.
Following these four weeks of protest, the University relented on a key demand of disclosing the details of their research partnerships and encampment organisers agreed to leave – with the promise that they will not give up protesting until they have also forced the University to divest from weapons manufacturers.
Farrago was on the ground at these protests from day one, providing coverage via social media and our website. For the weeks that students were mobilising, we became a vital source of live updates to the University community and to the outside world.
It’s difficult not to feel like we were all part of something historic, the kind of stuff that years from now will enter into the same mythology as the student protests against the Vietnam War. And it’s important that, much like we did in our ‘60s heyday, Farrago continues to showcase the role that authentic and independent student journalism can play in the representation of student social movements.
Farrago’s coverage was the combined work of dozens of people across our Media Collective, but special acknowledgement ought to be given to Mathilda Stewart, Ibrahim Muan Abdulla, Maria Quartel, Sophie Lack, Chelsea Daniel and Stephen Zavitsanos for their sustained commitment across the four weeks of protest. Farrago will continue to deliver honest and principled reporting on student protest action next semester and, hopefully, for many years to come. The two articles you read on the following pages were both written while protests were in full swing; any updates since they were written have been provided above.
Inside Mahmoud’s Hall: Pro-Palestine Students
Continue Sit-In
by Mathilda Stewart
On Wednesday 15 May, an autonomous group of protesters involved with the Gaza Solidarity Encampment on South Lawn initiated a sit-in in Arts West following a rally that culminated in them renaming the building “Mahmoud’s Hall”.
Occupants of Arts West/Mahmoud’s Hall share the demands of Unimelb for Palestine, asking that the University divest from weapons manufacturers and condemn the targeted killing of Palestinian children and academics and the destruction of Palestinian universities.
Students have renamed the building “Mahmoud’s Hall” in memory of Mahmoud Alnaouq, a 25-year-old Palestinian student killed along with his family in an Israeli airstrike on 20 October 2023. Alnaouq had accepted a scholarship to study in Australia, with a Master of International Relations at the University of Melbourne being his first preference.
A leaked video released Thursday night of Deputy Vice Chancellor Michael Wesley advised that protesters could face potential disciplinary action and police intervention. Wesley cited disruption to university life and classes and alleged serious damage to the building.
Speaking to Farrago, protesters present in the building since Wednesday rebuke Wesley’s statement, saying that classes were not disturbed by the action and that the choice to cancel classes was entirely the University’s. They claim that non-participants are responsible for the one case of property destruction they are aware of.
Notices around campus authorised by Vice Chancellor Duncan Maskell appeared on Thursday night, warning that those engaging in protest activities on campus who were not staff or students were trespassing and may be referred to Victoria Police.
At a press conference the next day, Unimelb for Palestine spokesperson Dana and Mahmoud’s Hall participants Gemma and Mercedes informed attendees that
University management had stated in a meeting that they would not accede to demands for divestment but would consider exercising greater clarity around funding arrangements.
At 5pm that same Friday, a rally organised by the National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU) Unimelb Branch was held outside Arts West/Mahmoud’s Hall. Speakers at the rally included unionists, academics and activists from around Melbourne.
“As we witnessed an assault on Gaza, we have also witnessed an assault on how we speak of Gaza,” said Overland editor Evelyn Araluen.
Earlier last week, the NTEU Unimelb Branch passed four motions with broad consensus in support of the student protesters’ and their demands and the academic freedom of staff protesters.
The occupation persisted over the weekend despite anxieties about police escalation, with the University informing protesters via loudspeaker on Monday morning that the building had been declared “unsafe” and urging building occupants to leave immediately.
The University’s claim that the building is unsafe is based on assessments allegedly conducted the prior Friday. Protesters have challenged the validity of this assessment and advise Farrago that they have requested a copy of the safety report.
Last week, an open letter organised by Monash University academics Giles Fielke and Elliot Dolan-Evans and signed by over a thousand university staff urged Vice Chancellors to work with protesters to meet their demands, noting the long history of anti-war student protests in Australia.
Farrago will continue to report on the sitin and encampment over the coming days, with live updates on Instagram and Twitter.
A new chapter in student activism: The Pro-Palestine protests that crossed borders
by Ibrahim Muan Abdulla
Photography by Maria Quartel and Ibrahim Muan
The Gaza solidarity action on campus, which was initiated on South Lawn and eventually spread to Arts West, lasted from Thursday 25 April until Wednesday 22 May with strong support from students, staff and the general public.
Organised by Unimelb for Palestine (UM4P), a non-affiliated grassroots collective of University of Melbourne students, staff and alumni, the South Lawn encampment rallied against what protesters argued was the University’s complicity in a genocide in Gaza.
In a media release on Instagram, UM4P stated six demands for the University to meet, pictured below.
The encampment concluded with the organisers of the encampment and the University reaching a deal where the University formally agreed to disclose its funding arrangements. While this is a historic win for student protesters, the University has definitively rejected the demands to divest.
“The University’s decision is the result of eight
months of pressure to disclose and divest,” said UM4P member Dana.
Students and speakers at the encampment expressed strong dissatisfaction with the University of Melbourne’s silence and its lack of communication with the affected communities and student activists. The first statement by the University was an email sent out to students by Vice Chancellor Duncan Maskell on 25 October 2023, condemning “all acts of violence and terrorism” and standing against all forms of “racism, including Antisemitism and Islamophobia”.
Al Jazeera reports that, as of July 2024, since the start of the conflict on 7 October 2023, over 38,000 Palestinian civilians and over 1,100 Israeli civilians have been killed.
The aerial bombardments have also demolished over 88% of schools, all universities, several libraries, and 267 places of religious worship and historical and cultural sites in Palestine and the occupied West Bank as of July 2024.
From the Vice Chancellor’s 25 October 2023 email until the day the encampment started, the University remained silent on the ongoing crisis in Gaza. On 25 April 2024, the Vice Chancellor sent out an email to all students, stating that it has a “duty to uphold the principles of academic freedom and free speech” but would not tolerate breaches of its policies on student conduct.
“It’s not as bad as it could be, but it’s certainly not as embracing of the responsibility of a tertiary education as it should be… It’s far from what is needed,” said President of the Australia Palestine Advocacy Network Nasser Mashni the day the encampment started, referring to the University’s response. Mashni says the Vice Chancellor needs to take a “primary stand” and denounce “any company that’s associated with arms, with the genocide that’s happening today in Palestine.” In the early days of the encampment, student protesters claimed that University representatives had not made any contact. It was not until later in the protest action that protesters would have a chance to speak with the University.
Speaking to protesters on the first day of the encampment, UM4P member Nabil claimed “I haven’t gotten an email. I haven’t gotten a call… This is the culmination of not being listened to and not being heard… We created petitions, we had meetings, we’ve called and we’ve emailed… They’ve hit us with a wall of bureaucracy.”
For its duration, the South Lawn encampment hosted a variety of community activities, teach-ins and training sessions focused on building solidarity and educating the public on why they were protesting.
A number of public figures visited the encampment to express their support. Greens MP for Brunswick Tim Read spoke on the first day of the encampment to call on the University to “cut all ties with weapon manufacturers, starting with Lockheed Martin, Boeing, Raytheon and so on.”
“The University of Melbourne has financial relationships and educational relationships with some of the companies involved in this bloodshed, and it’s really important that the University reflects and separates itself from any company involved in weapons manufacture. Completely inappropriate for an educational institution to be connected to a weapons manufacturer,” said Read to Farrago.
Of particular note for protesters is the University’s research partnership with STELaRLab, a research and development centre owned by Lockheed Martin, who are responsible for supplying Israel with F35 fighter jets. Also targeted were the University’s relationships with Leonardo and Thales, who supply armoured fighting vehicles and UAV tactical systems, missiles and rifles.
The encampment received strong support from across University and Melbourne communities, showcasing speakers such as Melbourne Law School Senior Research Fellow Jordy Silverstein, who spoke on the targeting of students and academics in Gaza.
“We know that there are no universities left in Gaza. For all of us and for all the institutions in which we participate, we need to commit to no more complicity with genocide.”
“This is activism that crosses borders. This is activism that is taking place in so many places around the world, and it builds up a long history of student activism and into the future of student activism.”
The University of Melbourne Gaza solidarity encampment started in the wake of many other similar protest actions globally. On 17 April 2024, students at Columbia University pitched their tents in a peaceful
campus demonstration. The following day, citing “harassing and intimidating actions” by the demonstrators, Columbia University management sent in the NYPD, resulting in the suspension and arrest of over 100 students.
This kind of high-profile mass arrest of students had not been seen in the United States since the days of the Vietnam War and it sparked solidarity protests across the country and eventually abroad, spreading to the United Kingdom, France, Germany and Italy.
In Australia, the first solidarity encampment began at Sydney University before being followed by the University of Melbourne, Monash University, the Australian National University and elsewhere.
“Students worldwide are the essential element that has been missing from our struggle,” said Mashni. “Student activism is where tomorrow’s leaders are created… The fact is that the entire world was led by the magnificent efforts in Columbia and the rest of the world is now embracing the concept of encampments and protesting against genocide.”
With the spread of protest actions of this kind has also come consequences and crackdowns for student protesters. The University of Sydney recently implemented a policy requiring permits for campus protest, while at the University of Melbourne, multiple student protesters have been called to academic misconduct hearings for their participation.
“University campuses should be spaces for academic freedom, open to debate, and the right to protest,” says Occupied Palestinian Territories Spokesperson Mohamed Duar in a recent Amnesty International press release on restrictions of the right to protest.
“Students have every right to protest how their tuition fees are allocated, and universities should respect and support these expressions of freedom of expression and assembly.”
The student protests of today are the most recent in a long tradition of global human rights activism. From attaining civil liberties in the US to ending the apartheid in South Africa to the more recent climate strikes, student activists have been at the forefront of pushing for social change.
For Nabil, one thing he hopes everyone takes away from these protests is that “there is a student in Gaza that is just like you. That wakes up, has a morning coffee, goes to uni, has a good day.”
“If you’ve come away with anything from this, imagine yourself as a Gazan student. Honestly, sometimes it’s pretty hard to do from our life of privilege. But imagine how hard their lives are now.”
A Tale of Modern Romance
by Eden Cater
He told me how “thees beauty nor mind doth not be compared to any other maiden of the land.” (He said I’m not like other girls)
He spoke of his study of the stars and how they told him of our destined union (We both swiped right)
Whilst I battle monsters and vanquish my enemies in a faraway land, he writes me letters of the depth of devotion and love for me (He wrote a Uni Melb love letter for me while I was working)
He kissed my gloved hand and lamented my beauty into the quiet night (He said I was a thicc baddie)
He writes of his need and yearning for me in the late hours of twilight (He texts U up? at 1am)
He told me of how he longed for the taste of my lips and feel of my body beneath his but he would wait until the sun no longer rose and the moon disappeared beneath the waves (He didn’t ask to come over, but he did ask for pics)
He swore an oath to be a knight in my service and devote his life to mine (He didn’t cancel last minute)
He battled dragons and slayed entire armies to protect my honour (He told the boys “She’s actual alright, aye”)
He worshiped me in my sacred temple; he performed a ritual and made offerings in my name (He had a one night stand with me and kissed me on the forehead afterwards)
He swore he’d never find another like me in all the Kingdom (He gaslit me)
He told me the gods would have him lay in union with another in a sacrifice to them (He cheated on me, multiple times)
He begged for my love and favour, promising me that we’d have forever (He love-bombed me)
He declared me ruined in society and asked for the hand of another in a match more suited to his House and more befitting of his station, (He called me a slut and said he didn’t want me anyway)
He took a knife to the heart as a sacrifice in my name and his spirit now haunts my every breath (He ghosted me)
SATIRE IN BRIEF
“Nice Day to Work From Home” says Duncan Maskell as Protesters Descend on Raymond Priestly Building.
Persistent and outraged student protests continue at UniMelb this week, where students shouting “Duncan Maskell you can’t hide / you’re supporting genocide” are unaware that Duncan Maskell can indeed hide and is doing so comfortably in his home office with a nice cup of earl grey.
- Oscar Marks
The Solution to Being Sad is $2000
Psychologists were wrong. It was never medication, exercise, or intimacy with loved ones. The best (and only) way to resolve trauma is a fat stack of money (preferably cash).
- Aaron Agostini
Queen’s College Student Rejected for Centrelink Payments, Calls to Abolish Cost of Living Crisis
The outraged student made a critical phone call on Monday morning that could indeed lead to a breakthrough on the country’s financial crisis: “Daddy, Centrelink said I couldn’t get any money, and I think that’s just so unfair because we should all get money equally, Daddy. And when you tell Mr Centrelink to give me the money, can you tell him to transfer the $750 into my spending rather than the family trust?”
- Jasmine Bills
Bro Says He’s “Totally Chill Dating the Non-Binary Chick”
Young Man in newly minted Carhartt who has never done hard labour in his life tells friends about new lover: “Yeah Pat uses they/them which makes no difference to me at all! And she’s super hot and gets all cute and passionate when talking about her beliefs and stuff.”
- Lucy Grant and Jasmine Mouchacca
University of Melbourne to Fully Disclose Ties with Weapons Manufactures Behind Eighteen Layers of Okta Verify
New eighteen factor authentication just dropped! Fingerprints, mother’s maiden name, unbleached lock of your distant Ancestor and live streamed pledge (in Latin) to sleep in your own home and nowhere near university grounds now required.
- Oscar Marks
If All Your Friends Have Shags You Might be in an Echo-Chamber
I look to my left. My friend, with a short micro fringe, face framing layers and longish strands at the back, tells me she’s just seen *insert latest little-budget-big-star movie*. My other friend chimes in, this one has a short micro fringe, face framing layers and longish strands at the back, they’ve seen *the latest little-budget-big-star movie* too. Then my other friend starts, him with his short micro fringe, face framing layers and longish strands at the back: watched it, loved it, will go again. Now I don’t even need to see movie because I already love it I just need some fucking scissors because this fringe is almost touching my eyebrows!
- Emily Hope
THE RUBS AND PATS
by Oscar Marklund
I love how you can see in the thousand-yard stare of two people hugging their focus on every pressure point, heat transfer, texture, perversity, resistance of skin, the unfamiliar hair of a foreign body, whether they’re discreet enough, the six seconds it takes to get here, where oxytocin and serotonin secrete, time contracting, tension, release, the sedative in sangfroid, fremitus of timbre –that which nullifies bad vibes via destructive interference, the play in between crotches, sweat, snot-smears on cashmere, social debt, sunscreen, evasion of cold sores, tattoos and other truths muffled as murmurs –because the voice begins somewhere beyond the ear,
accents such as rubs and pats, how these and the disruption afforded by feet reshuffling permit new elements like the second-wind-squeeze, height differentials, self-consciousness, head and hand placement, condolences, the friendzone, its opposite, boundaries, frisson, what they look like again, goosebumps, swaying, squeezes, the emulsification of body oils, B.O: the ephemeral pheromonal fusion –cold-pressed and reheated with friction,
social norms, subcutaneous fat, a transition to peripheral kisses that zero in on lips, the sillage of cigarettes, nicotine teeth, relaxing of shoulders, naphthalene, nonenal, bounding spikes in pulse, reciprocation, resignation, the sobering effect of keratin in a face-full of hair there’s a whole life, the implication of it all, the rarity, who was who, how to let go, when to let go, why you’d ever want to.
I also love how you can see, in the flustered exchange immediately afterwards, two recuperating souls repossess them -selves, glossing over it as if glad they don’t have to go through such an existential ordeal again until they see each other next or see each other go.
Let the records show I’d love to be buried in the arms of loved ones, with my own outstretched for whoever’s next to go.
Why Do You Train?
by Aaron Agostini
I used to look up to my father. his arms large like steel I-beams. his thighs strong like an engine. his chest wider than a freight car; just as empty too. he was built like a machine. he built himself like a machine. the upkeep was nearly everynight. long after everyone else had retired to bed he would train. run around his tracks. huff and puff. blow off whatever he needed to to keep moving. he would sweat and grind in order to keep himself
in perfect commission. all of this to go nowhere. I did not understand. it seemed like a lot of work to go nowhere.
nowadays we see eye to eye. I still don’t totally understand but since becoming my own conductor we do agree on one thing: that you can go anywhere you want in this world— Run in the shallowest shoals Wade in the thickest water Drown in the darkest liquor— but you can never get away from yourself. wherever you go there you are.
In that way I can appreciate a well-maintained cage.
Blame Left on the Kitchen Floor
by Elysha Kaye
Content warning: references to sex and violence
It hangs between us—undefined. It is unknown, unwritten, unsigned. You managed to break something never given the chance to form.
So my prosecution is intangible. Accusation unborn.
Mere speculation that you tired of me, who wanted to savour it—us—you?
error in illo
Is it admissible to assume you wanted to discard me once consumed?
How long was it after you left that you turned to her or her or her?
After I burned so hot and bright in your rough-iron grip, pushed flush against the refrigerator, sweeping a magnetic poem to the floor.
Leaving the ghost of your fingertips on my throat when you pulled me in: teasing—tasting—testing?
I panted—you pawed.
Already thinking of her as I crouched to pick up lost words from the hardwood floor?
But I should have known.
Should have seen the glint of your butcher’s knife behind a Venus-smile before it pierced my throbbing heart.
Do you prefer it served with silence or topped with tears?
I can do either, my dear.
Still, you ripped me up, stole anything you could grope at until all that is left of me is poetry written over grocery receipts and the mocking messages in the cards:
Two of Cups, Knight of Swords upturned beneath The Emperor stern.
For what did you deny me other than what you said you could not give?
You Become Shark
by Pluto Cotter
Content warning: mentions of blood, references to abuse in no explicit detail
Somewhere out there, a shark loses its lust for blood. Instead that ache fills you with a desire you won’t hold back.
I wish I was brave enough to hate you.
I search my depths for the strength to not be your prey but when caught in the teeth of a predator I am not strong enough to escape.
You become shark.
You hunt for blood, to coat your lips, to cleanse your mind. I search for safety, an escape from your lusts, an alleviation of your jaws. You ache to consume not just my flesh but the very essence of my being.
Do you think I can forget how to love you?
My father always told me fear the ocean and the beast in its depths. My mother always told me fear an angry man the monsters writhing beneath his skin. But you taught me that I should fear the friendliest of smiles chuckles of glee exposing jagged teeth those eyes alight with soft adoration darkened by disturbing desires.
You are shark.
I want to believe that you are human flesh and bone full of remorse. You prove time and time again that you are not a man but slimy skinned and desperate to consume me.
How did I ever love a Monster?
Prejudice and Pride
by Belle Schleter
1.
her mind a dominion of expectations she had to–has to prepare herself create herself, perfectly mould sandpapering her tongue coiling her sinews into strength it begins
breathless bones piercing past brambly bushes through the dusk dawn storm surge chasing the striking zebra
no longer disguised behind the herd’s silent harmony
with each bound, her footprints stain the land she slices through weighted wind mouth mincing furred skin–tearing limb from limb
she waits, desperate in hopeful purgatory to unveil her catch before the pride’s hungry eyes
she imagines they will roar out acclaim and she will find her roar reverberate
smile sharp She will Rise, become their pride and…
2.
hunted down post-class marked, maimed, made.
they hone their claws against her festering wounds
softly she retreats. . . a frayed feral cub
preying to avoid imprisonment within their barbed tongues again, again she lurks sweat-stained mane amidst painstakingly crafted lines
robbed roar coat unkempt a lioness estranged from her pride
Lions (which is to be expected, really) and lionesses alike growl green…
“she must have been Born with instinct, limbs crafted for the leap and soar.”
she watches as they defile her bloodstained trophy whilst their trophies rot amongst colosseums of comparison sisterhood eclipsed by shadowed realities
she morphs quivering cloaked the image of a familiar beast–puffed out chest mimicking maternal memories
as the next hunt draws near and winter’s grip tightens, she dreams of being encircled by songbirds and gentle breezes, enfolding her tenderly the rivers will watch over her, murmuring congratulations in gentle lullabies within the quiet embrace, she finds her doubts are silenced and what is left is pride and joy
She will be Loved
by Nimrada Silva
Someday years from now if I ever have a daughter, I hope she knows That there is more to learn than words found inside books or dates of wars or names of formulae that will not help that will not hold you when it falls apart
That there is more to learn from talking to trees and walking dogs and looking for stars occasionally wishing on a few on full moon nights
I hope she knows that for every cold day there will be a warmer one soon I hope she knows there is a difference between kindness and niceness And a far blurrier one between love and loneliness-induced infatuations
I hope she knows she will have to get it wrong a hundred times before she learns to tell them apart, I hope she knows that it’s okay to cry until that weight in her chest subsides until it feels easier to breathe
I hope she knows that for every person that might break her down there are ten more that will build her up I hope she sees it that flowers can crack open concrete I hope she knows how to be alone how to pick good music (can’t go wrong with 60s and 70s) how to swim in seas (better than I did) how to climb mountains crack open walnuts and mold cups out of clay I hope she learns to walk on her own feet even if she wobbles I hope she throws herself into something environmental politics or gender studies art history or microbiology whatever it is I hope she questions this world challenges it even I hope she can walk past a window reflection and see what I see I hope she will like herself even if she has a big forehead or a wonky nose or perpetually oily hair
I hope she stands up for herself for whatever she believes in But most of all I hope she knows that whatever she chooses to be wherever she wanders to none of it matters because whatever happens I hope she knows She will be loved just as she is I hope she knows that she was always enough
data streaming in 3014
by Michelle Yu
Pink neon glow tubes scatter light through the street like laser beams across a disco ball
Zaps of electric copper thrub through my feet like vibrating phones in silent halls It’s time to data stream.
Console lights flick on and I scan my handprint Credits deducted, I stand feet shoulder-width apart, and look ahead The data enters into me… and it’s like a dream
wry-smiled child pushes something long that’s suspended from a tree I touch the rough, crusty bark like real, not just in my head
there’s something in my shoes, small, hard, painful both shoes slide off easily – I shake them out rough, hard chunks of pebble fall out this is the part I hate most, about this one data stream
something makes a high-pitched noise above me, like you hear in the nature arcades something beats gusts of wind down on my head I look up, and a small, grey thing is perched on the tree, its pale grey head tilted down at me
“hey,” someone calls. I turn around, and see the source –another small child, in a thick, red, rough-textured shirt “catch!” they say, and thrust something round towards me I reach out as my hands close around it, there is a long beep.
The data stream has ended. I scan my palm again. The jingle of credits deduct from my account. I enter once again.
wry-smiled child pushes something long and suspended from a tree I touch the rough, crusty bark I have done this so many times it’s real to me.
Honey Honey
by Yu Zhong
Content warnings: Toxic relationships, allusions to self harm
Content warning: references to toxic relationships and allusions to self harm
Honey Honey
亲爱的，我疑惑爱是什么意思，却告诉你我爱你。你应该知道，我也在嫉妒你，看轻你， 憎恨你。但像深邃的海，等海浪平静一些，我和海鸟一起渴望，与你再次拥抱。情感和关系是 轮光谱，不是棱角分明的词语和它们的定义。我深知你不愿理解，但我不能模糊地存在， 所以我们必须分开。词不达意，这是我好想让你明了的痛苦。 长期以来，我 直在打磨我粗糙的感性，很遗憾在拨通你电话的那 刻，它依旧未成为 最完美的形状。所以现在回想，这依旧成为了 个略显俗气的故事：醉酒，难以启齿，于是闭 着眼睛的告白，杯盘狼藉的咒骂和决裂。你我都曾执着追逐美丽的诗。可我现在想想，我们 是否欠缺包容，对彼此和周遭的世界。你会为我感到羞耻吗？如果你会，我不介意。但我盼 望着你不会，只有如此我们仿佛才能殊途同归 我们只是离开彼此，更深刻地找寻自我，依 旧那么相似的自我。
有时候宽慰自己，我胜利了。因为我 直等待你认可我是 个你最特殊的存在，如今我 应该达成了。我在森林里伪装的糖果屋，你温柔和新奇地走进张望抚摸，空气却逐渐令你窒 息，直至一切瞬间变成森森白骨。于是你愤怒和一头雾水地离开，却不能否认这是你特别的 生命经历，我胜利了吧。 亲爱的，我们都不曾是最幸福的小孩，在 堆破碎中不安地散开枝叶。我自认为了解你 的那 部分，她那么柔软和美丽。于是我想我能自信地伤害你，不颤抖，即使是闭着眼，也 能感受武器上新增的红色血液。是这样吗？如果 切都只不过是我的投射，我不再是你在意 的部分，我的所作所为激不起 丝波澜，在我为伤害你而后悔的每个瞬间，我都宁愿这是事 实。
但有时候，我只需要记得我还爱你，我想念着你，我想起你的平静与沉默，我拒绝这 切，我需要得到你的血液，需要看见你全是伤口，你倔强地不求饶，这是我的成就，于是我会 心安地离开。
亲爱的，当我们都旅居在同 片大陆，我多么想找到你，触碰你。我后来才意识到，你是 唯 个我曾飞奔着，去送出 份拥抱的朋友。后来我第 次从她人那里得到过如此拥抱， 在那片你憎恶的潮湿中，我感觉到一种安全感和幸福感。我有时猜测，是否这一切都怪我们 吝啬告诉对方，你对我最重要。我想起我曾感动于你对我的用心，最后却只剩怀疑这份用心 是否独 无二。我曾经只有你，你是否也只有我。
我后来才意识到，你选中这份礼物，一定是翻找了很久的回忆，我有那么长的时间没有 提起过喜欢凤梨酥这件事了。会有其他人记得我喜欢凤梨酥吗？但亲爱的，我好像不再痴迷 于凤梨酥的味道了。它轻飘飘的，只是作为我曾经的 份心情，我不愿舍弃，但也不会再流 连其中。
四月，流淌、灰色的河，我和你站在 起，你穿得比我暖和，没有什么能伤害你吧。风不 冷，那么舒适，我们仿佛再和好如初。我只觉得快乐，我还希望你爱上我，于是这就能成为我 的永恒 我有痴心妄想，你愿意理解我吗？ 家乡这座小城，这条河流水域宽广，小时候我们曾经依靠着坐在岸边，烈日是不可或缺 ，我们才好互为对方的影子。对岸明明那么近，我却跌入水中。多可惜，我们无法向前。
每当新的 个月开始，我都自信 定不会再哭泣。事实当然不会如此，你看，想起你认 真挑选出来的凤梨酥，想起我曾经奔跑着去拥抱你，我只会流泪不停。
你的围巾守卫着我，然而她是她，你是你。当我那么想念你，我把她等于你，我拥她入睡 ，我将围巾送还给你的时候，你是否视她为叛徒。 亲爱的，我 直不知道怎么讲述这件事，你消失了，无影无踪。我知道我应该记录下来， 我那么爱你，我想成为诗人，却又不是诗人。和你分开，像和你成为 体，对我意义 样重大 ，我却不敢向你确认事情是否在你那里有着相同模样。我想我又要哭了，我已经哭泣那么多 次，可是我还是总觉得我欠着谁 场哭泣。于是我今天操刀了，切开自己，寻找开关。明天我 会后悔吗，会觉得失去意义吗，会惭愧吗。如果人和人关系就是如此，我们的相拥导向分开 ，我们只会永远孤独。我知道该怎么办，却依旧不知道该怎么办。
亲爱的，我很抱歉，我想我并不确定什么是爱，但我又确信这 切都是爱，你相信我 吗？
Translation:
Dear, I wonder what love is, yet I told you I love you. You should know: I also envy you, look down on you, hate you. But my mind is the fathomless ocean. When the waves are tranquil, the seabirds and I will yearn to embrace you again. Sentiments are a spectrum, unlike the rigid specificity of words and their definitions. Deep down, I know you refuse to understand, but I cannot exist ambiguously. So we must part. Words cannot convey meanings—this is the pain I curse you to experience too.
For a long time, I have been polishing my rough romanticism. Unfortunately, the moment I dialled your number, their form hadn’t been perfected yet. Looking back, the story is somewhat clichédy: drunkenness, speechlessness, a confession with my eyes closed. A mess of broken glass and curses. Rupture. You and I once stubbornly pursued the lovely lyricism in everything. But now I wonder, do we lack tolerance for each other and the world around us? Would you feel ashamed of me? I won't mind if you feel that way. But I hope you don’t. Only then can we walk our separate paths, more deeply find ourselves, and perhaps, meet each other at the end. Sometimes, I console myself that I won. I have always wanted you to admit I was the most special one to you, and now I should have achieved it. I am the gingerbread house disguised in the forest. You wandered in, softly and curiously, admiring and touching. But the air grew heavy, stifling your breath, until all were bones in the silence of death. You stormed off confused. Yet you can't deny this was a life-changing journey. So, I won, haven’t I? Dear, we were never the happiest children, anxiously unfurling our branches in mounds of rubble. I thought I understood that part of you, how tender and beautiful it was! So I could hurt you confidently, without trembling. Even if I closed my eyes, I would gut your heart accurately and feel the newly added scarlet colour on the weapon. Is that so? If I’m just projecting, if I am no longer the one you care about, and I don't incite even a ripple in your river - I wish it were true every moment I regret hurting you. But sometimes, I just need to remember that I still love you, miss you and your calm and quiet—and I reject all this. I need your blood. I need to see you covered in wounds, stubbornly refusing to beg. This is my achievement, so I can leave content. Dear, when we inhabited the same continent, how desperately I wanted to find you, to touch you. Later, I realised you were the only one I ever ran to hug. When I first received such a hug from someone else, in that dampness you hated, I felt safe and loved
Sometimes I wonder, did all this happen because we failed to tell each other: “You are the most important one to me”? I was moved by all your thoughtfulness to me, but in the end, I only doubted whether this thoughtfulness was only for me. I only had you, but did you only have me?
Later, I realised that you must have dug through your memories for a long time to choose this gift. I have not mentioned liking ông-lâi-soo for so long. Would anyone else remember this was my favourite dessert? But dear, I am no longer obsessed with the taste of it. It's light and fluffy, but it’s a faded, bygone love. I don't wish to discard it, but I cannot lose myself to it either.
April. The flowing, grey river. You and I stood together. You dressed warmer than me, like nothing could hurt you. The wind wasn’t so cold; it was comfortable, and we seemed to reconcile as if nothing happened. I felt only happiness. I still hoped you would love me back, so this could become my eternity. Will you try to accept my delusions?
Our little hometown… The wide river, we used to sit side-by-side on the riverbank. The scorching sun was indispensable, so we could be each other’s shadow. The other side was so close, but I still fell into the water. It is such a pity we couldn’t move forward together.
At the start of every month, I am confident I will not cry again. Of course that is far from the truth. You see, whenever I think of the gift you picked, remember the times I ran to hug you, I can only cry endlessly. Your scarf would guard me, but she wasn’t you. When I missed you too much, I hugged her to sleep. When I returned the scarf to you, did you see her as a traitor?
Dear, I don’t know how to tell this story. You disappeared without a trace. I know I should record the whole story. I love you so much. I want to be your poet, but I am not. Being apart from you is as significant to me as being one with you, but I dare not if you feel the same. I think I am going to cry again. I have cried so many times, but I still feel like I owe someone a cry. So today, I took the knife and cut myself open, looking for a switch. Will I regret it tomorrow, will it feel meaningless, and will I feel ashamed? If relations will always be like this, if embracing leads to separation, then we will always be lonely. I know what to do, but still, I don't know what to do.
Dear, I am sorry. I don't know what love is, but I am sure all of this is love. Could you believe me, please?
migration to eastward sun (roll for charisma)
by emily couzins
i don’t like playing favourites (that’s a lie, i do)
i like playing dnd i know you do we have leftover pancake mix? fridge check UGH woolies!
it’s 10p, Em [beat] i get the [CHA]rizard 1sie what was her name again? before
the un-you, blank et hog [beat]
jupiter has ninety 5
are a terrible poet fuck that lecturer! you’re brilliant i [WIS]h -
there’s only one moon
europa doesn’t taste like you
Are those more holes in your shirt?
yeah bad braining sorry i chew Bless you could’ve been worse remember when i //////? Don’t shit sorry forgot didn’t mean to are you I Can’t oh no did you [DEX]amphetamine today? Right Nowwhat’s wrong let me help i lo[ b e a t ] hug or floor? Hug, please [beat]
ok
hope i’m not [INT] errupting but thank you for the cat toys (i missed you last night)
thank you for cookies de woolies (i missed you too) sorry i’m a blanket bandit
my threads are yours heyyyyyyy do you like my (double)(d20s)
you’re awful yeah, awfully in l ook!
a pigeon they’re my favourite [CON]spirators mine too i love pigeons as much as you love dnd? that’s a secret (more) i think i’m craving salmon not tuna we’ll do sushi sunday usual place swanston [STR]eet beat.
“Reflections Unveiled”
by Ghazal Ronagh
In the dimly lit room, she stands, bathed in the soft glow of the mirror's reflection. Her eyes trace the line of her reflection with a mixture of longing and sorrow. With delicate fingers, she brushes away the remnants of anger, the stroke of each strand, a silent plea for reconciliation.
He enters, a shadow in the corner of her eye, distant yet affectionate. He approaches her slowly, his footsteps echoing the uncertainty he bears within. As he reaches out, his touch is tentative, as if afraid to shatter the fragile facade they've built.
They commence their dance. It is a graceful intertwining of steps, each movement conveys their silent symphony of desire and restraint. With each sway and turn, they navigate the delicate balance between their yearning and their resignation.
He holds her at arm’s length, his gentle touch offers only a fleeting comfort. But with each step backward, her stance becomes resistant, questioning her own worthiness. Still she leans into him, drawn like a moth to a flame, seeking solace in the warmth of his embrace. This is a dance contradiction, woven together with their longing. They move as one, yet apart.
As the dance reaches its crescendo, they find themselves locked in a moment of exquisite agony. Their eyes meet in the mirror's reflection, a silent exchange of longing and despair. As the final notes fade into the stillness of the night, they stand together yet apart, as she whispers: “I kept pouring myself into your palms even as I watched all that I was leak through your fingers…”1
Note on the text: “Reflections Unveiled” is a poetic response and potential addition to the author’s original show 'Beyond Reflection,' which was performed at MUDFest. The show navigated the journey of self-discovery amidst life's uncertainties. Inspired by original choreography, the poem depicts the protagonist's emotional journey through dance, exploring her quest for self-understanding, longing and reflection. 1 Bowman, L.E. The Evolution of a Girl. 2018.
Photography by Ghazal Ronagh
Possum poem
by Blake Hohenhaus
Content warning: references to death and depiction of a funeral
for J.R.
You carry him in the box I slid him in We skirt up the side of the dusty hill
“Game trail,” you say, and point
But I saw the sign:
Council investigating unauthorised mountain bike trail built on this reserve
And there is more evidence as we climb Dusty berms built either sides of the mount
You pick a Mauritius hemp
Perched among leaf scrap
Large but not yet flowering
And you say, “this is a good spot For him do you think?”
I agree and cut
The box open with my Stanley
I warn you, “You’re gonna see him when I tip him out”
You say it’ll be okay
And I watch you carefully
Your resolve returning
You gather twig scrap
Placing it atop him gently I pull a jacaranda flower
And do the same I put my arm around your soft waist
You say, “thanks for being our friend, Table Lamp” Because that’s what we called him: our little guy
I carry the empty box
As we scoot back down the escarpment
You say, “I feel better for doing that”
And because the ritual made me feel That scraping his carcass off the bitumen was worth it
That his death caused
By a stranger going too fast down Bonney Finally meant that I could reach towards you And hold you the way that you had Been so lovingly holding me
I say, “Me too”
My Nostrils are Unaligned
by Bronte Lemaire
Content Warnings: Body horror, obsessive thoughts, body dysmorphia, plastic surgery, mentions of death
My nostrils are unaligned. That’s something I’ve begun to notice over the past few hours since I’ve gotten my braces off. As the dentist revealed my pearly whites to the world, my once stumbling teeth now in a soldier’s march, my gaze shifted a few centimeters higher. I’ve called up a surgeon and she said it will be a quick and easy procedure. I should be corrected by the end of the week. My nostrils are fine now but my back is not. A chiropractor who shared the building with the surgeon noted in the waiting room the slight lift of my right shoulder. I bowed to him as he dug his fingers in the railway track of my spine. Acute scoliosis. He will be getting me a body brace for the time being but I’ve asked if surgery is an option for a quicker turnaround. There is, he said, though not usually done for small cases like mine.
My spine is fine now but my eyes are not. Now that I stand up properly to look in my mirror, I can’t help but notice that my right eye is lower. My grotesque posture had allowed it to go unspotted. My surgeon says I can get rid of this by pushing up my cheek to give the illusion it’s higher than it actually is, but just because someone else doesn’t know, doesn’t mean I won’t. I managed to get her to agree to shave my eye socket instead and push my eyeball up. She says it could be a dangerous maneuver but she’s already signed the papers.
My eyes are fine now but my ribs are not. I was naked, stroking my body that I gained control over, when I felt a slight raise under my skin on my left. One rib, three down, stuck out more than the others. I could have learned to accept this perhaps if my right had the same defect, but it failed to have so. I asked the surgeon again if she can bend my left side in or my right side out. She instead voiced her unneeded fears that they might snap off. I told her there was no reason to feign ignorance in my presence. That if they indeed snapped off, just to snap off the rest.
My ribs are fine now but my intestines are not. I got pictures of the surgery and was horrified to see the untidy mess of my body hidden under my blanket of skin. It’s terribly designed. I keep feeling over them and feeling over them and feeling over them over the curves over the bumps I’m disgusted that my body has allowed this
after all I’ve done for it I’m horrified I hadn’t realised I’m appalled that my body has been allowed to dictate its form without my consent. They’re knotted and folding with no rhyme or order entangling and entangling and I haven’t been able to eat properly since knowing food is going through this maze within me with no discernible rights or lefts and I know if I think about it anymore I’ll make myself sick to get everything out of those crude pipes that I can. They must go. One short tube down is all I need. My intestines are fine now but my fingers are not. I put them together when I prayed last night and I made sure to match my palms but my right is bigger than my left. The surgeon said dominant hands are usually bigger from use, that fingers thicken like toned muscles. I’m disgusted with the whole concept I’ve been using both hands now to balance them although I’ve nearly entirely abandoned my right so my left can catch up but I have called to get the bones in my fingers shaved down for the moment. They will slip the flesh of my fingers off the bone and then slide them back on to the new length. The surgeon was concerned it would leave scars on my fingers. I told her to just do my left hand too. She seemed alarmed at the idea. She has no creativity. My fingers are fine now but my brain is not. I got scans of every possible part of myself. It struck out at me from the black and white photo. It’s 2mm to the left. My thoughts have been polluted since. I’ve been unable to stop thinking and thinking and thinking and it must be because my brain is incorrect. There’s no other possible conclusion. It’s something that surgeon will no doubt refuse to do. She’s said I’ve gone too far past anything she or anyone can help with that she shouldn’t have assisted me in the first place that she should have called some surgery god or a psychologist but now she’s in too deep herself. “Medical malpractice” is just a way to silence people’s needs. I have found a man willing to do anything for the right price. My old surgeon found my phone number and has been calling and calling and telling me I may not live to see the other end of this surgery. As if it’s a problem. As if it’s a true concern. For if I die, at least I will be perfect.
by (Cowry) Yanche Wang
Illustration
I am from
by April Schroeter
I am from pink walls and monster high dolls sunglasses and second-hand smoke and footscray savers
I am from holding up the aerial so mum could watch the tennis begging my dad for bootleg cds and calling oma ‘googly moogly’
I am from crying when I couldn’t play ‘mary had a little lamb’ right on the keyboard and the long blonde hair that mum would tie into a tight ponytail so I wouldn’t get lice
I am from the homemade wholemeal bread that I constantly compared to the white ham and cheese sandwiches of my peers
I am from eating dinner in front of the tv or on the floor of my dirty bedroom
I am from the fear that microwaves and burnt toast give you cancer
I am from youth rebellion and loud music and my first cigarette at 13 stolen from my dad’s secret stash
I am from sobbing in bathroom stalls and hoping I’d wake up as someone else
I am from six hours of scrolling and half a bottle of smirnoff before wandering home barefoot.
Lee Chan
Billable Minutes
By Elle Harkaway
Bill was facing the glass window, which framed the city skyline like corporate artwork designed to spruce up sterile offices. When Sarah knocked politely at the door, Bill chose to remain silhouetted against the light—a chiaroscuro villain. Sarah had no idea what she was about to be chewed out for, but this ridiculously rehearsed pose did not bode well.
“Are you aware of the conditions of your contract, Sarah?” he asked, as he swivelled towards her. He was basking in this television moment, the only reason he became a lawyer in the first place. Nonetheless, his office was littered with evidence of his pen-pushing reality: an avalanche of black folders stacked haphazardly, two drained coffee mugs, a family photo collecting dust.
“Given my occupation, understanding my contract is somewhat of a priority,” Sarah said, shifting awkwardly on stilettos. He did not offer her a seat.
Instead, he launched into a practised tirade. His chlorine blue eyes were stinging with red-webbed veins, a sure sign he hadn’t been sleeping well. She’d committed the sin of allowing an unopened email to sit in her inbox over the weekend, flagrantly disregarding company policy to remain connected outside of office hours.
Clients raced through her mind, as she puzzled over the complaint. All week, she’d touched base with each of them, clearing the way for her weekend trip. The velvet box she’d discovered in Matt’s gym bag had been six years in the making. For once, she’d wanted to wake up without checking her emails, without a to-do list, without worrying about work. She wanted sunsets, champagne, and sprawling time. The romance of pretending to live a real life.
“What was in the email?”
“The staff newsletter,” he said, glancing away, as if the content of the email was irrelevant. Sarah
knew she should let it go, that it was risky to state the obvious without the seniority to say it. But it was too late; the indignation rose to her mouth like bile.
“That’s what all this was about? You called me up here, wasted my billable minutes, all because I didn’t open a staff newsletter?”
“It indicates that you failed to remain connected, to prioritise…” he said, faltering. His hand gestured at nothingness, the fill-in-the-blank fine print on a contract, a sponge squeezed for more.
“Bill,” she said, flashing the glittering ring on her finger, “any guesses as to why I might have prioritised my life this weekend, for a change?”
But in his stone-faced stare, she saw the ring transform from trump card to trivial. She was no longer an adult in a suit defending her milestone moments— she was a little girl preening over sparkly jewellery.
“Congrats on the engagement,” he said flatly, as if disappointed she required this social box-ticking exercise. “But you won’t last if you waste your weekends. I was responding to clients from my wife’s delivery room.”
“Good for you, Bill. Father of the year,” she said, leaving without waiting for permission, heels clicking to the syncopated rhythm of someone who knows where they are going. Head held high, string from her crown, another drama performance at school. Past the offices, past the grey suits rushing to deadlines, daring them to look. She was lit up like the elevator button, pressed, and going down. When the doors closed, she avoided the gaze of her polished reflection. But soon, she was deflating, a blown-up caricature of confidence, crumpling. Rushing through the metallic door, she turned down corridors, till the bathroom door gave way. Slamming the stall shut, she locked herself in with a metal
twist. Sitting, staring, stewing, on how it all came to this. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—offering distraction. She flicked between the lives of now distant friends, analysing their photos for clues. Angie throwing up a peace sign next to a pile of briefs, precariously stacked, like a tourist next to the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Chelsea arranging her office buddies into a family photo tableau, complete with competition smiles. Amy slumped on her desk, shiny tresses splayed—it’s document review season, send help. Curated candids, all communicating too busy. How long had it been since they all decided to put themselves, temporarily, on pause, just until work got less hectic? How had she allowed so many of her friendships to become purely parasocial?
Flicking across to her posting history, she investigated her photos for evidence of the life she had been living. Highlighting convoluted contracts—if you can’t convince them, confuse them. Hand under her chin gazing out towards the beckoning city—the sky’s the limit. And selfies, at her desk, in bathroom mirrors, in elevators. All surface without substance, wearing her workplace as an aesthetic. A girlboss kicking goals in red lipstick and a tailored suit. She flicked through the photos, frantically. Searching for Matt, for friends, for a life lived beyond work. But it was all late night trams at the end of a long day. Black ink slashed across a never-ending to-do list. Contracts. Cubicles. Coffee. How long had she been sleepwalking her life away? By the time the takeaway arrived, Sarah had been tied to her desk, surviving on coffee, for close to twelve hours. When Claire tore the plastic lid from the container, the aroma of the escaping steam made Sarah’s mouth water.
“Remember when we thought you had to work this hard to get ahead? Now, it’s basically compulsory,” Sarah complained, chasing a pork and chive dumpling
around the container.
“Look around you. Who did you start with?”
“I think Charlie’s the only one who’s left. It’s all new faces,” Sarah admitted.
“They like to keep it that way. Boot the ones who kick up a stink, promote the ones who conform. Keep it up, and Bill will deny you leave for a honeymoon just to prove a point,” Claire said, shrugging, as she turned back to typing. Emptied of sunlight and conversation, the office felt like a morgue. Sarah peered past the glass into the streets below, where rooftop bars formed constellations of light. Outside, Friday night popped open like a bottle of champagne. From this height, if she listened closely, she might hear the echo of sweaty shouting and lush music, drifting upwards on hot air, filling the night with fizzing promise. Once, Sarah had felt smugly superior to them, imagining crowded bars, overpriced drinks, bad dates. Floors sticky with the sugar of spilled cocktails. Now, she envied them. The way they split the melon of life with sticky hands, lapping it up. Sarah wanted to be amongst them, alive, in a citrus dress, with a drink tacky enough for an umbrella, a tropical flower blooming in the night. But here, she was wilting, under artificial light, humming along in the background of her own life like a refrigerator, never turning off.
“So how do you do it? How do you keep up, and still have a life outside of work?”
“Time management,” Claire said, without glancing away from her screen, “if you only have a few hours, make them count.”
At the front of the line, Sarah admired the bartenders working magic with glitter and fire. Bottles of alcohol with foreign labels were illuminated like relics, as fellow patrons lined up at the crowded bar, jostling for a place before the pulpit. The bearded man who
served her shook her cocktail inside its metal cylinder. His leather apron implied craftsmanship, justifying the exorbitant cost—and she wanted to taste the word splurge. Catching the shaker with a theatrical flourish, he strained her drink into its gleaming glass. Speared raspberries floated on a cloud of strawberry foam. Sarah took a photo, trying to turn the moment into a memory.
Returning to Matt, she giddily outlined her vision for their new and improved lives. Their saviour would be Saturdays—already, she could picture her social media feed, colourful and curated, crammed with farmers markets and fusion restaurants. Their working week could be survived with a glittering weekend—a crown placed upon the heavy head.
Matt tried to smile, but he too had just clocked just under a hundred hours in the office that week. Gripping his craft beer for strength, she could see the energy
it took to keep nodding at regular intervals. The exposed pendant lights cast a dull glow over his face, dying in the dark shadows under his eyes. Surrounded by the low murmur of wine-warmed conversations, Sarah found herself empty of words untethered to work.
“To work-life balance,” she said, raising her glass. “To making money we’re too busy to spend,” Matt said, grimacing.
“I suppose it’s no accident that work still comes first in that phrase. What do you reckon they paid the guy in marketing to come up with it?”
“Too much.”
“And not enough,” Sarah said, glancing down at the residual foam in her drained glass. She regretted ordering it. The initial sweetness masked something artificial, a chemical aftertaste—which soon settled as a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach.
The “Chasing That Feeling” Diaries
An Adult Who Doesn’t Dream (A Boy With Nothing But Dreams)
by Lani Jaye
Content warning: References to queerphobia
5:53
It was 5:53 when Jun Choi double tapped on the screen of his phone. His brown eyes danced across the evening sky in childlike wonder as it cycled through different shades of blue. They call it the blue hour for a reason, he thought.
Basking in the cheerful sound of his friends laughing, the ringing of a tram bell in the near distance, and the muffled party music from a nearby apartment, Jun let out a breath of content. The autumn breeze swept through his sunset-coloured hair, merging with the clouds of pink, bright peach, and orange. He leaned into the caress of evergreen grass around him, where a lone, vibrant tree stood with a veil of soft red and yellow leaves draped over its branches. Fresh steamed dumplings, matcha rolls, sourdough bread, pastries and a sweet strawberry cake lay neatly in a cluster across the picnic blanket they’d brought, ready to be devoured by the group of five. This was the comfort crowd Jun had made for himself over the last year and a half, sprawled around the feast, five points of the evening sky’s brightest star.
As the minutes drifted further away from the fading hues of 5:53, Jun averted his gaze from the sky and towards his friends. He smiled, filled with all the
warmth in the world: his favourite latte, the green cardi gan that belonged to Nina, the freshly baked strawberry cake made by Soule, Tae-hyun’s favourite library, and the warmth of Ebby’s homemade hot chocolate. The crescent moon that had followed him from Daegu, as though they were bound by the blessing of an invisible string, was absent tonight. But this evening, he didn’t need her. He searched for the purple Polaroid camera he had brought with him and, one by one, captured his friends through the lens. As the sky grew darker, other stars awakened from a long hibernation, brides removing their veils. He scooted closer to his friends and they took him in with warm, open arms. Ebby had brought her guitar. She strummed it while the rest of them hummed along. His eyes navigated the constellations as Nina played with the tips of his hair. His mind drifted back to when he was a little kid, dark haired and starry eyed. He remembered how, as Daegu grew dark and quiet, one star shone the brightest. Maybe he had grown up watching too much Disney and Barbie, but every night, he would creep up to his window and stare at it, wishing to leave the streets of Daegu, to escape. He had visited Melbourne for the first time with his family when he was seventeen. He had not forgotten seeing the rainbow flag draped across the streets of
St Kilda, in the shopping centre at Melbourne Central, in the State Library, in random clothing stores and bookstores. For the first time, he could let go of his mother’s hand and run towards the seven colours calling out his name. Melbourne felt like somewhere where he could build a home—a castle that wasn’t made of sand, a house not always on the brink of collapse. The sixyear-old dreamer had simply wanted to escape to somewhere he could be himself, away from the suburban sprawl of Daegu. 21-year-old Jun was living that dream. Yet as reality had set in, the spark in him had dulled. He had exchanged one freedom for another. Yes, he was happier, but academic life exhausted Jun, and sometimes he wondered if he were truly meant for this. Leaning into the warm touch of Nina’s hand on his cheek, he thought about his six-year-old self and how now, he had to squint to see the light of the one star that used to guide him through the darkest streets in Daegu. There were so many stars here, so unlike the skies in his hometown. Now he had almost everything, and almost nothing to wish for. He reminded himself that he was living the life he had always hoped for. Maybe, if he could find his old wishing star, it could revive that decaying dream. He searched and searched until he got lost in the map of constellations dancing above his eyes
Illustration by Jessell
Maybe, he realised, that star belonged to the boy with nothing but dreams, and the Jun that lived them was meant to embrace the overwhelming sea of stars. Or, perhaps he had finally reached the star he had followed all his life, and this was just the view from up high. Getting up here was never going to be easy. At that thought, he smiled. He had so much potential for growing, and could navigate it one star at a time. His old dreams might have decayed, but beneath the adult overwhelmed by possibilities, there was an inner child to heal.
He closed his eyes, bringing back his focus to the voices of his friends and the strumming of the guitar. They kept him warm. He hummed to the music as he cradled his six-year-old self, for it was he who had navigated Jun to where he was—under the stars so bright, with Polaroids of his friends, devoured food, damp grass and a picnic blanket. He was still the little dreamer.
for nina and ebony, because melbourne only truly began to feel like home the day y’all officially adopted me in my first-year at uni :)
One Unimelb Year
Semester 1 – Week 12
by bluehour
“OMG, we should go to a dance class,” Brit quips as I glance over at her. I see her now on her back, staring at the tall glass ceiling above us that’s now pitch black.
“Mmhmm.”
“Are you listening?”
“Yeah, tell me about it. What, where and when.”
“Choreo class, 757, in thirty minutes.”
“In thirty minutes?” I jolt and look at this crazy woman.
“Yeah girl! We should go,” this crazy woman replies to me. “We just need one last run over the whole presentation and then we can just pop over. It’s not like we have to wait for the other two bitches that never came, right?” My jaw goes wide as I realise that she’s actually serious and thinks it’s a good idea.
“Don’t you need sleep, don’t you want to get back home earlier? And don’t you have that assessment thingy tomorrow you have to study for?” I reason with her as she sits back up, dramatically flipping her hair.
“We can study later,” she says confidently, flipping her hair again and letting her dandruff fly all over my face. “We go dancing first.”
“Okay?” My voice cracks a bit as I say it fruitily. We practice the presentation one final time before leaving.
The teacher waves to us as we walk in. Brit goes up to her to say hi while I put our bags down be
neath the row of chairs on the side of the room. And geez— it’s a decently big room but it’s so packed with people. I guess this is what happens when the class is free and you’re not paying 30 dollars to pop your pussy in front of a mirror like with most studios in the city. I almost whack someone behind me with my arm during stretching and Brit chides me for lacking spatial awareness. She ends up stepping on someone else’s foot as we’re drilling the chorey and I give her an ‘and you were just talking shit about me’ look. Brit looks distressed as she can’t see anything when we’re at the back but thankfully halfway someone reminds the teacher to get the lines to switch from back to front. Still, Brit gets stuck behind two really tall girls and she’s on her tippy toes and still looking stressed that she can’t see shit. The actual dance is a whole lot sexier than we expected it to be and I laugh as Brit whispers that she really regrets her life decisions. I’m just vibing as it’s my kinda thing.
“OMG, I wanna die,” she moans as the teacher finally lets us get water and a chance to breathe.
“And who said they wanted to come?” I say, dodging quickly as Brit tries to whack me with her water bottle. We finally finish learning the whole thing and get to the part where we get to film in small groups. The teacher tells us to get nasty and all the girls in the room cheer as the first group walks out, strutting their thing as
they do all the hair flips and floor slides. I see Brit on her phone and peek over to see what’s on it, noticing that it’s the class poster for this class, and that it’s actually a street jazz class.
“You stupid bitch,” I chuckle as her jaw drops in horror, realising she mixed it up with something else. She doesn’t get to mourn for long as it’s her turn to go up and shake that flat ass of hers. I cheer on as the music starts and Brit just starts going crazy on the floor along with others. But one of the other girls looks really familiar like— Oh shit. No way. It’s actually her, one of the freeloaders.
What the fuck. I blink a few times to confirm that I’m not tripping but it’s actually this girl that we spent two weeks trying to chase after, like we’re detectives or something. And she has the guts to be coming here chilling like she doesn’t have a whole group project involving us due. What the fuck is this? I’m less angry and more amazed that some people have the audacity to disappear for two weeks and thenOh… and now she’s doing splits on the floor like a complete professional, biting her lip and staring at the camera like that. Yet bitch doesn’t even know what splitting up the work evenly means. It’s really pissing me off now that she doesn’t seem the slightest bit fazed when we’ve been giving her the benefit of the doubt the
whole time, saying that she must have personal issues to deal with. Brit comes back wobbling side-to-side and I try to tell her who I just saw, but she just pushes me on the floor since it’s my group’s turn. Left with no other choice, I just decide to go all in and bust my shit, making sure that all these bitches know that I’m the biggest attention-seeker in this room. The applause is the loudest that I’ve heard tonight as I split open my legs wide while flat on my back, and the person filming walks in closer for a close-up so it captures my bussy in 4K. go back to the sides of the room and it takes a moment to remember what the pressing situation was and I quickly tell Brit that this freeloader girlie is here, causing her to squeal like we won some big prize or something. Immediately we try looking around for her as the class finishes up and everyone is leaving, but we realise she’s nowhere to be found.
“For fuck’s sake,” Brit swears as we grab our bags quickly and race down the stairs to see if we can still catch her. But even as we look around on either ends of Swanston, sis is long gone.
“Oh damn,” I say calmly, puckering my lips as Brittany fumes and grabs bunches of her hair in frustration.
Omnis-phóbos (or) the fear of all:
Thalassophobia, the fear of deep water
by Wildes Lawler
The Leviathan
The Leviathan slack-jaws and shows me the bile of its body. I brave the bow and look over to see far too many things dissolving into my brain, all at once: A strange but familiar man, fermenting in the beast’s liver. A small blue bear, with a bowtie and broken silver buttons. I should know his name.
Why don’t I know his name? A memory refusing to die in the belly, refusing to escape. The Leviathan unslacks its jaw. It sinks under, but I still feel it beating against my hull like a question without an answer, or an answer I will never listen to.
Lake Lanier/Oscarville
A “drowned town” in Forsyth County, Georgia.
hell is a lake not of fire
waves of bullets from the dirty window of a white chevrolet
day is a quiet thing down here a boy’s spirit wades
lynch-anchored by the town night-riders the forests were an old threshold that held no safety not spared its trees
it now feels like algae-slicked limbs a valley bony hands reaching for air their fingertips brushing the feet of nearby swimmers
tombstones
souls that were promised to rest in dry beds like everything now screams without breath.
It’s a murder on the dancefloor, and Shakespeare probably killed the groove
by Melbourne University Shakespeare Company
Okay, there is no way in a snowball’s hell that Shakespeare pops down into 21st century Melbourne and I don’t escort his lily-livered butt over to Fitzroy. Hell, it’s called FITZROY! As in Fitzroy, the name of bastard English royals! For the uninitiated, Fitzroy is one of Melbourne’s most lively and eclectic suburbs. Its history is lined with terrace houses, bohemian revelry, gentrification and of course, a vibrant queer scene notable for its many clubs. Many a university student has made the journey over to the East Melbourne suburb—I myself have had a few mildly cherished dalliances with the suburb. After all, what’s left of uni with the revels ended after all has mended? I should hope that Shakespeare of all people wouldn’t be offended by the sight nor groove. After all, this is the lad that wrote numerous sonnets in honour of his gentleman paramour, as well as the whole gender fuckery of Twelfth Night and the various party vibes throughout the comedies such as Midsummer Night’s Dream. The groove in question is likely to be Yah Yah’s. While I would argue that the great Y-Y itself has been a) gentrified and b) inundated with heterosexuals, there’s no point in arguing when the Bard is around in Melbourne for an unspecified number of hours and the man needs to get his sixteenth century groove on. As someone who has been to this notorious venue (twice), I can confirm that the music is sublime on Thursdays. Obviously pre’s
would be at my place. Start him off strong, cider and beer. It’s likely the closest to what the lad inundated his liver with back when he was living a married bachelor’s life in jolly smelly London. Then, after a cheeky soju or shot or two (maybe the whole bottle, I can’t attest to the Elizabethan alcohol tolerance) I would be his guide to the 109 and send him right on the tram. “A horse, a horse! My kingdom for a horse!” The horse in question being the moving box that is the Melbourne late night tram service. We’d arrive. He’d go straight to the dance floor after downing a wet pussy shot (my shout). We are nowhere near past our dancing days, and we have time to kill before the witching hour heralds. “He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday,” as the lad states himself in the Merry Wives of Windsor. I shudder to think of his reaction to modern day jockstraps. Then again, the lad was an actor in his twenties in London, and wrote plays for the most bisexual English monarch of all time (James I and VI of England and Scotland respectively). Who knows what revelrous nonsense he got up to? Maybe Melbourne’s gay clubbing scene pales in comparison? Or this hypothesis is false, and merely stepping in front of a loudspeaker while partygoers inhale poppers would give the man a stroke? Ah well. I’m sure there’s someone in Fitzroy who would go for the balding historical reenactor energy at any given moment.
Aneurysms or orgasms, I’m sure the Bard isn’t fussy. For cheer and welcome makes a great feast, and William is likely to be welcomed in a space such as Yah Yah’s on a Thursday (or should I say Thurs-gay) night. There’s a whole other debate here to be had about the association of gays with party culture, which is often linked to a stigma around drug use and what is often perceived as perversity in the eyes of old cranky conservatives who haven’t had a half-decent root since before the new millennium. It is no sin to engage in debauchery! At the heart of it, I feel that the root of gay culture is making space to celebrate each other and have a good time with no restriction, whether that be how you dress, how you love, or how you define yourself. I remember my first time at Yah Yah’s: I was with people I trusted with my entire heart, the playlist was banging, the disco ball was spinning and all in all, it was one of those moments of queer euphoria that come along at rare intervals, a dazzling debonair reminder of the joys of dancing alongside people like you. I hope the same for our William. I’ll finish this by saying that at the end of the night (or possibly the beginning of the morning) Shakespeare will definitely exit the club pursued by bears. Bears plural. We love our big boys here at MUSC.
by Amber Liang
Odds & Ends by Ashlea Banon
by Mia Walton
by Weiying (Irene)
by Mia Walton
Shun Fukui
by
Shun Fukui
by Stephen Zavitsanos
Take Silliness Seriously
by Rashdan Mahmood
People enjoy comedy. But how much do they respect it?
In my experience, unless a given media product is specifically categorised as “comedy,” the use of humour is often undervalued or underdiscussed. At best, reviews note the peppering of jokes and gags as a nice palette cleanser, but ultimately divorced from the “serious” and “sophisticated” things: mood, themes, character development, etc. At worst, the presence of anything silly gets judged as spoiling a work, shattering the tone, or going against standards of “good taste”. Why does comedy never get to properly spice a work of art?
Part of the problem is that comedy does get abused by writers to undercut moments of sincerity and suspense. It’s old hat at this point to criticise the Marvel Cinematic Universe for not letting their moments of gravitas breathe. My personal breaking point was a scene in Doctor Strange. Our titular character has just lost their mentor and is crying stoically in front of a mirror. The camera slowly zooms in and the music swells, signalling that the responsibility of “Sorcerer Supreme” has fallen into our protagonist’s hands. And then Strange rebuffs his sentient cape’s attempts to wipe his tears and comfort him. The camera stops. The music cuts. Complete deflation. But see, here’s the thing, there’s nothing wrong with The Cape wiping away Strange’s tears as a moment by itself. In fact, had Strange reacted with a bit of quiet joy or laughter instead, I’d argue it would enhance the tragedy that just occurred; it would be a sincere moment of connection between the two characters, with Strange reciprocating a friend’s attempt to comfort him.
Moreover, it would be a small reminder that Strange’s newfound responsibility as a manger of mystical phenomena wouldn’t just be gloom and hardships. Instead of undercutting the tragedy by having Strange desperately cling to his brooding, let him loosen up and lean into the shift in tone naturally brought on by a sapient cape. Though, maybe I’m giving audiences too much credit here. I once had someone tell me they couldn’t take the scene where BB-8 rescues Finn, Rose and Poe in Star Wars: The Last Jedi seriously, given that the droid was the film’s cute mascot character. While there is certainly a great deal of humour to be found in BB-8’s extremely puntable frame, I don’t think that should preclude the funny robot from doing awesome things. In fact, I’d argue it’s more thematically consistent for Star Wars to let the little guy kill some fascists. So why is it that creators and audiences alike see silliness as the enemy of seriousness? Dating back to Ancient Greece, comedy and tragedy were both types of “drama” in the medium of theatre and performance. Comedy was also less defined by inspiring laughter, and more so about having happy endings, in contrast to the dour conclusions of tragedies. The binary between the genres is essentialised when there’s a separate word to describe their union: the “tragicomedy.” However, when we think of genres in more modern mediums like film and TV, comedies are now positioned opposite to dramas. This is something I find interesting in terms of how language evolves. Tragedy was once simply a type of drama, where now the terms are analogous. Comedy, meanwhile, is shunted out as its own thing. There’s even a new binary-essentialising fusion genre: the “dramedy.”
But whether a tragicomedy or a dramedy, humour still gets seen as secondary to the real meat of the narrative. Part of this is because quality gets conflated with maturity, which then gets conflated with dreariness (and so-called “realism”). Enter the “dark comedy,” where running gags and one-off gaffs get recontextualised as having been horrifying or depressing upon later revelations. You might think that this kind of comedy is perfect since it refuses to be delineated from things like narrative and character development—critics and analysts can’t ignore the jokes in a dark comedy with out missing a huge chunk of the artwork. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s a cop out to say that the humour is only important because it was secretly serious all along. That Rick and Morty meme about needing a high IQ to understand the show, while rightfully mocked, gestures at the problem here. A joke is not allowed to have merit by itself. I want shows that give pride of place to silliness. I want shows like Kikai Sentai Zenkaiger. It’s a show for Japanese children. It is also my favourite TV show of all time.
Zenkaiger was an anniversary season in the long-running Super Sentai franchise (which has histori- cally seen loose adaptation in the West as Power Rangers). Our heroes are the titular Zenkaigers, who fight the invading Tojitendo Dynasty. In facing an overwhelming, imperialist force, how do our heroes manage to fend them off? Certainly, the show follows the typical conventions of tokusatsu superhero shows (stunt combat between costumed heroes and villains supported by special effects, both practical and CGI), however, Zenkaiger
by Grace Hamilton
stands out for how funny it is, with our heroes finding creative, funny and absurd methods of saving the day. One episode sees a monster defeated when the Zenkaigers run a parody of a tragic ending to a previous Sentai show, with the monster taking the place of a character who died in that ending. Within the context of the show, there is no deeper significance to the parody—it was simply a hilarious method of winning the fight. This moment is one part of a larger theme in Zenkaiger, where something being silly or comedic has little bearing on its effectiveness. Even a random instance of cartoon physics or slapstick can come back in a meaningful way. At one point, the character Vroon gets bisected from the kickback of a weapon. At first, you’re led to believe this is just a one-off gag. Yet, in later episodes, Vroon would willingly bisect himself to confound enemies in combat. Zenkaiger respects its comedy so much that it’s willing to permane ntly alter the capabilities of its characters in response to it. It's going to be a long road for silliness to be taken seriously. Attitudes around storytelling will need to shift significantly from both creators and audiences alike in order to see the humorous and joyful as equally significa nt to the harrowing and sorrowful, yet I think it can be done. Comedy can be meaningful if it’s used with confidence over its inherent merits—not to detach ourselves from the sincere, nor to blindside us with sudden darkness, but to enlighten, challenge expectations and have fun while doing so.
The Persona Behind the Pages: Lessons Learned as a Debut Author
by Lillian Lumley
I remember the moment vividly: hunched over my desk as I hastily signed my publishing contract. Impostor syndrome clawed at me, whispering doubts as I scrawled my name. Would the publisher realise that my work wasn’t as brilliant as they first thought? Amidst the anxiety, I barely glanced at the terms and conditions. Fresh ink glistened above the dotted lines, sealing my fate as a debut author. Navigating the intricate maze of publishing for the first time is a rite of passage, an overwhelming journey laden with uncertainty. Each author’s path is unique, lacking a rule book or blueprint to follow. Looking back on my experience, here are several tips I wish I had known at the outset.
Writing the book is only the beginning
The most significant revelation was that the act of writing the manuscript was just the start. As the ink dried on my contract, I began my transformation from writer to published author. In preparation for my book’s release, I was quick to discover that “writer” wasn’t the only cap I would need to don. From creating my “author brand” to becoming a public speaker, marketing manager and social media savant—the solitude of crafting stories gave way to a whirlwind of speeches, interviews, book signings, panels, and networking events. While writers often cherish the seclusion of a quiet room with a book and coffee, stepping into the spotlight can be daunting. Surprisingly, I discovered that I relished the challenge.
Build relationships with other authors
The power of networking in the literary world was a vital lesson I learnt early on. Forging connections with fellow
writers, industry professionals and potential readers provided invaluable support, advice and encouragement. These connections not only enriched my writing journey but also opened doors to opportunities I never imagined possible and have been instrumental in my growth as an author. Building deeper friendships with fellow authors has also been critical. Amidst the highs and lows, these friendships offer camaraderie and understanding in ways people outside the industry can’t. From rejection by publishers and agents, to acknowledging that not everyone will love your book the way you do—it can be quite emotionally taxing. Reconciling personal attachment with objective critique is a journey in itself and it’s much easier with a supportive network of like-minded individuals behind you. In difficult times, I try to remind myself that within the dissonance of varied opinions lies the beauty of diverse perspectives, and wouldn’t it be a boring world without that diversity.
Read, and don’t stop reading
The mantra “read, read, read” has echoed throughout my journey. While I continue to devour books, I now consciously expand my to-be-read list to include novels from various genres. These novels serve as my compass, guiding me through the vast expanse of storytelling. With each page turned, I glean new insights, hone my craft, and uncover fresh inspiration. Every story, regardless of genre, teaches me something valuable. Whether it’s mastering the art of pacing, crafting authentic dialogue, or weaving intricate plots, there’s always something to learn from the works of fellow authors.
Flex your writing muscle as often as you can
The practice of writing itself is crucial. Like a muscle, it strengthens with each flex. Even on days when inspiration wanes, jotting down a few lines in a diary or crafting a short story keeps the creative fire burning. While some may believe in waiting for inspiration to strike, I believe that persistence and practice are key to successful writing. However, in contradiction, there are seasons of life when writing takes a backseat, so it’s important not to put pressure on yourself in these moments. I have learned to embrace the ebb and flow of creativity, trusting that the act of writing itself will lead me forward.
Seek feedback from trusted sources
Receiving feedback is an essential part of the writing process. An objective set of eyes can pick up mistakes and ambiguity in the writing that you are too close to as the author. However, discernment is key when choosing who should provide the feedback. While friends, family, fellow writers and beta readers offer invaluable perspectives, an influx of opinions can become confusing. I have found trustworthy yet critical allies throughout my journey who can provide constructive criticism without diluting my vision. Finding the balance between considering these suggestions and writing the story you need to tell can be challenging. Ultimately, if the feedback doesn’t align with my vision, then I put it to one side.
Write what you love
Most importantly, write what ignites your soul. This may sound cliché, but it holds the essence of creation.
Think about the last few essays you wrote. It’s likely the topics you were passionate about flowed effortlessly onto the page, whereas the topics of less interest may have felt like your brain was going to burst. There are so many obstacles writers face when finishing a novel, don’t let lack of passion be one of them. Write a story that keeps you coming back to the page time and time again.
Reflecting on my journey, I acknowledge missteps and imperfections—structural flaws, insufficient character development and tonal inconsistencies. Yet, within the realm of debut authorship lies the promise of an entire career unfurling before me, a canvas awaiting the strokes of experience and growth. To those embarking on their own journey, I offer this advice: embrace the unknown, lean into discomfort, and above all, trust in the power of your own voice. Through the act of storytelling, we discover not just who we are, but who we have the potential to become. As you navigate the labyrinth of publishing, remember that every challenge is an opportunity for growth; every setback, a chance to refine your craft. And most importantly, never lose sight of the passion that ignited your journey in the first place. For it is through the pursuit of that passion that you will find fulfillment, purpose and the courage to write your own story, one word at a time.
Lillian
Lumley, author of THE ONES IN BETWEEN.
Melbourne, I Love You
by Ayva Jones
I don’t remember the first time I visited the city. I vaguely remember a summer weekend here and there, trips to Dymocks, and my dad leaving for work meetings. What I will never forget though, is the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I could see the sparkly city lights in the distance from the back seat of my family’s car. My parents would pick me up early from school on special Friday afternoons, but it would always be dark by the time buildings appeared on the horizon. For a few nights, I stepped into a different universe, and I got to play pretend from the window seat of our hotel room. I fell in love with buffet breakfasts and the soft hum of trams passing by, and I decided that this was the place for me.
Since moving to Melbourne, I think I’ve lived a hundred different lifetimes, marked by the streets I frequent and every change in my coffee order. I imagine finding a new version of myself in the reflection of shop windows or tucked away in back booths of dimly lit bars. I describe it to my friends as this city’s version of Sylvia Plath’s fig tree analogy.
“I can see my life branching out before me,” I tell them. “Each fig a new suburb, a new career, a new me.”
I picture business meetings over coffees on Collins Street, walking home with my hair still in a perfect slick back bun and a trench coat slung over my arm. I meet friends outside the MCG for Friday night AFL matches using someone else’s MCC membership.
In another daydream, I am forever twenty-five. I write and take pictures, and I don’t have time to fix my chipped nail polish before running to a gig at some pub in Fitzroy. I’ve finally worn in my pair of Docs and found what style of eyeliner looks best on me.
I see kids running around Princes Park playing soccer and picture raising my own in some inner suburb. I can see myself somewhere big enough for a backyard and with room to host dinner parties, but close enough to the city so my daily commute is tolerable.
It’s a perfect summer Sunday afternoon and my friends and I are dancing between bookshelves at Readings after milo choc tops at Cinema Nova. In this moment, I see us growing old together somewhere not far from here, forever meeting for coffee on Lygon Street to listen to Italian restaurant owners pass snide remarks to the competitors next door.
As a kid I loved towering buildings speckled with tiny little lights, each one representing a random person whose story I could sit and play make believe with. I guess, in a way, I still do this. Fleeting eye contact with a stranger who could be the love of my life, or an undercover Myki inspector. Groups packed into café booths, busily discussing a group assignment or debriefing events from the night before. Sometimes I get sad that I’ll never be able to take it all in. There will always be more I could do, but I try not to live too much of my life in these stories I create for myself. Whilst I will never be able to enjoy every single one of these things, there’s something so beautiful about living a life so full that it’s bursting at the seams. It feels like that kind of luck could only happen in a city like Melbourne. There was once a version of me who saw only one fig hanging on the tree—the one that represented everything I have today. How unfair it would be of me to not enjoy it all on behalf of the girl who spent hours on the V/Line wanting nothing more than to be right here.
Photography by Kyle Stutz
Mom, I think I’m Elliot Page
by Jayden Seah
Content warning: Transphobia
“Mom, I think I’m Elliot Page.”
I’d like to imagine that this was uttered by an awkward teen, too shy to actually say the words, “Mom, I think I’m trans.” In my imagination, he would have said it whilst the TV droned on in the background, his mother eating dinner on the couch. I’d like to think they got gelato after, then went on a shopping spree. But reality is often disappointing. Instead, she found out from a phone call from my father, who, in turn, had found out from a nurse. And just like a soap opera, it ended in a screaming match.
I remember staring at the headline on a bus trip home: ‘Juno Star Elliot Page comes out as transgender’. I gained the courage mere days after, perhaps spurred by Elliot, to also come out—albeit to an audience of one. But unlike Elliot, who immediately came under fire from the conservatives, I was met with the endearing acceptance of my best friend. I recall the vitriolic comments under Elliot’s post, calling for boycotts of his movies and TV shows, reading things like, “you are not a man”, “mutilation”, and “delusion”. Yet, in spite of the immediate acceptance I found from my friend, these sentiments were not reciprocated by my parents— the people meant to love you most. Under the guise of affection, they had made it clear that medical transition of any kind was mutilation. Etched into my memory was the look of anguish on my father’s face, his voice breaking as he said, “I will try to call you Jay- Jayden. But only as a nickname.” He has never once used my name. Staring at old posts of Elliot’s top surgery, watching his interviews with Oprah, voice now octaves lower, I remember how jealous I was. We had come out at the same time, and yet, two years later, I was still imprisoned in the skin of a body I no longer recognised. By this point, I had socially transitioned, though my deadname, ironically, still haunted me. Legally, I still had to use it for official documents in school and in medical settings, even at the gender clinic. It had been an arduous journey to get to the only public gender clinic in Singapore, run single-handedly by a now retired doctor. I still recall the appointments I had with GPs, how unin formed they were of medical transitioning, one of them gaslighting me into believing I was gay and that I “didn’t need to get surgeries to become a man to be with a woman”. My mother, who had gone with me, only added to the cacophony of malice. She asked me why I was crying, as though their words were not daggers of poison. Upon hearing the lines Elliot uttered as his char
Illustration by Thao Duyen (Jennifer) Nguyen
acter in The Umbrella Academy, Viktor, “You know I always hated mirrors. Thought everybody felt so strange in their skin. I guess that’s not true , right?” I had to pause the episode to reflect upon his words. He was right. In my teenage years, I rarely took photos, and barely wanted to look into the mirror, knowing that my reflection, however uncanny, was not me. There were many moments in my life that I could tell you retrospectively were likely signs of dysphoria. For instance, when I was ten and had a terrible sore throat, I would go around asking everyone if I sounded like a boy, feeling a rush of euphoria when they told me I did. I did not have the words back then, just a feeling of dissonance between me and the body I was in. By the time I had the vernacular to express myself, it was too late for my parents to take me seriously. “How can you be a boy?” they said. “You’re always crying, and boys don’t cry.” I read Elliot’s memoir, Pageboy, the uncomfortable explicit narration of his life. I had borrowed the book from my creative writing tutor, as we were doing non-fiction that semester, and I was writing on the intersectionality of being trans and liking men. Whilst Elliot had spoke in-depth about his discovery of his identity, going into details I never thought I’d read on a page, perhaps the most explicit thing I had written in my piece was the line: “Where is my fucking childhood?” Growing up in a methodist school and a fairly conservative country meant that I was rarely exposed to “taboo subjects”. The pervasive shame culture that existed also meant that my writing, whilst personal, never tread into licentious material. While I could understand where Elliot was coming from, I would never feel comfortable enough to have something so deeply personal be available to the judgement of the public. At many points of my life, I’ve felt the need to compare my own transition not only with Elliot’s, but with other trans people as well. I’d often get notifications from Reddit, asking, “Anyone else starting their transition in their 20s?”, and, almost instinctively, I’d click on the thread, looking for validation for my own transition timeline. Whilst I am aware that this comparison is futile, and that my transition journey is unique to me alone, I’ve come to acknowledge these comparative notions as a first step to one day being happy in my progress independent from others. I might not be there yet, but in many ways, writing this has helped me verbalise what I’ve always subtly acknowledged as true—that I should be the only person to determine my journey.
“The Past You Know May Not Be True” – An Interview with Bamise
by Jesse Allen
Content warning: classism, colonialism, racism
With thousands of subscribers and tens of thousands of views, Nigerian YouTuber Bamise is part of a vibrant new wave of online creators. Their mission: to challenge the outdated preconceptions and widespread ignorance of African history through digital media. Why are these rich and fascinating stories so often overlooked? How can animated videos make history more accessible? Why is it so important to engage with the past, especially the parts that make us feel uncomfortable? These were some of the questions I was eager to put to Bamise, who kindly agreed to discuss his work with me.
When did you first become interested in history? I would say what piqued my interest most… I was in school, and the teacher showed us pictures of the Bronze Ife Head—and actually, it looked fake to me! I thought, “There is no way people made that”. I had a lot of questions, but they call it the “lost wax technique”—they don’t really know how to replicate the method they used back then. And I think Benin was the second culture I was very, very fascinated about—I just kept reading about it.
Is it more challenging to tell some parts of African history because there aren’t as many sources? Yes, there aren’t always as many sources, but that makes it even more interesting when you think about it. Are people willing to explore it, to give it the attention it needs? I’m currently working on a video on the Kingdom of Kongo, and one thing I found very fascinating was that Kongo had a self-recorded history. But you don’t hear that much about it. If you ask the average person what they know about Rome, there is something that they know, right? And yes, it’s interesting, but when it comes to Kongo for example, even though it’s this well-documented history—there are still paper trails you can trace back to the 1500s—it’s not well discussed today.
Does colonialism distort the way African history is told?
I do think that’s something we do. One thing that’s become very apparent to me in the almost two years I’ve been making videos, is that there’s a lot of interest in pre-colonial Africa. People want to know what happened. Colonial history is one of those things where it’s a soft spot, you know? A lot of people are not able
to come to terms with what happened. There’s a lot of pain, there’s a lot of trauma to unpackage, and I feel there’s not enough attention given to colonial history.
Do you see that gradually changing?
One thing I do feel is that human beings have this natural curiosity. We want to know what we don’t know. When it comes to something foreign, the first thing is to be scared of it, but then the next thing is to be fascinated and curious about what you are seeing. Things are changing in the fact that people want this knowledge, there are people seeking it, but at the end of the day it seems that there are also forces trying to make sure that knowledge is suppressed—and that is also scary.
Was telling those suppressed stories part of the vision for your channel?
When I started watching YouTube, I used to watch a lot of history channels. And one thing I quickly discovered was that African history was lacking. Seriously! You watched videos of British history, American history, and basically any time they talked about African history it was like a quick stop. And that annoyed me, and I always thought, “I wish someone would start making African history videos”. There are some that sprung up before I started, and I’m really happy about that, and every day I keep discovering new African history channels.
Does that same “quick stop” mentality apply to modern day media coverage?
I do think so. One example would be the Ethiopian Civil War; it barely got mentioned outside of Africa, it was not really a concern for Western media. And you also see the same thing with Sudan currently, and with the Democratic Republic of Congo. So, when those conflicts happen, it’s not really mentioned until something catastrophic occurs. Coverage really helps with development, so if you’re always pushing out negative news of an area, then what most people will think is negative. Obviously, nobody likes negativity, but negativity sells.
What has the response to the channel been from people around the world? Honestly, my community has been very supportive and positive. I am very, very grateful for the community I
have. The way I make my content is, I read multiple different books from different authors, and I compare them. So, I can say, “Okay, this is your bias, that’s their bias,” right? And you try to look for neutral ground. I did a video one time where the traditional story, if you will, is propaganda. That’s the truth. And I thought, “Okay, I’m not going to peddle propaganda”. I got a bit of pushback from that—that kind of criticism is something I’ve come to accept from people who don’t subscribe to factual history.
Is that critical thinking another reason why it’s important for people to understand history?
Yes, that’s also why I feel it’s very important to not only consume history, but also understand what it’s about. At the end of the day, a lot of people tend to view history as, “Oh, it’s happened in the past,” and they don’t understand that the past you know may not be true. It may be divorced from reality completely. Things like saying, “Africans never did anything impressive,” or, “Africans never built anything,” while historical records completely disagree with that! There are a lot of examples of people using history for very dangerous things. It’s very, very potent, because people can erase atrocities by just telling a story differently.
Does animation help to make your content more accessible?
Yes, I feel animation is a very good tool to make history more comfortable. When I was young, I read a lot of biology and geology textbooks that my dad had, and the only reason that I read them was because they had nice drawings in them. I liked looking at the drawings, but I’m also reading about important things at the same time. So, I feel it helps. But I’ve learnt that a lot of people enjoy the audio too, so making the audio rich is also important: sound effects, staging, visuals. They also help a lot, and when all those things come together, you have a very good story that is engaging people on various levels. At the heart of Bamise’s work is a genuine desire to share his curiosity and passion for African history with the world. With the power of digital platforms such as YouTube shifting the historical discourse away from academia and into the mainstream, Bamise and many others like him are keen to challenge the pervasive blind spots which have traditionally obscured the continent’s past one video at a time. So, ask yourself: is the past you know really true?
by Chiaki Chng
In this interview, I chat with my acquaintance Swarnim Bomzan, leader and co-founder of Cypher Dance Crew (est. 2019).
“How much of this do you know already? No, I’ll just repeat it all,” Bomzan begins, as we make our way through the Swanston crowds. “I’m 22, a K-pop dancer, and I’ve been doing covers since high school… It started off with me copying the moves in music videos alone in my room, and then my best friend and I danced together in the school’s empty studios—we were about… fourteen then.” This is a common path for K-pop dancers—the emphasis on dance and accessibility of practice videos online means many begin self-taught. For Bomzan, sharing this hobby with her classmate meant bringing it outside of her room and into the wider world. At the time, her friend’s sister was actively dancing in a crew and planning to enter a dance competition in Sydney: thus began Bomzan’s group cover days. Dancing alone turned into receiving an invitation to compete interstate, followed by regularly producing covers with the team upon their return home. “It might be a bit cringe of me to say but… this changed my life,” she says.
The production and performance of K-pop dance covers in cities worldwide is a strikingly ‘DIY’ phenomenon. Tight communities are formed through this hobby, and with this network, resources such as videography, lighting, speaker systems and post-production editing are shared. Most dancers are self-taught and learn to edit and publish online content themselves. It’s a stark contrast to elitist classical styles like ballet, which
require years of (often expensive) training and conformity to razor-sharp standards for performance opportunities. Street dancing—in this case, ‘K-pop In Public’—allows hobbyists to try out dance outside of these stricter bounds.
Bomzan left her initial crew due to leadership conflicts, but was able to remain dancing in covers due to the connections she had made in the Melbourne community. It was when she wanted to organise a cover of BTS’s ‘Danger’ in 2019, that she entertained the idea of starting a team of her own. “It was like…” she gestures with wide eyes and an incredulous smile, “like woah… because I’d never been a leader before. Like, if there were ever group projects at school I’d always be the quiet one sitting and listening. With Cypher, I don’t know what happened to me. I was so nervous when pitching the idea to (co-founder) Hannah, but it really changed me.”
“Leading a crew and all these [performance] projects has given me so much experience working with different types of people. When I think of myself now, I actually see leadership as one of my primary skills. I use it in all aspects of my life—in work, and in uni too.”
To say that Bomzan leads well is an understatement.
Towards the end of last year, I danced in one of Cypher’s publics, participating in a fourteen-member ensemble. Within a fortnight, she’d deftly organised roles and standardised choreography, transposed blocking and corrected, corrected, corrected with the coordination only the most experienced of leaders could hope to execute.
Street dance culture took a hit when the pandemic and lockdowns arrived in 2020, as communities were
Why I’ll Never Obey the First Rule of Fight Club
by Fergus Sinnott
This essay contains spoilers for Fight Club (1999).
In 2003, Chuck Palahniuk, the author of Fight Club, came out publicly as gay while on a press tour to promote the release of his sixth novel Diary
This was four years after David Fincher’s film adaptation of the novel, starring Brad Pitt and Edward Norton, had ensconced Palahniuk’s narrative in popular culture. Its endurance can largely be attributed to the dogma of Pitt’s Tyler Durden, under whose spell a legion of angsty, emasculated male viewers swiftly fell.
I first read and watched Fight Club when I was eighteen, and was only vaguely aware of the film’s iconicity at the time: it was the kind of film I’d heard other guys talk about with a rarefied awe in high school, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
As a gay male reader, I’ve always had a penchant for reading into the queer subtext of my books, and after finishing the book I couldn’t seem to find a heterosexual explanation for a male-only coterie who wrestled with each other on nights and weekends. And while I don’t think Palahniuk intended to cast Fight Club in an inherently queer light, I would argue that reading the novel through a lens of queerness did inform my understanding of its more overt thematic concerns with violence and masculine identity in a capitalist society.
In his non-fiction work Stranger Than Fiction: True Stories, Palahniuk reflects on why he thinks Fight Club resonated with men particularly:
“...The story presented a structure for people to be together… [Society doesn’t] see a lot of new models
for male social interaction... And now there’s fight clubs.” In Fight Club, The Narrator (Norton) spends his free time moonlighting at chronic illness support groups to resolve his insomnia. Despite not suffer ing from the illnesses the support groups are formed around, he finds catharsis in the sense of community these groups foster, and the designated periods of physical touch they are rounded out with. The physical touch functions as an expression of vulnerability and an additional, physical point of connection. I’d argue that this is the main reason why The Narrator is so compelled to attend them in the first place: he is seeking out a communal space wherein he can be vulnerable, and express himself in a more authentic and physical manner.
In his seminal essay “Capitalism and Gay Identity”, John D’Emilio argued that by the latter half of the nineteenth century, the capitalist system of free labour diminished the primacy of the family unit in society. This allowed for the formation of a queer identity that was divested from the family unit and the formation of social spaces concentrated around homosexual activity.
The Narrator and Tyler Durden’s establishment of the eponymous Fight Club can be read as a manifestation of this principle, insofar as it constitutes a private (literally ‘underground’) male-only space whose ethos is that of emancipation from traditional modes of identity formation and cultural capital. Fight Club also constitutes a reappraisal of masculinity via male physicality, and one wherein its first two rules (“You do not talk about Fight Club”) signify the mutual discretion of the homoerotic/homosocial space removed from public view.
As the narrative reaches its climax, Fight
Club evolves (or perhaps, devolves) into Project Mayhem, a full-scale anarchic movement that sees the organisation moving from this private space into the public. It is here that readers/viewers eventually learn that Tyler is a split personality of The Narrator’s, a product of his unchecked insomnia. Most critical analysis dedi cated to the novel suggests that the emergence of Project Mayhem, and the mass destruction it produces, is Palahniuk’s way of ultimately denouncing Fight Club’s ethos about the restoration of masculinity—and I concur. But in the context of a queer reading, I also believe that the revelation of Tyler as a dimension of The Narrator’s own persona speaks to the fractured identity that the structures of capitalism and consumerism precipitate: Tyler is revealed not to merely be a role model to The Narrator, but a manifestation of the identity he wishes he could embody, one divested of his alienation and consumerist preoccupations. And with Pitt portraying Tyler as openly flirtatious and flamboyantly dressed, in contrast to The Narrator’s neutral-toned suits, I can’t help but feel that this desired identity is just as queercoded as it is enlightened and self-actualised. Since first reading Fight Club, I haven’t hesitated to inform filmbros that interpreting Fight Club isn’t as simple as saying “OMG, he’s literally me” but instead requires more nuanced examinations of how masculine identity is constructed and repressed in a capitalist society. Either that, or I just say something along the lines of “I think it’s pretty gay to want to wrestle shirtless with a guy you just met,” and leave it at that.
by Lauren Luchs
Is cheerleading feminist?
by Elizabeth Browne
Trigger warning: sexism, misogyny
When I tell people I do cheerleading, it evokes all sorts of reactions. From my experience, men find it exciting. On the other hand, women are often disappointed. The image of me parading around with pom-poms and a sparkly uniform can feel like a betrayal to the feminist cause, an active perpetuation of something with such blatantly sexist roots.
A cheerleader is bouncy, smiley, and unapologetically feminine. A cheerleader is empty-headed and sexy, existing only to prance around in provocative uniforms at men’s sporting games. Cheerleaders are merely aesthetic instruments for the male gaze. We cannot be seen as athletes and we cannot shake the yoke of our sport’s misogynistic past.
This perspective on cheerleading bothers me because it’s what I used to believe too. I have been in elite sport—‘real’ sport the majority of my life, training more than 30 hours a week with the Victorian Institute of Sport, receiving thousands in government grants and flying across the country to compete in events like the Olympic trials. I used to scorn sports like cheerleading and shake my head in disgust at their sparkly uniforms while I myself wore sparkly leotards in gymnastics, or thin pairs of bathers while platform diving.
The truth is that no matter what women do, there
is no winning. Of course cheerleading has sexist roots, everything has sexist roots—for example, the whole concept of marriage literally represents the patriarchal passage of a woman from father to husband, as if she were a transferable object. And yet, do we ridicule women who get married? In diving and gymnastics, it was always about our weight. Regardless of our athletic merit, we were never thin enough. I have vivid memories of coaches laughing at teenage athletes who had gained weight post-puberty, wondering if, or more likely when, they had done the same thing to me. In an eerily similar way, cheerleaders are criticised for being too ‘sexy.’ It’s interesting to note that cheerleading is often seen as a high school sport too—cheer is just another victim of the pedophilic objectification of the ‘schoolgirl’. Anything that is female-dominated or traditionally feminine will be viewed as inferior in our culture and the sexualisation of cheerleading is just another way of delegitimising us. Sports with prestige and funding, sports like football, basketball, or golf, are typically seen as male sports and even if women participate, they are viewed as inferior to their male counterparts. Take the AFLW. It is not simply part of the ‘normal’ football league but is linguistically othered, with their gender being specified
as if to say ‘this isn’t the real version…it’s the women’s version.’ Men don’t have this. Men’s football is just the AFL.
“I started cheering in 2015. I will hold my hands up and admit that I thought it was a sideline sport,” said Kaitlin (27), fellow member of the Unimelb cheer team and a second-year PhD student in international relations. “My assumption was that it would constitute a small outfit, set of pom poms and cheering for the men’s sports at the University. WOW was I wrong.”
“Feminism is supposed to lift women up (which we do quite literally), and I think if anything, competitive cheerleading is a champion for feminism. It’s strong, it’s a powerful experience. No matter your skill level, tumbling ability, height, weight, gender, race, sexuality—cheer has a place for you.”
“I think the idea that being a cheerleader goes against feminist beliefs is first, completely wrong and second, demeaning of the sport. As a 27-year-old woman, cheer empowers me in a way other things in my life have not. It makes me feel incredibly strong, it keeps me extremely fit, and provides an amazing sense of achievement.”
Jemima (20), head of operations with ARES rocketry and mechatronics engineering major, also spoke
about her passion for cheer and her feminist beliefs.
“Feminism is the power of choice and [cheer] is an activity that girls find value in. Professional cheer has a mostly female audience and is performed mostly by girls—it’s not for male validation. It is not anti-feminist to perform and get dressed up. Girls are allowed to be smart and wear makeup.”
“As a girl in STEM, it can be very isolating. You cannot form those strong female connections as easily due to the lack of girls participating in subjects such as engineering. There can be a lot of pressure to prove yourself and represent women as the solo girl in a class or project. Cheer is the complete opposite. It is a female dominated environment and you have a strong network...it can be an intense workout ending with lots of bruises and marks but it is also an amazing social community, having a group of girls that has to trust each other both physically and emotionally.”
The sexualisation of cheerleading is just another way of tearing us down. Isn’t the whole point of feminism to expand a woman’s options, rather than limit them? If wearing a sparkly uniform and some make-up is enough to discredit an entire sport, doesn’t that say more about the way we view women rather than cheerleading?
Battle Cries on a Boom Bap Beat
by Nway
Content warning: mentions of graphic violence and murder.
In 2000, a pioneering hip-hop group named ACID released their album Sa Tin Chin (“Beginning”) and altered the creative landscape of Myanmar substantially. Their infusion of Western music samples with traditional thanchat (traditional folk verse) elements, alongside the use of subversive, playful lyrics, came to be seen as defiant against the military dictatorship. In a nation suffocated by constant political instability and inner conflicts, ACID has provided the youth with a vital new source of musical and political catharsis.
The success of their innovation came at a hefty price, however. Over the following years, as public excitement persisted over their honest portrayals of common hardships, ACID also took on a different significance. They became the lens through which my generation learned of the dangers of creation.
My earliest impressions of the public persecution of ACID members date back to 2008. That was when the founders, Phyo Zeya Thaw and Yan Yan Chan, were first arrested at a tea shop for their involvement in Generation Wave, a youth movement that defied the military regime through graffiti art, distribution of banned media and the secret release of an unmarked hip-hop album. Even after their respective releases from prison, the band members would be subjected to repeated intimidation, imprisonment and forced exile at various points of their life. In July 2022, Phyo Zeya Thaw was eventually executed by hanging for joining the resistance following the most recent military coup in 2021.
The prosecution of ACID members is by no means a unique case in Myanmar. In 2021, the studio of Win Pe Myint, a founding father of the local modern art movement, was burned down by soldiers for his open criticisms of the regime. In 1974, artist Maung Theid Dhi was repeatedly interrogated and detained for displaying a self-portrait in which his figure was confined by metal chains. In 2023, hip-hop artist Byu Har was arrested and sentenced to 20 years in prison by the military
junta for criticising the frequent electricity outages. These are only a few of the examples that demonstrate how, in Myanmar, creation comes at high stakes, and to be in the public’s eyes is to be an arm’s length away from being branded as a criminal. Growing up in an environment like this, Chinua Achebe’s proclamation that “art for art’s sake is just another piece of deodorised dog shit” led me to inspect two aspects of creativity. —Can “art for art’s sake” truly exist in a society where artistic autonomy is severely limited? Art for art’s sake—translated from the French slogan l’art pour l’art—is a school of thought that believes “true art” is completely free from political, moral, didactic, or religious values and functions. When I learned of this movement, I struggled to grasp the concept of morally neutral art. Like Nietzsche, I lean toward the understanding that art, even when created without the intention of moral preaching, fails to become “functionless” or “senseless”. In his psychology-based take, all art has the function of expression, and what the artist chooses to evoke by preferring and omitting does not occur through mere “accident”. Rather, such conscious and subconscious processes are shaped by their instincts, abilities, circumstances and environment. With that being my basic understanding of what art represents, I suppose that perhaps someone from Myanmar is completely capable of creating “art for art’s sake” if they were disengaged from war, food shortages, displacement and political instability in general. But that does not mean that such creations become free from a function. In a world where the agency to express political, social and moral themes is limited by the state, the insistence to create artworks with such themes is a protest. The omission of these themes, on the other hand, becomes a tacit acceptance of the state’s power over creation, and an adoption of their definition of art. That is, in itself, a political stance that perpetuates the state’s control. To aim to create art purely
“for art’s sake” in this country thus paradoxically feeds into a machine that incapacitates artists from creating art limitlessly, unboundedly, and honestly.
—What is the responsibility of the artist?
In his essay The Creative Process, James Baldwin wrote:
“Societies never know it, but the war of an artist with his society is a lover’s war, and he does, at his best, what lovers do, which is to reveal the beloved to himself and, with that revelation, to make freedom real.”
Art is a form of soft power. It can unite, reveal, incite, and provide a means of cultural diplomacy. When ACID released their album, they spoke a truth about life in Myanmar that few had done before, and built a lasting legacy that stays alive through movements like Rap Against Junta.
When newer generation hip-hop artists who have continued to stay in the country today choose instead to rap about money, pretty girls and luxurious parties, I do not see how their creations are more “true” than their predecessor’s music simply for their avoidance of political criticism. If anything, I see them as fantasies of lifestyles from faraway societies that can only provide momentary relief or—in the words of artist Htein Lin— “release valves” that only act as a form of distraction.
I do not know what the responsibilities of an artist are in a global context. What I do know and feel is that our society is one where freedom of expression cannot be a reality unless we are proactive about change—and the way artists do so is by creating art that defies, subverts, and carries a message. So, while I would not go so far as to call art for art’s sake “deodorised dog shit”, I do believe that it is not something that can be fully realised until we dismantle a regime that censors, reduces, and destroys art. And when I contemplate the responsibilities of an artist, I do hear echoes of the words of Phyo Zeya Thaw: “I wanted to end injustice.”
UMSU and the Media Office are located in the city of Melbourne, on the land of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. We pay respects to the elders - past and present - and acknowledge that the land we are on was stolen and sovereignty was never ceded.