2019 Edition 6 by Farrago Magazine

cw/ = Content Warning

CONTENTS

8/ Feathered Friend Fuels Facebook Feud Open Day Disrupted 9/ Petitions, Protests and Sex Based Events CW/ Transphobia 10/ UMSU Elections Rundown 12/ What’s in a tree? Melbourne’s best kept secret is at The Dax Centre CW/ Mental illness, trauma, depression 13/ Satire 16/ Office Bearer Reports

20/ Up into the Mountains and Down to the Countryside CW/ Intergenerational trauma 22/ Kiss and Tell CW/ Sexual harrassment 23/ Diaspora Dilemmas 24/ Double Take 25/ Living Well When You're Unwell 28/ Burn City Sound Systems 30/ Bowen CW/ Mentions of domestic violence,

34/ 34/

criminal enforcement

How Death Brought an Atheist Closer to God CW/ Death of a family member resulting from an illness

Regulating Language

14/ Photography by Abir Hiranandani 26/ Tram Lines by Isaac Langford 27/ Differentiated by Isaac Langford 32/ Playing with Fire by Bethany Cherry 44/ Young Boy by Vineetha Liz Babu 62/ Mountain by Giselle Martin 40/ Paint to Poetry 41/ Flash Fiction 42/ I Can’t Stop Talking About Cold Chisel and it’s Turning My Friends Against Me 45/ Whistling Babas 47/ Floating Waste 48/ A Thing with Feathers 50/ Pink CW/ Anxiety, panic attacks 53/ Drifting 54/ Tales of Tragedy Through Art and Post-Human Madness CW/ Fantasy violence, gore and suicide 56/ She will never forget CW/ Explores child marriage,

58/

59/ 61/ 62/ 64/

mentions drowning and death

The Fairytale Gazette CW/ Explicit description of fantasy death penalty

Secret Servings The Lighthouse and the Mechanic The Remarkable Quests of Raddish and Quill For and Against COVER ART BY CATHY CHEN /

The Farrago Team

Contributors Bridget Assi Ashleigh Barraclough Srishti Chatterjee Denis Curnow Jocelyn Deane Nitul Vidyadhar Deshpande Tilli Franks Hannah Garvan Adelle Greenbury Ailish Hallinan Emma Hardy Emily Johnson Caitlyn Kirwan Michelle La Sarah Mahoney Giselle Martin Tyler McRae Sameer Mohammad Khan Nicole Moore James Robertson Danielle Scrimshaw Naomi Sepiso Annette Syahlani Rida Fatima Virk Jackson Young

Nick Fleming Emma Hardy Asher Harrington Ashleigh Hastings Stephanie Kee Tiia Kelly Wing Kuang Finbar MacDonald Marilla Marshall Sloan Amber Meyer April Nougher-Dayhew Ella Patrick Sarah Peters Yiani Petroulias Romios Bella Ruskin Chiara Situmorang Carly Stone Greer Sutherland Alison Tealby Teo Jing Xuan Taylor Thomas Finley Tobin Tharidi Walimunige Sophie Wallace Charlotte Waters Reina Wibawa Caitlin Wilson Lindsay Wong Freyja Wright Catron Allen Xiao Claudia Young

Abir Hiranandani Isaac Langford Reann Lin Vineetha Liz Babu Giselle Martin Amani Nasarudin Stephanie Nestor Monique O’Rafferty Anjana Ram Morgan-Lee Snell Charanja Thavendran Tiffany Widjaja Lucy Williams Timothy Wood Raymond Wu Yushi Wu Lizzy Yu

Subeditors Ruby Adams Vanshika Agarwal Daniel Beratis Clare Bullard Jessica Chen Bridie Cochrane-Holley Claire Thao Duong

Graphics Jennifer Luki Andreany Alexandra Burns Cathy Chen Bethany Cherry Elmira Cheung Van Ahn Chu Louis Dickins

Social Media Ashleigh Hastings Sarah Peters

Editors Carolyn Huane Ruby Perryman Stephanie Zhang

THANK YOU BY CAROLYN HUANE

Farrago is the student magazine of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU), produced by the media department. Farrago is published by

Columnists The Creative Literature and Writing Society (CLAWS) Bethany Cherry Conor Clements Jocelyn Deane Alison Ford Kaavya Jha Sarah Peters Veera Ramayah Luke Rotella A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni Lou Winslow

Cover Cathy Chen

the general secretary of UMSU, Reece Moir. The views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of UMSU. the printers or the editors. Farrago is printed by Printgraphics, care of Quigel Nirk. All writing and artwork remains the property of the creators. This collection is © Farrago and Farrago reserves the right to republish material in any format.

Editorial

e acknowledge Farrago is created on land that always has and always will belong to the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation. This land is stolen and sovereignty was never ceded, and no acknowledgement is enough to give it back. We pay respect to elders past, present and emerging, and to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, people who have been sharing stories and making art longer than anyone in the world. We thank readers for picking up our magazine and listening to what we have to say, and urge you to actively seek out, and listen to, the people whose land you exist on too. Virgo season has come around and the weather doesn’t seem to be getting much warmer anytime soon. According to Bustle, our favourite place to go for all things astrology (not really), Virgo season is the best time to organise your plan to success. If you’re a fellow Virgo like Steph, this is apparently the month you can flex your organisation muscles. Lucky news section! If you’re a Capricorn like Ruby, this time presents you with a chance to start anew—pick up a copy of her freshly launched creative writing anthology Above Water on stands around campus now (but don’t leave us behind, take Farrago with you too)! And if you’re a lovely Sagittarius like Carolyn, you’ll be a busy, busy bee this month. But in general, good news via the stars! Lucky it’s also UMSU’s election season, because for a few people, their plan to success will come to fruition. So while you’re walking to class trying to dodge a dozen flyers, why not pick up a copy of Farrago as your reading material of the week instead? But also still vote, because UMSU is here for you and should be elected by you. If you haven’t picked up an election guide yet, keep your eyes peeled for a fruity purple cover. Read it start to finish to find out who’s who in the election, and Farrago will be keeping you up to date all through the week. Read our UMSU Explainer on page 10. Want a palette cleanser? Read Bridget Assi’s captivating exploration of grief in ‘How Death Brought an Atheist Closer to God’ (page 34), or get a taste of Melbourne’s underground music scene in Sarah Mahoney’s ‘Burn City Sound Systems’ (page 28). Farrago is consistently blessed by the breadth of beautiful words coming out of our Uni, but the creative writing section is particularly impressive this edition. Be moved by stunningly unique prose pieces ‘Secret Servings’ by Srishti Chatterjee (page 59) and ‘The Lighthouse and the Mechanic’ by Nicole Moore (page 61). For something more visual, check out Aabir Hiranandani's intergalactic photography spread (page 14-15). All of the love, Ruby, Caro and Steph

TAG CAMPUS

Content Warning:

NEWS IN BRIEF BISHOP’S BACK

KEY TO MY MYKI

Former deputy Liberal leader Julie Bishop has been announced to become the first female chancellor of the Australian National University. The role will commence in 2020.

On 15 August, Victoria’s Information Commissioner revealed that PTV has breached privacy laws when releasing nearly two billion lines of data to support a data science competition in mid2018.

HALIFAX

Rebecca Gibney, Gold Logie winner and notable for roles in Wanted and The Dressmaker, was on the Parkville campus on 10 August filming for the Channel 9 crime drama Halifax.

PTV claimed the data was de-identified, but only card IDs were removed. The data contained details of over 15 million cards, recording trips made by myki holders between July 2015 and June 2018.

The University has launched a five-year strategy called ‘Engaging with India 2020-2014’ to reinforce long-term commitments and joint research with India. Engagement will be concentrated in Delhi, Maharashtra, Karnataka, and retional areas of Tamil Nadu, Uttar Pradesh, and West Bengal.

HONG KONG CHINA CLASH SPILLS ONTO CAMPUSES

LOWERED STANDARDS

Pro-Hong Kong and pro-China students clashed at a July protest at the University of Queensland organised to support Hong Kong’s movement against China’s extradition law.

Top Australian universities, including UniMelb, are using entry programs to lower English standards international students need to meet in order to enroll, a report by the Centre for Independent Studties has found. The paper said that universities across the country were “taking massive financial risks in pursuit of this pot of gold”.

Australian National University and the University of Technology Sydney students have also created pro-democracy Lennon Walls on campus, with messages in suppoort of Hong Kong’s movement publically posted. ANU’s wall was destroyed by masked individuals, resulting in security patrols supplied by the University. A number of protests have also emerged over the past months in Melbourne in support of Hong Kong. More than 100 people gathered outside the State Library on 17 August. UMSU has expressed solidarity with Hong Kong protestors.

ALLISON MILNER

The associate professor was crushed by a 106-year-old elm tree that fell in Princes Park in the morning of 12 August. Professor Milner specialised in suicide prevention, and was the mother of two young boys.

INDIA STRATEGY

INTL MELBOURNE

According to the federal Department of Education, Melbourne’s universities have the greatest concentration of international students in Australia, with RMIT topping the list and UniMelb coming fifth.

/ ART BY SOMEONE SOMEONE

A university spokesperson has said that applicants who did not meet the English language entry requirements could complete a foundations studies program, which is described to be “rigorous” and “overseen by the University’s academic board”.

NATIONAL DAY OF ACTION

Around 20 students gathered on South Lawn on 21 August to protest and placed 500 flags, each representing an instance of sexual violence on campus around Australia.

SURVEY CONFIRMED Universities Australia will be conducting a second survey into sexual assault and harassment on campuses, building on the first survey in 2016 by the Australian Human Rights Commission.

USYD SRC GROWS

The Student Representative Council of the University of Sydney has been increased to 35 seats from 33. Last year, Honi Soit revealed the Council was undersized for over five years.

CONFUSION CONFUCIUS The University is renegotiating its Confucius Institute partnership with the Chinese government. Critics have raised concerns about censorship of sensitive political issues and these institutes, 13 of which are at Australian universities, functioning as platforms for propoganda and foreign influence. Confucius Institutes provide Chinese culture and language classes.

CAMPUS

CALENDAR : SEPTEMBER WEEK 6

WEEK 7

WEEK 8

WEEK 9

MONDAY 2 SEP

MONDAY 9 SEP

MONDAY 16 SEP

MONDAY 23 SEP

2pm: Ace+Aro collective UMSU General Elections

2pm: Ace+Aro collective 6:30pm: PoC film screening

2pm: Ace+Aro collective

2pm: Ace+Aro collective 6:30pm: PoC film screening

TUESDAY 3 SEP

TUESDAY 10 SEP

TUESDAY 17 SEP

TUESDAY 24 SEP

12pm: WoC collective 1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Enviro collective 5pm: Welfare—Yoga UMSU General Elections

12pm: WoC collective 12pm: Southbank Queer collective 1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Enviro collective 5pm: Welfare—Yoga

12pm: WoC collective 1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Enviro collective 5pm: Welfare—Yoga

12pm: WoC collective 12pm: Southbank Queer collective 1pm: Trans collective 1pm: Enviro collective 5pm: Welfare—Yoga

WEDNESDAY 4 SEP

WEDNESDAY 11 SEP

WEDNESDAY 18 SEP

WEDNESDAY 25 SEP

12pm: Women’s collective 12pm: Welfare collective 1pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Laughter 1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Queer Lunch UMSU General Elections

12pm: Women’s collective 12pm: Welfare collective 1pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Laughter 1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Queer Lunch 5:30pm: Enviro—Play with your Food

12pm: Women’s collective 12pm: Welfare collective 12pm: Meat and Greet 1pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Laughter 1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Queer Lunch

12pm: Women’s collective 12pm: Welfare collective 12pm: UMSU Int’l Festival of Nations 1pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Laughter 1pm: PoC collective 1pm: Queer Lunch

THURSDAY 5 SEP

THURSDAY 12 SEP

THURSDAY 19 SEP

THURSDAY 26 SEP

12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: PoC in media collective 1pm: Education collective UMSU General Elections

FRIDAY 6 SEP

12pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Writing UMSU General Elections

12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Education collective 5pm: G&Ts with the LGBTs

12pm: Queer PoC collective 12:30pm: UMSU Special General Meeting 1pm: Education collective 1pm: PoC in media collective

12pm: Queer PoC collective 1pm: Education collective 5pm: G&Ts with the LGBTs

FRIDAY 13 SEP

FRIDAY 20 SEP

FRIDAY 27 SEP

12pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Writing

11:30pm: Global Climate Strike 12pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Writing

12pm: Mudcrabs Rowdy Writing

ART BY ANJANA RAM

Has something happened on campus that has made you mad? Did you hear about something dodgy? Or just have a story you think Farrago readers should know about? We want to bring you the best news possible. Let us know if you see or hear something you feel we should look into by emailing us at editors@farragomagazine.com or stephanie@farragomagazine.com. Confidentiality will always be upheld. Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be afraid to speak up.

MAKE SANDWICH BY ELMIRA CHEUNG

NEWS

Feathered Friend Fuels Facebook Feud Ailish Hallinan reports

aillieu Library’s resident albino pigeon has become the source of a heated Facebook debate between students attempting to name the bird. Over semester break, the Facebook page Pigeon at the Baillieu Library ran an online competition to determine its name. The competition consisted of multiple polls. The winner of each round was decided based on how many “reactions” each name received. After 13 rounds, it was decided that the pigeon would be named ‘Fernando’. However, many students were unhappy with the competition’s outcome and took to the comments section to express their anger. “Greatest tragedy of the 21st century,” wrote one student. Another said, “Fernando voters cheated and I hope they fail [their] exams”. Others said they will refuse to acknowledge the pigeon’s name. “I will never accept this result,” commented another student. Fernando made the library’s entrance its home towards the end of Semester 1 after injuring its leg. The bird’s presence in the library was incredibly popular amongst students, particularly during the SWOTVAC and exam period. Iris Shuttleworth, a huge Fernando fan, said “I love the albino pigeon! His commitment to the library inspires me every time I see him. Seeing the pigeon at the library every day honestly gives me a small sense of wonder throughout a mundane routine.” The pigeon became so popular that a Facebook page in its honour was created on 6 June 2019. The page was created by first year student Sharna Goulding. “I created the page because I had noticed the pigeon a few days prior,” she said. “Then all of a sudden there were heaps of Unimelb Love Letters that started blowing up. I instantly knew the pigeon they were talking about. People seemed really interested in it so I thought it might be funny to give it a fame boost.” The pigeon’s current whereabouts is unknown. Fernando has allegedly not been sighted in the library since the start of Semester 2.

Open Day Disrupted Ashleigh Barraclough reports

tudent activists from Extinction Rebellion disrupted the University of Melbourne Open Day on Sunday to protest the University’s participation in the International Mining and Resources Conference (IMARC). The student activists staged a ‘die-in’ in the foyer of Arts West, where they lay ‘dead’ on the ground as a visual representation of what could happen if the climate crisis isn’t averted. The activists also gave a speech during the science fair in Wilson Hall to draw attention to the University’s participation in IMARC. “We wanted to disrupt Melbourne University’s Open Day to put pressure on them to withdraw their sponsorship of this conference,” said Anneke Demanuele, one of the protest organisers. According to the IMARC website, the conference is “Australia’s largest mining event”. The University of Melbourne is listed as a silver sponsor of the conference, although the University would not reveal the value of the sponsorship. The University’s Melbourne Mining Integrator program is exhibiting at the conference. MMI contributes their expertise to the mining industry “in machine learning and artificial intelligence, data analytics, social trends, environmental management, logistics and financial assessment”. Demanuele was critical of the University’s approach to mining. “The University is playing a role in the automation of mines, so they’re not even just destroying the planet but also stopping people being employed in these industries,” she said. When asked about IMARC, a University spokesperson emphasised the University’s focus on making mining more sustainable. “The University supports the event so it can raise awareness about our partnerships in the mining sector and demonstrate how we can work together to reduce the impact of mining on the environment.” The University also said they support students’ rights to non-violent protests on campus. Demanuele said UniMelb Extinction Rebellion will be blockading IMARC on 28 October to physically stop people attending the conference.

ART BY CATHY CHEN (LEFT) AND PHOTOGRAPHY FROM EXTINCTION REBELLION (RIGHT)

NEWS

CW/ Transphobia

Petitions, Protests and Sex Based Events Emily Johnson and Stephanie Zhang report

n event held at the University of Melbourne on August 8 sparked protests from students and staff amid fears that it would promote anti-trans ideas and make the University unsafe for transgender people. The panel discussion, titled The Future of Sex Based Rights, was organised by the Victorian Women’s Guild—a group created in response to the Victorian Births, Deaths and Marriages Registration Amendment Bill (2019). This bill has now been passed, and allows transgender people to change the sex marker on their birth certificate without medical intervention if passed in the senate. Two Unimelb academics were panelists: political philosopher Dr. Holly Lawford-Smith and sports lawyer Mr. Hayden Opie AM. The other speakers were Virginia Mansel Lees and Bronwyn Winter and Victorian Women’s Guild’s spokesperson Nina Vallins acted as chair. During the event, each panelist described the ways they believed women’s sex-based rights could be impacted by trans-women being able to change the gender on their birth certificates without first undergoing surgery. The topics discussed included women’s spaces and single-sex sports. In response, Michelle McNamara, an openly transgender Enterprise Fellow at the University, said, “There is no evidence that women’s rights will be adversely affected by the passage of these amendments. Similar laws have been enacted in other jurisdictions in Australia and internationally without any evidence of adverse impact on women’s rights.” When asked to comment, a University spokesperson said, “The event is not an official University of Melbourne event. The University respects the right to Academic Freedom of Speech.” In a separate action taken against the event, Feminists Opposing Reactionary Transphobes circulated a petition on Equality Australia calling for its cancellation. Driving the petition were two PhD students at the University; Sophie, a cis white queer woman, and Priya, a trans person of colour. Sophie said, “It seems to us, and it seems to people in the Faculty of Arts who signed the open letter, that this isn’t an academic event; rather its an event that’s promoting a particular political ideology, which is anti-trans.” In response to the petition, Vice Chancellor Professor Duncan Maskell said, “A commitment to the rights of

LGBTQI people and a commitment to freedom of expression are not automatically in conflict, unless that expression takes the form of bullying, violence, or attempts to suppress the rights of others to speak.” Lawford-Smith refuted claims that the Victorian Women’s Guild promotes harmful ideas, saying, “having your identity claims denied is not ‘oppression’ and being offended is not the same as being ‘hurt’.” Priya said Lawford-Smith’s response “seemed to suggest that they don’t understand the threat to [trans] women— there’s a disconnect between the power of discourse to hurt people”. When asked about the University’s decision to hold the event, McNamara said, “I think that it is appropriate for the University of Melbourne to invoke academic freedom to allow this event to go ahead. However, I would expect that the University preferably at the VC level would put out a statement about the University of Melbourne’s support for transgender rights.” Two hours before the event, its location was revealed via email to all registered attendees to be the Carrillo Gantner Theatre in the Sidney Myer Asia Centre. Around 100 people turned up to peacefully protest the event with signs reading “Transphobes go home” and “Melbourne University commit to diversity”. There were six police officers present, and campus security prevented protestors from entering the building. Attendees were subject to ID and bag checks upon entry. Lawford-Smith said of the protestors, “I hope they get some respect for women, for freedom of speech, for open democratic discussion of laws that affect people, and for the role of a university in the wider society.” Imogen McDonald, event attendee and masters student at the University, described the protesters as “intimidating”, but added that they were “completely polite and civil”, and she “fully respect[ed] their right to assemble and protest the event”. Andie Moore, a rally organiser from the UMSU Queer Political Action Collective, highlighted the importance of visible opposition and said, “If the university claims to want to create an inclusive culture for trans people, this has to include refusing to platform transphobic discussions.”

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STEPHANIE ZHANG

UMSU Explainer Annette Syahlani and Ailish Hallinan on the who and the what of student election season

ell, well, well. It’s that time of year again: student election season. Unfortunately, it’s a time many of us dread. The university grounds become overrun with student politics hopefuls donning an array of coloured shirts and handing out flyers. They’ve been asking for your vote and trying to promote their policies on improving the student experience, and they might have even chased you down on your way to class to chew your ear off. Whether you’re a jaffy, a student on exchange or just on campus for minimum tutorial attendance, the election season can be incredibly confusing. It also doesn’t help when you’re being bombarded with material from countless student factions trying to secure your vote. And when results start coming out, you might be even more muddled. But don’t fret, Farrago is here to help break down some of the important questions: what even is UMSU? What does it do? And why should you care about student elections?

Activities run all the groovy events you might have been to, like Union House parties, trivia nights and the ever popular ‘Bands, Bevs and BBQ’ on Tuesdays.

What even is UMSU? What does it do? And why should you care about student elections?

What the heck is an UMSU? UMSU stands for the University of Melbourne Student Union, which represents all students who attend the University. The union is designed to maximize the student experience by providing quality facilities, such as clubs, student services, and activism.

The who’s who of UMSU UMSU is comprised of a bunch of different roles. The president sits at the top of the UMSU food chain. Their role includes attending lots of meetings with the University and acting as the spokesperson for the union. The general secretary runs students’ council and handles all things governance. There are also a number of office bearers, also known as OBs. There are generally two OBs per department, with the exception of Media (that’s us!), which has four. The Education Department is broken into two offices: Education Public (Ed Pub) and Education Academic (Ed Ac). Ed Pub campaigns around education issues such as Cadmus and cuts to higher education, while Ed Ac advocates for students in matters relating to their studies, such as misconduct hearings.

ART BY JENNIFER LUKI ANDREANY

The Environment Department are more than just your typical greenies. While they do run campaigns against fossil fuel investment and military groups on campus, they also do a heap of free brekkies (yay for free food!), and just opened a bike collective in Union House. Welfare is like your uni mum. They run breakfasts in North Court or The Ida every morning, as well as a food bank for students who need items in an emergency. They also advocate for things like better funding for Counselling and Psychological Services. The Media Department creates this magazine and also runs Radio Fodder. We host launch parties where you can nab a funky magazine as well as some free refreshments and rad tunes. Clubs and Societies oversees, well, clubs and societies. We have over 200 on campus, so they make sure that clubs are being active and hosting events for students, as well as choosing which new clubs to start up to satisfy student demand. Creative Arts cultivate and assist student theatre, performance, and art. They put on a variety of arts-related activities

and are most known for their production of Mudfest, the largest student-run creative arts festival in the Southern Hemisphere. UMSU also has 5 autonomous departments that are run by and advocate for students who identify with these groups. They are Disabilities, Indigenous, People of Colour, Queer and Women’s. The VCA (Victorian College of the Arts) and Burnley campuses provide services and advocacy for their students as well. There are also several positions on the Students’ Council and in numerous committees up for grabs this election.

Key Players in UMSU elections Stand Up! is the largest and most dominant faction in the realm of student politics on campus, and is contesting the most positions of any ticket this year. Pride in (Y)our Collectives is the new faction on the block, and was formed by members of the now-dissolved faction More! They’re contesting all the autonomous departments and the Environment Department. There are also smaller factions, which include the Left Action (Socialist Alternative), Independent Media and Just Clubs Just Activities, who are all eyeing off various positions. From year to year, you’ll notice a number of independents and other small tickets contesting positions too.

Voting and results We hope you turned up to vote in the week of 2-6 September! A somewhat confusing part of the UMSU elections is that we use optional preferential voting. If you’ve never voted in your local, state or federal election, you might not have come across this type of voting system before—it essentially means there are a few different ways you can vote in the election. You can preference one or some of the candidates, or you can preference them all. Both methods are equally valid. Results will be tallied up slowly during the weekend following the close of polls. Primary votes will be the first to be counted, and generally it starts with the office bearer positions. Depending on how tight the race is, vote counting can take ages, or it can be very quick. Last year, the general

secretary votes came down to a mere four votes!! And after the votes have been counted, there remains the possibility of going to tribunal, if a ticket is dissatisfied with the way the election went and want to appeal. Last year, an appeal was made due to allegations of defective conduct during the election, and was ultimately rejected.

But will my vote mean anything? It will, and if you don’t believe me, then you should read Megan Hanrahan’s article about the history of UMSU. The ‘Melbourne University Union’ was created in the 1880s to “[promote] the common interests of students, provide resources for pursuing public life and assist social interactions between its members”. At the time, women staff and students could not participate in any activities, nor contribute significantly to the management of the union, so in 1888, they created their own group called the Princess Ida Club. In the early 2000s, the union (called the Melbourne University Student Union Incorporated or MUSUi, due to mergers and takeovers) became embroiled in corruption and undemocratic elections. In 2004, MUSUi was liquidated by the Supreme Court. The union we have today is the result of over 130 years of change—development, and downfall—which has happened off the back of students. While it was segregated in the past, students of myriad backgrounds now have a part to play in the upcoming (and thoroughly democratic) election process. The inclusivity that the Union has gained over many decades makes your role all the more significant, because every single vote enables more voices to be heard, more issues to be tackled, and more feedback to be received. Aside from knowing a bit more about UMSU, the most important takeaway from this article should be that there’s no student union without students. Hence, it is your role to enable an even more wholesome student union by voting. Every student’s role in the election is significant. Also, the free student BBQs, carnivals and parties that magically pop up throughout the year? They are all there because UMSU provides them for you. So make sure to give UMSU some love and engage with the democratic process!

NEWS

CW/ Mental illness, trauma, depression

What’s in a tree? Melbourne’s best kept secret is at The Dax Centre Michelle La reports

n your hurry to class you might have rushed past Australia’s only heritage-listed art collection. Tucked away in a quiet corner on the University of Melbourne’s Parkville campus sits over 16,000 artworks, one of only three collections in the world of its kind. “Someone once said to me that The Dax Centre was Melbourne’s best kept secret,” said director Charmaine Smith. Established in the early 1990s, the gallery features works created by people with a lived experience of mental-illness. The dedicated team at The Dax Centre are using these works to change the conversation around mental-health, a momentous task which they’re tackling one artwork at a time. One of these conversation-changing works is of a tree. Unassumingly painted on brown butcher’s paper, the work features thick brush strokes dipped in what looks like children’s paint. Not to be dismissed at face-value, such tree paintings were typical of rudimentary psychology practices in Victoria during the 1950s, explained Education Officer Bec Knaggs. Back then, psychology patients were treated at clinical institutions where patients were prescribed the “Three Tree Test”. They painted a picture of a tree in the morning, afternoon and night, and their condition would be analysed from these paintings. Scrutinising details like how they drew a tree’s root system or the shape of branches, or painted leaves, therapists would ‘diagnose’ their patient’s symptoms. As a small group of gallery-goers gathered to listen to Knaggs’ explanation, one person in our group murmured to their partner, “but I don’t even draw a root system when I draw trees”. My group of gallery-goers on this particular day were not originally there to see the artworks. We were design-curious folk who had arrived for Open House Melbourne, an architecture event that gives the public a glimpse into well-designed buildings. Whilst architecture initially seemed far removed from the Centre’s mental-health mission, it turned out that that was exactly the point. As director Charmaine Smith said: “By being part of Open House Melbourne, we’re opening up our audience and we hope that people know we’re here.” Our group was the perfect example: we came to admire the building’s soaring design, yet we stayed for the powerful stories and visual works on display. Education

Officer Bec Knaggs said that unlike other art, the works in The Dax Centre are more like “private pages of someone’s journal”. Art gave a voice to those going through inexpressible upheavals, with grief reflected in images of unspeakable trauma and poetry, all displayed on the white gallery walls. The works are like a “window into the mind of the creator” said Knaggs. Poet Sandy Jeffs, who has works in the gallery’s current exhibition — Finding Our Words — agreed with this sentiment. “Mental-illness can rob you of so much, so to be able to create a poem from the depths of one’s imagination, is a blessing.” Through these works, we learned the shocking figure that one-in-five people experience mental-illness. We openly discussed psychosis as a result of amazing embroidery works, and we chatted about trauma, prompted by colourful knitted chickens made in the aftermath of the Black Saturday bushfires. One intricate clay sculpture called “Happy Magnets” even taught us about transcranial magnetic stimulation — an approved treatment in Australia for depression — from which the artist found relief from her debilitating illness. The gallery was filled with questions and conversations and this experience was exactly what director Charmaine Smith was striving for. “We hope that people will learn a little bit more about mental-health and about the history of mental-health in Victoria,” she said. “And also, through that understanding, we can break down some of the stigma that still exists.” In this way, the artworks at the Dax Centre don’t merely demand sympathy or benevolence. On many levels, it fills in the gaps of our awareness around mental-health. Through art, it opens the dialogue on complex issues. Issues that are hard to talk about but need to be discussed. For more information visit www.daxcentre.org Anyone looking for information, support and guidance from mental-health professionals can contact the SANE Help Centre on 1800 187 263 or helpline@sane.org from 10am-10pm AEST. For anyone in crisis, call: • Lifeline 13 11 14 • Suicide Call Back Line 1800 659 467 • Mensline 1300 789 978 • KidsHelpline 1800 551 800

PHOTOGRAPHY BY MICHELLE LA WITH EDIT BY CAROLYN HUANE

SATIRE

Local Asshole Stands on Local Man Ready to Give Up Right-Hand Side of Escalator as Third Group Chat Message and Doesn’t Walk in a Row is Left on Seen Denis Curnow reports

he most important person in the world visited Melbourne Central Station today. At least that’s how it seemed as one inconsiderate asshole decided he had the right to stand still on the right-hand side of the escalator. Richard Head (22) could have easily passed as a your average bloke functioning member of society as he hopped off the 3:26pm Hurstbridge service in the city loop—his myki had even been topped up. But any hope that he would be a good bloke were dashed as he stepped onto the escalator and stood unmoving in the well-established walking lane. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, honestly,” said one distraught witness, who did not want to be named, as the trauma of the ordeal was still too raw. “Everyone knows you stand on the left if you don’t want to walk. If you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen.” “I tried all the tricks in the book,” said Ines Cent (20), another of Head’s victims, who was bolder in her attempts to rescue the doomed situation. “I walked right up behind him and sighed really loudly. I even started drumming my fingers on the handrail. But he wouldn’t budge, the absolute psycho.” Melbourne Uni students are warned to be on high alert as Head has reportedly been sighted loitering around campus, oozing narcissism. He was spotted playing a sonata on the honky-tonk piano outside Union House in a blatant ploy to let everyone know he’s pretty good. “This sort of behaviour is characteristic of a person with absolutely no regard for any other human.” said Dr Di Sorder, an expert in Medical Psychology. “On these stories alone, I would have no hesitation in clinically diagnosing Richard as a wanker.”

Denis Curnow reports

local man has today been left wondering where it all went wrong after he messaged a group chat hoping to grab some beers tonight, but was instead served absolute donuts. It understood that the message, sent by Arnold Flux (20), follows a mildly edgy meme he sent which was met with a similarly icy reception. “Look, I’ll admit the AFL Shitposting meme was a bit of an airball. But I couldn’t just let that sit there being the last message in the chat, so I thought the beers offer would be a fairly safe crowd pleaser,” Mr Flux said. “And what do I get? F**ken seen-zoned.” Sources close to Mr Flux reveal that this is not the first time he’s felt like he’s messaging brick walls, with his past 3 attempts to tee up a piss-up all being straight-batted back down the wicket. “I actually would be pretty keen to get beers, but I’m more keen to see how mad he gets,” said Garry Pilson (20), a ‘mate’ of Flux’s. “I mean, we’ve all been there. I’m just glad it’s not me. Might even change his nickname to ‘Donut King’ and see how he takes it.” As it turned out, Pilson did in fact change Flux name in the chat to Donut King, and Flux did not take it particularly well. “I want to kill him. I mean, at least it’s something of a reply, but honestly the nerve of the bloke – ” Flux vented, before unleashing a few creative expletives. “But I can’t let him know he’s got under my skin. I’ve got to just laugh and go along with it,” he continued, as he sent a laughing-crying face emoji. The emoji proceeded to be seen by everyone. “F**k this.”

ART BY CAROLYN HUANE

PHOTOGRAPHY BY ABIR HIRANANDANI

CAMPUS

Office Bearer Reports PRESIDENT/Molly Willmott

No OB report submitted.

GENERAL SECRETARY/Reece Moir

No OB report submitted.

ACTIVITIES/Liam O’Brien G’day, we’ve started selling Oktoberfest tickets so get around that asap before we sell out, you won’t want to miss this and the stories that live on from the night. Bands and bevs is uuuge as always. Georgia Maq is playing week 6 and BABBA. Yes, you heard/read correctly, BABBA is back in week 8. We also have a whole bunch of student bands playing this half of semester including a student showcase on week 11. Keep an eye out for a mystery pub night coming up to for your chance to have a beer, cider or cruiser with friends.

BURNLEY/James Barclay

No OB report submitted.

CLUBS AND SOCIETIES/Jordan Tochner & Chris Melenhorst We have moved office!! It was a long, strenuous process where we cleaned out the garbage which had accumulated over many years and moved all the non-garbage into our new abode. We are now located in the old STA travel space, the one with all the windows where everyone can see in and watch you work. On the plus side, we get a great view of bands and bevs… and their sound checks. Hopefully, this will make us more accessible to clubs and reduce our hours shut in a windowless box. But we shall see.

CREATIVE ARTS/Ellie Hamill & Lucy Holz Mudfest happened! We’re over the moon with how our beautiful festival turned out. Our fantastic festival team, artists and volunteers poured their hearts and souls into this festival to make this fantastic festival a reality. So that’s it now for another year. For no we’re taking a well-earned break, getting some sleep and eating some vegetables and then will be back to debrief, tie up and loose ends and get prepared to welcome some gorgeous new Creative Arts Office Bearers for 2020! Make sure to vote kids!

DISABILITIES/Lucy Birch

No OB report submitted.

EDUCATION ACADEMIC/Dominic Roque Ilagan & Elizabeth Tembo Improved employability outcomes for undergrads and exams on public holidays or weekends?! This semester your education academic department will continue its work with the University’s Student Success Team to increase employability and student satisfaction. One thing we’ll be sussing out is the viability of securing government funding towards this. The Head of University Services has recommended that the semester 1 exam period be extended an extra day and fall either on a weekend or on the Queen’s Birthday to cope with scheduling demands.

EDUCATION PUBLIC/Charli Fouhy & Charlie Joyce Education Public has had a huge first few weeks of semester! After a super successful O-Week stall with tons of new signups, we quickly mobilized the new signups to get the Education Collective started up again! It’s been an amazing success in its first weeks, with heaps of organizing, discussion, reflection and just hanging out. We also have been doing heaps of organizing around the NUS August 9 Climate Action NDA and the September 20 Climate Strike, with Ed office bearers and volunteers doing banner drops, lecture bashes and standing on public stalls.

ENVIRONMENT/Will Ross Wow. Enviro has had a big start to the semester. The new Bike Collective on ground floor Union House is now open - swing by on Thursday mornings for all your bike needs. Our Play With Your Food dinners (in weeks 1, 4, 7, and 10) have been huge successes. Finally, the General Strike for Climate on September 20th – possibly the biggest climate protest of the 21st century – is very close now. Join us in front of Wilson Hall at 12pm to walk with the UniMelb contingent! See u there!

INDIGENOUS/Jordan Holloway-Clarke & Laura Brown Hello from us Mob over in the Indigenous Department. End of last sem saw us killing it at the Indigenous University Games over in Perth and everyone had so much fun and we played deadly. This sem you will all have to look out for Under Bunjil, the all Indigenous publication, coming out by the end of semester! Stay deadly and enjoy semester!!! Love Jordan & Laura xoxo

CAMPUS

PEOPLE OF COLOUR/Farah Khairat & Mark Yin Heya! This semester, we’re really excited to introduce PoC Mental Health Week into the UMSU Calendar. In week 7, we’ll be holding a number of workshops and discussions, including intersectional events—keep an eye on our socials for some of that sweet, sweet discourse (or just opportunities to connect with your community, make friends etc.). We’ll also be having a series of Anti-Racism Workshops on Tuesdays and Fridays over the next couple of weeks! Otherwise, keep an eye out for the date and location of our first Open Mic Night!

QUEER/Andie Moore & Raph Canty HELLO BELOVEDS! We’re ya queer officers, and we’re sipping the event organising JUICE. We hope y’all enjoyed MU Sport’s free fitness classes and Southbank G&Ts! This week is the launch of our SMASHING magazine CAMP, and in Week 10, we’re serving an out-of-this-world space-themed QUEER BALL. How good??? If you haven’t already, check out our report and petition for our all-gender bathroom campaign, Stalls For All, and message us on how you can get involved. As always, we have a trans, ace/aro and QPOC collective every week – check them out! There’s also bagels at Southbank Collective every even Tuesday.

SOUTHBANK/Lily Ekins

No OB report submitted.

WELFARE/Ashwin Chhaperia & Natasha Guglielmino Hey everyone <3 Hope your semester has been going well. We’ve just had one of our Dogs at the Rowdy events with lots of cute therapy doggos. We’ll have another session during our Stress Less Week (Week 11). We have lots of exciting events planned for the week so stay tuned <3 If you or your club want to get involved, drop us an email before the end of Week 6. See you soon!

WOMEN’S/Aria Sunga & Hannah Buchan We've been really busy this semester with things like Women in Higher Ed week, Rad Sex and Consent week, and our Women's National Day of Action for safety on campus. Thank you to everyone who attended our events, we've had a lot of fun! Our time as your Women's Officers is soon coming to an end, but we still have a lot of events for you to look forward to. Later this semester we are running Queer Gals Movie Nights and we are also launching our department magazine Judy's Punch. We love women!!!!!

STARS BY GISELLE MARTIN

NONFICTION

CW/ Intergenerational trauma

Up into the Mountains and Down to the Countryside by Nicole Moore

n the 19th of June 1976, after three anxiety-riddled nights of waiting, six hours of cross-country travel, and another sleepless night squashed into a single bed with her two parents, Jia was finally ready to say goodbye. Not just to her family, she realised, but the last remnants of her home, her city and her entire life so far. As she stood at the village’s edge and watched the cars dwindle beyond the glassy landscape of soaked rice paddies and distant mountains, she steeled herself against all remaining fear and doubt. For my mother, this was her

Mum describes how the waterlogged fields caught the sun, and by midday the whole landscape was transformed into a blinding ocean.

chance to contribute to Mao’s revolution and the future of her beloved China. On that first evening, Mum recalls how city kids from all over the province of Sichuan mingled around a big celebratory fire, laughing and drinking until late. Her surrogate family had welcomed her enthusiastically, assigning her a bed in their modest home. When it was time to sleep, Mum

recounts with lucidity even now, her horror upon hearing the rats scampering across the straw roof. She barely slept the first week, convinced they would fall squealing onto her bed during the night. At 4am, Mum was shaken awake by her new auntie, who appeared over her, smiling gently with a bowl of rice and pickles. She dressed and ate quickly before following her new family out to a section of land to start harvesting. Around her small frame, Mum describes how the waterlogged fields caught the sun, and by midday the whole landscape was transformed into a blinding ocean. As she waded through the hours, stooped low and slicing at bunches of rice that clung obstinately to the earth, the strong urge to faint seized her. When she didn’t she wished she would. At least then, she could be carried back to the shade of her dark hut. Her shoulders ached from bending down and the sun’s heavy body had slumped itself over her back, leaving the skin of her neck raw and her head swollen. At nightfall, work finished, and her auntie cooked up a small bowl of rice with salted pickles. Jia’s stomach grumbled for meat and she suddenly missed her mum’s delicious pork bone soup. Doubt, like an ugly moth, beat its large wings against her stomach. What kind of place is this? Her fingers moved instinctively to the face of her badge, a side profile of Chairman Mao pinned proudly to the breast of her plain cotton shirt. Golden and regal. His pursed lips chided her, reminding her what a glorious thing it was to endure hardship, to purify your heart with peasant values. “We must put roots in the country, to make a revolution”. His voice in the curve of her ear and on her lips and her tongue, stayed with her like a warm taste until she drifted off into sleep, dreaming of softly-cooked rabbit and spiced lamb skewers. At 16, my mother was one of 17 million urban youths from 1967 to 1978 relocated indefinitely from China’s major cities to neighbouring rural communes and state farms at the rallying cry of China’s revolutionary leader Mao Zedong to “go up into the mountains and down to the countryside.” Later, people would refer less optimistically to the period as “the lost generation”, referencing the widespread loss of

Yihong Pan, “Review: China’s Sent-Down Generation: Public Administration and the Legacies of Mao’s Rustication Program by Helena K. Rene.”

China Review Journal 20 (2013), http://www.jstor.org/stable/43818395

VORTEX BY ESME WANG

educational opportunities, jobs and quality of life for much of this generation1. My mother was sent down in 1976 and was lucky because, soon after, Mao would pass away and the cultural revolution would end. With the re-establishment of Deng Xiaoping in 1979, those who wished to return to the cities had a chance to do so, and a small number of university placements were offered to students based on rigorous academic testing. My mother’s determination and extreme studiousness landed her one of these coveted placements, and eventually a scholarship to study physics at Macquarie University, in Sydney, Australia. Like many children of immigrants, I am keenly aware of the opportunities that have come from my mother’s sacrifices, and accordingly the difference between her worldview and the privileged, western-academic lens I am informed by. To me, the sent-down youths are another historical example of a group’s unjustified exploitation for a larger political agenda, namely Mao’s attempts to re-assert the purity of communist ideology, despite these same coercive, violent tactics causing the ‘Great Leap Famine’ and the deaths of 45 million people only 5 years earlier. What was presented to the public as necessary socialist re-education was mostly about disbanding the Red Guard, groups of students Mao had called upon to fight any dissent to communism. However, as their passion grew into disorder and violence, Mao’s solution was simple: they could be moved to the country. The program was also a solution to growing urban unemployment, with the removal of many soon-to-be employed high school graduates improving the amount of work available and re-asserting Mao’s ability to make the nation wealthy2. His solutions came at a great cost to a whole generation of young people. And yet, when I talk to my mother she is hesitant to speak negatively about her experiences. I ask her, “Did you struggle?” She tells me, “I was passionate, young and ready to take on anything.” I ask, “Are you angry that your generation lost so many opportunities?” She replies, “It made me strong. Grateful for what I have today.”3 For the most part, she seems to look at the experience with a lot of nostalgia, telling me about the kindness of the peasants in the town and the strong friendships she formed. Her regard for the experience surprisingly fits with the narrative of many Chinese commentators: that the movement created a generation of strong leaders with the ability to endure hardship and understand the sufferings of the common people. The current president, Xi Jinping, a former sent-down youth, is a poster-boy for this, often citing his time in the countryside as deeply enriching and inspiring him to make a difference.4 And yet, it does not take a lot of research to find countless tales of harsh manual labour, violence and deaths. The youths who returned to the city without the education necessary to compete with younger, university-educated generations were left trailing at the bottom of society.5 For Deng Xiaoping, the growth of the nation was the paramount aim and equality traded up for trickle-down economic policies that made no attempts to lessen the burden on the poor. My mother concedes, “Our generation lost our right

to education. A lot of my friends never got to go to uni. Some married peasants and never left.” What appears, surprisingly, to have affected my mother most is a loss of faith. “I think my passion saved me going in. I believed and so I really felt I could put up with anything. But the harshness of the situation disillusions you. Everybody had a belief crisis.”6 Therefore, amongst those who experienced it, the situation cannot be polarised as it often is in Western academia, as inhumane, without putting in brackets that the highly-politicised Chinese youth were motivated to take on the challenge. For my mother and her friends this was not a punishment, but a lucky experience. Michel Bonnin in a review of The Lost Generation also remarks that these are the “thoughtful’ generation, becoming the force of resistance against the Cultural Revolution and crueller aspects of government policy.7 It is therefore hard to know what China would be without the unfortunate history of the sent-down youths, and perhaps when recounting it, it is best to focus on the passion and bravery of city kids taking up sickles and adopting peasant roles to passionately serve their country. This attitude of optimism in hardship is reflected amongst immigrant parents from many countries who have overcome difficult circumstances to provide better opportunities for their children. In my own life, I have internalised a strong belief in the character-building role of hardship and resilience, and the rewards of hard-work, and I have these values to thank for my academic and extracurricular successes so far. When I am homesick or doubtful of the decision I made to move from Sydney to Melbourne to live and study (albeit a far easier experience of my own volition), I marvel at my mother and the sent-down youths, who had no experience with hard manual labour, and who didn’t know if they would ever return home. Though she misses me, my mother never complains about my distance. She understands, more than most, a young person’s desire to seek out adventure and independence and to make it on their terms.

Bibliography Buckley, C. “Cultural Revolution Shaped Xi Jinping, From Schoolboy to Survivor.” The New York Times, September 24, 2015. https://www.nytimes.com/2015/09/25/world/asia/ xi-jinping-china-cultural-revolution.html?_r=0 Dikotter, F. “Mao’s Great Leap to Famine.” The New York Times, December 15, 2010. http://www.nytimes. com/2010/12/16/opinion/16iht-eddikotter16.html Hillie, K. “China’s ‘sent-down’ youth.” Financial Times, September 20, 2013. https://www.ft.com/ content/3d2ba75c-1fdf-11e3-8861-00144feab7de Pan, Yihong. “Review: China’s Sent-Down Generation: Public Administration and the Legacies of Mao’s Rustication Program by Helena K. Rene.” China Review Journal 20 (2013). http://www.jstor.org/stable/43818395 Rene, Helena. China’s Sent Down Generation: Public Administration and the Legacies of Mao’s Rustication Program. Washington: Georgetown University Press, 2013.

Yihong, “Review.” 179.

Jia Du, in conversation with Nicole Moore, phone correspondence, May 10, 2017.

C. Buckley, “Cultural Revolution Shaped Xi Jinping, From Schoolboy to Survivor,” The New York Times, September 24, 2015.

K. Hillie, “China’s ‘sent down’ youth.” Financial Times, September 20, 2013.

FIRST FOOTNOTE: Jia Du, in conversation with Nicole Moore, phone correspondence, May 10, 2017. SUBSEQUENT FOOTNOTES: Du, conversation.

Yihong, “Review.” 179.

COLUMN

CW/ Sexual harassment

Kiss and Tell by A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni

Uber everywhere. When I wake up late for school, I Uber. When I’m meeting friends for brunch at a suburb that I’m not familiar with, I Uber. When I’m done with a long night out with friends, I Uber. Granted, they’re expensive, but for a social butterfly like myself, I find comfort in having conversations with the drivers. Some of them are more flirtatious than others, but I’ve always felt safe on most, if not all my trips. It was July 23rd. I waited at Melbourne Airport’s Rideshare pick-up zone for about 6 minutes before the black Honda HR-V arrived. The driver helped me with my luggage – as most drivers at the airport do. We got in the car and the questions began. “Where are you from?” “What brings you to Melbourne?” “Oh wow, which uni?” “A girl like you, got a boyfriend?” Ah. The boyfriend question. I told him I don’t have a boyfriend and he got all shocked. Soon the compliments came rolling in. I started feeling uncomfortable so I diverted the focus of the conversation to him by asking him what he did for a living apart from Uber. “I’m a baker. You know, we’re actually looking for more people to work at the bakery, I think you’d be great,” I declined the offer. We were a few minutes away from my place. “I hang out here a lot, we should grab lunch,” Declined. I told him to drive another 100 metres and unbuckled my seatbelt. It started drizzling. “Oh no, it’s raining. Are you going to be okay?” I said yes and reached for the door handle. He pressed on the gas pedal. “I’m not going to let you walk in the rain. No, we’ll wait for the rain to stop,” And he kept driving. I panicked and asked him where he was taking me and why he wasn’t dropping me off. “We’ll just go around the corner, we can sit and talk till the rain stops, I’m not letting you walk in the rain,” “No. No. NO. TAKE ME HOME,” I said. “NO.”

D8 ME OR ELSE BY CHARANJA THAVENDRAN

“STOP THE CAR.” “RIGHT.” “NOW.” I was sitting at the edge of the seat now. My left hand was still on the door handle - I had half a mind to jump out of the car while it was still moving. He stepped on the break and I jumped out of the car. I ran to the back of the car, opened his boot and attempted to lift my heavy luggage. He came running and tried to help. I said it was okay but it fell on deaf ears. He pulled my luggage out of the boot and placed it onto the wet road. “I can walk you to your door,” I shook my head profusely. Told him that I don’t need his help whilst fumbling and struggling with pulling my luggage. Once I properly got a hold of my luggage, my first instinct was to get away from him as quickly as possible. “About the job offer... maybe I can get your number?” He must be kidding. I continued moving away and he came after me asking for my number again. Once again, “LEAVE” “ME” “ALONE. .... “Fine, I was just trying to help." He got into his car but didn’t drive off. He sat there observing me from his rearview mirror. I walked to a neighbouring house instead and turned to look at him. Still there. I pretended to find my keys. Still there. I took my keys out and put them into the gate’s keyhole. It was already unlocked. I opened the gate. He drove off. Drenched. Scared. And cold. I quickly made my way home and locked all the doors. I ran up the stairs to my room and got under my covers. I didn’t leave my bed for the next 6 hours. I no longer Uber everywhere. I do so only when I really need to. Like when I’m late for school. Brunch with friends are now primarily in the city. I no longer stay out late anymore unless I have a friend driving me home. And when I get in an Uber, I share my trip details with a loved one. And I sit at the backseat. And I only answer questions that I need to answer. And you probably should too.

COLUMN

Diaspora Dilemmas Veera Ramayah on academic racism

ave you ever walked into the wrong lecture during week 1 of the semester? There's something about the anxiety and the irreplaceable feeling of everyone's eyes on you that nothing else can quite replicate. Being a PoC at an overwhelmingly white academic institution has a knack for making you feel like a fish out of water. You fall into a routine of second-guessing everything, from your place in a scheduled lecture to your answers in a tutorial discussion. The existence of PoC in academia was not an idea that existed during its conception. In fact, many early academics were the founder of schools of thought that outlined and provided a framework of justification for our very exclusion from the mainstream. And if you look around at the grounds that this university was built on, the stolen lands of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation, you realise that our physical academic journey is, too, built on a foundation of genocide and eradication. I've been in rooms where, when race is awkwardly brought up, all eyes subconsciously flick to me, as if to reinforce that I stick out. I've conducted sit down meetings with faculty, spoken to the head of SHAPS, various fellows and professors, for all my concerns and experiences to be ignored, but for the invitation to do honours or speak at conferences to remain front and centre of any interactions. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not sure what's worse, being the only visible PoC in a history tutorial, where the discussion inevitably leads back to race, or, being the only one answering questions to do with race and positionality, whereby I suddenly become that one person who hogs the mic at group karaoke. And so, from the offset, with the realisation that academic institutions at their founding core were never meant for us, were never created with the thought of our education and 'advancement' in mind, you can begin to see the trickle-down effects of that. Content is not created with

cultural sensitivity in mind, classrooms often make us feel like the token chocolate chip in a vanilla cake batter. Professors would rather build on mainstream narratives that, in the history department especially, seek to erase indigenous experiences in favour of complacent, convenient ignorance. Being a history major and having a somewhat unquenchable thirst for furthering my education in the discipline, honours seemed like the obvious choice. I still get asked today (sorry papa), about why I haven't pursued it. I smile while remembering the meeting I conducted with problematic staff, including the head of SHAPS, and other academics with more degrees than I have letters in my name, where my voice shook, tears pricked my eyes and my hands trembled under the weight of confrontation. The faculty seems unwilling to even adopt a facade of change, but still tries to benefit from some kind of pseduo-diversity, with repetitious invitations to do honours or to speak at conferences about our beloved "Melbourne model". Without the conscious effort of building support networks ourselves, uni is a very isolating and alienating space to navigate for any jaffy, let alone being a PoC. I have fought tooth and nail in building my own support network, and fought against many along the way (I'm looking at you student media). I've fought to have a PoC subeditor and graphie, asserted myself through many awkward sit-downs or Facebook messenger back and forths. The steps that I've taken to fight against complacency and convenience matches my own realisation of my worth and value, both as a contributor and a WoC. Although my academic career at UniMelb has more or less come to an end, I know that my continuing academic journey, and racism, will always be linked, like the worst possible kind of toxic relationship goals. Do your bit to dismantle these racist ideas in your respective academic spheres, where or if possible. After all, fighting fire with fire is not the most peaceful tactic, but at least they'll feel the heat.

ART BY TIFFANY WIDJAJA

COLUMN

Double Take Kaavya Jha on the ethics of the beauty industry

hether you wake up an hour early to apply your tenstep Korean skincare routine and full-face beat, or roll out of bed and straight through the front door, the impact of the beauty industry plays on our self-perception and esteem feels undeniable. As the value of this industry – which includes skincare, hair, makeup, and cosmetic enhancements – reaches US$500 000 000 000 (that’s right, half a trillion!) in 2019 globally, it becomes worthwhile to step back and examine the ethics at play. While there is no shame in being an avid makeup lover, we cannot understate the importance of critically evaluating an industry that profits off insecurities and pushes an unattainable standard of perfection.

Just as fast fashion is criticised for pushing extreme consumerism, the beauty industry should also be held to a similar standard. The many YouTube beauty gurus with millions of subscribers frequently record hauls spending hundreds of dollars at a time. Each palette or foundation has a barely noticeable difference in texture or sheen or concentration but still goes on the ‘must-buy’ list. This does have the benefit of providing the average consumers with a more in-depth review and demonstration of the products but are occasionally biased due to sponsorships and the scene is rife with its own in-fighting. Animal testing is compulsory for all imported cosmetics in China; brands like Maybelline, Benefit, MAC, and Dior among dozens of other household names, all prefer access to sell in this billion-person market than cease animal testing. “Hey perhaps the giant corporations that we love and hold dear because they give us a $10 birthday coupon don’t fully have our best interests at heart!”, isn’t exactly a shocking statement for anyone, but we fail to recognise the insidious forces lurking beneath the peachy-pink surface of a

ART BY REANN LIN

cute Mecca gift wrap. For some, makeup can be an art, a hobby, and for others, makeup can be seen simply as a tool to boost self-confidence. But what does looking more put together mean, and is it ever really just for yourself? Many women get punished (implicitly or explicitly) for not wearing makeup in the workplace, and clear skin is tied to classist images of wealth and healthy living, despite acne mostly having unrelated causes. The skincare industry is in an interesting position. Online discussion forums like Reddit and switched-on consumers who care more about what’s in the product than its packaging have established a trend of skincare becoming more science-based, which has launched the astronomical success of brands like The Ordinary, whose range consists of no-fuss product names like Hyaluronic Acid 2% + B5 or Niacinamide 10% + Zinc 1% instead of the adjective soup of years past. While intimidating at first, skincare has definitely become an at home science experiment for many hundreds of thousands of women (and men!). Surely it must be a good thing if any trend of encourages large groups of people to learn more about chemistry, and perhaps more importantly, encourages a demand for greater transparency about our frequent purchases. But no, we can’t ever have nice things. As I delved into the realms of skincare forums like Skincare Addiction and Asian Beauty on Reddit (which have over 1.5 million followers between them), I couldn’t help but notice the overwhelming obsession on anti-aging and the range of preventative measures suggested. A woman’s value should not be based on how wrinkle-free her skin, despite the brands that profit in the millions by saying so. Cosmetic procedures like lip fillers and eyelash extensions have become extremely normalised. One can argue that the transparency of celebrities about the work they have done is good to breakdown what goes into unrealistic standards of beauty. But many change their features to mimic Instagram influencers who doesn’t even look like that themselves because of heavy-handedly applying Facetune to each photo. The ease and relative affordability of injectables have given rise to celebrity plastic surgeons with cult followings, and one could argue that this is just the next logical evolution in the beauty industry. It’s not right to shame any individual for their choices when it comes to their own body, yet fillers and Botox are associated with a higher level of judgement than spending a similar amount on serums or eye creams. Nonetheless, no decision is made in a vacuum, and social media has undeniably led to a rise in body dysmorphia. Still, despite all this, nothing makes me happier than a sheet masks after a long day and I love the feeling of a luxurious eye cream before bed. Traditionally feminine activities and hobbies are frequently viewed as more frivolous and inferior, and while it is important to occasionally cast a critical on what’s going on behind the scenes, one should be allowed to indulge (responsibly!) in what makes you look and feel good.

COLUMN

Living Well When You’re Unwell by Lou Winslow

elcome to Living Well When You’re Unwell—a column that answers all your questions about navigating uni, life, relationships, and jobs with disability and chronic illness. I’ve heard the term being thrown around a bit, but I don’t understand what it means. What is inspiration porn? - What Exactly Does it Mean? Have you ever given a person with a disability a compliment? Was the compliment about something they did despite having a disability? That is inspiration porn. It is when you say a person with disability is inspiring solely because they are living with a disability. Now, if you know a really rad person who has done really great things and you give them a compliment and call them inspiring, that’s not inspiration porn. That’s just acknowledging they’ve done something pretty cool! An example of this would be telling your best pal that they’re inspiring because they’ve gotten all H1s and managed to work part-time and worked an internship all at once. Inspiration porn would be telling your best pal who uses a wheelchair that you’re inspired by them because they came to class while in a wheelchair. See the difference?

Remember, there are other ways to communicate, too! You can always text, write on a piece of paper, use sign language, or anything else that might work in the conversation you’re in. Is it okay to ask someone how they became disabled? - Always Curious Unless you have a genuine reason to ask someone how they became disabled (e.g. you’re their medical professional), you probably don’t need to ask someone how they became disabled. If you’re curious, you might be dying to ask, but remember that it’s not polite and it’s really not something you need

How do I know if I’m using the right terminology when talking about disability and people with disabilities? - Afraid of Being Offensive There’s no one right way to talk about disabilities, but you’re probably already aware of some words you definitely shouldn’t use. It’s always important to refrain from using any and all derogatory terms, but if you want to find out what kind of language is used, you can take a look at this language guide from People with Disability Australia: https:// pwd.org.au/resources/disability-info/language-guide/. What do I do if I’m talking to someone with a disability who has difficulty speaking and I don’t understand what they’ve said? Is it rude to ask them to repeat themselves? - Let’s Talk About It It’s generally okay to ask someone to repeat themselves if you didn’t understand what they said. It’s definitely better to do that than pretend you understood! If you want to make sure you heard correctly, you can also repeat back what you think you’ve heard to make sure that you’re correct.

to know. Some people might experience emotional trauma around the topic and others might just want to focus on something else more relevant, like shared interests or the latest episode of Black Mirror. Curiosity alone is never reason enough to make someone uncomfortable. Have a question on the general topic of disability and chronic illness? Send an email to livingwell@farragomagazine.com to get your question answered. You don’t have to be living with a disability to send a question -- any questions you might have about disability and health are welcome.

ART BY REANN LIN

TRAM LINES BY ISAAC LANGFORD

DIFFERENTIATED BY ISAAC LANGFORD

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Burn City Sound Systems How Sound System Music is Shaking Melbourne’s Underground Music Scene by Sarah Mahoney

elbourne’s underground music scene is a living organism I had always been aware of but was never cool or curious enough to dive into and experience. Then, two years ago, I was dragged unwittingly to a dub music event—known in the scene as a “dance”—expecting dubstep and to have a terrible time. Instead I was welcomed into a community dedicated to growing their scene, to making important strides in pursuit of social justice, and to throwing an awesome party. Dub, for those of you playing at home, is bass-heavy Jamaican sound system music. Jack Walters and Harrison Kewley of Goody’s HiFi—two of the youngest operators of a successful sound system in Australia—described it to me like this: “Imagine you buy a song and you listen to it at home but you only hear a third of the song. Sound systems allow you to hear the entire song.” Sound systems themselves are the instrument.

ART BY MORGAN-LEE SNELL

There’s something very pure about sound system music that I’ve never experienced with other forms of electronic music. The low frequencies delivered at their full potential from speakers as tall as I am, literally shaking the earth, stimulating a transcendent physiological reaction. It’s a very primal feeling. Dub’s purity also comes from its welcoming community—ready to accept anyone, expecting respect for everyone. As Harrison puts it: “my favourite thing about Melbourne sound system especially is that you go to a dance, and you’ll have an 18 year old girl dancing next to a Japanese guy, dancing next to a sixty-year-old grandmother, with a Sri Lankan rapper and an old Rastafarian guy, all together, having fun.” Melbourne is fast becoming the reggae capital of Australia, but this is a recently earned title. When Adrian Hough of Adrian’s Wall moved to Melbourne from the U.K. at the end of 2011 with his sound system in tow, he remembers only one other sound system existing in the city: “I was moving from a country with a very rich history of sound system to a country where, in comparison, the scene was basically non-existent”. Adrian’s arrival in Australia was a catalyst for change— he strung up his rig alongside Heartical Hi Powa in 2012, which would go down in history as the first time two sound systems played together in Australia. “I feel like that night opened a lot of people’s minds to the idea that sound system was something that anyone could do,” he remembers. Since then, Melbourne’s sound system scene has exploded. While the Internet has played a large hand in this, Jack and Harrison ascribe part of this transformation to the fact that we are presently experiencing the first

generation of Australian born sound systems. What used to be a militantly reggae scene wherein people tried to recreate Jamaican culture in Australia has become something entirely different: “We have no ownership over Jamaican culture, and Goody’s wants no part of that sort of thing—it’s about appreciation, not recreation”. Goody’s HiFi is one of a handful of Melbourne-based sound systems that include a female selector in their crew,

The low frequencies delivered at their full potential from speakers as tall as I am, literally shaking the earth.

with Sydney-based Kat Zhelezkina making up the trio, but gender diversity is celebrated throughout the scene. Harrison says, “Part of it is consciously having a gender-balanced line up, but the truth is they [Melbourne’s female selectors] are just really good, and there’s no reason not to book them if they’re the best. And the cool thing is, there’s definitely more [talented women] out there that just haven’t been given a platform yet. It’s exciting.” Sound systems in Jamaica were originally an instrument of rebels, played in public areas as part of protests or gatherings of communities that were not allowed to congregate elsewhere. This theme remains true in Melbourne, where the sound system scene embraces its own social conscience and our responsibilities to each other as people. According to Tim Kanjere of Higher Region Sound System, this is not only a nod to traditions present in Jamaican music and its message, but

also due to the importance of giving “a voice to the voiceless”. In January, a widely condemned anti-immigration rally in St. Kilda became a tense clash with anti-racism protesters, and Solidarity Sound System was there, piled onto the back of a truck, helping to drown them out. A few weeks ago, that same rig rolled down Flinders Street in support of Julian Assange. However, this ever-growing community is now struggling against a shortage of venues willing to give Melbourne’s sound system scene a home. Venues like Grumpy’s—a cornerstone of the scene—closing their doors, and new venue operators are generally reluctant to give sound systems a space to flex. This is mainly due to venue managers’ lack of familiarity with sound system music, failing to understand the intentions of the crews or the purpose of the speakers, and dismissing it as a noise complaint waiting to happen. The Goody’s crew are now putting on regular events all over the city in search of a new place to lay their heads. Venues such as Woody’s Bar in Collingwood, Whitehart Bar and Boney in the CBD, The Night Heron in Footscray and Bar 303 in Northcote are taking a chance on it. The support of patrons has an important role to play in keeping the scene alive and growing. Adrian says, “My dream is that sound system culture can continue to grow, not just in Melbourne but all across Australia. It will take a long time, and I may not still be active to take part myself when we finally reach that point, but I am confident that with the level of hard work and dedication I see going into sound system every day in Melbourne, Australia can reach the same level as, and even one day surpass, the rest of the world when it comes to sound system culture.” Come and be a part of what is only the beginning – everyone is invited.

Bowen Bowen by Emma Hardy 1. Lindsay Lohan’s done this, I think, as the cop takes my mugshot. Should I smile? I give the camera a glare that looks petulant, childish. He picks up an iPad and holds it like my grandpa: the screen’s at arms-length and each one-fingered jab lands too hard on the screen. “Brunette,” he says, eyes flicking at me, then back at the screen, “Blue eyes. Slim build.” My skin crawls. I haven’t showered in days and I’ve been up since 3am. I’ve been holding a shit in for eight hours. Here’s the thing about cops: they’re big. About me: I’m not. He leans in close to me, my back against the wall so I have to look up at him, and tells me about the crimes they couldn’t get to because of our protest: the car crash, the domestic violence. I can feel his breath on me and I want to be sick, want to shit. “If you don’t leave the police station now,” he says, “we’ll charge you with trespassing too. This is what happens when you come to Far North Queensland.” 2. Dress conservative, respect the judge, my mum had told me. Don’t let on like you have much money, said the protesters. Across the road from Bowen Magistrate’s Court is a mural. Interlaced between checked police print are portraits of war medals, old-school constable caps and police batons. Scotty jumps out of the car—shirtless—before the engine’s stopped moving. He pours around the back of the ute, all wiry muscle and movement, and pulls out a dusty pair of slacks and a too-big dress shirt. “Time for me court uniform,” he jokes. He pulls his grungy blonde hair into a ponytail and shoves the slacks on over his boardies. He’s jovial, but there’s anger in the way he jerks the zipper shut, snaps each button through the hole. Pinned to the courthouse wall is an article about the Magistrate’s appointment. He hates flip flops and domestic violence, it says. Domestic violence is on the rise, he says, because the mines are closing down. Technically we’re charged with trespassing, but it still bodes bad news for a

ART BY AMANI NASARUDIN

group of environmental activists. I press my tongue against the back of my teeth, crack my knuckles too hard against my palm. It’s a late realisation, but I’m angry too. 3. It takes the police almost two hours to release the next protester. I forgot to ask for my one phone call, and the cops kept my phone. (“Give us the password or we’ll fry it,” they said, and I’d called their bluff). I take a seat on a park bench and watch the wide mall-strip fade to grey. When the sky is full dark another protester staggers out of the police station. I ask what took so long, and she says they processed a local in and out between myself and her. Later, I’d hear his story from protesters who shared a cell with him. He had fought with his wife, or maybe girlfriend. He was angry, punched a bin. Nice enough guy, they said, but that’s just his side of the story. Was this one of the domestic violence stories the police told me about? I’ve been awake for 21 hours when the final protester is released. 4. It’s quarter past four when the Magistrate sees us. Before us, a stringy white man pled guilty to driving with methamphetamine in his system ($500 fine, licence suspended) and an Aboriginal woman admitted to spitting in another woman’s face (jail time discussed, the sentence postponed). It’s an old building. The ceilings are high and the distance between us and the judge feels heavy. The walls are covered with portraits of former judges, figure-heads and Captain Cook look-alikes. Scotty looks bored. I pretend to be, but I’m nauseous. I make a joke to the protester next to me, and I know she’s as scared as I am. The joke’s not very good, but she laughs a lot. I’d always believed that the arc of history bends towards justice, but today it feels like a slippery, wriggly thing. “These are the facts,” says the police prosecutor. She’s in a stiff brown suit. I find her too smug, too certain. She reads rote-like from a sheet of paper. “At 5am on Friday the first of December 2017, the

CW/ Mentions of domestic violence, criminal enforcement

defendant and a group of associates consisting of adult males and females have approached the rail infrastructure located at Bogie River rail crossing at Binbee. “A male from this group has interfered with the rail infrastructure by elevating himself in a tree by a rope which was connected to the rail line—” She keeps reading, monotone, then gets to the gist of it: “—On arrival, police observed four males and four females sitting under the railway bridge on the dry river bed.” 5. I remember the scream of cicadas in that riverbed, so many at once that their rhythms drowned into one piercing screech. The ground was sandy, broken up by shrubs and the cold concrete pylons holding up the rail bridge. A rope stretched from the bridge to a nearby tree. From the other end of the rope, dangling over a branch, was a tent made from a bed frame and tarp. Activists call this a tree-sit. Should a train come through, it would cut the rope supporting the tree-sit, sending the bed frame, and anyone in it, hurtling towards the ground. It was my first protest. I’d planned to take photographs, see what happened. I’d supported the #StopAdani campaign from Melbourne and was curious to see the action first-hand. Before the final rope was secured, a protester called the railway company, Aurizon, and told them to stop the trains: someone was on the tracks. An hour later a police car rolled up. The first cop stumbled down to the river bed and arrested everyone. Then, two Aurizon workers arrived. We don’t own the riverbed, they said. Riverbeds in Queensland are Crown land; that’s why we chose to sit there. The officer let us go, told us we were welcome to stay where we were. His shoulders softened. Then more cops showed up. “You’re all under arrest,” said one. I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them, he kept repeating, as though that was somehow better. The first cop shrunk like a submissive dog. Someone asked what our charge was. “Keep asking questions and you’ll be charged with assaulting or obstructing a police officer,” said the cop. 6. Another man pled guilty that day: a young man with a slight limp, charged with assaulting or obstructing a police officer. (It’s a joint charge in Queensland: fail to follow an officer’s orders and you’ll get assault on your record, too.) The police prosecutor read the facts. Two constables arrested a young, drunk woman near the Bowen service station. The man saw them from across the road, ran towards them, his phone up, yelling: “I’m filming you, cunts. I’m filming you.” He was agitated, wouldn’t stop yelling. The cops weren’t hurt, says the prosecutor, but they had to forcibly detain him. “Is there anything I should know before sentencing?” the Magistrate asked. “I’m a painter,” the man said, “I’ve been out of work for the past month because of the injuries I received that day.” He didn’t know the woman. What he was filming hangs unspoken, a black hole in the facts.

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7. One month before my arrest, the headline of the Townsville Bulletin read ZERO TOLERANCE: POLICE CRACKDOWN ON ADANI ACTIVISTS. There’s a quote from the police chief, saying they’ll charge protesters with whatever they can. One activist was pulled over on a grocery run. The officer recognised her. She got his badge number, asked him what the matter was. “One of your tail lights is defective,” he said, “I’m going to have to write you up.” Later, when I saw the taillights myself, it took me a good minute to notice which of the six bulbs was slightly dimmer than the others. 8. I make excuses for pleading guilty. Travel to Bowen was expensive. I’d just started a new job and was nervous about taking the time off. I wanted my belongings back, and the police were holding them until after the trial. The sentence would be light. It would save months of stress. The truth is, I didn’t know I was going to plead guilty until the day before the hearing. Or perhaps I only knew when the words came tumbling out. Do I regret pleading guilty? I do when I hear stories from the protesters who pled not guilty, those who lived near Bowen. They represented themselves and, six months later, were cleared of all charges. I remind myself that the barriers to pleading not guilty felt all too high. It doesn’t feel like justice. 9. “You need to come to terms with your role in domestic violence,” the Magistrate tells me. After sentencing ($500, no conviction recorded), I leave the courtroom and burst into tears. Uncle Kenny, the Birri traditional elder whose land we were arrested on, is waiting outside with one of his kids. When I see them I try to control myself. It’s embarrassing, being so affected when, by contrast, the stakes for me are relatively low. I stutter an apology. Kenny says it’s alright. His son smiles, friendly and warm. You get used to it, you’re just not used to it. 10. How to come to terms with my role that day? Can I accept that the police have no triage system, that its first-in first-serve, and arresting people adjacent to the crime is just part of the job? Or do I have to live with the knowledge that the police do have triage? They do have a choice, and they chose to arrest me instead. Scotty pled not guilty. He’s got a long track record with the law, is used to it. Still, when he came out of the courthouse, he was angry. Spittle flew when he spoke. “When are they gonna recognise who the real criminals are?” he asked. I know he meant Adani and coal exporters. But I can’t help but think of the cops, the courtroom, the men who punch their girlfriends. Their actions feel criminal to me, too. “I hope you write about your role in domestic violence,” the Magistrate had said. But I don’t have the words. Not then, not now, perhaps never.

PLAYING WITH FIRE BY BETHANY CHERRY

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CW/ Death of a family member resulting from an illness

How Death Brought an Atheist Closer to God An Exploration into the Mental State of a Grieving Mind by Bridget Assi May 13th, 2018. shrouded myself in the scent of frosted berries. The autumn breeze drifted into my room as I dressed. It was Mother’s Day. However, as I wore my linen turtleneck and gold earrings, the day felt heavy on my shoulders. In many ways, it was ironic that it was Mother’s Day. My mother’s grief floods through the phone with each call this past year. That morning, she calls me and tells me how she slept next to my Aunty the previous night. She tells me about the groans of pain that were substituted for snores. My Aunty, Amtou, was sick with a rare form of terminal appendix cancer. The disease tore its way through the family the way the guillotine tears its way through gravity. I remember the pleading in my mother’s voice to come to visit Amtou, my ears unknowing to the severity of the request. I failed to leave my room that morning. It wasn’t until the afternoon sun cast its light through my room, where I got the message from my sister; “How long will it take you to get to Amtou’s? She’s passed.” I felt like I was sinking. Think collapsing lungs. I remember walking into Amtou’s house that afternoon. The faded green staircase leading to her room appeared

The seams of my soul seeming as fragile as the seams of the linen I wore. It was as if I had been skinned, meddled with, torn up.

taller than it used to. I could hear my mother’s wailing. The screech pierced my breath; I thought her lungs would start bleeding. Grief comes in many forms. I never thought it could manifest into something so raw, so brutal. My mother was wailing in rhythm. Her voice echoing through the halls of Amtou’s house. When I opened the door to Amtou’s room, it was as though I had stopped breathing. My mother was sitting near Amtou’s body. Her fist pounding on her chest like a battle cry. Her nails ripping at her scalp. Her wails near animalistic. Her breath rugged. Amtou was laying under her, her head facing Mecca. The Quran was playing, 36

ART BY RAYMOND WU

its verses ripped through the air. And I just stood at the doorway, rooted in fear. My mother screaming,

She asked me to cry for my aunty. She asked me to take off my earrings and cry for my aunty. I remember the surreal wave washing over me as I stepped towards to end of the bed. Amtou’s face was exposed, the rest of her body covered in a peach coloured sheet. She was so skinny, her lips parted slightly, and eyes closed. The constellation of freckles faded from her skin. The curves of her cheekbones pulling back her skin. Her thin hair tucked behind her small ears. I forgot the in-between. I tried my hardest not to be stolen by rhetorical moments of weeping. More people arrived, all joining in the same wailing process. I was afraid that Amtou would disappear among all the chaotic grief in the room. As I stood, I realised the detachment I had from everyone else. The detachment I had from everything that was happening in that room. I was unable to bring myself to cry. All I could feel was the damming weight of my heart in my chest and the shortness of my breath. All I was capable of doing was to look upon Amtou’s tiny body and absorb all the anguish in the house. I was frozen. It was as if I were an alien. I was looking in on something so foreign that still, one year later, I cannot quite articulate what I saw or what I felt. All I know is that something in me changed that day, in that room. The seams of my soul seeming as fragile as the seams of the linen I wore. It was as if I had been skinned, meddled with, torn up, my insides stretched, squeezed, twisted, and stitched back up. Something in me was completely off. The wounds from that day still pressing on my chest. The trauma of Mother’s Day 2018 is something I still carry on my shoulders. My bones retract whenever the word “cancer” is said by anyone. I know too well the vulgarity of death. The despair it is capable of bringing. I have spent so many nights in anger of my reaction to it; at my alienation from what I experienced and what I should have experienced. My hate for God grew into an unhealthy obsession, which in my admission, seemed completely contradictory to my then belief of “there is no God”. In my frustration, confusion, and grief, I cut myself out of the whole experience. I acted the furthest away from holy than I ever had; my sorrow tore its way through my relationships, education and happiness. I had anticipated Amtou’s death since her day of diagnosis. She was such a stark and loved figure in my life; existed as a mother, a grandmother, a carer, a teacher and a friend. This exacerbated my reaction towards her death; I felt completely and entirely alone in my grief. My behaviour in the months after Amtou died spiralled into a sinister barricade of any emotional contentment

or honesty. I had grown a sense of uncontrollable rage towards the smallest of things and confined my despair to my 8 squared meters dorm room. It was only during the semester break, when I returned home, that I was able to fully accept the reasons for my loneliness. Every night, as rhythmic as my mother’s wailing, regret crept its way into my bedroom. Regret for not having had seen Amtou the morning of her death. The unforgiving voice that replayed in my head; She wanted to see you, you fucking idiot, she asked for you and you never came and now she’s dead. My skeleton turned into a trellis, where sadness grew and thrived, watered by sleepless nights and destructive actions. The alienation I felt in Amtou’s room the day she died was uncanny. I felt an incomprehensible amount of detachment from a culture I thought I knew. I realised that culture is not just carried in its dress, its food, or its celebratory events, just as religion is not just carried solely in life. I realised that the binding agent between the two is its reaction to death. Culturally, how was I meant to react to Amtou’s passing? Should I have lost myself in a screeching tangent, hitting my chest and joining the rhythmic wailing? Should I have cried in silence? Should I have worn black until a year after? Should I have stopped listening to music for weeks? I suppose I won’t ever know what the correct reaction to such loss will ever be. However, it is secure to say that there exist different means in which I should have taken to allow for more constructive healing, rather than obscure measures to heal from something I did not even understand.

Internalised Melancholia: Disconnections from Mourning and the Individualisation of Grief September 2018 I was sitting in the dining hall. It was deep into the second semester of University, around September. I slowly began losing my appetite over the winter months, eating for the sake of feeling full. I would spend endless hours in the gym. I would work until I felt drained, sweat until I was empty. The physical strain on my body felt more attractive than any conversation or small talk I could have. That night in September, I was sitting among a group of people, only one of which I was engaged in conversation with. The conversation was agonising to hold. I wanted nothing more than to just sink into the timber chairs and wooden floorboards. I began playing with the skin surrounding my fingernails. As an anxious child, I would bite and rip bits off of my fingers whenever anything seemed too much. As my friend across from me kept talking, I got increasingly more irritable, picking at my nails. Their words about their unimportant day becoming more and more excruciating to listen to. It was like listening to nails screeching down a chalkboard.

I began chewing the skin around my left thumb. I started to peel the skin with my front teeth, twisting and biting it. They kept talking. I could taste blood however I couldn’t stop. I was a marionette; a slave to my childlike habits. I wrenched the bit of skin back until the tear reached my knuckle. I ripped it off, chewed it, and wrapped the bloody finger with my grey hoodie. I could see my friend putting an absurd amount of effort to not look at my thumb; their eye contact seeming like a chore that they did not want to do. They continued talking. I continued chewing. Being in the room with Amtou’s body, and unable to participate in the cultural grieving process with all the older women, forced me to individualise my grief; I absorbed it like a sponge. My inability to participate in a communal form of grieving disabled my ability to ‘throw’ my pain back into that room in the theatrical way that the rest of the women did. Rather, I was under the dangerous notion that I was able to handle the trauma of death alone. It seemed as though I was torn between two worlds. The world that I knew; the Western world of ‘dealing’ with death in a closedoff, ‘pretty’ way. Where you have a single tear come down

in a sterile funeral, with sweet eulogies and sweeter champagne. Where death is something that just happened. And rather than being sad, death is celebrated as another chapter. The other half of me was stuck in the violent anguish, the animalistic weeping, and the foreign rituals of death. Where death was mourned religiously, immensely, emotionally. I suppose the dichotomy in my identity as a second-generation Middle Eastern became most prominent when I experienced the death of a loved one. December 2018 It wasn’t until I visited Lebanon, and my mother’s village Shihin during the Australian Summer 2018/2019, when I was able to come to terms with what happened on Mother’s Day 2018. My time staying in this Southern Lebanese village allowed me to reconnect with aspects of my heritage that I was not originally aware of. In many ways, I was reconnected to my roots. Inhaling the inviting scent of gardenia, walking the same cobbled road my mother and Amtou did at my age, and immersing myself with the elders. It all made me aware that I was missing a feeling of belonging to something. I was able to re-immerse myself in what it meant to be Lebanese. It allowed me to realise the extent of the 37

NONFICTION disconnection I was experiencing during Amtou’s death; the disconnection I had from the Islamic verses that were to be sung, the clothes that had to be worn, the ceremonies that had to be done. The prospect of going to Lebanon over the summer only appeared as a measure of escaping Australia and my friends here. I did not want to spend my summer with sunshine or warm beaches or long days; I had to escape the happiness surrounding everyone and be alone. Amtou was buried next to her brother. The gravesite sat on a slight hill on my grandparents’ property in Shihin. The three graves resided in a small shed made from concrete, with rusted silver metal making a flimsy door. The path to get to the site was made of loosely placed stones and dirt. The rain had broken through parts of the roof, leaving debris and water on Amtou’s gravestone. Her grave was different from what I thought it would look like. It was dark. Black and gold. I couldn’t understand the Arabic writing on her gravestone. When I first noticed the debris that had fallen on her grave, I went to the kitchen and got a damp cloth. I cleaned and scrubbed the months’ worth of dust from her. I did this every day. I would wake up every morning, and before breakfast, I would make my way to the shed. Each day the trip longer than the previous. I would wish that each day I would walk in and find it empty. Or find it demolished. Or find it covered in leaves and vines and trees. The air in the room was always damp, full of moisture and dust. It would be hard to breathe; with every breath I would feel my lungs collapse further into my chest. My ribcage begging me to go outside. But I would sit there. For hours. Cleaning the gravestone and crying. Angered at my inability to understand the words illuminating her grave. My grandmother would come, hold my shoulder and try to pull me away. She would repeat over and over,

would have been proud of me for trying to carry on her pragmatic legacy of cleanliness and order. I wondered if she would have thought I was losing part of myself in doing so. Darian Leader’s The New Black unravels the complexities of Western cultures experience of death and loss. The psychoanalytical perspective is that Western cultures force a conscious expectation that one should individualise grief and loss. Public grief is not normal. If you are experiencing an episode of depression or melancholia, it should be contained in a therapist room, or within your house. If the loss is seen as an event in a certain point of time, then it can simply be discarded at that moment, given in its entirety to the past. However, for those who experience grave loss, it

She would ask me to leave, every morning we had the same confrontation. One day, my Aunty Rima asked me to come with her back to her house. She lived in Tyre, a small city near the village. That morning, she drove down the unstable cliff side. The road was made of cobblestones that had never been cemented in their place. Rima lived on the coast. Every morning at Rima’s house, I would walk to the balcony and inhale the sea mist. When Rima drove me back to Shihin, before I properly greeted everyone, I walked outside and across the dusty path and through the rusted doors. Amtou’s gravesite was filled with debris from the storm that has passed two nights previously. Two large puddles covered the gold, distorting the writing. I could feel my wrath coming. My knees were weak. My nails digging into the closed palm of my hands. I confronted my grandparents. I confronted them for not having been there when Amtou died. I confronted them for not having known her need for cleanliness. I confronted them for not having cared that she died. My grandfather has poor hearing. I don’t think he heard but his eyes remained sad for the rest of my visit. Another storm rolled in that night. The house near-freezing temperature. I wrapped myself in several blankets and locked myself in the room furthest from the living room. I kept staring at the curtains across the room. It’s stitching looked old. The colours were faded. A layer of dust covering its surface, suffocating the air. I wondered whether Amtou

seems as though they carry that loss with them everywhere. It becomes part of their identity. It gets sewn into the fabric of their existence and self; they become one with that loss. I resonate heavily with the idea that Amtou’s death changed me. Rather than it being an event, it has become a continuity in my life, never quite absent from my mind. The visceral process I went through on my path to acceptance can be encapsulated in one lost word: mourning. I was mourning the loss of my aunty. Western mourning has the tendency of internalisation. It is your grief and your grief alone. I was alone and expected to pick my life back up, one jagged piece at a time. There was no sense of community or understanding around my mourning. A means in of communal mourning can be reflected with the practice of death rituals. Death rituals work as a mechanistic tool of bringing a physical form to your grief; a release of the strenuous feeling of internalisation. It allows your grief to be shared among others; a physical reflection that you are not alone. Members of society who experience a sense of alienation take other measures to achieve this very mechanism; physical self-harm such as cutting or eating disorders, or even the cutting of one’s hair after a stressful period are all examples of bringing an element of physicality to ones unseen emotions. This physicality works as a form of internal validation that externalises what you feel into observable parameters. As such, ritualistic practises create an effective outlet for grief and mourning. Unlike

ART BY RAYMOND WU

the other mechanistic forms stated above, the ritualisation of death is communal, not individual, yet can have an element of personalisation brought to it. The extent of the personalisation is contingent on many factors, such as your relationship with the deceased. My intrinsic need to conform to a strange conduct of emotionless normality ate its way at my ability to feel belonging. It wasn’t until I experienced the flourishing energy of Shihin when I was able to understand; there is no shame in the admission of your own anger towards your inability to comfortably express your internalised emotions. It is no good measure to be well-adjusted to a society that wishes you would just conform to the happy, smiley, put together girl you know you are not. Though I am sceptical of denouncing the integrity of knowledge surrounding depression, I am equally sceptical of its application in Western nations. The label of depression would have fallen too easy on me last year. The explanation reduced to a chemical imbalance in my amygdala. However, the roots of my despair did not appear to me in a therapist room. Rather, it was when I was able to unveil my anguish bit by bit until the prospect of cultural, religious, and internal alienation was staring at me directly in the face.

considering the man was no more than a sickly acquaintance. She told me, “Bettule, I did not cry for him though I was sad for his family. I cried for Neemat (Amtou)”. It made sense. I realised the importance of what was actually occurring underneath the dramatic displays of sadness. People who attend the funerals of mere acquaintances allow themselves to be one of the grief and use it as an avenue of the cathartic release of their loss. They use it as a means to remember passed loved ones and can share their remembrance with a group of equally saddened people. The memory of old loved ones can resurface and be mourned again. This was so pivotal in my upbringing. I cry when I hear stories of my mother’s uncle, though he died when she was 14, simply because I feel the loss his of presence in the family; his memory is continuously mourned.

Present When I drive down South Road and into Amtou’s estate,

Yearning for Grief: The Middle Eastern Perspective on Mourning There exist particular death rituals that are commonly found within Middle Eastern cultures, many tied to Islamic beliefs. One major facilitator of these rituals is the communal element of mourning. It is communal, prominent, and loud. There is no shame in tears, just how there is no shying from the sadness that death brings. It is omnipresent; the loss of someone close to you is carried for the rest of your life. The names of the dead survive through generations; I know how every member of my mother’s immediate family died since the time of her great great grandparents. Though at first the prospect seems overbearing and unnecessary, how it is enacted highlight the evident enlightenment it can unfold. Whilst spending my time in Shihin, an elderly man at the age of 93 passed away. He had been sick for 20 years, my whole life. My family did not particularly care for him as he was not that known or prominent in my families lives. Hence, at his funeral, it was to my serious surprise that my aunty Rima reacted similarly to how I imagine she reacted to Amtou’s death. Rima was participating in the wailing that the women of the man’s family were undergoing. I could feel genuine pain in her cries and grief in her voice as she recited the Quran. The same practices which engulfed me in May came back, with the chest-pounding, hair ripping, loud and dramatic displays of anguish. When we left the funeral, I asked Rima why she participated the way she did,

the grass is still cut clean. The cars are parked in uniform. The sprinklers are still on. The leaves turn and fall and grow. The smell of Amtou’s house is still strong. I can still hear her voice laughing, singing, speaking. I still know the shape of the bridge of her nose and I still know how it felt to hug her. She has not entirely left. But the plants she had cared for in her garden are growing without her tending. The songs she used to sing are still sung by others. Life has continued. I sit in her living room. It is Mother’s Day 2019. Everyone in the room is almost too afraid to breathe. I look at my mother. She has a layer of tears covering her eyes. Her smile compensating for her lack of conversation. I am wearing earrings. They hang heavy on my earlobes. I go to the bathroom. It smells like it has been freshly cleaned, with the scent of lemon potent in the air. I look in the mirror. My cheekbones are more prominent than they were last year. I take off my earrings. 39

NONFICTION

Regulating Language by Conor Clements

o many of us, the idea of languages tied to a country seems normal. People in England speak English, people in Japan speak Japanese, people in Croatia speak Croatian, and so on. Is this a hard and fast rule? Of course not, but to some extent it’s still considered the norm. But why does this perception exist when it’s not the case with the majority of languages? Many national languages were created in the 19th century as the tide of nationalism swept across Europe. I use “created” here in the literal sense—standard languages are often as artificial as the nation states they come from. Their creation generally involves either basing the standard language on a “prestige” dialect—one with a lot of cultural capital—or creating something of a compromise language by adopting features of a number of different dialects. This sometimes creates amusing situations—for example, Serbian, Croatian, Montenegrin and Bosnian are officially separate languages despite the fact that they are all based on the same prestige dialect, called Shtokavian. It’s a quirk of geopolitics that all four exist. But what existed before these national languages came into being? Essentially, there were a bunch of language continuums that stretched across different parts of the world. A European one you’re probably aware of is the Romance languages, which, despite consisting of distinctly separate languages today, can trace their existence back to Vulgar Latin—“Vulgar” here meaning “common”—a general term used to describe varieties of Latin spoken by commoners of the Roman Empire, with some influence from local languages that existed at that time. Because most of the people who spoke Vulgar Latin initially spoke it as a second language, its grammar eventually grew to become pretty different to the varieties of Latin spoken by Roman elites. Over time, the varieties drifted further apart, and once they were standardised the differences between them was locked in for good. You can see examples of this today, even in places thousands of kilometers from Europe. At my high school in northern Melbourne, one of the languages offered was

ART BY CATHY CHEN

Italian, reflecting the area’s migrant past. When I asked people who had Italian family if what they spoke at home helped in the classroom, I invariably received the same response: their parents/grandparents spoke “dialect”, so it wasn’t really useful at all. This struck me as bizarre at the time—if it’s just a dialect, how different could it be? It’s only now that I’ve realised that many of these “dialects” that people referred to—Sicillian, Calabrian, and other varieties historically spoken in southern Italy—were so different to Standard Italian, which is largely based on varieties spoken by aristocrats in Tuscany in the north, that it was as if I was assuming that knowing Spanish or French was a gateway to fluency in Italian as well. It would have helped, but it wasn’t a ticket to perfect grades by any means. Continuums like this have also existed in Germany, the Netherlands, across Scandinavia, and even the British Isles, where a continuum stretches from the posh Southern English accents often associated with snooty Etonians to the islands north of Scotland, where varieties of English are so divergent that some linguists classify “Scots” as a separate language. Do yourself a favour and search “Shetlandic Scots” on YouTube some time—it’s a truly bizarre and wonderful listening experience for a linguistics nerd like myself. But sadly, standardisation is causing many of these dialects to be lost. Today in Italy, for example, it is largely the older generation that speak the aforementioned Italian dialects. The same is the case in France, where ardent opposition to recognising regional languages has led to their decline. In countries that were formerly subjected to colonisation, standardisation is beginning to affect local languages as well. There are of course economic advantages to standardised languages, and it might just be that it’s easy to geek out over the idea of hearing a language change bit by bit as you travel from town to town—but too often we lose sight of where language comes from. We can do both— teach standard language, while protecting and promoting the diverse history that non-standard varieties represent for so many people.

WHO AM I? BY LOUIS DICKINS

COLUMN

Sarah plays on the association of colours and words to write her poetry using Taubmanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s paint samples from Bunnings.

In the Pink by Sarah Peters Ruddy cheeks since I was nine years old scared of pimples popping across my face pink lady apple body shapes that form when fingers touch. You rose into my sight, see fairy floss at the school fate passed between our hands blossoming like cherries the chapstick we shared. Touch me, finger sunsets into soft cries flushed again, how fruits that look like me taste so much better, how I bury this behind still bushes of thorn. Strawberry sickness sugar on oats I am scared to see how it really tastes. Lights pause on you grapefruit glow lasts a second on your face then moves down your neck spotlight on our heart. Twenty-three years old undoing ribbons and realisations I plant pink orchids in our yard beneath fruit of all the flavours shared on our lips.

ART BY LIZZY YU

CREATIVE

Flash Fiction Prompt/Unsolicited Advice ABC Smokers by Caitlyn Kirwan He’s spewing out smog that collects on the floor of the smokers. He shouts to be heard. "You really should just do more MDMA, you’ll realise depression is just like, big pharma." He keeps on smoking, pools forming at his feet. "That’s only because the antidepressants had you fucked though." The pools are waist deep, people are screaming. Smoke fills the room. The tip of his cigarette the only thing visible as he gestures from within the cloud. "It’s really fucked up how close-minded you are." Sirens wail in the distance, the bartender calls last drinks.

Zen by Nitul Vidyadhar Deshpande I am not sure what you're going through, but I will tell you this, there is a zen parable about a monk who while visiting a marketplace overheard a butcher being asked by a customer 'which of your meats is the best?' to which the butcher replied 'all my meats are the best'. And after hearing this, the monk was instantly enlightened. And when I first heard this, I thought it was an okay story. A couple years ago, when I finally became an adult, I began to feel bad about myself. I thought 'what if I've wasted away the best years of my life'. Then I remembered the story and thought 'no, all my years are the best years of my life’.

Can I Cum 2

Smoke Break

by Hannah Garvan

by Naomi Sepiso

It was 2pm. They hadn’t slept. I found myself in a Strange Man’s house. For my girlfriend, it had been a big night. I only came to take her home. Now I was Cooked too.

I sat down in the gardens today for just a minute, all the school children were walking by.

In the presence of middle-aged, coked-up heteros, we held onto each other. Love heart eyes. She’d been telling them about me all night, they said. And yet: a Strange Man would proposition us with a threesome to make sure we don’t like man-dick. ‘But how do you know?’

I heard a little girl sing a song she learnt. She repeated: “Peace and harmony for everyone.” The earth speaks through her children. Roll your shoulders unclench your jaw sink into the couch and wrap that blanket around a little tighter. Sun always comes back around, and sky is half clear, speckled with puffs and wisps of dreams. My eyes a mirror.

ART BY LUCY WILLIAMS

CREATIVE

I Can’t Stop Talking About Cold Chisel and it’s Turning My Friends Against Me by Danielle Scrimshaw

he only thing of any importance in this world is making genuine, loving connections with people. We’re all going to die anyway so nothing else matters. Cut out toxic people in your life. Don’t be a toxic person. Go out and love some people. oh the flame trees will blind the weary driver If I can’t stop listening to Cold Chisel will I eventually evolve into a middle-aged Australian dad? Crackin’ a cold one with the boys at the local RSL, crying at Christmas lunch when somebody plays ‘How to Make Gravy’, driving a Ford Falcon to the footy on a Friday night and swearing at the umpire because that was AROUND THE NECK!!! everything within its place just makes it harder to believe

All that matters in life is Jimmy Barnes, nineteenth-century lesbians, and the three boxes of Cheerios I clutch to my chest in the car park at Coles.

that she won’t be around Maybe I’m just surprised to find that the songs of Cold Chisel can have such a substantial emotional effect on me, that they’re not all about cheap wine and nothing I want. 44

ART BY BETHANY CHERRY

Some of them have raw emotion that I can’t relate to but, damn I sure feel it. What’s worse than having a cold? Having a cold on your period. My body leaks blood and mucus while seemingly attempting to cough up my lungs. Valuable organs. Would you like a pair? I can grow them out the back with these stem cells I found on special in the supermarket, down the health and beauty aisle. I changed my mind. All that matters in life is Jimmy Barnes, nineteenth-century lesbians, and the three boxes of Cheerios I clutch to my chest in the car park at Coles. Woolworths didn’t have them in stock so I had to drive to the next suburb. I only eat cereal, bats, and forgotten dreams for breakfast. Last Tuesday night I told Don Walker that I listen to ‘Khe Sanh’ obsessively, a song he wrote forty years ago about the PTSD of a Vietnam veteran. I can’t relate. He even says it’s only other vets could understand, but whenever I listen to it I feel transformed, like I can understand. I told him this and he asked me if I’d spoken to anybody about that. He was teasing me and I wanted to say something clever but I couldn’t form an articulate sentence, just kept rambling until I ran out of words and realised it was time to make my escape. Before I did he shook my hand. I like to think he appreciated my soft love. I think I like it because it’s not just about Vietnam vets, it’s about feeling lost and empty and alone. According to Wikipedia, music journalist Toby Creswell said it’s also about restless youth. I am a restless youth. I can relate to that more than any Cold War experience. When Jimmy sings I’m going nowhere and I’m in a hurry I feel it in my core. A sense of dread because, fuck, you know the last plane out of Sydney’s almost fucking gone? Order an Uber and demand they drive you interstate to Sydney airport, or run if you’re a tight-arse like me. I don’t care. I’m in a hurry. M o v e. I t.

I feel like you’re not with me. You have that look in your eye like, what the fuck is she talking about, who are these people? Look I hear you, let me break down the band for you okay listen now to the wind babe— Jimmy Barnes is the lead singer of Cold Chisel, and his song ‘Working Class Man’ makes me lose my god damn mind. Karl Marx would have frothed it too. Don Walker plays piano and arguably wrote Chisel’s best songs. Ian Moss is lead guitarist so he’s instantly sexy, and wrote ‘Bow River’, which I have a religious devotion to. The late drummer Steve Prestwich wrote ‘When the War Is Over’ (the song that sometimes plays on Gold FM in your dad’s car and goes AIN’T NOBODY GONNA STEAL THIS HEART AWAY, yeah?). Have I cried listening to it whilst driving down the freeway? Yes, and I do not recommend. Phil Small plays bass. He’s okay I guess. I thought his name was Paul Small for a while. Maybe because it rhymes, maybe because I was thinking about Paul McCartney. Read this journal entry from March 15 and tell me what it has in common with what I’m talking about right now: In other news, I bailed on my date with [redacted] (not like I stood her up or left halfway through, I just cancelled) and whatever fragmented discussion I had going with [redacted] for a fortnight has officially died. I uninstalled WhatsApp and deleted my text thread with [redacted]. Everything comes to an end, except my love for Jimmy Barnes. Is it weird if I request to follow my ex’s private Instagram account? Lol gonna do it anyway xo If I could go back in time and date Jimmy Barnes I 10/10 would. Do you realise how fucking hot he was in the early 80s? Stunning. Given time travel, I’d also date: Paul McCartney, Sappho, Vita Sackville-West, Ned Kelly and Christabel Pankhurst. I mean, I say this, but I’ve only ever dated two people in my whole existence, so I’m probably not that good at it, probably too socially anxious, probably don’t go out enough, probably uninstall Tinder too many times, probably message DO YOU HATE ME??? to my romantic interests too much. Haha wow fuck me, aye?

At the beginning of semester I was desperately trying to make friends with this girl, so pretty and so clever and so wonderful, I spent many moments sighing dreamily over her. When she quoted the lyrics of ‘Khe Sanh’ to me I screamed and sent my friend a screenshot, writing omg Lee idk whether I want to be her friend or marry her. Would you like a slice of my heart, madam? It’s remarkably tender. take a whole life’s loneliness wrap it up in some tenderness send it off to some emptiness with all my love Flying 20 hours to Portland for a cute boy I knew for six hours but felt a strong connection with, yes/no? Driving to regional Victoria and camping out in a small country town until someone notices I’ve stopped posting on my Insta story, yes/no? Should I double text my crush or just eat my hands? it’s only you and me there’ll be nothing we need to see only one thing can set you free is all my love If you went to Safety Beach in June and found Dani <3’s Jimmy Barnes written in the sand, that was me. If you drove thirty or so minutes across the peninsula to Flinders and found Dani <3’s Ian Moss written in the sand, that was also me. The local community need to know. If I get too sad I can just close my eyes and dream about Ian Moss going down on me. Not now but in the year 1982, obviously. Don’t be gross! Maybe I’ll grow a mullet. A woman at work told me that Ian Moss hit on her at one of his shows, I think in the early 2000s, and she said he was a pig and it ruined her previous love for him. Don’t meet your heroes, kids. I was disappointed that a straight white man would build me up just to tear me down like this, but still, I couldn’t help wishing that were me. Oh, please leave me here, soaked in Vicks VapoRub, to contemplate the existence of love—love of all kinds—and allow the discography of Cold Chisel to consume my soul. 45

YOUNG BOY BY VINEETHA LIZ BABU

CREATIVE

Whistling Babas by Rida Fatima Virk

s the sun took its leave, a whistle could be heard ringing loud and clear throughout my quiet, rustic little neighborhood. It would stop and begin again after every few minutes and continued on for many hours following the same pattern. A mix of fear and fascination always accompanied the sound of it. When night approached, I would sit near my window while watching the night sky in hopes of seeing the origin of the sound but I never did. My one large window with its rails only ever let me extend my head so far and the tall, spiky walls surrounding the house only let me see the sky. Mama didn’t like me climbing the window rails because it’s not ‘safe’. She would call me a monkey and make me climb off. I’m not a baby anymore! I know what I’m doing! I always vented in my mind while being scolded every time I made an attempt to climb and see. I never got to see what made the whistle and only silhouettes of other houses lit up by street lights greeted me. How frustrating. I could never figure out where the sound hid. There were only a few houses sprinkled throughout my neighborhood with the rest of the area being small roads leading further into the city and open land with wild grass growing here and there. The empty house plots had grass far too tall and scary for anyone to go in there. Besides, how could the sound want to hide there? It’s too spooky. Mama said those tall grasses are very unsafe because jinns hide in there. But then where does the sound hide? How frustrating. One day I could no longer resist my curiosity and asked Mama, “Mama, Mama? Who is that whistling at night?” “Whistling…? Who would whis—” she paused for a bit as she folded clothes, “Ah! They’re the whistling babas. They have been around since a very long time now.” “Babas? Why would they whistle? Why at night? Don’t they get scared at night? Why do they whistle?” A slight smile accompanied her lips, “They whistle to let the other babas know where they are and tell them that the area is safe.” “Have you ever met or seen any of them?” I asked in a low and serious voice while doing my best to hold my excitement. I cannot let myself be too childish! She won’t tell the truth otherwise. “No, never,” she said, lightly chuckling. So mean to laugh at me. I could tell she wasn’t taking me seriously but I still continued, I was too curious, “Well then how do you know them?” “Beta, they’re just guards. Just night guards. Don’t think too much of it.” She patted my head and continued folding clothes. I nodded along and understood what it was, in fact. She didn’t want me to know. Adults never want children to really know. I had heard the sounds of drums, laughter and clapping. The Whistling Babas would call for their circuses and lead them around the streets at night. Nobody could see it and only hear it. The Whistling Babas always talked to each other through whistles. That part feels true. Hmm. The whistling would continue on the entire night and in the morning there would be no trace left. They were very clever Babas. They knew when to have such fun. Only when children slept would they march around with their massive circus animals. I never saw the procession but I did. I really, truly have seen the magical circus! Colourful lights would dance around the Babas and their circus. The animals would be skipping gaily. The elephants would blow their trumpets, the lions would let out resounding roars, the monkeys mischievously swung here and there while making great, boisterous chatter. The Babas leading their circuses were nothing more than silhouettes. They were silhouettes that didn’t scare me and instead made me want to excitedly jump up and down, and follow them wherever they may go. They spun their whistles thrice and blew them thrice. The whistles sparkled like stars each time they were spun and the animals coordinated their sounds every time the Babas blew their whistles. So unfair. So unfair. I always lamented. I want to join in too. I wanted to leap out my window and follow the circus. So unfair. I could! I really could see the Whistling Babas and their magical circus! I could see it all when I closed my eyes. I could see everything and sleep blissfully with the sounds of the Whistling Babas and their circuses ringing in my ear. But now, nothing can be heard. The nights have long regained their emptiness. The Whistling Babas disappeared with their circuses to the Land Where All Comes True. 47

ART BY MONIQUE O'RAFFERTY

CREATIVE

Floating Waste by James Robertson guzzle and groan on the mess they have made for all of them a mound of floating debris floating in the last great ocean piglets nuzzle at the live pockets of green sprouting forth grown from a rusted can far more used to carrying Coke than scraps of clinging life the salty sea breeze blows McDonalds™ wrappers swirl infants scramble some nestle in the bin liner others look for scraps sierras of waste rise high ward spanning the breadth of the land spread stench unknown to any human being long gone not long forgotten piglets squeal and cry seagulls reign supreme red splattered new-born’s belly the entrails plucked and ridden repackaged liquorice strips atop the trash high-rises peaked with snowy sheen beady-eyes scour edibles on rubbish fields adding stink without them, subtracting none carcasses cling to land’s sides conjoining sea corpses to its mass the last great humpback whale a death sentence issued hanged by charging cord their one parting gift to Her only land left Made in China a hunting ground for the hungry left in the last great ocean 49

COLUMN

A Thing with Feathers by Jocelyn Deane A— My first experience of performing “it” was with my sister, dressing up in my grandparents’ old WWII coats— seemingly untouched—pretending to be the X family, visiting their Stone Court living room at random intervals, before dematerialising. We’d act as though we had no idea who Suzanne—our grandmother—was referring to when she said You just missed Mr and Mrs X! Sometimes we’d change roles and clothes—Mr and/or Mrs X. Were they married? The switch was tolerated good-humouredly anyway, like going to pantos. The most Suzanne ever said was, aren’t you supposed to be Mr X? All I said back was who’s Mr X? All I recognised were Suzanne’s white evening gowns. B— In Greek myth Thanatos, the god of death, was said to be as beautiful as Eros. Death could be like having a love arrow shot in you—but what do you focus on? What’s it like? It was one day after a Christmas service, at 12—walking onto the village green, the woods on the outskirts of Mayfield—when I could admit my doubling, my sense of mediumship in a body that—like my birthname—was dying, and would be resurrected. You’re writing this now in York—a ghost town, Victorian houses repurposed into posh but affordable Pizza Express restaurants—a week or so after firing your grandmother into the night sky via seven fireworks. You’ll return to Australia. You can re-enter the D&D campaign. As your mum insisted on lighting the fuse, you all stand back in the field and watch the rockets catch, whoosh and trail away, briefly suspended in mid-air. The sound recedes, the light changes colour, blue then green, until it’s indistinguishable from the specks on the backdrop. One of the first Christian apologists—defending his faith from an early theological dispute about whether Jesus was all body, or a spirit in human form, invalidating Their death—said that he was a believer “because it was absurd”—a suspension of time, of the life/death binary. 50

ART BY VAN ANH CHU

The rocket explodes into ash. It’s a proper rocket, like a Guy Fawkes celebration. Mum almost sets herself on fire fleeing the blast radius, and afterwards a piece of nosecone lands on my sister’s head, without injury. C— In York, writing this in a Pizza Express, there’s a copy of Eros the Bittersweet and Men in the Off Hours by Anne Carson next to you. The essay that concludes the latter, ‘Dirt and Desire: Female Pollution in Antiquity’, describes the rhetoric of organising Woman as a social unit. “In myth,” Carson says, “woman’s boundaries are pliant, porous, mutable. Her power to control them is inadequate … she suffers metamorphoses.” Hippocrates and Aristotle scientifically define Woman in terms of wetness: “the wet is that which is not bounded by any boundary of its own but can readily be bounded.” Plato philosophises that creation is like a mother: it “takes its form and activation from whatever shape enters it.” There’s a torrent of poeticisms and rationales to justify patriarchy: natural causes are equivocated with abstract nouns, underlined by Homeric myth, supported by the recollection of conflict with foreign powers that never existed—a sunken city of circles, dead-ends and vertigo. Everything is a metaphor, or boundary, in this world-view: conception is a carpenter chiselling a bed out of a block of wood, a woman is transformed into a cow—which is the most lascivious of animals, hence “cow” as a gendered insult—not because of a god’s lust, but because of her inherent mutability. Moisture hinders intelligence, summer dampens men’s libido, that wetness comes about because of a foetus’s tendency to lean to the left. It’s a world where everything is inescapably connected: the rocks, rivers, trees, animals alive with voices shouting, jeering, gabbling, explaining slowly, jabbering in tongues and interrupting. In the last section, Carson translates and analyses Sappho:

He seems to me equal to gods that man whoever he is who opposite you sits and listens close to your sweet speaking and lovely laughing—oh it puts the heart in my chest on wings for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking is left in me no: tongue breaks and thin fire is racing under skin and in eyes no sight and drumming fills ears And cold sweat holds me and shaking grips me all, greener than grass I am and dead—or almost I seem to me. A marriage is happening, Carson says. The bride is veiled, a representation of the marriage between Cthonie—the unbounded universe—and Zeus, who gave order to everything by draping a veil depicting the seasons, sun/ moon, arable land, sea and underworld over her, delineating the edges of a map that still kindles and chars in the noon-heat. Sappho’s witness narrator is a nympheutria— like a bridesmaid, representing chastity—struck dumb by the bride. This part of the marriage ceremony is called the anakalypteria, the unveiling. As Carson says: “It is not the material boundaries of a bridal veil that fall open … Sappho has constructed her poem as a play upon the ritual formalities of the unveiling … so to bend its ritual meaning onto herself with an irony of reference as sharp a ray of light”. Carson suggests the poem details a triangular, erotic dynamic:

the bride revealed to the groom, but also the bridesmaid, the narrator of the poem. A redirection occurs, like train tracks clanking, a blind spot evident. The ritual breaking down in its crux. I’m reading that phrase, “to bend its ritual meaning onto herself” and I’m ecstatic, vertiginous. It reminds me of Emily Dickinson’s love letters to Sue Gilbert, her sister-in-law: I have but one thought, Susie, this afternoon of June, and that of you, and I have one prayer, only; dear Susie, that is for you. That you and I in hand as we e’en do in heart, might ramble away as children, among the woods and fields, and forget these many years, and these sorrowing cares, and each become a child again—I would it were so, Susie, and when I look around me and find myself alone, I sigh for you again; little sigh, and vain sigh, which will not bring you home. In Eros the Bittersweet, on the subject of Velázquez’s Las Meninas and its similarity to Sappho’s poem, Carson writes: This is a painting of Velázquez painting the king and queen of Spain. But the king and queen aren’t part of the picture … There are many people, including Velázquez, in the painting … and all are gazing steadily out at someone beyond the picture frame … we notice a mirror at the back of the room. Whose are these faces? These are the king and queen of Spain … They seem to be standing precisely where we are standing as we gaze into the painting at their reflection there. Then where are we? For that matter who are we? We are standing at a blind spot 51

CREATIVE

CW/ Anxiety, panic attacks

Pink by Adelle Greenbury and Tyler McRae

The room didn't make a habit of observing, with too much interest, the comings and goings that occurred within it. The room’s purpose was merely to exist, and besides, bodies moved in and out of the room all day. Exiled to the bottom of Union House, it lay watchful, tucked behind the eternal queue for a neighbouring Japanese restaurant. The vibrant pink walls cast a glow over its visitors’ cheeks, ever-present as they chatted with their friends over the sinks, fixed their hair in the mirrors, rushed in and out. But this body— The room could sense something different about this body. Different, but not unfamiliar. It could feel the body’s heartbeat echoing through the soles of their feet, casting shockwaves up the walls. It could see the way their shoulders tensed upwards so tightly that their elbows shuddered. And, in a thought that it quickly tried to shake off, the room wished it could ask the body what was wrong. Unable to do so, the room contented itself with cold observation. The body walked into me, heavy with the world, and stopped in front of the mirror.

The body stepped away from the mirror, Left foot, right foot, left foot Heartbeat ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum Spasming against the inside wall of their chest.

The throat began to close, sticking to itself, tensing against the pressure of air, ears dialling up to white noise.

They shrunk away from other people as they got close, walking past the sinks, walls flashing pink-gray-pink, into the long room lined with stalls disappearing into the distance.

The head turned right, then left, Floating, Waves crashed into one ear and droplets leaked out the other. The body turned left, 52

ART BY TIMOTHY WOOD

(I felt the anxiety that descended place its cold and wretched hand around my throat. I needed an out, and quick.)

(I know I’m not in danger, but I can’t keep a thought still long enough to process it. The volume of the room seemed to steadily increase, past the point of accommodating my ears.)

(The movement of the people around me, oblivious and indifferent to my plight, sped up and seemed to circle like predators. And me, their pathetic prey.)

(How did it come to this? My terrible downfall. Cowering from the dangers of the real world, from people that aren’t myself or places that aren’t home.)

Then hesitated, Turned into a stall.

Door-slam-slide-lockseat-down-sit-downBreathe. Their hands trembled, soft fingertips quaked on bent knees, pads gave against the resistance. Hot breaths gusted against their chest as the head rocked up and down like a buoy far from shore,

And eyelids flitted against the red-tinged light. But, then— Then the body began to move, To loosen and straighten all at once, Shoulders falling and spine aligning.

Hands worked purposefully to wipe moist cheeks dry, Quickly, harsh, too-fast-to-feel And slowly, slowly, The body remade itself.

(The scratches in the paint, the illegible graffiti irritate me into irrationality. My mind fizzes and spins, catastrophes spilling over reason like black ink, staining beyond repair.) (And all the while, it’s so unbelievably, overwhelmingly—) (Pink.)

(Maybe if I sink a little longer, I can lose the panic that grips me.)

(D r o p the exclamation points from the end of my sentences and slow my frantic mind,) (I'm stuck in this pink abyss with nothing but a soggy tissue.) (That's it, time’s up.) (It’s time to face the real world.) (I pull apart the threads of worry, lay them neatly side by side. Smooth the chaos of my mind enough to move again.)

(Seeing the evidence of my unravelling stings, stirs the despair I try so desperately to quell.) (But indifference comes quickly, so tired, so drained of all will to distress.)

When the body finally emerged from the stall, eyes puffy and eyelashes still wet, the room felt something resembling relief. Hands were shaking, still, but it seemed the worst was over. The room watched as the body made their way past the long line of pink stalls to the sinks. Palms rested heavily on the countertop. A pause. Then the body lifted their head to meet their own eyes in the mirror. The room knew the mirror was not kind, but it was honest. And though not everyone liked what they saw, they always came back. There was one breath, and another, and then the body pulled their hands back, tucked their arms by their sides, turned, and walked. Three short steps and they were gone. The door to the room shut behind them slowly, as if pushing against the current. 53

MOUNTAIN BY GISELLE MARTIN

CREATIVE

drifting by Giselle Martin the sky is my friend settled upon our mountains a vast witness dressed as a moving painting your blue embrace holding us tight to our mother i would ask you things and you would only look upon me and spit on me softly

COLUMN

CW/ Fantasy violence, gore and suicide

TALES OF TRAGEDY THROUGH ART AND POST-HUMAN MADNESS I. The Ballad of Chris Martin by Luke Rotella “O-Zeus, O-Zeus, I plead thy take thine leave. I am not worthy of the resurrection of my wife and eldest son; for they shall remain sewn to my back until all of my blood has spilled.” Chris Martin’s thin lips glisten under the stage lights as he succinctly delivers the monologue. His voice wavers and sweat flows from his pores as he dances around the stage, head locked toward his audience. Although his forehead remains shrouded in darkness, a bright, yellow glow illuminates through the veil. “My face grows pale and my fingers shrivelled, the lust in my heart ripped from my soul by mine own will. I am not Odysseus yet the desire to end our suffering has granted me a Herculean strength to separate the soul. The injustices I have done, amalgamating the corpses of my family with living flesh, have created a paradoxical need to silence the self. Their fateful suicide has led me to first sacrifice my blood to eliminate spirit. Soon I will remove my reason and my ability to perceive time beyond my own. Then at the end of it all, I will eliminate appetite and man’s hamartia will be no longer.” He stops and grins. His iris’ contract, concealing the yellow glow and his mouth descends, melding into his chin. Silence fills the auditorium as Chris Martin stares deeply into his audience before collapsing to his knees. His arms twitch beside him; occasionally knocking the pillows shoddily taped to his chest, and widening his mouth as if waiting for something to crawl out. “O my heart: it burns, it burns. My plays attract those without will, the woman whose touch warms my soul is cold and bitter and the soul hungers. The blood I lend travels through our back and pours from thine mouth. It does not nurture your flesh; it thins thine soul further.” Chris Martin snaps his fingers and opens his mouth. A stream of red fabric shoots out as he releases a slight whimper and his face compresses, cringing. Silver confetti drops from the rafters in a single clump, as if conjoined by syrup. “Thus, I plead to Zeus, not for the resurrection of the wife whose hubris took her life, but that you turn your eyes away from what I’ve done. I am a monstrosity, not resembling human or demon. A vessel for the sins beyond god and man. The eyes of the gods should not witness the mutation of their creations, and their land turned to ash. Please, turn your head while the world ends.” A group of children step onto the stage in unison as Chris Martin drops his head apathetically. They rest on their knees and prepare for supplication with their flowing, white gowns softening the stance. Emotion is unrecognisable as their eyes and mouth endlessly leak red liquid and their faces lie buried beneath layers of white paint. “Mother, I watched your beauty wither as the long winter consumed our lives. The sun was not taken by Apollo as we were told. Instead, we were buried deep below the Earth by a man protesting to overthrow Olympus from the cold abyss. Now, we stand on the fringe of the mountain of gold and silver but father beckons back at us to commune to his cemetery of ash. His voice deep and sombre, that of a poet with the fire of Socrates’ and the discipline of Aristotle. A song for our soul that the light of Zeus cannot persuade us from. O how I wish I was never willed into this world as we sit in the waiting room between realms…” Chris stops centre stage and opens his mouth, but his chin quivers and miscellaneous noises make their way out his lips He straightens his back and pushes his chest in, but still can’t find the words to conclude his play. As years pass, Chris Martin performs his ballad of sorrow for all who support the creation of art in what remains of Casino Downs’ ‘New Arts’ precinct. Few beyond himself still retain literacy and the ability of complex speech so his work is often revered by the masses. Besides, most pop art is some combination of brutalised and disfigured corpses so his ability to articulate feelings and societal issues set him apart from his contemporaries.

/ ART BY MONIQUE O'RAFFERTY

Additionally, along with every piece of pre-cataclysm art, all Greek tragedies were either collected or destroyed by the ‘New Royal Melbourne Institute of Information’. So for those with memory, the works of Chris Martin (a far cry from his older artwork) are nostalgic, a reminder of the golden era of language. So the eventual suicide of the esteemed artist came as a shock to his loyal fanbase. No amount of speculation can uncover why Chris Martin was unable to reach the third act of his play, or if that fatal grand gesture was the intended ending. Chris Martin’s lip quivers and he clenches his fist and raises it to his skull. Like an enraged ape, he relentlessly slams his closed fist against his skull as if trying to penetrate the shell of a coconut. Emotion sapped from his face, he plunges his hand into flesh after breaking the barrier between viscera and space with a wet crunch that reverberates through the stadium. He feels around inside his head, searching for things with life. He feels around and digs his fingers deep into the clammy centre of flesh. Tugging and squeezing, cracks begin to form as his brain surfaces on the side of his head. The integrity of his skull falls apart like shattered glass as he rips out a collection of brain and viscera. He holds the pulsating, living trophy in the air for a moment, as if he’d transferred his being and consciousness into that flesh. Then his eyes roll back into his head and he collapses to his knees, blood flowing into the music pit below. The audience watches on, excited and amused as the stage lights dimmer to a soft, warm hue and a harsh spotlight shines down on what was once Chris Martin. Normally, this act of brutality would shock even the most experimental of modern artists. However, a soft wind coupled with an angelic drone induces a wave of soothing ecstasy amongst the rabble, almost as if the audience has forgotten when and where they are and ascended into a pure, collective bliss. Hypnotised by the hum of an ethereal engine, the crowd looks upon the stage with beaming smiles. Zeus and Hera materialise together under a second spotlight. Their warm, yellow hues explode outwards and steal the eyes. “I laugh, I laugh. Their plight is but a gaffe. Hera, dear wife of mine; it is that way by design. To drown their sorrow, they drink ‘till they barf Vine and body entwine Yet the intention of mine was laid. The tragic father of one and mother of two In time their memories will wither and fade As sanguine and sorrow are ground to stew Infused to brew the mortal blade in waters manmade This serenade of sorrow will birth the world anew. Through fire and flame Molten embers discharged from squealing steel Run red with the passion of the thine own, unwed. The paints formed for Dagon’s world reclaimed Will end what is known when the painter strokes over the canvas of old.”

CREATIVE

CW/ Explores child marriage, mentions drowning and death

She will never forget by Sameer Mohammad Khan a small slight bride collapses under the weight of imitated jewelry large bridal necklaces, thick as chains shed golden dust on a crimson wedding dress a sacred day she will never forget trudging along the shallow bank her dress too heavy, caves her back the green river gleams with the rippled reflection of a crescent boat with a lush reed hut and majestic wooden oars: a gift from a husband she is yet to see they row across the great Ganges the setting sun sprays the sky a collage of navy interwoven with pink the soft rustling feathers of pelicans and a sweet spring stream a royal raja for an overjoyed rani her father tells her he is a wealthy landlord owner of many shops and plentiful plots a respected, dejected man whose wife drowned in the same river she must now cross across a sunken valley in a dim clay cabin moonlight as fine as a blade cuts open a creaking door

ART BY YUSHI WU

and for a moment the world pauses he gently lifts her netted veil she steals a glance withered, papery skin charred teeth loosely stuck to rotting pulpy gums the stench of betel nut a family portrait glares behind dying candle flames a small domineering man beneath whose burnt feet sits a girl his daughter her responsibility By a silent shallow river on a cold dark night a sleeping child awakens into a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s burdenâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; an entry to adulthood she will never forget

When she told me, confined to a bed by her eroded joints, my grandma was at peace with the life she had lived. Her bedroom walls were covered with photographs of her children and grandchildren, most of whom now live comfortably overseas. Her husband had died within the first few years of her marriage, leading her deeper into a world of property disputes, judgmental relatives and the scrutiny of a society that put single mothers on the lowest rung of the ladder. Yet it was these fights and sacrifices made in the name of her children that empowered her life with a sense of meaning and, ultimately, fulfillment. She was a woman who made the best of her circumstances and ensured no one else should ever face the same tribulations her fourteen-year-old self did. Above her bed hangs the fading family portrait she first witnessed on her wedding night, that of her husband and daughter, emboldened with a new perspective away from defeat and to that of triumph. By her side, reading aloud an article from a local magazine, is the daughter of her house helper, who now permanently lives with her after being freed from the clutches of her father, who had similarly attempted to sell her as a way out of poverty.

CW/ Explicit description of fantasy death penalty

BREAKING

Emperor Might be Stripped of Royal Title

fter the Emperor’s insistence on wearing the “invisible cloth” rather than actual clothes, nudity as art has become the latest fashion to emerge from the court. A naked parade is being organised in solidarity with their Ruler, whom they fear will be dethroned. There’s been increasing concern over His Majesty’s mental wellbeing and psychological condition, royal insiders have said. Any attempt to provide the king with actual silks to choose from resulted in him throwing them out the window, tearing the delicate fabrics and also the skin of those providing them. Luckily, no one had been seriously or critically injured but his condition has “prompted calls for him to be deposed,” a palace spokesperson admits. Conspiracy theorists believe that two recent additions to The King’s Court have been whispering in The King’s ear or have something to do with his new condition. Reportedly, they have gained new favour by receiving a commission which has not yet come into existence. The King has not yet made an appearance since his impromptu royal outing a few weeks ago in the nude where he was promptly covered up and shuffled into the palace. He has not been seen since.

Giant Tribute

o demonstrate her support for the Giantess widow whose husband fell to his death last week, the Old Woman, who is famous for living in a giant’s shoe, has draped the shoe in mourning blacks. She has also respectfully halted the house renovations that have been attracting a lot of complaints from the neighbourhood, particularly those about the noise. The silencing of the house is symbolic, the Old Woman tells The Fairytale Gazette, as the house (the giant shoe) was given to her as part of a charitable act on behalf of the giant. Previously, she said that she was a homeless woman and that she was deeply saddened to hear about the tragic death of her benefactor who chased a thief down the stalk. The woman claims that the local council has attempted multiple times to classify the living conditions of the shoe as a health hazard, so it is a possibility that she could be evicted any time soon. The council even targeted her adopted brood by accusing her of neglecting them. The Old Woman denies these allegations as she says that learning from the giant made her pay forward good deed by adopting multiple children, and that the council are smirching his memory by trying to push her out at this time.

INVESTIGATION

Imposter Girl’s Goose is Cooked

fter a serious crime of identity theft that has been gripping the nation, it has been quickly ruled that the fraud who pretended to be the Goose Princess will be put to death. The sentence involves the servant girl being literally stripped of her status as she was put to death earlier this evening, by being rolled in a barrel of nails naked. All royal attire was returned to the actual princess who appears to have endorsed this ancient, slow and painful method of execution for her rival that had been banned for many years due to human rights and dignity concerns. “The royal pretender actually suggested that an impersonator should be treated in that manner,” a royal spokesperson stated. “We are just returning the favour and putting all things and all people back into their rightful place.” The Goose Princess has not yet commented in person about all the events that have taken place but many tabloids have eaten up the official story that has been supplied. According to reports, it was a case of mistaken identity. The servant girl took the place of her employer, the Goose Princess, and ensured that the Princess replaced her in her drudgery. The palace assures the public that the incident

/ ART AND LAYOUT BY TIFFANY WIDJAJA

will be “seriously investigated” to understand how this could have occurred. The servant girl’s story began unravelling with the publication of a story in a tabloid titled Can You Blame a Girl for Looking Like a Celebrity? speculating that the servant girl’s willingness to do everything on her own was a sign that she was a fake. The story, which was released less than forty-eight hours ago, has already attracted far more media attention than expected. It has created a fair amount of gossip that led to her arrest as she was about to snatch the ring of a neighbouring prince. However, the tabloid’s disrespectful treatment of the story has altered facts so much that the majority of people are outraged. “They skewed the facts, so the servant girl didn’t get a fair trial,” A local commentator said, “All their information came from the Princess and chewing on rumours.” Others are questioning why the real Princess hadn’t spoken up sooner or blew the girl’s identity. Most are also wondering if this is a revival of archaic punishments that can be used and abused by the powerful.

BY ALISON FORD /

CREATIVE

Secret Servings by Srishti Chatterjee On the drive from Melbourne Airport to my student accommodation, I spot an Indian curry store. For the first time in 48 hours, my eyes come across something familiar. I want to stop, but the fare on my cab is rising, so I swallow my excitement and move on. Five days later I am at QV, shopping for groceries for the first time without my mother. I see a shop serving “Indian Curry” and am overwhelmed. Finally, a taste of home. I walk over and have a look at the array of curries, but they mostly all look the same orange. My mother is in the kitchen, a tiny moving blur amongst maroon teak cabinets. Sunlight is pouring in and I am bent over my homework, scribbling away to glory, when I cough. My mother is frying her spices, and I vigilantly sniff out the pungent smell of cumin and turmeric hitting the bright red and green chillies. Smoke rises. In the haze from the kitchen, I can see Ma skilfully chopping potatoes and eggplants, manoeuvring the sharp knife with years of practice fuelled by family hunger. Chop, chop, boom, splash. She is washing utensils, frying potatoes, roasting eggplants, all at once. The mundane teak of the kitchen is dotted with orange, yellow, purple and maroon, coloured with love. She walks over with a glass of water. She had heard me cough. Ma is an olfactory charm, the perfect junction of sweat and love, cumin and coriander and turmeric. Glistening white rice lies on the table in a stainless steel bowl. Next to it sits a bowl of yesterday’s meat curry, oozing oil and stirring memories in my taste-buds. I simply cannot wait to dig in, but today’s fish is better, I know. I am Bengali, there is nothing in the world that parallels my mother’s fish curry. Growl. I hear my stomach rumble and look at her expectantly. She smiles and pours some curry into a small plate. “Here, taste a little bit. Don’t tell Papa, it’s our secret”. That’s it, that’s what she feels like: secret servings of curries and smiles, and a little exhaustion. Agh, all the curries here look exactly the same colour, and I am so annoyed. I excitedly shop for groceries, waiting to have the same red, yellow and green in my kitchen. To cough when I fry everything, fuelled by hunger and blessed by Ma’s love. I have seen so much colour here, but very little of my own, and between my skin and the memories of my mother’s kitchen, the palette in my head is homesick.

ART BY ANJANA RAM

ART BY ALEXANDRA BURNS

CREATIVE

The Lighthouse and the Mechanic by Nicole Moore

n the beginning there is always sitting all over each other in a dark apartment, low-light, mid-level, no friends, new city, what the fuck are we doing? Pores clogged with grass, air clogged up thicker. Even after we cut off each other’s hair and smashed up all our children: Kim BongUn, Angelina Bowlie, Mr Bubbles. The two of us still pretending to be butterflies, holed up in our terraced cocoon for weeks watching the fists of clouds paint the sky winter white. Like eggshells closing over, we say, like predator’s teeth, like sudden glaciation of water, like a white flag unfurling over everything. That kind of stillness will make you weak in the worst ways. She says, “I think I would be happier elsewhere,” and you just go on building houses in the air of the doorway. I mean, isn’t love mostly hope? Mostly forgiveness? The light in the picture frame, pulling the universe back into balance just when you give up; take the city train to Frankston to watch the potential of your body moving through the turnstile, the evidence of your two feet sounding off the pavement. Get home and the room is all red sirens, the same desperate look you know: lips like candy-apple, my golden girl, green-thumbed Greek goddess, olive lacquer, arms wrapped around my skull. “I’m so whipped,” she laughs, “don’t you know I’d follow you anywhere.” Now that it’s colder Mum calls me more often, when she knows my girlfriend is at work, when she can have my “full attention”. She is grafting trees in our garden in Sydney, beneath the grapefruits that I used to line to the gums with sugar. The trick, she says, is to get the young ones and wound them quickly, then bundle their vulnerabilities together with tape to protect them from the elements. You won’t know if it’s worked until later but if the plants are fundamentally similar, mum reckons, it’s a pretty safe bet that the tissues will inosculate. I understand because in truth, if the hurt is bad enough, it’s easier to share it between two bodies. Rotational form, wax and wane, spend the night cross-eyed between her hand on my chest and the wound under the sheets. I haven’t really slept. Not for months. Cried my guts up the other week until she promised to see a psych. Feel ugly, feel manipulative, swear I can hear the invisible flies feeding on the sheets. When you love someone enough they can leave you in India covering their suitcases with hotel towels and making blanket forts to hide the sound of ticking, and when they dance back to your door in the morning you kiss them between the eyes. Eyelashes all gone, intestines swollen, heart beat revving like a tractor motor ready to smack into walls. Sometimes I’m the lighthouse, and she’s the mechanic. She says: “I can’t stop thinking about how, when you put two rats in a cage and shock them enough, they start screaming if you try to tear them apart.” Grafting works, Mum tells me this morning, because one plant grows on the root system of the other. You’ll see it when the warmer weather comes round. The top plant will start flowering and, pretty soon, we’ll all forget what the rootstock was before.

COLUMN

THE CREATIVE LITERATURE AND WRITING SOCIETY PRESENTS: THE REMARKABLE QUESTS OF RADDISH AND QUILL

An Unexpected Dinner Guest by Jackson Young

s a member of a species that sleeps around sixteen hours a day, one would not expect Raddish the cat to have any difficulties as far as the task of falling asleep was concerned. Regrettably though, our favourite clinophile found their talents tested by the storm raging outside; the steady rhythm of the rain was difficult to appreciate when forced to compete with booming peals of intermittent thunder—not to mention the worrying groans of the treehouse as it swayed in the fierce winds. Fur standing on end, Raddish burrowed deeper into the nest of blankets that filled their favourite cardboard box. Despite their efforts, Raddish’s keen ears were still being bombarded by the cacophony surrounding them—along with a new

sound: a faint tap, tap, tapping at their chamber door. Trying their best to ignore it, Raddish curled up tight into a furry bundle. But the tapping persisted. Tap, tap, tap Tap, tap, tappity, tap Tap, tap, TAP “For crying out loud Raddish, how can you sleep in this ruckus?! Open the door already!” The fear churning in Raddish’s stomach quickly abated upon recognising the familiar (if irate) voice. Springing from their hidey-hole, Raddish rushed to open the door. The source of the tap, tap, tapping at their chamber door was none other than their dear friend and tree-housemate, Quill the raven. “Quill! I wasn’t asleep, this storm just has me so paranoid. I thought you were a ghost or something!” Radish chuckled unsteadily, but trailed off when they noticed the expression on their dear friend’s face. Raddish could tell by the deep furrow in their feathered brow that

ART BY STEPHANIE NESTOR

this was more than just Quill’s usual neuroticism—something was deeply, terribly wrong. “Raddish, do you remember that trove of artefacts we found on our most recent adventure? Well, I was sorting through them, and, well… it’s probably best if you see for yourself.” Upon arriving at the door to the library, Raddish immediately noticed two things: firstly, that the once meticulously curated library had been reduced to an absolute mess— piles of ancient tomes and sheafs of half-finished poetry strewn about the place. This alone was concerning enough, but it was the second thing that made Raddish’s fur stand on end once more. The library inexplicably smelt of freshly dug dirt, the odour so pungent that Radish couldn’t help but be reminded of a graveyard. “Q-Quill, what exactly happened here, and should we be running very fast in the opposite direction right now?”

Reaching their wing into the pocket of their waistcoat, Quill pulled out a shiny black stone with an almost incomprehensible shape—a mess of countless angles that intersected and layered on top of one another. It was mind-boggling to behold. “I was fooling around with this… thing, trying to figure out how it worked, and well, as you can clearly see, I may have, sort of, possibly, accidentally, let some sort of ancient evil loose.” Raddish gulped. “C-come on, Quill! Are you sure all the sleep deprivation from your late-night poetry sessions isn’t starting to get to you?” Quill let out an irritated squawk. “Raddish, surely you know me well enough that—” Quill stopped abruptly, their beak going slack as they noticed something just behind Raddish. Oblivious, Raddish continued their tirade: “You probably just left the window open and the storm

knocked everything about!” “Now, Raddish, that’s not very nice of you. Surely you have a little more faith in Quill than that?” Raddish’s tail puffed up like a wattle flower. Holding their breath, they turned slowly to face the source of the unfamiliar gravelly voice. A massive hound wearing sleek ceremonial robes as dark as its ragged black fur was towering above them. The hound gave Raddish a toothy grin so horrible the cat promptly leapt several meters into the air and locked their claws into the rafters. Dangling from the ceiling, Raddish addressed the intruder with false bravado. “Wh-who are y-you? Wh-why are you in our h-house? And why d-do you sm-smell like a compost heap?” The hound let out a chuckle so menacing that Quill promptly joined Raddish up in the rafters. “Now now, there’s no need to be frightened friends. I have many different names, but you can call me Tinda since that’s probably easiest for you mortals. The rest of them

would probably break your poor minds!” As the hound spoke, Quill’s eyes were drawn to their robes. It may have been their panicked mind playing tricks, but Quill swore they could see something writhing beneath them. “And yes, apologies for the smell; I was trapped in that trapezohedron for a few thousand years and, unfortunately, it was a little lacking in the shower department.” The graveyard stench from before had only intensified with the hound’s sudden appearance. Only there was more to it now. The intruder reeked of wet dog, rotten leaves and sour milk. Raddish tried their best not to breathe in through their nose, but could not help but recoil as the coppery tang of dried blood assaulted it. “As for why I’m here…”

Tinda paused. The well-lit library seemed to become shrouded in an inky darkness as the hound grew several sizes, their eyes glowing a baleful red. “…I’M HERE TO DEVOUR YOUR SOULS.” Raddish and Quill let out a panicked scream in unison, clutching at each other as they came to terms with the possibility of their imminent demise. The barking laughter of Tinda echoed throughout the library. They continued to laugh as they shrunk back down to their normal size and returned the library to it’s well-lit state. “I’m just messing with you. You should’ve seen your faces!” Still perched amongst the rafters, Raddish and Quill glanced at each other, before returning their confused gaze to Tinda. “You’re not going to eat our souls?” “Of course not! I’m no stranger to the occasional metaphysical cheat meal, but after being imprisoned for so long, I AM terribly peckish. Have you folks got anything a little more substantial lying around? I promise to get out of your fur and feathers once I refuel.” Raddish’s fear dissolved instantly at the opportunity to play host. Leaping down from the rafters, they gestured for

Tinda to follow them. “Let’s see, we have some lovely beef stew I can reheat, or perhaps I can fry up some bacon and eggs?” “Have you got anything without meat? I’m a vegetarian.” As their voices trailed off down the hallway, Quill fluttered down to the ground, letting out a deep sigh as they surveyed the mess. “Tomorrow’s problem, I suppose.” With a shrug, they snuffed out the lights and left to join their friends for a warm meal—all the while the rain continued to lash the windows of their cosy treehouse.

FOR AND AGAINST: Bats For by Tilli Franks

here are only 80 million years of difference between humans and bats. The common ancestor of all placental mammals is estimated to have lived around 400,000 years after the dinosaurs met their particularly nasty end. One could argue that bats got a reasonably good deal in the evolutionary lotto: they’re the only mammals who can fly. They’re far more environmentally friendly than humans, and they wanted me to tell you that they shun capitalism and hate white supremacy. Additionally, in the Finnish language, the word for bat is also slang for lesbian, making them a Gay Icon. Bats are also fucking beautiful. They’re a wildly diverse species, making up 20% of the Mammalian class. Some are big, some are small. Some are monogamous, some are polyamorous. Some are herbivorous, some are carnivorous. Some look like cuddly winged Tasmanian devils, some look like tiny little flying rhinoceroses with furry capes on. Some turn into blood-sucking humans and live in decaying Transylvanian castles, some are just your average Joe-bat with absolutely no vampiric tendencies to speak of. The Vampire Bat is the most likely to be a human in disguise. However, Mr Bram Stoker gave them a rather bad rap, probably because he was jealous of their flying abilities. They do feed off blood, but don’t typically draw enough to kill the larger mammals they prey on. Their saliva also clots the blood as they drink it, which I think is quite nice of them. And honestly, considering regular humans literally raise and kill around 56 billion land animals each year, I don’t think we have much room to talk. Plus bats do a good deal of charity work re-pollinating the very world we are doing our best to destroy, so I say we collaborate and sacrifice the Australian Liberal Party to satisfy their batty blood lust, and get on with saving the earth (unfortunately the Liberals probably wont die, they’ll just hopefully be too weak to make stupid decisions). I’ve never met a bat I didn’t like, in contrast to the many humans who have attempted to drain the life out of me. In that 80 million years of genetic divergence, humans have really fucked up both the entire planet and each other, while the bats have just been zooming about minding their own damn business. Thus, therefore, and hence: bats are better than humans. Evidence = they don’t litter.

Against by Jocelyn Deane Bats probably have the largest ratio of good-thing-inspires-lame-thing in history. Bats themselves? Adorable sky-puppies, locating prey by doing a scream real loud. A beautiful hybrid of fluff and wings humans regard enviously. Humans and other mammals have dreamed of flying for centuries and we have been chastened by essentially a very small fox with big eyes. For our hubris, the bat has wreaked a terrible vengeance on the world. Where the bat is a collapse of binaries and categories, we have made—in its image, like an Ayn Rand-reader trying to simulate compassion—Vampires1 (basically 19th century upper class British People with tuberculosis and sex issues who read Nietzsche one time) Batman (a white boy who takes personal responsibility very very seriously), every bad metal cover in history and Meatloaf a.k.a what if has-been white jump-suit Elvis and Ronald Reagan were spliced together in the teleport from The Fly? What I’m saying is bats are indirectly responsible for CisHet culture, and we must never forgive them. But what about the good that bats have inspired, you ask, champing down on irritation and your dawning sense of existential horror, like bite-play in kink, or the leather boom of the early 2000s? I would reply that it only takes one person to shit in a pool for everyone to get cholera. Like Rick and Morty, Bernie Bros, David Foster Wallace, Warhammer 40 000, The Coen Brothers, Kendrick Lamar and other cultural artefacts that cis straight white dudes patronise, any kind of appreciation is insuperable from their shittier qualities/fandom, and what they have become. As a wonderful, amalgam creature of the night, I weep for the bat, but as a cultural touchstone my heart is as cold as my rage.

Vampires are actually brilliant I love them and wonderful sites of fluidity and critique and I’m sorry for libelling them this article was really difficult

and I needed to make up the space somehow oh god.

ART BY LUCY WILLIAMS