2021 Edition Six

FARRAGO

acknowledgement of country

Farrago has been published at the University of Melbourne, on the land of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, since 1925. As 2021 begins to draw to a close, we add one more year onto this long history. An accumulation of the surreal qualities of 2021 and Farrago’s extensive history, our Edition Six cover art reflects where we’ve been and where we’ve arrived at. Thanks to assistance from the University Archives, we’ve been able to take elements from Farrago covers spanning generations to create a collage which visually recognises and reflects upon our roots as a student publication.

But it is not enough to pay homage to such roots and express our gratitude at still being able to function as a student publication after 96 years without acknowledging the long history of Indigenous land, culture and suffering which we benefit from, and which make what we do possible.

We cannot truly talk about legacy and reflection without acknowledging the dark history sown into this very land. The University of Melbourne has only been able to enjoy its longtime acclaim and reputation because of the settler colonial system and the mistreatment, violation and deaths of First Nations communities. Our government and institutions would still rather deny and sweep this bleak history under the rug instead of owning and facing up to it. On an individual level, we are privileged today to work, study and live on this land as settlers because of ongoing theft of land and natural resources, and the systemic oppression which continues to discriminate against Indigenous rights to this very day.

As we conclude our editorial term, we pay our respects to the traditional owners of the land on which we have been privileged to make our art, and who have been practicing storytelling and art-making before anyone else on this planet. We extend our respect to First Nations students and staff at our University, and express our gratitude to everyone who has picked up a copy of Farrago throughout the year. Thank you for listening to us— we encourage you to support and actively listen to those whose land you live on, too.

Ailish Hallinan Wurundjeri Land of the Kulin Nation

Lauren Berry

Boon Wurrung Land of the Kulin Nation

Pavani Ambagahawattha Out of Country

Without the Thank You

Anindya Meiv

Juniper

39 “Recontexualise”, said a hotshot student, whilst all were forced to endure their never-ending monologue about T.S. Eliot Christina Savopoulos 41 Satire-in-brief

Raina Shauki, Laura Bishop, Charlotte Armstrong and Sweeney

66 Blackout Poetry

Aeva Milos

67 OAK

Harry Hartney

67 Lying Underneath a BroadLeafed Tree

Matthew Blyth

68 Haibun for the Road

Laura Charlton

69 The Museum Rules

Gabrielle Lim

70 The Orchard

Matthew Blyth

71 A National park is an island, II

Izma Haider

72 Night Terrors

Hannah Winspear-Schillings

74 meat

Joel Duggan

78 Glass Bars.

Wildes Lawler

21 Ordinary Joys: Me and the Girl—a Love Story E.S.

22 Heathers: Our Love is God

Nishtha Banavalikar

40 At the Movies... Farrago: Review

Brian Novak

42 Race Against the Odds ilundi tinga

44 Slogans and Nonsense

Josh Abbey

Samuel

Akash

James Gordon

Carolyn

Jasmine

45 The Pier Review

Torsten Strokirch

46 Easy Condensed Milk Lemon Tart

Steph Markerink

58 The World of Dragons

Zoe Keeghan

60 The Foggy Shores of Our Bedrooms

Charlotte Waters and Lee Perkins

77 The Women of Myth

Gen Schiesser

are still sunsets

Alexia Shaw 65 Broken Vials

Austin J. Ceravolo

EDITORS

Ailish Hallinan

Lauren Berry

Pavani Ambagahawattha

COVER

Jasmine Pierce

(Including art by Torsten Strokirch)

MANAGERS

Sweeney Preston

Charlotte Armstrong

Ben Levy

Carolyn West

Mark Yin

Megan Van Vegten

Imogen Smith

CONTRIBUTORS

Jennifer Chance

Alessandra Akerley

Georgie Atkins

Jessica Morrison

Ailish Hallinan

Micol Carmignani

Donna Burroughs

Joshua Munro

Vanessa Chan

Srishti Chatterjee

Chelsea Daniel

Hannah Winspear-Schillings

Teck-Phui Chua

Jo Guelas

Aeva Milos

Mira Twigg

Marcie Di Bartolomeo

Anindya Meiv

Annalyce Wiebenga

Juniper Lee

Christina Savopoulos

Mark Yin

Emily French

Wei Ann Lai

Alexia Shaw

Austin J. Ceravolo

Harry Hartney

Matthew Blyth

Laura Charlton

Gabrielle Lim

Izma Haider

Joel Duggan

Wildes Lawler

Savier D’Arsie-Marquez

SUBEDITORS

Emma Barrett

Frank Harvey Tyson

Sophie Alexandra Dungan

Vanshika Agarwal

Amber Meyer

Zoe Keeghan

Kate King-Smith

Isabelle McConaghy

Cassie Starc

Nishtha Banavalikar

Christina Savopoulos

Mickhaella Ermita

Lucy Robin

Joel Keith

Josh Abbey

Austin J. Ceravolo

Saanjana Kapoor

Melana Uceda

Chelsea Rozario

Ella Crowley

Charlotte Armstrong

Xiaole Zhan

Laura Franks

Joel Duggan

Helena Pantsis

Marcie Di Bartolomeo

Claire Yip

Sam Hadden

Nat Hollis

Poppy Willis

Ioanna Petropolou

Bridget Schwerdt

Gwynneth Thomas

Charlotte Waters

Elizabeth Seychell

COLUMNISTS

Zoe Keeghan

E.S.

ilundi tinga

Charlotte Waters

Lee Perkins

Josh Abbey

Nishtha Banavalikar

James Gordon

ILLUSTRATORS

Vertigo

Alicia May Aliandy

Rachel Ko

Melana Uceda

Georgia Huang

Rose Gertsakis

Michelle Chan

Arielle Vlahiotis

Birdy Carmen

Casey Boswell

Nina Hughes

Torsten Strokirch

Weiting Chen

Chelsea Rozario

Jasmine Pierce

Cathy Chen

Aeva Milos

Marchella Rusciano-Barrow

Mabel Ng

Monica Yu

Joey Dillon

Carmen Chin

Sally Yuan

Olivia Wood

Mica McCulloch

An Trinh

Zoe Eyles

Anannya Musale

Ben Perlmutter

Maddy Cronn

PHOTOGRAPHERS

Samuel Hadden

Christian Theodosiou

Akash Anil Nair

James Gordon

Ben Levy

Carolyn West

Jasmine Pierce

Kye Harn Loh

GRAPHIC COLUMNISTS

Steph Markerink

Gen Schiesser

Torsten Strokirch

SATIRE TEAM

Charlotte Armstrong

Sweeney Preston

Emma-Grace Clarke

Illustrated by Weiting Chen

Josh Abbey

Raina Shauki

James Gordon

Rowan Burridge

Janvi Sikand

Chelsea Rozario

Laura Bishop

SOCIAL MEDIA

Jessica Seychell

Janelle Del Vecchio

Emily Gu

Anindya Setiawan

Keely Tzoukos

Jenslie George

Isabella Ross

Megan Van Vegten

Imogen Smith

This magazine is made from 100% recycled paper. Please recycle this magazine after use.

Farrago is the newspaper of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). Farrago is published by the General Secretary. The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of UMSU.

EDITORIAL

PAVANI

Too many people to thank. Ailish, who brought endless light and joy to yet another plague year. You’re one of the few truly, deeply good people I have met in my life. Ily. Lauren, I hope I can one day be half as cool as you (and Klaus!) are. Jo, Jasmine, Nishtha and Charlotte, our 2022 babies. I love how you treat the serious stuff dead seriously, and everything else with such beautifully chaotic irreverence. I hope you surpass us in every possible way. My beautiful, thoughtful subbies. Every manager, writer, reporter, illustrator, photographer, Fodder host and social media team member who gave us your time and art and labour. I wish I got to meet you all and I hope you’re proud of all the lovely things you helped create. The 2020 team—especially Amber and Sarah—for being there and being kind. You’re the best media mums a girl could ask for. My family, for literally everything. I’m the furthest thing from self-made there is.

All my love,

AILISH

I’ve never been particularly good at ‘goodbyes’, even when I know they’re coming. From day one, we knew we only got to steer this ship for a year but even as I’m writing this editorial, I’ve still not really come to terms with my editorship being over.

Anyone who knows me knows how challenging this year has been for me—both on a personal and professional level. However, with the endless support from my friends, family, our contributors and my incredible co-editors, Pav and Lauren, we have achieved more than I could have ever imagined. This job is not for the faint of heart. Pav—you have inspired me constantly this year with your determination, dedication and resilience. Thank you for everything, I love you. Lauren—thank you for always supplying the best tunes and keeping me company while we spent an ungodly amount of time in our offices working.

I think in some ways, our surrealist-themed final edition has been a way for us all to escape reality—whether this reality be your dream job ending, being in lockdown or away from loved ones. Our surrealist cover, made by incoming design editor Jasmine, is also the perfect way to celebrate our term being over. Created using the newly digitised Farrago archives, this artwork is truly a reflection of where our magazine has come and where it is now headed under the incredible creative leadership of the 2022 editors: Jasmine, Jo, Charlotte & Nishtha.

So, enjoy our very last Farrago for the year. My love always, A x

LAUREN

There’s two versions of me: the overexcited, sleep-deprived gremlin crouching up on the desk waving her hands about wildly because Farrago is just so MARVELOUS, ARE YOU EXCITED FOR EDITION SIX ‘CAUSE I AM and the sensitive sprite struggling to open sticky doors and hyper aware that she might not be faking all this convincingly enough. These two personas sit together like two candles in one jar, little brilliant flames fighting for oxygen. Sometimes, neither one wins—they tango for hours. Often, they blow each other to smoke, and that’s when you take a Sunday off and spend it staring without seeing and processing without thinking.

Too late, I came to recognise the power of letting candid tears, laughs and inarticulate noises slip beneath my masks. Especially in a year of intense cultural whirlpools, this department’s needs for connection, authenticity and shared affection have become all the more apparent. Setting this kind of example has been difficult for me. Less so for my badass co-editors, Pav and Ailish—my ultimate role models. Never have I seen two more passionate and driven women; it has been so stunning to witness their no-nonsense bravery, getting shit done and exposing the wrongs which deserve nothing less than to be illuminated by a blinding, humiliating flashlight. Moreover, their strength and stability has let me fly my freak flag proudly.

But of course, I’ve only been a temporary resident of the guest room. All of the art, drama, stamina you see from this department, it comes from you, the student community. It is my mere duty to serve you. An extremely privileged, proud, (self-condemned) and chuffed Atlas, I’ve lifted your world of work onto my shoulder gratefully. This has been my role—thank you for having me.

THANK YOU!

The name Farrago means “hodge podge”, a mixture of people, things and ideas. The magazines we have produced this year truly are a reflection of our name, created through the collaboration of people with diverse skills and talents from all over the world. This year has been undoubtedly challenging for many reasons, but the endless support of our Farrago community kept us going at times when this job seemed too difficult to continue. In our final edition for this year, we wanted to take time to thank the wonderful people who have dedicated themselves and their time to our Department this year—we would be nothing without you.

Managers

Mark—You keep Radio Fodder alive. You’re its beating heart, its soul, its blood and veins and guts and glory. A fierce manager, technical aficionado and spinner of sick beats (even if such playlists quite rightly revolve around the supreme prowess of Mariah Carey)—we’re constantly in awe of your unceasing list of talents, and can’t wait to see where you take your incredible brain next. Our thanks cannot come from a deeper nor more profound place. You make our department whole, and we’d be lost without you.

Ben & Caro—We still can’t believe how lucky we are to have you both as our photography managers. Ben, you’ve been a part of this department for literal years. Thank you for all your work and dedication. Caro, your skills and experience blew us away from the start. We’ve learned so much from you! From building wonderful relationships with the team to hosting workshops and arranging photo walks, you’ve truly done it all.

Vivian & Elmira—Thank you for dedicating your time and skills to help the illustration team this year! You were there to support them when they needed direction or guidance with their work, but also went above and beyond to run several, incredibly successful workshops to help them grow as artists.

Imogen & Megan—Writers of wonderfully witty copy, makers of eye-catching graphics, and the best social media managers a magazine could have. Working with you felt effortless, because you worked hard to make it so.

Sweeney & Charlotte—Our comedy monarchs! Thank you for all the joy and laughs—this has truly been Farrago satire’s golden year! It’s no easy task to keep rambunctious rascals to a tight deadline, but you’ve succeeded wonderfully.

Jo—Thank you, sweet bean, for looking after this little team, organising events and workshops, and being a solid dependable person to work with.

Janelle—Thank you for bringing a fresh perspective to the Fodder Blog for the first half of the year! You’ve helped pave the way for more music journalists and culture writers to set up shop in the media department. We wish you so much luck for the future!

Radio Fodder Teams

Our Radio Fodder teams have never gotten enough credit for all that they do. Every week, radio hosts and producers plan and record shows, bravely conduct interviews, contribute music, and make social media posts to promote their materials. Your efforts don’t go unnoticed! As for our blog teams, new blog subbies, and music and segment contributors, your content is fresh, intelligent, and thought-provoking. We know you’ll go far in any endeavour you set your minds to.

Subeditors

The unsung heroes of every publication. Thank you for rarely (if ever!) missing deadlines, and working so gently with authors to improve their pieces. Without you, this magazine would have been much wordier, and quite terribly spelled.

Contributors

This year, we’ve had op-eds about Taylor Swift, spirited defences of fanfiction, columns celebrating the ordinary joys of everyday life, poems inspired by Greek mythology, and so much more. We’ve been blown away by the depth, diversity and originality of the content we received.

Some of you were published in every single edition this year. We see you, and are in awe of your persistence and dedication. Some of you were firsttimers, and had never been published anywhere else before. Thank you so much for trusting us with your

Like, Seriously.

very first piece! This magazine would be nothing without you.

Artists & Photographers

A Farrago without its artists is like Pavani without Lana Del Rey’s discography—incomplete. We are forever indebted to the wonderful illustrators and photographers who dedicated themselves to our department this year. Artists are the last to receive their commissions and often have to work around writing delays or extensions. Despite this, you all always churn out the most spectacular art, which has brought us to tears on several occasions. You have brought endless colour and beauty to our magazines.

Supporters

We’d also like to thank everyone who hasn’t contributed to the media department directly, but has come along to an event, left a supportive comment, shared one of our social media posts, sent messages of love, given us real and virtual hugs, and much more over this difficult year. From alumni popping in to say “Hello! Look how you’ve grown!” To contributors’ dads flying interstate to attend in-person launches, it sets off little fireworks in our hearts to realise that our community is not just made up of those writing, drawing or editing our content—it’s a massive, growing family spanning years and generations.

Previous Farrago Editors

A Farrago editor’s work is never done. Throughout this year, we’ve gone to past editors for comfort, guidance, and the occasional breakdown Special thanks to Amber Meyer’s shoulder, for being such a nice place to cry on. To Sarah Peters, who is so unrealistically kind she belongs in a fairytale. And to Stevie Zhang, for being an endless source of wisdom and inspiration.

POC x Media

Thank you to Emily and Mohamed, the POC Office Bearers, for all your help with this important initiative. Nishtha and Jennifer, our coordinators, for running every event seamlessly. And thanks to everyone who came for helping us build a stronger community and calling us out when we could be doing better. UMSU Media has a long way to go, but we’re glad you’re accompanying us on our travels.

UMSU Staff

Ah, UMSU staff—our other unsung heros. To everyone from the Comms, Design and Events teams, to the lovely people at Info Desk, Naomi from HR and our UMSU mother (aka Volunteer Coordinator) Goldie, thank you so much for helping these three twentysomething-year old undergrads turn our dreams for this department into a reality.

Kosdown Printing

Amidst all the chaos at the start of our term, we also had to find a new printer for Farrago. With none of us having ANY design experience, this process was unbelievably stressful. However, we were lucky enough to find Kosdown and boy, oh boy, are we glad we did. The biggest thank yous to David and Andrew, who have been incredibly patient and so willing to give us their time whenever we need their help. And also to Jude, for making sure our magazines look beautiful and helping Ailish catch any mistakes her very inexperienced self makes.

Personal Thank Yous

Special thanks to the Berry, Hallinan and Athukorala families, partners, housemates and close friends for putting up with a lot of tears, rants, and bouts of hysteria, and offering your shoulders (or your sofas) to lie on. You don’t realise, but your love is the fuel that has kept us going.

Extra special thanks to Klaus von Berry for having the softest ears and being the best friend, assistant editor, and comfort dog a gal could ask for. xx

Our love always, Ailish, Pavani & Lauren

FPresident | Jack Buksh

Wow, it’s been two (very) long years here for me in UMSU, and I am glad to be signing off. It’s been a joy to serve as your President and General Secretary. Thank you to all of the students who worked with me and UMSU to better represent you. Also would be remiss not to thank the University for giving us a heap of problems to be fixed. It’s been a tough couple of years, and I’m proud that UMSU has been able to be there for students every step of the way. Hopefully, next year we get back to some form of normality and bring back campus. Catch ya superstars.

General

Secretary | Allen Xiao

Iam ver egelidos refert tepores, iam caeli furor aequinoctialis iucundis Zephyri silescit aureis.

Now spring brings back warmer days | Now the fury of the Equinox sky | Falls silent in the west wind’s pleasant breezes. —Catullus 46

The grind does not stop—we had the first fully online UMSU election, featuring the biggest turnout in recent history (how good’s democracy?), thanks in no small part to the work of Students’ Councillors over the year. Epic. In other news, I’ve been helping many students with SIG applications—check out UMSU’s website before the year ends, I’d love to chat!

Clubs and Societies | Kalyana Vania and Muskaan Hakhu

Heya! The Clubs department has been in full roar!

We held our first ever Club Leadership workshops, which were a massive success and now we are preparing to turn all our training sessions digital! Welcome to the digital age of networking, studying and now club trainings too!

Lastly, a shout out to the more-than-100 of you who came and helped us make the leadership workshops a success!

Creative Arts | Merryn Hughes and Vaishnavi Ravikrishna

Creative Arts would Really like to thank Everyone for a bittersweet year of making, sharing and enjoying art. From Mudfest to Above Water (which is now available To view online via Issuu), it’s been an honour supporting our Vibrant student artist community. It’s not lost on us that this year has been incredibly challenging for so many, including everyone who has needed to Experiment to continue making and sharing art. Thank you for your courage, it’s been truly inspiring witnessing a generation of Artists demonstrate such Resilience and innovation. We can’t wait To see what’s in Store for 2022.

Education Academic | Jennisha Arnanta and Planning Saw

No report submitted.

Education Public | Hannah Krasovec and Tejas Gandhi

Wish we could turn back time, to the good old days, when our momma sang us to sleep, but now we’re stressed out! It’s been a really fantastic year; thanks to everyone who came along to our collectives, campaigns, rallies, collective actions, trainings and other in-person and online events!

From raising awareness against subject and job cuts, to fighting for WAMnesty and climate justice activism, thanks to all our staunch activists, members, students, and friends. It wouldn’t be possible without you all. The stage is well-set for the upcoming Office Bearers! Signing off for the final time, Tejas and Hannah!

Burnley | Kaitlyn Hammond

Despite a slow start at the beginning of lockdown 6.0, BSA made an amazing comeback! Our R workshop series finished successfully and led to the creation of the new R tutorial book! The virtual escape room was fun for all involved, and we had a great turnout for our online watercolor workshop! Students learned all about career paths at the Next Steps alumni event. Up next is our virtual cocktail/mocktail and trivia night—bound to be exciting and educational. Get ready for our terrarium building class—a fun activity to brighten you home as the weather warms up!

Disabilities | Brigit Doyle and Lindsay Tupper-Creed

The online environment has continued to challenge how we connect and use disability services, and invited new and easy ways for people to take part. This semester we’ve hosted mental health skills workshops and training sessions, funded AUSLAN classes, and hosted online art sessions with bath bomb-making kits posted out. In meetings and collectives we’ve discussed important topics, and it’s been refreshing to share more issues with SEDS staff now the restructure is complete. As we roll into the often ableist times of exams and assessment, remember we are: Different, not less. Jump on our Facebook page for more events!

No report submitted.

People of Colour | Emily AlRamadhan and Mohamed Omer

Hello everyone! This year has been eventful and challenging in every sense of the words. We recently launched Myriad Edition Five! We had an incredible launch party and hope you all get a chance to read it. I’m also working on some major upcoming events to finish off the year: some workshops and potentially a really important survey to address racism on campus. It’s been an intense year and we hope that you’ve enjoyed our events! It’s been a pleasure being your Officers!

Activities | Phoebe Chen

No report submitted.

Queer | Amelia Bright and Laura Ehrensperger

It’s been a bit of a crazy time. Our main event, which was organised and managed successfully, was the online Queer Ball! The turnout was pretty great, and there was a lot of positive feedback for the events which occurred. This included a great comedy skit by the TitWitchez, awesome live streamed music from Cloudy Ku, a range of online games, and gift vouchers for different prizes.

Other than Queer Ball, collectives have managed to operate successfully throughout the semester despite remaining online. CAMP Magazine Vol. 4 has been created, organised, and managed by an incredible team, and will be published shortly. It has been great to see the Queer Department carry this on throughout the last few years.

Southbank | Jamie Kim and Leyla Moxham

UMSU Southbank has recently distributed COVID-19 Pandemic-Relief Grocery Vouchers to the Faculty of Fine Arts & Music students to assist with the pressures and expenses of daily life during this time of financial uncertainty. We are also currently preparing to host a Students Showcase Night event in Week 11 to provide the students an opportunity to show off their artistic talent, as well as meeting other students across the faculty. Furthermore, in Week 12, there will be an UMSU Southbank Trivia Night event, in which there will be sets of questions about TV Shows & Movies, Sports, Books, UMSU Southbank, and the University of Melbourne Faculty of Fine Arts and Music. The prospective winners of this event will receive a prize (voucher)! As we are collaborating with the UMSU Creative Arts Department for this event, we are very excited!

Welfare | Hue Man Dang

No report submitted.

Women | Srishti Chatterjee and Mickhaella Ermita

Hello! This rollercoaster year is coming to an end, and your Women’s Officers are glad to have been a part of it. Together, we got the University to commit to a standalone sexual misconduct policy, which has now been published and implemented. Among our other wins, we had record participation from gender-diverse people in our work this year, and hope this continues into the future, into our policies, art, activism and learnings! In the semester’s last week, we are also publishing Judy’s Punch, our autonomous magazine, full of wonderful works of writing, art, photography, and this year’s new addition—performance. It’s been an honour to be your Women’s Officers, and we hope you have a good break!

Environment | Lynne Bian and Disha Zutshi

No report submitted.

UMSU UPDATES

Here we are, drawing to a close on another year!

2021 was definitely not better than 2020, despite what we all thought twelve months ago. The pandemic has definitely had an impact. The good news is that hopefully, we can return to some form of normalcy in 2022.

UMSU is already gearing up for a massive return to campus next year—so we can come back and do all the things we love doing. Clubs, activities and a strong campus life.

But we also know that next year will bring a whole other range of challenges. The University of Melbourne has been pressing forwards with its cuts and job losses. For students next year, that is going to mean a range of different things. We are expecting fewer subjects to be offered—and while we are hoping this is not the case—these restructures and job losses could result in poorer student service delivery from the University.

But in the meantime, as we approach the end of semester and the examination period, we know there will be a lot of you who need support.

So don’t forget that UMSU is here to help you. We’re your voice on campus, so when something doesn’t go to plan, never hesitate to reach out.

If you need support, we’re here for you, whether that be in your degree, or life more generally. All students have access to our free Legal and Advocacy service, and our elected student representatives and departments are always happy to help you out too. This pandemic is a really, really tricky time for all of us, but that’s what we’re here for.

And for next year, I’ll be handing the keys over to the 2022 UMSU President, Sophie Nguyen, and all of your new student representatives.

Bye!

Jack Buksh UMSU President president@union.unimelb.edu.au

Illustrated by Nina Hughes

Artwork by Maddy Cronn

NEWS-IN

NEWS-IN-BRIEF

BRIEF

Written by Jennifer Chance, Alessandra Akerley, Georgie Atkins, Jessica Morrison and Ailish Hallinan

2021 AFL Grand Final

The Melbourne Demons claimed victory over the Western Bulldogs in the 2021 AFL grand final, which took place at Perth’s Optus Stadium this year due to Melbourne’s ongoing sixth lockdown. This was the team’s first grand final victory in 57 years, as they smashed the opposition with a score of 140:66. Demons coach Simon Goodwin said that the win is just “the start for our footy club” and that this win has allowed them to get to “where we want to be”.

Gladys Berejiklian Resigns

On October 1, NSW Premier Gladys Berejiklian announced her resignation after the Independent Commission Against Corruption reported it was investigating her involvement in corrupt conduct. The investigation is focused specifically on her secret relationship to disgraced former Wagga Wagga MP Daryl Maguire, and grants that were handed to the Australian Clay Target association in 2016-17 and the Riverina Conservatorium of Music in Wagga Wagga in 2018, of which Maguire had advocated for and attempted to personally benefit from. It will investigate whether she failed to report reasonable suspicions of corrupt conduct in relation to Maguire and whether she “breached public trust”. Former NSW Treasurer Dominic Perrottet has taken over as NSW Premier.

Facebook Outage

Many of us woke up to our social media apps not working on October 5 after Facebook’s servers unexpectedly went offline for almost six hours. The outage not only impacted apps Messenger, Instagram and Whatsapp, but also the company’s internal systems including email and security swipe codes.

Many pointed out that the site went down shortly after former employee Frances Haugen went on 60 Minutes alleging the company was aware that its platform was used to spread misinformation and violence. Haugen leaked several documents following her resignation from Facebook which indicated the company priortised “growth over safety”. However, Facebook claims a ‘networking issue’ was responsible for the outage.

Written by Jennifer Chance, Alessandra Akerley, Georgie Atkins, Jessica Morrison and Ailish Hallinan

Growing Tensions Between China and Taiwan

China sent a record number of fighter jets into Taiwan’s Air Defence Identification Zone during China’s National Day weekend. This display of force has heightened tensions between the two countries, and Taiwan’s foreign minister has asked Australia for help in what he sees as a potential preparation for war. The United States has pledged their support for Taiwan in the event of a conflict or an invasion.

Melbourne Earthquake

Victoria was hit with the state’s largest ever earthquake on the morning of September 22. The almost 6.0 magnitude quake hit Mansfield at 9:15am, reverberating 130km towards Melbourne. The tremor was followed up by two aftershock quakes, of 4.0 and 3.1 magnitude respectively, that were felt as far as Adelaide and Sydney. No significant damage occurred, bar some damage to buildings along chapel street. Geologist Brendan Duffy noted that Melbourne’s lockdown played a part in preventing civilians from being harmed in the quake, stating that the lockdown was “certainly a factor in avoiding injuries”, adding that civilians running out of the damaged building on Chapel Street could have potentially been killed.

VIC Construction Industry Shutdown

The Victorian construction industry was shut down for two weeks in September following a violent protest outside the Construction, Forestry, Maritime, Mining and Energy Union (CFMEU) headquarters on September 19. The protest—held in response to the introduction of mandatory vaccines for construction workers—was condemned by the CFMEU and other unions across the country.

The industry shutdown resulted in almost two weeks of daily anti-vaccine protests across Melbourne, which saw several hundred people arrested .Unconfirmed allegations were made that most of the protesters were not construction workers but rather “neo-nazis and other right-wing extremist groups” who used the shutdown as an opportunity to build momentum.

The Pandora Papers

More than 12 million documents containing details about the shadow financial dealings of the world’s richest and most powerful were leaked in early October. The files include details about potentially corrupt financial activities of 35 world leaders, such as Vladimir Putin and former UK Prime Minister Tony Blair. There was also information exposing hundreds of public officials from various countries, and multiple billionaires. The documents, called the Pandora Papers, were leaked by the International Consortium of Journalists to its media partners, and is considered the largest ever global investigation.

Illustrated by Ben Perlmutter

Illustrated by Ben Perlmutter content warning: violence, war

AstraZeneca: an Option to Consider?

Written by Micol Carmignani

With the University of Melbourne Health Service now providing the AstraZeneca vaccine to consenting students, it is time to look beyond the moral panic for an informed decision. First of all, let’s establish the background.

AstraZeneca (also called Vaxzevria) was one of the first available vaccines for COVID-19, and was developed by scientists at the University of Oxford’s Jenner Institute. It is a style of DNA vaccine known as “plug and play”: Chimpanzee Adenovirus Oxford One (ChAdOx1) is used as a building block modified to contain the genetic blueprints of the SARS-CoV-2 spike protein (the component of COVID-19 that initially attaches to cells).

By generating this spike protein, the body can create antibodies and therefore build immunity against COVID-19. This process differs from Pfizer, which is an mRNA vaccine, yet ultimately amounts to the same effect (providing genetic instructions to create spike proteins).

The panic around AstraZeneca started after it was linked to reports of blood clotting. From a political perspective, this bolstered the anti-vaccine agenda and was used as evidence to support claims that vaccines are ‘risky’.

Additionally, health authorities began to put restrictions on age groups recommended for AstraZeneca, and some European countries put a temporary suspension on it altogether. This culminated in a general distrust of the vaccine and general uncertainty around receiving it.

In Australia, AstraZeneca is still only listed as fully recommended for over-60s, while Pfizer and Moderna are listed as “preferred” for everyone younger. It is also restricted to over 18s, while Pfizer and Moderna are available for children aged 12 and older.

Audrey is currently studying Arts at UniMelb, and has been vaccinated with AstraZeneca.

“I was super apprehensive because there’s been so much fear mongering in the media, especially around young women contracting blood clots,” she said.

Annabel Shaw, another UniMelb student who has received AstraZeneca, echoes this same sentiment about AstraZeneca’s treatment in the press:

“The positives definitely outweighed the slightly increased risk of AZ [AstraZeneca] over other vaccines, and I felt that the negative media around AZ was a bit out of proportion and missing the bigger picture.”

Recent advice from the World Health Organisation recommends that vaccination with AstraZeneca continue in people aged 18 and over, as the benefits do indeed outweigh the risks. Upon closer inspection, the risk of blood coagulation can be understood as minute, with eight complications per million vaccines. This means the chance of blood clotting is 50 times greater with the contraceptive pill, 2,500 times greater with pregnancy and 38,750 times greater from COVID-19 itself. Moreover, the chance of complications from AstraZeneca being life threatening currently stands at 0.00000053 per cent, compared to the 3.4 per cent mortality rate from COVID-19.

Both students interviewed also said it was important to get whichever vaccine was available to them in order to get Australia “back to normal” as soon as possible.

“The only way out of such a mentally and physically destructive state of constant lockdown is high vaccination rates,” said Audrey.

This is in line with the Federal Government’s Four Phase Plan out of the COVID-19 pandemic, which sees most freedoms restored once 80 per cent of the population is fully vaccinated. The Victorian Government also abandoned the plan to eliminate the virus completely in early September, with vaccination targets becoming the new benchmark for when restrictions can begin to ease in Greater Melbourne.

The Vice Chancellor of the University of Melbourne, Duncan Maskell, also announced recently that full vaccination will become a requirement for attending campus from November 5 2021. This means that current UniMelb students should actively consider their vaccine options as Australia edges closer to its vaccination targets.

Students over the age of 18 who have made the informed decision to receive AstraZeneca can book a vaccination appointment on the University of Melbourne Health Service website, the Victorian Government’s website, or through a GP.

Illustrated by Jasmine Pierce

Australia’s Refugee Friends

Written by Donna Burroughs

Mostafa “Moz” Azimitabar, a Kurdish refugee from Iraq, sought asylum in Australia in 2013. Moz was initially transferred to Papua New Guinea, where he was held for six years.

Moz was then brought to Australia for medical help under the Medevac Bill. Upon arrival, he was first held in the Mantra Hotel, before being transferred to the Park Hotel, which lies approximately 100m from the University’s Parkville campus. He was finally released in January 2021, after 2,737 days of forced detainment by the Australian government.

His first week in the community was characterised by the “experience of freedom”, and was “full of excitement … and happiness.”

“I could see and hold my friends. They were not behind the tinted glass.”

But the celebrations have dimmed over time. After six months, the government has not provided any further support for Moz, who hasn’t received any assistance in securing a job or finding accommodation.

Finding a job and accommodation is an arduous task for any ordinary Australian, but for freed refugees, these difficulties are exacerbated by the terms of temporary visas that do not permit them to work or study. And visa conditions aren’t the only difficulty.

“I have been traumatized terribly, I can’t work at the moment I am looking for accommodation and a job,” Moz said.

Despite his trauma, Moz’s life marches on, with moments of enjoyment to be found despite non-existent support from the government. After he was released, for a period of time he enjoyed gardening.

“I just wanted to be with nature, because I was locked up in a small room for fifteen months. I couldn’t see nature. I couldn’t see sunlight.”

He’s also a musician, having released a song he wrote, “Love”, on May 3 2020. He’s written other songs, too, he says, but

“just need[s] to find a good producer,” before they see the light of day.

Apart from his music, Moz is passionate about cooking, and particularly loves Kurdish cuisine.

“I would love to have a restaurant, Kurdish food. Art and music [those things] keep me strong, they help me to be kind to myself.”

“[For] a job I [would] like to cook and help people, especially vulnerable people who feel that they are depressed. I would like to hold their hands and tell them what I have been through for eight years and tell them, the past is the past, and life is beautiful, and freedom is beautiful.”

Moz would love to study, but under his visa conditions, he is not permitted to do so. If given the chance, he would “love to study human rights, and be a person to help people.”

Despite his relative freedom, however, Moz’s psychological scars remain.

“I feel a part of me is still in detention. When I see that my friends are in detention, I feel very sad.”

One of those friends is Basim Alobeidi. After fleeing from Iraq to Australia in 2013, Basim was redirected to Manus Island, transferred to Australia under Medevac legislation in 2019, and has been detained in Australia for a total of 589 days. He remains in the Park Hotel in Carlton, only able to contact his family through his phone.

His childhood memories are that of a war-torn land; conflicts between Iraq, Iran and Kuwait meant the sounds and sight of bombs exploding was not uncommon. Bombs in the night would shatter the windows of his childhood home. His father and two of his brothers were killed in conflict. He doesn’t know who killed them, or why.

Basim came to Australia expecting protection, but was instead locked up without reason. “I’m suffering because of

Illustrated by Melana Uceda

where I was born,” he says.

“This policy and this system has caused damage to these people. Some of them will not recover, and some of them have already lost their lives.”

Basim has despaired at the lack of compassion shown by the Hotel’s security staff, who are employees of Serco.

“We try to communicate to them… that we are just innocent or just unlucky…they see our pain every single day… but they don’t really care…because [they receive] private companies’ money.”

There are also glimpses of kindness. When Basim was in the Mantra Hotel, following the attempted suicide of another refugee, he had a memorable encounter with a police officer.

“One of the police…he start to make conversation with me… how are you guys living here, what are you doing in the daytime and in the night…and I start to explain to him…we don’t know how long we’ll be [here] and we don’t know what’s the reason… and he start to feel how much he feels sorry for us, and I was feeling how much he has humanity. He said people in the prison[s] have proper education, they have a place to go and walk and they know when they will be out and they know what’s the reason…he was very sorry for us.”

He also retains contact with most of his friends who were previously imprisoned but were allowed to leave detention earlier this year. He recognises the hurdles they face to proper settlement, but laments that freedom is “better than [being in] the detention centre.”

Additionally, he has taken weekly viola lessons on Skype for nine months now. He jokes that “I was bad before, now I’ve gotten worse.” Nevertheless, he practices every day, recently learning to play the song “Long Long Ago”.

Basim also has an idea of what he’ll do once he’s freed from the hotel.

“First thing I want is peace and quiet for a couple of days, and to just walk around in a quiet place.”

“If I got out I would do a lot of things…I miss walking around, touching the ground, driving a car, playing with the animals, playing with kids.”

“All the small stuff, you miss it.”

The task of rebuilding his life after over eight years in detention is what he’d tackle next. He has a reliable skill set under his belt, waiting to be used. Back in Iraq, he worked in the crane industry, working in construction since leaving school in grade five.

“I operate, I fix, I build…I got this job from my own family when I was in Iraq.”

But before he can walk in nature, play with animals, talk with children, or work again, the government must interfere to ensure the freedom of all refugees like Basim.

“I’ve been in this situation for years and years and many times they let people live their own lives and others they keep for punishment. How they work it out, I don’t know.”

And what would Basim ask if he could speak to our politicians?

“Why they keep punishing us for no reason, [when] we’re just seeking asylum.”

“What’s the difference from refugees to asylum seekers? We came same way, same boat, same time. There is not any justice here.”

Voters Deliver Split Verdict in UMSU Election

Written by Joshua Munro

Thousands of students cast their ballots between September 6 and 10 in the 2021 UMSU Annual General Elections. For the first time in UMSU history, the election was conducted online, with students submitting their votes via an electronic submissions form, rather than on-campus polling booths.

Both the Community for UMSU ticket and long-running group Stand Up! won critical positions in this year’s student elections, leaving an unclear result as to whom the winner was.

In total, eight Office Bearer (OB) positions were won by Community and Stand Up! alike. This was a massive swing towards Stand Up!, after only winning the offices of President and Education Public Affairs in the previous election.

Heading UMSU as President in 2022 will be Sophie Nguyen (Stand Up!), defeating now two-time unsuccessful candidate Archit Agrawal (Community). Incumbent Education (Academic Affairs) OB Jennisha Arnanta (Community) has won the General Secretary position. Allen Xiao (Community) will continue as General Secretary for the remainder of this year after winning a contested by-election.

As incoming President, Nguyen (Stand Up!) says she aims to ensure the quality of student experience is not diminished post lockdown, to make UMSU more engaging on campus and online, and to prioritise safety on campus with National Student Safety Survey results being released in 2022.

Arnanta (Community) also has big plans for 2022. As General Secterary, she aims to push for translation of university documents, pursue constitutional reform to include nonbinary people in UMSU’s affirmative action, hold a student survey on their thoughts on UMSU’s role, and to fight for safety on campus for women.

Outside of Parkville Campus, Kaitlyn Hammond has taken Burnley Campus Co-ordinator for the third year in a row. However, Southbank faces an interesting year with Nina Mountford & Alex Birch (Stand Up) as the Campus Coordinators, Jack Doughty (Stand Up!) as the Southbank Activities Officer and Xiaole Zhan (Community) as the Southbank Education Officer. This is the first time there has been a mix of tickets at the Southbank Campus.

Ethan Georgeou & Moira Negline (Stand Up!) have won back the Education (Academic Affairs) OB position from Community, defeating incumbent Clubs & Societies OB Kalyana Vania. Ruby Craven & Benjamin Jarick have retained the Education (Public Affairs) OB position for Stand Up!.

Despite criticism of the suspension of the welfare breakfast program, new Community candidates Lynne Bian & Yuvha Sugunan Pillai retained the office for their ticket. Lynne Bian will also join Disha Zutshi (Community) as Environment OB for the remainder of this year after winning a by-election. Despite this, there will be a change of ticket at the end of the year, with Zachary Matthews & Chelsea Daniel (Stand Up!) gaining the 2022 Environment OB positions from Community.

Marcie Di Bartolomeo & Prerna Aggarwal (Community) have won the Creative Arts OB positions, the first time this position has been seriously contested in many years. Similarly, the Media Department was contested for the first time in years with the emergence of a new ticket, The People’s Press. However, Independent Media will remain in office for 2022.

Stand Up! also gained departments associated with former ticket Just Clubs. Just Activities, with some former members running on Stand Up! Sami Zehir & Anisha Bunsee (Stand Up!) have gained the Activities OB from Community. Benito Di Battista & Eleanor Cooney Hunt (Stand Up!) have gained the Clubs & Societies position from Community, defeating incumbent OB Muskaan Hakhu.

Community performed well in each contested autonomous department, with Aashi Agarwal (Kraanti) & Lauren Scott (Community, Women’s OBs), Rook Davis & Rose Power (Community, Queer OBs), Betty Zhang and Prachi Uppal (Community, Disabilities OBs), Hiba Adam and Kyi Phyu Moe Htet (Community, People of Colour OBs) all successful. Meanwhile, Brittney Henderson and Harley Lewis (independents) have been elected unopposed for the Indigenous OB position.

The primary vote total for General Representatives of Student Council was Community (42 per cent), Stand Up! (31 per cent), Left Action (9 per cent), Independents for Student Democracy (6 per cent), Independent Media (5 per cent), and all other groups (7 per cent). There are 15 general members elected proportionally in addition to seven autonomous representatives elected separately.

On the Students’ Council, Community won 13 seats (seven general reps and six autonomous reps), Stand Up! won five, Left Action one, Independent Media one, Independents for Student Democracy one, and one

independent winning the autonomous Indigenous representative.

Despite the mixed results, Nguyen thought Stand Up!’s campaign was successful.

“Overall, I think our message of making UMSU a student body that delivers cut through the voting body.”

She also criticised “personal, petty politics” from this year’s OBs, claiming that they had not engaged constructively. She emphasised her desire to build a communicative relationship with every OB in her term.

“Tickets and factions can make things difficult but it’s really learning how to put aside certain differences to deliver and do what’s best for students.”

Despite her ticket losing several OB positions from last year, Arnanta believes that the election was overall positive, highlighting the turnout.

“We have to look at the bigger picture and be proud of the amount of participation we managed to get from students this year”

She committed to working toward the best outcome for students.

“Regardless of whether you are from Stand Up! or Community, our office bearers will always engage in good faith and work towards the best possible outcome.”

(Conflict of Interest Declaration: Joshua Munro previously ran on the tickets More (2018) and Stand Up! (2019), and held the office of Education Academic in 2020.)

Edited by Ailish Hallinan

OPINION: UniMelb urged to optimise student experiences with Okta Verify

Written by Vanessa Chan

Recently, a ten-letter name has been frequently appearing on my favourite Facebook page, UniMelb Love Letters. Though I attend classes well-dressed every day, no secret admirers have yet addressed a love letter to me. The addressee of so many of these anonymous letters, as you may already know, is Okta Verify, the University’s newly-compulsory multifactor authentication (MFA) app. However, the response to Okta Verify within the University community has been largely negative.

Why are we upset about the application?

On June 28, we were informed that the installation of Okta Verify had become compulsory due to increasing cyber-threats to the University. The University spokesperson explained the decision, stating that Okta Verify “protects the student’s account from unauthorised access, loss of private data, and malicious use … This is keeping in line with best practice guidance from the Australian Cyber Security Centre (ACSC) and also as implemented by other large organisations including many Australian universities.”

However, the roll-out of Okta Verify has been problematic. Failure to install the extra application prevents us from logging into Canvas to submit an assignment on the due date, along with stopping us from attending Zoom lessons on time.

Helen, an international graduate student currently in Melbourne, was asked to download Okta Verify after an incident. She was confused as to why the University forced her to install it:

“Actually, it has no use, and I have no idea why I have to use this one to get verified,” Helen said. Helen also encountered a login issue on her Okta account, and was annoyed by the long queue: “Twenty students were waiting … eventually I asked a friend to help reset my account.”

Problems with Okta Verify have increased the pressure on Student IT, especially when students buy a new phone or accidentally delete the application. While trying to overcome mental health challenges in lockdown, students have been dragged into the black hole of technical difficulties caused by Okta Verify. Stress, anxiety and frustration have been exacerbated during this disruptive time.

Why did the University implement Okta Verify to protect us from cyber threats?

The University has been investing in advanced technologies to counter cyberattacks for some time. Director of the University Cybersecurity Team, Amit Achrekar, explained the methods that the University has adopted:

“We have deployed multiple cutting-edge cybersecurity technologies, invested in automation, partnered with leading cybersecurity services providers and improved internal processes to help reduce cyber risks,” Achrekar said.

In selecting Okta Verify as the chosen MFA application, the University took into consideration its security performance.

According to the University spokesperson, the University assessed the “cybersecurity, privacy, support, features, integration & compatibility, future-roadmaps, commercial offerings, terms & conditions” of the app before partnering with the company. As Director of Cybersecurity at Bugcrowd and Sessional Lecturer for COMP-90074 at University of Melbourne, Sajeeb Lohani, explained: “[The University] will be asking tailored questions to determine the security posture of the vendor (in this case Okta), ensuring they have performed their due diligence to keep your data safe and secure.”

Another consideration is cost, which can be minimised through a third-party application. Lohani said that a professional third party, like Okta Verify, has more resources to provide multidimensional protection:

“Okta has a large security team, alongside a ‘bug bounty’ program, implying that they also use a ‘crowdsourced’ security solution. Thousands of hackers will be testing these products to get financial incentives to verify the security of their product.”

What can the University do to increase student acceptance of MFA applications?

The IT support offered by the University must be bolstered during the roll-out of Okta Verify. Providing 24/7 instant support, which recognises the ways in which issues with Okta Verify can prevent studying, is essential. The University should extend service time to meet students’ demand for IT assistance. In addition, overseas students should be allowed to access the internal learning system anytime and anywhere, given the online-only nature of their studies during lockdown.

Student feedback must be taken into account by both the University and Okta Verify in order to improve the app’s design, both on and off campus. Additionally, students must be well informed about any updates to the app’s functions, to ensure they are knowledgeable about how to further protect their privacy.

More cybersecurity webinars introducing the use of MFA to students would also be beneficial. These webinars should aim to answer questions about cybersecurity policies at the University to relieve students’ concerns about data collection, privacy protection and further MFA developments.

The compulsory installation of Okta Verify has brought about new tensions between the University and its students. These tensions can be ascribed to a lack of mutual understanding: while the University must bolster its communication and IT support for students, students must also recognise their important role in defending against cyber attacks. Moving forward, the University should further explain the function of its MFA policies and respond to the high demand for IT assistance. These changes may help Okta Verify receive more positive and sincere confessions of love on UniMelb Love Letters soon.

If students need any assistance related to MFA, they can contact StudentIT or call 13MELB.

Illustrated by Cathy Chen

Our Stories in Numbers: The Representation of Victim Survivors in the National Student Safety Survey

From 6 September to 3 October, Universities Australia—the country’s peak corporate body of higher education—ran the National Student Safety Survey (NSSS). Conducted by Dr. Anastasia Powell (RMIT), and the Social Research Centre, the survey is aimed at “encouraging students to share about their experiences of sexual harassment, sexual assault or unwanted sexual behaviour.”

In 2016, the first survey of this kind was conducted by the Human Rights Commission. Titled “Respect. Now. Always”, it revealed harrowing details. One in five (21 per cent) students are sexually harassed in a university setting. Women are three times as likely to experience sexual assault as men. (Notably, gender-nonconforming people were left out of identifying themselves in this survey) Most egregiously— about 90 per cent of students who experience sexual assault and harassment do not report it to their university.

This report came out in 2017, and between then and now, four teams of UMSU Women’s Officers have sat on countless Respect Taskforce meetings and stakeholder consults. We have organised rallies, petitions and campaigns. We have worked with Dr. Patrick Tidmarsh, the UMSU Sexual Harm and Response Coordinator, extensively consulted students and delivered a set of student priorities that should be the focus of the University’s commitment to student safety.

However, it was only this year—shortly after a high-profile sexual assault coverup was reported by The Age—that the University (FINALLY) committed to writing a standalone sexual misconduct policy. The policy consultations occurred over four months, even though the University had FOUR YEARS between the last survey and this one. The University is simultaneously speed-rolling an online safety policy to tackle diversifying forms of harassment. While these are muchneeded changes, that they are being made only on the eve of the survey, appears to be a deliberate procrastination.

The current survey was sent out to a random sample of 10,000 students. The report does not track response rate, and only computes results on available responses. The rate of response depends on many factors—fatigue and trauma, available support, identity, and language—that are not factored into the results. When the survey says 87 per cent of students who were sexually harassed did not report to the University, it does not specify whether students recognised the events that happened as sexual assault/harassment, or whether the system was just too complicated for them to make a report. In my personal experience as a Women’s Officer, lots of survivors tell me they never report because they “did not know if it was serious enough”. That’s one of the biggest problems with a survey like this—it does not account for people who do not know or want to neatly categorise their experiences into finite, quantitative values.

Another big red flag is that the survey depends on the University to send it out—while including questions on the University’s own behaviour, such as whether students think reporting procedures are adequate, or feel safe at uni. Sexual

violence being a crime of power, this gives the University undue power in controlling the timing of the survey, and consequently, the response to it. In 2016, several universities sent out the survey during exam periods, knowing students would not have capacity to respond. A Vice Chancellor and former chair of Universities Australia was permitted to work under the project despite the survey meaning to be independent of Chancellors and university executives. The University’s power tactics and inaction puts the burden of taking care of students on student representatives like us, who are usually young and from vulnerable communities ourselves.

Surveys are critically important in identifying gaps and shaping actions that universities undertake to protect students. Yet, personal experiences with the University’s safety management and reporting procedures are often too complicated to numerically represent—and this gets significantly worse for intersecting marginalised identities. As a disabled trans person of colour and an international student, reporting is significantly more difficult for me for a variety of reasons that are too difficult to pinpoint in ordinal value responses (Yes/No). The comprehension of intersectional experiences of sexual assault and harassment requires extended periods of consultation with students and alumni on universities, TAFE institutions and residential colleges.

Of course, the surveys have gotten better since 2016. This year’s survey includes varying options for gender and lets respondents self-identify. Unlike last time, this year’s survey received Human Research Ethics approval, and is more trauma-informed. After a lot of lobbying by the National Union of Students, Women’s Officers from participating Universities have undergone Vicarious Trauma Training.

While this survey is an important foundational step, it is NOT ENOUGH. There is more to do—like getting translatable services and making the survey available in other languages so more people can feel comfortable talking about their grief and trauma. Surveys function on detailed feedback, to predict patterns, comprehend data and avoid making sweeping numerical generalisations of people’s real experiences. Victim-survivors are more than numbers, we are stories. We need prolonged conversations beyond a ten-minute survey every five years, and deserve better than a procrastinated policy on sexual misconduct on a tighter deadline than a college essay. We need sustained actions, policies written with love, consultations that are kinder. Without that, the National Student Safety Survey is just a numerical record of how much students are hurting, with no real follow-up.

When I recall my experiences of assault, I remember how many times I was asked to not talk about it. My stories, our stories, must be heard and believed with love, not lost as a statistic in some survey on someone’s desk.

And that is all we ask, to be loved and remembered—as a living, breathing story.

NONFICTION

Artwork by Melana Uceda

Ordinary Joys: Me and the Girl—a Love Story

Written by E.S.

It’s spring. There’s a sweetness in the air and a gentle breeze drifting past the lockers. She’s on the cusp of high school popularity, her status affirmed by her school skirt hitched up three folds around the waist. After biology, she’s walking down the stairs with her friends when a group of popular boys enclose them. The ringleader is Kit. His backpack hangs low, almost scraping the back of his knees, so he’s the real deal. He asks all the girls for their numbers. Phones are passed around the circle; she offers hers forward.

“Oh,” he says, sticking his tongue in his cheek. “I’m not sure I want her to have my number”.

I’ll link her arm in mine and whisper this. Kit will end up a full-time stoner posting photos of cars captioned #godzilla #2fast #boosted. One day, she’ll be walking beside him to the bus stop after not seeing him for five years. She’ll be entirely disinterested, even rude. He’ll probably wonder what he ever did to her. She’ll laugh at her own pettiness on the ride home, feeling smug nonetheless.

I’ll tell her all this gently, as the hot flush creeps down the back of her neck.

It’s spring. The night before her final school exams. Books are stacked up in piles over the floor. No amount of deep breathing, reading or scrolling will lull her to sleep. She’ll end up tossing and turning until sunrise. Then she’ll lace up her runners in a daze and hit the pavement, hoping the endorphins will fight the exhaustion. I’ll add some Kanye to her running playlist. She refuses to listen to his music at this time; she’s too loyal to Taylor Swift. But she won’t be able to resist “Stronger” on no sleep. And she needs it.

Summer comes like a rush; she and her friends have the hot taste of freedom in their mouths. They’re never going back to school. They spend a summer of bliss cruising down the freeway blasting Lorde and Glass Animals and Dope Lemon. They eat watermelon flesh beside a sparkling sea. They relish the heavy tiredness that only a long day at the beach brings. Dozing in the back of the car, sand-encrusted. One night, she’s partying. Bodies are moving through the house, dancing, snacking on mi goreng, kissing in the sink. I won’t stay long, I just want to pull her into a quiet room and tell her to breathe this all in. There are difficult years ahead, ones where she’ll spend months inside her house, allowed outside for only an hour a day. I want her to know she deserves to feel free. Happy. And wanted.

Now autumn burns the leaves red and gold. She has moved out of home and finished her degree. She starts to find it hard to breathe and feels her heart missing beats ad hoc. She gets dizzy and can’t follow a conversation with her brother over a bowl of pasta shared on Lygon. The days get harder, and every morning she wakes up with thick dread pinning her to the bedsheets. When the panic attacks start they devastate her body and her peace. She’s waking up now, every night, five, six, seven times. Spent on exhaustion, sick with fear. She gets diagnosed with an anxiety disorder. Google and her well-meaning loved ones tell her to practice yoga, to meditate. But deep breathing only alerts her to the ragged hollowness of her breath, and when the yoga studio’s walls close in she breaks downward dog for a mad dash home.

Things get much worse before they get better.

On one of those long nights, I’ll hold her. I’ll climb into bed and intertwine my legs with hers. Fear has her paralysed now, and only time and treatment will get her out. But I’ll explain what’s happening in her body and her brain anyway. I’ll tell her there is medication that will help, and that she won’t have to fight alone soon. Many others have experienced severe anxiety, and their stories will soothe and fortify her in the coming months. I’ll tell her that surviving this will be the bravest thing she has ever done. I think it will be the bravest thing I will ever do.

When the winter comes, I begin to recover. I imagine the faint outline of myself in the future, holding myself now. Listening to my heart rate and slowing my breathing. She’s here now, in infinite forms. Every temporal version of myself fusing in kaleidoscopic light. And as the patterns in a kaleidoscope repeat to infinity, so do I. Holding myself in the past, present and future, for all time to come and for all time past.

Heathers: Our Love is God

Written by Nishtha Banavalikar

High school is a permanent fixture in modern society that terrorises as much as it allures. Few films have managed to capture the nuances of this microcosmic hellscape with as much layered sincerity as Heathers. Heathers is a descent into the horrifying depths of high school, the culmination of societal archetypes and expectations on trapped, tortured teenagers. It combines some of my favourite tropes in this column: murder, proms, philosophy and misandry. All the good stuff. With its deep cynicism and tantalising black comedy, the film highlights the persistence of naivety and kindness in adolescence, and how the world will do anything to crush it, especially when the host is a teenage girl.

Media often acts as if empathy exists in a foreign realm to that of the teenage girl. She’s a brutalist architect raising havoc and terrorising pop culture with her shoulder pads and jewel-toned mecha suits. The teenage girl in the cultural zeitgeist exists for one purpose and one purpose only: to condemn the Living Teenage Girl. Old, sweaty, and vindictive men bring to the writers’ table every high school crush who rejected them,

every long-legged socialist who dared correct their hypocrisy in class. The girl they create is out for blood and doesn’t care who gets in her way, doing it all with a Born Sexy Yesterday appeal that ultimately ends with her driven to madness for a man. At the intersection of all these tropes emerged Heathers.

The film follows Veronica, a clever but socially uninvolved 17-year-old with a knack for forgery and social criticism. The Heathers are a trio of vicious ‘mean girls’ at her high school who take a liking to her once they see her skills. Plagued by body dysmorphia, severe eating disorders, sexual trauma and PTSD, but deeply entrenched in their precarious social roles, The Heathers perpetuate cycles of cruelty just to separate themselves from the ‘losers’. In doing so, they illuminate the fragile class and social borders in our own society that are deeply reliant on forgoing humanity to maintain them, often at the cost of everyone involved. Veronica initially plays the part of The Heather, lured in by the addictive social capital, but having to bully her best friend and social outcast Martha tears her apart. She stays with them for as long as she can, observing them with morbid curiosity whilst plotting her revenge. It’s here, at her most conflicted, that she meets JD.

JD waxes poetry about revolting against everything the Heathers represent and, like a parasite, infects her mind. He is every dark inner thought of an edgy teenager craving vengeance personified, and it’s almost seductive seeing him vocalise the retributive rhetoric we’ve longed to throw against our own tormentors. Veronica and JD trauma bond, hook up, and for a soft moment it feels like a beautiful melding of two progressive worldviews. It makes their descent into moral ambiguity all the more compelling, the conflict of two teenagers suddenly thrust into a world where they get to play with life and death.

The next day, when Veronica is running around doing humiliating chores for Heather Chandler as forgiveness for having insulted her the previous night, JD suggests a little prank: putting cleaning liquid into her drink. Veronica, in her delight, grabs the wrong bottle and fills the cup with bleach—a mistake JD notices but does not point out. Heather drinks, coughs, curses Veronica, and dies. JD, ever the careful misanthrope, tells Veronica that nothing will

Illustrated by Casey Boswell

come of their getting convicted for Heather’s murder. In an eerie scene, he begins drafting a suicide note, filled with Heather’s supposed regrets and inability to deal with the trials of high school life. Veronica, not to be outdone, highlights passages from a nearby Catcher in The Rye. The scene is staged and set. Heather Chandler has officially killed herself.

In a scene foreshadowing social media in 2021, the other Heathers give tearful, over-dramatic interviews to the press at the school’s memorial. Heather Chandler, instead of receiving joyful cries at her death, is rebranded as a tragic victim. Veronica girlbossed a little too close to the sun with her beautiful suicide note, and suddenly, ‘mental health’ is back in the academic plan. Teen trauma becomes the nation’s next biggest fixation and MTV is hard at work with another hit tribute. Everything is manufactured and everything is ruthlessly capitalised upon.

Without their dictator, the remaining Heathers are at a loss and begin robotically exploring other facets of themselves and high school. In this sense, the film mocks The Heathers and what they stand for whilst exploring the humans behind the facade. They are young women crushed by the demands of a misogynistic and capitalist society where their only source of knowledge and access to power is desirability, and the consequent façade becomes integral to their survival. Their cruelty is horrifying, but we also see them on the receiving end: sexually assaulted, mocked and filled with self-loathing. It’s interesting to consider that the monsters we mock in the media are often a product of our own gaze.

Riding the high of their godlike impact on the high school, JD and Veronica set their sights on two school bullies, Kurt and Ram. Veronica lures them to a field with promises of a mindblowing threesome and cow-tipping. They’re stripped and ready when JD jumps out of hiding and shoots both of them right in the head. The plan had been for JD to scare them with some blank shots, but unsurprisingly, he isn’t one to follow rules. The two of them quickly draft a doublesuicide note filled with Wattpad-era homoerotic subtext and run from the scene. The tragic news is announced and the town holds yet another beautiful memorial.

Suicide is in vogue and the power has gone straight to JD’s head. Veronica, suddenly terrified of what she’s been complicit in creating, ends things with him. He refuses to let her leave, insists that they have a duty to carry out their plans, that they’re the only ones who

can fix their society. As the musical aptly phrases, “our love is God,” and JD is hooked on wielding his divine judgement. So Veronica, using all of the skills she’s acquired thus far, stages her own suicide fit. Temporarily free from his shackles, she is left to assess the situation she’s created. In trying to expel monsters from her high school she’s become one herself and enabled new people to come forwards to take the deceased dictators’ places. The stitchwork of societal labels, class positions and hierarchies run so deep that simply knocking out the ringleaders only serves to propel their crueler replacements forward. Heather, Kurt and Ram become martyrs, their cruelty erased from the community record. JD’s solution? Blow it up.

Veronica runs to school to see the plan JD has been alluding to. In the guise f a census form, JD has tricked the student body into collectively signing a mass suicide note, exploiting the thoughtless conformity of their microcosmic society. He then sets a bomb under the school during one of the busiest sports events of the year and waits. Veronica corners him, begs him to stop and think about what he’s doing, about how this will not actually change anything. “Westerberg high school is society.” The illusion is destroyed once and for all. JD’s seduction has crossed the line into destruction, thoughtless indiscriminate murder. Why fix a problem in society when you can just destroy society? Veronica grabs a pipe, knocks JD out and runs. We watch everything burn behind her as she and Martha exit, sideby-side.

Heathers successfully condemns the groupthink of high school where gossip and rumours quickly become facts and mental health becomes a fad. Veronica’s success comes when she prioritises decency and humanity over destructive ideology, and sheds the us vs them mindset. Heathers could have easily been about JD—his retribution, his journey—but it’s not. At its core, it’s about girlhood conflicts, the cruelty and kindness of the teenage girl. Both Veronica and JD share a cynicism and hatred of the world— but where JD’s solution is mass destruction, Veronica’s is a desperate outreach to her community for connection. There’s a reason she’s the ultimate success of this film— and arguably, of all the films discussed in this column. She succumbs to dark, destructive temptations, wields both blade and shield, hurts and is hurt, but despite everything chooses radical kindness and loyalty over apathetic devastation. For once, the teenage girl is allowed to roam free of oppressive restrictions.

Illustrated by Casey Boswell

A Love Letter to my Toxic Ex, Tumblr

My chin was sore from the acne bubbling underneath. I was, at the time, unknowingly PMSing, exhausted from the torture that was a double period in Year 8 Maths. I’d used up all of my data trying to watch the new Sherlock episode. My sister had taken the concealer I needed to cover up my scabs from popping too many hormone-induced pimples. A literal, and all too common, teenage hellscape.

I complained to my mum, and she laughed. Furious, I logged onto Tumblr and there it was, an edit of a Lana Del Rey music video with some vague lyrics that somehow embodied every pain and joy that I was experiencing at that moment. It was followed by an anonymous post in which someone had ranted about their day, ending with the infamous “and everyone clapped”. The comments were filled with other teenagers expressing anger, frustration and even rage at this mystery teacher who commented on the length of a girl’s skirt.

I felt validated. For better or for worse, people were affirming what I was feeling. I had a community of teens who also had just as many intense emotions brewing inside.

Tumblr, for all of you who were both (un)blessed and (un)fortunate enough to miss this period of internet culture, is a website that was created in 2007 by David Karp. It was famously acquired by Yahoo in 2013 up until 2017, and has birthed multiple cultural moments: fandom culture, words like ‘shipping and ‘feels’, the egregious ‘smol bean’ discourse, the sad girl era of Lana Del Rey, Gaylor, 5SOS versus One Direction, rookie discourse and more. These were a few common facets of this mammoth entity that acted as a haven for many flourishing subcultures. Up until recently, the site also infamously hosted quite a lot of x-rated content, which was removed after Yahoo’s acquisition of the site. As this was what accounted for a large portion of its user traffic, this decision has often been accused of solidifying Tumblr’s downfall.

Despite all the chaos, Tumblr, I would like to thank you for a few things. As someone growing up affected by misogyny, you let me have a space to rant and celebrate all things feminine. You validated my puberty-induced anger at school dress codes, our Catholic modesty class and the ‘not-like-other-girls’ mindset (whilst simultaneously fueling it). You let me celebrate my interests within a community that wouldn’t make fun of me like the boys in primary school did. Instead, my silly little fanfictions were celebrated and my week-to-week obsessions were a valuable attribute, not something to be ashamed of. You let me see that men too could be the centre of sexual desire, not just the objectified women mass media was rampant with. Teen AFABs’ sexuality was acknowledged and celebrated in a way I had never seen before.

Tumblr provided a sense of humour that focused on storytimes, quick whips and occasionally, really bad puns. Dashboards were swarmed by a specific visual aesthetic I would describe as ‘middle school grunge’, which celebrated Marlboro red cigarettes (the pretty girl cigarette), Doc Martens and fishnets paired with a band tee and box-dyed blue hair. Another infamous side of Tumblr that largely impacted me inspired the ‘rookie magazine’ aesthetic: a celebration of collages, stickers and pastels. Whereas middle school grunge rejected the common trope of girlhood, rookie aesthetic revered girlhood. These are just a small example of what could be found in niche corners of this site, alongside multitudes of fan-works that came in the form of art, fanfiction and ‘edits’ that served as appreciation of popular media. Tumblr provided a creative outlet for the things its predominantly AFAB user-base adored. It was a melting point of content.

Tumblr, you made me laugh. You made me cry. And I’m thankful. However, I most definitely deserve an apology.

You were a website designed for profit, that needed our addiction and space in order to cash your silly little checks. You let vulnerable people read posts from users with no genuine lived experience, sharing their ideas with no trigger warnings in the name of online discourse. My identity and attachment to feminism should not have been up for discussion on a corporate entity. I should not have been exposed as a child to these unchecked posts. Whether it was the ‘Alexa Chen body goals’ content or the romanticisation of Lolita, there was a lack of incentive to protect children from toxic ideals. A whole generation of young adults internalised these messages, seeing them every day for years on end.

It wasn’t rare on Tumblr for 14-year-olds and 32-year-olds to initially bond over a Harry Styles edit. It was just as common for that child to then have to comfort the adult over a traumatic experience they were far too young to learn about. Romanticisation of harmful behaviours and body checks were easy to find, and not enough was done to limit it.

The damage has been done.

But I guess, underneath all of this, my message is still a thank you. All I know is that I am still thinking about this site that defined my early teen years, even now as they come to a close. You provided me with the space to gush about Taylor Swift, explore feelings that were dismissed as frivolous, and explore my girlhood in a way that centred creativity and emotion. But you also made me question my body, my worth and allowed me to partake in discussions that caused more harm than good.

I hope you’re well, but I will not be going back anytime soon.

Fanfiction Fervour: Queer Emancipation Through Fan Writing

Written by Hannah Winspear-Schillings

Growing up surrounded by cisgender straight women left very little space for teenage me to emerge. Out-andproud queer women were few and far between; to say I led a cloistered existence wouldn’t be too far from reality. Going to a miniscule all-girls’ school only compounded my desperate need for escapism. To seek solace in imaginary worlds seemed a natural extension of being surrounded by girls who seemed to share none of my interests.

Enter the wonderful world of fanfiction.

I’d always been a writer, even at a very young age. Anyone who was active on fanfiction.net, Tumblr, Wattpad, etc. during the early 2010s would know where this is going. However, mid-tolate 2000s media was often male-dominated, and their few female characters were generally tokenised, or met untimely demises. Supernatural, Sherlock, the list goes on. This was not ‘good representation’. Of course, it never actually occurred to me to seek out other forms of representation—I doubt I would have known where to look even if I tried. It was the late 2000s and early 2010s anyway; nuanced, genuine, respectful representations of queer women were thin on the ground.

It was during these formative years, in the absence of halfdecent female representation, that I found myself projecting both onto and through men, tactically misdirecting my queerness. To my knowledge, at that time the vast majority of authors of male/male erotica, or slash fanfiction, were women. Personally, I know I developed my understanding of own bisexuality by projecting onto gay cisgender male couples. It’s fascinating that this process was seemingly commonplace, particularly among bisexual women.

While avidly consuming fanfiction as a teenager, I was under the shadow of very toxic second-wave feminist thinking. This ideology inscribed femininity and masculinity along a rigid passive-aggressive binary. Fanfiction slash couples neatly avoided all my preconceived ideas that femininity meant weakness, disempowerment, and objectification, purely

through being embodied through men. It was a form of femininity that was powerful and proactive, at least to teenage me’s mind. Notwithstanding, of course, that reallife gay men probably would have had plenty to say on the subject, but this was 2013, and I was 15 years old. The nuances and history of the queer community were utterly beyond my comprehension.

Writer Raven Davies wrote that slash constitutes a literary form where “men come to terms with, and act out their need for, sexual and meaningful encounters with other men”. Thinking back to my own projection experiences, I wonder if woman-authored slash fanfics wouldn’t also contribute a way for the author herself to “come to terms with and act out” her sexual and romantic encounters with men, in a space divorced from the power dynamics and toxic masculinity that often permeates real-life encounters.

Dean Barnes Leetal writes about fangirls and the popularity of fanfiction as a form of “activism of care.” Activism of care promotes social change through validating, affirming, and consoling readers’ emotional needs. In early 2010s fanfiction circles, there were writers writing stories specifically to cheer people up, to comfort them, to empower them, to make them feel less isolated and alone. I know fanfiction was a source of solace for me. The idea that somewhere out there in the Internet void were people who shared my interests was a tremendous comfort.

Exploring my sexuality in the relatively isolated domain of grammatically incorrect, misspelt Wattpad ramblings gave me an arena for self-development that, crucially, did not affect my real life. I never shared these stories—that wasn’t the point. I was in the closet, but with my laptop and my Lord of the Rings Aragorn x Legolas Hurt/Comfort oneshots, I was free. I could write whatever I wanted, explore whatever I liked, and face no repercussions because, after all, Supernatural and Lord of the Rings were ‘fantasy’.

Foods for Your Thoughts

Written by Teck-Phui Chua

While you’re working away at your next assignment, deep inside of you microscopic organisms are also at work, helping digest your breakfast and lunch (and the various snacks in between). These microorganisms, collectively known as the gut microbiota, include bacteria, viruses, fungi and protozoa, which live in your digestive tract. Accumulating studies are emphasising the important role the gut microbiota plays in our health and wellbeing.

The composition of the gut microbiota varies among people. In fact, each of us has a unique microbial ‘fingerprint’. Our gut microbiota can change over time, and is influenced by diet and genetic and environmental factors. The most important thing is having the right balance and diversity; a healthy gut microbiota contains a good mix of the right bacteria.

An imbalance, called dysbiosis, has been associated with conditions such as irritable bowel syndrome, anxiety, and depression, among others. Studies have also found that our gut microbiota is important in our early development. So how does this invisible community in our digestive tract have such a large impact on our overall health?

Mind control?

The bacteria in our gut are responsible for helping us break down the things in the food we can’t digest, such as fibre. In doing so, they release neurotransmitters, short-chain fatty acids, vitamins and other products that we would not be able to make ourselves.

Some of these bacterial ‘waste products’ include serotonin and dopamine. These molecules travel via the central nervous system to our brain. This link is called the gut brain axis. Consequently, the gut microbiota influences our mood, and a dysbiosis may increase the risk of mental health disorders. However, fixing your gut microbiota isn’t the only way to improve your wellbeing. Getting enough exercise and sleep, and making social connections are also important.

Food for a healthy gut

So how can you look after the bugs in your gut? Foods high in fibre (e.g. vegetables, fruit, whole grains) are the best for maintaining gut health. You’ve probably also heard of prebiotics and probiotics. Prebiotics can be found in food such as asparagus, oats, and legumes, and are good for our gut bacteria. On the other hand, probiotics introduce bacteria into our gut and include fermented foods such as kimchi, sauerkraut, and yoghurt.

Of course, a lot is still unknown about the gut microbiota. While eating foods that promote gut health can help increase wellbeing, it is not the only contributing factor.

Illustrated by Ailish Hallinan

Oneshot: Reader X Embarrassed about Fanfiction

Written by Jo Guelas

It is 4 a.m. again and you are lonely. Several lines cycle through your mind as you feign sleep: “I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we have suffered enough.”

Archive of our Own (Ao3) user u/typervoxilations writes with a Siken-esque tenderness that makes you feel like you must also have someone to love. Admittedly, you have never read their Stucky (Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes) fanfic seventy years of sleep, but you have perused Tumblr long enough to associate that quote with the deepest of affections.

O, fanfiction.

The powerhouse of the fandom.

Fanfiction manifests in many forms: the classic chaptered work, the oneshot, the drabble, the imagine. And lest we forget the secret ingredient: tropes. You may know of angst, fluff, smut, college au (alternate universe), there is only one bed, friends to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, strangers to enemies to friends to lovers, fake dating, etc. And of course, they were roommates, hurt/comfort, jealous, mutual pining, almost kiss, study date, coffee shop AU, slow burn and unresolved sexual tension.

“You read fanfiction?” Your friend Vivian asked once, mid-Text and Audio Journalism tute.

In a quick glossing-over of your Google Chrome tabs, Vivian had spotted the one thing you weren’t ready to talk about on a Thursday morning: Pippin Took/Reader - Works | Archive of Our Own. Fuck. What were you supposed to say? “Yes, I do, and I’m actually searching for this beautifully written smut fic about a hobbit from Lord of the Rings.”

“I read fanfiction too,” she said, without you saying anything. You understood then that she was also embarrassed and there was a shared safety established between the two of you.

And so it’s 4 a.m. again, and you’re lonely still, but now you’re thinking: Why am I so ashamed of fanfiction?

No. 1: Because it’s for horny teen girls, and you are a sophisticated university student drinking cappuccinos you don’t actually like because now you pay tax.

The assumption is that fanfiction exists because teen girls can’t date fictional characters in real life and therefore, must create a situation in which they do. Teen girls write fanfiction about making eye contact with Harry Styles midconcert, about Tony Stark begging you to pretend to be his fake girlfriend at a party. This is true.

But now that you’ve regurgitated what you remember about Wattpad, you can’t actually pinpoint why it’s embarrassing. Yeah, projecting onto a real person and writing fanfiction about them has its own moral issues, but putting that and the aesthetic and legal problems that fanfiction brings aside … what is embarrassing about wanting to be noticed by someone you adore? Conjuring up scenes where you matter instead of just blending into the background? Where you could leave your suburban nightmare and be that sophisticated university student drinking cappuccinos you actually liked because you not only pay tax but date Harry Styles of One Direction fame?

And now you’re coming up with these wholesome and validating arguments against why fanfiction is embarrassing, but still, you’re embarrassed.

No. 2: Because it’s badly written by said horny teen girls.

Okay, this is true. You once read a Callum Hood AU where Callum broke up with Y/N (your name) in public, so Y/N collapsed onto the asphalt crying and stayed there until the next day when her best friend picked her up—this was supposed to be tragic. At the time, it was. In a way, it still is. Classics like After where bad boy!Harry Styles is just unhealthy, toxic!Harry Styles with bad tattoos don’t help your feelings.

Counterargument: Not all fanfiction is badly written. And not all fanfiction is written by horny teen girls. This is true, and you know this because you’ve written fanfiction and you are a good writer. You’re also almost twenty and still read/write fanfiction whilst enjoying the likes of Jane Austen and Joan Didion. Don’t forget that time a friend sent you Yuri on Ice fanfiction; he now works in politics.

By now, you’ve realised that your second point is wrong and is but slander used to belittle yourself, teen girls, and everyone and everything in between. So, why are you embarrassed?

No. 3: Because you’re not a ‘man’ and you enjoy something.

Bingo. That’s it. You’ve done it. Go drop out of university and slap Judith Butler in the face. You are Gender Studies.

Fanfiction has long been misconstrued as the realm of horny teen girls, dropkick women with unchecked libidos, and worst of all: the LGBTQI+ community. Why? Because you all enjoy it too much. You pour too much labour and love into it when you should be doing it for a man, or for a man-approved activity like cooking.

‘Masculine’ fandoms exist. Consider sports. No one ever feels down-to-the-root ashamed about barracking for a footy team, unless that footy team is North Melbourne. Your housemate crying over Geelong losing the 2020 Grand Final is not weird. He’s a man, this is expected. But you? Crying over a Luke Skywalker fanfic where he says he has to leave you because that is the Jedi way? That’s weird, bro. And don’t get started on your friend crying over a fanfic where Kris from EXO turns into a werewolf and subsequently dumps Y/N. Let the men cry over their lost premierships because there is something sacred and honorable in expressing emotions over sports. But not over fanfiction, never over fanfiction. It is too ‘feminine’.

Fanfiction often finds its subjects from media tailored to young women. Why? Because teens are profitable. They are unrivaled in their devotion and have no qualms in spending blood, money, and countless hours for what they love. Think of Beatlemania (before men decided The Beatles were cool), think of Twihards. O, but remember, young girls and baby gays are the most embarrassing forms of life to walk the earth. They are horny and pimply and delve into fictional worlds to manifest their deepest desires. They are not to be taken seriously. They are money.

The answer to your embarrassment lies here in standard form:

P1: Media made for women is bad.

P2: Fanfiction is based on media made for women. Therefore: Fanfiction is bad.

To be unashamed of fanfiction is a radical act because it’s a big ‘fuck you’ to [incoming buzzword] the patriarchy. We’ve decided that it is stupid and icky and best kept a secret because fanfiction is the product of non-menadjacents unironically loving the media made for them. They transform it and make stories for themselves. They pour their labour and love into characters that should be pisstakes. And worst of all, they enjoy it because God forbid a girl enjoy something.

So, when it is 4 a.m. again and you are alone, save for the single tab you have open: A Thousand Years - The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R Tolkien [Archive of our Own], rejoice. You’ve found it at last, the beautifully written smut about a hobbit.

The Jack Antonoff Cinematic Universe

Written

& illustrated by

Aeva Milos

What do Lorde, Taylor Swift and Lana Del Rey all have in common? Other than being the pillars of pop? Why, Jack Antonoff of course.

Antonoff boldly began his career in the band ‘fun’, cementing his musical presence with the chart-topping song, ‘We Are Young’, before splitting off to make Bleachers, an 80s-inspired band. Over the past decade, the producer and singer-songwriter has managed to carve himself into the pop music lexicon. Now, he is slowly becoming a household name associated with some of the biggest female artists of our time. In fact, that is what makes him such a perplexing figure: he continuously works solely with female artists, a creative choice by Antonoff himself. In a Guardian article, Antonoff stated, “I’ve always been extremely drawn to female artists who are being brutally honest”.

Antonoff’s music is a turbulent array of sounds that go from a euphonious high to a crashing low. It is reflective, intoxicating and deeply personal—qualities Antonoff believes can be perfectly achieved through the naturally higher octave of female voices. Marred by the death of his sister when he was fourteen, Jack Antonoff stands out for the depth and emotion he gives to pop music, a genre that is oftentimes simply dismissed as shallow radio play. This intensity is notably echoed in ‘Liability’ by Lorde, who croons lyrics like “the only love I haven’t screwed up,” and “they say, you’re a little much for me” with croaky despondency. It is a terrifyingly relatable song and a staple in every teenager’s heartbreak playlist. It

seems like this formula works well for Antonoff, who has since gone on to win multiple Grammys, the most recent being for his work on Taylor Swift’s folklore, which won Album of the Year. Some other musicians he has notably collaborated with in the past year include St. Vincent for her album Daddy’s Home and Lana Del Rey for Chemtrails Over the Country Club.

However, his continuous success only serves to highlight the fundamental flaws of the music industry. Strife with sexual misconduct and misogyny, the Hollywood-infused fantasy of music-making is more often than not a destructive imbalance of power between male producers and young female musicians. Pop music itself has relied on the objectification and sexualisation of women in order to generate attention, leading to an incredibly toxic and abusive environment for many singers. In 2014, singer Kesha claimed that Dr. Luke, the executive producer behind some of her biggest songs, had physically and sexually assaulted her. Due to contractual obligations, and after a judge decided not to terminate the contract, Kesha was forced to continue working with Dr. Luke. Similarly, Taylor Swift has been in a fight for rights to her music against ex-manager Scooter Braun. In retaliation, Swift decided to re-record her past albums—and is doing so with Antonoff. In an industry rampant with excessive manipulation, Jack Antonoff appears like an oddly-shaped beacon of hope, a “cure for Dr. Luke”, as The Ringer boldly claims.

Yet, even as Antonoff’s name saturates music charts, there is

a problematic lack of people of colour in his production discography. His name is credited to only Kevin Abstract and FKA Twigs among a superfluous list of white artists. Having Jack Antonoff spearheading modern-day pop, but disregarding POC musicians, continues a cycle of inequality in a genre that is already dominated by white musicians.

Unsurprisingly, his collaboration with female artists has also spurred multiple theories that suggest romantic relationships with them. This view, a breeding ground for gossip, tends to socially devalue the music created from this collaboration by rooting itself within heteronormative constructs. It is perhaps more constructive to assess why the music industry is so heavily dominated by male producers, usurping the ability for female-led directives to flourish within the music business.

Nevertheless, it is this revolutionary musical process—or perhaps simply his respect for the artists he works with— that allows these women to reclaim their autonomy and make music that delves into personal trauma, heartbreak and individual uncertainties with fascinating clarity and breadth. Clairo’s ‘Bambi’, off her latest album Sling, is a song that supposedly exposes the music industry for its overt control.

However, the success of albums such as Melodrama and folklore is not indebted to Antonoff. Though his production serves to meticulously refine these albums sonically and

d to Antonoff. Though his production serves to meticulously refine these albums sonically and thematically, it is the female artists leading these records that catapult their music to the forefront. Lorde herself has expressed frustration at the tendency for fans to define her synonymously with Antonoff and the other musicians he works with. In regards to her newest album Solar Power, Lorde said in a New York Times article, “I haven’t made a Jack Antonoff record… I’ve made a Lorde record and he’s helped me make it”.

Nevertheless, Antonoff’s success proves that such innovative collaboration can happen despite the sexism and overabundance of male producers within the industry. Successful music can be created through genuine partnership and emotional vulnerability between two people, a transformative development for a genre that is constantly redefining itself. When artist and producer share an intimate space, the artist can produce exceptionally raw content without the antagonising fear of suppression. And after all, without Melodrama, where would we be today?

content warning: mentions of death, allusions to mental illness

I’ll Take “Totally Fucking Losing It” For $400, Alex

For Sylvie, and for Alex Trebek

On the 30th of March in 1964, a daytime quiz show made its grand debut to the masses. A man named Art Fleming stood at the helm, announcing with gusto each ultra-niche category through his muffled, mid-century microphone.

This is Jeopardy!

You see, these were the days they actually tried to riff off the show’s name, regularly over-explaining to, and awkwardly waiting for, the audience and contestants to bask in the wit of being in ‘double jeopardy’, among other court-related japes. Alas, the black-and-white house that Art built is a relic of the past. It was Alex Trebek, the dashing, technicolour Canadian with a charm akin to that of the friendliest dad chaperoning the school disco, who was the star of my dalliance with Jeopardy!

You of the quiz show laity may be confused—but for me, this is more than just television. Sometime last year, it felt as if sanity was escaping me. I sat at my desk and tried desperately to distract myself with books, music, old journals, old films, all in vain, until I broke. I found myself unable to see past any and all mild inconvenience. The mere suggestion (MY suggestion) of a hypothetical issue in a possible near-future was enough to send me spiraling. What followed were a frantic few days of filling notebooks with eighty or so pages of scrawled, sorry nonsense and trying to keep my cool as I poured pints of beer at my job. This wasn’t about the early lockdown blues; I wanted to be on my own. In fact, I felt an intense longing to be erased from the minds of all those who I had ever met.

I let it wash over me and tried to go about my day.

Before I continue, let me indulge you if you’ve never had the

Written by Mira Twigg Illustrated

pleasure of seeing the show which dominated my life for a small while. In Jeopardy! there are three rounds, each filled with strange (and often punny) trivia categories which require you to give your answer in the form of a question. For example, on the episode aired May 1 2019, there was a category called ‘Before and After’, wherein the two responses required flowed seamlessly into each other. The host Alex Trebek, dapper as ever, gave the answer worth $400.

“Nature Valley Crunchy Oats ‘N Honey Snack that’s a rite of passage for a Jewish 13-year-old.”

James Holzhauer, Jeopardy! wunderkind (okay, so he’s 37, but keep in mind that trivia is the domain of the weathered and wise), chimed in:

“What is granola bar mitzvah?”

That was an especially good episode.

As any casual trivia lover likely has, I had encountered a bit of Jeopardy! before, here and there. Though it would still come as a surprise even to me to find that I became completely consumed by it after I made my way back to Springwood, to my mother’s house—the suburban palace I now associate with both the terrors of teenagedom and the comfort of Polish food. Day after day, I commandeered the television and played—yes, actually played, Jeopardy! Had you been a fly on a wall in the leafy streets of NSW’s lower Blue Mountains, you would’ve heard me at all hours, yelling all sorts of pithy or otherwise random things to the suited man on the screen,

“WHAT IS PRE-RAPHAELITE?!”

by Joey Dillon

“WHO

“WHAT

ARE THE CARPATHIANS??!”

In a time of (what felt like) great crisis, my couch-bound Jeopardy! winnings felt like small victories. And even the smallest of victories are no laughing matter when only a week or two earlier you found yourself sobbing into a McFlurry. A McFlurry which your elder sister had to buy you in the small hours because she knew something was wrong. You’re in her car. Under the murky yellow of its light. Sobbing, and you can’t quite figure out why.

Taylor Swift plays softly from her phone in the background. There have been prettier pictures than this.

But I digress. Back to Alex.

George Alexander Trebek was born in Ontario, on the 22nd of July, 1940. He hosted Jeopardy! for 36 years. He spent longer on one single program than I’ve even been alive, and then some. Every other week, he would arrive on set and tape five episodes a day over two days-he’d study the questions and answers beforehand. He was a professional, after all. Everyone adored Alex Trebek. Whether he was in his John Oates lookalike phase (or rather, John Oates was in his Alex Trebek phase) or his more mature, white-haired-shaman-ofdaytime-television phase, ‘beloved’ is an understatement.

It’s worth noting that during all of this, I knew full well that Alex was both old and ill. My elder brother would visit every now and then and took note of my viewing habits, broaching the topic of his death with me one morning. I told him half in jest that when the Trebekinator went, so did I. He frowned and told me that Alex was eighty years old and suffering from pancreatic cancer. I told him I knew that, obviously, I spent most days with this man. I also told him that I’d devised a similar pact between me and Louis Theroux some years ago, too. Of course, I didn’t really mean it, but you get the gist. These sweet, Sunday moments of banter over potato pancakes would make the dreaded day all the more grim.

My mother, being as doting as she is, and I would guess as wary of my fragile state as she is, brought me coffee in bed almost every morning. This morning, however, the morning

of November 9th, 2020, she also brought me flowers. She had picked them from the garden herself. I remember sitting up in bed and seeing that look on her face. The sort of look one would give to a small child so as to say “your favourite toy is broken.” Such was the importance of this ridiculous, yet sacred routine in my life.

I remember breaking the news to my dad, as he would often reluctantly watch with me (and play incorrectly, mind you). I remember laughing and crying at the same time, aware of the fact that this entire thing was either pathetic or insane, or perhaps a bit of both. For a long time afterwards, I genuinely could not bear to watch the show. If it was an old episode with Alex hosting, the sight of him made me too sad. If it was a new episode with some new host who came to honour his legacy, his glaring absence made me even sadder. There was a Trebek shaped hole in my heart, and no amount of University Challenge, as wonderful as Jeremy Paxman is, could possibly fill it.

If I’m being honest, I still can’t watch Jeopardy! When I look back on those months, I try to reason with myself and explain just why this show was so fixed in my orbit. Trivia is great, yes, I’ve always loved it—but I still don’t think that’s the answer. Once, I thought, maybe it was because here was a kind old man who fulfilled my one wish as I made the shameful pilgrimage to the comfort of my mother’s home. He didn’t know me. He didn’t see me. He couldn’t hear me go on at length about every worry I had ever had and ever would have. He didn’t see me cry over the small things and laugh at the serious things. He couldn’t sit and watch me cooped up in hiding, only wearing an endless rotation of pyjamas. Only eating Babybel cheeses and only drinking coffee and gin for weeks on end. I just played the game, that’s all.

And for a while, I got really, really good at it.

Illustrated by Joey Dillon

Why You Still Need To Take Care of Your Health, Even When Zoom University Is In Session

Written by Marcie Di Bartolomeo

You may think my schedule would be free given the rise of Zoom and the decline of in-person events. You would be dead wrong.

My days usually consist of a Zoom meeting in the morning—a production meeting for a theatre show, a committee meeting for a club. Then my classes—which are also on Zoom, followed by Zoom collectives and Zoom rehearsals, with the odd rehearsal on-campus (depending on whether we are fresh out of a lockdown, or fresh into another one).

I think I honestly spend more time on Zoom than I do sleeping sometimes. On average, I spend about six hours of screen time on Zoom each day. Factor in the many more hours of emailing and texting people (usually to chase them up on things for projects and productions or chase after people who are chasing me up for things) and I spend over half of every day staring at a screen. For what? Capitalism and productivity? Fun?

And what about breaks, you may ask? Where does that all fit in? The answer is simple: I often don’t have breaks. I just do the logical thing and skip a meal, skip a stretch and some much-needed water, and just keep right on going. I stay sedentary for an extra couple of hours, even if my eyes are burning, stomach begging for sustenance, and body aching for even a minute of movement away from my computer.

As I lack a functioning desk, for most Zooms I use my bed instead, a place that is supposed to be for sleep. That’s alright though, I do sleep … eventually. Usually for six to nine hours, though sometimes I semi-function on three to four and a large mocha, followed by racing heart palpitations from the caffeine for the rest of the day and night.

Occasionally, I find myself having to be in two Zooms at once: class and a last-minute meeting. So, I do the only sensible thing—set up another device in another room and run from Zoom to Zoom whenever I’m needed. To really visualise this, imagine someone hacking two computers at the same time. Yes, it’s as exhausting as it sounds. It’s compounded by Zoom fatigue and my neurodivergent brain spending most of its processing energy on socialising like a neurotypical person…masking. All while combating an unreliable internet connection. Yay…

As a result of being so “efficient”—so overworked and overscheduled—my mental health is chronically low, as is my physical health. Chronic fatigue, heart palpitations, breathlessness, brain fog, acid reflux, trembling nerves, nausea, these are a few of my favourite things…not. Trying to always remain at a key state of “productivity” means that these ailments of mine get worse and worse over time. Not to mention my declining mental health.

There have been times recently where I’ve seen the abyss, where a little voice grows to a symphony, an overwhelming noise telling me I need to stop and take a break. Where my body cries out in pain, when my internal stomach acid burns my very insides, when the littlest of foods make me sick and nauseous. When I am out of breath and on the bed paralysed, despite not doing any kind of intense sports or exercise. When I want to escape the feeling of being overwhelmed, of having so much on my plate. By any means necessary…

Yes, I have contemplated it. Many times. Suicidal ideation is on my plate every other week. Rarely do I make a plan for terminating my existence. But non-existence sounds like bliss compared to the all too familiar feeling of chronic burnout.

Sometimes I burnout really, really bad. Like going to the hospital bad. And for me, it’s like being in a car crash— everything just grinds to a sudden stop. I have spent large amounts of time after a burnout just existing, unable to get much done, unable to have the motivation to be productive. It takes a while for me, around six to 12 months, to gradually speed up again, build back up into being a productive member of society; falling into the same trap of being overcommitted and overscheduled all over again.

So why am I telling you all this? Well, for one I hope it serves as a cautionary tale—of what not to do when Zoom university is in session. Of how you don’t need to be productive during such uncertain times, even if social and patriarchal norms are pressuring you to remain efficient. Over-productivity can really hurt, and be super harmful for your mental health, and once you burnout it can rob you of the opportunity to be involved with people and important events for a long time.

I’m also writing this to be accountable for my own mental well-being. I do like being busy, having a structured routine, and scheduling my calendar as much as I can. But I can’t ignore my own wellbeing just to get more done. I am not just a cog in a machine, existing to make others’ lives more convenient and to satisfy the patriarchal undertones of our capitalist society. That is why I acknowledge my work-life balance needs to change.

Now what? Well naturally I’m going to start by making a plan, and scheduling in time to ruminate on that in more detail. Working into my life more ways to practice self-care—not just to go about day-to-day life with peak executive functioning, but to be kinder to myself, and to avoid future burnouts.

What self-care looks like for me does change over time, but just for a preview: it’s going to involve a lot more leisure, and a lot more stress-relieving creative expression. Doodling and writing random nonsense. Art for art’s sake, rather than in the name of productivity.

Mental Health Support Services:

• University of Melbourne students free counselling and psychological services (CAPS) https://services.unimelb.edu.au/counsel/home

• University Melbourne Student Union’s (UMSU) COVID support services https://umsu.unimelb.edu.au/support/covid-resources/

• Headspace

Chat to a counsellor for free on 1800 650 890

• Lifeline Call 13 11 14 – 24 hours a day

I’ve been learning how to say no again, from the very beginning. It’s like learning how to walk, or better yet, learning how to crawl. It’s a long, complicated process. The scariest part? Absolutely no pre-existing skills before stepping in. A whole new experience.

The first step is always the hardest, or so I’ve heard. The word itself, ‘no’—simple, short, quick—rolls off my tongue in a funny way, as if it doesn’t want to, as if it shouldn’t. I don’t like the feeling. It’s foreign. The first time I tried, not a single sound. The second and third, still quiet as a mouse. The fourth, fifth, millionth, a stutter.

I remember thinking it was the way we pronounce the word that made it so difficult. Growing up in an Asian household, conflicts of any sort were always pushed aside, hidden from sight. Perhaps that is why the word became so unfamiliar to me. From a young age, I was taught to be good. I did this by listening. Whatever was asked, I did it. Any doubts that clouded my mind stayed exactly there—in my mind.

I had no idea that you could disagree and listen at the same time.

All I knew was that saying “yes” always took less energy than the opposite. It consumes less time as well, when you push all your feelings aside to join in the crowd. Everybody can go on with their day, and everything is smooth sailing. I read somewhere that our interactions are based on reciprocity; we follow to feel a sense of belonging. When you say “no”, you’re expected to provide an explanation. This creates a pause. In a society where we move on from one thing to the next within seconds, we stay clear of anything that may potentially prevent us from getting ahead in life— including having a different point of view. Here is where the people pleaser in us comes out. That, in addition to gendered norms, has always seemed to win.

I moved to other places and learnt other cultures, and quickly realised that pronunciation has no role in this issue. It’s the connotation that matters.

And so, the cycle continues.

In seventh grade, I began learning French. The process of saying “no” is like that—a lot of memorising and messing up. In class, I’d practice sentences with a friend, and then we’d laugh until our stomachs hurt because we never seemed to get anything right while everyone else moved along just fine. Yet, we never gave up. Learning a new language is thrilling. The excitement and curiosity only grow with time.

But when it comes to saying “no”—that’s a

Written by Anindya Meiv

whole different story.

I have no partner by my side to practice, no teacher to correct me when I’m wrong. The classroom is empty. It’s non-existent. Dozens of people praise the way we’re meant to break rules while transitioning into adulthood, yet no one mentions how lonely it is. No one is there to give you a high five when you get home, after finally saying the word postcontemplating about it for months. No one is there to cheer you on.

Don’t disappoint. Don’t disappoint.

The words follow me.

I find myself on different websites, going from one advice column to the next. ‘How to Say No’, ‘11 Tips When Having to Say No’, ‘Alternatives to Saying No’. The list goes on. It’s spectacular (in an unfortunate way) that these pages even exist in the first place.

And then comes the guilt. The uninvited guilt that lingers long after it arrives—the absolute worst. When you’ve finally (after the hundredth attempt) let the word escape your lips, it shows up. A little thought crosses your mind, before poking your shoulder, weighing you down. As you head off to bed, guilt makes itself comfortable. And when this happens, no one is there to tell you that “everything will be okay” or that “you did the right thing”, even though it hardly feels like it.

This is the most horrendous part. I can never tell when it’s going to appear, therefore I can never tell when it leaves. Whenever it pleases. It hangs around like a cloud over my head. You’ve done it. You’ve disappointed someone.

It’s hard to learn something in the first place. But adding the idea of rebelling—the difficulty only increases. That’s the thing about saying “no”, and maybe that’s why we’re so accustomed to finding alternatives to it.

I’d love to, but... Maybe another time? I should really get going... Sorry! I, uh, have to study tonight.

I, in fact, rarely ever study at night.

But, you can only go around something so many times, and with avoidance comes the aftermath. And without anything moving against the current, the water only sways calmly.

It’s time we make some waves.

Illustrated by Carmen Chin

southbank updates

Injuries in the Faculty of Fine Arts and Music: A Preliminary Report

By Annalyce Wiebenga (she/her) — 2021 UMSU Southbank Committee, 2022 Music Students’ Society President

The Music Students’ Society, alongside UMSU Southbank and Creative Arts, held a ‘Know Your Rights Workshop’ on Wednesday 13 October. Presented by speakers and organisers from APRA AMCOS, The Media Entertainment and Arts Alliance (MEAA), and the National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU), the session ran the gamut from a copyright workshop, to a roundtable discussion of industry concerns, to a brainstorming session about issues on campus and how to sustainably act on them.

Music students informed us that instrumentalists in areas such as violin and flute are facing a high risk of injury. Previously, the Alexander Technique for Musicians elective has been geared towards improving habitual use of one’s body and performance under pressure. It was not run this year. The Bachelor of Fine Arts subject, Alexander Technique for Daily Function, was also discontinued. Reportedly, the first year Dance cohort had only two hours total of Alexander technique training this semester. The Voice Department within the Bachelor of Music, in contrast, has continued their Practical Anatomy for Classical Voice elective.

Students were also concerned about equitable access to vital physiotherapy sessions. The Stop 1 Southbank Hub provides information about the Elite Akademy Sports Medicine service at Southbank and Parkville. The Southbank service is available for “dance and performance students, and others”. Stop 1 states there is a discounted rate available for “eligible” university staff and students. There are no in-person services during lockdown, but telehealth is operating within the broader company. Eligibility criteria for Southbank service access and discounts appear vague and require further investigation.

Dancers had weekly one-hour “release and recovery” sessions with Elite Akademy in Semester 1 this year, which were generalised and not specific to the students in the class. These have not continued into Semester 2.

UMSU Southbank put out a call for stories about students’ use of these physiotherapy services. The overwhelming response was that they did not know there was a physio on campus. Students also reported not knowing reporting procedures and not being adequately supported in managing on-campus illness and/or injury.

According to the NTEU, a new health and safety staff member is starting at Southbank campus. We welcome this appointment and hope to work with them to address student concerns. We will contact the relevant parties for comment and write a more comprehensive article as this story develops.

If you have concerns about Health and Safety on the Southbank campus, please tell us your story. You can contact UMSU Southbank via: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/umsusouthbank

Instagram: @umsu_Southbank

Email: southbank@union.unimelb.edu.au

Music students are also welcome to contact the Music Students’ Society via: Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/musicstudentssociety

Email: mss.unimelb@gmail.com

Special thanks to Zodie Bolic, Leyla Moxham, Joseph Hourigan and Srishti Chatterjee for their inputs.

Illustrated by Maddy Cronn

Leaked

Written by Juniper Lee

Your group meeting has finally opened in Zoom

And for once there is peace in your miniscule room.

A fresh coffee is steaming just off to your right

While your nocturnal eyes blink in the morning light.

They wait first for two minutes, then two minutes more, Then the group leader sighs, “oh well, it’s 9:04—

Guess we should get started, soon Sam will be here.”

Then a sudden thought fills you with terrible fear.

Did I—surely not?—miss my wee before bed?

(Just the thought of it forces a shake of the head.)

But then realisation rings clear as a bell:

For an hour you are trapped in this zoomiest hell.

Plan A: if my camera is off, I can go

Take the tiniest leak break, then no one will know.

But these try-hards have all got their videos on, So my black screen betrays me the second I’m gone.

Plan B: if I move in a slow-enough range

I doubt that they’d notice my smooth background change. You stand up—and realise I’m really this nuts?!

But Plan A might work if my “internet cuts”.

You turn off your camera—you can’t chicken out

Then you run for the loo like a man in a drought. It seems all is well (you neat James Bond snacc)

Until someone points out that your screen has gone black.

“Is his internet dead? Can you hear us all, Reece?”

You stand up and scream, “Can I just piss in peace?”

Except that you don’t, ‘coz that’s embarrassing

So your head hangs in shame at your Zoom meeting sin.

Illustrated by Arielle Vlahiotis

“Recontexualise”, said a hot-shot student, whilst all were forced to endure their neverending monologue

about T.S. Eliot

Written by Christina Savopoulos

A University of Melbourne arts student has mastered using as many extravagant words possible in a sentence, until they re-evaluate the profound and demanding effect of the word ‘vamoose’. The speech, a meandering mishmash through the works of T. S. Eliot, included words that would grant you instantaneous victory in any game of Scrabble, all pronounced as if they had never been spoken aloud before.

As each sentence grows and expands to bulbous proportions, so does the student’s head. It bloats much like Aunt Marge in Harry Potter, but the student doesn’t float away and allow the class a moment of peace. It is as if they are chained down, forced to listen to a James Joyce-esque littering of commas and thoughts. It becomes apparent that the meaning of all words in the English language are now superfluous, and as the sentences slowly slip away, their argument becomes redundant. Indeed, any politician would be proud to receive this type of doublespeak from their speechwriter, but it has no place in a 9am tute. The student’s thoughts trail on as if they’ve found themselves lost in a Virginia Woolf stream of consciousness which makes your head spin and spin. Their unspeakably long sentences are littered with Shakespearean language, and are structured and sequestered by semicolon after semicolon—the punctuation of choice for pretending to have any semblance of what they’re saying.

Now, were this all uttered in the name of learning and growth, it could almost be forgiven—after all, literature is filled with discussions of how all interpretations are valid. Yet, this overzealous, thesaurus-swallowing creature is reminiscent of the worst theoretical subject readings; when your highlighter hovers over the page unsure of what even begins to constitute importance. When you can’t comprehend where one sentence ends and the next begins; the type where you must control your fingers, preventing them from approaching the roots of your hair and pulling until there’s nothing left. But of course, it’s all in the name of academia. Endless yawns from the class do not deter the student from continuing for a further five minutes, because, as I said… it’s all in the name of academia.

Perhaps if we all include the word ‘recontextualise’ in our vocabularies (and slip it into any sentence possible), we too can find our IQs rising—just like this humble and grounded student.

Yet, the student smiles gleefully at their contribution in class. They’re either blissfully ignorant about halting the lesson for their spontaneous 20 minute monologue, or their verbal jargon is simply covering the fact that they know absolutely nothing about the topic. Of course, any student who managed to stay awake glares with hatred and shock at this self-proclaimed Aristotle. This waste-of-breath could just as easily be summed up in a single word.

Dipshit.

Illustrated by Anannya Musale

At the Movies... with Brian Novak

Farrago: Review

I’ve lost my love for cinema. My life is crumbling, and these films no longer fulfil me the way they did before. And to my dear reader, I’m terribly sorry. I’ve been a fool, and you’ve paid the price. Last Wednesday, I went to the cinema for what I didn’t realise would be the last time. I was watching the hour of commercials that precede the film when an advertisement for Essie, the nail polish company, appeared on screen. I was unphased until my arch-nemesis, Colin, stepped into the frame.

I felt oddly proud of him for finding work as an actor. More time away from me, I figured, before my blood boiled. A little sticker appeared next to his face that read: “as mentioned on Brian Novak’s film blog”. I always knew he was a scam artist, but even I couldn’t see that he was an undercover Essie shill. He exploited me and this very column to swindle my poor readers to grow their fingernails, so they’d need to buy more FUCKING ESSIE! He made me unwittingly betray my one principal of anti-product placement. And without Farrago to accommodate my ramblings, my YouTube channel wouldn’t be anywhere near as popular as it is today. So in a way this is your fault, Farrago. He saw my newfound fame and exploited it. To paraphrase Frances McDormand from Fargo, was all this emotional pain worth a little bit of money, Colin?

For my final review, I shall not be examining a film. Rather, in the spirit of Frances McDormand, I turn to this dear student magazine. While I’m eternally grateful that you published my work, you also assisted a sociopathic scam artist. So let me give you a little trigger warning—oh, how you love those. This is going to be brutal, you bunch of fucking hippies. Actually, no. Wankers.

That’s what you are. A bunch of wankers! I’m sorry to lash out, but I will not apologise. I spent last Tuesday curled up in a ball on the floor of my apartment screaming, “I’m crumpled?!”. My innards feel like they’ve been swallowed by a whale, as if they were a less wooden version of Pinocchio.

It pains me to write these words, but I must. As you may have gathered, in addition to the Colin debacle, Millicent has left me. Jessica, her nosey colleague, read one of my reviews where I detailed some unsound gossip, and tensions quickly escalated. Millicent also said I was a bad boyfriend, but that might have just been in the heat of the moment. I’m not sure about anything anymore. It’s almost like I’m only now discovering that she’s a completely different person to who I thought she was, and I can’t trust anything to be what it appears to be. And yet, Farrago had the audacity to publish this incorrect world view without telling me! Arseholes, I tell you. And another thing—I notice you’ve been tagging my film reviews as ‘satire’? Why is that?

I keep thinking back to that final conversation with Millicent. Maybe it’s partly my fault. I suppose we’re all just looking for some emotional connection; so we hold on tightly when we think we’ve found it. Maybe that’s not a bad thing—we can’t afford to be picky. Then again, the fact that it’s so rare makes it so beautiful when we do find it. Or, when we think we’ve found it. Honestly, I lie to myself so much that I can’t distinguish the lies from the truth anymore, so perhaps Millicent was just the illusion of love. But love’s only an intangible emotion, so Christ knows what the real thing feels like. As you can probably tell, I’m not in the mood for coherent thought. I was walking around my flat the other day and almost everything reminded me of this past year: my fingernail contraptions, the framed photos of me and Millicent, and my little bowl of now mouldy Corn flakes. Even the computer I use to type these reviews brings back memories. But these reviews are going to end soon.

I just had a little cry in the shower. It honestly feels like the entire point of my past happiness was just to bring me down harder. Maybe the true purpose of Farrago, and Enamemates, and relationships is to make me even more depressed. I’ve got to adjust now. If my perception of Millicent was wrong, then what else is? It’s like I’m learning everything from the beginning again. I may as well be that USB man in a cell, so alone and angry. Or maybe I’m strapped into wires like The Matrix, and this is all an elaborate social experiment to see how much fuckery the human brain can tolerate. Anyway, I’m going to clip my nails now. They never needed to be that long. I think I just need some sleep.

N/A stars. *

“At the Movies with Brian Novak” is a movie review column by the fictitious Brian Novak, otherwise known as the real James Gordon.

You can read more of Brian / James’ reviews on our website.

content warning:references to racism, drug use, cults

SATIRE-IN-BRIEF

SATIRE-IN-BRIEF

Written by Raina Shauki, Laura Bishop, Charlotte Armstrong and Sweeney Preston

Written by Raina Shauki, Laura Bishop, Charlotte Armstrong and Sweeney Preston

White allies committed to “decolonising” the Jamaican accent

Empowered by racial discourse happening exclusively on TikTok, a group of white allies have seemingly taken charge of a movement aimed at liberating Jamaican consciousness. When asked about what authority they had to “reclaim” the Jamaican accent, the group responded, “We hate white people just as much as our POC brethren do”. —RS

Kanye West’s thrice-delayed “Donda” still most stable thing to come out of 2021

“I had more faith in its release than in our government’s vaccine rollout,” said local Melbourne woman Samantha. “A false promise is different with Kanye, because he’s a total whack job. But like, the cool artistic kind—not the slimy political kind.” Latest reports reveal that even VicPol is getting on the Donda bandwagon blasting “guess who’s going to jail tonight” at the latest anti-lockdown rally. — LB

Doomsday cult told to stop being so optimistic

“Assuming that it’s all going to be over soon? Honestly, that’s way too much hope for me.”

Local doomsday cultists are being told to stop being so bloody optimistic in their assertions that the end of days is fast approaching. When pressed on why the cultists should tone down their expectations, one beleaguered individual admitted, “We aren’t getting out of it that easy”.

Satirists genuinely running out of material given that world is beyond parody

Honestly, what is even going on anymore? Apparently we’ve woken up inside a fucking Looney Tunes episode, but I’m really not having it. I mean, I’m out here having to check the sources on news articles because I can’t even tell anymore.

Essential

Beauty

announces new COVID-19 Disaster Payments

After a year of lockdowns and store closures, Essential Beauty has announced plans to enter the social welfare sector. A spokesperson explained that as a well-respected figure for most young Australian women, the company is excited to step up and serve “those in our community who know that their local aestheticians have provided more consistent support than governments ever have”. — RS

Exclusive: New York “The City That Never Sleeps”, Melbourne “In Bed By 9”

Ooh boy, it’s that time of night again. Time to lock the doors, shut the windows, and watch TikToks of people on the other side of the world having a sick time.

New York City is open for business once more after every pundit in the op-ed section of US newspapers declared its death.

Surrounded by their own concrete jungle where nightmares are made of, Melbournians are left to stare wistfully into takeaway coffee cups.

— SP

Nadia Bartel signs new sponsor deal with Revolver Upstairs after being dropped by normie brands

After a video leaked of Nadia ‘Scarface’ Bartel—ex-partner of premiership AFL player Jimmy Bartel—huffing nose candy at a mate’s place during Melbourne’s 48th lockdown, normie brands such as Hairhouse & JSHealth Vitamins have fled the scene.

But luckily for Nadia, from the ashes, the phoenix doth rise.

Melbourne nightlife heavyweight Revolver Upstairs, affectionately known as ‘Revs’, has come to the rescue. The lucrative deal is rumoured to be worth a whopping 33 disco biscuits a night.

Illustrated by Anannya Musale

Illustrated by Anannya Musale

—CA

Race Against the Odds

The social construction of race and its dominance

Throughout this column, I have discussed different aspects of the whole system that is racism and white supremacy, from colonisation to Black Lives Matter (BLM), intersectionality, cultural appropriation and representation. There is so much more to talk about and understand as racism and white supremacy dominate most, if not all, aspects of Western culture today. Writing this column has helped me express issues I have dealt with, and understand more about ‘race’ as I’ve experienced it.

Why do you have to make everything about race?

I must make everything about race because everything is already about race and once people understand this, we can begin to decolonise and recognize the unnoticed consequences of racism. Race was invented as a justification for slavery and exploitation, and is still understood by many as a biological fact, when in reality there are no distinct genetic differences between racial groups. Race is however, socially, politically and culturally real. Although there isn’t a fixed definition of ‘race’, I would define it as a system that categorises people according to, but not limited to, physical differences, the primary one being skin colour. Different places and cultures have different ways of defining or categorising race. For example, I am identified and treated as ‘Black’ in Australia but in South Africa, a biracial person like myself is labelled ‘coloured’. To be considered white, particularly in America and even in Australia, it requires a level of racial ‘purity’.

The default whiteness promoted by brands such as Band-Aid has made it harder for brown and Black people, with the concept of ‘nude’ itself referring to white skin tones. In school it was normal to refer to a pinkish colouring-pencil that resembled white skin as ‘skin’ colour. I would ask “can you pass me the skin-coloured pencil?” without a second thought, even as someone who grew up in a predominantly Black country. At the University of Melbourne, there are buildings on campus named after racist people who studied eugenics. In Australia, there are countless streets and suburbs named after colonisers. Australia Day, when we are encouraged to celebrate Australia, is the same day white people invaded Indigenous land and began killing Indigenous people. Race has always been used as a tool to exploit difference for the purposes of oppression, exploitation, and violence.

After BLM gained traction in 2020, brands were being scrutinised, and so to save themselves, they tried to ride the wave of performative activism. This involved people uploading ablank black square with #BlackOutTuesday as the caption in an attempt to eradicate racism. It took BLM trending on social media for brands with racist undertones in their product names to actually change, such as the Australian brand ‘Coon Cheese’ becoming ‘Cheer Cheese’ to accommodate their white customers’ newfound ‘values’. If it was really about helping people of colour (POC), brands like Cheer would have changed earlier due to the multiple campaigns by POC asking them to. These acts of racism are deeply ingrained in society, which is why it’s important to recognise white supremacy as a powerful system that encourages all to participate, even those it negatively impacts.

Thinking you don’t do or say overtly racist things, or that having relationships with POC means you’re not racist, is no longer good enough. It may have been good enough during colonial and segregated times where overt racism was the norm, but not anymore. White supremacy has managed to convince many, particularly white people, that significant progress has been made, with historical contexts only becoming relevant when convincing others of “how far we’ve come!” since then. This is despite the impacts of colonialism and slavery still being deeply felt, whether it be through microaggressions at university or cultural appropriation. Bla(c)k people are disproportionately incarcerated, impoverished, and dying even here in Australia, so we can’t claim it’s just an American problem.

Written by ilundi tinga Illustrated by Chelsea Rozario

Changing tides

A bloated corpse floats behind me, leaving sea puddles as it follows.

An anchor drowns a girl with chestnut skin once coloured by the sun and ebony hair that shrinks in water.

Bubbles rise to the surface reaching for air. The girl climbs the tide following the sun’s voice but the sea echoes her screams.

Her tears become water colours that paint the sea. Waves consume her mind as her fist rises to the sky.

Above water where I walk on thin ice, the corpse looks at me.

A man and woman walk towards methey see the corpse and jump. An ice crack runs towards me my heart tightens the corpse screams.

Ice mirrors the pearl skin of the man and woman. Their reflections smile at me. Their words cut my throat. Their eyes anchor my body.

Crack, CRACK, CRACK. My hair shrinks. I see the sunThey look down at me. I see whiteI shoot a fist at them.

Salt crystallises my lungs and in this moment, happily-ever-after is just a dream. My impending doom feels inevitable.

Why did I die?

I close my eyes erasing the dimming white light from the surface. I sink into abyss where ghosts cannot reach and the ocean is still.

I find comfort in darkness for Black is where all colours lie and hope is still alive.

I see changes within the tides.

I wrote this poem about my experience as a Black woman in Australia, which has felt like walking on thin ice with my life in the hands of others. I must admit that the world has progressed in relation to racism, but are the changes enough or are they merely superficial? How much real progress can even happen within the system of white supremacy? It is as Black feminist activist Audre Lorde said: “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” This Race Against the Odds has not ended and maybe will never end, but as new generations become more aware of these issues, I hope the tides of power will continue to shift, bringing positive change.

Illustrated by Chelsea Rozario

Written by Josh Abbey

On the first day of class, philosophy students take the following oath:

I, a philosophy student, hereby pledge that I will respond to every question by saying, “what do you mean by that?”

Hence the famous joke:

“What job will you get with a philosophy degree?”

“Depends on what you mean by job.”

Consider another scene, a history class where you’re the token philosophy student. The lecturer cautiously asks a question. Everyone turns to you: “say the line, Bart!” No one wants to be the one that says, “depends on what you mean by that.” But the evil is necessary for a reason.

For there is an element of truth to these jokes; many sentences stand in need of interpretation, and the truth of these sentences depends on their interpretation. This fact may explain why tutorial questions spark no discussion; we are mired in conceptual confusion and no one wants to be the fool who misinterprets the question. The libertarian wrongly champions an individualist solution: why not just read the readings? But the problem is structural; a lot of language is abstract, equivocal and indeterminate. Presume you are viewing Sky News. Maybe you can’t find the remote or it’s for ‘research purposes,’ I don’t know, to each their own excuse. Courtesy of incantation, you are led to believe that a university education consists entirely of chanting “capitalism is inherently irrational”. (Even the finance tutorials. Maybe that’s why it’s called The Spot.) The meaning of “capitalism is inherently irrational”’ will depend on your understanding of the words involved, whatever it is that you take capitalism or irrationality to mean. A sentence is indeterminate if the words that comprise the sentence do not strictly determine the meaning of the sentence. The sentence “the square is red’’ cannot be about circles. 2+2 will only ever equal 4. But “John is sick” might mean “John Howard is fantastic at skateboarding” or “John Malkovich has all the illnesses”.

And now a theological digression sponsored by God Corp.

The Blues Brothers were on a mission from God. But it is a little known fact that their mission from God was to highlight that ambiguity of language. The unpaid taxes of Saint Helen of the Blessed Shroud were a decoy. God could have printed off some money and cleared the debt in a doddle, but of course, quantitative easing wasn’t as popular in the 80s. The song ‘Everybody Needs Somebody to Love’ is actually about the problem of multiple generality. Take the lyric, ‘everybody needs somebody’, what does this mean? Either:

There is somebody who is needed by everybody.

Or;

For everybody, there is somebody that they need.

And in nerd-speak: Let needs (x,y) stands for X needs Y.

∀x ∃y needs (x,y)

Or;

∃x ∀y needs (x,y)

Even supposedly simple sentences may stand in need of interpretation. This formalisation constitutes the second pillar of Shapiro-ism, or so the political logician Ben Shapiro would like you to believe. For the term ‘logic’, like ‘capitalism,’ is also vague. When Ben Ten says his screeds are based on the facts and logic, the whole facts and logic, and nothing but the facts and logic, he does not mean this sort of thing:

He merely uses the word ‘logic,’ so you will think ‘isn’t Ben a clever fellow, everything he says must be true.’ As Wittgenstein shows in the Second Testament (Philosophical Investigations, verses 65 to 92), many words possess a vague and amorphous meaning constituted by our particular understanding of the word’s meaning and the way we use the word.

This is not to say that all language stands in need of interpretation. Many don’t. ‘Look out, the Lion is charging’ is unequivocal. To say that this sentence required interpretation would be to use the word interpretation in a different sense. In the same way a river bank is different from bank were get a loan. The problem with philosophy, and many conversations, is that they involve abstract words with no fixed meaning and our understandings of these words is often subtly but importantly different. The problem is compounded by philosopher’s who possess a perverse attraction to lengthy strings of abstract words and pile abstraction upon abstraction, and use neologism upon neologism. Long sentences are not the problem, Shakespeare and Pynchon use long sentences, but these sentences are full of concrete and determinate words. We might consider language as a topographic map; the aim is to depict the phenomena as closely as we can, to follow every bump in the landscape. Take Orwell’s translation of Ecclesiastes as the difference between a good map and a bad map. The Good map:

I returned and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.

And the bad map:

Objective consideration of contemporary phenomena compels the conclusion that success or failure in competitive activities exhibits no tendency to be commensurate with innate capacity, but that a considerable element of the unpredictable must invariably be taken into account.

Good language maps the world as closely and concretely as it can. But of course, not everything is amenable to mapping. You cannot draw the buzz of a cold rainy night in Stoke in the schematics of the stadium. And the adjective ‘good’ cannot fix itself on something concrete and definite as does the adjective ‘tall.’ But, language use should strive to be as close to that it describes as it can. ‘Capitalism’ is vague, ‘a system defined by x,y,z…’ is definite and concrete.

‘The Pier Review’ by Torsten Strokirch

‘SURREALIST’ PLAYLIST

Compiled by Mark Yin

1. Track ID Anyone? —DJ Koze, Caribou

2. skyline, be mine —Shura

3. Lemon Glow —Beach House

4. Desafío —Arca

5. Counting All the Starfish —Kitty

6. Solid Liquid Gas —Eartheater

7. Oceania —Björk

8. Wait. lifted —Öona Dahl

9. Poison Arrow —yeule

10. Is It Cold In The Water? —SOPHIE

11. Too Far —Kylie Minogue

12. So Heavy I Fell Through the Earth (Art Mix) — Grimes

13. Pewter —Roger & Brian Eno

14. Fresh Laundry —Allie X

15. Am I Dreaming —Yukari

16. Strawberry Blond —Mitski

17. Andromeda —Weyes Blood

18. Chimera —HANA

19. Lions —Jenny Hval, Vivian Wang

20. Cloudbusting —Kate Bush

21. Decatur, or, Round of Applause for Your Step-Mother! —Sufjan Stevens

22. Mother’s Mother’s Magazines —Cate Le Bon

23. Dear Future Self —Kero Kero Bonito

24. I Love You Earth —Yoko Ono

25. sad day —FKA twigs

26. The Gate —Caroline Polachek

27. visions —Charli XCX

Illustrated by Joey Dillon

Photograph by Ben Levy

Photograph by Akash Anil Nair

Photograph by Carolyn West

Photograph by Samuel Hadden

Photograph by Christian Theodosiou

Photograph by Kye Harn Loh

Photograph by James Gordon

Photograph by Jasmine Pierce

CREATIVE

Artwork by Arielle Vlahiotis

The Rippling Sea Dragon

Written by Zoe Keeghan

“Kētŏs from Greece, Taniwha from New Zealand, Jörmungandr from Scandinavia and Iceland, Tiamat from Babylon, Bakunawa from the Philippines… the list goes on. Some fierce, some loyal, some shrouded in mystery, these water-dwelling dragons live far and wide across the world.”

—A History of Dragons: The Truth in Mythology by Ailuv Drah Gonz

Scientific name: Draco aequor.

Origin: Worldwide.

Diet: Omnivorous. Usually sea plants or animals. Occasionally land creatures.

Life span: Around 250 years.

Size: Varies. May reach 35 metres in length.

Colour: Often blues, greens, browns or greys.

Notable features: Gills. May have frills or spines.

The rippling sea dragon is the most plentiful dragon species in the world. Records of these dragons exist in many forms— in rock art, ceramics, dance and poetry, on maps and in tales from every continent of the world. They are perhaps the most diverse of dragons, with traits and colouration displaying differently across the species. They have a long serpentine shape, with smooth skin. This allows them to glide through water, creating the gentle ripples that give them their name. Some have fin-like frills or spiked ridges along their spines. These often serve as a form of camouflage, as does the dragons’ colouring. This generally reflects the region where they live. For example, a rippling sea dragon living amongst seaweed or kelp may be deep green with frills. Conversely, a dark grey dragon with spines could remain concealed among choppy waters and jagged rock.

Many believe rippling sea dragons existed long before humanity; evidence suggests they may even be the oldest type of dragon. Some of the oldest known serpentine fossils are believed to be a close ancestor of the rippling sea dragon. This may be a common ancestor shared among rippling sea dragons and many other, if not all, dragon species. The similarities are evident—the burrowing sand dragon shares the rippling sea dragons’ long serpentine shape, the metamorphosis dragon shares their capability to live in water, and the gnawing tree dragon shares many of their camouflage techniques. Conversely, dragons such as the stone dragon and feathered storm dragon may have developed legs and wings to ensure survival on land.

Sightings of rippling sea dragons are far more numerous than what can be outlined here. These are not just confined to the ocean; many lakes, dams and rivers may also be inhabited by these dragons, such as the famous rippling sea dragon that lives in Scotland’s Loch Ness. In many cultures, tales of frightening rippling sea dragons were used to warn children away from the waters’ edge. However, these tales seem to be based more on the dangers of the water itself than of the dragons; they are generally peaceful creatures, unless provoked. Public interest in the dragons peaked in the 19th century, particularly in the US and Europe, as expeditions set out to observe and study the dragons. This obsession resurged in the 1960s when famous band The Coleoptera released their hit song about a rippling sea dragon:

“Picture yourself in a boat on the ocean

With cerulean seas under lavender skies

Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly

Dragon with kaleidoscope eyes

Cellophane frills of purple and green

Rustling over her head

The sea dragon with the stars in her eyes

Then she’s gone

Lucy the rippling sea dragon...”

When interviewed about the song, band member Len Johnnon remarked:

“My son adored dragons as a child. One day he came home with this swirling pastel painting. He told me it was Lucy the rippling sea dragon. There was something truly beautiful about seeing such a magnificent creature through the eyes of a child. And I knew I had to write a song about it.”

The popularity of the rippling sea dragon and their presence across the world has earned them a place as a modern symbol of unity. However, I would suggest that dragons as a whole may be one step better. Stories of dragons have existed from the birth of humanity, across cultures and continents. They’re filled with war and peace, fear and love, horror and beauty. Dragons and their stories are as diverse as humankind, and there is room in this world for them all. What could be more unifying than that?

Illustrated by Alice Aliandy

The Foggy Shores

Written by Charlotte Waters & Lee Perkins

spring spreads over the walls of my small box. its heartbeat swells against the glass, warms my palms from inside.

i count the bricks in the yard with the ball of my foot. try not to wake the saplings that cling to the mortar.

the dream peels clean from my skin like old sunburn. the lemons are ripe and round the bricks are soft in the sun

like watered-down cordial, like the shy hands of spring. we give the words we can spare share our food take the sky in small sips.

i hum on the one note to keep the spring in my mouth, held between my teeth, turned over on my tongue.

i keep you away so the spring doesn’t fall from my mouth. open the door any wider and the bodies of strangers, real and unreal, will slip out in the wind.

a child cries somewhere behind the garden fence. a dog barks. there’s a flash behind my eyes.

a child laughs and you reach forward, you feel the tug, sit me down, set me straight. your voice lingers dry behind the kitchen door.

i have no obligation to answer. i pinch the stem: the fruit comes off too clean, the excess force tripping me over, trampling the saplings.

i imagine i hear the squeals of small men living inside small spaces.

you dwell in the spaces between saccades.

again, you chime, Flo. your voice, oxidising in the warm breeze.

i’m drawn to the drops of lemon, the cold kitchen, the keyhole bright against my ear.

so still

there’s no way you can hear me, i hold fast to the hollow.

Illustrated by Rose Gertsakis

of Our Bedrooms

‘The Afterhum’

Before, during, and after Long distances in time.

Swept from the look-me-in-the-eyes audacity of dirt between toes

To the clean shaven immortal-talking moots of Valhalla, Olympus

And some greater stars

From each, a bit of residue, Screaming for the Big Time, Wedging itself to the bottom of my shoes

‘My whole body hurts but I can see the horizon’

The resilience

The blindness of youth.

When I’d run a shorter distance, Gleamed less of Greater Truths

I found it awkward to find hitchhikers

Strumming up conversation from a backseat I hadn’t cleared. They’d still have bits of PVC pipe, A worn jacket, and rocks from Jupiter, Neptune or some such.

I’m not sure they’d realised who they’d stuck their thumb out to.

I wasn’t grizzled nor giving Anecdotes and slight shows of tenderness. Instead I was far-seeing Far-feeling and Far-off-

The desperateness of a shorter life.

But then at a break in the marathon

When I finally moved slow enough

To see snails on leaves, and exhaust from motor vehicles, I hit a brick Wall of Irreverence.

A far-sight staring at the black-blue of the rest of the track

The same way I did.

We know how you felt and still do

The quick fixings of sex

No jeans

Tequila

Recklessness

Binging and reruns of Friends

Parks and Rec

Legally Blonde

Your hair flew and shone so much better.

In the wind that I conjured

The few times you left outside And stared upwards to black spots in your eyes.

At low points you would look high and see right into them, And see the black-blue And me on the doormat.

If only you knew how welcome you were How capable you had been

To jump up to that breeze

And push yourself through.

Illustrated by Rose Gertsakis

Lady Grey

Written by Emily French

She labours me through the estuary I am baptised in her glittering macrocosm

Lapping against my ears, she holds me in gentle matriarchy

Her kiss flushes rouge to my cheek

She cleans me in brine

My weightless body in hers

Tension taken by her veins

As driftwood to other shores

Submerged in the motion of her arms

I am cast away by swelling rage

Tugged and tumbling spume

Subsides to confounding grace

We gravitate in tidal moods of love and distrust

Meeting on moonlit banks and porous rock Coastlines succumb to the constant cycles

Reclaimed by maternal prophecy Illustrated by An Trinh

unbelonging.

Written by Wei Ann Lai

when the moon is distorted by the undulating waves, there is an urge to play with gravity; leap into the sea in search of a void, forgotten.

to be a bird with clipped wings, swimming through the ocean of life; to be a fish with trimmed fins, flying across a sky too blue.

such is life: the birds are in shoals and the fish, in flocks.

Illustrated by Michelle Chan

there are still sunsets

Written by Alexia Shaw

there are still sunsets in this shitty fucking world

the plagues have yet to find a way of switching off the sun; of corrupting the adolescent sky with its youthful adornments of gaudy pinks and feather boa edges;

the clouds flaunt their freedom to us running past the horizon heads full of fancies of elopement

there are still sunsets though we may view them through windows watching while we stew, awaiting the egg timer’s click-click-click ding

we observe the tender orange rays that arch towards the earth— extended limbs attempting to hold us, cradle us evidence that the sun still cares that anyone can still care despite being 93 million miles away

there are still sunsets while we host hell’s latest export; a new cocktail shaker of paper cuts and burnt toast hailing from the nine circles flaming deep below

obliterated by barefoot marathons on gravel roads and ice cream that’s too cold for teeth we look up and see the clouds bruise the sky until it’s black and blue

but the weather is fickle we melbournians know this better than most ‘if you don’t like it now, just wait five minutes’

the cool change will hit

Illustrated by Zoe Eyles

Written by Austin J. Ceravolo

The crew departed winter last, Panting and packing and Leaving here a trail of Antique notes and broken vials.

The Captain was a worldly man, His posture firm and eyes Dwelling on the coming prospect Of an endless storm.

I can’t sleep on floating rocks, For the vast and sneering Silence conjures dreams of a Formless beast of unholy design.

I dreamt of arcane claws, A nightmare even, for they so Keenly mocked these frail And unravelling wrists.

The Captain was a clinical man, Weighing my fleeting soul to Years and charts and figures That just might save a realm.

I see wings of perfect steel Weeping ash and scattered seed, I, Lord of Clay, the forgotten father And holder of the Sacred Flame!

A vial within my hand, Its soul of teal and quartz, Ignites this icy heart With songs of a liquid past.

The Captain was a wretched man, His sin corrupting stars beyond And leaving here a trail of Dust and glass and brother’s blood.

His darkness surrounds me, Not a knowing mother’s quilt, But a spiteful, clawing hand— Abandoned.

Illustrated by Torsten Strokirch

BLACKOUT POETRY

Created by Aeva Milos

OAK

Written by Harry Hartney

Alone in the woods he stands. His friends are far, for his roots stretch long. A barrier, that rips plants from the ground.

A home to many come and gone, he is ever-present. The crooks in his limbs provide solace while storms scream and swirl.

There is no wind that can take him, nor a man or axe strong enough to pierce his skin. When it rains, he grows.

When the sun shines he dries and shakes off in the breeze. Birds nest, beetles bustle and leaves grow, they fall and turn to dust along his slender arm.

Nothing changes

Lying Underneath a Broad-Leafed Tree

Written by Matthew Blyth

Doubloons, like pennons loll, afloat on greeny fog; a light -swept branch inclines—tilting shield-shades to screen the broad blue back above.

by Birdy Carmen

Illustrated

Haibun for the Road

Written by Laura Charlton

There are twelve fields of oranges between us and the next town, so he pulls over to buy a bag of them, bright fruit gathered in knots of red string. The air is dawncold and the dirt is singing under our feet, the trees branching into each other like linked pinkies. I hold out my cupped hands. Dad pours a ziplock bag of coins into my palms, windchiming as they collide. Sign says pay what you want so I tip my silver river into the cash box, while Dad gathers two bagfuls of orange light. As we drive, I count the fruit fields, follow the early morning stretch of them, find punctures of light in the fleshy mass of green. Dad feeds CDs into the stereo, magazine mixtapes, and piano fuzzy with age under a bruised American voice pelting us like summer rain. Griffith we eat bad Chinese in a butterthick sauce, and his ankle swells furious under wiry blue socks. Ivanhoe we drive past the jail and the houses it’s gutted, gaping doors with charred tongues and a petrol station itching under the sun. Menindee we stay a few days and trace the lakes that quiver in the dry, birds climbing trees like wingless creatures, leaping into the air, plummeting into the water, and surfacing with skeweredfish beaks. We walk the streets through a muffleblack night, kicking tiny stones, night sky a gauze stretched over white light. Every window dark when I search for candlelight. The air drops and drops further. Frostkiss on the ground in the morning. The drive back home stretches under a sky with arms wide open. We stop for animals. We kneel roadside to keep an echidna from the highway, its long snout resting on Dad’s knee like a dog, breath wet and friendly. Ice cream afterwards in the old song of the forest. Home by nightfall. We don’t realise that we wake in synchronisation the next day.

Early morning in cold light we share oranges that drip down our arms.

Illustrated by Olivia Wood

The Museum Rules

Written by Gabrielle Lim

You’re staring at my mouth again and here is the wonder, the butterflies.

Here is the way you swathe me in sweet nothings, hazy warmth that pulls me slowly.

All of this is yours— if you want me. Tell me that you want me. Don’t pretend we aren’t going to fuck. Or shall we make love?

Love, my love, intertwine your fingers with mine. This isn’t love. Is it?

No, this is not love

This is the other thing, the awful thing. The ugly thing.

Here is hickey mottled skin and hitched breathing, the way you wash your hands when it’s over like a plea for absolution, the ceramic stillness when I clamour for your touch and the emptiness when I remember that your hands are always cold, even in the summer.

Here is where you smoke cigarettes like a dollar-store Sartre or the antagonist of a bad poem. Don’t be like that, baby, you say when you notice the tears. You always do. Smoke pulls away from your lips. You exhale. I breathe in.

It’s your stupid cigarette, asshole, I say, because I can’t (don’t know how to) say, I hate that you make my chest ache and I think we both know I’m not talking about second-hand smoke anymore.

Here is where you pretend you don’t know I pretend I don’t know that you’re fucking sick of me.

Here is the wanting that comes in waves and here is where I reach for you when you pull away, further, too far, and here is the distance.

Here are the museum rules:

1. Admire from afar.

2. Keep your filthy fingers to yourself.

3. Force your whole fucking beating heart back between your ribcage and swear you’ll never let it out again.

Illustrated by Mica McCulloch

The Orchard

Written by Matthew Blyth

Rain spoiled the fruit, they clot the nets— these oblivious, night-black plums—dropped off to bloom white mould, and shrink, and curdle like so much pelagic mass hauled up to dry in the drag-net off Nantucket or

Here, between the trunks in cemetery rows— where glass-eyed flies once clung to fruit, and burst like dandelion heads as we passed above the matted undulations of the grass shot through with rusty pickets—jutting up

Like galleon bones, half sunk in silt and scoured pips—mis-sown by time to bare the porous ridges where their flesh hooked on much as it does in us, still straining dark and silent as a dragline in the empty sea,

Or the grass that snarling wrecks the wall where a fig switch sits—snapped at the brittle joint, and a trough inclines the rain, whose skin of light crosscut by fine black furrows of shade is like the scale-wrapped flank of a fish.

I realise I am sweeping your grave, when— somewhere, a magpie sings, and I look up through the naked lattice of the plum and I see the sky is white, with one red edge, like a segment from a peach.

A National park is an island, II

Written by Izma Haider

I saw a leaf fall to the ground in the park today like a gnarled, brown hand. Dovecotes, populated with pigeon-gargoyles, loomed Does that make me half-made? Does that make me statuary? I am a live intruder in the cantons of joggers, walkers, dogged readers, lunchers, lawyers, witnesses. My feet are already in wet cement there is no way for me to sit on this bench in a way that says: I am at peace with all this, all them. A weevil crept into my mouth last night, clipped my masseter and sewed it together an eighth of an inch tighter

The one standing across from me he looks the type.

Him, his wife, their greyhound pup, barely holding together like a bundle of twigs its sternum, its legs splayed like a threadbare petticoat if it kissed the dirt, under its shiny flinty coat twitching muscles fraying like a rope— what then?

Coming home, you’re peeling apples with a paring knife the long, burning skin unwinds into my brain. You left the butter in the plate on the table so that it’d spread evenly even though it scares you. The ginger you put in my tea was brown and gnarled—like my hand on top of fresh sheets windblown—no—forgive me, I was kissed by you.

While I was playing cold in the park you were making me tea

The grass has grown, only the grass.

Illustrated by Monica Yu

content warning: blood, violence

Night Terrors

Written by Hannah Winspear-Schillings

Zach staggers home in the early hours, strips off his clothes, dresses his stinging wounds and stumbles into bed to the sound of the six o’clock radio. Sleep comes a little harder this time, preceding the start of a storm-like nightmare. He wakes up several times with his nose full of sweaty blanket, and his skin on fire with the memory of fists and knives.

The squawk of his alarm banishes his sleep two hours later. He levers himself upright and presses his bare soles to the cold floor. His skin delights in the painful tingle. In the shower, the burning water whips against his skin; the coppery smell of blood feels thicker this time. He gets out of the shower, steam following him like an old friend.

As he pulls on his pants, skin aching at the feel of the fabric, the ghost of fingers lingers against his thighs. His crucifix is cold against his sternum, and as he does up his shirt, he says a Hail Mary with every button. He draws his tie tightly around his neck, prompting a blurred memory of his lover’s hand on his throat to briefly flash across his mind. The pressure of his tightly laced shoes makes his jaw tighten and the iron frame of his glasses weighs down his nose like a warning.

He has no idea where his lover is, has no idea how he ended up five blocks from home with blood in his mouth last night. All he remembers is her stealing brief moments of intimacy—squeezing his hand and brushing her lips against his cheek— whenever her husband went to the bathroom or wandered off to order more drinks.

Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

He collects his satchel and cane from the stand by the door and leaves. Outside is blisteringly cold, unusual for early autumn. He stands on the stoop for his usual five seconds and listens to the world outside. He breathes in the accelerant-like smell of the hotdog stall and sets off. Clicking along the pavement with his cane, Zach hears people’s surprise, feels it in the intake of breath from passers-by. Ordinarily he wouldn’t be nearly so heated about it, but if he had hurt his lover in any way last night…

His watch bleats that it’s quarter to nine. Not wanting to be late—and face the wrath of Christopher Lewis—Zach picks up his pace. Twenty steps down West 55th this time, turn at 9th Avenue. He can always play the blind card, of course, but that stirs something bitter and ashamed in his throat like old coffee grounds.

Zach enters the building. To reach the elevator, it takes eight long steps across the foyer. Once in the elevator, Zach slides

Illustrated by Rachel Ko

in between two people smelling strongly of bleach and disinfectant. There’s the familiar rush of floors falling away, the sharp whistle of air ducts, the zap of electricity arcing through cables, then finally the metallic voice announcing his floor.

As he opens the office door, his senses are assaulted by the pungent scent of coffee and the feeling of arms wrapping around him. He freezes, briefly panicked, before the memory of where he is reasserts itself. Zach lets his satchel drop on the filing cabinet by the door, praying nobody noticed his guard was up. The only person who could relinquish his iron grip on control was his lover, but he had no clue where she was. Usually by now, she would have at least sent him some sort of message, but after the way he had treated her last night, she would likely never approach him again.

The marketing materials for their office’s housing outreach program are spreadeagled on the table. Zach traces their spines with a fingertip and wishes he could fall between the braille, to a place where he didn’t have to face this.

“Jeez, I’d hate to see the other guy,” Chris snickers from his desk.

Zach forces a wary smile. “What?”

“Don’t tell me that blond at the bar knocked out all your brain cells last night,” Chris says, concern colouring the bemusement in his voice.

“What blond?” Zach responds, his skin instinctively prickling with the memory of knuckles against his ribs, of stubble and stale beer. He sags into a nearby chair and exhales.

“He really did a number on you, huh?” Chris hoots. “Rose gave me an earful on the way home about not calling you a cab. Did you end up booking in to see a doctor in the end? Some of those punches looked nasty.”

Zach shakes his head as a wave of relief floods the pit in his stomach. As his spiralling train of thought begins to stabilise, his screen reader squawks a new text message: U @ 2000 - R x. Usual place at 8, love Rose.

She is always discreet, but most importantly, she’s alive.

meat

The wound appeared on my face the day I turned eighteen.

A gaping, bloody hole stretching from the upper temple to the right side of my jaw—a sliver of cheekbone visible among a mass of yellow fat, pinkish muscle and crisscrossing veins spurting fluid. Each time I squinted or opened my mouth, every anatomical element moved with mechanical precision.

Detachment. I simply couldn’t make the connection between the gory cavity and the entity known as ‘Me.’ The neural impulses trying to comprehend the two concepts had become trapped in self-defeating paralysis. The figure stood there in the toothpastespattered bathroom mirror, and every movement my hand made was theirs. Each prodding of a pumping artery, each stroke of my cheekbone, each gentle grasp of my shifting masseter. My vision began to blur—the blood flowing from my upper temple had carved a path along older scars and passed my brow, flooding my eye and colouring my perceptions red.

But when I tore my eyes away from the mirror to glance at my hand—the one just moments ago thrust inside my face—it was stainless. Absolutely bereft of any blood or bits of muscle and flesh.

A tiny squeal began in my ear canal. Constant and keening, a machine malfunctioning in my head.

I would spend the next hour trying to explain to my parents that I needed to go to the hospital because I was bleeding out from my face, all the while barely able to make out their expressions through the scarlet veiling my vision.

They refused. I was informed that there was no wound and that I was in fact worrying them quite severely and that if this was a joke I should stop but it wasn’t a joke so I didn’t stop and thus I found myself booked to see a psychiatrist the next day.

The thing I recall most clearly about the psychiatrist was the way his eyes lingered longer on his clipboard than they did on me. He wore his disinterest like he wore his gaudy sweater. He listened to me recite information regarding my wound and thought processes and family and school and childhood and hobbies and what I had for breakfast that day, responding to each new account with hmm’s, aha’s and harrumph’s.

At the end of it all, he jotted something in his notes before saying Alright, kid. Stopped to tap his pen on his armrest. Sounds like you’re experiencing intense dissociation and visual hallucinations. I’m going to prescribe you so-and-so and put you on this treatment plan to be conducted by Dr Whatserface and hopefully within a few months…

Those “few months” passed. I would recollect them here, but ever since the wound developed, I found my brain had stopped processing memories like it used to. Experiences would happen to me and then dissipate, as if they had escaped through the rift in my head. All that remained was broad themes. The stinging, alcoholic odour of the sanitiser at the clinic. The roughness of the bandages. Nosebleeds crusting around my nostrils. An ill-conceived episode with needle and string.

Written by Joel Duggan Illustrated by Sally Yuan

But the memories etched deepest into my brain, the ones which had clung to my hippocampus with a tenacity not even the wound could thwart, were the looks I would get in conversations.

People would never notice the hole initially. They’d maintain eye contact and they’d smile at my small talk and light up at my compliments and nod at appropriate intervals during my anecdotes. Then something would always go awry—a joke would be too offcolour, a story too revealing—and it would fall apart. Their eyes would drift, shifting from enthusiasm to disgust, and in those moments, I knew they were seeing it. Taking it in with the same clearness and lucidity I did every time I glimpsed myself in the mirror.

How could it just be a hallucination in the face of looks like that?

One evening I found myself on the bus home, preoccupied with the face I saw in the window. The wound had grown and festered, and I could not grasp how everyone around me was not aware of the pus which had developed along much of the right side of my face, projecting a sickly-sweet odour like molasses left to mould. Absently, my mind wandered, and a vision penetrated my psyche—the bloody void, spreading and deepening until it consumed me. I wondered if the bloody void would spread, deepening until it consumed me. Leaving nothing but red.

The static in my ear heightened to an unbearable volume, but was interrupted by the ding of the bus doors opening. A new passenger appeared, an ordinary mid-forties fellow at first. The usual white-collar type—monochromatically suited with briefcase in hand. A straightness of spine which hinted at an enduring sense of dignity. It was easy to miss his face. But there was no hiding such a thing from me.

From above his eye to below his lip ran a wild beast of a scar, curving across his cheek, leaving innumerable pockmarks in its wake. It stretched the surrounding skin taut, but there was no anger in it, no fierce redness. It blended in—around his jaw, it was even covered by stubble—and while once disfiguring, had grown into a simple, faded reminder of past pain.

He met my stare. The eye touched by his scar was cloudy, distant. But the other bore into me. His gaze was unrelenting, not once breaking contact. I was sure he was going to yell some scolding remark.

The sun was setting behind him; one of those late summer sunsets, shot through with a barren red that belonged more in a desert than suburbia.

The man turned around to view it as well, and said, “Awfully late sunset tonight. When I was a boy, I sometimes worried that a late sunset meant that the sun was stuck— paralysed, right there in the sky. Kind of a silly thought now though, eh?”

He turned back and smiled. As he walked past me to the back of the bus, he clapped me on the shoulder. I sat there, contemplating his words as my eyes traced the sun’s inevitable passage below the horizon, before a revelation struck me.

It was my nineteenth birthday.

by Sally Yuan

WHEN I THINK ABOUT MYTHS, I THINK OF HOW, FOR THE PEOPLE OF THE TIME, THEY HELPED RATIONALISE THE WORLD THEY FOUND THEMSELVES IN.

A WORLD OF SURVIVORS, FRIENDS, HEROES

A WORLD OF THE SILENCED, OF MOTHERS, AND GRIEF

Illustrated by Gen Schiesser

I THINK ABOUT THOSEWOMEN A LOT.

Glass Bars.

Written by Wildes Lawler

And at this frame I sit, gazing at what grows, dancing in front of me. Will you let me dance with you, please?

This little cube is warm. When I hear the nothing picking apart my door, here I quietly hide. But still my hands are wet, fingers dripping, dripping from the lakes that replace my eyes.

Your branches waving at me, weeping like me: a little boy behind the glass of something that says, “Don’t touch”. My glass is even crueler: “You couldn’t touch if you tried.”

My winter twin in suffering. Pollution in the air, blight and rot, rain and despair. Then sun brings you life while I remain grey. The grease of my hair, my fading white shirt, my pyjamas, my daywear, my prison stripes and straitjacket, skin eternally fair.

How strong you are. Branches bending to the wind but I hear no snap.

Those fragile pink stars. Holding on tight but happy to lose their grip when the time comes. Can you teach me how? How can you teach me in an exile like mine?

Glass bars or force field? My prison and my shelter.

Cherry blossoms dancing. In the wind they spin on my windowsill they sleep, soft diamonds of spring born from winter’s chill. Forever reaching out, to bring me to your side.

But you hit the glass, snap. So leave me here.

Illustrated by Zoe Eyles

Flash Fiction: Sci-Fi

How it all ends

By Savier D’Arsie-Marquez

content warning: collective death, apathy

We thought the end of humanity would be cataclysmic. Instead, it started when the final author sat down and realised there were no stories left, nothing unwritten, no tragedy left untold. People rewatched the same stories, now hollow in their repeated arcs. People stopped having kids, not because they couldn’t, but because they couldn’t see the point. There was no more need for science, with the complete knowledge of the universe available to everyone at the click of a button. Eventually, with nothing left to give or strive for, people stopped breathing. They sat down and each quietly had their last breath, leaving an empty Earth with a finished story.

Just like the Folktales

By Marcie Di Bartolomeo (They/Them)

content warning: suggestions of medical procedure, climate crisis

00:60:00. They type in numbers I don’t recognise. Soon I will be in paradise. 00:30:00. They strap me into a chair. The room lights up. 00:15:00. They attach wires to my body. They reassure me that it will be all over soon. 00:10:00. I realise the numbers are coordinates. They press a button. Red to Green. 00:01:00. A bright light consumes my vision. 00:00:01. Everything goes dark.

-00:00:01. Everything is bright again. The light reveals trees, green plains everywhere. Birds flying, dogs running, humans gathering to greet me. Just like the folktales told me it would be.

For and Against: Boba Against

For by Juniper Lee

Setting: it’s a cool Thursday afternoon, you just got out of a spicy tute, you’re walking through campus. The sky is blue with fluffy puffs of cotton wool drifting lazily through it, spring is in the air, and you’re heading for the train. Only way to make this more perfect?

Enter boba, stage left.

Now, Taiwan is awesome for many reasons, but you can’t deny that the absolute cultural phenomenon of bubble tea has helped get it on the map in recent years. Just because you can’t travel right now doesn’t mean you can’t be cultured.

What’s not to love about bubble tea? It’s cute, it’s colourful, it’s totally customisable: size, shape, shop, sugar, ice, fruit, flavour, foam, tea, temperature, trend, toppings (bottomings?) You name a dimension, bubble tea has it.

What about its price tag, you ask? Nay, it is a mark of indulgence, of self-care—you, the bubble tea drinker, are living your best life. You alone are willing to treat yourself, to be a little different, and go the extra mile for something special. This is just another way to look down on coffee-drinking Melburnian plebs.

Lastly, it’s absolutely delicious. So don’t suck balls; suck boba!

[peace out] [mic drop]

by No One?

Reader, we received no submissions against this prompt. Could this be due to dwindling interest in writing for a student magazine during a global pandemic? Nay. We instead believe that this is an indication of boba’s uncontestable supremacy. It is simply impossible to say a single thing against this ambrosial elixir.

All hail boba, god among beverages.

P.S. If you’re the unnamed 2020 editor who commented during proofing that tapioca balls taste like ‘fish eggs’, you are WRONG.

UMSU and the Media Office are located in the city of Melbourne, on the land of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. We pay our respects to their elders—past, present and emerging—and acknowledge that the land we are on was stolen and sovereignty was never ceded.