The Newcomb Scholars Literary Magazine: Volume III
NOSTRA
NOSTRA is the annual literary magazine of the Newcomb Scholars, written, edited, and art directed by students in the program.
This issue of NOSTRA is an exercise of speculation and designing future worlds. This may seem near impossible due to the speed and magnitude in which we receive information, as it feels as though we are constantly spectators to the worst disasters of our time. Yet, “In Our Hands” challenges us to look beyond what is, and imagine what could be.
As we engage in the practice of envisioning new worlds, it is necessary to remember history is fluid. What comes next is not guaranteed, and despite the oppression and messiness of contemporary realities, new possibilities can still emerge.
What does the future look like for feminism? Will the desired gender equity ever be reached? Some would suggest that we have already reached it: women can get almost any job, have voting rights, and financial autonomy. However, this is often only true for a particular type of woman: one who is white, able-bodied, wealthy, and a citizen of the Global North.
Further, it seems as though we are standing on the precipice of something; the pressures of racial capitalism, globalization, and never-ending growth will eventually turn inward. Our current political and economic realities are unsustainable. Eventually, a breaking point will be reached. The empires we are living, or more accurately surviving, within, are not inevitable, despite their assurances to the contrary.
We are living in a world consumed by disasters. Children are in mines laboring for cobalt and coltan. Our carceral system was built directly on top of slave plantations. Famines are manufactured by ideas surrounding who is worth saving and who is not. We are confronted with state-sanctioned violence daily.
How can we imagine beyond this? But revolution is always unimaginable. We can, and will, create beyond our current social, political, and economic realities. The world demands it of us. The practice of being able to design a future free from structures of oppression can create a sense of agency and purpose in the contemporary world where we might feel powerless. We can take the future back into our hands.
Put simply, our hands were meant for more. If we have nothing to lose but our chains, how can use our collective strength to build a better world?
Thus, this issue asks us to think about the tragedies we are witnesses to and the future we want to see. What pockets of hope already exist in a world full of upheaval? What future can we build for ourselves amid these crises? Do we have it in us to imagine alternatives? Can we look beyond these disasters and see a better world on the other side?
This prompt was partially inspired by Afrofuturism, a creative and scholarly movement that utilizes science fiction, technology, and fantasy to imagine Black liberation. It demonstrates how art can be used to imagine a future free of various societal bounds and hierarchies. There is a power in being able to think more than one step ahead. We can use creativity to design blueprints for future worlds, balancing what we want to see with what we expect to see.
From the Editors
Dear readers,
The editors of this magazine would like to begin this issue by sharing a land acknowledgment written by Newcomb Art Museum, as we believe it is important to honor the land we write this magazine from:
The city known as New Orleans, including the Tulane campus… occupies an Indigenous space at the confluence of many waterways and travel routes. The boundaries of this place have always been permeable; the land and water on which our city sits has witnessed trade and cultural interaction between various Indigenous Nations for centuries. These nations include but are not limited to the Chitimacha, Biloxi, Houma, Choctaw, Atakapa-Ishak, Washa, Chawasha, and Tunica.
To this day, Indigenous Peoples dwell in the city. Bulbancha is a Choctaw word meaning “the place of foreign languages,” and it is still in use as a word to define our urban locale. Indigenous Peoples have contributed an enduring cultural legacy to New Orleans–a place where Indigenous and African Peoples have been trafficked, enslaved, and discriminated against; and where People of Color have fought for justice and equity for over 300 years. This statement embodies… [our] commitment to inclusion and understanding of our institutional history and responsibility to continue learning.
The Newcomb Institute’s mission is to pave the way for “a world without gender barriers in which all people are empowered to live with dignity and agency,” and their stated vision is to imagine “a world without gender barriers in which all people are empowered to live with dignity and agency.” The practice of formulating a vision for the future and identifying concrete steps to eliminate the barriers to that reality is precisely what this issue of NOSTRA, “In Our Hands,” seeks to describe.
This year’s issue challenges us to reframe how we think about the future of our world. Rather than viewing the future as something out of our hands, a set of circumstances to be presented to us down the road, we can think of the future as something that we shape daily. Engaging in this perspective shift can help us recognize that our actions have impacts and that we can play a role in designing the reality we want to see. We also recognize the importance of explicitly addressing the violence of the past to inform these imagined futures. In this issue, Newcomb Scholars share how they grapple with the future and their own agency in setting its course.
NOSTRA was created to foster knowledge production and creative expression outside of the confines of academia. The editors of this magazine believe that art can serve as a vehicle for collective empowerment. While we believe that every individual has agency in designing their own future reality, the quest for a future free from systems of oppression is not a journey we embark on alone. NOSTRA means ‘ours’ in Latin: a place to tell our stories, share our histories, and remind ourselves of the power of community and collaboration.
— Mika (‘25), Ella (‘26), and Malai (‘27)
“Nostra” means “ours” in Latin. That is what we, the editors of this magazine want it to be: ours. A place of collaboration, elevation, and celebration of creative feminist works by Newcomb Scholars.
Previous Issues of NOSTRA
NOSTRA Volume II: Labor of Love
In 1886, Josephine Louise Newcomb donated $100,000 (today worth 2.7 million) to the Tulane Board of Administrators. This donation helped establish the first degree-granting coordinate college for women in the United States: Newcomb College. In a world where few options existed for women, women’s colleges provided potential opportunities for future employment.
This volume of NOSTRA asked: what does our labor mean? As women, non-binary and trans students, queer people, disabled people, and people of color, what does it mean for us to enter the workforce? Further, as Newcomb Scholars, we are tied to the ongoing legacy of Newcomb College; exploring what our labor means is not just an intellectual exercise, but a deeply personal and urgent inquiry into our collective well-being and liberation.
NOSTRA Volume I: The 21st Century Feminine
The first-ever print edition of NOSTRA illustrates [ ] From art about nature to musings on Roe v. Wade’s overturning to poetry about aging, motherhood, and identity, this magazine showed our readers how creative, brilliant, young women think about their identity and place in the world. This issue was a testament to the power of feminist storytelling. We were proud to amplify the voices of Newcomb Scholars that simply demand to be heard.
Accessibility
As a feminist organization, it is part of our ethos to create a magazine that is inclusive to all. We understand that written text is not always accessible to all people who may want to engage with it. For this reason, we created a more accessible version that is available online. The online magazine has text-readable image descriptions and utilizes Atkinson Hyper-legible font; Atkinson Hyper-legible is a typeface specifically created to be more legible for readers who are partially visually impaired. To access this version, scan the QR code.
oh, to love
by Yubin Lee
oh, to love the crisp air the sound of waves and birds and footsteps, warmth enveloping me. my eyes tracing the outline of the hills in the distance admiring the sky the water the life i am living. love. oh, how i love.
oh, to hope
by Yubin Lee
oh, to hope like flowers blooming in fields that had been barren for months. sharing their scents their colors their beauty reborn. and i certain of the future in my hands hope. oh, how i hope.
Biographies
by Malai Harrington
There are two purposes of these biographies. The first is to stimulate the mind of the reader, you! Think of actionable ways that ordinary individuals are working to educate others in hopes of expanding their networks of support to challenge the political, racial, and/or religious foundations their societies are built upon. The second purpose is to simply remind the reader that activism is a spectrum. While there are arguments to say that one form of activism is more impactful than another, what is actionable for each individual will be different but not limited. The theme of this year’s issue of NOSTRA is to find the intersection between a dream and a plan, between the optimistic take and that of a realist. The individuals written about here have one thing in common: they find joy in their artistic expression and direct that joy to advocacy. Every society on earth has the potential to be accepting and appreciative of human life and ideas.
As you read, you will discover Monae, Owda, and you and I are similar in more ways than one. There are things we love and would hate to become stagnant, or fade away. For Monae, it is the idea that Afrofuturism will not constantly reach new minds and produce seedlings to generate something better for everyone. For Owda, it is the physicality and spirit of her home. For you and I, let's come to that, together, as we cycle through the new edition of the NOSTRA Magazine, In Our Hands.
A quote from Octavia Butler summarizes our current state perfectly, “…there’s no single answer that will solve all of our future problems. There’s no magic bullet. Instead there are thousands of answers–at least. You can be one of them if you choose to be.”
Janelle Monae
Janelle Monae (she/they) is an acclaimed Black, queer multidisciplinary artist and a writer of Afrofuturism ideologies. She was born into a family of individuals who worked tirelessly to survive; her family was working class, situated in an ordinary region of the United States (U.S)- the Midwest.
The art and act of performing was the grounding point of Monae’s life from a very young age. She acted in local renditions of popular Broadway musicals and was a member of Kansas City’s Coterie Theater Young Playwrights’ Round Table. She wrote full-length plays and musicals inspired by the art she poured into herself through music. She even earned a scholarship to study at the American Musical and Dramatic Academy in New York City, but soon dropped out to focus on writing, producing, and sharing her music.
Afrofuturism did not begin—and it will not end—with Janelle Monae. Afrofuturism is a speculative fiction approach to expressions of art. It focuses on the implications of autonomy on Black life and whose hands it lies in historically and presently. However, the future is different in every aspect. Black life is the epitome of self-autonomy, expression, ideas, appreciation of culture, and most importantly, liberation. She is an important contributor to the idea that Black people everywhere may live and flourish in a society free of colonialist and imperialist taintings. From her very first musical album, The ArchAndroid, to online conversations, recordings, and
lectures about her work, to magazine stories, Monae engages in education and advocacy work through the mediums she enjoys and expressions people can dance and cry to. Yet, the deeper meaning is to motivate the listener to employ queer, futuristic expectations for an ever changing society.
Owda Bisan
“Social media has become an increasingly important space where we communicate, learn, and access information”
3Bisan Owda, award-winning journalist, activist, and filmmaker
Original photo owned by Bisan Owda
Bisan Owda (she/her) is a proud Palestinian journalist, writer, and activist whose online presence has acted as a credible source for millions of people around the world of real-time footage of the most recent Israel-Hamas conflict. While she has been a storyteller all of her life, Owda was not always one of the most important journalists in a highly televised human rights concern. Prior to October 2023, she was a member and volunteer of various human rights and climate change organizations in Palestine. Further, she was also an advocate for gender equality, notably as a member of the United Nations Women’s Youth Gender Innovation Agora Forum. In her free time, she enjoyed traveling, sharing her life through social media, filming/vlogging, and producing and acting in her own television/ social media program, Hakawatia, or Storyteller in Arabic, which aimed to educate people on Palestinian culture.
Similar to millions of other Gazans, Owda’s home and workplace were bombed in the latter half of 2023. Countless parks, universities, shopping centers, and roads ceased to exist; to this point, there are no more universities left in Gaza, and as of January 2025, 70% of the buildings in Gaza have been destroyed.
Thus, a greenhouse was placed around the state of Palestine. No one dared to look in to see the barely surviving roots and spirits of the men, women, born and unborn children, and people. So, she filmed it. Over 400 days have passed since October 7th, and she filmed well over
half of them. Some videos were snippets of how she and others were managing their inhumane conditions—hardly any food, water, access to clean clothing, or even a structure to sleep in without fear. Other videos were those of her crying and pleading and screaming at the viewers. Screaming against the glass that entrapped her people, only to be met with her reflection and the reality of living in an active, purposeful, warzone. Some days, she shared good news—children playing, well aware of their circumstances but smiling and laughing regardless, or of a larger than usual quantity of food she was able to acquire. Whether she felt like it or not, whether it rained or the sun shone shamelessly upon her, she used her passion for film to advocate for a deeper, crucial love of her home.
In other regions of the world, different forms of activism may be more influential and impactful than others. Owda’s persistent and ever-growing social media presence was her (and other countless Palestinian journalists’) way of pleading with people and governments everywhere. Ultimately, to face the present—what she was able to film— and look at the past. The past being: over the course of a century, Palestinian life and culture has been a threat to colonialism that has been trying to reduce it to nothing. In the future, how many more days can we anticipate a video from her. Using the present state of Palestine, how could she ignite viewers to think of ways to preserve and liberate the land using the medium she was most comfortable with—journalism.
The Collective Cure
by Amelie Bullen
In the year 2175, humanity no longer feared illness. Not because disease had vanished, but because the world had fundamentally reimagined what it meant to heal and be healed.
The shift began in the 2030s, during what historians would later call the Era of Reckoning. Across the globe, feminist collectives rose, their voices demanding equality in all forms—political, social, and biological. They asked a simple question: Who gets to merely live? And who gets to thrive?
Decades later, their answer had transformed society. Medicine was no longer a competitive industry, plowing over individuals to put money in the pockets of CEOs, but a communal endeavor. The Collective Cure Network was at the heart of it all. The first decentralized, open-source system where people contributed data, research, and solutions. But what truly made it revolutionary wasn’t the technology, it was the ethos behind it. Healing was no longer transactional but relational, guided by the principles of care, collaboration, and compassion. These are the values under which medicinal practices began, centuries before The Collective Cure Network, and finally, the values to which medicine returned.
In the bustling city of Afsana, 27-year-old Kaya navigated the glittering halls of the Wellness Nexus, a towering structure that served as both a hospital and community hub. Today was special. Kaya had been chosen as a Lifeworker, a title given to those who helped guide the Nexus’s collective decision-making process, and today was her first meeting. Her task was to oversee a session on the latest advancements in genetic medicine. But she knew the meeting wasn’t just about science, it was about justice.
In the conference chamber, participants gathered in a circle. They weren’t all scientists or doctors. There was Sira, a storyteller who used virtual reality to document the lived experiences of marginalized patients. Next to her sat Avi, a farmer who cultivated medicinal plants in aeroponic towers. This hodgepodge of citizens from all backgrounds was the essence of the Nexus. The long-awaited recognition that expertise came in many forms.
“Before we begin,” Kaya said, her voice quivering from nerves, “let’s acknowledge the roots of this work. None of us would be here without the early feminist pioneers who dismantled the hierarchies that kept so many silenced.” A gentle hum of agreement filled the room. The session began, and ideas flowed like water. Today’s topic of discussion: an Indigenous healer’s cutting-edge method for pain relief paired with quantum computing algorithms to personalize treatment, called Msurshima. The debate was on access protocols to ensure the rural villages of the Northern Plains could receive the Msurshima treatment at the same level as the citizens of the metropolis.
The meeting droned on, Kaya moderating the endless cascade of ideas on how to improve their beloved network. They had already expanded their reach to the suburbs of Afsana but wanted to increase their scope to provide for the entire commonwealth, dedicating their efforts to the women who had made The Collective Cure Network their life’s mission. There was still work to be done to undo centuries of systemic issues, and Kaya was determined to find a solution. After hours of relentless back and forth, they decided to adjourn their meeting, noting down the ideas that had the most votes and sending them to the implementation team for their assessment. Kaya let out a sigh of relief, her first meeting as a Lifeworker had been a success.
Later that evening, Kaya sat by the Nexus’s rooftop garden. Kaya loved the garden. There, she could feel the cold pavement beneath her legs, grounding her in reality. Above her, the sky was a deep indigo, dotted with stars. Beside her sat Sira, who handed her a small vial of amber liquid.
“What’s this?” Kaya asked, holding it up to the light.
“Something new and old,” Sira replied. “A blend of ancient and futuristic, a serum infused with extracts from Earth’s oldest trees. It’s designed to heal cellular decay, but it also…” Sira paused to make sure they were alone and lowered her voice to a whisper, “Connects you.”
“To what?” Kaya asked, intrigued.
“To the stories written in your DNA. The ones we’ve forgotten. The stories of the past and how The Collective Cure came to be.” Sira whispered. “Drink it, you’ll remember, it’ll show you the answers you’ve been looking for. It’ll show you what needs to be done.”
Kaya hesitated, spinning the vial between her fingertips. If the past held the answers, then maybe it wasn’t just history, it was a warning, a map, a way forward. The choices that had led them here weren’t random. They were patterns, waiting to be recognized. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, then drank.
In an instant, her mind flooded with visions. She saw women marching shoulder to shoulder, their footsteps echoing through city streets, carrying banners that read Health is a Human Right. She felt the thunderous rhythm of protest chants, their voices unyielding as tear gas filled the air. Flickers of dimly lit rooms came next. Kitchens turned into war rooms where strategies were scrawled on napkins and old wooden tables were piled high with research papers, hand-written manifestos, and cups of cold coffee.
She saw their faces: a young midwife tending to patients in a rural clinic, her determination unwavering despite the lack of resources; a scientist working late into the night, challenging the male-dominated field that dismissed her and took credit for her groundbreaking findings; and a mother holding her wailing, sick child, demanding a future where care was accessible for all, regardless of income or identity.
Kaya felt their exhaustion, their fear, but above all, their fire. The burning conviction that the world could be different. It was a fire that no amount of suppression could extinguish, a light passed down through generations like a sacred torch. They hadn’t just fought for survival, they had fought for a vision, one where healing wasn’t a privilege hoarded by the few but a right woven into the fabric of society.
These visions weren’t abstract. They were visceral, alive, coursing through her veins. Kaya felt the embrace of hands, hands that built the foundations she now stood upon, that held her steady as she carried their work forward. When the visions subsided, Kaya opened her eyes, her heart pounding.
“They wanted us to remember,” she whispered. “They needed us to remember.”
Sira nodded. “Because remembering is the first step to rebuilding.” Sira clasped Kaya’s hands and smiled, knowing that Kaya was now ready to lead The Network into the future. Grasping her experience, Kaya looked at Sira and smiled back. They shared a nod and Sira slipped her hands away and swiftly stood up, retreating from the garden.
Kaya’s mind was overflowing with ideas, fueled by the rage of her ancestors and the knowledge they passed on to her. She shuffled through her bag, searching for her tablet, and began scribbling down every solution she could think of. Like a wildfire her words burned through the pages, an inferno of information at her fingertips. She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop scrolling through page after page until she heard the faint chirps of the morning birds and saw the sun peeking through the horizon. Have I been here all night? She thought to herself while checking the time. Realizing that she had to be at the meeting soon she rose to her feet and took a deep breath. The anxiety she had felt about her new position dissipated into her exhale.
Now, Kaya stood before the Nexus Council to continue discussing how to spread the Msurshima protocol from Afsana to the Northern Plains. She didn’t know what the future held, but she knew this: it was in their hands. The future is shaped by the lessons of the past and the boundless possibilities of tomorrow. And for the first time, she felt it in her bones, hope wasn’t just a dream. It was a reality.
Whispers of Hope
by Piper Oh
My alarm blares, pulling me from a restless sleep. Cozy blankets wrap themselves around me, whispering stay, as if they know better.
I step outside, where the gloomy air swallows me whole, and the damp fog clings, frizzing my hair. It’s another gray morning, the sky a blank slate, just waiting for stories to scrape across its surface.
I pass strangers tucked into their own worlds, heads bowed against the wind. Yet here and there, small signs emerge: a patch of flowers, wild and out of place, a bench, Dream Big written in bold, blue letters. a stranger’s smile amid the cold air.
Each step forward feels heavy but certain, as if we all carry a bit of hope in our pockets, little glimmers we scatter as we walk, filling the empty spaces, one by one.
There is no and, there is just or by Lillian Milgram
Imagining a future without moral conundrums, tradeoffs, and inequity is hard. After all, our imagination is just the rearranging and piecing together of the realities we see in front of us—of tangible experiences put away in the file cabinets of the back of the mind.
From what I can see, there is no and, there is just or.
The reality I see in front of me is the need to choose between caring and career. I can care about motherhood, living in a place that nourishes me with access to nature beyond concrete grids, eating food that fuels my body, exercising for endorphins, maintaining friendships, a good night’s sleep, a moment of peace in the absence of anthrophony, doing the things that I love which have absolutely nothing to do with personal development and everything to do with maintaining my wellbeing. Or, I can chase accolades, the best program, the best pathway, and the best opportunities for professional advancement at the expense of the rest.
There is no and, there is just or.
When invited to speculate about designing a future world, all I can think about is my own future. It feels impossible to manifest my version of a picket fence, where the cul-de-sacs, freshly trimmed lawns, and windowsill pies are work-life balance, a closed gender pay gap, and care work recognition.
With so much horrible in the world I am the most burdened by the examples of professional women in my life who fall short. They have failed me. I am a spectator to a parade of unhappy people. My career is thriving but I never see my children because I spend six months a year in the jungles of Panama. My family is lovely but I no longer do field research, it's too much time away. I dropped out of college when I met my husband. I have a M.D. Ph.D. but I forgot to build a support system along the way. I have a thriving business but I am no mother beyond the biological sense of the word. I stay home for no reason besides being ill-equipped to leave.
There is no and, there is just or.
Why if women have more access to opportunity than ever, if we outnumber men in higher education and have billionaires among us, why are we so miserable? When did I become so cynical?
There is no and, there is just or.
I recognize this binary thinking does not serve me. I strive to envision an and that embraces both personal fulfillment and professional ambition.
I need that and. There has to be an and.
PAST, FUTURE, AND PRESENT
Where Do We Belong To?
by Ngoc Diep (Alice)
I don't think I live in the right era.
Iwrote this line in my journal more than 20 times a year.
Since my first year of college, I have kept a journal of notes, quotes, and thoughts on my academic, physical, and cognitive development in our chaotic world. And here I was, the 21st time I noted in my journal, “I don't think I live in the right era.”
I fell in love with all the literary studies, poetry, romance, classics, languages, etc. Academic disciplines were viewed as “useless majors,” “easy degrees,” and “crazily privileged hobbies.” If I was born in Roman or peak Greek times, maybe in Athens or Sparta, Roma or Sicily, I might be an aristocrat or an influential top-notch scholar. I love writing on paper tirelessly, spending all day and night studying, debating, and writing. Now, people no longer write on paper, and most of the tests are conducted on a bright screen, to the point that I sometimes wonder if people still know how to hold a pen and manage to get through some words. It pushed me back to become “an outdated person” with a bunch of pens and a bag of books and notebooks. College students stop going to the library for books but instead for a seat to work, and whenever they need to read, they seek an online source, or worse, they stop writing their original essays in their own words, in their minds, but instead, “feed” artificial intelligence.
That is our present.
However, our past was not perfect, either. Being born as a woman in the past, regardless of race and status, would destine me to either death or misery. As
a middle or lower-class woman, I would barely survive under the exploitations of the higher upper class and the incredibly low mortality rate. Being born in some particular parts of the world and some specific period, I would be dead before I could see peace landing in my country - Vietnam, with nearly 2,000 years of history of wars, colonisation, and invasion.
So what about our future?
It is a land of the unknown. There is more and more variation in the modern era. There might be the introduction of a life-changing invention, or the moment you open your eyes, tomorrow, there is the end of the world. Yet, with each new possibility, we tread a thin line between groundbreaking advancements and the brink of annihilation. Imagine a world where every ailment can be cured with a mere injection or a society where virtual reality becomes more appealing than our harsh reality, where we choose a blue pill, not a red one. These breakthroughs could redefine human existence, for better or worse.
Our past was glorious and disgusting, ironically, at the same time. Our future is unpredictable; there might be a utopia or an apocalypse. Our present is a present. It is a present of the universe granted to our insignificant human race. The present is imperfect. Our present now is beautiful and awful at the same time. But as powerful as it is present, where we belong, where we can decide to change, remain the same, or degrade. Our decisions now are based on the past and to build upon our future.
That is where we belong to.
FTR
by Ella Jeffries
Character List:
Faye (F) – freelance graphic designer
Tate (T) – the girl your mom wants you to marry
Reed (R) – Instacart shopper
Hey—what do you think of when you think of the future?
F: I toe the line between hope and pessimism
T: I guess I would start by saying—
R: Maybe it’s naïve but—
F: It teeter-totters between the things I know
T: I don’t believe in fate or a higher power
R: I like to believe that humans are inherently good
F: and the things I would like to know
T: Or destiny
F: When I shut my eyes and try to picture it
R: That we will figure things out in the end
T: I would describe myself as hyper-logical
F: I certainly see a possibility of unity
R: Get our shit together
T: We are not guaranteed a triumphant future
F: A new chance to collaborate and innovate
R: If you know what I mean
T: But I am not immune to it as a possibility
F: Yet, at the same time I feel that pull
R: Innovation got us into this mess
T: For instance, I believe we are headed towards crisis
R: So we can innovate our way out too
F: The pull that’s always there
T: If we can claim to not be in such a state at present
R: But to be honest I don’t think about it too much
F: Towards a world wrecked
T: And crisis strips humanity down to its basic form
F: By our own destructive power
T: Clawing forward focused
F: The constant gnawing growl
T: On survival
F: Of dissatisfaction
R: I like to stay in the present moment
R: As my father always told me,
R: We take it one day at a time
T: In such a state we could not afford to let our
R: When you think that far out
F: Sometimes our planet looks to me
T: Differences divide us
F: Like a rubber band pulled increasingly taught
R: Lump it all together
T: We would have to find ways to work across
F: Waiting to see how much pressure it can take
R: It becomes a hefty blob of unknown
T: Borders and language and culture
R: And for some pessimists out there
F: Before it snaps
T: Hands clinging to the edge of a cliff do not urge
F: When I think of the future
R: That’s a scary thing
T: The chasms around them to splinter further
R: So I would just say that the future isn’t fixed yet
F: I don’t see space colonies and a deserted planet
T: So perhaps we will see unity in the face of destruction
F: Rather us pushing with all our might
R: We change it every day
T: You will not see me holding my breath
F: Against the toppling columns of our world
R: With each little thing we do
T: But I could not wholly rule out such an outcome
F: I almost see it like a long-term relationship
R: So we might as well just take it
T: Maybe by imagining the possibility
F: You don’t move onto the next just because
F: You start to see cracks
R: One day at a time
T: I can make it a viable reality
T: Piece the cracks together
F: I hate the idea of us as mere
T: For our collective future
F: Agents of destruction
F: Moving from one planet to the next with the same
F: Insatiable hunger for more
The Lesser Light
by Maggie Lai
Mostpeople would say that scientific laws, which govern our natural world, are discovered by humans and not invented. As a mathematician, I’ll agree and go further—I often think that even the axioms and theorems that govern the abstract world are discovered and not invented. Newton is only the “inventor” of calculus precisely because he discovered gravity, and the same for al-Khwarizmi with algebra and effective resource distribution. So many things don’t feel as though they’ve been invented, but as though they simply are and have been.
But why is that? If even abstractions of
abstractions just are the way that they are, are who and what I am the same as well? Academic research seems mostly concerned with the discovery for the sake of discovery, which I don’t dispute is fun and exciting in and of itself. But I’ve lost the curiosity that prompts you to not only ask how things are but why, why, why? they are— and by why, I mean what it means for us, who interact with this world and live within the lines of scientific and mathematical laws. The following isn’t exactly an answer or even the most recent time that I’ve thought about it, but it’s maybe the evocative way that I can express my current
answer to a pretty eternal question. It’s also why this mini essay is next to my lantern.
The Mid-Autumn Festival happens during a full moon. Historically, Chinese families have gathered to celebrate the harvest under it. Now, when most people don’t harvest crops anymore, the point is being together—that your community is , moon-full (a direct translation), perfect (a Google translate translation), or content (a contextualized translation). My answer to why is simple.
I believe that God’s just made the world and our experience in it “fearfully and wonderfully,”
and that each day is “the day that the Lord has made” (Psalm 139:14; Psalm 118:24). The arc that an apple makes while falling (optionally on Newton) is beautiful because it’s made to be so.
The lesser light of the full moon that illuminates my friends in the fellowship doesn’t just happen to make the night a little less scary; it’s there to make us moon-full.
“And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also.”
Genesis 1:16 (King James Version)
A Letter to My Future Self
Dear stranger with my name, how far have you wandered from the roads I once dreamed of?
Do your mornings still feel calm and soft, or does your coffee sit untouched, forgotten next to an endless to-do list?
I wonder—
Do you still love her, the girl with the big heart and eyes that understood; the one you can marry today, but fear the world may take that away tomorrow? Have we held onto that victory, or has it slipped through our fingers?
Tell me,
How does the world feel now, is it softer, kinder, lighter with change?
Do we see progress where we once saw walls, or are the same battles still being fought? I suppose life always has been unfair, but is hope a flicker or a flame burning bright?
I hope you have forgiven me for the times I faltered, the choices I questioned, the dreams I left unfinished. But I like to think I handed you something worthy–a spark, a thread, a reason to keep going.
And if the world feels heavy, if your hands shake under its weight, remember this: I believed in you enough to write this letter.
Signed with love, the you I am becoming.
by Piper Oh
In Our Hands
by Ngoc Diep (Alice)
Ever since childhood, my future has never been in my hands.
I grew up in a middle-class Vietnamese family with two striving parents who had recently risen from the working class. Thus, my parents have always carefully reviewed and made decisions for me.
I started reading when I was 7 and writing when I turned 9. By age 11, I had piles and piles of notebooks, each containing a distinctive story. Sometimes, it was a hideous teeny adventure; or a sneaky childish love between two classmates. Other times, it was a journey of time travel to the future: a clash between the present and past to rescue the world from humankind's bad decisions.
I celebrated my 12th birthday with a record of 15 notebooks filled with stories.
At the age of 13, I had none.
My parents discovered my treasure, and I remember them word for word. "You can not live your whole life with your head in the clouds. Be realistic; the writers spend their whole lives living like monks and dying in poverty!" At that moment, my dream felt as fragile as the torn pages scattered on the floor.
In Vietnam, elite students take a test attempting to get into the Gifted High School. Attending this school
meant you would receive the resources to attend national and international competitions and participate in topnotch extracurriculars. However, I only cared about attending The Gifted School to have the time and space to write more often. I had always thought this was my future; however, when I reached the age of 12 and began studying for the entrance exam, I realised my parents had signed me up for a boarding school long before. My first day was just around the corner.
I have always asked myself why my parents and I watched movies about lawyers and doctors at every family meal. Now, I know it is because they wanted me to become a doctor or a lawyer. But, they were wise. My parents let me think I decided these careers for myself, but I did not make these choices: they did, bit by bit, force me into growing up as a child they wished they were–smart, successful, elite. And I did. I aced all the classes at school, climbed the ladder, and locked myself in with the natural sciences courses for the pre-med or pre-law track, even though I dislike them to the very end of the tongue and abandoned my dream of being a writer. I thought hating my classes, and thus my future career, was a part of life; life is an entire struggle, and the eudaimonia of doing what you love would hold you back from success.
Surprisingly, during this time, I wrote constantly. The writing was all over the place, from the notes in my
science books to the back of my exam paper! I wrote secretly in class, whenever I felt sad because of my grades, and I wrote at night in the restroom–the only place with light and privacy at night in my boarding school.
I first decided something for myself in high school when I ran across a study abroad vlog on YouTube. I decided to go abroad, even though my parents tried to stop me in every way possible. I pulled all the complicated documents together, studied for the IELTS and SAT exams at the last minute, got the scores back a month before the application deadlines, completed the essays on time one week before the submission, and submitted them overnight. I won a scholarship, leaving a small amount of the cost of living I had to pay. They settled to help me financially but not with anything else.
At that moment, I started to learn to make decisions by myself, and I switched my majors and minors. I choose classes that I loved. I decided to study abroad through Tulane to save more money. I went through mountains of paperwork to get the Security Number and visa for the programs. I renewed my visa every year on my own
I returned to writing; I wrote in a blog and wrote books. I wrote this piece for NOSTRA. I write poems, prose, and short stories, sometimes philosophically complicated. Still, most of the time, I wrote a yearning for connection and understanding and the struggle to compromise with the fate I was assigned to. I don't know if I am destined to become a writer. But I now
know I have my fate in my hands, my future above my head, and I can pick up my pens and books or lay them down and leave them behind. That is my future. In our hands.
My childhood was tied firmly to my parents’ expectations, the societal bounds of being a good kid, an outstanding student, a moral and ordinary citizen, and a successful but family-orientated woman. My parents gave me all the instructions, and for most of my life, I followed. I do not blame my parents. My parents are also the result of such a society. But I do not blame the society that imposed rules and expectations on me, either. The society was also enforced by the way upper power–the economic well-being, the political constraints, and the wealthy elite class’s decisions. After all, society is also a result of more extensive and higher dynamics and governance that could not escape itself, so it had to resort to a compromise. There was no one to blame but me for fear of standing up and fighting for myself.
We arguably can not change society, the environment, or anyone, but ourselves.
With the fast-paced changes of life, I do not know what the future holds. Is there a war? A scientific breakthrough? A utopia? Or the end of the world?
But I know one thing: the future is ours to shape.
There is much I don’t know about what’s to come. But one thing I know for sure is that my future is mine, truly mine, for the first time.
The People and the Land
by Mika Nijhawan
“For a colonized people the most essential value, because the most concrete, is first and foremost the land: the land which will bring them bread and, above all, dignity.” — Franz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth
This sculpture was made with the words of Fanon in mind as it aims to express a central theme of this issue of NOSTRA: the idea that our hands were meant for more. The pair of cupped hands embodies the belief that our hands can be used to nurture and care as opposed to being wielded for violence and brutality. While making
this piece, I was reminded of the extensive uprooting and destruction of native plants, in particular olive trees, at the hands of the State of Israel and various institutions that have supported it over the past decades. To this point, since its founding in 1901, the Jewish National Fund (JNF) has planted 250 million trees in the region, most of which are non-native pine trees, while over 800,000 olive trees have been destroyed1. The planting of non-native trees at the expense of indigenous ones is not only an apt metaphor for the colonization of the land
1 Pappé, Ilan. (2006). The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine. Oxford: Oneworld.
but also represents a direct attack on Palestinian livelihoods and culture.
In this sense, this sculpture is meant to represent humanity’s relationship to the land that feeds and provides for us; the piece is modeled off of my own hands, and the cupped gesture is meant to display an almost pious reverence for the land and earth. The sculpture itself also functions as a vase, as I wanted it to convey that our hands and bodies can be used for growth and creation instead of destruction and dispossession. For colonized people, land is not merely a means for
extraction; it is a foundation for identity and selfdetermination. For hundreds of years, Palestinians cultivated their land, and the tending of olive trees remains an important aspect of Palestinian life. As one Gazan noted, “We have our heritage through the [olive] tree, we don’t give it much, but it gives us everything back.”2 Similar to the resilience of the olive trees in Palestine, this sculpture aims to convey the relationship between people and land and the eventual reclamation of land back to indigenous people across the world.
2 Amit, Taya. “The Story of Palestine’s Colonization, and Resistance, Is Embodied in the Trees” Truthout, August 9, 2023. https://truthout.org/articles/the-storyof-palestines-colonization-and-resistance-is-embodied-in-the-trees/.
Barbie, blink-182, and Other
by Zoë Roberts Churchill
I’m somewhat of an escape artist. From my earliest memory, I used my imagination as a source of refuge. Consider my Barbie dolls, who often resembled something out of Rocky Horror Picture Show with their carefully constructed, gender-bent outfits and mangled, inadvertently mulletish haircuts. (There is a reason I am a writer and not a beautician.) My Ken and Barbie took turns committing egregious acts of adultery, frequently ending in divorce, accompanied by a fiery hailstorm of the worst curse words a five-year-old knew. But caught in the middle was Barbie Junior, forced to pick between her feuding parents—and all whilst wearing a pair of plastic pink go-go boots with teeth marks from my chihuahua. Luckily, Barbie Junior was saved from this great indignity by a mass extinction event and/or an apocalyptic series of biblical plagues, depending on my mood. Locusts! Frogs! Asteroids! I sat in the rubble of Barbie’s Dreamhouse and navigated Barbie Junior through the cosmic dust of her old life. It generally proved easier than reality, in which I sat on the living room carpet, listening to my parents argue in the next room.
Learning to read early meant that fiction quickly became my primary source of escape. I devoured the Harry Potter series, Percy Jackson, and all the other fantasy novels marketed toward the vulnerable preteen. When my competitive classmates jeered about my utter lack of athleticism or my clumsy attempts to solve math problems on our classroom whiteboard, I closed my eyes and left our world. I was a witch, a demigod, a superhero. I sent my enemies flying with a wave of my hand. And yet, I loathed this coping mechanism because I knew it was abnormal. When I told my friends about my daydreams, they seemed to think it strange, even
Meditations on Worldbuilding
self-centered, to imagine myself as the heroic “chosen one.” As time went on, I became certain that they were right. I had to ground myself. I had to stop picturing myself as the protagonist of an epic story that wasn’t mine. I wasn’t special. I had no power. It never occurred to me that the problem wasn’t my imagination, but that the imaginary selves I created prevented me from recognizing the very real power I possessed.
Like many adolescents, my primary objective in middle school was to ensure that other people liked me. Although I still loved fiction, I was hesitant to share my passion with others; my advanced reading level pushed me toward more “adult” series such as The Lord of the Rings and A Song of Ice and Fire, but these books were read surreptitiously at home so as not to ruin my cultivated “skater kid” persona (I never learned to kickflip and the blink-182 songs I obsessed over were a source of inspiration for imaginary rock concerts—in which I took on the role of side character as the bassist—more than anything, but that’s neither here nor there.) I was no longer the protagonist. My insecurity led me to put down both book and pen and reshape my identity to fit in with the peers I so desperately wanted to appeal to. My thirst for external validation culminated in my middle school boyfriend coercing me into sexual activity long before I was ready for such an act. After I broke up with him, traumatized and ashamed, he and his friends harassed me for months until the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent quarantine offered me an opportunity to escape.
Synonyms for “escape,” as listed by the Oxford Dictionary, include “freedom,” “flight,” and “evasion.” Prior to my assault, escape meant evasion, a flight from reality.
When times became difficult, I retreated. I retreated from my parents’ separation, my mental health struggles, and my deep insecurity. And yet, suddenly I had no choice. I had to address my unhappiness—what else was I supposed to do during quarantine? Hesitantly, I began writing—but I never created my own worlds. I wrote fanfiction, meticulously traced fantasy maps, and doodled the faces of fictional characters in the margins of my algebra textbook. I realize in hindsight that these hobbies came from a place of fear: what if nobody found my prose as compelling as that of the authors I attempted to emulate—in other words, what if I wasn’t going to be the next J.R.R. Tolkien? Heaven forbid I wrote as myself! It was much easier to use pre-existing characters than to create my own and much easier to play in the sandbox of worlds where someone else had worked out the kinks. At the time, I found it impossible to imagine that I had any sort of artistic talent in the first place—this was just a hobby. Worst of all, what if people discovered said hobby and thought I was strange?
Yet, as I experimented more and more with the worlds of other authors, I began to hunger for something different, something entirely my own. Before I knew it, pen hit paper, and I was writing original fiction for the first time since early elementary school. I didn’t worry about whether my characters were complex, whether my plot was unique, or even whether my prose was engaging. I wrote to prove to myself that I could. I wrote as an expression of my freedom. There was life beyond evasion, and I would reach out and grab it and dig my nails in, no matter how much I struggled or how much I had to fight to hold on.
People are going to think I’m strange. People are going to dislike me and my writing, and it goes without
saying that the idea that I was going to be the next J.R.R. Tolkien was completely absurd—because I’m going to be the next Zoe Roberts Churchill, and I’m going to write as and for myself.
All this is to say: what if instead of escaping to other worlds, we built our own? Why can’t we—thoughtful, dedicated, talented, and engaged young people—change the course of our future? It is easy to become pessimistic with all we are up against: another Trump presidency, diminishing access to human rights, the ever-expanding behemoth of global capitalism, and seemingly endless cycles of meaningless war. But if we can imagine fantastic universes full of dragons and elves, then I am certain we can imagine a better world. A world where we are striving for equality, putting in the work, seeking knowledge, and educating ourselves. A world with inalienable human rights and compassion for the planet. A world where nobody sticks their head in the sand or lays down in surrender but
I am seventeen years old the first time I watch somebody die and it feels something like religion. I am seventeen years old and there is a man on the ground and there are men buzzing in the space around me, a swarm of honeybees working in thick and syrupy tandem. I am seventeen years old and watching somebody’s life not being saved and I imagine this is what it’s like watching dancers with knives strapped to their pointe shoes, finishing the ballet anyways.
I am seventeen years old and a statue in a doorway as men part around me like the red sea and I wonder if this is what they meant when they talked about Moses. There is pounding and praying and paramedic after paramedic after paramedic and everything is done right and the man on the ground dies anyway. They don’t ask me if I know a god.
I am seventeen years old when someone lays a hand on my shoulder telling me you always remember your first and I can’t help but think this isn’t what that means to most seventeen year olds. The air is heavy as they put me in the passenger seat and drive me back to the station. Our dinners are where we left them, as we left them, chairs still pulled out. A man is dead. We finish our food.
by Sydney Soganich
The Disscussion Reclaiming Eden: The Seasons of Resilience
by Claire Masquida
In this project, I wanted to explore the idea of a world marked by ruin and despair that transitions into a society valuing harmony and care through an allegorical sonnet series. Whether in ideas, practices, policies, or art, this cycle of ruin followed by regrowth and renewal reminds me of the four seasons, and I wanted to channel this concept into the project.
The first sonnet, Winter’s Loss, symbolizes the desolate realities of our world: environmental decay, social isolation, and oppressive systems that, in context, appear unshakable. The physical elements, such as “crumbling cities” and “bleak rivers,” serve as both literal and allegorical representations of these challenges and inequalities. Yet beneath the surface, hidden “seeds” of resilience and resistance persist, reflecting the potential to challenge the oppressive structures of today’s societies.
The series follows humanity’s path to a harmonious future, free from oppression and guided by community and kindness. Spring’s Awakening and Summer’s Harmony illustrate pockets of hope as individuals begin to care for their communities and the earth, reclaiming agency over shared spaces and fostering
relationships that sustain life. My decision to begin with winter and end not in spring but in autumn represents an intentional shift—from dormant potential to fulfilled legacy. True transformation is not merely a return to growth but a mature, lasting renewal, deeply rooted in the action and resilience cultivated along the way.
By the final sonnet, Autumn’s Legacy, humanity has created a world rooted in respect and mutual stewardship. This vision represents hope and serves as a testament to the power of collective transformation—a departure from the systems that constrain us. Even though we live in an era of unprecedented disasters, we hold the ability to shape a future grounded in resilience, empathy, and shared purpose. Though we may never see the full bloom of what we plant, each act of kindness and justice lays the groundwork for generations to come. History remains fluid, and by nurturing the seeds of hope, we have the power to make our world a place of possibility and peace.
Winter’s Loss
Beneath the empty sky, the earth lies bare, Her rivers dried, her forests turned to stone, Each breath a whispered grief within the air, The world stands still, abandoned and alone.
Cities crumble, covered in rust and dust, The sun itself looks colder in defeat, And hope lies buried deep beneath the crust, As footsteps echo on abandoned streets.
But even now, some seeds remain below, Hidden and warm, they nestle in the earth, Awaiting spring, the chance for life to growA quiet pulse, the promise of rebirth.
In shadows deep, a single truth endures: From darkness, life’s own light may yet procure.
Spring's Awakening
In cracks of stone, green shoots begin to rise, Soft petals break from hardened, barren ground, Small acts of care draw life beneath the skies, While rain and hands of kindness wrap around.
The gardens bloom where once there was none, Trees line the streets in scattered rows of green, Beneath the warning touch of patient sun, New lives take root, unseen, yet evergreen.
People gather drawn by hope’s gentle call, To share their tools, their stories, and their seeds, As laughter eaves through once-abandoned hallsA sign of strength fulfilling simple needs.
Here in the quiet acts of love and care, The earth and soul begin to breathe and dare.
Reclaiming Eden: The
Summer’s Harmony
The world now hums with life in balanced grace, Machines and trees entwined in rhythms dance, Each field and city brimming with embrace, As humans, earth, and time hold sweet expanse.
Children laugh among the hive and tree, While rivers, clear and silver, twist and wind, A new-made Eden, grown from history, With roots of peace in every soul and mind.
Each sunset drapes the hills in golden light, And rooftops glisten green with fruitful yield, As neighbors gather, drawn by shared delight, Beneath the stars that cast their silver shield.
Here stands the world as it was meant to be A place of gentle, bright eternity.
Autumn’s Legacy
We leave our seeds within the soil’s deep bed, A gift of life for those we may not know, Each harvest bound to hands long gone, yet wed To hopes and dreams that through the ages grow.
Beneath these skies, children of tomorrow Will walk in peace, their footsteps light and sure, With love unspoiled by past mistakes and sorrow The future held in hands both young and pure.
The Seasons of Resilience
by Claire Masquida
The trees we plant will guard their gentle sleep, Our will grow in the forests we have sown, In golden fields and oceans wide and deep, Their roots entwined with all we’ve loved and known.
So in this world reborn, a promise lies: From earth we came, and from it, hope shall rise.
Dear readers,
PFinal Words
articipation in the Newcomb Scholars program has been a cornerstone of my collegiate career, and I am eternally grateful to have helped run the Newcomb Scholars Literary Magazine for the past three years. Editing and publishing a yearly literary magazine is no small task; I have had the distinct pleasure of working on all three print issues of NOSTRA, and I have poured so much of who I am and what I believe into each one of these issues. I am especially grateful to have also had the opportunity to work on an explicitly feminist literary magazine these past years.
Yet, throughout my time with NOSTRA and the Newcomb Scholars program, I have struggled with what feminism means to me and, perhaps more importantly, how I can embody feminist praxis in my life.
The extent of my privilege, and my undeniable position as a contributor to the violence wrought on the Global South, fills me with shame, guilt, and anger. It feels violent in and of itself to sit within the Newcomb Institute and write these words about feminism, knowing full well the systems of oppression that have resulted in the clothes I wear, the food I eat, and the technology I use have caused unbelievable pain and bloodshed. In On Call: Political Essays, June Jordan wrote, “How many of these gentle people have I helped to kill just by paying my taxes?”1 What right do I have to preach how I understand feminist theory and praxis in the face of this violence? When I know full well the effects of the American imperial regime, and yet, I pay my taxes.
When I think about what feminism means to me, I am inevitably reminded of the resistance of American peace activist Rachel Corrie. In March 2003, at the age of 23, Corrie stood in front of a Palestinian home in Gaza that was set to be demolished in an attempt to stop an Israeli bulldozer; she was crushed to death. In a letter to her mother, written a mere month before she was murdered, Corrie wrote:
I’m witnessing this chronic, insidious genocide and I’m really scared, and questioning my fundamental belief in the goodness of human nature… I think it is a good idea for us all to drop everything and devote our lives to making this stop. I don’t think it’s an extremist thing to do anymore… I am disappointed that this is the base reality of our world and that we, in fact, participate in it. This is not at all what I asked for when I came into this world. This is not at all what the people here asked for when they came into this world.2
When I read Rachel Corrie’s words, I am continually struck by her commitment to a better world. I cannot imagine the strength it took to stand steadfastly to save someone else’s home on land that is not your own. I do not have any poetic words to express the tragedy of Corrie’s death and the brutality of the continual violence she was attempting to staunch. Nor do I have any words to express the pain and loss I feel over the martyrdom of thousands in Gaza in the past year and a half, including the fact that 30% of the children killed were under the age of 5.3
For me, being a feminist means believing in the words of Rachel Corrie; I believe in living
1 Jordan, June. On Call: Political Essays. South End Press, 1985.
2 Zinn Education Project. ““I Think the Word Is Dignity” — Rachel Corrie’s Letters from Gaza” https://www.zinnedproject.org/materials/rachel-corriesletters-and-questions/
3 Save the Children. “ GAZA: AT LEAST 3,100 CHILDREN AGED UNDER FIVE KILLED WITH OTHERS AT RISK AS FAMINE LOOMS” October 10, 2024. https://www.savethechildren.net/news/gaza-least-3100-children-aged-under-five-killed-others-risk-famine-looms.
for a better world, but I also know she is absolutely correct that, in each of our own ways, we should be devoting our lives to making the colonial violence she was protesting stop. To this point, any feminism that is devoid of an explicitly anti-colonial lens is no feminism at all. Any feminism that does not consider the ongoing dispossession of Palestinians, the exploitation of workers in the Global South, the sheer volume of missing and murdered indigenous women in North America, is no feminism at all. Any feminism that is not fundamentally about love, care, and community, is no feminism at all.
Furthermore, the most important lessons I have learned about feminism have not been taught to me in a Newcomb Scholars seminar or in any classroom, for that matter. To be sure, my understanding of feminism, and my own praxis, has been undeniably informed by the works of bell hooks, June Jordan, Angela Davis, and the like. However, I believe the future is in our hands, not because I have read it in a book but rather because I have seen the power of community and solidarity firsthand. I have seen it at Black Lives Matter protests, at student encampments, at community organizing events. It is in the practice of solidarity, not the pages of theory alone, that I have come to understand what it truly means to live out my feminist principles.
In a time when trans rights are being curtailed and student activists are being disappeared by the United States government, it is simply not enough to read about or intellectualize what feminism means to all of us. I do not know if I will ever be doing enough for the feminist movement or the liberation of oppressed people worldwide. But, I do know that while I am thankful for all the feminist theory I have been exposed to over the past four years, it will mean nothing unless applied outside the classroom.
I want to end this issue of NOSTRA, and my time with this magazine, by emphasizing I believe in community, in transformation, and in the inevitability of a better world. In a speech given at the National Book Awards, Ursula K. Le Guin proclaimed, “We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings.”4 Her words remind me the future is messy, and disjointed, and chaotic, but more than anything, it is in our hands. Change seems impossible till it is at your doorstep. Revolution seems unattainable until after the fact. I believe in the assured demise of capitalism, the inescapable end of American hegemony, in the inevitable return of land to indigenous people across the world. I believe we will replant the olive trees in Palestine, and the people and land will be free. I believe in this world not because I am ignorant to the realities of this one but because I know their continuation is untenable; I see no other option forward than a steadfast commitment to collective action and resistance. The future may be uncertain, but it also is ours to shape.
— Mika Nijhawan, Class of 2025
4 Ursula K. Le Guin Foundation. “The National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters” November 9, 2014. https://www.ursulakleguin.com/nbf-medal.
Mika Nijhawan ( ’25) - Co-Editor-in-Chief and Creative Director
Mika Nijhawan is a senior from Boulder, Colorado, majoring in Economics. During her time at Tulane, she has had the pleasure of working on all three of NOSTRA’s print issues. She has also worked as a research assistant at both the Newcomb Institute and the Connolly Alexander Institute for Data Science (CAIDS). After graduation, she will be attending the University of Oxford to complete a Master’s in Sociology; following this, she plans to pursue a PhD. Outside of the classroom, you can find her in the sculpture studio or reading in Audubon!
Ella Jeffries ( ’26) - Co-Editor-in-Chief and Content Director
Ella Jeffries is a junior from Seattle, Washington, majoring in Political Science with minors in English and Economics. In her free time, she enjoys dancing, journaling, and exploring New Orleans with friends. In addition to NOSTRA, Ella is in Club Ace, a hip hop dance group and Phi-Alpha Delta, a pre-law organization. Outside of Tulane, Ella is an intern for Jane Place, a housing advocacy and policy organization. She has also worked in local politics, conducting campaign and fundraising work for elected officials in Washington State.
Malai Harrington ( ’27) - Co-Editor-in-Chief and Production Manager
Malai Harrington is a sophomore from Atlanta, Georgia, majoring in Earth and Environmental Science. In her free time, she enjoys playing on the Tulane Women’s Rugby Football Club, crocheting, and exploring thrift stores and cafes around New Orleans. Apart from NOSTRA, Malai is a student research intern at the Tulane Water Law Institute and has the pleasure of being one of five vice presidents of Epsilon Eta, the pre-professional environmental fraternity on campus, and a Gulf Scholar.
Change is inevitable. What will you do next?