ISSUE ONE : NOT WORTH READING

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

issue one: "not worth reading"

wrotewoke(n)

illustration credit to @lillidesigns

a letter from the editors Dear Reader, We are incredibly proud to bring you Issue One of Wrotewoke(n): Not Worth Reading.

This magazine is the culmination of weeks of deliberation and discussion, and countless hours of editing. This is the product of extra-caffeinated coffee at unreasonable hours in the early morning. This is the result of frantic midnight phone calls and emotional semibreakdowns.

This was difficult, at points, to read. The following stories you will read are real and confronting journeys, emotional experiences that our writers have been incredibly brave to articulate. But more than that, it has been inspiring. We were beyond empowered by the strength, the clarity and the authenticity that shone through all of these submissions, and the raw honesty embedded within the personal voices that wove their way into this magazine. Bringing this magazine to you has been an absolute privilege.

Within this magazine, you will read about truth, at its finest. In the age of political fearmongering and #fakenews dominating our media, telling the truth, as it is, is crucial. The following are unfiltered and refreshingly honest stories, straight from the lips and fingertips of those who live them.

Thank you to the nine inspirational minds below, without whom this magazine would not be possible. Thank you to the generosity of the international community of artists whose work has been featured.

And thank you, reader, for supporting us on every step of the way.

Thank you in believing in the power of young minds and voices.

Now is the time for young people to rise, and we could not be prouder.

Lots of Love, Ella and Melissa Ella Croasdale: Head Editor of WroteWoke(n) Magazine & Creative Director Melissa Li: WroteWoke Editor in Chief & Founder of ProvokeWoke illustration credit to @lillidesigns

behind the name not worth reading.

To Whomever Is Reading This: This is not worth reading.

No, seriously. It isn't. This is just a bunch of liberal snowflakes and whiny social justice warriors telling their sob stories. This is just a compilation of annoyingly sensitive people who should learn to stay quiet. This is just the product of immigrants trying to play the race card.They should just go back to where they came from. *** In these few short months after the establishment of ProvokeWoke, we have met hundreds of inspiring young people who are unapologetically loud and relentlessly bold. We were moved by their stories, and we began to wonder why these voices weren't appearing in the media, on big screens, and in politics.

And we realised it was because multicultural voices in this country are only recognised when they are polite and agreeable.

The message is that young people of color don't deserve to be heard unless we bite our tongues and dial down our experiences. We can't ever point their fingers at the people who have peddled toxic narratives about us. We can't offend anybody, even though we are the ones who are offended (to put it lightly). We have to be kind to the people who have not been kind to us.

It’s difficult, and frankly, unfair, for us to have to walk the precarious line that tries not to implicate anybody in their role of perpetuating structural racism, whilst trying to express how we genuinely feel.

That’s what this magazine aims to change. We are no longer going to be silenced.

This magazine is dedicated to authentic voices and unfiltered perspectives; to the unapologetically bold movers, shakers and the change-makers; to the ones who are not content with the world as it is. This is for everyone who has been told that they are not worth listening to.

This magazine honors authentic voices and unfiltered stories. We want this to be as inspiring and empowering for you to read, as it was for us to compile.

We sincerely hope that you find this worth reading. illustration credit to @lillidesigns

table of contents january : ethnic empowerment jade tan: as easy as abc satara uthayakumaran: cultural fortitude kyla canares: just lunch time

february : controvertial conversations aqeel camal: sorry donald kishen saai prabakara rao: dear white people kasturi pk kunalan: my culture is not your costume

march : identity issues aisha abdu: it's time nosrat fareha: i don’t know who i am minh tran: second generation refugees illustration credit to @lillidesigns

'Prejudice is the child of ignorance.'

- William Hazlitt

illustration credit to @lillidesigns

part one: ethnic empowerment

illustration credit to @chloejoyceillustrations

as easy as ABC author: jade tan

the 3 letters of my identity

It’s January 30th 2007, the first day of kindergarten. 21 kids are sitting cross legged on the floor, anxious but excited. .

I am like the other kids: nervous smiles, uniforms with too much ‘growing room’

Little do I know that the future ahead

and a backpack bigger than myself. My

holds an endless battle, with racist digs

tummy is churning with butterflies but

marring a rocky road. There will be

my eyes are bright at the prospect of the

unfamiliar territory I will have to do my

road ahead. The teacher walks into the

best to navigate. I will be forced into a

classroom and lessons begins with the

facade of apathy in the face of casual

alphabet.

racism. I will be forced to repeatedly fake a smile that doesn’t quite reach my

The months pass, and soon they turn

eyes, to stop the tears from falling.

into a year. I form precious friendships.

We grow up together and we share the

Growing up is inevitable, and I find

same backyard. Australia is our home,

myself no longer a naive 5 year old.

and I never question it. To a 5 year old, racism is as unknown as the foreign

The friends I made in the classroom

school grounds I walked into that very

became the bullies in the playground.

day. illustration credit to @ellacroasdale

I am that ‘Chinese girl’ in the school

My identity is an intricate yet chaotic

play, with the awkward cultural dress

being that is always restless within

and the chopsticks in my hair.

me. It silently broods, lurking in the depths of my conscience, gradually

I am the one that is told “You don’t

closing in on me until I am trapped

belong here” in the playground, by a

within social constraints.

boy who knows no more than I do about the monster of racism, but

As I grow older, and as the people

chooses to voice his animosity

around me in the classroom change,

towards my cultural differences.

this monster of ‘racism’ constantly invades my thoughts. More often

I am the one deeply hurt by my

than not, I am ashamed. Ashamed of

school’s Harmony Day celebrations,

what, I can never seen to articulate.

when all the teachers and students marvel over how ‘exotic’ the food I

This classroom has created a

have everyday is, and how ‘funny’

playground where being Chinese is a

the ‘costumes’ are.

defining characteristic, the aspect that sets me apart from the rest. In

Soon enough, it becomes apparent

their eyes, I am not actually from

to me that I am embroiled in the

Australia; I’ve never tried a meat pie

middle of an internal battle whereby

because that’s ‘not my culture’; I must

my Chinese heritage and Australian

be good at math because ‘Asians are

culture cannot coexist.

smart’; I only ever use chopsticks to eat my ‘stinky’ lunch. In their eyes, Australia has been ‘swamped by Asians’, never mind that Asia is a continent of hundreds of cultures, ethnicities and languages.

But I am Australian as the next person who rides their kangaroo to school and eats Vegemite straight out of the jar.

illustration credit to @dempseydoodlesdesign

When did ABC begin to mean

The classroom has created a

Australian-Born Chinese? When did

playground full of restless children,

ABC become a one-size fits all term?

confined to a bubble of cultural

When did ABC start to become a

naivety, whereby words are the

defining, shameful element of my

most dangerous yet powerful tool

identity?

they can ever possess.

With age, we lose our innocence and naivety. From a young age we are

In the end, ABC is just the first three

taught our ABC’s, and that we should

letters of the alphabet.

use our words for good. Why are our ABCs used to hurt and mock others for

Don’t turn it into something else.

their race, beliefs and culture?

about the author: jade tan Jade is a curious young woman whose passion for equity and empowerment drives her to learn more about the injustices within the world through the sharing of stories and experiences. Jade wants to be part of a generation of change makers who want to speak out and make their voices heard.

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

Ignorance and prejudice are the handmaidens of propaganda.

Our mission, therefore, is to confront ignorance with knowledge, bigotry with tolerance, and isolation with the outstretched hand of generosity. Racism can, will, and must be defeated.

- Kofi Annan

illustration credit to @lillidesigns

cultural fortitude author: satara uthayakumaran

One of my greatest fears was

Throughout my life, my ethnicity

that in the real world, I wouldn’t

has influenced my fortitude and

be able to handle ‘real racism’.

ability to speak up. Growing up, my

Growing up in Sydney’s north

parents encouraged learning about

shore, people would often tell

my background and history from a

me that I’m lucky. That I was

young age, through glimpses of Sri

living in a bubble. That I was

Lanka through a few family trips. I am

protected from the problems

one of the few people with a Sri

that most people in the real

Lankan background at school, and it

world face.

gives me great pride to talk about my country of origin. Accepting my

There was probably some truth

history has been an integral factor in

to this. The issues I faced were

discovering who I am.

relatively minor, compared to what others around the world

My strong sense of heritage has

were forced to deal with. And

given me the confidence and the

thus, my fears of stepping into

ability to stand up for myself. My

the real world and out of my so

parents educating me on cultural

called ‘bubble’, were born.

acceptance and my true identity has enabled me to confidently educate

Two years, I got called a racial

others about who I really am and how

slur, and it was a sobering

significant my nationality is to me. My

moment for me. I felt completely

sense of self-awareness has shaped

unprepared to face the harsh

me into a strong minded and

complexities of the real world.

passionate individual, who will refuse to sit quietly in the corner whilst

Now, I know better.

illustration credit to @bluumyn

injustices continue.

Privilege is embedded within much of how I live my life. I have been fortunate enough to never have experienced brutality of the hands of policemen, to never have been hindered from receiving a quality education because of my race, to never have been on the receiving end of unfair incarceration simply because of the way I looked.

I’ve realised that there are other people of color who suffer daily under the weight of racism, whether it be in the workplace, the media, or embedded into the foundations of the justice system. My own experiences of facing discrimination, whilst different, still point to the racism that is intrinsic to our society, and they resonate with all multicultural people. My story has ensured that I empathise with other people of color too, because the lives of all diverse communities are accounted for by crucial movements like Black Lives Matter and #DefendDACA.

People who tell me that I’m not ready for the ‘real world’ in an attempt to shelter me don’t know my strength. My privilege doesn’t change anything. I am as prepared as I’ll ever be for the ‘real world’ of racism. I live it every single day, and that is more than enough.

about the author: satara uthayakumaran Satara Uthayakumaran is Year 10 student from Sydney, who is bold and ready to fight back wherever she sees injustice, whether it be in her neighbourhood or in faraway places. Her passion for humanitarian issues drives her to be a voice for those struggling to be heard. She hopes to one day have a voice in world forums, including the United Nations.

illustration credit to @bluumyn

“We need to give each other the space to grow, to be ourselves, to exercise our diversity. We need to give each other space so that we may both give and receive such beautiful things as ideas, openness, dignity, joy, healing, and inclusion.”

— Max de Pree

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

just lunch time. author: kyla canares

AS A 7-YEAR-OLD MIGRANT KID, I

In the classroom, there was a seating

USED TO DREAD LUNCH TIME.

plan. At lunch, there was none. It wasn’t like everyone collectively decided to

It wasn’t because I couldn’t speak

avoid me; I was just clueless when it

English and it wasn’t because I was

came to making friends. Needless to say,

ashamed of my Filipino lunch either.

I made a habit of anxiously waiting for lunchtime to finish.

In fact, when I was 7, I was quite proud of how many English books I had read

However, there was one thing that I

and I loved having Filipino food for

looked forward to:

lunch.

the actual lunch part of lunchtime.

I dreaded lunch because, like plenty of

Other kids were scolded for leaving their

7 year olds, I had trouble making

lunch unfinished, but I gladly stayed

friends. I was far more comfortable in

behind to eat. My mum would prepare

the classroom than I was in the social

me Filipino lunch every day (bless her)

battlefield everyone called ‘lunchtime’.

and most of the time, my lunch consisted of leftovers from last night’s dinner.

Adobo, Tocino, Spam; my mum liked

My pagkain gave me a sense of

to make a wide variety of meals and

familiarity and support from my mum

she gave a generous serving of rice

while I was at school. It didn’t make me

with each lunch she prepared.

feel as alone.

I remember eating meals from plastic

Growing up, I knew that some of my

containers with plastic cutlery saved

migrant friends were embarrassed about

from our sparse fast food outings. It

their traditional lunch. But lunch was

didn’t matter to me that my food was

never one of the differences I was

cold, or unconventional.

ashamed of. It was actually one of the few differences I was proud of. illustration credit to @nynkelocher

I could have home cooked meals while the other kids had food that was bland and boring. 7year-old me thought, Why have sandwiches when you could have rice? It wouldn’t fill me up like my mum’s cooking could.

People find empowerment and comfort in their culture in different ways.

Mine was my pagkain. Yet my tale is not a typical one amongst migrant children, and it should be.

If we grow and learn as a society, and we respect these comforts rather than deeming them a source of embarrassment, who knows? It might just make lunchtime a bit more bearable for a 7-year-old girl.

about the author: kyla canares Kyla is your friendly neighbourhood highschool student who loves sparking conversation through speeches and school campaigns. She has previously covered (and is always down to discuss) topics such as culture and class, feminism, and education reform.

illustration credit to @lillidesigns

part two controversial conversations

illustration credit to @chloejoyceillustrations

sorry donald

author: aqeel camal

When the one and only

The worst thing we can do

Or is it the clutches of

Donald Trump described El

is to tarnish our

poverty (often as a

Salvador, Haiti and some

relationships through hatred

consequence of American

African nations as “shithole”

and create environments

colonisation and

countries, it struck a very

built on fear, simply because

paternalistic policies) which

personal chord.

we judge before seeking to

seems to grasp many of

understand our differences.

these nations?

proposal to restore

That is exactly what Trump

Sorry Donald, but none of

protections for immigrants

is afraid of: difference.

these reasons are an

His reaction towards a

from those countries as part

excuse for your ignorance.

of a bipartisan immigration

SO WHAT MAKES THE

deal saddened me. As a

COUNTRIES TRUMP

Have you forgotten that the

second generation

DOESN’T UNDERSTAND,

iconic city of Chicago was

immigrant myself, my roots

“SHITHOLES”?

founded by a Haitian

are from a country not so

immigrant?

different to those that Trump

Is it the tragic natural

attacked.

disasters endured by many

Have you forgotten that

of these countries?

America has had horrific

I see myself and those

natural disasters like

around me as products of

Is it the gruesome and

Hurricane Katrina, but have

our cultural foundations and

dividing civil wars they had

recovered through the

the opportunities that both

to face (often as a result of

support of other nations and

our environments and

American military

many immigrant volunteers

relationships foster.

intervention), waged

on the ground?

throughout decades?

Have you forgotten that perhaps your country is not as 'great' as it seems, with over 40 million living in poverty?

Immigrants have shaped your country into what it is today. You take pride in the ‘great’ accomplishments of Americans, yet you forget that immigrants are the ones who have tirelessly, yet quietly, toiled in the background. Your statement is in direct opposition to the essence of your nation, the American Dream, and its values of freedom and opportunity for everybody regardless of their background. We are doctors, lawyers, entrepreneurs, artists, community leaders, and your run-of-the-mill next door neighbors.

We are no different to you.

It is our differences, and our gift of uniqueness as individuals, that makes us strong as a community.

When we embrace each other with kindness, when we examine the world with honesty, empathy and compassion, we progress. We shift attitudes by viewing our differences as gifts, and by building our relationships upon understanding, acceptance and a culture of giving.

Hatred only paralyses us; it divides us; we stagnate as individuals and communities. We fear what we don’t understand. We hate those that we fear. And that’s exactly what Donald wants.

Well, Donald? Here’s something you should know: You will not divide us.

illustration credit to @emmaleejensen

I am just one young person, one voice that sees potential in every single one of us regardless of the colour of our skin, culture or religion.

Imagine what the young people of our world could do, if we all banded together.

You have every right to be scared.

“Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” - Margaret Mead

about the author: aqeel camal “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.” (Margaret Mead) So let’s question the words of our leaders, with open minds focussed on listening and understanding each other’s stories. Just imagine if every single one of us talks to someone from a different culture every single day with the intention of understanding before seeking to be understood. Every conversation, every story can be one step closer towards a ‘Trumpless’ future.

illustration credit to @emmaleejensen

dear white people author: kishen saai prabakara rao Dear White People, IF TALKING ABOUT RACISM IS UNCOMFORTABLE FOR YOU, IMAGINE LIVING IT. Racism is alive and well. Denying the fact that it exists does nothing to solve the issue, but instead perpetuates racist behaviour. So don’t.

It’s essential to have conversations about the nature of racism in this country, and how we can all be proactive in combatting it, as supporters of the movement towards equality. These conversations may be uncomfortable, but they are crucial, in an increasingly divisive and turbulent political scene.

Here are a few tips to get you started: illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

Don’t get offended when people point out that you are the recipient of white privilege. Privilege does not necessarily mean that you have an easy life, that everything has been handed to you or that you are rich. You are not a bad person because you are privileged. You are not automatically racist because you benefit from white privilege. You should not feel guilty for being white and basing your life around the perks that come with your racial identity. But wield this knowledge in creating a more level playing field for all.

2. Listen When I say listen, I don’t mean listening selectively, where you hear what you want to hear, and then discredit what you don’t want to hear. I don’t mean trying to think of

1. Recognise your privilege Part of the privilege associated with whiteness is the luxury of not having to consider your race when you see a policeman, when you shop at a high-end shop, when you enter a Starbucks shop. It is the luxury of not having mothers give you nervous side-eye and try to shield their children from you. It is the luxury of not being unequivocally known as the ‘Muslim terrorist’ or the ‘violent cocaine addict’ or the ‘dole bludger’ even though you, as an individual, have never done anything to warrant that impression of the collective.

It is the prospect of not having the obstacles that others will have to face. illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

an intelligent counterargument to every single thing that I say.

When I am the one who has lived these experiences, you don’t have the right to try and interpret racism for me. You don’t have the right to debate what I feel, because you have the privilege of never having to feel that way.

Not everything is up for debate.

I ask that you not silence me by trying to speak over me. I ask that you not shut down the conversation the second racism is brought up, by calling me too ‘sensitive’ or ‘whiny’. Listen, and learn.

3. Embrace the discomfort of not knowing

You falsely assume that emotion and

Resign from a place of comfort. You

distance themselves from their

do not know everything there is to

emotions, for you to even remotely

race, especially when experience is

consider listening to them. When

intrinsic to formulating perspective.

you ask marginalised people to

Your experiences do not encompass

'calm down' and to stop being

the realities of the life people of

'angry', you are selfishly prioritising

color live in a country that does not

your own emotional comfort, over

always value their voices.

the reality of their experiences of

rationality are mutually exclusive.

You expect people of color to

discrimination.

Recognise that these conversations are uncomfortable for you to hear

So, the next time you’re having a

because you do not know

conversation with someone about

everything there is know, and

their experiences with race, and you

because you are coming from a

begin to feel uncomfortable and ask

position of privilege where you have

them to “TONE it down”, don’t.

never had to consider the multitude of constants in the lives of people of

Expecting marginalised people to

color.

disregard their own emotions to

4. Stop Tone Policing

respect your feelings, when you have not necessarily respected

Stop attempting to detract from the

theirs in the past, is the epitome of

validity of a statement by attacking

entitlement.

its manner rather than focusing on the message. At its core, tone policing is a method of control. By shifting conversations back to your feelings and a place where you feel 'comfortable' and in power, you, communicates to people of color: “Your oppression doesn’t matter. Be quiet.”

Additionally, tone policing makes a few false assumptions. illustration credit to @lillidesigns

.

5. Don’t divert from the topic or derail the conversation This is a distraction tactic. Some common forms include: A) Talking about how there are good white people Like the obnoxious #notallmen statement, we know that only a portion of the dominant majority are sexist, homophobic or racist. But the emphasis isn't upon the minority of white people who commit acts of racism. It's about holding institutional racism accountable - the type that is embedded into the very moral fibre and values of Australian society. Racism is not an isolated act committed by an individual on a singular day. It's a whole social institution that has been centuries in the making, with a traumatic and violent history. Yes, there are good individual white people, but we need to examine the issue as a whole and solve it from its very roots.

B) Saying how it could be worse.

The fact that some people 'have it worse' does not mitigate the seriousness of racial prejudice, and it does not clear your name. It is completely valid to care about more than one issue simultaneously, since all these issues are interconnected.

C) Saying you had good intentions It’s about intention versus impact. What you were ‘trying to do’ doesn't matter. What you did or said and how it affected people of color is what's important.

There you have it: how to acceptably talk about race and racial prejudice.

Yes, it is uncomfortable, because who wants to be alerted of a structural system that benefits them at the expense of others?

Don’t live in denial; go out, and act.

about the author: kishen saai prabakara rao Kishen Saai is a student from Perth who believes that having meaningful and honest discussions, accompanied with compassion and respect, is the first step to solving any major issue. He is passionate about topics such as race, inequality, youth empowerment and sports. In his spare time, Kishen enjoys rewatching '95 Leo at his prime, most notably, in the Titanic, and aspires to be the next Tom Hardy. illustration credit to @lillidesigns

my culture is not your costume author: kasturi pk kunalan

when i was 7, My friends would parade a bindi on their head and wear it like a costume.

They would ask me to bring some for them to ‘play’ with at school.

Apparently all they had learnt on Multicultural Day was how to commercialise age old traditions.

when i was 10,

Australian Fashion Week only made it worse.

Among the high fashion designs and couture, I saw a swimsuit with the goddess Lakshmi.

This was someone who I prayed to, reduced to a mere medium of exchange, a money maker of sorts.

when i was 13, It was the first time it became apparent that the bindi was no longer specific to my culture.

No, it was 'boho chic'.

It was the latest trendy fad, the fashion must-have.

when i was 15, it was the first time I was told ‘cultural appropriation wasn’t real’ and I did not know if it was my place to take offence if others deemed it fashion and individuality.

I was told that it was worn with 'good intentions', that it was 'cultural exchange' and 'appreciation', and that I shouldn't be picking a 'pointless fight'.

So I didn't.

illustration credit to @simran_sarin

i am 16 now, and i know better.

Like every other, my culture is beautiful in all its glory.

But this beauty is exoticised.

My culture is 'trendy', 'boho-chic'.

This isn't 'appreciation'.

This is disrespect at its highest.

This is the distaste that twinges in my stomach.

These are not just worthless adornments, no.

Every picture, every jewel, every symbol, means the world to real people just like me.

My culture is not your costume, and I can rely upon the judgement of the world to let you know.

about the author: kasturi pk kunalan Kasturi is a young, strong-willed Year 11 student from Sydney, Australia. She understands the importance of her voice, and is proud to share her views on many issues. She is grateful for any opportunity to do so, and further her journey to be part of all young women making their mark on the world.

illustration credit to @fatemah_baig

part three identity issues

illustration credit to nynke locher - @nynkelocher

magazine exclusive

not just a honey bee

slam poem transcript by aisha abdu

THE HONEY BEE HAS THE POTENTIAL TO BE TWO VERY DIFFERENT THINGS. It can be one of the most productive creatures on the planet when it works together alongside the other honey bees in its hive. And by doing so, produce a multitude of delicious honeys.

But here’s the other side of things. When a honey bee sees something it’s afraid of, even if that something isn’t actually dangerous, it is provoked to charge ahead and sting that something. But when it does, it can’t pull the stinger back out. It

illustration credit to nynke locher - @nynkelocher

leaves behind not only the

When some lunatic goes on a rampage,

stinger, but also part of its

It’s senseless, and its gruesome,

abdomen and digestive

Please don't let this, be a Muslim.

tract. This massive

But if it is - why are we all vilified

abdominal rupture kills the bee.

Believe me when I say, Your fears are mine

A muslim, half Egyptian, half Palestinian girl born in

Don’t let the story of 2 billion people

Australia

Be written by

Controversy ridden within

Someone with disturbed thoughts and feelings

the 4 conflicting words of my identity

I can assure you, Violence does not sit at the same table as my faith’s dealings

And each word is twisted with a story A story that shouldn’t define me Because I am not the author And they’re written like this...

A terrorist has laid siege on the Lindt Cafe in Sydney, holding numerous people captive and at gunpoint He is armed and he is muslim I am muslim And on the bus ride home that day My eyes burnt from holding back tears The next day at school My friends frantically spoke amongst each other Until I walked closer… and the silence was cruel Again, holding back tears This was one of my biggest fears illustration credit to @lillidesigns

It was brave of my mum to

It accompanies her to work

With Australia

leave the house that day

every day

And now it is sold in almost

Her hijab

Where she serves our hive,

every shopping centre

A tiara sparkling in the face

Our community

of adversity

A history of persecution

But almost everybody she

I know you’re afraid

Flowing deep within his blood

passed

From what you see on TV

And that’s why in history class

Lowered their eyes

It’s inviting and compelling

He gets so fired up

And I want you to ask

Because an affirmation of

yourself why?

your fear is so very reassuring

Textbooks are unfinished

What she wears on her

But before you choose to

story books

head is not meant to be

sting

Newspaper headlines that sell

despised

Also sell our cultures short Ask questions

And make me question

And we will spill our stories

freedom of speech

with gusto

As a liberty

Because storytelling builds

Or an obstacle to equity

empathy not apathy

But remember

The power we hold to share

If you have the right to say

our stories

whatever you like

It’s a choice that makes us

Then I have the right to say

different from the honey bee

that I don’t like what you’re saying

We have no excuse to sting When only half the narrative

Because this is my home too.

has been told

I love Tim Tams and Vegemite

Remember, there is so much

But prefer kebabs over a

untold

sausage sandwich

And the news will never show

I Shop in Woolworths but only eat the halal meat

The refugee parents

But this is still my home

Who ventured far and wide To find a safe place to raise

And it's his home

their son

Were he listens to Eminem on

The most selfless act of love

the radio And is a coach at the local

A family who worked hard and

swimming pool

battled labels and prejudices

To help his mum pay for him

To share their cultural cuisine

to go to a good school

illustration credit to @lillidesigns

But why is it That the hands of policy makers is where the microphone belongs And all too often, they sing our story Wrong But if we sing our song And you find the tune frighteningly unfamiliar Don’t let your first instinct be to whip out your stinger Remember, what follows is your fatal abdominal rupture.

So don’t make us both suffer Just know that together, We can create the best song of all time A global anthem Where Every culture and colour And he studies late into the night

Will float to the sky In a beautiful rhyme

So how is it anybody’s right

And It won’t take long

To claim that he is here with an ulterior motive

If we all sing along.

Or say ‘they’re just here to steal the good jobs, everybody knows this’

It’s time that we stop

No I don’t.

Holding our tongues

Don’t let pride and fear give you the audacity

Because too many people

To isolate a hard working honey bee

Have lived their life Suppressing their songs

Listen to them

Into a hum

And you might just hear the pulsing rhythm Of a working hive

I know how it feels

Where the bees you isolate

When each limb of your body

Are only on the rise

Is one part of your identity

So tune your ears for a different type of song

And the blood flowing through them Feels like a foreign entity

Remember there’s more than one concert going

Tampered with by

on

Racism’s sly subtlety

illustration credit to @chloejoyceillustrations

So you start to question Which scars you should show Which tears of joy should be shared What story should I tell?!

But...

We shouldn’t be choosing parts of ourselves to conceal!

It’s time.

It’s time.

It’s time.

Stop hiding behind a wall only painted on one side Plastered with headlines That we are long over due to rewrite

And the stories written about us, Written by us This time.

So don’t be the honey bee Living in fear So it stings what it doesn’t know Join us.

We can make this hive grow Because our stories are like honey Sweet and sticky Holding us together.

about the author: aisha abdu Aisha is a young Sydney Sider who feels the injustices occurring across seas as if they were happening in her own backyard. And she cannot stay silent about it. She uses poetry to express her hope for a bigger future. A future with more voices than ever before. illustration credit to @chloejoyceillustrations

i don't know who i am author: nozrat fareha

I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM. ‘You don’t look like you’re from My identity is an intricate yet

New Zealand. Where are your

chaotic being that's always

parents from?’, they ask.

restless within me.

Bingo, I am right.

When people ask "where are you

And whilst different people ask,

from?" or "what's your

their responses are invariably the

background?" my brain, the most

same.

the most complex organ in the human body, blanks. The organ

‘My parents grew up in

that is single-handedly

Bangladesh but immigrated to

responsible for producing our

New Zealand when they were

every thought, action, memory,

adults. I grew up there, but then I

feeling, just blanks. A tidal wave

moved to Australia. I can relate to

of uncertainty swallows me

being a Kiwi and an Aussie

whole.

because I grew up as both.’ I hope that is enough to satisfy

"I…..I’m from New Zealand", is what

their curiosity, but unfortunately,

I always settle on. And I hate

it never is.

explaining this because the conversation always ends the

"Oh, so you're Bangladeshi!" they

same way no matter who asks.

exclaim. I inwardly sigh.

illustration credit to @hannahraepowell

It's hard when you’re

I didn’t grow up like

trying to figure out who

them. I didn’t watch the

you are and who you’re

same TV shows as them.

meant to be.

I didn't have the same schooling as them. I can’t

It's even worse when

relate to the national

other people feel the

obsession over

need to impose their

vegemite. More often

opinion on a matter that

than not, I fall silent

doesn't concern them.

during conversations about culture because

Sometimes I feel

the childhood that I had

redundant.

is so different to the one that they shared.

I’m not Bengali enough

What am I?

to proudly say that I am

So that makes me a Kiwi,

a Bangladeshi. There's

right?

an apparent cultural

Wrong.

barrier between me, a girl brought up in

My family and friends in

A New Zealander?

Western countries to

New Zealand call me ‘the

An Australian New

that of a Bangladeshi

Aussie’; they don’t regard

Zealander?

citizen. To them I will

me as remotely Kiwi. And

A Bengali-Australian-

always be ‘the foreigner’

why would they? My

New Zealander?

even though I share the

whole adolescent and

same language,

adult life will essentially

‘I don’t really know, to be

traditions and heritage; I

be shaped in Australia.

honest.’ Is what I finally

will always be the

They can’t relate to my

say, my voice tinged

foreigner that just

stories about Australian

with regret and

comes to visit.

high school and all the nefarious bin chickens

disappointment.

In Australia, I’m often

that roam around the

I can’t fit in with any of

referred to as ‘the Kiwi’

school grounds. They

them, but I keep my

amongst my classmates

can't relate to going on

mouth shut. I shouldn’t

and friends because

excursions to the

confuse them any

unlike them, I wasn't

harborside and getting

further.

born here.

expensive gelato just because.

illustration credit to @hannahraepowell

They can’t relate to any of that.

Whether it be by race, religion, personality, or sexuality, It's yours

So what am I,

to keep and yours to interpret. Not

if I’m not Bengali enough,

knowing who are you isn’t

I’m not Aussie enough

something to be ashamed about.

and I’m certainly not Kiwi enough?

Everyone has their own journey, and if yours is to discover yourself,

When I wake up every morning and

then why hide it?

I look in the mirror, I am reminded that I don't have the answer.

Embrace self-discovery, embrace self-growth and most importantly,

And it's okay.

embrace self-improvement.

Its okay to be unsure.

It's okay to be confused.

I don’t know who I am, and that's okay.

Your identity is yours and yours only.

You choose how you define it.

about the author: nosrat fareha Nozrat is a Year 10 student living in Sydney with a passion for humanitarianism, social justice, youth activism and books written by Friedrich Nietzsche. She is a strong advocate of justice and even though she lives in a 'progressive' western country, justice and law seem like two different things in regards to certain 'controversial' topics. Nozrat believes that words have immense power and an even greater influence, and she wants to use them effectively to draw attention to issues that she cares about the most

illustration credit to @hannahraepowell

“Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil has never been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones.�

- charlotte bronte, jane eyre

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

second generation refugees author: minh tran thank you, mum.

I SIT STILL AND STARE AT MY

when their past was brought up in

MOTHER SLEEPING.

conversation outside of home.

It is Sunday morning and the pale

I recall a time in my mostly white

sunlight is slipping soundlessly

primary school in a discussion

through the living room windows.

about ethnicity, my teacher asks

My mother sleeps with an

the class if anyone’s parents were

unintentional frown on her face,

refugees. No one around me

her expression defining the shape

raises their hands. My eyes stay

of her wrinkles as they run freely

glued to my desk and my arms

through her skin, like rivers, deep

firmly by my side, in an

enough to hide a lifetime of

uncomfortable sense of naïve

emotion and experience.

shame and embarrassment, a feeling which I now regret.

Both of my parents were Vietnamese refugees, “boat

My mother is now in the kitchen

people,” survivors of war. Like

and I am making her a lunchtime

many, they share similar,

coffee. Long gone are the nerves

harrowing stories of escape from

in her fingers. She is able to wrap

a war-torn country and a

a firm grip around the burning

communist regime. In my shallow

coffee mug, the rough skin of her

childhood, there had been an

hands decorated with long

underlying resentment for their

shallow wrinkles; they are creases

thick Vietnamese accents and a

of age, practice and skill.

suppressed, restless discomfort For me, there had always been a illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

lingering sense of guilt and I

could never understand

It rocked above the

I mumble a small “thanks�

why. Perhaps it came

surface of an endless

and do not look at her, for

from my inability to fully

ocean, filled with

my mind is elsewhere.

comprehend the

countless hunched and

Before long, the musky

enormity of their

terrified bodies, all on

smell of the afternoon

sacrifice and their

the same path to

welcomes the cool

readiness to risk their

escape. During the next

breeze of the evening,

lives, for their freedom

few days, the boat will

and the sky above is

and their future, for

reek of vomit; they will

dimming in a quiet

which I now owe my

be robbed of all their

manner, perfect as

freedom, and my future.

food and money by

always.

Or perhaps the feeling

pirates, and my mother

stemmed from the

will sit on the hard

I have grown up in a

comfort of my living,

wooden floor of the

completely westernised

how the problems

boat, praying for

world. My Vietnamese

confined in my small

survival. The light at the

reaches for words and

youthful world were

end of the tunnel will be

phrases lost in the back

beyond immeasurable to

dim.

of my mind, and it fails to

the horrors of theirs.

connect with my elders The air is warm and the

as they struggle to

My mother was only a

sun is setting, casting a

understand my broken

teenager when the

dull orange haze over

sentences painted with

Vietnam War ended. She

the darkening sky. I am

all the wrong tones. My

had fled her country

with my mother on the

English remains a

with two younger nieces

balcony, taking in the

growing bank of words

in the middle of the

washing that is now dry,

and phrases, moulded

night, but by the time

from a lazy day basking

with a thick Australian

the sun’s cold morning

in the Australian sun. As

accent. Not so long ago,

rays had only just

I walk back inside, arms

two refugee parents

filtered through the

submerged in the pile of

struggled to assimilate

clouds, they were

clothes I am holding, my

into the Western culture

crammed onto an old

mother takes a handful

so different to their own,

fishing boat with barely

to lighten the load.

and somehow, their

any room for movement.

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

daughter managed to

grow up with a green Hills Hoist in her

And I whisper a timeless, aching,

backyard, frequent visits from Santa

“thank you.� It floats from my lips and

Claus and the Tooth Fairy, and a

hovers in the air, like that old wooden

constant supply of Vegemite in the

fishing boat amidst the ocean. And

kitchen.

somehow she knows what my heart sings. I can tell. I can tell from the way

For me, there is still a lingering

she smiles at me, the way her wrinkles

sensitivity surrounding my parents’

on the corner of her eyes tighten,

past but perhaps there will always be. I

creating creases like water running

am a sixteen year old girl, still trying to

through the cracks of concrete. The

find her place in this big world, still

sensation of her smile alone is enough

accepting the differences between two

to mask anything I have ever felt. So I

contrasting cultures, trying to

leave my mother to fall asleep, for she

reconnect with one but also grow and

has to rest, because tomorrow the sun

mature within the other.

will rise, and she will wake up, and she will go to work.

My mother is getting ready for bed.

This time I look at her, and all previous

And now I understand, and I am so

conversation is forgotten.

proud.

about the author: minh tran Minh is a free-spirited young woman from Sydney who believes in the immense power of words and individual voice. She believes that both are pivotal in creating a positive change in a world plagued with injustice and inequality. Minh is proud to be a part of the many important conversations that act the stepping stones towards a world that is just.

illustration credit to @ellacroasdale

books worth reading.

NON FICTION i can't breathe: matt taibbi a gripping book on the complex black-white race relations in the usa: on the birth of the black lives matter movement and the new fault lines of protest. showcasing the power of people.

FICTION white teeth: zadie smith the intertwined tales of two wartime friends, one english, one bangladeshi, set against the tragic backdrop of britain's relationships with formerly colonised peoples.

POETRY citizen - an american lyric: claudia rankin refreshing honesty on the realities of everyday, casual racism.

NON FICTION white rage - the unspoken truth of our racial divide: carol anderson an urgent call to confront the legacy of structural racism bequeathed by white anger and resentment illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

acknowledgements A huge thank you to our talented artists whose work makes our magazine what it is! To check out more of their work you can see them at @aljahorvatco, @bluumyn, @dempseydoodlesdesign, @fatemah_baig, @nynkelocher, @simran_sarin, @lillidesigns, @chloejoyceillustrations, @emmaleejensen and @hannahraepowell.

A massive thank you to all our writers for showcasing the power of their voices! Special thanks to our featured writers; Jade Tan, Kyla Canares, Satara Uthayakumaran, Minh Tran, Kishen saai Prabakara Rao, Aqeel Camal, Aisha Abdu, Nosrat Fareha and Kasturi pk Kunalan.

Lastly, thank you for supporting us! We hope you have grown through reading these incredible stories.

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

DEDICATED TO: the movers the shakers the change makers

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco

magazine formatted and edited by ella croasdale & melissa li

illustration credit to @aljahorvatco