CATALYST: 'HEATWAVE', Issue 1, Volume 76

catalyst

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EPISODE HE AT WA VE BURNING PEARL S

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AUSTRALIA ’S FIREBEAST

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Contributors Letter From the Editors President’s Letter Calendar February Calendar March Victorian Treaty Proposition Freight Train Beach Access Childhood Classics Australia’s Firebeast Incentivising Climate Action A Fairy Tale of Climate Fears Perles Brulantes Like a House on Fire Method and Means for Climate Change Within Four Walls Heatwave Playlist

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FREIGHT TRAIN

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A FAIRY TALE OF CLIMATE FEARS

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CHILDHOOD CLASSICS

JA M E S L EMO N @ james le m on

WITHIN FOUR WALLS

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PLAYLIST

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+ EDITORS Chloe Karis Ellie Barclay Tamara Clark DESIGNERS Ellen Waite Daphne Kok Sayali Harde FRONT COVER Amanda Tonkin-Hill @amandatonkinhill CREATIVE WRITING EDITORS Caitlyn Grant Isabella Battersby Jake Parker CULTURE EDITORS Cameron Magusic Emma Sullivan

EDITORIAL COMMITTEE Bethany Davis Daisy Barrett Eliza Sears Erica Lange Georgie Elinor Martin Isabella Krebet Jaidyn L Attard Jean Wenjing Zhang Mikayla Bamford Nicole Pereira Siri Smith SOCIAL MEDIA Isabelle Leng Le Minh Ngoc Cu ENTERTAINMENT EDITOR Matt Adrian Young

NEWS EDITORS Alexandra Middleton Phoebe Humphrey

SPECIAL THANKS TO Sydney Road Brunswick Association

NEWS REPORTERS Umang Olivia Davendra Zara Gudnason

CATALYST Issue 01 2020 RMIT student magazine est. 1944

PHOTOGRAPHERS Jean Baulch Luka Rhoderick Robert Miniter Rudraksh Thumar Sophie Smith

CONTACT rmitcatalyst@gmail.com rmitcatalyst.com RMIT Building 12, Level 3, Room 97

WEBSITE MANAGER Cameron Magusic PRINTER Printgraphics Pty Ltd 14 Hardner Road, Mount Waverley Victoria 3149 Australia

Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union acknowledge the people of the Woi wurrung and Boon wurrung language groups of the eastern Kulin Nations on whose unceded lands we contact the business of the University. RMIT University respectfully acknowledges their Ancestors and Elders, past, present and future.

Catalyst and RMIT University Student Union also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where it contacts its business.

+ Catalyst is the student magazine of the RMIT Student Union (RUSU). The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the editors, the printers, or RUSU. 4

A M A N DA TON KI N-H I L L @ a ma n d a t o n k i n h i l l

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E DITO R S

If you are feeling inspired to contribute, feel free to visit or sling us an email.

taking on this journey on creating the 76th year of Catalyst.”

Office: Building 12, Level 3, Room 97 Email: rmitcatalyst@gmail.com Podcast: Cataclysm on soundcloud Website: www.rmitcatalyst.com

+ “Hiya! I’m one of your editors, Tamara Clark.

I am in my third and final year of undergraduate journalism at RMIT. Seasons for Growth, our theme for the year, is the name of a program I undertook during primary school when I was going through a challenging phase in life; a program which was very special to me and has stuck with me ever since. Seasons for Growth taught me everything comes full circle. Thank you for embarking on this journey with us and for the opportunity to represent student life in 2020 - it is a great honour.”

Sincerely Your Eds Tamara, Ellie and Chloe.

MEET YOUR EDITORS

CHLOE K ARIS, TA M ARA CL ARK + ELLIE BARCL AY

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Welcome to 2020 - the new decade and the 76th year of the Catalyst experiment.

We are RMIT’s oldest news source dating back to our chemistry school journal days in 1944.

Produced for students, by students we showcase the university’s talent and create a suspended representation of student life each year.

Join us as we dip into the minds of RMIT students and boast an interesting cross section of content.

This journal entry is composed from student voices in all corners of the school, harnessing the eclectic personalities, attitudes and issues we experience - from the Black Summer fires to nostalgic Aussie summers.

It is super special to share your company as we move through the seasons for growth - starting with HEATWAVE.

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LE T T E R

+ “Hello! I’m Ellie, a 3rd year marketing student with a passion for creating killer content and helping other like minded people thrive. Growing up in a family of crazy ambitious entrepreneurs has rubbed off on me in the most spectacular way. I have seen firsthand the roller coaster of building something from scratch and as such love the thrill of bringing ideas to life.

Nothing excites me more than the way one can develop a beautiful story or experience around print communications, hence why I’m stoked to be one of your editors for Catalyst 2020! I hope to do this brilliant magazine justice and look forward to the year ahead.” + “Hey! I’m Chloe, a second-year journalism student, and one of your editors for Catalyst in 2020! I with the rest of the editors hope you find an interest in each issue we put out throughout the year and come across different views on topics discussed. We are looking to follow the theme Seasons for Growth in the year as a fresh approach for Catalyst. I’m eager to be involved in a team who are just as intrigued as I am in starting this chapter. I am looking forward to

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DA N IE L H O O GS T R A

way to build new networks and make new friends that will last a lifetime.

DANIEL HOOGSTRA

LETTER FROM THE PRESIDENT

Hello there. I’m Daniel. I study IT, enjoy footy and Star Wars, and I am the President of your student union, RUSU. University isn’t just an education – it’s an experience, so make the most of it. While higher education is about studying hard to get where you want to go, balance is crucial. Uni is also about having fun, making new lifelong friends, and developing as a person outside the classroom. The RMIT University Student Union (RUSU) can help you do all these things.

With student clubs, departments, campaigns, parties, barbecues, lounges, activities, a fantastic volunteer program and even this magazine, there is something for everyone.

The Student Union is a place where you can find your niche on campus, find out what you love outside the classroom, hone in on your interests, and grow as a person. We have over a hundred student clubs that range from fantasy gaming to electric racing to political and debate clubs, as well as a variety of academic and cultural clubs. Joining a club on campus is a brilliant

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Our Student Union Council is made up of 27 students who are annually elected by and from the students of RMIT to represent, support, and advocate for you. We operate independent from RMIT, which allows us to be critical of the university, to hold their administration accountable, work to improve the university rules and policies, and to ensure the students of RMIT get a fair shake of the sauce bottle. In the past year we’ve done a lot of work with the university regarding the health and safety of students on campus, from our collaboration with the Respect Community Art Project and Be The Change campaign last year, to the opening of the Medical Hub @ RMIT. We’ve also been running our Be a Better Human Campaign, which is all about encouraging everyone who is part of our campus community to take a moment and consider how we can ‘better’ our behaviour.

RUSU offers many regular free food events across the semester, including weekly barbecues (or the occasional food truck) for lunch and healthy breakfasts to help you get through those morning classes. RUSU also operates RUSU Realfoods Café, run by our fantastic volunteers and staff. It offers a variety of delicious and sustainable food and drink options, and it is all organic and fair trade. It’s right by the Medical Hub on Swanston St, so be sure to check it out!

LE T T E R

assist or advise you when you’re having trouble with your course. There is also Compass, our drop-in welfare centre, open from Monday to Thursday on every campus with a qualified social worker on hand to talk to. We’ve got free food banks at Compass and across our campuses if you just want to pop in and grab something so you don’t go hungry.

If there’s one thing I’d like you to remember, it’s that RUSU is here for you. We are your voice, your support network, and your life on campus.

If times ever get tough at university, you need advice, or just want to have some fun on campus, join us!

Membership is only $10 for the year. You’ll get heaps of benefits including discounted or free entry to our events, tonnes of giveaways, freebies, and entry into our member only events.

Visit our information counter on your campus or go to rusu.rmit.edu.au and join today! Also, be sure to check out our Facebook and Instagram!

I hope to see you around, come and say hi!

Daniel Hoogstra President RMIT University Student Union

Beyond just food, we also run a variety of other events throughout the year. In Week 1, we will have our biggest event of the year, Welcome Bash! It’s a great chance to meet some new people or to just enjoy the free drinks and great music. We’ve also got our big Multicultural Festival, end of exam parties, a boat cruise, markets, trivia nights, our Library Lock-in and much, much more.

We also offer a free, confidential advocacy service where trained Student Rights Officers can 9

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2020

FEBRUARY SUNDAY

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Semester 1 classes begin* Orientation starts

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myTimetable opens for allocation/ adjustment Last day to add classes for Semester 1* Last date to enrol

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Orientation Orientation Bundoora Welcome Brunswick Day Welcome Day

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Spring/Summer results released

31 Semester 1 census date (Tuesday) Census date for Semester 1 VCE

myTimetable closes (5pm) for allocation/adjustment

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TA M A R A C L A R K

VIC TO R IA N T R E AT Y PR O PO S IT IO N

VICTORIAN TREATY POSITION TA M ARA CL ARK

TA M A R A C L A R K

Victoria’s first Indigenous treaty proposal was moved at the Annual Aboriginal Press Club event on Wurundjeri country at the Richmond Football Club Swinburne Centre on 2 November 2019.

Victorian Treaty Advancement Commissioner Jill Gallagher AO presented the treaty proposal and Victorian Minister for Aboriginal Affairs Gavin Jennings accepted at 1.30pm.

Stakeholders discussed the First Peoples’ Assembly of Victoria and its role in evolving treaty negotiations with the government.

“What we want from this government is an agenda, a timetable, certainty about where we’re heading, detail about the process of codesign.

That will go to clarifying the purpose, function and operation of the Voice, and a clarification of words to go to a referendum and entrenchment in the Constitution,” said Senator Patrick Didson in his address to National Aboriginal Press Club.

“Until we grapple with truth and treaty, we’re just tinkering around the edges,” he said.

Gallagher described her vision of the ideal outcome. “There’s gotta be things like… strengthening culture in our communities, there will be things like how can we bring back languages? There will be things like a percentage of seats in parliament, culture being taught in 12

schools not as an elective but as compulsory.

How can we as aboriginal people share our culture with the rest of Victoria or the rest of Australia? That’s what I would like to see in my treaty,” she said. “There has to be land. There has to be confrontation … Victoria’s not going to go broke as a result of treaties. The Victorian government won’t lose a lot of power. They might have to share a little bit of it.”

“And all of us will be better for it,” said Jennings.

“Connection, control, opportunity, selfdetermination, cultural awareness and respect” are the crucial elements of a high functioning treaty according to Jennings.

Gallagher’s priorities were confirmed during her treaty roadshow when she opened community dialogue about the role of elders, the importance of including all Aboriginal people in the journey towards a treaty, cross border issues between groups, voting eligibility, treaty aspirations and the importance of continuing these conversations.

“When I did the treaty roadshow and visited every prison I asked that question to Aboriginal people in prison and I actually thought I was going to get answers like, ‘We want a get out of jail free card,’... we didn’t get that. What I got from our mob in prison, and remember we are overrepresented in the justice system, was… ‘I had to come into prison to learn how to culturally

dance but when I am released … where do I go back to my country to learn?’ So, culture is strictly very important to me in my treaty,” she said.

The committee strived to create a plan which compliments whatever is designed at a national level, but no guarantees could be made because “Victoria was left off the list” of involvement in designing and negotiating the Australian treaty.

“I hope we have designed the model that will fit whatever is being designed at a national level. It can’t be one treaty. We were never one mob. There has to be multiple treaties and in Victoria there has to be multiple treaties. We cannot have one treaty,” she said. “So, I’m hoping we’ve designed the model that will fit whatever comes out of the national movement [but] at the moment but I can’t be sure of that because we’re not involved in designing that national movement.” Canada, New Zealand and Norway inspired the drafting of the Victorian treaty according to Gallagher. “We took bits from everywhere.”

A treaty can be defined in a number of ways but put simply, it is a written agreement between sovereign powers or states. Every treaty looks different and is formed in a different way to achieve different resolutions. “Our focus should be on those bigger demands of the Uluru Statement from the heart – truth telling and

ALESSIA FRANCISCHIELLO

an agreement-making commission. That’s the real business we should be attending to, but the government’s been completely silent about that,” said Didson. “There’s no momentum, we’re going nowhere, we’re in the dark.”

In the meantime, “good reporting on Indigenous matters takes time, resources and money, especially when it comes to coverage in remote communities” according to Didson.

“To mainstream media, I’d say reporting should embrace as full a range of sources as possible.”

“Don’t just keep seeking [comments] and opinions from the elites. It shouldn’t be that the best organised and connected get access to money and influence,” he said.

The event was supported by the Media Entertainment and Arts Alliance and the National Press Club and promote agendas of the First Nation’s people. +

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S A R A H S T IVE N S

F R E IGH T T R A IN

ANT ROZETSKY

FREIGHT TRAIN WR I T E R SARAH STIVENS

The following story takes place in Central Gippsland. I acknowledge the traditional owners of the land, the Gunaikurnai people, and pay my respects to their Elders, past, present and emerging. To learn more about Gunaikurnai country, visit gunaikurnai.org.

+ Heatwave. Eyes stinging. Scabbed at the corners from burning wind-tears. Lungs heaving, trying to filter summer’s legacies of smoke and dust. Throat closing, looking for relief from the dry.

I am five years old and the mud is cool and wet against my palm. We pour it into the brick-shaped moulds my Poppy has arranged on the ground, waiting for it to set. Oma says I can write my initials on the top, a piece of me etched permanently into the walls of their new home. I carve the letters slowly with my finger, feel the silt bend to the shapes I ask of it. My bricks are added to the pile already baking in the sun. Around us, the gum trees stand tall, bouncing with the weight of the magpies and rosellas; watching, inspecting our technique.

My grandparents’ property in Koornalla, Gippsland, is both wild and well-planned.

A dream come true in 1990, the block of land became the backdrop to my childhood.

Weekends were spent in the shed, listening to the ABC and eating teddy bear biscuits, while plans 15

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Oma and Poppy are allowed back to the property about three days later. The rest of the family visit shortly after. Local traffic only, but rubberneckers have found their way up the hill, satiating their curiosity. We try to ignore them. There is smoke still rising from the ground as we drive, and the only trees that are left are dressed in ash.

As we approach my grandparents’ road, cows are standing dazed in the paddocks. There are scorch marks on their hides.

JOSH ROSE

for the house slowly took shape. It would be made of mud-brick; powered by the sun and rain, in harmony with the land. Tadpoles made homes in the trenches we dug, I watched their legs outgrow their tails. Oma and Poppy wove love into the soil and the garden rose up around us.

Quickly, it evolved from a place of rock and clay to a parade of colour and wildlife. Wattle, flowering gum, waratahs, callistemon. Oma’s bulb collection and Pop’s sweet pea trellises. My Pop, forever the documentarian, quietly photographed the fauna as they emerged from their hiding places: swamp wallabies, bilbies, echidnas, blue-tongue lizards, banjo frogs, galahs, black cockatoos, and the magpie flock who owned the place. Oma and Pop looked on with curious excitement, never interrupting. My grandparents’ home is a sanctuary, in more ways than one.

I had never been attached to a home before.

As a child, I lived in a small unit with my Mum, then later a bigger house when we moved in with my stepdad. Both places were home, but I didn’t feel strongly about them the way people do in movies; kids crying, when the parents reveal the house has to be sold because Dad got a job interstate. I’d never felt that pull in my stomach, the easing of breath in the driveway, until Koornalla. At ten years old, when Oma and Poppy moved into the house at Koornalla permanently, I didn’t know how to describe what a ‘safe place’ was. But I’d found mine.

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I am 19 years old, working the Saturday shift at the local surf shop. The date is 7 February, 2009.

The streets in my hometown are quiet, people hiding from the heat. At midday, we’re sent home early. The air conditioner in the store has broken and the boss says it’s not fair to keep us. That, and no customers for the past two hours. I leave work to a world painted in shocks of russet and amber; the sky is screaming its warning. Night hurls itself upon us early, the streetlights come on at lunchtime. Heat shimmers in the air. The horses over the back fence appear distorted, like looking through a carnival mirror.

Bushfires are here. They’re dropping embers on us from 45 kilometres away. The ash falls on our roof. Birds flee. Smoke is all around. At some point, we’re told the fires have reached Koornalla and that people should leave immediately. We are four towns away and haven’t heard from my grandparents. We watch the sky and wait.

I’ve never seen my Poppy cry, but that day I hear it. I hear the tears he is hiding from me; the alien cadence of his voice, squeezed by fear. I’m not sure how many hours later he calls, but my mum hands me the phone and he says they’ve evacuated. He is safe, but they don’t know about the house, or when they’ll be allowed back. He says the fire sounded like a freight train; they could hear it roaring toward them as they packed the car and fled.

I will never forget that journey up the driveway, where we witnessed both miracle and disaster.

An apparent wind-change meant the fire completely jumped the house, coming close enough that it melted the porch blinds. The surrounding land, the garden that took nineteen years to grow, was obliterated. Silence echoed; the wildlife is gone. Valleys of dazzling green now charcoal. Everything black. It’s hard to describe the emotions of that day. Shock, heartache for the land, now unrecognisable. Relief that my grandparents were safe. Guilt, that so many people lost so much more than our family did.

Grief for the neighbours and friends who didn’t survive.

F R E IGH T T R A IN

Going to bed with a wet face-washer draped over your eyes. Dancing in front of the sprinkler on the lawn, hosing down the trampoline, holidays up the coast. Sunburnt, stepping over jellyfish. This is what the word used to mean.

Now it lives somewhere in my body, firing synapses I have no control over. It shouts at me with its apocalyptic sunsets. It sinks its teeth into all my favourite places, sucks the life from them with its fevered breath. I watch a cockatoo drop from the golden elm in my front yard, wings splayed as it hits the dirt. We lock eyes, both of us desperate. He pants, beak open and covered in dust. I run to the kitchen to fill a container with water. I sprint back to the tree, he is gone. It feels like the world ending.

If I am this afraid, it is much worse for my grandparents. Fear, never really dormant, resurfaces. Valuables are packed and given to family members living in the city. Bushfire ads on television trigger terrible memories, their shock factor disregarding those with lived experience.

The weather is continuously monitored. Summer is no longer a holiday. A constant state of readiness, to leave.

In the Koornalla and Callignee townships, 11 people lost their lives in the Black Saturday bushfires. Homes and properties were destroyed, livestock and pets perished. I watched my grandparents get back to work, figuring out how to rebuild while recovering from the trauma of what had happened to their beloved community.

I learned the meaning of resilience, watching the residents support each other in the face of inconceivable adversity. In time, sprouts of green began to return. Hope emerged, but fear and hurt remained. The trauma of an event like this lives on, long after it is over.

As I write, Australia is burning again. Bushfires have been raging throughout the country, for months. Social media feeds are saturated with photos of blood-red skies and children in gas masks. Four thousand people take refuge in the ocean. The death toll rises. The Prime Minister returns from his holiday in Hawaii, invites cricketers to dinner. Releases a Liberal ad campaign on the back of other people’s firefighting efforts. Announces there will be no changes to climate policy. We watch the news footage with shallow breaths and panicked heartbeats.

Heatwave. Icy poles and being sent home early from school, sitting in front of the pedestal fan.

The VIC Emergency app sends a notification every two minutes. The red zones on the map creep closer together, inch their way toward

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my family, again. Two of my friends are inside the triangle of fires. I have stopped scrolling at the words ‘too late to leave’. Instructions are memorised: what blankets they would need, where they should take shelter, the clothes they should be wearing to survive. I do this from 397 kilometres away, because it’s the only way to make sense of this helplessness.

My grandparents taught me how to care for the environment. How to nurture life, respect it, honour nature. After years of bubbling teenage angst and wishing I lived anywhere but here, they taught me to love Australia. Oma, with her gang of magpies that she feeds and greets each morning. Her penchant for native plants and nonmanicured gardens. How she hates being given cut flowers because they belong on their stems, in the earth, still living. Poppy and his quiet observations, his glee at finding a new winged or bushy-tailed visitor. This is why it pains me so deeply, to see our country burn.

Everything is coloured with terror and outrage; that this disaster could have been avoided if the government listened to warnings about bushfire risks, given months before the new fires erupted.

If they listened to First Nations people, with thousands of years of experience in managing and caring for these lands. If they did anything other than fuel their own media spin-machine. On 7 February 2009, we spoke of the apocalypse.

We thought it was the worst devastation we’d see in our lifetime. It is terrifying that we’ve been proven wrong.

Heatwave. Icy poles. Swimming pools. Five million animals dead. What do we do when there are no safe places? When our children have no schools or playgrounds, our country decimated beyond repair? Where do we go? +

B E AC H ACC E S S

BEACH ACCESS TA M ARA CL ARK

PORT PHILLIP BEACH ACCESSIBILIT Y AND DISABILIT Y INCLUSION

beach matting is heavy and requires multiple people to roll it in and out and street beach cleaners cannot travel across it.

More people can enjoy the beach this year under The City of Port Phillip’s third accessibility and disability inclusion plan affecting St Kilda and Port Melbourne.

Because of the lifesaving clubs’ lack of resources these features are only possible over the summer patrol season. But Dupont advises participants can call the club to arrange a wheelchair booking outside of these times.

Mayor Dick Gross has promised to make recreational spaces in the area more equitable and accessible for residents living with a disability. The operation has expanded over the past decade and beachgoers can now enjoy a range of inclusive beach equipment such as beach wheelchairs and accessible beach matting along the Port Phillip foreshore.

A new feature under the 2019-2021 plan is the online beach wheelchair booking function available for St Kilda beach.

Individuals living with a disability formerly unable to enjoy communal beach activities can now book a 90 minute wheelchair session online making both the sand and water more widely accessible. The use of accessible beach matting comes with difficulties according to The City of Port Phillip’s Recreation Services Participation Officer, Chloe Dupont.

“It can be challenging for lifesavers to stay on top of all operations at the beach …

Lifesavers’ top priority is keeping the beach safe,” said Dupont.

The St Kilda Lifesaving Club provides a wheelchair hoist to those who bring their own sling and MLAK key for access. Similarly, Port Melbourne has a large changing area that can be used for wheelchair hoisting. It is hoped the Port Melbourne Lifesaving Club will install a hoist before the end of the three-year plan.

The community will be able to enjoy extended wheelchair access in 2020 as services are estimated to be open until a later date in March.

“No one has expressed an interest in extending availability outside of the summer months,” said Dupont. +

While a great asset to Port Phillip’s beach culture, GABRIEL TESTONI

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E LLIE B A R C L AY

BUBBLE O’ BILL

There exist endless moments which have defined our childhood summers in Australia : backyard cricket, hot sticky car seats, races to the shore sand bucket in hand, pool kiosks and milk-shop crusades. While all these spark that universal nostalgia we can’t help but love, the childish thrill of scoring our favourite Streets ice cream treat undoubtedly rises to the top. In an ode to this, I’ve retasted some childhood classics, Matt Preston style, for your enjoyment. +

It’s imperative that you know I was never a fan of Bubble O’ Bill, not sure why, perhaps its was the odd deformity of a mass-produced confectionary or maybe the disgusting hard bubble-gum nose?

Maybe I was simply fussy.

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Unfortunately not much has changed. Although I enjoyed the chocolate coated backing, Bill’s flavours felt lacking, almost surprisingly ordinary.

Honestly I expected more from the famous cowboy.

SOFT SERVE

As for the big bubble-gum ball that formed the creamy cowboy’s nose, la piece de la resistance. I was even more shocked with how disappointingly fast this green blob lost its taste, five chews max.

Forget expensive Italian gelato or exotic sorbets, because nothing will ever beat the smooth creamy classic of a Maccas 30c cone *cough* 70 cents.

RAINBOW PADDLEPOP Underrated sibling to the chocolate paddle pop, when I tore the plastic tab of this charmant, I was doubly delighted by the soft pastel colour of the treasure inside – a lovely mix of blue, yellow, pink and dare I say lime green … ooh la la!

Following on the light caramel flavour provided the perfect hint of luxurious flair while also maintaining an airy nonchalance, similar to that of Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffianys.

CLASSICS

CHILDHOOD

ELLIE BARCL AY

Despite the recipes changes over the years the vanillary delight remains steady delivering both a creamy mouthfeel and lingering aftertaste.

Simplicity at its best. If however you dare to dream better, the famous chocolate flake will always have your back.

C H ILDH O O D C L A S S IC S

Apologies Bill, I will never understand your favouritsim.

CYCLONE Maybe it’s the texture, maybe it is the contrast of the electric green and red psychedelic swirl, tasting ice against the soft zingy centre, but this ice cream, I believe, epitomises life by the beach with a true taste of paradise.

It’s one of the most refreshing icy poles around. Like a fruity Mai Tai on the beach these three harmonious flavours; peaches, blueberries and pineapple mix wonderfully.

But be quick, is my only aversion, these babies melt fast.

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E M ILY CO R K

ILLU S T R AT IO N

AUSTRALIA’S FIREBEAST JAIDYN L AT TARD @jaidyn_poetry_

In drizzle rains or breezy winds, the gum-trees burn anyway; so too do the shrubs under them, and the beautiful creatures they feed, and the dry grass that populates this stolen land. The firebeast is hungry—like me, like the rich person’s wallet, like the wolf. It always has been, with its killer appetite, except now the stomach of the inferno has no sensor for overfeeding. It just devours in its freakish way, flaunting no desire to show mercy, no end in plan, and with no weak spots to contain.

The fires of the past were just a taste of their terror, a warning unheeded, a mere test of our ability to fight back, to defend—to quench. But reborn now, the firebeast has roared unwelcome to live in its entire hot fury, a painter who turns old towns into char, old fields into graveyards. Where is the peace of my dreams, the always-springtime picture I find so ideal?

The blaze wants us all in its flaming fingers, to play with like puppets on strings—and what it wants, it takes. All life fears the beast who burns.

Yet, the heroes among us trample through the ashes, the corpses, despite their fear: they are brave and resilient soldiers in the shadows of flames. +

E M I LY COR K @ o h d e e r. a r t

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LIN DS AY T U PPE R-C R E E D

IN C E N T IVIS IN G C LIM AT E AC T IO N

INCENTIVISING CLIMATE ACTION LINDSAY TUPPER-CREED

The failure to respond to the issue of climate change raises concern regarding individual behaviour and public policy. While economics points at the problem and says, “we’re all doomed”, treating people as people and understanding the separation and complex interactions between people and institutions continues to be a struggle. The first two decades of the 21st century have been marked by a collapse in institutional support, something much bemoaned by economists, but the real concern is the collapse of institutions. Failure lies not in the work institutions are doing or by them keeping millions working very hard to further a common goal but instead in the agency they have taken, with an expectation of implicit trust. Humans are an optimistic creature, but they are not optimistic about the world. People are optimistic about themselves. Gearing towards the survival of our species requires it so; everything in the world cannot be trusted, and I am amazing.

Why have we done nothing about climate change? Well, we have actually done quite a lot: a global agreement with every country in the world, tumbling stock prices of conventional energy companies, recycling as a concept and not to mention the development of solar. Yet, progress is glacial. We need a river. The assumed cause of global warming is a failure of negotiation and misaligned incentives suggesting countries can“cheat” and let everyone else do the hard work. A classic prisoner’s dilemma; why put 24

in the effort when you are better off slacking?

One can think of climate change like group assignments at university; people are happy to under contribute when they can get away with it.

Melbourne’s universities have each responded to this problem differently. The optimist might say there are many ways to encourage cooperation, the pessimist might suggest not all universities are aiming for fair group work and the economists turned to market mechanisms, believing that whilst cooperation may break down, self-interest will win out. What seems universal amongst Melbourne’s universities is dissatisfaction with group work seems similar to climate change; many responses have been tried and no one is particularly thrilled about the situation. For climate change, economists have tried to turn to market based mechanisms. The parallel might be something like lower university marks for those that help with group assignments. If that sounds familiar to anyone at RMIT, then what may immediately come into might is that implementation and enforcement can make or break a scheme.

The contrast with our failed climate policy is our emergency management. Victoria has spent years preparing for fires such as those seen this summer and it has shown through our ability to declare an emergency earlier than other states and evacuate huge swathes of land. Part of this may be following lessons learnt from Black Saturday but perhaps the more ingrained force

present is humanity’s ability to respond to risk.

An immediate danger such as a fire in front of your face is much more real than the climate crisis. Therein lies the ultimate tragedy: our struggle to save ourselves as individuals may doom our humanity. Public policy is supposed to be a response to this imbalance, allowing us to prioritise something like an unknown future threat without having to make that decision every day. Where this has failed is when institutions are not used as the type of bank where surplus resources are stored and allocated in the best way possible, but as a bank, you go when you want to spend more money. Thus, what is killing public policy is the same tragedy as before: an inability to resolve conflicting priorities between the global level and the individual level.

What students can do is trust thy neighbour. Give your fellows the benefit of the doubt, introduce yourselves and they might just give you the same. +

What can students do about this? Absolutely nothing. I mean… that is not actually true.

Where the doom and gloom story falls down comes from another area of economic failure: trust. Trust is ultimately the hope we made succeed in a course for positive action. What should not be a surprise to most (but sadly not all) is humans are not robots. We understand our shared humanity and we work to preserve that. As the area of behavioural economics slowly matures, a conjecture on trust being a cooperative glue has been put forward. It may also be that trust in localised communities is the key driver towards the national and global public policy.

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J E A N B AULC H

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JE A N B AU LC H

A FAIRY TALE OF CLIMATE FEARS JEAN BAULCH

The heat is everywhere, even in the darkness of their shadow. Unflinching and without rest, it presses down, compressing their body beneath its weight. Feet scuff the dirt on the road as they stride. A road that stretches out ahead and behind them in a linear maze with no escape, almost indistinguishable from the grey earth it bleeds into on each side.

Nothing is alive.

They try to remember what green looks like.

The memory hides in a blind spot in their mind, hesitant like a word on the tip of their tongue.

They visualise the blue of a morning ocean becoming turquoise before a storm, but the turquoise won’t shift to a green of any kind.

They’re losing colours. The sky looms above in an empty blue that holds no reference point to mark an edge to its existence. Clouds are forgotten folk-tales whispered in the night.

It’s hard to retrace how they came to be here on the road, everything is scrambled as they scour for memories. There was a car that broke down... were there people in it when they left? There’s a ghost of a feeling that they went looking for help, but they can’t hold the thought steady; everything is separating. An idea keeps haunting them, that they might be alone. The cells of their body begin to vibrate and shudder. Dry air leeches in-between them—too much heat to displace, too much energy in one vessel, the cells start 28

D Eapart FERGUSON condensing and repelling, desperate toJ AY pull @ja yde f e r g and escape. If they disassemble, they could filter down through the cracks in the dirt in search of old rumours, of hidden rivers still seeping gently underground.

Their legs fight against the wall of heat and they watch the boundary between grey earth and blue sky disintegrate and billow into the mirage of a heat-shimmer. Its metallic haze lifts upward, rippling and heaving, the dull roar of its laughter superseding the space where the horizon might have been. It mirrors their movements and adjusts its form to keep them in its centre. If they turn in a circle, there is only this void in every direction, watching them, pulling in tighter toward their body as they walk. They follow the road, this guide for the unknown, hoping it knows how to find a way ahead.

The weight of the heat is unnerving; restraining them. The form of their body crushed downward, giving way over time till they are lying in the gravel and the sun stings their back. Underneath the road scorches their skin with a strange repeating pattern, engraving them with scales which spread over their body in shallow waves. They can feel them peeling back and taking shape, twitching, longing for water. The veins in their neck pulse and begin rearranging to create space, waiting patiently as the gills begin to grow;  gills that breathe in heat. Their eyes close and they float for a moment, in day-dreams of clear breaths.

Their ears open to the sound of a scrap of paper, tapping on the road as it twists and leaps in the breeze. When it dances near enough their fingers snap out like a lizard’s tongue. They bring it to their face and read handwritten words: ‘where are you?’. Were they going somewhere? Their thoughts dislodge and they latch onto a benign shadow in the mirage for stability, watching it glide gently on pockets of scorched air. A hawk—without seeming like it has anywhere to be—circles from high up and spirals down to land on their back, using their skin to save its feet from burning on the road. It swaggers along their spine till it reaches their neck. They can feel it shifting its weight, getting comfortable, then it holds out its wing to shade their face. An indescribable kindness so disorienting it cuts the last thread that held them to the world, shattering them into lucid dreams and they find themselves flying but everything around them moves upwards at the same pace. Their chest swarms with the beating wings of hummingbirds.

A FA IR Y TA LE O F C LIM AT E F E A R S

away, showering them in dust. Aussie! Aussie!

Aussie! they chant out the window, Oi! Oi! Oi! A few beer cans, some burger wrappers and a dog’s bark flutter in the cars wake. They watch it speed away into the other side of the heatshimmer, reabsorbed into its manic laughter.

Their thoughts at last collapsed into a sea of colourless gas, drifting off to frolic above them into the empty blue sky. Absentmindedly, their feet kick a can along the road. A gentle kind of joyous pause, till they feel ready to reassemble and stride on along the road. +

Dusk brings the first of the last stars, they mingle with the heat-shimmer and spin its illusion into the sound of a thousand fingers drumming on desks; mimicking thunder, suggesting a question, what steps are you taking?

The hawk is gone.

Did it wait till their shadow turned to darkness?

The weight of the heat still pins them to the road.

A light in the distance begins to flicker differently to the stars, slowly tearing a small hole in the mirage until headlights bleed through. Their thoughts begin to race, what parts of the road beyond is already known? They find they can’t hold onto time in its continuous form, and the car gets closer in snapshots and flashes like a scrolling screen. Their limbs bend and assemble themselves awkwardly, fighting against the heat, ready to stand and be seen. There are voices yelling from the windows. Suddenly the car is right by their side, relief is washing over them, luck is here! The tires skid out and around and

J AY D E F E R G U S O N @jaydeferg

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JEAN BAULC H

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JEAN B AU LCH

BURNING PEARLS WR I T E R I S A B E L L A B AT T E R S BY V I S UA L C R E ATO R S R AC H E L FI S H E R + L AU R A R E D E KE R

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JO S H UA S U KO F F

PH OTO GR A PH Y

BURNING PEARLS ISABELL A BAT TERSBY Or in French, Perles brûlantes

Plastic salads, cold chicken, deli ham and sweating bread rolls line my bag, along with expensive Ella Baché zinc and a Christos Tsiolkas novel. I sweep my fringe off my forehead and cover my freckles in medium beige sludge, while we circle the streets looking for free parking.

The rear view mirror makes it difficult to see if I’ve spread the zinc evenly around my face. Alex, Riley and I walk down the path towards the water, past the main population of sunbakers, over two separate jump rocks and plonk ourselves down on the waters edge, far away from anyone else. A star must have fallen into the ocean, as it shines in such a simulated way. With a stretch of coast to ourselves, we play music and frolic in and out of the water with childlike glee. Maybe because Christmas is only days away, or the fact that we are near the ocean for the first time in a long time, an amalgamation of joy and nostalgia has saturated the air, making me feel warm and fuzzy. Maybe I’m just dehydrated. I eat some cold chicken and look out at the horizon. Two suns appear, both next to one another. They resemble luminescent pearls in the afternoon haze. I don’t know why there’s two. I turn away, and pick at the cold chicken carcass. I look back at the horizon.

There are now three suns floating just above the water line. I turn away again and pull a thigh off. I look back. There are now four. This is annoying.

I flip onto my stomach and start reading some words. Tsiolkas disturbs, yet delights me. Talented bastard. Alex and Riley ask me if I’m okay and 34

I say yes and ask why? Apparently I’ve been holding the chicken carcass, not my book, and I’ve been reading out loud from it. What was I saying?

They say I was speaking French. Which doesn’t make sense. I failed French in Year 11. J’ai dû utiliser google translate pour écrire cette phrase. I put the chicken down and roll a cigarette. As I light it, the wind catches the cigarette and blows it out of my fingers. It lands in the sand which becomes warmer than warm, forcing me to run into the sun, which is really the over-baring-ly bright silver water.

Relief swirls around the meat in my gut, as I watch the sand turn to fire and swallow Alex and Riley whole. It’s a pity, as I was deeply in love with Riley and now she’ll never know. And my zinc was very expensive. Now I’ll have to fork out $60 for another tube. Oh what’s that smell? It’s burning flesh.

Reminds me of chicken. Or maybe that’s the cold chicken I can smell. Did you know if you’ve eaten meat from India, you’ve probably eaten human?

A chef told me that a while ago. Shortly after that conversation we had mediocre sex. I now start to swim out towards the four suns. Maybe I can get to Tasmania from here. But I must pass the suns first. As I approach them, all bobbing on the Earth’s edge, they greet me with love and support, praising me for my swimming abilities. They quickly merge into one giant pearly sun, which swoops me up into it’s arms and kisses me with its lips. It whispers in my ear: the matrix got you and then I become ash.

J OS H UA S UKOF F

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CO R M AC M ILLS R ITC H A R D

LIKE A H O U S E O N F IR E

LIKE A HOUSE ON FIRE CORM AC MILLS RITCHARD

How is it that our politicians and fossil fuel companies get along so well?

At the time of writing, children are delivered into smoke in Canberra’s hospitals, New Zealand’s glaciers melt under ash borne across the Tasman, and families are still huddled in smog-induced nightfall on the beaches of rural Mallacoota. The CSIRO and Bureau of Meteorology are unequivocal: greenhouse gasses pumped into the atmosphere by the burning of coal, gas and oil have lengthened and intensified the fire season. Before this disaster, 64% of Australians recognised climate change as a critical threat to their vital interests and 84% wanted the government to transition to renewables. There is no doubt among the scientific community, nor among the majority of Australians: climate change has resulted in the worst bushfires we have ever seen.

Meanwhile, governments across Australia remain committed to deepening the channels of the fossil fuel industry. In Western Australia, liquified natural gas exports have increased by 21% in the last year, making Australia the secondlargest exporter in the world; in South Australia, the Great Australian Bight is being opened for oil and gas drilling; in Victoria, the government has chosen to defy the onshore fracking moratorium by opening up the Otway Basin; in New South Wales, 14 coal mines will be opened 36

or expanded, developments together producing enough coal each year to emit 190 million tonnes of carbon dioxide (Australia’s entire electricity sector produces 170 tonnes); in Queensland, the whole Galilee Basin is being opened up for coal mining, burning the coal from which it’s estimated will produce 705 million tonnes of carbon dioxide each year—1.3 times Australia’s entire annual emissions. SA and NSW are under Liberal governments, while the remaining three are under Labor. When it comes to fossil fuels, the major parties become indistinguishable.

dominated by fossil fuels.

Many politicians come from and return to fossil fuel industries after their time in parliament—--former deputy prime minister Wayne Swan being the most recent with his appointment as a director of Stanwell Corporation (Queensland’s state-owned coal and gas producer). In 2013, a senior civil servant spent $500 of taxpayer’s money to give a “framed and personally signed tennis racquet” to an industrialist, and in 2011 Gina Rinehart flew members of federal parliament to India to attend a mining investor’s wedding. Politicians and mining executives really do get on like a house on fire.

Naturally, an industry with such size and scale that feeds manufacturing, transport, mining and armed forces (the US army by itself producing more emissions than 142 countries) will develop a coterie of vested interests. Whether it’s think tanks like the Hancock Prospecting-funded Institute of Public Affairs; media empires like News Corp, which was originally established by industrialists with the express purpose of creating ‘propaganda’ for their mining interests (their letters to this end are on the public record); or lobby groups like the Minerals Council of Australia (which, along with its satellites, spent $541 million AUD from 2006-2017), these interest groups specialise at finding evidence in favour of increased mining subsidies, tax exemptions and access to public land and water. They go part of the way in explaining what worldwide media are now referring to as Australia’s ‘obsession’ with coal. They also explain why politicians like

This is only part of the picture, however. To understand completely the dynamics that arise such resistance to transition, we have to examine what Andreas Malm, senior lecturer of human ecology at Lund University and author of Fossil Capital, calls the fossil economy—that is, an economy with self-sustaining growth that is

Forbes estimates the value of proven oil reserves in the world at over $107 trillion USD. That’s without considering the unknown oil reserves, coal, gas, and the fossil fuels hidden underneath the melting arctic. To put that in perspective, the planet’s total wealth sits at around $300 trillion USD. Taken with the fact that 80% of the world’s energy use is provided by fossil fuels (89% in Australia), we have a pretty clear picture of the global fossil economy.

Scott Morrison can say that there is ‘no better place to raise kids anywhere on the planet’ while Australian children are wearing gas masks and being born into smoke—they are not only producing propaganda, they are consuming it as well.

So the political apparatus that the fossil fuel industry has developed means that it’s not enough to understand each government and corporation as making a fair choice between fossil fuels and renewables on their merit in the abstract. But there are other material factors that create resistance as well. Existing systems of production (agriculture, mining, manufacturing, transport) have artefacts and infrastructure (roads, cars, airports, machines with oil engines, factories with gas or coal furnaces) that increase the scale at which the transition to renewables needs to take place, meaning that breaking away from the fossil economy comes at a colossal price. Systems of production either need to be transformed (to radically different ways of living and producing) or all of their material artefacts renovated (e.g. substituting engines with electric motors) or replaced.

That price comes steep. As outlined in a letter from the UK Natural History Museum and experts to the Committee on Climate Change, to electrify all cars and vans in the UK (not including road fleets) it would take 207,900 tonnes of cobalt, 264,600 tonnes of lithium carbonate, 7,200 37

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tonnes of neodymium, and 2,362,500 tonnes of copper. That’s just under the entire planet’s yearly production of neodymium, two times that of cobalt, three quarters that of lithium and at least half that of copper—for a country with 0.89% of the global population. If it is possible for the world to transition to electric vehicles, it would involve an upscaling of production and extraction that would result in a massive increase of mining in Latin America (which has historically meant environmental destruction, murder and war) and such a reliance on fossil fuels (for mining, shipping and smelting) that would likely render it self-defeating.

More issues begin to reveal themselves—in ‘Clean energy’s dirty secret’, the Economist writes that investment in renewables is slowing in Europe and China as “the more [clean energy] is deployed, the more it lowers the price of power from any source.” Because the production cost of renewable energy is negligible, companies are able to keep undercutting each other while still reaping a profit, up until the point that energy prices (and thus profits) likewise become negligible.

fossil fuel companies for the unmined, undrilled and unfracked resources lying in the ground.

Dismantling the fossil fuel industry means taking all coal, gas and oil out of circulation and decommissioning the majority of fossil-fuelled vehicles—including the majority of military aircraft, transport and armour.

If we can do that, then the children born in smoke won’t live the rest of their lives in it. +

(PG 37) IMAGE

A transition to renewables faces three serious problems. First, competition between energy producers needs to be prevented or removed (such as by subsidy or nationalisation). Second, systems of transport, agriculture and industry need to be completely transformed, for example by pulling cars off the road and extending public transport to fill the gap, rather than installing cars with electric motors. Finally, there is not enough money in public hands to compensate KRYSTLE MIKAERE

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LIN S DAY T U PPE R-C R E E D

M E T H O D A N D M E A N S F O R C LIM AT E C H A N GE

METHOD AND MEANS FOR CLIMATE CHANGE LINSDAY TUPPER-CREED

What to do about climate change does not have one answer and requires both a method and a means. Science has proven capable of developing the method through the introduction of alternative sources of energy. However, economics has not worked out a means.

Orthodox economics pointed at the myriad of challenges in global cooperation right from the start but decades later we are still yet to effectively move on. In fact, the problem has gotten worse. The world once proved it could come together to do something about greenhouse gases with chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) and the giant hole they made in the ozone layer. Unfortunately, we have not been able to do the same with gases such as carbon dioxide (CO2).

nature of the impact. Unfortunately, its effects hit humans in a weak spot: our optimism. However, one extra cyclone a year in Darwin is much easier to ignore than annihilation from the sun.

The effect of climate change is mathematically scalable and continuously worsening each year but we are so far unable to act accordingly.

Two things are necessary in bettering the climate situation: an enforcement mechanism that motivates everyone to get on board and an intense development in worldwide cooperation.

The international community is slowly working on improving this process, despite the best efforts of actors such as Australia. +

Why do economists think this is a tough problem to solve? The incentive to cut corners. The cruel irony, is that if one global player can cheat, so can they all. Thus, the work does not get done and the planet melts.

Whilst CO2 and CFCs may seem like similar problems, a differentiator is in their sources.

CFCs were primarily used as refrigerants. The trade-off was clear: use something else to cool things down or everyone dies from radiation poisoning. The use of fossil fuels for energy creates several clear and understood problems: the generalised use and availability, the traditional nature of the use and the slow and uncertain 40

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ANN ABRAHAM

PH OTO GR A PH Y

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S TAC E Y C A R R U T H E R S

WITHIN FOUR WALLS

The sauna is quiet and the sounds from the pools are muffled. It is easy to forget where we are. Close our eyes and we could be anywhere or anyone. Anything is possible. It equalises people as nobody can judge who we are. After all, it’s just people in their bathers. The Australian word for swimsuit. Some men wear speedos or ‘budgie smugglers’ - a tight underwear looking swimsuit that reveals all bulges. Most come in with red goggle marks around their eyes and their hair all over the place, styled by their swim caps, which they had been wearing all day. The sauna is a hard place to look good in.

STACE Y CARRUTHERS

An Australian Summer. Iconic Bondi Beach. An open space, wide sandy beaches and bikinis.

The glistening blue ocean, with waves crashing perfectly against the shore, simply impossible to avoid staring at. However, that is not where we find ourselves this summer. Instead, we’re at a city pool centre, sweating it out in the sauna, without a single iconic Bondi wave in sight.

Inside the sauna, the external judgements of society are stripped away. It is difficult to label one and place them in a box when we are in here.

Without the distraction of phones or headphones to block out those around us, we are left with only our own thoughts.

Let me assure you, the spa culture in Melbourne is nothing like that of Finland. Unlike Japan, Morocco or Hungary, Australia has no cultural equivalent to bathing in masses as there are limited non-commercial places to truly relax.

Most public spaces in Melbourne are set aside for concrete, commercial development such as stores, roads or housing.

The sauna fits about six people comfortably. The door sticks to the latch and the glass panel door has to be pulled hard to be opened. Pulling it open requires a force that would make oneself go slightly off-balance for a moment. Inside the sauna, there are two L shaped wooden benches and a concrete floor. One bench higher than the other, creating a top and bottom platform. The 44

bottom one becomes a footrest for those that sit on the top. Sitting down on either bench, we will be staring out at the pool itself.

The heavy air on our chests makes it hard to breathe. The only reprieve is when someone opens the door to come in or exit, letting in a rush of fresh cold air. The pool is always busy.

There are the children’s swimming classes going on and behind them, people are swimming laps.

Occasionally, the scuba divers practise their entry into the pool, whilst the water polo training is going down at the other end. The lifeguard paces around the pool for their entire shift, trying to be observant whilst not focusing on anyone in particular. The pool is like a world in itself shielded away from the concerns of the outside society and within lies another smaller world, that of the sauna.

There are a few rules in this world but no one seems to follow them-Rule one - always sit on a towel. Most don’t use one. Rule two - Make space for others as they come in, don’t be a bench hog. If you are lying down and there is no space for others, sit up. Rule three - Ask others if you want to turn the heat up. Rule four - Don’t speak if others are in quiet contemplation. This rule seems to be harder for some to follow than others, it is almost like seeing someone resting with their eyes closed is an invitation to loudly invade their personal space and initiate conversation.

Today the sauna is busier than usual. Vietnamese businessmen walk in and then sit close together, almost touching each other. They are there almost every day talking to one another and whispering. They jump between slowly walking laps in the pool and the sauna a few times, spending about 10 minutes in each. We sit on the top bench, opposite them, almost touching the wall. Nodding politely as if to signal the beginning of our shared connection for the next few minutes. They nod in return.

Closing our eyes and breathing in the humid air deeply, we are transported to a meditative state of mind. Our breathing slows and our bodies relax. The only sound we can hear is the quiet mumble of them whispering and the world outside. Until a rush of cold air spills over us as the door is forced open hard by a fit muscled man who enters whilst coughing. Clearing his throat, startling us out of our peace. His body looks about 40 but his face looks more like 60.

He continues to clear his throat, as he turns to us and asks how our day is and what we think about the Prime Minister’s trip to Hawaii.

Clearly breaking the no talking rule. Despite our mumbled grunts, we politely reply to his monologue and he proceeds to tell us about his business problems.. ‘The local council are dogs’, he cries. They came around to his hotel on a busy Friday night dinner sitting, demanding to check all his papers. He was angry and thougtht

WIT H IN F O U R WA LLS

we wanted to know about it.

Out of the blue, enter a group of five teenagers who are now blocking out our view of the pool.

They are laughing and giggling with each other.

One girl is flirting with a guy, teasing him about his performance at soccer earlier. The quiet peace we had earlier is now gone. Yet, for some reason we feel comforted. Gradually, we close our eyes once again and try to drown out the sounds of all the voices. After a while, it becomes silent once more and we are alone. Everyone has had enough and has returned back into the world outside to continue the rest of their day. We take a few more deep breaths of the hot heavy air and suddenly realise that we have been sitting in there for too long. We feel headaches coming on and start to feel a little dizzy.

We leave the sauna and step back into the world.

Outside, the pool complex is surrounded by grey. There are buildings, a car park and a major road. Cars, trucks and buses speed past us. This isn’t Bondi Beach, there are no Bondi lifesavers here to save us. It is one of the most liveable cities in the world and there as far as we can see, concrete roads and buildings surround us.

It is a different kind of Australia. Despite the cool breeze, it is hard to catch our breath. +

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H E AT WAVE

HEATWAVE CAITLYN GRANT

At four years old, I saw my mother stand in front of a mirror in a one-piece bathing suit, suck in her stomach and let it out and don a t-shirt to cover herself. I followed suit.

The chances are that if you ask any woman in any room, they would have had a similar experience.

It’s an everyday struggle for so many of us. A struggle that is highlighted and perpetuated by multi-billion-dollar weight-loss and cosmetics industries and the never-ending barrage of social media influencers, photoshop and Facetune In the end, it isn’t really our fault. We are not entirely to blame for the desire to be smaller; to achieve the chiselled body that we are told is the perfect design. And while it isn’t our fault, the onus is on us to change; because this current culture sure as hell isn’t changing fast enough.

When I was seven, my stepmother showed me pictures of myself in a bathing suit. She told me to pick out each part of my body that was “wrong”, that needed to change. It was Christmas; a time supposed to be filled with fun and unwavering carelessness and joy. (keep?)

I have dealt with body issues my whole life. This much has been drilled into my consciousness from a very young age: that fat is bad, and skinny is to be celebrated. The concept of diet culture is one that is ultimately quite black and white with very little balance in between. So why does this 46

harmful cognitive dissonance continue? While recent trends that push self-acceptance and compassion at any size have gained significant traction, our actions toward ourselves appear to be lagging behind. In these hotter months, with skin laid bare, the cognitive dissonance is stark At 15, I didn’t eat for days. The only questions I received were about my diet and exercise, followed by praise on how well it was working.

In a heatwave, I relentlessly debate whether I love or loathe my body in a swimsuit. And honestly, it’s so difficult to learn to love when all we’ve been taught is to hate. These summer months can send me into a spiral filled with comparison and guilt, fuelled by Instagram ads for weight-loss products and image upon image of an ideal life. It may also be a matter of accessibility. Despite the average size and shape of Australian women, shopping for heatwave-appropriate clothing or swimwear can feel discriminatory and shaming for those outside the mould. Whether it’s the models used to advertise, the range of sizing available across styles, or the increased cost associated with seeking support for bigger or smaller busts, or styles that won’t qualify as public nudity on larger shapes - heat can make you sweat for a variety of reasons.

I broke down in a change room, trying on swimsuits. I was 16, a traditional size 6-8, brainwashed into hating everything about myself.

EMILY CO RK @oh de e r.a r t

In a time defined by body positivity and rawness, so many of us are trapped in the middle. Wanting to accept who we are, but also feeling the desperate gravitational pull of what we’ve been taught to feel about our bodies from a young age. This journey is filled with ups and downs days when I will look in the mirror with ease and celebrate the lumps and curves that I’ve been graced with; others when I cannot stand the sight of my reflection passing a window.

happen in the blink of an eye. It will be a journey, filled with ups and downs, but this year, I’ll wear a bathing suit no matter what my brain is telling me.

This is the year that I will swim without a care, wear cropped shirts and find the positivity when there so often feels like there’s none. Let the heat come: I’m ready to stare it down and embrace the sweat, rolls, and chafing. And if you don’t like it, you can kiss my sun-screened arse – dimples, cellulite and all. +

At 19 years old, I have gained 20 kilograms.

Although this is the heaviest I have ever been, this is also the healthiest I have ever been. I am finding balance.

I’m beginning to reclaim my body, taking it one day at a time. It took years to program the ideals of diet-culture and body shaming, so I don’t expect the process of self-acceptance to 47

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Affordable Food / Global Cuisine / Brewers Coffee / Bakeries / Fresh Produce / Groceries /Vegan / Vegetarian / Halal

SYDNEY ROAD STREET PARTY- 1ST MARCH 12-6PM Melbourne’s biggest street party. Celebrate the best of Brunswick music, food, entertainment, traders and people. Between Brunswick Rd & Victoria St. GETTING HERE: Just a 3 minute walk from the Brunswick campus or take the No. 19 tram or Upfield train from the city. @sydneyroadbrunswick #sydneyrdbrunswick sydneyroad.com.au

HEATWAVE PLAYLIST CU R ATO R MO U N I K A G U DA PAT I R U S U WOM E N ’ S O FFI C E R

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C A M I L L A C A B EL LO S EN O R I TA

J O N A S B R OT H ER S S U C KER S

DJ S N A K E , J . B A LV I N , T YG A LO CO CO N T I G O

ED S H ER A N I DON’ T CARE

CATACLYSM THE P ODC A S T

LET YOUR VOICE BE HEARD. EMAIL CATALYST AT: RMITCATALYST@GMAIL.COM

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TAY LO R S WI F T ME

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+ FREIGHT TRAIN SARAH STIVENS AUSTRALIA’ S FIREBEAST JAIDYN L AT TARD INCENTIVING CLIMATE CHANGE LINDSAY TUPPER-CREED BURNING PEARLS ISABELL A BAT TERSBY LIKE A HOUSE ON FIRE CORMAC MILLS RITCHARD

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PUBLISH ED ON ABOR IG INAL L AND