Scripsi 2021 by Ruyton Girls' School

Scripsi

Scripsi Ruyton Literary Publication

Volume 15: 2021 ’

Cover image

Penelope Vegter Year 8

Contents ' Year

Author

Sahana Swaminathan

Madison Hong-Lee

Grace Tan

Leah Reddaway

Taliah Wishart

Lucy Dekker

Mischa Lim Joon

Riya Mandrawa

Lucy Huang

Olivia Williams

Elise Curry

Noraan Elnakeeb

Lucy Alexander

Francesca Yatomi-Clarke

Honey Garcia

Title The Toy Soldier School of Birds Two Worlds Spread My Wings Grand, Mother Tree Aldiydan The Language of Love Different Back to the Beginning Good Luck The Colour Purple Live But Not Be Seen Happy Birthday Floating Home

Page 6 7 8 9 10 11 15 19 23 26 29 32 35 38 41

Contents ‘ Year

Author

Mia Andrewes

Juliet Lipchin

Ying Shao

Amelia Chiang

Ava Dluzniak

Jacalyn Kelly

Ashley Nguyen

Breanna Luo

Maya Marek

Minduli Weeraman

Charlotte Dalton

Annie Timm

Stella McCombe

Renita Yang

Imaan Ikram

Sophia Doufas

Cynthia Hu

Title The Iron Harvest Black Diggers A Ghost from the Past Nigel The Flipside of a Coin The Battle with War Moments in Time A Simple Decision Soul of a Cat Our Consecrated Tears To Banjo Paterson Persuasive Oral: Transcript Persuasive Oral: Transcript Persuasive Oral: Transcript It Took Me One Last Time Persuasive Oral: Transcript A Companion at the Table

Page 44 47 50 52 56 58 61 63 65 69 73 76 79 82 85 88 91

Scripsi offers Ruyton the proud opportunity to celebrate the achievements and experiments of students who wrote creatively and courageously over the course of 2021. Once again, the students worked industriously and voraciously to inspire those of us who were lucky enough to read their work. The writing they have produced reflects their capacity to reflect on their times as well as their capacity to place themselves in the worlds and experiences of others. Students at Ruyton continue to experiment with both form and content; they wrote poems, they wrote dramatic monologues, and they wrote short stories. Students wrote funny, cheerful haikus about memories of childhoods: with pillow fights that felt like soft clouds, and with dinners cooked with grandparents that smelt like spices and garlic. They wrote sad, poignant dramatic pieces that showed deep empathy and engagement with the stories of the Aboriginal soldiers who fought in the wars of the 20th Century. They wrote as ghosts of those men, wives and children, and as the men themselves, afraid and proud of their contributions. Some of them did copious amounts of research, with family members, or online, and with their teachers. Together students and their teachers learned about being a Ukrainian immigrant in the 1970s, about the navigation pathways into Hong Kong in the 1980s, and about the subtle machinations of women seeking to subvert the expectations of their gender in McCarthy’s America. As an English teacher to some of the students in this collection, and a reader of the work of many of them, I would like each student to know how much we love hearing your stories. This year we have selected five of the very best pieces of writing from Years 7-10 and six from Year 11-12, but we also want to acknowledge the range of engaging, memorable pieces that have not been published here. They were full of compassion, and kindness, and humour, and a sense of justice. Each year the students’ writing inspires staff and their peers, and convinces us that your generation is full of grace, wit and care for each other. Thank you students of 2021, and your families, and we hope you enjoy reading these carefully crafted pieces as much as we did.

Editorial Joanna Boer Learning Leader English

‘

The Toy Soldier Sahana Swaminathan Isobelle Carmody Award

By day, the bullets rain over our towns, The planes o’erhead, they paint the sky with grey, By night, we wait and scan the barren grounds, As we recount the horrors of the day,

For Creative Writing Winner Boroondara Literary Award Middle Poetry

They said, ‘Be brave–for freedom, you must fight,’ And we, the wide-eyed, yearned to join the war, The toy soldiers prayed to join them, despite the tales of death, destruction, from the corps,

Third overall

Is truth the thing that tears us from our youth? It pierces us like bullets ripping by, It ravages, it sabotages youth ‘Til all that’s left are remnants of what’s mine. We look back, thinking of what has been lost, Knowing it can’t come back, that line’s been crossed. ‘

Birds destined to fly are trapped in a cage, Their tender wings without meaning and bliss. Children forced to obey, read every page, Our emotions all teachers will dismiss.

School of Birds Madison Hong-Lee Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing

A letter is all that students care for. Long hours of sitting in a crowded row. Each year we progress, the teachers demand more, Endless ruthless rules, they grow, and they grow. Time, running away from me every test. The stress is like a prison for my mind. Always compared, we wish to be the best, Balance and break is what we want to find. We’re all birds, our imaginations lost, We have learnt all there is, but at what cost? ‘

Runner-up

Two Worlds Grace Tan Isobelle Carmody Award

I swung so high, I flew up in the sky, I felt invincible just like a king. Up high above the world in flight was I, But now, what lies beyond the playground swing?

For Creative Writing Shortlist

I want to grow and spread my wings so wide, I am a bird, feathers add as I learn, But what if what I learn will then decide my future? Soon my head filled with concern. I have all that I want, I need, and love! Should I expand if my life is great. Why? My presence, perfect, peaceful like a dove I’m torn between two worlds, I start to cry. But ‘click’ I’m a big kid, can’t turn back time. Can only look forward, toward my prime. ‘

I am a bird locked in a dreary cage. What is the point of wings if I can’t fly? Mum’s train-length list of rules leaves me enraged, Doubting I’ll ever learn her reasons why.

Spread my Wings Leah Reddaway Isobelle Carmody Award

At dads, I can spread my wings and fly far, Towards the sky and up over blue seas. At dads I could fly with the smiling stars, Without a care he’s not flying with me. Divorce is a difficulty for some, But I took advantage of it, too much. 12 year old me would shake off time with mum– Thought her rules were to keep me in her clutch. I wish I wasn’t so young and naive. Regret wasted years, I now can’t retrieve. ‘

For Creative Writing Shortlist

Grand, Mother Tree Taliah Wishart

My veins and stem clung tightly to the tree, under the protection of my mother. Through opening leaves of the autumn spree, saplings different shades, tones and discolour.

Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

Fronds bonded together in the household under the care of the grand, mother tree. As the years grew cold and the leaves stood old, parting from the tree they called family. I wanted not to let go, but to stay, my nurtured stem reluctantly unfurled, vigorous winds carried me far away, Through the yards and the hay, dim clouds uncurled. Sat in the dense soil, years passed, branches grew. Leaves piled on my bough; life began anew. ‘

‘Amira! It’s 6:05 already, are you out of bed?’ Her mother’s voice cut through the thick, smoky air, clearly tinged with irritability. ‘I’m coming!’ She managed to groan, rubbing her eyes slowly with her knuckles as she slid out of bed, feet brushing the concrete floor. Not even a week had passed since they arrived in Melbourne and already Amira was faced with three major problems: the putrid smoke smell that was already beginning to cling to her clothes, the absence of her hijab on the poor excuse of a bedside table and the wintry air, already prickling her bare skin, as if daring her to give up and go back to sleep. The sensory overload was already becoming overbearing–here, everything and everyone was everywhere. Ok, no. I’m going to be positive! Amira promised herself. How easily that simple promise was broken once she got an eyeful of the singular, grey piece of toast waiting for her at the kitchen table. Sighing, Amira picked at her food, gingerly eating around the edges and staying away from the especially hard centre of the bread. Only half an hour later, Amira found herself pulling at her mother’s hand, tugging her towards the shiny school gates, giddy with excitement. ‘Amira, calm down!’ She scolded. ‘But I want to get in there!’ ‘Alright, alright… good luck at school,’ she said, kissing the top of Amira’s head gently and letting go of her hand. ‘I’ll be back at 3:30.’ ‘Ok!’ Amira replied. Her stomach was like a butterfly slaughterhouse, churning as she stepped through the gates. The school was a looming brick building with windows plastered with coloured paper and the backs of worksheets, only the white and Blu Tack visible alongside metal gutters underlining the windows. A playground stood on the left of the main building, a jumble of multicoloured metallic poles and frames clung to by children– none of whom looked like Amira, not in the slightest. Still, she dashed forwards, bag bouncing on her back. ‘Hi! My na–’ Ring, ring! The tinkling sound of the bell echoed through the yard, cutting Amira off and causing the children to sprint off towards the building. Amira followed, attempting to blend in with the hoards of children fighting to be first through the doors. Once she pushed herself inside, Amira glanced down at the words inked on her hand in blue pen: class 5B. Peering around the classes, Amira’s eyes latched onto a green door labelled 5B, quickly walking forwards to

Aldiydan (Arabic: worms) Lucy Dekker Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Winner

Aldiydan (Arabic: worms)

slip inside; her first day in an Australian school, and she was already a minute late! She set down her bag next to the others and sat on the floor, pretending not to be fazed when the eyes of her peers flickered from her patched clothing to the lavender cloth covering her hair. ‘Ok, class. Good morning!’ A voice called out from behind Amira, causing her to startle. She turned around, her own brown eyes meeting another pair. ‘Oh, you must be Amira! Will you stand for me please?’ She asked as the class chorused a dry ‘good morning’. Suddenly shy, Amira stood, eyes locked on the ground. ‘Amira, my name is Miss Williamson, it’s lovely to meet you. Everyone, please make Amira feel welcomed in 5B!’ Miss Williamson clapped her hands together cheerily, gesturing for Amira to join the class in taking the food from their bags. Vegemite sandwiches and glossy red apples were passed around the room, accompanied by slices of cheese slathered on soft white bread. Amira pulled out her own lunchbox and examined its contents–ptitim with broccolini, shredded capsicum, lentils and long strips of eggplant. Trying to hide the food, Amira suddenly felt the lunchbox being tugged from her grasp. ‘What is that?’ The boy now holding her lunchbox exclaimed, his face contorted with disgust as he picked at the pasta. ‘It looks like worms!’ He exclaimed, holding it around to show the rest of the class. ‘Can I… could I please have that back?’ Amira asked quietly, holding out her hand for the lunchbox. ‘Yeah, come on, Jace. What are you even doing?’ A girl with a long, auburn ponytail agreed from beside Amira, causing the boy to roll his eyes. ‘Fine, Lia, she can have it,’ he sneered, tipping the lunchbox on its side, sending the contents flying through the air, landing on Amira’s shirt. Miss Williamson gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth and rushing forward, inspecting the damage with an expression of worry. ‘What happened here?’ ‘Jace–’ Lia tried, but Amira cut her off. ‘I... spilt my lunch, I’m s-sorry,’ she stuttered, looking at the floor. ‘Oh my, let’s get you cleaned up.’ ‘I can do it, it’s alright,’ Amira assured her, running out of the classroom and to the bathrooms, cheeks painted crimson and eyes

brimming with tears. The door swung open behind her, revealing Lia, a sympathetic smile on her face. ‘Are you ok, Amira?’ Lia asked, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder. ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she smiled gratefully. ‘Just for the record, I think your lunch looked really good. Nothing like worms at all.’ ‘Thanks, Lia.’ ‘Wait… I think I have an idea,’ Lia said, a devilish smile spreading across her face.

Aldiydan (Arabic: worms)

‘

The next morning, Amira was once again bouncing along the path, even more excited than the previous day to walk through those silver gates. This time, she wasn’t alone. Amira could feel the corners of her mouth tugging upwards at the mere thought of what was to come. ‘Amira! Come on!’ Lia grinned, her warm hand closing around Amira’s forearm, pulling her forwards towards one of the garden beds. Lia handed her a plastic shovel and a container, nodding for her to begin. ‘So. How will this work again?’ Amira asked, digging into the soft dirt. ‘I’ll take these up to the classroom just before break, and then all you have to do is wait.’

‘

Eleven o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. Throughout class, Amira and Lia exchanged knowing glances and silent laughing fits as they (im)patiently awaited the bell. When it finally rang, the two girls rushed to their bags, pulling out their lunches and taking a seat directly next to Jace’s bag. As he walked up to collect his lunch, he sent a glare towards Amira, lifting his chin and pulling out his lunchbox. For fear of looking suspicious, the girls averted their eyes, listening for the faint click of Jace’s sandwich container opening. Suddenly, an ear-splitting shriek filled the air, along with the distinct clatter of the container hitting the floor. ‘What was that?’ Lia asked slowly. ‘THERE, ON THE FLOOR!’ Jace shouted furiously, pointing at his ruined sandwich, crawling with worms. ‘Maybe you got some of my lunch by accident?’ Amira suggested, amusement hinting at her voice. ‘You–you did this!’

Aldiydan (Arabic: worms)

‘Did what? Do you need any help cleaning that up?’ Lia asked sweetly. Jace merely muttered under his breath, brushed off his clothes and sat back down, ignoring both the worm-infested sandwich on the floor and the remnants of embarrassment colouring his cheeks as the girls scampered to the bathroom, stomachs cramping with laughter as they gasped for breath. He most definitely wouldn’t be bothering them again. ‘

I was ready. I frowned, hoisting my cheap polyester skirt up higher. Everyone’s skirts seemed to be shorter and shorter these days, and their tops, barely dipped past their belly buttons. Mum said it was just because everyone was outgrowing their old clothes, but I thought otherwise. ‘Fei, are you ready to go? I have your lunch ready!’ ‘Thanks Mama, I’ll be down in a minute!’ I thundered down the soft carpet stairs, out the door and onto the driveway. I walked to school. I’d walked ever since I was ten years old. Mama never learnt to drive when we moved from Taiwan, and Baba was a full-time engineer. I walked with a jovial spring in my step, my pink Hello Kitty thermos clunking around in my bag. My first day of high school and I was already late! It was exactly the same as primary school, just across the road, but suddenly all I could see were old and mature year 12s and gossiping year tens. Thank goodness I went to an all-girls’ school. The thought of boys terrified me, but these girls were all so pretty with blonde and shiny hair, their legs brown from the hot Aussie summer, I couldn’t help noticing my short black bob and pale skinny legs under my long skirt. I stood out like a cow in a field of sheep. Frowning slightly, I opened my timetable. ‘Hmm science first period’ I thought vaguely. ‘First period starts in… 3 minutes!’ I ran as fast as my legs would take me. Breathless, I burst into the room. ‘SORRY! I’m late. I just slept in! And the traffic…’ I trailed off awkwardly, clearly my lame excuses fooled no one. My peers all stared up at me, a crowd of girls gathered around the large table at the back caught my attention, shiny glossed lips whispering behind their perfectly manicured hands, sneering in my direction. I spent the rest of class sneaking glances at them, envy running through my veins and cold thoughts running through my head. What’s wrong with you Fei? You didn’t have to burst in like that. You’re an embarrassment. You’re too Chinese to ever fit in. The periods dragged on. First, second, third. And when fourth period finally ended I realised the day wasn’t a total sham, I still had Mama’s lunch to look forward to! I found myself a quiet spot, in the old rose garden, with my hot

The Language of Love Mischa Lim Joon Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Runner-up

The Language of Love

lunch. Alone. In primary school I spent every lunch time alone doing homework, embroidery, sewing, sketching. I spent every spare moment being productive and yet I had procrastinated with the simple task of meeting people. I was invisible. I unscrewed the lid of my thermos and took a whiff of the sweet and salty aroma of the char siu bao and savoury scent of ma’s lo bak go (turnip cake). It smelt like home. I took a luscious bite of a bao when I heard loud giggling. ‘Oh my gosh, shut up! Oh SHE’S here!’ ‘Nee how!’ My brief moment of peace was interrupted as they came and sat themselves down. Their massive group meant I was shoved into the thick of a bush. I shifted awkwardly as I caught glimpses of every girl’s lunch box. Their lunches looked far different to mine. Kale salad, protein bars, avocado bagels and green juices. Silently I reopened my thermos, taking a bite of turnip cake when... ‘What is that?’ ‘Ew that stinks. Get that away from me.’ ‘Is that supposed to smell like my grandma’s dead cat?’ ‘It’s probably dog meat. You know all Chinese people eat their pets!’ As torrents of racist insults washed over me, my own harsh thoughts came flooding back. Why am I so weird? What’s wrong with me? Why do I have to be so Chinese? I ran off as tears streamed down my face, the sound of laughter and gagging fading away. I chucked the rest of the food in the binmy stomach growled loudly. I’d never forget the harsh remarks, the sneers, the shame. In my primary years, I had never experienced the discrimination and hate that was just showered down on me. I was done. I was done being the fool. I was done being so Chinese. My sudden realisation meant, on the way to school, I took a detour to the local café. I often bought a premade salad or wrap, stowing it away in my bag whilst tossing my mother’s steaming buns, dumplings and rice into the nearest bin. I did this every day for 2 weeks. The girls in my class let me sit with them, their racist words replaced by offhanded compliments. Even though they never really acknowledged me as a friend, I still felt good. I belonged. I fit

in yet the guilt chipped away at me, the dread when my mother asked me whether I had enjoyed my lunch after school. The excuses I made for maxing out my debit card. Was it worth it? It was a rainy Monday morning when things changed for the worst. I had slept in and woke up with a startle. I stumbled down the stairs and picked up a note deposited on my bag. ‘Gone for walk. See you after school baby. I got up early and made you your favourite fish congee for lunch today. Lots of love, Ma.’ I rushed out the door. As per usual, I took the detour to the local café and picked up the last grass-tasting, rocket salad. I was midway through pouring ma’s fish congee into the bin when I saw a familiar black bob across the road. The yellow rain boots she always wore on wet days and the hand-knitted scarf I had given her for Mother’s Day last year. Ma. As the crossing lights turned green, she stood for a second, a pained expression crossed her face. She turned on her heel, shoulders slumped and ran toward home. I couldn’t stop thinking about her all day, even when one of the girls let me help her with algebra and sat with me all through maths. I didn’t feel like I fit in anymore. I didn’t even know who I was. Ma never mentioned that day. She would plaster a smile on her face at yum cha when I mentioned how good the dumplings were and congratulated me on my good marks, but it felt rigid. As for my school lunches, she stopped making her traditional Chinese food. Instead of the dumplings, buns and rice, some dry Bakers Delight bread and Vegemite were left on the stone-cold counter. I had cast a barrier between us and for years after, she refrained from showing much emotion toward me. As a young and careless teenager, I had never stopped once to think just how hurt Ma was, how my foolish attempt to fit in had hurt her and our relationship. Now I realise, food was her love language, her inability to drive me places, come to parent’s day or understand the western trends I had babbled on about so frequently, meant food was the only way she knew how to communicate, to show me how she loved me, and I had thrown that love and care straight into the bin. Now I am 20 years old. I can’t even remember the names of those girls in my class, I have good friends and for once, I am proud to be Chinese in a society of Aussies. Ma started a day job yesterday

The Language of Love

at the local Asian market. I got up at the crack of dawn kneading dough, steaming char siu bao and pan frying turnip cake. I left my old Hello Kitty thermos on the counter for Ma to take to work and left the house for uni. With the thermos I left a note. ‘Had to leave early for my group assignment. I got up early to make your favourite char siu bao. Love Fei.’ ‘

At the first glance of her bright pink checkered dress, I immediately despised her. Mari was the exact reason why I moved to Australia. I was desperate to get away from my neat freak, obnoxiously cutesy culture, and yet here was this girl with her red bow and shiny leather shoes. In a slow, condescending voice, she explained that she was my school tour guide and that she moved from Japan a week ago. ‘I don’t need your help, I think I’ll be fine thanks.’ ‘Oh... so you speak English?’ ‘Yeah, what did you expect?’ There used to be an Australian exchange student who stayed in my family’s house back in Japan. She read me the same picture story book every night about a little rebellious girl. I couldn’t understand her but thought she was so cool. I was determined to be like her, so I decided to learn English. I wanted to master it, dying to see the look of amazement on every student’s face when I spoke to them. But scratch that fantasy, because the first person I talked to at the school didn’t seem amazed at all and even looked disappointed with the fact that I could speak the language well. So much for that first impression. Our steps down the busy passageways were met with dirt and grime on the floors, and no student could be seen cleaning it with a sponge and mop. No one wore their indoor slippers or carried their cutlery in colourful lunch sacks. I loved it here–walking through the hallways with pride, my hair down, unsanitised hands and carrying my cushiony school bag. Mari took me to a brightly lit classroom with whiteboards on the wall and tables arranged in weird geometric shapes. Faces turned around, perplexed eyes stared. Normally people would blush and back away, but I bursted out laughing. ‘You should see the look on all of your faces!’ The students looked at each other and started laughing too. I glanced over to see Mari with her arms crossed and rolling her eyes. ‘Hello, you must be Asami, I am your teacher Ms Ryan. Why don’t you introduce yourself to the class?’ said a kind looking woman, gesturing towards the front of the classroom. She spoke in the same tone as Mari which was irritating, but by now I thought that maybe all Australians spoke that way. ‘Um, hi, I’m Asami... I’m 12 years old and I’m excited to get to know you all.’

Different Riya Mandrawa Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

Different

‘And where do you come from?’ ‘I arrived from Nara, a city in Japan a couple of days ago.’ There was an awkward silence as the class looked at Mari and then back at me. Mari with her crisp clean dress and neatly tied bun. Me with the baggy jumper, ripped jeans and messy hair. Then there was a bombardment of questions. ‘Are you related to the emperor?’ ‘Doesn’t everyone there live in a huge temple?’ ‘Do you have a pet snow monkey?’ ‘Can I sit with you at lunch today?’ ‘Do you eat sushi EVERY DAY?’ Nodding along to everyone’s questions without really listening, I was focused on Mari and the jealousy that was consuming her. I assumed that she used to get all the attention until I got here, which made me feel somewhat content. ‘

I felt comfortable walking home without the bulky orange vests I was forced to wear back in Japan. ‘GET ON THE SIDEWALK!’ shouts a voice. Sidewalk? There were no sidewalks back where I came from. I rushed to the side as a motorbike zoomed past me. ‘Trying to be rebellious comes with a cost, Asami. You need to stop lying about yourself.’ I turned around to see, yes you guessed it, Mari standing there with her arms crossed. I started to walk off in the opposite direction but she stopped me. ‘What are you hiding? You’re making our culture sound so weird! No wonder you left the country.’ ‘Don’t forget that you left too.’ I leave Mari looking stunned. ‘

The next day, my classmates asked if I was really Japanese since I was very different from Mari. I answered, questioning why I would lie and explained that I was different from the rest. Because it was true–I was different from the typical Japanese person. And it wasn’t on purpose, I didn’t try to act all unique to bring myself attention. I connected more with the people here in Australia and even felt less judged than back in Japan. But some people didn’t seem to believe me. Mari burst into class with a long handwritten speech in one hand. My stomach started to churn at the glance of the neat, cursive

handwriting. ‘Hello Asami, or should I say... morning beauty.’ There was a shared snicker amongst the class as she approached me with a sneaky grin. ‘She’s a liar, everyone. She isn’t related to the emperor. She doesn’t live in a fancy temple and she’s NOT EVEN JAPANESE!’ Emotions were spiraling in my belly. Frustration. Embarrassment. Panic. Unable to speak back because Mari was right... while I am still Japanese, I did lie to all my classmates. ‘Look at her face going red. Asami means morning beauty but she doesn’t even look that pretty. I bet she just made up her whole identity, let alone her name!’ she said with a laugh. Looking around I saw faces judging me, their staring eyes gave me a shiver down my spine. Speechless. But then a grin slid across my face. Mari. I remembered that name. It was the name of a fierce heroine in a picture book the exchange student used to read to me. ‘Oh Mari’ I said ‘how rebellious of you to accuse me of this.’ ‘

A few days later, Mari left the school. No one knew where she went. I never saw her again... and I would be lying to say that I wasn’t happy about it.

Different

‘

Over a decade later, I decided to visit my hometown disguised as a tourist. My tour guide was a friendly lady who spoke perfect English, despite being Japanese. She led us through the cobblestone streets and parks with herds of deer. We visited temples where we thanked our ancestors, and palaces where we gawked at the beautifully decorated rooms. I could see the look of wonder on the rest of the tourist’s faces, wishing that they could stay in this wondrous place forever. And all that time, the only thing I could feel was regret. My effort to disconnect myself from this culture which most people dreamed of being a part of. The direct roots I pushed away with a sense of pleasure. We visited one particular temple which I remember visiting as a child. Little rectangles of wood were hung on a tree with wishes that the people had written. I searched for the one with the bright blue gel ink standing out from the black calligraphy. In amongst the

Different

branches I found it, yet it was in the foreign characters that I had forgotten how to read over time. The tour guide noticed my frustration and came over to read it out to me. She read ‘I wish to be different’ as I felt my face going hot and choked back tears. She reached over and handed me another wish. It was written when she was twelve. ‘It reads–I wish to be different.’ I held the wish in my hand, with a feeling of relief, while laughing and crying at the same time. Because at the bottom of the wish, written in neat, cursive handwriting was ‘the rebellious one.’

‘

Why did I agree to immigrate to Australia? I exasperatedly asked myself for the hundredth time since my arrival in Melbourne. Immigration was most definitely not one of the situations I expected myself to be facing when I lived in China for the first eight years, six months and nine days of my life. In fact, immigration seemed to be a faraway fairytale for the young Siyuan Huang, who lived contentedly in Shanghai, with a stable life that had no life-changing events. Perhaps that was exactly the reason why I was fooled into permanently moving in 2016 to a city that was 8050 kilometres away, on the other side of Earth. There was no doubt that I dreaded the first day of school, particularly since my mother had decided that it would be a genius idea to not go to school on the first day of term three. ‘You should walk around the neighbourhood on the first day and observe how the Australian students go to school,’ said my mother, who had completed her education in China and was also clueless about Australian school life. Although I wanted to be in uniform with my schoolmates, it didn’t occur to me that my mother would behave in such a mortifying manner when she spotted a student from my primary school with an East Asian appearance. Not to mention, that was the first encounter I had with someone of similar age in Australia. ‘What does everyone bring to school for lunch and snacks? What subjects do you study?’ Even though I acquired essential knowledge to become a typical Australian student, my mum’s wave of questions for the student, Nick, had ruined my confidence in successfully fitting in. To this day, I still wonder what the reason behind my embarrassment was. Did my crush for Nick, which lasted over two years, begin with true love at first sight and thus caused my urge to maintain a good impression? Or was it purely because I was incapable of socialising with strangers, even if the said stranger could speak my language, in a foreign country? Either way, my mum’s questions seemed to implant the outsider feeling that I still experience now at thirteen. ‘Hurry up! Nowadays, you young people are so ungrateful and always complain about how early you have to wake up. When I went to school in China, I had to wake up before the sun rised and walk so far away to get an education.’ I immediately rolled my eyes when I heard the beginning of my mum’s lecture. I had already memorised this exact story word-by-word after hearing it from almost every elder relative.

Back to the Beginning Lucy Huang Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

Back to the Beginning

‘

‘Class, listen up! We have someone joining us, please welcome her,’ my new teacher announced to the class and smiled warmly at me as a sign for me to start introducing myself. Fidgeting with my fingers, I stared down at the clean, carpeted floor and refused to make eye contact with him. Pinching my arm, my mum who stood beside me gave me a side-eye and sighed disappointingly. ‘Um, hi, I’m Lucy, um yeah…’ eventually, after moments of complete silence, I gathered all my courage and decided to speak up. I instantly felt all the blood in my body rush up to my face as more than twenty pairs of eyes turned to me again. They look different from the foreigners I saw on the television back home in China, I thought after glancing at my classmates’ faces. ‘Lucy, why don’t you go sit next to Melody, she will be a great friend and can help you with translations.’ My body froze when I heard my teacher’s instructions; was I really going to socialise with Australians? The butterflies in my stomach didn’t ease when my mum pat my shoulders and silently encouraged me to officially start my adventure in Melbourne, Australia. ‘Ring, ring!’ Suddenly, during what seemed to be an English lesson, the class was disrupted by the harsh ringing of bells and a song that I couldn’t understand. Anxiety submerged me again, now what do we do? Today’s experience felt like a game, every new level I reached, I would encounter a new challenge. Now it was time for recess and embarrassingly, my teacher told Melody to show me around the school during this break. Even the birds are accompanied and chirping happily, I thought helplessly as I sat alone outside my classroom, waiting for Melody to get back from the bathroom. After what seemed like forever and a load of weird stares from my new schoolmates, I decided to pretend to be one of them and wander around the school by myself. Suddenly, I felt time slow down as my jaw dropped in shock from my sight: there she was, Melody, sitting among girls from my class, chatting away in another world. My heart shattered in pieces. Although I had known Melody for less than an hour, she still held an important place in my heart, as the only person I could have a conversation with, out of the entire school. From that moment, I knew I had to change. I had to adapt to them. I will never fit in if I stay as the quiet, shy Chinese girl who

can’t speak English. I was determined to step out of my comfort zone and make friends with the Australians.

Back to the Beginning

‘

It’s been five years now. My Australian life has progressed further than I would have ever imagined: I have a solid friendship group and I can speak English fluently. However, there is one thing that has never changed: my closest friends being Chinese-Australian. It seems like a curse I cannot escape; no matter how hard I try to fit in with other groups, I never truly belong. Honestly, I think it’s because having Chinese friends would ensure that my Chinese identity would never vanish. To this day, I still often wonder what my life would be like if I had not immigrated to Australia. The most genuine answer has always been–I want to be fully Chinese. ‘

Good Luck Olivia Williams Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

My leg begins to shake, my school shoes tapping against the hardwood floors. Students surround me, hunched over at the desks, mid conversation with their friends. Foreign words fill the air, the thickness of the accents surrounding me. The teacher keeps talking, rambling on and on, flashing through endless slides. I try to make out what he’s saying, piecing together strings of the few words I understand. ‘Lunch… English… Australia… Pencil–kase?’ The words slip through the air, shapeshifting on the tips of tongues, knitting together unfamiliar sentences. I freeze. The teacher’s looking at me… no… he’s speaking to me. Repeating his question once more, I watch as heads slowly start to turn around, all facing towards me. ‘I… I–I don’t… errrrrr… Speak?’ The class laughs, cackling hyenas, me their helpless prey. ‘Mewt are ya?’ He exclaims, or at least that’s what it sounds like. ‘You don’t uhnder-stahnd.’ They all look at me expectantly, clearly waiting for a response. ‘... eh… Yeah’ Annoyed, he sighs, fumbling with his phone. ‘Ah! Hear it is! Ch-ran-z-late’ He types in something, before pressing a button and making it speak out loud. I immediately recognise the words. They’re in my language. ‘What’s the answer to question four?’ I feel slightly relieved, it’s reassuring to hear those familiar sounds again, but then I panic. What’s question four? Time slowly creeps by until the class is finally over. I managed to avoid being called on again; the teacher didn’t seem bothered enough to go through the process of trying to talk to me. Everyone takes their time getting their stuff together, pausing to talk with their friend. Awkwardly clinging to my books, I wait for the rest of the class to trickle out into the hall before continuing. Squeezing through the tight knit packs of highschool friend groups, I start to realise just how much I stand out here. Of course I don’t fully understand English and haven’t made life-long friendships yet. But I should at least have someone to talk to. I open my locker, not yet decorated with photos of celebrities, friends and family like everyone else’s. Digging through my bag for my purse, I pull out the note my parents left for me this morning. ‘Good luck!,’ signed with a loopy love heart. Sighing, I try to smooth out the crumpled edges. I wanted to keep it nice, maybe to stick in

my journal. I should have something to document this day, my fourth day in Australia and my first at the new school. Well, my new school. Although it definitely doesn’t feel like ‘mine’ yet. We had to move to Australia to find work for my parents. Jobs were drying up back home, and so they decided to move away from the rest of the family, to look after us. ‘Us’ being my parents and I. I’ve never had any siblings, but back home my cousins adopted the roles of sisters and brothers. God, what I would do to have them here with me now. I finish putting my things away, and close my locker shut. Most of the others have already dispersed, off to go eat lunch with their friends. I focus, trying to remember the route to the canteen, but the endless hallways of classrooms are beyond confusing. I’m walking around hopelessly, with not a single clue of my location. I give up in the end, and try to non-suspiciously trail behind a group that seems to be heading there too. My plan works out, luckily, and I join into the long mess of a line that leads up to the counter. Looking around, I realise I don’t recognise a single one of these foods. After a couple of minutes, I finally reach the front of the line. Grabbing a couple foods that don’t look too off-putting, I go to pay. The lady starts putting the items into the register, so I take some money from my purse. Seeing what I’m doing, a strange look washes over her face. Seeming confused, she starts to speak, but I finally realise what’s wrong. My heart drops. I can feel my face reddening over. The loud hum of the students around me disappears. My palms are hot and sweaty. I don’t think anything more embarrassing could ever possibly happen to me. I don’t have any Australian money. The notes in my hand are all from back home, and they are all that I have. Trying to move quickly, I apologise in a rush. I put the things back where I found them, not wanting to stall the queue, but all eyes are already on me. The cashier is sighing, clearly bothered, and people in the crowd are whispering to each other. Everyone is staring at me, and I can feel the heat of their eyes burning into my skin. It’s all too much. I rush to the bathroom.

Good Luck

I stumble in, the noise of the hallway disappearing as the door creeps shut. The lights are bright and flickering as my sight starts to blur. No. This can’t be happening. I can’t cry. Suddenly the door swings open and a girl walks in. I quickly duck into one of the stalls, trying not to look suspicious. ‘Hey,’ she says in an unsure voice, ‘Are you okay?’ I ignore her, thinking that she’s looking for someone else. Why on earth would she be talking to me? ‘I saw you didn’t have any money at the canteen...’ My attention is caught. She is talking to me. ‘I have some spare food if you want… I wasn’t really going to eat it all.’ Tentatively, I open the stall door to see her standing there, a welcoming grin painted on her face. ‘You can even come sit with me, if you would like...’ ‘

Colour is perception. The world around us is translated into data, characterising our surroundings with every hue imaginable. Planet Earth is alive with colour, and yet, we don’t think to pause and appreciate. We forget how beautiful our world can be, how many treasures are hiding in plain sight. ‘

‘Aria, your father is visiting today, and he would love to see you.’ Standing in the kitchen, unwashed breakfast dishes in hand, I feel my plate slip from my grasp. The delicate floral patterns distort as the plate smashes, sending shards sprawling across the tiles. My mother gazes expectantly at me, a question forming on her lips. ‘What happened between the two of you?’ She hesitates, as if she is afraid that her words will tear apart my fragile skin and bones, leaving only my wretched heart. But she knows what happened. And so do I. ‘

My father was a painter, his head always in the clouds. When I was younger, I’d join him in his faraway place, and we would explore together. We would swallow his happy pills, and my bedroom would become alive with colour. ‘Purple,’ he would grin, our minds in a haze, ‘is the most beautiful colour. I believe that God gave us purple purely for pleasure.’ Together, we painted my walls every shade of purple, combining pinks and blues until we found the perfect shade. But when my mother discovered that our painting adventures involved the consumption of hallucinogenic drugs, we were banished from our faraway place. My father disappeared from my childhood, and he became known to me only as ‘Mr _____’. My bedroom walls were painted a mottled grey.

The Colour Purple Elise Curry Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Winner

‘

I slip past gossiping students and irritable teachers, trying to remain unnoticed. The posters that occupy the hallways of my school boast inclusivity and diversity, but the students themselves paint a different picture. Anyone who looks different is regarded as less than, a product of an elitist private school. My only interactions with fellow students consist of answering the one question that I don’t know how to respond to: are you a boy or a

The Colour Purple

girl? Most days, I am able to mumble an incoherent response and evade any further conversation, but today my mind is elsewhere. I can’t risk the words buried deep in my mind escaping from their graves. When I was younger, my androgynous facial features were a great burden. If I was asked about my gender, I would take several calming breaths before replying, ‘I’m a girl. Can’t you see?’ I would sneer at anyone who dared to ask, frightening away my chances of friendship. But as I prepare to enter adulthood, I find that I no longer feel like a girl, or a boy either. I exist in the inbetween, a colour created by the amalgamation of two pre-existing colours. Words like ‘boy’ and ‘girl’ don’t define me; my identity is both and neither. ‘I am non-binary.’ The words are a delightful whisper, dancing from my lips. But they are secret words, words that I have not dared to share with anyone. If I were braver, I would tell everyone who looked my way, howling at the world that I, Aria Kalili, am non-binary, and I would like to be called Ari from this point onwards, thank you very much. But my fear is suffocating; what if I bare my heart and soul, only to be discarded? What if I am abandoned, forgotten and ignored? I feel as if only my father would understand, and I long to tell him. But he has been replaced by ‘Mr _____’, a man who resembles my father, but is unlike him in every way. ‘

Each time ‘Mr _____’ visits, my mother asks the same question.

When I don’t answer, she admits defeat, and I spend the evening hiding in my bedroom. But today, she seems desperate, and I know my refusal will devastate her. I love her too much to let that happen. ‘

‘Mr _____’ and I perch on my bed, as far away from each other as possible. ‘Aria, ku’uipo. She is so grown, so beautiful.’ I feel myself prickle at his words. The emotions that I have spent years repressing claw at my throat, and the words dart out my mouth before I can process them. ‘I am non-binary. My pronouns are they/them, not she/her, and my name is Ari, not Aria.’ The silence is deafening. I examine ‘Mr _____’ as he tries to swallow my words, and I am overwhelmed with feeling. Anticipation, regret, hopelessness, panic. And strangely, relief. For the first time in a long time, I am truly myself. I am completely vulnerable, and yet, I am no longer afraid. ‘Thank you.’ His eyes are alight with love, a love I had forgotten existed. ‘Thank you?’ ‘Yes, thank you. For telling me. I may need time to adjust, so please be patient. But I love you, just the way you are. I am so sorry that you thought otherwise.’ His acceptance startles me, but I realise that the only acceptance I need is my own. In this knowledge I find a quiet strength, that I am brave enough to howl at the world, or simply to explain my identity to someone without fearing their response. My father holds me in his arms, both of us sobbing, and the icy betrayal I once felt begins to thaw. ‘I love you, dad.’ ‘I love you, Ari Kalili.’ A thought seems to occur to him, and he grins. ‘Kalili is the name of a violet native to Hawaii, where your ancestors are from. You are my violet, mea aloha; the perfect combination of pink and blue.’

The Colour Purple

‘

Live But Not Be Seen Noraan Elnakeeb Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Runner-up

The glances. The passing comments. The ongoing judgment. A weekly, daily, hourly part of a young mother’s life. Jamila. A familiar figure Jamila sees on the 109 tram, slowly turns his ample body to face her on a tempestuous morning. She sees rage right through the transparency of his narrow, deep chocolate eyes looking straight into her’s. His broad shoulders and muscular build wrapped in a murky green puffer jacket, trudges towards her with a heavy step, pushing people out of his direct path to the young mother. Jamila’s heart begins to race. She anticipates anxiously what is coming. Tears begin welling up in her eyes as his grey, stained boots are no further than a few centimeters from her long dress and her tightly wrapped, blue hijab. Jamila feels like sinking into the speckled grey tram floor, like she always had. But today she will not. The perpetual insults blur out as Jamila remembers... Jamila’s childhood was always a chaotic scramble for safety growing up in Palestine. She never felt secure and was always afraid that Israeli civilians would dictate and occupy her crumbling family home. Despite this continuous chaos and fear amongst her hometown, growing up, she never felt like an outsider. After all, she looked and dressed just as everybody else. It was normal to walk around the dry mud streets with a hijab and a long dress on a scorching evening. No one judged Jamila for her choice of wearing the hijab. She fitted in. Nevertheless, the hardships of living in an occupied territory overrode the presence of feeling accepted. Escaping the hardships and chaos in Palestine, Jamila fled to a safer country. Australia. Although Jamila now lived in a secure country, the acceptance of her religion was in strife. She could not pass a day without receiving a nasty comment from a stranger, who would often have long hair dancing in the wind. No one was quite like the young mother. The critics believed that with a roll of an eye they could get rid of all Muslims. They took one look at Jamila and instantly decided Muslims are wrong, after all media portrayed her religion as such. She never took to heart what critics would say. Instead she would walk away, leaving the injustice behind her. Although Jamila always tried to act resilient, at times she would cry inside, her thin and frail figure shuddering. Wishing to return home where she was not made to feel like an outsider. Instead she would wish to disappear. Live, but not be seen, she would tell herself.

The muffled sounds slowly return, turning into sharp, painful, insults. There he was. His towering broad shoulders gave rise to a shadow falling over Jamila’s small build, as his deep chocolate eyes gawk down at her. The smell of a strong, fish-like odour fills her immediate space, as if circling only her headscarf. His scaly, yellow skin and short blond bristled hair look down upon her timid face, unmasking his resentful feelings towards the hijab. Tears swiftly roll down Jamila’s cheeks, as she tries to elude away from the middle-aged man’s deathly stare, but nothing seems to shake him off. So, she hastily turns her back to the soaring figure before her, walking away with her head hanging low towards the rackety tram floor, once again leaving behind her rights in the tight grip of an arrogant man. She feels she has lost the battle. She is stepped all over for simply her choice of wearing the headscarf. Live, but not be seen, she tells herself, as she faces her back to the crowd. As Jamila races as fast as she can away from the public eye, she feels the firm grip of a big, cold hand clutching her headscarf, as if it is the monstrous claw of a tractor spooning out meaningless dirt beneath its wheels. Her headscarf is pulled and tugged and, in a blink of an eye, she is back where she started. Face to face with the beastly man. As her hijab begins to unravel, laying around her neck, her long, dark hair is no longer covered from the growing crowd’s eyes. The man aggressively snatches the blue material, holding it up high, showing it to what feels like the world. Jamila feels a million eyes staring at her and the blue headscarf in the man’s hefty hands. ‘SEE THIS?’ He pauses. The public stares in horror. ‘THIS IS WRONG. THIS IS LACK OF FREEDOM’ he shouts out with his deep, aggressive voice. Just as Jamila’s headscarf unravels, so does she. She is not going to sink into the floor this time. She is going to rise to the top. Jamila’s angered face scrunches as she straightens her back and holds her head up high and proud. She confidently lifts her work shoes onto the tram chair beside the repugnant man, hoisting her whole body to tower over him. She is now in command of the monstrous claw. Without hesitation, Jamila’s frail arm forcefully reaches out for her headscarf that is in the clutch of the now powerless man. The blue cotton material fleetly floats from the monstrous claw to Jamilia’s tanned hands, as she instantaneously wraps the hijab around her hair. The man looks up at her in awe and

Live But Not Be Seen

back down to the surrounding crowd of people. How can a mere Muslim woman who wears a hijab act this way? After a minute of silence, the crowd starts cheering and a warm buzz dances through the air as Jamila steps down and the man is pushed aside. Today is different. Today Jamila is not pushed aside as she usually would have been. Today a white man is stepped all over. Today Australians support her. Jamila is no longer going to wish to live and not be seen. She is going to live and be seen. Wearing the hijab. ‘

The ride to school sucked. Family members called Mum to say happy birthday to me and gasp: ‘Ash! 16 already!?’ More like only 16. The gates were cold, the stone buildings boring, nothing felt special. I checked my watch, 8:01am, 625kcal, I was 278 behind. Then when I got to my locker, another nightmare fell at my feet. A cascade of sweets toppled onto my runners as confetti snowed over me. ‘Happy birthday shorty!’ ‘Evan was this you?’ I knew it was, he just likes the credit. ‘No, ‘twas Jesus,’ he said, smiling proudly. I rolled my eyes before pulling him into a hug and thanking him. I had to stand on my toes to get my head over his shoulder. We hadn’t been friends long, but Evan was my favourite person, not that there was much competition. The funny Asian kid and the shy white girl, we understood each other. I picked up a Snickers from the ground. 248 calories, 12g fat. I vowed not to touch it. I picked the lollies off the floor and placed them in my bag before grabbing my books. School wasn’t bad. At lunch, Evan bought me a cupcake that I couldn’t refuse without being rude. I said I was taking it to my next class, but I threw it out. I felt awful, but I needed to stay focused. My stomach rumbled the rest of the day, I was so proud of myself. It was the only time my stomach felt as empty as me. I got off the tram two stops early to walk as much as possible but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. I ran into my room, to the mirror. I saw a bulge at my waist and knew I messed up. My navy skirt unzipped so easily from the tension of my stomach. I’m so fat. Forcing back tears, I walked into the middle of my room and started jumping. Thump thump whoosh boom, thump thump woosh boom. I did burpees until I couldn’t stand. In total I had eaten 387 calories. I checked my watch. 4:47pm, 1679kcal, 96 behind. After answering birthday messages, it was dinner time. I had never skipped dinner. My family needed to see me eat to stay out of my way about being skinny. The door to the world outside my bedroom was comparable to the fiery gates of hell. I forced myself through and into the kitchen where I was greeted with balloons and the sickening smell of tacos. Tacos were my favourite when I was fat, but thinking of eating them now, along with everything I

Happy Birthday Lucy Alexander Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

Happy Birthday

had at school, it made me wish I had walked three stops and done another set of burpees. I checked my watch. 6:32pm, 1841kcal, still 109 behind. Two tacos sat on my plate, mocking me. As my family started eating, the conversion started. It made me want to scream. Mum started, ‘I saw a program today about people in this facility where they’re forced to eat because they won’t do it themselves! How ridiculous is that?’ ‘I don’t see the point. What’s up with them that they can’t just eat? Look, it’s easy,’ said Sarah, shoving her taco in her mouth. Sarah was always the pretty sister. Popular, slim, blonde, tall, whilst I was short and pudgy with messy auburn curls. Regardless, she called herself fat constantly. I hated her. Dad spoke next, ‘It’s for attention. They want to eat, they’re starving! But they are even more attention starved, so they stop eating to see who notices, just like people who cut themselves. They’re the worst.’ The conversation continued for another minute, I tried hard to zone out, but couldn’t. ‘IT’S NOT FOR ATTENTION.’ Everyone suddenly looked up, shocked, but I didn’t stop. ‘Some use it to cope, but others hate their bodies so much that they try fixing themselves because they think their appearance is all they’re worth. And sometimes their fear of food and eating gets so hard, they physically can’t. So they go to rehabs where they’re forced to, to avoid the imminent death they are handed. It’s not a choice, they’re sick.’ A stunned silence filled the room. They knew I was speaking from experience, so I tried convincing them I watched a documentary at school. They eventually believed me and Mum apologised. ‘Ash, honey? I’m sorry I just didn’t understand why those girls did that to themselves. I didn’t mean to upset you,’ I nodded and left the table. Mum forgot my cake, so at least I didn’t have to worry about that. It was over. I didn’t have to eat anymore. I took myself to the shower, undressed and stared into the mirror. Just looking at myself made me cry. Every part of my body was coated in blubber and my stomach was so round it hurt. The stretch marks that covered my hips were deep, purple, disgusting. I glanced at my thighs. There was no gap, instead there was fat and dark scars. It had been 47 days and they weren’t fading. I stepped onto the white block. 44.1. I

stared at the scale, hoping, but it didn’t change. This wasn’t the life I wanted. The lying, the isolation, everything was a number. I just wanted everything to stop, to go back to normal. But then I would be fat. I checked my watch, 7:18pm, 1934kcal. Happy birthday I guess.

Happy Birthday

‘

Floating Francesca Yatomi-Clarke Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

The profuse smell of alcohol is already present when I arrive at the beach. Feeble lights have been strung pathetically between palm trees on the sidewalk, faintly teasing. ‘Hey! We’re having an awesome time at this party being normal teenagers, unlike you, Biz.’ A small bonfire glows off distantly, surrounded by intoxicated teenagers and enormous speakers. Just beyond the small glow, the sea sits, patiently waiting for a tangerine luminosity to emerge in the sky, beckoning surfers and swimmers to come and enter its depths. The laughter and tumultuous noise of the music is drowned out by the sound of waves pummeling from far out of shore. I can’t see the waves but I know they’re out there. Mum’s voice echoes through my head. ‘Please, Biz. Just go for an hour. You need to socialise.’ Readjusting my bag’s strap on my shoulder, I walk towards the party with slow, loathing steps, each one heavier than the last. Exhaling slowly, I take the last of my leaden steps and arrive. My eyes scan the crowd tensely, desperately searching for Jasper. Every drunken face I can recognise from school is here, except him. My hands tighten their grip on my bag as I search for a place to sit. I walk over to a log that’s nearly unoccupied, except for two girls who are giggling so much I fear they may die of overjoyousness. What a remarkable way to lose one’s life. I find that this log must be the most uncomfortable tree species I could sit on, there seems to be no comfortable position available. Before my hands can start fidgeting with my bag, a finger taps my shoulder. I spin around abruptly, relief entering my body. ‘What tequila do you like?’ A random boy around my age stands near me, with a bottle of alcohol in each hand. I don’t recognise him at all. No wonder he’s speaking to me. ‘Chuck, you dumbass, she never drinks!’ yells a female voice from across the fire. I turn and see Madlyn, Dani and Kiarra walking towards us. Each clutching a red cup in their hand, acting like normal teenagers who don’t burden their parents with the cost of antidepressants. To my horror, they’re looking for a place to sit down… next to me. ‘Sorry, Elizabeth. Charlie’s so dumb,’ Madlyn says as she flirtatiously shoves Charlie/Chuck. Does everyone here have a nickname except me? I shrug my shoulders and meekly laugh, trying to contain the shaking I feel erupting in my body. Get it together, Biz. The girls all look at each other, and I don’t even need to hear what they say;

their gazes scream incalculable amounts of judgements and insults. ‘So, what have you done since dropping out?’ Dani asks loudly. As she asks, I feel no less than ten faces turn in my direction. Beads of sweat form in every crease of my body, waiting to cool the blistering temperature of my skin. ‘Um, w-well, not much. Just relaxing, y’know?’ I manage to stutter at the volume of a whisper. Swallowing the massive lump in my throat, I sound like I don’t speak English. ‘So basically you’ve done nothing for eight months?’ Has it been eight months? ‘I guess, I dunno…’ Is the fire becoming hotter or am I losing it… again? ‘Jake said that you’ve got mental health issues. Like schizophrenia?’ I hear laughs, and now every face around the bonfire is looking at me. My eyes are struggling to not blur the faces, and the intense heat of the fire feels like it’s devouring me whole. ‘Is it because your dad died?’ My heart falls to the bottom of my rib cage and then sprints back up, pounding in my chest, attempting to crack it open and escape. Wind is rushing through my nose and into my lungs, too quickly, I have to breathe out otherwise I will explode with all this air inside of me. Sweat. My clothes are drenched in sweat. Loud conversations are drowned out by a high pitch ring splitting my ears. My ribs are being pulverised by this drum in my chest. I think I have stopped breathing. I can’t feel the log underneath me anymore, I am floating. A hand is wrapping around my wrist, helping me drift away… Where’s the bonfire? I try to focus my blurred vision, but it’s almost pitch black. What’s moving off in the distance? ‘Biz!’ I choke on my scream when I see Jasper holding my wrists. The hammering of my heartbeat is reduced to a slow running pace, and it seems my breath has managed to find its way to my lungs. Words don’t come out of my mouth. ‘You’re okay, you’re fine. They’re just assholes.’ Jasper says, lowering me to the comforting greeting of coarse sand. Every grain touching my fingertips seems to shoot signals to my messed up brain, telling it to not kill me. ‘Last time I came, they interrogated me about being gay,’ he laughs, although his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. I suddenly realise how close we are to the shoreline; foamy waves crawl gently to my toes, buzzing the dormant strength of the sea

Floating

into my body. Clearing the rising bile in my throat, I feel as relaxed as I possibly could after the publicity of my latest panic attack. Jasper’s body is warm next to mine, as he also looks out into the sea. We don’t say anything as we listen to the dreamy water splash the silence. The sea is its own master, controlling where waves crash and when it wants the ebbing tide to return home. Such control over oneself must be delightful. Here, with Jasper, with our clothes slowly marinating in the sea is where I belong. Enraptured by ethereal water, comforted by my best friend’s presence, it feels as though there is a glimmer of light in my unilluminated world. ‘

She returns in a flash of rainbow wings, flying between the branches of neighborhood eucalypts with a cluster of insects in her white beak. Her heart sinks as she watches her mate fly frantically above the nest, attempting to protect their home from the invaders. The dirty, yellow-brown colouring and the distinctive metallic shriek of the mynas match their brutish behaviour. Mynas: unwanted invaders notorious for their territorial behaviour, for using brute force to save themselves the trouble of building a nest. The wind rushes past her feathers as she dives to get within hearing range of her children. They still have a few days before they can fly, but she has to try. To fail in an attempt to survive is better than losing, she thinks. ‘Children! You must fly! We need to leave the nest! Stand on the edge, then jump and glide. You must only make it to the ground safely!’ Her voice reaches the nest, prompting movement from the chicks as her mate shouts encouragement from above. The first takes to the sky, followed by another. She looks worriedly between the children still in the nest and those who are flying. Her youngest perches on the edge of the hollow, avoiding the flapping wings of the myna pair who are determined to evict the remaining two rosellas. The smallest chick is shaking as she jumps off the perch and tries to extend her frail wings, almost succeeding before the rush of air overwhelms her. Watching helplessly from above, she and her mate lean into each other as their baby plummets to the ground. Crack. They must turn their attention back to their remaining children; they will grieve later. Their first two are halfway to earth, but the last is struggling to leave the nest. ‘Let’s help this last one,’ the myna birds screech, picking him up with their beaks as he struggles in their grasp. Out of the nest he goes. Too slow, too small.

Home Honey Garcia Boroondara Literary Award Middle Prose Highly Commended

‘

She and her family begin their journey in the morning, stopping only when the sky starts to darken. They find an empty planter box and settle for the night. She misses the warmth and safety of the nest and wonders how long it will be until they find a new home. Her children will struggle with the bitter cold of the night and the long days ahead. As she falls asleep, she stares at the sky, seeking a glimpse of her other, lost,

Home

children even though she knows that she will never see them again. Halfway through the night, the call of a fox causes her to shift in her sleep, before settling again. She is woken next by the morning sun, her movement stirring the rest of her family. Sighing deeply, she encourages them to wake and start their day. Her chicks perch on the edge of their temporary home, flying the short distance to the ground and back, their confidence increasing with each trip. She leaves them in the care of her mate and goes to search for food, flying over trees, houses, and low apartment blocks before settling in a patch of grass. She pecks at the earth with her beak, turning over the soil until she can gather the earthworms wriggling at her feet. Once her beak is full, she flaps her wings, the ground receding as her view of the treetops widens. A hollow in the side of a grey gum catches her eye. Could it be a good place for the new nest? Her claws grasp the branch nearest the hole as she peers in. The soft squealing of small cockatoos is heard, causing her to turn away in preparation for take-off, before she is stopped by the screech of the cockatoos’ newly arrived mother. ‘Get away from my nest, find your own tree! Away from my babies, you worthless bird!’ She flaps her wings slowly; travelling away from the tree. As she flies, she can still hear the words of the cockatoo following her. ‘Yes, that’s it. Leave and don’t come back! Stay away from here!’ The words hit deep and her mind is blurred with her new status in the world. Worthless. Useless. Homeless. Unwanted. Scared. Vulnerable. They are the outsiders; they have no place to belong. ‘

Her chicks lift their beaks to the sky waiting for the worms to drop. She decides that she will do anything to find them a new home soon. On her next trip for food, she spots another hollow and cautiously approaches, looking inside from a distance. Joy fills her when she sees it is empty, and she races back to her family, telling them of the newfound home.

Excited cheeping fills the air as her mate turns to her with a hopeful expression. ‘Follow me!’ She cries. The family taking off and soaring through the air. Together, they return to the tree hollow. The joy she can see in her family’s eyes at the sight of their home makes all the insults bearable. They plan out the nest: around the size of the old one, the inside padded twigs of nearby trees, and a few feathers from each of them. The new nest will never be the old one, but over time it could become home. ‘

Home

The Iron Harvest Mia Andrewes Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing

1959. Campbell Street Presbyterian Church, Sydney.

[The Old Man appears downstage with a box acting as a lectern. He looks stiff and awkward, standing at attention. It is Nigel’s Funeral. The stage is empty except for the Priest.]

Winner

Old M an: Here we are on the Iron Cove. A fitting end for old man Nigel. Alone from the start and alone at his end. Not to be on the nose, but that’s just the way it goes. We all know it. Once upon a time there would have been many people who loved Nigel and would have been here, but they, like so many others, have been lost and forgotten. All these forgotten people and places and names and things. Soon he will be a part of them too. But before I forget I have to–I have to say– I have to. There is so much I want to forget and so much that is forgotten. Nigel and I barely knew each other, but I don’t want this church or this air or whatever God there may or may not be to forget what he and I did and said. It is only fair, as I live with this constant movie in my head. I didn’t sign up for none of this–it was just a bloody lark wasn’t it, a bit of fun to get away? That’s what they still talk about anyway, I’m a mate, we were larrikins, we had a bond. Look at all this mateship. [The words reverberate and echo throughout the empty church] And when do we ever talk about how bits of the war still live in those who for better or for worse survived that mess, when do us mates talk about the screams we heard and the way some men stood still, too still all whilst breathing? They don’t want to talk about that mess because it ain’t as nice as bein’ a larrikin, not as fun, not as Australian. It’s not nice company to talk about my mate Ed who got in trouble for doing the wrong thing and because he didn’t want to shame his family he walked right up to the Huns and got himself shot straight in the head. Or the boy I saw cry out ‘meine mutter, mein gott’ after my trigger went. No you shouldn’t talk about that, not here in the bar, not here in the house of God, not with the wife or

your mum. You keep that deep, deep inside alongside all the crops you harvested from the war. The gas and the shrapnel and the iron.

The Iron Harvest

[He breathes for the first time, his hand visibly shaking.] My god, the iron harvest. The pieces of the war trying to burst out of you, trying to be heard. Most of us manage to keep ours down inside. Nigel’s went out and pierced his flesh, and when that happened he was a goner, he was going to be in some sort of hospital or sanatorium trying to chase the memories of it away for the rest of his days. In others it would pierce straight through their heart and they wouldn’t talk, they would just stand there silently, their eyes not quite there. Even then you couldn’t talk about it, at best they were shell shocked, at worst they were malingerers trying to get out of their duty. People like to talk about them all right. No one likes to talk about all the men like Nigel shut away, day after day feeling the pain of their yield. And yet it continued, the iron harvest. My children sent out to plough the fields of yet more German scum, their iron crosses drawing rich red blood, metallic dribbles hitting their lips whilst the kiddies worked. And later, when they returned with their own iron harvest, they sat down and began to feel the sharp pull and push of the crop wanting to burst out, wanting to be felt but I said to them you just gotta grab a hammer and a nail and push all of that stuff deep back down inside, the stuff wants to come out but it can’t, it just can’t. Mine tries sometimes. Sometimes I wake up and there is a rifle pressed up cool against my body, and I’m ready, I’m so ready and my body braces and there’s nothing. Which often is worse because I feel nothing, and I want to feel the adrenaline of war even though it was messed up, even though it took my mates and a bit of my soul, because at least we were fighting in an actual battleground rather than whatever the hell this is. Every year I hear the bang bang banging of those celebrating the arrival of them and I think my god, for some of us the war never ended.

The Iron Harvest

[With every bang his body snaps backwards and forwards] And one day, my harvest will be ready to come out so I’ll get two nice pieces of iron and put them back into my body, the way they taught me and then there won’t be anymore to reap or sow, only the stillness and hardness of metal. For dust we are, and to dust we shall return. Sorry Nigel.

[He doffs his hat and fades into darkness.] ‘

1932. Frying Pan Creek NSW

[Mum and Bertie sit on the run-down verandah. Bertie’s eyes linger on Mum’s broken window.]

Black Diggers Creative Task –Dramatic Monologue Juliet Lipchin

Mum: Noticed it, have you? There might have been a time where you would have seen them young white boys and taught them a lesson with those big fists of yours. To protect your old mum. Now look at you. Your fists aren’t useful for anything but holding onto that damned hair there. And mum isn’t good for anything but washing your face and feeding you crap. Hell, you could have silenced those little white boys with just your words, what a chatty young thing you were. They would have given up the brick throwing just because they were sick of hearing you yack on. I never once hated you for it. My annoying little Bertie, with a mouth that wouldn’t shut off. I was so proud of all the words you knew, and how to string them together. All smartlike. [Pause.] I never thought I’d miss that talkative little boy so much. Bertie, I can’t do the talking for you. Do you see that? Do you get that boy? I don’t have them words. You did. Now what am I to do when them young fellas come running out this way with bricks and hate in their hearts? Wave a lock of old crappy hair at them? [Lets out a chuckle. It turns into a sob.]

Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Runner-up

[Bertie turns and stares blankly at the sunset. He clutches the strand of hair in his hand.] Bertie, I hope you know that a part of me died in that war! You left the best part of me out there with them dead bodies. Same time you stopped yacking. Same time you dropped down to your knees and let those white suits turn you into a liar. No, turn me into a liar. Your mum. I thought I raised you better. Maybe I should have been harsher on you, to make you stronger. Never should have let you go. You were too damned weak. Too full of hope. Thought you could change things for us. Like that was ever going to happen. What kind of a mother lets their baby die. I let you die. That’s my fault. It’s my fault, Bertie!

Black Diggers Creative Task –Dramatic Monologue

[Mum breathes shakily to stop from crying. Bertie remains still.] But you know what, at one point I saw the hope too. All the stories I heard in the letters sent back here. It made me feel slightly better for letting you go. I thought, maybe you were right, maybe the world really would turn upside down. But it was all for nothin’. Ever since you boys got back, we’ve been gettin’ treated worse and worse by those white folk. It’s like nothin’ changed while you were gone. And now I get another damned brick through the window! [Mum starts pacing up and down the verandah. She raises her voice in frustration and anger.] After all you sacrificed for this country, for these people who stole bloody eveythin’ from us, they can’t even treat us fine in return. All the land, all our land, it’s just being taken from us. Stolen right from under our noses. And I heard that just the other day one young boy was tryna’ get into the bar on Anzac Day, you know celebrate his mates who died over there and all. And they wouldn’t even let him in. It’s like they’ve forgotten what you boys did for them. It’s like it meant nothin’ to them. [Mum pauses, she takes a shaky breath.] And what’s going to happen when they come after me, Bertie. [Shaky and scared.] Because they will, those wicked white fellas. They are gonna come after all of us, it’s only a matter of time. And when they do, who’s going to take care of old mum? I remember how you used to comfort me. I thought you’d get better at it as I got older. Take care of mum in her old age. Take care of grandfather. Remember how you used to sing them songs with the pretty words I didn’t get? Grandfather never forgets, he still hopes you’ll sing to him again one day. Do you remember the one with the white feathered bird? My favourite… [Mum looks beyond the porch and, in her mind, is singing with her fifteen year old Bertie.]

Home is behind The bird ahead Outstretched wings No paths to tread Down by the river The bird finds her rest Before catching evenin’ wind To the moon’s silver crest [Mum stops, confused for a moment, expecting the next line. Then looks at Bertie.] That’s supposed to be your line. ‘

Black Diggers Creative Task –Dramatic Monologue

A Ghost from the Past Ying Shao Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

[A Ghost downstage] Ghost: As a child, I would stare up at the night sky, enchanted by the brilliant expanse of stars that looked like diamonds ripping through a veil of darkness. I used to wonder, how did they do it? How did they shine so bright amidst so much gloom and despair? [pause] When I enlisted for war, I had barely seen the sun’s rise and never knew life outside the shearing farm. I was naive. I truly believed that as long as you opened a window, there would always be light outside. And the war did open a window for me. It gave me a sliver of light in the darkness of my drudgery, a small glimmer of hope that I could change the bigger world. And when the sun dissipated in the evening, I too would remain shining amidst all my misery and hardships like the scattered moondust in the night sky. And that was true, at least when I was in the trenches... I remember the day I got assigned to my battalion. My sergeant and I got off on the wrong foot. Ever since, he’s tried to make life harder for me, on purpose I reckon. I was always the one sent on the most dangerous missions, because of my supposed ability to ‘camouflage in the dark’. Later on someone told me that he was the son of the Minister of Lands. But even that didn’t save him from the long, gnarled fingers of Death. Nevertheless, I was able to make my way up the ladder after taking down some enemy machine-gun nests. Everyone was looking at me with new eyes, the half-caste was rising in estimation. And that sent a fire burning through my veins… a euphoric sensation. I craved to be sent on the most dangerous missions, take some more Germans down. Can you blame me? I just wanted to belong... But at the same time, a tiny voice in my conscience cried out, ‘what makes me any better if I’m shooting the so-called enemy’? Was it for the pats on the back, the looks of admiration or the ‘good on ya mate’? I shouldn’t have spent my days firing lethal pieces of metal just to get people to believe that I’m worthy of respect. I shouldn’t have spent my nights crying for the Lord, begging him to free me from my nightmares and my sins. But you just keep chugging along. Until one day Death knocks at your door. For one fleeting second in that space between life and death, I wondered, how many happy families, jubilant

marriages and sincere friendships did I tear apart? How many brothers, fathers and mates did I steal, like I was stolen from mine...The war may have grasped at our worst qualities, but it was impartial in who it took to the grave. Death didn’t care if you were white or black; if you were the son of a shearer or the Minister of Lands. No one emerged victorious. We were all victims. Victims of someone else’s greed. Victims of our own pride. Victims of our naivety. Although I never got to head home and tell my folks about everything I’ve been through, sometimes I’m glad I left early. Those who survived, they were the ones who suffered the most. I was freed from this living hell. My pain was short. The bits of shrapnel hit me and two seconds later I was gone. But the survivors, they will continue to suffer. Day after day. Night after night. They were not silent like me, but they were silenced by the institutions. And that’s what hurts the most. So in many ways, I had it a lot easier than the other fellas. Still, for the past two years, I have tried to make peace with myself. It’s ingrained in human nature to search for the ways things could have turned out differently, to bury ourselves in the ‘what ifs’. What if two years ago, I didn’t sign up for the war? Maybe I would still be the strong, healthy man I once was. Maybe I would be lying in the dirt of my own country. Maybe I wouldn’t find myself moving in circles, coming back to the same place time after time. But, then again, you can dip your foot into a lake to test the waters, but you’re never gonna know how deep it is until you jump into it. And that takes a hell lot of courage. Why would anyone want to step into the unknown? Who knows if you’re gonna fall into an endless pit of darkness or open a window? [pause] I guess the war taught me that people can try to forget, try to blot out the gruesome realities and the shadow of a dark, dirty past. But the truth is, the good and the bad, the greatness and smallness of our stories will stand. It will rise above the mists of time like the piercing glimmer of the stars in the night sky.

A Ghost from the Past

‘

Nigel

1951. Callan Park.

Amelia Chiang Isobelle Carmody Award

[First Nurse is tidying Nigel’s room. Second Nurse walks in]

For Creative Writing Shortlist

First Psychiatric Nurse: What’s he doing now? Second Psychiatric Nurse: Enjoying the sun and muttering about.

First Psychiatric Nurse: He hasn’t moved on has he? Second Psychiatric Nurse: Moved on from what? First Psychiatric Nurse: From the war. Second Psychiatric Nurse: Which one? He was in a war other than his liquor addiction? [Chuckles] First Psychiatric Nurse: The first one. He’s seen the big world. Or whatever horror was out there. Second Psychiatric Nurse: Didn’t know Abos were allowed. Thought you had to be a citizen for that. [Second Nurse brashly picks up a pillow, takes off a pillowcase and hastily throws it into a basket. First Nurse carefully picks up a clean pillowcase and attentively slips it onto the pillow. ] First Psychiatric Nurse: Many of them were able to slip through.You know Australia doesn’t care about race when there aren’t enough soldiers. [First Nurse places the pillow back on the bed, sighs and turns around, walking towards the laundry basket.] Second Psychiatric Nurse: Good. At least they did something other than laze around while we do all the hard work.

[First Nurse turns around abruptly to face Second Nurse.]

Nigel

First Psychiatric Nurse: Maybe they fought because the war even made them feel like they belonged. Like for once they were equal. When faced with death there is no race. Second Psychiatric Nurse: [Laughs] What’s with this philosophical change of attitude. It’ll take a lot more than a war to make them Australian. [First Nurse looks to the ground.] First Psychiatric Nurse: Not really philosophical. I guess I just changed my point of view. My husband fought in the recent war. Said he fought alongside one of them. Said they were as courageous as white men. Could’ve been mistaken for one had it not been for their colour. My husband even said that had it not been for one particular coloured soldier, he would have lost his life on the battlefields. Second Psychiatric Nurse: Really? Maybe their sixth sense helped. Or their night vision.

First Psychiatric Nurse: [Takes a deep breath] Maybe it’s called courage or camaraderie. Second Psychiatric Nurse: Oh well, [Sighs] times have changed. War’s over. First Psychiatric Nurse: For us, yes they have. Not for them, though. Their wars here will never end, despite their own blood that stains the battlefields for Australia. And I think it’s sad we praise war heroes that look like us but forget that there were soldiers that were different in colour. [Second Nurse glares quizzically at First Nurse.] Second Psychiatric Nurse: What’d you say?

Nigel

First Psychiatric Nurse: Nothing important. [First Psychiatric Nurse starts folding clothes whilst Second Nurse carelessly picks up a journal from Nigel’s table.] Second Psychiatric Nurse: That’s weird. What’s this doing here? I’ll go return it to the library. [turns towards the door] First Psychiatric Nurse: walks over and inspects the journal.

First Psychiatric Nurse: Don’t think the library carries journals. Second Psychiatric Nurse: [Scoffs] Don’t tell me this is his. Thought those people couldn’t write. First Psychiatric Nurse: We learn new things everyday [Sarcastically] Second Psychiatric Nurse: Well, don’t just stand there. Open it. Let’s see what the old man has to say. Or if it is even in English. [chuckles] First Psychiatric Nurse: Nah. These things are meant to be private. It’s not right. You wouldn’t want anyone opening up your own journal. Second Psychiatric Nurse: You’re hopeless. [Sighs] [Second Nurse walks over to Nigel’s bed, lifts up mattress and finds a toy ape under the bed.] Second Psychiatric Nurse: What’s this? First Psychiatric Nurse: [Looks over at Second Nurse] Don’t touch that! Second Psychiatric Nurse: [Drops toy instantly] Why? What’s on it? First Psychiatric Nurse: Nothing. He’s just very protective over that.

Second Psychiatric Nurse: [Chuckles] Over this?

Nigel

First Psychiatric Nurse: [Sighs] Yeah. He won’t let anyone touch it. Says this toy is very important to him. Says this toy is a part of his life that can never be removed. Second Psychiatric Nurse: [Quietly] Those guys are weird. [Second Psychiatric Nurse picks up the toy ape again.] Second Psychiatric Nurse: Fine. I’ll just put this properly on the bed. This mess needs some kind of order. [Nigel walks into the room. Sees Second Nurse holding the toy ape.] Nigel: [Shouts] What are you doing? [Nigel lunges at Second Nurse and grabs the toy ape.] Second Psychiatric Nurse: [Screams]

First Psychiatric Nurse: [Shouts] Nigel! Nigel: [Shouts] Don’t touch! [Nigel collapses to the ground. Hugs the toy ape.] Nigel: [Cries] It’s all gone. It’s all gone. It’s all gone. [First Nurse cradles Nigel on the floor.] First Psychiatric Nurse: It’s all ok buddy. It’s all gonna be ok. Nigel: [Cries] No it won’t. It never is for us. ‘

The Flipside of a Coin Ava Dluzniak Isobelle Carmody Award

1949. Castlereagh Street.

[Stan takes a seat on a street bench after his encounter with Harry, which has left him contemplative.]

For Creative Writing Shortlist

Stan: The Great Days. What happened to those? It feels like a different lifetime, an unimaginable one. How long has it been since I saw an old mate from the war? Ten, twenty years? Funny how just a glimpse of an old friend can take you right back. Just a look and I’m back there in those trenches... Those deep, awful trenches. Cold, damp, hungry and covered in mud head to toe. The sound of gunfire and yelling ringing in your ears, the taste of blood in your mouth. Bodies everywhere, and every now and then, you recognise that body, that uniform, that face. Your friend, your brother. [Stan shakes his head at the disturbing memories] I couldn’t imagine my boys there now! They’d be like gazelles in the lion’s den. They would be torn apart, limb from limb, they would. Too spoiled, I say! [Stan chuckles to himself ] How the world has changed now, young boys just aren’t the same. I remember enlisting, my friends as well, so excited we were. It was the talk of the town, little did we know the consequences of our naivety. Keen for adventure and camaraderie, keen to prove ourselves, and our loyalty. We were like children, waiting to see a theatre show. But the theatre show wasn’t what it seemed. [Stan pulls a silver coin out of his pocket. He picks it up and flips it in his palm.] Funny how the flipside of a coin can change everything. Some of us returned, some of us never did. Some of us had loved ones waiting, some didn’t. Makes me think about Harry, the poor bugger. A great lad he was, and now look what’s become of him. [Stan flips the coin and it lands on the floor. He watches the coin for a minute, contemplating] Some of us were indigenous, some of us white. That was what changed everything. We all knew it deep down, but never wanted to admit it. Harry wasn’t the only one who thought things would change back here, I did too. I really did, I hoped for it. Not just for their sake, but for ours too. But

we came back, and things just slotted back to the way they had always been. Who was I to challenge our ways? There was nothing I could have done… Yeah. Nothing I could have done. [Stan stares into the distance] [Flustered] I could have had that beer I promised, with Harry. Just one bloody beer, that’s all it would’ve taken. He needed a friend, someone to stand up for him. I was a coward for that. And I’m still no better. My suit and tie and successful job, ‘Department of Lands.’ Little does Harry know that I’m giving away Indigenous land, sacred land, to other white soldiers. What a disgrace I am! When I was promoted, all I really cared for was the paycheck, almost double what I got at the wood yard. How could I say no? I knew what was going on, what the job entailed, but still I said yes. I was told we were giving the returned soldiers ‘settlements’, supporting them with housing and work. All ways of suppressing what was really occurring. But still, I followed along, nodding my obedient head, listening to instructions. The shame. [Stan lets out a quiet sob] What traits am I showing my boys? No longer can I turn a blind eye to this. [Stan stands up, dramatically] I’ll go back to the wood yard, a fair profession. Dismal pay, but at least I’ll know it’s right. I’ll catch Harry now, he couldn’t be that far. [Stan glances around the street rapidly, his eyes darting around] I’ll set him up some work, maybe with me at the wood yard. Make up for the wrongs I’ve done, the ignorance I’ve shown. [Stan starts walking up the street, looking for Harry. He then stops in the middle of the busy street] Am I really doing this? No… it’s the right thing.

The Flipside of a Coin

[Stan spots Harry in the far distance, and walks quickly towards him.] ‘

The Battle With War

July 1940

Jacalyn Kelly

Join together, train together, embark together, fight together, enlist in the sportsmen’s thousand. Show the enemy what Australian sporting men can do. What a load of rubbish. To be a soldier at war, deemed such an honour, a life well-lived. A life short-lived in my opinion. An inevitable death. Ain’t that where all us boys are going though? The rich boys dressed in their Sunday best, the poor boys cleaning their horses’ barn, the lanky boys on Glenferrie Road smoking and spitting at the cobblestone and the boys who play with the football till day’s end. All of em. All brought together by the ferocious camaraderie of war. Unlucky buggers, like a lamb to the slaughter them. By custom, I guess that’s where I’m heading off to as well, the slaughter. They tell me ‘it’s an honour Jack, it’s your chance to be a hero, to be a man, to be a real noble man.’ Yet what’s the use in being a hero if you’re dead? What is it worth to send your son to war, knowing very well that he might not come home? The mothers, the fathers, the brothers, the sisters, their boy that they will never see again–just for the sake of nobility. For the sake of showing the enemy what young Australian boys can do? I suppose the idea of being a hero is quite literally larger than life. Lucky me. Such a complex decision yet one already made for me, one sign of a paper and boy what a life I have planned! A short, heroic life.

Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Winner

August 1940

The beauty of the battlefield, it isn’t always there, it rarely ever is. From the fallen bodies to the hole where bombs have made their mark–you have to find the right places to look I guess. For me, the beauty is in the night sky. Boundless, freckled with shining escape holes of light. The air, the cool winter air like invisible waves in the sky, never knowing when one is gonna hit you smack in the face. Almost reminds me of home, you know? The farm. Lying on the hay barrels, the prickly touch of grass piercing my back, eyes staring aimlessly into the black abyss waiting for the forceful nature of sleep to consume me. But like all good things in

life, they must come to an end. The serenity of the night is intercepted by day, the moon bids farewell, giving way to the sun and awakes the chaos and violence of the war from its slumber. Oh how I despise the goddamn sun. War however, isn’t quite so routinely, I hate it. The sun shines, casting its burning rays onto faces, so its blazing touch can be remembered for hours to come. Boots are still soaking wet from the day before, attracting as much dirt that can possibly latch on. The flies, bugger me dead those goddamn flies. All of em, entranced by the beads of sweat that softly fall down my face like a leaky tap. Bodies everywhere, the last bit of blood fighting to bring colour to their porcelain cheeks. Scattered like birthday decorations they are. But this was no party. No day for celebration. You can’t relight the candle once the flame has been blown out. This was war, you have one chance and it’s merciless and brutal. I should have run when I had the chance, I should have been brave enough to run. They say we didn’t have a choice, that all boys fit enough needed to enlist, but we always have a choice. Always. I was just too naive to see it. I should have been braver, but I wasn’t, I never am. Good lord Jack. What a fool I was, what a fool! Instead, now I am suffocating. Suffocating in the thick scent of blood, sweat and tears. The finest odour the battlefield has to offer.

The Battle With War

January 1941

It’s been months, five and a half to be exact. My body aches, my legs will give up on me sooner or later. Three more days I bet. Haven’t slept in two days. Food supplies are running short and it’s a miracle I’m still alive. Yet my physical pain isn’t what’s keeping me awake. Fact is, what pains me more is the thought of losing everything. One person. One love. I remember so clearly, one of the last times we spoke. Connie and I. The last few chapters of our little fairytale. I asked to walk her home. Her gaze, soft, focused. She stood there so poised, elegant like the old gum tree which used to peer into my window at night. Watching over. I felt safe, at ease. I hadn’t ever felt that way in a long time. Not since I left the farm anyway, but Connie, she made me feel like the luckiest guy in the world. The luckiest one. For me, that was enough. It didn’t matter if we had no money, no grand mansion in Toorak. I could have been right

The Battle With War

here in that barn and never asked for another thing ever again as long as I had Connie by my side. The beauty of love I suppose makes us appreciate the little things, makes us selfless. We need more love in this world. I walked her home, the grass longer than normal, tickling my ankle. Cold air hissing down my back, but my left hand remained warm. Cocooned over Connie’s. Safe. Protected. We didn’t say anything but we understood each other. How rare it is to find that one person you can communicate with, without talking. I had won the lottery, the jackpot. I had won with Connie. I remember thinking how anything could ever go wrong with her by my side. But like all great romances, they only end in one thing. Tragedy. I never wanted to leave her, I had to have been a fool to let her go. Though I guess that band-aid was ripped the moment I set foot into that train. The moment I let go. The moment I became the fool. Now my wool is shaven, I’m next in line. Dropping like flies those lambs. To hell with heroism, I want to live. I want to feel the lush grass and morning dew soak my trousers, I want to feel the touch of those I love most. Of mum, of dad, of Connie. As I write this now, I understand what they mean. You never know what you’ve got until it’s gone. I get it now, I really do. I’m not gone yet, but it feels like I already lost so much. I know not what my future holds, but I already know that whatever may happen, my life has already changed forever. ‘

The steady rumbling of wheels on tram tracks lulls my body into a gentle rocking motion. I can feel my hair gradually unravelling as the sweet scent of florals and dew rushes through the window. It’s spring. Blossoming flowers appear like freckles on a face, almost taunting in abundance. As we pass Victoria Street, the tram jolts and I feel Ma’s calloused hands dig sharply into my side to hold me upright. I’m almost sitting in her lap. She’s cradling me like I’m her baby again. I want to cradle Jack’s baby, his and mine. How unbearable it is to know I’ll never have it. All I have left of Jack is tucked into the palm of my hand, away from Ma and away from the world. A photograph capturing a fleeting moment, our last moment. I think about Jack’s face in the photograph. I could easily paint every detail with my eyes closed. The look in his eyes, the line of his jaw, the way his hair falls. I savour the blissfulness of his last kiss, wanting to reminisce in it forever. A memory of someone who loved me entirely for me and whom I adored just the same. I’ve never really experienced anything like it. All my life I haven’t really been able to make any decisions for myself until I chose to love Jack. A simple decision, but everything has changed since. One evening Jack brought me to the side of the lake, we had biscuits in a tin and peaches from the Sunday market. There was milk and tea too. He even put them on little saucers in case they spilled over. It was so easy to love Jack. If only I could tell him how much. There was still so much unspoken before Jack left on that train. I have so little, yet I would give so much for just a moment more with him. ‘Connie, people are watching.’ Ma shoves around in my blouse pocket and pulls out my crummy handkerchief. It’s damp from sweating through, but she still dabs at my nose and cheeks until it becomes a soggy wad of tears. How could she choose to mother me at such a moment? I push away her scrambling hands and clutch the handkerchief myself. I try to imagine how gently I would nurture my own baby, but all I can think about is how I will never get to hold them. Jack is gone and there is nothing I can do. There would have been blood and wounds and crying. I could have been hanging out the washing and he could have been crying. Both of us helpless. Maybe they mistook another soldier for Jack, he’s not really gone. Maybe I’m suffering hallucinations from a fever, Jack’s next to me, holding my hand and we’re going to have our baby. Maybe Jack is getting on the next tram stop with groceries in his left hand and flowers in his right. I wish he was.

Moments in Time Ashley Nguyen Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Runner-up

Moments in Time

Ma starts to shuffle us off the tram as the ringing of the bell punch throbs through my head. I can see little Audrey skipping on top of the buildings, a vivid neon glow. She’s wearing a bright crimson dress with matching ribbons. I can’t help but think about what my own little girl would be like. Maybe she would have rosy cheeks and soft hair I could brush every night. I could give her what I didn’t have. She wouldn’t ever doubt my love for a moment. I would love a little girl. Jack would’ve loved a little girl. He would have carved her a darling rocking horse out of wood just like my art easel. I would save up for the finest paints. We would’ve given her the rocking horse of all our dreams. It seems like everything’s a reminder of what I have lost and what I will lose. There is no escape. I wonder what a life would have been like without meeting Jack. I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to love, or to choose to love at all. Such a simple decision to love him, yet everything has changed since. Ma makes her own decision now as she pushes me towards the lady with the knobbly knuckles and harsh glare. I soon realise she will be the one to take my baby away. Ma lets go of my hand and suddenly I’m sitting alone on a cold hard bench. Instead, I’m trying to imagine the soft cushioning of hay and Jack’s gentle touch on our last night. So easy to love him, so sweet, so simple. Everything has changed now, but I wouldn’t take it back for anything in the world. ‘

One seemingly simple decision can change a person’s life forever. If I roll to the left, I will fall off my bed. But if I roll to the right, my nose will hit the wall. I’ve grown too big for this bed, this room, this house. I feel suffocated and cannot breathe, nor relax, constantly tense to the touch. I try to slow my breathing, still huffing and puffing from the fantastic stunt I just pulled to get back into my room from my night walk. This time of night is my favourite, where the streets are silent and the wind is a gentle breeze, and I watch as a paper bag tumbles through the wind, on towards the dark street. I have the world to myself, and I can take a quick breath. But there is a tugging feeling in my gut. It tells me everything is wrong, and nothing is right. The only idea I can fathom out of this world of small concepts, is to leave this place and go off far far away where nobody knows who I am and where I don’t know anybody. I need to get out of this house–my parents house. It is not my home anymore and hasn’t been since I came back from the bush. I think to myself, ‘don’t be stupid Jack, you’ll leave and realise you have nowhere to go, and you’ll come sulking back to Mum and Dad like a guilty puppy who’s peed all over the rug’. How am I supposed to escape a place, where I am tied down, chained to a string of obligations? My relationship with Mum has become too awkward and changed, and she treats me like I’m still a toddler. Which I am not–and have not been for a long while now. The day’s events run through my head, an endless marathon. I think back to my walk on the streets, recalling the cranky old bloke’s voice, accusing me of thinking I think I’m too good to go off to war. It’s not that I don’t want to go and serve my country, it’s Mum’s constant shrill voice which presents itself whenever the thought of enlisting enters my mind. ‘It’s about boys with no responsibilities, the Kip Westaways of the world, who ought to go’, she says. No responsibilities, no responsibilities. She makes sure to emphasise that the lads who enlist have nothing better to do. Seeing all the young blokes my age, lining the block to the enlistment building, makes me contemplate if they really don’t have responsibilities to consider. Their eyes are full of hope, thinking war will bring something new, some adventure, and that is what’ll drive them to dive headfirst into death. I’ve almost met death many times myself, when a pick nearly lifted my scalp off. Witnessing many dangerous deaths on the ranch has

A Simple Decision Breanna Luo Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Shortlist

A Simple Decision

probably driven my own sense of adventure out the window. But, I realise, as I imagine the line of men down the block again, they may not be there for themselves, but by serving Australia, they feel the duty to protect it. There are still too many things stopping me from going though. Mum, Dad, the girl next door, who was dancing with a broom in her backyard. Connie Westaway. A faint smile reaches my lips as I remember her swaying back and forth in her cotton hazel dress, and her slender and delicate body contrasting against the large bushy lilly pilly tree behind her. The gentle breeze had blown her dress around, flying around like a fairy dancing in the sky. Her drive to become a photographer made me envy that she had an idea about her future, and a sense of strong-willed determination–talking with her made my palms sweat. I know Mum looks down on her and her family, but if I were to give a thought to even one miniscule idea of what I wanted my own future to be like, I would certainly hope to have Connie Westaway in it. My mind tries to organise thoughts, but everything seems impossible. I need to escape this place that I have outgrown, but my heart wants to win Connie Westaway away. I decide I need to uphold some kind of responsibility, but if I stay and keep living with Mum and Dad, I might just go insane. Tomorrow, I will go to the enlistment building, and I know when I tell Mum she will be heartbroken. But if she realised how much worse not doing anything about it felt for me, simultaneously being right under her nose the whole time, it might just break her heart even more. I ought to do this for myself. A simple plan. Go and fight for my country, and when I come back, Connie Westaway will be my next endeavour. ‘

Died 1942 in Auschwitz, Poland

Soul of a Cat Maya Marek

‘Those who are humane towards animals are not necessarily kind to human beings.’ Boria Sax, Animals in the Third Reich

‘He doesn’t mind this, I thought. He doesn’t mind it at all. Maybe he even likes it. We are not each other’s, anymore. Instead, I am his.’ Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

In retrospect, my only regret is the hurt I caused my master, knowing his mood would have only worsened with the loss of my servitude. In spite of this, it was always I who benefited from our relationship the most, and yet my tomfoolery was to break the strength of a bond between feline and man. I suppose some context to my life and death is required, though painful, for me to be awarded your sympathy and affection. I really do wish to keep my place of dignity yet subservience in the natural order of things. One day, I woke to find myself enveloped in my master’s warm, gentle arms. I squirmed, hunger-stricken, in his firm grip. Morning light barely filtered through the window of our shabby and decidedly derelict room, yet my stomach growled with displeasure. I pushed this thought aside, focusing instead on the rugged, defined features of the supervisor’s face nestled so close to mine. His peppered grey hair, usually so tame, was swept haphazardly across a forehead riddled with creases. It had been fairer, more ideal, when I first stumbled across Auschwitz months before. Stress and duty, however, had taken their toll, and as he snored softly, I purred in an adoring symphony. Still, he was beautiful even in unconsciousness, provided protection even in his most vulnerable hour. I was restless though, and tiring of his unresponsive state, I slunk stealthily past the uniform strewn carelessly across the grimy floor. I made my way through the barracks of my master’s decadence, piled high on steel framed beds like a child’s ragdolls tossed frivolously in a closet corner, and escaped to fresh air. At this point in time, it would become my mission to find a rat in order to placate

Soul of a Cat

my innate desire to hunt, to attack, to catch. Here the fun would begin, darting around corners, squeezing through narrow alleys and hitch-hiking rides on wheelbarrows of sand and stone. On this particular occasion, I was brisk in my capture, allowing me time to find a ditch in which to play with the creature before ending its misery. As I delighted in it’s desperate attempts at a long forgone freedom, I was interrupted by a hundred-odd people traipsing sullenly past my hideout. Peering idly at their skeletal frames, sockets sunken deeply in their faces, I almost imagined they were climbing frames on which I could hang and crawl. They were silent, spare the thudding of their feet, heads hung low, and as I craned my neck for a better view, I hissed, reproaching them for their obedience. Their submissiveness easily rivaled that of my master’s barrack, which was much less subdued, still stubbornly defiant, which made him stressed and angry. They were getting better though, audacity slowly fading from them with the pigment in their cheeks. My master’s mood too, had begun to improve, and I relished with a savage pleasure that he was always kindest to me, sharing with me a portion of each meal. As the last of the skeletons crawled past and I toyed with the now limp rodent, I reflected on my privilege in being the guard’s companion. For this, I would incessantly pay my debt to him in love and loyalty. ‘

Shortly afterward, I returned to find my master fastening a belt around his bulging gut, straightening his coat imperiously. He greeted me with several possessive strokes to my pelt, before tossing me the fatty skin of a sausage. I nibbled at it delicately as my master bent his head in prayer over his own meal. His muttering was sweet, almost melodic, yet I never quite knew why he did it. Nor, in fact, did I comprehend that he would partake in actions that his degenerates would get so direly punished for. Still, I was indifferent, knowing that whatever my master did must have a perfectly reasonable explanation. He is my superior, after all, all-knowing and doing no wrong. ‘

Here my troubles began. Oh woeful, sinful me. Impetuous in my affection, negligent in my obedience. That afternoon, allowing my right paw to graze the tender skin on the inside of my master’s elbow in play, I shamed myself. His face exploded in rage, a visage

of red blotches. Spiteful words flew from his mouth. The disgrace I felt coursed through my veins, thicker and heavier than blood. My guilt was such that I heard, more than felt, the hiss of hot coal against my leg. I scrambled from the room in blind terror.

Soul of a Cat

‘

A few days later, I found myself roaming the streets of Auschwitz in solitude, starved and bitter. I had been foolish, reckless. The burn on my leg was stained there, a permanent reminder of my betrayal. I could think only of food and survival. There was nothing else left now. Spotting a swarm of striped people dragging themselves down a dusty gravel road, I hastened to dart amongst their ranks in the desperate hope they were headed for food. If so, rats were sure to be drawn to their destination to forage what they could, the thieving scavengers they are. We stumbled along for another fifteen minutes before being herded through a hall, in which fireplaces lined the walls at intervals. We proceeded to a larger, bare room. I treaded lightly, careful to keep my fur from dirtying amidst the shuffling feet. Above me, rusted showerheads stood derelict and wearily, long unused. I was studying them curiously when…

BOOM. The set of doors from whence we came clanged shut with a sense of finality. Confused, then panicked mutters swept and swelled across the crowd. My vision clouded, swimming hazily. Somewhere, someone screamed. A small figure bent over me, crying silent tears into my matted coat. I heard everything, then nothing. ‘ Reflective Evaluation

I responded to the quote ‘But I must tell you how I lived, and how I died, in order to keep my place in this modern menagerie of animal souls’ (A Letter to Slyvia Plath). From a feminist lens, it implies that the dolphin cannot talk about what she wishes to discuss, instead telling the audience (or a man) what they want to hear, to maintain her honour and respect.

Soul of a Cat

It explores ideas of superiority and the required servitude of animals to humans rather than solely their companionship. This works well with my message that humans are often blind in their loyalty and belief of superiority. The cat’s incomprehension of her master’s praying when the prisoners can’t is a direct link to the juxtaposition between Himmler’s vegetarianism and his treatment of Jews as animals. The cat’s reduction to a primal state in thinking about ‘food and survival’ only is placed near her statement about ‘thieving’ rats to show the cat’s lack of awareness in his obsessive love of his master that when stripped down, the cat and the rat are the same. The rat is representative of Jews and the cat German people, toying cruelly with the rat and taking it’s superior’s words as law. ‘

‘Truly children are a gift from the Lord; the fruit of the womb is a reward.’ Psalm 127: 3

Our Consecrated Tears Minduli Weeraman

The weight just above my belly seems to get heavier with every step I take towards Mrs Ottley’s. I don’t know if it’s because I’m nervous, or because there’s a small being growing inside of me, made of my own flesh and blood. With its own conscience. With its own heartbeat. Forcefully, I expel the air out of my nose and my hands twist and turn my thin blouse. I bow my head crossing the street, weighed down by shame. It’s what happens when you act in ways you ought not to. I brought this on myself. The bell faintly tinkles as I push open the door of the dressmaker’s shop, and I’m immediately drawn to the elegance that oozes out of the place. A subtle aroma of lavender weaved in with the musky smell of silk I could only dream of affording. Smartly-dressed mannequins lining the front window; the shop screams high-end. Clearly I don’t belong here. I make my way carefully to the front desk where a young woman draped in baby-blue chiffon meets my gaze. She reeks of arrogance. The corners of her mouth turn up and twitch faintly, clearly an unnatural gesture on her caked with powder face. ‘I have a personal matter. Jean Williams.’ Her expression changes slightly, a subtle lift of her atrociously thin eyebrows, the smallest of crinkles in her long nose. ‘Of course, madam.’ She gestures to a row of seats against the wall. My heart sinks as I eye the shiny needles that stand daintily in the pin cushion, and my hand instinctively rests on my belly, the slight bump. A mother’s instinct to protect her baby. Of course. The reels of cotton in front of me blur as I picture a little girl with curious wide brown eyes. Chestnut hair flowing down like a waterfall as she sits with her back to me in front of the fireplace. The crackling of the fire as I run a brush through her dark locks, melting into chocolate strands with each stroke. Or perhaps I’d have a boy. Rowdy, bursting with energy, growing up to be a strong, educated lad. My little baby: a daughter of sunshine and purity, or a

Our Consecrated Tears

son of courage and strength. In a few minutes, someone is going to take my bundle of joy away from me. I’m going to lose my child. A seed of doubt plants itself in my mind. Should I keep the baby? I wonder if any of the other women in Richmond had backed out or changed their minds. ‘Mrs Ottley’s ready for you now, Miss Williams.’ I’m back in the shop, the young woman at the desk is standing in front of me, staring at me with her condescending eyes. Nodding, I hastily stand up and follow her. The next few moments are a blur, and before I know it, I’m lying on my back on the bench, the harsh white light above me burning my eyes. My throat is raw from the whisky they feed me, but it’s somewhat soothing. As I slowly lose consciousness, I think about my life. My poor decisions led me to this moment, one filled with pain and sorrow. I’m already shunned by those around me, and this baby would only bring me more shame. When I get married and start a family, I will make sure my children never make the mistakes I do. I’m going to be respected, my children will be respected. This needs to be done. No point plunging yourself into what could have been. Oh Lord, give me strength. When I wake up, I’ll be childless. The light welcomes me in with open arms. ‘

Lacrimosa dies illa Qua resurget ex favilla Judicandus homo reus. Huic ergo parce, Deus: Pie Jesu Domine, Dona eis requiem. Amen. Full of tears will be that day When from the ashes shall arise The guilty man to be judged; Therefore spare him, O God, Merciful Lord Jesus, Grant them eternal rest. Amen. ‘

The white lilies blur Connie. My sweet, sweet Connie. She’s everywhere. Whenever I close my eyes, I relive it over and over again: her frail body, propped up against the wall, her big trusting eyes watching me walk away from her, the last time she’d ever see me. The last time I’d ever see her. All I can feel now is ache. Ache that spreads into my limbs, into my bones… until it’s all I am. Ache. My mind is a tempest of emotion, my chest tightens and I sit against the wall in a foetal position. The fingers that grasp my teacup are snow-white. I want to throw up. I just wanted us to have a better life. To be respected, not frowned upon. To have enough food on the table, to have enough money. I wanted to escape the wretched life that we had. I wanted us to survive. I found solace in the illusion of our functional family. But Connie’s impulsive actions threatened everything we’d sacrificed. I breathe in sharply. It’s all too familiar to me, this feeling of shame. Irreparable consequences of thoughtless actions. Shivers wash over my weakened body. I’d experienced it a few times before, but I was determined to spare Connie and my family. But at what cost? I’ve had my fair share of loss. A couple of abortions, each bringing its own suffering, its own disgrace, and its own tragedy. I lost my husband–shattered glass around him, his mangled figure eerily still whilst he lay in a pool of rich crimson and piss, staring blankly up at the sky. And now, I lost Connie. My daughter of sunshine and purity. When you lose a child you’ve devoted years of your life to nurturing; one who managed to survive the trials and tribulations that life throws at you; one whose hair you’ve brushed hundreds of times before; one whose wide, curious eyes filled with innocence gaze up at you… the pain never goes away. It’s the hardest thing that could ever happen to a mother. I’d hate to admit it, but I feel a slight pity towards Ada Husting. Children are supposed to outlive their parents, to be their legacy. But now

Our Consecrated Tears

that Connie’s gone, it leaves a gaping hole in my chest. I’ve lost a part of me. All too familiar. I failed her. I failed my daughter. I failed all my children. And deep down, I know this is my fault. Because when I turned my back on her and hobbled away, I was running away from my failures. I left my mistakes, the grief I refused to acknowledge, and the painful memories behind with my daughter. Yet they didn’t die with her. Because of my own haunting past, Connie shouldered my hardships. And she paid the price. What kind of mother am I? One who fails her children? The make-believe life I dreamed for myself is crumbling down, debris flying everywhere, I’ve now lost all purpose in my life. I can’t will myself to continue shouldering this grief. The boys will carry on. Francis and Kip, they’re warriors. They’re my sons of courage and strength. They don’t need me. They’ll be fine. I pray they forgive me. Tom. Francis. Kip. Connie. And the babies who never were. I’m sorry. I allow a single tear to roll down my cheek. ‘

‘Hide Your face [Lord] from my sins and blot out all my iniquity. Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast Spirit within me.’ Psalm 51: 9-11

‘

To Banjo Paterson Soul of Horse Died 1917 Beersheba

To Banjo Paterson Charlotte Dalton

‘Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly, Till right and justice reign. Fight on, fight on, till Victory Shall send you home again.’ Banjo Paterson, 1915

When I first met Banjo, way back in 1916, I was still naïve. I had no knowledge of the world of men, and no desire to learn–in fact, when I first men Banjo, I was completely indifferent to human life. Even more so to human conflict. Man meant nothing to me. When I was first conscripted, I thought Why should I fight in a man’s war, if I myself am not one? I was angry. I was confused. Anyone who knows me now would laugh at the thought–but I was! I didn’t understand, you see, the true value of the war. I didn’t understand the true value of man, and why I need to fight for them. As I said, I was naïve. But Banjo showed me the errors of my ways. I still remember our first meeting–him standing tanned in the sun, eyes crinkled and smile beaming, awaiting us, his new trainees. I remember his weathered face, his sturdy boots. I remember his voice–clangy and deep. I remember thinking he was just like the boys from back home. I was unimpressed. I was homesick as ever and deeply mourning my conscription into the great war, and I hated all men in that moment. Even Banjo. But times changed. It didn’t take long–one conversation with Banjo, and I knew my knowledge of man was all wrong. Because Banjo had this incredible talent. He was a poet, you see, and he loved us horses. I’d never heard poetry before I met him, but when he spoke to me, with dazzling words and woven rhymes and a soft, steady rhythm, I began to understand. He spoke of me, to me, in wonderful prose and I realised that Man has a wonderful mind. He wasn’t simple and cruel, like the boys from back home. He was

To Banjo Paterson

different–he looked the same, but he was different. And I realised that if he were different, then surely everyone else was. Over my time with Banjo I came to love Man and their greatness. Slowly, but surely, I realised that my place in the war was a privilege. A blessing. A blessing which allowed me to be with Man, to see their greatness firsthand. What an experience, to see the greatness of Man first-hand! What a privilege, to be able to devote myself to Man! To have a place in Man’s war, in Man’s conflict. To die for Man. When my time finally came, Banjo and I had long since parted. I’d moved on to the 4th light horse regiment, stationed with new men up in the Suez Canal zone, then up through the Sinai Desert, towards our first major battle at Beersheba. They were good men. Some were like Banjo, with minds unparalleled to anything I’d ever known–but even those who weren’t were still kind and good. Even if they didn’t know about poetry, they knew about something else. I came to realise that all the men knew something about something– they all had some piece of knowledge they could give me. It was amazing. Being around so many men was amazing. I had come to cherish my time with them all so much so that I was almost sad to know I might lose it when we finally charged Beersheba. Almost. But I knew in my heart that Beersheba was my chance to prove my absolute devotion to Man, and if that meant dying in battle then I was going to die in battle. I was going to prove to my men– and hopefully Banjo too–just how devoted I really was. The day we charged was hot, the evening not much cooler. I was terribly, terribly thirsty–it had been days since I last had a drink. But I was loyal. I was excited. I gave my water to my rider–I was happy to make the sacrifice. He was smart like Banjo. He deserved it more. I was disoriented when we charged Beersheba, and I longed to stop. But I was loyal, and I kept on running. I needed to. I needed to prove my dedication, my devotion. I kept on running. That is, until the bullet struck me down. I fell before I knew it, gasping on the ground with my rider only feet before my eyes, bleeding out in front of me. I longed to stand, to go to him, to save him–but my blood was clouding my eyes and when I tried to rise I couldn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t. It was long, slow agony, watching my rider slip out of life before my eyes, knowing there was to be one less man on earth. One less man with a mind like Banjo Paterson’s.

I despaired. I agonised. I tried, I tried, I tried. I didn’t think about water–god, I was thirsty–not the sun, nor the pain. I thought of my dying rider, and I despaired. Any other horse would not have done the same. I was unwaveringly devoted. Banjo made me that. I was devoted until the end of time.

To Banjo Paterson

Reflective Evaluation

In my creative piece, To Banjo Paterson, I chose to draw inspiration from and derive a letter emulating Ceridwen Dovey’s short story Hundstage. I chose to emulate Hundstage in order to explore the overarching view that a human’s love for an animal is dependent on said animal’s devotion to the human. In To Banjo Paterson, I demonstrated this view by having the horse frantically tell its story of devotion and love for the human race in order to gain their approval. I also wanted to touch on the view that animals are exploited by man. My piece talks about Banjo Paterson, which I have done because Banjo Paterson, while claiming to have loved horses, voluntarily participated in their exploitation during the war. I think that this is an irony, and also reflective of how humans mistreat the animals that they claim to love. In my piece, I also wanted to touch on the view of hierarchy in the animal kingdom and utilise Banjo Paterson’s poetry writing skill to draw on the fact that humans tend to view themselves as superior due to their ability for complex thought, and to challenge this commonly accepted idea.

‘

Persuasive Oral: Transcript Annie Timm

How much personal information have you given away over the course of your life? As we have grown, so has the presence of technology around us, to the point where it’s evolved beyond simply the information you are supplying it. For every new piece of data that tech systems and algorithms can associate with you, hundreds more connections can form that make up that web of information that trails behind you online. This is artificial intelligence, and the more prominent it is in our lives, the more unclear the boundaries of our personal privacy become, and the more ethical questions must be raised. You have to wonder: is collecting, storing, and taking advantage of the extensive data available from every single one of us ultimately harmful, given that the technology is evolving at such an unprecedented rate? Artificial intelligence, or AI, refers to the theory and development of computer systems created to perform tasks that normally require human intelligence, things like: decision-making, image recognition, or replicating speech patterns. In recent years, it has become very closely linked to electronic surveillance, with recorded video and photos used in conjunction with existing data you’ve supplied to paint a constantly evolving picture of you and your identity. However, while the technology and science behind AI continues to grow, the extensive data it collects on Australian citizens’ lives is undeniably impinging on both their privacy and freedom. Already as a society, we are moving towards a future where signing away data and information has become commonplace. We agree to terms and conditions, cookies on websites, and online policy changes without a second glance. But it’s hardly our fault! This information is not designed to be read by the everyday Australian, and in many cases, how our data is used, is left intentionally unclear. In fact, in late 2019, several government bills regarding AI and surveillance were blocked by Australia’s Parliamentary Joint Committee on Intelligence and Security, over concerns surrounding a lack of privacy protections for the Australian public. Due to the lack of clear guidelines, they recommended a complete redrafting of the original bill detailing who can access our personal data, and when. This line has continued to blur over recent years, and if this legislation doesn’t change, Australians run the risk of losing all control over what information they can give away. Now, protection of privacy and data would be cause for concern

even if the technology was well-established and had clear guidelines. The reality is that currently, a concerning proportion of the AI algorithms we use to track and record data have been shown to exhibit racial and gendered biases. Joy Buolamwini described it best in her TED Talk entitled How I’m Fighting Bias in Algorithms; she tells the story of her first years as a graduate student at the MIT Media Lab, using facial recognition code when the algorithm failed to recognise her face as a black woman. Although she describes the incident as a minor inconvenience at the time, it’s just a small part of a much wider issue, which is that artificial intelligence systemically fails to register and correctly identify the faces of non-Caucasian people. However, technology doesn’t teach itself–nowadays, it operates based on machine learning. This means computers can look at the data we provide and create patterns that help it to predict how things will act in the future. The issue, as Joy explains, is that ‘algorithms, like viruses, can spread bias on a massive scale at a rapid pace’. Bias is without a doubt present in those inputting data; in 2020, the Inclusive Design Research Centre reported that 83% of all technology executives in the workforce were white, and the percentage of women working in the field has actually decreased since 1990, sitting now at roughly 25%. AI will not just mirror those biases, but amplify them, as we are allowing it to continue to grow using data that indirectly perpetuates discrimination that will only grow more severe in our society. However, it’s actually the intersection of the privacy of surveillance systems and the discrimination in machine learning that is the true cause for concern. The speed at which artificial intelligence continues to grow, in conjunction with its demonstrated and amplified bias, is what makes its potential for danger so great. This became an issue in the 2015 Baltimore protests, sparked by the death of Freddie Gray, a 25-year-old black man, in police custody. At the time, police forces used newly developed surveillance and intelligence systems to identify and arrest dozens of the predominantly black protestors. How is this fair when this technology has been shown time and time again to discriminate against and misidentify black and brown faces? When the people using this technology are biased, and the algorithms themselves show bias, the margin for error that can and did lead to false arrests is unbelievably high. Last year, AI like this was used in China to

Persuasive Oral: Transcript

track and monitor Covid-19 throughout the country, and the potentially life-saving impact in minimising the spread of the virus and contact tracing must be acknowledged. However, it is precisely this application of technology that contributed to the issue of artificial intelligence resurfacing in the media in recent months; the excessively wide scopes of laws such as those applied in China are unclear as to who can access this data, and what they’re allowed to use it for. As this technology is still developing, it is undeniable that we need to be clearer about when its use is appropriate, simply because the dangers of its misuse are catastrophic. This is by no means a call to Australians to start reading the terms and conditions on every website and app they access. This is not a desperate plea for modern teenagers to be more mindful of the information we offer up to the world, because artificial intelligence, machine learning and electronic surveillance systems are filling in those gaps for us. What we actually need–now more than ever–is to not be complacent in the rapidly increasing use of this information by whoever wants to access it, whenever they want it. Since it’s fast becoming clear that those in power feel no need for transparency, clarity or honesty in their legislation and policies, the responsibility has fallen to us, to call into question the ethics of these biased and harmful algorithms. Because if we won’t, who will? ‘

Schools need to do more to combat sexism and the correspondingly high rates of sexual assault amongst young people.

Persuasive Oral: Transcript

Sexism is prejudice, stereotyping, or discrimination, on the basis of sex, typically against women. It is directly related to the imbalance of power between men and women in society. Sexual assault and harassment are a result of male aggression towards women, in order to exert dominance and control. Sexism is ingrained in all aspects of Australian life. The only way to eradicate it, is to break down gender stereotypes. How do we do this? First of all, we must call it out. For example, the MeToo movement, the March4Justice protests, reporting of sexual assaults, media coverage and signing petitions. As a society we must elevate more women to positions of power, such as in politics and business. And importantly, education is a crucial method to break down these stereotypes. Today I will be focusing on the need for better and earlier education on this issue in Australian schools. Australians have not given this extensive problem adequate attention. In 2019, one in six women in Australia had experienced some kind of sexual violence. Chanel Contos is an advocate for young women, raising awareness around sexual assault in schools and among young people. Her petition on early consent education begun in February 2021, now has 45,000 signatures, and more shockingly, over 6,500 testimonies from young women, sharing their experiences of sexual assault and harassment in their school years. I read some of these and they were certainly very confronting. It became abundantly clear to me how schools have such a large capacity to help prevent sexual assault and harassment from occurring in the teenage years, and into the future. Chanel Contos says that her page is ‘reflective of the rape culture society we live in’, I say, that not only is this true, but that it reveals that the importance of consent education for young people cannot be underestimated. In Australia, the rate of sexual assault in girls aged between 15 and 19 is higher than any other age group. The testimonies on Chanel Contos’ page have brought international attention to the massive problem of sexual assault amongst school students themselves. Crucial education around consent and what constitutes sexual assault is inadequately covered in the vast majority of schools across the country. As Chanel Contos put it perfectly, being taught

Stella McCombe

Persuasive Oral: Transcript

about consent only after you’re legally able to be sexually active, at 16, is ‘like learning how to drive after obtaining a driver’s license.’ It doesn’t make sense. The transition from childhood to adulthood is a vulnerable period, in which young people start to become influenced by our sexist culture. As such, effective education on sexism, and sexual consent is vital for this age group. This education must begin at an early age, and be reinforced throughout the high school years. It is equally important for both male and female students to be educated around these issues. All schools must create a culture in which sexism is condemned, sexist behaviour is called out, victims are validated and believed, and perpetrators are held to account. Of course, schools do not bear the sole responsibility for this education. Family, obviously, is a major influence on the development of young people. Many argue that it is the role of the parents to teach their own children about these topics. As I’ve said, 15 to 19 year old girls are at the highest risk of sexual assault in their lives, but even more shockingly, perpetrators are most likely to be boys of this same age group. Male offender rates for sexual assault are highest in 15-19 year olds. Evidently, delegating responsibility to parents is often not effective. For example, many parents find these discussions confronting and uncomfortable, certain religious views may frown upon this education, and some parents are abusers themselves. In 2016, it was found that 1.4 million Australian adults experienced sexual abuse before the age of 15. More often than not, this abuse occurs at home. This is why it is absolutely the responsibility of the school to educate from a young age and to provide support for any victims. School is a place where children spend the majority of their time, and it must be a place of safety, empowerment and education, where all students are equal. Similarly, the media and broader society hold part of the blame for the concerning rates of sexual abuse in young Australians. In the media, we often hear advice on how women should avoid being sexually assaulted, but isn’t it more important for men to be taught to not sexually assault? When do we ever hear about that in the media? Remember Eurydice Dixon and Jill Meagher? I doubt you remember the names of men who raped and murdered them. It’s all about the victim, and rarely about the perpetrator. The fact that 1 in 8 Australians believe that if a woman is raped while drunk, she is partly to blame, is demonstrative of the underlying sexism in our

society. Prime Minister Scott Morrison responded to the rape of Brittany Higgins by a Liberal staffer by saying that his wife had to ‘clarify things’ for him by urging him to consider the issue ‘as a father.’ Why couldn’t he consider the issue as just a person? A man does not have to be a father of girls to respect and believe women. The fact that these attitudes are so widely held and promoted by the media reinforced how critical it is to counter them with effective education. Drastic changes need to happen. In order to create a society free from sexism, we must learn from women like Chanel Contos, and empower women by believing and supporting them when they share their experiences. Bringing these discussions out into the open has kickstarted positive change, and, as a society, we need to continue this momentum. The way to do this is through education. Schools are the perfect environment for this, as it will ensure the education is universal, equal and begins at a young age. As young people are raised in a sexist society, they are influenced by their parents, their teachers, their peers, the media and their leaders. These young people then become the adults and role models for the next generation, and so the cycle of gender stereotyping and power imbalance continues. It has to be broken, and school education for both boys and girls is the place to start.

Persuasive Oral: Transcript

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Persuasive Oral: Transcript Renita Yang Orator of the Year

I have a friend. His name is Joe and we became friends around the beginning of last year. He’s 18 and he was raised in Shanghai, just like me. He’s 18 centimetres taller than me and a little bit tanner. His favourite colour is grey, he likes to play music and he’s a good student, he always keeps his desk tidy. Actually, we’re in the same maths classes, too, and just a couple of weeks ago we stayed up till late working on a Methods SAC. Except I’ve never met him. Because Joe is an international student. Which means he’s stuck in China for the time being as per Australia’s border and travel restrictions. It’s been 1 year, 7 months and 7 days since Australian officials made the frantic decision to close the borders. During a press conference about this, we heard Prime Minister Scott Morrison claim that his ‘primary focus is on the welfare of Australians.’ Yet as he was saying this, 453 Australian secondary school students were left stranded at airports all over the world with their bags packed but nowhere to go. 1 year, 5 months and 13 days later: radio–silence from the Australian government, except for how they are still working out a plan for the ‘gradual return of international students.’ But they need to come home now. By refusing them from our borders this far in, the government sends out a loud message. That here in Australia, an international secondary school student is recognised as a second-class student, that they are not prioritised like the rest of us, their education isn’t important like the rest of ours. Rather, they’re treated as tourists, like their education is just a holiday–something that can be delayed or disrupted easily without detrimental consequence. These are students as young as you and me, willing to leave their loved ones at home, to learn a new language, just to get an education. In fact, a friend of a friend, who was an international student at a school not far from here was expelled–expelled by her school, not due to misbehaviour, not due to poor academics, but due to the school’s inability to assist with her learning cross-hemisphere, costing her the lifelong dream of becoming an Australian dentist. Unable to keep up with the different curriculum taught back home, she was forced to return to a technical institution in China. Not looking like a holiday, is it?

The source of hope for those like her, lies in the single page allocated to them on the Coronavirus website, which, despite its aims to ‘ensure students’ welfare is not compromised,’ is not really doing its job. So much so that a 44-page report on A proposal for entry of under 18 international students to Australia during COVID-19 had to be prepared by ‘a consortium of Victorian schools.’ Forget Australia’s ‘gold standard’ compared to countries like the US and UK who months ago welcomed the return of their own international students–our government’s efforts don’t even match up to their responsibility nationally, forcing schools to clean up after their mess. If that’s not enough evidence, let’s take a look at the impact of COVID-19 on the Australian secondary education system. A University of Melbourne study commented on three key areas affecting students during distance learning last year: educational progress, social development and emotional wellbeing–all of which mentioned levels of deficiencies and shortcomings as a result of not being able to learn and teach face-to-face. I’m sure all of us in this room would know, having been through it ourselves. So how can it be that the government is acting like online learning is a satisfactory, let alone acceptable solution over the time span of more than one year? All international students completing secondary school in Australia do so with the intention to pursue a further education in order to contribute to the life of Australian society in the future. I don’t need to tell you why because the Australian government already does on their website: ‘a quality education, multicultural communities and pathways to world-renowned universities.’ Yet the Australian government is also the very group who is depriving them of this. International students won’t get to attend Valedictory, dress up for their last day or be present for their own graduation. All of this to a community who has believed and continues to believe in the excellence and diversity of our education and society. How indeed, very un-Australian. You could argue it would be a socially unpopular decision to open the borders to international students, as China happens to be the home of many of them, and, you know, Australia and China are not on the greatest of terms right now. So I’m just going to give us all some time to think about the possibility of barring 17 and 18 year olds from getting an education–not getting a high school education,

Persuasive Oral: Transcript

because of petty politics. It’s like the government has a high school drama of their own to deal with. I’ll let that speak for itself. Now, whether he’s come to your mind again throughout the last five minutes of my speech or not, Joe is one of those 453 Australian secondary school international students stuck far away from home. So for me, and hopefully for you all by now, it’s not just about a couple of students overseas anymore. It’s about my friend, how it’s been 1 year, 7 months and 7 days and he still hasn’t been able to return to meet me, to meet all of you. And he needs to come home. ‘

I was seated on the little green bench on the train station’s twelfth platform, a ticket for the ten o’clock train nestled between my fingertips. I was fairly comfortable in the seat, however I occasionally shifted my position to stretch my limbs, the added pressure of my weight causing the bench to creak and groan beneath me. The harsh winter wind blew with little sign of mercy, bringing with it the thick scents of exhaust fumes and burning charcoal. I could also smell the sweeter aroma of instant coffee and raspberry jam doughnuts that emanated from the kiosk a couple of steps away. Countless people moved to and fro, boarding and disembarking their trains before me. Their coats, sweaters and scarves merged into greys and pinks and washed-out greens, a patchwork of colours that became blurry in my trance. They were nothing more than a loud crowd of strangers. And for this, I felt alone. Seated by myself, the platform filled with people, it felt even lonelier than just being alone. I did not know the people in the throng to begin with, and I would be home with my family soon. Yet, I could not escape the feeling that I would not be seeing them for a very long time. I shook my head, attempting to dispel the unpleasant thoughts. The loneliness was just getting to my head. The station clock clanged its bells laboriously, announcing nine o’clock. Across from me, an elderly man froze mid-step as the doors of a train slammed shut in front of him. I expected to see an outburst of anger or frustration, yet his facial features displayed indifference, a blank expression that perceived itself in the glass windows. The train then began to move, slowly, before rapidly gaining speed and disappearing soon after, leaving him alone amidst the sea of people. ‘What a shame, but it may work in his favour.’ Startled, I whipped my head towards the direction of the voice. I was not alone on the little green bench. A man sat next to me, poised and elegant. He wore light tones of beige, draped across skin, so white it was a stark contrast against the smoky atmosphere of the station. His caramel hair seemed to glimmer bronze, illuminated by the dim glow of the platform’s lamps and his eyes were a deep, expressive blue that broke into fragments of teal and azure. The man seemed to simultaneously stand out from and melt into the darkness and congestion of the platform.

It Took Me One Last Time Imaan Ikram Boroondara Literary Award Senior Prose Second overall

It Took Me One Last Time

He brought out a thin paperback book from the pocket of his coat, its cover completely blank and its edges weathered and torn. ‘May I pass the time with you?’ he asked, offering it to me. I scrutinised the man, perplexed at his familiar behaviour. Sceptically, I lifted my hands to accept it as he settled into the bench with quiet ease. The story the book told was tragic, though I did not particularly mind. I enjoyed reading melancholic literature, whether it was tales of soldiers at war, the urge to forget and move on from someone once adored, or lovers forever star-crossed. Realistic or not, I absorbed the inky text of their pages like a sponge. Though I had to admit, this book was particularly sad, its narrative plucking a chord within my heart that sang feelings of sympathy for its character. It told the story of a girl, who only had three months to live. But she chose to hide her illness, dedicating the rest of her days to helping those she loved. As her time grew shorter and her pain intensified, she wondered if protecting the happiness of her loved ones was worth the loneliness she was drowning in. One fateful evening, the girl was returning home from the store, her breath materialising as white clouds in the cold, winter air. The pathway was quiet, but its silence was soon broken by the giggles and shouts of a young child bounding across the road. The girl could see a car approaching, its tires screeching across the quiet street. To her horror, it continued to accelerate with no respite, and she lunged towards the boy, the car’s headlights painting her surroundings in vivid white. A loud thud resounded throughout the street. Fruit rolled haphazardly across the concrete. And the girl lay sprawled across the ground, motionless. I thumbed the corner of the book’s final page, a hollow feeling settling within the pits of my stomach. I did not understand why I felt such intense grief for her death; she was just a character in a book, and its narrative was not real. Yet it left me feeling unsettled, trepidation cementing itself within my stomach. I turned to face the man, the little green bench protesting against my movements. The book was instilling strange waves of déjà vu, as if I had already read it. And although I had never met him before, the man’s presence filled the air around us with an odd sense of familiarity, as if I had known him far longer than this last half an

hour. The feeling that I would no longer be seeing my family or friends continued to well itself within me, choking me with a suffocating sensation of misery. My mouth was dry, my throat hoarse as I begged myself to say something, to ask who he was, what this book was about, and why I was overcome with such unexplained melancholy, but the shrill scream of a whistle in the distance abruptly halted my thoughts. Only then did I notice the absence of the initial crowds of people, the murky darkness of the platform permeating a grey stillness that paralysed me with dread. The station clock chimed the hour of ten, its clanging heightening my anxiety. ‘Time is up,’ the man said, the edges of his blue eyes crinkling as he smiled. The train stampeded towards us, the squeal of its machinery loudening to a mechanical scream as it slowed down before us. Its surface seemed to glow unnaturally, tendrils of blackened smoke with tinges of red embers billowing from its chimney. But despite its otherworldly appearance, I felt drawn to it, my feet knocking against one another in restless anticipation to bound inside. The little green bench heaved a sigh of relief as I stood up, stretching out my aching limbs. I then turned to the man, offering him the book. But he shook his head, beaming from his seat. ‘You can keep it, maybe it will keep you occupied for the journey ahead.’ I nodded hesitantly, clutching the book tightly to my chest as I turned around, making my way into the train. The carriage was empty, the velvet plush of its seats coated in a light layer of dust. I sat beside a window that overlooked the platform, the man now alone on the platform. As he lifted his hand in farewell, a whistle screamed, steam beginning to coil from the sides of the train as its doors closed shut with a tired sigh. The engine began to growl, its wheels groaning to life and moving slowly, ever so slowly across the rails. It gained speed, running faster and faster, and the platform grew smaller and smaller, disappearing completely from view. As my surroundings gradually became a brilliant white, I closed my eyes, my body swaying to the gentle rock of the train as it took me, one last time. It took me and it ran.

It Took Me One Last Time

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Persuasive Oral: Transcript Sophia Doufas

‘For those who’ve come across the seas, We’ve boundless plains to share With courage let us all combine Advance Australia fair’ I’m sure you all recognise these as the words of our national anthem. Words that are meant to represent Australian values, and be the heart of our nation. Words that are meant to show Australia’s willingness to welcome those in need to our country with open arms. So why is it that our very own words don’t describe us as a country? Why is it that we are violating our very own national anthem when it comes to our treatment of asylum seekers and refugees? Before I begin on what the real issue here is, it’s important that we all understand what a refugee and an asylum seeker is. A refugee is someone who has fled war or persecution to find safety in another country. An asylum seeker is someone who is claiming to be a refugee, but their claims have not been verified yet, and they haven’t been granted refugee status yet. The way Australia deals with asylum seekers is complex. Since 2001, Australia has been sending people who come by boat to offshore detention centres in Nauru and Manus Island in Papua New Guinea, and Christmas Island, to process their refugee claims. This is called offshore processing. As logical as it may appear to sound on paper, I strongly believe that the entire system around the processing of asylum seekers and refugees in offshore detention centres needs to be urgently reviewed and changed. Firstly, the conditions in offshore detention centres such as Nauru, Manus Island, and Christmas Island are disgusting. Asylum seekers in Nauru spent a year or more in cramped tents in a facility where temperatures indoors were often 45 to 50 degrees. There were regular searches of their tents by the guards, confiscation of prohibited items–including food, two-minute showers, and filthy toilets. You may be thinking, why does this ring a bell? Maybe because it sounds awfully a lot like prison. And it’s no surprise that the mental health rates reflect these appalling conditions. Between 2013 and 2016, there were 1,730 incidents of self-harm in detention centres. And even worse, 203

of them were children. Just kids, all 203 of them younger than Every. Single. One. Of. Us in this room. Recently in the media, the story of a particular three-year old asylum seeker has gained lots of attention. Some of you may have heard of Tharnicca, a little girl who is currently in hospital in Perth for sepsis and pneumonia. After her medical evacuation from Christmas Island, the conditions they experienced on the island were brought to light. When the girls were little, they weren’t allowed to go outside for more than half an hour a day. This led to a vitamin D deficiency in Tharnicca, and because her nutritional needs weren’t being met, her teeth started to rot at the age of only two. Additionally, everyday, Tharnicca and her sister Kopika were escorted to school by guards in a police van. At least one for each of them. Two little girls, only five and three. And why? Do two little girls pose that great of a security risk? They aren’t terrorists, they are children. I can’t stress enough that Tharnicca and Kopika’s stories are just the tip of the iceberg. These are not isolated incidents; this is the reality of the conditions of our very own offshore detention centres. Secondly, these detention centres are ruining our reputation as a country through violating basic international law and multiple human rights. In May this year, a law was passed that essentially allows the government to indefinitely detain asylum seekers. In situations where they don’t want to let an asylum seeker into the country, but they can’t legally send them back, the government now has the power to just indefinitely detain them for as long as they want, potentially for the rest of their lives, without a trial or a charge. However, although this now may be legal here, you can’t ethically hold someone in detention and refuse to release them anywhere else for the rest of their life without a trial. Indefinite detention is extremely illegal in terms of international law. And unfortunately, we are already seeing the effects of this. In 2012, the average time spent in detention was less than 100 days. In 2021, that figure is 627 days–the highest it has ever been. It’s obvious that the government needs to revise this law urgently if we want to hold on to even a shred of our morality and respect as a country. Lastly, another issue surrounding these offshore detention centres is the cost around operating them. According to this year’s budget, it costs Australian taxpayers almost 10 thousand dollars

Persuasive Oral: Transcript

per day per person being held offshore. And next year, it will cost us 811 million dollars to keep asylum seekers detained in offshore detention. Of course this sounds like a lot of money, but put this into perspective. The two little girls that I mentioned before, Kopika and Tharnicca, for their family of four, it costs taxpayers 6.7 million dollars to detain that family for a year and five months. A family that, to be honest, shouldn’t even have been in detention in the first place–6.7 million dollars down the drain. On the other side of the debate, many people argue that the heavy-handed and harsh policies around offshore detention centres and its conditions are aimed to deter asylum seekers from embarking on a long dangerous journey to Australia that often results in boats sinking and many people dying. And to be honest, it almost appears logical. In no way shape or form do I want innocent refugees and asylum seekers dying on their way to Australia in the hope of starting a new life here. However, this does not justify punishing those who have survived the journey, by placing them in subhuman conditions just because they have survived. They are not prisoners. They haven’t committed any crimes. They are human, like all of us in this room. There is simply no logical justification for their treatment. We need to do something about these offshore detention centres, because they are doing so much more harm than good. There really are no benefits: the conditions are appalling, they blatantly violate international law, and they are costing us millions each year. I can’t stress enough how serious this issue is. This issue is far beyond an oral point of view for VCE English. It’s about justice, it’s about compassion, and it’s about upholding Australian values. Offshore processing and detention centres need to be urgently reviewed and changed. Because according to our national anthem, ‘we’ve boundless plains to share.’ ‘

In the distance, a woman stands in the middle of a bustling laneway. Her eyes dart in both directions. A misplaced piece of nature, she stands in her emerald green dress amongst a sea of blue and grey. The sounds of chatter and honking horns surround her impatiently. Seeming to find a target, she decisively strides to a table in a crowded cafe across the laneway. An oak café table with a red and white checked tablecloth hosts the woman. The words of her neighbours bounce around her. She wishes she could catch one of them and throw it back to the man wearing the white shirt and blue pants sitting at the adjacent table. But when her hazel eyes meet with the dry blue eyes of the man, he simply turns his head away. As she rises to leave, she feels a gnawing feeling in her stomach, despite having relished a filling meal. As her foot steps over the boundary between the concrete slabs and ornate black and white tiling, the false brightness no longer shines upon her and her figure is soon engulfed by darkness. As she enters the desolate courtyard, a joyful melody greets her. Her eyes follow the music to an apartment above. What an enthralling, lively tune! Yet the woman feels as though she is mocked for feeling so alone, so alone, when the village is brimming with life and noise. As the woman enters the dark corridor like a snail retreating into its shell, something from within compels her to return to the courtyard. Her eyes are attracted by the now abandoned deckchair where her neighbour lies under the sun, seeking the warmth of its rays. Her attention drifts to the spot in the courtyard where she held the limp dog whose life had been so brutally taken by her vicious neighbour who lived on the floor above. The woman shudders violently. She had since hoped with the entirety of her heart that her neighbours would realise that they needed to speak to one another–to be a real community. Yet she still knows none of their names and gives them none for the want of knowledge about who they are, their aspirations, their stories… She recalls the accusations, the words of fury and despair which seem to have only kept her neighbours more tightly locked in their little rectangular enclosures. As the woman tilts her head up to gaze into the worlds of her neighbours, a particular window catches her attention. A woman wearing a yellow apron walks to and from the dining table, bringing with her each time a plate of steaming food. The woman’s eyes

A Companion at the Dinner Table Cynthia Hu

A Companion at the Dinner Table

widen and the corners of her mouth point up. A shriek slices through the stagnancy of the courtyard atmosphere. In the adjacent window, a boy, whose head is barely visible above the windowsill, wails, flailing his arms around. The woman’s eyes travel back to the other window, where the family have turned their heads towards the wailing. Nobody moves. The jovial chatter resumes, and the boy is left alone in the frame of the window. Time passes. The woman looks at the other windows and catches a flicker of movement. She notices with a start that the boy is gone, almost jumping on the spot. A small figure runs across to the next window. The woman donning the yellow apron wags her finger. The small boy lifts his head up and articulates a few soundless words. A smile stretches over the mother’s face as she nods, and he runs into her arms. The boy then bounds over to the table and jumps onto a chair next to a young girl. Their backs are to the window but the woman, still watching, can imagine the smile on their faces. The woman exhales, noting with curiosity how rapidly the sound of moving air dissipates into the night. Smiling melancholically, she knows that the boy, no matter what he had done, would have had that urge bubbling up inside of him, until he can no longer contain his need for someone to hug, laugh with, talk with. Oh, how she wishes she could walk into her neighbours’ home and stay for tea–but no! The kind neighbours, the ones who brought you leftover strawberry pie and surprised you with gifts at Christmas had been replaced with snails, too afraid to come out of their shells. How she wishes she had a little leaf to tempt them out of their homes! As streaks of yellow and pink emerge from the night sky, sunlight spills into the courtyard. The woman looks into her own apartment, where the light is still on, and imagines two people sitting at the dinner table, and having that empty feeling filled. Music wafts into the courtyard once again. An unshaven man emerges from a window. The woman observes him closely as he sits down at the piano, staring at the keys before him. She watches his swaying head as he plays, utterly immersed in the world of his music. In the same jovial piece as she heard the previous night, she can suddenly distinguish the underlying longing–for something not there. When he finishes, he looks at the piano again and shoulders hunched slightly, withdraws from the room. No, he wasn’t mocking

her. Like the little boy, the woman in the sunchair, like herself, they all wanted a companion at the dinner table. Her eyes drift from the empty chair to the piano, to the window where the little boy sat alone. She tilts her head towards the vast blue sky.

A Companion at the Dinner Table

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Scribo, Scribere, Scripsi, Scriptus: Verb – To Write