Issue 8 - Immigrant by Salient

SA L I E N T

ISSUE O8

Immigrant

CONTENTS 04-19

04-07

The Family We Leave Behind (Feature)

Features & Essays

Deep Roots And Expansive Skies (Feature)

10-11

20-21

Centerfold

Recipe

24-25

26-35

36-38

Poems

Culture & Columns

Entertainment

The Road To Seeking Asylum In Aotearoa (Feature)

About Us Salient is published by, but remains editorially independent from, the Victoria University of Wellington Students’ Association (VUWSA). Salient is funded in part by VUWSA through the Student Services Levy. Salient is a member of the Aotearoa Student Press Association (ASPA). The views expressed in Salient do not necessarily reflect those of the Editor, VUWSA, or the University. Complaints Complaints regarding the material published in Salient should first be brought to the Editor in writing (editor@salient.org.nz). If not satisfied with the response, complaints should be directed to the Media Council (info@mediacouncil.org.nz).

08-09

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Welcome to the Immigrant Issue! EDITORIAL I’m proud to say this issue has been written solely by writers from immigrant and refugee backgrounds. It is the first issue of its kind, not just for Salient, but for all of the student media magazines in Aotearoa. An immigrant is defined as a person who permanently moves to a foreign country. A refugee is defined as someone who has fled to a foriegn country for safety. While these definitions encompass a wide range of people living in Aotearoa, the terms ‘immigrant’ and ‘refugee’ often evoke images of coloured people. Those who are visibly different are easily othered. Immigrant has come to mean ‘not Māori or white’, which is why Salient has chosen to primarily platform immigrants of colour within these pages. The 2018 Census showed that roughly 25.9% of New Zealanders were tauiwi of colour. That number represents hundreds of thousands of immigrants, each with their own stories of how they came to be here. My hope is that immigrant or not, you read this issue and gain a deeper understanding for how complex and diverse the immigrant experience is. Salient was ecstatic with the overwhelming number of pitches we received for this issue, and as a result we chose to omit the news section this week in favour of fitting in more stories from more immigrant students. In our features this week: Etienne and Nabilah discuss the relationship between tauiwi of colour and tangata whenua, Ineke explains the asylumseeking process, and I open up about the family I left behind when I came to Aotearoa. Our writers also talk about mental health, falling through trap doors, diasporic literature, and the importance of pronouncing names correctly. Our features are heavy because being an immigrant is hard. While you see diversity, colourful clothing, and tasty food, we experience identity crises, racism, and a shit load of introspection.

We also have plenty of content that celebrates the joys of the immigrant experience. There’s recipes, poetry, skate photography, reviews, and a guide on how to live your best Brazilian life. To top it off, Salient orchestrated a photoshoot which reimagined what campus would look like if immigrant students felt safe enough to wear their traditional clothing. You can enjoy those photos on the front and back covers, and around the centrefold. Every word in this magazine has been written by someone who has, at least once, questioned whether they belong here. Worried about whether they are wanted or welcome. The next time someone questions what value immigrants and refugees bring to Aotearoa, smack them across the head with a copy of this issue. Our unique experiences are what we bring to the melting pot of Aotearoa, and we deserve to be here. With love, by immigrants, for everyone.

JANHAVI GOSAVI (SHE/HER)

www.salient.org.nz

Words by Nabilah Husna Binte Abdul Rahman (she/her) and Etienne Wain (he/him) Content warning: Discussions of colonisation and racism Navigating identity as a person of multiple ethnicities is no simple task. Etienne On my father’s side, I am Pākehā, descending from England and Scotland. On my mother’s side, I am MalaysianChinese, descending from ethnically Chinese people who have made their home in Malaysia. The struggle to live in connection with multiple cultures, often questioning whether I am Asian/white/other descriptor enough. These thoughts have kept me up late at night ever since the day I was first targeted by a racist slur and woke up to the racialised reality we live in.

Add to this the complexities of living in Aotearoa under Te Tiriti o Waitangi, on colonised land that has never been ceded by tangata whenua, and you have a recipe for infinite hours spent staring at the sky, wondering about identity, belonging, and solidarity as tauiwi (a settler) of colour on this whenua. Nabilah I am tauiwi of colour in Aotearoa. I am also indigenous to my home country of Singapore. Indigenous peoples’ experiences with colonisation are unique to our local landscape, but contain many painful similarities. Colonisation everywhere erases, repurposes, co-opts, contorts, and chisels our histories, often crafting in its stead an identity that can be governed or made palatable enough for widespread acceptance. To be clothed in this character, we are made to detach ourselves from our past. We learn to hate the rituals we partake in; we’re trained to despise our mother tongue. For generations, we have worn this animosity towards our own people as though it were a second skin. This sticky membrane canonises a single answer to

“who are we?” until all we know how to say is “not them.” And by “them” we mean “us.” Back home in Singapore, the indigenous Malay identity was suited in dozens of these colonial cloaks: as the lazy native, as the oriental, as pirates, as the native threat, as the underdeveloped, as breeders, as ticking timebombs, as “better with their hands,” as unhealthy, as “slowly improving.” Internal colonisation hides in plain sight. Where once there were kinship ties connecting us, there are now rungs in the endless ladder of development separating us. We become dispossessed of the language of health, of family, of history, of region, of place, of futurity. I left home because I thought that it had little left for me. But my short time in Aotearoa would cement the knowledge that the Malay world was a repository of all I am here. Being launched from one colonial state into another (physically and psychologically) helped me more deeply understand what is at stake.

“I am tauiwi of colour in Aotearoa. I am also Indigenous to my home country of Singapore. Indigenous peoples’ experiences with colonisation are unique to our local landscape, but contain many painful similarities.” Etienne The history of Te Tiriti I learned about at law school was one where greed trumped the promises settlers made to hapū at Waitangi. Settlers stole land from tangata whenua by force and aggressively attempted to erase Māori culture and identity. Yes, apologies have been given and settlements made (in some cases) but, in the words of Moana Jackson, “Treaties aren’t meant to be settled. They’re meant to be honoured.” In my search for how tauiwi can begin to honour Te Tiriti, I encountered the words of Tā Edward Taihakurei Durie, former chairperson of the Waitangi Tribunal: “It is the Treaty that gives Pākehā the right to be here […] We must remember that if we [Māori] are the tangata whenua, the original people, then the

Pākehā are the tangata Tiriti, those who belong to the land by right of that Treaty […]”. To me, being “tangata Tiriti” looked like an alternative way of existing as tauiwi that did right by te Tiriti and tangata whenua. Upon further research, I found there is significant support for the idea that all tauiwi in Aotearoa, whether Pākehā or tauiwi of colour, can be encompassed by this term. I was intrigued, and decided to follow this rabbit hole to wherever it led, researching the meanings, identities, and responsibilities associated with tangata Tiriti. Nabilah Learning about my new identity as tangata Tiriti in Aotearoa is a frequent exercise in relationshipmaking: How have I been taught to know myself and my people? Even though I came to Aotearoa

alone, it quickly became apparent that I needed to understand my identity here more relationally. I needed to see myself as part of “a people” again. It led me (like many others) to explore this in my current PhD journey. In my research, I aim to explore how Asian tangata Tiriti come to know our place here—away from the dehumanising bureaucracy of the migration process, and according to tikanga and te ao Māori. What does it mean to learn the vibrant and painful histories of these lands? Some of the answers lie in how we respect the lives and ways of being that continue to be lost and stolen, revived and solidified. As manuhiri (guests) here, it is critical to name ourselves not according to colonisers’ vocabulary—as “skilled migrants,” as “model minorities,” as foreign threats, “swarms,” and “floods”—but as a people resisting colonialism in Aotearoa. How do we disrupt the standard story of an “ordered,” “developed,” “post-colonial” world, and form our relationships according to a different set of rules? My study considers how racialised tauiwi, in our everyday practices, support tino rangatiratanga. Etienne My PhD research quickly ran into the ‘-isms,’ biculturalism and multiculturalism especially. The term “multiculturalism” is used by governments to label indigenous peoples as just another minority among many, attempting to water down their status as tangata whenua. Biculturalism, which the “Treaty partnership” is often characterised as, isn’t much better, with Pākehā assuming the role of senior partner with Māori as beneficiaries. Cogovernance arrangements may improve things but will not change the Pākehā-imposed reality that situates ultimate power with the Crown. As tauiwi of colour, I have my own qualms with biculturalism, as it seems to erase the presence of everyone who is neither Māori nor Pākehā from national debate—and therefore from existence in Aotearoa altogether. I’m also not advocating for multiculturalism and I stand by its critiques. Looking to the idea of tangata Tiriti, on the other hand— an identity grounded in te Tiriti that can only be understood through an interweaving of tauiwi ideas, as well as tikanga and mātauranga Māori— perhaps there is a way forward.

Nabilah A Tiriti-based future recognises that none of our lives are contained in the nation-state—especially not migrants’. By evoking my own customs, faith systems, beliefs, and language, I have come to understand that my role here is indissolubly linked to tangata whenua. I cast my mind to our shared worldviews and ancestral journeys. The Malay peribahasa (proverb),dimana bumi dipijak, di situ langit dijunjung (where the earth is trodden under foot, there the heavens are upheld), calls us to follow the customs of the land we are on. As we respect tikanga Māori, the expansive skies watch over us. My upbringing taught me about the sacredness of the physical and spiritual worlds we inhabit, cross, and sometimes even intrude upon. Semangat (spirit or vital force) lives in everything, including (especially) lands and waters I am only a guest on. I think of the reflective nature of the word “Waitangi” itself—wai means water in te reo, and in bahasa, a synonym for river; then there is tangi (Māori) and tangis (Malay) which means to grieve and weep. It reminds me that every small connection we see now has deep, far-reaching roots. Etienne I mihi to Moana Jackson, who passed away at the end of March. I encounter him at every crossroads of my research: his wisdom, his uncompromising ideals, and his visionary dreams for Aotearoa. I constantly return to his work The Report of Matike Mai Aotearoa, which envisions a new constitution for Aotearoa: one based on tikanga and kawa (marae protocol), He Whakaputanga (the Declaration of Independence), and Te Tiriti. To inform the report, the experts and respected Māori leaders of Matike Mai Aotearoa travelled around Aotearoa to ask tangata whenua their views on constitutional transformation. The relationship between tangata whenua and migrants was a recurring theme. According to the report: “[…] the essential view that Te Tiriti applied to all people and therefore had immigration connotations remained the same. Where the immigrants came from or when they arrived was less important than the relationship with all new arrivals that the tīpuna [ancestors] hoped for in Te Tiriti.”

Nabilah

Occupation in one corner of the world leads to displacement and movement of people, power, and labour, emboldening the settler colonial project somewhere else. Yes, colonialism has a butterfly effect, but so does solidarity. Connecting to one part of our history can guide more genuine, noncolonising relationships with our hosts, and with others experiencing the impacts of colonisation.

These possibilities must be made visible. It’s a confusing, often uncomfortable process for many of us who face daily discrimination within this Pākehā-dominated society. But the answer isn’t to be welcomed into a system of belonging that privileges Pākehā. We can start resisting these colonising identities by embracing how our lives, our cosmologies, and our voices are indispensable. They have power to be in-roads to healing and to solidarity with tangata whenua.

Etienne haere mai, tangata tiriti you have journeyed far to be here know that while your standing here is up to neither me nor you

Ideas for tauiwi who want to start on journeys of identity and solidarity

from one guest to another

Personal actions

let me warmly welcome you

• Learn about Te Tiriti o Waitangi and the histories of Aotearoa

haere mai, tangata tiriti

• Learn about the history of your community in Aotearoa

learn the tikanga of this marae

Groups to get involved with (find them on Facebook)

and to your host

• Asians Supporting Tino Rangatiratanga

be a whanaunga, partner, friend

• Asian Legal Network

that we would all of us honour

• Tauiwi mō Matike Mai

as we live together

• Treaty Action Collective Resources to read

the promise made

• The Matike Mai Report (online)

under the Waitangi sky

• Imagining Decolonisation (book) • What’s Required From Tangata Tiriti by Tina Ngata (blog post)

haere mai, tangata tiriti haere mai Poem first published by Metanoia

“As tauiwi of colour, I have my own qualms with ‘biculturalism’, as it seems to erase the presence of everyone who is neither Māori nor Pākehā from national debate—and therefore from existence in Aotearoa altogether.” www.salient.org.nz

The Family We Leave Behind Words by Janhavi Gosavi (she/her)

My grandmother lives inside my phone screen. She waddles across the tile flooring of her flat in Mumbai, yelling out to tell everyone who’s home that I’m on the call. I get passed around my different family members. We tell each other how we are, what we ate that day, and what time it is, where we are. Everyone projects their voices as if they’re physically yelling across oceans. It never fails to make me laugh.

My little cousins have a set script they recite, in which they begrudgingly ask me what I’m doing and when I plan on visiting them. In turn, I make fun of their haircuts and show them pictures of my pet rabbits. It feels like an even trade. The phone eventually makes its way back to my grandmother, who sneaks me into her bedroom. Her tone of voice shifts, indicating that I should sit up straight and listen. Buried inside her closet, behind rows of sarees and dusty photo albums,

are bundles of cash that no one else knows about. She has been stashing away spare notes for years, saving up for when I return to India. “Make a list,” she instructs me, “of everything you’ve ever wanted, and when you’re back, we’ll buy it all.” My family stopped sending me birthday presents a while ago, and I can hear the guilt in her voice. She has years of catching up to do.

every day.

My uncle was the only one who insisted on getting me birthday presents even after my age hit double digits. He was the kind of uncle who drew moustaches on my dolls and laughed when I cried over my Tamagotchi dying. Every year, he would send me his credit card details and force me to order something off the internet. Moonstone rings, fandom merch, Pandora bracelet charms. Childish trinkets scattered across my room, physical reminders that on the other side of the world, I had a family who cared.

I imagine myself as an island. Separated from the mainland by natural disaster, some cruel twist of fate. Resigned to floating aimlessly across the antipodes.

When I call my family and hear them laughing without me, I can’t tell if I left them behind or if they left me.

A few summers ago, I looked out from the summit at Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of Aotearoa. There stood a lighthouse to my left, an ancient pohutukawa to my right, and an endless horizon of possibility in the middle. In te ao Māori, Cape Reinga is the point of departure where wairua Māori leave Aotearoa to make the journey back to Hawaiki.

He passed away at the end of my first year of university. My parents flew back for the funeral, and I was left to fathom the loss of a man I hadn’t laid eyes on in years. They brought me back his favourite tee shirt, worn out and with a tacky design on it. I paired it with jeans and low-top sneakers, wearing it to class and wondering if anyone would make a snarky comment. But why would anyone care that he died when they never knew he existed? I don’t talk about my extended family much because most days they don’t feel real. I tell people my parents and I moved to Aotearoa when I was two, and no one asks follow-up questions. There is an assumption that first-generation immigrants accept the cost of uprooting their lives for greener pastures; that we pay this cost gladly, without remorse. I miss everything.

I miss everything. Birthdays, funerals, anniversaries, divorces, droughts, monsoons. Countless milestones I haven’t borne witness to. When I call my family and hear them laughing without me, I can’t tell if I left them behind or if they left me.

It’s easier to pretend your family line starts with you, that you are some trailblazing revolutionary, the matriarch of a future dynasty. It’s harder to admit that you are a small part of a very large puzzle. Especially when you feel like a disposable corner piece, the image still intact without you.

I imagine myself as an island. Separated from the mainland by natural disaster, some cruel twist of fate. Resigned to floating aimlessly across the antipodes. In that moment, I had never felt closer nor further away from my ancestors. I try to not dwell on my whakapapa because it hurts. Te ao Māori affirms that your ancestors are waiting for you, but I’m not sure if mine even know where I am. Like a child who had moved houses before Christmas, worried Santa won’t be able to find their chimney, I’m also worried I won’t be found. After I depart this life, my spirit won’t be leaping off Cape Reinga. I just hope she can island-hop her way home.

Kulfi, mangoes, fresh mutton, street chaat. The smell of talcum powder. The howling of street dogs fighting at night, sending a chill down my spine. My grandfather bringing home fresh coconuts for me www.salient.org.nz

The Road to Seeking Asylum

in Aotearoa Words by Ineke Ramsteijn (she/her)

For most of us, seeking asylum is a pretty foreign concept, but for countless innocent people worldwide it is a constant and debilitating obstacle to safety. There are two different types of refugees recognised in Aotearoa: convention refugees and quota refugees. Quota refugees are individuals who come to the country through the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) resettlement programme and are granted permanent resident status upon arrival. Convention refugees, on the other hand, are people who sought asylum once they arrived in

Aotearoa—this can be done from the airport itself or later on from inside the community. This is a legal way of obtaining residency in another nation for people who can prove that they would face unfair persecution or treatment if returned back to their country of origin. However, years of statistics show asylum seekers in Aotearoa are treated like criminals and given little to no support after they arrive into Aotearoa. Aisha* is a young woman who fled Syria with her younger brother and parents, sought asylum in Aotearoa, and is now living in Te Whanganui a Tara. Her family were forced to use fake passports,

illegally immigrating for fear of being caught and persecuted. This method used by Aisha and her family is protected by the 1951 Refugee Convention. Even so, after they arrived, Aisha and her family were separated and her father was detained because of doubts surrounding his identity. This left Aisha, her brother, and her mother in a foreign country without their father and with very little knowledge of the English language. Aisha recalls this as being “the most frightening experience [she had] ever been in.” When asked about her first few months in Aotearoa, Aisha emphasised her gratitude for eventually finding sanctuary in Aotearoa, but did not recall receiving any entry support from the community or government. Her family was given minimal information on what would happen to her father while he was detained, no support in finding accommodation, nor any information on English as a Second Language (ESL) courses. Aisha’s father was released after 154 days in detention—the legal maximum in Aotearoa is 28 days in detention without a further order from the district court, or a renewed “Warrant of Commitment” by Immigration New Zealand. During his detention, Aisha and her family were not informed of any renewal. Whether his detention ever was legal is still unclear. Unlike convention refugees and asylum seekers, quota refugees are provided with a range of resources and support in Aotearoa, including six weeks of accommodation on arrival, a six-week orientation programme, and further support from trained resettlement volunteers and social workers for the first six months in Aotearoa. They are also provided with free English classes that provide crucial support for speakers of other languages. While being a refugee is not something anyone asks for in life, the disparity between how convention refugees and asylum seekers are treated compared to quota refugees is inexcusable. Aotearoa has one of the lowest numbers of refugees per capita globally—only 0.3 refugees per 1,000 people. We accept a maximum of 1,500 quota refugees per year, however, for the last three years in a row, we have accepted an astonishingly low number—with only 463 being approved in 2021. If Aotearoa has accepted that as a nation we have enough resources to support 1,500 refugees annually, why are we receiving such a minimal amount?

Furthermore, why are the asylum seekers we do accept not being provided with the resources that aren’t being used due to this low number? The asylum seeker process is not a glamorous one, it is the last option for people being forced to flee from their homelands in fear for their lives. It is full of risks and uncertainties, and Aotearoa does absolutely nothing to make life easier for these people who have had their lives turned on their heads. This needs to change, and it needs to change now. Asylum Seekers Support Trust and ChangeMakers Resettlement Forum are charitable organisations doing all they can to help asylum seekers in Aotearoa. Te Herenga Waka-based Asylum Seekers Equality Project works closely alongside these organisations, fighting for legislative change to ensure greater legal safeguards for asylum seekers. These groups continue to put out petitions and other calls to action on a regular basis and are always looking for people interested in the cause to help raise awareness, put pressure on politicians, and raise financial support. Furthermore, Amnesty International has multiple campaigns running at any given time and has an active Amnesty group here at Te Herenga Waka that is always open to new members. Further information and resources can be found on any of these organisations’ websites and will help anyone interested get a deeper understanding on the processes currently in place in Aotearoa. Even the slightest engagement with these entities can make a significant difference. Whether it is liking, sharing, following, or simply starting a conversation with someone new. Awareness is everything, and it is the fundamental difference between change happening and change desperately needing to happen. The issues surrounding asylum seekers and refugee rights, in general, stem from racism and the backwards mentality of “it won’t happen to us, so it doesn’t matter to me.” The reality is that the world is in a constant state of uncertainty, and as a nation, we need to realise asylum seekers are not choosing this life. As a nation that likes to pride itself on upholding human rights, we have a long way to go before we can be proud of how we treat the people coming to us for help. *Name has been changed. www.salient.org.nz

Does Our Mental Health Matter Yet?

Words by Kabita Bhandari (she/her) & Sreymuch Soth (she/her) As an immigrant, your daily existence is riddled with conflicts and contradictions between multiple cultures that are unique to one another. You carry these encounters and experiences with you, and they sometimes manifest in mental health struggles. Mental health is unfortunately not a major focus for the bulk of immigrant households. Instead, challenges are readily addressed as temporary. I (Srey) casually mentioned my anxieties about mental health with my mother. Her first response targeted my body and health, which is common in immigrant households. “Go for a walk,” “Get off your phone,” and “Drink water” are just a few of the many remedies that never get to the root of the problem. Migrant youth walk a tightrope between our roots and the culture that we are trying to blend in with. In the eyes of some immigrant families, therapy is for white people. Many Asians, for example, have a cultural explanatory model of mental illness that does not necessarily match Western notions. For some, there is significant shame and stigma attached to mental illness. Those who do seek help will do so only if the situation becomes severe, and even then, the help will often be religious or spiritual advice. This is not to claim that this path is incorrect; rather, the trouble is that Aotearoa’s existing services are unable to adapt to the fast-changing immigrant demographics of its population. Student Health offers thirteen counselors for its 22000 students, three of whom are people of colour, to support individuals from more than 100 countries. Yes, the service is free (for domestic students, international students pay $36–72 per session), but asking students to be satisfied with the current service is a bit much. It is difficult to ask for immediate help with only thirteen counselors on hand. On top of it all, students are currently facing

hardship in all areas such as housing, minimum wage, and daily expenses. As a result, immigrant youth who try to seek therapy face roadblocks within our services. We are all aware of how costly it is to see a therapist in New Zealand. The Government’s 2019 Wellbeing Budget included $455 million for a heavy focus on mental wellbeing. Three years later, we haven’t felt any notable changes. As university students, it is illogical to expect us to seek private mental healthcare. So, where do we go from here? Student Health. In 2020, I (Kabita) approached Student Health, desperate to discuss my mental wellbeing. My GP notified me that I would be paired with a white man who was the best and most experienced the university had to offer. After a few sessions, where all I felt was a lack of understanding and compassion for my cultural background, I was handed a three-month free membership to the university recreation center. Our mental wellbeing is destined to suffer when we are forced to balance two cultures in one body. For many migrant children, discussing personal concerns with their parents can manifest feelings of guilt. Since we know they’ve given up so many opportunities so we can have them instead, we downplay our issues to the point where we believe they are not valid. We compromise our own wellbeing in order to avoid causing hurt to our loved ones. We prolong a cycle that we know isn’t productive or fair to ourselves. To encourage our migrant youth to seek mental health support, our services must first demonstrate that they can represent our needs and offer cultural sensitivity. Acknowledging the cultural barriers inside our institutions is a great first step to ensuring that our mental wellbeing is seen as a more crucial part of our lives.

The Immigration Trapdoor:

Is Whiteness the Key to Assimilation? Words by Janaye Kirtikar (she/her)

My dad moved to Aotearoa in 1990 and has been a citizen since 1991. It’s the only citizenship he holds and he’s spent half his life here. But this doesn’t matter to the people who yell “Gandhi!” at him on the street or speak down to him because of his accent. His foreignness is imprinted on his brown skin, and in their eyes he can never assimilate enough to count as a “New Zealander.” Immigrants of colour (and their children) are constantly faced with, as the critic Wesley Morris puts it, the “trapdoor of racism.” In her essay, Whites: On Race and Other Falsehoods, journalist Otegha Uwagba describes the experience of when “the trapdoor opens […] [and] your stomach lurches the way it does when you’re on a roller coaster that has just begun its descent”. Recently, the trapdoor opened under my dad during a dispute with a long-term business partner and friend. John*, a white British immigrant, told my dad that he “was warned not to get into a business relationship with people of [a] certain ethnic profile by family and friends.” Although the unabashed racism was surprising, what was most bizarre in this email exchange was later when John said, “It may happen in some tiers of Indian society where threatening people with a knife and disembowelment, metaphorically or literally, is the modus operandi, but certainly not in any civilised society such as New Zealand.” It goes without saying that my dad has never threatened anyone—with a knife or anything else— but I found John’s comments on so-called “civilised society” incredibly disturbing. What makes India inherently less civilised than Aotearoa? And why is this man, an immigrant himself, the arbiter of Aotearoa society?

The reason for this lies in John’s proximity to the dominant Pākehā culture. John might be an immigrant with an obvious accent and foreign citizenship but, above all else, he is white, and that affords him instant assimilation and authority in Aotearoa. While all immigrants may experience some level of prejudice, the scale and longevity of this is much more severe for immigrants of colour. A white friend of mine moved here from England about fifteen years ago and clearly remembers being bullied in primary school for being ‘different.’ Yet as she got older this happened less frequently and it has not occurred at all in her teenage years or adult life. In retrospect, her bullies appeared to care less about her being foreign than they did about her being different, and as she integrated into Aotearoa culture this difference became less obvious. Despite being an immigrant, my friend will never experience the stomach lurch of the trapdoor opening. It doesn’t matter whether we’ve been here for three years or thirty, immigrants of colour are never fully allowed access to the ‘Kiwi’ identity. All it takes is a little scratch to the surface—a disagreement, a business dispute—for a white person to show their true self and remind us of our inferior ethnic profile. Thirty years ago, my dad received his citizenship certificate with an invisible asterisk— Note: citizenship does not equal belonging, only whiteness does. *Name has been changed.

www.salient.org.nz

Words by Cileme Venkateswar (she/her)

To be a diasporan is to uproot half the selfreferential landmarks of cultural identity and exist without a map to navigate your own sense of self. It doesn’t help that for all the prancing around, waving banners about diversity and multiculturalism, life in countries like Aotearoa is extraordinarily Eurocentric, university included. In my three and a half years of majoring in English Lit, I had never once been assigned a text by an Indian writer. So when the opportunity for an honours research thesis rolled around, I jumped at the chance to rectify that. It also became my way of using a ten-month 10000-word research project to figure out my own messy identity. Did it work? Thing is, you can’t just get your hands on somebody else’s map of identity and find your way ‘home,’ because the journey is always different. The two novels I chose (The Shadow Lines by Amitav Ghosh and The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri) each talked about different diasporic experiences, but I didn’t find myself echoed completely in their pages. Though delving into the nuances of my own cultural identity was the whole point of this project, I kept

my own experiences out of my thesis, ashamed that I wasn’t enough. But one paragraph I wrote just stuck in the back of my head, and revolved around my biggest insecurity about being Indian. When I visited India as a child, I’d immediately have three languages whirling around me like a hurricane: Tamil, Bengali, and Hindi. Not being able to understand, let alone speak, any of them always made me feel miles away from my cultural identity. In Shadow Lines and Namesake, language is an important indication of how the characters see themselves as diasporans. Namely, Bengali is translated in-text in Namesake while Shadow Lines incorporates Bengali without translation or glossary. But here’s what stuck with me. Shadow Lines is split into two parts: “Going Away” and “Coming Home,” referencing a family joke that their matriarch, Th’amma, doesn’t know the difference between ‘coming’ and ‘going.’ The joke originates from a Bengali linguistic conundrum where colloquially, the word for “going away” is actually “coming.” When departing a place, one would say “Ami aaschi,” which is to say, “I’ll see you later” or “I’ll be back.” There is no

permanence in bidding farewell; in Bengali, a departure is always weighted with the assumption of a return. Th’amma slips up because there is no word for her leaving a place and never returning. I realised that both for Th’amma and for myself, there was no language for us to describe our experience of diaspora. Funnily enough, I never would’ve figured this out: I only speak English. I offhandedly mentioned the titles of the two parts to my mother, who explained the connection between the words in Bangla. The cultural imposter syndrome still gets me, even six months after submitting the thesis. Namesake offered me a similar existential conundrum about diaspora. Remembering a family trip to the beach, the protagonist Gogol recalls walking with his father to the very end of the shore. Before they turn around, Gogol’s father

Words didn’t exist for the sense of belonging—or lack thereof—that I felt. I always seemed to be caught in an in-between everywhere I went. Since moving for uni, I’ve put down more roots here in Pōneke than I have anywhere, ever. With my final year of study now hurtling by at an alarming speed and plans to move overseas looming in the not-so-distant-future, what it means to call somewhere home is rattling around my head more and more. So what if I spent ten months writing about the liminal spaces of diasporic identity? What the hell am I meant to do with that? Just ~vibe~ in that in-between? It’s one thing to finally move past naïve teenage thinking that a lack of

says, “Remember that you and I made this journey, that we went together to a place where there was nowhere left to go.” Being a diasporan means you can both return to where your family hailed or move forward to somewhere new. But no matter where you’re physically located, you are always existing in the in-between, where there is “nowhere left to go.” I ricocheted back and forth across the globe for most of my life. Going to preschool in Nepal for a while. Summers and the last four months of year two in Kolkata. Six months of year seven in Portugal. Visits to family in New York and London. Every time, there’d be a part of me that wavered at the thought of going home because home felt like everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

cultural connection meant I was ‘basically white.’ It’s another thing to be 24 years-old and want that connection so badly, but have no idea where to find it in a way that feels comfortable and authentic. The closest I’ve gotten is lighting diyas, splurging on sweets, and inviting friends round to celebrate Diwali with me. Maybe one day I’ll pronounce my name correctly when I introduce myself to people. Maybe I’ll have gone to an Indian wedding by then, maybe I’ll have kurtas—or even saris—in my wardrobe. Maybe I’ll be able to reconcile being an atheist with my Hindu heritage. Maybe I’ll even know Tamil. I just don’t know how to get there yet. www.salient.org.nz

How To Live Out Your Brazilian Goddess Fantasy

Words by Marlowe Toledo (they/them)

I am a Brazilian immigrant. I am allowed to write these things. If you take what I say seriously, that’s on you. With the imminent opening of our international borders, many New Zealanders are itching to pull a few grand from their savings to travel to a tropical ‘third world’ country, become irrationally worried about getting robbed the entire time, and enjoy sights and experiences that we call “only for Englishmen’s eyes.” But you, broke student sitting in a mouldy Wellington flat: Wouldn’t you rather indulge in this experience from the comfort of your own home-city, even though yesterday you spent the last six dollars in your bank account on wicked wings? Fear no more. With this true local’s non-travel travel guide, you can have the chance to experience life in Brazil—even more ‘exotic’ than your friend Maddy’s trip to Bali! First you must realise that, much like love, Brazil is all around you. It’s in the very special surgery your favourite influencer had done to her buttocks, in your five undies for $35 deal at Cotton On Body, in your very special date-night intimate wax—seriously, why are we associated with all things genitals? Here are some ways you, too, can incorporate a Brazilian lifestyle into your daily routine:

Seduce a Gringo for the Visa.

This step might make less sense if you already are a citizen or permanent resident of a country with a strong passport, but consider it a fun night out with the girlies. Pick the most mediocre looking white man with the highest paying job and offer him yourself: a Brazilian woman, a.k.a “the human female equivalent

of a Ferrari” (I had to hear this out loud from a white man, you only have to read it). You get to escape your fascist dystopia of a home country and he gets to make racist, misogynistic comments to his friends about having bagged a Brazilian. Win-win.

It’s All in the Bumbum

(pronounced boom boom).

You bought the nice-smelling but wrongly-spelled Bum Bum cream from Sol de Janeiro, but you don’t have money for a BBL. The world can’t get enough of the Brazilian butt, especially since, in the last decade, beauty standards have shifted to make non-European physical characteristics desirable (but only if you’re white and are trying your darn hardest to not look like it)! Unfortunately, without the Kardashian funds, you might have to resort to stopping your fetishisation of Brazilian women. But you can still smell like a caramel slice for $36–$74 at Mecca.

Enjoy the Simple Things.

People wonder why Brazilians are so happy and always down for a good time. While that may be a combination of copious amounts of Cachaça 51 and resigning ourselves to the fact our economic and political fate is in the hands of the CIA, the secret is in living a simple life. Brazilians are not money-hungry and do not abandon our working style when we move overseas. The secret to a happy life is growing up in a country where worker’s rights are as valuable as the spit on the sidewalk, where you kill yourself to prove your loyalty to the company, and still earn less than any other ethnic group in Aotearoa This statistic is for Middle Eastern, Latin American, and African (MELAA) women, because apparently these three incredibly diverse ethnic groups are all the same thing. Quit the cushy job your dad’s friend got you: become the Latina housemaid in your favourite porn and you will experience happiness. Disclaimer: if you are from New Zealand Immigration, just know that I love Aotearoa so much. Please don’t throw my application in the rubbish. www.salient.org.nz

Words by Dani Dayanghirang (she/they)

Dayanghirang. [Da-yang-hi-rang]. My last name. Not so hard to pronounce when you break it down phonetically. But for most people, it’s one of the more intimidating last names they’ll come across. Philosopher Charles Mills once said, “I never know who I am until someone tells me who I am.” I never became aware of how complicated my last name was until I moved to Aotearoa. When other people see my last name, the responses are either “wow that’s a mouthful *awkward chuckle*,” or as a WINZ employee exclaimed, “Exotic!” In high school, only one or two teachers would actually come up to me before prize-givings to double-check how my name is pronounced. And then they’d butcher it anyway. Even though my sister and brother literally went to the same school, their prize-givings would have the same moment of internal cringe. The most striking response I have ever had to my last name was during my first trimester here at the Victoria University of Wellington as I was about to take my Sociology exam in person. Queuing up with the other students, I noticed that two of the exam moderators were taking a roll. At first I thought “sweet,” but as I got closer to the end of the queue, I overheard one of the moderators asking for last names. I felt myself tense up as I handed the moderator my ID. I learned this tensing-up technique from my dad to

avoid having to spell it out and it’s saved me a lot of breath. The person in front of me walks off, I say hi to the moderators, and I hand them my ID. The moderator with the list looks at my ID, looks at her colleague, then says, “I’m not even gonna try and say that.” You’d think that at this point I’d be tempted to find ways to change my last name, shorten it, or marry someone with less syllables. The thing is, I have never felt that need. My last name—my family name—has heritage, history, and, most importantly, it connects me to my family. Especially living in Aotearoa, I feel like my relationship with my parents and grandparents are stronger because I have this part of my identity that belongs to me. The word Dayang means “lady” or “princess,” and Hirang means “chosen.” Put together, my last name means “chosen lady” or “chosen princess.” I’d like to imagine the origins of this name, to whom it was bestowed upon first, and the stories associated with it. To take pride in my name, to let it stand as it is and be spoken is an act of rebellion and selflove. I have been pushed to hate my last name by a white-washed society, but I only love it more and more. If you feel the same way as I do, if you’ve experienced this sense of tension whenever your name is approached, I hope this inspires you to love your name too.

HUMAIDI RIDWAN (ADO), 2022

Vegan Mapo Tofu Recipe Words by Joanna Fan (she/her)

In Chinese cooking, we listen to our hearts and to the calling of our ancestors… which is to say we don’t really measure ingredients. Your tastes may vary to mine, so adjust this recipe accordingly.

Serves Two

Ingredients

1 spring onion stalk

1 teaspoon sugar

2 cloves of garlic

250 grams of firm tofu

1 tablespoon of chopped ginger

1/2 cup of water

1/2 cup of peas

2 teaspoons of cornstarch

1–2 tablespoons of doubanjiang, a.k.a broad bean paste (Pi Xian brand is my favourite)

2 tablespoons of any neutral oil

Salt to taste

1 tablespoon Chinese shaoxing wine

2 tablespoons soy sauce

Method 1. Cut tofu into 1cm cubes 2. Put the oil into a wok on medium heat 3. Toss in the spring onion, ginger, and garlic 4. Put in the broad bean paste and stir to extract the aroma 6. Pop the tofu in 7. Splash in shaoxing wine, soy sauce, and sugar 8. Stir, baby, stir 9. Pour in the water 10. Stew for five mins

11. Put in the peas and turn the heat down a little 12. Stew for another five mins 13. Dissolve cornstarch in a small bowl with 3 tablespoons of water and pour that slurry in to thicken the dish 14. Sprinkle in salt to taste 15. Garnish with more sliced spring onions 16. Serve with rice and devour that shit

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Dear daughter,

Sometimes we wonder how you’ll describe us when we pass We know our love was as ever changing as Mother Nature herself. drowned you with worry buried you under expectations uprooted you with furious winds burnt you with a sharp tongue yet we made a home out of dreams and opportunities sheltered you with weary bones nursed children to adults from ancient wisdom in a foreign land we cannot describe the need that came over us when you slipped out crying while we were drowning with sharks hovering

we came to this land and promptly spat out it was clear we left an aftertaste in the white man’s mouth a condition of entry we were not aware but have learnt how to hold at the back of our throats The sweetness of a date The songs that pull at the threads of our hearts The blood that carries all the stories that were and are to come This is the tonic that soothes The rumbling in our stomachs when there isn’t enough space for ‘we are happy to be here’ and ‘will we ever belong’ to exist at the same time.

Dear Aabo and Hooyo,

I have been trying to fold my apology into words Sorry Waan ka xumahay Thank you Mahadsantahay Perhaps I won’t ever but the apology lies in unlearning reclaiming knowing standing upright as our ancestors did My spirit lies in multiple homes that stretch over oceans genealogies wars Homes perfumed with xawaash and manuka blessed with duas and Katchafire grounded in Te Tiriti and the Qur’an My first ever home belongs to my mother’s womb who had the sense to swap it out for another Aotearoa I’m sorry for trying to sever cut change that

I know now that you were just humans who brought life but fear pain with it I know now you took the curdled milk soaked in it to have tender skin hearts to take on the hardships of being brown in a white world I’ll make room for your expectations I’ll carry the weight of your sacrifice Answer the questions Dripping in accusation And too turn it into blossoming flowers that grew without soil Because of you we are the generation the soft revolution of rivers coursing new paths that even mountains cannot stop. - Words by Amal Abdullahi (she/her)

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Third-Wheeling in a ‘Bicultural’ Society Being tauiwi* in Aotearoa can feel like thirdwheeling in a ‘bicultural’ society. You struggle to find a way to chip into the conversation, feel a bit awkward or invisible, and kind of wish you could go home… but isn’t Aotearoa also a home for us? Podcasting can be a powerful way for tauiwi to navigate and carve out their identities, find their place in Aotearoa, and ultimately provide a platform for us to tell people our stories. It allows us to create our own spaces. Since this is the first time Salient has done an Immigrant issue, five tauiwi Salient podcasters have decided to collaborate and create an episode together. We’ll discuss the complexities of each of our experiences and identities, as well as questions that we all grapple with. Below, three of us have shared snippets of our experiences, with more to come in the episode that will be out by the end of the week. Stay Tuned on ig: @salient_podcasts for release updates. Alex: Stranger At Home: I hadn’t lived in my home country until I was 19. My experiences are on the flip-side: I was a migrant my whole life until I moved to Aotearoa. I’m a thirdculture kid, I grew up in a culture entirely different to that of my home country and the culture of my parents. When I moved here, I was definitely hit with culture shock. I realised I had a completely different frame of reference compared to everyone else my age. My sense of identity has always been in flux and it’s been a challenge to define myself to others here.

Sahir: Smooth Brain Society Podcast: The immigrant identity is a complex one around the world but particularly in places like Aotearoa, which are strongly grounded by the idea of being ‘bicultural.’ I was born to immigrant parents in one nation who then moved to another nation while I was still a child. I became an immigrant to the nation my parents called home but, when I finally came back to Aotearoa, I was perceived as an immigrant in my birth country. As someone who has had a really unique experience of being an immigrant, the factors impacting the immigrant experience have always been of interest to me— how well can we fit in while still being outsiders? Jess: Zeitgeist Podcast: Having time to be creative feels like a privilege that my immigrant parents did not have. When they first immigrated to Aotearoa from China, they had to juggle learning English, raising my sister, working, and restudying all at once. Aotearoa was entirely unfamiliar, so they needed job security more than anything. However, creativity and the ability to care about more than survival, is something that is available to my sister and I. Podcasting has been a creative way for me to make my identity visible and comfortable, challenging the coloniser myth of model minority and enabling tauiwi to discuss how we can support tino rangatiratanga in Aotearoa. *This column contains the experiences of both tauiwi of colour and pākehā tauiwi.

MAY 8, 2022 T ’ N A C O H W E S O H T R O F RUN RLD O W E H T R E V O L L E TIME A M A S E H T T A R E H TOGET JOIN US NOW

Rating Things Immigrant Parents Say

Words by Alyanna Gierran

out u hanging o y re a y h “W ? iends again with your fr nt out last You just we week”

Whenever my friends ask which days I’m free to hangout, I always have to consider how many days I need to stay at home before my parents can adjust to me going out again. Going out on consecutive days is a sin. As someone who still lives with their Filipino parents at 19 years-old (and probably won’t be allowed to move out until I’m 70) it still gives me so much anxiety asking my parents about going out. Don’t even get me started on not being allowed to go on sleepovers. The way I ignored my parents, went ahead to a sleepover and almost got disowned through text while trying to act like everything was perfectly fine in front of my friends was Oscar-level acting. They say breaking up via text is bad, but getting disowned via text is worse.

“You should be grateful. We moved here for you to have a better future”

Let me tell you, this one hits different. My parents know exactly what to say to keep me humbled and to make sure I keep my privilege in check. My mum would explain, in great detail, all the things she had done for me: “I had to clean your shit and piss everyday while doing two part-time jobs.” This isn’t always effective. In some cases it would invalidate my feelings and experiences. But it can also be a good thing because sometimes I get so caught up in my own world. It helps keep things in perspective and pulls me out of my head. Like whenever I’m in a near death situation or on the verge of a breakdown because of uni, I get flashbacks to my mother saying, “I had to clean your shit and piss,” and miraculously I feel so much better and grounded.

“No”

“You should be a doctor or lawyer or engineer”

To be a doctor, lawyer, or engineer, or not to be: that is the question. My parents did the groundwork when I was young for their plan of me becoming a doctor. Leaving subtle clues here and there.“You’re so smart. You should be a doctor,” they would say whenever I got a good grade. I had a few health issues when I was young and would stay in the hospital overnight. I was the centre of attention, I got coddled, and ate chocolate late at night. Sleeping overnight somewhere else other than home I thought, this is like a sleepover. The doctors and nurses were so nice, taking care of everyone. Once I was released, my dad asked me where I wanted to work when I grew up. I replied, “I want to work in the hospital so I can sleep over every day and have everyone take care of me.” Since then my parents stopped encouraging me to be a doctor for the sake of the greater good. I understand their reasoning, though. Immigrant parents want to see us be successful and to see that all their sacrifices were worthwhile, but it can feel pressuring and get a bit suffocating.

“You know your cousin, Nicki; she graduated with honours. Why can’t you be more like her”

I think this is just another way of them saying, we’re not proud of what you’re doing. Sure, I don’t have the potential to be a doctor and you’re worried that I won’t do well academically but I cannot understand how comparing me to another person would motivate me in any way. It just makes me want to do worse out of spite.

“.....”

I hate the silent treatment. I’d rather be screamed at than to ever experience this.

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Skateboarding and Creativity: The Aotearoa Dream Words by Aeran Tapnio (he/him)

The “American Dream” is a cliché that most immigrant families strive to achieve, regardless of where they immigrate to. The dream promises better career opportunities and quality of life for future generations. This might very well be true, but people don’t recognise the hard work and dedication that those immigrants have to put towards building their dream. Growing up in the Philippines was very different from Aotearoa. The street I grew up on felt like an abomination—pollution, disintegrating houses, stray animals, and drug addicts as far as I could see. Flip the coin of chaos, however, and there was life thriving within the community. The streets brought each other close. Everyone knew everyone—young or old, cat or dog, someone or something knew who you were. The two things my parents engraved in my mind was the importance of studying hard and getting a good job, like a nurse, doctor, or engineer. It wasn’t until I came to Aotearoa that I realised that I could be something much more creative. I moved here on my ninth birthday. I didn’t know any English at the time, apart from “yes” and “no.” Filipinos grow up living and breathing the game of basketball, so from an early age I had always been into sports. Attending my first primary school, I noticed that pretty much every single kid had a scooter. I had never seen a scooter before, let alone fathomed kids doing fun tricks on these contraptions. Fast forward a few years after having made some friends that went to skateparks and I was hooked. I then moved up to BMX bikes, and in the latter years of my adolescence, I was introduced to skateboarding.

Skateboarding is divisive; people either love it or hate it. It’s a subculture which combines with many different artforms. I compare skateboarding to my street back in the Philippines. It doesn’t matter what you have or what you lack—skate culture is one big community that attracts people from all walks of life and forms an unspoken, yet unconditional bond between them. Failure is a big part of skateboarding. Failing trick after trick is tough, but teaches you perseverance. There’s a major stereotype that all skaters are just lazy stoners who vandalise public property. But watching people at the skate park and consuming skate videos magazines inspired me to take artbased classes in high school. As skateboarding is full of action and beauty, I felt a need to capture it. This is where my love for design and photography started, and I’ve never looked back since. Every single project in my design and photography classes has been about skating. It became the best way for me to bolster my creativity. Fast forward a few years to 2022, and I’ve finished my Bachelor of Design Innovation degree majoring in Communication Design and secured a job in a marketing agency. At the same time I’ve been ticking things off my bucket list, like having my photography recently featured in Manual Magazine. It’s funny to think that twelve years ago I couldn’t even speak English. It’s surreal how a new country and the subculture of skateboarding has transformed my life into something full of fun and excitement. This is my Aotearoa dream.

Gain some work experience while studying

Books and Films with Immigrant Storylines Words by Nina Bennett (she/her)

BOOKS

Kite Runner

by Khaled Hosseini

This stunning book will leave you crying. Set in 1990s–2000s Afghanistan, it follows young Amir as he navigates life in the Wazir Akbar Khan district of Kabul. Amir is best friends with Hassan, the son of his father’s servant. They have a brotherhood but are tormented by bullies, and an incident occurs that greatly impacts Amir’s life. All of this takes place during major political changes, such as the collapse of the Afghan monarchy, the Soviet military intervention, the flow of refugees to Pakistan and the US, and the creation of the Taliban regime. Although fiction, this book takes inspiration from the author’s own life. I’m not gonna lie, I struggled to read about Amir’s childhood, but the adulthood chapters made it easily worth it. It’s character-driven which makes the redemption arc that much more satisfying. Kite Runner does a great job of showing how difficult it is to return to your home country after it has drastically changed.

In Order To Live by Yeonmi Park

In Order To Live is very heavy and unlike anything I’ve read. Trigger warnings include death, violence, human trafficking, and sexual assualt. This autobiography is by Yeonmi Park, a North Korean girl who fled the country with her family. Park gives the reader insight into the country’s history and the dictatorial Kim family dynasty. The plot discusses her upbringing, which included a life on the verge of severe poverty and overall devotion to the ‘Great Country.’ After clearing the route for an escape, Park and her mother cross over to China, which is not the refuge they hoped for. Her survival story is horrifying but inspirational. This book talks about freedom in a way I hadn’t thought of, down to the freedom of choosing your own favourite colour, and opened my eyes to the privilege of living in Aotearoa. It’s one of those books that makes you just sit there after you’ve read it.

The Sun Is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon

I have one word for this book: romance. The Sun Is Also A Star is less intense than the other books on this list but it’s just as good. Natasha is on her way to meet with someone at the US Citizenship and Immigration Services facility in a last-ditch effort to prevent her family’s deportation. Her family has less than twelve hours before they must depart the United States and return to Jamaica. Daniel is on his way to New York City for a job interview. His Korean parents have made plans for him to attend Yale Medical School in the future, however he aspires to become a poet. They cross paths and romance blooms as they spend the day together. As the eldest daughter in my family, I can definitely relate to Natasha taking on the family problems herself and I’m sure many of you can relate to Daniel sacrificing his dream to please his parents. The layout of this book is so interesting as each chapter is written from a different perspective. You also get to learn about both cultures and explore the character’s family dynamics.

FILMS

Minari

Farwell Amor

Bend It Like Beckham

directed by Lee Isaac Chung

directed by Ekwa Msangi

directed by Gurinder Chadha

Set in the 1980’s, Minari is about a Korean-American family who moves to Arkansas in the hopes of securing money through farming. New beginnings are never easy. Determining what is best for the family is more difficult than it seems, let alone starting a 50-acre farm to produce and sell Korean produce. Each family member’s problems are explored and the cinematography does a breathtaking job in showing their hardships. The music (oh my gosh, the music) made me feel like I was actually in the film with them. I expected the story to follow the themes of racism, as a lot of immigrant films do, but instead it focused more on the relationships between family members. The only thing I can warn you about is the ending… realistic is one way to put it.

Farewell Amor is warm and heartfelt, showing an Angolan family that’s reunited in Brooklyn after living apart for 17 years. The reunion becomes awkward as they try to settle into the father’s tiny onebedroom flat. The unfortunate reality is that the father, mother, and daughter no longer feel like they know each other, and the film portrays this through each of the three characters’ perspectives. Their compassion for each other shines through at different points, and the potential role that dance has in bringing this separated family together is particularly inspiring. The music was absolutely phenomenal and I obviously had to add some of the songs to my playlist. It’s an underrated movie that should be on everyone’s watch list.

“Lesbian? Her birthday is in March. I thought she was a Pisces.” Growing up in the early 2000s with traditional Indian parents was not ideal for young Jess, whose only goal in life is to become a professional soccer player. She doesn’t want to learn how to make the perfect roti and is not interested in any of the “nice Indian boys” her parents want for her. Her parents, who are strongly opposed to Jess’ unconventional ambition, confess that their concerns are more about protecting her than holding her back. This iconic rom-com is super relatable for immigrants who struggle to balance respecting their parents with going after the things they want in life. The romance in this had me squealing and the portrayal of aunties made it ten times better. Also Keira Knightly stars in it. Do I need to say more?

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Free Me From Your Double Standards. Please and Thank You. Words by Anoushka Divekar (she/her) I am not an immigrant but I do have immigrant parents, so I’ve grown up seeing first-hand what that experience looks like. As a child, I was too busy talking to my imaginary friends to understand the complex struggles that come with being an immigrant. As any parent would, mine sheltered me quite a bit; it is only after growing up that I have been able to understand some of the struggles they experienced, like having to start a whole new life with no support and two young children. I was instead exposed to my own unique set of challenges that came with being the child of an immigrant. Number one on the list is… identity! As a child, I felt isolated in school. For whatever reason, I didn’t pick up the kiwi accent and had an Indian accent (still do) which made me quite self-conscious. I would put up my hand in class and my teachers would claim to not understand what I was saying. That was hella sketchy on their part because somehow they could understand little Connor through his lisp and incorrect grammar. I would eat home-cooked meals at lunchtime that my mum made fresh every morning, and the kids around me (who were eating basic-ass jam sandwiches, mind you), told me that my food looked and smelled like poo. Ironically enough, nowadays everyone around me wants the food that I eat because it tastes so good. I am exposed to microaggressions more than I want to be. Too many people can’t pronounce Anoushka but can pronounce Niamh and Braedyn. Too many people ask me if I am studying STEM when, in fact, I can’t do maths to save my life. Too many people

make direct eye contact with me when the caste system comes up in class. Bitch, I was born here, I only know as much as you do. So here is my sincere request: Free me from your double standards. Being shamed for being who I was when I was young broke down my confidence. I was pushed away from my language and my culture, and my ethnicity became a part of me that I locked away inside of me. At that age, children should be encouraged to embrace what makes them different, but instead, uniqueness is suppressed by outsiders. When I got to a university, all of a sudden I was told to celebrate who I was. Workplaces want diversity, diversity, diversity, but how am I supposed to showcase what makes me different when I’ve kept just that suppressed for so long? So what was squashed inside of me now has to be retrieved so I can put it on a CV and go, “hey, I speak three languages and understand what it means to not come from privilege.” Diversity and inclusion needs to be embraced from the get-go. You can’t expect people to suddenly embrace their culture if you’ve spent their whole childhood crushing it. There is nothing I can do now about the experiences I had, but my advice for you going forward would be to do what you can to not make immigrants feel like shit. Try to have diverse social circles. Teach the young people you interact with that it’s okay to be different. Most importantly, be aware of your biases and double standards.

Pasifika Student Council

Ngai Tauira

Perspective Check

Place to Be

Words by Josie Mailisi (she/her)

Words by Te Huihui o Matariki Chi Huy Tran (Taranaki; he/him)

Watch me swim, watch me soar Did you forget that I still roar? Watch the waves, breathe in the ocean, Do you think I’ve forgotten my devotion? Watch me breathe, hear me clap, Did you think this was all I had to give back? Hear me shout, hear me preach, Is that all the standard you think I can reach? Standards placed, expectations met How am I supposed to reach beyond this broken net? Named by my past and not by future, Will I ever be more than these sutures? Long ago I made the choice, Family first above all else. Boats set sail with dreams afloat, No longer tied down by my island’s mote Tasked with the challenge to be the best, Survived with nothing to feed the nest.

Pushing through the barriers of broken slaves, Riding through life’s unfathomable waves. There’s a light that keeps me going, All I know is that my energy is flowing. The safety of my family in the land of the unknown, Better than where I’ve come from. New faces, new braces, We’ve got this fam. For the land of the long white cloud holds us in its hands. Family comes first, is all I know. For those who look upon me, you must know. This empty story has a long way to go. For what you see is not what you get, The story of my ancestors travels beyond what you’ve ever met. Watch me soar, watch me roar as I take upon my God forsaken path.

Growing up in a traditional Vietnamese family and moving to Aotearoa when I was barely a teenager made it harder for me to accept a cultural identity. I found myself stuck between wanting to remain seated in the culture of the country I was born and raised in and wanting to explore my Māori whakapapa. Now I am actively learning my place in te ao Māori. It might not be a big problem like it sounds, but it is for us Māori who weren’t born in Aotearoa. Lots of rangatahi won’t identify themselves as Māori. It’s understandable when they don’t grow up in the nest of te ao Māori and learn about tikanga. Not to mention they probably don’t even know much about their whakapapa. And honestly, it took me a while to tell people that I’m also Māori. Still, I get stared at and questioned if I’m really from here. I mean, they’re not wrong; I wasn’t born here. But I can proudly say that I belong here just as much as any other tangata whenua who grew up on this land. I think it is unfortunate to encounter these questions and stares because it doesn’t matter where you were born as it doesn’t make you any less Māori. Being distant from the culture is not your fault and learning to embrace it is something that should always be encouraged. It’s also important that other Māori don’t look at those who weren’t born here as “outsiders.” Because, at the end of the day, we all come from the same roots and might even be distant cousins. Who knows, aye? Speaking from my experiences, no matter where you come from, if you whakapapa, you are Māori. Don’t ever be whakamā to call this place your home. Chur, Huy

www.salient.org.nz

Word of the Week: Migrate Te Reo Māori: Heke New Zealand Sign Language:

SUDOKU

Puzzle 1 (Hard, difficulty rating 0.62)

3 6

6 9

SUDOKUWEB

WEEK 7 ANSWERS



7 6

Generated by http://www.opensky.ca/sudoku on Thu Apr 28 01:19:17 2022 GMT. Enjoy!

2 6 1

3 5 8

7 9 4

3 7 9

6 2 4

1 8 5

5 4 8

7 1 9

3 2 6

6 2 3

5 4 1

9 7 8

4 1 5

8 9 7

6 3 2

9 8 7

2 6 3

4 5 1

7 5 2

4 3 6

8 1 9

8 9 4

1 7 5

2 6 3

1 3 6

9 8 2

5 4 7

• First select a number/operator and than apply it to a sudoku cell. 36

9 4

BIG, BIGGER, BIGGEST CROSSWORD

ACROSS

1. 5, for 125, and 12, for 1,728, for example (4,5)* 6. Famous maker of pens and razors (3) 8. Dinosaur with a skeleton currently on display in Auckland (13) 9. Signs up; sinks in (9) 13. Possess (3) 14. Oscar winning actor for ‘Jerry Maguire’ (4,7,2)* 15. Pod vegetable (3) 16. Punctuation marks seen next to three of these clues (9) 20. “Meh, either option suits me” (3,3,2,2,3) 22. It contains the three smallest bones in the body (3) 23. Area for Pablo Picasso and Jean Metzinger, famously (6,3)*

DOWN

1. More adorable (5) 2. Word that can precede graph, tab and exam (3) 3. Puts into a hierarchical order (5) 4. Layer with a hole in it that has been largely repaired since the 1990s (5) 5. Cygnets are their young (5) 6. ‘Naked Lunch’ author, or ‘Tarzan’ author (different guy) (9) 7. Kevin of ‘Dances with Wolves’ and ‘Waterworld’ (7) 10. Territory on a rock between Spain and Morocco (9) 11. Hacksaw and others (5) 12. ‘Hacksaw ____’ (2016 film starring Andrew Garfield) (5) 14. Adept (7) 16. Empire that ruled the Valley of Mexico for only a century, which is weird because I thought they were around for, like, 600 years (5) 17. What your pollex is more commonly known as (5) 18. Gives stars to an Uber driver, say (5) 19. An actor might get their double in for it (5) 21. Word of approval that’s an anagram of ‘aye’ (3) www.salient.org.nz

Aries You’re eager this week ;) We admire your confidence… but channel that fiery energy away from confrontation. There’s a difference between being on fire and ending up getting burnt to a crisp. You’re hot enough alone!

Cancer My psychic abilities (and your choice to splurge on ice cream) are telling me you’re a tiny bit low. I’m sensing a lot of phone calls to mum. I’m stereotyping, but it might just be what helps.

Libra It’s date night and I’m seeing someone being fed grapes, ancient Greece style. You want it to be you, but you’re a Libra so you’re probably the one feeding them. Regardless, think good food, good sex, and good wine.

Capricorn Ah, McCain, you’ve done it again! In typical Capricorn fashion, your hard work has paid off. Knowing you, you’re probably still seeing an Everest of responsibility ahead but for now, appreciate the many mountains behind you.

Taurus You’ve been trapped in thought, focusing too much on work. You’ve lost sight of what’s important. Remember, there’s no strategy when it comes to matters of the heart! Stop being negligent and put in the effort.

Leo Feels a bit like that time you got a Club Penguin membership. Now you can have every colour Puffle and actually land Pizza Parlour dates. But don’t spend all your time online, ground yourself in reality.

Scorpio Scorpio, it’s finally time to dive into that dominatrix energy! I see you making your wildest fantasies a reality. Or you could just be doing a very intense art project, either way, live your truth!

Aquarius I know it seems like you’ve lived this week twice but I’m here to tell you you’re not in Groundhog Day; don’t lose faith just yet. You might just see something you missed the first time.

Gemini Hey Gemini, quit hiding behind those words! At best you’re a toastmaster, at worst you’re a cyber-bully. Stop acting like Simon Cowell, save the harsh comments and put thought into your actions.

Virgo You might start on Johnny Depp’s Wikipedia page and end up rabbitholing to find yourself reading about that time Amber Heard shat on his bed. You’re learning a lot, I suppose, but maybe do your readings rather than procrastinating.

Sagittarius It’s unlike you but you’ve been in a shell recently. Break on out! It’s like Harry says, “You’re no good alone. Why are you sitting at home on the floor?... It’s not the same as it was.”

Pisces Pisces move too quickly, but that’s older news than Wordle. Dare I say it, you need a bit of a reality check! Stop trying to make fetch happen, it’s not gonna happen.

THE SALIENT TEAM YOU CAN THANK THESE PEOPLE FOR YOUR WEEKLY FIX.

Editor Janhavi Gosavi

News Editor Beth Mountford

News Editor Azaria Howell

Contact Us features@salient.org.nz poetry@salient.org.nz editor@salient.org.nz designer@salient.org.nz chiefreporter@salient.org.nz news@salient.org.nz

Designer Alice Brown

Chief Reporter Ethan Manera

Sub-Editor Lily Holloway

Features Editor Ronia Ibrahim

Website Manager Annalise Scott

Podcast Manager Fran Pietkiewicz

Social Media Manager Seren Ashmore

CONTRIBUTORS

A big warm thank you to these talented people for their contribution to this week’s issue. Anoushka Divekar

Aeran Tapnio

Marlowe Toledo

Niamh Vaughn

Amal Abdullahi

Cileme Venkateswar

Dani Dayanghirang

Naimh Vaughn

Joanna Fan

Alyanna Gierran

Sahir Hussain

Puck

Jess Ye

Josie Mailisi

Nina Bennett

Te Huihui o Matariki Chi Huy Tran

Etienne Wain Alyanna Gierran

Alex MarinkovichJosey

Sreymuch Soth

Ineke Ramsteijn

Kabita Bhandari

Dimitris Potusa

Janaye Kirtikar

Senuka Sudusinghe

Ayak Chuot

Monica Lim

Raad Ibrahim

Humaidi Ridwan