Myriad 2018 by UMSU communications

Acknowledgement of Country Serena Rae

The People of Colour Department pays their respects to the Traditional Custodians of the land on which we live, study, and create this publication, the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. We pay our respects to their Elders past, present, and emerging and acknowledge that sovereignty of this land has never been ceded. We would like to further extend that respect to all the First Nation people who have contributed to Myriad and our department, who are a part of this university not by accident but by the pure will of their ancestors past. We acknowledge the ongoing connections to Country - Country that we occupy as Settlers - the communities and family that some are in the process of regaining and to all the loss that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people have endured simply to survive. We encourage all of you who are not Sovereign Owners of this land to keep in mind the true history of this land. Remember and pay homage to the violence that has been inflicted and the ongoing battle that continues today in the form of deaths in custody, removal of children, cultural theft, and institutionalised racism. We advocate that whilst Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people still live, breathe and thrive on this Country their sovereignty cannot be bequeathed or passed on. This always was, and always will be, the land of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.

Contents ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY Serena Rae.................................................................................................................................................1

new york poems Sharon Du................................................................................................................................................48

LETTER FROM THE OFFICE BEARERS Reem Faiq and Hiruni Walimunige............................................................................................................6

Different Poetic Forms: Courtesy of Tinder Farah Khairat..........................................................................................................................................62

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Ayaan Qani.................................................................................................................................................7 SUB-EDITOR TEAM Desiree Tan, Farah Khairat, Mon Enriquez, Tharidi Walimunige, and Yaameen Al-Muttaqi...................8 A NOTE TO READERS Desiree Tan, Farah Khairat, Mon Enriquez, Tharidi Walimunige, and Yaameen Al-Muttaqi...................9

Contents

ancient tales, bedtime stories Vanessa Lee..............................................................................................................................................70 lost on earth Vanessa Lee..............................................................................................................................................72 grandmother Vanessa Lee..............................................................................................................................................74

POETRY

Move to Melbourne Rachel Toh................................................................................................................................................75

unsent letter re: home kulle..........................................................................................................................................................16

Surface Thuy On....................................................................................................................................................78

an ode to lost self kulle..........................................................................................................................................................17

Double bind Thuy On ...................................................................................................................................................79

birthright kulle..........................................................................................................................................................18

Mosaic Thuy On ...................................................................................................................................................80

‘An Ode to Ameera’ Aazaad Faraz...........................................................................................................................................19

纹 (tattoo) Deyuan Loo..............................................................................................................................................81

‘In a Rush of Emotions, it Swept Away’ Aazaad Faraz...........................................................................................................................................20

Patient Ocean of the Heart Hiếu Phùng..............................................................................................................................................84

‘Bells’ Aazaad Faraz...........................................................................................................................................21

Martyr Amanda Tan.............................................................................................................................................92

Eclipsed Heart Maggy Liu (刘迎旭)................................................................................................................................30

Greenwich Amanda Tan ............................................................................................................................................93

Click Maggy Liu (刘迎旭)................................................................................................................................32

Gringa Haley Mirit.............................................................................................................................................102

reclaimed Alston Chu................................................................................................................................................35

Identity Haley Mirit.............................................................................................................................................103

A Polite Response Hien Nguyen.............................................................................................................................................43

Value Haley Mirit.............................................................................................................................................104

melbourne poems Sharon Du................................................................................................................................................46

To: my sister Ayaan Qani.............................................................................................................................................106

triptych may-june 1973 (for francis bacon) Sharon Du................................................................................................................................................47

Contents REVIEWS & COMMENTARY Bollywood Gets Gay: The Other Love Story Review Yaameen Al-Muttaqi................................................................................................................................40 The Jedi Mind Trick You Never Heard Of: Hollywood Inclusivity Belle Gill..................................................................................................................................................56

Contents Othering: The “Us vs. Them” Mentality Ashani Lee....................................................................................................................................................44 Represent-asian Trent Vu.........................................................................................................................................................54 The Lost Worlds Dani Madanayake........................................................................................................................................87

SWEET CHRISTMAS! Luke’s back! | MARVEL’S LUKE CAGE SEASON 2 Theresa Gunarso......................................................................................................................................96

ARTWORKS

The Handmaiden: A Gothic Tale of Love and Vengeance Yaameen Al-Muttaqi.................................................................................................................................98

Reem Faiq.....................................................................................................................................................12

FICTION A Letter to Myself Tharindu Jayadeva...................................................................................................................................36 PoC Gothic Hiruni Walimunige....................................................................................................................................50 Laundry Detergent Woman: The Mother-Load Nour Altoukhi...........................................................................................................................................58 Imperfect Perfection Ali Noura..................................................................................................................................................66 Lightning in a Bottle Tharidi Walimunige..................................................................................................................................88 PERSONAL ESSAYS Talking Politics isn’t a Hobby Ayaan Qani...............................................................................................................................................10 A Map to Navigating Homesickness Farah Khairat..........................................................................................................................................13 Where are you from? Yar Majak.................................................................................................................................................14

Untitled 1A, 2012 Baybayin, 2018 Beatrice Gabriel...........................................................................................................................................28 Untitled 2, Untitled 4, 2018 Renee Chamoun...........................................................................................................................................38 selves, 2018 John Lim.......................................................................................................................................................42 Untitled 7, Untitled 8, 2018 Renee Chamoun............................................................................................................................................52 Male Study, 2018 Adam Cunningham.......................................................................................................................................64 Untitled 2, Untitled 3, 2018 Reem Faiq.....................................................................................................................................................76 Untitled 4, Untitled 5, 2018 Reem Faiq.....................................................................................................................................................82 Untitled, 2018 Amanda Björkdahl........................................................................................................................................86 Untitled 6, Unitled 7, 2018 Reem Faiq.....................................................................................................................................................94 Content Warning (graphic imagery)............................................................................................................100 Aleeyah or Reparation for Hypervisibility, 2016 Hamishi Farah...........................................................................................................................................101 Giacomo, 2018 Adam Cunningham.....................................................................................................................................105

____ like a girl Belle Gill..................................................................................................................................................22 To My Aunty Martin Isidro............................................................................................................................................24 The Soft Bigotry of Low Expectations 4 Anonymous...............................................................................................................................................34

ARTIST STATEMENTS..........................................................................................................................108 ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY.............................................................................................112

Letter from the Office Bearers Dear Reader, We are proud to bring you the second issue of the UMSU People of Colour Department’s official publication, Myriad. The UMSU People of Colour Department was founded in 2017 to advocate for students of African, Asian, Pacific Islander, Indigenous, Latinx, Arab, multiracial and other relevant backgrounds. Our aim has been to combat racism, promote equal representation, and create safe spaces. The Department has held various events and started multiple initiatives throughout the two years it has been active, including liaising with the University of Melbourne to make the campus safer for students of colour, running Anti-racism workshops, holding seminars and lectures by post-colonial theorists, holding weekly film screenings and reading groups, and much more. In the same way that the Department exists to provide a space for People of Colour and their voices, Myriad began as an endeavour to carve out a space in the landscape of student publications in which works by creatives of colour could be showcased and celebrated. We were delighted to have received as many submissions as we did and hope to have showcased here a selection of works that speak to the many varied experiences of those who fall under the term of “Person of Colour.” From art, to creative fiction and poetry, to personal essays and reviews, the works shown here span across several categories, both in their form and what they serve to portray. We could not be luckier or happier to work with such a plethora of wonderful talent! This publication is also a reflection of the hard work of the individuals who made up Myriad’s 2018 publication team. We are beyond grateful to have worked with such a passionate and talented team of editors, sub-editors and designers, and are certain that we could not have brought Myriad to print without their talent. We truly do not know what we have done to deserve your hard work, dedication and wisdom. We would especially like to thank our collective, who this publication is for, first and foremost. This department grew from under ten attendees per collective, to over thirty at some events. We have learnt so much from you, and are grateful for your dedication, attentiveness, and willingness to teach us. We hope that you have learnt from us, and we are thankful for your immense trust in us, shown by your engagement with the Department over the course of the year. It has brought us so much joy seeing this department grow, a feat that was only possible because of your commitment and kind feedback. We love you and we will miss learning from you. We hope that you find in this issue of Myriad a reflection of what we value as a department, as well as a broad array of pieces which bring to light the issues and experiences faced by People of Colour.

Letter from the Editor Dear Reader, Welcome to the second edition of Myriad. The long-awaited second issue of the People of Colour Department publication has finally arrived and you, dear reader, are in for a world of allure and excitement. I was given the absolute pleasure of being editor of this year’s Myriad and I could not be more honoured to, not only work with an incredible team of sub-editors, designer, and Office Bearers, but most importantly, delve into the amazing works of our contributors. In a world that is frequently acting against us, it is vital that Myriad exists to act for us – to support creatives of colour, bubbling or established, in carving out a space for our own voices and visions. This very publication is a product of the People of Colour Department, which has taken many steps to ensure students of colour at the University of Melbourne have a safe space to turn to for support. Myriad acts as an extension of this, as this publication provides contributors the chance to be authentically themselves. There is no need for you to soften your language to be palatable. You are safe here. You will find in these pages pieces about belonging, identity, representation, family, and so much more. I found myself nodding profusely at some pieces and sighing with melancholy at others. The myriad of voices that make up Myriad are only a small portion of the voices that exist in our community, which demonstrates why a publication like this is so important: our stories are various and distinct, and all are worthy of being showcased. With each piece, you will grow to cherish the art, the anger, the joy and the fight we all partake in to have our voices heard and our work appreciated. We at Myriad hear and see you, and we celebrate every single creative whose work graces the pages before you. Now, I present you with Myriad. Relish it and come back for more. I hope you find resonance within these pages, just as much as I had. Best regards, Ayaan Qani Editor

Reem Faiq and Hiruni Walimunige 2018 UMSU People of Colour Office Bearers

Sub-editor Team Desiree Desiree is immersed in the world of TV shows, finding herself way too emotionally attached to characters (Rebecca and Wes from How To Get Away With Murder) and gets angry when the writers kill off characters with difficult childhoods. She hopes to one day write her own, where People of Colour are far better represented than in Crazy Rich Asians and those that had difficult upbringings experience happiness. She spends her remaining time fascinated by brain functions, medical ethics, environmental justice and philosophy as well as constantly pointing out the existence of Central Asia. Farah A self-proclaimed queen, Farah aspires to be the next Hatshepsut, establishing a 20 year matriarchy over Egypt. But in reality, she is always late and spends too much time and money, on tea and on her hair. She is always unpleasantly surprised when white guys call her “exotic”, and will probably write a song about it. Instead of dealing with her emotions, Farah likes to read and watch unrealistic rom-coms. She hopes to one day see herself represented in one of them. Mon An aspiring Tita to the masses, Mon spends her time talking shat with friends, singing to her dog, and prying natal birth charts out of everyone she meets. Fuelled by the tears of mediocre white men, you’ll find her re-membering the histories which preceded her as a diasporic Filipinx living on another island whose peoples were dispossessed of land, culture and opportunities to thrive and flourish.

Tharidi Head in the clouds, Tharidi often daydreams of heroes of colour mingling with supernatural forces, raising dragons, and donning capes and masks to save the world. When she defeats her creative foe of the name Procrastination, stories detailing friendship, hijinks and kicking butt unfurl onto the page. Back with her feet on the ground, Tharidi immerses herself in the fiction of films and books to encounter grander worlds. As a Sinhalese Sri Lankan woman, she’s not deterred by the reality that’s looking less and less like a fairytale, and instead employs her writing utensils and inexhaustible imagination to carve spaces in the world where people like her can be seen and heard.

A Note to Readers If you’re reading this, then you’ve probably read the rest of the magazine already and are desperate for more. Thank you. Or maybe you really do not like this at all, and want to find out who to send angry emails to in which case, may we suggest you direct all hate mail to https://www.peterdutton.com.au/. Or maybe you’re actually going through the magazine from beginning to end. In any case, hello. Welcome to Myriad 2018. This magazine has been, if anything, a labour of love from all of us. Each of us joined because we, at some point in our lives, fell in love with the magic of the written word, and we wanted to help create a place where people like us can share their stories and their songs. The writing scene is so very white-centered, white-washed, and well, white, and we were tired of that. And that is why we volunteered for this mission, and found ourselves working together to create a space where voices of colour can be heard and read and shared. The journey has not been without its hiccups, but now this space is in your hands, and these stories are out there to grow and be shared from person to person, and that makes it all worthwhile. There is a lot to unpack in these pages. You will find odes to lands and identities reclaimed, in the form of poems and stories and sometimes even pictures. There are stories of girls falling in love in places where such things are taboo. There are other stories of people who command lightning at their touch. We even have a few maps, though not in the traditional sense. They are more to help one navigate worlds where they do not feel like they belong. These pages have many things. You may find yourself, and the words to express that feeling deep in your heart. You may find something to help you understand your friends. Or you may just find a good time. There is not much else to say. Creating this magazine has been an amazing ride, and we hope you enjoy it as much as we did. And we hope you find yourselves inspired to write more, and tell your stories. The world needs more of them, we promise you.

With all our love, Desiree, Farah, Mon, Tharidi, and Yaameen The Myriad Sub-editor Team, 2018

Yaameen You can often find Yaameen people watching in a crowded bars, or discordantly singing under fluorescent stars. When he’s not crying over his circuits, he’s felling dragons in his head, or losing himself in the pages of a Gaiman. He sometimes writes stories: ones where the good guys win, and thinly veiled colonial power ends up crashing and burning. He thinks he’s very clever with them.

Talking Politics isn’t a Hobby Ayaan Qani We are living in an age where it seems like everyone is visibly involved in politics. By politics I mean the operation of systems and ideas that rely on, and are reinforced by, power structures. And by being involved, I mean talking about it, participating in acts of resistance, learning, and unlearning. Whether it be in the classroom or in group chats, people are having conversations about the effects politics have on our lives. The Internet has aided us with instantaneous access to a world of ideas, allowing us to share and discuss them with virtually anyone. However, in recent times, we have begun seeing a more apparent polarisation of ideas, with People of Colour being tossed into a box labelled “snowflake” and pushed further into the margins. Who is, or rather what is, removing the value from our voices, our thoughts, our bodies, and beings? It’s white supremacy. When conversations are had surrounding race, capitalism, gender, and other social constructs, the bogeyman in the room is rarely addressed. Charles W. Mills speaks of this disregard of white supremacy as the backdrop of all western political systems in his book, The Racial Contract.* White people see their privilege as so insignificant, that they don’t acknowledge it as political. This deliberate ignorance of white supremacy, however, does not negate its very real effects on People of Colour. We have to understand that western colonialism was not only the pillaging of land and resources, and the genocides of people. It was also the colonisation of Indigenous culture and language. It is the colonisation of the mind and, some People of Colour, decades to centuries post-colonialism, are still waging in psychological warfare against our invaders. I say some People of Colour because for many, their invaders have never left. Due to the violence and generational trauma we have faced over the last centuries, our politics have been concentrated on settler-colonialism, slavery, racism, imperialism, reparations, and more. Our engagement with politics has been a means of survival and resistance. So how is it, when I call out someone for being a racist, I am the one being reprimanded? Why are white people telling me what racism is, when I had to learn to recognise it as a child? When we engage (or are forced to participate) in discussions on politics that affect us with people who benefit from such politics, we see a few things play out (in no particular order): 1. The person blames you for misunderstanding the situation and tells you that you should learn to see things from another perspective. 2.The person immediately reduces your experience, expertise, and intellect to a mere hiccup in the ideal world of post-racism (or other -isms). 3.They gaslight, gaslight and gaslight some more until they’ve exhausted you from defending yourself. At the third point, the white person thinks they have won the debate. To them, you just didn’t know enough about politics. And herein lies the problem. To them, the beneficiary of white supremacy, the politics that impact us as are seen as mere abstract ideas that can be debated about. Because ideas such as racism have no tangible negative effect on their lives and thus are matters to be discussed theoretically. This is why we are seeing white folks (and some

People of Colour too) make a huge show of engaging with white supremacists and Nazis to show that they are just like us, only with a different opinion. This notion that all political thought has to be given an equal platform is particularly violent because it is People of Colour who are on the receiving end of these “opinions”. These opinions by white supremacists have the power to dehumanise us, incarcerate us, steal our land and our children, and overall reinforce political structures that maintain our oppression. Providing a platform for such views is accepting them as legitimate and thus a threat to People of Colour. During our repeated engagements in political discourse, we instinctively compose ourselves to neutralise our expression of emotions. We may be making a valid argument about the issue at hand, but once our tone gets a little passionate and our voice a tad higher, suddenly all is lost. The white person we were speaking to now believes we are not Rational™ anymore. Rationality has been a tool by white supremacists to code People of Colour as uncivil, non-white, and, thus, non-human. Our humanity, which some scientists argue is our sense of empathy and emotions, is what white supremacy uses to dehumanise us. And through this, expressing outrage against racism and other forms of oppression is invalidated and suppressed. Talking about politics has become a form of entertainment for white people. They ask us for our thoughts on Trump, on Brexit, on the rise of white supremacy and yet never reflect on how these instances are a product of themselves and their institutions. I have made the decision to not engage in these political debates with white people. I should not be expected to teach, help, or in any way be sympathetic to white people’s guilt or ignorance of the deadly consequences their political system has done to me and other People of Colour. My views and my emotions are valid and won’t be undermined or silenced. My thoughts and my very being are political. I am a Somali woman from the Somali Region of Ethiopia. A region that is occupied due to colonialism. I am not from Somalia. There are Somali people living in Djibouti and Kenya too – all indigenous to those countries. One group of people, divided by borders forged by colonizers who know nothing of the land. I live in Naarm, land of the Wurundjeri people, whose sovereignty was never ceded and whose land I am a settler to. I could never live to understand the complexities of their oppression, and I stand in solidarity with their resistance against land grabs and the many ways settler-colonialism affects their lives. The politics of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders, of Indigenous peoples outside of Australia and of People of Colour, are all shaped by the insidious political system of white supremacy. And our politics are not a hobby. * Yassir Morsi, a critical race theorist, introduced me to Mills’ work in a seminar series he held at the People of Colour Department in 2018 called Texts on Racism. Oftentimes the works by academics of colour are inaccessible to People of Colour, and I am grateful to Morsi and others like him for giving back to the community in this way.

A Map to Navigating Homesickness Farah Khairat APRIL 22, 2018 The scent of mango sailed into my nostrils— for a moment, all I could think about was its sickly-sweet scent. The gold beams of sun seeped into my skin. The dark hair on my arms glistened. I stood on a wooden log and reached for a mango off the tree. I inhaled its fragrance and gently pressed my fingers on the green skin. Earlier that day, I had taken one of the knives from the kitchen when no one was looking. I cut the mango in half and radiated gold as the mango juice dripped down my chin and fingers. As I scooped and slurped, I remembered the first time I had eaten a mango when I was six years old. My grandfather had put me on his shoulders and let me pick my favourite, the Zibdea. The sky was turning into a myriad of orange and pink hues. The sound of the prayer call boomed and travelled through the trees and acres of land.

JULY 16, 2018 The way he says my name sounds like returning home. Rolls off his lips like molasses. Dances on mine like tahini. AUGUST 6, 2018 I left a part of me in Cairo. A part of me in weekly family lunches. In being able to hear in daily conversation. In a along with laughter at my dancing. Every day I navigate my duo of identities — they are not quite the duet yet. Sometimes they are in harmony, others they are not. Always falling one semitone low. Sometimes one is in staccato. The other falsetto. A chaotic performance. Only rarely euphonic. Sometimes they will be in the middle of ecstatic happiness together and then an interruption of immense nostalgia appears.

JULY 25, 2018 I sit in airports searching for home in all the wrong places — it makes me weak. I thought his tongue was the golden ticket home. DECEMBER 30, 2017

“Home is not where you were born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease.” – Omar Taher AUGUST 23, 2017 You ask me to tell you what home feels like. And I see now that I am not homesick for a place. I am homesick for the feeling I get on a plane hovering above desert plains and uneven rooftops. Fields of randomly placed palm trees upon crowds of traffic and Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure. I am homesick for the bustle of the streets. I am homesick for the feeling of being understood. A comfort I am yet to find here.

Where are you from? Yar Majak

Where are you from? Seems a simple enough question right. A throwaway conversation starter. But, it’s loaded. Where am I from? I get this question all the time. It sends me into a tail spin. Where am I from? Are you asking about where I was born? Or where my parents were born? Or where in Melbourne I currently reside? Where am I from? I could go with the simple answer. The answer those who ask this question usually want. But it’s more complicated than that. For those asking this question, there’s an unspoken question, an underlying assumption and an assertion. I am (You are) not from here. Obviously. Sometimes depending on my mood and whether I have emotional labour to spare, I’ll answer that I am from Melton or Brunswick East or some suburb in Melbourne that I have called home for most of my life.

It’s like constantly being pulled in different directions. At what point do I get to claim Australian identity? As a Black Woman, it would seem never. When I get asked this question, what I hear is, “You’re not Australian. What are you?” And I don’t know. It may seem trivial sometimes but these questions that get asked of certain people, demand that they define themselves to you; a stranger. Ask yourself, do you question white Australian’s about where they are from? If not, why not? If I can’t claim Australia, why do you think you or they can? Because unless you are an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander person, we all came from somewhere. Where are you from? Seemed like a simple question didn’t it.

That’s when the standoff happens. We both pause. They wonder whether I will expand on this, answer their real question without them having to voice it. I wonder whether they’ll have the guts or the audacity to put into words the question they really intended to ask. Where am I from? Sometimes I do the drawn-out thing. I will explain that I was born in one country, my parents were from another but that all I’ve ever known or remember is Australia. Then I leave them to puzzle out where I am from. I know the answer they want. But it’s more complicated than that. They want me to claim my parent’s home country. But how can I claim somewhere I wasn’t born? How can I claim a place I have been to twice, for a grand total of less than a month my whole life? How do I claim the country I was born in, when I was never recognised as a citizen? When I was simply another faceless person, skittering about on the outskirts of town in the refugee camp they wanted out of their country. Where my birth was so insignificant, there might be no record of it. How do I claim I am Australian, when I am constantly under attack from fellow citizens, when politicians are on TV using those who look like me to score votes? Othering me, making it known that according to them, I am not of this country, I simply reside here. Until Harmony week of course.

unsent letter re: home

an ode to lost self

the scent of shitto & butter means something to someone distant but i struggle to hold on to the faint aroma of my ancestors so, i wear a badge of dishonour assigned to those who cannot recount their origin story without hesitation. is that why you did not write back? i wear the memory of my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s birth in my smile but i cannot recite the men who lived before his time.

i silence the voice inside that screams for protection. i yearn for the solace in knowing who you are and what to say. i crave the articulacy of an apathetic version of myself. this is an ode to lost words.

kulle

did i tell you that i never got to meet my grandmother? early morning rituals stolen from me before i could call them tradition. i am part of a fractured few; the children of men and women separated from families to seek more for their families. here, palm trees are used as shade for baseless talk and judgments in a language i was never meant to learn; somehow i do not understand why this ritual feels foreign. i forget i am an alien here & the beach entices me with waves of great familiarity that i mistake this land as my own. where i am from, the stories of men before me bleed from the roots of the sacred odaa tree. but where i am from is not where i am. my father tells me stories of his oasis as i listen my mouth turns into a desert. he looks for my reply & i see him search for his country in my face. instead i peel burnt skin from my chest & my heart feels heavy. i attempt to let him know i am trying to re-learn home. he has already come to accept that my eyes may be his mothers, but that does not mean i can see.

kulle

the rain moves with vigour and dances around in the sky, i wonder if she has an ulterior motive. i watch her every day and conclude she does not seem to care about her impact. it is as if nurture and growth is nothing but a mere side effect. i once so adamantly claimed that i hated the rain. the reason why? i had no clue but perhaps this hatred of something so natural was a way of me directing my hatred from myself to something much bigger. now i proclaim to the sun as it nourishes my skin, that i miss the rain. and even if i am not there yet i am beginning to see her beauty as well as mine. this is an ode to lost love. although nostalgia reeks through the words i write i no longer yearn for something i have already lived. instead i direct my energy my hope my love my odes and declarations to words unspoken, friendships yet to flower and the ever-alluding power that is love. although my bones may feel weak from time to time, i am still young. i forget this. but i am still young. this is an ode to possibility.

now do you understand why i could not find you?

birthright kulle i forgot the meaning of my name again and a language forgotten washes effortlessly through my dry ears. if i focus hard enough i can piece together the missing links but my skin wraps itself so tight, that sometimes i forget how to breathe. i forget how to listen. the air feels hot on my destructive skin and summer doesn’t soothe me as it used to. i can hear them talking about me. they know i do not belong here. i look like them, but when i speak my mouth betrays their trust. the heat is not the only thing i must adjust to. i am a foreign concept to them. finally, night falls and my skin becomes absorbed into the darkness. we connect over the silence. i did not think coming home would feel so unknown.

‘An Ode to Ameera’ Aazaad Faraz

One for the leather-bound albums Flowing with memories of past In the distance a river roars Gushing water and words cast Merging with tears from candid hearts As they aligned from distances afar Years I cannot count anymore There was none which could keep us apart Since memory exists, it now seems There was you through it all Somehow of you I would always think When of the family I would recall When asked about the friends of mine I would always talk of you Love takes many shapes, certain am I Each day, since year three, this bouquet grew Colours different to what others expected Unknown they are to the minds of most Through time the stems were tested To us these colours spoke of home Till I write and till I breathe Through time we will stand Always swaying together in the breeze Of scented gardens or lands burning grand

‘In a Rush of Emotions, it Swept Away’

‘Bells’

In a rush of emotions, it swept away Couldn’t gather sense from any of the senses I felt myself trapped within hundreds of fences I felt a strong current on my shackled feet Oozed a scarlet ink which would become a treat Reasonings found lost in a demented tempest Soon, it will break through the defences Towards I crept a maleficent sway

Another day passed with the same shining lights The naivety in glossy eyes was again at its height Having given in to fleeting winds, for a moment I did fly

Aazaad Faraz

Thought to think through it; couldn’t take it anymore Scared and in panic, I tried to move The water which flowed would wail many odes In a dark place I hadn’t been to before Couldn’t lift a finger; an encompassing gloom In its reflection, incapacitated, to write I chose

The Bells soon rang on the mound I had slept Awakened to an empty side- shaken, I had wept Having already been shattered, to dream I did try Hollowed was the mound, next what will they take away In silence I left to walk someplace far away Having almost given up, to the ringing Bells, I ask why

Content warning: mentions of gender dysphoria and queerphobia

___________ like a girl

Belle Gill

“Sit like a girl,” my mom tells me. I was five. I had put up my legs on the arm of the chair while reading because being comfortable while reading was my biggest problem at that point.

to tell him that I cry when I have to put on dresses and form-fitting clothes make me break out in hives. That being called ‘lady’ makes me massively uncomfortable and I stare at the ‘Gender’ options on forms forever before resignedly choosing ‘Woman’.

“Walk like a girl,” my mom tells me.

I once asked my mother how she would feel if I was a boy. I didn’t plan on asking that, or using those specific words. It was merely the easiest way for me to express my jumbled feelings about gender identity to my mom, whose only exposure to queerness was Ellen DeGeneres. She hugged me and told me that I was her beautiful girl and that she wanted nothing else.

I’d take smaller steps and try not to swing my arms around so much.

I felt sick.

I was starting to understand that because I was born female, I was to make myself smaller, straighter, my every actions constantly monitored and judged. There was no choice in this matter. No one ever asked if this was what I wanted, this was just how things were meant to be.

But I stayed quiet.

I didn’t quite understand what she meant but I put my legs down anyway. Thus, my introduction to gender norms and expression began.

As I grew older, my discomfort with how I was meant to express my gender in this world grew. I remember being 13, looking at my long hair in the mirror, wanting to cut it all off. Only the fear of wrath of my parents held me back. In a Sikh family, your hair was your pride. My father still explicitly states that “all girls should have long hair because they look nicer that way”. Back then, I couldn’t quite explain why I wanted to cut off my hair. I did not hate it, I just didn’t feel right with long hair. It wasn’t me.

I have been quiet about my confusion and discomfort for a long time. I do not know if it is even worth talking about it or stating my preferred pronouns. This is not an option offered to me nor is it a luxury I have in my country. I dread going back to a country where ‘cross-dressing’ is illegal; where females have to wear heels to be seen as ‘professional’. Where makeup is a professional requirement and not a tool of self-expression. I am seen as a woman and therefore, I am a woman, my personal gender identity be damned.

I still haven’t quite mustered up the courage to cut off all my hair. It’s much shorter now and I did get an undercut. The day I posted the picture of my undercut on Instagram, my grandmother called me and told me I have disgraced my family. Good times. I have started wearing men’s clothes and expressing myself the way I want to, not the way I am expected to. It’s hard and terrifying. My relatives call me a ‘tomboy’, whatever that means. My father thinks there is something wrong with me. There is no feeling quite like your parents asking “What’s wrong with you?” Because what they are really asking is, “Where did I go wrong?” I do not know how to answer my father. I don’t know how to tell him that I do not feel like I belong to a gender, any gender and that it confuses the hell out of me. I do not know how

Content warning: mention of death, sickness & cancer

TO MY AUNTY, Martin Isidro “You can be whatever you want to be, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I believe in you,” my aunty whispers in my ear on the way to school. My bag on my back, my lunch packed. My younger sister is walking on the brick fences, trying to maintain her balance. I’m in second grade and my aunty is essentially my second mum. She treats us as if we were her own. How innocently blessed we were.

My early childhood is filled with countless memories of her. She walked me to school,

brought me home, and looked after us while our parents were working overtime. Little things made her happy. She smiled whenever we received an award from school, or if we had mispronounced a word in Tagalog. She’d never let you watch television when her soap operas were on.

She worked a menial job cleaning houses. When my sisters and I were on holidays, she

would go out to work and she’d ask us if we wanted anything. We would always ask for a Kit Kat.

Cancer, the vile and disgusting parasite, crept into her life and affected every one of us. I remember when I found out. We lived in different cities then, we had moved from Sydney to Brisbane. I was doing well in school; second year of high school and I had an avid interest in science. As a child foolishly dreams, I thought I would be able to find a cure for what she was suffering from. It scared me that I could lose her. Maybe, I could do something for all the times she had done something for me. I would do all this because I needed more time with her. Was it selfish to wish that? I still needed that affirmation that she so freely gave. I believed it when she gave it. It wasn’t watered down, it wasn’t the usual or expected, it was always genuine to me. It was my older sister’s eighteenth birthday and the whole family came to Brisbane to celebrate. My aunty visited often. My mum took it as her responsibility to make sure she was looked after. We made plans for her to come live with us. In Sydney, she lived in a small unit while in Brisbane we had a house. We had the means to support her. We were taking photos at the house before the party. She had grown so thin due to the chemotherapy. Something that was supposed to help her, had made her so fragile. “Aunty, you’ll come live with us,” I told her.

We waited patiently throughout the day for this treat and it made us so happy when we received

Her face weak, she smiled.

it. She didn’t make much money and with what she had, she would send some back home to her

“Yes, that would be nice.” She leaned in to kiss me on the forehead.

family in the Philippines. I only realize now that the treat she gave us was a sacrifice for her, yet she did it so gladly. Her hands were rough from the work she completed, but I still felt warmth when I held them. Her smile although tired, radiated pure joy. At the time, I didn’t know the personal struggles that she faced. I didn’t know the hours she would spend, worrying about her own family she had left behind in another country. Looking back, I felt guilty for having taken time with her when she could have spent time with her own children. A sacrifice she made that I’ll never take for granted. 24

I couldn’t read it at the time, but I knew she had doubt. She’d never tell me how her treatment was going. I didn’t know that that was going to be the last time I would see her. I returned home from school like any other day. My mum was in her room on the phone, her cries heard from the other side of the house. My aunty’s condition hadn’t improved, and she had finally gone back home to the Philippines to be with her own children. I walked to my mum, phone in her hand, I knew the news she received. 25

My mum was sobbing. I didn’t want to believe it. No matter how foolish I was, I still had

How I’m struggling with what I’m doing with my life. Whether I’m making the right choices. I’m

faith that everything was going to be okay. I needed her.

moving forward, but I don’t know if I’m going in the right direction.

Her fingers wiped her tears. Her eyes red with pain.

“Anak, your aunty has passed away.”

Your response wouldn’t be one of rebuke. You wouldn’t tell me to get over myself. I imagine

it would be one of gentleness—a reminder of where our family came from and how far there is to

I didn’t believe it. My mum— shaking, cursing God, she knew what it was like to lose a sibling. She’d already lost her brother and sister. My aunty and mum sacrificed so much coming to Australia to secure a better future. My mum was indebted to her for all the years she looked after my sisters and I, even though she had her own family in the Philippines. What was worse was that my mum never got her chance to say goodbye. ~~~

go and not to stop now. It would be a reminder of your unconditional love and support. As I look back I’m grateful for the time I spent with you. Your memory lives on in our family and the people whose lives you’ve touched. You demonstrated to me humility, selflessness, and the valuable lesson of sacrifice. I learnt the importance of family and that regardless of our circumstances we look after what we can. I know that as long as I’m looking out for others, you will be proud.

I miss the affirmation you gave. It was always my desire to make something of myself to reflect the generosity you showed to me and my sisters. So much of who I am is because of you. My values, goals, and aims are rooted in what you taught and showed to me. It was humility. It was selflessness. Although your life was unfair and difficult, not once did you ever try to make it difficult for me. You protected us and now it is time to protect you and what you stood for. You deserved more for what you sacrificed. At times my mum reminds me of you. I think she does so as a release for herself. She tells me you were her closest sister. My mum tells me that you didn’t want to fight anymore. You’d been fighting your whole life and there was nothing left to give. I often wonder how life takes, or how we fight, in the hopes that it will get better. I wonder if people ever reach it. If people do, what was their secret? Aunty, you were selfless, why didn’t you get your happy fairytale? I look at my present situation, studying at university, achieving a degree, something you were never given the luxury of. I look at my own struggles and think how you would have responded. I wish I could speak to you, I wish I could tell you what was happening with me. 26

Eclipsed Heart Maggie Liu 刘迎旭

Eclipsed Heart Translation

I learnt my first 儿歌 over a long-distance phone call as 妈妈 sat under the Southern Cross, halfway across the world.

I learnt my first nursery rhyme over a long-distance phone call as mother sat under the southern cross, halfway around the world. She sang to me twinkle twinkle little star and I wonder if she ever wished upon these flickering lights to share the same sky once again with the mother and daughter she left behind.

she sang 一闪一闪小星星and I wonder if she ever wished upon those flickering lights to 再次 share the same sky with the mother and daughter she left behind.

Almost two decades later, three generations sit together under the same roof, but my memories of golden stars cast across a distant sunset have become hazy, even in slumber, my anglicised tongue has become better at tying knots into cherry stems than imitating my grandmother’s songs. Though our worlds have finally spun into alignment, our eclipsed hearts leave us fumbling like strangers, lost, snippets in the dark.

almost two decades later, three generations 团聚在, the same roof 下, but my memories of 金色的 stars cast across 遥远的 sunset have become hazy, even in slumber, my anglicised tongue has become better at tying knots into cherry stems than imitating my grandmother’s songs. though our worlds have finally spun into alignment, our eclipsed hearts leave us fumbling, strangers, lost, snippets in the dark.

Click

Maggie Liu 刘迎旭

键盘的沉默刘迎旭

maybe in five years time I’ll suddenly cross your mind and you’ll wonder what that starry-eyed girl (who was so desperately in love with you) is up to now.

也许五年后我会突然在你的脑海里浮现而你会好奇那个 (当初那么爱你的) 梦里铺满星星女孩她的今天在哪里度过

your finger will hover over the green dot next to my name…

你的手指在我的名子旁边显示在线的绿点，迟疑...

click. you didn’t know that I cut my hair

键盘点击。你不知道我何时剪短长发

click. or that I left the suburb next to the sea

键盘点击。也不清楚我何时离开海边的小屋

click. to make a life in the city that never sleeps.

键盘点击。来到一个冷漠的不夜城寻找自己

your finger will hover over the green dot next to my name…

你的手指在我名子的旁边显示在线的绿点，迟疑...

but you do not click.

但你的键盘沉默。

The Soft Bigotry of Low Expectations anonymous

I heard this phrase once and it changed my life. All my life, I have been subjected to the soft bigotry of low expectations. I just didn’t know what to call it.

reclaimed Alston Chu

Teachers that were surprised that I did well on a test. Or fellow students who just couldn’t believe I did better on a test than them.

my father and his father before him threw their sons into pools a trial, an offering some are born knowing

The guidance counsellor that informs me that I should be more realistic about my future options, when I tell them that my goal is to get into the undergraduate science program at The University of Melbourne. Because surely, someone who looks like me, must understand that I simply lack the intellect to make it there.

the hardest part is not the soil strange, sole unsoftened and borne by no welcome ports become unto their storm

It’s the school administrator who is shocked to learn that I have come in to take my Year 12 VCE exams. I don’t notice it straight away… I squirrel all these experiences somewhere in the back of my mind. But it’s like an earworm in the back of my mind that I can’t quite put my finger on. They’re the voice telling me that I am not good enough. That I will always fall short of adequate.

grand kings know they sit center of the earth no depths below them water is never long uncredited when I had spent his inheritance I went back to the coast bearing nothing

So I don’t apply to the university I want. I don’t submit that story to the magazine. I don’t apply for that job because surely someone else is better suited. I don’t volunteer to teach and mentor younger kids, because what could I possibly have to offer. We all have little voices of doubt in our minds that tell us we aren’t good enough, but when the world also echoes those words, it can be deafening. It can drown out all the truths and facts that we know. It overrides the fact that you know you have something to offer. But just because they say it, doesn’t mean it’s true. I did get into that course. I did submit that story. I applied for that job and mentoring program.

I haven’t let go of the belief that I am not good enough, but like a lot of things, sometimes you just have to fake it until you make it. I don’t have to believe it, but I do it anyways and hope that against enough evidence, I will start to believe.

Content warning: mental health

A Letter to Myself Tharindu Jayadeva @ me, Some days are cold. You’ve now left the space you’ve wanted to get out of for so long – you’ve been craving comfort, a space that holds you and nurtures you in the warmth you’ve missed. A space that embraces you for you, and that understands that you’ve been hurt. But the space you’re now in doesn’t match the place you’ve always wanted to be. You know in your heart it’s different, but it looks just like where you’ve been your whole life. It looks like home, but it doesn’t feel like it. When we’re questioning who we are and the people we devote time to, the way we look and the way we love, why is the first question that enters our mind and makes itself at home “what would they say?” … “what will they think?” For too long you and I have stared into the mirror and cried at the figure looking back at us. No matter what we do, they’ll always have something to say. What does it mean to love yourself? Does it mean you leave your skin and sins at the door with your shoes, or does it mean you drag them through the house like the dirt they’ve left inside you? It’s hard. Accepting that no one will love you until you’ve learned to love yourself, when the effort it’s taken to do exactly that is what’s led you here.

And you’re waiting. And you’re waiting. The space you’re in now is changing. You’ve given time to your fears, and heard that they’re just that. You’re learning to speak again, for yourself and for the things that hurt you. After years of cultivating, you’re now able to grow. You sit under the sky, letting it know that you’re there. It’s me. I’m here. It’s taken a while, but you’ve poured your insecurities and your expectations of self out of the countless jars you held them in. They’re out. You’re out. You’re free. You’re warmer. You told your heart that it’s okay to come back tomorrow if the world was busy. That you can instead give yourself back to you. You’re on your way home. Yes, some days are cold, but you’re getting better at finding where the warmth is. Love, You.

But what exactly is making us afraid? Is it the thought of judgement, of changed interactions, or of losing the people we once held close? What has led us to think that this is the norm, and that this is a one-size-fits-all response when you open your scars up for the world to see? Why are we so afraid of the things that make us, but accept and put energy into the things that break us? It gets hard to breathe in the cold. But we both know how much you want to discover the person that lives inside you; to say hello, to welcome them and to share that with the world – your home. But sharing and understanding are two very different things. Always striving, always achieving, but hardly ever putting our energy into believing. You’ve loved. You’ve hurt. You’re reaching out. But now what? We wait… ‘It’s okay to not be okay’ runs laps around your mind – you’re waiting for the world to see you. The real you that you’ve been hiding… been lying about. You’ve made up your mind about the stories you’ll tell to beg people to see you as you, and not as ‘that’. But you keep waiting.

If you, or someone you know, would like to reach out for support, contact: Lifeline: 13 11 14 Kids Helpline: 1800 55 1800 eheadspace: 1800 650 890 / eheadspace.org.au

Bollywood Gets Gay: The Other Love Story Review Yameen Al-Muttaqi Media in recent years has been increasingly, blessedly gay. Between Queer Eye, Hayley Kiyoko, Janelle Monae, Love, Simon, Moonlight and Call Me By Your Name the queer community is finally starting to see itself represented positively in mainstream media. And while it is great to see the bump in representation, it is undeniable that most queer media is white, and very little is done to showcase queerness in non-western societies, especially in the mainstream. Growing up brown, I was exposed to a lot of Bollywood, and I knew Bollywood was never going to give us the gay we wanted – they were far too busy showing off Salman Khan’s pecs. Colonial British sentiments towards LGBT+ communities are still strong, and any LGBT+ representation in mainstream media is either a ridiculous parody (Bobby Darling), or met with extreme prejudice from the conservatives and nationalists (Deepa Mehta’s Fire). And in Hollywood, we are either the terrorist, exotic love interest, or the 7-11 guy. I suppose the best we could get was a fanfiction rewrite of Bend it Like Beckham ending to be much, much gayer.

Enter Indian director: Roopa Rao. In 2016, she wrote and directed a 12-episode web-series, The “Other” Love Story, chronicling the story of two twenty-something-year-old women living in Bangalore who fall in love, and how they navigate their budding relationship amidst societal pressures. The risks of creating such a piece under the watchful eye of the censor board and the conservatives of the country is all too great, making the very existence of such a piece of media in conservative India revolutionary. And the best part? It’s free and accessible for anyone, anywhere, to watch,

even if they do not understand Hindi. Thanks, subtitles. The first thing that struck me about the show was just how very Indian it was. Being an independent, crowdfunded internet production, Rao got to break out of the glitz and glam of Bollywood where every middle-class family can afford a Mercedes, and shows life in India for exactly what it is. The scenes jump from roadside tea stalls and dhabas to rickety buses; backgrounds are sprinkled with joint families, floral bedsheets, and other tiny things that keep the show grounded in the everyday life of the subcontinent. For someone who has spent half their life in the region, it is very familiar and refreshing to see. The familiarity of the setting is combined with cinematography that knows just when to put on a little extra flourish. While everyday scenes are kept intact, blemishes and all, critical scenes in the development of the relationship are given gentle nudges towards something a little more idyllic – rose tinted glasses, if you will. The filmmakers play with camera angles and lights to create moments both extremely ordinary and yet ethereal, never overplaying their hand but always leaving you satisfied, and a little awed. And of course, there’s the story itself. Two stories run together, a present day one, following Aachal (Shweta Gupta) and a flashback, following Aadya (Spoorthi Gumaste) and her diary entries detailing the story of the couple – from awkward first interactions, to a comfortable friendship, and how the pair slowly but surely fall in love, and deal with this new relationship in a very conservative society. The two leads do an

incredible job playing two people slowly opening up to each other as friends. And, as the relationship deepens, their acting never falters – they leave no room to question the intimacy, the desire, and the love.

end up crying a bit. And if you are anything like yours truly, you will be crying more than just a bit.

The script itself is very tightly written. It knows just when to pick up and when to let the characters and its audience stew, when and how to subtly build on the relationships already presented, all the while weaving in the problems all too commonly faced by women in traditional households. A friend described it as “uncomfortably real,” watching the women face these challenges and the limitations of growing and being in a society that does not openly discuss samesex relationships – not positively, at least.

https://tinyurl.com/OtherLoveStory

4.5/5 stars.

The supporting cast do a good job too – from the teasing-but-supportive friends and the annoying siblings to the two differing, yet similarly traditional families. The characters are real, as is the dialogue and the scenery which, together, bring a different kind of magic to the piece – one not often found in visual media. It creates a story that could have happened right in our own neighbourhood, had we just looked. The “Other” Love Story is a piece that, really, could only have existed in this era of YouTube creatorship, and crowdfunded passion projects. It tackles issues the larger film industry shies away from, and gives us the representation we so very sorely need in our lives, all with a certain grace and gentleness. And while it is made with a queer, brown audience in mind, the subtitles make sure to keep everything accessible to a wide audience. Like any good romance, it invokes a giddy euphoria and leaves you feeling a little bit better after, even if you do

Content warning: mentions of racism & colonialism

A Polite Response

Hien Nguyen

To the white woman who looked at me— said loudly, “They should go back to where they come from” To the airport agent who targeted me and taught me to say thank you like a sacrilege. To the country that robbed mine until it became blind and grateful for the privilege I’m looking down on you and I’m saying No. With a smile or with a sneer with anger or with fear— It’s a no from me. So I shall take pride, in being the thorn in your side the wood chip in your eyes the devil on your mind and your back and your scratched up, blackened pride. As I laugh and say: “No.” As I pity you and say: “No.” As I feel weak and weary and unwilling: “No.” As I owe my people, my soul, my country, and so I say: Not a chance in hell. I am afraid I cannot do that. Here’s what I can do: Paint my hair jet black, my face yellow orange, poison the next generations with culture, turn them venomous with fierce pride for their roots. (oh, and season my food) To— build my throne upon your dashed dreams and privileges, and when you scream at me to “go back to my country”, return to the boats, stop stealing your jobs, stop cutting up your pride— to laugh in your face and to you I’ll say, “Who do you think you are?” “Who do you think I am?”

No.

Content warning: Australian politics & vilification of minorities

Othering: The “Us vs. Them” Mentality Ashani Lee In 21st century so-called ‘multicultural’ Australia, most individuals who aren’t at the epicentre of privilege* have experienced Othering in some form. The alienation of another, Othering can be deliberate or unintentional, conscious or subconscious. In the racial context, it can be as blatant as a vitriolic racist slur or as covert as a microaggression – a subtle or indirect form of discrimination. I’m focused on the subtleties of Othering, the comments and actions that leave individuals and whole communities feeling othered. As a Person of Colour, I have experienced feeling othered in what is perhaps the most ironic example of Othering. During my time in Canada, I chaired the Toronto Newcomer Council, an initiative that was part of the City of Toronto’s goal to better engage with and empower immigrants in Toronto. During one of our meetings, myself and my fellow representatives were introduced to a local councillor. As I stood waiting for my turn, I noticed in his discussions with people the first thing he would do is play some sort of race guessing game where he boisterously declared that you looked a particular ethnicity. When it got to my turn to meet him, he walked up to me, and our conversation went like this: Him (looking at my name tag and without saying hello): I’m guessing…South Indian. Me: Actually, I’m Australian Him: No, but what is your origin? Me (pointedly): Australian. Him (oblivious): No, I mean where are you really from? Me: Australia…*lo ng awkward pause before I reluctantly add*… but my parents are Sri Lankan. Him (looking satisfied and walking away): I thought so. - End of conversation-

terrorism with Islam which furthers the Othering and dehumanisation of a community already marginalised by Settler Australia. More recently, Australian politicians and mainstream media alike have taken to demonising the African community with sensationalist and fear-mongering labels such as ‘African gangs’ and ‘African youth crime’. Writing about her lived experience, Nyadol Nyuon voiced that this language and media coverage was “always brutal, leaving you with this feeling of being under siege… a person who has to justify her place in the country of her birth.” Globally, we see anti-immigration rhetoric and xenophobia reiterating this “Us vs. Them” mentality and exacerbating the Othering of People of Colour. What these examples demonstrate is the need to reconceptualise the Australian identity and values to focus on inclusion and belonging as opposed to the long relied upon concepts of diversity and assimilation. In saying so however, such a reframing of Australian identity is futile without centring and supporting First Nations people in their resistance to settler-colonialism. The continued infringement of their rights in this country must be challenged, otherwise we risk Othering them too. In this age of increasing political populism and divisive and racialized public discourse, now more than ever there is a need to move away from the “Us vs. Them” polarity, which has lasting and damaging effects on People of Colour, towards truly inclusive societies.

Here was an individual who was supposedly the champion for immigrant inclusion in Toronto casually Othering me. Three things bother me about this experience to this day. Firstly, his disbelief that I could not possibly be Australian because I was a Person of Colour, which ignores the fact that Australia is native to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, not white people. Secondly, the power dynamic, as the game he was playing was reductive and vapid, ultimately dismissing and diminishing me. Lastly, the fact that I felt obliged to give him the answer he wanted for him to make sense of me. The “where are you really from?” question is perhaps the most common example of Othering that People of Colour in Australia experience. This seemingly harmless question attacks your sense of identity and belonging because, at its core, it infers that you “aren’t from here” and are therefore an outsider. In this one question that person asserted that I was an outsider in a country where I was born and raised. In this scenario, the Othering was limited to an individual experience. More concerning, however, is the politicisation of Othering that can be harmful to entire communities of colour. No more so is this evident than in modern Australian politics, which provides fertile ground for the Othering of marginalised groups. Last year we witnessed One Nation Senator Pauline Hanson wear a burqa in parliamentary question time to “open up debate” regarding terrorism legislation. Unmistakeable in this stunt was Senator Hanson’s association of

Footnotes: *In this case privilege does not refer specifically to wealth but a myriad of social privileges such as race, social status, gender, amongst others.

melbourne poems

Content warning: depiction of suicide

Sharon Du

i. i’m holding a hass avocado in the supermarket, feeling your goosebumps. in sydney, the ocean stretches the way you do, with worn blue sleeves. you make gravity simple - you are, so i am. supposedly, everyone has been so young. in The Seagull, we blame it on the lake. illiers-combray, shall i surrender the name? i’m thinking of aurochs and angels, oil paint eyes, which depending on the medium, take centuries to dry. ii. the sides of your apartment are tattooed with viscera. paint sweats in this weather like skin i’m touching eels, helminths, platinum limbs. i write your name under a decapitated sun. the pollock vowels, the tropical end. what could be more political than our loneliness? lips aren’t blankets, they can’t keep us warm. my thoughts are still the colour of your hair, when the lampreys twist like my veins, and my veins curl like your toes, and your toes hurt in my shoes, they’re a size down. history is a nightmare, and the past is shaped like a padlock. because ‘this isn’t real’, you never let me draw you. and in the hours since, i miss your fingers, i’ve forgotten your fingernails. i ask her where she’s been. she asks me if i’ve taken my medicine.

triptych may-june 1973 (for francis bacon) Sharon Du

once again, george dyed alone, in all three panels, bruised triplets in a dark womb. time’s soup but he certainly gets the nose right, the delta, the partisan slabs. the hue of stone while not stone, shadows bend him, live form pleading with dead colour. it’s the absence of vibration that hurts, a cliché to talk of clocks, you should’ve avoided them. the self-pleasuring mechanism is always ticking in the wrist, be careful. some things are darker than black. these possibilities close and open as alveoli, they don’t find me. we can’t have myths, hands can only attempt tenderness. i curl away, a page lit on fire. we’re collapsing upwards, peeling ourselves from rubble. our innards burrow back, our stares find new swivels. i never believe women who say scars are about healing, it’s disfigurement, and i want you to look at it. it’s been months since i felt the skin on the back of my arms, where do we go now? we cannot be held, only held responsible. have the canvas if you want, but don’t forgive yourself.

iii. if i’m relieved now, then when was the pain? how can i love vermeer, when he erased a dog? in the evaporation, i don’t think we even like each other. you said to someone else it was ‘on and off’, but i’ve memorised the sound of your light switch. it’s where you touch me, at the exit wound, i realise what i know better than anybody how petrarch never touched laura, how from laura comes sade.

new york poems

Sharon Du

Content warning: depiction of self-harm i. in new york, i lived on the same street joan didion did in ‘goodbye to all that’. but i did not see yellow silk. i believe the colour suffocated my host’s frogs, who he kept only to produce DMT. they all died one night, and left me alive to explain new sentinel island. inversions: on elevators, with native strangers, i dance apologetic boustrophedon. joan didion ate almonds and edited vogue. she’s only ever voted twice. lucia berlin could love me, but joan didion is how i imagine god, a wire mother, and i don’t think she’d like me much. ii. no one can truly avoid. there is no silence, that is not slightly calico, that is not slightly aeolian. in the stadia between your teeth, or the parasang between you and i, or the palisades that are our bodies, the alchemical word could have been ‘empty’, or ‘tempting’. craquelure - i cherished that. we can talk between splinters. my parent’s marriage like resin, frozen blood, a seized sting. make ‘merry war’, shakespeare did it. every day, the sky is urging me the turpentine edge of exquisite mania, and fetid city stars itch at me like ants. and in the morning - aubade supposedly, a furious drown of insect blue, to sting my veins in winter arms. my skin suffocates, so i open it. gills look like wounds when they are not. unholy perforations, do you realise?

this is seduction’s opposite. this is ‘advice on faking orgasms’. these are emperor’s tears. the advent meaning is to endure ourselves, a cathedral weight. you breathe like you pack suitcases, and these american clouds have a unibrow. iii. despite my best efforts, at stanford, i failed to see a raccoon or a flaccid penis (excluding those by rodin). well, in new york on the compulsive polish of odessa steps, catullus’ sparrow is catullus’ penis is catullus’ sparrow. i still believe it. we’re coy when it matters. so 2017 was not a bad year, so why not pretend i chose it? iv. nicholas or pyramus, i’m so starved of tenderness. no one could have imagined us. you did not care for the cannae or carnage i drew on a scotch college library book, but your eyes were so beautifully patient. the boys are saying ‘nebulous’. the girls are making janglepop. four years ago, you carried me across your school oval, so i’d feel your percussive cough. by the lush dark oil of the river with its mandarin scales of firelight, we turned like koi. i softened. you trembled like smoke. the oranges your mother peeled, they stung like fireworks. like lion fur. the parasang is sedimental, not igneous, and i was wrong to doubt fabius or distance. and you never claimed you could save me. that’s something i’m both grateful for and sorry.

PoC Gothic Hiruni Walimunige I

“But, technically, isn’t white a colour too?”

Playing dumb doesn’t work quite as well when there’s an obvious smirk on one’s face. Nevertheless, you decide to humour him and patiently explain how white is widely considered to be a complete absence of colour. However, as soon as the words leave your mouth, his eyes widen. His entire body violently convulses as the pigment is stripped from his skin. After the longest thirty seconds of your life, what remains of him is a completely translucent shell. It’s like looking at a human-shaped glass statue. Having nothing else to say (or perhaps through surprise), he takes his leave without another word.

You walk down a busy street in your childhood suburb. Having escaped gentrification for now, the shops around you boast everything from traditional homewares, to clothing and food. Almost every store here is owned by a member of your community.

When you turn your head to the other end of the street, you see that more shops have popped up in the short time you’ve had your head turned. A woman emerges from one of the cafes with a sign advertising $9.50 turmeric lattes.

You forget about the wormhole on your way home from work again. A sigh escapes your lips as you’re transported back to 1982. You’ve gotten used to navigating your way out of this time-warp, though, and, this time, you only pass one newsagent proudly displaying the Herald Sun’s front page article on the Greek migrant crisis. You feel a shift in the air that tells you you’ve transported back to the present. This is confirmed when you look to your left and see the same newsagent, displaying a Herald Sun front-page feature on the recent surge of violent African gangs.

III “Wow, that’s pretty spicy!” she says, fanning her hand in front of her face. She starts laughing, tears rolling down her cheeks. Soon the entire table has joined her, surrounding you in a cacophony of braying laughter, interspersed by the occasional muttering of the word “spicy”. You watch your guests’ faces contort into masks of pain and discomfort while they reach to refill their glasses.

You drop a sheet of paper and watch it fly behind you. You catch it after a short chase and triumphantly push it into your bag. When you look back up you see a store you’ve never seen before. The kitschy décor and overpriced drinks would normally be out of place here, but you quickly notice another café across the street. You’re certain neither of these were here when you walked past five minutes ago.

The hipsters are here.

VI You’re late to your tutorial for a class that’s either on Imperialism or Modernisation. Or was it ‘Imperialism and Modernisation’? (You can’t remember, since the first and last time you looked at the subject handbook was to see whether there would be an exam at the end of the semester.) As you scan the room, you notice that the only seat available is next to the guy that is currently summarising the reading. As you shuffle into the vacant seat, his previously muffled words become clear.

All you did was add a hint of pepper.

“So, at the end of the day, colonialism brought net benefits to colonised regions through economic expansion and the development of infrastructure.”

You freeze and scan the room to the see the entire class nodding silently. The tutor hands you the attendance sheet. Even as her eyes meets yours, her nodding does not cease. In the corner of your eye, you spot the ghost of the eugenicist the building is named after. He is nodding too.

There’s a cave tucked away somewhere off the main highway, an hour’s ride away from the city. Locals say that whoever wanders inside is driven to madness from the series of repetitions that assaults their ears, spoken by a haunting voice that is not quite human. You venture inside one day, earplugs clutched tight, seemingly prepared for what horror awaits. As soon as your foot crosses the threshold, a voice rings through your ears. “Naan bread,” it intones, the echoes reverberating through the dark cave. You stop in your tracks, desperately searching for the source of the sound. The next time it speaks, it sounds like it is mocking you. “Sharia law,” it says, gleefully, “Sahara Desert.” You scramble away as fast as you can, eyes fixed on the cave opening in front you. You hold your earplugs tight, preparing to jam them in. Even the thudding of your heart isn’t loud enough to drown out what the voice says next.

“Chai tea.”

Content warning: racial tropes in media

Represent-asian Trent Vu When I first signed up to Facebook, there was this trend going around. This was long before Walmart yodelling kids, skinny legends and cut creases. It might’ve even been before Rebecca “Friday” Black or Chris “Leave Britney Alone!” Crocker went viral across the internet. I’m that old. Basically, the Facebook fad at the time was changing your profile picture to a celebrity you looked like for a week. On a semi-related note, I have a weird knack for picking out celebrities that people look like. It’s probably because I watch way too many Hollywood gossip videos on YouTube. But in spite of my talents, I couldn’t seem to think of a famous person that even looked the slightest bit like me. In the end, it was a toss-up between Jackie Chan and Harry Shum Jr. I went with the latter, because I was a huge Gleek at the time, and I felt like he’d be more relatable to my new Facebook friends. Well, the few friends I had. So I picked some photo from Google Images of him at a red carpet event and set it as my first ever profile picture. A couple of minutes later, a girl I went to high school with messaged me. “U look nothing like harry shum jr lol,” she said. And she was right. I don’t look like Harry Shum Jr. I don’t look like Jackie Chan either, nor do I bear any resemblance to Jet Li, John Cho, Ken Jeong, or any other Asian male actor that had a presence in Hollywood back in 2009. I couldn’t do much else but leave my profile picture up – the Facebook lookalike week would be over soon. Of course, I felt a little envious of my caucasian friends, many of whom had been told all their lives which celebrities they resembled, all with varying degrees of accuracy. I’ve never had that same privilege. And, aside from Lucy Liu, who would my Asian sisters be able to use for their profile pictures? Growing up, I hardly saw anybody that looked like me in movies or when I was watching TV: no black hair, no yellow-tinged skin, no Asian experiences on our screens. “Er-Asia,” so to speak. For the longest time, I resented my Asian-ness and the fact that it meant I would never have a celebrity lookalike that everyone knew. It wouldn’t be until years later that I realised it wasn’t my fault at all, but rather a systemic issue that was much bigger than some stupid Facebook trend. In 2015 (and again the following year), the #OscarsSoWhite movement arose in response to the limited representation of People of Colour in the Academy Award nominations, and a number of celebrities—among them Jada Pinkett Smith, Will Smith and Spike Lee— boycotted the event. This movement exposed a problem with the lack of ethnic diversity in American film and television. Even in the wake of this cultural phenomenon, it seems like Asians are still missing from the picture. How can Asian actors, actresses and directors be nominated if there are hardly any in Hollywood in the first place? It’s true that we’re definitely seeing more and more Asian actors and actresses being cast in roles, particularly on the small screen—even in hugely popular shows; Charles Melton (Riverdale), Arden Cho (Teen Wolf), Ross Butler (13 Reasons Why), Lucy Liu (Elementary), Kal Penn (Designated Survivor) and my not-so-look-alike Harry Shum Jr. (Shadowhunters) are a few examples. As well, recent films like Crazy Rich Asians and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before have sparked plenty of much-needed discourse in America about Asians in popular media.

But outside of SBS and Masterchef, there is still a marked lack of Asians on our televisions in Australia. On the rare occasion, we might be lucky enough to catch a quick glimpse of an Asian as they’re ushered off the stage in the early rounds of The Voice, or a token Asian girl

on The Bachelor before she’s sent home after the first rose ceremony. And after the iconic Lee Lin Chin announced her departure from SBS News, Asian-Australian representation was dealt a huge blow. Of course, we’ve definitely come a long way since the Australian soap opera Neighbours included a certain problematic and twisted “anti-racism” story arc that involved a Ramsay Street resident accusing Jenny Lim, a new addition to the neighbourhood, of eating someone’s dog after it went missing. But we’ve still got miles to go before Australian TV truly represents the ethnic diversity of our population. Even when we do see Asians in popular media, it doesn’t always mean we benefit from this visibility. In line with Edward Said’s Orientalism, roles for Asian women tend to fall into either the vicious “dragon lady” or a submissive “lotus blossom” and are often sexualised for their “exotic” (*vomit*) Otherness, providing visual pleasure for the viewer. Gross, I know. On the other hand, Asian male actors are usually cast in roles in which they’re desexualised, whether if it’s because they’re the comic relief or they’re playing some wise “master”-type character. This racialised, gendered media representation definitely has an effect on society at large, exemplified by the many stereotypes that exist about Asians. We can see some roles that work to address these concerns—Charles Melton and Ross Butler both occupy heartthrob roles on their respective shows, while Lucy Liu’s character Joan Watson on Elementary doesn’t just exist as some submissive love interest. In this regard, we can see that some progress is finally being made in reversing this Orientalist mentality that’s plagued Asians in film and television for a long time. Yet, there’s still the problem of accurate ethnic representation. Often, these Asian characters are just that—Asian, as if Asian people were just some homogeneous group. But Asia is a massive continent that represents many different people with different histories and cultures. These vague, nondescript characters do a disservice to the richness of diversity in Asia. Similarly, we also have actors and actresses cast in roles that don’t directly align with their identities. The 2005 film Memoirs of a Geisha saw Chinese actresses Zhang Ziyi and Gong Li, and Chinese-Malaysian actress Michelle Yeoh portraying Japanese geisha, while the MTV show Teen Wolf cast Korean-American actress Arden Cho as the Japanese-Korean Kira Yukimura (the show almost always highlighted the character’s Japanese heritage though). It’s not good enough to just throw any Asian into a role intended for someone of a specific nationality or racial identity. To use a very white example, it’s like saying Collingwood Magpies and Geelong Cats are the same football team because they have a similar colour scheme. Of course, the same argument could be made for British actor Tom Holland, who has to put on an American accent for his role as Spider-Man in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. However, this at least earns him praise for his acting chops, whereas a Chinese actress would never be rewarded for playing a Japanese character. If you’re going to have a token Asian character in your movie, the least you can do is get it right. We’re starting to see more and more Asians in popular media, which is definitely a move in the right direction. But visibility can’t be our endpoint. With time, hopefully popular media starts getting representation right too. And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll even find my celebrity look-alike.

Content warning: mentions of death

The Jedi Mind Trick You Never Heard Of: Hollywood Inclusivity Belle Gill

Disney had triumphantly announced that they were adding more “diverse characters” to Star Wars with the addition of Rose and Paige Tico to the cast of Star Wars: the Last Jedi. The news was seen as cause for celebration. I was pumped and was ready to fall in love with their characters, played by Kelly-Marie Tran and Ngô Thanh Vân. I was even more excited to see how thrilled Kelly-Marie Tran was herself, to have her wildest geeky dreams come true like this. I expected to be happy to see more diversity in the galaxy far, far away. Then, within the first quarter of the movie, Paige died. Terribly. And suddenly. It felt like a horrible joke, to see one of the first Women of Colour in the Star Wars universe killed so carelessly and for what? Emotional impact? Now, isn’t that original. Critics heralded The Last Jedi as a triumph for women. By women, they mean white women of course. Star Wars: The Last Jedi and its parade of white women claim to be empowering. And it is, if you look past the terrible storyline given to the first Woman of Colour cast in the series, the demonization of Poe Dameron to put white women on a pedestal, and the reduction of Finn Jones to a joke, completely disregarding his character development in the previous film.

The hypocrisy does not stop at feminism, oh no. Queer people got dragged into this mess as well. After Black Panther was released, there were a barrage of articles accusing the film of not being diverse enough as there weren’t any queer characters in the movie. Because suddenly white people were concerned about “diversity”. Where was this energy during the entire 10 years the has been around? Where was this energy when scenes confirming Valkyrie’s queerness were cut from Thor: Ragnarok? Why was this only a problem when Black Panther was released? We all know the answer, of course. Clearly, Hollywood is only comfortable with inclusivity if white people are still front and center of the narrative. Because then white people don’t have to feel guilty about enjoying things. Because hey, there are some People of Colour in that one episode and the main character’s best friend is gay, so it’s all good right? Frankly, I am sick of white women leading rebellions and revolutions while Women of Colour are sidelined or completely ignored. My nerdy, queer heart wants to see Women of Colour kick names, take ass and be heralded as fictional feminist heroes too.

Star Wars: The Last Jedi perfectly encapsulates the problem with movies that Hollywood claims to be “feminist”. These movies focus on centering the stories and experiences of white women, often at the expense of people, especially Women of Colour. Another example is Jessica Jones. Marvel is very proud of its female-led, female-produced, female-written show. They can now proudly stick a “feminist” badge to their list of achievements. Never mind that the show has no notable Women of Colour, aside from the token appearance of Clair Temple in season one. The show also horribly mistreats any People of Colour characters it has – reducing them to stereotypes or collateral damage in Jessica’s journey. In Luke Cage, on the other hand, Women of Colour have agency, proper character development and just overall awesomeness. Yet, no one has ever heralded this as the “feminist show we were all waiting for”.

Laundry Detergent Woman: The Mother-Load Nour Altoukhi

Today’s edition features Anna’s story. Or Fatma’s. Or Emily’s. It is a story we might all be familiar with, but right now we need to take a peek behind the tiny round door of the washing machine. No no, no need to climb into the machine! Just a glance is fine for now.

a man was the one with Gronk yelling “NO!” at the premise of eating Tide Pods, with no actual washing of clothes taking place. She thought about how her career had just made a pit stop to do the laundry, and wondered whether this would help or hinder her in the long run.

I’ll call our main character “she”. While we might all need a little bit of Anna in our lives and a little bit of Fatma by our side; I do have a word count to adhere to. And anyway, by the end of the piece you’ll come to find that all these women are watching the very same machine cycle.

She arrived home, placed her purse and keys on the table by the couch, and tied her hair up into a ponytail to wash her face. As her head emerged from the sink, she found herself in the reflection before her.

She is an actress. She’s auditioned for several roles, reciting everything from Buffy the Vampire Slayer monologues to Lady Macbeth scenes – modernised, in a pantsuit and a smartphone. The industry is as tough as a ketchup stain on a white wedding dress, but all She can do is keep moving. To make it on television, however, She must audition for the dreaded ads. “7UP Plus with Calcium! Tastes so good you can feel it in your bones!” Cue bare-toothed smile. Cue wink. Cue a tiny star on the corner of her pearly white smile, and the accompanying ding. Next. “Try Pizza Hut’s new delicious, tasty, cheesy, tomato sauce-y, on bready, adjective, premium, from the stove…” What does premium pizza even mean? Next. “My little boy loves to have a fun time with his friends playing football. But sadly, that means he comes home from school with mud stains all over his white uniform! I didn’t know what to do, until I found Tide Pods. Tide Pods saved me. Thanks, Tide Pods!” “You’re hired!” screamed the husky voice from behind the camera. Seriously? She thinks. Third laundry ad of my career. I’m really going places, Mum. Little does She know, her mum’s involved too! She plays the role of brief maternal disappointment at her daughter not being able to wash her husband’s briefs the right way. I’ll be damned to see the day my daughter fails to properly whiten her husband’s dress shirt. How would I live with myself? Better yet, how would she? She leaves the audition room feeling both gutted and momentarily satisfied. After all, in an industry like this one, it’s something. She thought about how they never asked her male friends to do these ads, unless they were David Harbour. She thought about how the last Tide Pod ad she’d seen featuring

All they see is this. All they see is She. Only the She whose duty it is to do the laundry and care for every mistake a family member has drenched their clothes in. Is my craft even taken seriously anymore? Will I ever make it out of this cycle? (No pun intended). In the two other ads she’d done, she played the role of a newlywed girl. Very young. Very fresh to the idea of marriage. If you look at the ad through a more critical lens, you’d find that the only way to really master the “art” of marriage was to learn how to wash right. And who taught her to do so? All the women that came before her. Just women. If a man is ever cast with her, he’s usually the one sitting on the couch watching television, not giving much thought to climbing this imaginary ladder of marriage. He was apparently already seated comfortably at the top, with his beverage of choice in hand.

“So, she stood in front of the camera, adjusted her face into something that was uncharacteristically cheery and polite.” She never hated any of the guys that were cast with her. She’d actually thought his image was being tarnished as well. Was he really expected to build a steady career from sitting on the nearby couch and being a lazy slob who couldn’t seem to stop catapulting dipping sauces onto his brand new

whiter-than-heaven work shirt? It didn’t serve either of them right, but she just felt she was part of a bigger picture of influencing generations of women to follow these strict expectations. In the next ad, she played the role of a woman trying to get her family affairs in order in time for the holy month of Ramadan. Doing this one overseas, she was growing more frustrated at the fact that this pretty much became a universal thing. How can she break the indestructible glass without flooding the house, at this point? And still, on the day of the shoot, she showed up right on time for hair and makeup. Today, she would be the loving mother of a little boy who apparently rolls around in the mud for fun.

Yep, I most definitely do not feel like a better woman for making some dirty clothes clean. Maybe it was because they were only her clothes, after all. Nothing beats the internal bout of satisfaction for cleaning dear Billy’s wet bed sheets. You go Billy. And so, she sat, mug in hand, contemplating if she should ever do such an ad again. Just then the phone began to screech. “Hello is this She? You’d be perfect for this new Kitchenaid ad we have on hold! So, whaddaya say?”

They did her hair and makeup: bouncy, overdone curls, as if she’d had a stand-off with her husband’s secretary after dropping off his lunch; and lashes that could extend all the way to Baghdad. I don’t know about you, but my go-to laundry look is usually whatever’s left after gathering all “urgentlyin-need-of-cleaning” items. Basically: a random t-shirt I haven’t seen since 2007 that suddenly decided to re-emerge, as well as a pair of dingy pants. So, she stood in front of the camera, adjusted her face into something that was uncharacteristically cheery and polite, bared her widest smile, and recited her lines. The words coming out of her mouth were just a slur of memorised nonsense to her at this stage and, within the hour, they were done. She returned home once again, in her overdone makeup and hair, and sat in front of her washing machine. She pondered how odd it was that a mechanical object made out of plastic played such a huge role in how we’re presented as human beings. How did it even end up this way? Actually, she knew why: it was some post-World War explanation as per usual, but what she didn’t understand is why it was now so deeply embedded in our collective psyche. She decided to maintain the cheery disposition she presented and went to get her next load of laundry. She threw it into the machine, added detergent and fabric softener and sent it whooshing. A half hour later, she hung the wet clothes up.

“You’d find the only way to really master the “art” of marriage was to learn how to wash right” 60

Different Poetic Forms: Courtesy of Tinder

Farah Khairat A Limerick: Jake

An Ode to White Boy ™

There once was a guy from Brisbane named Jake

Oh, white boy!

Whose racism on Tinder he could not break

I see you in your Kathmandu jacket,

“Egypt! How exotic!”

Cuddling your Staffordshire Terrier.

Could he be less erotic?

“Here for a good time not a long time”

So, left, I swiped, to be greeted by Blake.

My heart longs for you, How could it not, with your pale frame?

Oh, white boy! Thank you for describing me as caramel mocha. A Haiku: Paul

You have really outdone yourself again.

Paul creeps in my dm’s

Suddenly I am blind

“Can you belly dance for me?”

To your casual racism

Rage boils on the stove.

How could I not be, with your greasy hair?

Oh, white boy! How can I achieve your level of confidence? Amid your mediocrity, you endure. An Acrostic Poem: Will

Oh, white boy,

What would you do if you walked into me naked? Asked Will

You beautiful, vanilla, tapioca pudding.

I would probably walk the fuck back out, Will. LOL you’re funny, do you want to come over? Love at first sight. Meet me in the backseat of your Rover? *Disclaimer #1: Names have been altered to maintain the anonymity of given racist fuckboys. *Disclaimer #2: This is not about all white boys, but rather, White Boy™

Imperfect Perfection Ali Noura

And envy not others, for surely does every strength have its weakness, every perfection its flaw; you need only gaze to the skies to see that. A caravan approaches in the distance, emerging like a spectre from the haze of desert sands as it enters the oasis where a town is to be found. Most among them typical wares they have; food, jewellery, secrets, themselves. Yet, entering the town, a peculiar group among them did the town’s folk spot. It is the tale of two from among these strange individuals that I have come to impart on you O, reader. The first is the Nomad, a man of no unique or grasping appearance, no stead beneath him nor goods, of the physical kind, with him save the clothes upon his back. He is a man full of tales, however, a voice so sweet, yet strong and commanding, a tongue revealing knowledge of all lands. The second is the Sentinel, a native of a far away, warring clan; he comes, however, in delicate foreign clothes, a man of immense gentleness, honesty and knowledge of the hearts of men. Where the first is boisterous, the second is quiet; where the first speaks, the second listens; where the first charges, the second reinforces. Yet, despite their stark differences, the best of friends are they, for this is a brotherhood founded on honesty, vulnerability, and comradery. Where others only see their shells, only they see each other as they truly are, with all their beauty and all their flaws. The stage is set— let me now tell you of their visit. The Sun is beloved everywhere, snatching everyone’s gaze with its orbit— powerful, magnificent, blinding. Yet, it is an unattainable beauty, one which no matter how much you gaze, it will not stay but for its appointed time. Should you gaze too long, thus, are you scorched. And yet, do they continue to stare and gawk. The presence of the Sun is never forgotten, for even during the coldest of days can its rays shine and during the cloudiest of skies can its heat still be felt. None forget the Sun. As the caravan begins to set up stalls, care for the animals, and greet the townspeople, the Nomad is already on the move; exploring the streets and meeting its citizens, telling his brother they will meet ahead, in good time. Yet, he does not stop in any one place. He paces through the town, his eyes feasting upon the beauties and mysteries of the town, and whilst walking he regales those who flock to him; stories of ancient battlefields and empires coupled with recollections of those he has met and the life he has lived. The streets he passes through are left with laughter, intrigue, bewilderment and desire. Alas, he does not stay long. He bids the townsfolk goodbye; with hugs, kisses, and tears do they in turn bid him farewell. And with that, he leaves the caravan behind and begins walking out into the desert and soon is his image in the distance. He waits not for anyone. Often, however, does his gaze shift back.

The town continues to mention him, even now. The Moon is the friend of all when darkness cloaks the heavens and when it seeps into the hearts. It is then that all turn to the countenance of the Moon, a comforting beauty within which one can feel safe, at peace, one you can confide your secrets with, trustful and at ease. Yet, no matter the solace it offers them in their times of suffering, only one thing remains on their mind; the coming of the dawn. It matters not the guardian that comes to your aid during the night; the champion of the day is all that occupies their minds. His companion, the Sentinel, however, does stay a while longer. Despite having no stall nor goods like his brother, the first thing he does without request is to assist the others in setting up their stalls. Once that is completed, he silently walks to the side of the main road and sits alone underneath the shade of tree, alternating between, what appears to be, deep contemplation and reading, some tome or other. He does not explore the town, nor visit its people; he simply sits. Now naturally, the townsfolk are confused. They initially believe he either has no wares or is simply peculiar; no one stops to speak with him. During the caravan’s stay, however, many of the great ones among his caravan, those of wealth and the mighty warriors, sit with him at length; intense and long are the conversations they hold. And naturally, this catches the attention of people; of what do they converse? What secret does this stranger hold? Thus, whilst not quite so many visit, of those that do hours do they spend conversing with him by the side of the road. However, a ‘conversation’ may be a poor word for it, for the stranger remains largely silent for the most part, allowing those who visit him to pour out their pains, secrets and dreams whilst interjecting with brief comments or questions at times. Of the few that visit the Sentinel, some happy, some in tears, they all leave him immensely relieved, with greater calmness and clarity then before. Eventually, he picks himself up and he too leaves the caravan behind, following the same path out into the desert as did the Nomad. He is still smiling. Always smiling. Had anyone bothered to inspect closely, one could have spotted those tears falling down his cheeks, almost hidden. Almost. Into the dunes does he too stride. He was barely mentioned again. They stare at the skies seeking, seeking that which can fill the voids in their hearts, that which is beautiful and good and perfect. Yet why have they not realised the obvious truth? Perfection is a lie, a false promise, that which they will never find on the Earth nor in the Heavens. Rather, they must understand that all things are flawed, deficient in one way or another. But despair they should not! For by embracing this truth will they understand that peace comes not from acquiring perfection, but rather by finally seeing the imperfection of all things, both within themselves, others and the universe which surrounds them. Then will they acknowledge the world as it is. Imperfect perfection.

Following his tracks in the sand, the Sentinel finally catches up with his brother, sitting there by a fire with a countenance of melancholy upon the Nomad’s face, a canopy of stars above them as the Sentinel draws near. “What is it that troubles you, my brother?” asks the Sentinel as he places himself beside the flames across from his companion. After moments of silence, the Nomad finally whispers, “Why does my heart betray me? Why, despite the love I give, and the exhaustion it places upon me, do I continue to endlessly pour myself out to this world? To taste, but to never savour the flavour of this world, always moving, never stopping.” At hearing these words, the Sentinel can only stare, yet, the tears building at his eyes betraying his stoic face. With a laughter both of pain and humour, the Nomad asks “O’ my brother, have I upset you? What rests heavily upon your heart?” “No, my brother” the Sentinel responds, “tis not your words that upset me but rather the thoughts they led me to, reflecting upon the town we have left.” “You describe,” he continues, “your pain at the love you give and yet, the profound absence of peace within your heart, and at this I weep. For you give love, and art loved by all, and yet, you find no solace. Likewise, I give my love and it is well received, bearing the pain of those who come to me and leaving them with serenity, and yet they leave me, forget me. We are lovers of all, yet at times we perceive as though there is no love within our hearts.” The Nomad appears calmed by his brother’s words, and he responds “do not fear my brother, there will come a day when others will come to value the rarity of your kindness, as I have come to. However, do not let what the many fail to grasp make you forget the love you have from some!” he shouts as he emphatically claps his brother on the shoulder, both of them chuckling. “As for me,” the Nomad continues, “it appears my path lies in overcoming this quickness to love. For surely as you describe, this love can be to our own determinant, when we see to give our love and continuously seek the company of others, we forget to appreciate ourselves.” “And to be at peace with our own solitude,” the Sentinel adds. Hours have passed and the flames begin to die. As they ready for sleep, the Nomad bellows, “What lies ahead for us brother? What are we to do with ourselves?” Laughing, he continues, “I tell you, these conversations, whilst stimulating as always, can be quite exhausting!” at last, lying himself down beside what remains of the fire, now only embers. With a soft, cheeky grin on his face, the Sentinel stares up at the stars and calmly replies, “I think we will be alright in the end. As we both know well by now, we are own worst enemies, where the purest of human motivations, love, can work against us. We are all different, with our own struggles ahead, whether that’s battling to understand ourselves or moving past trying to win over others.” Finally looking down to face the Nomad, the Sentinel says, “You were quite right my brother, we do not need everyone’s love. I need no army, but with those special few, one can conquer the world.”

Disclaimer: I am a second-generation refugee of Lebanese descent. This creative fiction piece does not intend to self-orientalise my heritage, but rather, is an abstract work that draws inspiration from a fictionalised setting, stemming from discussion with friends around themes of love, challenges, identity, and more.

ancient tales, bedtime stories Vanessa Lee

I dipped my fingers in ink today, and drew a love letter to myself; calling fragments, memories of my mother and father whispering grand tales to me, as the skies blushed a tender pink - until nightfall when I was a little girl. mother, father - tell me the story of the emperor again, who believed in eternal life and drank mercury in generous amounts; a gift from God, he said. does he live forever? or, perhaps - the tale of the monkey journeying west, protecting a monk, against a myriad of malignant creatures â&#x20AC;&#x201C; do they live to preach their tale?

thank you, mother and father, for breathing life in between the pages and decades of beginnings and endings, where people like you and me, black hair and brown eyed, breathe and bleed, wait and want, fight to simply be and instead, inexplicably, live. we are a people with ancient tales beating, thriving within us, with black ink bleeding onto paper, we can be anything we want to be. young and old, gather around. we have a story to tell.

or, the ballad of the girl with flower in her name, taking her fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s place in battles no woman was permitted. does she have a happy ending amid the dried blood and dust?

lost on earth Vanessa Lee

the earth swallowed your bones, before I could greet you hello. dust gathers on frail, unspoken words; English words you never knew. you are eighty years of stories I will never hear. I cradle only fragments, pieced together, passed from one mouth to another. I went to a place on earth where people speak in tongues, I once knew when I was four, five and six years old the time before I scrubbed at my yellow skin, before the shame settled in, bonedeep, casting thorns between my every rib -

callouses lining your fingers, your skinned, healing palms, the battles your hands have fought for the humble village life. you gave and breathed life into them, into me.

I breathe onto the words I ache to say to your sons, your daughters, my aunts and uncles now weary with age in the language I knew. I breathe and breathe, and the dust stirs gently, and underneath I see it and I weep for not the shame I feel but I am reclaiming myself, the first word, our shared name â&#x20AC;&#x201C; I am reclaiming ć?&#x17D;.

the time before I could still string melodies in our language; the language I learnt from the moment my first cry unfurled itself in a hospital room where doctors spoke in tongues you never knew. you are eighty years of stories, pieced together by my father, his sisters, his brothers.

they write a thousand more from the

grandmother

Move to Melbourne

Even when your home fell, you tucked away the shards, the dust, the embers, the crumbling pile of rock and cradled it dearly to your bosom, and hid them in your rib cage, carrying, grieving, country to country.

I arrived when it was chilly, putting my summer years to rest Sunsets at six, monstrous spiders, sunscreen at sixteen degrees C

Vanessa Lee

you were fifteen, promised to a man who had lived decades more in a foreign land. and we were lucky, weren’t we? we were lucky. you made a home from the rubble, set it alight and brought into this world my father, his sisters, his brothers. I can spin tales about you - the thunderstorms that must have rolled deep within the cavity of your chest, with birds trapped in your lungs, beating their wings, begging for escape.

Rachel Toh

Konichiwa, I heard someone say, Annyeonghaseyo. Again. which East Asian dayareckon? Asian Veg in supermarkets, as though it’s too much effort to label them I’ve also been told at Her Majesty’s TheatreYour English is really good a minute after I said that I’m from Singapore.

but you were not a woman of ancient myths and folk tales only a girl, one of many, carved from flesh, blood singing with grief at fifteen. grandmother, tell me what it’s like to live, tell me what it’s like to burn, living the way you did, growing flowers and spinning vines around the cobwebs and dust that gathered from your youth with every breath you took, breathing life into you and me.

Surface

Double bind

Let others wax mauve about dandelions and baby’s breath bracing cool breezes that brush off stagnancy and regret: these winsome odes to blades of grass dewy mists and sheaves of corn

I took it off months ago a hand now stripped bare a tongue worrying a toothless gap the loss niggled a psychic reminder of binds unknotted frayed by frayed tendrils ‘til what was left was exposed skin. a worm drying in the sun the pale band of absence now tanned over you can’t tell what once was there; this promise that heartsore those twinned head rest. Flip the hand over see the lifelines finely etched the collision of movement streaks of serendipity that await a future reckoning that portend a damning of past (im)perfect.

Thuy On

Let others decry the cut and thrust of a world riven by wants and needs split by colour codes fly-flecked in drying blood Faustian-pact for coin and power My words care not for such beauty and affronts; they’d rather burrow deep in this interior landscape excavate the findings: gem or stone and surface to the air to breathe and contemplate.

Thuy On

Content warning: depictions of violence

Mosaic Thuy On In this taxonomy of laddered pain eyes need to be drawn to the jam jar that holds a tulip, a firebird bathing in ashes, splinters of glass, crystallised into prisms Grant me a tabula rasa: no echoes no hums a soundtrack of white noise breaths in and out in and out – a hushing of the mind Please: a gilt-edged clarity to look ahead and mosaic the rearview mirror.

纹 (tattoo) Deyuan Loo

cut into my leg, the glass & a half of pain sitting on the skin over the adrenaline rush of raw like offal, a scenic sight as yet in embryo – swollen purple with greed & the whorls of brute force, curling – into this heart? into an obstacle course red & blue, a siren with its bloom gleaming off the metal, we file the needles down, contain & bend to the gravel, a rhythm just the same of pain, barely endured

Patient Ocean of the Heart Hiếu Phùng In this foreign land I roam in search for a sense, of wholeness. Piecing together fragments of a past self. Broken yet in the process of healing. A new realm of understanding and self-reflection. Spending more time finding stories of searching I find a common thread. With all the love and gratitude that is found, I begin to notice a sense of inner peace and tranquility that emerges. Overtime the self-loathing begins to melt away …slowly… Drop by drop it falls into an abyss of the past.

The sea is an idea that I have imagined. Looking at the heart of my imagination within the present moment I envision a wide open ocean. Except now the ocean is no longer dripping with hate but it’s capacity is instead filled with loving kindness, compassion, joy and equanimity. Looking out from the edge of the ocean it’s capacity becomes boundless and immeasurable. Just a handful of salt can no longer make such a great ocean salty. With each step I take I realise … that after all these years I have arrived. I am home. In the patient ocean of the heart.

Collecting into a sea of hate which I begin to walk further and further away from. With each step I take away, I have the opportunity to stare back. With each step, I can see more and more of the sea in its entirety. Its jagged shores and rough edges where the waves continue to crash. A heavy cloud of mist hangs above. In reality however I come to understand that no matter how far I run away, the sea will continue to exist. That by simply running away forever eventually I will only become lost. With each step, the mist becomes thinner. Looking down I see myself for who I truly am. Even as I quickly jerk my head away in disgust at the sight of my own body I realise. That these two feet and this body have carried me so far. With each step I realise… that when I find myself drowning in self-hate I need to remind myself that I wasn’t born feeling this way.

The rough sea and it’s turbulence are a construction built upon my past and future fears and anxieties.

Inspired by Thích Nhất Hạnh

The Lost Worlds Dani Madanayake Ignorance is bliss — well yes, it was. You were someone who didn’t know about the ways of the world at all. You sat at home in your own little world and didn’t let anything but the sun and the rain touch your thoughts. At least, when you could help it. You would write all day and dream all night and eat when food was given to you. You could be safe, even when you took your helmet off. That world is just another one of your lost worlds. Thinking about it now, you realise that there are places that you’ve lost that never even cross your mind. And that is dangerous. I have travelled through many worlds. Almost all of them existed on the same intricate marble, and each one had something new and exciting to offer. I’ve seen the dark balconies and the opal caves under the waterfall; I’ve met the travellers escaping the bloodshed and the fighters with a cause. There were dolls and notebooks and safety pins and stories. So many stories. The forests held the key, and the fires led the way. And what did all the worlds have in common? Only the fact that I lost every one. When you lose a world, it shifts away from the front and centre. Sometimes you walk out, but often you are dragged away kicking and screaming. The secrets are spiked into your chest and stay lodged there until you pull them out yourself and look at them in the light. Cry over them, if you want to. The broken branches will never again be part of a tree. And now? Now, we are all in the new world. It is colder than the one before. Where once there were bridges you keep finding walls, and every charmer wears chain mail armour. Maybe you should find some too. Or perhaps not. With every attack your soft skin will grow harder. Eventually you will find that nothing can touch your thoughts at all. Is that where you would like to be? Be wary of losing worlds. Accept that they will go beyond your reach, but remember them when they are gone. They were a part of you, once. Perhaps it is colder in the new world, but you will learn to find the warmth in your own blood. You will use your newfound sight and pick apart all the thorns that brush against you. I hope you’ll be ready for the battles ahead, but sometimes it’s better when you’re not. Fight on your feet. Take the lessons and stuff them into your pockets. By the end of the path, you will brush off your torn clothes and throw down your medals. Look around; maybe you aren’t alone here. Don’t be afraid to let them see the splinters from your broken secrets. Because even in the silence, you will learn how to win. Ignorance was bliss. But what you will gain in the new world will be better.

Lightning in a Bottle Tharidi Walimunige

Fingers placed against the glass, she breathes in. Surly winds threaten the hood of her suit but the fluttering fabric doesn’t yield. She pauses to gaze upon the sight captured within the reflective surface. A young girl, costumed and full of boundless potential, stares back at her. Spandex hugs the strength in her lithe frame and hails the world to witness her power. And yet, the unblemished gentleness that befriends her youth is far from hidden. They call her Electrica. Origins unknown, some say she emerged from the shadows a figure of divine intervention. Regardless of the mystery sown into the folds of her costumed identity, for three months she has pronounced the city her domain and struck her lightning bolts against its vermin. Now, the girl releases a hand and foot each from the steel-framed glass windows, severing her intangible, magnetic connection with the tower’s circuit of electrical pulses. She pivots so that the industrial behemoth encases her back, then prepares for free-fall. From this death-defying vantage point, the ants below that require her protection appear innumerable. The responsibility that has befallen her should be daunting, but awed naivety paints her an eager hero. She bows forward, entrusting her weight to the tips of her digits, and is suspended perpendicular to the structure. Criminal activity may still feign sleep, but the live wires that are her veins propel her into action. With one last deep inhale, she plunges.

Small clusters of people had started milling around the two and pedestrians were trying to subtly slow their pace to overhear. Even the two banshees were watching. Apparently this was entertaining enough for them to settle their differences. But for all the eyes fixed on her, she only noticed one thing. The man gestured all around himself as he spoke, but he kept glancing back at her left shoulder. She followed his gaze like an ignorant victim in a horror movie follows the creepy noise.

She’d had enough. Familiar sparks boiled her blood as she called her power to pool at her fingertips. Controlling the electricity so that it would inflict non-lethal damage, she rushed forward and zapped the man to unconsciousness. Before, his head had even grazed asphalt, she ran to the nearest powerline and attracted its current, unleashing it from its rubber confines and inviting it to consume her. Travelling through the power grid as an electrical pulse didn’t allow her to think much, which was a small mercy.

The acrid stench of garbage and burnt carbon guided her through the streets as she kept a watchful eye on the city’s inhabitants. She had only just broken up a tussle between two women – banshees, really - threatening to tear out each other’s extensions, when she caught sight of a man stumbling precariously near to oncoming traffic. Darting to his side, she called out to alert him and hoped that despite smelling like he’d taken a sponge bath in beer, he’d be lucid enough to heed her advice.

Brown skin. She yanked the ruffled spandex back over her peeking collarbone. She didn’t bother wondering which of the night’s altercations had resulted in her costume malfunction. An aborted look around told her that at least four phones were recording and now she was panicking. And the man was still talking! “- back to where ya came from!”

She didn’t want to imagine criminals getting that much closer to unmasking her.

“Excuse me, do you want me to call you an Uber? It’s dangerous for you to be walking home drunk.”

She didn’t want to imagine those bystanders looking at her with disgust, just like that man.

The man tilted his head towards her but couldn’t hold her gaze. His intoxicated focus flitted around her blue and white figure before settling at her left shoulder. Observing the man’s struggle, she doubted he’d be any more responsive, but his caustic words had no problem making their mark.

Or with fear, for how she’d lashed out.

“Uber? What the fuck are you…oh…fucking hell, the little hero’s a Paki!” Her next inhale shook then seized and she glanced down at her chest to be certain he hadn’t physically struck her. Of course, there wasn’t a single tear in her uniform but the confirmation did nothing to soothe her. It felt like he’d yanked the string woven into her bones taut and flooded the caverns of her ears. She wasn’t in any condition to stop him from continuing. “Nah don’t need an Uber, do we? Just call yer dad or uncle or hell, one of your thousand cousins and tell ‘em to bring their taxi, yeah? Christ, how many of yer folks did you fit on the boat? The whole lot? Fucking infestation...”

Skin.

Most of all, she didn’t want to imagine her mother’s disappointment. That drunkard had degraded her and she hadn’t uttered a single word back. So much for being a fearless hero. * “The last known sighting of Electrica was on the seventeenth of May. As many are aware, a video was posted on social media that same day, showing a man making racist remarks against the young hero. That man has now been identified as – “ Harshini’s phone was snatched and the video exited before she could bother to grunt. Her cousin, Nilmini, didn’t even try to look repentant and simply handed over a container of kothu rotti.

“Here, leftovers. Also, Chaturi Auntie said you should take some Panadol after you eat.” “I’m not sick.” “Yeah, well you know what our families are like. Panadol’s the answer for everything. That and tea.” Harshini stripped the layers of her wool cocoon and sat up in bed. She started shovelling the comfort food into her mouth, knowing she’d need the energy for the ensuing conversation. “Why do keep doing this?”

me and you. And what it would mean for them to see me out there.” “Keep going.” “And I don’t know if I’m ready, Nilmini. I don’t know. Maybe what I’m saying doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I’ll get out there I won’t be able to do it. I’ll keep remembering what he said. I don’t know if I could do it for myself. I don’t know if I’m strong enough. But for people like us, Nilmini. I could do it for them.” Nilmini looked at her cousin. God, did she pity the fool who underestimated her. “Well, what are you wallowing in bed for? You’ve got shit to do.”

“What, watch the news?” “You’re only making yourself feel worse.” “Shouldn’t I know about the state of the world?” “Don’t bullshit me. You only ever watch the parts about Electrica.” Harshini couldn’t retort that, so she very maturely burrowed back into her blanket nest. Nilmini, after having relocated the food container off the crowded bed, lay down next to the mulish girl. “Do you think I’m overreacting?” “Yes. Me calling you out doesn’t warrant the nest.” “No! I meant about not going out as Electrica anymore.” “You’re not overreacting, Harshini. Of course not.” Despite the turmoil souring Harshini’s face, Nilmini was excited. She’d been waiting for this conversation for five weeks. Ever since the incident, her cousin had shoved her hero suit in the closet to never look at again, and she’d been all the more miserable for it. “I don’t know if I’m ready to go back out there.” “But you still wanna be Electrica?” There was something blossoming in Harshini’s eyes. Little buds that brightened her brown, almost-black irises. They unfurled steadily, revealing themselves to be the flowers of determination and hope that had withered once exposed to the frost of hatred. “I’m the only one in the world with powers like these. I have the ability to save so many lives, Nilmini. It’s not right that I lie in bed every day without doing what I can to help! And yeah, I’m scared. Of that man. Of people like him. Of how everyone will treat me and if it’s gonna change now. But then, I think of others like me and you. That look like

Martyr

Greenwich

it’s april and i’m waiting for something to happen / when dawn breaks i still think of you / static on the radio means an angel is listening in / here is the space between a mouth and a moan / you hurt me during sex no matter how gentle you are / you have better music taste than him, thank god / i always feel like i’m this close to bleeding, and i never am / my mother always peeled my oranges for me / turn the lights off, so i know / we were teeth and tongue and traces of lovers past / i hate how violent it made us / red bean soup on the table, green mango, stale coconut tarts / if i’m not mistaken, you’re everything he wasn’t and yet, you’re both exactly the same / i didn’t deserve the way you hurt me / you’re beautiful like my father, quiet like him too / i like the way you keep your hand on my hair when we kiss / how dare you assume this was ever about you / i think about the curve of your ear, and everything just collapses / silent like him too / bandage the wound and continue / of course i still ache / you say ‘hello’ differently to every other person i’ve ever met and it’s my favorite thing about you / i’m a haunted image of a girl, dress and skin and thick, fresh blood / something terrifying to hold, something too holy / nobody sees this but you / all i ask is that you blow out the candles / i wouldn’t say i’m reckless but i cross without looking when i’m short of time / like a church hymn, like a static hum, like the silence between us when the music stopped playing / i make a religion out of the lump in my throat / i’m kneeling at the altar / i’m buying cough syrup at midnight / i’m standing next to you in a dream

The smell of mosquito repellent won’t ever go away. Three times I’ve tried to sleep

Amanda Tan

and i have always / been looking for you / i have always / been looking / for you.

Amanda Tan

but I have my father’s nightmares. Broken language, marble salad, I vowed never to go to Paris again. My father is a noble sufferer. Quiet violence and fifty-two years, I don’t forget the cold rice or the nosebleeds it took for you to read this; I hope you understand that I love you, and I’m thankful. (You’re bad at reading poetry, so I needed to make it clear.) Under the sun, I am almost human. Almost something dazzling closer to my mother. I will always dream my father’s dreams. I will always make good weather.

SWEET CHRISTMAS! Luke’s back! MARVEL’S LUKE CAGE SEASON 2

Theresa Gunarso

Following the second season of Jessica Jones is the second season of the bulletproof guardian of Harlem, Luke Cage. Led by Mike Colter, the season dropped on 22 June 2018. Admittedly, I am a bit on the fence with Luke Cage’s first season. While I loved the first half, the second half weighed the season down for me. The season adopted the same principle from the second season of its sister series, Daredevil, where the 13-episode season is split into two parts that focuses on two different storylines, while also carrying over aspects from the previous part, but mostly as subplots. On paper, it is a good idea and a lot of series – especially ones with longer seasons – do use this method. However, when the first half is excellent, and the second half is just okay, the season just seems disjointed. This is what happens with Luke Cage season one and Daredevil season two. In the first season, Luke faced two villains, Cornell ‘Cottonmouth’ Stokes (Mahershala Ali) and Willis ‘Diamondback’ Stryker (Erik LaRay Harvey). The two of these characters had different tones; while Cottonmouth was serious with the occasional theatrical touch, Diamondback is exaggerated throughout, going so far as to cite the Bible in random conversations. Diamondback’s over-the-top nature clearly offset the more serious first half of the season. Although, credit when credit is due, I thought both villains had compelling backstories, but it was hard for me to take Diamondback seriously with the tone they had already set with Cottonmouth. He felt far too goofy to take seriously. I feel that instead of making two contrasting villains, the series should work on finding balance of seriousness and ham within both villains. With that said, I think the second season managed to address all my qualms with the first season – from the tone, to the characters, and the pace.

The story drags slightly in the first couple of episodes and while it does not feel like it picks up anywhere in the season, it keeps a consistent pace throughout. At the end, I realized that the story is a slow burn, reminiscent of the first season of Daredevil. And just like Daredevil, the pay off at the end makes up for the slow season and the cliffhanger will certainly lead to an interesting storyline for season three. Like I ranted earlier, the first and main issue of the first season is the villains. Instead of having two different villains that take over each other’s role halfway through the second season, this season followed two villains from the get-go – Mariah ‘Black Mariah’ Dillard (Alfre Woodward) and John ‘Bushmaster’ McIver (Mustafa Shakir). The two share the role of complicating Luke’s life, but there is a catch! Much of the season revolves around Bushmaster’s revenge towards Mariah which puts Luke in an awkward position. He is caught in the middle of this feud, like a kid trying to break apart a backyard fight only to get roped into it along the way. It is great to see a comic book adaptation that does not revolve around the tropes of ‘the chosen one’ or ‘this protagonist created this villain because of their hubris’. By having Luke forced into a mess he has no business to be in, apart from the fact that Bushmaster and Mariah are hurting people, the show creates a far more interesting dynamic. However, by proxy, that means Luke often gets the end of the short stick. Luke sometimes feels disjointed from the story since he is mostly playing catch up to either Bushmaster or Mariah. Thankfully, the writers slowly found a way to better weave Luke into the story. The two villains each have their own appeal . Bushmaster is designed to be Luke’s counterpart because of his enhanced durability that he gains from the mysterious plant called Nightshade.

Bushmaster is not inherently evil, he is just seeking vengeance for being wronged. In some versions of the story, he could even be the hero. He is portrayed as sympathetic, especially when the viewers start getting glimpses of his past. Meanwhile, Mariah Dillard is portrayed irredeemably. While in the previous season she might have a more sympathetic side to her, this season cements her cruelty. I watched the season with my sister and she kept saying how much she hated Mariah and not even as a villain that she loves to hate, like say, Kilgrave from Jessica Jones. For me, that makes Mariah’s role more formidable in the season. As a villain, she is effective in that you just despise her and you actively root for Luke (or Bushmaster for that matter) to take her down. At the end of the day, I appreciate the showrunners for having the guts to make Mariah so despicable – it contrasts with Bushmaster’s sympathetic story. I also loved how the series reveals her and her family’s importance in Harlem, making them just as ingrained in the neighborhood as Luke is.

it when any piece of media incorporates different cultural backgrounds to its story. I am a firm believer that if you are trying to adapt something from a particular culture, it has to be important to the story – it should not be a gimmick. That is exactly what is being done Luke Cage and, to me it makes the series more special than the rest of the Netflix-MCU’s pantheon. Overall, the showrunner and the writers of the series definitely listened to the criticisms of the previous season and sought to improve upon it– and they delivered! It is a fantastic 13 hours that you will definitely find it flying by so fast. Fingers crossed to having a great third season!

Rating: 4/5 stars.

In addition, the series also manages to focus on and juggle all the characters, giving them each memorable roles. Misty Knight (Simone Missick), Luke’s cop friend, is given an interesting arc that deals with her trying to live a normal life after losing her right arm. It plays with the idea of ‘being different’, but not in the sense where she has superpowers, but in a more grounded sense of trying to cope with losing a part of herself and dealing and overcoming her disability. I think her journey is one of the most compelling aspects of the season. Shades (Theo Rossi) is given development, so he is no longer the sidekick to the villain anymore. Mariah’s daughter, Tilda Johnson (Gabrielle Dennis), a newcomer to the series, is also given an interesting arc. The mother-daughter dynamic is very interesting, and it provides a much-needed development for Mariah. But, as always, one of the most commendable things about the show is the landscape of New York that they utilized. With the second season they also added a new turf – the Jamaican neighbourhood – on top of the Harlem landscape. I like

Content warning: mentions of violence against women, discussion of sex scenes in film

The Handmaiden:

A Gothic Tale of Love and Venegance Yaameen Al-Muttaqi

Capitalism might be an absolute nightmare, but it did gift us Netflix. And while Netflix might screw up occasionally (*cough*ThirteenReasonsWhy*cough*), it does also do things right sometimes. Keeping Park Chan-wook’s The Handmaiden in their repository for example, is just one of those things. And no, this is not a review of The Handmaid’s Tale – that is a completely different piece of work. For one, that is a series, and this is a movie, and secondly, that is in English and this is Korean. This is also, in my exceedingly humble opinion, much, much more fun to watch, and, generally, better. The Handmaiden is inspired by the 2002 novel, Fingersmith by Welsh author Sarah Waters. Set in Japan-occupied Korea, the movie follows Sook-hee (Kim Tae-ri) as she is hired by a conman going by the guise of Count Fujiwara (Ha Jung-woo) to act as the handmaiden to the Japanese heiress, Lady Hideko (Kim Min-hee), and persuade her to marry him so he can steal her inheritance. Things get complicated when Sook-hee falls in love with Hideko’s naiveite and beauty, and Hideko finds herself reciprocating Sook-hee’s feelings. What then started off as a straightforward con-theconman game, ends up taking unexpected twists and turns, culminating in a movie as entertaining as it is beautiful, and poignant.

The movie is lengthy, at nearly two and a half hours, and is split into three distinct parts. It helps viewers that the end of each part is a very good place to pause, should the film prove too intense to finish in a single watch. The gothic Korean-Japanese cinematography of the movie also adds to the intensity of the piece. From the architecture, to the colour palette of the movie, everything is draped in this Asian-gothic aesthetic, giving the landscape a haunting beauty, all the while creating an atmosphere where the audience can truly feel the oppressive forces which the main characters feel. The end result is a masterfully crafted piece of art which captures all your senses as it takes you on a journey with the two main characters. The Handmaiden is not the multi-episodic dystopian horror spectacle of The Handmaid’s Tale, but it is an incredible film in its own right. Tastefully dark, poignant, erotic, and hauntingly, beautifully gothic, the movie is, in my opinion, a true epic dedicated to the importance of the relationships between women. While at times a bit jarring, the movie never fails to keep you at the edge of your seat and will leave you breathless and full of awe at the end. Rating: 5/5 stars.

The first thing to note is, this movie is probably best not watched with family around, especially young children. The movie is classed an erotic thriller for a reason, and the sex scenes, though few and far between, are explicit, passionate, and not at all rushed. They are vividly intimate and captured beautifully, thus successfully managing to stay true to the intimacy between lovers. This intimacy is shown in other scenes too, and indeed, is prevalent in almost every scene of the film, so much so that the sex scenes could be argued to be the least intimate of the romantic scenes in the movie. Secondly, in my opinion, this movie is very much about the violence and oppression women face from society, and, in particular, from men. Both leads seem to be under the power of men who wish to exploit them: Sook-hee under Count Fujiwara, and Hideko under her authoritarian uncle; and the story perfectly captures how the relationship between them is a safety net from the choking grasp of the men in both their lives. While none of the violence depicted is particularly gruesome, the overbearing control that men have on these women’s lives is a theme that runs deep in the story and the filmmaking itself. In that respect, Park Chan-wook has masterfully navigated the boundary of keeping the violence subtle but present, while avoiding graphic violence for its own sake. Indeed, the scene which Park Chan-wook deems to be the most violent in the movie is probably fairly tame on paper, but upon watching it, one cannot help but shudder.

Conent Warning: graphic imagery This workâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s source material comes from stills of the viral video of a physical retaliation to hurled racial insults. As a response to unwaged black hypervisibility, a percentage of the sale value was paid to Aleeyah (depicted in the blue shirt).

100

101

Gringa

Haley Mirit

My dad spoke on the phone with my tía while driving. When he dropped me off his Cuban accent tumbled back into English. “Have fun,” he said, kissing me on the forehead. I joined my friends in the pool. We splashed and giggled, blew bubbles under the water and talked about starting 7th grade. One friend looked around and said, “We’re all Cuban, it’s like a club!” Another looked at me and said, “Except for the gringa.”

Identity Haley Mirit

I told the mechanic that I’m moving to Australia. He looked me up and down and said I’d fit in. I asked him why and he said I’m white, I’ll look like everyone else. I went home and told my dad that no one ever thinks I’m Hispanic. Without glancing up, he said you’re not.

I sunk under the surface as everyone switched to Spanish, leaving me out of the conversation. We lay all day outside, eating watermelon and sipping soda out of red plastic cups as the summer sun freckled my skin and turned theirs a deeper brown.

102

103

Value

Haley Mirit When we go to Wal-Mart in Miami my mom yells at the cashiers who don’t know a single lick of English and tells their managers that they have no business working in America if they can’t speak English. On the drive home, My mother complains that “Hispanics can’t drive” and furrows her brow in the stopand-go traffic. We get home and my father is on the phone with a client, speaking effortlessly in his native tongue. He covers the microphone and switches to English. He says Hello, how was your day? My mother smiles, responds, and kisses him on the cheek before going to the kitchen to cook tacos for dinner.

104

105

To: my sister Ayaan Qani

my child who taught you that the crown of small intricate curls that rest atop your bronze face must be tamed by perms and straighteners? my child who taught you that the tongue that travelled long and wide across land and ocean must remain sealed behind your teeth? my child who taught you that the home that belongs to your mother where the sun is warm and the air is cool must never be returned to?

my child learn to see that this foreign land could never bear the light that is within you.

my child who taught you that cutting your roots will make you blossom yet you remain withered and alone? my child who taught you that your face, your hair, your skin that you see in the mirror everyday must be fixed and fixed and fixed?

106

107

Artist Statements Reem Faiq Artworks: cover and page 12, 76, 77, 82, 83, 94 & 95.

Renee Chamoun Artwork: page 38, 39, 52 and 53.

Untitled 1A (2012). Pencil on paper. 15 x 25 cm.

Untitled 2, Untitled 4 (2018). Acrylic and oil paint on canvas. 40 x 30 cm

Cover (Untitled 1), Untitled 2, Untitled 3, Untitled 4, Untitled 5, Untitled 6 and Untitled 7 (2018). Found imagery, digital collage, digital photographs. Dimensions variable.

Untitled 7 (2018). Acrylic and oil paint on canvas. 30 x 40 cm.

Artist statement Memories vivid, static, faint, recently discovered, previously suppressed and the never-ending possibility of fabrication frequent the reconstructed spaces in my art practice.

Untitled 8 (2018). Acrylic and oil paint on canvas. 60 x 60 cm.

Their geographic precision, perfume and psyche are stifled by hazed screens of faded recollections and the guilt surrounding that fading.

Beatrice Gabriel Artwork: page 28 & 29. Baybayin (2018). White ink, wet media acetate sheets, fishing line. 300cm x 100cm x 230 cm. Artist Statement My work explores the idea of “inbetweeness”, of what it means to be caught within two spaces at once, whether that be historically, culturally, or even temporally. Often playing with spatial relationships in order to embody this, my installations are multilayered, challenging the routine of passive navigation through the artwork, and intentionally reflective of a cacophonic but delicate human existence. This particular work was a re-visitation of a culture that had until recently been lost for me. Baybayin script is an indigenous Indic script of the Philippines, and the act of learning how to write in this was both a recount, and a reclamation of history and culture. In an age of learning to understand and create our own concept of identity, this journey of reconciling the many parts of ourselves for those of us who may find ourselves in this space of the “inbetween”, is something that I hope can open up a new space of being; to challenge our perceptions and understanding, of ourselves and the world around us.

108

Artist statement I have created a series of paintings depicting dogs I have seen at a local dog park, following conversations I have had with their owners. I became fascinated with how pets were spoken about by those owners, as if they were close friends or relatives. I became increasingly intrigued by how we as human beings have the ability to pick and choose dogs and other pets as if they’re objects of desire and collections, to suit our differing lifestyles. My quickly painted works and scumbling brush strokes reflect the energetic nature of the majority of dogs that I have seen, including my own, as well as the swift nature of trends that occur within the dog-owner/ lover community. The nature of commodifying dogs is fascinating to me and I hope to continue this investigation into the relationship between dogs and the business worth billions which is trying to sell them to us.

John Lim Artwork on page 42. Selves Digital drawing, apple pen drawing on an iPad using Procreate. N/A. Artist Statement My work explores notions of self-obsession and the link this has to how “Eastern” cultures are viewed by white people and in white spaces. I aim to explore both the notions to exemplify how the “Eastern” community by white people and in white spaces are not romanticised, obsessed over, accepted or appreciated enough.

109

Adam Cunningham Artworks on page 64, 65 & 105.

Hamishi Farah Artwork on page 101.

Male Study (2017) Oil on canvas 75 x 110 cm

Aleeyah or Reparation for Hypervisibility (2016). Acrylic on linen. 72.45 x 48 in / 184 x 122 cm. Image courtesy of the artist, Chateau Shatto & Arcadia Missa

Giacomo (2018) Oil on canvas 75 x 100 cm Artist statement My work primarily focuses on recreating the physical forms of those that are closest to me. I have always been fascinated by the beauty of the human form so it was a natural progression that this became the main subject matter of my paintings and illustrations. I primarily paint portraits, viewing my subject’s face as a familiar landscape, the slopes of the nose subtle arches of the brow line and the flowing stream of hair that frames my subject. Beauty lies in every human face, this is what I endeavour to find.

Amanda Björkdahl Artwork on page 86.

Artist statement: Born in 1991, Hamishi Farah is a Somali artist living and working in Melbourne, Australia. Hamishi is retired from Australian art. States have edges, like words. Infants begin to see by noticing the edge of things. How do they know an edge is an edge? By passionately wanting it not to be. When not examining contemporary white lack through the edgelessnesses of Niggadom, Hamishi paints. Hamishi is represented by Arcadia Missa in London and Chateau Shatto in Los Angeles, Hamishi is also a recording member of family rap ensemble, Fanau Spa. Selected exhibitions include Noise! Frans Hals, Otherwise, Frans Hals Museum, Haarlem, The Netherlands; GWTW, Martos Gallery, New York (both 2018); White ppl think im radical (with Aria Dean), Arcadia Missa, London, UK; New Black Portraitures, Rhizome.org (online); At this stage, Château Shatto, Los Angeles (all 2017); Hamishi (retirement), Gertrude Contemporary, Melbourne (solo); Missed Connections, Julia Stoschek Collection, Düsseldorf; Painting. More Painting, Australian Centre for Contemporary Art, Melbourne (all 2016).

Untitled (2018). Ink and colour pencils on paper. 16 x 25 cm. Artist statement I enjoy drawing and painting as a means of expressing my emotions and to reflect upon what I am going through in life. I have an interest in affirming and understanding my experience as a human being. Most of the work I make is therefore spontaneous and I often don’t have a full understanding of what it means until long after it’s been made. The fuller meaning is revealed to me with time, as I get a better understanding of the past. While my intention is self-expression, I also hope to create work that the viewer can identify with.

110

111

Myriad Magazine was made in Naarm (the city of Melbourne), situated at the heart of Wurundjeri land. A key member of the Kulin Nation, we pay our respects to the Wurundjeri elders, both past and present, and acknowledge that the land we are on was never ceded. 112