DAMSEL 2016
CW: VICTIM BLAMING, RACISM, FATPHOBIA
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DAMSEL SCOUTS 2016
LAURA MWIRAGUA Damsel role: 2016 Women’s Officer Fresher Laura stumbled into Damsel Magazine, most probably at the mumma hen wrangling of Bec Doyle and/or Emma Boogaerdt, my stellar predecessors. Sitting in a Guild Council Meeting Room full of groovy wom*n, I thought “heck I’ve made it, this is a cool feminist university thing, we are in the big leagues now!” Emboldened by the open discussion of things that made our high school friends squirm, Meg Lee and I passionately set out to display the enduring stigma around menstrual products. The Thursday morning before the submission deadline, we took to the morning rush hour CBD streets to find subjects for our ~original hard hitting investigative photo journalism~. Plastering a pad to a Northbridge corner beside stickers for skate shops and art shows, I couldn’t have foreseen I’d get to be a part of the Damsel editing team two years later. Cheers pals, it’s been wild. PAULINE ONTIVEROS Damsel role: Late-night (when you need my love) editor My experience as a Damsel editor involved intensely procrastinating all day and then editing written submissions at 1 am in the morning with a glass of rosé and leftover pizza, while the rest of the hard-working Damsel Editing team caught up on some much needed snooze. As a young girl, I
Upper Row: Rae Twiss, Hannah Matthews Lower Row: Kate Prendergast, Laura Mwiragua, Pauline Ontiveros, Catherina Pagani
was always found amidst reading a book or writing one. This childhood hobby led me to create a blog when I was sixteen and became a platform where I regularly uploaded content and my written work. I never thought that it’d lead me to my editorial debut in UWA publication for this year’s edition of Damsel. This year, I am able to graduate with a Bachelor’s of Science in Psychology in one hand, and a magazine I’m so incredibly ecstatic to have been a part of, in the other. Thank you to the Damsel Editing Team for giving me a reason to get out of bed every Monday morning for our meetings. It’s been real. Much love. KATE PRENDERGAST Damsel role: Miscreant Photoshopper Being one of the Damsel scouts this year has been a helluva lot of fun, and made me prouder than if I had socked Punch in a Judy show. More certain am I now than ever that women are a powerful bunch, with beauteous flex. We are more than capable of killing it. Hey reader – don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise. CATHERINA PAGANI Damsel role: Politically-Passionate Stereotype Part of my 2016 was relaxed and filled predominantly with sharehouse discussions re: how to make our home look as gloriously cute as possible on limited budgets. After a period of adventures to the tip in search of prime gems, rewarded 3
with the best old fashioneds our very questionable abilities could deliver, the sharehouse became a welcoming abode of mismatched student decadence. Cue second semester: the recommencement of IR units, the beginnings of Damsel, and increased shifts at work. Skip forward and presently yesterday’s unwashed dishes are looking glum, and the furniture has been shifted into study arrangements, completely at odds with the previous aesthetic. Despite the outward disarray, there’s a sense of triumph that could never be matched by that perfect pastel pink pearlescent vase we found for a steal. This part of 2016 has been busy, productive and full of achievements, and being part of Damsel undoubtedly tops that list. Thanks for having me on board. It’s been incredible. HANNAH MATTHEWS Damsel role: Art Editor/brought snacks to the meeting one time Hannah has a chronic problem with overcommitting so is currently too busy writing her thesis to think of a witty editorial. When she does this again next year as women’s officer she will endeavour to write something better, perhaps including a funny meme reference if memes are still a thing then. RAE TWISS Damsel role: Yeast agriculturalist This is for all the other weirdo gals out there. I hope we do you justice.
ART BY BRYCE NEWTON
CONTRIBUTORS Amara Chaudhry o
Hannah Cockroft o
Lizzy O’Shea o
Annabel Gunson x
Hannah Matthews x
Natasha Milosevic Meston o
Annelise Janson x
Holly Jian xo
Pauline Ontiveros o
Aoife Daly o
Holly Munt o
Rae Twiss o
Bridget Rumball o
Holly Protoolis o
Sarah Nielsen-Harvey o
Bryce Newton x
Hui Zhao x
Sofia Kouznetsova o
Cailin Molinari o
Husna Farooq xo
Tess Bury x
Callista Goh o
Ishita Mathur o
Yosra Al Awadi o
Catherine Coetzer xo
Jade Bates o
Zena Ibrahim xo
Catherina Pagani xo
Jade Newton x
Zoe Kilbourn o
Chayla Taylor x
Janey Hakanson o
Chloe Hynes o
Julia Crandell o
Clara Seigla x
Kate Prendergast xo
Clare Moran xo
Katelyn Robinson o
Ella McLeod x
Katie McAllister o
Elysia Gelavis x
Laura Mwiragua xo
Emily Law x
Laura Searle o
DESIGN
Gabby Loo x
Lilli Foskett x
Elise Walker
Words: o
COVER ART Ruby Zinetti BACK COVER ART Clara Seigla (trakata)
Art: x
The University of Western Australia acknowledges that its campus is situated on Noongar land, and that Noongar people remain the spiritual and cultural custodians of their land, and continue to practice their values, languages, beliefs and knowledge.
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c ontent s
FEATURES Why don’t we have a men’s department? .................... 6 When did you first lose your virginity? ........................ 7 The problems with looking perpetually peeved .......... 8 Four reasons I love my long-distance relationship ...... 9 Activism fatigue ........................................................ 10 Vintage pinup with Laila Shalimar ............................. 14 Recommended reads ................................................. 16 Apply with care .......................................................... 17 It wasn’t love ............................................................. 20 Mellow yellow ............................................................ 22 Alt bros ...................................................................... 27 Women footy legends ................................................ 28 Women filmmakers .................................................... 29 A year with Olive ........................................................ 30 Dear sapphic girls ...................................................... 32 Chest pains ................................................................ 34 BDSM: misconceptions and myths ............................ 36 Interview with Dr. Ireland .......................................... 38 Their journey to refuge .............................................. 40 Cooking with Damsel ................................................. 42
POETRY & SHORT FICTION Do’s and don’t ............................................ 11 To all girls who need to hear this ............... 12 Dear mountaineer ...................................... 18 Untitled ..................................................... 18 Exposed ..................................................... 19 One day when I’m older ............................. 21 Safe space .................................................. 24 Fakhira ....................................................... 31 ART
Justice rains ............................................... 37
Shit things dudes say ................................................... 9 Untitled ..................................................................... 13 Rowing adventures .................................................... 23 And I hope you’ve changed ....................................... 25 Friday night ................................................................ 26 Just so done .............................................................. 41 Alston’s process ......................................................... 41 Kim stop taking pictures of yourself ......................... 43 Resources .................................................. 44 IMAGE BY ANNELISE JANSEN
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“Why Don’t We Have A Men’s Department?” WORDS BY LAURA MWIRAGUA
I’m glad I haven’t counted how many times I’ve heard this question during my involvement in the Women’s Department. It’s been quipped snarkily at O-Day by boys who bid for Yeezy Boosts at Cabinet Noir to those outfitted from Rivers, and asked tentatively by bewildered acquaintances in social settings.
just. According to the Australian Education Network, 50.1% of UWA students in 2015 were female. The national average is a 55.5% female university student population. According to ABS reports, women have outnumbered men in higher education since 1987 – a majority the bureau puts down to improved societal standing, and the introduction of tertiary qualifications for traditionally feminine professions such as teaching and nursing. However, universities - including our own – remain a firmly masculine space. UWA got its first and only woman Vice-Chancellor, Professor Fay Gale, in 1990. Sue Boyd became the first woman Guild President as late as 1969. In 2015, only 20% of the academic staff in the Engineering Computing and Mathematics faculty were women. From Social Sciences to Physics, portraits and busts of middle-aged white men haunt the walls and passages of our campus. The Women’s Room (located third floor above the Club Collaborative Zone) remains an essential autonomous space for women students. Heck, for several decades, many clubrooms, faculty offices, meeting rooms, and the Chancellery, were men’s spaces. If you’re a white man, the university world has been your oyster.
I feel like I may be preaching to the choir in answering this question in the Women’s Department’s yearly magazine, but here goes. My usual tl;dr response is something like “because men as a group, are not and have not historically been systematically oppressed and disadvantaged”. I’m not even going to give page space to the logical fallacy of ‘reverse discrimination’. It’s completely bogus to suggest that movements against oppression should title themselves ‘equality’ and ‘humanism’ while not making targeted substantive efforts to correct inequality. Arguments that these efforts should remain palatable and unthreatening to the power-holding group, which is unprepared to acknowledge the flipside of their privilege, are soggier than an over-dunked biscuit. If we’re trying to tackle the oppression of women, we need to focus on women. Duh. We’re not scheming violent revolution and matriarchal autocracy.
So why are people so concerned with men having representation of their own? If you want to establish a space for men that addresses the oppressions of the white hetero-patriarchy and includes marginalised groups of men, such as Indigenous men, trans men, and men of colour, then go for it. If you want to dismantle the intersecting oppressions of race, class, gender and ability, be my guest and my ally. However, the men I’ve encountered hurling stats about men in war and men’s mental health in attempts to shut down feminist concerns have typically been very privileged (very white, very straight, very cis). Most pressingly, they do nothing to engage with or rectify the issues they’ve raised.
The misconception that being pro-women constitutes being anti-men is painfully widespread. Our commentary about women’s experiences of disadvantage isn’t ‘man-hating’. Take for instance the dude in April who, in all seriousness, messaged the Women’s Department saying he found our intersectional gender pay gap infographic hateful and hurtful. Like wow, Greg*, if you find the oppression of others inconvenient and confronting, imagine living it.
Men: do not derail our efforts, in addition to making none yourself. Because when you do, it sounds an awful lot like this iconic tweet:
Last year, I sat next to a woman from a firm at a ‘Women in …’ breakfast. She wondered aloud why there was no ‘Men in…’ breakfast or Men’s Department equivalent. After giving her my aforementioned go-to response in these scenarios, she asserted, “It really is a girl’s world these days though; things are in your favour.” She then talked about how her daughter was doing better at English comprehension tests than her son. “Just look at universities!” she exclaimed. “So many women!” Alright, let’s look at universities. The only positive statistic we can parse out here is university admissions – and only
* Generic white boy name has been changed to another generic white boy name 6
CW: SEX
When did you ‘lose’ your virginity? WORDS BY RAE TWISS ART BY HANNAH MATTHEWS
Seventeen, a week before my Year 12 mock exams, to a boy I had met online. After many a late-night phone call, I was tangled in his cream sheets, where I decided to lose my virginity.
The hymen isn’t a dick freshness seal. It’s not a reliable indicator of sexual activity. Consider the millions of teenaged girls and young women that use tampons, masturbate, are lesbian, bisexual or exploring, play sport, bike ride, or do the splits. The hymen doesn’t stand a chance – most are broken long before girls engage in any sort of penetrative sex.
I never did see him again after our tryst into my burgeoning sexual exploration. He had asked me to “be his girlfriend” - but I had turned him down. I had gotten what I had wanted from him. I had ticked the box I had promised myself I would before graduation. My mother happened upon my birth control prescription a few months later and was gripped with sobs at the implication.
Then, if it wasn’t my hymen that I had lost, was it my innocence? I can’t deny there isn’t some sort of rite of passage in doing something for the first time, even if this notion is culturally constructed by society. Doing something new means a change from the status quo of your life, but it doesn’t mean it changes you fundamentally as a person. Nor does it mean that one’s innocence can be ‘ruined’ by a penis. Considering the awful fan fics I had written at thirteen, the hours I spent in fantasies about sex, my occasional indulgence in porn and becoming my own investigative journalist on the specifics of sex (that extended far beyond the lessons on mechanical basics of penis-goes-in-vagina from school), I was sexual long before I had had sex.
I had lost my virginity, after all. My innocence, my purity, my chastity: all lay in tatters. I had been irrevocably changed. Something precious had been taken from me on that day; something which then introduced in me a new and uncompromising ‘lack’. At least, this is the melodramatic conclusion that follows from placing such a culturally pervasive premium on a girl’s virginity. It’s what made my mum cry.
Perhaps then, I had lost the privacy of my body to this boy. I had granted him the liberty to touch me in ways nobody had before. But, I went home in my body - and it was definitely still mine. My sexuality was still mine. It was just something I had shared with him, together. How can one even purposefully lose something, exactly? I actively sought out the sex, and to frame this choice otherwise robs me of my agency as a sexual being. Yet, after doing something that seemed to symbolise so much, I didn’t seem to feel any different.
Using outdated terms like ‘losing your virginity’ relies on faulty arguments that revive and consolidate outdated, misogynistic standards. There was never any ‘loss’ the first time I had sex. In fact, my focus has always been on what I gained from that encounter, back when I was seventeen: pleasure, intimacy, connection, experience, and a new fun thing I can engage in as little or as much as I please. Virginity is not something you’re going to find in a Lost and Found box – let’s start reframing how we discuss having sex for the first time.
So, what did I lose exactly? It certainly wasn’t my hymen - that had broken months before a penis had come close. In fact, in the afterglow of hindsight, it had probably already half-torn years before that - I found blood on my underwear after a friend had kicked me as hard as he could in my crotch, just to prove that it wasn’t the same as it was for he. 7
Yes: and I believe there is something intrinsically wrong with that system. I have dedicated myself to changing it.
Dariaaa! People judge you by your expression!
The Problem With Looking Perpetually Peeved WORDS BY LAURA SEARLE
I identify as a fairly cheery person. Most people I know would agree with this - perhaps also supplying ‘sarcastic’, ‘sassy’, and ‘hungry’ as adjectives to describe me. It’s a shame then that my natural facial expression falls somewhere between ‘chronically unimpressed’ and ‘literally get out of my way before I knock you down’ - a fact that has been pointed out by numerous people on multiple occasions.
A boy walks up, red cup in hand, shirt left loose over chinos. He smiles, looks at my face, stops dead, and I brace myself. “Jeez,” he says, shaking his head, “cheer up! You look like someone just died!” I’ll throw a tight lipped smile in his direction. “This is just what I look like when I’m not smiling.” “You should smile then! I bet you’d look much happier!”
“Laura,” I’ve had friends say to me, “just so you know, you’re doing that thing with your face again.”
Cue eyes rolling so far back into my head that I can see the content of my last lecture.
I touch my cheeks, wondering if my tongue is hanging out, or, perhaps, I’m dribbling. Is there spinach in my teeth? Not necessarily something I am doing with my face. But a face thing nonetheless.
Men, I hate to break it to you, but being in your presence doesn’t automatically make me want to break out into a huge, cheesy grin. I hate the assumption that I have something to smile about. Personally, I have a lot to be happy about. However, the demand to smile on cue is ignoring the fact that in that particular second, looking happy may not be the top of my priority list. If my RBF is going strong, there are probably a few reasons why. Maybe I’m concentrating. Maybe I’m hungry. Maybe I’m sad, or stressed, or annoyed. Maybe I am rambunctiously happy (but just on the inside).
“What thing?” I’ll ask, panicking. “You know,” their voice drops, their eyes downcast, “the Resting Bitch Face thing.” Ah. That thing. Resting Bitch Face (RBF) is a recently-dubbed phenomenon characterised by two things: firstly, the user’s face evincing typical cues of discontent (i.e. scowling, furrowing brow, not smiling) and secondly, society’s necessity to comment on said RBF when, and only when, it is a woman who is wearing this expression. According to a study that analysed over 10,000 images of human faces, RBF was found equally in males and females. Therefore, the notion that RBF is exclusive to women comes down solely to gender expectations.
The whole idea of a woman being a bitch just because she isn’t smiling is complete garbage. Consider how many male characters are romanticised by their brooding, grumpy demeanour – from Jane Eyre’s Rochester, to Gladiator’s Maximus, to just about every film Johnny Depp stars in. Now try to think of how many ‘Darias’ there are on-screen. Talking real-life examples, female politicians are increasingly called out for being ‘angry’ because they ‘aren’t smiling’ – see recent coverage of the US elections for a pertinent example. Hillary and other women involved in the campaign have a lot more to worry about than being aesthetically pleasing with a smile, yet Hillary’s popularity is hurt by the perception that she is ‘cold’ and ‘unfriendly’.
This is where it gets interesting. We know that men and women are just as likely as each other to display ‘symptoms’ of RBF, but it is women who are overwhelmingly more likely to be ‘called out’ for it. This is because of cross-cultural and historical expectations that women present themselves as happy and content – as ‘light’, ‘bubbly’, or ‘frothy’. It is a form of emotional labour; the burden of appearing care-free so as to shore up the myth that men’s lives are more serious, more work-related, and that women’s own problems and challenges don’t matter. In the same way that assertiveness is seen as an attractive and necessary trait in men, but as bossiness in women, frowning is only acceptable when the guys do it.
RBF, and the accusations and assumptions that come with it, shines a revealing light on some of the sexism that exists in this world. I promise I really am enjoying your company – and whilst in one sense I’m sorry this isn’t coming across, I also don’t want to have to apologise for the way my face naturally falls. There’s nothing wrong with not smiling all the time – and this applies to men and women equally. Accept my freedom to go about my life in unsmiling content – thinking hard, working hard, and just generally going about my daily business.
I have, on very rare occasions, had a random girl come up to me at a club/ball/event and tell me ‘to smile’. If, however, I got a dollar for every time a man said something along the lines of that to me, I would be a very rich lady.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m not smiling because I do have that bit of spinach stuck in my teeth. How would you like a glimpse of that? 8
FOUR REASONS I LOVE MY LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP WORDS BY JULIA CRANDELL ART BY KATE PRENDERGAST
Person: Why are you going to America? Me: I’m visiting my girlfriend, she lives there! Person: Oh, so you’re long distance, that must be really hard. Every time I have this conversation, and either shrug my shoulders saying, “Oh it’s not so bad”, or just agree for the sake of it, I worry that there must be something wrong with me. Call me crazy, but I think there’s a lot to be said for long distance relationships. My girlfriend and I met towards the end of my exchange in Copenhagen, Denmark. She was doing her Masters there and DJ’ed at the student café/bar where I was volunteering. When I left Copenhagen we made no firm commitment, but decided to ‘go with the flow’. That was over two years ago. It’s true of course that there are downsides
1. Our relationship continues despite the physical separation Yesterday, my girlfriend linked me a Buzzfeed article called “These Apps Will Make Long Distance Relationships Work”. Some of the apps included features allowing you to count down the time until you see each other again. But our relationship doesn’t go on hold when we’re apart, nor is it any less of a relationship just because we don’t live in the same place. If anything, I think the distance makes us stronger as a couple. 2. We make the most of the time we have together In a way LDRs are perfect because when you’re living in different places you get heaps of space and personal freedom to spend your time how you choose, and then when you’re together you really appreciate it and it feels super special.
But on the flipside, here are some of the
3. Her wake up calls literally get me out of bed in the morning
reasons I love my LDR:
Being one of those people who sets an
to living 15,000 km and 15 hours apart.
alarm for 7.30am and then snoozes every five minutes until 10.30am, it’s actually really handy having someone in a different time zone who you will wake up to have a conversation with (or at least mumble incoherently at). 4. It gives the impression that I am an interesting person Okay so I know this shouldn’t be a real reason, but I must admit I do get a kick out of saying “Oh yeah, I met my girlfriend in Copenhagen, she lives in America but she’s British and her parents are from the Caribbean”. Being in a LDR is certainly not for everyone, and I almost can’t believe my luck at how effortlessly we are able to do this. Sometimes it does get really hard, but at least the two of us are in it together.
shit things dudes say
ART BY JADE NEWTON
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CW: SUBSTANCE USE, SUICIDE, TRAUMA, SLURS
Activism Fatigue WORDS BY JANEY HAKANSON ART BY GABBY LOO
If you have any sized conscience, it’s likely that you have done something to try and stop the mistreatment of another individual – whether it’s calling out a sexist comment amongst friends, launching into the fray of Facebook comments about marriage equality, or attending an anti-racism riot. All these actions take energy, and a little chunk of our person. They hurt. How can we take care of ourselves, so that we have the energy to keep fighting?
with. Friends by definition mean we are not alone. Friends can notice the little things we are ignoring or actually didn’t see, like the fact that you just snapped at a poster on the back of a toilet door. Out loud. Our activist friends can be our social support friends too - the key factor here is that we don’t have to only do activism with them. We can go to concerts, dinner, parties, movies, hikes and on holidays with them. This way queer club can also be about karaoke and death by bake sale gorging.
The first time I found myself suffering from symptoms of compassion fatigue was during my time as a Veterinary Nurse. My hands-on work with patients – caring for them through their illness and trauma – led to emotional exhaustion. As time passed I felt like I was fighting an impossible battle. I became withdrawn. I cried at work, I couldn’t sleep, I used substances to forget experiences in my time off so that I didn’t feel guilty. At some points I was suicidal, and I felt like I hated every single person in the entire world, because none of them were doing enough to help the injustices I saw.
SET LIMITS This ties into the concept of balance. Activism is just one part of our identity, and we have to set limits for how much of ourselves we give to it. Of course we might want to be martyrs, but that isn’t actually going to accomplish a whole lot. Imagine how much you can give when sustained over a lifelong career of fighting for change. Ask for help tabling your campus women’s group meetings. Train other people to do a variety of roles so sometimes you can take a night off. Set aside half a day a week to work on projects, and when that time is done, stop. None of us are in this alone, so don’t be afraid to ask for help or change up how much you do as your life changes too.
Aside from activists, there are doctors, nurses, paramedics, police officers, fire officers, social workers and anyone who works in a caring role, who are likely to experience something similar due to the nature of their employment. It can manifest as Secondary Traumatic Stress Disorder in trauma therapists and spouses of veterans returning from conflict. These conditions have been studied by mental health professionals and researchers, with the view to help teach skills to manage the stress brought about by this work, be it paid or unpaid. Much of it is similar to any model of improving mental wellbeing, but I will discuss it specifically in relation to the lives of activists.
EXPRESSION Our lives are full of the feels. Sometimes they burst out in online rants and all caps text messages to our friends about OH EM GEE DID YOU HEAR WHAT THAT TEXAS JUDGE SAID? It’s important to get these feels out in ways other than just the
BALANCE Striking a balance between work and not-work is crucial. We all know this. But the hectic pace of modern living means we are also incredibly time-poor. None of us can manage to fit in as many relaxing yoga sessions or Netflix binges or lavender bath soaks as we want. With the constant changes in our lives, it’s difficult to find the perfect balance. One way to work towards it, is to make those relaxing and self-caring activities a priority. You have a schedule for your uni classes, times you prefer to go to the gym, and parts of the day when you stop what you’re doing and eat. So, schedule in the yoga and the Netflix and the bath. Write it in your diary, put an alarm in your phone, type it into your Google Calendar. Do not put it off because you feel you could be more ‘productive’ writing angry emails to Dean Alston. That can wait. Making regular times to chill will make it less likely for you to suddenly realise it’s been three weeks since you bathed and you’ve got enough caffeine in your circulation to worry the cardiologists in the next suburb over. SOCIAL SUPPORT Duh, we need friends. Friends to debrief the latest debacles with, yes; but instead of vicariously traumatising yourself through their recounted battles, also just friends to just BE 10
CW: SEXUAL ASSAULT
shrieking whistle of a kettle blowing over. You can write in a journal that nobody sees, or under an anonymous Tumblr handle. Make it honest. Spill it all out. You can go see a therapist. I highly recommend this one. You don’t have to be diagnosed with a mental health condition to find a professional to talk to. There are lots of counsellors and therapists who don’t require referrals. A psychologist or psychiatrist will need one and is more expensive, but you can see your GP about a referral and writing you up for the mental health plan which gives you around eight subsidised visits per year. They are trained to hear you and ask good questions which help you examine how you are coping and how you feel and suggest techniques for getting through the shittiness that is caring about stuff. If you don’t want to write or talk, you can sing, paint, sculpt. Do anything that gets your raw visceral uncensored feels out of your body and into the world – even if the world is just some notepaper sheets stuffed under your mattress. PHYSICAL HEALTH Your body is the pulpy, sticky, pointy vehicle that powers you through the universe. You need to take care of it. Good food, enough sleep, and physical exercise are the basics. We all suck at them and it’s really difficult to have all of those things happening in the right amounts at the same time. If you don’t feel up to writing yourself a meal plan or prepping all of your meals on a Sunday into a thousand tiny labelled Tupperware containers, then at least go to the shops once a week and buy a heap of fresh fruit and vegetables. Then when you open the fridge at 2am, there will be some carrots and hummus staring just as vacantly back at you. If you don’t like the fluorescent lights and Mary Poppins-on-speed screeching of a gym class instructor, then pretend you have an invisible dog or take your actual dog on a walk every single day. Charge that infernal phone in the kitchen at night so that your eyes rest and you do sleep.
Do’s and Don’t WORDS BY FRANCIS ART BY KATE PRENDERGAST
Bite my lips and caress my hips, just do not force my head down.
Pull me, bite me, scratch me, always ask me, just do not force my head down.
CELEBRATE SUCCESS This one I made up myself. I chose to leave Vet Nursing as a career after nine years, because I resented the industry and what I had to do each day. I have chosen a new direction to help with the activism I am behind. Nursing ultimately made me sad, but there are good memories too. As a way to remember those, I started working on a sleeve of tattoos of animals I have fostered or adopted throughout my life. It started with my cat who passed away last year, and I’m almost out of skin on my right arm. Every day I look at these fluffy faces and know that I helped them. You don’t have to go get a tattoo of Simone de Beauvoir or Ru Paul, but maybe there is another way to remember the work you and we and others have done so far. Celebrate the queer people in the world, the women in your life, the people of colour who have taught you about the world. Put their faces on your desktop background and download their albums and read their books. Watch the women’s AFL next year. Tell Abbe May she’s inspirational. Tell your cousins about Malala.
Rub me till I’m raw and shake me to my core, just do not force my head down.
Tease me and please me, do more than appease me, just do not force my head down.
Force a queen down, she loses her crown, her freedom, her voice you’ve taken her choice.
Do not force my head down.
Obviously none of this is easy. We will always be struggling with it. But when I do, I come back to these concepts, and I try to get myself back into a good place. I am the only one who will take care of me, so I have to do it.
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To All Girls Who Need To Hear This WORDS BY ISHITA MATHUR ART BY ZEENA IBRAHIM
Fold yourself like shifting origami Into pieces which shrink before your eyes Exist within the spaces where you breathe Close your legs, lower your gaze, put on the disguise Burn away the vestiges of flesh Fit yourself into the cracks in the wall Lock the girl in a place none can see Hide yourself behind the shower curtain’s fall Wait until only a shadow remains Until you cannot recognise yourself Until you are just one in a line of fuckable girls To be used and put back on the bookshelf Be careful of every word that you utter Be prepared to be silenced and policed Never fail the test to explain what you mean To be ‘beauty’ so he can play beast Be ready to be told your tone is too harsh Your eyes are too bright and your is song too long Be ready to stand trembling under a starry night Wondering where-how-why it went wrong Get ready to rip yourself apart Get ready to sigh one more time Get ready to wander in the darkness To wake shaking from dreams of your crime But remember, brave one, you are loved Remember that we won’t forget How many years it took for you to arrive How many hard labours, how much sweat You’re a precious gem beneath dirt A glowing fortress of stardust and life Fuck the haters and same to the naysayers You were never born to be some fuckwit’s wife 12
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ART BY CATHERINA PAGANI
Talking vintage pinup with Laila Shalimar INTERVIEW BY AOIFE DALY
Laila Shalimar is an Afghani vintage hair and makeup artist with a deep love of tattoos. She grew up in Pakistan and is currently based in Perth, where she studies criminology and counterterrorism. Laila is also a prominent member of the pinup community. Damsel sat down to discuss what it is like being a Muslim woman of colour in a pinup scene that epitomises whiteness. Tell me a bit of background about your life and your early years.
Kate and Ashley Olsen and Victoria Beckham. Gaunt pale faces, chunky Indian jewellery and ethnic fabrics draping impossibly frail bodies splashed the covers of magazines. My culture was in vogue so long as it was modelled by anyone other than my people; so long as it was on anyone else’s body but mine. It was a conflicting time for me.
My involvement with pinup didn’t really start properly until I was about 14 or 15-years-old, but vintage has been a big part of my life. I come from a country where we’re almost always about 20 years behind, so what people would have considered as vintage is just stuff that our grandparents had, that had been passed down to our parents. Things like clothing, furniture and cars from the midcentury were hand-me-downs from my grandparents to my folks to help them get started as a young couple in the mid ‘80s. I was only 16 when I moved to Australia, and I found it both a positive and daunting time of my life. On the one hand I was grateful for all the opportunities my new home provided me with; on the other I felt alienated by the world around me. As a young immigrant woman of colour it was particularly difficult to adjust to a country with such a defined and homogeneous idea of beauty. The teens are a particularly sensitive time for most young women and it was during this time I became acutely aware of my ‘otherness’.
How did you get into pinup and vintage culture? What was it like as a woman of colour?
A little background: my ethnic group are a minority in Pakistan, and we look very different to everybody else. We’re a lot fairer-skinned, we have a lot more European features comparatively. Pakistani society considers us attractive because we look more Anglocentric than anyone else. Looking Western – whether it’s how you dress, your accent or physical traits like your skin colour – all these are tied in with your value as a member of society. The more western or Anglo you come across, the more respect and admiration you garner. I find it quite sad how much value Pakistani society put into Anglocentric beauty ideals.
In a way, I feel the vintage lifestyle found me. Money was tight in my household when we first moved to Australia, so I spent a lot of time in op shops sourcing everything from clothing PHOTO: CHAYLA TAYLOR PHOTOGRAPHY to furniture for the room I shared with my siblings. I started dressing in vintage because at the time it was affordable, it suited my figure, and it was modest – which worked well for my lifestyle as a practising Muslim. After a miserable and lonely time in high school I decided to look for like-minded people. I started going to Mustang on Fridays and Saturdays and Mondays for the dance classes. It was a comfortable environment as the crowd was a lot older and there was no pressure to drink. I’d have a glass of water or juice or a soft drink and people would teach me to dance. This was where I first started listening to rockabilly and jump blues thanks to bands like Rusty & the Dragstrip Trio, Johnny Law & the Pistol Packin’ Daddies, and The Continentals. I made friends with the band members, their families and friends, and I was introduced to people who embraced and celebrated the mid-century as much as I did.
I feel Pakistan’s colonial history has a lot to answer for - it left a layer of self-hatred and internalised racism that we are yet to shake off. I know that I have spent a lot of my youth struggling with this issue. When your worth as a woman bound up so tightly into how ‘white’ you come across, suddenly being faced with your identity as visibly ethnic woman when you move to a western country can be confusing. You’re forced into a skin you were taught was worthless and dirty. But then there is also this desire to embrace that part of you that links you to your roots and your motherland. I can tell you from experience that this internalised struggle between wanting to embrace yourself and wanting to erase yourself gives rise to an awful feeling of dysmorphia and exhaustion. “Who am I?” you ask.
Without Facebook and Instagram existing at the time, it was difficult to connect and network with other WOC involved in the pinup scene. You have to remember that a lot of our scene is based on mainstream Americana and that the media of the mid-century was predominantly white. It’s therefore no surprise that the vintage scene (in isolated ol’ Australia) continues to value a particular kind of beauty. In a way, valuing pale skin and ‘girl next door’ look is a kind of rebellion against the mainstream tanned skin beauty trend – but it comes at a cost to participants in this subculture who might
When I came to Australia in around mid-2003, the boho chic/ emaciated chic look was all over the media thanks to the likes of Mary 14
not come from a white background. As much as I loved the vintage scene, I once again found myself unable to relate to the standard of beauty placed before me. This came at a great detriment to my self-esteem for a time. There’s this misconception that social media and the vintage lifestyle are incompatible. We have a funny stereotype in my friend group of these older rockers and vintage lifestylists who absolutely abhor social media – “Oh life was better before Facebook, life was better before Instagram”. I disagree! To me social media is powerful! It’s a resource and a means for the less powerful to retell chapters of history. People who were never able to get on television or in print media can now tell those stories and paint a clearer picture of what it was like to live in the olden days. Also, it’s a place to network and that has been the biggest source of comfort to me. Facebook, Instagram and Tumblr all allow the scene to become more interconnected, enabling pinups of colour to network and research online. For members of a scene who have experienced isolation through persistent underrepresentation, these websites have been hugely beneficial. Where does your pinup name come from? I picked Laila because it’s a very common Afghan name, almost like Sarah or Anna. It means beloved. It’s also my favourite track by Muslim punk band The Kominas. Shalimar comes from two things: the first is the Shalimar gardens in Lahore – a true testament to the beauty of Mughal architecture. Secondly, it’s a homage to the Shalimar Circus which used to come to Lahore. They had a tattooed woman of Iranian descent that I was fascinated with but couldn’t find anything about except for stories passed around by older family members. I wanted something reflective of me as an ethnic woman. I know some people adopt a pinup persona as a form of escapism but to me, it was a means to reconnect with all aspects of myself. I like to think of myself as a history enthusiast, a vintage enthusiast, a collector of things. Just the phrase ‘I’m a pinup’ is a bit bizarre to me because it implies I am only interested in the fashion and in being published in fashion mags. Pinup in and of itself is not my identity; I bring my identity to pinup.
PHOTO: WILD KAT PHOTOGRAPHY
of colour or just women of colour who might be uncomfortable with you exoticising and appropriating something they cannot freely enjoy like you do without being ostracised for it. Check. Your. Privilege. There seems to be more than enough resources now to Google something you’re unsure about. It shouldn’t be your job to answer questions like “You’re Muslim, is this ok?”
I wanted to ask you about the parts of pinup culture that don’t just gloss over history, but the parts that include blatant appropriation. Things like tiki or hair turbans for instance. I know over about the last three years there has been more of a dialogue about cultural appropriation and why it is wrong.
To an extent, I am happy to answer people’s questions about my cultural/religious/ethnic identity and how it relates to the vintage and pinup lifestyle. Of course it gets really frustrating when these questions are just generic ones that people can easily google. And yes, there are certain aspects of my religious life that are not up for discussion or debate. I have had journalists try to play me into the ‘bad Muslim girl’ trope and the ‘liberated Jezebel trope’, all to garner clickbait articles for their shitty gossip columns. When will they learn?
It’s difficult because a lot of these things got so melded into ‘50s culture; that was a time when people were rich enough to go to Hawaii, to other countries. There’s a lot of appropriation from back then that’s stuck around. As far as the resurgence of turbans and headwraps in pinup culture, I am very conflicted. We are seeing a growing distrust and abuse of people who are visibly Muslim and at the same time, we are taking on the same items of clothing as part of a fashion trend - that’s really what makes me uncomfortable. I am not one to police what people wear but when Muslim friends of mine are too scared to wear headscarves in public, I have to question the sheer level of privilege white-passing and non-Muslim fashionistas have. A Muslim man in a turban is to be mistrusted, a Muslim woman in hijab is oppressed, and a pinup in a turban is considered chic: where’s the fairness in that?
I don’t care if you have read every book in the UWA library about Islamic feminism, Islamic jurisprudence and Islamic philosophy: my interpretation of Islam as a way of life and my decisions about my life (clothing, modification, lifestyle) are not for you to debate. Yes, I can be a tattooed woman and be Muslim. Yes, I can dress vintage and be Muslim. Yes I can dye my hair red, not wear a scarf and be Muslim. Whether that makes me a true Muslim, a good Muslim or whatever other standards humans set for the spiritual ones… Allah knows best. FIND LAILA ON:
If you do intend wearing a headwrap, or selling headwraps and you’re not a person of colour, be aware of your privilege. In a way you’re appropriating a style without being part of the daily struggle that goes with it. And of course please be open to listening to pinups
www.instagram.com/midcentury_mermaid www.facebook.com/lailashalimar www.midcenturymermaid.com
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Apply with Care:
Choosing cruelty-free makeup WORDS BY CATHERINE COETZER ART BY HUI ZHAO
My very first makeup product could be summed up as a mixture of beeswax and red dye. As I grew up I went through the usual stages of blue eyeshadow all over my eyelids, hot pink lipstick that stuck to the roof of my mouth, eyeliner that didn’t go all the way to the lash bed.
Essence The Gel Nail Polish This nail polish will change your life. This polish goes on smoothly, the colours are extremely opaque, but best of all, once it dries this nail polish will last. It doesn’t chip easily and will stay looking bright way past any time frame you’re used. It is also very inexpensive and comes in a large range of colours.
I need to stop reminiscing because it’s getting painful. Now as I reach the age where I’m starting to seriously consider anti-wrinkle cream, I’ve come to understand that what I buy can have a huge impact on what is available in the future. We all know what can happen behind the scenes developing a makeup product. Animal cruelty isn’t something that should be allowed to continue - cosmetic companies have access to tens of thousands of chemical ingredients that have been proven to be safe.
Essence Liquid Ink Waterproof Eyeliner Ever since stumbling upon this eyeliner I have stopped using all my other eyeliner products. This is the one for me, and hopefully for you. This stuff goes on beautifully, black as night, without streaky application, and is guaranteed to stay even if you spend the whole party crying. And the best part, if you crafted the perfect wing and don’t want to part with it (or you stay overnight at that party you cried through) this eyeliner will still be there for you the next day.
Buying cruelty-free makeup can be a challenge when the information is often hard to find or contradictory. But, every time you choose makeup that is vegan or cruelty-free, you’re reducing the demand for products that harm rats, mice and bunnies. I still love my MAC shadows and that one amazing red lipstick I have (thanks Rimmel). You don’t need to throw away what you already have and waste it, but you can make a change with what you buy from now on. These are a few of the best products and brands that I have started buying instead of products that test on animals, that I recommend giving a try. These are all easy to find and don’t require you to buy them online (so yes, all of these products are at Priceline).
SAVVY Long Lasting Matte Lipstick If you’re not a fan of dry matte lipstick but are still looking for a cheap, cruelty-free product with a high colour payoff then have a look at these. This is the range that I go to when I’m looking to test out a colour before investing in a more expensive version, or if I need a colour for a costume look. SAVVY Lipstain Pen SAVVY’s pen may look disarmingly like a texta but in reality it is a very reliable long-wear lipstain. The product is available in a small range of classic colours (and also purple) and can be worn as either a light tint, or be built up to create a more intense colour. Because of this aptness for layering it is a useful product to keep in your bag for taking looks from day to night.
Australis Banana Powder This colour-correcting powder is considered a staple by many, myself included. The product is yellow toned, making it great for setting under the eyes to cancel out any dark circles. Australis AC ON TOUR kit I have never owned such an extensive contour kit before this one. This product is very easy to blend and comes in light, medium and dark palettes. With such dark contour colours in the palette a small amount goes a long way in carving out the cheekbones I wish I had, but can now create! And the range of highlighters means that it’s suitable for pink and yellow toned skin.
Other cruelty-free brands easily found in Australia: Ardell - Priceline Burt’s Bees – Priceline The Balm - Myer and Target Chi Chi - Target EcoTools - Priceline E.L.F - Kmart
Australis Velourlips Matte Lip Cream This vegan lipstick won me over when it nailed the dark red I’ve been searching for my whole life. After a formula rework in its early stages, this lipstick has become my go-to and I cannot and will not stop recommending it to people. A creamy formula, true matte finish and a huge range of colours (including green, blue, black and white) make this my favourite lipstick I’ve bought this year. This lipstick does not shift, so apply with precision. I own this lipstick in eight colours and recommend bud-a-pash, doo-bai and pa-ree.
Face of Australia - Priceline NYX - Target and Priceline Physicians Formula Priceline Prestige Cosmetics Priceline Too Faced - Mecca Maxima Urban Decay - Mecca Maxima
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Dear Mountaineer WORDS AND ART BY ZENA IBRAHIM
You do not sexualise mountains or creeks, so leave my valleys and peaks alone. I am not your Mount Everest I am not designed to be conquered I am a force of nature - as it was truly intended. Don’t you dare tell me when to stand and when to crumble I am resolutely solid and I will not be swayed. Do not test me: I am fickle and unforgiving If I find you even daring to push towards the precipice Be warned it is a slippery slope. I was here long before you And I will be here long after You are gone Still standing.
We are given bodies Crafted, grown For us With us Soft, supple Homes Where we live, love And yet Taught to hate To hide To hurt How do I love again What is me What can I be WORDS BY CAILIN MOLINARI ART BY ANNABEL GUNSON
When my house Is my home 18
CW: DOMESTIC VIOLENCE
Exposed WORDS AND ART BY HUSNA FAROOQ
My heart pounds as I try to crawl away, tears streaming down my face as he nears. No emotion, no mercy, only blackness in his dead eyes. He looms over me, his teeth gritted as he lifts the pipe and sends it crashing down on me once again. I hold back a scream. I can’t make noise. I won’t make a sound. Not when she’s in the other room. Slam. Slam. Slam. Again and again and again. I stretch my hand out to protect my face and shut my eyes as I wait for it to be over. I just want it to be over.
him. With every inch of my body. There was a time when I was happy, although that was over ten years ago. Life then was not simple, but manageable and to some extent peaceful. I often find myself reminiscing about my late husband and how we fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. He was a pilot... a military pilot for Afghanistan, which is why he died. I never told my beautiful daughter how her father really passed, telling her that he had a heart attack instead. If only this were true. Being kidnapped and killed by the Taliban isn’t the kind of bedtime story that I want her to be familiar with. I dread the day she finds out, but not as much as I dread the day it will finally soak in that there is no escape for her from this war-infested country.
I stay by the door and watch Lida leave again. Fear encompasses my heart as I wonder if today is the day that she won’t come back. If tonight she will be just another body added to the pile of carnage that fills my beautiful country - just another person who didn’t matter, another who will just turn into ash. I bite my lip as I watch my daughter walk away.
I don’t want to leave the bird. Not when it needs my help – but I have no choice. Reluctantly, I get up and start walking back to the house. I don’t dare look back and ignore the cries, yet my heart aches more and more as I leave the creature in its suffering. I can come back for it. Yes, I will come back for it as soon as the wicked bastard leaves for work. I hope he never comes back. It might be cruel and unorthodox for a wife to wish such ill upon her husband, but I don’t care. He should pay for everything he has done to my family. He will.
The sky is slashed with the beauty of orange and yellow, spellbinding when mixed with the fresh morning air. I breathe it in deeply, and stand, staring, wondering how different life would be if I were free. If there was no war stopping me. If I could follow that sky without looking back or wondering if I could make it even halfway.
Getting thrown across the room in front of my child was not enough for him. Threatening to kill her if I ever tried to flee the country was not enough. Attacking my parents’ home when I refused to marry him was not enough. No. But I can’t leave. Not yet. I feel myself stiffening as I reach the house, keeping my eyes to the ground to walk swiftly past him and into the little room we call a kitchen. Tears flow down my cheeks. “Will I survive this?” I wonder.
I sigh and turn halfway into the house when something catches my eye. A bird, flapping wildly against the gravel across the street, twisting and curling. Without another thought I jog across the mud road toward the eagle failing to get up. I bend my knees and squat, ready to help the poor bird. It’s wing, I find, is injured and slightly bloodied. I gently caress the bird as I inspect it, and just as I am about to lift it, I hear screaming from the house. “Where are you woman? After all I do, you think I’m to make breakfast too?!”
“Are you making food for the entire neighbourhood in there?” He growls from the other room.
Hesitantly, I let the bird go and look to see him standing in the doorway as I had just before, except he has his arms folded across his chest. A weight drops in my stomach. There he is. My husband – well, second husband – and I hate him. No: I loathe
My hands ball up into fists, my knuckles turning white, my jaw clenched. But, instead of spitting in his food as usual, I take a deep breath and think of the bird. I will help him. 19
CW: IPV, ABUSE, SUICIDAL MENTIONS, SEXUAL HARASSMENT
It Wasn’t Love WORDS BY ANONYMOUS ART BY ELYSIA GELAVIS
When I was young, I was taught that if a boy ever teased me, acted jealous or tugged my ponytail, it meant that he liked me. We live in a world where jealousy and possessiveness are romanticised as a form of affection – suggesting that the more controlling a partner is, the more invested they are in the relationship. From a young age, girls are taught that this behaviour equals love. What’s more, society’s main question is often why women stay in abusive relationships, rather than why their partners are abusive. It is a leading example of victim-blaming. As I got older and formed romantic relationships of my own, I found myself often dismissing comments and threats that stemmed from excessive insecurity and possessiveness. I reassured myself, “No, no. This is alright. It just means he really loves me.”
of that shame. During the process of writing this piece, I spent sleepless nights debating the anonymity/non-anonymity of this article. I often found myself googling the signs of a healthy vs. unhealthy relationship. This should have been a massive warning sign, but I clearly wanted to remain oblivious and negligent. I was in constant denial. If you ever find yourself googling the same thing, ask yourself this: Why? Regardless of how foolish I felt, I did it anyway and hoped to find some comfort that I was not trapped in a dysfunctional relationship. I found that a healthy relationship consists of effective and open communication, where both people in the relationship are able to talk about any issues they may have and actively listen to one another, and possess a willingness to adapt and change their viewpoint. A healthy relationship also involves trust and honesty, respecting each other and their personal space and privacy, amongst other things. Every quality that was listed, my relationship seriously lacked. This I knew well before I took to the internet too.
Believe me, he didn’t. Abusive behaviour can occur in any form of relationship – it can be with a family member, employer, or close friend. When abuse occurs in a romantic relationship, it is commonly referred to as Intimate Partner Violence (IPV). When we hear the word ‘abuse’, our minds immediately associate it as a physical entity; but it doesn’t always manifest as a black eye, or a bloody wound, or bruises that you try to hide from those around you. Abuse isn’t always physical, and abuse of the emotional or psychological kind can be just as harmful as physical violence - or worse.
Publicly, our relationship sure looked like a healthy one. I hate to sound cliché but it’s true that no one really knows what happens behind closed doors. There is a distinct difference between accepting someone for who they are and allowing yourself to be a victim of abuse. There were times I struggled with this immensely. For instance, after my ex-boyfriend constantly yelled and threw abusive slurs at me for liking a picture on Facebook of a friend of the opposite sex, I was made to apologise for being disrespectful and inconsiderate. When I was sexually harassed, he made sure to blame it on me and the clothes I chose to wear that day (Did I mention he was also a jerk?). And if I wasn’t at fault, then I was overreacting and “making a big deal out of nothing”. He was consistently finding ways to toy with me emotionally. He’d say, “If you really loved me, you would/ wouldn’t…” or “I’d kill myself if you...” – it was not sweet, it was downright manipulative. He controlled who I could see, who I could and couldn’t talk to, what I knew, what I didn’t know. He intentionally failed to communicate and resolve issues that were hurting me because he enjoyed the power and control he had over me and the relationship. I was strung along time and time again.
As someone who has experienced emotional and psychological abuse, I have been left with scars that I will live with for the rest of my life. I had known a particular ex-boyfriend of mine from pre-teen years. We grew up together, took the same classes in high school, attended the same university and even worked together. I thought I was incredibly lucky to have found someone that I had shared majority of my life with. If you had asked me a decade ago, I would have told you that he was the kindest boy I ever knew and that he was incapable of destroying someone he seemingly loved, the way he so carelessly did with me. He was sociable, outgoing and a good conversationalist, and was loved by those around him. I initially struggled to talk to anyone about my problems because we shared the same circle of friends and social network. Looking back on it now, I wish I hadn’t let it go on for as long as I did. I wish I spoke to someone sooner. I cannot stress how hard it is to leave an abusive relationship - let alone admit you’re in one when you’ve fallen in love. I thought it was love. Blame it on naivety or what have you, but I truly loved my ex-boyfriend; this was undeniable. And that made it all the much harder to admit that he was the brooding source of my emotional and psychological hardship. A few wrong turns, and somehow the relationship turned sour and true colours were revealed. Over the years we were a couple, I developed an unhealthy form of thinking. Rather than admitting that something was wrong, I opted to suppress the fact that I was suffocating from the toxicity of the situation. I often felt that my feelings were invalid, and that I was unloved and inadequate. A part of me was left ashamed and disappointed that I had let one person drastically affect my confidence, self-esteem, creativity, productivity and uniqueness. Even to this day, I still carry a part
I think the worst of all was the abuse I endured through gaslighting and all the lies he told me which convinced me to doubt my own perceptions and sanity. You see, abusers never take any responsibility for anything. He made me feel like I was always in the wrong. This was common and if he had felt guilty enough for assuring me that no one would ever love me and that I was too broken and damaged to ever be desired by anyone else, he would send an empty sentiment of flowers or jewellery, in which everyone would think he was the sweetest boyfriend. If there’s anything to take from this, it’s that if your partner ever demoralises you and then apologises about it the next day, don’t take their apology: don’t accept that pattern of abuse. I am no longer in said relationship, but it still continued to affect me post break-up in regards to my day-to-day life, my personality 20
One day when I’m older
and the relationships I have with those around me. There were months where I spent most of my time crying in the bed that I could not get myself out of. I engaged in casual hook-ups aiming to temporarily feel anything apart from the pain I felt from the failed relationship I treasured, but could no longer tolerate; or I’d drink too much to numb the pain away. I became a lot more wary when it came to new romantic relationships and struggled with letting people in. I also tended to be extremely critical of myself and was often overwhelmed with insecurity and doubt.
WORDS BY CHLOE HYNES ART BY HUI ZHAO
One day when I’m older, there will be a younger version of me running around with a smile on her face crisp blonde hair, warm blue eyes, she will be too young to know what it’s like to feel out of place.
I am not the same person I was before, but I’m certain that I am better off no longer being with someone who only caused me emotional and psychological pain. I’m able to look back and know that it was not the loving relationship that I had once thought it was. And that I did not for any reason, deserve the abusive behaviour from someone who at the time, I loved wholeheartedly. Because of this, I continue to keep the promise I made to myself to never let anyone treat me like that again. And as each day goes on and the scars remain, I feel myself slowly overcoming the abuse I endured and letting go of the pain that once consumed me.
One day when she’s older I’ll tell her about the boy who froze the warmth in my eyes, about how enough for him was never enough, who tore away my smile, who wore his shyness as a disguise. I will spare her the hurtful details, but I will explain that no means no, no matter how quiet you say it, that loving someone is not a reason or excuse to make them feel pain, that consent is a two way street.
The bottom line is, no one deserves to be treated in a way that permanently damages their emotional and psychological wellbeing and health. If love feels like all it does is hurt you, trust me. It’s not love and you deserve a lot better. We all do.
One day when I’m older, there will be a younger version of me, I will tell her bedtime stories of first love, the way his smile made my heart skip a beat, a boy who built me up to believe I was not something to be disposed of. I will tell her about how important friends can be, about sisters with unbrushed hair and ripped jeans, who held me the nights I cried over the boys who hurt me, In all their different ways; I’ll tell her what true family means. One day when I’m older, there will be a younger version of me, I will show her how to kiss cuts so they heal tell her it’s okay sometimes to eat ice-cream from the tub, I’ll explain how important it is to love yourself to never be ashamed of how you feel. One day when I’m older, there will be a younger version of me, I’ll sit her down and talk about all the different types of love, but mostly how important the differences can be.
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CW: EATING DISORDER MENTION, RACISM, SLURS
Mellow Yellow: Body Image and Asian Femininity WORDS BY CALLISTA GOH
For years I’ve tried to distance myself from any link I’ve had with my Asian heritage and appearance. When I was five, a kid in my New Zealand primary school told me that my skin was ‘tan’ rather than ‘normal’. While that was an acknowledgement rather than an insult, I ran home to my mother crying and asked why I was not like everyone else. At that moment in time, I think my parents realised how tarnished my relationship with my heritage had become. Soon enough, when I was seven I moved from New Zealand to Australia, where I was promptly enrolled in Chinese School and Northshore. Here, I socialised with other Asian children. I imagine that my parents hoped that this would instil the social and cultural norms that were still so strange to me. It didn’t work.
women of all ages to converse with me, who often note the
Years upon years of brainwashing and identity crises about my ethnicity in a predominantly white culture forced me to believe that ‘I wasn’t like one of those other Asian girls’ and caused me to act accordingly. Throughout high school, I attempted to defy stereotypes as best I could; while I was never allowed to wear makeup to suppress my stereotypically Chinese looks, I feigned an identity which subverted these expectations. When I developed breasts and was allowed to choose my clothes, I wore tight shirts in bold colours to show them off, while my Asian classmates mimicked KPop costume trends - leg-emphasising mini floral dresses, short shorts, and skirts with baggy animal-printed tops. Their clothes, unlike mine, were deployed to highlight the youth and purity of Asian females; an ideal that trickled down to infuse tween fashion with a cutesy, kawaii aesthetic.
a misplaced cultural identity. Other than what I had made for
Visits to Singapore would always be tainted with the knowledge that I would be shunned by relatives and friends because of my body shape and my tendency to put on weight. Asians (especially women) are expected to be ‘genetically petite’ and, inevitably, my non-conformity resulted in individuals criticising my body ‘out of concern’. This is still part of the reason I avoid Singapore at all costs. To further this, my ever-growing breasts, buttocks and thighs meant I was unable to fit even XXL clothing – often the largest size – when shopping in the clothing markets Singapore is best known for. My self-imposed exile (“being neither here nor there,” as my mother put it) left me feeling even more culturally isolated than I was originally.
approach’) in Ghost in the Shell, a movie based on a Japanese
As Roxanne Gay calls herself a ‘bad feminist’, I was considered a ‘bad Asian’: and I relished in that label. However, while attempting to openly subvert these expectations, I subconsciously conformed to them. For instance, I became bulimic at age eight in an attempt to combat my insecurities about my weight. I feigned an identity that disrupted these expectations but, in reality, I had succumbed to them in a more covert, self-damaging way. I had nothing to ‘look up to’ other than these stark images of infantilised, docile, submissive women (either through pornography or various TV shows depicting Asian housewives); exotic dancers of the orient; or mathematical geniuses whose intelligence was only undermined by their lack of mastery of the English language.
In multicultural Australia, where non-white Australians are
At sixteen years old, people started recognising and acknowledging me specifically for my race. These black-andwhite categorisations now became propellers for men and
mainstream
contrast between the child-like connotations of my facial appearance with my curvy, adult-like body. Racial slurs were used to hit on me and vast generalisations comparing my appearance to racial stereotypes were used as compliments (e.g. “You have big breasts for a Chink,” and “who says Asians have no butts?”). ‘Ni haos’ and ‘konnichiwas’ became more commonplace. While I was excluded from traditional Asian beauty standards because of my shape, there was a specific niche category being created around individuals who, like me, openly defied these expectations of appearance or character. This time, as an adolescent female, I flaunted these categorisations because of low self-esteem and myself, I had nothing solid in this realm. This hamfisted and insult-ridden approach to Asian female identities stems from a lack of exposure to non-stereotyped Asian females in Western societies. While the diversity in various media outlets is increasing, Asian female actresses are often type-caste and picked for particular roles to perpetuate existing harmful stereotypes, even in therare occasions where Asian female actresses have broken the mould to mainstream success (e.g. Lucy Liu). Historically, Hollywood has also seen the delegation of Asian characters to white actors. This ranges from the historical use of yellowface to Scarlett Johansson’s pick as ‘the Major’ (renamed from Motoko Kusanagi for an ‘international manga franchise. Johansson’s character coincidentally happens to defy submissive Asian female stereotypes in a ‘real time’ movie, giving the perfect opportunity for the movie to shine with a badass Asian female role model. Yet rather than, you know, do the blatantly right thing, the director (and many others) chose to play it box-office safe through ‘whitewashing’ – pandering to audiences who would rather see strong white characters on screen rather than Asian actresses breaking the one dimensional archetype into which they are routinely cast. This lack of stable cultural identity is not a new problem. denied the ‘Australianness’ owed to them, it is an extremely common problem. It has contributed to a sense of detachment, alienation and anxiety throughout
my
development. Knowing the difference between ‘tan’ and ‘normal’ is one thing, not thinking you have a place in Western
society due to your race and gender is another. 22
BY CLARE MORAN
Safe Space WORDS BY SOFIA KOUZNETSOVA ART BY ELLA MCLEOD
We
used to meet in the female bathrooms by the fifth floor, away from prying judging eyes. Just to sit on the bench by the showers. Holding hands, talking about our day.
“When is your friend coming over for dinner again?” my mother would ask, pretending that’s all we were. As if she had not dragged me to church and forced me to confess my sins after she found one of our letters to each other. As if I did not have to leave my door ajar when we were in the same room together: “Why did you close the door? What were you two doing in there?” Just friends, of course. Girl friends, not girlfriends. Emphasis on the space. The space that would find its way between us as we walked on the street. That space that would remain between us at lunch with her parents. The space she insisted on, so that her friends won’t feel uncomfortable around us. The space that was not ours to occupy. “I would like to buy some flowers for my girlfriend.” “Girlfriend?” Furrowed brow and blank stare. “No, it’s uh, for my friend’s girlfriend. Please hurry.” She handed me the flowers and quickly moved away, leaving a safe distance between us. Girl friends.
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BY GABBY LOO
25
26 BY TESS BURY
CW: RAPE MENTION, ABUSE MENTION, VICTIM-BLAMING
WORDS BY RAE TWISS ART BY HANNAH MATTHEWS
The alt bro is the guy you meet at the Bird. He has just come off stage, where his ironically named band played songs about northern suburbs. He’ll roll you a cigarette and tell you “smoking suited you”. He will talk wistfully until 4am about Zizek and his ex-girlfriend. He claims he’s seeking self-actualisation through micro-dosing. He’ll invite you to a party the next night. You’ll go but lose him after he tells you about his next big poetry/song writing/glitch art project. You forget which by the time you leave. You find out the next day that he left to fuck his ex-girlfriend. She has betty bangs like you. The alt bro was not popular in high school. He was above it all. He’s an anticapitalist, so he buys all his clothes from op shops. You lose your bra in the big pile of clothes on his bedroom floor. He talks over you when you discuss literature in his bed - even though it’s your major. He doesn’t realise that he mimics the same superiority complex about his intellect and artistic tastes as the jocks who bullied him in school. He tells you that he started listening to rap before it became cool- his dubious anti cred. He’ll discuss Foucault after he cums inside you and before he asks you
to leave. He is so unique and complex, that anecdotes about your relationship makes all your girl friends roll their eyes. They tell you about their existential, emotionally abusive ex-boyfriends. You ask for their names, just to make sure. The alt bro spaces his responses in such a way that you’re sure they’re deliberate. You feel like you’re in a constant competition of who can care less. He always wins. But he wants you to know he has feelings, so many feelings. He’s sad, angsty and probably depressed. He’s deeper than a well, just so deep you might drown in it. He thinks you couldn’t handle it. So he doesn’t let you in. He will lend you Bukowski. He will begin to call you late at night, drunk, where he exploits your “feminine talent” of empathy. He will act like it never happened. He is writing a book about all the women he has been involved with. He tells you that you are named after Esther, the Bell Jar’s main protagonist because you’re sad like her. He doesn’t let you read it. He will never reciprocate the emotional labour he demands of you in his mission for avant-garde mediocrity. You try not
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to mistake his self-indulgence for vulnerability. The alt bro gets a free pass because he knows who Judith Butler is. He wants you to call him Daddy, even though he’s less emotionally developed than your younger brother. He wants to choke you. Your friends will warn you that his self-aggrandising progressiveness is a vacuous act to get laid. He’s a proclaimed feminist. He tells you that if you were really a feminist like he, you would have evolved past desiring monogamy from him. He lies about using a condom with his ex. He will use words like ideology, discourse and dialectical to speak over your lived experiences as a woman. You sigh and get a glass of water from the kitchen, and realise it probably hasn’t been cleaned since he moved in. He is a misogynist dressed in the guise of a subversive, counter-cultural intellectual. A wolf in sheep’s clothing (and a Death Grips tee) to take advantage of women physically and mentally. When his house mate is accused of rape, he’ll call the survivor a liar. The alt bro will think he is the exception when he reads this.
WOMEN FOOTY LEGENDS 2017 WORDS BY SARAH NIELSEN-HARVEY ART BY CLARE MORAN
I remember in primary school the boys played football, and the girls played netball; or there was hockey which was everyone. I always did prefer that option. But as a growing football fan, I felt like something was missing. And finally, that something is beginning to be rectified: in 2017, we will have an AFL Women’s league.
safe environment for all supporters, members, players and staff; and, that any form of sexist or racist abuse is not tolerated. One of the issues that faces all women in basically any career is the gender pay-gap – and it is particularly so evident in sport. Going into the first season of the Women’s League in 2017, only 8 games are scheduled and the players will receive a minimum of $5,000, or a maximum of $25,000 if they are one of the two marquee players per team. This is in stark contrast to merely one male AFL player across all eighteen teams earning less than $60,000 in 2015; the average salary being over $300,000 and the four players earning over one million in the same year.
The Fremantle Football Club was awarded an inaugural women’s team earlier in June, among Adelaide, Greater Western Sydney and the Western Bulldogs. I recently had the chance to sit down with Brad Paatsch, General Manager of Strategic Projects at the Club to talk about the exciting future of women’s football. As soon as the Women’s League was announced, Fremantle had their sights set in establishing one of the eight foundational teams. What Mr Paatsch sees as distinguishing and strengthening factors of Fremantle’s bid is a ten-year focus on growing the Women’s league and a partnership with Curtin University and City of Cockburn.
Although the AFL controls pay as the governing body, Mr Paatsch sees that as the women’s competition grows, opportunities to increase the basic salary will arise, and that in the future parity will be achieved. We can only hope and continue to push for gender pay equity every chance we can, and that the growth and the professionalisation of the Women’s League will make this happen sooner rather than later.
“The Dockers have for the past ten years invested in women’s football, especially in community and school-based programs to encourage participation in the sport,” says Mr Paatsch. “With the highest percentage of female supporters and members of any AFL team, it only made sense to invest and to help promote women role models in the sport.” I could not agree more.
As a long time Fremantle supporter, there was one question that had to be asked: can we hope that a father-daughter rule will see the likes of Fremantle Great Matthew Pavlich’s daughter join the team in the future? The father-son rule has existed in the AFL to allow preferential recruitment to clubs where their father played long term. Alternatively, can we possibly expect a motherdaughter, or mother-son rule in the future. “The important thing is, we now have the opportunity for this to develop,” Mr Paatsch says.
The partnership with Curtin University and the City of Cockburn will provide opportunities to the players, and increase the exposure of the game. The Fremantle Football Club is moving into their new Cockburn training facility early next year, and guaranteed as part of their bid to provide dedicated facilities for the Women’s team.
So, for anyone who’s ever been criticised for kicking, catching or running like a girl: this is our time. People like the West’s Dean Alston can continue to draw misogynistic cartoons, but the Australian Women’s Football League is happening – and we’re ready.
From Islamophobia and blackface, to female commentators being subjected to disgusting remarks, the AFL has been the centre of both racism and sexism in 2016. Mr Paatsch recognises that “what can be taken away from these instances though, is that the AFL as a body and as a broader national community reacts strongly to condemn such actions.” “The AFL is a leader and a mechanism for change in cultural attitudes, and the Women’s League will be a strong part of this,” says Mr Paatsch. He sees the Club as integral in cultivating a
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Women Filmmakers:
A Starter Pack WORDS BY HOLLY MUNT
1.THE SMILING MADAM BEUDET (1922) In this painfully suspenseful French silent about abuse and guilt, a husband regularly tortures his wife by holding an empty revolver to his head and threatening to shoot himself. One day, she puts bullets in the revolver; only this time, he points it at her. French director Germaine Dulac was a trailblazer in more ways than one; whilst this Impressionist masterwork is often considered the first truly feminist film, her 1928 silent The Seashell and the Clergyman took surrealism to the screen a whole year before Buñuel and Dalí’s more renowned Un Chien Andalou.
5. THE HOUSE IS BLACK (1963) Lamentably the only film iconoclastic Iranian poet Forough Farrokhzad made before her death in 1967, The House is Black is a startlingly beautiful short about life in the Behkadeh leper colony. The film periodically intersperses Farrokhzad’s narration of her own observations, which never approach condescension, as well as excerpts from the Quran and her poetry; its rhythm a testament to her unique poetic voice. Farrokhzad’s is a profound essay-film and one that would pave the way for the Iranian New Wave years later.
2. MERRILY WE GO TO HELL (1932) With the onset of the Great Depression, the highs of the Roaring Twenties would quickly lose their lustre. In the death throes of the Jazz Age, Merrily We Go to Hell dramatises its dark side with a by-turns darkly funny and desperately sad pre-code marital drama about alcoholic co-dependency. Starring Frederic March and in a heartbreaking performance, Sylvia Sidney, director Dorothy Arzner (an open lesbian and the only woman working in Hollywood at this time) rightly regarded this as her best work.
6. DAISIES (1966) The most frequently discussed work of Czech director Věra Chytilová, Daisies is a freewheeling, neo-dadaist farce about two teenage girls (both named Marie) who embark on a series of destructive pranks. It’s one of the most formally audacious films of the radical Czech New Wave; full of collage experiments, distortions of the film material itself and a kaleidoscopic play of colour that always leaves me wondering why no one uses colour-tinted film anymore. A feminist allegory that’s subversive and more than anything, fun, Daisies was banned by Communist authorities for “depicting the wanton” with its climactic buffet food fight set-piece. After her next film the great Fruit of Paradise, Chytilová was regrettably blacklisted in her homeland by post-Prague Spring authorities until 1975.
3. MESHES OF THE AFTERNOON (1943) Maya Deren was an absolutely towering figure of the avant-garde; starring herself, her film Meshes of the Afternoon remains one of the most influential experimental films of all time. The film forms something of a surrealist game of associated images (including knives, poppies and mirror-faced men), repeated movements and alter egos. Shot by her husband Alexander Hammid, its Mobius strip-style play of subjectivity and symbols is strikingly realised with a circular, dream-like logic all its own.
7. DAUGHTERS OF THE DUST (1991) “Let’s live our lives without living in the fold of old wounds.” Celebrating its 25th anniversary and having recently re-entered the popular consciousness through its influence on Beyoncé’s Lemonade, Daughters of the Dust follows three generations of Gullah women, descents of slaves brought to the islands off the South Carolina coast, on a single day in 1902, the eve of their journey north. The first film directed by an African-American woman to receive general release, it’s a beautiful work about the struggle to maintain cultures and tradition in the face of modernism and colonial trauma; the latter powerfully, yet respectfully symbolised by blue-stained hands from working the indigo. Director Julie Dash was also applauded for conceiving its radical narrative structure; one that actually speaks to the rhythms and sensibilities of oral storytelling in the diaspora.
4. CLÉO FROM 5 TO 7 (1962) ‘Godmother of the French New Wave,’ Agnès Varda’s early films stand in stark contrast to the sexism of some of her contemporaries and are some of the best to emerge from the movement. Amongst her many gems is the enchanting Cléo from 5 to 7, following pop singer Cléo (Corinne Marchand) in real time as she wanders Paris, awaiting the results of a cancer biopsy. A spirited feminist search for identity and exploration of selfperceptions and those projected onto us, the film includes a wonderful score from frequent Demy collaborator Michel Legrand, as well as a short slapstick pastiche with cameos from Godard and Anna Karina. 29
CW: SLURS
A Year with Olive WORDS BY NATASHA MILOSEVIC MESTON
From our first introduction to studying the past in secondary school, we’re taught the importance of maintaining distance from our subjects. The historian’s brief is to rationally evaluate the actions of historical figures – the need to withhold judgement on an emotional level has always been pretty clear. Yet it’s only been while researching my dissertation topic this year that my understanding of historical empathy has been truly tested.
women she encountered who supported the movement. Her deepest contempt however was reserved for ‘society ladies.’ Much of Olive’s wartime rhetoric centres on the attempt to convince her family to allow her independence following the conflict, that she might escape an arena she saw as frivolous and inferior. So what do we grapple with when we are disappointed with a woman in history? First, we might consider the historical context. Olive’s reluctance to support political feminism may be traced back to her privilege as a white Australian woman living in a time when her suffrage had already been won. Her disdain for her female peers might more broadly be attributed to the expectations placed on femininity in this period, which was enforced in part by women scrutinising and policing other women under a patriarchal standard. In other words, Olive’s anti-woman rhetoric is a kind of lateral violence; an expression of internalised negative attitudes towards women of that era.
I began pursuing the life of Olive Kelso King almost ten months ago, after being drawn to her story of a thrilling life on the Eastern Front during the First World War. Finding herself in Europe at the outbreak of the conflict, Sydney-born King became an ambulance driver for the Scottish Women’s Hospitals and later, the Serbian Army. She was known for such feats as driving for 24 hours without rest, and was awarded a Serbian silver medal for bravery. I suspect my chronic guilt over being a third-generation migrant with no strong understanding of my family’s origins was what initially fuelled my curiosity into Olive’s adventures in Serbia. It seemed to me that paying homage to a figure who contributed so much to my current home and that of my ancestors could serve as a kind of penance for my own cultural shortcomings.
Next, we could look at Olive’s personal context more specifically. One factor of influence in Olive’s perception of the world was undoubtedly her father Sir George Kelso King – a charismatic figure who was also incredibly controlling of his eldest daughter. George’s strict demands on Olive as a woman required her to construct herself as extraordinary; an exception to the gender constraints he might place upon other women. Analysis of Olive’s letters reveal the intense power her father had over her. Any expression of disapproval would result in his daughter’s immediate acquiescence. Olive’s rhetoric of superiority to other women therefore might be understood as a result of her being made to feel inferior by her father as a result of her gender.
A second motive was the heady temptation of ‘discovering’ a forgotten hero of the past – and one from the Great War, no less – a conflict that shaped national identity significantly both here and in Serbia. I fantasised about the kind of unbreakable connections female biographers write of experiencing with their subjects, and imagined that my research would soon lead me to a sort of natural sympathy with Olive’s psyche. I committed fully to the project, and rushed to the library to borrow Olive’s published letters – and it was there my troubles began. I hadn’t been prepared to dislike what I found in my first glimpse of Olive. She is, in short, an overwhelmingly problematic historical figure. Her letters to her father during the war years betray ugly prejudices across lines of class and race. Yet the very nations that welcomed women such as herself were treated by Olive with derision and contempt, their occupants labelled with slurs.
Of course, human experience rarely fits neatly into formulas; she was as far from a horrible bigot as she was an ideal heroine. Exception can be found within Olive’s worldview. For example, she demonstrated the ability to respect both foreigners and other women through the affection she held for her dear friend Dr Isabel Emslie. The same can be said regarding the ‘Dago’ she fell in love with, whose photograph sat on her mantelpiece when she died in 1958.
The final turning point from uneasiness to frustration in my research was in learning of Olive’s attitudes towards her female peers. Olive took a vastly hierarchical perspective of the women around her, casting herself as firmly superior through her involvement in the masculine sphere. As an ambulance driver, military chauffeur, and finally the head of fourteen relief canteens established throughout Serbia, Olive scoffed at women involved in more traditionally ‘feminine’ roles, particularly those of the domestic and voluntary medical. She disapproved of the suffrage effort in England, and scorned the
Whilst our contexts of living are vastly different, the privileges Olive and I were born with are similar, which may account for my personal frustrations when she proved to be not the role model I was searching for. More than anything, my research this year has highlighted to me the responsibility we place on women of the past to conform to ‘fantasies’ of the protofeminist, and serve as simple characters in a modern day grand narrative of gender. Evidently, history – and the women who populate it – is far more complicated.
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CW: PAEDOPHILIA
Fakhira WORDS BY AMARA CHAUDHRY ART BY HOLLY JIAN
The crowd wasn’t roaring tonight. Nor was it showing interest towards the woman who thrust her body sideways to the eccentric beat. Fakhira watched from inside the shabby tent, heart filling with pain for Areeba, whose face was slowly becoming a mask of worry and frustration. Fakhira knew Areeba needed to make a lot of money this evening; her mother-in-law was in hospital. Fakhira sat on a small stool in the corner of the tent. Directly above her was a mirror. She grunted in annoyance as she caught sight of her reflection; her mother had forced her to apply a base too pale for her skin. Light skin was considered beautiful here. The notion frustrated Fakhira. A growing rumble from outside pulled Fakhira out of her thoughts. She lifted the flap again and felt her stomach turn, as it always did. Areeba had removed her top, leaving her in only her bra and pants. Sweat rolled drearily down her bare stomach as it moved to the Bollywood beat. The men were jeering and hollering now; money littered the air. She was seventeen-years-old – just two years older than Fakhira. As the song thudded to a halt, Fakhira’s mother entered the tent, her red lipstick slightly smeared. “I’m on now, I want you to take care of the money and our belongings, do you understand me?” she demanded. Without waiting for a reply, she hitched up her embroidered skirt, adjusted her bright pink top, and hurried out of the tent. She was replaced by a sweating Areeba who quickly threw on a top. The lamp’s feeble light cast light onto a deep and troubled frown. “I didn’t make half of what I expected to,” she wailed. “How am I going to tell Shahid? I need the money now!” Areeba ran her hands through her long brown hair. It looked as though she was trying to rip it from its scalp. “I can try getting some money from my mother,” Fakhira said, as Areeba began stuffing the 10 rupee notes into her
purse. Her hair fell over her face as she let out a short bark-like laugh. “You need it just as much as me,” she said. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, Areeba made her way to the tent entrance. Here, she hesitated. Casting one last weary smile behind her, she left. Fakhira sighed, left alone to her thoughts once more. Her mother was now dancing– her long black hair moving against the wind. There were about 50 men watching, sitting on Charpais or squatted on the dirty ground. None of them showed the enthusiasm they had for Areeba. Her mother was growing old; her body did not captivate as it had once. There was no single kind of man who came to Mujra. Some were from the slums, some were middle-class, and a few of them were from the higher classes. The high-class men always sat on the Charpais. Only rarely did women come; it was a filthy, dirty place. The women who danced here at Mujra were seen as vermin. The crowd was growing restless. Barely anyone was throwing money, and Fakhira was becoming worried. Her mother grew very angry when she did not make as much money as she had planned to. To Fakhira’s horror, she saw a drunken men get up, unplug the speaker and shout: “We want the other bitch back! Bring back the younger one! You are too old!” The other men yelled in agreement. Fakhira felt outrage. They had no right to be cruel to her mother. She wanted to rush in and say something, but she knew her mother would be furious if she interfered. Instead she did nothing, watching as her mother shouted at a man trying to take back money he had previously thrown. The men didn’t like it when women spoke back to them. Fakhira’s mother was making her way back to the tent, her chest heaving up and down. Entering, she kicked the ground. “How are we going to survive? How are we going to eat tonight?” she 31
yelled. Fakhira observed her quietly as she paced around the tent. She knew not to say anything back. “Get up.” Fakhira looked at her mother blankly. “You will dance, one song, just one song.” Fakhira continued to stare at her mother as panic bubbled up within her. Dance? In front of all those men? “You are a good dancer!” her mother continued, her voice rising. “You must dance! We need the money, how are we going to eat?” Her eyes were filled with desperation. What did it matter they went hungry tonight? It didn’t matter. Fakhira was not dancing in front of anyone. Memories surged in her mind, and panicked, she tried to thrust them down. The last time she had danced had been when she was six. She had watched her mother dance many times; had liked the way her mother’s body swayed with the music. Fakhira had wanted to be exactly like her. Imitating her had been fun, joyous even – until she had noticed a man watching her from the opening of the tent, a hand down his pants. Fakhira cried out as her mother ripped her scarf off her chest. “You will do this for me! I will never speak to you again if you do not do this!” she yelled. Gripping her arm in a vice, she dragged Fakhira outside. The men sat up immediately, their eyes growing shiny and rapt. She felt like an animal in a zoo. “Dance, Fakhira!” her mother yelled. Someone plugged the speaker in and the loud music made the ground quiver. She felt as though the cold air was closing in. Slowly, she started moving her body to the beat, as tears fell silently onto the pulsating earth.
CW: SLURS
DEAR SAPPHIC GIRLS Dear sapphic girls, Here are some things I wish I had known a few years ago. It’s okay to be scared. I know people say that “being gay isn’t a big deal” and that “being gay doesn’t define you” and to a certain extent, I do believe that is true. But I also know that your sexual orientation does compose a part of who you are. It’s okay to be confused and scared that previous assumptions you had about yourself were wrong. It’s okay to feel like your worldview is changing and that you no longer belong in the space you had created for yourself. A time will come when you feel more comfortable with your sexuality and how you wield it in the world you are in. It’s okay to take some time to question who you are. Your journey is yours to make and you have all the time in the world to soul-search and wonder who you feel attracted to. You can unlearn your ideas of femininity and you can discard coercive heteronormativity. I know these ideas can be very difficult to unravel but there is no time constraint! You will always be a real sapphic girl, no matter what path you take. If you’re a sapphic woman of colour: I understand what you’re feeling. The pressure of expectations from parents who are immigrants, socio-cultural expectations, and conflicting ideologies from multiples sources can be horribly isolating. But sapphic women of colour exist. We thrive. We grow. We love. And we prosper. You will find a time when you feel comfortable with all parts of your identity. You will find a space where you feel at peace. Sapphic women of colour are fighting the long hard fight and I love each and every single one of you. It’s okay if you’re angry. It’s okay if you’re exhausted by the intersections between homophobia and white supremacy. It’s okay if you don’t fit perfectly in either community and feel a struggle between your identities. You don’t have to gravitate towards pride groups if you feel neglected by them in regards to your racial identity. You don’t need to force yourself to fit into the ideas of a white LGBT+ community. There is no pressure to choose a label. You can be lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, polysexual or queer. You can choose not to use any label at all. You can try out multiple labels until you find the one that best fits you. You can be as vague or as specific as you like. You can change your label way down the road if you decide there’s another one that fits you better. Labels were created so people would feel a sense of belonging so if you feel safer and freer without one then don’t fret. You are valid. Your sapphic identity exists in a relationship and out of it. Who you’re dating, how many people you’re dating, and how you’re dating them bears no significance on your sexual identity. You are not a stereotype and you shouldn’t feel any pressure to conform to any ideals. We have nothing to prove to anyone else. You can look at girls all you want – it’s not predatory and you don’t have the male gaze. Your love and attraction for girls is valid and good. You belong in bathrooms and changing rooms. Homophobic straight women who make you feel bad for your attraction to women are to blame, not your gaze. You are not objectifying women. Your attraction to women is good. There’s a lot of pressure on sapphic girls to have perfect relationships. No relationships are perfect. Sometimes they have rough patches and bad endings. They can be difficult and painful. They can be rough and passionate. They can be soft and nurturing. And the relationships of sapphic women are the same. You don’t need to perform to outrageous expectations. Just be honest with yourself and your partner. You don’t need to meet heteronormative standards of beauty in order to impress men. You don’t need to conform to a certain level of femininity or fuckability in order to feel accepted by society. You don’t have to conform to a gender stereotype. Your worth is not measured in your appeal to men. Your love and sexual desire (if you have it) for women is not for the consumption of men. You are wonderful and definitely not created to be objectified or fetishised.
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There will be those who accept you. There will be those who reject you. There will be those who don’t take your sexual orientation seriously or erase it completely. But despite what people think or say, you are still loved. You will be able to leave any homophobic environments you’re stuck in eventually. But until you are safe, you are under no obligation to come out. You don’t have to feel bad about lying about your sexual orientation. It’s not your fault that you’re in this situation. It’s okay if you’ve never met another sapphic girl before. It’s sometimes very easy to feel isolated from the community, but you are not invisible. You exist and so do we! You are brave and strong for facing this world on your own, but you are not actually alone. You will find sapphic friends and even girlfriends. In the meantime, we love and support you from all over the world. It’s also okay if you want to introduce yourself to a sapphic girl but are closeted. I know being closeted can be very scary and it can be hard to trust people with your secret, but you will find people who understand your boundaries and support you. Lesbian women are worth so much. You don’t need to be attracted to men to be of value. You can be femme, butch or anywhere in between. Conversely, all multiple gender attracted sapphic girls should know their love for girls isn’t made invalid by their love for other genders. You are not any less sapphic than other sapphic women. You belong in our community no matter what. Bisexual and lesbian women are not in competition with each other. We can live in harmony and remove lesbophobic and biphobic notions which have permeated the sapphic community together. All trans and non-binary sapphic girls are especially precious and you are all made to be protected, loved and cherished. Don’t listen to horrible and violent exclusionary rhetoric. Your lives, your relationships, your pronouns and your identities are just as valid as those of cisgender women-lovingwomen. Don’t be afraid to embrace whatever label you feel best describes you. Don’t be afraid to call out cis sapphic girls if they do something transmisogynistic. You have a voice and you are allowed to use it to stand up for yourself. All polyamorous women are beautiful and your relationships are not weird or odd. You are not greedy and you are valid. It’s okay to be on the ace spectrum. Sapphic women are so often fetishised but you are under no pressure to have sex if you don’t feel attraction towards girls in that way. At the end of the day, I want you all to remember that you are not alone. Just stick around a little longer and things will improve. Love, Anonymous
ART BY CATHERINE COETZER
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CW: PEDOPHILIA, SEX MENTIONS
CHEST PAINS WORDS AND ART BY KATE PRENDERGAST PHOTO BY ANNELISE JANSEN
At the start of the year, whilst palpating my chest for reasons I don’t remember were soap-related or just because I was horny, I discovered a lump. It was only a small lump, not too big. I’d put it at the size of a large knuckle-bone, or a bit of gristle leftover on the side of a plate after a chicken dinner. Without feeling too much horror over certain imminent death through the massification of skin cells and chemo and the sad bundles of bedside flowers in the hospital room and the stench of aseptic corridors and loss of ability and crippling end-me depression and the regret, I made an appointment with the uni GP. I told just one person about the lump – a guy who happened to be fondling me in the Pelican office, and in whom I’ve confided other things before. My parents absolutely did not need to know. No sir. In the small blue room, the doctor asked me to remove my top and lie down on the hard bed in the corner, on top of the linen sheets. Fumblingly, I followed through, and the lady began poking and prodding at the lump-filled area with gentle administrative hands. Silently, I began to cry. It wasn’t thoughts of massification of skin cells and chemo and the sad bundles of flowers in the hospital room and the stench of aseptic corridors and loss of ability and crippling end-me depression and the regret that was turning my face wet however. It was because the lady’s kind, methodical, matter-of-fact approach to my body confronted me with the inescapable fact I (and others) am often at pains to avoid: I have no boobs. No tits. Nothing. I never have – even in high school when I was about 20 kgs heftier than I am now. From the clavicle down to sternum base, there is a terrain of white skin interrupted by two small
pink nipples, and that’s pretty much it. I just never ‘developed’. When the lump went away (it ended up just being a bit of muscle accumulating where it shouldn’t have, and dissolved after a month or so back into nothingness), I missed it. I missed the tiny curvature it gave to the right side of my chest; the never-before-felt bounce I felt as I went down a set of stairs. My faux cancer made me feel sexier; it made me feel like a woman. Bodies shape how we experience the world. How we move through it, interact with it, perceive it, are perceived in it. And in many ways – for women especially – our bodies are not our own. They are marked and codified with a dense idiotic overlay and matrix of cultural discourse and expectations, which vary between places and over time, and work to discipline and shame those who do not conform to a certain invented, unrealistic ‘ideal’.
It’s certainly true that the boob supreme fluctuates according to each historical moment; also true that all boobs are pretty beautiful. The perky ones, the pendulous ones, the pillowy ones: they are all great. And I definitely think it hugely shitty that top-heavy women are routinely marked with the ‘invitation to honk’ by men – the same kind of men who complain when their girlfriends get reduction surgery because the load is giving them chronic back pain. It makes me angry that anyone could put selfish pleasures before their partner’s physical discomfort.
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But there is no escaping it: women are supposed to have boobs. It’s a truism. Like the blooded period, except visible to the point of being literally in-your-face, growing a set is the rite of passage from girlhood into womanhood. And, under this truism, I am categorised invalid as a member of a gender I would otherwise subscribe. Although varying theories circulate (i.e. men likes tits because playing with them floods a woman with chemicals promoting care and attention – in other words, hijacking the love chemical she would give to a child at suck), it largely comes down to biology. Whilst size is no indicator of how much milk a woman can provide, boobs are a mother’s means for nourishing offspring; that is their biological ‘function’. They are essentially sexualised parts of the reproductive anatomy; idiosyncratically eroticised through cultural learning. And how. In film, the camera lingers agonisingly on the puff spilling over the corset’s brim. Listening to Drake makes me deeply depressed because of how many times I hear him obsess over the objectified dame’s titties. When inquiring about new girlfriends, the first fucked up question dudebros ask is: “Is she stacked?” There’s no getting around it: it matters. As I am, I feel stranded on the shores of adolescence. The word ‘woman’ sits awkwardly with me: I do not identify with it. I can’t – I feel I do not qualify. Does this make me queer? I don’t know. I think it just means I still identify as a girl. At the moment, I am watching the web TV series Transparent, in which the inimitable Jeffrey Tambor plays a 75-year-old trans woman. I watch the scenes where she starts taking estrogen pills, and feel envy as her chest gently expands. I am aware of my ghost boobs permanently. In the mirror, walking in
public spaces, lying down where my arms naturally fold in a cross over the hollow: I am at least in some way conscious of the space which juts out before me; a void in which hurt swills about. The idea of wearing a padded bra makes me very sad. Why disguise what I see as a kind of sexual deformity? Why deceive? I imagine a man disrobing me and the terrible disorientating feeling of betrayal when the strap is undone and the bra falls away and he finds himself looking at a sheer cliff wall of a small boy’s chest. I would never suffer myself or another that kind of humiliation. Though our green sack dresses strived to minimise any kind of shapeliness suggestive of us students as sexual beings, attending an all-girls school for twelve years, well, it was hard. Perhaps being in a mixed college would have been harder: who knows. When I came to uni though, I discovered myself a tomboy. Here, estranged from the sisterhood by what likely comes down to just my own insecurity, I have mostly male friends, around which I kick about at the edges, having not acquired any working knowledge of NBL or gaming. Whilst this insecurity (and a preference for guys a lot bigger than me, meow) means that my sex life has not exactly been a bang a week, I had my fair share of one-night stands whilst travelling solo in Europe, on top of the medley of unsatisfying hook ups through Tinder. Every guy except one has chosen not to broach the matter. Most at first try to find something to paw at before their hands creep off awkwardly to settle on the (also bony) ass. They mind – of course they do. I feel bad for not being ‘enough’. Isn’t that awful? But even if they don’t mind: I mind. The exception – a self-styled “fuck philanthropist” – tried for a while to boost my confidence in the area. “You
have such cute little nips,” he would coax, eyeing me as he bent down to nibble on one, as something in me grimaced, unsexied, and became heavy. Warped though it may be, I have come to consider myself sexually as an acceptable fuck for closet pedophiles. Sorry men who might be attracted to me: there is something in me which will just default assume you have a pedophile streak. Bleak, huh. There is a certain obligation for feminist women to express strength by taking pride in their body, in affirming their flesh. I wish I could, and I admire the flat woman of the world who have the maturity and confidence to triumph in who they are, how they are. If I did this here though, I’d be lying. Had I the moolah on hand – some $7,000 – I would get the work done, no question. Nothing huge, nothing drastic – it’d be too much of a change. And in some ways I do recognise I am fortunate to be spared the travails of expensive bras, of having to sleep in a certain way, of being ogled at and groped by strangers. I just want something to be there. Something. I know there are far worse things to contend with, and that sadly, few girls love and embrace their bodies. Even if my perception of lack is merely the symptom of internalised body-shaming: it just sucks. I’d rather be otherwise. Before I wrote this, I read an Esquire article by When Harry Met Sally screenwriter Nora Ephron called “A Few Words About Breasts”. Whilst I have never been given a book on frigidity by a boyfriend’s mother, my lament in some ways mirrors hers, born fifty years on. “Even now,” she writes, “now that I have been countlessly reassured that my figure is a good one, now that I am grown-up enough to understand that most of my
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feelings have very little to do with the reality of my shape, I am nonetheless obsessed by breasts. I cannot help it. I grew up in the terrible fifties -with rigid stereotypical sex roles, the insistence that men be men and dress like men and women be women and dress like women, the intolerance of androgyny - and I cannot shake it, cannot shake my feelings of inadequacy. Well, that time is gone, right? All those exaggerated examples of breast worship are gone, right? … I know all that. And yet here I am, stuck with the psychological remains of it all, stuck with my own peculiar version of breast worship. You probably think I am crazy to go on like this: Here I have set out to write a confession that is meant to hit you with the shock of recognition, and instead you are sitting there thinking I am thoroughly warped. Well, what can I tell you? If I had had them, I would have been a completely different person. I honestly believe that.” Honestly? Same.
CW: SEX, SEXUAL ASSAULT, MENTAL ILLNESS AND ABUSE MENTIONS
WORDS BY HOLLY PROTOOLIS ART BY TESS BURY
As much as it pains me to use a dictionary definition when talking about a nuanced and complex issue, MerriamWebster defines BDSM as “…consisting of using physical or psychological restraints, domination and submission [that] involve an exchange of power and control, and sadism and masochism refer to taking pleasure in others' or one's own pain or humiliation.” For once, this is a fairly succinct and accurate depiction, but it does leave a few things out. I was around eighteen when I discovered the world of BDSM through that scourge of society, Fifty Shades of Grey. Although that book possibly has the same amount of feminist value as the Malleus Maleficarum, there’s no denying it introduced a new generation to the concepts of kinky play and BDSM. You only need to make a simple Google search to find more accurate descriptions of what BDSM actually is and voila! You can begin! Well… not really. See, as a blossoming feminist and someone suffering from severe mental illness, it was very difficult for me to reconcile the three together. How could I engage in play that seemed (on the surface) to be all about the domination of women? In order to find the answers to these questions, I did what any good member of Gen Y would do, I went straight to the internet. Funnily enough, it turns out finding the answers was a lot less difficult than I thought. Most of the information I found came from Reddit and I strongly recommend the /r/BDSMcommunity on Reddit for anyone starting out on their kink journey. There I found a plethora of information about different types of play, which sex toys I should purchase, how to look after them, lists of kink-friendly therapists, how to perform good aftercare and what to do if your Dom/Domme becomes abusive. There is even comprehensive advice on how to handle BDSM if you have previously experienced sexual assault or abuse.
To save you the time and effort, I have compiled a list of eight fun facts about the world of BDSM:
is separate from your sexuality; all sexualities and genders are welcome in BDSM. Fetishising people is not.
1. It is in not primarily about men dominating women. Many women/ gender-fluid/non-identifying people are often the Dom/Domme. It frequently subverts traditional heteronormative gender roles, which is one of the things that make it so attractive. However, if you enjoy those roles, as long as you are aware of the power dynamics, there is nothing wrong with indulging yourself!
BDSM should be a fun way to express yourself sexually. This can be done with a dedicated partner, a group or several casual partners. As long as there is communication, consent and safety, there are very few things that are ‘wrong’ in the world of BDSM. Every kink has its match – whether you’re into ropes, handcuffs, whips, paddles, submission, domination, humiliation or pretty much anything else you can think of.
2. COMMUNICATION IS KEY. Your rights are not taken away just because you are a sub. In fact, the sub may be the one who doesn’t seem like they are in control, but they should be calling the shots. You are allowed to express your concerns and dislikes at any point in a healthy BDSM partnership. 3. You don’t necessarily have to do anything that incites physical pain to participate in BDSM. A lot of it is about roleplay. 4. There is a difference between play and abuse. BDSM is another mode of expressing yourself, sexual abuse/trauma is not. If your partner starts behaving outside the parameters that you have previously agreed to, or ignoring your safe word/ indicators, then remove yourself as quickly as you can and seek support from people you trust. As safe as the BDSM community is, there are terrible people in it just as much as any other community. 5. Good BDSM literature exists people! I’d start with A Gentlemen in the Street by Alisha Rai. If you’re looking for some good, sex-positive, racially-inclusive, feminist, anti slut-shaming literature, hoo boy will you be in for a treat. 6. Safety is KEY when indulging in more dangerous roleplay. While risk is all part of the fun, it should be reasonable risk. Do not start with ANYTHING complicated for your first time! Work up to it. 7. BDSM dungeons do exist. But they are not creepy, dingy, literal dungeons (unless you live next to a sixteenth century castle). They are fun, inclusive areas in which to play and explore. 8. The most surprising aspect I found was that in a good BDSM community, acts are fetishised – not people. This 36
Another piece of advice I would give is to get involved! Almost every city in the world has a thriving BDSM community (yes, even Perth). The best way to start is by attending a MUNCH (Meet Under Normal Circumstances Here). It is understood that everyone there is into/curious about BDSM and there is no expectation of a sexual encounter. It makes meeting and talking with people about BDSM a lot easier once assumptions have already been subverted. These meetings can be at a club or even a café. To find one in your area, check FetLife.com (kind of like Facebook for kinky people!). I’ll tell you, there are few things more satisfying in this world than sitting in a café candidly discussing vibrators and handcuffs while a group of Liberal party supporters sit very uncomfortably at the next table. Election time was fun! As for my mental illness… well as someone with both Bipolar II and Borderline Personality Disorder, it was important to place my interest in BDSM in context with my mental state. I have an excellent psychiatrist and had no problems discussing it with him, and we check in regularly. It is not a one-off conversation; it needs to be maintained over time with both your therapist and partner(s). Do not pay attention to the stigma that only ‘messed up’ people are into BDSM. There are a wide range of people who engage in BDSM, some with mental illness, some without. Your illness does not define you as a person, so don’t let it define the significance of your interests. You are not broken and you are not damaged. Enjoy your sexual freedom no matter your gender, race, sexuality, body type or ability. Good luck and have fun exploring!
justice rains WORDS BY BRIDGET RUMBALL ART BY EMILY LAW
it’s funny how upon loading a match (an unranked match) your actions as played on the flank or on point or at spawn are successful dependent not on relative, rapid reaction time nor on years of online experience playing your character, but because you’re a girl.
undoubtable to say the least you see thousands of messages fill her rolling, scrolling chat shouting ‘what a hack!’ ‘kill yourself’ ‘you’re cheating to win’ because she’s a girl. see, video games are boys talk like finances or politics or complicated things which the feminine mind is too delicate to directly handle, and which is too boring or complex for girls to understand, the keyboards too wide for our gloved hands, the mouse too large for our delicate, dainty fingers and gameplay too difficult, too rapid for our vapid attention spans to follow, follow, follow...
it’s funny how upon attending a party (a housewarming party) your opinion about a nerf or a buff or an ubiquitous update is brushed into the corner of a cobwebbed, crowded apartment with so much as a incredulous look and a patronising smirk because you’re a girl.
advice: the egos of men are as fictional and as fragile and as laggy as the video games they play.
it’s funny how upon watching a streamer (a popular streamer) who’s natural talent at gaming is
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CW: FGM
Working in the Field of Women’s Health:
Interview with Dr Demelza Ireland INTERVIEW BY NATASHA MILOSEVIC MESTON ART BY HOLLY JIAN
Dr Demelza Ireland is a research fellow and lecturer at the University of Western Australia and the unit coordinator for broadening unit ‘Issues in Women’s Health Across the Lifespan’ (IMED1108). She is a great model on and off-campus and is full of suggestions for Damsel readers who wish to become active in the cause of women’s health. To begin, I’d like to ask about your pathway into science. Well, when I was going through high school, I thought I would study medicine or law – but I was always very interested in humanitarian issues and very involved with organisations like World Vision and Amnesty International. Probably because of those extracurricular activities, I didn’t quite get the score for either medicine or law. So I took a year off and went to Germany, where I had the opportunity to work in a forensic morgue. That’s when I realised I actually quite like the science side of things, and I enrolled in microbiology and pathology as soon as I got back to Perth. I enjoyed asking questions, I enjoyed that every day was new, and I especially enjoyed that I had the opportunity to offer something to people who needed it. So I guess my pathway came back full circle to that humanitarian interest. How would you describe your experience as a female scientist at UWA, specifically? The only tricky issue was when I became a mother towards the end of my PhD, and had to figure out how to balance my research career with caring for two little girls. I had big, frank, and open discussions with my husband, and we came up with a plan to make it work. But I also had to re-evaluate what my goals were, and accept I might not go as far in my research career because I do want to actively parent my girls. You’ve made a great impact in bringing science and gender together. What were the gaps in women’s health coverage that inspired you to create your new unit, ‘Issues in Women’s Health Across the Lifespan’? The unit is a Level 1 Category A broadening unit, which means it has to have a global context. So while the unit is concerned with women’s health issues
and is grounded in science, it also talks about those issues in a bigger social, cultural, global kind of context. I know that not all the students in my class will be scientists or doctors and that’s absolutely fine - the gap that I’ve really identified and want to address with the unit is that there are many people who really struggle with scientific literacy. So, their ability to ask appropriate questions and find appropriate evidence to guide their decision-making. My big goal for this unit is to give the students who aren’t trained in science the skills that they can take out into the real world and use in their lives and the lives of the women they love around them. I think those are some of the biggest issues addressed – health and scientific literacy. You mentioned that you want your unit to address being able to locate ‘appropriate evidence’ so your students can make more informed decisions. What are some of the myths about women’s health that you’re most eager to break down? Well, not even myths, but misunderstandings. As an immunologist by training, one issue that’s dear to me is the importance of vaccinations across the lifespan. I appreciate the fear that some people have about the schedules of vaccinations, but immunologists and vaccination researchers put in a lot of effort to develop those schedules based on sound evidence. Timing, dosage, and combinations are developed for a reason and with evidence, and I think if people understand the process we go through, it might alleviate some fears and concerns. So the next time that students have a conversation with family or friends around a barbeque and someone mentions that they don’t want to vaccinate their baby, I hope my students can now inform that discussion with a little more information that they’ve learnt in the unit. Another understanding important to have is around screening programs, 38
and how these aren’t a diagnostic tool. There’s a lot of concern and fear about pap smears for example – and they are uncomfortable, undoubtedly! But they are important. My effort is towards helping people understand that we have the schedule and that is based on sound evidence. Could you sum up the administrative process in establishing such an innovative unit? The unit was written several years ago, when some leading academics at the school of Women’s and Infant’s Health were interested in attracting more undergraduate students to our school. When I took over rolling out the units, I was given a page summary of potential topics the unit could include. It was an amazing list, ranging from female genital mutilation, fertility, and assisted reproduction, all the way to dementia and Alzheimer’s at the other end of life. There was no way I could teach all those things! I realised the best way to engage the students with these health and medical topics in a real life way was to get experts in. I spent a lot of time inviting very wellrespected clinicians, researchers, health administrators, health policy-makers to come along and give a guest lecture, and now the list of lectures looks like an international conference meeting! The next thing was coming up with tutorials to teach useful, basic scientific skills in a really applied way. So the tutorials are designed to teach things like sourcing and interpreting evidence, interrogating the media portrayal of science, and understanding how research is translated into practice. What would you say has been the greatest obstacle to your work in women’s health education and setting up this unit? We’ve had amazing interest in the unit, but I would say an obstacle would be the perception of the unit as being ‘only’
relevant to women, which means that the vast majority of enrolling students are female. What I would love would be to attract students from across the spectrum of gender, so we can have a broader approach to what women’s health means, and an ability to apply it to loads of people. Where would you like the university campus to be in terms of women’s health education, five years from now? I would love the IMED units to continue to grow and attract students. Next year, IMED2208 will focus on women’s health from puberty to menopause – again in a bigger picture context – and in the following year IMED3308 will address women’s health research. More broadly, I would love health to become part of all conversations, and not just women’s health, though that is a great place to start. I’d just love to have women’s health be a normal, healthy part of discussion; that would be brilliant. Like the Chinese Olympic swimmer who mentioned she had her period as a reason why she swam
slower in her race! That was a really simple thing, why not talk about it?
was a really natural part of the evening’s
As a mother, feminist and academic, what have been some of your proudest moments in the last year?
Finally, how can Damsel readers get
I was so pleased to watch Professor John Newnham give the opening lecture on the first day of the unit this semester. It was just awesome to see the students sitting on the edge of their seats, drooling over a high level professor talking about an important area of his research – and to see the pleasure on his face as well as he delivered the lecture. Also, I have two beautiful little girls aged seven and nine, and a recent proud moment was taking the plunge to start talking to them about sex education. It’s just the basic stuff about how their bodies work, but I’m really proud of how well my girls engaged with the conversation, and have continued to engage. Last night, for example, my daughter saw me writing a slide on periods, and we then managed to have a conversation on periods that
discussion.
involved with efforts in women’s health? Firstly, there’s Share the Dignity. This is a donation-based campaign which makes menstrual items like tampons available to women in need. Also, the Birthing Kit Foundation of Australia runs events in which you assist in the assemblage of equipment which is valued at $3, but is totally priceless. You spend the day wrapping up a pair of surgical gloves, a piece of soap, some gauze, a scalpel and some string in a black plastic sheet. The next time that sheet is opened is by a woman who’s giving birth somewhere around the world who requires support, and who now has all the tools to give her baby a safer and cleaner start to life. Having the ability to help women like that is the best part of what we can do with health education.
IMED1108 and IMED2208 will be running in Semester 2, 2017. IMED3308 will begin in 2018. The Share the Dignity Campaign can be found at facebook.com/sharethedignity. Future events by the Birthing Kit Foundation of Australia can be found at facebook.com/BirthingKitFoundationAustralia.
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CW: VIOLENCE, WAR, MISCARRIAGE, INJURY
THEIR JOURNEY TO REFUGE WORDS BY YOSRA AL AWADI ART BY LILLI FOSKETT
7-year-old Amir* opens the door with a warm smile. “Ahla w sahla” he greets, “tafthlo tfathlo”, “welcome welcome”. We walk in and see his mother Zahra, smiling warmly though evidently tired. She welcomes each of us with a hug and leads us to the living room, where we are invited to sit down. We exchange pleasantries before she excuses herself. Patiently we wait, happy to see their Perth home is fully furnished with couches, a television, microwave, fridge and a heater. Amir and his little brother, 5-year-old Mustafa, sit next to us and Amir starts telling us about his school. His arms start flailing dramatically as he tells us about all the girls at school: “I have to hide from them, they don’t want to leave me alone,” he says with a cheeky smile. We laugh and Zahra walks back in with a tray of tea, toffees, cookies and chocolates. We thank her and ask her how everything is going, and she says “good alhamdulillah, praise be to Allah.” We drink some tea, and she slowly begins to tells us her story… “Four years ago, the war went into full blast. Since then, I had two miscarriages while in my third trimester. First one: I was walking when a missile landed nearby and the pressure threw me off my feet. I was rushed to the hospital where they performed a cesarean section on me, before pulling out my stillborn. I was stitched up and sent home, numb and unsure. “My second miscarriage happened while I was riding on the back of a motorbike with my brother. Another missile dropped and again, the pressure threw me off the bike and I landed on my heavily pregnant belly, opening my scars from the previous cesarean section. This is one of the reasons why we made the decision to migrate. “Also four years ago, Ali was in the car with his friends when a grenade was thrown their way. The pressure threw him into the air, and he felt himself landing on the thick, sharp rubble amongst car pieces. He couldn’t get to the hospital straight away, so they got him home to me. I tried my best to take care of him but when we took him to the doctors, they told us that his right leg and left arm were very badly injured and
he could only get the medical attention he needed in Lebanon, which was 370 kilometres away. “I was sad to see him go, and I was scared because I didn’t know what the fate of my boys and I would be. A few weeks after he left, a deafening explosive ‘bang’ woke me up. I thought our house was being bombed. Hurriedly, I woke up my sons, threw their jacket on, and ran outside. I looked at our neighbours’ house and realised that they were the victims of the bomb that woke me up. I grabbed my sons’ hands and ran into the darkness. Once we were far away enough, I realised that I only had my nightgown on, rather than my usual hijab and abaya. I couldn’t make this stop us though, so we continued running until we reached a very dark road. With a mixture of relief and fear, we saw a minivan parked with its high beams on. Cautiously, I approached the driver’s window and greeted him, before noticing that there were people in the car. I asked where they were headed to. ‘Lebanon,’ the driver replied. With that, I got in with my sons in my lap and we were on our way. “Among the other passengers, I kept tugging at the hem of my nightgown, trying to cover myself as much as possible. One woman realised and pulled a black abaya and headscarf out of her bag and handed it to me. I thanked her and quickly put the clothes on, immediately feeling more comfortable. “Our trip to Lebanon could have taken a few hours, but it took us two-anda-half days to get there because of all the checkpoints we went through. Eventually, we arrived without trouble. It was great to see Ali there, though he now had a prosthetic leg – his own had to be amputated as a result of the explosion. “We spent three years in Lebanon, where we applied for a UN visa. Thankfully, we were accepted and as you can see, we are finally here. We thought we wouldn’t have any more problems or concerns after coming here, but subhan’Allah, glory be to Allah, there are problems everywhere you go. “When we came here, Ali was taken 40
to the doctors immediately. They told him that he was lucky that he came on time, because he would’ve had to have his injured a r m amputated. They operated on him and inserted plates in his elbow to stabilise his dislocated bone. He came home afterwards and after a couple of days of resting in bed, I told him that we should go for a walk: “We all needed some fresh air”. I changed my sons and helped my husband into his clothes before walking out of the door. We had walked only 50 metres or so before a car came speeding towards us, driving on the curb. Ali reacted quickly and pushed my sons and I away and took the hit himself, on the same arm that was operated on. We had to rush to the hospital again, because he was in a lot of pain.” Amir’s little voice breaks into the story. “Mum is it okay if I have a cookie?” She nods, and we watch as he cheerfully picks a heart-shaped cookie and munches on it with satisfaction. We admire his manners for a few moments, before we look back to his mother, who continues. “So yeah, Ali is always moving in and out of hospital. It’s hard trying to pay the bills, the rent, make sure food is always there, and maintain the medical bills. Ali has sunk into depression; he feels crippled and incapable of doing much to support us, and his family who are still in Syria. They were well-off before the war, working in a family-owned business that exported goods to Syria’s surrounding countries. Now they call the shade of any tree home, and scrap for food and clean water. “We are forever grateful for being here though. Australians have a sense of humanity and they value each other’s happiness. The Australian government has helped us so much and I’m glad that my children have the chance to live here,” she concludes, before taking a sip of her tea. We sat staring at each other, unsure of how to react to her story. My mum broke the silence: “Alhamdulillah
ART BY HOLLY JIAN
MATCH EACH STATEMENT WITH ITS CORRESPONDING REACTION ABOVE: 1) “Why is there no men’s department?”
4) “I don’t believe in quotas because people should have merit.”
2) “That’s like… really reverse racist!!”
5) “LOL TRIGGERED.”
3) “I’d only hire women because it’s just cheaper!”
6) “I’m not sexist but… “
ART BY PRENDO
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COOKING WITH
DAMSEL ART BY TESS BURY
Ruby St’s Fave Banana Bread INGREDIENTS plain flour............................. 210g salt ............................... a pinch of ground cinnamon................. 1 tsp melted coconut oil or softened unsalted butter.... 125g brown sugar ........................ 250g beaten............................... 2 eggs baking powder ..................... 1 tsp
METHOD 1. Preheat oven to 180 degrees. Grease a loaf tin with your choice of butter or coconut oil. Pop some baking paper at the base of the tin if you’re feeling extra organised/cautious. 2. Put everything into a food processor and process until just combined. Alternatively, if you don’t have a food processor, combine wet and dry ingredients separately, and slowly add the wet to the dry, mixing with a large spoon/other useful utensil until combined. 3. Pour mixture into the tin and bake for approximately 55-60 minutes or longer depending on how efficient your oven is. It’s definitely worthwhile checking with a skewer to see if the mix is still gooey before you take it out. Cool for 10 minutes before turning it out of the tin, then leave it to cool down further on a wire rack.
baking soda ......................... 1 tsp
4. Enjoy in all contexts. Especially good coping mechanism after dealing with dudebros that think it’s fun to yell “SHOW US YER TITS” from their car windows.
super ripe bananas, mashed with a fork..................... 3
PRO TIP 1: Add chopped walnuts or pecans! Just stir into the mix once all the ingredients are combined.
almond, soy or buttermilk.... 125ml
PRO TIP 2: Replace the tsp cinnamon with a tsp mixed spice.
Zucchini Pasta with Tomato Sauce PROVIDED BY JADE BATES
Serves 4
INGREDIENTS large zucchinis .......................... 2 garlic cloves.............................. 5 mushrooms, cut into chunks...... 200g large brown onion, sliced ........... 1 can of diced tomatoes .... 2x 400g can of tomato paste ....... 1x 140g parmesan cheese .........................
SEASONING paprika ....................... 1-1/2 tbsp hot chilli sauce ................. 1 tbsp
METHOD 1. Spiral zucchinis or cut lengthways into spaghetti like noodles. 2. Slice onion, chop mushrooms and mince or thinly slice garlic. 3. Place onions and mushrooms together in a hot pan and fry gently with oil (pan should be about a medium high temperature). Once cooked, add zucchini and cook until softened. 4. Add tinned tomatoes, tomato paste and garlic to the pan. 5. Add species to taste.
dried oregano ................... 1 tbsp
6. Stir occasionally, once the sauce has reduced simmer for another 2 minutes then it’s ready to serve.
salt & pepper ...............................
7. Top it off with finely grated parmesan.
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Beans on toast PROVIDED BY KATE PRENDERGAST
INGREDIENTS beans ......................... toast .......................... condiments (optional – I suggest salt)............................
UTENSILS toaster........................ microwave ................. can opener.................. knife........................... spoon ......................... a plate (optional – benchtop is fine so long as you don’t have cats) ...........................
METHOD 1. Buy some beans from Woolies. Get them in whatever sauce you like. I like the tomato sauce and Heinz brand. Do not spend your precious dollars on any ‘reduced salt’ beans. Reduced salt beans taste like little leguminous organs of sorrow. Like the sleep from the rheumy tired eye of the ferryman. Imagine you are a lost soul licking the eye of the ferryman as he paddles you, wretched one, you and the rest of the fallen, across the River Styx. Reduced salt beans taste like that. 2. Now you have the beans. Good work. Use either your pointy teeth or your long fingernails or a saw to open the can, or a can-opener if you have one. Be very, very careful. The opening of a tin is an act of great peril, and the rim is a place of ENORMOUS PAIN onto which careless fingers often slip. Don’t slip! You need those fingers for your work as a secretary, because you must be a secretary because you are a woman. Your work is important to your identity. You are already an obscenity to your gender in that you are not making a gourmet roast for the hubby. Are you even wearing an apron??? You disgust me. 3. Heat the beans in the microwave. Watch the tomato sauce burp and bubble like it’s a little lumpy lava pool. Cute! But quick you are wasting precious time there is still the toast! Slice some bread with another perilous implement (unless you got the slicing machine beast at the bakery to do it for you, you lazy dame of the greaseless elbow tribe) and swiftly tuck it into the toaster. Look at how the toaster clenches the bread warmly about its hot metal grill. 4. If you are at all intelligent, you will have timed the popping of the toast and the pinging of the microwave to perfection. If you did not, then, well never mind dear. Never mind. See you should have worn an apron to wipe away the tears of shame. But hurry now: spoon the beans from the tin onto the hot toast, which will receive its load gladly. Watch the bread as it becomes soggy with affection for the beans. If you have more beans that toast space: this is normal. Just eat them from the tin separately. 5. Well done! Bean-a-petite! PRO TIP: Add cheese.
43 ART BY ANNELISE JANSEN
important resources ART BY ANNABEL GUNSEN
UWA STUDENT GUILD WOMEN’S DEPARTMENT The UWA Women’s Department works to minimise women’s disadvantage at University, and promote a safer and more inclusive campus for women. The Women’s room is a safe space for women-identifying students only and is always open. Come in to nap, study or draw on the chalkboard wall! Email: womens@guild.uwa.edu.au Fb: fb.com/UWAGuildWomens Location: 2nd Floor, Guild Hall
QUARRY HEALTH CENTRE Specialised sexual health service for young people under 25, offering clinical, counselling, and education services. Phone: (08) 9227 1444 Website: quaryhealthcentre.org.au WOMEN’S COUNCIL FOR DOMESTIC AND FAMILY VIOLENCE SERVICES Advocates on domestic and family violence issues and provides information on available services. Phone: (08) 9420 7264 Website: womenscouncil.com.au
UWA STUDENT GUILD PRIDE DEPARTMENT PD provides support, advice, and fun for LGBTIQ+ students at UWA, runs regular social activities, and aims to promote the visibility of LGBTIQ+ students. Email: queer@guild.uwa.edu.au Fb: fb.com/UWAStudentGuildQD Location: 2nd Floor, Guild Hall
SEXUAL ASSAULT RESOURCE CENTRE (SARC) SARC provides support and emergency services for sexual assault and rape survivors. This includes medical care, advocacy, legal advice and counselling. Phone: (08) 9340 1828 Website: kemh.health.wa.gov.au/services/sarc/
FREEDOM CENTRE Freedom Centre helps young people support each other and their communities. Our drop-in centre is a safe space to hang out, have fun, and meet other LGBTIQ+ young people. Phone: (08) 9482 0000 Website: freedom.org.au
MAITRI MULTICULTURAL COUNSELLING SERVICE MAITRI seeks to meet the mental health needs of people from culturally and linguistically diverse backgrounds. Phone: (08) 93282699 Website: mscwa.com.au/our-programs/maitri-mental-healthservices/
UWA STUDENT GUILD STUDENT ASSIST Student Assist Officers provide assistance on a wide range of issues including: academic appeals, special consideration, sexual harassment, counselling, and Centrelink help. Email: assist@guild.uwa.edu.au Website: uwastiudentguild.com/support
UWA COUNSELLING SERVICES UWA offers 6 free counselling sessions per year and other mental health resources to students. Phone: (08) 6488 2423 Website: student.uwa.edu.au/life/health/counselling
UWA CHILDCARE SERVICES UWA provides an Early Learning Centre that offers part-time and full-time care to children aged six weeks to five years, and an Out of School Care Centre that provides after school care and vacation care for under 13-year-olds. Website: childcare.uwa.edu.au
ROBIN WINKLER CLINIC The clinic offers cheap, on campus sessions with provisionally registered psychologists for an initial fee of $35 and $30 follow ups. Phone: (08) 6488 2644 HEADSPACE Free youth health service for counselling and issues covering mental health, physical health, work and study support and alcohol and other drug services. Website: headspace.org.au
UWA SECURITY UWA Security provides an after-hours escort to car parks, colleges and accommodation adjacent to the University. Non-Emergency Phone: (08) 6488 3020 Emergency Phone: (08) 6488 2222 UWA at night map: uwastudentguild.com/uwa-at-night
LIFELINE Free 24-hour crisis support and suicide prevention helpline, via phone and online chat service. Phone: 13 11 14 Website: lifeline.org.au
UWA MEDICAL CENTRE The centre provides a full range of GP services, most of which can be bulk billed. They also have a dedicated mental health nurse and a fortnightly psychiatrist. Phone: (08) 6488 2118 Website: student.uwa.edu.au/life/health/medical-centre
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Damsel Magazine is an annual publication of the UWA Student Guild Women's Department 46