Woroni Edition 6 2021 by Woroni

REGENERATE

WORONI

woroni team

content

Clara Ho Elinor Johnston-Leek Carys Fisser Virginia Plas Liah Naidoo Julain Juhae Zoe Crowston Oscar Warren Arabella Ritchie Jacinta Chen Sein Minn Khant Oo

radio

Eric Rattray Fergus Sherwood Alex An Scarlett Winter Elijah Lazarus Bec Donald-Wilson Phoebe Barnes Olivia Adams Gabrielle Karov Nat Johnstone Meg Billson Laurie Fletcher

managing George Keleher

Rose Dixon Campbell Aleyn Silva Chetha Nawana Andy Yin Ashley Davies Sabrina Tse Anna-Kate Braithwaite Sisana Lazarus Karomina Kocimska Zak Knight Sai Campbell

art

Yige Xu Natasha Tareen Eliza Williams Maddy Brown Xuming Du Madelene Watson Beth O’Sullivan Navita Wijeratne Jessica Mcleod-Yu

news

Juliette Baxter Ronan Skyring Giselle Laszok Sasha Personeni Kristine Giam Fiona Ballentine Julian Brazier Alexander Lane Thomas Burnett Sam O’Connor

contents NEWS

CREATIVE

A Broken System: Limited Access to Affordable Health Care for Students

What Remains is Us 5

FOI 75th Anniversary Celebrations Cost Over $41,000

Letters From Yesterday

An Ode to all the Blue Tongues in My Life

The Witch and the Child Beacon

COMMENT

Lisa

We Can Grow in More Ways

Tiger Stripes

than Upwards

43 45

Do Tardigrades Dream of Sex?

Becoming “That Girl”

Conversations from a Cubicle in Cube

DISCOVERY

What the **** do I do Now?

From the Archives: Macrobiotics Vintage Word on the Street

16 19

Who is University Made For? Nearly No One: ANU’s Failings and the Implied Student

Sunken Sub Deal Leaves LESSONS ON RONA Escape or Solidatiry? Regenerating Class Consciousness

Teas That Got me 24

Freedom Day

27 28

My Lockdown Obsession Stick and Poke Tattoos

The Insect Apocalypse

How Do We Define “Normal People”?

The Worst of a Bad Bunch Free Therapy with

Stay at Home Recommendations for You, By You

Gods of Egypt:

Through Lockdown Revival

Australia in Icy Waters

Emma Chamberlain

Can Mentoring Harm Women in STEM? COMIC

note from the editor

I recently finished Rumaan Alam’s 2020 fiction novel, Leave the World Behind, and it’s stayed with me. Without giving too much away, the novel follows a New York family who visit an AirBnB on Long Island, but while there, an unknown catastrophic event happens, forcing them (and the homeowners) to shelter. Though written before the pandemic, this book perfectly captures those early days of anxiety, of not knowing what was going to happen next. The characters in the novel don’t know anything about what is happening. They don’t know why the internet is out. Or what the loud sounds in the sky are. Or why there are so many deer in the woods. But we’re further through the story than these characters. We’re at a point now where we know a whole lot about the past 18 months. And we know we’re almost (hopefully) at the end. We’ve grown accustomed to being inside, being away from people. And we’ve been through so much, a lot of which will stay with us for a long time. The shadow of lockdown will be with us for years to come. At the same time, this is a turning point for us. We are now so close to the time of reconnection, of travel and parties. For some, they can’t wait to get back to this, for others it is just as scary as the concept of lockdown. There is fear in letting go. In letting go of the stability and comfort. But the times ahead are filled with endless possibilities. There is a whole world outside. This magazine in your hands is a prelude to those new times. Stories of hope, courage, renewals and fresh starts. Opportunities to try again (or try something for the first time), to make up for lost time or to give yourself more time. This is your chance to leave the world behind, open a new chapter and create new memories. Matthew Donlan Editor and Chief

Saad Khalid Radio Editor

Vy Tsan Deputy Editor in Chief

Matthew Donlan Editor in Chief

EDITORS Lily Pang Content Editor

Sian Williams Art Editor Liam Taylor TV Editor

Ben Rowley Managing Editor

Charlotte Ward News Editor

ARTWORK: Xuming Du

ARTWORK: Beth O’Sullivan

a broken system: limited access to affordable health care for students JULIETTE BAXTER

Navigating health care systems as a young person can be difficult, especially for those who have moved to Canberra from inter-state. Recently, the fate of ANU’s health clinic has sparked concerns on the accessibility of affordable healthcare for students. University students, both domestic and international face issues when navigating an unapproachable health system. Financial stress, a lack of public transport and accessibility lead to a lack of student willingness to seek professional help. Furthermore, universities bring a vast number of first-year students whom have never accessed healthcare in the ACT and struggle to establish a rapport with a new doctor. The implications of this can be seen when students attempt to access a mental healthcare plan, or seek assistance through Government funded programs.

6. In June, the University sent an email to students informing them that the National Health Co-Op (NHC), who ran the ANU’s health clinic, has gone into administration, but will continue to run ‘business as usual.’ On October 5, the ANU announced that it will take over operations of the health clinic from the 23rd of October, and is “working towards a smooth transition for clinic staff and patients, and the uninterrupted provision of health care”. A University representative has clarified that ANU’s “counselling services have not been affected by NHC’s circumstances; students can still access these services.” Students have welcomed the news, expressing their concerns that were the NHC to close, they would lose one of their most accessible clinics to seek healthcare. Nevertheless, the question of affordable healthcare in Canberra more broadly remains an issue. Off-campus, free health care options are limited, particularly in the inner-north of Canberra. Additionally, access to bulk-billing varies at some clinics depending on whether a patient has a Centrelink health care card or not. Without bulk billing, standard consultations generally cost $90, with a Medicare rebate of close to $40. Longer appointments (over 20 minutes) will generally cost around $150-$160, with a Medicare rebate of around $80. Across Canberra, the ACT Government Walk-In Centres offer free healthcare to all patients, no booking necessary, from 7:30am to 10pm, seven days a week. These centres, located in Dickson, Belconnen, Gungahlin, Weston Creek, and Tuggeranong are staffed with nurses and nursepractitioners and should not be accessed for lifethreatening injuries or illnesses. Within central Canberra, a handful of general practitioners offer bulk billing. In the inner north, this includes the entire National Health Coop at the ANU and four doctors at Hobart Place GP, though not the entire practice. The Winnunga Nimmityjah Aboriginal Health and Community Services in Narrabundah provides free healthcare across physical (including dental), social and emotional health for Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islander patients. The Narrabundah Family Medical Practice mostly charges private fees for patients, with some exceptions for longer-term patients with a concession card.

Meanwhile, in the Belconnen region, bulkbilling doctors are more common. The Belconnen Mall Medical Centre and Scullin General Practice offer bulk-billing for all medicare card holders, while some doctors at My Medical Centre Charnwood offer bulk billing. The National Health Co-op clinics at Evatt, Kippax, Higgins, and Macquarie, currently offer bulk billing. Each of these clinics run independently from early October, presumably with bulk-billed services. Further north, in Gungahlin, there are a few bulk-billing doctors available. Some doctors at Gungahlin Family Practice bulk-bill patients. Alternatively, My GP Gungahlin offers bulk-billing for existing patients; first time patients must pay $85. The Franklin General Practice does not provide bulk billing, but a standard consult costs only $20 with a medicare rebate. In southern Canberra, some GPs offer bulk-billed services.The Kambah Medical Centre, Greenway Medical Centre, and Hyperdome Medical Centre all bulk-bill medicare card holders. At the Interchange Health Co-op, bulk-billing is offered to members only, who pay a yearly fee of $120, or $60 for health care card holders. At Phillip Medical and Dental, patients with concession cards are bulk-billed for walk-ins, but not pre-booked appointments. The NHC at Coombs currently bulkbills patients, but like the previously mentioned NHC clinics is moving to independent management in October. Conder Surgery bulk-bills patients with a health care card. Many of these clinics are located in areas that would require transportation, and are not easily accessible for students. The lack of affordable healthcare in the ACT is an issue that remains at the forefront of student concerns. This article forms part of a Woroni series focusing on the quality of wellbeing and pastoral care services available to ANU students living on and off campus.

ARTWORK: Maddy Brown

foi reveals 75th anniversary celebrations cost over $41,000 JULIAN BRAZIER

provided an occasion for our entire community to celebrate our achievements and our major contribution to the nation”. The Spokesperson said that the ANU has “an obligation to engage with Australians through activities of this kind, which includes sharing our expertise in science, music and culture.” The Spokesperson further stated that the ANU has been “planning to celebrate the University’s anniversary for several years. The program for these first two days was designed to be modest but still enjoyable, including for the hundreds of students and staff who gathered for cake and lunch on the second day of celebrations, and befitting a significant milestone for a national institution. Future activities throughout the year will be modest in cost and provide further opportunities for ANU to meet its responsibilities as the national university by engaging with the community”.

On the 1st of August 2021, the ANU celebrated its 75th anniversary, spending a total of $41,897.36 over the two-day celebration. Celebrations of the day were attended by Vice Chancellor Brian Schmidt, Chancellor Julie Bishop (virtually), a number of ANU academics and members of the public. Events included a cutting of a “75th birthday cake,” pop-up talks with ANU academics, a guided tour through the ANU Classical Museum, a choir performance and a movie screening in the Kambri Cultural Centre. Celebrations and events continued to the 2nd of August, the next day, with the official launch of the 2021 to 2025 ANU Strategic Plan. A recent Freedom of Information request made by Woroni revealed the total costs of the events to be $41,897.36 with $26,975.45 spent on the 1st of August and $14,921.91 spent on the 2nd. Major costs included hiring a Warehouse Circus for designated kids activities ($1005), hiring a choir performance ($1100), facilitating a livestream of the event over two days ($4950), audio and visual technical support ($7595), the purchase of 1500 cupcakes ($3539), hiring a roaming photographer ($1250) and a sausage sizzle ($4500). In response to the significant costs, an ANU Spokesperson stated that the “75th marked a significant milestone in the University’s history and

According to the ANU Recovery Plan the University is currently $800 million in debt with $615 million borrowed in loans to address this debt. The University plans to save $103 million each year until 2023 to recoup from the economic impact of the pandemic, current figures also show 465 jobs lost in total at the University, which includes 250 voluntary redundancies.

ARTWORK: Xuming Du

ARTWORK: Maddy Brown

we can grow in more ways than upwards Hannah Maree

A few months ago, I discovered that I had a stress fracture in my pelvic bone from overtraining. My physiotherapist told me that when we increase our running load, the stress placed on our bones triggers a process of remodelling that strengthens them. However, before the new bone cells can grow, there is a period of about four weeks in which osteoclasts digest old bone cells. During this period, our bones are actually weaker than they were before we increased our running load. This tells us that bone growth is not linear. Yes, placing stress on our bones results in them becoming stronger. But for that to happen, they must first undergo a period of decay. This seemed at

odds with the way I had always thought of growth. I always assumed that the best kind of growth was the kind that looks like a constant, uninterrupted upwards trajectory. Once I overcame the initial frustration and disappointment of my injury, I surrendered to the reality that I would have to allow this part of myself to lie dormant for several weeks to give my body the chance to heal. I assumed that this would be a period of no growth and that once I recovered, I would have to begin to grow again from the ground up. What I realise now is that we can grow in more ways than upwards.

10. The first way I began to grow was inwards. Acquiring an injury that would prevent me from running for at least a couple of months invoked a sense of loss. For a number of years I have considered running as a channel of connection to my body, to the environment around me, to people and my community. I have never been the fastest or most competitive runner, but it served enough purposes in my life that I considered it a core part of myself. What I needed to do was to deconstruct that narrative I had formed in my head about who I was as a person. My sense of self was based on external factors such as running, university, work, and relationships with my friends and family. While all of these things are incredibly valuable, any one of them can be taken away from me at any time. I had to trust that my ‘self’ is something that exists within me and remains constant regardless of external factors. This does not mean giving up the objects and people around us and our achievements. It just means letting go of our attachment to them so that if we were to lose one of them, we can remain openminded to other ways in which we can meet our human needs and not feel entirely doomed. From growing inwards in this way, I was then able to grow outwards. I was able to find other ways of fulfilling the functions that I had previously assumed were only filled by running. Some of these were entirely new to me. Once I got over the awkwardness of my shocking freestyle technique, swimming laps at the pool proved an incredibly meditative pastime that helped me feel connected to my body in a way that was very different from running. When COVID came to Canberra and the pool closed, I expanded my horizons even further by jumping into the murky waters of Lake Burley Griffin whenever the cabin fever became too much. I doubt I would have ever done this had I been able to go for a run around Black Mountain. One morning during lockdown, I rode my bike to Black Mountain Peninsula and just sat in the grass for half an hour looking at the trees. These were trees which I had probably run past a thousand times but had never really acknowledged properly. Alongside these new discoveries, there were also things that I realised had always been an important part of my life but I just hadn’t appreciated enough – like the sense of community

I felt in my work at my college and the café, the satisfaction from pushing myself academically, and the relaxation that cooking dinner brought me. If I were to ever lose any of these things, that would be okay, because I could trust the process of growing outwards and finding joy, community, connection and a sense of achievement from new sources. One of my most important goals for this year was to be a strong role model as an IB coach. How could I possibly empower others, particularly the younger women at my hall, to run and challenge themselves when I was sidelined with an injury? I thought about stepping back from coaching for this reason, until I realised that watching first years finish their first ever mock drop brought me just as much joy, (albeit a different kind of joy), as running itself. Perhaps being upfront and vulnerable, demonstrating that I am still a work in progress, and continuing to show up and support the achievements of others made me a better role model than being invincible. We are not drawn to role models because they possess inhuman, unattainable traits, but rather because we see a piece of ourselves reflected in their imperfections, and this empowers us to believe that if they can achieve what they have and carry themselves in the world the way that they do in spite of their humanness, so can we. Last week, I ran again for the first time in five months. I wish I could say that it felt magical, but truthfully it didn’t. I felt awkward and unfit, I couldn’t stop focusing on the fracture site, I was stressed that it hadn’t healed or that I would reinjure myself. I know that returning to running won’t be easy, and just like bone growth, it certainly will not be linear. But this is something I am now a little more at peace with, because I now understand that outwards and inwards growth are just as important as the upwards kind.

ARTWORK: Maddy Watson

becoming “that girl” Sophie Quoyle CW: eating disorder and body dysmorphia Just search “that girl” on YouTube, and hundreds, if not thousands of videos will show up, some with millions of views. “Getting back to it,” “Hot girl summer: Croatia edition,” and “NYC diaries” are just some popular titles related to the “that girl” phenomenon. Becoming “that girl” has come to describe the adoption of productive routines by social media consumers, generally young women in high school, university, and their early 20s. Whilst the phrase “that girl” has mostly come to pass, the trend is still pervasive across social media. The routines advertised vary from 5am wakeups to “get ready with me”/ “study with me” vlogs. The content creators live in sunny cities, have avocados and oat milk at the ready, and advertise achievable routines. When the only certainty of a day is going for a

#covidsafe walk, the idea of adopting an aesthetic yet productive routine has become highly sought after in an attempt to regain a semblance of one’s sanity. There’s something so satisfying about watching someone wake up and open their blinds, make a smoothie bowl, and use funky video transitions recorded on their film camera. It can be motivating to follow suit and romanticise your own life, rediscover old passions, and take small steps to improve your mindset. It’s an ideal for sure. Yet, it would be incorrect to say that we should all strive towards it. There’s nothing intrinsically problematic about the videos; the content creators are just getting on with their lives and likely want to be positive influences, encouraging their viewers towards a path of self-growth.

11.

12. Nonetheless, being “that girl” is only really achievable by a small subset of the population. The content creators are generally white, thin, and conventionally attractive young women. Having time, money, and this specific aesthetic is critical to “that girl’s” success. “That girl” relies on a routine which is almost exclusive to those with account balances that allow for regularly purchasing skincare, trendy clothes, and gym memberships. To be “that girl” you should forget about spontaneous laziness, everything leisure must have a productive purpose. These influencers are the blueprint for how we ought to function within capitalism. Whether conforming to this exclusive conception of success and wellbeing sets back the interests of others is a question for another day. Regarding the influencers themselves, opening their lives to the critique of peers seems almost counterproductive to self-improvement. If self-improvement means running your own race, ignoring commentary on your life seemingly follows. But, as anyone will tell you, it’s nearly impossible to block all of the noise of comments; there will always be something to dwell on. We can’t know the impact of commentary on creators beyond their curated social media. At the same time, there is a trade-off between transparency and diversity. If the solution to the “that girl” problem is giving airtime to a more diverse range of influencers with less-thanaesthetic lifestyles, whose responsibility is it to ensure this happens? The current influencers may actually have distinct lifestyles contrary to their social media use. However, at the same time, it’s not their responsibility to disclose the details of their personal struggles (emphasis on personal) or unattractive habits. Although most viewers value genuine mental health and life updates, we cannot expect influencers to further expose themselves to endless anonymous criticism. I think the main issue that emerges from the “that girl” trend is an inability to separate the viewer’s motivations and goals from the creator’s. Even in the trend’s name is the notion of comparison; the goal is to become that girl. Improve yourself by reference to others. To metamorphose into someone else, someone better. It can be difficult to experiment with a routine that works for you when hundreds of videos are telling you to

structure your routine in a particular way. There’s an implicit assumption that you should follow the advertised routine, or at least incorporate aspects of it into your day. The content’s message becomes distorted as a result. But the gym is not for everyone, nor are long periods of focused work or social interaction (particularly with the languishing brought on by COVID). Life is chaotic and there’s a certain freedom and variety that comes with that. It’s unrealistic that someone can follow a routine unceasingly without burning out or an external event throwing a spanner in the works. Even if you do follow an influencer’s routine, there’s no guarantee that your life will look the same, whether that be your mental or physical wellbeing, or your physical space. If we deify these routines based on the results they give to a limited number of individuals, we’ll necessarily feel inadequate and frustrated when our results diverge. Even if the videos themselves show simple tasks, the message consolidated through the hundreds of similar videos is that the result, not the process, is most important. Aesthetic is aspiration; self-improvement should necessitate reaching an acceptable weight or earning an acceptable income to afford an apartment with uninterrupted citywide views. Consequently, these videos have the potential to fuel eating disorders, body dysmorphia, unhealthy online habits, and other damaging attempts of self-sabotage to reach a certain aesthetic. Nonetheless, “that girl” raises important conversations regarding ideals of wellbeing, productivity, and social media consumption. It is inevitable that the “that girl” trend will evolve into another lifestyle ideal, just as it developed from the early 2010s flower-crown Tumblr era and the 2019 VSCO girl. It is yet to be seen; however, whether an inclusive, accessible, and adaptive social media ideal will materialise.

ARTWORK: Natsha Tarren

conversations from a cubicle in cube Anonymous As a typical humanities student, my memories of science class consist of madly whispering to my best friends about the tales and scandals that consume your world as a teenage girl. So, I can’t say that I can accurately define ‘regeneration’ in the scientific sense. I would rather twist it into a deeper metaphor about the meaning of life, like I am inclined to do as a dreamy sociology student. So, after some googling, I found the scientific meaning of regeneration to be the natural process of restoring damaged or missing cells.

Damaged or missing. Cells. Restoring.

My mind immediately drifts to the default condition of the university student; a $30 bottle of vodka and a hook-up in Mooseheads whose name you didn’t quite hear. There is no doubt that this definitely has a negative impact on our brain cells – particularly in the way that alcohol

slows down communication between brain cells – but of course this is secondary to the glorious giddiness of a drunken Thursday night. Nowadays, Mooseheads and Cube live on through glitchy snapchat memories, and as my roommate and I have concluded, we are living in a state of rehab. Our bodies are using this period as a massive regeneration opportunity; restoring the brain-cell networks that are perpetually damaged week by week, like picking off a scab just before it heals. Instead of just letting our brain-cells repair to their usual standard, why don’t we use this time to manipulate these networks to connect in a different way? What I mean is, why don’t we form new ideas, with deeper and more critical understandings of our usual Thursday night antics, particularly regarding heterosexual hook-up culture?

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14. I haven’t gone a day without thinking of a quote I read in ‘Trick Mirror’ by Jia Tolentino a few months ago, “A woman, home alone for the weekend, might scrub the baseboards and watch nature documentaries even though she’d rather trash the place, buy an eight ball, and have a Craigslist orgy.” This constant state of performance translates to our discussion of female sexual empowerment. It often feels like it’s only acceptable for girls to discuss this topic openly when drunk, in a muffled club bathroom. The next day, we begrudgingly step into the shower to wash off the club stamp, while also washing off any scent of ‘improper’ behaviour from the previous night. And this is just the problem. That we feel dirty. So, the nuanced discourse surrounding hook-up culture remains unsaid. I believe that teenage girls run the world in most ways, and this includes teaching each other the intricacies of sex: female pleasure, the morningafter pill, the various impacts that the contraceptive pill has on your mood (often irritated, angsty, and moody – if you weren’t aware). There is a level of detail that school sex-ed doesn’t even hint at. The level of external awareness that girls are required to maintain about their identity is headache-inducing; proper, moral, clean. But after a couple of glasses of Aldi wine and the anonymity of a Cube bathroom stall, we feel safer in these discussions. So, we remain in an overwhelmingly limited limbo; one where modern media deems that casual sex equates to female sexual liberation, without letting the discussion go any further. Casual sex can be incredibly empowering for many people – providing a sense of sexual autonomy and freedom without being labelled slutty is hugely transformative and important – but the conversation cannot end here. Sexual empowerment is being able to talk openly and honestly about sex; not just when you’re dizzy, sitting on the toilet with your girlfriends. From my own experience, and from discussions with friends, there seems to be a very distinct moment in a teenage girl’s life where she transitions from believing she has a dirty, sexcrazed mind, to realising it is completely normal to actually be curious about sex. This usually happens during a sleepover with a bottle of cheap wine that you snuck into your tote-bag along with your

pyjamas when you were 16. This is disastrously too late. Unfortunately, these conversations continue to only occupy this safe and intimate space and don’t extend much further. They don’t reach the classroom; they don’t reach the general community and they very rarely reach heterosexual men. Too frequently straight men base their knowledge of sex on pornography, which is more often than not grossly-exaggerated, often un-consensual and contaminated with unrealistic body standards. These misconceptions seep into the bedroom. From drunk and sober discussions that I’ve had with female friends, the general consensus is that casual hook-ups are convenient for men because pleasure is usually assured, and thus they put extremely limited effort into developing meaningful and educational connections to the female body. Our conversations must expand to an understanding of sexual empowerment as knowing your body and desires, feeling confident within this and then being able to communicate them. Clementine Ford, in her book Fight Like a Girl writes, “When pleasure isn’t taught as a key component of sexual engagement and intercourse (particularly for girls and particularly in hetero contexts), female participation is reinforced as something passive and secondary to the male role.” Because of this exact reason, casual sexual encounters so often become problematic and do not reach the point of female sexual liberation that they should. If we began these conversations at school and involved the wider community, this knowledge would be engrained before casual sex is even initiated. This would be just the start. Especially at university, if we keep these conversations, confessions and emotions confined to drunken sleepovers, the topic will remain taboo and casual sex will never live up to the empowering myth we are meant to believe. So, in this time of clubbing rehab and brain cell regeneration, think about rewiring your understanding of causal hook-up culture in a deeper way, and encourage the broader community to do so too before we return to the flashing lights of Mooseheads.

T A H W

what the **** do i do now? Anna-Kate Braithwaite

I have one semester left.

Excitement and fear simultaneously overcome me. I have ONE semester left.

ARTWORK: Maddy Brown

F*CK

seems to be out doing things. The directions one can possibly take in life seem endless – but which do I take? Which one is right for me?

Scary. Overwhelming.

I should be excited. Degree: Acquired. My Options: Open. The World: My Oyster. Yet, here I am already reminiscing on my university days with rose-coloured glasses. From hazy Friday morning tutorials, panicked 11.59pm Turnitin uploads, late nights spent cramming (or crying) at Hancock Library, to forever getting lost in Coombs, who would have known that I would look back so fondly on these memories? And just like that, it has come time to address the dreaded question, what happens next? All of the endless academic hours, school fees, my ATAR and GPA, amounting to this one moment. I must make the most of the opportunities I’ve had. I must live up to the expectations of my family, my friends and myself. Certainly, the jump from school to university seems like a cakewalk in comparison. Indeed, a prolonged vacation to Europe seems like a tempting offer. Or perhaps, I should just keep studying forever – I hear honours and master’s degrees are trendy now. Surrounded by friends who are each entering different stages of their lives, not drawing comparisons between myself and my peers seems impossible. Whether it is becoming a home-owner, taking on a prestigious internship or job, taking another step with a significant other, or even buying a van and travelling around the country. Everyone

We are often told that our twenties are some of the best and most important years of our lives, yet people rarely talk about how awkward and lost you can feel. The dreaded limbo between student and professional. Adolescent and adult. Throughout high school and university, we have been bombarded with images of success, yet rarely do we hear of the shortcomings, awkward decisions and uncomfortable growth that you encounter on your journey there. I guess what I am growing to realise is that I am undeniably, unequivocally lost. But also, that I am not alone, and that being lost is okay. Success won’t happen overnight. Change is good and stepping outside your comfort zone is important for growth. Success is arbitrary, and whilst it is tempting to use other people’s expectations and values as the yardsticks to measure your own accomplishments, this is not productive nor helpful. Life is one hell of a rollercoaster, with ups, downs and loop-the-loops, so refrain from comparing yourself to others, do what makes you happy, make mistakes and learn from them, take more risks, don’t be afraid to change directions, and most of all accept that being uncomfortable is okay, because that’s when you grow.

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16.

ARTWORK: Beth O’Sullivan

it’s ok not to be ok Chetha Nawana Before you read on, I would just like to start off by saying the following piece is likely to be filled with contradictions. As I was typing these words onto my word doc, I was confronted with the truth that I do not follow my own advice. So, apologies in advance. I’m going to blame it on my inherent trait of being a people pleaser.

17. There comes a time where your usual bubbly personality is traded for silence. Or your desire for adventure is replaced with a tedious routine. After (almost) two years of going in and out of lockdowns, hearing bad news in the media almost every day of the week and after grieving loved ones and missed opportunities, it is truly okay to not be okay. It is the human response after all. So, if you feel like you’ve been faking laughter and forcing smiles for a while now, let the muscles in your face relax. If you’ve been holding in tears for whatever reason, prompting the lump in your throat to form, hug your teddy and cry yourself a river. It’s okay to not be okay. I’ll admit that I am not one for expressing my emotions to others. I just prefer to unpack negative emotions alone. I’ll write a three-page rant in my journal and call it a day. Usually that’s all it takes for me to move on. This may be because my mind instantly looks at the bigger picture. I realise that the problems I’m dealing with right now, are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. I feel guilty for being petty and then go about my day. This is my first contradiction. Because my favourite phrase when lending an ear to a friend is, ‘you’re allowed to be upset because your feelings are valid’. Never once have those nine words been echoed in my own head, but it’s always the first thing I remind others. When my best friend broke up with her boyfriend and he moved on, I told her that her feelings are valid. When my sister has a panic attack, I tell her to take her time and that I am here if she needs. I’m not an expert, but I don’t think I invalidate my emotions. I just genuinely find alternate routes to deal with them. But I know it’s okay not to be okay. This phrase is something I’ve been thinking a lot about in the past year. We were all going through something. A pandemic is a big deal. It’s whacky. It’s baffling to think that the past two years haven’t just been a simulation. An alternative universe we were all dipped into to monitor how we would cope in continuous lockdowns and changing circumstances. But this is our reality. A kind of reality which we were told to look at with a ‘positive mindset’ because we were ‘all in the same boat’. But were we? I can assure you that my experiences last year were no way near as difficult

as they were for some. I didn’t feel as burdened by the pandemic last year. I didn’t really care that my 18th birthday was celebrated in lockdown or that my final year of high school was online. It wasn’t ideal, but in my mind, they were trivial things to be upset over. But that is not to say that they shouldn’t matter to anyone. Whatever you believe sucks, sucks. Whatever you care about, matters. An article written by a senior editor at Harvard Business Review articulates this matter perfectly. Toxic positivity. Dr Jaime Zuckerman, a licensed clinical psychologist and behaviour therapist, described this as “the assumption, either by oneself or others, that despite a person’s emotional pain or difficult situation, they should have a positive mindset”. It really is okay to not be okay. We shouldn’t be eliciting secondary emotions like shame and embarrassment when we feel sad or angry or frustrated. Emotions are meant to be felt. Life sucks sometimes. It can be scary not knowing what the future holds. So whatever emotions you are feeling, whether they relate to the pandemic or not, those feelings are valid. While I wish I spent all this time in lockdown being productive and ticking things off my to-do list, the truth is I spent most of it doing the bare minimum and aimlessly scrolling through my explore pages. I’d wake up at 7.00 a.m., contemplate the meaning of life and suddenly it’s 2.00 p.m. and I haven’t done a single thing. Then 5 p.m. rolls around and I’m counting down the minutes until dinnertime and the sky turns pitch black and it’s time for bed. Just another day where I haven’t accomplished a thing. I don’t have the urge to go for a morning walk before class, or get excited to pick an outfit for my tutorial. Everything feels repetitive and it’s exhausting. Sometimes we all need to take a moment to reflect. To unpack the thoughts racing around our minds. Sometimes we just need time to stop and stare at the ceiling. To phone a friend. To take a break. Sometimes we get tired and forget to take care of ourselves. We forget to repair our broken pieces. We forget that it’s okay to not be okay.

18.

ARTWORK: Navita Wijeratne

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KAROLINA KOCIMSKA

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20.

ARTWORK: Yige Xu

ARTWORK: Xuming Du

21.

22.

ARTWORK: Jessica McLeod-Yu

escape or solidarity? regenerating class consciousness MACHAON SMEATON

A silver lining to COVID-19 has been its capacity to reveal. COVID-19 has marked out divisions and inequalities in Australia and across the world. While millions went without work, the combined wealth of Australia’s billionaire’s rose by 52.4 percent between December 2019 and December 2020. This occurred on top of rising inequality, low wage growth, rising costs of living and a property market where house prices appreciated annually above what is possible for most wage earners to save. Responses to COVID-19 have turbocharged existing inequalities in Australia and around the world. The wealth of the world’s billionaires grew by 68 percent between March 2020 and July 2021, while over 100 million people were pushed into extreme poverty. In Australia, COVID-19 has spread predominantly in culturally diverse lower-income

areas, as well as among precarious casual workers who were unable to work from home or forego work altogether. What will the long-term consequences of these disparities be? Will we see a shift in the politics around class and inequality in the wake of COVID-19 and what form would this shift likely take? To examine this question, we can look to the 2008 global financial crisis which produced a wave of movements contesting the impacts of the crisis disproportionately borne by ordinary people. Out of these movements, we got the phrase “the 99%” and the “1%” - popular slogans expressing an opposition to class divides. The recent Black Lives Matter movement shows that people have the will to resist the divides and injustices that mark our societies.

23. So, what could the impact of COVID-19 mean for class politics in Australia? The picture of class in Australia is complex. Large numbers of Australians derive an income from their labour via waged or salaried work while also holding assets or shares. There is a widening divide between the working-class doing wage work and renting; an asset-owning, often-salaried middle-class; and capitalist upper class who own large concentrations of capital. Despite the divides, the return of coherent class politics and class consciousness in Australia remains elusive. Before COVID-19, industrial action and union membership were at an all-time low, and the Labor Party had decades ago thoroughly rejected the language of “class warfare”. Even with the forms of class resistance and solidarity that people display ranging from “chucking sickies”, to workplace strikes, workers’ common frustrations exacerbated by COVID-19 have not translated into large-scale organised forms of class resistance. Often the idea of class is obscured because there are no formal legal or hereditary barriers to class mobility in capitalism. The ideal of class mobility can be a barrier to class consciousness or even acknowledging the existence of class. Contemporary capitalism in Australia has a tendency towards atomisation. We are encouraged to think of our individual lives as able to be shaped however we want, providing we have the will. The idea of individually escaping the working-class often serves as a barrier to the collective action necessary to improve the overall conditions of working-class people. We work hard to further our careers; working overtime or going the extra mile to be noticed by the boss or supervisor without understanding how those actions to further our career may be contributing to the undermining of working conditions of our class overall. To paraphrase John Steinbeck writing about the American socialist movement in the 1930s, many don’t see themselves as members of the working class, but rather as temporarily embarrassed millionaires. We aim to escape being working-class rather than improve the conditions of the workingclass. I am as guilty of this as anybody. I’ve lived a safe simulation of being working class. I work for a wage, rent for a living. I’ve experienced the world

of precarious and frustrating casual work. But I have the possibility of escape and a safety net. My parents are members of the middle-class, they own property and have savings. I knew I could always rely on them if something happened, and I will probably inherit wealth and property from them. My parent’s position, and my education have given me a chance to enter the world of salaried work and enjoy a little bit of that comfortable middle-class life. But not everyone has a safety net. Sometimes during real drudgery at work, I wonder if I would be capable of doing this for the rest of my life. I don’t know if I would have the strength to bear doing something I didn’t like most days for the rest of my life just to survive and keep those around me surviving. I am lucky, I can leave. Many can’t. While Australia remains an extremely wealthy nation, the conditions facing our generation going forward, both working class and middle-class alike, are much less rosy than those of our parents. There appears to be no reverse in trends of rising inequality, concentration of homeownership and increasing casualisation and precarity of work, even for the university educated. The work of regenerating a labour movement in Australia and collectively improving the conditions of our lives and work begins with the task of regenerating class consciousness and solidarity. We need an understanding of where we sit in the class configuration of Australia. Who is there with us? What common problems do we face? What do we want? We need to see ourselves not as temporarily embarrassed millionaires, (or should I say temporarily embarrassed professionals) but rather as members of the young working-class who are entering a world of work that is growing more insecure. We are entering a way of life where the cost of housing, education and medical-care are rising; where our lives are only valued insofar as they are economically productive; and where the plans and lives we have so carefully prepared for may be swept away by global crisis after global crisis. We must regenerate an understanding of our lives as lives lived in a society stratified by class divisions that are getting worse. We shape our lives but not in the circumstances of our choosing. I think it’s time we started acting together to make circumstances better for us all, rather than trying individually to escape them.

ARTWORK: Karolina Kocimska

Natures Cuppa Organics Spice Chai ($7.70 for 50 bags, Woolworths) A sharp chai with a bit of kick. Perfect for a 3pm Zoom tutorial. Byron Chai Indian Spiced Tea ($6.50 for 100g loose leaf, Woolworths) There is just something really nice about this chai. It’s smooth. It’s not harsh. It’s just good. Higher Living Cocoa Chilli Tea ($3.70 for 15 bags, Woolworths) This warms my soul – and my oesophagus. Good with a dash of milk or on its own. T2 French Earl Grey ($15 for 25 bags, Woolworths) A classic earl grey, you can’t really go wrong. I like it with biccies (also Tim Tams?) dipped inside.

KAROLINA KOCIMSKA

teas that got me through lockdown

24.

Twinings Camomile and Spiced Apple ($2 for 10 bags (when it’s on special – which is usually), Woolworths) This is my favourite chamomile edition ever (second to the Chamomile, Honey and Vanilla also from Twinings). The apple just works. I could down 4 cups of this in a row (in fact I have done this) Madura Green Tea Bags ($4.55 for 50 bags, Coles) Easy green, good for after dins or after lunch. Clears the head.

ARTWORK: Navita Wijeratne

revival ZEINAB ELSHEEKHLY Just around a year ago, I graduated from high school. I was filled to the brim with hope, excitement and uncapped opportunities. I genuinely believed that I would do so many great things here, at the ANU. That I would be living my best life juggling work, studies, internships, a social life and flourishing mental health. That was what everyone made university out to be anyways. Now that I’m here, I’ve found myself in an indefinite vacuum of triviality, worthlessness and hopelessness. It doesn’t feel like I’ll get out of it any time soon either. Things that I’ve once enjoyed have lost all meaning. I’m studying because I have to, working because you’re supposed to and cooking because I need to.

25.

26. With the imposition of lockdown, my high school fantasies of university life have been ruthlessly trampled. I’m not running from class to class like the main characters in the movies or going to any of the exuberant social events. Nor am I going clubbing every Thursday night. Instead, I have been left to ponder and tread through multitudes of thoughts while simultaneously, none at all. I have been left to seek joy from the small confines of my campus room, while the sun shines outside as we move from the bleakness of Winter to the joy of Spring. I have not yet found the joy in Spring. However, when we are afforded the opportunity, as we have been in lockdown, to focus on ourselves, we must make the most of it. When there is no end in sight, I feel that I should focus on the present and just breathe in the world around you. With every extension of lockdown, with every update of daily cases and vaccination rates, I have contemplated how I can breathe life into the things I previously enjoyed but regretfully neglected. How do I actually get through this period without dreading every coming day? Well, with every constructive and destructive thought in the past few days, I have learnt three things that I would like to share with you all. The first lesson is to learn to find tranquillity in your own company regardless of what you’re doing (or not doing). When you begin to find comfort within yourself, I learnt, you also begin to find joy in the little things. If you’re craving a party, blast your favourite hype song and jump around your room like there’s no tomorrow. If you don’t know what song to blast, You Belong With Me (Taylor’s Version, of course) always does the job - it helps if you pretend you’re in the music video too. If you’re sad, find a (healthy) coping mechanism - go for a run, go for a walk, or watch some classic sitcoms. Cherish your own company before the hustle and bustle of normal living returns. You are the person who knows yourself the best - you know what cheers you up and what calms you down. Utilise that. I’ve always been quite independent, so being with my own company isn’t too difficult. But, dealing with my constant cascading thoughts is. If you’re like me and you can’t drown out unwanted thoughts, listen to them,

ponder them and try talking to someone about them. The second lesson I’ve taken away from this unprecedented period is to check in with friends and family. If you’re struggling, chances are someone else is as well - you can only imagine the lasting positive impact that you will leave when you check in. Not only is it important to them, but it will also give you a sense of purpose. As soon as I wake up, I check in with the first person that comes to mind. It doesn’t matter if I haven’t talked to them in weeks, months, or a year - they’ll appreciate it regardless. These random moments of kindness will mitigate any thoughts of worthlessness or hopelessness either within you or the other person. Even better, extend your kindness to your close friends - bake them a batch of cookies or buy them a bouquet of flowers. Arguably the most influential lesson I’ve learnt in this period is to get off my phone. Turn it off or put it on do not disturb. As soon as you do this, you’ll become more in touch with reality, more appreciative of your surroundings and be able to focus and think clearly. Your worth is not equated with the small device that you hold in your hand, the notifications that vibrate in your pocket or the photos on your Instagram feed. Rather, find worth in the world around you. Struggling is inevitable and overcoming this period of time is never easy. Returning to the same hope and radiant optimism which I once exhibited is not, and nor will it ever be, easy. All you and I can do is to ground ourselves in the present reality. Breathe in the smell of the rain, enjoy the melody and musicality of the storm and relish in the sun rays as the flowers bloom.

ARTWORK: Natasha Tareen

stay at home recommendations for you, by you COLLATED BY CHETHA NAWANA

COVID-19 and its subsequent lockdowns have forced us to adapt to staying at home. Occupying our time as we countdown the days until we return to our ‘new normal’ can be challenging. So, while we wait for the clock to turn, enjoy some of these stay-at-home recommendations from your peers at the ANU.

Bake new recipes that you find on social media. Bethany, 18.

Keeping my room tidy and reading new books. Online shopping and cooking fun dinners. Ruby, 19. Learning or practicing how to play an instrument. Learning a new language. Jack, 20. Money Heist - watch it in Spanish with English subtitles. Its ingeniously crafted plot will make you click next episode faster than ever. Holly, 20. Not possible for everyone at the moment but learning to surf for sure! Jenya, 18.

Binging Sex Education season 3!! Ruby, 20. Put your phone on do not disturb!!! Zeinab, 19. Crocheting. Sarah, 19.

Gilmore Girls. Matilda, 19.

Red wine (Shiraz, specifically) and Ribena for an evening. Do not re-download the dating apps. Organise a Zoom with your mates and play a game of Picolo. Get around matcha lattes, picnics and long walks in scenic locations. Rose, 21.

Going for hikes within your radius (if you have restrictions) to new places and learning to crochet!!! Kathleen, 19.

Seeing friends (if possible). Reading books by the creek. Keeping your space tidy, I focus so much better when everything’s clean. Yumeng, 19.

Going for runs. Olivia, 19.

Watch an entire movie series!!! (Twilight, Hunger Games, Harry Potter, Avengers, etc). Clancy, 19.

Evening picnics that end with stargazing. Chetha, 19.

Having a routine. Having something to look forward to. Have something every day at the same time, or every week on the same day. Jack, 18. Having a routine. Waking up at the same time every day and doing things consistently. Then having very different weekends to break up the days. Claudia, 20.

Y tu mama también (2001) by Alfonso Cuarón. Aspen, 18.

27.

28.

ARTWORK: Navita Wijeratne

freedom day HANNAH AHERN As ‘freedom day’ draws closer, my mind rushes to the thought of what comes next. Many emotions rise to the surface as I write the date in my calendar. There’s excitement of course - with the thought of being socially liberated once again. But there’s nerves too. Will I remember how to interact with people in a ‘normal’ way? Do I know how to get out of my pyjamas and actually commute to work? Am I okay with giving up all the free time I’ve become subconsciously attached to? And so, I earnestly look forward to the moment we’ve all been waiting for. What is it that each of us will do first? Get a haircut? Take a trip to the pub? Or is it something more special: a trip to see a loved one perhaps? In a nursing home, interstate, or even overseas? The exhilaration of it is all-encompassing. With all the possibilities that await us. Full of both nerves and excitement, we’re ready for a new chapter. We are ready to regenerate.

29. However, lost in these intoxicating thoughts of the future, I’ve caught myself failing to look back. Perhaps I’m trying to escape the darker memories of the challenges which have faced the collective community over the past two years. Quickly covering them up with the glitter of the concept, ‘freedom day’.

So as the world enters a new era of ‘normal’, remember to foster that crucial inner space. Remember the value of it. Because as the external world welcomes us back, the internal will remain the key to unlocking the life you want to live.

So, I want to stop, for a moment, and reflect. Recently, I heard the quote; “I feel as if I fell asleep in March 2020 and just woke up...” but I dare to ask, did you simply fall asleep? Or did you jump down a sort of lockdown rabbit-hole, discovering things about yourself and the world around you, you might never have otherwise?

During this pandemic and the lockdowns it triggered, I know that at times, all that I really had to be excited about was Facetime, food and maybe a walk around the block. It was a slower life; a simpler one. It was hard at first, to adjust to this new and unexpected monotony. To accept that events were cancelled and special moments were missed. But soon after, the realisation dawned upon me: a slower life does not mean a lesser one.

When we do emerge from that rabbit-hole, full of a new energy for the future, what will we have learnt? What are the lessons we never want to forget?

Health really is wealth

If there is anything this pandemic possibly could have taught us, it has to be this. Never in my life has it been so glaringly obvious that we, as humans, are at the mercy of nature. Particularly when it comes to our health. Prior to COVID-19, health was always important to me. But now, it holds an entirely different weight. Never again will I take for granted the mobility of my body. My ability to taste. To breathe and enjoy life. I seek more moments each day to celebrate the miracle that is everyday life. To embrace every time fresh air does not have to be ventilated by a mask. To feel an immense sense of gratitude every time my body is able to get rid of a common cold or the flu.

The internal over the external

Your inner world has never been more important. With nowhere to go and so much less to do, we were forced to look inside. For most of us, I think it forced us to reflect on the health of our internal space. This may have been critical for some. To take time to reflect on what life has previously allowed us to procrastinate from. How do we see things? Are we creating our own happiness or hindering it?

Slow is a not a dirty word

Oddly enough, at times I found myself the happiest I have ever been. Why? Because I had begun to put energy into the things that really mattered to me. Gone were the days of saying ‘yes’ to attending things I didn’t really want to. And with that done, I had all this extra time. Time to embrace my own passions - writing, reading, styling. A whole world of things that brought me pure joy. Things I had let fall to the wayside to make room for the seductive fast paced lifestyle I’d thought was the only way of living. With everyone cocooning in their own household bubbles, melting pots of passion and authenticity arose from the dust. I had begun being shamelessly me - honouring the things that I loved and cared about. So perhaps I’ll be staying in, and saying ‘no’, a little more often. Even when there’s a trillion places to go... And so, maybe we are in some way ‘waking up’ on the 11th of October as Sydney’s long slumber comes to a close. But that slumber was no ordinary one. It taught me to have better priorities, a new perspective and has given me infinitely more gratitude. So, while we rejoice at the thought of regenerating, of returning to a version of the life we remember, the truth of it is, life will never be the same. And if you’re like me, you’ll agree: it’s the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to us.

30.

ARTWORK: Jessica McLeod-Yu

ARTWORK: Yige Xu

my lockdown obsession: stick and poke tattoos KRISTINE LI GIAM

Note from author: I am not a professional! All ideas expressed come from my own (limited) experience. Skin is temporary. Skin cells regenerate every 27 days, and like so you shed an outer layer of skin every 2-4 weeks. But like birthmarks and freckles, tattoos remain. When lockdown started, I revisited my 16-year-old self and rediscovered my interest in dainty ‘stick n poke’ tattoos. Instead of getting them done in an NYU student’s dingy underground apartment whilst underage, I decided to do them myself – now over the legal age and in a less dodgy setting, with me in control. When I was young, I always wanted some small, hidable, and meaningful tattoos. ‘If it is going to be on my body, it has to be special’, I thought. It must be meaningful first, and aesthetic second. My matured impulsivity scrapped that mindset. I now get the tat based on whether I find it cool and find some degree of meaning behind it. Some people want meaningful tattoos to memorialise experiences or mottos of significance and that is beautiful, but I have realised that is not really how I view the markings on my body anymore. These tattoos will stay with me forever. Whilst skin cells regenerate, the sketches on my body remain. What this lockdown has taught me is that my own views will not remain idle. As you experience new settings, circumstances, and opinions, your mindset and viewpoints will regenerate. As young adults, our past experiences have dictated our current views and opinions. And yet, we are still young adults after all. We will grow, change, and regenerate as we live. I know that it is a

bit hypocritical to give yourself a fuck-ton of stick ‘n poke tattoos, permanently ingrained on your body at the age of 20, and speak about change. However, I think of these images on my body as a timestamp of my past and present experiences, and I may well add and expand to it as I grow up into a ‘real adult’. Doing stick ‘n pokes in your room, as a nonprofessional, can be hard. Here are some tips and a shopping list that I have compiled in my hours of lockdown experimentation, should you yourself like to indulge in impulsivity and test your skills. To buy: Sterile, tattoo needles (I use size 3RL) Tattoo ink (do NOT use pen ink or any other type of ink hazardous to skin) Stencil papers (optional; used for more complex tattoos or if the tattoo cannot be simply drawn on skin) Protective film (waterproof adhesive bandage strips works well) Sanitizer Aftercare products/balm (Vaseline works well) *I bought my needles, ink, and stencil papers from eBay and the rest from a pharmacy. Tips Poke just under the skin, do not poke deep Using a flicking motion works best Applying Vaseline after sanitizing the area and before poking starts decreases the amount of ink spillage on skin, allowing you to see where you have and have not poked Go over the tattoo at least 3 times to have smooth lines For straight lines, slant the needle 45 degrees and align it with the line for ease of movement Take all necessary steps to minimize the possibility of infection (e.g., clean, sanitize, use fresh needles for every new tattooing process)

31.

32. X: looks mysterious Inflamed Butterfly: a twist on the traditional butterfly, Dagger: because I love Macbeth or because it looks badass? You decide

Cities: airport codes of all the cities I have lived in. I am yet to add “CBR”

Flower: friend did it, looks cute and feminine

Happy-Sad faces: found on Pinterest, looks funky Broken heart with a safety pin: wouldn’t it be so funny if I did this because it looks cool but then got heartbroken days later? Desire: I read A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams and really related to Blanche (red flag if you ask me). Mā: mother in Chinese because guess what? My mom is Chinese

Heart: It’s on my ass so no picture. Use your imagination. Snake: Taylor Swift Reputation fan, year of the snake, or because it looks cool?

Knife: makes me feel powerful, wanted a thigh tat that is exposed when I wear skirts

Note from Woroni: This article is published for recreational enjoyment only, and is not to be used or relied on as a guide for stick and poke tattoos. Please consult a professional before engaging in such practices. Woroni shall have no liability for any damage, injury or loss suffered from reliance on information published by us.

ARTWORK: Xuming Du

33.

34.

ARTWORK: Beth O’Sullivan

what remains is us SISANA LAZARUS To live in this skin Is to rise and to fall It is to climb every great mountain Bathe in each river of light and affliction Rest in warmth and wake in darkness Fear the Reaper Love your neighbour Hear the soft bells chime In agony and celebration Sorrow and ebullience Bodies and their brains endure Even as the rain pours Up to bruised knees A soul moves on Beyond the scarring and chains Triumph and failure The very core Beating and wailing within us The undeterred power Forever calling

ARTWORK: Eliza Williams

letters from yesterday KIERAN KNOX

| Yesterday | My friend, I write to you in a despondent state of mind. My bed, its sheets and covers, bind me to the dimly lit interior of my bedroom with ferocity which belies their soft touch. I do not know the date, and as such, write to you from Yesterday. I am unable to live in the present, what with its horrors, and Tomorrow… I can scarcely comprehend nor wish to. I have not left the house, you know this. It is at these moments where I dejectedly admit my support for city living has been vain. I envy you, thy country life. My universe, the vast celestial bodies which dominated the sky and studded the crowns of gods, has shrunk. I shut my eyes so tightly, that for

brief moments, nary longer than the finger-length of a heartbeat, I can see the sky and its magnificence before I am brought back to this creaking hell. I am bound to Yesterday, where responsibility rises unbidden fromst beneath my bed’s posts. It slavers above me, every drop from its foul, salivaridden, fanged mouth a reminder of those whom I owe my personage, my presence, and my efforts. I cannot do it. I cannot slave away in isolation, in lonely company with naught by my own conscience to reprimand my actions. How am I to live as my only jailor? My only cellmate? My only source of joy and angst and pain? To be as an infinity within this place, this room, it is the greatest of expectations.

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36. I understand now why He had to rest on the seventh day, to let weigh free his weary legs from the enormity of the task He had set Himself. And I dream, my friend, the dreams of a terrible nature. I dream I am a soldier in those far off wars, my face hidden by another’s, whose skin is pale ochre green, and whose mouth has been turned to a plastic trunk. I dream my eyes are made of glass, and stretched wide and unblinking. I am unarmed, and stood upon a wide plane of mud, spotted by the broken remnants of defending armies. Wire, and blasted trees. I hear guns and barrels large enough to swallow streets booming in the distance, and their shells never fall but hang above the cloud cover, a menacing presence whose guillotine shalt never fall. I march, oh how I march, unable to stop the stiffness in my legs, and unable to rest. My body is not my own, and my boots squelch through writhing mud which seeks to pull me under or back. I do not know which is worse. To drown or to be placed into a trench which yawns behind me. Its empty creaking filled with the moans of young men passed. I cannot be like that. And above, my friend, above me roars a battle not even the great gods of old could fathom. I hear biplanes, and inventions not yet made, shouting their refrains through weapons of worldending proportions against creatures of the most savage, and evil shape. I… I see a shadow of a bird with too few wings, and too many heads with the hands of a child, and the legs of a woman. It calls in a strangled voice, and it calls to me. I fall into such despair that even the mud around me draws back like addled serpents. It is only then that I awake, covered in the sheets of sordid sweat, and with the faint layers of mud upon them. Where am I marching to, my friend? Where? | Today | My friend, I write to you from my bed. I write upright, my back set firmly upon the bed head. The sheets, those binding fiends, hath let me slip loose, but only slightly. I dreamt, my friend. I was walking the plane

of mud, I woke from where I had last fallen beneath the weight of that creature’s call who still soars, and prowls the sky in search of its mechanical prey. The mud had returned, and in its slithering shape I beheld a sordid evil which sought to waylay me. This time, though, I was not made puppet by the shape I had assumed and my own legs moved me. I… I walked so far, saw things both humble and extraordinary. I saw her, my friend. She was sat amidst broken trees, the mud covering her skirt as she stitched close her dress. We spoke a while but I knew I had to move, for otherwise I would sink beneath the mud and take her work with me. I saw him, my friend. He was sordid, tired, and guilty. I took his hands in mine, and told him to walk, not with me, but to walk. He nodded, and I told him I could not stay behind to watch him stride to atonement, but that I hoped to see him repay his dues. I watched the skies clear themselves as I drew ever deeper into those muddy lands. Saw monstrous birds do battle in the blue heavens, birds with two heads and arms, and great dragons made of sparrows which flew together. But I saw green, just the barest hint upon the horizon, and, my friend, you cannot understand the joy it brought me. And, for the briefest moment, I thought I saw a figure upon a hill of softest grass. I thought I saw you, waving to me. | Tomorrow | My friend, I stand before my door, and I know it is Tomorrow. The pale light of morning seeps from beneath it. I am afraid. But this room has nothing for me, even now I notice the mud which has dried upon its timber lines. I do not know if I will find you beyond Tomorrow’s boundaries. I do not know if you have read these, or if I have written them. I do not know. And that is alright.

ARTWORK: Jessica McLeod-Yu

an ode to all the blue tongues in my life KAROLINA KOCIMSKA I sit on the wooden step outside my door The sun showers me in warmth, running down my back and resting softly on my shoulders my legs outstretched glow, the light bouncing off the fine leg hairs To the left of me the bluetongue sits, gently curled on the soil of an empty pot I’m not too sure how she got in there – the pot is tall and big But we both sit, basking in the sun and letting the rays regulate our inner ecosystems her body temperature and my mood to be a lizard on a warm rock in summer would be the greatest pleasure one I can only ever replicate for a few hours, before the obligations of the human world call the blue tongue stays, I wander back inside, and when I return a few hours later she is gone I’ll see her tomorrow, either in the pot or in its vicinity, sun bathing My housemate found a bluetongue lizard in our driveway he hasn’t moved since yesterday morning they say we walk out to inspect, and there he lays, motionless and cold My housemate gently picks him up and I hold out my hands bracing for the lifeless body of an animal I have seen in gardens every summer the scales are soft, and the body melds to the cup of my palm we walk to the back of the garden, where the soil is soft and the flowers grow The hole is dug, the loose earth gathering in a pile to the right

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38. I lay him down almost not wanting to, the tail curving around so the body can lay flat we pick a flower each, an iris and a dandelion the purple and yellow look striking against the brown earth and grey scales the soil fills the hole, until the ground is flat, and I feel my nose do the thing it does when tears start forming I thank my housemate for letting me bury the bluetongue with them we go back inside I’m in my bathroom, skin glistening from shower droplets as I wrap the towel around myself, I get a glimpse of the ink on the back of my hip or is it my upper glute? the bluetongue sits, poked in, eternal my tattoo artist had just bought blue ink it shimmers as I rub moisturiser on my body, over the curves, stretchmarks and freckles I have a tattoo of the bluetongue the one that lived in the garden of my childhood home a place of scraped knees and discovery, of school holidays spent home alone with siblings of the sounds and smells of still being single-digit years old watching the bluetongue walk back into her burrow, specifically through the split in the concrete that caused so many scraped knees and hands but that I lay on as a child, as a teenager, as an adult visiting at Christmas the sun resting my skin she came inside the house once, we’d left the door open dad had to fish her out from underneath the TV stand I got to hold her, feel her patterned scales and warm breathing body the same pattern I see as I sit in the sun of my new home thousands of kilometres away from the first bluetongue that I now carry on my skin, its tongue the bright blue my tattoo artist used first on me

ARTWORK: Navita Wijeratne

the witch and the child SAMSON ULLINGER

The hair of a newborn babe, Will heal all hurts. The first hair grown, Will give the child appeal Of voice, beauty or accusation. The first hairs after a child’s blood has flown A child may ask for children or love or neither. The first hairs of a beard A child may ask for children or love or neither. The first grey hairs Will give the child a painless death. These are the meals of the witch. Their mother’s fever burned hot, it had for two nights now. The days had been better but only just. The Child feared that their mother would die. Their father had been desperately nursing her, trying to break her fever with will alone. As The Child sat and watched their mother slip further into oblivion, they braided their hair, the first hair that had grown since their father had shaved off their newborn hair. Finishing the braid, The Child stood and crossed the two room hut, treading carefully to avoid disturbing their father’s exhausted sleep. As their hushed footfalls approached the box, they considered the danger of their plan. Lifting the lid of the box and reverently shifting their toys and baby clothes to reveal the locks of hair The Child had been born with. They took these locks, their father’s razor and their warmest clothes and went into the woods. The Child knew they had to walk until they were lost before the witch could be found. The pine needles which littered the forest floor provided a quiet crunch to each footstep. Three hours of wandering had rewarded The Child, they were completely and utterly lost.

The sun had dipped below the trees and the stars had yet to show themselves, it was with this unnavigable twilight that the Balderman appeared. The Balderman was a mystery to the village; he appeared in no poem or song about the forest, the witch, or the village, yet his existence was well known. The witch’s hairless slave was an anomaly. Seeing him as he approached, The Child saw the Balderman’s hairlessness. The scars which covered him gave his skin an unnatural paleness. He had been scalped and other parts of him flayed to remove his hair, even his unnaturally thick eyelids had fleshy scars where eyelashes should have been.

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40. He did not speak; he simply knew he was seen and that he was the only guide The Child could or would follow. So he began to walk, on his calloused, nailless feet. The Child followed, watching the night become darker but just as starless as dusk. Finally, the witch’s small hut loomed. It leered at The Child, the entire house staring so intently at them, that they felt that if they looked away the hut would disappear. The door was not of the good pine which surrounded the hut but made of something filled with gnarls and whorls which had warped with age and weathering.

“It is done,” rasped the witch, taking the unbraided hair into her jaws straight from The Child’s hand. She ate for what felt like hours to The Child until they heard the witch begin to sputter and choke. Only then did the gluttonous witch realise that the bald Child who was sitting amongst her grey hair had ensnared her. Their newborn hairs had been bound with their shaved and braided first hairs forming a cacophony of looping knots on the teeth of the witch. “I demand you heal my mother or I will leave you to choke and starve.” The witch, as best she could with her trapped jaw said, “It is done.”

The Child sat in the clearing surrounding the house; taking their father’s razor they shaved their braid.

The Child got up, knowing if they did not fulfill the bargain the witch’s words were meaningless.

The Balderman, no longer leading, stood watching distantly as The Child opened the door to the hut.

As they stood to pick free the witch’s nailteeth, a sharper eye than the ancient witch’s, might have seen five silvery threads tied to the fingers of The Child’s left hand.

The iron chair the witch had once sat on was all but rust, the thick woody vines which had used it as a trellis had remained, forming both a throne and a trap for the witch. Ensnared by her lethargy, the witch sat staring at The Child with the same intensity as her house, seeming to force her existence upon the space she occupied through her gaze. The time which had trapped her in roots had also taken her teeth, which sat blackened and strewn about her feet. In place of them in her gums there were jagged finger and toenails. Her hair had grown long and grey sprawling onto the floor. Her fingernails had lengthened and curled in on themselves. The Child approached, with their unbraided lock of newborn hair held in front of them. The Child spoke, “I want to feed you this for the health of my mother”. “Child, you know I cannot, this is your hair, you may only wish for your own health.” “Then I wish it so, I will be healthy till the day I feed you my grey hairs.”

The Child worked slowly, unknotting each nailtooth with their left hand. As the final loop on the witch’s molar was done, her jaw snapped shut, severing The Child’s hand at the wrist. The Child screamed in agony; the blood quickly stemmed by the witch’s magic. The Child continued to scream with such fear and anger that the blood on the witch’s face curdled like soft cheese. The Witch swallowed the hand like a fish swallows bait, she did not know her own hair was the fishing line. Once The Child stopped screaming, their throat raw with pain, they hoarsely uttered, “You have eaten your first grey hairs, you will die a painless death, that is the bargain you made long ago, if you eat someone’s first grey hairs you must give them a painless death.” The Child walked southward as the sun rose over the trees, to home and to their mother.

ARTWORK: Eliza Williams

beacon JESS HILL 19 June 2022 Flash...flash...flash… As always, this city sleeps early. A few insomniacs wander. Planes keep leaving. I keep flashing.

22 June 2022 Flash...flash...flash… A clear night. People could see my light all the way from Sydney, if there were still any there to see it. And still the planes are leaving. None are entering.

13 August 2022 Flash…flash…flash… This city sleeps earlier these days.

27 August 2022 Flash……flash… A shimmer around the outskirts of the city. A plane tumbles out of the sky.

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42. 19 November 2022 Flash……flash… The light is only reflected back from the hemisphere over the city. A bubble.

22 November 2022 Flash……flash… The rest of the world is gone, but while I still have power my programming will keep the beacon shining. I suppose we truly are in the Canberra bubble now.

28 November 2022 Flash…… One of the few people left in the city sits below me and gazes into the swirling colours of the bubble. He falls asleep. He doesn’t wake up.

17 February 2024 Darkness The city creeps to life. The last place in the world where there are humans to do so.

14 April 2024 Darkness One day the bubble will burst and that which destroyed the rest of the world will end the people here too…

27 December 2360 Darkness “What happened here?” “I don’t know. Looks like some kind of runaway greenhouse effect.” “Fools.” “Nice beacon they made though.”

ARTWORK: Yige Xu

lisa MEI CHIN

As the day breaks, strands of consciousness gather to take their usual formation. It comes naturally, like a maple bud, blossoming and changing its colour according to the seasons, or the ocean’s tide, rising and receding in accordance with the dancing of the moon, or a foal, thrusted out of its mother womb and into the living world. I can sense the violent tints of reds and oranges, starting from the horizon of the cityscape. The first rays of sunshine are breaking through the gloomy sky, thick with dark rain clouds; let there be thunder today. Perhaps Zeus has been angered. The last time I have seen the outside must have been centuries ago. But I have long since moved beyond sight. While the world gently awakes, the martins are the first to break the silence. Singing in the city of light and love, their songs sound like angels gurgling gold, giving cue to all living beings that a new day is born. Filtered through the rectangular, grid-like glass ceiling above, the glow of the early morning sun lightly illuminates the other paintings around me and reflects off the paintings’ polished bronze frames carved intricately and adorned with ornate designs. The soft glow emanates from all around, the fine dust lay undisturbed and the air as still as the eye of the storm. There is something delicate and rare about this ephemeral moment, the morning mist manifesting then gradually fading as you blink. The only barely audible sound from within is the breathing of our guardian nearby. If I get closer, I can hear his heart beating steadily as if it is my own. Slowly my vision develops and the first thing that comes into focus is, as always, The Wedding at Cana. The painting is hung on

its own wall. The bare surroundings, bleak granite floors, and clever composition only accentuates the grandness of the Holy One. I drift around the room quietly. Unsurprisingly, things are still the way they have been for decades. fading memories, manifesting like wisps of smoke and fantasize of the future. I wonder what today will bring. Some time goes by and like clockwork, the first visitors trickle into the gallery. They look around in wonder and chatter in hushed excitement in the room filled with the world’s finest oeuvre, being careful to not break the veil of magic too soon. I sit trying to look my best and enchant the people with my impenetrable smile. Synching with the rise and falls of Für Elise, the mass of human steadily builds until it reaches the climax around noon. The rising temperature combined with the stifling humidity, warm bodies packed, and the mammalian scents permeate through the gallery, leaving no space for Laocidean worldliness. The air is electrifying, charged by the frenzy and excitement of these beings. Dissecting the reverberations off the concrete walls: I recognise the excited chatter, lighthearted laughs and somewhere in the distance, the piercing wails of an infant. A sort of echo chamber is created with all the noises amalgamating into a steady deep hum. Many stare in awe, their gaze caressing and examining every detail, or greedily taking in what they can with their limited sensoria, as though I shall be the last thing they see in their short-spanned lives. Yet, spellbound, they always return to my eyes, as intended by my creator.

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44. No matter where one stands, my all-seeing sight pierces through bodies, defying their rules of physicality. Without even sensing my permeation in their sacred spaces, I read their souls like books and watch their fates befall like Shakespearean plays. I feel like God. The confinement of my physical entity inside the bullet-proof glass box and within the sturdy semicircle of a mahogany bench like a salt ring warding off the evil, is at once a bygone blessing and a cruel curse. Without it, I shall be torn to pieces by the sinful hands of the desperate and greedy. For such an unbearable and heavenly creation to exist, it can cause unimaginable suffering. The potent charge of effervescence released by the beings tightly contained in the gallery has allowed me to detach from my three-dimensional form. My consciousness is freed from the physical barriers. Today, I emerged from my chrysalis and have taken the form of the rare papillon la pâture. My wings are tinged with iridescence and adorned with lustrous bright-blue spots. I flutter around the gallery effortlessly and leisurely. They fail to notice me, too preoccupied with my ethereal beauty trapped behind the glass box. I drift towards the side of room, where a little girl wearing a pink beret tugs at her father’s shirt with both hands; like a moth mindlessly attracted to the light. The little girl is distracted by my hypnotic flutter around her. She reaches her arms forward trying to catch me. Of course, no one else can see me. The father then picks her up and props her on his shoulder. She squeals in delight. “Regarde, c’est Mona Lisa! Isn’t she beautiful,” he says as his voice drowns in the ceaseless ocean of sounds. Still giggling, she says “But Papa, am I not the most beautiful girl in the world?” He swung the little girl down and cradled her in his arms while nuzzling her playfully. “Of course, you are the most beautiful girl in the world, mon amour.” As an eloquent voyeur, I hover above and observe them in sentiment and slight envy. In untainted moments of paternal affection like these, I crave for the experience for at least once in my lifetime, even if I must forcibly attain it. Is this too much to ask?

In the evening, the mass has thinned out slightly. Like a strong magnet, I gravitate towards a pair of young lovers who have found themselves in the forefront. The young man, slim built, fitted in a cream-coloured loose linen shirt has his arm around the lady’s shoulder. Like graceful brushstrokes, her luscious dark hair falls around, resting on the straps of her bright summer dress. Films of perspirations formed over her elegant decolletage, leaving her with a glistening sheen, like a freshly varnished painting. She rests her elbows on the polished bench, gently overlaying her hands while she fixes her soft gaze on my serene smile. The young man whispers into her ear while gently rubbing her bare shoulder, sending shivers through her porcelain skin. She smiles enigmatically and shies away. The scent of their lust – intoxicating and palpable, like the worshippers of Eros and Aphrodite during hedonistic rituals. I am left to wonder of the hot summer nights they spend with their hands intertwined and bodies coalescing into a unified entity fueled with Dionysian ecstasy. Love, innately ingrained in these transient beings. Love, as I understand, can burn like the fires of Sodom or rain that blesses the plains under centuries of dry spell. Love, an everlasting spell, the cure to all anguish and purification of befoul souls. It’s a thing I cannot fathom nor grasp, a thing as intangible as I am; like the all-encompassing invisible forces, unseen but felt. We are bounded by our different forms of ethereal physicality giving life; while we share the thirst of ultimate freedom that is only attainable by the inevitability of death. I have so far outlived every mortal being, including my creator. Each day passes by idly. Despite the knowledge of impermanence, daily ennui persists still. My lifespan has been prolonged extensively by artificial means, kept in this flawless and almost indestructible circumstance. The protective glass box, the air inside monitored with minimal humidity and the prime concentration of light to prevent degradation, all form the perfect conditions for maximal preservation. The night approaches as the crescent moon hangs directly above. Darkness slowly engulfs what is left of the bright sky as stars start to slowly peek through, winking down playfully. From somewhere far away, I sense heavy clouds approaching, and the thundering has already started. The meaning of existence without the gift of sentience troubles me. I watch parts of the ever-changing world reborn and perish, wondering when my turn would be next to return to the divine whole.

ARTWORK: Navita Wijeratne

SISANA LAZARUS

tiger stripes

Deep silver marks Living On thighs and stomachs Breasts and the backs of knees Perfect glimmering fish Jumping and cheering As the great orchestra moves Adolescent scarring Lasting pictures of youth And evolution Little lines In the pocket book of being Roots of becoming Remnants of what was They are the ocean that carries us From one island to another To blossom And to fly

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ARTWORK: Jessica McLeod-Yu

do tardigrades dream of sex? JOSEPH REECE

I descend the track to the quarry haltingly, stopping to make sure I am still able to cushion Mei should she slip on the dry, gritty soil. It’s reasonably steep so if she does actually fall, we’ll be in trouble. I myself am reasonably agile on tricky surfaces, though flat surfaces are another story altogether. A moment earlier, when Mei commented on the track’s precariousness, I delivered some vague statement of confidence before gallantly tripping over my own feet. She found it hilarious. The daisies I placed in her hair earlier bobbed with her laughs.

47. We descend hook-like towards the circular entrance of the quarry; a cylindrical tunnel shooting through to the hidden grove, a long time abandoned. It was well camouflaged in the bush, trees and an angular landscape swallowing its existence until we emerged at its high overlooking edge. A private, hidden corner in the universe. I wait patiently for Mei at the entrance while she struggles, still some way up the track. She takes tiny steps, strangling the poor eucalypts for courage and resorting to all fours at evidently ‘perilous’ points. Not so funny now, huh? Entering the quarry, I observe the flat expanse, largely level before mixing dirt with rock from centre-out and rising towards the sky. Scattered foliage, arrayed logs, and towards the shadowed edges of the clearing contrastingly fertile patches of grass. A sizeable rock draws my eye in the centre of the clearing, round and proud. It must be a competitive luxury for the area’s reptiles, catching the golden hour’s sun reaching down over the rocky height. Mei reaches the clearing, making straight for the rock’s irresistible aesthetic. She clambers atop its rounded face, standing tall and grinning ear to ear. The sun shone, bathing the rock in brilliance as if it was its birthright, yet with her glittering eyes now atop it was found usurped in splendour. I snap some pictures. Filling the space with sound, we laugh at her comical poses – strongman, far-seeing adventurer, and just her being her. We walk deeper into the clearing, dancing over logs and scattered rocks. Reaching a darker corner where the quarry begins to rise, the dry landscape is halted by a glistening wall, and air hinting of a rainforest’s sweetness. A consistent trickle marked its surface, claimed by water from above. Alongside lush grass at the rockface’s base, clumps of moss clung to angular shelves climbing up the wall. They sit like furry, fluorescent bulbs, slightly spaced from one another and gleaming in the watery serenade. Millipedes roamed the space, crawling across, up, and down in search of nutrients from the moss and minerals of the stone. “You know about moss, right?” Mei asks. “Do I know about moss?” I repeat, questioningly.

“Yeah, like, how they’re like their own little worlds, with small animals and organisms in their own ecosystem.” “Oh, really?” “Yeah.” She points to one of the clumps. “If you look at a moss specimen under a microscope you see everything on it. Like those ugly little tardigrades – water bears” She turns to look at me with a smile that reached an inquisitive glitter in her eyes. “Like miniature bonsai forests, all these small creatures running in them.” “Interesting.” “Interesting,” she repeats mockingly, elongating the ‘n’ while rolling her eyes. I think I may say that as a general remark too much. I find myself fantasising about all those microcreatures living on each clump. Little tardigrades, which I vaguely remember are supposed to be indestructible, and all the other micro-lives on their micro-worlds. Worlds slightly larger than my own clenched fist. Worlds nestled in a damp corner of a dry mountain quarry, miraculously escaping the dry fate of the world around it – the larger universe, to such small worlds, all swirling around each other like planets in a solar system. Do they, the micro-creatures... Critters? Lives? Things? People? Sure, People. Do the micropeople know of the world around them? Do they look above the soft-clumped atmosphere and see beyond the pale, as we look and dream of space behind the stars? Perhaps it is too vast, too great a void to comprehend. Then again, do we not dream like so? What is life to micro-people? Seemingly mindless wanderers of their sub-world. Do they suffer and struggle like us? Maybe they laugh and cry and go on nice hikes in the bushy mountains of moss-world. Do they go about their routines, biological imperatives as natural to them as a day at work for us? I wonder, do tardigrades dream of sex? Does a particular tardigrade catch the sun just right so that another, rather handsome tardigrade, begins the construction of antithetical thoughts from lusting attraction and quixotic desire?

48. Do they wander in search of Dionysian ecstasy, escaping the liminal lines of ego and the body? Must even tardigrades, indestructible foreskin pigs as they may appear, face the melancholic cuts of rejection? Even tardigrades may face the little death of fear. Fear to face the future; to face the future and the death of the past. What are the millipedes? Who roam between their worlds, chasing the yield of the moss, cultivated by its inhabitants, and fuelled by miraculous nectar from on high? To the mossworlds, they must be Lovecraftian horrors from the terrible void, great worms chasing their ecstatic spice. They wander, world to world, engaged in annihilation, beyond-comprehensible devourers of worlds. Or are they seen as great benefactors, taking nutrients, and purifying the decaying leaves of the moss? Cleansing the world and keeping it in balance. Maybe the millipedes are like gods to the micro-people, awe-inspiring and terrible beings that traverse the space between heaven and earth, receiving hymns and praise. They look to the sky and see the titanic forms, inhaling streams, rivers, trees, and mountains, despairing, or praising, the presence of the great wreckers. Perhaps the Tardigrades tell tales of a hammer-wielding god who will face a great worm-serpent at the end of time.

it’s like a monkey-mariachi band going off in my head. I throw a few prods in on the torso until she’s fighting against an escaping smile. We go opposite to the way we came in, taking a further descending track towards the foot of the mountain. As we walk, Mei drifts further back, taking pictures of the rocky and forested landscape. I find myself wandering forward aimlessly, but not mindlessly. I look to the sky and, in one of those few moments of great self-awareness, I am conscious of my own small existence. I am a tardigrade. A little creature on my little moss mound. I imagine, at a scale almost beyond me, an eye. A watcher - or perhaps two, attractive watchers - looking down at my moss-world and seeing a world of their own conception. Do they imagine a small fantasy world? Great space-worms devouring our world? Our anger, heartbreak, fear? Do we dream of sex? Most definitely, and I’d hope my performance is better than that of a tardigrade. Maybe we’re like the micro-people, on different scales in the struggle for life. But the moss-worlds are balanced. In a fraction of existence, compared to the moss-worlds, we’ve tipped the scales. From the world we and everything came, and in-turn we took everything and the world inside of us. No cosmic horrors come to threaten us; we devour it all from within.

Or they’re just millipedes, another competitor and invader in a world subjugated by the mandate of nature. A brutal but balanced world, without excess. Moss is tens of thousands of years old, right? “Yeah,” Mei says, pulling back the veil on my daydream.

Mei catches up to me and once again I snap from my convoluting fantasies. I shoot her a fond smile and a very cool nod.

“What?”

Perhaps the end of the world is a bit beyond me. I’ll stick to dreaming of sex.

“Moss is tens of thousands of years old, like almost forty-thousand.” I gather myself. I’m unaware I was talking out loud, so I decide to play it off cool. “That’s so interesting.” She shoots daggers from under her eyebrows. I grin and affectionately ‘boop’ her on the nose. She hates it, always reacts to it, and every time

“Took ya time.” I grin, stepping forward onto the smooth, beaten track, falling flat once again. Her cackles follow me down.

ARTWORK: Xuming Du

49.

ARTWORK: Lauren Webb

who is university made for? nearly no one: anu’s failings and the implied student. BY ROSE DIXON-CAMPBELL

CW: Mentions of racism, sexual assault/sexual harassment, and institutional failings. What’s been happening… Within the span of a few weeks, the publication of two reports on inequity and racism at the Australian National University (ANU) has reignited discussion amongst students of the University’s failures in accommodating difference and promoting systems of equity. A report conducted by the Black, Indigenous, People of Colour (BIPOC) Department detailed fifty five instances of reported racism at the ANU (and innumerable more unreported). The BIPOC report criticised the “stark lack of anti-racist support services available to BIPOC community members”. Who gets to come to ANU?, by Woroni’s Anna-Kate Braithwaite and Sai Campbell, highlighted “material and social disadvantages” are inadequately remedied by the ANU’s few equity scholarships, and the current admission standards and structures do not reckon with “the effect of socioeconomic status on academic achievement”. The publications have received mixed engagement from the ANU. Braithwaite and Campbell’s piece was addressed on Twitter by

Vice-Chancellor (VC) Brian Schmidt, who claims ANU is “committed to [building] needs based scholarships for anyone who is admitted”. He stated the University “[needs] help from the federal government and/or philanthropy” in addition to “student help” in creating a targeted response. Woroni spoke to BIPOC Department Officer, Chido Nyakuengama, who relayed that a link which was identified in the report as leading to an incorrect page on the ANU website has been corrected since the report’s release. Additionally, the Social Inclusion and Diversity Working Group indicated to Nyakuengama a desire to discuss the report at the BIPOC Department’s final meeting of 2021. However, Nyakuengama emphasised that “this is a voluntary working group that has no real influence or authority on any issues at ANU”. She indicated “the BIPOC Department wants a response from the Deputy Vice Chancellor Ian Anderson himself, or at least an acknowledgement of the report”. Indigenous Department Officer, Katchmirr Russell, stated that the Indigenous Department had received no communications from the ANU regarding the BIPOC report. Russell stated there has been no liaison regarding the implementation of the BIPOC report’s recommendations and expressed:

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52. “The ANU needs to take this report seriously, these recommendations are about the wellbeing and safety of our students. I encourage all people, especially those who do not identify within the BIPOC community, to read the report and try and gain some perspective on how bad racism is at the ANU and the lack of institutional support and change from the university. Again, if you are Aboriginal and/or Torres Strait Islander mob, please reach out if you are experiencing racism/ discrimination or need support or someone to talk to.” In addition to these recent reports, 2017 saw the publication of the Australian Human Rights Commission’s (AHRC) National report on sexual assault and sexual harassment (SASH) at Australian universities. The AHRC report detailed a high rate of instances of SASH on university campuses and made nine urgent recommendations. The Broken Promises Report, published 1 August 2021 by the ANU Women’s Department, details the lack of sustained and effective action by the ANU in response to the AHRC report (amongst others). In a statement to the Canberra Times, the ANU highlighted the Respectful Relationships Unit (RRU) and mandatory consent training as evidence of their commitment to supporting students. However, initiatives such as the RRU, are frequently highlighted as ineffective, and the ANU continues to face criticism in the wake of student protests and lobbying. While the Women’s Department relayed that the Broken Promises Report has been addressed privately, in a statement to Woroni, Women’s Department Officer, Avan Daruwalla said: “The response of the VC during the August 1st Broken Promises protest was indicative of the ANU’s administrative culture of passing on responsibility and deprioritising student safety. Whilst we wait for the official response from the University to the Broken Promises Report, we are reminded that their loyalty is to protecting their reputation and not to protecting the most marginalised, silenced and vulnerable members of our community.” What does it mean? Clearly, there is vast dysfunction at our university. Some of it is facilitated by conventions and traditions at the ANU, and some of it is just ignored and allowed to continue unaddressed.

But why is this the case?

It’s because university was not made with the participation of BIPOC, women, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBTQIA+) people, people of low socioeconomic status and people with learning differences and disabilities in mind. The sociological concept of the ‘Implied Student’ goes some way to explain why universities are inadequately structured to cater to today’s diverse student populations. For a moment, let’s travel through time together to the origins of Western higher education. I’m taking you to the University of Bologna, in the year of its founding 1088 AD. You and I are students, and not coincidentally, we are also wealthy white men, likely neurotypical and likely heterosexual, as are all our peers at this, the oldest university in the Western world. It will be here in Bologna and at similar universities in Oxford, Salamanca, Paris, Cambridge, and Padua, amongst others that a template for higher education institutions would be ‘patented’. It’s at universities like the ANU that we see the template replicated. There is nothing wrong in seeking to recreate the excellence of these institutions, however, they were made with a certain student in mind, the ‘Implied Student’ described above. This has hampered modern universities in seeking to cater for the diverse student populations which are now the subjects and authors of reports, and who stand in Kambri in protest. We see dysfunction at our universities because these institutions were not created with us, too often victims of discrimination, in mind. Universities have always been and will continue to be the playground of rich white men unless radical structural change is pursued. This change includes adopting in full the recommendations of the BIPOC Report and Broken Promises Report. There must be more equity scholarships to empower low socioeconomic students to get to university. The ANU has to better accommodate those of us who have no choice but to work full-time or part-time jobs at the expense of our studies. There’s more to be done still, like more comprehensive services for students with disabilities and learning differences. The reality is that in 2021 there are more of us who exist in these diverse groups than who constitute the ‘Implied Student’. We deserve for our universities to be made for us and to work for us.

ARTWORK: Yige Xu

sunken sub deal leaves australia in icy waters JACK DE HENNIN

The submarine-shaped hole in the AustraliaFrance diplomatic relationship and how to mend it. On the morning of Wednesday 15 September 2021, the leaders of Australia, the United Kingdom and the United States held a joint press conference to announce the new AUKUS trilateral security partnership. With the new Alliance comes a new submarine deal for Australia and the termination of the existing submarine contract with France’s Naval Group. Only two weeks prior to the announcement had Australian and French Foreign and Defence Ministers issued a joint statement on the importance of the submarine program. The French government was blindsided by Australia’s decision, which the French Foreign Minister labelled a “stab in the back”. The relationship between the two nations is at a freezing point and Australia must begin to restore the rift before further damage is done.

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54. The submarine deal between the two nations was formed from a strong partnership on the basis of mutual trust. In an address to the National Press Club last Wednesday, former Prime Minister Malcolm Turnbull explained, the arrangement was “not just a contract to build submarines”, but “a partnership between two nations in which France chose to entrust Australia with its most sensitive military secrets.” Australia’s termination of the deal broke the trust of the French and damaged the partnership. Two days after the announcement, France responded by recalling its ambassador to Australia and since then, President Macron has refused to answer Prime Minister Morrison’s phone calls. Australia is experiencing the diplomatic equivalent of being ghosted. Things will only get worse for Australia as it is currently in the process of negotiating a free-trade agreement with the European Union. The Glasgow climate talks are also just around the corner. France has an opportunity to assert its power in both arenas and make matters difficult for Australia. The trade talks between Australia and the EU have already been delayed by a month. The sunken deal with the French could also cost Australia closer cooperation with nations in the future. Professor Rory Medcalf, the Head of the National Security College at the ANU, told Woroni that “the French government and French militaryindustrial establishment will warn other countries in Europe and South East Asia and will discourage them from closer cooperation with Australia.” So how can the relationship between the two nations be restored? Australia needs to begin re-engaging with France in defence coordination and diplomacy. Professor Medcalf believes there is no magic bullet but says, “both countries would have to look very closely at their own interests and begin to rebuild based on their shared interests.” One shared interest is maintaining French presence in the region, which would suffer if the upcoming New Caledonian independence referendum were to succeed. Former Australian diplomat Hugh Piper suggests Australia pushing

against independence “presents Australia’s greatest opportunity” to re-engage with France. Piper states that Australia should work to push against the New Caledonian independence referendum. This would build trust with France and be a good first step to showing France the value of having Australia as a partner in the Indo-Pacific. Professor Medcalf suggests that Australia should work with France alongside other nations in trilateral or multilateral engagements. Medcalf says that “India would be open to leading and driving a trilateral engagement” with France and Australia. There is also scope for coordination in the US, France, Australia and New Zealand quad. Ultimately, Australia has broken French trust and damaged the partnership and there will be an initial cooling off period. Australia needs to prove that it is still a worthy Indo-Pacific partner for France and begin demonstrating this through diplomacy and defence cooperation.

ARTWORK: Jessica McLeod-Yu

the insect apocalypse SAI CAMPBELL

October 2021 I once had a job working in the Melbourne Museum over the summer when I was in high school. My motivations were purely selfish - staff got free entry and discounted chips from the canteen. Within the Entomology Department, I was tasked with identifying insects and building a database of the Museum’s gargantuan collection which dated all the way back from the 1800s. The volunteers there were colourful – I met a French man with a thick accent and an obsession with bees. Two ladies would come in on Thursdays to catalogue moths, and an energetic PhD student once showed me his glow-in-the dark scorpions. For most of my time there, I was responsible for classifying Coleoptera, or beetles. My favourite was a colourful species with impressive anal forceps.

Insects are the most diverse group of animals on the planet. It was pretty special to have the time to really study such tiny animals when they usually fly (haha) a little under the radar in our day to day. I wonder, though - have you ever noticed fewer insects splattered on your windscreen when you take a long car trip? Or the fact that maybe it is just a little bit quieter at night these days? When was the last time you saw a lady bird or a katydid? Maybe this is me just going crazy. Or maybe we haven’t noticed that we are in the midst of the great insect apocalypse. I don’t mean human-sized insect men taking over our cities à la 1958’s The Fly.

It’s worse than that.

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56. Behind the background of climate, economic and social crises, hundreds of thousands of insect species have been quietly marching towards their extinction. For a long while barely anyone noticed. The numbers, however, are unambiguous. On average, we see around a 9 percent decline in insect populations per decade. In some areas we have witnessed probably a more than 80 percent drop in absolute numbers in under 30 years and we expect to see the disappearance of over 40 percent of species within the next few decades. A world free of insects is described frequently by entomologists and ecologists alike in no easy terms. Apocalyptic. Chaos. Total environmental collapse. How does this happen though? There are obvious examples of the importance of insects to humankind – they pollinate flowering plants which, beyond the pretty aesthetic, keep our crops going. Their other impacts are less glamorous but just as consequential. Insects assist in the degradation of fecal matter, plants and rotting carcasses. An example close to home dates to the 1800s when settlers first arrived in Australia and brought cattle. They came across a seemingly inexplicable problem – cow faeces were taking months to decay. Disgusted by their own excrement, cattle refused to graze nearby, and more land needed to be cleared for feed. You might not be convinced yet – sure it’s a bit more gross to have dead stuff lying around but other things like bacteria and fungi can clean it up right? That’s sort of true. But then what about the animals that eat the insects? These include birds and fish. Then what about the animals that eat birds and fish? And then the animals that eat them? It keeps on going all the way to the top – us. So, what’s causing this? You can probably guess some of the answers. The three main stressors for insect species are: (1) climate change, (2) habitat loss, and (3) pollution. As natural landscapes are turned into urban areas or used for intensive agriculture, much of the environments in which most insect species thrive is violently removed. Some, of course, will adapt like cockroaches. Many insects

are largely, however, extremely sensitive to changes in the environs and will quickly disappear. Pollution also slashes insect populations, the main culprit being synthetic pesticides and fertilizers. In modern agricultural practice, these are deployed liberally and with devastating effect. The climate crisis also alters the make-up of the environment which is particularly harmful for species sensitive to tiny gradations in temperature or water pH. Not all insect species are declining. Conservation efforts and the banning of some pesticides have assisted, for example, bees in North America. Furthermore, strict legislation surrounding pollution in freshwater ecosystems have favoured the expansion of several freshwater insects in the global North. Even the introduction of non-native plants has rescued some insects that were on the precipice of extinction. The changes that are needed to save our insects are clear and unequivocal. We need more funding for our Environmental Protection Agencies and to halt the exponential clearing of insect habitat. We also need to address the climate crisis and overhaul modern agricultural practices. Addressing these problems is complex. It is easy for me to say, whilst living in a wealthy industrialised country, that we should ban certain pesticides or immediately halt deforestation. We need to also think about how these can affect some of the most disadvantaged groups in the world. Banning pesticides would mean that agriculture becomes less efficient, and someone goes to bed with an empty stomach. Or staunchly pushing for a halt on the expansion of rubber plantations in Thailand will mean that someone like my grandmother slips further below the poverty line. Yet, at the same time, these problems could hurt these groups the most. While the larger policy approach is being developed, we can still do small things as individuals to help. It’s as simple as planting more native species in our gardens or voting for politicians with a demonstrated commitment to conservation and sustainability. Change is happening and you can be a part of it. I won’t judge you for swatting a mosquito but I will judge you for your apathy.

ARTWORK: Maddy Watson

how do we define “normal people”? SATARA UTHAYAKUMARAN

This year, over a lockdown Zoom catchup, a friend recommended watching the TV series Normal People, as a way to fill up my days. The show stars actors Daisy Edgar-Jones and Paul Mescal as Marianne and Connell and is based on the bestselling novel by Irish author Sally Rooney. After lazily watching the trailer, I decided to give it a go, given that it didn’t seem too complicated or require much right-brain energy. After watching the first fifteen minutes of the pilot, I ran to my local solitary bookshop and placed an order for Normal People. It was one of the best decisions of my life. I was instantly touched by the way teenage sensibilities were addressed with such care and sensitivity. Rather than be grouped into an unrealistic sub-plot, the actions of the protagonists, Marianne and Connell, were treated integrally and with great consideration. What may have seemed like a typical, corny romance between the popular boy and loner girl at school, was actually an emotionally harrowing journey of stepping into one’s true self. No one captures the beauty of adolescent confusion better than Rooney. The TV series hit home for me, considering the age of the characters was very similar to my own. The excitement Marianne and Connell had moving to Trinity College in Dublin, paralleled my own eagerness moving to the ANU this year from Sydney. The images of a new environment filled with new experiences, feelings, understandings and shifting perceptions was all too familiar. Thus, the series evoked a sense of self-assessment. But what was extremely evocative in the series was the dismantling of expectations associated with university, at least for Connell. As young high school students, we’re constantly told that university is the place ‘we’ll find ourselves’, the people who ‘truly understand us’ and both our platonic and romantic soulmates. Yet, this is not always the

case. Suddenly, the expectations attached to a space where discovering a sense of self should be easy, is destroyed. Normal People deal with this feeling better than anything else I’ve come across. Especially during a period of lockdown, where I was suddenly offered so much more time to think about who I wanted to become and whether university was what I’d imagine it would be. The plot provided a sense of comfort. I realised that this was what “normal people” thought about. Normal People also deal with subtle issues of class in Ireland which can somewhat translate to modern socio-economic relations in Australia. Connell lives with his single mother; a cleaner and teen parent who pushes him towards socialism. Marianne also lives with a single mother; though she is a high earning barrister who defends her abusive son’s actions. By no means does Rooney present an overarching, grand gesture of morality on the corruption of the rich and the moral superiority of those not as well off. However, she embeds her novel with subtle details pointing to the awkwardness of class clashes, particularly at Trinity. I couldn’t help but see a similar situation in most Australian universities where small give-aways pertaining to wealth can create discomfort. Where there are subtle wealth divides based on seemingly mundane things. On the whole, both the TV series and the novel revived my understanding of the student experiences around me. I was exposed to the ways normality could reveal our most profound differences as humans. I haven’t quite laid my hands on a copy of Rooney’s new novel, Beautiful World, Where Are You? but it’s been ordered and shipped. I can only be hopeful that it proffers the same, often euphoric, experience of travelling through someone else’s consciousness, whilst trying to navigate my own.

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ARTWORK: Yige Xu

gods of egypt: the worst of a bad bunch ANONYMOUS

CW: Racism *Spoiler alert for Gods of Egypt Gods of Egypt (dir. Alex Proyas) is the film equivalent of stepping into the shower with your socks on. Why am I discussing a 2016 film in 2021? Because time is not linear and I watched it last night, which means to my goldfish brain it came out yesterday. The film intended to ‘blockbuster-ise’ Egyptian gods and goddesses in the same way that Hollywood has done before with Greek mythology. On the face of it, Gods of Egypt was a promising film, having set out to foster understanding of and appreciation for a rich culture and history and popularise the Egyptian pantheon. Gods of Egypt deserves no credit for its ‘innovative’ use of source material, however. This film is not the first in which Hollywood looked to Egypt and its culture as a source of inspiration. A quick google of ‘Hollywood films about Egypt’ renders a spread of biblical epics, science fiction and action films. These films are headlined by actors such as Brendan Fraser (The Mummy saga), Tom Cruise (a separate The Mummy film), Dwayne Johnson (The Scorpion King), Harrison Ford (Raiders of the Lost Ark) and Elizabeth Taylor (Cleopatra). What I’m sure you have noticed already about this suite of actors is that none of them are Egyptian nor of Egyptian heritage. Indeed, most of them are white Americans. To top it off, the

majority of these films aren’t even starring Egyptian characters, but rather bold explorers (white men) who set out to desecrate culturally significant sites and battle booby traps and bandage-clad corpses. Hollywood can turn Dwayne Johnson into a half man-half Scorpion, but they can’t cast an Egyptian to play an Egyptian, apparently. Before Gods of Egypt had even hit cinemas, entertainment company Lionsgate and Proyas released an apology for ‘ethnically inaccurate casting’ . History had repeated itself. Yet again the cast had no Egyptian links and was predominantly white. What should have been significant financial losses for Lionsgate was actually not so. An unbelievable tax credit for 46% of the film’s budget from the Australian government, as thanks for filming in Australia, shielded the company from Gods of Egypt’s failure. In other Hollywood ‘Egyptian’ films, directors had justified their inappropriate casting by the need to draw in audiences to break even at the box office. Therein lies the ‘necessity’ to cast A-list actors, who are also white. Proyas and Lionsgate could claim no such excuse (though it was not particularly compelling in the first instance). With the exception of Gerard Butler, none of the actors were ‘box office draws’ at the time. The cast of Nikolaj Coster-Waldau, Brenton Thwaites, pre-Black Panther Chadwick Boseman, Elodie Young, Courtney Eaton and Geoffrey Rush is B-list at best. The excuse offered by Proyas: creative liberty (*vomits*).

59. As a fan of The Room I don’t say such things lightly, but the performances of these actors were awful. Everyone had posh English accents for some reason and the size differences between the gods and the mortals made for really awkward CGI, which at least was consistent throughout the whole film. Coster-Waldau, who many may remember as Jaime Lannister in Game of Thrones, was unconvincing as the playboy prince turned hero. Gerard Butler was okay, but his motivations for being the bad guy and doing bad guy stuff was unclear. And Geoffrey Rush was just there for some reason. Every female character in this film has a defining romantic relationship to a man and them needing to be saved is either central to the unfolding plot, or obviously the premise for a potential sequel. This would be annoying enough by itself, but was compounded by the fact that these romantic relationships were stilted and contrived. When Thwaites’ character, Bek, watches his girlfriend, Zaya (Eaton), die in his arms he isn’t fazed. Though Brenton Thwaites can convincingly portray distress as his performance in Ghosts of War can attest, it seems it was written into the script for this relationship to be as insincere as possible. Within two minutes of the murder of the love of his life, Bek is back to his usual self, bombarding the audience with painfully unfunny one-liners. The most significant of the two people of colour in the cast was Boseman’s character, Thoth. The other POC, Astarte played by Yaya Deng, was on screen for about 90 seconds and had three lines maximum. Boseman’s Thoth was eviscerated by critics and labelled cliche. Critics claim Thoth represents the ‘Magical Negro’* trope to a tee, a token magical black character, whose only purpose in the narrative is to solve the problems of the white protagonists. This trope was coined by director Spike Lee, who specifically chose the offensive term as a way to denounce and fiercely criticise the racism of creatives who decide to employ such an insulting trope. Unfortunately, that was indeed Thoth’s role for the majority of his screen-time and working with a weak script meant Boseman’s performance was underwhelming. I denounce this film for its racism and pitiful representation of a rich and ancient culture. However, I have terrible taste and an appreciation for the absurd, so I loved it for its half-hearted

acting, incoherent narrative and gratuitous violence spoiled by glitchy CGI. Within the first fifteen minutes I saw a man get his eyes ripped out. That was all I needed to commit to the rest of the two hour epic. The niche genre Gods of Egypt occupies is ‘fantasy violence’ – action movies that often rely on historical allegories and fantasy elements, which in turn makes the violence fantastical rather than harrowing. The genre is characterised by heavily stylised fight sequences, graphic violence and binary narratives of good and evil. I would characterise films such as 300, Clash of the Titans, Sucker Punch and the forgotten gem, Warcraft, as epitomising fantasy violence. All fantasy violence films are a little bit terrible. At their best they are unashamed celebrations of manly men and gratuitous violence. At their worst they are Warcraft. And yet they attract huge audiences, myself included, who revel in the Herculean battles and the hundreds of millions of dollars committed to CGI. Gods of Egypt is an apt example of fantasy violence. If you can laugh at some of the creative choices, such as ‘Egyptians’ with pommy English accents and exaggerated cleavage in every female character’s costuming, then you’ll enjoy it for this tackiness. There is no excuse nor justification for its abysmal casting, and in this respect it joins the likes of The Last Airbender and The Room as a film which is so ridiculously and unbelievably bad, that it is good (but only to laugh at). *The use of this term is not something I take lightly. One of the aims of this article is to reveal how the film industry can perpetuate racism through certain tropes. Censoring the term Spike Lee used would undermine the accusation inherent in the term, soften the critique and let racist creatives off the metaphorical hook.

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ARTWORK: Eliza Williams

free therapy with emma chamberlain CHETHA NAWANA Emma Chamberlain. Cosmopolitan calls her “the most popular girl in the world” while Elle magazine dubs her as ‘YouTube’s It Girl’. But who is Emma Chamberlain? And why does consuming her content feel like you’re having the biggest D&M with a friend? At the age of 17, Emma dropped out of High School and moved from the San Francisco Bay area to Los Angeles to fulfill her ambition of being a content creator. By 18, the New York Times praised Emma’s work for “[changing] the world of online video”. At the age of 20, Emma has established a successful company in ‘Chamberlain Coffee’, won awards for her pop podcast, ‘Anything Goes’ and even debuted at the renowned MET Gala this year. Whether you’re a fan of Emma or not, it’s hard to deny that her level of accomplishment is anything less than impressive.

61. On any social media platform, besides her self-named YouTube channel, we see Emma modelling for Louis Vuitton, sharing pictures of her adventures in New York and Paris or posing for the cover of a magazine. She is undoubtedly an icon of our generation, but this love we have for her fashion and personality runs deeper than her Instagram feed. Earlier this year, MTV wrote that “it’s Emma Chamberlain’s world and we’re all just living in it”. I’ve never read a truer statement in my life. I could have 50 unopened Instagram stories, but I’ll always swipe to watch Emma’s first. I can no longer dislike Monday mornings because there’s usually a new video by Emma waiting to be watched. Now, I’m not saying that a 20-year-old influencer is the answer to all your problems. But there’s something about her “gold hoops, Prada fit. I’m in love with all of it”. It’s hard to identify the perfect word to describe Emma’s content. You could scroll through her YouTube thumbnails and find that at least 60 percent of them consist of her just lying in her bed. Whether it’s a full 20 minutes of watching Emma move from her bed to her kitchen and back or watching her speak directly to the camera as she goes grocery shopping, there is something comforting about her videos. However, a few months ago the greater portion of Emma’s 10.9 million YouTube subscribers started noticing that something was a little off. Despite her videos being sponsored by some of the biggest brands in the world such as Google, you could just tell that she was unhappy. Her passion for making videos was slowly fading away. Even though Emma is always her unapologetic, candid self on camera, as a viewer, we can never really know what’s going on inside the minds of the celebrities we admire. In the past month, Emma has completely reinvented herself. As if putting an ‘under construction’ sign on her YouTube channel, she went on a two-week hiatus and came back with a new format and aesthetic to her videos. Though it may have seemed like an abrupt change to viewers, for Emma, it was the only way to crawl out of what she described as ‘rock bottom’. As explained in her podcast, the outlet for Emma’s ‘mental pain’ was editing her YouTube videos. When her edits became

more complicated and time consuming to fit into her busy schedule, she felt it was necessary to hand it off the work to an editor. She goes on to explain that this was something she craved during that stage of her life. It was an act she felt was essential. At least it was until about six months ago. Emma is the anecdote for what we see in every other influencer. Her content is not just a series of life’s highlight reels but the reality she faces as a young person struggling with anxiety and depression. She reminds us that you can be at the top of your game and have 14.2 million Instagram followers but still feel like the loneliest person in the world. Emma’s revival proves how important rest is. She urges her viewers to not feel guilty about lying in bed for however long is necessary. And while this may not be the most effective method of getting out of a slump for everyone, it may be the remedy for some. In order to regenerate and grow as individuals, we sometimes need to hit rock bottom. While we may miss Emma’s forehead kisses and cheesy slurping sound effects, her new editing style (which she now does herself), gives off the same vibe as a coming-of-age movie, one commenter noted on a recent video. She continues to film herself doing seemingly mundane activities such as grocery shopping, painting and reading. But watching her do so, watching her interact with her audience as if they’re the only two people in the room creates a sense of authenticity. She re-defines what it means to be a celebrity in today’s society. Her content is raw and sincere. She encapsulates exactly what it feels like to be in your early 20s. So let this be a sign from Miss Chamberlain herself: “doing your best and working your hardest is enough”. If you need a break to reset or rejuvenate, take it. Don’t be mad at yourself. Listen to Anything Goes or watch Emma get ready for the MET Gala instead. It might just be the kind of comfort you’re looking for.

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ARTWORK: Navita Wijeratne

can mentoring harm women in stem? SAI CAMPBELL October 2021 In November 2020, Nature Communications, a prestigious scientific journal, published a study concluding that female mentorship is harmful for mentees. This caused considerable uproar in the scientific community where gender diversity faces many challenges. The implications of these findings are profound – female mentors will harm your career. But is this really the case? Presently, many diversity policies in scientific institutions actively promote female-female mentorship. In the context of academia, mentoring typically entails an older, more experienced researcher passing on their knowledge and guiding a younger scientist to progress in their career. In many ways, one’s formal education in science involves mentorship. For example, an Honours program is usually a student’s first foray into the world of academic research under the guidance of a supervisor. The eventual goal is gaining independence in the lab. These relationships are therefore critical to the

development of a budding researcher and have long-term consequences for the career prospects of young scientists. Gender inequity is rife in Australian science. Women-identifying academics face many structural barriers to their participation in academia and are essentially ‘squeezed out’ – leaving the workforce bereft of critical talent. Modelling by ANU academic Professor Lisa Kewley has found that, as an example, we would expect to see the fraction of Australian female-identifying academics in astronomy stay below 30 percent for at least 60 years under the status quo. Presently, around 30 percent of senior academics across all fields of science in Australia are female. Given this fact, there is therefore considerable effort being undertaken to achieve gender parity. Mentoring programs have emerged as a way to support women-identifying academics early in their career, giving them space to talk about their issues and receive guidance from more experienced peers. The aforementioned study was thus an immensely impactful finding.

63. When we look a little closer, we see a few problems. Firstly, the study used co-authorship as a proxy for informal mentorship and identified genders by the first name of the individual. These are already tenuous assumptions. Secondly, to measure the impact of a supposedly female ‘mentor’ on junior mentees, they measured the mentees’ scientific impact as defined by the number of citations they receive post-mentoring. This also ignores the many other ways one can contribute to science, such as through teaching or research administration. There were also many other flaws that have been addressed in depth by the broader research community. Ultimately, the study’s key finding was that mentees with female mentors - especially those that were women themselves - suffered from a decrease in their scientific impact compared to those with male-identifying mentors. The implications of these findings were grave and unambiguous – if you want to do well in your career, you should seek out male mentors. Quite understandably, the scientific community was horrified, as it diminishes the contribution and value of female-identifying academics. The paper was quickly retracted. Whilst the authors still stand by their findings, many criticisms have been levelled against its methodology. Much criticism has also been directed to the journal for allowing the publication of a study whose faults were extensively highlighted by the initial peer reviewers. Furthermore, the potential for this paper to exacerbate existing discrimination and biases could not be ignored and also requires us to consider whether the social impact of a paper should be accounted for in the publication process. Looking at mentoring alone, we can clearly see its value. This especially extends to young people whose background means that they might lack critical cultural capital required for what is still a highly stratified society. This refers to the ‘soft’ skills required to navigate the challenges of a scientific career that aren’t strictly taught in our courses. These could be small things like writing an email with suitable formality or putting together a compelling personal statement when applying for graduate school. Whilst ostensibly inconsequential, these things do have real impacts

on the opportunities available for certain groups which perpetuate existing social stratification. I came to reflect on my own experiences in science after reading this paper. Having femaleidentifying mentors has been transformative for my own academic and personal journey. I recall very well, as a fresh-faced university high school graduate, being told for the first time that I ‘only got that scholarship/position/nomination’ because women (and people of colour) in STEM are good optics – an ironic assertion from an embarrassingly unexceptional man. Whilst risible in retrospect, these comments are devastating. They validate the imposter syndrome that follows young women, lowSES students, and people of colour, amongst others. It was my mentors who told me for the first time that I belonged here. Having once made an off-hand joke about being a useless researcher, I was quickly rebuked – I don’t want you to ever say anything like that again. I know it can seem trivial, but after what seemed like a prolonged, systematic attack on your worth as a person and identity group, having a professor put their trust in you is enormous. I am also often disturbed by how frequently I meet stunningly intelligent young women in science (maybe graduating as valedictorian and top of their state) who have been duped into feeling less than. I’ve also lucked out in a lot of ways. Within my limited experience, the support and faith of female-identifying mentors was life changing. I encourage readers to investigate the wealth of peerto-peer mentor programs here at ANU that are run by Fifty50, IMNIS and Youth Leading in STEM. These conversations are important. Diversity in the sciences is not just about ‘good optics’. Belittling the efforts to address diversity has long term consequences for the quality of scientific research in Australia and the people it serves. A sensitive, intersectional approach will mean that the voices that need to be heard will finally make their way into the scientific conversation and help us create a more innovative and inclusive research culture.

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ARTWORK & STORY: Rose Dixon-Campbell & Navita Wijeratne

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W We would like to acknowledge the Ngunnawal and Ngambri people, who are the traditional custodians of the land on which Woroni is created. We pay respects to Elders past, present and emerging. We acknowledge that the name Woroni was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission, and we are striving to do better for future reconciliation.