Volume 16: In This Strange Land by Perspektif Magazine

IN THIS STRANGE L AND VOLUME 16

PERSPEKTIF

Indonesian for Perspective (noun.) a point of view

Perspektif is a biannual print and online magazine dedicated to showcasing young talents and ideas about current issues. ‘Perspektif’ is Indonesian for perspective, a name that signifies our aims: to promote the acceptance of varying perspectives while representing Indonesian culture in a global context. Each volume contains a variety of written and visual pieces, ranging from critical analyses to poems, centralised on a theme. Supported by kind donations and passionate individuals, our magazine is entirely free and run by a team of student volunteers. We hope that Perspektif will inspire and familiarise you with new ideas, and perhaps challenge yours in the process.

VISION To be a platform that exemplifies the diversity of student experiences through showcasing ideas, talents, initiatives and stories relevant to the youth.

MISSION To foster a forum for discussing timely topics and to create a magazine that is visually and intellectually engaging.

photography SHARIFA REFRY

EDRICA

ANDA TH

phy AM photogra

I N TH I S S T R A NG E L A ND “Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind. Something you dream about and sing about.” HUGO HAMILTON

Human history marks the urgency of movement. We are always escaping to strange lands, braving the odds in order to get a glimpse of a different sun. The question is not so much the necessity of migration but whether we—when leaving—leave behind parts of ourselves that we can never find again.

EDITOR’S WORDS What are the first things that come to mind when you hear the word ‘strange’? For me, it’s ‘different’, ‘weird’, and ‘exile’. Thing is, everyone views it differently, choosing to focus on just one thing among the myriad of reasons that someone may declare something as ‘strange’. For Astri Sanjaya in The Unattainable American Dream, it’s the blatant systemic racism and discrimination of marginalised groups in the economy. For Jagged Waves in To: My first long distance relationship, it’s feeling like an alien in the place they grew up in. For Moudisha Zeeva in Midnight Stroll it’s her perpetual yearning for shelter, the need to spend her entire life running, and the desperation of seeking a home. ‘In This Strange Land’ showcases a diverse range of personal migrant stories, which dive into their own experiences of being shunned by a country they have no sense of belonging in. Maybe it’s the land. Maybe it’s the person. Maybe it’s the unruly, unthinkable combination of two puzzle pieces that just don’t fit quite right. This volume is dedicated to everyone who’s ever felt alone, lost, lonely, deserted, or hopeless. You are not alone. We hear you and we are here for you.

Love always, Sabrina Kosman

EDITORIAL FOUNDERS Fauziyah Annur Rama Adityadharma Mary Anugrah Rasita EXECUTIVES Sabrina Kosman Arletta Celestine Witaria Nadya Evelyn Jennifer Chance Vanni Anastasya

MANAGING EDITOR

Jennifer Chance EDITORS

Anindya Setiawan Astri Sanjaya Elvira Titan Muhammad Raffi Dwitama

CREATIVE CREATIVE DIRECTOR

Nadya Evelyn DESIGNERS & ILLUSTRATORS

Adelya Zevania Mikha Bhava Amanda Thedrica Tiara Puspa Amanda Valerie Luira Yoewono

MARKETING MARKETING DIRECTORS

Arletta Celestine Witaria Vanni Anastasya MARKETERS

Angela Stacia Sulianto Dwigdi Diksita Gladys Clarissa Namira Anastasya Soerianto

T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S

Between Cities

Anindya Setiawan

We’re Just Impostors in This Country 18

Fajar Zakri

Jennifer Chance

22 I <3 Yr Internet Persona

Fajar Zakri

Stick with The Home Turf Fajar Zakri

The Unattainable American Dream 26

Astri Sanjaya

By The Sea

Astri Sanjaya

The Fraud

Estranged

A 21-Year-Old Teenage Me

Bryant Kurniasurja

Jagged Waves

46 To The Big City Jagged Waves 48 To: My First Long Distance

Relationship

Jagged Waves

Mental Health Challenges in Migrant Communities Muhammad Raffi Dwitama

Midnight Stroll

Rindu

Moudisha Zeeva

Jennifer Chance

photography ANONYMOUS

CONTRIBUTORS VOLUME 16

WORDS Anindya Setiawan Astri Sanjaya Bryant Kurniasurja Fajar Zakri Jagged Waves Jennifer Chance Moudisha Zeeva Muhammad Raffi Dwitama

MEDIA Amanda Thedrica Angela Tedja Moudisha Zeeva Sharifa Refry

BETWEEN CITIES words ANINDYA SETIAWAN illustration ADELYA ZEVANIA MIKHA BHAVA

I can look out the window from my bed, even when lying down. The view isn’t great, but the stars keep me occupied. There are a lot more of them here—at least, the ones that are visible. My guitar is safe in its case as it leans against the glass. There is nothing more in sight unless I move my vision. But I don’t want to, so I keep my eyes peeled right ahead. If I try hard enough, I almost feel like I am back home. The familiarity lingers until a siren runs through the city; and I’m suddenly back to being alone in my room, a few thousand miles away from everything I used to know. Most mornings, the air beats loudly—the rare sounds of a kookaburra from a distance slipping through the breeze, the construction workers arriving to work on the building next door, the fire alarm of my upstairs neighbour ringing and the smell of smoke that lingers. As I roll over on my bed, I think about being home, about my cat sitting on the edge of my bed with her paw out, about the washing machines up and running early on. My first step: march to the bathroom. This is true for both places, except in Melbourne, I don’t have to bang on the door to yell at my brother to get out. And while I brush my teeth, I don’t have to leave the door slightly open for my cat to come in and wait for me to fill a cup for her to drink from, though I know it isn’t a healthy habit—believe me, she insists. I also don’t have to be aware of sharing when alone, and won’t have to worry about whether I accidentally squeezed the toothpaste from the middle to spark an argument, or if my footsteps are a little too loud when walking down the hall. In Melbourne, the space is mine. The coffee shop is dimly lit. I repeat my name at least twice when ordering, which has become something of a reflex of mine built over the past few years. Back home, I never had to do that. It’s an odd thing to realise that your name can be the most common thing in one place and at the top of the foreign list in another. When the barista struggles to call out my name, I tell them it’s okay and we have a short conversation—secretly my favourite part of people mispronouncing my name. Then, I grab my cup and walk out to the screech of trams on the tracks. Jakarta is just as noisy—if not more. 14

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But I’m finding out that a noise is not determined by the loudness of the sound itself, rather the context of it—the people and their talks and the high heels waiting to cross the road. I follow along. The light turns green. An ever-so-familiar beeping sound rings. As I try to match my walk with the heels in front of me, I think about the latest novel I’d read and how I’d love to keep doing just that for the rest of my life—read. Only the things I want, though. I’m picky like that. I have a line from Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar ringing in my head—the one towards the end about the ‘fresh fall of snow’ and how it falls slowly to blanket the front of the asylum. I think about Esther a lot and how she felt lonely in New York—stuck between crowds, trapped in a bell jar, and I can’t help but wonder if that could be me with Melbourne someday, getting tired from trying to keep up with a city that’s moving too fast. But I feel it when I go back home, too. Maybe I’m the one going too slow. It’s hard to have a balanced relationship with something ever-changing, like a place. One moment, everything is clear and the next, everything feels like bumping into a stranger on the street and forgetting to apologise, so you spend the whole day with guilt hanging over your head. Red illuminates my vision and my feet are glued in place until a crowd of students run past. Finally, I’m back on the sidewalk. In Jakarta, I wouldn’t have even thought of waiting. I’d just go. It’s funny how a habit in one place can become something so out of the box in another. It feels like two different lives, like I’m two different people in the same body, both of whom I’m not too familiar with. I let go of the thought before it frustrates me. When I get back to my apartment, I pull the novel from under my bed, flip through the pages to find that one specific line that’s been clouding my mind. I highlight it four times. Like Esther, I find myself stuck inside a bell jar a lot. I’ve stumbled a bunch of times in my attempt to find a balance in between places—between the crowds, routines and the way I feel. On the days when I feel lucky, the line isn’t so blurred. Within those moments are the quickest few seconds of thinking that I know where I’m from, what >> ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

I’m made of, where I’m heading. But like the view from inside a bell jar, things are always hazy even from a short distance. And it will always be. Learning to appreciate this—that’s the trick of it all. It still takes me a while to fall asleep here, the same way it takes me a while to drift off to dreamland back home. I still forget to tie my shoelace, the thought non-existent in my mind until I trip right before walking out the door. I still play the same songs while getting ready in the morning and still sing louder in certain lines. I still hate odd numbers. The truth is, despite everything seeming ever-changing and foggy, a lot of my life remains the same. In the past few years, I’ve grown up with my hands held out to grab new things while everything I used to know walked with me the whole way. I suppose that’s the beauty of being in two places at once, putting aside the initial confusion that we all face. The grass is green in Melbourne, the way it is in Jakarta. The sky is blue. The air feels warm on most nights, colder on others. And when it rains, it rains.

My guitar leans against the window, still.

In differences lies similarities. This is clear—even from inside the bell jar.

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photography SHARIFA REFRY

words FAJAR ZAKRI illustration AMANDA THEDRICA

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I want a semblance of normalcy, an exercise on limit. a maintenance on sanity. I want to be rid of this ennui: not the boredom, but the lethargy. I want a husband, cats, dogs, punk rock neighbours, waltzing cops who leave their attires behind to join the revolution. I want to cheat the bureaucracy. I want to cross the border and leave this country. I want to make room for an endless supply of babies polluting the earth with diapers and endless shrieks. I want to know how your mum’s doing. I’d like to talk to her about you and her life: how I love her son more than everyone and everything, what she thinks about having a boy as your wife. I want to be cooked by prejudice, despite all the right ingredients, and never once simmer. I want to ride this fairytale to its last mile then watch the pages burn. I want to rewrite history with an un-whitewash-able ink. I want to smash the mirror and break the ceiling. I want you to take me out sometime then cry with me at the borderline.

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what is a dreamer but the left-behind adrift, always seeking, never finding ? is it shelter you look for or safety or prosperity or stability in a continuously moving world or maybe a soft warm touch from something or someone unknown ? you reach new lands, strange lands the clouds move differently here but the skyscrapers engulf you and your dreams are small so small ? did it work out for your dad when he moved ? or your granddad when he fled by boat ? or your mother’s sister when she ran ? will it work out for you this time ? or will you tell your child to fly and find better shores the way your parents always would ?

words JENNIFER CHANCE photography MOUDISHA ZEEVA ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

I <3 YR INTERNET PERSONA words FAJAR ZAKRI illustration ADELYA ZEVANIA MIKHA BHAVA

behind every immaculately curated timeline the façade of the perfectly manicured socially engaged academia lies a man-fucked man-child well-versed in nurture, nature, scripture rote when it comes to the heart

somewhere a groundbreaking dissertation is being written somewhere history is being rewritten somewhere another land is being stolen flew back home, now a man of faith a champion of religion, a poster child for diversity momma’s golden boy, daddy’s trust fund baby

is this what they taught in Europe? America? Australia? colonised land for the colonised mind fine-tuned offspring of the “global South” the neoliberal paradise soil without forbidden fruit everything’s just always ripe, somehow

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photography MOUDISHA ZEEVA 24

STICK WITH THE HOME TURF words FAJAR ZAKRI illustration ADELYA ZEVANIA MIKHA BHAVA

it’s the cunning fashion of modern-day soft power and imperialism superiority imposed to maximum effect for dubious reasons a vain attempt at solving the conundrum wielding fleeting lore to appear progressive in a culture so ho-hum tricks played out in predictable patterns I, too, have my international ambitions though there’s no paying the extraorbitant cost of privilege means are made around these bends without anything fashionable to leverage emotional currency merely traded with ‘you speak English so great’s a life lived in proximity is not for those seeking the vagabond ways, cursed with the wide-eyed wonder. the road’s never hit, the sky’s never reached. I go down, just not under. I’m neither gone nor ever really here.

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T H E U N A TT A I NA B L E A ME R I C A N DR E A M words ASTRI SANJAYA illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA

The American Dream.

It is a phrase familiar to most but not commonly understood. For immigrants, attaining the dream blurs the line between various cultural backgrounds and identities as they attempt to fit the mould and live a more prosperous life. Growing up with the influence of Western media, I was fed with the idea of the United States being a land of opportunity and liberty. It took me a while to realise that these opportunities are not available equally. Depending on your status within society, different interpretations of the American Dream exist. This piece will explore how immigrants approach the American Dream from the perspective of a lower socioeconomic status, how the inequalities they face imply that the dream is far from realistic, and what can be done to improve their conditions. The American Dream comprises a set of ideals that developed over time. The term was first popularised by historian James Truslow Adams, which he interpreted in his book as a social order anyone can attain ‘regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position’. While the dream constitutes a range of ideas, they centre around prosperity and success. Those who migrate from a third-world country to a first-world country do so with the belief that their hard work will result in increased stability and class position for themselves and the next generation. That being said, they have to conquer limitations including language barriers, lack of social connections, and various working restrictions. Educational attain-

ment varies within different immigrant groups but collectively, immigrants in the U.S. are less educated than those born in the U.S. In 2018, immigrants were over three times as likely as the general population to not complete high school. Immigrants also have to develop a sense of belonging in a completely new country, where the values and norms may not be as accommodating to their culture. Furthermore, a lack of knowledge in employment laws means immigrant workers are often exploited through dangerous working conditions, low pay, and improper working hours. Despite these setbacks, Pew Research Center reported that immigrants are just as likely as everyone else to achieve a Bachelor’s degree or higher. Immigrant groups, including those who arrive in the U.S. with low levels of education, may have shown stronger progress on educational attainment over time. This suggests that children of college-educated immigrants can perform well in higher education, achieving graduate degrees just as likely as U.S. citizens. In the workplace, they are known to have a better work ethic as they navigate their way into the discriminatory labour market. This implies that originating from a disadvantaged background may have motivated them to work even harder, considering the capitalistic system that favours the wealthy at the expense of the working class. Unfortunately, nearly a quarter of Americans still view immigrants as burdens for ‘stealing’ jobs and using up government welfare.

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Immigrants face inequalities that suggest the American Dream is shortsighted, revealing a flawed system. For a country with the largest economy in the world, the U.S. is slacking in various aspects of life. In the context of the COVID-19 pandemic, countries such as Taiwan and New Zealand have been very successful whereas the U.S. is dealing with thousands of infections every day. Countries like Hong Kong also have a higher life expectancy, yet you have never heard of them boasting about such star-spangled banner dreams. Society tends to focus on the beauty of the American Dream for immigrants without evaluating what has to be sacrificed to achieve and maintain it. According to a 2020 McKinsey article, Asian Americans have been more vulnerable to infection and death during the pandemic, along with worsening mental health triggered by xenophobia. Immigrant-owned businesses have suffered from the lack of government support. To illustrate, 91% of Latino-owned and 75% of Asian-owned businesses have a lower chance compared to white-owned businesses in obtaining loans due to the lack of existing relationships with banks or credit unions. The mistreatment of immigrants was amplified by ex-president Trump through policies that blocked the entry of immigrants who were deemed a ‘financial burden’ to the healthcare system. Such inequalities and the recent spike in hate crimes against ‘Asian Americans’ are constant reminders that white supremacist narratives of immigrant invasion are alive and thriving, distorting the ideal image of the American Dream.

The American Dream requires social, political and economic integration to be realistic. The immigration system may be the appropriate place to begin improvements. There needs to be more effort and funding by the government, concentrated on the advancements of

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shelters and detention facilities, along with increased access to career support so that immigrants can have a better head start to earn a living. For the voice of immigrants to be heard, a fair and specific quota should be offered to racial minority groups within all levels of the U.S. government. Immigrants should also receive equitable treatment in terms of quality healthcare, obtaining loans for their businesses, and many other government benefits that have been less accessible. As reported by NBC News in May 2021, President Biden revoked numerous executive orders made by the Trump administration. Biden’s response highlighted his administration’s commitment in improving the well-being of immigrants ‘without barring the entry of noncitizens who seek to immigrate lawfully to this country but who lack significant financial means’. A lot of damage was done by the previous presidency and even more needs to be done now to ensure such statements are not merely empty promises. The American Dream is an idea that anyone can be successful in America regardless of race, gender, or religion as long as you are willing to work hard enough. Yet, instead of promoting the universal prosperity it promises to uphold, the American Dream has highlighted the immense flaws within the system. The dream undermines harmony by over-emphasising material possessions and reinforcing individualism. One thing is for sure: no dream is ideal or valid when marginalised groups remain disadvantaged and the system refuses to acknowledge them.

photography AMANDA THEDRICA 29

the

Mia stares at the sea and soaks herself in the noise. The sausage sizzling on the grill, the birds cawing in the air, the chatter of strangers as they talk about how life has been. The night sky looks different in Melbourne—the stars much brighter, the moon a lot closer. Wrapped in a puffer jacket and her fingers buried in the sand, she is desperate for warmth. The biting cold fills her lungs with every breath she takes. This time three years ago, Mia was lazing on a sunbed back home in Bali, under the sweltering heat she’d grown up with, her skin tanned in all the right places. The occasional breeze and frozen piña colada were enough to put a smile on her face. Her eyes felt sluggish after staring at the still, cobalt pool. She was about to doze off when she heard a scream. This was followed by a splash and pool water spattering her legs. She rolled her eyes at her brother as their parents yelled at him. She finds it funny that she doesn’t mind a bit of their noise now, in the lonely space between the sea and this strange city. Hilarious to think that her brother may be taller than her now, dad’s hair perhaps more grey than black, and mom’s wrinkles possibly more evident. Absurd that she’s even thinking about this because when she lived with her family, all she wished was to get away from them. The tugs on her heartstrings tell her that there is no turning back time. If she’d hugged them a.

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sea

little tighter at the airport or looked up from her phone during that last family dinner, perhaps she could have shown them how appreciative and loving she could be. A ‘ding!’ snaps her out of her trance. Her phone lights up, showing the LinkedIn notification icon. Her shoulders tense and she rubs her forehead, fully knowing what she is about to read. With shaky hands, she unlocks her phone and finds out that her hunch is right. Mia’s online presence succumbs to her insecurities. The likes and comments she sends are almost never genuine, the same way others interact online in hopes of getting discovered. Every day, at least one person on LinkedIn is ‘thrilled to announce’ that they got a new job or internship, while she hands out five resumes a day only to never hear back from them. As a student approaching the end of her degree, every step is a walk on a tightrope. Suddenly, each decision matters more than the last. Her thoughts dabble between staying in this country or going back home, feeling like the latter would mean she left for nothing. She hopes to hold more than just a certificate—a steady job, eventually a house, and many other achievements that would make her and everyone else proud. It’s been nearly 3 years since she left for Australia in the hopes of figuring out her passion, one that she can pursue while

receiving a steady income. Every day, someone would tell her not to worry—“you’ll get there”—but she only feels further away. Her visa is a ticking time bomb, weighing on her mind as her heart grows restless. She’ll have to flee before it explodes or miraculously find a job to sponsor her stay. The sea is even lonelier at night. On the shore, Mia can feel the void engulfing her. She drags her feet across the sand timidly. Water slips in between her toes, and then a bigger wave follows and swallows her trembling knees. Her mind drifts to onlookers around her, wondering what they are thinking. The crackling grill has ceased but the sound of conversation continues to rise. Some people are drinking beers, the others on their phones, all busy in their own ways. The urge to bathe in seawater overpowers her hesitance, so she walks further into the sea, far enough to let her whole body float. Her eyes feel sluggish, and this time she allows herself to doze off. Maybe she’ll end up back on the shore, or perhaps she can wash up in an entirely different place. As she floats at the sea, her worries start to fade and she finally feels at peace. She looks up and gazes at the bright stars, now multiplied and stretched across the sky.

words ASTRI SANJAYA illustration AMANDA THEDRICA

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photography SHARIFA REFRY

MENTAL HEALTH CHALLENGES IN MIGRANT COMMUNITIES words MUHAMMAD RAFFI DWITAMA illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA

International migration has increased exponentially within the last decade. In 2014, it was estimated that 241 million people migrated internationally; and this number continued to rise, reaching 281 million people in 2020. While the reasons for migration vary, the most common ones include searching for a better life or escaping from debt, war, and/or poverty. As a result, migration is seen as a social phenomenon that greatly impacts the global landscape. Unfortunately, the process of migration itself is accompanied with various challenges and adverse experiences that often lead to distress and discrimination among migrants. This results in a negative impact on the mental well-being of such a population. A meta-analysis of 35 studies reported that approximately 20% of migrants suffer from depression and anxiety. These effects may persist for many years, leading to concerns about the risk of intergenerational impacts within families and communities. The process of achieving migrant status, in particular, can cause many mental health struggles because immigrants must pass through a variety of filters to achieve the immigrant status, including undergoing different procedures, physically moving to another geographical area, and adjusting to foreign cultural needs. Pre-migration likely consists of long uncertainty of citizenship status and exposure to violence from petty crime to gender-based assault. On the other hand, post-immigration challenges stem from

the structural barriers and inequalities aggravated by exclusionary policies. For example, some immigrants have reported difficulties in having their credentials recognised due to documentation issues, which affects their ability to find jobs in a different country. The migrant community also has lower access to healthcare and has to deal with language barriers, which can cause significant mental health effects. An increasingly discussed topic among the immigrant community in the past few years is systemic discrimination. However, this topic is rarely adequately covered in the media. For many, being told to ‘go back to your own country’ is a common occurrence, as well as being stereotyped as less educated, blue-collar and conservative. Being regarded as ‘foreign’ in the country they are living in makes it difficult for these individuals to have a clear sense of identity, especially children. They then become victims of bullying and experience feelings of anxiety, helplessness, sometimes even suicidal thoughts. At the end of the day, a sense of belonging is very important for one’s mental health, and it is this idea of acceptance that immigrants often lack. Since the outbreak of COVID-19 in Australia, the country has seen a surge of Sinophobia and anti-Asian racism. For starters, there’s a reductionist perspective, where most ‘Asian’ are considered to be ‘Chinese’. A study conducted by the Australian National University (2020) suggests that nearly 85% of Asian Australians have experienced racism during the pandemic, largely because of assumptions that Asians >> POLITICS AND SOCIETY /

‘brought the disease’. This can take the form of derogatory opinion articles, racial slurs, and even outright harassment/ attacks. However, only a tiny percentage of COVID-19 cases in Australia (around 0.35%) were directly from mainland China. Moreover, although COVID-19 had been largely contained in Australia, many Australians still feared the risk of being infected by Asians. This leaves a mark on the community. For example, the financial revenues of Asian-run businesses went down to almost 70% of their original earnings. Furthermore, it has generated a greater fear of random, racially motivated attacks and violence. Despite these increasingly demanding challenges, immigrants and refugees are less likely to seek out mental health services, as the topic of mental health itself is often considered to be taboo in their home countries. Hence, concerns are usually ignored and people are discouraged from seeking help. In an interview conducted by the National Alliance on Mental Illness in 2019, Katherine described that as an immigrant living in America, members of her community would be heavily criticised when it comes to mental health, causing them to be insecure, secretive and guarded. Combined with structural barriers such as high treatment costs and lack of linguistically accessible service, the distress would turn into mental health consequences or other forms of health complications. Although it may look grim, there are ways to promote the importance of mental health for immigrant community members. A research study in 2014 suggested the best interventions would arise from the community itself in the form of ethnocultural organisations and religious institutions. This involves people turning to their faith leader before a health care provider when dealing with emotional

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distress. These places provide a sense of belonging, reducing the impact of migration losses, isolation and discrimination. Therefore, it is crucial that the government acknowledge and support these existing communities and religious organisations. Migration is likely to continue to grow in the future due to climate change, disease outbreaks, heightened conflict, and more. Whatever the causes are, the process can cause anxiety, stress, and even mental trauma, making the migrant population vulnerable to developing mental health symptoms and disorders. Ultimately, it is essential to understand the various challenges and complexities that migrants face to ensure the appropriate support service is provided.

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A perpetuating spear, Comes after me, hunts me down. By the hour it screams By the seconds it ticks, The constant nag, Of forced decisions and hastened regrets I am always on the run, Only to realise I lost My way home. Home? All I know: these cold walls, Banshees shackled on phone calls, Black on white, papercuts, A slightly different ticking— Rapid, unending, all at once. Marathons on subway lines, Bus lanes, thickening lenses, Sidewalks. The shadows that hunt Me down. Always on the run But never to a place I want to. In the alleyway, I cower. So this is it. My spontaneous soul-searching, thrill-seeking midnight stroll Brought me to an alleyway. Head between my knees.

Midnight Stroll words MOUDISHA ZEEVA illustration VALERIE LUIRA YOEWONO

Maybe I’ll be safe here, The sound of droplets Knocks on a plastic pail, Metal cutleries shivers And seeps through wooden crooks, Orchestrated by the violent wind. My bare feet— The taste of the outside world. Never again Would I venture, Out in the open. To the place they want me to. Expressionless faces, Hidden under colourful masks, We are all going down anyway. Maybe I’ll be safe here, In the broken-down shelter Isolated within the woods The dimming light of the dying lantern, and the spark that hesitated to flicker. Maybe, I’ll be safe here.

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Rindu I see this life in pieces restless feet looking for new soil hands and fingers dissolving under light

mother’s perfume

lingering on clothes

body that does not rise from bed

and stays there, in the crater between pillows,

fighting to be. There is so little space in this new country

you did not get on a plane to Naarm

and imagine being told to leave

the city is one lego brick of emptiness

and when it rains, the buildings echo

they say it’s OK

nobody belongs here anyway

it’s a city of migrants

and everyone feels a little lost

and the music on the streets is for all the empty spots inside you. There is no word for missing

the way time moves in a different place

or for wanting to stretch your hands to a different sun

there is no word for ‘home’ that describes

what it’s like to forget your mother’s smile

The pieces jumble and the lines blur

I want to carry what I no longer have

ceramic butterflies in childhood bedrooms

children running across Jakarta’s streets

dreams you could still believe in.

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words JENNIFER CHANCE

photography ANGELA TEDJA

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The Fraud I still remember the first day of my Australian high school experience. My dad dropped me off at 8:00 and I quickly headed to the teacher I met at the information session the night before. I went down to her office and saw three other kids, one being an assigned buddy for my first school-week. The school had a buddy system to help new students familiarise themselves with the buildings, classes and other classmates as well. My buddy was an Englishman named Sam. I was terrified... I only responded when asked direct questions. Shortly after meeting them, I had a brief exchange with my buddy and quickly walked down to the main auditorium for the annual school assembly. I remember the experience being so terrifying because of how new and foreign it all felt to me. I was clueless when it came to what they talked about, how they bantered, and how the social circles were structured. My first instinct was to look for other Indonesians in the school. I know it’s pathetic, but it was out of my control. I felt that it was a natural human response in unknown territory. The school was crowded; people were in groups, laughing, and I was there passing by like dust in the wind. Lost, confused and alone. Being assigned a buddy made it easier for me to go about my business and meet new people. But it did not mean I automatically had friends, or that they would automatically like me. It wasn’t that easy. Whenever lunchtime came, I would sit with my buddy and his group of friends. At first, I didn’t know what to say or do, resorting

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words BRYANT KURNIASURJA illustration VALERIE LUIRA YOEWONO

to only listening in on their conversations. They were talking so fast and used so much slang that I was dumbfounded. I didn’t want to open my mouth because I would feel like a fool for my illiteracy. I felt out of place. I felt alone. Why am I here? I thought to myself over and over as I waited for lunchtime to finish. Being the new kid here is different. Back in Indonesia, I could move to a new school and still easily talk to people whom I considered approachable. This time around, it was nothing like that because I could neither really speak English nor understand their jargon. This was an issue, because trying to befriend people without talking to them wasn’t exactly easy. To make matters worse for me, I was also torn on how I should express myself. Yes, express myself. How should I talk ? English isn’t my first language, so should I try to imitate a bad Australian accent or a semi-okay American accent I picked up from watching cable television ? Should I act the way my peers act, or should I behave the way I did during my time in Indonesia ? This wasn’t trivial. People say just be yourself and fail to understand that it isn’t that simple, especially if you don’t even know who you are. Well, what do you do if you don’t really know who you are, but at the same time, want to be accepted in a particular group? You think as the group thinks. They don’t like Ben? You don’t like Ben. They thought the new Deadpool movie was great? Deadpool is one of the greatest

movies ever made. They all like to eat sausage rolls? You eat sausage rolls. It was sickening, and it did not feel right. I feel pathetic and cringey. Some of the memories that stuck with me from my high school days were mostly moments when I caught myself acting or thinking unlike myself because it’s the ‘cool’ thing to do in Australia. And in most times, it’s things you’d do to signal that ‘you don’t care’. An example would be, as painful as it is for me to flesh out, that time when Ben and I were in Maths Methods class. I met Ben through my buddy’s social circle. He was one of the coolest people I knew at the time. He was nice, friendly and understanding. After talking with him, it turned out we took some of the same classes, including a Maths Specialist and a Maths Methods class. One day during a Maths Methods class, Ben sat in a row in front of my table. At some point during the class, the teacher started discussing a topic we were both familiar with. Ben then turned to me and said with the warmest of smiles, “ This shouldn’t be a problem since we’ve got this in Maths Spec.“ I couldn’t remember what I said to him afterwards, but I did know that it wasn’t pleasant, and it turned his smile into a confused look. His friends also looked back at me funny. I tried to banter with him by ‘insulting’ him. But clearly, it was so out-of-place. This small moment happened five years ago, but I am still cringing as I am writing this piece. It may seem trivial, but to me, it reeked of inauthenticity and fraud. One of the things I’ve struggled with throughout my high school years was how to act. I felt like an alien observing everyone interact. It was isolating. It was painful. But I felt like it taught me something. Maybe it didn’t, but I’d like the experience to have meant something.

With all the differences we have, I learned that topical conversations might not be at all as important compared to the more principal and robust conversations. Throughout my high school years, I tried so hard to be liked by my peers. I tried cracking jokes that were uncharacteristic of me, being a certain kind of guy, and tried to blend in groups I thought were cool. I eventually got to know some people, and a handful of those who still keep in touch with me to this day are those that are more genuine. Those whom I was most vulnerable with, and really connected with. If I have to be honest, there wasn’t a lot. I could not ‘vibe’ with the locals here as well as people who speak the language well. Also, reality does not really allow you to be liked by every single person unless you’re Keanu Reeves. But I remember that kindness and honesty were two of the most important traits that eventually helped me form strong bonds during my high school years. I know this piece is starting to sound like some self-help gobbledygook. Why should you listen to me? As far as you know, I’m just some guy who happens to have some free time to write down his thoughts. And you’re absolutely right. I am not making any claims in this piece, I’m merely stating that being a foreigner in a land you’re unfamiliar with can be isolating, confusing and lonely. I didn’t exactly have a lot of great memories from my high school years, but I did go through that phase and made a handful of friends along the way by trying to be honest with myself and with others. I was not the most popular kid in school, but what mattered was that I got to make a handful of connections that were genuine and cool. And that was enough to help me get through one of the toughest periods in my life.

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words JAGGED WAVES

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illustration AMANDA THEDRICA

I have seen cities full of stars rainbow lights blinking in the dead of night glowing under the radiant spotlight blushing under the warmth of the moon in the dark ocean of clouds above us Seeking refuge in corners of forgotten ruins freckled stars from skyscrapers burn remaining scraps of my memories onto the ashes of demolished homes I trudge through borders undetected swallowed by shadows veiled by the darkness tucked away under crumbling bricks these crumbling bricks I call home Traces of my existence slowly blend into shades of hueless monochrome etched in concrete unwanted by the hierarchy Tears of the rainbow sparkle through gaps of my black and blue mosaic destroying the darkness that always cloaked my reality Droplets of glistening stars carve permanent homes in between my fingers they illuminate this concrete cell alleviating the hell that held me captive I sit by the pier as the rays of sun cast a blissful light on my lawful residency atop the freckled stars I now call home

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words JAGGED WAVES illustration VALERIE LUIRA YOEWONO

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Dreary aged white Tape marks and torn posters Five-year-old cigarettes Inside pages of harry potter Memories I left behind Forever encapsulated Within the walls I once called home The smell of jasmine and bvlgari perfume lingers on tear-stained sheets Dolls from my youth stand on neglected pillows Collecting dust where my heart used to be Seventeen years of my life Stuffed into plastic vaults on wheels Running 5,204 kilometers away From the only home I’ve ever known Coming back To my former sanctuary Starting a fresh new page In an age-old book Versions of my past Kept alive In a casket of my old bedroom My scars etched into its core A past I thought I buried I mourned and I grieved for Only to find out I never truly left I stand there A 21-year-old teenage me Reliving forgotten chapters Burying things that refuse to stay buried

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TO THE BIG CITY Content warning: abuse, violence

There I was. All dolled up in the pretty pink dress mother found in the neighbour’s trash. Ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Presented to the man in fur, swallowing the lump in my throat, holding back the tears threatening to burst through. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your make-up now, would you?” I hear my mother scold me in that nagging voice of hers. Chastising me for being a wimp, reminding me of my duties as a daughter. I look around, and all I see is fear. The fear of being chosen and picked from the dozen. Some shaking, some already bawling, some fighting off a panic attack as the man in fur inspects us. All 10 of us lined up and put on display. For our potential buyer. For the prospective benefactor that’ll feed our destitute families. For my possible master to carefully choose and acquire the perfect pet. Or should I say, for my future husband to buy find a wife. I, as the second oldest daughter of my 11 siblings, was expected to fulfil my duty of being sold off to a man I had never met. 15 years of my life had been spent with my mother grooming me to be the perfect wife, preparing me for this very moment. Constantly being told to ‘eat like a lady’, ‘walk like a lady’, ‘sit like a lady’. The incessant nags forever ingrained into my system. I’ll never forget my roots. Where I came from. This little town I called home. All the hidden spots I would run to for some peace and quiet away from the warzone that is my home. All the fights I would have with my siblings over the bigger piece of chicken, on the miraculous days we had chicken at least. All the times I’d choose sewing buttons in the sweatshop my father worked at over learning how to walk in a 46

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straight line with seven books on my head. All the beatings I would get for playing football with my brothers instead of learning to cook and clean with the rest of my sisters. All the times my mother would lecture me about ‘being ladylike’ because it’s important, unknowingly submitting to her grand plan of making me her biggest paycheck. I still have the scars. A memento of my younger years. A reminder of my past. Images of my childhood flash by. The hours I spent crying, begging my mother to stop slashing my skin red. The tears I’d shed while being locked up in that tiny room, bleeding scarlet as the belt made a permanent home on my skin. The cane that etched my skin with these inkless tattoos. I reminisce about these moments before I face my fate. Before I was to be sold off to a man thrice my age, destined to be his missus. I was to assume the role of businesswoman. The highest-earning member of the family. By giving up my innocence to be a wife bound by legal papers and fear. Fear of my family’s fate and of mine. For the rest of my life. Or for however long the contract dictates. But, if we’re being honest here, for however long my darling husband decides to keep me before updating to a newer model. All my life, I’ve heard horror stories of underaged girls being shipped off to the man of her dreams. Only to find out that prince charming didn’t live in a castle on a hill, rather a one-bedroom apartment in a seedy part of Taiwan with anime posters all over his walls. All my life, I see girls come back through the gates of my little town, Singkawang. I’ve seen girls come back with a glow like none other. These were the ones that lived their dreamed fantastical life of becoming

a princess. To leave the life of peasantry and start anew. These girls were lucky. Some others were not.

on the cover of magazines, dressed to the nines, still being dragged away from the only home they’ve ever known. It’s become a habit, I suppose. A new hobby maybe?

I’ve seen girls come back with nothing, but hollowed eyes filled with darkness and despair. Welcomed to a brand-new mansion to call home. Only to despise the family that sold her off in the first place. Trauma from being put in the trenches of war without a weapon to defend herself from the demons that wanted her. Granted, no one expects the demon to be laying on top of her every night of the week.

All my life, I’ve heard horror stories of underaged girls being shipped off to hell, expected to share a bed with the demon that would torment her to no end. All my life, I see a new man in fur stride into my hometown looking to add to his collection. All my life, I’ve dreaded this impending moment. To see a man in fur buy an underaged girl to show off to his degenerate group of friends dressed in the same odious coat.

Every other house in this hellhole I call home gets smaller and smaller each year. Losing Selling off one daughter at a time. Once to buy a plot of land. Twice to build the house of their dreams. Thrice to furnish it with every single thing King Midas has ever owned. Some families keep the leftover daughters. Some aren’t so ‘kind-hearted’. I’ve seen girls dressed like they should be

All my life, I’ve dreaded this moment. This very moment. When those words came out of his mouth. My nightmare, now a reality. “I choose you.”

words JAGGED WAVES illustration ADELYA ZEVANIA MIKHA BHAVA ARTS, CULTURE AND EDUCATION /

TO: MY FIRST LONG DISTANCE RELATIONSHIP The royal blue emblem that towers over me. Oceans away from you: The daily torture of humdrum lectures, A temporary damnation I now miss. Early morning rises to the cascading smell Of black coffee and chocolate croissants, The never-ending lines at the local artisan bakery, a fight For the last peach pastry. Evening strolls, The wretched sounds of construction drill into my skull, Sunset picnics atop the hill that captures the city’s coastline perfectly, The weather that cries over its kingdom all morning, Yet beams the brightest smile by noon. I miss them all. I miss you. The trams that work on ‘flexible’ hours As officers hunt down scrimpy broke students Struggling to pay rent for the month Every penny saved running from low-scale debt collectors, Spent on overpriced milk tea, found On every corner of every street, Stalking down the best deals on campus: 1. Discounted Boost on Tuesdays 2. Buckets of MSG covered chicken wafts the air The infuriating walk through the wind tunnel outside of union house, Taming the perfectly styled hair that’s come undone. All these things filled up my university experience With an unsaid joy, An unsaid joy I perpetually ignored, Trapped in a home that doesn’t feel like one, Kept away from a foreign land that does. Melbourne, I miss you. Do you miss me too? From: A girl that took you for granted

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words JAGGED WAVES illustration TIARA PUSPA AMANDA ARTS, CULTURE & EDUCATION /

“so, here you are too foreign for home too foreign for here. never enough for both.” IJEOMA UMEBINYUO

cover illustration

AMANDA THEDRICA

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