Wattle 2021 by SASS Publications

Wattl e T h e S y d n e y Un i v e r s i t y A r t s S t u d e n t s ’ B I P O C J o u r n a l

1. wattle - perseverance, remembrance, reflection 2. magnolia - nobility, dignity, peace 3. bottlebrush - harmonious joy, laughter 4. jasmine - love, good fortune 5. waratah - beautiful from afar 6. marigold - resurrection, power, strength

W attle 2021 2.

4. 5.

2021

ISBN: 978-1-74210-517-8

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY This edition of Wattle was edited, compiled, and published on the occupied lands of the Gadigal, Wangal and Dharwal people of the Eora nation. We acknowledge that sovereignty was never ceded and that the occupation is violent and ongoing. We give our deep respect and solidarity to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and to their Elders, past, present and emerging. We, the students of The University of Sydney, study and work on this stolen sovereign land. As we learn and teach, we remind ourselves that we will never know how much traditional knowledge has been lost since the European invaders ripped Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island peoples from their land. Following the invasion by the First Fleet in 1788, the land of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples was stolen and never returned. It has since been continuously occupied, as a country called ‘Australia’ was created through white supremacy, epistemic violence, and institutionalised discrimination. The experiences of the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples after the invasion are undoubtedly painful and horrifying, but to forget, or even worse, ignore these stories, is unacceptable. We recognise that these experiences are ongoing, as intergenerational trauma has contributed to a loss of identity and culture that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island peoples continue to face today. In the spirit of reconciliation, Wattle acknowledges the Traditional Custodians throughout ‘Australia’ and their unique cultural and spiritual connections to land, sea, and community. We thank them for protecting this coastline and its ecosystems since time immemorial. We aim to tread lightly on this land that isn’t ours and stand in solidarity with its rightful owners.

This land always was, and always will be, Aboriginal land.

First published 2021 by The University of Sydney Funded by the University of Sydney Union and the University of Sydney Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences © Individual Contributors 2021 Foreword © Angela Xu and Trinity Kim Afterword © Soo Choi and Nafeesa Rahman Cover © Emma Cao Layout © Nishta Gupta, Nikki Remedios, Angela Xu, and Trinity Kim © The University of Sydney 2021 Images and some short quotations have been used in this book. Every effort has been made to identify and attribute credit appropriately. The editors thank contributors for permission to reproduce their work. ISBN: 978-1-74210-517-8 Wattle Reproduction and Communication for other purposes Except as permitted under the Act, no part of this edition may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or communicated in any form or by any means without prior written permission. All requests for reproduction or communication should be made to Sydney University Press at the address below. Fisher Library F03 University of Sydney NSW 2006 Australia Email: sup.info@sydney.edu.au Web: sydney.edu.au/sup

to the fighters, the innovators, the kids with the mispronounced names, and the people just getting by

Foreword We both write this foreword sitting in our slightly claustrophobic, foreignyet-familiar student accommodation rooms, hours away from home and family, barred by borders that seem like they will never open. As we write, the jacarandas are starting to wilt, covering the empty but awakening campus grounds in a soft purple, and padding the solitary footsteps of the few passersby. As the city has started to come alive again, so too has this journal, and we are so excited for the words and images created in lockdown and solitude to now be shared with the world. This year, the journal takes on a new name, ‘Wattle’. This decision was made to recognise that the people who create the journal are better reflected in a more inclusive name. Our name, therefore, refers to the golden wattle, an acacia that is native to Southeastern Australia. Its evergreen sprig and ability to regenerate speaks to the perseverance of our community. Simultaneously, its symbolism of remembrance and reflection serves as not only a constant reminder of the violent history of the lands we create on, but a mandate to continue to fight for inclusivity, equality, and justice. Though recent events of BIPOC hate have become exponentially more violent, they have been anything but a surprise. We remember with sadness, anger, and solidarity the murder of George Floyd, the almost 500 Aboriginal deaths in custody since the 1991 Royal Commission, and the violent Asian hate that has spread across the world. The pandemic has revealed how vulnerable BIPOC communities have become, both to the virus and to hate. This is the result of centuries of ignorance and discrimination, which can only be overcome through uplifting and listening to BIPOC voices in all their forms. These stories demonstrate that the BIPOC experience is a difficult one, full of shame, hurt, and exclusion. However, they also remind us how beautiful it really is, as feelings of pride, love, and warmth weave themselves throughout these pages. Just as the wattle regenerates itself in the aftermath of a bushfire, the beauty of the BIPOC experience is not overshadowed by the hurt. We push forward, holding our language on our tongues, culture in our acts, and stories in our hearts. 4

After pondering how we could positively contribute to the fight, we decided to provide all contributors with the opportunity to sign off their work in their name from their mother tongue or the language of their parents. For many, it is an opportunity to use a name often regarded as secondary, while for others it is an acknowledgement of the duality of their identities. Oftentimes these names are the target of discrimination in Western countries due to their foreign nature. However, in allowing the signing of their creations with both their names, we hope to celebrate all the identities of our artists and revel in their passion and creativity. Ultimately, ‘Wattle’ is a journal of stories, stories that are often dismissed, ignored and forgotten. In publishing these stories, we reject the notion that BIPOC voices are somehow unnecessary or monolithic. Each is unique and important, and will forever be. We want to thank everyone who has made this journal possible. To our contributors, your talent and dedication shine through on each and every piece. To our editors, we could not have hoped for a more passionate and skilled team. To our General Editors and Creative Directors, we truly could not have done this without your keen eyes, creative direction, and immeasurable talent. We feel privileged to have been entrusted with everyone’s stories and we hope we have done them justice. Angela Xu & Trinity Kim 许卓悦 & 김은수 Editors-in-Chief

Editors-in-Chief Angela Xu Trinity Kim General Editors Nafeesa Rahman Soo Choi Creative Directors Nikki Remedios Nishta Gupta Visual Art Bonnie Huang Ibrahim Khan Poetry Amy Tan (Team Leader) Alice Park Amani Fuad Andy Park Prose Iris Yuan (Team Leader) Melody Wong Vishali Seashadri Non-Fiction Carmeli Argana (Team Leader) Ariana Haghighi Kowther Qashou SASS Publications Directors Jenna Lorge Thomas Israel

CONTENTS Angela Xu & Trinity Kim Bonnie Huang A.B.K Angela Xu Ibrahim Khan Carmeli Argana

Acknowledgement of Country

Foreword

10 The Nightingale 13 Rivers 14 and that night I asked the moon 15 African Sun 16 Little Candle

Karen Leong 20 Nishta Gupta Ibrahim Khan Amy Tan Nikki Remedios Bonnie Huang Carmeli Argana & Ariana Haghighi A.F.

Freedom Day

21 Acacia 22 My Brave Countryman 25 Breaking the Dividing Line 27 Flowers of Youth 28 This is a Photograph of me 32 Please reload: A site of race, ethnicity and nationality

38 See Me After Class

Ibrahim Khan

39 Modest Triumph

Ibrahim Khan

40 Daily Vibrance

Olivia Mangholi Anonymous

41 Orchids 44 Being Water

Christine Lai

Lukewarm Niceties

Angela Xu

With a cup of tea, I am fulfilled

Cherie Tse

Home

T Ho

Half a Steamed Fish

Karen Leong

Chongchong fei

Angela Xu

Not Again

Soo Choi & Nafeesa

Afterword

Rahman

Wattle

The Nightingale

Bonnie Huang 黄晓悦

She had made sure the desk was cleared and cleaned before she sat down properly at the desk with a cold cup of water. Everything had been put in its place, but she still fiddled with the pen holder. Outside, it was quiet, and a hot breeze swiftly swept past the branches. It was the height of summer, a sticky January afternoon. She flicked through the works of Yan Lianke and Xin Ran, looking for a voice similar to what she wanted to convey, but it was aimless and fruitless. Gender, Asia, the rich landscape of Yunnan. There was so much to write about, yet the words drifted further away, like vapour into air. High up in the village, the air is foggy. It smothers the mountain-tops and covers the rice paddies in a thick haze. She could envision it, but it didn’t sound exactly right. When she couldn’t see the words curling like rings of smoke around her, she was in darkness – she was nothing. Was she a fraud? For writing about mountains she’d never climbed, writing about fog she’d never seen? The dissonant string of words rendered her mind blank, and in that moment, there was nothing. The hum of the cicadas created a cacophonous disharmony with the clicking of the keyboard, a constant jarring tap as she wrote a sentence and followed it with incessant smashing of the delete button. Then, the page was blank again, stripped of the words that once adorned it – traces of loose, incomplete ideas. The image for her story was hundreds of miles away, like faint smoke suspended in air, unreachable and fading. The deadline was imminent, and as fast as she tried to chase the idea, it seemed to travel further and deeper into the abyss, its lingering presence dissipating into nothing. This was not good. A voice – yes, a voice – that was what she needed. 10

But who was this voice? A young girl. Perhaps 18, on the brink of adulthood. Where was this voice? Let’s say she’s still surrounded by the mountains, trapped. She listens to the hum of the distant highway and dreams of the trucks and cars that drive towards the city. It is a soft murmur, but the village is quieter. Threads of light still linger in the sky as villagers make their way back with bundles of their last harvest. The remaining fields, tormented by the ceaseless sobbing of the sky, will be burnt for fertiliser to nurture the paddies for the next year. Hong looks beyond the window to watch the grey fog smother over the visage of the mountain. Blown and shaped by the moving air, the fog tells stories of the great battles and hardships of their village. She wanted to keep writing about the mist in the air, the muddy paddy fields. But that wouldn’t even be awarded a passing grade. What was Hong troubled by? She couldn’t just look out the window all day. Hong does not want to get married yet – especially not to someone from a village hundreds of rice paddies away. She had been unable to sleep as thoughts of the looming wedding tumbled in her mind. Outside the window, the air is still, and murky blue paints the end of the day. Hong knows this stillness will be disturbed the next morning, by the rupture of a wedding and the celebratory firecrackers as she is taken away to live in another village.

Hong sighs to the mute nightingale as she

brings the frail bird upon her index finger. Half the young girls in the village have already been married off to neighbouring villages. It has been drilled into them as young children – almost programmed, engineered, and groomed, to serve as future brides.

‘One day you’ll grow to be a princess and marry off to a prince,’ they had all said.

Hong does not feel ready to serve as a wife but, like a nightingale that cannot sing, a young 11

girl that does not desire to be wed would be useless.

At this point, she held all the power to pave Hong’s fate. The end of the

day encroached upon her as she typed her way towards the word count.

What would she do in Hong’s position? Where would she go? Will she

say goodbye? Was that enough character development? What will this mean for everyone else?

It didn’t matter, she realised. She knew that this had to be the only way.

The sky continues to darken. Mustering a deep breath, Hong starts. ‘I’m –’.

The white vapour of her breath dissipates into the cold air. The words want to be

spoken and take shape in the air, but they disappear as fast as they form.

‘Never mind,’ she says under her breath.

The final goodbye to the empty room occurs as a silent acknowledgement, loaded with

both protest and poignancy, of both the desire to stay and to leave. The room requites only with a silence of its own, the only possible reply.

The morning finds Hong’s mother in the empty room.

The bird cage is open, and the foggy air is stained with the faint song of a

nightingale echoing further and further away. Illustrations by Bonnie Huang 12

Rivers A.B.K.

and that night I asked the moon

Angela Xu 许卓悦

where am I from?

and she cradled me warmth brushing my cheek whispers in soft winds

from the land of the immortal Chang’e who flew to me while her lover in grief offered earthly sacrifices from the islands where sister stars of Matariki greet the new year and the four-crested constellation, a helmsman pointing home where continents kiss and east meets west where time chases my rise and fall where all who breathe and all who live, bathe in my light.

and my eyes sighed in rest gentle words lulling soothing and hushing to peace.

Illustrations by Lucas Kao 14

African Sun

Ibrahim Khan

Little Candle

Carmeli Argana

In nights like these, she is but a tiny candle, flickering in a dark room. She remembers his body next to hers, the times she crept into his room to hide from the monsters under her bed. She imagines his reflection in the mirror, as he gets ready for school. She pictures his beaming face in the crowd, applauding her at her graduation from elementary school. Her brother, the only person in the world who knew her inside out. She feels the gaping void again, a cold and dark emptiness in the place where he once stood. She feels it when she sees her father quietly return in the later hours of the night, in her mother wordlessly performing her duties around the house. The silence. A bitter wind, threatening to exterminate her light. She cannot help the flicker in her flame when she sees the letter arrive – her name, Mariel, scrawled across the front by a hand she knows. It brings a hope that strengthens her light, if only fractionally. She cannot help the fear, either, that causes the light to waver. ••• She had turned 12 on August 21, 1983. It was one of the more vivid memories of that long ago time when her home was not yet a stranger to the sound of laughter. It was a special day; school had finished early, and her father, who was a driver for Secretary Enrile, had been dismissed early. Later that evening when Kuya1 Angelo had returned, they had her favourite meal for dinner. He hadn’t gotten her a present, but she was content with him simply being there. She had barely gotten to see him since he became a scholar at the University of the Philippines. She hoped to follow in his footsteps. 1 16

A title of respect for a person’s older brother

••• It is February 1989, the first anniversary of the Epifanio de los Santos Avenue (EDSA) revolution. Only Mariel and a few other seniors have been selected to represent the school. She hopes to create a project as part of her scholarship application to the University of the Philippines. Her writing is the pride of the school; a bright young woman well on her way to becoming valedictorian. Maybe she could be even more so, if her light were placed among the stars, instead of in a dark room. If it were watched carefully, by the two remaining members of her family whom she treasured, instead of being neglected. If the little house heard chatter again, instead of the cold silence. The letter on the table remains as it had the night before, ripped open. The words contained on the paper hold power; power to heal the rift in her family, or to only make the chasm deeper. Would it be right to burden her parents with this? The festivities are coming to a close and the scorching heat of the day is more bearable. In the distance, Mariel sees the back of a worn shirt on a lanky figure with the same faded red hue of the country’s flag. Thick eyebrows and dark skin, similar to her own. He turns and catches her eye, offering her a smile. His figure is soon covered by a mass of people, and he is gone again. ••• The human brain is strange, remembering the minuscule, meaningless things in great detail while only capturing fragments of pivotal memories. Perhaps it had been due to her state of mind, which had been resting peacefully in a slumber. She had not expected to be woken by her father’s booming voice, her brother’s matching rage. A glimpse of her weeping mother, through a tiny crack in the door. Her own pathetic wailing. Begging her father for mercy. Her mother’s grip on her wrist. Being pulled back to her room. And an exchange of words that had somehow survived in her memory. ‘Where are you going?’ 17

‘Somewhere I won’t be silenced. The whole country may be afraid, but I am not.’ ‘If you step foot out that door, don’t come back.’ ••• Mariel is caught off guard when her father opens the door for her. And for once, the house is not as silent as it had been since that terrible night. ‘Where have you been?’ She hesitates and instinctively drops her gaze, already accepting the punishment of having acted against her father’s will. Would she be sent away, too? ‘I was at the EDSA celebrations, ‘Tay.’2 The little candle is on the verge of extinguishing, flickering rigorously. She hears the return of silence ringing in her ears. Only this time, it carries within it an unspoken feeling and weight. But the candle is suddenly stilled, as if its chandler had found it again, and now held before it a protective hand from the cold wind. ‘The next time you walk out of that door, tell us where you’re going. We want you to come back safe.’ ••• It is the first time they’ll eat together, the three of them. Mariel is cooking the rice when she hears her mother’s quiet weeping from the table. Three plates 2 18

Informal for ‘Dad’

are prepared, and one end of the table is already packed with food. But her mother is staring at the fourth seat, bare and empty, clutching a pitcher of water. It slips and explodes into water and a million broken ceramic shards. In an instant, her father is with her, and Mariel finally gets a deeper look at his face. He is calm, with an underlying sadness deep and silent within his eyes. A sadness he had never made known. ‘Diyos ko, maawa po kayo,’3 her mother weeps softly, breaking Mariel’s heart completely. The three of them are together in the next moment, holding one another as if they were all they had left. Because they were all they had left. Their family fell apart on the night she grew up. And she had continued to grow up without ever healing the rift he had left behind. They revel in their grief and regrets from the past, but it is more than that. Now they burden it together, as the sonless father and mother, and the brother-less sister. At the height of it all, Mariel remembers the letter on her desk, rightfully belonging to this broken family, now worthy of healing; and an image of a faint smile. ‘Nay,4 ‘Tay,’ she says cautiously. ‘I have some news about Kuya Angelo.’

3 4

‘God, have mercy on him’ Informal for ‘Mum’

Illustrations by Nishta Gupta 19

freedom day Karen Leong

梁可人

Freedom day more to come says the siren song for those here wilting in homes quarter year annum goods for those whose cup runneth over day of days on mouths red-ruddied with fat on no man’s land do my people deserve less? white flag for the black clad freedom bruised the days peel forestall the day of days two parties joined here today become one coming undone

we want freedom today they think muzzling is a syringe sheep needled in herds their weight of the world really 90 pound sopping wet on my soil we are told stand down disband or there will be iron-girded consequences it’s your words or your family: pick one, and let it dictate the course this river runs through so i chart freedom day with full-bellied laughs disbelief suspends holds up my sky while i wait for what to reap i am told be thankful cut losses that you are not home not amongst the flightless so you may be free today

Acacia

Nishta Gupta

My Brave Countryman

Ibrahim Khan

From Ghana to Zambia, the late 1950s and early 1960s saw approximately 30 countries in Africa gain

their independence from European colonists. At the forefront of this liberation movement was a new generation of leaders, many with pan-Africanist convictions and lofty ambitions for their newly liberated countries. •••

A searing hatred coursed through the Nationalist’s veins. He tapped his feet, waiting to begin his speech. The European politicians spoke amongst themselves, carefree and without regard for the man behind the lectern. There was a jubilant mood among the Africans present. Today, they celebrated independence from colonial rule. The Nationalist’s cheer, however, had momentarily dissipated in face of this disregard. He lost his patience. Silencing the crowd, he commenced his first address as the new prime minister of his country. The Nationalist knew what was expected of him from his former colonial masters: gratitude for the gift of self-rule and a commitment to European ideals. The hubris. He intended to deliver neither. His introduction was instead a rallying cry. My brave countrymen, Victorious warriors and activists, I salute you in the name of our new independent nation. The year was 1960. The blinding sun beamed down on the ceremony. The Nationalist paused as he stared at his fellow politicians and their European equivalents. Donned in elegant suits, they sat in ordered rows and watched him speak. Behind them stood the press, cameras and microphones, broadcasting his every word and pause to the newly liberated country. In the cities and countryside, his people huddled around battered radios. His audience. 22

In his mind’s eye, he could picture the still-fresh wounds inflicted on his

people by the violent struggle for self-rule. The independence movement was almost biblical. As David had stood before the Goliath, he and his fellow nationalists stood up to the Europeans. Unbridled love for his country rose up in him as he continued. Although self-rule is granted in mutual agreement with European authorities, no African must forget the blood spilled in our struggle. His diction was raw. The European dignitaries became increasingly uncomfortable. Some looked down in humiliation and others started to boil over in rage. The Nationalist proceeded with his speech, nonetheless. It was an honourable and necessary endeavour to escape the cage of servitude. No other nation has put up a fight of such strength or experienced a victory so sweet. In actuality, the fight for independence had been far less noble. Violence had erupted across the nation over the past few years. Atrocities had been committed. In the fiery tirades of war, revolutionaries had slaughtered their own people, driven by factional dispute and paranoia. The agreement to grant self-rule between the leaders of the independence movement and the colonial administrators was an escape from the bloodshed. The Nationalist did not see this reality; he saw a glorious struggle. Even if it had occurred to him, it would not have mattered. His judgement was clouded with zeal. Without his leadership in the war, independence would not have been achieved, the Nationalist thought. It went straight to his head. Upon himself, he superimposed images of Simon Bolivar, the great liberator, as he delivered his sermon. He saw himself as the man who would bring prosperity to his nation. To his people. His words became increasingly hostile. We must not forget the land that they stole from us. We must not forget the shantytowns they forced us into. His words descended from the stage like a burning branch jabbing into every white man present. The faces of the European ministers had become inflamed with indignation. They whispered to each other, questioning why they 23

had to endure this verbal assault. The branch, however, kept jabbing. We must not forget who caused our suffering. The Nationalist wanted not only to whip up a frenzy of emotions throughout the electorate; his words were laying the foundations for his political agenda. His loyalty belonged exclusively to his own people. The remaining white settlers were merely an obstacle. His tendency to carve the population into two exclusive, discrete groups was fascinatingly delusionary. All Africans were good. All Europeans were not. The address concluded with a final rally. Long live independent Africa! Long live her people! An immense national pride sounded throughout the country, echoing out from radios in every town and village. The Africans present at the ceremony erupted into a standing ovation. The Europeans, however, remained seated with their hands firmly on their laps. The Nationalist’s words had scorched their pride. Plans for revenge were on their minds. This did not bother the Nationalist. His mind calmed in a moment of clarity as he left the stage. He knew how he would be described in the newspapers. Not as a loving patriot but as an aggressor. Not as a wise guiding leader but as an arrogant one. It mattered not. He had freed his country. He had freed his people.

As had many other nationalists across the continent.

Breaking the Dividing Line

Amy Tan

We are forever sitting upon a precipice, Cast in stone, frozen in disbelief, Walking a tightrope with the wind calling at our feet, Never quite steady, never quite right. The ugly parroting of ‘neee how,’ Syllables cut, bent and creased, Slipping high and jeering in the breeze. Forced to walk with your back perpetually caved, A foreigner in a land bound to your name. The long stares in shopping aisles, The whispers behind tattooed white backs, With your words, your language now, Garish mutilated tokens. Business as usual, When Mum gets back from the late shift, ‘Do you sell dog meat here?’ The blows barely bruise, barely ache, Only numbing exhaustion, acceptance, and shame, She laughs it off, but you feel the disgust, Beneath it boils, within your blood, And within school gates, bells chime, The tinkle of tinsel tucked hair and Cookie cutter fairy bread. Lunchbox pinned tight to your chest, Red hot tears, red hot cheeks, Stir fry boiled rice soon to be, another cookie cutter child. But this balancing act holds us still, Those light tiptoes upon this frail thread, 25

The clenched fists and coiled limbs, The fear, the fury, the silence. Uncoil, unravel, undo, The invisible line that presses us into place, And hold this uncharted, beautiful self, Untethered, undefined, imperfect with pride.

Flowers of Youth

Nikki Remedios

This is a Photograph of me

Bonnie Huang 黄晓悦

It is a grainy, black and white image. You can barely make out the foot of the cot, but if you look long enough, eventually, you will be able to see me. It protrudes from the bottom right corner, revealing the wrinkled toes of a newborn baby barely noticeable by the naked eye. The people in the photograph are dressed in their most expensive, tailored clothes made out of the finest of silks and cotton. In the background, there hangs grand scrolls of calligraphy written by the greatest calligraphists of SuZhou. It was a wealthy and respectful family – that was all I knew about them. The picture was taken a week after I was born, yet, I am cut off by the thick, white border that frames the picture – the unwanted daughter born out of wedlock. I made my way through the local street market: narrow lanes of stalls that sold anything from local produce to heaters and bicycles. Dodging ruthless Shanghai masses who were out on their daily chores. Rushing past each other to attain the best cut of pork. They bargained with the butcher with vibrant, dynamic gestures and fingers striking the heavens.

‘100 yuan? But that one’s so small. 80!’

Well versed in the art of haggling, the aunties and grannies would show who’s boss. I folded the peeling and frayed edges back up, put the fading photograph back into my pocket and braced myself to be engulfed by the bustling stream of people. Typical of a street market, the air was burdened with smells both pleasant and strange – the intrusive smell of fish, the golden, burning sugar glazing over fresh fruits, mouldy tofu, roasting chestnuts, manure, and the metallic smell of slaughtered chickens. I walked past a woman, crouched, holding a chicken by its neck. A mass of white feathers seeping with blood stuck to the floor as she feathered the corpse. The ground was splashed with water that had been infested with the excrement of market rats, the intestines of fish, and the 28

blood that dripped down from the butcher’s knives. The hubbub fills the vicinity: elderly men arguing over checkers by the willow tree, people haggling over prices and salespeople promoting their daily specials and freshly made street food. Perhaps it was the scent of chicken blood. Or the sewage that ran through the whole length of the market. Maybe it was the humidity that hung in the air, slowing everyone down. The sensory harassment gave way to a flurry of images and sentiments of a time that knew no name. It was probably when I was a child, three or four at most. I had smelt blood for the first time. It wasn’t that of chickens, though. I had been left near a noodle cart with two bundles of clothing amongst other frivolous possessions. It was a wintry morning on a busy market strip, cities away from where I had been born. Faces shifting through the street, their visage blurred and smeared; my memory of this day was clouded and fading. I stood by the noodle cart, watching people stream past me. I watched the sun disappear into the sky as the dust of the city began to settle. People started packing away their stalls and the sound of families rushing into the restaurants began to trickle in from two streets over. I still persisted in telling the Noodle Uncle, ‘They will be back – I’m sure.’ The Uncle looked to the skies and prayed for guidance on how to formulate these barbarous words to me. He emptied his lungs of the most poignant sigh and spoke without turning his gaze.

‘No, they’re not.’

In the end, they came out just as harsh and jarring. It still felt like a stab that directly pierced through my heart. He proceeded to ladle a bowl of beef noodle soup and muttered, ‘It’s the most we can do for her,’ along with something about how many times he had to cook noodles for ‘these poor girls who were left like unwanted cuts of meat.’ At the time, I refused to believe what he said was true and paid no attention to it, but I remember it very clearly now. I remember watching the stray dog drag along a pig trotter that had fallen onto the ground as he said that. The pain and monstrosity of his words still ring 29

clearly in my mind. No one gets anything for free, except for those in the most terrible, most piteous situations. As stingy as these stall owners were, they were a proud bunch. They wouldn’t take any handouts and treated their customers with the same respect. When someone gives you something for free, it means your luck is being looked down on. The worst misfortune must’ve struck you. In this case, that was me. Even as a child, I knew full well what the bowl of noodles meant. I didn’t want to take that bowl, but more than proud, I was hungry. To this day, it was the most warming and delicious bowl of noodles that I had ever tasted. I never knew abandonment could taste so sweet. Every time I am back at a market, I think of that bowl. ••• I watch the spring onions swirl around the steaming broth. It didn’t taste the same as it did 20 years ago. It’s probably my skewed memory or tastebuds, or things just changed over time. But the Noodle Uncle looks the same as he did back then, just older, with more lines across his face and rough, cracked hands. He hasn’t even changed the noodle cart, its signs weathered and fading.

‘This place hasn’t changed much.’

‘Hm, you’ve been here before?’ His swift and experienced movements stretch the noodle dough.

‘I’m the girl you gave a bowl of beef noodles to, 20-something years ago.’

Although he shares a knowing glance, the Noodle Uncle says, ‘Which one? At least a dozen come to mind,’ and stillness pervades the air. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to come back. ‘But no, I remember you. You were one of the older ones I encountered. Most that got dropped off were less than two years old. It’s good that it doesn’t happen anymore. Why would you come back to this god-forbidden place?’ He gestures to the side of the cart, which is collaged with pictures that 30

people used to find their families, or just to remember them. Some are peeling off, some frayed, some look as if they’ve been there for centuries. I can barely make out the faces in the photographs. I see portraits of babies, family portraits, pictures of a dog, a house and even a jade necklace. Tales of heartbreak and sacrifice are contained in these vignettes.

‘I don’t think I can help you find them,’ he says.

He is right, but I entrust him with the photograph anyway, and leave it slightly wedged beneath the empty bowl.

Please reload: A site of race, ethnicity and nationality Written by: Ariana Haghighi and Carmeli Argana

Interviews conducted by Kowther Qashou, Ariana Haghighi, and Carmeli Argana What does it mean to be a POC in online spaces? Thrust into the online realm and forced to navigate virtual chats and Zoom tutorials, university students have experienced significant upheavals in their familiar world. As the world shifted online, so too did experiences of racism for students of colour. But what does racism look like online? And can online spaces be a double-edged sword in accentuating racism for some whilst worsening experiences for others? In every case, every student of colour faces a unique experience. We interviewed five University of Sydney students about what it means to be a POC in the brave, new online world. Though not representative of all diverse POC, their experiences online showcase the different manifestations of racism as well as the shifting dynamics of connecting with other POC. Black boxes white spaces Black boxes in in white spaces With any new environment comes a raft of new challenges. However, one thing that persists is the presence of racism and racial microaggressions. 32

Audhora: There’s the shock of when I participate in tutorials and I know what I’m talking about, and people are surprised that I know what I’m doing. Then when I tell them I’m from Bangladesh, they’re like ‘Oh, I didn’t know people from Bangladesh were like this.’ And I’m like, what did you think we were like? Election season at USyd has historically been an intense period for students on campus, but an online environment exacerbated the worst parts of student politics, especially during this year’s Honi Soit elections, where race became a major point of contention. Anie: It felt like you were tuned into what everyone was saying at the exact same time, because of everything being online. You can see and access everything in real time, whether that be like the comments of the Honi debate or subtweeting about the elections, like being online made it a much more hostile space. Contrastingly, other students noted that their experiences of racism have decreased due to the online shift, as there are less chances for in-person discriminatory encounters. Joseph: Being an online student has improved my experiences as a person of color because I do not face any kind of racism at least during tutorials/lectures. Staying in my home country taking online classes is an advantage in terms of the prevention of experiencing racism. Can hear now? Can youyou hear meme now? With the frequency of connection problems and the allure of the mute button, online spaces are less conducive to verbal exchanges. Whilst this has 33

impacted some POC, who are particularly vulnerable to being silenced, it has also helped others find their voice. Valerie: I think it’s hard for international students like me to speak out when the environment of the class is predominantly white students who have a strong hold on their political position… There’s a lot of insecurity [that I’ll say something wrong]. Audhora: One particular instance was when we were talking about terrorism, and I was the only Muslim in my class, obviously. There was one white guy who was talking specifically about Islamist terrorism and he was calling them Muslims. So I felt obligated to speak up and tell him they’re not Muslims. It feels like I need to advocate more for myself when I don’t see that visual representation of people like me in class. Khanh: In Zoom classes, every other person mutes themselves when they aren’t speaking. It’s online etiquette, and it means they aren’t chiming in. That helps POC use their voices. Send a private message toto [...] Send a private message [...] We have all felt the isolating effects of the pandemic, but offshore international students experience this ‘social distance’ tenfold. With borders closed, they are unable to interact in-person with other students and access many on-campus experiences. Joseph: Online learning has significantly limited my opportunities to socialise with other students who go to USYD. Although I am allowed to join societies online, I cannot join any meetings on-campus. Conversely, the online environment has also presented offshore international students with opportunities to connect with each other and build relationships. 34

Audhora: Being online has given me the opportunity to just sit at home and network. I don’t have to go to parties, I don’t have to go outside to do any of that. In a way, it’s been really convenient and very fast as well. I didn’t think I would meet people that I’ve met and have such good friendships with them. Valerie: Online, you get to meet people from different cultures. I have a group of friends who come from different countries. We always ask each other, ‘how do you do readings in your language?’ for example. It’s kind of like sharing a little bit of culture. While online spaces can intensify the effects of racism, so too can it cultivate friendships on the basis of unique, shared experience of struggle. Anie: Being online has definitely helped with the shared frustration of being in lockdown and being at the butt-end of fucking racial stereotyping by everyone on the earth, including our own politicians. It has meant that I’ve been able to bond with a lot more people on the basis of those things. When Zoom ‘flattens the curve’ of privilege When Zoom ‘flattens the curve’ of privilege The main advantage echoed by our interviewees was the strengths of online spaces in equalising their experiences and de-centring white perspectives, especially at a university with a notoriously white-dominated history and culture. Audhora: There was a lot of anonymity if I wanted there to be. If I wanted, I could turn my camera off and no one had to look at me and judge me. If I wanted, I could remove my last name, so no one would know that I’m Muslim. I don’t think I would have had the opportunities to be myself without prejudice if I didn’t have an 35

option to remain anonymous in my classes. Anie: I think a lot more events have been made accessible to people like me through online spaces because barriers like long commutes or work obligations aren’t as big of an issue. Things like Rad Ed workshops or the Rad Sex and Consent week – all of those events being over Zoom has made them a lot more accessible. Khanh: In person, there is an element of racial and social privilege where people ask for your school and your area, and the conversation gravitates around stories related to that. Coming from a POC and international background, I often had to take a listening role more than speaking. When I say I went to high school in Vietnam, it doesn’t lead the conversation to flow on naturally. Online, everyone feels equally awkward and there is a sense of solidarity between everyone. It’s definitely an equaliser. While online learning has served as an equaliser in the experience of some people of colour and exacerbated discrimination in others’, it has been an unforeseen hurdle for all. As we find ourselves in dire straits, it is imperative that we understand the experiences of others and focus on communal solidarity rather than deepening lines of division and hatred. We can start by listening to those around us, who may have softened their voices for too long.

Special thanks to: Valerie Josephine Bachelor of Arts (International Relations, Psychology), International student

Anie Kandya Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Advanced Studies (Media and Communications), Domestic student

Audhora Khalid Bachelor of Economics and Bachelor of Advanced Studies (International Relations), International student

Joseph Seong Bachelor of Arts (International Relations, Chinese Studies), International student

Khanh Tran Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Laws (Philosophy), International student

Illustrations by Ena Nam

See me after class Fill in the blanks with the correct words.

A.F

/8 marks

1) We eat food with forks and

2) When I leave the house, I make sure to wear my

3) When someone does something kind for me, I say

4) When I see someone doing a good job, I say

5) I celebrate

6) It is important to eat

7) When I am leaving a group of friends, I say

8) Every night I read the

with my family every year food everyday before I go to sleep

Name:

Word Bank:

Thank you, Goodbye, Spoons, Hat, Bible, Congratulations, Healthy, Christmas

Modest Triumph

Ibrahim Khan

The District Six Museum, housed in an old Methodist Church, tells the story of District Six’s multicultural residents who were forcibly removed from their homes during Apartheid when the suburb was declared an all-white area. Noor Ebrahim, a tour guide and former resident, told me the stories of its lively streets while sitting on an Apartheid-era bench with the words “Europeans only, just whites” inscribed in Afrikaans.

Daily Vibrance

Ibrahim Khan

Bo-Kaap, a formerly racially segregated suburb within the city’s centre, is known for its pastel coloured houses and Malaysian influence. This resident expressed fears to me about the recent gentrification of the historic place.

Orchids

Olivia Mangholi

There is something painfully nostalgic about the annual cascade of autumn leaves. A yew leaf pirouettes along a spiral of breeze, twisting through the air as it lets itself fall. It intertwines with the grip of autumn’s icy wind, floating in its twirling course. Grazing my cupid’s bow, the leaf lands. It is so delicate that I ache to reach down and hold it close to my heart, smoothing out any creases – but something else tells me that it belongs where it lies, this foliole corpse of what was once Emily and I. It rests beneath the bouquet I placed beside Emily’s headstone this evening. Standing still beneath glorious branches towering through the grotesque sky, I squint. Between the thin leaves and sickening buds of the yew tree, I can almost see her waiting with me. Her eyes are soft, kinder than the salt-infused mists of a faint ocean breeze, crinkling in laughter while her hands are aimlessly tearing the vibrant leaves to threads. Faint, orchid eyes stare into my own, pleading with me to stay before winter takes her grasp once again. I reach out to hold her hand, but I’m greeted only with delicate taps of rain on my fingertips. I close my eyes. The rain continues to tumble as its silver droplets stream down my cheeks. •••

My grief is in two parts. The first is loss.

It’s the coldest day of the month, yet Emily insists my Beetle roof is drawn down as we make our way to the airport. I relish the roaring winds that twirl in Emily’s copper-coloured hair, whistling by her ears as the car engine dances to suburbia’s deserted roads. 41

Pulling into the drop-off area is easy until I catch her stare. Metallic tears cloud those overwhelming eyes, eyebrows furring together, searching for forgiveness. Distant orchid eyes, so similar to those that belonged to the Emily I had shared lunch with on the first day of primary school. Our arms pull each other into an embrace, fingers intertwining. And too quickly, tinted revolving doors inhale Emily’s frame amongst a sea of travellers. Accompanied by the low drum of a growling engine, I grasp hold of the steering wheel. My chest heaves against my dampened cardigan, tears running dry, eyes burning like acid lit in flames. And I sit in silence. ••• Orchid blossoms arrive like watercolours on trees in delicious creams and pinks. It’s an aroma reminiscent of springs past, transporting me to a childhood spent with Emily in the suburbs. Colourful petals burst out from lower down the branches beside the yew tree I sit against, the tips still left in tight buds. After the bare trees in winter, their new and enchanting clothes are a luxury to see. Each Saturday, I write letters to Emily. Standing alone amongst a meadow of orchids, I find solace resting against the wiry threads of the yew tree’s trunk. Bleeding ink creates its own watercolour constellations on the sides of my fingers, gripping leftover letter paper and an unsealed envelope. Writing the letters provides a distraction while I spend my free time alone. We write to each other of how difficult it is to laugh again, and reminisce about the memories we created together. Sometimes Emily writes to me about Europe’s chilling temperatures, mouth-wateringly dense fruitcakes, and the incredible British orchids that bloom in eternal stretches of meadows. I long to lull her to sleep for the hundredth time reading The Secret Garden, to savour the purple-pink haze of sunrise shared together in the early hours of the morning, to flip banana pancakes for an afternoon feast. I don’t tell her. Months drift by, and I receive fewer letters in return. Unfurling its replicating infections, the trunk I lean against has begun duplicating into new yew trees, swallowing the surrounding corpses of lifeless orchids. Enclosed by loom42

ing branches, it’s difficult to catch a glimpse of sunlight in the meadow. In the slight slits of the branch’s leaves, it’s difficult to visualise the coarse freckles sprinkled under those lovely orchid eyes. Yet like a song to a bird in times of tranquility, I hear her laugh whirling, pirouetting on the surface of bronzing grass, as the yew trees gently absorb this meadow’s faded watercolours. Today marks the date I drove Emily to the airport’s drop-off area three years ago. Filling the lines of only a quarter of my letter paper, I write my final letter. And she never writes back. •••

My grief is in two parts. The first is loss. The second is love.

Illustrations by Ena Nam 43

Being Water

Anonymous

Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless, like water. Now you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle, it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now water can flow, or it can crash. Be water, my friend. - Bruce Lee

In Hong Kong, leaky faucets pepper the skies. As you walk onto its streets, you might feel the sensation of water beading at the crown of your head, sliding down your temples in one fell swoop. People would bemoan 坑渠水*, how it seemed to puddle out – no matter how often the pipes would be changed, twisted to and fro. Whenever I miss home, I think of the phantom droplets – how they’d look decorating the sides of my face, interspersed with the tears that carry my memories to bay – a constant stream that never quails.

There is a presumptuousness in assuming any personal history can be brief, especially for people of colour. Personal history requires dissection to contextualise race. My ancestral line dates back to Shanghai, the starting point. The Cultural Revolution ensued, and my grandparents flocked to Hong Kong. Their children met, not in Hong Kong, but in Brisbane, Australia. My mother and father, who had congregated there for work-related purposes, decided that their firstborn should be raised back in Asia – and so Queensland is relegated to a secondary home, bi-annual vacation trysts and so forth; made easy by the passports procured for their three children. I am the first. Ethnic background: Han Chinese Nationality: Australian As a Hong Konger, there is a constant need to reassert my identity divorced from both its English presupposition and Chinese hegemony. It seems obvious to delineate identity by assignment and geographical category. Berg writes that ideological strains of belief fashion society according to value-sys44

tem, sensibilities, and ideology of the normalised.1 On paper, we seem to be caught up. This is who you are. Where you came from. Where you live. What this fails to account for in my own personal history is the hybridity that lives in my identity. Snatches of it are in my upbringing. I learned to shift between my customary native tongue, Cantonese, and my budding interest in literature. Not only did this awareness forge my future path in pursuing an English degree in Australia, but also altered my perceptions of who I was by proxy to geographical location. The exception to this is my deep-rooted allegiance to my city. Hong Kong has always been the foundational edifice of who I am. Treading that perception, however, is mediated with more difficulty. There was constancy in the inconstant – not neither Australian or Chinese, but a confounded sense of both. This wavering sense of uncertainty has been present in all of my educational life. My formative pre-schooling years in Brisbane cemented the notion of ‘otherness’ in linguistic difference. This remained a constant through my final years of international school in Hong Kong. It was futile to cling to one locational identity over the other, as I soon learned whilst navigating who I was in a place with the same refusal to be defined narrowly. Hong Kong’s rich colonial past also stands as a beacon of the future and modernity in infrastructure and wealth. Even now as I write this within my childhood home miles away from life in Sydney, my unique ontological standpoint is confronting. Not to say that either has no place in shaping who I am – it’s more that such labels are always attached to identifying as one. To be interpellated in both avenues is the Catch-22 all of us here face. You are what you are because of the British Imperial regime. You are a part of China and will be swallowed whole as demanded of you. To embody this sense of adaptability is to push back against tyrannical governmental regimes and then allow myself to be reabsorbed as a Chinese Australian when culpable racism flares at the sight of faces like my own behind a facemask. I remember going fishing with my father in the outskirts of Brisbane one muggy summer, and a red-faced man barreling his car door against our Toyota hire with glee. I asked my dad what the word meant, enraptured by how ‘Chink’ was spat with equal parts poison and delight as he wheeled away. Against the bigger picture of global concern in this pandemic, I have no choice 1

Berg 2002.

but to concede that such an amorphous identity needs to be temporarily shelved to combat greater bouts of sinophobia and discrimination against East Asians in western countries. Bhabka’s two cents on stereotypes can be applied succinctly to this conundrum: moving between fixed objectivity and anxious repetition is key in presenting notions of ‘objective’ thought in racialised tropes2 – and this has been pertinent in framing my own identity. The persistence in safeguarding Hong Kong’s national identity is inherently biased in its departure from its former and future ruling bodies. As we near the second turnover of Hong Kong’s autonomy to China, the need to reiterate its dissolving independence is critical in battling the already tightening grip of the mainland government. The last two years of the movement is a testament to the resilience of my people in preserving an identity that will inevitably be rendered null. There have been times when I’ve halted in the midst of introducing myself as a Hong Konger – what does this label carry? How much longer until it loses coherence? It’s ironic how relatable my current predicament is in regards to the larger tapestry of the Hong Kong resistance. On the eve of my 21st, I had been tossing up the idea of returning home after University had officially halted in NSW. The government pushed back on the basis of my Australian nationality, prohibiting ‘Australian nationals’ from travelling in or out of the country. Not only does this continue to feed into the liminality of given racial definition in my case, but also parallels the structure of greater Hong Konger identity. The situational irony in being considered a potential health risk when returning to Australia during the first outbreak of COVID-19 in Wuhan in January had somehow morphed into ‘blind’ concern for an Australian national in March – something I had never considered, especially in light of the rampant yellow peril that had rebuilt itself after the course of three months. The duality of my national identity as a Hong Kong and Australian national did not lessen the liminal existence I was forced into – from having to plead with residency appeals and proof of Cantonese background, to the very border patrol officers who contemplated not letting me return to Australia 2 46

Bhabha 1994.

because I was Chinese. Yes, I am Chinese. Yes, I am Australian. Yes, I would like to return to either/or on the basis that it is written in this book that I am of either/or racial and national background. I had to reprise the race performance expected of me in order to return home. To morph into the racial role that was required of me to play based on the view of the ‘other’ underscores what Bhabha says to be true of persisting racialisation.3 The two halves of my background had to give way to one another depending on how I was being racially viewed at the time. It is embedded in us that we must fall under one or another, to consign ourselves to a fate decided by dominating powers that have long shaped what our identity constitutes. I choose to be neither and both. I choose to be a Hong Konger, and that means being water. *坑渠水 - faucet water from pipes References: Berg, Charles Ramírez (2002). Latino Images In Film. Texas: University Of Texas Press. Bhabha, Homi K (1994). The Location Of Culture. London: Routledge.

Bhabha 1994.

Illustrations by Lucas Kao 47

Lukewarm Niceties 5:24pm at a hotel bar, where he turned 23, they stole stone cups when the bartender wasn’t looking. Hands touching the folded paper, sat neatly in the centre. Footsteps quicken, names called out in abridged form. Francisco becomes Fran, Alejandro inhabits Ale and Isabella speaks Belle into existence. Two-day-old perfume wafts through the room, water-cooler conversations sprinkle through booths occupied by those on blind-dates. Words measured in swings. Pulses quicken at the sight of familiar faces. Someone asks for someone else’s number while in line for the bathroom. Tonight, old wounds are scratched. How are you? Hands clasp the empty glass. Eyes pan across the room, searching for the nearest exit. A brief smile is offered, a knowing look of consolation. 48

Christine Lai Thảo

The waiter is waved down, We’ll have the haloumi chips, the house burger with mash and two glasses of red – I don’t drink anymore, A steady smile and a soft chuckle eclipses the faintest furrowed brow. She speaks first. Deriving past affinities between us, in shared meals, swapping clothes, people-watching. That was on Aubrey’s birthday, right before Avery decided they’d just be friends. Details are hazy, names butchered, dates forgotten. You’ve never brought up being allergic to grass before I counter. I would’ve remembered. Conversation stretches out a little longer, like the ends of a faded cotton-blend sweater. They never warned you about the people who pry you open with makeshift crowbars, built from loose promises and interred lies. Her boxes, filled with unkempt apologies have lain in vain since last spring. They haven’t moved since she left.

Illustrations by Ibrahim Khan 49

With a cup of tea, I am fulfilled

Angela Xu 许卓悦

Home

Cherie Tse

Both of my homes are burning up. I am stumbling through both realms in a dream-like dance, Slipping through the veil of time, Like a ghost, surpassing transcendence, Unnoticed by its inhabitants. Seven million yellow slogans raised, Deafening cries for democracy, Tear gas sprayed, Bomb shells thrown, This home does not feel mine. I move to my second, Where papers inscribe my identity: ‘Australian’. Passports, IDs, licenses, Stamping an unknown nationality onto my skin, I know I am not quite one of them. I mimic the way they pull their a’s, But my r’s can’t help but roll off my tongue, I can taste my alien words mulling, Pocketed in a bittersweet cyst, Ready to burst forth. I am waiting to go home to the arms of my mother, To be swallowed in the ground. The earth does not care where I fit, And nature accepts me as its own. So, when my time has come, And those who matter have heard my presence, I will return to flesh and dirt. She will breathe a sigh of gentleness, And welcome me home. 51

Half a Steamed Fish

T Ho

The dining table was lit by bright, sanitary lights. A clean, dental white. The three of them (the fourth seat vacant) ate dinner with the television on, the volume turned up to twenty-five. The sound was soft enough for the sound to recede meaninglessly into the sharp corners of the white walls, yet loud enough to plaster the gaping silences. A pleasing alternative to the scratching of metal spoons on ceramic bowls. ‘Eat slower,’ Truong told her husband. She placed her own pair of chopsticks down on the plastic tablecloth, pursing her lips slightly. ‘It’s not good for your reflux.’ Nam shrugged his shoulders, neither rudely nor entirely dismissively, but mostly to indicate that he had understood his wife. However, he did not decrease the pace of his hurried gulps. Nam’s manner of eating characterised the act as laborious – mouthfuls punctuated by heavy breathing, rice caught on his stubble, rounded shoulders hunched over his bowl. Despite his atheism, Nam treated all gustatory matters with a ceremonial exactness. Breakfast was accompanied by an espresso with a measured teaspoon of condensed milk stirred in. Lunch was eaten at noon, seldom earlier, never later. Nam had been the one to insist upon switching out the warm, yellow bulb for a cool white LED. The light which hung above the circular dining table was not dissimilar to one you might find at a fast-food chain or an operating theatre. After all, the dining room must be bright enough so that you could examine, with surgical precision and relish, the slick sheen of half a steamed fish before it was efficiently consumed. Ever since Nina had departed for Adelaide two weeks ago, family affairs such as weekly neighbourhood walks or the communion of half a steamed fish were overlaid with morbid silence. She did not particularly enjoy such family affairs anyway, especially family affairs involving the consumption of half a steamed fish. The first time Truong had taken Nina and her sister to visit their grandparents in Vietnam, her family had cooked fish daily. Nam had stayed behind; the humidity irritated his skin. In the wet markets, women squatted 52

Illustration by Lucas Kao

over plastic tubs (the type you would wash a baby in) of squirming fish which had been heaved up from the Mekong just an hour earlier amidst the electric hum of a barely yellow morning. Nina refused to eat fish after that trip; it had been almost two decades. Once when Truong accidentally ordered a filet-Ofish instead of a quarter pounder (Truong had been excited by the coupons in the mailbox), Nina meticulously peeled off the fried batter and removed the fishy interior. Her steady hand equipped her well for her studies in dentistry. She proceeded to consume the burger – tartar sauce, processed cheddar cheese and batter, all contained between two steamed buns. Truong believed that Nina had inherited her husband’s ritualistic approach to food, albeit in an almost irreverent way. Before she left for Adelaide, every Sunday before work, Nina would order a box of popcorn chicken from the KFC opposite the train station, as well as a passionfruit tea green tea (half sugar, half ice, lychee jelly). She would take a sip of tea, sit on the bench just outside the train station, eat the smallest pieces of popcorn chicken, pack up the larger pieces for the train ride after work, and dust the crumbs off her oily fingers for the pigeons to peck at before walking two blocks to the office. Truong picked up a grain of rice her husband had dropped onto the dining table, placing it onto a piece of newspaper which the family discarded the greasy fishbones upon. She tutted underneath her breath, soft enough for the sound to evade her aging husband’s ear, yet loud enough for Sam, her youngest daughter, sitting opposite Truong on the table, to raise her eyes for a second, before returning her gaze to her half-eaten portion of fish. Sam liked to make a public display out of her disdain for meat. She picked off each sliver of spring onion and sliced ginger from the flesh, slowly chewing each piece. She had experimented with vegetarianism for eight months until Truong dragged her to the pathologist, and finding her daughter lacking in ferritin, bought two bottles of red pills. Sam, too scared of tablets, reluctantly opted for pescetarianism. Even at the age of eighteen, she still used soluble paracetamol, the lemon fla53

voured ones. She still told her friends that she was vegetarian – it suited her pink hair and thick winged eyeliner. Whilst most vegetarians abstain from meat for ethical reasons, Sam lacked any sympathy for the fish she poked around the sides of her bowl. She felt ambivalence towards its glassy eyes. She lacked sympathy for its open, agape expression – she found it quite pathetic. In fact, she was almost intrigued by its semi-translucent, dendritic remains. It was the manner in which the creature slowly suffocated to death which she found distasteful – the bloodstream quickly filling up with cortisol and adrenaline, the muscles flooding with lactic acid. She could not care for its bloody, lifeless form; it was the protracted nature of suffering, the subtle twitching of the creature’s gills, which unsettled her. ••• Sam watched her mother clean the fish in the kitchen sink. ‘Samantha, pass me the fish fork.’ Sam tugged the top drawer open (‘Careful! If you pull any harder, you’ll pull off the handle and you’ll have to buy me a new one’) and took out the scratched, yellowed fork with four talon-like tines. Truong deftly handled the fish, the metal tines softly ringing as she scratched off the pearlescent scales.

‘Are you busy?’ Truong asked without lifting her eyes from the fish.

‘What do you need help with?’ She tried to discreetly cover her nose so she wouldn’t catch a whiff of that sharp odour lest her mind began to wonder about how the smell was caused by the build-up of lactic acid – the same lactic acid which caused the muscle and fat to decompose even as the gills continued to flicker.

‘Wash some rice. Two cups.’

As Sam washed the rice, she watched her mother. Truong used a short knife to scrape the blood and fat off the concaved rib cage. The eye was clear and glassy – a sign that it was fresh. 54

‘Who taught you how to do all this?’ Sam asked.

‘How to clean the fish? You have to do this step, otherwise it’ll taste fishy. It stops the fish from being 腥.1 You know what 腥 means, right?’ Sam nodded. ‘But who taught you?’ Sam poured the starchy water into a bowl, catching the grains of rice with a sieve. ‘You just learn. A little bit from Peter and Annie in Melbourne. You remember them, right? One of the first people I lived with when I first came here. We visited them last time we went down. They taught me how to cook Cantonese food. Learned a little bit from your grandma too. Your 嫲嫲.2 Not my mother. You pick up things when you watch people.’

Sam ignored the last part. ‘What did she teach you?’

‘Your 嫲嫲? She passed just a year after I married, so not a lot. She had a good eye. She knew how to name all the different parts of a cow. She could tell whether a crab had eggs inside. She knew the best prices. Your 爺爺3 and 嫲嫲 always went to Cabramatta together. He still does – you know that. Even now.’ Truong paused for a second and nodded respectfully at the LED crucifix hanging above the fruit bowl. ••• Truong surveyed the well-lit table before her. Sea bass, spring onion, ginger, coriander, soy sauce. Now, torn apart, an oily pool and brown bones. She considered the dry skin of her finger tips and her cracked cuticles – her offering. Nina used to ask why she did all this. ‘When you married, did you agree to do the cooking?’ Nina always had this quirk of asking unexpected questions. When she was young, she asked harmless questions like ‘Why is the sky blue?’ or ‘Why is Sam my sister?’ Truong worried that when Nina graduated from university and became a den1 2 3

seng1 ( pronounced ‘s-air-ng’) - fishlike smell or taste. maa4 maa4 - paternal grandmother. je4 je2 (pronounced yeh yeh) - paternal grandfather.

tist, she would ask questions to her patients, shooting questions at them as she poked into their gaping mouths. ‘When you were my age, did you want to have children?’ or ‘Do you want me to get married?’ or ‘Why do we eat the same food all the time?’ She had answered those questions with a dismissive silence or by telling Nina to go put away the dishes on the drying rack. But looking at the centre of the table she asked herself why she had done it all. Why did she scrape blood off bones? Why must she scald her fingers on the bottom of metal plates? Why should she bear the cracked skin and calluses? Was it for the half-eaten piece which her daughter pushed around her bowl, for an absent daughter who sat or studied or walked or ran or slept in another state? For the pile of bones on the newspaper or the waves which had carried her across continents? At times it did seem a little cruel – to pick apart the lifeless frame splayed across on the greasy plate. Yet, she could not help but participate in the communion of half a fish. (As Sam pushed the fish around her bowl, she also considered how she had missed partaking in the sharing of half a fish – passing chopsticks around as they took turns serving themselves). It was one of the only Biblical stories which her husband knew about – passing around two fish and five loaves until five thousand stomachs were satisfied. She watched Nam sucking the savory jelly out of the fish-eye. Nam considered the empty sphere. For a moment, he was intrigued by the hollow shell which he had just emptied – he did not know how to properly describe it coherently. What did you call the thin white case? Was ‘case’ the right word for something so solid, almost as thin as a sheet of plastic, the type you got takeaway in? He was sure that Samantha would know. She would know the correct, scientific name for it. And even if she didn’t, she would take out her phone and look it up and read it out in a tone which would make it seem as if she had known all along. ‘Oh right, got it. It’s called –’ Instead, he dragged his spoon across his bowl to catch the last grains of rice. When he was a child, his mother would pick up the individual grains of rice at the bottom with her chopsticks and poke them into his mouth in an aggressive, exacting manner – the wood hitting his teeth. Placing his spoon down, he said – ‘We need to leave the house by 9:30 tomorrow. We’re meeting 爺爺 at the cemetery.’ 56

‘How many years has it been since she passed?’ Sam asked.

‘Twenty-three tomorrow.’ •••

They had driven around the cemetery for almost fifteen minutes before they located Serenity Grove. Sam hated it. Ascension Hill. Peace Lane. Eternity Road. She rolled her eyes at the last one, how oxymoronic. She looked at the family mausoleums as they drove past and hoped that she wouldn’t end up in one of those great white monoliths. Why take up so much space? She shuddered thinking about how, once the waves rose, those marble mausoleums would be expelled out of the tumid earth. She wasn’t sure why her grandfather had so suddenly purchased a grave. Her grandmother’s ashes had resided in a porcelain urn on her grandfather’s shelf for twenty-three years. The shelf strained underneath the weight of pomelos, incense sticks, photo frames and mandarins. Her grandfather had even stuck a small key chain on the side of the shelf with tape – a startlingly realistic piece of braised fatty pork made of non-biodegradable polyvinyl chloride dangling from a silver chain. Sam had not been to her grandfather’s house in several months and wondered whether the keychain was still there. For a moment, she had the almost comic notion that he had buried it with her grandmother’s ashes. She quickly brushed the thought away. Her grandfather and aunty were laying flowers on the grave when they arrived. Yellow flowers, sweating underneath thin layers of plastic, had been laid diagonally across the black plaque. By their feet lay a red basket of precariously arranged mandarins, finger bananas and persimmons. Strewn across the grass were open plastic boxes of pink, green, yellow, and white bánh bò. The artificial colouring might have seemed natural underneath the glare of a white LED light. However, in the warm glow of a hazy September morning seated aside white rose bushes, the round rice cakes appeared anaemic. They kowtowed three times at the grave. Her aunty took several unflattering photos of the family. Truong silently whispered the Lord’s Prayer as she 57

replaced the lids on the boxes of the bánh bò. Nam crouched down next and split a finger banana off from the bunch. Having swiftly peeled back the lightly speckled skin, he consumed it in four swift bites. Sam thought about how this was all part of the ritual; when you followed no religion you just went through the motions – kowtow three times, take photos, take a banana from the basket beside the grave (or a mandarin if you so desire), peel it and eat it in deferential silence. His older sister asked Nam to pass the box of bánh bò. ‘I haven’t had these in so long,’ she remarked as she cracked open the plastic lid and delicately picked up one of the white ones. She offered the box to Sam. Sam chose one of the green ones, hoping it would taste like pandan. She regarded it for a moment: the pale honeycomb-like texture, the sharp, sour perfume of the coconut, the black plaque which her grandfather stood before. To feast with an unknown life; to peel bananas over the grave of a name which you did not know how to pronounce; to sink your teeth into the soft steamed rice cakes which moments ago, you had just offered to ashes – the solemn joy of it all.

飛蟲蟲 / Chong chong fei I am on a bus, it is half-late laden with people as of late. Out of the crevice of my eye, I see the pig-tailed tot swathed in the arms of one who says, fei chong chong* / fly little bug chong chong fei / little bug fly.

Karen Leong 梁可人

I am six wriggling like larvae tossed into air between two sets of hands who propel me into the glint of the sun. Chong chong flies like a missile who fears falling when these heights are love? Once too I could steal snatches, words honeyed down to make me sleep. Cocooned, festooned, this little bug is safe. Flutter under this wing, let me temper these fears with the singsong of my heart. Now little bug flees, and watches open-mouthed at the girl who eyed her steal kisses from her corner seat dashing off tear creased, without a word while the driver peddles on. All her 爸爸* said was: Fei chong chong chong chong fei to make her eyes round to make her chest soar. Little bug, little bug where have you gone? Your lacewing lies have undone the howling of this throat. * 飛蟲蟲, or fei chong chong is a chinese children’s poem widely recognisable to the young as a lullaby. * 爸爸 Cantonese for Father

Illustrations by Ena Nam 59

Not Again

Angela Xu 许卓悦

Afterword Wattle 2021 has emerged with the oncoming of Spring, reviving timeless stories of history and culture with a fearless pursuit to renovate the old and invite in the new. At a time when each day feels like the last, our contributors have made themselves vulnerable by revisiting the hardship and struggle that make them who they are, celebrating diverse cultures, reclaiming rich identities and heritage, and demonstrating a fierce determination to stay unsilenced in the face of all odds. While varying in degree and kind, many of the particularities of experiencing life as a person of colour stem from the necessity to reframe, reinvent, and reassess oneself within the constraints of ubiquitous Euro-centric frameworks. This year’s contributors have taken on the task of reinventing these restrictive notions through innovative ways that seek to convey a diverse range of experiences and identities. Our contributors reframe the Anglo-centric standards of monolingualism that colour our education, incorporating community languages into their pieces, acknowledging that both their and their readers’ worldviews extend far beyond the English language. Other pieces seek to re-conceptualise what forms a literary work can take, with poems that mirror worksheets and prose that blurs narration and dialogue, proudly displaying how our experiences are worthy inspiration for artistic expression. Reinvention, however, is not only a means of dismantling the present for the future, but a way for us to uncover our own histories. Through fresh eyes, many of our contributors have examined food, not just as an artefact through which to hark back to one’s ancestry, but as symbols of dynamic cultural relationships. Other contributors have, both visually and literally, created alternate perspectives and dimensions to colour their heritages in different lights. Ultimately, for us, this year’s edition of ‘Wattle’ is representative of renewal: a means of harnessing the forced reframing of ourselves to avoid disturbing the spaces we occupy, in order to dismantle the boundaries of those spaces themselves. Through this year’s edition, we hope that our readers have experienced 61

a sense of anticipation, for both what has been and for what is to come. In being granted the privilege to oversee each brilliant contribution, we feel rewarded and rejuvenated with a new motivation to continue persevering within our individual journeys. It is the passion of our contributors, and their dedication to expression, that inspire this love and connection. During our prolonged period of alienation, disconnection and separation from each other, our contributors harnessed their creativity to build bridges and remind us that we are one, even if our experiences are so divergent. After all, the resilient golden wattle is brightest and most beautiful when witnessed in bunches. For their great submissions, we would like to thank all of our contributors – they have truly been the life force of this edition. We extend our thanks also to our brilliant editorial team - our team leaders and editors who worked to shape each and every submission. Finally, we would like to thank our editors-in-chief, Trinity and Angela, whose leadership has defined this year’s journal and hopefully, those that will come after it. Soo Choi & Nafeesa Rahman 최수경 &

General Editors

About the Editors Angela Xu (许卓悦) is a second year Arts/Law student majoring in History. She’s worked on a number of publications in the past, including ARNA, 1978, and Zami. She has watched How I Met Your Mother way too many times, is a very average plant mum, and loves dogs, the Oxford comma and irony. Trinity Kim (김은수) is a second year Arts/Nursing student majoring in International Relations. She has previously worked on ARNA and 1978 as an editor and is delighted to have helped ‘Wattle’ come to life. If you dont find her solving a sudoku or cooking yet another bowl of ramen, she’s probably just taking a nap. Soo Choi (최수경)is in the penultimate semester of her LLB, after completing an Honours degree in English. She loves all things translation or food-related, sometimes even together. In her spare time, you’ll find her re-watching Gilmore Girls for the 20th time, while obsessively critiquing every character and plot-line. Nafeesa Rahman ( ) is a second year Education/Arts student majoring in English and History. Her writing and editing experience comes from reporting for Honi Soit, working with Drylight, and a year of marking tutoring homework. When she’s not writing, you’ll probably catch her chugging on an Up&Go, mulling over travel vlogs on YouTube, or rewatching La La Land for the thousandth time. Nikki Remdios is a second year student studying International Relations and Business Law. She is an avid painter and a lover of reading and is excited to see the brilliant and culturally rich works the creators of USyd have to offer. Nishta Gupta is a second year Arts/Law student who loves all things literary, artistic, and provocative. Having contributed as an artist for Zami, ARNA and 1978, she’s keen to bring her creative vision to ‘Wattle’. Bonnie Huang (黄晓悦) is a queer Chinese artist based on Dharug and Gadgial lands. Informed by concepts, their multidisciplinary practice expands into different mediums to interrogate self-identity and social norms. They love local art and indepndent publications so are really rexcited to work on this year’s edition of ‘Wattle’ as a Visual Arts Edutor. Ibrahim Khan ( ) is a second year Arts/Law student, majoring in economics, who has relished in the opportunity to break from procastinating case and instead explore his visually creative side. If the sun is shining today, he is likely engaging in micro-escapism lying on golden beach sands with a novel in hand and ocean water in his hair.

Amy Tan is a first-year Commerce & Laws student. She has previously been a contributor for ARNA and is super excited to be able to re-engage with her passion for story-telling at uni. Currently, she binge-watches mukbangs and is probably the only person who hasn’t watched Squid Game yet. Andy (Ki Joo) Park (박기주) is a first-year Arts/Law Student majoring in philosophy. Ever since he fell in love with Keats in Year 12, he can’t get enough of poetry and anything Romantic. When he isn’t questioning his existence, he likes to play guitar and procrastinate on Youtube. Amani Fuad is a second year student studying a Bachelor of Science Masters in Nutrition and Dietetics. She claims to love sleep but in reality, spends more time reading when in bed than sleeping. Currently she is collaborating with other creatives in an anthology of poems. Amani is often described to be vivacious which is a nicer way to say annoying but we take wins where we can. Alice Park (박소윤) is a first year Criminology & Law student. She has previously been published in the Re-Draft series and is excited to be reading so much lovely poetry from creative students! Over lockdown, she’s been steadily growing her Pusheen plushy collection and she is a Kiwi born and raised. Iris Yuan (袁曉淇) is a second-year Media and Communications student with a second major in Sociology. She is excited to be working on ‘Wattle’ for the first time as a Team Leader for Fiction/Prose, having worked previously on ARNA and 1978 as both editor and contributor. She can be often be found in tears while writing to the soundtrack of Taylor Swift’s entire discography. Vishali Seshadri is a postgraduate Education student holding a Bachelors in English and Commerce. She has previously worked as an editor for 1978 and hopes to utilise her editorial skills and passion for literature to amplify diverse student voices. You can find her consuming an unhealthy amount of true crime content and bulk buying books to add to her already vast unread collection. Melody Wong (黃珮嵐) is a second year majoring in media and communication and international relations. She is passionate about pop culture, particularly Asian Cinema, and has gained theatre production experience through work. In her free time, she is usually occupied with her cats. She is ecstatic about being able to give the diverse lived experiences of her fellow students a home in ‘Wattle’.

Carmeli Argana is in her third year MECO and Politics student who has spent an ungodly amount of time researching how to write essays. She has written for a number of campus publications, including Pulp, Honi Soit, Salience and The Junction. When she’s not busy trying to rediscover her personality post-lockdown, you’ll find her rewatching cartoons made for children. Kowther Qashou is in her final year of Master of Human Rights. She has previously been an editor for ARNA and Zami. In her spare time, you can find her nose deep in books. She is looking forward to making ‘Wattle’ come to life. Ariana Haghighi is a non-fiction editor for ‘Wattle’. She is in her first year of an Arts/ Law degree, and after changing her major twice she has finally settled in English. She has experience writing for Honi and the SULS publication Dissent. As a mixed race woman, she loves cultural storytelling, and reading about the nuances of racial experiences.

About the Illustrators Ena Nam (남이나) is an Arts/Media Communications student majoring in French/Francophone studies. She loves all things creative and is honoured to have her illustrations featured alongside the beautiful, sincere pieces in this edition of ‘Wattle’. In her spare time,you’ll find her dancing, playin guitar or on a long walk listening to music. Lucas Kao (高邑榮 ) is a first-year student studying Political Economy and International Relations. He loves to draw and you can find his art work sscattered throughout this journal. Emma Cao (Cao Ngọc Hạnh Emma) is a Vietnamese-Australian artist, sometimes writer, and aspiring arts worker from South-West Sydney. They love textures, the mundane, and working towards/dreaming about new worlds.

About the Contributors A.F is a second-year student studying a Bachelor of Science but dabbles in poetry to keep in touch with her more creative side. Her work often centres around her experiences as a Muslim immigrant trying to get by in this confusing world. Amy Tan is a first year Commerce/Laws student who loves to experiment with new ideas through poetry and writing. She first stumbled across poetry through a fan edit on Tumblr and has been fascinated ever since. She draws from her experience growing up as a Chinese-Australian and feeling like there is a lack of discussion and representation of these experiences. Angela Xu (许卓悦) is a proud Chinese-New Zealander who dabbles in art and writing in her free time. She took up writing again in quarantine, finding particular inspiration in her family, her culture, and looming deadlines. She has been published in Honi Soit, Yemaya, Univeristy of Sydney Anthology, and 1978, and has been involved in the 2021 Ashurst Ethnocultural Arts Intiative. ‘With a cup of tea, I am fulfilled’ -The tapping of the hand on the left is a practice of showing thanks in Chinese tea etiquette. This practice is said to have originated when an emperor went into the public disguised to see his people, serving tea to his servants at a teahouse. The servants wished to bow to him but couldn’t, in fear of exposing his identity, so instead ‘bowed’ through tapping their fingers. Growing up, tea was an integral part of my family life and my connection to my culture. Thus, the bottom right reads, 一壶清茗香无机，人生自是乐悠悠, which speaks to the abundance of joy and fulfilment that comes with a simple cup of tea. ‘Not Again’ refers to the well-known feeling of opening a biscuit or mooncake tin and being met with the crushing disappointment of sewing equipment, tools, or some other household item. It aims to visualise an experience that is resonant across the second generation migrant community. Ariana Haghighi is an Arts/Law I student who loves to write but has struggled to braoch race in her writing before. She though what better time and place to experiment than alongside her community, with fellow people of colour! Ariana has experience interviewing for articles, but relished in her opportunity to interview students of colour about their everyday experiences. She plans to keep trying new things and learning from those around her. Bonnie Huang (黄晓悦) is a queer Chinese artist based on Dharug and Gadigal lands. Informed by concepts, their multidisciplinary practice expands into different mediums to 66

interrogate self-identity and social norms. Contemporary Chinese literature has been so inspiring, with some of their favourites being Yan Lianke, Shu-Ling Chua and anything about the “ultra unreal”. Carmeli Argana is currently a Media and Communications student. She was born in Manila, Philippines and immigrated to Sydney with her family as a baby. She discovered her passion for writing in primary school after her kindergarten teacher put a scratch-n-sniff sticker on her first ever story and has steadily been improving her craft since. Cherie Tse is an illustrator and poet currently studying a Bachelor of Arts and Law at the University of Sydney. Her poetry mainly explores the intersectionality of race, gender and bodily autonomy. In 2019, she published an anthology of poetry ‘Tangles of Growth’. Christine Lai (Thảo) is a writer and photographer who seeks to explore the spaces languages occupies in the relationships people form with others and moments of liminal space. She received an inaugural Sydney Review of Books Residency and her work was featured in the 2020 Bankstown Biennale. She has been published in SBS Voices and in Peril Magazine through Diversity Arts Australia’s I AM NOT A VIRUS campaign. Ibrahim Khan ( ) believes that creativity can be as tangled and multifaceted as personal identity. When he is not experimenting with a new Middle Eastern recipe, he may be exploring his South African heritage through a camera lens or pen. The rest of the time, he is embracing the inner-Australian, if he can find it. ‘African Sun’ - Chapman’s Peak, a short dive south of Cape Town, is a commonly visited tourist spot with views of the Cape cliffs and the Atlantic Ocean. Karen Leong (梁可人) is a writer of poetry, prose, and nonfiction. Plucking inspiration from reclamation and desire, her works mainly involve Hong Kong, Women of colour, and her lived experience in straddling both. She has been featured on Cantocutie, Artisan Alley, Astrophe Magazine, Doof Magazine, Vice Asia and others. Currently, she writes for The Peahce Project and is gritting her teeth. She is also an Aries Sun. Nikki Remedios is a second year International Relations and Business Law student who loves to paint. She moved to Sydney this year after living in Melbourne, Mumbai and Singapore. Though she has dabbled in most mediums, painting is her main hobby. She often utilises painting to explore the human condition and her personal style employs the use of vivid color and contrast. ‘Flowers of Youth’ explores the dichotomy between young and old. The use of oil pastel mimics a childlike crayon drawing, and the heavy emphasis on wrinkles conveys age. The flowers encompass the fleeting passage between life and death. Nishta Gupta is a second year Arts and Law student who is deeply interested in how the visual arts can be mobilised to explore identity, beauty, and collective memory. She draws 67

on her personal experiences being a Woman of Colour in Australia, and the issues faced by young people today. In her practice, she enjoys experimenting with various mediums including photography, video, sculpture, painting, and drawing. Olivia Mangholi dreams of sitting by the beach, participating in a beachside paint and sip class, alongside the spectacular company of unlimited cheeseboards and sashimi platters unless she’s thinking of prose ideas! Sometimes it’s an idea done before a million times, and sometimes, it’s an idea done before a million times, but simpler! In seriousness, Olivia loves sharing stories either from anecdotal or entirely fictional origins. T Ho uses writing as a means of examining faith, relationships, and everyday rituals. Her writing process is sporadic and painstakingly slow. She often writes late at night whilst blasting studio Ghibli soundtracks surrounded by one too many cups of hot water.

Special thanks to: Jenna Lorge and Thomas Israel, and all the Publication Directors that came before, for their widom and guidance in making this journal come to life; Amelia Mertha and Kiki Amberber, for creating this journal as a space for empowerment, activism, and creativity; Nicole Baxter, Aiden Cheney, Jamaica Leech, Angelina Gu, and Aashrit Ganda for all their support; To each and every student that shared their talents with us; and of course, The University of Sydney Union The Faculty of Arts and Social Scineces The Sydney Arts Students Society The Sydney University Press

Wattl e T h e S y d n e y Un i v e r s i t y A r t s S t u d e n t s ’ B I P O C J o u r n a l

W attle 2021 2.

4. 5.

2021

ISBN: 978-1-74210-517-8