Ringing Voices 2024 | An Anthology of Student Writing

Ringing Voices 2024

“It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper; so, cry away.”

–Charles Dickens

The words of Charles Dickens capture the cathartic and transformative power of writing. For Dickens, writing was not merely a craft but a profound source of emotional release and joy, offering a way to express and process one’s inner world. It highlights how putting words on paper can be both therapeutic and liberating, allowing thoughts and emotions to flow freely. Writing serves not only as a creative outlet but also as a means to find clarity and calm through expression.

The student writing featured in this anthology taps into this joy of writing, using it as a means to explore ideas and engage in cathartic creativity. The pieces selected for this year’s Ringing Voices Anthology showcase the inspired minds of students from Years 5 to 12.

Building on the teaching and learning from last year, the focus of our writing units in the English classroom for 2024 has been to deepen students’ understanding of diverse writing forms. Mentor texts and curated supplementary materials have again been used to spark creativity, guiding students to craft their own responses to prompts, texts, or images. Our English curriculum aims to foster a learning environment that nurtures strong communication skills, encouraging students to explore a variety of ideas, forms, and genres with creativity and confidence.

Complementing the written works in this anthology is an array of extraordinary student artwork. Each piece tells its own story, inviting you to embark on a visual journey. The cover of this year’s anthology was designed by Art Captain Bernice Kha, with assistance from Chloe Chiu. In this artwork, bright blue butterflies emanate from the open book, symbolising how ideas blossom and transform, akin to a metamorphosis from thought into creation. The butterflies capture the flow of inspiration, visually representing the power of reading and writing to bring ideas to life.

Enjoy each turn of the page as you immerse yourself in this enriching journey of reading.

Michelle Maglitto English Learning Leader

Yuru Bai

A Perfect Save

The plane is shaking. Everyone is yelling. Screaming. Panicking. The alarms. The masks drop. The desperation in the pilot’s voice. Babies crying. Bags falling.

“How do you put it on?” I hear people screaming. This is my worst nightmare.

I’m Alya. I live in Sydney and have always wanted to travel the world. My two-year-old sister Rosie, my twelve-year-old brother Max, my mum, dad and I are all flying to Italy for a holiday. It’s always been a dream of mine, and I am so excited. Something that not many people know, however, is that I can be paranoid and easily stressed. Being a paranoid person is probably the worst kind of person to be when flying in a metal tube one kilometre up in the sky.

People are holding on for their lives. I cling to my mum. What if my parents don’t make it? What about Max? Rosie? She has barely had any time on this planet. What if – I stop myself from talking negatively about what could happen. I close my eyes. I block out the yelling. I put myself in the happiest place that I could imagine. When I look out the aircraft window, I can only see and hear the waves of my favourite beach in Queensland. The waves are crashing over me.

I blink. The plane is falling from the sky. The crying, the screaming, the panicking, the alarms, it all tuned back in. My head is spinning and my ears feel like they’re about to burst. I black out…

I wake up to find Rosie shaking me, balling in a state of panic. She has a cut on her arm but she seems to not notice. By some small miracle, my family members are the only survivors. There is black smoke everywhere. Flames are coming from the back of the aircraft wreckage. We run for safety.

I see some distant signage written in a language that I learn at schoolGreek! “Come on! We need to find help,” I say, half sobbing. What are we supposed to do? All I know is that we are stranded somewhere in Greece.

Suddenly, I see something in the distance. It’s big, red and fast. It looks like it has… wings? I’ve never seen a helicopter with wings! It’s flying towards us! It is coming closer and closer. It is a dragon I couldn’t believe my eyes.

First of all, we were the only survivors. Now, a dragon? I thought they didn’t exist! I pinch myself to make sure that this wasn’t a dream. The dragon is coming to help us! Or at least I think. I wipe the tears from my eyes.

I don’t know how, but neither my parents nor my siblings notice.

“Look! It’s a dragon! I think it’s coming to help us!” I screech.

“Oh my gosh! It is a dragon!” my dad says, his voice trembling with fear. My brother can’t contain his excitement. Rosie is laughing and clapping her hands. My only worry is what if the dragon is evil? Hungry? With no escape, I guess all we could do now is prey it would not harm us.

“Excuse me Mr. err, umm, Dragon, can you please take us to Italy?” I don’t know why I call him Mr. Dragon, or why I’m acting like he understands English! He lowers down, as if to say, ‘hop on.’

Our next flight has departed, only this time, it’s not an aircraft. I can’t believe this! High up in the sky, I think I spot Vatican City. This has been some journey, with a rollercoaster of emotions. A plane crash, people dying, a dragon?!

Finally, we land right in the middle of the Colosseum in Rome! I don’ know how to thank the dragon. But I do happen to find some lollies in my pocket, so I leave them beside him. I have no idea if dragons like lollies.

It’s getting dark, so we decide to head to our hotel room. When we check in, I open up the curtains. What a stunning view of the Roman night. I even saw the dragon far in the distance. Twirling around, like it was having the time of its life. Mr Dragon was no longer our little secret.

The next morning, I wake up and hope to see him once again, I know it’s highly unlikely. Once again, what a wonderful view, with the sun glistening on Trevi Fountain. I scan the horizon but cannot see any sign of our friend. I close my eyes, thinking of all the poor souls who lost their lives in the plane crash. I hug my mum harder than I ever had before.

Devya Gupta

Ming and Marie Spy for Freedom

Have you ever wanted a book that has it all? That is packed with facts that are wound into a heartfelt adventure through time? And that book will give so many people courage to change the world no matter how useless they feel? Up until now there has been no book as fantastic as this. But then “Ming and Marie Spy for Freedom” came along and changed minds. This book has inspired me to learn about the world we live in and it has inspired many more to at least attempt to make a difference.

This book gives girls and women rightful credit for all they have done for the world. Girls and women used to be treated second to boys and men. But still they have worked hard to keep the world afloat. They have spied on German soldiers. They have intercepted bombs. They have looked after the suffering. And most importantly they have risked their lives to save their countries. This book is an inspiring piece of art that will show any girl that she can change the world.

I know you all get bored reading fact after fact after fact. I do too. But how else are we going to learn about the world? Well “Ming and Marie Spy for Freedom” has facts entwined into a riveting story. Once you read this book you will sound like an absolute war expert. I mean, I never knew that mustard gas was created during World War One for the use of the Germans. I never even knew that mustard gas existed! But now I do and it is all thanks to this book. We can all learn intriguing facts like this one while being taken on an enticing journey through time.

This book has made me realise just how wonderful my country is. It has also raised my awareness that my country is suffering from global warming. Before I read this book I never used to think about making a difference or loving my country. But now I do. This book has shown me who I am. It has added meaning and value to my life and it will do that to all of your lives too.

This book is beyond interesting. It is life altering. This book will show you who you are and teach you so many facts. So, grab a copy and join Ming and Marie on their mind changing journey through history. Or should I say herstory.

Sofia Hartnett

The Snowlands

Beyond an endless tundra

In a land far, far away

A kingdom is awaiting In land that’s weak to blaze

Across a frozen lake

Behind the moonlit caves

A creature has awakened One that has no name

A shine lights up the cavern

As bright as moonlight glows

The shine is heavily guarded

By a creature nobody knows

A hot inferno sweeps the sky

And smoke pours all around

The creature has revealed itself: The dragon is abound

Faraway the dragon takes off

And flies around for days

To find its food and treasure

It sets the land ablaze

At last it sees the kingdom And gives a mighty roar.

As deafening screams drown in the fire, Off the dragon soars.

Day after day, the dragon hunts

Seeming still unsatisfied

It leaves behind a trail of ash. With nothing spared alive.

Beyond an endless tundra

In a land far, far away

A dragon has released destruction And set the land ablaze.

Emily Enverga

Should Cyber Bullies Get Expelled from School?

Why shouldn’t cyber bullies be expelled from school? Cyber bullies don’t represent the school well and will not past the school’s good reputation. Cyber bullies will bully the student even more at school as well as online, not care about privacy, and will just embarrass people even more as they have hacked into other people’s private accounts. Cyber bullies deserve a punishment for their actions and should act as a deterrent to others, discouraging other class members to cyber bully. They deserve a serious consequential action done to them for the disasters they’ve caused.

Firstly, cyber bullies do not represent the school in a academic or physical way. Cyber bullies are not good role models for younger children, especially in primary schools and the school will become known as a place where they let just about anyone enrol. If the cyber bully continues, it will cause severe losses for the school, and there will be lots of comments and dislikes towards the school for committing “serious crime.” 59% of teenage students in the U.S have been cyber bullied and it’s becoming very worrying.

Secondly, cyber bullies will bully the student in school as well as online on social media. Cyber bullies that bully people specifically, know every detail about the student and what they post on social media, and other apps as well. Knowing that information, the cyber bully will gossip and spread rumours about the student in school, making them feel very uncomfortable and telling everyone what the student posts and what apps they use as well as what they send to their friends. Cyber bullies can use this as an advantage to threaten and bully the student, making the student do or say certain things. The student can’t tell the teacher or an adult because they might get exposed.

Thirdly, cyber bullies deserve punishments and discipline for all of their disappointing actions and bad decisions. These cyber bullies are causing a big loss for their schools. Cyber bullies must understand that they’re risking their careers in school just for bullying online. They also misunderstand that what they’re doing is hurting others. They simply think that they aren’t personally and mentally hurting others but just having fun making fun of them.

Ultimately, cyber bullies must be expelled from school. They do not promote the school at all. Cyber bullies also will increase the amount of bullying in school and online, also tracking students apps, pictures, and locations on social media. Cyber bullies deserve a severe punishment for all the losses, disasters, and issues they’ve caused to different schools that they go to.

Liana Razzaghighadikolaei

Claire Wang

White Magic

It was time. I grabbed my bag and my beloved toy bunny, and we were ready. My heart was heavy. I wished I had a house and a family, but mostly, I wished the fire hadn’t turned my life upside down. If I could control anything, and I knew I couldn’t, I would change that fateful day.

My name is Milly and I have been living in this dreadful orphanage and going to school here for exactly one year today. It’s cold, dreary, and dark. My dream is to leave this awful place and call a house my own. My best friend is Eve and we love to cook together as well as read.

Before my life went up into flames I had a whole library of treasured books. One of the books I read introduced me to the world of white magic and how it is hidden throughout the world.

Now my mission is to find my own stash of white magic.

When I arrived at the orphanage, I was relieved to see a small library and it was my refuge.

One day I was wandering around the back of the library and stumbled upon a dusty, tattered book about white magic. I read that white magic is so powerful it can change lives for the better. The book also had a crumpled map of the orphanage and what looked like the location to find the mystical white magic. I couldn’t believe my eyes and I almost screamed with excitement! White magic was so close, all I had to do was find it!

The map showed an old metal door, but I couldn’t figure out where it was. I searched high and low, day after day and got nowhere. Then one day months after finding the map, when I was walking back from my English class, I saw a glimmer of metal out of the corner of my eye. I wanted to further investigate it, but I had Maths class, and I didn’t want the teacher to scream at me for being late so I made a mental note to come back the next afternoon.

The next day, I went to the ivy hedge where I had seen the glimmer of metal and poked around to see what I could find.

Suddenly, I felt something cold and hard. I yanked off some of the ivy to see what was underneath and held my breath in anticipation.

I exhaled and smiled with excitement. There it was. A grey peeling old door in the ivy hedge.

I pushed the door with all my strength and it slowly creaked open. The door led to a tiny hollow space and my eye was drawn to a small see through jar. I darted to pick it up and silently said a prayer that this would be what I have been searching for.

Hallelujah!!! I had found it.

It looked even more mystical than the books described. I picked up the jar and ran to tell Eve that I had done the impossible. I had found white magic!

I waited eagerly for my fortune to change for the better. Exactly one week after I had found the jar, just as lunch was ending there was an announcement summoning Eve and me to the central office. We were puzzled and wondered if we had done something wrong this time, forgetting in that moment of the fortune that white magic brings.

We were told the most breathtaking news. Eve and I were getting adopted!

A kind, wealthy woman wanted my best friend and me to live with her in a beautiful cottage by a stream. Eve and me squealed and screamed in delight. This was the good fortune that white magic had brought. We packed our belongings, and I made sure my toy bunny came with us. It was time to start our new life, white magic had come to our rescue.

Amaryah Rajasagaram

The Milestone Milestone

Who wouldn’t want to celebrate the end of an education era that has lasted an extensive 1365 days? At Fintona, Year 6 students acknowledge that a graduation is invaluable. There are an abundance of opinions that defend my stance, some of these are as follows: It is blatantly obvious that social events solidify friendships, mark the end of an education era and support you in learning new skills.

First and foremost, during a Year 6 graduation there will be many opportunities to learn public speaking, singing and dancing. Learning these skills can help you in countless ways. Imagine walking down the aisle on your wedding day and you have to say your vows, but your vocal cords become a frozen lake! ‘Kids Sense Child Development’ explains that public speaking can help you challenge yourself to overcome fears, doubts and insecurities. In addition, you might be thinking how will singing help me in the future? ‘Healthlin’e states that singing actually improves communication because you will be more aware of the tone of your voice when you speak and how that could make other people feel. Lastly, dancing helps you reduce stress, better express your emotions and learn coordination according to ‘Better Health Channel’. Having a graduation will change your life dramatically because of the lifelong skills you will learn.

Furthermore, marking the end of an education era is something you will treasure forever. The company ‘Graduation is Now’ believe that graduation is a landmark memory in your own timeline. It is a symbolisation that things are changing and that your life will now be different. You will be in different environments, with different people and it is enjoyable to celebrate what you have achieved so far in your life and appreciate the memories that your education has gifted you. To support this claim ‘Psych Central’ released a study revealing that we have celebrated people’s milestone events for tens of thousands of years. Why on earth would we be depriving people of this way of life? Graduations celebrate educational milestones; do not be the one to get in the way.

Finally, whilst having spent 7 years at school you will have made a plethora of friends on the way so having a graduation will solidify your friendships. Spending quality time with family and friends is an essential part of a healthy and fulfilling life. Research has shown that strong social connections have a wide range of benefits, including improved physical and mental health, increased longevity, and greater resilience in the face of stress. I personally build a beater connection with my friends every day and at my old school when we had a graduation it made me feel grateful for all the friends I had made. My graduation is an experience I will never forget. So, who wouldn’t want to party their heart out with all the friends before they depart on a new adventure?

I challenge you to go convince your principal that you deserve a graduation. I undoubtedly believe that every single Year 6 in the whole world deserves a graduation. There are many reasons for a graduation to take place. As you are now aware, you will learn new and essential skills, it marks the end of an invaluable journey and will solidify your friendships, some of which may be lifelong.

Music pumping, people jumping, are you ready to dance into a new chapter?

Lilah Gillman-Sheer

Cruelty Exports

Live exports are the most brutal, barbarous, and bloody way of pumping money into our country. Nationally, experts agree that this large industry must be eradicated. There is an abundance of arguments to justify my opinion. Live exports are cruel to animals, the environment and us.

Primarily, there is no doubt that live exports are the most inhumane way to transport our livestock. World Animal Protection Australia states that thousands of animals die on the journeys each year due to extreme stress, illness or even injury. Animals do not deserve to suffer this much. They must go through all the pain despite usually being slaughtered alive after, only to become Halal meat. Livestock deserve to be out on a field, in the fresh air, grazing on luscious fields of grass, not packed into a disease-filled ship, and deprived of food. We receive freedoms, so why don’t they?

Furthermore, live exports are also atrocious for our planet. According to Animals Australia, hundreds of tonnes of untreated sewage is pumped into the ocean every day which contaminates sea waters. This is revolting! People complain about living near sewage plants, but this is forcing marine life to live in sewage. Contaminated water can easily kill marine life and damage the food chain. Animals Australia also states that livestock that die on board are often ground into blood and bones before being thrown overboard. Sharks, who are highly attracted to blood, smell this in the water and desperately search for the source, but do not find anything. This is called ‘chumming.’ It also throws the food chain into disorder, destroying our marine ecosystems, as well as polluting our waters with the copious amounts of fuel that ships consume. Live exports are to the environment as frogs are to flies.

Ultimately, as human beings, we are also being impacted by live exports. The crowded ships that transport these animals often contain dangerously high ammonia levels according to Animals Australia. This can severely

affect the health of staff and livestock onboard. Often animals also become infected with diseases and are therefore not fit for human consumption. The voyages are wasting the lives of our precious livestock, like buying a pearl necklace, only to dissolve it in vinegar. According to the Western

Australians for Shark Conservation (WASC), chumming may lead to an increase of interactions between humans and sharks due to them entering a frenzied state. Live exports are torturing everyone, in the most murderous ways.

I challenge you to fight for the future, campaigning to put an end to this evil trade. I undeniably believe that live exports are unnecessary and should therefore be banned. Find your feet and join millions of others, fighting for the rights of the planet and all of its inhabitants!

Shreya Garg

A Letter to my Younger Self

When doubt swathe tightly ‘round your head, And shadows dim the radiant days, Remember storms will lose their strength, The sun will always find a way.

When dreams feel remote, out of reach, And fear ends up where you go, Do not give up, there’s always hope, Control your mind, and patience flows.

The path ahead is never direct, You travel with your tears and smiles, But every step will shape your soul, And give you strength to walk for miles.

So, trust the journey, trust your heart. For every bruise would let you see, That after all those daunting trials, You’ve always held the key to be.

Sylvia Sun

Madeleine Whitehead

The Power of Silence

When I was growing up in primary school there was always a kid in a corner who would be looking at a comic book and the teacher would say “why won’t you come over and socialize with others. So, the kid would get up, shove the comics in the corner and go socialize with others. Which got me wondering. Why is quiet always associated as a sad thing? Why is it that when you are quiet you are deemed as “anti-social”? We can all have our moments of silence and moments of noise but why is there such a huge grudge against the world of silence? This got me exploring what exactly was going on with the concept of silence and if it had any meaning behind it or what was really is going on during silence. You may be an extrovert, introvert or just somewhere in between but I promise this is for you.

Silence shapes life. I mean we wake up, go to school, get home, and engage in activities that may be enjoyable or stressful. But where is the time to reflect and observe? Where is the time for us to relax? My recent research shows that in a study of 50 participants some worked in silence and others when others were talking to them, and it was proven that the people who worked with noise under 80 decibels had increased focus and concentration for the given task. Not only that, but the accuracy was higher, and the time spent on the task was

less. Sometimes the best feeling is the feeling when you get to experience down time, sure excitement can be great, but you also need that balance or as said “The glue holding it together.”

Silence is also thought and shown to increase awareness and time for self-reflection. I know that self-reflection can feel pointless and may seem tiresome and boring, but it is highly beneficial. In fact, 85% of people are not self-aware whereas only 10-15% of people are truly self-aware. Being truly self-aware means a lot of things. It gives you the ability to feel the moment. Time is given for you to think about how things were and try and become a better and improved version of yourself. Reflection has been proven over and over that it is the key to improving your overall well-being as well as your mental health. Hence these factors are contributed only when you are in the surroundings of silence.

Observing is also a factor that comes with silence. You become a better observer by having silence and locking in with that element of noticing new things that you have not done before. Observant people are described as tending to be introspective, analyzing their own thoughts and feelings as well as those of others. You may ask why exactly is this important? Well, it is said that “Acting from observations is changing our habits to be a better person.” We develop so many aspects from the small baby steps we take every day to become who we truly are. Where we find ourselves in between the distinguished boundaries created by our societies to find our true inner selves.

So, the next time you are told you are too silent remember: “Silence is not an absence but a presence, not an emptiness but a repletion.”

Allison Shi

Habits: The Forgotten Art of Living!

I was broken. Lost. Overwhelmed. Creator’s block gets us all the time at school. That feeling when we have lost our creative spark, or that feeling when you just ask yourself, “Why? Why am I even doing this?” And that’s when you become lost in your habits. Habits. The building blocks of our lives, the reason why we have an identity. Without them, our lives will not operate. Habits create a flowing rhythm in our lives; sometimes, they can help you reach your full potential. But other times, they might interrupt your life journey. I personally remember when I craved productivity. At that time, I was in this bubble of stress, and I had that feeling of having no direction in life. But then, I tried to make a small change in my behavior. Right after that tiny adjustment, I was no longer craving this ‘productive spark’. My life was now complete, and clear. But then, what HAD caused this positive change in my life? Was it just a coincidence? In the end, it wasn’t just a coincidence. In fact, it was the beginning of a new habit.

I want you to think about what habits have done to your identity. Now, to everyone, habits shape who we are as people, so this forms a better understanding of your individuality. When I first started Year 7, my initial habit was to, after school, do some light homework, see if I get it done, and then play. But Year 7 is not like that, in fact, I have found that Year 7 has provided us with more work and more focus towards our academics than the previous years. My habits were going against this new, introduced routine as a high schooler. You see, my negative habits have made me realise my identity, or the shape of my character. Now, as we all know, having a clear view of your persona would benefit your life entirely. And this has all been done by your own habits.

They say, “Don’t dwell on negativity”. However, habits metaphorically say, “‘use’ negativity”. When someone thinks of ‘negativity’, they would probably think of depression or anxiety, but habits think differently. Now, I want you to imagine that you didn’t do very well in your Integers test. You feel overpowered by the heaviness of Mathematics, the heaviness of your grade

average being a C+. There is a positive side to this, though. What if I told you that having a C+ grade was potentially good for your life? We all know that habits can show you what you are amazing at, but sometimes they can show you what you could improve, in this case, HOW you can improve from getting Cs. Ask yourself: “Am I studying? Or am I mass scrolling on YouTube?” That is the core reason why I love habits tremendously. You can see clearly where negative habits are letting you down, then you can then use them to further improve your lifestyle, your mind, you name it. Habits metaphorically say, ‘Use negativity,’ and I would say, that would be valid.

Lastly, habits benefit the human brain, without us thinking about it. In fact, everyday habits like exercising or eating right can lower risks for memory loss and other symptoms that affect our brains. Studies have also found that our habits that manage blood pressure and blood sugar can further benefit the brain, and the same goes for our sleep and social engagement. Later, as habits strengthen, the deciding parts of our brains no longer need to act up to begin the action, or our movements. It is just like giving your brain a break, but it’s your habits being ‘nice to your mind’ this time.

Overall, habits are like nothing I can describe. It is so deep and is the reason for change. I just love how the world has a chance to build habits, and how habits are aspects of our lives that are almost unexplainable, but a massive contributing factor for us, the community, and finally, the world. It reminds us of our individuality, it helps us improve, and finally, habits cure our brain and our lives. It was said by Horace Mann: “Habits are like cables. You weave a thread through them each day, and at last, you can never break them easily.”

Caitlin Huang

Surviving

Sunshine illuminated my home, an emerald forest with countless trees interlocking as one, vivid against the backdrop of a golden streaked sky. Sunrise. I sighed, full of bliss. The birds were singing, and the flowers were blossoming. My cousin rooted next to me had a nest of blue speckled eggs cradled lovingly in its branches, glistening in the morning sunlight. Squirrels chased each other through my canopy, making the most of this picturesque spring day.

A buzzing drowns out the birds’ melodic tunes, jarring me from my contentment. Confused, I freeze, as a petrol haze settles over the forest.

Humans.

I look to my right and see trees, my family, cascading to the floor. Frightened birds take flight all at once. They can escape. I shake my branches, desperately wishing for someone, anyone, to stop this madness. Silently I stay rooted to the ground, the emotional turmoil inside of me betrayed by my tranquil outside.

The enemy creeps in from all sides, suffocating, as my cousin falls to the ground. The blue speckled eggs, once filled with new life, smashed. The baby birds, never getting a chance to feel the warm sun on their face or the wonders of flying, dead before their life had ever begun.

Tears of sap roll down my face as I watch, terrified and helpless as these humans destroy my family, my home, everything I have ever known. The buzz of a chainsaw, maybe the last thing I will ever hear. The murky grey sky and vast barren space, maybe the last thing I will ever see. I look up, praying for this forest that was once full of life, to somehow survive.

My life as I know it, gone. My family, gone. Is that what is to become of me? Will anyone know about the mass murder? Or if nobody cares to hear me fall, nobody cares to hear me scream, nobody cares to hear my pleas for help, is it easier to pretend this never happened in the first place? I close my eyes, waiting, accepting my fate.

A logger walks away from the scene of the crime, whistling with a spring in his step. A frail leaf drifts to the ground in front of him. Thoughtlessly, his heavy black boot steps on it, crushing it to dust. Just another day at work. As he walks away, looking at this once paradise now destroyed, a twinge of guilt surfaces. He pushes it down. How else can he provide for his living?

As the last tree falls to the ground, a bird looks on. Horrified by this once utopia so quickly destroyed, it turns to flee. As it stretches its wings, the starry night behind it, it sheds a tear. For not just this forest, but also for all the others. As it flies away, silhouetted in the glow of the moon, it doesn’t notice the small brown acorn lodged in the ground, nor the blue speckled egg nestled on a pile of dirt. Struggling to be visible underneath the dust and debris but still, there.

Surviving.

Katara Haran

Once - Book Review

“Once” by Morris Gleitzman is a gripping historical fiction novel. It follows the journey of Felix, a young boy struggling against the tyrannical Nazis in a cruel time in history known as the Holocaust. As he embarks on a quest to find his parents, he meets many friends that help him survive this dark time. He is confronted by unexpected truths and life-threatening circumstances. “Once” is an emotionally touching novel written to accommodate younger readers. It includes themes of friendship, hope and perseverance, which motivated me to share it. I believe it will enlighten your knowledge and take you on a heart-warming journey.

“Once” delves into confronting events in history while making it accessible for young readers – the story is written from a child’s perspective. Racism and torture are among the many harrowing concepts dominant in World War II. People were persecuted due to their religion. As the story is written from Felix’s perspective, these disturbing events have not been discussed in detail. He is intimidated by these blood-curdling ideas. This language offers a more relaxed reading experience for younger readers, without entirely overshadowing the heinous crimes committed during this time.

The sheer power of friendship is a heavily emphasised theme throughout this novel. It describes how far quality friends can take you, even in the darkest of times. Zelda, Felix’s best friend, pretends to be Jewish to show him he’s not alone. When faced with the chance to save herself and not board the train heading to a death camp, Zelda’s determination leads her to entrain and support her best friend. She hurtles herself into the mouth of danger to stay close to Felix. Heartfelt actions like these take the reader on an emotional journey, provoking feelings of pure joy and love.

This novel also grasps the value of a creative imagination. The protagonist uses his imagination to cushion the blow of distressing events occurring around him. For instance, Felix tells himself that distant gunshots are people hunting rabbits, when they are Nazis shooting the Jewish. Another time, Felix finds a carrot in his soup. He imagines it’s a sign from his parents that they’re finally taking him home from the orphanage. According to psychologists Mooli Lahad and Dmitry Leykin, “Fantastic Reality is the “as if” space, where every “if” is possible. It allows the psyche to play again as it did in early childhood, in a space where laws of reality do not govern.” On both occasions, Felix indulges in Fantastic Reality. Although these stories are not always true, they allow the protagonist to persevere through impossible times.

In conclusion, I highly recommend this touching novel to all young adults. It shares the value of friendship and a creative imagination during the toughest of times. This novel also breaks down confronting topics in a way that is accessible to readers of any age. Morris Gleitzman has won dozens of KOALA awards, four Guardian (UK) awards, and numerous Dymock’s Children Choice Awards. “Once” is one of Gleitzman’s many bestselling books that is certain to leave a lasting impression.

Surya Gupta

Ruby Herbert

Sunsprite and Spindrift

His feet are bruised and spirits are high

His ankles buckle

Pounding down the track

Path

Road

Track

Printing gradients of sunrise into his bruised feet

The ground is moving

Trails of bulls and fires blending

So he jumps

Jumps over the jacks that snap

Jumps over the jagged blonde stones pressed into the ground

Flashing light and pulling heat ducks between shadows of canopy

Jumps over the stuttered slopes and sliding gravel

Barking blurs race the clouds

The golden sun buzzes the air

Outlines of tumbling storms coat the horizon in shades of copper and black

Promising

He tastes the foam

Breaths the salt

Don’t stop

Don’t waver in the heat

Feels the crashing waves rumble

They are in sight now

Dodge the reaching sage spikes

Sharp steps over sharp sand

Now soft

Dunes roll with the sea

His feet are bruised and burned

Rushing water lifts them

Sand scratches his skin

He shouts

Josephine Kerr-Smith

Cemetery

Rain drenches the undergrowth.

A bird calls; an echo

Stagnant silence fills the air

Shadows in the mist

Water coats the many graves

Of ancestors long past

With burdened guiding hands

Hidden in the dark

A place of wisdom Of sorrow

That has seen violent wars And betrayal

Incense burns fitfully

Fighting against the downpour

An inevitable end

For all

Graves lie unattended

Wilted flowers in the rain

No one here; no one listening

Gone from the countryside

Loss and lost

A split world of back then

Misery and grief untold

A missing country

Deteriorating slowly

The cemetery lies untouched

Void of youth

Shrouded by the centuries

Melody Tran

The Finish Line

Twist. Click. Pop. The silence of anticipation is broken by the crack of the pistol, held firmly up high. The sound, piercing through the sky, slicing through the air. It sends a pulse down my spine, through to my legs, as I propel myself forward, off the starting block, quickly inclining and lifting my chest up. I squint at the white line that is inching closer and closer; the line that is being chased down by eight competing predators, clawing at it and trying to claim it as their own prey. I keep my focus on that line, straining my eyes, which start to fill with pain. The 400m seems like a year long trip, played on slow motion, as I thump along with pounding footsteps. It feels like I’m in a dream, with monsters hunting me down, but with the problem that I’m trapped, and can’t run away, because you can’t run in dreams. At this point, I’ve finished 200m; half of the race is left. And I realise that I’m leading. I’m suddenly calmer, as I find my pace, my footsteps easing to a softer rhythm, arms pumping against the sides of my body, joining in on the composition that I’ve created with my feet. 100m left. I catch a glimpse of green and gold colours waving around, and my ears are blasted by the sounds of screeching words of encouragement. 15 steps are left, until I can throw myself over that line, and I can picture myself holding up my country’s flag of red, white and blue, representing us in front of the thousands of spectators in the crowd and the people watching from their screens from all corners of the globe. I’m 5 steps away from victory, the excitement rushing in, until out of nowhere, my heart completely stops. I feel a jolt, and my legs give way.

I hear gasps from all around, as I collapse onto the gravel like red rubber beneath me, the feet of my components storming past, to claim the prize that was a few inches away from. Every one of those seven pairs of legs cross the line that lies a couple of feet from where I’ve collapsed, yet I’m barricaded on the other side. A rush of tears wash over me, as I grit through the agonising pain, that makes my whole body feel numb. In the distance, I can make sight of a blob of yellow first aid people sprinting towards the puddle of my limbs, but I can’t properly tell, because everything is melting away around me. I scrunch my eyes up knowing that the sight of my components on the other side of that line that has fenced me up, will only cause the flooding water to push my eyeballs out of their sockets. I sense the yellow clad helpers nearby, with their sympathetic calls sounding closer and closer now. I’m almost ready to completely give into my body that screams at me with torturous pain. I’m almost ready to allow the helpers to comfort me with their soft words of empathy. But something stops me in my

train of thought, because although the pain in my legs is enough to make me want to throw myself off the edge of a cliff, I’m instead distracted by the discomfort at my neck. I trace my shaking fingers around my collarbone, and a cold sensation sends a shiver through my bones as I fold my hand over the metal around my neck. A thin chain that holds 5 interconnected rings. The Olympic rings. The rings that have motivated me to get to this point where I am right now.

I feel the soft tug of the wind as if it is calling me towards the end of the race. In the distant I hear someone clapping to a moderate beat, from within the crowd, and suddenly others join in, and I’ve got a crowd of thousands of people clapping for me. I get the urge to fight my way out of this trapped cage and break free, to just get over that menacing line. Because even if I’ve almost given up, it doesn’t mean that I have to. So, before I surrender to the acceptance of aid, I slowly find my feet. I allow the sunlight to enter my eyes, and I push out every excruciating pain in my body. I imagine myself with headphones plugged into my ears, the rustling of autumn leaves falling delicately to the concrete, as my feet crunch over crisp reds and browns. I imagine the sound of happy voices and giggling from all around me. I’m no longer at the Olympics, fighting to be the best, but instead, my feet are bouncing along a familiar path, not trying to beat the person next to me, or win a gold medal. I’m back to reality, and I’m taking steps half the size of a baby’s step, but 1, 2, 3,4,5 steps and I’m over the line. I’ve made it to the other side. Despite my legs screaming with pain, I’m beaming on the inside. The crowd matches the same energy inside me, screaming with pride and their faces telling me that I did it. I competed and finished a race in the Olympic Games, representing my home country, and no one can tell me otherwise.

Tayla Chan

Pink glittery candles and a glass of champagne

I used to dream about you. Used to.

But I still do Just not ever Again.

I used to dream if you had the eyes I wanted

If they sparkled like the city lights in New York.

I used to dream if you had the tattoos I wanted

For the permanency of ink sinking into skin that carved out the moments in life

Was ever more indefinitely lasting than flimsy papers

Because when the memory gives out, the feeling of the pain lingers

As engraved as the ink.

I used to dream if you lived like I thought you would

If you owned a motorcycle

Or a leather jacket.

I used to dream if you were as I had dreamt

Free Interesting Meaningful But not again.

I still dream of you. Just not ever Again.

I dream of you looking back.

I dream of you regretting.

I dream of you laughing at me.

I dream of you crying.

I dream of loving a different person than before

And how much it scared me.

What if I missed pink glittery candles on my cake when downing a glass of champagne with you?

What If I didn’t want to go?

Unlike the ink we wanted in our skins, you and I are not indefinitely lasting. Would I rather move too fast or lose the opportunities?

But I know one thing

I would rather give up the changes I wanted to change

Let go of my dreams

Be deprived of the achievements

Than to lose you.

For you are a part of my heart

That I cannot lose yet don’t know how to keep

That fuels the passion in me

My naive inner child.

Evelyn Zhang

Yuhong Lan

The Fox and the Bird

All stories begin with once. But this is not a story. It’s not some fairytale about two friends. It’s not complete. It’s not light. It’s not even honest. And above all:

You must be aware of the Narrator the Fox.

In the lands of Anywhere, where narrators use their pens to destroy create stories and life, a Bird strays from the path made by their ancestors. In the lands of Anywhere, there is only one rule:

You must follow what you are given.

The Bird is searching for anything. You would think that in the Lands of Anywhere, everything exists. But no. It is filled with absolutely nothing. Except with what narrators have created. For this story, I am the Narrator. I begin with the simplest of things.

The sky.

The ground.

The trees.

A river.

You watch as the Bird flies across the endless sky, still searching. And as though it sees something, it drops down into a forest. Searching. Narrators create things with menace purpose. And the purpose of this Bird is to be the main character.

How wonderful. Isn’t it great to be told everything you’ll do in your life? It’s all set out for you. You don’t need to be constantly reminded that you’re not enough. Because you already know your end, and you’ve fulfilled your purpose. And this Bird knows its End. It knows it’s going to get eaten. I’ll make this more interesting then. It got tricked.

Let’s begin.

This is a story about a Fox and a Bird. And how they became friends. The Bird, who is still searching and has flown onto the ground, meets a Fox.

The Bird says nothing. It remembers that it must not speak because the Narrator hasn’t told it to.

“Hi Bird,” the Fox says cheerfully. It looks at the Bird. The Bird ignores the Fox. The Fox laughs and the Bird flinches and moves away.

“Come back little Bird,” the Fox grins, “Don’t be shy.”

The Bird finally glances at the Fox, who smiles - revealing all their glinting teeth. The Bird swallows. The Narrator is oblivious to the fact that this particular Fox is not a character in the story.

The Bird sees the sky, it’s dark. It shivers as an icy wind pushes past.

The Fox notices, gesturing towards its side.

“I’ll protect you,” the Fox says. The Bird can feel the warmth. It steps towards the Fox unconsciously, playing a tug of war against me itself.

The Fox laughs again.

“Why don’t you follow what you think is right and not what the Narrator thinks is the right story?”

The Bird stops. I can’t erase the Fox’s sentence. I realise that I can’t even erase the Fox. I wrestle with the Fox, trying to turn this story in the way I want it to. But for the first time, I lose. And it wins.

The Bird nestles beside the Fox, grateful. Out of the Narrator’s grasp- out of my grasp.

And for the first time in this story, the Bird utters two words.

“Thank you.”

From that night on, they spent their days talking and playing in the endless springtime. Days turn to months, months turning to years.

And on a fateful day, I take control of the story. For just a moment. But a moment can be powerful. Even if it’s just a moment.

“We’re friends officially. Just to let you know if you weren’t aware.” The Fox yawns and tilts its head. The Bird shudders. Only a bird would tilt their head.

If only the Bird had more friends.

I create more characters.

A Cuckoo.

And lots of birds just like the Bird in our story.

A Wolf.

And a Fox.

And a couple more Foxes.

Now, the two characters are surrounded by their own friends. But little did they know, their friends were all in their heads. Unreal. Non-existent. Already dead in the Narrator’s eyes.

The Bird feels less lonely now. The Fox feels threatened. It knows that I’ve taken control but by then, it’s too late.

The Fox and the Bird

The Cuckoo cackles, “Why are you even friends with this Fox? Can’t you see that its just softening you up so it can eat you?”

The Bird scoffs, shaking its head as though trying to deny the statement. How adorable. It does not realise that it can’t talk again.

The other birds chirp in agreement.

“It wants to eat you! EAT YOU!”

At first, the Bird pretends to not hear them. But every day, they whisper in its ear.

“All foxes are evil. All it wants to do is to eat you!”

If you are told that your first friend wants to eat you, you won’t believe it. But maybe, just maybe, when told every day, you’ll start to. Bit by bit. It might seem so small at first, you’ll think it’s just an intrusive thought. But every time, the thought builds up into a worry, into a problem, into truth. And when the Bird finally begins to doubt its friend, when that first seedling of hesitation is planted, it grows quickly. It eats away at the Bird slowly, vines wrapping around its throat. And it squeezes without mercy.

The Fox notices and it tries to choke that seedling of doubt from growing. But like a weed, it sprouts out. And it weakens the Fox.

The Wolf senses this, and latches onto the Fox’s mind.

“Why don’t you eat the Bird?” The Wolf asks.

The Fox grits its teeth.

“You’re hungry. You’re meant to be a predator. You’re meant to eat the Bird.”

“Stop...” the Fox groans.

The other foxes comment, “Yes, you want to eat the Bird don’t you?”

“Eat it.”

“Eat it!”

“EAT IT!”

The Fox succumbs to the Wolf. I grin. This time I’d won. It all happens so quickly. Like an eruption. The Fox and the Bird. From friends to foe.

What is supposed to happen is that The Bird flies away. The Fox hunts for it. And they will do this forever. Day after day. Until the Fox catches the Bird.

Until the End arrives.

But it doesn’t happen.

The Fox leaps onto the Bird.

“Stop! Stop!” the Bird yells. This isn’t supposed to happen! The Bird isn’t supposed to speak. It wrestles its life from my hands. How? When did it get so powerful? I never knew I could underestimate a character.

The Fox pauses.

“We were friends. Once,” The Bird says, “Remember?”

The Fox blinks.

“Tell me you remember. Tell me. In the beginning, I was the one under the Narrator’s thumb. But I escaped because of you. Don’t you remember?”

Ignore it. The Fox leans in, ready to kill.

The Bird looks at it right in the eye, unflinching, and said, “You said to choose your own path. Not one the Narrator makes for you. Don’t you remember?”

The Fox finally hesitates. And breaks from my grasp.

This is a story about a Fox and a Bird. And how they became their own narrators.

Emily Cai

What a Teddy Bear Taught Me About Life

When I was 7, I was obsessed with a stuffed teddy bear which I had named Snuggles. My mum still remembers the joy on my face when we bought her from the shops. As soon as I got home, I made sure to put Snuggles in a very safe and special place, right in the empty space behind my desk drawer. Being 7, Snuggles was my go-to confidant, therapist and naturally just a great best friend. Then one day, Snuggles just wasn’t there anymore. I remember reaching behind that desk drawer like I had done so many times, only to feel the cold, empty space. It was a tender reminder of what I’d lost, how it could never be replaced, yet at the same time how much I had loved Snuggles and the comfort her presence had brought me. My 7-year-old self learnt a truly indispensable lesson that day: to value your possessions while they last. This is the fundamental truth which we all try to ignore: we only truly appreciate things once we no longer have them.

Perhaps one of the greatest values of life which we eventually regret at one point, or another is relationships. How often do you find yourself wishing you had dedicated more to a friendship, or spent more time with your grandparents while they were alive? Human lives are blessed with an abundance of relationships which ultimately shape who we are and what we do. Why then is it that we often take our relationships for granted? It’s only when we lose someone dear to us or a special connection diminishes, that we truly realise the profound influence they had on our lives and identity. I recently conducted a survey within the school, and the results showed that 60% of people had taken a relationship for granted before. When they were asked what they would do differently, all wished they had spent more time on the relationship and let the other know how much they valued them. And yet, showing appreciation doesn’t have to be “I love you” or even a hug! It could be as simple as asking a friend out to a café, or helping your dad to do the house chores. The way you show your gratitude to one person will be different to another. So next time, tell a family member or friend how much they mean to you in your own way before it’s too late.

Many of us don’t realise the worth of an opportunity until it’s slipped out of our grasp. A recent study revealed that most people who regretted not taking opportunities felt as if they didn’t have the time, while others were afraid of judgement or wanted to keep in their comfort zone. But looking from another perspective: how will we ever know if we’re good at something if we never even try? I’m sure most people have thought to themselves at least once, “I should have taken that opportunity when I had the chance.” But why do we need to put ourselves through this repentance?

What a Teddy Bear Taught Me About Life

All chances presented to us in life will help us flourish and mature as a person, and all are equally precious as one or the other, even if you perceived the outcome as a failure at that time. As Albert Einstein once said, “In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.” But missed opportunities aren’t just about not joining that soccer team while you had the chance. What if I told you on average 15-year-olds spend around four hours scrolling through social media every day? While there’s nothing wrong with having a bit of downtime after a gruelling day, have you ever considered occasionally helping your mum make dinner and strengthening your bond? Or relishing human connection and actually getting out there to interact with people? While it may seem so much more of an effort than picking up your phone at first, it is definitely something you won’t regret.

That brings me to my next word: regret. While it’s often hard to deal with loss, we frequently underappreciate the value of this emotion. Regret allows for reflection and development, by realising what we truly treasure and understanding that mistakes and missed chances are all part of being human. It acts as a guide, opening the path for those “next time I will…” moments, and showing us the way for the future so we don’t repeat the past. Regret teaches us an invaluable lesson: to cherish your possessions while you have them, to savour your connections to others while they last, to speak the words you want to say before it’s too late. However, too much regret is toxic. If we let regret bring us down and take over our lives, then we will never move forward. Whether we like it or not, regret plays a crucial part in our lives.

Hand in hand with regret is another side of the coin: gratitude. Yes, the snug welcome feeling you get when you find the world has been surprisingly considerate to you for once! In a world so fast-paced and filled with impatience, we often overlook the small things in life which make living just that tiny bit easier. Parents who get up early to make our lunches every day. Someone holding the door open for you when you’re lugging around those schoolbooks which weigh a ton, or the warm socks you don’t value enough until they’ve been eaten by the washing machine on a cold, rainy day. Gratitude is not waiting for that perfect moment to miraculously show up on our front door. Gratitude is about finding joy and appreciation in the imperfect, quirky moments of the rocky journey we’re on.

So, if I could tell that little girl who lost her precious teddy bear something she would remember for the rest of her life, it would be this: cherish every moment, every relationship, every opportunity that comes your way. Listen to regret and the lessons it teaches you, and appreciate what you have rather than brooding about what you don’t. And though loss is hard and inevitable, it’s the warmth and the memories you hold in your heart that will never be replaced.

Evelyn Teng

Goodbye Thomas

7/23/1983

I went for a walk today. It’s exceedingly rare for me to do such a thing but Mary thinks I should get out more. Theres a forest that surrounds the back of the university, engulfing the back most buildings in an inky shadow at sunset, bathing the rest of the buildings on campus in a red glow like the slick surface of newly spilled blood. It would be eerie if it wasn’t so damn beautiful. I picked some flowers for Mary. Her favourite, carnations. On my walk I noticed them. They noticed me too, picking the flowers. I don’t know what they are. They’re the most beautiful things I’ve seen, I can hardly bear to let my eyes even glance over them. They took the flowers, telling me not to pluck them. Telling me it hurt them for me to do so.

I listened.

I couldn’t describe the specifics of what they look like better than this vague description, it’s like whenever I try to put pen to paper all words that should be there to describe their beauty, just aren’t. My mind fills with a bright almost blinding black and I’m back there in the forest and they’re telling me ‘Listen to us, don’t think. Let us do that for you.’

Goodbye Thomas.

7/24/1983

They say I’m special, their voices so insistent and I’m not sure if I should listen, but it feels so right as if their sickly-sweet voices are trying to suck me deeper into the forest as they tell me ‘Just listen.’ ‘Just follow.’ ‘Just stay with us.’ When I’m in the forest, in their home, everything feels at peace, I feel whole, as if nothing could break the perfect peace and comfort we’d carefully constructed together. Brick by brick, reassuring word after reassuring word. I’ve left them once, only just to just wander around the edge of the woods.

A border of sorts, between my new and old lives. It felt horrible, as if all the life was being sucked out of me. Because that’s what they are.

Life. My life.

I’m not sure what to do with myself anymore and it scares me. But it scares me even more that I’m scared in the first place, because I shouldn’t be so terrified. And yet this bone deep horror fills me, threatening to spill over. I can’t afford to think like this. Since I joined them, everything has gotten

Goodbye Thomas

better. I know this, they tell me over and over. Yet, when I’m without them, it’s like I can’t breathe because they’re my oxygen now, and the oxygen I used to breathe is pure carbon, and I’m suffocating more and more with each breath as their words flow through me. Inside my lungs. Inside me. They’re inside me.

I don’t leave the forest anymore.

Goodbye Thomas.

09/05/1983

I Left them yesterday, for the first time in what I thought had been but only a day or two. I told them I had to go home, if only for a few days. They sighed but relented, allowing 2 days back home. Their eyes never blinked as they told me, their mouths never moved, nothing about their expressions changed and yet I could feel their disappointment. I had failed them in that moment.

There was bright yellow tape guarding me from my dorm room. Plastered across the front door in a large ‘X’. I could faintly hear voices from inside. As I approached it, a woman looked at me from her place on the floor, legs tucked up to her chest, back ramrod straight. Her face painted first with relief before melting to horror as she took me in. My name fell like a prayer from her lips, full of hope and yet hopelessness all the same. Like a dying man.

“Thomas?” she choked out, “where the hell have you been?” I did not know who she was. Not even a hint of recognition flashed through my mind.

“It’s been over a month. No notice or anything? and now?” she laughed. A cold, dead laugh like the call of birds circling pray. “Now you show up covered in mud? sticks in your hair? I was worried sick and now you’re looking at me like you- like you don’t even know me!”

I didn’t. I didn’t know her.

“Thomas. Please-” she took a step towards me. I took one back. “Please,” another step forewords. Another back. “Thomas? Please say something? It’s me! Mary?”

I opened my mouth. Then closed it.

“I’m sorry. Who are you?” I spoke into the near silence. The voices from behind the door seeming to gain volume, and yet not becoming any clearer.

Goodbye Thomas

Instead staying static like and deafening. I don’t know who she was. Even now. Her face haunts my waking and dreaming mind, her name repeating over and over and over again alongside it, and yet who exactly she is – no, was to me eludes my thoughts. I don’t know who she is.

Goodbye “Thomas?”

10/07/1983

It’s been about two and a half two months. 74 days. 1776 hours. 2557440 minutes. 153446400 seconds. 153446401 seconds. They’re counting. Always counting. Every single second. Some counting up. Some down. They remind me why I’m here, telling me always that I’m ‘Special. So special’.

Or at least they told me. They’re not here anymore. I don’t think I am either. Now I’m going on a walk through the forest, I see the sky. It’s sunset now, and the buildings are bathed in light just like freshly spilled blood. It’s so damn beautiful

She walks away. Down the corridor and around the corner.

“Goodbye, Thomas.”

Amelie Ashley

A Whisper

In the ever silence of night, a whisper is born

It does not yet know what exactly it would like to be

Nor why it was welcomed to the world

And yet, it simply watches

Waiting for that moment

And so, it grows amongst the twisted willows

An emboldened beacon to some, a feeble warning to others

Calling to the dead, left as a sole guardian of the living

Quietly biding its time as another grain of sand trickles within the glass

Waiting for that moment

It ventures, dancing upon the warm winter air

It gazes idly at those who it happens to pass by

Smiling at all who notice it’s presence

Blinking stonily in the faces of those who don’t

Waiting for that moment

Being content in that thought

And assured that such a time will come, it creeps even further

Yet, this time, it finds itself downtrodden amongst harsh footfalls

Clinging desperately to the broken bricks of corner shops

Waiting for that moment

The one that surely has to come

And yet, for once on its travels, the whisper falters

A skipped beat of the heart

As it realises that that amidst the smog and blackened air, that hourglass, the one with speckled sand, lies empty

Suddenly, the whisper is overcome by a dizziness, unlike no other it has ever known

Disoriented, lost, broken

The air begins to thin, nowhere near enough for its strangled gasps

And breath by breath, the world begins to float, leaving the whisper curled upon cracked city streets

Still wishing for that moment

The one that never came

Nia Jayasinghe

Zixuan Li

Oh, to be too Girly!

I used to hate the colour pink. I remember in prep, we collectively as a table, boys and girls, made the executive decision to separate the pinkcoloured pencils from the rest because they were just too ‘girly.’ Oh, to be too girly. I used to hate One Direction. I remember in year 2, I gave up One Direction tickets because I felt that their music was just too ‘girly.’ Oh, to be too girly. I used to hate jewellery. I remember in year 4, I stripped myself of all my jewellery, that even my ear piercings closed, because I felt they were just too ‘girly.’ Oh, to be too girly.

But luckily for me, I am a girl.

Through 15 years of girlhood, my favourite colour is now pink. I finally saw Harry Styles in concert last year. I feel naked without my jewellery.

When I was younger, I always wanted my femininity to be an afterthought, something people noticed after they knew I was smart, strong, and independent. So, for the longest time, I hated the colour pink.

I hated it because it represented everything, I felt I needed to distance myself from all sorts of softness, elegance and vulnerability. Because if I had those things, I couldn’t be clever, intelligent, or competent.

But why couldn’t I be both? Why couldn’t I put bows in my hair and help the teacher carry chairs like the big strong boys?

I started to think about this, and when I really thought about this issue closely, I realised I didn’t develop these ideas myself; I was surrounded by media that deemed femininity a weakness. We’ve been conditioned by the media to believe that to be taken seriously, we must shed everything about us that makes us feminine. This causes women and young girls to shy away from their femininity, which is actually fundamental to society.

Reflecting on my journey through girlhood, I see how deeply ingrained these stereotypes are in me and how they have affected my perception of myself and my femininity. I wanted to be like the boys per say—not in the way they were aggressive and loud, but in the way they were taken seriously for themselves and their ideas.

It was always important to me that people knew my capabilities before they even noticed I was a girl. Once again, an afterthought.

The media made me think you can’t be both pretty and smart, both soft and strong, both vulnerable and independent. It’s not about personal preferences like the colour pink; it’s about media and its trends.

Trends on social media aren’t just innocent hashtags or catchy tunes; they shape how we see femininity.

Take the ‘I’m just a girl’ trend on TikTok. This trend highlights traditionally feminine activities like makeup tutorials and clothing hauls, accompanied by the oh so famous tune of: “oh I’m just a girl.” What does this really say? It suggests that engaging in feminine activities limits you to being just a girl. Just a girl.

Another example is ‘girl math.’ This trend made its way past tik tok into radio stations where they tried to fix girl problems like shopping addictions, with girl maths. It is suggesting that girls are inherently less capable in maths, needing their own maths they would ACTUALLY understand. There have been 3.3 billion videos made under this hashtag. This is 3.3 billion people playing into the idea femininity is a weakness and this is 3.3 billion people seeing these videos, and learning that to be taken seriously, they can’t be feminine.

These trends may sound harmless at first scroll, but are they really? Trend after trend, girl this, girl that, women are being stereotyped as weak, clueless, and oblivious to the world around them because they are ‘just a girl.’

And we are back to square one. Having our femininity become an afterthought. Because if we play into feminine activities, we are directly related to these trends. So here we are. Not being girls. When research has found society needs us to be girls.

Oh, to be too Girly!

The Harvard Business Review conducted a study with 64,000 participants, asking which 125 human characteristics were most valuable in a workplace. Many would think people lean towards masculine qualities like aggressiveness and toughness. However, in the top 10, eight of them were deemed more “feminine.” Traits like sensitivity, agreeableness, and empathy were found to be more valuable.

Is this not contradicting everything the media trends are spreading? This is why we need to end these damaging trends. We need more femininity in our girls, not scaring it out of them.

We need to stop allowing the media from spreading this harmful message that femininity is a weakness, because it is clearly not. We need to let girls know it is ok to keep the pink coloured penicils and its ok to hang up one direction posters on your wall and it is more than ok to dress on that jewellery.

These trends have to stop. I am not just a girl, and I can do more than justify my purchase of a handbag. Femininity is not a weakness, its actually our biggest strength. Research has found that we have some of the best traits at the tip of our fingers, now all we need to do, is put the pink coloured pencils, back where they belong, with the rest of the box. Because no girl, can ever be too girly.

Emilie Yu

The shatter of glass pierces the air

Sparking a sensation within

Voices ring in my ears

Conversations blending into echoes

Are they laughing in joy?

Are they cries for help?

I can’t tell.

My mind screams escape

My vision distorts –

I stumble outside.

A wave of dread consumes me And the world begins to capsize.

The charred land greets me, Its former beauty desecrated

In its place lies a graveyard

But with no mourners to mourn.

Soot, smoke, smog permeate

The thick, damp air.

Contact! Contact!

A familiar wailing blares from above As the shells begin to hail down.

I plunge myself into the earth,

Grimy hands cupping ears.

I wait – praying silently, But the roaring continues.

I hate the sound, I hate it. –

The sound of cries,

The sound of death, It feels like an eternity

When all finally fades to silence. By some change, by some miracle, I crawl out, a survivor.

Flashback

Corpsman! Corpsman!

A soldier is dragged out of a swamp

Arm torn by shrapnel,

Hanging frailly by a thread of muscle.

Eyes glazed with terror, As thick oozes of scarlet cascade.

Each breath, more painful than the last

A wheeze, a heave, a dribble of foam –

Quick! He’s drowning in blood!

Aided by my comrades,

We hoist him on a stretcher

Rushing him to the Huey.

The sound of desperation is haunting,

As the frenzied claw their way to the rescuer, But to no avail.

The ‘copter vanishes into a bleak sky, And a pang of envy pierces my heart.

Though their pain was immense, It earned them a ticket

Out of this wretched hell.

For the millionth time, I want to go home.

I jolt back to reality.

A sharp agony surges through my head

Distant screams echo in my mind

Putrid and petrichor linger…

Eight years,

Four months, And twenty-nine days. When will it stop?

Katie Yee

Home

Anxious thoughts rouse me from sleep. Dread. The weekly shop. Exhaustion from rehearsing the upcoming day’s events overnight. Greg has become so fixated on his routine; to the point of obsession. Despite his carers being aware of this, they remain unreliable. Often not even showing up for his shower. Greg restlessly waits for his carer, becoming increasingly agitated.

Impatient, I pace around and peep through one of the floral-patterned curtains that adorn each of our windows. Unintentionally, I contemplate the numerous things that could go awry. What if Greg becomes distracted? Lost? Aggressive? Will the carer be able to coax him to take his medication, before their big day? What if…what if….what if?

Greg’s voice rings out from the room next door. I race to his attention. Instead of need and distress, I see a single tear run down his cheek, as though he thinks I am leaving him, which is certainly not the case. His frustration is visible from the creases lining his forehead. His eyes flicker with rage, as though he knows the carer is late. The love between Greg and I is as evocative as a sunrise and continues to hum like a record, everlasting and eternal. I take the hairbrush that lies in his pale, mottled, veiny hands. I cherish his delicate grey locks.

A car door slams shut in the driveway. The echoing “brrr-ring” of the doorbell sings out. A welcome sound. I take a deep breath to remember that whomever the carer is, Greg’s reaction cannot be predetermined. As the door opens, and I see Jenny’s kind face, a teaspoon of worry drifts away.

“Hello, Caroline” she warmly whispers with such certainty.

I can’t even begin to recall the number of different carers Greg had during Covid. Relieved, I lead Jenny in with a smile. “Greg is ready for you”, I notion. ***

Highpoint.

In the distance I see my wife guide someone into our lounge. I look down, secretly hoping it is not another doctor wanting to test my recall of dates, animals, the alphabet or my ability to count backwards from 100. I find such tests humiliating. Does everyone think I am so ignorant and forgetful that I can no longer remember my wife’s name?

Then I suddenly hear “Greg?” and I look up, I can recognise her face but who is she? I flick through my mental filing cabinet of names. In comparison to what I used to know, especially the ability of my own to memorise a room full

of new people in a novel country, I feel embarrassed and ashamed that I can’t remember this fond face.

“I am Jenny,” she says, with a gentle smile.

I go to open my mouth, but with a mouth as dry as ash, no words want to come out. I realise that I can’t even think of the words and I step down a step on the self-esteem escalator. I want to tell her so many things! About my other carers and my life with Caroline! Jenny comes to help me up from the lounge, whilst Caroline leaves the room. Her hands are warm and nurturing, the same as I remember from two days prior. I have so many questions for this woman, so I take a chance.

“J-J-J-e-e….” I take a gulp and try again, but discover I can’t remember her name. “Thank-es. I-I-I appreciate your kindness!”

She smiles again with the same glow and love flowing out of her eyes which shine in the light surrounding us. I feel as if I am dancing up with the clouds. Dreaming. Fantasising. Desiring.

“Let’s grab a drink!” she says, as if acknowledging my presence, deliberately, to get me out of my daydream.

After helping me up, we walk to the kitchen together. I watch her back as she busies in the kitchen grabbing a variety of ingredients before returning.

“My speciality, A Cinnamilk-Chococino!” she says, chortling.

We sit together at the breakfast bar and slurp out of blue straws. A soft smile makes its way onto my face and glistens through my eyes.

“How do you like it?” Jenny asks.

In reply, I answer with a slight raise of my cheeks. I feel so comfortable around her, and it makes me ponder, why? Is it the glowing attributes that decorate her face or her friendly and pleasant demeanour? Respect and support flow out of her eyes. She isn’t judging me based on my diagnosis and condition. Treating me like a real human, unlike so many others.

Home

I cherish the gentle beads of water as they run down my back. I wish I could savour this feeling for eternity. My shower is over all too quickly. Afterwards, Jenny and I wander out towards the car. My wife of forty-three years is waiting for me. Memories wind through my mind. I recall always driving the car. I want to tell Caroline about how much I enjoyed chaperoning her around. Everything has changed since I was diagnosed with early onset dementia and started aging prematurely. I rely on Caroline for everything. She looks after me 24/7 and even had to quit her job to take care of me. I don’t like that though. She has paused her life for me, stopped everything. She is sometimes so bossy and forgets that I get worked up by her unkind remarks. But in reality, I know I could never live without her and that she means well, and I love her for that.

I feel immense relief that we were finally on our way to the shopping centre. Suddenly, I feel a wave of memories surge through my body. I feel as if it were only yesterday we used to walk to the Queen Victorian Market, sourcing groceries. I look over to Greg and he looks as if he is reflecting on the past too. I reminisce about our time together, at the same time, I’m sure Greg does too. It is so hard looking after him thinking of the now and the past at the same time, but I love him so much that it hurts. I feel like I am losing him. It feels like I am on a train; my time with Greg whizzing past me. Before long, we arrive at the shopping strip. The scenery is in beautiful rainbow colours and all the stores flourish with people, clothing, flowers, fruits and vegetables. We walk slowly into the market together and each of our steps are synchronised. I squeeze his hand. His once firm and sinewy, now frail hand. I see the first stop on our list. After purchasing our meat for the week, I let go of Greg’s hand to swipe my credit card. I thank the shop owner graciously and the butcher makes some small talk about football. When I turn around, Greg is nowhere to be seen. Like a dandelion dispersed in the wind, he has disappeared into the enormous shopping centre.

Despair.

Frozen with fear, I don’t know what to do first. The urge to scream out is so strong, but trying to find the words is impossible and nothing comes out. My eyes flash from face to face looking for someone familiar. A shop assistant from the butchers asks if I am okay. I must look ghastly. I feel as though every bit of colour has washed out of my face. In a panic-stricken voice, I stutter, “Nnoo! I think I’ve lost my husband!”.

The shop assistant summons a cleaner with a 2-way radio to alert security as I give a description of his clothing. He can’t have gone too far, he’s not that mobile.

“Where might he have gone?” asks the Security guard when she arrives.

I try to think of every memory Greg has about where we are right now. Each place he has been to. Previously, when we were here, I remember he had an interest in model cars. This is the only place I can think of. But no time for memories now, it is time to find my husband.

The security guard offers to help me find Greg using his electric-cart. I clamber on, carefully making sure not to injure myself in my haste. I am overcome with stress, anxiety and despair. The police have been called and I feel myself panicking. It is hard to explain how vulnerable a man of his stature can be. For a fleeting moment, I feel alone, as though no one will appreciate the gravity of the situation. The heat inside the shopping centre, the bright lights coming from the in vogue stores! I am stressed and overwhelmed! At breaking point. Oh, where is my Greg?

Relief.

The model cars are various colours and models, all carefully displayed. I used to have a blue 1969 Ford Mustang that matched that of my father’s. He was very proud of his car, as was I of my vehicle. This place is like a sanctuary of memories from my childhood, recollections on a shelf. In our early days as newly-weds, Caroline and I drove all around Australia in a Mustang. That is one of my fondest and sharpest memories. I continue to browse, enthralled by all of these model cars, before I feel a tap on my shoulder. Turning around I see a uniformed security guard. I ponder why he is here and I can’t think why he would touch me. However he gently asks me to follow him out into the shopping centre. Without question, I follow him. Sitting in the guard’s cart is a woman who I vaguely recognise. She smiles and I feel a subtle warmth from our eye contact. As I sit next to her, I feel that I am so incredibly grateful to have this person in my life. Driving home I feel a rush of all sorts of emotions as Caroline slides her fingers around mine. I feel a comfort and peace that only fills me incompletely and occasionally, but as we turn into a driveway, a sense of belonging emerges and the pieces fall into place. I am home.

Lucy Thomas

Embracing Zhang-mei and Jena

Entering my grandma’s house after four years felt like entering a time capsule.

“Good afternoon, grandma!” I greeted her in my now unfamiliar mother tongue, my parents following closely behind.

My grandma welcomed me with a warm smile that crinkled her eyes.

“Oh! Zhang-mei, you’re back!” Grandma exclaimed, using my long forgotten Chinese name. “I didn’t see you in so long. Look how tall you have gotten! Did you take care of yourself?”

Grandma’s words were affectionate and kind, though the nonchalant mention of my weight caught me off guard. Chuckling awkwardly, I brushed off the comment, silently pinching the underside of my arm. Did I really put on weight?

“Here, I made your favourite lu-rou fan” my grandma continued, beaming. “You must have missed it, being away in Australia. Such a faraway place with not as many people. Did you have any good food?”

Nodding furiously, I quickly dug into my bowl of steaming pork rice, eager to savour the long-missed flavours.

Then came the familiar interrogation.

“How was school?” Grandma began.

“Good…” I replied hesitantly.

“And how are your grades?” Grandma continued, her voice laced with curiosity and expectation.

“Um… yes, they are pretty good.” I tried to keep my answers concise.

“I heard that you got an A+ on your exam! Good job!” Grandma praised. “You need to keep those good grades for a good university in the future. We spent a lot of money sending you to Australia to go to that private school. It is all for your education, you know?”

Here we go again, I thought, as the conversation veered towards the importance of academic excellence and success. It was a deeply engrained Asian belief that my grandma wholeheartedly embraced.

“Well, grades are not everything in life,” I blurted out, the rebellious Australian momentarily winning the battle in my mind.

“What did you say?” My grandma warned, her voice filled with the message that if I continued, I would be rewarded with a one-hour lecture along with an empty red packet when New Year came around.

I realised my mistake a second too late. The one thing you must always remember about Asian grandparents is that they held very little patience for someone who dares say anything contrary to their beliefs.

Thankfully, my dad’s mention of the need to settle down redirected the conversation. I retreated to my room and dropped my suitcase with a heavy thud, feeling the weight of exhaustion wash over me. Sighing deeply, I allow my façade to crumple as I buried my face in the softness of the pillow.

Eventually, summoning the strength to get up, my gaze fell upon Mr. James peering at me from the top of a cupboard. Mr. James was an ugly bunny with matted fur and a missing eye. Wishing for some sort of comfort in this familiar yet unfamiliar house, I grabbed him from the shelf and stared at him for a few seconds - he somehow seemed older and more mature now, like me.

A cheerful ringtone broke the silence, pulling me back to reality. Nicole was calling from Melbourne. I allowed another persona to take over, the one I was more used to these days, the carefree girl who isn’t afraid to speak her mind.

“G’day mate,” my friend said jokingly, voice thick with an Australian accent. “Jena, did you see the new Taylor Swift song? Oh my god, it was so good!”

“I haven’t had time to watch it yet,” I started, slipping back into English. “I just arrived at grandma’s.”

“How’s it going?” Nicole asked.

Embracing Zhang-mei and Jena

“Well, it’s sort of stressful with my grandma analysing my every move as if I am not the same Jena that she knew before,” I admitted, seeking some comfort.

“I mean, you are different now,” Nicole affirmed. “You were such a rulefollowing, shy girl back then.”

“Am I really different?” I wondered, trying to maintain a casual smile.

“Well, you have changed.” Nicole emphasised.

“I-, I need to get going now, it’s getting late here,” I hurriedly ended the call, grappling with the newfound confusion and emptiness.

The realisation hit me like a torrential downpour: it was true. I wasn’t the same girl from 4 years ago. I have developed new hobbies, made new friends, accepted new beliefs. But aren’t I still the same girl who used to hang out at grandma’s place every day?

The winds picked up. The pitter-pattering sound of rain gradually multiplying, each raindrop echoing the conflicted voices in my head.

Drip drop.

I have to be the obedient daughter.

Drip drop.

No! I am an independent woman who has opinions and should never be afraid to share them!

Drip drop.

My family expects a lot from me, I should not disappoint them.

Drip drop.

Forget about what other people are saying! Just do you!

Drip drop.

Drip drop.

Drip drop.

A sharp knock on my door jolted me from my thoughts. “It’s time for dinner, Jena!” My father’s voice called out.

“I’m coming!” I replied, attempting to steady my trembling voice over the deafening rain outside. Making my way to the living room, I silently took my seat.

“Jena, you look sort of pale. Are you alright?” My mother’s concern was evident in her voice.

Quickly nodding, I focused on my bowl of rice, grateful that my mother did not push further. The winds continued howling, the trees swaying in its grasp.

As my grandma reached across the table to place the largest piece of meat in my bowl, she unexpectedly stated, “Sorry for snapping at you earlier, Zhang-mei.”

Her words caught me off guard, drawing my attention away from the ground. The rain outside seemed to have eased.

“I just want a good future for you,” she confessed, her gaze unwavering, “Zhang-mei or… or Jena, whichever name you prefer, you will always be my precious granddaughter.”

With her words, the winds seemed to have subdued, and the rain retreated. The moon peaked out from underneath the clouds. A sense of calm washed over us. Tears threatened to spill over as I thanked my grandma, the sense of acceptance washing over me.

Back in my room, Mr. James was once again peering at me. However, this time he didn’t seem old and grubby, instead, I felt proud that he withstood all these years of change and still managed to always be smiling back at me.

Looking back, I realised that this was a turning point in my life. It was the moment where I fully embraced myself for who I am. I accepted all aspects of myself. I realised that I did not need to choose between Zhang-mei or Jena. I didn’t need to choose between my identities. Each part of me - the childish and the mature; the obedient and the rebellious; the Asian and the Australian- they are all ME.

Natalie Lin

Zindzi Clayford

I have a multiple-choice question for everyone:

Are you Australian?

A) Sitting in front of me, a child whose great-great-grandpa moved to Australia during the Irish potato famine.

B) Next to them, a girl who has Indigenous blood, with hundreds of thousands of years of history trickling through her veins.

C) There in the corner, a boy whose distant relative came to Australia in the First Fleet from Britain.

D) Here, an Asian Australian born and raised in Australia, but with parents who migrated from China.

E) In the back right corner, an international student from Vietnam.

So, who’s Australian? A, B, C, D, or E?

Now imagine this.

It is 2024.

A child, white in color, pulling their eyes into slits, singing ‘Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees’. A child, yellow like me, running away, glassy cheeks and cherry eyes.

Okay, not D.

It is October 2023.

The voice referendum fails.

Not because of racism they say.

Not because they don’t want to overcome Australia’s discrimination.

Not because they want to define what is Australian.

But it is.

It is 2020.

COVID-19 is rampant, no one is to blame.

They say, “Go eat bats and die alone. Don’t come to Australia.”

They say, “You’re not Australian.”

Okay, not E.

It is 1965.

First Nations peoples are counted as flora and fauna, despite being the oldest civilisation on the Earth.

They say, “You’re not Australian.”

It is 1788.

Australia is colonised.

10,000 and more indigenous Australians are ruthlessly killed. Indigenous Australians are seen as less than human, cave animals.

Okay, not B.

Racism has been ingrained in Australia since British colonisation. Since the very first British men walked onto Australian soil, looked around, and decided, I’m superior.

Terra nullius. No man’s land.

What about the Indigenous Australians?

They say, “You’re not Australian.”

Back to my multiple-choice question.

So, what are we left with, the British from the First Fleet and the Irish from the potato famine? Do the Indigenous, Asian, African populations agree with that? You, me, we aren’t Australian?

Do you hear that? That familiar sound, an echo of a chant thousands of years old. That archaic desolate sound of something that has persisted in Australia since 1788. The hidden, loathsome, curling root sneakily circling up on everyone, growing like ivy, blinding, and binding us from moving further, keeping us in the poisoned well. How can we still be trapped in this portrait of a battlefield? How can we look around us and make peace with who we are, if we can’t even look behind, and see the hideous past of this place called Australia, a place we would like to call Home.

Now consider the Chinese fable called, ‘The Frog in the Well’. Has anyone heard of this Chinese fable? There is a frog who lives in his well. He thinks the circle of blue above him is the entire world, and the frog satisfyingly lives his life jumping around his well alone, thinking he is superior to everyone.

When I was a young child, blurry-eyed and sticking out yellow amongst white, I was dragged inside the well.

“Give my shoe back!” I screamed. The boy pointedly did not give my shoe back. His face was dusted with a brown mop, his cheeks stained a deep mud olive on top of pasty White skin. We weren’t playing a friendly ‘steal my shoe tag game’. A sick satisfaction was stretched across the boy’s face. He was dangling my shoe left, right, left, right. My stomach was twisting, turning, tumbling. This was about power. Power against a migrant. I was easy to bully, I didn’t belong, because no one, me included, considered me to be an ‘Australian’.

Are you Australian?

But then I met another child, an auburn-colored girl. She defended me in the face of a shoe-boy, she helped me out of the well. She hurled her own shoe at the mud boy, her smile blooming like paint on paper, spreading to my own lips. The shoe curved through the air, winking at us from the clouds before hitting the boy straight on the head.

“Don’t listen to him,” she had said. “You may be different to me, but everyone belongs in Australia!”. My smile then was tired, and grateful, illuminated by the sun outside the well.

Internalised racism. Keeping myself in the well. I regret not taking more pride in my culture and working to harmoniously combine my culture with being Australian.

Just like every other Saturday, I went to Chinese School. The teachers would ramble on for hours, a ruler taut in their hands. Students sat in rows, one apart from their neighbor, chess pieces on a checkerboard. For me, this was a “study the wall, admire the trees” class. After all, my parents’ language has nothing to do with me, right? That’s what the bullies told me anyways.

At school, there was a new boy in class. His name tag “Alex” was propped on the table next to me, laminated and smooth, winking at me. Looking at Alex was like looking in a mirror, pale skin red-stained by the Australian sky, face dusted with hair the color of coal. On a regular basis, I would “borrow” his pen and just keep it. Alex would always look pleadingly at me, but finish by turning away, his smile rotting sour. I would spin the pen around in my hands, sick satisfaction simmering through my veins. When Alex tried to communicate in Chinese, I would cackle. “Imagine speaking Chinese at school!” I would exclaim, a cruel tremor running through my voice. Power.

Now I sit in silent cars with my parents, the well’s wall between us, the morning radio only one of us could understand playing. Now I stare longingly as everyone fluently speaks their native languages. Especially Alex, who I see around the corner laughing with his Chinese friends. Now I realize the awe-inspiring culture of my people, I also realize I will never truly understand it without the basic language skills.

Now I realize what a small well it was that I lived in.

So, don’t shake your head and say no, I’m not racist. Face it, question it, learn from it. Pull someone out of a poisoned well. Be an auburn-colored

girl. But first, step out of the well. First, you, then your friends, then maybe the whole of Australia will follow.

***

In 1967, after the tireless work of countless non-indigenous Australians and indigenous Australians, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders were finally considered part of the population.

In 2020, a passerby defends a Chinese group from being attacked with covid-19 induced violence. “You belong.”

In 2023, South Australia starts small, with a local state voice to parliament. “We consider you.”

In 2024, A child is friends with another child, color not a differentiation. A child defends another child, makes them feel welcome, like they are peas in chicken soup.

In the present, everyone is sitting here listening, learning, open to redefining the Australian identity.

We, all of us, are Australian. A, B, C, D, E, we are all Australian!

So as John Farnham, proud Australian sings: “You’re the voice, try and understand it!”

Fan Yang

This text was inspired by Gothic texts Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray and Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper

As the artist pushes open the weighted door, the hinges scream through the shadowy interior of the house. The odour of damp, aged wood and stale dust fills the air and his nose, and it slips between the waltzing aroma of vanilla incense he had been burning only two months before; it is a scent that carves open a freshly inflicted wound in his chest. Dust coats the studio in a thin blanket and reflects a pearly haze of moonlight that cuts through the drapes. It settles over swooping curtains, glass cases of paint and easels that cast stretching shadows onto the walls. Cobwebs have usurped the skirting boards in long, reaching fingers. They thrive off his negligence.

He steps inside. Here, the bellowing of city-goers and the rumbles of carriages at midnight are strangled by the thick walls deep in his home, and silenced by the memories that clutch his chest and squeeze it tight. In the centre of the room sits an easel fitted with a canvas. He does not remember whose it was—perhaps a commission abandoned by its owner a while before—and only an underpainting of a figure rests on the surface.

The artist perches himself on his stool and lifts a brush. Little comes to him, only the skilful automation he must have acquired a lifetime ago—but that would seem enough, so he paints.

It is not good. The lines are stray and the form is loose, but the figure comes from him, and she asserts herself on the surface. Her gaze strays away onto a background of darkness that dissolves into her midnight ringlets, and a dimple appears beside the grin that overcomes her features.

A strangled oh breaks from his lips as he recognises the woman that appears after one final brushstroke. Charlotte.

She lives in his every muscle, and his very subconscious.

With trembling arms he dismounts the canvas and pulls another from a dust-ridden corner of the studio, swiping the grime away with a hand as the other fumbles for a different colour paint: this hue is sage, the shade of the grass down by the lake when the sun caressed the landscape in its gentle embrace. The figure—the woman, now—longs through the stringing willow branches with a gaze that stretches down to the lake, and to the narcissus blooms that dot the bank. Her dark ringlets are set alight by the sun rays that drip through the leaves.

Oh, how Charlotte loved that view!

He is eager. He sees nothing in the studio but her. He does not see the gloom that has grown in moulding corners nor the rotting wooden arches,

but he sees her in the paintings and he sees her in the blank canvases stacked by the roof, and he sees her hair in the raw umber oils and her fingers in long thin brushes.

The next painting soars from his chest, through his arm and onto the surface in a brilliant chiaroscuro that cuts through Charlotte’s face and body. Her porcelain skin sits contrasting the shadows in the foyer at dusk when she stands in her day dress. Her profile vaunts a modest smile away from him. How she is so dazzling when she smiles!

An sizzling ache passes through his joints. He must paint another. The fatigue gnawing at his eyes weighs nothing against the heat scorching in his hand.

This new painting is quicker than all the others; his strokes cross each other in uncertain directions, dashing all but the very essence of the figure. He portrays her as she lay in her final moments, when her skin was only the soul of moonlight against an ebony sky of wispy curls, and with another dust of his brush, crimson blooms over her cheeks, and another stroke pushes her eyes further into the pearlescent gleam of her complexion.

Consumption eats at the body, as consumption does, but Charlotte— she is still pure. She is wondrously pure!

His eyesight grows hazy in concentration, and the forms flash harsh lights into his stare—it is as if his body utterly refuses to persist, but his mind abhors the idea of stopping now. The ghostly silhouette beside the portrait too pushes him in husky whispers. “You must not stop. Capture me!”

All is complete in its minute details—save for the eyes, as he’d left them empty because he just could not mix quite the right shade for her irises… it is a grey-blue, for certain, but the colour is difficult to match precisely. He should call her from her bedchamber and shine a candle to her eyes to imitate them, so he should fetch her maid to bring her down…

No, no! A sudden winter annexes the studio, as the flames in his tissue extinguish, and they stretch into icicles jutting from his ribcage and through his heart.

“You are not here!” he cries into the darkness. “You are not here, my love.”

Its body is scarcely distinguishable against the shadow of the room, yes, it is only a smudge of black in the form of a woman through his bleary vision.

“I cannot paint you any longer,” he says, “it—it pains me, too much.”

“You will lose me forever,” she sings in her ghostly tone, jarring and unamicable to his ears, but he drinks in her voice nonetheless. “You will forget.”

The artist throws himself at the canvas. He claws at the eyeless face he so loves, the face that fleets from his mind each hour, as he destroys the complexion crafted of nothing but wet paint, he wishes he could pull her from the oil into someone—something—sitting beside him as if the last year of her life had not been ravaged; but the figure behind the canvas only stares like the portrait cannot until she is not with him any longer.

Indeed, there is no one in the studio but the artist, draped over an incomplete painting. He wails from an empty body into an empty house. The portrait coats him. Oils are smeared across his cheeks, blending with tears that slice through his skin with their piercing, salty kisses.

Sophie Ang

Nationhood and Identity

The “I” in “I am”

Restricted, repressed, restless. I couldn’t breathe. Perhaps it was the exhaustion; or perhaps it was the staggering expectations bestowed upon me since I was first taught what it meant to be Chinese - astute, ambitious, obedient. Looking back, the first 11 years of my life in China all seemed to blur into an estuarine feeling of suffocation.

Every day was the same. From 7 in the morning to 5 at night, I would be strapped to my desk, the books on my table reaching a distressing height that toppled over my shoulders. Even during lunch break, we would be instructed to remain bound to our seats and nap in a uniform position over our desks. I always hated that 1-hour nap break. I could still recall the way the hard plastic chair dug into my back, my legs cramped under the tiny desk, while my spine curved awkwardly over my desk. I could still recall the stuffiness of the classroom air – one filled with the uneasy scent of sweaty children mixed with chalk dust, silent, except for the constant buzz of flies. They told us to close our eyes, and just relax, but I always thought it was a waste of time, my eyes wandering across the classroom for any signs of life. But it was always the same. I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed when no one else met my gaze. How did everyone else just seem so perfectly content with what was happening? Was it just me who struggled to fit into this cohesive image of the model Chinese student? Or maybe they were just too exhausted to even think otherwise?

Another day. Another lesson. Another exam. Another night spent curled up in the corner of my room as the shadow of the pile of trial exam papers flickered and grew and threatened to swallow me whole. I slowly turned my head to face my reflection in the mirror: dark circles tattooed beneath my eyes; hair dishevelled from frustrated tugs; my Hong Ling Jin (patriotic red scarf worn unanimously by all Chinese students) rigid and taut around my neck. I couldn’t recognise myself. Was that … me? I stared as the tips of my lips twitched up into a wry smile – a pathetic resemblance of what I was supposed to be – perfect posture, slicked hair, and an unwavering polite smile plastered onto my face. Sometimes I looked like that. But I’ve never felt like that. My eyes burned. My lungs did too. Just breathe. I repeated in my head. If only it were that easy.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe…brea-breathe…in

I couldn’t breathe.

ran away

And as the crisp morning air of this place I called home for 11 years filled my lungs for the last time, a wave of tranquillity washed over me.

I was leaving, probably for good.

There was uncertainty, relief, and hope, but there wasn’t regret.

I didn’t want to mould myself into the perfect “kid next door” my parents could brag to our relatives about. I didn’t want to be student number 43, class sub-representative, a name on a “Merit Student” certificate.

I wanted to be me. I wanted to find me. So we left China.

As I stared up at the huge “WELCOME TO AUSTRALIA” poster at the airport, the feeling of unease grew and nibbled on my insides.

Melbourne was … different. It was nothing like the bustling streets of Guangzhou, where the air was filled with constant shouts of advertisement and the pungent smell of petrol. The sky was always grey and gloomy, any rays from the sun blocked by the towering office buildings. Everyone was always rushing to be somewhere else.

Here, everything just feels so … relaxed.

The sky was always a vibrant blue and trees were planted around every corner. The fresh morning air was always filled with the scent of last night’s rain, the sweet chirping of birds, and warm greetings from the old lady next door.

Nationhood and Identity

The moment I realised that things were truly different here was during my grade 6 Careers Workshop. The teacher, Mrs Pattison, had asked everyone to share with the class our future aspirations.

My friend, Nicole, went up first. She talked about wanting to become an artist.

My eyes widened as I stared disbelievingly at her.

An artist? Doesn’t she know that being an artist is no different to being unemployed?

And then if it was even possible, my eyes widened even more as the whole class applauded her. Mrs Pattison praised her for her courage to pursue her passions and encouraged everyone else to learn from her.

Encouraged? To become an artist?

To add to my existential crisis, Mrs Pattison asked a girl who wanted to become a singer to sing for the class; gave another classmate who wanted to become a gym coach university recommendations; and even applauded Dylan - who had wanted to become an astronaut - for his imagination and creativity.

I stared down numbly at my “surgeon/dentist”, an expectation - not a passion - that was indoctrinated into me from a very young age, and could only mumble out a faint “I don’t know” when it was my turn to share.

And that was the first time I realised that perhaps things are truly different here. That perhaps my burning desire to discover myself could be finally met with motivation and not scepticism.

Suddenly, I found myself immersed in every extra-curricular opportunity I came across. Rowing, netball, badminton, debating, art, guitar, singing, the list goes on. It was thanks to this newfound freedom that allowed me to finally be able to discover my passion – theatre.

It began with drama class in grade 7, the silly and dramatic movements instantly catching my eye. I fell in love with drama. I fell in love with the extravagant and spectacular sets and costumes. I fell in love with the way the actors brought each character, each story to life.

So, when I caught wind of a school musical, I jumped at the opportunityl. Every night I would stare at the mirror, practising, and instead of the depressed and gloomy version of me I used to always see, I saw someone who loved what they were doing. I saw me.

I’ve never felt so alive.

And the best part was - everyone was proud of me. Even my parents, despite their initial doubts about all the time I was “wasting” on something that could never amount to their standard of success, after seeing the opening night, they told me they were proud of me.

They were proud of me.

A word that has never been uttered by any Asian parent before.

They were proud of me.

My eyes burned. My heart burned too. But this time, with happiness.

Finally, I felt like I belonged somewhere. Belonged here – Australia. Not because I adopted an Australian accent, nor because I suddenly developed a newfound passion for AFL or vegemite - but because I could relate to this sense of diversity.

I love being Australian, because “you” and “I” and “me” and “us”

No matter who you are, We all belonged.

Diya Zheng

The Australian Identity- What Does it Truly Mean?

When I was in Primary School, I dreaded one day every single year. Footy Day.

It was an Australian Primary school tradition. I was six years old and a recent immigrant to Australia when I was first introduced to Footy Day. Being new to the country, my Chinese mother and I had no idea what footy was and what Footy Day meant. I had no footy jumpers. I had no footy merchandise. But I wanted to make the best first impression to my Australian classmates, so I spent my afternoons leading up to the dreaded day scavenging through my wardrobe for clothes to wear. But as the day loomed around and I showed up at school in my oversized and oddly coloured clothes, I was easily the laughingstock of my class.

This routine continued until my graduation. Yet I still tried just as hard every single year… because that was what being Australian meant to me.

Looking back now, I realise that my perception and understanding was flawed. So, I asked myself. What does it truly mean to be Australian? Does being Australian mean to eat pies with the family while watching footy? Does being Australian mean to have blonde hair and blue eyes and surf down at Bondi Beach? But even looking around the room today filled with so many Australians, everyone looks so different to one another. We are all so culturally diverse. None of us fall under the social stereotype of an Australian. So maybe being Australian means more than one thing… maybe it can mean many different things.

Australia is a culturally diverse country- the backbone of our country is built from immigrants. Strictly speaking, none of us are inherently “Australian”that would refer to the First Nations People whose cultures and traditions have been ingrained in this land for more than 50,000 years. For most of us here today, our ancestors have migrated to Australia sometime in the past. In fact, 50% of the Australian population have parents who were born overseas and 30% of us were also born overseas. So, most of us here will probably have this “cut-and-paste” identity constructed from the various cultures we were brought up with.

When I was eight years old, I visited my family in China. Despite only having left the country a mere four years prior, there was already a sense of disconnection between me and my family and friends that I had grown up with. My Chinese wasn’t as good as theirs- it was strictly conversational

and could hardly be comparable to a kindergartener or a year 1 student’s Chinese. I can’t read Chinese either- I am completely illiterate. So, whilst on the surface I look, talk, and act Chinese, everyone saw me as the “foreigner” or the “Australian girl”. Once, during that visit, we ordered an item off Taobao- the Chinese version of Amazon. With both of my parents busy, I was sent downstairs to collect the parcel from the postman. I distinctly remember him asking me to sign my name to declare that I had received the parcel, but as I shakily signed my name with the wrong stroke order and the wrong ratio to my characters, he side-eyed me judgmentally. Afterall how could a Chinese girl not know how to write her own name?

But even in Australia, I didn’t feel that I “belonged”. I look different to the stereotypical white Australian. I don’t live in the outback. I don’t know how to play footy or go surfing. And amongst other Asian-Australians, there was still a sense of disconnection. I wasn’t like them- I was “whitewashed” and termed a “banana”- referring to someone who is yellow on the outside, but white on the inside. I felt like my identity was flawed- like I didn’t belong.

But overtime I realised that this is just my “cut-and-paste” identity- my own sense of self that I had created from my own experiences that differ from others. And when I entered year 7 and I met my now best friends who are just like me, I began to realise that most if not all of us have this “cut-andpaste” identity- bits and pieces of different cultures pieced together to create an elaborate artwork of sorts. But these artworks of our identity are independent from one another. Even though they start the same way- as a blank canvas- our own personal artistic views construct unique works. There is no unifying “theme” or “glue” to piece them all together. They are all so different.

Yet somehow when we travel overseas, it feels different. Last year, as part of a summer school extension program, I visited the United States. I met a lot of different people from all over the world, but the one person I connected most deeply with was a girl around four or five years older than me who used to live in Sydney. Although we had nothing in common and hence nothing to bond over, I still felt an undeniable sense of connection that I had not felt when I was with the Americans or the Canadians. I was rather shocked by this, so I wondered and wondered… and wondered.

The Australian Identity- What Does it Truly Mean?

Maybe it’s because even though our identities- our “artworks”- are so different to each other, there is still something that can bring us together. Nationhood. And maybe that is because regardless of the differences in our artworks, they are being “displayed” in the same gallery- the same showcase of Australian identities. When we leave the country- when we go to a different gallery- and we compare our artworks to the artworks of people from other nations, other upbringings, and other identities, we start to see some subtle similarities in our works- whether it be in the way we cut our paper or the way we speak and talk.

Now that I am a lot older and I have been through a lot more experiences that required me to question my own identity, I have begun to realise. There are just so many individuals like me. Misguided individuals who idealised a singular Australian identity. Misguided individuals who tried so hard to conform to that idealised identity that they have almost lost their sense of self. Misguided individuals who detested their artwork and tried to tear it down.

But we were so wrong. We were wrong to believe that Australians only have blonde hair and blue eyes and surf down at Bondi Beach. Because below the surface, an Australian is also someone who eats hot pot with friends on Friday nights at Box Hill. An Australian is also someone who celebrates Orthodox Easter with family and makes traditional Greek food like tsoureki together.

I have now finally come to understand what the Australian identity is. It is a melting pot of diverse cultures that cannot be enveloped and categorised into a singular identity. Next time, if you are ever faced with the challenge of Footy Day, embrace it. It is okay to be different. It is okay to not understand.

Because to be Australian is to be different.

Thank you.

Nina Lei

Bernice Kha

Chocolate Cakes

My grandmother’s old birthday photo album is like a flipbook. As I flick the pages aside with my thumb, the children- my dad and his older sister - grow taller before my eyes. Grey hairs begin to populate their parents’ heads. You barely notice the change from photograph to photograph; it’s only when you let the pages fly, years trickling before your eyes, that you notice them all age. The photographs go from black and white, to sepia, to the faded colours of Kodak 200, and my dad and his sister grow up.

But there’s one thing that doesn’t move as I flip through decades of photos. In the centre of each photograph sits a large, square, chocolate cake. The same size. Sharp corners. Meticulously piped stars of icing covering its surface.

That cake has always been my grandmother’s pride and joy. She’s never changed the recipe. It’s an emblem of domestic success, a perfect chocolate cake. At every party for the entirety of her married life, the aunts would have dissected the cake, critiquing its minute flaws; a slight twinge of acidity, a touch of dryness, a thin crack at its base where cake peeked through icing.

But in every photograph I see perfection, whether it was that way in reality or not. Perhaps its slight flaws were turned away from the camera, I don’t know. Just as my grandmother stands by her husband, stalwart and unsmiling, the cake sits squarely and perfectly in place. Like her, it is an image of flawless domesticity, of routine and consistency, a paragon of maternal femininity.

There’s a gap towards the end of the album, where my dad’s older sister disappears. At that time, eighteen years old, she’d run off to elope with her German boyfriend. Her story picks up in the next album, its spine marked with my grandmother’s sprawling cursive: Asha and Mira, Birthday Photos

The first photograph inside it shows my aunt, aged twenty, two twin girls balanced on her hips. My grandmother stands beside her, lips pressed firmly together, unsmiling as always. Before them sits the chocolate cake. My grandmother always reminds us that she spent a lifetime baking not only her children’s cakes, but these two granddaughters’ too.

It always struck me as strange, that. In our family, baking the birthday cake had always been, and still is, a mother’s job. So it was an anomaly

for my grandmother to have baked her granddaughters’ cakes, instead of their mum. I realise now that my aunt was eighteen- she would never have learnt any of those so-called ‘mother’s skills.’ My grandmother hadn’t passed down the usual pre-marriage domestic knowledge before she flew across to Berlin to meet her lover. So when she turned up on her mother’s doorstep, twin baby girls in tow, my grandmother had to bake those birthday cakes. She put aside her disapproval of her daughter and just made those cakes.

In the photos of the twins’ birthdays, the parties look smaller. My grandmother’s judgemental circle of acquaintances- hovering around the cake, no doubt criticising it, in the photos of her own children’s birthdaysare nowhere to be seen. I don’t know if my grandmother chose not to invite them, if she’d entirely hidden her scandalised daughter from them. Or maybe they shunned her. I don’t know.

You could say that my mum was the inverse. The golden child, the perfect mother. My childhood was a succession of teddy bear sponges and princess layer cakes and Cookie Monster muffins. There’s a photo of my first birthday, me swaddled in my mum’s arms, my dad’s arm around her. My mum baked a chocolate dog-shaped cake that sits in front of us, and her and my dad are mid-laugh in the photo as they try to get me to stop crying before everyone sings Happy Birthday. In the next few years’ photos I’m standing unstably on a chair, hands held like a puppet’s by my dad, while my mum holds my little brother.

Years of chocolate cakes. Of a neat, picture-perfect family unit. My mum seemed like a flawless mother, but not in the stiff way my grandmother had; she looked breezy and effortless. Each cake moulded to mine or my brother’s current obsession: a particular Disney princess, an animal, a cartoon character. The dark sponge lovingly carved into a new shape, though underneath it was the same recipe as my grandmother’s. It’s only now that I realise that there was so much effort beneath that perfect mother persona, like a duck’s legs paddling desperately under water. My grandmother and the family scrutinising her constantly, waiting for her to make a mistake. Waiting for a crack to show beneath the base of that cake; that flawless nuclear family.

And it did. My parents divorced when I was nine. I cried and shouted because it caught me so off guard. I’d never seen them fight, not even once.

Chocolate Cakes

They’d shown my brother and I the frosted surface and never the cracked, dry cake beneath.

From then on, each birthday meant two separate family parties. Two cakes. For the maternal side of the family, my mum made her usual cakes for a few more years. Eventually she seemed to lose touch with that side of herself. The cakes became less consistent, less perfect. Triple-layer stacks swapped for bland fruitcakes. The chocolate cake recipe got lost somewhere along the way; the image of domestic perfection that my grandmother had crafted, that my mum had tried her best to inhabit, fell away.

On the other side, my dad had to learn how to organise a party without my mum. For the first party, my tenth birthday, one of my aunts made the birthday cake. It was a layered chocolate cake, piped with the star-shaped nozzle my grandmother used. It was a flawless cake; but it wasn’t my mum’s. There was something empty about an aunt making my birthday cake. It made me realise that my dad was trying really hard to replace every role my mother had once occupied in our shared existence. And my aunt was most likely to make a cake that was like my mum’s. But it’s about how close you are to the person who makes it, not what it looks like, that makes a birthday cake special.

The next year, my dad tried making the cake himself. He bought brand new tins, found a recipe online, wrote out a shopping list and sought out every ingredient. Baking it took him hours and hours. It was a tasty cake; different to my mother’s and my aunt’s, but it was nice. Its frosting wasn’t piped and layered; it was spread plainly with a knife, slightly unevenly, across the surface. I can’t quite describe it but there was something heartbreaking about how hard he was trying to make everything normal.

By twelve, I was baking my own birthday cakes. Four-layer chocolate mud cakes with raspberry between the layers. Caramel, cinnamon, coconut. It started off as a hobby, something I wanted to do, but after a few years, everyone just kind of expected it. I became the cake baker of the family.

No one thought that it was kind of sad for a fourteen-year-old kid to be making her own birthday cake. It became just one of the many ways that I’d started to look after myself, because my parents weren’t going to do it. Eventually I’d been making the cakes for so many years that everyone else had forgotten how. And even if they’d offered to try, I knew I could do things for myself better than anyone else could.

So what do they signify, all these chocolate cakes? Each one is an attempt to impose order, in a way. An outward symbol of a functional, caring family.

But as I flick back through the photo albums, it’s clearer than ever to me that there’s no such thing as a perfect cake.

Saria Ratnam

Free the Peacocks!

‘Equal rights, Equal voice,

For every woman, we rejoice!

As peacocks we stand strong

Freedom begs us to sing our song’

This is the Suffragist chant. This is the chant that we women resonate with today.

Sarojini Naidu once said that ‘the hand that rocks the cradle is the power that rules the world’. We women are strong, powerful, invincible. The ignorant and arrogant men don’t know it yet. We don’t only fight for suffrage so that we can obtain voting rights, but to be respected and honoured. How many times have we been treated as door mats? Enough is enough!

My life before becoming a Suffragist was tumultuous. My hair would be tied back in a messy bun. My feet would be swollen from walking three miles to obtain fresh water the previous night. I was the household servant. Wearing my apron, I packed tiffin for my husband, rubbed lotion on Mama’s back, bathed Athai with her favourite soap, breastfed my daughter as I drew the same elephant kolum outside our doorstep, performed morning pujas. All this while I was fated to spoilt Pongal that I had made days before, whilst my family enjoyed fresh chicken masala with warm, steam rice. My food was rock-hard, dry and dirt-brown, whilst my husband’s was warm, soft and bright yellow. I was poisoning my own baby! All this was accompanied by verbal assaults thrown by my husband. ‘Lakshmi, I don’t know why I married you, you are useless’, he would say. ‘Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry’ I would say to myself. I couldn’t show signs of weakness. In the sanctuary of my home, where I should be embraced by comfort and warmth, isolation and despair suffocated me. I was imprisoned with no hope of escape. Until one day, after talking to Sarojini Naidu herself, I knew I deserved more. Officially taking off my apron was like liberating a bird from its cage. Such a light piece of cloth had burdened me with such huge expectations and pressures. From that day on, I decided to be my daughter’s protector not her killer.

As Suffragists we have reached the stage in the movement where our activism is progressing. Men are starting to fear us. We use our voices to have our feelings heard. We dance in flash mobs, blocking streets and causing mass traffic and disruption. We conduct sit-ins in temples, because fighting for suffrage is fighting for God. People are restricted from merely entering the place of worship, our powerful voices forming a crescendo that leaves our male counterparts running from us. Goddess Durga guides us towards defeating the British colonial government. We sign petitions, gathering over 11,000 signatures from women all over India. We walk long marches across India, traversing states like Punjab, Bengal Dheli, Gujarat, Tamil Nadu. We infiltrate alley ways and streets, restricting movement. We block men form entering political meetings. Yes, we were and some still are incarcerated, yes we are scrutinised, the judgmental gazes of the men around us poking daggers into our skin. Yes, hunger prevails, as we live off stale bread and muddy river water. But we persist. Because that is what we Suffragists are. We weak women, suffrage women, cause this havoc and have rendered men powerless. Backing down is not an option!

Currently, we are caged in eggs. Our shells are a temporary barrier. Our soaring aspirations are confined. But these eggs are incubated by the nurturing embrace of women before us. Their shared kindness and solidarity cloak us, cocooning us in a lifeline against the cold void of sexism. Sarojini Naidu herself was among these devoted guardians. They held hands, they hugged in times of success, they fought for each other even when incarcerated. They were more than friends, they were sisters. Their influence has pushed us towards hatching, our eager feet piking at our shells in pursuit of freedom. Soon we will spread our wings as majestic peacocks. Men have chosen to be blind to us, but we will force their eyes open with our bright hues of blue, green and purple. India is a country that celebrates colour, that admires its national bird. Choosing to suppress us would be a betrayal. Choosing to remain silent would be a betrayal. We can’t let men smash these eggs prematurely! We can’t have the future generation of women have their wings clipped and their beaks duct tapped! These women were selflessly thinking about us. Shouldn’t we uphold their legacy by thinking about our daughters?

And indeed our own monarch, Princess Sophia Duleep Singh of Punjab fights alongside Emmeline Pankhurst in the British Suffragette movement. With her life on the line and proudly wearing the Suffragette colours of green, purple and white she became a key member of the Women’s

Free the Peacocks!

Social and Political Union. She refused to pay her taxes, risking legal consequences. During Black Friday, whilst marching to the House of Commons in a bid to persuade the Asquith Government to pass a suffrage bill, the princess fought a police officer who was assaulting a sister Suffragette. She risked injury when she threw herself at Prime Minister Asquith’s car while slamming a pamphlet titled ‘Give Women The Right To Vote’ at his window. If a princess forsakes her noble standing and prestige to join the suffrage movement, shouldn’t we as commoners partake in it too?

Receiving suffrage is not just about receiving the right to vote. We will be independent. We will not need to rely on our husbands’ income. We will not be fearful in our own houses. We will gain education. We will read. We will go to work. We will no longer be servants. Our reputation will be rebuilt so that we are no longer weak, fragile, and defenceless but rather bold, powerful, and influential.

Are we powerful? Are we mighty? Do we deserve to be respected? The answer is yes! It has been yes all along! We are peacocks! This battle is ours to win.

The future of India is depending on us. Never settle for lower than you deserve. Come to the All India’s Women Conference tomorrow in the local hall to take part in this movement. We need your help to ensure that our movement gains progress. Your voice counts!

Do it for your daughters!

Do it for the future of women!

Do it for us!

Free the Peacocks!

Sowmya Sivakumar

Speak Up!

Clawed hands grasping futilely at the metal bars, our bodies and minds were dragged through two weeks of excruciating hell before we were freed.

Punched, kicked, beaten for “not knowing your place”. Bruised and battered from the violent handling, we all sustained injuries from prison. Every day, crimson flowed freely: a trickling march that webbed then vanished down the drain in an uncanny parallel to out demonstration. They through that they crushed our spirits: stripped away the humanity that allowed us to speak out against injustice. That red would rise no more.

We took to the streets, hundreds of us, a sea of red. An army of handmaids marching down the streets. Red to symbolise our forced fertility, red to symbolise our forced fertility, red to symbolise the blood that been shed, red to symbolise our silent fury. Roe vs Wade overturned; the new anti-abortion laws were just the beginning. It was a dystopian nightmare, the government attempting to twist our democracy into a patriarchal autocracy. If nothing changed, it wouldn’t be long before the role of the handmaids became a reality.

Bone white bonnets imprisoned our heads, obscuring our faces. Blood red shrouds hiding our bodies. Stripped of our identity. After all, we weren’t considered people to the government. We were just machines made of flesh; our only purpose was to reproduce. A puppet with no soul or voice. Heads bowed, hands folded together, we trudged down the streets in an united display of outward submission. It was quiet besides the steady shuffling of our feet. No shouting, no chanting. A warning that if we accepted these laws without protest and failed to protect our rights, this would be our future. Repressed. Silenced

We halted. The entrance of the Arizona State Legislature was blocked by our bodies as we dug in our heels, united. Glaring up towards the window blinds the politicians hid behind, we revealed our faces to the world, exposing them to the individuals they had denied equality. Our palms fused with the women next to us, linking hands, linking bodies, linking souls. It strengthened my resolve: reminded me of why I was there. Why I was risking my safety in an act of civil disobedience. If we did not stand up now, there would be no one left to speak up for our daughters. For the future of humanity, we had a duty to fulfill.

We held our silence. For twenty minutes we protested in solidarity, determination rushing through our veins. Onlookers stared, exchanged looks, started recording. The scant whispers that broke out were quickly snuffed out by the eerie silence. It spread like fog, stifling and thickening around our still bodies as it suffocated the light of the sun, the world darkening above us. We embodied the women of the Handmaids Tale, yet we commanded control over the courtyard. We were considered inferior to the men that placed draconian laws over our bodies, yet we were the ones brave enough to stand up for justice. We were silent, yet anyone could here our message, loud and clear.

“My body, my choice!” A rallying voice cleaved through the dense silence that had settled over the State Legislature, sharp and defiant. It echoed through the air, ringing far across the court.

On cue, our hands were drawn to our bonnets, steady and sure in their movements. It was time to shed our prison of red.

“My body!” we shouted, and ripped off the bonnets, freeing our faces.

“My life!” we chanted, and ripped off the shrouds, freeing our bodies.

“My choice!” we yelled, and ripped off the iron fist the government kept clenched around tour throats, freeing our voices.

Bursts of purple and green, pink and black exploded, women of all races, all ages, all sizes revealing banners that expressed their dissent. Breaking free from the uniform confines of red, we embraced our uniqueness. We were not our wombs: we were our own persons, people just like the rest of the world with a right to bodily autonomy. Individuals with contrasting stories, opinions, concerns: the foundation of a healthy democracy. Yet that day, we were all united towards the same cause.

Red and blue flashed in the distance, but we were not deterred. We had already predicted that the government wouldn’t stop at stripping us of one of our rights: that freedom of speech would be the next thing to go. They were too late to extinguish our protest. The chants had already begun.

Speak Up!

“This was never the land of the free!”

“Reproductive rights are human rights!”

“Bans off our bodies!”

Countless hollers and cries of outrage overlapped: a cacophony of anguished fury. They twisted and turned, getting louder and louder until they merged to form one visceral chant that completely shattered the previous display of silent submission.

“My body, my life, my choice!”

We stomped and shouted, resisting arrest from those who attempted to wrangle our bodies back into obedience.

“My body, my life, my choice!”

We raised our voices, drowning out the slurs spit from the policemen’s mouths, refusing our lives to be reduced to the label of ‘handmaid’.

“My body, my life, my choice!”

One by one, our comrades were wrenched away, but we resolved to go down fighting. Freedom of choice for all.

Today, a month after prison, the handmaids meet again.

The flow of blood had long staunched: wounds faded to a sickly mottled yellow and purple, pale pink scars left where there once was bloody red. Yet, the incandescent ruby of our passion did not fade alongside them. Instead, it grew stronger. It glowed brighter and brighter with every beat of our hearts, pushing and shoving at our ribcages in an effort to be heard.

It whispers to us now, telling us that we must continue speaking up for justice.

Calls to us, reassuring that it will protect our fighting spirit.

Cries out to us, demanding that we reclaim our democracy for our future daughters.

Hearts on our sleeves, we rush to the streets once again, thousands of us, a sea of pulsating scarlet.

Mia Lee

When I was six, I learnt not to raise my voice

When I was eight, I learnt never to talk back.

Woman, Life, Freedom

When I was eleven, I learnt not to wear short skirts around men.

As women, we are taught to deny aggression. We are taught that loudness and hostility should not be a part of our repertoire. To keep quiet, to remain passive, and to follow orders. We are taught that evil lies beneath our bed, but it lives right outside – ready to take out liberty, our voice, and injure us both mentally and physically. Our actions are always the ones to blame, never the perpetrator.

But Mahsa Amini made no noise. She was not aggressive, nor was she loud. Yet, for the simple act of showing her hair, she was killed. Her voice was robbed from her before she could use it.

Banners were raised to the sky, rhythmic chants circulated through the crowd, and the same three words lingered in the air, “woman, life, freedom. Zan, Zendegi, azadi”. Pushing through the bustling group of people, I saw a kaleidoscope of faces. Some that looked like mine, and others that didn’t. Behind me, the crowd extended beyond Flinders Street Station, filling the city with both tension and exhilaration. Handheld signs screaming with slogans were clasped by outstretched hands; the face of the young girl plastered on each one. A face not much older than mine. A daughter, a sister, a friend. She had her entire life ahead of her, and now all that remains is her image of paper, her name on our tongues.

As I made my way to the from, drenched in passionate chants, a woman forcefully climbed onto the podium; her accent held a familiar cadence. “We will not let the Iranian government silence us! They may have taken Persian women’s voices, but they cannot take outs.” Listening intently to her ardent words, hanging on to each one, rage boiled to the surface; a rage pushed so deep within me, I was not aware it existed. For decades, the Islamic republic wielded a power over Iran so fierce, that no one could counter it – forcing millions of women to submit to their standards and rules without a sound. From the other side of the world, I watched my home country fade away from televisions and phone screens, helpless and futile. Iranian women’s pleas were desperate shouts into a desolate void. However, as the tyranny worsened; their plight became my own.

Their voices were taken up by mine and many other women in Australia, seeping from the alleys of Iran onto our front door. We shouted for them. We shouted so that their forces passivity was countered by our action. To silence them was to try and silence us. To deny their liberty was to rebuke out own. We may be Australians, but we are also Iranian women, out identities intertwined. We could see ourselves in their faces and hear out desperation in their voices. So, when we shouted, we shouted for us as well. We had a responsibility to amplify their voices. If we kept quiet, they would only grow weaker. If we made noise, perhaps their predicaments may be heard.

Dissent runs deep within Australia. It is in our bones to pick apart our differences, and in our blood to stick with them. Until we discover othersider, constructed truths are forced upon us from the moment we open our eyes, dividing us before we are even whole. However, despite every day failing to find common ground, relatability, or even understand each other, there is something no one can refute: Mahsa Amini deserved to live.

I glanced at the women in the crowd, their hard cut in solidarity, their voices sore with fury. Women with different hair, different eyes, different skin. In a group of people embellished with difference, unity prevailed. Where issues were often viewed as black and white, this was the grey area. I realised then; it did not matter where we came from – injustice was injustice. Injustice targets us and divides us, but injustice can also bring us together. When it is committed, it speaks louder than our differences. With my feet firmly stationed onto the ground, I realised that I could have been Mahsa Amini. Her fate could have easily been my own, if it wasn’t for chance. It was not the context or the place which had brought us together, but rather the woman. Whether from Australia or the other side of the world; everybody could relate to that.

The idea of protest always seemed foreign to me. It was one I would hear about on the news or see online, unfamiliar to its complexities. I attached protest to an image of strength and resistance, and image I did not assign to myself. How could I understand protest if I was so afraid of speaking up? But in reality, it has always been there, because it exists in every woman. Every day, the word “no” floats through our minds, fending off stereotypes or double standards or unsolicited sexualisation. Every day, we hope that the suppressed voice in our head is enough to tame our anger. Over time,

Woman, Life, Freedom

we let it settle, growing accustomed to our passivity. While our heads ache with unspoken words, we sit in our discomfort. The truth is, we are not afraid of resistance; we are resistance itself. The only challenge is letting it speak.

As women, we fight every day to push back the aggression, the loudness, the defiance. I had never been a part of a protest before, but I felt at home, because it in lived in me. While it took a grave injustice to forget out fears, that “no” was no longer pacing in empty space. It found a home, amongst many others. To the world, there is always a greater issue to focus on or a bigger problem to solve. However, these patriarchal inequalities did not just speak to one person, but to all of us. For once, we did not need to seek reason or justifications, because every woman in this world has confronted this reality in one way or another. While the familiarity of oppression can be paralysing, it is also uniquely unifying. To see another woman, suffer at the hands of a misogynistic system is not a sight we can simply look away from. I had not felt solidarity like this before, taking it in like a breath of rarest air. When I inhaled it, it because a part of me, and I knew I would not let it go.

Standing there, I knew this was not a momentary act of rebellion, but a reminder that, despite the insurmountable weight of reality, we carry the weight of change in our hands. Mahsa Amini may have only been the soft voice of possibility, but collective resistance turns hope into reality. When change is fostered by the hopes and actions of many, it has the power to become real. I may only be one person, but the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and we can destroy unjust power with those very same hands.

As the ache in my feet imitated the pain in my heart, liberation rushed through me. It was not the gratification or the pride, or the self-satisfaction. Liberation was realising that the lies constantly fed to us can be unlearnt. When we take action, we do not allow the world’s view’s to be thrust upon us, we make our own. We are actively defying the lies and misconception, seeing the world for what it is, and not what it is said to be. Protest provides us with the agency that is robbed from us every day, and rewrite the narrative, repeating the story until it is heard. We will say ut once, and a million times over. Woman, life, freedom. We will demand it until we achieve it, because we know now that we deserve it. Iranian women may have been forced into silence for decades, but silence only breeds contempt. Their candle is still burning bright despite being blow out time and time again. As

they pass the torch to us Australians, we have the power to extinguish their forced suppression. One scream may only be perceived as anger, but in many, it is a revolution.

When I was thirteen, I was taught the art of passivity.

When I was sixteen, conformity became my reality.

At eighteen, I have found my voice.

Tara Dadafarin

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Bernice Kha (2024 Art Captain) and Chloe Chiu-Designer of front cover

The Fintona English Faculty

The Fintona Art Faculty

Ms Rachael Falloon – Principal

Ms Zoe Alexiades – Marketing and Communications Manager

Ellikon Fine Printers – Designer and Printers