As we settle into new routines, this edition of our magazine invites you to explore what it means to be Rooted. In a time marked by political shifts and cultural reckonings, Rooted explores the many ways we ground ourselves.
Our contributors explored what grounds them in a world that feels anything but stable. Some dug into soil and cities, while others questioned their roots entirely. In these pages you’ll find stories of ancestral ties, family recipes, radical histories, and plant metaphors.
Catalyst has always been committed to truth telling and holding space for student voices. Whether you’re new to Catalyst or a regular reader, we hope this issue meets you where you’re at – and maybe even reminds you where you come from.
Photograph by Huda Shehzad
Contributors
Catalyst
Issue 81, 2025
Established in 1944
Contact catalyst@rmit.edu.au
rmitcatalyst.com
RMIT Building 12, Level 3, Room 9
402 Swanston St, Melbourne
Editors
Dilushi H Prasanna
Megan Tran
Manaal Soomro
Designers
Ananya Ojha
Caitlyn Nguyen
Elisa Tran
Grace Tanuwijaya
Natalie Tjendera
Rosie Lawton-Poland
Yiben Wang
RUSU Publications & Communications
Shana Schultz
Photographers
Alessio Mengato
Huda Shehzad
Cover Design
Dilushi H Prasanna
Printer
Printgraphics Pty Ltd
14 Hardner Road, Mount Waverley
Victoria 3149 Australia
P: 9562 9600
Catalyst acknowledges that our publication runs on the unceded lands of the Woiwurrung and Boonwurrung language groups of the Eastern Kulin Nations. We pay our respect to the Elders, past and present. We also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia where creative endeavours are nurtured.
Catalyst is a student-run publication of the RMIT Student Union (RUSU). The views expressed herein are not necessarily those of the Editors, the Printers, or the Student Union.
Writers
Adrien Marks
Ananya Ojha
Ashar Husain
Ciara Ennis
Dulan Ariyathilaka
Elma Taric
Elisa Tran
Finbar Bray
Marley Fountain Hope
Nikan Dadvar
Nithya N Nagaraja
Olivia Jones
Jake Pusztai
Janine Sequeira
Editorial Committee
Dilushi Himesha Prasanna
Manaal Soomro
Megan Tran
Shana Schultz
Typeface
Brunswick Grotesque by Dennis Grauel
Photograph by Huda Shehzad
Ashar Husain
Where Are You From?
This is a question that still terrifies me, simply because I’m never really sure of the answer.
I’m Ashar, it’s an Arabic name written as in the traditional script and pronounced as “Usher” in English, though that does not stop many from calling me “Asher” and “Ash-har”. It’s a name that means many things to many people. In the native tongue it means liveliness and to my family the word means their first child; their first chance at first-hand (or in the case of my aunts and uncles, second-hand) parenting.
Looking at me, one would think my roots to be relatively uninteresting. My skin alone is nothing exceptional – it’s a shade of brown like many other Indians and begging for attention as it cracks in the Melbourne cold, but this skin holds the roots of both my parents and their parents before them. Much of these roots have been lost to time as the elder generation has passed on, so I only know of the roots going back to the time of my grandparents.
Unlike what most people believe, culturally my background isn’t purely Indian.
My mother was born and raised in Sokoto, Nigeria, a country in Western Africa where my grandfather was a professor. She remained there until her return with the family to Delhi to study at Jamia Millia Islamia.
My father, born and raised in India, travelled around whilst working for my grandfather who was a businessman working in the petroleum industry. Around the time he met my mother he had his own trading business which was a success of its own and sustains his side of the family to this day.
After their marriage, my parents chose to stay in Delhi, where I was born. We moved to Singapore when I was 9, my parents still live there. My sister and I moved to Melbourne for our higher education, and that’s where we are now.
Since arriving in Melbourne, I am frequently hit
with the question “Where are you from”. Now, as a young adult for whom his parents did not cook daal chaawal and biryani on the regular, rather jollof rice and Nigerian stew. Who didn’t have butter chicken for takeout but rather chicken rice from the local hawker centre, the question still does not prompt a simple answer from me.
There are many segments of ones roots that those with a simpler background don’t have to think about because they’re all connected – where you were born, where you were raised, what accent you have, your religion , what language you speak, in what language you think, which passport and visa you hold and what you identify with, just to name a few, which in my case, are all different with little connection between them from the view of anyone else.
I was born in Delhi, raised in Singapore, I have no less than four different accents for English alone, I speak 3 languages (more depending on your definition of “speak”) and a lot more that I understand, I think in objects and actions without words, I am a muslim, I hold an Indian citizenship and a Singaporean visa and I honestly do not know which culture I identify with because they are all a part of me.
I would not be me without the Nigerian stew, or the occasional nihari. My understanding of language and my religion would be incomplete without all Urdu, Hindi, Arabic and English. My brain would not have developed the same without my education in Singapore (nor my fond memories of the Chinese New Year with GongXi GongXi songs blasting on the radio), my value for family wouldn’t exist without my time in India (neither would I have seen my parents grow and succeed against the struggles we faced) and my growth would be incomplete without university in Melbourne – something I’m still going through today.
I come from a place of privilege, my family has put their best foot forward in my growth and that of my sister and for that I am forever grateful,
it has also lead to exposure to ideas and people without whom I wouldn’t be who I am today, at the same time, it has led to confusion when thinking about where I come from and where I belong – often told I am not one of theirs by Indians because I studied in Singapore, by Singaporeans because my mother was born in Sokoto, by Africans because I didn’t spend any time there and by Arabs because I am not fully fluent in the language.
Though there is a good side to it too; every once in a while there will be people who welcome me with open arms at everyday encounters or at social events because they realise I’m not too different from them, it’s lead to many friendships and has made my time here at RMIT worthwhile and made me realise that though my roots may be confusing at times, they are to be embraced and I would be less without any part of them.
Writing by Ashar Husain
Photography by Rosie Lawton-Poland
Dulan Ariyathilaka
The Namesake, Joyful Strains’, Growing Up Asian in Australia. I remember these books fondly while spending my final years at school here. It resonated with me when the characters in these books described themselves as living different lives when moving to different countries. Or when they feel as if they had been reborn after migrating. I can’t say my roots reflect me now, and that’s okay. Yet, on my first days in a foreign school watching the sun start to set while I waited for dad, the I couldn’t shake the homesickness.
I was always someone who’d miss home. I remember crying when we had to move houses back in Sri Lanka, so migrating was undeniably jarring. Physically, I couldn’t even handle the cold. We barely had blankets and insulation where we lived so I’d spent a few sleepless nights before school. The culture shocks kept
Regrowth
Writing by Dulan Ariyathilaka
hitting me too. But the people around me made adjusting so much easier. the other kids and the teachers were really kind. I always thought I’d get left feeling like an outcast but I’m so lucky that it was quite the opposite. Even when I moved schools once it never felt like I couldn’t fit it, in fact, as the years went by, I started feeling more and more at home.
Uni starts up, COVID hits, I stop visiting my home country as much, it’s been five years now since I’ve been back home. The couple of times I did visit felt strange. Seeing my old room, meeting my grandparents again, it all made me realise more and more about the life I detached from. Now, I can barely say I relate to my old roots. I’ve had to regrow here. I’ll never forget home, I will cherish my past and the country I moved from, but my roots are here now.
Photograph by Tahira Rifath // Waters Edge, Sri Lanka
How to Pull a Root Without Damaging the Soil
On relationships, change, and healing.
A healthy garden thrives with consistent care and nurture. Habitual maintenance makes the space truly wonderful — usually, that is all that's needed. But time and time again, roots that never belonged Find their way in.
You may not notice — not until it’s too late — How much space they’ve taken, How deeply they’ve grown into the fabric of your garden.
Pulling them out too soon could tear the soil, Leaving them too long might cause deeper harm. Should these roots be accepted?
Can they be integrated without smothering what's meant to grow? Could you bear the loss — of blossoms, of balance — When you wrench the roots away?
Loss may come simply from the act of letting go, But the aftermath only whispers its story once it arrives. If these roots no longer belong, if they must go, Then you must welcome the change. Lean on those who offer help in tending your garden — Or your efforts may be fruitless.
Janine Sequeira
Spinning Still, Holding Steady
I’m someone who can’t sit still or be quiet. It’s both a flaw and a strength, I think. Most days, I don’t know how to regulate it — or even express it.
But at home, where I felt most myself, my energy and restlessness were always welcomed. I was encouraged to care deeply and to speak loudly, even when the world around me fell silent.
Especially then.
Maybe that’s why, in the blur of my final school years, I found comfort in something small but grounding — a cricket ball.
It started at home, rolling between my fingers during conversations, long nights, and slow mornings. Soon, it came with me everywhere: my school bag, my locker, the yard, even the classroom.
My hands found it instinctively. My friends passed it back to me without question.
People would ask, “Why do you carry that?”
And I never quite knew how to answer in words that made sense. Because for me, it wasn’t just a ball.
It was something steady. A small, familiar weight I could return to. A way to root myself — to settle the noise around me when everything else felt uncertain.
But there were moments when it felt different. I’d sit on the train, rolling the ball across my knuckles, catching the weight of strangers’ eyes. In spaces where no one knew me, where there was no context, I suddenly stood out.
A teenage girl with a cricket ball? It confused
people. I could feel the questions hanging in the air — unspoken, but present. And in those moments, I felt alien. Like I didn’t belong.
Still, I never let go.
One day, my friends gifted me a new ball — this one covered in their signatures. Their names trailed across the leather like veins — turning the ball into a living record of the people who held me steady. With that, it became more than a personal comfort.
It became a symbol of care.
A reminder that I didn’t need to uproot myself to fit in — that the parts of me that felt strange could also be understood, even cherished.
It turns out, rooting yourself doesn’t always look like tradition or permanence. Sometimes, it’s just about holding something close that helps you stay steady, when everything else feels like it’s shifting.
Maybe you have something like that too. A habit. An object. A ritual. Something simple that grounds you — something that lets you feel like yourself again.
Or maybe you’re still searching — and that’s okay too.
I hope, wherever you are, you find what helps you root down.
And when you do, I hope you keep it close. Even if no one else understands why.
Elisa Tran
The Family Recipe Archive
I was thankful when sunset came, washing its final glow on the pavement before painting them violet. The needle of an analogue clock hovers above 7 and just like a fairytale, magic was prophesied to be made. Oh how a vacant table suddenly teemed with rhapsodies of colours, shapes,aroma, commanding the attention of their surrounding inhabitants. The real enchantment lies in the freedom of our tastes, each unique personality shining through their own austere ceramics. Our tropical climate equipped us with the abundance of rice in every meal, and with its changing seasons came the available vegetable side dish, and a protein. These components are arranged separately rather than on each person’s plate. From these vibrant selections, we children learned how to customise our palettes this way by taking what is needed, our plates never duplicated another.
300 miles away, the winter’s pallid rays acquiesced its biting atmosphere. Almost 10 years since the festivities of food brought squeamish families and relatives together.
I am now accustomed to single quick meals that get me through the door by 8 am and in bed by 9 pm. Although the magic seems to effervesce over time and distance, its effects lingered, rubbing its resourcefulness in preparations.
Finding morning glory is impossible in this landscape, but baby spinach can still be cooked and stir fried in garlic. Grilling cutlets outdoors proves to be a challenge with the howling wind, however the oven is safer and gets the job done. Forgetting to turn on the rice cooker is a dreary moment, luckily there’s other carbs like orzo and couscous to partially fill the macro void.
Writing and Design by Elisa Tran
When I was little, my mother made a choice.
Our language stayed
Sometimes I catch her voice, saying things I don’t understand.
Nothing too dramatic. Just quiet practical. She’s School
If she English, she manage? She
like an old song no sang anymore.
And I wonder, is it too Or are some words in the background...
She said, And so, English filled our home
She’s just a kid. School starts soon. she can’t speak English, how will manage?
Once she’s older, I’ll teach her our cartoons
Now, I’m older than she Because... too late to learn? lost forever? language was when she said it.
one Years passed. I grew up
MyTongueMotheris a Language I Don’t Speak.
Olivia Jones Information Saturation
A wise man once said, “You can never have too much of a good thing”. Quite tragically, he was wrong.
There is a phenomenon in agriculture known as nitrogen saturation. This essentially describes a state in which soil nitrogen levels are excessively high, resulting in stunted root growth and poor nutrient uptake by any unlucky plant that happens to be nearby
Now, here is the catch: any good gardener knows that if you want to yield the greatest crop or win best pumpkin in show, you need nitrogen. After sunlight and water, nitrogen is arguably the most important determinant in growth. It is a component in just about every element of a healthy plant, from the sun-catching chlorophyll that tinges its leaves a luscious green to the amino acids that function as the very building blocks of all cell formation. Skimp on the nitrogen, and your pumpkin won’t even be fit for the local supermarket, let alone best in show.
This is information that, unless you are a green thumb or an agronomist, you will likely have absolutely zero use for in the future (there’s a slim chance of it becoming handy in your weekly pub quiz, but who knows). The point is, now you know it, and you can’t unknow it. You can forget it, sure, but the experience of consuming the information I just provided cannot be undone.
This in and of itself is not a bad thing. Information is wonderful; it tells us about ourselves and each other. It allows me to know things such as my cat’s dinner preference (Fancy Feast’s tuna in Gravy) or that Lorde’s new album drops in 11 hours. On a fundamental level, it is the very thing that determines our understanding of not only the world around us but our relative position within it. Like nitrogen, information functions as an essential component to how we root ourselves in reality. It stands to reason, then, that the more
information we consume, the better rooted we are. And in an age of 24/7 high-speed media exchange, you would think that our grip on reality would be infallible, that we would be at the peak of our powers with the knowledge of the world quite literally at our fingertips. Well, we aren’t. Quite to the contrary, we are now experiencing a new state, characterised by anxiety, poor decision making, and chronic indecisiveness. The American Psychological Association terms this, Information Overload.
It seems that, in addition to the 25% of our genes we share with plants, we also share the tendency to freeze given too much of a good thing. We each require information and nitrogen, respectively, but in the event of an overload, we can both say goodbye to developing good, firm, healthy roots.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, “I’ve just received unsolicited information about nitrogen and roots, and this can only be adding to the problem!”. But don’t stress, we possess a loophole that plants don’t, and that comes in the form of mindful media consumption. The solution is not to stop consuming completely but rather to foster a greater awareness regarding what, where and why we consume information. Even the small act of noticing can help us be less passive and better attuned to distinguish between positive media and media that contribute to an accumulation of unhelpful information.
Do I really want to be down a TikTok rabbit hole every night right before bed… well, yes. But should I be? Definitely not! The odd rabbit hole is okay once in a while, but too many and we risk ending up like Alice: uprooted from reality and dwarfed in the face of 24/7 mass media saturation. Creative Writing by Olivia Jones Design by Yiben Wang
Elma Taric Culture Under Siege
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this piece are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views, policies, or positions of RMIT University or its affiliates.
Documenting the silencing of artists, academics and journalists in global conflict zones
Refaat Alareer was an accomplished writer, poet and professor who taught literature, poetry and creative writing at the Islamic University of Gaza. Two years into the Gaza War, Alareer and countless other academics have been killed, while university and school buildings, including the Islamic University of Gaza, have burned to dust from airstrikes. Al Jazeera reported that close to 200 historical areas have been destroyed in air raids. The Rafah and Al Qarara Museums— significant cultural heritage sites with curations of ancient artefacts, were reduced to rubble early on in the conflict.
The largest arts centres such as Shababeek for Contemporary Art and Eltiqa Group in the Gaza Strip, were decimated. The Shababeek in particular housed over 20,000 pieces of contemporary art, and held numerous exhibitions, programs and events for the art locals and the community. Years of carefully collected history and knowledge as well as artistic livelihood disappeared in mere days as if they never existed, displacing scholars and artists if they have not already died.
Since its inception in 2023, the conflict has put the 77 years of occupation decades of suppression and silencing into light. With the easy accessibility of social media, these actions are circulated more than ever before. Motaz Azaiza, Hind Khoudary, Wael Al-Dahdouh and Busan Owda are some of the prominent Palestinian journalists who have reported by documenting their own experiences on the ground level war, notably through social media. Through posts, videos and lives, journalists in Palestine broadcasted the conflict firsthand from their phone cameras that went straight to the algorithms of viewers worldwide. People could gain insights into the unfolding situation through first person perspectives and accounts.
However, documenting conflict has become synonymous with online policy violations. Sada Social, a Palestinian digital rights organisation,
recently published its Digital Rights Index. It reported over 25,000 digital content violations in the form of content removal, shadowbanning and suspension of accounts that posted or were related to the Palestinian conflict. 29% of these content violations were of journalists and media institutions.
Azaiza himself amongst many others had their accounts and content censored and banned before they were reinstated; others were not so lucky. Beyond silencing internet coverage, The Palestinian Journalists Syndicate found 226 journalists have been killed by Israeli forces in systematically targeted attacks since late 2024, interrupting voices completely. One such case is the Khan Younis Israeli airstrike in April this year that hit a journalist’s tent, killing Helm Al Faqaawi, and injuring nine more.
Gaza is not dissimilar to situations around the globe. Congo is undergoing one of the worst humanitarian crises in the world; journalists and activists who have been vocal about the conflict or reported on it have been unlawfully detained and arrested. Media professionals in Haiti have been targeted while covering the political instability in the capital. Over 13,000 schools in Myanmar have been forced to close due to the military coup’s seizure and occupation. Artists in Syria are vying for free spaces of creation in a post-Assad era, now having access to artistically unlimited events that they previously did not.
Artists who produce drawings and paintings like the ones in the Shababeek and Eltiqa Museums, academics like Refaat Alareer who shared knowledge by teaching others, and journalists like Motaz Azaiza who report their authentic lives, make up the building blocks of a nation and their people by creating culture. While situations may differ or be difficult to understand, the universal constant is that to silence advocates in global conflicts in whatever form is to attempt erasure of these generational roots in which build a life and presence. Culture and livelihood transform into resistance, so without these core facets, suffering societies struggle for sources of identity.
Writing by Elma Taric
Design by Elisa Tran
Photography by Alessio Mengato
Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this piece are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the views, policies, or positions of RMIT University or its affiliates.
Jake Pusztai
Rooted in Resistence
Historical deep-dive into Indigenous activism and student involvement.
Students at Australian universities have contributed a significant amount of time and effort into Indigenous activism, but who were the first students to stand up for First Peoples? What was the response from the public? How much history does RMIT have in Indigenous activism? These are the questions I sought to get answers for, to better understand how we have gotten to the rallies, protests, and marches that we see and experience today.
The earliest records of student activist activity I could find dates back to the 1960s. In 1965, a student-led group comprised of students from the University of Sydney, Student Action For Aborigines (SAFA), drove through countless rural towns of New South Wales in a bus of 30 students to protest the blatant public discrimination First Peoples endure. Led by one of the only two Indigenous students from USYD at the time, Charles Perkins, the group held numerous peaceful demonstrations that pushed the boundaries these rural communities had never faced. Challenging local laws such as barring Indigenous veterans from the Walgett RSL, not allowing Indigenous children into public swimming pools, and numerous anti-Indigenous policies cafes held. SAFA held their group’s banner and a variety of signs that questioned the indifference between First Peoples and the community of these rural towns, provoking new perspectives of the treatment the Indigenous community suffer from (Smith, 2019).
Indigenous rights were a foreign concept to these rural towns visited. SAFA faced heavy backlash from racists that came in droves; it was clear their ideology wasn’t welcome. They visited Walgett on the 15th of February 1965. SAFA protested with signs that questioned
Writing by Jake Pusztai
the Walgett RSL’s decision to bar Indigenous veterans with messages such as “Acceptance, Not Segregation”, “Educate Whites”, and “Why Only Whites?”, a demonstration that stunned the town and caused a stir amongst its residents. While a local First Peoples committee greeted them with welcome arms and showed their support, the non-Indigenous population of Walgett voiced their hate speech and tore down the protesters’ signs (Smith, 2019). On the 30th of January they were met with an enraged mob of over 500 people of Moree, when they tried to aide six Indigenous children into the town’s local baths, a facility that had a strict ban on First Peoples. The students were refused entry and carted off by the baths’ manager, as onlookers jeered and spat on them (Daily Mirror, 1965).
There are many instances of Indigenous activism from various Australian universities that could be shared, but I searched high and low for any sign of RMIT student involvement in Indigenous activism and fell terribly short. This surprised me, as student activism on our city campus is prevalent. But it seems that RMIT students who feel creating petitions and holding student-led rallies as a means to an end have historically focused on other problems of our nation and even problems from other parts of the world as well.
While the students of RMIT continue to protest for multiple causes, there is clearly a historical gap in our universities’ involvement in Indigenous activism, and its silence that cannot be compared to the bold actions from the likes of SAFA. The bravery shown by Charles Perkins and his peers created a path for Indigenous activists of future generations. This path that SAFA carved out is an opportunity for the activists of RMIT’s student body and student bodies across Australia to advocate for the First Peoples, a path that RMIT can take.
Design by Natalie Tjendera
Marley Hope Fountain
Where Hate Fails, Hope Prevails
Division, not in the mathematical sense, has been the subject that supposedly outlines the very nature of human beings. As the story goes, we were hunter-gatherers first – designated caregiver and, well, hunter. After slow moving progress, we created hierarchy and technology beyond our wildest imaginations. Bestowing humans the power of extending life expectancy, of course only to the “worthy” kind. A rough adolescent progress period elapsed, where we created hate. Hate that has grown tendrils among our timelines. Hate, that bleeds into conversation and internal perspectives.
Now, we in-fight, whilst that same hierarchy established moons ago remains ever malicious. Where the wealthy “hard workers” retort lies to the masses, adding fuel to the fire they began.
Gender is two they say, two to be upheld against the will of those who diverge. Two from which you originate and stay. Gender is always two – the one of bravery and violence, and the other of innocence and femininity. One mustn’t leave this role of course, for society would collapse!
We have always been two!
To love other than your opposite is a sin. A disgusting error in your mental programming –loving who you are unequivocally connected to? Horrific! It’s in our DNA to keep straight! It’s in our DNA!
DNA they say, biological. A word flung around as if it were a bullwhip in a rough cowboy hand. Look at the science, it’s always right!
Except when it diverges from my beliefs, then of course it’s fake. Lies created by the woke.
Awake, to the injustice, woke is an insult?
A buzzword for division, weaponised by the oppressors and the manipulated oppressed. The latter in need, in need of aid from community. Away from their own marginalised identity, and into a community that gives the hand of a “greater purpose”. To return to the “Good ol’ Days”.
A label for such a time period, is unfit to describe a cage of segregation and genocide. Where the tone in a scale of beige to brown dictates your worth, patterns and behaviour. Although, such a time isn’t to far different from our present.
Hate is alive, and is gifted through generations. Hate is of the same breed as spores from a fungus, it’s invisible and drifts everlasting across the bounds of any earthen plane. Infecting the vulnerable and drugging the “kings” with a sense of strength and greed.
Hate, however, is fragile.
We were never divided by hunter and gatherer; roles were shared among those who were proficient in such. This was a lie, one that tangled our beliefs into a pin hole, to reflect a single demographics motive. In the same way that queerness, race and any other label of marginalism were too as well. Humanity has always been abstract. Humanity has always been hopeful.
Hope, unlike Hate, powers connection.
Similar in the extent that they reach beyond the bound of time and pass through generations –hope is a force that unites in a way that hate fails to. It lingers unseen, it binds us to each other and projects strength into the hearts of many.
And where there is many there is power. Hope can falter, and may falter, especially in a period of war and de-humanisation, but doesn’t escape where hate can. It builds in community, in friendships and family, it finds refuge in the smile of belonging. And more than anything, with enough hope, comes action and change. Change from the lies that have been needled into our society, and change to the oppressive systems that run our world, no matter how slow, change will occur when hope exists. And hope, is a thing that transcends invention, hope is what it means to be human.
The oppressors hate hope. Hope is the final battle to them, the final battle for ultimate control. But what they do not understand, is that hope is ingrained in the masses. And at the end of the day, Hope, will always prevail.
“If there is hope…
it lies in the proles” – George Orwell 1984
Writing by Marley Hope Fountain
Design by Caitlyn Nguyen
Janine Sequeira
Growing Again Anyway
i thought love was remembering someone’s favourite colour and hoping they remembered mine. texting first. then again. then again.
i thought showing up meant waiting. meant holding the space until he was ready to walk into it.
i knew his moods like weather, read his silences like distant thunder. watered the wrong garden because i believed it could bloom if i just stayed long enough. but nothing grew except me. slowly. quietly. in all the places he never looked.
then — a new name. a new laugh. a voice that matched mine instead of softening it.
someone who replied before i retyped, who shared without needing to be asked, who didn’t flinch when i was loud, or weird, or too much.
i am not asking for a rare flower, i just want sunlight i don’t have to beg for.
conversations that root and reach, love that doesn’t need to be translated.
i still water the flowers, but now, i let the other person bring the rain too.
Poetic Composition by Janine Sequeira
Photograph by Huda Shehzad
Olivia Jones
Root
/ru:t/
It would be amiss to release this issue without ensuring a thorough understanding of the theme at hand: Root. If you were to consult the Oxford Dictionary (2017), root (noun) is chiefly defined as “the part of a plant normally below the ground, attaching it to the earth and conveying nourishment to it from the soil”. This definition precedes some 28 alternatives that span half a page of the 1682 required to contain the English language. I will spare you from reciting them all here, after all, this is not a linguistics lesson, and you are not here to read the dictionary. Rather, I will provide you with a brief summary, a SparkNotes if you will. Roots are everywhere. They are in the gummy flesh of our mouths at the base of our molars, in our kinship for people and place, and in the questionable backing of a fruitless sports team. They, too, are a source: a source of good, of evil, of nutrients and of structure. And perhaps, in my favourite form, they are the carrots, sweet potato, and onions combined in the broth of a hearty soup.
There is a common thread that runs through these various iterations of root and ties them together, and this is attachment. Whether literal or figurative, the word root conjures a sense of anchorage, a connection to an origin or birthplace. It suggests a tether to something that is outside the self, yet simultaneously holds influence over it.
Our understanding of this meaning did not emerge overnight, so I know what you’re thinking: what is the root of the word root? How have we arrived at these similar and yet wholly distinct definitions? How is it that I can tell you I am rooting for you, and you understand this as a statement of support rather than a strange way of my attributing my latest crop of potatoes to you? Finding the root of a word is the work of an etymologist; so perhaps this is a linguistics lesson after all.
Root itself is derived from the Old Norse word rót, used to describe the root of a plant. As a noun, the word has been around for a while – think pre-12th century, but has since branched off, developing into both a verb and an adjective. Now, I am no etymologist, but by understanding the central root of a word, it seems that any subsequent derivatives of meaning, unsurprisingly, present as a reflection of the people using them.
The term root belonged to the farmer of the Middle Ages, long before it was commandeered by the modern software developer, and while each is familiar with the term, each will associate it with wholly different connotations. Indeed, the branching choices provided by a computer’s virtual root control menu mimic that of a legume’s divided root system, but this is about as far as the similarities go. I fear that if you were to hand our ancient farmer a computer, it would end up on the woodpile. It seems the root of words go only so far in determining their meaning; the rest lies in understanding the people using them.
There are certain words I could speak to family or close friends that would convey wholly unique meanings that you wouldn’t find in a dictionary. If I were to recite them here, they would appear as a random jumble, but their comprehension among a privy few provides a connection to my roots. There is, within our shared languages, a second, more intimate language, one formed through alternate meanings born from time, place and experience. Born from our roots.
Perhaps it is through our comprehension of words – of root, in all its various forms – that we, in turn, reveal a tether to our own roots.
Design by Caitlyn Nguyen
Nikan Dadvar
Rooted Nowhere, Growing Everywhere
Melbourne weather had never ticked me off more than in June 2024. I was just sick of it. I thought I was ready for a massive switchup. The 40-degree days, the dry air, the sweat trickling down your forehead—that was home. But when we landed for a stopover in Oman, I realized I wasn’t as built for it as I used to be. That uncomfortable sweat, the overwhelming stickiness, and the deviated septum I didn’t used to have—it hit harder than expected. I wasn’t sure if Tehran was going to be much better. How was I going to survive three weeks in a country where you can’t even wear shorts outside?
Then we landed in Tehran. Airport security, mean mugging as usual. One guy just ahead of us got stopped and turned back, no explanation. My heart was starting to come out of my mouth as my dad walked up to the guy behind the desk—a proper maggot. He didn’t even say hi back, let alone be polite. You would’ve thought my dad had just taken his candy. Finally, we got through. I didn’t get quite as giddy as I once did when I was a kid. This time, reuniting felt more heartwarming.
I sat silently in my cousin’s run-down car, taking in the chaotic streets, the disorganized mess of signs, traffic, and smog. It smelled like pollution— something I probably didn’t even notice as a kid, but now it hit me in the face. Rolling down the windows in Melbourne had suddenly become a privilege. But the second we reached my grandmother’s house, everything shifted. That place still held me. I spent ten minutes just walking through the rooms, staring at the furniture, soaking it all in like a memory I didn’t want to forget.
There’s this sound in Iranian homes—Persian
chatter layered on top of each other, bouncing across a family gathering like a live orchestra. That used to overwhelm me as a kid, but this time it was the most comforting thing in the world. My mother tongue—I missed it. I missed the food too: the sourness influenced by my grandmother’s northern roots, the fashion choices of my aunties after a shopping trip. The way the country’s rules around modesty shape fashion differently—sometimes for the better, sometimes not—was interesting to notice through fresh eyes.
But I didn’t really feel like I acted differently, not in Australia or in Iran. If anything, the trip made me realize I’ve become my own person. Sure, both environments shaped me, but I’m not in the oven anymore—I’m done baking. My past self wouldn’t recognize my current look. I used to be all about Nike tech fleece and skinny jeans. Now it’s cargos and a hipster beanie. Every time I wear it someone asks if I’m a skater. I can’t stand on one for more than two seconds. I just like what I like, and that’s okay.
I’ve come to realize that feeling rooted doesn’t come from soil—it comes from people. My grandma’s house still makes me feel something deep. So do my aunties' homes. But more than anything, it’s the people. My little cousin—who I barely knew before this trip—drew pictures for me every day. I cut them out and slid them behind my phone case. That was a highlight. That was home.
And honestly? Home’s a state of mind. The in-between period, when you’ve just arrived somewhere new and nothing feels familiar— that’s rough. But give it time, give it people, and anywhere can start to feel like home.
Adrien Marks
Charlie and The Factory Machine
I was born into what was considered to be privilege. Towers of maple pancakes, chocolate chip and blueberry, sticky bacon, crispy bacon, fresh orange juice, and bottled orange juice. In the absence of company, I would notice every plate of food on the table. It was what some would call a dysfunctional family, it was what most would call stability. Two huge quartzite pillars, sourced by a personal architect with Indiana Jones intent. A forest green front door with glass panels followed into an obnoxiously large pale orange chandelier dangling ahead leading into the stark white kitchen that glistened as a beige lace drape hung down blowing ever so slightly with the breeze from an ajar window frame. My mother would sit before the window frame sometimes, perched on an ottoman staring at absolutely nothing. She looked beautiful, the gleam on her face flushed away a part of her facade, she looked cleaner, her lips smaller, she looked more like herself, more like the mother who would squeal as I peed on her hand as she changed my diaper. I could see the mother she wanted to be once before she found out she didn’t need to do a single thing, and I would be just fine.
Mum was penniless once, something like a 1950s beggar. Stale bread, cabbage soup, golden ticket chocolate bar. She couldn’t afford me, so she kept me. Held onto me because of the white men who decided they knew better, she begged the gas station man to give her a free tank of gas, even flashed her tits. The man said he may let it be if she went behind the counter for a moment, so she ran as far as her empty tank would take her.
“There’s a serious problem with reality,” she would chant to herself while I slept peacefully. Eventually, she was beguiled into believing I was what was best for society, maybe she was a straight up murderer. Leading me to not know if she truly did save me or simply sustained me. She told me all of this in confidence, on the promise to never tell another soul, I regularly questioned why she decided I was the best person to tell. She placed me in a position, a position that came from the moment I was born into this world, I was born on the foundation of unwanted, of oppression.
To be a mother was never to feel a love so deep you would give an entire body for them. She was under the impression that the minute a man held her up to the reflective light and made her feel beautiful, she owed them her body as merely a gift, never a sacrifice.
20 years later, I got pregnant because I loved a man. He immediately knew, he carried me into bed and let me sleep on it still. He knew his perceived notion was nothing on how I felt about the situation. I did what mother wished she had done, I did what I needed to do to be a better mother, not just a fine one.
So, I acted with celerity and stared into the crowd to tell the biggest lie of my life.
“Every child needs a good foundation to know how to grow.”
Design by Caitlyn Nguyen
Nithya N Nagaraja
Where the Thirst Began
Drinking is such a fundamental and essential part of Australian culture that you seldom see an event without kids, with alcohol not a part of it. It is an extension of social bonding, celebration, and unwinding.
Alcohol came into this nation in the 1700s, when the First Fleet brought in some grog as a part of its journey. It was a part of the daily ration that temporary residents of these ships regularly consumed. The First Fleet was a group of 11 ships that brought in the colonial influence that was to change the future of the landscape, in many ways than one. This “grog” became one of the few threads that were woven in quite tightly into the fabric of Australian culture as we know today.
By the 1800s when it was more than just a thread, but essentially the centrepiece. Australia’s first coup d'etat stemmed between Governor William Bligh and the military, particularly the New South Wales’ Corps called the ‘Rum Corps’. Rum, at this point, became a significant part of the barter system. Imagine the icon alcohol was at this point in history where its consumption had become so remarkably high that it could be used as currency, and the one who controls its trade did hold a significant amount of power.
With this, the era of breweries was born. One of the most iconic and oldest breweries in Australia is the Cascade Brewery in Tasmania born in the 1800s, around the same time as it began to be moderated. The infamous "six o’clock swill", a rush to drink before early pub closing times, inadvertently led to more binge drinking. Post
World War 2, pub culture surged, becoming a central social hub, particularly for men, and beer consumption soared. Today, Australia's attitude towards alcohol has not stayed static. We've seen a shift towards stabilisation and an increased interest in premium quality alcohol like craft beers and boutique wines, often prioritising quality over sheer quantity. While its roots are deep, the culture continues to evolve towards more responsible and diverse drinking habits.
Some interesting social practices this has given rise to “shouting” out drinks, which was believed to be a practice that started from buying everyone a round of drinks when a gold miner struck rich. This has been adopted into convention now as a social bonding ritual based on reciprocity amongst groups. Another practice has been to “work and bust”, which was formerly symbolic of a hard day’s work followed by a celebratory session of heavy drinking at the local pub to wrap the day up. While working hard and playing harder is still very much a part of the Australian ethos, this practice has taken a backseat permanently. Friday night rituals have long been a popular practice with companies and social groups to wind down from the week, kick back and start the weekend frenzy early. Whether at a pub, bar, or backyard BBQ, these gatherings are vital for social bonding.
Whatever the practice, drinking is and will be an integral part of your environment. Always remember to drink responsibly when you do and to carry ID at all times.
Writing by Nithya N Nagaraja Kittens and Cats; a Book of Tales, 1911
Design by Grace Tanuwijaya
Adrien Marks
Treacle in The Gap of His Mouth
He proclaimed, “YOU CAN’T GO ON WITHOUT HIM.” The capitalisations seemed necessary, when I hear his voice quaking, I hear not only him but the water in the earth. I would argue like a smart ass when I got another C in math.
“How do you even know he is a man?”
“The words in writing were just there? Sitting there waiting for WHAT?” A pause in my slightly raised voice.
“No need to SHOUT,” he proclaimed, again.
“We believe everything in a BOOK, who was the first one to tell you to do that?”
A gap in his mouth. A gape.
“You preach about the man who hit you, is that where your beliefs stem from?”
“You believed the man who had to give you a reason to love.”
“He said he was a good man once,” you say.
You could’ve built stairs and blamed them. You could have said absolutely anything. But you did what he would have told you to do. Release your anger, don’t be it. Who wouldn’t have known he would release it on you.
“A man isn’t a good man because he vows to only hit you once.”
You taught me to root myself to a cause, a way or a reason. Not that way though.
“I thought you knew better.” he would preach. At that time, I only knew what was carefully placed into my brain canal. It was ever so skinny, designed for cave divers.
I thought you were so smart, I followed your trail,
and I became what you idealised in a loved one. It took a little bit more than a big step for me to see that you were so smart that you forgot to be kind.
I was in the presence of kind people, I could see little, but I could see that. These people who always loved Him very first, very last, all the damn time. I got to an appropriate age, then started wondering if He wanted those to have life, they may have had love, but life got a little tied up in hymns and testimonies. I remember the one and only time I refused to go to church, I was about twelve, I remember that because I told him I liked him before he touched my lips. That must have been the first time I ever saw life without love. I didn’t even jump in on the once every-four years new bible buy. Not even the sparkly pink, it matched my pyjamas.
“How DARE you forget about the life we gave you.” He silently grumbled this time. Like I had spoken to him instead of being the reason for his raise of voice.
“You gave me a life so I can give myself one.” I don’t think it made much sense at all to me at the time, but that never stopped me from saying anything.
“You’ve lost yourself in self-obsession!” He would say over and over, repeated on a continuous line.
I guess that is why I could go on without you. You would call me a coward just for being, being someone who chose myself very first, very last, all the damn time.
“OH, HOW COULD YOU GO ON WITHOUT HIM”
“Oh it’s not only Him, it’s going on without Him and the God you made of yourself.”
Ciara Ennis
Roots, Worms and The Bird
There are roots in this soil
Under mulch and dirt
They are grounded firm
Reaching down,
Beneath the turf
This whole town
Lies beneath the earth
Many roots in this soil
Above ground some blue
Above ground some red
A bird would see green
If it flew overhead
All the plants in this soil
Look different to the bird
Naive and too high,
It doesn’t see roots like the worm
‘Underneath plants are the same!’
The worm had tried to say ‘Dirt and imperfect
Similar in many ways’
Reaching up to speak
Out the worm popped it’s head
Normally the bird would listen
Contemplate and think,
Normally they were friends
But the bird didn’t like this
Not a single word It could never be true
Some plants were more useful to this bird,
So he called it ‘fake news’
Tearing up the soil,
The bird removed what he didn’t like
He hated the blue
And he loved the white
‘Stop!’ cried the worm ‘They all feel so deep, The same pain as you claw your way, They bleed the same as you and me’
Looking at the soil,
The bird didn’t want to believe
That if another bird came along,
He'd meet the same fate as the weeds
He had to be different, Be better than those roots
Otherwise he didn’t deserve to fly
And they might learn that soon
So the bird acts fast
To suppress roots so his power will last
He creates divides and imaginary lines
The bird says it’s, ‘black vs white’
Under soil
Roots fight for water
Too busy fighting brother on home turf
The roots forget about the bird
Who rules above their earth
Nithya N Nagaraja
The Philosophy of The "No Worries"
The Australian Chill isn't just a vibe; it's the very air Australians breathe, a rhythm etched into the landscape and whispered in daily exchanges. It's the sun-drenched acceptance that washes over everything, from the vast, ancient continent to the bustling cityscapes. More than a laid-back attitude, it's a profound cultural current, flowing through the way we speak, the choices we make, and the quiet understanding that life, in all its sprawling beauty, is best navigated with a gentle hand and an open heart.
Just as the ocean smooths rough edges into polished stone, so too does the "chill" shape the Australian lexicon. It's not about haste; it’s about a deliberate, unhurried ease that softens the hard corners of urgency. Consider these linguistic currents, flowing freely in everyday conversation:
1. "No worries, mate." This isn't just a phrase; it's a philosophy, a balm poured over minor mishaps and major anxieties. It's the gentle current that carries away stress, an unspoken pact that whatever storm might gather, it will surely pass. It speaks of a deep-seated optimism, a belief in the inherent goodness of things, even when they seem to falter.
2. "She'll be right." A quiet trust in the universe, an acknowledgment that even without intervention, things often find their own way. It's the calm before a ripple, the certainty that equilibrium will return, like the tide receding after a turbulent crash.
3. "All good." This simple affirmation is a versatile, sun-drenched acceptance. It's used as a greeting, a farewell, a reassurance, and a confirmation that everything is, indeed, in its rightful place. It carries the warmth of the sun and the vastness of the sky, a welcoming gesture that asks nothing but presence.
4. "Yeah, nah." This exquisite dance of negation and affirmation is a masterclass in polite ambiguity, a way to soften a refusal, to suggest a gentle redirection rather than a blunt halt. It’s the subtle shifting of sand beneath the waves, a polite withdrawal without causing a splash.
5. "Too easy." Not a boast, but a quiet affirmation of simplicity, a dismissal of unnecessary complexity. It’s the effortless glide of a surfboard on a perfect wave, a testament to efficiency born from intuition rather than effort.
These phrases, seemingly small, are anchors in the vast sea of Australian communication. They are the linguistic footprints of a culture that values genuine connection over formal structure, and effortless flow over rigid adherence.
The Australian Chill isn't just spoken; it's embodied in daily life, woven into the very fabric of existence. It's a refusal to rush, a preference for the open sky, and a deep appreciation for the unscripted moments that make life rich.
1. The BBQ as a Sacred Ritual: Not merely a meal, but a communal gathering under the wide sky, where time unfurls slowly, conversation drifts like smoke, and connections are forged over shared plates. It’s an embrace of the elemental, a return to fire and earth, stripped of pretense.
2. Beach Culture as a State of Being: The ocean isn't just a place to visit; it’s a spiritual home, a teacher of patience and perspective. The rhythmic crash of waves mirrors the unhurried pulse of life, encouraging surrender to the moment, letting worries dissolve into the vast blue.
3. The Assembly of Friends: There's a particular kind of alchemy in the way Australians gather, a casual gravitational pull rather than a rigid plan. It’s often a spontaneous reveal of the day, an unspoken invitation to simply in a shared space. The meeting might begin with "Wanna grab a cold one?" and expand organically, like a slowmoving cloud across the sky. There’s no rush to fill the silence, no pressure to perform. Laughter, when it comes, is genuine and unforced, a sundrenched ripple spreading through the group. It's a testament to the profound ease found in the presence of those who know your stories, a quiet comfort that allows one to float, untethered, in the current of camaraderie.
4. Work-Life Rhythms: While not immune to global pressures, there's a cultural push-back against endless grind, a quiet insistence on leaving space for life beyond the office. It's the understanding that true productivity isn't measured in hours, but in the quality of one's presence, both at work and at home. This often translates into enjoying hobbies, spending time with family, or simply seeking out the restorative power of nature.
5. The Unfussy Welcome: There’s an innate generosity in the Australian spirit, an open-door policy where formality gives way to genuine warmth. Whether it’s sharing a meal, a laugh, or a quiet moment, the welcome is unburdened by expectation, like the vast, open arms of the landscape itself.
The Australian Chill, then, is a quiet art form, practiced daily through subtle gestures and shared language. It's the understanding that the most profound experiences often arrive not through frantic pursuit, but through a patient, open embrace of the present, like sunlight falling on water. It’s the quiet wisdom that sometimes, the most important thing to do is simply be.
Writing by Nithya N Nagaraja
Welcome to all new and returning students! For our returning students, I hope you made it through the first semester and assessments without any bumps along the way and for NEW students, welcome to RMIT and RMIT’s Student Union, RUSU!
RUSU is here to help you put down roots, not just in your studies, but in a community you can call home. Uni can feel overwhelming and unfamiliar, but through free lunches, free brekkies, and spaces to connect, we’re here to build a place where everyone belongs. Our support services are here to steady you when things get tough, and I’ve made lifelong friendships at our events.
RUSU is about making sure that, no matter where you’ve come from, you’ve got somewhere to feel grounded.
Speaking of roots, I’ve come to find my sense of belonging here at RMIT in various places, from my favourite coffee shop on campus to the clubs, and campus spaces that help me feel welcomed and a part of something bigger, looking for community at Uni goes a long way. When I do want to remember my roots, I like to surround myself with the nature of home by going on a walk through Royal Park, an oasis in this sometimes harsh city that reminds me of the dirt tracks and blue gums of the goldfields region I grew up in.
Best of luck in the semester ahead and I hope you love this edition of Catalyst!
