HEREAFTER
There is a strange stillness that arrives at the end of a year. It is not exactly silence, but a soft pause where you can finally hear yourself think. We have spent the past 12 months chasing deadlines, ideas, and each other around campus halls – filling these pages with adrenaline, ambiguity, and the tangled roots of who we are. And now, with our final issue, we arrive at the threshold of something harder to imagine. The hereafter.
Hereafter isn’t a promise or a prophecy, rather a question. It asks what we’re carrying with us from the chaos and colour of this year, and what we are brave enough to leave behind. Hereafter is about recognising that we are always in transition. It asks us to pay attention to the things we have learned, the things we are still learning, and the possibilities that might be waiting just beyond what we can see.
In this issue, you will find futures both imagined and inevitable, things we are still learning to understand, and truths that slipped quietly into our hands while we weren’t paying attention. We have gathered reflections, experiments, confessions, and tiny rebellions - all attempts to make sense of what lies beyond “now.”
And as for us - the Catalyst Baddies – this is our last letter to you for the year. We’ve grown into this magazine together. Every issue has been its own small universe, shaped by the people who trusted us with their words, their art, and their vulnerability. It has been a privilege to help share your stories and creativity.
As we step into the hereafter - whatever shape it takes, we hope you carry forward the same courage you have shown all year. The courage to ask questions. To imagine differently. To disrupt gently. To begin again.
As we wrap up this final issue, we feel grateful for the voices that filled these pages and hopeful for the ones that will come after.
From our messy, ecstatic, hopeful hearts to yours: thank for walking this journey with us.
- Megan, Manaal, & Dilushi signing off.
Photo 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
Brenda Ayunda
Alissa Ceballos
Ananya Ojha
Caitlyn Nguyen
Grace Tanuwijaya
Natalie Tjendera
Yiben Wang
RUSU Publications & Communications
Shana Schultz
Photographers
Elizabeth Read
Huda Shehzad
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.
Cover Illustration
Ananya Ojha
Writers
Olivia Jones
Chay Newman
Elizabeth Read
Brenna Ross
Janine Sequeira
Tex Wise
Editorial Committee
Dilushi Himesha Prasanna
Manaal Soomro
Megan Tran
Shana Schultz
Typeface
Brunswick Grotesque by Dennis Grauel
Photograph by Huda Shehzad
Janine Sequeira
Shared Paths
He said he wants to see the forest with me. Green leaves drape like velvet around our shoulders, light glinting between us, glimmering on the damp moss.
“I like your accent,” he says, and the warmth between us hums soft and steady, like roots touching under the soil.
We step into the tunnel, shadows curling around our ankles, earthy scents rising, familiar and deep.
He says he won’t follow, but the torch warms us both, and the tension slips into something easy, breathing with the rhythm of the hollow.
He smiles at the thought that sometimes you water the wrong garden, believing it could bloom if you just stayed long enough.
He marvels at the differences in our worlds, yet the soil beneath us, the weight of the leaves, the pulse of the dark — it all feels shared.
“I like talking to you too.” Fingers brush thorns, hearts brushing closer. We move as one through the quiet, earthy hollow.
And when we pause, where the tunnel opens to green again, light pools between us, glistening. He calls me the foreign leaf everyone back home loves, and I realize — we are not so different after all. Another shadow, another hollow, another path to wander together, trusting the warmth will follow us.
Collage by Brenda Ayunda
Elizabeth Read
Slowdive
Fifteen minutes had passed since the end of the opener. Sixty had passed since they were supposed to arrive. When they finally did, it wasn’t him, but his friend to text and say they were looking for me.
I found them idle in the booze line. 'Freddy.'
I tap the back-turned shoulder of my accidental affair. He broke up with his girlfriend after four months of, in his words, 'best friendship' with me. It’s not like I’d pursued it, but it was obvious how we both felt and his girlfriend wasn’t an idiot. A month ago, after she moved out, we’d agreed to take things slow. Two weeks ago he took me on a lovely date. This week our slowness turned to standstill — and tonight he ghosted me.
My time with him taught me that some feelings can’t go ignored.
My fingers scrunch to a fist.
'Oh, hi.' His words come pathetically, and my return greeting containing only the word 'hi' carries a tone much closer to whatthefuckifyourproblemborderlinestandin
The three boys seem almost to huddle. How frightening to face the consequences of your own behaviour.
After speaking short, awkward words, Freddy escapes ahead with the third boy, his silent friend. The second, the Idiot Boy I’d been in text exchange with, stays and thoughtfully cools the air with a joke about how drunk they’d gotten at their pre-concert outing — an outing that Freddy had ghosted me on the details of earlier in the day. I flash my teeth insincerely and for a moment he draws away, uncertain of how to travel his next words. He laughs uncomfortably, a sound at first quite satisfying, but quickly sobering with the realization that my indulgence in these boys’
Writing by Elizabeth Read
punishment is becoming self-destructive. I’d prefer not to be scorn-consumed for the rest of my night. I take a moment to breathe.
'It’s a shame you guys missed the opener, they were so cool,' I force out in a girly, sing-song tone, punctuated by a softer smile. The Idiot Boy smiles back, surely knowing it’s bullshit but begging now any out from responsibility.
They buy me a drink, and as we find our way through the crowd we’re segmented. Freddy and I become alone in a sea of faceless things where my drink begins to taste of a rabid mob, and civility a kingdom to be overthrown. I watch from the back of the rabble the encroachment of honesty upon rook’s walls. His eyes remained fixed ahead.
'I heard your phone broke.' 'Yeah.'
'I believe you.'
Crowds of mocking pitchforks and sardonic chants crash through the castle’s gates, demanding the prince poised upon his tower perch be tossed down and mauled.
'Do you?'
Two torch-bearing women appear at the prince’s back. They throw him down.
'No.'
His expression barely shifts. Maybe he slouched over a little more, maybe it’s wishful thinking. The mob watches the body of the prince twitch for a moment as four months of stupid, selfish, budding romance are left in the riot’s flames. The children grieve, the men look lost, and the women, though their mouths agape, remain wholly unsatisfied. My legs speed off in a fit, making for the Idiot Boy and his silent accomplice.
The Idiot Boy positions himself at my side throughout the concert. Freddy hides behind us, as if imagining that being out of eyesight would make me forget him altogether. Like a fly buzzing at my head the Idiot Boy sporadically speaks at me one-on-one, ingratiating himself in the verbal diorama of my life which I’d prepared for such a superficial occasion. In between, he finds time to consult with his boyfriends, huddling in their trio which, once again, quite astonishingly, excludes me. I let it go. His preoccupation is heaven. I exhale and at last allow myself to sink into the sound. It comes over my body as warmth and carries me away from the morons. I’m safe.
For about sixty seconds. When he comes back to my side I pretend not to know songs I’ve listened to for five years to sate his brave admission that he barely knows this band, and that he only paid the one-hundred and thirty dollar admission fee for 'the vibes'. I avoid scoffing at his remark and internally congratulate myself on my discipline.
We exit quick after the band’s departure and stumble outside. I can’t tell if my body is shaking from the cold or the six vodka Red Bulls I’d managed to inhale over the hour, although I have a pretty good guess.
The Idiot Boy with his idiot smirk sidles up beside me and places his arm around my waist. Freddy watches silently as he does, and we stare at each other as he speaks.
'So… Do you wanna hit a bar with us?'
The mob, now picking at the prince’s corpse, storms my throat in what manifests as cackle. A dumbstruck look paints all three of their faces. Freddy’s wilts to fear.
'I’d love to.'
Writing by Elizabeth Read
Photo by Huda Shehzad
Photo by Huda Shehzad
Elizabeth Read
Can we Call?
I hate this boy. I hate this boy but he didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t hate this boy and he didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t like this boy. I hate myself because I don’t like him. I’m doing something wrong by not liking the one boy who didn’t do anything wrong. Everybody says so. My friend says I didn’t do anything wrong if I don’t like him and still everybody says so. Everybody says so because he touches me softly. Everybody says so because he doesn’t mind that I don’t like him. Everybody says so because he waits. I hate him because he waits. I hate him because he’s weak. Man up. Get real. My friend says something but I can’t hear her. Take itand shut up. Take it and shut up. Take it and—
I crash my fist against the basin. It all stops.
Drops slide down break-out skin, pooling over makeup stained ceramic. Only weeks ago my skin was clear. Only weeks ago this sink was new. Blame the makeup, we both know where the dirt comes from. I look under my nails. The faucet turns. Water spits, then streams. A lukewarm lake spreads across the once-white. I cup my hands under its grace and meet its heat with my skin. I nestle for a moment, then repeat. The stains do not wash, my skin does not clear… But it’s something. And yet still, as stale air pulls across my skin on its arduous journey to the roof duct, the slew of guilt continues to ferment. I rise from the sink and land melodramatically against the wall behind. Why are you so fucking incapable? He’s not right for you. That’s that. I exhale heavy. My nails haven’t cleaned.
I pass over bloodshot eyes as I leave the room. My phone lies face down on the bed. I wish I’d thrown it from my window. I wish I’d the money to replace a broken window. My arm reaches limp across the mattress, then reels it in. The screen drones insufferably.
Jamesissocool 10:43 AM Hey. What are you up to today?
pheobilicious<3 4:31 PM hey sorry i got really caught up with assessment. what’s up?
Jamesissocool 4:33 PM
Wow. Honestly more and more I feel stressed out just hearing about your workload. All sounds very overwhelming.
pheobilicious<3 4:37 PM it’s not that bad i guess, just the combo of everything is rancid rn
Jamesissocool 4:37 PM Can I read once it’s finished?
pheobilicious<3 4:49 PM yeah sure would u mind proof reading for me? be my unpaid editor?
Jamesissocool 4:49 PM Okay free of charge. BUT I get a kiss on the forehead.
The sickly slew bubbles beneath my skin. I read it over ten more times, each growing more disgusted. Who even says that? My fingers creak against the phone; the dirt under my nails spreading across the screen. You’re the one dating him.
pheobilicious<3 9:19 PM
james i have so much more work to do i don’t think i can see you tomorrow
Yeah, nice. And that’s how many times you’ve been ‘too busy’ now? I click off my phone and sit it on the desk, praying its battery might detonate like those ones on the news. Instead, the grime now tainting its form mounts my desk, growing tendrils down its legs and crawling across the floor.
I barely even turn around.
Jamesissocool 9:19 PM :(
Did you at least get tickets to that concert
The tendrils reach around my legs. They wrap tight. I tear the rotten device from the desk.
pheobilicious<3 9:22 PM i didnt get the tickets im really sorry i completely forgot
Jamesissocool 9:22 PM Do you not want to go?
I stare wide-eyed, feeling the tendrils climb higher, wrap tighter to my waist. My mind scatters across the room. I swipe from the screen to call my friend and a darkness oozes from under the bathroom door. You can’t do anything yourself. I play at letting it all go. Telling him I misread and that I bought the tickets. That tomorrow I have all the time in the world. That he should stay the night. That he should fuck me as long as he wants. That he should do what they all do. The darkness pools around my bare feet and the tendrils mount my chest. I try to sink, but the vines hold me still and the ooze barely reaches my ankles. I sigh. I swipe back. I close my eyes. I imagine pore strips and stain removers stacked across shelves in a store. I breathe.
I type the words slow — methodical. A fire begins.
Janine Sequeira
Returning
Coming back feels like walking into an old church, the pews still warm with a hundred hands before mine.
The wood is darker now, polished by years of leaning and waiting.
The school chairs still scrape the floor the same way, metal legs catching on the same grooves.
But I sit taller now, and my feet touch the ground.
The hymn books are frayed at the corners, pages soft from turning, but the words still rise the same.
I hum them differently now, but I still know every line.
This place has aged, and so have I, yet we keep meeting in the same light, the same dust curling in the air.
I see the faces in these rows and desks and want to tell them — you will wear down, and you will shine. You will change, and you won’t.
Photo by Elizabeth Read
Tex Wise
Stale
Tyler squints as the fridge light spills out across the kitchen. His mouth dry with nervousness, he reaches in and drinks from the mostly empty bottle of rose before looking back at the barren shelves. Empty—except for the metallic bowl covered in plastic wrap. He slips a finger underneath the wrapping, pulling the bowl closer to him. It looks pathetic now. As pathetic as the idea that Sam would think any differently of him. The thought is quickly undone as the sound of the shower door opening in the next room, shaking him back to reality.
Tyler reenters the bedroom as the morning glow seeps beneath the curtains. It’s enough to illuminate the scattered clothes on the floor. He stands at the foot of the doorway, taking in the evidence of their tryst the night before. Hearing the shower come to life, he toys with the idea of opening the door, just enough to secretly take in his former friend's perfect form.
‘You awake yet, Ty?’
Tyler suddenly trips over himself as he struggles to respond.
‘Uh, yeah. Yup. Just making a pot.’
Sam’s chuckle echoes out of the bathroom.
‘Right, well, don’t let me keep you from your morning. I can be out of your hair in five.’
Tyler bites his lip as he looks down again at the unmade bed, aware of the window closing in front of him.
‘I can make you a cup, if you’ve got time?’
There’s a moment of silence before Sam answers, steam rising from crevices around the door only deepening the blush on Tyler’s face.
‘I could be persuaded.’
Excitedly, Tyler reaches down and folds Sams’ clothes, gently placing them on the foot of the bed before turning back the way he came.
***
The sugar drops into Tyler's coffee, clumping together to create a small island in his cup, he watches it drift around its circumference.
‘Hey, before I forget, I appreciate offering up a place to crash. You know how close work is from here.’
Sam rounds the corner, pulling his trousers up with his shoes in the other hand. From here, Tyler’s drawn to two devilish cherubs tattooed on either side of his waist, appearing to hold
his pants in place as he approaches the counter. The purple and amber coloured liquid of the pomegranate tea shakes in its confides as it makes contact in Sam's grasp.
‘Not a problem,’ Tyler replies as he hands the other mug over.
The little angels adorned with little black horns and golden pitchforks look up at him with their sly demeanor as Sam picks it up. If he was drunk enough, he would often be found displaying the adorable devils to anyone interested in hearing his explanation.
Growing up, I was always getting into trouble, a real scoundrel. I remember my mum telling me my dick more often governed me than my brain. The more she harped about it, the more I felt I had to honour that statement. Now, with them on my shoulders, I can be slightly less impulsive, aye?
This type of contradiction was the best embodiment of his character; Tyler thought to himself. But it wouldn’t be like him to say something like that aloud, even if Sam knew it was in jest.
The two regard each other as if they both take a sip from their cups. Sam puts his foot on the counter and starts to tie up his shoes. The table in front of them looks like a brawl broke out, with an overturned bowl of fruit beside them Tyler. He can’t meet Sam’s gaze. He doesn’t want to think about what’s about to come—what will be left after Sam walks out the door. Was he pictured someone else last night? Was that passion really for him, if there even was any.
‘Hey.’
In alarm, Tyler flinches at Sam’s remark.
‘What are you thinking?
A thousand things pour through his mind like sand through an hourglass, steadily building, filling up his mind with nothing but what-ifs. He rubs his palms against the table to try and hide the moister coating them. In doing so, he bumps into the upturned bowl before looking back at Sam.
‘Oh, just thinking about making something to eat. I mean, what type of host would I be without offering you breakfast?’
Sam huffs as he puts down his foot and raises the other one, slipping it on and doing it up in a decidedly more hurried motion.
‘Tyler, that’s not necessary. I already told you I could get out of your hair 10 minutes ago. Besides, I need to go check up on my bike. Can’t exactly afford to lose that now, can I?’
‘Oh, no, sure. That makes sense.’
Putting his foot down, Sam pats down his pants before turning back around to the bedroom to retrieve the rest of his clothes. The sight of his toned back catches in Tyler’s thoughts, averting his gaze as to not raise any suspicion. Suddenly, Tyler looks across to the fridge, the image of the sealed container illuminating in his mind.
Jumping to his feet, Tyler calls out;
‘I’ve got bread.’
Sam stops, stunned by the absurdity of what was said. He cocks his head, mouthing what was just said to himself
‘Uh, okay?’
Explore Name
Writing by Tex Wise
Artwork by Alissa Ceballos
Tyler pats the countertop, mustering up the courage to explain his sudden outburst.
‘Bread, banana bread specifically. I made it a while ago.’
Sam holts to a stop, his shoulders slouching at the thought. Leaning on the doorway, he turns his head back to Tyler.
‘You have banana bread?’
‘Yeah, uh. Jams and marmalade in the pantry. I remember how much you loved it.’
Sam’s expression wanes, struggling to figure out how to communicate what he’s feeling. Tyler’s heart sinks at the sight of it.
‘Did you plan on having me over?’
Tyler gets up and opens the fridge, trying to avoid the question.
‘No, it was just, uh, spur of the moment thing.’
Hoping the lie sticks, he places the bowl on the countertop.
‘Heh. Yeah, I think I can understand that.’
***
Sam stabs the knife into the jar of tart smelling spread, turning it over meticulously to get as much marmalade on the surface of the blade. His cheerful dispossession hasn’t returned, now replaced with a half-smile as he attentively covers the surface of the slice of toast.
Tyler tries to carefully study his microexpressions, looking for any signs that his mood may have improved. The two of them sit in silence, occasionally broken up by the sounds of the other one chewing while the
other cuts another slice from the loaf in the bowl. Sam finally breaks the silence.
‘It’s spongier than I remember.’
‘Sorry.’
Sam waves it away, trying to indicate that it wasn’t an attack.
‘No, it’s fine. It’s just missing, you know? Not quite hitting the mark.’
Tyler nods in acknowledgment, chewing at what to say as he swallows.
‘Yeah, I made it one night after work, hoping to eat it the following morning. I mean, it’s probably not as good now that it's been left in the fridge, but I’d hate to see it go to waste.’
‘And you didn’t make this for me?’
Tyler’s heart drops, but he disguises his hurt by pushing the toast into his mouth.
‘What? No, nothing of the sort, it just that, well-
Tyler can’t meet Sam’s gaze looking all around the room before replying. Sam looks out the window as he waits, watching the morning sun rise and bathe the street outside.
‘...it’s just, when I heard you were back in town, I thought about all the stuff we got up to. You can’t fault me for a little reminiscing, right?’
‘Yeah, I suppose. But that was then.’
‘So why can’t this be any different.’
Sam stops mid bite, an expression of hurt suddenly taking over his face. The sigh he lets out seems to tell Tyler that he knew this was coming.
Explore Name
Writing by Tex Wise
Photo by Huda Shehzad
‘Look, this was just some fun. I thought you knew that.’
‘I do know that.’
Sam stands up and pushes the plate away from him as he gets to his feet.
‘Then why am I still here?’
The question seems to shock both. Tyler’s chest tightens; he gets to his feet and steps in front of Sam.
‘Look, I wanted to find a chance to talk. After last night I, well, started feeling things again. Remember the fun we had?’
Sam’s face shifts from alarm to concern, picking up his coat beside him.
‘Whatever feelings you have, you’ve got to put them away. For both of our sake. We aren’t those people anymore. We both have lives now.’
Tyler grabs Sam’s forearm and squeezes it, trying to muster some of the charm that got him through the door last night.
‘You felt it last night, didn't you? I mean, why else would you come home with me? I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but when we work together-’
Tyler takes a step closer, feeling Sam’s shallow breaths brush across his face.
‘We worked. Sure, it wasn’t perfect. But now, you're back home. Back where we can give things another chance. A better chance.’
against Tylers. Their lips are all but touching, the tension of the moment palpable. Tyler can’t make that last step though; he needs Sam to initiate it, to commit to them. But Sam looks at him, with a shaky breath; he pulls away.
‘Tyler, no.’
Sam shrugs off Tylers' grasp before moving to the door.
‘Look, I can see now that this was a mistake. I’d thought we’d patch things up. But it clear neither of us are doing the right thing here.’
‘It wasn’t a mistake.’ Tylers' breath catches in his throat, his hands reaching out to Sam, but his feet are unable to carry him.
‘I hope you take care of yourself. Really.’
Tyler doesn’t respond, blinking away the tears that are welling up as Sam pulls on his shirt and opens the door.
‘Oh, and I figured out what was wrong.’
‘Hmm?’
Sam steps out the door, throwing his coat on and patting down the pockets.
‘You were right; it needed to be eaten sooner. It’s gone stale.’
‘Really? I thought it was good enough.’
‘I don’t know, maybe you should have done something about it sooner.’
Appearing defeated, Sam puts his forehead
Tyler can only nod in response as Sam closes the door behind him.
Writing by Tex Wise
Photo by Huda Shehzad
Chay Newman
Cultural Imposter Syndrome
Oh, mostly white, but a little bit South Asian.’ That’s what I say when people ask me about my background. I have greyish-blue eyes, skin that was a lot darker when I was a child, and wild curly hair that doesn’t come from either of my parents.
My family name comes from the Australian immigration documentation my grandfather declared in 1967, and the western naming conventions that deemed his Burmese name ‘incorrect’ with white Australian culture. In Myanmar, names lack a serial structure. As Aung Kaung Myat puts it simply, ‘Our names belong one hundred percent to ourselves.’ My grandfather’s name was one syllable, a single word, and it belonged entirely to him.
This however, wasn’t quite so acceptable in a western society and its unchangeable ideas of how one should identify. His Burmese given name required a legal second name, and so, his new given name was a title translating to that of a ‘page boy’, while his first name was turned into a surname. Later on, once an adult, my father changed his family name so as to not have it condemned with a similar-sounding
English swear word. In turn, my family name is made-up. It’s unconnected to my lineage, overtly English, and chosen because it was ‘easier’.
And, well… Yes. Of course it is. I stopped wearing a longyi because the clothes weren’t ‘normal’ next to everyone else, and I stopped bringing kyauk kyauk to school because the other kids would fake-gag at the smell, and I never once went to a Mosque with my grandfather because the Catholic church was just closer to my house. I wouldn’t tell people the other half of where I was from because I’d gotten sick of explaining a country people hadn't heard of, or why, despite looking Middle Eastern–Italian–Jewish–Indian–Lebanese–not-from-here exotic, my name was so overbearingly not.
In short, I’m a contradiction of my heritages, and sometimes, I don’t feel ‘enough’ for any of them.
‘Decided you wanted privilege, huh?’ someone asked me once, joking.
Writing by Chay Newman
by Natalie Tjendera
Graphic
The only time I ever spoke to my Burmese family was the night my grandfather died. While they were still in Myanmar, we videocalled them briefly. I was shy and they were strangers, and when they wanted photos of my grandfather’s face after he passed, I remember my cousin screaming about the desecration of it all. We were children that didn’t understand it, but that was their way of being close to him. We got to sit by his bedside, hold his hand, and recite the faraj; and they received a text message file of his face.
There’s an almost ache I feel I need to atone for: not trying to be more than that Whitebut-not-all-white little girl who didn’t have the desire to reach back when she had the chance. If I were to meet my grandfather again, or all his relatives left behind in Myanmar for the first time, I do not want the first thing I’d say to them be: ‘I’m sorry.’
Am I to say this when someone asks me about where I’m from?
‘Oh. Oh. You mean my roots, right? Um, Mum is White – German, English, Scottish, I think. But Dad is – is Burmese. Myanmar. It’s near Bangladesh and Thailand. South Asia, yeah. I’m both.’
I have written, re-written, erased and begun this essay a million times over in the hopes of reclaiming whatever it is I think I am, and here, after everything, I’ve learned a lot except everything of which I came for. I look at the page’s title-less title with my name underneath and the ‘by [two words]’ doesn't feel as fitting as it should. My name will always be mine, but it feels like it’s missing a part of me I can’t reach. My grandfather died when I was too young to ask him about the life he had before
he came here – about his identity, his culture, his name – and the hindsight over never knowing hurts like an ache that demands, ‘You will always be missing something.’ I asked him once to teach me some Burmese words, but awfully, I can only remember ‘kalayy’ – baby.
A better writer would have something more poetically profound to say about the imposter syndrome of losing a culture you aren’t quite sure you ‘deserve’ to reclaim, but all I can truly only describe it as is sad. I’m living with the remains of my own cultural imposter syndrome and the guilt that comes with trying to reclaim those roots after assimilation. While others inherited their identities from their bloodline, I developed a congenital sickness within my own cultural atrophy.
Everything we are made of comes from the things, the people, that have existed before. Nothing is untouched, and I am the result of generations of different human existences –and yet I have this constant fear that I don’t know who I am. I feel more fraud than anything, yet – bizarrely – not quite ‘white enough’ for that one guy who wasn’t satisfied with my answer of ‘…here?’ when asked where I was from.
My grandmother, his wife, was a genealogist and archived records and records of our family’s history. Although, I’ve tried tracing back the Myanmar side, only to find it ends so abruptly beyond reaching second generation ancestors. The record and documentation have either been lost between the two continents, inaccessible, or doesn’t exist like my father's birth certificate. It’s strange, looking at my own family tree, and seeing one entire half so bare -- not knowing the names of those who came before me, but only that I’m the living remains
Name
Writing by Chay Newman
Graphic by Yiben Wang
of entire peoples I’ll only ever know from the memories of someone else.
I read an essay by J Miller that spoke of the remains of their own lineage: ‘a hundred years of assimilation [upon her] family, and how [after all this time] there was almost nothing left.’ I felt conflicted. The taking back of one’s cultural identity after so long is something I admire, and I should feel comforted by the knowledge that, technically, I am only one generation away from my family’s culture and language and identity. Reclaiming my Burmese heritage should not be as difficult as someone who's existed from generations long lost to cultural assimilation; and yet, the disconnect is something I can’t let go of. My dad, despite being a first-generation Australian immigrant who assimilated to Tasmania when he was seven, had no use of the Burmese language after leaving. I wished he remembered the words he would have spoken as a child. I wished my grandfather was alive to teach me them himself.
It wouldn’t be the same learning it now without him, but – It would be something. God, it would be more than something. It would be the closest I’d ever truly be to feeling close to him the way I never cared to do before.
I’m mourning my grandfather in a completely different way than I did when I was fourteen, and it’s… lonely. I am not a condemner of what was done to find the life he needed to in Australia, but I do grieve that I was too young to ask him about the life he lived before he came here. I am missing the things I didn’t know how to miss before: wearing a longyi as a child, eating his homemade kyauk kyauk, the palwei – a Burmese flute, I played for five minutes before deciding to do something else.
I am missing him the way you miss a dream you can’t quite remember after waking, and there’s an agony within the amnesia that I can't make myself let go of. I could not tell him thank you and what are all the other words and teach me the palwei, play it and play it and play it until I remember the music I made when I was nine.
Another important part of why Burmese culture was so lacking throughout my childhood – or that of my dad’s – was because it wasn’t correct here. In order to give his family asylum outside of the Burmese militant rule, he had to leave his Burmese-ness where it lay in Myanmar. He assimilated out of necessity. Australian legislation of immigration declared he had a western name, and so he took it. Similarly, I always found it fascinating that my father did not grow up Islamic despite my grandfather’s religion, but over the years, I know better. The assimilation into Australia was crucial to escape the injustices back home, while conforming to western-society standards the way a minority like my grandfather was ‘meant to’, was expected, necessary. One of the first acts as a new citizen was to declare himself a typical angloAustralian first and last name, and everything after that was a rewrite.
I can’t help but think of it all as a bitter order, ‘Undo the pieces of yourself and whatever it is that defines you, then pick yourself up in the fragments upon the floor that we declare acceptable. Australian enough. Bury the rest back home. Welcome, citizen–foreigner.’
But now, after all the things he did to ensure my family’s safety, I get to reclaim our culture back. The life I have in Australia is one I refuse to take for granted. This country was my family’s asylum from the violence still being
Photo by Elizabeth Read
Writing by Chay Newman
committed upon the Burmese people, and I am proud we ended up where we ended up; yet I can be proud of my other roots too.
As people, our identities are not only constructed by the way we define ourselves, but how others choose to define us. I do not want the world to know me as, ‘Oh, mostly white with a little bit of South Asian.’ I want them to know me as my grandfather’s granddaughter, my father’s child, my lineage. I want them to know me as Australian, and I want them to know me as Burmese. In doing so, I have to stop condemning the things I cannot change as irrefutable lost remnants of the past, and find myself in the pieces to pick up from the floor.
Lineage is not only what we inherit; it’s what we choose to carry forward. I did not grow up speaking my grandfather’s language. I forgot the sound of the palwei. I let his stories go untold. But now, I get to write a new part of our family’s history – not as a perfect return,
but as a continuation. I used to think legacy was something fixed, written before I arrived –but maybe it’s also what I write now, with the borrowed words I’m learning and the recipes I relearn, and the questions I ask my father that he never thought to answer before.
Maybe my grandfather’s story doesn’t end with the things I never got to know.
Maybe it begins again here, too. It keeps going through an old recipe, a mispronounced word practiced again, a father and daughter relearning what was once left behind.
Shape
Edit: After rewriting this piece too many times to count, I searched through old boxes to find my grandfather’s handwritten recipe of kyauk kyauk. And next week—
Next week, my father and I will start learning Burmese together.
Writing by Chay Newman
Photo by Huda Shehzad
Olivia Jones
What's next?
Ugh, what dreaded words to hear. You’ve just finished a marathon run of late nights and anxiety-inducing exams, and now, on top of all that, you need to produce an answer for “what’s next?”. Horrible! To be fair, you might have an answer, perhaps the path is clear: a job’s lined up, you're embarking on a Euro summer (stop, don’t tell me about it, I’m jealous), or maybe you're even committing to further study. How wonderful, congratulations – these are all acceptable answers that won’t be gawked at by your distant aunt at family Christmas. But what if there is no tangible next? What if “what’s next”, for the time being, is just waking up each morning and seeing what the day brings?
I think it’s high time “I don’t know” qualified as a legitimate response to this dreaded question. The thing is, if you can push aside our innately human fear of the unknown, you’ll come to find that it can actually be one of your best friends. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know it’s scary not to know; Not knowing whether your Hinge date will turn out to be a walking red flag: stressful; Not knowing if you’re going to get that passing grade: sickening; Not knowing if you’ll ever find true love: existentially terrifying! But what’s the alternative? Knowing? I think that could be even worse.
When I was 14, I sat at our kitchen table, face red and puffy, and had a meltdown for the ages. Something had happened at school, to be completely honest, I can’t even remember what it
was. What I do remember was my dad’s knowing look as he made the observation, “You could never do it all again, knowing what was ahead”. …What? This wasn’t the response that dramatic 14-year-old me wanted to hear. I didn’t give his words a second thought back then, but over the years, they’ve wormed their way to the front of my mind: After bad days, friendship breakdowns, and one particularly uncomfortable night battling food poisoning at a Vegas chapel (a story for another time), I began to make sense of what he was saying. If you knew everything that was coming, every embarrassment, heartbreak, illness, and tragedy, how could you do it? Obviously, this is a pessimistic outlook; there would likely be great things too: love, promotions, your sports team taking the championship, etc. But would that be enough to make up for the awareness of your impending misfortunes? This question is far too complex for this article, and much better explored in Denis Villeneuve’s 2016 epic, Arrival. (Amazing film, get onto that if you haven’t.) But my point is, perhaps there is safety in the unknown because within it, there’s this little thing called possibility. Anything could happen – how terribly exciting.
So, you may not know what you’re doing next. And your annoying aunt might give you a weird look when you tell her this, but at the risk of sounding excessively cringey, how freeing! I think it’s time we embrace the unknown and embrace the possibilities it holds. What’s next could be terrible, sure, but it could also be incredible.
Creative Writing by Olivia Jones
Design by Yiben WangCaitlyn Nguyen
Brenna Ross Geese release third album ‘Getting Killed”
New York rock outfit Geese have released their third studio album Getting Killed. A band that has floated around the indie rock periphery for the past few years. Though their sophomore album 3D Country is widely acclaimed, it wouldn’t be until lead singer Cameron Winter’s solo debut.
Heavy Metal would see Geese’s proper breakthrough. Winter’s vocal mysticism is undeniable; translating with ease between projects, its obvious the people can’t get enough. A voice likened to the clamour of Leonard Cohen and Jeff Buckley. Winter’s vocal jazz is mysterious, yet grounded in raw emotion that feels nostalgic.
Geese are a youthful quartet that prove rock isn’t dead; and never was. Syphoning off the grit of classic rock; the band creates a musical atmosphere that feels familiar. Similar to The Rolling Stones or even The Doors. Though their success lies in keeping modern. With absurdist lyrics like “There’s a bomb in my car!” accompanied with sonic typhoons of guitar and drum, you cant deny they’re a breath of fresh air. Breaking through musics borders, Geese are a manifestation of how limitless rock can be.
Getting Killed is a diverse musical playground; and the perfect road trip album (depending on who you’re with). The opening track Trinidad is on first listen utterly jarring. Packed with biblical violence through the imagery of lineage death
and inferno. Winter’s bellows between verses are somewhat harrowing. There is safety in a second listen; you know what to expect. You might even groove to its off-key trumpets. If you are a fan of their song 2122 this track will be for you.
Au Pays du Cocaine follows a completely different narrative lyrically and sonically.
A slower ballad about the change that comes with age and the heartbreak that trails. The lyrics are simplistic yet complex; “baby you can change and still choose me”. The harmony exists on a bed of soft acoustic guitar and the flare of tambourine. Bow Down is my current favourite. It’s quick on its feet, constantly accelerated through poetic bursts of energy. The band effortlessly comes together as one strong punkish entity.
It’s no shock Pitchfork gave the album an almost perfect score of nine. The closest Geese has ever come to the Down Under is supporting our own King Gizzard and The Lizard Wizard at some of their United States gigs. A perfect combination of bands, especially for those who love all things experimental. Announcement of the bands Australian dates may not come as a surprise as Cameron Winter released tickets to his solo shows months prior. The band will be playing Melbourne’s Laneway Festival on February thirteenth. A great opportunity to catch them live if you’re Geese-curious. They have also announced a side show here at the Croxton Bandroom on February twelfth.
Artwork by Grace Tanuwijaya
Artwork by Caitlyn Nguyen
Photo by Huda Shehzad
Explore Name
Photo by Huda Shehzad
Artwork by Grace Tanuwijaya
Artwork by Yiben Wang
Artwork by Natalie Tjendera
Photo by Huda Shehzad
