THEBIRTHOF VENUS
THESIREN AWAKENS
ASPECIAL COLLECTION ONREBIRTH, REBELLIONAND BLOSSOMING WITHWOMANHOOD
THEWOMEN’SCENTRE
UNIVERSITYOFBRITISHCOLUMBIA
A LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
Esteemed feminist author, theorist and educator bell hooks wrote, “The moment we choose to love we begin to move against domination, against oppression. The moment we choose to love we begin to move towards freedom, to act in ways that liberate ourselves and others.”
We keep this sentiment in mind as we present the second volume of the UBC Women’s Center Zine, The Siren.
Drawing inspiration from Sandro Botticelli’s famous painting “The Birth of Venus”, this issue’s theme — “The Siren Awakens” — places center focus on the simultaneous processes of rebirth and rebellion intrinsic to the experience of womanhood. Zine-making and alternative literature have always been places facilitating community, organizing and rebellion, with community’s critical importance being highlighted now more than ever. This issue is about redefining womanhood on our own terms - blossoming into ourselves and defying the confines dictated to us. The Centre’s mission — to create a safe space for those experiencing gender-based, and other forms of oppression; to build solidarities through and across differences; and to celebrate identities otherwise marginalized in the mainstream — remains steadfast.
The Siren Team shares with you a creative collection by wonderful individuals who explore their subversion, reclamation and blossoming within womanhood. In a world still besieged by imperialist, white supremacist patriarchal systems, we hope to honour the diverse experiences of womanhood and create a space where solidarity and camaraderie abound.
Finally, we acknowledge that we are living, studying, and creating on the traditional, ancestral, and stolen lands of the Coast Salish peoples, particularly the Squamish, Musqueam, and Tsleil-Waututh nations. We also acknowledge the intensification of colonial violence occurring throughout the world, particularly in Palestine, Congo, Haiti, and Sudan. We hope to continue raising awareness and participating in community efforts to bring about enduring socio-political change, and wish to encourage our readers to take action, however they can.
Keep educating yourself and others. Keep using your voice. Keep building community. Keep creating.
This is alchemy.
In solidarity,
Brighita Mzee and Maya Berrached
This is a special collection on rebirth, rebellion and blossoming with womanhood.
UBC Women's Centre Alternative Zine, The Siren. Volume II. January 2025 Issue.
All images, photography, and art belong to their respective owners. UBC Women’s Centre does not claim ownership.
Content Warning: Some works contain references to suicide, abortion and violence
Jasmine Choi
OnRebirth
JASMINE CHOI
fresh hair. a dampness in the air. give rise to Verdancy — there’s something new here. familiar and unknown, and yet — new — for moments like these — Life waits an Eternity.
a Blooming deep within my Bones —memory flooding Muscle
——flowing Movement in perfect dome flowering — Femininity within the Marrow
a sense that swells and swells, spiralling slow——song after song after song ferment the Emerald slip—this felt desire —hum along these velvet stones and Single Stars—rising inside her
the Cold and Crude can’t bite this budding Warmth we drink.
taught by Beauty, ruled by Desire —draw the Bliss, slip on the Remarkable a dream, beloved——stained with plucked grass and velvet Green
the touch of a leaf — brushing by, soft suede to the touch — grazed beside, a slight scrawl on the skin of my shoulder a dancing scent of fresh — lingers on —
enchanted, I sit in Stillness. —a Solitude——I sink my entire being into dewdrops beading—at the edge of the leaf ——bending Divinity ——plucked by Eternity
envisioning, I lie enraptured absorbing the ink of Verdant touch.
in a new season, greening light anew Bones and Bodies——stretched against Sun blushing copper lace — Skies brewing violet wine grains of sand trace — the pose of a Body ——flush with Fate
I feel it in my Walk I feel it in my Breath — Femininity anew — atmosphere abundant I feel in my Fingertips
——magnets beneath skin —sparking sense below the pulse —charm the curiosity within imagination running free—— innocent and full.
a new light drew familiar eyes — looking upon a Blue gaze, a whole Cosmos——within the pupil
words of an unspoken tongue, ——worn by the same smile hands seasoned—settling in skin ——ready to be read backs ripened—reflecting in rosewater Sunlight and Shadow paint the curve
but Fate is a dancer. —changing as the tides polish flow we Dreamers——watch along at dawn floating, our feet remain grounded ———at the top of the world.
and so, I awaken in a world of Dew —— damp and lush glazed in warmth and mist Midnight engraved by Stars and smoke bathing in Moonlight — (reflected off you) these new feelings of Origin.
——therein lies this Heat —— reading like Warmth ——yet, it consumes.
dimension of Love— into seasons renewed— the world runs parallel beneath this scene of Rebirth —— returning; becoming; ——a Vision of Venus.
PHOTOGRAPHY: NAOMI LEUNG
MODEL: LAYLO JURAEVA
CREATIVE DIRECTION & STYLING: NAOMI LEUNG, LAYLO JURAEVA
PHOTOGRAPHY: NAOMI
LEUNG MODEL: LAYLO
JURAEVA
CREATIVE DIRECTION & STYLING: NAOMI LEUNG, LAYLO
JURAEVA
It is useful to know that things fall apart much like the way s filters through fingers You’ll find the mind unravels much like
It may come undone in your lap and then cause you to remember you never learned how to stitch things back
There is no first aid for flesh wounds of this kind, So I hope you’re able to bleed yourself worthy
Still, there are no lessons on how not to hate yourself, or how to hate yourself less, I’m sorry Still, you only see all that you’re not, but not all that you are, which is holy The good in you is the God in you and you will come to know this, slowly
There are no answers to those questions you do not ask You, left to your own devices is dangerous to us all When you leave but do not come back, you are the tree that falls In the forest, making no sound
Because you do not let anyone close enough to hear, to witness To bear your fear and hand you back forgiveness
However, I do not discount the realities in front of you Many do not realize that some days the mirage is true They do not understand the magnitude of the burden of your being You are optical illusion: given sight but not seeing And all you know how to do is turn sunlight to ashes
Karla Ssewakiryanga
Before you tell me Whether or not I can get an abortion
winter break plans
art and words by Miki Schumm
Winter is a tricky time of year for me. The season naturally draws us to slow down with cold weather and shortened days. I bury myself beneath blankets and comforters to create a personal hibernation simulator. I lean into slow mornings and early nights (this is easy). Why do we ring in the new year in January when I am still in my cocoon, and nothing has sprouted from the soil? To me, this season is for honoring the process of becoming because, in rest, the soul has room to grow.
burning myself into a sonnet
KylaLien
i want to be someone art is about soft sting, punctured pains sing for my brown eyes flat nose bridge like a weathered cove. stretch marks on hips handled, a bike i can’t ride, crash (!) veer off the canyon at twenty and buy girl guide cookies, sigh. i hate, hate, hate, mint i cut construction paper hearts by hand (i am lucky in love that expires) not in food… i sour spit out toothpaste chunks and try not to wake the dog in the dark 12 p.m. or 4 a.m. or always little girl tugging fistfuls of her hair, kitchen table moon cocoon and sleepless in waves about tsunami dreams and thorns.
StormyWeather
I once sprouted high in love’s garden
My vines used its everlasting light to lengthen and coil
My roots reached far given it’s fertile soil
Illuminated by passion’s cloudless presence I grew to feel nothing but pleasance
Though one day overcast by someone new
The sky shaded me and my passion went askew Envy's thunder first shook my stalk Then rain came down without a stop
My green petals painted blue I hoped this storm would swiftly pass through
But the wind grew stronger
And it got harder
To bend to devotion’s demands
I was plucked from the ground by the rage of a gust And blew over into a rotting pile of lust
Redwood
For the Love of Language
Karla Ssewakiryanga Karla Ssewakiryanga
Olivia Vos
A fine day
Makenna Vanegas
This day amongst the drizzled mess of March, I bathed in spring’s scented splendor. Overnight a flowery-warmth crept its way through the slight opening of my bedroom window and overcame the stale indoor air. Through pollen-dusted panels of glass I witnessed the sun cutting between masses of meringue clouds, beaming the countryside with lemony-golden light. Soft wind flickered the leaves of a neighbouring aspen like confetti; reflecting on my walls a strobing yellow-green hue.
“Could it be?” I wondered.
With low-hanging, morning vision I lumbered through my room until I located my calendar, lopsidedly drooping from a single pin. Highlighted was an embarrassingly scant assemblage of pseudo-holidays and sanctioned hoo-has; they bore no mention of today’s importance. There it was listed: Friday, Saturday, Sunday but where was Sun-Day? The year’s
Displeased, I tore it from the wall and threw it to the floor; its papery edges curled in with shame. “Nevermind then,” I thought as I stepped outside. Surely, it was lapse on my part to think I could rely on such inventions surmised by the terrestrial for validation of the not-so. And besides, the day’s significance is lettered through obvious indications outside those pretentious calendric squares.
It’s seen in the rays that melt the frost off my winter skin; the tangible honeyblonde shade produced from the ultraviolet bleaching of my dusky hair. It’s heard in the efflorescent laughter of children; coming in the house with bodies meadow-perfumed, feet caked in chocolate-dirt, cottonwood-candy clinging to their clothing. It grows in the figures of raspberries, ripening with their gumdrop silhouettes and falling off branches like pinata candy.
“Of course,” I knew, “It's the Sun’s birthday.”
Acting as the candle to its own subsolar cake, it shone bright atop tiers of grassy hills. Bluebells and tulips made for great decoration; all of which bloomed in celebration after a winter’s hesitation. And I swear the butterflies knew it too, “Happy Birthday Dear Sun!” I caught one humming as it fluttered from its cocoon.
petal hums in haze here / and laughs in glitter sunrise / daughter in the grove hands are speckled bark / paper thin petal skin shivers and / her thin frame sways in the wind / roots / uprooted / soft hands / stretch skyward / chubby palms and petals clutched / a girl and spring snowflake / pink rain / this is what it means to grow / i stumble to the porch / lazy waltz / i hear music in the pink / i find you in the blushing wind.
kyla lien blossom
LOVESTRUCK: (TOBEHELDBYTHELAND)
PHOTOGRAPHY:
CREATIVEDIRECTION& STYLING:NAOMILEUNG,LAYLO JURAEVA
NAOMILEUNG
MODEL:LAYLOJURAEVA
THE SIREN VOL.2
CONTRIBUTORS
Hannah Sternenmeer
Jasmine Choi
Karla Ssewakiryanga
Kyla Lien
Makenna Vanegas
Miki Schumm
Naomi Leung
Olivia Vos
Roz Golshani
Yin Mei
2024-25
UBC WOMEN’S CENTRE
EXECUTIVE TEAM
Alicia Liang
Anushka Bellani
Brighita Mzee
Denise Zhu
Erin Gong
Jessica Amara Osuji
Karla Ssewakiryanga
Lydia Mikhail
Maya Berrached
Maya Tharp
Sabine Gaind
Sofia Celis
Sushmita Ganguly
