The Wasp - Volume I Spring 2020 by The WASP

wasp /wɒsp/ AmE /wɑsp/ noun [C] 1 a black and yellow flying insect which can sting you: There’s a wasps’ nest in that old tree! 2 when translated into the language of the country where the weather is schizophrenic and where even refugees do not wish to go (see: Poland), it becomes an osa – a place where all meanings collapse: Yesterday, I spent an amazing day at OSA! (here: an abbreviation for Ośrodek Studiów Amerykańskich, English: American Studies Center) LILLA ORLY Editor-in-chief ALEKSANDRA BARCISZEWSKA NATALIA OGÓREK Associate editors MAGDALENA KRZEMIŃSKA Front and back cover PAWEŁ PAŃCZYK KAMILA MARIA WYSZYŃSKA DTP JOANNA MARCHEWKA Illustrations: pages 25, 29, 31, 38 Caricatures: pages 42-44 TERESA BAKALARSKA Illustrations: pages 19, 28, 32-33, 40 PAULINA FRELEK Illustrations: page 30 KLAUDIA WYPYCH Illustrations: page 36 SZCZEPAN MARCINIEC Illustrations: pages 11, 13, 15, 17 ANITA MAJEWSKA Caricatures: pages 42-44 MARTA RAPACKA Caricatures: pages 42-44

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2020

Musings in a Time of Strange Phenomena Lilla Orly 4 FICTION Sweet Embrace of Death Tomasz Szymoński 8 POETRY The Barbwire Misery is Cool, I Guess Agata Podbielkowska Sappho Katopodi 18 28 Portraitor Remarks of a Galatea Lilla Orly Sappho Katopodi 22 29 Marble and Gold Karolina Jakubiak 30 Citizen Proper ARTICLES Agata Podbielkowska 31 Gloria Creatoribus or Why Technology Won’t Kill the Artist The Land of Snow Krzysztof Wielgołaski Agata Podbielkowska 36 32 Cyberbullying Valeria Stupnikova 38 Anti-Progressivism in American Neoliberal Age Comic Books Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya 40

The next issue’s theme: TO BE ANNOUNCED We’re still recruiting! If you’re interested in writing for The Wasp, please contact us: thewaspjournal@gmail.com Facebook: facebook.com/thewaspjournal American Studies Center: asc.uw.edu.pl The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2020

Musings in a Time of Strange Phenomena The issue of The Wasp that you are about to read was compiled just before COVID-19 shifted the course of all of our lives. Before the word “pandemic” became the current state of the world, and not a concept described in history textbooks or dystopian fiction. It may seem ignorant or even insensitive to continue to entertain the printed word in any other form than cold, hard facts, daily statistics, or expert opinions. Yet, just because much has been put on hold, it does not mean that ideas outside of our reality will halt as well, or that we should not permit ourselves to indulge in them. Writing, multifaceted as it is, will always exist to serve whichever purpose roused the author to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. We hope to provide a small escape through the thoughts, ideas, and musings within these pages. The original Greek muses were depicted as goddesses who were the source of inspiration for stories, songs, and even science. It could only be the power of a deity that allowed the epiphanies experienced by ancient foundational ponderers. The association of muses with magic or alchemy thrived, being the only explanation for that “struck-by-lightening” moment of sudden realization (what else could explain Einstein’s continuously wild mane?). Throughout centuries, the muse took many forms: man, nature, and madness, to name a few. Muses are synonymous with admiration, with love, with lust, with obsession, with torment. Emotions stirred by the muse are palpable in the artists’ work. However, the relationship between artist and muse is sometimes considered codependent. Is the artist nothing without a muse? Or would the muse cease to exist if the artist was not there to look upon them? Is anything owed to the muse for provoking the creation of opuses and masterpieces, or are they just an embodiment, an excuse for the vision that already existed within the artist? Contained in these pages are love letters from artist to muse, love children formed from artist and muse, and love-hate relations between artist and muse. Tomasz Szymoński is the writer of “Sweet Embrace of Death,” this issue’s Piece of the Month. The story describes a life in limbo, a soul swinging like a pendulum between light and dark. It captures the archetypal artist and muse—life and death—their roles often interchangeable. It considers the meaning of us, of here and now, and reminds us to not take anything, or anyone, for granted.

Lilla Orly All-nonsense Editor-in-Chief subsisting from printed word to printed word. Enamored by the grim cavities of a too saccharine existence, and tracing half-truths in negative space. Digs meandering routes and gnarly tunes as well as the concept of an ever-expanding universe.

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2020

FICTION

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Piece of the month Sweet Embrace of Death Tomasz Szymoński Illustrations by Szczepan Marciniec

Preface This story is not just another story. It is a cathartic experience, a venting of an overwhelming amount of feelings, from both past and present. This might be a fictional story, but its core is too real. I would like to dedicate this story to my father-in-law, Janusz Chodkowski, who passed away on the 29th of February 2020; may he rest in peace. And to Magda—my dear wife. And to the rest of you, please, cherish life, don’t be afraid to say “I love you” to your parents, be happy whatever that might mean to you.

Take the ones you love And hold them close because there is little time And don't let it break your heart I know it feels hopeless sometimes But they're never really gone As long as there's a memory in you mind So now go do the best things in life —— Disturbed, “Hold On to Memories”

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2020

I She looked around her spacious room, put her fluffy slippers on, and walked down to eat breakfast with her parents. A typical morning for Abigail, except for a minor headache. “Good morning, dear,” her mother, Janet, greeted her with a kiss on the forehead. “Want some orange juice?” “Yes, please.” “Dad will take you to school today.” “That’s alright.” “You heard that?” said David. “She doesn’t mind being chauffeured around.” “Oh, common! I didn’t mean it like that.” “No, no, we have spoiled you a bit. A little appreciation goes a long way, my child.” A week later, Abigail felt another minor headache. This time, however, it lasted throughout the day. She had difficulty concentrating on a math test. The numbers got blurry a few times. Being a straight-A student, she didn’t want to disappoint her parents, so she didn’t say anything just yet. The cat got out of the bag pretty quickly, though. “Miss Pattinson told me that you got a D on the test last week. What happened, dear?” Abigail chewed her food slowly, trying to come up with an answer. “It happens to the best of us.” “Don’t give me that, Miss Smartypants.” “To be honest, my head hurt really bad. I’m sorry.” “I understand, don’t worry. Next time you will feel under the weather, please tell me.” “I will, mum. I promise. Oh, and one more thing…” “Yes, dear?” “I…nevermind. I’ll go practice for the next test.” She ran to the stairs, giving her mother no time to ask about that somewhat strange behavior. II With each passing week, the headaches became more severe. At home, Abigail tried to put on a brave face. If only she knew at the time that this was only postponing the inevitable—doing more harm than good. It happened when the family ate supper in a lovely atmosphere. “How was your day, my child?” asked David. “It was… good.” “Could you be more expressive?” “I don’t… remember.” “What don’t you remember, dear?” Concern washed over Janet’s face. Abigail shed a single tear. Before she could respond, she started to scream, being no longer able to hide the pain. Her parents immediately took her to see a doctor. Dreadful guilt swept over them as she explained everything she had been experiencing for the past couple of months. The migraines, the nausea, how her memory had been failing her in the most mundane of conversations. “Why didn’t you tell your mom and dad how you were feeling, Abigail?” the doctor asked. “I don’t know. I thought everyone got headaches sometimes. And the memory…I don’t know. I’m sorry.” “It doesn’t matter now, my child,” her father said calmly. Given the circumstances, it wasn’t an easy feat. “We will do a complete check-up. I know it’s late, but be brave, Abigail. We’ll know what’s going on soon.”

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III After running all possible blood tests, Abigail was prepped for a PET scan. This novel technology was designed to detect early signs of brain tumors. Running the PET scan was costly, but money is no issue when it comes to the safety of your only child. For Abigail's parents, money was no object, however, if they had to, they would put a second mortgage on the house, or do anything else necessary. “It’s going to be alright, my child,” her father said assuringly. It wasn’t. When trying to stand up after the test, Abigail lost consciousness.

IV “David, Janet, please, sit down,” doctor Ferguson said two hours later. The PET results were received almost instantly due to the best radiology technician being woken up in the middle of the night to make his assessment. “Oh, God, this is never a good sign,” said Janet to herself. It wasn’t so much as sitting down as a slow collapse to the seats beneath them. “I have a good news, bad news situation,” Ferguson didn’t let them decide what they wanted to hear first, adding immediately: “I’m afraid that Abigail has a brain tumor. The good news is we are 100% sure that it is a benign one, which means that the cells are unable to metastasize.” “Metastasize?” they asked at the same time. “The cells won’t invade healthy tissues, and because of that, once removed, the tumor will not grow back. In other words, it’s not cancerous.” “How…?” Janet began, but couldn’t utter another sound. She started sobbing uncontrollably. “How did it happen?” David finished. “Did any member of your family suffer from any kind of tumors or cancers?” “Not that I know of…I didn’t know my biological parents. You mean it might be in her genes?” “I’m afraid so. I can assume that she wasn’t exposed to hazardous chemicals or radiation.” “What now?” Janet muttered. “As we speak, she is being prepared for surgery. Time is of the essence. She is in good hands.” “What can we do?” David asked, knowing it was a silly question. “Some people pray, some punch walls. I’d advise against the latter, we are understaffed tonight as it is…” David snorted, Janet seemed to stop listening. They sat in silence as if the whole world froze. People visited their loved ones, nurses and doctors went about their night, while Janet and David sat, hugging each other tightly. A thousand thoughts per second were going through their minds. None could help them right now. Sitting and doing nothing was so painful that punching a wall didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all. Later, doctor Ferguson brought the operation consent form for David to sign. “Thank you for everything, doctor.” The wait was unbearable.

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V Abigail, still unconscious, was moved to the operating theatre and anesthetized. The dosage and specific drug were chosen based on her current state. Abigail felt that she had opened her eyes, but there was nothing to see. Pitch-black darkness and deafening silence. Out of that nothingness, a sound echoed.

“Hello there, my child.” “Why can’t I see anything?” Very slowly, the darkness began to brighten, as if the voice was turning the dimmer. When Abigail opened her eyes once again, she wished for the darkness to come back. She was suspended in a gray void, there was nothing to be seen here. “Where am I? Who are you?” “I am Death, my child. Don’t be nervous.” A swing appeared under Abigail. It was held by Death and made with a spider’s web. She was too afraid to move an inch. “Swing,” Death encouraged her. She realized that the voice was coming from above. The overwhelming silence caused chills running through her spine. “I want to go home, please.” “Everyone says the exact same thing, regardless of age and life led. Nobody wants to talk to me, let alone look at me. Yet, it is the nature of all things—all has its beginning and end. Even you, my child.” “I’m not your child…What did I do to get here?” Abigail began to swing just a little bit. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Only a few throughout history truly deserved to be here.” “Like Ms. Pattinson? She’s the worst. I was feeling unwell during a test and she told me I was faking it.” “Your perception of evil is genuinely endearing.” “I really need to see my mom and dad.” Death paused for a while. The only sound Abigail heard was the creepy movement of the web. “Is there something after you, Death?” “I cannot tell you that.” “Why?” “Because I, myself, am not privy to that knowledge.” Another silence. Abigail began to swing faster, despite the sheer terror she felt every time Death opened its mouth. Did it have a mouth?, she thought. “I can’t see you, Death.” “Well, nobody wants to see me coming. And after they are here, nobody wants to face me. Literally. Aren’t you afraid, my child?” “More than I can say…But you must be lonely here.” “I am.” “Talk to me then.” Death was taken aback. It had seen the death of every living soul. The Da Vincis and the Hitlers alike. The future saints and monsters in the flesh. As the lyrics went, “Well, I am Death, none can excel, I'll open the door to heaven or hell.” This sort of thing had happened only once or twice every couple thousand years; a soul so pure it wanted to talk to Death. To Death—the end of all things. Or was it a child’s innocence?

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“You know, my father told me something important. I have problems with remembering stuff, but this I can remember. A little appreciation goes a long way. I don’t know where I am, but I know that you must do what you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be doing it. So, tell me, is there anything you want to ask me before I go see my parents again?” “My child, look around.” Abigail did so, against her better judgment. A second later, she closed her eyes, panting. Death continued, “You are not here to tell me anything. I know everything that was, is, and will be. And yes, I have been Death ever since I can remember.” “Everything? You told me you don’t know what happens after death.” “How very perceptive of you, my child. That is true. It is the only thing I cannot know.” Abigail’s swing began to gain momentum. “Is there a way I could tell you that?” “No.” “I’m sorry. Before I go, can I look at you?” “You had better not, my child.” “Why?” “Only the bravest souls looked at me and lived to tell the tale. Nobody believed them, however. Are you sure you want to do that?” Without thinking about it, Abigail looked up. She saw the gigantic antlers first. Then, the crow-feathered wings. And then, she stared right in the face of Death.

VI “We’re losing her!” one of the doctors said. “Give me a second, for God’s sake!” another yelled. God had nothing to do with it, though. VII Abigail’s scream filled the silence. She opened her eyes, she saw the gray void. Again, on the swing. With Death. “I saw IT!” “What did you see, my child?” Death was genuinely interested. “A glimpse of what’s beyond this place…I died, but not really. It was strange. Did you do that to me?” “Indirectly. But tell me, what did you see?” “Will you let me go if I tell you that?” “Even I do not possess such power.” “That’s not good. You know…I will tell you anyway!” Abigail opened her mouth to tell the greatest secret hidden from Death’s knowledge. THE question. What happens after Death? Yet, no words came. She tried once more, to no avail. “How? I’m trying to tell you that…” Again, silence filled the emptiness. A heartbeat later, she forgot what she saw. “No! What happened?! I…knew. I…knew…” “Well, if we—including Death itself—were not meant to know what happens after passing, then we will never know. Maybe that’s what makes your short life meaningful. If you knew that there was a happy ever after, would you strive to be a good person, my child?”

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2020

“Yes! I would.” “What is living worth to you?” Death continued. Abigail thought for a while. “I think life is worth everything to me. I want to smile, laugh, play, eat, and swing…but not here. My friends are not here. I want to be with them. And my parents. I will spend more time with them, love them even more. Please, Death! Please!” “Actions speak louder than words. If you truly desire life, you have to prove it.” “How?” “Swing.” Abigail moved her body with all the strength she had. She noticed that a crack began to form in the darkness. She tried even harder. Sweating, screaming, swinging. When the crack was wide enough, Abigail let go of the swing. Death looked in silence. VIII Janet was sleeping on David’s shoulder when the news came. They got up, forgetting about how tired they were. “The operation was successful,” Doctor Ferguson said. He was barely standing himself. Abigail's parents both burst into tears. “Thank you, Doctor. We owe you…everything,” David said, lost for words. “You have to know that she was clinically dead for less than a minute. She pulled through somehow. We are unsure about what happened. She might not be aware of it, but your daughter is a fighter.” “When can we see her?” Janet asked, trying not to dwell on what Doctor Ferguson just said. “She was moved to a recovery room. She will wake up in a couple of hours, but there is still a lot to be done.” Abigail woke up. Her parents were sleeping in chairs beside her. “Mom…Dad…” Janet was the first to open her eyes and see her daughter alive and well. What, yesterday, seemed like nothing out of the ordinary, today was the greatest feeling she had ever experienced, right up there with giving birth to Abigail. “Oh, my darling! The doctor said it was a miracle. That you…that we had almost lost you…” “That was no miracle, Mom,” she said. “When life hangs in the balance, you need to face it head-on and swing for the fences, whatever the outcome may be.” That mature thought surprised Janet, but it didn’t matter. Somewhere Death smiled a mouthless smile.

Tomasz Szymoński Having read an issue of Amazing Spider-Man written by J. Michael Straczynski at the age of 13, he wanted to create his own stories, protagonists, and worlds. He is a translator and copywriter by day and a sci-fi reading, pizza pie eating, (pop) culture fanatic by night. One of his greatest dreams (nay, goals) is to be read. More at transncreation.wordpress.com.

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2020

The Barbwire Agata Podbielkowska

Author’s Note: This year marks the 77th anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising. I have decided to write a story that would remind readers about the horrors of the war, during which an incredible amount of people lost their lives—6 million Jews among them. It is my personal fight with anti-Semitism, and my personal homage to those who went through traumatic events; those who died, and those who survived. “The Barbwire” was largely inspired by stories told by Holocaust survivors including the heroines of Anna Herbich’s book, Dziewczyny Ocalałe (The Girls Who Survived), as well as personal family histories. Both my grandmother and grandfather were haunted for the rest of their lives by the events that they witnessed during the war. My grandfather was present during the liquidation of the ghetto in Łęczna, where he lived as a child. The things he saw inspired him to fight against intolerance throughout his career as a journalist. While “The Barbwire” was inspired by these accounts, the story and its characters are fictional. “Arbeit macht frei… but it wasn’t true, was it Dad? It was a lie!” “In a way, it actually wasn’t a lie. This penal work killed so many…and death is liberation. So, when they died, they were liberated.” Raus! My dad froze, and went pale. First, his hands started shaking, then his legs, his lips. Finally, his whole body was shivering. I turned around. It was a teacher shouting at a group of kids, to cross the street faster. I held my dad tight. It’s ok, Dad. It’s ok. He couldn’t stop shaking. Suddenly, he caught my forearm and squeezed it. I was still trying to calm him down. It was just a school teacher, Dad. Just a school teacher. Still clutching my forearm, my dad’s body slowly went into an immobile state. Then he released my hand. I’m sorry, Claire. So sorry. He looked at me with glassy eyes. C’mon, let’s go to the restaurant and have a fine bottle of some good wine. We were wandering through the streets for a while until we found a nice looking restaurant where we sat down and ordered a bottle of burgundy. The waiter poured the wine into glasses. My dad fixed his eyes on the red liquid. Red. His pupils grew bigger. It was red… the ground was all red… they shot him… they shot him in the head… they… there was so much blood… red…red…red. Oh God, I should have ordered white wine. Dad, please stop. He stopped muttering, and looked up at me. His face suddenly changed, he grabbed the glass, and with a huge smile, he toasted. Here’s to you, my sweet darling! His words were followed by emptying almost the whole glass at once. Was I surprised with this sudden change of mood? No, not at all. It actually happened very often… and, finally, Mom hadn’t been able to take it anymore. She left when I was 5 years old. Not that she forgot about us. We were still in touch, seeing each other regularly. She just wasn’t strong enough to stay with Dad, even though she loved him. And he loved her. She broke his heart, you would say. I’m not so sure about that… can you actually break a heart that is already torn into pieces? And she didn’t take me with her. I stayed with Dad. Mom just didn’t want to strike him once again. One might think that leaving a child with a mentally unstable father is a highly irresponsible move, but my mother believed it would help him. And it did. Of course he still has attacks like the one I described, but through the years it became more sporadic than it used to be. Having to bring up a girl forced my father to be normal. It was a beautiful, starry night. Berlin looked so majestic, with all its lights… and the stars made it all even more magical. At least at this part of the city. It must be different behind The Wall. Amazing—one city, slashed by a wall dividing it into two separate beings. We were just calmly walking through the streets of the Federal Republic of Germany, while right behind The Wall there was the Eastern Block… where people still did not know what freedom meant. My dad was actually from behind the Berlin Wall. Not from East Germany, but from its neighbor, Poland. He was born in 1928 in Cracow in a rich, Jewish family. He had 3 siblings: an older brother and sister, and a younger sister. His life was a very happy one, until 1939, after the outbreak of World War II, which brought the Holocaust. At first, the Nazis ghettoized Cracow, and then, step by step, they would liquidate it. They sent people to Płaszów Concentration Camp, and then to Auschwitz-Birkenau. My dad and his family had to leave their beautiful, big flat and move to the ghetto where they lived with five other families in one flat.

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When the Nazis began to capture people and send them to work camps, my grandparents decided to run away from the ghetto. With the help from Armia Krajowa (the Home Army), they managed to escape through canals, and get to the Aryan side of the city. They were placed with a lovely, young couple—Alicja and Marek— who treated them like family. It seemed that they were safe. But it was just an illusion. One day a gentleman came to visit. Alicja and Marek said it was a friend. His name was Jarosław. Naturally, when he saw my dad’s family, he started to ask questions about them. The young couple told him they are relatives. But the man was very suspicious, and at some point he made it clear he was an anti-Semite. These Jews… it’s good they are eliminating them. They are the plague no one needs. The young couple were defensive about the Jews. After some time, the man said his goodbyes and left. My grandparents were very anxious—they suspected he might inform the SS about them. When Alicja told them the story of how Jarosław had once been in love with her, but chose to be with Marek instead, they were even more scared. It was the perfect opportunity for revenge. They decided they would have to run away, not only to save their children’s lives as well as their own, but also not to hazard their helpers. Unfortunately, it was too late. An hour after Jarosław’s visit, SS-men were in the flat and everyone was arrested. Dad’s family was transported to Płaszów Concentration Camp. My dad would tell stories of Amon Göth, the commandant of Płaszów. How he killed people for no particular reason. How he shot people, while sitting on the balcony of his villa. It was fun for him; the prisoners were moving targets. Płaszów Concentration Camp was built on the grounds of a Jewish cemetery, the footpaths were made of matzevahs, Jewish tombstones. Humiliation, disease, blood, screams, death, fear—all of this surrounded my Father. And he was only a child, then. After a year in Płaszów, when everybody thought it couldn’t get worse, it actually did. One day, there was a selection, and some people were loaded into bovine train trucks. In inhumane conditions, all squeezed together, they were to arrive at a destination that they couldn’t even fathom. I remember my Dad describing the moment of their arrival: I heard dogs barking. Then they opened the truck, and started yelling at us: “Raus! Schnella, schnella!” It was horrible. They separated us. Women, including my mother and sisters went one way, me, my brother, and my Father went the other. First, they cut our hair, then they took our clothes, and gave us striped uniforms. After that, they tattooed numbers on our forearms.

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I remember when we walked out of the building to the barracks we were allotted to, and I noticed something falling from the sky. At first I thought it was snow. But then I realized it couldn’t be snow. It was August. I noticed this thing was coming from a funnel. I looked closer at the thing that was coming out of it. It was ash. What are they burning? Wood? But it didn’t smell like wood. It was only later that I learned these were crematories. And that it was people being turned into ash in there. It was Auschwitz-Birkenau. The death camp. My dad didn’t keep his tragic story a secret. He talked abo ut it. He believed I should know. I’m thankful he spoke about it, because, just like him, I believe one should know their family’s stories, no matter how terrifying. The moment of separation at camp was the last time my dad saw his mother and younger sister. He later learned that his sister was sent to the gas chamber, and that his mother died of starvation. One day, his father left the barracks with some other men and he never came back. My dad, his older sister, and his older brother survived and were liberated by the Red Army. He never learned what happened to Alicja and Marek, up until a few years ago. They had died in Dachau Concentration Camp—Alicja of typhus and Marek in a gas chamber. A year after their liberation, my dad and his siblings emigrated to the U.S. They settled in San Francisco. That’s where my dad met my mom, and that’s where I was born. My aunt and uncle also have their own families. They managed to live normally—as normally as can be possible after enduring such hardship. Coming back to the streets of Berlin. We finished our wine, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom. As I lifted my hands to put them under the stream of water, I realized my right forearm was purple, full of bruises. It must have happened when Dad grabbed it. Only now had I realized how strongly he had clutched it. Not wanting him to see it, I hid it under my sleeve. I returned to Dad still sitting quietly at the table, and together we left the restaurant. We had travelled to Berlin to visit a family friend, also a Holocaust survivor from Poland, whom Dad met at Auschwitz. Henryk was later transported to Bergen-Belsen, where he was eventually liberated by the British Army. He had stayed in Germany, and now lived in West Berlin. As we walked, I noticed a beautiful, old building, and, wanting to point it out to my dad, I stretched out my hand. As I did so, my sleeve slid up, revealing my bruised forearm. What is this??? Oh… God. That’s my fault isn’t it? I did it to you! I tried to calm him down and convince him that it really wasn’t his fault, but he was terrified. He kept repeating I’m sorry… so sorry. Finally, after a few minutes of hysterical apologies, I grabbed his right hand, and exposed a number tattooed on his forearm. I placed my wounded forearm right next to his. Dad. I pointed at my wounds. This will heal. In a few days it will disappear completely. Then I pointed at his tattoo. This will never heal. And this is responsible for my wounds. Not you. He looked at me with tears in his eyes. Moments like this reminded me what horror he went through. A horror we, those who did not experience it, will never fully understand. After he calmed down, we carried on to Henryk’s flat. We were engaged in a conversation about the architecture, when we suddenly heard someone running. We turned around and saw a man approaching us very quickly. He was covered in blood. He started saying something very quickly in German, to which we replied that we did not speak German. He then switched to English. He told us he had just managed to get through the Berlin Wall and that it was the barbwire that had cut him up so terribly. He said one of the guards noticed him, and was now chasing him. I must hide! Please help! How he managed to get through The Wall was beyond us, not only because of the armed guards and the barbwire, but also because he seemed to be at a pretty senile age. He was definitely much older than my dad, who was 43 at that time. We decided to help the man, and took him to Henryk’s flat. We knew we couldn’t take him to the hospital immediately, as he was a fugitive. Being a gentle soul, Henryk agreed to help. Together we washed the man’s wounds and offered him a bed to take a nap. When we closed the bedroom door, I looked at my dad. He seemed to be very puzzled, so I asked him what the matter was. I don’t know… I just have a strange feeling that I know this man’s face… The next day, the man joined us at breakfast, and told us he was actually from Cracow, Poland. We explained that we were Polish as well and stated that we could switch to speaking Polish. My father had taught me the language at a young age, and though I was born in the U.S., I always felt that I belonged to the Polish nation. The man then told us how, right after the war, he moved to Berlin with his wife who later died of leukemia. He was unlucky, because he lived in East Berlin, which was later separated from West Berlin by The Wall in 1961. He said he was

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harassed by the Deutsche Volkspolizei, which eventually led him to a heroic escape to the other side of The Wall. The whole time the man spoke, my Father watched him very carefully. Suddenly he stood up, apologized, and went to another room. As he left, he blinked at me and nodded his head. After a few minutes I stood up as well, telling the other two I had to change my clothes, and entered the same room Dad did. When I came in, he said: That face, that voice… I know them. And he is from Cracow… I must have met him before… I must have… Suddenly, his eyes grew bigger, his face whiter. Oh… no... It’s... it’s… Jarosław. Yes! It must be him! It is him! Now I was shocked and terrified, as well. What? The one who told the SS about you? The one who was the reason why you were put in Płaszów and Auschwitz??? Dad’s face changed. He took a deep breath. Yes. And now, I was about to be witness to something extraordinary. I thought my dad would attack the man, but instead, a huge grin appeared on his face, and with that grin he rejoined Henryk and Jarosław at the table. He turned to Jarosław. You know all the procedures one must go through to receive refugee status here, right? We will help you with everything, don’t worry. My jaw dropped. This man was responsible for the death of my father’s family...it was because of him that my dad had gone through all those traumatic events… and now he was willing to help him? I remained silent, and pretended everything was fine—no matter how hard it was. I did it for my dad. Indeed, both he and Henryk helped the man to get what he needed. All the procedures. All the papers. They even helped him find a job and a flat. One evening, just before our flight back to the United States, we sat together to eat dinner. Jarosław couldn’t thank us enough for the kindness he received, and for saving his life. It was then that I again noticed a change in my father’s face. His grin was now a little diabolic. Oh, no worries, the pleasure is ours. You know, we helped you, because we are humans. Real humans. Because where does the word ‘humanitarian’ come from? It comes from the word ‘human.’ And what does ‘humanitarian’ mean? It means you treat others with respect they deserve. It means, you have feelings. Jarosław looked a little confused, but he just smiled at Dad and carried on eating his salad. How strange it was that this man owed his life to a person, who he himself once sentenced to a terrible fate—and he didn’t even know about it. After a while, Jarosław stood up, once again thanked us for our kindness, and left the flat. It was an hour later that my dad decided to tell Henryk who this man had been. It left our poor host with wide eyes and open mouth. The next day, we said goodbye to Henryk (who was still in shock), and flew back to San Francisco. We didn’t talk about Jarosław until a week later. We went for a walk to Golden Gate Park, and as we sat down by the pond, I turned to my dad. Why? Why did you help him after what he did to you? You could just leave him be. You didn’t have to help him. Dad looked at me and smiled. As I said, I’m a real human. Not a fake one. I do not seek revenge. What I did just felt right with my conscience. He then touched my face and smiled. Now I fully understood. Jarosław was not the only one Dad helped. My father also helped himself. Now he truly tasted victory. He could hold his emotions back and help someone in need, despite everything. His humanity won over his anger and grief. He truly was a human. And he truly was a survivor.

Agata Podbielkowska She is like a vampire—she prefers to live at night. Surrounded by candles, with psychedelic music filling the space, she sits, shrouded in the smoke of the incense. She sits and writes whatever just comes to her mind. And boy, what strange stories they are…

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Portraitor Lilla Orly

The sound of paintbrushes, their thin wooden handles clattering against the linoleum, startled everyone in the room. One of the student artists had toppled the paint-splattered styrofoam cup containing her sopping tools with an ungraceful flourish, removing the class from their trance-like focus. She hurried to collect them while the rest returned to mixing their colors or correcting the jolt of surprise that they had immortalized on canvas. Amidst the brief though jarring commotion, the model posing for her multiple portraits remained unphased. No hint of reflex to auditory explosion crossed her face, safe for a gentle fluttering of her eyelids that no one would have noticed had he not been staring at her. She posed nude, her left leg extended with the elegance of a ballerina en-pointe, her right leg bent at the knee, her foot resting on the edge of the stool upon which she sat. Her hands rested on her kneecap, their fingers laced, her impervious face hovering above her limbs as though they were a hazy conglomeration of human elements and not a consolidated whole. Maybe that’s why she makes such a good subject, he thought to himself. As the fibres of his brush stroked the canvas, the lively attributes of her otherwise immobile being hinted at her character. It was as though the vision that sat upon the stool was really abiotic, only coming to life once captured in acrylic. He was stirred by the fact that the big toe of her right foot pointed directly towards him. The rest of her seemed to gesture nowhere in particular—her left foot pointed to the floor, and her general gaze looked somewhere beyond all of them—he felt excited that he was singled-out in this subtle though undeniable way. He was irked by the fact that others had to be there. He side-eyed the works-in-progress of his neighbours, scrutinizing their infant-like artwork not even fit for the refrigerator. There was the post-frat boy who always hogged the easel that stood right before the model. He gawked at her breasts and, when others were focused on their work, tried to catch her eye while subtly motioning for her to spread her legs wider. I wonder if deep down she likes it, he thought to himself, watching as said frat boy made the previously mentioned gesture with much less discretion than usual. Probably had one White Claw too many this morning. He peered over at the pedo-mustached, dad-sneakered, Terry-Richardson-looking-dude in the corner who no doubt was painting a semi-satirical version of the girl with a halo above her head and an iPhone in her hand or some bullshit like that. He brought his eyes back to the girl, but her breathing hadn’t even changed. She was so fair, the contours of her body so delineated—her collars bones protruding enough to be grasped—that he was sure someone passing the doorway would believe they were studying a marble statue. He started to paint her elbows. They were arranged in sharp, downward angles as she gripped the top of her knee. He considered all the situations in which they had been used. He thought of how they flattened when her arms rested by her sides. He imagined how they had locked with the cocked arm of another—whether a best friend or an admirer. He could see them used as daggers as she shoved her way through a crowded room at a party. He moved up to her shoulders that rounded sweetly, and admired the seamless curve up into the nape of her neck. He pictured the many times that she had shrugged those shoulders when a spoken answer seemed like too much. He wondered whether she often locked her fingers round the back of her neck when overwhelmed. He tried not to imagine the moments when that same neck had been rubbed or kissed by another. All of these scenarios he painted into her body, the one that he placed on the canvas. He finally reached the only part of her that seemed impossible—her face. It held an effervescence more lucid than the midday light that streamed in from behind her, draping her in a coat of gold. He knew that most of the artists in the room were not doing justice to her face—butchering it even. They would misproportion the slight dip at the end of her nose and wind up giving her a witch-like hook. The barely-there beauty mark that hovered without certainty in the area just above the crease of her mouth would be painted as a Marilyn Monroe mole on the cheek. In short, they were getting her all wrong. Her eyes gave away her age. While the rest of her face flitted anywhere between early teens to mid-thirties, it was the sharp color of her irises that hinted to her youth. She wasn’t older than nineteen or twenty.

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Had she put on makeup the threshold would have risen. Her demeanor was serious for her age, but her bare face, with its plump-apple cheeks and the absence of circles beneath her eyes, would make anyone consider twice. He wondered what weight the modeling job held in her mind. Was there excitement at attention? Was it just for a quick buck? Or even the humble beginnings of someone looking to take it seriously? He pictured her in his mind’s eye. Leaving the art center in a beaten-up leather jacket, stashing the wrinkled tens in her pocket, tying her hair up, she would head to the bus stop. Just another part of her day. Just another way to make ends meet. After a twenty minute commute, where she shifted her gaze between a pocket-sized paperback and the zipping view behind the bus window, she would trudge down the sidewalk, the world falling into a state of deep blue as the amber streetlights would light up with hesitation. She would hop up the cement steps of the townhouse she shared with three other girls, one of them her closest friend from school who she wished were no longer her friend. They would all be sitting at the kitchen table with half a bottle of corner store rosé sloshing around in glasses and plastic cups. They would call for her to join them, she would call back with the promise of only being a minute. She would run down the staircase into the basement that served as her room. She would have collected knick-knacks never to be discarded—meaningless to anyone but herself. Fortunes that would have tumbled out of snapped cookies would be collected in a jar by her bedside. Subway ticket stubs would be pinned to a corkboard, they wouldn’t even represent memorable dates, simply stray cards found in the pockets of already-washed jeans. Scattered across the top of her dresser would be broken bottles found on the street that she would fill with weeds, her roommates would always complain of the safety hazard. The whitewash walls would be hidden behind dozens upon dozens of photographs printed on various mediums. Polaroids, high-contrast images on printer paper, glossy photographs of poorly-rendered party scenes. If nothing else could define her then this would. The furniture would match, she would have made sure of that; it would be the one part of her that would seem in opposition to everything else, some order not even amidst, but beneath the chaos. Another holler would tumble down the steps from above. She would return a half-hearted reply, something along the lines of not feeling well, and gently shut the door. She would undress, and somehow, in the framing of a room where no one was looking at her, she would appear entirely changed. *** Only someone was looking at her, which is why she remained unchanged. He stood in the shade of the brush by her window. She always left the lights glaring, creating a fourth wall out of the large glass panes looking out into the backyard. He’d tested his luck a few times, extending an arm, peering round the siding, almost itching for her to shriek, to draw the curtains, but nada. In all honesty, he didn’t need to make the wild guesses about her that he once did. He never had to wonder or consider anymore, he’d seen it all with his own eyes; the living proof. He could practically predict the next moment she would sigh, he could foresee every tic she would have in response to a noise or a frustrating text. He was getting a bit bored, but he knew that as soon as he’d look away during a lull was when he’d miss the next thing to keep his fascination. He observed as she went about her evening scrawling in a notebook and skipping through songs she disliked on a playlist. He watched as she came back into the room after a shower, her hair bundled at the crown of her head. As she lit a cigarette that she pulled from the drawer of her nightstand, he inhaled and exhaled along with her. He smirked as her roommate appeared to tell her off for smoking in the house, clinging to the wood of the door as though it were a shield. Finally, he gazed at her as she shut off the lights, making it harder for him to see her sharply, but her blurred motions were still visible to him. She shuffled under her duvet, tossing and turning lightly for twenty minutes before settling.

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He pulled out his sketchbook from his back pocket and flipped to one of the last pages where he had etched her uncanny likeness in a composite of chaotic graphite. He shaded the last few inches of her forehead that were disproportionate, and knew heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d finally gotten it. It was her. Now to translate it to paint, to color, that would take much, much longer. He slid the leatherbound book back into his jeans, cupped his hands around his eyes, and leaned towards the glass. *** She felt the coolness of the pillow against her cheek, the blanket weighing down on her light frame, she imitated the state of sleep, but she was really wide awake. He was out there again. She knew it from the way the hairs on the back of her neck would stand up. She had put on her performance for him, going through the motions. He was easy to please. She was baiting him, already reeling him in. She was just waiting for him to get too comfortable. Then she would be the one to bite.

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POETRY

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Misery is Cool, I Guess Sappho Katopodi

I have always had a deep appreciation for strange things, For things that are short and last for an instant Like a birthday candle that you keep when the party is over Just to wish once again in the dark And I appreciate leather I appreciate the heat it causes when I touch it accidentally Moments of warmth underneath my fingertips and a familiar scent It is an opportunity to disappear Misery is cool, I guess, like this hanging on the edge of my chair like a teenage fantasy

Will I explode?

Maybe

Are you a familiar with the terminology of luck? Am I allowed to be appreciated tonight?

Certainly Short is the synonym of hopeful As we disappear in separate ways Twenty truthful questions later A moment gone, creating more

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Remarks of a Galatea Sappho Katopodi

What starts tonight with prayers and a scalpel will also end In white In foam rising from the sea In signatures and myths yet to be uttered And his creation of myself will never last Nameless female forms in rhymed couplets To love an artist is a great release Cause immortality, I guess, is tied to existence Yet as I feel my sides being ribbed I recognise this artificial distance Oh teach me how to pose, how to stand, how to suffice Yet leave unmentioned my inability to speak And my attempt to rhyme Touch, and caress Repeat and pray I come alive at twelve From cruel deities that love to play wrapped in purple dresses and knee socks Oh map me out of cold hands And in an instant make the marble blush Pygmalionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dead His ivory creations long forgotten And yet I signify tradition Galateas are after all just synonyms of order

Sappho Katopodi A writing mess who tries her best. In love with poetry, art, and coffee.

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Marble and Gold Karolina Jakubiak

I’ve created a creature of marble and gold, Alive in the light of the midnight cold, So distant and cruel under the growing dark of the moonless sky. I put on a pedestal the figure so cold, To worship its feet with flowers of words. To have you above with no one in sight, I bow to your feet and your head held so high in the sky. I thought you so real and glorious, and good But the truth came And with it, down went you too. You broke into pieces at this simple touch And I couldn’t find a soul In the pile of scattered ash. The mindless creation Of someone’s imagination, The statue of god, Put to replace the reality of the mind. But above still stands The marble creation With gold in its veins, Warm in the light of the setting day.

Karolina Jakubiak Always sleepy, always hungry, and always creative coffee addict.

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Citizen Proper Agata Podbielkowska

Don’t worry about me Don’t worry I’m fine I will not step forward I will just stay in line No matter what they say No matter what I think I won’t utter a word My eyes shall not blink I will keep my mouth shut I will close my brain Even if people are dying Even if the war for freedom Is in vein I will stay aside A silent passerby I will close my eyes for suffering I will close my ears for cries I will walk with my head down Not to see Someone begging for help Someone asking to join them In the fight for dignity

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The Land of Snow Agata Podbielkowska

White down Hides all the Frozen faces It glistens It shivers A snowflake drops In slow motion It melts And then it all dies Because no one Wants to see the Sun

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ARTICLES

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Gloria Creatoribus or Why Technology Won’t Kill the Artist Krzysztof Wielgołaski

With the ever-progressing development of AI touching every aspect of our daily lives— including the rise of Alexas, Siris, and the like—it’s no wonder that each day spawns more dissenters declaring the end of traditional art as we know it. “The machines will soon replace all

artists/painters/musicians,” reads every 10th article title, foretelling the apocalyptic future of artistry. “Here is yet another trace of contemporary automation!” as if truly expecting the annihilation of human creativity caused by mindless algorithms.

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But, this all-too-common belief is at least partially understandable when examining recent advancements. As current technology has begun to replicate human speech, and even likeness, effortlessly, near-instantaneously, and, above anything else, convincingly, the possibility of computer generated art indistinguishable from the works of human artists no longer feels like a science-fiction fantasy. It’s rather an inevitability we’re heading towards in the coming years. The question of a machine producing art has not been an “if” for a while now, the answer not a “maybe,” but a decisive “yes.” Though, how soon can this art be deemed a viable competitor to the works of human artists on the cultural market? And though, for the time being, it may still seem like a distant vision, I am here to assure you—it is not. Commercially viable, artificially generated pop art is coming, and it is nigh on the horizon. There is, however, no need to fear the sensational headlines and clickbait commenters telling you the flesh-andblood artist will soon be out of work entirely. I have no doubts whatsoever that within my lifetime art generated by machines will constitute a significant portion of all popularly consumed art. This proportion could be as low as only a few pieces of art or high enough to constitute a majority. In the age of convenience, even culture bends to the demands of a consumerist society. As producing machine-built art becomes economically viable and culturally convincing for the average consumer, the public opinion will jump on the trend as well. The voices of dissent will largely be silenced when this new type of art enters the mainstream. Eventually, artistic value will make way for the media of convenience, for art most readily available and most befitting the needs of the general public. And what art could better fulfill the ever-growing demands of a culturally hungry audience than that produced by unfatigued, ever-consistent, and unburdened-by-human-shortcomings machines? A fleshy artist is a demanding creature: ungrateful, ambitious, and, worst of all, expensive to maintain. A machine eliminates those problems. It is always ready to create and doesn’t need a sip of wine or an outing among nature to get the creative juices flowing. It never sleeps nor ceases to operate. It doesn’t even require payment. Its sole purpose is to be the ultimate creative creator, and it appears that soon we’ll meet the first contenders.

The artist of the homo sapiens species, however, has something a machine will never possess—a soul. Not a spiritual or philosophical one, but a metaphorical soul imbued within all human art. We seek out handmade pottery, artisanal chocolates, and mom-and-pop stores over their more widely available counterparts for the same reasons human creativity will never vanish or cease to be valued over whatever a computer may be able to replicate: genuine human connection. The act of creation through human intellect, creativity, and skill is a quality which will never wane from global consciousness. While, soon, we may not be able to distinguish a piece of “generated” art from “human” art through inspection and analysis alone, the conscious act of seeking out the “genuine” among the heaps of “pretend” will forever persist as an expression of the individual, empathetic, and willful soul of a human being. As it goes in sports, game recognizes game, and here, human recognizes human. Though the environment of ever-present convenient service has conditioned us to prioritize the economical factors of a purchase, there will always exist a loyalty to human value imbued in a product. I a similar fashion, even as non-human art will eventually penetrate the mainstream consciousness and gain widespread acceptance, the willfulness to entrust cultural value in human artists will persist forever. There will never come a time when humanity is ready to entirely abandon creativity for the sake of machines, no matter the state of technological advancement. For what a machine can never replicate is the value of a human life; the lifespan of experience that’s innately ours, the millennia of heritage each of us is born into, and the miracle of natural consciousness we happily take for granted, yet, may come to undervalue in the future. A “digital artist” may become just as good, or even better, than a human artist, in the technical sense— but they will never quite be human nor creative. The true creative comes not from what a human being can do, but rather from what a human being is. That is something a machine will never replicate.

Krzysztof Wielgołaski Born and raised Varsovian, he is an aspiring writer and music critic. Fascinated with art, culture, and history.

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Cyberbullying Valeria Stupnikova

Ryan Halligan (13), Megan Meier (13), Phoebe Prince (15), Tyler Clementi (18), Audrie Pott (15), Amanda Todd (15), and many others. These are the teenagers who committed suicide because of cyberbullying. “In this digital world, we need to teach our youngsters that their actions have consequences, that their words have real power to hurt or to help. They must be encouraged to choose to build people up and not tear them down,” comments one of the victims’ mothers. It’s not a secret that cyberbullying causes depression, anxiety, fear for one’s safety, insomnia, and suicide. Is there anything that might be done to battle it? Social media outlets make attempts to protect their users. Facebook launched two features that help users feel safe on the social media platform: one makes those who want to post offensive comments reconsider their actions before posting it to the public; the other one allows users to restrict particular users. The “trick” is that the restricted users can continue commenting, but their comments will

be invisible to the public and to the user who made the restriction. This is important for those who have to deal with their bullies in real life and don’t want to escalate the situation. Also, a team at Facebook checks whether reported posts are offensive or not. Additionally, in the case of a bullied user not knowing what to do, there’s a help center with Abuse Resources, Crisis Response, or Suicide and Self-Injury resources. Another popular social media platform, Instagram—which is owned by the previously mentioned website—has similar tactics. It is also using

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AI to recognizes bullying in photos, videos, and captions. “It’s our responsibility to create a safe environment on Instagram. This has been an important priority for us for some time, and we are continuing to invest in better understanding and tackling this problem,” writes the Head of Instagram, Adam Mosseri, on Instagram’s blog. Researchers are also looking for ways to automate harassment detection. Gilles Jacobs, a language researcher at Ghent University, along with his team have created an algorithm that seeks out cyberbullying in social media texts. To date, AI has detected two-thirds of all hateful communication among 144,000 posts in English on AskFM, a social media platform where users can ask and answer questions. Although AI is definitely superior to human moderators, these programs cannot detect bullying which does not contain offensive words. So, researchers at McGill University in Montreal, Canada, have found a solution to that. They are teaching algorithms on Reddit to detect hate speech which is directed to specific groups like women, black people, or those who are overweight. According to a poll titled “Violence Against Children” released in 2019 by UNICEF and the UN Special Representative of the Secretary-General (SRSG), the number of young people in 30 countries being bullied online exceeds one third. One in five reported having skipped school because of cyberbullying which they face mostly through social media networks including Instagram (42%), Facebook (37%), and Snapchat (31%). The problem with cyberbullying is that it can seriously harm the victim and is a persistent form abuse that is difficult to escape or avoid. It frequently tends to influence college admissions, employment opportunities, and other spheres of life. Although teenagers are more prone to be affected by cyberbullying, it may continue into adulthood as those who were bullied earlier in life are more likely to be bullied throughout their adulthood. For now, there are no clear laws against cyberbullying, but there are campaigns that support victims like The Cybersmile Foundation, stopbullying.gov, and stopcyberbullying.org. The EU has created a strategy within the European Commission to combating cyberbullying in order to protect minors. The UK has also proposed the world's first online safety law, Online Harms White Paper. It demands social media outlets protect their users from online harassment, cyberbullying, and cyberstalking. As technology and the online world become a part of everyday life, states and social media outlets have to do whatever they can to protect users.

Sources 51 Critical Cyberbullying Statistics in 2020. BroadbandSearch.net. (2020). Retrieved 17 February 2020, from https://www.broadbandsearch.net/ blog/cyber-bullying-statistics. A Majority of Teens Have Experienced Some Form of Cyberbullying. Pew Research Center: Internet, Science & Tech. (2020). Retrieved 17 February 2020, from https://www.pewresearch.org/internet/2018/09/27/a-majority-of-teens-have-experienced-some-form-of-cyberbullying/. Cyber Harassment - Ethics Unwrapped. Ethics Unwrapped. (2020). Retrieved 17 February 2020, from https://ethicsunwrapped.utexas.edu/ case-study/cyber-harassment. Cyberbullying Statistics and Facts for 2020 | Comparitech. Comparitech. (2020). Retrieved 17 February 2020, from https://www.comparitech. com/internet-providers/cyberbullying-statistics/. Griffiths, S. (2020). Can this technology put an end to bullying?. Bbc. com. Retrieved 17 February 2020, from https://www.bbc.com/future/ article/20190207-how-artificial-intelligence-can-help-stop-bullying. How Teens Can Prevent & Fight Homophobia & Bullying. Plannedparenthood.org. (2020). Retrieved 17 February 2020, from https://www. plannedparenthood.org/learn/teens/bullying-safety-privacy/bullying. SLONJE, R., & SMITH, P. (2020). Cyberbullying: Another main type of bullying?. Retrieved 17 May 2020, from.

Valeria Stupnikova Eats chocolate whenever she wants and never gains weight.

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Anti-Progressivism in American Neoliberal Age Comic Books Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya

Space exploration has arguably become the ultimate focal point of pop-cultural science fiction productions. Beginning with the cult-classic space-opera, Star Wars, stretching all the way to Amazon Primeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s series The Expanse, which has been adapted from James S.A. Coreyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s

novel series. The tradition of cultural interest in any frontier, whether it be the Wild West, or space and technology, appears to thrive within these productions (Corey, 2011-2020). It may be argued that The Expanse may function rather as neoliberal propaganda with its spectacu-

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lar imaging of spaceships, vacuum suits, and all the cutting-edge equipment. However, some other productions such as Gabriel Hardman and Corinna Bechko’s Invisible Republic shows us that not only does space exploration foster the Keynesian “up-for-grabs” utopian ideology as manifested in The Expanse series, but also that Western civilization carries the misery of capitalism to space. In the introduction of Green Planets, Gerry Canavan suggests an interesting formulation of the way in which the capitalism would operate in a polarizing and contradictory fashion (Canavan & Robinson). The idea is that what justifies the exploration of space is that its vastness has nothing to do with any measurable or owned commodities. However, a contradiction intercepts this utopian idealism where reality is considered in the application and actualization of this Keynesian dream. In this sense, Invisible Republic provides a projection of this contradiction. In this comic book, civilization has already expanded into the galaxy in the 2800s, and settled on moons and planets. It appears to have advanced in terms of technology, only to exacerbate the consequences of the Anthropocene through its instruments that permit environmental and biological manipulation. In Invisible Republic, Avalon, which is a moon in the Gliese System, faces the serious threat of abandonment subsequent to the fall of the Malory Regime, the governing entity of the entire colony. The protagonist Croger Babb, a veteran journalist, describes life as “a daily struggle” due to Avalon becoming unorganized and chaotic. Babb attributes the degradation of Avalon’s social structure and organization to the lack of police. However, on the very same page, two military-looking figures can be seen walking the streets of Avalon. A potential interpretation of this scene could be that Babb does not necessarily mean that law enforcement is lacking, but rather indicates the vanishing of the function of police. Therefore, police units prior to the collapse of Mallory Regime segue into a mere power entity. As well as the exponential exacerbation of the police state in Invisible Republic, the Anthropocene in the Gliese System becomes only more present, in opposition to the idealistic expectations about space exploration. In the notes of the ninth issue, Bechko explains how numerous species such as the “sharp fish” are actually a consequence of genetic experiments that are proposed to enhance the colonial process. In fact, the very ecosystem of the newly discovered planets and moons such as Avalon, appear to be nothing in the context of the glorified advertisements.

We may recall many of these examples from reality such as Elon Musk’s or Jeff Bezos’ billion-dollar companies that conduct experiments in the aim of space travel. Therefore, in the contradiction of a space economy that Canavan suggests, one would add the ideological deception and contradiction of space exploration. To conclude, Hardman and Bechko’s Invisible Republic provides the reader with a dystopian projection of space exploration and its potential disappointments in the future—although the comic book appears to be reflecting the present, as well. The environmental catastrophe in Avalon and the degradation of the state and its instruments succeed in indicating the present neoliberal governments of the western block.

Sources Corey, James S.A. The Expanse. Orbit Books. 2011-2020. Canavan, Gerry and Kim Stanley Robinson. Green Planets: Ecology and Science Fiction. Wesleyan University Press, 2014. Hardman, Gabriel and Corinna Bechko. Invisible Republic. Image Comics, March 2015.

Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

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Contributors Ibrahim Mert Alcinkaya A master's degree student who is a potential historian of African American Music. An enthusiast of psychoanalysis, science fiction, and Western philosophy.

Teresa Bakalarska A human, crisp, professional whiner. Writes everything from poetry through prose to god-awful rap lyrics. Thinks that Buffy The Vampire Slayer is the greatest achievement of humanity.

Aleksandra Barciszewska Former editor-in-chief. ASC-survivor. Vampiric psychoanalyst by nature. Extracting the sexual from the mundane, rejecting reality for the sake of the very-tale of momentary satiation of the urges for creation.

Karolina Jakubiak Always sleepy, always hungry, and always creative coffee addict

Sappho Katopodi A writing mess who tries her best. In love with poetry, art, and coffee.

Anita Majewska Addicted to basketball, drawing, and Netflix. I think with images. If I look depressed, I probably just ran out of hummus.

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Joanna Marchewka Regular, non-artistic soul but in love with digital and traditional art, basically looking for opportunities to take up new challenges. Coffee and tea lover so nothing surprising so far, consequential in tasks where involved. Definitely gonna be someone in the future—whether millionaire or fast-food worker. Has a variety of extraordinary interests such as Netflix because no one has ever pointed that out. Yep. Hi.

Natalia Ogórek Singing is her biggest passion, but she does not connect her future with it. Lover of TV series and Marvel. 70% funny, 50% weird, 100% organized.

Paweł Pańczyk Graphic designer. Just be yourself!

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Marta Rapacka 3rd year BA student. Apart from being utterly in love with TV series, she loves spending her free time discovering mysteries of Adobe Photoshop. Coerced into accepting the new goal of her existence, namely being The Very First Caricaturist of The Wasp—an honorable title she proudly bears and exploits (see: above and below).

Valeria Stupnikova Eats chocolate whenever she wants and never gains weight.

Krzysztof Wielgołaski Born and raised Varsovian, he is an aspiring writer and music critic. Fascinated with art, culture, and history.

Kamila Maria Wyszyńska Studies Graphic Arts at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. American Studies is her second faculty. Loves to travel. Wants to live and create across the world.

The WASP | Volume I | Spring 2020