Search Results

Irisa R. ‘Sorry Irisa, Bangladesh is drowning. It has ten years left.’ I was 14 years old, sitting in my Year 9 Geography class, my attention drifting in and out, when my teacher abruptly stood up, pointed a finger at me and told me that my country of heritage would be underwater in ten years because of climate change. That was in 2012. I looked at him, aghast. He continued, chuckling, ‘They will be the first environmental refugees the world sees. It will be the first country with such a huge population to fall below sea level, because it’s one of the lowest-lying countries in the world, and all 165 million people will be pushed into boats.’ I just sat there, mortified. He went on, ‘I’m assuming you have family back home, do you all ever talk about it?’ By now all thirty-five, fresh faced, teenagers were looking at me with confused stares. There wasn’t any reasonable response to what he was saying so I just smiled, hoping he would stop speaking. A couple of the girls next to me turned to me then and asked, ‘Oh my God, people you know are going to die because of climate change? That’s so sad.’ Another added, ‘Wait, where exactly is Bangladesh? Is it near India or South Africa? I don’t remember how the lesson went on. This teacher had singled me out and turned the lives of 165 million people into an interesting geographical issue, completely impersonal, and something that could be used to provoke a sleepy classroom. This incident was the first time that most of those students had heard about Bangladesh. Little did they know that this was the country that my parents had been born in, and home to ancient languages, cultures and belief systems that were inextricably linked to that land. They were introduced to Bangladesh as an afterthought, the first casualty of the then seemingly non-urgent issue of climate change. Climate justice isn’t spoken about with the same level of sensitivity and understanding as many other justice issues. This level of complacency goes hand in hand with the reality that climate refugees will be created in countries we can’t even point to on a map. The teacher himself was not the problem - he was a symptom of the much larger issue of privilege. The most prominent of these discussions happen from a place of privilege that ignores the most vulnerable and immediate victims of the climate crisis. As one of the lowest-lying deltas in the world, the direct consequences of rising sea levels are already being seen in Bangladesh. A one-meter rise of sea level will see the loss of 15-17% of the total landmass of the country and displace approximately 20 million people. The vast majority of people who come in contact with the current climate conversation do not realise that the brunt of our inaction is already being shouldered by the most vulnerable communities in the Global South. Growing up, my father would share stories on how his house would be lifted onto stilts during monsoon season, how they would be able swim in what was their front yard when the floods were particularly bad and how entire villages built along river banks would move when the rivers changed course. In a country the size of Tasmania, dissected by over seven-hundred rivers, this was just another aspect of living with the land, but with riverbank erosion and flooding, the consequences of these changes have become more extreme. This year alone, over 700 000 people have been forced to move from their rural communities into the already overpopulated capital city, Dhaka, due to climate disasters. The issue of climate change does not exist in a vacuum; it is a direct consequence of a system that profits from waste, greed and consumerism. Economic fantasies of endless profit and infinite growth have been built off of exploitative power structures between the Global North and the Global South that have existed for decades. This dynamic is seen in the whitewashing of the climate movement, where discussions about climate crisis often silence the voices of current victims and encourage careless generalisations for shock factor. Though Bangladesh’s geographic location plays a part in their vulnerability to rising sea levels, they are extremely ill-equipped to combat the growing threat posed by climate change. This is a direct result of the environmental destruction during colonisation that paved the way for later exploitative capitalist practices that have together depleted the country’s natural resources. Whitewashing the inherent racial inequalities in the way the climate conversation has manifested seeks to remove the responsibility of the Global North and its economic structures which profit off the use and abuse of the planet. We need conversations that acknowledge our privilege living in a country where we are well-equipped to handle the climate crisis, if we choose. The way we speak about the climate crisis needs to focus on all the communities that will be affected, rather than envisioning a future where we survive but only because so many others have been sacrificed. We cannot tweak the system from within, we need radical change to make way for long-lasting solutions. Most of all, we need an ideological shift in what we value. Collective over individual welfare, progress over profit. My teacher, ten years ago, should have encouraged a discussion on how we could remedy our impact on the planet to create a system that would protect countries like Bangladesh that are extremely vulnerable from the climate crisis that we have collectively created - instead of using their existential threat as a punchline to jumpstart his lesson on climate change. “Irisa, Bangladesh is in danger and it is our collective responsibility to make sure that their future is as viable as our own. How can we make that happen?” Lead editor: Tahmina R.

By Lamisa H. This piece is dedicated to the youth that are passionately fighting for climate justice. The Pvblication have had the pleasure of interviewing six climate activists from across Australia who have worked tirelessly alongside thousands of others to rally, protest, strike and meet with politicians to have their voices heard. Here, they break down what it means to be an activist and exactly what they desire from us. WE DEMAND CHANGE What does the label ‘activist’ mean to you? AISHEEYA HUQ: At the beginning, especially, being called an activist gives you a sort of agency when it’s in regard to something you’re passionate about. You have a role to play. What you’re doing isn’t seen as insignificant. ANICA RENNER: I think that as an activist who is putting a lot of their mental energy into changing things in the world, it’s important to acknowledge where you put your efforts. Sometimes you can’t change things as much, and you need to invest your energy where it’s going to be most impactful. TOBY THORPE: Activism comes in so many ways. From saying no to plastic straws to protesting, you can be an activist in any way you're comfortable. You’re not just caring about the environment. You’re caring about your future and learning from valuable experiences. Why are you striking? AISHEEYA HUQ: Politics is basically there to take care of us and ensure our democracy is secure and that our futures are sustainable. What’s at the forefront in politics is at the forefront in society. So yeah, we are trying to bring the issue of climate change to the forefront of politics. Make it something that our politicians, voters and everyone in society puts first. The issue of climate has turned into a leftist issue rather than a human issue. I remember after the first strike ScoMo said, ‘We don’t want activism in schools’ or something like that. And that kind of blew up at the time. I think they do see us as a threat. But there needs to be a sense of respect in terms of truly taking in what others have to say. It doesn’t just go for young people, but everyone who has that concern for climate. TOBY THORPE: We are taking our learning into our own hands, deciding what we want to learn and how we want to learn and sometimes that's through activism. When it comes to the question of “should there be activism in schools” - there is no activism in schools. There's activism in the youth movement. It’s in the streets, and what students are doing is they are creating their own school, creating their own education system. Young people have an incredible power to connect and we are stronger than ever. That means we can fight against these huge companies, and these huge issues together. Not only are we marching together on the streets, but we are connected emotionally and we support each other through that. How could your schools make positive changes? ANICA RENNER: Private schools have autonomy over their own facilities and should be working off 100% renewable energy. We know it's cheaper, we know it's more economically viable, so I don’t see a logical reason as to why they shouldn’t be doing that, I think they should also be really mindful in their waste. But the biggest thing is working off 100% renewable energy. Whether its solar, hydro or wind power - it doesn’t matter. For public schools, I think the government should be taking action. The state government should invest in renewable energy in schools and households because that’s what’s going to get us there. Fossil fuels are the leading cause of climate change. We need to make sure there is a just transition towards renewable energy so that we can have a safe climate future and that nobody gets left behind in that transition. LET’S GET PERSONAL How have you personally grown from this experience? AISHEEYA HUQ: I feel like I’m completely different as a person. I actually realised I have this power to do something, power to create actual social change and political change through my actions, and through my activism. It made politics and politicians much more approachable because it is easy to say that they’re just people but oftentimes, especially as a young person, you don’t feel that it's accessible. You don’t feel like you have the value that they do and therefore cannot impact their decisions, their policy-making and their agendas. But my view has changed 180 on that. In general, I value myself and my ability to create change more now. It's been a really empowering time. I would have a lot to say, and I would be really opinionated. Not always about the environment, in fact, I did not care about the environment before my involvement with the Australian Youth Climate Coalition. But I would be very passionate about things, and be very vocal. A lot of people don’t know that they have political power. This entire movement has taught me that I can practice what I preach. MILOU ALBRECHT: I’ve grown up in a house where we are always talking about the climate impact and how we can solve them, and how we can cope with climate grief and anxiety because my mum is a psychologist, and she specialises in coping with climate grief and anxiety, and raising kids in a climate altered world. That is the mindset I have grown up with. I have always been going to protests. I have always understood what is going on. When Greta starting striking, me and some other families could just see the benefits of it. So we talked to our community, and AYCC helped us organise a video to let people know about the strike. TOBY THORPE: For me, it's been the biggest learning experience. From the time I earned an international award to now, even though I dropped out of school, I still classify myself as a student because my activist journey takes me on all these learning experiences, and I’ve gained so much experience that you can’t get from a classroom. How do you deal with cynicism or indifference? AISHEEYA HUQ: One politician tweeted at us and said that these kids are gonna end up on the dole. But I think adults would be surprised to hear that many of the cynics were young people. A lot of my friends questioned “you know, you’re ideals are great and all. The morality of it, yeah I understand that. That’s a good thing, but like what will striking do?” I can’t look at it any other way now, I really do believe in radical action. Rather than criticising someone about their initiative, join them and actually be a part of the movement. I understand that people do have that perspective. But you need to do something directly. You can be cynical, but that’s not going to help anything. It starts with individuals holding themselves accountable, and having them recognise that their impact is real and this flows through the rest of the community. ANICA RENNER: You ultimately can’t make everybody care about the same issues, some people care strongly about different issues that aren’t necessarily just climate change. I think that it’s important in our fight to people who do care to frame things in the interests of the general public whether or not they care about it. It takes a few people to start, to get the cogs turning, to get the ball rolling but we need a cascade of change, and if people have the mindset that “oh it’s just me, I can't do much, it’s not my responsibility” then that mentality won’t change things. What will change things is if people look at the issue in the eyes of the whole. So while you might not feel like you’re making a big difference as an individual. In the swell of change, little changes will shift things faster: if people vote in favour of climate action, if people consume in favour of climate justice. Things will change. MILOU ALBRECHT: This is an existential threat. Everyone is going to be affected by this, you are not going to miss out. You just have to connect with them on a personal level. Talk to them, and ask them, “What are their favourite things to do?” and how that will be affected. “Who are their loved ones? And how that will be affected. That’s how I would approach it. TOBY THORPE: Whenever I hear cynical people, I say to myself, they are scared of change. They don’t understand that the world is changing, and if they do they are scared of how it is not going to benefit them. You learn to care for the environment, but you also learn some valuable experiences. For me, I've learned how to raise money, how to engage young people and public speaking skills, how to write a speech and how to write an article, which school is supposed to teach you, but it doesn’t. Cynical people should be appreciative that activism is bringing better and more equipped leaders into society. VARSHA YAJMAN: When people are overwhelmed, it's easier to deal with, because you can turn that into action. When people are indifferent, it's so frustrating because they tend to think that we need to go to school, and we need to have an education, then when it comes to actually taking care of our futures, they tend to be so indifferent about it which is just so contradictory. How have your communities reacted to your activism? AISHEEYA HUQ: To this day, my community - the Bengali community - have a lot of scepticism. There is a lot of questioning the legitimacy of our movement, of my participation in the movement, but there is a newfound respect for what I’m doing. The scale of the movement is so big and seeing a person that they know quite well being heavily involved makes them think, “Oh, look this is a person in our community, maybe we should consider this as something we should care about as well.” The domino effect is so clearly a part of everything in this movement. But it’s also worth recognising that there are a lot of Australians who won’t experience the impacts of climate change as fast as these Desi families will. If they are from Bangladesh, for example, it’s going to be one of the first countries affected by the climate crisis. I’m sure that will heavily impact their understanding of climate change and the respect for movements that push for climate action and for climate justice. POLITICS OF PROTEST Do you think school strike for climate is working? TOBY THORPE: When you go to conferences in Chile (COP 25), and then come home, and Adani is still happening, it feels like we aren’t being heard. Well, being heard, but not being listened to. They hear what we are marching for [in terms of climate change], but they’re not listening to our demands. VARSHA YAJMAN: We haven’t seen too much change to be honest. It’s definitely on the news everyday though. That makes a really big difference to how important we perceive the issue to be. It’s becoming really obvious that more and more people are caring about the climate crisis. In that sense, it’s had a great impact. We want to make sure we are getting action at the end, because right now we haven’t seen too much at all. For us, it’s not just about having the strikes but making sure that it is a sustainable movement. Is the climate justice movement as inclusive as possible? AISHEEYA HUQ: I could talk so much about this. AYCC has been trying so hard, it's so awesome that we have these adults who empowered us through every step of the way because there is just not enough focus, not enough action, movement happening in that massive section of [Western] Sydney. People just don’t understand that because of the history of climate activism has always been portrayed through the face of a white, privileged, high socio-economic person’s face, and through their actions in their localities, because of that commonality, there isn’t much coverage on what goes on in low socio-economic areas. Before this, I didn’t think it was normal to be very involved in politics, and they seemed distant or this radical action and impactful. I am 100% sure that even if I look at my school setting everything seems so far away and seem so irrelevant to the young people that reside in Western Sydney. Politically, behind the scenes, Western Sydney is a major area, but in terms of the movement, there is not much light shed on them. We had a wide variety of people, and that was the intention. There is definitely potential for the movement to change and adapt, and it is for sure like I don’t think people like myself and my friends who are like key organisers of these strikes, I don’t think we would exist as part of the movement if it wasn’t in that position. What is your hope for the future ? ANICA RENNER: I really hope climate change isn’t a barrier for anyone, that it doesn’t limit people regardless of where they were born because climate change amplifies existing vulnerabilities. I hope climate change doesn’t mean people have to be displaced and leave their homes. I hope that governments and corporations listen to what the future is saying. Listen to what is the most economically viable option, and the safest option and the best for people and make that transition so that young people, old people, middle aged people, people of all backgrounds and experiences and ways of life can live fairly. NYAH SHAHAB: For me, my hope is to go from respect to action. The leader of Canada attended the Strike which is cool because he is showing support, but also silly because he could implement change. So the main goal, and what I hope to see in the future, is primarily climate action but with a forefront of justice, which means that when approaching climate change we also prioritise First Nation people. So it’s done according to the wishes of the rightful owners of the land, and for that to happen globally in a lot of colonised land. We would like to thank Aisheeya Huq, Anica Renner, Milou Albrecht, Nyah Shahab, Toby Thorpe and Varsha Yajman for sharing their incredible insights and for their tireless work in fighting for a more just future. * The interviews have been condensed for clarity. Lead Editor: Tahmina R.

by Lamisa H. “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has” - Margaret Mead When the climate crisis comes up in conversation, we are met with a few seemingly irreconcilable extremes: The indifferent individual, living life without a sense of impending disaster; the nihilist, resigned to accepting our inevitable doom; or the lone fighter, hellbent on believing we can turn this boat around. In our current political climate, it’s easy to fall into a spiral of eco-anxiety and inaction. Being aware of the magnitude of the problem often means that our attempts at individual change can seem inconsequential. For me, switching to more sustainable choices was a ticket into mindful living and realising the broader social and political changes I wished to see. It is essential to reform our individual habits to ensure that our climate activism does not fall into the realms of slacktivism. There is an important concept in Islam called haq, which means 'truth' or 'right'. It played a fundamental part with my anxieties, when questioning the scope of my impact in reversing climate change. My concerns were rendered powerless whenever I asked myself the question: At what point does my lifestyle impinge on the haq-- the rights of others? How can I better align my intentions with my daily actions? I thought the result of my journey into more ethical living would end in a plastic-free household, but it morphed into something else entirely the more knowledge I gained. Turning Intention Into Action Five months ago, I made a plan to gradually reduce my carbon footprint and household plastic waste. It started with a keep-cup, bamboo straws and an effort to stop relying on disposables. Next, I ordered 100% recycled toilet paper, paper towels and tissue boxes online. I even sacrificed lathery body wash for body bars, ordered a bamboo toothbrush and an ethical cleaning kit, with plastic and toxin-free alternatives. I researched endlessly about the products available out there to make my home a better place, for myself and my family. I’ve put together a table outlining how I altered my consumer choices, contrasting items with the alternative ethical products that I use now to provide a starting point to help anyone out there looking to switch to cleaner living. Keep cups, metals straws, now what? It is important to acknowledge that the current debate about the market of ‘green consumption’ as a solution to environmental sustainability questions whether it’s a manifestation of cultural inertia, rather than a solution to it. Bridging the gap between our politics and our lifestyle is a difficult process, and there is a huge disconnect between our intention and action when it comes to influencing our environmental footprint. Though we may be ethically-minded people, the cost and inaccessibility of the ethical market often means that we rarely buy ethically. These are the problems I faced when transitioning to more ethical, clean consumption. I acknowledge that we will not solve these larger-than-life problems merely by changing our light-bulbs and riding our bikes instead of our cars. The main agenda in ethical, or green, consumption is reusing, reducing and removing. This means less buying. I was whisked into the fervour of cleansing my consumption habits, yet kept forgetting to contextualise my efforts. The problem is so much more intricate than what we waste, what we eat and what we wear. Making small changes in our lifestyles are meaningful starting points, but simultaneously, they are dangerous stopping points. The climate crisis needs our undivided attention. So, the idea that we can solve the issue if we just plant more trees, turn some lights off and start cooking at home is exactly what fossil fuel industries want us to believe. It reduces existential issues to instagrammable, bite-sized and digestible pieces that distract us all from the true guilty parties who are the sources of the problem. In other words, your lone keep-cup will not solve our waste mismanagement. So how do we do this? Demand Change From Those With More Power To See This Through The most important step is demanding personal action from one another. The culture will not budge if we keep our ideas to ourselves, whether it is ‘throw-away’ or ‘consumer’ culture. Investigating policies, and voting for the right people is taking the right action. Helping our community and friends to live consciously is taking action. I aspire to people such as Mehreen Faruqi. As the first Muslim woman in the NSW Senate for Greens, she fearlessly claims a space for her voice to be heard. She paves paths for others, advocating for a better future. The prospect of our environment is overwhelming and worthy of our anxiety. But the climate crisis will not be solved with just cynicism towards the capitalist and consumerist strongholds. Or just making small changes. Or just climate activism. We need to work like an ecosystem, channeling whatever skills that are unique to us. The drive to live more sustainability needs more voice, and an unwavering willingness to morph intention into action. I am here to fight with you for climate justice. Are you in? Lead Editor: Palwasha A. Bibliography Vox. (2019). "I work in the environmental movement. I don’t care if you recycle.". [online] Available at: https://www.vox.com/the-highlight/2019/5/28/18629833/climate-change-2019-green-new-deal [Accessed 8 Oct. 2019]. Gameau, D. (2019). 2040: A Handbook for the Regeneration based on the documentary 2040. 1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales: Pan MacMillan, pp.6-218. Blake, J 1999, ‘Overcoming the 'value-action gap' in environmental policy: Tensions between national policy and local experience’, Local Environment, vol. 4, no. 3, pp. 257–278. Drawdown. (2019). Summary of Solutions by Overall Rank | Drawdown. [online] Available at: https://www.drawdown.org/solutions-summary-by-rank [Accessed 8 Oct. 2019]. Grant, Lyle K. (2011) In response: Can we consume our way out of climate change? A call for analysis. The Behavior Analyst. [Online] 34 (2), 245–266.

Palwasha A. In June, during the Sudan blackout crisis, a page called @sudanmealproject went viral on Instagram. The page promised that for every user who reposted their photo and followed their account, they would donate one meal to someone affected by the crisis in Sudan. Their bio promised to donate up to 100,000 meals. The account garnered over 400,000 followers and it seemed that the Instagram story of every person I followed was sharing their message. But an instagram follow has no monetary gain and if an organisation were capable of delivering such an immense amount of aid, why would they withhold it? Indeed when I went on their page, looked through their story highlight, and for any associated links there was nothing to be found about how they would fulfil their promise. How would they deliver the food, which location, what was the name of the organisation responsible? It became clear that this account that hundreds of thousands of people had used to “do their part” with was nothing but a ploy to leverage a crisis in which human lives were being lost to gain followers and a platform. What is Slacktivism? Slacktivism can be defined as supporting a cause by performing simple measures but not being truly engaged or devoted to making a change. It’s also known as flash activism, social media activism and armchair activism. Despite its many names, the actual question of when we’re performing slacktivism as opposed to true activism remains difficult to navigate and so many of us have fallen into the trap of slacktivism in the past. The vast majority of people, while they may agree with an idea or acknowledge that something is unjust, will not take action to change it. The standard is passivity. In November 2008, a small Facebook group called 'World Aids Day 2008' urged their followers to change their profile pictures to a red ribbon to spread awareness about the HIV epidemic. Almost a quarter of a million supporters changed their profile picture in solidarity. This was arguably one of the first instances of social media activism, or slacktivism. People were able to engage in a cause from the comfort of their own home and act publicly in a way that took them a few seconds and cost them nothing. There is no single act that can always be called slacktivism. It is what the cause necessitates that determines whether something fits the definition or not. Online activism does play a part in the political process and has the ability to garner mass attention in one of the fastest ways possible, but only if this awareness can then be harnessed into actionable goals that have been set by the organisers of a movement. The goal of activism is social change. This is the real key to grassroots social change which requires flexibility on how the engagement occurs. The usefulness of more “comfortable” forms of protest lies in the fact that they engage people who would otherwise have done nothing. Why Should We Care? Since activism seeks to change the status quo, slacktivism generates noise and can be complicit in silencing true activism. This noise can give the impression of successful change without necessarily delivering tangible results. Sharing content online is an incredible way to amplify voices that go unheard, but when these calls to action are made without practical and sustainable methods, it adds to the white noise and reduces the legitimacy of those championing true change. Also, dangerously, it allows people to capitalise on the facade of pro-activity while actually doing very little or nothing at all to make a tangible difference. This is not to say that everyone partaking in slacktivism is unmotivated or unwilling to act; the issue can often lie in a misunderstanding of the most impactful actions in initiating change. Social media activism has the potential to win elections across the world but public spectacles alone will not force elected representatives to do anything. Slacktivism can mobilise people and create opportunities for reform. Does Slacktivism Play a Role in Affecting Genuine Change? Condemnation of acts of slacktivism can foster a righteous mentality of “if you’re not doing enough, you’re not doing anything at all,” which can dissuade small-step people from decades of potential involvement. We need this noise. Slacktivism plays a role in affecting genuine change because it can be a show of solidarity as well as spreading awareness that assists in making an impact. Turning your profile picture a certain colour could be seen as a slacktivist trend if there is no further action after this flood of social media activism. For example, the move for people to change their profile picture blue for Sudan was hugely impactful because the nature of the crisis in Sudan was in part an internet blackout, orchestrated in an effort to prevent the spread of information. So is the noise that slacktivism generates effective? The Black Lives Matter movement was able to mobilise people all over the world and is credited as being one of the most effective and influential activist campaigns. Its momentum was gained by people sharing videos, images and information of the police brutality against black Americans online. This kind of abuse of power thrives when it is not questioned or brought to light, so the act of spreading it online was hugely impactful. Similarly, the online activism involved in the Me Too movement cannot be categorised as slacktivism. The sacrifice of people sharing their personal stories of sexual assault and harassment propelled change that reverberated around the world and set new standards for conduct in many industries. For the Climate March, spreading awareness online was imperative to ensuring the commitment of more than four million people globally to the protests two weeks ago. Although, the fact that the protestors themselves stand to be affected by the change in climate needs to be considered in how people were mobilised. There are so many variables in each of these movements that need to be considered in understanding exactly how the otherwise would-be instances of slacktivism mentioned have been skill-fully harnessed by online activists to affected massive change, often on a global scale. It is clear that every cause differs depending on what the desired outcome calls for. Activism that may be considered unproductive in one instance, feeds the fire in another. How Can You Turn Your Slacktivism into True Activism? There are several steps every person can take to ensure that when they act in support of a cause, they are doing so in a way that aids actual change. The first step in turning our slacktivism into true activism is understanding that every person, including ourselves, has their limitations, and not to let our potential past involvement in slacktivism dissuade us from working to make genuine change in our world. The second step is to be honest with ourselves about our intentions. Slacktivist acts of re-sharing activist content online can often allow a person to walk away from a cause with a clear conscience. Ask yourself if, in performing this act, you seek to absolve yourself of any further responsibility towards the cause and if so, hold yourself accountable. The third step in ensuring there are actual steps to follow. These are steps that an individual can take, which, with the power of numbers can lead to such high-level change as putting forth candidates and winning elections. This is the greatest lesson Micah White learned from his perceived failure of the Occupy Wall Street protest that he co-founded and recommends setting actionable goals to track how a campaign will reach its desired outcome. Ultimately, the real meat of the movement and the push behind the change comes from rallying the community, from hours of calls to your local MP, petitioning to the right people, donating money to credible sources and from discussions with your friends and family. You’ll notice that what all these acts have in common are some element of sacrifice, whether it be your time, effort, money or plans. It’s important to recognise that online activism, or small-step activism, is a good start, but just that - a start. Lead Editor: Tahmina R. Bibliography UNAIDS Outlook report. (2010). Geneva: World Health Organization. ABC News. (2019). Activism is broken: Here's how we fix it. [online] Available at: https://www.abc.net.au/news/2017-10-25/activism-is-broken-heres-how-we-fix-it/9077372 [Accessed 1 Oct. 2019]. The Conversation. (2019). 'Slacktivism' that works: 'Small changes' matter. [online] Available at: https://theconversation.com/slacktivism-that-works-small-changes-matter-69271 [Accessed 1 Oct. 2019]. The Huffington Post. (2016), Challenging “slacktivism”: activism on social media is not enough. [online] Available at: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/challenging-slacktivism-activism-on-social-media_b_5817c2dbe4b09b190529c8ae [Accessed 1 Oct. 2019].

By Jessica L. "If you’re not prepared to hurt your mother, Do not hurt the earth, Because she is in fact your mother" - Bruce Pascoe My house is a miniature jungle both inside and out. Plants are found in every dark corner and narrow corridor. They rest in pots, in vases, on top of bookshelves, outside on the balcony and even laid flat in framed pictures. Some congregate near the window blinds, waiting for sunlight to seep through. Some hide in the shadows of rooms while others proudly face the sun. Stubbornly unmoved in their own place, they remain ever growing. Gracefully standing or dangling as they watch us, judging us with unseen eyes. Nature’s humble presence watches in silence, only to be cast aside by the chaotic clamour of everyday life. Still, they grow in the constraints of their garden pots, a tame and docile jungle created in suburbia, with a wildness hidden in their roots. As a family of five amidst this jungle, we have different experiences living amongst the greenery. In a dark bedroom, my Dad admires the trailing leaves spreading from the unruly vines whilst he calculates the “green” he paid for them. In the living room a camera phone flashes, sparking a transformation. The ephemeral green and yellow leaves are pixelated into an immortal photo stored inside a phone simply from the light tap of my sister’s finger. Towards the colourful balcony, my brother abruptly leaves the company of his piano. Stepping outside he stares at the wild mosaic of flowers, uttering small praises, then hastily returns to his black and white world. Amongst my family there passes a peaceful passivity in which they briefly acknowledge nature's place in the world before returning to their own routines. My mother however is not a passive observer, but a vehement caretaker. She uses all the maternal skills she acquired from raising three kids to care for her fussy green babies. She showers them with water when their limp leaves scream for nourishment. She trims their dried leaves and branches, keeping them presentable. She fertilizes their soil and patiently waits for them to grow. The plants, being such eager children wanting to please their parent blossom and flourish, in response to her efforts and love. I am always in awe. How could she understand the secret unspoken language of plants? Living with plants entails a certain level of commitment that I wasn’t interested in pursuing. Mum coerced me into it with intense persistence. She would ask me to water the garden at first, then it would be trimming leaves and then it would be repotting the plants. I was gardening without enthusiastic volition, but with her insistence on me trying. So I attempted to start my own garden. I shovelled dirt into pots, sprinkled seeds carelessly, drowned them in water and hoped for the best. As the days passed, I repeated the ritual of watering and eventually added the task to my daily chores. The plants didn't turn out well. Some shrivelled completely into dried heaps while some were too cowardly to even grow. It was by no fault of mine that nothing could grow. It was the crappy soil, the poor quality seeds, it was the water and even the stubborn sun that failed me. Plants only need the consistent elements of soil, water and sunlight - to really kill a plant requires one thing; neglect. On my part, the combination of neglect and disinterest were what I provided in abundance. Sure I watered the plants but I did not know what they needed. I paid no attention to when the bright green leaves began to turn dull and limp or when stalks began to turn dry and crisp. I didn't care about over watering, under watering, de-weeding, trimming or any of it. I did not care to listen to something that I thought could not speak to me. I was wrong. They spoke a physical language, a metamorphic speech expressed through the hues of green, the dryness of soil, the shedding of leaves, the expansion of roots and the climbing of branches. My disinterest that was once so firm began to unravel, slowly like steady stems unfurling their leaves. The stretching stalks and serpentine vines creeping from dark corners were beckoning towards the sunlight. From such a small window immense light travelled through and from a jungle contained within four walls one of many lessons were being taught. These humble plants are patient teachers to ungrateful students like me. They constantly leave you messages, asking for your care and leaving you with a choice. To grow up with plants is a reminder to listen to what is being said even when you hear no voice. It teaches that caring for life requires more than sympathy, pity or obligation. For everything will speak if we learn to listen with more than our ears. Now I'm learning to do just that. In my small garden nestled in suburbia where I've planted marigold seeds I patiently wait. And in this silence, I am listening. Afterword “Our spirituality is a oneness and an interconnectedness with all that lives and breathes, even with all that does not live or breathe” - Mudrooroo (Aboriginal Writer) “We cultivated our land, but in a way different from the white man. We endeavoured to live with the land; they seemed to live off it. I was taught to preserve, never to destroy" - Tom Dystra (Aboriginal Elder) “The land is my mother. Like a human mother, the land gives us protection, enjoyment and provides our needs – economic, social and religious. We have a human relationship with the land: Mother, daughter, son. When the land is taken from us or destroyed, we feel hurt because we belong to the land and we are part of it" - Terry Djiniyini Gondarra (Aborigin al Reverend and Theologian) The thought that nature speaks to us, connects with us and is an extension of us is not something novel. It is an ancient idea belonging to the collective knowledge of Indigenous peoples all around the world. In Australia, Aboriginal people and Torres Strait Islanders have always acknowledged the connection to land as the unshakeable foundation of their culture and identity. It is a truth that is learned through experience, taught from the wisdom of the natural environment. “How I Learned to Listen” is merely me beginning to understand an inkling of the wisdom that has always existed within the Indigenous community.

"We are one; we are many; we’ve come from all the lands on Earth. For those who’ve come across the seas, we’ve boundless plains to share." - Mariam Hamid as a 9 year old, singing ‘I am Australian’ and the national anthem together Australia, the sunburnt, patchwork quilt nation. Throughout much of it’s modern history, Australia has been a beacon for people from all over the world. A haven for some, a new beginning for others. A working man’s paradise, a chance and a promise. In the late 1990s people came from the Middle East, and the 80s saw migrants predominantly from Cambodia, Vietnam, and Southern China. In the 1970s people came from East Timor and Indochina, and we beheld the debut of the term ‘boat people’, coupled with assertions of an ‘invasion’ and ‘flood’ of migrants. Following World War II, Australia became home to approximately 2 million of Europe’s displaced people. In the late 1800s, South Sea Islanders are recruited to work on sugar plantations in Queensland, Afghan cameleers help explore the Outback, and Japanese divers develop the pearling industry. In the Gold Rush of the 1850s, thousands of Chinese people come to Australia and make it their home. Throughout the late 1700s to the 1850s approximately 200,000 English, Irish and Scottish migrants came to work as agricultural workers or domestic servants. Between 1788 and 1868, the British Empire transported over 160,000 convicts. In 1770, a man named Cook, his friend Banks, and the crew of the HMS Endeavor anchor on the Australian east coast, and purposely and incorrectly label the land as Terra Nullius. In actuality the land had been the home of a rich and varied culture from at least 60,000 BC with over 100,000 tribal, clan and language groups in the area that would later become New South Wales alone. With each wave of people, we’ve gone through the same cycle of benign xenophobia and outrage. “We don’t have any room!” “They will just bring their problems with them here!” “But… but… THE ECONOMY?!” “What will happen to our way of life?” There is no need to speculate and hypothesise about what will happen to the ‘real’ Australia with every new influx of people, because we already know. Migration and seeking refuge, or a new beginning, have been a part of the Australian story for hundreds of years now. It is a continuation, rather than a deviation, of a national tradition. Individuals will come, and they will grow and change, just as the country will grow and change with them. And slowly ‘them and their stories’ will give way to ‘us and our stories’. This identity of Australia is something I only realised when I began to travel outside of it; when people asked me to describe what it was like, I kept coming back to, “It's the land of migrants, and it’s the land of stories”. In this piece, I interview three people who are emblematic of what it means to be Australian. When I originally began this piece, I had a very distinct idea. I would talk to people that had come here as refugees and then I would share where they were now, ten or twenty years on, thus proving that they had a right to be here by showing what they’d contributed. But as I began to talk to the three incredible people featured in this piece, I realised that somewhere along the line I had begun to miss the point. I interviewed three people who are emblematic to me of what it means to be Australian. These stories are worth sharing because they are incredible stories of resilience, strength and resourcefulness. They are unequivocally a part of this society, but by writing with the intention to prove their right to exist here, I was just feeding into the narrative that we have to fit a standard, a mould that was assigned by people who don’t have the right to assign in the first place. These are only three Australian stories, of so many thousands. Maryam Zahid-Popal A powerful presence in the Western Sydney community. She is a caseworker, migrant advocate, domestic violence prevention officer, artist, mother, playwright, actress and founder of the pioneering organisation ‘Afghan Women on the Move’. These facts about her are not things that I was aware of when I asked if she would be happy to share her story. I just remember that when I was young, she was always one of the most vivid and charismatic women in the Afghan Australian community, she brightened every room she entered and I wanted to be just like her. One. We shine together. I have chosen to shine in my own space. With the choices that I make, I make sure that they are visible. A lot of people may say that’s its showing off, but its not. Somebody has to show that it’s working. If I don’t show that’s it working, nobody will know how things can happen. You need examples. Two. I was in Pakistan for five years after leaving Afghanistan. It was a time of hardship, but I survived. When I came to Australia, I was twenty. I came with no prior education. They said I had to go to adult education. And I understood, I mean I was an adult, but I told them, “No. I never got to go to school. I want to go to school. I want to be like a sixteen, seventeen year old.” I knew I had to go to school, it was very, very important for me. For someone to be able to acknowledge, and have a fire for that kind of freedom, they need to have faced some kind of deprivation or war or something that had taken away your rights. You see, I would see it when I enrolled my younger siblings in school. They were making friends, and having lunch, and getting to wear a uniform. But again, I wasn’t given permission or rather encouragement to have that kind of normalcy, because of my age. But I went to a school, Mitchell High, and I asked to be taken straight to see the principal. I went and explained my situation. But he looked at me and said, “Maryam, my oldest student is 18, and you are 20. There is no way.” I didn’t have the language, but I had the emotion and motivation. I told him that if I wasn’t given this chance to recover all the things I hadn’t gotten when I was 10, or 12 or any of my childhood, then how was I supposed to ever recover. I told him that if he didn’t give me this chance, I knew I wouldn’t get it anywhere. I had to start school. And he said “Yes.” Three. And so, I started high school from year 11 and completed year 12. I can’t recall everything, but I remember I was just so happy. I didn’t get a 99.9% ATAR or anything, but I did ok, I wasn’t failing anything. I tried my best, and I enjoyed it, I got to go and sit with the other students in the Senior area. But some days it was very difficult, I had to play a lot of different roles all day. I was a big sister, a caretaker, a student, a friend. I was always so tired. As the oldest sister, with three younger siblings at home to take care of, I was responsible for paying the rent and the shopping. So, night times and weekends I would be working at the kebab shop. Sometimes, I would be sitting in class asleep, or I would be there at my desk but completely switched off. Also, I didn’t have the language to do the assignments, or to even understand what it was that I was supposed to do. I remember, for a while there, I didn’t know what to get for lunch, and so I avoided it. I didn’t know how to make lunch, or what to make. Because, you know, you don’t get to have those kinds of experiences in war. I would go to the canteen, and get those big round cookies, I only knew those because they were always in the front in those big glass jars. I would point and be like "This! This!". But I couldn’t go to order something else because I was scared; what if I made a mistake? What if they asked me extra questions and I couldn’t answer them? But a good thing happened for me at school, I got counselling. I would encourage all students, and everyone else as well, to seek help. I would see a counsellor every week. Every single week for two years. I wouldn’t have survived without them. And now, I’ve even studied mental health counselling. Four. To choose your own peace is not to be free of all problems. To choose your own peace, its your voice, choose your own thinking. When I question things that bring me peace. I am not and have never been a person who accepts everything. I can influence people, but I can't change them. To me to have my own peace, I need to work on my own terms. These women that I am now connecting with, we are bouncing ideas back and forth, and creating momentum that things can change if you communicate. If you hide it, if you don’t say it, and you just suffer so much in this life thinking that you will have a better life in the next, then you are not acknowledging and recognising the God-given opportunities in this life; I mean look at the beautiful blue sky, the coffee and the freedom. A Palestinian Couple The following two stories are from a beautiful Palestinian couple, a mother and father. When I asked to interview them originally, they were happy to help, but didn’t view their story as particularly interesting or unique. As you will read, they are both among the most resilient and resourceful people I’ve met. They live by their convictions and values, proud of their heritage and humble in their achievements. Unfortunately, due to some of the policies implemented by the Israeli occupation, the couple requested to remain anonymous to ensure that this telling of their stories would not impact their visa applications when they went back to visit Palestine. I have changed their names here as a result. A Father. I had my conversation with Ibrahim after he had just returned from work. He’d had a long, and tiring day, but you could hardly tell. From the clever spark in his eyes, and his jovial greeting you knew that this was a man full of character and personality. One. I started my life seriously. My mum died when I was nine, and I was the oldest of three boys and one girl. We are not soft like now. Sometimes, I laugh at this generation when they start to whinge. If my situation was different, and someone help me, maybe I would have continued studying. I wanted to study more. I wanted to study anything. I like to know everything about anything. Because you know there is no limit for knowledge. I studied for two years after high school, and I get my diploma in Accounting. I finished and I started to help my family. When I come to Australia, I did not work as an accountant, you had to be qualified here; but at the same time it is not easy to go and study because you have responsibility to your family. You have to go direct to work, so that you can cover. Because you are not by yourself. You are not single. If you start to study, how will you look after your family. So, when I came here, I had to work in the convenience store. And now everything is good for us. Two. My attitude in life is to discover. I love to discover places. And now that my second son is to be married next year, and my youngest is finished with university, my plan is to, Insha’Allah, every two years go somewhere. Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. I am very interested in different countries, in geography. My wife and I will travel, because you know, we have completed our mission in life. We looked after our kids, and now that they have got independence, our support is enough for them. Now, it is our time. Maybe we’ll travel to North Africa first. The life in Palestine is generally struggling, you know. Struggling because of all the regulation, the control, the checkpoint. And in the same time, you can't have a plan. You can't make a plan for the long run, you know. Because all the time accidents, all the time struggling. Three. My brother-in-law rang me, and asked me to come to Australia. I said if your sister agrees, we are coming. And my wife she agrees. I stayed here two years by myself before I could lodge the paperwork for. It was not easy for me, to be by myself for two years, without my kids, without my wife. But in the end, you have a target and you have to reach. I feel here safe, comfortable, I feel nice. I am proud that I'm Australian. Australia is like my second country. Here we can tell the truth about ourselves. The Occupation changes the truth about us, my people. People must be educated, they must know the truth. If they want to help, they need to know. They need to search about the Palestinian problem. How it happened? How many refugees are there? What are the refugee camps around the world? Even I am here, I explain to people the Palestinian situation. And they say to me, you know more than the foreign minister. Because I am interested. Because it is our responsibility. To know. This is our responsibility. Palestine is our land. That is why I come here. Because our message is here. A Mother. When I met Fatima, she had prepared a significant spread for me, complete with both a pot of Arabic qahwa and Palestinian tea, and that was the way straight to my heart. As I began to talk to her and hear her story, I was taken aback by the quiet strength and perseverance of a woman who raised four children across two continents, fostering in them the same sense of social justice and pride that she possessed. She then went on to create an Arab sweet business, sharing the legacy and memories of her people through culture and food. She is the person that shines so brightly, yet chooses to direct that light to highlight others, and illuminate their path. One. My parents are originally from Palestine; they sought refuge in Jordan in 1948. That's how I came to be born in Jordan. I lived there until I moved to Palestine after getting married. I had seen Palestine before moving there, but it was mostly on short trips. It was very difficult to go to Palestine because of the way permits were distributed. The Israeli Occupation controls the permits and they are very strict. When I was growing up, Palestine meant a lot to me, both because of the people and the land. Because in Jordan, I lived in a city, but my grandparents’ house in Palestine was in a small village, with old homes, and farm animals. I was always eager to be there. It felt like home, but there was always this underlying sadness because we knew we were restricted in the amount of time because of the Occupation. It was like we were finally home, but we had to count the days we were able to spend there. Two. We moved to Palestine because during that time, there was a policy in Jordan that if you were to remain there you had to give up your Palestinian ID, or you had to participate in the Jordanian army. My husband did not want to give up his ID. No one else from my family had to take that step because they did not have Palestinian IDs. None of my siblings have a Palestinian passport. See the way it works is that when a father has a Palestinian ID than it automatically gets passed down to his children, and so my children now have a Palestinian ID because my husband has one. But when my father left Palestine, his ID was taken from him and so none of my siblings have one. See, to show you the connection between the history and today, my daughter has a Palestinian passport, and an Australian one. The Israeli occupation know she has a Palestinian passport, but as long as she enters with her Australian one they can't take it from her. The Palestinian passport can stay with her but she can't use it to enter her country. See, because when you enter as an Australian with an Australian passport, you get a Visa, which means that you can go anywhere in the country, to Haifa or Tel Aviv, but as a Palestinian she cannot. She is not allowed to enter without a permit. And that’s just with luck, sometimes you get through to places. But even if you have an Australian passport, regardless of the power of your passport, they control where you get to go. That has been consistent. Three. [On the Occupation] There was no control. And I would always have fear. When my oldest son, Mohammed, would be playing outside I would have fear, because I knew they were always around the village. And with the weapons they have and the no control that we Palestinians had in terms of how they would use these weapons, I always had fear. There would be raids sometimes on a daily basis, sometimes on a weekly basis. The reason would be they are looking for someone or they coming to take someone. Say you are sitting, or you're sleeping and someone would just come. That’s the reality. And it is impossible to say no. The Hawiya is the only document that all Palestinians must have anywhere they go in Palestine. This the only powerful document we have to identify that we are Palestinian. The sad thing is that this Green Card has been established by Israel. The Occupation has given this document to identify people as Palestinians or not. This is just like here in Australia, the Aboriginal people need to get certain documents that identifies them as Aboriginal. The Occupation controls your identity. Not everyone gets one of these. Not even if you are Palestinian. Even if you left Palestine in 1948, and you are fully Palestinian. Palestine refugees in Lebanon for instance do not have this document. Stateless. Unidentified to a state. But they are Palestinian. We left Palestine because there was no safety, and there is no freedom. My husband was restricted in terms of the type of work he could do. He was restricted because sometimes they would focus on certain people that are intelligent and smart, and request for them to work for the Israeli occupation. And if you say no to them, they don't give the permit to work elsewhere. The decision [to come to Australia] was also based on fearing for the future of the children. Fearing not just for their education but for their safety. I knew it would be safe. It would be the right place for children. Even before coming here it meant freedom. Lead editor: Palwasha A. Bibliography Australian National Maritime Museum. (n.d.). Australia's Immigration History. [online] Available at: https://www.sea.museum/discover/online-exhibitions/waves-of-migration/australia-immigration-history [Accessed 3 Sep. 2019]. Parliament of NSW, (2019). 1788 - Before European Settlement. [online] Available at: https://www.parliament.nsw.gov.au/about/Pages/1788-Before-European-Settlement.aspx' [Accessed 3 Sep. 2019]. Phillips, J. and Spinks, H. (2013). Boat arrivals in Australia since 1976 – Parliament of Australia. [online] Aph.gov.au. Available at: https://www.aph.gov.au/About_Parliament/Parliamentary_Departments/Parliamentary_Library/pubs/bn/2012-2013/BoatArrivals [Accessed 3 Sep. 2019].

By Tahmina R. “We have declared that the fate of Kashmir is ultimately to be decided by the people. We will not, and cannot back out of it.” - Jawharlal Nehru, India’s First Prime Minister, 2 November 1947. They say the closest you’ll ever get to paradise on Earth is Kashmir. Situated at the foothills of the Himalaya, its magnificence and beauty is renowned. With the current news cycle fixating on the roles of India and Pakistan in the ‘fight for Kashmir,’ the Kashmiri voice is being silenced. The details of India’s oppression and repression have been swept aside in favour of Bollywood drama and dangerous dialogue focused on what it means to be ‘pro-Indian,’ ‘pro - Pakistani’ or ‘patriotic.’ Every one of these arguments contributes to the white noise complicit in further silencing the Kashmiri people in their fight for self-determination and quashes any hope for a free and fair election in Kashmir. ON THE GROUND The current crisis is occurring in Indian-Administered Kashmir. On August 5th of this year, the Kashmiris were forced into a lockdown after Article 370 and Article 35A were repealed from the Indian Constitution. A curfew was imposed. All mobile phones, landlines, televisions and internet connections were cut to ensure a total communication blackout. Kashmir usually has 180 daily newspapers, but only five are currently publishing. On Eid Al-Adha, the streets were silent. Strung with barbed wire and anti-missile netting, it has been one of the most densely militarised places in the world for almost forty years. With the most recent deployment of soldiers there is now one soldier for every 17 people. People who had been visiting Kashmir before the lockdown have been taking to social media to share their stories. On the first day of the lockdown, they woke up to an announcement that all tourists and ex-pats must leave immediately. When checking for flights they found that all the wifi and phone lines had been cut. One Australian-Kashmiri tourist, who prefers to remain anonymous, shared, ‘my family is used to this, they stock up on all supplies, because everyone is under house arrest and they can’t leave the house in case they get killed.’ She finished by saying, ‘all of us stood together and cried for hours, silently, because we didn’t know what could happen.’ As of one week ago, there have been 2000 Muslims arrested without warrants, in one of the biggest mass arrests of civilians by India in decades. With Narendra Modi in power, India executed what is effectively an annexation of Jammu and Kashmir. Article 370 gave Kashmiris the right to a state flag, the right to a government and the freedom of movement. Along with with it, 150 state laws were also repealed. This arbitrarily placed Kashmir under the Indian Prime Minister’s rule and erased any, albeit slim, legal possibility of self-determination for the people in India-Administered Kashmir. SOME CONTEXT Understanding Kashmir's history is important in being able to understand what's happening now. It would be impossible to accurately summarise 72 years of complex post-colonial history, so we will highlight some major developments that have played a part in creating the current crisis. There have been three Indo-Pakistani wars, and two have been fought over Kashmir. When the British drew their careless border through the subcontinent in 1947, they acted on the assumption that there was a ‘whole’ that they could divide. In drawing this border two countries were created - India and Pakistan. Pakistan would later split to create an independent Bangladesh. The British failed to come to an agreement with the Kashmiris so their fate was left undecided. In a strategic move, the British appointed the Hindu ruler, Maharaja Hari Singh, in Muslim - majority Kashmir. He was to decide whether Kashmir would join India, Pakistan or remain independent. In the first two years of Maharaja Singh’s reign there was significant internal conflict, resulting in an estimated 20-100 000 Kashmiris being killed in civilian violence. This statistic has such a large margin of error that it’s practically useless, but we‘ve mentioned it because it’s reflective of the traceless bloodletting that occurred after decolonisation. Wanting India’s assistance in subduing the population, Maharaja Singh signed the 'Instrument of Accession,' indicating his willingness to accede and become a part of India. In fear of losing Kashmir, the Pakistani armed forces were subsequently sent in to protect their claim to those territories. A UN resolution was passed on 13 August 1948, asking both India and Pakistan to withdraw their forces, but neither did. The armistice line became a de-facto border, splitting Kashmir in two. MODI, WHO? Narendra Modi is the head of the Hindu-nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party and the recently elected Prime Minister of India. He recently described Kashmir as a part of the “new India” he hopes to build. Giving a public address on the 15th August, he said, “the work that was not done in the last 70 years has been accomplished within 70 days after this new government came to power.” He also pledged to “free” Jammu and Kashmir of “terrorism.” Note, this same man oversaw religious riots as Chief Minister of Gujarat, where almost 2000 Muslims were killed in a three day massacre in 2002. The current crisis must not be written off as another of a long list of conquests to consolidate the elusive vision of a more powerful India. There has not been a single year since Independence that the Indian Army has not been deployed within the Indian borders against its own citizens, crushing rebellion against the government. The list is long: Assam, Nagaland, Manipur and Hyderabad, to name a few. Article 370 preserved the Kashmiri territories for the Kashmiri people, but its repeal last week, means that this land is no longer ‘off-limits’ and that Indian citizens can now buy and settle in Jammu and Kashmir. This is the strongest way to change the demographic makeup of Kashmir and weaken their fight for independence. India’s richest Industrialist, Mukesh Ambani of Reliance Industries, has already promised investments in Kashmir. But the argument of economic development has never, and could never, legitimise such a violation of rights in a democratic state. If that is what India claims to be, then promises of elusive economic benefits come off as insincere efforts to justify the occupation of Kashmir which is first and foremost, an unjustifiable abuse of power. In writing about Kashmir, prize winning author-journalist, Arundhati Roy, wrote, “Eventually the dead will begin to speak. And it will not just be dead human beings, it will be the dead land, dead rivers, dead mountains and dead creatures in dead forests that will insist on a hearing.” Note We have chosen not to discuss the situation in Pakistan-Administered Kashmir, although there have been significant restrictions on civil and political rights there for several decades now. This piece focuses on recent events in Indian-Administered Kashmir. We have also decided not to focus on Jammu and Ladakh because the Kashmiri Valley is currently the only area under complete lockdown. This article only scratches the surface of the disturbing details that plague the history of Kashmir’s fight for independence. We cannot attempt to summarise their history in one article. This piece exists to further our understanding of the plight of Kashmir’s people, to inspire empathy, raise awareness and encourage us to check our own assumptions. Lead editor: Irisa R. Bibliography Aljazeera.com. (2019). Pakistan army says Indian firing across LoC kills another soldier. [online] Available at: https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2019/08/kashmir-fire-loc-kills-3-pakistani-5-indian-troops-190815125820838.html [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Aljazeera.com. (2019). India's Narendra Modi gets top UAE honour amid Kashmir crisis. [online] Available at: https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2019/08/india-narendra-modi-top-uae-honour-kashmir-crisis-190824102342849.html [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Slater, J. (2019). In Modi’s move on Kashmir, a roadmap for his ‘new India’. Washington Post, 15 August. [online] Available at: https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/asia_pacific/in-modis-move-on-kashmir-a-road-map-for-his-new-india/2019/08/15/1fff923a-beab-11e9-a8b0-7ed8a0d5dc5d_story.html [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Masih, N. (2019). ‘A Dormant Volcano’: Kashmir’s Streets are Quiet, but Residents Seethe with Resentment, Washington Post. [online] Available at: https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/asia_pacific/kashmirs-streets-are-quiet-during-indias-crackdown-but-residents-seethe-with-resentment/2019/08/14/f9fb22dc-be9d-11e9-a8b0-7ed8a0d5dc5d_story.html?noredirect=on [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. BBC News. (2019). Why India and Pakistan fight over Kashmir. 8 August [online] Available at: https://www.bbc.com/news/10537286 [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Datta, A. (2016). On Uncertain Ground. Oxford Scholarship Online. Gettleman, J. Shultz, K. Yasir, S. Raj, S. (2019). India’s Move in Kashmir: More Than 2,000 Rounded Up With No Recourse. New York Times. 23 August. [online] Available at: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/08/23/world/asia/kashmir-arrests-india.html [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Ghoshal, D. (2019). Kashmir Journalists Frustrated by Communications Blockade, MSN News. 9 August. [online] Available at: https://www.msn.com/en-au/news/world/kashmir-journalists-frustrated-by-communications-blockade/ar-AAFzRUI?li=AAgfIYZ&%2525252525253BOCID=ansmsnnews11 [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. ‌Harsh V. Pant, Kartik Bommakanti, India's national security: challenges and dilemmas, International Affairs, Volume 95, Issue 4, July 2019, Pages 835–857. India Today (2019). Kashmir Live: Got a taste of draconian administration in J-K yesterday, tweets Rahul Gandhi. 25 August. [online] Available at: https://www.indiatoday.in/india/story/jammu-kashmir-ladakh-article-370-congress-modi-live-news-updates-1591294-2019-08-25 [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. India Today (2019). Mukesh Ambani promises investment in Jammu & Kashmir, says Reliance will set up special team. [online] 12 August. Available at: https://www.indiatoday.in/india/story/mukesh-ambani-promises-investment-jammu-kashmir-reliance-set-up-special-team-1579993-2019-08-12 [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Noorani, A.G. (2011). Article 370. Oxford Scholarship Online. Pant, H.V. and Bommakanti, K. (2019). India’s national security: challenges and dilemmas. International Affairs, 95(4), pp.835–857. Ramdani, N. (2019). Opinion: Modi’s brutal annexation of Kashmir follows the Israel-Palestine script to the letter. The Independent, 23 August. [online] Available at: https://www.independent.co.uk/voices/modi-kashmir-crisis-india-pakistan-israel-palestine-netanyahu-a9074501.html [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Reinl, J. (2019). Pakistan and India trade barbs after rare UN Kashmir talks. Aljazeera.com. 17 August. [online] Available at: https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2019/08/190816174341755.html. [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Roy, A. (2011). The dead begin to speak up in India. The Guardian. 30 September. [online] Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/libertycentral/2011/sep/30/kashmir-india-unmarked-graves [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Scott-Clark, C. (2017). The mass graves of Kashmir. The Guardian. 10 July [online] Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2012/jul/09/mass-graves-of-kashmir [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019]. Sowmiya Ashok (2018). Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel’s views on Kashmir problem: What the record says. The Indian Express. 12 February. [online] Available at: https://indianexpress.com/article/explained/sardar-vallabhbhai-patels-views-on-kashmir-problem-what-the-record-says-5060077/ [Accessed 27 Aug. 2019].

By Jessica L. “I speak two tongues; my coloniser’s better than my mother’s. This is the first problem” - Anne Teriba. Losing After the White Australia Policy was lifted in 1973, the vast majority of non-European immigrants coming in were professionals or skilled workers and were required to pass a language test. Yet their accents continue to be associated with poorer education and generally correlate with a lack of respect in interactions with the white-majority. “Don’t you want to speak to them?” Mum holds her phone up, raising it to the ceiling to catch the signal of the incoming call. Her ringtone brings forth painfully awkward memories of aunties and uncles jokes you didn’t get and the fast chatter that escaped your understanding. It’s not that you don’t want to speak to them, it’s just that you don’t know how. Your parents faces fit perfectly inside the frame of the screen and the picture feels complete without you. As you leave the room, you hear them exchanging stories, their boisterous laughter and the natural ease of their conversation. For first generation immigrants, learning English was a bright sticker pressed to their shirt, displaying their Australian-ness and willingness to integrate. For second and third generation Australians, it has morphed into a greater loss. Fighting for acceptance in Australia is now achieved by eroding the foundations of who we are. How did our language, the orchestral swelling of voices fade into a haunting echo in our minds and silence from our own tongues? “Learn English” a Translation: 1. Higher Education. 2. More Opportunity. 3. Greater Success. It is never explicit, but you know that if you learn to speak the right language in the right way, it is an investment that will grant you a lifetime of credibility. At school, everyone is dressed like you. They are learning their ABCs, their 123s, and you’re learning with them. Every year, come March 21st you find walls plastered with orange posters. Funnily enough though, ‘Harmony Day’ fails to teach us that assimilation is not a practice of the past but a process that continues to dilute non-English speakers within the white middle-class majority. “Diversity” is one of many multicoloured toppings on a perfect vanilla cupcake. A sweet treat to pacify, but unfulfilling and insubstantial. Questions of language are always determined by questions of power. There is no such thing as an apolitical classroom, and so personal beliefs and biases are introduced and reproduced. It is necessary to learn English here, but it does not have to be taught to us as the language of wealth, of opportunity and of success. Foreignness is a punchline and you don’t want to be a joke. At work you see the grimace on your manager’s face as she whispers, “ugh they can’t speak English” gesturing toward certain customers. You just nod, restock shelves and give “that” smile. To be offended is to compromise your position, to admit your foreignness. If you’re (un)lucky you will hear, “you’re one of the good ones, at least you can speak English.” “Speak English” a Translation: 1. Be Intelligent 2. Be Eloquent 3. Be more like “us” The plane begins its descent and a gentle tap wakes you. Your parents are wide awake, excited at the prospect of walking down familiar streets, past buildings that fill their childhood memories and of holding people that linger in their thoughts of home. As you land, sepia coloured family photographs come to life. Your aunties and uncles all comment on how much you’ve grown. Their tongues bear the burden of their own broken English, but they persevere with full interest in hearing your response. Not being able to speak English is a sign of foreignness here and not being able to speak Indonesian is a sign of foreignness there. Then a pair of hands pull you close and you see your grandfather’s smile. He showers you with terms of endearment, offering a sweet and flowing symphony. They all pause, waiting for your reply. Your mouth opens only to feel the tight grip of English spiralling itself around your throat, catching your breath. They wait for you to reciprocate but your tongue has been tied for so long. Tired by the many knots that you have neglected to undo. A mind furiously thinking in English cannot find the loose threads of it’s ‘mother tongue.’ Their excited smiles begin to dim and they look around at each other. Your parents whisper in your ears, urging you to speak. The words creep out before your can catch them, “I can’t.” “I can’t” a Translation: 1. I can’t respond. 2. I can’t fit myself in here. 3. I can’t remember how I lost this. Gaining Somehow language, a tool for communication has become the great silencer. This silence is what lies between my grandfather and I, when all my thoughts can’t be expressed in the same exuberance I can offer in English. It leaves a gap between my Aunt and I, when I ask her to slow down so I can join in on the punchline. It is my parents asking me a question, but me responding in English without a second thought. It is self-inflicted amnesia, the uprooting of my own roots, the burying of unceasing shame that comes from the knowledge that deep down I have truly forgotten. “Ungrateful Silence” a Translation 1. The experience of denying your own heritage because of the discrimination tied to it. 2. The experience of being unable to speak your mother tongue because you unintentionally, intentionally assimilated. 3. The experience of realising all you have lost. The undeniable reason why I neglected Indonesian - a vibrant, sarcastic and wonderful language - was shame. I knew that I would have to come to terms with the fact that regardless of my ethnicity I didn’t know how it felt to be Indonesian. I didn’t know enough about my culture, my history and my family. Whilst face-timing my grandma, I felt the rough, static noise fill up my bedroom, and I realised we didn’t utter more than two sentences to each other. The conversation was over before it began. The silence of her eyes staring into mine was the mirror to my shame and my ingratitude towards my first language, fragmented and broken. The pain of realising that you have forgotten is hard to face but it is better than numbing the pain with self-denial. It’s a bitter reality to face, it is easier to hide in the silence, that way you can just respond with “I only speak english” and be blameless. The weight of the shame will numb you, trying to convince you that you are innocent and that you are faultless. It whispers that it is protecting you, until the forgetting turns to the forgotten. Right now, I’m slowly letting go of my dependency on English and starting to pick up the pieces of my Indonesian. Even if it’s just a mouthful of words or even if there's nothing, it’s an invitation to start afresh. There is a sadness in realising that you have forgotten, but it can be the start of something more. If you know nothing you can learn everything. Language can be relearned with enough time and patience. Whoever is reading this I hope you will learn to understand the beauty of your mother tongue. The way it can shape meaning in ways that English cannot. If you have forgotten that’s okay because we can learn together. Without loneliness or shame we can find a grateful voice. Saya akan membina jiwa kedua saya (I will nurture my second soul). Writer’s Acknowledgments: At The Pvblication we collectively research, write and review each other’s work to the best of our abilities. Creating this piece required an incredible amount of dedication and effort. For such tiresome efforts those involved deserve recognition. Thank you to the team.

We would like to acknowledge the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples as the traditional owners and custodians of this continent that was never sold nor ceded and whose civilisations are among the oldest in human history. We are honoured to live and work on the ancestral lands of the Darug people of the Eora nation and pay our respects to Elders past and present. The Pvblication is challenging existing metanarratives, critically and empathetically. Passing on passivity, we are amplifying the voices that go unheard, stories that remain untold and concepts left unexplored. Forget decolonising space, we are decolonising experiences. With our individual and collective identities becoming increasingly intricate we want to make ourselves accountable for the media we consume. The word ‘minority’ has lost all meaning. It can’t define our differences in the same way it can’t unite our shared experiences. There is a gap between the language that is used and the language that we need. In these silences we are listening. They say to create the things you wish existed, so let’s stop performing our differences and just write. Pieces that feed the soul and challenge the mind. Art that grows our optimism. We will interview thoughtfully, research indulgently and read excessively. Most of all, we will never write beyond the scope of what we know and we will continue to speak to, but never for, each others triumphs and struggles. We hope our pieces will leave you inspired and that you’ll help us create a space that is undeniably yours.

By Irisa R. and Tahmina R. 'Since when has Jerusalem been a city like any other city?’ you ask me and I answer, ‘since the soldiers in it came to outnumber its holy sites a thousand times over’ - Mourid Barghouti. In January of this year, two of our writers went to Jerusalem to visit the Al Aqsa mosque. As Australian citizens, they were allowed to enter Jerusalem, a liberty not afforded to millions of Palestinians living in exile and unable to return to their homeland. The atrocities of the occupation are countless and the writers cannot speak for Palestinians or for their resistance, but they seek to answer the question that so many people were too hesitant to ask: how was Palestine? Here is a collection of anecdotes written to honour and thank the people we met. The Border We are constantly reminded how every Palestinian’s experience at the border is unique in its humiliation. Usually when we pack for a trip, we’re packing and unpacking, trying to fit all the things we probably won’t need into a suitcase until we choose a larger one. But packing for Palestine is strange because we aren’t sure if we will even be allowed to enter. It’ll be up to the Israeli soldiers who control the border on whether they feel like interrogating us and then rejecting us, or interrogating us and then granting us a visa. We are warned that as two young, Muslim law students, who had been to refugee camps three times in one year that the odds may not be in our favour. The wait is four hours long. Surrounding us are strangers from many different countries with one thing in common - our last names all identify us as Muslim. We talk between ourselves, eat two-minute noodles, play backgammon, and all the while we are acutely aware of the gaze of the soldiers sitting back and watching us. At one point a young lady with a clipboard walks over to the waiting area and calls our name. Mum instinctively stands up to go with us when the lady gestures for her to sit down and says, “oh no you don’t need to come...we won’t hurt them.’ We are granted visas after answering a few questions about where we live and what we study in Australia. Later in the trip we speak to an elderly woman who recounts her experience trying to enter, ‘They held me there for hours and hours asking me why, why, why.’ Exasperated at even repeating these questions she exclaims, ‘Why? This is my home, this is my land and you ask me why,' and she chuckles. She eventually quietens and says, ‘I came to spend some time with my brother, he was very, very sick’ and ends with, ‘I could only stay long enough to bury him.’ We are constantly reminded of how every Palestinian’s experience at the border is unique in its humiliation. The very few Palestinians who are allowed to enter Israeli occupied territories must first prove their ancestry three generations back, including the details of the area their family is originally from and if they intend to travel there. The Exiled An estimated six million exiled Palestinians make up the global diaspora. For us, as tourists and non - Palestinians, seeing Palestine was as simple as booking a tour. We planned to fly to Jordan, drive from Amman to Allenby Bridge crossing and enter occupied Palestine, also known as the ‘West Bank.’ Amman is grand in all the ways that tie up a cosmopolitan city, but further down south, tucked between ancient rock formations, lies the Lost City of Petra. It’s so mesmerising that we imagine a paintbrush following every contour with a violet and orange wash. We stand marvelling at the colours when our guide, Ibrahim, interjects our sightseeing with his gentle voice. On hearing that we were leaving for Jerusalem, he shares that he’s Palestinian, born in a town that was once a twenty minute drive from where we plan to stay and that his wife is from Ramallah. He continues on by sharing that he doesn’t feel he is Palestinian enough because he has lived most of his life in Jordan and that he doesn’t know how to speak to his children about it. “Should I tell them that they are Palestinian or Jordanian?” He pauses briefly, then finishes with, “how can I tell my children that they have another home when they may never see it?” The conversation dies but what he shares plays over in our minds. How can it be that we’re able to enter Ibrahim’s land, when he has spent fifteen years dropping people off at the border to his home, unable to go back himself. The Israeli government does not recognise Palestinian refugees’ right to return and prevents Palestinians from returning to their ancestral homes because this is seen to be a threat to the growing Israeli majority in annexed lands. The Mosque Al-Quds, known as Jerusalem in English, is a city as ancient as it is holy and at its centre lies a mosque. The monotonous thudding of our boots hitting the stone floor sounds too sharp for a place like this. We had grown accustomed to the ambience of a mosque at Maghreb, the sun casting its last few rays of golden daylight, corn cobs crackling on grills and juice vendors languidly crushing pomegranates at their stalls. The call to prayer can be heard booming from speakers atop every mosque, rising in a crescendo that echoes through an entire city. This sound can no longer be heard in Jerusalem. Three years ago Israel banned mosques from amplifying the adhan in all of the occupied territories, including from the Al Aqsa mosque. Al-Quds, known as Jerusalem in English, is a city as ancient as it is holy and at its centre lies a mosque. The mosque is an octagonal masterpiece covered inch by inch with veined marble and blue tile, with dolomite pathways that have been smoothed by the footfalls of centuries of Palestinians and pilgrims, that spill out into a vast compound of gardens, fountains and several smaller mosques. Tonight, we are amongst the millions that have come before us to pray. The Silence “It wasn’t always like this, you know” As we approach one of the towering stone entryways, we are met with a group of stoic Israeli Defence Force (IDF) soldiers. We are asked to present our papers and after a few cursory glances over our passports, visas and some back-and-forth between the soldiers, we are allowed to enter. There are always at least thirty-two fully armed soldiers stationed at Al-Aqsa. When our media attempts to dilute the last seventy years of conflict into one universal “truth” that 'this land has always been contested so it's a complex problem without a clear solution’ they create a narrative that is as dangerous as it is untrue. Some of the holiest sites in Islam, Judaism and Christianity have stood within five hundred metres of each other. These religions have co-existed in Palestine for a thousand years. Only in the Muslim quarter do you see soldiers dressed in camouflage and military boots, wearing bulletproof vests, with IWI Tavor Assault Rifles slung across their chests and handguns holstered to their hips as they check the identity cards of every person, young and old, entering the compound to pray. The guards outside the Holy Sepulchre Church and the Wailing Wall, by contrast, are unarmed and appear harmless, chatting with tourists that pass by. In a compound vast enough to hold thousands, we should be seeing hundreds of people rushing in through all five gates, removing their shoes, and moving to stand shoulder to shoulder at the call of the adhan. Instead, the complex is eerily silent. Our guide, Abdul, turns to us and says, ‘it wasn’t always like this, you know, but... Anyway let’s go have a look inside.’ This silence is the combined effect of millions of exiled Palestinians and the six hundred checkpoints littering the roads between Jerusalem and all the other cities in the occupied West Bank. Looking around, the men are dressed in black blazers and elegant keffiyehs and the women wear coloured abayas and scarves. As our mother finishes praying, a lady dressed in a pale blue abaya and white hijab turns toward her with a beaming smile, clasps her hands and whispers, “Welcome to Palestine, thank you for coming, and I hope you enjoy it here.” After learning where our family is from she asks, “is Australia beautiful?” To which our mother replies, “yes, but this is much more beautiful.” The lady laughs, “oh if only you saw it before - one day, InshaAllah!” On the 2nd of June this year, exactly six months after we stood in Al Aqsa, Israeli soldiers forcibly entered the mosque in the last three days of Ramadan and released tear gas grenades, sprayed rubber bullets and arrested a number of Palestinians. The Soldiers Teenagers holding guns like toys. Everywhere we went we saw soldiers. They are stationed at every checkpoint and every street corner. They stand around in groups, laughing and talking - all while fully armed. Israeli conscription laws require all Jewish and non-Arab citizens over the age of eighteen to serve in the military for at least two years. So the vast majority of IDF soldiers littered throughout checkpoints and the West Bank are young. Younger than us - most are eighteen, nineteen, twenty with threadbare beards and lanky arms wielding larger-than-life rifles. They appear trigger happy, drunk on power, teenagers holding guns like toys. Their carelessness in this moment is a stark contrast to our concern. This moment encapsulates so many of our encounters with the IDF soldiers. Inconsistency, callousness; a juxtaposition of things that should and should not be. The only place we didn’t see soldiers, was in Jericho. This is one of the few places still under Palestinian control. The Blue ID Unsurprisingly, a GPS’s estimation of the time to a destination is redundant here. The car comes to an abrupt stop on the outskirts of Jericho, commonly called “the oldest city in the world.” Peeking through the bushes are the arches of a mosque, nestled between unfinished construction work and a dirt road, with a few camels grazing. Our driver, Abdul, encourages us to pray here and he warns us that the drive to Jerusalem may take longer than expected. Unsurprisingly, a GPS’s estimation of the time to a destination is redundant here. As we wait for our family to finish praying, we ask, 'so, where do you and your family live?’ He meets our awkward enthusiasm with a knowing smile and points to his blue I.D. He explains that as a Palestinian living in Jerusalem, he is required to carry this I.D wherever he goes and if for some reason he loses it, he could be jailed, deported or killed. Once he starts speaking, he can’t stop. The words pour out, each sentence detailing the occupation in more excruciating ways. He barely breathes between words and we scatter “oh God” and “that is horrific” like loose change throughout the conversation. Anything we intend to say loses all its meaning before it’s said. He emphasises that living under the occupation is a constant battle with his own sabr (patience) and that every time a new camera is installed on a light pole near his house, a street name is changed from Arabic to Hebrew, or he is expected to be warm to the soldiers at the checkpoint - that he needs to remain patient. He says, “what is right will always be, Palestine is and will always be for Palestinians and there is no fight for the dignified.” What we did not know then was that all Palestinians in occupied Jerusalem have Blue IDs whilst Palestinians in the West Bank and Gaza have Green IDs. We saw this ID system being used throughout the trip; at checkpoints, at the border, on major roads leading to Jerusalem and, of course, at the entrance to Al Aqsa. Israel touts this Blue ID as a privilege, but Palestinians face regular humiliation and invasive searching at checkpoints. As we drive towards the city we see settlements loom on the hilltops. They look like European-style houses with white walls and gardens that have been watered until they are bright green against the arid backdrop. These clusters of houses are surrounded by high concrete walls, fenced and signed. Abdul explains that we couldn’t enter the settlements even if we wanted to, saying ‘we are on the Palestinian lane, and the road going there is only for Israelis.’ There are ninety-nine fixed checkpoints in the West Bank protected by fencing and advanced surveillance, with fully armed soldiers guarding each one. We have to pass through three on our way into Jerusalem. On arrival we were told that the city is split into Muslim, Jewish, Christian and Armenian quarters. The unofficial curfew in the Muslim quarter means that after sunset, the streets are silent. The Lawyer It’s easy to dismiss the cruelty of the occupation when you’ve never seen it. Damascus Gate is one of the grand entryways to the Old City in Jerusalem and the name honours the Syrians who would make the journey from Damascus to Jerusalem by the millions. As we enter we pass a plaza with fruit vendors and then the streets narrow into alleyways. As Mohammed, our guide, trails a path toward Ja’far Sweets (because we asked him to take us to the best Knafeh in Jerusalem) every turn we take opens up to more souks with small shops selling fruits, bags and rugs. Mohammad kindly asks us to buy from Palestinian businesses as their stalls are rarely visited by tourists. Street markets are usually filled with the sounds of bargaining and banter. Yet here, it’s just us. The only other tourists we see are looking at their maps and appear to be lost, frantically trying to find their way back to the other quarters. Israeli run tour companies purposefully avoid the Arab quarter so their guests can leave the city without ever having to speak to a Palestinian, taking with them a clear conscience. It’s easy to dismiss the cruelty of the occupation when you’ve never seen it. We are making our way through the markets when an elderly man dressed in black trousers and a blazer ushers us into his stall. As we step inside, the man lifts his hand to his heart and gives us a resounding, ‘Assalamualaikum!’ When he learns we are from Australia he becomes incredibly exuberant with his gestures and whispers, ‘Please don't leave the Palestinians alone, we need you here. The Israelis want us to leave, but we can't- this isn't just our land to give away. Al-Quds is not for Palestinians, it's for everyone and they have to come, but people aren’t coming. Thank you for coming!’' When he asks us what we do, we mention that we are both studying law. He breaks into laughter and with the ease of a child, kneels behind his small cabinet, pulls out a photograph and flips it around so we can see. In the photograph a young man stands with a medal around his neck and a graduation cap. We squint to see that the young man in the photo resembles the man in front of us - they share the same smile, just fifty five years on. He exclaims, pointing to the photograph, ‘It’s me! I was a lawyer, I studied in Damascus, and I came back here, and I practiced but…” He trails off, and tries a few different ways of saying it before settling for, ‘after it... I wasn’t allowed to practice anymore.’ When we are about to leave, he asks us to wait. He pulls open his first drawer and lays out four velcro bracelets, each with the Palestinian flag printed onto them. He lets out a small chuckle and shares, ‘I shouldn’t be giving you these but I want to.’ The New Law “The law is introduced as of this moment.” On our exit we have to cross the Allenby Bridge checkpoint. The occupation distorts the usual time it takes to travel somewhere and again, a five minute drive is extended to one hour. Three IDF soldiers stop us at the checkpoint and say there is a new law that has been enacted that says no private cars can pass through the checkpoint. He elaborates by saying, ‘the law is introduced as of this moment.’ As we wait on the side of the checkpoint, our parents grow more and more anxious by the minute - we see at least ten cars filled with tourists pass through. Abdul later explains that the vans are owned by Israeli tourism companies so, ‘the law will never apply to them, only ever to us.’ While we're waiting, they check an ambulance (and every vehicle that follows) for arms with a metal detector. The soldier doing this looks barely eighteen. His skin is flushed, his limbs are lanky with youth and he has round glasses perched atop his nose. Abdul keeps repeating, “this isn’t you, it’s because of me they just want to make my life harder.” After a few phone calls, Abdul explains, “they will let you go in taxis, so you need to split into two groups.’ Our dad goes quiet, becoming quite stressed as we see our grandparents and mum drive through the exit while we sit and wait for the taxi to return. In these fifteen minutes, Abdul explains that, “the only reason they are harassing our group is because they are trying to make it harder for Palestinians, like me, to run businesses, and probably also because they are bored.” A five minute drive becomes an hour long. The Children I had never truly understood the concept of صبر (the best english translation is patience or endurance) before but I've witnessed it now. We enter Al-Aqsa for Maghreb as the sun is dipping. The IDF soldier gives us “salaam” at the gate. Before we can stop ourselves, out of habit we return his salaam and instantly regret it as he raises both his hands as though making du’a and murmuring, while the others laugh at his mockery. As we pass through the tall stone archway, we hear some young boys run up to the gateway after us. The four guards we just passed, armed to the teeth, demand the young Palestinian boys show their papers. They each pull out a blue sheet from their coat pockets, the guards concede, and the children laugh as they walk into the complex. As they climb the stairs, taking them two, three at a time their boyish voices yell ‘Allahu Akbar’ (“God is Great”) into the sky as they run away to play. It’s grey-blue outside and their laughter mingles with the sound of the birds chirping and circling above the golden dome. *Every name has been changed to protect the identity of those we met. *Everything in quotation marks is written exactly as it was told to us. Lead Editor: Palwasha A.

By Palwasha A. “You guys remember Afghanistan? From war?” - Hasan Minhaj, Patriot Act A Word. The 21st century narrative of Afghanistan is relevant to the lives of every Australian. Stereotypes and misperceptions plague the public discourse and have stifled positive, and even wholly truthful, accounts from reaching the mainstream. The war directly correlates to the displacement of over three million people and the ongoing theft of natural resources and culturally significant artefacts. It is difficult to empathise with facts and figures so here is a collection of stories and insights from our writer, who visited Afghanistan for three months with an Australian not-for-profit two years ago. افغانستان /Ahf-ghaa-ni-stan/ Afghanistan Vivid red juice stains through the skin of my palms as I focus on navigating the tiny knife’s blade through the hard shell of the pomegranate. As the conversation moves around me, I finally rip it open, little red pearls cascade onto the sticky glass plate at my knees and bounce off the dastarkhwan spread haphazardly on the ground beneath us. We are sitting in a scraggly garden with threadbare pomegranate trees growing a metre apart from each other in every direction. The garden is in a small village off Panjshir valley, with mountain ranges stretching into the sky all around us. The ground rises and falls, causing our hosts to step carefully. They bring us chai sabz in a metal teapot as the high sun filters through the leaves and glances off the glass of our plates. The lady I have been travelling with sighs happily as she picks up a pomegranate. “Eat up girls!” she exclaims to her niece, Masooma, and I as we attempt to section the fruit. “These are fresh, organic pomegranates without any of the chemical stuff they put on them in Australia, picked straight from the tree. You couldn’t be eating anything better for you!” Masooma considers this as I notice a hashish plant growing behind me and do a double take. “Wee, neh” she exclaims, “actually anything grown in Afghan soil is really bad for you. It’s because of all the decades of bombing, so there’s not much nutritional value in anything grown here.” We pause. I finish every last seed and examine the empty husk in my hand. Everyone looks away for a second and then, as with every bit of bleak news about our country, we do what we can to brush it off and keep talking. Yak/ One/ یکی To attempt to write about my experience in Afghanistan, as a child of the diaspora, started off with the intention of salvaging Her from lifelong attacks and thinly veiled racism. Afghanistan hasn’t felt the quiet that comes with peace in the past four decades. As an Afghan girl growing up in Sydney I had internalised a lot of the rhetoric justifying the invasion of my country and distanced myself from my heritage. As I grew older and did the work to dig these thoughts out of my head and nurture seedlings of acceptance, I steadfastly protected the grounding talisman of my heritage from further attack. If I had to write this piece, I didn’t want to put any more into the world about a country that’s been desecrated and stripped in every possible way. The beauty Afghanistan emits is born from pain so excruciating that legions of Her inhabitants were forced to break their hold on Her and escape before they lost everything. They tore their roots out of the ground and planted themselves across the world, but I’ve never met an Afghan who could scrub Her from his heart. The time I spent there is the most treasured of my life. While I hope to return soon, three months is long enough to get a true well-rounded taste of something but not at all a full experience. My experience of Afghanistan was of a land that does not follow the system I had grown to understand as lawful and correct. A country where right can be very wrong and what cannot be real in any logical sense is, without question, existing in the very same present as you. Do/ Two/ دو A family gathering. That’s the only way to describe the atmosphere inside the small plane heading to Kabul. The tray tables around me are tested immediately with huge containers of kabuli, the cardamom smell of chai cutting through the conversations of people who were strangers, but are already trying to figure out which aunt they have in common, and do they know Hamid? The situation is a far cry from the plane rides I’m used to, where I once stressed my bladder to the point of explosion because the woman seated next to me didn’t return my smile when she sat down. This is my first true experience of “real” Afghans. Growing up, my mother would joke that we weren’t true Afghans because an Afghan living in a country other than Afghanistan has been stripped of the most quintessential aspect of their Afghan-ness; the land. Because an Afghan not on Afghan soil is devoid of the very thing that has been stressed by ancients to feed their beings and fan the flame that at any moment may erupt into a raging fire. It is in a distracted moment that I look out of the small plane window and my eyes first fall upon the mountain ranges of Afghanistan. Below me, where before there were clouds, is now a never ending expanse of jagged rock that stretches into the horizon as far as I can see. A landscape so aggressive and breath-taking that I had never before seen anything it's measure. A zinging starts up in my blood, charging through my veins. This is wholly unexpected for me, because I’d never had any desire to go to Afghanistan. All I had ever known of it were the wasteland images that had been paraded on screens as far back as I could remember, the only thing resisting their message being my parents’ stories of the country that had raised them. I’d never really craved to see the place where my family came from, nor imagined what it would look like. I’d anticipated connecting to the people of course, and was excited about it. But recognising the land, it’s bones and its soil, was inexplicable. Se/ Three/ سه When we stumble out of the airport and into the dry sun, it’s a stark difference to the ridiculous and somewhat endearing contrast of everyone’s extremely polite manners as they mercilessly pushed at every shoulder and squeezed through every tiny gap in the crowd at Baggage Claim. As the man who’s offered to help us starts off with our bags, I notice that the ground is the exact colour of my skin. In the same moment I realise that I had never seen anything that was the colour of my skin. Except for the dirt on the ground of the country that had grown me and my people for centuries. Dirt that was a brown that was not really brown and yellow that was not really yellow covered the ground everywhere in Kabul. And no matter how much the sun changed my skin over those months, the land always matched. Chaar/ Four/ چهار Every time I picked an apple off a tree in the garden of the orphanage I was working in, the kids would pull it out of my hand and rush it to the tap to wash the griminess off before I took a bite. When I’d take them out to buy street food (there was only so much eggplant my privileged stomach could take) they took me to vendors that they knew were clean and nowhere else. Over the course of my time there, without maybe consciously meaning to, I became riskier and riskier with what I would consume, not wanting to eat the food that had been sanitised to within an inch of its life. I did this because I didn’t want to feel like an outsider in my own country anymore. The fact that I couldn’t fully understand what people were saying to me in my own tongue bothered me, not just because of the communication issue but because it used to be my first language. Why had I let myself forget so much of it? Walking in Kabul, I saw things that have stayed in my head two years on. I crossed paths with a little boy in the Bazaar once who didn’t have a face; when he looked at me, he looked with eyes rounder than they should have been because they didn’t have eyelids to normalise the size of them. I looked for a second at what the acid or fire or whatever had done it had replaced before I was pulled away. No one else turned. I remember seeing children in the arms of mothers in blue burqas, beseeching people for money and for three months wondering to myself why the children were always asleep. At the end of the trip I found out that instead of being placated, they were sedated. When I realised this, I understood that I could never conceive the struggle a mother has to experience to knowingly drug her child. The brutality of war has no gender, no politics or religion, it preys indiscriminately and the trauma borne from it lasts lifetimes and generations. Paynj/ Five/ پنج I had my first glimpse of the Panjshir valley from the boot of a black SUV with several children crowded around me, all our hands pressed against the back window, staring out for over an hour at a sight that was making our hearts sing. The music playing in the car blared out of the rolled-down windows, our fellow passengers clapping loudly to Ahmad Zahir as we sped down dirt roads, our energy rising as we passed schoolgirls running home in groups with stark white chaadars, young boys leading laden-down donkeys and men working fields. I looked out at something I hadn’t known existed in Afghanistan. The valley we were driving through was lush and fertile, green overcoming brown and with a wide, sparkling green river crashing through the valley, as though in a race with the kids. Everything glowed because, I think, the place was so clearly embedded with the spirit of its people. When we exited the car we had to walk through a forest to get to a graveyard to pay our respects to a relative who’d passed on. On the walk through I strayed from the group, as I did at every semi- safe opportunity in Afghanistan, trying to take in fully what I was experiencing, to ensure that my memories of it would be seared into my brain forever. I was walking through greenery that seemed untouched, beauty that hadn’t been pulverised by the decades of bombing. Everything was quiet, and still and beautiful. I turned my head quickly when I heard clanging behind me to see an annoyed cow trying to get past. Behind him a herd was lumbering forwards, shepherded by a young boy who was guiding them with a stick. I smiled at him but he didn’t have time for my reshkhandi, a tiny professional somehow navigating this group of huge beasts through this delicate mountain forest, the cows slipping and sliding on the rocks as they went. While I lived in Afghanistan, I would climb to the roof of my building almost every morning to watch the sunrise behind the mountains. I’d heard talk of the mountains all my life but honestly nothing could have prepared me for their presence. Sydney, though beautiful in a different way, has a significantly mountain-less landscape, but at every turn in Kabul, the cliffs would overwhelm me. The building I was standing on was four stories high, and looking out on ragged peaks that rose above valleys of green trees. Over the course of my time in Afghanistan I came across many more areas that were green and beautiful and unexpected. I drew enormous strength from the resilience of the land itself, the absolute refusal to give in to anything that tried to force Her to Her knees. I remember how strong this feeling was one day as we sped across desert, night falling around us, me leaning out the window of the car with the wind stinging my cheeks, thanking God with my whole heart. My pride in who I am was cemented forever into my being and I understand now why when people leave her, they can never forget. A Note. One more story comes to mind, from May 2018. Two friends and I were travelling through Greece, standing atop of a beautiful vantage point overlooking Athens when an elderly couple approaches us for a photo. They ask where we were from and we tell them we are Australian. The man proudly tells us that he’s a photographer, angling his camera towards us, naming all the places he’s shot as they come up. He comes to a photo and stops. “Now this is my favourite I’ve ever taken,” he says softly. It’s of a man praying in a mosque in Jordan with a shaft of sunlight illuminating his face. I get excited and ask if he’d like to see my favourite photograph. I pull out my most beloved photo from Kabul, featuring five children from the orphanage grinning at the camera, holding a stray kitten. “Where is this?” the man asks, examining the photo. “Afghanistan” I reply. His and his wife's faces harden. “When were you there?” he demands, with an air as though they were suddenly dealing with a dangerous object. “Oh, for three months last year,” I say. Silence. “Okay well, we’d better get going then.” They hurried away as though I were going to pull off my face and expose a bearded Talib underneath. I can traverse the world and somehow with the mention of my country, people feel they have a right to insert themselves into a space they don’t belong. They were Americans, they were delegates to the US Embassy in Pakistan and in 2001, their President, the vanguard of democracy, the so-called Leader of the Free World, began this ‘War on Terror’ with a declaration of ‘crusade.’ Lead editor: Irisa R.

By Irisa R. “To acknowledge privilege is the first step in making it available for wider use. Each of us is blessed in some particular way, whether we recognise our blessings or not. And each one of us, somewhere in our lives, must clear a space within that blessing where she can call upon whatever resources are available to her in the name of something that must be done.” – Audre Lorde. International aid can be harmful when exploitative practices dehumanise refugees, and place their needs second to an NGO’s desire to promote their own agenda. To combat this dangerous power dynamic, Refugee Support Europe (RSE) has created a system that successfully shifts the power away from the volunteers and to the refugees. The Pvblication was given the incredible opportunity to interview RSE co-founder Paul Hutchings who, along with John Sloan, built RSE from the ground up as a grassroots NGO, operating in the larger playing field of international aid. Find out how RSE, amongst the growing clamour of international organisations and state governments, found their voice and learned to contribute in a meaningful and sustainable way, keeping ‘Aid with Dignity’ at their core. Re-Writing the Rules What is ‘Aid with Dignity’? Paul: I quickly realised that there was no dignity in lining up in a queue. [When I worked in] Calais they would load up a van with jackets, then drive into the camp and distribute them along with food to people who were standing in queues for hours. It was a freezing winter; some people were injured and others were old or very young and they struggled to stay on their feet. There was such a high demand for resources that it would usually break into a fight. So ‘Aid with Dignity’ grew from that, we wanted everyone to feel like they had choice and control. When I walked through the large, grating doors of the old WWII army warehouse that had been repurposed for RSE’s services, I found myself standing in front of a small shop, where fresh fruit and vegetables filled plastic crates and the shelves were stacked with staple ingredients, from flour and sugar to biscuits and tea. The market wasn’t large by any means, but it was comforting that even in the corner of this rusty metallic shed in the outskirts of a small rural town, was a brightly painted and warmly decorated shop where refugees could come in from the cold, shop in peace and let their children play. Can you explain the ‘points system?’ Paul: When we first came to the camp, it [the need] felt urgent. The shop meant that volunteers became gatekeepers, and it gave the volunteers a lot of power. What we always struggled with as a volunteer organisation was the white saviour complex, which is when people go in feeling like they are doing good just because they have the power. When you give a volunteer in a shop the right to say no, it gives them the power. What we want is to give the power to the people we are serving. The point system [opposed to the rations system] gives people choice, and we don’t want any arguments with the refugees saying, ‘well you can only have one litre of oil because your ration is also one box of tea,’ and they [the residents] respond, ‘well I don't want tea, I want two litres of oil.’ The system stops the volunteers from being a powerful person in that relationship. Tokens are handed out to each resident over the week so that they can shop. These slips of paper may look like Monopoly money, but they are the gateway to choice. The food is not rationed; the residents can choose their own groceries and walk away with change if they please. What was it like when you started? Paul: The first camp we operated in was in Alexandreia. They were in tents with very little resources. A lot of other agencies came to help, so we had to focus. We realised that we are about food and clothing and distributing it in the most dignified way. Then the UNHCR told us about Katsikas and asked us whether we could set up there as well. John and I asked ourselves, do we have the capacity to do this? If we do, how can we best serve these people? Will it be sustainable? Can we do it consistently? Are we able to do it with dignity? So as long as we are able to tick these boxes we will go. We have never gone to a camp and tried to set up and been like, ‘Oh shit, we've run out of money or volunteers.’ We plan so that we know we will be there for at least a few months. We commit to the people there, they have had enough loss and we don’t want to add to that. What is your recruitment process? Paul: There have been 700 volunteers from 40 different countries. We always knew we needed a process. In Calais, you say you need volunteers and people just turn up. The problem was that they turned up with their own agendas, and they did all kinds of crazy shit which they thought was helping. It all came from a baptism of fire where some of the volunteer’s behaviour was low level and humorous but others were abusive and difficult. RSE’s recruitment process was the reason I stopped scrolling through aid organisations and decided to investigate further. My sister and I had spent months trying to find an organisation that didn’t ask us to pay to volunteer, a la 'voluntourism,' which is when you pay large sums to an organisation that absorbs most of the payment in so-called administration and very little would make it to people on the ground. I would see overzealous offers promising that you could 'make an undeniable impact.' RSE simply offered us with an opportunity to serve the residents at the shop, sort boxes at the warehouse and help with distributing clothes. TEAMWORK MAKES THE DREAM WORK Greece has seen thousands of refugees and asylum seekers flow in from mostly Syria, Afghanistan, Sudan and Iraq. The Greek government has refused to create a strong, national framework that can support this influx of refugees, and instead chooses to deter them through violence and detention. Over twenty one thousand refugees are stranded on offshore islands around Greece and the camps on these islands have been described by one refugee as a ‘living hell.' Another said ‘it's as if I never left [the conflict] in Syria.’ Once they have been processed, they are sent to onshore long term settlement camps, one of these being Katsikas. When I first arrived at this camp a refugee said to me, ‘this isn’t heaven but it's heaven compared to Lesbos’ and he pointed to his daughter and explained that now she can sleep through the night. Katsikas camp is located in Ioannina, a holiday home for Greeks, a University town for others and a quaint, rural town for the locals. Most people don’t know that if they take a twenty - minute bus ride north there is a refugee camp enclosed within a wiry fence, where almost 1200 refugees live in four by two metre cabins that can be filled with up to 12 people at any one time. What makes John and yourself such a great team? Paul: John and I, we are different people. We both came together united in the idea of helping people and that's what has kept us together. There were moments where we would be shouting at each other over the phone, disagreeing, and it was pretty rocky. One of the reasons was that John is very impulsive and a risk-taker, while I'm cautious and a ‘let's think about this first’ person. Once we managed to resolve the personality differences we made a good team. John has really great ideas and I make sure they are followed through. In 2013, Paul and John were working in the Calais Refugee Camp in France. The horror of seeing the refugees’ experiences acted as a catalyst to confront the enormity of the Global Refugee Crisis and motivated them to leave behind their long, illustrious careers in their respective fields. Paul had spent years running his own business whilst John had spent the last three years working for UNICEF, so together they had the necessary skills and experience to make sure they could build a sustainable NGO, one that could be fast moving and reliable. What were you afraid of in the beginning? Paul: If you spoke to John, he would say he wasn’t fearful. He always believed we were going to get bigger, better and do more. I’m much more skeptical, more doubtful and more concerned about that kind of thing. There’s that feeling of the money drying up, of the volunteers drying up, of us getting bored or it just falling apart. It never goes away. It keeps you on your toes. You know, in the first 6 months, [the fear] was much more existential as we were just in one camp, we were still trying to get systems in place, it was always possible that the government would come along and say, ‘you’re leaving.’ LARGER FORCES AT PLAY There isn’t anything heroic in the actions of the co-founders and volunteers who run RSE and its success is a reflection of pure intentions to distribute aid without compromising the dignity of those receiving it. This aid isn't conditional or affiliated with a certain country or religion. They don’t attempt to imprint or enforce their own values on the refugees. They simply deliver food and clothing. They have also pushed for a community centre where people can congregate for Friday prayers, petitioned so the children could go to Greek schools, fostered connections with local businesses and established an empowerment fund to support businesses inside the camp. Still, a refugee camp isn’t a home. There are areas in Eastern Europe that over the decades have turned from post-war refugee camps, to long-term settlement camps to ghettos. Dependency on aid can prevent healthier integration into the broader communities until the refugees become disenfranchised groups living on the outskirts of regional towns, where their standard of living, education and literacy levels always lag behind the national or state average. Of course, any kind of integration and independence occurs at the behest of host countries where refugees often spend years in limbo waiting for their papers to be processed so they can settle permanently abroad. Just last Friday, on September 6th, RSE was forced out of Katsikas due to the Government’s unflinching stance. The cruelty of operating in camps is that the Government can choose to force any agency or aid organisation out, with no plan to replace their services. The refugees relied on RSE’s market to supplement their otherwise meagre welfare payments, that couldn’t even cover a week of meals. What has been the government response? Paul: Rather than recognising that refugees are an asset that need to be invested in, the Greek Government created a very hostile environment. They rarely make the argument that it's a moral obligation, and even though there’s an economic and cultural benefit from assisting refugees, they are mostly just fulfilling legal obligations very reluctantly. How did you take on this global issue? Paul: The problem is enormous and one of the first things that happens in a refugee camp is that there is a long list of needs and you can't solve them all. It’s really difficult to say ‘I can’t help’ to people who plead, I need medical help because my teeth are falling out, I need to fix my son's application, I need to travel to Germany, I need to be reunited with my family or I need an extra pair of shoes. You have to say, I understand your need, but I can't help you with it because right now I just don't have the resources to do it. How do you combat the lack of awareness that comes with the Global Refugee Crisis? Paul: There’s this phrase, ‘one death is a tragedy, 100 deaths is a statistic.’ People need to know individuals. Numbers just don't do it. You say 70 million people displaced, and they respond with, ‘wow that’s a lot of people!’ But what they will remember is Noor. Her husband died in the war and she had to grab her four kids and now she’s stuck in a refugee camp. It's that sort of individual story that hooks people, so it’s quite difficult, you need to have both. You need to really focus on the micro, and show what’s going on for the individuals, and how you can help. The thing with numbers is that it can paralyse people. It comes back to how all refugees need help but we can’t help them all. We can help the ones at the camp and hope we do the best we can for those lives. What factors shape your decision to leave a camp? Paul: When you are working in aid you have to recognise you bring benefits, but there is also a downside. As a philosophy, I don't think refugee camps are a good place for people to live in. They are a good temporary solution, but they are not a long term solution. There's a whole range of examples of refugee camps around the world that were set up to give people somewhere to live, but some of them have been going on for 30 years and have become ghettos. I could see in Alexandreia, it was becoming a ghetto on the edge of town. We had to ask ourselves; to what extent does our presence legitimise the presence of those refugee camps? To what extent do our services act as a buffer and stop the government from providing integration, housing, jobs and education? When you reflect on the last few years, is there a particular refugee that comes to mind? Paul: When we first started I collected some of these stories but they are upsetting and I became quite disheartened by listening to them and I've stopped wanting to hear those tragedies. Every single person on that camp has a similar story, and they're all tragic and they’re all awful, and part of being a refugee is friends and family who have either been lost or scattered around the world. Everyone has these unbelievable tragedies and we can’t do anything by hearing them so now, we focus more on our impact and it’s about smiles in the shop, banter with someone outside the shop, hearing from volunteers having a particular experience serving someone or playing with their kids. EXPANDING HORIZONS Paul calls it agile business planning, we call it resourcefulness. Even after weeks of negotiations and support from the UNHCR behind the scenes, RSE was asked to leave Katsikas by the 6th of September, 2019. Moving out of Katsikas was devastating, but RSE have been very quick to adapt and have transferred their resources and energy to the new Cyprus 'Dignity Centre.' Setting up operations in a new city, building new networks, organising resources, renting a new premises and sourcing new volunteers. Real, grassroots, on the ground activism. What has been your greatest lesson? Paul: Mostly it's about this wider message that if you set your mind to something, put your heart into it and really think hard about how to help other people, there will be people who want to come with you on that journey. I find it hard to talk about volunteers without sounding like some weird, old man but I feel tremendous love and affection for all of our volunteers. We spend time doing a difficult job together, but it’s also heartwarming. I feel incredibly grateful, it looks like a kind of really crappy world out there and there’s this national conversation that can be quite frustrating and depressing. What we’ve created is a bit of a bubble, like an insulator and I see that now; I get frustrated but at least we have a community of really good people who really care. How did RSE aid the Rohingya Crisis and Tijuana’s Migrant Caravan? Paul: The Rohingya Crisis in August 2017 was a dreadful global humanitarian crisis. We were there for four months and we did find a way to help and I was very pleased with it but it was a kind of crisis where it was for the big guys. The Bangladeshi government was incredibly unhelpful, it was about four months and we wish we could've stayed longer but the barriers made it too difficult. With Tijuana [the migrant caravan] it was different, that was more of a solidarity mission. You know [Trump] was bragging about criminals invading America and we knew that that was a lie. You have every right to migrate because you are fleeing extreme violence and horrific poverty and we wanted to stand with them and say we support you. What advice would you give to future aid workers? Paul: Lower your expectations. People who passionately care want to solve everyone's problems. There’s a quote by Sadako Ogata, the Former UN High Commissioner for Refugees, where he says, ‘there are no humanitarian solutions to humanitarian problems.’ If we are going to be humanitarians, we have to tackle climate change, prevent conflict, improve employment rates, provide adequate housing and process paperwork quickly. Some of that is beyond a humanitarian organisation. They require political solutions. So lower your expectations, accept that you’re going to help but you’re not going to solve everyone’s problems and that you might come away realising that it’s a much bigger problem than you thought. Most importantly, remember, you’re doing the best you can. These are two people who wanted to make an impact and did. Not by talent or luck but by rising to the challenge. RSE provided food and clothing at the Katsikas Refugee Camp for 20 months and last Friday was their last day after a long conflict with the Greek government. This news was gut-wrenching. Many of us who have volunteered there know how the residents relied on the shop to supplement their otherwise meagre welfare payments. During their time at Katsikas, they distributed over €95k fresh fruit and vegetables (thanks to Help Refugees UK), 180 000 nappies (thanks to Carry The Future) and 50 000 sanitary pads. The Pvblication would like to give a HUGE thank you to Paul Hutchings for sharing his thoughts and experiences. We would also like to sincerely thank everyone who has donated! Together we have raised over AUD$10 000. If you would like to donate or are interested in volunteering please follow this link. *This interview has been condensed for clarity. *All photographs were taken with the consent of the minor's parents. Lead Editor: Palwasha A.