Lot's Wife Edition 4 2023

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Contents.
6 Notice of Election
Creative
8 Clara
10 Ghosted
11 An Imposter’s Will
12 What if I let them hold me?
14 Pondering Wild Geese
15 In Love with the Person Next to
Me
16 Honeycomb Harbour
19 a forest, lost and found
20 Tearie Dearie
24 Bedtime Stories
26 Just what it feels like to bleed
27 The Weight Of The Water
28 On A Castle in Prato
29 Slug trails
30 Apple Blossoms
32 Freedom is an Illusion
34 High Vibrations
36 Drowned
37 Cocoons of Silken Thread
38 Man Builds a City
39 Forgiving
40 The Cleaner and the Star
41 freedom to
42 back to earth
45 Orpheus
Culture
48 The French Protests: Behind
the Scenes of the Media
50 Interview with ISHAN
Analysis
56 Strikes on the silver screen
60 Academic Freedom and the
Case of Ahmadreza Djalali
62 Getting a scan isn’t as scary
as you think: Advice from a
radiography student
64 Ships, adulthood, and piña
coladas
66 Are the Sustainable Development
Goals redeemable?
70 The wheel spins on and on
72 Student Experience Should
be a Priority
76 MSA Department
Reports
Lot’s Wife is the student magazine of the Monash Student Association (MSA). The views expressed herein are not necessarily
the views of the MSA, the printers or the editors. All writing and artwork remains the property of the creators. This collection is
© Lot’s Wife and Lot’s Wife reserves the right to republish material in any format.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Lot’s Wife.
Lot’s Wife acknowledges the traditional custodians of the land, the
people of the Kulin Nations. We pay our respects to their Elders past,
present and emerging. Sovereignty has never been ceded.
Welcome to the fourth and final edition of Lot’s Wife for 2023! We are soaring
and flying towards the end of both the academic and calendar year. For many
of us on the team, this semester is also our last at Monash. We have absolutely
loved being part of Lot’s Wife this year and we hope you have enjoyed the
editions we’ve put together.
This year has been filled with learning and challenges for us: rushing to finish
edits at the last minute, figuring out how to do graphic design on the job (and on
the clock), working through creative differences – the list goes on. However, we
have gotten through it all gracefully and come out a much stronger team. It has
been a privilege to contribute to the nearly 60 year legacy of Lot’s Wife. We look
forward to seeing what’s in store for the future!
Staying in the present for a moment, we are thrilled to give you this fourth edition
of the year, with the theme “breaking free”. Breaking free can mean so many
things to different people. You can break free from stigma, from societal norms,
from the expectations of the world around you. You can break free from harmful
behaviours, people, and situations, allowing yourself to reach a place of
happiness and contentment.
And the pieces in this edition reflect all of that and more. Inside you’ll find
explorations of life beyond the confines of stigma and accounts of overcoming
the many obstacles of human existence. Like always, this edition’s authors have
bared their souls to bring you the thought-provoking, heartwarming, devastating,
controversial, original content you know and love.
Thank you so much for reading Lot’s Wife this year. We hope you have enjoyed
and been challenged by the works we are so proud to publish. To our
contributors: we’ve loved all your stories, poems, analyses, art, and photos that
you’ve submitted over these four editions. The quality and originality of your
work never fails to inspire us, and we are so grateful for your honesty and
vulnerability. It is daunting putting yourself out there, let alone submitting your
work to be edited and published. We are forever grateful for you and we hope
you continue to share your unique perspectives with the world.
As we head into the next year, the next era, and the next chapter of our lives,
remember to take the ethos of Lot’s Wife with you: don’t look back.
Big love, Lot’s Wife 2023
EDITORIAL TEAM
Zoe Bartholomeusz, Tehseen Huq, Aadhya Vyas, Owen Robinson, Jessica Oats
EMAIL WEBSITE INSTAGRAM FACEBOOK TWITTER LINKEDIN
msa-lotswife@monash.edu lotswife.com.au @lotswifemag @MSA.LotsWife @LotsWifeMag Lot’s Wife
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
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Art by James Boon

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Monash Student Association (Clayton) Incorporated
2023 ANNUAL ELECTIONS
Monday 9 October – Thursday 12 October 2023
NOTICE OF ELECTION
The following positions are to be elected at the MSA Annual Elections
Office Bearer positions:
• President
• Secretary
• Treasurer
• Disabilities and Carers Officer
• Education (Academic Affairs) Officer
• Education (Public Affairs) Officer
• Welfare Officer
• Women’s Officer
• Queer Officer
• People of Colour Officer
• Environment & Social Justice Officer
• Indigenous Officer
• Activities Officer
• Creative and Live Arts Officer
• Residential Community Officer
• Lot’s Wife Editor/s
Monash Student Council and Committees:
• Monash Student Council (5 General Representatives)
• Women’s Affairs Committee (9 Members)
• Student Affairs Committee (9 Members)
• Student Welfare Committee (9 Members)
• People of Colour Collective (9 members)
• Creative and Live Arts Committee (9 Members)
• Activities Advisory Committee (9 Members)
• Mental Health and Resilience Committee (20 members)
• Environment and Social Justice Committee (20 members)
National Union of Students:
7 Delegate positions
These elections are conducted using optional preferential voting, and in accordance with other
provisions as required under the MSA Election Regulations (eg. only women can stand and vote
for the Women’s Officer position).
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Monash Student Association (Clayton) Incorporated
2023 ANNUAL ELECTIONS
Monday 9 October – Thursday 12 October 2023
Tickets
Ticket re-registrations open at 9am on Monday 21 August and close Friday 25 August at 5pm. The
tickets re-registered will be published before ticket registrations, which are opened 9am Tuesday
29 August and close 5pm Monday 4 September. Applications for candidates to be set out as a
ticket open on 9am Wednesday 6 September and close 5pm Friday 15 September.
Nominations
Nomination should be submitted via this Google form. Students wishing to nominate via soft copy
form will find a link available on the MSA Elections webpage: www.msa.monash.edu/elections
Please note that if you choose to nominate via soft copy form it will take longer for your
nomination to be processed.
Nominations open at 9am on Wednesday 6 September and close 5pm Friday 15 September.
Copies of the regulations governing the election are available via the internet at
www.msa.monash.edu/elections
Voting
Polling for the MSA elections will be from 9am Monday 9 October until 5pm Thursday 12 October.
You will be able to vote online and at voting booths on campus through a voting link sent to your
email.
Jessica Fox
Returning Officer
21 August 2023
0417 613 866
msa.returningofficer@gmail.com
Gavin Ryan
Deputy Returning Officer
21 August 2023
0403 336 829
msa.returningofficer@gmail.com
7

Clara
Words by Anonymous
It had been five years since
I’d last seen Clara when I
ran into her on the streets
of London. It was an afternoon
with a strange
feeling to it, something of
unfinished business with
a twinge of nostalgia stepping
in to sadden it.
It had snowed the day before,
and despite the fact
that it had turned to a
brown icy mush underfoot,
white powder still clung to
the roofs of buildings.
“Clara!” I exclaimed, after
a woman had stopped me
on the street just outside
Kings Cross. I paused briefly,
and asked, “What are
the chances?” Although I
think it would be naïve to
deny that, ever since Chloe
had accidentally let it slip
that Clara was in London,
some part of me had been
hoping that our paths
would cross.
She looked different, and
yet the same all at the same
time. Those gentle eyes now
mixed kindness with maturity,
and I noticed that the
hand wrapped around my
wrist had begun to show
the barest hints of wrinkles.
“Sam, what are you doing
here?” Her face was
shrouded in confusion, but
underneath lay a touch
of curiosity and perhaps,
hopefully, a sort of longing.
With a laugh and a smile, I
explained.
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
“Studying,” I told her.
“Well…” a small shrug and
wry smile, “not here, but in
Cambridge.” I paused, taking
a second to take in her
face, cheeks flushed red
from the cold, her black
coat collar struggling to
remain popped up as the
navy scarf underneath
threatened to push it back
down flat.
“What about you?” I asked.
“What are you doing now?”
“Oh, ya know, working
I guess,” she answered.
Eyes flitting down to her
phone, her eyebrows crinkled
slightly, like they used
to when something was
wrong. “Sorry, I’ve got to
run,” she gestured to her
phone. “Last minute deal
before Christmas.”
She caught me in the eye
for just a second, before
looking away just as quickly.
“We could meet up later
though?” She hesitated,
“Maybe, if you’d like that?”
My voice softened to almost
a whisper and I found myself
suddenly also unable
to look at her face. “Yeah,
Clara, that’d be great.”
“Ah, okay, cool. I’ll message
you – I think I still follow
you on Instagram or
Facebook?”
Unable to look up from the
pavement, I nodded, “Yeah,
Instagram definitely, I’m
free all evening, so just let
me know.”
“Cool,” she repeated and
turned away, leaving me
there. After a brief moment
of stunned silence, I pulled
out my phone, opened up
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Google Maps and trudged
the rest of the way to my
sister’s apartment.
- - -
It’d been less than thirty
minutes after I arrived at
my sister’s when my phone
vibrated in my pocket.
Clara’s message was simple,
a link to a pub accompanied
by “7pm?”.
Unsure of how to respond, I
simply thumbs-up reacted,
and went back to setting
down my stuff in my sister’s
spare room, before returning
to engage in small talk
(and a cocktail or two) with
her nice, but undeniably
boring, fiancé before it was
time to leave to meet Clara.
Clara hadn’t changed from
her earlier outfit when she
finally arrived fifteen minutes
late.
“Sorry,” she panted. “Went
longer than expected. I’m
all yours now.” The words,
innocuous as they were,
brought back a rush of
memories, of moments
past, to my mind, and,
judging by the way she
paused too, to her as well.
Tension creeping in, Clara
coughed nervously.
“Shall we, uh, shall we go
in?” She gestured to the
front door. Finding myself
speechless, I simply nodded
and followed her in
through the doors.
- - -
“I thought you always
wanted to be a lawyer,”
she said softly, voice barely
breaking above the wash
of chit chat of the pub surrounding
us.

They were the first words
she’d said to me since we
entered into the dark, dimly
lit building, and although
I couldn’t see her face well
enough to be sure, the
words are weighted with
accusation, a question
that neither of us dare ask
nor answer.
“Perhaps someday,” I said,
fingers ghosting along the
rim of my almost empty
pint. “But for now, I’m okay
with taking the long way
‘round.”
I could feel her eyes on me,
and all at once that old
urge to tell her everything
resurfaced.
“I just, I just didn’t think I
was ready to commit to
one life or the other… I
don’t really know how to
explain it, but, I guess, I
just needed more time.”
She looked up at me,
“Sam?”
I nodded.
“Would you maybe like to
come back to mine?”
All I could do was continue
to nod.
- - -
It was 5am when I finally
left her flat. She walked
me down the steps to the
street, hugged me quickly
and turned to head back
inside to the warmth and
familiarity of her flat. Believing
that was it, I paused
for a second and then began
my walk down the
street, but I barely made
it ten metres, barely had a
chance to mourn the goodbye,
when I heard footsteps
slapping the ground
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
behind me. I stopped, but
didn’t turn around until I
felt her hand on my arm,
drawing me back, pulling
me into her.
We were looking at each
other, our breath visible in
the air between us. For a
while, we stood there frozen,
unable to pull our gaze
from each other’s eyes. Everything
was still between
us, the sounds of the city
quietened, and there was
no one in this world apart
from her and me. Slowly
and gently, she reached
a hand up to my face and
my eyes closed and her
lips ever so softly touched
mine. It was a burdened
kiss, weighed down by all
the things left unsaid and
a finality that I have never,
and will never, be able to
put into words. Her hand
remained for some second
after and I dimly felt her
thumb gently brush away
the tear that had escaped
my eye as we stood there.
“Goodbye, Sam,” she whispered,
and once again she
turned and left me standing
there in the street. I
knew it was the last time,
this time. I could feel it all
deep in my chest, and I let
it settle there and reach
out its arms.
It is a hurt that remains,
buried down inside of me,
often ignored but never
quite forgotten. I have
bathed my senses in her
for years. I know somewhere,
deep in the back of
my mind that it is not Clara
I want, but the idea of her.
9
That I have taken her, a real
person and turned her into
art. That she has become in
my mind an untouchable,
unchanging idea of a person
I once knew.
- - -
I saw her last week, all
dressed in white and walking
down to meet her forever.
I stood there clapping
loudly, grinning widely as
she kissed her, the steadying
presence of my own
fiancée beside me, willing
but not quite ready to let
go of the pain of mourning
her, the grief of losing her,
and the thrill of loving her
all these years in my mind.
“rinse”
Art by Chloe Bennett

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Ghosted
Words by Leonardo Balsamo
I woke up to the silent laughter of people I never hear from anymore,
fading, like their faces, into the fuzzy blank ceiling. I felt
thirsty and had overslept, so I turned on the big light and the walls
became clearer, blanker, and much less fuzzy than their contemptuous
smiles had become. Yes, those curled lips had already started
to fray at the seams, and I went to work at whose they were, but all
I could get my hands on were the tattered rags of some old mask,
with its familiar eyes turned towards someone else, knowingly. I
tossed it aside; yes, I did not care for the psychoanalysis this morning.
It was just a dream.
I knew it was not a nightmare because my clothes felt pretty dry,
for once. I went to get a drink and did not feel the need for anything
but water – so cool. Even the air in my studio tasted fresh.
The blinds opened onto those unforgiving streets, and I felt the midday
sun rush some natural serotonin through my skin. This frisson
flowed faster. The unpaid bills I had thrown at the wall after ‘quitting’
looked so banal. What a stupid act! I would work it out. Yes, I
would not miss the bar.
I decided to go for a walk. Chapel Street felt a little friendlier today
– well, a little more than it had the previous night, when everyone
was very glad that I was casting my life into this pit. It does feel
better when you do it with someone. Another call came from my old
manager, which I missed, of course. Then, my ‘friend’ texted, raving
about the night us ghouls-for-the-weekend came shambling out of,
so, yes, I left him on read, and I never heard from him again.
Art by Lottie van Wijck
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
An Imposter’s Will
Words by Louis Perez
Content warning: allusions to mental illness
A faceless nameless entity
Always beside me
Whispering thoughts of despair
Convincing
I am nothing more than a fraud
Compliments are numbing
Achievements, meaningless
From once a high achiever
Reduced to a soul
enslaved by doubts
Cannot progress, remain stagnant
Guided by uncertainties
awash in regret
Congratulations they say
All lies, I say
You are not capable enough
correct.
not strong enough
correct.
not worthy enough
correct.
Yes, yes. Isn’t it the truth?
The will to fight, is an impossible journey
Rest assured there is hope
to break the shackles the mind has caged
Would love to say
Farewell imposter
But you don’t want me
to believe it’s that time of the day
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Seaglass Eyes.
I stare into my eyes in the mirror
and try to love them.
why try
do I have to try.
I am born loved.
Am I
born loved?
Once someone spoke to me of worth,
of earning my love;
no love
should exist
unearned ?
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
What if I let them hold me?
told in three parts
Words by Caleb Kazoglou
but
I
languish
in the deep sand ahead of me
rolling dunes, yellows and brown melded into a blurry hue.
I can’t describe this colour
but it is one encompassing
doubt.
I am driven
to love
brokenness and teary pride
— joy so loud smiles grow past the constraints of
my mouth,
eyes, creases like lightening that
trickle downwards
my jaw—
flickers of eyelids and lips
that serve as hugs
—and hug themselves.
In the mirror my eyes glint
greens and browns
swiftly skirting in and out of the other
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
some in waves, some speckles or flicks of paint.
they are not my mothers
not heirloom
not those of a seaside
or volcano foot
where air hasn’t floated
through the halls of my childhood.
Whose atoms wouldn’t know my blood’s claim to me
(not by my eyes)
as they do my mother.
I think they are beautiful
(when I dare to
I don’t know if they are mine).
I want more than surviving: Part I
Did you see the moon?
My glasses were fogged with last night
wonder, I
apparently am consumed by
your arm curling softly around my spine,
my mouth drawing in spring-like air from a room wrangled by warmth;
It’s magic I don’t understand
how we tore control from electricity.
Atoms bristle
by rules of their own,
perhaps rules we’re making.
I want more than surviving: Part II
It’s like touch hasn’t reached there before.
Your fingers twirl
tips ink that
dissipates into the softness of my thigh,
calligraphy hidden
or buried
to find when I’m in your arms again
or in bustling moments of the day
when they flourish piercingly into my chest
and I want to hold memories of you
in those same fingertips
mine
because you gasp for more too
though utterly full are the moments we steal together,
perhaps because
skin holds memory, but
I want it painted for others to see.
I want bird calls to remind me of us.
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“Calming serenity”
Art by Louis Perez

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Pondering Wild Geese
Words by Luca Edwards
You do not have to be good.
Just as you do not have to look to the
undying winds or the bounteous mountains of nature to comfort you.
You do not have to tell me.
You do not have to share your trauma in its weightless infinity,
to place delicate memories into my soft palms if it feels safer in your possession.
Nor do I have to tell you.
I do not have to destroy my shell for you, even if
yours lies broken beside you as you heal.
Meanwhile Immortal Wild Geese migrate across mortal borders.
Meanwhile we gaze into blue rays.
Meanwhile we glare at each other.
Meanwhile we look at anything but the sky.
Meanwhile we focus on keys, and keys, and keys.
You do not have to be good.
But you should look outward, beyond
the confines of writing or speech, phone or parcel.
Look to the leaves.
Look to the sigh the wind makes when it
Finds its resting place.
Look to the leaves.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
In Love with the Person
Next to Me
Words by Faiz Asbunwijaya
Somewhere in my past, in a dusted one to you
I sat next to you in a cramped rural bus
Your hair brushing against my neck
Tip of my lips brushing against your cheek
Our eyes met not, but we knew how they look like
We knew how they lived, how they desired, how they screamed
Our mouths spoke not, but we knew each other’s heart
We knew how they felt, how they yearned, how they breathed
Our skin touched
And I felt the water of your mother’s womb that you swam in
You held my shoulders
And felt the blood I flailed about in
Your hand on my lap, my hand on your heart
Your entire childhood beating on my cusp
My entire adolescence burning from my thighs to your hand
With shame
With shame of the past guzzling up to the surface
To pass it to the touch of your hand
And I felt your pain bursting out
From your heart
Burning my fingers and nails red
So that I may know all the tears you have shed
And now, I sat next to you in a cramped rural bus
For the second time
Oh Lord, how may I say this to her
Oh Lord, how may I utter this to her
That I am in love with the person next to me?
“Whirlpool of Change”
Art by Louis Perez
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Honeycomb Harbour
Words by Kiara Sharee
Art by Ruby Findlay
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It’s stuffy in here, the air is
almost stifling. Strange,
given that my window
is rolled down, the car
greedily sucking in the
sea-kissed wind. It likes
to tell me of its past travels
and where it has yet
to roam. Often threads itself
between my fingers,
enticing me to join it on
its adventures. At times, I
want to. At other times, it
sends my hair whipping
so fiercely that I can’t
even see where we would
go.
I can hear the ocean calling
out to me. She rocks
to and fro, sending me
waves, both little and
large, gentle and welcoming.
She breathes
deeply, lungs drifting
back and forth, and
sometimes, I try to match
the rhythm of my breathing
to hers.
Yet despite the wind and
ocean for company, the
air in this car seems to
grow thick and heavy as
the journey sprawls out.
As my eyes follow flashes
of azure between the
mountain trees, I catch
the driver’s faint frown.
He doesn’t like the windows
kept down—says
that’s how the wild things
creep in.
It’s a pity then isn’t it, that
I’ve always had a flair for
wild things? Like the adventure
of sneaking my
way through bramble
and thorn, or the thrill
of tumbling upon bitter
berries that may or may
not leave me hurling up
in a bush. Or catching
glimpses of shimmering
water mostly obscured
by dense forests, and
following them into the
unknown. Or better yet,
yielding to those waters,
diving for pearls, and trying
again each time I return
to the surface empty-handed.
Breaking away from my
daydream, I roll my window
up and watch as
the driver’s frown melts
away, like a sand message
licked away by the
tide.
I’ve lost track of when I
hopped into this car. We
must have been driving
for years now. The driver
always keeps the radio
on, and so we listen.
The voices that trickle
through are ancient, supposedly
wise. He always
agrees with what they
have to say, their words
like gospel, and so they
guide our voyage—tell
us where to go, how best
to get there.
Their words drip over me,
soft and sweet like honey.
They sing me tales
of risk and ruin, legends
spun from unbreakable
threads. Eventually, I’ve
found myself nodding
along in agreement, mirroring
the driver. Sometimes
he pitches in too.
Between him and the
voices, they are leaving
me fragments of advice.
I am meant to collect
them, treasure them,
swipe up each piece and
store them in my pocket
for safekeeping.
I remember opening the
window once, despising
the barrier between me
and the sea. I told the
driver as much, and of
my plans upon arriving
to play with the tides
at sunrise, even once
the moon and stars had
snuck in to watch.
He scoffed, “I wouldn’t
recommend that. The
ocean is full of risk, he’ll

swallow you whole. Better
to stay back safely on
land, like the others.”
I listened to him and
thought, He’s right, of
course. Who am I to think
I could paddle through an
ocean of dreams, or dare
to surf the unknown?
Another time, I twisted
around in my seat, spotting
a deflated, lonesome
satchel at the back.
“How do you manage to
travel so lightly?” I asked
in wonder.
“I don’t need much,” the
driver replied, “I left most
of my things behind.”
I wondered how he could
have done so. This journey
was a one-way ticket.
In fact, we had no
idea how long it would
be, and he certainly
wouldn’t have the chance
to go back and fetch his
belongings.
“Don’t worry,” he added
with a reassuring smile,
“Once we get there, I’ll
show you where you
can hang your own belongings
up to dry.” I
pondered his words and
realised he was right.
There was no use having
so much clutter on this
journey. The less things
I travelled with, the less I
would have to lose.
More recently, I commented
on the night sky as the
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car climbed around the
mountain bends. He nodded,
“You’ll love the night
sky even more when you
get there. You’ll be able
to see gallons of stars—
they’ll make you feel tiny
and insignificant.”
“Is that a good thing?”
I asked, eyeing the cosmos
above.
“Dunno, but it makes
sense, doesn’t it?” He let
out a dry laugh. “I mean,
that’s the whole reason
we wish upon the stars—
because they’re out of
reach.”
“Oh…” I replied. “Yes,
that does make sense.”
I began to wonder why
I used to look up at the
stars and feel magical.
One day, when I was
itching to explore the new
sights and sounds we’d
ventured into, we got out
in the middle of the forest.
“Are there any good
paths to explore around
here?” I asked.
His eyes lit up as he
showed me a famous
path. The grass was flat,
practically dead with
use, but I was told that
it was safe and it works.
Countless others before
me had travelled that
very path, and I would be
a fool not to do the same.
As I made my way back
to the car, I suddenly became
conscious of my
surroundings and where
I had strayed. I couldn’t
see the ocean anymore,
but I could hear her,
muffled and distant. I
seemed to exhale when
she inhaled, no matter
how hard I tried to match
her breathing. Something
felt terribly foreign
and disrupted.
It was almost as if somewhere
along the journey,
I began learning all
the habits I never wanted
to, picking up all the
thoughts I never needed.
How to stay on dry land,
hang dreams up to dry,
opt for the path most
travelled. How to keep
my feet on the ground
and my gaze averted
from the stars.
With the honey gently
drowning her out,
my soul, she hardly
breathed. Phantom pressures
pressing down on
me, I was stuck to this
passenger seat.
- - -
“So, where to from here,
Miss?” The driver asks
as we take off from the
curbside, cruising at a
steady pace.
“You’re asking me?”
“It is your journey, after
all.” He shrugged. I had

almost forgotten.
My stomach drops and
I’m afraid that the cause
is far from the unforgiving
windy roads, or the
treacherous cliff drops—
it is the roads we’ve seen,
the detours we’ve taken,
whisking me further and
further from my soul destination.
I turn the radio off. Roll
my window down completely.
I need to hear myself—my
heart, my mind,
my soul. I inhale deeply,
as if it is somehow possible
to recover that piece
of myself that had been
lost to the wind. The entire
world is suddenly
holding its breath for me,
and I realise that I have
been holding my own for
years.
“Stop the car.” I say.
“Please,” I add reluctantly—because
it’s important
to be kind to yourself.
I walk down to the beach,
the wind whistling some
faraway, familiar tune.
The shadows of little fish
are wandering around
the pier, like flowers
swept up in an underwater
breeze.
I set my eyes on the lilac
and cornflower skies,
catching a whisper of
the emerging moon. The
driver had said that the
stars were out of reach…
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
So how is it that when I
look out toward the horizon,
with only my soul
for company, I can see
the places I want to go
and the things I want to
be, stretch out and settle
before me like constellations?
A treasure map in
the sky, a spirit map in
my mind.
Here, the constant voices
are silenced… Yes, they
were soft and sweet, a
haunting honey. But I
had not realised that
in allowing their songs
to wash over me all this
time, their lyrics were
sticking to the walls of
my mind. They were crystallising
in a honeycomb
labyrinth, while I was inevitably
becoming less
and less visible, trapped
within.
And so, as I make my way
back up the sandy slopes,
climbing the rocky hills
to view the ocean from
afar, I begin to crack my
way out with each step,
watching as honeycomb
fragments shatter and
crumble down, soon to
be swallowed by the sea.
At the top of the hill, the
wind sets my hair flying,
pulling me to more destinations
than I can set
my eyes on at once. The
thrill of adventure thrums
through my veins. I turn
18 18
my back to the ocean,
still feeling her guiding
hand on my shoulder, still
hearing her sweet song
in my soul. We breathe
in sync now. We always
have. And I can hear my
soul and what it needs,
discern its untouched colour
once more.
I take a deep breath and
continue the rest of my
journey on foot, leaving
the car behind. It is empty—it
always has been.
There are still songs from
those travels tucked into
crevices of my mind, but I
am discovering that with
a splash of stubbornness
and determination, I can
gently coax them out.
Some roots need to be
detangled before taking
flight.
I keep my eyes on the
ocean during my travels
now, intending to follow
the lyrics that speak to
my soul.
They ebb and flow around
me, a wispy whirlpool.
Intuitive, divine, defiant.

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
a forest, lost and found
Words by Jessica Oats
The forest has always been her safe
place. Where trees have seen centuries
and the dirt could write novels from all
that have walked its path. She could get
lost here, in the magic and wonder. Fireflies
dazzle the air and flowers bloom in
the most unusual places.
Fairies have guided her every step.
Woodland creatures have kept her
warm.
Yet, on occasion, when glimpses of light
break through the canopy and echoes
of sound creep in from the far beyond,
she dreams of dancing in sunlight, of
chasing music that whispers through
the trees. She does not know where the
tree line ends, if she can leave these
well trodden paths behind.
Surely beyond the forest is only danger.
Wolves that chase and bite, snakes that
slither and poison.
Why else has she always remained?
For the forest has its darkness too.
Growls emerge on moonless nights,
branches cut like knives in traitorous
hands, and she cannot trust where she
places her own two feet.
But then the sun will rise and the shadows
dissolve into nothing. It is then that
she finds meadows full of flowers, pink
and purple and blue. It is then that birdsong
fills the air.
And suddenly, how could she ever
leave? The woods, after all, are all she’s
ever known.
Except the forest has known more than
her. And it will know many after her.
She could burrow her bare hands into
the ground and still not know the roots’
depths. The trees would not care if she
laid her bones in this place. She would
simply become one of thousands, one
of millions. Of leaves and critters and
fallen rain that have merged their being
with the forest floor.
The forest may be her home, but some
homes are meant to be left behind.
Every day the echoes of music get
louder and the treetops let through
more light. It calls to her, the outside
world, beckons for her to run, run, run,
until the trees are far behind her and
she is awash in sunshine. The twigs will
fall from her hair and the dirt will be
washed from her feet.
She does not know what awaits her outside
the forest.
She does not know if she will be safe or
hunted.
She does not know life without the magic
of the woods.
But the songs and the sun are calling to
her, their whispers turning to screams.
She cannot hide behind tree trunks forever.
The moon will rise, the shadows
will come.
The forest has always been her safe
place, but with one final look at her
home, she runs.
“Spirals”
Art by Louis Perez
19

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Tearie Dearie
Words by Jane Moir
Content warning: descriptions of physical and emotional abuse, and loss
of autonomy
It was in the mid-sixties
when a baby doll “Tearie
Dearie” arrived in Australia.
The girl wanted this
doll more than anything.
The girl was four years
old and she didn’t have
any dolls yet, but she really
wanted one. It was a
small doll that came in a
pink cot with legs so you
could stand it up, or collapse
them so it became
a cradle. On top was a
dome shaped lid that
served as a bath. She
came with a bottle and
after feeding her water
she would shed tears
and wet her nappy, after
which you could bathe
her and change her nappy.
The girl didn’t have
any dolls yet to call her
own because up until
this point she really had
no interest in them. The
girl lived in a house with
a big garden and she
spent much of her time
outside lost in her own little
world. The house was
in a quiet court with only
twelve houses. Behind the
houses there was a creek,
and the girl spent a lot of
time there, catching tadpoles,
and inventing all
sorts of games to amuse
herself. There were willow
trees that made the most
amazing cubby houses,
prickly blackberry bushes,
and curious foxes,
the culmination of which
emanated in some sublimely
imaginative adventures
for the girl. The
girl had a sandpit her father
had constructed for
her along with a slightly
dodgy swing that was
not much more than a
plank of wood, suspended
with rope from trees,
and a ‘cubby house’ that
was more akin to a ‘leanto’.
It had a roof, walls,
and a back, but no front.
It had a dirt floor, and the
girl had furnished it with
some old wooden boxes
for seats and tables. She
took her colouring books
and crayons there, along
with her tea-party set,
and she would mix up a
concoction of sugar and
water and partake in a
tea ceremony with her
cat Amos.
Now, the girl knew that
20
there were only two
times during the year
she could get presents.
One was her birthday
and the other time was
Christmas. It was nearly
Christmas and it was
a very exciting time. Her
mother hung a wreath on
the front door with holly,
red berries and tinsel. In
the kitchen, there was a
big gold bell on a hook in
the corner, and when you
pulled its string, it played
‘jingle-bells’. But best of
all was the big tree in the
lounge room. It was all
white and had red and
green baubles all over it
and layers of tinsel. On
the top there was a big
gold star and a beautiful
fairy doll. The best part
was when night came
and suddenly all these
coloured lights came on,
it was truly enchanting.
What was even more
special was dressing as
an angel for the end of
year Kinder Christmas
play. Her grandmother
had made her a white
frock, with wings and a
tinsel halo she wore over

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
her cropped hair. The
parents were all there
to witness this theatrical
spectacle, and the
girl felt finally she may
have done something to
please her mother.
That was really all she
wanted, Tearie-Dearie
aside, was for her mother
to love her. Maybe,
it being Christmas and
all, this would be a turning
point, and finally her
mother would love her,
or just like her enough
to stop hitting her, and
telling her awful things
she really didn’t understand
yet, but remembered
much later on. She
can still hear the words
today: “ I wish I’d aborted
you”, “I wish you had
died at birth”. The girl
had no idea what any
of this meant, only that
her mother didn’t much
like her, and it seemed
she couldn’t do anything
right.
Finally, the magical
night came and the girl,
after leaving some carrots
out for the reindeers,
and a beer and some
teddy-bear biscuits for
Santa, went to bed, hoping
that she would wake
up and there she would
be, Tearie-Dearie.
Well, as dawn broke
and the light penetrated
the not quite closed
yellow curtains in the
girl’s room, she awoke.
A surge of anticipated
excitement overtook her,
as she nervously looked
around her bedroom. On
the floor were some boxes
that were not there before,
and she leapt from
the bed to investigate,
with only one thing on
her mind: Tearie-Dearie.
Miracle of miracles, atop
of the boxes that contained
jigsaw puzzles,
board games, and coloured
pencil sets, lay
Tearie-Dearie. Father
Christmas had delivered
and the girl couldn’t remember
a time when she
had felt so happy .The
girl cuddled the doll that
night, along with her gollywog,
whom she could
not possibly sleep without,
so that night, and for
many that followed, her
bed became a shared
space.
Much as she loved the
doll however, Tearie-Dearie
was the catalyst for a
dark, shameful secret the
girl harboured for many
years to follow. She was
only really able to understand
it when she grew
older, and had undergone
years of therapy as
a result of her mother’s
hatred and emasculation
21
of her, which lasted until
that miserable woman’s
death. Despite loving
the doll there were many
days when she took her
into her cubby house,
and what she did there
was truly shocking. The
girl would take the doll
into the dark recesses
of her cubby house and
take off all of her clothes.
She would then turn the
naked doll onto its stomach,
on top of her wooden
box table, and hit her
with sticks. When she
was done thrashing Tearie-Dearie,
she would be
crying, and feel so guilty
about what she had just
done. She would then
bathe the doll, dress her
and cuddle her, apologising
profusely for hitting
her. Then she would
go back into the house,
as if nothing had happened,
but she felt really
bad about what she had
done, and very ashamed.
This pattern was to repeat
several times, and
only abated when the
girl turned five. That
Christmas she was given
two new dolls from her
respective grandparents
that she had not yearned
for as she had with Tearie-
Dearie, but adored
them nevertheless. The
girl never abused them

the way she had done
Tearie-Dearie partially
because they were ‘girl
dolls’, not babies and
were bigger, so the girl
treated them more like
peers and friends. In
her five year old mind
they were just different
to Tearie-Dearie. It took
many years for the girl
to admit to herself what
she had done to that
doll that she loved and
wanted so much. This
is the very first time she
has been able to share
what she did. She has
begun to understand
it now, after all, she
is older, and has read
and studied extensively
throughout her life. The
behaviour, as far as she
understands it, is the
culmination of enduring
regular thrashings at
the hands of her mother
and being locked up
in her room for hours on
end. This abuse emasculated
her completely
as she was powerless
to do anything about it.
It was a way for her to
cope because she could
not possibly defend herself
against her adult
adversary. It is indeed
a strange thing that
she still harbours such
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
guilt about hitting Tearie-Dearie,
but at least
she has come some way
to comprehending it.
So where is the girl now?
Well she is no longer a
girl, she is in fact quite
old. She does still have
a way to go in order for
her to truly heal, and
she is trying her best to
do this. Whilst her nemesis
might be dead, the
ghastly woman left behind
a legacy: her son,
giving him the power to
manage the girl’s life.
Being a bully he is relishing
the role, however, the
girl is taking the legal
steps necessary to finally,
in her sixth decade,
achieve autonomy over
her life. Whilst she can’t
yet let go of the guilt she
still feels over what she
did to Tearie-Dearie, she
is hoping that by writing
this story, she can finally
let it go. And, the best
thing of all is that she
managed to buy herself
a vintage Tearie-Dearie
on eBay recently, and
yes, the doll occupies a
prominent position on
her bed. That little frightened
girl is still there,
somewhere deep inside
the core that makes her
who she is today: Jane.
22

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Art by Zoe Elektra
23

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Bedtime Stories
Words by Lucy McLaughlin
I ask my mother to read to me because her voice is a dinghy on the shoreline
and I am tired of the sand. Neverland is gratuitous up here because I am five
years old
and each wave that laps at my feet is the first time
and the last time
and the only time.
I am being cradled by a purple dressing gown. It wears a body that is large,
dome-shaped and weather-beaten with love.
Where will we go tonight, mummy?
I ask her in a voice that is small and powerful and ready for the tide.
I ask her even though it is my choice: it has always been my choice.
The sailor must choose her mast.
In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf.
It is an egg so small that you could fit the whole world in there. I touch it with
my finger and it blinks.
pop!
The small caterpillar is gulping down his dinner. The munches are soft and secret
and I lap up their sound so that there is someone out there to hear it.
On Tuesday, he eats through two pears, but he is still hungry.
On Friday, he eats through five oranges and I am panicking even as my
mother’s voice wicks away the fear with a soft tongue
because he is still hungry.
He will eat himself to death mummy! He will eat himself to death before beauty
eats him first!
But my voice is drowned out by the steady drumming of a butterfly’s wings.
I take my mother’s hand as we sail on into the night.
Sophie and her mother sit down at the table. It is laid out with chocolate muffins
and a white cake with red cherries. Their tea is hot and steaming and I
hold my cup out too and smile to Sophie’s mother as she pours. We are just
getting comfortable when, quite suddenly, there is a ring at the door. We look
at each other. Our brows furrow in lines that zig-zag like broken train tracks.
I will Sophie to open the door first. I stay back, toes not quite curling into the
frame, heart drowning in my stomach.
24

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
She opens it, just a tad, and a huge beast curls around the slit in the door. It is
a big, furry, stripy tiger. It wears a grin that is warm and sinister and coddled.
I stare at its paws and imagine a great claw, sharp and pointed, stretching out
beneath all that hair, tapping the doorbell with a tiny ding.
It is a thought that makes me shudder with delight.
When Sophie’s daddy comes home to find a parched house, he is shrewd and
calm and watchful and I wonder if my daddy would react the same way. I
cross my fingers behind my mother’s back and will our doorbell to ring, just to
know, just to know.
I think of all that tiger food going to waste
putrefying in a kitchen that sits beckoning its guest. I want to stroke Sophie’s
hair and tell her it’s okay. That sometimes you have to let the things you
love go.
Why did the tiger never come back, mummy?
But my mother is all eyes and no mouth:
the bow is lurching in the wind and we must go on.
A mouse took a stroll through the deep dark wood.
A fox saw the mouse and the mouse looked good.
I cower beneath purple cotton, grasping at the frays of the dressing gown for
further shelter,
because out there in the woods lives a terrible thing.
He has terrible tusks and terrible claws and terrible teeth in his terrible jaws!
The poor mouse is being dwarfed by a monster eight times his size, and I open
up the palm of my hand and press it towards him, willing those little whiskers
to trail up my fingers and into the safety of my mother’s nest.
But the mouse’s smile never wavers, and suddenly it is the monster fleeing, jaw
contorted and wobbling, tail shaking in the wind whipped up by heavy footfall.
Is the mouse the real monster, mummy?
But I do not wait for her to answer. I know that next time I look in the mirror I
will bare my fangs and howl to the wind because power is not limited by size.
I nestle into the purple dressing gown. I sigh with drooping eyelids as my mother’s
voice carries me back to shore. I am yet to understand her act of preservation.
All is quiet in the deep dark wood. The girl found a book and the book was good.
Art by Zoe Elektra
25

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
“Vertigo”
Art by Louis Perez
Just what it feels like to bleed
Each month I lie in pain,
Left alone in my thoughts and anxieties.
The seconds, fading away ever so reluctantly,
Yet the days fly by ever so unproductively.
I wonder and I ask,
Why don’t you have this curse?
Why have I been chained here when I never
asked?
I am love and care,
Despite the pain and constraint.
I shower you with my joy,
Despite my cup being shattered with blood and
gore.
You sit there,
Unaware, reluctant,
Is raising your voice all you’re good for?
You steal my opportunities,
While I melt away with the voices in my head.
And yet, I’m expected to be better,
And smile, and always smile,
Till my face is ripped out,
torn up into shreds from your control.
Words by menstruating me
26

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
The Weight Of The Water
The water pulled her down
But she dragged herself out
From the blood-dimmed tide
Crawled onto the shore
Laid bare on the salty divide
Hair spread like ink on her skin
Black and slippery
She clawed at the sand
Granules bursting capillaries
A desperation for dry land
To escape from the depths
To fill her lungs with air
Let it pass through her neck
But her fingers leaked saltwater
And her flesh reeked of brine
Her body glowed in the sun
Slick with an unnatural shine
She was different when she left
For her wrecked voyage
Upon the ship Mary Celeste
Never to reach the end
Her masts risen in the gauzy sea mist
Lost in the fabric of the waves
She’d hit the seabed when it sank
Trapped as the ship waned
It slipped quietly into her mouth
Slithered in through her eyes
It paralysed her with a cool numbness
Spreading down her neck, her arms
In her core, it swirled and surged
Like a thousand screaming storms
And when she tore herself out
From the harsh grasp of the sea
She emerged, wrought
A siren from the deep
A creature of the blue
A wicked, deadly predator
She lured sailors in
With a picture of a girl
A razor-tooth grin
Hungry wet pearls
She chewed them up
And spat out their eyes
Blood seeped into the sand
As she drank and wrung them dry
So she traversed the seven seas
A gasping salt-stained search
For ocean water is no drink
To quench her thirst
She couldn’t escape the darkness
So she let it fill her inside
27
Words by Patricia Elwood
“Weightless Amidst The Clouds”
Art by Tehseen Huq

“Trailblaze”
Art by Louis Perez
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
On A Castle in Prato
Words by Julia Fullard
To Prato, castles, and most importantly, home.
28 June 2023
There’s a castle in the centre of this city,
A mediaeval castle
And the tour guide said that it no longer holds ancient ruins inside of it
Today, it’s an open-air cinema
Playing films all summer, she says
A screen against its grey stone walls -
Walls that can be climbed by narrow staircase
Worn by memories past,
Awash with those just made, present-day
Isn’t it nice that old things can be made new again?
Emptied of tired, broken parts
Pretty
And yet still historic
29 June 2023
I like mediaeval castles made of grey stone
Like the one in the middle of the piazza
I like their spiral staircases and
The view from the top:
Pastel orange houses against
Green hills, made blue by distant cloud
I like flowers, flaming pink, for 25 euros
And cheap bottles of red wine split between three
I like gelati twice a day: in the noon heat and evening breeze,
Espressos in small tangerine glasses and
Pastries filled with lemon custard, ordered in a
Broken, glared at Italian
And so, I really do like Prato
Yet still, I miss Melbourne
Still, home
28

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
“Sea of sorrows”
Art by Louis Perez
A girl
swallowed whole
by the yawning ether
Slug trails
Words by Belle Ryan
If you place a weapon in her
hand, she will not hurt
you
Blades of grass
bunched in her fist
the lifeblood oozing onto her
palms
Sap and sweat on her knees
staining her skin
green and yellow
to match adorning bruises
She chews through her lip
because she is
bored
A thumb on her chin, I
tilt her head up, towards
the sky
Silver slug trails move
from the outer corners of her eyes
towards the ground
searching –
for?
a way out
always a way out
29

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Apple Blossoms
Words by Patricia Elwood
Content warning: gory imagery
To the woman He said,
“I will greatly multiply your pain in
childbearing;
in pain you shall bring forth children.
Your desire shall be contrary to your
husband,
but he shall rule over you.” (Genesis.
3:16)
My fingers cross my cursed chest,
Treading upon this path that carries
Across twenty-four mountains
And through twenty-four valleys.
They roam these wretched grounds,
And in this sickness, they become
Plagued by quaking tremors rising
From the chambers of my lungs.
So I press them firmly down,
Fingers curled with gaping maw,
Open my chest and part my flesh,
Which I find drenched in crimson raw.
Splitting apart the bars of bone,
Splintering the cage.
I grasp between my hands
The first rib, my origin of rage,
And unfurl my shaking palms,
Raise it up to gaze upon
The sticky glistening red,
Capturing the golden sun.
Tightening my grip again,
I grind it in my closing fist,
Brittle, crushed into a grit,
I offer it as though it is a gift
Unto this dark, awaiting earth,
That lies softly beneath my feet.
And with soil stains upon my knees,
I place the rib’s remains to meet
The seeds I sowed onto this land,
Whose hungry mouths are waiting
To feast on the fertilisation
Seeping from the curse you gave me.
And rise into the thriving trees
That turn to the first breath
Of my wild, angry garden
Brushed with an emerald spread
30

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Art by Ruby Findlay
Where blushing petals bloom
between
The gleaming leaves in shades of
green,
That move and dance within
The wind, speaking in sighs
And gentle misty whispers
Upon their orange pollen eyes,
In the heart of apple blossoms
That soon will turn to fruit,
With flushing scarlet skin,
Feeding from the root,
Entwined with blood and bone,
Creating flesh so sweet and fair,
Dressed in morning dew,
Reflecting spring sun’s flare.
As saliva glitters on my teeth,
And catches the warm light,
I place the red between my jaw,
And bite.
31

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
As the days go by, I feel an ineffable mingling of fear and melancholy. I feel
like I’m constantly staring at a rainbow partially obscured by mist on the
other side. I long for gentleness, clarity, and tranquillity. I see my life in a
rudimentary stage of evolution. Life disillusions me but I am condemned to
navigate its treacherous landscape.
Success is an amorphous silhouette far out of my reach. I am a distorted
work in progress under the erroneous assumption of an accomplished life.
Anxiety grips me tenaciously in its claws.
Adulthood is an unknown land with no maps to help me navigate. It feels like I
am lost in the perilous waves of an ocean with no shore or no anchor in sight.
The constant stream of expectations from society is like arrows piercing my
heart.
My failures from the past morph into demons in the night. They hold me down
and paralyse me with their haunting eyes.
I want to wake up under the glimmer of the sun. I want to feel the sunshine
kiss my skin and the wind playing with my hair. I want to frolic on green
meadows under the open sky and cherish the simple sight of morning dewdrops
on leaves.
This is freedom.
Freedom is an Illusion
I will never be free in a capitalist society where my worth is contingent upon
my productivity. My beauty lies in the essence of my humanity. Perhaps, one
day freedom will be a part of my reality.
Words by Tehseen Huq
32

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
“Break Free”
Mixed media
Art by
Louis Perez
33

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
High Vibrations
Content warning: sexual references, depiction of a relationship with a minor
You’d be forgiven for failing to notice
that Rachel is not a tall person. She
stands tall. Even with feet flat on the
ground it’s like she’s standing on her
toes. Fresh runners on her feet and
decked out in active wear and gold jewellery.
She’s into crystals, and she’s what a
crystal enthusiast would describe as a
high vibration human. You can feel her
energy – a blue buzz around her. It pulls
you in, and you can’t help but match
her enthusiasm for life. Her whole person
seems to glow with this energy;
bright blonde hair, shining blue eyes,
and pearly teeth in a permanent smile.
She carries a small blue crystal in a gold
chain around her neck. The crystal is
embedded in a piece of gold engraved
with Sanskrit words that she can’t read
and doesn’t know the meaning of. She
was given the crystal by her first boyfriend,
Zach, who in turn had been given
the necklace by a yogi in Nepal. Or
so he said.
They had been pulled over in his van on
the shoulder of the highway somewhere
between Melbourne and the NSW border.
He was 26 and she was 17. She was
skipping out on her family and school
to follow him to Confest – a nudist convention
just across the border. They’d
known each other for six weeks. Sunlight
slanted through the dusty driver’s side
window, lighting him up like a saint. He
was shirtless, lightly scented with marijuana
and incense, wrists strangled with
bracelets. She admired his worldliness
and spirituality - he had spent months
finding himself in Nepal and had done
ayahuasca with a shaman in Peru. She
had never left Australia.
“This is a special place,” he had said,
nodding slowly.
She had looked around uncertainly. The
stretch of highway was the same as it
had been for the past hour. Flat and
completely unremarkable, bordered by
trees. She looked at him and shrugged.
He held her eyes, and a shiver went
through her. There was something about
his self-assurance that made it hard not
to trust him.
“You can feel it right?” He gestured to
the large crystal mounted on the dashboard.
“The vibrations are good here.
Close your eyes and you’ll feel it.”
She closed her eyes.
“Now take a deep breath.”
She did. All of a sudden, he had placed
his fingertips onto her neck at her pulse
point. A shiver ran through her.
They had gotten out of the car and
walked into the bush. After about ten
minutes there was a creek and a small
waterfall. They had fucked by the waterfall
and afterwards she had cleaned
the cum off her thighs with the clear,
cold water.
After she had pulled her underpants
back up and pulled her skirt back down
he had told her he loved her and given
her the crystal. He said that it had been
blessed to always give good luck to the
wearer and that it had never let him
down.
He must have been right since he was
hit by a truck and killed two days after
giving it away.
She had needed to call her parents to
34

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Art by Lottie van Wijck
come and pick her up from NSW. For
three months they hadn’t let her out
of the house except to go to school. As
soon as she graduated she left home
and never spoke to them again.
She moved out to Coburg and now she
works as a psychic. She isn’t sure if she
believes in it or not - Zach had been the
first, but not the only man to show her
that confidence can make all kinds of
things seem true. And she had believed
all kinds of things.
The only time she ever takes her crystal
off is on the night of a full moon. On
those nights, she puts it inside a bowl
of purified water and leaves it out in
the moonlight to charge. She’s learnt
that you need to charge a crystal if you
want it to keep working.
She lives on the top floor of a six-storey
apartment building, and she climbs
onto her balcony railing, stretching her
arms up to slide the bowl onto the building’s
flat roof. It needs direct moonlight
- her balcony doesn’t always face the
moon so it needs to go onto the roof.
The night after a full moon she wakes
with the dawn, lighting incense and
meditating with the sunrise before retrieving
the crystal.
But this morning, she stands on the railing
to pull down the bowl and finds it
empty. The crystal is gone. She thinks of
Zach. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Where
the fuck could it have gone? She climbs
down from the railing and puts her hand
into the bowl, hoping that somehow her
hand will find what her eyes could not.
It’s not there of course. Not that she had
much hope for that. That would be irrational.
She places the bowl onto the floor and
climbs back onto the railing. The sky is
cloaked in clouds, painted blood red
by the sunrise. She fumbles her hand
across the rough surface of the roof,
hoping to find where the crystal might
have fallen out of the bowl. But her
hand doesn’t find anything. She raises
up onto her toes, stretching as high as
she can, her fingers splayed and her
tongue sticking out in concentration.
She shifts her weight slightly to get a
better angle. Her feet are bare and beginning
to sweat. A toe slips on the rail
and she throws her arms out to steady
herself. But it’s no use. Her left foot
slides off the railing and she overbalances,
toppling out into empty space
above the road below, arms spinning
and legs kicking.
Time seems to slow down. She watches
as the ground below pulls her closer. It
should be frightening, but she seems
to be going so slowly that she doesn’t
even feel like she’s falling. She glides
past the fourth floor, and then the
third. She thinks about Zach getting hit
by a truck. She wonders if it was a coincidence.
As she goes past the second floor she
catches a glint of light in a tree across
the street. She sees a bird’s nest. She
sees a crystal. Her eyes work like telescopes
and she sees the finely engraved,
angular markings of Sanskrit.
Now that she thinks about it, she’s not
sure that the necklace was real gold.
And to be honest, the crystal was probably
made of glass.
Words by Hayden Naar
35

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Drowned
Content warning: descriptions of drowning
Weeds drown silently
Every day, flaked by caustic sand,
Rubbing, stinging, screaming
Thrown by great waves
Foaming at the mouth
Onto cemetery mounds:
Shells, atomised by apathy
By waves, worrying naught
For the seaweeds,
Drowning, ripped by hooks,
Drawn again,
And again.
Back out, swayed by swells
Like a puppet master with
Strings that needle the flesh,
Stitching to the sea
A drowned weed,
A wet dog
Wimping, limping. Lying,
Corpse.
A bloated rag
Doll, played with by polar
Neglect, forgotten by trampling
Feet, on shores who don’t care.
Words by Will Hunt
36

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Cocoons of Silken Thread
The first line of this poem is from Gabriela Mistral’s ‘The Teller of Tales’.
In cocoons of silken thread
I live, held entranced
by some impervious thing.
Waiting for a crack to steep through,
unfold my wings and stretch—
to feel the joyful ache of release
to feel the simple vitality
of movement.
To stretch—even in those micro-tears,
that rushing blood.
Instead, the cocoon constricts,
the world a convoluted blur
of white-lined mass
of slithers of light.
On the inside, dark.
A heavy heart. Beating.
Not to the body, but to the head.
Flushing it with bloody thoughts
that pound against the cranium:
That rattle and scream.
My wings have not moved in a long time.
Maybe if I tried to,
they would break off at the joint,
like a rusted cog
snapping from its machine.
It’s stale in here.
It’s just thoughts.
Too many.
Compounded.
A dam ready to overflow.
Weight. Heavy.
In this dreadful cocoon
of silken thread.
Words by Will Hunt
Art by Zoe Elektra
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Lot’s Wife • Edition • Four
Man Builds a City
They’d recently been words, and only
words. Culminations of noises that
were left to be interpreted. I knew how
they would be, but I had peeled myself
from their meanings and latched onto
their consequences. What were once
testimonials to the power of language
became tools in my arsenal of complacency.
They became a means-to-an-end
and lost their inherent, gifted capabilities
of expression. Because once one
understands that the only verbal tether
between emotion and expression are
the words that one defines themselves
by, manipulation becomes natural.
The issue, I discovered, was that the manipulation
doesn’t end where you mean
for it to. It writhes within your own identity
and eats at the structure of what
you believe to be without them. Through
spinning cocoons of language to envelop
yourself within, the windows soon
become opaque. And whilst you keep
the interrogators outside, you lock yourself
in. Eventually, those words that you
armed yourself with destruct and what
you are left with is a lone question.
Who am I?
Because amid your manipulation (you
really pat yourself on the back for this,
too) you never stopped to gaze upon
your surroundings, and your tethers
melted, and reality became loose. You
started to live within the world you built,
and once you finally mustered the courage
to free your tenant, you remained
there, awakening from that drunken
slumber, forgetful of who you were as
the builder, and not as the tenant.
Art by Zoe Elektra
38
And so, you did exactly what was expected
of you. You shaved down the
walls and invited people within, patching
up the holes with anecdotes and
metaphors, high modality nothingness
that echoed pretty melodies without
any bassline. It didn’t matter that they
were hollow words within simple scales,
you only wanted the visit anyway. And
often it didn’t matter that there was
no opportunity for them to renew their
lease, they understood the dance.
Eventually, you could leave the holes
in the wall and wait for them to notice
the entry. When they gazed within, it
wouldn’t matter. By then, you’d armed
yourself with language and spoke fluently
in iambic pentameter. The opaque
castle beamed through the clouds with
a neon sign that read welcome.
And the power you felt, the intoxication
of escaping where you needed to
escape from, the intoxication of going
where you wanted to go.
And the violent comedown that succeeded
it, that thumping question that
would not go away. It was written in the
skies of your pretty, little town- Who are
you? If you craned your neck and fixed
your eyes before your feet, you’d find
written in wet concrete Who are you?
the stick that was its author tossed
aside. And in the taste of the salty water
running down your cheek you found
your answer-
Nothing.
Words by N A Mckay

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Forgiving
Content warning: discussion of sexual assault
I want to meet you again in your rescue
Or in your shame
It is never anything neutral
I cannot conceive us having a mundane conversation
Hello how are you the weather is nice do you still work at the pizza
place no you don’t you live with your mother no I don’t anymore are
your parents well I see you still drive your old car did you ever
Get around to feeling guilty?
Would you consider it as a
Favour to me, an old friend?
There’s a reason somewhere buried
Why I first rolled my ankle with you
Everyone accused me of faking it
I accused myself
Of asking for it
Ever since I roll it every now and again
Sober coming home at midnight
In sensible boots that have scratches on the side
My wardrobe is easily divided
Into what you saw me wear
What I have purchased since
And which shoes I have rolled that ankle in.
In all your memories of me, I better be fabulous and interesting
In all my memories of me, I turn out to be more boring than someone
you ever could have loved
Only something your friends thought could be taken
A drunk child legal for the first time, alone for the second time that
night
Hindsight is murky and eighteen-year-olds murkier
I need you to remember me as fondly as I dislike you now.
Neutrality does not come easy to me
I’m testing it out
I hope your father is well he is a funny man I hope you believe in
yourself more these days and I hope your job pays you better
Write something before I feel it
Do I convey acceptance?
Words by R. B. Sanders
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
The Cleaner and the Star
She watched him every day,
the star.
He’d hit the big time, already, at
only twenty-four.
His voice was like a
young angel’s, his moves the embodiment
of rhythm, his energy nuclear.
His song Disco Love had just come out,
thumping its way to the top,
the very top.
She watched him as
she worked as a cleaner at his
mansion, and thought about
their life together.
Granted, she technically had
a boyfriend, though goodness knows he
had a habit of vanishing, sometimes
for months. She didn’t want children with him,
and he was only too happy to agree.
So, she glanced when she could
at her true boyfriend, who did know
her name, was always well-mannered,
to a fault, always giving, and
obsessed with germs.
One day, they’d sing
and dance
together. Yes.
She could see it.
Words by Oliver Cocks
40

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Art by Lottie van Wijck
freedom to
When I was a child, I dreamt of immortality.
Infinite sunsets, mastering languages, instruments
I dreamt of freedom.
Then I grew, put away my childish visions.
There was no eternal paradise, only an endless march
To a shallow grave.
Maybe that’s where the secret sits,
In the limits of time.
What use is gold and jewels if you sit alone?
The cage is spacious enough for me indeed.
Liberté, fraternité, en captivité.
My freedom to be.
Words by John Sopar
41

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
back to earth
Words by Lucia Lane
The earth cradles me
still feeling blood, still feeling breaking
I let it lead the way
I can hear it’s breathing now
I don’t mind dirt on my skin now
the hum of electricity doesn’t bother me anymore
someone is playing the harp
I am gently carried from the floor
there is a mug, something warm
gathered around open flame
she’s asking me to dance
and little things look beautiful again
I give thanks to the blade that tore me open
making room for something softer to form.
42

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Art by Zoe Elektra
43

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Art by Sofia Shakirova
44

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Orpheus
Words by N A Mckay
The clock above the mirror ticks a final
exhausted sigh, whilst
The candle writes its eulogy,
flickering a final time to die
Grateful, for its flame gave the air
A final kiss goodbye.
And holding it to your eyes
I smile,
Choosing not to turn on
The light.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
46

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Box Hill
Art by Lucinda Campbell
Oil on canvas
This oil painting depicts one of the tallest buildings outside of
Melbourne’s CBD; the Box Hill Sky One building. This building
was not only depicted due to its aesthetic visual appeal, but
to symbolise Melbourne’s increasing urbanisation and population
density that will continue into the future. As such, this
work explores this magazine’s additional prompt regarding
consideration of where the world is headed.
The central placement of the building, its great size, and the inclusion
of shining windows seek to position the building in such
a way that prompts one to view it as a ‘landscape’ in itself; to
view it as one might view the ocean or mountains.
By including figures riding bikes, one is also encouraged to
consider the rising use of environmentally friendly forms of
transportation. It also highlights the rising sense of community
that may accompany apartment living, for due to small room
sizes, many may choose to partake in more leisurely activities
such as bike riding within their local area.
47

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
The French Protests:
Behind the Scenes of the Media
Words by Hana Kolar
Content warning: mentions of violence and murder
Hana Kolar is a 4th year
law (honours)/science student
at Monash University,
Australia. She has just
completed a Law School
exchange at Sciences Po
Paris last semester and
continues to explore her interests
in global legal and
political spheres. She is a
Junior Legal Officer to the
International Institute IF-
IMES.
The political uproar of
France in the first half of
2023 was at the face of the
media, with articles and
news outlets covering the
anger of citizens. From the
19th of January 2023, protests
began all throughout
France, revolting against
the Government’s pension
reform project to raise the
retirement age from 62 to
64 years.
In the nation’s capital, the
vocalisation of frustration
was often heard, especially
of those living in the
heart of Paris as the strikes
and protests ensued, causing
blockages, increased
cases of police presence
and violence. However,
both French nationals and
foreigners were often seen
participating in these protests,
supporting the common
goal to have their
opinions heard by the government.
Students were also seen to
be actively involved in the
protests. Pupils at Sciences
Po Paris, a research university
of social sciences, were
seen protesting on multiple
occasions. Through barricading
the entryway to the
Saint Guillaume campus
on the 8th of March 2023,
alongside other similar occurrences,
resulted in some
classes being cancelled or
moved to an online platform.
Consequently, this
caused disruptions for
both students and teachers,
affecting the university
curriculum..
As the protests continued
across France, from the
6th of March onwards, Paris
was seen littered with
rubbish for a three-week
period. Media coverage focused
on trash collectors
of the capital joining the
protest against the government
and limiting access to
waste incinerators.
Just as things were suspected
to have settled
down, news had surfaced
that the reform to the pension
would ensue, moments
before a parliamentary
48
vote was set to occur. Invoking
article 49:3 of the
French Constitution, the
Government was enabled
to pass a law without a
vote, unless the parliament
chose to pass a ‘no confidence’
motion.
Protests have since continued
to occur, progressively
getting more violent as
the balance between the
freedom of speech and
the danger of uncontrolled
protesting was increasingly
strained. One student of
Sciences Po Paris recounted
her experience being
tear gassed alongside her
friends at a night-time protest,
explaining how she
carried a keychain containing
phone numbers of
her family and friends, as
well as her forearm being
marked by the same numbers
in case of an emergency.
The response of the public
to the actions of the Government
reflected similarities
to the Yellow Vest Movement
(Gilets Jaunes) which
took place in November of
2018 in response to the rise
of tax on diesel and petrol.
Similar to the current protests
occurring, what started
as a protest against tax

soon transformed into a
wider protest against the
actions of the French Government.
Citizens argued
that President Macron was
favouring the elite, privileged
class of the population
as tax increases and
low wages impacted lowto
middle-income families
more severely,particularly
single mothers, on their
ability to support themselves
and their children.
Both protests highlight the
ingrained cultural system
where what is rooted in the
population is a desire to be
heard. Throughout history,
the French Republic has
demonstrated a desire for
their leaders to reflect and
uphold the values of the
nation. The cyclic nature of
protesting the Government
has led, to some degree,
to positive change for the
French in the past. It can
equally allow us to wonder
what the outcome of this
current wave of protests
will be.
So how may these protests
affect France’s diplomatic,
economic and trade relations?
The strain between
the government and its
people have been present
since the beginning of January,
even more so with the
news of Nahel Merzouk’s
death, police brutality concerns
and tensions are increasing.
President Macron
was seen to have left the
European summit in Brus-
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
sels (29-30 June 2023) early
and has postponed his
upcoming planned visit to
Germany – a visit intended
to demonstrate the strength
of France’s friendship with
Germany, despite each
country’s ongoing economic,
defence and energy
issues. With increasing
societal issues being faced
by France such as discrimination,
police brutality,
integration, crime rates
in immigrant-prominent
suburbs, social inequality,
and tensions between
civilians and the military,
the French President has
been seen in crisis cabinet
meetings with direct ministers.
As the protests have
begun in French overseas
territories, such as French
Guiana, Martinique, Guadeloupe,
and Reunion, it
is still unclear as to what
the potential long-term
impacts on France’s diplomatic,
economic and trade
relations will be due to the
current protests occurring.
This could arguably echo
a greater sense of dissatisfaction
of governmental
actions, demonstrating
this issue sensitivity goes
beyond strictly continental
French borders. Only
the future will demonstrate
whether both the French
citizens, as well as President
Macron’s methods,
will induce grounds for stability
or further chaos.
49
Art by Hana Kolar

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Interview with ISHAN
by Zoe Bartholomeusz
An incredibly talented live musician, ISHAN can regularly be seen around the Melbourne
busking circuit, including regular appearances at the famed Bourke Street Mall. Gaining
a loyal following in recent times, ISHAN now delivers on his songwriting abilities,
transforming his intimate moments into joyous indie-pop stylings, all topped off by his
soothing and buttery vocal charm.
I sat down with ISHAN to ask him some questions about his new singles and upcoming
EP, and his experience as a musician so far.
Zoe Bartholomeusz: What inspired you
to write “Cardboard Box Apartment”?
ISHAN: “Cardboard Box Apartment” was
written when I was about two years into
my first relationship. This was a time
when I was just so in love with my girlfriend
it wasn’t even funny. She was my
best friend, the best thing that had ever
happened to me, and that happiness
manifested itself in a song about continuing
to grow up together.
ZB: Have you moved out yet?
ISHAN: I moved into a residential college
after finishing high school. I was trying
to combine a uni degree with my music
career, but I found it quite difficult to concentrate
on my music in that shared living
environment. I felt conscious of being
overly loud when writing new songs or
practising, and a lot of my music setup
was still at my family home, so I ended
up moving back there after my first year
of uni. Now that I have deferred uni to
focus on my music full time, moving out
of home is not really on the cards from
a financial perspective. In “Cardboard
Box Apartment”, the idea of moving out
felt more like a promise. We were two
thoughtful kids who were always going
to make practical decisions, knowing all
the while that the joy of sharing a home
one day would make all the discipline
and realism worth it.
ZB: What inspired you to write “Someone
Like Me”?
ISHAN: “Someone Like Me” jumps to the
end of The Cycle of Codependence EP,
the last chapter in the story of my first
relationship. After the relationship had
ended, I was hanging out with my best
friend, noodling away on his guitar, when
he asked me why I thought the relationship
hadn’t worked out. I concluded that
we were just too different. He asked me
what similar looked like and I gave an answer
that bears striking resemblance to
the verses in “Someone Like Me”, talking
about silliness, resilience, ambition and
being more socially comfortable. A few
days later I wrote the song and I’d never
felt such clarity around moving on. It
was never about deluding myself into
thinking I was somehow perfect. Rather,
it was about reflecting on my own values
and realising I’d be okay without her.
(continued next page)
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Art by Shiv Dutta
51

ZB: When you sing about looking out for
people like you, what qualities do you/
they possess?
ISHAN: It’s important to keep in mind that
I’m only singing about my best qualities
here – I can be incredibly anxious and
quite cynical at times, but I’m saving all
of that for future releases!
Again, I could just read this answer off
the song lyrics. Everyone who knows me
knows that when it’s appropriate (and
occasionally when it’s not) I’m very silly.
I get it from my parents and have it in
common with all my friends. I also enjoy
surrounding myself with other ambitious
people. I am really driven and get
inspired by people (including many of
my friends) who are brave enough to attempt
amazing things.
Finally, I’m singing about resilience. It’s
never something I’d thought about before
my first relationship, but as she and
I grew apart, the differences between us
became increasingly apparent. I’m not
talking about a quality we’re born with,
I’ve already mentioned my anxiety and
funnily enough our stress around high
school exams brought us together in the
beginning. I’m talking about the intent to
be a little more content tomorrow, even if
that’s just going from ‘so stressed I can’t
leave the house’ to ‘I’m still freaking out
but yeah I guess I can walk the dogs’
(been there more than once).
ZB: You’ve been in the busking scene for
many years – what have you learnt from
it?
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
would rather be anywhere but the middle
of the city. At first, it’s frustrating, but
the more I busk, the more I find a sense
of freedom in the reality that my audience’s
happiness is not solely dependent
on me. Individuals have bad days, so if
someone doesn’t stop and give me their
undivided attention for twenty minutes,
it’s not necessarily a reflection on my
performance but the fact that they probably
have a place to be. So, increasingly
when I face setbacks, I try to remind
myself that it’s not personal. Someone
isn’t out there holding me back; I’m just
not the centre of the universe and that’s
okay.
ZB: How did you get into music?
ISHAN: I’ve been singing for fun since
I could talk. I started having guitar lessons
when I was six, and to be honest
once I learned how to play four-chord
Ed Sheeran songs I was pretty much
done progressing in that department.
I always played lots of sports and so
when I needed spinal fusion surgery in
year 9 (long story, google ‘pars defect’!)
I found myself with nothing to do for
about eight months. A few months after
surgery, I was home alone and randomly
just wrote a song. It wasn’t amazing,
but good enough that my family were
super impressed, and I fell in love with
songwriting from then on. It would take
a few years after that before I fully acknowledged
that I wanted to dedicate
my life to being the best songwriter and
performer I could be.
ISHAN: Busking is a great reminder that
it’s not about me. Sometimes no amount
of musical talent can make up for the fact
that it’s a cold Wednesday and people
ZB: How old were you when you wrote
your first song? What was it about?
ISHAN: I was 15 and eight days. I remem-
52

er taking note of the exact date at the
time because even though I couldn’t
have fathomed pursuing a career in music,
I knew my life had sort of changed in
that moment. The song is called “Chasing”,
it’s not really about anything. It
now feels artificially constructed like so
many other pop songs that sound important,
but when subject to basic interrogation,
lack narrative substance. Like
most 15-year-olds I didn’t have much to
say, so most of my early writing was an
exercise in drawing on what I saw on TV
or heard in other songs to inform what
a good song should sound like. I learned
early on that having a great story is what
I value above all else when songwriting.
ZB: Does your mixed ethnicity inform
your work? How has growing up between
different cultures influenced your experiences
and ultimately led you to where
you are today?
ISHAN: Thanks for this question. It is
something that most people don’t ask
me about. As I went through school, I was
quite visible as a result of either playing
sport or taking on particular leadership
roles. What most people who know me
don’t realise is that with that visibility
came a whole lot of racial microaggressions.
Sometimes it was overt in terms of
kids using racially inappropriate names
and language, while other times it was
more subtle but still quite present. All of
this taught me resilience. Being in the music
industry, I am going to receive countless
rejections, especially as an emerging
artist. I am going to need a thick skin
and an unshakable belief in myself. My
mixed ethnicity (Australian, Indian, Swiss
and Spanish) doesn’t necessarily impact
my day-to-day writing, but it has definitely
helped me develop the backbone I
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
53
think will be necessary to succeed in this
industry.
ZB: The theme of this edition of Lot’s Wife
is ‘breaking free’. What does that mean
to you in terms of where you’re at right
now, both musically and in life generally?
ISHAN: The biggest development in my
life in the last few months has been the
switch from studying engineering at uni
to deferring my course and pursuing
music full time. Ever since finishing high
school I’ve known this is what I wanted to
do, but for a year and a half I still only
had one foot in the door as I juggled uni
and music. However, with this EP coming
up, I felt like the quality of music I’ll be
putting out into the world both deserves
and demands my full attention. Spending
every second of the last few months
focused solely on music – writing, performing,
just doing what I do – has been
incredibly freeing. I suppose what I’ve
just broken free from is a small piece of
my fear and nervousness... I’m still anxious
and sometimes overly cautious, but
I’m now feeling brave enough to have a
lot more skin in the game and embrace
this journey, wherever it takes me.
ISHAN’s music can be found on all
streaming platforms.
Stay up to date with ISHAN’s new releases!
Instagram: @ishanincaps
Website: ishanincaps.com
Art by Shiv Dutta

“By a thread”
Art by Louis Perez
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Strikes on the Silver Screen
Words by David Williams
David Williams is a member
of the Monash Socialists.
It is hard to think of any
strikes in recent years that
have gotten as much coverage
as the strikes happening
in Hollywood right now.
Since May, the Writers
Guild of America (WAG)
has been on strike, taking
its 11,500 members out of
massive productions. Without
writers movies, TV series
and talk shows stopped being
able to run, the strikes
have delayed if not halted
production of projects from
Disney, Warner Bros, Netflix
and more.
Margot Robbie proudly
declared her support of
the unions on the red carpet
of the Barbie movie
premier. Just hours later
the Screen Actors Guild
– American Federation of
Television and Radio Artists
(SAG-AFTRA) declared that
their around 160,000 members
would go on strike,
resulting in the cast of Oppenhiemer
walking out of
their premier. Now the hundred
billion dollar US film
industry has almost completely
stopped.
So why the strikes? It is
easy to think that nearly
everyone in the film industry
is highly paid, with
perhaps the exception of a
few extras and those who
“didn’t make it”. However,
the strikes have made
it very clear that this isn’t
the case. With a handful
of exceptions, the bulk of
those that make films and
tv shows are poorly paid
workers, put under a great
deal of pressure to churn
out content for theatres
and streaming platforms
as quickly as possible while
the studios themselves rake
in billions of dollars every
year. Throughout the decades,
this has caused
a great deal of anger
amongst Hollywood workers,
but the rising cost of
living has pushed them to
breaking point.
The advent of streaming
platforms has been used to
work around many of the
gains of previous strikes
by writers and actors. One
key area of this is residuals,
before residuals, anyone
who worked on a movie
or TV show would be paid
whilst the movie was being
made, and would stop
being paid once work was
done. This system worked
very well for studios, they
could pay workers a small
amount and had the profits
made at the box office all
to themselves, the vast majority
of actors and writers
have to work second, even
56
third, jobs outside of the industry,
or move straight to
the next job to make ends
meet.
A key win of the last joint
writers and actors strike in
the 60s, residuals forced
studios to give those that
worked on the movie or
show a portion of the money
made from box office
sales, or the money paid
by networks for the rights
to play the show or movie
on their channels. Streaming
platforms have however
worked around this,
and pay a poultry sum in
residuals, there is no shortage
of actors showing
how much they are being
paid online: mere cents for
shows bringing in millions.
For writers particularly,
they are hit especially hard
by the quick turnaround
time. To save cost, many
writers are laid off as soon
as the writing phase is
over, meaning not only are
they paid less, but they
are employed for a shorter
time and have less time
to work. One product is
rushed scripts that are unchanging
throughout the
process of the movie. But
these short work periods
have serious consequences
for writers, the longer
contracts meant they had
access to health insurance,

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
which is essential due to
the privatisation of healthcare
in the US. But shorter
contracts mean that writers
are regularly left without
insurance whilst they
are between jobs, a simple
injury or illness can leave
someone hundreds if not
thousands of dollars out
of pocket. However, even
finding a new job within
the industry is made
more difficult by the use of
non-compete agreements
by streaming platforms,
which prevent writers and
actors from seeking work
with competing streaming
platforms.
But why is all of this the
case? Because it is extremely
profitable. People
like co-CEOs of Netflix, Ted
Sarandos and Greg Peters,
aren’t getting a total pay
of 40 and nearly 35 million
dollars, respectively, this
year alone, because of their
dedication to screen craft.
They make it through cost
cutting, largely through
layoffs and wage cutting.
Disney, Netflix and others
have seen their revenues
increase by tens of billions
of dollars a year thanks to
the rise of streaming, which
studio owners have eagerly
pocketed.
For Hollywood bosses, no
length is too great to undermine
the strike, from
running production on partially
finished scripts, to
making anonymous statements
about waiting until
writers and actors are
forced into homelessness
before agreeing to negotiations.
And you have absurd
sights such as Disney
CEO Bob Iger saying that
writers and actors have unrealistic
expectations. Iger
gets a $27 million a year
salary and made this statement
from the Sun Valley
Conference, a yearly conference/summer
camp for
media billionaires and politicians
to talk about how
to make more billions and
ski, or whatever the hell absurdly
rich people do. But
the people that actually do
all the work he profits from
demanding a decent quality
of living is “unrealistic”.
What the strikes have
shown that even in Hollywood,
class is everything.
There are people, actors,
writers, animators and all
manner of technical roles,
whose work actually makes
the movies. Without that
work, nothing gets made.
And there are people who
do none of the work, who
contribute nothing to the
process, but reap all the
rewards on the basis that
they had the money or position
to own all the stuff
used to make the movie.
This is the case all over the
world and just as in Hollywood,
workers are paid a
fraction of the value they
produce while the capitalists
of the world enjoy
57
record profits. But when
workers collectively withdraw
their labour through
strikes, all that work and
those profits stop. No matter
how long the CEOs sit
behind their desks, not a
single movie will be made
without workers. For Disney
alone, the strikes are holding
up billions, if not tens of
billions of dollars worth of
movies.
These actors and writers
have broadcast the power
of strikes. All over the internet
are actors and writers
that people follow, who are
on strike, talking about the
greed of their bosses, their
underhanded tactics and
malice. People are being
pushed to the left by their
experiences on the picket
line. So around the world,
when people see their own
boss screwing them over,
perhaps they will connect
the dots and will remember
that time in Hollywood actors
and writers organised
into a union and went on
strike.
So why should we pay attention
to these strikes here
in Australia? Hollywood is
afterall on the other side of
the world. Like the big production
studios, companies
in Australia are posting billions
in profits, most recently
the Commonwealth
Bank, Coles, and Woolworths.
Meanwhile, wages
and living conditions have
been going backwards for

decades, and are being
eroded rapidly by the cost
of living crisis. These strikes
show that this is exactly
the kind of working class
action we need in Australia.
In the cost of living crisis,
left-wing politics that look
to the working class are essential.
If we want to fight
for a better quality of life
for working class people,
we have to challenge the
stagnant politics of Labor.
While workers struggle, Labor
is only looking to bail
out the ultra wealthy and
throw hundreds of billions
into the military. What we
ultimately need is an alternative
to capitalism, to
people working for crumbs
while the billionaires compete
for the title of wealthiest
human being to have
ever existed. We need more
socialists, to build a radical
working class movement
and get rid of this system
altogether. As an added
bonus, without executives
fixated on profit constantly
getting in the way, writers
and actors can spend time
on movies and shows they
want to make, film can be
a medium for expression
rather than a money making
machine.
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Refer to the Lot’s Wife
website for references.
58

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
“Reminisce”
Art by Louis Perez
59

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Academic Freedom and the
Case of Ahmadreza Djalali
Words by Advocates for Djalali
Content warning: discussions of violence, imprisonment, torture and medical abuse
Why do you go to university? To get a
degree? Make some friends? Education
may be something that we take for granted
here in Australia. It is here that we all
contribute to the pursuit of knowledge,
whether that be in law, medicine, politics
or the arts. But what if you couldn’t?
What if your freedom to study, research
and discuss wasn’t protected by the
state or the university? Sadly, this is the
reality for many academics in Iran, who
are under threat of persecution should
their work interfere with the goals of the
regime.
One such academic is Ahmadreza Djalali,
who was arrested on 24 April 2016. Djalali
is a physician, scientist and well-respected
expert in disaster medicine. Iranian
authorities arrested Djalali during a visit
from Sweden to Tehran University, Shiraz
University and the Iranian Natural Disaster
Medicine Institute. Under duress,
Djalali confessed to providing the Israeli
Intelligence Agency Mossad with classified
intel on Iranian military assets and
nuclear sites. However, he later alleged
that his prosecution was a result of his
refusal to use his academic ties in Europe
to spy for Iran. Additionally, there
has been some suggestions that his arrest
is being used as a bargaining chip
for Iran’s hostage diplomacy.
Since his unjust arrest, Djalali has been
sentenced to death on the charge of
‘Corruption on Earth’, during a grossly
unfair trial. During his time imprisoned,
evidence from the Human Rights Watch
and UN Working Group on Arbitrary
Detention highlights the inhumane conditions
he is suffering such as torture,
refusal of medical care and excessive
solitary confinement. He has also reportedly
lost 24kg since his arrest and been
diagnosed with leukaemia.
Ahmadreza Djalali is a father and a husband.
7 years ago he was a leading scientist
in disaster medicine with 46 publications
in scientific journals into topics
that contributed to important humanitarian
work, including preparedness for
crises like Covid-19. Now Djalali waits to
see whether the mistreatment of his leukaemia
or a sentence of capital punishment
will end his life.
The freedom to educate, research and
pursue truth is both precious and precarious.
It is with this freedom that we
can hold people in positions of power accountable
for their actions and protect
civil liberties. It shouldn’t matter whether
you are studying in Australia or Iran.
Without academic freedom, the truth becomes
a tool weaponised by autocratic
regimes to manipulate and oppress their
people.
60

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
That is why a group of Monash students are advocating alongside the non-profit
organisation ‘Scholars at Risk’ to demand that Ahmedreza Djalali be immediately
released from Iranian authorities and reunited with his family. Please join us in
standing up for academic freedom and engage with our campaign.
You can find more information on our social media accounts and Scholars at Risk:
@scholarsatriskmonash on Instagram and @SARMonash on Twitter/X.
Please also consider registering to our in-person event at Monash University (Clayton
campus) which will include expert insight from an exciting guest speaker. You
can register using the eventbrite here:
Art sourced from Center for Human Rights in Iran
61

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Getting a scan isn’t as scary
as you think: Advice from a
radiography student
Words by Skye Zhu-Maguire
Radiographers are the ‘techs’ who do
your x-rays, CTs and other scans. They
are not nurses or doctors, so people
are often unsure of who they are and
the type of service they provide.
But, we radiography students are training
to be medical professionals and as
such, we receive extensive education
about the human body and how we
contribute to taking care of it.
We also learn about the larger, societal
factors that influence our job as
healthcare providers. Something that
has repeatedly caught my attention is
how different people perceive health
care. I have noticed that one’s race,
gender, sexuality, class, ability level,
and even self-confidence all change
how they experience health care.
It has been well established that there
are several economic and societal factors
that prevent people from seeking
healthcare when they need it. For
example, there have been numerous
studies revealing that people of marginalised
genders and races are less
likely to seek medical care because
they expect to be treated poorly given
prior experiences, family horror stories
and societal expectations.
Whilst most of the reasons marginalised
people may feel uncomfortable
getting scans like x-rays are systemic,
I wanted to write this piece as a radiography
student and a young asian
woman - to provide some comfort and
clarity.
Hence the following are my responses,
to some of the (very valid) concerns
that people like you might have about
getting scans. Everyone deserves fair
healthcare.
What if I have never gotten a scan
before and I don’t know what I am
doing?
No matter if you have had one or
one-hundred scans in your life, we will
still give you the same instructions on
exactly what to do. We tell you where
to sit or stand, when to hold your
breath and when you can stop holding
‘nice and still’. Never hesitate to ask
questions because the more you understand,
the better pictures we get -
it’s a win-win!
Moreover, communication is a huge
part of our training and we endeavour
to use instructions and language that
you will understand.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
What if I dress modestly?
Unfortunately, for many scans, clothing
does need to be removed so that
we get the clearest pictures possible.
However, I understand this can be a
vulnerable and uncomfortable experience
for many.
If it helps, for x-rays, we can scan
through thin material so in most cases
you can keep clothing like thin leggings,
long sleeve shirts, and thin head-coverings
like hij abs and niqabs on (as long
as there are no metal bits like pins). For
ultrasounds, you will only need to remove
the clothes from the part of your
body that is being scanned.
What if I do not identify as the gender
assigned to me at birth?
In our second year, radiography students
participate in a mandatory workshop
on diversity and inclusion. In my
experience, a large portion of this workshop
was about gender and respecting
your gender identity. We learn about
how to use pronouns correctly (including
non-binary and neo-pronouns) and
we are told to use the pronouns you tell
us to use.
If you are worried, most bodily scans
are not particularly gendered. If you
are coming in with a broken finger, we
will take the same images regardless of
your gender.
But I do acknowledge that some scans
will differ if they relate to your reproductive
organs. But given the clinical
nature of the work we do, interactions
between you and a radiographer are
often brief and incidentally not particularly
gendered. In other words, we will
talk to you about organs and biology,
and not focus on your gender identity
or presentation.
What if I am self-conscious of my
body?
I promise you, we have seen more teeth,
more stomachs, more toes than you
will ever see in your whole life! Whatever
you look like, whatever symptoms
you are experiencing, your radiographer
has seen it all before!
Conclusion
What I have written in this piece is
based on the training I have had so
far and the experiences I have had in
clinics and hospitals. Yes, care will be
different as radiographers are all different.
However, I hope this broad overview
will ease some of your concerns.
The reality is that radiographers go
through at least 4 years of training to
do x-rays and other scans. During this
time, we receive education on how we
can make sure our patient care is both
personable and professional. And you
can trust that we have seen every body
part thousands of times and are never
really surprised. You are our patient
and any good radiographer will treat
you with the kindness and dignity that
all people deserve.
Art by Lottie van Wijck
63

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Ships, adulthood, and
piña coladas
Words by John Sopar
“You’re an adult now.”
I remember my father
speaking these words
to me on my eighteenth
birthday, the age at
which I stepped into legal
adulthood. The funny
thing was, I didn’t feel
any different. I didn’t
feel any wiser, any more
experienced in life, any
more mature. I just felt
like myself, as I had the
day before, and the day
before that. We went out
to dinner to celebrate my
ability to legally order
myself a cocktail at our
restaurant of choice. Of
course I’d had alcohol
before that night though,
so that too didn’t feel
any different. What was
so special about this
day, marking a transition
from the previous
nearly two decades of
childhood into the rest of
my ‘adult’ life?
Plutarch, the Greek philosopher,
historian, and
priest of Apollo, wrote a
series of accounts of the
lives of various Greek
and Roman figures.
Among them was the account
of the Life of Theseus,
the (sometimes)
son of Poseidon, founder
of Athens, and slayer of
the Minotaur. The story
goes that, after slaying
the Minotaur and saving
the day once again,
as all Greek heroes do,
he sailed back to Athens
aboard his ship. The story
continues that his ship
was kept in the harbour
of Athens for many years
to preserve the accomplishments
of Theseus.
Plutarch’s account started
the philosophical discussion
of the quandary
known as the Ship of Theseus.
“The ship wherein
Theseus and the youth
of Athens returned from
Crete had thirty oars,
and was preserved by
the Athenians down even
to the time of Demetrius
Phalereus, for they took
away the old planks as
they decayed, putting
in new and stronger timber
in their places…”
64
(Plutarch, Life of Theseus
23.1). Philosophers
looked at this account
and raised the question if,
by the time all its planks
had been replaced, the
ship could be considered
the same ship? And if it
could not, at which point
did it stop being so? Was
it the replacement of the
last original plank that
tipped the scale, or the
first replacement?
The concept of identity
is highly debated, from
philosophers and theologians
to politicians
and the average person.
What makes you you?
For me, sitting at our usual
table in the local Thai
restaurant on the night
of my 18th birthday, being
an adult did not feel
like it was a part of me.
Most of the firsts associated
with adulthood had
already been done at
that point.
Alcohol? Drunk. Sex?
Had. Drugs? Ingested.
Taxes? Paid. The crippling
weight of my own

mortality? Most definitely
felt.
What was supposed to
be so special about that
night then? The only difference
was that I was
legally an adult now,
so would be called on
to vote in the upcoming
council elections.
This didn’t feel like an
adult occasion, however.
Where was the sudden
understanding of how
the world worked? The
wisdom and crows feet
of adulthood? The desire
to settle down and have
a family? What even was
a council election?
That period of my life was
when I had the comforting
rug of naivety pulled
out from underneath me,
and reality came crashing
home. Adults were just
as confused and lost as I
was, sitting at that table
drinking my piña colada.
For so long I’d been waiting
to magically wake up
and have the world make
sense; for everything to
have changed overnight.
I’d been waiting for that
moment that I changed
from Theseus’ ship to a
new, shiny ship. But that
change doesn’t happen
overnight. It happens every
day, bit by bit, plank
by plank.
There’s no such thing as
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
the magical new start
that I thought awaited
me on the other side of
my eighteenth birthday.
At the end of the day I
was still me. But I wasn’t
the me I had been a year
ago, or the me I’d been
on my first day of high
school, and certainly not
the me that’d emerged
wet and screaming from
my mother’s womb.
Adulthood, like any new
‘beginning’, doesn’t arrive
all at once. It’s scattered
across a hundred
interactions, across a
million moments. In the
words of the British feminist
philosopher Mary
Wollstonecraft, “The beginning
is always today”.
I’d been so focussed
on the new beginning
I imagined came with
adulthood, so fixated on
the future, that I’d very
nearly missed my own
development over the
previous eighteen years
of my life. Instead of celebrating
every step along
the journey to adulthood,
I’d passed them by, emotionless
and unmoved.
But you can never arrive
in the future. It’s in the
very nature of the future
to remain distant and
dreamlike, sitting tantalisingly
out of reach. By
focusing on the thing I
65
would never reach, this
idea of the future where
I would be a ‘real’ adult,
I nearly missed living my
life!
It’s not easy to focus on
the now. The mind tends
to latch on to the future
in many ways, both
good and bad, driving
us ever toward or away
from certain futures. But
if this is all you do, you
miss stopping to smell
the roses. The journey is
a larger part of the experience
than the final
destination. “The past is
gone. The future never
arrives. In truth, there is
no life outside this moment!”
(Leonard Jacobson)
I make no claim to have
solved the human experience,
nor to have summarised
the human condition.
Hell, my therapist
would say I have a lot
more to figure out about
life than I think I know.
But I feel like we can all
use a reminder to appreciate
the now though, no
matter how put together
we may think we are.
Never lose sight of where
you are.
“Solitude”
Art by Louis Perez

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Are the Sustainable Development
Goals redeemable?
Words by Isabelle Zhu-Maguire
Please note that this paper is entirely
my personal opinion, and not
representative of the organisations
that helped me write the mentioned
report.
My diplomatic answer to the question
posed by the title of this piece
would be ‘I don’t know’ or ‘maybe’.
But my real, raw, gut answer is that
I find it very hard to believe the Sustainable
Development Goals (SDGs)
are in fact redeemable.
Like many young people, I have lost
faith in the SDGs - just like I have lost
all faith in neoliberalism to be able
to effectively thwart the tsunami of
shit the world currently faces.
Having lost their newness and shine,
the SDGs have sadly become a tool
that states and corporations can
use to green-wash their true terribleness.
Being able to slap on a colourful
tile to hide their dirty deeds.
This opinion is one that I see as being
shared by many of the young
people that I work with. Hence, in my
echo-chamber, I had assumed that
most people working in ‘sustainable
development’ were also losing faith
in the goals. That we were all beginning
to advocate for larger systems
changes, massive overhauls, and
more socialised systems of economics
and governance.
However, I have been given many
opportunities to work alongside professionals
who use the SDGs in their
work. Given my aforementioned
perspectives, I was surprised (perhaps
naively so) that there is still
enormous support for the goals. In
fact, I have very commonly heard
these older SDG advocates say that
the SDGs should actually continue
post-2030. That we should not stop
and start again when they ‘run out’
and rather they believe we should
keep using this existing framework.
As I said, this shocked me. It seems
so far removed from all the conversations
I have about the SDGs
amongst young activists. It seems
(perhaps unsurprisingly so) completely
detached from the people
who have to live in the fucked up future
that these goals have attempted
to secure.
Today’s 18-year-olds were only 10
years old when the SDGs were created
in 2015. These same 18-year-olds
will only be 25 when the 2030-ambitions
set by the SDGs are hoped
66

to be achieved. Despite being too
young to contribute to the creation
of these goals, these 18-year-olds
are the ones who have to live in the
future that we’re trying to secure
through the SDGs.
Given all of this context, I helped
write a report recently which aimed
to answer: do the SDGs work for
young people today, or are they
unable to adequately capture the
problems young people face today
and into their future?
My thoughts were, if the SDGs are
meant to be measurable, then we
should be able to use the goals to
specifically measure the concerns
of youth.
There have been multiple attempts
to capture the world’s progress towards
the Sustainable Development
Goals. Reports such as the Sustainable
Development Report measure
progress across countries across the
world. These reports are often enormous
and thus use the average values
from each country. Hence, while
these sorts of reports obviously provide
incredible insight into progress
towards the SDGs, they incidentally
miss the nuance that different people
experience sustainable development
very differently.
One’s class, gender, race, sexual
orientation, ability and age all influence
the access they have to
resources that help them adapt to
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
67
the sustainable development challenges
of our times. These factors
also influence how one is perceived
and treated by their governments
and communities. Hence, this report
aims to add to a very important
emerging tradition of adapting the
SDGs to measure how marginalised
populations experience sustainability.
These attempts involve a Sustainable
Development Solutions Network
(SDSN) USA report that (unsurprisingly)
found that one’s race significantly
alters Americans’ experience
of health and access to resources.
Similarly, Equal Measures created
a SDG Gender Index that measures
progress towards SDGs, separated
by gender. Once again, the
researchers found that people who
are not men lag behind on progress
towards the SDGs internationally.
My attempt at disaggregated measurement,
“Towards a Youth SDG Index”,
aims to encapsulate the struggles
that they face in Australia, New
Zealand and across the Pacific.
To capture these varied concerns,
our report’s methodology began
with a consultation of more than 40
young people from across the Oceania
region. We used the SDGs to
structure a prioritisation process in
which they identified their greatest
concerns.This process left us with
20 indicators about numerous challenges
such as mental health, pov-

erty, climate change, biodiversity,
governance, and employment. We
then undertook data-searching and
analysis exercises in an attempt to
measure youth progress towards
achieving these indicators compared
to the general population in
Australia, New Zealand, Samoa and
Fij i.
What we found was hardly surprising.
Youth were lagging behind the
general population in challenges
such as mental health, poverty, rent
overburden, homelessness, and unemployment.
However what did surprise
us was how little existing data
there was that disaggregates by
age. Issues youth care about, such
as food insecurity, access to affordable
and clean energy, access to
reproductive health care, and access
to social services, were all unmeasured
(or at least inaccessible)
across the region. Hence, this report
and our findings are important to researchers
and policymakers for several
reasons.
Firstly, it begins to extrapolate the
ways the youth from our region are
lagging behind, and therefore where
policies need to be designed to address
these challenges.
Further, the significant gaps in data
that we found should also motivate
organisations to begin to measure
more disaggregated data and address
the blindspots we uncovered.
Finally, during the aforementioned
Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
consultations we undertook, we
asked the youth in attendance if
they thought the SDGs represented
their concerns.
After we had completed the consultations
and the attendees had thoroughly
gone through the SDG targets,
65% of the young people said
they didn’t feel that the current global
goals represented their concerns.
This figure is disheartening. How can
we expect current and future generations
to rally around goals that
they think do not represent them or
the challenges they face?
Hence, the report also advocates
that IF there are any future iterations
of the “global goals”, genuine
and involved youth consultation
needs to occur. Their more radical
ideas are not fantastical, they are
necessary.
If you want to read my report, you
can see it here:
https://ap-unsdsn.org/sdsn-youth/
ausnzpac-youth-sdg-index/
68

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
“Nanno from Nowhere”
Digital portrait
Art by Stephanie Wong
69

Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
The wheel spins on and on
Content warning: depictions of stalking, recurring trauma, an intervention order
I was, and still am, a victim of crime.
Wednesday. I spent my morning at
court speaking to clients. A client visited
the office asking for me by name. I
spoke to him on Monday. He said I had
paperwork for him - but never mind, he
can come speak to me at court. No one
had told him where I would be. He left
the office in search of me. My coworker
at reception had a feeling. Tell me when
you’re done so I can walk you back. Not
wanting to bother anyone, I went back
by myself, but my coworker accompanied
me for lunch.
After lunch, the client came back. Insisted
that I was a lawyer, and that I would
be helping him with his case. He had
been told to go away. He left, returned
within fifteen minutes with a new story.
I am now his partner, so would my coworker
call me out to the front to speak
with him, or else he will call my number.
Again, he was asked to leave.
Then, the final, most confronting time -
he banged on every door in the foyer,
rattling the frame. On the CCTV, he was
attempting to enter by force through
the staff-only door.
I am now his fiance. The office pressed
the duress alarm, and called the local
police station. He was asked forcefully
to leave, and we locked the doors. My
entire office could see him roaming
around near the staff car park, out on
the street across the office, back to the
court’s car park.
In my line of work, vulnerable individuals
such as this perpetrator would benefit
from leniency and referral for support
services. If he had not harassed me, I
would be helping him at court.
The police officers asked if I wanted an
intervention order. I didn’t know. I was
too busy shaking out of my skin to even
hear the question. No order was made
on my behalf, nor was I asked for a statement
or a report. When I called again
four days later, the tiniest police entry
was made and the process of tracking
down the police officers who spoke with
me on Wednesday was a thirty-minute
quest. The constable over the phone
asked for more identifying information
than the first responders on the scene
when the incident happened.
No crime had been committed, on paper.
It was uncharged. It was done while the
individual was intoxicated. He came in
proximity to my person. He knew where I
worked. He came looking for me at work.
Police attended the scene of the crime
and could not apprehend the individual.
In the eyes of procedures and the law, it
was no crime at all.
I suffered no crime, even if I was a victim.
I was impacted by an individual’s
actions through no fault of my own and
there was little protection that I could
apply for. The police could only advise
me to take out a personal intervention
order against this stranger through the
court. What would this process be like?
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Art by Ruby Findlay
An online application with my identifying
details and a paragraph detailing
why I need the order. My name would be
shared with this perpetrator, even if the
court could hide my address and phone
number, for procedures and fairness are
the foundations of our justice system.
An individual must know what crime
and who are accusing them of criminal
activities. It was a legal essay, if a legal
essay was a piece of court evidence
protecting me from real and probable
physical violence and stalking tendencies
of a stranger who is not in control
of his mind or actions.
Surely this must be it. An essay, and I
would either be rejected or accepted. I
need not fear rejection. Even if no crime
had occurred, this incident was worrying.
I would then be invited to the witness
box to give evidence once again why I
need a civil order restraining someone
else’s movement near me or the place I
work. There is no case and I am testifying
for my safety, accused perhaps of
fabricating or exaggerating the events.
Violence is a sluggish, stretching band
that allows little escape. I am paranoid,
jittery, cautious, unreasonable - with
luck, perhaps I can laugh about this in
a year. Unmoored, I felt grossly violated,
apart from my usual agency and with
no way to recall it back to me. I am wandering
around in a loop. The way out
is shaking like a shower wall - shapes I
could see, but never clear enough, with
no map to show me how to get out or
even walk away.
Words By Anonymous
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
Student Experience
Should be a Priority
Words by Tom Hall
Disclaimer: The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect
those of Lot’s Wife or the MSA.
If the well spoken and politically
polished Minister for Education,
Jason Clare, wants to tackle University
reform in ways that will
make a difference to the lives
of students today, and into the
future, the student experience
should be one of his top priorities.
As a first year university
undergraduate student in 2023,
there are many aspects of my
tertiary education that are strikingly
disappointing. My generation
was raised by a generation
that speaks of university as the
time of their lives and a period
during which they made the best
of friends; friends for life. The
collegiate and community-centric
picture they paint is fading,
and fading quickly. Were you
to ask any adult who grew up in
the Whitlam, Fraser, Hawke and
Keating era how they thought
and think of their university experience,
their response is likely to
be the chalk to the cheese of the
modern academic aspirant.
Most ordinary Australians would
be forgiven for thinking that Australian
Universities are the place
to be. Recent QS rankings tell us
that three of our nation’s leading
universities jumped to the list of
the world’s top twenty universities.
In Victoria, we are home to the nation’s
leading university (Unimelb),
and the nation’s largest university
(Monash), which broke into the top
fifty in the world.
So what’s the problem?
What is misleading to most is that
this data is based purely on research
outcomes by the university.
The quality of undergraduate
teaching, student experience, and
social environment of the university
does not play any role in determining
this ranking. Further to this,
employability and job-ready skills
are also not considered in the QS
rankings. This is problematic for a
whole host of reasons.
The recent Student Experience Survey
(SES) results for 2022, which
were released in the same week as
Art by Lottie van Wijck
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
the QS rankings, present a vastly
different perspective to the QS
rankings. Among the key findings
of this survey, were the revelations
that only 25% of all undergraduate
students feel positively about
their tertiary education and that
only 46% feel a sense of belonging
to their institution. Overall satisfaction
has decreased from 79.9%
to 75.9% from 2015 - 2023, and prior
to 2015 the satisfaction ranking
was in the 80s. The most paradoxical
finding of this survey, when
contrasted to the global rankings,
is that the leading research universities
in Victoria, the University of
Melbourne and Monash University,
are home to the least satisfied students
in the state. Students of the
University of Melbourne, Australia’s
highest ranking and wealthiest
university, rank it last out of
139 higher education institutions
on the quality of their student experience.
It should not be the case
that global rankings become the
enemy of collegiate tertiary study,
but under the current model, this is
the reality.
With the RBA warning that one of
the largest problems facing the future
of the Australian economy is
productivity, it seems logical that
Minister Clare should be looking
to inspire younger generations to
work hard and to enjoy the experience
of working towards an attainable
goal. If our nation’s leading universities
are failing to offer students
a rewarding and collegiate tertiary
education experience, then our current
circumstance seems a congruent
consequence. This productivity
issue could quite easily be solved,
not only by upskilling the workforce
and getting more people to university
(one of the Minister’s key priorities),
but by providing students with
an academic experience that is socially
and culturally rewarding as
well as intellectually.
I consider myself to be having a
good experience at university, and,
being a respondent to the SES for
this year, hope to see the satisfaction
rankings improve across the
country. I am fortunate, but I see
and chat with many people on a
daily basis that feel the exact opposite.
It would be very easy for one
to be disengaged from university,
as there is little to no semblance
of cohesion and collective identity.
I don’t, and am unlikely to, feel
a strong sense of belonging to my
university. When I talk to other students,
this sentiment is not uncommon.
There seems to be a growing
sense of complacency amongst
university leaders and education
departments when it comes to university
satisfaction, and it will be to
our detriment. Government departments
and ministers are turning a
blind eye to lecturers and teachers,
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
who are crying out, and in many
cases going on strike for better,
fairer pay. At the time of writing,
the University of Melbourne Arts
Faculty is currently on strike. Put
simply, professors in the modern
world are overworked and underpaid,
and the educational experience
of an entire generation is
being put in jeopardy as a result.
The pandemic plays a part here
too. COVID-19 is the zeitgeist of
my generation and we are the
guinea pigs for this new style
of education. When I observe
my fellow undergraduate students,
and speak to students in
years 10, 11 or 12, it is clear that
the online learning experiment is
failing. The consequences of the
pandemic will undoubtedly be a
mantle that is carried by my generation.
It is in the interest of the
longevity of the nation for us to
limit the damage and stem this
rising wave of disinterested and
disengaged students. We are already
destined to become a lost
and wayward generation due to
the psychological and social impacts
of the pandemic, it would
be a missed opportunity for Clare
if we allow my generation to miss
out on the social connections for
which university is famed, in the
name of convenience and a cost
effective pursuit of research
based rankings.
What can be done?
Whilst we can boast about our
nation’s universities, we will never
be able to produce the calibre
of alumni that graduate from
the likes of the Ivy leagues and
Oxbridge until our experience
surveys produce similar results.
Connections, socialising and
teacher-student relationships lie
at the crux of a satisfactory university
experience.
It is not an entirely bleak outlook.
Some Australian universities
are getting it right. Success
stories from the SES include the
University of Divinity with a satisfaction
ranking of 91%, the
Australian National University
with 80%, and Bond University
at around 85%. These institutions
tout the quality of their
staff, quality of teaching, and
an emphasis on social engagement
as the reasons for this success.
But how can this model be rolled
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
out and enforced nation-wide?
There are many suggestions circulating.
In an opinion piece in July this
year, former education minister
Alan Tudge called for a university
ombudsman, which would have
the power to force institutions
to refund HELP loans if students
are provided with substandard
teaching practices. The price
of tertiary education has more
than doubled over the past two
decades. Cost, and the threat
of a large HELP loan can also influence
the experience of undergraduate
students, so University
of Melbourne Vice-Chancellor,
Duncan Maskell calling for first
degrees to be free once again is
another consideration for Minister
Clare. With a budget in surplus,
this is worth considering as
a means of solving the looming
productivity cliff edge towards
which our nation is uncontrollably
hurdling.
Something could and should be
done to incentivise universities to
prioritise student experience. The
federal government should look
at ways to incentivise professors
to improve subjects and the quality
of their classes and discourage
a myopic focus on
research. It was encouraging
to see Minister Clare speak
passionately about his vision
for Australian universities
when releasing the Australian
Universities Accord Interim
Report at the National Press
Club in July this year, but the
issue of student satisfaction
was a glaring omission in his
speech.
Admittedly, I am still a largely
uneducated first year student,
and can only speak
from limited experience. Even
still, my despondence only
grows when I read the results
of the SES, and see little to
no change or attention being
raised in the media. The best
way to ensure the prosperity
of our future, my generation’s
future, is to invest in the
young.
“Export”
Art by Ming
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Four
MSA Reports
As the current MSA Office Bearers’ terms come to a close, we wanted to
check in one last time to see what everyone’s been up to this semester. Each
department works passionately to bring you events, activitsm and a support
network like no other. In this next section, you can find out what they
have been doing this semester, as well as their plans for the rest of the year.
The department reports are ordered as follows:
- The Executive Team (President, Secretary, Treasurer and General
Reresentative)
- Activities
- Creative Live Arts
- Disabilities and Carers
- Education (Activities)
- Education (Public Affairs)
- Environment and Social Justice
- Indigenous
- People of Colour
- Queer
- Residential Communities
- Welfare
- Women’s
Keep reading to find out more about the wonderful office bearers of these
departments!
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MSA Reports
The Executive Team - Sebastian Schultz (he/him), Sidratul Ahmed (he/him),
Natasha Tiong (she/her) and Mahzarin Katrak (she/her)
Hello again from the Executive – Seb, Sid and Tash! In the first half of Semester 2, we
have predominantly taken on a supervisory role with respect to some of the big events
that took place such as Rewind, Safe & Sexy Week, ESJ Week and others. We are incredibly
proud of our Office Bearers and committees for organising, showing up and supporting
these events. Moving forward, the executive will be working closely with the Returning
Officer to ensure the smooth running of the MSA 2023 Elections and the student
referendum that will be held concurrently with the elections to update the constitutional
definition of a “carer” to one that aligns with the definition provided under the Federal
legislation. It has been wonderful working alongside some of the most passionate and
hardworking student representatives and we hope to end our tenure with a bang.
Activities - Claris Yee (she/her) and Andrew McGaw (he/him)
REWIND in collaboration with the Creative Live Arts Department saw this semester
starting off with a bang, building off the enjoyment of last year’s event. This year’s
event saw a bigger event with even bigger headlines to the Clayton campus community.
However, your Activities team isn’t done just yet. With the build up to exam period,
we’re hoping to continue to bring a fun, free and tasty food fair to campus this semester.
Whilst investigating the feasibility of such, we’re looking to diversify our portfolio
through being of assistance to any other department in need of a set of hands running
any of their events. Whilst our year is coming to an end, we know whoever steps into
the role next year will only bring more joyous events to the Monash community and we
personally can’t wait to see what they have to offer.
Creative and Live Arts
No report was received from this department.
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MSA Reports
Disabilities and Carers
No report was received from this department.
Education (Academic Affairs) - Tahlia Jackson (she/her) and Paris Enten (she/her)
In the Education (Academic Affairs) Department, we advocate for academic policies
and procedures that prioritise students. We celebrate when academic staff go above
and beyond to invest in their student’s education, and we welcome input from across all
faculties at Clayton.
In Semester 2, we have recruited and trained student representatives to sit on every
single Academic Progress Committee. This has ensured all students at hearings have an
equal and fair experience. We have also been working on the Annual Teaching Awards, a
celebratory event that formally acknowledges academic staff who have demonstrated
exceptional investment into the student experience.
Next year we are looking forward to continuing advocating for student interests in academic
affairs. You can contact us at: msa-education@monash.edu
Education (Public Affairs) - Ann Maria Sabu and John Nguyen
Hello! We’re John and Ann, and we’re your Education (Public Affairs) Officers for 2023.
We strive to advocate for an optimal learning experience at Monash University.
We have been continuously advocating for making special consideration and extensions
more accessible and effective for students. We have also been dedicating our time to
collaborate with other departments to understand the issues faced by students, engage
in conversations to make exam timings more convenient and availability of indigenous
studies units. We also aim to work closely with MSA Student Advocacy and Support to
understand and act on student’s concerns.
We want to be able to advocate for the best student experience and address student
concerns. You can contact us at: msa-education@monash.edu.
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MSA Reports
Environment and Social Justice - Louis Walmsley and Mariam Madiha
Here at ESJ, we organise campaigns, events, resources & actions to further students’
understanding and involvement in environment and social justice issues. We are passionate
about championing sustainability at a University level, pushing Monash to take
strong action to combat the imminent climate emergency, and pushing social inclusivity
through advocacy.
So far this semester we hosted ESJ Week in Week 4, which included 13 events touching
on a range of environment and social justice issues. Our highlight was the Green
Careers Day, where we collaborated with Career Connect. We also collaborated with
MSA Indigenous to deliver Lot’s Wife Edition 3. We have also advocated for the implementation
of Food Organics and Garden Organics bins on campus.
To connect with us, follow @msa.esj on Instagram or like the “MSA Environment and Social
Justice” Page on Facebook. If you have any questions please send the ESJ Office
Bearers, Louis and Mariam, an email at: msa-esj@monash.edu
Indigenous - John Sopar (any pronouns)
My name’s John Sopar and I’m a proud Anangu person serving as Indigenous Office
Bearer for 2023. As we head into the second half of semester 2, as well as the countdown
to the Voice Referendum on October 14th, MSA Indigenous is hard at work continuing
to provide informational events and resources around this pivotal moment in Australian
history.
We’ve also been hard at work continuing to support and grow the Indigenous student
cohort here at Monash, as well as sharing the experience of being Indigenous at a multitude
of MSA events. Make sure to follow us on @msa.indigenous to keep up to date with
all our upcoming events and amazing resources, as well as some of the deadly things
our students are up to!
People of Colour - Des Ramjee (she/her) and Susie Lei (she/her)
This year, the People of Colour committee have had great success in their events, collaborations
and advocacy. We have thoroughly enjoyed being a part of a community that
thrives on respect, celebration and diversity. It has been a pleasure working together to
develop events that equally represent our cultures (One World for Des and Mid-Autumn
for Susie). So far in Semester 2 we have already had some an exciting collaboration with
the Women’s Committee for the annual MSA Safe and Sexy Week.
Our big upcoming event is the highly anticipated Mid-Autumn Festival on the 3rd of October.
This event will include a live DJ set, multiple cultural performers, a photobooth,
fun activities and, as always, free food! We have also been lucky enough to collaborate
with some cultural clubs including VSA, HKSA, ACYA and KASA. So, come along to these
events if you’d like to immerse yourself in different ethnicities, meet some new people,
watch some amazing performances and eat delicious food !!
We are very excited for Sem 2 and hope to see you at our upcoming events.
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MSA Reports
Queer - Oli Shemmell (he/they) and Bella Lamb
Hi, we’re Bella and Oli (he/they) and we’re the Queer Office Bearers for 2023. Our
aims for the department this year have been to make Queer spaces more accessible
to Queer and Questioning students and have a more engaged community.
This semester we have achieved these goals through hosting off campus events,
our semesterly Pixel Bar games night, and events outside of the Queer Lounge,
Wear it Purple Day Picnic, Clothes Swap, and our Safe and Sexy Week Queer
Sexual Health Workshop. We also have our flagship event Queer Ball at the end
of EDI week with unprecedented ticket sales. We feel we have grown the engagement
and support network of the Monash Queer Community and made it more
welcoming for folks to enter into our spaces especially those who feel ‘not queer
enough’ to engage. Check out @msa-queer to hear about our upcoming events
and advocacy work :)
Residential Communities - Isla Hickey (she/her) and Katya Spiller (she/her)
At the Residential Communities Department we have had the pleasure of working
alongside residents to create community and advocate for solutions to residential
issues.
This semester we’ve partnered with Women’s, Welfare, Disabilities & Carers and
ESJ to support the incredible work they are doing in their respective spaces. We’ve
contributed to the launches of Safe & Sexy, Swelfare and ESJ Week by handing
out informative booklets and resources to ressies, all of which are linked on our
socials.
The Period Positivity Project will be momentarily entering its pilot phase at some
MRS locations. Before being further implemented across all MRS halls. The department
has had tremendous support from members of the community who
have submitted enquiries and ideas to us regarding this project.
Watch our instagram and facebook @msa.residential for Food Drop dates and
locations! Next year we hope to continue providing ressies with free food and
advocacy based support on issues arising from the cost of living crisis and more.
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MSA Reports
Welfare - Stuart Gibson (he/him) and Kristalleni Lymbouris (she/her)
2023 has felt like it has flown by in the Welfare department! Semester 2 continues
Free Food Mondays Cultural Club collaborations with KASA in week 7 and SLAC in
week 9. We’ve served over 2,000 dinners at FFM in Semester 1, and hope to serve
over 2,000 more in Semester 2. See you there! We’ve handed out over 3,000 Welfare
Packs at Welfare on Wheels so far in 2023. Get keen for more Welfare packs
coming your way in Week 12, at Matheson, Hargrave-Andrew and Law library!
Swelfare helped to connect students to services within and outside of Monash
to support their wellbeing as semester two started. Tuesday night welcomed the
Pat Cronin Foundation to speak about the need to ‘Be Wise. Think Carefully. Act
Kindly.’ in the face of social violence, and Thanura helped us to connect with the
Better Friends program available at Monash. ‘Dogs and Donuts’ on Tuesday gave
students a chance to pat cute dogs from ‘Delta Therapy Dogs’ and grab a free
Krispy Kreme. We hope you had a chance to connect with your wellbeing, and we
hope that you have a swell semester 2!
Women’s - Vicky Kwong (she/her) and Izzy Cummane (she/her)
At the Women’s Department we have continued to advocate, educate, and empower
all women on campus. This has been extended further through our collaborations
with several departments as well as Safe & Sexy Week.
Throughout the second semester, we have worked alongside the Res Department’s
Period Positivity Project. This project aims to bring free period products onto Monash
residential halls to provide students with support and promote wellbeing and women’s
health.
We have also worked alongside ESJ and Welfare with their department weeks. With
both weeks we had stalls up during their respective launches to provide information
and booklets to the women on campus. We had a Trivia Night event with ESJ at Sir
John’s Bar during their department week.
Safe & Sexy Week was a fun filled three days where ten different events were held
to promote individuals who identify as/with women’s wellbeing, expression, and empowerment.
We worked alongside the Queer department, Indigenous department,
and People of Colour department on a few of our events. Our biggest success was
our Pink Party where 150 people attended. We also had a lounging area in the airport
lounge with crafts and books to promote community and safety for the women
on campus.
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Special thanks to all
our contributors!
Advocates for Djalali
Belle Ryan
Caleb Kazoglou
David Williams
Faiz Asbunwij aya
Hana Kolar
Hayden Naar
Isabelle Zhu-Maguire
Jane Moir
Jessica Oats
John Sopar
Julia Fullard
Kiara Sharee
Leonardo Balsamo
Louis Perez
Luca Edwards
Lucia Lane
Lucy McLaughlin
menstruating me
N A Mckay
Oliver Cocks
Writers
Patricia Elwood
R.B. Sanders
Skye Zhu-Maguire
Tehseen Huq
Tom Hall
Will Hunt
Zoe Bartholomeusz
Artists
Chloe Bennett
Lottie van Wij ck
Louis Perez
Lucinda Campbell
Ming
Ruby Findlay
Shiv Dutta
Sophia Shakirova
Stephanie Wong
Tehseen Huq
Zoe Elektra
To contribute to the next edition, keep an eye out on
our social media for updates.
Visit linktr.ee/lotswife for links!
@lotswifemag
@MSA.lotswife
www.lotswife.com.au
Lot’s Wife
@LotsWifeMag
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...until next year
Lot’s Wife.
2023
Front Cover Art by Zoe Elektra
Back Cover Art: “Netless” by Louis Perez
In recognition of the climate crisis, Lot’s Wife is printed using PEFC, ISO14001, and FSC certified paper. This guarantees that all
paper used is legally and ethically sourced from sustainably managed forests. Our printer also uses organic vegetable inks,
actively reducing their water consumption and waste production. 84 We are proud to work with PrintGraphics, an internationally
acclaimed printer that shares our values.