Lot's Wife - MSA Women’s & POC Edition Five

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
lot’s wife
EDITION FIVE
In Collaboration with
MSA Women’s & MSA POC
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Brienna Emily Cover Art by Maria Chamakala
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
contents
Analysis
Creative
8
I Don’t Want To Dance
By Grace Baldwin
10
Lightbox Bodies
By Tingnan Li
11
Meet Us At The Intersection
By Maiysha Moin
12
Patchwork Woman
By Riya Rajesh
23
Getting The Monkey Off One’s Back: Why We Go
Ape Over Women’s Body Hair
By Xenia Sanut
18
When Charlie Met Her Maker
By Milly Downing
27
Gag Orders: A Survivor’s Perspective
By Natalia Zivcic
24
Black Girl Magic
By Sumaya. F
30
A Letter To My Fellow “Nice Guys”
By Anonymous
32
Studies About Domestic Work
By Tatiana Cruz
34
The Waiting Room: A Love Letter To My Best Friend
Who Broke Up With Her Nice Boyfriend
By Sarah Bartlett
38
The Power of Womanhood
By Meg Ruyters
50
For Our Eyes Only
By Greg Hunt
44
One Hour of Outdoor Exercise
By Jessica McCarthy
54
Are We Seeing a New Class Of Investor? And
Why The Story of Tesla’s Stock Should Be One of
Caution Rather Than Wild Success
By Ariel Horton
47
The Circus
By Eliot Walton
53
We Shall Isolate From The Teachers
By Lordy May
Culture
58
Winding Paths
By Cody B Strange
16
A Journey Through Feminist Literature
By Isabella Burton and Eva Scopelliti
60
Chasing Grasshoppers
By Joseph Lew
40
WAP: Is Sexual Pleasure Still Reserved for Men?
By Juliette Capomolla
46
An Ode To My Sparkly Pink Diary
By Tiffany Forbes
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 Five
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.
elcome to the Women’s Edition of Lot’s Wife,
proudly presented to you by the MSA Women’s De-
the MSA People of Colour Department,
Wpartment,
and the Lot’s Wife team. Our pieces in this edition showcase
a diverse range of women’s voices, and we couldn’t be more
thankful for their contributions. They take us from uniquely
intimate and devastating encounters to the celebration of
identity and strength, delivering perspicacious commentary on
the patriarchal power structures that refuse to loosen their grip
on us. Well, not unless we can help it, that is!
Here at Lot’s Wife we feel privileged to have these talented
writers and artists share their stories with us and with you, our
readers. Our ability to publish these pieces is testament to the
progress our society is making. Yet, it is abundantly clear (as
some of the pieces so eloquently highlight) that the issue of
gender equality is far from resolved. We hope that publishing
these voices makes a small contribution to creating a world
where women can be heard - truly heard - and believed for
their experiences, thoughts and frustrations, which don’t satisfy
the sanitised version of what tradition dictates their reality must
be. But to do this, we need your help.
You can use Sumaya F’s poem ‘Black Girl Magic’, as a way to
start talking about beauty standards for Bla(c)k women when
you’re sitting around outside, having lunch with your girlfriends.
You can use Grace Baldwin’s personal essay ‘I Don’t Want to
Dance’, to talk about consent and boundaries with your mates
on the back deck, bevvy in hand. Use any of the fantastic
pieces in this edition to discuss issues at the dinner table with
your parents and siblings. These stories are springboards for
conversation and springboards for change, so please, use them.
Talk about it openly, in a way where you’re genuinely receptive
to women’s voices, and put your defensiveness down - even if
just for a day, just for a conversation, just for one piece inside
this edition.
We hope you find the courage, strength, inspiration, and love
to help make this change, as the women who contributed their
stories have done by sharing them with us.
With love,
On behalf of the Lot’s Wife team,
Weng Yi Wong and Milly Downing
We have a collective responsibility to change things for the
better. We need to share this writing with the student community
and beyond, not just for us but for the next generation,
so they can usher in this change we need. We urge you to take
up the reins yourself and pass these stories on, pass Lot’s Wife
on - through a share, a comment, a like - to start a conversation.
Share it widely, with your friends, family, and especially those
whose perspectives may be challenged by it, so that women’s
voices can echo where they previously have not.
EDITORIAL TEAM
Dao, Ryan Attard, Austin Bond, Milly Downing, Weng Yi Wong, Anna Fazio, Charith Jayawardana, Vivien Tran
Co-managing Editors Content Editors Marketing/Communications Editors Visual Editor
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 Five
Art by Ruby Comte
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Hello Lot’s Wife readers! We are Meg and Eva, this year’s Monash Student Association (MSA) Women’s Officers. We have had the
honour of leading the MSA Women’s Department alongside our Women’s Affairs Committee, who have shown us what a strong
community of passionate women can achieve both within the department, and beyond. For that, we cannot thank you enough.
The MSA Women’s Department exists to advocate for women and non-binary people at Monash Clayton campus. As Women’s
Officers, we have endeavoured to help build a safer environment for students and to foster a sense of community, especially during
the massive shift to online learning this year. Through collaboration with Respectful Communities and Safer Communities Unit,
we have worked to ensure that support channels at Monash are easily accessible for students in need and increase awareness of
available resources, such as counselling and educational tools including the ‘What You Should Know’ booklet. In creating content
and campaigns online this year, we have hoped that the community within our department for women-identifying and non-binary
students feels advocated for and supported.
The mission behind this collaboration with MSA People of Colour Department and Lot’s Wife is to amplify the voices of women,
particularly women of colour. We have seen a big social shift in 2020, and what may even be considered a breaking point for Black
women, Indigenous women and Women of Colour (BIWOC). We hope that amongst the pages of this magazine, we have been
able to create a space which highlights many different feminist and social issues that this movement has stirred, including the many
challenges BIWOC face in all aspects of their lives, and the toll this can take on mental and physical health. We are incredibly excited
and grateful to be collaborating with the MSA People of Colour Department on this edition of Lot’s Wife, and hope that amongst
the variety of writing and artworks that women from all backgrounds feel seen, their voices heard, and know that their knowledge is
valued.
Thank you to all those who contributed to this special edition of Lot’s Wife! We hope that you find the writing and artwork within
these pages inspiring and empowering, straight from the minds of so many incredible and diverse women.
Eva and Meg
Facebook: MSA Women’s
Instagram: @msa.womens
Email: msa-womens@monash.edu
Eva Meg
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It’s safe to say that this year has been incredibly big for people of colour and our diverse communities, propelling us to put our game
face on as office bearers of the Monash Student Association’s People of Colour Department (MSA PoC). To our community, we’re
forever grateful for the continuous contribution and love during this time!
The People of Colour Department is an autonomous department – representing, advocating, and supporting all students of colour.
And our goals for this year have been no exception. As a much newer department, we have been working around the clock to pick
up the pace in reconnecting our communities on campus and revamping the many events brought in by our predecessors. However,
with COVID-19 hitting us and the unprecedented aftermath washing over us like a tsunami, we’ve had our department’s direction
equally as affected.
As we’ve seen in the racism stemming from COVID-19, and the resurgence of Bla(c)k Lives Matter, the multicultural communities
have been heavily feeling the impact of lockdown - these tumultuous, back-to-back events leaving many of us emotionally, physically,
and mentally drained. During this, we’ve had to revisit our direction as a department to reflect these struggles. We’ve focused more
on our policies and trying to ensure that a student of colour has a lively university experience without having to face racism, discrimination,
or any form of marginalisation. Through the help of the Safer Communities Unit and organisations like the Victorian Equal
Opportunities Human Rights Commission, we’ve had the opportunity to curate an anti-racism guide. This contains the information
to assist anyone, student or staff member, that faces, witnesses, or obtains knowledge of racial discrimination. Witnessing the harsh
light and unsuspecting rise in discrimination-related cases at Monash and globally, we hope that this is only the beginning in ensuring
that students of colour - or anyone for that matter - are equipped with the right toolkit to tackle racism.
The collaboration with MSA Women’s Department and Lot’s Wife couldn’t have come at a better time. Curated to amplify the
voices of Women of Colour, Bla(c)k Women and Indigenous women (BIWOC), this edition is for all women, not some. As we’ve said,
2020 has been a big year, particularly for people of colour. As you flick through these dedicated pages, read their stories, appreciate
their artwork, acknowledge their knowledge, you can see this is women telling us their anecdotes. This is their experience of being a
BIWOC woman facing social and feminist issues in 2020. We’re wholeheartedly excited, enthralled, and thankful to be collaborating
with the MSA Women’s Department in this edition of the Lot’s Wife magazine.
This is something not to miss out on.
With love and power,
Sabrin and Ayush
Facebook: MSA People of Colour
Email: msa-poc-l@monash.edu
Ayush Sabrin
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
I Don’t Want To Dance
Words by Grace Baldwin
I met Noah* when I was fourteen, back when everything was so simple
and so complicated.
The discomfort I experienced around him wasn’t instant. It developed
over the coming months as his inappropriate behaviour continued to
crescendo.
I was fifteen when something broke inside of me.
It was early 2017, a dance in a school hall. I remember that night in flashes.
Disco lights, loud music, bad dancing – the usual. It had started off as fun.
There was a group of us at the dance sticking together so that nobody had
to awkwardly dance alone. I had been playing my usual avoidance game
with Noah, dodging him and doing my best to stay out of his line of vision.
I was used to this. I didn’t enjoy it, but I could handle it.
Then the music changed.
It turned slow, a revolting ballad filling the hall. Couples formed all around
me like magnets, embracing and swaying like willow trees. Noah locked
eyes with me from across the room, his beady gaze pinning me to the spot.
I don’t want to dance with him. I don’t want to dance with him. I don’t
want to dance with him.
My stomach slid out beneath me, and my blood ran cold. I wanted to cry.
Instead, I fled. I made a beeline for the exit, panic overtaking my vision
until I could barely breathe. Nausea was rising in my throat and my lungs
were burning and constricting. I ran out the door, down the hallway and
leant against some lockers in the dim light, breathing deeply.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
I held my face in my clammy hands, chest heaving and wracking with dry
sobs. And as I stood there alone, listening to everyone dance to a song I
knew, I was hit by a tsunami of hopeless fatigue.
I can’t keep doing this.
I had spent years being chased, avoiding being alone with him, feeling sick
when he approached me. Now, he had physically driven me away from my
friends – a night I should have spent socialising and dancing like a normal
teenager. The dark school hallway loomed over me, reminding me that
nobody had noticed I’d left. I allowed myself to cry.
I suddenly heard someone coming towards me from the direction of the
dance. There was nobody I wanted to see, so I turned a corner off the
main hallway and hid, breathing shallowly into my hand. I saw Noah stalk
past, visibly angry. I knew it was me he was angry with. I stood as silently
as I could and he walked right by, missing me completely. He had come
to follow me, to stand too close to me, to ask if I was finally ready to fall
in love with him.
I only let myself exhale when the slam of the heavy doors confirmed his
absence.
The moonlight was beaming through the glass windows, illuminating
my hands with its pale glow. I exhaled deeply again, completely without
hope or light. The evening was ruined, and I sank to the ground.
The exhaustion came crashing down around me like a burning city.
Things never used to be this hard.
After a few minutes, I heard the music change, and I knew the couples
wouldn’t be couples anymore. With the knowledge that Noah wasn’t there
anymore to watch me, follow me, breathe on me or touch me, I turned
around and went back to the dance.
Chin up. Bright smile. Off you go.
***
From the very first weeks of our acquaintance, Noah’s behaviour grew
increasingly disturbing and obsessive. He expressed his affections to me
many times, and I did what I could as a young teenager to communicate
my refusal. He messaged me daily with provocative, graphic updates of
his poor mental health in a bid to get me to message back. He asked me
out on dates regularly. He pestered me for hugs. He always tried to sit
directly beside me so that we were touching. He sabotaged my romantic
relationships. The unrelenting consistency of his behaviour had been
wearing me down for around two years at this stage, and the dance in
2017 was (what I thought to be) my breaking point.
I didn’t yet know that I had a whole queue of breaking points lined up
ahead.
My experience with this boy stretched over five years. I was aggressively
mistreated online and harassed in-person because I did not wish to date
him. It was a textbook response – I didn’t want to date him; therefore, I
was a bitch, I should just kill myself already. These are some of the things
he said to me.
Things escalated rapidly. What had started as a ‘harmless crush’ had
grotesquely morphed into violent threats and abusive speech.
These days when I look back on this time, I observe not only Noah’s
behaviour, but the response of those around me. I am incredibly blessed
with a very diligent and loving family who did everything in their power to
help and protect me. However, the response of Noah’s school, his parents
and the community that we were connected through fell short in many
ways.
Largely, these were not individual failings. I wholly believe that those
informed were genuinely distressed and disturbed by what Noah had done
to me. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that their horror was real
and authentic. What angers me is the weak response from a disciplinary
angle.
He incurred no punishment except being forbidden to contact me online.
He was still allowed to talk to me in person, he had no punishment from
his school, and his parents were outwardly indifferent. In the end, all that
was said was that they were very sorry it happened to me, and they hoped
it wouldn’t happen again.
The reason boundaries were instilled was due to the unyielding persistence
of my parents. And sixteen-year-old me, uneducated as yet about
the manipulative power and gaslighting tendencies of the patriarchy,
apologised for causing a fuss. I said sorry for being told to kill myself by a
seventeen-year-old boy.
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This is what happens when the concerns of women, particularly
young women, are not listened to and not taken seriously. I had been
communicating my unease for years before things spiralled out of control.
To date, the responses had been vague (if well-intended) and never really
worked.
My self-defence trainer often quotes Einstein’s definition of insanity: doing
the same thing over and over and expecting different results. This is exactly
what was happening. The ‘strategies’ that had been in place to protect me
were not working, yet nobody was changing them. I was a young woman,
I was uncomfortable, I was scared, and I wasn’t taken seriously enough by
those who could do something to help.
I consider that this was my informal introduction to institutional
patriarchy. Institutional patriarchy seeks to systemically (rather than
individually) protect and defend the actions of men, refusing to hold them
accountable for their behaviour. The patriarchy is not ‘men’, it is a system
that allows men to receive an extraordinary advantage in life (often in
tandem with a denial that such an advantage even exists). I have found
that institutional patriarchy is often cloaked in paternalistic politeness,
expressing patronising sorrow when women are angry at injustice, as well
as incredulous and wounded disbelief at any request for change.
Too often, the righteous, powerful, uniting anger felt in the gut of every
woman is framed as a character flaw. A misunderstanding. We’re coming
at it from the wrong angle. You won’t gain support from men if you’re
angry! (Apparently, for feminism to work, women need to present it as
non-threatening to society as it currently stands. We need to convince men
that they won’t need to surrender their privilege and work for justice.)
Now, years later, Noah has been expelled from my life. Yet, I still see
his behaviour impacting and trying to destroy other women. After five
years, nobody will hold this boy accountable. This is an abject example of
institutional patriarchy prevailing over the wellbeing and safety of women.
It is often thought that girls ‘naturally’ mature faster than boys do. I
understand the science of brain development rates between males and
females, but I also understand that men hide behind this science to avoid
accountability. It’s more than science. Women are forced to grow up faster
than men because they are launched into a world of psychological warfare
before hitting puberty. They mature faster because they have to. Girls are
thrust into mature situations, and the patriarchy propels them into a life
where being abused and harassed is their fault. Of course girls have to
grow up faster.
This is why we need feminism. Feminism is a movement that benefits
everybody. Feminism seeks to define, establish and achieve political,
economic, personal, and social gender equality. It seeks to stop the
systemic protection of predatory male behaviour so that social/political/
religious/corporate structures don’t keep destroying women.
It means women are listened to. Taken seriously when they say they don’t
feel safe.
This is something worth fighting for.
*Names have been changed.
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lightbox bodies
• Words by Tingnan Li
art is
spreading pain
out on a lightbox
poking at its insides
then presenting it
like a mounted butterfly
for the world to inspect
art is
the careful science
of pressing against bruises
transforming inky battlefield bodies
into living breathing museums
art is
prising open
the cupboard doors
to your chest
and inviting the world inside
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Art by Kat Kennedy

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Meet Us At The Intersection
Words by Maiysha Moin
We opened our eyes wide with excitement for a new decade. 2020: a new
vision for a new future. Yet, this year seems saturated with more crises than
success. These unprecedented challenges have foregrounded the desperate
need for diverse voices in leadership to develop more nuanced responses
to systemic crises. From an exigency for Indigenous knowledge of fire
management after our bushfires, to consideration of hard lockdowns on
vulnerable public housing communities, leadership as we know it fails to
reflect our multi-faceted and changing communities.
Yet when it comes to diversity, Australian politics is sorely lacking. The
polarisation and deep entrenchment of party lines have dissuaded women
of colour (WOC) from entering traditionally white and male-dominated
political spaces. 37% of our Commonwealth Government is female, and
of 227 seats only eight are held by women of colour. Instead of taking
their rightful places in the chambers of Parliament, many young women
are turning to activism to voice their frustrations and enact tangible
change. While activism does indeed have its merits and influence upon
policymaking, it will undeniably remain peripheral to the ultimate
decision-making in government. Instead we need this demographic of
Australians to step into traditional power structures and shape political
leadership to be more visionary and diverse from the inside.
For many women of colour, the inclusivity of activism and advocacy
groups is the preferred pathway to create the change they want to see.
These spaces create a safe environment for self-expression which, for
those who have experienced discrimination, forms a comforting cocoon
to pursue political change without the rough-and-tumble of a party.
Frequently, I have seen culturally and linguistically diverse (CALD)
women enter, organise, and lead activist movements – whether it be a
climate strike sweeping through the streets of Melbourne’s CBD, or a
grassroots student publication amplifying the WOC experience.
During my own experiences in environmental activism, I have been
encouraged to take up leadership and oratory opportunities by mentors
within these spaces. My experience is not an isolated one: Aisheeya Huq,
a Year 12 student in Western Sydney and former School Strike 4 Climate
organiser, notes that while the ‘inner [city], high income background,
white’ activist archetype is ‘what the face of climate activism has been in
Australia for decades’, the tide is changing. Though she has struggled with
a racial and classist divide, she remarks that mentors with experience were
‘eager and willing to have more representation’ within the movement.
Huq’s sentiments are closely echoed by Desiree Cai, another WOC
working extensively in advocacy spaces. Desiree celebrates that the
‘environment movement is quite diverse’ and that while it has ‘historically
been a middle-class white movement […] it’s moving away from that –
with greater POC diversity.’ Both women note the decentralised leadership
and open structure of activism as an attractive avenue for CALD females
to enact social change.
Yet, why isn’t this diversity seen in political parties? While women of
colour take the lead in activist spaces, they are nearly absent from the
youth wings of political parties. Truthfully, it’s frustrating to see women
who advocate passionately and tirelessly feeling repulsed at the prospect
of joining a party. Cai and Huq offer an insight into two salient barriers
which exist for our demographic when it comes to politics: male pugnacity
and a lack of intersectionality.
Cai is no stranger to politics: she’s been the President of the University
of Melbourne Student Union and is a former President of the National
Union of Students. Though universities are notable for being progressive,
the challenges for diverse women are seemingly perennial. She observes
that ‘there are lots of queer people involved [in student politics], but it’s
much different when we consider race as a barrier’. Her remarks highlight
that politics can masquerade as being progressive and inclusive by
adopting epithets of feminism and diversity, but falls short of intersectional
inclusivity.
In contrast to Cai, Huq places greater emphasis on male bellicosity within
these spaces. Rather than underscoring her CALD identity, Huq attributes
the barriers women of colour face in politics to their ‘womanhood’. She
claims her gender has ‘stopped [her] from taking a bureaucratic initiative or
taking spaces which are more official structures’. The intimidation tactics
employed by young men are noticeably observed and experienced. She
remembers ‘that [the political space] was always confronting … I’ve had
experience arguing with [young] men – I don’t take the initiative to take
the space where I would be crushed’. Her words resonate deeply with me.
At events hosted by my national political party, young men fill my ears with
their unsolicited political opinions sandwiched between esoteric economic
jargon and a private-school-curated vernacular. The intimidation tactic is
dualist: overt aggression and unconscious privilege. Huq laments that it’s
the ‘subtle things that grow into a barrier – a psychological barrier’, one
which fosters feelings of inadequacy for a number of WOC who attempt
to join a political party.
The barriers which Cai, Huq, and I have observed, especially those of
race, seem less applicable to men of colour in the political sphere. On a
POC Caucus Zoom with my party, it was surprising to find I was the only
woman. Comparatively, at countless environmental and feminist activism
meetings I’ve attended over the last two years, I’ve rarely acquainted a
man of a similar background to me. The contrast would not be starker.
Why do CALD men feel more comfortable joining political parties than
joining forces with activists? Perhaps, a patriarchal milieu has legitimised
traditional power structures as an avenue for men to enact social change.
While I applaud their courage and the diversity they introduce, it is
another subtle reminder of the inherent androcentrism of politics: cater
for diversity, but make it male. The social and cultural implications on
women of colour, outlined above, will remain the same if POC-identifying
men uphold the noxious boys’ club attitude which remains rampant in
youth politics.
The path out of this pandemic may be an opportunity for social upheaval,
and an exciting prospect to include more women of colour into political
leadership. Female leaders are known to bring innovation, greater
collaboration and empathy to the table. Additionally, diverse leadership
teams record a 45% increase in revenue due to innovation – a principle of
success which seems rather translatable to policymaking. Diversity allows
for more nuanced, insightful and empathetic decision-making which
translates to greater success. When it comes to breaking down existing
barriers, Cai offers two recommendations to political parties: awareness
and action.
The first step towards change is acknowledging the current power balances
that exist. ‘Have an awareness of your actions and how they contribute to
what political space you create’, Cai advises. A practical implementation
of the advice, she suggests, is thinking critically about a meeting you’re
convening – is this predominantly white? And if so, how can you, as a
moderator, leader or individual, elevate CALD voices in the conversation?
The second is when an issue of diversity arises, ‘figure out some tangible
ways to make it better’. She contends ‘there’s a lot of lip service’ in politics
and ‘we have these conversations all the time’, yet these barriers have not
yet been dismantled. For leaders seeking to act on these obstacles, be the
mentor who inspires: encourage women of colour to run for an election, or
have their voice heard at a state conference, or simply show them the ropes
of what you’re doing right now. Just like Huq and I have experienced,
mentors play a pivotal role in opening opportunities to women of colour.
Though a resounding impetus must be given to traditional power structures,
I also encourage CALD women to step out from peripheral activist spaces
and enter political institutions. Activism is an excellent starting point to
cultivate confidence, workshop skills and form networks, but you should be
the change you advocate for. Women of colour like myself are holding a
heavy door open – it’s taking a toll on us to continually justify our place in
political parties. More of us holding the door open would have a rippling
effect across the WOC diaspora. In Huq’s words, ‘those barriers need to
be alleviated a bit by bit’.
We started the decade with vision.
So, let’s meet at the intersection and create a new normal.
Maiysha Moin is a Law/Arts student and youth activist.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Patchwork
Woman
Words by Riya Rajesh
patchwork woman
grit and wonder
bleed
ing colour
roadmap runs
commas and stops.
intersections,
n
s
c
r
i
b
e
d
on body
on tungsten
lips
my murderous purple
thunderclap eyes
fingertips sing
fissures and cracks
world,
stand back
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Art by Linzie Joanne
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Art by Georgia B
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
A Journey Through Feminist Literature
with Bri Lee
Words by Eva Scopelliti and Isabella Burton
Bri Lee
In her memoir Eggshell Skull,
Australian author Bri Lee offers a
poignant and raw account of her
experiences as a Judge’s Associate
dealing primarily with sexual assault
cases, and her journey through the
criminal justice system as she sought
her own justice. Sensitive and exposed,
Lee’s story evokes the troubling notion
that the idealised justice system is notso-just.
Her story questions the efficacy
of our legal system truly delivering justice to sexual assault survivors and
confronts the harsh reality faced by many survivors.
Similarly, her most recent book Beauty confronts tender issues of our
society, with a particular focus on the oppressive regime of beauty
imposed on women.
Lee’s tone and language are relatable, and her stories make us laugh
and cry - it feels as if we are interacting with an old friend or sister. She
fearlessly exposes the truth in a relatable and honest fashion. Ultimately,
the reader is left in a pensive state, compelled to question the structures
of our society.
We had the great privilege of conversing with Lee regarding her books, as
well as her valued insights into feminist literature.
What is one piece of feminist literature that inspires you and
why?
Finding Eliza by Larissa Behrendt has really stayed with me. It’s an
examination of how certain narratives of “savages” and “saviours” didn’t
just help colonists, but were absolutely necessary for the invaders to be able
to create the farce that is terra nullius. The titular character, Eliza, was a
white woman who used a story of her being “captive” to the Indigenous
Australians to gain money and fame, but Behrendt also explains how Eliza
was trapped under the patriarchy of the time and was doing her best.
The book has formed a critical part of my understanding of Australia’s
history and is a potent reminder that although history is written by the
“victorious,” it can be recovered.
If you could recommend a book for young women to read, what
would it be?
Argh, sorry, I can’t. Don’t listen to anyone telling you what to read! Stop
reading the “canon”! Just read widely. Fiction and nonfiction, local and
international. Read books in translation, read the papers, read graphic
novels, read poetry. That’s the most important thing, to read widely.
life and advocacy where I care a lot more about what people do than what
they call themselves. Plenty of people label themselves things, or wear the
t-shirts with the slogans, and don’t lift a finger. Also, plenty of people don’t
identify with labels because these movements can get commercialised and
exclusionary, even though some of those excluded people do the actual
work every day. Actions, people!
Your book Eggshell Skull is a memoir about both your
experience as a judge’s associate, and then finding yourself
on the other side of the courtroom. Was there a particular
moment that prompted you to think ‘I want to write these
experiences into a book?’
It was definitely about a week or two into going to the police for my own
matter. I experienced a huge shift in my perspective when I realised that
the courtroom was only the tip of the iceberg. Not many people have seen
both sides of the law so fully, and it’s a profession built on discretion, so
not many people are willing to jeopardise their careers to speak out about
the problems on both sides.
When writing your book Beauty, did anything strike you in
particular in relation to beauty standards for women that you
did not previously know prior to writing the book?
It was just so disappointing to read The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf, and
see how she was fighting against the same things we’re still struggling with,
and that book came out thirty years ago. I got to know more about certain
facets of the media and the beauty industry, and saw how the development
of social media exacerbated things. I suppose it was shocking to see and
realise how harmful women were to each other. Complicity is a tricky
thing to name and an even more difficult thing to confront in oneself.
And finally, in your opinion how can young women today shake
oppressive ideals of beauty and what the ‘right’ mindset to
have is?
Everyone is on their own track with this stuff and it’s a unique journey
for each of us. It doesn’t help for someone like me to swoop in with ideas
about “right” and “wrong”. What I think is most important is to take
these matters – beauty and image and bodies – very seriously. Dismissing
beauty standards and disordered eating as “vapid” or “frivolous” concerns
compounds how damaging they can be. It’s difficult to be strong and
resilient without self-esteem, and self-esteem is a resource deliberately kept
in short supply for certain people. The only thing I would “recommend”
is to, where possible, think about how the standards you have for yourself
are communicated – implicitly or explicitly – to the people around you,
and check whether they are hurtful or helpful.
Do you call yourself a feminist? If so, why?
I do. A feminist is someone who believes in equality and knows there is
work to be done until we all reach it. But I’ve also come to a point in my
16

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
MSA Women’s Department
MSA Book Women’s Recommendations Department Book
Recommendations
With the dawn of a new age - an age of transformative gender equality and recognition - women
authors are aplenty. If you’re seeking a life-changing fem-lit piece of work, look no further than this
carefully compiled list of wonderful reads for any woman or ally to enjoy:
Feminist Literature
• Women Don’t Owe You Pretty - Florence Given
• Beauty - Bri Lee
• Invisible Women - Caroline Criado Perez
• The Second Sex - Simone de Bouvoir
• A Room of One’s Own - Virginia Woolf
• The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
• The Feminist Mystique - Betty Friedan
• The Witch Doesn’t Burn in This One - Amanda
Lovelace
• I am Malala - Malala Yousafzai
• Feminists Don’t Wear Pink and Other Lies- Scarlett
Curtis
• The Awakening - Kate Chopin
• The Beauty Myth - Naomi Wolf
• Bad Feminist - Roxane Gay
Books about Love written by women
• Everything I Know About Love - Dolly Alderton
• Communion: The Female Search for Love - bell
hooks
• It’s Called a Breakup Because it’s Broken - Amiira
Ruotola and Greg Behrendt
Feminist Literature by Women of
Colour
• Such a Fun Age - Kiley Reid
• I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings - Maya Angelou
• Becoming - Michelle Obama
• We Should All Be Feminists - Chimamanda Ngozi
Adichie.
• Ida: A Sword Among Lions - Paula J. Giddings
• Collected Poems - Rosemary Dobson
Historical Works by Women or about
Women
• Declaration of the Rights of Woman and of the
Female Citizen - Olympe de Gouges
• The Vindication of Rights of Woman - Mary
Wollstonecraft
• The History of the Wife - Marilyn Yalom
• She Speaks - Yvette Cooper
• The Radium Girls - Kate Moore
• The Diary of a Young Girl - Anne Frank
• Wild Swans - Jung Chang
• Irena’s Children - Tilar J. Mazzeo
• The Woman Who Smashed Codes - Jason Fagone
• Catherine the Great - Robert K. Massie
Fiction and Non-Fiction Books about
women written by Inspiring Women
• Three Women - Lisa Taddeo
• Eggshell Skull - Bri Lee
• A Lonely Girl is a Dangerous Thing - Jessie Tu
• Girl, Woman, Other - Bernadine Evaristo
• Little Women - Louisa May Alcott
• The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
• Cilka’s Journey - Heather Morris
• Picnic at Hanging Rock - Joan Lindsay
• My Brilliant Career - Miles Franklin
17

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
When Charlie Met Her Maker
Words by Milly Downing
Milly is on the Lot’s Wife editorial board and was subject to the same impartial
editing procedures as any other author.
Exactly three months before her mother’s fiftieth birthday Charlie got
an itch. It was in her ‘Unmentionables’ as her mother would call it,
her ‘Special Lady Parts.’ Despite this, she kept a straight face browsing
the dinner-for-one aisle at the supermarket. Her crotch stung, oozing
something hot. Most would’ve applauded her composure as she stood
between the Chicken Noodle Soup and the 99% Fat-Free Lima Bean. She
stuck a hand down there, scratching and pulling. A young man scuttled
out of the isle, basket empty, blushing. Her finger came out burning and
topped with goo, a plump and sickly worm.
Her mother justified this behaviour by saying things like she was just an
extrovert, so full of confidence! Just like her father, takes after his side. She
struggled to prove this the older Charlie got, and now at twenty, she was
well beyond her mother’s capabilities to lie.
Charlie inspected her hot finger topped with sharp, sour slime. It wasn’t
until she got home, heavy with tin cans and discount shampoo, that she
was grinding her thighs together, totally incapable of satisfying it.
Three days before her mother’s fiftieth birthday Charlie’s doctor
explained: it’s chronic. Charlie waited suspended, legs spread and hot
between, drying out under the white lights. There’s nothing I can do,
he said. Get an ice pack. Take a bath. Avoid tight clothes and don’t put
anything inside you. He spoke between her legs, addressing her crotch.
Charlie shoved her baggy pants back up, pushing his head away.
Back at home she continued burning. She got on her bed: legs locked,
head in pillows, breathing hard, not daring to touch. This became her
morning routine. Her roommates, all male, all bloated from excessive
video games and beers, began their days with quick showers and group
breakfasts. Charlie, unable to sit down long enough to eat a meal, accepted
beers only to go to her room and slither them down into her undies. She
could hear it searing against her hot flesh way down there, like it was
crying. Charlie cried too - not that her roommates heard, not that she’d
let them hear.
It was on the day of her mother’s fiftieth birthday that Charlie saw her
again, the first time in a number of years. Charlie had conveniently
forgotten to buy a present, and her mother predicting this, secured
Charlie’s attendance to her girls-only birthday brunch. By design the cafe
was deep in her mother’s territory. Charlie had rocked up in her usual
manner: late, braless and itching. Her mother clapped her hands together
at Charlie’s arrival, wound up in a tight, borderline age-appropriate shirt,
surrounded by a gaggle of shaved legs and whitened teeth. Charlie gave a
pained smile. At least she didn’t look like that.
She sat. Her crotch sizzled on contact. Charlie inhaled briskly. She leant
on the table, her mother simultaneously leaning in too.
“Charlie,” her mother whispered. She smelt like a clown: make-up,
powdered sugar, and something fakely floral.
“Mum,” Charlie seethed and clenched her hole.
“I thought you’d wear a dress? Your tiny waist…”
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s just I remember when I had a waist like yours,” she said
rationally. “Right, ladies?” Her mother called across the table; the girls
cackled, a chorus of breathless agreement. Charlie’s hole quivered as if
squealing.
The waiter approached, and a woman in Lycra and dangly earrings
ordered the smashed avocado, extra buttery mushrooms. The woman
after, with long, whip-like lashes ordered an egg white omelette, no butter.
She was on a diet. Eyes darted between orders. Oh, you’re getting that?
Lycra blushed. The next ordered corn fritters, and hold the toast. Tart
with salad. When it got to Charlie something sharp and deep burst inside
her hole, deeper than she knew it could go.
“So, I hear you’re living with a boy?” Cooed Lycra. Her cheeks were still
bloated and blotchy. Charlie smiled resentfully, twisting in her seat.
“No,” she swallowed, clenching her jaw and clamping her hands between
her thighs. “Boys. I live with three of them.”
“Oh?” Lycra frowned, earrings drooping with her drawn-on eyebrows.
“How do you live with so many men? Must be exhausting!”
The ladies laughed. Charlie grunted, shivering at her thighs, unable to
answer. Where was the food? She poked a finger inside her pants under the
table. She was shaking. Should she go to the bathroom? Her mother was
laughing; tossing what little hair she had left, exposing some missed greys.
Who was she even trying to impress? Charlie wriggled her pinkie over the
fabric of her undies. It was sweaty. She thrust a little deeper. Just an itch.
Just a little itch. Lycra was smiling again at Charlie, an excruciating smear
of lipstick on her teeth. She stared at her. She shoved her finger further.
Past the fabric. Was she saying something? She was bloated. Hot. She
smeared her finger across her hole, and screamed. She whipped her hands
out of her pants. The ladies squawked, cutlery clattering.
“What’s wrong?” Her mother demanded, staring her up and down.
“Charlie? What are you trying to do?”
Charlie held up her pinkie finger, wet and red. A deep bite mark was sunk
into the tip.
“She bit me!” Charlie hissed towards her crotch.
“Oh please, don’t be so dramatic.”
“Dramatic?” Charlie spluttered.
“I told you I wanted a girls-only brunch, and it’s only fair that I asked
her along.”
“Yeah, Charlie,” her pussy chimed in, smoothing down her labia as she
settled on the seat opposite. “She invited me months ago, I kept trying to
tell you. I swear you’re just like a man, never listening.”
The girls all laughed in unison. Charlie stared in disbelief. Her pussy rolled
her eyes, flesh rising and falling. She smelt tangy and warm; it felt familiar
to Charlie, but too distant to really recall how. Charlie continued to stare.
She’d stopped itching.
“Why are you all laughing? Why did you even invite me if you were just
going to ask her instead?”
“Charlie, honey,” her mother began.
“We all thought it would just be easier,” her pussy interrupted. “Now you
can go home, you don’t need to hang out with us.”
Charlie opened her mouth, and then closed it. She looked at Lycra, who
looked away, and then to her mother, staring off to the side of the table.
Finally she stared at her pussy, comfortably rearranging her cutlery on the
napkin. Charlie stood and left without protest, finally not like other girls.
18

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Katrina Young
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Chan
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Art by Yesha
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Getting the Monkey Off
One’s Back
Why We Go Ape Over Women’s Body Hair
Words by Xenia Sanut
I have never shaved my legs. For the 20 years that I have been alive, I have
never – not once – put a razor, wax strip, scissors or any hair removal tool
to my legs. After reading that statement, you probably felt a mixture of
shock, disgust, indifference and resistance. I feel that way about my body
hair every single day.
I have a drawer full of leggings and tights because wearing dresses or
shorts in the summer makes me anxious. I still shave my armpits before
I wear a sleeveless shirt or bathing suit because I feel I would be judged
harshly for having visible body hair, and I have. A guy called me ‘Bigfoot’
once after he saw my leg hair. I have a tan complexion but thick, black
hair – it is not easy for me to hide it.
We call this hair, the kind that does not grow on our head, ‘excess hair’,
‘unwanted hair’ or ‘unfeminine’ and we have a billion-dollar industry
dedicated to its removal.
We see smooth and hairless women in films, TV shows, advertisements
and music videos. In fact, I was 14 when I first saw a woman in popular
culture with body hair. It was during a sex scene between Penelope
Cruz and Nicolas Cage in the 2001 film adaptation of Captain Corelli’s
Mandolin. I was not even paying attention to the movie because I was too
busy staring at the hair on Cruz’s armpits. My mind was going through a
million questions a minute. Why did they show her armpit hair? Why am I
so shocked to see her armpit hair? Why do we even care about body hair?
One theory is that our body hair helped keep our ancestors warm until
about three million years ago when the Earth warmed up and having
too much hair became a liability. As a result, we lost most of our hair
thanks to natural selection. Another theory comes from Charles Darwin
in his book Descent of Man, wherein he suggested that those who had less
hair among ancestors were more sexually desirable. However, before the
1920s, few women ever removed their leg, underarm or pubic hair and it
is believed that advertising campaigns and the popularity of photography
in the 1930s made body hair removal the norm.
If you are more concerned about the health benefits of hair removal, it is
a mixed bag. Our hairiest areas carry eccrine glands which are needed for
cooling the skin and apocrine glands which secrete pheromones, a body
odour that causes us to stink after a run but also helps us attract potential
mates. Body hair also regulates body temperature, keeps us warm in
colder climates and protects our body from outside elements. However,
shaving can cause ingrown hair and cuts, waxing can cause inflammation
and infection, laser hair removal can cause discolouration and permanent
scarring, and all can increase the risk of sexually transmitted diseases.
Removing pubic hair protects us from lice, but not removing it protects
genitalia from friction and infection - there is no clear winner here. But
what about the social reasoning behind it?
Many women begin removing their body hair during adolescence as it is
expected and almost unconsciously done. But in doing so, we internalise
many problematic societal expectations of beauty and what is considered
the norm.
Here is what one study has discovered about the perception
of hairy women compared to hairless women. They were described as:
• Less sexually attractive.
• Less intelligent.
• Less sociable.
• Less happy.
• Less positive.
Another study interviewed women who claim that hair removal is a
personal choice because it reduces body odour or feels less dirty, but
these perceptions were often subconsciously projected onto other women,
considering those who do not shave as “look[ing] like a man” or “lazy”
and “not taking care of [themselves]”. However, the views of these women
were influenced by negative comments from their own families and
partners, with a mother calling one of the participants a “dirty Mexican”
if she did not shave her leg hair, a boyfriend saying that she “needs his
permission to grow [her] body hair”, and a man telling a bisexual woman
that it would be difficult to get a girl or a guy if they grew out their body
hair. Different women also have different coloured body hair, bringing the
issue of race and ethnicity into the picture and the debate of whether
having lighter coloured body hair - a Caucasian genetic trait - means that
you are more easily accepted into society.
It is easy to change the topic, to call body hair trivial and say there are
other issues relating to women that we need to worry about. However, we
fail to recognise the discussions that arise when we talk about body hair,
and how it overlaps with not only sexism and racism, but also classism,
ageism and homophobia. These are conversations we need to keep having
and social issues we need to keep addressing, which is why I will be keeping
my hairy legs. My decision might be baffling to you, just like the existence
of Bigfoot, but at least he and I have something in common – we are
always trying to shake the monkeys off our back.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Black Girl Magic
Words by Sumaya .F
In my mother’s lap
Pain worse than a mousetrap
An expression of Black love
Sweeter than Agave
5 Hours more
Arms excruciatingly Sore
Till each strand from the head
Becomes neat and acceptable, just like mamma said
Just another battle
Of Black girl struggle
Hair such a mess
Worse than a bird’s nest
Looking like a troll
Ingrained into the soul
Never trusted nor respected
Better be straight like the socially accepted
Damaging the coils just to fit in
Hair now straight as a pin
Underneath curls frying, dying
Neglected slowly, becoming horrifying
Better to embrace the natural
Braids, Twists, Cornrows
Afros, Buns, Wash n Go
Black hair is like magic
More versatile than physics
In my mother’s lap
Hair no longer crap
Enjoying Serenity
Embracing my identity
For Black hair is what makes me
Me
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Common Black Women
Hairstyles
BUN
AFRO
BRAIDS
WASH N GO
TWISTS
TWIST OUT
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
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Art by Kajal K

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Gag Orders
A Survivor’s Perspective
Words by Natalia Zivcic
Cw. sexual assault
I was seventeen years old when I was raped. I didn’t even understand
what rape or consent was. I thought rape only happened in dark alleyways
with strange men. I didn’t know that rape could come from someone that
I knew, someone that I trusted. I believed my rapist when he said that no
one would believe me. I thought it was my fault. After all, I was drunk and
dressed provocatively. I never reported my rape to the police. I was scared
that no one would believe me.
It took me seven years of slowly opening up to friends and family to really
process what happened to me. I lost years of my life being scared, helpless,
and voiceless. Only now, at twenty-four years old, can I look back at what
happened to me with total clarity.
On February 7, changes were made to the Judicial Proceedings Reports
Act (Victoria). It is now an offence for sexual assault survivors to identify
themselves and share their story publicly. This applies to abusers who have
been convicted or where charges have been pressed. The premise of these
prohibitions is to protect survivors who do not wish to have their identity
disclosed by media reports. However, the unwelcome side effect is that
these laws have gagged survivors from coming forward and sharing their
own story. If survivors do want to share their story, they have to obtain a
court order; an expensive and time-consuming process.
Sexual assault offences are underreported and rarely result in a conviction,
with only 34 per cent of recorded sexual assault cases resulting in
any police progression at all (Crime Statistics Agency, February 2017). If
survivors don’t have the opportunity to share their story, these statistics
will get worse with time. Without hearing others stories, survivors will be
even further discouraged from coming forward. Unfortunately, the general
consensus is that reporting rape is a traumatising and fruitless activity. If
I had known that reporting the assault would be met with respect and
understanding instead of judgement and blame, I would have handled
things differently.
Reading the stories of other survivors helped me process my trauma. I
followed women on social media with stories like mine. They inspired me.
They gave me strength. I learnt that I wasn’t alone and it wasn’t something
to be ashamed of. I learnt that it wasn’t my fault. Without the opportunity
to read other women’s stories, I would never have had the courage to tell
my family and friends. Sharing my story with my loved ones facilitated
my healing and my growth, without which I would still be a scared and
sad little girl.
We need survivors to be loud. The louder we are, the more we can encourage
other survivors to report their abuse. Sharing your story is hard
enough: I am testament to that. But adding an additional hurdle through
this legislation will make it near impossible for people to come forward.
We will be forced to decide between paying an exorbitant fee or remaining
silent about our story.
As someone who, after years of silence, has only now found her voice,
these gag orders represent the years I lost. It’s disappointing that legislation
which was intended to protect survivors has instead stabbed us in the back.
If a survivor wishes to tell their story - that should be their choice. If they
don’t - that should also be their choice. The legislation is a misguided attempt
to honour this choice, and does not do justice to the rights survivors
should have.
I think, ultimately, the failure of this legislation is a result of obstinate
decision making with a disappointing lack of input from survivors. In trying
to ‘protect’ survivors from having their identity disclosed, the stigma
surrounding rape will be perpetuated.
After my rape I felt powerless, weak and vulnerable. I felt like I had no control
over my life, and I was a shadow of a person. I used to feel ashamed.
There is power in being vocal. It is healing. Speaking out publicly about
this issue has facilitated my growth in a way that I didn’t know was possible.
I never spoke out or pressed charges against my rapist. It turns out that
I’m lucky that I didn’t. If I had? I wouldn’t have been able to tell my story
today.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Kat Kennedy
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
A Letter to My Fellow
“Nice Guys”
Words by Anonymous
Dear brothers,
I’m whom some would call a “nice guy”. It’s not something I’m proud of,
and something even harder to admit. I’m not entirely sure why I wrote
this letter. I just felt if I did not speak up, many of us will continue to
go through what we are going through right now. If you do not wish to
associate yourself with me, I do not blame you. But please hear me out.
You can protest and lash at me after you are done reading.
Although the concept of a “nice guy” was never agreed upon, we have
gathered a bad rep. We are known to “finish last” in the dating scene.
A brief search online resulted in mostly negative information about us.
The typical “nice guy” is centred around the main theme that we are not
genuinely “nice”. Urban dictionary’s definition is “people (men or women)
who believe basic social expectations are currency for sex”. Or for my case,
love. This stems from our insecurity. Heartless Bitches International (a
defunct online forum for discussing issues regarding nice guys) summaries
why potential partners found the insecurity off-putting: “They are so
anxious to be liked and loved that they do things for other people to gain
acceptance and attention, rather than for the simple pleasure of giving.
You never know if a Nice Guy really likes you for who you are, or if he
has glommed onto you out of desperation because you actually paid some
kind of attention to him.”
I admit this is true for me. I am unconsciously in constant fear that people
around me do not like me, and will try overly hard please or gain their
affection. Agreeing with others had become my second nature. Took me
a very long time to discover it, and a lot more courage to accept that it is
a problem.
I hate myself for being in this predicament. For every girl I had a crush
on, I did my best to cater to her needs, listen to her, and try hard to
compliment her. Everything I can think of. But the relationship I hoped
for will not happen, and all I received for my “kindness” was the pain
of rejection. I would beat myself up and spend the lonely nights crying
myself to sleep, feeling extremely unfair that I was denied the romance
that I had been hoping for despite doing everything I thought was right.
Romantic rejections hit me the hardest and reinforces my low sense of
self-worth, that I am not worthy of being loved. It’s something that hurts
me very deeply because within me sits the fear that I would never find
someone to spend the rest of my life with while my friends start pairing
up and fade out of my life as they spend more time with their partners.
Or worse, my ex-crushes telling me that they wished their current partners
were more like me. I was confused and hopeless.
Sounds familiar? This is what insecurity is. And I know I sounded like
some entitled loser. But I know some of you think this way too.
Yet, to be fair to us, most did not choose to be like this. Through my
understanding and personal experience, I posit that these two conditions
might lead some to become a nice guy. One of them is the anxious
attachment style. Healthline notes that some signs of this condition are:
• low self-worth
• craving closeness and intimacy
• requiring frequent reassurance that people care about you.
The other is childhood emotional neglect, which according to Psychology
Today causes:
• feeling numb, empty, or cut off from your emotions, or you
feel unable to manage or express them
• low self-esteem
• extra sensitive to rejection
• believing you are deeply flawed, and that there’s something
about you that is wrong even though you can’t specifically
name what it is.
Since young, I was taught that my opinions and feelings did not matter.
To be liked, I needed to do what others wanted, which is why I have
this innate, almost desperate desire to please the people around me.
Somewhere within the deep recesses of my mind believes that being nice
to a girl means being “rewarded” with a relationship, even when it is basic
human decency to be respectful to others. And I get really upset when I
don’t get the “reward” that I thought I was promised. That is a false sense
of entitlement, and you should in no way punish someone for rejecting
your romantic advances.
To be fair, everyone has their own insecurities. But it will be overwhelming
for someone to nurse these insecurities for you, because you did not learn
to work on them. We are capable of managing it ourselves. We need to
re-learn that we are worthy of love, so long as we are clear of our identity
and who we are. We should start accepting our negative emotions like guilt
and shame, and getting rejected is not the end of the world. And as cliché
as it sounds, we need to start loving ourselves. Stop being a victim of our
upbringing and accept that we are imperfect mortals.
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, author of The Little Prince, once wrote: “Love
does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together
in the same direction.” Love, in this case, should be between parties who
mutually encourage each other to improve themselves, not one party
depending on the other for emotional support.
We need to be responsible for our own positive change, instead of waiting
for a beautiful damsel to change us for the better. Show others that you
are capable of positive change. Even though everyone is worthy of being
loved, we must not act as if the human race owes us a partner and the right
to procreate. Being kind to others is basic human decency, not something
that you should expect something in return for.
Go out there and do things that you yourself would be proud of doing.
Show yourself compassion when things don’t go your way. Pick yourself
up instead of blaming yourself for the mistakes you made. Get therapy
if you think you need it. Start a new hobby, read self-help books, write
gratitude journals, do mindfulness activities. Know that while you have the
right to pursue something, they also have the right not to love you back.
And most importantly, always remember that the more you develop
yourself the more likely you are to find the right person to spend the rest
of your life with.
Good luck.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Shrusti Mohanty
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Estudos domésticos
Poema de Tatiana Cruz
Studies of Domestic Work
Words by Tatiana Cruz
Forjei o grito de guerra
no inox da panela
no fundo da pia entupida
no barulho da cozinha,
chaleira que chia
comida na pressão.
Soldei a armadura a cada queimadura no fogão
Afiei os punhais,
acarinhando gatos,
alcançando a ração.
Ninando as crianças,
dessosei
o plano de guerra,
com a carne
em um das mãos.
I forged the battle cry
with the beat of a stainless steel pan,
next to the drain of the clogged sink,
surrounded by kitchen noise.
Whistling kettle,
cooking under pressure,
toasting meat,
I wielded the armour,
burning myself on the stove.
I sharpened my daggers
feeding the pets
with cats rubbing against my legs.
Lulling children,
I deboned the war plan
in the flesh.
Provando da pimenta,
dispensando o açúcar,
exagerando no sal,
tanto sal,
mastigando o silêncio a seco,
cozinhei em fogo brando
a rebelião.
Tasting pepper,
discarding sugar,
pinching salt,
much salt,
swallowing hard the silence
in slow-cooking,
I shaped the revolt.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Tatiana Cruz
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
The Waiting Room
A Love Letter to My Best Friend Who Broke Up with Her Nice Boyfriend
Words by Sarah Bartlett
I am a young woman who is choosing to be single indefinitely. I am okay
with this.
“You’re just closed off right now” is what my mum said to me this morning,
when I told her, “I’m so single, I couldn’t imagine my life with anyone
else.” Reflexively, I retaliated that I wasn’t, in fact, closed off. In hindsight,
I think my mum was right. I am closed off to people. Maybe that’s not
such a bad thing. Maybe it’s an active choice. Actually, it’s something I’m
quite happy to own.
In our patriarchal culture, being single is the waiting room to your eventual
‘destiny’, the time in between partners where you keep your eyes and
heart open until you find someone with whom you can enact your socially
prescribed life-plan. As a young woman, if I am not dating someone with
the eventual hope of marrying them and buying a house with them and
having two children with them, then I exist in a liminal nothingness. I am
in the temporary, never coming to rest in the permanent, inhabiting a void
of ‘somewhere else’. I am unsettled and unsettling.
I am unsettled because the space I occupy as a single woman is transient
and chaotic. I belong nowhere and to no one, and because of this, I can be
anyone. I am not defined by the roles of wife, mother, or girlfriend. Rather,
I define myself by what I want to do, see, believe, and want. When entering
into a monogamous heterosexual relationship, ‘I’ necessarily becomes
‘we’. Indeed, if we are in a relationship – one that is hurtling towards its
prescribed endpoint of marriage, house and babies – then we must take
all these (very significant) factors into consideration when making choices
about our lives. So, when in a relationship with a man, our present and
future choices are no longer solely our own. Rather, they are bound to
the needs and wants of someone else as we find ourselves in a perpetual
dialogue of compromise, falling into our role as a lover, and then probably
as a mother. Having a relationship with a man in a patriarchal society
necessarily chips away at my autonomy. It chips away at ‘me’.
As single women, we are therefore unsettling. We are unsettling because
the space we occupy when unattached to our boyfriend/husband/future
children is a space of radical freedom. It’s a space of self-determination
that was never meant for us. When we hold the freedom of being single,
we disrupt the centuries of patriarchal design which have told women that
we must be compliant to our husbands and our roles as caregivers. To be
single is to be subversive.
Even if, as young single women, we are free to be something other than
a wife or mother (because we are currently neither), we are always told
that this time will soon come to an end. We are told that inevitably our
life will be attached to other lives – that of our husband and children – in
incredibly demanding ways. On the other hand, being single means being
untethered and free to be and do however we please. Right now, I can
shape my life just for me. I do not need to bend and twist it to the will
of anyone else. And shouldn’t I be able to do this? It is my life, after all.
Patriarchy doesn’t want this freedom for us. Men can work harder, earn
more money, pursue their dreams more fiercely, and carry on their legacy
if we love them. This is because the burden of caring for him and a future
family will always fall more heavily on us as women. Our free domestic
and emotional labour are too valuable to both the economy and to the
maintenance of male privilege for it to be acceptable – or even conceivable
– that we would not provide these things.
Of course, feminism has brought many of us far, particularly those of
us who are otherwise privileged. Women’s consciousness is ever-growing.
Many of us are vocal about our refusal to be subservient to our husbands
and our agency in deciding whether or not to have a family. However, as
Mandy Lee Catron notes in ‘The Case Against Marriage’, our occidental
culture continues to venerate marriage as the most desirable life
path, and we persist in positioning marriage as the most central form of
relationship. Moreover, women still disproportionately bear the burden of
domestic labour in heterosexual partnerships. Clearly, normative social
expectations for women continue to conform to the expected endpoint
of ‘husband and house’. Even if our progressive bubble cheers on dreams
of independence, such feminist ideas remain radical in the mainstream.
Overwhelmingly, we continue to believe that ‘good’ women are givers,
creators, nourishers and lovers. We are told that a good woman is self-sacrificing.
She is valorised because she always gives her body and her time to
other people over herself. She would do anything for the people she loves,
and she would never ask for thanks, because she doesn’t do it for praise or
validation. She does it because she is a good woman.
This means that we can never be the taker, the one who pursues dreams
which are solely our own, without being demonised or pathologised. The
pursuit of a life which is just our own, on our own, is seen as an insolent
eschewing of the responsibilities of care we owe to our present and future
families. We are ‘bad’ women unworthy of celebration. We are taking
from the places where we are supposed to give. If I am on my own, I am
cold, selfish, damaged, unnatural, wrong.
“You’re just closed off right now,” Mum tells me. But I’ll come around. I’ll
be made right soon when I meet the right man.
“Don’t worry,” she soothes.
Disappointingly, owing to internalised misogyny, other women also do not
want us to be single. They write listicles warning us against the “10 things
that drive guys away”, benevolently informing us of all the ways we must
edit ourselves to remain date-able, fuckable, marriageable. They won’t let
us get our tubes tied because we “might change our mind”. They tell us
we should see a psychologist to work on our ‘attachment issues’. They tell
us to stop eating that, start wearing this, to alter, cut, shrink, to make sure
that we glow from within, but to make sure that our skin glows too. Men
don’t like that, do this instead. You have to, if you want the happy ending
of love, purpose and contentment. We’re reassured that when it happens,
we’ll understand what all the beautification and supplication was for, and
why our singledom was only ever meant to be temporary. There’s always
the promise that something better waits for me outside of the strange abyss
through which I currently float, unattached and uncommitted – if only I’d
open myself up to it.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
But is there something better? In his (in)famous Netflix special, Jigsaw –
which he claims has ended over 34,000 relationships – comedian Daniel
Sloss reminds us that real, true, ‘soulmate’ love is an anomalous miracle,
and it is a harmful delusion to believe that we all should be so lucky. Moreover,
to meet a man who is willing to dismantle his patriarchal socialisation
also seems to be a rarity. I fear that it is more likely I will end up at my
husband’s boots, than by his side in equal partnership.
We as women idealise and pursue ‘husband and house’ because it is easier
than acknowledging an uncomfortable truth: that our freedom as single
women probably has an expiration date. We don’t want to reckon with the
fact that the stories we’ve been told about love won’t always come true. If
we admit that being single is sometimes the better option, we would need
to acknowledge our cognitive dissonance between the idea of romance
and the frequently disappointing reality of heterosexual relationships.
This is why we see being single as the waiting room, a state which necessarily
has an endpoint where my knight in shining armour stands. He’s just
outside of my peripheral vision but he’s there, he’s definitely just around
the corner. He’s ready to carry me to stability, to settle me, to consummate
my ultimate purpose as wife, mother, woman. Finally, I’ll be freed from my
liminal, solitary, chaotic reality. I’ll find comfort and security in the arms
of a man, the walls of a house, the clarity of direction.
Of course, monogamy and children may bring us joy. Perhaps all I really
do want is to find comfort in the suburban ordinary. I also do not want
to suggest that many women who are married with children entered into
such a life without agency, or that they aren’t genuinely content. There
are, of course, the lucky ones. But I’m sceptical of this life being framed
as the only desirable or fulfilling option, simply because we do not want
to imagine an alternative. The sky-high divorce rate and epidemic of
poor mental health amongst women suggest that “the problem that has
no name” Betty Freidan elucidated long ago in The Feminine Mystique is
far from vanquished. When I lie in bed next to my husband twenty years
from now, exhausted from balancing parenting, cooking and cleaning with
some kind of half-career (because I surely won’t be able to do it all), will I
feel fulfilled and sleep peacefully? Or will I, like Betty in 1963, turn restlessly
knowing that something is missing? Will I yearn for something more,
something different?
It scares me how uncritically I was sleep-walking into a life that I’m no
longer sure I even want. I am tired of being told that a monogamous,
heterosexual relationship – and the life-baggage that comes with it – is
my unequivocal destiny. We must reject the mandate that our singledom
is liminal, temporary or undesirable. Right now, and indefinitely, I want
to embrace the chaos, ride the exhilarating fear of the unknown, and fall
into the fulfilment of doing
Whatever.
I.
Want.
Art by Kat Kennedy
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Joshua Nai
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Joshua Nai
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
This
This feels like courage
Like life falling out from my fingertips in rain
droplets
I
I am the sound of rain
On the earth as it pulsates
Brazen and breathing
Hung up while speaking
and listening
and learning
Learning how to be
how to be woman
powerful
unyielding
In fullness
The Power of Womanhood
Words by Meg Ruyters
full
full
full
I am full of this all
this sunlight
As I lay back in the grass
Green blades on my cheek
Tracing my jawline
The arms of womanhood holding me
pulling me
pulling me
down
down
down
and into its being
unblinking
Eyes wide now
This stage is open
Its walls my arena
Bouncing
bouncing
The voices of womanhood loud now
Measured and brave
unflinching
This
This feels like becoming
like realisation
Realisation of the power of womanhood
of adoration
For the women who yearn
who fight
who love
who triumph
The raindrops are louder now
they echo
they carry weight
My being alive
alive
alive and desirous for more
For being
being
being
is the power of womanhood
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Mel
39

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
WAP: Is Sexual Pleasure
Still Reserved for Men?
Words by Juliette Capomolla
Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion’s ‘WAP’ is arguably the most
controversial song of 2020. In case you missed it, WAP stands for Wet Ass
Pussy, an acronym which has caused quite a stir amongst conservatives
and archaic individuals.
Aside from the prudish shock-horror surrounding the lyrics of the
song, fans and supporters of the song have criticised YouTube for their
censorship of the music video. According to a video Cardi posted to
Instagram, YouTube reportedly felt the song was, in Cardi’s words, “too
goddamn nasty”. In the music video, the rappers can be heard saying “wet
and gushy” instead of wet ass pussy.
Despite the controversy, the song has continued to break records since
its release at the start of August. The music video has almost surpassed
130 million views on YouTube. It marked the biggest opening week of
sales by a female rapper and the biggest streaming week by a female artist
this year. It managed to sell over 500,000 units in the US in its first week,
nearly becoming a gold record. WAP is the first female collaboration to
spend multiple days at #1 on the US Spotify Charts, and it is the first
female rap song to top the Australian charts ever – and those are just some
of the records.
It is undeniable that WAP is a ground-breaking song for women and music
in general. So why has it caused so much controversy?
Indisputably, the song is filthy. With lyrics like “bring a bucket and a mop
for this wet ass pussy”, “I want you to park that big Mack truck right in this
little garage” and “gobble me, swallow me, drip down the side of me”, it’s
not hard to see why it has caused a riot amongst conservatives.
Remarkably (but not surprisingly), the song managed to make its way
into American politics. James Bradley, a Republican running for a
Congressional seat in California, tweeted the following in response to the
song:
“Cardi B & Megan Thee Stallion are what happens when
children are raised without God and without a strong
father figure. Their new “song” The #WAP (which I heard
accidentally) made me want to pour holy water in my ears
and I feel sorry for future girls if this is their role model!”
DeAnna Lorraine, another Republican and former congressional
candidate from California, tweeted a similar sentiment, saying:
“Cardi B & Megan Thee Stallion just set the entire female
gender back by 100 years with their disgusting & vile “WAP”
song.”
She followed up a discussion on the topic saying the song should be
banned.
Unsurprisingly, not only did people take issue with two women claiming
their sexuality, but also Cardi and Meghan’s race.
Errol Webber, yet another republican running for California, tweeted:
“That new #WAP song by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion
is exactly everything that is wrong with mainstream hiphop
culture. It’s like one big advertisement for promiscuity.
Encourages wild & unsafe sex. Then you wonder why
Planned Parenthood targets Black communities? Sick!”
Evidently, it appears people are taking issue with the fact that two black
women are empowered by their sexuality and are reclaiming it from men
who have used it to their advantage for decades. Since when do politicians
comment on the lyrics and music videos of rap artists? This composition
of two black women discussing their vaginas and sex is surprisingly still too
outlandish and un-ladylike in 2020.
Looking at the landscape of American politics demonstrates that female
sexuality, and perhaps women in general, are still expected to be ‘ladies’
and subdued. We only need to look at the retraction of abortion rights in
2019 across many US states, and the treatment of significant females in
the government such as Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, to understand how far
we still have to go with women’s rights. I think it’s important to grasp that
the outrage that WAP generated represents a much larger issue than what
some may contend is an insignificant music video.
Like me, Cardi was also surprised by the reaction. In an interview with
i-D, Cardi said:
“I’ve been really surprised by the reaction, honestly. I
knew it was gonna have a big impact, I guess, because of
me and Megan. But I didn’t know it was going to be so
controversial. I never expected that, you know, conservatives
and Republicans were going to be talking about the song. I
didn’t think the song was as vulgar as they said it was, you
know? Like, I’m so used to it. I’m such a freak that I didn’t
think it would be a big deal. I didn’t think people would think
it was so out of this world…”
Truly, this song really isn’t starkly different to what we’ve heard from male
rappers for decades. Lil Wayne literally has a song called Pussy Monster
where he says pussy 27 times - yes, I counted. In Jason Derulo and 2
Chainz’ 2013 hit “Talk Dirty”, the line “her pussy’s so good I bought her a
pet” is not censored in the official music video on YouTube.
Men have been talking about their dicks for decades uncriticised and
praised. Even more, they have been using the word pussy in their songs
without a stir. Why is it that men can use and profit off of female sexuality,
and often the abuse of female sexuality, but two empowered women
cannot do the same? Not only are we much more comfortable with a man
talking about his sex, but they are given the right to talk about female sex
much more readily than women themselves.
Perhaps this idea stems back from what we learn in school – sex is for
male pleasure, and women are simply ‘baby-carriers’. After all, how can
a woman enjoy sex if she’s never been taught that sex is equally for her
enjoyment, too? Thankfully, we haven’t heard much outrage from fellow
artists – in fact, there’s been a lot of support for the two rappers. Yet,
perhaps what this demonstrates is that those in power are still not prepared
for women to take ownership of themselves, their bodies and their agency.
And what about Cardi’s child: what will she think when she grows up to see
this? My response is this – who cares? No one is asking Lil Wayne or Jason
Derulo what their hypothetical children will think of their music. Cardi B
is well entitled to raise her child as she sees fit, especially if she wants to
raise a sexually empowered female. This sort of criticism only perpetuates
the narrative that women should spend their whole lives preparing for
marriage and motherhood, an archetype that is well beyond its due date.
Evidently, the shamelessness and confidence that WAP oozes is still
reserved for men in the music industry, and perhaps in broader society.
Nonetheless, perhaps the surge of female artists embracing their sexuality
like Cardi B and Meghan Thee Stallion, amongst other big names like
Nicki Minaj and Beyonce, represents the beginning of a cultural shift. One
can only hope.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Shrusti Mohanty
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Katrina Young
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Katrina Young
43

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
One Hour of Outdoor Exercise
Words by Jessica McCarthy
Ordinarily, I would walk to the beat of songs in my head
ordinarily...
that hazy old-world reverie
In August 2020, I walk with cotton
delightfully snug on my face
relishing a veil between
the world and I
mouthing the words to songs in secret.
children search enshrouded faces
for signs of life
old men can’t tell me to smile
at this masquerade ball
But then worry
I said hello too quietly
rude, they must have thought
uptight
aloof
unfit
they were looking at you funny
... get over yourself
In August 2020, I walk to rhythms of voices, almost friends
throw myself down the rabbit hole
greedily devour anecdotes
count red flags circling soccer pitches
swell with epiphanies
as I pass my primary school
Netball courts.
old, familiar shame rolls head to toe
an early sting
from the beehive to come
I wonder if I ever left here
In August 2020, I grieve
for the year I was supposed to live with my whole body
for helicopter parenting my youth
for last times unacknowledged
for old habits resurfacing
for closure
becomes tainted
when common interests dare unite us
we’ve stolen back the ammunition
in a year where pleasure is pleasure and guilt obsolete
I surrender to the sounds of anticipated spring
‘Lost in the memory’
I lose myself in the song
my memory is not an abyss
but a museum
alive with visceral cringes
snatching unexpected
see my eyes meadow-wide
through your searing cerulean stare
I was
sincere
guileless
mortifying
‘cause you weren’t mine to lose’
But I painted that tableau
and I can paint it again with
gentler colours
In August 2020, l catch glimpses of myself
through my own gaze, not theirs.
build a roof to block out
that crippling bird’s eye of misogyny
I am my own muse
Aphrodite if I choose
inflorescent
opalescent
brewing cups of magnificence
I follow dry creek beds
chasing dappled sunlight through the trees
wattle sings warmth to
voluptuous eucalypts
and princess prunus blossoms
I hang love letters on clouds
bound for my future self
yearn to float amongst those
rows and flows of angel hair
and reify my daydreams
Arms ache to gather friends
hands burn for a microphone
fingers itch to share hot chips
tears mist, glasses foggy
In August 2020, I listen to ‘august’ by Taylor Swift
every day
I’ve forgotten to pretend.
‘basic’ doesn’t exist without those guys around to be ‘deep’
when anything touched by the feminine
My feet console me with their optimistic stride
there’s always a book on the bedside
flowers to press
letters to write
rain, chimneys and coffee to smell
infinite love to lade upon the souls of my soul
Healing
hope
home again
44
Art by Maria Chamakala

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Kat Kennedy
45

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
An Ode to My Sparkly
Pink Diary
Words by Tiffany Forbes
I’ve always known I wanted to be a writer.
From the moment my stubby little HB pencil hit the page in grade one, to the happiness that now resides
in intricately stringing words together as the world around me completely falls away, I’ve always known.
Whilst my friends walked into school with Bratz dolls and the latest Littlest Pet Shop figures, I clutched
none other than a sparkly pink diary adorned with blocky text that read “DO NOT ENTER”. The pages
that followed were littered with scribbled diary entries and short stories only the hyperactive imagination
of an eight-year-old could manage to conjure.
Back then, writing was a place for words left otherwise unsaid. A place undefined by rules and overthinking.
A place fuelled by my own fleeting thoughts and unbridled childhood curiosity.
When an artist paints, they say a picture tells a thousand words. But when a writer writes, words aren’t
just letters on a page anymore. They’re a canvas of their own: characters coloured with life, a portal into
a different world.
As I grew older, this comfort evaporated. High school made my prose rigid. Social confines left my
imagination battered. And deep-set imposter syndrome made me question the legitimacy of anything
I put to paper. Each piece I wrote swiftly compared to those around me and critiqued until I’d drag it
straight to the trash icon.
Writing wasn’t a solace anymore, it became a chore. Words that once flowed freely were stagnant and
overthought.
Confiding in a friend, I explained how writing began to feel suffocating because my work was never
sophisticated enough, my ideas not original enough, nor my style the same calibre as everyone else’s.
“But Tiff, isn’t that the point?” she deadpanned.
Someone out there will want to read your writing even if it’s not fucking Shakespeare. Someone out there
will want to read your writing because they like your randomly inserted Gordon Ramsay jokes. Someone
out there will read your work for exactly what you want to change about it. Someone somewhere will
resonate with you. And there, in that, lies the beauty of it all.
So here I am bearing my soul, because writing doesn’t always have to be some nuanced carefully strung
narrative, writing doesn’t always have to be a symphony of words joined together in perfect unison.
Writing can be a raw 4am ramble finally coming to fruition, messy thoughts etched out in barely coherent
lines, a love letter stained with tears and one too many broken promises. Writing can be anything you
damn well want it to be.
So here’s to friends who know you better than you know yourself, ditching the toxicity of comparison and
that fucking sparkly pink diary. I owe you one.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
The Circus
Words by Eliot Walton
Come, come, come and see –
welcome to my menagerie:
we’ve got bulls, bears, bats and cats
snakes, drakes and huge mistakes!
That’s our host, that one there -
the clown with the purple hair
painted smile, upturned frown
peaked with a jester’s crown
This is one we could not cage
So, we built for her a stage
The curtains part and forth is she
Incarnation of enmity
Her lips a black, her gown is white
Her locks are dark as absent light
The central spot upon her shines
Marking her in shadowed lines
“I see you there, at the back
I see you and all you lack.
Do you think that you can hide
from that which lives inside?
Do you think that I will go
just because you say so?”
She steps as close as I am now
Hand to your frightened brow
Keep close to me, tonight
never wander out of sight.
Of all the multitudes contained
within the finite width of brain
Hush falls beneath her eyes
as each in the crowd espies
the whitened bone of her hand
reaching for her fleshy band
“I see you now and all you lack
there is no turning back
I see you now and all you say
there is no other way
We find the first by an arrow
directing to a silver sparrow
collecting thoughts to build a nest
Never once is he at rest
He’ll catch a thought by the tail
and pull and pull to no avail
frail thoughts are his prey
desperately he works away
down - down and down once more
until the thoughts are a roar
hide your head between your hands
rock and rock until he lands
then at last you are free
from the spiral Anxiety
Oh - to you this seems a bore
You want something a little more?
Then follow the crowd’s steady flow
it leads to our central show:
Lifting off her outward face
Laying bare her own disgrace
Thumb-thick maggots crawl beneath
her grinning – grey skeleton teeth
A nightmare taken flesh and form
Dysphoria – at last is born
Her viper-hair whips around
To its place the crowd is bound
No magic can keep them here
Nor threat, promise or fear
They choose to stay and to stare:
At the woman with serpent hair
She raises up her arms of bone
And calls out to you alone
Strides across the silent crowd
Then, to you, asks aloud:
I see you know as you will be
I see you in the menagerie.
You cannot hide from me now
No place to run, no oath to vow
You and me on this stage
You and me on this page
You and me here together
Dancing for them forever
So come – come – come and see
Here’s your place in the menagerie.”
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Linda Chen
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Linda Chen
49

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
For Our Eyes Only
The Balance between National Security and Press Freedom is Tipping
Dangerously Toward Secrecy
Words by Greg Hunt
Democracy, so say the political theorists, is predicated on a lively Fourth
Estate acting as a critical watchdog of government. The free press, in
holding elected officials accountable to the public they represent,
is the cornerstone and lynchpin of free society. That’s the theory, anyway.
In Australia, the practice is quite different. In Australia, the free press is
under threat.
First, some context.
Dominating the headlines in September was the news that Cheng Lei, an
Australian-Chinese reporter at CGTN, had been detained by Chinese
authorities. Furore also erupted when Hong Kong police raided the offices
of Apple Daily and detained Jimmy Lai, a notorious Beijing critic,
in August.
These events give us cause to reflect on the fact that the same kind of
nebulous charges that justified these crackdowns – undermining national
security – were invoked right here in Australia only last year to justify
the well-publicised AFP raids on Annika Smethurst’s home and the
offices of the ABC.
What we also learned last week was confirmation by AFP Commissioner
Reece Kershaw, under questioning from Senator Hanson-Young in a
Senate inquiry into press freedom, that Dan Oakes, whose reporting
along with Sam Clark on the Afghan Files triggered the ABC raid, may
still face prosecution.
That’s worth repeating. A journalist, on home soil, faces the prospect
of going to jail for doing his job. This is at a time when at least four
individuals – Witness K, Bernard Collaery, Richard Boyle and David
McBride – face lengthy jail sentences for blowing the whistle.
Never mind that the public has a right to know about serious allegations
of war crimes committed by Australian SAS soldiers in Afghanistan,
or plans to extend to the Australian Signals Directorate NSA-like powers
to spy on domestic populations, or rorting of the ATO, or that
Australian intelligence agents bugged Timor-Leste officials to get
leverage in 2004 treaty negotiations.
In the eyes of the government, what matters is that whistle-blowers
and journalists are not above the law and that their conduct was illegal.
Perhaps this attitude from our politicians explains why Australia slid five5
places in the World Press Freedom Index this year (now ranked 26 th ).
How did it come to this?
In the wake of the 9/11 terror attacks and Bali bombings, politicians came
under increased political pressure to fortify national security. Since 2001,
in a climate of “convenient bipartisanship”, an estimated 85 pieces of
National Security legislation have been introduced (an average of one law
every three months for 20 years).
This has led to a proliferation of “secrecy laws”: sweeping provisions
that impose harsh penalties for sharing or receiving “unauthorised
information”. In 2009, the Human Rights Law Commission identified
506 such laws. Examples include Section 35P of the ASIO Act (1979) and
Section 122 of the Criminal Code (1995).
Australia’s burgeoning national security legislation makes it one of the
most secretive democracies in the world, even among the Five Eyes
nations.
Arcana Imperii
These laws, we are told, exist to keep us safe. They are necessary to combat
terrorism, foreign interference and espionage.
Whatever the spirit of these secrecy laws, the problem is that they are
being used by politicians to intimidate journalists and whistle-blowers.
And this is having a chilling effect on legitimate public interest journalism.
Not only does a journalist risk going to jail for merely receiving government
secrets, but the authorities can use these laws to secretly obtain Journalist
Information Warrants (JIW). These grant them access to a journalist’s
metadata for the purposes of identifying their sources. This may mean
that, with whistle-blowers deterred from leaking to journalists, important
stories may never make it into the public domain.
While internal avenues for reporting wrongdoing in public administration
do exist (such as the Commonwealth Ombudsman or the Inspector-
General departments), there is no requirement that investigations be
made public, and genuine complaints can be easily be brushed aside as
opposition to genuine government “policy”.
The reason we ought to be worried about all this is that the culture of
secrecy increases the risk that politicians can use sweeping secrecy laws
to conceal or cover up corruption, maladministration or abuse of power.
Let the Watchdog off its leash
Power, as Lord Acton’s adage reminds us, can corrupt those who wield it.
It is for this reason that the unfettered kind of power afforded to our elected
politicians by secrecy laws, justified under the pretext of safeguarding
national security and keeping us safe, is problematic. Designed to conceal
from public scrutiny the inner workings of government, the exercise of
these powers should be subject to oversight. This is why the scrutiny
afforded by “accountability journalism” becomes so vital: press
freedom acts as a bulwark to guard against abuse of office.
Instead, probing into government secrets – even when it’s done in the
public interest to expose illegality or wrongdoing – has effectively been
criminalised in this country.
Of course, balancing secrecy and transparency in government is a delicate
act. Certain types of information, like operational details about military or
intelligence activities that would risk harm or death to individuals if made
public, should be strictly off-limits.
But the police raids last year highlighted what some academics have
been saying for years: that Australia is on its way to becoming a quasipolice
state.
To restore public trust, we need a new regime of openness and
transparency that enshrines the special place of watchdog journalism in
our society. The paradigm shift will take time, but legislating an express
public interest disclosure exemption (rather than defence) for journalists
and whistle-blowers in respect to secrecy laws, and introducing a UK-style
contestable warrant system, would be good places to start.
It is a cliché to say that democracy dies in darkness. But without reform,
our government risks being shrouded in secrecy. And this is a bad thing
for democracy.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Shrusti Mohanty
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Jayden Crozier
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
We Shall Isolate From
The Teachers
Words by Lordy May
Even though large tracts of Victoria and many other Australian
states have fallen or may fall into the grip of coronavirus, and the
odious apparatus of lockdown, we shall stay inside till the end…
We shall isolate at home.
We shall isolate on our screens and iPhones.
We shall isolate and maintain one-point-five metres distance when
in pairs.
We shall defend our State, whatever the economic costs may be.
We shall isolate from the teachers.
We shall isolate from the fines.
We shall isolate and stay off the streets.
We shall isolate at the tills.
We shall never be an offender!
And even if, which I do not for a moment believe, this State or
a large part of it were infected with COVID-19, then our health
workers, armed and guarded with PPE, would carry on the struggle
until, in God’s good time, the scientists, with all their knowledge
and expertise, step forth to the rescue and liberate us with a
vaccine.
Art by Shrusti Mohanty
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Are We Seeing a New Class of Inves
Stock Should Be One of Caution Rath
Words by Ariel Horton
Large-scale car manufacturing is one of the most difficult industries
to break into. Most of the well-known car companies are decades old
with thousands of workers, factories all over the world, and Research
& Development (R&D) budgets in the billions. So when Elon Musk laid
out his ground plan for creating electric vehicles, disrupting the entire
automotive industry and doing it by going head-on against every other car
manufacturer in the world, it seemed he was setting himself up for certain
failure. To those in the industry, it wasn’t just David versus Goliath but as
if David was fighting Goliath, Goliath’s family and Goliath’s friends all
at once. It was set to fail, another startup doomed to bankruptcy within
a couple of years. Their predictions were right but they were missing one
thing: the absurdly confident investors of Tesla.
Tesla went public very early and used the stock market to finance its
operations. This meant the livelihood and success of Tesla was, even in
its infancy, tied to the performance of its stock. In simple terms, valuation
can be explained with the comparison of buying a carrot and buying the
farmhouse that grew it. Let me explain.
and airliners alike. The people in the room number in the millions - some
professionals, others doing it for fun, others gambling for that big break.
The stock market is a web of interactions that touches every single person
on Earth, whether they are aware of it or not. But that implies that the
stock market must be this super chaotic place in which no one is really
aware of what drives prices on a day-to-day basis, news or no news. There
are too many people in the room all with their own opinion to get a clear
picture of how much this farm is worth.
But enough of the wider stock market, let’s move onto the curious case
of Tesla. In the financial space, Tesla, otherwise known by its stock ticker
TSLA, is known to be quite the eccentric stock. Its movements are violent
and jerky, with swings of 10% a regular occurrence. These swings are
a rare sight for a stock with a market capitalisation of this size, where
daily change is in the order of a few percent. (Market capitalisation = the
number of shares times its current price.)
Imagine you are in a room with ten other people and you have a table in
the centre with a carrot. Now each of you are trying to buy this carrot but
you don’t know how much you should pay. Perhaps with a carrot you can
make a lovely stew and so the carrot is worth more to you. Or perhaps
you’d look at the cost of production, how much water was used to grow
the carrot, and the land it was grown on for instance. These methods have
been tried and tested ways of determining the value of something for
thousands of years.
A physical good is relatively easy to value but an entity like the farm is a
lot more difficult. Consider a portion of the factors that go into such a
valuation: the farmhouse, the farmer’s skill and labour, the ground, the
costs, the revenue, the contacts and the possibility of the future. It sounds
a bit more difficult, and it is, but we’re not quite at the stock market yet. To
finish this analogy, consider that you are not valuing the farm to purchase
it from the farmer; instead, the other nine people in the room each own
a portion of the farm and are trying to sell it to you. Each seller has their
own costs, their own goals and their own information. They each have a
different amount of money and they’ve all been educated differently. One
of them knows the farmer, four of them are standing in a huddle talking
about the climate, and the others are all looking through the same financial
documents trying to glean an edge over everyone else in the room.
Now we have a semblance of how the stock market works, but even this is
a simplified example. We’re not just valuing one farm but hundreds, and
not just farms but engineering firms, supermarkets, banks, automakers
What really drives the conversation of Tesla is its ability to defy expectation
and maintain ludicrous growth of its stock. Tesla was first listed on the
New York Stock Exchange (NYSE) in 2010, at $3.40 USD (split-adjusted).
The price right at its stock split, on the 31st of August, was $498 (splitadjusted);
if you bought $1,000 in shares back in June of 2010 when it
was first listed and sold just after the split, then that $1,000 would be
worth $146,450. A stock split, for those unaware, is when each share is
split into several pieces and are individually cheaper as a result. In Tesla’s
case they did a one-to-five split, so if you owned ten shares then after the
split it would be fifty shares. Stock splits are used to allow more investors
to purchase shares, otherwise a single share can be in the thousands of
dollars or in the case of a Berkshire Hathaway Class A share, can put you
back $329,500.
That is unprecedented growth for any stock, especially over ten years. You
might be led into thinking that they must be selling cars like candy and
making billions, but Tesla has never had a profitable year. And yet despite
producing one thirtieth of the cars Toyota makes, and one tenth of the
revenue, it is the world’s most valuable automaker by a large margin.
Unlike the carrot example, where our ten investors have used what they
know about carrots and farming to value the farm, Tesla seems to run on
pure speculation of its future profits and value. With low assets, high R&D
costs, growing debt, constant issues with production and controversies
surrounding their figurehead Elon Musk, the company does not seem
healthy to the financially savvy investor. Most institutional investors were
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
tor? And Why the Story of Tesla’s
er Than Wild Success
and are wary of Tesla as an investment, sticking to less risky and overall
more healthy companies. Tesla does not follow any of the normal stock
valuation techniques, otherwise it surely would’ve filed for bankruptcy
long ago.
They manage to do this by selling more than just a car. They’re selling a
dream. They’re selling camaraderie in a counter culture. They’re selling
you the feeling of doing something good for the planet and at its head
is a somewhat likeable twitter aficionado who acts more like a rock star
than a top CEO. Tesla doesn’t need to fight investors to raise capital for
growing debt repayments. They need only announce a new plan for the
next ten years, with almost no substance, and the stock soars. Musk can
go on Twitter and say that Tesla will be making a joke flamethrower and
the stock will go up. Tesla can say that their production numbers are lower
than their target and the stock will still go up. In many ways, the company is
marketing itself as a product rather than a company that makes products.
Their ad hoc marketing campaign has gone viral, with myriad YouTube
channels, Facebook groups and Instagramers recommending Tesla off the
basis of its future profits, its future production numbers, its future factories.
The way Tesla is spoken about on these platforms sounds similar to a
soccer fanatic raving about their team in a pub. Each proclaimer will flit
around topics but avoid fundamental financial analysis. They often talk
about how good a product each electric vehicle is but almost never talk
about the profit margin nor the issues with ramping production. Estimates
are always highly optimistic and a best-case scenario.
However, this is not to say that the institutional investors were wrong
in their predictions for Tesla. Several times the company scraped past
bankruptcy with only the steadfastness of its investors keeping the
company afloat, a situation where most others would collapse. This would
have led to a scenario where most investors would lose not some, but
nearly all of their money due to the debts of the company.
But what is this new class of investors, these people who like Icarus fly so
close to the sun? To answer this we need to take the focus off Tesla for a
moment and instead turn to a company that a good deal of you probably
haven’t heard of. It’s called Robinhood and it’s one of many newly created
mobile-based trading platforms in the US bringing huge numbers of
young Americans into the stock market for the first time. Mobile-based
trading apps have been coming under fire due to their almost game-like
appearance and lack of education for their users. For instance, it’s very
easy to start trading options on Robinhood which allow the investor to
lever out their money and create scenarios where they go deeply into debt.
Several new investors have gambled (for it is far closer to gambling than
investing) away their savings, some refinancing their home loans to have
more cash, which has been lost due to the very risky nature of option
trading. There have been several stories of new investors going so far into
debt that they will likely be repaying for decades.
Options trading around Tesla only exacerbated the issue allowing
speculators to double or triple their returns over just holding the stock. But
more worrying is when the stock will begin to tip the other way. For a lot of
these investors Tesla can only go up, and they are so highly levered that if
the stock begins to fall they might lose everything they own. As of just after
the stock split, Tesla is not the golden goose anymore. This could be due to
the Fremont plant reopening in contrast to state law and spreading several
cases of coronavirus, or perhaps the cash crunch that’s hitting middle and
lower-class Americans hard, as their unemployment rate stays worryingly
high. Investors also could be getting spooked as they come into their first
recession as an investor.
In any case, this downward trend has caused Tesla to lose a huge amount
of value in the order of approximately 25% in about a week and a half.
Leverage on an options trade varies but 5x is not unusual, so a theoretical
$1,000 bet and Tesla’s 25% drop would mean that you would now be
in debt by $250. There are options trading methods that can increase
this leverage, and worse yet trading apps like Robinhood offer short
term trading loans. For an easy reference as to why leverage like this is so
impactful, the 2008 housing crisis led to a financial collapse due to overleveraged
banks. A trading app like Robinhood and individual investors
will not be able to cause anything of that magnitude, but they can easily
lever themselves into their own financial ruin especially when chasing
losses. To put this in perspective of how successful trading like this can
be, 80% of all new day traders (which is a large portion of these new
investors) will lose money, only 10% will make money and the final 10%
will just break even.
So what does the stock market of tomorrow look like with higher than ever
numbers of young people entering the market on mobile-based platforms,
listening to bad financial advice from a multitude of small influencers on
all their favourite social media platforms, or worse yet a meme? I worry
that too many new investors will be drawn to highly risky stocks like Tesla,
leveraging their cash and ultimately forgetting that stocks do not always
go up. But with interest rates lower than ever, a shrinking middle class and
the allure of getting that one lucky break, examples like Tesla will become
a shining beacon to all those who wish to pay off their home loan, student
debts or just want to get rich quick.
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Art by Kajal K
Art by Tanya Jain

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Rasa Islam
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Winding Paths
Words by Cody B Strange
strange the things one finds inside their navel
curt, frazzled end of unending long string
I haul out yard on yard, not able
to match the yarn in hand as it’s shaking
chamber walls breathe, expand ‘til space pitch-black
guiding cord nowhere in sight, nerves shred
chamber walls breathe, contract ‘til vacuum packed
teeth itch, flee down nearest stony ingress
curt, frazzled end of unending long string
ragged naval, blueish, almost azure
to match the yarn in hand as it’s shaking
I must dig deeper, that much is for sure
ragged naval, blueish, almost azure
tether myself Theseus wrapped ‘round chair
I must dig deeper, that much is for sure
stretch my navel wider, peer in and glare
tether myself Theseus wrapped ‘round chair
inching questing hands into skin-scented black
stretch my navel wider, peer in and glare
forearms swathed as I writhe into my crack
inching questing hands into skin-scented black
head slurped greedy into cavernous mire
forearms swathed as I writhe into my crack
waist gobbled whole, path back spins thinning wire
head slurped greedy into cavernous mire
peach-fuzz light blooms, shingly antre looms
waist gobbled whole, path back spins thinning wire
tilling gaze unearths channels who mushroom
peach-fuzz light blooms, shingly antre looms
hello echoes louder than I did squeak
tilling gaze unearths channels who mushroom
each path dollies as wandering I peek
hello echoes louder than I did squeak
chamber walls breathe, expand ‘til space pitch-black
each path dollies as wandering I peek
chamber walls breathe, contract ‘til vacuum packed
guiding cord nowhere in sight, nerves shred
closing sides break body to crawl afresh
teeth itch, flee down nearest stony ingress
rock-sewn borders give way to lithe-taut flesh
closing sides break body to crawl afresh
pin-hole starlight flashes from out the void
rock-sewn borders give way to lithe-taut flesh
poor form warped and drawn, rendered man uncoiled
pin-hole starlight flashes from out the void
point shimmers to blaze, no other senses
poor form warped and drawn, rendered man uncoiled
what have I become - weeping throat-burned laments
point shimmers to blaze, no other senses
fingers meet ridge lip, no more can heart bare
what have I become - weeping throat-burned laments
eyes meet that blueish string wrapped ‘round my chair
fingers meet ridge lip, no more can heart bare
I crawl out my left eye, shake stuck head free
eyes see that blueish string wrapped ‘round my chair
to pull serpentine wriggling beneath
I crawl out my left eye, shake stuck head free
I haul out yard on yard, not able
to pull serpentine wriggling beneath
strange the things one finds inside their navel.
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Alicia Sach
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Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Chasing Grasshoppers
An Ode to Childhood
Words by Joseph Lew
If you make your way down to the corner of the street you’ll find our
house. Everything has remained relatively unchanged since the day my
parents bought it – all the way back in 1997 – a remnant of the past
with its bleached weatherboards, battered roller blinds and geraniums
creeping unabashedly over rusty, pink gates. Neighbours have come and
gone, buildings have been torn down and bulldozed over, but my house
remains exactly the same.
Two hundred square metres of neglect sit outback. Weeds and wildflowers
mosaic between the cracked path, and sprawling grapevines and
orchard trees border the fence – plums, nectarines, almonds. It was here
that I spent many summer afternoons, running through the overgrown
grass and clover fields, chasing grasshoppers as they hopped from blade
to blade.
There was something about them with their buggy brown eyes, sleek
green bodies and long spindly legs. They jumped so carelessly, bodies
wildly contorting as they launched themselves in the air, legs splayed
behind them. I hopped after them, laughing as my fingers cupped over
the empty space they occupied moments before. They always just evaded
my reach.
We played a game of endless tag, just me and the grasshoppers. I’d chase
after them for hours upon hours, until even the cicadas stopped their
singing.
*
The transition was subtle –there’s no specific moment in time I can
pinpoint. The trees hinted at it, shedding their leaves as the monarchs
began to make their journey east. Every so often, I heard the chirruping
of the grasshoppers, and scanned the grass for signs of their veracity. But
they too, had started to leave. Eventually, I stopped searching for them
altogether.
This house doesn’t feel like home anymore, not for a long time.The walls
are starting to crack, the paint is peeling. It feels empty, hollow. Swaths
of ivy choke out the plum trees, and the nectarines haven’t borne fruit
in years. There’s nothing left for me here. Hell, even the grasshoppers
know that.
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Art by Kat Kennedy
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62
Art by Alicia Sach

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Art by Kajal K
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Art by Kathy Lee

Lot’s Wife • Edition Five
Special thanks to all
our contributors!
Writers
Anonymous
Ariel Horton
Cody B Strange
Eliot Walton
Eva Scopelliti
Grace Baldwin
Greg Hunt
Isabella Burton
Jessica McCarthy
Joseph Lew
Juliette Capomolla
Lordy May
Maiysha Moin
Meg Ruyters
Milly Downing
Natalia Zivcic
Riya Rajesh
Sarah Bartlett
Sumaya. F
Tatiana Cruz
Tiffany Forbes
Tingnan Li
Xenia Sanut
Artists
Alicia Sach
Chan
Georgia B
Jayden Crozier
Joshua Nai
Kajal K
Kat Kennedy
Katrina Young
Linda Chen
Linzie Joanne
Maria Chamakala
Mel
Rasa Islam
Ruby Comte
Shrusti Mohanty
Tanya Jain
Tatiana Cruz
Yesha
Subeditors
Alexis Bird
Anagha Raviprasad
Anna McShane-Potts
Anvita Nair
Dinithi Perera
Evelyn Chan
Jasmine Tran
Jie Yee Ong
Joseph Lew
Louise Blair-West
Mish Kumar
Olivia Shenken
Ruth Ong
Sanjana Surawala
Sarah Hult
Xenia Sanut
Yanchao Huang
To contribute to Edition Six, submit your work to the relevant Google
form.
Written submissions: bit.ly/lwed6wri
Visual submissions: bit.ly/lwed6vis
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...until next time
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