i want a new body, one
which would walk me all the way to buy milk
as if i had no body at all. a body
which could disappear into the soft
blue depths of morning, or
the avenue’s bright spring,
forgetting itself. a body
which is like being upside-down, in the sense
that you are always upside-down,
but to notice, when there
are gang-gangs hanging with
their white-edged feathers, or
bougainvillea branches trailing the pool fence,
wouldn’t cross your mind; a body
which, like being upside-down, i would create
by rolling like a child until
i could see it, and i would know
its truth, even in
its strangeness.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
The clock mocks me, each tick like a tedious flash of what I was, what I could have been. My teacher’s voice reverberates and echoes in a hypnotising cascade through the classroom. Bored, I peer down at my phone and gaze over the folders of my life, a childhood and a world at my fingers. Stuck. Frozen. The comforting smile of my grandmother is hidden somewhere here, barricaded by metal and plastic, waiting to be displayed behind tempered glass. The reason for my existence, my knowledge and my place on this earth, all packed tightly into a human vessel, now held in my hands.
***
I was born into a busy place. In this world, smoke and gasoline smothered the air, the summer rain was my contentment, and the people spoke with loud voices. Motorbikes roared to and fro and in and out of the house, and aunties roamed about in organised chaos. Summers were scorching hot, and the humidity clung like moths around an open bulb. I lived in it for as long as I knew and to me, this world made sense.
But the idea of leaving it did not. The idea of why my world was no longer safe, didn’t make sense. The idea of why I had to leave my world by myself didn’t either, but the haunting plea in my grandmother’s eyes made it make sense.
This new place was upside down. A wonderland that I did not understand. The air was cool and light, absent of gasoline. The sun rose and set over the horizon, and I was able to see it. The birds sang in the morning mist and I was able to hear it. School was a foreign land of strange words and people I couldn’t decipher. People moved slower, walking through me as if I wasn’t there at all, as if I walked on the ceilings.
But eventually, I started adjusting and the outlandish became ordinary. Each conversation I held made a trophy in my mind and the slivers of sunlight I started to let in sparkled upon their surface. They built up, the bronze, the silver and the gold piling up. My memories and my grandmother, my world and my home, slowly lost its place in me. Being buried beneath much flashier achievements and westernised behaviours. Contained and locked away like forbidden treasures, its remains were plastered within the walls of my camera roll as it peeled off my mind like old paint. As more of this new world made sense to me, the place of roaring motorbikes and organised chaos became my new upside down.
***
Clicking on a photo of my grandmother, she unfolds from code. She is sitting under a struggling light bulb that is barely able to illuminate beyond the circular wooden table and plastic stools. Her eyes flash glimpses of doubt and desperate yearning. Each plea etches deep within the valleys of her face and ingrains a permanent gloss over her tired eyes which she masks with a loving smile. She holds me in her arms. My toothless smile, chubby arms and mischief, held in her lap.
Would she be happy that she is encapsulated in pixels? If she saw me now, would she recognise me? Would she recognise my disfigured face?
The clock continues to tick, the teacher continues to speak, and the children continue to laugh behind me as the bell screeches for the last time that day. Without realising, my hands are cramping, clinging onto my phone as if it was her face. My fingers are white and my palm patches with red and white spots. I let go, hoping to run away from this uncomfortable reckoning with myself. The reckoning that in her passing, she took the last bits of my world with her. The world that I didn’t hold onto, the world that I let become my upside down, the world that I was too cowardly not to keep. I hold her in both hands for another second before the screen goes dark, before the kids start running out of the classroom, and everything goes back to the way it was. I tell her how sorry I am that her hopes became buried and lost in me. I tell her before running out of the classroom just like the others.
It started with a few clicks on a flight booking site. Alisha stared at the screen, her fingers hesitating over the Confirm Payment button. The destination read Delhi Indira Gandhi International Airport. The departure: Sydney Kingsford Smith. A quiet thrill bubbled up — not the nervousness she remembered from three years ago, when she had booked her one-way flight to Australia with shaking hands and teary eyes. This time, there was something else. Something warmer. She clicked. The flight was real. The countdown had begun.
Packing began with a checklist, as always — but this time, it felt different. She didn’t start with clothes or toiletries. Instead, she opened a drawer filled with fridge magnets, postcards, Tim Tams, jars of Vegemite (which she still didn’t like), and tiny koalas wearing cowboy hats. The souvenirs were small, but they felt like pieces of her second life — the one she wanted to share with those from her first.
Shopping wasn’t for herself. It was for them — for Mama, for Papa, for her elder brother who always told her she’d always be his little one, and for her baby cousin, whom she would be meeting for the first time. She folded fewer jeans and more kangaroo t-shirts. Fewer earrings, more chocolates. This time, her suitcase wasn’t filled with things to start a life — it was filled with things to celebrate the one she’d built, and to bring it home to where it all began.
After so long, packing didn’t feel like a departure. It felt like a return to the place that shaped her, grounded her — her home.
The flight was long, but every hour passed with her heart racing — not with nerves, but with anticipation. She wasn’t leaving anything behind; she was retracing her steps, journeying back to the beginning — to memory, belonging, and the version of herself that had always lived there. When the captain announced the descent, her eyes welled up. As the clouds parted and the city came into view — the scattered lights, the familiar outline of her world — a wave of warmth rose within her. It wasn’t just an arrival; it was a homecoming. A piece of her that had been missing all these years clicked back into place.
After collecting her baggage, she took a deep breath and stepped through the arrival gates. And there they were — her parents. A little older, perhaps, a few more lines on their faces, but in that moment, they looked exactly as she had held them in her heart. Her mother’s dupatta fluttered like a flag of love in the warm air. They didn’t speak — they didn’t need to. Alisha melted into their arms, her eyes finally spilling over, breathing in the scent she had ached for: sandalwood, sun-dried cotton, and that unmistakable fragrance of home.
Everything was loud, alive. The honking outside, the chaos of luggage, the way her father kept glancing at her like she might vanish again. And as anticipated, the first thing her mother said was, “Look how thin you’ve become,” then a pause, her voice breaking just slightly, “My baccha, I love you.”
Then came the hugs.
Her mother’s embrace was like being swallowed whole by warmth, as if her love was the only thing in that moment that could hold Alisha together. Alisha buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, feeling the flutter of the dupatta — a light scarf draped loosely around her — against her skin. The hum of “I missed you” vibrated in every squeeze. It was the kind of hug that made her feel both small and infinitely loved — a safe cocoon, filled with everything she had missed.
Then there was her father. His hug was different — quieter, steadier. When Alisha wrapped her arms around him, it was like being enveloped by a warm, sturdy wall. The kind that didn’t bend, didn’t break. The feeling of being a tiny cub in the embrace of Papa Bear, strong, unyielding, and safe, a bear hug, literally. “You’ve come back to us,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. Alisha could feel the weight of those simple words in the strength of his embrace — the three years they’d been apart, the longing, the quiet worry, and the anticipation. His hug was a promise, one she knew he would keep: “You’ll always be my little girl.”
The moment was pure, filled with all the things left unsaid. And despite the teary eyes and the quiet smiles, the embrace left her laughing softly under her breath. Because somehow, in their tight embrace, the world — with all its noise and chaos — faded into the background.
That night, lying in her old bed after a scrumptious homemade meal, enjoyed for the first time in years, the ceiling fan whirring above, Alisha looked around the room that had frozen in time. Posters she had outgrown. Sketchpads she had once filled with doodles and dreams. A photo of her family in the backyard on the corner table — slightly faded, still smiling.
She wasn’t the same girl who had left three years ago, unsure and afraid. She had grown — in strength, in dreams, in silence. But here, in this room, with the walls whispering old secrets and the scent of dinner still hanging in the air, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time.
Whole.
The city whispered his name—Vanitas, the painter who captured not just faces but souls. Some called it a gift; others feared it was a curse. Yet all agreed—his portraits did not lie.
Seraphine had sought him, drawn by the rumours. Now, in his dimly lit studio, the scent of oil and turpentine thick in the air, she stood before the legend himself. Shadows flickered along the walls, stretching and shrinking with the candlelight. Vanitas worked in silence, his brush gliding over the canvas with eerie precision, as though pulling something from her that had long been buried.
At first, the portrait was ordinary. Then, the shadows deepened, and the colours thickened like drying blood. The painted eyes gleamed—not just with light but with something else. Something knowing. A vial nestled in the folds of her painted gown, barely noticeable yet undeniable. Dark smudges marred her delicate hands, faint but damning. The pearls at her throat tightened, not as adornment but as a noose.
Her past bled onto the canvas—whispers in the dark, tinctures slipped into goblets, bruises that never had to heal. The saviour. The executioner. The reckoning in silk. Each stroke of Vanitas’ brush revealed another secret, another truth she had long kept hidden beneath civility and lace. The face in the painting did not accuse her, nor did it absolve her. It simply knew.
Her breath hitched; her pulse quickened. The weight of the painting pressed against her as though it, too, could see into the depths of her soul. She had not done it out of malice. She had not done it out of vengeance. She had done it because someone had to. Because no one else would.
Vanitas finally spoke, his voice a whisper against the suffocating silence. “The truth is not what you wish it to be.”
Seraphine’s fingers trembled as they brushed against the canvas. The shadow in the painting rippled beneath her touch, the darkness curling like ink in water. For a fleeting moment, she felt it might pull her in, drag her into the depths of her own making.
She took a step back, her breath steadying. The longer she stared, the more she realised it wasn’t a judgment of her actions but a revelation of the truth she had long hidden from herself. The darkness on the canvas was not an enemy—it was simply a reflection of who she truly was. The hand that had once trembled now stilled. She was not afraid anymore.
Vanitas watched her carefully, his expression unreadable. “You see it now.”
Seraphine lifted her chin. “I do.”
She turned, stepping away from the portrait and the truth that had nearly swallowed her whole—but she stepped away not in retreat. She walked with purpose, her silk gown whispering against the floor as she crossed the threshold and disappeared into the night.
The studio remained silent, the air thick with something unseen. And in the corner, the painting waited, its gaze unwavering.
Some said it vanished by morning. Others swore they saw it, still tucked away in the shadows of his studio—watching and waiting for its subject to return.
The sand absorbed heat throughout the day and released it after the temperature dropped. She could feel it on the back of her legs when she stretched out on her towel.
You should go swimming, he said. He stood in front of her, looking down, his sunburnt arms slack by his side.
I didn’t realise you were standing there, she said. He shrugged, his wet hair flicking droplets onto her towel. She shut her eyes and shook her head.
You’re missing out, he insisted. She shook her head again. She already knew how the water felt. She heard him sigh quietly, still standing there, and twisted to look at him properly, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of him watching without watching back, but he wasn’t looking at her anymore — a pack of teenagers had arrived carrying beer and a speaker pumping bassy music with German lyrics. They were clambering over the rocks that jutted out over the water at the beach’s far end. Reaching the top, one of them gave an indistinct yell and enthusiastically threw herself from the rock into the water beneath, to general approval and laughter. She emerged, flicking her short hair back in an arc, and swam confidently back to her friends.
He looked back down at her, eyebrows raised, like their observation proved a point, then turned away again, walking back towards the water. He didn’t slow down until it was past his waist. Then he started to swim, the skin on his back glinting in the sun.
Reckless, she thought. And he was a bad driver too; the more time they spent together, the clearer it became what things would look like if they kept this on. He’d nearly gotten them killed on the way here. A truck had swept past them while he’d been going faster than he should have been on the windy road, and their rental car had been pushed to the edge so that two wheels skidded on the narrow gravel shoulder. She braced one hand on the car door and one on the dashboard as the car tilted. Off the road was a sheer drop; she could see the beaches below them, the waves frozen like she was watching them from an aeroplane, the sharp green slope running from the edge of the road right down to where it met the sand hundreds of meters below. It would have been so easy for the car to slip just a little further, and then they would have been sent skidding over the edge, and her vision would be filled with flashes of sky and grass and crunching metal or, quickly, with nothing at all. For a moment, she wanted to reach across the centre console to grab his shoulder or to touch his free hand, but he’d brought it up around the wheel too, his knuckles taut with effort, and the car righted itself and continued up the hill.
He’d turned to look at her, apologetic, but the shock was still too fresh for her to get properly angry. They’d let out a shared exhale of laughter, the sound displaced, relieved more than amused, like the awkward chuckles that had passed through the small cinema they’d sat in the previous evening as the credits descended on Mulholland Drive. Instead, she’d told him to put on the radio, and he had. The knob was sticky with sand or rust, and he struggled with it for a moment, swearing. She kept her eyes on the road for him. The sound, when he got it to focus — two men speaking in rapid Italian — faded in and out as they wound around the hill, and the signal worsened.
Tomorrow, they would drive back to the train station. Next time, he would say. I had fun. Until next summer, if you’d like. She would nod, and then he would walk away from her, his body quickly becoming strange and anonymous amongst the rush. She would buy a lousy coffee and sit by herself for an hour before a different train came to take her away in the opposite direction.
In a week, her hair would smell like cafeteria grease and detergent. For now, it was dried out from the salt water and sun and smelled like the little plastic bottles of shampoo from the motel. She hadn’t really gone swimming, had only waded in to waist depth and then laid back and floated on the surface, waiting, letting her hair fan out around her. She wasn’t a swimmer. She wound her fingers through the strands, then let her hand fall to her side.
The teenagers were getting louder. One of them had turned up the music on the speaker, and the sound throbbed across the water, the sound staticky and indistinct. She wanted to go up to them and ask them to turn it down. She wanted to ask them if she could have a go at dive bombing from the rocks.
He was nearly at the other end of the beach now, close enough to the teenagers for their speaker to overpower the sound of his limbs slapping against the water. The light had started to soften; they would only have a few more hours before it faded completely. He turned around, treading water. He waved at her. She waved back. He yelled something that she couldn’t hear. She shook her head and laid back. They still had the rest of the afternoon and the next morning. Almost a full day. She dug her fingers into the hot sand and squinted into the sun.
Anna slouched back in her seat, desperate to remain hidden from view. She didn’t know what she would do if she was caught.
Tonight was one of her sleepless nights. Yearning to feel something, she had travelled to Peter’s house. Her car was parked inconspicuously outside, under the shield of the grand elm trees; the branches swayed majestically in the night wind. She had noticed the tulips dispersed on the front lawn; they had bloomed well this year, their petals revealing soft shades of red. There was a serenity in these suburban streets that Anna craved: white picket fences, freshly mowed lawns and family dinner at six.
A singular dome light faintly illuminated the inside of the car. Empty take-out containers, bottles of wine and plastic wrappers littered the floor. Scrunched-up tissues covered every inch of the beige seats, concealing the stains of the carelessly spilt drinks. Despite her efforts, Anna could never properly clear out the mess; it persisted like a bad memory that refused to leave. Yet, when she stared into Peter’s house, none of that mattered because her heart softened, and all she felt was a sense of completion.
She lifted her head discreetly to watch Peter drag an overflowing garbage bag outside. His daughter followed him swiftly; she skipped down the cobblestone steps and waved her drawing eagerly in his face. Peter crouched down and playfully examined the art piece. A smile tugged at Anna’s lips. She knew how much he wanted to be a father. At least he was happy, she thought to herself.
Anna’s eyes glanced at the time on the dashboard. It was already so late, but she couldn’t leave now. She hadn’t felt this alive all week. The breeze filtered through the open window, circling around the car. She shivered.
When the pair returned inside, Anna sat up properly to get a better view of the house. It was beautiful. A double-storey brick house stood proudly before her, with brightly lit glass windows offering a view into the family’s blissful life. Anna felt a pang of jealousy in her stomach and inhaled sharply; all she wanted was to be able to have this. She cradled a half-drunk bottle of wine in her arms and took a long gulp. She was sick of drinking alone. But Peter wasn’t.
Through the house window, she saw him and his wife pouring glasses of wine in the living room, basking in each other’s company in front of the homely fireplace. The carefully decorated and clean room made Anna chuckle softly as she looked down at the mess surrounding her. She watched on as they laughed together. Anna imagined being that woman — someone healthy enough to share a mundane life with someone. Then, she saw the couple kiss. With that, she slid down her seat, her skin prickling with frustration.
In her youth, Anna had loved Peter with the ferocity of a thousand fires. Yet, she always waited for him to realise she wasn’t worth all the trouble. She had told him about her mother and how she had this disease as well.
“It’s genetic. I’m scared that if I have a child, they’ll become broken like me,” she explained. He hugged her, assuring her it would be okay.
Soon, Anna learnt that loving him was too painful, like a knife twisting deeper and deeper. She couldn’t bear his tortured expressions when he found her crying in the bathtub in the dead of night, mascara streaking her pallid face and wine spilt around her. He made excuses for her when she couldn’t leave her bed for days and remained patient when she snapped at him. She was an open wound, bleeding uncontrollably and tarnishing every moment with her mere presence. She refused to pull him deeper into her tortured existence, not wanting to see him choke on the poison that flowed through her veins.
Blood rushed through her cheeks at the memories of him. Hot tears streamed down Anna’s face, and she shut her eyes tightly. She imagined a life where she had a family…a life where her mind wasn’t her worst enemy. It didn’t matter how hard she tried because she never got better. Now, all she had was this. Her late nights with Peter’s family. The closest she ever got to the real thing. She felt herself drifting off to sleep, slumping deeper into the car seat.
Anna wasn’t sure how long she had been asleep when she was awoken by the distant sound of sirens. Sprawled on the car seat, she rubbed her eyes to relieve her tiredness. As her vision cleared, she caught sight of Peter’s house.
Flickers of red and orange flames clung to the brick exterior. The tendrils danced in synchronicity as they surrounded the roof. Anna flung her car door open, stumbling onto the footpath. She stood frozen, basking in the embers of fire that pelted down on her like a thunderous storm. The roaring of the fire continued; it was a ravenous beast consuming the house and its inhabitants. Heavy smoke hung in the air, causing the neighbours who gathered on the sidewalks to break into fits of cough.
“NO!” Anna screamed, her throat burning from the intensity of her pain.
This couldn’t be happening. Her dreams were shattering alongside the glass windows that faltered under the heat of the blaze.
She couldn’t watch this anymore. A sudden shot of adrenaline pumped through her as she ran across the front lawn, her feet trampling the tulips. Anna stopped at the front door and drew a long breath. They were the closest thing she had to a family, a thin string of hope she held onto desperately. She knew she couldn’t lose them; this was her chance to be with them, to prove she deserved something good. Smiling, she raced inside. The flames reached for her, welcoming her to their fold.
She became ashes.
But at least they were all finally one and the same.
Alisha’s most cherished childhood memories sprouted from her backyard — a tiny, enchanting world teeming with wonders. Thinking of it now, she is nostalgic, conjuring vivid images of a place that once felt infinite. She can almost see it: the potato plants stubbornly rooted in the soil, the twisting bottle gourd vines that her mother miraculously incorporated into every dish, fiery-red and green chilli plants where she dutifully plucked a single chilli for every meal, and the slender okra stalks swaying in the breeze. However, reigning over all was the mango tree — the proud giant of the yard and a silent witness to her childhood.
What a mango tree it was. Alisha drifts for a moment, her eyes misting over with the tears of a feeling she can’t quite name — a mix of gratitude for those treasured moments and a deep ache of longing for the time that has slipped away. She remembers climbing the tree with her elder brother on blazing summer afternoons, their bare feet gripping the rough bark, sunscreen be damned. Their sole mission: the mangoes. She’d stay below, holding a makeshift quilt trap fashioned from sheer sibling ingenuity, ready to catch the golden fruit her brother plucked and tossed down. Never mind if a mango hit her square in the nose or if she stumbled — what mattered was keeping the mangoes safe from the earth’s gritty embrace.
After their triumphant mango haul, they’d sit cross-legged on the grass, greedily devouring their loot with sticky hands, ignoring their mother’s rule about having lunch first. Patience? Who’s she? The siblings’ gleeful disobedience was a summer ritual, punctuated by laughter and the occasional scolding over her brother’s scraped knees or the duo’s muddied clothes.
Her backyard wasn’t just about mangoes. It was a tapestry of moments: her mother meticulously tending to roses, sunflowers, and marigolds; the birds chirping songs of joy as they pecked at the sweet mango flesh; the serene simplicity of lying on the grass and gazing up at the sky through a canopy of green. It was a sanctuary, a place where peace wasn’t just an idea but a palpable feeling in the air.
Now, Alisha sits in her stark apartment, peering through a small window at the uninspiring side of a neighbouring building. Snapping out of her daydream, she pulls the curtains shut, suddenly self-conscious. She doesn’t want to seem like a creep staring into someone else’s life. A glance around her room only deepens the ache within her. The white walls, the narrow bed, the plain desk — it’s all so cold. Even the beloved family photo on her desk, taken in that very backyard, now feels like a cruel taunt.
Gone is the scent of roses carried by the breeze, replaced by the sterile air of the city. Gone is the boundless freedom of her backyard, traded for the constrictions of adulthood. Alisha sits at her desk, her thoughts wandering back to the swing under the mango tree and the board games she played with her father.
She’s struck by the irony of life: to nurture the home she loves so dearly, she had to leave it behind.
Is she unhappy? No. But she wishes she could turn back time, even if it is just for a moment. She wonders what has changed. Was it the weight of responsibilities? The pull of ambitions? Or was it simply the inevitable passage from childhood to adulthood? It seems a question that eludes an answer, one she doesn’t linger on for too long.
Instead, Alisha picks up her phone, engaging in the daily ritual of calling her mother. Her mother’s voice is the balm that soothes all her aches, much like the warmth of those lazy afternoons in the backyard. As they chat, her mother excitedly shares plans for the spring harvest, listing off vegetables and flowers she hopes to grow. Alisha closes her eyes, imagining the vibrant garden coming to life again.
With a bittersweet smile, she whispers, “This too, I will grow through.”
The backyard may be miles away, but its essence remains rooted in her. Its lessons of joy, resilience, and connection are woven into her being, a reminder that even in the bleakness of her current reality, the comfort of those memories will forever be her refuge.
Comments Off on An Essay on the Environment Department
A principled justification for these changes.
ANUSA’s department structure is one of its biggest strengths when it comes to its governance. Departments are fantastic — they give historically marginalised groups autonomy within ANUSA to serve their communities through advocacy and spending money as seen fit by that autonomous group. However, all students should have an equal say on the environment — it’s not autonomous to any group. Students are all equally entitled to have their perspectives and opinions heard.
At last year’s ANUSA election, 3000 students chose their preferred direction for ANUSA. This happens every 12 months. At a general meeting, notice is very widely distributed, and a quorum of 40 ordinary students is needed to pass the budget as prepared by the elected Executive. Comparatively, the Environment Department can choose to spend money if ten ordinary students show up — this is fundamentally and principally undemocratic.
The spending of money — on a non-autonomous issue — should be determined by representatives elected by the students, that is, the Environment Officer and the Executive.
This is why the governance review proposed this change in 2024 — before there was any discussion on the Environment Department’s misconduct. This is a principled change — to ensure that students have a say over the spending of their Student Services and Amenities Fee (SSAF) by their student union. This is a democratic change, and that’s where it comes from.
Why there is an imperative to make this change now.
However, it is imperative that this be done now. The Environment Department report — that I encourage everyone to read — details immense financial mismanagement over two years: $6,000 of student money used for Marxism and Keep Left conferences. This breaches the SSAF agreement we have with the ANU. It breaches our regulations, our Constitution, and our policies. It is severe mismanagement of student money.
I will note here that the 2025 Environment Officer claimed at SRC 1 that some of the SAlt spending happened under the 2023 Officer, who wasn’t a SAlt member. I think this is precisely why the change is so necessary. As I said above — this is a structural problem. Ten students who come to a meeting can spend money in such an egregious way, regardless of the elected Officer’s own views.
To this year’s Officer’s credit, she has and will continue to block spending in order to adhere to the regulations. But, as an association, we cannot guarantee that an officer in future will always, every single time, stand up to the Department and stop this breach. The structural way the Environment Department operates means there is considerable risk this will happen again.
We must have a system that addresses these structural problems and prevents any spending issues in the future.
To do this, the Environment Department must be removed from the department infrastructure. All departments are governed under Section 11, which entrenches and ensures autonomy (as well as explains how the departments are governed). The only way to ensure financial probity is to remove the Environment Department from this section entirely and move it to a different part of our Association. To do nothing, after being presented with clear structural problems and a clear breach of our rules and policies, would be an abrogation of our duty to the Association.
Addressing concerns, ensuring probity, and maintaining safeguards.
People have asked me, “Why can’t you just increase financial oversight?”
I say that this is precisely what we are doing. Our goal is not to change how the Officer and team do activism, but to ensure their spending aligns with the Constitution, regulations, and conflicts of interest policy. The only way to do this is to remove it from the Department governance.
The main change is that the Environment Officer won’t be able to spend autonomously anymore — we are doing this to prevent the risks of unconstitutional spending. This is also a principled change — the students vote for the Executive, who is enfranchised by these students to act in the best interests of the Association.
That is, if proposed spending by the Environment Officer is unconstitutional — they should, rightly, stop it. The Executive is accountable to the SRC and the student body, and that is why they are able to decide what spending is and is not within the Constitution, regulations, etc.
Regarding people’s concerns about the Executive overreaching and stopping activism, allow me to respond clearly and directly. There is absolutely no power for the Executive to influence the work of any officer. Only a general meeting can direct an officer of the Association, and the President cannot tell the Environment Officer what to do or what not to do. There is absolutely zero change in the powers to tell the Environment Officer what to do. I support the Environment Department’s work, and so long as it is in line with the Constitution and regulations — I will always fight to defend its right to activism.
Another concern is, “What if the Environment Officer has bad political views? Shouldn’t the Department be able to overrule them?”
In response, I refer you back to the principle I started with — that to elect the Officer last year, 1,600 students voted, and a majority selected the current Officer. Does anyone here who truly supports principles of democracy believe that ten ordinary people should be able to overrule the will of the election?
If, on principle, you think that ten random students should not be able to overrule 1,600 — then this alone should get you to vote this up at the OGM this week.
The next concern is: “What happens if an Executive gets elected wanting to defund it?”
In our Regulations for the Environment Committee, we have enshrined a minimum budget line of $2,000 — this money is always, every year, to be made accessible to the Environment Officer, and they can spend it on things within the Constitution, Regulations, and Policy — these same guardrails do exist currently, it’s just they are not followed. With the Executive approving spending now, we ensure they are followed. But, I’d also like to quote the answer I got from the 2025 Environment Officer, Sarah, when speaking to her about this issue. She told me that if this happened, then it would be the will of the students to elect the Executive that does this and democratically, that’s fine.
Regarding safeguards, here are all the things enshrined in the regulations we will pass to complement these changes to guide the new Environment Committee. I’ve mentioned a $2,000 minimum budget line to ensure the Environment Committee is funded, but these regulations also:
Provide the ability to elect co-convenors to support the Officer in their actions — this is no change from the current Department model.
Require the Committee to meet regularly — this means the Officer can’t abandon their Committee and not call meetings.
Bind the Officer to put any policies passed by the Committee to the SRC — this gives the committee power to suggest and recommend policy of ANUSA.
Force the Officer to report to the SRC every week on the actions of the Committee — this ensures transparency and accountability to the SRC, as occurs with the current Department.
I ran through these with the 2025 Environment Officer and asked for any further suggestions. The minimum budget selected was the highest point of the range that the Environment Officer recommended. The Environment Officer was happy with these regulations to help resolve her concerns and didn’t have more recommendations to add to develop them further. I am satisfied that this ensures the Committee is democratic, empowered, supportive, and effective in assisting the Environment Officer in continuing their activism.
These Regulations are guardrails to ensure environmental activism continues, while ensuring that it comes within the rules that we all must obey when spending student money.
Conclusions
I think it’s clear that the Environment Department changes make both principled and practical sense. This improves democracy within ANUSA, prevents further risks to ANUSA from unconstitutional spending, and ensures ANUSA will continue Environmental activism.
The Environment Committee will still back the Officer. The Environment Officer can still do activism. More power is in the power of all students and more students than ever before. Importantly, we protect the Association from severe mismanagement and breaches of our Constitution and Regulations.
I believe this change is incredibly positive and only strengthens our union further. I encourage everyone to go to the OGM on Wednesday, either in Marie Reay 2.02 or on Zoom, and vote in favour of these constitutional changes.
This article presents the opinion of its author and not that of Woroni.
Have an opinion you wish to share? Send it to our submissions inbox at write@woroni.com.au.
It is tied there like a flag at the peak of a game, some sort of girls versus boys nonsense. The tree is thus claimed by the girl and her friend as their base. Because, of course, a tree with rough bark that cuts into the skin and with dense burgundy leaves that obscure any good view of the enemy is an obvious and strategic choice. The ribbon is vibrant with a silky sheen, taken from her friend’s ponytail.
The war ends in a stalemate, becoming irrelevant when dessert is mentioned. When the time comes to say goodbye, the two friends bemoan the separation, hardly able to wait for the next time they can play together in the garden. They are inseparable, and their parents get along swimmingly, so they won’t have to wait long.
But because the girl always forgets to take the ribbon from the tree and return it to its owner, it stays there as they play. Fairy make-believe, which somehow spreads beyond a backyard game on a warm Sunday afternoon and becomes a gimmick of collective self-delusion all the girls in their year two class are involved in. All but one, that is. The girl feels guilty for somehow gaslighting her whole class, desperate for their one last classmate to join in and for the alternate reality of going to fairyland at night to be true.
The little ribbon stays there even after its owner moves back to the other side of the world. It fades slightly; though it is sheltered by foliage, the harsh Australian sun will always have its way, no matter how gradual. It flutters in the breeze as the girl and her sister decide to gather snails in the garden and keep them as pets. But they are neglected, and most shrivel up in a matter of days; any survivors are sometimes recognised by the blue and red text marks on their shells.
The pink ribbon observes as the girl frees a young branch growing in between two others. The part that was stuck is mesmerisingly flat and smooth, smoother than any piece of wooden furniture she’s ever touched. She feels like a plum tree doctor. Her knowledge of the tree’s anatomy means she knows exactly which branches she can sit on comfortably and read.
The pink ribbon fades some more, yet is still the brightest thing in winter when the grass is brown from drought and the plum tree is devoid of leaves. Every morning, the sisters must go to the backyard and pick grass for the guinea pigs to eat for breakfast — a dreaded job when there is little green grass to be found and when their hands go numb from frost.
The pink ribbon is there still when one guinea pig is buried beneath the tree, wrapped in an old rag as a coffin. The girl and her sister fashion a crooked cross from fallen sticks found at the base of the tree.
The pink ribbon stays tied there, watching as the sisters discover the delight of jumping from horrific heights off their swings. By some generous miracle, they never quite slam into the low stone wall and break their bones.
The pink ribbon giggles as the currawong swooping low over the swings makes the girl screech in pure fright. In desperation and despite the spiders, she rushes into the cubby house. The swing outside is still creaking as she waits out the long-gone currawong.
The pink ribbon waits to see if it will stay or leave as the second guinea pig is buried beside its sister. It is very pale after so many summers, matching the colour of the blossoms scattered over the garden every September. The tree is older now, its fewer leaves less able at protecting the ribbon from the summer sun. The girl doesn’t forget the ribbon. After seven years, she reverently unties it from its branch, careful not to damage the frail material. Bursts of its original bright colour still exist, protected by the knot. She folds it carefully and tucks it in a box with her other possessions, ready for the new house.
The new house has no plum tree — rather a backyard with a pool and a wattle, and rose bushes with flowers in every colour imaginable. But the pink ribbon will stay and be tucked into a drawer. A little memento of childhood, of happy memories in the backyard, of plums making a mess of the footpath thanks to greedy cockatoos, of crimson and eastern rosellas eating seeds beneath the tree, of making gourmet dishes out of mud and flowers, of torturing snails, of jumping on the trampoline with a white-tailed spider and having to interrupt their dad in an important online meeting so he could squish it, of backyard cricket, of sage and sorrel, of mulberries and plums from the three plum trees, of white quartz pebbles, of rushing around playing tips with the neighbours after Minecraft sessions, of the setting for a three-year-old’s sweet dreams, of eleven years, of delightful childhood friendships.
The pink ribbon holds the memory of it all.