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Mal Delta She finds you outside, shivering on the pavement outside the bar. The wind is promising snow, but you are not dressed for it; just a denim jacket and hands jammed into pockets, breath turning to steam on your tongue. An outsider would never know that you don’t smoke, or that you’re not smoking right now. 'I’m waiting for a friend,' you tell her. She has not yet spoken; she knew you would say this already. 'A cold place to wait,' she says. She is dressed as white as the oncoming snow, a long flowing dress that seems to command the wind.  You shake your head, not seeming to register her. 'He’ll be here soon.' The woman in white looks up and down the street. There are others waiting for her tonight, and she can stand to leave you shivering in the wait for your friend. 'A drink might warm you up.' You shake your head, puffing out steam to heat your cheeks. She gives in then, offers you a nod and heads on her way. You are standing in the same spot the next night, adorned with a snow-crusted beanie and fingerless gloves. Your fingers are so pink they’re almost blue.  She comes to stand next to you, taking stock of your shivering, your endless patience. You do not look at her. This gives her plenty of time to look at you. She says, 'You have waited awfully long.' You say, 'It’s nothing.' 'How long will you wait?' 'As long as it takes.' You fumble your numb fingers into too-tight pockets, fish out your phone and let it light up the clouds of your breath. There is nothing new; you jam it back into place, blow hot air on your fingertips. She watches all of this with light and curious eyes. 'I’m getting rather cold,' she says. It is a lie; her breath is clear and invisible, her white arms without goosebumps as the wind flows around her. 'Would you join me inside for a drink?' You shake your head. Your five o’clock shadow is darker than it was yesterday. 'I don’t drink.' She looks you up and down again – how curious you are, how interesting, the frost lined edges of you and stone set stubbornness.  Again, you say, 'I’m waiting for my friend.' She inclines her head in understanding, brushing past you with the breeze to make her way inside. On the third night, your stubble is highlighted with a layer of frost and your cheeks are red and peeling. Your phone is dead in your pocket and your eyes are as cold as the rest of you. You don’t even see her as she makes her way to your side. 'Let’s go for a walk,' she says softly. You don’t nod, but when she leads, you follow. The snow is too old to crunch under your feet, collapsing into mush at the touch of your boot. She is the whitest thing left in the city now, the snow muddied and blackened with tire tracks and cigarette butts. The footprints behind are yours alone, as she glides over the footpath in a glimmering pale spectre. 'I’m waiting for my friend,' you murmur, as if out of habit. She doesn’t say anything for a moment. Her hand might be holding yours; it’s hard to say. 'You don’t want to wait forever,' she whispers. 'Perhaps we should go find him.' You shake yourself away, waking up from your trance, blinking at the form in front of you. You have made it almost half a block away from the bar. 'I can’t,' you say. 'He’s waiting for me. I have to get my friend.' 'Where is he?' she asks. 'Where is he, Tristan?' You shake your head. 'He’s waiting for me.' 'Come with me,' she says. You take a step back from her. Your vision blurs; she starts to turn from white to red. 'He’s waiting for me,' you whisper. 'I’m sorry. He’s waiting for me.'  You turn around and run the short distance back to the bar, scuffing your own footsteps until the path disappears from memory. She pities you on the fourth day. You are pink and blue from the cold, fingernails turning black at the edges, your watch stopped with the short hand trapped at 3. The second hand is the only one that keeps ticking. 'Still waiting?' she asks you. You don’t answer. You are a wretchedness; you don’t know what you wait for anymore. You can’t think of a reason to leave. Her hand touches yours, or maybe it doesn’t. But she reaches for you, her eyes are sad and kind. She is bright where you are dull; she emits light where you leech it away. 'Let’s go for a drive,' she says. 'Let’s go home.' The first car on the footpath is yours. You can’t get the keys out of your pocket, so you take the passenger seat. The woman in white slides into the driver's side without opening the door. You can’t look at her, can’t look at the road. 'Seatbelt,' she chides. Her side is buckled around nothing. You fumble to find yours with burning hands and numb fingertips.  The car starts, but it doesn’t go anywhere. Hot air bursts out of the heating vents and buffets you until your skin is full of needles. You know she is looking at you, and you refuse to look back. Eventually, she says, 'Do you know the way?' The answer tastes of blood, sitting uncooperatively on your tongue. You say, 'I’m waiting for my friend.' 'I know,' she whispers. The car pulls away from the curb. 'It won’t be long now.' Your eyes stick to the view as you wind your way out of the city, looking without relief or ability to turn away. The movement blur of the smeared city lights tastes like alcohol you don’t drink in the back of your throat, the bumps of tires in potholes ringing like laughter in your ears. Your hands are white knuckled on the wheel; but hang on a minute, you aren’t driving. The car takes a roundabout with ease, even if the screeching of brakes and icy wheels is loud in your eyes. The woman in white doesn’t hear it, doesn’t look away from the road. You can see the steering wheel through her hands. 'He’s waiting for me,' you whisper. 'Keagan. Wait for me.' 'Hold on,' says the woman in white. The car turns a corner, and you see the bridge. The metal railing is dented and twisted around itself, tumbling halfway down the steep bank. Orange cones twirl in a garland where you still see the phantom flashes of blue and red. Snow covers the ground where the dirt was ripped up and sprayed across the road. The burning in your throat is bitter and metallic. The road is open, cars passing by in solemn silence. Not like it was when you drove past here. All the traffic stopped, even the snow hung in the air. Your phone ringing unanswered, sirens wailing sorrow across the city. You can still hear them now, if you listen hard, but you know the woman beside you doesn’t hear a thing. 'He should have waited for me,' you say. The car bumps onto the bridge, leaving the tangle of metal railing behind. 'I know,' she whispers beside you. Or maybe it’s behind you. Maybe you’re in the driver’s seat after all. 'It’s time to go home.' Hurry up please, it's time. Hurry up please, it's time. You smell the bar in your nose. You are still burned by frost. Your throat still hurts and now you know why. 'Okay,' you whisper. The car bumps off the end of the bridge and turns a corner, leaving it all behind.

Hajji Abdullah Drury According to the most recent national census, the Muslim population of New Zealand exceeds 60,000 individuals. This figure reflects not a homogeneous constituency but a complex social formation shaped by successive migrations, refugee resettlement, conversion, and the maturation of locally born generations. Whilst first-generation migrants remain numerically prominent, refugee communities have introduced additional linguistic, ethnic, and theological diversity; converts to Islam (many of Anglo-European or Polynesian heritage), together with their New Zealand-born descendants, have further contributed to the emergence of layered and hybrid identities. The resulting demographic configuration complicates reductive accounts of religious minorities and highlights the fluid interplay between faith, ancestry, and civic participation. As Muslim communities consolidate institutional and generational continuity, they increasingly participate in national debates concerning pluralism, integration, and the place of Islam within the country’s constitutional and cultural framework.   The origins of an enduring Muslim presence in New Zealand can be traced to April 1854, when Wuzerah and Mindia migrated from India to Canterbury with their children. They entered the employ of Sir John Cracroft Wilson (1808–1881), a retired Anglo-Indian administrator. Settling in Cashmere, near Christchurch, the family contributed labour to local infrastructure projects, including the transportation of stone for the Anglican cathedral. In 1862, one of their sons, Piro, drowned—an event widely regarded as marking the earliest known Muslim burial in the country. Wuzerah himself remained in Canterbury until his death in 1902 and is interred in Sydenham, signifying nearly five decades of continuous Muslim residence in the region.   Further migration from Punjab and Gujarat gathered pace in the late nineteenth century. Early arrivals were predominantly male sojourners engaged in trade and labour; from the 1930s onward, family reunification gradually reshaped these communities into more stable domestic units. Organised religious life followed demographic consolidation. In 1950, the New Zealand Muslim Association was established in Auckland, becoming the first enduring Islamic institution in the country. At that time, the Muslim population numbered only a few hundred. Post-war displacement also affected New Zealand: refugees from Eastern Europe arrived in 1951 aboard the MS  Goya , among them Avdo Musovich (1919–2001), who later served for many years on the Association’s executive committee. His son was the first identifiable Muslim to enter the New Zealand military, in the late 1960s. In 1959, premises in central Auckland were acquired as an Islamic centre, and in 1960 Maulana Ahmed Said Musa Patel (1937–2009), trained in Gujarat, became the country’s first formally educated mullah or imam.   Conversion to Islam formed another strand in the historical development of the community. Among the earliest recorded converts were the Marsack brothers of Remuera, educated at King’s School and King’s College in Auckland, who adopted the names Shemseddin and Boureddin. In 1965, the first interment in a designated Muslim section at Waikumete Cemetery was that of Victor Henderson, known as Abdullah Kassim. Subsequent burials included Ian Alvin Newman (Mohamed Musa Amin, 1941–1987) and William Pettingal Dyer (Mohamed Ali, 1928–1988), amongst others.  In 1969, a Second World War veteran, Neil Dougan, embraced Islam whilst abroad and assumed the title and name Sheikh Abdullah Isa. Later he led a Sufi (esoteric) study circle in Auckland numbering more than 200 participants and wrote the first account of a New Zealander performing the pilgrimage to Mecca, the Hajj, in 1974. One member of his group, Abdul Salam Drake, designed the first purpose-built mosque erected by the New Zealand Muslim Association in Ponsonby in 1979.   Māori engagement with Islam began to emerge more visibly in the late twentieth century when several individuals embraced Islam during the 1970s. In 1985 convert George Te Heuheu was interviewed in the newly built Christchurch Mosque on Deans Avenue. More formal interaction developed in 1990, when the Federation of Islamic Associations of New Zealand convened the first formal Muslim–Māori meeting at a Wellington marae. An informal Māori Muslim Association was established in Hamilton a decade later, with Te Amorangi Eshaq Kireka-Whaanga appointed as president. In 2003 he and other recent Māori converts participated in a “Māori Muslim Day” organised by the Christchurch Mosque management and hosted in part at the national marae, Nga Hau e Wha. Despite these initiatives, sustained institutional support from immigrant-led Muslim organisations remained limited. The Māori Muslim Association, maintaining an exclusively indigenous membership and orientation, did not receive the consistent backing required for significant development. Public discourse has also posed challenges. Media commentary frequently conflated the Māori principle of political self-determination with reductive interpretations of jihad, reflecting broader misunderstandings of both Māori aspirations and Islamic conceptual terminology. The 1960s and 1970s were marked by institutional proliferation. The International Muslim Association of New Zealand emerged in Wellington during the early 1960s, and the Muslim Association of Canterbury was formed in 1977. Migrants from Fiji, including Abbas Ali and Hajji Mohammed Hussain Sahib, played a pioneering role in introducing commercial halal slaughter processes within the meat industry, linking religious observance with export economics. Additional arrivals from South Asia, the Balkans, Fiji, and elsewhere broadened the social base of local associations. The first visit of the Tablighi Jamaʿat occurred in 1969, and annual national gatherings were convened from the mid-1970s, reflecting transnational religious networks.   By 1979, the Muslim population had reached approximately 2000. That year witnessed the creation of a national coordinating body, the Federation of Islamic Associations of New Zealand. Its inaugural president, Mazhar Krasniqi (1931–2019), a perspicuous Kosovar Albanian refugee and entrepreneur, was succeeded by Hajji Abdul Rahim Rasheed (1938–2006) of Fijian origin. In 1982, Sheikh Khalid Kamal Abdul Hafiz (1938–1999), educated in Saudi Arabia, settled in Wellington and became a senior religious adviser to the Federation. From 1984 onward, the Federation administered halal certification for export meat, institutionalising a system that combined theological oversight with significant economic implications.   Immigration intensified during the late 1980s and subsequent decades, particularly from Asia, the Middle East, and Africa. Population growth stimulated the expansion of educational, charitable, and cultural institutions, especially in Auckland and presently there are over 30 Muslim agencies and mosques in the city. For instance, the Islamic Education and Dawah Trust, founded in 1990, established Al Madinah School and Al Zayed Girls College in Mangere, embedding Islamic schooling within the state-integrated sector. Sectarian diversity also became more visible; in 2008, Auckland’s Shia community, organised through the Fatima Zahra Charitable Association, publicly commemorated ʿAshura on an unprecedented scale. Amongst the many Muslim refugees to arrive in the 1990s were the entire Kafedzic family from Sarajevo in Bosnia-Hercegovina, whose ordeal was detailed in the first book of its kind Goodbye Sarajevo  (2011). Also hailing from Bosnia, Jusuf Dzilic arrived a few years later and carved out a career in New Zealand as a musician under the provocative moniker “Genocide”. Regional consolidation continued beyond the main metropolitan centres. The Muslim Association of Canterbury constructed the South Island’s first mosque in the mid-1980s and later hosted a national conference for converts in 2004. The Otago Muslim Association was formally registered in 1995, followed by the Southland Muslim Association in 2008, demonstrating the geographic diffusion of Muslim settlement and organisation.    A watershed moment occurred in March 2019, when coordinated attacks during Friday congregational prayers at two mosques in Christchurch resulted in the deaths of more than fifty worshippers. The iniquitous perpetrator, an Australian national, was subsequently sentenced to life imprisonment. This atrocity, whilst exposing the precarity faced by visible minorities, also elicited widespread public solidarity and international attention. It situated the history of Muslims in New Zealand within broader global narratives of migration, minority citizenship, and the challenges confronting plural democracies.   Taken together, these developments, predilections, and proclivities together chart the transformation of a small, scattered population into a nationally organised and demographically diverse religious community. Through migration, institutional innovation, and generational succession, Muslims in New Zealand have become an established—though continually evolving—component of the country’s increasingly complex social fabric.     Hajji Abdullah Drury is a Hamilton Muslim and author of the book:  A History of Christchurch Muslims – Integration and Harmony (2024).

IRAN, ISRAEL AND THE PACIFIC    The United States has been making their presence known in the Pacific as of recent. Billionaire Jared Novelley has just been announced as the new American ambassador to New Zealand, and he has already made clear the goals to further deepen New Zealand and the USA’s defence ties and open us up for some more good ol’ fashioned resource extraction.  The USA's Deputy Secretary of State Christopher Landau has also been doing the rounds in the Pacific Ocean, going from state to state to take heart-warming photos shaking hands with our various political leaders. One of his goals in this mission is to reassure Pacific nations that whatever mess the USA has made in the Middle East, it “doesn't stop American diplomacy in the rest of the world” (according to a post on reputable news site, X). The United States has always considered the Pacific to be an incredibly valuable region, but why do they see themselves to be so essential to this place we live? And with the latest developments in the American-Israeli war on Iran, should this special relationship really be something we treasure with all our hearts?    This isn’t an article detailing the insane events happening in the Middle East, but for those who somehow missed it, here’s a brief summary. The United States and Israel have begun a war with Iran over the perceived threat Iran’s nuclear program presents to Israeli and American interests. The war began with the insane immediate assassination of Iran’s leader, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, via Israeli bombing on February 28. This war is ongoing, constantly changing, and there is no consensus on where any of this is heading. That does mean that by the time this article is released some of this may be very out of date, so apologies just in case. You might be thinking that, as horrifying as endless war in the Middle East may be, it can’t really be that connected to this ocean on the other side of the world. But that ignores our region's long-standing ties with the USA, our trade connections, and the implications for American foreign policy going forward.     Firstly, to properly frame this, let's quickly examine how much of the Pacific is straight-up a part of the United States. Hawai’i, once a sovereign kingdom, is now an official state of America thanks in part to a coup in 1893. They also have the eastern islands of Sāmoa, the island of Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) as unincorporated territories, as well as a series of uninhabited islands and atolls that pepper our region. The two most powerful countries in the region, Australia and New Zealand, are both key allies of the United States, going all the way back to World War II when they helped expel Imperial Japan from this region and large parts of Asia.  This relationship is far from benign, and you don’t have to look that far to see how. After the initial strikes on Iran by the United States and Israel, alert levels across America’s Pacific territories were raised, and military build ups and reviews were kickstarted across the CNMI and Guam. Our good mate Landau who I mentioned up top was also recently in independent Sāmoa, where the two nations celebrated an ‘open skies’ agreement allowing for less restrictions on American vessels in Sāmoan airspace, while also further increasing their defence and policing ties. “Not just diplomatic, it’s personal” were the words Prime Minister of Sāmoa La’aulialemalietoa Leuatea Polāta’ivao Schmidt used to describe the relationship between the two countries.  While many Pacific politicians seemingly welcome all these developments with open arms, others have their doubts. The war in Iran will have ongoing effects on the global supply-chain of oil, with Pacific nations on high alert as to how rising prices and a lack of supply may hurt their peoples and economies for however long this war will take. Lawyer and CNMI Democratic Party member Michael White has predicted that these strikes will increase the “already-oppressive economic burden on our people” through the effects the war will have on gas prices in particular. This is a worry shared by many across the world, not just around here.    With this military buildup also comes the expectation of cooperation, and Trump has made it clear how he feels about those who would rather not get involved. He has brazenly threatened to cut off trade with Spain after they refused to let American vessels use their bases, and he’s publicly decried Keir Starmer for deciding to participate in too late a fashion. While Trump is famous for saying literally anything he wants at any moment with no follow through, these types of threats should not be taken lightly. His administration is currently weaponizing these types of diplomatic moves to blockade Cuba, with the increased economic isolation imposed by the USA leaving many Cubans without power and decent food. American diplomacy in full effect, everyone.    While yes, it is true that holding American planes may come in handy one day, I doubt the benefits outweigh the means. I mean, Donald Trump just pulled America out of several international agreements that commit those included to fighting against climate change, an issue of significant importance for the survival of the Pacific region. This goes in tandem with Trump’s global agenda to find new sources of rare-earth minerals, which includes the mining of the seabed of the Pacific Ocean. Deals with Tonga, the Cook Islands, and others are in the works as we speak. They have also exited from the Secretariat of the Pacific Regional Environment Programme (SPREP) and the World Health Organisation (WHO), two organisations who provide opportunities for Pacific students to obtain scholarships, with China stepping in to fill this gap.     The United States has also been busy blocking a Vanuatu-led U.N. resolution that would classify failing to protect people from the effects of climate change as violating international law. According to a message from the U.S. State Department obtained by the Associated Press through a cable, “President Trump has delivered a very clear message: that the U.N. and many nations of the world have gone wildly off track, exaggerating climate change into the world’s greatest threat.” Despite the push from Vanuatu, and pushback from U.N. experts, the Trump regime seems hell bent on draining our region for their own benefit.    Right-wing think tank ‘The Heritage Foundation’, most famous for ‘Project 2025’, an ideological platform that has influenced the Republican’s moves through the last election cycle, has now set its sights on influencing movements within the Pacific region. ‘A Charter of Pacific Values for a Prosperous Pacific Future’, released on the 5th of this month, outlines a proposed charter that, when read carefully, basically argues the Pacific needs to avoid China and stick with their bros in the Western world. A Trump-aligned think tank that helped give us the latest iteration of the Republican Party trying to influence the political decisions of Pacific leaders, around the same time a global quest for rare-natural resources has started among all of America’s allies, is surely cause for some alarm.    Their track record in the past is also in shambles, whether it be the legacy of nuclear testing near inhabited islands leaving generations with horrific medical issues, or the unlawful and oftentimes violent acquisition of their Pacific states and territories. Frankly, the history of American foreign policy in the Pacific is too large for a single article in a student newspaper, but hopefully I’ve painted a clear enough picture for you so far.    I have barely even mentioned the other partner in this war, Israel, who has also been doing its part in increasing its ties to the Pacific. Fiji and Sāmoa are opening/have opened new Embassies in Israel, and as the Israeli government’s genocide of the Palestinian people has progressed, many Pacific states have voted alongside the USA and Israel in blocking U.N. action aimed at protecting civillians and holding Israel to account for their conduct. The influence of certain evangelical strains of Christianity on the politics of the Pacific contributes to this strange relationship, and the influence of the United States also plays a large part. While these political decisions may not reflect how the people of the Pacific feel about these global events, this is the message heading to the world stage from many of our leaders.  Our friends in the USA are not going anywhere anytime soon, but in the wake of all of this, there is no better time than now for all of us to collectively re-consider who we call our bros on the world stage, and whether our leaders are reflecting how we feel about this. Our collaboration, our support, and our resources may be on the list of America’s most wanted, but before we hand everything over on a silver platter, let's think about what we actually want.

Ash Buick Just from reading the title of this article, you might be wondering: “ Tumblr? That’s still a thing? ” And yes, dear reader, I am proud to announce that I am one of the over 130 million active Tumblr users. The cultural icon of the 2010s is still alive and kicking. Johnlock  even made it into the top 100 ships of 2025 (if you know, you know). Even though I only joined the site in 2019, my status as a survivor of 5 November 2020 means I feel comfortable calling myself a Tumblr veteran. (Yes, I’ll stop with the references now.)  You might also be asking: “Ash, why did you do this to yourself?”  The simple answer is that I’d just had my wisdom teeth removed and had nothing better to do. The real answer is more complicated.  Around September, I heard news that a prominent blog had been deleted from the platform. This was notable partly because the blog was run by a trans woman. The blog’s name was   isuggestforcefem . At the time, I didn’t pay much attention to the news. It was well-known that trans women were sometimes banned from Tumblr for reasons that seemed to amount to little more than being openly trans. So I went on with my life. Things got more interesting after my surgery. One blog I followed started vague-posting about a group of trans men who, in their opinion, were behaving like “Men’s Rights Activists.” Around the same time, I began seeing unfamiliar acronyms appearing in posts and people’s bios: TMA  and TME .  In the background, a number of blogs clearly modelling themselves after isuggestforcefem  started popping up—and the things they had to say were... really something. Many of them argued that transgender men were not oppressed to the same extent as transgender women. Some even claimed that trans men possessed male privilege. As a transmasc nonbinary person who likes to believe they’re a little less chronically online than these people, I found myself wondering: how do you end up with these opinions?   And so I dove headfirst into the rabbit hole. Immediately, there were some really clear parallels between whatever this was and the infamous “ ace discourse ” of the 2010s. The first similarity was the effort to remove a group—previously widely accepted—from the LGBTQ+ community. The second was the method: denying that this group experienced the same level of oppression as “the rest of us.” The third, and perhaps most egregious, was interpreting the group’s lack of visibility as evidence of privilege.  During the ace discourse, ‘critics’ focused heavily on asexual people’s presumed inherent lack of sexual relationships, arguing that this made them “harder to clock as queer.” But flying under the radar is not the same thing as privilege. Much of society—including significant parts of the medical community—still treats asexuality as something broken or pathological, rather than simply another way of existing.  Eventually the discourse cycle burned itself out. The vast majority of people agreed that asexual people were, in fact, queer, and that the whole debate had been a waste of time. The gays of Tumblr collectively held hands and agreed that we wouldn’t let anything this asinine become a big thing ever again.  But of course, it happened again. So… why? While Tumblr has a large queer user base, only a relatively small number of people regularly post in queer-related tags. My own avoidance of searching those tags directly is reaffirmed whenever they trend: the preview images are often dominated by bots trying to lure users off-site. After a while the bots become part of the furniture. (That 130-million-active-users figure is probably a little optimistic.) Their prevalence is partly a symptom of Tumblr’s inconsistent approach to “mature content.” No, they didn’t un-ban porn—but “female-presenting nipples” quietly returned in 2022. We take the small wins. Instead of focusing on the bots, the platform often seems more interested in cracking down on trans people talking about being trans. In its current state, Tumblr can be an oddly hostile environment for its queer users. If you wanted to publish a nuanced essay about queer theory, Tumblr probably wouldn’t be your first choice. You’d start a Substack. The result is a fairly insular group of people trying—often very hard—to say something profound. In other words, perfect conditions for an echo chamber. As the space becomes more insular, subtler forms of bigotry can slip through unchallenged. Eventually you end up with situations where a generation of queer youth believes misogyny is acceptable, provided you clarify that it’s directed at white women. Tumblr also has an old inside joke: it’s the “piss on the poor” website. The phrase comes from a famous misreading of a post from 2012 saying the average Tumblr user has piss-poor reading comprehension . Someone reblogged the post saying “ how dare you say we piss on the poor”  and thus, new slang was invented. Tumblr’s also a really good place to observe bean soup theory  in action: you might post about how much you like pancakes, and someone will appear in your replies accusing you of hating waffles. More broadly, it’s a sense of “what about me?”-ism, where people feel compelled to make every post they encounter directly or indirectly related to them. They can’t just quietly reblog something, they need to at minimum add some commentary in the tags.  This tendency certainly distorts discourse—but it isn’t the whole story. Until around 2021, Tumblr didn’t have a robust recommendation algorithm. Users mostly discovered content by following specific tags, or by following the right people. Even now, many still use the platform in this “traditional” way. The result is that if a large blog posts a slightly questionable take, it can reach thousands of readers—while hundreds of thoughtful responses languish unseen in a niche tag. So what was it actually like to doomscroll the transandrophobia  tag for a month? To be frank, it was bleak. As you might expect from a tag centered on bigotry, most posts involved people venting about the discrimination they’ve encountered. This usually meant screenshots of other posts, accompanied by a bit of commentary. There were also trolls and bad-faith arguments—but that’s simply the internet. Still, the experience wasn’t entirely negative. I learned more about systemic discrimination against the intersex community and the ways their experiences are often overlooked—even in mainstream discussions of sex and gender within the trans community. I also began noticing a broader pattern: attempts within online trans spaces to create new, more “woke” versions of the gender binary. AMAB  and AFAB , terms originally used by intersex people to describe being forcibly slotted into the sex and gender binary, had been diluted into shorthand for “non-binary boy” and “non-binary girl.” Transmasc and transfem became synonyms for trans man and trans woman.  This change in language makes it overall more difficult for queer people to talk about their experiences online. Some of these terms were specifically created so things wouldn’t get lost inside mainstream discourse. And now as they are folded back into the mainstream, people now have to look in more places to find the same things. Everybody loses. In my view, though, the most troubling terms were TMA  and TME , standing for transmisogyny-affected and transmisogyny-exempt. These categories lump cis women, cis men, and transmasculine people into the same group, with the curious caveat that if a cis person has been mistaken for a trans woman—they are now TMA. The framework therefore only has a few specific applications, and relies on a very narrow definition of transmisogyny as transfem-specific transphobia. Without that definition the whole structure begins to wobble. With all this in mind, I looked back at my introduction to the discourse in a new light. The alleged groups of “trans men’s rights activists” were extremely small—if they existed at all. TME was often being used as a stand-in for trans men, effectively giving old TERF rhetoric a new coat of paint. Meanwhile, isuggestforcefem  had been able to leverage Tumblr’s real mistreatment of trans women to win sympathy—even when she would have been cancelled for some of her takes under other circumstances. Realising how much I’d initially missed felt strange. But it reflects a broader problem on the internet: if something is easy to fact-check, most people won’t bother. Instead of looking directly at what was happening in the transandrophobia  tag, users relied on second-hand accounts filtered through the biases of whoever was posting about it. And thus, a game of telephone began.  “Hey, isn’t it weird that so much transandrophobia goes unchallenged in transfem-centric tags?” became “ transmasc vs transfem infighting .” “We should have a term to talk about our group’s specific collective experiences” became “ transandrobros and their victim complex .” “Hey, it’s weird that ‘kill all men’ including trans men is considered a normal thing to say” became “ the TMEs are minimising the struggles of trans women. ” Not only were the original conversations being distorted—they were being pushed toward increasingly extreme directions. Who benefits from that?  Tumblr, certainly. It can serve me plenty of ads while I scroll through my dashboard. But more broadly, politicians attempting to strip trans people of their rights benefit from a community too busy arguing with itself to organise protests or build solidarity. The main thing I’ve learned from this month of doomscrolling is the importance of stepping back and looking at the bigger picture.  When I was talking about this discourse with a friend—who is also trans—she seemed puzzled that it was happening at all. To her, the question “Does transandrophobia matter?”  had an obvious answer: of course it does. Intersectionality tells us that different aspects of our identities shape how we experience discrimination. Having language to describe those differences is useful. But transphobes, ultimately, don’t care what specific sub-type of trans we are, they hate us all the same.  Which makes community infighting feel a little besides the point when we have bigger fish to fry. Will I do something like this again?  Absolutely.  Do as I say, not as I do. Put down your phone (which you’re hopefully doing right now) and go talk to some real people. You’ll have a much better time than arguing in a comment section, I promise.

A feed for fuck-all Continuing on from last week’s Munch, here are further variations on a theme of sandwich.  Where’s Charlie?  What: Bánh Mì.   Price: $15.00 When: 11:00–2:00pm; Monday–Friday.  A golden -brown shell hiding limp lies and dissatisfaction.  ⭐ Pōneke loves its Vietnamese food; between Kent Terrace and Lambton Quay one might pass (in no particular order) The Old Quarter, Apache, Pho Viet, Lemongrass Kitchen, Nam D, Go Vietnam, Go Vietnam (again), Saigon Taste, Saigon Delights, and the questionably-named Where’s Charlie? Take a walk through the Hub and you’ll find him once more, tucked under the stairs to the library. While their foreign policy leaves much to be desired, Vietnam’s cuisine is obviously a popular one.  So I thought a bánh mì from Where’s Charlie? would skyrocket to the top of my list, expecting it to be tempered only by its price tag. Instead, it was both expensive and disappointing.  A bánh mì thịt is by design a dynamic recipe: French-style baguette spread with paté, butter and mayonnaise, then filled with Vietnamese pickled vegetables and marinated pork. It can be hearty and fresh at the same time; sweet, sour, salty, spicy, all in a convenient sandwich. This bánh mì was not that.  There was no zing to it apart from the vinegar in the mayonnaise, which was weak. Soft strips of carrot and sliced cucumber disappeared in a white mush of mixed spreads, without any of the richness I’d expect from the liver paté. Not even the purported sriracha and jalapeños came through with any kick. I picked the ‘classic’ filling—Viet ham and BBQ pork—which was… aight. The two meats were hard to distinguish, without the smokey-sweet flavour that I’d hoped for from the pork. The ham was thick-cut, which was nice and lended the bánh mì more heft, but little else.  To add insult to injury, I was still hungry after. The sandwich was a couple inches longer than a sub of the day, but not even equally filling. There was something satisfying in crunching through the crust of a baguette, but this was short-lived and left me hankering for more as soon as it was gone.  Where’s Charlie? gives a slight discount to Vic students, selling their bánh mì for a dollar cheaper than on Lambton Quay. But at double the price of a sub, it’s not nearly worth the expenditure.  Hunter Lounge What: 2-for-1 Margherita Pizza. Price: $10.00 When: 3:00–7:00pm; Fridays.  **** ⭐⭐ Shut up. A pizza is a sandwich: spreads and toppings on bread—albeit open-faced. And for the taxonomic sticklers reading this, at the Hunter Lounge you can get two pizzas for the price of one and then put them together. Boom, unequivocal sandwich.  Everyone who’s ever attended a VUWSA quiz will have discovered that the Hunter Lounge does rather good pizza. Their menu offers some reasonable dinner options, ranging from a $10 Margherita to the $18 ‘The Graduate’ meatlovers. In fact, the medium Margherita makes an alright lunch too, but making the trek down through the Student Union and sitting in the bar in between lectures just never seems to happen.  However, sweetening the deal twofold makes for a brilliant way to end a long week. On Friday evenings, one blue note gets you two Margheritas, which is a grand dinner that could even leave a few slices for a hungover Saturday lunch. The pizza sauce is sweet and a little tart, to cut through the chewy mozzarella and what I suspect are parmesan flakes. All of this comes on a fresh and got-to-be-hand-made base that’s rolled thin and baked until a little charred. A lot of the dough’s flavour comes through with their Margherita, because they are frugal with the basil. It is more plain than one might expect, but certainly still a tasty pizza made with high-quality ingredients.  If you’ve got any budget left over for a drink, their jugs of Abandoned lager are as cheap as Tui from JJ’s. I’ve had many great friday nights start with a couple of pizzas and a jug here. Dinner deal aside, however, I think the Hunter Lounge still makes for a solid, mid-tier lunch option. It’s not much further than Ramsey House and almost as homely, better value than most places around the Hub, and even one pizza goes a decent way.

When your humble author awoke on Friday, 13 March with tonsils the size of Luxon’s bald head constricting her inflamed airway, some more superstitious readers might blame the unlucky date. I was certain, however, that a call to Student Health might provide some relief from the raw, burning pain I was experiencing with every breath and swallow. How sorely mistaken I was.  Calling just before 10 a.m., I was quickly informed by the receptionist that urgent same-day GP appointments were already completely full. Anecdotally — via the two different receptionists I spoke to — the service had received a record number of calls that morning, akin to flu season.  My options were: wait and call again on Monday at 8:30 a.m. (70 hours away), call Healthline for advice, take myself to After Hours, or book a phone appointment with a nurse. When I asked whether the nurse could prescribe antibiotics or anything stronger than the paracetamol, ibuprofen, and lidocaine spray I was already taking, I was told that wasn’t possible.  Upon seeing me sweaty and slightly tearful for the second time that morning, the clerk at the University Unichem pulled his mask up a little higher and suggested that, yes — I probably needed something stronger. Feeling panicked, unable to afford a regular GP, overwhelmed and let down, I decided to push through the day on over-the-counter medicine alone. I diligently conducted a COVID test in the Salient  office and attended my three-hour mandatory tutorial that afternoon.  By evening, however, it became clear that the pain wasn’t going anywhere — it was getting worse. Spurred on by my friends, (“Dude, you need  a Doctor”), I let my flatmate drive me to After Hours at 8:30 p.m., figuring a few hours wait would be better than nothing at all. Imagine my surprise, then, when we were told at the desk that After Hours was shutting for the night due to staff shortage. I was directed to the Emergency Department. I arrived to a full waiting room, feeling slightly ridiculous — yes, I am here for a sore throat, but no, I don’t have anywhere else to go. The triage nurse was dubious, but after shining a light down my throat (the first physical examination I had received all day), she told me that I should stay, on account of the tiny hole that was supposed to be my functioning airway. Nine hours after my arrival, I finally left ED at 6 a.m. with a generous supply of prescription pain medicine. The following days were spent reflecting, in a codeine-fuelled haze: what is going on with the New Zealand healthcare system?  The issue is broader than any individual experience. It rests not with the incredible doctors, nurses, and other medical staff that bend over backwards every day to ensure that as many people as possible receive high-quality care, but with a general lack of funding and infrastructure. Staff are burnt out, hospital beds are full, and appointments are in overwhelming demand. Workforce shortages place increasing pressure on the system as workers continue to head overseas for better wages, hours, and conditions — and who could blame them?  New Zealand’s healthcare system is primarily government-funded through taxation. It saw a budget increase of $5.5 billion for hospital and specialist services, primary care, and community and public health in 2025/26. There was a 6.43% increase in general practice capitation funding, alongside $180 million in new funding for general practice. While this sounds promising, it’s important to remember that healthcare funding must keep pace with population growth, meaning increases are expected every year.  Clearly, the current uptick isn’t enough.   On Tuesday, 17 March, health minister Simeon Brown announced an additional $25 million investment to boost hospital capacity, increase staffing, and prepare for winter demand. Again, this sounds substantial — but when spread across the country, the impact is minimal: just 12 additional winter beds for Wellington and a 0.47% increase in staff nationwide. While a step in the right direction, it is, at best, incremental—like peeing on a house fire. Or, as Salaried Medical Specialists executive director Sarah Dalton more eloquently told RNZ: “I wouldn’t call it an investment or a plan, I’d call it a band-aid.”  Fleur Fitzsimmons, National Secretary for the Public Service Association Te Pūkenga Here Tikanga Mahi, was similarly critical: “Minister Brown cannot claim to be preparing hospitals for winter while his Government has spent the past two years imposing cuts and job losses right across Health NZ. You cannot gut the workforce and then paper over the damage with a press release.” And it’s true. The same minister also asked hospitals to cut back $510 million late last year in “efficiencies”, claiming that “back-office waste” could be “re-invested straight back into patient care.” That amount makes Tuesday’s bonus look hardly mollifying. Brown has also begun decentralising Health NZ, with the aim of allowing regions and districts to recruit and deploy staff independently, while maintaining central oversight for strategy and standards. In 2025, it was revealed that Wellington hospitals were, in some cases, waiting up to six months for approval to begin recruiting frontline staff. While decentralisation may improve responsiveness, it also risks creating uneven capability and workforce gaps between regions. Mauri Ora Student Health & Counselling specifically is funded largely by the student-paid Student Services Fee, with 59% allocated to health services, counselling, and pastoral care. Routine medical appointments are generally free for domestic students, though charges apply for international students and specialist services such as medicals, ECGs, minor surgeries, and some vaccinations. Here too, additional funding for staffing would ease pressure, freeing up additional appointments for distressed students.  Wait times for counselling and routine medical appointments in 2025 typically sat at six to seven weeks. March and April are traditionally busy months for the service, as new students must see a GP before prescriptions can be issued. Same-day urgent appointments typically fill by noon — though on my ill-fated day of March 13 they were all gone by 10 a.m. This is in part due to a reduction in same-day triage appointments from 22 at the end of last year to just 12 per day over the past two weeks, in an effort to prioritize continuity of care.  Mauri Ora now walks a tightrope between reactivity (same-day care, triage) and proactivity (ongoing care, scheduled counselling)—one that may be fraying under the strain. Yes, my tonsillitis was not life-threatening, and I won’t pretend others haven’t endured far worse. But it was painful, prolonged, and—critically—difficult to treat affordably and accessibly. Internationally, New Zealand is still seen as a safe, stable, and liveable country, with a healthcare system comparable to Canada, the UK, and many Nordic countries. Increasingly, however, it feels as though that reputation no longer reflects reality.  Funding, policy, and workforce strategy must change—and quickly—if Aotearoa wants to maintain a healthcare system that is truly accessible.

An account of a mature student returning to study after 30 years in the work force Marek Pipi If you had said to me in 1996, when I graduated with a B.A., that one day I would return to Vic for postgraduate study, I would have told you where to go. As much as I loved my time here, I was on a mission: get my teaching diploma and become a mover and shaker in the classrooms of Aotearoa, New Zealand. Now, at fifty, I find myself once again walking past the Hunter Building each morning, making my way to a lecture. What bought about my change in attitude—or rather, who—was my grandmother. At ninety, she began asking me to return to university. A great educator herself (and a Dame), she told me she had the perfect thesis waiting, along with all the material I would need, sitting neatly in her home office.  I was too respectful to tell her  where to go, but managed to change the subject every time the topic arose. Why on earth would I forgo a stable salary to become a poor student again? No thank you. Last year, at ninety-five, she passed away. I was overcome by a deep sense of regret. Why on earth had I not fulfilled her wish when she asked? I returned to school and informed the principal that I would be going back to university. I was coming back to study, by hook or by crook. At the end of the year I resigned officially and spent Christmas packing boxes and moving furniture into storage. Then my pay stopped. I had a mild panic attack.  At the same time, I was trying to navigate a new way of applying for courses, loans, and allowances. In the nineties this was all done on paper—forms, envelopes stamped. No log-ins, no passwords, no mysterious links. They say the digital age is supposed to make things easier, not harder. I still prefer paper. I arrived from Hawke’s Bay and set off to the train station for my first day back as a university student. Until recently I had been the Year 9 Dean at school. This, I realised, must be what my girls felt like on their first day. Then there was public transport. I needed lessons again. We used to buy ten-trip tickets that the conductor or bus driver would punch in with a little click.. Someone showed me how to buy a Snapper card, download the app, and load money onto it. Thankfully the automated message on the train reminds us that “if you are using a Snapper card, please remember to tap off.” Wellington has changed, so has Vic. The city is slower, quieter.The walk up Lambton Quay no longer feels  so rushed. On Fridays, it almost feels like a Sunday, with so many people working from home.  At Vic in the nineties, there was no Hub, no docking stations, no monitors or vending machines on every floor. Only one place sold coffee, in the courtyard outside the library, and I recall there only being only two eateries on campus. Our readings came in a heavy booklet of photocopied chapters called a multilith . Te Kawa a Māui, Māori Studies was a group of quaint villas in front of the Marae, where today stands the three-level, modern, art filled building known as Ngā Mokopuna. One of the most obvious and beautiful changes I have noticed in my first weeks back is how safe and natural it is to be part of the rainbow community on campus. The self-expression and freedom to openly be yourself, without judgment, shows me how far we have come as a society. When I was here for the first time, I used to mince around these hallways in sarongs, wraparound skirts, and all sorts of eye-catching get-ups. But that came from personal confidence,  not because I was seeing others like myself. In my day, no one had sent out the memo that it was okay. In other ways Wellington has not changed at all. My favourite clothes store, World, is still open.So is Logan Brown. Slow Boat Records—an inner-city institution—still spins jazz records as you walk through the door. The colored buckets still tip water noisily along Cuba Street. Buskers still sing at the train station and on street corners. And the weather—this weather—will never change. As I sit on the sixth floor of the library looking out to the harbour, there is a calm within. Who cares if I dropped from a $3,000-a-fortnight salary to $300 a week (that I have to pay back)? Who cares if I have my first assignment due next week and haven't started yet? Who cares if I’m surrounded by students who are the age of the Year 13s I was teaching just months ago?  All is well.  I am supposed to be here.  My course-related costs and living allowance appeared in my account today. Once I submit this annotated bibliography I’m going to head down to the Puffin Wine Bar and buy myself the most expensive cocktail they have. I’ll raise the glass and toast my grandmother. Look Nan. I’m finally doing it.

Dan Moskovitz Over the past five years, bird flu has ravaged bird and mammal alike across the globe. Over 180 million poultry birds have died, as well as untold numbers of wildlife. Human infections, while rare, have a fatality rate over 50%. Mainland Australia, New Zealand, and the Pacific remain the only flu-free regions. But with the Australian-owned subantarctic Heard Island now reporting the virus — an island which many of Aotearoa’s migratory birds visit — it’s a question of when, not if, bird flu arrives in the country. And given its persistence in wild birds, once it arrives, it’s here for good.  So right now the country is in prep mode. DoC is figuring out how to protect our native birds, MPI is preparing the poultry industry, and regional council’s job will be to protect us.  “One Health New Zealand — that's Health New Zealand, DoC, and MPI — are advocating for bird carcasses to be left in place to naturally decompose,” said Roger Uys, a senior ecologist at Greater Wellington Regional Council.  “This reduces the risk of human infections, and it doesn't spread the disease around. The reality, though, is if we have dead birds in a playground or along the beach, we risk exposing the public unnecessarily.  “If a dog goes and picks up a dead bird, it can get sick and make its owners sick. So this is where we'd remove and dispose of the carcasses.”Regional council will divide its land into back and front country, based on the levels of foot traffic. In the back country, which has less visitors, dead birds will result in council erecting signage. In the front country, a carcass — even just a single one — will trigger removal.  Interestingly, there isn’t a firm number which divides the front from the back.  Birds do die naturally from other causes. But once bird flu is confirmed to be in Aotearoa, if there’s a rotting carcass anywhere in the front country, regional council will be removing it, whether we know how it died or not. Council is currently anticipating lots of call-outs for a single corpse, rather than apocalyptic scenarios involving beaches covered in dead birds. It’ll be expensive though, as council is currently guesstimating costs of around ten thousand per call out. Still, this is one funding crisis council isn’t worried about, for a change of pace.  “We do carry contingency for this sort of thing,” said Andy Brown, Greater Wellington’s Risk Management and Resilience lead. “And if we got into the worst-case scenario, we’d be looking at redistributing budgets to respond.  “We'd also be expecting if we did end up in that worst case scenario, there’d be an all-of-government response to bird flu.” “But we can certainly manage the smaller events within our current budgets.” If you encounter a bird showing symptoms of avian influenza, please take a video and call the biosecurity hotline: 0800 80 99 66. Symptoms include falling over, twisting their neck to look upwards, lethargy, and drooping heads. Finding three or more dead birds in one area is also a reason to contact Biosecurity. Transmission of bird flu to humans is uncommon but not impossible. However, its mortality rate in humans is 52%. Do not touch any bird showing symptoms.

Connections Answers: First Connection Animals: Crane, Jaguar, Seal, Swan Second Connection Directions on a ship: Bow, Stern, Port, Starboard Third Connection Fruits: Apple, Blackberry, Orange, Date Fourth Connection Meaning “orginized”: Trim, Tidy, Neat, Orderly

I first got really captured by animation when Into the Spider-Verse  was released back in 2018. The complexity of the artistry exhibited by animators—not to mention their saint-level patience and careful attention to detail—had me awestruck by this artform. From Ghibli to Aardman to LAIKA (not to mention Aotearoa’s very own Wētā), there is always heaps of exciting stuff happening in the world of animation.  And there’s no better way to get a taste of what's fresh and fun right now than attending the Wellington Animation Film Festival, held March 19th to 22nd at The Roxy Cinema. This year's programme presents a collection of feature films and shorts from across the globe (productions from China, France, and South Korea, to name a few). You’ll also get a chance to see some films screened at last year’s ANNECY festival, the world's biggest animation film fest. There's shorts-compilations, family-friendly films, and award winners—something for everyone! In celebration of the festival, I had a chat with Pōneke-based animator Haojun Huang about his passion for and work in the field of animation. What first led you to animation? Like most animators, I fell in love with animation at a young age. And as a 90s Chinese kid, I grew up with this comic magazine series called Màn You (漫友 Comic Fans), which inspired me a lot. I didn't truly find myself in the animation space until I started to work in the live-action film industry as a set designer, where I found my passion in storytelling through 3D spaces. " End of Summer " was my debut animated film, which was screened at WAFF 2025. I made it during my time in the masters program at Miramar Creative Centre. A really special one to have as my directorial debut. What is your favourite part of the animation process? I think lighting is one of the most rewarding parts of the animation process; it's like turning on a lamp in an unknown space. There is a sense of discovery through lighting, where everything comes to life. Light somehow moves the hearts always! What is the most challenging aspect of your work? There are many challenges in the animation process. For me personally, the most challenging is also the most exciting part—the act of starting. It is the part where I decide to stop overthinking and start visualising. What are you most proud of in your work as an animator? I am always super proud when I see all the strange ideas come to life. I believe one of the most essential skills for an artist is eye-hand coordination: Eye—having the taste & research to conceptualize, Hand—bringing together the skill to execute the concept. What key traits make a good animator? Patience, perfectionism…? Patience! Animation is a long process; there are good days and bad days. Another trait would be confidence, even a little bit of blind confidence (the good ol delusion) could be good. Animation is another form of expression and, to me, confidence is the key to communicating the message. What are you most excited about for the future of animation? I am most excited by how it is changing! Also how we use our unique voices as animators. What is your favourite animated film and tv series? (or a couple favourites!) When I was a kid, I used to be obsessed with this anime called Fairy Tail hahaha. Alberto Mielgo's Wind Shield Wiper  is one of my favorite animated films as an adult. When I was in ANNECY last year, I made friends with a Chinese film maker named Tan Jiali—his award winning short Won't Be Here  was truly beautiful, and the cultural specification hit home for me.    Last year, Netflix used A.I. to complete VFX work in their show The Eternaut. They cited time and budget concerns as their primary motivators. How do you feel about this as an animator? Last year, recommended by Raqi Syed, I read Mark Fisher's Capital Realism . And Raqi also talked about VFX. Though charmingly referred to as “movie magic”, it is in fact a time consuming craft. I suppose what we are seeing is craft standing before capital. I often like to think about this through the lens of the fashion industry (bit of cross referencing there); the high end craft (the dying craftsmanship) is consumed by the wealthy, and the affordable, sweat-shop, fast-fashion is consumed by the masses. I don't really know the answer to this, but this is roughly how I feel about it: when big corporations use A.I. to streamline the workflow, then who is consuming the final output?  Are you feeling the impacts of A.I. in your industry? Any big concerns moving forward? I think concern regarding A.I. is definitely present. A lecture from Kyle Balda truly enlightened me on this subject matter. As an animator & director, I am intrigued to see the story we tell in a world where A.I. is our reality. My thinking around it is that A.I. presents opportunities whether it is involved or not, because its impact will change our stories as future storytellers, and our stories will continue to be important. The general structure of our society hasn't really been the best at providing stability for artists, so it is in our nature to innovate and find our own footing. That's what we will continue to do in the future. What was the highlight of your experience at ANNECY? I met so many awesome people, especially other young, emerging artists. I always have this feeling when I am amongst outrageously talented people—I felt that I would be okay. We are all in this together, we are all swimming. To be more specific, I got to prototype some animatics with a couple artists while we were chatting ideas. The VR exhibition at ANNECY was really cool; I loved how out of the box animation could be when you are confined by a different parameter.  What are you most looking forward to about this year's WAFF? The people hahahah. WAFF always brings people together and gives voice to the artists. Wellington has a very vibrant and supportive animation & VFX community, I must say. So I would encourage everyone to take part in the festival. If you haven't got your ticket or it's sold out, it would still be great to be there and see what magic happens. Are you working on anything exciting at the minute? Yes, I am! On my way back from Annecy in June of last year, I wrote half of my new story " Our Bodies " on the flight to NZ. I recently finished the story for a proposal, and I must say, it is so rewarding and exciting to see the full story written out. DozeFace Animation Lab is always on the go—we are working with talents to create bedtime stories. We are also finding our way though a projection mapping project. Additionally, I've been photographing the people of Wellington this year. I love photography for the human connections it builds. It is a more rapid exercise for me to train my eye and taste for visual communication. Tell us a bit about DozeFace… What excites you about this project? DozeFace Animation Lab is exciting because of our emphasis on "lab". We are experimenting with what animation can be in and out of the film and TV industry. We are a team of emerging VFX artists and animators, carving our own paths in this changing landscape. How do you feel animation can contribute to one's emotional or mental state? Animation always has such an impact on our childhood, and childhood is strongly linked to our emotional well-being as adults. Our producer Nadia Koolina has discovered through research that what helps us sleep isn't just sedation, but curiosity and excitement for the next day. So that's what we are trying to do with animation as a medium. How can people support the work your team is doing? Join us on the journey, with your talents and visions. I am always here to have a coffee and conversation, or multiple of them! In your teaching at Yoobee College of Creative Innovation, what are you seeing young animators getting most passionate and excited about?  We are artists. We can't help but do it, and I see that everyday. They are talented, intelligent, and filled with thoughts — philosophical, political, and emotional. I find that in my day-to-day as a teacher, my job is to see and be enamoured by their strengths. I am a professional, full-time hype man.  Haojun’s debut film " End Of Summer " was screened at WAFF in 2025. This granted him the opportunity to attend the ANNECY film festival in 2025, where his film also screened. Later that year, it was screened again at SIGGRAPH Electronic Theater in Vancouver. You can watch “ End of Summer " at www.vimeo.com/1062321024/05570cf4a0   Haojun co-founded DozeFace Animation Lab with his classmates from the masters programme at Miramar Creative Centre — Nadia Koolina, Mason Garner, and Andrew Tian . DozeFace Animation Lab creates animated bedtime stories—”not just as entertainment, but as gentle acts of caregiving.” Their team is “further exploring the possibility of animation as a tool to help anxious adults de-escalate, and shepherd them into the land of sleep.” Watch some of the DozeFace seeds —” short animated experiences crafted for different kinds of sleepers” —and enjoy a restful night of slumber. Check out the project at www.dozeface.com The Wellington Animation Film Festival is running from the 19th to 22nd of March at The Roxy Cinema in Miramar. Find the full programme at www.wellingtonanimationfilmfestival.com

For the first time, the VUWSA Postgraduate Officer position will be elected, and announced, at VUWSA’s upcoming AGM on Thursday 19 March. The role was created alongside the Postgraduate Voice Coordinator which commenced at the start of 2026.  This extension, of both an elected member on the VUWSA exec and the Postgraduate Voice Coordinator who is a contracted staff member at VUWSA, come at a time when the consensus (at least at VUWSA) is that postgraduate voice is more important than ever.  Speaking to Aría Lal, VUWSA’s current Education Officer, they explained to me that “Te Herenga Waka marketing itself as a research institute lends itself to needing more support for postgraduate students.”  According to Te Herenga Waka’s website, Victoria University is New Zealand’s top-ranked university for intensity of high-quality research. Te Herenga Waka also holds a Five Stars Plus rating in the QS Stars University Ratings system, being only one of 23 in the world to hold this ranking.  Salient  sat down with Dr. Elizabeth McKibben, who is VUWSA’s Postgraduate Voice Coordinator, to learn more about the impacts of the role.  The first point McKibben wanted to make clear is that the election of the Postgraduate Officer will be “the first time in at least seven years there’s been a legitimate election for any postgraduate officer.” McKibben was the Postgraduate Students Representation Association President from 2021 to 2022 and ran uncontested for the role. The Presidents she can recall in recent history before her, and those after,also  ran uncontested.  This election brings six confirmed candidates all vying for the role; Kiara Batten, Rue Parker, George Baker, Vladislav Ilin, Fangliang Ji, and Mafos Steve. Elections open Monday 16 March, and close at 11:30 a.m. on Thursday 19 March. All students will receive an email with the link to vote.  Ethan Rogacion, VUWSA’s Academic Vice President, is confident that the Postgraduate Officer role will “positively affect students.” In an interview with Salient , he discussed the gap in postgraduate representation at Te Herenga Waka in the past five years.  “VUWSA provides training, guidelines, and support to postgraduate representation. So [the postgraduate Officer] is able to deliver high quality student voice at all levels of university representation regarding issues like resource allocation for postgraduate students, new programmes, and new policies which impact student success." He closed by echoing Lal’s sentiment, that “it is more important than ever to ensure there is a strong postgraduate voice.”  For Joseph Habgood, VUWSA’s Student Representation Coordinator, this change marks a positive development in both postgraduate representation and his own workload. For more than seven years, Habgood has been solely responsible for supporting all class representatives across the University.  With the development of the Postgraduate Voice Coordinator, he is able to break up his workload. “There is so much VUWSA could achieve if VUWSA had the resources, having two people in the student voice space opens up opportunities we never had the time to do,” he tells Salient  on Dr. Elizabeth McKibben’s appointment.  He’s confident that the election of the Postgraduate Officer position will continue to strengthen the work that he and McKibben already do.  Downstairs at VUWSA, Student Advocate Gilbert Ostini describes to me that the creation of these two roles “moves the ambulance away from the bottom of the cliff” for postgraduate students. He explains to Salient  that these roles help to create proactive relationships with both postgraduate students and faculty members, so everyone can be better equipped, and create further support systems, before they need to access services like VUWSA advocacy. The six students contesting the role of Postgraduate Officer come off the back of VUWSA’s 2025 election season. The season saw the most nominations in recent history for the role of President, which had run uncontested since 2021.

Content Warning: Death of Sibling Pluto Rennie I learned what boyhood looked like from my brother. Not as a set of direct rules, but by paying attention to how he moved through the world—how he stood, how he treated people, how he existed in his body. He was older than me, not in an authoritative way, but it was obvious early on that he moved through things with a casualness I didn’t yet have.  My brother died in 2020. He was 23. When people say that, they usually mean to emphasise how young he was, which of course is true.  But I also hear something else: how complete he already felt. He had already lived through his really cool teenager era—leaning over the kitchen counter like the house belonged to him, smelling faintly of cigarettes 24/7, the Pixies bleeding tinny and insistent from his bedroom—and that mattered.  I’m a trans masc lesbian, which means my relationship to boyhood has never been straightforward. It wasn’t something handed to me cleanly, or claimed without friction. Boyhood came to me sideways—filtered through observation and imitation, through watching someone I love move through masculinity without performing it too hard. My brother never seemed like he was trying to be a boy. He just was one (and man, was I jealous).  As a teenager, he was effortlessly cool in a way that can’t be replicated. He wasn’t polished or ironic, and he didn’t seem like he was trying to prove anything. He wore clothes into the ground. Sagged his jeans to my mother’s horror. He had bad haircuts and bad facial hair that somehow worked. He moved like his body belonged to him—like it wasn’t something to apologise for. He would roll his eyes at my mum in exaggerated teenage annoyance, then smile at her the second he thought she wasn’t looking. Watching him, I learned that boyhood could be soft and harsh and stupid and sincere all at once. That it didn’t require dominance. That it didn’t require cruelty.  He wasn’t macho. He wasn’t especially sentimental either. But he was loyal, he was curious, and he took up space without asking permission. That last part mattered to me more than I realised at the time. As a kid, I was already learning how to fold myself smaller. He was learning how to stretch out—on couches, in conversations, on his bedroom floor when he miraculously found his way home after drinking too much. He showed me that taking up space didn’t have to be violent. It could be casual. It could be natural.  When I think about boyhood now, I don’t think about rules or aesthetics or even gender. I think about how my brother laughed with his whole body. How he trusted the world enough to be a bit reckless,—possibly too reckless, according to his car—the biggest casualty in his experiments in freedom. How he let himself be known. Boyhood, as he lived it, was a practice in ease.  After he died, people talked to me about grief as if it were singular. As if I had lost one person, one relationship. But what I lost was also a future reference point. I lost the chance to keep learning from him. I lost the adult version of the boy who taught me how to be one. The one who would have shaved his beard, grown into his laugh, maybe learned how to cook something properly. Coming into my own masculinity without him has felt like learning a language from a speaker who is no longer alive. I have the accent. I have the rhythms. But sometimes I’m missing the words. I find myself wondering what he would have thought of the person I am now. I suspect he would have understood more easily than most. Being a trans masc lesbian means I carry boyhood differently. I don’t want it to erase my softness, my queerness, my attachment to womanhood. I want it to sit alongside them. That’s another thing my brother taught me, without meaning to: masculinity doesn’t have to cancel anything out. It can coexist. It can be generous.  He grew up with me and our three other sisters. His boyhood was shaped in a house full of girls, which meant it was never entirely sealed off from softness, intimacy, or femininity. Being the only boy in the house didn’t make him distant or hardened. If anything, it made him attentive. At Christmas he bought my twin sister lip glosses, and me nail polishes—neon green and electric blue, the kind that stained the skin around your fingers. When the younger ones wanted to watch Paw Patrol, he sat down and watched it with them—the television too loud, the theme song repeating, no commentary, no complaints. He didn’t treat those things as beneath him. They were just part of growing up together.  He never knew he was teaching me these things. He never knew that I was watching him as closely as I was, collecting gestures and attitudes like survival tools. But that’s how it works sometimes. We learn who we are by loving people who are already living pieces of us out loud.  My brother was a really cool teenager. He grew into a young man who still carried that ease with him. And even now, even after his death, he remains one of my clearest guides. Not because he had answers, but because he showed me a way of being that felt possible.  Boyhood, for me, is not something I mourn as lost or inaccessible. It’s something I inherited. It lives in the way I move through the world, a little less afraid of myself. It lives in the space I let myself take up. It lives in memory, yes—but also in practice.  I am still learning. But I learned the most important part early, from my brother: that being a boy can mean being kind, empathetic, and free. That it can feel like home.