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Discovered by Ngân Dang (she/they) Fess up folks. Have you ever been truly, profoundly, pathetically in love with your friend? I’ll be truthful here — I totally have. From tingling butterflies for a high school friend to a massive queer awakening courtesy of my swim team, I have had way too many internal crises over the not-so-big dilemma of crushing on my friends The thing is, knowing if you are really smitten with your friend is fucking hard. As a gal who is insistent she “has a crush” on a friend as soon as they pay any attention to her, I wish differentiating genuine care from actual feelings was easier. In my mind, the line tethering admiration and attraction is etched in dark red ink, bleeding through pages of memories. It leaves a mark, taints your perspective, leaves you questioning and agonising over any small interactions you share.  Constantly in your mind is a mantra. Is it really a crush? Do they like me the same way? The way friendships go, it is understandable why people find it easy to fall for their friends. Any meaningful connection requires a certain amount of chemistry. When you’re that close to somebody, in such a heartfelt way, the sickly sweet feelings are bound to develop.  My mate from high school, Abi, understands the feeling of falling in love with her friends all too well. For her, realising these romantic feelings is usually a slow process of learning about her friend’s quirks — and falling in love with them. She finds comfort in the affection developing through the profound connection of close-knit friendships and prefers it over your typical date with someone you don’t know well. Even if her experiences have never wound up in the fairytale ending of her dreams, she says that she would fall for another friend all over again. “You don’t go into a friendship looking to catch feelings for this person,”  she reflected, “but you kinda get to get to know someone... and falling in love that way is so much more beautiful.” Navigating her romantic interactions as a queer woman, Abi feels like the intimacy of female friendships is also an incitement for her feelings towards her friend. When friends become closer, many things you do shift into a no-man’s land of half-platonic, half-romantic acts. Without communication, there’s no defining the intention behind the half-drunk kisses between friends on a night out, or the intertwined hands as the two of you walk down the streets. Once those tingling butterflies in your stomach flutter, the ambiguity of it all feeds into rose-tinted vision. It’s what makes our hearts stutter, what keeps us hoping for something more in a friendship. On the flip side, this secret yearning is what makes having a crush on your friend so crushing . In such a close vicinity, you can’t truly hide your feelings. But, confessing your love to your friend is more complicated than asking a cute stranger out on a date. To even consider being upfront about it is to put on the line the dynamic you two have built together. A love confession can change everything in a friendship, especially when the romantic intentions are unrequited. You feel an obligation to let go of this devastating love to not suffocate your friend with the affection that you can’t truly give them. They also feel the need to push away, to change their behaviour and not lead you on further. Most likely, it ends up with the two of you tip-toeing over each other’s feelings, drifting away from each other in doubt and unsolved problems. In that case, why would it even be worth it, when mentioning anything about love can ruin everything that you’ve wanted to keep? But then, to dwell on this intense attachment in secret feels pretty damning as well. Love, once harboured, consumes your thoughts and affects every interaction.  You are actively hiding one of the deepest thoughts from the one person you should be able to share it with. As the muse to your affection, but more importantly as a friend, you feel the pressure to spill your heart out, to let them know the depths of your love. It is not only a weight on your heart, it can cast a cloud over your friendship.  The fear of losing this deep connection amongst your intense feelings might prevent people from developing feelings for their friends. A friend of mine admitted that she has never had a crush on her close friends. “Maybe because knowing too much about someone kinda creates a barrier [for me] to develop any feelings with that person,” she mused. She found her attraction gravitating towards people outside of her social circle. Dating someone who is not a close friend introduces her to new perspectives on the world. For her, that was the exciting part of being in a relationship. But most importantly, it also avoids the risk factor of a friend-crush, the fear of your well-established friendship changing.  All of our tangled thoughts for a friend-crush leads to one question. Is having a crush on your BFF as disastrous as the whole freaking universe trying to warn us about?  Yea, maybe. But life is not always a tragedy. There is a good ending to any crushes on your friend after all — devoid of heartbreak, awkwardness, and change. For some people, it means having an honest conversation with your mate, and you two are both mature enough to accommodate each other’s feelings. Having that clear empathy and emotional understanding can strengthen your friendship. Perhaps, the story will pop up as a funny inside joke. But for some others, a confession might lead to a revelation, that you and your mate are both as deeply in love with each other. You might end up with a partner that already understands you inside out, a person that cares for you as a friend and as a lover. Wouldn’t that be a dream scenario for all of us hopeless romantics? I guess what I have learnt from crushing on my friends is that feelings, whether platonic or romantic, are damn hard to identify and process on your own. The thrill of affection, mixed with the weight of harbouring a secret, makes being in love with a friend such a conflicting emotional dilemma to deal with. I don’t think I will ever grow the guts to confess my love, with so much at stake. But sometimes, these pining thoughts are inevitable. Despite all the agony these unrequited friend-cruses caused me, they also brought good fun into my love life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. In the future, don’t be surprised if I indulge in my delusional thoughts a bit too hard and end up falling for another friend. To speak or to die on my heap of feelings, though? Not deciding that, mate.

Words by: Ngân Dang (she/they) Picture Credit: WITCH Musical Theatre Dream-like and grandiose; Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 was a memorable experience which thoroughly entertained me. I expected a messy love story, but the melancholy was balanced out with just as much fun and wit—this was truly a show of anticipation and charging emotions. In this classic Broadway musical, co-directors Maya Handa Naff and Nick Lerew take a youthful twist to the lavish 19th-century Moscow from Tolstoy’s War and Peace . Through the stories of “young” Natasha and “warm-hearted” Pierre, the show explores their journey to navigate love, purpose, and pleasure in the heart of emotional turmoil and conflict.   Simple, yet sophisticated, are my first impressions of the set as I walk into Hannah Playtheatre. The stage was quite bare-bones, with a piano and an antique drawer in the middle of a sunken stage. Glittering chandeliers and ambient lighting transported me to the aristocratic world in the story. The cast was welcoming—casually chatting with the audience and sipping on drinks. It was a good kind of new for me to see such a relaxed atmosphere to greet me walking into the theatre space.  The experimental musical score translated the highs of extravagant parties and the lows of introspection effectively. The opening theme ‘ Prologue’  was a tongue-and-cheek and ingenious way to introduce the audience to the characters in an intertwined plot . From the folk melody of  ‘Moscow’ as Natasha and Sonya arrive at the Russian capital, to sorrowful ballads like ‘No One Else’  where Natasha yearns for Andrey, these tunes are still in my mind days after the show. What I found unique about this show is how the narration is interwoven within the score. There was no spoken dialogue, except for one line in the emotionally charged ‘Pierre & Natasha’.  This creative direction allowed the crew’s acting and vocal talent to shine through simultaneously. Lane Corby and William Duignan were spectacular in their portrayal of Natasha and Pierre respectively. I was also enchanted by Frankie Leota’s performance as Marya, how she commanded the stage with her amazing vocals and expressions everytime she came on. The cast’ spark is what stood out to me the whole night. Every audience interaction from the crew bought even more laughter to an already playful show. My friend and I particularly enjoyed  ‘The Opera’  and ‘Balaga’ , which translated the incredible chemistry between cast members. The vibrant atmosphere, created through the detailed choreography, setting, and lighting, welcomed us into a fever dream. Jackson Cordery’s aerial performances were an unexpected surprise in both songs—his amazing skills brought the ‘wow’ factor that had people focused, and it was a personal highlight. As Natasha put best in ‘The Opera’ , it felt “grotesque but amazing.” I was impressed by the immense musical talent of the ensemble and the cast. Throughout the show, you could spot the cast, led by pianist and conductor Hayden Taylor, playing various instruments alongside the ensemble. However, at times, the continuous instrumental can be a bit overbearing, making the actors’ vocals quite hard to comprehend. Nevertheless, I appreciated the cohesion created by it.  Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 was an uplifting watch that became the highlight of my week. If you are looking for something light-hearted and whimsical to enjoy on the weekend, this is the perfect choice.

By Rekha Joly (she/her ) The Henley Passport Index 2024 lists the top ten most powerful passports in the world today. The index is clear-cut: the Global North ('developed' countries like the UK, USA, Canada, and New Zealand) hold more visa privileges than the Global South ('developing' countries of Africa, Central and South America, most of Asia, and the Pacific). As a person holding an Indian passport, I checked my world status. We are nowhere in the top 50 countries. Despite being a massive economy, with Indians contributing deeply and meaningfully, India sits at 81st. Its citizens can travel to 64 countries without a visa. Compare that to French citizens' access to 194 countries or New Zealand citizens' access to 189. However, Indians are doing much better than the citizens of Afghanistan, Sudan, and Palestine, who have perennially remained at the bottom of this ranking. They can only travel to a handful of countries. The doors are seemingly closed for a certain demographic. So, without visa waivers, how do the rest of us travel? The burden of proof comes in the holy trinity of documents, time, and money. We need to provide documents for visa applications, bank statements, health reports, biometrics, wage slips, return tickets, police certificates, accommodation proof, letters stating our motivation for travel, and more. We are also required to pay an obscene amount to get a visa. Research claims that we spend almost three months of salary on a single visa. The time we need to put in to see a visa application through is equally ridiculous. Here are some stories from individuals who have carried this burden: A man travelling to Switzerland with his Zambian passport recounted a particularly frustrating experience. He could only enter through a specific airport because part of the runway at Geneva Airport lies in France, which at the time was not part of the EU. As a result, he needed a French visa just to enter Switzerland. For a brief moment during take-off or landing, he had to reroute his entire travel plan. A Vietnamese tourist shared her humiliating ordeal of being stuck in New Zealand during the pandemic. It wasn't the situation itself that was most humiliating, but the requirement to provide proof every two months that she had no intention of staying. This meant repeatedly buying flight tickets back to Vietnam. Additionally, she had to involve the Vietnamese embassy to vouch for her short stay. She described the experience as ‘dehumanising’. Two other Indians expressed their frustration with visa fatigue. Despite their frequent travels, they were constantly required to provide proof of their intentions. ‘It's irritating at this point. It's not like I’m travelling for the first time in ten years. You have vetted me consistently. My thumbprints haven’t changed!’ They challenged me to find an Asian who can travel on a whim. For us, spontaneity often starts two months in advance. In my research, I found that people from the Global South face more paperwork, higher costs, and longer processing times to obtain a visa. However, even with all this extra effort, a visa does not guarantee entry into the country. International students, both in New Zealand and the US, arrived at their respective airports with hopes and dreams, only to be sent back. Officials were not convinced of their 'characters'. These students were people of colour. Visa policies are only becoming more severe; several countries are upping their requirements, like Australia, Britain, and Canada. Travel and study are becoming virtually impossible—boulders replacing borders. It is laughable that the UK, which trampled across the world, colonising with impunity, now restricts people from coming to merely travel or study. There need to be more protections for visa applicants. Although there are established pathways for migrants, there are too many barriers for those applying for visas. Visa applicants are consumers of embassy and immigration services, as well as of the country's overall experience. Shouldn't they be entitled to some consumer rights as well? Especially when visa applications are rejected without any compensation or support. Legal frameworks would alleviate our suffering. Streamlining the visa application process is pivotal in easing mobility. There is a lot of redundancy leading to wasted time and money. Even frequent travellers cannot get respite, compelled to approach each visa application as if it is their first. In this digital age, many of us from the Global South find it hard to believe that there is no global database to fast-track visa processing. It is critical to change the narrative around migrants. Often, migrants are seen as a homogenised block—one where only people of colour reside. When the media presents migrant issues such as housing and job crises, why isn’t a student from Germany considered part of the problem? Within this realm, it is equally important that migrants themselves know and understand their worth. They are told never to stir the pot, and their cultural and economic contributions are never celebrated. It is crucial that we realise this, talk about it, and engage in dialogue. Ideas and voices do not need visas.

Words by Alex Cherian, A.K.A. Goose (she/they) My father was born in Malaysia, went to school in India, his first language was Malayalam, and his sisters live in Bahrain. My mother was born in Dunedin. When I was a kid, my classmates would joke that I was being kidnapped when my mother picked me up from school. They couldn’t make sense of a brown kid having a white mum with a Kiwi accent. If anything, my father was just as local as her. He’d been living in this country for around ten years by the time I was born.  I’m a second-gen immigrant, raised speaking English, and didn’t even realise my father had a different mother tongue until he revealed he’d forgotten it. His family were fluent in English as well, and when he was younger, travelling Europe, he was quite good at French. But Malayalam (the language his mother taught him) was gone by the time I came into the world. He had left so much of the old culture behind, for most of my life I didn’t have an answer to “Where are your family from?”. Until recently, I couldn’t understand the Māori concept of whakapapa because, looking back through my family’s roots, the trail ended with my few surviving relatives at the other end of the world. Because I went so long culturally adrift, being told I had a ‘white personality’, I gave up on tracing my roots and instead sought a new people to immerse myself in.  So much of the rainbow community places an emphasis on belonging and welcoming. The annual Pride festivals were some of the first times I had truly felt part of a proud community with a long history and strong culture of its own. Queer culture embraced me, fought my anxieties to welcome me, and gave me a people I could call my own at last. Many POC do still experience a level of exclusion or racism among white queers, and I want to acknowledge this.  Thanks to the queer community, I am able to reconnect with my ancestral heritage too, discovering the hidden histories of vibrant queer life across South Asia through the friends and resources I have found on my journey. I've never felt more at home on this Earth.

Words by Liban Ali (he/him) For many first-generation university students, the initial adjustment might take time. Navigating an unfamiliar academic environment, getting used to new social dynamics, and dealing with high expectations can be difficult. Despite these obstacles, there is a great motivator: knowing that we are not only chasing our own objectives, but also fulfilling the dreams of our family. When we shine, they shine with us; when we go across the stage to receive our degree, they accompany us in spirit. Our parents made tremendous sacrifices to provide us with opportunities they could only dream about. They left their familiar surroundings, faced hardships, and worked relentlessly to build a better life for us. Their strength and perseverance serve as the cornerstone for our academic path. Every late-night study session, exam, and moment of self-doubt is met with unshakable support and silent encouragement from our family. A first-generation student's path is more than just an individual achievement; it is also a collective triumph. Our success is a monument to our families' enduring resilience and the rich cultural heritage they have passed on to us. It is a celebration of their efforts, dreams, and steadfast faith in our abilities. In the face of adversity, our sense of purpose keeps us going. The concept of making our families proud, validating their efforts, and laying the road for future generations is a powerful drive. It reminds us that our journey is not isolated, but rather intertwined with the tales and dreams of those who came before us. As I prepare to walk across that stage and earn my degree, I'm filled with gratitude and pride. I am grateful for the opportunities that have come my way, and I am proud of the heritage that I carry with me. This accomplishment is not all mine; it is due to my family, community, and all those who have supported and believed in me. Remember, my fellow first-generation students, you are not alone. Your journey demonstrates your family's strength and resilience. When you accomplish, you raise not only yourself, but everyone who has walked this route beside you. Together, we are creating a brighter future that honours our heritage while inspiring future generations. Our success paves the way for others to dream big and work hard, knowing they, too, can overcome obstacles and achieve their goals. The legacy we build is not just for us but for all those who come after, showing them that with determination and support, anything is possible. The bonds we share with our families and communities are unbreakable, and are the true source of our strength and perseverance.

Words By Ngân Dang (she/they) I was perched on my chair, one leg tucked close to my chest (the classic Viet way), pondering an overdue history essay with a bag of my favourite kẹo lạc—peanut candy—at my side. My phone buzzed lightly on the table; the screen flashed to reveal a call from my ‘Bestie for life’—a nickname I spontaneously jotted down as Mum's contact a few years ago. It was 9pm here. And around 4pm back home.  Something that became the norm in our conversations were sudden ebbs of silence as I stuttered between English and Vietnamese phrases. The cogs in my brain were working overtime, trying to retain phrases that were running away from my mind. Even when the words managed to tumble out, they were clunky, messy, all over the place—like a child building blocks with shaky hands. “You’re starting to forget your Vietnamese!”, Mum exclaimed after correcting my clumsy attempts. Dad chimed in half-jokingly, “Now that you know English better than Vietnamese, are you going to stay in New Zealand forever?”. I moved here when I was thirteen, been away for five years. Since when did the familiar sounds of my language get lodged in my throat so unwillingly ? Why are words rolling off my tongue so unnaturally , no longer second nature?  I’ve always been told that moving abroad was the best option for my future. Attempts to break free from my city and culture defined my teenage years. With such irrational resentment (more so boredom), my naive faith in the Western dream festered. Magical visions of a foreign land embedded with ideas of wealth, liberty, and independence dragged me away from home.  And so I set out on a path my parents paved for me. Alone, I traded fragments of myself to accommodate this new life. The delicate tones in my name got flattened. Replacing Ngân was Ngan, a goose in my  language, and Indian flatbread here. I smiled through all the ‘naan bread’ jokes and tolerated the annoyance when the school dean mispronounced my name three times in the same prizegiving. Whenever an off-putting comment about my name slips out, they don’t know I was named after my late grandma. Anglicised, our names are all the same. They won’t notice the tonal indicator—a single downward dash on top of a hat—that differentiates our names, a symbol of our vastly unique lives, yet also the single strand of connection I held with someone I never met. Between the winding alleys of jam-packed and chaotic Hà Nội, I was surrounded by my mother tongue—from the soothing lullabies that lulled me to sleep to the aunties’ gossiping down the street. Now, I barely use Vietnamese outside of texting my family and friends back home. I learn in English, the media I consume is mostly in English; I even think in this language most of the time. After years of being here, my mother tongue is turning foreign, an afterthought, something rusty and hidden in the murky depths of my brain. I can write lengthy essays and construct glorious worlds with fancy English words. But I could never use Vietnamese to the capabilities of my peers back home; I probably couldn’t write a half-decent piece without succumbing to the hell of Google Translate, and the dictionary. Younger me would never imagine that my Vietnamese vocabulary bank would always be stuck at the level of a Year 8 student; the inner-perfectionist would’ve​​ berate me for that.  Whenever people ask about my dream job, I tell them I want to become a journalist, to report important matters and amplify silenced voices. What good would I be, though, if I can’t even elaborate my thoughts with the community that raised and shaped me?  I didn’t know how much I’d miss being surrounded by my culture, people, and language until I left Hà Nội. The whirl of surprise still surges through my veins whenever I see Ngân—with the hat—in a text or when someone tries to pronounce it correctly. There’s always an impulse to talk my heart out in Vietnamese when I catch the distant echoes of it while strolling down the streets. Leaving home so young showed me new corners of the world. But more importantly, I realised that I can’t shrug away my Vietnamese heritage—it’s an integral part of my being, neat strands knitted together into colourful weaving. No matter where you are, you’ll crave the soothing familiarity of your mother tongue. Language connects people, communities, cultures— you could never deprive yourself of that connection when all you’ve wanted to taste is the safety of home. I’m living this topsy-turvy life for me and my parents’ hopes and dreams; I’ve been changed by this journey, too. In Vietnamese, beautiful prose doesn’t come to me as easily; words don’t instinctively roll off my tongue. But I still mutter in Vietnamese under my breath as I do maths. I still shed a tear when I read a random Instagram caption in Vietnamese that seems too relatable. My upbringing may have pulled apart my connection to my heritage, ripped me by the seams. But even with my awkward Vietnamese and fragmented childhood, I’m wholly and unapologetically Việt. Sitting here in this biting Wellington winter, I can’t wait to be reunited with my homeland, the vibrant culture and sleepless city that will always embrace my whole being.

Guy van Egmond (He/Him) Flee Flee is the kind of film that quietly and gently leaves you shattered, in the best way possible.  Built on a foundation of interviews between director Jonas Poher Rasmussen and his friend, Amin Nawabi, the film sits beautifully in the crossover between narrative and documentary, mixing harsh newsreel clips with hand- drawn animations that are vibrant and soft. And crucial. We never see Amin’s real face, nor hear his real name.  Amin fled from Kabul when the mujahideen invaded and, after many years and failed attempts, was smuggled into Copenhagen under the guise of an orphaned refugee. Revealing his identity now would bring his world crumbling down all over again.  However, on the cusp of proposal to his boyfriend Kasper, Amin finds a closure and peace, sharing his story in a film that is tender and moving, and ultimately focused on a brighter future.  Everything Everywhere All At Once The last few years have seen a major uptick in beautiful and heart-wrenching immigrant films. But few so successful—and so strange—as Everything Everywhere All At Once .  If you haven’t seen this multi-dimensional, time-skipping, emotional epic, you’re missing out. Get some friends and some gummies together and strap in. It’s wild and silly and the most incredible fun, but overarching all the bagels and butt-plugs is a story of familial struggle and connection. What might have been if we’d never left? Why won’t my children understand? Why won’t my parents listen?  The cast of this film does a truly incredible job, especially Michelle Yoeh and Ke Huy Quan. You’ll laugh, you’ll sob violently, you’ll desperately need a hug from your mother.  Past Lives Another one for the ‘you haven’t seen it?!’ list, is last year’s Past Lives . This is a truly stunning tearjerker, a gentle watch that comes in under the 2-hour mark. The film plays so well with the parts of us that never quite left where we came from, that little voice that yearns to go back, that asks ‘yes, but what if..?’  Greta Lee and Teo Yoo are captivating as Na Young and Hae Sung, childhood sweethearts and rivals until Na Young moves to Toronto, changing her name to Nora. Twelve years later, the two reconnect via Facebook and Skype, but career ambitions cause them to lose touch again. Another twelve years later, sees Hae Sung coming to New York to visit Nora and her husband.  Writer-director Celine Song’s debut is sharp and semi-autobiographical: a bittersweet tale about fate, In-Yun, and possibility. It’s about the people who tie you to wherever home may be, and how love can change over time and place.  Walk Run Cha-Cha In a slightly shorter format, Run Walk Cha-Cha is an incredibly sweet op-doc about Paul and Millie Cao, whose young love affair was broken apart by the Vietnam War. Reuniting in California, the two reinvent themselves and their relationship through dance. Director Laura Nix deliberately doesn’t dwell in the past; she moves forward to celebrate the beauty and joy, as well as the responsibility, of the lives that Paul and Millie have rebuilt for themselves. It's a delightful little film, where the camera lets you just sit in on the lives of two beautiful people. It’s 20 minutes long, it’s on Youtube, go check it out.  Honourable Mentions: The Godfather: Part II : The classic immigrant success story, following Vito Corleone’s arrival in the USA to make a better life for himself and ultimately provide a safe and successful haven for his family and friends.  Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa : A chronicle of Alex’s troubled reconnection with the culture and people of his homeland: a world he’d forgotten but was always buried deep within.  Paddington : Our favourite marmalade-touting migrant, hands-down. ‘Nuf said, really.  Upcoming: Finally, it’d be remiss of me not to mention one of the best annual opportunities to bear witness to political and artistic cinema from around the world: The NZIFF.  The program this year has another shattering lineup: in particular, I’d like to see Green Border , a biting and bitter look at the border crisis between Poland and Belarus; as well as Problemista , an absurdist-leaning satire of the American immigration system. Other relevant titles are To A Land Unknown, The Story of Souleymane, Viet and Nam and  Didi, as well as a panel discussion on August 6th: Refugee Journeys On-Screen. Info and tickets on the NZIFF website!

DARCY LAWREY (HE/HIM) Wellington sure is an interesting place to choose as the capital: the windiest city in the world, and the most earthquake prone in Aotearoa. Earthquake safety is an important consideration anywhere in the motu, but sitting between two tectonic plates makes it especially critical here.    New documents seen by Salient , released by Vic under the Official Information Act, have revealed the earthquake safety ratings of the university’s halls of residence.  While most halls are at 100% of the New Building Standard (NBS), two halls are considered to have Earthquake Risk Buildings, with ratings below 67%. Weir House, which underwent some strengthening work between 2021 and 2022, has one building rated at 34%, one point away from being considered “earthquake-prone”.  Similarly, the OIA request revealed buildings at Everton Hall are rated between 35% and 53%. But despite the less than ideal ratings, Simon Johnson, Director of Campus Operations, says that the university is “confident that both halls are safe to occupy”. Plans are in place for earthquake strengthening at Weir House, while options for strengthening Everton Hall are currently being considered. The university plans to begin work at a time when the halls are unoccupied.  Johnson says the university does not foresee an impact on student services as a result of the necessary spending on strengthening works, as funding for the project comes from the University’s capital plan.

Artwork and words by Danielle Kionasina Dilys Thomson (she/her) Read more at @tagataatamai on Instagram and www.tagataatamai.co.nz Streets lined with coded colours  A subliminal call to replant yourself at the source  Hibiscus hues are covert beacons  Vivid checkpoints on a path to your ancestors  Breadcrumbs that adorn a speckled city full of concrete people who didn’t believe your Nana was royalty  Didn’t acknowledge the atua in their midst  Or the invisible shoulders they stood upon  Nana pointed your innocent gaze towards a trail of ants scurrying down into the sugar-dusted centre of le aute  You blinked and her petals did too  The wind waved to us  Nana reminded you to follow the people and places who feed you  And to always come bearing gifts

Words by Xavier Farrow-Francis (any/all) In this special edition of Groove Garden, we wanted to celebrate a number of fantastic immigrant artists who use their platform to discuss their experiences as refugees and/or immigrants. Perhaps one of the most important examples of this in the mainstream comes in the form of M.I.A. The daughter of a Tamil activist, Mathangi "Maya" Arulpragasam relocated to London from Sri Lanka when she was 11. Inspired by pop & hip-hop music of Madonna and Wu-Tang Clan—as well as her experience as a refugee in a largely white community—she began uploading her music online, which eventually caught the attention of XL Recordings. Early tracks like “Bucky Done Gun” and “Sunshowers” contain cheeky clapbacks at microaggressions, and nuanced references towards revolution. And then there was “Paper Planes”: Maya’s signature song, which actively satirises stereotypes surrounding immigrants. M.I.A. has continued to discuss these topics vocally in her music to this day. While Maya is an incredibly influential figure in immigrant art, I feel it’s important to note that some of her worldviews in recent years have been rather eyebrow-raising. She went from protesting information politics and the media’s ignorant representation of Sri Lanka while it was in the midst of a destructive civil war, to spouting anti-vax rhetoric and creating a “conspiracy-friendly” fashion line which she spoke about with Alex Jones, host of far-right conspiracy site InfoWars . Fundamentally, I think M.I.A. feels a need to question everything around her. She’s spoken up about a number of important issues when no one else was over the years, and that’s worth something. If you want to learn more about M.I.A., I highly recommend checking out her documentary Matangi/Maya/M.I.A. , or watching paper boyfriend’s YouTube retrospective on her ambitious /\/\ /\ Y /\  album. Taking an opportunity to spotlight an artist from Aotearoa, Diggy Dupé  has been using his breezy and cazh raps to tell the story of Polynesian migrants since 2017. Hailing from Grey Lynn in Tāmaki Makaurau, it’s clear that Diggy’s location and Māori-Niuean heritage is his main source of inspiration. He’s incredibly proud of where he comes from, and wants his listeners to be too. Across his 4 projects (as well as the soundtrack to the 2021 miniseries The Panthers ), Diggy channels his background into universal stories of life, pride and resilience; a track like “Keke Boy” is a perfect example of this. Throughout his album That’s Me, That’s Team , he explores all of this and more, tapping into the rougher aspects of life on “CT&T”, or reiterating the importance of migrants being able to build community on foreign soil on a track like “That’s Team”. Though his music may be written from personal experiences, he says “it’s bigger than [Central Auckland], it’s bigger than Grey Lynn—it’s about tapping into human emotion and things you can relate to.” To close off, we wanna point you in the direction of Dutch-Iranian singer, songwriter, producer, and artist Sevdaliza , who since   first emerging in 2015 immediately began forging her own path in music. Her first album ISON  explored themes of identity, the self, and womanhood in a poetic manner, calling back to trip hop acts like Portishead through her slick and spacious instrumentals. Sevdaliza would begin discussing her experience as an immigrant in respective songs, such as the track “Shahmaran”, which featured a music video that complexly explored themes of oppression, or on “Bebin”, a song protesting then-President Trump’s immigration ban, sung in her Farsi mother tongue. These themes would become louder and more frequent in her music over the years. “Oh My God” was written entirely about her experience as an immigrant and how it manifested in herself, and she later released “Woman Life Freedom”, a track in solidarity with Iranian women protesting the mandatory hijab law. Recently, Sevda has gained traction from her viral tracks “Ride or Die Pt. 2” and “Alibi”, which both express strength in communion and femininity: themes that have clearly been present for Sevda for quite some time. It’s extremely exciting to see such an outspoken artist with a background like Sevdaliza’s gaining success like this… made all the more impressive when considering she’s entirely independent from a record label!

Words & Centrefold Art by Ali Al Omari (he/him) Words are often the only weapons available to Palestinians, giving us the power to shape perception and to fight back. Yet, as powerful as words can be, I find myself at a loss of words, unable to articulate my thoughts or emotions. Instead, I express myself best through art. As I stand before the canvas, brush in hand, I am filled with a sense of purpose that transcends my own experiences. Born far from the turmoil of Palestine, I am a former refugee, sheltered from the horrors that have haunted generations of Palestinians. Yet, as an artist, and as a human being, I feel compelled to lend my voice to their cause, to amplify their struggles through the medium of art. In my hands, the echoes of Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ take on new life, and transform into a testament to the resilience of the Palestinian people. With each stroke, I weave together the threads of their stories, the pain of displacement, the anguish of loss, and the unyielding spirit of resistance. Through my rendition, I seek to capture the essence of their daily struggles, the relentless oppression that stains the walls of their homes and the skies of their homeland with the blood of innocents. I paint the shadows of soldiers and tanks looming over bustling streets, the barbed wire cutting through fields once fertile with hope, dove birds with press vests depicting the courageous journalists, and the towering walls that confine an entire population to the prison of occupation. But in the darkness, there is also light. In the faces of Palestinian children, I see defiance and determination, their eyes shining with a hope that refuses to be extinguished. In the solidarity of activists around the world, I find inspiration, their voices rising in unison to demand justice for those who have been silenced for over 75 years. As I step back to look at my work, I am filled with a sense of both sorrow and solidarity. Though I may never fully understand the depth of their pain, I stand with the Palestinians in their struggle for freedom, dignity, and self-determination. Through art, empathy, and solidarity, we may continue to shine a light on their cause until justice is finally served. We have an incurable malady: hope. Hope in liberation and independence. Hope in a normal life where we are neither heroes nor victims. Hope that our children will go safely to their schools. Hope that a pregnant woman will give birth to a living baby, at the hospital, and not a dead child in front of a military checkpoint; Hope that our poets will see the beauty of the colour red in roses rather than in blood; Hope that this land will take up its original name: the land of love and peace… - Mahmoud Darwish

TE HUIHUI O MATARIKI CHI HUY TRAN (HE/HIM) TARANAKI TŪTURU, TE IWI O MARUWHARANUI, NGĀTI MANIAPOTO Te Pāti Māori Proposes New Law to Empower Waitangi Tribunal Te Pāti Māori has introduced a bill to make Waitangi Tribunal recommendations binding on the Crown. Te Tai Tonga MP Tākuta Ferris submitted the Treaty of Waitangi (Empowerment of Waitangi Tribunal) Amendment Bill, which would also allow the Tribunal to review proposed legislation for consistency with Te Tiriti o Waitangi. Ferris stated the bill is necessary to ensure the Government honours Te Tiriti, as recent actions have been seen as anti-Māori. This follows protests against Government policies affecting Māori, including changes to Māori Health Authority and Māori wards. Waikato-Tainui To Da World Kiingi Tūheitia has made history as the first Māori monarch to attend the Olympics. He was welcomed with a pōwhiri at the Olympic Village upon arrival in Paris. The New Zealand Olympic Committee invited him to support the athletes and bless the new korowai for the flag-bearers. The new korowai, named 'Te Hono ki Matariki', honours the legacy of 'Mahutonga' and symbolises the pride of representing New Zealand. This significant cultural presence showcases Māori heritage on the global stage. Up the TAINUI WAKA ! New Caledonia's Customary Senate Chief Resigns Amid Criticism Hyppolite Sinewami, President of New Caledonia's Great Council of Chiefs Inaat Ne Kanaky, has announced his resignation from the Customary Senate. Sinewami, who once presided over the 16-member traditional Senate of chiefs, cited "inefficiency" and "politicisation" as reasons for his departure. He expressed concerns that the Senate is not representative of all Chiefly areas and is overly dependent on the government. The 47-year-old chief also criticised the Senate's silence amid ongoing unrest since 13 May. His resignation marks a significant shift in the leadership dynamics of the Customary Senate.