Author: Jonathan

A Change

Posted on by Jonathan

My mother always told me that I was her sunshine. Not only is this because my name is Summer, but also because I was the only daughter in the family and was thus treated like a princess. I was told I would do great things in life and to always follow my dreams, so I grew up having many ambitions. I wanted to be a princess like many of the other girls in preschool. In elementary school, I wanted to be a teacher and an FBI agent. When I got to middle school, I wanted to be a therapist. Finally, in my high school years, I decided I wanted to be a profiler. This decision wasn’t just influenced by the many, many TV series of cop shows like Forensic Files, Law and Order, or NCIS, but also because of my brother.

To explain what I mean, I must start from the very beginning. As a single mother, my mom was always working. She started her day at 3 am and ended it by 6 pm, taking a total of three different buses in order to take her kids to and from school at the same time. To me and my second oldest brother (Zach), our oldest brother (Josh) was like our father. My mom was too poor to afford babysitters, so that’s what Josh became.

In a way, Josh had given up his childhood for us. 

I think that’s why he changed; because of the responsibilities bestowed upon him from such an early age. Not only was he essentially a father to kids who weren’t his, it meant having to solely raise us right while Mom worked.

With all that responsibility and pressure, he constantly struggled with his mental health. Some days, I would catch him looking out of our nine-story building – which we were lucky enough to have – to a backyard beach. In those moments, time seemed to stand still. Moments like that were ever fleeting though when you are surrounded by kids who constantly bicker.

(Unsplash/Sasha Freemind)

Introductions

One day, Josh brought home a girl. Now, my brother wasn’t one to date very often, nor did he usually bring girls over. With a mom who constantly had an opinion about every little thing we did, it’s not a surprise that none of us ever brought anyone home. Although we ultimately knew it was because she was just looking out for us, it was the way she did it that bugged us. She always started with this smug look, a look that always threw everyone off.

This first girl Josh brought over was very soft-spoken, nice, and had much in common with him. I would even go so far as to say they were practically the same person. She was the type of person who just clicks perfectly at the first meeting when you’re young, and you idolize them as the coolest person ever. 

She stayed in our lives until I was about 11 years old.

There were times in their relationship when she and my brother would “take breaks,” but they would always end up back together. In hindsight, this possibly could have played a part in my own future commitment issues. Seeing those breaks made me realize the hardships of being in a serious relationship, a relationship – platonic or otherwise – that I thought I would never find myself in. 

The different faces we hide

As time went on, things began to change. 

Do you remember being younger and having everything hidden from you, whether out of necessity or compassion? More of those lies began to appear in our family from this point on, ones kept specifically from me so as not to dim my sunshine.

Looking back, I can see what a good liar my brother was; how easy it was for him to hide his millions of emotions behind the biggest smile in the world.

Don’t get me wrong, he still absolutely refused to smile in pictures. When he did, though, it would light up the entire room. When I did eventually recognize the mask he wore, it was a real eye-opener. This man, the one who raised me and who had become a saint in my eyes, had been facing his demons the whole time. 

My brother has had his fair share of this cruel world since he was just a kid, including going through my mom’s many mistakes for lovers, and his dad, who could barely get himself together for his son. 

No one is perfect, including my family and I, and living in Waianae certainly didn’t make things any better. We grew up having little money and only one income to support the four of us; That’s barely enough to live on in Hawaii.It made it easier to be drawn to things you never thought you would have the means to do. 

You’ve probably heard a lot of times that smoking cigarettes or vapes are “gateway drugs.” Well, it was that previously-mentioned sweet girl who introduced my brother to these drugs. Addiction ran in my family and in Josh’s too, and this made the difference between this girl and my brother ever more apparent; she was able to stop when she wanted to.  When she finally left for good, he refused to get clean. After all, when you have addiction problems, there is a lot you’ll do before you stop. 

The spiral of addiction 

Years went by as his addiction grew more intense until he finally couldn’t hide it from us any longer. By that point, we had moved in next door to the soon-to-be “chronics” – a fancy way of saying drug addicts in Hawaii – who only worsened it.

I couldn’t believe just how different my brother was becoming. I never imagined I would ever feel the need to leave a room or hide when he entered. Soon, I was even terrified to be home or around anyone at all. It was like watching a perfect flower blossom only to wither, just to see him deteriorate and lose his mind. 

People say home is where the heart is, a saying that was becoming less and less true for me, because home was a place I was starting to despise. For one thing, it was the place where I had to be constantly on guard because of my brother’s new and questionable friends. One time I was even woken up by one of them sneaking in through my window!

One incident that stands out

It was late one night. I had just finished showering in the girls’ bathroom in my mom’s room and was heading down the hallway towards my room. Right in the middle of that hall was the boys’ bathroom. 

Trying to be as quiet as I could – because Josh was in the boys’ bathroom – I sneaked to my room and made it safely through the hallway when I heard him finally exit the bathroom.

It was rare for my brother to ever yell at me.I was so scared of my brother’s anger that I did my best to avoid his bad side, and as a result, he completely spoiled me. I never got yelled at because I was smart enough not to push his buttons. 

But my brother was different now. He no longer had sympathy for anyone, swearing they all hated him and were constantly talking behind his back. He would sometimes even tell me he could hear voices in the walls speaking to him, voices that revealed what we would say when he was gone. 

This time was no different. Accusing me of speaking about him behind his back, he started screaming so loud that it woke my mother. She immediately rushed out of her room half-awake to see me cornered near the closet. My eyes were full of tears as I looked at her, pleading for help. She quickly swooped in to defend me.

That was my mom’s last straw. Soon after, she finally kicked Josh out, which was probably the hardest thing my mother ever had to do. She is a strong lady with her own share of trauma that made her empathy never-ending. In her eyes, no one deserved to be pushed away like that until absolutely necessary. 

My struggle to understand

For the longest time, I never really understood why my mom put up with Josh for so long or even why my brother had switched so drastically. It made me question their actions. Why only then were they unable to control themselves? 

I decided to look for an escape and turned to the shows I loved best: True Crime TV. I came upon this one show called N.C.I.S., a show that constantly relied on a profiler. A lot of shows I watched had profilers on them, but it wasn’t until I realized that I wanted to understand people better that I really started to notice them. In N.C.I.S., the profiler could read people like the back of her hand. 

You’re probably thinking that shows like that aren’t completely accurate and, trust me, I know. But it was the fact that she understood everything that really caught my attention. It was a way for me to finally understand my brother’s reasons as to why he turned to drugs, and the reason my mom had so much empathy for people who deserved so much less. If it had not been for my brother and mother showing me such a change and putting me through those experiences, I probably would have been an entirely different person. A teacher, perhaps, or maybe even a princess.

(Unsplash/Marija Zaric)

I Have Killed a Dozen Butterflies

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I have killed a dozen butterflies…
Had their powder dust my fingers
As I grasped my hand tighter and tighter
Afraid to let them fly away

They were my conquests
Such delicate, almost ethereal things
I watched them fly,
Hoping someday I can too

I have killed a dozen butterflies…
Afraid to let their beauty fade away
I wasn’t content with just looking
I wanted assurance that they would stay

I have killed a dozen butterflies…
Even though I didn’t want to
That wasn’t my goal
But as I flit from one extreme to another
Their wings were losing their dust
My desire to protect them from the world 
Cut off their scales
Destroyed their wings
Made them die a slow death

I killed those butterflies…
I’m sorry
But I wanted to be in control
And this was the only way I knew how

In Experience: Reflections of a Settler

Posted on by Jonathan

It’s all in the reflections. This account is one of my fondly revisited ones, a space for self-discovery and conscience.

Aah, I’m exhausted! It was half past two on a Delhi late August summer afternoon in 2021 when I was attending one of my tutorial classes at my college. These sessions were calming ones where we would think about life and sort of relax through such reflections. In the hustle and bustle of assignments and deadlines, I sometimes lost the excitement of these sessions as a result.

So, this circle of informal questions quickly shifted to me, and I, at that moment, was completely baffled by the line of questioning. Seeing this, the teacher asked, “What’s the most striking difference between your place and here?” 

Without even thinking, I quickly answered, “Infrastructure and maybe nothing else.” It might have been the most absurd answer she’d ever heard, but it was thankfully enough as the class dispersed, and I was left with a question. 

It was probably regret that crawled up on me, so much that I could hardly think of anything else beyond that question whenever I would travel through my place and Delhi. Like a sense of being lost in observation. Being someone who always loved to observe the uncanniness in their surroundings, it made me more aware of the circumstances, the nuances of communication, gestures and the degree of proximity. 

Okay, so let me quickly peel away the layers of silence and say it out loud that there indeed is an array of differences in the regions. To begin with, Assam, the eastern state, is a rainbow of warm-hearted people belonging to distinctive ethnicities; some of them have inhabited these lands and some have flocked in during the past two centuries. Now, they are coming to Delhi, the land that kindled hopes in millions of aspirants to finally hit a milestone in their career. It’s also ethnically diverse and inhabited by the majority of these aspiring populations. 

How can I not express the most striking reason for my discontent, which is that the food of the Eastern States, this palace of rice, undoubtedly has my heart? Well, Delhi has its own variance in serving comfort foods, but what made me kinda sick within the two months of my initial stay in Delhi was the resilient roti culture. Still, I countered it over time and developed a fondness for some traditional North Indian dishes like “kadhi chawal” and the very tender thin “rumali roti.”

On the streets, I see an abundance of greenery and, hiding in it, stories of penance and sometimes grief. This landscape sustains tales of livelihoods where every day is a struggle to make ends meet. Still, the lands do not align with the competition to tread upon the lives of one another. It is implicitly integrated into the idea of being that, in every way, there is a placid display of diversity. 

The settlers of my eastern homeland preserve a simple but magnificent culture where one can find fresh vegetable markets and brightly blue skies. One that caters for its people in “kaah” (the bell metal used to make utensils), “muga” (muga silk), and that greets one with the “gamusa,” (a woven scarf with distinct embroidery patterns.). Enchanting wall carvings and fantastically lit elaborate markets make Delhi in itself the most vibrant capital of the world to experience life and people in. The street corners are animated with students and doorways to the metro are full of hawkers and a brigade of auto drivers who are ready to even take one “to the moon.”

It is only in the humanities and liberal arts that we capitalise on the idea of learning and thinking, cultivating skills for empathetic understanding. It is in exploring these phases of my journey that I started considering things that are seldom asked. But as I should say, they do hold relevance as they become significant throughout the experiences, and give more context to someone’s story.

All in all, it was a contrasting vision that was important to help me touch the nodes of reality, somewhere where there was not only a beginning but also closure. Feeling at home, reclining to all the familiar essence of it, needs imagination. And this is one that has now become very intricately intertwined with the idea of both places. Maybe the shared idea of belongingness rents this “liking” space in my heart. Now, even though I have no permanent residence to establish here, I trust that the familiarity of the region keeps home in a close embrace.

Now that my experiences have handed me a platter full of unique exposures, I regard this as an invaluable archive of memories. These memories will stay and colour new horizons of thought and provide me with a deeper contrasting tapestry of insights. In retrospect, to my response, our professor, I would say, “Ah how embarrassing!”

Which Students Does University Life Really Cater To?

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When I received my offer to study at a prestigious institution, The University of Edinburgh, I was overjoyed. Still am. I am incredibly lucky to study in the same place as brilliant academics, in a city immersed in culture and history, and to be able to live with my best friends. I will be eternally grateful for the opportunities I have come across here. However, I am almost equally aware that my journey within this university is starkly different from the majority of students — I have a part-time job, I do not have any contact in any large industry, and I cannot afford to financially juggle my food, shop, and additional fees. A phrase that often comes to mind is a well-known one: “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know”.


(Photo courtesy of the author)

From state school to uni

I grew up in a small town in North East England and attended state schools my entire life. I did not realize how defining this would be to my identity until I began to attend university. I am not claiming to have an “underprivileged” background or lifestyle: I have a happy family with a lovely home, pets, and yearly family holidays. Yet there’s no doubt that the school I attended has wholly defined my friendship circles, social activities, where I live, the societies I’ve joined, and, essentially, every aspect of university life. 

The varsity’s expenses — a paradox

The first reason for this is arguably the most obvious one: money. Rent prices in Edinburgh are notoriously high, and so the location and size of your flat — as well as who your flatmates are — are, of course, defined by what you can afford. Although notable, I suppose this is more of a universal issue rather than intrinsically linked to university life. What is more significant to the university is the extracurricular activities that are available to students. On paper, every student is entitled to join whichever societies or sports clubs they wish. Practically, this is not the case. 

To join most sports, students are required to pay for sports union membership, gym membership, club membership, kit or uniform, race or game fees, travel fees, and so on. But ultimately, this is not accessible to students of all economic backgrounds. I hear you ask, “But surely the university has done something to help with this?” My answer: “sort of.” I heard from my flatmate of something called the “Learning Opportunity Fund,” where the university would pay up to £350 to any student impacted by recent strike action. This money would provide financial aid to go towards certain opportunities, such as joining university sports clubs or unpaid internships. I thought to myself, “Fantastic! What a step in the right direction!” However, when I went to apply for this aid, I found that it was already closed, surprisingly the funds exhausted, meaning it was not made available even for a full semester. Here, I began to question how the funds could be exhausted when Sir Peter Mathieson, the Principal of The University of Edinburgh, has recently had his expenses for 2022/2023 published under Freedom of Information laws, exposing the fact that the university has increased their payments by £26,000 more than the sum of the previous academic year. This is meant for a range of different expenses, but arguably the most notable is spending £1,089  towards landscaping for Mathieson’s eucalyptus tree upkeep and some painting work. So how is it that the most elite members of the university receive five-figure sums in funding, but I am unable to join a sports club?

Loud whisper of stereotyping

The second experience that has stuck with me as a state school student is certain acts of discrimination. I recall, during my first year of university, a conversation I had with some fellow students. We were discussing topics such as which degree we’re studying, our A-Level subjects, and, by association, the school we attended. Upon revealing that I was state-educated, those students turned around and muttered, “She must have got into this uni on the inclusivity program,” and walked away. 

Based on this experience, I can see why so many students at prestigious, traditional universities experience imposter syndrome. Every day it becomes clearer that getting the same grades and attending the same university does not mend the strikingly obvious class divide in the UK, and that if you went to a state school your work ethic and academic ability are likely to be sneered at. Attending a lecture, tutorial, university event, or social occasion and feeling welcomed should be the norm rather than a privilege reserved for society’s elite. Why is it standard for my peers to be shocked when they have never heard of my school? Or to gasp upon learning that I did not pay for my primary and secondary education, but ended up in the same room as them, nevertheless? To clarify, I do not speak for all private school students here: I have many privately educated friends who aren’t bothered where I went to school. I also have no idea about the schools attended by other friends because it’s simply not on my agenda! But things like scholarly confidence and social engagement should not be conditioned by my education or social class; they should be influenced by my ability to dedicate myself to my studies and who I am as a person.

(Photo Courtesy of K. Mitch Hodge via Unsplash)

Need a little help here

My time at university has always treated me remarkably well, and I’m sure it will continue to do so. I’ll always be grateful for how lucky I am to attend such an elite institution, and I have, indeed, been presented with a range of opportunities, both academic and extracurricular. However, it is my inability to access these opportunities that separates me from a lot of the students here. I feel I speak for many students when I say it is remarkably frustrating to be denied opportunities due to the high cost of living and the university’s lack of financial aid. It must be noted that I truly love Edinburgh and that everyone at this university has worked hard to be here and to achieve their goals. 

However, when discussing students’ pasts and futures, it is clear that university culture embodies the UK’s class divide remarkably well. 


(Photo courtesy of the author)

Misery Loves Company

Posted on by Jonathan

“People who are hurting tend to hurt other people,” my mom says while holding me close and listening to me cry about the day’s events.

“Why?” I ask in between sobs.

“Because they are just unhappy with their own lives and feel miserable, they choose to make other people feel bad about themselves. It’s a vicious cycle, and misery loves company.”

It took me many years to fully understand what my mom was saying in those moments of desperation and utter sadness when I was a teenager. I fully understood the impact of her words and the lesson she was trying to teach me only in my late twenties while living alone. 

The takeaway is to take everything people say with a grain of salt because their opinions will not matter in ten years. They are irrelevant.

Misery does, in fact, love company, and due to the ever-changing economy, rising cost of living, unemployment, the pandemic, and advancements in technology, it has become so much easier to spread hate worldwide. 

How I respond to haters

Most people don’t even bat an eyelash when throwing insults at strangers on the internet. I have noticed that many are angry, hateful, and very ignorant of their own biases. They often judge people without a second thought, based on their profile picture and the content on their page.

Whenever people insult me on Instagram for commenting and leaving an opinion on a post, I try to tackle their hate, judgment, and ignorance with kindness and compassion. I raise awareness of why some people are overweight or prefer to surround themselves with cats rather than people.

People don’t care to understand the struggles of other people. I have noticed supervisors do the same thing and discriminate against an employee when it is illegal to do so in the working environment, but that doesn’t stop them from finding ways to make an employee feel crappy.

So when these types of situations and circumstances occur, I try to reframe the negativity by pointing out how cruel they are by saying, “God bless your hateful, ignorant, and miserable soul.” Then, I proceed by letting them know about how certain health conditions can impact a person’s looks by affecting their weight and skin in a variety of different ways, such as taking mental health medications,  having a vitamin deficiency,  an autoimmune disorder, or a hormone imbalance such as a thyroid condition. 

I ask them to educate themselves further on this topic before automatically spewing their hate toward people they don’t know on the internet. Usually, when I respond to these types of offensive comments with kindness and awareness, many people end up not responding, which leads me to think that, perhaps, they will think twice before choosing violence and responding to someone’s opinion with mean comments the next time.

Our responsibility

Everyone we meet in life is fighting an unknown battle, one we know nothing about. We must do better as a society if we wish to have any hope for future generations. We must consider what type of example we are setting for our children by exhibiting bullying behavior towards strangers. 

It all starts at home, with the example set by the children’s family members. 

They come into this world already knowing how to love, and unfortunately, it is ultimately the people we surround ourselves with who choose to teach us how to hate, based on how the world treats us as individuals.

Swimming Out and Changing Careers

Posted on by Jonathan

Let me set a scene for you. I’m at gorgeous Coogee Beach in Sydney, on the Pacific — just had a really nice swim  — and the sun is about to set on my twenties. 

As I watched the sunset, I thought a lot about what I want my thirties to look like. And it hit me like the waves that struck me during my swim. I thought to myself, “I do not want to be in the office anymore.”

This is not to say the media agency I was at, or the people I worked with were bad. The work is achievable, and ideally, by my age, I would need a stable career. The people I was working with were all fantastic people, and the office and location beautiful. But the one question I kept asking myself was — is this something I want to do for the rest of my life? Simply put, NO! By the time I was at Coogee, I was burnt out at work. The very same day I made a vow to pursue things that give me happiness and peace; that energize me every day. Writing, photography, and teaching are some of those. I wanted to chase them all. 


Fast forward one month, and I handed in my resignation. 

After working for five years in the media industry, where I was involved in successful campaign implementations and met so many amazing people, I stepped away from the comforts and into the unknown. My passion drove me away from the comforts.

(Photo courtesy of the author)

I headed toward a destination more peaceful and fulfilling  — life as a writer, a photographer, or a teacher overseas was my dream. A lot of people in my work circle thought it was a ballsy thing to do and results will not come overnight. So in the meantime,  I’m looking for something temporary or part-time to cover my expenses …

I keep myself busy 

Volunteering for a community center, staying in the gym, learning a new language, and practicing in language exchanges are the ways I kept myself busy. All these activities helped me stay busy and sane through the long rut of finding a job two years ago. With volunteering, I may not get paid, but along with gaining experience and honing my skills, there was an inner joy I got by teaching the elderly English or about using phones. The gym gave me a sense of accomplishment — completing heavy lifts. And learning a new language shows a dedication to learning new things.

That dedication has extended to my pursued career


(Photo courtesy of the author)

Before I handed in my resignation, I started writing a blog about my journey from office worker to potential freelancer. I’ve also been refreshing my knowledge about freelance writing and immersing myself back into a master’s course in writing. Language exchanges have allowed me to learn and get better at a language whilst also helping those who are struggling with English. 

After I resigned, the first thing I did was go back to Coogee where it all started. I then went on the Coogee-to-Bronte walk and took photos from that even more scenic beach. Since then I’ve been on photography trips, heading to different beaches and some areas I have never been to before. There is a lot of testing out of lighting and shutter speeds to help me develop a style of photography that is truly mine; which is actually what this journey has been about — developing a me best suited to writing, teaching, or photography.

Still, I haven’t 100% said goodbye to the media 

You can never be sure in life, so I can’t be certain I’m done with the media industry forever. There have been publishers and people from other agencies that I’ve met that I would go as far as to say are my friends. One good thing about the media industry is that the people in it are quite laid back, so , it was easy to make connections there as I’m the same kind of person. Plus, I’ve always been told to never burn bridges. If this career change doesn’t work out, those connections I made through just being my outgoing self at many media parties will bode well if I  return to the media industry. Never say never.

Career changes are never easy. I can say with certainty that it is still scary stepping away from somewhere that gave me comfort and security to delve into the unknown. But when those doubts start to creep in…

I remind myself of the why


(Photo courtesy of the author)

At the end of “The Last Dance” documentary, Michael Jordan said it was maddening that not only did he retire at his peak, but he and the Bulls didn’t get the chance to go for seven NBA championships. There are so many could haves or what ifs to this day that bothered Jordan, and I wonder if I might feel the same if I didn’t at least try. And it isn’t just because I want the comfort in saying I tried my best, it’s because I want to chase things that’ll give me happiness. I want to break out of the 9 to 5 routine and be my own man. If I do end up back in the media industry, I want to at least proudly say I gave it my best. Working at a desk, I can sit back at peace, knowing that I tried. 

We all have different circumstances in life that make career changes less than  ideal. If an opportunity knocks where you can pursue your passion in life, can we take that leap forward? Life is short and can end in an instant — this year has shown me how to take those leaps instead of sitting by and waiting for those leaps to happen.

Donkey Voting Down Under

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Donkey voting with a ‘democracy sausage’

Voting is a fundamental democratic right, allowing citizens to have a say in how their country is governed. But what if it’s mandatory? 

In Australia, as I discovered when I moved there, the voting process is compulsory, aiming to ensure that every eligible voter has the opportunity to cast their ballot and the opportunity to enjoy hot dogs at the polling booth. Normally called a sausage sizzle in Aussie slang, it becomes democracy sausage come election time. 

Within the great Aussie democratic system, I realized, lies the phenomenon of “donkey voting,” a term that might be unfamiliar to many, especially to first-time voters and outsiders like me. 

First of all, let me explain the hee-haw. Numbered voting is required in preferential voting, where voters rank candidates in order of preference or priority. A donkey vote occurs when a voter marks their ballot paper in numerical order from top to bottom without considering the candidates’ policies or merits. 

For example, if the candidates are listed as A, B, C, D, and E, a donkey voter would spitefully mark them 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 respectively. It is also a donkey vote if it goes the other way around. This type of voting shows up in preferential voting systems, like the one used in Australia,.

It doesn’t count as a sincere vote though, and is more of an act of protest. Voting like this also shows that you have not used any intellectual horsepower to think through your ballot choices. This stubborn act is called donkey voting for a few reasons. 

Number crunching

Now here is why this type of mischief might happen at the polls Down Under for you numbers people: 

1. Lack of interest or knowledge: Some voters might not have enough information about the candidates or might be indifferent to the outcome of the election. As a result, they simply mark the ballot in the order the names appear. Make voting compulsory and people will find a way to half-ass it. Hence it’s dissed as a donkey vote.

2. Protest vote: A donkey vote can be a form of silent, but black and white protest against the political system or the available candidates. It’s a way for voters to show their dissatisfaction with the checklist or the choices without spoiling their ballot. The vote counts, and this one hurts. 

3. In a country where 26 million people reside, having 111,015 people vote sequentially may not seem high enough for concern. Just read this article for more numbers: 

Grazing on democracy’s green grass

As someone who has never voted before, as I am not from much of a democracy, the concept of donkey voting is both intriguing and concerning. I am from an absolute monarchy where brain drain is common and people want to go somewhere more developed where they have freedom. The grass is always greener, somewhere, but do we really have to share it with jackasses? 

I think personally, not voting properly is subverting democracy, turning it assways. There is more to it than that though sometimes. 

While donkey voting is not illegal in Australia, it raises ethical questions about the integrity of the voting process. Critics argue that it undermines the principle of informed voting, where each vote should reflect a considered choice. 

I had always assumed that every vote cast in an election was a deliberate and thoughtful choice. The idea that some people might vote in numerical order instead of preference raises questions about the true representation of the electorate’s will. Who is in the electorate though, I wonder? 

If I was a voter, I would feel a sense of responsibility to ensure that my vote counts in a meaningful way. This means taking the time to research the candidates and their policies, understanding the issues at stake, and making informed voting choices. Donkey voting, in contrast, seems to invalidate this important civic duty. Or could you use it as a form of effective protest? Not as a student during student union elections, I don’t think. 

I remember hearing about it between 2012-2016 in my formative university years as a first time ever voter of any kind. Students do not need to vote during their student union elections although it is a wasted opportunity if one does not learn the basics of the democratic process then. Oh come on now, don’t be such a neigh-sayer and tell me you scoff at the idea. Why I chose to even engage leads me to think that better voter engagement, at the personal or relational level, can improve voter confidence. 

Furthermore, the prevalence of donkey votes underscores the need for better voter engagement. First-time voters, in particular, could benefit from resources that explain the voting process, the significance of preferential voting, and how to make an informed choice. 

Additionally, efforts to increase voter engagement, such as candidate forums and accessible information about political platforms, could help reduce the incidence of donkey voting where mandatory voting means you can’t vote with your feet and protest by not voting at all. 

Passive-aggressive, maybe just aggressive?

I sometimes think that voting this way in protest is probably valid when no one wants to give you a voice in the first place. In case no one represents you, why not express your disagreement and mock the process in a passive-aggressive way? 

In compulsory voting, you need to vote or pay a fine. If you do not want to vote but also want to avoid paying a fine, you can just cast your ballot but not indicate a clear preference in protest. 

In the case of the indigenous Australian population, that might turn out to be a full-on silent treatment.

No wonder, since 60 percent of Australians have recently voted to not give Indigenous Australians their voice. Imagine not letting your host speak at all during a party you crashed;. where is the propriety in that? Reconciliation may indeed be dead, as the 2023 Australian Indigenous Voice referendum showed, and only time will tell if donkey or linear voting will increase along with informal votes. Compulsory voting has its flaws after all. Who can convince 

people to vote democratically in a system they wouldn’t design as the rules of the representational game don’t let them play and win? Not given a voice? Then they won’t give their voice. 

Can the great Australian experiment be saved from going further south? That’s an article for another day so I don’t have to half-ass it. Or maybe ask the original custodians of the land.

9 AM Discovery

Posted on by Jonathan

Open the album to see

your roots. Hover your petite fingers across
the beige page with the woman’s
face you inherited.

From full skirt
of exaggerated hips in black
and white, to shorts
with ultra-bright pink, red, purple

spiral. An itch for her
aura strengthens. Once,
you saw her softest smile. How

eerie is it to miss a stranger?

Madhu Duniya is Creating a Buzz

Posted on by Jonathan

It is early in the morning. The sky is purplish over the treetops. The forest is still asleep. 

Yet, she is no stranger to this moment. 

Like clockwork, she readies herself. Her day begins to hum right before sunrise. It has been like this for as long as she can remember. Fellow workers are abuzz as they too prepare for the day. They know they must get a move on. Everyone prepares for the long day ahead. They all know what they must do. They all know they play a crucial role in the survival of their community.

Worker 786 is but one of the many in her colony. Thousands from her hive work together to prepare for the morning. Worker 786 and the others in her colony are unique to the Southeast Asian region.  According to the Haribon Organization “Among the stingless bee species, the most important one is Tetragonula biroi (or ‘kiwot’). It shares a similar morphology to honeybees, with the major differences being that the kiwot is the size of an ant and lacks a sting.”

A spokesperson for precious colonies

Like many of her kind, worker 786 is just one of the millions of indigenous Southeast Asian bees under threat. Their plight resulting from pesticides and deforestation does not make the global headlines. She is just one of millions whose voices remain unheard. 

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(Image Courtesy of Madhu Duniya)

Here is where Madhu Duniya comes in. While the Honey World gathering is based in Indonesia, Madhu Duniya works to be the spokesperson for the many bees inhabiting all of Southeast Asia. It hosts conferences and provides educational campaigns geared toward raising international awareness on the regional bees. It particularly strives to gain attention in the West. 

By doing so, the organization also helps local beekeepers develop their livelihoods. It contends that when the local bee population is threatened, so are the lives of the people who make a living from collecting honey and bee by-products. Bees are a crucial component in the local agricultural ecosystem. And globally, a third of all food production depends on them. 

In the organization’s own words, “Since its establishment in 2007, Madhu Duniya has served as a platform for various stakeholders to discuss growing trends, challenges and opportunities around the subject of forest honey and native Asian bees. Madhu Duniya highlights the knowledge and wisdom of community harvesters and supports the participation of community experts from a broad base of indigenous and local honey groups.”

Forest honey networking

In addition, the organization shares that “Throughout the years, Madhu Duniya has been instrumental in facilitating the formation of forest honey networks in at least five Asian countries, as well as providing assistance in securing government permits for forest honey hunters. It has inspired research on honey’s health and medical benefits and has helped raise awareness on (sic) the latest studies and concerns about Asian forest honey and bees. Moreover, the network has been active in creating and promoting proper harvesting and processing protocols, and has successfully linked private sector partners and producers towards the vision of sustainable and enabling community livelihoods.”

Madhu Duniya promotes  “forest honey as crucial for rural incomes, key for forest conservation, and important for human health, not just in Asia but also around the world.” 

These activities are what Madhu Duniya has been working on for a few decades now. While it had officially started in 2007, according to our interviewee, Crissy Guerrero (more formally known as Maria Cristina Guerrero), the initial plans for the group had started in the early 2000s.

(Image Courtesy of Madhu Duniya)

As Worker 786 prepares for flight, she scans the throngs of bees at the launch area. The mouth of the hive is alive. She has known many of the younger bees since they were just larvae. Across the buzz and flutter of wings, she is unable to find her friend, 662. 

Worker 786 shrugs it off and assumes 662 has already left.

Each bee then takes off in search of the much-needed resources to keep its colony going. The sky fills with a small cloud of black. Compared with the western honey bee, 786 and her colony are smaller and black in color.

Gaining altitude, the workers spread out to various areas within their sphere of operation. Some head north, others south. They have a flight range of 500 meters, so they work in synchronicity to cover the most ground without doubling up. They are efficient that way.

While in flight, 786 approaches her intended patch of flowers. She cannot help but notice a bee she has never seen before. It is visibly bigger, yellow and black, and it was just emerging from one of her own assigned flowers.

Based on extensive research by a Vietnamese expert invited by Madhu Duniya to their events, there is a concern with the introduction of Apis Mellifera, or the western bee, to the Asian environment. The local Apis Cerana and Apis Dorsata, both native to the region, coexist without harvesting the same flowers at the same time. Working the same territory, they do not compete, as if they have a mutual understanding.

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(Image Courtesy of Madhu Duniya)

However, Crissy Guerrero pointed out that the research suggests the introduction of Mellifera into the environment disrupted the existing pattern. This led to competition for resources with the local bees.

Surprisingly, commercial honey makers have integrated the non-indigenous Apis Mellifera into the local Asian ecosystems.

Swarming to tackle the challenges

Flying her way back to the colony, 786 cannot help but notice that today she has a lighter load. While looking down at the ground, she sees a familiar bee lying on the ground, struggling. It is 1003, and ants swarm her dying body. 

Commercial pesticides used by agricultural groups have been killing off bee populations. Concurrent with that threat, Madhu Duniya contends that habitat destruction is one of the main factors leading to a dwindling bee population.

Crissy Guerrero adds, “A lot of these bees are based in the forests. If you keep converting these forests into agriculture plantations, you will have a loss in bees.”

Having reached the colony, 786 works her way back to the nursery to deposit her precious cargo. She is a gatherer, and what she gathers becomes the nourishment of the colony. Hungry larvae require sustenance that she helps provide.

From what appears to be a small effort, 786 plays a big role in plant pollination. Her efforts and those of her compatriots are crucial to the environment. Without her aid, plants will not flourish. That is why they are essential not just to growing food crops but to harvesting medicinal plants as well. 

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(Image Courtesy of Madhu Duniya)

Back in the hive, 786 is startled by a loud thunderclap. Thunder is unusual for her since it is not expected this time of the year. So 786 hopes the rains will not come early this year. Bees cannot fly out and gather their resources at all in the rain. (Climate change alert—heavy flooding also means lower pollination.)

During November 6-10, 2023, Madhu Duniya conferenced with other global stakeholders in Vietnam. Its goal is to raise awareness for Asian bees which, though numerous, remain deprioritized on a global scale. Madhu Duniya continues to spread the word that bee populations are crucial to the propagation of fruits and vegetables, nuts and flowers, to keep the human food system stable. And in Asia they are under threat.

Many may still not realize it, but Bee Lives Matter Too. We are dependent on them as much as they are on us.

But 786 sat quietly as raindrops fell on top of her hive. Leaks through the insufficient propolis seals meant to protect them slowly let water seep in. She prayed they would make it through the night.

Congratulations to Madhu Duniya for its impactful regenerative work in Southeast Asia. The project was honored with the Yuvoice Brighter Tomorrow award on January 25, 2024, for its efforts in promoting Asian bees by consolidating its findings and spreading the word among members of the international community. On behalf of our Brighter Tomorrow team, thank you for taking the time to be interviewed.

The Inside Story of a Renegade — What’s It To Ya?

Posted on by Jonathan

It all started in Wichita, the largest city in Kansas, bustling with the aircraft of Cessna, Learjet, and Boeing. Founded in 1861 as a free state, Wichita was Native American land named after the Wichita and Kanza tribes. This land had a rich, deep cultural heritage predating colonization. Filled with dewy, mystic plains and sunflowers that dance in the wind, Wichita is my birthplace. 

(Photo courtesy of Andrew Cruz via Unsplash)

A few Wiccan friends 

Such a safe and liberal place to grow up, nestled in a place in America called the Bible Belt and Tornado Alley, Wichita had some challenges, too. For those who grew up there and were different in the 1990s and 2000s—life was lived in the tradition of “The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.” It was a very heavily Christian town, and most other belief systems were suspect and not embraced. But I would notice a new kid sitting alone during lunch and instantly befriended them, so they weren’t alone. Renegade. 

I had a few Wiccan friends who were social pariahs. Excommunicated from the popular crowd, they still were my friends. We would walk home from school together and meet their cats. The agnostics, the atheists, the grunge and emo people, the cosplayers; all my friends. Couple them with the Roman Catholics and devout Christians, and you have a full index book of my school associations. No one was left out. I was a friend to the friendless and a bully to the bullies. I still have friends who remind me of times I stuck up for them. Renegade. 

In the spring and early summer, our memories are imprinted with drills. We had to go to the school basement, a musty and dank gym locker room with rusted shower heads and cement walls. We could hear the blaring sirens for miles. Sometimes, we would just line ourselves along the classroom hallways with our heads bent towards the lockers and our hands clasped over the back of our heads. The screaming sound of the sirens would put chills down my spine and create an immediate visceral reaction. Friends’ homes were often destroyed on the outskirts of Wichita due to the tornadoes. But this was home, and we were all used to it. 

(Photo courtesy of Ralph W. lambrecht via Pexels)

Emerging from innocence and charm

My friends and I, and many others in Wichita, were part of a desegregation bussing system. Buses went near and far to take us to Park City in grades K-12. Later to be known as the home of the BTK Killer, it still had its innocence and charm then. I sometimes saw horses, cows, chickens, even llamas on the way to my elementary school, Chisholm Trail—after Jesse Chisholm, a Cherokee merchant. Black Beaver, a Lenape trail guide and cattle rancher, and his friend Chisholm used this trail for cattle driving and trading. 

(Photo courtesy of Phill Brown via Unsplash)

Chisholm Trail was a school breaking barriers. We had a female African-American Principal, Mrs. Saundra Kaye Lyons, and other people of color as our guidance counselors and instructors. We were on the cutting edge of school programs for Wichita and quite diverse.

But in middle school, there was a “magnet school” near my house. The magnet program is another system to attract a diverse student body, a continuation of the desegregation bussing from elementary school. This is where I started to come into myself and learn who I really was.

The facts of Iife crew!

I had a core friend group with three other girls,  the “Facts of Life” crew. I was Tootie, Stephanie was Joe, Leticia was Natalie, and Julia was Blair. When we were together, no one could mess with us. Stephanie was Filipino, sporty, and played soccer. Lucita was black and Panamanian, my best friend from violin class. Julia was a ginger girl who loved animals, spunky, and the first to fight if someone insulted us. When I met Lucita, I was impressed by her basketweave pattern of tightly cornrowed braids. They were immaculate like a work of art. My sister was a hair braider so I found a way to inch into a conversation. Before our conversation, when I complimented her, I had never seen her speak a word to anyone. We became inseparable. I remember one of our teachers comedically telling us to “cut the umbilical cord!” as we laughed feverishly about a picture in our textbook. 

I started to have complex feelings I didn’t understand for our other friend, Jennifer. I kept them in my diary and didn’t tell a soul until a couple of years later. I confessed my true feelings for Jennifer to my bestie, Lucita. She suggested that I write her a letter. I wrote it and put it in her locker, not sure what to expect. Maybe I thought she would be a renegade like me, we’d walk down the hallways holding hands, daring anyone to say anything. Maybe I thought we would stay the same with our flirty yet platonic relationship, but just with an understanding. I did not expect to break up our friends group. 

(Photo courtesy of Marcos Paulo Prado via Unsplash)

And that’s exactly what I was doing, far too much to ask really in small-minded, bible-belted Kansas in the 8th grade. Jennifer was Roman Catholic. She couldn’t publicly associate with me anymore, and I accepted the death of our friendship. 

My secret-laden diary goes AWOL

But fast forward a few months. I left my purse in a class — absent-minded teenager — where I kept my diary. The school jock decided to retrieve my diary and pass it to everyone. A fluffy, zebra-printed, fur-covered little time capsule. I somehow missed it that Friday. On Monday, a girl walked up to me with her jaw open and demanded, “Are you gay?!” I said no……? “Well, your diary is all over school now,” and she walked away as if I was the one who insulted her. I turned the corner, heart beating fast, and wondering about my next move. Then there was a group of people. “Are you gay?!” There wasn’t much I could do to fight it. “Yes, I’m gay.”

But I wasn’t free. People did not leave me alone after my confession. Mobs of people approached me at recess, lunch, and every class. Prodding at me like a science experiment gone wrong. Even some teachers were looking at me like I had the plague. Ultimately, when I retrieved the diary, it was on a teacher’s desk, as if it had been brought in for Show and Tell. Without a word, I grabbed my journal and walked back out. I accepted my new fate as an outsider, like those I had befriended. Thankfully, they were a non-judgmental group of friends. Plenty of the religious ones could no longer associate with me, however. 

My grannie challenge

Being adopted by my grandmother, I had a wisdom most kids my age didn’t yet have. I knew I needed to tell her before anyone else could. I was a little woman in my own right.  We were born and raised in the Baptist church so talking was going to be a huge undertaking. Grannie was the superintendent of Sunday School and an Evangelist. I was the junior secretary there. Her husband had the keys to the church, and we were the first to arrive every Sunday to unlock it. Not going to be easy. 

(Photo courtesy of William Krause via Unsplash)

I was nervous about this confession, but it was too late. I couldn’t put the milk back into the carton, and I didn’t have time to cry over the spill. I eventually confessed to my sisters and Grannie before the gossip. They told me they loved me no matter what. My middle sister told me she was just glad I wasn’t pregnant. My oldest sister said that she already knew. With Grannie, I became emotional. I didn’t want to be a failure in her eyes. She assured me being a lesbian didn’t preclude me from success. She told me to get myself together, and we would talk about it later. One day, I think she just couldn’t hold it anymore and exploded “I’d rather you had been pregnant than gay!” But she eventually came around and even introduced me to an older married lesbian mentor from her workplace. I am to this day grateful for my family’s acceptance, which many LGBT people never received. 

Graduation howling

The last week of school, academic awards were presented in the auditorium before the entire student body. I had joined the cross-country team as a favor to one teacher. I competed in one race and didn’t even finish, but received an award. The entire student body burst into laughter at my name. 

Maybe mild, it felt like outlandish howling. Hey, how would you expect Kansas teenagers to react in 2002?

It stained me. It also built character. Officially out, still working on being proud. 

Manifesting what I really wanted 

The next semester was high school. There were other lesbians in my school, but I still never quite fitted in anywhere. I graduated a year early and wanted to put school as far behind me as possible. 

I went on to attend college to pursue a degree in Psychology. I married my wife, whom I met online in 2002, and we have been married for ten years. She is an Iraqi war Veteran turned teacher and quite amazing. We live in beautiful and accepting Oahu, Hawaii, and happy with our three chihuahua-yorkies. We are currently trying to conceive. Renegade. 

(Photo courtesy of Taylor Hunt via Pexels)

I’m sure Kansas has grown by leaps and bounds since I left years ago, but this was an important snapshot of a time when things were not so easy for the LGBTQIA+ community. It may seem long ago that we were so openly discriminated against, but it was actually very recent and still sometimes happens today. I have also seen many improvements in schools regarding anti-bullying and support for the fostering of strong personalities within very different individuals. Live and let live, and always be yourself. There is a huge payout in the end, and you will manifest yourself exactly where you would have wanted to be in your teenage dreams.