“I love a sunburnt country,

A land of sweeping plains,

Of ragged mountain ranges,

Of droughts and flooding rains.”

Dorothea Mackellar’s iconic poem captures how, when we speak of the Australian landscape, we are talking about more than soil and fences.

I first memorised those lines in Year 7 English, 5 years ago now, but it wasn’t until my family’s farm in South-West Victoria began to experience a severe drought over the past 15 months that the poem really made sense to me. I’ve seen paddocks so dry that cows became trapped in the cracks in the dirt, I watched our dam become a sand-filled crater, and I’ve heard anxious conversations at the kitchen table about the fate of my family members on the farm. Suddenly, Mackellar’s words weren’t just lines in some poem I had to memorise for school; they had become our brutal reality.

For many of us sitting here amongst the skyscrapers of Melbourne’s CBD, such places and situations only exist in news reels, paintings, or poetry.

But, in rural Australia, the land is not abstract - it is history, identity, survival.

So when renewable energy projects - like solar and wind farms - arrive on the horizon in these regional communities, it is no surprise that they are sometimes met with fear and apprehension.

Not because these communities are wholly opposed to change. In fact, no one understands adaptation and perseverance better than a farmer.

But because the land has always demanded respect, and too often, those pushing for change have forgotten to offer it. So what does it mean to treat the land, and the people who tend it, with respect when it comes to the future of energy and a prosperous Australia for all? To me, it means having clear information, clear dialogue and a clear vision that is formed, not for farming communities, but with farming communities.

Today, one of the most common misconceptions swirling around our national conversation is that renewable energy will “swallow up” our sunburnt country - meaning endless fields of solar panels and wind turbines pushing agriculture aside and crushing our food supply. This idea was thrown around, particularly in the 2025 election campaign, as the Liberal Party tried to justify a switch to nuclear energy.

It’s an easy fear to understand.

But it’s also not the full picture.

It’s important to note that the Liberals’ campaign was backed by the fossil fuel industry, with mining magnate Gina Rinehart adding to the noise of misinformation with her false claims that “one-third” of Australia's “prime agricultural land” could be “taken over” by renewables.

Contrary to this circulating propaganda, in reality, powering Australia with renewables would take just 0.016% of our land, according to the Clean Energy Council,. For context, that’s the same size as the city of Greater Geelong.

To put that in perspective: cropping alone currently uses over 3% of the country’s land, according to studies from the Australian National University. That is nearly two hundred times more. I’m not sensing much of a threat here, are you?
On top of that, most wind farms (once built) allow 95% of the land beneath and around them to continue being used for grazing and even cropping, as per Farm Renewables Consulting.

This cohabitation has already begun in parts of Australia.

On a sheep farm outside Parkes in regional NSW, solar panels now shade the pasture, keeping grass greener for longer through drought.

At the same time, the sheep graze naturally under the panels, removing the need for harsh chemicals to treat weeds, and even improving fleece quality, giving farmers a bit of extra income down the line.

What we are seeing here is not a trade-off between energy and farming, but rather a layering. A chance to grow food and power side by side. This is not the destruction of Australian agriculture, but its evolution.

However, facts alone are not enough to win the trust of Australia’s farmers, because the deeper fear is not about megawatts or energy - it’s about a different kind of power: Who controls this transformation? Who gets a say?

For too long, farming communities have been promised prosperity and then abandoned.

They have watched government services shrink, local industries decline, and decision-making drift further and further towards distant cities.

As Australia moves toward renewables, rural Australians are rightly asking if they’ll be left behind again - and the answer to this lies not in technology, but in relationships.

When farmers are treated as mere landlords for energy companies, handed pre-written contracts as an afterthought, or consulted as a ‘courtesy’, resentment is inevitable.

But when they are treated as true co-creators of our energy future, something amazing happens.

Take the example of Yackandandah, in North East Victoria, which has built one of Australia’s first town-wide microgrids, aiming to generate 100% renewable power for the town.

These kinds of projects show that we can build a future where farmers are not pushed off the land by renewable energy, but strengthened on it.

Plain and simple, we all need rural Australia for our energy future. Because the reality is that the urban centres of this country, where we stand today, are where most of our emissions are generated.

But the solutions to our climate crisis, the space, the sunlight, the wind - they exist out in the bush.

Climate change is also not a distant possibility for regional Australia.

Mackellar’s “droughts and flooding rains” are no mere metaphor; they are already here, as our Bureau of Meteorology tells us average temperatures have climbed 1.47 °C since 1910.

In this new climate reality, relying solely on traditional forms of farming will be harder.

Renewable energy offers a crucial secondary source of income that could mean the difference between staying on the land or losing it.

Already, farmers hosting wind turbines are earning between $20,000 and $100,000 per turbine per year in lease payments, according to the Clean Energy Council.

So what do we do with our sunburnt country?

First, we listen. I mean you, I mean me, but also those in power, our government, whose concern for farming communities too often only awakens when disaster, like the drought plaguing the South West, strikes.

And together, with respect, fairness, and collaboration, we can ensure the farms that feed Australia, like my family’s, won’t be lost. They’ll keep feeding and powering Australia for generations to come.

Over the summer holidays, I visited my grandparents in Zimbabwe. Like most young people, I love my Instagram and my TikTok, so obviously, I was spending a lot of money on data. One afternoon, my grandfather, puzzled, asked:

“Fadzai, how do you afford all this data?”

With the biggest smile and full confidence, I said,

“You know me. I work. I’m a hustler.”

He burst out laughing like I’d just told the funniest joke.

“You? A hustler? What do you even know about hustle?”

That day, we had a fruitful conversation. I realised hustle meant something different to him than it does to me, and that difference matters.

I chose to speak about hustle because I think we’ve misunderstood it.

Thus, today I explore: is hustle our friend, or our foe?

We see hustle everywhere. “Rise and grind.” “Sleep is for the weak.” “Work until your haters ask if you’re hiring.” Hustle carries weight in our society. Whether its students chasing high ATARs or parents trying to put dinner on the table, everyone is reaching for something. Hustle becomes the thread that ties us together, not because we all chase the same dream, but because we all feel the pressure to chase something.

It's the silent expectation stitched into our lives: do more. Be more. Prove more.

However, in Australia today, hustle often wears the face of quiet suffering. It’s the uni student working night shifts just to afford textbooks. The tradie with a bad back and no sick leave. The single mother choosing between childcare fees or groceries.

Here, hustle can feel less like ambition and more like survival in disguise. And it’s not just financial, it’s emotional. We’ve learned to smile through stress, keep going without pause, and wear our struggle like a badge instead of a burden.

In 2019, the World Health Organization officially recognised burnout as an occupational phenomenon. And can we be surprised? A 2023 study by Beyond Blue found that 59 percent of young Australians feel overwhelmed by their responsibilities. Another report by ReachOut Australia revealed that one in three people aged 14 to 25 experiences high psychological anxiety.

Those aren’t just statistics, that’s us. Somewhere along the line, we began to believe burnout was a benchmark and exhaustion was a virtue. That’s the toxic side of hustle. Not just what it demands from us, but what it teaches us to ignore.

And let’s not forget that hustle doesn’t always come from a clean place. The word has been tied to grinding, rule-bending, and even crime. When society locks people out of opportunity, they still hustle, just in ways that aren’t always celebrated. Street hustle. Underground hustle. Survival hustle.

That’s why when we talk about hustle, we can’t forget where it comes from. And few stories capture that better than the story of hip hop.

These days, if you ask a rapper what hustle means, you’ll get everything from “stacking paper” to “buying your mama a mansion.” Some treat hustle like a spiritual journey, others like a shopping spree.

But before it was about Rolexes, Rolls-Royces and Kendrick Lamar vs Drake, hip hop was born from pain and oppression, created by communities denied opportunity. People silenced by systems built their own space, their own sound, their own language.

Hustle was the heartbeat of hip hop. But over time, the message shifted. Hustle became about escape. Escaping poverty, violence, invisibility. Artists began chasing fame and validation.

The grind became about being seen, rather than being free.

But I don’t believe that’s real hustle. That’s what I call the shadow hustle. It mimics the shape of hustle but lacks the substance, a performance, loud and relentless, yet empty.

And when we confuse that for real hustle, we start building identities around what we look like, not what we stand for. That’s when we lose ourselves.

I believe Australia is facing a crisis. Not just of housing or jobs. But a crisis of identity. A crisis of direction. A crisis of belonging.

In 2023, the Australian Psychological Society reported that 43 percent of Gen Z feel regular stress, with one of the biggest causes being uncertainty about our futures.

That number isn’t just a warning sign. It reflects a generation standing at a crossroads with no map. And yet, too often, young people are called lazy or unmotivated.

But that’s not the truth. We are lost.

We’re growing up in a world that keeps shifting the goalposts. Where the cost of living rises faster than our chances, where stability feels like a privilege instead of a right.

That is why reclaiming a healthy hustle matters. It gives us a reason to move again. Not out of fear, but out of purpose.

And in places like our beautiful Victoria, we must promote hustle that enriches our state. To show young people that it is possible.

In Footscray, where refugee families open cafés that become community hubs. In Melton, where young men meet in groups to unpack trauma, break cycles, and change the narrative. In Dandenong, where aunties turn garages into workshops, braiding hair, tailoring clothes.

And across regional Victoria, where communities come together, farmers and small business owners support one another to build stronger, resilient towns and futures.

This is hustle that heals. Hustle that uplifts. This is Victoria's heartbeat.

And that hustle proves that, when done right, hustle changes not just your life, but the community. That is the hustle we need to reclaim. The kind that uplifts. That creates legacy. That brings people with us as we grow.

When we sit in silence, there’s one sound that never leaves us: our heartbeat. Quiet, steady. A reminder that we’re still here.

That’s what hustle is to me. Hustle is my heartbeat.

Every win and every setback has been guided by that rhythm. I don’t hustle to impress. I hustle to become.
Because in a world that keeps shifting around me, my hustle reminds me who I am and where I’m going.

So, just like I taught my grandfather a lesson about hustle, I leave you with an assignment about your own.

Thank you.

How can the lion be the king of the jungle? He’s not the biggest. That’d be the elephant. He can’t be the fastest cause that’d be the cheetah. And he’s not the smartest, that’d be the monkey. So he’s not the biggest, the fastest or the smartest. So how does a lion become the king of the jungle? His mentality.

When I was just 14 years old it became my life goal to escape the matrix and become a filthy rich millionaire. Why? Because a manfluencer on TikTok convinced me that in order to become a man of worth-then I must become the king of the jungle. The message was loud and clear. If you're between the ages of 14 and 18 and not making 6 figures a month, what are you even doing with your life? What sort of man are you?

Let’s just pause for a second. What is a manfluencer, and how do they engage their audiences? "A manfluencer" is a male who uses social media platforms to share content, and influence his audience, often with three appealing hooks; looks, money, and power. The problem? Many promote harmful behaviours, unachievable goals, and reinforce rigid gender stereotypes, negatively impacting the health of young males. Despite this, manfluencers often present themselves as role models and saviours for these boys, and the way they do it is simple. On the one hand, they’ll create the perception of threat by exploiting men’s vulnerabilities, while on the other hand they’ll simultaneously “offer the solution”. Easily playing into emotions and attracting large audiences. 

They don’t just work alone though. The social media algorithm plays a huge role in amplifying the reach and impact of manfluencers, constantly pushing their content into the feeds of young men. A study by Reset Australia in 2022 illustrated how Youtube's algorithm promotes misogynistic, and extremist content to the accounts of all boys and young men, regardless of their age and whether they had previously engaged with this content. What’s important to note here, is that you don’t have to go looking for this content, this content finds you. That’s what happened to me. I liked a couple of vids on TikTok, and eventually my for you page had become flooded with these manfluencers convincing me it was just that easy to get rich. Naturally I subscribed to one of their courses and dove into dropshipping, forex, and crypto. 

What’s most concerning however, is that my parents had no idea I was doing any of this…even when I asked for bitcoin for my birthday. I mean seriously, why would I even ask for a new playstation or something, obviously a crypto investment is a much more age appropriate gift for a 14 year old, right?

Feeling like the next Jeff Bezos, I set up a Shopify store selling fake plants and invested all my birthday money in a random cryptocurrency. I felt great.  Thanks to the help of social media, I was going to be putting my P plates on a lamborghini. 

Except, I wasn’t. In fact, my crypto investment lost half its value in one night, and my dropshipping product never had a single sale. I had failed at becoming the king of the jungle. Those words of manfluencer wisdom that once empowered me, now left me feeling worthless, ashamed and wondering what sort of man am I?

But here’s the catch: I wasn’t alone. I was one of millions. A recent report by the Movember Institute of Men’s Health found that about two-thirds of young men are regularly engaging with manfluencers. Their report paints a clear picture of how online content is shaping not just opinions, but identities, health behaviors, and future ambitions. 

For example, they found that engagement with manfluencers contributes to poorer mental health. Young men watching these influencers reported significantly higher levels of worthlessness, nervousness, and sadness when compared to those who were not actively following these influencers. Furthermore, those engaged with manfluencers were also less likely to adopt behaviours known to promote good mental health, and instead prioritised making investments, starting side hustles and trying to get fit. 

This isn’t surprising though. A study published in 2024 by Baker and Colleagues found that in relation to mental health, most manfluencers dismiss emotional expression, and therapy as weak, emasculating, and for women. With some even encouraging boys to stop taking their medication and turn to diet and fitness instead.

It’s not just mental health, it’s physical health too. The Movember report also highlighted how ‘self-improvement’ is a core theme for manfluencers,to encourage young men to surpass their perceived limits in order to enhance their physique and athletic performance. Yes, this can potentially have positive effects such as encouraging young men to drink less or motivating physical activity, the report found that nearly half of young men engaged with manfluencers admitted to working out despite being injured. 

Many manfluencers also promote looksmaxxing- the practice of maximising one’s appearance to receive the social benefits that go with being attractive. You might recall the recent mewing trend on tiktok a few years back? While this may appear to just be another funny tiktok meme - it actually has a much darker side. 

While some manfluencers promote soft approaches such as skin routines, haircuts, and new clothes; others advocate for hardmaxxing, which are hazardous methods of improving looks including the use of steroids, skin bleaching, plastic surgery, and bone smashing. Yes, you heard that right. Bone smashing, the practice of repeatedly smashing your facial bones in the hope to achieve a more masculine appearance. As silly as this may sound, there are actually young boys out there who do it, simply because a manfluencer has told them to. Under the guise of self-improvement, looksmaxxing is just one of the many ways men are encouraged to harm themselves both physically and mentally.

So look, we know there are manfluencers out there harming young men with the help of social media’s algorithms. Multiple calls have been made for social media platforms to have more transparency and accountability regarding their algorithms, but we know that’s something that’s likely never going to change. Their profits depend on it.

The Australian government's solution is to ban social media for under 16s. But young people will certainly find their way around these bans. That’s why when it comes to creating solutions, we need to hear from the voices of those it’s affecting. And too often, the voice of young people is not heard. So here it is. My solution as a young man who was manipulatively drawn into the world of manfluencers.

For me, it starts with understanding. We know that a large number of boys engage with manfluencers, but what we still don’t fully understand; is why. So to the researchers I say, find out why. And to the policy makers, this ‘why’ is what should form the basis of your work. But research takes time. For now, we can work with what we do know, starting with a lack of digital literacy amongst young people. 

The state government needs to implement digital literacy into our schooling system, starting in primary school, because according to the Blackdog Institute by the time these young Australians are teenagers, 97% of them will own a smartphone. Our young people need to be taught to think critically about the things they see online, and to ensure that they don’t just take everything at face value. I mean hey, I bought an online dropshipping course because I thought I was going to become the king of the jungle. Where was my critical thinking there?

It isn’t just the responsibility of the school however to keep young men safe. Parents, you need to talk with your son’s about what they are looking at online. Ask them questions, offer them answers, but remember you don’t have to have all the answers. Have discussions with them that encourage them to think about the truth of what they are seeing, and highlight the absurdities in these videos.

Most importantly of all however, it’s up to all of us, no matter what age or gender we are, to be a positive role model for the boys around us. Because there’s always someone looking up to you, and if we can show them that “being the king of the jungle” isn’t the only way to be a man, then together we can break down these gender norms and make a difference for generations of boys to come.

I have a scar on my forehead, here, from where a boy in kindergarten threw rocks at my head. When I went up to the teachers, blood and tears streaming down my face, I was told ‘he probably just has a crush on you.’ And I learned that men show love through violence.

When I was 12, roughly the same height and build as all my classmates, the teachers still called for ‘some big, strong boys’ to carry chairs and tables. And I learned that even though I could outrun and outclimb any of the boys, my strength as a woman would never be recognised. When I was 16 and a boy I did not like kept asking me out, so many people told me to ‘just say yes’ because ‘I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, did I?’ And I learned that my comfort could never come at the expense of a man’s ego. All these phrases, these little throwaway comments, these offhand assumptions; that’s what casual misogyny is. Tiny microaggressions that reinforce the superiority of men over women; assuming a man is a doctor but a woman is a nurse, boys will be boys, man up, grow some balls; it’s embedded in our language, so much so that most of the time we don’t realise what we’re saying, what we’re really saying. It’s hidden in conversation, making this language seem small, insignificant and ineffectual. However it is arguably one of the biggest contributors to patriarchal culture. The constant, subtle comments about women being weaker, less intelligent, less rational, less than. It builds up very quickly, and people of all genders unknowingly internalise that message, which makes it so dangerous. Today, I will be discussing three of the most damaging consequences of casual misogyny: career disadvantages, increases in domestic violence and restrictions on male social roles. 

Casual misogyny dissuades women from male-majority careers. In 2018, men dominated 63.7% of management positions in Australia according to the federal government’s workplace gender equality agency. Contrastingly, the same year women made up 79% of Health Care and Social Assistance workers and 73.2% of Education and Training workers. We are pushed this way, into these ‘more nurturing’ careers all our lives based on the outdated belief they are more suitable for women; the simple act of handing a baby girl a doll and a baby boy a truck assumes what the child should be interested in solely based on their gender and begins the cycle of casual misogyny and the disempowerment it creates. 

As life goes on, girls are subtly dissuaded from male-centric areas, such trades and sciences, for example by teachers, parents or friends encouraging them to take traditionally feminine subjects at school or university. Combined with other systemic factors, intelligent, ambitious women are worn down by this language that we use and small actions we take, and internalise the belief that they are less capable or less suited for a male-dominated career path, so they do not choose it. We miss out on everything they have to contribute because of this; their research, cures, inventions and innovations we could’ve had if only they hadn’t been told and told ‘that’s a man’s job.’  

Furthermore, casual misogyny directly contributes to the domestic violence epidemic in Australia. Little girls are told that when boys throw rocks at us, or pull our hair, or harass us, it’s because ooo they like you. Alarmingly, this teaches us that men hurt women to express affection and we grow up with this belief, increasing the terrible domestic violence rates with 1 in 4 women experiencing abuse since the age of 15. It’s a subconscious connection that we need to erase - a boy hits me in primary school because he loves me, so when my husband hits me it must be because he loves me too. But I think we can all agree that’s not love, nor conduct that should be tolerated by women or by our community. However, because we are constantly told this treatment is acceptable, it has been normalised in society and women become trapped in abusive relationships and suffer or lose their lives as a result, a truly horrific consequence from phrases that most of us wouldn’t think twice about hearing or saying.

And this issue affects men as well. Unfortunately, this language is continuously created, and the invasive presence of the ‘alpha male’ mentality is now seen online, with men such as Andrew Tate, an arrested sex trafficker parading around as an influencer, preying on young boys and introducing terms like ‘high value man’ into everyday vocabulary, furthering casual misogyny and outdated ideals of masculinity and gender roles. Furthermore, when boys are told ‘don’t cry like a girl,’ ‘you kick like a girl’ (‘don’t be a pussy’), they absorb this sexist mindset and see femininity as weak and weakness as feminine, so they try to fit in with ‘bloke culture.’ This leads to the same patterns of toxic masculinity, casual misogyny and arguably the male mental health crisis because men cannot learn to express emotions properly and build support systems in a society that constantly labels this as weak through everyday language. 

But the good news is, if we make the effort to correct ourselves when we use this damaging language, we can unlearn this cultural mindset by erasing casual misogyny from our collective vocabulary. We have to remove gender from the way we describe things and our assumptions, when it’s there unnecessarily. If you are going to use a phrase or make an assumption about someone’s, say, career or interests, and it has an unneeded gender reference in it, recognise that and choose to change it into something better. And we have to call it out, point out how ridiculous it is to give a behaviour a gender. So next time you’re buying a gift for a child, get a Barbie for a boy or a car for a girl. The next time your friend is being a sook tell them that, not that they’re being a girl. Say ‘be brave’ instead of ‘man up.’ Then we can start to move forward in the world, to a new generation that, through our everyday language and actions, is equal and whole and finally all acknowledge that it’s not women who are always crying and being dramatic, it’s professional soccer players. 

Thank you for listening.

“Do you Indians even wash your hands before you eat?”

That was the question. Asked by a classmate. In 2025.

In that moment, I didn’t feel shocked - I felt tired. Tired of being reduced to a stereotype. Tired of having my culture questioned, explained, and judged through a lens I didn’t create.

Because racism doesn’t always come dressed in hate. Sometimes, it comes dressed in ignorance - masked by curiosity, shaped by the subtle but powerful influence of a Western worldview.

And that’s what I want to talk about today: not racism as we usually see it - loud and aggressive - but racism as it often appears in the Western world, including here in Victoria: quiet, casual, and born from a lens we never question.

Even in our proudly multicultural state of Victoria, difference is often seen as something to be tamed or mocked. We’re not born thinking this way - we’re taught by a dominant culture that quietly whispers 'this is normal,' 'this is not.'

And this bias starts early - in what we teach.

While the Australian Curriculum has made strides to integrate more of “Asia and Australia’s engagement with Asia,” there is still a long way to go.

A 2020 study by Deakin University found that “Asia-related history has not expanded or diversified, even though Asia and Australia's engagement with Asia has been prioritised in the Australian Curriculum.”

South Asian histories - from the Mughal Empire to the Partition of India - are rarely taught in depth. 

When our stories are missing from the syllabus, we don’t just lose knowledge - we lose the chance to be seen.

That same Deakin University study found that there is limited scope to study India in the VCE and historian David Walker has suggested that perhaps this is because certain shared commonalities “makes it less straightforward to fit India into the ‘Asia literacy’ paradigm”.

Santilla Chingaipe, a Zambian-born, Melbourne-based filmmaker, puts it plainly:

“When history is told through a white lens, everyone else is either erased or distorted.”

Her words reflect what so many of us feel but struggle to name - that the dominant stories we hear every day often exclude or misrepresent those who don’t fit the mould.

It also appears in pop culture.

Take the original 1992 version of Disney’s Aladdin, where the opening line famously described a fictional Middle Eastern land as a place “where they cut off your ear if they don’t like your face.”

That line - later removed - reflects a broader pattern in Western media: portraying non-Western cultures as barbaric and strange.

These portrayals matter. They shape how people like me are seen - and how we see ourselves.

And the effects are real. According to the 2023 Mapping Social Cohesion Report, 18% - 1 in 5 Australians - say they’ve experienced discrimination based on their ethnic origin.

Just this year, I sat in class while a peer turned to me and asked, “Do you Indians even wash your hands before you eat?”

I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or walk out.

That wasn’t just a question. It was a moment where centuries of stereotypes, shaped by colonial narratives and reinforced by pop culture, collapsed into a single sentence: 

“Do you Indians even wash your hands before you eat?”

But here’s what that question missed:

In many Indian cultures - including mine - eating with your hands is sacred not careless.

I grew up watching my grandparents eat with their hands - not because they didn’t have cutlery, but because it’s how we show respect to the meal.  We feel the texture. We honor the process. And yes - we DO wash our hands.

The belief that utensils are more “civilised” reflects something deeper: the quiet assumption that Western ways are always cleaner, better, or more correct.

But my culture isn’t dirty. It’s different. And it’s beautiful.

But the irony? The same culture that’s mocked for eating with hands is celebrated when it’s convenient.

We love butter chicken on the menu. We love henna at school fundraisers. We blast Bollywood at dance parties.

We praise the parts of my culture that feel safe - fun, colourful, Instagrammable. But we flinch at the parts we don’t understand.

When you pick and choose which parts of a culture are “acceptable,” you’re not celebrating it - you’re controlling it.
And we see it all the time: culture stripped of meaning, sold back as style.

Take the dupatta - a traditional scarf worn across South Asia, rich with cultural, religious, and familial meaning.

Just this year, a fashion rental company- Bipity- rebranded the dupatta as a “Scandinavian scarf.”

It went viral. Influencers wore it. It sparked a trend.

But in all that noise, the culture it came from was nowhere to be seen.

No mention of the communities who wear it. No acknowledgement of its origins. Just aesthetic - sanitised and repackaged.

According to reports by Elle and The Indian Express, South Asian creators called it out - rightfully. Because that’s not fashion. That’s appropriation wrapped in a hashtag.

When we rebrand culture to make it more comfortable, we’re not embracing diversity - we’re erasing it.

In Victoria, over 30% of us were born overseas. Over 200 languages are spoken. But our institutions - our education, our media, our leadership - still centre a narrow Western narrative.

A 2022 report from the Australian Human Rights Commission revealed that just 6% of senior leaders across government, universities, and business came from non-European backgrounds - a stark contrast to our multicultural reality.

That gap tells a story. And it’s a story written by a lens we haven’t yet questioned.

So what do we do?

We begin by recognising that ignorance isn’t neutral - it shapes beliefs and practices.

We challenge the lens that says one worldview is “standard,” and everything else is “other.”

Because change doesn’t come from shame - it comes from understanding when we listen, when we learn - when we widen our view.

It’s not enough to be quietly non-racist. We must be actively anti-racist.

And that means speaking up when someone makes a lazy joke. It means pushing for school curricula that reflect the histories of ALL Australians. understanding the difference between tokenism and authentic representation.

It means asking ourselves: what lens am I using, and who gets left out when I use it?

Because once we change the way we see - we change the way we act.

Victoria is better than this. And so are we. But only if we’re willing to look clearly - not just at others, but at ourselves.

The lens we never question is often the one that does the most damage.

So let’s take off the lens that filters and distorts.

Let’s clean it and refocus - to see the world, and one another, clearly.

Let’s change the lens - together.