As hospitals across the city continue to care for those affected, Australians are grappling with the shock and senselessness of what has occurred. In the days following events like this, many people ask the same question: what can I do to help? One of the most direct and meaningful ways to support victims of mass trauma is by donating blood.

The Red Cross app is currently unavailable for some users. Blood donations are still being encouraged. If you can’t access the app, you can call on the following number: 13 14 95

Why blood donations are so important right now

After incidents involving serious injuries, hospitals rely heavily on blood supplies to perform emergency surgeries and treat patients with life-threatening wounds. Trauma care places immediate pressure on blood banks, particularly for O-negative blood, which can be given to anyone in an emergency.

Beyond moments of crisis, donated blood is also used every day to support people undergoing cancer treatment, complicated births, major surgeries and long-term medical care. A single donation can help save multiple lives.

How to donate blood in Australia

If you’re able to donate, the process is simple and straightforward.

1. Check if you’re eligible

Eligibility requirements are in place to keep both donors and recipients safe. Most healthy adults can donate, but it’s best to confirm before booking. You can see the list of requirements here.

2. Find a donation centre

The Australian Red Cross Lifeblood operates donation centres across Australia. Locations are available in major cities and regional areas, making it possible to donate in a place convenient to you.

You can also use Lifeblood’s official “find a donor centre near you” search tool. Alternatively, here are several donor sites across Sydney:

Fixed donor centres:

Mobile and pop‑up donor sites:

For booking or eligibility questions, call 13 14 95.

3. Book an appointment

Appointments can be booked online or by phone. A whole blood donation usually takes around 10 minutes, with the full visit lasting about an hour. Because many Australians are currently trying to donate in the wake of the Bondi tragedy, appointments today may currently be booked out. Lifeblood is urging for people to continue to make appointments in the coming days and weeks, to ease demand.

4. Other ways to donate

If you’re a returning donor, plasma or platelet donations are also valuable. These are often used to treat other critically ill patients, including burn victims, people with clotting disorders and patients undergoing chemotherapy.

5. After your donation

It’s normal to feel a little tired afterwards. Staying hydrated and resting briefly usually helps. If you feel unwell following your donation, Lifeblood can provide follow-up support.

You don’t have to be from Sydney to donate

Those in interstate and regional areas are still being encouraged to donate, especially if your blood type is O-negative. In these instances, your blood will be transported to where it is needed most.

Many Lifeblood centres are booked out — but future donations will still be needed

Countless Australians have responded to the Bondi Beach tragedy by making an appointment to donate blood. As a result, many blood donation centres around Sydney are currently booked out. If this is the case for you, you are still encouraged to donate blood at the earliest possible appointment. Mass tragedies like this one can place strain on blood supplies for months to come, so every donation makes a difference.

Should you donate directly to a hospital or to a blood bank?

In general, it is best to donate through an official blood bank or donation centre, rather than directly to a hospital.

Because all blood donations must be carefully screened, tested, and matched to patient needs to ensure safety, hospitals rarely accept them directly from individuals,

Blood banks manage logistics and storage. Similarly, they know which hospitals need which blood types, and can distribute donations efficiently to where they’re most needed. Blood banks also follow strict procedures to protect both donors and recipients.

Feature image by Madeleine Craine, via Unsplash.

The post How to donate blood in the wake of the Bondi Beach terrorist attack appeared first on RUSSH.

For those who have been paying attention, climate news in recent months has felt like an increasingly anxious montage. Eerie messages of impending doom scattered below headlines on news websites and across social media feeds. One recent assessment of climate impacts painted a terrifying picture of cascading, life-threatening disasters in Australia in decades to come. Another report claimed the world has reached its first major climate tipping point with the quiet, bone-white death of warm-water coral reefs. Carbon dioxide levels in the atmosphere last year were found to have leapt to record highs. However, while the symptoms of the climate crisis, drip fed through news, may be nothing new, the world that’s receiving these messages feels strikingly different in ways.

Six years ago, a movement led largely by a coalition of students bore colourful signs and dominated cities to rally in the wake of stories like these. Now? The world feels irrevocably altered. A global pandemic, competing existential crises and the sinister spread of right-wing populism have exhausted so many of us, rendering us either too shell-shocked or cynical to engage with something so painful.

So, where does that leave climate action?

Early one Saturday morning, I sit on a crackling video call with Phillip Eubanks, Deputy Director of the Climate Emergency Fund, a US non-profit that syphons funds into disruptive protests. The group resources agitators and political thorns across the country with the theory that non-violent protest movements – the ones that gather hundreds or thousands of people to block streets, swamp corporate buildings and throw paint – are the ones that dominate headlines and jolt the Overton window towards climate action.

“A global pandemic, competing existential crises and the sinister spread of right-wing populism have exhausted so many of us, rendering us either too shell-shocked or cynical to engage with something so painful.”

Eubanks’ own path towards working in the climate movement was cemented in a boardroom one day in 2023. That day, Eubanks describes the feeling of a faltering world, as New York City was plunged into an orange haze, choking on the smoke of Canadian wildfires that rushed across more land than had ever been claimed before. He was trapped in a meeting with press leaders from across the US, who seemed largely unphased by the scenes unfolding on the other side of the boardroom windows. While they acknowledged the value of the story of climate, Eubanks felt a deep unease with their lack of urgency.

Overwhelmed by an inescapable sense of rising panic, Eubanks left the meeting to rush out onto the streets – only to be hit by a wall of boiling air, tainted with the smell of burning forests. “It felt apocalyptic,” he recalls. “I guess the word I would use is ‘grief’.”

Since starting work with the Climate Emergency Fund, Eubanks says he’s seen the tangible impacts that have proved the power of disruptive protest. The reverberations of some comically small acts of nuisance have catalysed marked successes. In the summer of 2022, a small group of protestors spent weeks devoted to pestering Joe Manchin, a US Senator who opposed then-President Joe Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act, which was set to allocate hundreds of billions of dollars to clean energy investment. They followed him around like his own personal circus, surrounding his Maserati and houseboat.

“They made him the least popular politician in the United States in the summer of 2022,” Eubanks says – ultimately forcing Manchin to provide the key vote that passed the bill. They’ve also claimed groundbreaking wins in smaller communities. One group of kayaking protestors known as the Rich City Rays put the screws on by mobilising residents of the Californian town Richmond against Chevron, one of the most powerful companies in the world, across two port blockades.

In August of last year, Chevron agreed to pay the city an $846 million settlement for the pollution and respiratory distress the fossil fuel giant had inflicted on its people. Only now, Eubanks recognises the feeling has changed. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. It’s a bleak situation. There’s a lot of fear. There’s a lot of worry.” The reelection of US President Donald Trump sent shockwaves through the global climate community and in the year since, the world has witnessed the gains of radical right-wing parties emboldened by his victory. There is little illusion about the place of climate in the eyes of these political movements.

A year on, Trump has proved himself as a leader with an authoritarian agenda who rapidly did everything within his power to decimate policies for clean air, water and climate action in his first months in office. The fossil fuel industry globally has also felt the vote of confidence from a superpower endorsing more extraction and expansion.

“Often, the most compelling part about interviewing prominent climate advocates and activists is not so much discovering they are people who have chosen to hope but realising they are people who believe they have no choice but to hope.”

This year, Trump referred to climate change as the “greatest con job ever perpetrated on the world” in his speech at the United Nations General Assembly. In the US, climate activists report a growing sense of fear of persecution. Arielle Gamble, co-founder and CEO of Groundswell, a collective raising and moving funds into Australian grassroots climate action, says she’s felt the tangible tension among a reeling climate community in the US. Brutal raids conducted by masked Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officials have left marginalised members of the community terrified for the safety of themselves and their families.

Claims of ‘left-wing terrorism’ has raised the hackles of all activists acting in ideological opposition to the Trump administration – leading organisations working across democracy, voting rights, climate justice, racial justice and Palestinian rights to feel a growing possibility of imminent assault. Gamble, who had recently returned from hosting an event at New York Climate Week when I spoke to her, says she had a number of uneasy conversations with climate activists. One prominent climate leader, a Black woman, said she had taken to tracking her husband and children’s movements on her phone.

“I went over there expecting it to be boiling point, but in a way it was kind of the opposite. It was people really scared about being targeted and trying not to make themselves targets, and that was really frightening in a whole other way.”

Here in Australia – and in other nations around the world – the increasing criminalisation of environmental protest movements has repressed non-violent disruptive protest in such a way that the joyful outbursts of dissidence, the front-page photographs of people in costumes blocking traffic, music and banners feel almost like a relic of the past. Despite this – in the pits of a growing darkness – there have been some remarkable glimmers.

One evening in late July, Australian climate advocates and journalists alike spent an evening anxiously refreshing a page on the website of the world’s highest court: the International Court of Justice (ICJ). A campaign launched six years ago by 27 law students from the Pacific had led the ICJ to clarify the legal obligations countries have to protect the Earth’s climate system for current and future generations. And then suddenly, there it was: a unanimous decision declaring that all countries have an obligation to act to prevent climate change and that failing to do so could be a breach of international law.

It was a groundbreaking moment with profound implications that breathed relief and joy into so many. It also sharpened the teeth for climate litigation around the world. Gamble says that while the vibe of climate action may have shifted globally – the strength and resilience of the global activist community is also still being proved and spreading those skills across multiple crises. Where a nascent global climate movement was once defined by plucky defiance, activists from various climate, pro-democracy and humanitarian movements are coalescing in hard-nosed resistance.

“When new existential threats appear, you’re seeing that organising power moving to mutual aid and intersecting challenges and looking at supporting resistance to fascism, integrity and democracy,” she says. The day after I speak to Eubanks in California, the No Kings protests against government corruption and authoritarianism in the US brought approximately 7 million people together in demonstrations across the country. He says in the face of the horror, he’s seeing “more energy at the grassroots level than I have ever seen before” and the connection between democracy and climate action is clearly drawn.

“Yes, there’s fear. But there is definitely a willingness to push back as well.”

On the other side of the world, in a group of nations least responsible for climate change but bearing the brunt of its force, another advocate continues to push back. Shiva Gounden, Head of Pacific at Greenpeace, grew up in a remote community in the hills of Fiji and is well-acquainted with the threat to land, culture, and lives caused by climate change. He recalls the compounded destruction he witnessed in neighbouring island nation Vanuatu after Cyclones Judy and Kevin swept across the country in early 2023 (he remembers pulling his bodyweight against his front door for 10 hours to prevent it from being ripped off its hinges by rushing winds). The devastation climate change has on Pacific nations through these violent storms and rising ocean waters is already forcing communities to abandon their homes.

“It’s not just the physical things that you see – there’s losses and damages that happen that you can never get back. You’ve got generations that lose their connection to the spiritual land, to their culture, to their languages,” he says. Gounden says he is proud of seeing what the Pacific community accomplished at the ICJ and now feels an indelible sense of duty to continue the work for his home.

“The devastation climate change has on Pacific nations through these violent storms and rising ocean waters is already forcing communities to abandon their homes.”

In November, he’ll be heading to COP30, the United Nation’s climate change conference in Brazil, to advocate for stronger climate commitments. While the rumble of cynicism around the efficacy of COPs has grown in recent years, Gounden says even the “frustratingly slow” process of the multilateral agreements is unique in that it sets the pace and standards for a whole globe.

Often, the most compelling part about interviewing prominent climate advocates and activists is not so much discovering they are people who have chosen to hope but realising they are people who believe they have no choice but to hope.

But beyond rooms of plodding negotiations of politicians and diplomats, Gounden sees a thriving world of global climate activism and believes those who feel the loss, anguish, and fear of climate change now need – more than ever – to find and build communities, resilience and resistance with one another.

For him, a global community of continued protesting and advocacy – regardless of how slow progress may be – will always be a beacon. It sounds simple but the binding force of advocates like Eubanks, Gamble and Gounden is an unshakeable belief in people and what can be achieved through the sheer, brute force of the collective.

Gounden makes this plea.

“Stand up together. Stand up with the school children. Stand with Indigenous and First Nations communities. With industries that are acting ethically. Stand with the progressive governments and the international courts and push your leaders,” he says.

“Because that’s the only way we can address climate change in a just and ethical way – and it can only happen with a unified community.”

The post Is the world too exhausted to fight the climate crisis? appeared first on RUSSH.

Those years between adolescence and teenager-hood remain so distinct to me; a formative time between 11 and 14 when I felt just on the cusp of something, just on the precipice of leaving another.

“A formative time between 11 and 14 when I felt just on the cusp of something, just on the precipice of leaving another.”

But the culture of ‘tweens’, as we call them, has slowly eroded since I was one in the 2000s. And increasingly, the borders of childhood and adulthood have swollen to meet at the edges – these key transitory years swallowed up; no longer catered to with their own content, branding or celebrities.

Tweens in 2025 already shop at beauty retailers for a six-step glass skin routine, and wear a full face of makeup to sleepovers. They shop at the same stores as their 18 to 21-year-old older sisters, and are making public social media accounts as early as nine or 10. They have smart phones and iPads and Stanley Cups and Labubus (perhaps the only trend that feels age-appropriate for their obsession). It’s through the unfettered access of the internet and social media that this demographic has all but disappeared, now completely indistinct from a teenager – sometimes even from a young adult. Tween culture, by and large, is dead.

“It’s through the unfettered access of the internet and social media that this demographic has all but disappeared, now completely indistinct from a teenager.”

Stores like Justice and Claire’s – the former go-to destinations for preteen fashion across America – have filed for bankruptcy and begun closing their doors. Teen Vogue announced its closure this week as well, marking the end of one of the few remaining youth-driven publications under a major media umbrella. In Australia, beloved magazines like Dolly and Girlfriend have long since shuttered, now existing only as nostalgic relics of forgotten Y2K adolescence.

In place of those bygone stores and magazines, a new version of tween culture has emerged – one deeply intertwined with influencer marketing and the beauty industry. Brands are targeting increasingly younger consumers, recognising the lucrative potential of their spending power. Just this week, actress Shay Mitchell unveiled Rini, a new skincare line designed specifically for children (much to the internet’s outrage). And Sephora is increasingly being swarmed by tweens and children – the internet even coining the term ‘Sephora kids‘ and spawning plenty of debate online about whether they have a place in the beauty retailer.

“Sephora is increasingly being swarmed by tweens and children – the internet even coining the term ‘Sephora kids’ and spawning plenty of debate online about whether they have a place in the beauty retailer.”

In a way, it’s always been normal for tweens to want to imitate what teenagers and young adults are doing. But what’s changed is the pace and visibility of that imitation.

In the past, you might have copied your older sister’s eyeliner or begged for the same Converse sneakers, but it was done in small, private acts of mimicry. Now, tweenhood unfolds under a global microscope – algorithms pushing aspirational content at lightening speed, saturating every waking moment of feeble minds just beginning to understand the concept of their own identity.

Instead of experimenting in the mirror, today’s tweens are learning self-presentation from 20-something-year-old influencers whose faces are filtered, routines monetised, and lives staged for an audience. It’s not just mimicry – it’s the consequence of a beguiling marketing business disguised as ‘inspo’. And so, the tween experience has lost its liminality. Its sparkle. What was once a slow, curious discovery of self has become a sped-up audition for adulthood.

It’s no revelation that the internet has become a relentless force shaping how young people see themselves and each other. Tween girls are being inundated with a constant stream of anti-ageing messages and hyper-filtered fantasies broadcast from faux “content houses” built around OnlyFans creators – leaving them feeling pressured to measure up to impossible, synthetic and very adult ideals. Meanwhile, tween boys are being steeped in a digital culture of misogyny, where adult men peddle superiority and scorn. The result is a troubling rise in classroom harassment as well as a deepening mental health crisis.

“The result is a troubling rise in classroom harassment as well as a deepening mental health crisis.”

In light of Australia’s new social media ban for children and teenagers, this cultural shift takes on an even more complex dimension. The Government’s move to restrict under-16s from platforms like Instagram and TikTok (and now Reddit) aims to curb the very forces that accelerated the erosion of tweenhood. In theory, it could help reintroduce some of that long-lost buffer, but it also might simply push online identity formation underground, into loopholes and secret accounts.

“The modern tween is performing adulthood before they’ve had the chance to rehearse it.”

What’s most devastating is that in erasing tweenhood, we’ve stripped away a vital period of protection. By treating 11- and 12-year-olds as if they’re already 18, we’re demanding they perform emotional and aesthetic labour they aren’t equipped for. They’re being handed the social responsibilities of adulthood without the resilience or self-knowledge to carry them. The internet has turned their insecurities into opportunities for profit. And while brands frame it all as “empowerment”, what’s really happening is a commodification of childhood. The dark truth of it is that kids are being mined for engagement, shaped into consumers before they even know what they want. It’s hard not to grieve what’s been lost in that exchange.

It’s important to note that what we mourn isn’t just the loss of clothing shops or Teen Vogue – it’s the loss of innocence, that fleeting in-between world. One where you could like glitter and still dream of eyeliner; adore stuffed animals and secretly scroll through your crush’s Facebook profile. Because those liminal years mattered. Tweenhood once offered a buffer zone between innocence and awareness; a time of experimenting with self-expression in the safety of small worlds. It was a soft launch into autonomy, a phase where taste, curiosity, and personality took shape before the scrutiny of the public eye. But the internet has collapsed timelines, speeding up self-presentation before self-understanding has had a chance to catch up. The modern tween is performing adulthood before they’ve had the chance to rehearse it – their interests algorithmically curated, their idols are marketing experts, their innocence turned aesthetic. Now they are performed online for everyone they know (and at least a few strangers on the internet).

The post Tween culture is dead appeared first on RUSSH.

I’ve heard these sentences more times than I can count. It’s usually delivered with wide-eyed disbelief, as if I’ve somehow never considered that cars are convenient. In my mid-20s, not driving is often treated like a red flag – immature at best, irresponsible at worst. For many, it’s seen as a marker of adulthood or independence, a practical milestone to look forward to. And I get it. It was for me too.

Right before I moved from Perth to Melbourne, I took my driving test for the first (and only) time. Back then, I didn’t know I was about to relocate interstate. With my future thought to be in Perth, I knew I needed to get my licence if I wanted to do, well, almost anything. Perth’s public transport system is notoriously limited, and at the time, driving felt like the only option.

“In my mid-20s, not driving is often treated like a red flag – immature at best, irresponsible at worst.”

I remember the test itself being nothing short of horrifying. Already an anxious person, I found myself trying to follow instructions while the driving instructor casually asked me about my Year 12 ball, what I planned to study, and whether the pressure of my final year was getting to me. In the end, I failed because I stopped the car slightly too far from the curb. I haven’t taken another test since.

After I moved to Melbourne, the urgency to drive quietly faded. Public transport here was far more accessible. Even now, seven years later, I still find myself enchanted by the coloured maps showing elaborate tram, train and bus routes – a stark contrast to what I’d known in Perth, where there’s still nothing comparable.

Of course, Melbourne comes with its own complications. The traffic is worse, and needing to account for trams, hook turns, and (way more) cyclists made me realise I didn’t actually want to drive here either. Although public transport is often unreliable and late, I still find it far more manageable. During peak hours, I’d rather be on a tram, where there’s at least some pressure on the service to run on time, instead of being stuck behind the wheel in gridlock.

“Between the rising cost of fuel, parking fines, maintenance, insurance and registration, owning a car just seems like a constant expense I can’t easily justify. I regularly hear friends complain about how expensive it is to run a car, often moments after telling me I should get one.”

So, while moving through the world without a licence isn’t something I chose out of social defiance, it does come down to a mix of caution, cost and circumstance.

You could argue, “Okay, you don’t want to drive, but isn’t it handy to have a licence?” And I’d agree, to some extent. It would be handy. But for the most part, I can chalk up my non-driving mindset to anxiety – the kind that insists if something goes wrong, it will be entirely my fault. The thought of being responsible for a vehicle and everyone’s safety in it feels overwhelming. I’ve not only heard but witnessed the devastation of car accidents: lives lost in freak incidents, lifelong injuries caused by a moment’s distraction, the insurmountable grief and regret that follow – even if or when it wasn’t technically your fault.

Which makes it kind of pointless for me to get one. I’d have to go through multiple paid lessons, then sit a stressful (and expensive) driving test, with no guarantee of passing the first time. And let’s be honest, I – and probably many others – wouldn’t want an anxious driver behind the wheel in an emergency anyway. So what’s the point?

“In a way, relying on public transport forces me to slow down. Trams and trains, while imperfect, give me time to read, text or call people back, zone out or find inspiration.”

There’s also the financial burden. Between the rising cost of fuel, parking fines, maintenance, insurance and registration, owning a car just seems like a constant expense I can’t easily justify. I regularly hear friends complain about how expensive it is to run a car, often moments after telling me I should get one.

Additionally, factors like having dependents or living in newly developing or regional areas with limited public transport access don’t apply to me or my lifestyle (at least at the moment). So the most convenient option remains public transport, where it’s still manageable to carry a bag or two of groceries, or head out for drinks.

In a way, relying on public transport forces me to slow down. Trams and trains, while imperfect, give me time to read, text or call people back, zone out or find inspiration. I can credit eavesdropping on public transport as the starting point for many of my articles and stories.

“There’s an avenue of connection there – waiting together in the cold for a train to arrive, sparking up conversation over whether the next tram is coming, helping an older woman with her bags as she gets off the bus.”

Plus, some of the most interesting people I’ve met have been at bus and tram stops. There’s an avenue of connection there – waiting together in the cold for a train to arrive, sparking up conversation over whether the next tram is coming, helping an older woman with her bags as she gets off the bus. Little moments that keep me tied to the people around me and grounded in reality.

And so, while for many people driving might be the most convenient, cost-efficient and practical option, it isn’t for me and mine. Driving instructors and the test itself aren’t going anywhere any time soon, and if things change – if it’s no longer viable for me to use public transport – I’ll do what I’ve got to.

For now, you can rest knowing I didn’t just forget to get my licence. I continue to (at least for the moment) choose not to.

Feature images from Clueless (1995).

The post I’m in my 20s and still don’t drive… and I’m tired of explaining why appeared first on RUSSH.

My mind wanders, flitting to where I think I should be: a picnic, the beach, anywhere else to chase this sun. I’m restless here, adrift in the hush she wears so easily. My Sita is steady, still. There’s nowhere else she would rather be.

My Sita doesn’t speak English aside from a few words, and my Arabic falters, stumbles, but somehow we find a tongue that carries what sits in our hearts. She doesn’t know she’s half-famous – a face glimpsed in photos and videos I forgot to tend, Instagram posts and old TikToks I never updated. Family and friends tell her they love her cooking videos; she smiles, unsure what a video really is or how they watch it. People love Sita. They want more of her; her own channel, regular clips, but she is shy, hidden, humble, content, uninterested in being known that way – stitched into the small tasks that move her from moment to moment, always and only here.

Lately, I’ve found comfort in Anastasia Miari’s substack newsletter Matriarch Eats. Inspired by her own Greek Yiayia, Anastasia spent seven years travelling the Mediterranean, gathering recipes and quiet lessons from the region’s grandmothers. Now she’s gathered their stories into a book – Mediterranea – Life-perfected Recipes from Grandmothers Of the Mediterranean – a testament to long, full lives shaped by simple food and well-worn wisdom.

Buoyed by these bowls of bulgur and sage advice, I wanted to share what I’ve learned living alongside my 99-year-old Sita Zahia. Far from her homeland, her ways hold true anywhere. These stories share a familiar hue – wherever they live, grandmothers of the Mediterranean know how to make a life well-fed and well-lived. Here’s how mine does it.

Simple routines

Her days are quiet, steady. She sleeps at least ten hours each night, and if tiredness lingers, she lets herself drift back under in the warm, gentle afternoon light. Breakfast comes late, around ten or eleven: black tea with whole milk, biscuits or plain bread with a smear of jam or butter. Sometimes she humours me and tries a pancake or crêpe I’ve made, but always plain, maybe a little jam if she’s feeling generous with herself. Lunch is skipped. Dinner comes early, around five or six. There is no fuss, no excess. Fussing unsettles her. She doesn’t want anyone bending over backwards for her sake alone. But if it’s done for others, especially the family, she glows with quiet pride.

She eats breakfast alone more often than not, since we’re still sleeping, or drifting in and out of the day on our own clocks. But at night, we try to gather at the same table. It’s helped me let go of an old living-alone habit: no screens needed to keep me company while I eat.The highlight of her day is the live-streamed Mass. She has her favourites on rotation: Saint Charbel’s in Punchbowl, Our Lady of Lebanon in Harris Park and St George Parish in Thornleigh. The other joy is visitors: family dropping in, gurgling babies cradled in arms, wriggling limbs and waving tiny fists. Babies soothe her like nothing else when the day has nudged her into worry. Sending a cousin with a baby over to her if she needs cheering up, is one of the best things you can do – a never-ending dial-a-baby service.

Nourishing whole foods

Her diet is built on simple, whole ingredients you’d find in any Mediterranean kitchen. Much of what she eats comes fresh from gardens – her own and her siblings’. Even now, at her age, she stands over the sink washing handfuls of endive, dressing it with olive oil, salt and garlic, tearing fresh oregano, squeezing juice from ripe tomatoes, sometimes squeezing lemons from her tree or lashes of vinegar. Some days it’s just a plain garden salad of iceberg lettuce and tomatoes.

These bowls and plates sit alongside her steady rotation of vegetarian dishes, which she cooks at least twice a week when she avoids meat for religious reasons. There’s maklouta – onions, beans, chickpeas, potatoes and bulgur folded together with olive oil. Or mujadara – caramelised onions and bulgur simmered with rice until soft. Rice is made with broken strands of angel hair pasta cooked in butter.She never measures, just tastes and looks until it’s right. Another staple is stuffed vine leaves or cabbage layers, packed with rice, diced tomatoes, mint, parsley, oil, salt, cumin, pepper, chilli and a pinch of the secret ingredient – Lebanese seven spice. She rolls each one by hand, each fold shaped by decades of muscle memory. I’m one of the few she trusts to help. It’s our special time to talk and linger together.

Once a year, she makes the most iconic and special soup – kibbet raahib or monk’s soup, a Good Friday ritual: five hours of borlotti beans, chickpeas, lentils, lemon, garlic and tiny balls of wheat made with mint and parsley, simmered into something golden and beloved. You cannot imagine how many lemons and how much garlic goes into this liquid gold of a soup. My favourite dish is loubiya, green beans slow-cooked in tomatoes and even more borlotti beans until they collapse.

She tries to eat less meat, though one secret to long life might be the stuffed intestines she still savours from time to time. She drinks kefir every day – fermented, alive with good bacteria. She makes her own yoghurt, laban, from scratch, using milk and a bit saved from the last batch, sometimes straining it twice for days to make thick, tangy labneh, the cloth bag it sits in, swaying gently from the hills hoist in the yard. Her pantry is never without olive oil, salt, garlic, onions, beans, chickpeas, rice, potatoes, tomatoes, seven spice, cumin and chilli. She still cures her own olives too, cracking each one open with a hammer before rinsing and salting them down to mellow and darken with time.

Meditative practises

Sometimes you try to speak to Sita and find her lips moving in silent words that are not for you. She might nod, half-listening, but the prayer keeps flowing, the incantation continues. She spends most of her day like this, weaving prayers through her chores and pauses. Once you see that prayer is her meditation, her way of being present, it makes sense how it steadies her. It keeps her rooted. It gives her a reason to wake up each day and keep moving through it. The way it weaves in and out of her life.

When she steps outside, she kisses the statue of the Virgin Mary, the hanging sculpture above the door, every crucifix she passes, whispering a blessing as she goes. Each night before sleep, she says goodnight to us, then turns to the pictures above my bed – Mary, Jesus, Saint Charbel – touching her forehead, chest and shoulders with the sign of the cross and raining down their blessing on us one last time, marking the end of the day.

Worry beads or a multi-coloured crystal rosary are never far from her hands. Once, my uncle took the rosary away from the kitchen because she was so deep in prayer the pot of stew nearly bubbled over. When he turned his back, she had already hobbled to where it was taken, slipped it into her hands, snuck back and carried on. Prayer and cooking live side by side for her. It is a quiet faith in something larger to hold onto. It is the willingness to sit still. To stay with her own thoughts. To let the mind settle and the heart rest.

Hospitality

Filoxenia means hospitality in Greek, a word for the warmth and generosity offered to guests and strangers alike. It carries a quiet promise of care, a love that asks nothing in return. In Lebanese homes, hospitality is its own kind of devotion, almost an art form, an extreme sport. It can overwhelm you in the best way. People will physically fight you over paying a bill. I’m so serious, you need to be quick and wily or you won’t make it!

Here, community, care and mutual aid are woven into daily life, it’s done without thinking, almost as if on auto-pilot. People appear with food when someone falls ill or passes, sitting with people in their grief, keeping an eye out for each other, making sure no one has to ask for what they need. You can ask the common refrain, budeek shee? Do you need anything? and they’ll say, No, thank you. And bless you in response. But they know if they did, help would arrive before the words were spoken. We stay two steps ahead, not just for family, but friends, the wider community, even strangers.

For Sita, true hospitality means you never let someone refuse it. If we haven’t yet set out snacks and tea for guests who insist they’re fine, she scolds us until we do. If someone is sick, she makes their favourite dish. If I have a migraine, she brings me tea, checks on me, lights bakhoor blessed incense, filling the house with drifting trails of church smoke. She asks if I’ve taken my medicine. I say yes. She responds, This Jesus medicine is better than that one, lighting the incense among bits of broken up newspaper as I laugh at her dismissal of western medicine. But somehow, she’s always right. By the time the last curl of incense fades, my head is finally quiet again.

Love of family and community above all else, Sita carries the world within her bones. The faces of those she loves, the echoes of her mountain village in Bane, the distant lives and beating hearts of Lebanon and Palestine, all fold into her quietly, deeply. Yet beneath that weight, she moves like water through the rocks, soft and relentless. She loves with a fierce tenderness, carries worry like a shadow, then lets it dissolve in the rhythm of prayer. In those moments, she slips away from the noise, from the ache, and finds a hollow space where breath slows and time pauses. There, she sheds what she cannot carry, gathering only what she needs to keep moving forward. Resilience runs like ice cold water from the snowfields of her childhood, trickling streams of fresh water flowing steady and sure to sustain the village. The world’s troubles trickle past her, unable to catch, unable to stay.

Deep, multi-layered love, love that both pains and enriches, is the thread that holds her together. Faith is the quiet pulse beneath her skin. Most things slide away like rain on stone. Nothing settles long enough to wound. If she offers one secret, one mercy, it is this – to release the weight, to loosen the grip, to say softly in her Lebglish: no worrah.

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Back in 2022, Prime Minister Anthony Albanese announced a plan to gradually increase paid parental leave across the Australia from just over four months to 26 weeks – or approximately six months. He shared the new policy at a New South Wales State Labor conference, saying that “one of the best ways to boost productivity and participation across our economy is to provide more choice and more support for families and more opportunity for women.” 

“This is a modern policy to support modern families. We know that investing in parental leave benefits our economy. It is good for productivity and participation, it’s good for families and it’s good for our country as a whole,” he said.

“More generous and more flexible paid parental leave rewards aspiration and provides every parent of a new baby with greater choice and better support.”

By July 2026, this plan will be fully realised, with government-funded Paid Parental Leave again increasing, this time to 26 weeks. Below, everything you need to know about this policy change.

A post shared by Anthony Albanese (@albomp)

How long is the paid parental leave scheme in Australia?

The amount of parental leave pay available to families will increase to 120 days (24 weeks) for children born or adopted from July 1, 2025.

This will increase to 24 weeks for children born or adopted after July 1 next year, and to 26 weeks in 2026.

Who is covered under the paid parental leave Australia scheme?

Both parents can share the government-funded paid parental leave.

There are some requirements around who is ellible for the scheme. SPecifically, you must be:

Services Australia can provide more details on exactly who is eligible.

As part of the policy, the government will maintain its “use it or lose it” strategy, encouraging more fathers and partners to access paid parental leave, meaning both parents can share the early days of a child’s life equitably. The 26 weeks can also be taken in blocks if so chosen, and single parents will be entitled to the full leave offered to a two-person couple.

Social Services Minister, Amanda Rishworth, said this will encourage women’s workforce participation and encourage more fathers to take parental leave, a priority for the government.

“This will benefit mums, it will benefit dads, it’s good for children, and it will be a huge boost to the economy,” said Rishworth. “We know that treating parenting as an equal partnership helps to improve gender equality. It is important that we have a Paid Parental Leave scheme that supports modern Australian families and that complements other parental leave schemes offered by a growing number of employers.”

What about Superannuation?

For the first time ever, superannuation will also be paid on government-funded paid parental leave.

This reform is directly geared towards closing the superannuation gap which sees, on average, women retire with 23 per cent less superannuation than men. This difference can be largely attributed to extended career breaks to have and care for children, which often coincide with part-time and lower-paid roles.

Image: Pinterest

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I’m an avid birthday crier. Year after year, I find myself dreading the day. The expectations, the silence from lost contacts, the reminder that another year has passed (along with a list of things I haven’t quite done). There’s the pressure to feel thrilled, the expectation of grand gestures, and the guilt of wanting anything at all in a world where so many have nothing.

This year, I wanted something different. Instead of trying to manufacture a perfect day, I leaned into more mindful, manageable gestures – things that felt grounding, ethical and genuinely fulfilling.

1. Plan something in advance

Instead of trying to wrangle people on the day itself, when logistics and emotions are often heightened, I organised something casual beforehand. This year, I booked a karaoke room with a few of my close friends the day before my actual birthday. It made for a relaxed environment, complete with food, drinks, and an excuse to be silly without pressure.

And when things inevitably didn’t go exactly to plan (as they rarely do), I wasn’t annoyed or disappointed. It didn’t feel like something had “ruined” my day, because the day itself was still to come.

Other ideas could be mini golf, a bottomless brunch, a picnic in the park – whatever feels fun, low-key, and most you. For me, it was about sharing time with people I love without the stress of being the centre of attention or needing everything to go perfectly. It also took the emotional weight off the actual day. I wasn’t left wondering who would cancel last minute, or what it should look like – I’d already had a good time. And if I hadn’t, I still had the day itself.

2. Decorate the cake yourself

Let’s be honest – you probably still want some cake. But the attention that comes with it? Not always fun. There’s something a bit intense about carrying a boxed cake into a restaurant, and even more so when all eyes are on you during the song and candle moment.

This year, I flipped the script. My housemate surprised me with a store-bought cake and a stack of decorating tools – edible glitter pens, colourful icing, cake toppers. I spent an afternoon just playing. I covered the cake in my favourite motifs: stars, spirals and hearts.

When it came time to blow the candles out, I wasn’t bracing myself for attention – I was excited to show off what I’d made. The compliments were about the weird little shapes and silly icing choices, not about me being the birthday person under a spotlight. It made the whole thing feel creative and joyful, not like a performance. Highly recommend.

3. Make little party favours

As a kid, I loved party bags, so this year, I brought that energy back, in my own way.

Lately, I’ve gotten into magnet-making (a very soothing craft, highly underrated). So, I made custom magnets for everyone who came to karaoke. Each one was different, with its own design and colour story – a keepsake to remember the day by, and a genuine thank you for showing up.

You could do anything, really: handwritten notes, lolly bags, bookmarks, tiny zines. It’s not about cost – it’s about care. I loved seeing those magnets on my friends’ fridges later. A little piece of the day that lived on.

4. Build solo rituals

Instead of putting irrational pressure on others or the universe to give me a good day, I made one for myself. I took care of myself a little harder during the birthday week. I treated myself to an extensive nail art session, thrifted a cute outfit, had an everything shower (just for me), and journaled deeply.

I made a collage of photos from the past year and wrote a letter to farewell that version of myself, framing it as a keepsake for the years to come. If I didn’t treat myself with care, how was I supposed to feel good? It felt like setting a gentle standard and a high bar for how I want to feel in the year ahead.

5. Collect the freebies

There’s something delightfully un-serious about redeeming every birthday freebie you can. Boost Juice, Grill’d, Sephora, cafés – so many places offer discounts or treats if you sign up in advance. It’s a small thing, but it adds a sense of lightness to the day. Free gelato at Messina tastes better, I swear.

It also reframes your birthday as a day of little surprises – even if they’re commercial ones. And often, you don’t have to redeem them on the day itself. You can stretch the joy over a few days before and after. So, why not?

None of these rituals are revolutionary, but they helped me build a birthday I didn’t dread. If birthdays feel strange for you, you’re not alone. You don’t have to feel happy just because it’s your day – but you do deserve to feel a little cared for, even if it’s just by you.

Feature image: film still from Euphoria via IMDb.

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It’s incredibly useful to have a near-perfect memory when your life’s work is dedicated to recalling them. As a food writer, I can remember just about every restaurant meal I have eaten in the last eight years. Sensory memories are unshakeable. If I smelled, tasted or heard, you can bet a pretty dollar that it’s still living up there, ready to be written or screamed into the void. When it comes to childhood memories, many of them are stark, even visceral – going all the way back to early primary school – but with time, they have changed or become a mirage of themselves. The ever-present question is whether this change is my brain reaching its capacity limit, or if it’s because I am no longer fluent in my mother tongue.

“When it comes to childhood memories, many of them are stark, even visceral – going all the way back to early primary school – but with time, they have changed or become a mirage of themselves.”

My parents and I moved to Australia when I was six months old. They did not know how to speak English at a working proficiency until I was halfway through primary school, which meant we only spoke Mandarin at home – even between me and my younger sister. All the camcorder footage of us playing with stuffed animals, performing choreographed dances and swimming in the pool are in Mandarin (most of which involve me mocking her four-year-old vernacular). Even after my parents learned how to speak English, we had a strict no-English rule at home, which looked like a snappy shuo zhong weng! (“speak Chinese!”) anytime we substituted Mandarin for English. At the time, it felt unfair to be beseeched by my father for the Chinese word for athletics day or orchestra – how was I, a child balancing between two worlds, meant to know it all?

When we went to China in 2018, six years since our last visit, I experienced a unique strain of unfamiliarity. The people were the same, of course – my grandparents, cousins, extended family and friends; as was the smell of game and smoke in apartment stairwells; and the taste of fresh spices, wok hei and blistering oil in the home cooking. But each time I had to ask my mother what the word for assignment or the day after tomorrow was, or when a cashier or waiter asked me questions I couldn’t answer, I moved further away from the place I once knew.

A scene from this trip from my memoir, Birth Right:

A cultural lesson: in China, the woman does not take the man’s family name. She maintains her family name, which is her father’s name. Chinese people are birthed by the mother but there are no names to claim this. As soon as a child is born, they are automatically associated to the father by name. My mother insisted that I take on a part of her, and thus, I was born with her family character (“Qing”) in the second half of my first name. My father’s family name is my family name.

It is customary to address all members of your family by their familial title. I still do not know my grandparents’ names. They exist as “nai nai” (grandmother on my father’s side) and “waipo” (grandmother on my mother’s side), and never as people who play bingo and teach dancing classes in the park. The personification of family members outside of my parents is as foreign as the stamps in my Australian passport, signifying I had now travelled to the motherland twice since I was born. When I handed the airline stewardess my passport, she ran her fingers over the embossed gold against the navy surface, beamed and exclaimed, “Wel-come!”

Motherland. Why do we call it that?

“The personification of family members outside of my parents is as foreign as the stamps in my Australian passport, signifying I had now travelled to the motherland twice since I was born.”

The trees there were always naked and the roads covered with a thick film of ashy dust. The trains there were packed even at 2pm on a random Sunday. All the children there had black hair and brown eyes. The motherland doesn’t know who she is. I don’t know who she is. I walk her streets and drink her water, yet I cannot feel the ground beneath my feet nor the wetness in my throat. When I take pictures of her, her wrinkles are defined by the shadows in the mountains. Her bulbs have plucked the stars from the sky, leaving only a glimpse of a far away land through the eyes of a blinking aircraft.

Chinese persimmons: fleshy and super sweet, truly unlike anything else. Her persimmons are extra fluorescent, the skin waxy, shiny like plastic. You’re meant to eat them when they are collapsing in on themselves, the fibres losing shape. I like them crunchy, to feel my teeth part the pieces.

Seven years since I saw the motherland. How much is that in distance? Perhaps measuring in memories is easier: ten-years-old, reading street signs and menus, making friends. Now, I can no longer remember how to ask for the time. Perhaps it hurts, but perhaps letting go hurts more. Sitting around the white plastic table, picking at the dishes in the centre, I do not recognise this place, these people. I am relearning them.

‘Jingjing, xi huan chi shi zi me?’

Jingjing, do you like persimmons?

‘Heng xi huan! Xian zai you me?’

I really like them! Are they in season?

‘Dan ran le! Wo qu mai le gei ni chi ba.’

Definitely! I will go buy some for you.

As day broke, nai nai put on her cardigan made of old quilts and marched to the flea market. She filled a woven basket with the red-orange fruit, carried it in both arms while waiting to cross the road. Her skin is usually shiny from dancing in the morning. On that day, it was dry from the winter wind.

For the next six days, after every meal I would turn around to a plate of cut up persimmons and a crooked-toothed smile.

‘Chi ya. Keng ding mei chi bao!’

Eat up. You’re probably not full yet!

Motherland – Chinese people don’t use this term. They say “lao jia”, which translates to “old home”. Home does not belong to a woman, a mother; land does not belong to a woman or a mother. The land where we belong, is the mother. She is close and she knows all.

Only through writing have I come to understand that language doesn’t have much to do with memory, but memory has all to do with language. It means that being able to keep your mother tongue does not hinge on how well you can remember what Chinese number plates look like or the gait of your grandmother on a cold Sichuan day – you must live in language to wield its power: speak it every day, consume its media, surround yourself with its people – all of which seem impossible now. My childhood self is grieving this loss, but I know for certain there will come a time when I will reunite with it all. Hopefully it’s not too late.

Feaure image courtesy Becca Wang.

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In recent years, the significance of Juneteenth has become more widely recognised. The murders of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor, along with the global resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement, brought renewed focus to the history and continued impact of systemic racism in the United States — and with it, deeper attention to Juneteenth.

Since 2020, calls for national recognition of the holiday have led to lasting change. In 2021, both the Senate and the House of Representatives passed a bill to establish Juneteenth as a federal holiday, and President Joe Biden signed it into law on June 17, 2021. The day is now officially observed across the country, commemorating the end of slavery in the United States and celebrating Black freedom, resilience, and culture.

With that in mind, we’re taking a closer look at the history and meaning of Juneteenth below.

What is Juneteenth?

This is the day the commemorates the end of slavery in America, which is a rather complicated affair.

History buffs will know that the order to end slavery actually came on January 1 in 1863. This was the date that President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation – an executive order that ended the practice of slavery in the USA.

But of course without telephones (which didn’t come around till after 1876), it took some time for this message to reach all corners of the country – especially amidst the American Civil War. Even after the message had reached the Conferderate States, Texas refused to enact the Emancipation Proclamation.

Juneteenth marks the day that Union General Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston, Texas on June 19 1865 – with 2,000 supporting troops in tow – to declare the final enslaved people free. More than two years after the Emancipation Proclamation was announced, the enslaved people in Texas learned at last, they were free too.

June 19 is now referred to as “Juneteenth”, “Freedom Day” or sometimes “Juneteenth Independence Day”.

How is it celebrated?

Juneteenth is an extremely important day to Americans.

Celebrations initially started in Texas, but eventually spread across the country. It’s often celebrated with large family gatherings, barbecues and even commemorated by a parade in Galveston.

After the Civil Rights movement in the 60s, Juneteenth celebrations became more widespread and bigger. Some Juneteenth traditions include readings of the Emancipation Proclamation, readings excerpts from notable Black writers, historical reenactments, fairs and parties. Atlanta and Washington D.C. are two cities that host large public events in honour of this day.

Is Juneteenth an official holiday?

Yes. As of June 17, 2021, Juneteenth is officially recognised as a federal holiday in the United States. President Joe Biden signed the Juneteenth National Independence Day Act into law, making it the 11th federal holiday in the country.

Prior to this, 47 U.S. states had recognised Juneteenth as a ceremonial holiday. Virginia Governor Ralph Northam had proposed legislation to make it a paid state holiday, and New York Mayor Bill de Blasio declared that Juneteenth would become an official public holiday for city workers and students starting in 2021.

Major companies such as Twitter, Target, the National Football League, and Square were among the first to adopt Juneteenth as a paid company holiday, even before the federal designation.

The push for national recognition gained momentum in 2020, with widespread public support on social media. Celebrities like Pharrell Williams and Lupita Nyong’o spoke out about the importance of officially recognising Juneteenth. Usher also penned an essay for The Washington Post urging for national recognition.

The U.S. Senate and House of Representatives passed the bill with overwhelming support in June 2021, and President Biden’s signing of the legislation cemented Juneteenth as a permanent federal holiday, commemorated each year on June 19.

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So if your feed this weekend has been filled with signs declaring “No Kings,” but you’re still piecing together what it all means — and why it matters — here’s what you need to know.

What does ‘No Kings’ actually mean?

The phrase “No Kings” is rooted in a founding principle of the United States: that power belongs to the people, not a ruler. After breaking away from the British Empire, American leaders wanted to build a government that was accountable to its citizens, not one person. The presidency was meant to be a temporary role, held by someone elected to serve the people, not to rule over them.

Put simply, “No Kings” is a rejection of the idea that any one individual should stand above the law. In the context of these protests, it’s a response to the growing sense that Donald Trump is treating the presidency not as a public service, but as a personal crown.

What is the significance of June 14?

June 14 isn’t just Donald Trump’s birthday, although that timing wasn’t lost on organisers. It’s also Flag Day, an American holiday that commemorates the adoption of the U.S. flag in 1777. Traditionally, it’s a day of reflection on national values like freedom, unity, and democracy.

This year, though, those values felt more contested than ever. Instead of a quiet commemoration, Trump used the day to hold the biggest military parade the country has seen in decades — complete with tanks, fighter jets, and military salutes. For many people, the display felt less like patriotism and more like a show of force.

The broader political climate was further shaken by a tragic event in Minnesota just hours before the nationwide protests. Two Democratic politicians were shot in their homes in the middle of the night. One of them, Melissa Hortman, a member of the Minnesota House of Representatives, and her husband were fatally shot by a man impersonating a police officer. This incident sparked a large-scale manhunt and raised fears of politically motivated violence, adding tension to an already volatile atmosphere around the protests.

How has Donald Trump responded?

Donald Trump and his administration have defended the military parade and the use of federal troops as necessary measures to restore order and uphold federal authority. They argue that the protests, particularly those that resulted in property damage or clashes with police, are signs of growing extremism and a breakdown of law and order.

How are they related to the ICE protests in LA last week?

The protests against ICE raids in Los Angeles were the kindling that helped ignite “No Kings.” In particular, the scale of Trump’s response, especially the federal troop deployment, escalated feelings of discontent amongst the American people. By the time June 14 arrived, LA was already deep in confrontation, and what happened there reverberated nationwide.

Feature image by Mike Newbry via Unsplash.

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