Debate 2025 #12: Anamata / The Future

When I began volunteering across the road at 95bFM in 2021, copies of Debate were strewn across various coffee tables, couches, and desks. They were bought over by various AUT journalism students, to be poured over by a little baby Liam in their last year of college while they poorly wrote the news bulletins. I read through various shitposts in the form of articles, did quizzes, and cut out covers to stick on my walls, before timidly asking if I could start contributing once I began uni the following year.

Running the magazine by the end of my degree was not the plan. I’m pretty sure I had set out multiple routes of moving to Canada or Europe, doing an exchange, and wiggling my way into some artsy admin job in animation or game design. Instead, I’ve fallen deeper and deeper into the dark, dusty underbelly of Auckland Student Media; rife with backstabbing, funding cuts, and Reddit exposé threads. Your veteran grandad, who has an amputated leg, has nothing on the pain I’ve been through. Every time a typo slips into the mag, rest assured that I have metaphorically stabbed myself 23 times before getting back to my laptop.

I’m taking the piss. Aspects of this role have been difficult, especially alongside completing my degree and other creative projects, but it’s also offered me the incredibly bizarre and fulfilling privilege of seeing young writers and artists building their future through the mahi undertaken as they start contributing to the magazine. It’s incredibly easy and valid to have your degree be the main cause of your labour during tertiary years, especially considering that the whole schtick of uni was marketed to you as a get-out-of-unemployment-free card. However, the work undertaken in between lectures matters far more to future employers than your GPA. Nothing makes a graduate look more hireable than a clear disregard for work-life balance and a willingness to work underpaid and overtime.

Beyond koha for our contributors and providing a little platform to share their mahi on, I think what’ll keep Debate trucking along for another 25 years at AUT is the slight semblance of otherness we’ve tried our best to embrace over the past couple of years. We’re the strange, youngest sibling of the university family of Aotearoa, stuck as the runt of the litter until Te Pūkenga became the awkward step-sibling there because Dad had an affair. I’ve heard countless stories of students from wealthier colleges being convinced by peers that AUT was the backup choice for students who were too stupid to get into UoA, despite the fact that said students do not exist. The students on our side of Wellesley Street are artists, activists, journalists, filmmakers, athletes, and academics, looking for a place in Tāmaki Makaurau to learn and grow without being tethered to proving their skills through exams and readings. We still have our fair share of the boring bullshit that made me drop out of high school and beg AUT to take me in, but it’s interspersed with hands-on learning and the closest thing you can get to a community-focused kaupapa in the bullshit, individualistic, capitalist metropolis that Auckland desperately wants to be. I need to make it clear that I’m not praising AUT as a corporation, because the suits cutting jobs and leasing out every space on campus for a quick buck don’t give a shit about education. It’s the professors, event organisers, baristas, cleaners, students, and everyone else at this university working their asses off to maintain a space for safe experimentation, expression, and freedom. This university isn’t a block of buildings used for filming locations and corporate hire. This university is nothing but its people.

So, where does that leave us, the silly little Debate team popping up in print form across campus every couple of weeks or so? What future do we want to build for AUT, Auckland, and Aotearoa? Personally, I want one that’s fucking bizarre. We aren’t exactly living in a stable time for media, and the right path forward for any publication, let alone a print student magazine, is constantly shifting and breaking. Unless everybody miraculously decides to start paying for journalism or the government remembers to fund it properly, publications have the choice of staying in line and clinging to what has worked in the past, or throwing out the playbook altogether and building something completely new. These days, throwing shit at the wall and trying out weird, cheap, and creative projects that push the boundaries of what media is just as risky as trying to stay in line with the status quo. Allowing your car’s tank to run out of gas while puttering along the speedway is safer, sure - but nobody walks away from a car out of fuel as cool as they do from a car about to explode, especially when we don’t know what will arrive in its wake. (This is a metaphor. Please don’t blow up your car.)

If you’re reading this with a few semesters left of your degree, please feel free to kick off 2026 by sending us a kia ora and a pitch. We don’t know what form Debate will take next year, but the only way we can continue curating cutting-edge student journalism is through you. Whether you have sketchbooks that have gone untouched since you started your degree or a notes app stacked to the brim with passages of poetry that have never seen the light of day, use your creativity to grow your skillset and network of artists, writers, and media personnel you’ll continue coming across throughout the rest of your life. Hell, it doesn’t even need to be for Debate - simply building something new will teach you more about life than any test you take on the subject.

It’s not a secret that this year has been demotivating. The choices of the government have gone from deplorable to downright incomprehensible, and making meaningful contributions to the future feels pointless when the people running it are spinning wheels of misfortune and blaming the consequences on trans people when caught red-handed. Luxon and his cronies don’t want you to have hope for the future, and would rather you fuck off to Australia so he has fewer bottom feeders to deal with. The best way to change our country for the better is by loving it, celebrating all the incredible things about Aotearoa, and contributing to a genuine effort to make things better. Stick around, and do cool shit with as little of a budget as you can. There is nothing in this world that could make Luxon angrier than that.

We’ll see you around, e hoa mā.

Editorial By Liam Hansen (they/them) @liamhanse.n EDITOR

The future is only bleak without you in it

Part-Time Chaos, Full-Time Survival: Kiwi Students Face Messy Post-Grad Reality

With 2025 in sight, New Zealand students are bracing themselves for the uncertainty of 2026, where keeping down part-time work is the only means of making it through life when they finish school. The fantasy of completing uni straight into a safe, well-paid job is now officially off the table. Instead, most students have a plethora of part-time jobs, side hustles, and freelance jobs while trying to figure out what their career actually is.

Post-grad life already feels like a trial nobody warned you about. You spend years studying, accruing debt, pursuing experience, and doing all the right things, and then you graduate into a cost-of-living crisis with little or no safety net. You’re supposed to have some idea what happens next, to magically get on your feet immediately, when the rest of us are struggling just to remain upright.

But now, new National law around Jobseeker Support is somehow worsening that already tough stage. The government reworked the rules for getting under-20s Jobseeker Support so that if your family earns more than $65,529 all together, you no longer get Jobseeker Support or Emergency Benefit. On paper, it can look like a simple income rule. In reality, it is completely disconnected.

The New Zealand adult minimum wage is $23.50 per hour, and that works out to about $48,880 a year before tax. That is, assuming that both parents work full-time on minimum wage, you are already ruled out. Even if one of the parents takes home only a bit more than the living wage of $27.80 an hour and the other one stays home, chances are you’ll be left behind. It means two parents struggling on full-time incomes are too wealthy to have a child who qualifies for assistance. It’s absurd.

One News reported that “thousands of young people may be denied Jobseeker Support under new parental income rules,” and youth leaders accuse the government of “punching down on young people” by prioritising cost-cutting over care (1News, 2025). The Spinoff clarified that under the threshold a parent may only earn about 26 hours of labor per week before pushing their household income above the cut-off. The per capita household income of New Zealand is far above this threshold, and hence the overwhelming majority of families will by default exclude their child under this new policy.

This entire logic hinges on the assumption that parental support equals parental income. For a lot of young adults, that is not necessarily the case. Not every parent is able or willing to contribute to their adult child’s rent, groceries, or transportation. A lot of families are already stretched to the limit on mortgages, bills, or other dependents. A household income of $65,000 may sound stable in theory, but in reality it usually translates into a hand-to-mouth existence.

This policy punishes students who have been living independently or paying for themselves for decades. It makes everybody under the age of 20 reliant on their parents, even if they have been employed and paying their own bills since high school. You may be paying your own rent and buying your own groceries, but because of what your parents are earning, you automatically aren’t entitled to help. It is unfair, and it completely ignores the financial reality of the current economy.

Students are brewing coffee in the mornings, eating late at night, freelancing on weekends, and tutoring to settle bills. Many do gig work via apps like Manna, Oddjobs, and Freelancer since flexibility enables them to juggle study, though the pay is meager and security substandard. Others turned to side hustles like selling fashion online or managing social media accounts for small businesses.

In the meantime, internships are competitive and usually unpaid. Employers are demanding experiential learning rather than just degrees, so students are working harder than ever before to be noticed. Recruitment is moving away from traditional channels to portfolio-first, valuing creativity and flexibility more than credentials. With the move towards short-term contracts and remote freelance labor, the idea of having a career is changing.

All of this is subsidised. The nuances of burnout and anxiety have become a shared vocabulary among students and new graduates. Mental health is now at the center of survival, and students are connecting online, sharing tips and testimonials on TikTok, Reddit, and Discord. The jokes are dark but recognisable. “I survived my first week of post-grad life without crying” is now a trending meme that hides genuine exhaustion.

The workplace of the future is changing rapidly, and students are changing along with it. They are taught to layer skills, change careers, and stay creative in pressure. Career stacking, or possessing multiple part-time careers, is a necessity, not an option. The old model of “graduate, get a job, and get married” seems to be a relic of the past.

It’s not about giveaways. It’s about equality. It’s about understanding that life after grad in 2025 is so much different from how it was even five years ago. Students are not asking for luxury. They are asking for a level playing field; a structure that understands freedom of living should not come at a cost.

bring. This year however, I find myself sludging through menial tasks, avoiding my phone and the constant terror that comes with opening social media. Finishing off my A Levels during Covid Lockdown pales in comparison to the amount of societal shit I’ve had to deal with this year.

At least during lockdown, there was a sense of community. More than ever we saw what isolation could do for others- and in most cases, it caused them to reach out more. I was doing daily calls with my friends, gaming until late in calls just to hear anoth er voice. But now, in 2025, I feel more alone than ever. With social media flooded with the awful atrocities happening overseas and within Aotearoa, I am way less inclined to reach out to my friends via Messenger or Instagram. With Meta AI rearing it’s ugly ass head everywhere I go, it feels easier to just shut it off. Crawl under the covers. Play some Silksong.

So what can we do? In the last two issues I’ve talked extensively about our power to vote, protest, and advocate for those who cannot. I stand by this, but I would like to add an addendum. We should all be taking time for ourselves amongst the insanity to rest, recover and learn. From every hard situation we are thrown in there is room for growth, maturity and clarity. Reach out to your friends, lean on your family- know that you are not alone in this massive world that can make us feel small. Find community in the things you love, and monitor how much time and effort you’re putting into the online space. In a world promoting gen ocide in 4K, companies replacing real people with AI chatbots that are burning our aō, focus on what is real. Take a moment to connect with the whenua, research your roots, learn something new. Do not let yourself be caught up in the pāru vibes spread ing around this season- as summer begins to rear it’s ataahua head, make sure you join in and smell the roses.

If not for my partner, insistent loving friends and relatable co-workers, I’d go insane. If you are yet to fall into a mental crisis this year- I envy you. If you have fallen victim to the insane social vibes this year- give yourself a hand. We’re nearly there. I want to leave you all for this year with a poem I wrote in 2022 that still holds up in the present day. It’s about time, the aō, and how we are all connected under the same sky. Māuri ora e hoa ma, we’ve got this, kia kaha.

Whetu

the stars that shine so bright in the sky that wrap round my brain like a breathless night were dead before my tupuna learned to map them

we see their ghosts so pretty, falling speckling through glass already clouded burnt into the endless black of night

my reflection glimmers beneath their shine missing but a single spark of flame so cold it ignites despite duress the Pluto of the never ending star stream

— H.

Dreams on Display: The AUT Innovation Showcase

When you think about your future beyond being a student, it can feel like a lingering – and often intimidating – question mark. For some of us, stepping straight into a job or career doesn’t sound as exciting as the chance to build something ourselves.

Whether that’s a business, an innovation, or a product, the idea of being your own boss has its own kind of spark. That’s where AUT Ventures often steps in, helping students and researchers flip uncertainty into something more hopeful: a space to ask “what if?”

We saw that vision in action at the AUT Ventures Innovation Showcase during Te Wiki Rangahau (Research Week 2025). More than 25 research projects across six innovation zones filled WZ, creating an electric atmosphere for over 200 guests. Each project became a display of Anamata – the future – transforming uncertainty into imagination, and imagination into possibility.

Some of the standouts from the night in each zone included: PreventS-MD® (Software): A software tool preventing lifestyle diseases such as stroke, heart disease, and diabetes.

Brain-Controlled Gaming (Science & Engineering): A gaming challenge played using only your focus.

Wool Cocoon (Design): A sensory management tool designed to comfort neurodivergent children.

The Bread Collective (Food & Hospitality): An employment initiative advancing opportunities for former refugees through education and baking.

Eccentric Fitness (Sport & Recreation): A recumbent training bike designed to combat the health impacts of sedentary lifestyles.

Goodair® Nosebuds (Health & Medtech): A drug-free device to clear nasal congestion, officially launched only weeks ago.

As the final Debate issue of the year, reflecting on this highlight feels like the perfect way to close out 2025, and welcome in 2026. Returning for the first time in years, bigger and bolder than ever, the Showcase reminded us that giving dreams space to grow is often what allows them to shape the future.

As one might say, it’s a full-circle moment.

Looking ahead to next year, we can’t wait to do it all over again – and who knows, maybe it could be your dream on display at the next AUT Innovation Showcase. We look forward to reconnecting with you next semester, but until then, enjoy a well-deserved break.

Written By Rose Scott (she/her) CONTRIBUTING WRITER

What the hell are we gonna do about climate change?

From 30 September to 2 October, climate experts from across the globe congregated in Austria for the first ever Overshoot Conference. With the world heading almost certainly towards exceeding 1.5°C of warming, the event aims to create space for discussions on how we can go about navigating the consequences of this, and other, worse, and potentially imminent scenarios of climate change.

The conference programme is stacked full with talks on mitigation, adaptation, tipping points, implications and the big picture. Ultimately, the Overshoot Conference asks a question to attendees and onlookers — a group of concerned parties which seems to be entirely void of political leaders — and that is: what the hell are we gonna do about climate change?

The outlook is unfortunately bleak.

It would seem that we’ve arrived at, or perhaps have always been stuck at, a place in climate discourse where the solutions require an audacious amount of positivity, while an evidence-based understanding of how fucked we are provokes nothing but pessimism.

Not only does the scientific consensus urge global action, but it urges a massive, concerted, collaborative, never-before-observed effort from all nations to cut greenhouse gas emissions and mitigate the existing and forthcoming impacts of climate change. In 2024, the UN reported that projections under current climate policies show a catastrophic 3.1°C of warming by 2030. Even if the commitments global leaders have agreed to were met (which presently they aren’t), the temperature rise would still only be limited to 2.6-2.8°C.

So, as has been the case every year since they started, this November’s COP30 will be critical for political leaders to generate new climate targets that genuinely recognise the urgency of the issue. It remains to be seen whether nations will not only step up their commitments but also act on them quickly enough to make a difference. The recent UN General Assembly, which included a Climate Summit, demonstrated that most countries are at least willing to say this will be the case.

Speakers representing more than 100 countries announced or reiterated their climate commitments, including China’s President Xi Jinping, Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese,

European Union President Ursula van der Leyen, UK’s Deputy Prime Minister David Lammy and New Zealand’s ‘Permanent Representative to the UN’ Carolyn Schwalger.

Unsurprisingly, the great outstander of climate speeches during the UN General Assembly, taking up all 55 minutes of his 15-minute allocated slot, was US President Donald Trump. Delivering his usual spiel of climate denial, Trump reminded a global audience that no amount of scientific consensus, or tangible evidence, or urgent calls to action, will fool the Americans into cooperating.

“Climate change is the biggest con job ever.” he says, scorning the pathetic, dirty renewable energy everyone apparently loves more than his “beautiful clean coal”.

New Zealand Climate Change Commissioner, Dr Andy Reisinger, says Trump’s statements read like they’re straight from an “authoritarian playbook”.

“You swamp your population with so many untruths and blatant lies that people just give up and get completely confused [about] what's right, what's wrong, and it simply becomes a sea of opinion rather than actually some guideposts that are derived from scientific evidence.”

The good(?) news is, despite Trump’s convictions, which have also been coupled with the US withdrawing from the Paris Agreement and recalling millions in United Nations funding commitments, this hasn’t become a worldwide trend. The bad news is, the pendulum is hardly swinging in the other direction either. At best, many countries have now recognised that climate change is indeed a pressing issue and are working as hard as they can, in the restraints of their own fickle political systems, to do something about it. At worst, Trump’s rhetoric, combined with the subtle yet powerful resistance of corporate and political interests that stand to lose from global climate action, is obstructing meaningful progress.

While there have been a plethora of efforts to tackle climate change on an international level, there is an ever-present hindrance of national self-interests. We’re 8.2 billion people (or 195 countries) deep in a prisoner’s dilemma that will have no winners.

Obviously, it’s a lot more complicated than that. Some of these players are responsible for a disproportionately large share of global emissions; some are capable of doing a lot more than others to combat emissions; some have more to lose or to gain from climate action. In a dilemma so monumental as this, you could argue it makes sense that we’ve witnessed this retraction into ‘my country first’ political preference. But it’s nonetheless dangerous and counterproductive to climate action.

University of Auckland International Business Professor Sasha Maher describes this decision between investing in climate solutions domestically and advancing global efforts as a false dichotomy between helping ‘us’ or ‘them’ battle climate change.

“Currently, around 70 percent of emissions come from emerging economies and developing economies. If you take China out of that picture, that's 38 percent…

“Many of these countries just simply do not have the resources nor capacity to actually decarbonise.”

Investment into climate solutions, mitigation, adaptation, better infrastructure, and renewable energies is critical across all countries, in order to drive any scenario that sees warming stay or return to below 1.5 degrees. And while climate spending has increased in recent years, the Climate Policy Institute estimates that investment into key sectors needs to rise substantially.

I could go on and on telling you all about the statistics, inspecting every angle of the climate data that just reaffirms what you already know about the urgency of climate action.

I’ll spare you the lecture. Suffice to say, any kind of promising future demands a huuuuge step up from our political leaders. The global scale of this issue makes it easy for us as individuals to resign ourselves to our incapability of effecting any movement on climate action. Even in a country as small as New Zealand, the mahi involved is thankless and extraordinary—— thousands of hours of submissions and meetings and pressure on political representatives and thousands of people protesting and demanding changes to small bits of legislation that probably have no material impact on any global statistics. Not to mention the tug-of-war between parties pulling for this legislation, cancelling that investment, opposing this solution, or debating that policy.

While the political back-and-forth is endless, it must be entertained. We’ve already stagnated long enough for the consequences to be tangible, but this is not the time to give up trying. As Reisinger says,

“This is not a binary choice of, oh now we've lost it and therefore now we just have to focus only on adaptation and it's too late to mitigate greenhouse gases…

We can no longer limit warming to 1.5 degrees: that train has left the station under our watch and we weren't on it. So that's on us, inaction has consequences, but it doesn't mean that all action is futile.”

Reisinger quotes world-renowned climate scientist Katharine Hayhoe as she says, “the most important thing you can do to fight climate change is talk about it”.

Every time we witness record high temperatures, ‘once in a century’ floods, fatal heatwaves and natural disasters, it is a reminder that climate change isn’t an artefact of the distant future. It’s here now. But it won’t be the Donald Trumps or Elon Musks or Jeff Bezos’ of the world who will feel it first.

As Reisinger asserts, on the journey toward a positive climate future,

“The challenge is to turn it into an enabling environment rather than a disabling one — and it requires constant engagement, sticking with it, because certainly climate change will stick with us.”

So what the hell are we going to do about climate change? Everything we can! It might be like looking up at a tsunami holding a surfboard. That, whether you’re willing to confront it or not, is the future we face. All in our power to do is imagine a world a lot better than this one and sprint towards it.

If you’re interested in listening to the full interviews with Dr Andy Reisinger and Sasha Maher, these are available on the 95bFM website, as part of the Wire’s Green World segment.

It’s time to roll up our sleeves and get stuck in creating our own press. It’s time for more independent media, run by people like you and me. Events over the last few weeks have convinced me that platforms are falling victim to constant pressures so easily: be it internal finances, government crackdowns, or by forces that hold executives by the money bags. We can no longer trust social media networks and global corporations that have been willing to give administrations what they want to gain favour with them, to be the true platforms of our own self-expression. These platforms have no guts to stand up for their own workers at the worst of times or for what is right for the betterment of everyone at the best of times.

This was days after Jimmy Kimmel re-appeared on U.S. network television, his corporate overlords capitulating to public pressure and the potential/realised threats of millions cancelling Hulu and Disney+ subscriptions. You know things are getting real sketchy in the contest over free speech when the Chair of the US Federal Communications Commission (FCC), Brendan Carr, hops on a right-leaning partisan podcast and casually threatens a nationwide network for the suspension of their affiliate broadcast licences over a negative assertion made over the President they support. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. These companies can find ways to change conduct to take action, frankly on Kimmel, or there's going to be additional work for the FCC ahead… the FCC is going to have remedies that we could look at.”

Other than the obvious government coercion being a challenge to the First Amendment to Free Speech, my eyes were on the ABC affiliate television stations owned by Sinclair Broadcast Group and Nexstar Media Group. They had pulled Jimmy Kimmel Live from their schedules in protest over what Kimmel had said regarding Charlie Kirk’s shooter: “We had some new lows over the weekend with the MAGA gang desperately trying to characterize this kid who murdered Charlie Kirk as anything other than one of them and doing everything they can to score political points from it.”. Kimmel immediately followed that up with a clip that showed, when questioned by the press about his feelings a day after the tragic shooting, President Trump saying he felt very good then pivoting to talk about the latest regarding his pet project White House Ballroom. Kimmel afterwards said “[Trump] is at the fourth stage of grief: Construction”.

To be clear, the FCC has the power to challenge and revoke broadcast licences that affect affiliate stations directly. It’s their licences on the line. The risk to ABC is losing out on nationwide audience reach, primarily. So why look at the affiliates in particular? Well… Stories have been written before about the political leanings of Sinclair and Nexstar. Both are said to have a conservative edge to their coverage, however, Sinclair is noted to have their affiliate T.V. stations across the U.S. run ideologically charged “must-runs” segments. Wouldn’t it be so surprising if those segments were aligned towards a particular political party and/or sympathetic towards that party’s platform? Nexstar also wants to expand and buy out another T.V. station giant, Tegna, which reportedly runs 13 other ABC affiliate stations, for a whopping $6.2 billion. And who needs to approve this deal? The FCC. Make of that what you will. It’s worth noting that Kimmel’s return came not just by Disney backing down, but by Sinclair and Nexstar backing down a week after. Call me a tinfoil hat guy, but I personally believe Sinclair and Nexstar wrote themselves a

guidebook on silencing dissent they’re not keen on supporting by pulling that move. More consolidation of affiliate stations, under their banners, will only make corporate boardrooms the likes of Disney’s increasingly nervous.

Before we move on from the U.S., the Corporation for Public Broadcasting recently shut down as the Trump administration biffed federal funding back in July this year, which would have seen over a billion dollars go to funding public broadcasting. That’s PBS Television and NPR stations across the entire U.S. While fundraising has reportedly been strong after a week of being officially defunded by the government, some who work for those stations said to the New York Times, that the next few weeks will tell if the trend is strong enough to withstand the deep financial pressure. Since then, some stations like Prairie Public Radio in North Dakota have struck a chord with locals supporting them financially - but others aren’t so lucky. NPR recently reported: “PBS, nationwide, have cut their staff by 15%. Penn State is closing the station it owns after the university's board rejected a plan to sell it to WHYY in Philadelphia. New Jersey PBS is slated to close next year.” This is just the United States, you might say - at least it’s different in Aotearoa/New Zealand right? Not really, in my opinion.

Here at home, threats against the press by the government isn’t a new concept. It was the early 1980s, the energy crisis which preceded the decade reflected a big hit for the country: our parents and grandparents have an idea of Carless Days, should you ask them about it. But at a relatively scarce and desolate excuse of an airport in Paraparaumu, then-Prime Minister Robert Muldoon had a fit when he, and members of his cabinet, were called out by a television reporter for hopping on a chartered Air Force flight to Auckland for the weekend. “Is it warranted?” She asked. Disgusted by the tenacity of a valid question, as a leader just trying to live his best life in tax-payer funded luxury, Muldoon hit back. “Do you [think] bringing two television cameras out here is warranted?” Nothing was uttered back. Rather than silence, dozens of perforated frames rolled past against a soundtrack of wind and the jet plane starting up. An evil smirk from the wrinkled loose testicle of a Prime Minister appears. As Muldoon boards the aircraft, he utters what would be considered one of the biggest threats to public broadcasting at the time. “I don't think you needed to have two television cameras out here, did you? Later on in the year you'll only have one”.

Rather than stand up to such a threat, executives at Television New Zealand (TVNZ) made the call to up sticks, consolidating most, if not all, of the organisation into Auckland; leaving Avalon Studios in Lower Hutt to no longer transmit TV1. Fast forward, and we had another National government end the news-orientated commercial-free television channel TVNZ 7, after it scrapped TVNZ’s public charter installed under Aunty Helen’s Labour Government of the early noughts. I distinctly remember John Key’s government blaming Labour for not funding TVNZ 7 into the future, when it had the option to continue funding themselves. I personally still believe that was a cop-out. More recently, our public radio broadcaster had its budget cut by $18 million in the last government budget for the next four years ($4.6mil a year). The results of the organisation saving money in response to this was: ending its youth-orientated platform and podcast series TAHI, removing a host position for the weekend programme Culture 101, and getting rid of the Sunday Sampler

and Simon Morris’ At The Movies programme.

It was only a year ago when The Pantograph Punch went into hiatus as funding pressures hit hard for their editors and writers. Their words to this day still hold true: “The work we do [is] taken for granted because the creative ecosystem isn’t genuinely valued by the hungry capitalist-colonial machine… What we bring to the community… isn’t protected by the current systems. There is a demand and need for more platforms like The Pantograph Punch, yet the ecology is not actually built to allow this.” I still agree mostly with what’s said here. The times now, I believe, should warrant a rethink. A rethink towards specifically that last part there. The only way we can let the steady decline of the fourth estate continue is if we continue to think that the ecology isn’t there: we must build it ourselves. To do that we must fund it ourselves. The number of zines I’ve come across over the last couple years shows me this can be done on a micro-level, and we only need to start off small. If bits of paper doesn’t sound like you, you could start up a blog on Ghost, Medium, or Substack. Most blogging sites usually have a free tier to get you started. Or perhaps, if your mum isn’t using that Kodak Easyshare or Sony Handycam camera from 15 years ago, you could take up photojournalism or make a YouTube channel pretty easily. All of these options cost relatively little monetarily - you need only spend time to get creating. So go and do that now, you bloody beauty you.

Written By Corey Fuimaono (he/him) CONTRIBUTING WRITER

By Vik Sazhina CONTRIBUTING ARTIST

Fuck it, We'll Do It Live:

A case for more independent media

Geese Sound Like the Future (Even If They’re Not)

Rock is DEAD! Or at least, that's what your uncle has been spouting ever since he gave up on Rolling Stone magazine. Plenty of amazing rock bands have been striding through the door, pushing new and interesting ideas to the public: Viagra Boys, Model/Actriz, Tropical Fuck Storm, Maruja, Jeff Rosenstock, and Fontaines D.C. (all bands that should be on any rock fan's radar at this point). But alas, it's rare to find any rock group this decade busting through to the mainstream - at least ones that don't shill out for the nostalgic, bloodthirsty masses bands like Greta Van Fleet and Måneskin are so eager to please.

But are Geese here to restore faith in rock? No, not the bird, but the four-piece group hailing from NYC that has every music publication dropping to its knees and lauding them as the "saviours" of the genre.

If you were perusing the 2026 Laneway lineup and thought to yourself, "Who the fuck are Geese and why are they named Geese?" Well, I won't be able to answer the latter, but I'll do my best to answer the former. Given their high-profile placement on the already formidable Laneway lineup for next year, as well as the roaring critical success of their third studio album, Getting Killed, let's talk about the band that's supposedly saving rock & roll. Geese is composed of Emily Green (guitar), Dominic DiGesu (bass), Max Bassin (drums), and is fronted by the mythological Cameron Winter, a name that has become gospel within indie circles ever since he dropped his debut solo album, Heavy Metal, last December.

I, along with a swarm of online music nerds, have worshipped Heavy Metal like our lives depend on it. Even Nick Cave stamped his approval on the young songwriter, describing him as "a glorious, emotive voice with brilliant, blistering words" – high praise from a legend. Cameron's solo album may have been what has propelled Geese into a ferocious entity this past year, but the band has witnessed a meteoric rise ever since the release of their debut, Projector (2021). Though the praise they reaped from that album seemed to focus more on what bands Geese reminded people of than on the actual music (seriously, the Rolling Stone review lists around ten bands in the first two sentences). Regardless, Projector displayed massive potential for the band, as songs like "Disco" and "Fantasies/Survival" showed that the band wasn't just another schlubby New York rock rehash.

Their follow-up to Projector was 3D Country (2023), an album that fired on all cylinders. The album is a flashy, gloriously indulgent rock record that saw the chemistry between the group strengthen tenfold. Tracks like "2122" and "Mysterious Love" are kaleidoscopic, vivid barnburners that proved the band's ambitions could be

backed by incredible writing and performances. It was an excellent follow-up - one of that year's best records - but it also mounted even more pressure on Geese to carry rock's dying flame. Now we've arrived at Getting Killed (2025), their latest record. With the amount of expectation and fanfare surrounding the new release, it felt like the lead-up to Getting Killed was the moment Geese would be launched into the stratosphere of critical acclaim and popularity - the new sound of rock that would resurrect this otherwise decrepit, arthritic genre. "Gen Z's first great American rock band," decries GQ magazine, "the rare group in 2025 that reorients our attention toward rock's future, away from its past." And yes, Getting Killed feels like that kind of record – a landmark album that will go on to define an entire generation. It's a marvellously assembled, boundary-pushing album that toggles the line between loose, wild experimentation and deeply human catharsis.

"Trinidad," the album's opener, seems to be the greatest indicator of the band's obsession with shattering expectations. "THERE'S A BOMB IN MY CAR," shrieks an unhinged Winter on the chorus, crazed and devilishly unwavering. Then there's the preceding "Cobra," one of Geese's most melodious cuts to date, and a song I'd recommend to anyone trying to get into the band. "Half Real" and "Au Pays du Cocaine," two more highlights, yearn with desperation and longing – emotions that miraculously fit within the purposefully clunky production courtesy of Kenneth Blume (a.k.a. Kenny Beats). Personally, though, Getting Killed's crowning achievement is "Taxes." It's a song that feels bigger than the band - a song that could well outlive the group, given its euphoric release and lyrics that beg to be vociferously shouted when performed live. If you can't already tell, I like the album. I could go on singing Getting Killed's praises, but I don't want to bore you. Instead, I want to pose a question: what now?

Geese have brought back an urgency to rock music, regardless of whether they were even attempting to do so. Does this mean we're now due for another resurgence in rock? Will Geese haul us toward the next chapter of the genre, exiting all of the dead weight behind and busting down the door for other innovative bands to flood the mainstream? As much as I would love to entertain that fantasy, it's also never going to happen. Rock, as I see it, will stay "dead" for the foreseeable future. As much as I praise Geese, they aren't the future of rock. Music consumption is far too fragmented and shifty to ever allow a band like Geese to create such a seismic impact as bands like The Strokes did in their heyday. Crowning Geese as this liberating entity will only lead to disappointmentand I think the band, the music media, and the fan base know this. Cameron put it bluntly in Geese's feature for Paste magazine, asserting:

"Everyone's the next coming of fucking something else at this point, because rock music is out of ideas that don't involve diffusing into other genres."

He's right. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. Geese will never have to endure the same intense scrutiny and dissection that our pop stars face right now. They won't have to worry about living up to the intense commercial pressures of being the next "big thing." The sooner we burn this idealistic bridge, the better.

Gen Z hasn't seen a rock band like Geese before, so for me and others, this feels like uncharted territory. However, to people who witnessed the rise of Nirvana in the '90s or The Strokes in the '00s, they know that such a level of apotheosis never benefits the art, nor the artists. I'm aware that this sentiment regarding Geese probably doesn't resonate with anyone who isn't a fan of them (yet); however, I ask you to apply the same thinking to any musician or group you idolise. Yes, their music might be transformative or pivotal to your cultural worldview, but they're not your saviour. Part of me writing that is in an attempt to avoid drowning in all the Geese hysteria, but I also believe many people need to hear that right now. Chappell Roan comes to mind; an artist so idolised so quickly that the bubble is surely to burst just as fast. It's a fact we consumers need to dismantle, for the benefit of everyone.

As overloaded as I may have made Geese seem, they're quite the opposite. They're just a great, forward-thinking rock band, period. If you somehow managed to shell out the cash for a Laneway ticket, I hope you don't miss out on seeing this incredible band.

Listen to Geese. Listen to Getting Killed. And may rock & roll never be saved.

Written

By

Jed Scott (he/him)

By

Kiki Hall (she/her) CONTRIBUTING ARTIST

A Message from Your President

As I reflect on my time as AUTSA President over the past two years, I feel a deep sense of pride and gratitude for what our student community has achieved together. The journey has been one of learning, resilience, and growth, not just for AUTSA as an organisation but for every student who has helped shape campus life, advocacy, and positive change.

Serving as President through 2024 and 2025 has been a privilege and an honour to represent more than 26,000 students at AUT. These years have been filled with progress and transformation, both seen and unseen, and it has been inspiring to witness how much stronger our collective student voice has become.

This year has been one of true transformation, both for AUTSA and for me personally. Together, we have made tangible changes that will benefit students for years to come.

One of our biggest accomplishments has been launching the $100 Student Support Fund to help students completing placements outside Auckland. We also made progress on the Paid Placements Campaign, which supports students undertaking unpaid placements and highlights the financial challenges they face.

Alongside AUT we introduced free AUT gym memberships for all students for the rest of 2025, a milestone that promotes health, wellbeing, and balance. This initiative has been incredibly well received and reflects AUTSA’s commitment to supporting not just academic success but also the overall wellbeing of our student community.

Following what we heard from students earlier in the year, we launched the Fair Fares Campaign in collaboration with the Auckland University Students’ Association (AUSA). This campaign advocated for a fairer public transport system and successfully pushed for the tertiary concession to increase from 20% to 50%. We hope to see even more progress in this area in the coming year.

We passed a new AUTSA Constitution in line with the 2022 Incorporated Societies Act, modernising our structure and setting a strong foundation for the future. This ensures that our association remains strong, compliant, and truly student-led. A Memorandum of Understanding with Titahi Ki Tua (TKT) was signed, strengthening our partnership with AUT and ensuring better outcomes and representation for Māori students.

We redefined how we train and empower the Student Representative Council (SRC). For the first time in years, we took training off-site, developed a new SRC Handbook, and created a process that future teams can build upon. The results

have been incredible, with stronger representation, a more united team, and passionate leaders who truly care about improving the student experience.

We continued to develop the Academic Student Representative Programme, launched in 2024, by working alongside faculties to ensure effective mechanisms for student voice are implemented and continuously improved.

We launched a new CRM system for AUTSA, improving how we support and connect with students, and enhancing how we respond to advocacy and service needs.

Finally, we helped establish a new national student body with other student presidents across Aotearoa, strengthening collaboration and representation on a national level.

Beyond these milestones, some of the most meaningful achievements over the past two years have been intangible. The personal growth, the lessons in leadership, and the privilege of connecting with passionate student leaders and advocates from around the country have shaped me in ways I could never have imagined.

A Message for You

To first, second, or third-year students: embrace the full experience of university life. Make the most of what AUT offers you; free doctors, counselling, clubs, and of course, those student discounts (Unidays, Student Card, Community Services Card, and more). It’s easy to drift through on autopilot, but real growth happens when you get involved, step forward, and stay curious. Fall in love with learning, not just your degree but everything that sparks your curiosity. In a world increasingly shaped by Artificial Intelligence, your ability to learn, adapt, and think critically will be your greatest advantage.

To final-year students: congratulations! You have completed a chapter that has tested, inspired, and prepared you for what’s next. Keep learning, stay connected, and remember the bond that links us all as AUT graduates. The future needs your ideas, your passion, and your perspective. I look forward to seeing many of you out in the workforce, continuing to make a difference.

AUTSA’s Future

Next year, AUTSA will be in great hands under the leadership of your 2026 President, James Portegys. I’ll be working closely with him to ensure a smooth and well-documented handover, so he is ready to hit the ground running. AUTSA will continue to advocate fiercely for students, push for cheaper pub-

lic transport, support clubs and events, amplify your voice in university decision-making, and be your go-to support when things get tough through services like Tautoko and Advocacy.

Closing Thoughts

Leadership, at its heart, is about service, about uplifting and growing others while building something that outlives your time in the role. Throughout my presidency, I have always tried to create space for others to thrive and to leave things a little better than I found them. The last two years have shown what is possible when students unite around a shared purpose and a vision for change. Thank you, AUT whānau, for letting me serve you, laugh with you, and advocate for you. This chapter may be closing for me, but the spirit of student voice, community, and courage continues to grow.

From,

Alicia Lemmer

President 2024–2025, AUTSA

You Probably Won’t Read This

Rejection.

I’ve never been good at it. I spent the summer on the couch, popsicle dripping down my wrist, refreshing Seek and offering up prayers. I had high hopes for the year. I saw each month stretched out before me, clean and full of potential. I fantasized about a working holiday in Bali, a cute gallery job, money flowing into my account. I was finally free from university and StudyLink, from contracted hours and blue light migraines. But the months started to bleed into each other.

The sky is turning darker now. The days pass in a blink. 45 job applications. 15 creative and freelance applications. 2 Excel spreadsheets.

And with the chime of my phone—one new rejection email, every day. “Sorry, we are writing to inform you that your application has been unsuccessful…”

I’m 24 years old, with a BFA (Hons) and a Diploma of Māori Language Fluency. I have a $35,000 student loan. But mostly, I write—like my life depends on it. But you wouldn’t know, because you probably won’t read this. And why should you? You don’t know me. You don’t owe anyone anything, least of all some scruffy girl with her clickbaity titles. I should’ve made this more digestible—maybe a TikTok. An Instagram reel, ready to be sipped at.

Or maybe you saved it to the graveyard of things never read in your Instagram folder. Because who wants to read an essay, a magazine, least of all - a book?

I’m sure you would stay—if I told you I was baring myself on the page: fleshy, bloody, cellulite and skin.

You’d stay if the article came wrapped in something sexy—behind the Trojan horse of a fat ass, some juicy celebrity drama, a money-making scheme, a politically charged podcast snippet.

You’d stay if I sprinkled this article with enough brain rot - if Subway Surfers jumped across each word, if a drone of AI voice-to-text could take the reading off your plate.

You’d stay if I was emotionally slutty—willing to hold my failures up to the light instead of letting them undress me slowly, in the quiet hours.

Why did I think I could send my book off when it still needed work? Why did I kick that window in Year 12? Why did I let that guy belittle me? Why did I let my mind get so dark?

I’m trying to walk the line between confidence and humility—asserting my intelligence, but knowing when to be quiet. Hold that tension. Trying to lay myself just bare enough on the page. But I’ve always been too raw, too much, too unfiltered to ever get away with it.

I always spoke too much in class. Insisted upon myself. And fell short in my lack of experience. I don’t want to be generous with you. You’d cancel me in a second. You wouldn’t even blink. I scroll through Instagram stories of prettier girls. People who can afford tropical holidays. People likeable enough to monetise their personality. People who know the right people. I dread the influencer of it all—not because I begrudge them, but because I’m not good at it. I can’t outsmart the algorithm. I don’t have the gear, the glamour, or the friends in high places. This is all I have to give you. Take it or leave it.

This year, for the first time ever, I thought about quitting. Not dramatically, just disappearing. From the inboxes, the applications, the spreadsheets, the manuscripts. From unfinished paintings, from looming deadlines. I would stop praying so hard. I'd save just enough for a little farm, or move back home to Gisborne. I’d get my post graduate-teaching diploma, or answer phone calls and make appointments for a living. I would have a baby, and when I held her for the first time, the sky would be clear and the world would be brimming with potential again. But then something in me refuses. An instinct. The call within me that aches, truly and desperately yearns, to create.

At four, I have my mother read Cinderella’s Wedding and The Tiger who came for tea so many times that I have them memorized.

At five I’m shaping letters. My S’s are still backwards.

At seven, I begin writing stories.

At ten, I wrote a children’s book, convinced I’ll send it off to get it published.

At fourteen, I started writing poems for the newspaper.

At sixteen, I’ve just had an appendectomy and I’m sitting up in the hospital bed writing. At seventeen, I wrote my first collection of poetry. I steal my sister’s print credit from school, gluing each one into my blue and gold notebook.

At University, I write countless essays, compose poems in the evening light of my dorm room.

At twenty-three I am published in a book for the first time. And everything feels possible. I have three separate google drives, a library of lists, an archive of screenplays, short stories with no resolution. Letters I never sent. Poems that walked around in circles. Sentences that hung heavy on their own. Essays without a home. Manuscripts I haven’t sent, diary entries, a catalogue of my hopes and fears.

Most of my writing goes nowhere, forever stagnant in the cloud. Waiting for their potential to be seen.

Hoping that you will see mine.

Two summers ago, me and my friend Sam decided to swim to an island in the Marine Reserve just to see what was over there. He wore flippers. I didn’t. On the way back, the current began to pull me across the bay. I switched between breaststroke, backstroke, and freestyle. My body was tired, but I don’t like to admit that. When I finally made it to shore, I walked back to our diving spot. I asked if he had been worried. He said:

“Nah, not really. I know you can swim. Plus, you’re stubborn as shit.” It’s that same stubbornness that makes me write. Edit.

Publish. Share.

Because why shouldn’t I? It’s what I want to do. Even if nobody reads it. It’s my stubbornness that dragged me through 5 years of university. Through the early years of men with their liquid courage who told me I’d never amount to anything, that I’m delusional, undeserving, stupid.

And it’s because of your stubbornness that we’re here—at the end of this page. Because even though I challenged you, you insisted you were different.

And now what?

You want me to clap?

You want a medal?

Written By

Elise Sadlier (she/her) CONTRIBUTING WRITER

Q: 21 he/him

How do I make friends outside Uni?

A: Ah, an age-old question for those who are soon to be out in the world and unsupported by academic scheduling. Making friends as an adult is a challenge that few are advised on before they reach their early-mid twenties and realise that school or work was holding their social life together. So what can you do?

One of the ways I made friends throughout my twenties was through dating apps. I’ve heard some express the opinion that it's sad to use apps to make friends, which seems like a huge double standard to me. Why is it less “cringe” to be trying to find a life partner on an app? Being able to make friends from afar is one of the few positive aspects of the internet, in this writer's opinion.

Another convenient part of meeting people virtually is that you can suss potential friends out from the comfort of your sofa. On apps like Hinge, where there are prompts to answer, it’s easy to see if you potentially have enough in common with someone to want to chat. If you’re not into apps, there are also group chats or Discord servers for local interests. Often they host IRL meetups.

If you’re not keen on virtual friend finding, I understand. Sometimes what we crave is good old-fashioned grass-touching meet and greets. In that case, I’d start with identifying your hobbies. What are the things you like to do with other people? What interests do you have that you’d like to share with new friends? I love to paint, but it's more of a private thing that I do quietly, so I wouldn’t want to join a wine and painting group. But I also love movies, so a film club would be a great place to make friends.

There are free or cheap workshops run by the Auckland Library, as well as slightly more expensive classes that you can find around the city if you do a quick Google. Art galleries often run workshops or events. Sports are apparently a great way of finding friends, though I’ve never dabbled myself. I think extracurric-

ular hobbies are how many adults make friends. It’s fun picking up a new skill too, and good for your brain.

If you’re looking for a less classroom feel to your friendship quest, you could try volunteering. There are plenty of volunteer jobs that not only need doing, but they foster a sense of community by the nature of the work. One thing that definitely makes me feel less lonely is being around communal work and feeling like I’m making a small difference. Making friends this way also indicates potential overlapping of core values.

Now, if you’re really just struggling to make friends, because let's be honest, it's tough out there, I understand the struggle. We can’t all be charming and “light up the room” when we enter it. Confidence can go a long way, though. Putting yourself out there to make friends does require a level of bravery. So believe in yourself.

When I was in my first year of university, I asked my mum how to make friends. She said, “Find a person you think you’ll like, ask them questions about themself, and remember what they say so you can ask them more the next time you see them”.

I liked that advice; hopefully you do too.

Written By Tashi Donnelly (she/her)

@tashi_rd FEATURES EDITOR

Chat got your tongue?

How does one regain their voice amongst the victimisation of the em-dash?

There is an unmatched, twisted and complex nature contained in the English language, with its cruel rules, ifs and buts and “i’s before e’s” – you’d wonder how any of the literary greats got anything done.

I think back to high school, in moments looking over reading materials in class, and remember having thought that the author's writing was leagues beyond me; it didn’t feel as if we were writing in the same language. Yes, all …well, at that time, most of the individual words I knew, and yet, were arranged in a way which read in such a beautifully unfamiliar flow. It was English class that exposed me to the lengths to which words can be manipulated by the human mind, and back then, that introduction to the limitless bounds of what could be crafted, read in these writings, felt so distant from the restrictive sentence structure templates and writing techniques I had learnt.

Despite those initial difficulties that all budding writers face, it’s only once all the specificities are somewhat understood that individual creativity begins to flourish and take hold. To recognise that the methods I was taught in high school were not a strict mandate, but instead, served as guideposts and suggestions, put in place to provide a supportive scaffolding for emerging writers like myself. All that is to say, once the groundwork is laid, the development of one's authentic voice in textual form is bound to thrive. Consuming work from different people; established authors, classmates, and me from 5 years ago, all undoubtedly assisted in my understanding of what a voice, angle and bias are, as I began to recognise and reflect on my own. When I sent my first contributions to Debate in 2022, it was lovely to hear the thoughts about my work from friends and family, about how “this sounds just like you!" The first time I heard that, it was flattering, of course, to know that I was doing myself justice to how I would speak on a subject; however, it also made me wonder – “what does my voice sound and read like?” and “how did I achieve this?”.

Four years since then, being on the Debate editorial team for half of that time, I think I’ve found the answers to my rabbit hole of questions. A writer’s voice sounds like nothing else – it’s inherently, incomparably, invaluably theirs. Consciously or not, there will be those with voices that you find yourself drawn to consume, whether it’s a niche philosopher I’m out of the loop with, an acclaimed academic, an influencer or a politician. Establishing a voice, present in words, spoken or written, is special. It is one of those unique things that make you human, even in this century, that your voice can transcend physical boundaries and language.

However *dun, dun dun*, the world has changed, and will continue to do so at an alarming pace, with innovations implementing artificial intelligence in every facet of our lives, automating education and providing shortcuts to learning (last time I checked, it’s important for humans to learn things). But at this

stage in media coverage, and in Debate in particular, I can guarantee you’ve heard about the dangers of AI over and over again. If you’re not in the loop, don’t worry! Just search: “What are the dangers of AI?” in Google, and consume from the AI interface in their system, which simplifies (and sometimes straight up makes up) information into a handy, bite sized answer.

Now we are at a stage where even the AI checker sites have become as undesirable as the AI-assisted writing software itself, with UoA trusting (human) professors over re-subscribing to the programmes. In an interview with RNZ, a president of the Massey Tertiary Education Union branch; Dr Angela Feekery, stated: "I've been teaching for 25 years. I've been marking student writing for years. I know what it looks like, and it's not what they are submitting now. In many of the cases, when you've got students who can write better than I can in first year, there is an issue."

In a way, I can agree with Dr Feekery. As an editor, I recognise contributors writing styles and the natural emotions that come through, and have had moments where I question whether there may have been AI-assistance. However, morals, ethics and journalistic integrity aside, it’s never a conversation of “you did this wrong”, but to communicate how important the presence of their voice is within the piece. It’s counterintuitive to steamroll over your authentic imperfections with generic phrasing, all for the sake of ensuring you’re understood, when it’s not even your words. When you go beyond auto correcting grammar, and ask an AI assisted programme to “make this paragraph simpler” or “easier to read”, it’s not helping, but instead delegitimises your impact and lessens reader appeal. Once “edited” by the programme, your voice and work are set to become another victim of AI, assisting in stripping down that authentic sense felt while reading it previously, which you, after the changes, may be led to assume are forgettable imperfections.

However, it’s not like AI turns your emotions into 1s and 0s, it just has a particular way about rewording text for what it deems to be maximum coherency. That being said, if everyone is using it, will distinct voices and their writing styles be replaced by a generic, universal blob? Will the way in which people organically communicate be tainted by the AI-appropriated adaptation of the human language?

Well, for better or worse, it seems that this is already happening. One study, published in scientific journal Acta Psychologica this September, “explored the impact of AI-powered speaking tasks on EFL (English as a foreign language) learners' speaking performance and anxiety”, which resulted in positive results, indicating how AI could prove to be a “powerful mediational artifact” within Activity Theory. Additionally, in the last few months, publications like NewsWeek, Verve and Vice (which is basically ripped off of the Verve piece), have jumped to write their uncreatively titled pieces on “How AI is changing/shaping the way we speak”, and without ripping them all off myself, they’re

right. Words which weren’t as commonly said pre-AI are having a comeback, while others have become outlawed, labelled “AI speak”.

As my first witness… I would like to call the em-dash to the stand, your honor.

If you haven’t heard already, yes, even my beloved (—) is on the AI-accusatory blacklist. While I admit my confusion between the single dash versus the em-dash only faded once I started university, that fact shouldn’t devalue my passion for the punctuation. The em-dash was created in the 15th century, which last I checked, was way earlier than the introduction of Chat GPT. Fellow em-dash users should not be at fault for the AI-assisted writing software appropriating the overuse of this device, despite it already being rebranded as an unsafe option for avoiding accusations of AI assistance.

With certain words, sentence structures, and now punctuation on the chopping block, I am reminded of how artists with styles stolen by AI programmes were also given the same treatment.

While I might feel a moment of hesitation before I use an emdash in my writing, I can recognise that AI cannot replicate the unique experiences and people which have formed my background, perspectives, biases and personality – unless you use a hell of a good prompt. As users continue to point out patterns of what many sites dub as “GPT-isms”, perhaps AI will continue to be finetuned, in attempts to perfect human mimicry. Whatever the future does hold in this space, consider placing creativity above coherency, and build on your own voice and abilities, rather than giving data toward an attempted replication.

Artificial Intelligence has its own voice too – and it’s built by stripping yours.

Written By Stella Roper (they/she) @stellyvision / @dodofrenzy ARTS EDITOR

Along For The Ride

‘What if you hate me?’ she asks playfully, pacing while on the phone with a stranger. ‘And what if you hate me?’ he asks in return, matching her energy.

So in the spur of the moment, she says yes, thinking, what’s the worst that could happen?

He picks her up from the train station, getting out and opening the car door for her. The ride is tentative - small talk filling the spaces where silence would say too much.

She begins to judge. Not out of malice, but more so human nature. His jeans are a little too skinny, and he's sporting ugly hiking boots. She’s in a button-up shirt and loafers, her eyebrows freshly done, makeup applied a few hours before so it has time to settle. The kind of effort that says I tried, but not too hard. Following him into the restaurant, she mentally rehearses how she’ll turn him down nicely after dinner.

They sit down, both confident yet cautious, characters playing personalities. He’s polite; she’s composed. Then the universe intervenes. A hair in her food. The surface tension between them breaks. Life’s way of saying imperfect can still be good.

She laughs harder than she has in months. He chuckles too, admiring how she remains poised, even through belly-aching laughter. Suddenly, the hiking boots aren’t so bad, and his smile is contagious.

Fast forward a month. They know each other’s coffee orders. They eat Indian food with their hands, sharing from the same plate. Occasionally she reaches over to feed him - in the same way she has seen her mother and grandmother do. It’s a gesture of care that runs in her blood, transcending generations.

They seldom talk about the past; they don’t want to look back. But sometimes they talk about the future. Not in the grandiose, cinematic way people do when they’re trying to prove something, but in fragments. Plans for the summer. A flat with a good kitchen.

He’s humorous and carefree, but never careless. The kind of person people take seriously. She’s driven and strong, but secretly kind at heart. To everyone else, she’s ‘girl boss’. These days, she comes home to be called love - a word that still startles her in its gentleness.

He gets home early. She walks in later, tired but glowing with eagerness to see him. They meet in the middle, always. She sits on his lap, recounting her day in a disarrayed chronology, and he listens. There’s something grounding about the peace she feels with him. It provides for her more than money ever could.

They both come with their own manifestos and ambitions that spill over - individual visions of what life should be. Yet here they are, in this small apartment, finding something bigger than both of them, something that doesn’t fit into their ‘life plan’.

Everything he does is intentional, even when he knows it scares her. He likes her and shows it through the little things: picking her up after a long day, grabbing her favourite snack on the way home, and making sure she doesn’t have to lift a finger. Her safety and her comfort have been added to his list of priorities.

He dreams ahead: of travel, a home, a future where they grow together. But he never says it too loudly. Hope, he’s learned, is fragile. A thing to never be rushed.

She doesn’t like making plans. To plan means to have something to lose. But slowly, she starts leaving things at his flat - a toothbrush, hair ties, her traditional nightgown. Everyone says it screams ‘auntie’, but he understands her: the way she feels graceful and reconnected to her roots. These little traces of herself aren’t accidents. They’re a quiet declaration: I belong somewhere.

When she talks about the future, it sounds like she’s trying to make peace with it. She craves control and is scared of uncertainty. But when she’s with him, uncertainty feels softer. Almost bearable.

They have their off days. He wants to explain his reasoning because he cares; she worries he’s misunderstanding her. He fears she’s not who she seems to be. She fears he’ll change for the worse.

Some evenings they sit in a restaurant, not laughing this time but tenderly bickering over silly things that somehow reveal everything - values, boundaries, pride. Yet it’s never the kind of fight that breaks them. Just small reminders that they are two people learning how to fit, how to stay. There are nights she goes home wondering if he belongs in her future. And some nights they speak on the phone for hours, envisioning something unbreakable, if only they get it right.

That’s the thing about love - it always starts easy. Then come the questions: Will it last? Is it going to work out? They think about it too much. Everyone does. The fear of a broken home before it’s even been built.

But maybe there’s no finish line, no safety net. Maybe love isn’t something you can ever be certain about; it’s a series of choices strung together. It’s holding your breath when you realise how much you care. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She voices her fears about it. “We can wait together for the rest of our lives,” he tells her one evening. She smiles, almost believing him - as if his words could quiet the noise inside her.

There’s some kind of relief in knowing not everything has to be decided. The unknown isn’t to be feared; it’s something to look forward to. They are just two people trying to understand one another - raw, hopeful, a little awkward at times - choosing to accept what is, not what could be.

There’s no crystal ball, no blueprint. All he can do is keep picking her up from the train station, a different one this time - one that’s better for them both. The car rides are no longer tentative; they now know when to laugh and when the silences speak comfort. Together, they sit back, hold onnot for dear life, but onto each other - and go along for the ride. Written By Anonymous