We would like to acknowledge the Gadi people, the Traditional Custodians of the land on which Vertigo is published. We pay our respects to Elders past and present, and acknowledge their enduring strength and sovereignty, which has never been ceded.
The Gadigal have lived on and cared for this Country for tens of thousands of years, and it is their stewardship that has made this land fertile and sustaining, long before colonisation and still today. This place, now known as Ultimo, has always been Gadigal land.
We pay respect to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people who defended their lands, waters, and communities through acts of courage and survival. Their struggle against dispossession is woven into the foundations of this city. The homes we live in, the paths we walk, and the institutions around us exist because of this violence.
Acknowledging Country means recognising that the privileges we hold today come at this cost. Every opportunity to live, learn, and work here is tied to structures built on dispossession, and the comfort many experience is inseparable from the hardships forced upon First Nations peoples. Privilege in this country is shaped by injustice and maintained by ongoing colonial systems.
First Nations peoples’ continuing connection to Country, knowledge systems, and community reminds us that the story of this land is living, not historical. This recognition asks us to reflect on our own position and take responsibility for how we move forward. Words alone are not enough. Acknowledgment must be paired with action and a commitment to justice.
As students, writers, and artists, Vertigo recognises our responsibility to learn from the knowledge held within this Country and to carry that awareness into the communities and futures we imagine.
Always was and always will be Indigenous Land.
Every issue of Vertigo in 2025 we have assigned to a LUCKY bird.
This phenomenon has been FONDLY titled: Vertigo Bird Theory.
Welcome to the final edition of Vertigo for 2025: Hello again, stranger,
Over the past year, we have been your lodestars, we conspired together, we got dizzy in the haze of technicolour, and we cracked you out of your shells.
Now, we say goodbye to the bizarre and curious world of Vertigo 2025.
Vertigo exists in a strange in-between. We operate for the broader student community at UTS. But our essence, editors, designers, and most of our contributors are a little more niche: we seem to be a little odder than the rest of UTS. And unlike other institutions you may find yourselves in, we will never ask you to mute your hue, or file down your teeth. We invite you to bite.
So, come chew on the freakish with us—Vertigo’s true ODD nature. Inheritance from fools, reintroduction of vampires, the phantasmagoric nature of bugs, and most abnormal and freaky and incomprehensible of all… the decisions of the UTS administration.
This year, we have built Vertigo up to heights it hasn’t seen since before Covid, when the magazine was given almost triple the budget that we are given now. By ‘we’, we don’t just mean the team of 11 of us who have poured our entire souls into this project—we mean you. It has been you who has kept us going. You. The contributor, the reader, the Instagram follower, the designer, the partygoer.
You have helped build us up: page by page, brick by brick.
In our final edition of the year, we wanted to say thank you. If your words or visual creations have been shown in these pages, we hope you are able to keep these magazines with you: a physical reminder of your talent and contribution to the UTS student community. And if you haven’t yet, we invite you to keep picking us up and submitting. Scream. Be heard. Stay weird and wonderful.
Forever freakish and forever yours,
The 2025 Vertigo Editorial team:
Bianca Drummond Costa, Mayela Dayeh, Arkie Thomas, Eryn Yates, Jonnie Jock, Zara Hatton, Liv Litver, Mannix Williams Thomson, Kimia Nojoumian, Emanie Samira Darwiche, and Nate Halward <3
WordsbyZaraHatton WordsbyZaraHatton
Vampires are Back and Hotter than Ever (she/they) @zarahatton
There is something inherently Erotic about the vampire. There is something inherently Erotic about the vampire.
Bodies pressed up against one another, the victim’s neck and chest exposed to the night air, probably whimpering from fear, with the vampire lurching above, sharp incisors bared and ready to plunge deep into soft skin.
It’shot.
It’shot.
Vampirism in fiction is nothing new. With their roots largely based in Eastern European folklore, the traditional bloodsucking vampire has graced our screens and pages more than we care to admit. Can the vampire be back if it never really left?
My most recent 5-star read was V.E. Schwab’s Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil. Marketed as Schwab’s “toxic lesbian vampire” book, as the merchandise tote bags coin it, I think Bury Our Bones is a herald of a trend that’s been creeping around the shadows for a good few years now, waiting to be invited inside with high collars and sharp teeth. I think it marks a distinct return to the classic vampiric literature that would have Carmilla and Dracula rolling in their graves. Or rather, co ins.
From the gothic genre’s inception, largely with Frankenstein in 1818, it becomes clear how rampant technological development generates stormy weather, ornate buildings, and body horror as a response. The second that fear can be smelt on the wind, gothic literature seems to come a-calling. Monster literature, in particular, tends to see a resurgence in periods of disillusionment and social tension. It can be a comfort: no matter how scary things societally get, there could always be creatures with huge teeth and big claws outside your door!
If you did HSC English, you’d remember that Shelley wrote Frankenstein as a response to societal tensions surrounding said technological advancements, particularly fears surrounding what it means to be alive, medically, and to warn against playing God. It is only natural, then, that as we see AI models appearing at every turn, seemingly growing more emotionally connected by the day (go have a look at the Gemini AI code sending itself into a terrifying spiral and then come back to me) that we return to this similar fear.
Kane (2000) argues that vampire media, up to his point of publication, can be separated into three main cycles:
and the 1 2 3 Stage
(1931-1948)
The Malignant Cycle, the Erotic Cycle, Sympathetic Cycle.
(1957-1985)
(1987-2006)
However, I would argue that we’re too far out to still be grouped within the Sympathetic. Too much vampire media has been released since Kane’s text, and it adds too much to the conversation to ignore it. Twilight, What We Do in the Shadows, the new Interview With The Vampire series, Hungerstone, Baldur’s Gate 3, Sinners, Bury Our Bones in the Midnight Soil—lately, vampires have been more humanised and given more redeemable (and sometimes more erotic) qualities than ever.
Welcome to Stage Four. (I couldn’t think of a fierce name for it. You’ll just have to trust me.)
Vampires have always been the symbol of the outsider. They’re creatures of the night, with their teeth sharp and their tongue sharper, charming and dangerous and everything you need to protect your sweet lovely submissive young women from. They’re the paramount symbol of debauchery, living in the intersection between fear and eroticism, and in the current social crucible it only makes sense that we’re gravitating towards them again.
In the face of rising conservatism, traditionalism, purity culture, and fascism, sex is framed as shameful in an attempt to gain control in a larger play of trading autonomy for obedience. Moreover, with their historical framing as sexual deviants, the vampire must be considered within its heavy queer subtext.
In their fearmongered perception of being predatory and corrupting, with an ability to spread a social contagion, vampirism and queerness align themselves closely. On the backdrop of blood borne symbolic viruses like HIV/ AIDS, the vampire is then the perfect vessel to project these homophobic and puritanical fears onto. In allowing the fear of the outsider to take form as something that can be warned against, the sex, blood, darkness, and hedonism the vampire represents can be warned against too. Hence, the current resurgence of vampire media is a refusal of shame, and a reminder to maintain individuality and autonomy no matter the circumstances.
Also, it has to be said: I know it feels like literally everything is, but vampires are a recession indicator. Sorry. Studies are literally showing that during rough economic times, vampire media seems to have a resurgence, and, in the same breath, zombie media seems to show itself in all its brain-y glory when the economy is doing well.
1987’s The Lost Boys came just before Black Monday, where a basically unexpected crash caused a loss of US$1.71 trillion. What happened in 1994, other than an Interview with the Vampire adaptation starring Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt? Oh, only the enormous financial crash known as the Great Bond Massacre. Then, the first Twilight movie and True Blood were ushered into the hearts of teenage girls (and literally everyone) everywhere in the shadow of the Global Financial Crisis, also known as the Panic of 2008. Correlation does not mean causation, I know. But isn’t it a little bit strange to see?
In a 2016 AOL essay, Bruce Watson discusses how “zombies reflect the tone of high-consumption boom times. The more melancholic vampires, on the other hand, suggest buyer's remorse.” I could wax poetic for hours about what it means to hunger, and how the vampire is the basal representation of it all, and no wonder there’s a pattern. I could talk about the festering depths of desire, and the primal necessity to sink your teeth into something, to own it, to claim it. What it means to want and what it means to see your wanting represented in the flesh, in all of its complexities and its filth. To look sex and shame and hunger dead in the face and have it look back at you, to invite it inside onto our screens and between our pages in some feeble attempt to remind ourselves that we are not dirty, or excessive, or scary, or a monster.
Or, I could say that vampires have a certain level of cuntiness about them that must just really work for audiences right now.
I suppose two things can be true at once.
Design by Jonnie Jock @jonniefuckingjock
Words by Emanie Samira Darwiche (she/her)
For many second-generation Arab Australians, university is more than just education. It’s proof. Proof that our parents didn’t survive war, sanctions and displacement for nothing. Proof that the sacrifice was worth it. And proof to ourselves that we belong in a system and a country that was never built with us in mind.
interview often hides the pressure bubbling underneath. While some of our peers focus on career fairs and semester breaks, we’re balancing study with paid work, family obligations, cultural expectations, and the silent responsibility to make our parents’ sacrifice count.
We are often the first in our families to attend university. That pride is real. But so is the pressure. Every distinction is a way of saying thank you. Every missed deadline feels like failure on a generational scale. Every time we fall behind, it feels like we’re risking more than just a grade.
Yet the university system rarely makes space for that truth. It’s built for a fictional “average” student, one with financial stability, family support, cultural familiarity, and time to spare.
It doesn’t account for the student who is translating Medicare paperwork for their parents in between tutorials. Or the one working night shifts to pay rent. Or the one showing up to class carrying the trauma of inherited exile.
Worse still, many of us are only seen when it suits an institution’s agenda. Universities love to centre us in diversity brochures. A brown face on a poster. A hijabi on the homepage. But once the campaign ends, so does the visibility. There’s no mentorship. No structured support. No career guidance. Just the illusion of inclusion.
Even when we are noticed, it’s often transactional. Bilingual? Great help with the “community engagement” strategy. Bring your culture, but leave your criticism. Translate this, appear in that, but don’t ask for credit. Our identities are used to build the image of diversity, but we’re rarely paid or supported in return. And when we enter job markets, our names alone can be enough to push our resumes to the bottom of the pile.
It’s a di erent kind of exile—not from a land, but from the structures that claim to represent us. The constant push and pull of being Australian enough to work for free when it suits an institution, but never quite Australian enough to be trusted, celebrated, or truly heard.
We are not asking for applause. We are not chasing pity. We are asking to be seen beyond the photo op, the performance, the policy paper. Our families helped build this country, literally. And yet, we’re still asked to prove we belong. Every time we tick a box, apply for an internship, or walk into a lecture hall.
Our degrees carry the weight of more than just personal ambition. They carry legacy, grief, resistance, and love. They are not simply credentials, they are quiet acts of defiance. Of presence. Of permanence.
BY Ethan Bergersen (he/him)
@e.t.bergersen
the process of shedding the old skin (in reptiles) or casting o the outer cuticle (in insects).
is still a dirty word.
Words
by Elizabeth Cullen (she/her) @elizabethcullenn
When I was 15, I Googled how much an abortion cost. The answer? $500. That was the price of freedom, a number that stuck in my brain before I’d even reached the legal age of consent. I wasn’t pregnant, but I needed to know: if it ever happened, could I a ord my own decision?
It’s a question too many students still quietly ask themselves, even long after abortion was decriminalised in all Australian jurisdictions. The reality? Access to reproductive care remains unequal, delayed, expensive, and deeply stigmatised.
The Abortion Law Reform Act 2019 was hailed as a victory in New South Wales, but the structural barriers women face today reveal just how hollow that win can feel without real support.
Although the law required every local health district to establish its own abortion procedures, only three of NSW’s 220 public hospitals currently provide the service. Patients whose local hospital does not o er care may be referred elsewhere, but acceptance often depends on whether another hospital will take out-of-area patients. For women in regional or rural areas, travel, cost, and lack of anonymity become insurmountable barriers.
For many, the bureaucratic hurdles are invisible until it’s too late. Episode 84 of the Social Work Stories Podcast dissected the reproductive rights healthcare system in NSW through an anonymous social worker’s stories and experiences in assisting patients. In NSW, before 7 weeks, a GP may prescribe a medical abortion.
Between 7 and 13 weeks, patients are referred to public hospitals or private clinics, the latter potentially charging thousands.
After 14 weeks, women in NSW must undergo multiple consultations, bloodwork, ultrasounds and counselling, as well as receive the approval of a committee involving up to eight sta ; doctors, nurses, midwives, unit managers, and legal advisors, who decide whether the procedure can go ahead. At 22 weeks, a termination requires approval from two doctors and the additional procedure of feticide at another hospital, followed by a return to the original hospital for delivery. At this stage, patients are expected to register a birth, name the baby, and arrange a funeral. Many women only learn this at their appointment (The Social Work Stories Podcast, Episode 84) .
These structural delays push women further into their pregnancies, increasing both costs and clinical barriers. For students, these barriers are compounded. Young people, often without stable income, away from family support, or unfamiliar with the health system, face immense logistical and emotional strain.
It’s a confronting and traumatic reality, one made worse by the health system’s refusal to properly resource the very procedures it claims to permit. Reproductive rights are a fundamental patriarchal tool within a patriarchal health system that permits healthcare workers to have a more decisive say over a woman’s body than the woman does herself.
Medical misogyny remains widespread in Australia, with two in three women reporting experiences of dismissal or discrimination in healthcare. This leads to poorer health outcomes, as symptoms that might be taken seriously in men are often ignored or minimised in women, sometimes with fatal consequences (Macdonald, 2024) .
Women also encounter far greater obstacles than men when accessing contraception through the healthcare system. To access an anesthetic for the insertion of an IUD, which can be an incredibly painful procedure, women must pay an extra $200 dollars on top of the $370 dollars to get the IUD. There is no option for a man to get a vasectomy without an anesthetic, it’s included in the price automatically (MSI Australia, 2024) .
While 1 in 4 Australian women will have an abortion in their lifetime, abortion stigma persists (Melville, 2022). The Australian Abortion Stigma Survey (2020) found that 82.5% of respondents supported legal abortion in all circumstances, yet over 10% still believed multiple abortions were “irresponsible.” This judgment lingers, particularly on campuses, where groups like the antiabortion “LifeChoice” continue to spread disinformation and harass students under the guise of “debate”. (Hon Soit, April 2025). In 2025, Honi Soit exposed the infiltration of these groups at the University of Sydney, revealing the toxic persistence of anti-choice rhetoric cloaked under an academic guise (Honi Soit, April 2025).
The manipulation of academic spaces to propagate ideology not only misinforms students but also compounds the stigma and barriers already present when trying to access safe and timely reproductive services.
However, stigma doesn’t just come from individuals, it’s built into the system. Conscientious objection clauses allow health workers to refuse to provide abortions without consequence. Publicly funded Catholic hospitals don’t o er them at all. Social workers are often responsible for supporting patients through abortion care, but receive no formal training. There’s no moral panic around vasectomies, only when women are in control.
In May 2025, the NSW parliament passed a bill allowing nurse practitioners and midwives to prescribe abortion pills, a move aimed at improving access in rural communities. But the bill faced fierce opposition. Liberal MP Chris Rath compared abortion with the Nazi’s genocide of Jewish people, further arguing that it is “bizarre” that abortion is seen as “a human right to healthcare”. Former Prime Minister Tony Abbott, while he was Health Minister, called abortion “an easy way out” to a group of students at the University of Adelaide. This isn’t just about policy. It’s about power, who has it, and who gets to use it. (May, 2025)
Young people face an added challenge: silence and lack of education. “No one ever explained how abortion worked,” says Indi, a second-year law and business student.
“I went to a Catholic girls school and our sex education consisted of information on contraception, sex and birth, that was contradicted by the overarching advice to remain abstinent. I don’t think abortion was ever mentioned”. Without comprehensive education, navigating access becomes harder in a time sensitive context.
Students are not just navigating the system, they’re changing it. Many are involved in activism, advocacy, and peer education. Some push for better sex education, arguing that students should learn about pregnancy options beyond a single Year 10 PDHPE class. Others are lobbying for policy reform, like the recent NSW bill allowing nurse practitioners and midwives to prescribe abortion medication, improving access in regional areas.
But the burden can’t be on women alone. The government, policy makers, and healthcare workers must continue to advocate for change and listen to the voices of women with lived experience to inform policy and practice. Reproductive rights must mean more than legal technicalities and political stances. They must mean timely access, informed choice, compassionate care, and freedom from judgment. For many women, this remains out of reach.
Reproductive health is still governed by systems built without women in mind. It’s shaped by people who will never walk into a clinic afraid, alone, or unsure. For students, the barriers are higher and the shame more acute. Limited financial independence, unstable housing, and the pressures of study make access more di icult, while stigma on campus communities often intensifies feelings of shame and isolation. What should be a matter of straightforward healthcare instead becomes a source of fear and secrecy.
But change is happening.
Students are organising, advocating, demanding more than legality. They want real access. Real education. Real respect. Because behind every statistic is a young woman quietly counting the cost of her freedom.
And $500 is just the beginning.
Isaac Asimov wrote that “the secret of the successful fool is that he’s no fool at all.” This is another unappreciated element of the jester archetype. In their time jestering, these individuals discussed current events, satirised happenings of the court and made subtle yet provocative commentaries. English statesman Thomas Cromwell noted that the jester Will Sommer was a “poor man’s friend” able to challenge the selfish opulence of the Royal family with satire.
In many cases, jesters themselves were anomalies within their societies. For some in the lower-class, particularly women, foreigners and the di erently-abled, jestering was the best form of upward social mobility. Archy Armstrong was a sheep thief before his career as a jester. João de Sá was an African and an ex-slave employed by King John III of Portugal. The legacy of jesters with dwarfism and other physical disabilities is long and storied, among them Perkeo of Heidelberg, Jeffrey Hudson and Don Diego de Acedo.
Some jesters likely had developmental disabilities. The term “natural fool” was used to describe some fools who unconsciously broke social rules, and that trait made them talented jesters. Jane Foole was a favourite “fool woman” of three English Queens, who, along with Will Sommer, was painted as part of the Royal family.
All of these individuals achieved success they never could have otherwise because of the unique position of the jester. In the brutal system of feudalism, jestering was their most effective form of resistance—to unabashedly mock the society that believed the lower class and disabled were put in their place by God.
When Je rey Hudson was mocked by a nobleman, Hudson challenged him to duel. The nobleman came with a squirt gun, expecting a humourous performance. Hudson arrived with a pistol and shot him square in the forehead.
The contemporary image of the jester as a manic but servile jokester is a massive disservice to the witty, rebellious, intelligent and impactful personalities that were attracted to the position. It also erases the proud history of the diverse jester. It shows that resistance from within comes in many forms and the oppressed have always found ways to resist and ridicule the systems that persecuted them.
Moreover, in the age of short-form social media content, the use of comedy to influence thought has never been greater. Drag queen Belinda Gread satirised the ‘anti-woke’ and pro-nuclear pipedreams of the Liberal Party throughout the 2025 election. Punter’s Politics creates satirical videos aimed at educating the average Australian. Purplepingers draws attention to the housing crisis by publicly promoting squatting in the many empty houses, and Nazeem Hussain has used his comedy routines as a platform to support the Palestinian struggle.
It’s hard not to see the similarities between the modern satirical political influencer and the medieval jester. But the question is, are they truly following the legacy by holding truth to power? As author Terry Pratchett said, “satire is meant to ridicule power. If you are laughing at people who are hurting, it’s not satire, it’s bullying.” So, if anything, don’t give your time to sycophantic performers, jingling their fool’s caps for the snickering upper class—support the comedians who are trying to make a di erence. They’re following a long, foolish legacy.
Mayela Dayeh (she/her) @mayeladay
The Death of Thought
Words by Eryn Yates (she/her) @eryn.yates Design by N8 Halward
Australia’s higher education system reflects long standing decisions about which forms of knowledge are valued and which are marginalised. It has elevated science as essential, valorised mathematics as di icult (and therefore worthwhile), and positioned technology as the engine of the future. Knowledge that is measurable is granted legitimacy, while knowledge that is unempirical, grounded in interpretation or subjectivity is cast as frivolous.
These hierarchies are embedded early, often beginning in the classroom, where subjects like mathematics are praised as rigorous, while other disciplines are merely tolerated. Students are subtly, or sometimes explicitly, encouraged to pursue educational trajectories that promise economic returns rather than intellectual depth. By the time they reach tertiary education, many students find that the choices available to them have been shaped by structural incentives. Degrees in science, technology,
engineering and mathematics (STEM) are heavily subsidised, signaling continued political investment in what are considered ‘productive’ forms of knowledge. In contrast, the humanities, or other degrees alike, are seen as expensive indulgences, with rising fees reinforcing their perceived marginality.
The University of Technology Sydney (UTS) has strategically positioned itself in line with national policy priorities that champion technological innovation as a key driver of advancement. A clear example of this alignment is the launch of a specialist Bachelor of Artificial Intelligence, signalling both institutional and governmental commitment to disciplines deemed significant. Australian students are eligible to apply for a Commonwealth Supported Place in this course, underscoring its role as an educational priority.
This logic is mirrored in other structural changes within UTS. In 2025, the university amalgamated the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences with the Faculty of Design, Architecture and Building, forming the Faculty of Design and Society (FDAS). Although framed as a necessary consolidation, the merger reflects deeper institutional preferences.
“Design” retains its disciplinary coherence and cultural capital, while “Society” functions as a residual category encompassing the humanities, social sciences, and communication fields. The ambiguity of this nomenclature has drawn critical reflection from students, some of whom have questioned the symbolic and pedagogical implications of folding diverse fields of inquiry into a single, loosely defined term (me, I am one of these students). The restructuring suggests not a unified intellectual vision, but rather an administrative accommodation shaped by austerity and market logic.
What happened to universities being niche?
This pattern continued into mid-2025 when UTS originally froze enrolments temporarily for nearly a fifth of its courses, placing 120 out of 615 programs on hold. Now, UTS is pursuing a second round of sweeping changes aimed at standardising degrees, cutting nearly a third of its subjects and drastically reducing specialisation and elective options for students. Sta face mass job losses, non-renewal of contracts, as the university asks for ‘voluntary redundancies,’ creating widespread uncertainty and dissatisfaction. These moves risk damaging UTS’s reputation, undermining student choice, and positioning the university as a secondtier provider that relies more on financial e iciency than educational quality. The newest proposals of cuts and mergers also disproportionately impact areas of Science, Health, and Education, raising concerns about the university’s commitment to other critical sectors during periods of workforce shortage. While management continues to frame the changes in the language of e iciency, the reliance on external consultants and the finality of these decisions have intensified disillusionment among sta and students alike. The result is an institutional climate that increasingly operates according to market imperatives.
We are now left with an education system that treats critical inquiry, cultural understanding, and ethical reasoning not as foundational, but as ancillary. History and literature are seen as ornamental, rather than structural. Sociology is framed as indulgent, rather than essential. These are the disciplines that equip individuals to interrogate power, question inherited norms, and consider the ethical dimensions of public life, yet they are the most at risk of erosion.
Importantly, these fields are also disproportionately associated with women. The feminisation of these degrees has made it easier to dismiss them, much like how care work is undervalued and underpaid, and emotional labour is ignored because it is not captured in national economic indicators. When knowledge is coded as feminine, its legitimacy is undermined, not due to an absence of intellectual rigour, but because of a lack of alignment with dominant, masculinised conceptions of rationality and utility.
These dichotomies are rarely stated explicitly, rather harshly lodged in the architecture of funding models, reflected in political discourse, and perpetuated in cultural narratives revealing something deeper about the society we are shaping. The privileging of certain disciplines over others tells us who we believe should lead, whose voices are credible, and which forms of intelligence we are prepared to reward.
We are often told that contemporary society is facing a crisis of democracy, that political divisions are intensifying, institutional trust is declining, and public discourse is becoming more brittle. Yet, seldom do we examine the kinds of thinking our institutions encourage or the intellectual dispositions our education system cultivates. The capacity for empathy, for historical understanding, for cultural analysis or deep listening—these are not the traits being nurtured, nor are they the ones being publicly valued.
As the political left gains cultural visibility, we are witnessing a corresponding backlash in which critical theory is positioned as a threat to tradition, gender studies is dismissed as ideological, and decolonial approaches are framed as divisive. The skills that the humanities o er are precisely what many reactionary movements fear; the capacity to illuminate the relationship between past and present and to challenge dominant narratives. These disciplines train students to consider the world not only as it is, but also as it might be otherwise. This capacity to imagine otherwise is threatening to those who benefit from existing arrangements of power, and it is precisely why the humanities are being defunded. A society that evacuates human understanding from its public life may achieve technological or economic growth, but it does so at the cost of social cohesion and ethical depth.
“Society” degrees are not an optional aesthetic flourish. They are infrastructural.
So remember that e iciency is not synonymous with justice, that truth is rarely convenient, and that power must always be examined
Words by Mia Campbell (she/her) @miiacampbell
On March 26, 2025, the UTS Students’ Association held a protest for Palestine as part of the National Day of Action. We gathered on the Alumni Green with UTS students, sta , and supporters, before marching to USYD to join a larger collective action. The protest was one of many held nationwide in solidarity with Palestinians enduring genocide, occupation, and
What would follow was something no one expected from the peaceful event: a monthslong legal review into whether our protest had caused a “psychosocial safety risk.”
A comment made by a speaker at the rally: Peter Slezak, an anti-Zionist Jewish academic
“Jews in particular should feel uncomfortable, and it’s our duty to make them uncomfortable… Of course, we bear a special responsibility which we can’t evade, because Israel is doing its crimes in our name–we
I understood Peter’s comment as a selfreflective challenge to moral complicity, the same kind of call you hear at Invasion Day rallies when white Australians are urged to confront the ongoing impacts of colonisation and recognise their privilege. Importantly, Peter included himself in the statement. But apparently, a few of the usual Zionist attendees–the same people who show up early to our rallies, film from the front, and scour the footage for soundbites to post out of context–claimed to feel “unsafe”.
That’s all it took for UTS to launch a full external investigation, hiring corporate law firm Bartier Perry to conduct interviews with students involved in the rally. Meanwhile, just days later, a student society on the same campus hosted two active Israeli Defence Force soldiers for an event, complete with a “virtual reality” simulation of October 7.
We contacted university management to emphasise that permitting this event to proceed would cause severe distress and pose a serious safety risk to many Palestinian students, including those at UTS on humanitarian scholarships recognising the hardships they have endured under the IDF. But the university allowed the event to go ahead, citing “freedom of lawful expression.”
While UTS claimed to have taken measures to “ensure safety” at this event, those measures served to protect only the IDF guests and event organisers. Registration, ID checks, controlled entry and a last-minute location change all ensured the event’s smooth facilitation–carefully designed to prevent any oppositional “lawful expression” from taking place nearby.
Cassowary
Have you ever caught sight of a bird that is odd in behaviour, appearance, or just down right strange all over?
We are all familiar with the weird and wonderful wildlife of Australia, with no better example than the wacky wanderers of Australia’s far-north coastlands, specifically the giant, vibrantly coloured, strangely plumaged, deadly rock crowned cassowary and their stilt wearing friends, the quirky Curlews who gaze at you with their enlarged yellow eyes as if they’ve mistaken you for their dealer and call out late at night as you try to rest your weary head.
Curlews are widely spread across Australia, along with the lesser-known Tawny Frogmouths, a nocturnal bird known for its abnormally large mouth. You might recognise it from bird shows or in zoos if you have been so lucky to let it peer into your soul with its giant yellow eyes. It has an inconspicuously giant maw, and squashed owl-like facial features, though it is easily mistaken for a motionless, dull patch of bark during the day.
Curlew
All of these birds are known to the Palm Cockatoo of Cape York, the furthest land point of North Queensland, where it lives as a wild spectacle. Referred to as the grandfather of cockatoos due to its ancient lineage, it is estimated to have evolved 27 million years ago. It is also known as the Goliath cockatoo since it is the largest of all Australian parrots. Its odd spikey hairdo and stark black feathers contrasting its hot red cheeks gives credit to its rock-band-like habits. They are natural musicians, spending their days looking for the perfect drum sticks to drum rhythmically until they attract a mate. Their strange habits include showing o their ability to mark territory with tools such as rocks and sticks. Even stranger is the peculiar monkey-like sound that echoes through the rainforest.
White winged Chough
Further down the coast of south-east Australia, the Curlew and Tawney Frogmouth greet the habitat of the White Winged Chough. This bird appears bland in appearance, with mostly black plumage, contrasted only by white streaked wings, and red eyes. Few other birds have such traditional upbringings as these do - these birds live in large flocks where only the most mature couple is permitted to breed while the younger family members stay home to help rear the fledglings, construct the nest, and forage. Stranger still, they are known for their nefarious gang activity of kidnapping young Choughs from neighbouring nests to strengthen their own flock’s size.
Goliath Cockatoo
Bowerbirds
Living nearby the Choughs, the Satin Bowerbirds who have a fetish for anything blue. They are often mistaken for a crow, with their yellow beaks and lilac eyes, but in sunlight the iridescence of satin blue in their black feathers reveals that what you’re seeing is a mature male bower bird, whereas female satin bowerbirds, and younger males both have green feathers. They all unite in their deep and profound peculiarity for blue objects; the males construct their nests on the forest floor with wall structures made of twigs and ‘meticulously decorate’ the nest’s perimeter with assortments of blue litter and debris they collect. Flaunting their ‘wealth’ entices the female’s a ection for them. Allegedly. Don’t get any ideas...
Of Australia’s vast, weird, and wacky ornithological wildlife, least is known of the elusive, highly secretive, ground dwelling ‘night parrot’. It was considered extinct for many decades until it came out from hiding in 1979. So, why is this bird critically endangered? It could be to do with the fact it probably can’t see well at night, which is exactly when it chooses to walk about… though the sad reality is that it faces extinction due to human made challenges such as introduced predatory species and environmental degradation. Strangely, their chirp sounds like something between a cricket and a frog croaking.
Night Parrot
One final notable mention is the critically endangered, Orange-bellied Parrot, a flu y, vivid green, unique bird which is of the only two migratory parrot species in the world. They are known to the coastlands shared between Victoria and Tasmania, but less and less as time passes— fewer than 60 remain in the wild due to human derived challenges of habitat degradation and loss.
Zaphod’s laboratory, which doubles as his living quarters, is a testament to his quixotic pursuit. It’s cluttered with half-finished experiments, unwashed co ee cups, and a slightly perturbed cat named Schrödinger who spends its days trying to figure out whether it’s alive or dead.
Zaphod, seated at his cluttered desk, scribbles equations on anything within reach: takeaway receipts, the wallpaper, his own socks, once even a tortilla chip before absentmindedly eating the proof.
“Probability,” Zaphod muses to Schrödinger, who responds with an indifferent meow, “isn’t just a statistical concept. It’s the very essence of our existence. It’s like the universe rolled a dice and decided that chaos was its preferred mode of operation.”
Schrödinger’s response, if it could be translated, would probably be a bemused shrug.
The cat, much like the universe itself, seems to take Zaphod’s philosophical ramblings with a grain of salt.
The Cosmic Book of Law, the town’s most sacred text, is kept in a binder that looks as though it was fished out of a discount bin at an o ice supply store.
This binder contains what is purported to be the ultimate guide to ethical behaviour, though its content often reads like a series of cosmic punchlines. For example, Principle 7 reads: “Thou Shalt Not Lie, Unless It Is Inconvenient To Tell The Truth”, a guideline that has led to widespread confusion and general disregard among the townsfolk.
In this town, conversations often take on an absurdly philosophical tone, particularly at the local diner,
The Quantum Leap.
The diner is a hotspot for discussing the absurdities of existence over a cup of co ee that is brewed according to the whims of the universe.
One day, Zaphod finds himself engaged in a lively discussion with the diner’s owner, Miss Celia Entropy, a woman who has made a career out of running a diner where every meal is a surprise.
“Zaphod,” Miss Entropy says as she sets down a plate of what appears to be a fusion of spaghetti and sushi, “do you ever wonder if the universe is just one big random event generator?” “Like, we’re all just here to see what happens when probability goes wild?”
“Absolutely,” Zaphod replies, twirling his chopstick/fork with a sense of theatricality. “Every day feels like a new chapter in a cosmic novel where the plot twists are written by the universe’s most mischievous editor.”
“Maybe the universe doesn’t care about coherence,” Miss Entropy muses, “maybe it’s all just about the unpredictable journey.”
“That’s the paradox,” Zaphod says, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. “We’re all searching for meaning in a universe that thrives on randomness. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack that sometimes isn’t there. And sometimes, the haystack isn’t either!”
As they continue their conversation, Zaphod reflects on the nature of existence in this unpredictable cosmos. The universe, for all its unpredictability, has a curious way of balancing its chaos with moments of unexpected clarity.
Zaphod’s experiments, though often leading to dead ends, occasionally reveal insights that are both profound and absurd.
In the end, the Probability Paradigm is less about finding definitive answers and more about embracing the delightful unpredictability of existence. The people of Serendipity Springs navigate their lives with a sense of humour and wonder, finding meaning in, or reveling in the lack of, the randomness that defines their world.
Because in a world governed by probability, the only certainty is that there are no certainties.
BILL REMEMBERING
BILL REMEMBERING
Bill Buckley, Order of Australia, worked on level six of building one at Jumbunna student centre. I’m pretty sure he once told me that he was Jumbunna’s first employee. He was the first person I talked to at UTS— he called me, asked me what I wanted to study, told me stories about former students and family.
After that, Bill would call me every week, say ‘I’m not policing’, just that he would like me to pop in to try a cake he or Colleen had baked. We went to his house for lunch once and he and Colleen served us Uyghur chicken stew and an oat slice.
taken a photo of, sitting in his o ice on Level Six of Building One, overlooking the Waraburra Nura garden.
I would be in his o ice and former students would pop by to say hello, or come in their graduating gowns to get a photo. His funeral was no di erent— dozens of us formed an honour guard from di erent universities and decades.
I told Bill I was writing poems and so he yarned to me about poets for a long time. The ones he admired, like Bobby Sands, and the poets who he had crossed paths with like Oodgeroo Nunnegal. He’d run poetry workshops in prisons as a young man, and ‘Aunty Kath’ known later as Oodgeroo, went in with him once. One fella in prison recognised her, came up and said that when he was in year 8, his last year at school, he’d written a letter to Oodgeroo and she sent one back. He had the very letter in his cell, all those years later. He read it out in front of the group. Bill said he looked around the room and the whole group of prisoners had come to tears.
Bill also printed out poems for me by a Blackfella he’d worked with in prison who spoke beautifully but didn’t write. Bill told him a short pause meant a line break, and a long one a full stop. He took his words from that prison block, showed them to me and many other people. I’ve got one of his poems on my wall. Last year he told me he had plans to travel south because he had a hunch about where he could find him. Anyone who knew Bill wouldn’t be surprised—he was gifted with enough sentimentality that he was always remembering. And although he was a whitefella he’d been around mob long enough that he was bound to know one of your cousins or Aunties or Uncles.
Billremembered every face and name andstory.
That was talking to Bill—listening to a man with one big story that connected everything, that shot in every direction. He remembered every face and name and story.
BUILT ON ODDITY
An interview between Eryn Yates and Joel Brevig: a UTS Visual Communications student known for his graphic design under the name sickday.
I was asked to do a profile on a fellow UTS student in Visual Communication and, honestly, I wasn’t too sure how to approach it at first. As someone who doesn’t study design, I wasn’t sure if I’d even understand the ins and outs of his work, but after chatting with Joel Brevig, better known by his professional name sickday, I realised that design is everywhere. In the small, strange details of everyday life that we often overlook. Design, at its core, is deeply versatile, and in Joel’s case, shaped by odd detours and odd moments of chance. His story begins, interestingly, with music. “When I was younger I wanted to be a music producer,” he explained. “I was making beats on my computer and putting them on SoundCloud, which I wanted cover art for, so I downloaded a cracked version of Photoshop and just started messing around with it.” What started as a workaround quickly pulled him in a new creative direction.
By high school, he was designing for artists and brands, realising that images could hold the same creative energy he once poured into sound. By 2022, he had committed to Visual Communications at UTS.
“I felt like I’d learn a lot faster going to school for it than I could teach myself, which I think has been the case,” Joel told Vertigo.
Joel’s influences are interwoven with music in odd, unexpected ways.
He absorbs the sounds he listens to and the strange ecosystems that orbit them. From packaging and videos to clothes and live shows, taking everything that stretches the artist’s world beyond the usual and spinning it into something larger.
His process reflects that fascination with worlds beyond the obvious. “If it’s work for someone else, I pretty much always have a brief, or at least some direction on where we want to go with any given project, so first I’ll take the time to understand what the outcome really needs to achieve, then from there it’s just executing. I think a lot of the process is just always exposing yourself to the things that inspire you rather than a plan to follow when a new project comes down, at least for what I do.”
When it comes to personal work, Joel experiments constantly, using materials and tools in unconventional ways, often blending digital and analog processes. He finds that working physically, with all the chance and randomness it brings, opens him up to unique results that wouldn’t emerge on a computer alone. There is no single process, just a continual exploration of what can happen when creativity meets oddity.
Such experiments have a way of leading to big opportunities. Joel has already worked with new and rapidly growing names like ONEFOUR and Ninajirachi. “The power of social media. A lot of luck and timing too honestly, it’s still crazy to me I even got to work on those projects, but if you make and share the kind of work you want to do, you’re way more likely to actually be able to do it.” His proudest moment so far was designing merchandise and branding for ONEFOUR. “Earlier this year I got to design a bunch of the merch and branding for ONEFOUR’s debut album, which was so cool to see out in the world.”
“I felt like I’d learn a lot faster going to school for it than I could teach myself, which I think has been the case”
Studying has helped sharpen his approach, even as the ground beneath creative degrees grows shaky. Studying design at university has strengthened his ability to develop concepts past their inception and consider how form and function interact. Being surrounded by people who are equally passionate but have their own perspectives provides constant inspiration, shaping the way he thinks about design and encouraging him to experiment in new directions.
Yet, he is candid about the cuts here at UTS. “I think it’s a shame that a lot of resources we once had are going away, but I can’t say I have any strong positions on the future of design education. You can learn a lot of skills online, and for free, if you’re motivated enough. You won’t get the structure and pacing though. A lot of formal design education in my experience has been hearing di erent perspectives and running with what you think works for what you want to do when you go into the world. A lot of designers I’ve worked with in the music industry never even studied design formally. Equally as many did, though,” Joel explained to Vertigo.
This speaks to why design degrees are so important. They provide more than just technical skills; they shape the way students think and experiment. The specialised nature of these programs allows students to explore areas they are genuinely passionate about, and for many, profoundly shape their personal and professional lives, making the case for preserving them stronger than ever.
For students feeling unsure and deeply a ected by any of the cuts (myself being one of those students), Joel’s guidance cuts through the noise. He encourages making work for yourself constantly and learning as much as possible from that process.
By pulling on the threads you enjoy, you naturally attract more of the kind of work you want to do.
Joel finished up by saying “sometimes you have to take no for an answer. Your ideas will get stepped on a lot but… you just have to decide if you’re gonna be hard done by or learn from it and try again.” Some good advice, I think.
So, Joel’s path into design might have been a little crooked but it is exactly that odd mix of chance that defines his practice. As sickday, he shows how creative lives often take shape in unexpected ways, and, even as a student of journalism myself, his work and words have inspired me to see the oddness in the world with a little more positivity.
It’s hard to put into words what debilitating period pain feels like to somebody who has never experienced it. When one thinks of period pain, the first and often only thought that arises is “a bad stomach ache”, but that hardly covers it. Backaches, headaches, hot and cold flushes, nausea, vomiting, mood swings, and fainting from being in such severe pain, all at once, for days on end. In high school, I would miss roughly 2 days of school every month. Those days were spent lying on the cold bathroom floor for hours, the tile pressed against my cheek and temple being the only relief I could find, because Panadol did nothing.
It’s hard to put into words what debilitating period pain feels like.
SometimesItrulyfelt likeIwasdying.
All that being said, this is a fairly typical experience. In fact, anywhere from 70-92% of Australians who get periods experience dysmenorrhea (meaning painful periods). The wide range in these statistics reflects a deeper issue regarding how there is unsurprisingly little research on this topic. To the research and university system alike, it seems as though we are invisible. For thousands of years, painful periods have been recorded, as countless attempts to remedy this pain have been made. Which begs the question, Why is menstrual discrimination still such an invisible topic within institutional policies?
W
is active discrimination against women, people assigned female at birth, and intersex people who experience periods. Menstrual discrimination within universities goes beyond just a lack of facilities, though that is an integral aspect to addressing period prejudice. It also reflects a broader lack of education, support, and knowledge of intersectonality, how periods increasingly a ect those with disabilities, people from low socioeconomic backgrounds, and certain cultural and religious communities.
hy is menstrual discrimination still such an invisible topic within institutional policies?
UTS claims under their “Equity, Inclusion and Respect Policy” that discrimination based on a variety of characteristics, including sex or gender, is not tolerated. Yet, one could argue that menstruation and dysmenorrhea not being valid reasons for Special Considerations
Why is menstrual discrimination still such an invisible topic within institutional policies?
At UTS, as stated on the website, Special Considerations require a doctor’s note explaining the reason for a missed
In response, the Women’s Collective and the UTS Student Association began providing free pads and tampons in the university’s busiest bathrooms in 2024. However, without consistent and su icient funding from the university, this initiative is di icult to sustain. Basic menstrual products should not be seen as a luxury, they’re a necessity. Addressing this gap is one of the many small, practical steps UTS can take toward a more inclusive and equitable learning environment.
Ending the stigma that surrounds periods is essential to support people who experience dysmenorrhea every month. The more periods are normalised, the more likely it is that those writing the policies will begin to include lines of action that will allow for menstruating students to continue having the same level of education as those who do not menstruate.
Basic menstrual products should not be seen as a luxury, they’re a necessity.
Basic menstrual products should not be seen as a luxury, they’re a necessity.
Having open discussions with each other plays a crucial role in this shift. Sharing experiences can help identify periodrelated health issues, such as PCOS and endometriosis, by allowing people to notice patterns, compare symptoms, and seek appropriate care. Open discussions with those who do not menstruate also help to challenge the shame and secrecy that come with periods, and the pain that many people su er silently. This means moving away from euphemisms such as “Shark Week” and “Aunt Flo”, and instead, using accurate language that will make periods a more normalised and accepted topic of discussion. Without changes to the current policies, students who experience painful periods will continue to face unequal access to education.
As long as menstruation remains stigmatised and unsupported, the gap will only widen.
The CO�T of Volunteerin�
The CO�T of Volunteerin�
At the heart of every non-profit organisation is a vision driven by purpose, rather than dollars. As President of the Red Cross UTS branch, it’s always a privilege to foster change, build community, and make a meaningful impact for those who need it most. But sometimes, purpose alone isn’t enough. As we confront increasingly complex challenges, the barriers continue to mount—and at times, the impact we strive for falls short.
Perhaps, the most ironic issue we face; volunteering often comes with a cost.
Words
by Louie Comitogianni
(he/him) @utsredcross Design by Nathan Halward
Many volunteers are shocked to learn that most large-scale volunteer projects require a fee to participate. These contribute to behind the scenes costs like equipment, organising sta , and venue hires. However, for many, the idea of “paying to volunteer” feels di icult to justify, and we don’t blame them. While we remain committed to o ering free opportunities to our members, limited funding restricts what we can do and significantly narrows our impact.
Fundraising raises a similar dilemma. Raising money for important causes is central to non-profits like the Red Cross, and opens the doors for initiatives and opportunities which weren’t possible before. But for students in a cost of living crisis, that extra expense can feel impossible. Even a small financial contribution can feel out of the question. The countless UTS students volunteering on and o campus is proof that they care, they want to get involved, give back, and make a di erence. But when times are tough, their ability to do so is limited.
Beyond the financial di iculties, making your voice heard can be challenging in the collaborative environment of humanitarian action. The most significant change comes from when nonprofits work together, especially when addressing complex and urgent humanitarian needs. However, di erent perspectives, principles, and objectives often need to be navigated before we can reach that point. Avoiding conflict in these discussions, while making sure our own organisation’s voice is heard, is a di icult balance to achieve when planning collaborative projects.
What sets student-led nonprofits apart? We’re trying to lead, organise, and build all while being full-time students ourselves. Students’ schedules are packed with jobs, classes, assessments, and personal commitments. Add in meetings and planning sessions, and it’s easy to see why ambitious ideas can be hard to bring to life. Complex humanitarian challenges require well-thought-out, carefully planned initiatives—but sometimes, the time and energy simply aren’t there.
In the world of humanitarian action, it often feels like all possible obstacles are stacked against us. And while purpose isn’t enough to overcome them, it is the reason why we keep moving forward. Through every hopeful smile and act of service we are reminded of why the work of nonprofits is so important. In a world that can feel too overwhelming to impact, these small moments of perseverance make a di erence.
WORDS BY NEEVE NAGLE (SHE/HER)
DESIGN BY SOPHIE ZHANG @BONESOFSOUP
Imagine this scenario: you’re overwhelmed with assignments, feeling unwell, and desperately need medical attention, but when you call to book an appointment at the campus health service, you’re told the next available slot is weeks away, possibly after your semester ends.
This is the stark reality UTS students are facing trying to access the Health Service in Building 1. What should serve as a crucial support system for student wellbeing has instead become a source of additional stress and frustration.
Students across campus are sharing troubling experiences that expose significant shortcomings in the UTS Health Service. The issues fall into three main categories: complete unavailability of appointments, lastminute cancellations, and unprofessional conduct during consultations.
The stories are consistent and concerning. Students describe calling numerous times for appointments only to be told none are available for weeks ahead. Others report finally securing an appointment, only to receive a cancellation call on the day itself–sometimes just hours before their scheduled time. Perhaps most troubling are the reports of inappropriate behaviour during consultations, with students describing interactions that fall well below expected professional standards for healthcare providers.
The UTS Health Service appears to be operating with severely limited resources.
Sources indicate they’re attempting to serve over 51,000 students with what amounts to minimal full-time medical staff. When your student population rivals that of a regional city, but your healthcare team could barely sta a small clinic, the mathematics simply don’t work.
The demand for basic medical services has increased significantly, yet staffing levels appear inadequate to meet student needs. Simple appointments for medical certificates, prescription renewals, and general care have become increasingly difficult to secure within reasonable timeframes.
The impact extends far beyond inconvenience. When appointments are consistently unavailable or cancelled at the last minute, students are left scrambling for alternatives during critical periods, such as assignment blocks or exam periods. Those dealing with ongoing health conditions find their treatment interrupted, while others defer seeking care altogether rather than face repeated disappointments.
Students are rationing prescribed medications because they can’t secure timely renewal appointments for free. Same-day cancellations are especially disruptive for students who have adjusted class schedules, work commitments, or travel plans to attend appointments. Others are diverting limited funds towards their healthcare because campus services have proven unreliable. This directly contradicts the purpose of university health services, which should make healthcare more accessible for students, not less.
International students face particularly acute challenges, but perhaps no group is more affected than the nearly 800 students living on campus. These residents often rely on the campus health service as their primary doctor for financial reasons, yet they frequently encounter unavailable or cancelled appointments. When the service fails, they are forced to pay out-of-pocket for private healthcare, an expense many cannot afford. Living in university accommodation often means limited income and reliance on campus services for essential needs, leaving on-campus students in a particularly vulnerable position within an already strained system.
University management will likely acknowledge these issues exist, though meaningful solutions remain elusive. The Students’ Association has rightfully highlighted this as un-resortacceptable,particularlywhenstudents to borrowing money for basic healthcare access. Recently, UTSSA President Mia and I (the UTSSA Welfare Officer) had the opportunity to contribute to an independent review of UTS Health Service, where we provided honest Wetestimonyaboutthesystem’sfailures. shared not only the broader patt-buternsaffectingstudentsacrosscampus, navigatingalsoourownpersonalexperiences theseinadequateservices. This review represents a crucial stepthetowardunderstandingthefullscopeof basedproblemanddevelopingevidencesolutions.
However, reviews and reports mean little withoutconcreteaction.Studentshave beenraisingtheseconcernsfor years, and the problems have onlyworsened.Thequestionremains whetheruniversityleadershipwilltreatthis review as another bureaucratic exercise or Thisuseitasacatalystforgenuinereform. situation exposes a troubling contradiction in university priorities. Marketing materials consistently emphasise “student wellbeing”and“support,”yethealthservices operate as though they’re supplementary rather than essential infrastructure.
THE UTS HEALTH SERVICE WAS NOT APPROACHED FOR COMMENT BUT PROBABLY WOULD HAVE TAKEN SIX WEEKS TO RESPOND ANYWAY.
The timing couldn’t be worse. With UTS experiencing millions of dollars in course cuts and stress levels predictably rising, the health service that should function as students’ primary safety net is already stretched beyond capacity. UTS must fundamentally reassess its approach to student health services. This means treating healthcare as essential infrastructure rather than an optional service because it doesn’t increase their revenue. They must invest in adequate staffing levels, and ensure capacity matches the student population it serves. Until meaningful reforms are made, students will keep paying high fees for inadequate healthcare, a situation that serves no one but UTS and contradicts the university’s stated commitment to student success and wellbeing.
Speak to our Student Advocacy Officers for independent and confidential advice.
Follow us on Facebook for regular updates facebook.com/ BluebirdBrekkie
Night Owl
Tuesdays & Thursdays 5:00pm – 7:00pm
Tower Building Foyer utsstudentsassociation.org.au
Words by Mia Campbell @uts_students
Congratulations to the Vertigo team for making it to their final volume of the year! It has been an absolute privilege to work alongside such a passionate, hardworking, and talented editorial collective. For my report in this final edition of 2025, I wanted to look back on some of the SRC’s work over the past year and reflect on a few achievements that I’m especially proud of.
This year has been one of the most challenging in recent memory, marked by UTS’ announcement of $100 million in sweeping cuts to sta and courses. In the face of this, I was proud to work alongside members of the SRC from across the left-wing political spectrum to resist these cuts in every way we could. Together, we continuously organised protests, lobbied university management, and worked with the NTEU to amplify sta voices.
_association
We fronted countless media interviews, represented UTS students at the Federal Senate Inquiry into the Quality of Governance at Australian Higher Education Providers, built strong social media campaigns, and pushed our concerns through Faculty and Academic Boards to ensure the voices of sta and students were heard.
Another major focus this year was the national policy landscape around genderbased violence in higher education. With the introduction of the National Higher Education Code to Prevent and Respond to Gender-Based Violence, as well as the creation of the National Student Ombudsman under the Universities Accord, students have finally seen some longoverdue recognition of the systemic issues at play. At UTS, I pushed for the release of a review the university had conducted into its sexual misconduct response processes, only to have resorted to a GIPA request after stonewalling.
UTS even amended o icial minutes to erase an approved recommendation from a report I had written, which had called for a response from Council on issues students had raised about sexual violence management. Despite a meeting with the Vice-Chancellor, it remained clear that UTS had no real commitment to changing their harmful, traumatising processes. In response, I sought and secured an investigation by the National Student Ombudsman into UTS’ repeated failures to implement recommendations from its own reviews, while also working with the ABC to expose this nationally.
Internationally, the devastation in Gaza has cast a shadow over everything this year. The scale of destruction and the ongoing silence—or outright complicity—of our leaders and institutions has been nothing short of heartbreaking. On campus, we saw an important step forward when UTS allowed its Memorandum of Understanding with the Israeli Institute of Technology (the Technion) to lapse, following years of tireless student and sta organising. This was a significant victory for our community, and a clear rejection of attempts to rewrite history or feign ignorance. Beyond campus, the UTSSA played a role in demonstrating at the NSW Antisemitism Inquiry, ensuring that government attempts to demonise protesters and restrict free speech around Palestine will be remembered for what they were. One of the most powerful moments of the year came when we hosted the largest student meeting in years, where students overwhelmingly endorsed the referendum on Palestine—a reminder of the strength and moral clarity of our student body.
Even with these pressing campaigns, we continued to make progress in academic and welfare advocacy. We rolled out key reforms introduced last year, including standardised 11:59pm submission times, late penalties capped at 5% per day, and a 72-hour simple extension process without documentation.
We also developed reforms to the Special Consideration system, securing fairer and more consistent outcomes for students. On the welfare side, we secured a permanent place for the UTSSA’s free food services, introduced free cooking classes and OzHarvest lunches, and continued lobbying on housing a ordability and satisfaction.
At a state level, we kept up the fight for Opal concessions for international and part-time students—an essential reform that remains long overdue. I’m also proud of the way the SRC has worked together this year. Despite ideological di erences, we never lost sight of what mattered: achieving meaningful change for students and supporting struggles for justice worldwide. Choosing collaboration and compassion over factionalism has only strengthened our work, and I hope this approach continues well beyond my term. This year we also introduced stronger accountability measures for paid student representatives, ensuring they fulfil their roles, and worked with Vertigo to implement reforms that have made this one of the strongest years for the magazine in recent memory.
To the incoming Vertigo and SRC teams, I wish you good luck! I hope you carry forward the spirit of solidarity, courage, and compassion that has defined this last year.
Div e Sty r - T ch
T Sug cub - F*** g In Rhy m A S row
T Melody M - Enc m t
G y Wils - Y Th k Y R y Know Me
Life W h t Build gs - T L no r
Syr x - Aur a Sp ray
C rlo e Adig y, Bol PupulCi l a - Sexy P no Shop
T Space Lady - Sy size Me
Li y M ci D cl x - H d Boi d Babe
Design and curation by Jonnie Jock @jonniefuckingjock
