Our Year 11 and 12 English students have been busy developing their writing skills and unveiling their creativity this term. As part of Units 1 and 3, students explored the writing frameworks of Culture and Conflict (Year 11) and Personal Journeys (Year 12). Drawing on a range of carefully selected mentor texts and stimuli, they used these themes as a springboard for generating ideas and crafting original pieces of writing.
It has been wonderful to watch their writing flourish and evolve throughout the term. Students have focused on using vivid sensory detail and effective language techniques to bring their stories to life and engage their readers.
We are incredibly proud of their efforts and are delighted to share a selection of excerpts from their imaginative and thought provoking creations below.
- Ms Tania Aoun
Angi A, 11D
Who am I?
A daughter of a place
where voices are lowered before they rise.
Where we are taught to listen.
To speak softly.
To exist carefully.
Care for your husband, obey and nod
This is who we are,
From Iran
where silence is not absence,
but proof.
But proof.
Proof of patience.
Proof of faith.
“Khoda (God), sweetheart,” Mama says.
“He… always is watching… always.”
He sees what we carry.
He knows what we are meant to endure.
So, we do not rush.
We do not question.
We become still…
trusting that what is taken
is also chosen, even if broken.
But here,
in a country where everything must be said
to exist,
I learned early
to hold my voice
like something borrowed
spoken when needed,
but later swallowed.
Andre S, 11B
“He specialised in Berlin University,” Mama was saying the first time she delivered the news. Salma kept her head down, staring at her own feet and nodding obediently the whole time. “A cardiac surgeon, you can’t get luckier than that. And in Germany, you can’t buy your way in, unlike here,” she cast a long glance at my father.
Baba took a sip of the bitter coffee he drank every morning without fail. “Plus, he will take care of you much better than we can. So what do you say?”
His question was delivered in a sinister manner that foretold Salma there was no other option but to accept. She stayed silent.
I stood in the hallway, watching the scene unfold, Mama smiling cheerfully and explaining that Hassan and his family would come to ask for Salma’s hand in marriage exactly next week.
There was only one problem; my sister had already decided who she wanted to marry. And the one man she desired was someone neither Mama nor Baba would ever accept, because Joseph was a Christian. A Kafir. A man who could never be one with Salma under the watchful gaze of the Quran. I saw them a few times, meeting outside the school gates, hiding from the brutal sun underneath the shade of the olive trees.
Hannibal D, 12C
الجيل الثاني (Second Generation)
You told me about the times you felt split in two, belonging everywhere and nowhere at once. You had olives and labneh (yogurt dip) packed for lunch at school, while your Anglo counterparts enjoyed Vegemite sandwiches. You weren’t like the others, always different.
At school, English surrounded you. At home, however, Arabic was proudly spoken; you easily became fluent in a tongue that seemed so foreign to you.
Accompanying your father on your infamous fishing trips in Geelong, where you would casually exchange conversation in Arabic, became a delightful tradition. You had stopped this tradition because of fishermen who abhorrently swore “filthy wogs”. Such a term became familiar to you, growing up in the northern suburbs.
On the pier, you would watch groups of men grill their fish for their hearty lunch. They would drizzle olive oil on the grill; a dark green bottle with an inscription at the bottom reading: Imported from Jerusalem.
You swallowed your shame and dared not to speak of the cultural ties you had towards the kitchen staple.
Isabella I, 12B
The first gold I ever knew was not mine to choose. Before I could understand what it meant, it had already become part of me. Another thing I would have to carry before learning how to carry it well. My grandmother held me still as she pierced my ears, her hands steady and deliberate, as though she had done this before and would do it again. There was no way out of the pain that was to be bestowed upon my tender ears. I was young. Defenceless. Pure. The earrings were small, almost fragile, but they caught the light when she leaned back to inspect them.
…
One summer night, I realised this while listening to Fairouz’s song “Ghali El Dahab” (Precious as Gold). How she harmonised the importance and value of gold in the Arab world made me second-guess whether women were appreciated with even half that admiration. I did not view the story about gold; instead, I mirrored it to women. Their strength, value, importance, and purpose in life were constantly left on the shelf, collecting dust. I noticed that the journey of women needed to be uphill, not only for strangers, but as well for me. What connected these women was not perfection or obedience, but endurance. Their stories were not about finding an escape. They were about continuing despite the obstacles before them.