In the final issue of The Aviso for 2020, we bring you the gorgeous artwork from one of our alumnae as well as current students. This issue also includes pieces of good news from around the world, to serve as a reminder that even when things get tough, there is still good in the world. As we ease into the summer holidays, check out a new film or book from our 'Recommendations' section, or read the riveting stories that students have submitted. You can even try your hand at the butter chicken recipe included at the end!

The Aviso team would like to thank everyone who has made a submission this year! We are so grateful for every submission we receive, and we'll be back next year better than ever. We hope all of you have a lovely summer holiday!

Rania Widjanarko

Editor

Founding Editor’s Goodbye

2020: The Year the World Didn’t Load Properly

As the minute hand hurtled towards midnight on New Year’s Eve, most of us could not have anticipated the impending year as being anything but perfect. 2020, the dawn of a new decade, seemed the most glorious possible year in which to complete Year 12. Such a symmetrical, beautiful number would have pride of place on our Year 12 jumpers, shining resplendently.

The revelry of the New Year was quickly tempered by a message greeting the Class of 2020 on our Compass newsfeeds one sunny morning: the decision had been made to cancel the Year 12 Formal. Half a decade of collective anticipation and feverish preparations had been rendered futile in a single instant. Mere days later, the loss of the formal was followed by the swift loss of the riverside Year 12 study centre, another privilege the cohort had spent half a decade waiting for. Gilbert, the beloved therapy dog, suddenly died and was replaced by the portentously named Murphy. Upon returning to school, we found ourselves bereft of both an auditorium and a gymnasium, leaving the school with no place to hold either the school musical or the International Women’s Day whole-school assembly. The swimming carnival was moved to a new venue, leaving us without a Year 12 balcony on which to dance the stress of VCE away. In the Main Building, room numbers were rearranged and corridors were thinned, essentially reverting us to our lost and confused Year 7 selves. The Lyceum, set to become a flourishing new performing arts centre, slowly wasted away. As the SRC Congress was cancelled out of the blue, none of us even got the chance to whinge about any of this.

COVID-19 had barely reached our shores. The virus was not yet a global pandemic.

Once online learning commenced in April, the days became punctuated with shouts of “you’re on mute”, “turn your cameras on” and “we might live like this forever”. There was talk of postponing VCE exams to December or, heaven forbid, extending the school year into 2021. During the brief midwinter return to on-campus school, everything changed. Tuesday afternoons were lengthened. Lunchtimes were cut in half. Microwaves were gone, removed on the pretext of promoting social distancing. The flagpoles, which had once hoisted up a glorious assortment of flags, were left languishing. Those long-awaited year 12 jumpers arrived a month late, after sitting aboard a stranded cargo vessel in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Their arrival was hailed as a miracle. When a second lockdown was ordered, the jumpers sat in our respective wardrobes. As the summer approached and case numbers slowly decreased, the school air conditioning was turned off, just in case it might spread the virus. By year’s end, any hopes of a proper Valedictory, Presentation Night, Muck-Up Day, Year 12 Assembly and Year 12 Breakfast had long since been relinquished.

Despite losing nearly all the rites of passage and privileges bestowed upon Year 12 students, we will still receive the one thing we’ve banked our lives on – our ATARs, a day before New Year’s Eve. At least, after all these unprecedented trials and tribulations, we will get a morning tea to celebrate. We’ll have to wait until next February for that, though.

Throughout this strange year, I have relished my experience as editor of The Aviso, and have greatly enjoyed publishing each of your contributions. I look forward to the future development of The Aviso in 2021, with Rania Widjanarko, Hannah Benhassine and Harriet Turner-Browne at the helm.

Hopefully, the world will load properly this New Year.

Xara Hudson

Founding Editor

Alumnae

Untitled - Isadora Lauritz, MGC Class of 2016

Isadora Lauritz graduated from MGC in 2016 after spending many years studying performing arts subjects at the school, and being cast in a variety of lead roles in school productions. She recently graduated from Monash University with a Bachelor of Music, and has performed at a range of venues in Melbourne. In addition, Isadora has appeared as a session vocalist in professionally released music and is a lifelong student of dance and theatre.

Spotlight: Good News!

Leap Forward for Womens’ Rights in Sudan - Hannah Benhassine, Year 10 and Rania Widjanarko, Year 11

A necessary step has been made to ensure the rights and safety of girls and women in Sudan. According to the UN, 87% of Sudanese women have undergone female genital mutilation and around a third of girls in Sudan are married before they turn 18. This will all change with Sudanese authorities announcing that they will put an end to child marriage as well as enforcing the ban on female genital mutilation. From the final week of November, the council has adopted all articles of the African charter on the rights and welfare of the child. Sudan now joins the rest of the world's leaders in their bid to eliminate female genital mutilation and end child marriage by 2030.

The ‘Living Coffin’ - Harriet Turner-Browne, Year 8

We may think of man-made waste as something only considerable in our lifetimes, but our environmental impact is equally worth noting after life. Depending on the material, coffins can take from 5 to 100 years to decompose! Dubbed “The Living Cocoon”, Dutch bio designer Bob Hendrikx has created a coffin that “feeds the earth with our bodies.” The cocoon is made from Mycelium, a miracle-like mushroom fibre that neutralises toxic substances like oil and plastic. While the deceased decomposes, the mycelium releases nutrients which fertilise the soil, and in 2-3 years, the cocoon transforms what could be pollution into an enrichment to the earth. It shows that death is not just an ending- it is a new beginning for other forms of life.

Recommendations

Film: Hacksaw Ridge - Monique Selcuk, Year 10

Hacksaw Ridge is a 2016 war themed movie directed by the famous Australian actor, Mel Gibson, which depicts the true story of a man named Pfc. Desmond T. Doss, who was able to save 75 men without firing a shot in the Battle of Okinawa. Desmond Doss was a United States Army corporal who served as a combat medic. He was brought up in a religious household, meaning he did not want to take a life in war, allowing him to become a medic and treat soldiers on the Japanese island, in World War II.

Before watching the movie, I had no knowledge of the Okinawa battle and what actually happened, however, as the movie progressed, I was able to understand every detail, based on the visual effects and the performance of the actors. Andrew Garfield, who plays Desmond, presents the audience with the struggles and selflessness of the medic, and his fight to save others in a time of crisis.

If you are interested in watching the film, please remember to watch with a parent/guardian as it is rated MA15+.

Book: Pride and Prejudice (by Jane Austen) - Chloe McCormick, Year 8

When people think of this novel, they generally associate it with romance, marriage, more romance. But, it is not what you think it is. Trust me, I was one of those people, initially thinking it would be another boring novel where the female protagonist is solely dependent on her romantic interest. On the contrary, Pride and Prejudice explores deep human interactions and gives us insight into our predecessors’ lives, values and expectations.

Throughout the novel, the protagonist Elizabeth not only marital prospects and status, but also growth as an individual is highlighted. Pride and Prejudice has changed my perspective, both on the past and present. And I think all of us would benefit from experiencing a young lady’s life in the 19th century through Jane Austen’s writing.

The Philosopher’s Cabin

Negating Nietzsche in the Age of Coronavirus - Xara Hudson

We had dreamed of them for half a decade, and finally, they were in reach. In the depths of Winter, 2020, the long-awaited Year 12 jumpers were set to arrive on Australian shores. Each of us had spent at least six months – if not five years – creating a shortlist of potential jumper nicknames, and then making the painstaking decision of selecting the perfect nickname to adorn that most permanent reminder of our graduating year. Before the onslaught of the coronavirus pandemic that ground the world to a halt, the jumpers’ arrival had been scheduled for June: GAT day, specifically. Alas, that was not to be. As a slew of ever-changing border closures and trade restrictions were hastily imposed around the world, pertaining especially to cargo shipping, the jumpers’ fate became unknown. The weeks passed. June came to a close. No jumpers in sight. The Year Level Leaders received word that the jumpers had been sitting still on a stranded container ship amidst the perilous Indian Ocean. Seeing as nightly news reports had become filled with catastrophes befalling ships the world over, this news was only more disconcerting. What if the ship sank, taking 250 jumpers with it?

On the fateful morning of July 20th, the Class of 2020 received a sudden Teams notification. “We have a delivery”, the message read. A picture accompanied the note: jumpers, lying piled on a conference room table. They had made it despite all odds, having survived their valiant journey across the seas. Given the circumstances, it was nothing short of a miracle. It was a miracle that we were even at school to receive them: schools had been reopened just shy of a week prior. Sophie, a Class of 2020 compatriot, replied to the post with four words: “There is a God”. It was period 2, and I was in my Philosophy class, commencing the course’s unit on Friedrich Nietzsche – arguably best known for his famed aphorism “God is dead”. The miraculous arrival of the jumpers appeared to obliterate Nietzsche’s contention in one fell swoop. As the class continued, effervescent excitement over the jumpers muffled my teacher as he expounded on Nietzsche’s views on societal progress and the almost futilely tenuous nature of morality.

Another phrase, so popularised that it has been essentially rendered authorless, was in fact coined by Nietzsche: “that which does not kill us, makes us stronger”.

Little Things at Alice’s - Tilly Currie, Year 10

Defenestration - Imogen Leigh, Year 11

The others had departed a few hours earlier, hunting for a supernatural murderer who has been terrorising Melbournians. Already, several bodies had been found, plasma drained from their corpses. So, tonight being my designated time off, I finally have the entire penthouse to myself!

Located along Collins street in the heart of Melbourne, the modern penthouse we ‘borrowed’ from some pusillanimous tenants is massive. There is an indoor cinema, a spa, a bar area, five bedrooms and 3 bathrooms along with an indoor gym, pool and a grand piano, which perches in front of a wall of glass windows. The lounge area and kitchen are large enough to host a dodgeball tournament, with enough room for spectators. It’s awesome!

Left in solitude, I blast AJR’s Bang from the stereo, dancing around the room. I create a nest of blankets and duvets in front of the massive TV, wearing my Bambi Pyjamas, ready for a Disney movie marathon. I prance in the kitchen, practicing the newest TikTok dances, to show the others when they return as I wait for the microwave to chime. The sweet buttery aroma of popcorn wafts through the apartment, mingling with the vanilla-scented candles I’d previously scattered around the building before and creating an air of intoxicating suspense. Something good is going to happen tonight, I know it.

I draw the curtains, obscuring the enthralling view of Southbank's skyline, with its dance of lights and colour penetrating the darkness and reflecting off the slow-moving currents of the Yarra. I grin. My friends are down there somewhere, hopefully on the monster’s trail. I know how frustrating these hunts can be, and the looming threat of COVID-19 and Melbourne's harsh chill and flesh-eating winds don’t make our job any easier. With any luck, they should return by dawn.

Settling down in my new throne, I hum along to Frozen II’s Into the Unknown, sharpening my sword in time to the beat. The volume is on high, causing the furniture to vibrate and glass to rattle as Elsa's formidable vocals soar over the words. Her serenade is so loud I can barely hear the cries of steel being sharpened, and briefly ponder whether any neighbours will complain. Probably not. With the TV so loud, I don’t hear the chime of the lift doors, nor do I notice the figure gliding down the hallway, as silent as the dead.

I watch entranced as Anna and Olaf plummet down the river, heart in my throat as they sail past the giants. From the shadows behind me, a gloved hand materialises from the darkness, grasping my mouth and nose, muffling my shout. I twist, grabbing my assailant by the wrist and pulling downwards. Jabbing blindly with my sword. I curse when I miss, the momentum sending my only weapon soaring into the shadows. But I’m free. I roll away, squatting with my fists raised, straining to identify a figure shrouded in an ebony coat. As I try to calm my breathing, briefly I wonder whether back-up will come bursting through the doors, but I am disappointed. Guess I have to handle this alone. Fine.

Almost faster than the eye can see, the intruder launches towards me, reaching with a clawed hand. With a trained duck and roll, I scatter blankets, cursing as my foot becomes entangled. A glint of silver betrays a wicked blade, withdrawn from the stranger’s cloak. He lunges again and I trip, too slow to evade the bite of steel across my abdomen as we grapple. Although shallow, the cut burns and blood spurts like water from a fountain, but there’s no time to think about it. Instinctively, I curl into a ball to shield myself, rolling back across the floor, towards the windows. The figure follows leisurely, as though going for a nice morning stroll. Brushing too close to a candle his cloak ignites, illuminating a grotesque grin. I scream. My friends have failed. The intruder in front of me, the creature with a single long incisor bared in a sneer, is a Valkanite.

Now dear Reader, you may be wondering what that is, and I shall tell you. It is the stuff of nightmares. Valkanites are capable of sucking out plasma from their victim’s leaving them dried out like a husk. It uses a single straw-like fang, situated at the forefront of its mouth, usually where a person’s top incisors would be. Although belonging to the same family of Vampires, this immortal creature harbours no known weaknesses. Lucky me.

The Valkanite springs again, and I duck, sticking out my legs. It trips, flying overhead and colliding with the piano in a cacophony of splintering wood and flying keys, dissonant enough to make Mozart’s undead ears bleed. I snatch up what remains of the piano’s ebony cover, thumping the monster as it skittles backwards. Propelling it at the creature, I knock it into the window, shattering the glass like a fatal waterfall. As the Valkanite balances on the ledge a little longer, arms careering like pinwheels, I give it a slight push, watching it topple from the building. A spine-tingling shriek is soon cut off abruptly. It’s the first sound I’ve heard it make all evening- hopefully the last. I don’t think anything could survive that fall, even an indestructible immortal.

I step back from the window, stumbling towards the enclosed safety of the apartment, shivering as the crisp autumn air invades. From between my tight-knitted fingers I watch a dark, green clumpy liquid oozing out. I gasp, pressing my back against the nearest wall for support. My first ever bucket-listed act of defenestration hadn’t gone quite as I had hoped I think, sliding down the wall and curling up as my abdomen flares with pain. I grit my teeth, moaning as black spots dance before my eyes. And then I begin to laugh. Uncontrollably, as the obscurity of my situation, of my life, begins to set in.

Here I am, 16-year-old Madison Gray, monster hunting specialist and part-time Disney fanatic laying on the floor of a stranger’s penthouse in the heart of Melbourne. Green stuff oozing from my gut after having been nicked with a deadly blade by a thinkably indestructible monster, which I had defeated. Alone. In the background, Kristoff ominously belts the lyrics of While Lost in the Woods, the words echoing through the room. Yeah, life has definitely been better.

The lift dings and a clatter of footsteps race inside, cleaving through the stillness of the apartment. I’m too delirious to check whether Mr. Valkanite had returned with any new friends and, instead of caring, I clutch my stomach harder and softly begin to sing between bouts of hysterical, pain-inducing laughter;

“ ‘And when the skies are open, we’ll still be singing this- ’ ”

Someone kneels in front of me, frantically shaking my arm, but I can no longer see them, sinking into the enveloping blackness. Nor can I hear the distorted clamour of worried voices, repeating the same words over and over again. The world fades around me but is left with a final resounding whisper;

“ ‘I know they’re coming for me…’ ”

Persephone (III) - Dione Toukalas, Year 11

Emery Station - Grace Palumbieri, Year 11

“She’s here again?” I muttered to myself.

“It’s been three weeks Em, when is she going to give up? I’ve already lost 10 petals on her.” Luke scoffed, sorting through the shelves again.

“You bet on her?” I moved my gaze from the window and turned around glaring. “With who?” I was on the approach now.

“Rich from the other shift, I said a week and he said longer. Why are you getting defensive?” Luke said, getting annoyed. “If you’re so concerned, how about you go take care of her instead of waiting for me to do it every damn time. I don’t know what it is with you, whenever I mention her you get testy but you never approach her.” He sighed, he was tired, probably just because of another day working all the shifts he could get, just to buy that stupid kid the promise ring he wanted. Pathetic. Luke always tried to please him and everyone else, when he got nothing in return. Still, he was my only companion. I was the only one who didn’t put up with his people-pleasing shit which I think was some sort of a relief. He was the only one who talked to me and bothered to see past my hostile persona, or at least what I allowed him to see.

We both got back to work, Luke labelling items and looking for some sort of identification to contact the owner, while I scrolled through ring-book after ring-book, making the unnecessary calls to the people of New Melbourne who wanted some things to stay lost. It was rare when I found someone willing to come down and collect things, usually just some desperate type hoping by chance that the lost thing was worth something. The only ones who hung around Lost Articles in Emery Station were Luke, myself and apparently now that woman outside. No one else was brave enough to stand alone in the tiled tunnels, the sickly glow and the quiet, with the blinding light and the blaring sound of the occasional train acting as the only break in the eerie atmosphere. The station should have been grand, and maybe it had been when it was first built as its name suggested, but the neglect it had been faced with left it unnatural to the naked eye.

A robotic voice echoed down the tunnels from the loudspeakers generating a jumbled mess, but if you had been down here long enough, like Luke and I had, it was easy to make out “T0127 is now arriving at platform 3, step back from the line and prepare to board the train”. No train arrived, but the announcement signalled Luke’s inevitable departure. I wished more than anything that I could go with him up to the surface but in the eyes of the authorities, I wasn’t even an orphan, instead an illegal citizen. I was found down here so I should stay down here. With the rest of lost and found, despite the fact that I was most likely born on the surface. Babies down here don’t last long. Maybe something in the air? It’s not like I could argue or go and check for birth records, Non-Legals weren’t allowed on the surface anyway.

Soon Luke had grabbed his bag and wrapped his scarf around his neck, he glanced at me and raised his hand in salute before backing out the door. I turned around to continue with my work, but not before I saw him pause and look down.

“She left her number again,” he picked up a sliver of white paper. He looked back and we made eye contact through my screen before he sighed and placed the paper with the rest, adding to the growing mountain. “Talk to her, will you Emery? You might say something …”

He hesitated, that confused me. “Something like what?”

He shrugged and walked away. I glanced at the pile of contact information, each number written out with precision and care. I scoffed as I turned back around to my screen, I didn’t want to touch them. But seconds turned to minutes turned to days and the woman was still outside. My desire finally got the better of me, I grabbed one of the numbers and walked out of Lost Articles, the paper clutched in my grip.

“You’re looking for something. Your son, right?” I inquired as I stood before her.

“You’ve seen him?” She was in her prime, not old or young, though the faint creases in her skin suggested stress. She looked out of place among the grime, like she didn’t belong down here, instead high up in the upper levels of the surface where her dark blue coat would shimmer in the light. She must have been desperate, to stay down here for this long, that or overly stupid. Staying down here, especially on the lowest level of the station was dangerous, apart from the stale air, the authorities that guard the entrance tend to start to prevent you from leaving.

“No.”

“I thought as much, it would have been impossible anyway.” She tried to read my eyes. “Well, you have my number.” She nodded to the paper I had grasped in my hand. The woman dismissively resumed her waiting.

“When did you last see him?”

“A while ago.” I couldn’t decide if I liked her aloofness.

“There’s a surveillance room at the station entrance. I could take you there.” I didn’t know why I told her that, the survey room was strictly off-limits and reaching it was almost impossible. I started walking, didn’t glance back to see if she had followed, I wasn’t sure I wanted her too. We were opposites her and me, she searched while I wanted to be found.

I chose our route to surveillance carefully, keeping us quiet, away from the guards, away from the cameras and most importantly away from the light. Light meant we could easily be seen, it was a necessary precaution, so I steered our path through the abandoned tunnels that wound upwards in a serpentine formation to the top floor where the survey room was located among the grime and the cobwebs.

As we slipped into the survey room we were met with stagnant, dusty air that made it hard to breathe and an obsolete setup that was too old to still be in use due to the Tech Revolution five years ago. That was good, it meant there was a smaller chance of being found out.

The tech was easier to get into than I had expected, but I guess all the years I spent down here made me used to the outdated programming.

“Date?” I asked as I pulled up the security history and scrolled to platform 3.

“September 10th MMIV.” She stated over my shoulder and I froze. One day before I arrived. I was one click away from witnessing my abandonment. But I swiped past it, clicked on the 10th and left the woman in the room. Walked back to Lost Articles, vanished down the dark tunnels and clung with a fierce need to the phone number in my hand, the only light in the despair.

Old Newspapers - Alexandra Pilepich, Year 8

Wish for Olds - Melina Deldar, Year 10

In old times, televisions didn’t have any colour

There was not so much channels that we could always change

We were just engaged with one or two channels....

And there was no remote control.

Telephones, instead of being wireless and having cheery rings,

They had wavy wires and raspy rings.

The handwoven crimson rugs,

That each house had at least three of twelve square meters ones,

it was intolerable sweeping them with no vacuum cleaner.

People, when they fell in love,

they would die for a sentence of a letter and a sudden look from their lover.

They socialised for more than thousands of time, that their

lover would be the the one they want.

God was one and partner was the other

Those days, nothing was

Disposable

The rose porcelain and the Esfahan’s crystal glasses.

When the table cloth were measured, it covered the

beginning to the ending of an alley

The clothes line in the yard

was like one hung on the North Pole and the other hung on

the South Pole.

The clothes were washed in tube.

No tomato paste tins were found in the storage and neither

the small bottles of pickles

All there was, was a barrel of them

Several people gathered together

Extracted pomegranate and sour orange paste

The sour orange’s blossoms and citron jams

The copper pans and the huge gas stoves that their bosom were open

to Fesenjan and Eggplant Gheimeh stews

Not anyone knew anything about Lancôme and Versace

Neither there was something about dollar’s and gold’s prices

The smell of Tarom’s rice and Greens fish Pilaf never brought a

neighbour regrets

Whenever there was a wedding ceremony,

Instead of a house,

a town, married off a person.

Hanabandan, had the colours of Eid and Chahar Shanbe Soorie’s

nights.

The despaired people were important

People offered they time to each other

If there was no laughter in the yard

Everyone, all together had an evening party just to not make the host

or the landlord think they’ve been abandoned or left alone

Remembering a granny’s cheer,

She always used to say “whenever you are cooking, remember to

cook two plates more,

An intruding visitor should not be ashamed of the table”

Now that I think, these days that everyone has everything

It looks like nothing is on its right place.

We have vacuum cleaner, dish washer and washing machine

From chicken’s milk to life of a human could be found in Bazaar.

The newest version of phones does exist

A lot of things, came to life that we would never have dreamed of them before

But how much we are older than our childhood!

When we see someone laughing, we get surprised

The loves smell like lies and deceit

There is no gathering anymore, some acquaintances suddenly meet

each other in a street or a

Place

Instead of saying anything about their circumstances,

their conversations start with the price of currency and gold.

Now that those days are gone, nothing could go back to what it was

before, I wish those days were still around.

Glossary:

Esfahan - a city in the centre of Iran

Crimson rugs- Persian rugs

Fesenjan - a Persian walnut and meat stew

Pickles - any vegetable in vinegar

Sour Orange - a really sour type of orange that is sometimes used instead of lemon

Gheimeh - a Persian stew that it consists of meat and split pea

Tarom - a city in north of Iran, Tarom’s rice has a really good smell and it’s really popular in Iran

Greens Fish Pilaf- a dish that is usually eaten the first day of Persian New Year

Hanabandan- a celebration that is held the night before the wedding, it was popular in old times.

Eid - considered as Persian New Year in Iran

Chahar Shanbe Soorie- the Tuesday night in the week that Persian New Year is happening. Persians gather together, have fun and jump on fire

From the Mess Deck

Butter Chicken - Kiera Lindemans, Year 8

Ingredients:

Chicken Marinade:

800g boneless and skinless chicken thighs/breasts cut into bite-sized pieces,

½ cup plain yoghurt, 1½ tbsp minced garlic, 1 tbsp minced/finely grated ginger

2 tsp garam masala, 1 tsp turmeric, 1tsp ground cumin, 1 tsp red chilli powder, 1 tsp of salt

Sauce:

2 tbsp olive oil, 2 tbsp ghee (or 1 tbsp butter + 1 tbsp oil), 1 large onion (sliced/chopped), 1½ tbsp minced garlic, 1 tbsp minced/finely grated ginger, 1½ tsp ground cumin, 1½ tsp garam masala, 1 tsp ground coriander, 400g crushed tomatoes, 1 tsp red chilli powder (adjust to your taste preference), 1¼ tsp of salt (or to taste), 1 cup of heavy or thickened cream (or evaporated milk to save calories), 1 tbsp sugar, ½ tsp kasoori methi (or dried fenugreek leaves)

Recipe:

In a bowl, combine chicken with all of the ingredients for the chicken marinade; let marinate for 30 minutes to an hour (or overnight if time allows).
Heat oil in a large skillet or pot over medium-high heat. When sizzling, add chicken pieces in batches of two or three, making sure not to crowd the pan. Fry until browned for only 3 minutes on each side. Set aside and keep warm. (You will finish cooking the chicken in the sauce.)
Heat butter or ghee in the same pan. Fry the onions until they start to sweat (about 6 minutes) while scraping up any browned bits stuck on the bottom of the pan.
Add garlic and ginger and sauté for 1 minute until fragrant, then add ground coriander, cumin and garam masala. Let cook for about 20 seconds until fragrant, while stirring occasionally.
Add crushed tomatoes, chili powder and salt. Let simmer for about 10-15 minutes, stirring occasionally until sauce thickens and becomes a deep brown red colour.
Remove from heat, scoop mixture into a blender and blend until smooth. You may need to add a couple tablespoons of water to help it blend (up to 1/4 cup). Work in batches depending on the size of your blender.
Pour the puréed sauce back into the pan. Stir the cream, sugar and crushed kasoori methi (or fenugreek leaves) through the sauce. Add the chicken with juices back into the pan and cook for an additional 8-10 minutes until chicken is cooked through and the sauce is thick and bubbling.
Garnish with chopped cilantro and serve with fresh, hot garlic butter rice and fresh homemade Naan bread!

Quote of the Watch

“Longing, of course, becomes its own object, the way that desire can make anything into a god.”

- Mark Doty (The Death of Antinous)

Humanities News

Congratulations to the 2021 Humanities Captains, who will be coordinating the Humanities Club and associated events next year. The 2021 College Humanities Captains are Luisa David (Captain) and Monique Selcuk (Vice-Captain), while the 2021 Middle School Humanities Co-Captains, the first to hold their positions, are Emily Dean and Alara Selcuk. Meeting dates and further Humanities Club plans will be announced in 2021.
Congratulations as well to Esther Ellwood and Sophie Quinn, who will be leading the Philosophy Club. In 2021, Philosophy Club meetings will continue to be held fortnightly during Friday lunchtimes.
Last weekend, Jade Johnson and Monique Selcuk, both of year 10, participated in the Rotary Model United Nations Zoom Assembly. The event included participants in years 10-12 from a wide range of schools in Melbourne, as well as from New Zealand and India. Monique Selcuk described her experience of the event:

"A few weeks ago I was approached by the lovely Ms Trujillo in relation to being a part of the 2020 virtual MUNA. I was then teamed up with Jade Johnson, and we were then assigned Iran as the country we would represent on Saturday the 5th and Sunday the 6th of December. Being a part of MUNA was such an amazing experience because it not only broadened my knowledge on global matters, but also connected me with many different people throughout Melbourne who I noticed had similar interests to me in relation to the humanities. I would definitely consider partaking in the 2021 MUNA as I believe it is such a great way to practice not only your public speaking and your writing skills, but also expand your understanding on serious humanitarian issues."

Crew

Beth Barrass, Publication

Shaunagh O’Connell, Review of Submissions & General Assistance

Rania Widjanarko, Editor

Hannah Benhassine, Junior Editor

Harriet Turner-Browne, Junior Editor

Xara Hudson, Founding Editor

Acknowledgements

Terry Donnelly, Editorial Advice

Anthony Keen, IT Support

Year 9 Writing Now Exhibition