Root Bed is an excerpt from Cassandra’s manuscript, <i>The Bed Roots</i>, which she calls a "Troema": her definition of a 'troema' is a poetic narrative, spanning many pages, that maps the language of a traumatic experience across an experience or across an entire lifetime. In so writing the troema, the writer observes and bears witness to the trauma in an effort to help de-stigmatize the nature of living in a traumatized body and/or mind. It asks the reader to look closely at the damages resulting from oppressive and abusive behaviors, in our interpersonal relationships and in society at large. It asks that we build compassion and take responsibility for our actions.Read More
Here a scalpel makes an opening, a splint frames a gesture.
Here bodies arrange into patterns that reveal a natural order
and a law.
Here you think ‘poetry is a thing preserved’, an agreement
between form and possibility.
Here all information coheres as knowledge.
Here an articulation of limbs, assuming the shape
of a grammar.
Here a closed system, in perfect correspondence
with the world.
Here a structure more satisfying.
Here be monsters, named and numbered, filed away.
dawn, too early for questions like
‘does the jar exist
when no one’s looking?’
what upside down means to a bat—
like a glove.
Only in stillness can you pin it to
the corners of understanding.
Wing parted to sell you a watch
it ushers you to a place
where fallen trees
stand back up. Look long enough
and you’ll see yourself reflected there
in the glass, among the rows and shelves
amid the vases and vitrines. There
where it’s always
This poem was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here.
Aden Rolfe is a Sydney-based poet, essayist and performance writer. He’s currently working on his second book, The Heavenly Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge
Fadi, Leila, Michael, Georgette, Paul, Helen, Elie, Rosa, Antoine, Josepha, Peter and I have arrived at an abandoned warehouse rooftop nightclub called White Beirut. Everything is a stark, blinding white, except for the people. You’re only allowed in if you adhere to the strict dress code: you must be dressed head-to-toe in white.
Hot pink and aqua coloured strobe lights beam across bright glossy white tables, booths and stools, illuminating those wearing neon coloured fedoras. It smells like someone has thrown buckets of ice and vodka over everything. The glasses and the floor fog up with mist, so if you put your hands to the glasses or to the floor like a game of Twister, it leaves a precise, crisp handprint. There’s no space to move without touching another person. Random strangers, both male and female, grab us by the shoulders and kiss us on each cheek three times, like a threat. I squirm at first but put up with it because I have trained for this day back in Australia, growing up in Redfern where the only social gathering we’d attend were church hall barbeques in which everyone in the Lebanese-Maronite community kissed you even if they didn’t know you. By the thirteenth kiss, my head moves from cheek to cheek with rhythm and dexterity. We’ve only just arrived but already my carefully swirled makeup starts running like calligraphy in the summer heat.
The twelve of us walk in like we’re the disciples of Christ—a motley mix of Lebanese youth from the northern village of Kfarsghab, nestled in the mountains three hours away, and their Lebanese-Australian descendants. We inch our way in, strutting like the brothers in A Night at the Roxbury. Georgette and Leila walk hand-in-hand with their fake Louis Vuitton bags in tow. I lose my balance because the floor is slippery like lube. Michael, a loud, confident Lebanese-Australian guy from Meadowbank, who is always in the front row church pew at Our Lady of Lebanon and who is from the same village as my father but not related to me and who comes to Lebanon every year to see his relatives, lifts his hand up. He’s holding his phone out in front of him like a staff, trying to part the crowd because his last name is Moses and he takes it literally. But nobody budges, they stand still and rooted to the ground, like sculpted golden wax statues, auditioning to be extras in Kanye’s ‘Famous’ video.
The Beirutis glance casually at us and they all seem to dry retch. They can smell the sunscreen on us, so they know we are from Australia, as though our Lebanese-ness is a prop. They look down at us with their air-brushed faces. One woman turns, and her fake breasts almost knock out her friends. All of the women’s noses are suspiciously small and straight, their fake eyelashes rimmed with actual coal, because in Beirut they do not fuck around. One woman’s lips are so freshly plumped with injections, it looks like she did it at the bar. She stares straight at me and pouts. I stumble back on my stiletto heel from the sheer force of her.
Another woman I recognise amidst the clubbers is Miss Lebanon Australia. I know who she is because I used to stalk her on MySpace, followed by Facebook after she won, and regularly Google her to find out which hair products she uses. Then she dated my cousin Rob for two months and I had to stop myself from saying, “Good to see you again.” She wears a small silk Versace dress, her boobs perking under a slab of Swarovski crystals, her long legs towering in clear plastic platform shoes—you can see right through them. On her arm is a shiny olive-skinned man, a perfectly trimmed beard dressed in a white robe with gold trim and a Rolex watch—he must be a millionaire Saudi. The local men hover around Miss Lebanon Australia like clumps of congealed glue, wearing billowing linen shirts unbuttoned all the way down. Every few minutes you get hit in the face as one of the women, and some of the men in the club, flick their long, black hair extensions in your face, whiplash.
The girls in our group—Leila, Georgette, Helen, Rosa, Josepha and I—look at our outfits and then each other. Helen’s “Made in China” label is hanging out of her synthetic white dress, flapping gently. We make a run for it to the two booths we have booked two weeks in advance. The girls are embarrassed because they can’t afford expensive designer clothes and I am embarrassed because I am wearing their clothes thanks to an unfortunate miscommunication around the dress code (usually I wear ethically sourced fabrics made locally in Melbourne or Sydney). We squeeze and pour ourselves into the booths, hoping to take up less space, elbows and knees digging into soft flesh. The boys—Michael; Paul, who is Michael’s brother; Elie, the son of the village Sheik; Fadi, the village clown; Antoine, our driver (who is my third cousin); and Peter, my friend from Sydney—follow us reluctantly. They spread themselves out, draping and flopping in all the spare holes left by the women. Michael, Paul and Peter begin scanning the room for their future wives. Elie, Antoine and Fadi are, on the other hand, judging the women like they’re Peter at the gates of heaven. My Arabic is not good enough to understand everything they’re saying, but I hear the word sharmouta—slut—at least seven times.
To my right sits Josepha, a nineteen-year-old from Ehden. Her name is Josepha because her dad really wanted a boy and was too sad to think of a new name so he just added an A to the end of Joseph. She has the same light green eyes of her older brother Antoine, but that’s all she inherited, luckily for her, since Antoine looks like a bloated pig. I’m mesmerised by how “not Lebanese” she looks with her fair skin, freckles and green-grape eyes, and because of her high pointy cheekbones, big breasts and slim frame. She is a poor man’s Adriana Lima. She seems bored and disinterested, her head on her hand as she flicks through photos on her iPhone 5. I smile at her desperately. She doesn’t smile back. She is the only one the Beirutis approve of thanks to her nonchalance and white-passing natural beauty—the men and women grab at her, lift her from her seat and suck her into the vortex. In her wake, she leaves her pudgy, moody brother, who stares at me and looks away when I catch him.
Three large chandeliers shaped in a circle hover from the sky. Tall thin palm trees sprout from the ground and tower over us. Four young women clad in white angel wings, bikinis and little else dance on the bars, stepping over drinks and waving white pom poms. The lights start to flicker so fast, people look like they’re moving in slow motion. A giant screen that hangs from one end of the club says in capitalised English: ‘THIS IS BEIRUT’—in case we had forgotten. Electronica house music drones on and on in a repetitive trance with three competing DJs elevated high on floating stages. The bass is shaking the ground and the walls, pummelling through. It rises in crescendo until it climaxes.
The music here is even louder than at Lebanese weddings back home, the ones where the speakers were turned up so high that mouths would move but no one could hear anything, so you’d wildly gesticulate instead, knocking over the seafood sticks and labne mezze plates.
Suddenly the music changes. A woman sings out, like an Arab Christina Aguilera, deep and throaty. The DJs play a mix of house music with French and Arabic thrown in like an unwanted guest, but the crowd loves it anyway, singing in the same breath, “We’re up all night to get lucky... boos el wa wa!”
Next, an Arabic–French hybrid song comes on that I keep hearing everywhere in bars and clubs through-out Beirut. Most of the song is a group of voices singing together. “C’est la vie,” it sings. “La la la la la. That’s life. We’re going to love and we’re going to dance. La la la la la la.” There is no translation for the five “la’s.” The song always makes me stop and remember I’m not alone, that there might still be someone out there who will lift me up and give my life purpose, even if that purpose is just to wave my arms around like I’m drowning. And yet it also reminds me that I am alone because I was dumped three times in the space of a year by Khalil, a Leba-nese-Syrian refugee from Sweden. Each time I was more surprised than the last, believing that it was just a matter of time before Khalil and I would end up married with kids, following the same path set out for everyone in my community. When it didn’t happen over and over again, I was left without goalposts, the map ripped out from under me, starting over and on my own without protection. My hands fall limp to my side. I snap out of it and notice that everyone is adding their voices to the chorus, all hands raised, no longer conscious of how they appear, particularly Paul, who has climbed over the bar and fallen into an ice bucket but is still, somehow, dancing.
Some people around me stand up and climb onto the seats and tables and start gyrating on top of each other, spilling drinks, their bodies, their sweat, blending together in a blur. I stand up too, so as to not feel left out, but I get knocked over immediately by a stray heel and grab at the marble table for balance. It feels hard under my palms.
Antoine leans over and whispers in my ear. “Good to show skin!”
I ignore him although I know he’s referring to how I arrived at the club wearing a modest black baggy dress and stocky Mary Jane flats. I didn’t know there was an all-white dress code. They had me take Leila’s spare dress in the parking lot (she always keeps a wardrobe of clothes in her car in case of emergencies). Leila, who was the daughter of the sheik and could normally be seen in the village wearing jeans and a hoodie, had now seized the opportunity to squeeze into a lace bodysuit and tight mini shorts. This prompted Michael to say, “She was hiding that body under those baggy jeans!” She pulled out a handkerchief from her purse, waved it around like a flag and then dangled her white stilettos at me like keys. I squeezed into the thin, crepe-like material which fell across my arse and was so small, my breasts were spilling out.
I keep flicking my brown hair over my chest to cover myself but it’s not long enough to conceal my breasts and I can hear my mother and my sita screaming at me from Sydney to cover myself before someone puts something in my drink, or worse, I catch a cold. I fold my arms over my chest and hobble around the booths, like I’m holding something between my legs.
“Wow, you look Lebanese now!” Antoine says, making me wonder if looking Lebanese means looking constipated.
“Why you don’t talk to me?” he adds, English broken. He has already drunk half a bottle of whiskey in the fifteen minutes we’ve been here. I’m pretty sure he brought the bottle in with him because he can’t afford table service. He gets mad if anyone tries to pay for him, even though he works in the fields picking fruit and his weekly salary wouldn’t cover a meal at Icebergs in Bondi. On top of this, he has to help pay for his family of six siblings, who all still live at home in the village. With each sip the buttons on his shirt stretch, making hourglass-shaped gaping holes over his protruding hairy belly. “When I see you first day from rooftop, I swear hat Allah, my heart stop, I fall in love at first look,” he shouts over the music, his round, droop-ing face completely red, choking and spitting out each English word. He’s talking about the time I was exiting my cousin’s beat-up Mitsubishi, swimming in sweat from the tight-dark-faux-denim-skinny-stretch jeans I wore on the plane because I thought the stretch waist would make them more comfortable. Spoiler alert: they did not. I had patches of sweat under my arms and I smelt like a damp cloth dipped in urine after pissing myself a bit during the death-defying car trip.
“I looked like shit,” I reply.
“Yes,” he says. “That’s why I know... this true love.”
I mime throwing up. He swats my hand away from my lips with too much force and I hit the inside of my mouth, scraping my inner cheek.
“Don’t touch me,” I say.
“Don’t be rude,” he replies.
“You’re not my type,” I say to him.
“What this mean?’ he says.
“I’m too good for you,” I say, because saying he is simple and basic, dropped out of school, works in the field picking fruit, believes in antiquated gender roles, isn’t very attractive, and keeps trying to pay for every-thing with money his dad gave him but is secretly relieved when I offer to pay, even though he pretends to get mad at me for paying, is too hard to translate into Arabic.
“And anyway, I’m pretty sure we’re like distantly related or something,” I reply. All around me the club-goers are singing, “Turn the lights out now!”
“Killoun cousin,” he says, which means, everyone is a cousin. He’s not wrong. If I’m being really honest with myself, it’s not that we might be distantly related; it’s that I have already cast judgement on the type of guy he is—the hyper-masculine wog type that pretends to joke about you going back to the kitchen while your mothers and aunts are literally in the kitchen, so you know it’s not really a joke at all. The type of guys who remind me of my distant cousins back home who laugh when you say you need to study. I have convinced myself that I am not like anyone else in my family or my community, and so I have always found reasons to reject anyone who brings me back into that world.
Michael orders table service at the booth and a waiter in a white vest and white leather pants screams out, “Yalla, vodka here!” and single-handedly brings a giant tray of oversized frosty bottles of Grey Goose vodka in crystal ice buckets, and jugs of orange juice. A disembodied hand gives me a delicate glass of what I think is vodka, and I take a big gulp and drink it in one go before they have time to add orange juice. Detached hands appear to pull me up and I am hoisted onto disembodied, floating shoulders. I am only sure of one thing: that there are lights bouncing off my exposed arse cheeks like a disco ball. I can’t seem to move my arms and legs. My head dangles around like a broken doll. Everything goes from white to black.
I wake up in a single bed, the tube dress so tight and drenched in sweat, it feels like it has melded to my skin. I reach around for my phone. I’m surprised when my hand touches the cool, cracked glass screen of the iPhone 5—it feels like it's something that would have disappeared. I squint and see that I have no wifi because, priorities. I then notice the time. It’s 12pm the next day. My eyes are darting everywhere and my hands are shaking. I try to lift my head, but it’s full of metal. I roll over but the bed is so small, I fall toward the yellow lino floor which looks like vomit, still holding my phone like a weapon. I fall into actual vomit which was camouflaged by the colour of the floor and smells like rancid butter. I look at my hand, wipe it on my sleeve.
Up from the ground I spot another single bed on the other side of the room. That’s weird, I think. Who would ask for two single beds? I squint and see a naked man lying there, his back covered in red dots where the hair used to be... I gasp and let out a nervous, childish giggle when I notice two hairy butt cheeks protruding in the air—it seems rude to me and betrays my shy and prudish sensibilities.
I look away and commando roll out of the room. I am in some kind of garden oasis with draping ferns hanging over concrete, pot plants lining the path in front of me. I crawl to the front desk. “I need to report a kidnapping,” I say from the ground, looking up at the man at reception, who spreads out his arms on the counter like he owns the hostel.
“Shu?” he says, leaning forward, his voice lined with smoke, hand tapping an ashtray.
“I have been kidnapped,” I say.
The owner laughs like a bloated walrus. A man who is carrying a bucket and mop asks him in Arabic, “Who is this drunk American girl on the ground and why does she smell like vomit?"
The owner replies in Arabic, “It’s the Lebanese-American girl who was brought in last night by her cousin, be careful, she might understand Arabic.”
“I have no cousin!” I scream in English. It’s a lie. I have hundreds of cousins. “And I’m not American!”
“She speaks, walla!” the cleaner says and sniggers at me.
The hostel owner looks down at me again and frowns, his mouth turned up in one corner like he pities me.
“See here girl,” he says in Arabic, “I don’t care what you are. If you village people want to come and have sex with your cousin, that’s fine, just be quiet about it.” •
This piece was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here
Sheree Joseph is a Lebanese-Australian writer and editor from Sydney’s north-west.
Jo Ruessmann is an illustrator, print-maker and postmodern ghost in the hallucination machine (or something). Currently based in Glasgow, where she mainly serves coffee at conferences.
This comic was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here
Lee Lai lives and works between Montreal and Melbourne. She makes comics and illustrations, and facilitates collaborative mural workshops with teenagers.
empty chip packet blows past / gimmicky flavour something like
inbox full of sweeties
u roll over easy / spend tomorrow sunning urself
in their proximate light
gate spills out into bottleshop
maybe you’ll be the one to make brisbane cool again
u do it from footscray / do it from anywhere
no longer required to stay home
& ur bad housemates are more anthropological
now the lease is up in a month
if there’s attraction in the unknown
why isn’t the stock market sexy?
a new walk home seems meaningful but often isn’t
an empty bathroom feels ominous & often is
postie’s got a new route so is preoccupied with birds
antenna knocked the balcony down & brought
spring with it
someone’s talking shit now i guess you’ve made it
someone’s taking the express train to see u
“ur still a baby now” or maybe a bottle opener
lifting a lid on ur own satisfaction
one foot in the harbour & lacing up the other
ambition like a fist / u release it
waiting on the footpath as the morning opens
This poem was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here.
Harry Reid is a poet from Melbourne. Their work has appeared in Cordite, Australian Poetry Journal & Overland. They also co-host Sick Leave, a monthly reading series at the Gaso upstairs.
This comic was originally published in The Lifted Brow #33. Get your copy here.
Lee Lai lives and works between Montreal and Melbourne. She makes comics and illustrations, and facilitates collaborative mural workshops with teenagers.
RICHARD MERCER LOVE SONG DEDICATIONS
every single one of us knows that work sucks
we secrete moments between it to
POEM BITE FUCK
it’s 7.42pm friday I’m standstill in a sushi house
redfern street, deli lights, veggie roll—
this is not enough
off to the Metro to see the Whitlams
this is not Gough this is not dough
this is not cinnamon avoid
sugar words, avoid processes,
arid bark, arms and David Marr
this plastic bag swings around my wrist and scratches
this fledgling in a mushroom ATTEMPT
a brown paper bag is still a thing
the sign at redfern station tells me to KEEP LEFT
to finish a poem feels like a game of stacks on
at the Metro there’s a Ural on the ground
and finally midnight comes—I sneak into your bed
should be at home but I’ll squeeze out an hour
a lemon, a lime, a mangosteen,
a mandarin without skin, no white artery
a sliver you feed me
I bite it / juice sinks
AM I A DOOR / SIX POEMS SAY (YES)(?)
after John Forbes, for G.D
is regret a type of antiHOPE?
pockets empty till monday but who carries cash these days.
it’s always King Street are there no other streets
donation-based mediation on Enmore emotes
we use coconut oil as lube, yeah, ok,
it does stain the sheets but skin absorbs the rest
eventually. we’re soft. like an 18-year-old’s
first night out at The Townie
& you walk me around the curve
like the swing that I am.
last night was vindaloo. or butter chicken.
or karma. or lassi.
mangoes bob through my poems
like thought bubbles down a stormwater drain—
I struggle to round them up to make GELATO
4my favourite quotations—
‘I like your flesh don’t you?’
‘I’m throwing the toffee apple
into a rubbish bin that’s stuck with butts,
& the knack of disappearing early.
Inside a dextrose aureole
the view is limpid. I’m sticky.’
I’ve never written a love poem before:
there’s dog shit on the pavement as I saunter
down King; too many blokes gurning
in the warehouse to warrant a comment about
how, when we’re walking home from the party,
you stop at the banksias
hit tippy toes of flat feet
to reach not the first banksia, but the prettiest,
the one right at the top and over the fence...
maybe, instead, you swing open
and I walk through.
This poem was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here.
Holly Friedlander Liddicoat’s poetry has been published widely and she has edited poetry for Voiceworks. Her debut collection CRAVE is out now with Rabbit Poetry.
they broke something
Here, a bright patch of red
on the blue quilt. Here:
thick, smooth splinters and
from the leveled mountain.
Here, they brought you
the last zinnia and some water
to hold it for a day or two.
After that, you should
hang it by its heels
so blood rushes to its head.
(The water is no good
for drinking, or washing
or making tea.)
Here is a whistle
at an inaudible frequency
and a piano with its strings cut.
They brought you
here: low. And yet here:
your raised, receiving arms,
your empty, upturned palms.
This poem was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here.
Arden Levine is a poet and urban planner living in Brooklyn, New York.
An embroidered silk detail on the sixteenth-century linen panel The Shepheard Buss (The Shepherd’s Kiss) depicts an adder lurking beneath a strawberry plant. The pattern evokes a common metaphor of the time, taken from a line by the poet Virgil, where the fruit and its leaves represent an apparent good concealing the real malevolence below—the origin of the proverbial ‘snake in the grass.’ The strawberry held an exalted status in Medieval thought, and its use as a symbol was both widespread and of comparatively early origin; such that its fruit, flowers and leaves are among the most frequently occurring objects in European art. They stain the fatal white handkerchief that passes through Shakespeare’s Othello—a mark of fidelity and chastity coupled with deceitful intentions—and giant strawberries are eaten by figures frolicking naked in the central panel of Hieronymus Bosch’s triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights, a powerful representation of the ephemeral nature of earthly pleasures and ambitions. In Christian imagery, they were almost always treated as “the symbol of perfect righteousness.” An old folk tradition holds that the Virgin Mary led the souls of dead children to pick strawberries on the feast of St. John the Baptist, the fruit standing for the garden of Eden and the food of the saved in Paradise. In other contexts, the three partitioned leaves were a reminder of the Holy Trinity, while the red fruits, hanging downward, were the drops of the blood of Christ.
Strawberries were also a favoured motif during the great flowering of domestic embroidery during the Elizabethan era. They were an exception to the Elizabethan gardener’s belief that a plant’s neighbours determined its quality: even though the ground-creeping strawberry plant was exposed to every sort of contamination, no evil companionship could taint their purity. Whereas embroidery during the Renaissance was intended for the church, the Elizabethans' needlework was secularised and reflected their love for nature. Amateur needlewomen drew their designs from pattern books, along with woodcuts and engravings in bestiaries, and herbals and illustrations in natural history books. Rather than simply serving as guides to nature, these books were storehouses for similes and moral lessons that instructed the preacher and layperson on how to live righteously. Domestic needleworkers placed strawberries among flowers and trees, birds, animals and insects, filling their homes with beauty and stitching strawberries onto every conceivable surface. Rosemary Freedman has remarked that this decoration was universally emblematic: “Wherever the needle could penetrate the tendency to personification and allegory finds expression.”
Who could have imagined that sewing needles and strawberries would be linked together in such a violent way hundreds of years later? The first, on 9th September 2018, ended with a man being treated in hospital for severe abdominal pain after swallowing half a sewing needle lodged inside a strawberry bought from a Woolworths supermarket in North Brisbane. Three days later, a child in Gladstone bit into a needle embedded in a strawberry packed in his lunchbox. By the time the contamination crisis was over there were 186 reported needle incidents around the country, with copycats, hoaxes and tampering incidents spreading to all six states. These were taken at face value, as a straightforward story of saboteurs and pranksters sticking pins into fruit with malevolent intent.
Our understanding of even the most mundane social and political thought, according to the cognitive linguist George Lakoff, requires an appreciation of the extensive use of metaphorical concepts embedded in everyday language. Just as Elizabethan needleworkers gazed at wild strawberries and found in them everything that was beautiful and lovely about their world, the modern commercial strawberry embodies much of the way food is produced in industrial agriculture and the social pressures under late capitalism. And wherever the needle penetrates, the tendency for symbolism finds expression.
In the beginning, plastic punnets full of pierced red flesh were the handbaskets of fear. A seven-year-old girl in South Australia found a sewing needle inside a punnet of Western Australian strawberries; another needle was found inside a banana, and punctured Australian strawberries even turned up in New Zealand. Soon, Queensland’s chief health officer was urging consumers to throw away their strawberries and wholesalers were slashing their prices, selling boxes of strawberries that would ordinarily fetch $16 for $3. As supermarket chains pulled punnets from their shelves, growers accused health authorities, the government and the media of creating a ‘hysteria' that threatened the 500-million-dollar national strawberry market. The Association of Queensland Strawberry Growers, the peak representative in the state with a third of the nation’s 620 farmers, called the needles an act of “commercial terrorism.” Speaking for the mood of many, South Australian farmer Brenton Sherry warned that producers in his state could be wiped out within a month, adding: “Strawberries may never return.”
The needles seemed to unleash the dark libidinal fears of those who see adders lurking everywhere in the long grass of polite society. In a closed, grimly racist Facebook group I monitor, one member fretted that sewing needles were being placed in fruit by African gangs or ISIS and went on to speculate that those responsible were also, improbably, lighting the small spot fires being reported around the start of Queensland’s bushfire season. While Federal Agriculture Minister David Littleproud labelled those responsible “parasites,” a Griffith University criminologist told the ABC such berry-violence was “the epitome of free will” and posited the needles were a calculated act to instil fear. The Australian collected its online stories under a splash page entitled ‘FRUIT TERROR', and a senior security analyst writing for the newspaper suggested counter-terrorism measures were required to shore up the food system, with growers linking up with law enforcement and the intelligence community—the national security of the country tied to its bountiful production of juicy fruits. Unsurprisingly, the term commonly used by the media and polity was “sabotage,” as though the needles were the attacks of a foreign agent on production during a time of war.
Sewing needles were hardly the most dangerous by-product of the industrial food system that year. On four occasions in 2018, the US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention advised 325 million Americans to avoid eating romaine lettuce altogether, while the agency hunted for the cause of the Shiga toxin-producing E. coli bacteria that had, by that stage, infected people across eleven states, sickening at least thirty-two and hospitalising thirteen. Likewise, rockmelons tainted with the listeria bacteria led to seven deaths, and a miscarriage, across Australia in 2018. The contaminated melons were ultimately traced to a single farm in New South Wales, which had been affected by dust storms and was scrubbing and washing the fruit with a chlorine solution prior to packing. If indeed the needles were an act of sabotage—as some sections of the media and polity claim—then what motivated the agents and who (or what) was the enemy? It behoves many of us to answer why we are more terrorised by the thought of a group of individuals wielding the cold steel of malevolence than we are the seemingly unavoidable—but far more harmful and widespread—consequences of an impersonal food system.
For one, fears about the influence of migrants and hostile outsiders have always attended the fruit picking industry. Eight years earlier, Today Tonight reported shocking conditions for migrant workers in the industry under the tagline of ‘Asians stealing Aussie jobs’. Underpaid or not paid at all, abused and degraded, the workers filmed at one farm bemoaned that “strawberries come from hell.”
Merely three days after the first needle appeared, the Association of Queensland Strawberry Growers was already on record stating that a “disgruntled former employee” could be responsible for the tampering, in direct contradiction to the police. “We’re not agreeing with that at all at this point in time,” countered Detective Acting Chief Superintendent Terry Lawrence, dismissing the Grower’s Association statements as “speculation.” One wonders how the association could be so brazen in its announcement; so convinced of its suspicions that a former worker with a grudge against the industry was behind the incident.
It had only been a few months since the Fair Work Ombudsman released the final report of its three-year Harvest Trail Inquiry and revealed how some workers in Australian horticulture were “bonded like slaves” to dodgy labour hire contractors. After visiting hundreds of farms around the country, the inquiry found an industry that relies on migrants and backpackers for labour, and uncovered instances where workers were threatened with having their visas withdrawn unless they remained with the company, or driven to ATMs to provide money upfront for a “job bond,” or ripped off for thousands of dollars and housed in substandard accommodation. There have been attempts in recent years to create an auditable industry standard to identify legally compliant labour hire companies, but signing on is voluntary.
Growers themselves are under intense pressure to produce fruit at the lowest possible cost for Coles and Woolworths, which account for eighty per cent of the fresh berries sold in Australia. Strawberries Australia chair John Calle has complained that while it costs around $2 to produce a punnet of strawberries, many growers were selling them for between $1.50 and $3.50. “Sometimes we’re making 20 cents after costs,” he said. The Strawberries Australia website notes that workers are the last obstacle to full-automation of farms: “Picking labour cost remains as a major issue, as mechanical harvesting is not an option for strawberry fruit.”
The propensity of consumers to fix these issues—to ‘vote with their dollar’—was addressed in the Harvest Trail Inquiry report, which found that only eleven per cent of shoppers would be willing to pay more for produce labelled with a “domestic fair trade” certification denoting a farm that had been audited for providing workers with fair wages and conditions. Even more discouraging was that just under half of all respondents said they would buy the ethical product even if the price were the same as other produce.
Two months after the strawberries were deemed safe to eat again, police arrested the first person with an alleged connection to the needle tampering. My Ut Trinh, fifty—who was born in Vietnam but came to Australia as a refugee twenty years ago—was a picking supervisor at the Berrylicious/Berry Obsession fruit farm north of Brisbane. She faces seven counts of contamination of goods with intent to cause economic loss, normally carrying a three-year maximum penalty, but police have alleged “aggravation,” which increases the maximum jail term to ten years. After Ms Trinh’s arrest, the Association of Queensland Strawberry Growers vice president Adrian Schultz said he hoped the industry could move on. “This should put a full stop to this situation,” he said.
It is possible that no other fruit has been as radically transformed by industrial agriculture as the strawberry. In a 1771 article for Encyclopédie Méthodique Botanique, the French botanist Antoine Nicolas Duchesne—one of the most important chroniclers of the early development of the modern garden strawberry—lists twenty-five varieties including the small woodland strawberries, fraises des bois, still beloved by backyard gardeners in Europe. The Roman poet Ovid tells that humans lived on mountain strawberries that nature brought forth without cultivation. The musk strawberry, otherwise known by the delightful name of hautboy, grew wild in the forests of central Europe and was widely cultivated by gardeners for centuries. Their complex aroma was said to be so powerful that a few berries could perfume a room, with hints of honey, musk and wine and—according to a recent analysis by German flavour chemists—notes of melon, raspberry and cheese. With tender white flesh and brownish red skin, the soft berries are mentioned in Jane Austen’s Emma, where guests at a garden party rave about their superior flavour.
Arguably the most important event in the history of the modern strawberry is the 1714 journey of Fragaria chiloensis from the beaches and mountains of Chile to France, which introduced the Old World to the large berries of the New. A French spy working for King Louis XIV was so taken by the large fruits of the Chilean plant that he tended to five specimens on the six-month voyage home. The spy’s family name, Frézier, happened to be an ancient one deriving from fraise, the French word for wild strawberry. His decades of experimentation and cross-breeding of the female plants he brought home eventually yielded the garden strawberry we know today. The Chilean berry, already cultivated for centuries by Indigenous Chileans, was pollinated with Fragaria virginiana, a hardy meadow variety from North America (otherwise known as the Scarlet or Virginian strawberry) that was popular in English gardens at the time. The new berry inherited the hardiness, sharp flavour and redness of the Virginian, and the firmness and large fruit size of the Chilean.
It may have originated in France, but it was the English who first produced the best specimens of this strawberry, Fragaria ananassa—so named because its perfume and shape was said to resemble a pineapple—which would later spread to Europe and North America and emerge as the first iteration of the hundreds of commercial varieties grown today. California alone now produces a billion tonnes of berries each year, but until the end of the nineteenth-century nearly all strawberries in the US came from plants growing wild in pastures and meadows between farming seasons. Following the introduction of Fragaria ananassa, the history of commercial strawberries has been the repeated substitution of new varieties for old and, subsequently, the rapid expansion of productivity.
Breeders over the decades have favoured commercial properties such as large fruit, high yield, firmness, attractive and uniform appearance, long shelf-life and resistance to pests and diseases. By concentrating on these genetic factors, others have been lost, namely some of those responsible for flavour. Writing for The Conversation, University of Birmingham chemist Simon Cotton describes experiments that have shown wild varieties of strawberries like the wood strawberry and musk strawberry have a greater range of flavour molecules than those found in supermarkets today.
In some ways, the berries we eat all these years later are much the same. They still strike a fine balance between sweetness and acidity, one that shifts in favour of the former as the berries ripen. They still rely on changes to the concentration and composition of anthocyanins to develop their vibrant red pigments. However, what is missing most from commercial berries is fragrance, the original quality that gave the strawberry genus its name. Even the first cultivated berries of Fragaria ananassa were once noted for their extraordinary richness and diversity of flavour, impressing fruit connoisseurs of the time with their strong hints of raspberry, apricot, cherry and currant. Aiming for commercial production has, in other words, lead to bland, generic fruit.
As late as the 1950s, strawberries were only available in England for a few weeks in summer, usually coinciding with Wimbledon. Alongside genetic changes within the strawberry that made them hardier, the development of refrigeration and cool chain management has helped preserve fresh strawberries long enough to open up national and international commodity markets. Soils used for growing strawberries are often fumigated and covered with long plastic tarps to control microorganisms prior to planting, and experimentation with planting techniques that manipulate the earliness of crops has further blurred the traditional production seasons between climatic regions, meaning berries are available year-round.
These developments are written plainly in Australian horticulture industry R&D reports. You can track the development of new cultivars, with names like ‘Red Rhapsody’, ‘Parisienne Kiss’ and ‘Sundrench,’ from their earliest trials in the National Strawberry Breeding Program to the moment they enter commercial production after four years of development. The breeding program, funded by industry and state and federal governments, has the specific aim of creating a “nationally more profitable strawberry industry” and selects varieties from its trials based on criteria weighted between profitability and “consumer-related traits.” These R&D documents hint at a broader trend in the production of food: that the profit motive directs farmers towards particular varieties, encourages investment in certain types of equipment, preserves larger farms over small producers, determines processing and distribution and even shapes our tastes and preferences.
The strawberry is a living contradiction of the capitalist promise: the unstated justification that it is the only economic system that provides us with better stuff. Expecting a world of better gadgets, more comfortable lives, everything in supposed abundance and for our enjoyment, hides a process of homogenisation and mass-production; one that requires the biosphere be destroyed and most of the planet’s population worked to the grave. The poor and middle classes are exhorted to cherish the system that makes supposed luxuries like enormous televisions and strawberries affordable, at the same time as home ownership, education and child care slip beyond their reach. Supermarkets work hard to play on the cultural imagination that strawberries manifest as a natural abundance that simply pops out of the earth—seasonal treats that sing of springtime and harvest—rather than a manufactured food embodying hundreds of years of refinement. This history shows that instead of tastier and more intoxicating berries, what capitalism actually excels at creating is more profitable commodities.
The rebound came as suddenly as the crash. With millions of dollars lost from the strawberry industry, thousands of people around the country attended fundraisers and bought five-dollar strawberry sundaes to support struggling farmers. NewsCorp reported enthusiastically on Qantas’s “act of kindness” when the airline bought a tonne of berries—equivalent to 4000 punnets—to make strawberry daquiris and compote for their business lounge travellers, with staff volunteers cutting the fruit to ensure the safety of their delicate mouths. Prime Minister Scott Morrison and others encouraged consumer activism with the federal government’s “cut them up, don’t cut them out” campaign and the “SmashaStrawb” hashtag, giving this crisis of consumerism a fitting solution. It was our national duty to buy more strawberries and eat them with pride.
Public sentiment seemed to turn on these narratives of desperate farmers, laid-off workers, and the compelling footage of hundreds of tonnes of ripe and perfectly edible strawberries being buried in ditches by tractors at the height of the harvest season. While most responses focused on the economic loss and the tragic wastage of fruit, what went unremarked was the deeply strange spectacle that less than 200 needles haphazardly inserted into strawberries could bring the entire Australian industry to its knees.
Part of the reason why there was so much fruit to bury in ditches was that, since 1998, strawberry production in Australia has nearly tripled—an exponential growth that Strawberries Australia notes has outpaced the increase in the national population. In the same period, the number of strawberry growers more than halved, part of the inexorable march towards monopoly and consolidation. In the words of the strawberry industry, this production boom is thanks to increased consumer demand brought about by its research and development programs. The American economist J.K. Galbraith wrote sixty years ago that, contrary to popular wisdom, it is not consumer demand alone that drives commodity production. Instead, producers induce more wants and shape human needs and thereby create the need for further production.
The tragedy of the commodity, a term devised by the sociologist Stefano B. Longo and his colleagues in their book of the same title, is a story of a social order that pursues endless growth, intensifying pressure on ecosystems as ever more raw materials are necessary to create commodities for market. Instead of reducing resource consumption, efficiencies brought about by technological change are directed towards ever more intensive production, and paradoxically lead to greater demand on ecosystems. This commodification structure is focused on the outcome of an accountant’s balance sheet—not the wellbeing of farming communities, the survival of farmers, the flourishing of wildlife populations, the resiliency of ecosystems, or even, in the final analysis, providing food. “The rhetoric of mainstream economics,” they write, “is that these other qualitative outcomes will eventually emerge through the pursuit of profit; the reality is that, time and again, they have not.”
These pressures are not unique, and they are certainly not limited to strawberries. They are changes that can be tracked in the histories of avocados, tomatoes and Atlantic salmon. Apples have undergone a similar transformation of marketing, genetic meddling and homogenisation. The New York Times has profiled a former detective who spends his time tracking down the remaining orchards—sometimes consisting of just a few individual trees—of the Pacific Northwest’s lost apples. He hunts for the thousands of varieties that all but disappeared with the advent of industrial agriculture, where fifteen commercial varieties now constitute ninety percent of the apple market. The old varieties, a commercial apple farmer told the Times, are no longer worth growing because they either “bruise easily, don’t store well or don’t produce enough apples per tree.” And economic pressure is relentless. “Land costs money,” he said.
This is why it is reductive to consider strawberries rotting in ditches as buried food instead of a routine outcome of the system in which plants are grown not to feed people, but to supply commodity markets. The needles obscured the fact that massive wastage is already inherent to our food system, where most waste is incurred from the farm gate to check-out and from the check-out to consumer, and as much as forty per cent of fruit and vegetables don’t even make it to shelves for cosmetic reasons. Meanwhile, households are coerced into feeling individual responsibility for taking action at the end of the supply chain, where it is perhaps least effective. Like the flesh of the berries themselves, demand has been plumped up by cheap prices, mass production and consumer expectations. The lifecycle of strawberries adapted to the social metabolism of the market, geared for perpetual production; commodities inflated to such a level that all it took was a small disturbance to bring about a collapse. Just a little pinprick.
A freer and more natural artistic style spread through Europe toward the end of the 1300s. This flowering of human tenderness began with St Francis of Assisi, who aroused in his fellow European monks a love for nature and the need to express it. As the artists of their time, monks were tasked with illuminating prayer books and religious texts that they copied by hand and filled with tiny illustrations and paintings. In their newly awoken sentiments they began to look at the world around them, to see the details of nature and of everyday life, and paint what appealed to them and what they considered beautiful.
This new artistic spirit coincided with the desire of the mystics to come nearer to, and glorify, the Virgin Mary. Spending hours in contemplation of her and the Infant Jesus, they wrote poems in her honour, bestowing upon her all the virtues, and calling her by the names of all the flowers. “They lost themselves in veneration of her,” writes the biologist G.M. Darrow, “and when they made pictures of her, they adorned them with all that was precious and rare.”
Even in a milieu where every painted object held a particular significance, the strawberry stood apart from all other symbolic fruits. In The Madonna with Wild Strawberry, Mary holds aloft a leaved wild strawberry; in others, she sits inside her enclosed garden, on a bed of strawberry plants, adorned by a crown of strawberry leaves. Just as millennia earlier, when the Romans associated them with the Goddess Venus, wild strawberries were a symbol of devotion and the heart.
Jennifer M Silva has charted the corrosive effects of neoliberalism on intimacy in her book Coming Up Short: Working-Class Adulthood in an Age of Uncertainty. The hundreds of young Americans she interviews repeatedly exhibit a “hardened” character that prides itself on independence from others. They feel unable to make any sort of long-term commitment in a social environment of competition and insecurity that erodes their ability to imagine a secure future. Rather than seeing a partner as someone who might share these stresses, they view relationships as an additional source of stress. Into this space of rapid change and tenuous loyalties, the language and institution of therapy—and the heroic self-transformation it promises—enters as a means of making sense of a world where institutions can no longer be relied upon to support or nurture individuals.
This proliferation of therapeutic narratives, and the fusing of psychology and consumerism, gives rise to what sociologist Eva Illouz calls “emotional capitalism.” According to Illouz, romantic relations in the internet age are not only organised within the market, they themselves have become commodities produced “on an assembly line, to be consumed fast, efficiently, cheaply and in great abundance.” Illouz writes that at the same time as economic relations have become deeply emotional, intimate relations have become defined by models of bargaining, exchange and equity. The result, she says, is that the vocabulary of emotions is now more exclusively dictated by the market, a consumerist logic that unleashes fantasy but inhibits romantic feeling.
As the needle saga came to a close, so too was my relatively brief and capricious relationship with an ex-girlfriend in Sydney. A short summary of why it didn’t work would abound with clichés from the late-stage romantic mode: the timing wasn’t right, we wanted different things. We told each other about our heartache, and lamented our inability to make things work despite our best intentions. Around the same time as I started writing this column, she changed the default emoji of our Facebook messenger thread to a strawberry; soon its digital green calyx and vivid red skin, dreamed by a Unicode designer, became a regular substitute in our conversation for the blue thumbs-up or a red heart.
Whenever I was consumed with yearning, I returned to Facebook to read our exchanges and would see this strawberry, the last message she sent me. Maybe anyone who has been through a painful breakup would recognise the strange logic of this: it was as if I wanted to hold myself voluntarily in that space, and stay there until it no longer hurt me. As T.E. Lawrence puts it: “till the burnt child no longer feels the fire.” Through it all, I knew I still loved her; on some days this meant nothing, and other times it meant everything. And so, while everyone else freaked out over needles, the strawberry began to take on a new meaning for me: it represented devotion, a reminder that I love. It showed my capacity for these feelings despite the atomisation and wilting of intimacy under neoliberalism, and that true connection can be reclaimed, growing free and untainted from the noxious plants that surround us in the enclosed garden of late capitalism. It became, unexpectedly, a symbol of all that was precious and rare. •
This piece was originally published in The Lifted Brow #41. Get your copy here.
Michael Dulaney is a writer and journalist based in Sydney. His work has been published by Griffith Review and The Monthly, among others. He tweets to a small audience of bots at @michael_dulaney
Natalia Zajaz is a cartoonist and printmaker from the Blue Mountains.
Fun seasonal news! In two weeks we’ll be releasing Issue 39 of The Lifted Brow into our newly sprung world. This issue features the winning piece from this year’s Prize for Experimental Non-fiction, as well as the usual cornucopia of smart/weird/biting commentary, fiction, comics and poetry.Read More