In these pages, you will find Honi’s feature on the USyd Gaza solidarity encampment. After four weeks, the encampment has grown to over 90 tents and represents a united front across multiple factions who are all uniting to participate in the struggle for a free Palestine, and the moral reckoning of our time.

The nicotine industry will continue to innovate, as it always has, and push itself most where we place our aesthetic faith. From the timeless, classic silver screen to strange, psy-oppy, Swedish TikTok’s. 

We look forward to waking up starry-eyed on Thursday mornings, to becoming confused when we receive emails from both The Paris End and The Paris Review forevermore. We’ll always have The Paris End — or, at least, until the death of cultural criticism falls upon us all.

The nicotine industry will continue to innovate, as it always has, and push itself most where we place our aesthetic faith. From the timeless, classic silver screen to strange, psy-oppy, Swedish TikTok’s. 

We look forward to waking up starry-eyed on Thursday mornings, to becoming confused when we receive emails from both The Paris End and The Paris Review forevermore. We’ll always have The Paris End — or, at least, until the death of cultural criticism falls upon us all.

Whatever became of the statue ever since remains a mystery. Perhaps, like all stones, destined to weather and fade away through the passage of time, the Angel of Knowledge has been reduced to sparkling mica, tiny grains of quartz and returned to mother nature.

The Campus Access Policy (CAP), introduced on June 27th, is bad news for free speech. Mark Scott’s email announcing the new policy as “ensuring a safe and welcoming campus” is doublespeak that hides his real agenda: revoking the right of students and staff to organise freely. 

Submit your best caption for the above to editors@honisoit.com for a chance to WIN and be published in the next edition! If you win, you get a personalised limerick from Angus McGregor.

It was desperate gasps, it was glittering mortality. Yet absence from it was anguish.  I use the sea to document my life. Somehow, the moments when my chin slipped above  its molten surface were the happiest I ever documented. 

We look forward to waking up starry-eyed on Thursday mornings, to becoming confused when we receive emails from both The Paris End and The Paris Review forevermore. We’ll always have The Paris End — or, at least, until the death of cultural criticism falls upon us all.