Science  Write  Now

Before coming to Australia, I dreamt of it for nights on end, staying up long after lights had gone off so my imagination could shape everything in the darkness. The only light seeped in from one of the two windows this single room had — the same room where my whole family and I slept, their soft breath rising and falling in uneven rhythm, a fidget here, the rustle of sheets there. The quiet chorus of sleep, and me awake building Australia in my head. I imagined sleeping in a room of my own in Australia, and when I left this room, it would be a paradise. Tall green trees and even taller, advanced see-through buildings with oversized elevators, giant orange kangaroos happily and freely hopping all over roads with their little ones in their pouches as though they too had the rights equivalent to any other pedestrians, tall blonde and golden people tanned by their love for nature, smiley and warm faces, mountains to climb, things to see, applications to fill; a land of happiness, adventure and opportunity. I mean sure I knew I’d be the different one, but in a unique way, a good way. 

There is a good way, right?
 

In contrast, Zambia brimmed with untapped potential, dormant reserves, and latent supply. Markets rang with a cacophony of overlapping sounds: cars blaring impatient horns at marketers who shouted their portable prices, every passerby a potential customer to be pulled in. Music blared too—megaphones and speakers competing with one another, from stores and clubs alike—all demanding attention. School-aged children filled the streets, already masters of persuasion, selling with such skill that you’d buy just to lighten their load, if not because you truly needed what they offered. The aged sat on the dry orange soil under the scorching sun, vending tomatoes, charcoal, clothes—ready to halve their prices, reasoning that something was always better than nothing. They laboured for future generations, clinging to the hope of building even a fragile foundation. The learned worked in retail, transport, hospitality, in motels—anything but their chosen fields, their hard-won degrees lying dusty in rooms, untouched since their last failed attempt to make use of them. Poverty, trampled ambition, and the restless need to leave. Nothing close to the stability and happiness I imagined people in Australia gained from their opportunities.

I was right about Australia—about the land I mean, the weather even perhaps.

Quantum entanglement is a phenomenon where two or more particles become linked together in such a way that they share the same quantum state, regardless of the distance separating them. This means that measuring a property of one entangled particle instantly determines the corresponding property of the other, even if they are light-years apart. In the year 1935, Albert Einstein, Boris Podolsky and Nathan Rosen referred to this as “spooky action at a distance,” expressing their unease with the idea that measuring a property of one particle could instantaneously affect another, regardless of the distance between them. The idea seemed to contradict Einstein’s theory of special relativity, which stated that nothing can travel faster than the speed of light. 

However, this theory, supported by significant research, continues to prove fundamental and useful—for example, in China’s quantum-encrypted communications satellite, Micius. This could be the remarkable behaviour of particles, a mystery the human mind has yet to fully unravel, or a reminder that distance does not always diminish, nor sever connections. 

Last year, I began school in the last week of the third term. I was amazed by a campus so big it could have passed for a hospital had its name not been written in big bold green capitals right outside: ‘TRINITY BAY STATE HIGH SCHOOL’. A teacher took me through a maze of hallways, past doorways, navigating at least 20 corners so seamlessly, while hundreds of students rushed by in groups of fours, sevens and even twenties. Every corner revealed another area I’d soon learn to correlate to a subject. Outside, the trees, though towered over by buildings, still rang with the chatter of birds. We passed by several buildings all marked with letters: A block, C block, G block, O block, L block… and I was taken into a small room with colour coded files that seemed to hold several months’ worth of records, so many that if stacked one atop the other, they would climb halfway up the room—yet not a single one had gathered dust. I was then given a test, Mathematics. Happily, I picked it up, ready to face my first ‘Australian academic challenge’ I told myself. I flipped to the first page—could they have given me the wrong paper? 

5 X 4…. 16 + 7… 

Something a Year 3 with proper schooling back home could’ve done in minutes. Luckily, I was in Year 11. 

That was luck, right? 

I passed.

At Trinity Bay, people moved with bags on their back everywhere, while in Zambia we’d just leave them in class, and the bell rang at least twice before it was actually even time for a break. Laptops seemed vital for learning based on the number of students that came asking for chargers while I was awaiting my ‘test’ results. Students’ laughter filled the passage to the little room I’d been waiting in, even though the bell that had just rang wasn’t for a break—as I had just been told after pulling out my food—but then the realisation hit me, all the students had been wearing…

Shorts? For uniform? But I can’t wear shorts.

In one neighbourhood, where I lived for four years, they’d say the lady in the blue house was good 

     until tempted to be otherwise.

I still laugh at that, because isn’t that all of us? 

The theory of Schrödinger’s cat was developed in 1935 by Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger to illustrate the strange, counterintuitive nature of quantum mechanics, especially when it’s scaled up to something we can imagine, like a living creature. The cat-in-the-box thought experiment plays out like this:

A cat is placed inside a sealed box, alongside a Geiger counter, a vial of poison, a hammer, and a tiny bit of radioactive material. If even one atom of the radioactive substance decays during the experiment, the Geiger counter triggers the hammer, which breaks the vial, releasing the poison, and the cat dies. If no atom decays, the cat lives. According to quantum theory, until the box is opened and the system is observed, the cat exists in a superposition, both dead and alive at the same time.

This unsettling suggestion rests on assumptions, yet they’ve become widely accepted. Schrödinger’s aim wasn’t to confuse us but to force us to confront just how bizarre quantum mechanics becomes when we apply it to everyday things. The cat isn't just a victim of hypothetical physics; it's a mirror held up to the cracks in our understanding.

In 2004, renowned British physicist and mathematician Sir Roger Penrose tackled this paradox again in his book The Road to Reality. Penrose, who had long questioned the completeness of quantum theory, found the standard interpretation—that observation causes the wavefunction to collapse and determines the cat’s fate—deeply unsatisfying. Instead of accepting that the act of looking turns possibilities into truth, he sought deeper physical explanations, arguing that something intrinsic to nature itself might be responsible for resolving such superpositions, not merely the presence of an observer.

Because here’s the twist: the cat isn’t proven to be in either state, so we assume it is in both at once. 

I wonder… does that say more about the cat’s actual condition, or about human nature —our tendency to assume, to believe that things must be one or the other, simply because we cannot bear ambiguity?

My third term rolled around quicker than I could register. The classroom—cold as a butchery’s storage—had just settled into its usual rhythm. I took my place in my habitual spot on the outer semi-circle, where the chairs were higher than those at the centre, making me more visible.  As always, my teacher began by asking about the previous lesson’s content. Noticing that no one else was going to respond, I summoned the courage to raise my hand. When I was called on, the answer came effortlessly—I barely remembered thinking about it. “Correct,” I was told, and a surge of happiness swelled inside me, pride in both my recollection and my courage to speak up in this still-new setting. But the moment didn’t last. The teacher followed with, “It’s amazing how English isn’t your first language, yet you can articulate and answer questions so correctly.” By the warmth on my face, I could tell my body did not know how to receive this ‘compliment’. All my classmates looked at me, awaiting my response, some giving partial almost sympathetic smiles.  

“Thank you,” I said. 

I carry a fairly small bag for my classes, so I rarely bring a water bottle, but lately I’ve been trying to stay hydrated, so I went to ‘fetch’ some water before class—but that’s the wrong word to use since I now live in Australia. Luckily, I have friends to remind me. One could explain gently when someone makes a mistake, but some prefer to laugh as though mockery teaches faster: surely, they won’t repeat it. 

But I did, several times, in a little experiment I didn’t inform anyone of. I used the word ‘fetch’ consistently but subtly in anticipation of getting the same reaction as I’d gotten from my African friends. 

“Let me just fetch water before heading to class,” I said casually, not like I was waiting for a response of any sort. But the response didn’t come. 

“I’ll fetch you a chair,” I told my other friend, expecting a laugh or judgemental look at the least. Nothing. 

I repeated this little experiment with various people and even teachers till I could deem my results ‘reliable,’ which my chemistry teacher says is determined by whether I’d get the same results if I repeated the experiment several times, and I did. 

I concluded that I wasn’t the problem, and no one was. This is a system that quietly decides what belongs and what does not — the unspoken belief that things must be said and done a certain way simply because that’s how it is done here.

I love planning, though 40% percent of the time I don’t execute the plans.  Near the end of my second term, I planned for a friend’s birthday with eagerness and purpose, looking up hangout spots, prices of beverages and baskets, consulting Pinterest for what would look aesthetic. When my friends inquired, I told them I would buy a kangaroo or koala bear doll, a 15X15 photo frame, a book on Australian nature and a cap…

“A what?”

A cap, I said. 

“Like a Batman cape?” 

Oh it’s pronounced c-a-p, my bad — I should have looked up the Australian pronunciation. 

It’s a tricky game to try and be yourself when there’s more than one version of you. 

Superposition, in the context of physics, refers to the ability of a system to be in multiple states at the same time. In classical physics, superposition applies to systems like waves, where the combined effect of multiple waves is the sum of their individual effects. A qubit (quantum bit) is the basic unit of information in quantum computing. Unlike a classical bit, which can be either 0 or 1, a qubit can exist in a superposition of both states simultaneously. This superposition allows qubits to represent and process information in ways that are impossible for classical computers. 

To help visualise this, scientists often use a tool called the Bloch sphere. Imagine a smooth, spinning ball. At its top is the classical state 0, and at its bottom is state 1. Unlike a regular bit in classical computing, which must be either 0 or 1, a qubit can exist at any point on the surface of the sphere, representing a mix, or superposition, of both 0 and 1 at the same time. It is only when you observe or interact with the qubit that it ‘chooses’ a state, collapsing into either 0 or 1. So, just as you wouldn’t know exactly which direction a spinning ball is facing until you stop it, a qubit’s precise value remains undefined until measured.

Could superposition merely be a scientific phenomenon describing potential—or is it yet another example of how humans assume they can define someone, how their observations, whispers, and judgments shape not only what they become but who they are at the core?

Some old friends say I’ve changed since I moved here, and I wonder if that’s a bad thing, given change is the most constant thing in the world. The dictionary defines ‘adapting’ as ‘to make something or someone suitable for a new use or purpose’.

Several times with non-African friends I waited for reminders like the ones I had received before— “this is not Africa” or “we don’t say that here”—perhaps even giggles meant to undermine one’s lack of knowledge. But they never came. The irony was that those who laughed loudest were also African, just earlier arrivals. That made me wonder: did my ‘late’ arrival to Australia make me less than those who came before me? Is ‘late arrival’ defined simply by how long after someone else you arrive? It’s one thing to feel out of place among strangers—you prepare for that—but to feel out of place among people you expect comfort from? That’s different. 

Adapting, in my context, means the ability to shrink when faced with situations or environments that make you feel small. 

I speak Chi Nyanja, Chi Bemba, Kinyamurenge, and Kiswahili as often as I can with friends and family. After all, I don’t want to forget them. I don’t want to become the whitewashed girl. I love singing in my ethnic languages, following myths that don’t demand analysis of their truth, cooking oversized meals for small events, making big gatherings at any small opportunity, staying up unreasonably late to hear a story already told a hundred times before. I love my culture, tradition and roots. But I also love …  learning new English songs and letting the composer’s message embrace me, analysing concepts so critically I get to a point of inner conflict, planning so efficiently there’s no surplus, following strict routines that make me feel organised….

Growing up I always thought I HAD to know what I wanted to become; I needed to be sure. As often as others said it, “I don’t know” or “I’m not sure” never seemed like a viable answer for me, a ten-year-old being asked what they’d like to do when they gained independence, started a new life or perhaps even a family of their own. What will you do to feed your own family? I did need to be sure of this at ten, right? So, I confidently replied, “I want to be a doctor” and no, “It isn’t just because mom thinks it’s a good job and half the class wants to be the same.” I argued that I was sure because I felt the calling. 

A few months in Australia made me wonder—did I need to know everyone, every place, what to say if asked anything, the meaning to every word said even when it had not been used where I came from, and most importantly how to act with different people?

Looking back, I envy that clarity I was sure I had, but I also know it didn’t have a strong internal base. It was shaped by peer influence and societal clichés. So, when asked what I want to do now, I reply with evident uncertainty—“anything I’ll be happy doing, given I would want to do it my whole life”—an answer that to this day does not sit right with my need for certainty.

The uncertainty principle, formulated by the German physicist and Nobel laureate Werner Heisenberg in 1927, states that we cannot know both the position and speed of a particle, such as a photon or electron, with perfect accuracy; the more we nail down the particle's position, the less we know about its speed and vice versa. According to Caltech Science Exchange, a rollercoaster serves as an analogy for how the uncertainty principle works at much smaller scales. When the rollercoaster reaches the peak of the hill, we can take a snapshot and be certain of its location. But the snapshot alone would not give us enough information about its speed. When the rollercoaster descends the hill; we can measure its speed over time but would be less certain about its position. Applying this principle to superposition in the context of the ball or the Bloch sphere means that the moment you attempt to gain certainty, the quantum system collapses into one point, one certainty. 

But, to me, the principle takes away the greatness of the phenomenon. The philosophical root of quantum entanglement lies in Heisenberg’s principle: uncertainty is not a weakness, but rather a drive to deepen our knowledge and expand understanding.

The Chewa people, an ethnic group spread across regions of modern-day Zambia, Malawi, and Mozambique, have practiced the sacred tradition of Nyau mask-wearing for centuries. Their most renowned ceremonial expression, the Gule Wamkulu— ‘the Great Dance’—dates back as far as the 17th century and is rooted deeply in the community’s ancestral and spiritual cosmology. These masks are not mere performance props, but spiritual instruments used in funerals, initiation rites, harvest celebrations, weddings, and rituals of political transition. Their purpose reaches far beyond spectacle: they are believed to manifest ancestral spirits, becoming vessels through which the invisible world speaks, teaches, and guides. Once a dancer dons the raffia costume and mask, they are no longer themselves—they are ‘mizimu’, a spirit-force acting through flesh. 

For centuries, Nyau masks have been worn as vessels of significance, symbols of both distinction and unity within the Chewa community. With that power, as the saying goes, comes great responsibility. The masked—now a conduit for ancestral spirits—is charged with embodying forces far beyond human comprehension. They are not simply performing; they are feeling, channelling, and enacting the powers of the spirit realm. These powers span supernatural feats: some dancers appear immune to fire, move with inhuman agility, or walk along thin, electrified wires with uncanny balance—acts believed to be impossible without spiritual possession. 

The identity of the wearer must remain hidden; to expose it is to invite familiarity with the divine, to collapse the illusion and raise doubt in the minds of the community. Vinyau are treated with the utmost respect and reverence, a reverence laced with fear. In that sacred state, they are not sons or brothers or neighbours—they are spirits, walking among mortals with altered breath and bones.

Sometimes, I wonder how it must feel to wear the mask—not just the wood and raffia, but the weight of it. The responsibility of becoming something more than human, to step into spirit and silence your name. To disappear behind a carved face and not be allowed to look back. 

I imagine the tension: knowing you can be either yourself or the spirit, but never both at once. Like a switch that flips. A costume that cancels out your name. You collapse into the role, or you don’t enter at all. 

Maybe that’s the real power—not in choosing one identity over the other, but in learning how to juggle both without dropping either. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something ancient that lives in the body. A kind of rhythm you only feel mid-dance, when the spirit and the self are in conversation, not competition. Maybe the pride isn’t in becoming someone else, but in being able to carry both—the spirit and the self—in one chest and still walk forward.

Jessica was a 2025 SWN Young Writers Fellow, sponsored by Engaging Science Queensland.