Anamarija Mraz

VP: Hi there. My name is Vuma Phiri, coming to you from Centre for Stories in Boorloo/Perth 

Today we present to you City of Stirling Backstories at Perth Festival: stories from residents living in the City of Stirling. Here, we showcase local residents sharing their most memorable lived experiences from the neighborhood. What connects them to this place? What connects them to their neighbours and community? 

In partnership with the City of Stirling and Perth Festival, Centre for Stories captured these experiences of connection to community and place on Whadjuk Nyungar boodjar. We pay our respect to Whadjuk Elders, and all Aboriginal people from the beginning, who are the knowledge-keepers and custodians of this place. 

In this episode, you will hear Anamarija Mraz’s story. Anamarija is an emerging writer and a graduate of the University of Western Australia. Anamarija writes Slavic fairytales, Australian fairytale retellings, migrant fables and fantasy stories. This is Anamarija.  

AM: Once Upon a Time, I was a white stork, born in a small town in Eastern Croatia. My hometown is famous for white storks and their nests and Slavic fairytales written by Ivana Brlic Mazuranic. As a child, I loved reading even as fairytales, and in fact, my whole childhood was one big happy fairytale. One of my favorite childhood memories was when mum and dad would drop off my brother and me at my grandmother’s house. Early in the morning, we would walk to Gajna, this beautiful floodplain pasture where the cows of the village would graze. We would stay there all-day playing games, and sometimes we would walk to the river. We would sit by the riverside in circles. We would tell each other stories with green frogs, croaking and dragonflies, waltzing over the river’s surface. Late in the afternoon, we would walk back with white and black storks flying above us, and sometimes weeding through the pasture, looking for grass snakes at night, grandmother would tell us fairytales; stories about princesses kidnapped by dragons and siblings defeating wicked witches. 

I loved those fairytales more than anything, and I dreamt that one day I will be able to tell my own. And all was fair. Until the day I was old enough to start high school, I felt pressured, forced to pick a practical career. So I went and I enrolled myself at the School of Economics, where I studied to become a secretary. After that, I went and studied law for two years, but those studies left me feeling unfulfilled. It seemed like every fairytale feather was plucked away from me. And so, when in March 2012, when I was 22 years old, an opportunity came to migrate to Western Australia, I was so excited. Australia appealed to me as a fairytale kingdom where I could do what I love, and I wouldn’t have to work in administration again. But, living in Australia, I did find myself working in the office. And it wasn’t until late 2013 when after a short battle with brain and lung cancer, my father passed away, and his death was a huge catalyst for me to start thinking about stories and writing. I went and I enrolled myself at UWA where I studied English literature and history. But after graduating, I found myself without a job, without a practical career. 

But UWA gave me something else. UWA gave me wisdom. UWA gave me wings, wings of creativity, imagination, curiosity and wonder. And on those wings, I started to write a fairytale fantasy novel rooted in Slavic mythology that honors my ancestors and connects me to my ancestral lands. But the need to pay bills and to buy groceries forced me into another office job. And after some time working in the office, it started to feel like I sinned against my heart and soul. I was full of anger and with a bleeding heart, I quit my job. And the only thing that helped me recover after quitting my job was walking. And so, one day I was walking in my local park, and I did this circle, walks round and round and round in circles until my heart was beating so fast, it was going to jump outta my chest. 

I stopped by a big eucalyptus tree, and I let the minty smell feel my nostrils, and I realized I was not alone. There was a group of bin chickens. There was a group of bin chickens under the big black Balga tree. And I looked at their long curved sharp beaks and they were like reaper sights, and they sliced through worms and harvested food scraps. And I did not know much about bin chickens. All I knew was what people were saying about them. People were saying they were dirty birds, pests and scavengers. So, I was scared of them. And all I wanted to see in that moment was my beautiful white storks nested on the rooftops and power poles. Instead, here I was faced with these scary birds, and a sudden thought popped into my head as painful as a bite of a bull ant. Without a job, I was no longer the graceful white stalk. I was now forced to be a litter stork, forced to sift through rubbish to survive. And in that moment, I swore I would not be a litter stork. I promised myself I would publish my writing, and I would never go back into the office. And I wrote, and I wrote, and I submitted my short stories to various writing competitions and journals. But I kept being burdened with rejections. And I was not the only one being burdened. So was my family. I was depending on them financially. Every time I found myself in the shop and waited for my family to pay for groceries or coffee, nausea bubbled in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to vomit. But what hurt me the most was people from my close circles calling me lazy, antisocial, weak and sensitive. 

And this hurt me so much that I started to avoid people. Every time someone invited me for a catchup or a coffee, I would give excuses like “I can’t. I have to write”. And on the rare occasions when I did catch up with people, it was always with the knife in my stomach. And every time someone mentioned a practical career or money, this knife would slice at my insides leaving me bleeding inside. But money issues motivated me. I tried to network with other writers to find out about writing opportunities, but I only found out that most writers had practical jobs and careers. And so, I tried to apply for writing jobs, but as a migrant and a beginner writer with no credentials, no connections in the industry, no fellowships, no awards, I had no luck. And I was so desperate, I no longer wrote stories to honor my ancestors, to connect myself to my ancestral lands, but I wrote stories for money. I wrote stories for survival, and I wrote stories for external validation. 

And this is what I wrote: “Golden coin in my hand, whose craft is exquisite? Whose craft is grand? It is yours, dwarf master. No one crafts gold as you. No one crafts it faster.” And that’s a short fairytale except from an Australian fairytale retelling. I loved it so, so much. It took me all the courage of this world to submit it to a publisher. But I got rejected. And so, my wings were broken. I remember that day I was lying on the floor, and I was sobbing out my heart and soul with my cat, Felix, when I remembered fairytales. I remembered that no hero or heroine in the fairytales ever succeeded on their quest without the help of a mentor. And I did not have a mentor, but I had the litter stork. I was the litter stork. So, I got up and I asked myself, “Anamarija, what would the litter stork do now? It would peck and peck until it would find worms or food scraps, just like that day under the big black balga tree”. And in that moment, I felt that there was more to the work of the bin chicken than what everyone thought. Next time I went to my local park, and I did my circle walks and I watched the litter storks. But this time I saw them differently. I saw their long, curved beaks like crescent moons, glinting, golden in the morning sun. And as they clocked so, so softly, I realized they were not uncovering rubbish, but they were uncovering forgotten relics and treasures. And so, I smiled feeling like I belonged with them. 

But I did not know why until I realized that it was because of the work of the litter stork. It was noble, transformative work. Litter stork knew there was something sacred in the rubbish. And so, I was no longer scared of the litter stalk. How could I be? Ibis is, was, a divine bird – a storyteller who gathers, transforms and reveals stories just like me. And I come from a line of brilliant women storytellers who told stories but never preserved them like ibises do. My grandmother, she never saw the life-changing value in the stories she shared with me. So, she never wrote them down. And my great-grandmother, well, she was illiterate. She could not write her beautiful fairytales. And so, in that moment, I chose to be an ibis. To heal the wounds of my grandmother’s and of my ancestors. And I realised that my job as an ibis is to be not just the revealer of the stories, but a sacred archivist. A storyteller who is going to keep the creative balance between memory and reimagination, between history and reinvention. And I understood in that moment that stories that resonate the most with people are not those externally validated, but those that are grounded in deep inner work. 

And so no longer was I obsessed with writing and sharing stories to earn money, or to gain recognition, awards or approval. I now have a renewed creative direction. And I know the kind of storyteller I wish to be. I choose to be patient, humble, misunderstood, unappreciated, overlooked, storyteller, just like the Australian ibis. And that’s okay. I choose silence. I choose solitude. I choose stillness, and I choose serenity. And I choose these things because I write not to earn money, but I write to heal the wounds in my heart and the wounds of my ancestors flowing in my blood. 

When I need company, I will go to my local park and I will walk with the ibises with my storks, and I will find rest and shade next to the big black Balga tree. And that’s okay. I choose to ground stories in ancestral wisdom, and I choose to sprinkle fairytale magic in them. And I choose to preserve them for many, many years until they’re ready to be shared with the world. Maybe they will never be ready to be shared with the world. And that’s okay. Now, more than ever, Australia and our world needs a flock of ibises with stories that honor ancestors but speak to the living. So, if you feel disconnected to your ancestors and your ancestor lands, please remember that your ancestors, and their stories, live in your blood. They’re clucking, like ibises, waiting for you to reimagine them. And so, you might wonder, “What is my job?” Well, I’m building a nest and home for my fairytales with twigs of ancestral wisdom running through my veins. You might wonder, “Who is she?” Well, I am not a white stork anymore. I am not a litter stork, or a bin chicken, but I am a water bird. I am an Australian ibis living in the City of Stirling.  

VP: Thank you for listening. This story collection was funded by the City of Stirling and Perth Festival and produced by Centre for Stories.  

Centre for Stories is a not-for-profit organization with charitable status. Our team is small and nimble, and we love what we do. To help us to continue to support diverse storytellers, consider a small donation. You can donate at centreforstories.com.  

This podcast was produced by Centre for Stories with story training from Vuma Phiri and sound engineering by Mason Vellios. Thank you.