Cracked but Whole: Engineering, Identity and the Quiet Politics of STEM at UTS

On the surface, the life of a STEM student at UTS might seem straightforward – morning lectures, late-night deadlines, and internships on the horizon. But just beneath this smooth exterior, many students carry delicate, fragile histories. 

Shells fractured by war, colonisation, and generational trauma.

For students of colour—especially those from families who migrated from regions shaped by conflict, famine, displacement or occupation—the STEM journey is far from neutral. It's not just a path of academic rigour. It's personal. It's emotional. And it's political in ways that most lecture slides won’t ever acknowledge.

We’re asked to innovate for the future, while our present is still shaped by the unresolved violence of the past. We’re told to think objectively while carrying the subjective realities of loss. And we’re encouraged to build—even rebuild—systems that have historically, and in many cases still, harm our people.

Like eggs with hairline cracks, we remain whole. Still here. Still showing up to class. But undeniably altered, fragile in ways not always visible to the eye.

Engineering is often marketed as apolitical. The emphasis is on function, optimisation, and innovation, as if these concepts exist independently of history or power. But the reality is far less sterile.

Take Wernher von Braun, a figure often revered in aerospace circles. As a lead architect of NASA’s Saturn V rocket, he played a pivotal role in launching the Apollo 11 mission and securing the United States' dominance in space exploration. What is frequently omitted from this celebration is his earlier history. Von Braun was a member of the Nazi SS and the developer of the V-2 ballistic missile, an early rocket weapon built using forced labour that killed thousands during World War II.

After the war, the United States quietly absorbed him through Operation Paperclip, recruiting him to bolster American defence and aerospace superiority.

This is not a fringe anecdote. It is the spine of modern engineering history. And it reveals how scientific brilliance has often been welcomed, even glorified, regardless of the human cost.

In short, innovation without ethics isn’t progress. It’s just polished harm.

Today, the relationship between engineering and geopolitical violence continues,

just under a different name and banner.

In Gaza, more than 35,000 people have been killed over the last two years. In Yemen, Sudan, Syria, and Libya, armed conflict persists with little Western scrutiny. Weapons used in these conflicts—drones, missiles, surveillance tools—are often manufactured, designed, or coded in the West. Many of those tools are built by people not much older than us. And in many cases, by graduates who once sat in university lecture halls not so different from ours.

Here at UTS, we are taught to design efficient systems, develop machine-learning models, and optimise code. But what’s often missing is the question: to what end? Are our skills used to build prosthetic limbs or target-locking systems? Are we improving energy infrastructure or developing control algorithms for military drones?

The same engineering principles that power life-saving technologies are also used in machinery designed to take life. That duality isn’t theoretical, it’s a lived contradiction for many of us.

It’s tempting to assume innocence by omission. “I’m not working for Raytheon, so I’m fine.” But the entanglement runs deeper.

Major tech companies, including Microsoft, Amazon, and Google, have all signed contracts with military and intelligence agencies. Smaller startups often supply software and hardware for “dual-use” technologies, which are those with both civilian and military applications. Even the raw materials for our devices, cobalt and coltan, are extracted from countries like the Democratic Republic of Congo, often through child labour and environmentally destructive practices.

So what happens when a child of Palestinian or Sudanese refugees is trained to work in the very systems that have displaced or harmed their communities? What does it mean to learn about “ethical engineering” in a classroom while your cousins live under drones built by the industry you're trying to break into?

The shell cracks a little deeper. The internal contradiction sharpens.

Let’s be clear: this is not an argument against engineering. STEM is not the villain here. Breakthroughs in medical technology, climate resilience, and infrastructure are urgently needed. Many of us came into this field because we wanted to help. We wanted to rebuild what was broken, including in the places our families once called home.

But helping doesn’t mean pretending the system is neutral. Helping doesn’t mean silence.

Every country has a right to defend itself, but we need to ask: who defines “defence”? And who gets labelled the aggressor? Whose lives are protected by our technologies, and whose are deemed collateral damage?

At UTS, we pride ourselves on being a globally engaged, socially conscious university. But if we want to live up to those values, we need to foster conversations that connect STEM to ethics, history, and global responsibility.

We may not be able to change the entire system from our desks—but we’re not powerless either.

• Ask questions in class: If something doesn’t sit right, raise it. Start conversations about the ethical applications of your work.

• Seek out ethical placements: Look for graduate roles or internships with companies working in climate tech, humanitarian aid, or ethical AI.

• Create community: Share resources. Talk openly with peers who understand the weight you carry. The cracks feel less isolating when we name them.

Engineering is not apolitical. It never was. The tools we build, the systems we design, the problems we choose to solve—they all carry weight. And as students of colour in STEM, that weight is often doubled: our labour is valued while our histories are ignored.

We are not just building the future. We are inheriting the past—and carrying it in fragile containers. We are cracked, yes—but not broken. And the futures we shape should reflect not just efficiency, but empathy. Not just brilliance, but accountability.

Because in the end, the real question isn’t whether we can build. It’s what we build—and who it’s for.