I own a beard
I do not "have" a beard...
There is a fashion at this point in time, for young men to grow beards. These beards are a serious commitment to the young men who grow them. Beards are a sign of masculinity, to them, and must be cultivated, groomed, fashioned, and sculpted. The presence of a Barber, or at least a Hairdresser, (note the capitals), is required to ensure that the necessary care is taken of the facial growth, in order to ensure the maximum effect of a fashion accessory which, by it's very nature, is designed to obscure your attractiveness to the opposite (or same, I don't give a stuff), sex.
I own my beard.
It is mine.
It has been my beard since 1983.
My wife and all my children have never seen me without my beard.
Note that I do not say "A beard", but "MY beard".
My beard has been short, long, scruffy, unkempt, tidy, tiny, and has gone from almost black to almost grey, but it has never been gone. It has remained, because it is part of who I am.
My beard is an integral part of my persona. I cannot imagine being without it.
Now here's the kicker. Something as precious to me as my beard must surely require my attention, right?
Wrong.
I brush my beard morning and night, when I brush my hair. I wash it when I wash the rest of me. Rarely does a hairdresser touch my beard. My Wife and kids give me a set of hair clippers for Father's Day every now and then, when my old ones give up. I maintain my beard myself.
Perhaps a lot of young men with beards treat theirs as I treat mine. That's great.
Many do not.
I have no right to judge, and I am just an aging guy with what I like to believe is a modicum of taste, but to the seriously beard-centric guys out there, I would like to offer a few words of insight:
A beard is a commitment. You grow a beard to see how it suits you. You keep a beard because it adds to who you are.
If the beard you grow requires you to change your hairstyle, fashion sense, lifestyle, or hair-care options, then it is probably wrong for you.
If the beard you grow causes people to respect you more, to compliment your looks, or to want to be seen with you, then you may have struck a winner.
I have been told that people cannot imagine me without a beard... That's good, because I can't either.
I regard that as fair indication that a beard is right for me.
My father only grew a beard once in his life, to the best of my knowledge. I was about 15 years old, and the centenary celebrations of his home town included a beard growing competition, which he duly entered. He did not win, but it was an impressive effort, and I could see how it would suit him.
He didn't keep the beard. My Mother didn't like it, for one thing, but the other, more important reason was that he did not feel it suited him. I understood his reasoning completely.
My Father was a clean-cut man, physically and in personality. He had nothing to hide, nothing that required any kind of screen, and so a beard didn't suit him. He wasn't completely comfortable with a beard.
This is not to say that people with beards are hiding something. My Father was over fifty when he first grew a beard. It just didn't suit the man he had become.
I own a beard. It is part of me. When you meet me, what you see is what you get. A good beard ADDS to your personality, emphasises who you are, and makes you more confident.
A bad beard hides your personality, detracts from who you are, and gives you something to hide behind. It can back-fire on you.
Be strong, not fashionable. Look at yourself and ask;"Do I really need a beard?"
If you think you do; try it, but be honest with yourself. There are so many men sporting great big lumberjack beards today, who will be scouring the internet in 25 years time, trying to find the photographs that show them to be the pale-skinned, heavy-bearded fashionistas that they wish they never were.
I made my fashion mistakes, and I know they will haunt me, but at least I do not still wear those mistakes. When you grow a beard, it becomes part of you, and it remains part of you even after you shave it off.
I made mistakes with my beard. I didn't look after it, I grew it too long at times, and I hid behind it.
A beard cannot be your shield. A beard is a sign of your confidence in yourself.
If a beard suits you, then keep it. Make your beard a part of what you show the world.
If your beard doesn't suit you, then admit it. This is not Ancient Gaul, not having a beard is no shame. In fact, not having a beard makes you braver than the guy who keeps a bad beard. It means you tried it and were strong enough to admit it didn't suit you.
Many fine young men that I know have decided that a beard is not for them. That makes me proud.
So, just because I look fantastic owning a beard, that doesn't mean you do. Be honest with yourself.
And don't even start me on the "Top-knots", or "Man Buns" thing....
Saturday, 19 December 2015
Saturday, 5 December 2015
Uncomfortable Conversations
We all have them, at one point or another. These are the conversations we would rather not have to have, but are necessary. Personally, I hate them, and like most people, work so hard at avoiding them that it would often be easier to just get it over and done.
Uncomfortable conversations come in many guises. They occur at different times in our lives, for different reasons, and are almost always about the things we think about least... because those things make us uncomfortable. Occasionally, they are about the things we think about constantly, (like that nasty hoarding habit which is growing slowly.... you know who you are!), but mostly it is the things that we push away because it is just too hard to deal with, like Gay rights, or refugees, or why you don't recycle as much as you could, despite that Greenpeace membership you took, ( insert Sea Shepherd, World Wildlife Fund, PETA, Save the Animals, Green Party, etc, etc.).
Sometimes, though, it's impossible to avoid, and we have to have the conversation we don't want to have, the "little chat" in which we feel cornered, trapped, and forced to face the fact that we have to justify ignoring something on which we should have a position. It could be that someone has deliberately button-holed us and forced the subject to the surface, so there is nowhere to hide, or perhaps it is a social situation in which the conversation gradually circles around, before zeroing in on the one subject you try to avoid, and someone turns to you and says, "So what do YOU think...".
In both situations, you can choose your course of action; you can bluff and prevaricate, which invariably makes you look weak, and leaves you open to attack. You can retreat and pretend ignorance, which will immediately destroy your credibility with your audience. Or you can plunge ahead, admit your uncertainties, your prejudices, fears and preconceptions, which will immediately alienate at least some of your audience, especially if they are part of the group under discussion.
Which is why we don't want uncomfortable conversations in the first place.
But how about this...
If we were to confront our fears, our prejudices and preconceptions, if we were to learn as much as we can, from unbiased sources, about all the things we don't like to talk about, and sift the information through our minds as we go about our daily life, then perhaps the "uncomfortable" part of the conversation may not be there. The embarrassment of our opinion might disappear, because we are informed, and can justify our opposition, or because we have learned, and can admit that once we didn't agree, but now we do. We may also learn to appreciate the position of those we do not agree with, and no longer fear them as aggressors and as being argumentative.
Which leaves one problem.
Sooner or later, we are going to have to admit that uncomfortable conversations start with us. We are the ones that set the parameters for these conversations, and it is US that actually make the conversations "uncomfortable" because of our own attitudes. In fact, if we are honest, each of us has, as individuals, many conversations inside ourselves which we do not want to have, because of the truths about ourselves which we need to face, but do not want to.
This is where the conversations need to start.
The most difficult conversations are those we need to have with ourselves.
Uncomfortable conversations come in many guises. They occur at different times in our lives, for different reasons, and are almost always about the things we think about least... because those things make us uncomfortable. Occasionally, they are about the things we think about constantly, (like that nasty hoarding habit which is growing slowly.... you know who you are!), but mostly it is the things that we push away because it is just too hard to deal with, like Gay rights, or refugees, or why you don't recycle as much as you could, despite that Greenpeace membership you took, ( insert Sea Shepherd, World Wildlife Fund, PETA, Save the Animals, Green Party, etc, etc.).
Sometimes, though, it's impossible to avoid, and we have to have the conversation we don't want to have, the "little chat" in which we feel cornered, trapped, and forced to face the fact that we have to justify ignoring something on which we should have a position. It could be that someone has deliberately button-holed us and forced the subject to the surface, so there is nowhere to hide, or perhaps it is a social situation in which the conversation gradually circles around, before zeroing in on the one subject you try to avoid, and someone turns to you and says, "So what do YOU think...".
In both situations, you can choose your course of action; you can bluff and prevaricate, which invariably makes you look weak, and leaves you open to attack. You can retreat and pretend ignorance, which will immediately destroy your credibility with your audience. Or you can plunge ahead, admit your uncertainties, your prejudices, fears and preconceptions, which will immediately alienate at least some of your audience, especially if they are part of the group under discussion.
Which is why we don't want uncomfortable conversations in the first place.
But how about this...
If we were to confront our fears, our prejudices and preconceptions, if we were to learn as much as we can, from unbiased sources, about all the things we don't like to talk about, and sift the information through our minds as we go about our daily life, then perhaps the "uncomfortable" part of the conversation may not be there. The embarrassment of our opinion might disappear, because we are informed, and can justify our opposition, or because we have learned, and can admit that once we didn't agree, but now we do. We may also learn to appreciate the position of those we do not agree with, and no longer fear them as aggressors and as being argumentative.
Which leaves one problem.
Sooner or later, we are going to have to admit that uncomfortable conversations start with us. We are the ones that set the parameters for these conversations, and it is US that actually make the conversations "uncomfortable" because of our own attitudes. In fact, if we are honest, each of us has, as individuals, many conversations inside ourselves which we do not want to have, because of the truths about ourselves which we need to face, but do not want to.
This is where the conversations need to start.
The most difficult conversations are those we need to have with ourselves.
Saturday, 28 November 2015
Are We All the Same In the Dead of Night?
I wonder sometimes, as I lay awake in the darkness, if the Great Ones ever feel the way we do. Do they ever consider the actions they have taken, seeing the unexpected outcomes, and despair that what they worked so hard to achieve, is collapsing before their eyes.
I'm not talking about the madmen like Hitler, who built dreams on selfish motives, but then despaired when their greedy desires were brought undone. No, I am talking about our icons, our beacons of light, who achieved impossible dreams for the good of their fellow man. Did these giants ever look at what they were doing, or had done, and thought; "This is terrible. I should never have started"
Had Martin Luther King Jr, survived into old age, would he have looked at the Los Angeles riots in the 1980's, and felt despair at how little progress had been made?
If John F Kennedy had not died on that day in Dallas, I wonder if he would have thought that his efforts to remove the troops from Vietnam, should have brought better outcomes than the mess that remained in Laos, Cambodia,and of course, Vietnam.
I feel despair. I feel a tremendous sense of helplessness, and hopelessness when something I have worked so hard on, something I have poured love and effort into, is falling into chaotic fragments before my eyes. Surely the Great Ones have experienced this too.
Or are they certain, so certain of their mission, their goal, their destiny, that they have no doubt of their success? Perhaps this confidence is what makes them Great. They know they are born to this success, and so they go on, against all the obstacles, and achieve those things which only the select few can achieve.
Perhaps, though, in the early hours of the day, when the darkness wraps itself around our minds, and we look at our endeavours without the optimism that daylight can lend to our ideas, perhaps then, the Mighty among us look at themselves and despair, and wonder if all their efforts are for nothing.
If they do this, then I hope they take some small comfort in knowing that, sometimes I am awake too; despairing.
Are you?
I'm not talking about the madmen like Hitler, who built dreams on selfish motives, but then despaired when their greedy desires were brought undone. No, I am talking about our icons, our beacons of light, who achieved impossible dreams for the good of their fellow man. Did these giants ever look at what they were doing, or had done, and thought; "This is terrible. I should never have started"
Had Martin Luther King Jr, survived into old age, would he have looked at the Los Angeles riots in the 1980's, and felt despair at how little progress had been made?
If John F Kennedy had not died on that day in Dallas, I wonder if he would have thought that his efforts to remove the troops from Vietnam, should have brought better outcomes than the mess that remained in Laos, Cambodia,and of course, Vietnam.
I feel despair. I feel a tremendous sense of helplessness, and hopelessness when something I have worked so hard on, something I have poured love and effort into, is falling into chaotic fragments before my eyes. Surely the Great Ones have experienced this too.
Or are they certain, so certain of their mission, their goal, their destiny, that they have no doubt of their success? Perhaps this confidence is what makes them Great. They know they are born to this success, and so they go on, against all the obstacles, and achieve those things which only the select few can achieve.
Perhaps, though, in the early hours of the day, when the darkness wraps itself around our minds, and we look at our endeavours without the optimism that daylight can lend to our ideas, perhaps then, the Mighty among us look at themselves and despair, and wonder if all their efforts are for nothing.
If they do this, then I hope they take some small comfort in knowing that, sometimes I am awake too; despairing.
Are you?
Wednesday, 28 October 2015
Stirring the Pot.
So, as of late 2015, processed meat, beef, lamb, and pork are the new things to fear.
I'm not surprised, to be honest. We have known for ages that processed meat is not good for us, and we have also been told that too much red meat is bad for us.... but Cancer???
The World Health Organisation (W.H.O.) is a very respectable institution. These are the people that oversaw and monitored the eradication of Smallpox, and they have been warning of the resurgence of Polio and Tuberculosis, so they are working for the good of Mankind, but I wonder if they are becoming a part of the problem. Which problem? The problem that is infecting Western civilization; the problem of Attitude towards Life.
We, in the First World, have a very unique approach to Life. We regard long life as a great reward and almost a Right, these days. We are living longer than at any other time in history, and we are doing it in better health, too. We live our working lives planning for a retirement in which we can (hopefully) enjoy unlimited leisure time, with a pleasant outlook for many years to come. Living to age 85 these days is not uncommon, and if you are fortunate enough to retire at 65, then almost 30% of your life-span is theoretically yours to enjoy as you wish.
Unfortunately, this scenario is not universal in our elderly. Many older people are in nursing facilities, with failing health, little opportunity to get around, and with few visitors. Instead of living long, happy lives, they are just living long.
We have another problem which seems unrelated to the elderly, but it is even more devastating. The suicide rate among the young people of the First World nations is growing alarmingly. More people under the age of 25 are committing suicide than at any time in recorded history. Why? We have a good society, with reasonably fair laws, education and opportunity is provided to the vast majority, and our medical research is keeping us safer from diseases than ever before. What then, is driving a sense of hopelessness among our Youth?
Putting these two problems into the pot, adding the latest W.H.O. findings, and giving it a good stir, has made me wonder about something.What if we, as a society, are looking at Life the wrong way, and what if it doesn't really matter that things are Bad For Us?
There are many people who do not eat red, or processed meat, or any meat at all, in some cases, and they have a range of reasons for not doing so. I think that is great, if it works for them. Health reasons are as good as any reason to not eat animal protein, if that suits you. The evidence shows that these people are more likely to live healthier trouble free lives for a few years longer than the omnivores among us. Good for them. Of all the other reasons not to eat meat, I don't understand a few of them, but that's just my opinion, and if they are happy, then also; Good for them.
What I have a problem with is the "blanket" attitude toward red and processed meat. Has it been proven that processed meat can cause cancer? Yes. Is it as bad as tobacco, or radiation exposure? The answer is no. Can red meat cause cancer? Yes. Is it as bad as processed meat? No. If processed meat is as bad as the media reports, then Colo-rectal cancer would be the leading cancer among Italians, Greeks, Germans, and most Slavic people. It's not.
The knee-jerk reaction from the general media, and certain interest groups fails to take these subtle inferences into consideration when they report this story, and I think this harms society in the long run. If people are continually told that a long life is better, when there is nothing to fill that life in the later years, then aren't we doing ourselves a disservice? I have no desire to be trapped in a wheelchair in a home for the frail, simply because a lifetime of manual labour has left me too poor to afford to travel, and too crippled with injury and arthritis to move around as I wish.
The young are being told constantly that their world is being destroyed, polluted and corrupted. they see that every food group can be a detriment to their health if they do not treat it correctly, or if they over-indulge. Sugar is bad, Fat is bad, too much eating is bad, too little is worse. Everything is dangerous, unless it is sterile and completely organic.
Does it have to be this way? Can't we look at things a little differently? Wouldn't it be a more positive approach if we allowed people to have a few bad things without making them pariahs, or at least guilt-ridden? You've made it to 75? Good on you! Eat and drink what you like! You've earned the privilege of letting loose! If you want to continue to live healthily, well that's okay too. You can enjoy life however you choose. Perhaps we can tell the young that Life is Good, rather than Life is Scary. Perhaps they will see the joy in the little evils, rather than the Evil in the little joys.
I have eaten some truly memorable steaks, and my list of favourite meals is red meat heavy. I love Chorizo, Kransky and ham. I would hate to lose my enjoyment (and occasional over-indulgence), of them through a sense of guilt. Don't let Not Dying replace Living.
I'm not surprised, to be honest. We have known for ages that processed meat is not good for us, and we have also been told that too much red meat is bad for us.... but Cancer???
The World Health Organisation (W.H.O.) is a very respectable institution. These are the people that oversaw and monitored the eradication of Smallpox, and they have been warning of the resurgence of Polio and Tuberculosis, so they are working for the good of Mankind, but I wonder if they are becoming a part of the problem. Which problem? The problem that is infecting Western civilization; the problem of Attitude towards Life.
We, in the First World, have a very unique approach to Life. We regard long life as a great reward and almost a Right, these days. We are living longer than at any other time in history, and we are doing it in better health, too. We live our working lives planning for a retirement in which we can (hopefully) enjoy unlimited leisure time, with a pleasant outlook for many years to come. Living to age 85 these days is not uncommon, and if you are fortunate enough to retire at 65, then almost 30% of your life-span is theoretically yours to enjoy as you wish.
Unfortunately, this scenario is not universal in our elderly. Many older people are in nursing facilities, with failing health, little opportunity to get around, and with few visitors. Instead of living long, happy lives, they are just living long.
We have another problem which seems unrelated to the elderly, but it is even more devastating. The suicide rate among the young people of the First World nations is growing alarmingly. More people under the age of 25 are committing suicide than at any time in recorded history. Why? We have a good society, with reasonably fair laws, education and opportunity is provided to the vast majority, and our medical research is keeping us safer from diseases than ever before. What then, is driving a sense of hopelessness among our Youth?
Putting these two problems into the pot, adding the latest W.H.O. findings, and giving it a good stir, has made me wonder about something.What if we, as a society, are looking at Life the wrong way, and what if it doesn't really matter that things are Bad For Us?
There are many people who do not eat red, or processed meat, or any meat at all, in some cases, and they have a range of reasons for not doing so. I think that is great, if it works for them. Health reasons are as good as any reason to not eat animal protein, if that suits you. The evidence shows that these people are more likely to live healthier trouble free lives for a few years longer than the omnivores among us. Good for them. Of all the other reasons not to eat meat, I don't understand a few of them, but that's just my opinion, and if they are happy, then also; Good for them.
What I have a problem with is the "blanket" attitude toward red and processed meat. Has it been proven that processed meat can cause cancer? Yes. Is it as bad as tobacco, or radiation exposure? The answer is no. Can red meat cause cancer? Yes. Is it as bad as processed meat? No. If processed meat is as bad as the media reports, then Colo-rectal cancer would be the leading cancer among Italians, Greeks, Germans, and most Slavic people. It's not.
The knee-jerk reaction from the general media, and certain interest groups fails to take these subtle inferences into consideration when they report this story, and I think this harms society in the long run. If people are continually told that a long life is better, when there is nothing to fill that life in the later years, then aren't we doing ourselves a disservice? I have no desire to be trapped in a wheelchair in a home for the frail, simply because a lifetime of manual labour has left me too poor to afford to travel, and too crippled with injury and arthritis to move around as I wish.
The young are being told constantly that their world is being destroyed, polluted and corrupted. they see that every food group can be a detriment to their health if they do not treat it correctly, or if they over-indulge. Sugar is bad, Fat is bad, too much eating is bad, too little is worse. Everything is dangerous, unless it is sterile and completely organic.
Does it have to be this way? Can't we look at things a little differently? Wouldn't it be a more positive approach if we allowed people to have a few bad things without making them pariahs, or at least guilt-ridden? You've made it to 75? Good on you! Eat and drink what you like! You've earned the privilege of letting loose! If you want to continue to live healthily, well that's okay too. You can enjoy life however you choose. Perhaps we can tell the young that Life is Good, rather than Life is Scary. Perhaps they will see the joy in the little evils, rather than the Evil in the little joys.
I have eaten some truly memorable steaks, and my list of favourite meals is red meat heavy. I love Chorizo, Kransky and ham. I would hate to lose my enjoyment (and occasional over-indulgence), of them through a sense of guilt. Don't let Not Dying replace Living.
Tuesday, 13 October 2015
Time To Start Calling "Bullshit"...
Here is a little interactive task for you. It's not hard, and it's interesting. Inspirational even. Go to you tube and search, "Jeff Daniels, Why America isn't the Greatest Country" Watch it, and then come back to me. The rest of my post won't make sense if you don't do that.
Ok? Great wasn't it? One of the best moments on television that many of us will ever see. It represents all of the things that so many United States citizens ( I find it hard to say Americans, because that includes Canada and the whole of South America, too..) and many of us in the Western World believe. It is all about the things that made the U.S.A. the greatest nation on Earth. The founding Fathers of U.S. Democracy. The U.S. carrying the banner of Freedom for oppressed peoples all over the world. The great free market economics that proved that anyone can be a success.
Jeff Daniels is the actor in this scene, and he is brilliant. He is spontaneous, passionate, emotive and connects with the viewer. I especially love the way he says that the U.S.A. could do it again. They could be that way again, if they want to.
This is the crux of the whole speech. He is saying that The United States could be the great nation it once was. I have watched this clip dozens of times and I always enjoy that moment.
I also believe it's Bullshit.
The United States can never again become the nation it was, and there is a whole Cuban boatload of reasons why it can't.
One of the big reasons is because the people themselves don't want to. There are many idealistic, committed people in the United states today who want nothing more than to fight for what is right, to free the oppressed, to give to the poor. Many of them put their money where their mouths are, and make great personal sacrifices to do good for others. The problem lies in the fact that all of these people put together would not make a blip on the political radar when compared to those who are happy to pledge money to a cause or sign a petition, as long as it doesn't affect their quality of life, or impinge on their leisure time, and THOSE people are absolutely NOTHING compared to the vast bulk of United States citizens who just Don't Give A Damn.
Let's face it, most United States citizens don't care unless it affects THEM. So talking about history and greatness and glory, are fine. They can accept that critique, and say "yes, we are part of one of the Great Nations of History", and many still carry that myth into today. Asking them to revive that Glory is another problem, and they will never achieve it. Why? Because it's hard.
Returning the United States to the position of Moral World Leader would take hard work and sacrifice. (Whether the U.S.A. ever deserved the title is a moot point, but I digress).
The bottom line is that the U.S.A. doesn't want to do the hard work. They would have to surrender their irresponsible Budgetry policies. They would have to introduce equitable economic practices and distribute wealth more evenly through their society. They would need to stop being so heavy-handed in the Diplomatic arena. They would have to open up their political arena to minor parties and abolish the vote buying system that dominates politics now. They would have to stop selling good ideas to the highest bidder, and start giving them to the population, for free. They would need to reduce their Military spending and give free medical treatment to the people that need it.
If the U.S.A. want to become the nation that the world looks up to, once more, then that is where they need to START. They won't. It's hard. The U.S. doesn't want to do hard any more. They want comfort, and relaxation, and continuation of dominance. If they can't have those things in real life, then they will tell themselves they have them, until someone smacks them in the face with the proof that they don't.
Nice try Mr Daniels, but I'm afraid it won't work. Not at this point in history, anyway.
And why am I, an Australian, writing such scathing things about a country that is not my own? Why do I dare to criticise another country? Well, because Australia prides itself on giving people a fair go. On mateship, sticking up for the under-dog, helping a mate when he's down on his luck, and for fighting on the side that is right.
I'm worried that Jeff Daniels could be talking about Australia, very soon.
Ok? Great wasn't it? One of the best moments on television that many of us will ever see. It represents all of the things that so many United States citizens ( I find it hard to say Americans, because that includes Canada and the whole of South America, too..) and many of us in the Western World believe. It is all about the things that made the U.S.A. the greatest nation on Earth. The founding Fathers of U.S. Democracy. The U.S. carrying the banner of Freedom for oppressed peoples all over the world. The great free market economics that proved that anyone can be a success.
Jeff Daniels is the actor in this scene, and he is brilliant. He is spontaneous, passionate, emotive and connects with the viewer. I especially love the way he says that the U.S.A. could do it again. They could be that way again, if they want to.
This is the crux of the whole speech. He is saying that The United States could be the great nation it once was. I have watched this clip dozens of times and I always enjoy that moment.
I also believe it's Bullshit.
The United States can never again become the nation it was, and there is a whole Cuban boatload of reasons why it can't.
One of the big reasons is because the people themselves don't want to. There are many idealistic, committed people in the United states today who want nothing more than to fight for what is right, to free the oppressed, to give to the poor. Many of them put their money where their mouths are, and make great personal sacrifices to do good for others. The problem lies in the fact that all of these people put together would not make a blip on the political radar when compared to those who are happy to pledge money to a cause or sign a petition, as long as it doesn't affect their quality of life, or impinge on their leisure time, and THOSE people are absolutely NOTHING compared to the vast bulk of United States citizens who just Don't Give A Damn.
Let's face it, most United States citizens don't care unless it affects THEM. So talking about history and greatness and glory, are fine. They can accept that critique, and say "yes, we are part of one of the Great Nations of History", and many still carry that myth into today. Asking them to revive that Glory is another problem, and they will never achieve it. Why? Because it's hard.
Returning the United States to the position of Moral World Leader would take hard work and sacrifice. (Whether the U.S.A. ever deserved the title is a moot point, but I digress).
The bottom line is that the U.S.A. doesn't want to do the hard work. They would have to surrender their irresponsible Budgetry policies. They would have to introduce equitable economic practices and distribute wealth more evenly through their society. They would need to stop being so heavy-handed in the Diplomatic arena. They would have to open up their political arena to minor parties and abolish the vote buying system that dominates politics now. They would have to stop selling good ideas to the highest bidder, and start giving them to the population, for free. They would need to reduce their Military spending and give free medical treatment to the people that need it.
If the U.S.A. want to become the nation that the world looks up to, once more, then that is where they need to START. They won't. It's hard. The U.S. doesn't want to do hard any more. They want comfort, and relaxation, and continuation of dominance. If they can't have those things in real life, then they will tell themselves they have them, until someone smacks them in the face with the proof that they don't.
Nice try Mr Daniels, but I'm afraid it won't work. Not at this point in history, anyway.
And why am I, an Australian, writing such scathing things about a country that is not my own? Why do I dare to criticise another country? Well, because Australia prides itself on giving people a fair go. On mateship, sticking up for the under-dog, helping a mate when he's down on his luck, and for fighting on the side that is right.
I'm worried that Jeff Daniels could be talking about Australia, very soon.
Saturday, 10 October 2015
Good Morning, Vietnam!! (the battle for values and freedom remains)
There is no doubt that, for a long time, I avoided re-watching "Good Morning, Vietnam!".
As a Robin Williams fan, I waited eagerly for the release of this movie. I was looking forward to seeing a comic genius have a good time with a cultural icon that I not only identified with, but grew up with.
The Vietnam war formed a part of my consciousness, from my earliest memories of seeing the Draft notices appear on the television at night, requesting that those "Whose birthdays fall upon this date... report to your local recruiting office or police station", to the later news bulletins announcing the death of "Corporal so-and-so, of Scrubby Creek, New South Wales...".
All the while the young patriot in me was proud of seeing Australians go to war, while a part of me shrank, and hoped the war would be over before I was called up.
I knew Veteran soldiers from World Wars 1 and 2. They were the older men in our community, and were held in a certain respect. They were the yardsticks by which we measured ourselves in a small country town in Western Queensland.
The Vietnam boys were different. They were my generation, although a little older, and they were friends, and average guys...no mystique surrounded these young men. Until they came home.
It was then the differences showed, and none were ever quite the same. It was a different war, with different rules, and a different outcome. Vietnam was something new.
Yet I didn't see it fully, until I saw "Good Morning, Vietnam!"
Oh, I understood many things, and I valued the ideals that the soldiers lived by, that allowed them to go to war, but I did not realise the trauma involved.
Robin Williams was hilarious in this film. He showed the full array of comic artillery that was in his arsenal. He was funny, outrageous, sarcastic, spontaneous, and irreverent. Each one was to become part of his comic persona that ultimately identified his comic genius. He also showed a much deeper, serious aspect to his character. Walter Cronauer was a real person, a real disc jockey on U.S.Armed Forces Radio, although he was never as outrageous as his film persona. Williams' portrayal takes this character to a different, darker place than Cronauer ever went in real life.
What we see in the film is a clash of cultures. Williams is an American who believes that he is a Good Guy. He is there as part of the effort to save a country. He is a nice, polite, American guy, and he sees no reason why he shouldn't get what he asks for.
What he doesn't see is that he is banging heads with a culture that doesn't see him as a Good Guy, but as just another dominating force. The Vietnamese have their culture, they do not need his presence, and some of them don't even agree with the war his people are waging.
The gradual education of Walter Cronauer and his eventual disillusionment with both his military masters and the people he has misunderstood, is one of the painful yet illuminating lessons of this film. When Robin Williams leaves Vietnam, he is a shattered and educated man. His humor is subdued, his dreams and bravado are gone. He is older.
I first saw this film as soon as it was released. It broke my heart. I went in expecting a good time. I came out shocked and saddened. I didn't expect to be shown such truths. I never watched it again.
Decades later, I finally had to watch it again, because my wife insisted. I'm glad she did. I saw through fresh eyes the meaning of meeting head-on a culture you not only don't understand, but one you severely under-estimate. A culture that has it's own mores and traditions, and is unused to being trampled by another culture which it does not necessarily regard as being superior. A culture which has radical elements which lie just below the veneer of gentleness and humility.
Australia's conversation with Islamic integration and immigration is one we have handled badly in recent times. Muslims are here to stay, and we must learn to accommodate the increased numbers of a religion which has been in Australia for two hundred years, in one form or another, while at the same time not allowing our natural acceptance of new ideas bring about the downfall of our society and our values.
Blundering about like a comedian in a war zone will not achieve the result we, as Australians, desire, but neither will being heavy-handed and trying to beat acceptance into our new neighbours. We need to learn to tread the fine line between the two, and perhaps the scene in "Good Morning, Vietnam" which allows Williams' character to be most at ease with the people in Vietnam is the one Australia needs to heed the most.
He takes over an English language class,and instead of teaching them formal language; he teaches them a way they can communicate with each other.
Muslims are not like most Australians, and some are extremely different to Australians.
Yes, they need to change some ideas and attitudes, but so do we. Just like the First Settlers had to.
And the Gold-Rush settlers. And the Economic migrants from Europe in the 1800's. And the Post-war migrants after World War 2, and the Ten Pound Poms in the Sixties.
We are a Nation of Migrants. We have always changed. On both sides of the equation. If we didn't, then the rabid anti-Muslim protestor wouldn't be able to pick up a quick Doner Kebab on the way from his protest rally, and we would never buy any Japanese/Thai-made/Chinese motor cars to drive to work.
We may not be comfortable with this latest wave of immigration, but with some effort we can make it work. Just ask the Vietnamese who flocked to our shores in boats after 1975. They seem to be pretty damned Aussie to me. Effort from BOTH sides....it's all we need to make it a "Wonderful World"
OOOHH, YEAHHH!!
As a Robin Williams fan, I waited eagerly for the release of this movie. I was looking forward to seeing a comic genius have a good time with a cultural icon that I not only identified with, but grew up with.
The Vietnam war formed a part of my consciousness, from my earliest memories of seeing the Draft notices appear on the television at night, requesting that those "Whose birthdays fall upon this date... report to your local recruiting office or police station", to the later news bulletins announcing the death of "Corporal so-and-so, of Scrubby Creek, New South Wales...".
All the while the young patriot in me was proud of seeing Australians go to war, while a part of me shrank, and hoped the war would be over before I was called up.
I knew Veteran soldiers from World Wars 1 and 2. They were the older men in our community, and were held in a certain respect. They were the yardsticks by which we measured ourselves in a small country town in Western Queensland.
The Vietnam boys were different. They were my generation, although a little older, and they were friends, and average guys...no mystique surrounded these young men. Until they came home.
It was then the differences showed, and none were ever quite the same. It was a different war, with different rules, and a different outcome. Vietnam was something new.
Yet I didn't see it fully, until I saw "Good Morning, Vietnam!"
Oh, I understood many things, and I valued the ideals that the soldiers lived by, that allowed them to go to war, but I did not realise the trauma involved.
Robin Williams was hilarious in this film. He showed the full array of comic artillery that was in his arsenal. He was funny, outrageous, sarcastic, spontaneous, and irreverent. Each one was to become part of his comic persona that ultimately identified his comic genius. He also showed a much deeper, serious aspect to his character. Walter Cronauer was a real person, a real disc jockey on U.S.Armed Forces Radio, although he was never as outrageous as his film persona. Williams' portrayal takes this character to a different, darker place than Cronauer ever went in real life.
What we see in the film is a clash of cultures. Williams is an American who believes that he is a Good Guy. He is there as part of the effort to save a country. He is a nice, polite, American guy, and he sees no reason why he shouldn't get what he asks for.
What he doesn't see is that he is banging heads with a culture that doesn't see him as a Good Guy, but as just another dominating force. The Vietnamese have their culture, they do not need his presence, and some of them don't even agree with the war his people are waging.
The gradual education of Walter Cronauer and his eventual disillusionment with both his military masters and the people he has misunderstood, is one of the painful yet illuminating lessons of this film. When Robin Williams leaves Vietnam, he is a shattered and educated man. His humor is subdued, his dreams and bravado are gone. He is older.
I first saw this film as soon as it was released. It broke my heart. I went in expecting a good time. I came out shocked and saddened. I didn't expect to be shown such truths. I never watched it again.
Decades later, I finally had to watch it again, because my wife insisted. I'm glad she did. I saw through fresh eyes the meaning of meeting head-on a culture you not only don't understand, but one you severely under-estimate. A culture that has it's own mores and traditions, and is unused to being trampled by another culture which it does not necessarily regard as being superior. A culture which has radical elements which lie just below the veneer of gentleness and humility.
Australia's conversation with Islamic integration and immigration is one we have handled badly in recent times. Muslims are here to stay, and we must learn to accommodate the increased numbers of a religion which has been in Australia for two hundred years, in one form or another, while at the same time not allowing our natural acceptance of new ideas bring about the downfall of our society and our values.
Blundering about like a comedian in a war zone will not achieve the result we, as Australians, desire, but neither will being heavy-handed and trying to beat acceptance into our new neighbours. We need to learn to tread the fine line between the two, and perhaps the scene in "Good Morning, Vietnam" which allows Williams' character to be most at ease with the people in Vietnam is the one Australia needs to heed the most.
He takes over an English language class,and instead of teaching them formal language; he teaches them a way they can communicate with each other.
Muslims are not like most Australians, and some are extremely different to Australians.
Yes, they need to change some ideas and attitudes, but so do we. Just like the First Settlers had to.
And the Gold-Rush settlers. And the Economic migrants from Europe in the 1800's. And the Post-war migrants after World War 2, and the Ten Pound Poms in the Sixties.
We are a Nation of Migrants. We have always changed. On both sides of the equation. If we didn't, then the rabid anti-Muslim protestor wouldn't be able to pick up a quick Doner Kebab on the way from his protest rally, and we would never buy any Japanese/Thai-made/Chinese motor cars to drive to work.
We may not be comfortable with this latest wave of immigration, but with some effort we can make it work. Just ask the Vietnamese who flocked to our shores in boats after 1975. They seem to be pretty damned Aussie to me. Effort from BOTH sides....it's all we need to make it a "Wonderful World"
OOOHH, YEAHHH!!
Wednesday, 7 October 2015
Flames
Sometimes, just sometimes, you get to the point where you want to burn it all down.
The structures you have built in your life, your family, your friends, safeguards you have painstakingly contrived to protect the construct that is the end result of the very best that you can do.... you just want to stand there, like a man with a lit match, in bushfire season, the lunatic with the hand grenade in the doorway of an arsenal, ready and willing to destroy everything you hold dear.
Simply to watch it burn.
When you feel the weight of opinion pressing in from all sides; disapproving, condemning. When the beliefs and foundations that you tried to instill in your children are being eroded before your eyes, and you feel powerless and incompetent; THAT is when you want to fall to your knees and scream "SURRENDER", AND DROP THE MATCH AND LET THE WHOLE THING BURN TO HELL!!
Or do you.....
Ironically, it is the spark that extinguishes the flame. It is the glimmer of an ember that cools the fire.
When you see hope and joy in a child's eyes, the spark of enlightenment when they learn something new from your experience, or the ember of new knowledge gleaned from your company, and the time they have spent with you, or the respect you give them after they have taught an old dog.... These make it worth not burning it all down.
You may still want to burn it down, at times, but the hope for the future, and the spark of your existence as it burns in their lives, makes blowing out the match worthwhile.
The structures you have built in your life, your family, your friends, safeguards you have painstakingly contrived to protect the construct that is the end result of the very best that you can do.... you just want to stand there, like a man with a lit match, in bushfire season, the lunatic with the hand grenade in the doorway of an arsenal, ready and willing to destroy everything you hold dear.
Simply to watch it burn.
When you feel the weight of opinion pressing in from all sides; disapproving, condemning. When the beliefs and foundations that you tried to instill in your children are being eroded before your eyes, and you feel powerless and incompetent; THAT is when you want to fall to your knees and scream "SURRENDER", AND DROP THE MATCH AND LET THE WHOLE THING BURN TO HELL!!
Or do you.....
Ironically, it is the spark that extinguishes the flame. It is the glimmer of an ember that cools the fire.
When you see hope and joy in a child's eyes, the spark of enlightenment when they learn something new from your experience, or the ember of new knowledge gleaned from your company, and the time they have spent with you, or the respect you give them after they have taught an old dog.... These make it worth not burning it all down.
You may still want to burn it down, at times, but the hope for the future, and the spark of your existence as it burns in their lives, makes blowing out the match worthwhile.
Saturday, 5 September 2015
My Fathers' Day
When the Old Man died, it seemed as if the world suddenly held its breath. A sense of stillness fell across the town, and normal activities took on the appearance of being performed in slow motion. There was no official sign of his passing. No bells tolled, no flags fell to half mast, yet the town became subdued, muffled, and it felt as though the energy had gone from the new day.
As I sat beside his body after another long night spent talking to him, reading to myself, dozing, offering sips of water, and massaging his aching back and failing kidneys, I felt surprisingly calm. I was exhausted. Emotionally and physically spent. The nights had been mine, a decision of choice on my part. Night staff at the hospital were few, and I knew enough to cope with his needs through the hours of darkness. I had sat enough night shifts to know it was mainly company and basic physical needs that patients required at night, and so I was content to leave the more physical, complicated tasks to my brothers and the hospital staff during the daylight hours.
What I had not counted upon, though, was the amount of conversation that he wanted to engage in, and the level of participation I suddenly found myself wanting. We reminisced, I helped him shower in the early morning, or after dinner. I helped my brothers change his dressings,dress and feed him, and then sat with him through the night, talking and reassuring each other.
At this time, I finally felt as though I could at last repay this man who had given me so much. I could do some tiny act of reparation to the man whose sacrifices had allowed me to have so much. My vigil was as much for me as it was to help the greatest role model I had ever known. When my hands were aching so badly from continually massaging his lower back and kidneys as he sat, semi-reclined in the hospital chair, I said "I'm sorry Dad, I can't do it any more". He took my hand in the darkness, laid it on his stomach, patted it and whispered; "It's okay, son, it's okay".
As daylight spread its light across the town, a very unusual thing happened. A freight train, visible from the hospital window, pulled into town. These trains were running about once a day, usually after lunch, and we would point them out to Dad, who, as a long-time railway man, still showed an interest in the trains. Normally these trains would roll past the window, and into the station, before heading West. This particular train, however, pulled into town, but stopped and unaccountably, backed up, right across the level-crossing, until it was level with the hospital window. He was asleep by now, and I didn't disturb him. The train sat for a time, the pulled forward, and out of sight.
Later, Mum came to say good-bye before leaving for a medical appointment, she said "I'm going now, but I'll be back tonight. If you need to go, don't wait for me, it's all right". He made no sign, except to take a big breath, and sigh.
Breakfast arrived soon after, and as I sat, drinking tea, I suddenly had the urge to look up from the local paper and check on him. He was gone....so quietly, calmly...exactly as he had been in all the major events of my life.
So, when I called the nurse,and the family came, and the town became a place of muffled events, I felt calm. Angry, also, yes, but that was due to outside events which I could not control, but my sense around my father was one of calm. I believe that train came back to pick him up, and take the old railway man back West, back to his home in the bush.
Happy Father's Day, Pa.
As I sat beside his body after another long night spent talking to him, reading to myself, dozing, offering sips of water, and massaging his aching back and failing kidneys, I felt surprisingly calm. I was exhausted. Emotionally and physically spent. The nights had been mine, a decision of choice on my part. Night staff at the hospital were few, and I knew enough to cope with his needs through the hours of darkness. I had sat enough night shifts to know it was mainly company and basic physical needs that patients required at night, and so I was content to leave the more physical, complicated tasks to my brothers and the hospital staff during the daylight hours.
What I had not counted upon, though, was the amount of conversation that he wanted to engage in, and the level of participation I suddenly found myself wanting. We reminisced, I helped him shower in the early morning, or after dinner. I helped my brothers change his dressings,dress and feed him, and then sat with him through the night, talking and reassuring each other.
At this time, I finally felt as though I could at last repay this man who had given me so much. I could do some tiny act of reparation to the man whose sacrifices had allowed me to have so much. My vigil was as much for me as it was to help the greatest role model I had ever known. When my hands were aching so badly from continually massaging his lower back and kidneys as he sat, semi-reclined in the hospital chair, I said "I'm sorry Dad, I can't do it any more". He took my hand in the darkness, laid it on his stomach, patted it and whispered; "It's okay, son, it's okay".
As daylight spread its light across the town, a very unusual thing happened. A freight train, visible from the hospital window, pulled into town. These trains were running about once a day, usually after lunch, and we would point them out to Dad, who, as a long-time railway man, still showed an interest in the trains. Normally these trains would roll past the window, and into the station, before heading West. This particular train, however, pulled into town, but stopped and unaccountably, backed up, right across the level-crossing, until it was level with the hospital window. He was asleep by now, and I didn't disturb him. The train sat for a time, the pulled forward, and out of sight.
Later, Mum came to say good-bye before leaving for a medical appointment, she said "I'm going now, but I'll be back tonight. If you need to go, don't wait for me, it's all right". He made no sign, except to take a big breath, and sigh.
Breakfast arrived soon after, and as I sat, drinking tea, I suddenly had the urge to look up from the local paper and check on him. He was gone....so quietly, calmly...exactly as he had been in all the major events of my life.
So, when I called the nurse,and the family came, and the town became a place of muffled events, I felt calm. Angry, also, yes, but that was due to outside events which I could not control, but my sense around my father was one of calm. I believe that train came back to pick him up, and take the old railway man back West, back to his home in the bush.
Happy Father's Day, Pa.
Friday, 21 August 2015
Story
It was more than a year ago.
Over twelve months since that hot and humid day when she and three others had stood and watched her mothers' coffin lowered into the ground.
She stood, looking at the small grave marker with the number stamped on it, (there was no money for a headstone), and wondered what to do next. Every week she came, placed a small bunch of wild-flowers on the grave, and spoke to the earth, telling it her news. She did not believe her mother was there, that she heard, but it felt like the right thing to do. Better this than talking to herself in the street, she reasoned.
Now, though, there was a change. She had a decision to make.
The last twelve months had changed her in ways she had not expected. She was alone now, and felt the loneliness of someone who has had their only certainty in life taken away, but she also felt stronger, surer now than she had for many years. Looking at the almost level plot of earth before her, she did a quick mental calculation and came up with twenty-four years. Almost two and half decades of uncertainty and hiding, until today. Yet even now a different uncertainty lingered.
She had been almost sixteen when her mother, driven to despair by her past, had succumbed to her fears and fled. A victim of abuse as a child, then married to a tyrant, she had finally broken away and found sanctuary with a gentle, patient man, who fathered the child now standing by a country grave. He had loved quietly, and supported the mother in so many ways, but he was no match for the terrors that haunted the woman's' mind, and eventually she ran. She had begged her daughter to go with her; "Just for a little while, 'til I'm set up, then you can go home", and Ruth had agreed. She loved her mother despite her faults, as all daughters do, and although she hated leaving her father, it was only for a little while.....
Every time they moved, Ruth made certain her father knew, and she also made sure her boyfriend knew. Her father swore he would always stay in touch, and her boyfriend promised undying love. She believed both of them. Her boyfriend finished High School and went to University. She wrote to him every time she moved, and he occasionally replied. Her father changed jobs, moved cities, even States, but still the contact remained.
Then, in one mad six month frenzy, they moved incessantly, as her mothers' fears became a mania, and she could not escape the notion that she was being chased. Ruth could not calm her, could not reassure and comfort her, as she had always been able to before. From Motel to Motel they ran, staying a week, then days, and finally overnight, until the money ran out, and they slept in shelters, railway stations, under bridges, in drainage pipes, or didn't sleep at all, but sat in the cold and the rain, until finally daylight came. Always they moved, shedding possessions, identities, addresses, and memories, until finally they were completely alone, and unknown.
Exhausted, her mother had broken down, and was admitted to hospital. Ruth became her Guardian, and her reason for existence. Now Ruth could never leave.
Ruth wrote to the two men that had been the anchors to her life, but got no reply. Both had moved on, tried to stay in touch, no doubt, but in vain. She searched as best she could, but her time and resources were limited. and she needed to find a way to live.
Her mother was released into her care, and Ruth began the long task of devoting her life to caring for another. There would be no room for romance, or career, and barely any socialising, either. The town was small, rural, nondescript and conservative. No chance of escaping into the bright lights here. She rented a cottage for the two of them, and for eighteen years she faithfully tended to her mothers' increasing agitation. She handled her escalating paranoia, managed her increasingly erratic behaviour, and dealt with her demons so often that the local medical authorities issued drugs to her almost without question, and quietly admired her for her competence and resilience.
As her mother entered her sixties, it became obvious that the years of agitation were taking their toll on the slight frame that held so much energy. Her sleep was fitful, her waking hours fraught with tension and demands, and she lost weight steadily. Eventually, she passed away, gripping her daughter's hand in the afternoon light, as distraught and unhappy in her dying moments as she had ever been in life. She died as she had lived, a victim of the cruelty of others and unable to come to terms with her life. The irony, thought Ruth, was that she had inflicted the same trauma and disruption on her daughter that she had hated others doing to her. Ruth knew that it was unintentional on her mother's part, but it rankled nonetheless.
Now, over a year after she had bade her mother that final good-bye, she stood here, asking her advice.
The letter had arrived some months after the funeral. Hand written, and post-marked just the day before. Her hand shook slightly as she realised who the writer was, and she trembled visibly by the time she had finished reading.
He started by offering sympathies to her on the death of her mother, explaining that he had seen the death notice in a regional paper.(Ruth had been obliged, by law, to publish the notice, and it was required to be under her mothers' birth name). He asked if she remembered him, and finally, asked if he could visit her some time. Remember? Of course she remembered!! She felt ill with shock and sudden fear.
She hesitated for weeks before replying, uncertain which decision to make. Finally she had replied that he could visit, for an afternoon, to see how things went. He wrote back and thanked her, asking when would be convenient. She decided on Sunday.
Ruth worked now. Financially, she needed to, and there were no other constraints on her time. She had found a job at the local Library, as a trainee Assistant, and revelled in the work. A lifetime of dealing with impossible demands meant that normal interaction with the public was terribly easy for her, but it was the children that gave her the joy. Never having the chance for marriage, or children meant that she unearthed a new joy in the delights of discovery, and the pride in small successes that children find every day, and her time in the Children's Corner of the Library were the highlight of her day.
Sunday was her day off, and she knew she could handle one afternoon with this almost stranger..
He arrived early, but she had anticipated this, and was ready. Answering the knock, she opened the door to see him standing well back, as if to lessen the impact of his presence. He seemed hesitant, and offered a half smile as he said "Hello, Ruth.", waiting for her response.
"Hi", she said, remaining in the door frame, waiting.
He stepped forward, "It's good to see you", He leaned forward to kiss her, but she recoiled and said "I'm not ready for that", then smiled and said, "It's been a very long time".
"It has." he agreed, and nodded, understanding. "Sorry"
She nodded again, seriously, but reached and took his hand to lead him into the cottage.
She sat him at the table, made tea and coffee, and sat and talked. Then came lunch, then more tea and coffee, then dusk. He rose to go. "I have to work in the morning, and it's a four hour drive.." She thanked him for coming, and he said, "There's so much more we need to talk about, Ruth, Do you mind if I come back next week?"
"I think that would be ok," Ruth said quietly, "Same time?"
So the pattern was set. He would arrive Sunday morning, spend the day talking, remembering, gently touching hidden strands that were sometimes joyous, sometimes painful, and sometimes forgotten. They sat and talked, walked and talked, and sometimes sat in silence. He never again attempted any intimacy, and she never offered, except to hold his hand when he arrived, and as he left, enjoying the warm strength in his grasp.
This continued for weeks, until one day, as he entered the cottage, he asked if he might stay the night. "It's four hours driving each way," he explained. "Then I have to get up early for work. If I could sleep here, I could drive straight to work and it would be easier."
She considered for a while before agreeing. It was another step, and not of her choosing. Despite this, she agreed, "Ok. You can have the second bedroom. I'll make it up." She had long since moved into her mothers', larger room.
He readily agreed and went back to the car to retrieve the things he had brought in anticipation.
In the early hours of Monday morning, she heard his movements as he left the place and drove away. Later, entering the second bedroom, she found the bed made neatly, and the backpack containing his things gone.
So they moved into a new phase; he stayed Sunday night and left in the early hours of Monday. Their personal relationship moved much more slowly. There was so much uncharted territory between them after so many years. So much needed to be said, but could not be broached, for fear of raising accusations and defensive reactions. So much conversation was a tactful, delicate ballet, sensing the approach of high emotion, and backing away at the last moment. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him, or cry, but she held her emotions in check. She was still in control, still in charge.
One day, months after he began to sleep in the house, he reached across the table and took her hand. "Ruth, I want you to come and live with me." She looked at him in shock. "We've missed so many years" he continued, "I want to have the chance for us to have a proper relationship while we still can." He looked into her eyes intently. "I really want this."
She stared back, silently.
"I can't make that decision now." she said.
"I know. I just can't keep doing this for much longer," he said, "The driving is getting too much, and I really think you'd like it at my place..."
He released her hand, "Tell you what" he said, "Think about it for a couple of weeks and let me know".
He rose from the chair, "I better get to bed"
"Goodnight" she said, not moving.
"'Night" he replied, going to the bedroom.
So now she stood at the grave,two weeks later, and asked the earth the question she did not want to know the answer to....
After considering it all; her suffering, her devotion, deprivation, surrender, sacrifice and finally, freedom, she made the decision on her own. She turned and walked home in the afternoon light.
She sat down across the table from him. He had turned his chair sideways and had his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. His head was down, watching his index finger as it tilted and rolled a salt shaker on the table top. "I've decided to stay", she said.
He did not react,the index finger continued rolling, tilting.After a moment he looked up at her from under his brows; "You sure?" She nodded once, her lips set in a determined line. "I like the work, and this will give me a chance to get myself back together." He said nothing, but lowered his eyes to the table again, then deliberately stood the salt shaker back on its' base, and rose to his feet.
As he stood, she suddenly realised how old he had become, the lines around his mouth carved deeply, and she wondered at herself for never noticing before. He walked into the bedroom. She sat and watched the light change through the window, as the sun began to set.
He emerged after a time, carrying a back-pack from one hand. She rose and followed him to the door, stopping on the porch as he continued to the gate. He walked to the car and looked a her across its' roof. "You'll call me if you get stuck...need anything?" She nodded, "Ok."
When he turned on to the road from the driveway, she raised one hand, palm outwards, in a gesture of farewell, even though she knew he would not see it through the dusk. Watching until the car was gone from sight, she held her hand in the gesture.
After it was gone, she dropped her hand and remained on the porch, staring at the spot she had last seen the taillights. She stood a long time in the gathering gloom, but even then, she found she had to swallow hard several times before she could bring herself to turn and walk into the dark cottage.
Three weeks later, she sat at the table, unconsciously tilting and rolling the salt shaker, unaware of her mimicry. She sat in the dark, staring through the open door at the stars visible above the tree-line.
Initially, Ruth had felt a wild exultation as she celebrated her freedom. For the first time she was not needed by anyone! Nobody was calling her, clutching after her, requiring attention. Her time was her own, her space was hers to fill as she pleased, and she suddenly felt younger than her years.
He had made several calls over the weeks, but she had ignored them, and had not answered his messages. Her time was here and she felt defiant. She would talk when she was good and ready!
Suddenly, the elation had faded, and loneliness overwhelmed her. In just a few days she had plunged from care-free and exhilarated to almost melancholy. She suddenly recalled that she had not held his hand as he left that last time. The memory of that strong, reassuring grip came to her mind, and she inhaled sharply.
Had she been mistaken in thinking that he was another who was going to demand her time, her energy? She suddenly felt the need to hear his voice, to ask him. Impulsively she grabbed for the telephone and shakily found his number. As it started to ring she glanced at the time. "My God! Three a.m.!!", but before she could hang up, he answered. "Hello? Yes?" his voice was thick with sleep, but urgent, concerned, "Hello?, Who's this?"
"It's me", she said, surprised at the tremor in her voice. "Sorry to wake you..."
"Ruth! Hi, what's wrong?"
She took a breath. This was harder than she had imagined. "Remember you said to call you if I was stuck?"
He thought a moment, "Yes, of course. Why, what's wrong?"
Again she breathed deeply.
"It's just that...." She trailed off, then tried again, "I don't know..."
She suddenly sobbed, and suddenly she was crying into the phone.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I don't know what to do! I need you...I need you to....to come and get me"
Come and get me, Dad"
His response was immediate, "I'm on my way."
Over twelve months since that hot and humid day when she and three others had stood and watched her mothers' coffin lowered into the ground.
She stood, looking at the small grave marker with the number stamped on it, (there was no money for a headstone), and wondered what to do next. Every week she came, placed a small bunch of wild-flowers on the grave, and spoke to the earth, telling it her news. She did not believe her mother was there, that she heard, but it felt like the right thing to do. Better this than talking to herself in the street, she reasoned.
Now, though, there was a change. She had a decision to make.
The last twelve months had changed her in ways she had not expected. She was alone now, and felt the loneliness of someone who has had their only certainty in life taken away, but she also felt stronger, surer now than she had for many years. Looking at the almost level plot of earth before her, she did a quick mental calculation and came up with twenty-four years. Almost two and half decades of uncertainty and hiding, until today. Yet even now a different uncertainty lingered.
She had been almost sixteen when her mother, driven to despair by her past, had succumbed to her fears and fled. A victim of abuse as a child, then married to a tyrant, she had finally broken away and found sanctuary with a gentle, patient man, who fathered the child now standing by a country grave. He had loved quietly, and supported the mother in so many ways, but he was no match for the terrors that haunted the woman's' mind, and eventually she ran. She had begged her daughter to go with her; "Just for a little while, 'til I'm set up, then you can go home", and Ruth had agreed. She loved her mother despite her faults, as all daughters do, and although she hated leaving her father, it was only for a little while.....
Every time they moved, Ruth made certain her father knew, and she also made sure her boyfriend knew. Her father swore he would always stay in touch, and her boyfriend promised undying love. She believed both of them. Her boyfriend finished High School and went to University. She wrote to him every time she moved, and he occasionally replied. Her father changed jobs, moved cities, even States, but still the contact remained.
Then, in one mad six month frenzy, they moved incessantly, as her mothers' fears became a mania, and she could not escape the notion that she was being chased. Ruth could not calm her, could not reassure and comfort her, as she had always been able to before. From Motel to Motel they ran, staying a week, then days, and finally overnight, until the money ran out, and they slept in shelters, railway stations, under bridges, in drainage pipes, or didn't sleep at all, but sat in the cold and the rain, until finally daylight came. Always they moved, shedding possessions, identities, addresses, and memories, until finally they were completely alone, and unknown.
Exhausted, her mother had broken down, and was admitted to hospital. Ruth became her Guardian, and her reason for existence. Now Ruth could never leave.
Ruth wrote to the two men that had been the anchors to her life, but got no reply. Both had moved on, tried to stay in touch, no doubt, but in vain. She searched as best she could, but her time and resources were limited. and she needed to find a way to live.
Her mother was released into her care, and Ruth began the long task of devoting her life to caring for another. There would be no room for romance, or career, and barely any socialising, either. The town was small, rural, nondescript and conservative. No chance of escaping into the bright lights here. She rented a cottage for the two of them, and for eighteen years she faithfully tended to her mothers' increasing agitation. She handled her escalating paranoia, managed her increasingly erratic behaviour, and dealt with her demons so often that the local medical authorities issued drugs to her almost without question, and quietly admired her for her competence and resilience.
As her mother entered her sixties, it became obvious that the years of agitation were taking their toll on the slight frame that held so much energy. Her sleep was fitful, her waking hours fraught with tension and demands, and she lost weight steadily. Eventually, she passed away, gripping her daughter's hand in the afternoon light, as distraught and unhappy in her dying moments as she had ever been in life. She died as she had lived, a victim of the cruelty of others and unable to come to terms with her life. The irony, thought Ruth, was that she had inflicted the same trauma and disruption on her daughter that she had hated others doing to her. Ruth knew that it was unintentional on her mother's part, but it rankled nonetheless.
Now, over a year after she had bade her mother that final good-bye, she stood here, asking her advice.
The letter had arrived some months after the funeral. Hand written, and post-marked just the day before. Her hand shook slightly as she realised who the writer was, and she trembled visibly by the time she had finished reading.
He started by offering sympathies to her on the death of her mother, explaining that he had seen the death notice in a regional paper.(Ruth had been obliged, by law, to publish the notice, and it was required to be under her mothers' birth name). He asked if she remembered him, and finally, asked if he could visit her some time. Remember? Of course she remembered!! She felt ill with shock and sudden fear.
She hesitated for weeks before replying, uncertain which decision to make. Finally she had replied that he could visit, for an afternoon, to see how things went. He wrote back and thanked her, asking when would be convenient. She decided on Sunday.
Ruth worked now. Financially, she needed to, and there were no other constraints on her time. She had found a job at the local Library, as a trainee Assistant, and revelled in the work. A lifetime of dealing with impossible demands meant that normal interaction with the public was terribly easy for her, but it was the children that gave her the joy. Never having the chance for marriage, or children meant that she unearthed a new joy in the delights of discovery, and the pride in small successes that children find every day, and her time in the Children's Corner of the Library were the highlight of her day.
Sunday was her day off, and she knew she could handle one afternoon with this almost stranger..
He arrived early, but she had anticipated this, and was ready. Answering the knock, she opened the door to see him standing well back, as if to lessen the impact of his presence. He seemed hesitant, and offered a half smile as he said "Hello, Ruth.", waiting for her response.
"Hi", she said, remaining in the door frame, waiting.
He stepped forward, "It's good to see you", He leaned forward to kiss her, but she recoiled and said "I'm not ready for that", then smiled and said, "It's been a very long time".
"It has." he agreed, and nodded, understanding. "Sorry"
She nodded again, seriously, but reached and took his hand to lead him into the cottage.
She sat him at the table, made tea and coffee, and sat and talked. Then came lunch, then more tea and coffee, then dusk. He rose to go. "I have to work in the morning, and it's a four hour drive.." She thanked him for coming, and he said, "There's so much more we need to talk about, Ruth, Do you mind if I come back next week?"
"I think that would be ok," Ruth said quietly, "Same time?"
So the pattern was set. He would arrive Sunday morning, spend the day talking, remembering, gently touching hidden strands that were sometimes joyous, sometimes painful, and sometimes forgotten. They sat and talked, walked and talked, and sometimes sat in silence. He never again attempted any intimacy, and she never offered, except to hold his hand when he arrived, and as he left, enjoying the warm strength in his grasp.
This continued for weeks, until one day, as he entered the cottage, he asked if he might stay the night. "It's four hours driving each way," he explained. "Then I have to get up early for work. If I could sleep here, I could drive straight to work and it would be easier."
She considered for a while before agreeing. It was another step, and not of her choosing. Despite this, she agreed, "Ok. You can have the second bedroom. I'll make it up." She had long since moved into her mothers', larger room.
He readily agreed and went back to the car to retrieve the things he had brought in anticipation.
In the early hours of Monday morning, she heard his movements as he left the place and drove away. Later, entering the second bedroom, she found the bed made neatly, and the backpack containing his things gone.
So they moved into a new phase; he stayed Sunday night and left in the early hours of Monday. Their personal relationship moved much more slowly. There was so much uncharted territory between them after so many years. So much needed to be said, but could not be broached, for fear of raising accusations and defensive reactions. So much conversation was a tactful, delicate ballet, sensing the approach of high emotion, and backing away at the last moment. Sometimes she wanted to scream at him, or cry, but she held her emotions in check. She was still in control, still in charge.
One day, months after he began to sleep in the house, he reached across the table and took her hand. "Ruth, I want you to come and live with me." She looked at him in shock. "We've missed so many years" he continued, "I want to have the chance for us to have a proper relationship while we still can." He looked into her eyes intently. "I really want this."
She stared back, silently.
"I can't make that decision now." she said.
"I know. I just can't keep doing this for much longer," he said, "The driving is getting too much, and I really think you'd like it at my place..."
He released her hand, "Tell you what" he said, "Think about it for a couple of weeks and let me know".
He rose from the chair, "I better get to bed"
"Goodnight" she said, not moving.
"'Night" he replied, going to the bedroom.
So now she stood at the grave,two weeks later, and asked the earth the question she did not want to know the answer to....
After considering it all; her suffering, her devotion, deprivation, surrender, sacrifice and finally, freedom, she made the decision on her own. She turned and walked home in the afternoon light.
She sat down across the table from him. He had turned his chair sideways and had his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. His head was down, watching his index finger as it tilted and rolled a salt shaker on the table top. "I've decided to stay", she said.
He did not react,the index finger continued rolling, tilting.After a moment he looked up at her from under his brows; "You sure?" She nodded once, her lips set in a determined line. "I like the work, and this will give me a chance to get myself back together." He said nothing, but lowered his eyes to the table again, then deliberately stood the salt shaker back on its' base, and rose to his feet.
As he stood, she suddenly realised how old he had become, the lines around his mouth carved deeply, and she wondered at herself for never noticing before. He walked into the bedroom. She sat and watched the light change through the window, as the sun began to set.
He emerged after a time, carrying a back-pack from one hand. She rose and followed him to the door, stopping on the porch as he continued to the gate. He walked to the car and looked a her across its' roof. "You'll call me if you get stuck...need anything?" She nodded, "Ok."
When he turned on to the road from the driveway, she raised one hand, palm outwards, in a gesture of farewell, even though she knew he would not see it through the dusk. Watching until the car was gone from sight, she held her hand in the gesture.
After it was gone, she dropped her hand and remained on the porch, staring at the spot she had last seen the taillights. She stood a long time in the gathering gloom, but even then, she found she had to swallow hard several times before she could bring herself to turn and walk into the dark cottage.
Three weeks later, she sat at the table, unconsciously tilting and rolling the salt shaker, unaware of her mimicry. She sat in the dark, staring through the open door at the stars visible above the tree-line.
Initially, Ruth had felt a wild exultation as she celebrated her freedom. For the first time she was not needed by anyone! Nobody was calling her, clutching after her, requiring attention. Her time was her own, her space was hers to fill as she pleased, and she suddenly felt younger than her years.
He had made several calls over the weeks, but she had ignored them, and had not answered his messages. Her time was here and she felt defiant. She would talk when she was good and ready!
Suddenly, the elation had faded, and loneliness overwhelmed her. In just a few days she had plunged from care-free and exhilarated to almost melancholy. She suddenly recalled that she had not held his hand as he left that last time. The memory of that strong, reassuring grip came to her mind, and she inhaled sharply.
Had she been mistaken in thinking that he was another who was going to demand her time, her energy? She suddenly felt the need to hear his voice, to ask him. Impulsively she grabbed for the telephone and shakily found his number. As it started to ring she glanced at the time. "My God! Three a.m.!!", but before she could hang up, he answered. "Hello? Yes?" his voice was thick with sleep, but urgent, concerned, "Hello?, Who's this?"
"It's me", she said, surprised at the tremor in her voice. "Sorry to wake you..."
"Ruth! Hi, what's wrong?"
She took a breath. This was harder than she had imagined. "Remember you said to call you if I was stuck?"
He thought a moment, "Yes, of course. Why, what's wrong?"
Again she breathed deeply.
"It's just that...." She trailed off, then tried again, "I don't know..."
She suddenly sobbed, and suddenly she was crying into the phone.
"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I don't know what to do! I need you...I need you to....to come and get me"
Come and get me, Dad"
His response was immediate, "I'm on my way."
Friday, 31 July 2015
SCENE
She sat down across the table from him. He had turned his chair sideways and had his legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. His head was down, watching his index finger as it tilted and rolled a salt shaker on the table top. "I've decided to stay", she said.
He did not react,the index finger continued rolling, tilting.After a moment he looked up at her from under his brows; "You sure?" She nodded once, her lips set in a determined line. "I like the work, and this will give me a chance to get myself back together." He said nothing, but lowered his eyes to the table again, then deliberately stood the salt shaker back on its' base, and rose to his feet.
As he stood, she suddenly realised how old he had become, the lines around his mouth carved deeply, and she wondered at herself for never noticing before. He walked into the bedroom. She sat and watched the light change through the window, as the sun began to set.
He emerged after a time, carrying a back-pack from one hand. She rose and followed him to the door, stopping on the porch as he continued to the gate. He walked to the car and looked a her across its' roof. "You'll call me if you get stuck...need anything?" She nodded, "Ok."
When he turned on to the road from the driveway, she raised one hand, palm outwards, in a gesture of farewell, even though she knew he would not see it through the dusk. Watching until the car was gone from sight, she held her hand in the gesture.
After it was gone, she dropped her hand and remained on the porch, staring at the spot she had last seen the taillights. She stood a long time in the gatherng gloom, but even then, she found she had to swallow hard several times before she could bring herself to turn and walk into the dark cottage.
He did not react,the index finger continued rolling, tilting.After a moment he looked up at her from under his brows; "You sure?" She nodded once, her lips set in a determined line. "I like the work, and this will give me a chance to get myself back together." He said nothing, but lowered his eyes to the table again, then deliberately stood the salt shaker back on its' base, and rose to his feet.
As he stood, she suddenly realised how old he had become, the lines around his mouth carved deeply, and she wondered at herself for never noticing before. He walked into the bedroom. She sat and watched the light change through the window, as the sun began to set.
He emerged after a time, carrying a back-pack from one hand. She rose and followed him to the door, stopping on the porch as he continued to the gate. He walked to the car and looked a her across its' roof. "You'll call me if you get stuck...need anything?" She nodded, "Ok."
When he turned on to the road from the driveway, she raised one hand, palm outwards, in a gesture of farewell, even though she knew he would not see it through the dusk. Watching until the car was gone from sight, she held her hand in the gesture.
After it was gone, she dropped her hand and remained on the porch, staring at the spot she had last seen the taillights. She stood a long time in the gatherng gloom, but even then, she found she had to swallow hard several times before she could bring herself to turn and walk into the dark cottage.
Tuesday, 26 May 2015
Holding a Place, a Time.
If you asked me, I could tell you the exact time and place that the memory snapped into my consciousness. Often, memories are brought back by a sound, a song, or a smell, or even seeing a long-forgotten object. Then the recollection sneaks into your mind and you are gently brought back to an earlier self, with the associated surroundings and events revealing themselves once more.
That was not this memory.
Perhaps it was because it wasn't a sound, nor a smell that worked its magic. It was a song and a sensation. As I said, I could tell you exactly what I was doing, and where I was, but it would mean nothing to you, and it bears no relation to the experience, but it hit so hard that it has imprinted that moment of time on my mind as clearly as the memory itself has done.
Listening to John Mellencamp singing "Ain't That America", was enjoyable, but then I drove around the corner and the sun suddenly burned hard on my right arm, stronger than it should for an Autumn day. The prickling and heat, the sudden warmth of hot air in my nostrils, clear blue sky and a feeling of rushing motion in my head, and SNAP!!, it was there....
"...Ain't that America,
You and me,
Ain't that America,
Land of the free..."
The sudden jolting taste of smoke from the first drag of a Marlboro, with a future of endless possibility running through my head....a sky of Western Queensland hot blue, and a swell of surging optimism building in my chest till I felt I could burst...yet I didn't move.
Just sat, and listened, and savoured this feeling of the invincibility of youth.
We could conquer the impossible, and we would....and nothing could stop us.
All we needed was the chance, the opportunity, the means to go somewhere that would recognise our potential, and give us access to the tools we needed to get the job done so we could turn the world on its' head through our energy and power alone...
And then I drove into shade, into shadows, and the shadows that are my memories fled into the darkness of the trees beside the road.
I like to think they wait in the shade, restlessly. Waiting for the right combination, for the key to fit the lock in my brain so precisely that they can make the jump from the atmosphere back to my consciousness, back to remind me of a time when I was so alive, I knew I could grasp the stars and show them to the World.
That was not this memory.
Perhaps it was because it wasn't a sound, nor a smell that worked its magic. It was a song and a sensation. As I said, I could tell you exactly what I was doing, and where I was, but it would mean nothing to you, and it bears no relation to the experience, but it hit so hard that it has imprinted that moment of time on my mind as clearly as the memory itself has done.
Listening to John Mellencamp singing "Ain't That America", was enjoyable, but then I drove around the corner and the sun suddenly burned hard on my right arm, stronger than it should for an Autumn day. The prickling and heat, the sudden warmth of hot air in my nostrils, clear blue sky and a feeling of rushing motion in my head, and SNAP!!, it was there....
"...Ain't that America,
You and me,
Ain't that America,
Land of the free..."
The sudden jolting taste of smoke from the first drag of a Marlboro, with a future of endless possibility running through my head....a sky of Western Queensland hot blue, and a swell of surging optimism building in my chest till I felt I could burst...yet I didn't move.
Just sat, and listened, and savoured this feeling of the invincibility of youth.
We could conquer the impossible, and we would....and nothing could stop us.
All we needed was the chance, the opportunity, the means to go somewhere that would recognise our potential, and give us access to the tools we needed to get the job done so we could turn the world on its' head through our energy and power alone...
And then I drove into shade, into shadows, and the shadows that are my memories fled into the darkness of the trees beside the road.
I like to think they wait in the shade, restlessly. Waiting for the right combination, for the key to fit the lock in my brain so precisely that they can make the jump from the atmosphere back to my consciousness, back to remind me of a time when I was so alive, I knew I could grasp the stars and show them to the World.
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
My View On The Executions.
I have kept relatively quiet on the debate regarding the convicted drug smugglers and their execution, which took place just over 12 hours before I write this.
I am going to offend some people here, but be assured, I will not resort to vitriol and abuse as so many from both sides of the argument have done. I will also be making my personal view very clear.
One thing is certain throughout this saga, and that is that Australia and Indonesia are two very different cultures, and they are becoming less similar as time goes on.
We in Australia have been subject to a long and very public debate over the sentencing and eventual execution of two members of a nine-strong drug smuggling group known as the "Bali Nine". The majority were given prison sentences for attempting to smuggle heroin, with three being sentenced to death. One later had his death sentence overturned, but the final two had their sentences upheld, as they were deemed by the authorities to be ring-leaders in the plan. This is important.
The Australian media has made a big show about them being "convicted drug smugglers", which they are, but they are convicted HEROIN smugglers, and organisers and planners of the operation. Yes, there are bigger fish out there, but they caught these two. The Australian media has also pushed the families of these two men into the spotlight and made reference to their rehabilitation and conversion to religion, with one being ordained as a priest, and the other becoming an artist. If I were in prison, under a death sentence, with regular visits from good Christian folks talking about salvation, I would probably be inclined to find God too.The point has been made by many others that it is unlikely that either one would have reformed had they not been caught.
I am sorry that they had to die. I am sorry that their families have to go through this trauma, but when has anyone raised the point that THEY should be the ones feeling sorry for their families? If they had not broken Indonesian law, then their families would have been spared this pain. I find it hard to blame anyone except the perpetrators of the crime for the damage the crime has done.
Speaking of damage, I hear that a Human Rights lawyer is looking at Indonesia being a signatory to an international agreement on the use of the death penalty. He claims that the agreement states that the death penalty will only be used for the worst of crimes. That, he says, is murder, not drug smuggling.
My response is that they were smuggling Heroin, and I have heard so many times that heroin will kill you. Not "might" kill you. Will.
To knowingly and illegally smuggle a drug which you know will kill the people that are going to use it, that, to me, is murder.
Indonesia has ignored Australia's pleas for mercy to be shown to these two men, and has executed them. Australia is upset and is withdrawing it's Ambassador, and suspending Ministerial ties.
May I ask, if we find the Death Penalty so abhorrent, why haven't we taken this action before? After all, Indonesia has executed dozens of drug smugglers over the years, from Thai nationals, to Filipinos, to Indonesians themselves, and recently a Dutch national. Why didn't we yell and scream then? Are Australian lives worth more than another nations? Or is it because there was a media focus and some personal points to be won by politicians and human rights groups?
I heard a point raised by someone on the radio today, saying that a terrorist received four years jail in Indonesia, and a murderer, five years. They couldn't understand why two drug smugglers who had reformed, were to be executed. I don't understand that logic either. But I am not expected to. I am not Indonesian. I do not face the problems that Indonesians face in their society. I am not in a position to judge another country, another culture. There are claims that the judge asked for money to reduce the death sentence to life in prison. We are now claiming that this is corruption and it should be investigated. Why? Had the money been paid, and the men given life behind bars, would we now be screaming "Corruption", and demanding they be executed? The judge didn't say "I will sentence them to death unless you pay" (allegedly), He said "I am going to sentence them to death. If you give me some money I will be able to procure a lesser sentence".This is speculation, of course, but assuming the legal system is corrupt, and that this did in fact take place, can I remind you all that their guilt has never been questioned, only the severity of the sentence. They are still smugglers of one of the worst addictive drugs known to man. If Indonesia thinks that drug smuggling is worse than murder, then we better make damn sure we don't smuggle drugs through Indonesia.... or is that not obvious enough?
Perhaps murderers and terrorists pose a lesser threat to their societies than drug traders, hence the hard-line. I don't know, but I do know that it is none of my business how their system works, unless I choose to break their laws.
Hypothetical scenario. An Indonesian national is passing through Australia, and murders a young person in a hotel room, and is caught and convicted. They are sentenced to life in prison under Australian law. No parole is allowed until fifteen years have been served.
The people and government of Indonesia are appalled and demand that Australia extradites the criminal to Indonesia to serve the sentence there. What would we do? We'd say "Go to Hell!! They committed the crime here, they'll serve the sentence here. If we send them home, you'll have them out of jail in five years!! That is not a fit punishment!!"
Guess what, folks....That's what Indonesia just said to us.
Indonesia is an independent, sovereign nation. They have a social system with it's own set of unique problems. They have a legal system which, corrupt or not, is seen to enforce the laws of the country. We do not understand Indonesian culture, a mixed culture with ten times Australia's population and poverty levels we cannot imagine. They do things differently.
We expect them to respect our laws and customs when they visit our shores.
Why are we so arrogant that we do not respect theirs?
I am going to offend some people here, but be assured, I will not resort to vitriol and abuse as so many from both sides of the argument have done. I will also be making my personal view very clear.
One thing is certain throughout this saga, and that is that Australia and Indonesia are two very different cultures, and they are becoming less similar as time goes on.
We in Australia have been subject to a long and very public debate over the sentencing and eventual execution of two members of a nine-strong drug smuggling group known as the "Bali Nine". The majority were given prison sentences for attempting to smuggle heroin, with three being sentenced to death. One later had his death sentence overturned, but the final two had their sentences upheld, as they were deemed by the authorities to be ring-leaders in the plan. This is important.
The Australian media has made a big show about them being "convicted drug smugglers", which they are, but they are convicted HEROIN smugglers, and organisers and planners of the operation. Yes, there are bigger fish out there, but they caught these two. The Australian media has also pushed the families of these two men into the spotlight and made reference to their rehabilitation and conversion to religion, with one being ordained as a priest, and the other becoming an artist. If I were in prison, under a death sentence, with regular visits from good Christian folks talking about salvation, I would probably be inclined to find God too.The point has been made by many others that it is unlikely that either one would have reformed had they not been caught.
I am sorry that they had to die. I am sorry that their families have to go through this trauma, but when has anyone raised the point that THEY should be the ones feeling sorry for their families? If they had not broken Indonesian law, then their families would have been spared this pain. I find it hard to blame anyone except the perpetrators of the crime for the damage the crime has done.
Speaking of damage, I hear that a Human Rights lawyer is looking at Indonesia being a signatory to an international agreement on the use of the death penalty. He claims that the agreement states that the death penalty will only be used for the worst of crimes. That, he says, is murder, not drug smuggling.
My response is that they were smuggling Heroin, and I have heard so many times that heroin will kill you. Not "might" kill you. Will.
To knowingly and illegally smuggle a drug which you know will kill the people that are going to use it, that, to me, is murder.
Indonesia has ignored Australia's pleas for mercy to be shown to these two men, and has executed them. Australia is upset and is withdrawing it's Ambassador, and suspending Ministerial ties.
May I ask, if we find the Death Penalty so abhorrent, why haven't we taken this action before? After all, Indonesia has executed dozens of drug smugglers over the years, from Thai nationals, to Filipinos, to Indonesians themselves, and recently a Dutch national. Why didn't we yell and scream then? Are Australian lives worth more than another nations? Or is it because there was a media focus and some personal points to be won by politicians and human rights groups?
I heard a point raised by someone on the radio today, saying that a terrorist received four years jail in Indonesia, and a murderer, five years. They couldn't understand why two drug smugglers who had reformed, were to be executed. I don't understand that logic either. But I am not expected to. I am not Indonesian. I do not face the problems that Indonesians face in their society. I am not in a position to judge another country, another culture. There are claims that the judge asked for money to reduce the death sentence to life in prison. We are now claiming that this is corruption and it should be investigated. Why? Had the money been paid, and the men given life behind bars, would we now be screaming "Corruption", and demanding they be executed? The judge didn't say "I will sentence them to death unless you pay" (allegedly), He said "I am going to sentence them to death. If you give me some money I will be able to procure a lesser sentence".This is speculation, of course, but assuming the legal system is corrupt, and that this did in fact take place, can I remind you all that their guilt has never been questioned, only the severity of the sentence. They are still smugglers of one of the worst addictive drugs known to man. If Indonesia thinks that drug smuggling is worse than murder, then we better make damn sure we don't smuggle drugs through Indonesia.... or is that not obvious enough?
Perhaps murderers and terrorists pose a lesser threat to their societies than drug traders, hence the hard-line. I don't know, but I do know that it is none of my business how their system works, unless I choose to break their laws.
Hypothetical scenario. An Indonesian national is passing through Australia, and murders a young person in a hotel room, and is caught and convicted. They are sentenced to life in prison under Australian law. No parole is allowed until fifteen years have been served.
The people and government of Indonesia are appalled and demand that Australia extradites the criminal to Indonesia to serve the sentence there. What would we do? We'd say "Go to Hell!! They committed the crime here, they'll serve the sentence here. If we send them home, you'll have them out of jail in five years!! That is not a fit punishment!!"
Guess what, folks....That's what Indonesia just said to us.
Indonesia is an independent, sovereign nation. They have a social system with it's own set of unique problems. They have a legal system which, corrupt or not, is seen to enforce the laws of the country. We do not understand Indonesian culture, a mixed culture with ten times Australia's population and poverty levels we cannot imagine. They do things differently.
We expect them to respect our laws and customs when they visit our shores.
Why are we so arrogant that we do not respect theirs?
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