I'm a big girl

Yesterday I was asked to spend time with Dad and his 96 year old neighbour while her home of 60 years was being auctioned. Dad doesn't have many visitors, so after a few emails back and forth in relation to this event, I brought ginger biscuits and dad made a cake. Together we filled up the kettle in advance, and swept the front porch. 

From the moment the taxi door opened, and two sensible shoes were placed on our driveway amid raised voices and a kafuffle about the walker, it was clear that this wasn't going to be quite the pleasant kind of tea and cakes situation we'd imagined. And not one Dad could have easily handled on his own. 

Greetings were overshadowed by the continued conversation. "He was very rude to me" and "no, he wasn't mum", hung in the air alongside an awkward smile in our direction as Ula made her way to our front door, pushing aside the nearest son and his suggestions about where to put the walker. It seemed that something had been said over lunch, and she was still quite upset. 

Inside our dining room, Ula chose the window bench, where she could see people congregating near her side door below us. Not wanting to sit, she kind of kneeled against the seat, focussed on the goings on next door. Recognising one of the agents, she started tapping on the window to attract his attention, fiddling with the mechanism until it opened. "It'll probably be a Chinese buyer" she commented loudly and with disdain, "and they'll probably fill in the pool. That's what they did across the road". I glanced at dad and he almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes, ever the diplomat. Both sons seemed keen for the window to remain shut. 

A painting of me looking through a window, as a girl

After the sons had left, one of them cheerily kissing Ula goodbye as if she was a child being left with unpopular babysitters, the three of us weren't quite sure what to do. I offered Ula cake and tea again, but she repeated her polite but firm refusal, having only just had lunch. 

A few moments passed before Ula decided that she'd rather go next door and be there at the auction. I made futile attempts to stall or distract, but Ula was now certain. "I'm a big girl, you know" she told me, and I thought of her 60+ years of adulting (as we jokingly call it now); raising three boys, keeping the garden looking lovely, maintaining a marriage for the many decades until her husband's death, managing household finances, driving to fitness classes and the supermarket up until a year ago, reversing her car down the drive effortlessly and navigating the COVID years without a blink. She always struck me as fiercely independant, a clever influencer (she somehow convinced dad to dress up as Santa when her grandchildren were little), and generally cheerful, generous and personable. Yesterday my admiration for her grew. 

How is it, I thought, that a woman who has navigated so much of life's stormy waters with grace and stoicism, was now denied the right to observe the final, momentous, step in her journey away from independence? And so as it began to rain, she and I made our way next door, ignoring the horrified and disapproving glances from the sons who dad had frantically been trying to warn over the phone.

There was a pause in auction proceedings as Ula and her walker squeezed into the very crowded lounge room. The real estate agent took a moment to respectfully "greet the vendor" and an older woman guided Ula to a spot on the couch where she was very much amongst the action. The auctioneer recommenced his enthusiastic description of her decades long home, and the bidding gained momentum. Ula was silent throughout, her legs crossed and wearing a pair of checkered pants that I hadn't noticed before.

After the hammer came down and the unsuccessful bidders dispersed, Dad reappeared with his umbrella, despite the rain having eased off, keen to meet his new neighbours. And there was Ula, over in the kitchen, signing away her life and graciously engaging in light conversation with the new owners. I heard her mention that her boys had gone to Barker College. Thankfully, nothing was said about the pool, but Ula did comment later on that she hopes they maintain the garden. 

Unbiased?

When I was studying my Masters degree, the unit on Peace Journalism had a significant impact on me.  Our lecturer, former BBC Journalist Jake Lynch, explained that wars are increasingly fought as much through the media as on the ground. How do journalists tasked with informing the public about war navigate truth telling amidst nationalist propaganda? How do they find the right balance of professional detachment and human compassion? And how do they decide when to provide analysis and when to simply present the facts?

We learnt that in war/violence journalism, otherwise simply known as Journalism, a situation is presented as having 2 sides or parties, both seeking to "win". It often ignores context and history, and tends to demonise the other, reports reactively on physical violence after it has happened, focuses on elite peace-makers and gives names of the "other" evil doers while dehumanising those most impacted. There is a convention in structuring war journalism where both sides should be represented in the article or media piece, so that the reader/viewer has the experience of: "On the one hand xx, on the other hand yy. In the end, who really knows. You decide. I'm Jake Lynch, BBC news".

One significant weakness of war journalism is that it ignores power imbalance, positioning two seemingly equal parties up against one another as if we are at a football game. When we had the marriage equality plebiscite in Australia, it was often considered "fair" to include both a LGBTQI+ advocate and a religious conservative in the same discussion panel. Seems "unbiased" to have both sides represented, right? But, in a country that ended up voting overwhelmingly for marriage equality, why did we need to continue to give equal voice space to religious conservatives who have historically held the microphone anyway, and have caused significant emotional harm to vulnerable people?  

With the current situation in Gaza, I see all the same hallmarks of war journalism cropping up again. The media in the first days since 7th October was using language that positioned Israel and Hamas as two seemingly equal parties, failing to acknowledge that one of the two has the support of powerful allies, and has the most military might. It was as if 7th October was the "start" of the war and nothing that happened prior mattered. There is also the "atmosphere of doubt" about who is to blame for the hospital destruction, and our own Government endorsing the flying of the Israeli flag colours on the Opera House. There was significant pressure to condemn the actions of Hamas, but not the same pressure to speak out about the lives lost as a result of decades long military occupation and brutality. One of my Palestinian friends shared the image below, pointing to the ways that the media can present only part of a situation to create a false impression. 

In contrast, Peace Journalism looks for context, history and nuance. It notices and names structural violence and gives voice to the voiceless. It names all deplorable actions and evil doers. It explores and highlights nonviolent solutions. Stories of churches, hospitals and schools and how everyday people are desperately working to protect and care for civilians remind us of the compassion and courage and resilience of our fellow humans, re-humanising them. I also appreciated this article from an Israeli perspective, which understands the actions on 7th October as part of a much larger context. Breaking the Silence also shared about what they, as former IDF soldiers, were sent to do, and why they have courageously told the truth about harm they caused. 

When I returned from Palestine, I tried to incorporate these same principles into the stories I told. I met so many people who were engaged in their own nonviolent resistance against the occupation; Dar Zahran who opened up his family home as a museum in Ramallah to acknowledge and increase understanding about historical Palestine, the Nawaja family who continue the vigil on their land despite the regular threat of violence and home demolition, Gibreen, who took his sheep out to graze on his land situated on the other side of a settler highway as a statement of sumud (steadfast resilience) and the children who do their homework alongside the family sheep and goats, huddled in a cave to protect themselves from regular army incursions into their isolated home. They are all heroes in my mind.

Retreat

Gazing out past the forest of gum trees I can just make out the blue of the river and pick up the intermittent sound of canoeists making their way from the bridge to the dam. It’s a beautiful, warm day, with just enough wind for gum leaves to fall at times like very gentle rain, but not so much that my water colours or novels are affected in any way. I’ve set up the hammock and taken a couple of swims in the river. Water has been boiled and chilled for drinking and the biggest tragedy of the holiday is that I forgot to bring any chai. One smallish table fashioned from a 3 legged tree stump provides the single point of Telstra reception. Just enough to let people know I’m okay, but not enough to do any of the non-retreaty things like check facebook or emails. 

This beautiful spot has been a special place for me for most of my life.  Usually I’ll be here at this time of year with a group of friends, and there will be games of 500, codenames, mafia, and small groups will take responsibility for each dinner. Lunches will be a consortium of whatever everyone brought along. Someone will have brought chai or an exciting snack, or the makings of pancakes. And the sense of community that this place facilitates will abound. Over the years there have been many deep and meaningful conversations over the campfire, or in the river, or atop the “throne” rock formation above the cave. 

This time, though, I’ve come on my own. Because this past year has been demanding. And through a mix of COVID fog, work pressures, a break up and family commitments, I hadn’t got my act together to invite others. Also, a retreat felt like a nice way to end the year. A time to read, reflect, and rejuvenate. Whenever I arrive, it's as if the trees are welcoming me back. A warm glow envelopes me as I walk down the hill to the hut.

A few Quaker friends were talking about personal retreats when we met just before the holiday break. One person intended to visit the local Botanical gardens every day for several days and use the time to be in silent retreat, in nature, without having to travel to a special retreat venue. That got us all thinking about how we might achieve “retreat” in different ways. 

As it happened, a week or so ago mum and I visited the Botanical gardens and the Art Gallery of NSW. We followed the rainforest path mum had trodden many a time in the years following grandma's death, as she was seeking ideas and creating her own garden at the rear section of the family home. These escapes into town on a Sunday afternoon were a part of my mother's life that I hadn't  been aware of. 

At the entrance to the new North Wing of the Art Gallery was a welcome committee - a collection of blue statues who might be from the past or future, some with long arms and others with long legs, who were cooperating to get daily tasks done. These creatures were a highlight for both mum and me, and reminded me of the way the trees welcome me home to that special place.

So, as I attempted to wind up the hammock and sweep the fallen leaves into a sense of order, turned off the fridge, put away the cups and bowls, and brought the last of my bags up to the car, I considered how I might bring retreat into daily life during 2023. While nothing beats actually getting away, I know from the past 3 years that it's not always possible. So, I'll take time to read (I now have a decent pile that people have lent or given me recently) and maybe join a group to continue with water colour or try pottery. Swims at the local pool or beaches will be energizing. As for the lanky limbed welcome committee, they will remain in my minds eye, able to surface as needed. And there's always chai at my place.