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.

On being and doing

Many years ago I read Peace Comes Walking, the biography of Donald Groom, an English Quaker peace activist who had lived in India in the 1940s and followed the example of Gandhi. As I was ensconced in my Masters degree in peace and conflict studies at the time, I was intrigued by the life of a peace worker. I had been struck by the tension between Donald’s commitment to live his life in the pursuit of a just peace, and his attempts to maintain inner peace and peace with his family.

In the years since, I have held this tension in my mind as I forge out my own work for peace and justice. Another aspect of peace activism that I drew from Donald Groom’s biography and from writings about Gandhi’s life was the balance, or sometimes tension, between “being” and “doing”. Or, to put it another way, between the inner world and action in the wider world. Much of what is written about Gandhi suggests that he took time out from his activism (the doing) to nourish his spiritual soul, and to seek divine guidance (the being). It was during a time of deep contemplation (being) that the idea of the salt march (doing) occurred to him.

Jerusalem - where spirituality abounds

I wanted to explore this idea of how to incorporate the being into the doing as I prepared for 3 months as an ecumenical accompanier in Palestine. This role was to be a very active and potentially stressful one, where I was to accompany those working nonviolently to end the occupation and monitor human rights abuses. I was aware I would need to be grounded and comfortable in myself in order to do this work effectively. Where would I seek spiritual guidance in this context? How would I find the time and space to nurture my inner world? And what effect would it have on the “doing”, if any?

After my first support group meeting, it was decided that I would explore creative ways of engaging with Spirit, as the idea of reading lots of texts didn't seem to bring me particular joy. I began with watercolour painting as my main way to nurture the “being” side. I had packed a travel sized watercolour set, and began painting the washing lines visible from the roof of our house, and loved the vibrant colours of the clothing that shone against the backdrop of mainly cream coloured houses and dusty earth. One evening I tried to capture the sunset, but the sky darkened so quickly that my painting looked more like a confused prawn as I played catch up with the changing hues of the night sky.

Rooftop washing

As winter lifted and we began to accompany shepherds much more frequently during their days of meandering and grazing, I found myself using this quiet, meditative time to centre down. Since my only obligation in this particular job was to simply ‘be there’, it seemed appropriate to take the time to practise ‘being’ in a more intentional way. Sometimes I would allow thoughts to wander about in the corners of my mind, grazing on a matter that might have been troubling me. At other times, I would, like our shepherding friends, gently direct those thoughts to move on.

One of the shepherds, Jibreen, who is a muslim, would often invite us to his tent at the end of the day for a meal or cup of tea. He liked to speak about peace. As his gentle, lilting voice would wax lyrical about his vision of the world’s faiths getting along, and about forgiveness, and his troubles, I felt so moved that on a couple of occasions I just wept. Although we didn’t share a language, it was through a mixture of gestures, translation and the inexplicable kindness in his eyes that I understood most of what he was saying. His perspective sat comfortably alongside those of Gandhi and Jesus and so many other people whose faith informed their actions and whose ministry described a peaceful future free from injustice.

Jibreen and his flock

During my last week in the job, Jibreen was arrested and detained. In the confusion of numerous phone calls from those who knew the context better than I and competing directives leading up to his arrest, I felt incredibly torn, and ultimately that I had let him down. I wondered whether a more deeply spiritual person, or alternatively a more practical person, would have handled things differently and better. And yet, I was somehow able to pick myself up from these feelings, and make attempts to right any wrongs. I made the promise to share Jibreen’s story far and wide.

More than halfway through my time in Palestine, I finally made it to Quaker meeting and met Jean Zaru, a Palestinian Quaker who writes and speaks often about nonviolence as a way of life and the struggle for justice for Palestinians. She's been influenced by liberation theology. I’d never met her before, and yet saw her as a bit of a spiritual mentor. Over a cup of tea and biscuit after meeting, I made a thoughtless comment about the call to prayer interrupting Meeting for Worship and she gently eldered me. Jean reminded me that, in the face of Israeli attempts to deny access to worship and ban the call to prayer, Christians and Muslims in the holy land needed to band together in solidarity. For her, the call to prayer during our worship was a beautiful reminder of their common struggle.

Jean and me

I found myself part of a small group of international visitors who joined Jean for lunch after Meeting for Worship. We all wanted to know more about the challenges facing Palestinian Quakers, and how they see the occupation ending. As we discussed interfaith relations, the commitment to nonviolence that we all share, and the everyday struggle for justice, I wondered how Jean blends the being and the doing in her life? How does she seek nourishment of the soul when she faces the “doing” every day? It was clear to me that a deep connection to spirit directed her activism and ministry in the wider world.

The third spiritual mentor during my time in the holy land was a fellow accompanier called Carole. She was an Australian Christian based in Hebron, working with a different organisation. Since we’d met back in Australia, and were now so physically close, she was the person I turned to when things got tough and everyone in Australia was either asleep or busy at work. Carole had a way of blending the practical and the spiritual, and would know which kind of support was needed. Sometimes she provided a compassionate ear when I needed to vent about difficult personalities, and at other times she offered a gentle nudge to encourage me to think differently about a situation. And sometimes we’d meet in Hebron for shisha. Much needed hugs and laughter would abound.

Carole and me, surrounded by friends in Hebron

So, as I entered the final weeks of my time in the holy land, I continued with my watercolour - painting neighbours, more of the countryside, tractors, and sometimes just colours on the page. I found it difficult to be stressed when painting, as it gave me a focus other than circular thoughts. I also found it helpful to write letters and blog pieces in an attempt to collect my thoughts and prepare for the advocacy work when I returned. On days off, I would sit for hours in a cafe in Ramallah nurturing my impressions into a reasonable story for others to read.

Sooner than expected, it was time to leave. A week spent partly with friends and partly alone in Europe after leaving Palestine gave me distance from the events of the previous few months, without having to face the well-intentioned questions and company of friends and family just yet. I found myself again taking time during that week to wander and wonder - writing and watercolouring, exploring and capturing the aesthetic cityscape of Prague and the parks of busy London. I took a boat ride on the lake in Geneva, as being by water always calms me.

Prague at night

As I reflect on those three months, and my attempts to find the right balance of being and doing, I realise that even those I greatly admire are struggling with these things as well. It feels as if being and doing become so intertwined that it's difficult to work out which one influences the other. I found that spirit and meaning was to be found in the unexpected - the call to prayer during silent Quaker meeting, the unjust arrest of a resistence shepherd, and the everyday reality of washing hanging on the line, flying freely while its occupants remain occupied.

The suspicious bag

Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv looks like any European airport, except for the general atmosphere of suspicion and higher-than-normal security. Even before I reach the check-in counter I am greeted by an expressionless trainee security guard who has a set list of questions to ask.

'Three months is a long time. Can you tell us what you were doing in Israel for all that time?" I peer over at my team-mates at the adjacent counters, who don’t seem to be receiving quite the same grilling. “I was part of a Church Initiative”, I say, as per security instructions, trying to look relaxed. Three different security officers then separately question me about this initiative until I feel weak and sweat covers my brow.

The truth is that I was sent by the World Council of Churches to monitor human rights and provide protective presence to people affected by the Israeli military occupation of the West Bank, but I couldn’t tell that to the airport security. The feeling of being continually under suspicion for the last three months had taken its toll. I had passed through numerous Israeli-controlled checkpoints where heavily armed soldiers questioned me about what I was doing, took photographs of my passport, and viewed any interactions I had with Palestinians as deeply worrying.

Israel is clamping down on any behaviour it sees as threatening, which includes speaking up about human rights. Not long ago its Parliament passed a law banning entry to their country anybody involved in boycotts, divestment and sanctions (BDS). This will almost certainly mean that anybody who even dares to question Israel’s actions in the West Bank will be seen as a security threat, be denied entry and sent on the next flight home.

After questioning of my movements eased off, I was given a sticker for my passport and bags, and directed through check-in. But at security the guard took one look at the bright yellow sticker on my passport and promptly escorted me to a different line, where I was one of just a handful with white skin. The others, who had most likely been racially profiled, looked at me with bemusement. They were used to this kind of treatment. I wasn’t.

First my carry-on bag was upturned, and a number of female security officers scrutinised the contents. My electrical devices, personal journal, travel paint set, tampons, reading material, spare underwear, lip balm and other personal effects littered the bench. Meanwhile, I was dragged off to a separate room for a more intense body search using an x-ray machine.

Back at the security counter, a young woman approached, and introduced herself as a senior security officer. She asked again the questions about who I had met and where I had been. As the questioning became more intense, I developed a desperate urge to use the bathroom. Thankfully, I was escorted off to a toilet and by the time we returned, the interrogation was marginally less scary.

Suddenly, with only ten minutes remaining until my flight was due to close, it was announced that I would be allowed to join the flight, but that my carry-on bag would not. “There isn’t enough time for us to properly check it for explosives” one of them carelessly told me. “But don’t worry, we’ll give you a replacement bag, and your bag will be on the next flight to Zurich”. Hmmm. So, the more than two hours that I had been in the security area and the hour or so that my bag and its contents have been strewn across the counter in front of them somehow wasn’t enough time to conduct a simple swab test?

Without the energy to argue out loud, I grabbed the replacement luggage, a large blue sports bag, and began urgently bundling my belongings into it. It became apparent that the zippers didn’t work, and so no sooner had I placed items inside the bag then they would simply slide out the other end, a problem which only added to my stress levels. Somehow I gathered everything together, and after being given the go-ahead to depart I was escorted right up to the gate.

As I marched down the aisle of the plane, with my new, oversized duffle bag clumsily banging back and forth into almost every seat along the way, the feeling of anger began to rise. I had been made to feel as if I had done something wrong, and my bag was being punished for it. This anger remained with me for the 5 hour flight to Zurich.

The indignation that I felt gave me some inkling of what it might be like to be treated with this kind of contempt every day. Such humiliation, indignity and denial of basic rights are the daily experience of Palestinians living under Israeli military occupation. In order to pass through the checkpoint between Jerusalem and Bethlehem Palestinians must shuffle off the bus and await humiliating examination of their ID cards and permits before re-entering or being detained, depending on the whim of the soldier on duty. Young people are regularly arrested for minor crimes such as 'throwing stones', and then denied adequate legal representation. And bedouin families face military incursions late at night for little or no reason. All this behaviour, like my treatment at the airport, seems designed to create feelings of anxiety, anger and depression in a whole population who haven't actually done anything wrong.

So, as the plane touched down at Zurich Airport, I grabbed my ridiculously impractical carry-on bag and slung it determinedly over my shoulder. As a few items spilled out and I had to bend and retrieve them, it occurred to me that perhaps this unwanted gift was actually a blessing in disguise. If anybody asked why I had such a stupid carry-on bag, I would take the opportunity to tell them about arbitrary detention, the inhumanity of checkpoints, and the culture of fear that has been created by the occupation. Nobody should have to live like this.

Tents, caves and other nonviolent tools

Part of the role of a Christian Peacemaker is to stand in solidarity with acts of nonviolent resistance. I was in Palestine with a group from Christian Peacemaker Teams to learn about their work. The first chance our group had to be actively engaged in solidarity with those calling for an end to the occupation was when we joined the Women in Black at a silent vigil on a street corner in the heart of West Jerusalem, the Israeli side of town. I was a bit nervous, as I had no idea what the police would do, what passersby would do, or indeed what the other vigilers would do. A group of armed settlers waving the Israeli flag were dancing and shouting on the street corner opposite us, and some of them came over to our corner and started arguing with anyone who would respond. The police and soldiers, on the other hand, pretty much ignored us, probably knowing that this particular nonviolent direct action takes place every week and never causes any trouble.

Nonviolent direct action at Sheikh Jarrah

The same afternoon we joined another nonviolent direct action at Sheikh Jarrah, a Palestinian village in East Jerusalem that is being slowly demolished to make way for Jewish settlers. This was in a Palestinian part of town, so the reception from passing cars was much more positive, although one of our team did get egged by an Israeli passer-by. This nonviolent action consisted of local Palestinians, the regular suspects from the Jewish left, a few internationals, and a group of Orthodox Jews who carried placards against Zionism and against the occupation. It was completely peaceful. Afterwards, we visited a Palestinian resident who has had the front  section of his house taken over by settlers, apparently Orthodox Jews from New York. This man's family still lives in the back part of the house and has to risk abuse and harassment every time they walk past the front building, which the father built himself a few years ago. They had set up a tent in the front yard for their neighbours who had also been evicted by settlers, but the tent was confiscated.

Photograph of Jewish settlers settling in to another family's home

We heard more stories of demolition, dispossession and discrimination when we visited the Negev desert. Less than an hour out of Jerusalem the scenery quickly changed from tall buildings and multi-lane highways to desert stretching as far as the eye could see. As our bus soared down the highway, our guides pointed out the exquisite Palestinian architecture dotted amongst the little villages that we would occasionally pass by. Reaching into the heart of the desert, our first stop was a Bedouin family whose home was facing yet another order to move on.

Although they live in Israel and are Israeli citizens, many of the Bedouin communities who are Palestinian Muslims are being displaced in order to make way for a new Israeli settler village that is being built. While for decades they have been denied basic services and infrastructure such as roads, medical care, schools and garbage collection because they are “too remote”, the new settlement will have all these services, and a shopping mall what’s more!! Many have solar panels on their roof, which is a great way to demonstrate self-reliance. One guy told us that his camels had been stolen, and taken to an Israeli camel farm. Upon inquiry, he learnt that if he wanted them back he would have to pay for the food and accommodation they were given while under the care of the camel farm. He couldn’t afford the price, and so had to go home without his camels. He now buys milk from the camel farm, instead of selling it as he used to.

Although we visited Hebron, where the Christian Peacemaker Team house is located, our plans were changed due to a the political situation, which was compounded by a CPT team member being arrested and refused entry to Hebron for two weeks. Her crime? Posting a picture on instagram. Read this article for more detail, as it shows quite directly what was going on and what challenges the permanent CPT team members face. 11 young Palestinians were killed in Hebron by settlers and soldiers just in the week or so that we had been in the country. It was considered particularly volatile last October when I was there.

Most distressing was the murder by soldiers of a girl aged 17 years, who was going through the checkpoint at the Ibrahimi Mosque. Witnesses say that the soldiers accused her of having a knife. She became fearful and backed away, and then they shot her. We’ve heard that no knife was found, although the story from the soldiers is always that people have knives and are stabbing the soldiers. As far as we know, there has been no investigation or justice applied to the soldiers and settlers committing these murders, and the bodies have not yet been returned to the families. What many of us found most difficult to comprehend was the idea that a fully armed soldier would feel so threatened by the possibility of a teenage girl with a knife (assuming she did have one), that he would choose to kill her first and ask questions later. That the soldiers and settlers can act with almost complete impunity is equally unbelievable.

Boarded up shop fronts in Hebron

In the morning of our visit to Hebron, we were shown around by a well known activist. He pointed out the illegal Israeli settlements, the place where they had taken over a Palestinian school to create an Israeli school, and the chicken wire across the top of the souk to protect stallholders from the rocks or eggs that are thrown down by settlers. It was noticeable that many of the shops in the souk were shut, either due to the owners having been evicted to make way for settlers, or because they were just not getting enough business. While we were inside the Mosque, another two girls were arrested. People were incredibly relieved that these girls were not shot, but so nervous about the situation in general.

It might seem from this report so far that everything is doom and gloom. The situation is grim, but we experienced the most wonderful hospitality, and had conversations with some incredibly inspiring people while in the Palestinian Territories. After our brief visit to the CPT office and rooftop tour of Hebron, we had lunch with an impressive Palestinian woman who lives in the heart of the souk. She served up a traditional dish called Upside Down Maqloobeh, with an adapted version prepared for the vegetarians, and served cups of tea and Arab coffee. On the way back, we stopped at the Al Aroub refugee camp, just outside of Hebron. One of our team members had friends in the camp, and they welcomed us into their home and we shared more tea, more coffee and more delicious food.

Palestinian hospitality in a refugee camp outside Hebron

Our trip to Bethlehem began with a visit to Wi’am, the Palestinian Reconciliation and Conflict Transformation Centre where we heard from folks about a range of conflict resolution initiatives in the local community. There are projects to foster self-esteem amongst young Palestinians, address gender based violence, and also bring young people from opposing soccer teams together. They had originally begun providing traditional mediation and conflict resolution to the local community before it was legal to establish Palestinian NGOs. Some of us reflected that there was a mix of optimism about the success of the programs and pessimism about the overall situation. We noticed a lot of this same weariness and hopelessness in many of the Palestinian groups we met that our tour guide said she had not seen before. It’s difficult for people to see a peaceful end to the occupation when things are so tense right now.

On our return from Bethlehem to Jerusalem we were in a public bus full of Palestinians. Amid the chatter of young people on their way home from work or school, the bus cruised past the villages and came to a standstill at a checkpoint. As has become the norm, all the Palestinians on the bus were required stepped off when we reached the checkpoint. We were told that there was no need for us to get off the bus, as we are foreigners, but we explained that we wanted to do so in solidarity. Sure enough, though, when we reached the front of the queue the Israeli soldier who had checked the bags of every Palestinian before us simply asked if we were enjoying our stay. Our bags were not searched at all. This is just a very simple example of how Palestinians are treated as second class citizens while foreigners and Israelis are given special treatment. Some of us began reflecting on how groups like Christian Peacemaker Teams use this privilege to stand in solidarity, to get in the way of violence and to bear witness to injustice.

Probably the most encouraging aspect of this trip was the visit to the Tent of Nations, a 100 acre farm on land which has been continually owned by the Nassar family for almost 100 years. Unlike many Palestinians, this family had paperwork relating to the official legal title for the land that they own, and so the Israeli government was not able to kick them off their land, as has happened to so many other families. This family has continued to face a number of hurdles, however, as new laws have refused permission to build new dwellings, and they have been denied access to water and electricity.

A large pile of rocks blocks the main entry road to the farm, a very physical representation of the obstacles people face in retaining ownership of their land. Yet, they have found creative ways to resist. They have installed solar panels, begun to capture their own rainwater, built composting toilets, and all their dwellings are caves rather than formal structures (because caves are not prohibited). They continue to find creative ways to resist the settlers and government who are trying to steal their land, and bear witness to the idea that “existence is resistance”.

Entrance to the Tent of Nations farm

Our final supper together was appropriately held at the Jerusalem Hotel which is a haven for activists while simultaneously serving delicious Palestinian food. As the resident cats encircled our legs and made pleas for any morsels that might be sent their way, we began passing around photos of our loved ones; grandchildren, parents, partners, nieces, nephews and siblings. Perhaps this was our way of recognising the importance of human connection and love. Despite living under occupation, the Palestinians we met showed us such warmth, hospitality, and summud - strength and resilience. Family is incredibly important to people, and we began to see that solidarity is sometimes as simple as sharing a cup of strong coffee together. As we return to our respective families and friends, it will be incumbent upon all of us to decide how the connections we have made over here will influence our lives. Many of us committed to join the BDS movement, share stories amongst our networks, and perhaps return one day.

The boy next door

Like so many others, I was deeply moved by the images of the drowned Syrian toddler, Aylan Kurdi. Except for the colour of his hair, he could be my nephew. Noah looks exactly that way when he sleeps. He dresses like that. They are both just little boys, except that while Noah plays endless games of "fire truck rescue", Aylan can't be rescued any more. But for the simple fact that one was born in a country that is now a warzone and the other in a nation relatively at peace, these two boys could have been friends, neighbours even. Had he been rescued and granted protection in Australia, he could have been the boy next door. But he wasn't and he didn't. Whenever I think of it, I want to cry.

This strong reaction has surprised me. I have been immersed in refugee advocacy, peace work and the aid sector for the past decade, and have had continual exposure to horrifying and distressing images, statistics and stories. I almost thought I had become desensitised. Yet, this image touched a chord. I am sure there is a heap of marketing theory and research that explains why the image of one boy can have such a great impact whereas years of banging on about policy, death rates and our "international obligations" has almost none.

I'm glad that people are starting to act, that a candle-lit vigil will take place Monday night, and that politicians around the world are announcing plans to offer more humanitarian places to Syrian refugees. This is certainly progress in the right direction. Wouldn't it be great if this turned out to be the point at which the world said "we just realised we do care about other human beings and can no longer stand by and let this happen to them". But I am cautious in my gladness.

While other leaders are responding with concern and practical offers to help, Tony Abbott is using this drowning at sea to intensify his "stop the boats" slogan, implying that the boy only died because he boarded a boat. I think this is the point at which we need to zoom out from the picture of a boy on a beach, and look beyond the horizon to Syria itself. Has Tony Abbott thought for even just a minute about why people are fleeing Syria on rickety boats in the first place? Surely he knows that it's because there is a humanitarian crisis in their country, because they fear for their lives. So, by turning back boats, to situations of almost certain harm and danger, he is giving every person a death sentence worse than drowning at sea. Stopping the boats does not equal saving lives. We need to make that perfectly clear - to Tony Abbott and to anyone who believes him. Turning back boats might stop people dying on our shores or the shores of Turkey and Greece, but it won't stop them dying. Let's make no mistake about that.

And if we zoom out a little further, we might consider the role Australia has played on the international stage, alongside other western countries, in creating these tragic circumstances. When we joined the war in Iraq, and offered military and financial support to certain armed groups and not others, and reduced our contribution to overseas aid and diplomacy, I believe we sowed the seeds of injustice and unrest. People don't become terrorists or join political struggles overnight or without reason. They do so because they are disillusioned, because they perceive a great injustice has been done to them, because they feel there is no other way. In order to understand why Syria is in the state it is in, we must take a step back and look at our own contribution to this boy's fate, however uncomfortable that might be.

So, yes, we should take in more refugees. Absolutely. But we should do more than that. Australia should engage in rescue operations at sea, like those that took place in Italy. We should welcome refugees warmly, just as we would offer shelter to a neighbour in the aftermath of a housefire or flood. And more than that, we should work with neighbouring countries on a truly regional solution to the increasing movement of people. It will only be with the cooperation between nations, with everybody doing as much as they are able, that the world can respond to the biggest humanitarian crisis since WW2. And finally, Australia should work continually to undo the causes of war, address injustice and to make peace. Only then will little boys and girls the world over be safe from harm.

At the end of the line

It's the post-lunch session of a course in nonviolence and the energy has lowered. "Right", says the facilitator, "I'd like you to imagine a line going down the middle of the room. 'Agree' is at this end. 'Disagree' is at the other. Now, where would you stand to respond to the following statement: 'I would use violence to save a family member's life'?". We look at one another with dread, and shuffle awkwardly into place. I, inevitably, am down one end of the line.

As a pacifist, I am regularly asked to justify my stance in ways that Governments, churches or just mainstream people who take a just war approach are rarely asked to do. Whether its during an animated discussion with friends, exploratory queries after 2 or 3 dates, or the post-lunch session of nonviolent activism training, I do tend to find myself alone at one end of the line. Recently, I've had cause to question my stance. Am I too fixed in my thinking? Would I be truly open to changing my mind if presented with new information? Am I simply naive?

There's a sortof assumption that use of violence "as a last resort" is more pragmatic and intelligent than committing to nonviolence more completely. And perhaps I am naive, simplistic, or not pragmatic enough. But I also wonder how people decide that all other options have been exhausted, or that now we have reached the time of "last resort". I wonder whether people really understand the practice and theory of nonviolence when they make the decision to dismiss it out of hand. I also think there's a massive assumption that pacifism, because of its name, is passive.

I remember a few years ago I was very affected by the story of a Canadian Quaker (let's call him Joe) who had been murdered by his estranged son-in-law. I had heard about this situation through the nonviolence network because Joe had been actively involved in the Alternatives to Violence Project, a workshop process that I'm also involved with. Back in the 1970s it had drawn tools from nonviolent social change training methodology to work with prison inmates who were seeking to transform the cycle of violence in their lives. Many inmates had found the process transformative, and had gone on to become facilitators, mentors for younger offenders and to live exemplary lives. When I became involved, I found the process useful for dealing with conflict in my own life, and worked time and again with inspirational people who had experienced terrible violence in their lives, were facing those demons, and working to create different patterns in the future.

With Joe's situation, I had been struck by the tragedy of a person, who had dedicated his life to peace, dying in such a violent way. I kindof became obsessed with the story. After some internet research, I learnt that Joe's daughter's ex had a history of violence and mental illness, and on the fateful day that Joe had intervened, he had saved his daughter's life but sacrificed his own. When I told friends this story, I remember one turning to me and saying "isn't it ironic that he resorted to violence after working so hard his whole life for nonviolence?" I was baffled by this analysis, because I hadn't said that the man had resorted to violence. I had simply relayed that he had "intervened". None of the media articles had specified exactly what had happened. I had assumed that the man had intervened nonviolently, whereas my friend clearly imagined any intervention would necessarily be violent. It's almost like the riddle about the surgeon who can't operate on her son which confuses people because they don't think that a surgeon could be female. Similarly, people can't imagine any type of intervention that is not violent.

So, when asked whether I would use violence to save a family member's life, and I choose "no", everyone assumes I would somehow sit idly by because I apparently lack the imagination to come up with any kind of intervention that isn't violent. Of course, I can probably only list, on demand, maybe half a dozen of Gene Sharpe's 198 methods of nonviolent action, and I am not especially skilled at any of them. In fact, it's entirely possible that I would blunder my way through such a scenario. Perhaps I would be so scared that I would freeze and essentially be passive, or would, in the moment, resort to violence. But the point is not really to predict what I would "actually" do, but to assert what I believe is the best thing to do and what I would aspire to do. Just as I believe that Joe was willing to lay down his life to save his daughter, I hope that I would step between an attacker and somebody I love in order to save them from harm.

But the "intruder attacking my loved ones" is only one scenario where people want to argue that nonviolence is pathetic or flawed. The other scenarios where a pacifist stance is questioned is where there are great injustices and complexities at play such as the recent riots in Baltimore. When asking friends about nonviolence recently on facebook, I found that this contemporary scenario was one that resonated with many who said "this is the one situation where I would question nonviolence". And I see where they are coming from. When a police officer, who is part of the structural violence and unjust machinery that condones explicit physical violence against black people, turns around and tells the community (meaning black people) to keep calm and use nonviolence, I, too, lose patience.

There is an assumption that because I am a pacifist, I will side with the police and the patronising and hypocritical call for nonviolence. No, I regard perpetuating racist structures and discrimination as extremely violent. Being a pacifist absolutely means confronting structural violence, naming racism, oppression and injustice, and standing alongside those who are most vulnerable. While I think creative nonviolent strategies are most likely to succeed and produce durable results, I do recognise that in order to stand in solidarity with those who are persecuted, I need to support them "where they're at", even if that space is expressing frustration violently. After all, I regularly find myself resorting to emotional violence or participating in structural violence, to my own chagrin. I am certainly not the one to throw the first stone. And, I've actually found that it's never that hard to find the humanity and goodness in the inmates, or freedom fighters or even mentally ill sons-in-law. The real challenge is to find the humanity and goodness in those who don't challenge themselves about the ways that they benefit from injustice, perpetuate violent structures, or stand idly by while others are persecuted. That's when my commitment to nonviolence is truly tested.

Those bullies

One of my favourite episodes of the IT Crowd is the one where Moss has to deal with a group of bullies on a park bench. Eventually, after some role playing of likely scenarios with his colleague (a technique that also helped him learn how to buy sandwiches), and a surprising turn of events where he finds himself in possession of a weapon, he overcomes the fear of those bullies picking on him.

I can relate to dear old Moss. There are some people in my life who, possibly due to their own insecurities, like to ever so subtly undermine my confidence. It's sometimes only after years of silently suffering and tears in the toilet that I realise it is not ok to feel this way. And what's more, it's not just happening to me. Others have noticed it too, or also been victim to the behaviour and are just better than me at responding.

I do think I need to take responsibility for enabling people to treat me badly. At this age, I have *almost* mastered surrounding myself with positive, affirming people. But we can't control who we interact with all the time. Sometimes we just have to find ways to live with somebody.

I am grateful, in a weird way, to these difficult people, as their behaviour allows me to grow. Sometimes there are hard-to-hear truths to be found amongst the put downs, even if the delivery leaves a lot to be desired. It takes courage to accept one's shortcomings with grace, and it requires a certain wisdom to differentiate between what is useful feedback and what is, well, just plain meanness. It also is a reminder for me to find more constructive ways to voice my frustrations with others, knowing that being constructive and encouraging is more effective in changing people's behaviour and getting the outcome we want than criticism or aggression.

Like Moss, I use role play, although mainly inside my head, to rehearse ways to respond to the mean stuff that show greater respect for myself and that name the behaviour as inappropriate. Some people say you have to kill the other person with kindness, others say it's best to ignore. Many are able to model assertiveness with ease. And then there's always those who are able to employ the clever use of humour to disarm or surprise the other person.

Whichever way I respond, the trick is to do so in the moment, and not a week later when the perfect comeback finally occurs to me. On the rare occasions that I do respond assertively, creatively and respectfully, I feel good - just like Moss at the end of the episode as he confidently strides past those bullies on the bench in the park. I, however, am not brandishing a gun!

Coming right way

Three of us journeyed in my car. Two Davids and me. I nicknamed them front-seat David and back-seat David for the purpose of telling them apart. As we shared stories and snacks on the trip, front-seat David kept referring to my "dilly bag" whenever I asked him to retrieve an item for me, and I enjoyed that gesture of inclusion. We were headed for the third workshop held by Quakers and First Nations People to explore connections, racism and sovereignty. When the three of us tumbled, late, into the first session, the smiles around the room welcomed us. There were some people I hadn't seen in two years, some I had kept in touch with, and new faces.

my dilly bag

And as we fell into a rhythm of discussion sessions punctuated by meal times and sleep, it became clear that my role was to listen. I listened to stories of youth suicide, stolen children, rape, racism,  hopelessness, incarceration, deaths in custody, mental health, the white man's poison, anger, addiction, activism, hope, resilience, unconditional love, support, and forgiveness. As always, I had to guard myself against the strong emotions that always well up at these types of occasions, knowing that even being able to take care of myself is a privilege afforded those of us for whom the personal is less political.

When I think of the suicides I think of my friends who took their lives. I think maybe I can empathise somehow. Because I've received the phone call, tried to make sense of it, felt overwhelmed and angry and unsure. I've said goodbye to that beautiful, gentle soul: somebody who, in that moment, didn't think life was worth it any more. But I know it's different. To see suicide touch so many young people in the same community is not the same thing at all. What is happening for them is collective hopelessness; the collateral damage caused by decades and centuries of structural violence and racism.

When I think of the children taken away, I think of my brother, who was taken from his mother at birth. And again I think maybe I can empathise somehow. The lost years that you never really get back, the what ifs that go through your head. And how you know he is always trying to catch up on a family that he wasn't part of as a child. But again I know it's different - for them it was a deliberate attempt to deny children their heritage, to breed out the black. And it continues - now it's called "The Intervention", or "stronger futures" or "concern for little children". People shared stories from all corners of the country of children taken away and it became clear to me that they never stopped taking the children away. But some, like front-seat David, came back, determined to reconnect and reclaim their lost heritage.

"What are you Quakers going to do?" they ask us, and we are eager, but unsure. They want concrete action. Sometimes it feels as if we are very much "the other", "the enemy", and I am aware that I benefit daily from the structures that hold them back, but there are moments of solidarity. When we talk of collective action it feels like progress. I know that there is more that the women would like to say, and I could have done more to listen to their stories over meals, or during the times when I selfishly chose to spend snatching up missed sleep.

Halfway through the second day, back-seat David and I took a walk up the mountain behind the centre and looked out over Lake George, letting the strong feelings settle. I am aware that, while friends and colleagues continue to campaign against apartheid around the world, we are the oppressors in a similar scenario here in Australia. We are complicit in and benefit from two centuries of genocide. Will we have the courage to stand up and be counted among those who see and name the racism that exists in our own country and in our own hearts?

Silver Wattle Quaker Centre, Bungendore

At one point, somebody made a distinction between Quakers and other Wadjula, and I felt a sense that we were beginning to come right way, a concept introduced to me by a very wise Quaker many years ago. The idea is that, by listening and hearing stories of what has happened, we can start to build a relationship with the First Australians, and eventually start to right the wrongs of the past. When we first came to Australia, we came wrong way. Now we are being given the chance to come right way.

We gather at the tree to say goodbye to the Kooma mob who are heading home. They have fifteen hours of driving ahead of them just to get to Brisbane. Then another couple of days due West. Suddenly Koko realises that I never got one of the sovereignty t-shirts. He looks me up and down, mumbles something about needing to find a large one, and produces an XXL and thrusts it into my hands. Gratitude prevails over indignation.

One man, a gentle, thoughtful soul who I felt I connected with over the weekend, was standing  beside me. "When are you coming back to Cunnamulla?" he asks me. "Oh, when front-seat David invites me again" I reply, because we'd already established that I'd visited back in 2008. "I'll invite you", he says. "I'll show you around". I try not to let the wetness in my eyes show. After two days of listening to how my people have wronged another, I can't believe that I might have made another friend. I feel I am another small step closer to "coming right way".

Utopia

The other night I saw John Pilger's film "Utopia" at The Block in Redfern. Arriving late, I was wondering whether I'd find anyone to sit with or whether I would miss the beginning, but I needn't have worried. It seemed that Sydney's entire progressive community had turned out to see the film. The movie itself didn't get started until I was well and truly settled into my picnic spot surrounded by people I knew.

Photo taken by my friend Costa

At the beginning of the documentary we learn of the price people are willing to pay to stay one night in a luxury apartment by Sydney's breathtakingly beautiful harbour. This opulence is then juxtaposed with Utopia, a remote desert community just a few hundred kilometres north of Alice Springs, where a health worker describes the appalling conditions that people live in. In one particular house, the only toilet doesn't work most of the time meaning that raw sewage collects in the back yard, and they don't have the basic medical supplies for immunisations or to prevent diseases that are non-existent in the rest of Australia. Oh, and cockroaches have been found in children's ears.

The description reminded me of an incident in Balgo, another desert community set on the intersection of Warlpiri, Kukatja, and Ngarti lands a couple of hundred kilometres further north, where I journeyed in 2009 to attend The Kapulalungu Aboriginal Women's Association Law Camp. Arriving in town, I remember one of my travelling companions commenting loudly about the state of the sleeping quarters, citing cockroaches, dog poo and unwashed dishes scattered about the place as unacceptable, perhaps unaware that while our new room-mates might have been too shy to speak English with us, they understood the gist only too well. We were perpetrating again the shame we place on First Nations people because they are not like us, or because they don't have access to the basic sanitation facilities that we take for granted.

In that community I formed a bond early on with one lady who had recently lost her son to suicide. He was the third young person to die that way in the space of 12 months. As we shared snippets of our very different lives, I marvelled at her resilience. Some of her older female relatives remembered a time pre-invasion, before the middle generation had been raised in a Catholic mission school away from their families and prevented from speaking their language. These women were now teaching their traditional laws and customs to the younger and middle generations with the hope that re-connecting to culture would make a difference to self-confidence, cultural pride and a sense of healing for the community as a whole. Even after sixty short years, "settlement" had clearly been very destructive to the mental health of young people, evidenced in the high rates of suicide.

One of the buildings used for health and community work, Balgo

Rates of youth suicide amongst First Nations people was highlighted in the movie, with Robert and Selina Eggington from the Nyoongar Nation speaking about their own experience of grief losing a son to suicide, and then talking about a space of remembrance that they created for other grieving parents in the Perth area. I wished the movie had included more positive stories like this, and perhaps more from urban and rural experiences as well as remote. But I did find it valuable to hear about successful strikes and union activities that had led to increases in wages, improved standards of living and safety for workers. Stories of resistance movements and urban survivors could have been more prominent.

The irony in the connection between the Northern Territory Intervention and the Stolen Generation was explored. John Pilger reminded us that the Intervention was supposedly implemented because of John Howard's concern about rape of children by Aboriginal men in Northern Territory communities following the "Little Children are Sacred" report. Yet, such allegations were a complete misrepresentation of the report. Even more frustrating is the irony that it was the rape of Aboriginal women and girls by white men that resulted in the "half-caste" children who were stolen as part of a racist policies to breed out the black. Some of the books that tell the stories of the stolen children are so powerful, and I remember tears streaming down my face as I learnt of each person's unique but similar heartbreak. Since I was aware that my grandparents had fostered an Aboriginal girl in the 1960s, believing they were doing a good thing, I imagined with some discomfort every story taking place in their house.

The racism of newcomer Australians is evident in interviews with former politicians, people celebrating Australia Day, and countless stories of unnecessary deaths in custody and massacres that have gone un-noticed in history books. I am also disappointed by how this country has handled Australia Day, almost completely oblivious that our day of pride represents nothing less than invasion day for First Nations people. My sister-in-law tells me that she was shocked by the racism she noticed amongst settler Australians when she first moved here. As I continue to struggle with my own racism and privilege, I am filled with love for the First Nations people in my life who have opened their hearts to me over the years. I have a number of "uncles" who continually forgive me as I stumble and offend. They gently nudge me in the right direction.This movie is another step on my journey. I hope it is seen by those who need to see it, rather than only those of us who are "the converted" -  those of us well-intentioned lefties who want to be supportive, but still need a great deal more educating, mind you! And I hope this story will spark vigorous discussions. I reckon it's okay if we don't all like the style of journalism or the choice of content, as long as it gets us talking about our embarrassing history, the change we want to see in the future, and maybe even taking action in our own lives to be that change.

The Jesus effect

There's been a bit of an Orwellian vibe about recollections of Nelson Mandela since he died. People who had previously called him a terrorist are now calling him a freedom fighter. World leaders are comfortable saying that he stood for forgiveness and non-violence, while conveniently forgetting to mention that he disn't always advocate for non-violence and the connections he drew between apartheid in South Africa and the treatment of Palestinians by Israelis and Indigenous Australians by settler Australians.

My fear is that history will re-write the story of Mandela in the same way that I think happened to Jesus. Enthusiastic Christians who can't help but maintain the structural violence of the church seem to equate Jesus with patriarchal, homophobic and oppressive beliefs, forgetting that Jesus was considered a terrorist by the Romans, was willing to take a stand against injustice in all its forms, and would have had far more in common with the more radical left of the modern church than with Tony Abbott and George Pell.

I remember reading an article by Walter Wink, a progressive Christian theologian, about Jesus' teachings from a non-violent social change perspective. It's called "The Third Way" and sheds new light on the "turn the other cheek" passage. His message was possibly more like training for freedom riders and radical activists than a message of passivity.

When the slappee turned the other cheek, the slapper is faced (excuse the pun) with a dilemma; they must choose between using their left hand (unclean) or using a backhanded slap (only delivered to children or slaves, so makes them look really bad) to slap the other cheek.Taking all the clothes from your back and standing there naked is another way to humiliate the oppressor, as apparently nakedness was as much an embarrassment for the viewer as the one who was naked. Carrying the soldier's pack a second mile infringed the military code and created a dilemma for the soldier.

So, according to Wink, Jesus was never suggesting that people passively resist, he was giving them clever tools for resisting, humiliating, and surprising their oppressors. They were techniques for taking back power through creativity and surprise.  The important thing for me is that Jesus, like Mandela, didn't stand for passive resistance, forgiveness without justice or maintaining structures of violence.Yet, the story has been diluted over time and we rarely hear Jesus referred to as an activist or freedom fighter anymore.

So, I hope that when we remember Mandela, we remember the entire, complicated, human and committed man that he was, and note that he questioned and opposed oppression and apartheid everywhere, right up until his death. And I hope we don't try to squeeze him into a convenient box that fits the current political climate.

Bandaid solutions

Over the past few days I have had a rather high number of paper cuts. I think they must be 'going around'. Because of the disproportionately high level of discomfort caused by such small cuts, I have taken to applying band-aids and this got me thinking about the old band-aid analogy.

I am pretty sure there are two types of people. Those who like to rip band-aids off quickly, and those who prefer to peel them off bit by bit over the course of a number of days/weeks/months. I have a lifetime membership of the latter category. As a child I would take a daily stocktake of the state of the knee and its covering, taking a significant amount of time out of my busy schedule (not) to work on the task of gently separating the two, bit by bit. Being a deliberator and a 'thoughtful' person, I am not one for hasty decisions and have always hoped that if I peel slowly enough, the pain will be diluted to the point of being unrecognisable as pain.

This year I have learnt that the same band-aid solutions tend to be applied to matters of the heart. Some people prefer to take quick and decisive measures while others like to linger. Even when all logical and practical indicators point to the fact that the band-aid needs to come off at some point, I still prefer to peel it off gently, hoping again to dilute the pain. Probably frustrated with this situation of band-aid “no-man’s-land”, I have had the band-aid unceremoniously ripped off once or twice by the other person, in the same way as a frustrated mother who is tired of watching that child painstakingly edge the flapping and grubby plaster from their knee will swoop in and rip! And, like the small child, I am left a little bewildered and unsure about whether to be indignant or secretly relieved.

This state of affairs has left me wondering whether there are in fact times when it's better to just "rip" and get it over with. Perhaps ripping is not so bad. Maybe it can be freeing, and positive, and bold. So, in an unprecedented move, I decided to rip off the band-aid that had been on my paper-sliced finger - just to see how it felt. And then I just ... walked away!! Ah, not so bad after all. In fact, I think it means my finger is now truly ready for its next adventure without carrying around any excess baggage, so to speak.

Swimming goggles, lemons and a clanging noise

During a recent visit to Istanbul, I found myself closer to the action in Taksim Square than I had expected. Although it was just after about a month of regular protests and police involvement leading to some violence, the previous week had been very calm, and the hotel staff assured me that everything was fine. So, it seemed that I was still "exercising extreme caution" in DFAT's terms if I merely ventured across the Galata Bridge and into town to meet some friends at a cafe.

Street in Istanbul pre-gas

Given that Istanbul was the only city on this trip where I literally knew nobody, I was very grateful for the contact, and to be able to hang out with locals. I ordered a lemony drink and began asking my new friends all about their jobs and what brought them to Turkey. As we were talking, I glanced at the shelf behind, and noticed a pile of leaflets announcing a rally to be held the next day. I took a flyer, noted the place and time, but contrary to my usual practice, it was in order to avoid being there. My new friends agreed that I could do more for the cause by staying safe and joining in the online campaign than getting physically involved.

Then, as we were wandering down the cobblestone street and considering where to go next, we came across some people running down the hill quite quickly, in the way that I imagined a stampede might begin. I didn't know which way to turn, and was reminded again that I am not good in emergencies. My new friends ushered me into a nearby bar, but not before I was exposed to a faint gassy smell, and my eyes began to water. Police had begun to spray tear gas on protesters again and we were in the firing line.

Once we were safely inside the bar and things had quietened down, my new friends started telling me stories about the situation so far. They lived very close to Taksim Square and had heard the events unfold quite literally before their teary eyes. One guy reckoned he had been gased by proxy about 20 times in the past month. As we sat there, small groups of people walked past the window with mouths and noses covered by gas masks, handkerchiefs, and interestingly enough, swimming goggles. We did wonder where all the swimming goggles were coming from, and whether any suppliers thought it odd that they were suddenly in such high demand. They also mentioned that within a few hours of the first incidents, enterprising street vendors were spotted selling gas masks, lemons and other useful items that one might wish to purchase post-protest, in much the same way that there is always somebody selling umbrellas the minute it starts to rain. 

protest flyer

Stories of creativity and humour started to emerge as well. Apparently the government had been making some comments about people "making noise for no reason", so people had decided to do just that and began clanging pots and pans randomly as they went about their everyday business. Even when people were running past us with tears running down their faces from the gas, nobody turned on each other. There seemed to be an overall feeling of good-will, and I couldn't help being reminded of classes in Nonviolence with Stuart Rees, who talked of historical figures such as Gandhi and King using humour, creativity, and retaining their *human-ness* in the face of oppression or violence.

I spent the next day taking ferry rides and exploring the less touristy parts of town. It was great fun, particularly as Sunday is family day and "day off" in Istanbul, so everybody was out and about enjoying the sunshine and parks. As I reflected on this, I realised why access to a park in the centre of town was so important to people. As the hotel manager told me, the police also have families, and enjoy parks, so it is perplexing why they respond with such vigour to essentially non violent protests about an issue they themselves would most likely support, if they thought properly about it. 

In the eye of the storm

I've grown up going to protests. As a child in the 1980's I have fond memories of the rainbow banners of the anti-nuclear campaign. In the 1990s it was Indigenous rights culminating in the hope and togetherness we felt during the Bridge Walk  for Reconciliation. After 9/11 and the invasion of Afghanistan I was busily engaged in the anti-war movement and got involved in refugee action groups. Throughout all those years I had never had a problem with the police and generally believed that they were there to protect us... until the other week.

Recent rally in Sydney

I was recently in a picket supporting the National Tertiary Educators Union to call for fairer working conditions. The riot police had been called in, and as soon as any negotiations began to take place between protesters and those wishing to enter the university, the police took it upon themselves to get involved, and quickly set about pushing protesters quite aggressively, and grabbing those who were seated on the ground. I was quite shocked by these displays of what some would call police brutality. I hadn't seen it up close before. There was a look of what I can only describe as hatred in their eyes as they pushed, shoved, and strangled their fellow human beings for nothing more than voicing an opinion and then sitting down at an inconvenient time and place. My impression was that it was also a blankness there in their eyes, as if they had put aside their humanity in order to do their job. I've been told that blank look is in fact part of what they have been trained to do, in the same way that soldiers are taught to kill without emotion.

I have been thinking about this in relation to other protests around the world. I know we are lucky in Australia that, if you're white the police are generally there to protect you. Indigenous Australians have born the brunt of racism, inhumane treatment, incarceration without reason, and death from our so-called justice system for more than 200 years. Palestinian colleagues have told me about the endless Israeli checkpoints they have to go through, even just to get from home to work, and the discrimination that they face daily from Israeli authorities simply for being of a different nationality. I was aware in Turkey that the use of tear gas on protesters seemed an extreme reaction to an essentially peaceful protest about ideals that police would probably themselves support, if they thought long enough about it - access to public parks, and a democratic government.

Flyer in Istanbul

So, with all these situations, I have been asking myself whether some people are naturally evil, or whether these behaviours are just a result of violent structures, inappropriate training and propaganda. The other week, I got into an interesting discussion about the Palestine/Israel situation. A woman was asking me whether the Quaker belief that there is "that of God in everyone" leading to a history of impartiality during wars and conflicts (the Quakers provided an ambulance service to both sides during the first and second world wars) is in direct conflict with our pursuit of equality and justice, particularly in situations of human rights violations. Are we failing to stand up for the oppressed when we attempt to negotiate with the oppressor?

It is a topic I have been considering myself over the past few months, and I don't think the two are mutually exclusive. I think it is possible to call for justice and to stand alongside the oppressed while still believing there is something of God in everyone. There is a Quaker query that asks "Do you respect that of God in everyone though it may be expressed in unfamiliar ways or be difficult to discern?" The belief in this goodness in the 'other' enables us not only to look at conflicts in terms of two or more parties with needs unmet but also to see oppressive regimes as made up of human beings who are capable of good. Speaking to their human-ness, I hope, gives the oppressor the space and opportunity to change their behaviour.

An activist friend who has more experience than me of police interactions through his involvement with the occupy movement was telling me of a time when a protester had spoken so passionately to a line of riot police about the inhumanity of their actions that one of the officers had broken down in tears. While probably a rare occurrence, I think it shows that beneath the tough exterior and emotionless eyes of riot police in Australia, or Israeli soldiers at checkpoints in Palestine or police administering tear gas in Istanbul there is an innate humanity. Perhaps if we can patiently search for that humanity, we can encourage them to see alternatives to violence for achieving their objectives, recognise the humanity in their 'other', and over time, begin to see justice for those who have suffered as a result of violence, injustice and oppression.

ANZAC Day - J'accuse

I will admit it. I am the kind of person who likes to commemorate ANZAC Day by listening to Eric Bogle's song "And the band played Walzing Matilda" or Redgum's "I was only 19". These songs speak of the horror, the lies, the blood and the trauma of battles fought by Australians in far off lands. And they remind us that soldiers, whether they live or die, are casualties of war.

In Europe they seem to do a better job of teaching children about the futility and reality of violent conflict. I was reading that in France the message is "J'accuse" meaning I accuse the men, the decision makers, the war, the whole thing of being so incredibly stupid. In German schools, they teach children the full story of the war, and don't hide from the evil decisions of a past regime.

Yet, in Australia ANZAC Day seems to have turned into a glorification of war. When I attended the Dawn Service one year, I was horrified to see private school boys parading around Martin Place in their cadet uniforms while middle aged men talked in fake somber tones about the justification of war. Clearly none of them had actually been in the trenches, and yet it seemed that they were using the old men who had been through so much as justification for current deployments in Afghanistan and Iraq. They spoke of the courage and the sacrifice of the young war heroes of almost a century ago, and suggested to us that they had been fighting for God, and for our Country.

But in those tales of heroic deaths, and sacrifice and supposedly having God on our side, where is the space for the soldiers who were really, really scared? Or those courageous enough to refuse to take part? Or those who began to doubt the existence of God because of what they'd seen humanity do to one another? Or those who returned home legless, armless, blind or insane, and were expected to just get on with life?

So, when we say "lest we forget", I hope we mean that we will listen to the digger's stories, and always remember and acknowledge the experience of every soldier in every war, whether heroic, tragic or just plain miserable. I also hope we mean that we promise to work towards a world where these experiences really are part of our history and not our future.