Eid Marabak

Today is the last day of Ramadan. As Jess and I rode our bikes from her home in West Heidelberg to the nearby organic food markets, we passed a family getting in their car, in religious dress. Jess wished them Eid Marabak, and the older son’s face lit up. Waves and smiles, and cheerful greetings followed, as we peddled on our way. That's  interfaith dialogue, in my mind.

And I'm reminded of when I was in Yatta, a predominantly Muslim city, on Christmas night. We four internationals had been in Bethlehem for Christmas eve, and had just returned home. Our neighbour, Abed, turned up in his usual style, which was to knock loudly on the door while shouting out various names at the same time, and clad in a full-length fake-fur overcoat. I came to the door, and Abed marched into the lounge, announcing that he’d brought each of us a Christmas gift. There in his hand were 4 small wrist bands in Palestinian colours. He explained that he didn't really know what to give us on our religious festival, and hoped this was acceptable. I really appreciated the thought, and the act of interfaith generosity.

Abed, on the balcony of his guesthouse

My experience in this place where I was a religious minority, was of constant graciousness, generosity, hospitality and warmth. We were regularly invited into our neighbours’ homes, and fed bread, hummus and tea. Our cultural quirks and misdemeanours were graciously ignored, and attempts were made to understand our seemingly odd behaviour. And it's the same here in Australia. Visiting Lakemba the other night, shop-keepers were delighted to be able understand some of my broken Arabic, and share in the delight of delicious middle eastern food. I want to be able to give something of that generosity back to Muslims in Australia and elsewhere, who live as a religious minority, and/or whose difference is more often seen as a reason for suspicion and fear as opposed to an opportunity for connection or learning.

Coffee in Lakemba

So, whether it’s across the street in West Heidelberg in Victoria, over a cup of coffee in Lakemba in Sydney, between neighbours in Yatta, Ramallah, or Jerusalem or across the wires of the internet, the faith divide is only as wide as we wish it to be. I wish my Muslim brothers and sister Eid Marabak and hope for more opportunities for connection and understanding in the future.

Held

We sit nervously in the reception area, glancing around at all the community notices. A large framed photo of Albo looking victorious catches my eye, possibly from some election night or other. Then, with a flurry, the door opens. A small dog appears and rushes over to greet us, sniffing and peering into our bags. The Hon. Anthony Albanese follows laughing, and makes apologies for Toto. He then shakes our hands warmly before inviting us into his office.

My friend and I are here to talk with our local Member of Parliament about the treatment of people seeking asylum in offshore detention centres. Of course, we mainly agree with Albo on these matters, but we came wanting to stress that there are alternatives to Australia’s very punitive policies, and to convey a message of hope about how Australia could be welcoming as well as pragmatic. We outlined the areas where we think he and his party have failed to speak up or take strong enough action to change policy. Then we presented him with a set of asks for the future. For me, this meeting was about holding our elected representative to account.

In advocacy work, we use the phrase “holding to account” an awful lot, but what do we really mean by it? When citizens hold their elected representative to account, I see this as reminding them that they work on our behalf, and that we have certain expectations of them. There's also an aspect of requiring a person or institution or government to accept responsibility for their actions, if they have fallen short of expectations. 

As I prepare for a humanitarian protection role overseas, I have become aware that a major part of the role of international civilian peacemakers is to bear witness to and stand firmly against harmful behvaiour in a context where human rights are denied and great injustices are done on a daily basis. These international actors hold an occupying force or a military dictatorship to account by reporting on abuses and being a very physical reminder that the international community has higher expectations of them. 

In all these contexts there is an underlying assumption that, as members of some sort of community, whether it is the international community or a community as local as Marrickville, there is a connection to and relationship with the other. In the case of Albo, it is our position as residents of his electorate that connect us with him. And while he didn't exactly agree to stand up tomorrow in Parliament arguing against offshore detention, he did promise to attend more community events in support of people seeing asylum, so that's a start. And he knows we'll be back if things don't change. For international contexts, it might be the trade or ally relationships that keep countries accountable to one another. The evidence seems to be that occupying forces behave a little better when international witnesses are present.

So, it would seem that I am a big believer in holding to account. But what about when the harm or hurt we have been witness to is even closer to home than Marrickville shops? Are we more reticent to hold our family members, colleagues and friends to account when they fall short of the social norms our shared community holds dear? Do we take the same effort and time to express hurt and disappointment, articulate our expectations, and outline a hopeful way forward when it comes to our nearest and dearest? Or do we just hope that the "not great" behaviour will just disappear?

I find it incredibly challenging to consider holding those close to me to account. I tend to find it easier to “hold” people in more conventional ways - hold them in my thoughts when times are tough, hold them tightly in my arms when I am happy to see them, and hold the space during group discussions so that everyone is heard. Yet, on the rare occasions when I have held people accountable for their actions, and planned for such a meeting in a spirit-led and intentional way, the outcome has usually been positive, at least for me. 

And it's not just me. Restorative processes have proven quite successful within the justice system in finding relationship-based resolutions rather than punitive ones. In this context the perpetrator listens as the victim explains the impact of the action on their life. A plan will be agreed which would help to restore the situation. An apology might be enough, or payment for damages, or an act of community service might end up being the agreed way forward. I’ve been told that it can be just as healing to be given the opportunity to apologise and make amends as it is to have one's story heard.

So, given that holding to account can lead to multiple changes and benefits, why are we so reticent to try it in our everyday lives? As my friend and I bid Toto and Albo farewell, and head out onto Marrickville Rd, I pause to consider what our various communities would look like if we did “hold” one another to account a little more often. And, what if we “held” others to account in the same gentle and loving way as we do the other kinds of holding? By acknowledging the humanity in the other while clearly articulating where expectations have not been met and harm has been done, it’s possible that beautiful and unexpected things will happen, and there might be growth and learning for everyone involved.

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.

Age of enlightenment

Three seemingly unrelated events happened in the last 24hrs. It snowed in Hobart for the first time in 30 something years. Bronwyn Bishop resigned as Speaker of the House amid outrageous entitlement claims. Oh, and I had a dream about the house next door to my childhood home, which is soon to be flattened by developers.

What these three events have in common has to do with a book I'm reading. "This Changes Everything" by Naomi Klein explores the intersection between capitalism and climate change. Or, more specifically, the intersection between capitalism and climate change denial. While we are clearly experiencing increasingly extreme weather events, which science tells us is caused by human-induced greenhouse gas emissions, the rhetoric is still all about economic growth. Yet, we know that our consumption of the earth's resources is growing at an alarming rate. The earth cannot sustain such an assault for much longer. We are already seeing the signs of distress in extreme and unpredictable weather patterns. And the Pope agrees. His encyclical on the environment that he delivered in June also talks about the unchecked greed, pursuit of wealth and economic growth that is destroying our common home (the environment) and recognises that the poor are suffering the greatest effects of climate change. He advises all of humanity to come together to care for our common home.

Growth and profit are almost certainly what the developers buying up three quarter acre blocks in my parents' street are hoping for. In so doing, they are destroying the playground of my youth. I broke my arm when Christopher sat on me during a game of horse and jockey in his front yard. The tree that I was only once brave enough to climb will be chopped down. Emily's bedroom, where we would sit for hours talking about boys or listening to Icehouse’s “Electric Blue” (her tape) and Phil Collins' "Another day in paradise" (mine) will be gone as well. Although I do realise that time marches on, and things do change, my former neighbour wishes her children had somewhere as beautiful to play as we had. Greed, and the pursuit of endless profit and economic growth, are diminishing those green spaces, and as Cat Stephens wondered decades earlier about the pursuit of growth and development…”where do the children play?”

On the North Shore, where I grew up, the wealthy are in an age of entitlement that stretches from the cradle to the grave. I was exposed to people who wore ball gowns to Saturday night parties, drove their parents’ BMWs at the age of 18, and after having partied through the university years, received high-paying job offers from their parents’ friends. People generally wanted to pay as little tax as possible, and spoke proudly of ways their accountants had helped them to gain the greatest economic advantage. When I raised issues of inequality, I was accused of being a hippy. It was us hippies who were actually rorting the system, apparently, what with some of us being on the dole and all.

I remember a friend of my mother came around one day, having been to an open house in Vaucluse. "Oh, darlings", she screeched, "you wouldn't believe the oppulence of this place. It was three stories high, with a chandelier in the entrance hall. Oh, now I know how the other half lives". Yep, the other half of the same 1%, I thought to myself. And that was when I realised that some people really have no idea how privileged they are. The sense of entitlement that Bronwyn has is the same sense of entitlement that was evident in my peers on the North Shore, and in many other political conservatives. Is it maliciousness, willful ignorance, or just plain blindness that leads such people to turn away from the suffering of others and the environment while they continue to live out another day in paradise?

And as I near the end of the book, Naomi Klein is talking about the difference between extractivist mind-sets (whereby you take things out) and regenerative ones (where continuous re-birth is the goal). While the extractive industries seek to take things literally from the depths of the earth, and metaphorically from the hands of the poor and the next generation, the regenerative types give me hope. They are the people who come together to solve their energy problems as a group, or organise to resist developments and mining or fracking projects. They care for the earth, for the poor, and for one another. They are willing to find new ways to operate, so that the earth can have a new lease on life.

As I have been reflecting on these issues, including Bronwyn Bishop's resignation as Speaker, I can't help but wonder - shouldn't the punishment better fit the crime? Rather than simply extracting Madam Speaker from the chair, why not attempt to regenerate her? Perhaps it would be more appropriate for Dame Bron to spend a night sleeping rough in a tent in Belmore Park, or on a train doing endless city circle circles all night long as was the daily practise for one asylum seeker friend of mine. That way she would see how the "other" other half lives, and maybe even become a champion of the poor...and of the earth. Who knows, she might find herself progressing into a new age - the age of enlightenment. 

Game changers

The other night I attended an environment event that broke from the tradition I was used to. Instead of hardened old activists with long beards or short white hair, clothed from head to toe by Vinnies and getting together in some backwatery NGO over cups of fairtrade tea, it was held in salubrious, modern,  city offices, where people use the latest laptops, standing desks, and cupboards that double as white-boards. People sported short, hipster beards or flowing locks, fashionable clothes (although the t-shirts did promote causes of one kind or another) and there was beer!

After chit-chatting with some people I know and cruising past the food table, I settled myself into position on a chair that was within arm's reach of the hummous and bread. A confident fella with an appropriately passionate t-shirt, suitably hipster facial hair and a strong speaking voice began proceedings. After updates were given by various other folks who spoke of strategy, engagement and community organising hubs, we broke into pairs. Then, something unexpectedly familiar happened. Everyone was raising their hands and falling silent. Our leader announced that "hands up and we shut up" was the process. I followed suit with a slightly dropped jaw.

You see, the "hands up for silence" thing was familiar to me because it's what we do in Quaker gatherings. The idea for us is that whenever you see somebody with their hand raised, you raise yours and fall silent. It's actually kindof powerful. When everyone's chatting away over a hot cuppa, and somebody raises their hand, it normally only takes about ten seconds for a room of 300 people to fall silent. But then again, we Quakers like silence, right?! But I guess it grated on me that a uniquely Quaker practise had kindof been adopted by a quite different group of people. And, what's more outrageous? They didn't even credit it to us!! Sigh.

It reminds me of the time I introduced a well-loved game to a new group of friends. I explained the rules, ran through the process and before long everyone was enjoying themselves. They liked it so much, in fact, that they played it all the time, even when I wasn't around. I felt pretty pleased about this at first. My game was a success - yay!! But then, I noticed the group occasionally arguing over the rules and "telling" each other how it was supposed to be played. Nobody asked me about the rules anymore. They all had begun to feel such ownership of this game that they had completely forgotten that I was the one to have introduced it. The game, as I knew it, died, and another was born.

I have noticed a number of Quaker "habits", if you like, that have infiltrated activist groups and other faith communities. And, like my game, they have changed along the way. Concensus decision making pops up frequently, in a variety of incarnations. Lots of community building techniques are incredibly similar to those used by Quakers in their nonviolent training workshops. The Quaker "clap", whereby people demonstrate agreement by silently waving their hands in the air has also been "heard" around the traps, or so I am told. And, I even notice politicians talk of "speaking truth to power", which is a phrase originally coined by Quakers.

I suspect many of these habits have found their way into other groups because Quakers have introduced them. After all, Quakers are involved in activist groups, they serve on a disproportionate number of ecumenical committees, and were key players in the establishment of many of the organisations well-known in the human rights sector such as Oxfam, Amnesty, and Greenpeace. I guess I should be glad that the practices and beliefs that I hold so dear are out there being used in a very practical way.

But there's a part of me that feels a sense of discomfort. When the most powerful person at the most powerful NGO in the room talks about "speaking truth to power", or when concensus is almost forced upon people in a business-like manner such as "do we have concensus for this?, good, right, next" or when the silence thing is all about getting people to shut up, I wonder whether these practices being "misused" and whether some integrity has been lost.

So, what's the answer? One option is to run about screaming "you're not doing it right!!", but that wouldn't be very Quakerly, would it? Another option is to more quietly and gradually suggest that we do things differently. But, perhaps the best option is for me to get better at letting go. Maybe these non-Quaker folks have stuff to teach me. Maybe their incarnation of certain practices work for them, and combine even better ways of operating that I haven't yet been exposed to. After all, even though the new version of my game was different, it was still just as much fun to play.

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.

Intergenerational blindness

I am somebody who gets stressed thinking about money. I'm a bit like the shoemaker in the children's book about the rich man, the shoemaker and the bag of money. Basically, the rich man gives the shoemaker a bag of money in order to get him to stop singing while he works. Apparently the happy singing was annoying to the rich man. The burden the money bag creates stresses the shoemaker out so much that he ends up giving it back. The moral I took from the story was that happiness is worth more than money.

But, anyway, back to me. I have my own small bag of money, so to speak, and it worries me that I'm probably not investing it as wisely or ethically as I could be. So, the other day I met with a financial consultant. Somebody had recommended him as being independent and ethical, which were my two criteria. Alas, it was quickly evident that we had fairly different definitions of "ethical". I explained that I was concerned with the future of the planet and the treatment of people and wanted to invest money in enterprises that were not damaging in those areas. He talked more of "tithing" and being compassionate with people as they sorted out their wills.

I think he may have used the word "idealistic" about a hundred times in our conversation, in relation to me. He cited an example of an ethical enterprise that went belly up as reason to not even try. He was also very concerned about economic growth, and the fact that my generation was likely to live longer than his, and thus would need greater superannuation resources to draw upon. Basically my choices were, as he saw it, to either continue being a naive idealist and waste my money investing in stupid fluffy idealistic notions, ending up as a burden on society....or I could do the sensible thing and sign up with a balanced fund that his company managed for a fee of ~2%pa. Sigh.

Around the same time our esteemed Federal Treasurer released his Inter-generational Report, which predicts the future context for our economy. It too, was full of concern for a projected increase in life expectancy and the burden that our aging population would place on society by 2050. There was no mention of climate change, the growing gap between rich and poor, or increasing worldwide militarism and violence.

I actually think that if the definition of idealism is having one's head in the sand and pursuing a particular ideology regardless of the facts, then our treasurer and his colleagues are the naive idealists. Do they think, as the First Dog on the Moon Cartoon in the Guardian depicts below, that we will be contentedly serving out our retirement in bubbles floating above earth because we ignored climate change, or will those who survived the nuclear winter in their underground bunkers be grateful that we made a good return when we invested in all those armaments?

First Dog on the Moon, in the Guardian

So, I have given up the idea of finding an "independant and ethical" financial advisor. Instead, a friend who is very good at understanding complex concepts cos she's a scientist, and also shares my ethical position, has offered to share with me the findings of her research into the matter. I am now confident that I can invest my little bag of dosh in a fund that is ethical, reliable and which will set me up as not too much of a burden on society when I'm like a million years old. And, if Joe Hockey's prediction is true and I do live to a ridiculous age, I reckon it will be BECAUSE enough of us invested in future oriented enterprises now. I, for one, don't want to destroy the only planet we've got to grow old on.

Where the heart is

So, I bid at a property auction the other night. Or, to be more exact, one of my many brothers bid, and I offered helpful suggestions from the sidelines. I felt kind of like Dennis Danuto in "The Castle" when they go to the high court and he passes notes to the retired QC inscribed with gems like "would you like a glass of water?" or "bloody good work".

The place I had my eye on wasn't a castle by any stretch of the imagination. It did, however, have the advantage of location...oh, and it was right near the airport! It had a few quirks, mind you. The linen closet was so narrow that you would have to roll your towels to fit them in. The bathroom needed a good scrub, and the hot water tank had its piping exposed in the kitchen, creating a "factory" effect. It wasn't, as the auctioneer claimed, full of modern appliances...not by any stretch of the imagination. But it was a small patch of the world that I had hoped I would soon call home.

I, accompanied by a small entourage of my closest friends and relations, sat in the front row. There facing us, in their pristine suits and slicked back hair, were the real estate agents. Gliding smoothly between client and home-owner-hopefuls, offering encouraging nods to those of us they have met before, their primary concern is apparent. The promise of profit glints in their eyes. Despite my sizeable party of supporters, I felt intimidated. Beating the money-hungry vultures at their own game was not going to be easy.

But unlike the Kerrigans, I didn't win in the end. Somebody else did. There was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing between the vendor and highest bidder, as it hadn't even reached reserve. Seated beside my mum was the couple selling the property. Unsmiling and well dressed, they were clearly further along in life than those of us seeking to enter the property market. I wondered whether they remembered what buying their first place had been like. Had some older couple, unsmiling and well dressed, been firm and forced them just a little outside their comfort zone?

But eventually a price was agreed upon and the hammer came down. My groupies and I went and debriefed in the lounge area. It's just how things are with "the market", they assured me. Somebody was willing to pay more, and that dictated the final sale price. The amount I thought it was "worth" was irrelevant. And, someone added, the bubble has to burst soon, surely.

As I wandered home, without having made the biggest purchase of my life, it seemed important to stop for gelato. It's easy, I thought as I licked the mango and chocolate in equal measures, to lose sight of the important things in life. To be safe, well loved, and well fed are my top three. Everything else is a bonus. While I will probably get back on that soul-destroying capitalist horse again and hopefully end up one day with my very own patch of the world to call home, the most important investment of my life will always be the people around me, and not a great, big ....driveway.

Evangelism: exasperating or essential?

I recently read an article about a Christian woman disciplined on 3 counts of bullying and harassment at work for religious evangelism towards a Muslim colleague. She had invited the colleague to a number of church events and lent her a book about a Muslim woman converting to Christianity.

While the whole thing will hopefully turn out to be a big misunderstanding, I can see how such behaviour might make somebody of a different faith feel uncomfortable. At high school I had a few brushes with Christian evangelism (and fundamentalism). I remember one particular bible study leader who was very friendly at first, but then advised me that I was going to hell because I didn't agree with her interpretations of scripture. Invitations back to that church were increasingly unwanted.

Now, this might seem like an odd reaction from somebody who identifies as Christian. I guess I just prefer not to be pressured into anything. I get the same uncomfortable feeling when approached by cheerful brits with clip-boards on street corners asking me whether I care about the environment (or refugees) as a hook for relieving me of funds on a monthly basis, and from earnest young socialists entreating me to buy their latest newspaper...if I genuinely care about the state of the world. Then there are the endless emails encouraging me to get involved in the next state election campaign and those people who are adamant that raw food veganism or google documents will revolutionise my life!!

And, well, the truth is that I am a bit of an evangelist myself. I think the world would be a better place if everyone shared my political and social views and I spend a fair bit of time on social media and elsewhere trying to educate the political and social  "pagans" in my life about what I consider to be "the truth". I guess that might be annoying for some people as well.

In spite of the challenges, I do think there is a place in the world for evangelism. Whether convinced and passionate about religion, the environment, human rights or politics these people are go-getters. They make things happen; raise funds, recruit members, win seats in parliament, save forests and hold oppressive regimes to account.

So, what's to be done? I think there are a few lessons in this story for the evangelist in all of us. While our enthusiasm is admirable, we can perhaps be more respectful of differences of opinion. We can learn to back off when our advances are unwanted. And, as one Quaker advice suggests, it might be wise occasionally to "think it possible that you are mistaken".

Budget boo hoo

Last night Joe Hockey announced the budget. You all know what happened. There were cuts to health, education, overseas aid, and welfare, and except in some cases it really seemed to be the most vulnerable who are being robbed to subsidise the rich. The winners were big business, medical research, the military, road infrastructure and subsidies for fossil fuels. There was no mention of renewable energy, climate change or innovative transport solutions like high speed rail. The offshore detention of refugees on Manus Island alone will cost $8.3 billion while there will be $7.9 billion cuts to overseas aid. I felt very sad.

Then another thing happened. This morning I went for a walk along the Cooks River. I feel better when I am near water. On the way I passed an elderly man. We nodded and smiled. On the way back, there he was again. I nodded again, and this time he wanted to connect. He called out to me after I had passed him by and asked me my name, and I'm ashamed to say that I paused, looked at him, then kept walking. I had panicked, and decided not to engage.

After a few paces I started to feel really bad. What if his wife had recently died and he just wanted to connect with another human being? Maybe he had something really important to tell me. Would it have cost me so much to stop on my day off and talk to somebody that I didn't already know? What was I really afraid of? That he would rape me in broad daylight? Or that he might ask me a favour? I started to weep with shame as I walked.

So, what's the connection between my non-interaction with this stranger on the path by the river and the budget from hell? I think the link is that we've lost touch with our common humanity. One friend was saying that anthropologically we can only accommodate a certain number of people into our immediate circle. And sometimes I think we are more able to empathise with those who are in our immediate circles.

I wonder how many of the socio-economic groups that will lose out in this budget Tony Abbott and Joe Hockey have had meaningful interactions with? How many of their close friends are ex-soldiers who struggle daily with the psychological and emotional scars of fighting wars on our country's behalf and can't hold down a job of any kind? How many grew up in housing commission arrangements? How many have struggled throughout life due to disability or mental health issues? How many fled war and persecution, torture and rape and then lived in poverty stricken conditions in refugee camps before ending up on our shores? How many currently live in countries that have been aid partners for the past few decades, with limited opportunities for basic health services, free education or employment opportunities? I can honestly say that I count all these groups amongst my friends, and maybe that makes it easier for me to understand their circumstances and why we need a budget that is just as well as sustainable.

But it's not just me and my bleeding heart friends who think it's important to be compassionate as well as fiscally responsible. The United Nations has set out standards for countries to follow when it comes to refugees, Indigenous Peoples, development aid and action on climate change. Australia already falls embarrassingly short on all four accounts, yet the rhetoric that is believed by many Australians is that our finances are in a mess, there is no urgency on climate change, we already take too many refugees, Aboriginal people have been given too much already, and that our own backyard is more important than those of our neighbours. Yet, if the SBS program "Go back where you came from" tells us anything, it is that even the most poorly educated, hard-hearted, red-neck is capable of changing their mind when they come face to face with another human being who tells their story.

So, what do I think we should do? I think we should organise and we should start to engage. While the Government might not be changing its mind any time soon, I think we can educate those who voted for them, introduce them to the facts and the real people who might open their minds and give them a broader perspective. We can provide examples of other countries that have great high speed rail, renewable energy programs, and recognise their international human rights obligations while still managing a stable economy. We can encourage the other political parties to get their act together and provide real policy alternatives at the next election. We can encourage one another to speak up about what it is we don't like, so that we can move towards a country that we're all proud of.

Do you hear the people sing?

I spent a lovely weekend at the National Folk Festival over Easter this year. It's become a bit of a habit for me. I catch up with friends who perform, those who sit with me and enjoy the music, and those who are kind enough to have me to stay. I also get to see some of my favourite performers live. This year a highlight was seeing Archie Roach in concert.

Archie Roach in concert

One folk festival veteran, who is also a life long activist, was complaining to me that the new generation of folk singers (as in my own generation) don't touch on political issues in the same way that their parents did. They have veered away from the radical themes that their parents would bravely sing about in the '60s and '70s like the Vietnam war or Apartheid, she says, and only sing about mundane, safe things like going for a walk or odd socks.

I started to wonder about the official definition of folk music. After a perusal of wikipaedia, it seems the exact meaning is not altogether clear. Some say folk music is anything sung in the oral tradition, like folk tales. Some said it was the music of the uncultured class, which is probably still accurate if you think of the high number of folk festival goers in animal onesies, pyjamas or blunstone boots teamed with tie dyed rainbow skirts! But one widely accepted definition appealed to me: "folk music is what the people sing".

"Charlotte Raven" creating beautiful personalised poems

I guess this final definition comes closest to explaining what folk music is for me. Some of my favourite performers use music (or poetry or art) to express their passionate feelings about subjects that affect us as people; love, loss, war, injustice, and racism. Many of these themes are the songs of angry women and men; of activists. After all, wasn't jazz born of the struggle of African American people for their civil rights? Didn't the Irish sing about oppression by the English and doesn't Archie Roach sing about the racist policies inflicted on his people by us newcomer Australians?

While Archie Roach could never be accused of not being political, he is of an older generation. Thankfully, there is evidence that our generation is not completely apolitical. The Riff Raff Radical Marching Band is pretty politically radical and made up of at least three people that I know, and who are around my age. Many of my friends who perform sing of their anger about local, national and international issues; the wastefulness of a 50 metre pool in a town of 350 people, the destruction of the Jabiluka Uranium mine, shame at living in a racist colony, and reconciling feminism with the bible. But they also sing of love, friendship, loss and laughter.

Riff Raff Radical Marching Band

So, while I agree that some of the folk music of today might seem trivial and less radical than that of earlier generations, I think our radical, political themes are there if you look. We should encourage those folk singers of our generation not to be afraid to explore the political and social themes that make us angry these days. But I hope they don't stop singing those delightful ditties about everyday matters like wondering about the things one's guitar has seen, choosing to wear yesterday's clothes again or drinking too much gin. They are as much about the people that we are today as is our anger about modern manifestations of slavery, injustice and war.

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".

Gender, peace and politics

The other day I came almost face to face with my political hero. I was in Hobart with family and had wanted to catch up with my mate Peter sometime during my visit. Given that Peter is such a very busy man, and doesn't have a mobile phone or answering machine and is never home to answer the landline anyway, it was agreed that we'd just meet at the anti pulp mill rally and go for lunch afterwards. As I glanced around the Parliament House Gardens looking for Peter, I noticed Bob Brown, casually leaning against a garbage bin at the edge of the crowd. I had to do a double take because he was in disguise - a blue baseball cap was shielding his face from the sun. Of course I was too shy to go and say hello, but it was very comforting to know that he was there.

Me and Peter at the rally. Bob Brown is somewhere in the vicinity.

I've been reflecting on why I am so fond of dear old Bob and why I finally joined the Greens last year. I guess I can blame Peter to a certain extent. The whole time we have been corresponding (since I was about ten), he has been modelling for me a life of activism and integrity; riding his bike to work, refusing to own a car or mobile phone, writing angry letters, teaching literature from a social justice point of view, handing out greens leaflets and generally encouraging every young person in his life to take a global perspective. He worked for Quaker Senator Jo Valentine when I was in primary school and took me on a private tour of Parliament House.

Skip forward a decade or two to my late twenties, and I was right in the thick of leading a Peter-approved life. I worked for an NGO, was vegetarian, didn't own a car or a mobile phone and was completing a Masters in Peace and Conflict Studies. In a course entitled "Gender and the development of peace" I found myself writing an essay about the feminisation of politics in Australia. I could have written about anything from female genital mutilation to the Grameen Bank, but I chose the feminisation of politics in Australia. It was an odd decision in some ways, but I got a pretty good mark for it!

In my essay I critiqued the adversarial nature of politics in Australia, describing it as patriarchal and violent. Our political climate was and still is dominated by men and operates in a culture of competition. I was writing at the height of the Iraq war when, as now, we had a conservative government that was trying everything it could to divert resources away from basic needs such as health, education and humanitarian aid in order to justify military interventions in places where we should have been offering development aid and diplomatic support.

What was needed, according to feminist theorists was a feminist approach to politics. Anne Summers was amongst those arguing that increasing the representation of women in parliament would transform the nature of politics. There was the discussion of whether quotas were important, or needed. Bronwyn Bishop was saying we didn't need quotas, since she had made it. Joan Kirner was arguing that we do, because greater numbers of women will break down the male dominated factional leadership. Yet, the fact remained that in spite of quotas in the Labor Party, very little had changed in the way the game was played. After all, people like Amanda Vanstone were asserting that the system ain't broke: "Look Susan. It’s an adversarial system, and you’re never going to change that...it’s probably my legal training, but I think the adversarial system is the best way to get as close as possible to the best result, to what the truth is" (from "The Scent of Power" by Susan Mitchell).

In a mentoring session with Meredith Bergman, she told us essentially the same thing - to power dress and act more like men if we wanted to be taken seriously in male dominated arenas. I have taken on board her advice to introduce myself by both names but feel uneasy about changing aspects of my personality or wearing shoulder pads in order to fit in. Rejecting the notion that for women to succeed they just needed to be more like men, and play the political game, I was drawing on feminist and nonviolence theory to argue that this didn't need to be the case. Women have strengths to offer politics, and, I argued, the political system could do with a bit of an overhaul and this required more than an increase in representation of women in parliament.We needed to challenge and replace the patriarchal and violent structures that underpin politics in Australia.

One theorist (Rod Cameron) was arguing that feminisation of politics would not only involve greater representation of women in leadership roles, but also a change to our definition of strong leadership. Leaders of the future would be increasingly judged on their humanity, intelligence, honesty and creativity. We will be looking for leaders who are in touch, honest and direct.

As I read further, it became clear to me that there were in fact alternatives to the existing model already being tested. It was our friend Jo Valentine and my beloved Greens party that were actually exploring different, more feminised, if you like, ways of doing politics. Jo Valentine told me all about her attempts to model nonviolent behaviour when interacting with other politicians. Using her background in nonviolent civil disobedience, she cited times when she had changed hearts and minds through taking a more patient, listening and collaborative approach to points of difference.

In a book co-authored by Bob Brown entitled "The Greens", society is condemned for being selfish and consumer-driven, and not meeting the needs of the current generation, let alone the needs of future generations and non-human species. They describe the Greens party model as non-hierarchical, networking and alliance-building. Decisions are made by consensus and women were equally represented within the membership and leadership, not because of quotas, but because the greens arose out of activist and community groups where women are already well represented. Policy positions, decided in consultation with members, seemed to reinforce values of cooperation, compassion, integrity and a concern for future generations. The qualities traditionally associated with feminism seemed to be lived out and considered valuable and important qualities in future-thinking politics by the Greens.

Whenever I have heard Bob Brown speak since, he has lived up to the values that are now so important to me - integrity, compassion and a participatory approach to democracy. He always modelled a style of leadership that is in touch, honest and direct. Women and men in Australian politics could learn a lot from Bob. Although he has now left politics, and so was wearing his "concerned citizen" cap rather than his "Leader of the Greens" hat, I admire and thank him for his contribution to Australian politics.

As I sat down to lunch with Peter and a bunch of our activist and Quaker friends, I felt reinvigorated. While the situation we find ourselves in today is pretty dire - even more dispassionate approaches to asylum seekers, reductions in overseas aid, funding cuts to basic needs, and a female Prime Minister who was treated appallingly - there is hope. Since joining the Greens I have met so many gorgeous, charming, welcoming, committed, passionate and intelligent people to add to the list of pretty amazing Quaker friends, flatmates and colleagues who will be part of making this clunky old political system of ours into one that is more community based, nonviolent and future thinking. All of them are my political heroes too.

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.

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.

Where have all the feminists gone?

In the good old days of pretty party dresses!

I wouldn't call myself a trend setter. Far from it. It was at a birthday party aged about ten when this fact was made startlingly clear to me. I arrived at the party attired in what was an appropriate "party outfit" the last time I checked - a cute yellow dress with frills. But to my horror I encountered a room full of girls wearing jeans! It was as if I had missed the memo advising us that the trend had changed. We had reached the next stage of life and it wasn't pretty dresses any more, it was jeans.

I've noticed a similar change of trend recently with regards to feminism. Back in high school I think we had starry eyed notions of being super-women when we grew up. Surely we could have fulfilling careers, find Mr Right AND raise well-adjusted children - it was the 1990's after all. So much had changed since our mothers' and grandmothers' generations. Girls were doing better in high school than boys, there were women in parliament, and running their own businesses. And it was the era of sensitive new aged guys (SNAGs). The future looked bright.

During our twenties most of my friends focused on their careers and did very well. Many of the girls from my high school were already high flying doctors, lawyers, academics, journalists and politicians by the time the ten year reunion came around. But in the second decade since high school things have changed somewhat. We've entered the next phase, and I have watched as my peers take their husbands' surnames, trade in their careers for more time with little ones, and - let's face it - do most of the housework. The doctors are choosing family friendly specialties, the lawyers with children get overlooked for promotion, the academics are working crazy hours, and some have left their chosen career altogether to focus on family, starting on the bottom rung of the ladder in a new profession a few years later. Others don't have children at all, which is another form of compromise whether by choice or circumstance. All the women in my age group seem to be compromising one way or another.


So, where am I in all this? I now have a really fulfilling job that I would describe as a vocation as well as paid employment. I resent the sense of judgement I sometimes feel towards me that I must be selfish because I don't have children. I still get angry about men who don't do their share of housework and the way Australians pick on their female Prime Minister in ways they would never do if she was a man. Basically, I'm still a feminist, but I've turned up at the party and guess what? I'm told it's not about being an angry feminist anymore, it's more about "compromise" and "being realistic".

So, it appears that I'm still wearing jeans, having missed the memo telling me it's back to dresses! So, what am I to do? I don't want to be critical of the women in my life who have made difficult choices and compromises or of the many men who have gone out on a limb to challenge the old ways and carve out new models of parenting and role sharing. I just hope that the young men and women they raise have an appreciation for what their mothers, fathers and grandmothers have achieved in the name of feminism, a recognition that we are by no means "there" yet, and a determination to continue the work for greater equity when they grow up and are faced with the same challenges and tough choices.

To walk home alone at night

The rape and murder of ABC Journalist Jill Meagher has resurfaced old feelings of anger and frustration in me about violence against women.

Many of the news articles about the incident mention that she walked home alone. There's an implied sense of blame there, and a warning to other women. So often it is suggested that the best way to avoid rape and other acts of violence is for women to take precautions; learn self defense, dress sensibly, and of course -  avoid walking home alone at night.

And now we hear that the greatest danger is not actually from strangers in the street, but from people we already know. So, again, women are advised to avoid friendly banter in the workplace, dress sensibly on dates, and try not to antagonise our fathers and husbands at home.

I would not call myself a high risk taker. Yet, if I took all the precautions suggested by those who believe it's women who have to change their behaviour, I would not be walking down the main street of Honiara even in the middle of the day, I would go back to wearing clothes that are drab and grey, I would only interact socially with women, family get togethers would be out of the question, and I would have to ask a friend to walk me home every single night that I'm returning after dark. Of course, it gets really complicated, because if I'm avoiding contact with men, who is going to walk me home?

But I'm sure we all agree that women are not actually the problem and we are entitled to live rich and fulfilling lives free of fear, just as men are. I like the poster above (from lipstick feminists) because it changes the dynamic of the debate. You realise that the advice is for men rather than women, for offenders rather than victims. Instead of  spending so much energy advising young women how to be afraid, we should be advising young men how to be respectful.

So, I'll be at the Reclaim the Night rally this year (28th October) with bell's on. I think we should reclaim the night, and the day and the workplace and the home. Who will join me?