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".

On twins and non-twins

"So, what are you getting Jess for her birthday?" Tom asks me earnestly. Five minutes later I have the reverse conversation with Jess. Yep, this can mean only one thing - the twins' birthday season is well and truly upon us!

You see, I grew up with twins. My younger siblings are twins, my grandmother was a twin, and my aunt and uncle are twins. I, however, am not a twin. You could say that I am the non-twin in our family.

For the first five years of my life, I was an only child who dreamed of siblings, prayed for siblings, and played at having siblings. I had a large doll that I referred to as my sister, and was bitterly disappointed that she seemed to get smaller and smaller as the years went on. So when mum and dad told me that I would be granted not one but two of these fellow offspring that I had covetted so, I was stoked!

Once I got over the initial disappointment that they too didn't seem to be the right size for playing with me, I patiently waited for the circumstances to change. I had to wait two years before they could reasonably be expected to sit at the little desks upstairs and dutifully play the part of the school students while I played Miss Valentine! I had to wait even longer for them to be able to play 500 and charades, but it's all good now.

The Golden Jubilee of twinhood, Paris 2007

I enjoy twin birthday season, and I enjoy teasing them about it. The earnest conversations about what to do for the other, the generosity they both show, discussion about parties, shopping and lots of phone calls. Also just the "double-ness" of it all. I do remember when they turned 21 and Jess mentioned that she might prefer her own party, there was talk of separatism. Tears were shed. But that was all forgotten a few years later when we spent their 25th birthday together in Paris. The golden jubilee of twinhood was definitely worth commemorating, they assured me, and they were generous enough to include me!!

I can remember people asking Tom or Jess what it was like being a twin, and they never knew how to answer. It was all they had ever known. Tom used to ask them in return what it's like not being a twin and that usually shut them up.

I recently met another non-twin. Or to be more accurate, she is actually a non-quad, and I think she summed it up when she said "it sucks not being a quad". It can be a bit lonely, but mostly it's double the fun and I would never want it any other way.

Truth telling

Somebody shared a Virginia Woolf quote the other day: "a feminist is any woman who tells the truth about her life". I have been thinking about this, because I recently told the truth about my life and didn't get the reaction I wanted. And I'm okay with that.

The truth is not always easy to hear. We don't want to find out that our idols or family members or partners are fallible and have human frailties. There are things I've done in my life that I'm not proud of, and I'd like to be able to tell those stories truthfully, without judgement. I've also found that people don't want to hear about hard stuff, messy stuff, and raw emotions. It takes courage to share those things, and courage to hear them.

I'd also like to be able to tell the truth about what has happened to me, the times when I have been hurt, or really vulnerable. Often, when it comes to a story about my life, whether it happened when I was a child, a decade ago, or last week, I've already been on a journey with the story before the time of the telling. I've been angry, sad, and confused. But normally when I come to the point of telling others the story, especially new friends, I've still got lots of those emotions associated with the story, but I'm okay with it. I forget, though, that sharing a story is a two way thing. Sometimes I tell it flippantly, or carelessly. Sometimes I don't think enough about how it's going to affect the other person, whether they've got enough resilience to deal with it, and also whether I've put enough of my own armour on or built up enough trust with the other person before I make myself vulnerable in that way. 

But I guess a feminist, or any person wanting to live with integrity, keeps on telling the truth about their lives, even if it's hard. The trick is to get better at knowing when, and how and why we're sharing that information about ourselves. And then to be able to live with the reaction.

Power and lightbulb moments

With it being International Women's Day the other day, I have been thinking about the power some have over others. I was struck by the message that in NSW, domestic violence is still the most common case that police respond to, and that half of all cases go unreported. It was suggested that there are more than 700 instances of domestic violence occuring in NSW every day. It's clear to me that there is still so much to be done in Australia to close the gap in opportunity, power and safety between men and women, yet many people in Australia believe that all the battles have already been fought, and that there is nothing a woman can't do, if she would just stop complaining and get on with it.

Then, across the Pacific ocean, I find myself on the opposite end of the power spectrum. As a white woman I am constantly aware of my own power and privilege. In Solomon Islands I represent those who have greater access to money, safety and decision making ability. This was made even more startlingly clear to me this past week when my Solomon Islands colleagues were invited to share about some of the power inequalities that they experience in a cross-cultural group. For the first time in five years, the "elephant in the room" was being discussed. They explained how it felt that decisions were already made before the meeting had started, how they felt inferior and unable to contribute anything worthwhile, and how some more powerful people would interrupt, talk over and generally not seem to value the "Solomon voice".

Suddenly, I saw that lightbulb moment happen for the most powerful people in the room. Instead of insistently denying any suggestion that interactions within our cross-cultural group were not 100% rosy, as had been the reaction in the past, there was genuine listening, and they began to understand. We agreed upon some ways to change the power dynamic a little - discussing more complex issues in smaller groups before sharing with the wider group, allowing a moment of silent reflection before rushing in with our thoughts, and taking a secret ballot to find out how people actually feel about the level of power that they hold in the group. As a result, the mood in the group really improved for the better.

In the taxi later on my Solomon colleagues and I were discussing this turn of events. We couldn't believe how much things had changed. Then one of my colleagues summed it up: "I just realised that she didn't realise what she was doing". What we had assumed was deliberate we began to realise was not. Some just hadn't realised the extent of their power. It was our own lightbulb moment.

So, as I think about the men in my life, I realise that some of them probably just don't realise either. Of course, my friends range from those men who would describe themselves as feminists and "get it", to those who can't understand why you'd need a women's only space, and all those in between who benefit in many little ways from the position of power that they hold.

As I listened to my Sols colleagues share their discomfort, I could relate. I sometimes feel that my views are unimportant and that decisions are already made by others with more power. And I wonder how I can learn from my Solomon Islands colleagues about how can I share my experience with those in more powerful positions than me in a way that allows that realisation, and enables them to be part of the solution rather than feeling like the problem?

Wild Woman

I've been thinking about how I'm very rarely described as a strong, confident woman. Instead, people normally say that I'm nice, or thoughtful. Which I don't mind, of course. It's just that the strong, confident women are the ones that make things happen, who earn respect. A very wise friend of mine is often telling me that I need to tap into my "Xena the Warrier Princess" alter-ego a little more. He thinks she's in there somewhere.

Following on from this advice, I was reading a book mum lent me called "Women who run with the wolves". Within every woman, the book assures me, lives a powerful force made up of good instincts, passionate creativity and ageless knowing. Through unpacking the experience of "wild women" in a number of folk and fairy tales, we learn of our innate power and potential, even if we are quiet, or not conventionally beautiful, or a bit broken.

Often what these wild woman face and fight are not enemies of a physical kind, but the enemies within. Their stories are about overcoming emotional obstacles, learning a difficult lesson or discovering one's power. The skeleton woman emerges from the sea on the end of a fisherman's hook, and chases him back to a cave where she takes his heart and through his eventual acceptance becomes flesh again. A young girl buys a pair of "too scandalous" red shoes that give her the urge to dance uncontrollably until she must cut off her feet to stop. The ugly duckling must find her own kind, the place where she belongs and is beautiful. Vasilisa the brave is sent by her mean step-mother to Baba Yaga, the old witch lady known for eating people. When she completes the impossible tasks set by Baba Yaga, with the help of a magic doll, she is free to return home. Etc.

So, what is my wild woman story? There are elements of all the stories in my life.  Like the girl with the red shoes, I have struggled with addiction (mainly to chocolate, gelato and all things sweet) and seen my wellbeing and weight spiral out of control when I don't keep my cravings in check. I've also faced the death/life/death cycle in relationships that the fisherman faced, where the dark side of the other person is revealed, and you want to run away because you feel betrayed by their frailty, but you continue anyway, finding that acceptance can give new life to the relationship. I have been on a journey to connect with "my people" just like the ugly duckling, because being a little different can feel lonely. I have found that sense of connection with the Quaker community, and also in new friends who are passionate activists.

I also think my story is about Vasilisa the brave. She journeys from subservience to independence. For me, it has been fear, not an evil stepmother, that I have been a slave to. I'm often too scared to set boundaries, to try new things, and to be vulnerable. It took me about half an hour of procrastination disguised as "getting ready" before I set off on my first after-dark bike ride home. But recently I've been tapping into the power of that magic doll. I stood up to a few of those bullies. I have been blogging more, accepting that not everyone will like or agree with what I write. I have been prepared to follow through on tough work decisions that more senior men could not bring themselves to address. And earlier this year I found the courage to finally face a longstanding pain, and sow the seed of meaningful reconciliation. My strength is not big or loud or obvious, but I think you will agree that it is there if you delve a little deeper.

Woman and wolf

Yep, I am woman, here me roar... or howl, if we are keeping with the wolf theme. I know that my power, while quiet and backgroundy, still contains those elements of good instincts, passionate creativity, and ageless knowing. Of course, I still have a few more internal enemies to fight. In fact you could probably write a whole season of Zena episodes or anthology of wild woman fairy tales representing the issues I still need to work through. But I am proud of the wild woman that I am, and actually look forward to the next chapter of my own little folktale with anticipation.

Letters I've written

Now, this is going to make me sound really old, but in my day we didn't have facebook or email or skype - we just wrote one another letters... lots and lots of letters. During my teenage years, I corresponded with friends in other cities, love interests, boyfriends, mentors, pen friends overseas who I'd never met, and school friends who I saw every day. It was the way we expressed ourselves, and how we connected.

There is a box at my parents' place full of letters that I received, and cherished. This little box of treasures provides a glimpse into the 1980's teenage experience, expressed through the people I was communicating with. There are tentative reflections in french on a memorable night, angsty post-break up letters complete with lyrics from REM, tales of road trips and overseas travel accompanied by photos, drawings and mixed tapes, queries about life's purpose, declarations of love, and secrets shared that I have never disclosed. Boy-crazy letters and girl-crazy letters. Letters on pretty paper, neat paper, and on the back of recycled paper. Letters that followed ruled lines, and others that whirled across the page in a spiral. That was the great thing about those letters - there were no rules, and each person's style of writing and choice about the packaging said as much about them as the words they wrote.

While I hold some of the letters written to me, those I wrote are scattered around the world. I have since wondered who kept them, what they meant to the recipients, what I was saying back then, and where they will end up. After my grandfather died, and we were methodically and painstakingly going through his possessions, I stumbled upon a Valentine's Day card Grandma had written him early on in their marriage, when she was not much older than I was at the height of my letter writing era. I felt like an intruder into a time and intimacy that I hadn't been privy to before. I guess that's what happens with letters - sometimes they outlive those who cherished them.

After my friend David died, Lisa told me she had some of the letters I had written him over the years and that I could have them back if I wanted. He had kept them for over a decade. For those years since he died, I didn't feel ready to read them, perhaps scared to discover myself there - raw in black and white. What if I wasn't how I remember, or I don't like that girl? But one day I will read them, and like a voyeur again, I will be transported back into the experience of my 21 year old self, a girl who might seem as distant from my "today" self as the newly-wed woman was to my Grandmother. But that's the thing with letters...

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.

Booked in

One of my end of year resolutions, if you like, was to solve the reading while travelling dilemma. Since I have been known to take month long trips to the Solomon Islands for work, with my suitcase half full of books, I had begun to feel that a 'kindley-type-thing' might be more practical than taking half my bookshelf with me each time. I also thought it might be more environmentally friendly in the long term.

The trouble is that I don't like doing what I call 'shopping research'. I just find it time consuming and I'm not that good at making decisions. Plus, all the options and permutations stress me out. I can happily go down one research path almost ready to commit, only to discover that it doesn't have a USB drive, or it only works in the northern hemisphere, and I have to start all over again. So, in a stroke of brilliance I decided to outsource the problem and happily put 'research the best kindley-type-thing for me to take overseas when travelling' on my santa list, and then put the matter out of my mind. I had vaguely thought that if my brother was my secret santa this year he might really enjoy doing this for me.

Best gift ever - the research done, AND beautifully presented!

Imagine my surprise and delight on Christmas day when I discovered that my secret santa (or kk as we call it in our family), who was the one family member with  "technologically challenged" as part of her email address, had completed the task with first class honours. Lovingly seeking the help of a technologically endowed librarian, my Kris Kringle had presented me with the alternatives, the ethical considerations, and a final recommendation, all presented nicely on blue card.

My new travel reading companion

Thus, I found myself purchasing a kobo (because my KK had explained to me the ethical fallbacks of going with Kindle/Amazon), joining my local library (because kobo is connected to the library network and I can borrow e-books), starting a bookclub and downloading my first books. It's all incredibly exciting. Now the only issue left is resisting the joy of browsing second hand bookshops. But buying the odd  "real" book is still ok, isn't it? I do still need something to read in bed when I'm not on the road!!

The bedside bookshelf remains

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 story of the extraordinary helping elephants

My feeling is that play and storytelling are closely intertwined with a child's social and emotional development. What might seem repetitive or boring to us, is an important exploration for the child of an idea or problem until there is resolution or understanding. I would like to share a story that my nephew Noah has been working on recently, starring a trio of wooden elephants and some adult friends playing minor roles as assistant puppeteers and storytellers ...

The director and storyteller with his elephants

Once upon many a time there were three elephants; a mummy elephant, a daddy elephant and a Noah elephant*. This happy family liked to bound exuberantly over the African plains. Then, suddenly and tragically, during the course of such joyful bounding, one of the elephants falls over. 

"What happened?" the mother elephant asks in a very concerned voice. 

"I falled down" explains the Noah elephant, or the Daddy elephant, depending on who fell. 

"Don't worry" soothes the mummy elephant, "I will rescue you", and efforts are immediately made to help. If the other two elephants can't put the fallen elephant back on its feet, a large rescue truck or fire engine with a crane can be brought in to assist.

The family bound off happily again, until another calamity erupts. This time the daddy elephant, because he is actually a puzzle, falls apart and find himself bounding off without his rear end. But again, disaster is averted with the assistance of puppeteers, match box cars or a dinosaur figurine, and all is well again with the world.

THE END.

This story, in all its variations, says a lot about the story teller's own world view. Just last week he adopted a kitten that was found abandoned on a bus. whenever it cries he says "don't worry meow". A few weeks ago he became distressed when at the aquarium, having noticed a lobster that seemed stuck against a rock and wondered whether in fact he should help this lobster out of its predicament. It was only when he was reassured that the lobster's friends would probably help him out that he was satisfied and able to move on to the next exhibit.

As I delight in this stage, I wonder how I can foster and encourage the empathy that I see emerging in my young relative. Probably adding variations of the story that involve the elephants farting loudly and saying "excuse me" probably wasn't the best way to do this, in retrospect, particularly when I am told he now likes to insert this variation into everyday tasks at shopping centres and other public places, much to his grandmother's embarrassment! But on a more serious note, I hope I can join in modelling good helping behaviour, and I applaud Noah for his dedication in tackling such an important theme. I recommend the helping elephant show as a must-see for all ages!

*Any reference to real people is purely co-incidental.