A is for awesome

I enter the building, march confidently past the mirrored collumns, punch my floor number into the little keyboard, take a breath and await my destiny.

You see, the lifts at our work are this swanky, modern type where a little machine tells us which lift to catch. There is an algorithm that is supposed to result in supreme lift efficiency. But there have been times when everyone is waiting to pile into one lift which painstakingly stops at every floor, while another lift ascends with ease and speed, carrying just one person. On this occasion, I have been assigned to Lift D. I sigh. "D spells Disaster" I mumble to myself and shuffle over to the appropriate corner of the lobby.

Lately the Irish superstition in me has led to an aversion to lift D. After all, D spells not just disaster, but also doomsday and downhill, and difficult!! Plus lift D is waiting to have its screen fixed, so you never know whether you're at your floor or not.

I really feel that on a Monday morning, or when you're meant to be making a presentation, or when anything else in life is less than ideal, you really don't want to end up in Lift D. No siree. What you really want is to be assigned to lift A, because A is for awesome, and adventure, and amazing! When you step out of lift A, anything is possible.

Now, while I recognise that there is absolutely no evidence base for this method for setting the tone of the day, I wonder whether the usual methods we mere mortals employ are any less arbitrary or external.

When it's raining and I miss the bus, that will set the tone for a bad day. When the sun is shining, birds are singing and I run into a neighbour on the way to work, it seems certain to herald a good day. It's easy to get into a cycle where because I believe I'm having a bad day, I slot everything that happens into that "bad day" belief system.

Yet, many self help books, therapists and spiritual guides tell us that we can choose our mood, our attitude and our behaviour. What's more, they assure us that people who have a positive attitude and behave as if they are awesome, well liked and capable will seek out experiences that reinforce that belief. They end up on a positivity feedback loop where life turns out to be pretty awesome for them.

So, rather than waiting for the lifts at work to send me into the doors of doom or enable me to ascend into awesome, I think I will make more of an effort to determine my own destiny. In fact, maybe D is actually for DESTINY. So, starting today, I will try to act as if I have been assigned to lift A, from the moment I wake up. I wonder what it will be like to begin each day with the assurance that Anything is possible, that I am Awesome, and that Achievement is right around the corner?

Between the sheets

* He's had a crush on her for years. She needs a place to crash after a big night. He just assumes she's fine with it.

* Eventually, after much begging and pleading, she reluctantly agrees to let him kiss her.

* Sharing a bed, she asks that there be no kissing or sex. But he gets a bit carried away.

* He knows she's slept with other guys, so why not him? They're dating, after all.

When the open letter from the victim of the Stanford rapist came into our consciousness, almost every woman I know was reminded of a story of her own, buried away in the depths of her memory, or perhaps from not so long ago, where consent was not enthusiastically given, or boundaries were crossed, or trust was abused. In many cases, shame or a wish to "just move on" prevented any further action being taken. 

Reading the story of what this particular woman went through, both immediately following the rape and then in the re-living of it during the court case, has led me to reflect deeply on the meaning of consent, and the prevalence of slut shaming and victim blaming in our society still to this day. So often we women doubt ourselves and each other because society wants to couch us as "promiscuous" or "drinking too much" and men as "nice guys" with "a promising career ahead" who "made a bit of an error in judgement".

Brock Turner's lawyer and his father made outrageous attempts to minimise the impact of the incident on the victim and highlight the impact on the perpetrator. This behaviour shows just how warped our society has become when considering matters of consent, gender based violence and sexual abuse. 

Possibly the only positive coming out of this horrific incident is that people are starting to talk, to share stories, to realise that they're not alone. Because of this one woman's courage, and the actions of those who found her and called the police, more people around the world might feel just a little more confident about holding others to account for their actions and demanding respect. 

When I shared the woman's open letter on facebook a few weeks ago, a male friend contacted me quite distraught. After reading it, he had conducted a brief survey of his female friends, and discovered that a high proportion had experienced some kind of related incident at one time or another. He was horrified. With a very young daughter of his own, he could not believe what his sex was doing to hers. He wanted to know what he could do about it.

So I think I talked about shifting the burden of responsibility from women to men. I might have said how we need to educate men about consent, and about respecting boundaries, and how to extricate themselves from the rape culture that makes these so-called "minor indiscretions" permissible and justifiable. We can teach women about saying no, or the skills of self defense or assertiveness, but ultimately it's men who need to make the biggest changes.

But actually, I just felt kindof numb. I was glad to have an ally, and grateful for the numerous male friends who have "got it" over the years, or who have at least been willing to listen and try to understand. But when women choose to speak out about these matters, they are putting themselves in a place of great vulnerability. I wonder how we can make this journey easier, so that difficult experiences are genuinely listened to and everyone involved can reach a place of greater understanding?

Female, maddened and mute

At the writers festival I heard Alexis West read some of her poetry. It spoke of the frustration she has with having to explain repeatedly why golliwogs are offensive, and the way her patience was tried by white people wanting recognition and gratitude for “having black friends”. It was raw and real and I loved it.

Then she apologised if her poetry was too angry or offensive in any way to our paler sensibilities. She told us she hated being "that person" - the angry black woman. I wished she hadn’t apologised. There's not enough anger expressed about this kind of thing, in my opinion. 

Also, in a small, hesitant way, I could relate. I sometimes feel as if I'm continually an angry feminist. Like black women, but obviously to a lesser extent, women in general are constantly assessing whether to express our anger in response to sexist behaviour and be “that person” or just swallow our offendedness, smile and move on.

This dilemma was highlighted to me the other day when I posted a feminist cartoon on facebook which seemed to spark reactions from various folks in my social media network. The conversation seemed to take on a life of its own, going in directions I hadn’t envisaged, and raising sub-issues that I hadn’t previously considered. 

Then some people started getting quite angry, reacting to other people's comments. And I began to feel a little bit uneasy. But a voice inside told me not to moderate...just yet. And sure enough, somebody else felt it was their job to moderate. A male friend. “I think we all need to calm down now” was the sentiment. 

It seemed to me that women were angry, and men couldn’t handle it. One man had already left the discussion, in fact. I began to wonder why the anger of the oppressed is so confronting. Sure, it's raw and uncomfortable and not "nice". Yet, that anger is a direct result of violent and discriminatory systems that are not nice either. And certain groups have benefited from this structural violence for centuries.

So, why should Aboriginal people be expected to consider the feelings of those of us who have benefited from their dispossession and discrimination for the past two centuries? Why should the LGBTIQ community be expected to consider the bigots who have bullied them their whole lives as equally entitled to voice their toxic views? And why should women constantly accommodate the discomfort of men? No! I think those of us who are oppressors and benefit from oppressive structures have no right to tell the oppressed when to be silent.

This whole outpouring of frustration reminded me of a book called “Women who dance with wolves”. This book, which draws from Indigenous fables and stories, explores a number of archetypal women who are expressed in their rawest form. One character is a skeleton woman who follows a fisherman back to his cave. Another is a woman who makes more animal sounds than human ones and collects bones in the desert. A young girl dances like crazy in her new red shoes until she becomes a cripple. These women are angry, sad, ecstatic...the full gamet of emotions. I wonder why our so-called modern society tries to suppress this rawness and realness and "not nice-ness" in the expression of emotion?

So, as I process my own anger, and choose which battles to fight and which ones to let go, I will seek out poetry and literature and art where those raw expressions of emotion are evident. I hope people like Alexis West don't stop writing their poetry. Because it's through expressing the anger and pain that we not only move through it, but open up the possibility for the "other" to reach an understanding about their own privilege and power.

When green eggs and ham just aren't your cup of tea

"Would you like to go for coffee?" He corners me after class. I mumble something about having plans and make attempts to skuttle out the door. "What about dinner tomorrow?" The hopeful follow up wafts in my direction. "Or brunch on the weekend? What about a drink sometime?" A seemingly harmless enough request has become a familiar refrain that leaves me with a feeling of mild angst.

I guess most of us, at one time or another, have been in what I refer to as the "green eggs and ham" scenario. Some people call it "humbugging". It's the situation where somebody repeatedly asks for or offers something, doesn't get a favourable response, and yet continues undeterred. It's prevalent amongst socialists, evangelical christians, and of course in the land of dating. When it doesn't feel like my boundaries are respected I tend to squirm. It actually takes me a lot of mental energy to work out how to say no tactfully, firmly and kindly.

While it was probably not Dr Seuss's intention to explore themes of consent in his famous children's book Green Eggs and Ham, his work does seem relevant to that subject. The principle seems to be that 'no' doesn't always mean 'no', and that persistence pays off. There are so many examples in literature and film of this mentality when it comes to dating. The classic case is the dogged pursuit of a lady friend by a slightly nerdy guy, which succeeds when he ultimately proves himself to be worthy of her affections.

Normally we find these movies romantic, and delight in the experience of the underdog finally 'winning' in the end. But as a male friend of mine says, there is a fine line between romantic and creepy and the distinction is whether the behaviour is wanted or unwanted. I realise that it's tricky for many of us to tread that line at times. We might find ourselves getting so caught up in our own desires or notions of romance that we somehow 'forget' to consider whether our suggested activities or requests are of any interest at all to the other party.

I find the tea analogy quite helpful when it comes to explaining consent to people. Basically, the principle is that if the person has said they don't want tea, or is unconscious, or only partially conscious, or was unsure about tea, but now that you've made it they show no interest in drinking it - DON'T FORCE THEM TO DRINK THE TEA!! It also points out that just because somebody enjoyed a pot of tea with you last Thursday, or with somebody else - doesn't mean they want tea today, or with you.

So, whether it's tea or oddly coloured eggs with pig meat that I'm just not that into, I realise I need to get better at trusting my gut instincts and being confident enough to clearly say no. I know this is a challenge for me, as I have been socialised to accommodate others' needs and consider their perspective above my own. But, more importantly, like SAM I AM, lots of us need to get better at reading body language, genuinely seeking consent, and accepting with grace if the answer is no.  

Last man standing

At the time of the break
We always promise to be friends
A few cuppas, chats, even dating advice exchanged

But inevitably they drift away
New girlfriends, buried feelings
or just Life, getting in the way

Until theres only one left
A rock, who was
there in the blackest time

But when people guess our history
The now feels flimsy, fake, less
Maybe he'll go the way of the others

The instigator's lament

Family get togethers,
weekends in the wild
an evening show or Friday drinks
when the weather is mild

Someone has to organise
to make sure things get done
but the instigator's role
is a rather thankless one

Some folks are followers
they've never organised a thing
Even a chook raffle in a
country pub would be a win

Some friends are noncommital
asking umm, who else is in?
some are super flakey
they pull out at the last min'

Some come along and then
complain it's not their style
others bore our socks off
telling endless stories all the while

Each time I tell myself
This event will be my last
But I carry on as planner
because sometimes it's a blast

I yearn to be invited
to an event that they have planned
To just turn up on schedule
and know that everything's in hand

And then one day it happened
They planned a trip themselves, you know
But delight soon turned to grief
For it was at a time I couldn't go!

Now, I hasten to mention
these gripes are only said in jest
For I myself have been the flaker,
the non-commiter, complainer and the rest

When all is said and done
I don't really mind my role at all
what matters is that the time
we spend together is a ball!

Crazy little thing called love

Earlier this year I was at a really lovely wedding - it was simple, elegant and genuine. I had a sense of the room being filled with love. During the speeches we learnt that the couple had "known" from almost their first meeting that they would be together.

This got me thinking about notions of love at first sight, soul mates, meeting 'the right person', and all those expectations surrounding romantic love. Does that stuff really happen, or do people embellish their romance stories ever so slightly for the speeches? For those of us whose love life journey has more in common with Bridget Jones than any fairytale lovers, it's easy to be a touch on the cynical side.

It probably didn't help that this wedding came soon after a brush with 'something' that wasn't. On a trip down memory lane we shared in the every-day, the delightful, the deep and the downright ridiculous. In that short space of time I had a glimpse of a possibility, an opportunity missed. Anyway, it doesn't matter now. The timing has been - as Hugh Grant said in Four Weddings and a Funeral - very bad indeed.

So, as I farewelled the newlyweds and headed home to my delightful apartment for one, I couldn't help but wonder... 'Will I ever find the type of romantic love that I witnessed today?' Who knows. The truth is, I have pretty high expectations for love now. I'd rather be on my own than with somebody who feels a bit meh about me. And I don't want to feel meh about them, either.

And besides, I've probably had my fair share of romance, if I'm honest with myself. It just hasn't followed conventional trajectories or even a strict chronological order. For example, the other day I had a delightful colony of butterflies encircling my stomach when I ran into somebody that I had a bit of a crush on last year. I remembered what a lovely person they are and felt glad to have seen them.

Then there is the cherished memory of the encoded message written all those years ago, declaring feelings for me. Its author sat there bravely as I painstakingly decoded the message in front of about a dozen of my psychology friends.

And in between there have been letters, song dedications, electronic flowers (because environmentalists hate to see flowers picked), chocolate discovered on my desk at work, a Swiss army knife with my name engraved in lower case (because, equality for all letters), plenty of giggles, breakfast prepared as per weird diet guidelines, whispered secrets, some wonderfully awkward moments, and great tenderness.

So, rather than feeling too downhearted, I am actually buoyed by the fact that this year has only just begun and already the universe has reminded me, in the most beautiful and bitter-sweet ways, that love is, actually*, all around me.


*any resemblance to British romcoms is purely coincidental.

Tents, caves and other nonviolent tools

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

Nonviolent direct action at Sheikh Jarrah

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boarded up shop fronts in Hebron

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

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

Palestinian hospitality in a refugee camp outside Hebron

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

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

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

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

Entrance to the Tent of Nations farm

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

The boy next door

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

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

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

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

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

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

Under wraps

"Can you keep a secret?" I type the text message, then pause. I've been told that the news is embargoed until Monday, but I'm eager to tell someone. After staring at the words for a few minutes, I decide not to send and the message just sits there as a draft. There have been a few occasions recently when I have hurt others by revealing secrets that, while having an impact on me, are not mine to tell. I've also experienced that sinking feeling when you realise a trusted friend or family member has told one of your secrets to somebody else.

It got me thinking about secrets, though. There are pieces of juicy gossip, skeletons in the family cupboard, confessions we tell a lover, and those shocking revelations that only come to light after a person dies. These days we think of our society as generally being less secretive than it was even half a century ago. Unwed mothers are no longer sent "down south for a while" in a veil of shame, we don't hide our political beliefs as reticently as our parents did, and people don't disown you if you come out as gay. But there are a lot of things we still like to keep hidden.

I have been thinking lately about mandatory reporting, and the times when there are not just emotional but legal implications of keeping and telling secrets. We are seeing the life-destroying impacts of institutional child sexual abuse coming out of the Royal Commission. And, the continuing theme in those historic incidents was the secrecy surrounding it. Children were encouraged to keep the incidents a secret, and mostly they did - for a very long time. Perhaps they kept quiet under threat of violence, perhaps because they didn't feel they would be believed, or perhaps for fear of what would happen to the perpetrator.

I remember reading the memoire of a woman who had been groomed as a child for a sexual relationship with a much older man. He showed her attention and kindness that other adults didn't, and they increasingly found ways to be alone together. She was eight when the first incident happened, eleven when things got more serious, and eighteen when she began to break away. He died when she was in her early twenties. Writing the memoire many years later, she could reflect on why what he did was wrong, how it impacted her, as well as the circumstances of her life that meant she was particularly vulnerable to the abuse. She had kept the relationship a secret throughout their time together.

The Royal Commission reveals, if nothing else, that child sexual abuse is far more prevalent than any of us could have imagined, and its effects are still strongly felt by survivors half a century later. These are secrets that need to come to light in order to give a sense of justice and closure to survivors.  We need to shift the culture in our institutions from one of turning a blind eye to one of open-ness and of acting swiftly and professionally to address issues before they escalate. We need to send a clear message about what sort of behaviour is appropriate and what is not, especially when it comes to children.

So, I think about the secrets in my life. The ones I've told and the ones I've kept hidden for many years. I'd like to get better at knowing when to tell and when to refrain, who to trust and whose trust I need to earn back. Sometimes the unsolicited sharing of a secret can spell the end of a friendship. Other times it's just a blip in the road. And sometimes telling a long-held secret can be a way to find healing and comfort, and bring two people closer together. 

And as for that embargoed piece of news? Well, I'll tell you on Monday.