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.

Lost and found

This is the story of my long lost brother.

The tale of how he came about really begins with two teenagers in the summer of 1963, but as far as I was concerned it all started with a 7 year old girl twenty years later and her unwavering wish for an older sibling.

You see, I had been wishing for siblings since I was about 3. When I was 5, I got two younger ones, and since that worked out so well, I decided it would be nice to have an older one too; somebody to stand up for me, to advise me, and be in solidarity with me during those difficult teenage years.

When I was 12 my wish was granted. An older brother had materialised and wanted to meet us. When dad told me the news, that he'd had a son when he was 19, and this person had been in touch, I burst into tears. Partly sadness that I hadn't known about him before,  partly happiness that I had an older brother after all, and partly a knowledge, as far as my young mind could comprehend, that this new information was big and complicated and was going to change how I saw the past and the future.

Andrew on a visit to Sydney,  circa 1992

My new brother was 24 years old - positively ancient as far as I was concerned, and already had a mum and dad who had raised him and a sister. He also had a new biological mother to get to know. Plus he lived in Melbourne. None of these factors were conducive to the instant solidarity and closeness that I had been expecting. But I retained an open mind.

I can't remember much of what we talked about that first meeting. We probably shared family photos, he must have mentioned his work as a librarian, and I think dad made plans for him to meet the grandparents. I suspect us kids were asked to give a short violin recital. I do remember him telling me that he used to really annoy his sister when they were teenagers, and I filed that away as evidence that maybe I had gotten the best of both worlds after all. Everyone thought he looked more like Uncle David than any of us, although he did share dad's strong dislike of capsicum, which gave a certain validity to dad's claims that it was a genuine health condition.

Overall, dad was just stoked that his son hadn't turned up as some tattooed bloke on a motorbike. That seemed to be his main fear, so it must have been comforting to see that Andrew is undecorated and prefers 4-wheeled transport. The other fear was that Andrew and I would meet, fall in love, then discover we were related and end up on "The Oprah Winfrey Show". That was thankfully no longer a concern either. We also learned that he is incredibly considerate, sociable, thoughtful, tells a great story and has an exceptional memory for people and places. None of us could have asked for a more delightful long lost relative.

And so began the getting to know you process. He sent us birthday cards, and if he was in Sydney or any of us were in Melbourne, we would meet up. He gradually became part of our lives, not wanting to intrude too soon, and for many years was something between a cousin and a good friend. Since we never lived together as siblings, I still think of myself a little bit as an eldest child. And besides, his sister in Melbourne has the only legitimate sibling claim over him because of all the teasing she put up with during adolescence. We have to respect that, but I did feel extremely proud introducing my new brother to friends and relatives at my 21st. He and Richard had flown up 'specially, which meant a lot to me.

In my twenties during a visit to Melbourne I asked Andrew and Richard about the secret of their relationship success. It was a tentative request for brotherly advice. They celebrated 20 years together just last year, and are one of the happiest couples I know. "Oh, I think it helps that we're boring" Richard offered, after a longish pause. "Yes" agreed Andrew. "I like looking at open houses and Richard likes seeing planes take off. We do those things together". I have yet to find a direct application of this advice to my own life, but was very glad to receive it.

Six years ago, Andrew and Richard moved to Sydney and bought a house just a short walk over the creek from mum and dad's place. While they were house hunting, Andrew stayed with my parents, and he and Mum bonded over beautiful sunsets, chats over a morning cuppa and a love of books. Since then there have been plenty of opportunities to connect more. At family get togethers Andrew and I enjoy entertaining others by carrying on a conversation in pidgin English or giggling and gossiping about the antics of each other's friends and family. When we reminisce about the early years, Andrew will remind me that when we met I was 12 whereas the twins were only 6, and I feel like one of "the older ones". We have the solidarity thing that I always wanted. It's turned out very nicely.

Well and truly part of the family, 2013

So, here we are 25 years later. Am I glad he wanted to find us? Only on a daily basis! Would I have liked to know about him earlier? Kinda! Just like Tom Cruise's character in "Rain Man", I sometimes feel it just would have been nice to know that I had a brother. But over time the lost years diminish in proportion to the found years and it matters less. Instead of regretting what we missed, or how things could have been, I am just so glad he is in my life now. And it is a reminder that even the most unlikely of wishes can come true!

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".

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.