A sign

I’ve been discussing Palestine quite a bit lately. I recently gave a talk on the topic to a group of Masters students, two of whom were Israeli. The subject has also come up in conversation with friends, on dates, and during a 15 minute segment with my federal MP. I've also found myself randomly sharing my views with people I don't know on facebook. Sometimes these conversations end in me losing my cool and sometimes I manage to maintain the illusion of the gentle Quaker.

Because I’ve been engaging with people who have personal or religious links to Israel, or who have visited the holy land on a trip funded by the Israel lobby, I’ve been thinking a lot about how to approach the topic in a constructive way. It’s also caused me to consider what my objective is in having these conversations. Do I want to encourage people to question their bias, change their minds completely, or simply hear some of what I witnessed? Is a rant directed at a stranger really going to change their mind, no matter how factual and well considered?

A few days ago I came upon a news item about an Israeli tourist in Australia who was refused service in a piercing studio. Directed to a sign up in the shop which said “no Israelis served here”, she described feeling shocked and hurt. And I could see why she’d feel that way. I can only imagine what it would be like to be denied a service because of your nationality.

I also think it’s counterproductive to the Palestinian cause to alienate Israeli backpackers. This young woman - bless her little cotton socks - seems blissfully ignorant as to why anyone would want to boycott Israel. To make matters worse, she now has a whole bunch of supporters affirming her point of view and assuring her that not all Australians are racist. This experience has most probably further entrenched her previously-held views that anyone who questions Israel is an ignorant, anti-semitic leftie who supports terrorists.

So, what to do? I’d love to call her up and explain why her Government has a bit to answer for. I’d love to frame it in the context of MY Government also having a lot to answer for when it comes to human rights. I’d like to tell her about the courageous and well-informed Israelis who I met in Palestine. People who give up every Saturday morning to stand in solidarity with Palestinians whose homes are being destroyed and land taken. People who risk arrest and harassment because they have bothered to read and learn, and now they can’t NOT be involved.

I’d also like to tell her that the left don’t hate Israelis, or Jews. What we hate is injustice and oppression and persecution. We are the same people who were involved in the underground railraid to assist African American slaves to freedom, and who protected Jews during the holocaust, and who boycotted South Africa in a bid to end apartheid. These injustices make us really angry. Sometimes when we get angry we do silly things. We become antagonistic, and end up sabotaging the cause we feel so passionately about. 

Palestinian cat

That sign wasn’t the right or helpful thing to do. Nor are my random attacks on facebook strangers. But these mistakes are small compared to the impact that 50 years of military occupation has had on the Palestinian people. If this young woman feels discriminated against, violated, and unjustly treated, she might have gained some small insight into what life every day is like for Palestinians. I just hope this experience makes her more compassionate, and more open to joining those courageous and committed Israelis who are on the right side of history.

At the end of the week

Last week began with a dear friend's wedding. Family and friends were gathered to share in the joy and love encircled the room. Then over the next few days I was witness to three pieces of very sad news. Finally, at the end of the week, I farewelled my brother as he plans to set off on a new life adventure.

As I responded to these events, and made attempts to support those most affected, it occurred to me that the celebration of love and the acknowledgement of loss are closely intertwined. In both these circumstances there are expressions of tenderness, resilience, vulnerability and of course, love. We who are close, are welcomed into the intimacy of our friends and family members' most emotional moments. 

And the emotions expressed at the range of occasions are interchangeable. It's not uncommon to see tears shed during wedding festivities and moments of roll on the floor laughter during times of grief.

Wedding joy

Somehow I am reminded of an old folk story. As I remember it, a man goes to a wise religious leader and speaks of his problems and sorrow. The wise man listens quietly and then says "this shall pass". The troubled man is a bit confused but goes away to consider this message. He returns some time later with a new problem and is given the same response - "This shall pass". The man returns a third time, blissfully happy, and wishing to thank the wise man for his counsel. "This too shall pass" is the consistent reply.

We never know quite when we will fall in love, or lose a loved one or experience deep joy or sadness. I guess what I take away from this week is that it is the relationships we have with the people in our lives - friends and family - that are most important. They give life its meaning and enable us to cope with adversity. I hope I can live as much in the moment as is possible, knowing that each moment, whether one of joy or grief, is precious.

The suspicious bag

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am not a robot

Lately I've had numerous opportunities to connect with the strata manager of my building at home. It's been an opportunity to, ahem, bond. First I leave a message on his phone, and nothing happens. Then I leave a second and third message, and eventually receive a short email reply. I figure Martin* is just not a "chatting on the phone" kind of person so I laboriously type up the details of my slightly complicated situation, and he replies in a very formal and factual manner. And so on continues the correspondence.

The most recent message I received was a very legalese reply from "the committee" seeking the consent of Lot 3 to proceed with plumbing works, to be paid for by strata if a common issue and by Lot 3 if not. Blah blah blah. While the actual proposal was reasonable, I found myself almost unreasonably angry at what I perceived as a stubborn refusal to relate to me as a person. I wanted to scream at top volume in the train carriage where I was sitting that "I am not just Lot 3 - I am a HUMAN BEING".

Do we take the time to smell the flowers?

This problem is not just to do with Martin. It seems to me that relating to people as human beings and making connections with one another is an increasingly lost art. Some of my neighbours also prefer to leave notes under people's doors than knock and express their grievances face to face. We are invited to prove we are not robots when filling out online forms. And surrounding me on the train is a collection of so-called humans staring at their phones or devices, seemingly oblivious to one another.

The most I tend to raise from my fellow passengers would be a politely mumbled "sorry" when a bag bumps against my arm. Occasionally I will encounter someone willing to laugh together about our close shave with the doors closing, or mutually raised eyebrows when the kids don't stand for their elders. Sometimes the guard will make a brief detour from his usual script to inform us about the weather, or make a little joke. Those attempts to appeal to our human-ness always make me smile.

Perhaps a reason I am so affected by the humanity void in these circumstances is that I've observed what happens when it is taken to the extreme. I've seen ex-soldiers break down in tears of regret and shame for the things they did to their fellow human beings in the course of a working day, because they were trained to dehumanise the other. And I've seen the vacant look that takes hold when they're 'on duty'.

Obviously, there are times when it is appropriate to retain a professional distance in order to 'cover our arses'. But at what point can we well and truly say that we have taken it too far? In the case of Martin, it would make such a difference to me if he expressed just a smidgen of personality. And a quick chat on the blower can go such a long way to ironing out simple misunderstandings.

So, as Martin continues with his busy day - drafting email replies that won't get him into legal trouble, and arranging fire safety assessments - I like to imagine that he stops to smell the flowers, or help an old lady across the road, or smile at a child. At the end of the day, surely these are the things that make us human, and the other stuff is secondary.

*not his real name

The sleepover

We scramble over rocks on the dusty earth, carrying sleeping bags and essentials for the night ahead. Three of us from my team are arriving for a weekly 'sleepover', one form of protective presence that we provide to families in the South Hebron Hills. As Mohammed's tent emerges into view our pace quickens. Some of Mohammed's seven children are playing by a small cave. A dog barks, and we can hear chickens squawking nearby. Shardi, who is about 8 years old, races towards my team-mate, Leo, and offers him a warm hug. The other children smil and wave at us as we approach.

Mohammed's tent, with the settlement behind.

Our first task of the late afternoon is to take a walk along the ridge-tops, in full view of nearby Israeli settlements. We make sure our presence is noted. Since we are wearing our jackets, it is clear to any settlers watching with binoculars that we are here, and that we are witness to their behaviour. One of the biggest concerns facing Mohammed and his wife Ensaf is harassment from settlers and soldiers at night. One of the first incidents that our team responded to was a call from Mohammed to inform us that 8 settlers had approached his tent in the middle of the night, shouting angrily and accusing him of causing trouble. He feels safer when we are there.

Ensaf has spoken in detail with us about the fear she battles on a daily basis. When half a dozen jeeps of soldiers encircled their tent the other night she was too afraid to come out to investigate. Her husband, Mohammed, faced the music. Mohammed’s father, who lives in the next valley, had called to alert them to the intrusion. After three hours of tossing bedding around in search of “evidence” of an intruder to the nearby settlement, and angry accusations hurled at her husband, they ran out of reasons to stay. After advising her father in law not to pay evening visits to his neighbours without a large spot-light, the soldiers went back to their jeeps and made their departure in the early hours of the morning.

The evening walk

It’s difficult for Mohammed not to assume that the regular visits are part of a larger plan to force him to give up his vigil on the land his family has inhabited for generations. Many have given up the struggle and abandoned their homes in favour of a more settled life in town, freer from harassment. For those who remain, the struggle is harder each year. The last of Mohammed’s neighbours departed about 3 months ago when the husband was sent to prison and his wife and children retreated to town. Yet, those who remain have more at stake if they leave. It’s almost certain that an abandoned farm like Mohammed’s would be quickly snatched up by settlers looking to expand their estate. The Palestinian quality of ‘sumud’ (steadfast perseverance) is increasingly important now.

We settle ourselves into the lounge room end of the family tent and are immediately served tea. After being introduced to some of Mohammed’s brothers who are visiting for the evening, a discussion ensues in a mixture of broken English and very broken Arabic about how old everyone is and how many children we all have. To us, some of Mohammed’s brothers appear older than their years, and we no doubt seem horribly young, single and childless for our advanced age. Before the visitors leave, dinner is served. We enjoy freshly baked bread, hummus, and a delicious tomato and eggplant dish before settling into an evening of watching horror movies on Mohammed’s television, assisting children with their homework, and sharing photos of our families on our phones. Eventually, everyone drifts off to sleep. The light on the other side of the tent remains on, a reminder that like a dog that sleeps with one ear slightly open, it’s not possible to fully relax when living under occupation.

Fog in the morning in Sh'b Il Butum

At first light the animals and children begin to stir. The children set off for school in the brisk morning while we are being served tea and breakfast, still under the warmth of our blankets. It occurs to me that, under very different circumstances, I would consider it a privilege and joy to awake to the sound of a rooster crowing and sheep bleating on an idyllic hillside in the desert. But as we pack our sleeping bags and prepare to do a final lap of the ridge-tops, we remember that for Mohammed and Ensaf, reality is far from ideal. They have no idea what difficulties they will face today.

Pilgrim's place

It's breakfast and I glance around the dining room of the re-purposed convent where I am guest for two nights. All the tables seem to be reserved for groups, so I ask an English speaking volunteer in an apron where I sit if I'm not part of a group. "Why, the pilgrims' table, of course. We are all pilgrims, aren't we?" I settle myself into a place at the almost empty table.

Breakfast at the pilgrims' table

If a pilgrim is a traveller in search of a holy place, then I do seem to fit the description lately, both in a figurative and more literal sense. A metaphor of valleys and hills has been the theme of the past year, which began with moving to the vibrant Dulwich hill community in Sydney's inner west, and ended with (temporarily) moving to the stark, yet magnificent South Hebron hills. Throughout the year there have been some really special visits to my favourite valley in the whole wide world. In all of these hills and valleys friendships new and old have been incredibly important to me. Travel and visiting, usually in beautiful landscapes and always with cups of tea, have been a big part of the journey. Contemplation and creativity has also been key, as I have dipped my toe into collective music making, continued with my writing and pursued my "only as a hobby" water colour painting.

My emotional journey has been one of peaks and troughs as well. I reached almost rock bottom earlier in the year and cannot thank enough the small band of close friends who supported me as I clawwed my way back up to a higher place. I'm particularly grateful, in no special order, for motivational mindmaps, tough love, sing-alongs, supportive presence in the rain, cuddling under a blanket, forgiveness and apologies, road trips, folk music and a lift to the airport when said I didn't need it but actually kindof did.

View from current rooftop

This year I've also embarked on a journey called "Meeting for Learning", a Quaker process of personal reflection and discovery. The rolling green hills beyond the Don Bosco Retreat Centre were the backdrop for the commencement of the personal contemplation and "inner work" that I have sought to undertake. I would like to share some of my insights so far:

1. That strong female companions and role models are as important for the journey of the soul as swiss army knives are for hiking expeditions. Through crafternoons, mindmap-ernoons, music making, music appreciation, wine appreciation, serendipitous meetings on buses and many delightful house-guest experiences, I've learnt to trust, confide in, really listen to, stand up to, call out, cry with and laugh with the many incredible women in my life.

A few of the amazing women in my life

2. That boundary setting is not being mean. It's actually being kind - to myself and to others - because it shows self respect and gives people (who are not mind readers) a guide as to how I want to be treated. The alternative options - passive aggressive behaviour or glum silence - are not nearly as effective despite being easier to implement. This past year I have been provided with numerous opportunities to set boundaries and gently demand respect. I'm pleased to say that in most cases, including a quick final test the universe thought it would offer me right before Australian midnight, I have remained steadfast to my intended message, expressed it kindly, and the relationship with the other person has only improved as a result.

Music making in my favourite valley

3. That there is a time to be brutally honest with and a time to show unconditional support for the people we love. This past year I have been the recipient of tough love, and of consistent reassurance in the face of self-doubt. Both were appropriate to the context and significant moments in my journey. My challenge to myself going forward is to be wise enough to know when which approach is appropriate so that I can repay the favour for those I care about.

So, as the new year kicks into gear, my personal pilgrimage continues. There are no new resolutions or intentions, but rather a renewed focus on the journey I am already on. Thank you to everyone who has been with me so far.

So this is ... life under occupation

It's my day off, and I'm in Ramallah, potentially the most modern and hip city in the West Bank. There aren't Israeli soldiers at every corner. It's possible to talk to people in uniform and they will be pleasant. It's possible to go out with friends for a drink, and there are museums and cafes. I'm staying at a very groovy youth hostel which is smack bang in the centre of town, and serves dinner for 20 shekels each to a bunch of travellers gathered around a wood fire. I'm currently seated at Cafe La Vie, one of the most chilled out venues in town for sitting and writing or catching up with friends.

So, I should be relaxed and happy, but I'm sortof not.

As I wander through the corridors of the sparkling new Yasser Arafat Museum, opened in November this year in commemoration of the 12th anniversary of his death, I read and listen all over again about the history of the occupation and resistence movement. I am trying to absorb the information, and yet it is the poetry scattered throughout the exhibition that captures my heart. While the museum narrative was that the Intifadas were strategic and incredibly well executed, the result was clearly devastating - Israel captured greater sections of the West Bank and life is even more restricted than before.  I reach the end of the museum abruptly, it feels like, and without a glimmer of hope. A leader who had captured the hearts of so many was dead, the Oslo agreement is perceived as a lie, and really I can't see what had significantly changed for the better since the 1980s.

I mentioned my reaction to a fellow aussie at the hostel who had also been to the museum, and his comment was that there were some historical inaccuracies and they didn't mention the holocaust. They did mention it, I told him, and felt annoyed all over again. I wished I'd asked him to consider whether the narrative he had been fed about the history might be less accurate than what he had seen today. But instead, I just recommended Yad Vashem, the holocaust museum in Jeruselam, if he really wanted to see propoganda masquerading as a museum.

Me being me, I've also been hanging out with Ramallah-based Palestinians. Friends and acquaintances alike have been offloading to me. Everyone's issues are different, but the "vibe" is the same. A deeply set depression, mixed with a generalised frustration at everyone within earshot, has rubbed off on me. Somebody shares a John Lennon Christmas video on facebook where he talks about giving peace a chance and how we all just need to love one another before launching into "So this is Christmas...", which I usually get quite sentimental about. But this time I feel like throwing something at him. Sometimes it's justice, not love, that is needed. Apparently most internationals only last about 3-5 years in Palestine unless they're in a relationship with somebody here. I wonder how long I would last if my intention was to stay longer than three months.

My nightly ritual back home (in that really cold house down south with the three other internationals in the town where there's nothing to do) is to curl up in my sleeping bag and watch "Orange is the new black" on my tablet. I'm up to Season 4, I think. It's interesting how the experiences of a group of women in prison feels relatable in a context of occupation. It's also, I guess, a kindof escape.

Something was weird with the wi-fi at the hostel, so I couldn't watch my show. I have been reading instead, and immersed in "We are all completely beside ourselves". It's the opposite of an escape. The novel is narrated by a girl who was raised with a sister who is a chimpanzee (sorry for the spoiler) for the first five years, and then suddenly her sister is sent away to spend the following years in a cage with other chimpanzees. I am in floods of tears at the lies, the grief, and the injustice of it all. The people at the hostel don't know what to do with me, and awkwardly bring extra blankets and invite me to join them for dinner.

So, as Christmas edges closer, I try to find a sense of hope to cling to amongst the rubble of hopelessness. I take pictures for my "washing lines of Palestine" collection, (which might be part of my advocacy upon return) and talk to friends online. My sadness feels self-indulgent. After all, I am like the sister who wasn't sent away to live in a cage. I am the free one. And all the empathy in the world doesn't change that fact.

Painting at Dar Zahran Museum

Held

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?