Funny how fundamental principles of justice and fairness are threatened whenever something like yesterday's siege in Sydney happens.
The gunman was out on bail.
First thing this morning I received a request to sign a petition to tighten up bail laws.
That didn't take long, I thought.
Extraordinary situations happen. Sadly. It's quite frightening to think about what our legal rights would look like if the laws were based on the rare event.
I think about Peter Greste, the Australian journalist currently in an Egyptian prison. He was denied bail. We signed petitions for him to be released on bail.
It seems that the presumption of innocence is the first thing that is easily thrown out when something terrible happens.
Maybe I'm a bleeding heart, but the presumption of innocence is precious to me.
Then again, we have dozens of innocent people locked up in offshore prisons, their only transgression, the temerity to seek asylum and protection. I suppose in this context, what was done yesterday by a dangerous man known to police is very hard to accept.
The world is so out of balance.
It's interesting how all actions devalue or enhance. That balance is so delicate and now there's no balance at all.
As I despair, I remember the story behind "#illridewithyou" and a little bit of hope is restored.
Showing posts with label justice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label justice. Show all posts
Tuesday, 16 December 2014
Saturday, 13 December 2014
The ritual of grief - remembering those who died at work
My last post was in early October. I've been pondering why I have not been feeling the compulsion to write. It wasn't that I was "blocked", I could still write easily and freely when required. Fellow writers and regular readers kept telling me how much they hoped I would start to write again. This was lovely feedback and support, but still the desire wasn't there.
A few weeks ago I realised what had happened. I had so much going on in my life that I just couldn't talk about publicly. The filtering was so much harder. After the filtering, the sifting through what was left to see if there was anything available to spin a story of interest to readers. There wasn't.
So much of my writing is based on observing the behaviour and interactions of others and thinking about the encounters that I have out in the world. When many of my interactions became confidential or deeply personal, I could not filter enough; or filtered so much that there was a mere speck of a detail left. I may as well write about the dust on top of the fridge!
This week, all of that has been shaken out of the way with two experiences. The first experience I can't write about just now, the second one happened today.
Today I sang as a member of vocal group Mood Swing at a service to remember and celebrate the lives of those who have died from work-related causes. The annual remembrance service is conducted by the Uniting Church's Creative Ministries Network, GriefWork and I knew that it would be a sombre, sad occasion. I also know that sometimes my empathetic nature makes it hard for me to be in this kind of situation without being emotionally moved.
Families, workmates and other members of the community came to share a ritual of grief with their community. As I listened to the reflections, prayers and personal experiences I was moved by the courage on display. Death is part of what it is to be human, but it is so much worse when that death was preventable and far too early. I was struck by the open way in which tears and grief were discussed in the coolness of the church. The summer sun illuminated gloriously the stained glass windows, their stories reminding us about death and sacrifice. These workers who died because of something at their workplace were not martyrs for a cause or a better world. They were innocent people, going about their daily lives and earning a living to support themselves and their families. To work is one of the most revered activities in our contemporary world and it has so many casualties.
I was shocked to hear so many of the deaths were suicides caused by workplace bullying. How can this happen? How can it be so severe as to go unnoticed, with the victim left unsupported with only one, terrible solution available to them? I could feel my anger stirring.
Candles were lit, illuminating the photographs and mementos bringing lost loved ones into our hearts. A memorial quilt was unfurled and hung beneath the big window. Names of those lost were read. Each new gesture renewed my tears as grief and anger swelled inside me.
One woman, Olive, spoke about the loss of her husband 10 years ago. He was shot at work. Their son was 6 months old at the time. Olive is an amazing woman. She showed courage as she spoke about the deeply personal relationship she has with her grief and her struggle. She spoke about thoughts being the language of the mind and feelings being the language of the body. On the subject of forgiveness, she spoke about the challenge and how she has recently realised that forgiveness isn't for the person who pulled the trigger and it can't change the past; it's for her. Through forgiveness she acknowledges she can become a bigger, stronger person. We all can. I examined who in my life I need to forgive.
After the service, I thanked her for sharing and acknowledged her courage in speaking the way she did. She looked uncertain and asked me if it was "all right". I responded: "You are extraordinary and what you did today was an amazing privilege to witness." Tears filled her eyes. Tears filled my eyes. She hugged me.
The inclusion of music in such a service is a beautiful and inspired choice. The songs we sang today were all part of our repertoire and I can regularly sing them without tears flowing. Today, a new poignancy was discovered in the words. The program promised songs of "justice, sorrow and hope". We sang:
He's Sweet I Know
Waiting on an Angel
Don't feel no ways tired
Come and stand in that river
Lean on me
Irish Blessing.
At the end of the service we stood in a circle and were invited to say something about our experience of the service. (Such an inclusive act, not just the priest or designated authority allowed to speak!) A woman standing next to me patted my arm and asked me if I was all right. Unlike me, she had lost someone and was enquiring into my well being!
Thoughtful, simple rituals, can be so powerful in helping us express and come together to share our feelings, whether they be sad or joyful. How I miss them in daily life.
I left the church thinking about the death of cricketer Phil Hughes who suffered death in his workplace. The simple act of the community at large placing cricket bats outside, bears out the power and importance of ritual to help us heal.
A few weeks ago I realised what had happened. I had so much going on in my life that I just couldn't talk about publicly. The filtering was so much harder. After the filtering, the sifting through what was left to see if there was anything available to spin a story of interest to readers. There wasn't.
So much of my writing is based on observing the behaviour and interactions of others and thinking about the encounters that I have out in the world. When many of my interactions became confidential or deeply personal, I could not filter enough; or filtered so much that there was a mere speck of a detail left. I may as well write about the dust on top of the fridge!
This week, all of that has been shaken out of the way with two experiences. The first experience I can't write about just now, the second one happened today.
Today I sang as a member of vocal group Mood Swing at a service to remember and celebrate the lives of those who have died from work-related causes. The annual remembrance service is conducted by the Uniting Church's Creative Ministries Network, GriefWork and I knew that it would be a sombre, sad occasion. I also know that sometimes my empathetic nature makes it hard for me to be in this kind of situation without being emotionally moved.
Families, workmates and other members of the community came to share a ritual of grief with their community. As I listened to the reflections, prayers and personal experiences I was moved by the courage on display. Death is part of what it is to be human, but it is so much worse when that death was preventable and far too early. I was struck by the open way in which tears and grief were discussed in the coolness of the church. The summer sun illuminated gloriously the stained glass windows, their stories reminding us about death and sacrifice. These workers who died because of something at their workplace were not martyrs for a cause or a better world. They were innocent people, going about their daily lives and earning a living to support themselves and their families. To work is one of the most revered activities in our contemporary world and it has so many casualties.
I was shocked to hear so many of the deaths were suicides caused by workplace bullying. How can this happen? How can it be so severe as to go unnoticed, with the victim left unsupported with only one, terrible solution available to them? I could feel my anger stirring.
 |
| Woven stories - the commemorative quilt. © 2014 divacultura |
One woman, Olive, spoke about the loss of her husband 10 years ago. He was shot at work. Their son was 6 months old at the time. Olive is an amazing woman. She showed courage as she spoke about the deeply personal relationship she has with her grief and her struggle. She spoke about thoughts being the language of the mind and feelings being the language of the body. On the subject of forgiveness, she spoke about the challenge and how she has recently realised that forgiveness isn't for the person who pulled the trigger and it can't change the past; it's for her. Through forgiveness she acknowledges she can become a bigger, stronger person. We all can. I examined who in my life I need to forgive.
After the service, I thanked her for sharing and acknowledged her courage in speaking the way she did. She looked uncertain and asked me if it was "all right". I responded: "You are extraordinary and what you did today was an amazing privilege to witness." Tears filled her eyes. Tears filled my eyes. She hugged me.
The inclusion of music in such a service is a beautiful and inspired choice. The songs we sang today were all part of our repertoire and I can regularly sing them without tears flowing. Today, a new poignancy was discovered in the words. The program promised songs of "justice, sorrow and hope". We sang:
He's Sweet I Know
Waiting on an Angel
Don't feel no ways tired
Come and stand in that river
Lean on me
Irish Blessing.
At the end of the service we stood in a circle and were invited to say something about our experience of the service. (Such an inclusive act, not just the priest or designated authority allowed to speak!) A woman standing next to me patted my arm and asked me if I was all right. Unlike me, she had lost someone and was enquiring into my well being!
Thoughtful, simple rituals, can be so powerful in helping us express and come together to share our feelings, whether they be sad or joyful. How I miss them in daily life.
I left the church thinking about the death of cricketer Phil Hughes who suffered death in his workplace. The simple act of the community at large placing cricket bats outside, bears out the power and importance of ritual to help us heal.
 |
| © 2014 divacultura |
Monday, 9 June 2014
Considering "Utopia" and Australia's history
A friend told me that I had to watch "Utopia", John Pilger's film about black Australia. (I was about to write that it was a film about the current situation in black Australia. I feel like the current situation has existed for a while.)
While I was emotionally engaged by "Utopia", I had a niggling question throughout and that was about balance, objectivity and notions of "truth" in journalism. I'm not sure what I think about that. I am well-read on the history of Australia, black and white, and struggle to understand the intentions behind government policies, both in the past and now. I've concluded that this film is not objective and is a construction meant to tell a particular story. Is it propaganda? I don't know - probably because I sympathise with the view presented - but I think it's certainly a pretty important piece of activism.
I remember believing in the ideals of balance, objectivity and truth. There was a moment of youthful naivety when I actually thought I could achieve it. I no longer believe those things are possible. The best thing that we can do is sample widely and seek out as many viewpoints as we can.
Despite having these misgivings, "Utopia" is worth watching as part of the search for viewpoints.
Vox pop interviews on Sydney streets on Australia Day confounded me. How can any adult truly believe that Aboriginal people like to live in extreme poverty and deprivation? That actually they choose it?
CCTV footage of the mistreatment of an Aboriginal man in police custody, shows the rough handling by police dealing with a sleepy drunk man who inconveniently leaves his blood on the floor after he is thrown to the ground by police. We then see him left alone in a cell as he dies. The film reports that he had been taken into "protective" police custody and his life could have been saved. He basically died from neglect.
We then hear about the death of an Aboriginal man in the back of a jail transport in Western Australia. He died in the metal mobile cell after temperatures reached over 50 degrees Celsius. The coroner said he had basically been cooked to death. The Corrective Services Minister at the time seemed to be sorry for what had happened and that she had considered resigning. She said she hadn't resigned because she wanted to do something. She organised cultural sensitivity training.
What does cultural sensitivity training have to do with a failure to respect another human being? It seemed to me that this Aboriginal man in custody was viewed as so different from us, that he must not have been viewed as human.
Over to Rottnest Island and we discover that the resort rooms were once the cells of an Aboriginal concentration camp. The tourist leaflet about "historic" Rottnest Island does not mention the prison history, the hangings that took place and the mass grave nearby.
A man at the Australian War Memorial is asked why wars fought on foreign soils are commemorated, but the "frontier wars" where Aborigines fought to defend their homelands from colonial takeover are ignored, as if they never happened. It's a good question.
Stories of the Wave Hill strike where Aboriginal workers and their families went on strike for over 7 years in an effort to be paid and fed properly, made my own struggles for fairness as a union official seem inconsequential. Another tale of exploitation of Aboriginal workers is told about cotton chippers at Wee Waa in northern New South Wales. One of the activists talks about the planes spraying pesticides flying over and spraying while he and his fellow workers were working in the fields. Not even human, kept going through my mind as I watched.
I don't know how this happens. How can we regard other human beings as less than ourselves? How can empathy fail us so completely? And of course, I write this as a relatively privileged white woman who has access to what I need - more than I need, actually. Is it comprehensive brainwashing? That the so-called history wars have been successful in separating white Australians from our awful history?
I spent three years of my primary schooling at Moree Public School. Moree is a town in northern New South Wales with a large Aboriginal population. I remember being terrified at the prospect of going to school with blackfellas. Fresh from Canberra Grammar, I had met one Aboriginal boy. He was the adopted son of the minister at our Anglican Church. I wonder now where he came from. Had he been stolen? Of course, pretty soon, we were all just kids together and colour didn't matter so much in the classroom.
Corporal punishment was used liberally and certain teachers had a fearsome reputation as wielders of the cane. I was in grade 4, Miss Hoolihan was taking an art class. Eddie Pitt flicked paint at me. It was friendly play. I painted his arm. We were warned. We didn't listen. Both of us were reprimanded and told to go to see Mr O'Connor. Mr O'Connor was known to have broken several canes on the hands of badly behaved children and I was terrified. For this minor transgression, play really, we were to be caned by Mr O'Connor!
Eddie Pitt taught me something about courage as he led the way. I really didn't want to go. We arrived at Mr O'Connor's classroom to discover that he wasn't there. Eddie Pitt comforted me and said not to worry about it. He was probably used to being regularly physically punished by the ripe old age of about 8. My mother was furious and advocated strongly for me telling me that I was not to receive the cane. Ever.
Eddie Pitt's mother might have advocated strongly for him too. Or she might have wished she could, but didn't know how. Or she might have been so subjugated by the white men that she accepted that her son would be beaten regularly at school as part of all they could expect from their lives.
I know that Eddie Pitt is probably dead. Statistically, it's likely that many of my Aboriginal classmates, especially the boys, are not longer with us.
I found myself ashamed to agree with one person interviewed in the film who said he thought that foreign aid was probably required to help us all. I don't know what the answer is, but I suspect that educating all of us and facing our history is part of it.
What do you think? Have you seen the film?
I was able to watch "Utopia" on SBS on demand TV. It expires in 5 days.
While I was emotionally engaged by "Utopia", I had a niggling question throughout and that was about balance, objectivity and notions of "truth" in journalism. I'm not sure what I think about that. I am well-read on the history of Australia, black and white, and struggle to understand the intentions behind government policies, both in the past and now. I've concluded that this film is not objective and is a construction meant to tell a particular story. Is it propaganda? I don't know - probably because I sympathise with the view presented - but I think it's certainly a pretty important piece of activism.
I remember believing in the ideals of balance, objectivity and truth. There was a moment of youthful naivety when I actually thought I could achieve it. I no longer believe those things are possible. The best thing that we can do is sample widely and seek out as many viewpoints as we can.
Despite having these misgivings, "Utopia" is worth watching as part of the search for viewpoints.
Vox pop interviews on Sydney streets on Australia Day confounded me. How can any adult truly believe that Aboriginal people like to live in extreme poverty and deprivation? That actually they choose it?
CCTV footage of the mistreatment of an Aboriginal man in police custody, shows the rough handling by police dealing with a sleepy drunk man who inconveniently leaves his blood on the floor after he is thrown to the ground by police. We then see him left alone in a cell as he dies. The film reports that he had been taken into "protective" police custody and his life could have been saved. He basically died from neglect.
We then hear about the death of an Aboriginal man in the back of a jail transport in Western Australia. He died in the metal mobile cell after temperatures reached over 50 degrees Celsius. The coroner said he had basically been cooked to death. The Corrective Services Minister at the time seemed to be sorry for what had happened and that she had considered resigning. She said she hadn't resigned because she wanted to do something. She organised cultural sensitivity training.
What does cultural sensitivity training have to do with a failure to respect another human being? It seemed to me that this Aboriginal man in custody was viewed as so different from us, that he must not have been viewed as human.
Over to Rottnest Island and we discover that the resort rooms were once the cells of an Aboriginal concentration camp. The tourist leaflet about "historic" Rottnest Island does not mention the prison history, the hangings that took place and the mass grave nearby.
A man at the Australian War Memorial is asked why wars fought on foreign soils are commemorated, but the "frontier wars" where Aborigines fought to defend their homelands from colonial takeover are ignored, as if they never happened. It's a good question.
Stories of the Wave Hill strike where Aboriginal workers and their families went on strike for over 7 years in an effort to be paid and fed properly, made my own struggles for fairness as a union official seem inconsequential. Another tale of exploitation of Aboriginal workers is told about cotton chippers at Wee Waa in northern New South Wales. One of the activists talks about the planes spraying pesticides flying over and spraying while he and his fellow workers were working in the fields. Not even human, kept going through my mind as I watched.
I don't know how this happens. How can we regard other human beings as less than ourselves? How can empathy fail us so completely? And of course, I write this as a relatively privileged white woman who has access to what I need - more than I need, actually. Is it comprehensive brainwashing? That the so-called history wars have been successful in separating white Australians from our awful history?
I spent three years of my primary schooling at Moree Public School. Moree is a town in northern New South Wales with a large Aboriginal population. I remember being terrified at the prospect of going to school with blackfellas. Fresh from Canberra Grammar, I had met one Aboriginal boy. He was the adopted son of the minister at our Anglican Church. I wonder now where he came from. Had he been stolen? Of course, pretty soon, we were all just kids together and colour didn't matter so much in the classroom.
Corporal punishment was used liberally and certain teachers had a fearsome reputation as wielders of the cane. I was in grade 4, Miss Hoolihan was taking an art class. Eddie Pitt flicked paint at me. It was friendly play. I painted his arm. We were warned. We didn't listen. Both of us were reprimanded and told to go to see Mr O'Connor. Mr O'Connor was known to have broken several canes on the hands of badly behaved children and I was terrified. For this minor transgression, play really, we were to be caned by Mr O'Connor!
Eddie Pitt taught me something about courage as he led the way. I really didn't want to go. We arrived at Mr O'Connor's classroom to discover that he wasn't there. Eddie Pitt comforted me and said not to worry about it. He was probably used to being regularly physically punished by the ripe old age of about 8. My mother was furious and advocated strongly for me telling me that I was not to receive the cane. Ever.
Eddie Pitt's mother might have advocated strongly for him too. Or she might have wished she could, but didn't know how. Or she might have been so subjugated by the white men that she accepted that her son would be beaten regularly at school as part of all they could expect from their lives.
I know that Eddie Pitt is probably dead. Statistically, it's likely that many of my Aboriginal classmates, especially the boys, are not longer with us.
I found myself ashamed to agree with one person interviewed in the film who said he thought that foreign aid was probably required to help us all. I don't know what the answer is, but I suspect that educating all of us and facing our history is part of it.
What do you think? Have you seen the film?
I was able to watch "Utopia" on SBS on demand TV. It expires in 5 days.
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