I’m thinking about how we may never be young again. Each generation has a thief who robs them of innocence, a monster lurking in the shadows, a predator waiting to claim its prey. Plague, famine, war, persecution, terrorism, climate catastrophe. Humanity prevails. Somehow.
I’m thinking about time and how this pandemic is playing with our sense of time. It twists, distorts, suspends, elongates. It eradicates markers and erases memory.
When was the last time we watched a film in a darkened cinema or listened to live music? When did we last shake hands with a stranger or hug a friend without thinking about using hand sanitizer soon afterwards?
We ask the question-when did this happen, what did we do last week, or last month, or last year? What week is this? The question of how much longer is no longer an optimistic musing.
There is a nihilistic resignation and cruel irony to forward planning.
Just like the lyrics of this favourite song of mine from the 1980s, we are all hoping for the best while expecting the worst.
This was a race, and it might have been won, in some sort of pyrrhic victory, but a victory, nevertheless. It might be too late now. The race has been run.
We are now in a marathon. A marathon with no set finishing line. There will be no medal tally, no podium, no gold, no flowers to hold as we bow our heads in acceptance of the unacceptable.
We have all made sacrifices and given up adventures. We chase fleeting moments in the sun. We make fewer promises and take less for granted.
We have this one chance, to dance, in style, even if just for a while.
Just as the Victorian-NSW border closes on New Year’s Eve 2020 and the US registers over 3900 deaths in a single day and my mum re-establishes her habit of listening to press conferences, this time both the NSW and Victorian variety, it’s not easy to reflect on the good things that came out of this year. But I do live in Melbourne, Australia, in a state that experienced the dark Winter of a hard lockdown to emerge into the bright Summer sunlight and relatively speaking, we are indeed the “lucky country”.
Now I’m not a glass half empty kind of person, at least I hope not, but sometimes I need to work hard at maintaining an optimistic outlook, and I find myself consciously making an effort to reframe ostensibly negative events, using tired aphorisms like “every cloud has a silver lining” or “always look on the bright side of life” or “it’s not what happens to you that matters, it’s how you respond to what happens”. Perhaps I’m simply too much of a cynic, or ideally more of a stoic, to truly embrace positivity-I’m certainly suspicious of the happiness industry-but I digress, what I really believe is that the good things to emerge from this year are yet to be fully realised. While some complained about the loss of freedoms, most were grateful for the chance to slow down, to pause and perhaps reassess what matters in life. The ability to recognise good things against the backdrop of a pandemic requires people to appreciate little gifts, many of which were always present, but seldom apparent.
I’ve read about families who spent more time together than their pre-pandemic hectic lives permitted. They completed jigsaw puzzles, played new board games and created TikTok videos. I’ve heard colleagues speak of gardening projects and household refurbishment. The imposed home isolation had the opposite effect on me. Instead of ticking off my list of domestic duties, I allowed the clutter to amass around me, like some chaotic comforter. I might have watched Marie Condo videos or guitar tutorials or read the pile of books next to my bed. I might have cooked healthy meals. I might have experienced more of the good things that have come from this pandemic. Apparently people took up baking-a strange impulse no doubt precipitated by irrational fears of some sort of burgeoning apocalypse. Images of empty shelves once lined with toilet paper and flour are etched into my memory.
For me, ‘the great disruption’, as I have dubbed it, brought few major changes to my lifestyle. Apart from the significant impact on my working life, my personal life and health remained much the same. In fact, my health improved somewhat, thanks to the nurturing expertise of my naturopath. For that, I am grateful. I was still able to go for walks, in fact, I walked and talked more with my friend, my ‘COVID bubble buddy’ this year than ever before and I made time to write on a more regular basis with my two writerly friends. I stared out my front bay window on many afternoons whilst working from home and sat on my front patio, appreciating sunsets and birdsong.
I reconnected with my love of music and created more than 20 playlists to share with family, friends and strangers. And I have come to understand my life through listening to the tracks that mark each significant moment and stage. I guess music somehow allows me to understand and transcend my reality. The good thing about being confined to the home is the presence of technology to keep us connected, to entertainment and social networks. Through binge watching NETFLIX, I discovered a clever, quirky and endearing Canadian sitcom called Schitt’s Creek. I was amazed to read of fans who, like me, would watch the show in bed, often falling asleep mid-episode. For me, the show is like a warm hug-a strange simile that only fans would understand.
Because of our enforced distance, the fragility of all of our lives and her particular vulnerabilities, I came to appreciate, more than ever, that my time with mum is precious. We continued to speak over the phone for at least 45 minutes each day and longer on weekends. The gift of hearing her voice and learning from her wisdom is something I cherish each day. Seeing those flowers bloom in her garden each year is one of those good things that cannot be underestimated.
Because I had to teach via Zoom and caught a glimpse of their home environments, I was reminded of the complex and challenging lives that so many young people lead. This has made me a better, more compassionate teacher and a more impassioned advocate for an equitable education system. With less travelling, to work, to the cinema or cafes, to meet with family and friends, I found more time to ponder, to ruminate and unintentionally bring the unconscious to the conscious mind. As my own anxieties and fears unravelled, forcing me to confront past demons and buried pain, I navigated a way through, to a place where I am more content and grounded, capable of sharing my home with another living creature. Bringing a rescue kitten (Paddy) into my life was a big step for me, perhaps one of the very best ‘good things’ to come of this year. But more about that in another reflection. For now, may 2021 bring you all the good things-good health, good friends, some insight, some comfort, time to pause, space to dream, moments of transcendence and a warm hug.
“Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day I can hear her breathing.” ~ Arundhati Roy
Lately I’ve been thinking about civil liberties and ‘the social contract’ and how, in democratic nations, we give tacit consent to government to make tough decisions on our behalf, ideally for the ‘greater good’. I don’t envy the task that leaders face during these unpredictable times. They are tasked with preserving rights and freedoms whilst protecting citizens and preventing circumstances which have the potential to destroy some of those rights. It’s a delicate balance. I don’t want to play the blame game. However, I am compelled to add my voice to the global chorus raising the alarm to uncover the problematic and oppressive relationship between authorities and marginalised communities. In saying that, I’m conscious not to adopt a ‘bleeding heart’ or rescuer mentality. During this time of social discord and upheaval, it’s important to remind ourselves of what it means to be an ally. I’m also reminded of a famous quote, the origins of which (I’m ashamed to admit) I didn’t know until I began research for this post.
At a 1971 National Women’s Political Caucus event, Fanny Lou Hamer gave one of her most famous speeches titled “Nobody’s Free Until Everybody’s Free.”
“Now, we’ve got to have some changes in this country. And not only changes for the black man, and only changes for the black woman, but the changes we have to have in this country are going to be for liberation of all people — because nobody’s free until everybody’s free,”
You might expect me to launch into a post about Black Lives Matter movement or racism within the police force. I will leave that for another day. This post is about the Australian experience of COVID-19, specifically, the most recent developments in the state of Victoria. It’s also about rights and freedoms and the treatment of marginalised communities from migrant backgrounds.
Yesterday afternoon, the Andrews’ Labor Government announced that the residents of nine public housing towers in North Melbourne and Flemington would be placed in “hard lockdown” for at least the next five days. That’s 3000 people who are no longer ‘free’ to move around their community. These residents are now confined to their homes, not permitted to work, exercise, shop for groceries, or conduct essential caregiving in another location. To ensure this undertaking is executed with fidelity, 500 police officers have been assigned to supervise proceedings. Residents will be compensated for loss of income through ‘hardship payments’ and there will be a rent freeze for a fortnight. The Victorian Premier has reassured the public that the state government would be arranging for food, healthcare and other essential services to be delivered to the residents. As I write this, 24 hours after the announcement, the details of how that will work have not yet been announced or discussed with residents.
These flats are home to some of Melbourne’s most ‘vulnerable’ populations, a fact cited as justification for this ‘public health’ intervention. Now while this justification might be valid, the intervention has been received in vastly different ways by those who live a more privileged life outside of these cloistered communities. The hard lockdown as been lauded as timely and necessary. Others view this intervention as fascist, another example of unjust, discriminatory government action and racialised policing.
At worst, this hard lockdown is reactionary, heavy handed and inappropriate. At best, it’s paternalistic and ill informed.
What has not been acknowledged by those in charge is that the people who live in these flats are also one of the most heavily policed populations in the state of Victoria. The combination of armed officers stationed on each floor and patrolling the perimeter would be intimidating for many and triggering for others. Many residents originate from countries in which law enforcement authorities are corrupt or brutal. Some carry traumatic experiences of detention centres. Others have tense relationships with police, due to racial profiling, aggressive encounters and unresolved resentment. Understandably, many believe they are being targeted and treated like criminals. The optimist in me remains hopeful that this might be the start of more strategic and preventative approach to mending past wounds. The pessimist in me sees this whole situation as a ticking bomb.
I know something of the relationship between youth and local police from first hand experience, as I used to teach at a high school in one of these lockdown areas. I’ve been inside those flats. I’ve shared food and cups of tea with generous and grateful parents, inside cramped living spaces. I’ve worked with young people, families, local police, legal advocates and community workers.
Thirteen years ago I was fortunate to participate in a community youth leadership project, in partnership with Victoria Police, in which sixteen adolescents walked the Kokoda Track with members of the local police, a trekking company and a ‘Today Tonight’ media crew. As part of our training, we climbed the dilapidated stairwells to the 20th floor of one block of the Flemington flats.
Standing in a narrow corridor, looking out of a sealed window to the compound and street below, I was struck by a sense of claustrophobia. I cannot imagine what it will be like for these people to be confined to their homes against their will.
I think of mothers with no respite from screaming children or abusive partners.
I think of the children and wonder if they will be permitted in the playground.
I think of young men of colour and wonder if their relationships with police will improve or become more volatile as a result of this ubiquitous presence?
Now I’m no expert, but the Kokoda experience, combined with my 30 years in education and post-grad qualifications in the area of student wellbeing, puts me in a reasonable position to understand something about the needs of these diverse populations, the complexities associated with accessing health and legal services, and the burden of comorbidity which exists amongst some of the residents in these flats.
At the same time, I understand the urgency of the situation. Over the past ten days, numbers of COVID cases have continued to increase in the Northern and Western suburbs of Melbourne, reaching 108 new cases in 24 hours, the highest daily increase since the 28th March. I also understand that sometimes leaders have to act quickly. However, we live in a democracy and throughout this entire pandemic, the Andrews government has communicated each stage and change, emphasising the importance of giving people forewarning.
The fact that these residents were given no notice of this lockdown is troubling to say the least, particularly when we consider that earlier this week, residents of 10 postcodes were given 24 hours notice of a far more innocuous stage three lockdown.
Within an hour of the announcement, residents of these nine tower blocks were expressing their shock, concerns and dismay. Hana, who shares a three-bedroom flat in one of the Racecourse Road towers with her mother and sister, said she had returned from grocery shopping just after 4pm to be met by an “intimidating” police presence:
“I was just shocked,” she said. “I thought, I don’t know, it seemed like there was some criminal activity or something, like a stabbing or something … I asked, ‘What’s happened?’ and they said, ‘Oh, there’s an outbreak. You can’t leave your house. Just park your car, you can’t leave your house.’”
Awatif Taha, a journalist and community worker who lives in the Flemington public housing towers conveyed her dismay at the neglect shown to these vulnerable communities throughout the pandemic:
So suddenly we are locked down but they should have been aware when the virus was coming that this is a crowded area and needed more attention. So we have been scared, and we have thought that the government had forgotten us. We have had no way of being heard.
It’s rare to read balanced commentary and rational analysis at the best of times, even more so during a pandemic. I’m doing my best to adopt a reasoned perspective. It’s unfortunate that Andrews has been criticised by those on the left and right of politics. Yes, he should have ‘got on the front foot’ with this, by anticipating outbreaks in these environments and establishing a more effective community health strategy in consultation with community groups. In today’s press conference, he did his best to reassure us that this lockdown is about “protection, not punishment”. While I respect Dan as a leader, I can’t help but be suspicious of the so-called ‘experts’ who are advising him in these matters. Tragically, there is no ‘right’ way of dealing with a pandemic. Sadly, there are multiple versions of the ‘wrong’ way.
Unfortunately I have no magical cure for entrenched racism or systemic inequality, but I will say the following: if we have learnt anything through this pandemic, surely we have come to understand that our freedoms are precious and should not be taken for granted. Importantly, we should be alert to the reality that, as much as the somewhat jingoistic slogan would have us believe otherwise, “we are [NOT] all in this together”, because, truth be told, we are NOT all free. The pandemic is shining a light on so many dark, neglected and problematic corners of our society. Mistakes have been made and will continue to be made. We need to be careful not to make assumptions and draw definitive conclusions about interventions. If we do this, we are no better than the ignorant masses who blindly follow fascists and believe inflammatory reports in the media. Perhaps these times call for more philosophers, not fanatics, on both sides of the political spectrum.
Today, while seeking answers to many questions, I found some solace in a sermon from a man of the cloth. I no longer identify as a religious person. In fact, I’m a “lapsed Catholic” and bear much cynicism towards religious institutions. However, I have always been drawn to the philosophical underpinnings of religious sermons and respect some religious leaders, such as Father Rod Bower (of the Anglican Church, Gosford, NSW). With regards to people doing the ‘right thing’ to combat the spread of this virus, his message is simple, yet profound: we must carry the relational yoke, for the good of others and ultimately, for our own good. And we are not talking about the ‘ideal good’, but good in comparison to other goods-“the yoke that values the freedom and wellbeing of others as well as our own, the yoke that loves our neighbours as ourselves”.
From my perspective, the following applies now, more than ever: be informed, curious and agile in your thinking; be selfless and generous; be grateful and aware of your privilege; be kind and compassionate; be empathic and bear your yoke for the good of others
We may never speak again of droughts and flooding rains
as long as cries of ancient species haunt our waking dreams
and naked towering gums stand sentinel
to apathy, denial, greed
my heart heaves, no respite in sight.
Yet these are the lucky people, fleeing to water's edge
how can they be mistaken for refugees
when there are no boat turn backs in Mallacoota.
This time we cannot avert our gaze
eyes stinging, we cannot see
beyond the wall of flame.
We hold our collective breath
inspire less, expire more vitriol,
crimson red with callous rage, ablaze across southern skies.
An unnatural darkness descends, a reckoning,
Narmarrkon, lightning man, rides storm clouds
his thunderous voice a harbinger.
I step outside to bless the rain
gentle magenta settles over suburban rooftops
I remember to inhale deeply.
poem composed in Melbourne, Australia 15th January 2020
“The range of what we think and do is limited by what we fail to notice. And because we fail to notice that we fail to notice, there is little we can do to change; until we notice how failing to notice shapes our thoughts and deeds” ~r d Laing
I’ve been away from myself for far too long. Not so far that I became unrecognisable to those who have known me for the longest time, yet far enough to be foreign to my own observations of self. It’s funny how those who know you and love you can see you drifting away before you can catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the distance. And the distance between who you are, in essence, and who you are in each moment is vast and daunting at times. To bridge that chasm requires courage, honesty, recognition, breath and movement.
For the past six years I have been stagnating. At first, it was due to waiting. Holding my breath, in anticipation of a change of heart, from a heart that no longer beat to the same rhythm as my own.
Then came the perfect storm, a confluence of tumultuous experiences that threw me up and tossed me around, scarcely allowing me to find my feet before I was once again at the mercy of the elements.
Packing up the family home meant opening up closed memories, uncovering emotions gathering on dusty shelves, hidden beneath faded photographs in shoeboxes labelled in my father’s handwriting.
Sharing a tiny unit with my mother shed light on darkened corners. We struggled, we tore at frayed edges, we fought hard to hold onto our better selves. We made assumptions and didn’t notice the experience of the other. And yet, we emerged intact and closer. We travelled to India together, to my birthplace, on a pilgrimage of sorts. I noticed a different side to my mother and I will be forever grateful for that opportunity to see her.
My work was arduous and unrelenting in its demands, yet stable and affirming. I guess it filled the void. At least I convinced myself that it did. In the process of giving my all, I sacrificed my vitality and compromised my health. The ailments crept up on me. My back began to ache with the kind of soreness caused by carrying heavy weights.
And yet, I continued to be successful-a change agent, a leader, a mature woman with a wealth of experience and expertise. I exuded confidence, self-efficacy, passion and a willingness to act on my convictions. With a change in leadership at my workplace, I was confronted with challenges that would shake me down to my core. I learnt that what we build can be razed to the ground by those who are threatened by our craft.
Ignoring my mother’s advice, “you need to stop expecting recognition, so you won’t be disappointed when you don’t receive it”, I felt increasingly under appreciated and diminished by my line manager. The saying “jobs for the boys” became a maxim at our workplace. One of my colleagues would joke that the building had been built on a toxic dump, or some sacred Indigenous site, so we were all cursed. The toxic part proved to be accurate. It seems that ‘toxic leadership’ is actually a thing. The revolving door keeps turning as high attrition rates reflect worker dissatisfaction…unless you are one of the “cool kids”, a part of the boss’ inner circle. Whilst I have been repulsed, rejected and repelled, sycophants continue to gravitate to his orbit. I know there is something I have failed to notice in all of this, but I’m still too close to see it.
Life has a way of waking you out of these delusions, reminding you that you are not the centre of the universe, that your troubles are minor, in the grand scheme of things. Perspective is a gift, often uninvited, it comes in many shapes. I delivered two eulogies this year, one for my elderly aunt (my father’s sister) and one for her husband. For months prior to these farewells, I noticed my mother’s health deteriorating as she devoted so much of her time and energy to caring for them both. Visiting my aunt in the nursing home was difficult enough for me, but it was incredibly draining on my mother. I grappled with heavy emotions, of anger and fear and sorrow and guilt and despair and grief. Always grief.
I attended two more memorial services this year, for young men who committed suicide. One of the young men was a successful economics graduate, in the prime of his life, with “the world his oyster”. No-one expected him to take his own life. The other young man was the son of a close friend of mine. I remember him as a 15 year old, rapping and riding with us in a limousine on the way to a screening of an amateur film that we made, with him in the lead role. He was smart and funny and talented, a recalcitrant with a strong social conscience. He suffered with schizophrenia and related problems such as alcohol and drug addiction. He experienced periods of homelessness. In remembrance of his life, his struggles and his belief in the importance of “conversating” with people, I take more notice of homeless people.
Still struggling with heavy feelings brought on by heavy thoughts, I sought the counsel of a professional, who told me to move, to take action, of some sort. The thought terrified me. I had been making excuses, procrastinating, avoiding acting on my own behalf for many years. I had not noticed my inertia, mistaking routine and a hectic working life for agency. I was holding myself back, denying myself the chance to be larger, to feel more.
And so I decided to travel to Bali. I spent some days alone at a beachside resort and a week in Ubud with my friend who had lost his son. He proselytised about his plant based diet and I was converted…well, almost. We spoke of his son, his writing, politics, football and food. Bali was a gift. Time to walk and sit and talk with good people. Time to discuss Buddhist philosophies and take countless photographs. Time to stare at the ocean. Time to reconnect with spaces within and integrate the fragmented pieces. Time to notice the self I had hidden away and feel the joy I had denied myself for the past six years.
Upon returning from Bali, I took the plunge and started applying for jobs. This process was exhausting and nerve-wracking, yet exhilarating and illuminating. Just last week I was appointed to a leadership role at a new workplace. I start in January 2019.
And so we arrive at the present day. My back still aches with some burden that has not as yet been lifted. But I inhale a little more deeply now. I listen to more music and go for more walks. I spend more time in nature and take the time to notice.
StandingStill 