I read an article in the wee hours of this morning.
You know how it is – you can’t sleep so you read the news, when you’ve finished reading every ‘real’ news article known to mankind on every single news site you can find and you are thoroughly depressed about the state of the world, you click on the one about the world’s best doughnuts or something and then you just keep reading the articles that follow until you’ve fallen down a rabbit hole so deep you no longer know what’s real or otherwise – well, I was there.
I read an article titled ‘The problem with flaunting your love on Facebook” and it made me so cranky.
For more than one reason.
Firstly – it was about ‘a former deputy mayor’ from a Sydney council. I don’t know why he was ever news to start with, but he definitely doesn’t deserve the column inches devoted to him now.
Secondly – it was actually an article covering probable domestic violence and a relationship breakdown dressed up as ‘concern’ which always annoys me.
Thirdly – it’s OKAY to be loved up and flaunt your love wherever you damn well please.
Sure, you might ‘flaunt’ your love all over your social media platforms through photos and love messages and whatever else and, YES, it might end – but that is life. If your social media platforms end up a testament to five or six or even sixty LOVE OF MY LIFE declarations – who gives a shit. Well done to you for living life with such merry abandon and positivity.
And YES, being that open does allow people to have opinions about what went wrong or not, whether or not you’re actually sane to be dating yet another guy from the same gym, or your disastrous choice of filters BUT they’re having those opinions anyway because they clearly have nothing better to do with their time than be hating on your happiness.
In fact, while they’re hating on your happiness, it’s probably stopping them penning outraged letters about Halal to the Jewish butcher, or stuffing bikkies in their face as they sneer at Jennifer Aniston’s tummy, or whatever it is that the mean spirited do to fill their days.
In a world that is full of misery, if you want to shout out from the rooftops about your love for John or Barry or Bridget or the married couple you might on your swinging holiday – go bonkers.
If I don’t care I can just scroll straight past your post and if I do care, I can stop and click ‘like’ or if I really think this new love is the nicest person you’ve ever met – I’ll comment with lots of happy loved up emojis because that’s what the cool kids do these days.
Don’t let the fear of failure hold you back from spreading that happiness around if that is what you want to do. Most of us would be a whole lot better off if we spent more time shouting about happiness and love and glitter and unicorns without worrying if it’ll come back to bite us in a week, a year or a decade.
A life led as exuberantly and as positively as possible should always be Plan A. That’s why there is 26 letters in the English alphabet – so you can keep on keeping on planning for success, happiness and whatever else rocks your boat.
And if that isn’t enough, start on the Khmer alphabet – you’ve got 74 more plan options right there.
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Not for a holiday no, but yes – it will be beneficial, educational and eye opening like all travel opportunities.
So why am I going?
Let’s go back a bit….
There are a heap of words we use in the English language which we owe to India – words like karma, mantra, jodhpurs, bungalow, bangle, dinghy, cummerbund and typhoon to name a few. And most of us are familiar with the term Jai Ho! thanks to the success of Slumdog Millionaire‘s theme song in 2008.
And don’t forget the greeting “Namaste” which we’ve cheerfully appropriated to use with a hashtag under pictures of ourselves appreciating sunrises or doing yoga (another Indian word). So clearly, I’ve never used it this way (chortles and snorts).
And we all know people of Indian origin – chances are we are cheerfully mispronouncing their names several years after we started being friends with them. And getting away with it because collectively they probably decided that a country full of people that can’t actually be arsed finishing a word like afternoon (arvo) is probably never going to get the poetic nuances of a name like Abhishree which means to enlighten; brilliant; powerful; surrounded by glory; shining. You probably call her ‘Ree.
Of course there’s that cricket obsession that a lot of the Australian population has which keeps them pretty au fait with Indian cricket stats in the summer. And we know about the Taj Mahal.
But all the bits about –
it being the largest democracy in the world with 1.2 billion people
having the lowest meat consumption per person in the world
there being more mobile phones than toilets in India
that there is one woman dying every hour of dowry related crimes
that in the 2500 years since Judaism came to India there have been no recorded instances of anti-semitism
that 13 of the 20 most polluted cities in the world are in India
that over 80% of Indians don’t have access to secondary education
that less than 1% of GDP is spent on healthcare
Well they are less well known.
It’s a country of many juxtapositions. It is a complex, colourful and fairly progressive country despite media coverage, but despite the growth of it’s economy, many of the people living in India still live in extreme poverty.
So, this weekend I’m heading off and hitching my wagon to a World Vision field trip to check out the work they do over there and bang on about it for evermore.
Which is not quite how they pitched the opportunity but let’s be honest, we know that’s what’s going to happen.
My passion for humanitarian projects and outcomes which result in better education, better health and better opportunities for people be fully participating in their own lives isn’t the result of the internet and social media.
I’ve physically participated in NFP projects in countries like Indonesia, Taiwan, Russia, Ecuador and Mexico over the years including laying water pipes to enable fresh water to reach a village in Indonesia, the building of a dental and health centre in Mexico, a youth partnership program just after the fall of communism in Russia, a leadership program for women running NFPs across Asia-Pacific which happened in Taiwan, and the building of a school and medical centre in Ecuador. These opportunities have given me the opportunity to physically do something which makes a difference in it’s own small way.
I’ve learned that while we can talk about human rights, personal responsibility and living without fear, it is by experiencing, meeting individuals and learning their stories first hand that we can translate their experience into something meaningful and relevant to people ‘back home’.
While obviously fundraising is critical, raising awareness and increasing people’s understanding of the challenges that other people face on a daily basis, is extremely important. This is because despite strong economies or progressive and democratic governments; empathetic, compassionate and educated societies are the only things that can change the world permanently for the better.
This is part of the reason I have been a supporter of World Vision for over 20 years. Their philosophy of a hand up rather than a hand out, and implementing change for communities not just individuals, is a powerful and transformational approach which I wholeheartedly support.
World Vision currently works in India on a range of projects including;
Assisting communities with clean water, education and healthcare
Help communities to learn to identify their problems, acquire new skills and gain access to government services
Address child labour issues through education and economic development support for families
Providing medical treatment for children with physical disabilities
Implementing HIV and AIDS prevention programs in high prevalence areas
Providing emergency relief for those affected by drought, flood or earthquake
I and two other bloggers are going along to better understand what those things translate to on the ground in Southern India. We are going with good intentions, our audiences and a fierce desire to communicate what we learn with as many people as possible.
I am grateful to have the opportunity to engage individually with people like myself – human, aspirational and seeking to build a life for themselves and their families which is happy, healthy and awash with opportunity.
So that’s why I’m going to India.
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I looked at my group of friends of Facebook today. It’s not the entirety of my social circle but it’s definitely a fairly representative snapshot.
Some Australians.
Some not.
Some gay.
Some not.
Some parents.
Some not.
Some living with a disability.
Some not.
Some sick.
Some not.
Some Muslim.
Some not.
Some white skinned.
Some not.
Some refugees.
Some not.
Some First Australians.
Some not.
Some multi-lingual.
Some not.
Some musical.
Some not.
Some old.
Some not.
Some animal lovers.
Some not.
Some educated.
Some not.
Some thermo-mix, croc wearing, crossfitters.
Some not.
And I can say quite honestly, that when I vote on Saturday, I won’t be voting for me. I really wont.
And I don’t want anybody else to vote ‘just’ for themselves.
Me? I’ll be voting for the Australia I believe we can be. I know some of you think it’s bleeding heart lefty bollocks to believe in a government that puts people before politics, that protects the human rights of my friends and other Australians, and treats the vulnerable with dignity, respect and humanity.
I know that there is no easy answers. I know that it’s not entirely possible to make all the people happy all of the time. I know that we have to make sure our economy is sustainable and blah blah blah – but you know something – that’s largely inevitable. All the parties approach money the same (Don’t f**k it up or we’ll lose the next election) – what we need is leadership and integrity and people in our government that are passionate about the people, not the power.
I’m not a fool. I’m not John Lennon with his round glasses and ability to string a tune together of a utopian world that is completely unachievable. But I do want an Australia where every single person has the same human rights as me, where nobody feels scared because of their race, their religion, their sexual orientation or their heritage.
I want an Australia that celebrates it’s diversity – not pays lip service. I want an Australia that does provide a fair go for everybody. I want an Australia that shares its boundless plains. I want an Australia where my politicians act with integrity, treat people with decency and don’t just dribble out three word slogans, bigotry and bullshit.
They say I’m a dreamer. But I hope I’m not the only one.
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Paul. We became friends when I was about 16 or 17 and stayed that way despite a couple of marriages, different states, different countries, different life paths and different communication styles.
We spent a lot of years talking all the time and a lot of years talking rarely and then… well you get it.
Paul was a pretty relaxed guy. I used to joke that he was so relaxed he was practically in a coma. That was until I saw him in a coma this week and realised that there was no comparison. None at all.
We weren’t friends because we did everything the same way or agreed on all the same things. I think Paul has called me a “fucking idiot” more than most if the truth be told. For all that he was relaxed, he was a cantankerous soul when the mood took him.
He was a gentle man though. And a kind one.
When I was driving down to Canberra to say goodbye to him a couple of days ago, I was thinking about him and some of the funny things that happened during our friendship. I remember watching Silence of the Lambs with him and some other friends and one part of the movie made me start so badly that I accidentally bit him on the shoulder. Don’t ask me how – but I couldn’t have bitten a nicer man.
We did some crazy stuff Paul and I. One time, just to see if we could, we climbed over the back fence of the Governor General’s house and went for a wander just to see if we could get away with it. We could. We did. We also learned it’s harder to get out of the Governor General’s back yard than it is to get in.
I wouldn’t try that now kids. It was a different time.
We had fun without breaking the law too. Just the ordinary kind of fun you have with friends. We all went on road trips, camping, pub nights, house parties, the usual.
He was the guy who loved your boyfriends when you did, and hated them for you afterwards. He was the guy when you went caving that was quite happy just to faff about and wait for you. He was happy to hang out, or to go adventuring. He had a bizarre soft spot for soft animals and was completely liquid about real ones. He drove like a lunatic. He thought too much and could sulk to Olympic standards.
He gave great hugs. And because he didn’t say much, he was the perfect companion for somebody who says too much. He had a happy laugh. The kind that made you laugh even if you didn’t know why. He was encouraging. He was interested. He had a terrible sense of humour. He had the best sense of humour.
Paul briefly regained consciousness while I was visiting him. While it was harrowing to see him so ill, that final visit is always going to be one of the most beautiful memories I have of him. The room was full of the love his family had for him. They held his hand, they held his gaze, they were able to tell him how much he was loved. They helped him fight, and then yesterday, they let him go.
Paul will always be a friend of mine. And I will always miss him.
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I do not want to know any more about the murderer of the 50 people killed in Orlando.
I do not want to know his name. Or his son’s name. I do not want to hear of his father or his ex-wife. Or his current one.
I do not want to know his story.
I do not care to talk of his religion or otherwise.
I do not want to give his life an importance or a relevance that exist outside of the facts.
A man bought some weapons and killed 50 people he didn’t know, injured over 50 more and blew apart the lives of thousands of people connected to the 300 members of the LGBTI community that were dancing in the club that night.
It was an act of hatred. And terror.
But not because he maybe had religion. But because what could be more terrifying than realising that you are being shot at while you are dancing with your friends.
What could be more terrifyingly heartbreaking than a text from your child saying “I love you Mommy” and knowing that there was nothing you could do to sooth his worries, take away his fears and make it all better for him.
Nothing.
But in our haste to point fingers and condemn and try and understand the inexplicable, we inadvertently immortalise the name of the murderer giving him a place in history and in our memories that he doesn’t deserve.
His story and his picture appear at the start of every story – even the stories that are paying tribute to the victims. The names we remember should be those of Luis and Eddy and Mercedez and Edward and Stanley and Franky and Alejandro and Javier and Jason and Deonka and Brenda and Amanda and Enrique and… well here – read about them yourselves right here.
Read their stories. Really read them. And take the time to remember just one of their stories, one of their names. Remember how their parents and families and friends spoke of them. Remember just one person and how much they were loved and focus on that. Remember Leroy who was ace at hair, loved his mum and was killed alongside his partner Xavier, a talented dancer and the father of a four year old boy of whom he was inordinately proud.
They are the stories of love that should be told.
It is horrible that their lives, their ordinary every day lives are now stories but they are all love stories. And we do more to change the world by remembering them then their murderer.
Because they matter. They are not just statistics. They are not just victims. They are not political point scoring. They are not hateful texts from politicians or arseholes.
The lives of the injured should not be defined in the context of the event, but in the context of how this act of senseless violence impacts them and their families and friends.
The worth of these individuals does not lie in how they died but rather in how they lived.
They are people. They are our families. They are our friends. They are loved.
They deserve to be remembered far more than he does.
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A 20 year old man rapes a woman while she’s unconscious, sticks something up her while she’s unconscious and assaults her.
Even putting aside the bullshit conviction the judge gave him because it might ruin his life (I honestly couldn’t even start to say how insane that is as a reason for not convicting somebody properly for rape), the fact that his father laments that “twenty minutes of action” have more weight than the rest of his twenty years has almost rendered me speechless. Or perhaps more aptly, incoherent with rage.
It only takes a moment to king hit somebody and kill them.
It only takes a moment to pull a trigger and kill somebody.
It only takes a moment to hit a woman and break her nose.
It only takes a moment to shake a child badly enough to give them brain damage.
It only takes a moment.
Twenty minutes is a long time. A very long time. It’s a lot of moments. A very big lot.
The fact that his father explains away RAPE as “twenty minutes of action” is one of the most fucked up things I have ever heard.
Rape is a deliberate act of violence. A very deliberate act of violence.
You can’t accidentally rape somebody. You just can’t.
Whether people like it or not, every time you explain away something as “boys being boys”, “it’s just what lads do”, “they meant no harm by it”, “he finds it hard to express himself so he hits”, “he did it because he likes you” (and every other bullshit explanation we use to frame boys and violence in a way that is publicly palatable) you are wiring the brains of the boys that become men.
Throw into the mix a society that still likes their men manly (read unable to express emotion, discuss insecurity without judgement, talk about their challenges, profess to emotion, practice kindness and gentleness) and you end up with a bunch of men randomly ‘proving themselves’ through violence rather than using their words.
Not always violence against women, but often. Too often.
Rape is not “twenty minutes of action”. It’s a violation of a person’s body without their consent. It is ugly. It is painful. It’s a criminal act.
I totally get that we make mistakes. That we choose a course of action that we may later have cause to regret. That we do or say things we can not undo. I get that twenty minutes of a life does not fully encapsulate all that you are as a person.
But if in that twenty minutes you RAPE somebody – you are a rapist.
You will always be a rapist. You may be a reformed rapist. You may be a remorseful rapist. You may be a 20 year old male who was hopeful of attending the Olympics when you raped somebody. But you are a rapist.
Rape is not “twenty minutes of action”. Twenty minutes of action is when you have consensual sex in a nightclub toilet. Twenty minutes of action is when you consensually shove your tongues down each others throats before parting ways. Twenty minutes of action is soccer or netball or a the filming of a movie.
It’s not fucking rape.
And we need to stop telling ourselves that we can’t raise rapists. We can. Not deliberately of course, but every time we explain away violent behaviour or reinforce a behavioural response on the basis of gender, we are providing a context to violence that normalises it and which is the reinforced continually.
Rape. Violence. It’s not okay.
It’s not. It’s never okay. At any age.
Ever. Ever. Ever.
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