Published The Advocate, November 19, 2005
TASMANIA was chosen as a convict settlement because of its isolation and the citizens are still defined daily by that isolation. Their separation from the rest of Australia affects the way they think; the way they see themselves. Tasmanians are people of their own creation. The separation also colours how the Mainland sees them, for good or ill. One of Tasmania’s many Elizas, a chatty young woman, recently told me she had a "problem" with Mainlanders. Now I try to get on with people, to see their points of view and to give them the benefit of the doubt. But what’s wrong with Mainlanders? Eliza said her attitude changed at a music festival at Byron Bay while she was standing in line at the toilets chatting with the other girls. She had mentioned she was from Tasmania. The others had rolled their eyes, Eliza said, and had made her feel as if she somehow counted for less. I told her she obviously was standing in the wrong toilet queue; the boys would never have cold-shouldered her like that. We all want to be liked for who we are, Eliza, and you cannot help where you were born. Mind, being born in one place and not in another, makes a big difference in Tasmania. Eliza comes from Lindisfarne, on the eastern shore of the Derwent, and no doubt there are those in Hobart who put down Lindisfarners for being overly sensitive little petals. In this way, stereotypes are created. Despite apparent state unity, regional differences and identities are strong in Tasmania. Each region contains small separatist movements, known as suburbs and towns, which give rise to deep-seated rivalries: Devonport versus Burnie; Smithton versus Stanley; Penguin versus Ulverstone; etcetera. In Devonport, a Lions Club comes up with a headline-grabbing Spirit of the Sea sculpture – complete with a male dangly bit - for no reason other than to counter the perceived progressiveness of Burnie’s foreshore development. Our Cradle Coast is a regional community spread in small parts. With no regional capital, it reminds me of suburbia. Each town thinks it is entitled to a local hospital, school, airport and Olympic-sized swimming pool. Never mind if the entire regional population is the same as one small Sydney council, and there is not enough money to go around for nine of everything. One day, maybe, the regional differences will be a cause of celebration instead of dispute. I should live so long. Meantime, I keep being asked what I think of Tasmania, which I find surprising after all this time here. It’s hard to know how to answer. I always have a nervy sense of being closely watched for a throwaway line that snags me unwittingly as un-Tasmanian. Heaven forbid. Or, even worse, of seeming to favour one town over another. So what do I think? Look around – what’s not to like? It’s all good, mate.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Published The Advocate, December 3, 2005
FRIDAY night I was in the ground floor bar of the Mercure Hotel, Hobart, watching the girls in their glad rags and their beaus dressed to the nines gathering for their school leaver’s dinner. How many of them would end the night in such good order remained to be seen. The girls, dressed mostly in black with pushup bras and alluring necklines, clung together in giggling clusters of shimmering silk. They had those over-large eyes of Japanese cartoon characters, an eyeliner beauty trick. Girls never looked so good when I was that age, let me tell you. The young men in their rental tuxes, black suits and yellow ties, had their hair frosted and moussed stiff. Hair care is not high on my priority list. The last time I went to the barber, I returned to work with an electric hedge trimmer that was on special in a shop window. People chortled. At the next table in the Mercure, an elderly man was accompanied by a blonde woman of a certain age and a pretty girl, possibly his granddaughter, who was dressed for her leavers’ dinner. The man was wheezing and talking non-stop as if frightened his time would run out before he finished: "As I said to the surgeon … arrrghhh … inhalation in my lungs … also had a respiratory … arrrghhh." The blonde kept saying "Aw, my goodness," and the girl looked uncomfortable. I was rather touched by the family gathering. I cannot invite any of my family out to dinner because they all have dietary or psychological problems. In the early hours next morning, kept awake by the sonar ping of the pedestrian lights outside, I was alone with my thoughts in the hotel room. I have many shortcomings as a human being and I wish now, looking back, I had led a blameless life. My mother prays for me in church. I am much misunderstood. The party animals began returning: The thud of hallway doors and security latches being clicked into place, of muffled voices and giggles, and the turbo-surge of toilets being flushed. As I write this, the leavers’ dinner season is over. So much work and effort went into the party package, the hair and the makeup; and now it’s over and the kids have to get on with the rest of their lives. Most of them will make worthwhile contributions to the community and be fine citizens; some will do remarkable things and achieve greatness; and some won’t. You cannot alter the way luck flows. A few, with nothing better to do, will come straggling into town in their thongs and Ugg boots, the girls chewing their hair ends and walking pigeon-toed, skewed by their child-bearing hips. I hope they find something fulfilling to do with their lives. Like find a cure for baldness. My barber was telling me about her sister’s leavers’ dinner and how she was hoping to get a job working with animals. Such as a vet, perhaps, or farming? "Apprentice butcher," she said.
FRIDAY night I was in the ground floor bar of the Mercure Hotel, Hobart, watching the girls in their glad rags and their beaus dressed to the nines gathering for their school leaver’s dinner. How many of them would end the night in such good order remained to be seen. The girls, dressed mostly in black with pushup bras and alluring necklines, clung together in giggling clusters of shimmering silk. They had those over-large eyes of Japanese cartoon characters, an eyeliner beauty trick. Girls never looked so good when I was that age, let me tell you. The young men in their rental tuxes, black suits and yellow ties, had their hair frosted and moussed stiff. Hair care is not high on my priority list. The last time I went to the barber, I returned to work with an electric hedge trimmer that was on special in a shop window. People chortled. At the next table in the Mercure, an elderly man was accompanied by a blonde woman of a certain age and a pretty girl, possibly his granddaughter, who was dressed for her leavers’ dinner. The man was wheezing and talking non-stop as if frightened his time would run out before he finished: "As I said to the surgeon … arrrghhh … inhalation in my lungs … also had a respiratory … arrrghhh." The blonde kept saying "Aw, my goodness," and the girl looked uncomfortable. I was rather touched by the family gathering. I cannot invite any of my family out to dinner because they all have dietary or psychological problems. In the early hours next morning, kept awake by the sonar ping of the pedestrian lights outside, I was alone with my thoughts in the hotel room. I have many shortcomings as a human being and I wish now, looking back, I had led a blameless life. My mother prays for me in church. I am much misunderstood. The party animals began returning: The thud of hallway doors and security latches being clicked into place, of muffled voices and giggles, and the turbo-surge of toilets being flushed. As I write this, the leavers’ dinner season is over. So much work and effort went into the party package, the hair and the makeup; and now it’s over and the kids have to get on with the rest of their lives. Most of them will make worthwhile contributions to the community and be fine citizens; some will do remarkable things and achieve greatness; and some won’t. You cannot alter the way luck flows. A few, with nothing better to do, will come straggling into town in their thongs and Ugg boots, the girls chewing their hair ends and walking pigeon-toed, skewed by their child-bearing hips. I hope they find something fulfilling to do with their lives. Like find a cure for baldness. My barber was telling me about her sister’s leavers’ dinner and how she was hoping to get a job working with animals. Such as a vet, perhaps, or farming? "Apprentice butcher," she said.
Monday, November 28, 2005
Published The Advocate, November 26, 2005
BY THIS time next week, a young Australian man will be hanged by the neck until dead in Singapore. Pause. Let it sink in. Nguyen Tuong Van, a 25-year-old Melbourne man, is due to be executed on Friday, December 2, in Changi Prison. Knowing the precise date of your death at the hands of others is beyond my comprehension. Imagine, too, being his mum paying her son a visit in his final hours. No mother should have that inflicted on her. For the record, I oppose the death penalty. Always have. Capital punishment is judicial murder, made worse by the cold, detached manner of its execution. Only Abu Bakar Bashir gives me pause for second thoughts. The "spiritual" head of the Bali bombers received just 30 months in prison for giving the terrorists his blessing to do their evil. Bashir will be free soon enough. Van Nguyen will be dead. Bashir will burn in hell, Allah willing. On no account can the deliberate taking of a human life be justified as a punishment. To think otherwise is to become like Bashir, perverted by the sense that God is on your side and is divinely guiding the executioner's hand. Not my God. No one who truly believes in God can support capital punishment. The Vatican and I do not see eye to eye on much. But in opposing capital punishment, the Catholic Church is robust and right. The church has core issues about the sanctity of life: Mankind does not have a God-given right to take a man's life. Unlike Singapore and the US, Australia has no capital punishment and no death row. We are better than that as a people. The Australian Army has never executed one of its troops for "cowardice". The ones who lost their minds under fire needed support to help them out of their trauma, not another bullet from a firing squad. The last person to be executed in Australia was Ronald Ryan, who was hanged in Pentridge Prison in 1967. The citizenry was so revolted it is hard to see capital punishment ever returning although we must remain vigilant. I worked with BM, a journalist who was a public witness to Ryan's hanging. BM was one of the funniest people I met. After Ryan, he was frequently to be seen in tears. Van Nguyen made the fatal mistake of trying to smuggle heroin through Changi Airport. It's not as if the Singapore Government makes any secret of its execution policy. It also takes a dim view of spitting and chewing gum. His 400g heroin load contained within it the cause of misery for many heroin addicts, so he was no innocent abroad. Let him rot in jail for many years for all I care. But Van Nguyen's young life, hardly under way, will be over within the week. What purpose is served? What is achieved? Will the world be a better place for having him dangling at the end of a hangman's noose? No, we all will be diminished.
BY THIS time next week, a young Australian man will be hanged by the neck until dead in Singapore. Pause. Let it sink in. Nguyen Tuong Van, a 25-year-old Melbourne man, is due to be executed on Friday, December 2, in Changi Prison. Knowing the precise date of your death at the hands of others is beyond my comprehension. Imagine, too, being his mum paying her son a visit in his final hours. No mother should have that inflicted on her. For the record, I oppose the death penalty. Always have. Capital punishment is judicial murder, made worse by the cold, detached manner of its execution. Only Abu Bakar Bashir gives me pause for second thoughts. The "spiritual" head of the Bali bombers received just 30 months in prison for giving the terrorists his blessing to do their evil. Bashir will be free soon enough. Van Nguyen will be dead. Bashir will burn in hell, Allah willing. On no account can the deliberate taking of a human life be justified as a punishment. To think otherwise is to become like Bashir, perverted by the sense that God is on your side and is divinely guiding the executioner's hand. Not my God. No one who truly believes in God can support capital punishment. The Vatican and I do not see eye to eye on much. But in opposing capital punishment, the Catholic Church is robust and right. The church has core issues about the sanctity of life: Mankind does not have a God-given right to take a man's life. Unlike Singapore and the US, Australia has no capital punishment and no death row. We are better than that as a people. The Australian Army has never executed one of its troops for "cowardice". The ones who lost their minds under fire needed support to help them out of their trauma, not another bullet from a firing squad. The last person to be executed in Australia was Ronald Ryan, who was hanged in Pentridge Prison in 1967. The citizenry was so revolted it is hard to see capital punishment ever returning although we must remain vigilant. I worked with BM, a journalist who was a public witness to Ryan's hanging. BM was one of the funniest people I met. After Ryan, he was frequently to be seen in tears. Van Nguyen made the fatal mistake of trying to smuggle heroin through Changi Airport. It's not as if the Singapore Government makes any secret of its execution policy. It also takes a dim view of spitting and chewing gum. His 400g heroin load contained within it the cause of misery for many heroin addicts, so he was no innocent abroad. Let him rot in jail for many years for all I care. But Van Nguyen's young life, hardly under way, will be over within the week. What purpose is served? What is achieved? Will the world be a better place for having him dangling at the end of a hangman's noose? No, we all will be diminished.