Back to the Barricades …

.. or, The Hidden Dangers Of Nostalgia ..

Sometimes it's not a revolution.
Sometimes it's just trying to protect what you have.

There is, in Brisbane, a feisty, articulate, well-read, witty and passionate young Union Organiser. She works for the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance, (MEAA) - the union formed from the amalgamation of the old AJA (Australian Journalists Association) and Actors Equity. She is an outspoken feminist, principled leftist and budding word-smith. Indeed "the force is strong in this one". She will be the primary union official on the latest 'Pirates of the Caribbean' movie due to be filmed in Queensland next year. She is also my youngest daughter.

The reason I mention her is that I've just watched Gough Whitlam's state funeral, and was reminded that without Gough this young lady would not exist. That's not to say that he had any personal connection with her conception. Only that until Gough abolished conscription in '72 my family would not have immigrated to Australia. As my father bluntly put it, "I'm not raising sons to be cannon-fodder in someone else's war." And without me, no she.

 

Flight Lieutenant Edward Gough Whitlam served as a navigator
with No. 13 Squadron RAAF, flying in Lockheed Ventura bombers.

Still she's Gough's creation in many ways. The daughter of two immigrants, one English, one German; both families economic migrants from post war Europe. Both families refugees from economic stagnation, ancient tribal enmities, entrenched privilege and ugly, rigid class-systems; from boom and bust economies that serve capital over people and from a continent that's been either a battleground or a breeding ground for war for century after century. 

She's the daughter of hope, optimistic endeavour and reformist politics. And, like her sisters, she was raised in full knowledge of her rights and freedoms in our liberal social democracy, and takes it at as read that they come with the responsibility to champion those same rights and freedoms rights for everyone without discrimination.

Gough prepares for a hectic parliamentary session.

I'm pointedly aware of this because it reminds me of an interview with Gough I did for an obscure magazine on public policy in 1994, a highlight of my brief journalistic career, and one in which we agreed to disagree on a fairly fundamental issue. I remember it very clearly, in part because, sadly, after all these years it appears that I was right and Gough was wrong.

The topic was a Bill of Rights for Australia, something I believed was needed to entrench basic rights to free speech, freedom of conscience, rights to self-determination and personal habeas corpus, and freedom of assembly and association. Gough was quite clear this was both unnecessary, and politically unlikely to be achievable. Instead he championed our international obligations to the UN's Declaration of Human Rights and all the charters and agreements that flow from it. That was our protection, he said. That's what guarantees our rights and limits the behaviour of governments both state and federal. 

How could he know that the current government would stoop so low as to excise from the Migration Act all references to the UN Refugees Convention replacing them with a uniquely Australian set of interpretations that ask, for example: 

"Could this 'illegal/refugee/foreigner' modify his behaviour a bit, you know, and be less irritating, and therefore not be tortured by people when we send him back to, you know, who cares where?" 

I kid you not. 

The dangers of nostalgia…

Edward Gough Whitlam 1916 ~ 2014
Australia's greatest Prime Minister

In his contribution today to Gough's eulogy the brilliant Graham Freudenberg said: 

"You would go to the barricades with such a man." 

Which was and is true. But this is not the time for nostalgia about the heroic age of the Labor Party, or the Whitlam era of social advancement, a nineteen-seventies that was Australia's decade late (as usual) contribution tho the nineteen-sixties of Selma, Alabama, Martin Luther King's "I have a dream" and the Prague Spring and Paris revolts of '68.

Those barricades are still there, and the swing to the right in Australian politics in the last two years means every issue which Gough fought for, and the changes he instigated, are all under threat from the Abbott Government and the passive, flaccid, tacit agreement of the right wing of the ALP which dominates the party federally.

Current labor Leader Bill Shorten rises to the call to arms.

It's in this kind of environment that people write idiotic articles suggesting that unspecified 'problems' with democracy can be solved by taking the messy 'people actually voting' out of the equation.  

These are the times in which we live.

This is the übermenschlich 'Devil take the hindmost' zeitgeist that we face.

A example of this, currently being taken up by MEAA, is the threat of 10 years jail for any journalist falling foul of the new security laws being thrust through parliament by the ever-reasonable, and ever-sensible-to-nuance Attorney-General George Brandis. Senator AG-GB has stated categorically that no "journalist would ever be prosecuted for doing their job". But as the ABC's Media Watch reported, experienced journalists and lawyers do not agree. The Foreign Fighters Bill carries such blanket wording relating to journalists responsibility and culpability that you could drive a News Ltd truck, or Police paddy wagon through it. 

And who really believes that this government, so keen on secrecy, autocracy and belligerent, parochial nationalism would eschew the opportunity to trample on free speech, free reportage, peaceful protest or anyone unwise enough to cross them, by say, leaking unhelpful details to asylum seekers? How on earth, given the last Abbott election campaign and its denouement of bland, shoulder-shrugging brass neck?

Tony Abbott ~ What can you say?

"We lied, what can I say? You were silly enough to believe us. You should've known we were lying. So it's your own fault. And anyway it's too late now. Oh, and, just remember to believe our next campaign, whenever that is. 'Cos that will be true. All of it. Trust me. After all, would I lie about something like that? Again, that is? Doesn't make sense does it? So, just bugger off for now, OK? I'll dog-whistle when I want you."

Theatre Review: Question Time in the House of Representatives ~ 27th June 2013

"Back To the Future  III: Return Of The Master"

 

Was it all a bad dream? How did we fall prey to such an illusion? Has this company finally found its feet after three long years in the wilderness? Today's Question Time saw the return of former matinee idol and teen-hero Kevin Rudd in the role that made him famous. And to the surprise of many he took to the stage with nary a hint that three long years have elapsed since he last trod these hallowed boards. 

Even the Sky News commentary team, long soaked in the titanic struggle of the media's sourness over a hung parliament and no familiar script to cling to, were left bemused, befuddled and be-Kevined. 

"It's as if no time at all has passed..." they bumbled. "It's uncanny, he's so lifelike!"

Indeed. With the return of Rudd the old song burst forth anew. Prepared, polished, Dorothy Dixers all in a row, the once and future PM strode out in an expectant hush. And they never laid a glove on 'im.

Gillard was a deal maker, Abbott a fighter. And in the drama and horror of the last three years the company lurched from Greek drama to French farce. Castigated as the Wicked Witch, Dame Julia gave an honest, creditable, if at times misapplied performance as the honest broker, the deal maker who could knit up the raveled sleeve of Australian politics. The reviews were appalling. Miscast, perhaps, in a country where testicles are considered vital to the role of tyrant, her Lady Macbeth strove to avoid a bloody end, ultimately to Noah Vail, a small town in a country not unlike our own.

Rudd, meanwhile, had spent three years in a traveling repertory company polishing his Richard III, humped with a massive chip on his be-suited shoulder, embittered, if quietly, but determined to play a combination of Don Quixote and Biggles Flies Below The Radar. Overseas tours as the Knight in The Seventh Seal appears to have done nothing to diminish his ability, nor his ambition. Today he came home to the House.

If Gillard (Oh, how I shall miss her) is a deal maker, and Abbott the pugilist, Rudd is undoubtedly a cosmically inspired blend of Steele Rudd's Best Mate; Arthur, King of All Australia; and Galahad the Pure. This shining mix, all too forgivable for past excesses, is bouyed up by impressive stagecraft. 

He's harder to hit than Muhammad Ali in his prime, smoother than the bottom of a Harry Jenkin's pants, more resolutely innocent and well-meaning than ever before, Harry Potter Redux, ready to tackle an Opposition Leader who's recent role as the Smiling Eunuch Who'd Never Tax A Fly is completely out of tune with this new production.

The Opposition, delighted with the fall of Desdemona, seemed stunned, uncertain, lack-lustre in what should have been a concerted statement of intent. In recent weeks the Furies, led by J Bishop in her vintage hair-helmet, had done effective work in both inflating the Coalition's claims to feminist credibility (a hell of a trick in anyone's book) and in providing the teeth in the old dog's bite. But not today. Abbott's questions were limp, uninspired, flatulent. 

His cohorts fared no better. Whipped into a tizzy, the Member for Sturt, Carlos the Jackass (C Pyne) wheedled until his outrage became a high-pitched whine, unbearable to the human ear. The Speaker was forced to eject him under rule 97(c)'s 'Get out you annoying little tit' clause. 

Only in the minutes before the curtain fell did any blows appear to land. When a question on the "pink batts dead baby affair" leapt onto the stage, swinging an axe. For a moment our hero looked vulnerable. But no. Side stepping easily, pleading a grief for the dead too noble to bear, Kevin ducked, weaved and saw off the only threat in the hour. Two Coalition members choked in apoplectic rage, and were also ejected as much for their sake as anything else.

Act Two "A Matter Of Public Insignificance."

Question time had not gone well. But in calling on a debate on A.M.O.P.I, - the no-confidence vote you have when you're not having a no-confidence vote, Abbott sought to rise from the arena's bloodied sands and carry the fight to his nemesis.  But again, his blows were limp-wristed and failed to connect. Desperately, Abbott called on the media to take the attack to Rudd, apparently uncertain of the new script, and out of form in his preferred role of eye-gouging knee biter. Antoninus Severus Pugilator may yet return but so far he's still MIA, Missing, Intellectually Absent.

His attacks appear to cause severe confusion in his own mind, particularly as he's spent so many months playing Cuddly Tony, 'like a big warm hug for the whole electorate'. Stumbling forward like a blind Cyclops he also fell into a trap laid earlier by King Kevin: a challenge, a gauntlet hurled down with force, to debate policy (yes, policy!) at the National Press Club. This bodes, and probably ill.

Meanwhile, King Kevin rolled on without missing a beat, a step, an opportunity to score points in every round. Can he be human? Can he be stopped? Can I stay awake any longer in this Back To The Future III re-run? 

.

Dark Thoughts on Humanity's Dark Heart.

The human capacity for misery
is only exceeded by the human capacity for cruelty.

For every sufferer there is not only a tormentor but many more for whom schadenfreude is only the most visible of delights in another's griefs and tragedies. We can bask in the glow of another's humiliation, warm ourselves at the reddened flesh of someone else's beating, smirk in silence as fortune punctures a rival's happiness. All without lifting a finger. It's the most economical and human of behaviours, gratifying without effort, sustaining without calories.

It's not noted in many other species, and even then it's a rudimentary affair. One chimpanzee crowing over another's downfall isn't unusual. But a Greek chorus of toadies mocking the loser isn't often observed, just sycophantic grooming of the victor, delineating the new pecking order.

No, it's most definitely human to take advantage of another's pain, to take pleasure from misery in a spiritual alchemy of the most base nature, refining a golden inner glow from the dross of another's damage. Injured innocence only adds to the harvest, The more collateral the damage the greater the range of exquisite pleasures we can enjoy. Every dent in another's confidence, every shudder of shame, every indignity piled on drooping shoulders can be savoured over time, returned to in repose, savoured afresh. Our cruelty knows no bounds, even when it's merely incidental to our own lives, yet crucial to another's.

There is no end to what people can do, given the opportunity. 

There is no end to what people will do, given the opportunity. 

And we all of us delight in our own selfish desires and needs.

Is this too morbid a view of humanity? Or merely the product of another sleepless night? Of melancholia and misanthropy fed by sleep deprivation and old griefs held close in the small hours?

Perhaps.

Yet the truth of it is borne out every day.

Some days I despair of humanity
Some days I'm not that optimistic.

Satire is cynicism with a positive attitude. Not the glassy-eyed mirth born of despair and incipient madness. Nor yet the bitter irony of witnessing our own destruction. It's a delight in the subtle patterns of decay, the glistening aurora of oil upon the turbid swirl, the rosy flush of algal bloom. It's knowing that we are the monsters of our own nightmares, and yet still knowing that the forces of darkness, of entropy and chaos will always play second fiddle to the greatest and most creative force in the universe - life.

Where there's life there's hope, and with hope the sun rises better than it sets, blinking on a new day of possibility and promise, redolent with gleam and charm and beauty.

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