Isobel Blackthorn

Welcome to Australia

I woke this morning at about five o’clock to the sound of cock crows and magpie chortles, knowing that my third piece, Welcome to Australia, would appear in On Line Opinion today.

It’s a controversial piece and in the pre-dawn darkness I feared some would misread it and accuse me of being anti-Australian. Then I thought that if they did, it would only serve to strengthen one of the themes.

My thoughts wandered on to all the different sorts of people who are against our treatment of asylum seekers. From human rights lawyers such as Julian Burnside, to doctors, actors, musicians, writers, teachers, religious groups and social advocates, Liberal voters, Labor voters, Greens voters, all sorts of people motivated by all sorts of factors.

The bottom line for all of us is that we care.

Why do I care? What motivates me? Before the break of dawn I recalled my relatively late entry into the asylum-seeker cause. It was entirely the result of investigative journalist Antony Loewenstein’s book, Profits of Doom. A fast-paced read taking the reader from Curtin to Christmas Island, then on to PNG and beyond. Of concern to Loewenstein is the role that transnational corporations such as Serco and G4S and Transfield play in the detention of asylum seekers. He calls them vulture capitalists. I think that’s an apt description.

And such corporations don’t restrict themselves to running detention centres. They run our railways, our hospitals, our courts, our prisons, our defence services, anything in fact that governments outsource. Even, if our government has its way, Medicare.

I can only conclude that asylum seekers held in indefinite detention are profiting these vulture corps in exactly the same way as we profit the very same corporations the moment we hop on a train. Corporations who also profit from our taxes, which our governments hand over in payment for their services.

Asylum seekers are the ultimate victims of this system. Like prisoners, the longer they are there, and the more of them there are, the greater the corporate profit.

Yet there is no separation here. We are all victims of the same system.

I think that is why I am so passionate about the mandatory detention of asylum seekers. They are lambs, sacrificed in the name of a dollar god.

A Tribute to Alex Legg

It is with huge sadness that I write this. Not twenty-four hours have gone by since the passing of consummate songwriter and performer Alex Legg.

This morning I was so moved by all the messages of love and goodwill on facebook I wrote a short story to contribute to his memory. It’s no more than a vignette. I wanted to capture something of the private Alex, the man I knew so well; his humour and imagination that bubbled continuously behind the scenes. Incredibly, the ABC have published it straight away. This story is for his son, his siblings, his family and for his ark of fans and friends who leave no room aboard for even a fly.

Follow the link to read it: Alex Legg, born 1952

I was fortunate to spend two sweet years with Alex. I went to all of his gigs and applauded every song. I guess I lived inside his song bag so to speak, and each one grew on me so that now I’m covered in them like a rash.

His music is a feast for the ears and the heart. His lyrics have an aerodynamic quality found in the great master songwriters, such as Paul Simon or Bacharach. Each song is carefully crafted with all the hooks and sweet melodies of truly great pop. He wrote in many genres: blues, folk, country, pop. He will be dearly missed but his music will live on. Here he is playing I’m Down at Camelot, Sydney.

Alex was a passionate man. We shared a take on the world and all its flaws. His views came out in songs. You Gotta Laugh Sometimes

And here’s one of my favourites. Some Old Junk Shop

Photographer and artist Marg Thompson has created this tribute to Alex – Thanks for Everything

Rest in Peace my friend. Me and Alex

I should have done something sooner

I should have done something sooner. That’s what my neighbour said. Best nipped in the bud. A good hard slap across the face will shut her up. Said she never had any trouble in the playground after that. But my best friend’s husband was right about me. I’m a coward. And cowards cower. They don’t punch or slap. I found that out about myself in my old school playground. Now I was a teacher with a demon of a boss who had never outgrown the playground thug.

I was working at a new school. The kids were friendly and polite. The principal had vision. And I didn’t mind that my classroom was a leaky old hut that was sinking on its stumps. I had a pleasant view of rolling pasture. I made friends with the other teachers. Soon it was obvious the principal had taken a shine to me. And that was probably how it all began.

First it was a dismissive wave of her hand. Or a bollocking when I forgot to return the text books. I would swallow my humiliation. She was, after all, my boss.

She drew me into her warped little world, made me her ally and included me in her plots and schemes against her enemies. She even warned me off making friends with the entire geography department who were all loose cannons according to her. I can’t believe I never made a friend in geography. I love geography.

I should have done something when she stormed into class and yelled at me in front of thirty kids. I froze where I stood with the whole class staring until she left, slamming the door behind her. She apologised later but it’s hard to trust an apology when you know she’ll do it again.

I should have done something when my class of year twelves used my lessons to complain about the way she treated them. You should be the head, they’d said. We like you. Which was nice to hear but it didn’t change a thing.

I should have done something when she locked all the resources in the departmental storeroom and kept the only key. She’s nuts, I thought at the time and my union rep, who had a key for everywhere, helped me steal paper and exercise books from other departments. He had a weird way of dealing with things.

I did complain to the deputy principal and was told all department heads were the same and to take no notice.

Maybe I should have done something more but only the kids would believe me. Or more likely no-one wanted to hear it.

So I left. I left not before I slapped her – that was never going to happen. I left before she slapped me.

It proved a wise move. She left too, not long after, for slapping my successor across the face.

That slap had my name on it.

The thing my best friend’s husband doesn’t know is that cowards don’t just cower. They also walk away. And that takes courage.

Building bridges: asylum seekers in rural Australia

Just a little bit pleased to have published in e-journal On Line Opinion Building bridges: asylum seekers in rural Australia, reflecting on a recent home hospitality respite holiday for asylum seekers on bridging visas that I organised under the auspices of the Home Among the Gum Trees program run by Elaine Smith in Dandenong (Melbourne). Here are hosts Jon and Lou Oakes , who got involved in this project because they wanted to find out for themselves about refugees and provided the following feedback.

”There has been so much press about asylum seekers, but the human stories underneath hardly get a mention, and we really didn’t know what to expect when we met our young refugee family off the bus at Pambula,” Jon said. ”Language was a major concern of course, but we needn’t have worried, as our guests had enough basic English for us to communicate the important stuff, and some things require no language at all – everyone is speechless when they first see Pambula rivermouth.”

”As an antidote to the look of incomprehension that sometimes arose during conversation, we both resorted to Google Translator, and while being mostly really helpful it also had some entertaining results, for example when one of our guests wanted a floor mop and the translator presented this in English as ‘salted peanuts’. We’ve had a lot of laughs with our new friends, and have heard something of their story too. They have lost everything in their journey to Australia, yet are so grateful to be here.”

”As migrants ourselves, we have a personal understanding of how it feels to be welcomed into Australia, the daily thankfulness that perhaps someone born here might not stop to think about. Friends and businesses in the area have been very kind and helpful to our guests, just as they were to us when we were new arrivals. Thanks to Bega Valley Rural Australians for Refugees we’ve had the chance to pass our welcome on to some lovely people we hope will become New Australians themselves one day.”

RefugeeGuestsSep2014 When Jon asked Mal for his thoughts on the experience, Mal said, ”I like the visit because my wife and I we have found kind new friends, Mr Jon and Mrs Lou. The two weeks have been very good for me and my family, very loving and kind for us and our son. I know I have found good friends and our frienship will last a long time, I would like my new friends to come to my home too.” And his wife, Marni said, ”My husband and I and our son came two weeks ago to see a new family for school holidays. Two families with different languages and different cultures. With our hosts we visted their friends and family, and saw the beaches and beautiful parks and animals. We had picnics with friends and cooked meals together. I am an artist, we talked about painting and learned to understand more. Our hosts gave us time and patience, we were happy all together. Everything is new and very special to us, very nice area, nice people and very friendly. In general, I thank everyone for everything.”

All of the asylum seekers and their hosts had an enriching time. Arranging these holidays has to be amongst the most rewarding forms of activism, profoundly affecting those involved and changing lives. (names of asylum seekers have been changed)