Blue Collar Lawyer

2008-01-04T15:55:00.002+11:00

Religion at the movies …

Having not seen “The Golden Compass”, I am not in a position to offer informed comment on whether the movie serves to denigrate the Catholic Church. However, I happened to be an avid reader of the Narnia Chronicles in my youth and did not once construe the story as having any underlying religious bent, especially one seeking the subliminal conversion of non-believers to Christianity (i.e. neo-evangelism). In brief, I simply saw the texts as being imaginative and well-crafted stories of fiction.

With respect to Hollywood, I am in partial agreement with the assertion that the industry reflects reality, albeit an exceptionally warped version of the same. Examples would include the countless action blockbusters depicting Muslims, Middle Easterners and African Americans as stereotyped caricatures, perhaps with a view to allaying the inherent bigotry of an insular audience that derives comfort from having gross generalisations of minority groups re-enforced in the popular media. In the aftermath of 9/11, for example, I vividly recall having watched numerous American and UK programs in which the Islamic call to prayer was used to the same effect as the John Williams Jaws theme, namely to generate a sense of fear and menace.

Whilst I believe the statement “Hollywood needs Christianity” - as asserted by various Christian spokespersons - to be nothing short of preposterous, a lesson in morality, cultural sensitivity and social responsibility is long overdue. For example, consider the movie 'Black Hawk Down', directed by Ridley Scott which is gripping, intense and beautifully shot. It is also replete with historical inaccuracy and, at best, is a stunning misrepresentation of what happened in Somalia. Although the US entered Somalia in 1992 with the best of intentions, the overall military operations were characterised by intelligence failures, partisan deployments and the belief, held to this day, that you can bomb a nation into peace and prosperity. Instead of lessening the conflict between competing warlords, the US actually enhanced it by backing clan chiefs Mohamed Farah Aideed and Ali Mahdi against others of their kind.

Americans generally hold a black and white view of the world, such that movies addressing ‘grey’ or contentious topics serve to confuse and are hence regarded as morally ambiguous (e.g. Syriana, Munich and Brokeback Mountain). Indeed, the American movie producer Michael Class even saw it fit to launch the “American Values Award for Music and Television” some years back. In doing so, Class misses an indescribably important point, that just because a movie deals with a confronting, difficult and provocative subject, it is not automatically rendered immoral.

Further, the fact remains that the history of the Catholic Church will invariably prove a ample reservoir of inspiration for any person seeking to pen a story on the dehumanising effects of being force-fed dogma by an authoritarian and oppressive regime. Rather unsurprisingly, it is precisely this type of story with which a great many children relate and/or identify, albeit under the proviso that the under-age protagonists use intelligence, imagination and, above all else, free will to overcome the odds stacked against their favour. At day’s end, children, moreso than any other demographic, are expected to categorically accept the teachings of supposedly well-meaning guardians and elders. Should they then be taught through various mediums, entertainment included, to exercise critical thought before accepting blanket assertions, I fail to see the supposed harm caused as a result.

2008-01-04T09:49:00.000+11:00

NYE 2008 …

Having completed work at approximately 4pm on the afternoon of 31 December 2007, I found myself perilously close to catching a train home immediately thereafter. Had I done so, this would have marked a clear departure from a promise made to various friends to attend a private function at a Kent St apartment.

Only two (2) months ago, I successfully completed the administration over my late friend’s estate with the assistance of the family’s solicitor. Few could’ve wished for a better result, as his apartment was purchased by a small consortium of friends under the proviso that a portion of rental proceeds would bequeath to a charity of his family’s preference. Nonetheless, I continued to feel as if something in me had changed irrevocably … and not necessarily for the better.

As with most men, I happen to hold a slight aversion to doctors and generally shy away from ‘professional’ assistance absent a major medical catastrophe. In remarking on symptoms, it’s likely that I was in acute depression as activities ordinarily deemed pleasurable no longer interested me. In the quiet moments preceding sleep, I could still smell the traces of disinfectant that greeted me upon having first walked into my late friend’s apartment following his suicide. It’s not merely him that I mourned for, but also his late wife and the children that would’ve inevitably followed in due course had not providence dealt them both an unplayable hand.

Although I continued with life’s ‘routine motions’ in much the same vein as before, precious little time was afforded to friends, family or even myself. It’s as if my conscience had been purged of all emotion, whereby I could logically ‘deduct’ the love and affection held for others but was rendered impotent in demonstrating the same through either words or action. In having lived the life of a societal hermit for some six (6) months, absent the customary log cabin in the mountains and surplus military garb that one finds in a disposal store, I came disturbingly close to losing several friends owing to my seeming apathy.

For me, NYE 2008 proved a saving grace of sorts. Upon having made my way to the Kent St apartment, I was immediately greeted by several dozen friends – some I’ve known for over 15 years, others less than 6 months. In each instance, the welcome was warm, heartfelt and bristling with the good natured cheer and playful jostling that only true friends can deliver. As the night progressed, I found myself mixing drinks, temporarily manning the all important BBQ, and listening to an instrumental duet played on two steel-string acoustic guitars.

The fireworks were of no interest, nor the crowds lining the streets. However, the sight of friends wishing one another well, enquiring about one another’s lives, loves and dreams, mock threatening one another with crude glow-stick nunchukas, and contemplating whether a middle-class man could ever be Batman proved captivating beyond words. Within the space of a few short hours, I came to realise that the camaraderie, good spirits and affectionate disposition of those before me was not confined to the moment, being the few hours preceding and following the advent of 2008. Rather, it happened to be a staple feature of a dozen or so close-knit friends who, through the vagaries of chance and coincidence, have come to know, appreciate and love one another over time.

Whilst no single friend can ever be replaced, the fact remains that those we love often hold the same or similar characteristics that makes each so exceptional. Armed with this knowledge, I can perhaps draw some comfort from the observation that the memory of those that have passed can live on in those that remain.

2007-10-11T17:08:00.000+10:00

An inability to grieve ...

Earlier this year, a close family friend decided to re-create a scene from Leaving Las Vegas in the sanctity of his apartment, a dwelling that he occupied alone. According to the autopsy report, he died from alcohol poisoning some 10-12 hours thereafter.

The above person lost his wife to cancer some three years prior, and only a select few were aware of his intense personal struggle in seeking to cope in the days, weeks, months and years thereafter. Much like myself, he hailed from a family where tears were not tolerated if shed by boys, where overt displays of emotion – save ‘competitive aggression’ – frowned upon and ridiculed if publicly exhibited. Instead of taking an extended sabbatical from work in order to ‘grieve’, he instead chose to immerse himself in work.

There is no describing the sheer breadth of emotions which runs through a person’s mind upon hearing of the tragic death of a loved one. Truth be told, I sincerely believe that some of the blame resides squarely on my shoulders. In particular, I vividly remember the nights spent on his balcony, sipping single malt scotch into the early hours of the morning and staring out onto the endless blackness of the Tasman Ocean. Scarcely a word was exchanged between us and I naively assumed this silence to be illustrative of the close bond between us, as if ‘words left unspoken’ said more for our friendship than conversation.

In the months following my friend’s passing, I sought frantically to use my mind as if a camera, seeking to recall cherished moments spent in one another’s company. Particularly poignant is the one evening where I asked that he indulge me with anecdotes of his wife during the brief years they spent together. His response, proffered amidst a haze of alcohol induced fatigue, was that he had long ‘discarded the film and kicked in the lens’.

Even then, I knew that he hadn’t. The ‘lens’ may well have been broken given that his eyes had long ceased to recognise beauty or hope, but no amount of alcohol could serve to displace his wife’s memory in its entirety. The black and white wedding photographs, the chalkboard above the kitchen counter where they would write loving notes to one another, a wardrobe full of female attire, the dressing table bearing cosmetics and women’s accessories … all these items had remained untouched for some three years.

At this point, I find myself having said more than what may be appropriate in the circumstances. Suffice it to say that I am here now, absent a close and cherished friend. To my own amusement, I am highly cognisant of my own inability to grieve. On occasion, I feel a hollowness in my chest which equates to a noticeable presence, yet somehow I have continued to go through the routine motions of life in much the same vein as before.

Following my friend’s funeral, his parents kindly asked that I take a keepsake from their son’s apartment, as a means of keeping his memory alive. His mother, fighting back tears, noted that their own home was replete with wedding photographs and other memorabilia celebrating their son’s life, alongside that of their daughter-in-law. After having been offered the keys, I spent close to an hour holding a framed picture of my friend and his wife, taken shortly after their courtship commenced.

As an atheist, I am incapable of drawing hope from any underlying belief in a supposed omnipotent deity. Instead, my sense of ‘faith’ is distilled from the comfort and companionship afforded by close friends and family. In having lost two exceptional friends to the nuances of providence, I wondered what salvation, if any, could be drawn from the mere memory of a person. The grief I felt was beyond description, but I could not shed so much as a single tear even though a part of me pleaded for the release that is afforded by weeping.

My parents, and those of my now deceased friend, taught their boys that crying was inappropriate, unacceptable, undignified. So hard have these lessons been, that we were both rendered incapable of mourning for loved ones.

2006-10-12T15:25:00.000+10:00

Just do the best you can ....

Much of the previous evening was spent in silent contemplation, staring up through darkness towards three softly glowing stars on my bedroom ceiling. A male adolescent who had just barely reached his teens had placed them there some fifteen years prior. In all frankness, I recall very little of this fellow, aside from his fondness for the night sky which had constantly proved an unparalleled source of mystery. Were the two of us to meet in the present day, it is unlikely that either person would hold the other in high regard.

In reflecting upon the BlueCollarLawyer of years past, the image brought to light is that of a young man with a penchant for contemporary English literature, short fiction and amateur astronomy. This person knew very little of law the law, aside from a few relatively mundane regulations relating to traffic infringements. Though ambitious, he was imbued with a humility that led him to learn patiently from those perceived as being possessed of greater wisdom, or life experience if you will.

Fifteen years on, it is remarkable how much has changed. Though the night sky continues to be source of mystery, it appears to hold little in the sense of inspiration. Questions remain as to the source of the universe and man’s purpose in life, but there is no real desire to see them answered. To some extent, a part of me has been afflicted with a horrendous condition – apathy. Despite this grave concern, I remain thankful for still retaining sufficient curiosity and zeal to ask one very simple question:

“What is the damned point of it all?”

Out with the old ….

A few short weeks ago, I happened to chance across the post of a fellow blogger, a witty penultimate year law student with the University of New South Wales. In reading the article in question, I was led back to a rather tumultuous period in my life. Somewhat predictably, I am referring to the short months immediately preceding graduation from law school. Like most of my peers, I found myself afflicted with a disease that riddled the mind with ‘conviction’, as defined in the concept of ‘absolutes’. Put simply, I was ‘absolutely’ certain that a clerkship and/or graduate position with a top-tier law firm would prove the be-all and end-all of my career; I was ‘absolutely’ certain that failure would lead to a mundane existence in the suburbs, as exemplified in the image of a poorly dressed Legal Aid lawyer eating lunch out of a sardine can in front of the Family Law Court prior to making an appearance for a wife beater; I was ‘absolutely’ certain that a rejection letter would eventuate in mockery, derision, ridicule and humiliation from peers.

In drafting my numerous job applications, I slogged, slaved and sweated to put together beautifully worded resumes and cover letters. Preparation took place months in advance, with countless hours spent pouring over firm websites. Glossy brochures from big city law firms littered my desk, each graced with the heavenly image of an aspiring female lawyer in a skin-tight Armani skirt. A few happened to smile mysteriously from behind steel-rimmed spectacles, as if protecting coveted treasures that lay hidden behind the faded covers of the Commonwealth Law Review volumes clutched to their bosoms.

In the late evenings, I would hear them whispering in my dreams. “Come here and bill with us”, they would murmur seductively, “and together we’ll achieve 100% chargeability. If you show us your realisation rate, we’ll show you our utilisation figures”.

Following both the clerkship and graduate round for top-tier law firms, I was left desolate and dejected. Rejection letters from every conceivable firm littered my desk. The word spread ferociously, a quiet and conservative student assumed by all to possess “significant intelligence” had been left in the dirt. In contemplating the thoughts of our then Law Student Society (“LSS”) President, I knew that this perfectly proportioned Pymble princess of my penultimate year would forever remain outside my grasp. Never would the two of us inadvertently end up in a marble clad lift, plummeting upwards towards the heavens in the express lane for the sole purpose of finding a private meeting room in which to admire one another’s briefs.

Yes, it wasn’t to be. The realisation was swift and unforgiving, as is to be expected when reading the words “We regret to inform you ..”. Not “I”, but “We”. In my mind’s eye, I pictured several esteemed members of the legal profession huddled together around my resume, their beady eyes glittering with contempt as they tossed my hopes and dreams into a wastepaper basket. “Public school trash”, one would sneer … with several stunningly beautiful female HR managers nodding ferociously in unison.

In with the new …

Some five years after having completed my undergraduate studies in law, I look back upon the BlueCollarLawyer of years past and consider him to be quite the ‘tool’. It beggars belief that a person of even remote intelligence would allow law students, of ALL people, to dictate the measure of a person’s worth. Let’s simply say that the answer does not reside in employment with a top-tier law firm. Although your document shredding skills may improve substantially, your general ability to think ‘outside the square’ will arguably drop down several notches.

Having hailed from a family of over-achievers, my mindset during those final months of law school may be understandable. However, it is by no means forgivable. It upsets me tremendously that I was once so narrow-minded as to make the collective ambitions of a homogenous mob (i.e. the broader law student community) my own. If asked about my life’s aspirations, I no longer parrot the phrases “mergers and acquisitions”, “intellectual property” or “commercial transactions”. No longer am I naïve enough to believe that a particular discipline is automatically rendered “sexy” on account of being lucrative. If in doubt, ask an actuary or, better yet, a well-heeled plumber.

Most importantly, I have developed a sense of confidence and accomplishment which was sorely missing in my university persona. In answering the question of whether I am successful, I would be loathe to look towards my peers for the purpose of seeking a benchmark. Money is important in providing financial security and well-being, but little else. The targets which I consider worthwhile are of my own making, and not that of an equity partner whose personal wealth is dictated by the level of blood, sweat and tears discharged by underlings. This is not to say that I do not approach my work seriously. Rather, I do not consider it to be a means to and end. In the words of one wise friend, no intelligent person judges another on the basis of their chargeability, realisation rate, area of commercial discipline, income, ability to earn large bonuses etc. My most cherished possessions are trusted friends and family, not ‘letters of promotion’ marking my rise up the corporate ladder.

Several years ago, I jokingly asked a neighbour’s child - a toddler no less - whether she could explain, in her words, what she believed to be man’s purpose in life. After regarding me with a look of curiosity and suspicion in equal measure, she responded with “I dunno. Maybe you just do the best you can. Umm .. make sure you have good friends too.”.

I know for a fact that I’ll go my grave without anyone else having put it better.

2006-09-16T14:26:00.000+10:00

Something serious for once ...

Despite having made a substantial number of lengthy posts under this blog, it’s quite rare that I write about something personal. Having been raised in something of an authoritarian household, where discipline reigned supreme, I may have become a little too accustomed to keeping my emotions at bay. Well, this particular post will invariably change all that ….

Some days back, I went for a short stroll in the Rocks, a rustic area to the north of the Sydney CBD that is regarded as being amongst the more popular of Australian tourist destinations. Deciding to avoid the humdrum of the main street, I instead weaved my way through various back alleys until, at long last, I arrived at Observatory Hill – a spectacular city park overlooking the harbour.

Given the rain and cold weather, virtually no-one was around. Standing under an umbrella that wavered perilously in the high winds, I spent several minutes staring out towards the Sydney Harbour Bridge, at that time coated in a fine mist of rain and fog. There was something immensely beautiful and timeless about the image, as if I had been transported into a black and white photograph seeking to capture ‘still life’. Although numerous vehicles were no doubt passing over the bridge during those moments, all were rendered close to invisible owing to a heavy sheet of rain falling from the west.

For quite some time, I wished silently that someone was there to witness this immensely beautiful sight, specifically a young woman named Anissa whom I had proposed to several years prior. It is not she who said no, but rather her parents who threatened to ostracise Anissa should she make the ill-considered decision to marry someone not of their choosing. At day’s end, she was essentially stonewalled into doing her parents’ biddings, despite my best efforts to persuade her to do otherwise.

I can still recall with the utmost clarity the moment Anissa advised me of her final decision. My emotions that day were mixed at best, an intense mix of anger, confusion, frustration and, above all else, sorrow and regret. It beggared belief that an intelligent and independent person, apparently possessed of both rationale and logic, would choose to sacrifice her own happiness for that of two backward-minded bigots. Even more upsetting was my renewed perception of Anissa. A woman once admired was reduced to farce, little more than a confused child held hostage to the alleged ‘best intentions’ of those that raised her.

At the time in question, I honestly felt that no sacrifice would be too burdensome were it capable of securing Anissa’s presence in my life. Given my feelings, I could neither understand nor respect her actions in giving in to the objections of two exceptionally small-minded individuals. Slowly but surely, doubt began to seep into my every thought. Had she ever really loved me? Was there sanity in revoking the heartfelt promise to marry someone at the behest of those whose words defied all logic? Did she realise just how much pain she’d put me in?

At first I thought only of myself, perhaps rather selfishly given the immensely difficult position Anissa had found herself in. I remember her weeping pitifully, whispering ‘I am sorry’ between every heartfelt sob but being too dumbstruck to respond owing to my disbelief. I remember walking away, prying her hands loose from mine and screaming that she not dare follow me. In the month that followed, I regained some composure and tried my utmost to dissuade her from making a decision that would invariably come to be regretted. At first, she listened, but later appeared to have ‘deceived’ herself into believing that the right decision was made.

For now, there’s no need to delve into the specifics of what transpired between Anissa and I in the coming months in terms of seeking to understand one another. It may well be that certain things are better left unsaid.

In wishing that Anissa was by my side, I came to think back to ‘that day’ and the sheer pain of the ensuing emotions is beyond description. Every single breath became laboured, as if a chore, and the world around appeared to have sunk into the earth. Put simply, I felt as if I were standing utterly alone with nothing to hold on to. No sense of belonging, of feeling loved or needed, of even having a home.

A few short seconds later my mobile phone rings.

“Mate, I know it’s the weekend but we both agreed to get some sh*t moving along today. There’s no f*cking way I’m pulling an all nighter on this job so how about you haul ar*e and make your way to the office?”

Difficult as it may be to believe, the above words lent more comfort than I would care to admit. They actually provided a harness out of my moment of misery, for no other reason than conveying the impression that I was ‘needed’ for something.

Later that evening, after my colleague had effectively 'packed it in' after several hours of brain-storming, I spent close to 3 hours sitting alone in a dimly lit boardroom - watching the rain in the distance. I contemplated the numerous transitions I had experienced in my life: living in over 20 countries, attending 14 different schools, successfully completing four degrees, being admitted as a solicitor. One milestone after another, and none had been easy. Despite this breadth of 'life experience', it dawned on me that I had absolutely no comprehension of where my life was headed. The more I thought of Anissa and her absence from my life, the more I felt as if I had no ground on which to walk upon. Worse yet, I was afraid to leave the office due to serious concerns over my judgment and state of mind at that point.

Life has truly reached a new low, in seeking comfort behind office walls.

2006-09-16T13:06:00.000+10:00

One, two, three, four, five ....

As some readers may have noticed, quite some time has passed since I last contributed anything of substance to BlueCollarLawyer. Having only recently re-visited my blog after a lengthy sabbatical from writing, it amused me to no small end to discover that one of my last posts was a satirical discourse on etiquette – namely whether it socially acceptable to clear your lungs and sinuses of mucous in public.

One would therefore hope that this current posting provides more in terms of intellectual stimulus. Don’t hold your breath though. Earlier this year I took up a position as a Transfer Pricing associate with a top-tier professional services firm and it has robbed me of all passion, creativity and insight with respect to matters of writing. Indeed, my last foray into literature was actually an in-house Continuing Professional Development (CPD) course titled ‘Effective Business Writing’. Despite my numerous requests, the course presenter had little to say on the subject of utilising humour in client correspondence. Put simply, it would appear that clients of top-tier accounting firms do not respond well to ‘comic relief’ forming part of their advisory work.

After having worked as a junior tax adviser for several months now, it has come to my attention that lacking a sense of humour is an essential pre-requisite to being a tax professional. To gain credibility as a tax adviser, one must dress like an FBI agent from the mid 80s. Drab grey suits, closely cropped haircuts, steel-rimmed spectacles and shirts whose colour is limited to white, grey or pale blue. Step outside of these barriers and you’re likely to be regarded as a radical, as someone who does not take their profession seriously.

Consider the following real-life altercation between a candidate for a tax position and the prospective employer:

* * * *

HR Manager: According to your academic transcript and professional qualifications, you’re more than suitably qualified for the position of in-house Tax Adviser to XYZ Corporation. However, we need to know that you’ll fit in with the existing culture. So, how do you spend time outside of work? Would you mind telling us about your extracurricular activities?

Candidate: Umm .. let me see. Well, I quite enjoy collecting stamps.

HR Manager: How interesting. Do you trade these stamps as well?

Candidate: No, not really. I simply like building up the collection, and then undertaking a periodic audit of my stamp filing system, alongside a detailed valuation of their current worth taking into account depreciation where applicable.

HR Manager: I see ….

Candidate: Sometimes, just to amuse myself, I conduct a hypothetical forecast of the capital gains tax (CGT) liability that would arise were I to dispose of the entire collection to an un-related third party. And then, to make things even more interesting, I calculate the tax penalty that would eventuate if I were to dispose of the asset to a family member at below market value. It makes me feel like I’m living life on the edge.

HR Manager: Uh Huh … would you mind excusing me for just a moment? I need to confer with my colleague over your suitability for the advertised position.

(Candidate exits room)

HR Manager: So, what do you think of him?

HR Executive: The man is pathetic. He clearly has no life outside of work, no loved ones, no family friends, definitely no girlfriend to speak of. His entire life revolves around facts, figures, records and statistics. He dresses poorly, with little or no fashion sense and has a face that conveys about as much emotion as a toaster. He’s perfect ….

* * * *

OK, so the above discourse is rather exaggerated. However, it does give some indication of the erosion of one’s personality that comes with being either a tax adviser or an accountant or, God forbid, a combination of the two. As the situation presently stands, my entire ‘professional existence’ revolves around numbers. Although report writing is essential to my job description, the numbers drive the words and never vice versa. I sometimes dream of numbers, of being at work without a calculator, frantically undertaking mathematical calculations with only my fingers and toes providing support. I think back to my days as a young child, watching Sesame Street and wishing for all the world that I could be more like the Count.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve ….

Oh sweet Jesus, beloved Mother of Christ ….. what the hell comes after twelve? Why didn’t the Sesame Street Count ever talk about the use of transfer pricing methodologies in proving the arm’s length nature of cross-border transactions between related entities? Did he ever mention the Berry ratio, what about the profit-split methodology? What the flying fornication is the comparable uncontrolled price method? How do I come about selecting third party comparable corporations for the purpose of undertaking a benchmarking analysis? What in the name of buggery is IFRS? Are Bert and Ernie gay or simply two struggling New York professionals sharing a one bedroom flat?

Some days I wish I could transport myself to simpler times, when the Sesame Street character did in fact possess all the answers to life.

2006-04-20T15:55:00.000+10:00

And this one time, at Tax Camp …

No, I did not put a whole financial calculator up my backside.

As some of you may be aware, I recently joined the ranks of a top-tier accountancy firm as an associate in tax. On my very first day, I received a ticket to Victoria for the purpose of: (a) being inducted into the firm’s culture, values and worth ethic; and (b) attending a week long retreat to study a variety of introductory tax topics.

With respect to Point (a), I walked into the induction with more than a hint of trepidation. Although this may sound exaggerated, I held grave concerns about being frog-marched down a dimly lit hallway, only to end up in a senior partner’s office to have my buttocks paddled with an oversized financial calculator. Rather thankfully, such activity was quite thoughtfully left out of the three-day induction program. Instead, the whole affair proved to be nothing short of delightful with the firm having expended an inordinate amount of money on travel expenses, accommodation, food, drinks and entertainment. If asked to detail the key highlight, it would have to be the ample opportunity provided to .. err .. fraternise with fellow colleagues in an informal setting.

Following the above induction, I was placed on a bus to a country town in Victoria for the purpose of attending Tax Camp. Yes, you read correctly … Tax Camp.

Upon hearing of Tax Camp, I immediately pictured a bland and claustrophobic office setting characterised by dorky men and women with pocket protectors, calculators aplenty and a laboratory dedicated to allergy medication. However, the reality was much, much different. Suffice it to say that the firm’s ‘responsible social drinking’ policy was done away with almost in its entirety.

There were plenty of characters at tax camp, but I became something of an office legend owing to one episode alone. It started with drinking, and then with me ending up in a ditch. Oh yes, some of you are undoubtedly expressing surprise and maybe some disgust. However, what do you expect? It’s one of life’s most natural progressions, comparable to an infant taking its first steps. However, excessive drinking leads to something of a reverse chronology of events. Get pissed, end up on all fours in a ditch. What’s the surprise?

I’m not normally one associated with excesses in behaviour. Indeed, I look like a tax lawyer. Sharp pinstriped suits, cleanly pressed shirts, immaculately polished shoes, colour coded tie, wristwatch with advanced timing functions to measure billable hours etc. How could I, of all people, end up in a ditch in the midst of a corporate event?

Hmm, not sure whether you lot were paying attention but did I mention that I was at TAX CAMP? Imagine spending several hours a day learning about assessable income, deductions, treatment of losses for tax purposes, capital gains tax, goods and services tax, fringe benefits tax, corporate tax etc. Following these particular sessions, each of which excel in tormenting both the soul and mind, how could you not resort to drinking as a means of easing your misery?

The morning following my rendezvous with a ditch, I struggled into the bathroom to find a small pile of dirt, pebbles, twigs and leaves accompanying both my shoes and trousers. I had no real recollection of the events of the previous evening, although I could vaguely recall having clawed my way through shrubs, bushes and trees in a valiant effort to reach the sanctity of my bedroom. The sudden onset of embarrassment, upon having realised that someone might actually have seen me, was further compounded by the sight of my dirt-stained trousers the next morning. Apologies for being crass, but it appeared as if King Kong had used them as toilet paper following a rather volatile bowel movement. And just to make things crystal clear, I did not defecate in my pants whilst in a drunken stupor, the stains in question were nothing else aside from dried mud.

My entry into class that morning was accompanied by a light smattering of applause, a thinly veiled celebration of a man whose apparent ‘partying ability’ had taken everyone by surprise, and would provide much fodder for mid-afternoon discussions at the water cooler or kitchenette area. Speaking candidly now, I seriously believed that the previous night’s events would see me either disciplined or fired. After all, had I not violated the firm’s policy on ‘social drinking’ explicitly prohibiting intoxication to the point of self-harm? Apparently not, a dark shirt can work wonders in keeping hidden the telltale sign of potentially fractured ribs.

Tax Camp, although representative of a very brief period in my life, will always remain a much-cherished memory. Over the course of several days, I was boozed and fed to my heart’s content. Oh yes, I did some work too of course … but my academic achievements are secondary to the pleasures of drinking with friends, drinking alone, drinking at lunch between classes, drinking in bed, drinking in the midst of a hotel garden area at 3am, falling into a ditch due to excessive drinking at approximately 3:15am, drinking in bed at 3:30am to try and relieve physical pain associated with falling into a ditch, drinking the following day to forget the ditch episode etc.

Difficult as this may be to believe, I would give just about anything to spend a week in Tax Camp once more ….

2005-11-23T15:26:00.000+11:00

Hhhwwerrrkkkkk ...

One thing I cannot stand in others is a lack of etiquette. Although I was not brought up a member of the British aristocracy, I believe quite strongly in the preservation of certain social graces. Although minor issues such as the surgical use of cutlery do not concern me, I do find myself quite bereaved when certain persons decide to make known their various bodily functions in public.

Having spent a significant portion of my life in the Middle East, the sight of both men and camels hawking their lungs out in public was commonplace. Of course, the frequency of such sights does not mean that I grew accustomed to them over time. These scenes were consistently repugnant, especially where the culprit was a bearded Arab male who had vigorously chewed on tobacco in the minutes preceding the act. Some men drew more attention that others, hunching back their shoulders and breathing in deeply before unleashing a dark brown stream of filth onto the pavement. Not satisfied by the result, some would snort repeatedly in the hope of sending thick mucous careening from their sinuses into their mouth in preparation of an even more grotesque feat of repugnance.

Tissues must have been scarce on the streets of Saudi Arabia, as rarely did I see someone blowing their nose in the socially acceptable manner. Most chose instead to place a stained yellow finger (i.e. from smoking) onto one nostril, only to then bend over sharply and blow hard into the dirt. Results were mixed at best, with some succeeding in dislodging only a portion of their nasal content, the remainder clinging precariously to nostril, upper lip and finger. The subject would then swing his head from side to side, staring cross-eyed at the lengthening stream of snot that trailed from his nose. Passer-bys did not pay much attention, aside from casually crossing over to the other side of the street in the hope of avoiding a runaway booger.

Upon having finally succeeded in clearing his nasal passages, the subject would triumphantly wipe his hand on a nearby wall and then proceed on his business.

Rather thankfully, sights such as those described above are not particularly prevalent in Sydney. There’s a limit to human tolerance and mine was thoroughly tested when walking through the markets and bazaars of the Middle East. In recent years, I have not seen anything quite as grotesque as a man blowing his nose into the dirt. However, I have born witness to something infinitely more repulsive.

Some days back, I was waiting patiently for a train home at Sydney’s Central Station. Standing some 40 metres away from me was an immaculately dressed Asian woman. She appeared to be Japanese and was dressed in an expensive looking pinstriped suit that complimented her Bally briefcase. Although her features were not perfectly visible from a distance, she appeared quite striking in her understated elegance. Drawn by curiosity, I walked a little closer to her and noticed that she had her head bowed and was slowly turning on her heels. This behaviour struck me as being somewhat peculiar, and I was left utterly horrified upon learning its purpose.

The lady in question was standing in a perfect circle of phlegm. This she had chosen to deposit on the ground on her own accord, quietly hawking it up as she spun slowly on her heels. A businessman standing nearby caught me staring and glared back as if to admonish me for being a pervert. However, his chastising features soon changed when he caught a better look of what had left me frozen in horror. We both looked at one another in a quite moment of acknowledgment, knowing that from that point forth we could say ‘You don’t know the things I’ve seen’ if quizzed on a sudden mood swing by friends, family or co-workers.

What possible purpose is served by a man or woman who stands in a circle of phlegm? Perhaps it serves to ward of evil, I’ll never quite know. Whatever the truth of the matter may be, I hope that people know better than to engage in such behaviour in public.

2005-11-18T10:53:00.000+11:00

One day, me write a novel ...

One of these days, I intend on writing a novel. Not just any novel, however, but a internationally acclaimed literary tour-de-force – the reading of which will be deemed compulsory at ivy league institutions such as Harvard, Yale and Princeton. Of course, a few of the finer details are yet to be worked out – plot, story line, characters, beginning, middle, end etc.

Writing a great novel is not just difficult, it is damn near impossible for the vast majority of those who pursue this formidable dream. Thousands try. Few succeed. There is a certain perversity in its pursuit, due in no small part to the uncertainty that comes with writing. Will readers appreciate and understand the written word in quite the same way as the writer?

On a more pressing note, a great novel should ideally come with a great title. This goes well beyond what most ordinary people dream of. Even a good novel, blessed with a great title, becomes immortal. A novel requires tens of thousands of words, but the title can only be allocated a few. It must be short, succinct, captivating and capable of arousing curiosity, interest and emotion. The talent to say much in a few words rivals the more-lauded talent to do so with many.

In thinking of great titles, a few come to mind. These are listed briefly as follows:

(i) Children of a Lesser God
(ii) The God of Small Things
(iii) The Buddha of Suburbia
(iv) My Beautiful Laundrette
(v) Crime and Punishment

There are, of course, numerous other titles deserving of inclusion in the above list. It goes without saying that a great novel should be able to stand on its own. However, a great novel title also has to embody the novel itself.

Before I so much as put pen to paper, I shall work diligently towards thinking up a great novel title. The title will be the most important aspect of my literary masterpiece, especially since I probably won’t have the backing of some televised Oprah Book Club segment on free-to-air TV.

Some preliminary ideas are as follows:

Antoinette’s Areola
- Erotic adventure featuring a fictional French woman with superb nipples

Passing Wind in Wyoming
- Diary of an American storm chaser with a penchant for souped up cars.

Arse of Darkness
- Horror novel about a demonic backside run rampant in modern day New York.

In the event that one of the above ideas ever reaches fruition, I will no doubt hire a competent visual artist or photographer to assist in designing the book cover. Hopefully, my first novel will not be ‘Arse of Darkness’, as cover photography in this case may well require the services of a miniature camera, a proctologist and a model with a dubious personal hygiene and a high threshold for physical discomfort.

As has been made evident by now, my ideas are plentiful but commitment is clearly lacking. Writing involves a massive input of effort over a prolonged period, and is best achieved in a writer’s room. Ideally speaking, such a room should be housed in a rustic log cabin that is entirely cut off from the grid (i.e. no electricity and running water). My only company would be an antique typewriter, candles, an endless supply of strong black coffee and nature (e.g. several inquisitive squirrels).

One day, I hope to achieve my dream of writing a literary masterpiece of the highest calibre. Chances are that it may not be a bestseller, and may in fact attract adverse reviews if not an internationally organised book-burning ceremony. However, royalties and public opinion are not so much my concern. What’s important is that I am satisfied with the book, that it reflects an accurate transliteration of my thoughts and feelings to the written word. If this is achieved, I shall be more than content.

And now, to retreat to my bedroom and write the opening chapter of Antoinette’s Areola.

2005-11-18T10:26:00.000+11:00

Burn baby burn ...

Several years ago, I wrote an essay on racial profiling that commented at length on the often dire effects such practices have on various ethnic groups. What I neglected to mention, however, is that minorities tend to sometimes profile their own.

For example, if you are Chinese and walk into an Asian restaurant chances are that you won’t be allocated steel cutlery. Instead, it will be assumed that you’re competent in using chopsticks and do not require the service of a knife, fork or spoon in finishing your meal. Similarly speaking, a person from the subcontinent will automatically be assumed as having both a palate and stomach for spice if seated in an Indian restaurant.

A fine example of the above occurred some months ago when I attended an Indian restaurant in Glebe in the company of two friends. The three of us, being Indian in appearance, were presumably assumed to be such by the wait staff who served our food with more than a fair dose of chilli.

To call the dishes hot would be an understatement. Lucifer himself may well have been serving in that kitchen. If so, I assume that he would have either spit into the food or done something infinitely more repugnant. I’ll put speculation to rest for present purposes, in an effort to preserve my sanity and to maintain good taste.

Although I cannot say with any degree of certainty where the chillies in these dishes hailed from, I can take an educated guess. Chances are that they were grown by psychopathic inmates in the confines of some long forgotten jail in deepest darkest Africa. The soil would have been close to infertile, nourished only by the decaying corpses of those buried in shallow graves. These would be the bodies of evil men, mad dog killers whose very presence in the soil sullies the earth. Water would have been scarce, causing some inmates to urinate on these hellish chilli plants at various times of the day. A few may well have passed kidney stones.

Few, if any men, could comment on what it would feel like licking a lollipop composed almost entirely of battery acid. Although I am in the same boat, I can now boast of an experience that is comparable, if not worse in nature. After the very first bite, I began sweating profusely and my mouth felt as if it were on fire. It was as if someone had made a miniature Molotov cocktail using those cute 60ml liquor bottles one sees in hotels, only to throw it into my mouth. Under my breath, I cursed repeatedly at the mothers, grandmothers, wives, sisters, aunts of the chefs in question – wishing every female in their family dead so that further propagation of their kind would cease entirely.

Without the first morsel having even passed down my throat, I began wondering whether I would be defecating blood that evening. My mind was replete with images of internal organs being dissolved on account of whatever demonic ingredient the chef had seen it fit to put in my food. It beggared belief that I would so much as have a bowel left were that food to pass through my intestines. I wanted to ask for water, cold milk, ice cream but could not speak properly because of excessive panting. Although my two friends were similarly troubled, I cared only for my own salvation, knowing full and well that I would drink their blood was it sufficient to quench the heat that plagued me.

Without saying anything, I folded my napkin and walked out … making a beeline for the nearest 7/11. Once there, I purchased 3 iceblocks known as ‘Calyppos’. Even before my money went into the till, I was frantically unwrapping one and shoving it down my throat, frantically chewing on raspberry flavoured ice and not caring an iota for the impending ice cream headache that would eventuate as a result. Appeased somewhat, I walked back into the restaurant and handed the remaining two iceblocks to my friends, both of which accepted with a whispered ‘Thank you’.

Some of the wait staff watched the above events unfold with both amusement and derision. Our obvious discomfort was noted by several other patrons, some of whom asked us openly whether our food was too hot. It was tempting to respond with “WTF do you think?”, but we settled for a courteous “Yes, it is rather spicy for our liking”.

Upon hearing our response, some of the Anglo-Australian customers looked at us with utter disbelief, as if we were all African American men over 6’10 in height who did not play basketball and had no knowledge of the sport. Having born witness to the sight of three curries not enjoying their curries, they approached their own food with marked trepidation. Rather amusingly, one of the wait staff actually explained to onlooking patrons that our dishes had been prepared extra-hot because we looked to be Indian. Uh Huh … and how many Indians enjoy crapping out dissolved internal organs following an evening meal?

2005-11-15T11:36:00.000+11:00

Soul of the city ...

On more than one occasion now, I have listened to a friend speak of a city as if a living person. The aim is ostensibly to romanticise a geographical location such that it assumes an almost human persona. Although bordering on the unusual, such practices are nothing new. For example, aircraft and seagoing vessels are often referred to fondly as ‘she’, most commonly by doting owners and the odd historian.

Although I cannot lay claim to Sydney, I do consider it my home. After having spent half my life residing in over 20 countries, it was a welcome relief to have finally found a base in November of 1989, the month in which my family immigrated to Australia.

Prior to having moved to Sydney, I was unaccustomed to living in ‘big cities’. My father, an ex UN diplomat, routinely had his family accompany him to various hell holes around the globe, predominantly to small towns in nations with an almost non-existent infrastructure. I was used to desert conditions, having lived on the edge of the Sahara for some seven years, surrounded by wide open spaces boasting views to the horizon in almost every direction. Although Sydney does not offer a similar experience, there is something to be said about standing at the edge of the Tasman Ocean, contemplating the depths of the ocean and the numerous secrets she may hold.

In choosing a favourite place in Sydney, I would have to pick Cremorne Point. This particular area, situated on the lower north shore, is home to the wealthy and few from the west traverse there for any other reason aside from a picnic, or perhaps mere curiosity over how the ‘other half’ lives. Accessible by ferry from Circular Quay, Cremorne Point offers breathtaking views of Sydney Harbour and the CBD skyline at all times of the day. It is also home to the Cremorne Point Lighthouse, a modest yet picturesque structure connected to land by way of a small walkway resembling a pier. Although relatively unassuming to look at, this particular building is lent an aura of mystery owing to a small steel plaque commemorating a young girl who drowned there many years prior.

Several days ago, I decided to make my way to Cremorne Point in the early evening following a rather terse argument with my folks. Following this little altercation, I felt somewhat suffocated in my own home and experienced an almost unnatural need to be outside. Upon having finally made it to Cremorne Point some one and half hours later, I found a vacant bench and spent several hours staring out over the harbour to the city skyline. The view at dusk was nothing short of breathtaking, and it amazed me to realise that such a beautiful scene could be enjoyed and appreciated without interruption from either locals or tourists.

Despite being only a few kilometres away from the hub of one of the world’s great cities, I still felt alone. The view across the water presented a world that could not have been in starker contrast with my own immediate surroundings. It was abuzz with activity – ferries drifting in and out of the commercial piers of Circular Quay; a million and one shimmering lights giving life to towers of steel, glass and concrete; the silhouettes of countless strangers walking around the sails of the Opera House; flocks of seagulls circling the aircraft warning lights on Governor Phillip Tower. By way of comparison, my surroundings were unnaturally still, as if I was staring out from within a photograph in a perfect state of solitude.

The ferries seemed usually quiet that evening, such that I could hear little, if any, signs of human activity. Despite straining my hearing, the only perceptive sounds were that of waves lapping the shore, the occasional buzzing insect and the wind meandering through trees and shrubs. I started wondering whether cities did indeed have souls and, if so, how best to describe Sydney’s.

Given the unquestionable beauty and grace of Sydney Harbour, any purported ‘soul’ would no doubt be female. She may be unhappy about the numerous tunnels and infrastructure projects ravaging the natural beauty of her home, but would find solace in the few nature reserves still left relatively undisturbed by man. She would mourn over the countless steel and glass structures being erected on an almost weekly basis, buildings which seem to almost block out the sky and cast long and foreboding shadows over the landscape. In the evening, she would stare in wonder at the thousands of windows aglow with lights and moving silhouettes, contemplating who these people are, where they came from, whether they are good or bad, whether they feel her presence in the same way she feels theirs …

There is no doubt in my mind that some of you will see the above as romanticised and sentimentalist claptrap. Having read the paragraph several times over, I am similarly inclined. The visible sentiment in those words is more an expression of my own thoughts and feelings about Sydney than that of any supposed ‘soul’ that the city may possess. It’s also an apt reflection of what can happen when you sit on a park bench by yourself in a state of semi-depression, sip contentedly at single malt scotch and then begin contemplating whether a metaphor can have a tangible persona.

Despite my current cynicism, I can see a certain aesthetic purpose in ascribing a human person to a city, specifically one boasting remarkable physical beauty and an unparalleled diversity of people.

2005-11-15T11:15:00.000+11:00

Scent of a woman …

It goes without saying that most of you will find this post to be rather crass. However, there remains the off-chance that a few ‘oddball types’ may be disturbed yet strangely aroused.

The topic borders roughly on fetishism, namely the fascination some men have with female flatulence. Yes, yes …. I understand the psychological disturbance some of you are no doubt feeling now given the ‘stinking’ subject matter. A few months back, a friend of mine with a fascination for Japanese culture directed me to a website titled Scent of Woman’s F*rt. Like most people, I viewed this group email with a combination of abject horror coupled with curiosity. It almost beggared belief that there existed men, ones hailing from an overly conservative and polite culture no less, who would be aroused by the sight, sound and smell of a woman breaking wind – but there are, since there seems to be a niche market for pop-off videos.

Since I can no longer find the site online, I may describe it in some detail now. The squeamish are advised to switch off right now.

The website in question was quite descriptive; after all … one cannot enjoy olfactory stimulation from a video alone. It described in vivid detail the ‘adventurous’ dietary patterns of the women in question, comprising primarily of vegetables such as cabbage and turnip. Pictures of women bending over in preparation of letting one rip were plentiful, as were a number of sound bytes whose content one could never describe using words alone. Although I cannot speak for others, the subject matter of this site can only be described as unsettling in the extreme. Like most men who adore women, I was confronted with a very real yet unpleasant fact – women break wind.

Alluding to an old episode of ‘Third Rock from the Sun’, I remember a scene in which Albright breaks wind in Solomon’s company. Rather than being distressed or shocked, Solomon is instead overjoyed at the underlying message he has just heard. In his twisted alien mind, his relationship with Albright has reached a whole new level of intimacy, one in which each is content to expose the other to the once private workings of their bodily functions.

I honestly cannot say what drives certain people to be turned on by subject matter such as that described above. Interestingly enough, academic literature discussing the fascination some have with sadomasochism is plentiful. However, there is little to explain why anyone would be turned on by the flatulence of another.

I know for a fact that toilet humour is exceptionally popular in certain parts of South East Asia, notably Korea and Japan. For example, numerous Korean game parlours boast a popular arcade game known as Boon-Ga Boon-Ga (known in English as Spank ‘em). The object of the game involves the player jabbing a plastic finger into a jeans-covered bottom, which protrudes from the machine as if the person’s head and torso were stuck inside. The harder the jab, the more amusing the face pulled by the computer generated character you have chosen to humiliate.

Boon-Ga Boon-Ga is also known as ‘Pokey Man’ by doting fans. Proponents of this game argue that it is harmless, and used primarily as a means of reducing stress. Players can choose between various targets, including ‘ex-girlfriend’, ‘ex-boyfriend’, ‘gold digger’ and ‘mother-in-law’. Despite its dubious nature, fans argue that it does not lead them to grope female straphangers on Tokyo’s subway or otherwise engage in questionable sexual practices.

Although Pokey Man does raise eyebrows, it’s nowhere near as disturbing as the original topic of this post – which is ‘Scent of Woman’s F*rt’. Rather thankfully, Japanese game manufacturers have not yet designed a game which provides olfactory stimulation and involves players thrusting their noses into a ‘curvy lingerie covered bottom’. If they ever decide to do so, I’ll come to realise that the oddities of this world probably do defy explanation … and that I need to be cautious in opening any emails providing further lurid details of the fetishes of Japanese men.

2005-11-14T18:58:00.000+11:00

Nice doggy …

Although I do not have a canine phobia, there are certain breeds capable of instilling more than a minor degree of anxiety in my mind. Two such breeds happen to be Dobermans and Rottweilers, an interesting observation since my family owned two Doberman guard dogs some two decades ago (both of whom were vicious bastards to put it mildly). Although not a threat to their owners, both hand a fondness for pawing frantically at their owners and in the case of a certain toddler in a stroller (i.e. yours truly), rolling him around the house like a human pinball.

Over two decades have passed since I last owned a real pet. Of course, fish do not count. Just over a year ago, however, one of my father’s friends asked whether I would mind ‘conditioning’ a young malamute pup over several months. This fellow, a seasoned breeder of Arctic sled dogs (albeit based in Australia), believed that a dog developed a much better temperament if made accustomed to being around young animals and children when young. The dog in question, a purebred worth some $5500, was known simply as J5 at the time he was put in my care. Upon acquiring this adorable little bundle of fur, I named him Shadow. Apparently he liked nothing better than tailing my mother around the house, nipping playfully at her heels and overturning her washing basket at every conceivable occasion.

In less than a week, Shadow became my new best friend. To tell the truth, I felt like this little animal loved me. The more telling likelihood, however, is that he was dependant on me for attention. My parents aren’t exactly the ‘pet loving’ type and, amusingly enough, seemed apprehensive about a little wolf-like pup sharing the same house as them. However, I completely and utterly adored him. In a household where stress levels reduced everyone to the brink of insanity, he remained something of a constant, seemingly unaffected by mood swings or other trivialities which render human interaction so unbearable at times.

On one occasion, Shadow’s owner decided to drop by with Shadow’s Mom in tow. Shadow’s Mom was a ‘big bitch’ to put it lightly. Given the fact that I am using doggy terminology, this is not being unduly offensive or uncaring. This particular Malamute must have weighed at least 40-something kilos. She also looked more ‘wolf like’ than any dog I’ve seen before, huskies included. It dawned on me, that in time, Shadow would lose his puppy cuteness for something else – powerful shoulders, a menacing jaw line, and eyes that only a predator can possess.

OK, maybe I am exaggerating. Shadow’s Mom was perfectly content in my company and felt at ease with resting her formidable head on my lap. I, on the other hand, was not quite as comfortable. For one, her snout was so close to my crotch that any misguided sense of security I may have held was dispelled in its entirety. Second, she kept glancing up at me with a ‘You have no idea what I’m thinking or might do’ look. Sensing my unease, the owner called her back to his feet, perhaps finding the whole episode to have been highly amusing.

Some short months later, I had to return Shadow to the breeder. Being a family friend, he was wary of my obvious discomfort at parting with Shadow and asked whether I’d like to keep him. After all, he had numerous other pups from which to make a fortune. Despite my insistent begging, my parents declined the offer. I watched sadly as Shadow was laden into the back of a BMW station wagon and driven away, hopefully to find an owner who’d care for him as much as I did.

Shadow did leave a host of good memories though. Overturning the washing basket on himself and scooting around the hard, urinating on my bed every second day (young pups have no bladder control for several weeks following birth), keeping me company as I slaved away on a doctorate in the late hours of the evening, attracting some stunning female joggers to my side in various parks. Ahh yes, Shadow was a real hit with the ladies, possessing more charm than any cute baby. I’d watch him fondly as he was snuggled close to a young lady’s bosom, wondering for all the world why I could not have been born a mutt. Although proud of Shadow, I also felt a hint of jealousy because I knew that he could lick any girl’s face without having first taken her out to dinner. I now know where the phrase ‘lucky dog’ is derived from.

Aside from simply being obscenely adorable, Shadow proved something of a mystery as well. For example, I remember watching a documentary on cats titled ‘Caressing the Tiger’ (yes, I know it’s a bad choice of title) some months back. The base message was that numerous people loved cute little kitties because of their closeness to the ‘big cats’ – lions, tigers, cheetahs and leopards oh my!! Aside from their inherent cuteness, they were also respected and admired because of their close familial ties with the world’s most feared predators.

Similarly speaking, Shadow captivated me on account of the disturbingly close genetic heritage he shared with wolves. He certainly looked like a wolf pup, with his strongly defined jaw, predatory eyes, and mass of white/grey fur. When in the company of such an animal, you feel almost privileged to have earned its affections. It amazed me to no small end that, in a few months time, he’d probably grow to a size and shape that would instil the average Joe with thoughts of whispery Transylvanian forests and of wolf packs collectively howling at the moon. For the time being, however, he appeared impeccably docile and playful, incapable of bringing down anything aside from the odd washing basket.

Playing with Shadow, I came to realise how close a human could get with an animal. I looked out for him ceaselessly, ensuring he ate well, received plentiful exercise, and was generally kept company throughout the day. It made me realise how so many of us bestow more affection on an animal than a human being. Here was something which, in a natural habitat, would act out of necessity and need alone. It would not take more than it needed, the bare essentials to facilitate survival. By comparison, his owner was of a species renowned for wanton destruction and pillaging of almost everything, including its own kind. Were Shadow capable of capable of processing this in his little puppy head, I wonder how he’d have felt about keeping me company.

A long time has passed since I last saw Shadow, at which point he was being driven away from my home in a blue station wagon. Shadow appeared rather reluctant to leave, mirroring my own feelings in letting him go. However, he did leave behind some treasured memories – chasing Mom around the yard as she hung up the washing, waking us up at ungodly hours with short bursts of ‘Yipe, Yipe, Yipe’ barks, urinating on my bed at his leisure, keeping me company whilst I slaved away on a doctoral thesis.

No doubt Shadow is in greener pastures now. Given his impeccable pedigree, he has probably been put out to ‘stud’, a physically exertive but nonetheless enjoyable pastime. Who knows? Several years down the track I may well end up with one of his descendants, a ‘Shadow 2’ if you will who’ll provide countless hours of loyal companionship, and see it fit to piss on my bed at his leisure ….

2005-11-10T14:22:00.000+11:00

Ethnic comedians are a godsend …

Several weeks ago, a friend of mine (popularly known as Gizmo) recommended that I download a 75 megabyte video clip from the net. The content of this particular file was not dubious as some of you may be inclined to presume. Rather, it concerned a stand-up comedy performance of one ‘Russel Peters’, an Indian comic resident in Canada. Readers who hail from an Asian background, specifically Indian or Chinese, are advised to download this clip at their earliest possible convenience. By far, it is one of the most hilarious stand-up performances I have seen to date, and undeniably unique owing to the ethnic background of the comedian.

Peters does exceptionally well in lampooning the myriad of cultural differences between Asians and … well, just about everyone else. He is capable of impeccably impersonating a strong Indian, Chinese and Canadian accent and satirises his own parents to no small end. One can only imagine how his poor conservative folks feel about being the butt of most of his jokes.

The most amusing aspect of Peters’ performance would have to be the caricatures of his very own father. Although possessed with a thick Indian accent (funny at the worst of times), this man was nonetheless capable of uttering words stained with the threat of impending violence, and against a child no less. His favourite saying to the young Peters was as follows:

‘Sumbady gonna get a-hurt real baaad. I am nhaat saying who, just sumbady. But I think you know him quite vell’.

In responding to the above words, the young Peters experienced a myriad of emotions – ranging from guilt to hope to suspicion to sheer terror. For example, was the threat directed specifically against him or a family member? Was it wrong to wish that the subject of impending violence was his brother? If he knew this person ‘quite vell’, as his father alleged, did it necessarily mean that he himself was the target?

It goes without saying that some members of the Indian community will find Peters’ brand of comedy offensive, namely the manner in which he satirises his own parents and parodies the Indian accent. What’s most amusing, however, is that Peters’ statements are more ‘fact’ than ‘fiction’. It is exceptionally difficult for a young Indian male to impress a western lady with his accent, Indian fathers are rather prone to violence, Indian mothers are obsessed about marrying off their offspring with disturbing expediency, Indians in general are stingier with money than a Scottish financial planner.

In past times, I have asked myself at what point comedy ceases to be humorous, especially when it pokes fun at an entire culture or people. The line is very fine indeed. For example, following the American ‘incursion’ into Afghanistan numerous American comics alluded to Afghani culture, primarily with a view to satirising it. Robyn Williams, in an appearance on Letterman some years back, ceaselessly parodied the Afghani language (i.e. the rather harsh manner of speech) and made the odd comment about the relationship of male Afghans with their donkeys.

In the end, I was both laughing and squirming. It did not seem to be very PC and, quiet honestly, appeared to denigrate a culture that has existed for thousands of years – and has more to offer than donkeys, camels and other barnyard animals. Williams’ humour led to gross generalisations of ‘all’ Afghans, including those living abroad.

Despite the obviously distressful situation Afghanistan is now in, ill-considered jokes abound which satirise Afghanistan’s non-existent infrastructure. References are often made to ‘taxi donkeys’ and ‘hut hotels’. Images which reduce some to tears (inc. those seen on World Vision advertisements) are reduced in our minds to subjects of amusement and comedy.

Anyway, it appears that I have led and otherwise light-hearted post into a pretty serious discussion. My apologies for doing so … lets get back to Peters shall we?

In watching Peters, who has built a living on lampooning ethnic groups, most feel “OK” in responding with a smile or a hearty laugh. The fact that the comedian in question is ‘ethnic’ himself acts as something of an authorisation allowing non-ethnics (yes, I just made that up) to laugh at the cultural peculiarities of various minority groups. Rather amusingly, it appears that it is only OK to laugh when minority groups lampoon themselves.

2005-11-10T14:21:00.000+11:00

And this one time ….

It’s easy to hate people who do not let you get a word in edgewise. Don’t get me wrong, its not that I like talking about myself. However, every once in awhile I prefer to steer a conversation towards matters more pressing than haircuts, favourite sandwich fillings, white sugar v. brown sugar etc.

People often mistake me for being shy, if not downright rude when it comes to socialising. Nothing could be further from the truth. The simple fact of the matter is that I am not one for idle banter. Neither am I at the opposite end mind you. For example, was I to meet someone at a party my conversational starting point would not be neo-conservative politics in the US or the impact of colonial literature in post-apartheid South Africa. Rather, there has to be a middle ground between idle chit chat and ‘me-so-smart-and-sophisticamated’ ramblings.

On more than one occasion now, I have found myself a social function talking to some woman about her hairstyle, clothing, dietary requirements and favourite shampoo. This statement is not meant to cast aspersions towards women nor make a gross generalisation of the supposed conversational skills of the female of the species. Rather, it’s an observation of how reluctant some people can be to move away from their purported ‘comfort zone’ when meeting with a stranger. Social conventions seem to dictate that the conversation must be light-hearted, highly impersonal unless you’re discussing grooming habits, devoid of ‘religion and politics’, incapable of drawing out opinion on contentious or topical issues.

Of course, there are certain social scenes in which the abovementioned convention is done away with almost in its entirety. Legal Practitioner Parties (LPPs) are one such example. In that situation, the aim of any conversation is to prove that your intellectual penis extends far beyond that of the person with whom you’re conversing. The discussion can become exceptionally personal, as you are quizzed on your secondary schooling (public or private), tertiary entrance rank, undergraduate and postgraduate studies (honours, masters, doctorate), employer (top tier, mid tier, suburban practice, in-house, public service), income (yes, nothing is sacred) etc. Once answered, these very same questions are then asked again, but this time directed to your partner (assuming you are in a relationship).

The above behaviour is best described by some as either ‘wankerism’ or ‘big dickedness’. It can be readily observed in most upmarket watering holes around Sydney, specifically those in and around Circular Quay (a lawyer hotspot). Although entertaining to watch, the situation is markedly different should you find yourself inadvertently becoming a participant. You see, one object of social wankerism is to subtly insult your companions, such that they do not immediately realise the slight against their name. This particular aspect of a wankerist’s social interaction can take years to refine and develop, and further requires an intimate understanding of their friends’ weaknesses.

In seeking to counter a wankerist, the best approach is to simply ignore the person. A wankerist will take great offence at being ignored, as acknowledgment, attention and recognition provide a greater buzz to him/her than cocaine. In the unfortunate event that you are ever approached by a wankerist at a social function, the following lines work wonders in defusing the situation:

“Yes, how fascinating. Goodbye.”

“Congratulations, you friends must be very proud. Do you still remember their names from when your first imagined them as a child?”

“A lawyer huh? If you can interpret complex legislative provisions with such ease, why not a bored face?”

“I noticed your partner asking a few of her colleagues to have a quick peek at her briefs. She mentioned that a senior associate offloaded them to her several weeks ago. Someone should talk to her about that. It really doesn’t sound healthy.”

In the event that the above does not work, kindly inform the wankerist that you must excuse yourself briefly in order to get a VB from the bar. Upon hearing this, the wankerist will no longer wish to be in your company, owing to the abject fear of being seen with an individual drinking local beer.

On a more serious note, I have recently come to realise how many ‘masks’ we wear when dealing with different people. Most of us are multi-faceted in that nature, changing our personality as readily as a chameleon changes colour in order to meet the expectations of different social groups. To some extent, I am little different. The ‘work me’ is a much different creature from the ‘social me’. More alarmingly, the ‘social me’ is not exactly static. It can sometimes change slightly in order to better accommodate, or rather complement, its surroundings.

Put simply, I can be either silly or serious depending on the company I keep. Quite thankfully, however, I do have a number of close friends with whom I can be both. It’s reassuring to see that they can ‘read between the lines’, appreciate my rather unusual blend of cynicism, satire and humour, and respond with unrestrained wit and flair in equal measure. Every once in awhile, it is therapeutic to laugh and giggle moronically at politically incorrect jokes that would leave others dumbfounded, to appreciate the timeless beauty of toilet humour, to make light of the dark, to ignite one’s gaseous emissions in a dimly lit room … ok, maybe not the last one, but it does go hand in hand with ‘making light of the dark’.

2005-11-10T14:18:00.000+11:00

Sleazy music videos ….

Is it just me or are lyrics in R&B singles getting seedier by the day? It’s not too long ago that I remember hearing a certain track with the chorus ‘Stroke it for me’. Although uncertain, I believe that these lyrics come from a single by Aaliyah, a ‘promising’ female vocalist who apparently died in a place crash quite some time ago.

Glad to know she left the world with such a deep message.

As far as some female R&B singers are concerned, the underlying message seems to be ‘the nastier the better’. More amusingly, the subtle sexual messages in lyrics are being dropped in favour of explicit instructions:

“Lick my neck, lick my back, lick my pu**y and my crack.”

Hmm … charming. Despite being rather in your face, excuse the pun, one wonders whether the above words are any better than Mariah Carey’s ‘And it’s just like honey, when your love comes over me.’ Oh well, guess she’s just another female vocalist who prefers the ‘in your face’ approach.

Occasionally, I do watch shows like Rage (ABC) and Video Hits (Channel 10). Classic rock seems to have taken something of a dive, in favour of R&B, Hip Hop, Rap etc. I really don’t know what the correct terminology is – it mostly sounds the same, and it all sounds like sh*t. As one commentator famously said when remarking on a Spice Girls video, “It is like watching a porn video, only with worse music”.

Amusingly enough, a number of male R&B singers – notably Judakiss and 50 Cent – release ‘wet & wild’ versions of some of their commercial music videos, namely those involving bitches, whores and booty. These clips will never be shown on free-to-air television, and it’s essentially a given that they’ll never see the light of day on MTV. However, they are readily available using online file sharing programs such as Limewire or Bittorrent. Even more disturbingly, they are downloaded in vast numbers the world over, such that other cultures may also learn of the importance of ‘shakin dat azz’, ‘backin it up’ and ‘makin dat azz clap’.

Difficult as it may be to believe, I am not a wowser. ‘Wowser’ is a slang expression, most commonly heard in Australian and New Zealand English, referring to a person whose overdeveloped sense of morality drives them to deprive others of their pleasures. I would hate to any such thing, it is not my intention to deprive countless impressionable teenagers of ‘booty pop’ – especially in its visual form. Rather, my argument begs the question of whether we need so much of it. No matter what you do, eye candy is not going to compensate for bad melodies and worse singing.

It’s a little sad to note that one of my favourite bands, Black Eyed Peas, have sunk to a new low by singing about ‘all dat azz’, ‘all dat junk inside your trunk’ and ‘lovely lady lumps’. Man, I think we’ve had enough by now. We’re overloaded on images of powerfully built African American and Latino women gyrating in front of cameras while gawking rappers look on in a stupor. If you want to be seedy, take a cue from Chris Isaak, who set a new benchmark for sensuality and sleaziness in his infamous music video for ‘Wicked Game’. A certain degree of ‘class’ helps alleviate, if not nullify, the very real perve factor of that particular clip.

Leaving aside visuals, the lyrics of ‘booty pop’ leave a great deal to be desired. For one, the grammar could not be more horrendous. For example:

Incorrect: “I likes dem girls who likes dem girls”.
Correct: I like women with homosexual tendencies.

Incorrect: “I likes the way yo azz be vibrating”.
Correct: “I quite enjoy watching you wiggle your bottom”.

I may well be guilty of being picky here. After all, it’s unreasonable to expect young males with little or no secondary schooling to employ the Queen’s English with quite the same panache she displays. For example, “One rather likes the way one wiggles one’s bottom with sufficient vigour to elicit earth tremors” does not have quite the same ring to it as “I likes the way yo azz be viiibbbrrraatttingggg. Shake dat ting like yo wanna start an earthquake”.

I guess we can expect stars like 50 Cent, Judakiss and Eminem to further assist in the denigration of the English language by continuing to produce, sell and market their wares the world over. After all, if you’re appealing to one of the lowest common denominators in society (e.g. sexually frustrated white males with no sense of cultural identity who ‘adopt’ the worst excesses of popular African American culture), then there’s little if any point in seeking to be sophisticated.

As for intellectuals such as me, we’ll simply have to make do with skin-tight ballet costumes, attractive European flautists and the like. There’s something to be said about leaving a little to the imagination AND having some restraint over the baser of emotions ….

2005-11-10T14:16:00.000+11:00

How I wish I could play guitar …. (sigh)

For those who don’t already know, let’s just say that I’m a Dire Straits fan. Unlike some, I do not class myself in the ‘hardcore’ fan category and a portrait of Mark Knopfler is not affixed to my bedroom ceiling. In actuality, I know very little of the man aside from the fact that he’s an exceptional guitarist.

Speaking generally, women seem to take a much greater interest in a man if he’s artistically inclined. Poetry and writing may not suffice, however, unless you’re dating a literary academic in her mid-50s. It’s music which proves most captivating to the female of the species, acting as an almost infallible lure – albeit of the auditory kind. Others have suggested a double-choc coated Tim Tam at the end of a string, but some women may well find that demeaning.

It’s not just the supposed interest of women in guitar-playing men that makes me wish I could play, although Toni Braxton proved rather persuasive which she sang “I wish that I was in your arms like that Spanish guitar, and you’d play me all night long till the dawn”. I like the fact that it’s a versatile instrument, capable of being utilised for a number of styles from folk to jazz to rock. Also, if imbued with the ability to play guitar, I may well become a more interesting person.

The fact remains that I have few interests outside of work. Well, I do but they’re mostly academic and normally have some correlation with my professional interests. Few women would so much as look in my direction if I explained my passion for continuous disclosure provisions, socially responsible investment, codification of the natural justice rules in statute, taxation of cross-border transactions etc. Yes, riveting stuff isn’t it?

I do some others interests of course – contemporary English literature, creative writing, satire, travelling, exotic coffee blends, snooker etc. However, few of these involve any degree of ‘performance’. As you are no doubt aware, assuming you watch Discovery Channel, the female in most bird species has to ‘approve’ of a show performed by the suitor prior to engaging in any mating ritual. This often involves a display of plumage, but extends further to actual ‘bird calls’ – which can be quite musical in nature.

So, it follows that if I wish to attract a decent bird, I may well need to put on something of a show. A tutorial in ASX Listing Rules will probably be regarded with some disdain, as would a lengthy essay (written in the ‘magical realism’ style of Ben Okri) declaring my unabashed love and affection. BUT, what about an acoustic performance on a 12-string? Success is next to guaranteed with each note you strike. You don’t even have to be particularly gifted or talented. It may well suffice to learn a few different songs, become technically proficient at playing them, practice emotive facial expressions in front of a mirror (in striving for a particularly tricky or high note, just make the same face as for when you’re having difficulty passing wind), and make sure your nails are well manicured.

It doesn’t sound so hard, but the fact remains that I cannot read music, nor can I be bothered at this late stage in my life. It’s as difficult and troublesome as learning a new language, although some may disagree. Having come from something of a Middle Eastern background, I do not see myself as being particularly musically orientated. It seems to take too much disciple, dedication and practice over time. If only I could devise some way of downloading scores of music lessons into my brain using a stock-standard cable internet connection …..

Oh well, stuff it … I’ll just pay for se .. err .. music lessons like everyone else.

2005-10-31T19:08:00.000+11:00

Movie Review: The Exorcism of Emily Rose

Last Sunday I watched a new release titled ‘The Exorcism of Emily Rose’. Unlike other movies about demonic possession, most notably ‘The Exorcist’, this particular feature does not subscribe to the school of swivelling heads and projectile vomiting. It also avoids the shocking, albeit amusing, sexual depravity portrayed by Linda Blair. Additionally, the demons in question here do not speak in an English accent, are short on swear words, and prefer ancient tongues to English.

The real events behind Emily Rose’s story are more shocking that the movie allows, but this is understandable given the director’s background. Director and co-writer Scott Derrickson is apparently a devout evangelical Christian – a churchgoer in other words. Although he may not subscribe to the Catholic tenets about possession and exorcism, the fact remains that he is a ‘believer’. As such, the movie goes ‘soft’ on the priest who sought to ‘exorcise’ Emily and further recommended that she cease taking her medication. Put simply, the viewer is left to interpret Emily as being either ‘mad’ or ‘possessed’. Given the numerous supernatural interludes, one would assume that the director is gunning for the latter assumption.

In the movie, Father Moore (played by Tom Wilkinson) is on trial for criminal negligence. He is represented by an ambitious female lawyer, Erin Brunner (played by Laura Linney), who describes herself as being agnostic, but gradually has her views swayed after waking repeatedly at 3am, described by Father Moore as the ‘witching hour’. She is further advised by Father Moore to take care, as "There are forces around this trial, dark and powerful forces."

Ooohhh …. Ooga booga.

OK, by now it must be apparent that I am something of a skeptic. Of course, I cannot explain with precision every ‘weird’ event which takes place in the world. However, I’ll be damned (no pun intended) if I seek to explain the inexplicable by reference to the unprovable (i.e. religious ideology, or rather ‘dogma’). For countless years, people have been using the mechanism of ‘fear’ as a means to coerce others to adopt their ideology. Accept Christ, or burn in hell for eternity – pray five times a day, or risk the wrath of Allah – don’t take a bite out of God’s apple, otherwise He’ll throw you out of Paradise …. It’s hard to see how Derrickson’s movie does anything different.

Fear of the irrational is something I have yet to come to grasps with. For example, after having watched the ‘Exorcism of Emily Rose’ I felt uneasy about crawling out of bed at 2:15am in order to take a much needed piss. Had I done so, my mind would have been replete with images of all manner of ‘dark beasts’ lurking in the shadows whilst my trembling hands struggled to find a light switch. This whole episode made me feel stupid and ashamed, especially after I relieved myself in an empty Sprite bottle and then proceeded to fall asleep once more (joke).

The fact remains that real life offers a great deal more to fear than fiction. For example, I often ask myself what I would fear more:

(i) one metre cockroach or Leader of the Opposition in a g-string;
(ii) demonic presence under my bed or threesome with Condoleeza Rice and Janet Reno;
(iii) a zombie or Phillip Ruddock (are the two even distinguishable?);
(iv) Lucifer in the flesh or being seriously ill with no medical insurance in the US;
(v) alien beings or being caught in a lift with several chronically flatulent vegetarians;
(vi) vampires or an international shortage of single malt scotch.

On second thought, The Exorcism of Emily Rose is about as scary as John Howard in a tutu compared to the more salient fears visible in our world.

S.A.

2005-10-30T20:30:00.000+11:00

El Kebabo Diablo (The Kebab Devil) …..

In recalling my childhood, some of my most vivid memories are those of my father entertaining me with stories of gins (i.e. Arabic lexicon for ‘demons’). His tales horrified and captivated me at the same time. So attuned was he to detail that I sometimes wondered whether these mystical beings did in fact exist. After having visited a certain kebab shop on George Street, I no longer doubt their existence.

Only last weekend, I encountered a kebab demon. In its earthly form, this being masqueraded as a purveyor of shredded animal flesh grilled to perfection. At the time of our meeting, it had assumed a human form – specifically a male Middle Eastern immigrant with a broad moustache, ample frame and considerable body odour. Despite its obvious talents in shape-shifting, I soon recognised the thing for what it was and proceeded cautiously to exit the shopfront.

In recounting my story, I recognise that I was saved from a terrible fate, but only because others sacrificed themselves unknowingly. Specifically, a long queue had formed by the time I entered this innocuous little kebab shop. Being a naturally perceptive and inquisitive person, I carefully watched ‘El Kebabo Diablo’ as it prepared various kebabs for human consumption. What I noticed, albeit in the finest of details, sicked me beyond belief.

El Kebabo Diablo wore no apron, and its white shirt was stained with discoloured crimson streaks - a sight that could only be interpreted as dried blood. Even in its human form, this creature’s skin was replete with coarse black hairs which glistened menacingly under the harsh fluorescent lighting. If one were bold enough to closely examine its face, it would be impossible to discern where nose-hair ended and moustache began. The teeth behind those thin and cruel lips appeared broken and jagged, probably from having spent millennia gnawing on bone and gristle.

Fine droplets of perspiration, clearly visible on the creature’s forearms, routinely dropped into the meat tray as it sliced and shaved huge strips of flesh from three rotating skewers (chicken, beef and lamb). Every once in awhile, the creature would rub its bulbous nose vigorously into the sleeve of its shirt, leaving lengthy streaks of what can only be described as sweat, mucous and grit. It appreciated not the norms of civil society, especially as they related to the art of food preparation. The creature did not wear plastic gloves, and touched foodstuffs regularly with its bare hands. More disturbingly, it appeared to be unaccustomed to clothing, routinely inserting the thumb and forefinger of its left hand into the nether-regions of its backside in an effort to dislodge the monstrous ‘wedgie’ that became its earthly burden.

Looking around me, I found other patrons to be oblivious of the peril in their surroundings. None appeared to regard El Kebabo Diablo with fear, failing to recognise the true nature of the beast in their midst. They dug hungrily into their kebabs, feeding on singed fleshed, tabouli, homous, lettuce, tomato, onion and the putrid sweat of an unearthly friend.

I cautiously exited the shop whilst El Kebabo Diablo had its back turned, slicing and shaving away at slabs of meat. No-one saw me leave, as all were staring hypnotically at the two pillars of grilling flesh that they were soon to feast upon. The primitive and beastly nature of El Kebabo Diablo had infected them ...

It is now that I understand the wisdom behind a centuries old Lebanese proverb, a saying that is whispered to little children in hushed tones by their parents:

‘Temptation of the kebab is a deadly thing.

The more kebabs you eat, the more you look like what made you the kebab.’

Remembers readers, not ‘who’ … but ‘what’.

2005-10-30T20:27:00.000+11:00

Stupid names for food items …..

Ever walked into a Hungry Jacks only to be asked whether a ‘Big Whopper’ is to your liking? What about performing the seemingly innocuous task of purchasing ice cream only to have an attractive check-out chick scream ‘Price Check on Golden GayTime’?

If you are anything like me, and have even a modicum of dignity about your person, then episodes like the above prove infuriating beyond belief. It’s bad enough that so many fast-food outlets ascribe moronic names to their wares, worse yet when you demean yourself publicly by ordering them.

Rather thankfully, I reside in a country (i.e. Australia) whose penchant for stupid food names has yet to equal the standard set in the United States. At almost any café, the food items for sale are afforded ‘descriptive’ titles that are self-explanatory in nature. Even more comforting is the fact that few, if any, restaurants have named sandwiches in honour of ‘home grown’ celebrities or, worse yet, politicians. Being a man of some dignity, I rue the day where hunger will force me into ordering a ‘Barnsey Burger’, ‘Minogue Melt’ or, God forbid, ‘Ruddock with Rye’.

Although years have passed since I last set foot in the US, the following are some of the stupider names I saw affixed to items one is meant to consume:

(i) Hot Beefeater (Quizno’s Fast Food Chain, USA – a burger)
(ii) Rooty Tooty, Fresh and Fruity (IHOP, USA – a fruit smoothie)
(iii) The Big Stick (USA, allegedly a popsicle)
(iv) Nutty Buddy (USA – a type of ice cream)
(v) Jacob Bluefinger (Erbert and Gerbert Sandwich Chain, USA – a sandwich)
(vi) Boney Billy (Erbert and Gerbert Sandwich Chain, USA – a sandwich)

What being in its right mind would openly say the words ‘Hot Beefeater’ and ‘Boney Billy’ when ordering in a restaurant? What confectioner would be sick enough to name an ice cream, specifically one targeted as children, a ‘Nutty Buddy’ or a ‘Big Stick’? It is my belief that the manufacturers and retailers of these items are perversely pleasured by secretly humiliating their clients, most of whom are obese and willing to forego dignity for a feed.

Roald Dahl must have chuckled silently to himself when he named his most popular fictional character, a confectioner no less, ‘Willy Wonka’. What sane parent would allow a child to purchase a ‘Fudgemallow Delight’ from an individual bearing such an unscrupulous name? Obviously the man worked hard at being a ‘chocolateer’, going so far as to put a little of himself into every piece of candy sold. However, if one were to draw inferences from his name, he put in more than effort alone. Also, rumour has it that he was particularly fond of manufacturing vanilla lollipops. They had a liquid centre apparently ….

2005-10-30T20:09:00.000+11:00

Inner strength and perseverance ….

Ever heard a song by Sade called Pearls? From my perspective, limited as it may be in matters of music, it possesses some of the most haunting lyrics ever penned.

There is a woman in Somalia

Scraping for pearls on the roadside
There's a force stronger than nature
Keeps her will alive
This is how she's dying
She's dying to survive
Don't know what she's made of
I would like to be that brave

She cries to the heaven above
There is a stone in my heart
She lives a life she didn't choose
And it hurts like brand-new shoes
Hurts like brand-new shoes

There is a woman in Somalia
The sun gives her no mercy
The same sky we lay under
Burns her to the bone
Long as afternoon shadows
It's gonna take her to get home
Each grain carefully wrapped up
Pearls for her little girl

Hallelujah
Hallelujah

She cries to the heaven above
There is a stone in my heart
She lives in a world she didn't choose
And it hurts like brand-new shoes

Hurts like brand-new shoes

The above words perfectly describe the struggle for survival I saw in much of Africa as a child. During my time in Sudan, I witnessed a country torn asunder by civil unrest and poverty. In spite of the overtly dire circumstances of the people, it beggared belief that so many persevered with life where others would have fallen. These individuals were possessed of a strength and determination few will ever know, let alone fathom.

Unbeknown to most, both my parents came from a background of abject poverty. Nonetheless, they were privileged in respect of the numerous sacrifices made by my grandparents to ensure that their offspring benefited from a sound education. My parents made the most of this opportunity, sacrificing a social life for the rigours of study and examinations. In time, both become highly accomplished professionals, and served with the United Nations for several years before embarking on alternative careers. During this period, my grandparents lived well owing to the continued support and assistance of their children. However, all four passed away before I ever had an opportunity to get to know them well.

My parents speak little of their folks and the difficult life they once lead. Compared to what ‘once was’, their current situation can only be described as a complete turnaround from the uncertainty of the past. On occasion, my grandparents would forego their dinner simply to provide their children with a meagre second helping. They worked and laboured hard throughout much of their life, striving hard to provide their children with benefits they themselves had not been afforded.

Given my own privileged upbringing, comprising of private and international schools and tertiary study, I cannot even begin to understand what life would have been like for my grandparents. Although I can sympathise, empathy is difficult since I have not been in a similar position and ostensibly never will. Looking at my parents, it sometimes appears that they are discomforted by the comfort in their lives. It presents an exceptionally stark contrast to what they once knew, so much so that any act deemed ‘indulgent’ is considered almost sinful. Why buy a novel when you can source the same item from a library? Why ‘eat out’ when significant savings are to be had by dining at home? Why purchase an Omega when a Seiko will suffice?

Despite what I have said above, my parents have absolutely no problem with spending extravagant amounts on their children. As a child, I could very easily have been spoilt had my parents not taught me the importance of money. They both did everything possible to ensure that I had most, if not everything, of what I desired. Every once in awhile, I hope to see them let their hair down, to stop time and just enjoy the moment instead of having work as a 24/7 consideration. They have both done everything possible and achievable in order to ‘survive’, it’s high time that they sought some rest.

The act of survival …. In my view this has to be the greatest singular accomplishment of humankind. If you doubt me, read ‘The Life and Times of Michael K’ – a novel by Coetzee, a Noble Prize winning laureate who is arguably the greatest contemporary author alive (recently emigrated from South Africa to Australia, teaching at the University of Adelaide). Coetzee’s novel is set in a period of civil unrest characterised by anarchy and brutal roaming armies. Michael K, a mentally disabled and impoverished black South African, finds himself an orphan following his mother’s death. Unlike his protagonist counterparts in other fictional novels, Michael does not commence a journey of ‘heroic endeavour’ in the traditional sense of that phrase. Rather, his singular achievement is that he survives in an environment that would break countless others.

‘The Life and Times of Michael K’ is an exceptionally complex novel. If one were to intellectualise it, as is necessary in regarding a work of that calibre, Michael is best described as an extremely marginal figure, disempowered and property-less. In a country torn apart by war, Michael strives hard to find a ‘gap between the fences’, a place to occupy. Being physically weak, Michael has to live off the temporal and material scraps left by the powerful, but his resistance is to use those that the powerful do not realise are there. Everywhere around him, people are laying seeking to lay ‘claim’ to all things capable of being either owned or possessed. In contrast, Michael’s existence is transient in nature. For example, he deliberately builds a home using materials that would be devoured by insects were he to cease tending to it.

Most commentators argue that history is defined by a sense of ‘place’. Being something of a wanderer or drifter, Michael has no claim over the landscape. He is a dispossessed soul, both unable and unwilling to make a mark on the very earth over which he roams. The reader is left with the brutal realisation that were Michael a real person, the imprint of his existence would disappear disturbingly soon after his death.

There are countless thousands like Michael K, but they do not have the luxury of being fictional characters ....

2005-10-24T18:46:00.000+10:00

Keep on walking …

I have been doing a lot of walking these past few days. My efforts, though admirable given the distance covered, are not linked to some weight-loss initiative. Rather, I find walking to be an exercise in nostalgia and reflection. In my younger years, countless hours would be spent roaming on foot around the Sydney ‘Rocks’ area, a region known for beautiful sandstone buildings, colourful street fairs and an almost surreal blending of the old and the new.

Aside from the actual views, music provides a fitting accompaniment as well. It helps to drown out the peripheral sounds of tourists, buskers, vehicles and street side vendors. Although I enjoy the Sydney atmosphere, that of a bustling cosmopolitan city, there is much to be said for solitude. Most of my walking takes place in situations of dusk and drizzle, showery evenings where few dare to venture out. Although gloomy for some, the rain and accompanying damp bring even more character to the area. There’s something to be said about walking under a massive sandstone overpass, replete with dark green moss and miniature waterfalls that wind, bend and twist their way through fissures in the sandstone walls.

Perhaps some of you are wondering what I contemplate on these little sojourns. It’s nothing overtly philosophical really, more a reflection on past events and contemplation on what the future might hold. There’s a certain sense of stasis you feel when walking through a historical area, as if life has ceased to be transient. It is a soothing feeling, to me anyway. I sometimes feel trapped, caught up in some motorised ‘walkway of life’ that is moving far too fast for me to appreciate the beauty of everything that passes.

Life can grow rather weary if you don’t look back once in awhile. Some years back Ben Okri, a literary master of the ‘magical realism’ genre, was to be found on the last carriage of a small Greek mountain train, travelling backwards as he entered Arcadia, and philosophising as follows:

You’re sitting in this train at the back of it here, and you’re not seeing a landscape that you’re approaching, but a landscape that is receding from you .... You don’t greet things, you say goodbye to things, you look back on things, you think back on things, you think about bridges that you’ve just crossed. I actually quite like this backward looking. I rather like it, because always one lives through life with one’s eyes facing forward, so things come at you and then they go behind you. And when they go behind you it’s as if they disappear and they vanish, and they don’t exist any more, whereas like this, they always exist, they always exist. This is one thing this journey has taught me, that there is a sort of chain, (isn’t there?), a link, a kind of relay system, whereby each one of us, just passes on the baton of our lives to the next generation - and that way, we keep something alive that is greater than us.

Okri makes a strong point. When your eyes constantly face forwards, you often tend to forget the very experiences which define you as a person, nonchalantly accepting them as part of your character but not questioning why. As a child, I lived in some 15 different countries and attended several international schools across the globe. Although a memory of my past, it goes without saying that these experience helped shape my current personality and outlook towards life. In what way? Well, that’s something I’ve never actually contemplated at length.

More than anything, I guess it was the transient nature of life that overwhelmed me the most. As soon as my fledgling self took root in a new environment, it would be yanked out again only to be transplanted somewhere else. There never was any sense of familiarity, continuity or permanence. Interruption was the order of the day for years on end, with no real idea of how, when, where and what the end destination might be. I yearned for stability and now that I have it, wish to rid myself of its hold ….

Several years on, having graduated from university, I find myself in the clutches of full-time employment. The sheer nature of professional life - characterised by billable hours, timesheets, business lunches and formal training - exerts too much of a physical presence on my thoughts. I feel grounded, in the literal sense, as if my feet have taken root in the most barren of earth. Unlike my childhood counterpart, there is no third-party to set me free this time. Any attempt to struggle free will eventuate from my own efforts alone, and no-one else’s.

Okri once remarked ‘keep postponing your destination, keep extending your dream’. Purpose gives meaning to one’s life, and it amuses me to no small end that, once achieved or attained, a dream tends to lose sits significance or importance.

I’ve come to realise through all this that I cannot stop walking, I need to be on the move, on the lookout, searching out what has passed by unnoticed before. Life is transient, fleeting in nature and, as the old adage says, ‘life does not stop for anyone’. It can be broken down, labelled, finely tuned but, like some mystical perpetual engine, will not cease to function. It happens all around us, to young and old, rich and poor, in whatever definitions we choose to hold. Every once in awhile, I will have to be the one who seeks to stop time, and enjoys the moment.

S.A.

2005-10-15T08:31:00.000+10:00

Official Correspondence - The Public Service Equivalent of Intimacy

Ever held a job that you truly despised, so much so that the mere act of waiting for ‘quitting time’ felt like someone was dragging a cheese greater across your privates? Well, pity me because I have and I am in precisely such a position.

Without going into specifics, suffice it to say that I work for what is arguably the most loathed public service organisation in the South East Asia region. The entire department is driven by bureaucracy and red tape, such that I can imagine any number of First Assistant Secretaries (FASs) sitting in their private offices manipulating themselves to paperwork. Jokes aside, what drives an organisation to be so driven by forms, formalities, official procedure, and paperwork? Lawyers routinely make jokes about having chosen their profession owing to a deep-seated paper fetish. Well, you’ve opted for the wrong field my friends. Bureaucracy is the true calling of those who are .. err .. ‘stimulated’ by formatting (e.g. spacing, paragraph numbering), syntax, grammar, punctuation etc.

Every second day some tosser from Central Office sends out yet another round of templates specifically designed to suit some politician’s personal preferences. It’s not unheard of to have a Minister refuse to sign a document because there ‘five spaces instead of six’ between the words ‘Yours sincerely’ and his/her name. Seriously, what freaking difference does it make? Will your world end? Will your ‘old boy network’ ridicule you for not having learnt the finer points of presentation at any number of supposedly prestigious tertiary learning institutions? Is it because you are obsessive compulsive? Just how big is your damned signature that you need a whole six spaces to enable sufficient ‘signage area’ for your Anglo-Celtic name?

It beggars belief that so many public servants would hold such an unwavering belief in the power of ‘letterhead’. Just because a document is formally presented, grammatically correct in every way, devoid of mistakes in spelling/punctuation/syntax etc does not mean that its content is accordingly enhanced. Do you remember the kid in high school who had impeccable handwriting? Did this particular talent necessarily eventuate in more meaningful and coherent essay writing? Not particularly. Chances are that the kid was sexually frustrated and used the elaborate loops, curls, swirls and spirals in his/her cursive text as a subliminal expression of sexuality.

So there you have it. The entire public service is dominated at the upper echelons by people more emotionally connected to paper than their own partners. To these lonely and isolated individuals, human touch is no substitute for the inherent sensuality of caressing the tip of an expensive fountain pen across inter-office correspondence. Hmm, what could possibly better the subtle satisfaction of ‘officially corresponding’ with those equal or senior to your level within the organisation? After all, that ambitious State Director from Victoria (whose heavenly visage has graced the glossy pages of numerous internal newsletters) may not even know of your existence. BUT, just wait till she opens her internal mail tomorrow and sees your briefs – stiff, white, watermarked, sealed as ‘confidential’ and marked for her eyes only. The thought of your package in this woman’s hands fills you with indescribable pleasure.

In a situation such as the above, you ponder ceaselessly as to whether the recipient had thoughts of your instrument (of writing) moving gracefully across crisp white sheets (of paper). Although he/she sees naught but a mark (i.e. signature), you wonder whether the recipient acknowledges and appreciates the fluidity of your movements, the dexterity of your wrist, the fickleness of your fingers as you wonder whether everything has been done to their satisfaction.

Yes, yes …. It stands to reason that public servants are in desperate need of a shag. However, God forbid that one should pursue an office relationship in such an uptight environment. The general behaviour of public servants is governed by the APS Code of Conduct, a legislative ‘ethical’ code that, although not prohibiting office relationships, ostensibly discourages overt expressions of sexuality. Public servants, much like accountants, are meant to be as bland as an English breakfast (e.g. cheese on toast, no spices aside from salt and pepper). How does one express individuality in an environment dictated by conformity? There is only one way to make yourself known of course, via the quality of your documents.

2005-09-19T15:02:00.000+10:00

TOILET HUMOUR

Several years ago I was in the restroom of my then employer, a legal publishing firm, throwing cold water on my face in a desperate attempt to retain consciousness – such is the nature of the publishing world. Halfway through these actions, I heard sounds for which there is no apt description in the English language. Suffice it to say that they constituted the lonely utterances of a man seeking to relieve himself of his innermost demons. Interspersed with his agonized groans were the names of several religious figures of the Christian faith – saints, prophets, Mother Mary, Jesus and God Almighty Himself.

Although I could not even see this tormented individual, I regarded him with mixed feelings. Here was a human soul in obvious pain, seeking to cleanse his body of elements that would elicit sheer terror from the bravest of man and beast alike. Yet, in spite of his admirable attempts to once again attain a state of purity, I hated him for the indescribable revulsion his utterances instilled in me:

Uuunnhhh … Oh Sweet Mother of God …. Release me of these demons …. Plop … Oh thank you Holy Father, mighty are thee …. Ggnnhhhhrrrr …. Dear Saint Patrick, Holy Patron of …. Pffftttt … How you torment me Satan, giving me nothing in return for my labours …. Plop …. Bless you Jesus, Son of God …

Upon hearing the above words, I instantly forgave the Japanese for all their cultural peculiarities. I am, of course, speaking of pills that remove odour associated with bodily functions, toilets which play loud music as soon as they detect a presence on the seat, sound-proofed toilet stalls etc. Had it not been for my olfactory and aural senses, this revelation would have never come to light. The sounds I heard that day were other-worldly. They did not belong in this realm, which advocates order and civility as the norm. What I heard were the sounds of chaos – a living, breathing, intelligent being with no control over the most primal of biological processes.

In the event that Hell has an orchestra, an entire symphony of demonic music could have been composed solely from the sounds emitted by that one man. I have never heard anything quite like it in my entire life, and hope and pray that I never will. Prayer and profanity, supplication and defecation, faith and faeces … all united in the one act.

I have never been quite the same again since that day. My entire diet has taken a turn. Steaks are a thing of the past – fruit and fibre is my new mantra. Previously, I used to laugh at those old fools parading around on television, mouthing the magnificence of Metamucil. Not anymore, not anymore …

2005-09-01T20:14:00.000+10:00

Scared? Of what??

A few days ago, I was laying back in bed watching TV, as was the style at the time. A television program titled 'Afterlife' was playing on Channel 9. For those of you who have lives and are not reliant on evening programs for entertainment, Afterlife is a show about a rather dreary looking white woman undergoing therapy on account of seeing 'dead people'. Having regard to the fact that she is a UK resident, I fail to see what makes her unique in that regard. England is full of pale people with blotchy skin walking around in a daze, especially on Friday nights following a few bevvies.

Anyway, the episode in question revolved around a fellow called Daniel. This young chap was haunted by a rather malevolent poltergeist he had named 'Daniel 2'. Daniel 2 was physically alike to Daniel in almost every way, but looked like he'd just done several pills and chased that up with an LSD enema. Suffice it to say that Daniel 2 was a creepy looking bastard, with bloodshot eyes, damp hair and unkempt fingernails. Oh yeah, he didn't say much either and had few passtimes, aside from scratching Daniel's face in the middle of the night as he lay terrified and quivering beneath the sheets. Later in the show, it is revealed that Daniel 2 is Daniel's deceased brother. Apparently his mother 'aborted' him following some affair at a late stage of pregnancy. Daniel 2 was feeling particularly pissed that his mother never quite acknowledged his existence and did her utmost to bury memories of the abortion and the life that might have been.

Well, I did not think much of this show until I woke up feeling like a cigarette at 2:00am. The night air was unusually still, and moonlight reflecting from my backyard pool lent a somewhat surreal shimmer to the surface water. As I stood outside in the cold, sucking warm ash into my lungs, I felt a little uneasy. For one, it was uncharacteristically quiet. I couldn't even hear traffic from a nearby main road, not that many people would be driving around at 2am on a Thursday morning. Second, the shadows cast on account of the crescent moon were almost supernaturally dark, as if the black had a texture and consistency to it.

As a child, my parents used to sometimes lock me in a basement or closet space if I had misbehaved. It'd be dark in there to put it mildly. Most days I would be hard pressed to see my hand in front of my face. Also, I had a disturbing fondness for horror novels despite being 8 years of age. By that stage, I'd already started reading authors like Stephen King, Dean Koontz and John Saul. My imagination was over-active to the extreme, and I literally felt as if I my mind itself could conjure up any number of demons when the darkness kicked in.

As a self-defence mechanism against my own imagination, I began to imagine myself as evil. After all, if you can't beat em' then join em'. This is the logic of a fuc*ed up 8 year old whose guardians have as much parenting skill as a piranha with a drinking problem. Amazingly enough, my little tactic worked. I was no longer afraid of the dark, and even willed myself to take walks in the backyard in the late hours of the night as a means of testing my own resolve.

Well, some 19 years have passed since that 8 year old was last locked in some closet or baseent. I am no longer afraid of the dark. So, why did I feel uneasy at 2am on Thursday morning. Realistically speaking, I no longer need to pretend I am evil as a means of circumventing fear. After all, I'm a government official working for what is arguably the most hated and controverial government agency in the southern hemisphere. Cigarette advertising executives would look towards someone like me with the utmost contempt and disdain. They would wonder how a living being could stoop to such low depths, how conscience, morality, decency could be abrogated by the misguided notion that one is serving his country by enforcing the will and word of politicians. Should Lucifer ever cross my path, he would shake in revulsion and disgust. Indeed, his much touted decision to NOT bow down before 'man' would be further enforced as having been the 'correct and preferable' decision. Yes, it is my belief that Lucifer has considerable legal skills, especially in administrative law. After all, he's reliant on people having made bad decisions in order to support his very existence.

For present purposes, I am not going to state my occupation. Suffice it to say that my home internet use may well be monitored by certain intelligence agencies. However, the mind once again boggles as to whether my unease that evening could be translated as being fear. If so, something is not quite right in the universe. After all, what reason is there to fear what does not exist? It's not like Daniel 2 will appear behind my shoulder and scrape one long, dirty fingernail across my brow. He's more likely to quizz me on my occupation, shake his head in disgust and then offer me a line so that I have a more 'liberal' perspective on life.

2005-08-26T02:55:00.000+10:00

CULTURAL ATTITUDES TOWARDS VICTIMS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT

The following article was written by me under a pseudonym ('Anissa') and posted on a popular Islamic website (IslamicSydney.com) some time back. It was meant to generate discussion about Islamic cultural attitudes towards sexual assault victims, but few members were willing to put forth so much as a peep. By way of background, it is perhaps worth mentioning that I have been banned from this particular website on several occasions, if for no other reason that offering a dissenting view. It purports to be 'liberal' in nature, but any person who intends to question dogma or archaic religious prescriptions is likely to be banned.

Anyway, hope this proves to be an interesting read. Prior to having a look-see, bear in mind that 'Anissa' was little more than a pseudonym alone. I wanted to put forth the persona of an intelligent, articulate and logical woman with an Islamic background, who had long given up on her faith on account of having 'reason' alone. The backlash 'she' received provided one hell of a show.

Cultural Attitudes Towards Victims of Sexual Assault

Last night I received a phone call from a friend of mine mentioning how a young man undertaking a Masters in Psychology had recently approached her. The meeting resulted in her being presented with a lengthy questionnaire seeking to address her personal attitudes towards rape victims. The bulk of questions focussed squarely on the issue of whether the woman - in particular circumstances - may be said to shoulder some of the responsibility/blame for the act of 'sexual intercourse without consent' - ie rape.

Earlier posts of mine have shed some light on the importance that Islam places upon 'modesty'. To the chagrin of many, I have went on to say that certain 'Islamic persons' often construe a covered Muslim woman as being of higher moral fabric than one who chooses to dress in say a midriff top and a miniskirt. Although my memory fails me at this point, I may have mentioned the inherent logical flaw that such a generalisation indulges in. Namely, the old adage that 'one ought not to judge a book by its cover' is completely done away with. Actually, this may not be entirely true. Physical appearance by way of dress is a much different creature from physical appearance as resultant through biology. With respect to the former, one may argue that a grown man walking down Pitt Street sporting a leopard skin g-string may well be profiled as a 'chap of dubious moral fibre'. But then again, I tend to formulate my perceptions of others based primarily on whether or not they have the capacity and/or inclination to cause unwarranted harm to others - and not necessarily whether they engage in extramarital sex, illicit drug-taking and partying etc.

Within my personal circle I hold dear a number of professional women who - in spite of dressing professionally - wear clothing which does draw attention to their female form. In exercising regularly and taking great care of their physical selves, some of these women do in fact seek to attract attention. Having said that, one must distinguish between the attraction which is sought and that which is not. They are definitely not seeking to be raped so one cannot argue that - by dressing provocatively by Islamic standards - they were 'asking for it' once the sexual assault is occasioned. Rather, it remains a well-known fact that physical attraction is often the first point of attraction as far as relationships are concerned. Although this sounds dreadfully superficial, it is simply a reality of life which most people do not perceive as being an inherent social evil leading to breakdowns in family relationships etc. Such blatant scare mongering would do little to detract any sane person from some of the more salient issues sought to be raised in my posting.

Under existing laws rape can occur when (i) a woman refuses to consent to sexual assault outright; and (ii) the man does not 'withdraw' during the act of sexual intercourse when asked to do so by the woman. Some men - irrespective of their religious affiliation - see the latter position as somehow being incredulous. It 'blows their minds' that a criminal act can be said to occur in the mere seconds following a woman's request to 'withdraw' even where the sexual act has already commenced. It must be borne in mind that, in dealing with sexual assault, we are not dealing in so-called matters of practicality. For example, how can any man be expected to withdraw at a point when he is only moments away from orgasm ? Would that not amount to some kind of 'cruel and unusual punishment' ? (Little attempt at humour there ..)

The key issue is quite simply that of consent. If a woman chooses to walk down a dark and deserted alleyway stark naked she is not inviting rape. She has NOT consented to the act of penetration and this point should never lose its clarity when clouded by futile debates over 'wrong place, wrong time, wrong choice of clothing, along, unaccompanied by big strong male for protection etc'.

The attacker's own culpability with respect to a sexual assault matter should never be removed from the wider picture. Islam seems to place a great deal of emphasis on the modesty of a woman as a means of protecting not only herself but also men from being 'tempted'. In doing so, it falls into the trap of perhaps attributing blame - through the medium of moral culpability - to a woman who is raped in a seemingly 'blameworthy' scenario. That is, provocatively dressed, inebriated, alone in dangerous place and unaccompanied by a suitable protector etc. Such views do little to advance the cause of women's' rights and almost everything to displace 100% physical, moral and emotional culpability on the attacker.

Does anyone remember the words of Yasuo Kakuda, the chief cabinet secretary of the Japanese Parliament? Some months back he appeared to comment that women who dressed provocatively were 'really asking for it'.

"If you walk around, there are many of them. Many who have a provocative appearance. Those who have that kind of appearance are at fault. Because men are black panthers."

Worse still, he alluded to men in general as being 'black panthers' - thereby insinuating that men are somehow driven by primeval or perhaps animalistic urges, with such a state being in the natural order of things. At some stage or another we all have to take responsibility for who we are - human beings with the ability to reason and rationalise. People need to take responsibility for their own actions and it shall be a sad day when a man can somehow escape and/or reduce his culpability in a sex crime by seeking to argue the alleged shortcomings of his masculinity.

Kakuda's comments appear not to be uncommon and have been complimented by the moronic comments of other leading Japanese politicians. Japan is by nature a patriarchal society although women are gradually beginning to assert dominance in both the workplace and at home. Such anomalies appear to be 'culturally' guided and not necessarily motivated by some particular faith. With Islam, however, the situation is markedly different.

Earlier this morning I perused an Islamic website (www.jannah.org) to attempt to better understand the role of 'Hijab' in the daily life of a pious Muslim woman. The arguments propounded were nothing new and indeed appeared to constitute yet another rehash with buzzwords like 'liberation', 'purity', 'chastity', 'virtue' etc. As stated by a friend of mine, Islam appears to guard the chastity of Muslimahs with greater fervour than Israel guards its nuclear arsenal. In contrasting the so-called Islamic standard with 'Western values', the following statement was provided:

"What a contrast with Western fashions which every year concentrate quite intentionally on exposing yet another erogenous zone to the public gaze! The intention of Western dress is to reveal the figure, while the intention of Muslim dress is to conceal [and cover] it, at least in public."

Comments such as the above are precisely what serve to further alienate Muslims in western countries. In a recent cultural exhibition at Darling Harbour, I was treated to the spectacle of four Muslim women - in full Islamic garb - sporting blonde wigs and mimicking what they believed to be 'western excesses'. When exposed to such a blatant exposition of the 'us and them' mentality, it is no wonder that a great many Muslims attribute a lesser moral standard to a woman who chooses to expose her 'feminine form' through tight-fitting or revealing clothing. Indeed, some would go so far as to say that such women are 'asking for it' when they get sexually assaulted through no fault of their own. It sickens me that I even have to add the qualifier of 'through no fault of their own' as a means of further clarification. The simple phrase 'sexual assault' should imbue the reader with an understanding that consent was lacking.

In addition, the allusion to 'western fashions which every year concentrate quite intentionally on exposing yet another erogenous zone to the public gaze' is laughable. The mind boggles as to just how zones a Muslim male might label as 'erogenous' with respect to a woman's body. Research conducted by a friend of mine - concentrating on male/female sexuality and arousal - noted that certain men (especially those living in Iran, Saudi Arabia et al) would be sexually aroused by the sight of an exposed wrist. Women in those parts of the world would be advised to wear a G-Shock on either wrist to prevent the possibility of inadvertently arousing a male's sexual desires. Ohhhh .. what a ravishing wrist you have sister!!

DO not for a second believe that I have little or no grasp of some of the altruistic arguments favouring the Hijab. It is true that women living in western countries face an almost comical level of pressure to be attractive. The cover of any woman's magazine as well as its contents supports this assertion. However, the fact remains that there is no moral distinction placed between a woman who goes to great lengths to appear beautiful and one who does not. Anomalies do occur, such as one woman being preferred for a position owing to her looks alone. However, these discrepancies are not brought about through the exercise of any particular religion and/or belief system. Under Islam, a woman who chooses to cover herself is describes at great length as being chaste, virtuous, pure and pious. This 'admiration' is to the exclusion of any woman who chooses not to wear the Hijab or dress with modesty.

Believe it or not there do exist women who wish to dress provocatively as a means of exerting their sexual power. Although this may be an invitation to admire - albeit with some discretion - it does not extend into an invitation of the same nature as a coupon allowing you to partake in an RSL buffet. Is there anything wrong with a person engaging in such behaviour ? Admittedly, it's rather sad that - whilst most women will be drawn to a well-dressed, groomed and heeled gentleman - the gentleman in question may be attracted primarily to a 'nice rack' and a 'butt you can bounce quarters off'. Both forms of 'attraction' have a layer of superficiality but so what? No-one is being harmed and both persons remain well in control of the decisions they make and the conduct in which they engage - whether it is flirting or a more intimate liaison.

Speaking as an intelligent and perceptive woman, I am often aware when a man is interested in me primarily because of my appearance as distinct from my personality. This much can be gauged from either body language or by the frequency of compliments which go towards looks as distinct from character. Having noted this, it is high time that society dispensed with the view of women as being 'chicks' - small, fluffy animals which are lacking in substance and have the tendency to fall prey to stealthy 'chicken hawks'. Really, such abject generalisations not only demean us but encourage even further 'predatory behaviour' among men who assume all women to be gullible creatures easily swayed by flattery.

Earlier in this piece I stated that - when seeking to judge people - I was more concerned with their capacity and/or inclination for harm. With this in mind, I was rather taken aback when I saw the lack of sympathy my mother recently expressed upon having heard the news of a prostitute's brutal rape in the Darlinghurst area. This particular lady happens to hold some 3 separate degrees and, in gauging her reaction, I saw that a decent education is not necessarily a precursor to someone developing a more sophisticated sense of compassion and/or empathy. I reminded my mother of how brutal the act of rape can be. Some people think that simply because a woman is a prostitute, she will somehow be less emotionally and/or physically distressed following a sexual assault. Strangely enough, I cannot quite remember my mother's reply. It will suffice to say that it was something less than memorable. Little more can be expected of someone who believes that all human beings should live according to the stringent codes laid down in the Quran and Hadith. Simple minded person, simple minded response ..

As with most mammals a woman needs to be ready for the act of sex to take place. In addressing the men of this forum, imagine if you have an object measuring some 6-7 inches (average) thrust into your anus. Severe bruising and trauma would result. Sensitive blood vessels in your colon would rupture instantly. Your sphincter muscles would contract thereby eliciting even greater pain. It's not that much different for a woman either. The experience is traumatic irrespective of who you may be. The fact that a woman is perceived as being lacking in chastity, purity, religion or otherwise does not serve to dampen the emotional and physical pain she feels by any margin whatsoever.

Exclusion ... this is what religion is all about. People from groups such as 'Interfaith' never tire of arguing that the world's major religions all have a 'common thread' - tolerance, peace and submission to God, charity etc. If ever we need a shining example of a concerted effort to exercise political correctness this would be it. PeeCees at their finest.

"A young woman decides to walk home alone following a late party in Darlinghurst. She lives alone in a studio apartment a few hundred metres away from the club that she has just frequented with a number of friends. She is slightly drunk, inebriated to the point that her thoughts and physical actions appear muted. Further, she is dressed in revealing clothing - a short skirt and a midriff top which exposes her stomach and cleavage. She also has a heavy layer of make-up on plus a 'glitter balm' which lends an almost shimmering quality to her face, neck and shoulders. On the way home she is accosted by a male and brutally raped."

How many of you think that - with respect to the aforementioned scenario - the woman shoulders some of the responsibility and/or blame for what has occurred? Keep in mind that it is one thing to 'assume risk' in the context of undertaking a hazardous sporting activity (eg mountain climbing) and another to 'assume risk' in choosing to walk home alone in circumstances as the one described above. With respect to the latter case, some may argue that the woman in question was 'inviting rape' on account of having - inter alia (ie amongst other things) - dressed 'provocatively'. With respect to the former scenario you're assuming responsibility for (i) your own actions; and (ii) any contingency which may arise (eg bad weather, loose rocks, frayed rope). You do NOT assume responsibility for the actions of a 'human being' who is unable to control his/her desires to the extent that a criminal act eventuates. The same SHOULD be true for the latter although some people would beg to differ. Unlike a mountain, the said human being has the ability to decide whether or not to 'attack'. With this in mind, how can it possibly be said that the woman in the aforementioned scenario is 'also to blame' ?

She took a risk and paid the price. Without doubt that is the reply some of you shall deal my way by means of an answer. In previous discussions I have been given the analogy of someone who 'stares' at another person in public - thereby provoking a heated response. Is the situation, which I've illustrated above, any different?

Yes, it is. Even is one assumes the risk of walking down a perilous alleyway dressed in sexually alluring clothing one does not seek to 'invite rape'. The central issue is one of consent and this distinction differentiates clear-headed individuals with moralistic, dogmatic nutcases. The extent to which the latter view is commonly entertained is cause for some concern. Amongst Islamic societies, this rather ham-fisted perception of rape victims is visibly apparent. The question of what triggers such archaic attitudes is a subject of further debate still. In looking towards religions values and/or morals some understanding may be fostered.

Under certain faiths a culture may be said to arise under which a woman is seen as better dead than defiled. Although I have limited knowledge of the position under Christianity, this statement is very definitely lent support by certain Islamic and Hindu societies. In both instances fathers and brothers will pursue and kill daughters or sisters for disobeying or being forced to disobey their cultural/religious rules. In measuring a woman's worth depending on whether she is a virgin, a mother, has sex inside or outside of marriage, is called a spinster, slut or a whore, has ten children or is childless, is still evident in many ways. Indeed, women are expected, if not outright encouraged, to feel guilty, sullied, dirty and worthless when they have been raped. As stated earlier, victims are often said to be 'inviting rape' if they wear 'provocative' dress. With such views in mind it is no wonder than most Muslims feel the headscarf and/or all-encompassing burkha to be some kind of 'defence mechanism' against sexual assault.

Why should I, as a woman, drastically alter my mode of dress in order to ensure that men are at ease in not being tempted in some 'un-Islamic' manner ? Why should restrictions be placed on my conduct simply because of the weak will of another ? Most importantly of all, should I be judged as a 'bad person' simply because I choose not to dress modestly from the point of view of a Muslim ? In doing something as simple as walking through Burwood Westfield I am aware of the disapproving glances cast at the numerous young women in hipster jeans, midriff tops etc. The 'daggers from the eyes' are mostly thrown by elderly Muslim women who are doing their grocery shopping or whatever.

At what point does a woman's chose of clothing throw her into the slut, whore, skank category ? These very words exist as a means of demeaning and denigrating women owing to their conduct in everyday life. Why are there so few comparative words denigrating men in a similar fashion? On more than one occasion I have been face to face with a man whose jeans are so tight that each testicle is left precariously devoid of the other's company by a very attached zipper.

Religion is obsessed with notions of purity which, for the better part, appear to place as heavy an emphasis on 'keeping up appearances' as a person's mental character and/or spiritual development etc. If this does not trigger out and out prejudice, I do not know what does. Going back to the scenario of the Lebanese gang rapes, let it not be forgotten that one of the culprits remarked to his victim that: 'We are doing this because you're Australian'. As much as I hate to bring this up, I wonder whether similar conduct would have accrued to a Muslim woman sporting a headscarf.

Under Islamic culture, the attitude to rape and raped women appears to have been covered by one of the 'great' monotheistic, male dominated religions. In worst-case scenarios, one can easily refer to a number of 'Muslim nations' where a raped woman has been arrested and sentenced to death by stoning for adultery! - Anissa

2005-08-26T01:51:00.000+10:00

MEMORIES OF A CHILDHOOD FRIEND

It's two in the morning and I can't sleep.

Just over 15 minutes ago, I stepped onto the back porch of my house to have a cigarette. Given my current asthmatic condition, this is without doubt the stupidest thing I could possibly have done. For the better part, I guess I just wanted an excuse to be outside, to enjoy the cold night air and perhaps spend a few minutes stargazing. In addition, my mind was besought with thoughts of someone whose memory fast escapes me.

The person I am talking about is a woman named 'Daulat'. She was one of my mother's best friends, and often used to babysit me as a child. Her background was Syrian, but it was virtually impossible to pick her ethnicity based on appearance alone. She had a fair complexion, but wasn't pale. I remember her skin as having a honeyish glow to it, and she had the most stunning eyes imaginable, like emeralds on fire. Thinking back, she is probably the only person I know whose looks matched her personality. She was angelic in almost every way, someone who would give her all for those she loved and cared for.

Daulat, being a qualified nurse, was often asked by my parents to 'scare' me with images of syringes and drips should I fail to behave. She humoured them, but always winked at me secretly to show she was merely acting in jest. On occasion, she would pick me up and hold me against her face, so close that our noses touched and it became impossible to escape those penetrating green eyes of her. She treated me as her own child, and did her best to care for me and my siblings during those periods when my parents were away on business.

Several years ago, Daulat had her marriage arranged to someone she scarcely knew. For various reasons, she kept this development hidden from my family - perhaps on account of being shamed that her will was over-written by what her family believed to be in her best interests. My mother only kept in touch with Daulat intermittently during this period. Daulat had become somewhat reclusive, and we could only speculate as to why this was the case.

Anyway, the last news I received of Daulat related to her untimely death. She had died in childbirth. My mother later told me that, soon after getting married, Daulat was informed by a treating physician that complications would arise were she to get pregnant. Her husband was informed of this but seemed to care little about his wife's health and wellbeing. He insisted on children and more or less 'raped' her in marriage. As a result, she died giving birth to his child - a stillborn.

For some reason or another, Daulat came to mind while I was on the back porch, smoking a cigarette and counting constellations. I have no idea what triggered her memory, but feel disturbed that I don't think of her as often as I should. Being an atheist, I don't believe that there is a 'life after death' - this particular facet of my atheist belief system is steadfast. On occasion, it also causes me a great deal of distress. Here's a woman who ought to be remembered, who ought never to be forgotten ... and yet very few would have even known of her existence.

I only knew Daulat in my limited capacity as a child. In so many ways, she seemed to mirror my own innocence. There was a certain naivity to her, but it could not be interpreted as a 'lack of intelligence'. Rather, Daulat seemed to see the good in people and was often willing to overlook shortcomings to bring out their best traits. She could've made such a difference in the lives of everyone around her, but her entire existence was cut short by a man who could not think past his desire to continue the 'family name'.

Several months after Daulat's death, her husband visited our family home - perhaps in an effort to bask in sympathy. My parents pretended to not know of the circumstances surrounding her death, and simply wanted him out of the house as soon as practicable. I felt differently. Upon walking into the living room, I threw a chair at his face and then stuck my heel into the nape of his neck as he hit the floor. I don't believe that my actions were pre-meditated. I cannot even remember forming thoughts at the time. Everything happened almost instinctly, without foresight. All I can remember is an indescribable feeling of hatred, so intense that it felt as if it had been distilled, purified into its most base essence. The last thing I remember of that episide is being thrown out into the backyard by my parents, and Daulat's husband gasping for breath on the floor of our living room.

Those feelings came very close to rushing back when I thought of Daulat earlier today. However, now it's more hollowness than hatred. The bitterness I feel over her death is not going to bring her back. If anything, it will simply serve to dampen my fonder memories of her existence and the imprint she left on my 'child' self. I just wish that there was some way to reconcile my atheist beliefs with my desire for her to be in some 'better place'.

2005-08-24T20:31:00.000+10:00

MANUFACTURING DISSENT

Can the force of human spirit conquer the deprivations and violations committed against it, either individually or collectively? And what are the boundaries within which we, as members of humanity, may expect to be victorious over the cynical, oppressive forces that affect our world? They are deliberately wide and vague questions. What do you think the answers are?

A few years ago I visited a friend of mine who had only just recently purchased a modest house in Glebe. He gave me a brief tour of the premises before leading me into the living room and offering me a seat on a beanbag. One of the first things I noticed about this room, aside from its sparse furniture, was a large rectangular sheet of white cloth hanging over the fireplace. It seemed to be covering up either a large framed picture or perhaps an ornamental mirror. Upon being quizzed on its purpose my friend cast aside the sheet and turned to face me, as if scanning my face for a response. The image which presented itself was that of a soldier standing over a handcuffed man laying on his stomach. He was grinding one highly polished boot into the back of the other man’s head, pressing it deep into the dirt.

"Most people get rather disturbed by it. Still, it’s worth keeping in mind all the shit that happens. Just in case you forget.", he said.

Just what is a crime against humanity? Does it have to be inhumane to be accorded such a definition? Should we even be confusing the words humanity with humane or humanitarian? Most would frown were I to answer that question. My own personal cynicism is no surprise to anyone, least of all myself. In any event, I would like to limit the tone of my discourse by concentrating on something close to home: Asylum seekers; refugees; boat people; queue jumpers.

Several years ago, I read an exceptionally well written article in the Sydney Morning Herald by Robert Manne, Associate Professor of Politics at La Trobe University, titled "Ruddock-speak is helping many to sleep at night". The article aimed to examine why so many Australians seem to be turning a blind eye to the plight of those in detention centres. Reference wsa made to a survey conducted in Newspoll which quizzed Australians on how they felt after seeing/hearing/reading about the acts of self-mutilation and protest which routinely gripped detention centres. 70% responded by saying that they felt even less sympathetic towards asylum seekers than before.

A letter to the editor (SMH Opinion & Letters) asked how anyone could be sure that the Afghans shown browbeating themselves in a detention centre were not potention suicide bombers. After all, if they could inflict such intense pain on themselves readily surely they could take the next step. What she meant by the next step is a little vague to me? Kill themselves? Become suicide bombers? I assume she meant the latter.

Manne commented briefly upon how public consciousness can be shaped through the corruption of language. One of Orwell’s essays on the relationship between politics and language is alluded to. It is one in which Orwell expressed his conviction that political language was becoming increasingly corrupted by vagueness and abstraction, by the use of dead metaphors, prefabricated phrases, the passive rather than the active tense, the choice of Latin-based rather than Anglo-Saxon words. The corruption of language in this manner hence serves a precise political purpose – the partial concealment of one’s meaning not only from other but from oneself.

Consider the following example. Ruddock was recently asked to comment on how he could justify continued detention of the family of a traumatised six-year-old boy who no longer ate or drank or spoke. He answered: "Well, I do look at these issues in the context of humanitarian considerations and there are a broad range of issues that I have to look at, firstly in terms of whether or not we give up a refugee place that could otherwise go, in this case, to four other people, whose circumstances would, I suspect, be far more compelling."

Manne goes on to say the following:

This is not an extreme version of Ruddock-speak. For him a broken child has suffered an "adverse impact"; people who go on hunger strike or sew their lips together are involved in "inappropriate behaviours"; refugees who flee to the West in terror are "queue jumpers"; those who live without hope in forlorn refugee camps are "safe and secure"; those who are dispatched to tropical prisons financed by Australia are part of the "Pacific Solution".

So, from a microeconomic perspective how can we be "victorious over the alarming amount of community hostility towards asylum seekers?". In the past I’ve carried on endlessly about the benefits of education as a means of creating dissent. If there is one proposition which the majority of Utopian/Dystopian novels put forth it’s that knowledge equates to power. The psychology of why any one person behaves, acts or thinks in a particular way is exceedingly complex and beyond the scope of my knowledge. But, if consent can be manufactured then why not dissent. The question is, how do you turn dissent into something more meaningly, something capable of throwing aside the oppressive forces.

2005-08-24T17:44:00.000+10:00

EROSION OF THE RULE OF LAW IN THE UNITED STATES

The following is an opinion piece I wrote for an online socio-political discussion group (UTS Groups) shortly after the attacks of September 11.

I would like to refer all UTS Group subscribers to a thought provoking article in today’s Good Weekend magazine – a Sydney Morning Herald (SMH) publication. The article, titled "Beyond good and evil", is penned by Richard Neville and raises a number of questions concerning the United States response to the September 11 attacks. It can be found at www.richardneville.com.au. Approximately a year back, Neville wrote a similar article arguing that "Uncle Sam" was the face of a nation hell-bent on furthering its own interests. Over the course of the past week I have reflected on a number of publications commenting on the erosion of the "rule of law" in America.

President Bush’s father commented in 1992 that: "The American way of life is not negotiable." At the time I understood his words as reflective of the manner in which corporate America views other countries. It comes as no secret that bodies such as the World Bank, the Inernational Monetary Fund (IMF) and most well-known investment banks (eg Macquarie Bank) teem with third world analysts. These highly educated individuals are rarely ever asked to comment upon difficulties faced in the third world and how best to address them. For the most past their work consists of examining development and/or infrastructure projects and investments. At the end of the day the question they have to answer is: "How can we profit from X, Y and Z?"

Neville comments that corporate America treats other countries according to their respective ratings: market, mine, sweatshop or basket case. He rightly comments that most Americans, including those employed by Uncle Sam, are obliviousness of the deeds done in their name. American citizens are not the only ones who are constantly bombarded with propaganda.

"Uncle Sam’s rapaciousness is both driven and disguised by a mix of pop culture, mass media, brand fetishism and propaganda so clever and tantalising that most of us feel the sooner we’re indoctrinated into the American dream the better. Hey, don’t stop the music."
Richard Neville (Good Weekend, SMH; 12/04/02)

The question of how America views itself begs to be answered. Perhaps it is as a White Knight – one that upholds democracy and topples tyrannies the world over. The purpose is to make the world a better place, but for whom?

The US has stopped playing by its own rules and those of international law. Neville argues that as the twin towers collapsed so did America’s sense of invincibility. Perhaps that is why the deaths in Manhattan proved more shocking that the deaths of hundreds of thousands of terror victims elsewhere in the world. Maybe so, but the outpouring of sympathy afforded to victims of the September 11 attacks has a more plausible explanation, albeit a disturbing one. The proposition that loss of innocent life ought to be mourned, irrespective of who happens to die, should be afforded due merit. Reality dictates otherwise. Few would be able to remember the last time the lit a candle, or participated in a momentary silence, for those who died and continue to die in Nicaragua, Rwanda, East Timor, Afghanistan, Bangladesh etc.

The collapse of the twin towers, and an immense ego, resulted in a mob crying out for vengeance. Neville quotes Australian expatriate Steve Dunleavy as having the following to say in Rupert Murdoch’s New York Post:

"The response to this unimaginable 21st century Pearl Harbour should be as simple as it is swift – kill the bastards. A gunshot between the eyes, blow them to smithereens, poison them if you have to. As for cities or countries that host these worms, bomb them to basketball courts."
Steve Dunleavy (New York Post, 12/09/2001)

Bomb who though? The Taliban, although insufferable, did not plan or execute the attacks of September 11. Yet, as Neville argues, why let the truth get the way of a sitting duck? So it came to pass. The US went ahead and bombed Afghanistan to kingdom come. The power of the world’s mightiest air force being unleashed onto the world’s poorest nations. Bombing rubble into yet more rubble. The Taliban was rightly portrayed as vile and despicable, mutilating criminals, disallowing free speech and subjugating women to a horrendous existence. If these reasons alone are justifiable for crushing a nation why are there not B52 bombers flying over Saudi Arabia as we speak? Because it is a coalition ally, that is why. Further, the Saudi Arabian royal family, that has built its vast fortune on exporting oil, needs the business.

Neville mentions that, until recently, the Taliban was seen as a commercial ally. Its officials were flown to Bush’s home state of Texas where they were made to feast on T-Bone steaks which I seriously doubt as falling within the "halal" variety. The vice president of oil giant Unocol happened to be present during these quaint get togethers. Part of the Unocol agenda was to siphon some 60 billion barrels of oil (perhaps up to 270 billion) from Turkmenistan, part of the last great resource frontier. The plan was to pump oil across Afghanistan, through Pakistan to a terminal in the Arabian Sea. Until recently, these talks were seen to have collapsed in December 1998, when Unocol pulled out, citing civil unrest. However, the Bush Administration resumed talks soon after the election, believing that the Taliban could be relied upon to support the pipeline.

Interestingly enough, another party to these talks happened to now failed energy giant Enron. With the backing of the White House Enron managed to deregulate, privatise and vandalise several developing nations. Ken Law, a former Pentagon economist, was the single biggest investor in Bush’s campaign for president. In return, Law was able to appoint White House regulators, shape policies and block the regulation of offshore tax havens. Further, Enron had intimate contact with Taliban officials according to web newspaper "Albion Reporter". Much of this alleged contact was in respect of the now defunct Dabhol project in India which was set-up top benefit from a hook-up with the pipeline.

Negotiations collapsed in August 2001 when the Taliban asked the US for help in respect of its failing infrastructure. The Taliban further asked for a portion of the oil to satisfy local needs. The US response was allegedly: "We will either carpet you in gold or carpet you in bombs". The notes of these talks are currently the subject of a lawsuit between Congress and the White House. As if this is not enough to sicken anyone consider the following. At the end of last year Bush appointed Zalma Khalilzad and Hamid Karzai as part of the special convoy to Kabul. Both men are former consultants to Unocol.

The manner in which Bush simplifies complex issues is a tribute to linguistics. Talks about launching a crusade, eliminating the "axis of evil" and depictions of Americans as "good" and their quarry as "evil" are readily digested by the masses. In effect Bush is only mirroring the mindset of his enemy. His words do not allow for blurred lines or grey hues. Anything is permitted in the "war against terrorism". According to one Sydney Morning Herald those tainted with al-Qaeda connections have been secretly sent to lands where torture is legal. The US is not stranger to terrorist acts, not because it has often been a target in the past, but because it has instigated numerous terrorist acts of it own. The US is not always on the side of angels and three examples, cited by Neville, prove apt examples:

1985, Lebanon: The CIA plants a truck bomb outside a mosque in Beirut, aiming to kill a Muslim cleric. As the faithful leave the mosque, the blast kills 80 and wounds 250, mostly women and children. (By comparison, the March attack on a Protestant church in Islamabad killed five worshippers and injured 40.) In Beirut, the targeted mullah was unhurt. None of the victims was compensated.

1989, Panama: After sustained Orwellian "hate week" campaigns against former US ally and puppet president Manuel Noriega, along the lines of those previously directed at Fidel Castro, Colonel Gaddafi and Saddam Hussein, an aerial assault is launched on Panama City. The official reason is Noriega's drug trafficking, long known to Washington. Another motive is maintaining control of the Panama Canal, in the face of populist stirrings. An activist tenement barrio is bombed to rubble, a compliant government is installed. Various independent inquiries put the deaths between 3,000 and 4,000, most of the corpses still rotting in pits on US bases, off limits to investigators. American news networks did not regard the UN's overwhelming condemnation of the attack to be worth broadcasting.

1998, Sudan: The reign of Bill Clinton, the first black-schmoozing rock'n'roll pot-head President, is now derided as a time when America went soft on recalcitrant regimes (a period of "turning the other cheek", as one dipstick Sydney Morning Herald columnist put it). How soft is soft? In August 1998, Bill Clinton sent Tomahawk missiles to flatten the Al Shifa pharmaceutical plant in the Sudan, claiming it was concocting chemical weapons. Actually, this plant had bolstered pharmaceutical self-sufficiency, and produced 90 per cent of the drugs needed to treat malaria, TB and other diseases. Accusing its owner, Saleh Idris, of associating with terrorists, Washington froze his London bank account. The case was contested and the US backed down. The Sudan's death toll from this attack "continues quietly to rise", notes Chomsky, citing the "tens of thousands of people, many of them children", who have suffered or died from a range of treatable ailments. The chairman of the board of Al Shifa, Dr Idris Eltayeb, remarked that the destruction of his factory was "just as much an act of terrorism as the twin towers - the only difference is we know who did it".

Richard Neville (Good Weekend, SMH; 12/04/02)

The above examples have been "cut and pasted" directly from Neville’s article. He mentions further instances of "war crimes" committed by US troops in Afghanistan, some of which involve the gunning down of unarmed combatants in execution style massacres.

The innocent death toll in Afghanistan remains unknown. The lack of this simple statistic says much about the manner in which the 'war against terrorism’ has and is being conducted. In February the Pentagon announced plans of providing news items to foreign journalists, "possibly even false ones, to manipulate emotions. Herold, an economics professor at the University of New Hampshire, amalgamated various reports of "collateral damage" and arrived at the figure of 3700. Herold later told ABC radio that a much more realistic figure would be closer to the 5000 mark – greater than the numbers slain in the twin towers. What is most disturbing however, is the fact that his reserch only covers the period from. Since that time, Neville argues, "missiles have continued to rain upon Taliban and toddler alike."

Neville wrote to an American colleague with The Washington Post and asked him to comment on the obvious lack of publicity given to the civilian death count in Afghanistan. The answer was a cool response of: "I think you would find most people here focussed on our own thousands killed intentionally". The operative word in this sentence is "intentionally". B52s armed with massive payloads and bad intelligence will surely result in the loss of innocent life – such that a "reckless disregard for human life" is more than established. Yet, we don’t call it murder. It is merely collateral damage, hardly deemed to be worth reporting in the grander scheme of things.

The US government has stopped playing by its own rules and those of international law. It has removed the rights of foreigners suspected of terrorism to a full and fair trial. Instead, anyone that President Bush has a reason to believe is a member of Al Qaeda, or has engaged in international terrorism, or has harboured terrorists can now be tried before special military tribunals without the usual rules of evidence, without a rigorous burden and proof and without a jury. Military court materials offer the accused fewer protection than do regular trials. Trial before these special military tribunals in turn, offer far fewer protection than those afforded by court martial.

When the Russians or the Chinese try suspected Chechen or Uighur Muslims in military courts, the US State Department vehemently and rightly denounces such trials as human rights violations. When Timothy McVeigh committed his outrage, the US accorded him a full and fair trial before executing him. When Al Qaeda members bombed the World Trade Center and the United States Embassies in Tanzania and Kenya, US federal court tried and convicted them. But now the job has been taken from United States courts and entrusted to what an eminent Yale law professor described as Kangaroo courts.

The US government detained thousands of people suspected of involvement in the September 11 attacks, and those considered material witnesses to it, for upwards of two months without charge and without even notifying their families that their loved ones had been detained – on the ground that if the detainee proved to be a terrorist, knowledge of their detention might assist other terrorists. Habeus corpus evolved many centuries ago to stop English Kings tossing those they did not like into dungeons and leaving them there. It requires authorities to justify detention of subjects, or release them. It is one of the most important checks on the power of potential dictators and despots.

The US government has removed the need for a warrant for a wiretap of a phone call between a suspected terrorist and his or her lawyer, on the ground that the lawyer might pass on the information to other terrorists. The title of Act that removes this critical check and balance is the aptly named "USA Patriot Act".

President Bush has further revoked the order that makes assassinations illegal, so as to allow troops to dispose of Bin Laden and other terrorists if caught. In doing so he might yet make his country party to a murder under international law. For example, Bin Laden might have surrendered but military law does not permit his execution. One would have thought that the US, of all countries, would have the most experience in respect of the down sides of assassinations as a dispute resolution technique. I can only assume the country has been receiving some revisionist lessons from the Israeli Army.

Interestingly enough President Bush did not obtain authority from the Security Council providing for the expulsion of Bin Laden and associated terrorists from Afghanistan. His own father obtained one before using force to expel Iraq from Kuwait.

Disrepect for the law has not been limited to the US government. A number of schools in the south held prayers following the September 11 attacks as a means of providing "solace to children". These actions were in direct contravention of the constitutional separation of church and state. The prohibition on school prayer can hardly be compared to a right as fundamental as habeus corpus. Nonetheless, school prayer is prohibited by a series of US Supreme Court decisions. Was the lasting effect on students the solace of prayer, or the example of their school principals knowingly, publicly and repeatedly flaunting the law of the land?

In the days following September 11 a number of newspaper columnists were fired for writing articles critical of Bush’s initial response to the attacks. A number of leading academics, including Eduard Said and Francis Boyle, were vilified and in some cases physically attacked for questioning United States foreign policy. Boyle was, for a time, banned from Internet academic discussion group because others objected to his views. SO there you go. A group of American law professors blithely ignoring the First Amendment in times of war. The wouldn’t be the only ones though.

Even commercial laws seem malleable and not mandatory. The patent for Cipro, the anti-anthrax drug, is owned by a German company known as Bayer. The US decided that the antibiotic was too expensive and threatened to break the patent and manufacture the drug itself unless Bayer dropped the price dramatically which it did. This from the very country that has used the threat of trade sanctions to require poor countries to uphold and enforce patents owned by US multinationals.

In the greatest of ironies consider the following. Since the 1998, the US Justice Department has maintained records of gun purchases in sync with the so-called Brady Law that seeks to prevent those with criminal records from purchasing firearms. The records are kept for 90 days. On 16 September 2001 the FBI sought to check the names of its detainees against those on the record to see whether any had purchase a gun in the past 90 days. It turned out that some had. The US Justice Department refused to divulge information concerning the identities of the gun purchasers to the FBI. The same department that disregarded habeus corpus and other fundamental human rights, withheld this information in order to protect the right to privacy of these gun owners. Whether the detainees had purchased a gun in the preceding 90 days was a secret, to be kept even from the FBI, so as to preserve the essential American democratic right to own a gun without others knowing of it. The power of the gun lobby at work.

AT this point I would like to leave you with a quote from Robert Jackson, ironically the Chief Prosecutor for the United States in the war crimes trials at Nuremberg after WWII. In his opening address Jackson said:

"The wrongs which we seek to condemn and punish have been so calculated, so malignant and so devastating that civilisation cannot tolerate their being ignored because it cannot survive their being ignored, because it can not survive their being repeated. That .. great nations … stung with injury stay the hand of vengeance and voluntarily submit their captive enemies to the judgment of law is one of the most significant tributes that Power has ever paid to reason."

2005-08-24T00:13:00.000+10:00

THE ROLE OF RELIGION AND PRAYER

Several years ago, I spent the better part of a rather uneventful Friday morning whiling away the time in a StarBucks Franchise at Westfield Parramatta. Being devoid of any worthwhile company, besides a tall black, I amused myself by thumbing through a day old copy of the Sydney Morning Herald. The remaining few moments were spent counting the scores of schoolchildren filing through a nearby McDonalds for breakfast of sub-standard pancakes. It was in observance of a rather chatty group of Year 11 & 12 schoolgirls that I happened to reflect upon a friend's comments concerning the:
role/purpose of prayer; and
question of why philosophers and policymakers, both theist and atheist, should have less credence leant to their views/observations than the "pearls of wisdom" sprouted by ancient scriptures.

I’ll be the very first to admit that the sight of schoolgirls in the early morning doesn't quite instil me with thoughts of religious and socio-political discourse. However, the angelic features of a select few within this blue-skirted mob made me instinctively picture them on their knees …… knelt in silent prayer. Most appeared to be from private schools within the Parramatta region which, drawing upon the simple demographics relating to private schools in the west, would presumably be of some religious denomination. With Jaci Velasquez’s * hauntingly beautiful "On My Knees" playing in my mind …. I began to contemplate the enormity of issues raised account of the question 'Why do people pray?'.

Note: Those wondering where Jaci’s single "On My Knees" can be found need only search through shelves containing "Christian Pop Music" at any Christian bookstore. The album to search for is the aptly titled "A Heavenly Place". Yeah, I completely pissed myself laughing as well ....

Religion and Prayer

As a starting point it is difficult for me to grasp the concept of prayer without reference to religion. So, it naturally follows that I shall first attempt to glean some understanding of why religion exists. Most say that it exists to satisfy the human need for spiritual fulfilment. "Spiritual fulfilment" interpreted simply, and somewhat cynically I might add, presumably equates to a need to feel comfortable with things deemed to be beyond human understanding. I hesitate to say "outside of" because I do have faith in a person’s ability to grasp difficult concepts … provided he/she did not attend a religious private school in Parramatta of course (read Christian Brothers). There are always qualifiers.

So … the need to believe in god/s arises from the inability to understand the origin and purpose of life. But a grave problem arises here. The need I speak of relates to things deemed beyond human understanding, rather than personal understanding. However, my ignorance of how a TV set works (ie inertial guidance) does not lead me to give rise to religious explanations. Thankfully, I happen to carry out my existence in a society replete with those who understand the principles behind such systems. These individuals, being possessed of highly specialised knowledge, are able to explain the relevant principles to me in simplified terms. However, if a certain friend of mine is correct and I did in fact once exist as a "Jungle Bunny" from deepest darkest Africa, these same concepts may have once engendered mystical of religious belief. These vibes for the "supernatural/paranormal" would’ve been further exemplified had I been I receipt of the Playboy channel. Indeed, certain elements within the Hefner empire often bring forth statements of "I did not know man could make such things." This is true even in Australia, where there exist a multitude of medical practitioners.

My answer for the existence of prayer is that of cause and effect. I n simplest terms, things went badly when the gods were pissed. Consequently, prayers and supplications were offered as a means of appeasement. Persons claiming to understand the gods, or who could predict happenings such as eclipses, became the priests to the gods. Human emotion can be swayed by sorrow, remorse and pleas for forgiveness. Naturally, the concept of repentance grew to be part of the rites for appeasing the gods. The control of religion in this manner is an immense source of power. Prayer can serve to be an invaluable reserve of strength when cultures clash.

My arcane analysis above leads me to exclaim "OK .. prayer helps when the faithful take up arms. What else besides?". Using reverse engineering it’s possible to examine the content of prayer and then discern why people pray. So .. what does a normal prayer comprise?

Adoration
Confession
Thanksgiving
Supplication (ie divine intervention – petition for our own needs and intercession for others)

"Dear God … You’re awesome. By the way, I had lewd thoughts about my neighbour’s wife and manipulated myself hence spilling valuable seed. I’m really sorry it happened. Ummm .. this may not be appropriate but thank you dearly for the extra sensory nerve endings in my genitalia. By the way, would there by any chance of you breaking up my neighbours’ marriage. I don’t think she’s happy with him anyway."

Whatever purpose prayer might serve, it’s obvious that it ought to be left to the individual. For example, atheists and non-Christians were rather taken aback by the flow of Christian rhetoric which bombarded TV screens following the Sept 11 attacks – everything from televised prayer vigils to Bush shouting out that God was on America’s side. This rather outlandish comment from a Christian president appalled most free-thinkers who (a) believed that the distinction between Church and State ought never to be forgotten; and (b) questioned the use of religion as a means of rallying support for some alleged greater American cause. Was Bush attempting to push prayer through as a national agenda? Or was he simply using it as one of many separate resources to console the nation?

President Bush’s proclamation of Friday, September 14 as a "National Day of Prayer and Remembrance" is indicative of the pitfalls of the "God is on our side" mentality. It may well be natural for religious/pious persons to turn to religion or prayer for solace BUT was it ever the role of the US President to urge citizens to pray, to go to church, to turn to faith, or to observe a National Day of Prayer with worship?

The American Atheists argued that just because a person does not have a particular religious disposition does not make him/her any less patriotic. Bush ought to have displayed a little more sensitivity to the cultural/religious diversity of the country he purports to lead. Additionally, consider the words of Civil War Col. Robert G. Ingersoll who said "The hands that help are better than lips that pray".

Why philosophers and policymakers, both theist an atheist, should have less credence leant to their views/observations than the "pearls of wisdom" sprouted by ancient scriptures? Persons involves in high level negotiations/decision making know for a fact that trust and confidence is primarily in the person, but the religious context may nevertheless be of importance: it is an asset known to have a strict ethical codex, provided that one is also known to follow it rigorously.

Can Burgess Carr, a well known African theologian, commented that the presence of religious personalities on the international stage is not without due emphasis. In short, they’re perceived as providing space to discuss social problems as well as giving a voice to those who have none. A religious figure is perceived as hearing persons of all social levels. He/she has credibility, the flexibility to talk to all sides. A religious figure will listen not only to leadership, but to the people.

Although true to some extent, we’re doing ourselves a massive injustice if we believe that religious leaders are infallible to the temptation to assume political power in times of social change, thereby retaining the distance that allegedly permits them to be critical of all political leaders.

Practitioners of any one particular faith are often bunched together as far as perception is concerned. A senior consultant at a friend's workplace recently exclaimed to her, in wonder, how surprised he was to hear that people from Islamic backgrounds had difference beliefs, factions, practices etc. She responded by saying "You don’t see me wearing the Hijab do you? Interesting that it took the fine people from the Discovery Channel a whole hour to tell you something you could have picked up in a single glance."

The reason why religious "pearls of wisdom" get so much attention is because they’re thought of as absolute truths. Advocates of religion/faith in its various forms often stipulate the existence of a set of shared fundamental values, inculcated various by each religion but transcending all of them, which could one day serve as a worldwide ethic for human rights. These speakers tend to emphasise the need for ecumenical dialogue, so that religious leaders can discover and fortify the common ground. Such an approach can be set to assume the existence of a universalisable core of religious beliefs, a common set of humanistic values in every faith. At this point I am reminded of a certain Simpsons episode in which Lionel Hutz contemplated life without lawyers. He visualised a meadow in which spiritual leaders from various faiths held hands in a circle and danced and swayed to 70s hippie music. The very thought made him shudder in revulsion.

I personally have doubts in adopting an ecumenical approach towards any kind of dispute resolution. The authentic core of any religion is precisely its fierce particularity. Mutual respect between religious civilisations is arguably best achieved with the acknowledgment of the irreducible and incomparable nature of religious life.

In 1995, a conference took places which was titled "The Carnegie Commission on Preventing Deadly Conflict". The starting point of this forum focused on the difficulties of speaking of religion as a generalised concept. Sentences beginning with the phrase "All religions …. " were vehemently challenged. Delving into particular beliefs and practices in search of "common ground" reflects a misunderstanding of religion, and is destined to produce little fruit in terms of conflict resolution. In defence of religion, it’s worth putting forth a comment by Raimo (conference participant) who pointed out that religion is the only authority that can successfully compete with the state in defining the good and in justifying the taking of a human life.

Do we really need religion to point out the bleeding obvious though? Pearls of wisdom such as "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you" can be learnt through human experience alone without reference to ancient texts. However, most theists do not perceive religion and morality as being capable of mutual exclusivity. Nonetheless the complex ethical systems which exist today have been explained through evolutionary and biological models. Nietzsche described morality as the herding instinct of the individual. Evolutionary theorists view this simple yet profound comment to put forth the proposition that religion evolved for the purpose of man’s survival within a group. The best manner in which the individual may be regulated is to give him a stake in his destiny by means of morality. Religion is an effective way to do so by taking spirituality, a personal matter, and making it a public affair, where it can be regulated. The mutually exclusive nature of many religions helps make this uniformity possible.

Further, and I believe that most would agree with this, religion is severely outdated as a means for communicating morality.

2005-08-23T23:37:00.000+10:00

The Dangers Of Integrating Religious Values Into Legislation

On numerous occasions my inbox has been deluged with emails touching upon the topic – although some would say ‘myth’ – of feminism and Islam. More recently, I received an e-mail from Kimm, commenting on the shabbiness of life, that spoke of religion’s capacity to instigate ‘ugliness’ and ‘division’. His words are not without merit. What I would like to examine, however, is some of the anomalies that arise as a result of so-called religious values being integrated in legislation.

A short awhile back, I happened to come across an old Federal Court of Australia case - Moradgholi v Minister for Immigration & Multicultural Affairs [2000] FCA 13 (12 January 2000) - dealing with an appeal from a Refugee Review Tribunal (RRT) decision affirming the refusal of a protection visa. The woman in question happened to be an asylum seeker from Iran. Her circumstances were both compelling and highly unusual. More specifically, she faced criminal charges in Iran for (a) adultery; (b) selling alcoholic drinks; and (c) the production and distribution of pornographic videos.

Iran in an Islamic nation in which aspects of Shari’a law and Quranic teachings are moulded into the criminal code. More often than not the winners are men. This statement, although broad, is not meant to be of the ‘blanket’ variety. The proposition holds greater weight when examined in reference to sexual assault and women’s issues.

The Federal Court accepted that the applicant’s husband had been executed following a drunken brawl with Revolutionary Guards in 1981. He was conveniently labelled a ‘counter-revolutionary’ and shot within weeks of the actual altercation. At the time of the court hearing he was survived by the protection visa applicant and her two children, both of whom were aged in their twenties and residing in Iran.

Following her husband’s execution the applicant’s life essentially took a downhill course. Having been found to hold counter-revolutionary views herself, she was barred from holding employment in either private or public office. Consequentially, she became highly dependent on charity from family and friends. In time though, she began earning an income through illegal forms of employment. Here’s a brief outline of the events that transpired in her life following the death of her husband:

1985 – The applicant met a man who paid some of her expenses. She went to his flat regularly. One day the Revolutionary Guards arrived and arrested them. Following an interrogation session in the presence of "Mullahs" their story of being ‘friends’ was not believed. The applicant was convicted and received 100 lashes. She was convicted and sentenced to 100 lashes. There was no evidence presented before the court hinting at any punishment being dealt to the male friend.
1986 – The woman began selling alcoholic drinks from her home to earn an income. Once again, she is convicted and sentenced to 100 lashes.
1991 – The applicant met a Christian man who induced her to perform in pornographic videos. She wished to pay him back for money he had leant her to undergo surgery to relieve stomach pains arising out of an abortion she had undergone in earlier years. She appeared in the movies twice for ten minutes each. In the movies she took off her outer clothes but kept her undergarments on and did not touch, and was not touched by, any other person. The movies were used as an interlude between other X-rated movies.

Both the RRT and the Federal Court found that that there was a real chance of the applicant facing charges of being involved in the production or distribution of obscene videos if returned to Iran. The ultimate penalty for this offence was death.

The Federal Court of Australia affirmed the decision of the RRT noting that law enforcement of a general nature cannot, without more, constitute persecution for a Refugee Convention ground. This is the case even where the said law reflects and even enforces a set of religious values. For example, consider the case of Lama v Minister for Immigration and Multicultural Affairs [1999] FCA 1620 (FC). In this case the protection visa applicant had slaughtered a cow in Nepal, a criminal act which attracted a jail term of some 12 years. The Full Court of the Federal Court of Australia recorded that the RRT made the following findings:

(i) The law against bovicide in Nepal is a law of general application, its terms applying equally to all persons within the country, Hindu or not, Nepalese or not.

(ii) The Nepalese law against bovicide does not demand or prescribe compliance with other Hindu beliefs or practices. It merely requires that people do not kill cows. Nepalese law permits people in the country to buy and eat imported beef.

(iii) There was no evidence of intent or motivation to harm either non-Hindus or Hindus for reasons of their religion in the letter or enforcement of the relevant Nepalese law.

(iv) Neither the Nepalese Constitution nor Nepalese laws amount to a dictate of Hindu religious values over the appellant. While the Constitution could be seen as having been built to a degree on Hindu-informed traditions respecting life and personal property, the `religious laws' were motivated by a desire to keep the peace among various religious streams in the country.

(v) The appellant killed the cow because he was hungry and wanted meat. His actions did not constitute the expression of a religious conviction nor of a desire to give effect to notions of religious freedom.

(vi) The RRT was not satisfied that the law and courts in Nepal would be remotely concerned with the appellant's beliefs or affiliations except to entertain arguments as to ignorance or other mitigating factors raised by way of defence to the purely criminal charges against him.

(vii) The appellant had not publicly advocated any change to the bovicide laws in Nepal. He would not be perceived as advocating any such charge by his acts in 1994. While there was some political controversy in Nepal about the bovicide laws in 1996, the appellant was not and would not be linked with that controversy.

The Full Court then noted that the grounds of attack to the RRT decision were as follows:

the RRT should have found that the reason underlying the law against bovicide in Nepal was the tenets of the Hindu religion;
the threat of imprisonment for violation of a law designed to protect Hindu religious values was a threat of persecution for reasons of religion; and
a risk of persecution pursuant to a law enacted for reasons of religion does not lose its character merely because the persecution takes place pursuant to a law of general application.

Well, that seems to make sense. The Full Court in Lama did not seem to agree though. While accepting that laws against the killing of cows were consistent with endorsing values of the Hindu faith (it later seemed to the Full Court that this ran counter to the RRT's finding on this issue) the primary judge thought that this did not mean that such laws targeted members of the society who did not adhere to that faith. His Honour described that which was governed by the law as the act of killing a cow, not the religious beliefs of the killer, and that the act was "neutral conduct in the Convention sense".

Interestingly enough, counsel for the visa applicant in the present case (ie the Iranian woman) did not suggest that there was evidence or a submission before the RRT that the anti-pornography law, while doubtless expressing Islamic values, was intended to impose the religion of Islam itself on non-Muslims. However, even if that point had been made, it would have been circumvented through the following reasoning:

"The law in question, like the anti-bovicide law in Lama, was directed against acts inconsistent with the religion of that theocratic society. It would apply indiscriminately to, for example, a Christian within the territorial boundaries of Iran, but not because that person was a Christian, and there would be no attempt to proselytise that person, whether or not he or she complied with the law."

The Full Court also refused to accept the applicant’s argument that as a woman (ie member of a particular social group) she would be more hotly pursued for her morality infringements than a man. This was in spite of ample country information highlighting gender inequality in Iran’s constitution – namely with respect to the Iranian government’s enactment of the Islamic Penal Code and enforced interpretation of the Shari’ah. The impact of these two sets of laws is that men and women are treated differently, resulting in human rights abuses that disproportionately affect women. Under the Iranian Penal Code, death by stoning is a method of punishment for adultery and other sexual offences. While men and women are subject to the same punishment, this Penal Code provision discriminates against women because in Iran women are more readily accused and convicted of adultery because of the patriarchal culture and sexist legal system. The patriarchal culture makes women more vulnerable to prosecution because women occupy fewer decision-making positions than men. Additionally, Islamic law itself makes women more likely to be convicted because evidentiary rules decline to give weight to a woman's testimony.

So, at the end of the day I guess the court decided that if everyone gets treated like shit than there is certainly no ‘discrimination’ or ‘persecution’ taking place. Well, not for a Refugee Convention reason. So, if you happen to be Iran and face criminal sanctions that would see the imposition of 100 lashes for drawing a stick woman with breasts, don’t even bother seeking asylum in Australia. The same is true if you’re a woman accused of having committed adultery. Depending on which part of Iran you’re in, the punishment dealt out can be as severe as being stoned to death.

If you happen to be an unwed woman who has been accused with adultery then, as a standard of proof, the Cadi (ie judge) can require that the woman pass an examination to find out whether she is still a virgin. If the woman is not a virgin, she is assumed to be guilty.

Does anyone remember receiving those weird brochures in Year 7 which smoke about the transition to adolescence etc? There would always be one particular section talking about how girls/women could tear their hymen through various activities, the two most notable always being horse-riding and gymnastics. I wonder whether similar literature is available in Iran or, more specifically, made available to the Cadi.

To summarise, in order to be persecuted for a Refugee Convention reason you must should that the law under which you face punishment is being applied to you in a discriminatory fashion. So, if there happens to be a law which forbids breaking wind in public, with the ultimate penalty being death, and you happen to breach it, expect no recourse from Australian courts.

2005-08-23T11:27:00.000+10:00

THE CASE AGAINST RACIAL PROFILING

The weeks and months following September 11 have spawned a spate of articles highlighting the case both for and against racial profiling. Following September 11, there was a brief period during which it was taboo, in certain circles, to advocate racial or ethnic profiling of any kind, in any place, ever. This seeming political correctness was in direct correlation to bigots harassing and violently attacking Arab-Americans and those appearing to be of Arab descent. However, as hysteria gradually took hold, owing to the enormity of what had just happened sinking in, any such taboos were instantly displaced and racial profiling became an integral component of every domestic and international airport within the United States.

Advocates of racial profiling at airports dismiss the alleged costs to civil liberty by pointing out that the benefits to safety are not illusory. They do so not by providing factual accounts but mostly by engaging in scare mongering. Stuart Taylor Jr, a legal affairs correspondent for The Atlantic, puts forth the following 'thought example' (his words, not mine):

"Racial profiling of people boarding airliners - done politely and respectfully - may be an essential component (at least for now) of the effort to ensure that we see no more mass-murder-suicide hijackings. If you doubt this, please try a thought experiment: A few weeks hence, or a year hence, you are about to board a cross-country flight. Glancing around the departure lounge, you notice lots of white men and women; some black men and women; four young, casually dressed Latino-looking men; and three young, well-dressed Arab-looking men. Would your next thought be, "I sure do hope that the people who let me through security without patting me down didn't violate Ashcroft's policy by frisking any of those three guys"? Or more like, "I hope somebody gave those three a good frisking to make sure they didn't have box cutters"? If the former, perhaps you care less than I do about staying alive. If the latter, you favor racial profiling - at least of Arab-looking men boarding airliners."

Taylor appears to suggest that what is racial profiling to one person is basic prudence to another. However, he goes forth to qualify his comments by quickly saying that he does not condone the special scrutiny given to African-Americans and others of dark skin in other law enforcement situations. Such racial profiling is hard to distinguish from - and sometimes involves - plain old racist harassment of groups that have long experienced discrimination at every stage of the criminal justice process. Still, Taylor may be interested to note that the phrase DWB (driving while black), coined by civil rights advocates to describe racial profiling of African-Americans, has a new counterpart. Put simply, it's FWA "Flying While Arab". Since the attacks of Sept 11, hundreds of persons of Arab descent/appearance have been refused entry onto domestic/international flights on request by pilots and/or security personnel.

In a Sept 16, 2001 interview, FBI Director Robert Mueller was quoted as saying "We do not, have not, will not target people based solely on their ethnicity. Period." Advocates of racial profiling seized upon the "solely" aspect and phrased the debate as:

"The question is not whether Arab-looking people should be stopped, questioned, and searched based solely on their ethnicity. The question is whether airport security people should be allowed to consider ethnicity at all." - Stuart Taylor Jr.

Well, this sounds nice in theory but does it work in practice? Not really. Akilah Monifa, a regular contributor to AlterNet (http://www.alternet.com/) wrote a piece on a journey she made from the West Coast to the East Coast just nine days post Sept 11. She spoke of subjection to greater scrutiny simply due to her "darker hue" and of overhearing "white folks in airports talking about how they didn't look like terrorists, but "those" people did". Those words are akin to saying that face(s) of terrorism are tantamount to Muslim and Arab faces or that all folks of Italian descent are members of the Mafia. Guess we'll all just think twice about heading to Norton Street for late night gelato or grabbing a kebab in Surrey Hills after getting pissed off our faces.

What's even more interesting is that the American Constitution contains an Equal Protection Clause which calls for each citizen to be treated as an individual. However, laws cease to be commonplace in times of war. During World War II, the US placed more than 100,000 people in internment camps because of Japanese ancestry. In 1988, Congress apologized for this "fundamental injustice." The 1944 Supreme Court case approving the action, Korematsu v. United States, is deemed to be one of the most shameful in the Court's history. An article by Peter Rubin - We can enhance security and preserve rights (available www.csmonitor.com/2001/1005/p11s3-coop.html) gives a brief run down of how this Constitutional principle is loosened up in respect of airport security.

Racial profiling may well have been one of the only viable measures capable of dousing the fears of the American majority. However, it comes at a considerable cost. Once removed from the bottle the "racial profiling genie" is virtually impossible to shove back in. Hazim Bitar, of the Human Rights Institute in Alexandra, stated his thoughts as follows:

"Arab-looking men who drive vans and trucks will be profiled as well as Arabs who access the Internet from public libraries; and those who buy fertilizer at the Home Depot for their backyards. As for Arab-looking men who decide to take flying lessons, they should forget about it."

The distinction between racial profiling and abusive behaviour can get rather thin even at the best of times. One seemingly innocuous example which comes to mind occurred last Christmas when a secret service agent, of Middle Eastern descent, was barred from boarding a flight at Washington International Airport despite having all requisite papers/documentation verifying his position. An air hostess allegedly caught sight of a book he was reading - "The Crusades Through Arab Eyes" by Amin Maalouf - and immediately entered panic mode by alerting the pilot. Less light hearted examples include an African American woman being arrested simply on account of wearing a turban and various Pakistani businessmen being refused boarding altogether. These are examples of regulated racial profiling going awry.

Here's a disturbing scenario of racial profiling gone wrong. Approximately four years ago a pregnant black woman was detained at O'Hare airport for suspicion of carrying drugs. The woman was taken to the hospital and given a sonogram to see if she was pregnant. After the test showed she was pregnant, authorities believed she had swallowed drugs and made her take a harsh laxative. Nothing was ever found, and the woman later gave birth prematurely. The New York Customs Department, for example, has been sued thousands of times for strip-searching African-American women twice as much as white men and women.

We only need to concentrate on racial profiling in the Australian context to see its ramifications in the wider community. By this stage most have concluded that Howard's success to date has been largely attributable to his scare mongering, especially in respect refugees/asylum seekers etc. It came as no surprise to many that those aboard The Tampa were chiefly from Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan. That is, countries with predominantly Muslim populations. Warning bells started ringing everywhere. What if there were potential terrorists amongst those harbouring on the Norwegian vessel? Entirely feasible but not very likely. In touting national security as a key concern, the government immediately justified what would otherwise be perceived as a draconian, autocratic, disproportionate, inflexible and callous policy stance.

When Joe Blow from the street engages in racial profiling the results can be devastating. Joe Blow, in engaging his own racial profiling, can wreck great distress on particular members of society through either violent actions or merely an accusatory glance. Consider the most likely targets. Muslim women wearing "hijabs" or head scarves. During the Gulf Conflict I saw many such women walking with their heads down barely looking up to meet the gazes of passer-bys. It's a terrifying ordeal for anyone to be put through, to be the subject of such apprehension and often derision. To those unfamiliar with what it feels like to be subjected to such abject scrutiny the emotions are difficult to explain. Picture walking into your favourite store only to be tailed by a jittery looking sales assistant. Hmmmm .. not quite what I had in mind but close. OK maybe if this hypothetical sales assistant had the power to carry out body cavity searches we'd get close.

Additionally, just how effective is racial profiling in correctly identifying the targeted groups?? Bear in mind that, despite the 20th century's tragic attempts at refining eugenics, eyeballing races isn't exactly a science. According to the Arab American Institute, "Arabs may have white skin and blue eyes, olive or dark skin and brown eyes." Even if you focus on olive skin and dark hair, can you tell a Pashtun from a Tajik from an Uzbek from a Hindu from a Turk from a Sikh from a Sephardic Jew from a Persian from an Arab? Or, for that matter, how quickly can you tell an Arab from an Hispanic-American, an Italian-American, or a Native American?

Bush has been vocal in denouncing attacks against Arab-Americans but actions speak louder than words. Attacks are not limited to physical beatings. They can come through in the form of a request from a flight attendant to be seated in economy despite having paid for a first class ticket. Or a cancelled interview from an employer stating "We're not hiring persons from that region." On that note most firms can afford to discriminate without offering a reason. For those with Middle Eastern names there may always be questions raised upon receipt of yet another rejection letter.

Some of you may have seen a documentary titled "Jane Elliott - The Australian Eye" in which Australian subjects are exposed to the harrowing effects of racism by experiencing, through a simple exercise, how it feels to be alienated by virtue of a physical characteristic. It has played on SBS on several occasions and I, for one, have never failed to highlight it in my trusty TV Guide.

Oh well, whatever we might think racial profiling will remain for quite some time, along with all the stereotypes and prejudices which flow from it. As is customary with those who are incapable of saying anything overtly memorable I'll leave you all with a quote from a third party, namely Rev. Martin Niemoller:

"First they came for the Communists, and I didn't speak up, because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up, because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the Catholics, and I didn't speak up, because I was a Protestant. Then they came for me, and by that time there was no one left to speak up for me."

2005-08-22T21:12:00.000+10:00

9:30pm and all is well ...

Or so I keep telling myself. I am not feeling much better, and it is becoming increasingly difficult to keep myself amused. Up until 8:30pm, I was feeling quite content on account of watching Myth Busters on SBS. However, the free-to-air television schedule has not shown much promise since then. The Dave Chappelle show is interesting in parts, brilliant even, but that voice just tends to grate in your head.

I don't have to be anywhere special this evening, yet I feel like shaving. Unusual as it sounds, this simple routine of masculinity has always had a soothing, refreshing effect. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I start work at 6:30am. This means waking at an un-Godly hour, downing a cup of sub-standard coffee, taking a shower, and - of course - running four layers of machine sharpened steel across my face at a time when I can hardly stand.

The act of shaving at early hours in the morning is not without benefit. For one, there is a greater kick to it than any cup of instant coffee. As I stand in front of the mirror, bleary eyed and sleepy, my mind subconsciously begins to calculate the risk of injury. Given how tired I am, it's not insubstantial. From the moment all four blades touch my skin, I know that it will be an ordeal simply to avoid injury. For one, how can any instrument equipped with four blades purport to be a 'safety razor'? Second, is it wise to have 'rubberised strips' to bring these four blades even closer to your skin? Third, do the Gillette/Schick engineers consider the very real possibility of serious razor burn when using a four bladed razor?

Some years back, I purchased a three bladed Schick Razor which was meant to 'mould' itself to the contours of your skin. If you're a guy, this is particularly useful when shaving around your chin. Anyway, the razor did not bend quite as readily as demonstrated in the advertisment. I had nightmares where I pictured myself in front of a mirror, pushing down hard on the handle so as to make the razor bend. I press too hard, feeling my hand slip. As I clear up the fog on the mirror, I see myself with no chin, my tongue dangling just below my neck. The only sound I here is 'Oh Schick, Schick Schick .. MOTHERF*CKIN Schick'.

2005-08-22T18:31:00.000+10:00

I have been as sick as a dog for two days now.

The first sign that something was wrong came on Saturday morning. Upon waking, my ears were greeted by what appeared to be the dawn call of some exotic bird. Soon thereafter, I realised this to be the whistling sound caused by my wheezing.

It is now Monday and I am on an amazing cocktail of drugs:

Antiobiotics: Klacid (one tablet twice a day); and
Asthma Medication: Atrovent (1 unit dose vial thrice a day), Ventolin (1 unit dose vial thrice a day), Seretide (two puffs twice a day), Prednisolone (two tablets once a day).

It goes without saying that I am not doing too well. Should there be no improvement in my health by Thursday, it is a given that I will be hospitalised. Please understand that I am not feeling sorry for myself. I just wish there was someone to look after me ...

As a child, I was utterly stupefied by the love, affection and care my friends' parents bestowed upon their children in times of ill health. My parents showed no such 'paternal instincts'. At most, I would be dropped off near a medical centre and given loose change so as to facilitate my journey home by public transport. Moreover, my coughs, sneezes and sniffles were greeted with the utmost contempt, as if I had just made the mistake of breaking wind loudly during the peak point of a funeral service (e.g. lowering of coffin into the ground).

In light of the above observations, it beggars belief that I am not afflicted with a deep seated nurse fetish. Until today, I had not once entertained any such fantasy. This is fast starting to change though. As I lie in bed, a nebuliser mask affixed to my face, I realise that nothing would please me more than having a Mila Jovovich look-alike nurse pressing her warm cheek against my forehead to check for signs of a temperature. Of course, should she wish to provide me with a sponge bath, I would not be complaining in the slightest.

Reality is a far cry from fantasy and I know full and well that the above ruminations will not hold true any time soon. Having a nurse by my side, attractive or otherwise, will probably mean that I have taken a turn for the worse.

This whole episode has made me realise how much of a workaholic I have become in recent years. Despite only blowing 250 into a peak flow meter (trust me on this, it's a bad sign), I seriously considered dropping into work to attend a series of meetings. I mentioned this possibility to my treating physician and she looked at me as if I had the intelligence of a Big Brother housemate. Responding to her look of disbelief, I mentioned that I was a lawyer and her features softened. 'Oh', she replied ... 'I guess that explains your concern.'.

What I failed to mention was that I am a government lawyer. The world is not going to fall apart should I fail to show up for work for a day, or two weeks for that matter. Indeed, if the rumours surrounding public service employment are true, I can only be fired for: (a) having killed someone; or (b) having taken a dump in the Minister's shoe. In my life, opportunities to engage in either one of these activities are few and far between.

I am bored out of my mind sitting at home. Still, there is a perverse pleasure to be had in being stricken by illness:- laying in bed watching television, reading novels, sipping on honey and lemon drinks, etc. There is a perception that the world expects nothing from me aside from a timely recovery. I could not be more wrong. Work still calls up every few hours, asking for a legal opinion on the most minor of matters or enquiring about the whereabouts of a file which is seated in plain view on my desk. In addition, I know I can look forward to receiving the minutes of meetings which have no bearing on my work whatsoever. Somewhat perversely, certain colleagues of mine believe that sending work-related material to sick brethren is akin to a sign of affection. It means that they are thinking of you, that you have not left their thoughts, and that they realise just how important your contribution is to the workplace.

Well, f*** you.

I am SICK, ok? My primary concern right now is regularising my breathing, not briefs, memorandums, minutes, files etc. If you are in fact concerned about my well-being, bring me some chicken soup, rent a few DVDs on my behalf (esp those featuring Mila Jovovich), buy me an interesting novel. If you're so f*cking hell-bent on sending my paperwork, send me a bleeding 'Get Well' card. We work for one of the largest APS agencies around dude, there are over 5000 of us scattered around the world. Pass my work on to some guy who feels it's a long-standing public service tradition to leave work at 4:30pm. You know who I'm talking about, every second person who works on Levels 1-8.

Now, back to my ruminations on nurses and their warm cheeks ......

2005-08-21T12:23:00.000+10:00

For several months now, I have been contemplating writing an essay titled ‘The Place of Coconuts and Bananas in a White Bread Society’. Prior to collectively raising your eyebrows in confusion, please understand that this is not a proposal for a fruitcake recipe. Rather, I am seeking to pen a satirical discourse on the immigration experience as it has affected Asians – namely persons from the subcontinent and South East Asia. As some of you are no doubt aware, Asian countries often experience something of a ‘brain drain’, as educated people in search of a better life (read ‘employment opportunities’) gravitate towards ‘whiter pastures’ (i.e. European/Anglo countries). Often these poor souls find it difficult to assimilate, and experience grave difficulty in abandoning their culture/tradition in favour of .. err .. blandness.

Anyway, the following is something of a preliminary attempt at the abovementioned essay. In due course, it will probably be added to and elaborated to form something more cohesive.

THE PLACE OF COCONUTS AND BANANAS IN A WHITE BREAD SOCIETY
Cultural Displacement in Western Countries

Just over twenty (20) years ago it dawned on me that coconuts and bananas would never be wholeheartedly accepted by the white breads, expect perhaps within the confines of a fruitcake. This is precisely the term some right wing white bread intellectuals now afford to those societies that actively pursue a multicultural agenda. Even in such 'fruitcake societies', acceptance is grudging at best as current world events do little to allay the fears of the white bread majority. In any event, some recourse must be had to the past to better facilitate an understanding of my existing views.

My parents best efforts to provide me a prestigious white bread education were first realized when I was only four (4) years of age. Already, my speech was perfectly lucid and I could greet guests in polite English tones masked only by the slightest hint of a British accent. Some of the white bread company present was suitably impressed. Others, however, expressed concern at the spectacle of a darkish immigrant child speaking the Queen's mother tongue with greater precision than their own offspring. In hushed tones, the latter mentioned individuals debated whether assimilation policies contributed towards a better Britain. One can only wonder whether they expected my talents to be expressed in the manner hypothesized below:

Mum: This is Sameer. He shows exceptionally skill for someone so young. Sameer, would you mind educating our guests on the recommended retail price of a packet of Marlboro Lights?

Young Coconut: Four pounds and twenty-five cents.

Dad: Amazing, isn't it? He can give an exact figure for the sale price of all tobacco products stocked in our grocery business in Sussex.

OK, perhaps I am exaggerating. Both my parents, although highly educated, spoke with a slight foreign accent back in those days. This fact alone rendered some white breads to presume them as being of markedly lower intellect. Indeed, if they were of low intelligence, surely the kids would be similarly dumb by default? Not quite. Coconuts often outperformed their white bread counterparts in all three levels of education - primary, secondary and tertiary. This led some white bread governments to re-evaluate the system for entry into university. Specifically, English was made a compulsory subject and social sciences featured more predominantly in exams. Some white breads once again began to excel, writing elaborately long, complex and philosophical essays on persons such as Foucault and Marx. These individuals are now known as 'Arts students' and are regarded with the utmost contempt in the modern business world.

Getting back to the story, it became apparent in coming months that I was indeed a coconut of the highest calibre. My sense of identity was fast being eroded by virtue of cultural displacement. Long years were spent grappling authoritarian English schools, cold and dreary weather, cheese on toast etc. All these factors contributed to my increasing sense of isolation. Thankfully, relief was to arrive in the form of a banana.

The banana had an interesting background and an unfortunately complex name that few could pronounce. His parents were Korean and he had spent several years in Germany prior to having made an appearance in Britain. The banana's English, like mine, was impeccable and attained at the cost of have purged all knowledge as regards cultural and ethnic heritage. To illustrate, the banana's understanding of martial arts was atrocious and in inverse proportion to his knowledge of European models. Unlike the coconut, however, the banana proved to be much more successful with white bread women. This was presumably due to the fact that bananas dressed much more fashionably and were further regarded as being possessed of 'Eastern mystique, sensuality and charm'. It was my guess that the banana learnt much of this through the countless pirated 'Category III' DVDs purchased from suspicious stores in the Chinatown district. The content of these discs is a matter better left unmentioned in civil company. In addition, the Banana’s parents forced him to partake in an inordinate amount of extra-curricular activities – the bulk of which comprised of piano lessons. As such, he was able to woo women with elaborate jazz and classical pieces. As a Coconut, I simply could not compete with this. It beggared belief that any woman would be seduced by the sight of an adolescent boy solving university level mathematical algorithms until the early hours of the morning. The Banana had this ability as well of course, but at least it was supplemented by artistic endeavours.

The banana and I happened to be quite prone to insult, whether deliberate or accidental. Speaking personally, my first few steps in London can be recalled with the utmost clarity. Soon after having disembarked from the plane my mother and I were greeter by a rather perturbed airhostess. With more than a hint of concern she was heard to state the following:

"What a beautifully trained monkey! He's all dressed up and everything too. However did you expect to get him past customs though?"

OK, so I was hirsute. What coconut wasn't? We were all brown, furry and utterly miserable at the thought of having commenced shaving at ten (10). Some of us took solace in a popular actor known as Sean Connery. In his heyday this fellow had a remarkably hairy back. Moreover, one of his movies saw him uttering a line from which most coconuts would forever draw comfort. The scene involved Connery in a hot tub with several Asian women, all of whom were understandably intrigued by his mass of chest hair. A Japanese agent commented that body hair was a novelty for Japanese women, as most had never encountered it before on their native men. Connery replied with: 'The Japanese have a saying. Birds don't nest in a bare tree.'

Bananas faced the opposite problem. Most would've experienced extreme difficulty in growing a beard, even if presented with litres of hair tonic and left on a desert island for several months. The male of the species often commenced shaving well after having reached his mid twenties. Adolescent banana males could only ever dream of growing a beard and secretly envied the goateed Kung Fu masters in old martial arts flicks. However, their abject contempt at a coconut's ability to walk into nudie bars aged fourteen (14) was much less guarded.

Anyway, my memories of the adventures had by the Banana and I are simply that – memories. Reminiscing about my youth serves no other purpose than reminding me how much I have changed. Indeed, I now have even less of an identity and virtually no sense of culture. Moreover, the Banana and I have since moved on. One can only speculate of his current existence. Should the assertions of a certain Professor Andrews from Macquarie University hold weight, one would assume that the Banana has over-excelled in life and is now managing a large number of Anglo-Celtic persons in a professional office environment (e.g. investment banking, management consulting).

2005-08-08T08:17:00.000+10:00

I doubt that any other living being on earth other than 'yours truly' would have read this blog since the initial posting was made in March 2004. Since that time a great deal has happened. I no longer obsess about career issues to quite the same extent I used to. Moreover, I pity those pour souls - or rather souless individuals - who believe that working in a top-tier law firm is the 'be all, end all' of one's life.

Anyway, a great deal has happened since my last post. I've graduated from my SJD (Doctorate in Juridical Science) and can now legitimately prefix my sirname with the letters 'Dr'. Although decidedly 'cool' from the perspective of most friends, it hasn't really brought forth any major change in my life. For one, I cannot proposition random women with the line 'Seriously baby, I can prescribe anything I want' - much unline Dr Nick Riviera of Simpsons fame. In addition, I cannot note any real increase in either my current salary or my future earning capacity. Rather, I now find myself in the somewhat unusual position of being 'overqualified' yet 'inexperienced' for most positions.

2004-03-24T13:22:00.000+11:00

INTRODUCTION

Most people have a wish to make themselves known to the world, myself included. However, it never struck me that I would eventualy seek to do so via the Internet. Obviously the workplace is not a large enough place to make known your thoughts and aspirations, nor is it appropriate. This statement holds especially true when you work for what is arguably the most controversial public service agency in Australia, if not the entire southern hemisphere.

On the subject of work, it bothers me immensely that with each passing year I become increasingly adept at spending copious amounts of time doing absolutely nothing. During several years of law school, I met numerous students with drive and ambition. Most appeared to have their lives mapped out:- paralegal work followed by a graduate solicitor position, followed by positions of associate, senior associate, then partner. It all sounded so simple at the time, a workable plan if you will. However, most changed their minds when introduced to the concept of 12-14 hour days involving (6) minute billing periods - thirty (30) seconds if you were on the phone. Often the supposedly simple task of filling out your timesheet could carry itself well into the late evening.

Ah well, the mid-tier and top-tier firms all rejected me following my graduation from an Arts/Law (Hons) double degree from the University of Technology, Sydney (UTS). Although a blessing in disguise, I initially believed myself cursed and frantically enrolled myself in a postgraduate law course seeking mental stimulation. A Master of Laws (Corporate and Commercial) was swiftly followed by an SJD (Doctorate in Juridical Science). However, this latter degree has been put on hold as my mind comes to grasp the importance of the concept of 'career'. During my time in postgraduate study, some two (2) years went by quite amicably without my already taxed brain having to strain under 7:30am-9:00pm hours. Do lawyers really work more than those in alternative professions? Do we equate long hours to competence and dedication ? Or is it simply that we're grossly inefficient ? Who knows .... perhaps only those individuals slaving away in top-tier law firms past 7pm, working on their time sheets and ensuring that the 7.5 billable hours requirement has been satisfied.

BACKGROUND

Dad has a Pakistani background, despite having spent most of his life travelling around the Middle East and South East Asia. Mom's from Syria. Both are highly-educated and motivated people. Perhaps a little too much so since I was close to disowned upon having undertaken an Arts/Law degree at the undergraduate level. Dad never tired of telling me that BA stood for Bachelor of Bugger All, and that upon graduating from an Arts degree the graduands would all be presented with a taxi driver's license and a beaded seat cover. You have to admit that was a great call though. Man should've done stand up comedy at university bars.

Lived in some 22 different countries before finally settling down in Sydney, Australia. Went to a public school, commenced an undergraduate course in Arts (Communications and Cultural Industries) / Law (Hons). One year later completed a Masters of Law in Corporate and Commercial Law. Rivetting stuff. I was so excited during those classes that most evenings I could scarcely stand up from behind my desk for fear of embarassment. Those seeking to understand the nature of sarcasm, please pay note to the preceding sentence.

PRESENT POSITION

Working as a Project Officer in a federal department dealing with humanitarian law and policy. Most interesting position I have held in years, despite being involved in several different legal fields.