A Bleeding Heart

There's is a view (often promoted in the right-wing blogosphere) that compassion is a vice.

This has always bewildered me, possibly because I'm the product of a boarding school run by the Sacred Heart order. Their logo is quite literally a bleeding heart. The use of the word as an insult is un-Australian. It's crept into our language from across the water to the East.

Anyway, compassion is, to me and always will be, a human virtue. I believe that this world would be a much better place if more of this human vurtue was demonstrated by individuals, government and community.

To celebrate this virtue, I'm posting a tribute to a Father Kevin Ryan, a prison chaplain who died on March 13th. I would never miss reading his weekly column in the Catholic Leader. I'll miss it now.

The first part of the post is a tribute to him from last Sunday's Leader.

The second part is one of his last columns.

Rest in peace, Kevin.

Tribute to Fr Kevin Ryan 

Kevin was a man of great experience and compassion, a man sensitive to other’s needs who did his best to respond to them. His closeness to God was not the over-spiritual which he mistrusted, but in everyday happenings and people. He was no one's fool, but could evaluate character without needing to judge it. He quickly established rapport with even those who were least open to an approach from a clergyman. His response to one of these challenges: "I don't like Catholics", was, "That's all right, and there are plenty of them I don’t like too".

Kevin's communication style was direct, uncomplicated and easily understood. As a priest and a man in a man's world, he said what was needed when it was needed, especially in his writing. When you read his columns in The Catholic Leader, you can always hear his voice saying it - the words are exactly as he preached - practical and down to earth. He The Leader for a reflective column that was not too "learned". He did something about it.

It seems everyone who read The Leader read his columns.

Fr Kevin was well respected by the prisoners and they looked up to him as a father figure for help. Once I saw a rare joyous smile light up the face of a young man (under observation for continuing self-harm), when Fr Kevin entered the room. The young man rushed to embrace Kevin. I doubt I will ever forget his joy when he saw Kevin arrive.

In the corrections system his humility and empathy gained him a reputation among the residents as someone who could be trusted to share the most intimate details of their experiences. But always on matters of principle it was recognised that he would not be compromised. He was non-judgemental and for a man who was universally respected he had exceptional humility. But he also had amazing empathy and an ability to hold confidences.

Some of these traits must have been instinctive as Kevin himself used to say, "You can't teach a dingo to round up cows". I don't think he had a strong sense of ceremony in the liturgy - he could rush on to the altar

with his vestments a bit awry.

What a down-to-earth, sensible, caring and practical man he was - respected and loved. Compassion and practical caring marked Fr Kevin. He never asked why, he just gave - he was the channel from a loving God to anyone in need.

Like the Lord, Kevin had us all in the palm of his hand. There are many tales of his countless acts of kindness; when Indonesian boat traffickers (arrived) he sourced an Indonesian-English dictionary to help those with limited English to cope in that environment.

Whenever the media broadcast or published news of the most appalling and horrendous crimes, Kevin would scan the nominal roll at Arthur Gorrie to seek out the offenders and offer them emotional support. When residents expressed anxiety about how their families were faring,

Kevin would call parents or partners or children, and without breaking confidences, would reassure them they could rely on him for emotional or spiritual support.

If Banjo Paters on were alive he would have penned a poem honouring "Kev, the Chaplain"

This was one of Kevin Ryan's last columns - 

Greed is the Knife

Today’s column draws on the thoughts of Marie Gallagher, a writer in the January edition of Reality, published by the Irish Redemptorists. While she writes specifically of Ireland, much of what she has to say can apply to Australia and gives food for thought in this time of Lent.

A dapper young man was telling his friends in the pub of how big a success he was financially. He had land, investments, money in the bank and a healthy insurance policy. His future was assured.

An older man sitting nearby with his paper and beer intervened.

"I have something you'll never have."

The dapper young man stopped and with a smirk said: "What might that be?"

To which the older man replied - "enough".

In a society driven by money and what it will buy, there is always the risk we will let it take over our lives. There are people who have ability to make lots of money. There's nothing wrong with that provided it doesn't dominate their thinking and damage other people along the way.

We know that St Paul was right when he said money is the root of all evil. We don't doubt the wisdom of Jesus when he said we can't serve two masters or that where our treasure is that is where our heart lies. In a world where money just seems to pop out of an ATM it is so easy to think all this refers to big companies, governments or other people, but the Gospel message is for everyone.

In some ways money does talk. A man down on his luck admitted that when he said his just said goodbye. We hear about false gods and those bits of coloured paper we have in our wallets can be signs of false gods.

Our response to a natural disaster is to give heaps of goods we don't need. Even if we don't shop there, just walk through our charity shops and see what we've thrown out. We keep on buying to fill up cupboards that are already full. This is a long way from the thinking of the late Sr Kate Flannery, of Our Lady's Nurses of the Poor, who used to say that we had to keep our cupboards empty, so God could put more in.

When is enough, enough? A bit of street art in the docklands area of Dublin said, "Greed is the knife and the scars run deep".

It is easy to be greedy, even for those who have little. What is true wealth? What is the bottom line in our relationships, our help of others or living out high ideals? We picture ourselves standing before God one day. He'll be looking at what we're worth without money. Many of our achievements will be left behind as we leave this world as we came into it.

I remember this story from the housekeeper at a priests' house in Ireland. She told how the richest man in the village died the night before. He was mean with money.

Following local custom she went to Mass before visiting his home.

She said, "there he was, lying dead on his bed. I looked at him and said, "your money isn't much use to you, now."

In the spirit Lent could of we begin in our families to realise that debts have to be repaid, that money must be managed, that we have to save for what we want. That we learn from the careful lives of our old people and not from economists. Who is our model – our grandmother - or Murdoch, who at the age of 80 goes on another spree?

As deterrent to reckless spending we could keep in mind that bit of street art reminding us that “Greed is the knife and the scars run deep".

Mixed Blessings

It’s in so many ways a mixed blessing……

Mining in the Surat Basin, that is.

I’ve just come home from a 2500km trip out to Charleville, across to Cunnamulla, and back, via St George. Just about everywhere (with the exception of the country around Cunnamulla), has exploration activity underway.

It’s hard to miss.

Apart from the signs (pictured) which direct people unfamiliar with the area to the test and drill sites, there are many other indications.

For example, you’ll notice kilometres of road with all the guide posts knocked down. This is a consequence of the transportation of miming dongas and machinery carried on wide load convoys. Where the road narrows, the guide posts are knocked down by the oversize load. They’re not repaired.

I wonder how far I’d get if I systematically destroyed a row of guide posts? Probably as far as the next cop shop I suspect.

You might also notice the hundreds of hired Toyota Land Cruisers parked at the airport at Roma, all with their little red flags on poles. They wait for the fly-in fly-out operators to collect them for a nine or thirteen day shift. They’re driven straight out to the sites, with only the petrol and grocery dollar seeping into the local economy. When the shift is over, they return to the Sunshine Coast or metropolitan Brisbane to spend their hard-earned.

Almost none of the contractors are local. Many of them are from South Africa or West Australia.

And don’t think you’re going to be able to book a motel in Roma or Chinchilla, unless you operate months ahead. The mining companies block book them and pretty much take over.

Sure, there is new infrastructure going in – mostly in the accommodation and engineering supply sectors, but again, a lot of the gear is purchased from the larger centres closer to the coast. Some of it is maintained on site.

There are no schools growing in enrolments with the mining boom. The families of the workers live on the coast.

Meanwhile, the roads are deteriorating rapidly under the onslaught of the heavy machinery and the wettest summer for more than thirty years.

The mining companies contribute almost nothing to local government rates.

The pic below show how the country looks now. Take a good look. For some areas around Tara, Chinchilla and Charleville, pictures may be all that’s left after the miners are gone.

Bullying

Blue Lake - Fraser Island

There’s been heaps in the media recently about bullying.

Some of the commentary is hysteria mixed up with drivel but it attracts attention. Frankly, bullying is no more or less a problem than it has been for years – people are simply more likely to call it. That’s a good thing.

It also gets filmed and spread all over the interweb. Hence it gets attention.

Years ago (early eighties) I was principal of a special school in the northern suburbs of Brisbane. In those days, primary school principals had the bad habit of trying to offload kids (usually adolescent boys) with behaviour problems on to special schools.

I made myself very unpopular with the district authorities at the time by complaining loud and long about this practice until it was stopped but I’d inherited many of these kids from my predecessor who had rolled over.

The main reason why this was a bad practice was that the kids with intellectual impairments – legitimately enrolled at the special school – were given a hard time by the brighter ant-social kids who shouldn’t have been there in the first place. The combination of aggressive kids and kids lacking protective behaviours was toxic.

I got together with the principal of a neighbouring special school dealing with the same issue and we decided we’d try to do something about it.

We took four of the most intractable kids from each school (total of eight) and with four adults (two principals, and two male PE teachers) equipped with three 4WDs set off for seven days on Fraser Island.

We called it an “adventure camp”.  The real purpose was to take these kids out of their street environment and encourage them to learn to cooperate. Some of them were bright kids – some had police records – some were simply mollycoddled. All they had in common was aggressive and anti-social behaviours.

On the first day, we took them for a 5km run along the beach, in and out of soft sand. I was much fitter back then. By the time this was over, they were all completely exhausted, and all they wanted to do was collapse in a heap.

Unfortunately for them, they had to put up their tents and prepare their dinner. Faced with no physical help from the adults (we gave them plenty of advice) they had no option but to cooperate. The alternative was to spend a cold and hungry night. They squabbled a bit, but in an hour or two tents were up, fires lit and dinner was on.

There are red-bellied black snakes on Fraser, and one turned up just before dusk. Suddenly we were alone – all eight had retreated to the safety of their tents. These were city kids after all. The thought of snakes in the dark was too much.

During the night, they weren’t game to emerge, and there were some very full bladders by sunrise. I remember being asked  “Sir - Can you walk in front of me to chase the snakes so I can come out and a have a piss?” I was mean and refused – the walking in front bit didn’t appeal.

What followed was days of fishing (the Tailor were running), hiking through the beautiful environment, and lots of talk about things which these kids would never share with teachers. The environment made the difference.

I remember one kid who previously had been the bane of his teacher’s life showing me how to gang-hook for Tailor. This kid had done a bit of fishing with his dad (before this same dad had cleared out).

This role-reversal (him teaching me something) did his self-image no end of good. It was great for me, as well, as I caught a couple of Tailor. The lad was as chuffed as I was.

By the time we got back, the relationships – both with us, their teachers, and with each other, had improved out of sight. These kids did change, and the camp made the rest of the school year a different exercise. Their parents kept telling us that they had changed for the better, although I’m not sure whether part of the benefit for them was simply the week’s respite.

The only downside for me was that I was completely buggered. My principal colleague’s wife told me that he had slept for two days when he got back, but he was ten years older than me. I needed one day.

By the way, there was no bullying to speak of for the rest of the school year.

It's Lent

There's the old joke. You know the one. Newlywed gets a knock back from her partner and asks "Why?
The answer comes back. "It's Lent".
Newlywed wails "To whom and for how long?"

You have to be a Mick to appreciate it.

On a more serious (and timely) note, see below -  

A thought for Justice in Lent

In almost every town and village that this paper gets delivered to there once was a butter factory, a cheese factory, a dairy co-operative. The cheese in my childhood fridge had local names on the wrapping -
Pittsworth, Warwick, Toowoomba etc. When we visited relatives we would drive to the local factory to pick up a large block of cheese. When I made my home in this city the milk was delivered to our door three days a week. This is not ancient history but for the dairy industry those days have long gone.


$1 for a litre of milk seems like a good price in anybody's language - but there are hidden costs in this that many of us queuing at our local supermarket may never see. 

Of course I refer to the recent Milk Wars - where the two major supermarket chains Woolworths and Coles are dueling to see who can get the most customers through their doors with the lure of dollar a litre milk. Of course it is good news for customers in the short term- but in the process could kill off local farms, communities and a large chunk of the dairy industry. 

If people stop buying branded milk the supermarket duopoly can dictate prices driving many farmers to the wall. More than half of all fresh milk now sold in Australia is a supermarket brand. I dipped my toes in the water, or should that be milk of the milk wars a few years ago. This was in the wake of de-regulation when the Supermarkets were muscling in with their own no name brands.

I spent a few nights in freezing community hall meetings where locals spoke of blockades and wholesale boycotts, I spoke with one farmer who told me his company was looking after him - but it was tothers who were the baddies. I learnt that between 45 and 60 percent ofthe milk produced across this country can be used for export - while 90 percent of milk produced in Queensland stays here. I learnt that small scale operators can be better for the environment compared to huge dairy agri-business, I voted with my wallet and ensured that all milk consumed in our house was a branded version which gave a better deal to the producers. I continue to do this and would urge others to do the same. But the fight as a consumer is not an easy one. 

The coffee and tea that I consume is also fair trade where the producers receive a fair price for my daily cuppa. When I select chocolate I search for the fair trade logo again ensuring that child labour has not been used to support my sweet tooth and that cocoa farmers can look after their families. It's a growing movement that we can all be a part of as consumers but it is still not enough. It might assuage my middle class guilt - but it is a bit rough demanding that an aged pensioner spend a few more of their precious dollars at the supermarket fridge buying the name brands. We need to act with integrity as consumers but we also need systems in place that ensure that whole industries and communities are not burnt on the altar of free trade. 

We need a system of fair trade where the big boys in the supermarket game do not call all the shots. It is an easy PR stunt for the supermarket chains to offer to give part of the milk price to support dairy farmers affected by recent floods. It would have more integrity if they ensured a decent farm gate price for milk producers. In Britain today almost all milk sold is supermarket brand with farmers claiming it is sold below the price of production. So if you can afford it give the supermarkets a miss when it comes to purchasing your milk. It might take a little longer but it is nothing compared with the inconvenience the current milk war is causing Queensland dairy farmers. We may never get back the local cheese factory or butter board but surely there must be a way that we can continue to drink fresh milk without breaking a local industry.


By Mark Copland printed in the Chronicle 

Dr Mark Copland is the Executive Officer of the Toowoomba Diocese Social Justice Commission.

You can make a difference by boycotting monopoly milk brands in the supermarkets. Keep our dairy industry alive and keep jobs local.

Bolt Composted

Andrew Bolt has been a little more testy than usual lately.

He has latched on to a narrative about The Drum publishing a blogger (who does/does not exist and is/is not a send up).

It’s not entirely clear whether his outrage is driven by the opinions expressed or because these opinions are “leftist”, or because they were aired on the Drum. Pick one....

Other things however are very obvious.

His behaviour towards anyone who disagrees with him frequently descends to a refined form of bullying.

I’ve been banned from his blog more often than I’ve had hot dinners, but a pattern has emerged. I get banned, and then get posted again, apparently when his moderators get absent-minded. Whether or not I’m banned in the first place seems to be related to how silly my posts make Bolt look.

Let me give you a few examples.

On 21^st July 2009, Bolt posted a thread which claimed that turnout to the 2008 presidential election was less than at previous polls. This was quite wrong, of course, and it wasn’t difficult to access official data to confirm it.

I posted a correction and linked it to the source.

My post attracted no comment from the moderators, but the usual torrent of abuse from his loyal acolytes turned up right on cue.

Next day, I posted again, with a mild comment on an unrelated topic. I was banned in shouty text –

SNIP. YOU ARE SO BITTER IT’S CREEPY. AND SO DETERMINED TO OBJECT TO WHATEVER’S WRITTEN HERE THAT YOU’RE BORING. SO I THINK FROM NOW ON WE'LL BAN YOU AS A TROLL…..”

Click on the screen shot and read the comment from "Andrew of Pearce". He's nailed it.

This was at first confusing, but then I remembered being banned before when I pointed out that Bolt had posted a graph that showed exactly the opposite of what he was arguing. In this instance, that post got through, but it was the next one – again unrelated, and pretty mild, that was snipped.

The graph at the top of this post was the one that got me banned because I pointed out that the trend was upward, and that the downward bits were anomalies.  Andrew obviously doesn't know the difference. Pointing this out was what did the damage.

The penny dropped. Bolt doesn’t like being made to look silly on his own blog, so anyone seen as a potential threat is blocked. Because he is slipshod, it usually happens after the event.

The banning was my comeuppance – if a bit late.

His moderators are half asleep, or he doesn’t pay them enough – possibly both.

Another pattern has emerged.

I have two other pseudonyms under which I post. The opinions expressed and the words used to express them are no different from posts under my 1735099 moniker, but I have never been banned or snipped using these other screen names. It's only 1735099 that gets censored.

He’s obviously a bit twitchy about a Vietnam Vet taking him on. It may not got down well with his basically conservative audience.

His work has a couple of basic characteristics.
             

He has a very thin skin. It's as well I don't - given the abuse I cop from Bolt's acolytes. A very clear double standard operates.

He is prone to bullying and shouting down his critics (other evidence of this is clear from his appearances on Insiders).

His analysis and research skills are of a very low order for someone who claims to be a journalist.

Getting back to his bullying of the alleged blogger referred to above. It occurred to me that he might be prepared to argue the toss with me on a few issues, so I posted this challenge on his blog.

It wasn’t published, so I sent him an email. 

Still no response. So not only does this “journalist” have a thin skin, he also lacks the cojones to take on a blogger who might offer him a challenge.

He makes a living out of it, after all – I’m a rank amateur, a 63 year old codger who works for a living and blogs for fun.

I’ve obviously got him well and truly bluffed……

Middle East News

If you're interested in the goings on in Libya and in nearby middle eastern states, you can't beat Al Jazeera for immediacy and thoroughness.

They broadcast out of Dohar - in English, of course. My Arabic is rusty.

This is a live stream

Random Pics along the Warrego

This week I've been down the Warrego again. I decided I'd leave the Olympus behind and take some shots with my iPhone - in the interests of travelling light. Results are mixed, but they're posted here anyway.

The morning I left Toowoomba was clouded over, and the morning murk was breaking occasionally to let the sun through.
 

The EMQ chopper was lit up by the sunrise.

















As were the grain silos near Felton.

The locals aren't keen on the miners.

There are signs everywhere.
They have become well-organised.


 It fined up as I headed West.

 There were galahs at Mitchell.







 And morale-boosting attempts in this staff room further West..

















Big chooks near Augathella (I dodged them).

More anti-mining signs.

If they do mine for coal, it will wind up looking like this.







Can't say I blame the farmers for getting stroppy, but with the combination of a cash-strapped state government and mining bosses with dollar signs in their eyes, I don't think they're going to win.