Category Archives: Australia

The eleventh hour of my twenties

"When I was in my twenties..."

I’ve got less than an hour left of my twenties.  It’s almost time to farewell a decade of excess and excuses, because as of 10 January 2011, I will be 30.  By all definitions, that means I will be an adult.  It’s taken some time to grow comfortable with the idea of this new, forced identity.  Indeed, I’ve rejected maturity as a semi-permanent state of mind up until now.  Perhaps I’m predisposed to doing so because I’m the “baby” of the Mudditt family.  I never wanted to depress anyone by not seeming young.  I’m not saying that I’ll be any different when I wake up tomorrow, but I can’t deny that I would like to be.  Turning 30 means that it’s time to sharpen up.

Though it might be foolish to draw such bold lines in the sand, I’ve decided that some aspects of my behaviour will no longer be tolerated, or will, at least, be judged in a different light.  Others will be encouraged.  Firstly, getting smashed (at first regularly, then at all) will become closer to sad than funny.  I will not allow myself to be guided with the same spirit of forgiveness that has ruled my past.  So that means yes, it was a laugh spending the morning after my 21st birthday party in a doctor’s surgery, but that’s the last thing I’d want for my 30th.  It’s a long story, but basically, I don’t want to be so drunk tomorrow night that I can’t distinguish a rat from a baby possum until it’s too late and my hand is bleeding profusely.  So I’ll aim to stay on the tipsy side of drunk during tomorrow’s celebration, which will be held at a North Korean karaoke restaurant in Dhaka.

I think I’ve always approached significant birthdays very seriously.  I remember feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders as a nine-year-old about to turn 10.  I was worried about whether life would be the same when I entered the realm of double-digits (for a very long time, it was).  I sat for my driver’s licence as soon as I turned 18, and was crushed when I failed it, because I’d delayed my independence.  And I recall announcing to friends that after turning 25, I’d never smoke again.  But I don’t remember my resolve lasting more than a few days.  But as I’ve approached 30, I realised that being even a sometimes-smoker was no longer rebellious; it was a sign of weakness and it wouldn’t do.  I also wanted to avoid out-smoking my father, who quit when he was 30 (admirably, during his honeymoon, on Mum’s suggestion).   As a kid, I remember being told that story and feeling horrified that my father smoked until what seemed such a grand old age.  I cannot disappoint the child I used to be – so that’s that.  I consider quitting a birthday present to myself – the last time I did something this positive on a birthday was way back on my first, when I took my first steps.

I will also begin to implement a gradual reversal of body policy.  Instead of depleting my own natural resources, I am seriously considering a conscious effort to increase supply.  I’ll begin by steadily consuming that jar of vitamins Mum sent me months ago.  I might even use the pumice, and other hitherto neglected gifts.  However I don’t want to travel too far in this opposite direction.  To do so would be both unnecessary and unwise, as this Italian proverb warns:

“Why live like an invalid to die a healthy man?”

This conveniently raises the subject of death, which ought never be forgotten on the occasion of a birthday.  I admit that the prospect of turning 30 frightened me for some time.  Was I about to kiss goodbye my youth and hurtle towards eternity?  And how is it fair that I have developed wrinkles without a final farewell to pimples?  Whenever such dark clouds gather, I try to keep life expectancy in mind.  Thirty is not old.  It isn’t even middle-aged.  And middle-aged is not old.  Last week I discovered that the greatest tennis player in the world, Roger Federer, is the same age as me: so it’s truly impossible that I’ll be old tomorrow.  I’m just getting older, like everyone else.  And so even though I’m as terrified of dying as the next person, I’ve promised never to refer to myself as “old” until I’m about 10 years off 84.  But even then, it could be premature to calculate it on the basis of life expectancy: my grandmother lived until she was 96.  And if I manage to grow old, I must remember to celebrate making it there safely.  But for now, it’s time to open that bottle of wine and allow my boyfriend to bestow his secret gifts.  He’s younger than me, and as birthdays seem to be less of a big deal in Bangladesh, it will be the first time he’s ever watched someone turn 30.

Why I’d prefer you not to vote for Tony Abbott as Australian Prime Minister

Kallista, Victoria

Before leaving Australia in 2006, I told my family that I wouldn’t return until there was a change of government.  Sure, I was being a petulant 20-something, but I really meant it.  John Howard’s xenophobia embarrassed me and it was causing real harm to others.  I spent a lot of time feeling disaffected and bitching about him with fellow Australians in South East Asian guesthouses.

In the blink of an eye, nearly two years passed and I found myself drinking champagne in London at 8am to celebrate ‘Kevin 07’s’ resounding election victory.  The old prime minister had lost his own seat, the new one promptly apologised to the Aborigines and then iced the cake with a speech delivered in Mandarin.  It was all very exciting – but temporary, perhaps.  As I’m yet to come home, I’ve been following the run-up to tomorrow’s federal election from Bangladesh.  I was appalled to read the following statement made by the opposition leader Tony Abbott:

“We will determine who comes to this country and the circumstances in which they come.”

Uh-oh.  Talk about echoes of the dark and distant past.  John Howard uttered those exact same words in parliament on 6 December 2001.  “Little Johnny” was the second-longest serving prime minister in our history (shame!), and therefore had the opportunity to achieve a great number of things, but Google him today and you will find that the fifth hit, after the encyclopaedic styled-entries, is an article called “John Howard: Muslims Out of Australia.”  And so forth.  With an online legacy like that, it wouldn’t surprise me if the International Cricket Council was able to find a more suitable candidate for the post of vice-president.

I’ve noticed other alarming sentiments expressed by Mr Abbott, and feel compelled to address them, midnight-hour though it may be…

Tony Abbott on people smuggling: 25 July 2010

“Stamping out people smuggling is a way to alleviate people’s anxieties and to reassure them that we are, in fact, sovereign in our country.”

Oh please.  If Tony Abbott was concerned with reassuring “people” (which people? his people??) about Australia’s sovereignty, he wouldn’t be opposed to reopening the debate on becoming a republic.  And he might want to alter the words on the first page of our passports, in order to alleviate any confusion on the part of immigration officials in overseas nations when they read the following:

“The Governor-General of the Commonwealth of Australia, being the representative in Australia of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, requests all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance and to afford him or her every assistance and protection of which he or she may stand in need.”

But he won’t do anything so rash, because he’s a staunch monarchist.

Flinders Street Station, Melbourne. A cabbie told me that this station was meant to be built in India, but the architectural plans were swapped by mistake!

However it’s true that the thought of people being smuggled to Australia makes me anxious – particularly when they arrive on boats.  Are those people dehydrated or malnourished?  Were they tortured?  Have they been separated from their children or partners?  Are we capable and willing to fulfil our legal obligations under international laws as well as our moral obligations to them as fellow human beings?  When the debate between the two prime ministerial candidates degenerated to arguing over whether it is physically possible to turn boats away, I became very anxious indeed.

Labor leader and incumbent PM Julia Gillard, despite also having a tough stance on the issue, gave a response to “the boat people” [refugees] question that I admire:

“I say to those engaged in this type of rhetoric: ‘Stop selling our national character short. We are better than this. We are much better than this.”

At the time when John Howard was accusing asylum seekers of “throwing their babies overboard,” I was a law student at Monash University and I came to know a group of refugees from Afghanistan.  I picked them up from a legal aid centre in Collingwood and drove them to their new home in Dandenong, as they didn’t have money for a train ticket.  I like to think that the favour was returned when three Pashtun men took me along the Khyber Pass to the border with Afghanistan in 2007.   I know it’s corny, but I remembered one of the guys in the car talking about the mountains in Afghanistan when he first saw the Dandenongs in Victoria.

Over the next few months I became good friends with a young man called Habib, who had paid a lot of money to be smuggled to Australia.  He eventually told me why he did it – but not how he got the scars on his face.  He’s now working as a taxi driver in Melbourne and he’s doing really well.

Case study of a person who was smuggled to Australia

Habib was a teenager when the Taliban arrived in his home city of Kabul in the 1990s.  He and his family were kicked out of their home and forced to live in a house with several of their neighbours.  The Taliban installed themselves in this way along most of the main streets, and Habib said that none of the locals knew who the Taliban were, because they shared no particular ethnicity.  This was especially terrifying.  After living in cramped and stressful conditions for many months, Habib’s uncle arrived in the mail – chopped up into small pieces.  Habib decided to leave Afghanistan and he reached Indonesia, mostly by overland routes, several months later.  He paid a hefty amount to spend six months living in a room with around 40 other people who were also waiting to be smuggled – to no country in particular.  Habib did say, however, that the smugglers tried their best to feed everyone adequately.  One morning, the people smuggler boss announced to the group that they would set sail that day.  When Habib saw the size of the boat and the number of people that were attempting to board it, he became very frightened.  The boat sank before it reached Australia, but a Norwegian vessel rescued more than 400 people and placed them onboard the MV Tampa.  The Australian government refused to allow the rescued people onto Australian soil, and quickly passed a new law called the Border Protection Act, which aimed to “determine who will enter and reside in Australia.

Habib spent the next two years in a detention centre on the coral atoll of Nauru (NB: also a sovereign nation) waiting for Australia to determine whether he could enter.  Of course he was grateful to be accepted, but Habib said that those last two years were tougher than the Taliban and worse than anything else he went through.

Rye Beach on a Tuesday morning

It’s my belief that, like his party predecessor John Howard and a growing number of Australians, Tony Abbott suffers from “island mentality.”  Unlike the vast majority of nations, Australia doesn’t share a border with anyone – yet it’s as though we’re turning into the only-child who never learnt to share.  If Australia could somehow spend a year located next to a porous border it could do us a world of good – pardon the pun.  I lived in London for two-and-a-half-years, and was struck by the UK’s (mostly) liberal attitude to immigration.  The government there didn’t even know how many people had arrived, let alone how to stop them!  Tony Abbott has complained that under Labor leadership, the net migration to Australia increased from 210,000 to 300,000.  That’s a few football stadiums worth of people, so we should be worried, right?  Well, at least not until the UK starts freaking out.  Every year, the UK accepts 510,000 people – yet it’s less than a thirtieth of the size of Australia.  And anecdotally speaking, it didn’t seem too crowded to me…  If anything, the diversity and energy, especially in London, was one of its greatest strengths, both economically and culturally.  Furthermore, the UK has granted 250,000 Australians the right to reside in the UK at present, which is nearly the same number of immigrants that Tony Abbott would permit to enter Australia in an entire year.  I’ve not heard him comment on the fact that there are currently 1.3 million Britons living in Australia, but presumably this should also be a cause for concern?

Whilst it’s possible to play around with numbers all day, I’ll add just two further statistics in conclusion.  According to UN figures, in 2009 there were 44 million displaced people around the world.  Last year, Australia accepted less than 3,000.

And finally, I’d just like to say that I know many talented and creative people here in Bangladesh who would be thrilled to live, work or study in Australia.  In my mind, it would only be our loss not to welcome them.


A few weeks later….

I hope the clever person who designed this will regard its reproduction as 'fair use'!!

Google helped me see the light: I have a thing for Christian hymns

When I was about 13 years old, I wrote two poems on cardboard, covered them in a sticky, shiny, plastic wrap and stuck them on my wall.  They stayed there, next to my bed, for years.

This was the first poem:

The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And music shall untune the sky.

I think I loved it because it smelt of anarchy.  But eventually I forgot about it.  Last night the words suddenly popped into my head  after almost a decade of forgetting them.  Today I googled the three lines to learn the name of the poet.  I don’t have a good memory, but I can usually remember the authors of quotes I like.   And it’s weird that I don’t know it, because  I can count on one hand the number of poems (however short, like this one) I know by memory.  If I had to guess, I thought it could have been Virgil or someone like that.

These days I'm fascinated by Muslim societies, and I've spent about two years living in or visiting Bangladesh (pictured), Iran, Pakistan, the Palestinian Territories, Turkey and the Indian state ofIndia.

I was  so surprised to discover that my favourite childhood (and adulthood, for that matter)  poem is actually part of the ‘grand chorus’ of a Christian hymn written in 1687.  So I decided to write a blog about it, which is a big step up from a link  posted on Facebook.  Or maybe I just don’t want to forget it again.   Anyway, a highly influential Englishman called John Dryden composed it for the festival of St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music.  In his portrait, he is nearly-smiling and has waist-length, light brown hair (or perhaps a wig), as was the custom way back then.   He died in 1700.

The Literature Review Network writes of Dryden’s “A Song for St. Cecilia’s Day 1687”, “To be appreciated, it must be read aloud.”

This is the full chorus – SING IT LOUD!!



    As from the power of sacred lays                      55
      The spheres began to move,
    And sung the great Creator's praise
      To all the blest above:
    So, when the last and dreadful hour[11]
    This crumbling pageant shall devour,                  60
    The trumpet shall be heard on high,
    The dead shall live, the living die,
    And Music shall untune the sky.

I suspect that I may have come across the verse during Christian religious studies in primary school or early high school.  I'm not sure how else I would have found it.  I hope it wasn't a funeral...  But it's funny to think how after all these years, I thought I was humming about freedom and disorder, whereas I was supposed to be thinking about God.  Or rather, Hell, if I am interpreting it correctly.  I'm amused because I'm an atheist and have been for a long time - and whenever I first found the hymn, I sliced out the references to God.  After a relatively brief stint as an overly enthusiastic 10-year-old Christian (I started a war against swearing that started and ended with my big sister), I decided that it wasn't for me.  I was actually put off by my religious studies teacher, who used to always come to class with a picnic basket for some reason (though it wasn't the picnic basket that put me off, but rather the way she answered a single question).

A smartass put up his hand and said, “What about the Buddhists – they don’t believe this stuff, do they?”

The teacher said, “The Buddhists are wrong.”

Buddhist monks in Thailand, July 2010

True story – this was the early 1990s, and maybe that wouldn’t happen in Australian state education today.  Anyway after that I flirted with Buddhism (possibly just to rebel against my teacher), but converted to Science and Reason after a guy who I can’t remember told me that Buddhism actually encourages a self-focused state of being (the author does not necessarily agree with the views expressed on this page).

That’s all I wanted to say about that.  If you’re still interested, this is the second poem that was plastered to the wall of my bedroom:

There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is rapture in the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
I love not man less;
But nature more.

– George Gordon, Lord Byron (I still remember writing it out, thinking what an incredible name he had…)