It was a long,
cramped flight on South China Airlines. The Chinese man sitting in
the seat next to me was fidgeting and agitated during the whole
flight, except during the brief period when he slept. If I had any
Valium with me I would have offered him some. The flight ended with
a public exercise program followed by a little documentary about
Perth, the city we were about to land in, that was produced by the
airline. It described Perth's Mediterranean climate, described how
the city was located in the Swan River (which of course it isn't),
and provided tips on which neighborhoods in the sprawling city most
of the Chinese people hang out in. The film was narrated by a woman
who spoke with a North American accent, but the script was clearly
written by someone who spoke English as a very second language, and I
wondered what must have been going through the narrator's head as
she read these hopelessly butchered sentences.
Exhausted, I
waited in the Immigration line along with everyone else. Getting
towards the front of the line I could hear Immigration agents
speaking to the new arrivals, making no effort to enunciate clearly
or slow down their speech for the Chinese visitors. The agent I got
to seemed like one of the nicer ones, though, an older man with a
salt and pepper beard.
“I have a work
visa,” I proclaimed, on the assumption he might want to know.
“Don't worry,
it's all in the system,” he replied, looking at a computer screen.
After a minute or so of perusing his computer he said “welcome to
Australia, Dave.” The majority of Australians have the annoying
habit of assuming you prefer to be addressed by a nickname of their
choosing, which in my case was usually “Dave.” In his case I
didn't particularly mind, though. I liked the “welcome to
Australia” part. But after all the waiting and spending the $895
for the damn thing, I felt a bit jilted that he didn't even want to
look at my work permit.
As I walked past
him towards the baggage carousel, a younger female colleague of his
who was looking at his computer screen said, “turned away from New
Zealand,” which I was. There was a questioning tone in her voice,
as if to say, “don't you think you should have asked him about
this?” The man grunted disinterestedly.
At the cafe around
the corner from the home of my hosts, Alex and Kamala, a couple of
long-time activists and members of the organization which now calls
itself Socialist Alliance, the local Murdoch rag was boasting about
the plans the incoming Prime Minister had for dealing with what the
press regularly calls the “refugee crisis.” Australia has very
few refugees, relative to most countries, and there is no crisis in
any conventional understanding of this term, but you can't tell that
to Rupert Murdoch or to either of the two major parties, or to the
millions of Australians who vote for them, clearly as disinterested
in their own country's history as they are of international law.
Unlike in the US,
where elections happen on an almost entirely predictable timetable,
in Australia, as with most democracies, you don't always know when
they're coming, and most of my tour ended up happening in the 10 days
leading up to the election. Which coalition of parties was going to
win – the rightwing one – was a foregone conclusion, according to
the Murdoch press as well as the rest of the press, and everybody I
talked to about it, without exception.
The
outgoing Labor Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, was engaging in a suicidal
backtracking on everything he once stood for, so that both he and
Tony Abbott were competing on how tough they could be on “stoppingthe boats,” and how thoroughly they could repeal environmental
legislation Rudd's predecessor had passed, which was Australia's
brief and apparently fleeting attempt to compensate for the fact that
it is one of the world's largest producers of coal and one of the
world's biggest contributors to climate change.
Most of the press
in Australia prefer to ignore the fact that the country is a deeply
divided class society. They refer to billionaire coal barons as
“miners,” as if any of them had ever spent a single day
underground themselves, and they lament the Carbon Tax – a tax on
some of the world's most rapacious energy companies – as if it were
a tax on the average Australian family, who would somehow be
prospering were it not for the fact that the corporations extracting
their nation's nonrenewable resources had to pay tax like everybody
else.
Despite the fact
that the Labor Party was actively stabbing its base of support in the
back, and despite the fact that everybody agreed the upcoming
conservative win was a foregone conclusion, just about everyone with
a political bone in their bodies with the exception of the anarchists
were busily campaigning for one party or the other. In the case of
most of my friends and fans, they were campaigning for the Greens or
for one of several socialist parties, or for the Wikileaks Party,
which was busily self-destructing upon my arrival in Perth, after
initially looking like a hopeful alternative to the usual suspects.
The show I did in
Perth was one of several fundraisers for the Refugee Rights Action
Network, complete with a moving appeal from the stage by an organizer
for the group, which has been involved with trying to publicize the
indefinite detention of adults as well as children being practiced by
the Australian government, the jailing of families who had dared
think they might be able to live in Australia, after finding life in
their own war-torn countries unlivable. The refugees from places
like Iraq and Afghanistan especially inconvenient, given that they
are fleeing from a chaos that the Australian government helped
create.
There in the
audience at the Workingman's Club in the progressive neighborhood of
Fremantle was Afeif Ismail, a Sudanese communist and a poet of great
renown, one of the few who did manage to get refugee status in
Australia, with the help of the United Nations, years before. As a
former political prisoner under the Sudanese dictatorship, he had
been recognized as a political refugee by the UN, and had been given
several options for countries he could move to. When I met him on my
first visit to Perth two years earlier, I remember him explaining how
he and his family decided to come to Australia. As I recall, it was
a process of elimination. The other two choices were Finland and the
US. Finland was out due to the decidedly un-Sudanese weather. The
US was out due to its imperial empire. So Australia it was.
I had been looking
forward to arriving in the southern hemisphere and enjoying a bit of
winter weather, but it was, as it happened, the end of winter, and
the beginning of spring, and was the warmest spring on record. Not
as warm as Japan in summer, which I had just left, so although it was
too warm to wear anything more than a t-shirt, I was still happy to
be there. Back home in the US, where it was also summer, the forests
of California were burning up at a ferocious rate, as the bush in
parts of Australia had done a few years before, costing the lives of
hundreds of people along with so many trees and houses.
My next stop was
Adelaide, thousands of kilometers east and south from Perth, the next
city along the south coast in the sparsely-populated continent.
Dave
and Kathy were celebrating the 21st
year of their Singing Gallery, a fixture of the South Australia folk
music scene, with a new CD featuring 21 artists who had played in it
over the years. I arrived at their house late at night, and they
made use of my fresh pair of ears to get some feedback on how the mix
turned out for some of the songs, concerned as they were that the
vocals were too quiet on one of them. Last time I stayed at their
lovely house in the countryside south of the city I was in a
different room, but this time that room would be taken by a family of
Tibetans who were expected to arrive the following day, which they
did.
In the midst of
the furor over refugees arriving by boat to Australia, here were some
of the few who had been allowed to come by plane. One family out of
the 100 families of Tibetan origin who the Australian government had
been kind enough to allow entry into their formerly whites-only
settlement. This was a family Dave and Kathy had known for many
years. The mother of two was as enchantingly beautiful as she
appeared in the pictures of her as a young woman I had seen on the
walls in the house before. The kids were adorable, despite their
tendency to turn on every available screen in the room at the same
time and stare at all of them at once. For me it was the first time
I had heard the Tibetan language spoken aside from in a documentary,
and it was certainly the first conversation I had had with actual
Tibetans.
They had all grown
up in India, in the region where most of the Tibetan refugees live
there, those who managed to survive the harrowing, often deadly
winter journey from their occupied homeland, through the mountains,
where many have the option of choosing between being shot by Chinese
border guards, or getting frostbite, or both. Our conversations
reminded me of the many conversations I've had in recent years with
immigrants from eastern Europe. For them, the communists are evil
(be they Russian or Chinese), and therefore the capitalists are good.
They still seemed confident of this worldview, but having only spent
a few days in Australia when I met them, they were already starting
to figure out that all was not well in capitalist paradise. At first
they came to Sydney, but were appalled at the lack of community they
found there, wondering where all the people were (in their cars, or
watching TV in their nuclear family units, is the answer, of course).
They took a bus to Adelaide, to visit their friends there, hoping it
might be different. My educated guess is that they'll soon discover
that it's not, unfortunately.
Someone had usedchemical weapons in Syria the day after I arrived in Perth, and now
in Adelaide the drums of war were being beaten hard by John Kerry,
David Cameron, and both of the major contenders for the highest
office in Australia. I sang at a protest in the center of town,
attended by about ten people. I met an anarchist historian who
regaled me with wonderful stories of the Wobblies of early
twentieth-century Australia, who were clearly just as colorful and
just as militant as their counterparts in North America. Paula
introduced me to a local musician who goes by the name of Lord
Stompy. He thanked me for the inspiration that attending my gig at a
Communist Party hangout apparently provided him to write a fabulous
anthemic punk song which he posted on YouTube as his contribution to
the imminent Liberal-National electoral victory, “Who's Gonna Winthe Election” (answer: who gives a shit).
Another
accomplished songwriter and a fixture of the Melbourne music scene
named Les Thomas was responsible for my appearances in Victoria.
After taking years off from songwriting, Les got back into the craft
after his brother was arrested in Afghanistan for being a Muslim
convert in the wrong place at the wrong time (he went there just
before 9/11 and was arrested just after the NATO invasion). I
participated in Les's weekly Unpaved Songwriter Sessions, along with
a young Filipino woman named Celene, who sang raw, short songs about
being a refugee in a not-very-welcoming land.
My
first of four shows in New South Wales was organized by a woman who
actually worked as an accountant for the Immigration department in
the Australian capital, Canberra. Around the time when I was waiting
to find out whether I'd be granted a work permit (having just been
denied entry to New Zealand and then denied a tourist visa to
Australia), a couple weeks before, she recounted a brief anecdote
from her workplace. One of her colleagues in Immigration was walking
past the offices of the War Crimes department. I'm not entirely
clear on what a War Crimes department does in Australia, but in any
case, the folks in that department were talking about me. Her
coworker didn't catch what they were saying about me, but he did
happen to pass by as folks from that branch of the government were
spelling my name out loud for one reason or another.
In Sydney I had
the pleasure of being given an impromptu guided tour of the newest
ship to be added to the fleet of vessels belonging to the SeaShepherd Conservation Society. Much loved by many in Australia, they
were biding their time in preparation for their next voyage to
Antarctica, where they will once again be risking life and limb to do
whatever they can to stop or at least hamper the efforts of the
annual Japanese whale hunt.
As I headed north
from Sydney, the news on the radio was all about the bush fires that
were suddenly raging in the suburbs of that city, devastating fires
far too early in the season. All the folks on the radio were talking
about how unusual these early fires were, and nobody mentioned
climate change.
After another
fundraiser for refugees in Newcastle, I arrived at Byron Bay, the
hippie capital of the country, where Graeme Dunstan spoke about hisattempts to do his part to try to stop the war machine, having just
been given a decidedly light sentence for aiding and abetting the
smashing with a sledgehammer of a helicopter gunship near the town of
Rockhampton, where Australia was conducting joint military exercises
with the country that overthrew their government back in 1975, the
country that is home to the huge spy base near Alice Springs -- the
United States. Here was someone really getting to the root of the
so-called refugee crisis, attempting to disable one of the war
machines that is responsible for creating refugees in the first
place, by bombing and strafing their homes in the many war-torn
countries that Australia likes to keep war-torn.
In Brisbane, the
last stop on my tour Down Under, the new Prime Minister's plans to
outsource Australia's refugees was showing it's first signs of
cracking up, with a prominent politician from Indonesia denouncing
the whole thing, which would supposedly involve sending refugees
intercepted at sea, trying to reach Australia's golden shores, to
Indonesia instead. But if Indonesia doesn't work out, they've still
got Christmas Island.
My tour of
Australia ended as it began, with the words “welcome to Australia.”
No matter that this welcome came on the day before I left – it was
the one that counted. For one such as I from the United States, who
has lived for years in the western part of the country in particular,
it was a familiar scene. But instead of Native Americans
surreptitiously drinking themselves to death in a public park, it was
Australian Aboriginals.
In between slugs
of cheap liquor and drags on cigarettes, these men who said they were
from the Bumma tribe of northern Queensland, told me stories and sang
songs for my benefit, having accurately ascertained that I was a
foreigner. One man sang a very moving song written by another
indigenous Australian named Archie Roach, “They Took theChildren Away.” He claimed to have written it, and he may as well
have, for it was entirely autobiographical. For just as they did in
North America, the original European refugees who settled this land
also thought they should civilize the natives by kidnapping, beating
and raping their children.
The pertinent
question is, are the boarding schools in which those children died or
learned to become alcoholics better or worse than the detention
centers in Nauru and Christmas Island where the would-be refugee
children die or learn to become alcoholics?
David Rovics is
a singer/songwriter based in Portland, Oregon. He is currently in
Europe, on a world tour. His website is www.davidrovics.com.
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