Lives Without Consequence

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Grievances are like flowers - if you water them, they will grow, and self-imposed victimhood is not a recipe for happiness.
Phillis Schlafly



And so yes, it was finally admitted. The Block was a no-go zone for whites. You were likely to be bashed. After all the talk of racism; this was what it boiled down to. They were free to bash us while living off the tax payer tit. Even their elders excused the bashings. How could this be? When the whites bleated constantly, did anything for them, paid and paid and paid. White c...ts they shouted or sniggered as we passed. White c...nts. The only time in the eight years he had lived there he had let his guard down he had been robbed. Once he came home from work at midnight, had a cigarette on the backstep and accidently left the back door open, over-tired from work, stressed from the impossibility of living in this rotten town, with its marauding goons known as parking cops, its utterly incompetent governments at local and state level, the joke that passed for governance as parasites drove the city further and further into the ground; hocking off public streets for private toll companies; raking millions of dollars of ordinary working people by their own refusal to provide any parking.

He was sick of it, sick of them. And sick of the fact that as far as the authorities were concerned it appeared perfectly alright to bash people up, as long as it was the aboriginals doing the bashing. How outrageous was this? How much it violated all the normal civilised codes? How much damage the crooning, dribbling, apologetic left did to these people. No one ever said: stand on your own two feet, make a life for yourself, behave with honour, decency, humility. Instead any behaviour was excusable; and he saw the magistrate pounding down his decision on the young aboriginal mother of two: the counsellors may see hope, I see nothing but a long history of dishonesty and drug abuse. Nine months. Where were the kids to stay? What possible use could the sentence do? White c...ts they whispered as he passed; checking him out for the bulge of a wallet, for anything they could steal. And they wondered why everyone was sick of them, sick of being robbed, harassed, sneered at. Sick of the one way street.

They had taken everything, despite there being two kids and two dogs asleep in the house at the time. His phone, keys and wallet, his son's playstation, anything they could get their hands on quickly. The police did nothing, of course. They never did. He had almost laughed when, on a recent assignment, the rioting Indian students had claimed their houses were being robbed and the police were doing nothing about it. Must be because they're Indian. Don't think so. They don't do anything for us either. Forlornly, shortly after six am. because he had always been an early riser, he had searched the back of his house, the once notorious Caroline Lane, a narrow little alley where they had gathered to shoot up and argue and a man had died not long before, blood streaming as he staggered up towards the station after selling the brother of the killer a bad deal on which he overdosed.

They took everything and he was just the sucker that got up and went to work. He watched them every pension day, walking up and down up and down, carrying cartons of booze paid for by the taxpayer. Drunk and getting drunker. Their loud, aggrieved voices drowning through the night, churning into the darkness, painting an image of infinite despair. White c...ts. It had taken him weeks to get everything back together, the keys, the wallet, the phone, all those numbers lost. Everything lost, because the thugs were like cockroaches, able to get in anywhere, light fingered, dirty, fast thieves. That was the only time, the only day, in eight years he had left the back door open for more than a few minutes; and bang, robbed. It's not even an easy place to get into.

He found his Medicare card drifting uselessly in the dirt, discasrded by the robber. Even the local garbage men described him to a tee. A young man, red shirt. He must have been on the cameras. The police did nothing. None of his possessions, or those of his son, ever came back. The next robbery was perhaps even worse. It was shortly after Kevin Rudd's famous apology, and blacks and whites alike were aglow with a sense of something, reproachment, fulfilment, peace, reconciliation, aglow with their own good sense and their own good feelings. And so when Steve Green knocked on the door, he let him in. Steve had been a friend of his ex; who had fed him and his five children Christmas lunch in Moree only a couple of years before while he had been there. He had been in jail for murder, had tats all over him, was running an obvious heroin habit; and yet for some reason, the glow of the Apology, the fact that Steve had known the family and the kids for years, he let him into his house.

Steve Green wanted cigarettes; so he told him to stay put; and dashed up to the bank to get some money and buy some fags. He couldn't have been more than five or six minutes. He locked the grill as he left, just in case. When he got back, puffing from the exertion, Steve Green was waiting at the grill, trying to get out. He looked surprised. I've got the cigarettes, he said. I was just going to see a mate down the Block, he said. You've locked me in. And they went back inside; and smoked. But Steve was in a hurry; and left shortly afterwards. He never noticed that Steve had slid Henrietta's brand new $2000 white Apple laptop into his duffle bag. Never noticed until the next day, when Henrietta came back from a friend's house where she had stayed the night; and came down the stairs, shocked, asking: where's my laptop? It had been her absolute pride and joy. So much for family friends. So much for decency. So much for doing the right thing.

The next day, when saw Steve Green lurking at the station and confronted him, Steve offered to get the laptop back: for a $100 shot. That's what life's like in Redfern. Crap.



THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2009/06/16/2599944.htm?section=entertainment

Prime Minister Kevin Rudd's wife Therese Rein has visited The Block at the inner Sydney suburb of Redfern to launch a book about the Stolen Generations.

Back on the Block explores the childhood of Bill Simon, who lived at Kinchela Boys Home for eight years after being removed from his family.

Ms Rein says the book captures a dark chapter of history.

"The shock, the bewilderment and the terror of the children, of the babies, is palpable," she said.

"The helplessness of his mum as the children were taken away is just appalling."

http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/letters/its-time-we-all-discarded-the-labels-of-victimhood-20090615-c96g.html

Bill Simon's article ("The hourly struggle for survival on The Block", June 15) struck a chord with me, particularly in juxtaposition with Derek Kelly's reference to indigenous Australians as the "rightful owners" of the country (Letters, June 15). In my experience, Simon is correct to say that many residents of The Block are wonderful but misunderstood people, who will cheerfully accept friendship and practical help. He is also correct that many appear to believe their situation in life is solely due to their colour and they can be quick to hurl racist insults at white people, often without provocation.

After five years of living in Redfern, it has become increasingly apparent to me that non-indigenous Australians are creating a climate of victimhood in some of those they most want to empower, and endorsing mixed messages. They tell Aboriginal people on one hand that they have the ability to rise above their circumstances, and on the other that they are victims of historical injustices that should be met with indignation or hatred, and division from mainstream Australian society.

The latter perspective has undeniable aspects of truth to it, but it creates a divisive "us and them" mentality, in which all non-indigenous people are seen as intruders and usurpers. Yet many of us, or our ancestors, were also victims of history, being sent here as criminal, undesirable elements or coming as refugees from lands that were also, to some degree or other, stolen from their "rightful" inheritants.

How about a change of rhetoric, so that all Australians, indigenous or otherwise, are seen as caretakers of a land that nobody owns?

Obviously, all non-indigenous Australians are not about to up and leave. So it seems fruitless to perpetuate the idea that there is only one culture or race that has a "right" to live in Australia.

Thea Gumbert Redfern

http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/the-hourly-struggle-for-survival-on-the-block-20090614-c7a1.html?page=2

Unfortunately, both sides practise racism and some on The Block hate white people to the point that they will do bodily harm whenever they can. There was a time when I was like that and I can relate to what they feel. Inequality always breeds contempt.

The Block's people are hard. Their self-preservation mechanism is astute. Even those who have slept under the same awning for months will not trust one another beyond a certain point. Everyone performs as an individual working for his own purposes, until an outside problem faces them. Then they band together, as if they have worked as a close-knit community at all times, which makes it hard for the police to operate.

Any person who robs or assaults somebody from outside is safe on The Block. There is an unbelievable amount of covering for one another.

Money is a constant source of problems for the residents. Keeping their dole payment day a secret is very difficult. Most know when one another's payment is due. On pay days the only way recipients can keep their money for themselves is to be far away until it is all spent. Only after they are penniless can they return, usually with a small supply of drugs, a full belly and totally inebriated, to face their indignant "friends".

Everyone operates independently, but not for grog. Drinkers pool their money to buy a carton of beer or casks of wine, and sit together to drink. Only those who have contributed may drink and everyone is expected to drink the same amount. Fights break out if one is getting more than the other. Food comes a poor last to drugs and grog.

Winter is the worst time for the homeless. The nights seem never to end. Life is an hourly struggle for survival and so they do what they deem necessary to stay alive.

The homeless see themselves as a society of have-nots. The homeless do not see that it is their addictions that ensure they stay the way they are. They do not see that those on the outside have problems of their own; they just see that they themselves are homeless, penniless and Aboriginal. Believing their situation is solely caused by their colour and not for other reasons ensures they will pay out on non-Aboriginals whenever they feel the need.

People on The Block live far below the accepted standard of living, and this situation is not about to change soon. Most will die before anything changes in their lives. Those who so badly need our help are in the main ignored and shunned by society.

The forgotten people in Redfern desperately need friendship and interaction with others to show them that someone does care. Just talking to these people brings benefits for them. Their lives are so void of affection that the result is anger and hostility to those who happen to get in their way.

This is an edited extract from Back On The Block: Bill Simon's Story, by Pastor Bill Simon, Des Montgomerie and Jo Tuscano.


Australia.