The Flood's True Heroes

The sound of helicopter blades has gone.

The media has pulled out of Brisbane’s flood zone.

As the water pulled away from the homes,

thick brown flood mud was exposed.

The stinking flood mud - which would

take a huge effort to clean.

... And then, they came.

The army of volunteers.

People carrying buckets and mops,

wearing boots, old clothes and gloves.

This is the true story of the floods.

When the waters pulled back and the home owners started the daunting clean-up, strangers arrived and helped.

People whose lives were scattered around them, broken and muddy, wiped back tears of gratitude and hope as strangers appeared.

These devastated people were able to stand tall and face the hard work because people were standing beside them.

Volunteers were turning up in incredible numbers.

Four assembly points were set up to coordinate them.

Lines of volunteers (over a kilometre long), formed as people waited to be assigned to different areas.

Buses were organised to transport these volunteers.

Today, about 12,500 people joined in on the huge clean-up. (In Brisbane. There’s no such information on the other flood areas, though I am sure they are working just as hard to clean everything.)

While the flood stories no longer fill the news, people are still being evacuated from their Victorian homes. People are still waiting for rivers to peak and the cleanup to begin... but the media is moving on.

Something Australians can depend on...

when the media has gone

and the politicians have left...

their fellow Aussies will step up.

My respect goes to those who are helping their friends... helping their neighbours... helping strangers.

They’re the real story.

Halima Bashir's Story

I read Halima Bashir’s “Tears of the Desert: A Memoir of Survival in Darfur” (Sudan). Her story began with a happy life, surrounded by family and neighbours in her village. With her father’s support and encouragement, she achieved well at school and, against village tradition, attended university.

After graduating as a medical doctor,

Halima Bashir returned her village.

She left the village to begin her first placement.

She found herself treating people injured in fights against the

Janjaweed (Arabic for “Devil on Horseback”) Militia.

Taken away by soldiers, she was screamed at

and warned to stop treating these people.

Soon after, she was transferred to a

more remote village. She was 29.

Again, she started treating gun shots injuries . Most of these patients were treated under the cover of night. Many of them were taught to treat their wounds, loaded with medical supplies and sent back to the forests.

One day, working at her clinic, the sounds of

panic and screaming alerted her to a crisis.

The Janjaweed had attacked a school. Young girls were carried into the clinic, their clothing torn, blood covering their little bodies and shock glazing their eyes.

The girls, some only eight years old, and their teachers, had been attacked and raped.

With tears in her eyes, she treated the girls and helped to care for them until they were strong enough to return home. A raped girl in Darfur carries the shame of the attack. Forever.

Her assistance and actions were not

appreciated by the Janjaweed Militia.

Soldiers returned.

They carried her off and left her, cut and bleeding in an isolated shed. That night, three men returned and repeatedly raped her. She was burned with their cigarettes and cut with their blades. Halima was raped until she lost consciousness, her body’s only defense against the brutality.

The men released her, knowing she would carry

the shame wherever she went.

Broken, Halima returned to her village,

to the love and protection of her family.

Life was slowly returning to her, when her father suggested she marry her cousin. He had been a rebel fighter and was forced to flee the country. He was living in England. On accepting, Halima smiled for the first time in a long time. They were married, with the groom in England and the bride in Darfur.

The sound of helicopter blades broke the calm one afternoon. Before long, the villagers realized that they were under attack. Many men stayed behind, while women and children raced for the forest. There, they huddled for hours and waited. As the sun set, they snuck back to find their houses burning and their men killed. Her father was dead.

Halima’s two brothers left to join the army.

The villagers huddled together in the few remaining huts, sharing food and mourning. The next time they heard helicopters, they didn’t hesitate. They ran. They hid. After every building was burning, the helicopters left. The village was gone.

Before the family left the village, Halima felt the need to check her patients one last time.

While she was treating burns and wounds, soldiers came. They asked Halima’s mother where she was. Her mother denied being her mother and the soldiers left. Halima’s mother and young sister fled, before Halima finished treating her patients.

Halima was alone.

Her mother left a message, telling Halima to take the family gold.

All of the gold was given to an agent, who arranged for Halima to be taken to London. Here, she met up with her husband and together, they fought to be recognized as refugees. Several times, they were advised that they would be sent back to Sudan. Each time, they fought to stay.

Halima began talking about her experiences, sharing the Darfur story with the West. She still speaks to large audiences, spreading the word about her country’s troubles.

In 2008, Halima, her husband and their son were granted asylum/refugee status. She does not know where her family is.

Halima Bashir was nominated as Beliefnet’s Most Inspiring Person of the Year in 2008.

In 2010, she was awarded the 2010 Raw in War (Reach All Women in WAR) award. She was not able to attend the ceremony, due to security problems.

Halima is waiting for the day: "when peace comes really to our homeland and when all refugees and all the people who are displaced all over the world go back home and live in peace."

Darfur, Sudan... some statistics:

The conflict in Darfur was in its 7^th year in 2010.

The United Nations estimates that 300,000 people have died.

About three million refugees were forced to flee

and take shelter in camps.

An unknown number of women and girls

have been abducted, raped and abused.

A generation of children have reached

school-age not knowing a home.

Most schools lack even the basic supplies, including chairs and desks.

Attacks on aid workers have drastically reduced operations.

Some parts of Darfur are inaccessible for aid workers.

Darfur is currently the largest humanitarian emergency in the world.

(There are no photos of Halima Bashir in this blogpost. If she cannot attend award ceremonies due to security risks, I'll respect that and not post her picture on my blog.)

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Most-Inspiring-2008/MIPY-Profile-Halima-Bashir.aspx

http://www.nobelwomensinitiative.org/news/article/halima-bashir-wins-the-annual-reach-all-women-in-war-award http://www.darfuraustralia.org/files/Darfur%20-%20The%20Statistics.pdf

http://humanrightsteam.org/educational-information/genocide-facts-darfur/

http://www.educationpartnership.org/about

blogs.mirror.co.uk/developing-world-stories/c.

http://poetryforpeace.wordpress.com/

http://uk.reuters.com/article/idUKTRE69550J20101006

http://www.rnw.nl/africa/article/three-killed-factional-clashes-darfur refugee camp pic

Australia in Flood

North East Australia is in flood.

And the media is flooded with the news.

It’s on every television station.

It’s on the radio. It’s on the Internet.

The amount of flooding is said to be an area

the size of Germany and France combined.

People are waking this morning, after sleeping on the floor. The scenes are not dissimilar to those in refugee camps. (The hearts of Australians break as they watch the news, but no one recognises the same need in foreign refugees.) The refugees will eat whatever food they are given. Water is becoming scarce. E coli has been found in the water of one Queensland town. Mosquitoes are predicted to cause havoc, spreading disease wherever they land. People have lost their homes... their furniture... their cars... their treasured possessions.

Some have lost their pets. Some have lost their families.

And still, they show it on the news.

They show the same footage again and again.

And again.

I think, though, that the thing which most irritates me, is their interviews. The media are interviewing people suffering terrible losses. Brave Aussie men struggle through tight throats and teary eyes to keep from crying. All around them, their lives float in the brown sludge of flood water and the media expects them to share their story. Even worse, the camera zooms in at the slightest sign of a watery eye.

I wonder at the money the media has spent. Hours of time have been spent in helicopters. Helicopters don’t come cheap! Every network has camera people, behind the scenes people, news people.

I’d like to see each of the networks donating the same amount of money spent on broadcasting the floods, to the cleanup.

There’s no doubting that the floods have caused unimaginable damage throughout the state. There’s looting, with people taking advantage of other’s misfortune. Electricity has been cut in Brisbane. Shops are closed. Industrial areas are under flood.

Food prices in Australia are set to soar after crops and grazing lands have been lost.

Queensland (Qld) boosts our economy – well, it did. Qld generates more than half of Australia’s coal exports... but at least 40 coal mines have closed because of the flooding. The floods caused world coal prices to hit a two-year high this week.

Queensland is responsible for almost half of our meat exports and a quarter of our food exports. It’s also a major exporter of sugar, cotton and wheat... until the floods washed the crops away.

Tourism dollars will be lost, in the busiest tourist time of the year.

I wonder about the animals... the echidnas, the blue-tongue lizards and kangaroos. Did they get out?

There are so many stories that aren’t told.

My home town also flooded. The river floods annually. The area is so used to flooding that floods come and go without fuss. The area didn’t receive media attention – the flood didn’t cause enough damage. One media report suggested that the locals in my home area are bred tough. I don’t think so. They are, instead, experienced. The people are too prepared for floods. Here’s classic proof: A local pub fills with flood water during each flood. Locals still make it in for a drink, they just pull up in their boats!

As the people go back home and the massive clean-up begins, my thoughts go to the people. I hope they have a chance to cry without a camera in their face. I hope they can seek help and discuss the horrors of what they saw and heard and experienced. I hope they can clean the stinking mud and filthy water from their homes, furniture and belongings.

I hope they can start over.

I hope time heals the loss of loved-ones.

I hope the media won’t forget them.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2011/01/05/3106548.htm

http://edition.cnn.com/2011/BUSINESS/01/12/australia.economics.flood.katrina/

http://www.smh.com.au/business/counting-the-cost-of-the-floods-20110112-19nqq.html

Great Excuse for Cake!

It’s Saturday,

and, like any other Summer Saturday,

people are out in their gardens.

I hear a whipper snipper and a lawn mower.

People are washing clothes and running off

to get their kids to their sporting venues.

The shops are filling with people

and the beaches are becoming crowded.

It’s a typical summer Saturday... except, it’s not.

It’s my birthday.

I’m 36.

I decided to google “36”...

36 is a square triangular number. It is the smallest square triangular number other than 1, and it is also the only triangular number whose square root is also a triangular number.

It is also a 13-gonal number.

36 is cool!

I know I’ll have a great year!

(Even if I don’t know what a 13-gonal number is! I did try to understand it, but gave up! You try - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Polygonal_number )

And then…

I stumble across this: The sum of the integers from 1 to 36 is 666 (the number of the devil).

Oops! Maybe I won’t have such a great year!

I figure, if I eat 36 berries and 36 pieces

of white chocolate, which have been folded into a

baked cheesecake, … I’ll have a good year.

If I get 36 hugs and kisses

from my nieces and nephews, … I’ll have a good year.

If I take 36 photos and swim in the river

for at least 36 minutes, … I’ll have a good year.

If I drink 36 glasses of wine, … Nah, Better not.

Happy Birthday!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/36_(number)

A Brighter Future

Dump kids.

I don’t mean “dropping kids off” somewhere and leaving them there...

I mean... kids, living in the dumps.

Kids... walking across mountains of rubbish,

scrounging through stinking piles of trash.

Kids... looking for something to sell.

Kids... who don’t wash their hands before eating,

because there’s no clean water.

Kids... who wear worn-down rubber thongs

as they step over broken glass and sharp metal.

Kids... who sleep under pieces of tin,

lying on piles of rubbish.

Dump kids.

While it’s hard for me to imagine,

it’s impossible for those kids to imagine anything else.

Cambodia is a country which has suffered more than its share of difficulties. In my life-time, most of the Cambodian population was killed and the country has had to start over.

Many children in Cambodia live in horrible conditions.

Many, are dump kids.

Some statistics:

Just over 50% of Cambodia’s children will reach Year 5.

Malnutrition rates in Cambodia are some of the highest in South East Asia.

Over 70% of town people live in slums.

Enter Scott Neeson. Born in Scotland, growing up in Australia and living in LA, where he took the movie world by storm, Scott felt as though there was something missing. He packed a bag and took off on what was to be a trip through parts of Asia. Cambodia had such a strong impact on him that he packed up his life of luxury and settled in the nation.

He developed the Cambodia Children’s Fund (CCF) and set out to improve the life of the dump kids.

Scott’s earliest attempts to help the children failed.

Parents withdrew their children from school.

They preferred the children to be working on the dumps and bringing money home for the family. Gifts presented to the children were usually sold.

The CCF realised that simply moving the children to a new location would not solve the problems, which are deeply buried in the lives of Cambodians.

The organisation recognises the importance of family, and now builds on helping the family and community to care for the child. They provide healthcare, education, job training and leadership development. The organisation is teaching the younger generation to look after themselves, to help themselves to climb out from the poverty-stricken lives they were born into.

Hopefully, today’s dump kids will be

future leaders and care takers of Cambodia.

Cambodia’s Children’s Fund started out by helping 45 children. Seven years later, more than 700 children are cared for. The children’s communities and families are also assisted.

In Scott’s words: “My greatest triumph is seeing the metamorphosis of destitute and neglected children into wonderfully caring, and cared for, kids. It’s an endless source of surprise that they can adjust so quickly.”

Scott is taking hundreds of children off the dumps.

He is cleaning them up and giving them options.

He is giving them a chance.

When I see children stepping across piles of rubbish,

fingers searching through the stinking mess

for something to sell.... I feel saddened.

When I see their smiling faces as they rush to greet Scott Neeson, I recognise the joy of childhood. I sense the hope of a brighter future. I can imagine these children growing into caring and broad-minded adults. Cambodia’s history is shocking.... sad... With Scott’s help, Cambodia’s future is looking bright.

http://www.worldvisionreport.org/Stories/Week-of-June-1-2008/Scott-Neeson

http://www.cambodianchildrensfund.org/news.html

http://blogs.yogajournal.com/cambodia/2009/02/

http://khmernz.blogspot.com/2007_12_13_archive.html

Stung Meanchey and Choeug Ek Dumps

As far as I can tell, Cambodia’s Stung Meanchey Dump was closed in July 2009. No children are living on it. Officially.

Good thing. Stung Meanchey Dump was also called Smokey Mountain. The 30 metre high piles of rubbish were constantly alight. The mountain was a fuming, burning mountain. The smell was putrid, a toxic blend of human excrement, sulphur and rotting flesh. Plastic objects were always burning and the smoke was thick. Scattered through the rubbish were used needles (many dumped by local hospitals). The needles were contaminated with all sorts of horrid diseases. Remember, the kids only wore thin thongs, if they wore shoes at all. (Syringes are a great find, though! The plastic inside them can be sold for a cent.) Stung Meanchey dump was used by hospitals and was the dumping ground for body parts and aborted foetuses.

Huge trucks would thunder through the dump, adding to the huge piles of rubbish. People living and working in the dump would rush to the trucks, desperate to search the new piles for anything that might be sold. Children would fight for access to the rubbish, hoping to find something they could sell. Scott Neeson (Cambodia Children’s Fund) has reported how each year; children would be run over and killed by the trucks. Their bodies would be left to rot amongst the other rubbish.

Unwashed children provide a feast for the millions of flies.

So, when the dump closed, what happened to the people living on it? What happened to the children struggling to make a dollar a day by scavenging anything they could sell?

They moved.

Choeung Ek Dump, just outside Phnom Penh, Cambodia is their new home. Choeung Ek Dump is Stung Meanchey Dump, just by another name. But this one’s “better”. Officials promised to bury the waste every second day and promised that no scavengers would live at the dump. They assumed the dump scavengers would join the countless street scavengers living in Phnom Penh. The new dump is closed to the public. Closed? Maybe… “hidden” is a better word.

The kids are still there…

There’s a report of one girl, paid a dollar a day by a westerner. She was asked to collect glass for him. He needed glass to stick into the top of his home walls, to keep everyone out. Instead of using his Western influence and power for good, he encourages the scavenging, abusing the needs of the dump kids.

Other foreigners living in Cambodia tell sad stories and break the hearts of well-meaning tourists. The tourists hand over money. But, the money never gets to the children. These foreigners have found an easy way to make some cash.

Then, there’s the worst men... the ones who takes the young children away from the dump.

...And put them into the sex trade.

Or use them for themselves.

In July 2010, David Fletcher was caught after fleeing to Thailand. He had been running an unofficial charity, providing food for children at Stung Meanchey Dump (the dump with no children “officially” living there). His charitable actions were a blanket to hide his inappropriate treatment of the young girls.

It’s heartbreaking.

Anyone want to go for a picnic lunch? I’m thinking of taking some food and sitting in the middle of my local dump. Any takers?

Phnom Phen’s Children’s Charities:

http://www.charity-charities.org/Children/Cambodia_3.html

This site lists many charities working to improve the lives of children living in Cambodia, especially Phnom Penh.

Welcoming 2011

2011 - Happy New Year

I feel almost like I am writing my first blog - ever!

I'm a little scared... a little tentative.

What should I write? I thought about writing about New Year celebrations around the year, but was staggered at the number of places celebrating their New Year in January. By the time I'd covered the twelve months it would be 2012! So, New Year's Resolutions... I've never been a resolution person. Eat less (will have to avoid Aldi's melting moments!) Exercise more (so boring and predictable!) Something radical then... my mind leaps to countless adventures I could take - but then I'm reined back in by the responsibilities of mortgages, bills and general life faced by people in their 30's.

How about... spend more time with the people who are important to me... compliment people, whenever I see the opportunity... and... smile - often, readily, with my eyes...

Here's my adaptation of someone else's resolutions (Maybe, I should resolve to write my own poetry!)

My New Year's Resolutions I will not throw the cat out the window Or put a frog in my sister's bed I will not tie my brother-in-laws's shoelaces together Nor fall from the roof of my shed I shall remember my mum’s next birthday And tidy my house once a week I'll not moan at the mailman (Ugh! It’s bills again!) Nor give my neighbour more of my cheek. I will not pick my nose if I can help it I shall fold up my clothes, brush my hair, I will say please and thank you (even when I don't mean it) And never spit or shout or even swear. I shall write each day in my diary Try my hardest to be helpful at work I shall help old ladies cross roads (even if they don't want to) And when others are rude I'll stay cool. I'll go to bed with the owls and be up with the larks And close every door behind me I shall squeeze from the bottom of every toothpaste tube And stay where trouble can't find me. I shall start again, turn over a new leaf, leave my bad old ways forever shall I start them this year, or next year shall I sometime, or .....?

Adapted from a poem written by Robert Fisher

http://www.newyearfestival.com/new-year-poems

Cheers for the Beers, Don Ritchie!

One night, in the back of taxi, a friend admitted that he was thinking about suicide. He told me it was black and dark and that he was ready to give up. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t raise his voice... but, in the back of the taxi – he reached out to me.

We talked. We hugged.

We cried. We held each other.

And... he’s still here today.

Every day, people struggle with life... with not giving up.

Years ago, I read an inspiring article about Don Ritchie.

He lives across the road from an Australian

tourist attraction.... The Gap.

The Gap is beautiful – steep cliffs plunging dramatically into an angry sea.

It’s a perfect suicide point.

(It’s the most commonly used suicide position in Australia.)

Don Ritchie lives where he can see people facing death. He is drawn out of his home by people who are giving up... standing on the edge of the cliff, waiting for the moment when they will step off and end their pain.

Statistics show that he has saved 160 people from jumping to their death....

Ritchie believes that he has

stopped more than 400 people.

He is known as the Angel of The Gap, saving people for over 45 years.

The “Angel” walks over to where people have neatly left piles of personal items, and offers cups of tea, beer or a chat. He offers a smile and lends an ear.

Many are saved. Others are lost.

Imagine trying to invite someone to your home only to have them jump.... the wind throwing their hat into the air, before you catch it. Surely, the memory would linger forever...

Don has this in his memory.

Don sometimes receives letters in the mail, presents and offers of thanks. People he has saved have sent their thanks in countless ways. A postcard bearing the words: ‘I am well’, must mean so

much to this amazing man.

Parents of suicide vicitims thank Don, gaining comfort in knowing that their child's last moments were spent in the kindness of Don.

I am not the only person in admiration of Don Ritchie.

He was awarded a Medal of the Order of Australia in 2006 for his services to suicide prevention.

While Don Ritchie wants us to know that life is worth living, he is reluctant to tell his story. It seems that every time it is told, people realise that The Gap is the ideal place for suicide and more people are lost.

As we celebrate Christmas and welcome

in the New Year,

thousands of people will be lost in dark thoughts.

At 84, Don Ritchie, can’t always be

the Angel of The Gap.

Maybe, we can help someone…

Sometimes, just being there is enough…. Sometimes, listening is enough… Sometimes, a hug is enough… Sometimes, people reach out to us. When they do, make sure you are ready to be there for them.

Suicide is the leading cause of death for Australians under the age of 44.

(Lifeline provides mental health and suicide prevention support and is busiest around Christmas and New Year. Between midnight on Christmas Day and and midnight on January 2, 2010, the service received 9948 calls, a 10 per cent increase on last year.)

http://www.smh.com.au/national/an-angel-walking-among-us-at-the-gap-20090731-e4f2.html

http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/tragedy-amid-the-beauty-at-the-gap-20100323-qtxa.html

http://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http://www.medicalobserver.com.au/

http://www.google.com.au/imgres?imgurl=http://29.media.tumblr.com

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2010/12/23/3100513.htm

www.lifeline.org.au/