Live cattle trade cruelty in Indonesia

I am still reeling after watching Four Corners on ABC last night - quality journalism at its best, but which I had to stop watching halfway through, as it showed such graphic and horrific pictures of Australian cattle being tortured in Indonesian abattoirs.

I come from a farm, and grew up watching my dad slaughter our sheep by slitting their throats quickly and humanely. The sheep never knew what was coming and it was all over in seconds. My dad, who is now retired, did not like having to kill animals, but it is part and parcel of being a farmer. At least we knew where the meat on our plates came from and the animal had died in a humane way.

Often, dad would have to kill an injured animal to put it out of its suffering, or if a sheepdog had gone bad and started tormenting sheep.

Like most Aussie farmers, at least those who have largescale commercial farms, we would have sent sheep off to the Middle East or other Muslim countries as part of the live animal trade, where they would be slaughtered according to Muslim beliefs, in a halal manner.

I don't know much about what this entails. I think the animal is bled to death. But surely whatever practices a halal death involve, it should not mean the death has is prolonged nor that the animal is tormented and treated badly in its final moments.

People say sheep are stupid, but that's just not true and I suspect the same applies to cattle. One farmer on last night's report said Brahmain cattle are very trusting of humans who treat them well, but quickly learn to be wary if the opposite is the case.

I've had pet sheep act similarly to pet dogs. When my son was a baby, two of my pet sheep would follow us down the road with our dog when I took my son for a walk in his pram. It was a somewhat comical look and very cute. They would come when I called their names, and loved to be patted and fussed over. I lost them when they got older - our neighbours had their sheep yards close to our house and were yarding a mob of sheep to be trucked out. I hope my sheep joined a mob in a nearby paddock and not those in the yards.

It is disturbing to think some of our animals may have suffered horribly in their deaths.  A previous expose apparently temporarily stopped the trade to the Middle East and now Agriculture Minister Senator Ludwig has quickly announced a halt to the 11 abattoirs mentioned in last night's report.  Thank goodness for that, and thank goodness for quality journalism and the individuals and groups who went out on a limb to expose these horrific practices to the public.

Indonesia must lift its game and improve the way livestock to be slaughtered are treated. Nothing less is acceptable and Australian farmers must bear the costs until this happens.

Aboriginal Anzacs

Last view: This island off Albany, Western Australia, may well have been the last view of Australia for the many Anzacs who sailed from the city bound for Turkey during WWI.

This year, I'm hoping for more from Anzac Day.

Last year the kids and I got up way before the sun, as we and many other Kiwis and Aussies do every year on April 25, to commemorate what may seem a rather strange day to other nationalities: the landing and consequent massive slaughter of our troops at Gallipoli, in Turkey, in 1915 as part of WWI.

It's a day that needs to be accompanied by a handbag overflowing with tissues - I invariably fail my resolution not to cry. How impossible that is, when listening to the haunting sounds of the Last Post and the following minute's silence,  the patriotic singing of our entwined nations' national anthems, seeing the lowered flags raised, the soldiers' ranks being slowly overtaken with children bearing the medals of their grandfathers. And over it all, the ever-present images of our many doomed young men sent by foolish British commanders to their almost-certain deaths at the hands of "Johnny Turk", who lined Gallipoli's cliffs overlooking Suvla Bay to equally bravely defend his nation from the Allies below.

It's a day when our nations remember all those who served, gave their lives or were injured in war on our behalf. Lest we forget.

Now that's all well and good. However, last year's service locally - and I suspect this was widely mirrored in other places around Australia - was embarrassing for a particular reason: we had a fantastic contribution from the city's Maori inhabitants; this is not that surprising considering that this place is somewhat cheekily  regarded as the "Kiwi capital of Australia", but it served to highlight the lack of recognition/participation of Australia's own indigenous peoples.

Once again, Aboriginal and Torres Strait people were sidelined. Why? It is a question that was burning in my head throughout last year's Anzac Day service, and one I wish I had have done something about.  Maybe our indigenous soldiers don't want to be singled out for attention over their comrades, but when NZ's indigenous people go to the trouble to pay their respects as part of the ceremony, surely we could match their contribution with some sort of acknowledgement to or from Aboriginal Australians, even if it's a simple Welcome to Country. Anything less is just embarrassing. And it was just that during last year's service. And sadly, I could have contacted the Returned and Services League, local indigenous groups or written in the media to try to get what I consider to be an omission rectified, or at the very least I could have asked why there was no matching participation/acknowledgement from/by local indigenous groups. But I didn't.

More fool me. Now this year all I can do is cross my fingers and hope for the best, because really it's probably too close to the day to do anything about it. I vow that if my hopes aren't realised this year, I'm going to speak out loudly in time for next year's service. I vow this on behalf of people like my uncle Ted - a close family friend who happens to be of Aboriginal descent and a Vietnam vet - who deserve to be better recognised.

In the not-so-distant past many of our brothers fought in our nation's armed forces but on their return home were not considered fit to be citizens of Australia, to keep their light-skinned children, to be able to enjoy a beer, nor to walk freely in our towns.

I suspect many non-indigenous Australians tend to sweep these facts under the carpet because we are secretly ashamed of our history of injustice towards the first Australians.
Yes, we have a shameful past in this regard and yes, there are still many steps to take towards a fairer future, but they are steps we are well able to walk together. It's time to make a future of which we can all be proud.

This year I am particularly remembering and honouring our Aboriginal Anzacs.  I hope you will join me.

The flag of Aboriginal Australians.

Bloody St Paddy

March 17.
I once loved a man so much I missed him every day for more than ten years. Then one day I didn't think of him, and when I realised, I stopped and said his name to myself, George, George, George, like a talisman.

We were only together, properly, for a week. Seven short days. They were the happiest of my life, blissful. Nothing compares. We drove the long way to the city, through farmland, past inlets and through the tall trees, listening to Paul Kelly in my clapped out yellow Corolla. The last night we made it to Mandurah and I made him stop, the thought of arriving too much to bear just yet. We made love in our tent before watching fireworks over the fairground.
Later there were fireworks by the city foreshore, and his arms around me in the darkness.
But I had uni and he had to leave for Ireland, and the farm. We'd known each other a long time, flirting from a distance, too young and otherwise involved to make the leap earlier. Too much distance, maybe?

It all went wrong. Of course it did. How could it not, when I lied by omission then stupidly told the truth in an email. You don't want the details, they aren't at all romantic, just messy.  I wanted him not to care, to love me so much it, the issue, didn't matter, he had to have me. I backtracked so quickly when I heard the tone of his voice he didn't know what the hell was happening, how could he? I didn't give him pause for breath to reject me, I got in first. Stupid stupid girl...

I still see his eyes, warm and brown and laughing at me. He never said he loved me but surely he did. Those eyes had said it every time I looked. I just didn't give him the time, the chance, to say it in more than actions. I blurted it out at him because I couldn't keep it in one second longer. And he had come for me, I just didn't realise it.

Now I'm married to someone else; at the time I didn't care who, I just dove into a series of affairs with Mr Second-Bests and took the best of the lot. Don't get me wrong, I love him too, just in a mild, calmer - probably healthier - way.

I still miss my Irishman. I think maybe I always will.

The most untecho-savvy person ever?

Hi and welcome to my blog - is there any one out there? If there isn't well, I'm ok with that. I love to write and I'd be doing the same thing on my desktop anyway. At least this way there's a better chance of connecting with someone, somewhere, sometime.

Look, I'm one of those Gen Xers who just about missed the computer boat altogether. I still haven't figured out how to get songs onto my Ipod my hubby gave me for Christmas (and he's just as bad) and I know there's a way to link my Ipad to the net I just need my mate Tim to come to do it for me, and well, blogging is a leap into the unknown for me. It just may be a complete dud - or not. All I know is words are my thing.

You see, I've just  stopped working fulltime, to spend more time looking after my family and me. They say working mothers can have it all. That's crap. All I  really  had was exhaustion. But I love to work, I loved my job - it was more like fun than anything else. And of course the money helps too.

But with hubby working long hours and often away, the rest of us were grumpy and tired. Now is the time for us to recover and catch up on all those things for which we didn't have time. This is time for me to reconnect with the kids, to write whatever I want to write, when I want. To spend all day reading if I want, while the wee ones are at school. Or to Google old boyfriends - yes, the former love of my life is now jowly and grey - do I look so battered these many years on? I think not, but then I thought I was 13kg lighter than the scales tell me I am. How we self-delude! How much time I've wasted on regrets. It's time to move on, towards better times.

Let's see what the future holds. Come along for the ride if you want. Just don't expect any pretty graphics!