Portraits in the Attic

I am Australian. Like most others, my nationality is felt instinctively. It is not overt. From time to time I do feel it rising to the surface as a lump in the throat - particularly in response to events that occur while I am away, which is most of the time. Although I hesitate to admit as much, these emotions must be an ingrained part of my identity in that they are always drifting in and out of my awareness in some form or other. It goes way beyond ethnicity. Australia is both my actual and adopted country after all.

This break from cover is typically triggered by a lone photograph posted on social media, poignant messages from family and friends, the echoes of a string quartet by Peter Sculthorpe or the jangled rhymes of Australian Crawl borne on the breeze, bizarre current affairs, news referring to iconic personalities. Even the occasional sporting event.

When the firestorms were ravaging millions of acres of bush and destroying so much native flora and fauna earlier this year I felt a profound sense of loss, scrambled with an admiration for the ways in which people were supporting each other against the ferocious vengeance of nature spurned. In times like these, I feel a strong sense of awe and indomitable pride. In essence, it is who we are and aspire to be. It is the story of mateship we tell ourselves throughout our history.

Or was. Some myths soured long ago - scrubbed clean by undeniable whispers. Now the dominant narrative of Australian identity is also shifting. And today the family pictures in the attic, fading and covered with dust, bear little resemblance to the imperious narcissists stalking the land - posing as benefactors and saviours even as they display their naked ignorance.

Today I am at home in the far northeast of Thailand. This place is where I have chosen to die. But I am among only a few of the people I love. Others are unreachable now. Self-isolation in the face of a global pandemic has become both prudent yet another prison of our warped imaginations.

As I observe the belated and confused responses of the people in power to COVID-19, I am drawn to a simple yet inevitable conclusion. Those in whom we must now put our trust are totally out of their depth. Blind ignorance, incompetence, and a haughty refusal to learn from others guide their every action. In the circumstances about to overwhelm the healthcare system, prayer meetings are not as valid as rapid, informed, action. But the self-righteous are too busy making their entreaties to their gods to notice what a monster their dogma has created.

Over the past decade, Australians have been trained to fear each other. We are not alone. A similar doctrine has taken root wherever extreme right-wing populism is preached - from Brazil and India to Austria, Turkey and the US. Today, in the face of an unprecedented threat to humanity, we are told not to worry by the same people who taught us to be afraid of Islam, refugees, the destitute, the poor and the unemployed, the indigenous, the workers, and the intelligentsia. They assure us that they know what is best for us; that their expertise is far greater than that of scientists; that they are supreme economic managers; and that they have their finger on the pulse of the nation and the world. These are all lies.

The most barefaced of these lies concern the nature of the reality we have created. There is no sign that Australia's future will be a prosperous one within the context of an empathic society. History is not an accurate gauge. And with the economy losing ground, the Reserve Bank out of ammunition, private wealth being hoarded, household debt going through the roof, and a retail recession in full swing, all the signs point to a lengthy depression. Nor are there any signs suggesting we actually know what we are doing or where we are heading. In fact, we do not have a clue.

Directionless and leaderless, except in our growing resistance to official leadership, fearful and increasingly intolerant, we are like a cork in an increasingly threatening surf. While the portraits in the attic are of Captain Cook, the Anzac legend, Don Bradman, the drover, and the jolly swagman, our contemporary replacements are twisted avatars, fabricated from surveillance, bullying, offshore detention, climate change denial, fossil fuel lobbying, secret trials, corporate corruption, social divisions, rorts and injustices, policy failures, and one political scandal after another. All of these, and more, are eroding the soul of what it means to be Australian.

So, although we are left to take care of ourselves, we are in no fit condition to do so. With a federal government in command only of insincere platitudes, a relentless cycle of desire and consumption wreaking anxiety and materialistic despair, a climate getting hotter with every season, and trust evaporating with each lie told, we are held in a limbo between a bunch of self-centered bigots and conformists who still believe those pictures in the attic are truly illustrative of modern-day Australia.

How lucky have we become, this lucky country of ours.