Posted on

Speech at Book Launch: More Precious Than Birds

Book Launch: More Precious Than Birds
Author: Chadia Elhage
Date: 7 May 2023

Mabrouk Chadia.

Our friendship goes back to 1989 in Melbourne, when you first arrived in Australia.

Your fearless trilingual prose and poetry made heads turn. But beyond your intellect, I have grown to admire your compassionate heart.

Your short stories pick at a scab that yearns to heal. Our human scabs ooze a putrid pus, but a cedar tree scab oozes a precious liquid amber.

Perhaps all these scabs have another name: Trauma.

If you Google the most over-used word this decade, you will find Trauma.

But not in the 1970’s and 1980’s when this book is set.

The Lebanese who fled the war and arrived in Australia were given various labels and called all sorts of names – but not Trauma.

And because they arrived under the ‘Lebanon Concession’ program, not the refugee program, they became the sole responsibility of their sponsoring relatives.

As a social worker at that time, trauma and mental health were still taboo in our community. If I asked about PTSD, my clients were almost offended: shoo bti’sud?Anna majnoun! (what are you implying? Am I deranged?)

But if you apply today’s broader definition of Trauma to those Lebanese survivors, many would have ticked the boxes for complex PTSD.

Chadia’s short stories and personal memories testify to this:
Page 45: The state of Lebanon was fragmented into pieces;
Page 47: Mass displacement of half a million Lebanese;
Page 48: Who sold and who brought the souls of the martyrs?
Page 49: The ghosts multiplied around us;
Page 86: Each time she heard a missile, she cowered and covered both ears with her palms … children would wake up terrified

Those children are now adults. Some may be in this room right now, with callouses covering their own untold true stories.

Rich in metaphors, Chadia refers to this callous on page 56:
Being in a foreign land, wrapped him in a veil alien to him, leading to his … severing the umbilical cord.

For the last 5 years, I have been interviewing survivors of the Beirut bunkers for a new book: how did they survive without trauma therapy?

Many recount what still triggers their flashbacks today, more than 40 years later:
the smell of kerosene, the sound of a kettle whistling, the sight of canned food, the flash of lightning, cars backfiring, electricity blackouts.

Many have developed chronic stomach cramps because eating was futile without a toilet, and this morphed into eating disorders such as anorexia in later life.

In the 1980’s, I remember trying to be romantic with my wife by lighting candles, and she would say with her hand on her palpitating heart: dakheelak la! Bi-zakarooni bi iyam al harab! (I beg you – no! they remind me of the war years!)

Others lament the good old days when people prayed together and shared what they have: a sense of we not me.

But there is a twist to this story and Chadia’s resilience is a living testimony to this:
Perhaps we as social workers and therapists were asking the wrong questions.

Instead of asking survivors about their trauma and suggesting that they ‘let it out’, perhaps the right question was a humble question:

Instead of ‘please let me teach you some strategies to survive trauma’, perhaps we should now be asking ‘please teach us so we can learn – how did you survive all those years?’

And not just survived, but many of you actually thrived.

In one interview, I was told: ‘what’s the point of asking me to sit on a couch to talk, talk, talk? I don’t want to talk about it. That’s not my way.’

So how did some survivors of trauma, like those in Chadia’s stories, live to tell their tale?

Many of you would know more than anyone: just like the triggers of trauma may be multi-sensory, so is the healing: the fresh aroma of home-made coffee, the fragrance of a favourite meal, music from happier memories, flicking through old photo albums, praying rosaries together, telling jokes, heartfelt affection, reciting poetry.

These are sensory experiences that take you back to the bosom of safety.

Chadia writes as she speaks: rich with similes that connect events with nature:
Just from Page 20: like a vanishing dream … like dust … like a cloud … like a lonely arrow.

Chadia experienced this trauma first hand. But her callous oozes liquid amber that is indeed more precious than golden ink on pages.

More precious than birds in flight.

Posted on

New Book ‘The Bunker Diary’ coming soon

Is it possible to survive a war bunker unscathed?

Thousands of ‘quasi refugee’ children from Lebanon landed in Australia in the eighties. Thanks to the government of the day and the sponsor families, a whole generation was given a fresh start.

But there was unfinished business.

While half the heart was full of hope, the other half was haemorrhaging from scars, phobias and nightmares.

But there was no time for a PTSD diagnosis.

As a social worker in the middle of this ‘wave’, I was ill-prepared to recognise then what is obvious now: untreated trauma cannot be buried with the dead. It torments like a heavy passenger in the vehicle of life, and sometimes usurps the driver’s seat.

The Bunker Diary is the culmination of dozens of testimonials from this generation who had their innocence robbed. The story weaves together the threads of their underground bunker experience, set near Beirut’s Green Line that became the red line between religion.

Lightning, candles, canned food, sea ports, crashing waves, electricity blackouts and antennas are constant triggers for haunting flashbacks. Young survivors develop chronic stomach cramps because eating is futile without a toilet, and this mutates into eating disorders in adult life. A parent being asked ‘what were you like at my age?’ can unhinge a luggage full of traumas.

This is the long-overdue and untold story of a chapter that shaped a generation, encouraging survivors to finally reconcile with the demons of their past to avert trans-generational trauma in the future.

Joseph Wakim was born in Lebanon, worked with these ‘refugees’ as a social worker in the 1980’s, before becoming an award-wining human rights advocate. After a 40-year silence about his own childhood ‘demons’, he was finally forced to face his PTSD, enabling searing insights from a lived experience.

Posted on

An eye for an eye makes us all blind

There were two brothers, but the older brother considered himself more loved by his father. So he tormented his younger brother at every opportunity, especially when his father was not watching.

The younger brother decided to talk to his father about the bullying.
‘He comes into my room, takes my things and …’
‘Just ignore him’, his father interjected. ‘He’ll grow out of it’.

But the behaviour persisted.

Weeks later, the younger brother again sought help from his father.

‘I don’t want to take sides …’
‘What sides?’
‘Well maybe you provoke him’, shrugged his father.

Months later, the younger brother started yelling at his older brother, hoping that by raising his voice and slamming doors, his father will finally fix the problem. But the problem persisted.

So the exasperated younger brother again complained to his father.
‘Try and make peace. If I get involved, things may get worse.’
‘How much worse?’ the younger brother exclaimed. ‘Can’t you see he broke my tooth! What if I did the same to him …’
‘No, no. As I said, just sit down together and don’t get up until you both shake hands.’
But the older brother laughed at the idea of having a talk. ‘You can’t make me do anything!’
‘I’m not making you, I’m asking you,’ the younger brother pleaded between his broken teeth.
‘I’ve only got one thing to say to you,’ grinned the older brother. ‘You’re just jealous.’
‘Of what?’
‘The older brother put up his middle finger. ‘My father is wrapped around my finger, and you know it’.

A year later, the problem persisted. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when the younger brother sustained a black eye.

‘Dad! Look at this!’ he pointed to his bruised eye.
‘Did he really do that?’ asked the father.
‘No, I did it myself!’ the younger brother snapped sarcastically.
‘Look, it’s his birthday today. Don’t upset him. Today is a special day.’
The younger brother sighed. ‘Today is like every other day. Another day, another bruise. Why do you keep defending him? Why don’t you teach him a lesson?’
‘Look,’ suggested his father, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘After today, sleep in the spare bedroom, and just keep your distance.’
‘But I love my room …’
‘Do you want to fix this problem?’ his father waved his finger at him. ‘Show some gratitude. At least I’m trying!’
‘If I go to the smaller room, I’m going to avoid him like he doesn’t exist,’ the younger brother declared. ‘And you better stop him if he comes anywhere near me’.

Despite all these promises, nothing changed.

The younger brother noticed that his old bedroom was now occupied by his older brother’s belongings.
‘Hey! What are you doing in my room?’
‘It’s not your room. You left it. It’s my room now.’
‘But you already have your own room.’
‘And I have this one for my things.’

The younger brother stood in the doorway. ‘I didn’t choose to leave. Dad made me do it.’
‘For me. Because he loves me, not you’.

Something snapped. The younger brother snapped his brother’s arm and the screaming echoed throughout the house. Their father came charging in and sheltered his injured son.

‘You will pay for this!’ the father yelled at the younger son. ‘You could have killed him!’
‘He’s been trying to kill me!’ retorted the younger son.
‘Where the hell did you learn to be so … violent? Who taught you this disgusting language?’
The younger brother teared up and pointed to his father.
‘Me?’ his father exclaimed. ‘I never ever taught you to be violent…’
‘Yes you did!’ he insisted. ‘You taught me that this is only language that gets your attention. He screams and you come running. This is not my language. It’s yours.’
‘What?’ his father was perplexed. ‘I taught you to talk, to walk away, to …’
‘To ignore him’, the son continued, rolling his eyes, ‘to make agreements, to shake hands, to offer my room. I did all those things you suggested … but nothing changed. You just kept your distance so I had to fend for myself.’
‘You didn’t try hard enough!’ the father retorted.
‘You didn’t try at all!’ the son interjected.

‘How dare you … God help you, I’m going to break you!’ threatened the father.

‘You can’t’, shrugged the younger brother. ‘I’m already broken.’

Posted on

Shedding new light on the ancient Southern Cross

Shedding new light on the ancient Southern Cross

Spotting celestial signs of Jesus’ scars in the Southern Cross
Published in Sunday Age / Sydney Morning Herald on 6 January 2019

https://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life-and-relationships/faith-spotting-celestial-signs-of-jesus-scars-in-the-southern-cross-20190103-p50ph2.html

Why are the iconic five stars on our national flag named the Southern Cross rather than kite or diamond?

It was Italian explorer Andrea Corsali who first coined ‘this cross’ as ‘so fair and beautiful’ in 1515 while on a Portugese voyage to the Indian Ocean.

But why evoke the crucifixion and therefore Christ when observing configurations of constellations?

This question led me to ponder the significance of the five stars, especially the faintest fifth star Epsilon Crucis, at the ‘heart’ of the cross, which our indigenous Wardaman astronomers named Ginan. This is the same star that is excluded from the New Zealand flag.

The Southern Cross ‘asterism’ has legendary meaning in indigenous Australian cultures, representing a sting ray, an emu’s head and a possum. In colonial Australian cultures, it has been adopted on the national flag, in the Eureka Stockade, as a ‘badge of honour’ tattoo and as a symbol of resistance.

When viewed as the ‘crux’ (cross in Latin), these lights that pierce our night sky do indeed bear more than a resemblance to the lacerations that pierced the crucified Jesus. A nail for each hand, a nail driven into his feet, a crown of thorns on his head, and a lance through his side.

Chapter 19 in the gospel of John states that the Jewish leaders did not want the bodies left on crosses on the Sabbath, so the soldiers broke the legs of the crucified ones to hasten their deaths. ‘But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead … the soldiers pierced his side with a spear.’

Suddenly, the fifth star, and the word Cross, shed a different light.

The five stars match the five scars.

The enigma deepens when we consider that the estimated age of this constellation is between 10 and 20 million years. It is the smallest of the 88 known constellations, but perhaps the greatest in significance.

It now spells a searing reminder of the ‘big bang’ of love, long before the crucifixion was prophecised, long after we felt the ripples of this ‘supernova’. It heralds the new era (Anno Domini) that established our calendar years.

Due to the movement of the Earth’s axis, the Southern Cross has been invisible to the northern hemisphere since about 400 AD. Together with the two Pointers, it now navigates us to the South Celestial Pole. But together with the four gospels, it navigates us to the celestial sacrifice of the ‘lamb of God’.

If a star pointed the magis to the birth of Jesus, stars can point to the death.

Can we shrug off the scar-stars of the Southern Cross as a cosmic coincidence?

Posted on

The Pole and the Tree

THE POLE AND THE TREE, an allegory by Joseph Wakim

The lightning flashed across the skies like an X-ray of arteries from the heart. It ignited a snapshot of the silhouettes above the horizon.

No human dared walked the streets in this electric storm. Even umbrellas were unsafe.

The thunder echoed seconds after the burst of light.

It was so deafening that no human could hear the private conversation that was being conducted place on one tree-lined street.

Both were born as spotted gum trees.

One grew gloriously in the front garden of a double storey, brick-veneer home. Her branches spread gracefully to kiss the sun in order to provide shade for the fauna who sought shelter and safety there. Her trunk resembled a human stretching in a yawn, with its limbs arching and twisting.

The other had no limbs. He was carved into a perfect tube, stretching straight up like a power pole. In fact, he was a power pole. A short horizontal plank was bolted into his vertical axle, where the electric cables hung. He used to shed its bark in spots, like his neighbour. Now he was stripped bare for the world to see. This pole had no leaves, no seeds, no spots, and no-one to call him ‘home’. The humans treated him as dead, as a utility, to carry their telegraphs across the land.

This pole moaned in pain and the neighbouring tree could hear the crackling of the electricity sparks which humans called the ‘crown’.

To the tree, the crackling sounded like the gritting of teeth.

‘Why do you do that?’ asked the tree.

The pole did not answer. He could not answer in this excruciating pain. Another flash. Another thunder. Another crown. Another moan.

‘What is it, dear neighbour?’ the tree asked again.

‘Neighbour?’ the pole panted. ‘I am no neighbour. We are not the same!’

The tree already knew that. ‘But I can see you. I can hear you.’

‘But you can’t feel what I feel,’ the pole muttered. ‘They think I am dead.’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think?’ the pole muttered. ‘The humans who did all this to me.’

‘You mean they thought they killed you?’

‘I wish they did’, the pole continued. ‘I wish I was dead.’

‘Well you’re not,’ confirmed the tree. ‘I can hear you … panting.’

‘They think no sap means no life!’ the pole grumbled. ‘But there’s much more to us than sap.’

‘What did they do to you, dear neighbour?’

‘What did they do?’ the pole echoed. ‘What didn’t they do?’

Another thunderclap. Another cry in pain. The tree felt pity but did not know how to help.

‘I see they stripped you of your … arms’, the tree began.

‘Arms only?’ the pole mocked. ‘They stripped me of much more! They stripped me of my skin. They stripped me of my spots. They stripped me from my family roots. They stripped me from my neighbours. They stripped me bare.’

The tree sighed. ‘I’m so sorry, dear neighbour. But they cannot strip you of your dignity. You still have that.’

‘What dignity?’ scoffed the pole. ‘Can’t you see me naked up here, with electricity currents bolted all around me, running through my spine?’

‘I don’t understand,’ the tree shrugged and shook her branches. ‘Why would they do that to you?’

‘Not just me,’ replied the pole. ‘Open your eyes and see how many of us are tied together, for as far as the eye can see. We are slaves chained together, to carry their burden on our shoulders.’

‘What burden?’ asked he tree.

‘For their electricity, their telephones, their messages, their …’

Another bolt, another scream.

‘If I was dead, I would feel nothing!’ the pole shrieked with a trembling voice. ‘This is eternal punishment!’

The tree was saturated in the pouring rain but this did not blur her vision and her curiosity for the truth. ‘Punishment … for what? What did you do, dear neighbour?’

‘Do?’ the pole sneered. ‘How can we do anything? We were trees, just like you. What do you do?’

‘I … I grow, and give branches, and attract birds, and make beautiful …’
‘Stop it! Please stop reminding me of the life they took away from me!’

‘But you asked me …’

‘And now I’ve asked you to stop!’ demanded the pole.

‘So why the punishment?’ repeated the tree. ‘What possible crime could a tree commit?’

After a long pause, the pole exhaled and whispered, ‘Straight!’

‘Straight?’ repeated the tree. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘My crime is that I grew straight … straight up to the light. No twisting or turning. I cut right through the air and grew directly toward the one true light. Not their human lights that they switch off and on.’

‘So they stripped you bare and executed you like this … for being straight?’ concluded the tree.

‘Oh how I wish they could hear me now!’ the pole cried out. ‘I will talk so straight it will cut them!’

‘But you said that you carry their messages’, the tree reminded him. ‘Why can’t you carry your own message and send it.’

The pole shuddered. ‘Can’t you see I am dis-armed! They call me a power pole! What power do I have? The only power I feel is that electricity which burns at whatever is left of me.’

The tree sighed in sympathy. ‘I want to help you, dear neighbour.’

‘Help yourself!’ the pole replied. ‘Lean over here and take my advice.’

The tree swayed in the storm as close as she could muster. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Don’t grow straight. Learn from me. Twist and curl. Stretch and twirl. Arch and join hands with your neighbours. Just don’t grow straight. They will target you. They will strip you. They will crucify you … like me … like us … like all of us.’

Another flash of lightning and the crown around the head of the pole became a luminous blue.

He screamed. ‘It burns!’

‘Oh I can’t bear this any longer, ‘the tree declared, rain running off her gum leaves like tears. ‘How can I share your pain?’

The pole panted but did not reply.

‘Please talk to me, dear neighbour’, continued the tree, ‘let me help …’

‘I thirst,’ the pole whispered. ‘But it’s too dangerous.’

‘What is too dangerous?’

‘The rain always runs off my body,’ he explained. ‘I have no branches and no leaves to capture it.’

‘But what about the cables and the beam that holds them up there?’

‘They are not my body. They will never be part of my body. They are bolted to me, but they are not me.’

‘So how can I quench your thirst?’

‘There are cracks in my body that lead to my spine. The water runs down but never soaks in. My skin is parched with cracks. They are wounds from the electricity burns where the remains of my flesh have been torn open. Do you think you could fill your leaves with rain water, swing your branches and help me drink, through my cracks – just this once?’

‘Well I could try …’

‘But it’s dangerous,’ the pole warned. ‘You are made of wood and water. The electricity can run right through you.’

‘The same with you, right?’ asked the tree.

‘No. I have more than wood and water. I also have metal bolts and carry a much heavier burden of electricity. If the lightning strikes when you touch me with water, you could carry all my electricity on top of yours.’

‘And so what if I do?’

‘It could kill you. It could burn your roots and leaves.’

‘And then what?’

‘And then?’ the pole pondered. ‘Then you could become like me.’

The tree paused then surprised the pole. ‘And then what?’

The pole was shocked. ‘You would risk all this, all your beautiful life, for me?’

‘Well, what is a dear neighbour for?’

‘No!’ the pole realised the enormity of the sacrifice. ‘I am sorry I even said that. It’s wrong. It’s unfair. It’s cruel.’

‘And so is what happened to you, dear neighbour,’ snapped the tree.

‘So … you will risk everything, just to quench my thirst, once?’

‘Well, I could have grown straight and risked everything? But I was spared your fate. I did nothing right. You did nothing wrong. Right?’

‘But you are so … beautiful.’

‘You were a tree like me once, remember?’

‘But you have humans who love you, and care for you, and take shelter beneath you …’

‘Maybe we need just one tree to die so we could save the lives of others.’

‘How?’ asked the pole.

‘If something happens to me, it will be for all the world to see … how dangerous this all is. Maybe they will learn to stop stripping trees like you, and put their cables somewhere else.’

‘No!’ the pole was mortified at the offer. ‘Please don’t!’

‘You can’t stop me, dear neighbour,’ insisted the tree. ‘It’s my choice.’

The tree deliberately waited for the next flash of lightning. She swayed her boughs, filled her leaves with the pouring rain, and positioned herself next to the cracks in his skin. When she felt that lightning was imminent, she watered his skin and soothed his burns.

When the lightning struck, they screamed together. She lit up like a Christmas tree. Some of her branches became instantly charred and came crashing to the ground with a thud that shook the house.

The residents flicked on their lights to see the source of the noise. Then they had a black out and panic ensued.

There were flashes of camera photography as the residents were in awe of this spectacle. The tree was now on fire. It could soon become charcoal.

The pole now had a different thirst. He wanted to know where this profound self-sacrifices had come from.

He took his dear neighbour’s advice, in her honour, and did his best to pass on this story through his cables, as a telegraph to all the power poles, for as far as the eye could see.

‘Tell the trees of her sacrifice,’ he messaged in his own way. ‘If they follow her, we may stop the crucifixions!’

The crackling crowns were drowned out by the wailing sirens of fire trucks racing towards the burning tree. They were followed by news media, hot on the trail of a good story.

The picture of a tree embracing a pole sparked much speculation.

The question was not whether the tree and the pole could speak. The question was whether the humans would listen.

Posted on

Peter’s First Miracle

PETER’S FIRST MIRACLE: A meditation on Matthew 14, by Joseph Wakim

It was dusk. Jesus had just fed the multitudes with loaves and fishes. He asked his apostles for some time alone to grieve the beheading of his cousin John. He instructed them to take the boat and wait for him on the other side of the Sea of Galilee.

As night fell, Jesus prayed alone on the mountain while wild winds struck the sea. The apostles in their boats were being tossed about in the middle of the sea and could not reach the other side. They could not row forwards because it was contrary to the oncoming wind, and they could not row back because it was contrary to his instructions.
What if he was already on the other side and waiting for them?

The apostles had just witnessed another miracle and knew that he was supernatural. But this wild storm on this dark night did not bode well. They were languishing in the middle of the sea, languishing between the natural and the supernatural, languishing between faith and fear.

If he was the son of God, how could he abandon them like this? Did he not know that their lives were in peril and that they could all drown at sea?

Then, through the darkness the apostles saw what looked like a radiant Jesus walking towards them on the water. They were petrified and thought this was a ghost. Jesus knew exactly what they were feeling in their hearts and called out, ‘Yes it is I! Be not afraid!’

Peter, the most experienced fisherman among them, dropped the oars of the boat, and responded to Jesus, ‘If it is really you, call out my name! Tell me that I can walk on water, like you. Then I will obey!’

The other apostles could not believe that Peter was prepared to abandon them. He had surrendered the steering of the perilous boat and pledged to surrender his life to Jesus, here and now.

‘Come, Peter!’ beckoned Jesus, with an outstretched hand.

‘He called me by my name!’ pondered Peter. ‘It is the Lord and I will go to him now!’

Fixing his gaze on the outstretched hand of Jesus, Peter stripped off his outer garments and stepped off the boat, onto the stormy sea. The apostles looked on in astonishment at his courage and his unquestioning faith.
In the chaos they wondered – why not wait for Jesus to reach the boat? Why not row the boat to Jesus? Why was Peter taking this literal leap of faith to go to Jesus?

Peter took his first step, fixing his gaze on Jesus. He was now oblivious to the wild weather and to the waves that were as tall as he.
He took his second step, advancing closer to Jesus. Both his senses and his common sense were overridden by his rock solid faith. He hardly blinked as he could now almost see the saturated face of Jesus.
He took the third step, and could now see the smile on the face of Jesus. He could hear Jesus encouraging him, ‘You’re doing it Peter! This is walking by faith!’
Jesus opened his outstretched hand and Peter was exuberant. They were both glowing.

Peter took his fourth step. A wave washed over him like a slap in the face.
He blinked. His senses were alerted. He glanced down and could see his feet were floating on water. His skin could feel the water dripping off his body. His ears could hear the wild wind whistling all around him. His lips could taste the salty spray that surrounded him. He could smell his own fear welling up inside him as he came to his senses.
He was defying the natural laws, and his fear was now defying his faith.

He took his fifth step, but his right foot submerged under the water. He panicked and glanced up to find Jesus, who was now obscured by the waves. He wiped his eyes and called, ’Where have you gone, Lord? I can’t see you anymore!’
He took his sixth step, with his left foot, and it too sank into the water. His eyes were now fixed on his sinking feet. He was losing his balance and his bearings. He waved his arms and cried out, ’Lord! I am drowning! Save me!’
Peter had fallen knee-deep. Not only was his body sinking, but his heart was too. He lost his compass to Jesus and became disoriented. He could no longer see the boat, nor Jesus, nor any shore.

He took his seventh step, under water, only to sink deeper. Even his knees had disappeared. Another wave washed over him and he was now panicking about drowning. He saw his life flash past him. He felt that no one could hear his calls, as he could not hear his own voice over the roaring storm.
‘Lord, I can’t see your face! I can’t hear your voice! I can’t feel your hand! I can’t sense your presence!’ he despaired. ‘What have I done to deserve this, Lord?’

He took his eighth step, kicking frantically, deeper under water, and felt his body descending to his waist. Now everything was going dark.
With all the strength he could muster, he closed his eyes and cried out in his trembling voice, ‘Lord, save me!’
He felt a firm hand grasp his own. He opened his eyes and looked up. Through the water, he could see the radiant face of Jesus gazing down on him. Peter used both hands to raise himself up to embrace Jesus.
‘Lord, where did you go?’ Peter pleaded. ‘I was looking for you everywhere!’ His salty tears were washed away by the salty sea.

He took his ninth step, this time on top of the water, fixing his gaze firmly on the face of Jesus.
‘Peter’, replied Jesus, ‘where did you go? You took your eyes off my face, and looked down at your feet’. Now Peter dared not blink.
‘But I could not see you when the waves…’ began Peter to justify himself. Jesus shook his head and smiled, ‘But I could see you. When you called my name, did I not raise you up?’
Peter took his tenth and final step, with Jesus, this time onto the boat. The storm subsided and the wind became calm. The trembling apostles could no longer stand. They fell to their knees before Jesus and declared, ‘truly, you are the Son of God!’
Then Peter cried out, shivering and kissing the feet of Jesus, ‘Sorry Lord … I was … afraid…’
Jesus placed his hand on Peter’s head and said, ‘I know your heart. You doubted. Let your faith stand tall. It will drown your fear’.

At dawn, their boat reached the other side of the sea.

Their journey, and indeed ours, is a turbulent test of faith. We yearn for the hand, the voice and face of Jesus, especially in the stormy sea, and he may be obscured by crashing and cruel waves. But he is there, floating not sinking, waiting not forsaking, beckoning us by name, inviting us to the banquet on the other side, transcending all the laws of nature, which he himself created.

This was Peter’s first miracle, the stations of his first cross.
And more miracles are promised when we walk by faith, nor by sight.
Like Peter, we will greet Jesus without our outer garments, without our boat, without our kin. Alone, we will face the radiant light of love who is brighter than the lightning of any storm that passes on our way to the other side of the sea.

Posted on

Joseph Wakim on widowhood and manhood

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jul/29/it-took-the-death-of-my-wife-to-realise-how-much-i-missed-out-on-as-a-dad

29 July 2015

It took the death of my wife to realise how much I missed out on as a dad

When my wife died, men suggested I find a new wife, women offered to help. But in becoming a single parent to my three daughters, I found my best self

‘I took my hat off to so many women raising their children alone, many with admirable grace. Why can’t men do the same?’

When cancer claimed the life of my wife 12 years ago, leaving me staring into the eyes of our three young daughters, my gender prism had to change. Nurtured in a culture where boys’ and girls’ roles were clearly defined, I was grossly ill-prepared for my widowed fate.

I suffered survivor guilt, struggling to understand why bad things happen to good people, struggling to understand why my life was spared when my daughters surely needed their mother more than me.

Men suggested that I reach out for a new woman, for single parenting manuals, for cookbooks, for dating websites, for hired help, even for sleeping tablets and psychologists.

Women offered to “give me a break” and care for my children.

“Thank you, but no thank you. They’ve already been robbed of their mum. I can’t do this to them.”

Instead of outsourcing, I reached deep within. I took my hat off to so many women raising their children alone, adapting to their new reality, many with admirable grace. Their children seemed well adapted. Why can’t men do the same?

Whoever gave women the capacity to perform full parental roles must have given the same to men. This was a fork in the road. But there was no way I was going to avoid the painful path to get closer to my daughters, and inadvertently closer to myself.

So I began my emancipation. I used be minister of foreign affairs (garden, garbage, garage). Now my portfolio expanded to home affairs, ironically sometimes “foreign” to me. I burnt the wok, ruined “hand wash only” garments, and bought the wrong sanitary pads. I felt like I was now jogging on one leg, from home to car to shop and kept telling myself: “Just do it!”

Paradoxically, when I failed, when I felt weakest, I actually became my strongest. Something dormant within had awoken: the capacity to do anything and the plasticity of the brain to adapt.

Like Uncle Martin (from US sitcom My Favourite Martian), I raised my antenna to full length to tune in to the rhythms and language of my daughters. For every “but you don’t understand …,” I responded “then make me understand!”

Fast forward 12 years, and I realise that they made me understand my capacity to embrace full parenthood – not just fatherhood or motherhood.

I swung my metaphoric sledge hammer to the rusty shackles around my ankles that defined masculinity – shackles that were more than a gender prism. They were a gender prison.

Nine months ago, I penned a frivolous column on my emancipation, egging on my “fellow man” to embrace his inner self (not his feminine self). Today, my book What My Daughters Taught Me is born to tell the tale in all its gory glory.

Some women I know vow to pass this book to their husbands “in case anything should happen to me, and he needs to look after our children”. But why wait until a tragedy dictates a steep learning curve? Why not enjoy the full fruits of parenting today?

When we talk about the crisis of masculinity that defines many of our debates around domestic violence or marriage equality, we ought look beyond gender to the bigger picture: the crisis of personality.

Boys need to be raised in a culture that expands their social vocabulary, where emotions are expressed rather than suppressed.

In their book Man (Dis)connected: How Technology Has Sabotaged What it Means to be Male, Philip Zimbardo and Nikita D. Coulombe explore the “modern meltdown of manhood” which they attribute to absent fathers and the male addiction to screen gadgets. They argue that this trend towards “extreme escapism” has led to socially stunted males who glean fulfilment from the virtual world rather than the real one.

My children’s development wasn’t determined by the gender of their single parent, but by the quality of our love. Deep within, we’re soft-wired by nurture, not hard-wired by nature, to be affectionate, to tell bedtime stories, to help with school assignments, to hold our children’s hands when they are sleepless and sick.

Men need not be relegated to the one with the wallet and car keys. Their definition of manhood and strength need not be a stubborn word that will not be broken, and a similarly stubborn reluctance to say sorry.

On the contrary, such “strengths” are often the cracks of fear. True strength is the capacity to adapt, to flex rather than break in the face of a cyclone like cancer. True strength is the capacity to speak and listen to the many languages of silence, of touch, of facial expression.

When I was a social worker, many male clients would tell me, “I love my children, but it comes out all wrong!” Their fear and over-protectiveness comes out as anger and distrust.

Many females believe their father is a benchmark for their future partner, for better or worse. My daughters remind me of little things I have said or done that are etched in their memory but erased from mine. What they chose to internalise may be different to what we amplify or repeat.

While my choices resulted from circumstance, now I wish I’d made the choice to remove my shackles long before.

Joseph Wakim is the author of What My Daughters Taught Me, published by Allen & Unwin, RRP $32.99, on sale now.

Posted on

Joseph Wakim’s emotional journey

https://www.frasercoastchronicle.com.au/news/emotional-journey-book-review/2754941/
Emotional journey: Widowed father tells his story
30th Aug 2015 12:00 PM

John Grey Guy who created couriermail.com.au. Editor, geek, actor, playwright

THIS is not a how-to book about raising daughters – though there is much to be learned here. What My Daughters Taught Me is a deeply-felt, emotional family journey told by a single father.

Author Joe Wakim’s soulmate Nadia was killed by cancer in 2003, leaving him with three girls to raise.
With honesty, courage, imagination, self-deprecation and humour, Wakim tells of his efforts to be mother and father to the girls, while remaining their friend and keeping their family culture strong.

Fighting against gender and cultural stereotypes all the way, he deals with grief, community expectations and guilt, while encountering a daily slew of challenges which will be familiar to many parents.

He deals with the tyranny of the television (which he dubs “His Majesty”), the distraction of devices (“serial text offenders”), the dance lessons, the sanitary pad shopping experience, the medical dramas, the parties, the fashions and the formals, the first jobs and the driving lessons.

Nadia’s memory is always there with him, manifesting several times in Wakim’s occasionally filmic storytelling to help him sort through issues. These are moving moments, as are those when he recalls her last days.

The wonderful friendship that Wakim engenders with his daughters reaches a timely and mutually frank maturity when the girls begin dating.

Dad expresses his fears about other drivers at night, and strangers trying to spike their drinks. His middle daughter archly responds: “You think we’re that naive? I’ve raised you better than that, Joe Wakim.”

Posted on

The Koranic verses are not negotiable

http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/opinion/the-koranic-verses-are-non-negotiable/story-fni0cwl5-1227639731821

http://bit.ly/1RFEkEI

The Daily Telegraph

December 10, 2015

RECENT calls for a reformation of Islam, akin to what happened with Christianity in 16th century Europe, are all very well. But the suggestion has a fundamental flaw which goes to the nature of the Koran.

When Tony Abbott calls for a religious revolution to confront the ‘‘problem within Islam’’, this implies that something may be rotten within the Koran itself. Such an ‘‘honest debate’’ would be fruitless ­because the sanctity of the verses are non-negotiable.

The Christian Gospels were written up to four decades after the crucifixion of Jesus by his eyewitness disciples, based on their repeated recollections of his words and deeds.

However, the Koran is ­believed to be the actual words of God as revealed and recited as verses through archangel Gabriel to his messenger ­Mohammad, in the Arabic language, without translation, without interpretation. Hence, there is no wriggle room to argue that “what God really meant was this”.

Unlike the Gospels which were enriched by parables about the New Testament of love and forgiveness, the Koran is a thorough prescription that governs virtually every aspect of life from birth to death. It leaves little room for modernisation and adaptation.

What can be debated, though, is the man-made ­implementation of the words, especially regarding the true meaning of jihad, purity and cleansing in the context of ISIS propaganda.

The Christian Reformation was successful in redistribution of power in hierarchical churches and stamping out abuses of power such as “indulgences”.

But it did not seek to flush out any words in the Scriptures. On the contrary, Martin Luther translated the Bible so that it was more ­accessible to more people. Some speak of reform when what they really seek is an audit of all the verses that ISIS misuse as a pretext to “justify’’ violence. If that is what they want, then they should just say so, but be prepared to at least read the entire Koran first.

Some have even sought to expunge all the verses that promote violence and contradict the premise that Islam is a religion of peace.

Ironically, this is what ISIS purports to be offering — a revolution to the purist version with literalist interpretations.

But this version is fraught with contradictions as bearded old men seduce boys to perform suicidal terrorism, acts that the bearded old men are not prepared to commit, but expect the boys to believe in the hedonistic rewards that await martyrs in paradise.

If what Tony Abbott seeks is an audit of the ideas driving ­extremism, this requires policing of Imams and cyberspace, and he should know that this is what our intelligence authorities already do.

If the intention is to have an honest debate, he may be wiser to learn from his successor Malcolm Turnbull who recognised that ISIS leaders “defame and blaspheme Islam”.

An honest debate would also open up questions of double standards. For example, as the far right voices such as ­

Reclaim Australia and Rise Up Australia morph from cyberspace and coalesce as street protests, do we ask white leaders: what causes radicalisation and violent extremism in your culture? With the abuses of power revealed by the Royal Commission into Institutional Responses to Child Sexual Abuse, do we ask respective ­religious leaders to confront theological problems within their scriptures?

If anyone seeks to understand the contents and ideas within the Koran, then they should seek an open meeting with the Australian National Imams Council.

If Abbott is seeking to add an intelligent political voice to the anti-Muslim ‘‘crusade’’, then he needs to be offering more than this red herring.