Chasing Paradise - An Essay

An essay for Sydney's first African Newspaper

Story by: Wenee Yap

Nov 2007

Dear Reader,

Because we’re all very busy striving for meaning or money or marriage or whatever as they say, might fill that god-shaped hole, I’ll be brief. Let me tell you a story. It’s the story of why I became a law student. It’s also about how you can change the world. Tall order? Perhaps. Not any more so than a promise in the year of election.

April the 14^th is a terrifically exciting date for two reasons: at 11pm one cold night in 1912, a wayward iceberg drove into the side of the behemoth Titanic, fatally sinking it and proving true the title of that great James Bond classic, ‘Never Say Never Again.’ The other reason is that at 11pm, one sultry night in 1986 under the oppressive heat of a perpetual equatorial summer, I found my way from inky nothing into a brave new world. 1986. The Cold War raged quietly. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles kicked ass. Bill and Ted had excellent adventures. Ronald Reagan ruled the free world. New Order rocked. Prince was sexy. Troubling times, I know – but I digress.

Fast forward nineteen years and there I am again – idealistic, ruminative, dressed in a rock star red leather jacket and op-shop jeans, riding a train to my first semester class of law school (Legal Process and History which, though not the fault of its teachers, is about as interesting as parliamentary question time without pro-wrestlers. Or magic mushrooms.) I was self-absorbed and angry because I was young, and I was young and therefore angry and self-absorbed. Gazing out the window, I wondered yet again what possessed me to enrol in law school. It might have been James Spader in Secretary. Whatever the reason, it didn’t involve learning how to lodge a medieval writ in the Court of Star Chamber.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed a mild hubbub – a generously sized pitch-black African woman was shuffling between a slick-suited professional and a tourist couple touting Hawaiian shirts and professional cameras (Canadians, with the social graces of New Yorkers.) The woman gestured to a ruffled paper she held, and the train station map plastered to the wall.

“Government House?” she asked.

“Circular Quay,” slick-suit quipped briskly.

The African woman looked quizzical. “Change at central,” he explained. Not understanding, she looked to the Canadians. “So-ohrry,” they said sheepishly. “We’re going to No-ohrth Sydneeey.”

10.30am. My class began at 11. I have time, I thought. (To those who know me…now you know why I’m always late. You see, I’m helping directionally challenged strangers to their destinations. I wonder if there’s a career in that.)

“I’ll show you,” I called across the carriage, rising to meet the now smiling African woman.

En route, I learned her name – Caroline. Caroline was a Sudanese refugee, invited to an ecumenical morning tea at NSW Government House in Circular Quay. She lived in Fairfield. Not bad for ten minutes of sign language and spats of broken English. A stop for directions and a long uphill walk, and we’d arrived.

“There it is,” I said, given as I am to stating the obvious in awkward moments. “Good luck. I mean…” glancing at my watch – 11.15, oh God – “I hope it’s good. The morning tea, I mean. With biscuits and…tea…” Caroline watched my oratorical fireworks with bemusement.

“I’m sorry, I’m late for class. So…good luck. I’ll see you…” I trailed. Caroline was crying. Not the polite, embarrassed crying characteristic of our stoic society, but real big fat drops of human tears streaming down her face, wetting her collar, running her eyes red. Without warning, she hugged me. A tight rib-breaker of a hug.

“Thank you,” she murmured, “Thank you. You are a good person.”

Don’t get too excited. I can also be very bad. But that’s another story.

Okay. Here’s the sexy, change-the-world part. Remember the slogans of the French Revolution: Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite? These were the values at the heart of the – albeit bloody and perhaps overzealous – birth of modern democracy, the French Revolution, proclaimed circa 1784. Adopted and adapted across the Channel by the far more practical British via a Glorious Revolution, these values lie at the constitutional core of most developed nations, including Australia.

Freedom, equality, brotherhood. High ideals, I know. Here’s the rub: every Australian you have ever met is an immigrant or refugee. From the indigenous peoples paddling across shallower prehistoric seas to white convict chain gangs, to post-WWII Europeans fleeing a war ravaged continent, to Asian professionals crossing the Indian Ocean in the late 1980s and early 1990s, to Muslims, to Africans fleeing new wars over old causes – we are all here, more or less, for the same reason: to forge a better future. Of course, there are extremist elements – bullies - of all kinds who dispute this purpose; these people must be made the minority and have cause to understand that their views are as insignificant as they are.

That aside, how would a true blue Australian embrace these fundamental values of liberte, egalite, fraternite? Isn’t it obvious? African refugees are committed to becoming Australians, and like every wave of immigrants over our history they are facing a steep learning curve when it comes to clash of cultures. As Australians, through our lineage or personal experience, you know what they’re going through. So you must do more than offer African immigrants the freedom to settle in our sun burnt, resource-rich, beach loving, Chaser-appreciating society. You must do more than offer them equality of opportunity with regards to education, jobs, and expression in the media. No, you must go further than tolerance; you must acknowledge and welcome our latest line of immigrants as your neighbours, doctors, teachers, churchgoers, students, lawyers, film-makers, journalists, bankers, mechanics, artists – and at the risk of breaking into black American soul-music – as your brothers and sisters, as your fellow human.

As John Le Carre’s troubled but talented liar-tailor-spy Harry Pendel observed:

“We have everything needed to make paradise. And what do we do?”

Quite simple, really. We build a better world.

I’m an idealist, I know. Perhaps ripe for disenchantment. I’m okay with that. It will be worth it.