Last night, I participated in a silent vigil for Palestine on the steps of Parliament House. It was a small gathering, but everyone there was deeply passionate about Gaza and Palestine, and it felt good to be surrounded by like-minded people.
Below are two photos I took of the group.
But people were looking at us — and every single reaction I saw was positive. People raised their fists, gave thumbs up, and one carload of young people wound down their windows and yelled out, “Free Palestine!”
Below are two photos I took of key elements from the visual display.
Although I didn’t have a good time at St Peter’s Girls’ School, there was one positive — our Principal, Mr Douglas Stott. A couple of days ago, I saw a post on Facebook announcing that he had sadly passed away. It didn’t surprise me; he retired at a decent age, and I was still at the school when he stepped down almost 30 years ago.
I remember his final school assembly in the gym so vividly. I was crying, and a lot of girls were crying. As he walked out of the gym, everyone stood and cheered for him. Just before he exited, he looked back one last time, and he was teary too. It was a beautiful, moving moment — one that has stayed with me all these years.
Mr Stott was the Principal of St Peter’s Girls’ School from 1976 to 1996. The Facebook post spoke about the incredible facilities he brought to the school, including the gym, pool, and IT centre, among many other things. Under his leadership, St Peter’s Girls became one of the first schools in South Australia to implement computer technology, introducing computer science well ahead of its time.
I didn’t know this until now, but apparently he had a deep passion for STEM education, laying the foundations for the school’s current strong STEM programs. The post also shared one of his guiding philosophies, which I think is so beautiful:
“Every girl should have choices, chances, and facilities to do her best.”
I love that. And thinking back, I can absolutely imagine him championing those words.
Most of the girls had big ambitions — doctors, lawyers, engineers, scientists. After their appointments, they’d come back to class and tell us how nice Mr Stott was. He was nice, but he was also strict and, a little intimidating. So when it was my turn, I wasn’t exactly thrilled about sitting face-to-face with him in a private meeting.
His secretary led me into his office, and I sat down in front of him. There wasn’t much small talk — we got straight into it. He asked me what I wanted to do for a profession. Without hesitation, I told him I wanted to be an oyster farmer.
My family had no history of oyster farming, and I could tell my answer wasn’t what he was expecting. He paused, slightly amused, and asked why. I explained that my mother had just taken us to Ceduna for the Oyster Festival and we’d been given a tour of an oyster farm — and ever since, it was all I wanted to do.
Looking back now, that meeting happened almost thirty years ago, and little did either of us know that oyster farming wouldn’t be the only unexpected profession I’d dream of breaking into.
When I got back to class, the girls immediately asked how it went. I told them about my grand oyster-farming ambitions, and from their reactions, I could tell they thought I was weird. I don’t remember exactly, but knowing my time at St Peters Girls, I’m sure there would have been laughter and teasing behind my back.
The second encounter I had with Mr Stott was at a school movie night fundraiser, held at what was then the Chelsea Cinema. After the movie finished, students and parents gathered downstairs where the food and drinks were. I glanced over at the table and saw Mr Stott standing there by himself.
I remembered our lighthearted meeting earlier that year, and something about that gave me the courage to approach him. He was an intimidating man, but there was also a gentleness about him that made it feel natural to say hello.
I asked if he enjoyed the movie. I can’t remember what the movie was, and I can’t recall exactly what he said in response — but I do remember what he said to me afterward.
He told me that the fact I came up and spoke to him showed that I could do anything I wanted in life. He said, “If you look around, you’ll notice no other students have approached me tonight — but you did.”
It was only a brief exchange, but his words have stayed with me for a lifetime.
When I read the news that Mr Stott had passed away, I mentioned it to Mum. She told me that, years ago, he had once called both her and Dad into his office to talk about me.
According to Mum, he told them that I could do anything I wanted in life and that I had a special gift they needed to nurture. But then she said he also told them that I’d need to put my mind to something in order to achieve it.
Mum described it as though he was simply praising me, but reading her words now, I can’t help but wonder if the meeting was actually about his concerns over my academic performance or my concentration skills — something I struggled with a lot back then.
It’s possible he was layering in the pleasantries to soften the reality that I wasn’t exactly a star student. I’ll never really know what was said in that conversation… and honestly, I’m not sure Mum remembers it clearly either.
But I remember Mr Stott. He was intimidating, old school, and I know he was strict in his own way. And yet, to have his approval — even for the briefest moment at the movies that night — meant the world to me. Especially at a time when so many of the girls at school turned their noses up at me, his kindness felt rare.
I doubt Mr Stott would have remembered me if I had bumped into him after his tenure as Principal, but it still makes me sad to think about him having believed I could do anything — and I ended up doing nothing.
