It’s been ages since I last wrote here. In fact, this is my first post for the year.
The truth is, I’ve been incredibly sad, scared, inspired, and excited — often all at once — and somehow writing in my blog has been the last thing on my mind. Still, all in all, it’s been a good start to the year.
I’m really looking forward to getting into the heart of things again, while also making sure I manage myself and my responsibilities with a bit more precision — giving my 100% to everything I do.
There are parts of my life I’ve decided are out of bounds for this blog, and I’m going to keep those lines where they are. But I did want to start by mentioning that I had another letter to the editor published on 6 January.
The letter was about Donald Trump kidnapping the president of Venezuela, Nicolas Maduro, and his wife, Cilia Flores. I wrote about the hypocrisy of this, given that only a few weeks earlier Trump pardoned the former president of Honduras, Juan Orlando Hernández, who was serving a 45 year sentence for drug-related crimes.
You can read the letter below.
Dear the Editor,
The recent U.S. seizure of Venezuela’s president, Nicolas Maduro and his wife Cilia Flores, has been justified in the language of law enforcement and morality — allegations of drug trafficking, corruption, and criminality. Yet this justification collapses under even minimal scrutiny.
Only weeks earlier, former Honduran president Juan Orlando Hernandez walked free from a 45 year sentence in the United States after receiving a presidential pardon from Donald Trump. This is despite having been convicted in a federal court for his role in a drug trafficking conspiracy that prosecutors said helped flood the country with hundreds of tonnes of cocaine.
The contrast is stark. One leader, convicted after due process, is absolved. Another, accused but not convicted, is subjected to extraordinary force. Not only is Maduro and Flores's abduction legally unjustifiable; it also falls short on moral grounds.
This is not a defence of Nicolas Maduro or Cilia Flores. It just got me thinking about the broader danger that arises when powerful states use fanciful legal rhetoric while disregarding the law altogether. In such circumstances, international law ceases to function as law at all. It becomes branding — a tool used to legitimise power rather than restrain it.
If drug trafficking and human rights abuses are truly the red lines they are claimed to be, they must be enforced consistently. As the Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. warned, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
Kind regards,
Me
About a week later, I sent this letter to the editor:
Dear the Editor,
I would compare Peter Malinauskas’s support for the removal of Dr Randa Abdel-Fattah from Adelaide Writers’ Week to the kind of reckless political behaviour more commonly associated with Donald Trump.
To conflate a Palestinian writer and academic with the Bondi terror attacks is unjust and deeply irresponsible. It represents a clear disregard for basic principles of fairness, replacing reasoned judgment with fear and political expediency.
I agree unequivocally that Jewish Australians must feel safe and protected, particularly in the aftermath of the horrific violence at Bondi Beach. But that concern cannot be selective. Palestinian Australians also deserve safety and dignity — especially while Israel has killed more than 70,000 Palestinians in Gaza, the majority of them women and children.
To Ashton Hurn and the State Liberals: I understand the argument for seeking to criminalise the phrase “From the river to the sea” on the basis that it is genocidal in nature. That debate focuses on words. But what cannot be ignored is that Israel has been committing an actual genocide against the Palestinian people for over two years now. I do not recall hearing the State Liberals make any mention of that reality.
If genocide is to be opposed, it must be confronted where it is occurring — not displaced onto language while the violence itself goes unaddressed.
Kind regards,
Me
I knew it wouldn’t be published — they can’t keep printing the same person’s letters repeatedly — but I still felt compelled to write another one on the issue:
Dear the Editor,
Calling Dr Randa Abdel-Fattah a “hypocrite” in response to her removal from Adelaide Writers’ Week avoids the real issue.
The question is not what positions Dr Abdel-Fattah may have taken in the past. The question is whether it is acceptable to remove a writer from a public literary festival because her presence is suddenly deemed uncomfortable.
The decision to remove Dr Abdel-Fattah from Adelaide Writers’ Week was not an act of cultural sensitivity. If cultural sensitivity were genuinely the concern, it would not have taken the form of removing a Palestinian voice from the program. The decision was poorly judged and pre-emptive in nature, driven by fear, timing and political discomfort. In the process, Dr Abdel-Fattah was implicitly associated with the horrific events at Bondi that had absolutely nothing to do with her.
Dr Abdel-Fattah is not a hypocrite. She is experiencing the signature treatment Palestinians know all too well: being told repeatedly and without adequate justification that their presence is unwelcome.
The real hypocrisy is invoking fairness while practising exclusion.
Kind regards,
Me
They didn’t publish that one either. And then I realised something about myself.
I don’t want to have an opinion on everything. I don’t want to be one of those people who constantly has something to say. I want a light, simple, easy life, and even though no one reads or cares about my letters, I think there’s something to be said for silence.
I’m not saying I don’t believe one voice can change things — I deeply believe it can. But I’m sick of myself. I really am. I want subtlety and restraint. I don’t want to be some ridiculous foghorn mouthing off to The Advertiser every week.
That’s not to say I’ll never write again. But for now, I’m going to concentrate on the good things life has to offer. Anything less feels a little too dark for where I’m at at the moment.
I’m over pushing my views on people. But I did quietly fall a little bit in love with the former Treasurer of Australia, Wayne Swan, over something he shared on X.
He reposted the following tweet:
“Jewish people boo @AlboMP on arrival at the Bondi vigil, yet support Netanyahu who allowed 1,200 Israelis to be slaughtered by Hamas and then oversaw the killing of tens of thousands of innocent Palestinians in Gaza. It is beyond belief that such hypocrisy can become respectable.”
If I ever meet another partner and if they ever hold a position — whether in a workplace, a sports club, or a community of some sort — I hope they have the gumption to use that position in the same way Wayne Swan did. To speak up, even briefly, even imperfectly.
Apparently he later took the tweet down because of the controversy around it, but I still love that he chose to repost it in the first place.
Since I last wrote, I’ve donated plasma twice, which takes my donation tally up to six. As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t donate because I think I’m a particularly good person — I do it mostly because I love the Red Cross.
Lately though, I’ve found myself getting a bit caught up in the numbers. I’ve got my seventh donation booked in for about a week and a half, and for some reason I’m really looking forward to hitting the ten-donation milestone.
Below are two photos I snuck while donating.
I’m not a religious person, but I love Jesus the man. I call him my rebel God. I’ve been looking for a place where I can celebrate the love I have for him as a man, a revolutionary, and someone who stood with the poor and the marginalised and wasn’t afraid to stick up for them.
I’ve mentioned before the history I have with Tanzania. I love the people — I love African people. I pretty much love all people, but there’s something so warm and colourful about Tanzanians, and honestly about every African person I’ve ever met.
I found this gospel church in Davoren Park. They meet on Friday nights and Sunday mornings, so last week I asked Rebecca if she would come with me. She agreed, and we found our way there together.
We were the only white people there, but we were welcomed with open arms. It was a spectacular, genuinely life-changing experience. It felt like we were sitting in the Festival Theatre listening to the voices of a beautiful African gospel choir. I honestly can’t explain how extraordinary it was.
They were loud, bold, and the most inspirational thing I’ve seen in a long time. When they spoke, they spoke in Swahili, with an English translator alongside — this magical mix of multicultural worship. I absolutely loved it.
The service went for two and a half hours, which was a bit too long for Rebecca, who won’t be going back, but for me, when it finished, I spoke to the pastor and asked, “Can I go here?” He told me I was more than welcome. He also said that many of the congregation were from Tanzania.
It was a true gospel service in every way you’d imagine — but probably even more beautiful than you’re picturing. A slice of heaven, right here in Adelaide.
I drove up there again last night, but they told me there wasn’t a service on because they were having a big meeting. I didn’t mind at all. I still got to chat with some of the people there, who were just as friendly and welcoming as before.
They were very apologetic that I’d driven all that way and there was nothing on, but I honestly didn’t care. I can’t wait until next week.
I joined the Liberal Party of Australia 28 years ago, in 1998. I was 16, and my parents got me to join. I ended up being a member for about 21 years, with the odd year missed here and there.
It’s strange to realise that for all that time I belonged to a political party that was never really a reflection of my own beliefs or core values. There was a point where I resigned and joined the Australian Greens, but after a while I left the Greens and went back to the Liberals. I don’t really know why I did that, and I don’t know why I stayed a member for so long.
Watching the federal party more recently — particularly its position on Israel and the situation in Gaza — I knew I could no longer be part of it. And on a personal level, I’ve been incredibly impressed with Albo, Mali, and the unions, so joining the Australian Labor Party makes sense to me now.
My mum thinks it might be “a thing” if I do that, but I don’t. No one really cares about me or my political beliefs, and that’s fine. What I do know is that I belong as a rank-and-file member of the Labor Party. I don’t want to hold positions or get jobs or influence anything — I just want to be part of it.
So I resigned from the Liberal Party. I’ve resigned before, but this time it felt final. I have no ties or links to the party anymore, and beyond that, my soul feels detached from that right-wing nonsense.
I haven’t joined Labor yet — I’m going to wait until after the election.
I started my adult life aligned with the Liberal Party, then spent over twenty years wandering around it like a blithering idiot. Now I’m ready to spend the rest of my life with the Labor Party, where I think I actually belong.
My mum, on the other hand, is still a raging Liberal. She even told Jack Batty’s office she’d put signs for the election up in the front yard. You can see one of them below.
There was an insanely windy night a little while back and the wind ripped the signs right out of the ground. Mum decided after that she didn’t want them anymore, so just yesterday someone from Jack Batty’s office came and picked them up.
On Thursday, Mum was planning to go to the state memorial service for former Labor senator and minister Nick Bolkus. Even though Mum is heavily involved with the Liberal Party, she said she shared a genuine friendship with Mr Bolkus.
In the end, she decided she couldn’t make it to the service, but on Thursday night we watched the whole memorial on YouTube. It was fascinating hearing about the incredible life of someone like that.
In a strange way, the service reminded me of Dad’s funeral — which I didn’t attend. One common thread between the two was that Peter Malinauskas spoke at both. Mali didn’t know Dad particularly well, but he clearly knew Mr Bolkus.
One story he told really stayed with me. There was a constituent that several of Mr Bolkus’s colleagues hadn’t had much luck dealing with, so Mr Bolkus said he’d meet with him because he believed he could help. During their meeting, the constituent told him that everywhere he went, the government was following him — watching him, recording everything he did.
Mr Bolkus told him to leave it with him. He stepped out of the room for a while, then came back and said he’d made a phone call and taken care of the issue. He told the man he wouldn’t be followed anymore, and that he wasn’t to tell anyone about the conversation — it was done.
Mali said that sometime later, Mr Bolkus ran into the man and got a thumbs up, as if to say everything was all good.
I loved that story for so many reasons. It made Mr Bolkus sound like a very special person, with a great sense of humour and a deep kindness that didn’t need to make a big show of itself.
I found it interesting that Mr Bolkus met Yasser Arafat. I wonder what they said to each other, whether there was a translator, and whether it was a friendly meeting.
Both of his daughters spoke. I didn’t like one of their speeches, but the other one made me cry.
They talked about how he’d had a stroke and later developed Parkinson’s. I don’t really understand why things like that happen to people like him — good people who make a real difference in the world — and then have to end their lives in that way. It doesn’t feel fair.
I’m glad Mum and I watched the service together. I think she wished she’d gone in person, but it was good that it was available online.
Late last year, I applied for a job at the SA Pathology call centre. I’ve actually worked there before as a temp and, from memory, the role is essentially answering calls from doctors and providing blood test results.
I applied because at the time I’d also applied to study a Bachelor of Fine Arts at Adelaide University, and I wanted a job that would work around uni hours. By the time I was offered an interview, I’d been accepted into the degree and suddenly the idea of fitting work around university felt much more real.
Then, after I’d already applied for the SA Pathology role, my dream job was advertised. It’s a State Government role, and I’m not going to say what it is — except that I want it more than life itself.
I applied, but I hadn’t heard anything back. When I contacted the listed person, they told me they were still a few weeks away from shortlisting. I didn’t know whether to go ahead with the SA Pathology interview because I wanted to keep myself available for the dream job, but a few people advised me to attend anyway. Some even said that if I got the SA Pathology job, I should take it and then leave if the dream job came through. I would never have done that — but I did go to the interview.
It had been more than ten years since I’d last been at a job interview, and I was very nervous. There were three women on the panel. I spoke about boundaries, stakeholders, decision-making, and confidentiality. But as I sat there, I realised just how much I didn’t want the job.
You’re essentially the bearer of bad news. You know what’s going on in people’s bodies because of their blood tests. While many of the results aren’t catastrophic, some of them are. I know you can’t always be picky when it comes to work, but I didn’t want this role.
When I got home, I emailed the contact person to thank her for the opportunity to interview, but told her the job wasn’t for me. She thanked me for letting her know and said I’d ranked very highly in the interview.
So now I have my uni place — and this time it’s brought me so much more happiness than it ever has before. This time, I’m actually going to do it, and I’m going to give it everything I’ve got. I’d also been worried that after applying for and accepting degrees through SATAC so many times in the past, I might not get in this time — but I did, and I celebrated that quietly.
Now I want the job. If I don’t get it, it won’t be the end of the world. But if I do… I’d be living my dream life.
