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We have always lived thus, in our heads. Bone domes, impenetrable to others, we might project animus, animation, add to Duncan’s questioning. The mind’s construction in the face, enigmatic, Rubik cube with sixteen squares on each face, so any signs I give are laced, graced with ambiguity.
I have been with friends and lovers and have seen them in difficult times, emotionally and physically. The same way people have seen me in distress, seen me cry. But I never saw my dad in tears; not as a kid growing up, nor much later as a young adult.
Anchored in the treachery of sand, wearing waves until the snip of a certain comber shreds them landward. They call this weed. There are people here too busy in their pleasure. They stare further out across the stolid hungers of tankers queued to feed national necessity, rapacity.
This is cosmically far from saying that these are equivalent matters to the death camps of the Holocaust. But if we are to be serious about acknowledging the depravity of Auschwitz, we can at least take the lead from Katz on starting the conversation on why such events take place and do remain chillingly relevant.
Our team of editors have dug through the past ten years' worth of Eureka Street articles to nominate their favourite pieces published between the start of 2010 and today. Check out our list and then jump into the comments to tell us what are your picks of the decade and why.
This year the contrast between the original story of Christmas and its Australian circumstances has cut even deeper. Bushfires have taken lives, destroyed properties and spread smoke and ash over cities. If the theme of the first Christmas was one of hope and joy, behind the bushfires this year lurks anxiety about the future of the world.
You don't know the word for butter, so you spend seconds miming the way it froths in the pan. The owner of the shop says nothing. You want to buy their famous pesto, but it's nowhere on display. You speak to other customers, who nod and frown. Eventually you point at fragrant cheese and a melon that smells of ripest green.
When the ABC published footage of cruel treatment of healthy former racehorses in a Qld abattoir, everyone said they were appalled. This revelation has again brought into the public eye the dirty secret about the business of horse breeding and trading, gambling and associated industries. They are vast, and they are important.
The voices of two women in the train up to the highlands rise in volume and insistence ... 'Mother, they're not Germans. I said, gerberas, they're all around the farm. Just wait, you'll see them from the window of the lovely room we've set up for your stay. A field of gerberas in full bloom.' 'And are the Germans all in uniforms, then, dear?'
Before that first September, my experience with grief was fairly limited. I was no stranger to death, but I hadn't yet felt the type of grief that makes you ache in places you never realised sadness could reach. My first experience with this was September 2014.
I stood to continue on foot around the UN compound. I kept walking, ignoring the screaming, the shooting, the panic. Timorese looked to us. I needed to give them hope. I took motivation from them. More than that, I wanted to stay on my feet. I required time to respond and do what I could when the end came.
The betting among many observers is that the current chaos will end in tears. The massing of troops at the border is one sign. But the biggest thing that suggests that the PLA will march in and declare martial law is that the Chinese Communist Party has what we call 'form'.