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Author: Ailsa Piper

  • AUSTRALIA

    Question Time's bunch of spuds

    • Ailsa Piper
    • 11 September 2018
    4 Comments

    The Liberals manage to work the CFMEU into every ministerial response. Morrison and his men (and they are all men who speak) insist, over and over, that they are 'getting on with business' because that is what 'the Australian people want'. Which people? Not up here in the gallery. We want to understand ... something.

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  • AUSTRALIA

    Wentworth's by-election bellwether

    • Ailsa Piper
    • 06 September 2018
    6 Comments

    Wentworth as I know it is not an electorate that is easily pinned down. It's also not easily duped. At the far eastern tip of the Wentworth electorate, a measured war is being waged. It's a microcosm, at state level, of the forces that will come to play in the upcoming federal by-election.

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  • AUSTRALIA

    Aboriginal words worth remembering

    • Ailsa Piper
    • 22 January 2014
    17 Comments

    I'm fifth generation Australian, but I don't have a word to describe the emotional malnutrition I feel at our leaders' lack of vision. Maybe there are words for such feelings in Yamatji, or Eora, or Noongar, but most of us wouldn't know. This was a place with more linguistic individuation than Europe, before our boat-people ancestors arrived, but they didn't take the time to learn its words or hear its stories.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Philosophy of falling

    • Ailsa Piper
    • 18 September 2013
    9 Comments

    Waters fall. So does night. We fall asleep, sometimes because staying awake is too painful. Soldiers fall, and we mourn them. They are boys, many of them, so fall-able. We fall into love, and out of it again, like it is some dark hole. We forget that love should be about rising, because we have fallen back onto cliché. We go through life as though we will always be upright, and when we fall, it hurts.

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  • RELIGION

    Pilgrims walk with shadow of Church abuse

    • Ailsa Piper
    • 07 August 2013
    18 Comments

    His casual tone didn't seem to fit the words I was translating from Spanish. I questioned him. Eight? Yes, eight. Every night? Every night. Finally I could no longer deny what I was hearing. Decades earlier, my amigo's then eight-year-old brother had been abused by a religious man of the cloth. My amigo was here walking the Camino Mozárabe in memory of that brother, who eventually had committed suicide.

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