S Sorrensen
Brisbane. Wednesday, 10.05am
The old bloke leans towards me as we talk. He’s turning 94 and hearing aids just aren’t strong enough anymore.
Look, I’m not proud to be an Australian.
Even though I think Vegemite is one of the world’s greatest creations (up there with the mag wheel and the screw-top wine bottle) I don’t have oi oi oi going on when I smear the Aussie miso across my toast.
I’m just not patriotic.
I don’t put my hand over my heart like a Texan at a baseball game as I sing the national dirge before State of Origin.
I don’t feel pride seeing little Aussie flags (made in China) fluttering from a Nissan pulling out of Macdonalds.
For me, the Gallipoli story is tragic, not inspiring.
When he was a young fella, this man, sitting in front of me, dodged Japanese bombs in the Pacific. He was doing his Australian duty. He doesn’t talk about it much, but it made him think about life and death. It made him respect life. He leaves the war talk to politicians and marketers (who do not respect life).
It saddens me to see Australian soldiers going off to Iraq because of politicians’ inadequacy issues. I don’t like the smugly condescending tone of Australian politics as it talks up a dangerous patriotism to boost party popularity.
The old bloke puts his hand on my leg. ‘Really good to see you,’ he says. His voice is aged like a single-malt whisky.
Life burns in his eyes – fire under water. A love jumps the years and binds us. Now he faces a shrinking future, armed only with a walking cane, a worried wife and a dud hearing aid.
I’m not proud to be Australian.
But I’m not saluting another flag. I don’t aspire to Qur’anic paradise through yobbo jihad. I need 72 virgins and an eternal erection right now like I need another three-word slogan and a toxic watertable.
I love this man. He has shown me what matters in life: truth, justice and the sustainable way. (Yeah, he’s Superman. He may not be able to leap tall buildings anymore or dance with my mother on a Bali beach under a half moon, but his eyes still dance to that salty tune and he will fight for justice anywhere that has wheelchair access.)
I’m not a patriot, but I don’t dream of other landscapes.
Okay, maybe I do. But the occasional wet dream about motorbikinging through a Burmese monsoon doesn’t make me a traitor to this dry southern land. The occasional reverie about walking through a thousand blooming sunflower heads nodding to the Mistral in Provence doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a southerly bringing a fresh change to a summer’s day in Lismore.
I love this land and the Aboriginal culture that was born from it.
But the rampant exploitation of this mother land overseen by a government that has never dodged bombs or danced on a Bali beach is something I will not align myself with, Vegemite or not.
The disrespect of the First Peoples makes me ashamed to see ‘Australia’ embossed on my passport.
I’m embarrassed by a nation so self-centred, so immature, that it deals toxic fuel to the world for a quick buck.
Where is that often-touted ‘fair go’ that makes Australia special?
Where is the fair go for Aboriginal people whose land this is?
Where is the fair go for refugees?
Where is the fair go for future generations who need a reliable climate and a sustainable lifestyle?
Where is the true Australia?
It’s here, sitting in front of me, a hand upon my knee.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
