January 24, 2012

Australia day again...

IT'S fluttering in the breeze, up there beside the gum tree. It’s flapping in the cold wind, mocking me, goading me, maybe trying to shame me.
It’s flagging its intentions in red, white and blue.
I looked out the back window a few weeks back and there it was, atop a white pole in a neighbour’s yard. Two doors down, in one of the houses of the next street, those that back onto the backyards of my street.
Usually I can pick and choose when confronted by patriotism. I can turn the page of the newspaper or change the channel on the television, or stand silent in the stadium.
But the neighbour’s permanent statement is harder to ignore, the colonial colours clashing against the greenery, almost subverting the tones and hues of the native trees.
Each day those trees help tell me which way the wind is blowing. But it’s a different wind that blows that cloth, that furls and unfurls the material.
It’s a wind that wants to say something more than It’s a north-easterly this morning, or It’s a gentle southerly today.
Why does such a simple thing bother me? On a superficial level I wonder about council by-laws – do you need a permit for this structure, just as you need a permit to paint your front fence in your preferred colours?
Flags are common enough on civic buildings but only appear sparingly outside homes. And how many are in backyards as opposed to front gardens?
The position of the neighbour’s flag makes it largely a private act rather than a public statement. And planting it in the backyard means it could be amongst other national symbols – the barbecue, the shed, the Hills Hoist, the eucalypt.
So why does this expression of patriotism make me uneasy? Because patriotism in the wrong hands and the wrong minds can lead to dangerous places.
And because the flag probably says more about myself than my neighbours.
Unlike me, my neighbours may have profound reasons for pride in their nation. Perhaps family members died at war. Perhaps the neighbours have travelled the world and appreciate this country all the more for doing so. Perhaps their ancestors settled in this country long ago, from Europe or Asia or elsewhere, and now they cherish the luxuries of living here.
I, though, have led another life, hardly moving across the country and never beyond the border.
What if the neighbour’s flag were different colours? What if it was, say, black and red with a yellow circle in the middle? I would be more comfortable with that because although it would still remind me of my little life, it would be a rebellious statement, a challenge to these suburban backyards and us who live in them.
This land is a blessed land. I know that just from watching a few minutes of the world news. But the neighbour’s flag, like those painted on faces and fingernails at sporting events, muddies my thoughts.
If you have great pride in your own country what do you then think of other countries? Are your thoughts of them diminished? Can one nation be better than another? Can its people be better than other people?
The neighbour’s flag is fluttering in the breeze, while I’m out in the back garden pulling out weeds. It’s there all the time, furling and unfurling in the wind, trying to tell me something.

This story was first published in The Age on 19 January 2009.

• Mobile statement. Photo by Les Everett.

• StumbleUpon
• Digg it
• Furl
• Yahoo! MyWeb
• Newsvine
• Facebook
• MySpace
• Delicious
• Kwoff

Print