Ten Doors Down

by Tickner, Robert;

  It was also around this time that I did something that my parents thankfully never found out about; as committed golfers, they would have been horrified by my actions. I was a vehement opponent of the South African apartheid regime, and so I attended a demonstration against visiting South African golfer Gary Player. I didn’t set out to get charged, but my determination to stand by my convictions led to me being arrested and moved off the golf course by Inspector Longbottom, who was the head of the special branch of the New South Wales police. This moment was captured in a much-publicised photograph of me, Inspector Longbottom, and fellow-protester Meredith Burgmann, who later became the president of the New South Wales Legislative Council. I was taken to the local police station, fingerprinted, and charged with a public-order offence, which I recall was ‘disturbing the peace’. I was subsequently acquitted of the charge in court.

  In 1977, I was elected to the Sydney City Council as an alderman representing the Flinders ward, which included Surry Hills, Centennial Park, and South Paddington. The council became much of my life for the next six years, and, together with my progressive colleagues Steve McGoldrick, Tony Reeves, and later Stan Ashmore-Smith, we championed many social and political issues in one of the most controversial and reforming periods in council history. During that time, the Civic Reform lord mayor and a major Sydney corporation were exposed in the media as having engaged in improper conduct, long before there was any ICAC. Tony Reeves led the exposure of their secret dealings, which ended up on the front page of the National Times newspaper and in a tabloid called The Sunday. The lord mayor tragically died on the day the material was published.

  Through our council work, we were able to help shape a transformation in the policies of the city on environmental issues, town planning, and community services to better serve the residential areas and to support the greening of the central business district. A lot of things we did were in parallel with some of the more popular and mainstream policies of the progressive Greater London Council, such as our strong stand in opposition to racism and our stand on nuclear issues, but we certainly weren’t emulating their model and had our own plans for Sydney. I am proud of the fact that many of the issues we stood up for all those years ago have since gained support in the community: energy conservation, urban forests, renewable energy, regional cycle ways, greening city buildings, rooftop gardens, and many more. Even so, some other issues we strongly supported still haven’t been embraced by New South Wales governments of any political persuasion. In particular, wider metropolitan Sydney still lacks an effective public transport strategy.

  One policy our council implemented was to level a 2 per cent tax on new development in the city centre to fund low-income housing. We didn’t want Sydney to be a city just for the rich; we wanted it to be a place that supported a social mix of people. But not everyone agreed — most notably the state Labor government of Neville Wran. It was this policy that, I believe, prompted the state government to take radical action to regain control of our council. In 1981, they amalgamated the Sydney City Council with the perceived Labor Right-controlled South Sydney Council to create a mega-council with 27 elected aldermen. The legislation to do this was introduced without notice by the state government on the night of the press gallery Christmas party. The incoming city councillors stripped the progressive aldermen of their positions, even removing our desks and dumping papers and possessions into cardboard boxes. My colleagues took their cardboard boxes and held a media conference on the front steps of the Town Hall. Happily, the alliance which took over the council soon fell apart, and my colleagues and I were reinstated to our leadership positions.

  Despite our political differences, my mum and dad were proud that I’d been elected to the council in 1977 — and re-elected in 1980. My father still would have preferred me not to be an ALP councillor, and he wrote me a letter at one stage suggesting that I should form a political party of my own. When I visited Forster, we would get into angry political debates. I would fly to Taree and be met by Mum and Dad, and before we got out of the airport, Dad and I would be fiercely raging against each other’s political views. My mother tried to keep the peace as best she could, but we were both of strong convictions, and as a young man I was hot-headed and unforgiving. It sure made dinner conversation volatile and unpredictable.

  My father remained a lifelong advocate of the conservative side of politics until he passed away, but I still loved him very much as my dad. Mum, on the other hand, gave out ALP how-to-vote cards for me in the city-council elections, much to my father’s disdain. She even handed one to Patrick White at the Centennial Park booth, and I’m sure I got his vote. When I was acting lord mayor for a brief time in 1983, I honoured my mother by making her the acting lady mayoress when I hosted a scheduled civic reception on behalf of the city for a visiting delegation.

  During this time, I was a high-profile figure in Sydney and appeared regularly in the media, championing a wide range of political causes as a city alderman. I was often in The Sydney Morning Herald and News Limited papers and on the nightly TV news, as well as speaking on radio, which was my favourite medium. The Sydney City Council never seemed to be out of the news in those days. For the first time in my life, I secretly wondered if my birth parents ever saw me and perhaps recognised a family resemblance.

  My dad, though it pains me to say it, had very prejudiced views towards Aboriginal people — views that were deeply ingrained and a product of growing up in a different era. Working on tackling and changing this ugly underbelly of prejudice in Australian society was to become a large part of my life’s work both inside and outside the Parliament of Australia, but I’m sure my father must have been mortified when, in 1978, his son left his secure and tenured job as a law lecturer to become a lawyer working for the Aboriginal Legal Service (ALS). I stayed there for the next six years, until I was elected to the House of Representatives in March 1984.

  The ALS was based in Redfern and covered much of New South Wales, from the Queensland border to the Murray River, and out into the central west of the state. The solicitors and Aboriginal field officers were wonderful people to work with, and we formed bonds of friendship that have lasted throughout the years. In six years, I learnt so much about the way Aboriginal people have been treated in this country.

  One of the many high-profile cases I was involved in concerned the shooting of a young Aboriginal man, Ronald ‘Cheeky’ McIntosh, in the town of Moree in 1982. He was shot dead by some non-Aboriginal men, and two others were wounded in the attack. The town became a powder keg, with the local Aboriginal community both enraged and grieving for their loss. My boss at ALS, a young Paul Coe, judged that we urgently needed to send legal reinforcements to Moree and asked me and another solicitor, Chris Lawrence, to book a flight and ‘get up there immediately’. All the flights were booked out, but we could get one two days later. Paul hit the roof and told us angrily, ‘Charter a plane and get up there now!’ I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Budgets were tight, and the ALS didn’t charter planes; that was something only rich people did. But Paul insisted, and he was right to do so — once we got up there, we found the town in crisis.

  We arrived at the Moree ALS office to find a huge meeting of local Aboriginal people being addressed by the police minister, Peter Anderson, and one of the deputy commissioners of police. The room was packed, with standing room only, and everyone was openly weeping, the minister and deputy police commissioner included. Most of the Aboriginal people were distraught and many were wailing uncontrollably. I will never forget the sight as long as I live, it was just so sad and distressing.

  Chris and I worked with our local colleagues to get on top of the issues and talked to as many people as we could to give support to the community. We then took a few minutes out to have a coffee at a local milk bar and fell into conversation with the proprietor, at which point the most amazing thing happened.

  ‘What you fellas doing in town?’ he asked.<
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  We told him we worked for the ALS and were here for the next few days, at least — until things settled down.

  ‘It’s a scary place right now, and we don’t know what’s going to happen next,’ he said. ‘Funny you blokes are in here, because earlier today my girl [his staff member] stopped work to talk to her boyfriend who came in to see her. They were talking about the killing, then she got upset and ran off, and I haven’t seen her since.’

  We knew immediately that we had found one of the perpetrators. We went straight to the Sydney Homicide Squad team leader and reported what we’d heard. Not long after, the offenders were apprehended and subsequently convicted of manslaughter.

  I learnt a big life lesson through that experience, when reflecting on Paul Coe’s response. As a leader, when you’re confronted with a critical situation, you need to stay cool, be prepared to make big, courageous calls, and back your decision.

  6

  Losing my father

  By 1983, I’d had enough of council politics and decided to take a new direction in my life. Serving as an elected member of the Sydney City Council had been a privilege, allowing me to become deeply involved in all aspects of city governance and planning — issues that remain close to my heart to this day. But the amalgamation of the South Sydney Council with the Sydney City Council had resulted in a council with members bitterly divided across party and factional lines. The impact of all this was demoralising. I had done my best, but it was time to move on.

  I moved from Redfern, where I was then living, to rent a tiny house in Stanwell Park, a beautiful little seaside town in North Wollongong. I purchased a piano and started taking lessons, and bought myself another surfboard. But a balanced and normal life was not to be. As fate would have it, I had moved to the right place at the right time, and, in 1984, I stood for preselection for the federal seat of Hughes. The retiring member, Les Johnson, had left unexpectedly to take up an appointment as high commissioner to New Zealand. Despite appearances, this wasn’t some grand plan on my part, but when this opportunity suddenly presented itself, I found that my lifelong commitment to politics drove me forwards, and I decided to go for it.

  I won preselection against the opposition of the New South Wales Right of the ALP, and without the formal support of some prominent figures on the left of the party. I was able to prevail despite the strong campaign waged by the longstanding and respected president of the ALP Federal Electorate Council, Professor Jim Hagan, who had written a history of the ACTU and was supported by Bob Hawke. I was lucky to receive the preferences of a highly respected female candidate, Hazel Wilson. But what I also had was the support of a very strong majority of the local people after preferences were distributed, and to them I owe so much for the opportunity that was given to me.

  I had one final hurdle to cross. The year before my election, I’d been arrested for allegedly pulling down the New South Wales Parliament House fence during an Aboriginal Land Rights demonstration. That sounds a rather herculean feat, but I was one person in a larger peaceful political protest of about 20 or 30 protesters. We had been demonstrating against the passage of legislation that retrospectively validated the past illegal revocation of Aboriginal Reserves, and also against the fact that Aboriginal people were denied access to the building while the Aboriginal Land Rights Act was being debated inside. We were standing on the stone foundation of the approximately two-metre-high wrought-iron fence at the front of the parliament, shaking it. Unfortunately, the fence gave way directly in the spot where I was standing, and I was charged with malicious damage. No one else had been charged, just me, even though it beggared belief that I could have been the sole person responsible for the suddenly sagging fence. I was placed in a nearby paddy wagon, and, through the metal grill on the door, I could see a very angry Charlie Perkins outside wanting to help me. In the end, there was nothing we could do. Some of my critics would later cheekily accuse me of ‘doing anything to get into parliament’.

  The demonstration had continued, but I was taken away in the paddy wagon. I was taken to Central Police Station, charged, fingerprinted, and released. I’d thought that this time I should let my mum and dad know about my day, so I phoned them in Forster from a phone box in the city. They were initially shocked and dismayed, but by the end of call were glad to know that I was okay, and that I had stood up for my beliefs.

  By the time the case got to court, I had just been elected as a federal member of parliament. If they convicted me, I would be in danger of disqualification under section 44 of the Australian Constitution, which disqualified a member who was ‘under sentence or subject to be sentenced’ for an offence with a sentence greater than 12 months. I was humbled to receive references from a wide range of people in my life, including my old sparring partner on the Sydney City Council, Jeremy Bingham, and the Reverend Ted Noffs. Ultimately, no conviction was recorded and my legal advisors confirmed that the constitution was not breached and I could continue my parliamentary career. I became a very active backbench member of parliament, immersing myself in humanitarian and human-rights issues, while also demonstrating a wide policy interest across the work of government. Importantly, I also focused on being a dedicated local member, and, because of my history and country background, sought to engage with all local communities.

  I felt particularly privileged to have the opportunity to serve in the Old Parliament House, so steeped in the history of our country as it is. Most nights, I used to work into the early hours of the morning in my Parliament House office, and, every night, even in the Canberra winter, I would ride my pushbike the 6 km to the suburb of O’Connor, where I rented a room and lived very simply. I have one special memory from these late nights, before the advent of security cameras and the like, when, after everyone else had left the building, I followed a cheeky impulse and gently pedalled my bike across grand, empty King’s Hall on my way out.

  One person who hugely influenced me during my political years was Tom Uren, whom I later became connected to through marriage, though in a different way to the ways most people become family through marriage. When I was 25, I had married my friend Christine Logan. Christine had also grown up in Forster, attending the same high schools as me, but a few years behind. We became an item after living next door to one another in Woolloomooloo, and that relationship translated into a relatively young marriage. I think we mainly got married because we were very happy and wanted to have a party and celebrate with our family and friends. Within a week of getting married, I was in a preselection ballot for the forthcoming 1977 Sydney City Council elections; two years later, my life had gone completely down the political path. Christine’s life took a different path: she became deeply engaged with theatre and opera, eventually ending up in the chorus of the Australian Opera. Once we decided to divorce, our relationship almost immediately morphed back into friendship, and we have remained friends ever since. When Christine told me a couple of years later that she had fallen in love with Tom Uren, I was so happy for them both, as I already felt great love and admiration for this man who had so much warmth and integrity. Tom and Christine had 30 years together until he passed away on Australia Day in 2015.

  Tom became an even greater influence on my life after I was elected as the federal member for Hughes, and, during his last years as a parliamentarian, we ended up with offices opposite each other in the new Parliament House — Tom with a very young Anthony Albanese staffing his office. I felt so close to Tom, and we shared many common values. He taught me how to love people more openly and warmly and how to give more of myself to others. Over time, I also noticed we shared the common feature of a large bottom jaw. Sometimes, my mind would play tricks on me, and I wondered if we could be related in some way. It was another of those rare times in my early years when my mind turned to my adoption and the fact that I didn’t know my heritage.

  Dad, despite his own personal political views, was proud to see me sworn in as the federal member fo
r Hughes in 1984. Our relationship had changed significantly since 1977, when Dad’s local dentist had diagnosed him with cancer of the mouth, and my father underwent a serious operation during which part of his tongue and neck were removed. Dad had had to learn to talk again with this impediment.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Dad’s cancer was a result of the tens of thousands of cigarettes that had been hanging out of the corner of his mouth for many decades. When he was diagnosed, I became an anti-tobacco warrior from that day forward. As a Sydney City Council member, I initiated a ban on tobacco advertising on council properties. When I became a federal member of parliament, I was one of the leaders of the campaign to successfully ban smokeless tobacco (chewing tobacco) in Australia. Later in parliament, I also introduced a private member’s Bill to ban tobacco advertising in the Australian Capital Territory. This Bill didn’t proceed to a vote, but it helped turn up the temperature on the tobacco industry. To this day, I remain a dedicated opponent of that industry and find it particularly insidious that it actively promotes its product in developing countries as its markets in other economies dry up.

  Until his operation, Dad had never been in a hospital in his life, and he was terrified of them — even though he was the kind of stoic person of his generation who never complained. Mum and I were by his bedside in Royal Prince Alfred Hospital in Sydney after the operation, and it was a shock to hear him groaning in pain and see him so deeply distressed about his situation. As he was unable to talk properly, the doctors had encouraged him to write notes to communicate. He wrote a note and passed it to me, and I saw that this tough, resilient, and courageous man had written ‘I wish I were dead’.

  I quickly hid the note from my mother and diverted her attention to other things, but she was too smart for me. Later, outside Dad’s room, she asked me what he’d written.