There is no doubt in my mind that this scary moment helped to bring Kathryn and me closer together. We both realised how short and precious life is, and we organised a meeting for just the two of us and began the process of building our own relationship. It was worth the wait.
Not long after, Kathryn invited me to her house for dinner. I almost died of embarrassment when we opened the take-away food I’d purchased and we found it was riddled with maggots. It’s a good thing we both have a sense of humour. We laughed about the irony of it all and never looked back from there.
I am as devoted to Kathryn as I am to my other siblings, and was especially proud when she became a volunteer in the refugee support programs we ran at Australian Red Cross when I was CEO.
My sisters and brothers have never treated me as a half-brother, and I certainly don’t think of myself that way in relation to them. From almost the very beginning, they made me feel like an integral part of the family. Within weeks of our first meeting, for example, Neil invited me to be a groomsman at his wedding to Nereda. I was overwhelmed by this invitation and what it showed of Neil’s courage and generosity of spirit.
I sometimes joke that I cheated by coming into the family as an adult. I got to enjoy and benefit from my siblings’ love, friendship, and company, without any of the memories of childhood fights or rivalries. Of course, my tongue is firmly planted in my cheek when I say this, because I wish I had known them all my life. To have the love of a brother or a sister, let alone four of them, is just fantastic. My life has been transformed and enriched as a result of knowing them. I know they are there for me until the day I die, as I am for them.
There were four of them before I arrived, and now we are five. A pentagon indeed.
18
Big life changes
All these uplifting personal developments were overlaid by the relentless stresses of my political life, which only got worse after the 1993 election. After the ALP’s win, the attacks on the Mabo decision and the government’s response intensified, and they continued until the 1996 election. During my time as federal member for Hughes and later as a minister, I experienced the joys of a dead rat in the mail, a serious arson attack on my office, death threats, the presence of guards out the front of my home, and a disgruntled family-law litigant, who distributed an aggressive letter in the street where I lived.
Finally, I had to deal with highly political attacks on my work and reputation through the Hindmarsh Island heritage application, which continued from 1994, past the end of my career in politics, and through to the year 2000, when I was ultimately vindicated by a decision of the Federal Court of Australia. Entire substantive books have been written about the complexity of the so-called ‘Hindmarsh Island Affair’, including the independently written epic tome The Meeting of the Waters by Margaret Simons, who was Malcolm Fraser’s biographer. I agree with virtually everything in that book, even though I was not consulted in its writing. The issues were exceedingly complex, but they began with a heritage protection application under Commonwealth legislation. This application was made to me by a group of Ngarrindjeri women who were opposing the construction of a bridge from Goolwa to Hindmarsh Island near the mouth of the Murray River. The site, which would be destroyed by the construction of the bridge, was of great significance to them, but their beliefs surrounding that significance were confidential.
As I was required to do by law, I commissioned an independent report, which was prepared by eminent Australian lawyer Professor Cheryl Saunders. Among other things, the report found that the confidential women’s beliefs were honestly held by the women and that the issue was of supreme cultural and spiritual significance to the Ngarrindjeri women. I issued the declaration for heritage protection in line with the recommendation and report. My decision was upheld by votes in the House of Representatives, with both the Democrats and the Greens voting with the government.
Being the minister for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander affairs is no regular job, and I had found it increasingly difficult to balance my massive political responsibilities with my family life. Being away so much for prolonged periods, returning home riddled with stress, then spending the weekends undertaking electorate commitments was not a good formula for an enduring marriage. Jody had been heroic throughout our marriage, taking on the role of representing me in the electorate while I was in Canberra or travelling around Australia with my Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Affairs portfolio, but our relationship couldn’t survive the huge strain of my political life. We separated in late 1994 just as the Hindmarsh Island saga was unfolding.
Then, two days after my marriage had collapsed and I was barely able to function as a human being, I was asked a tag-team series of questions in the parliament as a prelude to calls for my resignation by the opposition. It was falsely suggested in the parliament that I had been careless in my handling of confidential documents related to the Hindmarsh Island court case, but it was quickly revealed within the hour that this was not the case. In fact, an opposition front-bench member, Ian McLachlan, had secretly sanctioned the opening and photocopying of a large box of documents from the Australian government solicitor intended for my office. The box was then resealed and was later received by my office, which did not know that it had been violated. Mr McLachlan was later forced to resign, and opposition leader John Howard was under serious pressure for his role in this saga.
Next, my decision to grant the declaration for heritage protection was successfully challenged in the courts. And then, out of the blue, came allegations in the media that the claims relating to the sacred site had been fabricated. The state Liberal government in South Australia, in a political move to attack me, called a Royal Commission, which the Ngarrindjeri women seeking heritage protection refused to recognise. Even though the Royal Commission did not even take evidence from the women, it found that there had been a fabrication. Professor Saunders and I and others were then sued by the developers who were seeking to build the bridge to their property development, and this court case went on for the next seven years, long after I ceased to be a member of parliament.
Both the Ngarrindjeri women claiming heritage protection and those of us sued by the developers were ultimately vindicated by the decision of the Federal Court of Australia, which, for the first time in all the investigations, heard evidence from all parties. In my case, this involved six days of cross-examination, and it was clearly established that I had followed Commonwealth legal advice every step of the way and had acted in good faith. The attempts by the developers to gain compensation were rejected, and no appeal proceeded. The case has gone down in Australian political folklore as a cause célèbre, in which I was ultimately absolutely vindicated — but the personal toll was immense, as you can well imagine.
After Jody and I separated, I initially slept on my electorate-office floor, and then rented a shed — a very basic converted garage, with a mattress on the floor and a plastic table and chairs — in the backyard of a family living in Stanwell Park. I rented it so I could stay close to Jade and Jack. Jade is still my daughter of course, and we remain close to this day. Though it was a horrible time in my life, I have very precious memories of three-year-old Jack sharing the mattress with me when he visited on weekends. I was living in this shed when the 1996 election was called.
I spent election day, 2 March 1996, as I always did — touring the polling booths in my electorate and thanking ALP branch members and supporters for their help in the campaign. I knew it was going to be a tough election, and the polls were looking dreadful. I could only hope that my 12 years’ hard work as a local member would help me survive.
My Murray family came out in strength for me, staffing polling booths in the western part of my electorate in Menai and Liverpool, and their loyal presence made me feel very proud. But despite their helpful efforts, and those of hundreds of stalwart supporters, the swing against me and against the ALP government was too substantial.
My seat and many others were lost.
I was in my electorate office in Sutherland, with Maida, Jody, and Jack, when the news came through. I did a live cross to one of the TV networks, conceding defeat and thanking my supporters, many of whom were very distressed. Thankfully, I managed to hold it together as the situation required of me.
When a political life is over in such a manner, it’s a brutal process. On the Monday morning after the election, my ministerial staff in Canberra, led by Di Hudson, began the job of clearing out the office. In only a matter of a few short days, my life’s public work was reduced to a huge volume of cardboard boxes. The boxes were sent from Canberra and Sutherland to Maida and Greg’s home in Merrylands, where they remained in a garden shed for the next 20 years.
I retreated to a shed, too — the one in Stanwell Park. I felt lost and demoralised, as did my staff. For years, none of us could drive past our former electorate office in Sutherland without feeling a sense of rejection, betrayal, and shame that non-political people would find difficult to understand. We had given everything we had to the local community for 12 years and felt trashed when they voted us out.
On 22 April, standing in a long queue in the city and waiting to exchange my diplomatic passport for a regular one, I realised that I had no job, no marriage, and not the slightest idea what to do with myself. For some reason, at that moment I remembered a photograph I’d recently seen of a sculpture park near Broken Hill in western New South Wales. The park was the outcome of an international sculpture symposium convened by an old acquaintance of mine, Lawrence Beck. Suddenly, I made the decision to drive out to Broken Hill to see it. I abandoned the passport queue, collected my car from the car park, and immediately headed west.
During my short time in Broken Hill, Anzac Day was celebrated. I watched the Anzac service, standing somewhat mournfully on my own at the back of the crowd — a world away from the high-profile political life I had been living less than two months earlier. Then, after the service, I went out to the remote hillside to look at the sculptures I’d heard so much about. The sculptures themselves were wonderful, but perhaps even more striking was the outback behind them, stretching out to the horizon. I was captivated, and I decided to keep on driving. After a night’s rest, I left Broken Hill behind and headed west into South Australia. I was on the road and free to roam.
I’d left Sydney with no spare clothes whatsoever, and I was still driving my father Bert’s Nissan Skyline. The car was already quite old and had done a lot of kilometres, and I wasn’t sure how far it would take me. But I didn’t care. In some ways, this was a bolt for freedom: to have time on my own in a way I’d never had before. I had seen most of Australia many times over, but this trip was different. I was doing it on my terms, free of immediate work or study commitments for the first time since I was a small child. Although I felt a bit lost at first, the lure of the road soon drew me in.
I bought a tent and some clothes at a store in Port Augusta, then continued on my journey until I’d driven all around Australia. I camped most of the time, but treated myself to a motel when I wanted to. And I made two trips back to Sydney to see Jack and Jade, and to fulfil speaking engagements I was committed to. For most of the time, I was alone, and I engaged in periods of deep reflection as I embarked on this pilgrimage around our wide brown land. Looking back, I think this beautiful but sometimes isolated period of reflection helped me to grow as a person.
The aftermath of my election defeat was one of the most difficult periods of my life. I went from being a government minister to being unemployed overnight. And, despite my desperate efforts to get a job, that unemployment became long term.
It was a very challenging time for me in other respects, too. I was the subject of an ongoing attack by the new prime minister, John Howard, who rejoiced very publicly in my high-profile defeat whenever the opportunity presented itself — whether at Liberal Party events or on talkback radio. I bear him no resentment for this; it was just politics. But it did make it difficult for me to get a senior role in the not-for-profit sector at that time. My efforts were further stymied by what I perceived as an ongoing vendetta against me by a well-known Sydney talkback-radio presenter, after he’d personally launched the election campaign of my opponent in the seat of Hughes. It’s very hard to get work when a high-rating radio personality is ripping you apart on a regular basis.
It was also during this time that I finally learnt that you cannot hide from grief. The death of my mother Gwen, the election defeat, the end of my marriage, and a sustained period of unemployment all combined in late 1996 to knock me down as though I’d been run over by a bus.
My grief was compounded by the election of Pauline Hanson as the independent member for Ipswich and her attacks on Indigenous-affairs policy, as well as the failure of Prime Minister John Howard to issue an apology to the Stolen Generations, and his government’s concerted attempt to undermine the advances I had secured for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people during my time as minister. I was particularly distressed to see my work in promoting a just reconciliation for our country being torn asunder. Pauline Hanson had been expelled from the Liberal Party during the 1996 election because of a letter that she’d written to The Queensland Times, in which she’d attacked me over my comments concerning the hugely disproportionate rate of Indigenous incarceration. Nevertheless, following the election of the Coalition government, Indigenous programs were being slashed and reforms were reversed.
I felt quite desperate as my period of unemployment extended into its second year. I wrote 70 substantive job applications and provided a swag of highly respected referees, but still I couldn’t get a job. I became very depressed, as most people who are unemployed do, but was too embarrassed to seek professional help. Despite my professional experience, I despaired of finding work, especially when many in the not-for-profit sector admitted that employing me would risk their relationship with the new Coalition government. I was a captive of my former incarnation as a politician, and no one wanted to know me as a prospective employee.
My friendship with Tom Uren and Christine Logan was one of the key things that got me through this period. I had no fixed place of abode as I had gotten myself into a terrible financial predicament with a high level of outstanding debts incurred in the misjudged confident expectation that I would get a job. I alternated between housesitting for friends and staying in the flat at the back of Tom and Christine’s house. Tom’s fatherly advice that ‘there is no progress in hate’ — that those who allow bitterness and recriminations to dominate their lives will be consumed by them — was another valuable life lesson.
In this very difficult time, my birth families on both my mother’s and father’s side also sustained me. They provided the love and kindness that pulled me through.
My relationship with Maida and Greg continued to develop beautifully, and I called them and saw them regularly over the years ahead. After my marriage to Jody collapsed, they were a great support to me. At this age, Jade was increasingly independent, but I saw Jack once a fortnight, and would inevitably take him to visit Maida and Greg then. They, in turn, continued to visit Jody, Jade, and Jack in Stanwell Park. Greg was a devoted grandad, or ‘Poppy’ as he was called, and built Jack a go-cart with his skilled carpenter’s hands.
My relationship with my mother blossomed and strengthened each year, and I made sure to spoil her and celebrate her on her birthday, Christmas Day, Mother’s Day, and perhaps most of all on my Christmas Eve birthday, which was such a sensitive date for her. I had a lot to catch up on, and I wanted to constantly reinforce that our reunion was permanent. We remained extremely close.
After two years of unemployment, I was finally able to get a part-time role on a tribunal using my legal background. For the next two years, I travelled New South Wales, taking any work on the tribunal I could get.
Then came the breakthrough of being chosen to be CEO of a national not-for-profit employmen
t network called Job Futures. For this, I owe a debt of gratitude to the chair of the board, Andy Small, former CEO of the Zurich Insurance Group in Australia. I was well suited to this role, and could draw on my management skills, as well as my knowledge and contacts, to transform the organisation and increase its capacity. Most important to my value in this role, however, was my own experience of a prolonged period of unemployment. I had grown enormously as a human being during that time, and I was able to employ those life lessons to lead an organisation that helped to get long-term unemployed jobseekers, former offenders, people with disabilities, asylum seekers, Aboriginal jobseekers, and non-English-speaking jobseekers into meaningful employment. I loved the work, and I very much valued being back in the full-time workforce myself, working alongside exceptional people, whose values I shared.
After five years leading Job Futures, I was appointed CEO of Australian Red Cross, where I spent ten years working with some inspirational volunteers and staff within the organisation. The chair of the board who appointed me was Greg Vickery, ironically, a former president of the Australian Young Liberals. Greg had devoted much of his life to Red Cross as a volunteer, and, like me, he left his politics at the door upon joining Red Cross.
Greg gave me the management responsibility of transforming Red Cross from a noble but old-world organisation with eight state and territory boards and eight CEOs into a cohesive, efficient national body. The reformed Red Cross operates with one national board with governance authority, and has a sharper priority focus on people experiencing high-level vulnerability, including Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people. These were reforms that the organisation had struggled to implement since before World War II. They were achieved by winning the hearts and minds of the people in the organisation and gaining their unanimous support for the changes. I was privileged beyond measure to be a part of all this, and then to twice take on the role of Acting Under Secretary General of the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, based in Geneva.
Ten Doors Down Page 17