RASHMII BELL
AMID her freshly sautéed gnocchi being consumed on the steps on the Colosseum, a dear friend was interrupted by my panicked email message.
Despite being on the other side of the world, deservedly indulgent in her long-awaited family vacation, she tore herself away from the Neapolitan sauce to respond to my ’ploise explain’.
Whilst she was out of Australia, a disaffected posse of her countrymen had reared their ugly hatreds.
As an immigrant of this sunburnt country, I was anxious. A ‘civil’ group, with a name – Reclaim Australia - that made one think indigenous folk were seeking land ownership, was rallying the troops.
The troops being a bunch of misfits with a mismatched understanding of the valuable contributions of immigrants to Australian society.
While the whole thing was ridiculous and deserving of nil ink-time, it happened around the time Phil Fitzpatrick pointed us to the definition of oxymoron.
In case you missed it, an oxymoron is a phrase that contains conflicting or opposite concepts. Like ‘civil’ group.
I was unable to contain an idiotic smile bursting from the sides of my mouth. And some giggles until, a few mental paroxysms later, I revisited my own recent encounter with a hate brigade.
Truth be told, beyond our friendly Melanesian smiles, Papua New Guineans exercise overt racism towards immigrants, foreigners and expatriates. Our words take on a more derogatory tone as audience numbers increase.
Fortunately our targets are mostly cushioned from the brunt of our bigotry by the camouflage of Tok Pisin and tok ples.
One of those Papua New Guineans could very well have been one of the hoodlums in my own hate brigade, from whom I hot-footed it: suitcase packed; passport in bilum; ticket in hand.
In those moments I experienced the fear and uncertainty every Asian, European, African, Middle-Eastern, Pacific Islander and American must feel when confronted by disgruntled Papua New Guineans calling for sackings, beatings, torchings, carjackings and exile.
Self-scripted speculation often triumphs over the facts.
Always it is the foreigner who has stolen our job. It is the expatriate exploiting our resources. The immigrants starting businesses that should be reserved for nationals. We Papua New Guineans can’t progress because all they do is take, take, take!
But what happens when we are on the receiving end?
Phil Fitzpatrick’s open letter to PNG Attitude readers and contributors about the future of the Crocodile Prize Organisation was deserving of a much greater response from Papua New Guineans.
The silence was a reflection of our weak commitment to the development, promotion and enrichment of PNG literature and writers.
I’ve had a lifetime of my countrymen reminding me to ‘check my privilege’, so have developed the fastidious habit of evaluating issues by balancing my middle class international education against my ANGAU (Australia New Guinea Administration Unit) government residential compound roots.
Many silver spoons, when peeled back, reveal specks of rust.
So, with an emotion-fuelled concoction that is a mixture of ‘blokpikinini’ nerves and privileged-class boldness, let me lay it out.
When it comes to national identity, Papua New Guineans exude it with boisterous shouts. When it comes to national endeavour, we remain tight-lipped; unwilling to facilitate progress unless it brings us personal glory, wealth and a two-shades- too-dark, tinted glass, Toyota 10-seater LandCruiser.
Papua New Guineans aren’t ignorant. We do care. We care a lot. But we need to get involved in the growth of our country through engaging in the issues that really matter.
It seems a move for a nation-wide banning of televised State of Origin matches generates more anguish than the bleak realities of a society absent of a literature base driven by nationals.
We see a fashion show more deserving of endorsement than a literary organisation.
A critical analysis of ‘chiffon overlay’ is more pressing than a nation of people who can analyse and articulate arguments.
It is power suits in an air-conditioned Women In Business conference versus the cash crop ‘maket mamas’ squatting in squalid conditions in the scorching midday sun.
Where’s the outrage?
Hypocrisy is best when served stupid.
I can’t get my head around it. I’ve tried, I’ve tried. But I’m just not there yet.
Here’s a chance for Papua New Guineans to be handed the baton to take to the helm of cementing the permanence of literature in our society.
A small handful of Papua New Guineans have answered and dedicated themselves to the call. These are the true patriots.
It’s a mammoth task no doubt. Those of us fortunate enough to have had the no-strings-attached professional editing services of the Crocodile Prize Organisation know that it is a labour of love.
It’s a privilege bestowed upon so many who otherwise would not have an avenue to express ideas and opinions about Australia and Papua New Guinea and provide commentary about the motherland’s state of being.
Perhaps we’ve become so comfortable with someone else doing things for us it’s become part of our repertoire.
I detest this as much as I detest the Papua New Guineans who are in positions of advantage but refuse to come to the aid of the Crocodile Prize Organisation, an act that would assure Papua New Guineans that, through administrative and financial assistance, the development of a PNG literature and its writers would be guaranteed.
So by default, I call out the billionaires, millionaires, movers, shakers and persons of influence in PNG who’ve read Phil Fitzpatrick’s commentaries and have taken nil action in response. Shame, shame, shame!
I call out the friends, family, acquaintances of billionaires, millionaires, movers, shakers and persons of influence in PNG who they haven’t approached and rallied support to put some literary backbone into PNG.
I take my ticket to stand in the queue that has the familiar snake-like resemblance of Wara Sepik. Shame on me!
If the Crocodile Prize Organisation disbands after 2015, Papua New Guineans will do what we’ve developed a knack for.
We’ll just blame each other. And when we take a breather from that, will blame the government.
And when we’ve run out of steam, we will blame the expatriates, foreigners, immigrants. It will all be their fault. How dare they impose their belief upon us that Papua New Guineans are capable of managing their own literature.
So there’s no confusion down the track, let’s be clear. In Papua New Guinea everyone is in it for themselves.
Papua New Guinea is a dog-eat-dog society. Only the fittest survive by staying attached to the delusion that altruism is the responsibility of someone else.
Philanthropy is the obligation of everyone who is not me.
So please, for the love of self-sufficiency, stop asking us to do something that has no immediate reward for us.
If my wrath doesn’t invoke a change of heart, I can assume it’s safe to say it’ll be another all too sad and familiar chapter added to the ‘would’ve, could’ve, should’ve been’ story of Papua New Guinea.