Moostaf, Imgen, Rooth and Rafela wur rely mad wen this jurnl got pinct and hid in the libry, but that the ferst tim I had frens to bak me up like this. So getng my jurnl stold turns owt to be a wunful thing.
Nex wek we hav to do our tork on our hero or vilan. Im hapy with my tork. I hav mad small nots lik you do with dbating.
I don't like the look of Little Red. It's been about two weeks since he's been there and although us kids are watering him his leaves look droopy and sick. The others think so too so we added some fertiliser. Nan has the newspaper photo of me and the others with Little Red on her fridge. She's that proud.
All our soup friends heard about it from Nan or from reading about it themselves. At tea-time they crowded into the kitchen. Mr Rajendra Singh Bajwa and his wife, Sangeeta, and their son, Pardeep Singh, brought apple cider and a platter of tropical fruit. Ehsan and Roshan Wahidi and their live-wire daughters, Gulshan and Leeza, brought homemade naan and a lamb casserole, Tawka Ko brought a rice and prawn salad. Ago Cejvan brought a pastry filled with apple and walnuts that he'd made himself. It was a party. Rajendra made a speech about me. âOne of our great gurus said,
A thousand and hundred thousand feats of intellect shall not accompany man in the hereafter,
but this young man, Philip, has what is necessary â a deep care for all living things.' Then everyone toasted me with apple cider.
For me there are three things that make me happy. First: my Nan and the lovely people who are like family and who visit. Second: Little Red. Third: I've got a group of school friends.
Mustafa, Imogen, Ruth and Raphaela were really mad when this journal got pinched and hidden in the library, but that's the first time I've had friends to back me up like this. So getting my journal stolen turns out to be a wonderful thing.
Next week we have to do our talk on our hero or villain. I'm happy with my talk. I have made small notes like you do with debating.
Once again, Phil has copped a lot of flak. This hiding his journal yesterday just isn't on. Everyone knows how hard he tries with his work. And second time in a row, I escaped the attention because other people are first in the firing line.
I know I'm named after a genius of a man, and I will always respect Ataturk and tell people about him. But right at this moment, I want the class to think about accepting each other for all our differences â and that includes me, my black hair, my big nose, and my mother's baklava. I mean, Lord Bloody Wog Rolo really was a brave guy. As an immigrant at a time when there were no rules against racism here in Australia, he was given a rough time.
Every time I look at Lord Rolo's photo, I smile. I know much more about him now. He really wanted to make society fairer and better all round. As part of the BUGAUP group (Billboards Utilising Graffiti Artists Against Unhealthy Promotions), for about sixteen years Rolo was active in ârefacing' billboards that promoted cigarettes, alcohol or anything else that might harm or offend people. They sound like a really amazing bunch of people. Apart from Rolo, there was a professor, a printer and a doctor.
I think Rolo's membership began when he went into a Coles Supermarket that was trialling shopping bags with cigarette advertisements on them. Rolo and a mate sabotaged the whole national scheme by buying up trolley loads of cigarette cartons. They gave the cashiers a nightmare of a time by getting them to record each carton on the registers. After all that, the two men
refused to take the cartons away in the supermarket bags with the cigarette ads on them.
This Rolo was dead set against injustice. He also wanted to show up racism for the idiot thing it is. In 1981 he founded the Keep Australia Black Movement (KABM) to make fun of some seriously extreme types who'd got together a group called the Keep Australia White Movement (KAWM). He called himself Imperial Wizard and National Director of the KABM. I love the guy!
Lesson number one for defeating the enemy: make life inconvenient in the funniest ways. Rolo certainly did. He was wearing his monocle just for show when he got his driving licence, even though he had 20/20 vision. He got sent to magistrate's court for not wearing it one day when he was driving. The magistrate examined the monocle, found it was made from clear glass, and reduced the fine from $250 to $50.
It's obvious Rolo enjoyed his many court appearances. Instead of waiting in the courtroom, he'd sit in another part of the building so that the court officer would have to walk through all the people calling out, âLord Bloody Wog Rolo!' Once in the courtroom, the same officer would have to announce him to the magistrate, âLord Bloody Wog Rolo, Your Worship!' In would come Rolo dressed up like royalty.
It made people laugh and think at the same time. Laughter really can be a weapon used for good. Dede obviously agrees. Otherwise, he wouldn't have kept that obituary.
My hart is brokn. Wen I got to skol erly today, I felt for shor that Litl Red was diing. Then I went to the staf rom to get our wodtek techer, Mr Dalhousie, and he cam down to lok at it and he sed sory mate Litl Red has had it and then he loked closely at the levs and then ran his hans down the trunk and fownd a hol wat had ben drilld and Mr Dalhousie sed I hav a bad feling that this tree has been poysnd. Wel I jus went of my brane. I pult Litl Red owt of the grownd and chukd it as far as I culd and I was criing and hiting my hed on the grownd.
I jus new it had to be Macca and his frends and I felt that nothing god was saf from them. Mr Dalhousie put his arms rownd my sholders to stop me from herting myself and sed real kwitely lif can be hel sun but its tims lik now that you hav to desid to be a winr or loosr so ples don't giv up mate becos I think you hav the wining streek. And I turnd rownd and my teers mad Mr Dalhousies shert wet and stil he held me.
And sumhow I relised that lif wil alays be like this tugofwar of god and bad and it wil alays be tuf and I carnt chang that but I can stil be me and I arnt going to let it chang me. And I sed this in the midl of my sobs to Mr Dalhousie and he sed that's wot I ment abowt been a winer. You are now ofishely a winer young Dugan and he gav me his hankerchef to wip my nos.
I kept kwiet at skol. The uthers in the Litl Red groop wer rely sad and angry and so wer most of the clas and lots and lots of kids in uther grads. Macca and his frends stayd kwiet for wunc.
At home tonite I re-red the second vers of âIf'. It was lik a
mesag from hevn. The bit abowt loosing everything and holding on and starting agen withowt a winge like Pop and Ago dun. It was then I felt strong enuf to tell Nan abowt my teribel day and how I wont to start agen an not giv in. And Nan sed thers strength in numbrs and al the groop has a beta chans if you takel it together.
Latr on I was thinking agen abowt how this batl btween god and bad wil alays be with us. I sudnly thort of anutha way to cop withit. Insted of wasting tim wishing life was difrnt and wishing everthing was esy, we can lok at ech problem as a oportunty. A sort of chaleng. We can fac the problem lik a puzl that we can find a arnser to. Mabe we carnt go strait thru, mabe we hav to go rownd or over or efan under.
My heart is broken. When I got to school early today, I felt for sure Little Red was dying. Then I went to the staffroom to get our wood-tech teacher, Mr Dalhousie, and he came down to look at it and he said, âSorry mate, Little Red has had it.' Then he looked closely at the leaves and then ran his hands down the trunk and found a hole what had been drilled. And Mr Dalhousie said, âI have a bad feeling that this tree has been poisoned.' Well I just went off my brain. I pulled Little Red out of the ground and chucked it as far as I could and I was crying and hitting my head on the ground.
I just knew it had to be Macca and his friends and I felt that nothing good was safe from them. Mr Dalhousie put his arms round my shoulders to stop me from hurting myself and said real quietly, âLife can be hell, son, but it's times like now you have to decide to be a winner or loser. So please don't give up, mate, because I think you have the winning streak.' And I turned round and my tears made Mr Dalhousie's shirt wet, and still he held me. And somehow I realised that life will always be like this tugo'-war of good and bad and it will always be tough and I can't change that, but I can still be me and I aren't going to let it change me. And I said this in the middle of my sobs to Mr Dalhousie and he said, âThat's what I meant about being a winner. You are now officially a winner, young Dugan.' And he gave me his handkerchief to wipe my nose.
I kept quiet at school. The others in the Little Red group were really sad and angry and so were most of the class and lots and
lots of kids in other grades. Macca and his friends stayed quiet for once.
At home tonight I re-read the second verse of âIf'. It was like a message from heaven. The bit about losing everything and holding on and starting again without a whinge like Pop and Ago done. It was then I felt strong enough to tell Nan about my terrible day and how I want to start again and not give in. And Nan said, âThere's strength in numbers and all the group has a better chance if you tackle it together.'
Later on I was thinking again about how this battle between good and bad will always be with us. I suddenly thought of another way to cope with it. Instead of wasting time wishing life was different and wishing everything was easy, we can look at each problem as an opportunity. A sort of challenge. We can face the problem like a puzzle that we can find an answer to. Maybe we can't go straight through. Maybe we have to go round or over or even under.
Yesterday we were all in shock, but today Philip asked the Little Red group to meet him down on the playground at recess. We stood around the hole where the sapling had once been â Phil, Ruth, Imogen, Oliver, Mustafa and me. Philip took off his blue glasses. His black-lashed eyes are deep and blue-green like the sea. Until then, I had never realised what a beautiful colour they are and what a steady gaze he has. Phil stood tall and started to speak.
âI should of told you from the start, but I didn't want to get stirred by Macca. And please, this is just between us. I could cop it big time if this gets out.'
Phil really had us curious by then. What on earth had he done? I wondered if Phil was going to own up to poisoning the tree. But before this chain of thought could get any further, he said, âIt was me what planted Little Red. It was a seedling that had taken off from an old tree my Pop planted in Nan's garden fifty years ago. That's why I had it handy, and that's why I got massively angry when I saw it poisoned. You see, it was a part of Pop they killed. And also it was saying to our group here that all the hard work we done was a joke. And the working as a group was probably the best bit of all. Well I say we should fix things. I haven't got another sapling to give, but we could think of something.'
It took this vicious vandalism for Philip to reveal that he was the secret hero. He had drawn us together over the protection of a little tree. He shrugged off any questions about the locker gifts. Anyway, Imogen and Ruth said they'd been mystery message senders, too. I didn't admit it, but I like the idea so much that
I've joined in on this, too. We certainly didn't start it off, but the way the conversation went, it's unlikely that Phil did, either. His written English is totally remedial and those first few notes were too well written. But the tree was all Phil's idea. How he got the tree to school was another story, and Phil said there was urgent business we had to tackle before going into all that.
Here was a humble leader wrapped in a tall stringy boy who wears blue glasses. We were gob-smacked. Mustafa stepped forward with his hand outstretched and said, âPut it here, mate.' They shook hands. Then the rest of us put our arms around Philip and Imogen said, âIn Guides, we learnt this old Russian proverb â
If everyone gives one thread, the poor man will have a shirt.
'
And Philip said, âThat's why I've told you all this. Together we can do something that's maybe even better.'
We sat around the hole where Little Red had once been, like sitting round an empty grave, and pooled our ideas. First off, we were determined to plant an even better tree in Little Red's place. Secondly, we planned a campaign to raise funds and alert the school and the community to the cause. By the end of lunch, we each had our responsibilities.
I took on the publicity side, and this morning I was over the moon to see these headlines in the local paper:
The article outlined the crime against Little Red and the efforts of our group. It heavily hinted at a âdestructive element' in the
school. It also called for offers of help to ârestore the fragile faith of the school's young environmentalists'.
This publicity was enough to rev up the Principal. He gave the school a lecture at assembly on community responsibility. You could also tell he was upset about the school's âreputation' being âblackened'.
Filing out of the assembly hall, I was behind Mr Quayle and Mrs Canmore. The tail-end of what he was saying was, â...a fuss over nothing. What about some real world tragedies like Mugabe and Zimbabwe?'
Mrs Canmore answered, âMugabe was probably a school bully who no one stood up to.'
Spot on!
Standing up to bullies brings me back to The White Rose. The members were a group of young students at Munich University. During their early teens, most of them had belonged to The Hitler Youth or, in Sophie Scholl's case, the equivalent for girls â The League of German Girls. They were members because you had to belong; it was compulsory. But even as young kids, they'd begun to question some of the things they were being brainwashed about.
By the time they were at university, they had started to gather together with people who were like them. They all enjoyed art, going to musical concerts, reading and discussing books and ideas. And they went hiking, skiing and swimming together. They were normal young people who liked to have fun. When they talked about Hitler's dictatorship, though, they were troubled. They realised they weren't the only ones who felt like
this when they read an anti-Nazi sermon given by the Roman Catholic Bishop of Munster. He must have been a gutsy bloke. He was called âthe Lion of Munster'. That's when the young students started to officially call themselves The White Rose.
Apparently, the question The White Rose most often discussed was how a person should behave when they have to live under a dictatorship. That's what some of us have been wondering about at this school. From the top down, there's a feeling that only some people are okay and the rest of us don't matter. How do you stand up to evil without behaving as badly as the evil guys? And how on earth do you strike out against a powerful system you despise? So it's interesting to see what The White Rose came up with. Just like Von Haeften, they decided the answer was in passive resistance. And the way they decided to resist was brilliant.
Mum says I have to help with the dishes. This is one situation where I've learnt passive resistance doesn't work.
Little Red's death is all some kids are talking about â and the new tree campaign. It's got out of hand. What might be called a prank in a year's time is at the moment a major crime. It's like that tree mob are the heroes of the day. And what they see as an injustice has just made them noisier.
No one is a hero â not totally. I could write about some pretty dodgy stuff that Oliver Johnston was up to last year. And, if I
could be bothered, I could dig up dirt on all the other little tree saints in that group.
And no one is all villain. Take Ned Kelly, the most famous Australian bushranger, for example. He risked his life saving a kid from drowning in a river â and he was a kid, himself. In his final fight against the law, at the siege of the Glenrowan pub, underneath his armour he was wearing the silk sash the boy's parents presented Ned. He thought himself a hero even if the cops didn't. And my mate, Machiavelli. His ideas on ruling a country have influenced some pretty good types like Leonardo da Vinci, for example.
Dad is another example of a good bloke who uses âstrategies' (I really like his word) to run the office. I heard him talking on the phone to one of his colleagues. They are planning to get rid of this upstart young barrister who has started to ârock the boat'. They want to give his job to some friend of Dad's. The guy they don't like wears Op Shop suits and coloured bow-ties to the office; he seriously undercharges the clients he reckons are short on cash; and he's getting popular with the court journalists â the âunder-dog causes' he fights for and his âtheatrical manner' give the journos a bit of entertainment. Dad's plan is to keep a detailed list of this guy's mistakes and then give him the choice of resigning or having a âdisciplinary hearing'.
Like Dad and his problems with that young barrister, I'm dead sick of the attention these little tree huggers are trying to get. Thanks to that emotional article in the local rag, donations towards another tree have been flooding into the school. It's a
big deal. The donors' names are printed in each edition of the newspaper and the school newsletter â the chemist, the doctor, little old pensioners, Vietnam Vets from the RSL, the local Supermarket, Pasquini's Fruit and Veg shop, and Rotary (Dad had to go along with all the âhype' as he calls it).
The tree huggers did a car wash for the staff and ran a âslave auction' where they got paid to do other odd jobs. And now there's stacks of money waiting for one tree. It's unjust. The money could and should be spent on heaps more than one tree. And just so the whole thing is âas big as Ben Hur' (Dad's words), Oliver Johnston's dad (who owns Johnston's Nursery) has said he will transport one of those âmature' trees to the school. They are virtually fully grown trees â the sort that millionaires buy. They can cost thousands of dollars, but Johnston's dad says he'll be happy to take the money that's been raised and leave it at that.
Bet you Johnston's dad knows a lot about Machiavelli's ideas by instinct. He'll still probably walk away with a profit and get his name all over the papers as well. Free advertising. Good one, Johnston.
Now Little Red is deady-bones, I've missed the chance to get on board with the Little Red maintenance group. A false move. Bad timing. Lessons learnt.
There's also been a bit of plain, bad luck. However, according to Machiavelli, I still have the power to make things happen favourably. There are times to throw caution to the winds, as the saying goes. Times to just make things work for you. I need to put a certain little upstart in his place. Shut him up. Too many people have started listening to his idiot ideas. Thanks to this
individual's unreadable journal (and a team of willing, hard-working translators), I've discovered his most vulnerable spot. De Grekh's on board. Cheung held back at first, but now he's persuaded. I have unfinished business.