Book Review: STOP PRESS

Just finished reading this short and punchy 'history' book, written by Rachel Buchanan.

'STOP PRESS' is one of the Published Scribe's Media Chronicles, a series of first person accounts about the changes in the mass media that we are now a part of.  I was actually sent this particular book by Crikey as part of my subscription which I am thoroughly enjoying and is probably where I get most of my Australian news from.

Shameless promotion aside, the book and the Chronicles are timely, given never-ending public lament on the death of the newspapers.  Circulation is down across almost all dailies in Australia, revenue is plummeting and it seems the grieving has begun before 'Time of Death' has even been called.

It is interesting to ask whether this is a history book or not.  Rachel's friend, quoted in the book, seems to think so.

[box] "I started to explain that I was writing about the present, about how newspapers were made now, but my friend interrupted. 'Yes it is,' she said. 'We are history Rachel. You are writing a history book.'" [/box]

Perhaps.  Buchanan chronicles the huge change in the world of newspapers over her lifetime, a change that has occurred so rapidly it is no wonder folk are blinking their eyes, shaking off twittering birds circling above their head.  The fall of newspapers has been rough and undignified in a way.  Rachel writes nostalgically of hot metal presses; proud, loyal distributors who would do anything to get the paper out on time, an entire industry devoted to reporting, writing, producing; intellectuals in their own world that are unused to this recent loss of importance.

Again, like other books and films, I become nostalgic for a time I never knew.  The world seems foreign yet romantic in a way that reminds me of period-films; movies set back in time that make you wish you were there.  Sometimes though, you realise if you were, you probably wouldn't have been living the life shown on screen.  After all, when in history were coloured people ever the ones inhabiting mansions?  Downton Abbey, for shame.

What Rachel does well is highlight that the (alleged?) death of the traditional press (if it can be called a death - after all, the book claims that the national circulation is still 11 million) does not just mean the loss of jobs for reporters and journalists, but of the entire industry around the 'press' itself.  This was an angle I had not really considered before.  Newspapers were a 'manufacturing' industry, and with the decline in manufacturing around the West generally, newspapers naturally followed suit.  The book does well here, giving life to all from the paper mills to the ink stained men working the presses and the local distributors, stuffing papers with inserts every night.

Yet, I feel there is a unnecessary conflation between the death of the newspaper and the death of 'quality journalism'.

I was born early enough in the nineties to not have grown up with the internet as integral to my life as air.  I grew up in a family that lived on newspapers; until today I pick up copies of The Australian (I do love a broadsheet) and the Financial Review (and SMH/The Age if travelling) whenever I get the chance.

However, it strikes me that all the lament is coming from those who played a role in the old world of the press.  Personally, I feel like news is news is news.  Online I can be my own curator, add to the discussion and diverse voices can be heard, and, well, that is just fine with me!

Yes, the traditional world of the press is not as ubiquitous as it used to be (in the West, the East is still a little different).  Neither is the world of vinyl, or horse driven carts.  New technology is different, but it doesn't make it any less valuable, if we treat it with the same level of respect as we did its predecessor.

The old school press might be dying, but journalism doesn't have to.  In fact, I don't think it is.

Stories that are truly investigative and revolutionary might not occur every day, but the recent Edward Snowden upheavals are examples of the fourth estate really showing why it remains a pillar.

The internet has shaken things up for the capitalist world, which thought it had its revenue streams all figured out.  In a way, I like the upheaval and the change.  It means the power has shifted - or at least, has the potential to shift - from powerful (single-demographic) men who controlled it all, including what the public saw as the truth.   Too much power with the one demographic is never really much fun.

I've never heard a person my age lament the death of the paper; we read the news on our laptops, phones, iPads and just get on with life.

Yes, things are different.  The money for editors, sub editors and the like isn't what it used to be.  The structures are changing.  Buchanan's book is a chronicle of that change.

Still...

Change brings new beginnings, and I am excited to see what we young people make it.

It's going to be a fun ride :)

Safety: Seriously Super or Silliness?

Anyone who works in an industrial setting is familiar with the concept of Occupational Health and Safety (OH&S, HSE, or one of the multitude of variations on the name).

Working in the field, the battle around OH&S and its acceptance is relentless.  Every company has their version of a set of 'Golden Rules', a specific training course designed to get you up to date and a regime of hazard observation and constant reporting that is allegedly designed to make workplaces safer.

Does it? Well, perhaps the proof is in the pudding...

Incidents are certainly occurring at a lower rate than they were 20 or 30 years ago.  However, there is something to be said for trying to avoid a safety culture that is about stifling productivity.

So where is the line between taking care of people and stifling their ability to work and think?

The answer isn't clear; obviously, since thousands of corporate man-hours have gone into thinking about this.  It does not help that we live in such a litigious society, meaning a portion of the motivation is what I like to call "booty insurance" (or better known in the industry as CYA - Cover Your A***).  In the absence of academic knowledge in the area, I have decided to go with my personal-anthropological-observational-learnings and extrapolate wildly from there.

In a couple of interesting conversations recently, starkly different attitudes towards safety have come to light in sharp relief.  Here are a couple of the different characters people (by and large) fall into.

The old bloke who does NOT think any of the safety initiatives make an ounce of a difference.

"Back in my day..."

The standard call of the old-timer is that back in his day things were different and people were fine.

Except they weren't always fine, and when you dig a little deeper they usually admit a lot of people were hurt ("oh yeh, he put his back out, oh yeh, well he only has three fingers now").

They do have a fair point in saying that excessive reporting  does not necessarily mean people are thinking more about the task at hand.

These (mostly) men usually have their hearts in the right place and seemingly the largest frustration is not at the interest in safety, but the tools used to implement them.  Extra paperwork, repetitious reporting and superfluous systems often cause rejection of the concept outright rather than a tenacious engagement the rest of us green hands could use.

The young one who has just accepted it is a numbers game.

A fair few of young lads and ladies coming into the system fit into this category.  We understand it is a requirement - we haven't known the system to be any different really - and follow only because we must.

Write one hazard per person per day? Done.

Think about one hazard per person per day? Hmm, not so much.

True engagement in the system isn't guaranteed, and this is the weakness in the system.  How do you force people to think?  The frameworks in place are supposed to do this, yet...

The safety lad / lady who has never worked on the rig/in the workshop/on the track.

The archetype of the disliked safety official.

An individual who exists more in people's minds than in reality, this the type of individual who enjoys reporting on others without a conversation first, does not necessarily take on feedback from the field operators and generally is a blight on the safety cause.

Perhaps companies are more this character than individuals though.  People can be reasoned with, most of the time. Corporations and institutions are much more behemoth.

The safety person who has seen too many people get (or almost get) hurt and wants to do something about it.

...and this is the person who has the capacity to make the most difference.

Fortunately, the vast majority of the safety personnel on site that I have met are of this variety.  It is just unfortunate that they have to seemingly fight a battle with their institution to be able to communicate the culture and restrictions on site to the rule makers in the office.

***

The cowboy culture of doing things crazily and dangerously is not as prevalent as people think (or as I thought it would be), particularly in Australia.  So suffocation of field operators with rules and regulations can be self defeating if it is excessive and the monotony or ineffectiveness of the tool removes from the outcome.  For example, operating procedures that are 50 pages long when all that is needed is a simple step-by-step 'this is how you use this piece of equipment' in a way that mitigates the hazards.  By over-complicating the tool, people are dissuaded from using it.

Another example is the banning of products in a reactionary manner due to an involvement in a single incident.  There is a rumour that a mine site banned rags as they were involved in some sort of incident, only to reinstate them a few days later as they realised the workshop couldn't really operate without rags.

Ultimately, however, we all want to go home, and being safe in a workplace is imperative in allowing that to happen.  For that to happen, safety must be a part of the equation.  The trick is to getting the balance right.  Like everything else, that involves communication, respect and a healthy teaspoon of cement.

(I kid).

What do you think?

Do we follow our dreams or take the safe route?!

Should we focus on getting jobs that fulfill us, or is it all about putting food on the table? I guess there is more than one way to earn a living, yet it is much easier said than done.

It's no secret that youth unemployment is an issue in this nation, and one that doesn't often get the airtime that it deserves.  Granted our situation is a far cry from the malaise that is the European situation, with the likes of Spain and Italy seeing double digit unemployment numbers. However, in the economic situation that we are in today, is traditional job creation the answer?

One of the ways in which the United States has continued to be an attractive location for entrepreneurs and budding start ups is its welcoming policy framework around innovation and enterprising.

Furthermore, the extraordinarily capitalist nation that America is means that young people 'must' make it - they don't have the same safety net of HECS (Higher Education Commonwealth Support) and Centerlink that we take for granted here in Australia.  As such, young people graduate from university with lukewarm prospects of traditional employment and debt to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars.

The system, although not perfect, rewards enterprising and entrepreneurship.

In Australia, although we are placed in the top 10 nations for entrepreneurship culture around the world, doesn't necessarily reward it in the same way...

However, is it becoming a more important piece in the puzzle to fight unemployment?

This isn't the only problem either.

On an ideological front, the idea of following your dreams if often sold.  We are taught coming up through school that we should follow our passions, do what we love, never give up, keep trying and it will all work out.

On the other hand, society shuns failure, and we still need to find ways to put food on the table.  Furthermore, the workforce itself hasn't changed.  It's seems to be full of people who 'put the hard yards in' to get to where they are now, and see a job as a form of employment and a duty for the pay check as opposed to a place for self fulfillment.  Our bosses aren't there to help us find our purpose in life.  They've hired us for a job and it's that job they are interested in.  If you've been one of the lucky ones to find a job that perfectly aligns with your love in life then you're doing well, but as has become clearer to me as I have moved into the workforce, not everyone has that luxury.

Once we start asking ourselves these questions, it seems like everywhere you turn you can find the blog of someone who has turned their passion into paying job.  'I want to do that!' You think...I want to do what makes me happy!

Of course, this then goes to the point about happiness, and whether life is about finding happiness or about meaning...and what does that mean anyway?

This leads me back to the original question.  Should we forgo security and working ‘for the man’ to ‘follow our dreams’ which is a much riskier path, or do we take the safe option and do what we are ‘supposed to’ by getting a good, less risky, stable job and figuring the rest out on the side?

I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet. People keep telling me I have my whole life to go (Insha' Allah), but sometimes I feel this anxiety about whether the choices I am making about my career and path and the right choices or whether I am closing doors that I will regret.

...then I think of the words of my friend who very simply said:

'You are in the place you are meant to be right now, and it's perfect.  All the choices you've made have brought you here, and so it's all perfect for right now'.

I guess it is times like this I find solace in the concept of fate and destiny.  Alhamdulilah...

***

What do you think?

Cheers,

Yassmin Abdel-Magied

The FIFO Life: Out of a duffel bag

I dumped my oversized waterproof sports bag on the tiles next to the door as I walked in, waving at the taxi.  Off came the steel capped booted, the long socks.  I breathed in deeply; it was good to be home.

Could I really call it home anymore though? I am not too sure.  I don't spend more than a week at a time in this house, and my parents have already appropriated the spaces I used to call my own. The study desk I painstakingly built in high school and lived at during my university days has been taken over by my younger brother.  My room is unrecognisable.  The bed has been moved out, replaced with the spare single.  All signs of life are packed away in cupboards and boxes by a mother who cannot abide clutter.  I don't bother unpacking my work bag anymore as it will only be a matter of days before I head off again and it sits at the foot of my nightstand, disrupting the clean lines...

Working on the oil and gas rigs as a fly-in fly-out worker is an interesting lifestyle, and that of a service hand is slightly more erratic.  Due to the nature of our employment, we don't have regular rosters and are constantly on-call.  Rig crews often gasp in shock (or grunt, because 'men don't gasp!') when we explain how we have no roster: no idea of when we will be needed or how long we will stay in the field for, a life lived by the phone.  It is the nature of the game and we are clearly told so when we start, but it only hits me on moments like this, moments when I realise I don't live at 'home' anymore.  It seems that I have moved out, but it happened without fanfare and anyone really noticing. I didn't move into another home, rather a to a life out of this 18 kilo duffel bag.

You learn what is essential and what you can live without, you learn to take small bottles of shampoo and fewer changes of clothes.  On my first hitch my bag weighed in at 23kg, the maximum QANTAS would take. Now, I am at a comfortable 18kg - and that 5kg makes all the difference when you haul your life around on your shoulder.

You become accustomed to wearing the same two sets of clothes to work for weeks on end, having one set washed for you every night and folded by the morning.  You get used to having your food made for you, because most camps have a 24 hour kitchen to serve the 24 hour rig operations.  Some might consider it a luxury, having your clothes washed and your food cooked, but when after working over 12 hours a day, 7 days a week for weeks on end, you will take any luxury you can get.  It says something about a place when lollipops and stickers are like gold and anyone taking a trip to the nearest town is inundated with requests for packs of red bull, cigarettes or eclipse mints.  It's the simple things that keep you going.

---

The FIFO Life is a series of moments experienced during the Fly-In, Fly-Out (FIFO) life of working on the oil and gas rigs.  Amorphous, random, and usually written on a whim, these are moments that encapsulate the emotion of a strange sort of a life.

Country Music + Reflection for your Saturday morning?

On a recommendation by a fellow colleague, I have been making my through the TV series 'Justified'.

Not my usual show, and I find myself questioning how I can barrack for a protagonist who clearly acts as a the law onto himself. In that sense the show is not completely unlike Dexter, but I cannot abide that show at all! The moral grey area that inhabits does not sit well with me.

Nonetheless, Rayland, the old-school-Kentucky cowboy US marshall is an interesting character and the supporting cast is multilayered, intriguing and keeps you involved.

The show's soundtrack is (to my ears) true Southern country, but this particular song - You'll Never Leave Harlan Alive - caught my ear. Harlan, the town wherein the show is based, is an old coal town and this particular tune sings a sad melody around the trials of digging coal.

***

This time last year I spent a little over a month in Houston, Texas, training for work. To be honest, travelling to the 'deep south' was something I had not really grown up wanting to do but I treated it like I treat everything: an adventure and an opportunity to learn something about the way other people see the world.

I took away a number of things from the experience, there is no doubt about that. One of the most unexpected takings however, was an appreciation for country music (did I really just type that?!). It was the first time I had spent time around people who listened to country regularly (almost exclusively!) and what was the draw card? The songs were about the lives, loves and dramas of life. There seemed to be a depth to the music that is not always present in the top 40 pop charts, and so I began to appreciate, just a little...

***

But the times got hard and tobacco wasn't selling And ole granddad knew what he'd do to survive He went and dug for Harlan coal And sent the money back to granny But he never left Harlan alive

***

Something about the song struck a note. Our parents, their parents, generations before us knew, seem to have known that life was hard and just worked through it, fighting for better but accepting that was how life was. The obsession with 'happiness' played itself out a little differently. Art and music of those days are drenched with tales of woe and sacrifice. What my own parents did, in leaving Sudan and traveling to the other side of the world! for the future of their children - that level of sacrifice is unimaginable.

So the question is this: is our generation different? Are we so caught up as a society in the pursuit of our own happiness that the level of sacrifice we have seen is no longer, or are we going to be alright? What does this mean for us as communities?

Only time will tell...

SMH: Youth issues drowned amid sound bites

Just after the Australian election, my  first 'real-life' paper opinion piece appeared in the Sun-Herald paper, the Sunday edition of the Sydney Morning Herald. Icing on the cake? Malcolm Fraser himself retweeted it!

In case you missed it, check it out below...

***

It has been a long five weeks. It would be fair to say it has been a long seven months; since the first election announcement on January 30, the political onslaught has been relentless.

The cycle of topical and divisive issues such as asylum seekers, the economy, the national broadband network and the paid parental leave scheme have dominated. Tiringly, these issues are only ever discussed in sound bites.

The debates made conspicuous by their absence however, were those about the policies that directly address issues of importance to young people and the longer-term future of our nation.

Climate change has been spoken about only in so far as to scrap the carbon tax. It would seem Maslow's hierarchy of needs is at work, with parties playing on voters' survival instinct rather than longer-term attitudes towards morality. In an environment where the fear of the "budget emergency" and the "rise in the cost of living" are touted as immediate crises, the apparent "ethical luxury" of a shift to sustainable development is no longer part of the debate.

The fear-mongering flies in the face of data from the National Electricity Market, which indicates a 7 per cent reduction in greenhouse gas emissions from 2011-12 to 2012-13. Naturally, the entire reduction cannot be attributed simply to the tax and it alone is not the whole answer. Nonetheless, the objective remains: to reduce our society's impact on the environment by whichever means are most effective.

Young people have been left behind at both ends of Maslow's hierarchy. Not only has the issue of climate change been removed from consideration, but the physiological and safety needs in employment and housing have been underplayed.

The unemployment rate for people aged 15 to 24 is 11.5 per cent, double the general number and up from 8.8 per cent in 2008. For those between 15 and 19, it is 27.3 per cent, up from 15.5 per cent in 2008. The Foundation for Young Australians' How Young People Are Faring 2012 report shows opportunities for them to take up full-time work have declined over the past 25 years.

Furthermore, the demographics of our workforce are changing. Job vacancies are low, with one in five unemployed for every vacancy in some states. Even for the 73.4 per cent of young people engaged in full-time education or training, their prospects once their training is over have been diminished.

The difficulties are further compounded for the vulnerable. Students from low socio-economic backgrounds (13.8 per cent) are twice as likely as their wealthier counterparts (5.2 per cent) to be out of employment, education or training. For indigenous youth and those with a disability, the rate is three times as high.

Housing is another sleeper issue largely ignored by public debate, with numbers showing a continuing decline in the value of loans taken out by first home buyers. Young people are also over-represented among the homeless.

The solutions provided by each side of the house are insufficient. The structures within the labour force, entry to employment and the effectiveness of traditional pathways need to be reassessed. To do that, however, these issues need to be on the table.

Perhaps the voting power of young people is not enough to set the agenda yet, but climate change during the 2010 election implied the opposite. The short-sightedness of our leading parties, however, means the burgeoning issues of our time are left aside for emotive discussions that play on voters' fears.

We can only hope that now that the decision has been settled, we will see some long-term visionary thinking. Optimistic perhaps, but isn't that the blessing of youth.

Read the original on the Sydney Morning Herald Website here. 

***

So what do you think? What issues are now missing from the agenda?

How do you eat a prawn with chopsticks?!

I stare into my bowl, the steam slightly clouding my glasses.

'Should have just gone with the beef tepanyaki'...my mind wanders.

***

I enjoy taking a punt on foods and eating things that I don't recognise (as long as they are Halal!).  It keeps life interesting and I've had some great experiences and well, some not so good ones.

This was shaping up to be a 'not-so-bad-but-should-have-gone-with-something-else' category.

I'm sitting at an 'authentic' tepanyaki house, if by authentic it means frequented by locals and staffed by people who look like they know what they're doing.

It is in a mall in Kuala Lampur though, so I am not sure how 'authentic' it can be called really, in the grand scheme of things.  10 meters away from this step into another world is a Burger King.  The magic of globalisation...

***

It was the first non-franchised chain I had come across in the mall and seeing I was running out of Rinngets in cash and didn't want to exchange any more money the prices were relatively reasonable I stopped and looked at the menu.

Beef Tepanyaki - something I'd never had but was always curious about, 12.90 RM.  Sukiyaki, a dish I had never heard of with an interesting looking picture in a pot, 10.90 RM.

Ah, the bottom-line wins! Sukiyaki it is!

I mumbled to the man standing at the entrance, he nodded, ticked a box on a paper and handed me the slip.

I stood there, waiting and looked expectantly.

He gestured again, slightly impatiently.  I ventured into the restaurant, bumped into a lady holding hot tea - sorry! ah, terimakasi! - and sat on an empty stool, one of the many at the large oval table surrounding the cooking surface in the middle.  I placed my paper in front of me, hoping that was the right thing to do. Do I talk to someone? Who knows.  Let's just look at what everyone else does...

***

Eventually a chef walks into center of the oval, looks at my sheet of paper, looks at the paper of those sitting next to me, yells a few things at the kitchen behind the counter, and begins cooking.

Ah! The fluidity of the movement! The gestured flippancy in the applications of herbs and spices as if he was merely miming how to put a dish together. I am mesmerised.

He isn't cooking for me though. My pot comes out after a wait, steaming, and definitely not what I expected.  It is a bowl, hotter than hot, with at least three servings of broth, random eggs and bits of protein and full of thin, clear noddles that prove to have a very low friction factor.

I struggle slightly, sure that all the staff are secretly sniggering at my balancing attempting to balance a ladle with chopsticks, eating with the right hand and attempting not to splash myself.  Such self indulgence, to think everyone is paying enough attention to be laughing at you.

So vain! I mentally kick myself and return my attention to tackling the enormous portion.

A family comes in; mother , father and son, and sit near me on the oval table.  They stare at my pot; perhaps I have ordered a family size my accident? I suddenly feel self conscious and clumsy.

***

Having gotten the hang of the noodles and tackled the bits of chicken in the soup, I am left with copious noodles and...a prawn.  With the head, tail and shell intact.

This was something I hadn't prepared for. I am yet to see anyone use their hands to peel a prawn, and I don't want to make a mess.

How do you peel a prawn with chopsticks?

I try to spear it with my chopsticks unsuccessfully.

Attempting to remove the head with my ladle isn't successful either.

I end up with a chopstick in each hand, attempting to leverage the shell off.  The father sitting opposite me observes me with a strange expression.  The wife and son then begin watching the battle in turn...

For the first time in my life, I have a question that I am too embarrassed to ask. How was I expected to eat this prawn?

***

I arrange the chopsticks and ladle neatly next to the half finished pot and scurried to the counter to pay.

The prawn lies in the black pot, its head slightly peeking above the surface of the broth.

Prawn, you may have won this battle...

***

On the taxi ride to airport I ask the driver what he would do.

"No idea! I would probably use my hands. I am not very good with chopsticks..."

Daily Life: What it's like to work on an all-male oil rig

This piece originally appeared on Fairfax's Daily Life.

My first posting on the oil and gas rigs happened shortly after graduating from mechanical engineering.  My mother was quite proud; my father on the other hand took a while to come around.  He couldn't understand why his Muslim daughter wouldn't accept a solid, stable job offer in the city.

“What are you doing out here?” my friends would ask, “Is it just for the money?”, “What is it like working with blokes all the time?” or, more often than not: “Are you insane?”

I remember walking into a meeting in the early days as one of the guys was taking a sip of his instant coffee.  "Tastes like date rape", he said.

I froze, looking at my fellow rig worker.  I wasn’t quite sure what to say.  If I overreacted he would badge me as being ‘over sensitive’ and avoid me for the rest of the job, but my inner feminist nonetheless cringed at the idea of letting such language slide. Sensing my unease, he finally said, "I guess we can’t say that sort of thing anymore now that you are here."

Working on oil and gas rigs isn't the first career path that typically comes to mind for many women. By and large, it's seen as a rough, tough, blokey world that is does not welcome female employees.   Notwithstanding this, I was attracted to the adventure, the practical aspect of the operation and the challenge of working in such an unusual environment.  It seemed like the ideal first job for an engineering experience junkie like me.

Given the fact that I have met around six women working in the field in the entire time I have been employed, one can say there is truth in the 'boys club' perception. But working in this masculine, testosterone-drenched environment has also been an interesting exercise in backyard sociology.

Here are some of the things I’ve learnt in the time I spent at the oil rigs:

Firstly, there is a significant generational difference in the male workers' attitudes towards women.

An older colleague once said, "Girly, when I started drinking, women weren't even allowed in bars." Men of his age share an antiquated view of women, but they are products of their time.

Then there are those who feel the need to be protective. “My mother, my father, my grandparents, my aunties...they'd not just roll in their graves, they'd right come out of their graves to give me a de-nozo slap if they heard me using any sort of language in front of a lady!”

Young guys, on the other hand, are often more 'gender blind'. Women being denied access or opportunities simply due to their gender is seen as old-fashioned.  They are also keenly aware of the legislation that protects that equality and will err on the side of caution so as not to put their foot in it.

They tend to test the waters and gauge what they can and can’t say around their female colleagues before they are rebuked.  It does give us a modicum of power, as they follow our cue.

However, 'formal' equality does not necessarily reflect a true change in their social attitudes and underlying expectations.  And the biggest giveaway is in the way the workers speak.

The language used by men on the rig is indescribable - and that is what they choose to say in front of me.  It’s relatively easy to complain about offensive or derogatory language in a modern mix-gender workplace.  However, when operating as the sole female in a male dominated environment, there are some awkward challenges.

Yes, we can go in, guns blazing, demanding things happen on our terms. The legislative framework exists, and is there for anyone to use if they feel discriminated against in any manner.

The protection we have as women in these environments is unprecedented when compared to attitudes two short years ago.  Legal change is the first, extremely important step.  However, forcing change in that manner inevitably fosters dissent and confusion in some cases.

In other words, the rules are changing for these men, but they don't quite know how to deal with it yet.  It is this behavioural change that we must now strive and push for, and it will be an uphill struggle.

In the end these are people I work with, live with, laugh with and rely on to keep me alive around pretty heavy machinery.  Most of them have fallen over themselves to help me and make sure that I am protected and looked after.  Although they can be painted as uneducated chauvinists, many of them are also a product of their society and what is expected of them to be ‘men’.

As my rig manager said, “This is a completely different world to [the one] out there... There is no way I would speak the same way I do on the rig in the street, that wouldn't be right.  It's just a way of keeping yourself a little sane'.”

***

I enjoy what I do and the company of the people I work with.  I don't envy the difficulty they have though, in dealing with the changes in societal expectations.  We live in unprecedented and interesting times...

What do you think?  

Everyone was doing it.

Originally written for Westpac's Ruby Connection

'Everybody else was doing it'...

That was the first answer that popped into my head when asked by my parents why, at the ripe old age of 10, I had decided to don the hijab.  The first answer, but definitely not the whole story…

***

The hijab is an Islamic head covering and an all-round code of dress that encourages modesty and self respect.  A simple piece of fabric and a mindset perhaps, but one that carries connotations and political ramifications beyond what I understood at the time.  It is now, 12 years on, it is an irremovable part of my identity and expression as a Muslim, but the decision to wear it is something that is constantly under question.

***

As I attended the local Islamic primary school at the time, the hijab was part of my school uniform.  It wasn’t therefore a huge jump; I was already a part-time ‘hijabi’ and this was my conversion to full time.  It was the year 2001, and the date I chose for my conversion was November the 10^th.  Why? It was the federal election, and I wanted to choose an auspicious date just in case I forgot.  Forward thinking, always!

I walked to the house door wearing a huge white scarf, wrapped clumsily around my head and shoulders, pinned at the base of my neck.  I distinctly remember my father looking at me with slight concern and asking,

“Are you sure you want to do this? This is it?”

“Yes, yes, I am sure”.  Off I went…

What I didn’t realise at the time of course, was that I had chosen to wear the hijab in a politically charged environment.  It was only a few months after September 11 and Muslims were now sharply visible and constantly in the media. However, wearing the hijab for my 10 year old self wasn’t about political statement or being forced into following a cultural expectation. I believed I had come of age and it was time for me to wear the scarf!  Other girls might have wanted to start wearing makeup out or be allowed to date as a way of ‘growing up’; I chose to cover myself.

***

Why? Why do you do it, people ask. Doesn’t the concept oppress women? Don’t you miss the wind in your hair? Don’t you miss wearing a bikini to a beach?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I understood the full implications and reasons behind the concept when I made the decision, however I have settled into it with heartfelt conviction.

***

The concept of the hijab is cushioned in the value of modesty and of personal freedom.  It means something different to each individual who wears it, that is certain.

For me personally, the hijab is about being judged for who I am rather than what I look like.  There is extraordinary freedom in that, especially in a society where a woman’s looks, physicality and beauty are of such ‘importance’.

It is about being visible and proudly so, of my religion and what it stands for.

It is about saving my body and its womanly ways for those who I choose to see it (i.e. the eventual husband! Women, children and family are also allowed the hijab-less experience. The idea is to be covered from those who are marriageable).

That is not to say that those who don’t wear the hijab or choose to interpret it differently are any lesser, let me make that point clear.  We tend to get very defensive about personal choices such as dress.  I have respect for every woman’s choice, and that respect is the basis of all interaction. This is just how I choose to express myself.

***

Yes, some versions of hijab, such as the Burqa, are used as tools of oppression and invisibility in places such as Afghanistan.  However, this is not the case around the world!  Particularly in the West, those who choose to wear the hijab are most often following a personal choice and conviction.  For some, it is their way of becoming closer to God (Allah), forgoing the material obsessions of this world.  For others, it is about public expression as a Muslim.  The reasons are as many and as varied as the women themselves.

In fact, the concept of wanting to ‘free’ the ‘oppressed’ covered woman is insulting to the personal choice being made. It is presumptuous; assuming that one idea of freedom of expression is socially acceptable.  If it strays from such a path, it clearly must be backward and oppressive, right?

Women do not give up their voice and their thoughts when they choose to wear the hijab.

In fact, part of its intention was to give woman more agency and capacity to interact in a society, taking out the judgement of beauty.

I personally find it freeing, and it allows me to be more creative with my outfits!

***

So when you ask if me and my hijabi sisters are oppressed, I’ll likely just cock my eyebrow at you.

Who was it that won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2011? Three women, all who were covered when they received their awards.

That’s what I thought.

Let’s move away from the conversation of being ‘saved’.  There are thousands of more constructive dialectics to be had – ones were hijabed women are partners rather than mere silent victims.

Isn’t it ironic that in the very act of ‘saving’ women from oppression silences them?

Behind the Scenes at #QandA

When I answered my ringing phone in early May, I had no idea that I was about to be offered the opportunity that every young politically-engaged Australian dreams of.

‘Hello Yassmin, I am so-and-so, one of the producers from QandA on the ABC…”

Almost had a heart attack!

***

The opportunity came up to be a part of the panel in mid-May, but a late confirmation from a well known politician (Queensland's own, Bob Katter) meant that I was briefly bumped from the line up. My rig job meant that the next two or three opportunities were also impossible. I didn't know if I should begin to despair: after all, one can only say 'no' so many times...

Eventually, we found a date that worked. August the 5th.

It was only confirmed a little over a week before the announcement: given the responsive nature of the show, panel members are drafted in quite close to the air date. The producers do an amazing job in this sense; sourcing and organising a new panel of people at such short notice week in, week out, must be exhausting.

So it was, on July 29th, the announcement of the 'next week's panel' that my name was announced...Ah! Let the games begin.

The ads were up and the news was out, but I still had no idea what to expect. I frantically began to read and research all manner of topics. I met with migration agents and department officials to learn about the true facts behind our asylum seeker and refugee policy, conducted little surveys via twitter and Facebook. Reading, reading, reading...

We were never given the questions that would be asked, but on the Friday before the show the producers send out an email with a variety of topic suggestions to the audience participants (related to the areas of interest for the panellists). This is to prompt questions from the audience. The topics were extremely varied - from the 'youth vote' (mine) to Fairfax to the umpiring decisions in cricket. My favourite topic of the moment, the PNG policy - not in sight!

At this point, I was simply holding my breath...

By some twist of luck, the election was announced on the Sunday afternoon. Just my luck :)

Monday rolled around and I hopped on the plane to Sydney (with 5 different outfit options to boot!). I dallied around a little, had a chat to the producers on the phone and began to get dressed. Admittedly, it took a few goes to settle on the option I did, but my op-shop-red-jacket is a favourite. The white dove brooch? Totes the statement piece!

So. Dressed. Break my fast (it was still Ramadan). Pray, ask for forgiveness and a little bit of on-screen luck.

Next stop, ABC Studios.

8pm - I head into the make up room. I say hello to fellow panel member Greg Hunt on the way in. 'He seems like a nice enough chap', I think. 'I wonder what he'll be like on the panel!'

The make up lady - Maureen - was fabulous. She was actually married to a race car driver who raced against the likes of Martin Brundle and so on in the UK.   Naturally, we talked cars and got on like a house on fire! It was ironic that two ladies in a makeup room were waxing lyrical about Chevvy Stingrays and Fastbacks. She highlighted my cheekbones, left my lipstick as it was and sent me on my way...

8.30pm - Green Room, meeting the fellow panellists.

I was clearly the new kid on the block - each politician had their handler ('media advisor'), and Pamela and Grahame had history with everyone else. I introduced myself to everyone ('shaking hands, hello hello), and they were all lovely.  I suspect Morris spent the time wondering when my parents (or babysitter) were going to arrive...

They all had a good yarn. I interjected every so often with not-so-wise pearls of wisdom ('Oh yeh! I know right?!') and wondered what lay ahead. Doug Cameron and Grahame Morris seemed to get on pretty well for ideologically diametrically opposed individuals. The scene reminded me of the idea 'enemies in the house, drinking mates once the business is done'. Ah, Australia! They laughed together and agreed on their roles. 'I need someone to fight with' Morris had said. Cameron was more than happy to acquiesce to be his on-screen-enemy.

(I am not sure everyone is that good natured about it all. Wong vs Pyne - I would like to see their Green Room interaction indeed!).

We were told we had 90 seconds to go. I left my bag, phone (!!) and got in line to head to the studio...

We got into our seating order and were individually introduced to the crowd as we took our seats. I was right next to Tony. This was it!

(Right next to Tony is a button. It's red, and has the label, 'The God Button'. Oh, I wish I got a photo. I wonder if he's ever had to use it? Probably at the shoe throwing incident...)

There were only a few minutes between us being seated and going on air. Maureen and the makeup army came back on stage and 'powdered our noses'... then 5, 4, 3...

Tony Jones' introduction began!

Oh wow. Can I be perfectly honest and say that my heart has never beat as fast as it did during that first question? I don't even remember what it was about or who asked it.

All I could think of was 'right now Yassmina, you're on TV!! Don't do anything stupid! Don't fidget! Stay coooooool!'. I am pretty sure Tony could hear the Da-dunk, da-dunk... In fact, I'm actually surprised it doesn't come up as background noise in the filming.

Off it went. I wasn't asked any direct questions off the bat (thank goodness!) but by the time Hunt had finished his answer to the first question, my pulse had settled down slightly and I had forgotten about the cameras. 'This is just like any other random panel', I told myself 'Except I am surrounded by people that are talking and not making ANY sense! Let me have a word to them about this...'

It was a fair bit of electioneering, as one would expect. Being pretty disillusioned at the moment at the disgusting amount of partisan politics that is going, I had no agenda other than to say - 'no, stop! We (the people!) want wholesome, meaningful answers! Stop treating us without respect!'

A good friend/mentor/amazing woman in general, Anne Summers, who has been on the panel before, had given me the advice not to stay quiet. 'Just jump in if you have something to say, otherwise you won't get any airtime at all'. Another friend had said 'just smile', and my mother cautioned 'don't try be anyone you're not - just be yourself and be genuine, otherwise people will see right through it.'

Those are the three bits of advice I remembered and channeled - and boy, I was so happy to be there I had no problem keeping a smile on the dile Alhamdulilah! (I would actually call it a grin. A smile is much more demure...I was just flashing the pearls with pure abandon!). I jumped in whenever I thought they were talking rubbish (often) and tried to talk to the panel members in the same way that I would argue with the boys on the rig (perhaps with less invective though).

I haven't rewatched the episode or even remember what I said, but I remember feeling more comfortable as the night went on.  It only felt like 20 minutes had passed when Tony wrapped it up. 'That's all for tonight...'

It was all over!!

We shook hands and meandered back to the Green Room for liquid and solid refreshment...

The feedback from the panel members was lovely, and Tony Jones welcomed me to the 'QandA family'. It's a family I am darn well excited and honoured to be a part of!

So thank you Allah! Also to Tony Jones and the producers who were so kind - Amanda and Christine. To the fellow panelists, the make up ladies, my parents, mates (Richard from Richard's F1 who came along and supported!) and every single one of my mates - even those on the rigs! - who watched and wished me luck and supported :) I couldn't have done it without you all! Let's see where this crazzzy journey takes us next aye?!

If you missed the episode, you can read the transcript or download it here! :D

Brisbane Times: Is our Aussie Banter Bullying?

So I ask the question...do we just need to harden up ? A rework of a piece I recently wrote for the opinion pages on the Brisbane Times.  Read the comments! They are always my favourite part of the piece...

How I fell in love with V8s and all things motorsport...

I've always considered myself a rebel of sorts, even though all my friends at the Christian ecumenical high school I went to didn't see it that way.

I wasn't allowed out at night or on the weekends to ‘hang out’ at the shopping center; I had chosen to cover my hair and my body up as part of my religious beliefs; all my social events were with my family or community.

That didn’t matter to me though. I rebelled in my own ways… and one of those rebellions has turned into a full blown, life passion.

The story starts innocently enough; it was a cool Friday night and my mother, brother and I were settling in for another VHS movie night.

As was our tradition, we headed on over to the local video store and proceeded to each pick a movie.  My brother always picked the strange titles; I remember him thinking Shaolin Soccer looked cool. The night we watched that movie our stomachs hurt from distraught laughter.

Back to the Friday night in question...

It was an evening like any other, unremarkable to the point where I don't remember any details.  Suffice to say, however, one of us picked a movie that essentially changed my life.

It was called Catch that Kid. I look at the cover now and cringe, but at the time I just thought the two boys looked cute - and one had an afro like me!  I was sold.

The plot of the movie is irrelevant. It was a good movie, with nothing of note to remember...until right at the end, one of the characters heads out to his family's go-kart track and speeds around the circuit.

"That looks so cooool!" I remember thinking.  "I want to do THAT!"

Sold.

I then proceeded to beg my mum to let me on the internet (dial up, as it was), and began researching everything I could about go-karting.  When my parents refused to fork out the hundreds and thousands of dollars I was asking for to hit it up myself, I then started researching cars.

Somehow, between that kid's go-kart and the pages of the How Cars are Made books I borrowed from the local library, I fell in love with cars.

My first love was the McLaren F1. The fastest production car of the time; I couldn't get enough of it. I would borrow shelves worth of books from the library, from service manuals to the history of Ferrari, drinking up the shapes, the designs, the speed, the beauty of the power...

I think my parents thought it was a strange phase I would get over, until I started taking design and technology classes at school.  They would later be pleasantly surprised when I went on to top the subjects of both graphic design and design and technology in grade 12 (I was the only girl in my design and tech class!).

They must have realised something was up when all I would watch on the television was the Formula 1 and the V8s.  They definitely came to accept it when I chose mechanical engineering as my major, because I wanted to design cars for a living. I did initially want to be the first, female, Muslim Formula 1 driver but it didn't quite work out that way! ;)

If there is one thing I have learnt from the experience though, it's that inspiration can come from anywhere.  If we hadn't decided to stay in that night and watch movies, I might neverhave discovered my love for motorsport.  It makes life exciting in a way, to know that inspiration can hit at any time. Sometimes you just have to follow your gut and take life for a drive!