Our eyes met, and suddenly, the noisy chatter of shoppers strolling along Bourke Street Mall and the clanging of the trams faded away.
“Would you like to sign a petition against the Iraq War?” I was asked. “Yes”, I said breathlessly.
Thus began my long and torrid affair with a political activist group, the Extreme Lefties. It was Autumn - when a young woman’s sporadic interest in politics could potentially turn into full-blown activism.
Within a week, our first meeting was arranged. The plan for the day included a lovely walk around campus sticking up posters, an intimate chat over coffee and after that… well, who knows?
Turns out I got lucky. At the end of the meeting, I was invited into the Extreme Lefties student office. I admit I had some reservations at first. Some people won’t venture into the nerve centre of a radical activist group after the first meeting. “But we’ve just met! Shouldn’t we wait until the third meeting, at the very least?” they argue.
But I like to think of myself as an open-minded person. Our stumbling first encounter didn’t turn out too badly, although there were awkward pauses in conversation and plenty of nervous fidgeting. After we had exhausted ourselves, huffing and puffing and groaning and moaning over Howard’s neo-liberalism and the VSU, I left the office surreptitiously in the late evening, plied with pamphlets and leaflets and promises that someone would call me soon.
Love Letters.
They were true to their word. Three days later, a second meeting was planned. This time, the Extreme Lefties asked me to attend one of their public meetings at Union Hall. Stepping into the Union Hall was like stepping into a modern day Smolney institute, complete with musty green carpet, oak paneling, rickety stairs and portraits of Marx the Father and Lenin the Holy Spirit (but no sign of Stalin the errant Son). The decor was a little too rustic for my taste, and the rooms could have done with some airing, but I’d be lying if I said the atmosphere wasn’t at least a teensy bit romantic. The meeting and discussions with various members thoroughly stretched my mind – and don’t they say that the brain is the largest erotic organ?
Our second date.
The following week, orientation for first-years at university began, and for a while I was too occupied to concentrate on my political life. But during the two Clubs and Societies showcase days, I met another political group, the Moderate Lefties. While the Extreme Lefties were passionate and vocal, the Moderate Lefties were relaxed and breezy.
“Come along for our meeting,” they wink. “I’ll be there,” I sigh.
And what a meeting it was! The Moderate Lefties sure knew how to have a good time. The smoky, beer-soaked atmosphere was perfect for the lighter side of politics to surface.
“If the fascists kill one of us,” a self-proclaimed anarchist in the group slurred, “we shouldn’t kill one of them.” “Yes, yes”, another member concurred earnestly. “We shouldn’t adopt an eye-for-an-eye attitude. It isn’t constructive. We should turn to existing forms of legislation and prosecute their hateful behaviour. ” “No, no, no”, the anarchist continued jokingly. “If the fascists kill one of us, we should kill ALL of them!”
The rest of the night continued along the same vein, with serious discussion interspersed with discussions of how to revamp Howard’s capitalist government in a great proletarian reformation. No wait- that was the serious discussion. The jokes were more on the lines of:
“If John Howard, Peter Costello and Tony Abbott were on a boat in Sydney Harbour, and the boat sank, who would be saved first? Australia!”
Political people are funny that way.
The next day, fresh with a hangover, I had to drag myself to a meeting with Amnesty International, a human rights group I had signed up with in O-week. But, as everyone knows, cheating never pays.
The political maneuvering I thought I was so adept at started to catch up with me. The Extreme Lefties called me up for a poster run, only days after I had got down on my hands and knees with the other Amnesty members, hand-printing a banner for our Stop Violence Against Women Campaign for International Women’s Day.
The Extreme Lefties wanted to know why I wasn’t attending their on-campus meetings. The truth of course, was that their meeting times clashed with Amnesty meeting times. I had no choice but to confess. Besides, they had spotted the Amnesty ‘Stop Violence Against Women” temporary tattoo on my forearm, as large and conspicuous as a giant purple hickey.
Sign of infidelity: as large and conspicuous as a giant purple hickey
“Humph” one of the Extreme Lefties sniffed disapprovingly.
“Did you know that Philip Ruddock is responsible for some of the most vicious attacks on the rights of asylum seekers in Australia… and he’s a member of Amnesty?” “No,” I said sheepishly. “Did you know that Amnesty was against Nelson Mandela, calling him a terrorist?” “No,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Did you know that Bono, and other musicians supporting Amnesty, shook hands with George W. Bush?!”
Ah, that one I knew, at least.
I wondered if I should have disclosed my other political affiliations, right there and then. Come clean and let it all out. Reveal my dalliances. And not just with the Moderate Lefties, either. I had taken to chatting with the Non-Revolutionary Lefties, and had even wandered over to the Right-wingers booth during O-week. God forbid they find out I had considered joining the Environmental Hippies!
Frankly, all this political infidelity has left me exhausted. There are only so many lucky breaks I will be given before someone from a particular political group spots me supping with a rival group. I should make up my mind, pick one and settle down. Or maybe I should get radical and empower myself by defying all calls for commitment. I should slam the door on all these groups, wandering out alone into a brave new apolitical world.
