The View from the Edge
The grass is not just dry, it’s dead.
When we walk outside, it crunches under our feet. We feed the birds and leave out buckets of water, because there’s just nothing else for them to eat and drink. Our dam, which was designed to accomodate a large overspill, is completely dry. The ducks that nested on the tiny island in the middle, safe from foxes, have found new homes.
Once-lush gullys are now time bombs of brown fuel. Every day, there’s a new kangaroo dead on the side of the road, driven out of the bush by lack of food.
And then there is the air. The air so thick with smoke and heat, some days we can’t see our own fence. Ventolin and Seretide and a P2 mask aren’t enough to keep my asthma at bay. My 3-year-old daughter asks to go outside to play on her swing, but it’s not worth the risk.
We started talking about fire months ago. Without rain, we said, it’ll be a terrible summer. And the rain did not come. As the mercury rose, so too did our anxieties. For months, we have lived with the hovering shadow.
Today, the shadow approaches.
As I write this, my father and my partner are outside in 35-degree-plus heat, installing a fire fighting hose onto our water tank. “We don’t have the water pressure to run everything at once,” my partner says, explaining his decision to get up on the roof with the garden hose if we experience ember attack. My Dad, 6 months into his diagnosis with Motor Neurone Disease, plans to get up on the water tank, with the high-capacity firefighting hose he bought yesterday. Picton’s local pump shop was doing a roaring trade.
In fire affected communities, there are reminders from every direction about what’s going on. You can’t escape it. You might think about something else for whole minutes at a time, but then your iphone pings with another alert from the RFS, or you have another coughing fit brought on by the smoke, or you hear another helicopter overhead, and a dark though enters your brain and you spend you more time wondering what you would do if…
My daughter’s swimming lessons were cancelled this morning. We were on our way out the door, me desperate for a distraction and a way for her to burn some energy indoors, when I thought to ring and ask. “Sorry, no lessons today,” came the answer, “because of the fires.” A minor thing. A tiny thing. Another reminder that life is not normal.
Much has been written about Scott Morrison’s decision to stay in Hawaii, both defending it and attacking it. They’ve pointed out there’s nothing he could do.
One of the most important duties of a national leader is to be a comforter-in-chief in times of crisis. It is to stand in front of grieving people and say “we grieve with you”. It is to listen to the fear and uncertainty and to take on some of the burden.
In staying away, Morrison has not just failed in that role. He has sent a clear message: your fears and your worries, your suffering and your loss, these things are not worth my attention. They are not a priority.
From the edge of the fire zone, emotionally on edge, there’s not really the time or energy to focus on anything more than keeping your family safe. Later, we’ll need to talk about the resourcing of rural fire fighting, and whether property prices are pushing more people into more dangerous areas, and why climate inaction will make all this worse. Good people are taking up these fights now, the ones who aren’t consumed with survival and supporting their immediate community.
But the sting of Morrison’s slight will linger. When all this is over, we won’t forget. We won’t forget the fact he would rather have beers on the beach than do his duty as leader in our time of need. We will remember. I promise you that.
