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No Friend But the Mountains deservedly won an Australian prize but was considered ineligible for others because the writer was not Australian. The book itself mocks that exclusion. Boochani's years on Manus Island branded him as Australian in the same way African slaves became American by the brand American owners burned on to them.
You could contrive a meandering sonnet, broach the third level of meaning with ease — Once main lines are coursing and images breeze. You were in it, around, beyond, upon it.
I asked Les then what he anticipated at the end of what was for him a very earthed life. Les was phlegmatic — he imagined a reunion with his parents (his mother died when he was 12) but was content to 'wait and see ... we are on certain post-mortem promises after all'.
Found guilty for the slaying of Justine Damond Ruszczyk, Mohamed Noor became the first police officer to be convicted of murder in Minnesota in 'recent memory'. Minneapolis police spokesman John Elder insisted race had no part to play. A closer reading of the entire process presents a more complex, and troubling picture.
When I attended a rare job interview, I would put a bow tie around my guide dog's neck to deflect some of the heat off me. The interviewer would ask questions that were of a chatty, personal nature — everything except questions about my qualifications. The only thing that seems to be holding me back is my vision impairment.
That leaden weight in my chest is back. My self-diagnosis is heartache, and once upon a time I thought I'd get to the stage at which this heaviness would leave me for good, but I know now that this is never going to happen, at least not as long as I am engaged in my back-and-forth movements between Greece and Australia.
Like Auschwitz survivor Primo Levi in his works, Behrouz Boochani's No Friend but the Mountains exemplifies among many other things 'the possibilities of human decency' despite the Manus prison's squalor. Like George Orwell in another time and place, he is buoyed by hope in irrepressible nature.
In the wake of the Christchurch attacks, I’m not interested in learning how the person who killed those people was radicalised. It’s the oldest story in the world. It’s what happens when you decide the humanity of a group of people no longer matters. I’m tired of that story. I need a new one.
A small commotion at the doorway of the store catches my attention. A man in a pork-pie hat marches across the threshold. He carries a small back pack and steps with an uneven gait. He has a sure message, calling out a gamely, 'Good morning! Good morning everyone!' He looks about with purpose. Initially no one replies.
A lady with tears in her eyes asked if I was Muslim. I told her that I am. She asked it if would it be okay if she came in and said a prayer. 'Of course,' I replied. She knelt, quietly sobbing, and said a few words. I also knelt and recited a few verses from the Quran. We were complete strangers sharing a unique and emotional moment.
Racing along the Shenyang-Hainan Island Freeway alone. Going across the Hangzhou Bay alone. Playing amidst the Zhoushan Archipelago alone. Staying in a mountain village alone. Occupying a presidential suite alone. Using eight dinner sets alone. Drinking three hundred glasses alone.
You say you are not in a war zone, but look at all these deaths mounting up around you, this friend and that one suddenly gone, the news coming unexpectedly and from unexpected sources, and with each passing, other deaths: the death of friendships, of anticipation, of familiar voices ...
49-60 out of 200 results.