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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
As the bush scents drift, I remember: the aroma of fish and chips floating along the platforms at Flinders Street Station; the smell of dust that heralds a storm, as moisture hits bone-dry earth. When your life is sliced in two by migration, you do not scorn nostalgia.
We know it's a suffering world. Many of us plod through a vale of tears, often forgetting to count our blessings. Yet once in a while we are stopped dead in our tracks. By the human, which occasionally turns out to be the miraculous as well.
The Rudd Government's rationale for cutting migration to Australia is economic, rather than humane. Migrants are forever tapping at the window of the past, unable to ever truly go home.
Mental illness has always been with us. Hippocrates attached melancholia to an excess of black bile. Christ cast out demons from the afflicted. My sister suicided after years of suffering, undiagnosed because of fear of stigma.
Imagine the horror of a completely silent world. The deaf person requires strategies: they must make requests, or provide tactful reminders. Lip-reading is a useful skill, but beards and moustaches can provide difficulty.
Politics is never far from the surface at the Olympics. Even at the so-called friendly Games in Melbourne in 1956, the famous 'Blood in the Water' water-polo match reflected tensions surrounding the Soviet invasion of Hungary ten days before.
'Iguanagate' pariahs Belinda Neal and John Della Bosca can hardly be compared with Bush, Blair and Howard, but they are arguably on the same continuum. Surely the notion that leadership and responsibility go together still has some meaning.
In Australia I had never been taunted because of my migrant father, but after moving to Greece I was ridiculed and bullied because I was half-foreign, and because my mother was entirely so. I began to do my best to deny her existence.
193-200 out of 200 results.