When did 'refugee' become a dirty word?

We moved to Australia in the early 1990s. It was a very different place then—the White Australia policy had only been lifted 20 years ago, ‘multiculturalism’ was a foreign concept, and Eddie Mabo was demanding land rights for Aborigines. We were the only ethnic family in our upper middle-class suburb on Sydney’s North Shore, and people openly referred to us as ‘foreign’, ‘darkies’ or more politely, ‘that dark-skinned migrant family’.

Mum and Dad left India—a country they loved, filled with people they knew and customs they understood—because they felt they could give their children a better life here. They arrived with two children under the age of ten, one suitcase between four, and USD$200 in a bum bag strapped to Dad’s waist. It was our life savings—all the money our family had.

With a recession underway, my father, who had a degree from a prestigious Delhi university, managed a KFC on the other side of town for $28,000 a year. With my mother’s part-time salary, it was just enough to pay the rent on our one bedroom apartment and put food on the table. Mum bought my school uniform several sizes too big and took the hems up. Each year, she’d lower them a bit, and so my two tunics lasted me all four years of primary school.

We didn’t love it here immediately. The kids at school laughed at my accent and the fact that I didn’t know the capital of Australia. I quickly learnt to imitate the accent and brushed up on my geography. Kids are malleable like that. It was harder for Mum, who’d lost her network of family and friends. At age 9, I was already babysitting my younger brother because my parents had to work. I remember refusing to eat the lunch she’d packed because the other kids would make fun of our rice and curry, calling us ‘smelly’ and making gagging noises when I opened my lunchbox.

So different from today—when I open my lunchbox at work and all my colleagues are dying for a taste!

Yes, a lot has changed in Australia, and despite the fact that I have deep-seated Indian roots, I consider myself profoundly Australian. Not because I can eat meat pie and understand Aussie Rules. Not because I have an Australian accent or an Australian passport. I feel Australian because I wept with pride when Kevin Rudd, the PM I elected, apologised to the Aborigines. I wept because, as an Aussie, the Stolen Generation was my shame too. I feel Australian because I walked across the Harbour Bridge in protest when John Howard announced our march into Afghanistan. I feel Australian because I can remember when Rainbow Paddlepops were 50c. I feel Australian because everyone I love and grew up with lives here. I am not suggesting these are the hallmarks of a typical Australian—just that these are the moments when I knew that this country was my country.

And I feel lucky to have had the upbringing I had, considering my father grew up in the ghettos of Delhi, in post-Partition India. What a difference a generation makes. Today, my parents live in a lovely, four-bedroom home in the same suburb I grew up in. So many ethnic families have moved there, there is even a local Indian spice shop, packed with people from all parts of the world who just happen to want some traditional garam masala. 

But mostly, I just feel lucky when I realise that if my parents had chosen to come to Australia today, it would not be possible. They wouldn’t pass half the criteria, with my mother’s lack of hard skills, our limited funds at the time, and the scarcity of visas available today. And I feel a sense of gratitude and admiration for my parents that I cannot quite put into words. I remember the fear with which I boarded the plane to England for my GAP year when I was 18. I had a job to go to, ample funds, only myself to look after, and the knowledge that if anything went wrong, I could just call home. And still, I remember, amongst the excitement, being afraid of what would happen when I got to the other side of the world. The courage it took my parents to leave, the struggle they experienced—not just financially but emotionally—I shall always respect those who decide to embrace the experience of the perpetual outsider for the sake of their family.

So when I see people arriving here on boats, my heart goes out to them. And when I read the vitriol surrounding these so-called ‘boat people’, my heart breaks. I am proudly, and fiercely Australian, but today, as the fourth riot in three days breaks out on Christmas Island, as we ready the first ‘shipment’ of people to be sent to Malaysia, as we ‘process’ more and more asylum seekers, I feel ashamed to be Australian. It is rare to feel shame for this country—we have so much to be proud of.

But as a nation, and such a privileged one as that, I fear that we will return to the attitudes I thought we had left behind with the White Australia policy. Because naïve as this sounds, I hold my beloved nation, the one we refer to as The Lucky Country, to a higher standard than that. I understand that refugees are a loaded subject, with no easy solution. But in some way, all of us have experienced the migrant experience—the feeling of being an outsider, the frustration of not being understood, or worse, not understanding. And as both a migrant and an Australian, I want to my raise my children in a nation where ‘refugee’ is not a dirty word, the way ‘migrant’ was only twenty years ago.

Renovation Theory

A friend of mine recently bought a house. As we discussed all the renovations she was going to make to her new home, it got me thinking that perhaps purchasing a property was not so different from dating.


For starters, there is a shortage of both houses and men in Sydney. Finding the perfect one can require hours of hunting, many lost weekends, and a little imagination, because what looks fabulous in pictures on the internet doesn't always live up to expectations in real life. It's amazing what the right light can do.


Both require a background check in order to make sure the foundations are healthy, because what seems glossy and wonderful on the surface can be riddled with termites or disease as soon as you start stripping it. And trust me, if that central supporting beam is diseased, you want to know sooner rather than later.


When it comes to committing to that final purchase, I have a tehory that it's best to go for a 'fixer-upper' rather than one that's already renovated.


Now, I’m not talking about turning a dud into a stud. I have no desire for my dating life to reflect an episode of Extreme Makeover. Instead, I’m talking about the guys that are almost there—good foundations, right post code but just requiring a lick of paint/upgrade on bowl-haircut. They have everything a girl could require, but just need a little customization.

Like houses, guys that are already ‘done up’ have an overinflated sense of their own worth, and thus sell for a premium that requires you to stretch your budget. You have to sacrifice far more that you were originally willing in order to have them. Sure they look great and you can have your friends over straight away, but very rarely is it to yourtaste--you may wish the kitchen was a different color, or that they didn’t wear their hipster jeans quite so tight.

Yes, fixer-uppers are the perfect antidote to the Man Drought, as long as you remember the golden rules of renovation: Measure everything first, and be sure you nail it properly.

In A Threesome With Facebook?

A friend of mine recently ended a relationship.

“The hardest part wasn’t actually breaking up,” she told us when discussing the aftermath. “It was changing my Facebook relationship status.”

“I know what you mean,” chipped in another girlfriend. “When I had to change my status, I waited for midnight on a Friday, when I thought most people wouldn’t be online, in order to minimise the damage.”

Apparently there are plenty of people trapped in an inadvertent threesome with Facebook. According to the site, approximately 60% of users have listed their relationship status, with the two most popular choices being ‘single’ and ‘married’.’ So what’s the big deal with your FB relationship status?

Putting stuff on Facebook is like getting in a pink stretch Hummer and parading around the streets with a megaphone. The streets of everyone you know. And for anyone that missed the megaphone, or for the hot guy you had a fling with back in your single days whom you’re pretty sure can’t read (one of many reasons it was just a fling), Facebook provides a shorthand—a little, crappy broken-heart symbol that appears in yours AND ALL 500 OF YOUR “FRIENDS” feeds. Facebook is many things, but discreet and subtle it is not.

And there are the stream of comments that ask ‘Are you OK?’ to which the correct answer is ‘Are you stupid? Did you not see the broken heart? That’s ‘cause it was STOMPED ON.’

One girlfriend told of the traumatic end to a long term relationship with her childhood sweetheart. “Five seconds after I’d changed my status, people were commenting on it. The first person to say something was a girl I hadn’t seen since high school. We hated each other and I only accepted her friend request because she’s fatter.”

I actually love following people that have just broken up on Facebook. They are just so determined to prove that they are having fun. The pretend parties, the extraordinarily slutty outfits, the status updates about ‘the best night ever xoxo’ just reminds me that there’s nothing wrong with sitting on your couch in your trackies eating Double Choc Chip for dinner, as long as Facebook doesn’t know about it. Because the thing is, despite the fact that you’ve broken up with each other, both of you continue to have a relationship with Facebook. Yes, truly men come and go but Facebook is for the long term.

In the past, when you’d have just got your girlfriends together to purge your "couple photos", you now have to painstakingly untag 1,583 of them by yourself. When you could have just given yourself time to recover, you can’t help obsessively stalking his page and drawing false conclusions from photos and wall comments.

Then there are those people who announce that ‘it’s complicated ‘ (Translation: I want him/her, they won’t accept my relationship request) or that they are ‘In An Open Relationship’ (Translation: No way is this a relationship but I like gettin’ some regularly until I find a REAL relationship). One can only image how many people these guys are poking or throwing sheep at.

As for me, my relationship status is going to remain blank. But in case you’re wondering, I’m looking for Friendship, Networking and Random Play.

Under-promise. Over-deliver?

A friend of mine recently embarked on a new relationship. Which means she has prepared more organic, home-cooked meals in the last three weeks than she has all year, her apartment is spectacularly clean, and her underwear, spectacularly slutty.

There is an old adage when dealing with clients that says, "Under-promise. Over deliver."

However, when it comes to relationships, it seems like the exact opposite is true. Almost every woman I know begins a new relationship trying to over-please, turning into some Martha Stewart/Lara Croft combination that makes wonderful home-cooked meals while simultaneously giving the impress ion that she can wield a whip as capably as a wooden spoon. We laugh at jokes that are only mildly funny. We wear lace underwear that resembles dental floss. We go back to having a first-name relationship with our Brazilian waxer. We wear strapless mini-dresses despite the snow outside because hey, it’s early days and the words ‘practical, comfortable or plausible’ have no place in those first few moments of a relationship.

Yes, first dates are like interviews, so naturally, we are all on our best behaviour. We want to get the job—the girlfriend job, the wife job or just a blow job. But are we setting ourselves up for disappointment?

The reality is that no-one can keep up that kind of perfection for very long. In fact one can age a relationship in the same way one can age a tree. Less rings around the eyes? More sleep and less sex. Bigger underwear? Yeah, that makes sense. After all, no-one’s seeing that underwear anyway. And if he is seeing it, he’s just so grateful for the sex that he’s not complaining. And everyone knows that you put on weight in a relationship. After all, when you have someone to love you unconditionally, what’s the point of saying no to that last piece of chocolate cake?

However, men never seem to over-promise. And I suspect it’s partly because they don’t have the accessories. The make-up to give you flawless skin. The bra to give you cleavage like Pamela Anderson despite the fact that you have little more than mosquito bites for a chest. The heels to give you height, the underwear to give suck in your dumpling-binge belly and the hair dye to disguise the fact that you haven’t been blonde since the late 80s.

Over delivering is hard work. But then again, client satisfaction is the key to any successful partnership and whoever said being on top is easy?

Lesbian Is The New Black

A friend of mine recently kissed a girl. And she liked it.

"I'm not a lesbian, and I'm not bi," she explained, sipping her Belvedere.

"So why'd you do it?" I asked.

"Well, everyone's doing it and I thought I should at least TRY it," she answered.

It turn out that lipstick lesbianism is the new black. From Katy Perry's hit single to celebrities like Britney and Madonna or Sandra Bullock and Scarlett, everyone seems to have a bit of girl-on-girl action happening. And whether it's to sell singles or celebrate single-dom, (temporary) lesbianism has hit the mainstream in a big way.

I know very few women who haven't had a same-sex kiss. We are bombarded with images of it in both porn and pop-culture, and it has become such an essential rite of passage that it's even got a name--LUGS, which stands for 'Lesbians Until Graduation.'

For some, it's a way to turn guys on, while for others it's about exploring their own sexual power, because there is something exhilarating about doing what is taboo.

For me, it wasn't about sex. It was about having something beautiful. She was stunning and exotic, and I wanted her the same way I wanted the new, limited-edition Louboutins. I knew they weren't practical, comfortable or even long-lasting, but that wasn't the point. They were so gorgeous I had to have them. In short, it was desire...but it wasn't erotic.
However pashing another woman doesn't make a girl bi-sexual or a lesbian. Rather, it's like ice-cream.

Imagine you really, really want some ice-cream. Actually, what you really, really want is chocolate ice-cream. But when you go to the fridge, there isn't any chocolate ice-cream. There's only strawberry ice-cream.

You have a choice: you can either go without ice-cream at all, or you can go for a flavor you didn't really want but hey, ice-cream is ice-cream.

Some of us will go without, while others will be brave enough to try a new flavor they wouldn't normally go for. In my friend's case, there was chocolate ice-cream, but it had had so many spoons it it already that she decided it was safer to try a new flavor.

For those willing to explore the option, let me give you one word of warning: changing flavors is fine as long as you keep in mind that the after-taste will definitely be different.

Justice is for the bitter

A friend of mine recently directed me to the 'RIP Raoul Moat--you legend' Facebook fan page. For those of you who don't know Raoul Moat, he shot his ex-girlfriend Samantha Stobbart twice in the stomach, killed her new boyfriend and then went on the run where, a week later, he finally shot himself in a police stand-off.

During the course of their six year relationship, he split her head open, threw her against a wall and jumped on her stomach and threatened her with a gun. His former partner, Marissa Reid, has said he beat her with his fists and a baseball bat, and raped her while she was tied to a bed. When he was jailed for hitting a child, Stobbart took the opportunity to leave her abusive relationship. Moat considered it cheating and went after her as soon as he was released on bail.

The saddest, sickest part of this whole tragedy is the aftermath. The Facebook fan page (which has 37 000 fans) is filled with comments like, "You legend. Giving whores what they deserve. She pushed you to it huni," "Moat is a true British hero, he done what he thought was right by taking revenge on his cheating ex-girlfriend," and my personal favorite, "Maybe if she kept her legs closed none of this would of happened. Maybe Moaty had good reason to be angry." There is a YouTube channel set up by his 'supporters', countless blogs lauding his actions, and at a recent Newcastle football game, 2000 fans started a chant honoring him.

It's not just men who are coming out in support either. The Facebook page was started by a woman, and many of the comments (aside from being grammatically incorrect) are from women, claiming to have sympathy for the man. Moat's declaration, that 'if I can't have you, no-one can', seems to have struck a chord. When did we, not just as women, but as human beings accept that it's ok for one person to treat another like this? When did we re-accept the idea that men can 'own' women?

But there is another issue here. Earlier this year, billboards went up in Times Square, San Francisco and Atlanta, showing loved-up couple Charles and YaVaugnie. The problem was, he was married...but not to her. They'd been together 8 1/2 years when YaVaughnie found out that Charles (head of software giant, Oracle) had a wife, and this was her response. The billboards directed people to an online photo album of their relationship, including scanned in Valentine cards and notes attached to delivered flowers.

The result? YaVaugnie was mauled by both press and bloggers, whose descriptions ranged from 'sad and pathetic' to 'deranged and unbalanced.' The billboards were pulled down after one day, although she'd paid to have them up for longer, with the media agency claiming to have been misled. (Nike, who lied about using child labour, frequently advertise on these same billboards, but that's a whole another story.)

Before I go any further, I want to make a distinction between Raoul Moat and YaVaugnie Wilkins. What Moat did was revenge, but what YaVaugnie did was justice. There is a clear distinction between righting a wrong, and simply getting even. Raoul Moat's actions were clearly the result of a very sick man. YaVaughnie's, on the other hand, seems to be a clever and amusing way to expose a scumbag. I am not comparing the actions, merely the responses to them.

Then there's the website www.dontdatehimgirl.com where spurned American women can expose the scumbags and dropkicks they've dated. It has hundreds of entries, from cheating men (complete with wives and STDs) to fraudsters and thieves. Yet discussing this with my girlfriends, they all agreed that this was 'a site for sad, single women.' This seems to be the prevailing sentiment; that women who expose the men who treat them badly are somehow shameful and to be scorned. Is this a reflection of our social values--that it's 'ok' for a man to hit back, but not for a woman? That when men do it, they're lauded and told 'she deserved it' but when women do it, they're lambasted and labelled 'desperate and bitter'?

It seems ok if female revenge is confined to private encounters and small circles of like-minded women, but the second we expose these men for what they are on a large scale, we're the ones tarred and feathered. Considering that 22% of married men have cheated on their wives according to an MSNBC/iVillage survey, where was YaVaughnie's Facebook fan page? Surely thousands of women have been exactly where she is--where is her outpouring of support?

What are your thoughts? Ever taken revenge? Ever wanted to?

Postscript: YaVaughnie does have a Fan Page, started by Victoria's Secret model Karolina Kurkova. It has 9 fans.

Arranged marriage

A cousin of mine recently got married. People are always surprised when I mention that arranged marriage is still a vital part of Indian culture, and that smart, attractive young people, raised and educated in the West, still choose an arranged marriage when trying to find a mate.

To give some background, India is a nation obsessed with weddings. As a young person, when people meet you they will ask you two questions: your name, quickly followed by “Are you married?” If the answer is No, then they immediately offer to set you up with someone they know who's looking (usually a neighbour's friend's second cousin), and if you remain unmarried past a certain age, you relegate yourself to the status of Social Pariah.

Arranged marriages have been occurring since the dawn of Marriage itself. They have been used to unite families, broker diplomatic relationships between nations and ensure pure bloodlines in matters of inheritance. Today, they occur for far more simple, human reasons--to find a mate that's compatible.

To me, it makes perfect sense. Arranged marriages are founded on those things that help a relationship last: similar family backgrounds, shared values and goals, common ideas on what you want from your family and how you wish to raise your children, a shared cultural heritage, mutual respect, and a completely realistic view of what a marriage is. Moreover with the support of both sides of the family, and the ongoing help of a community around you, it's much harder for those marriages to fail because there is a network to rely on when the going gets tough, as it inevitably will for all relationships.

The idea that love is more important that any of those things strikes me as not just ridiculous, but naive in the extreme. When one in three marriages ends in divorce in Australia (higher in other Western countries), its staggers me that we still believe this is the best way to find a life-partner. Anyone that's ever been in love can attest to the volatility of its character, the swiftness with which it can appear and evaporate and the effect it can have on one's ability to make intelligent choices regarding a mate.

In modern-day India, arranged marriages are still about choice. Like parents everywhere else in the world, Indian parents want what's best for their children. They attempt to choose mates they think their son or daughter would like and be able to build a life with, and of course, the final decision lies with the children. And yes, love has no place in that initial foray, but most people will tell you that after a time, founded on qualities like trust, mutual respect and the building of a shared life, love grows. A lovely idea when you think that often, it's the other way around.

The Chuck Bass Effect

A friend of mine recently announced her undying love for Chuck Bass. For those of you unfamiliar with Gossip Girl’s resident Bad Boy, Chuck Bass sleeps with hookers, deflowers virgins, conspires against his enemies and repeatedly breaks the heart of our favorite frenemy, Blair Waldorf. In short, Chuck Bass is Bad News.

What is it about Bad News Bad Boys that makes us want them so much? Every girl I know at some stage has lusted after a boy who treats her badly and converts her into a Clingerella—that needy, emotionally unstable, schizophrenic version of ourselves that sends too many text messages, angsts over the lack of reply, and ends up with the 1AM drink-dial crying, “Whhhyyyy? Whhhyyy don’t you caalllll meeeee?” which, to be fair, sounds very empowered and confident when one is inebriated.

I went through a whole phase of dating Bad Boys. Aside from being desperately good-looking, they have an air about them that suggests they’ll pull your hair and call you filthy names as you do it in an alley somewhere. They’re the guys that will drag you back to their cave and know you mean ‘Yes’ when you’re actually saying ‘No’. They don’t have feelings, they just have desires. They can nail a shelf to a wall and they can nail you to well, just about anything.

They exude so much self-confidence that their arrogance is a turn-on, because you suspect that there’s nothing they can’t do in bed. Maybe it’s the way they straddle that purring motorcycle, or, at the other end of the scale, the knowing way they order champagne while discreetly handing over the credit card. Any man with such deftness and abilty to multi-task must be a natural in the sack.

And the fact that they’ve slept with a gazillion women? It’s always nice to have the toy that everyone else wants to play with.

But the problem with Bad Boys is that it always ends in tears. All the things that attracted you to him in the first place—the inability to commit, the serial whoring, the fact that he’s an emotional cripple—are all the things that end up being your downfall. And the reason we persist is that sick conviction inside us that makes us think, “I’m The One. I’m going to be The One to change him, to make him commit, to heal the emotional scars left by his disturbed childhood, his crazy ex-girlfriend and that brief stint in jail which wasn’t assault, he was just misunderstood.” You believe that you can kiss it better, but sadly, this isn’t the solution. Because the only thing that can reform a Bad Boy is a Badder Girl.

I suspect it’s evolution. Men, who are natural hunters, understand that the easiest meat to catch is usually the weakest member of the herd. The best, most delicious meat is the one that requires a chase. The prize gazelle is the one a hunter has to work the hardest to catch. For women, who are the gatherers, we understand that the low-hanging fruit is definitely not the juiciest. And no girl wants a man whose plums hang low. Experience has taught that when it comes to collecting our nuts, it’s best to climb higher.

Which is why Badder Girl, who doesn’t appear to fall for the honey trap of their charm, becomes the one they want to catch. So unless you are Badder Girl, that leather-clad lothario is always going to be The One That Got Away.

As for me, I’m done with dating the Chuck Bass’ of this world. Because apparently, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and that fish no longer gets this girl wet.

Out There

A friend of mine was recently told that she needed to “put herself Out There.”

“What does that even mean?” she fumed at me. “Put myself 'Out There'?! Where IS that even?”

I don’t know, but wherever it is, I am sure that ‘Out There’ is a very crowded place. It seems like there are a lot of people Out There. And like my friend, they are doing all the things that one is supposed to do when one is single—go to parties, take a class, find a hobby, meet new people, say 'yes' to invitations and ‘Be Open.’

‘Being Open’ is a big one, the apparent entrée to this mysterious Wonderland, populated by fabulous singles just waiting like herded sheep for others who have found their way. So the good news is that wherever Out There is, it’s definitely ‘Open.’

The truth is, I’ve no desire to be Out There. I can barely find the energy to make it to yoga, and I at least know where that is and what I’m going to find there (a hot room, lots of sweat, a gay man telling me what to do flat on my back.)

As for what one has to do to be Out There...well, I don’t plan to join an evening class—after my 60 hour work week I don’t have the time. I already have hobbies, I volunteer and I don’t want to pash a random to see where it leads. I don’t want to waste an evening having dinner with someone I’m blasé about in case it ‘goes Somewhere’ (which I’m guessing is a place similar to, but not the same as, Out There.) In my head, Out There somewhat resembles The Ivy, which somewhat resembles my version of Hell, each successive VIP area being another circle of Dante's Inferno. Oh, but at least The Ivy has vodka cocktails.

So yeah, I’m not ‘Out There.’ I’m Right Here. And Right Here is a pretty cool place. It’s filled with people I love, and activities I actually enjoy doing, like Saturday night dinners around my dining room table with people I’ve known for a decade. I can hang out in pjs Right Here. I can tell bad jokes Right Here. Sure, the weather’s not ideal (there’s a Man Drought in Right Here) but still, I like it here. And anyone that wants to date me has got to like Right Here too, just as much as I’m going to have to like Right There, which is where, I’m guessing, he is.

Either way, if he’s Out There, I fear our paths are never going to cross because, well, I’m not at a TAFE course learning Swahili as my hobby, I’m not at a bar pretending my sky-high stilettoes aren’t cutting into my feet, and for those guys who just want a fling, I’m not Open and I don’t take Amex.

So to all the Singletons out there, the next time someone gives you the useless, unsolicited advice to “put yourself Out There” I suggest you tell them exactly Where To Go. And if you can do it in Swahili, even better.