EXCLUSIVE I was on a family holiday when I noticed an embarrassing sexual symptom (and it's not ED). By the time I saw a doctor, it was almost too late - here's what men should never ignore
When 47-year-old Tim Weale felt a niggling pain in his hip, he assumed it was due to sleeping on the hard earth in a tent with his family.
It was 2023 and Tim, his wife Bridget and their two children, Clancy and Maeve, then aged six and eight respectively, were ticking a major item off their family bucket list: a 'lap of the map' in Outback Australia.
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The Guardian
2 hours ago
- The Guardian
Crossing the city-country divide: how do Australian farmers advocate for their industry in an urbanised world?
The view from my front lawn is paddocks and trees. From here, almost all I see is farmland and native bushland. A couple of years ago, I stood in this spot with a good friend, an immigrant from the UK. A smart, interested and interesting friend, and also a vegetarian. Which wouldn't be relevant except I'm a beef farmer, so for our friendship to prosper, this particular difference of opinion needs to be accommodated. Jess asked me what we would grow on our farm if we weren't growing livestock. The question initially confused me. Were we looking at the same landscape? Could she not see the steep hills, the prolific rocks, the lack of water? Assuming you still needed or wanted to use this land to produce food (which I do), to my mind, it is grazing land. Anything else would be extremely challenging. Not only are rocks and hills awkward to navigate, and our lack of irrigation problematic, the terrain is in places frankly a nightmare for the machinery and equipment essential to cropping. I think of a contractor who informed us he would not be working our paddocks any longer after his spreader truck got not one or two, but four flat tyres. We typically apply fertiliser by air now. I explained this to Jess, and she listened with interest. Sign up to receive Guardian Australia's fortnightly Rural Network email newsletter That's stuck with me, because it reminded me how many people have strong views about agriculture. And so they should. Farmers manage more than half of Australia's landmass. We are arguably custodians of one of the country's greatest assets: its ability to feed and clothe its own people, and the wider world. But knowledge about and personal experience of agriculture is dwindling. Perceptions of agriculture from outside of the industry – particularly in the cities where most Australians live – are often negative. Stories showcasing great custodianship and care don't make the front page – it's only news when something goes wrong. This isn't unique to our industry. I know the old newsroom adage: 'If it bleeds, it leads.' The difference in agriculture is that our work is increasingly foreign to the very people who rely on our produce every day. It's the challenge of our industry, and one I've personally taken on: to advocate in an environment where the divide between rural and urban communities is greater than ever before. In 2021, 66.9% of Australia's population lived in its greater capital cities. Many have little or no connection to the people who grow the products they eat, wear or use every day. Research by CQUniversity makes this gap even clearer. In 2021 they surveyed more than 5,000 primary and secondary school students to evaluate their knowledge of agriculture. The results were, to my mind, alarming. They found secondary students who believe Australian cattle are raised exclusively in sheds. (To clarify, only 4% of Australia's beef herd is in a feedlot at any given time and are generally raised on pasture. Only 20% of Australia's milk production comes from intensive or housed dairy systems.) They also found primary school students who believe cotton is an animal product not a plant; and who believe chickens are routinely fed hormones (a practice banned more than 60 years ago). I believe the work of an advocate, unlike that of an activist or influencer, is to build connection and knowledge. To start with a desire to understand: what do you think of agriculture? What would you like to know? I ask these questions not because I expect to change your mind, but I hope to engage with you. I hope you might share with me, so I might better understand perceptions of agriculture. I don't believe the future of agricultural advocacy lies simply in an exchange of facts, though I wholeheartedly agree all conversations should be underpinned by credible research and evidence. But it's the stories from agriculture that I believe truly show the deeply complex industry of which I'm a part. That shows you the heart of it, and what it has to offer. Sometimes those stories are dark. Death, not often part of everyday urban life, is a normal part of agriculture, especially livestock farming. That can be confronting, even for farmers with decades of experience. But it's part of our life. When my eldest daughter was two, we had a terrible calving season, with cows struck down by a condition called grass tetany. It resulted in the death of many cows straight after birthing. One morning my daughter asked me to play with her. 'Be a cow, Mummy!' I obliged and tried to look suitably bovine. 'Moo, Mummy!' I mooed. 'Now lie down dead!' I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I probably did both. Stories can also share joy. I took a couple of orphan lambs we were hand-rearing into my daughter's childcare and gave a group of very excited three-year-olds the opportunity to interact with them. We bottle-fed the lambs and passed around handfuls of unprocessed wool, and some yarn, to compare textures and smell. The kids delighted in the experience, and our much-loved lambs fought over the milk bottle. All went well, with some added entertainment from my daughter casually taking a swig from the lambs' milk bottle. Raising livestock is complex. Together with my husband, we're dedicated to raising our children to appreciate the joy of caring for animals and providing them with an environment to thrive, alongside the understanding that we are growing animals for food and fibre. Farmers often say city people don't understand agriculture. But the gap goes both ways. Most farmers I know own the land they work. It's easy to forget what it's like to bid for a rental, move every 12 months, or raise kids in high-rise apartments with no green space. We complain about potholes and distances between towns, but we're not stuck on highways for hours each day, or wrangling toddlers and groceries on public transport. Bridging that divide isn't about proving who has it tougher. It's about recognising the difference and respecting what each life involves. I love the saying: 'No one in the history of calming down has ever calmed down because they were told to calm down.' I don't see a future for agricultural advocacy in telling people stuff. I see a future in listening and in sharing, openly. Does my friend Jess want me to grow plants, not animals, for food on our property? Maybe. Just because we have the same information doesn't mean we're going to have the same opinion. But I think she also understands why we grow beef. And while she won't be having steak on the barbecue with us any time soon, I'm grateful she gave me the chance to explain why we do what we do. Felicity Richards is the chairperson of Farmsafe Australia and the Tasmanian Biosecurity Advisory Committee. She runs a beef grazing operation in northern Tasmania with her husband, Mark. You can contact her here. Sign up for the Rural Network email newsletter
The Guardian
2 hours ago
- The Guardian
A shameful death after a supermarket scuffle shines a light on Australia's unfinished business
In the middle of Reconciliation Week a young, disabled Warlpiri man died following a scuffle in a Coles supermarket in Alice Springs after he was 'placed' on the floor by two plain-clothed policemen. People are not 'placed' on the floor – that is what you do with bags, boxes and rubbish. But that was the word used by the Northern Territory police to describe the sequence of events to the media. Tragically, painfully, I think it says a lot. I try to imagine a similar scene at my local Coles, where many people who have not been winners in life's lottery also shop for little items to keep hunger at bay, but no image comes to mind. I think the situation would most likely have been quietly defused, no one would have been 'placed' on the floor and died, the shop would not have become a crime scene. On the same day in Western Australia, the state government decided to provide $85,000 to those remaining stolen people who had spent their lives wondering and suffering because of cruel policies that removed children from their families. A measly lump sum from a state treasury grown fat from mineral resources, many from native title lands. First Nations people have a life expectancy decades lower than others, so the numbers are much smaller than they were. Delay is the most effective way of maintaining the status quo – people die, responsibility is diminished, the mistake no longer has a human face. The WA announcement came, inexcusably, nearly three decades after the profoundly revealing and moving Bringing Them Home report. It landed in the national consciousness and triggered a heartfelt realisation of the long-term consequences of bad policy for those who paid attention; people marched across bridges, signed petitions and wept watching Rabbit-Proof Fence. It also provided a pretext for a cruel and cynical, politically led culture war that has put Australia in aspic for decades. Then prime minister John Howard's rejection of the recommendations of that report was crystallised as a refusal to say sorry. This was the headline and the source of his global humiliation when Midnight Oil, their jumpsuits stamped with the unmissable word 'sorry', sang and danced in front of him on the stage of the Sydney Olympics closing ceremony. Saying sorry then gave Howard's successor Kevin Rudd his greatest political triumph. But saying sorry is not enough – actions must follow to fix the foundational flaw. Behind the moral dilemma about where responsibility ended was a crass calculation. Among that report's many, and largely still not acted on, recommendations, was that compensation be given for the thousands of lives that had been deliberately upended with tragic and traumatic consequences for generations. It was this recommendation that galvanised Howard and his minister for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Affairs, John Herron. Compensation for individuals was out of the question and would be impossible to calculate anyway, they declared. That gave way when Ken Wyatt was the minister for Indigenous Australians in the Morrison government, and with little fanfare, compensation of $75,000 was allocated to stolen children survivors in the territories. Pat Turner, a long-term Indigenous public servant, told Dan Bourchier on The Elders that an appropriate amount in 1997 would have been a million dollars each, enough then to buy a house and provide families that had been deliberately destroyed with some ongoing intergenerational security. Queensland has yet to provide redress, and is now, as it has done for more than a century, locking up another generation of children. What bit of this don't they understand? Crime is not innate, it is mostly caused by circumstances – such as poverty, family dysfunction and trauma – that can be addressed. Locking people up hasn't worked in the past, and it won't now. There is unfinished business in this country, and there can be no excuses for not knowing or understanding. We need to change direction and remove the burden from the most vulnerable. Endless consultations have been conducted, reports have been written, deep studies of the intergenerational impact of trauma have become part of everyday language. The thing that has not been tried is to listen, and act, on the advice and wisdom of those closest to the problems. To really listen, deeply and seriously to the elders and those who have been working on the ground for years to restore hope. The evidence shows this works – top-down solutions don't. Almost a million more people voted yes in the referendum than voted for the Labor party in the recent election. The combined Liberal National party vote was about half the no vote. While the majority rejected the voice proposal because they didn't know, didn't care or thought it was unfair, this cannot be mapped on to the political snapshot that the election provided. The referendum was not a proxy election. The door to meaningful, symbolic and practical recognition can and must be opened again. I have written here before that this government has an historic opportunity at a time of crisis. It needs to work with the states to grasp it in relation to First Peoples so they can be relieved of trauma, live fulfilled and meaningful lives, so that children are not taken away and locked up, and the whole nation can achieve its potential. In a land of home improvers surely the principle of fixing the foundations first if you want to really close the gaps is obvious. Indigenous Australians can call 13YARN on 13 92 76 for information and crisis support; or call Lifeline on 13 11 14, Mensline on 1300 789 978 or Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636 Julianne Schultz is the author of The Idea of Australia, the co-editor of First Things First (Griffith Review) and the librettist of the multi-award winning opera Black River
The Guardian
2 hours ago
- The Guardian
The moment I knew: he lost an election, but he was still smiling
D aniel and I went to the same high school in Melbourne. He was a year older than me, and we must have passed each other thousands of times, but I have no memory of ever talking to him. We knew of each other but we didn't know each other's names. We met properly for the first time at a pre-drinks when I was in my first year of university. He was holding a six-pack of beer and looked vaguely familiar. I introduced myself, he offered me one of his drinks and we got talking. Not long after, we started dating. We'd walk on the beach in St Kilda together, cook meals and grab coffee whenever we could. It was simple, easy and just felt right. Nomi and Daniel in 2014 I quickly realised Daniel and I could dive deep into a shared passion of ours – Australian politics – without it ever turning into a fight. At the time, I was studying politics as part of my arts/law degree, and Daniel had been a member of the Labor party since he was 16. In Daniel, I found someone who spoke the same language and shared similar values. Politics wasn't the sole foundation of our relationship, but when something big happened, we weren't shy about debating it. While we were still at university, Daniel landed a job working for a politician. I decided to copy him, and I emailed every member of parliament in Victoria until one of them offered me a role. If he could do it, so could I. We pushed each other forward like that and we still do. When Daniel decided to run for federal parliament at just 21, I campaigned with him every step of the way. We door-knocked together and handed out his flyers. People would do a double take when they met him, looking at his scuffed Converse sneakers. He ran in a safe Liberal seat, against a candidate who later became Australia's trade minister. Slim chances didn't bother Daniel, though. He ran for office because he had the time and believed in the cause. I remember being so proud of him for trying his best, even in the face of great odds. The night of the election, we hung out and watched the results roll in live on TV. Daniel was exhausted after handing out how-to-vote cards all day, and we both knew he'd lost. Despite that, he still had a big smile on his face, and in that moment I knew this was my guy. I felt so moved watching how much Daniel gave of himself – not for praise, but because he truly cared. It was one of those quiet, powerful moments. Nomi and Daniel Kaltmann at home, where they live with their five children When I ran for parliament, years later, Daniel returned the favour. He hung my posters around our neighbourhood and helped me letterbox. When the votes were counted and I didn't win, he knew exactly what to say, because he'd been there too. We've been married for a decade now and have five kids together. Despite the chaos of our busy life, Daniel and I regularly have animated discussions about what's going on in the country. Our garage is still a jumble of old campaign signs wedged between prams and half-empty tins of paint. The kids sometimes drag one out, asking if we really did run for parliament and if we won. We laugh, because that was never the point. For us, politics is about trying to make Australia a better place. These days, we're more likely to be caring for our children than campaigning, but the ideas that motivated us back then still drive us. We did it for the children we were dreaming of, and now we're raising them. Tell us the moment you knew Do you have a romantic realisation you'd like to share? From quiet domestic scenes to dramatic revelations, Guardian Australia wants to hear about the moment you knew you were in love. Your responses, which can be anonymous, are secure as the form is encrypted and only the Guardian has access to your contributions. We will only use the data you provide us for the purpose of the feature and we will delete any personal data when we no longer require it for this purpose. For true anonymity please use our SecureDrop service instead. Show more
