Racist attacks on Indians in Melbourne
The notoriously corrupt Victoria police fudge like fury on racial matters so when they say that "no specific ethnic group" is targeting the Indians, you have to decode it. In all the cases I have heard of, the attackers have been African. So my decoding of "no specific ethnic group" would be: "Mostly African, with a few Pacific Islanders and one white"
INDIAN students are being terrorised by gangs of thugs in Melbourne's suburbs in racially-motivated attacks. The number of crimes being committed against Indians, mainly in the western suburbs, has so alarmed police and the Government that several taskforces have been formed in response. The problem is being widely reported in India, threatening Victoria's multi-million-dollar foreign student industry. Police, the Government and the Indian consulate have joined forces to try to protect Indian students and residents, some of whom are moving out of the western suburbs because they no longer feel safe.
With almost 35,000 Indian students studying in Victoria last year, The Times of India has hosted forums on whether Melbourne is safe, saying the suburbs had "increasingly turned unsafe with a good number of attacks on migrant youth". The Times also reported last year: "Some of these crimes bear the us-and-them racial overtone."
Footscray, St Albans and Sunshine are trouble hot-spots, with police increasing their presence at train stations to curb the violence. Founder of the Footscray-based Bharat Times, Dinesh Malhotra, said crimes against Indian residents and students had risen in the past year. "Sunshine is pretty bad, quite violent for the Indian residents and the students," he said. He said Melbourne was not a racist city and it was a minority who were targeting Indian students for bashings and robberies.
Community leaders said Indian students were considered a soft target because they were not aggressive and often carried the latest gadgets such as mobile phones and iPods. As they were required to pay full fees at university and colleges, most worked to support themselves and were often travelling alone on public transport at high-risk times such as late at night.
Commander Trevor Carter said police had been aware of the problem for 12 to 18 months. "There was a range of victims, but people of Indian backgrounds were over-represented in the crime statistics," he said. Police launched an operation, code-named Repped, to have a strong presence around train stations to curb gangs.
Commander Carter said there was no specific ethnic group targeting the Indian students. Police would not release figures on how many attacks on Indian students had been recorded.
Ban on Australian flags
In the name of "safety"!
HAVE a ball at today's start to the Brisbane International tennis tournament, but just make sure you leave your Australian flag tucked away at home. That was the message from organisers as international tennis returns to Brisbane for the first time in 15 years at the new Queensland Tennis Centre at Tennyson. National flags, beach balls and oversized placards may be confiscated under plans to preserve a safe, family atmosphere, organisers said.
Tournament director Steve Ayles said flares were banned and people waving flags could be a problem if they interfered with others' enjoyment at the $82 million arena. "Anything that can be dangerous or could get in the way of spectators enjoying a great day out will be restricted," he said.
The crackdown comes after ugly scenes at the past two Australian Opens in Melbourne. Last year police used capsicum spray to subdue fans during a match between Greece's Konstantinos Economidis and Chile's Fernando Gonzalez, and more than 150 people were ejected in 2007 after violence between Serbian and Croatian supporters. "We're certainly not expecting anything like that. This is a very family-orientated event," Mr Ayles said. "Having said that, we'll make sure we have everything in place if anything like that does happen."
High security was evident at the venue's official opening on Friday when police sniffer dogs were used to check the centre. Bags were checked at all gates and police were on hand throughout the day. Mr Ayles said such scrutiny was normal whenever Premier Anna Bligh, a guest at the opening, was in attendance. "We've got all the appropriate security measures in place for this," he said.
Racist poison from the Left
Last week the unspeakable Mumbai killers were asking who among their victims were British or American. This week Monash University is hosting the Australian Critical Race and Whiteness Studies Association's "Re-Orienting Whiteness Conference". Connect the dots for yourself between foolish western academics with killing ideas and terrorists killing for ideas.
The keynote address, and public lecture, by Professor Ann Curthoys [The Curthoys family are old Commos from way back] is called "White British, and Genocidal." When the Conference settles down to work, after the Welcome to Country, there are academic contributions such as these:
"White Colonialism in the Early Childhood Field";
"Cultural Contagion in the Eye-To-Skin Encounters of Inter-Racial Sexuality";
"Whiteness and the Working Mother";
"Brown bully, white class; brown teachers exposing whiteness to white students";
"The Good White Nation Once More Made Good: Apology for Atrocities to the Stolen Generations";
"Re-orienting Racism. `Raggers' and `Rednecks' in Relation to a Proposed Islamic School";
"From Henry Parkes to Geoffrey Blainey: A Stronger and Persistent Strain of White Australia."
For real misery try an American whiteness studies academic journal called Race Traitor - "treason to whiteness is loyalty to humanity"; "The key to solving the social problems of our age is to abolish the white race ..."
Australia's "beautiful people"
It takes a woman to scale the heights of bitchiness but, from all I have seen, what she says below about New Year's day at Bondi beach is pretty right
Guests were arriving in convoys of black Bentleys and blue Aston Martins into an airconditioned bar where French champagne and tasty little Arancini balls were being served by sexy waiters, along with a different cocktail each hour. There was no sandy suspicious substance flicking on to your thongs in these toilets. Nor did these people smell like bus drivers. And it was all served up with uninterrupted ocean views.
I certainly know where I'd rather be. I'd rather be right there on my square inch of stinking hot beach with a bottle of Mt Franklin and my two-year-old son. At least I would be guaranteed of a decent conversation. Trust me. I've been to that particular party and so many like them that the lychee cocktails and polenta prawns have all merged into one. At Sydney Confidential I spent four long years of my life with these people and no amount of Veuve, no goodie bag or prawn skewer could drag me back.
Because all the stereotypes are spot on. What I've come across over the years are lazy, vacant, hedonistic, self-indulgent, boring people with nothing to talk about but their own dull selves. Many are women with no known talent other than their blown-up boobs, with orange skin and legs so long they resemble transvestites. Others are pill-popping footballers or famous for no other reason than they are career criminals. They are walking advertisements for overpriced clothes who change the 'y' for 'i' in their names or make up new ones in the hope they might be noticed in the social pages.
But you don't need to know them to realise that pretenders like those squished on to the balcony this New Year's Day at Icebergs or those crammed poolside at Justin Hemmes' Ivy pool party, are just that - utterly phoney. Witness the women in their boho headbands and gladiator stilettos chatting up photographers like long lost friends. Witness the number of "friends" the bar owners, even the bouncers, of the city's hotspots have hanging around. But fake reached new heights at Hemmes' pool party, where he actually paid models $50 an hour to act like partygoers, frolicking in his rooftop pool for a bit of atmosphere.
These people are a study in selfishness. From their pedicured feet in their designer shoes to their Brad Ngata "hair designs" it is, as they say, all about "moi". If not where the next free champagne is coming from, conversations focus on their mediocre successes. Real celebrities in this city are rare as hen's teeth. You're lucky if you strike a Paris Hilton, if you can even call her a star. The rest are promotional models, handbag designers, PR chicks, hairdressers, bit-part soapie stars, PR chicks and PR chicks. Some undernourished giraffe who might or might not have gone out with Thorpie at some stage. Another who used go out with the son of a property tycoon and, if the organiser's lucky, the son of the tycoon himself. And they will chew your ear off blabbing about themselves.
The same people there this week were talking about themselves at the New Year's functions of 2003, 2004, 2005 and 2006, back when I last heard their unexciting tales. They've been thrilling each other with great new anecdotes about themselves at every race day, every fashion launch and the launch of every new cocktail menu in Sydney for the past 10 or more years. And never, dare I even suggest it might occur, wearing the same thing twice.
At such "dos", there is no shortage of romance either. And I'm talking more Blue Light Disco than walk along the beach at sunset. More gyrating and open-mouthed pashes than a Year 9 social. It might have looked a tad less tacky when they were all 18. But it's simply not that hot when you're 43. Or even 34. As one regular on the scene put it: "There's usually four legs in each loo and a queue of six deep outside the bathrooms trying to get in."
Now that's glamorous, right? Don't these people have families? It's the first day of the year, a day off work and a chance to hang out with your nearest and dearest. Some sun, a swim, maybe a beer. It's what the crowd of public holiday beachgoers were enjoying when they inexplicably chose to stand waiting, melting in the sun as they peered on to the balcony in the hope of catching a glimpse of the "stars" inside on Thursday.
It is for you and for anyone fortunate enough to have spent an hour on a foul-smelling train to get to the crowded beach, that I wrote this. You weren't the ones missing out on the fun. The spread might have been spectacular, the champagne chilled, but in the end there was probably a whole lot of nothing going on in there. I hope you weren't looking up to these clowns. They may never realise, but it was you showing them how to have fun this week.