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The 1970s were busy years. After returning to Currie Hall, we planned the re-introduction of coeducation in 1971, and then a building program that would expand our student numbers to over 230. Of more immediate personal concern were the problems faced by my Vietnamese students. I had faced these problems before I went overseas, but now they became more intense, culminating in 1975 with the fall of Saigon and the defeat of the South Vietnamese by the Communist North. In the early 1970's, I also confronted the problem of three of my overseas students suffering psychotic breakdowns. These problems placed a great burden on me.

I From the mid 1960's to the mid 1970's the world focussed increasingly on the war in Vietnam and on its morality. While I was in America and Canada, I had much evidence of the disaffection of youth from participation in a war in which they did not believe. There had been much support for both the first and the second World Wars because most people believed in them. They regarded themselves as fighting for the preservation of their families and for the survival of their country. Those who took part became heroes.

Now, in the United States of America, students at universities all over the country protested at the on

1

campus recruitment for the Reserve Officer Corps training program . Most youth could not view the war in Vietnam in the same way that their parents had viewed the two World Wars. While Governments extolled the reasons why their citizens should be involved and why we should send young men to Vietnam to protect the world against communism, many of the young were not convinced, and thought the war immoral. There was intense debate. The US Pentagon - the military establishment became very worried about the anti-Vietnam war movement because of its effect on the army. Thousands of conscientious-objector applications were filed by men facing Vietnam duty. It was against this background that I encountered the problems faced by South Vietnamese students studying in my University, many of whom resided in Currie Hall.

Australia backed USA in its foreign policy. Early in 1965, Prime Minister Bob Menzies had committed Australian troops to Vietnam. When, on 19 April 1966, the first conscripts left our shores, there was growing controversy over their mission, and more than 2,000 people took part in an anti-Vietnam war rally in Sydney. Towards the end of the year, police forcibly removed a young conscientious objector from his home and delivered him to the army. The lad claimed that the war was immoral.

2

On 31 January 1968, during Tet , the Viet Cong launched an attack, striking at Saigon itself. That year, and in 1969, anti-Vietnam war demonstrations intensified in Australia, with increasing objection to selecting nineteen-year-old conscripts by ballot, based on their birth-date.

¹ See page 370 ² The Vietnamese New Year

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What was the background to this war?

Vietnam has a long history. Once it was peopled by the Meos but they are not the Vietnamese of today, although some are still in the central highlands. About two thousand years ago the Khmers from Cambodia invaded, to be succeeded in about 1400 AD by the Viet people who left their homeland in the valley of the Red River, taking hundreds of years to occupy the rich country of the Mekong. There is some evidence that the Vietnamese are descended from an intermixture of Mongoloid and Indonesian races dating back two and a half thousand years. In the year 1630, the Viets fell out among themselves and a southern dynasty under Nguyen Kim set up an independent empire. The North fell under Chinese domination and, until the coming of the French, Vietnam was divided into two countries, north and south of the 17th parallel, as it was at the beginning of the war in the 1960's.

French missionaries came as early as 1626, but it was not until the mid-1800's that Westerners made their appearance as rulers. In 1842, Britain opened a trading post at Hong Kong and in 1845 the French established themselves in Vietnam. So began one hundred years of unwilling cooperation with the French. During the last days of the French Regime, hatred of the French by the Vietnamese was overwhelming. However, France did spend money on Vietnam and the results are there to see.

During the Second World War, white men were forced to surrender to the Japanese and, throughout Asia after the war, there was a strong move everywhere for independence. The French reestablished themselves in the South - against the wishes of America - while Ho Chi Minh's guerrillas held out in the North. From 1946 to 1954 the Viet Minh waged war against the French, finally defeating them at Dien Bien Phu. French rule came to an end and the world saw that what mattered was not modern weapons of war, but the fanatical courage to die for the cause. The Viet Minh had the support of the Vietnamese people.

The Vietnamese peasant in the rice paddy was a very poor man and subject to rich landlords in Saigon. Two percent of the population owned forty-five percent of the land. The French stood for oppression and foreign domination. The Viet Minh stood for liberation and independence. The country peasant did not ask about communism. To him the Viet Minh represented hope. The rich landowners and government of the South were oppressors.

When an armistice between the French and Viet Minh was signed in Geneva in 1954, the country was again divided at the 17th parallel, and all Vietnamese were to be free to choose their zone of residence

- North or South. National elections were to unify the country by 1956, but the South Vietnamese government did not implement this. The Geneva agreement was not a workable basis for peace. Out of this grew antagonism and conflict between the North and the South.

Some saw it as a conflict between Communism and Capitalism, others as a civil war between those supporting the landless peasants and the Southern government supporting the landowners.

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THE VIETNAM WAR: ITS BACKGROUND AND EFFECT ON MY STUDENTS

In 1954, US president Eisenhower had given a commitment to the first independent Government of South Vietnam to defend the fledgling nation against attack. The southward movement of North Vietnamese troops began slowly with a few hundred in 1959, then 3,000 in 1960 and over 10,000 in 1961. This amounted to open foreign aggression and alarmed American officials in the Saigon Embassy. There were already 600 US military “advisers” in the country when US President, John Kennedy, increased the number to 6,000. Soon, American troops began to arrive in ever increasing numbers so that it became an American war. By 1969, American dead reached 34,000 while the number of American troops in the country neared half a million.

Increasingly, citizens in the United States, in Australia and other countries saw the war as hideous, immoral and unwinnable: US planes sprayed jungle with defoliant - “Agent Orange” - to remove the protective cover of the Viet Cong; US planes dropped napalm bombs - bombs containing a jellied petrol which, on explosion, stuck to the skin and produced hideous burns; Both sides laid land mines that blew off the feet or legs of unsuspecting intruders. Thousands were killed and maimed and there were stories of atrocities committed by both sides. Many of those who suffered were civilian peasants.

When it became clear to the US administration that it could not conclude the war successfully and that the tide of public opinion was turning against it, the President made the decision to pull out, leaving the battle to the South Vietnamese themselves - with the consequent inevitable fall of the South to the North. This took place in 1975.

II

When, in 1967, I first came to know Vietnamese students, I was largely ignorant of the background of their country, although, like everyone else, I knew something of the war that was being waged. Our Government urged support for the United States on the grounds that we were fighting for the freedom of South-East Asian countries, and for our own freedom by preventing the spread of communism by

3

the domino effect . We were warned that, if Vietnam fell to the Communist North, other countries

4

would follow. Communistic domination, as evidenced by the USSR , by the growing strength of Mao's China, and now by North Vietnam, was greatly feared by Western capitalism in the so called democratic countries. My understanding grew slowly.

I will let the story of my involvement with students from South Vietnam unfold itself by going back to the year of the Tet offensive . . .

It was a pleasant, sunny, Saturday morning in September 1968. Absent-mindedly, I was returning to my flat in Currie Hall from a happy half-hour spent rummaging amongst the books in the University bookshop. As I walked across the lawns, thinking of the books that I might have bought, I passed Phuoc, a young Vietnamese engineering-student whom I knew very well. When I said good morning to him, unexpectedly he burst into tears. I put my arm around him to comfort him and then persuaded him to return with me to my flat where we might share his problem.

³ See page 242

4

Union of Soviet Socialist Republics -an association that collapsed with the economy in the early 1990's.

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This was both the culmination of a series of events - and the beginning of another long saga - that brought me face to face with the tragedy that was Vietnam in the 1960's.

We had always had a few Vietnamese students in the Hall. Almost all came from the Saigon area and were sponsored by the Australian government under the Colombo Plan agreement. Phuoc arrived in the Hall as a first-year student in 1966 and, soon after we took up residence in 1967, became a regular baby-sitter for our children. Gradually we came to know him well. Quietly spoken, with a relatively poor command of English, he seemed a sensitive young man, much concerned with the fate of his country. He played the classical guitar well, and composed songs of peace for his country.

One song, in particular, sounded very sad. Early in 1969, after we had departed for our overseas

5

adventure, Ray Hobbs , a young American student in the Hall, asked Phuoc to play the song for him in his room. He recorded this and the subsequent conversation.

After Phuoc sang, Ray asked, ‘Can you tell me what it means?’

‘Yes, it's a song calling for peace, since the war is too long. Most of the Vietnamese musicians write songs calling for peace. They describe how there is unhappiness throughout the land. I composed this song and call it The Song of the Vietnamese Students.’

‘Who did you compose this for?’

‘I composed it for the Vietnamese students. Though the musical structure is not good, I just want to give some feeling to them, so that they know it.’

‘Is this song translatable?’

‘Yes, it says:

The Vietnam ese students, we have to unite together, and we try to follow those who love the country.

W e, the Vietnam ese students, have to look to our m other country, because the people there have to suffer the bom bing, the fire and the sm oke.

W e are a brotherhood, and we have to rem em ber those who are for the country and for the people. They have to sacrifice and they don't mind if they have to go into the dangerous situation. They try to save the country.

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You have to rem em ber Hua Do W ong , the Vietnamese king. He was very brave, and Hai Ba Chung, the Vietnam ese queen. They were very clever and they made our country fam ous.

W e are the Vietnam ese students. W e have to try to study hard. Our country is always looking to us, and we have to rem em ber our Motherland.

⁵ See pages 320 & 323

⁶ As these names were copied from an audio tape, I am not certain that they are correctly written. There were both pronunciation and subsequent spelling problems.

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VIETNAM: THE STORY OF PHUOC

The Vietnamese history is about four thousand years. W e are far from home for a long time but we always remember those who are for the country, although in our hands we have nothing.

But we have decided to go with the people and to help them forever.

Two Vietnamese intellectuals, Phan Boi Chau and Phan Cho Chin, they fought against the French, and they were our forefathers.

The Vietnamese students, our burning desire for peace, and our burning desire to unite the nation together, so the people can sing in a peaceful life, and happiness overflow everywhere.

This is not a good translation.’

In Vietnam, the war took precedence over all other aspects of life. No one could grow up and go to school and make a life for himself except in the context of war. All our Vietnamese students were the product of this background. Most, having lived all their lives in Saigon, had escaped exposure to the worst aspects of war. Phuoc, however, was different. In 1969, while we were overseas, we exchanged letters. One day, he wrote me a poignant account of his early life:

I was born in 1947 literally on a battlefield in North Vietnam, and my first few years were spent in Hanoi. My mother was my father's second wife; to marry her he claimed that he was a bachelor - and had four children by her. My father spent all his life in the army and, when I was in kindergarten, he was posted to a camp thirty kilometres from Hanoi. There he made love to another woman and, when my mother went to see him, the vehicle in which she was travelling struck a land mine and she was blown to pieces. My father told me that she had gone to live with a black-Frenchman. Somehow I knew that this was not true and that she was dead. I cried.

Later, we all moved to South Vietnam and lived with my father's first wife and family. In Vietnam, what my father did was very common. However, the first wife always hates the children of other wives. My step-mother held strong Buddhist views and often quarrelled with my father. Somehow, I always got the blame and was often beaten. I do not blame her, for the society made her like this.

I did not know what to do, so I just smiled and I sang. My sister ran away from home to Saigon, but returned every now and again briefly. She became a prostitute. I would go to the beach with my books, and study. I attended a Chinese school for two years. This was very difficult because the instruction was in Chinese, and I did not know Chinese; later I separated from my parents and went to school in Saigon.

My memories of Hanoi are not strong, but I still remember tanks and guns in the street. I still remember people falling down and their blood soaking into the ground. The people in Vietnam are very poor and have suffered so much that they must be corrupt to live. So many girls must live by prostitution. In Vietnam, it is nothing; it is not a matter of morals.

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There are over 300,000 prostitutes in Vietnam. My own town became the centre for prostitution, with the highest rate of venereal disease. The girls can be very beautiful, and cost very little. For fifty piastas you can have a girl all day. It is very common. At my school, the whole of my class went to the prostitutes together. The young girls of fifteen or sixteen were very beautiful but they cried so much that we took pity on them and could not have sexual intercourse with them. But they needed the money.

The Vietnamese unit is the village - a group of two or three hundred houses set among many trees and surrounded by rice fields, and probably three miles distant from a neighbouring village. Most people in the village are poor. One man may own most of the land while the others work upon it. Some own a little land. Most work hard in the fields and do not own buffalo, which is too expensive. The houses may have big gardens and a pool with fish. People will swim, wash and drink from the pool, but they are remarkably healthy, do not get sick, and live to a great age. They are healthier than in the cities.

The village is isolated. There will be intermarriage between the villages, but largely they are self contained. They make their own clothing from silkworms, and payment is by rice. Law may be maintained by an old man of the village. People are not conscious of the wider world. They would not know of the Vietnamese king. Often, the poor people are oppressed by the rich. Few children would have any education because it would be regarded as unnecessary.

I am not like most of the other Vietnamese students in Australia. Most come from Saigon and are Saigonese, and are not, to my mind, truly Vietnamese. They do not know the country or the village life. They do not know poverty. It is funny: I have friends who are rich, and friends who are very poor. They have just a bowl of rice for themselves and they have many relations who come but who have nothing. And if you have a bowl of rice, you give half that bowl of rice to your relatives. I have seen people living in pipes. The Saigonese do not know anything of this. They are selfish and they lead a life of individualism. But in the villages some people are very beautiful in their ways. They share everything, and though they have little, they share it. It is very beautiful.

Sometimes I went into villages known as strategic hamlets, where it was quite dangerous. I know what Vietnam is like; the Saigonese do not.

I did not study for a scholarship; I just studied because I studied. Half the available scholarships are sold for corruption money; the other half are given for true scholarship. There was tremendous competition for this, but I knew nothing of it. In my last year at school I took a great risk: I allowed a friend of mine to copy all my exams. In Australia this would be wrong, but not in Vietnam. If he failed, he would be nothing. But, if he passed, then he would have some hope for a future.

In my class of sixty, three passed. My father could not afford to send me to the University, so he told me to apply for the scholarship. While waiting for the results of the scholarship I got a job in an army camp as an interpreter. But, it was bad. I loved a girl who was thirty miles away. I had to get up at 6.00 am every morning

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and travel to the camp, and did not leave until 6.00 pm. I could never see my girl. I had to pay one month's wages corruption money to get the job. It was very boring and it was very bad because the old men only wanted the young boys to have sex with them as partners. I could not stand it, so I left.

And then I got the scholarship. Coming out of Vietnam was a terrible shock to me. Up to that time I thought all the world was like Vietnam. We landed at Singapore for six hours. Everything was so quiet and clean. Everyone at the airport was so polite. There was no bureaucracy ordering me around. When we arrived at Sydney it was so quiet, we could not believe it. We thought there was a curfew.

Coming to Australia really changed me. I saw that life need not be like Vietnam. Later, I went back to Saigon for two weeks and, my God! it was horrible. Everything and everyone was worse. Everyone was out for himself; no one was human, and Viet Cong rockets fell in Saigon. Since coming to Australia I have become more philosophical. I have looked up at the stars and have seen how insignificant is the earth - and I am insignificant on the earth. Out of millions of sperms, I happened by chance to be born. All sperms are equal, and when I die and am dust, I will be equal with all men. My own life is of no value in itself. I was born, so I live - until I die. It matters not when I die.

Within me there are two persons. The first person knows that he must love, for he knows nothing else he can do. The first person has no question of life, and has no answer. But I am human and must live. The first person in me makes me an inactive man, but I must live, and the second person in me is the role I play in life. In 1968 I had much conflict between my first and second person. I almost went mad and wanted to commit suicide. But now I recognise the second person as simply the role I play. But the first person in me still makes me inactive. Most people live in the second person. They are full of prejudices. I see these immediately so I can no longer carry on discussion with them: they are not talking with me, only their prejudices are talking, and these they cannot see. I have no want for myself. I have only love. Because I must live life, so my second person sometimes has fear. I was born in the present, so I must live in the present. I was born in Vietnam, and Vietnam is sad, so I must live in Vietnam. This is the role my second person must play. But I myself have only love. I do not know what else I can do, so I smile, although sad.

It was in 1968 that the turmoil in his mind came to a head. As he later wrote:

By 1968 I had been living in Australia for three years. The new surroundings opened my mind. I met people with different ideas, and from different countries. But one thing always obsessed me: the war in Vietnam. I had seen people kill each

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other from the time I was born. I had seen the most miserable people in the world: Poverty, sickness, injustice . . . these are what I had seen in my country. The war is still on. More than thirty millions Vietnamese still have to suffer. Millions of children with no parents. Millions of people with no hands or with no legs. The students from other countries can study happily and worry about nothing but themselves. But we, the Vietnamese students, cannot sit down to study peacefully. Only we, the Vietnamese students, experience deeply the humiliation, the frustration, and the sickness of life.

Day by day I hope the war will stop, that Vietnam can be united and my people have a peaceful and happy life as the others.

Phuoc was dismayed at the propaganda that appeared in the Australian press, justifying the American and Australian presence in Vietnam. In his mind, the truth was otherwise. He knew that the South Vietnamese government was corrupt. He knew that it was not so much a war against Communism as an internal civil war, a war against the inequities of life in his country. He discussed this with two other students, Tuan from Kingswood College, and Dang from St. George's College.

Together they wanted to tell the University students as a whole what was really happening to their country. However, as Colombo plan students, they had signed an agreement that they would not make

7

political statements while in Australia. Peter Hagyi-Ristic editor of the student newspaper The Pelican, was a resident of Currie Hall and wanted to cover the story. He wrote to the Federal Minister for External Affairs and asked if Vietnamese students would jeopardise their scholarships if they spoke out. He received the reply that Colombo Plan students could make private, not public statements, and that a seminar given within the University would be regarded as a private statement.

Shortly after this, Dang, Tuan and Phuoc made an impassioned plea to a packed lecture theatre, relating what they saw as the truth about Vietnam. No sooner had they done this than a senior member of the South Vietnamese Embassy in Canberra flew to Perth, called all the Vietnamese students together and gave them a lecture, telling them not to be naughty boys and to be careful about what they said, because it could have serious consequences. All students except one, bowed their heads dutifully and respectfully to the Canberra official. Phuoc however, challenged the official, putting embarrassing questions to him that could not be answered. The official lost face in front of the students, and all the others thought that Phuoc was from that moment a marked man.

This experience cause great confusion in Phuoc's mind. He became very troubled, not knowing where he stood, or what he should do. It was at this time that I met him in the grounds of the Hall and he burst into tears. Kay and I spent much time with him, and came to know him even more closely. When we left for Britain in 1969, Phuoc entered into his final honours year of his course and wrote long philosophical letters to me.

When we returned from Britain, Phuoc had completed his degree but saw that, until the war ended, he could do nothing in Vietnam to help his country. So he decided to embark on a higher degree. It was then that he struck trouble. The Vietnamese Embassy sent all students completing their degrees a letter saying that no one would be granted permission to stay in Australia for a higher degree. All those graduating must return to Vietnam to serve their country. However, Phuoc had a contact within the Embassy and learnt that they had a plan to send home the dissident boys first and, having got them out of the country, then to change their mind and announce that students could stay for higher studies.

⁷ See page 374

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PHUOC THE PROBLEMS OF VIETNAMESE STUDENTS IN THE MID 1970s

It was at this time that the Australian papers gave publicity to the way in which the South Vietnamese punished political dissidents. The paper showed photographs of so called "tiger-cages". These were pits dug in the ground, covered at the top with an iron grill. Dissidents were thrown into these pits, and burning slaked-lime was thrown on top of them. Phuoc and Tuan panicked and saw this as their fate if they were returned to Saigon. Phuoc thought that the only thing to do was to flee to France via Noumea. He and Tuan made contact with some communists who said they would help them.

Before fleeing to Sydney, Phuoc came to us sadly and gave me his beloved guitar. ‘This is for you, I want you to have it,’ he said.

‘I will hold it in safe-keeping for you,’ I replied. But he insisted that now it was mine, as he would probably never see our family again.

Once in Sydney, he found that the communist group only wanted to use them for their own purposes, so he went into hiding, not knowing what to do. Phuoc wrote to me using an assumed name, and his

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letters were full of distress. I took these letters to Kim Beazley senior, a Labour member of Federal Parliament and sought his aid. The labour party was not in power, but he immediately lobbied the Minister for Foreign Affairs as he saw the situation as a humanitarian and not a political one. Finally, Tuan appeared on Sydney television, and appealed for Asylum in Australia.

The outcome was that, in spite of the Vietnamese Embassy's request that the students be returned to Vietnam immediately, the Federal Government gave them permission to stay in Australia on a yearly basis, provided they engaged in no more political activity.

Phuoc returned to Perth and to Currie Hall and embarked on his PhD. I tried to return his guitar to him, but he refused to take it, so I bought one for myself, and gave it to him. It was then that I started to learn classical guitar, first from Phuoc and later from a professional teacher, Brian Black.

However, Phuoc's experience proved so stressful that he suffered a severe depression, for which I sought psychiatric aid. For six months we employed him as a gardener at Currie Hall, after which he recovered sufficiently to proceed with, and obtain, his PhD.

Phuoc married Tam, a Vietnamese student from St Catherine's College, and we celebrated the marriage with the rest of the Vietnamese community in our flat. Eventually they settled in Melbourne and had a son. However, Phuoc was never able to free himself sufficiently from his obsession with the troubles of Vietnam and from his own confused thought. His marriage broke up, he remarried and raised another family. Although he visited Vietnam many years later, the experience was very disturbing to him, and he remained working in Australia. Over the years, Kay and I maintained contact with him and with his first wife, Tam.

In the mid-1970's as the troubles in Vietnam intensified, we maintained very close relationships with the students to give them as much support as we could. On 21 October 1974, I made the following entry in my diary:

8

Beazley's son, also Kim, was leader of the Federal Labour party in Canberra in

1995

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9

Last night I had a very long talk with Hung from about 10 p.m. until 1 a.m. He reminded me that it was some time since I last visited him in his room, but we soon fell to talking as intimately as we had done in the past. I never have difficulty talking with Hung. The conversation just goes on and on. We talked about his life and about what was going on around us. I felt very comfortable sitting on his bed with a pillow behind my back, absolutely relaxed and just talking about whatever came into my head.

I suppose this ease comes from three years of knowing Hung and sharing with him his "growing-up" - the times of his emotional distress, and his battle to emerge from the position of being an over-protected young boy, fairly well insulated from life and the problems of his home country, Vietnam, to emerge as a young man with growing awareness of his responsibility, and of his powerlessness.

There is something about the Vietnamese that makes me infinitely sad. Here we have the young person facing the impossible realities of life: He is confronted by the hatred, killing and misery of his people; Confronted by corruption and misuse of power in his home country; Confronted by a boyhood sense of loyalty and idealism. And then realising that, no matter what he does, he can do nothing of real value: Realising that the people of his country, Vietnam, are sorely treated, and are slowly being reduced to starvation; Realising that one's own family, although once well-to-do, is now only a little above starvation, and may be next; Knowing that if he goes home, there may be no job, or the job may be useless; Knowing that life can be otherwise; Seeing the Australians and their way of life; Learning the value of freedom, privacy and independence, and realising that none of these can be his.

Under these circumstances, what price loyalty? True, to his own family he has loyalty, but by returning to live in Vietnam, he cannot help them. At least from Australia he can send them money.

Yes, talking with Hung, I feel a poignant sadness, and just as he is helpless, so, too, am I helpless to offer anything. So I simply sit beside him and talk, and place my hand gently on his knee, to give that small element of human contact, and sometimes there is silence. Perhaps the silence is the most important thing we say to each other. Sitting quietly, silently together, just in contact and, in that silence, recognising both the common humanity and human predicament we share. And from that recognition, drawing some strength.

Hung talked about the dilemma of the fourth-year Vietnamese students. About a month ago Tuan saw a letter on a table in the Department of Education stating that all fourth-year students were to be refused post-graduate study or work, and would be required to go straight home. Now, all six of the fourth-year Vietnamese are worried. None wants to go home, because they may not get a job, and even if they do, they cannot do anything that will bring any satisfaction with it. Their pay will hardly support them. They will not be able to help their families. If they could stay in Australia, at least they could send money home to help. Hung has stopped spending money in Australia. He rarely goes out, and he tries to send home $50 each month.

⁹ Vietnamese names in this chapter have been changed from their real names as their stories often involve material obtained confidentially.

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OUR CLOSE RELATIONSHIP WITH VIETNAMESE STUDENTS

While in Australia he has learnt the value of equality between peoples, of freedom from fear, of personal privacy, and the value of freedom itself. When he compares the Australians with the Vietnamese he becomes depressed.

‘You showed me your passport,’ he said, ‘It gave you freedom to go anywhere. My passport gives me no freedom. I cannot do anything, or say anything. If I speak out about something at home, I can find myself in gaol. At home, anyone with the slightest amount of power will abuse it. Even airport officials treat passengers like dirt. I first noticed the difference between Vietnam and elsewhere when I arrived for the first time at Singapore airport. I was treated with respect. This was something new.

‘Last year, when I returned home, I could not take it for the first week. In Saigon I stayed in the home of rich friends who had servants. Doors were opened and closed for me. I could not take it. I went to a restaurant with friends and, when we finished, some people rushed up to the table to take our scraps because they were starving.’

All the Vietnamese students are troubled. One week ago on the night of the third-term dinner, a third-year student very quickly got drunk. He was distressed because he needed to help his family at home and had been trying desperately to get a vacation job. He had not found a job and felt very depressed, so he got drunk.

When we put him to bed he kept saying, ‘I am very distressed because I cannot help my family. I am Vietnamese, and I love Vietnam, but my people always fight. They will always be fighting. There will never be peace in my country. But I am Vietnamese. Why can't we be like the Australians? The Australians are so lucky.’

The year 1975 proved very difficult because the American ground troops had withdrawn and the North descended on the South, taking Da Nang on 29 March. On 30 April Saigon fell, and so ended the war. No one knew what would then happen. Would there be a reign of terror against those who had supported the South?

One student looked very distressed, so I visited him. He confessed to me that the previous day he had received a letter from his father who was a captain in the South Vietnamese army. His father had said that the North Vietnamese were descending rapidly on them and he would soon be captured. He had a phial of cyanide to take so that he would not be caught alive. The letter was a farewell letter to his son.

Most fortunately, the father did not take cyanide, but the student did not know this for some months. Other students, studying for their final honours exams, did not know what had happened to their parents, their siblings or their homes. They did not know whether they could ever return to their families. Most of these students eventually settled in Australia, married and raised their families here. Many brought their parents and other siblings to Australia. Many also realised that while their families remained in Vietnam, the best way they could help them was not by returning to Vietnam but by earning good money in Australia and remitting as much as possible to their families, who were often reduced to poverty.

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Another of my Vietnamese students, Huy, often dropped into our flat and became very close to our family. We shared many activities and, amongst other things, I taught him to drive a car. He had never known his father, because his father had left his mother when he was very young. Huy settled in Sydney, married, and raised three children, brought his mother out from Saigon to live with him, and remained in constant contact with us. In 1995 he wrote about our relationship to him and about his father:

I never had the chance to have a relationship with my father - at least, not on the physical level, and yet it is possible on the spiritual level: I still remember in the summer of 93-94 while I was walking in Parramatta Park under the steaming hot sun, I suddenly felt the presence of my father as if he was saying to me that he is sorry for not being physically close to me since my childhood and that he has always thought of me.

Later on, as I logically analysed the event, it could be said that it was all in my

imagination, my fantasies that such a feeling existed. Yet is was so "real" to me. And, if

there is "life" or existence in some form after death, then I wish him peace and joy.

And, sure enough, my father still exists in many ways, as he exists in me through passing himself on to me genetically, and also spiritually. Without him, these words would be impossible. Whenever I remember him, I simply smile; I simply know that he is accessible.

Years ago, if you remember, you and I described our relationship as one of father and son. I remember you teaching me to drive a car, and coming into your flat often. That relationship was simply great but, at the time, I could not relate to what a son should do to be a son, because I had no opportunity as a boy to be a son - Now that I have my own children, I know how wonderful the father-son relationship can be. It was great to have that relationship with you when I was in Currie Hall. And Kay, too. Her presence always gave me a feeling of care and love.

It was during the early 1970's that Kay and I gave all our time to the Vietnamese students and became as

10

temporary parents to many . Some of the overseas students from other Asian countries complained amongst themselves that we were giving all our time to the Vietnamese students and not to them. They did not understand.

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Hung married a Vietnamese girl who had studied in Queensland. He joined the Department of Defence, they settled in Canberra and had one son. For three years he studied for a higher degree in Britain before returning to his job in Canberra. Huy worked in Sydney in the computer programming/engineering area, but eventually became dissatisfied with this. He wanted a more "human" job, relating to people. He tried to enter medicine at several universities, but was too old to be accepted. By 1996 he was halfway through a four-year course in Chinese medicine and acupuncture, having been bold enough to give up his secure job and take the plunge into a complete change in career.

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PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS OF OVERSEAS STUDENTS ANDREW AND SUMET

III

In the early 1970's I was almost brought to a standstill by my encounter with three overseas students who developed serious psychological disorders. I had felt that I had unlimited capacity and inner strength to deal with anything, and so committed myself very heavily to the lives of others. However, I discovered that, like all other human beings, I was finite with limited capacity and that, if I stretched myself too far, something would break. It was an important lesson.

Andrew was a Chinese student from Kuala Lumpur. He had lived one year in Currie Hall and had then changed to St. Thomas More College. The following long vacation he moved to a boarding house in Nedlands, and then ran into psychological problems that saw him abandon his university course and return home. When he left, he sold me his cassette tape recorder and in it I found a tape he had made while in St. Thomas More College. This showed how troubled he was by failure to communicate with others. He soliloquised into the tape recorder:

I must now formulate some kind of attitude so that I might communicate with my fellow beings in this College. Somehow there is a communication breakdown. Many College men are boycotting me for some reason. Maybe because they think I am too snobbish, I do not reach out, because they think I am too hopeless to talk to them. A waste of time even to talk to me - even if I try a conversation with them. Others might discriminate against me on a racial basis, or think that I am just a half-caste Chinese.

Anyway, there is this crisis here. I must do the best I can. I should be more at ease with

other people. I shouldn't care what they think. I must not only be friendly, I must be sure

I can do things, and that I am a man of action, not just of words.

I knew Andrew well and had found him a quiet, sensitive person, but I did not know that he had deep problems. While he was at the boarding house, several students had come to me and said, ‘We think you should visit Andrew. He doesn't seem too well.’ But I had my hands full of other things. I told myself that I would get around to it, but did not.

Then, one Sunday morning, I received a phone call: ‘Andrew has gone off his head. He is wandering round the back garden at his boarding house, completely naked, and will respond to no one.’ They told me that they had first rung Mary Hodgkin, the Liaison Officer for Malaysian students, and that she would go around to the boarding house. She had asked them to ring me. While I hurried to find Andrew, Mary rang Alan German, the professor of Psychiatry, for advice.

‘He's still out the back,’ said the other occupants of the boarding house. ‘He won't respond to any of us and we don't know what to do.’ I found Andrew wandering about naked, looking dazed, and incoherent. I took his hand and he recognised me. Slowly I coaxed him back into his room and managed to have him put on some clothes. He seemed very confused, but also relieved that he had made contact with someone he knew well.

Mary arrived and told me that Alan German had said to take him to Royal Perth Hospital for observation. I spoke quietly with Andrew and eventually persuaded him to come with me to the hospital. Three days later, Andrew knocked on the door of my flat. He was under medication and quite coherent. He said that he had walked out of the hospital and was not going back. Apparently a young nurse had handed him all the notes on his case by accident. When he read these, he became infuriated and left.

Andrew was still very unwell, so I gave him a room, and rang the hospital. ‘If he is going to walk out of hospital, we will not take responsibility for him. You must take him to Graylands hospital for the mentally

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ill, where he will not be able to leave.’ When I hesitated, they said: ‘Either you persuade him to go to Graylands voluntarily, or we will send the police with an order to take him by force.’ So I took Andrew to Graylands. For some weeks I visited him constantly. I contacted his parents and eventually he withdrew from his course and returned to Malaysia.However, I had difficulty in persuading the airline company to accept him as an unaccompanied passenger.

I felt very sorry for Andrew, as I did for any young person who encountered psychological problems. His parents felt that he had brought great shame on the family and tried to lock him away out of sight rather than seek the best possible treatment. He had caused them to lose face. I wrote often; Slowly he seemed to regain something of his former self, and gained much help from membership of a church. After a few years I lost contact with him, and have always wondered what became of this potentially very bright young man.

The other two young men in psychological trouble at this time both came from Thailand. Sumet was always in and out of our house. He often sat in our lounge listening to classical music with a pair of headphones while Kay went about her work. He walked with a slight lope and had a minor deformity of his left arm. This was hardly noticeable, but it greatly worried him. As a young boy he had a pet monkey that loped when it followed him around. His friends sometimes jeered at him, and said that he looked like, and acted like, the monkey. After being in Australia for some time he developed all the symptoms of schizophrenia and spent a period in hospital. Sumet did not complete his degree but withdrew from studies and returned home.

Thai Colombo Plan scholarship students were bonded to their government for eight years on very low salaries but Sumet was released from his bond on medical grounds. In Bangkok he soon recovered and entered the advertising business. He claimed that he always had a vivid imagination - and that this was part of his problem, but it suited him to advertising. Soon he was making more money than his compatriots who completed their degrees and remained bonded to the government¹¹.

Thongpool also came from Thailand but resided in Kingswood College. I found that whenever an overseas student in one of the Colleges had psychological difficulties, the Currie Hall students often referred them to me. I had much contact with Thongpool who also developed the symptoms of schizophrenia and spent time in hospital. Fortunately he recovered sufficiently to complete his degree. On returning to Thailand he took up a lectureship at Chiang Mai University in Northern Thailand¹².

I discussed the illnesses of Sumet and Thongpool with Alan German. ‘Before I came to Australia,’ said Alan, ‘I was practising psychiatry at a university in Africa. Some British students came there to study, and

¹¹ We stayed in contact with Sumet every year. In the 1990's he was doing well in the advertising business and had travelled abroad for his work. He never married, sometimes experienced minor depression, and did not look forward to retirement. `I don't know what I would do in retirement,' he wrote. `It's quite scary to imagine living in old age alone, spending time just reading newspapers or watching TV.'

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We also maintained contact with Thongpool who married Punporn and had a daughter Tipaporn and a son Pornpol. In 1996 the children were 17 and 11 years old respectively. In 1977, when Kay and I visited Thailand and arrived in Bangkok by bus from the south at 6.30 am in the morning, we found Thongpool waiting for us. He had travelled 750 km overnight from Chiang Mai simply to greet us, even though he knew that a week later we were to visit him at his home town. He spent the day with us and then travelled home overnight by bus as he had lectures to give the next day. We had not realised the importance he attached to the simple love and care that Kay and I had shown him in Perth during his illness. (See also page 459.)

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SUMET & THONGPOOL MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY FAMILY & OTHERS

a few developed all the signs of schizophrenia. However, when we returned them to Britain, they recovered completely. I now realise that they were people who were marginally stable in their home culture, but had difficulty reading the cultural messages - often nonverbal - in another society. They developed symptoms like schizophrenia, but it was not that. Sumet and Thongpool experienced the same problem in Australia. Any doctor who did not know would diagnose them as schizophrenic and treat them inappropriately.’

Kay and I had already experienced confusing body language in a minor way. Kay had joined a group known as The International Wive's Group. This group of concerned Australian and overseas women noted that many married overseas men came to Perth for postgraduate work. While the men became engrossed in their work, their wives and children were often left alone in a small flat. The group contacted these wives, held regular social gatherings, and helped the women fit into what was for them a strange environment. We noted that when some Indian women said “yes”, they nodded their head from side to side, and when they said “no”, their head nodded up and down. This we found most confusing, as the body language was the opposite of what we expected. The students who suffered schizophrenic symptoms had much greater trouble with body language and unaccustomed social norms.

The pressures of academic life, of establishing a coeducational environment in Currie Hall, and of planning the next building phase, when coupled with the emotional demand made on me by Andrew, Sumet and Thongpool, proved too much for me. One day I found myself emotionally drained and told Kay that I must see my doctor, Dr Chin. I found myself shaking, and insisted that she come along with me for support. When I related the events currently in my life, he said: ‘You are simply physically and emotionally exhausted. I want you to go away with your wife and hide for two days, and take the tablets I will prescribe.’ Kay and I hired a chalet in a holiday resort about twenty miles north of Perth. I took the tablets and slept for thirty-six hours. I felt completely recovered after this but realised that I was finite and had to slow down.

It was during this time of excessive commitment to students that the relationship between Kay and me was tested. I had a few days of heavy commitment to students and was never home. One night, when I came in very late, I found Kay upset and distraught. She felt that I gave so much time to the students that I was neglecting her and the family. ‘You seem to care more for the students than you do for your own family,’ she said.

Although I did not intend it, she was right.

Up to that time, if I could help a student in trouble then, no matter how tired I was, no matter what other things I should do, I gave my time to the student. By some curious inversion of logic, I had persuaded myself that it was a virtuous thing to sacrifice myself, no matter what it cost me. My family was an extension of myself, so if I sacrificed myself, then I sacrificed my family. Kay pointed out the error of my thinking. It was important that I give love and support to my family and not simply take them for granted. Kay always sacrificed much for me and stood by me and provided a shoulder on which I could cry when I felt drained. I was not returning to her, or to the children the support that they needed.

I tried to change my behaviour, and reserved more time for my family, but it was always difficult. Although I improved, Kay still shared her husband with many other people, and the children did not have the father that they needed. In hindsight I recognise this failure on my part. In later years, although Peter said that this did not affect him greatly, Judith was very critical of my neglect of her, and it took time for her to understand and forgive me, after we talked it through together. Perhaps it was due to Kay's unqualified love for her family that we remained an intact and loving unit so that today she and I have a very close and loving relation with each other and with both our children.

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IV

One day, when Sumet and Thongpool were both on medication, Sumet said to me: ‘At least Thongpool and I have discovered one benefit of this medication: It has greatly decreased our sex drive. Neither of us masturbate regularly like we once did.’ Then, in the next breath, he said, ‘We have been talking about you, and wondered whether you were homosexual. We decided that you were not.’

This statement took me aback because I had never thought about it, or considered that, because I showed much compassion for students, I might be labelled homosexual. It also pointed up the way in which people can be so easily categorised.

From 1971 onward, I worked very closely with both young men and women and, looking back, I can see many situations where, unthinkingly, I may have put myself at risk of being falsely accused of sexual harassment. In twenty years this never happened because, when students came to know me well, and realised my commitment to them as people, they trusted me.

An initial reaction of many people is to see relationships predominantly in sexual terms. This is to see other people as objects rather than as persons. If a women is seen as someone with whom to have sexual intercourse, valued only for her sexual attractiveness, then she is an object, not a person. If a male's relationship with another male is seen predominantly in a sexual connotation, and as necessarily implying sexual acts, then again the male is seen as an object.

But surely, we should see relationships in human terms: In terms of the quality of the relationship and in terms of caring for the well-being of others, whether they be male or female? Whenever I have come close to another person in a helping relationship, I have felt caring and affection for that person. How they tackle their problems, and what happens to them, becomes important to me. I believe that all human beings should be able to relate closely to other human beings. However, in so far as they do so, they become vulnerable, because there is a necessary emotional relationship.

Such a relationship does not imply that, if it is a woman, I will jump into bed with her, or, if it is a man, I am involved in a homosexual relation. Society is too afraid of itself, and its sexual urges, and too narrow in outlook to accept person-to-person caring of an intimate kind without feeling threatened. Over the period from 1964 to 1986 I had many close and intimate, caring, but non-sexual relationships with others.

Does this mean that I was a non-typical male? Are males supposed to present a tough, macho, non-caring, non-sensitive image?¹³ If so, then I was non-typical in that I allowed my own soft, inner core to relate to others. I removed the hard, self-protective shell, under which so many males hide, because I did not need it: I knew myself well, felt good about myself, and so felt safe to be my spontaneous, authentic self.

¹³ This was the subject of a later discussion with two of my senior tutors, Noreen Hocking and Graham Chandler. See page 419.

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HUMAN RELATIONSHIPS & THE PROBLEMS OF MEN: HOW THIS APPLIED TO ME

Twenty years later, when I had left Currie Hall, I happened by chance to listen to a radio program that discussed this problem. Men, it said, face a dilemma: First, they are often accused of being too remote from their children. This leads to a lack of relationship between fathers and sons and daughters. Now they are urged to show a softer side to their character and, like women, give warmth and affection to children. Then, if they do, they are in danger of being accused of being potential child molesters. Children are often warned about men, because men, rather than women, are sometimes guilty of sexual abuse.

Society is now much more aware of child abuse, and is suspicious of any man who pays too much attention to, or who becomes affectionate towards children - particularly children who are not his own. It is almost a case of “damned if you do, and damned if you don't”.

How do men tread the tricky path of human relationships?

One man on the program had written a play on the topic and he said that this arose through a personal experience. He said that there was a very fine, but distinct line between love and affection, and perversion. The matter came to his attention when he was once baby-sitting children of a friend. It came to bath time, and he bathed the children. When one child came out of the bath, she reached up to him and gave him a hug. To him this was natural, and simply a show of love and affection.

When he mentioned to a woman friend that he sometimes bathed the child, she retorted: ‘I hope you don't get into the bath with her.’ This immediately put a sexual context to bath-time, and showed that the woman thought that he, as a man, might be capable of sexual perversion and abuse. It made him stop and think about himself and his motivation.

He realised that sexual arousal lies just below the surface in all men, and that it takes little to stimulate that arousal. What is the difference, then, between a wholesome show of affection for a child, and an unwholesome sexual relationship with the child? He thought that primarily the difference arose through motivation. If a hug or a cuddle arose through love, concern or affection, then this was wholesome. If the hug or cuddle was motivated by a desire for sexual gratification at the expense of the child, then this was unwholesome.

The fine line between what was wholesome and what was not arose particularly when an act was motivated by concern, affection or love, but the act then evoked sexual arousal in the man, though unintended. This, he felt could arise spontaneously in any man. He felt that this was natural, but that the possibility of it should not prevent a man from displaying affection.

It was what he did with the sexual arousal that mattered. If he recognised it, but then refused to act on it, and kept the act at the simple affectionate, loving level, then this was wholesome. If he gave way to the sexual arousal and allowed his relationship to become sexual, then this was unwholesome. It would be a pity, he thought, for men to refuse to allow closeness to children to develop, in fear that sex might get in the way. It was however, right and proper that women should be wary of men, as it was a fact that some men did abuse children.

Listening to this program made me think back to the close relationships I had had with many eighteen to twenty-one year-old students. They were not children but, often I found that a helping relationship brought with it concern and affection for the young person. Very occasionally, with either a woman or a man, I became sexually aroused.

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By that time I was well versed in the views of Viktor Frankl, and had taken them on board: I may not always be able to dictate the physical circumstance in which I found myself, but I always had the freedom to choose how to respond to it¹⁴. Never did I let my unasked for physical response interfere with my purpose in relating to the person, which was to help them cope with their problems, to see themselves more clearly, and so to grow as a person.

I had two responsibilities: to the student who had given me trust, a trust that I must not abuse; and to myself and my family, whom I loved. There was a world of difference between physical arousal, a feeling of caring and compassion for another, and the love that I had for my wife.

Living as we were, so close to some two-hundred young people, where everyone was aware of everyone else, gossip was an everyday part of life, I am sure that, if the students thought I was too familiar or affectionate towards someone, I would soon gain a “reputation” and would be avoided. That this did not happen and that students continually sought me out when they had difficulties, I took as a sign that the community as a whole recognised the role that I played, and judged it as good.

¹⁴ See page 268: Man may have instincts, but they do not rule him . . . he may be caught in a particular environment, but it is what man makes of it that counts. . . Man is responsible to his conscience.

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V

‘If we are going coed,’ said the students on the Hall Committee, ‘we want the women housed on all the floors, just like the men.’ ‘But if you insist on that,’ retorted Robin Gray, ‘you won't have coeducation. The Senate is adamant that the women must be housed on the two top floors of one house only.’

It was mid 1970 and the students were fiercely debating the proposal to introduce women into the Hall in 1971. Robin Gray had already approached the Senate; it had approved the change in principle, but was very cautious. There was no experience of mixed accommodation in Western Australia, and the general community was judged as very conservative.

Bob Sullivan, a new tutor in the Hall and a young lecturer in mathematics, joined in the discussion: ‘We all know that the time is ripe for coeducation. There is a shortage of accommodation for women at the University and the Senate has already approved the move; But, if we want the coed community to become reality, we must respect the Senate's caution. Over the past three years the Hall has built up a reputation as a mature and responsible community. The senate wants us to show that we can continue with a responsible attitude if we admit women.’

I dramatised the problem, ‘The worst thing that the Senate wants is to see a headline in the daily paper: “Mass Rape at Currie Hall”. How do they know that there won't be a scandal in the first twelve months? How do they know that the newspaper reporters won't come snooping around, looking for stories of cohabitation and sex? It has happened at colleges overseas. Until coeducation is no longer a new idea, the reporters could easily seize on the fact that men and women were living in adjacent rooms as evidence that the University condoned immoral behaviour.’

‘But they are treating us as irresponsible kids, not as adults,’ came the student response.

‘If we accept the restraints, whether we agree with them or not,’ said Robin, ‘and if we ensure that we manage the first year of a mixed residence in a responsible way, the Senate and the newspapers will soon forget us. Then we may look at changing the arrangements. Each floor of our buildings has a bathroom and twelve bed-study rooms at each end. It would be practical to house twelve men at one end with a men's bathroom and twelve women at the other end, with their bathroom. Going further than that by having random allocation of rooms is something of which I would not personally approve.’

Privately, Robin probably welcomed the restraints imposed by Senate because he was not only conservative by nature, but always wanted the students to prove that they could be responsible, before giving approval to a new course of action. Whenever students proposed something new, he dug in his heels¹⁵ and said, ‘No!’. This forced them to think through and clarify their position more carefully. He made them confront the pros and cons of their position. If the students' final arguments made sense he usually gave in and embraced the proposition. He did not like the idealistic, enthusiastic and unthought-out schemes of the young, and always insisted that they first be tested carefully in a responsible way.

Reluctantly the students accepted the inevitable, but were infuriated by the Senate's further demand: We were to create a waiting room on the girls' floor. A male resident or visitor, wishing to see a girl, would be required to stay in the waiting room, ring a bell, and then ask to see the girl. To those of us in

16

residence, this seemed "over the top" , but we placated the students.

¹⁵ Obstinately opposed ¹⁶ Excessive or outrageous

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We may all think that the Senate was over cautious, we said, and that it did not trust young people, but it was up to us to prove that coeducation could work, and work well.

Later, Robin privately told me of the battle he had had with the Senate General Purposes Committee. ‘They put me on the mat and questioned me on my moral attitudes and standards: they wanted to know what behaviour I would accept and would not accept, and how I thought my attitudes differed from those of the community at large. They asked me what responsibilities I had, and in what way I was answerable to the parents of the students.’

All Council members, except Keith Nicholson¹⁷, accepted the coeducational proposition. He was a fervent

18

member of the RSL , very conservative in nature, and had been the first president of the Men's Hostel in 1946, when the Women's Hostel occupied a separate block. He could not approve men and women being housed in the same block, and said so emphatically. At the end of the year, when the men of the Hall did not stand for the Royal toast at the third-term dinner, he resigned in protest. He could not accept the social changes that were taking place.

Currie Hall was not the only residence to become coeducational in 1971. The Vice-Chancellor had called a meeting of all College Heads to explore how the increasing demand for women's places could be met. St. Columba College was nearing completion but, because of the strong demand from women compared with men, changed its plans as an all male residence, and opened in 1971 as a coeducational college. Other Colleges felt that they might, in time, become coeducational. In August 1970, the Senate also approved, in principle, not only building extensions for Currie Hall but said that all future buildings should be suitable for coeducational development.

It was not long before our gardener's bricklaying trade was put to good use. Joe Kainz bricked up a door and knocked down a wall on the landing of the third floor in “A” house to change a double room into a single room and a waiting “lounge”. The two top floors on that building could accommodate 48 people¹⁹. We planned to admit 46 women and to appoint two women tutors. We needed minor changes, such as adding full-length mirrors in the girls' rooms, and we considered creating a “party” room elsewhere in the Hall. We bought a sewing machine. Robin advertised for women tutors, sent brochures to secondary schools and spoke on the radio.

We started the 1971 coeducational year with a strong staff, although Robin had not found a suitable senior woman as Resident “Fellow”. Rosamund Pierce - known to all as "Buffy" - and Jillanne Derbyshire became resident tutors. Buffy came from St. Catherine's College and left in September to take up an Oxford scholarship. She was an excellent leader in the Hall and eventually became a renowned Oxford scholar in Middle English. Jillanne had a lively, vivacious personality. She enjoyed crochet as a craft and caused a sensation amongst the men when she appeared at the annual dinner-dance wearing nothing more than a crochet ball gown which, as a pattern, seemed to have more holes than fabric.

¹⁷ See page 302 ¹⁸ Returned Serviceman's League ¹⁹ See building plan on page 299

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1971: CURRIE HALL BECOMES COEDUCATIONAL

Jillanne eventually joined the diplomatic service, and I imagined her playing an international role of intrigue and seduction. Her real life, initially in the Maldives, was probably much less exciting.

Unfortunately, While I and my family were in England in 1969, our bursar, John Leader, died. Early in 1970, we appointed Michael Bazley as the new bursar. Michael came from England with a strong catering management background and soon became both firm and popular. He was a tall man, well over six feet in height and was big in personality and capability, as well as in size. He recognised the difficulties in feeding students en-masse with a limited budget, so suggested many ways to build interest into the dining room.

He was full of ideas. ‘Why don't we have theme nights?’ He suggested. ‘I could, for example, put on a French, German, or Italian menu, served with some peasant-quality wine. Maybe you could find appropriate music, and encourage everyone to come along and join in the spirit.’

I appealed to the residents and soon built up a library of cassette music for each of the major countries. For these occasions we printed fancy menus often with exotic names for the dishes. It cost us a little more to do this, but it transformed the dining room and gave a sense of occasion. A few students always dressed up, dinner table conversations were noticeably longer than usual, and it helped to integrate the Hall into a community.

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Each year we held a “lottery dinner”. Over a period of two weeks, we drew names from a hat, one per night, until we had ten names. The Dining Hall committee then invited this group to take a special meal in the dining hall. First, they were entertained with pre-dinner drinks in a private room and then, while other students had normal fare, the group took their place at a specially decorated table in the centre, where they were offered a five-star menu, complete with high quality wines. Following soup and fish, they might be presented with a roast suckling pig complete with all the trimmings. The dining hall committee hovered around, acting as waiters. The winners invariably put on their best clothes and made it an occasion to be remembered.

At the end of the third term there was a two-week period, known as “Swat Vac”, before the commencement of final exams. This was always a tense time for the community. Increased complaints about the food were often outlets for frayed nerves and anxiety. Mike Bazley suggested holding back part of the food budget so that we could dramatically increase food quality during this trying time. We also dubbed the first of these two weeks as “Gourmet” week.

During the period from Monday to Friday we advertised that special gourmet lunches would be available for those who put their name on a list posted in the servery. We might present such items as snails, kangaroo steaks, haggis, or black (blood) pudding. We hoped that the dishes would be challenging and would encourage an adventurous spirit. We hoped that they would both create interest and provide a talking point.

One year, Michael advertised “Arabian Sheep's Eyes” and served them set in half tomatoes, so that they stared up at the recipient. Realising that few would eat them, and that many residents had signed their friends' names on the list, he arranged that the normal lunch that day would be a smorgasbord, so that no one would go hungry.

The second week of Swat Vac became “steak week”, with a steak dish served every lunch time. This was always popular. On the first morning of exams, we presented a very special breakfast, which we dubbed: “The condemned man's breakfast.”

It was in 1971, during our first year as a mixed residence, that we invented the “Professors' Carving Competition.” This came about fortuitously. The Dining Hall committee met during one lunchtime and the students asked Mike, ‘Why can't you do something about the quality of the roast meals? They are dreadful. They bear no resemblance to a home-cooked roast.’

‘That's because it's impossible to serve you freshly carved meat,’ he replied. ‘We just don't have the labour to do it.’ ‘Then how do you prepare a roast?’ Mike outlined the procedure: ‘We cook the meal early,’ he said. ‘Then we slice the meat and plate up the meals. Next we place them in heated but moisturised cupboards so that they can all be served at once.’ ‘No wonder they are unattractive. Sometimes the gravy's set like a gel.’ exclaimed the students. ‘If you want an attractive roast, there's only one way to do it,’ countered Michael. ‘You must carve it yourselves.’

It was then that we had a brilliant idea: Why don't we invite professors or lecturers to be our champions at each table, and then have them carve a roast in mock competition with each other? Everyone agreed that this was a great idea. We obviously needed a prize for the winner, so we purchased a special boxed carving set as a perpetual trophy. Robin Gray invited the first group of professors who sat with students of their own faculty or department.

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MICHAEL BAZLEY DINING HALL FUN PROFESSORS' CARVING COMPETITION

Each professor was asked to bring his own carving equipment, while the Dining Hall committee acted as the judging panel. It was a great success: not only did we have a good roast, but the professors mixed, although somewhat awkwardly, with the students.

As each year went by, the Annual Professors' Carving Competition slowly established itself as a tradition until in 1977 it was won by John Birman²⁰, the Director of Adult Education. At the end of the evening he called the members of the Dining Hall committee together.

‘Look boys,’ he said, in a knowing, confidential tone, ‘you've got it all wrong. Dr Gray invites the professors, and the students only become involved on the evening itself. That's not the way to do it: The atmosphere is not a relaxed one. What you must do, is this: Ask the students to form table groups and then to go out themselves and invite their own professor or lecturer. Encourage them to have several meetings with their champion so they can plan together how to win the event. In that way, not only will you make it a great event, but you will also achieve the object of breaking down the barriers between the staff and students.’ Then, as an afterthought, he added: ‘And ask the winner of the year to come back as the principal judge the following year.’

Robin Gray may not have approved such loss of control, but he was retiring at the end of the year. In 1978, when I became Principal, I adopted Birman's suggestion and found it highly successful. The invited academic staff entered into the spirit of the evening, devised elaborate plans, and the event assumed carnival proportions.

Each group held a pre-dinner party with their champion and then entered the dining hall one group at a time. Each adopted a theme: One year a geography lecturer arrived in pith helmet and safari clothes, as a modern day Dr Livingstone, while his students surrounded him as African savages. A medical professor might come with scalpel, a skeleton and a “dead body” on which to operate, while red wine flowed from an overhead intravenous drip, suitably diverted into the students' wine glasses. Another year, one group came as peasants of the French Revolution, and had spent hours constructing a working model of a guillotine. Although no one knew beforehand the nature of the roast, it happened that that year each table was presented with its own roast suckling pig. The peasants sliced it by use of the guillotine, each fall of the blade to the sound of a drum roll. Champions, vying for honours, often presented the judging panel with choice cuts of meat by way of a bribe. Never was actual carving skill a significant factor in awarding the prize.

One might think that these lighthearted activities had little to do with the academic objectives of the Hall, but they were an important ingredient in fostering a sense of belonging and goodwill among members. This had highly beneficial offshoots. In spite of these community activities, the academic achievements of our students were usually better than those of the University as a whole.

Unfortunately, the Professors' Carving Competition came to an untimely end. In the mid 1980's, two groups imbibed excessively before the event and during the evening started throwing food at each other. This got out of hand, and I had difficulty in bringing the evening under control. Many in the Hall were embarrassed by the behaviour of these few. I apologised profusely to our guests, and abandoned the event in the following year. I retired from the Hall before the time was ripe to reintroduce it.

²⁰ See page 244

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8: COMMUNITY - THE MIDDLE YEARS (1970 - 1977)

As 1971 progressed, the Hall settled down to its new experience. It followed almost precisely the pattern of other mixed residences that I had visited in 1969. The men became much quieter and less

21

raucous . Less alcohol was consumed. I could not judge the effect that mixed living had on the women because I had never lived in an all-women's residence, but there was little evidence of the problems of which I had been warned. A strong, mutually protective community evolved and gradually relaxed.

Robin Gray, continuing his conservative approach to most matters, became concerned with dress standards for women. He never did resolve this problem: on those occasions when men were required to wear a jacket, he could do no better than to specify that the women's dress should be in conformity with that of the men.

Mixed living did not produce social problems. The Senate had no need for concern about “the laxity

22

of sexual behaviour among the young.” Although it assuaged the conscience of the Senate, the waiting room and bell did not work: Students simply bypassed it, and visited each other directly in their rooms. When, in July 1972, the students asked that, in future, men and women be accommodated on half-floors²³, Robin referred this to the Senate, and gained permission. Joe Kainz bricked up a wall and restored a door, as we no longer needed the “waiting” room.

Robin Gray had difficulty in finding suitable senior women as “resident fellows” because such women, if accustomed to living alone, did not move easily into a young community. However, over the years, he had some success. Generally, younger women in their late-twenties were much more suited to the role. In 1970, he made one very notable male appointment. This was Don Watts, a chemist, who eventually moved into the “A” house flat with his wife Michelle and two young boys.

I already knew Don well because he had been sub-dean of the science faculty while I was sub-dean of engineering. Don and I complemented each other. I had a softer nature and so worked much better with the quieter students. I did not relate well to the rough, ocher types. Don was a great sportsman, having been State squash champion. He was an extreme extrovert and very friendly to everyone, but was so direct in his speech and manner that most Asians, and the quieter Australians, fled from him.

24

But Don could mix it with the sports-minded, tough Australian lads. He called a spade a bloody spade; They recognised and related to this. When we held a “tiny-tots-tea-party” for dinner one night and served hundreds and thousands²⁵ on bread and butter, they loved it when he arrived dressed in only a nappy.

In spite of his manner, Don was a very caring and capable person, who gave much help to the community and to its individuals. Everyone was sorry when he left the Hall at the end of 1973 . However, the manner of his farewell by the students was in keeping with his character, and much appreciated by him.

²¹ For example, they opted out of inter-college raids - see page 317

²² See page 360

²³ See page 408

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Mix it = relate aggressively, or fight

²⁵ Hundreds and thousands = tiny coloured sweets used chiefly for decorating cakes

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Later, Don was appointed head of the WA Institute of Technology and was instrumental in turning it into Curtin University. He became the first Vice-Chancellor. Later again, he accepted the post of inaugural Vice-Chancellor of Bond University on the Queensland Gold Coast. This was the first private university in Australia.

415

PROFESSORS' CARVING COMPETITION SETTLING INTO CO-ED DON WATTS

Shortly before the third term dinner in 1973, Don was invited to the birthday party of Raelene, one of our residents. He came to her room, knocked, and then threw the door wide open with great gusto to announce his presence. Unfortunately, the door collided with someone who was holding the birthday cake, knocking her off balance. It landed in Raelene's face.

A few weeks later, at the end-of-year dinner, Robin Gray made a farewell speech to Don, and concluded with the words: ‘And now, the residents have a special event planned to show their appreciation and affection for you.’ Two of the largest phys-ed students rose from their seats, and forcibly escorted Don to a giant Australian flag that hung from the stairway leading to the library. Drawing the flag to one side, a set of stocks was revealed into which the two henchmen quickly placed their victim. The kitchen doors opened and out came our catering supervisor, Alan Cornes, carrying a large and very juicy cream cake. At the same moment, Raelene rose from her seat. She took the cake from Alan, holding it in one hand, poised, before Don. Then, she firmly pushed it into his face, twisting it back and forth.

When the henchmen unlocked Don and his face was still covered in cream cake, he gave a most moving speech of thanks to all the residents, telling them how much they and the Hall had contributed to him during his stay. He was the type of person who appreciated the humour perpetrated upon him and, although he left the Hall, remained on our Council for some years.

With my softer character, I looked for other ways to integrate the community. One day, I remembered

27

my square dancing activities in 1953 and 1954 and the enjoyment that they had given us. Square dancing did not involve the strict pairing of couples, but was a very low-level, fun-type, community activity. Kay and I thought that it would be excellent for our mixed community. However, it was seventeen years since we had danced, or since I had called square dancing. Kay and I danced about the lounge-room of our flat, trying to remember the steps and the calls. Before long, the skill returned to me so, early in 1971, we advertised square dancing lessons to be held on Sunday afternoons in the old common room. This was very successful as four sets²⁸ took part. Both Australians and Asians joined in, so it was also a good cross-cultural mixer. We repeated the exercise for several successive years.

Kay and I were also very active in encouraging the overseas students to present an Asian Night. The biggest battle was not to persuade the students to take part -for they were enthusiastic - but to persuade Alan Cornes to allow the overseas students to take over his kitchen for one night. At first he said that we could have it only over his dead body. Finally, with much persuasion and grumbling, he gave way. ‘They don't know what they are doing,’ he said. ‘They've never cooked for one hundred and fifty people before. It's different from cooking for ten or twenty. They have no idea about quantities or how to manage bulk cooking.’ Behind all the bluster, Alan cooperated with the students. First, they appointed a food committee, members of which would prepare individual dishes. Then, they worked out ingredients and quantities, discussed these and negotiated with Alan until all was arranged.

Another group formed a cultural committee. They planned a fashion parade of Asian dress, borrowing suitable clothes from the Perth Asian community. A few others planned a martial-arts display, while music students organised a choir of twenty voices, and sang Asian songs. We even had a traditional Chinese lion dance and other dances, such as a Malaysian candle dance. As for organisation and effort, the overseas students put the Australians to shame but, then, they were exhibiting to the Australians their own culture and traditions, in which they took great pride.

²⁷ See page 118 ²⁸ With 8 people per set, this involved 32 people

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8: COMMUNITY - THE MIDDLE YEARS (1970 - 1977)

The organisers, cooks and performers did not have time to eat with the others, so returned to our flat afterwards for their own meal. We had held back some food for this purpose. The evening concluded with much talking and laughter and the warm glow of success. This became an annual event.

VI

When we started the 1975 academic year, the Hall had grown in size by 67 additional student

29

bed/study rooms and three tutor's flats in three new buildings . We also had up to eight further rooms available because the area at the rear of the dining hall, originally set aside for live-in maids, was no longer needed for that purpose. The Hall had grown to provide a total of 231 rooms for students, 6 flats for academic or other staff, 4 suites for visitors, and a principal's residence. This changed the character of the Hall: It became more difficult for everyone to know one another, but we also had a stronger staff structure. We built a new common room, television room, games room and student canteen. To make way for these extensions, the last of the old hostel buildings were demolished, but not before the students held a “grand demolition party.”

I was involved in helping to plan these extensions from the initial meeting with Australian Universities Commission members in 1968³⁰, and much planning was done between 1971 and 1974. While the accommodation in ‘A’ and ‘B’ houses suited younger students, we had noted the tendency for older students to move into shared flats. We decided to go part-way towards this in the new accommodation area by building a group of “sets”. Sets were self contained: Most comprised five bed/study rooms, a bathroom, toilet, and living room. The living room contained a kitchenette with stove, refrigerator, dining table and chairs, and a few easy-chairs. We provided crockery and cutlery.

Initially we said that students living in the sets could opt to prepare up to nine meals a week for themselves rather than take them in the dining hall. For this, they received a fee reduction. However, we found that some set dwellers sneaked into the dining hall to take meals without paying for them on nights when they had opted to make their own meal. We also found that loaves of bread, quantities of butter, jam and other items mysteriously found their way into the sets from the dining hall.

It was impossible to police, and we did not want to create a bad atmosphere by having tutors or student committee members pouncing on those who removed food items to the sets. Someone suggested that we introduce meal tickets for everyone, but we decided against this, as it would turn us even more into an institution, where we wanted an informal, home atmosphere. After several years, when we had not solved this problem, we ceased giving rebates for meals not taken. The set kitchen then simply provided an added facility for residents. Overseas students enjoyed living in the sets because they could sometimes cook their own food, but we had to guard against sets becoming ghettoes whose occupants did not mix with the other members of the Hall. The common dining facility was generally successful in preventing this.

²⁹ 'C', 'D' & 'E' houses

³⁰ See page 335

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The limit of 9 meals was set because unless at least 11 meals were taken communally, the AUC regarded those students as “non-collegiate”. Only collegiate students attracted a per capita government subsidy that we could not afford to forego.

417

DON WATTS SQUARE DANCING ASIAN NIGHT WE BUILD THE `SETS'

Each year, from the end of 1974 when they were completed, we asked students to apply for the sets in groups, and allocated these to senior students on a total “points” basis for the set³². There was heavy demand. We also allowed mixed sets of men and women and these were usually very successful. When a casual set vacancy occurred, we called for applicants and asked the other set occupants to choose the person whom they thought would best fit into their group.

VII

While my work in Currie Hall was on a broad front, I always had on my plate a few students with personal problems. By the early to mid 1970's this included both men and women, of which the

33_:

following examples are typical

-oOo-

After two years at the University, Jane started practice-teaching at a school in Mt. Hawthorn. We knew her well because she belonged to a group that sometimes came into our flat. Late one afternoon in February there was a knock at our door. There stood Jane. When I asked her in, she entered but did not speak. She was mute, looked traumatised and seemed very scared. Obviously something had happened, but we did not know what. We gave her a bed in our flat for the night, contacted her mother, and later sought medical help.

Jane did not speak for three days and was admitted to Graylands hospital for the mentally ill. Initially she seemed remote from her mother and from everyone else, although she related well to me. I decided to visit her every afternoon until she regained confidence and stability. When she began talking, I eventually asked her what had happened on the day that she had knocked on our door.

‘That afternoon I had to take a practice-class while the regular teacher observed me,’ whispered Jane. ‘I panicked. My mind went blank, and I could not speak. I just walked out of the class and walked and walked and walked through the streets, because I felt I could not go home. Unexpectedly, I found myself standing outside your front door. I guess that I really knew that I was coming to your place for help.’

Little by little, over the following weeks she improved and eventually told me how, after the Second World War, her father had a job as a travelling salesman in the country. ‘Dad was very nervous about calling on clients so, on reaching a town, he would call first at the pub for a few drinks. From this, he became an alcoholic.’

She told me how her alcoholic father caused much pain for the family, and confusion in her mind. ‘Somehow I just pushed the hurt and the confusion deep down inside me. And then something triggered it off at that school and it overwhelmed me,’ she confessed.

Jane was a very pleasant, sincere girl, and I felt much compassion for her inner struggle, so I continued visiting her, although she had withdrawn from her course, and from Currie Hall. We spent our time walking in the hospital grounds as, little by little, she managed to talk about her many fears and problems. I felt a responsibility to stay with her until she was emotionally on her feet again, but my

32

Each resident accumulated "points" depending on academic seniority, the number of terms already resident in the Hall, and the nature of positions of responsibility held in the Hall. This "point" system was used to determine room allocation when two students wanted the same room. For the sets, the aggregate of points for the group applying for the set, was used.

³³ Excepting tutors, names on pages 416 - 420 have been changed from the real names.

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8: COMMUNITY - THE MIDDLE YEARS (1970 - 1977)

constant visits worried Kay who felt that I had developed an attachment to her. I felt much pain for Jane's predicament, but Kay had no need to worry although, in hindsight, I realised that once again I gave more time to my troubled student than to my family and saw that my action could be misunderstood. Eventually Jane recovered sufficiently to leave the hospital and return to her family. Slowly she faded out of my life.

-oOo-

It was not unusual, when a student seemed in an unstable state, for Bob Mackie, the doctor in the University Student Health Service, to ask me to keep in my possession medication that he prescribed. I then saw that they took it as prescribed. So it was with one of our postgraduate students from the Eastern States. Melissa was very active - almost hyper-active - and, although she was both responsible and thorough in everything she did, she always seemed very tense. She often gave me the impression of being like a spring wound up so tight that one day it might snap. Melissa was on medication, and Bob Mackie was concerned that she might not always use it responsibly. On his suggestion she had agreed that I keep the tablets for her.

One night she suddenly arrived at our flat quite late in the evening. Her behaviour was odd. After talking for a few minutes, she suddenly announced: ‘I getting out of here. I'm driving off in my car to kill myself in a crash.’ Her voice was full of inner tension.

‘Well, if you are going to do that,’ I responded, ‘I'm coming for the ride.’

Kay was horrified, but I knew that in circumstances like this, a threat of suicide was most likely a call for help, not a genuine intention. I also knew that all threats of suicide must be taken seriously, because one could never be sure whether the person had really reached the end of their tether. I wanted to talk quietly with her, and realised that she was not about to do that in my flat. Fortunately, before we left, I persuaded her to swallow an extra tablet of her medication. I knew that this would slow her down. I also knew that she respected me and that, with me in the car, she would be unlikely to do anything drastic.

Melissa drove somewhat erratically, but safely, until we reached a beach in a northern suburb. She got out of the car, ran barefoot across the sand, and then over some rocks that cut her feet. She seemed quite manic but suddenly, without warning, collapsed on the sand. I picked her up, slung her over my shoulder and trudged back to her car, dumping her in the passenger's seat. I wondered what I would say had the police seen me, or what reputation I would get, if observed, but the beach seemed deserted.

I drove her back to Currie Hall. She was still asleep, breathing heavily and evenly. I thought the extra tablet had really taken effect. By this time it was well after midnight and, as no one was around, I again slung her over my shoulder, climbed up to the third floor of the building and deposited her in her room. I pulled back the bed clothes, put her in the bed, pulled up the clothes and left her until the morning. Fortunately no one had seen me.

When I returned to our flat, I found Kay waiting up for me, very worried, but relieved that nothing had happened. She, of course, had feared the worst. Next morning I called on Melissa and found her quite recovered and back to her normal, tense self. We agreed that I could ring her doctor and tell him the situation, and that she should arrange an appointment to see him. This she did and entered into further medical care.

I had found that, with almost all students who had psychological troubles, bad early childhood experiences were contributing factors. Melissa had suppressed much of her early childhood but, on talking with me, slowly uncovered it. Mum and Dad had often quarrelled. She wanted their love, but did not receive it. Dad had wanted a boy, and let her know it. He often beat her. One day she remembered her fear when, at the age of five, her parents had locked her out of the house at night.

419

STUDENT PSYCHOLOGICAL PROBLEMS JANE & MELISSA

She had cried at the front door and, when Dad let her in, he beat her. She sought solace with Nanna who lived in a house across the road.

One morning, while still five, she visited her grandmother but found her lying, almost paralysed, on the ground. Somehow, Nanna managed to whisper to Melissa: ‘Let me be. Don't tell Mummy or Daddy.’ Nanna knew that she was having a major stroke and just wanted to die. But this was too dreadful a secret for Melissa to hold to herself. She ran home and told her mother. Nanna went to hospital and did not die, but remained partly paralysed and almost a vegetable, with no quality of life.

‘When I next saw her,’ said Melissa, ‘she was in a wheelchair. She had an umbrella in her hand and, when she saw me, she looked at me in great anger and raised her umbrella as though to strike me. I was terrified. She was angry because I had allowed her to live, when she wanted to die. Nanna had years of poor quality life, and put great strain on my parents' already very shaky relationship. And I was to blame.’

Melissa completed her Masters' degree and gained a position in Melbourne. I asked Bill Pity in Sydney to recommend a suitable Melbourne psychologist for her. Eventually she married and moved to Queensland. Like so many others, she dropped out of my life.

Currie Hall was like that. I often became very closely involved for a short time in the lives of young people when they were resolving serious personal problems and were discovering themselves. They came into my life, and then they were gone.

-oOo-

‘Come quickly! Come quickly!’ Three students were pounding on my door one evening. ‘Roger is raping Mary in her room. She is screaming and her door is locked. We can't get in.’ Mary lived in a ground-floor room in a set. She and Roger had a steady relationship but I knew that it had recently broken up.

I raced to the set and called out that I wanted to enter the room. There was a scuffle inside, but Roger did not open the door, so I warned them that I would use my master key. When I entered, I found a very distraught Mary and a very aggressive Roger. Although he was forcing himself upon her, he was not raping her, but it might have led to that had no one intervened. At length we resolved the matter, and life in the Hall continued peacefully. Roger completed his medical degree and started a practice in a country town.

It was natural that relationships would form among the residents. Many students met their life partners there but, occasionally, relationships fell apart. The separating couples did not always find the best way to resolve their conflict. The Hall did what it could to help, but we always respected the individual's right to privacy unless help or advice was sought, or their actions impinged on their own well-being or that of the Hall. It was important to foster a strong sense of community so that students in difficulty always had someone to turn to.

The students always had a sense of humour. One Saturday in 1975 they held a highly irreverent mock “Wedding” ceremony during dinner in the dining hall. They considered it about time that some residents formalised their relationships, and, much to the embarrassment of those concerned, named couples to come forward and have their relationships blessed.

-oOo