The Human Tragedy of West Papua
The suspicious death of a rebel leader is the latest in a long line of alleged human rights abuses.
By Gemima Harvey ( A URUNGA GIRL )
January 15, 2014
The people of West Papua have been calling for self-determination for half a century – a struggle for liberation from an Indonesian military occupation that has seen as many as 500,000 Papuans killed. A recent development in this long campaign is the suspicious death of a commander of the rebel Free Papua Movement (OPM), Danny Kogoya, on December 15. The cause of death, as described in the medical report, was liver failure, bought on by the presence of “unusual chemicals in his body,” raising concern that he was poisoned.
FROM A LITTLE FURTHER NORTH – BUT I LIKE IT.
Jack Roberton. Lennox Head, NSW.
“The Mother’s Day Swell.”
No-one knows from where it came
This rumour as it were
But for the tribes of the Northern Rivers
Disbelievin’ was a slur
For only once or twice in any surfers life
do not words such as these betray
of a great southern swell
of what size who could tell
was arriving the following day
CHECK THE 4-5 MINUTE MARK
The Northern Mail
The Northern Mail is moving fast
With seven hundred souls;
Though many vow this ride\’s their last,
The fireman shovels coal.
Who knows the drama buried here
Within this lurching throng?
Who knows what tales of love and fear—
Who knows who\’s right—or wrong?
There\’s cutters, shearers, spielers, thugs,
Commercials with cigars
With town-men, bushmen, bad men, mugs,
They jostle through the cars.
The Northern Mail goes roaring on,
A comet through the night;
The sun goes down, the bush has gone,
The farm-lamps fly from sight.
And some arrange, with weary hand,
A bundle in the rack;
Only the bush can understand
Their fate—along the track….
And some for health and pleasure go,
And some go riding free,
And some sleep now who do not know
Where their next bed will be.
God knows what\’s in those trunks and ports,
Or where they\’ve been—and why;
The whistle screams, the head-lamp glows,
The Northern Mail flies by.
There are sleepers restless of the roar,
But few of them recall,
For some can sleep upon the floor;
And some don\’t sleep at all.
Some day, perhaps, I\’ll put down roots,
Hear no more ‘Tickets please’
And bid farewell to smoke and soot,
Farewell to cramp and fleas.
The Northern Mail comes panting by,
We rattle round the bend;
For some, new roads of life begin,
For others, old ones end.