Are you happy now, Gillian Triggs? And you, Tim Soutphommasane, race pimp and sinecured Labor hack, what are you saying in private about the man you abused with the full weight of the misplaced trust and budget Australians invest in your filthy Human Rights Commission? Bill Leak, the Australian cartoonist and a man worth a hundred of each of you, is dead, carried off by a heart attack at the age of 61.
How do you feel about that, you pair of trough-snouters and gold-plated apparatchiks. Are you suppressing grins? You should be because this is more than you could have expected.
You wanted to silence him, to grind the slashing blade of his humour to a dull edge with your sanctions and harassment and point-blank refusal to recognise truth, even when it bit you on the arse. And Bill bit hard and often, but not so much as you deserved. No wonder you put so much effort into making his final months a misery. Now death has gone you one better.
It was two weeks ago in Sydney at the launch of Making Australia Right that we last spoke. Bill did the cover illustration free of charge because he cared deeply about something you don’t: liberty. Unlike the HRC’s taxpayer-funded thugs, he understood that free speech is everything, that the right to speak out, to hold and extol even unpopular views, is where all our liberties begin, every single bloody one of them.
Oh, the two of you might issue statements of regret – probably will, because filtered truth and rank hypocrisy are your stock in trade — and why not? Courtesy of Australians who pay your obscene salaries and whose speech you seek constantly to curtail, you have an entire PR department of scribblers and psalm-singers to polish your tin haloes, promote your latest bids for headlines and attention.
What will you say in those statements? That you regret Bill’s sudden death despite your “differences”? Probably, because you, President Triggs, and you, Commissioner Soutphommasane, have no honour. If there is an ounce of decency between the pair of you it could only be measured with a micrometer.
And whatever you do say, well it is a given that it will be one more “untruth” in any case, which is par for the course, as anyone who seen your lips move, Mrs Triggs, knows all too well. Given the stream of retractions and qualifications that have followed your near-every recent and evasive statement, who could expect anything more than yet another twisted and mangled narrative of self-serving shlock. You decline to get your facts straight in front of Senate Estimates, why should we expect anything that comes closer to the truth at this moment?
And you, Mr Soutphommasane, will you mention that Facebook invitation in which you solicited the complaints of social media’s howling mob. Some 700 of the programmed faithful delivered as requested, their complaints pouring in until you actually found someone – a white Aborigine living in Germany, of all places — to serve as the cudgel in your persecution of a far better and infinitely more noble human than either of you low specimens. On cue, the ABC — the ever-reliable vanguard of the HRC’s media auxilliary — weighed in with veiled slights and po-faced tut-tutting. But that jimmied-up complainant didn’t stay the course, withdrew her charge and the complaint went walkabout – come on, you bastards, prosecute me for saying that – and the case lapsed. But you had achieved your purpose anyway.
As we all know, Leak’s cartoon, the one above that most recently bunched those Soutphommasane panties in a wad, showed an Aboriginal policeman handing a delinquent Aboriginal child to a drunken Aboriginal father. You’ve been smart enough to bag a first-class seat and corner office aboard the grievance gravy train, Mr Soutphommasane, so you can’t be entirely stupid. Yet you professed to see only “racism” in that drawing.
Well you would see that, wouldn’t you! Because “racism”, as defined by convenience and self-aggrandizing expedience, means someone has strayed from the enforced dogma of ever-blameless victimhood. That can of beer in the father’s hand wasn’t a symbol of irresponsibility and atrocious parenting, not by your public reckoning. And the policeman, his blackness was no testament to Bill’s fair-minded and even-handed insight, not that you would admit. So you didn’t mention that the copper was as black as the kid he was holding, as black as the father who so ill-served his son.
That wouldn’t do – never! — to concede that Leak was drawing Aborigines as people, good people and bad people and at the centre of his cartoon, a little black person to represent yet another rising and inevitable generation of dysfunction. To address the root cause for that Indigenous urchin being in police custody would have been to admit that the simplistic narrative of victimhood you have found so helpful to your bank acount and career is but a smokescreen, a foul obfuscation to conceal the grim truth and the real issues that need desperately to be addressed honestly and fervently.
That would be the truth of Indigenous despair, but what would either of you know of truth, other than that it needs to be avoided?
At the dinner after the book launch, I sat next to Bill, whose lust for life was captivating and contagious. He talked of his time as a young man in Germany and London, of the Thai language and its bizarre locutions, of having to change address because ratbag Muslims were threatening his life. His was a mind of curiousity and passion, of wit and endless effervescence.
And he spoke, too, with a certain weariness of the ordeal by lawfare and smear in which you, Ms Triggs and Mr Soutphommasane, quite deliberately and unjustly immersed him. It had been a burden, he said when I observed he looked a touch grey and more than a little tired. But he was coping, he added, still had strength for the fight, would never stop giving the bastards stick.
Now he has been stopped, this giant of an Australian, his worth and his stature confirmed by the moral dwarfism of his persecutors.