2. THUNDER CLAPS TO SIGHING LEAVES IN NOTRE DAME (1992)



Liz Kwan popped in and we revelled in Paris



In my two months (November-December 92) in Paris, in preparation  for a six months course in Rome the following year I grabbed some great opportunities to indulge in French culture. Yes, getting “my” French up to speed was necessary as we would live as a French-speaking community of some thirty Brothers from all over and the course lectures and papers would be all in that lovely language. It was a challenge, attending classes at Ecole Berlitze and then scampering back to my “garret” at Rue Dareau to bash the books. But it did have some compensations and remarkable experiences.

The most uplifting, verging on awesome occurred in Notre Dame Cathedral on a cold November Sunday. How many centuries it had stood as a beacon  through great upheavals and dramas as well as times of peace? Not to mention the searing times of the French Revolution when the ultimate sacrilege had been perpetrated. Declaring the “old religion” dead, the great haters had declared it a pagan temple and even installed a “goddess of reason”.

This Sunday, two hundred years later, was to be historical. Cardinal Lustiger was to be the bless and inaugurate the grand cathedral organ, after nearly three years of painstaking and very expensive restoration.

I realised that there would be a crowd for this rare event, and so I arrived an hour earlier. Maybe two hours earlier might have been a better plan. As I entered the great portals I was aghast. The congregation/audience, all well rugged up, was a solid mass of Parisians who  had  planned better than I.



My school- Ecole Berlitz, third floor

 What to do? I decided to brazen it. I proceeded, with some gravitas, down the centre aisle, peering left and right. Surely, there would be some spot unclaimed, even a gap I could squeeze into. No dice; it was jam- packed and generating lots of body heat.  Reaching the sanctuary I genuflected and moved over to the right aisle. As I rounded a gigantic pillar, the miracle happened! There was this unoccupied place at the end of the seat. I swooped on it, feeling oh so grateful. Once seated, I got a shock. This massive column soared skyward and blocked all viewing,  apart from the far left corner of the sanctuary. I quietly fumed and reassessed.

Just then the congregation arose as Cardinal Lustiger, in full regalia and accompanied by a long line of clerics  proceeded down the aisle, to much ovation. After genuflections and  bowings the clerics arranging themselves in the sanctuary, the cardinal about -turned and moved back half way down the church to the pulpit, which commanded a view over the expectant congregation. Suddenly I realised I had a perfect view as I swivelled around. Thank God for my blunder.

But how do you, re-install, call a magnificent, centuries -old  monarch of instruments back into life to proclaim the wonder and glory of God in this most sacred space? I thought there would be an appropriate prayer along with the blessing and add a hymn or two.  Nothing so pedestrian as that! What happened next was really a wonderful dialogue between the cardinal and this awesome instrument. Or maybe, more like a litany which showed off, in coruscating brilliant style the world, universe of sound of this triumph of musical invention. Obviously, the large crowd would be expecting this and would not be disappointed..

The Cardinal gave a command to the organ, calling forth its power.



Br. Gilbert was a most helpful tutor

 “In the name of God the Father, the creator of heaven and earth, I command you, grand organ to respond.”

The response was overwhelming. A grand  harmony came thundering forth with such power and wonder that you could sense the world being shaped by a mighty hand. It brought images of Michelangelo’s  masterpiece in the Sistine chapel. Though it lasted but a minute or two our the spirits soared and  eyes sparkled.

Another command: In the name of Jesus, Word before time began, Son of God whom Father sent out of love to redeem mankind and bring the utter fullness of life, I command you ,great organ to proclaim.

Again, a brief masterpiece of magnificent blast cascaded down from the heights. There was the kingly power as well as Christ’s overwhelming love communicated. I felt transported to Galilee, journeying with Jesus, in his preaching, healing mission to bring Good News to the poor and freedom from all oppression.

In the name of the Holy Spirit, the Paraclete, the comforter who remains with us.  This loving Spirit continues to inspire, to embrace us with his marvellous gifts and guide us to hope and peace.

The response was almost tremulous. A light breeze wafting through the great building and then swelling to some glorious harmony  that breathed peace and love and joy.

And so the litany continued:

In the name of Mary, mother of Jesus, who’s YES to the angel’s request began the great transformation of our world and in her pondering in her heart leads all of us, her children in our pilgrimage of hope.

Would Mozart have composed anything so beautiful which spoke of the faith of the people of France who found such love and inspiration in their NOTRE DAME?

There was more as various saints took briefly centre stage and called for some beautiful response.

Certainly the new organ triumphed and displayed in such bravura style the immense range the possibilities as a grand instrument of praise to God.

I must say, I felt  breathless through most of this performance.

What next?

The cardinal moved down the centre aisle to the altar to celebrate a grand Mass. Well, I would be walled off that that drama, behind my column. Ah, no! There was some shuffling and movement around the cathedral. And also in my pew. It seems that now the “show” was over, many had not intended to attend Mass? How wonderful! With three or four leaving from my row I was able to shuffle along until I had a perfect view of the sanctuary, just six rows back.



A Marist Mix - Far Left, Br.Cyprien, an old master from 1947!

 Who said “fortune favour the brave”?

Or “Knock and it shall be opened to you.”?

I had time to be playfully distracted. If only I could have replayed some of the great chapters of momentous events acted out here. How many kings were crowned here, was it here that Napoleon in a fit of hubris had snatched the crown from the pope to crown himself emperor. Or at another level, how many distressed mother, fathers and simple people had poured out their hearts to beg a favour from a Mother afflicted. 

My heart was singing for days. I took the metro back to St. Jacques and was in time to join a bunch of Brothers at lunch. In my less that flawless French but with an impressive Parisian accent I was able to regale them with my prize story.

54. TREES.



Terry with his 1942 monarch of the hill

 I THINK THAT I SHALL NEVER SEE,

A POEM AS LOVELY AS A TREE.

This verse, by pet Kilmer became a lovely song  which made a deep impression on me as a kid. I think it was Sydney MacEwan who sang it with a kind of flawless beauty.

Much later, I was more moved and motivated by:

He is like a tree, planted near running water,

That yields its fruit in due season

And whose leaves never fade.  Ps.1

This is just one of dozens of inspired passages in Scripture to illustrate the power of tree as symbol. At another level, I was puzzled for a long while by Jesus’ stern judgment on the humble sycamore. Did it have anything to do with that lascivious story of Susannah when those two old perverts tripped up in their accounts of under what tree that the fair Susannah lost her virginity.  Was it a sycamore or a Holm oak? Bravo Daniel.

My mother was a passionate tree lover. Coming from the gentle countryside of Lancashire, with its lovely lakes district. Just over the hills, and around those teeming cities, the factories and numberless smoke stacks belched out their obscenity to blight the lives of the people.

It was mum, as a young mother, made a momentous decision to uproot the whole family and head out into a near wilderness. While dad probably never noticed it, Mary did. Bondi Beach where we lived, was a near-treeless landscape. Drabness, unbroken by green. Well, who needed it when you had the gorgeous beach embraced by our suburb? I recall the shock and awe when I saw my first big, really big tree. In an escapade, always initiated by Peter, our eldest brother, we ventured far up by Bondi Junction to Cooper Park. It had wonderful rolly polly hills to enjoy. As well, it had gigantic trees! I was awed. Something so big, unmoving and imposing just had to have some magical power. That was the only one experience  of majestic trees we had in those years..

Uprooted we were and in some borrowed truck with our meagre furniture we rattled across the city to the north west and parked at the top of the hill of Constitution Rd. There was a narrow path down to our new home, a small two bedroom cottage with some lavender vine trailed across the verandah. We were shell-shocked, disoriented. It was so quiet. And where was the constant rhythm of waves pounding on the beach? Instead, we looked down over some parkland to a very sluggish Parramatta river. But there were lots of trees. And mum was happy with the change. But then the sudden shock of a locomotive pounding north along the rail embankment only a few hundred yards away gave promise of some excitement.

In some ways, there was a different tang in the air and we boys shortly started to enjoy some of the changes: so much greenery with long stretches of playing fields, the varying scenes on the river, with tugs chugging up and down, barges nudging up the oil refineries, and a train line where we goggled at the “Flyer” belting up the Newcastle. But, at some level, we never did forgive mum. That sluggish, muddy river was a poor substitute for Bondi Beach.

Mittagong landscape where my passion raged




  But accommodate we did, making new friends with the other Catholic kids – Rosses, Dawsons, Beatsons, Dolans, as well as the Dwyers just down the road. We were a little leery of the Tauntons; they were Salvation Army! Even worse was Mr. Jones: he was a Commo! The Kellys were around the corner, living in a warren with numberless kids, all Catholics of course. We didn’t mix much and one of the boys used terrorise the lone boy down the park. He was a browny, string beany sort of kid, about fourteen and he used lope everywhere. You would see him appear and then try to disappear as he would always head for unwary boys. He was obviously brain-damaged as he could not speak and would yabber away as we backed away. Worse still, he wore this leather bib around his neck and constantly dribbled. It was ghastly. In retrospect I admire his parents who could have had him locked away in those dark times but kept him at home, cared for him … to let loose on us boys.

Instead of trudging to Marist Bondi Beach, we took the electric train to Eastwood Marists. Instead of Brothers Nilus, Vitalus, Fulgentius there were Firmus, Laetus, Salvius and Leopold. All so classical. The fifteen minute train ride provided some attraction, especially the gum tree forest around Denistone. At some stage I just had to walk through that to feel the power of tall trees again.

Mum planted a ‘kind of pine’ near the house and called it ‘Marky’s tree’. I went one better. From across the paddock I carefully lifted a small eucalypt. (Years later I identified it as black butt). I selected a spot up near the footpath, somewhat protected from the ‘depredations’ of us rambunctious boys and tenderly planted this seedling. I would water it regularly enough and it survived, despite the fact that the soil was thin and there was rock just below the surface. But, with that utter persistence and resilience that has seen such trees survive bushfires and drought ’my tree’ slowly developed. It still stands, not a splendid, attractive tree but a survivor. There it stands on the top of the hill with a slightly angled trunk with high branches and leaves that thrash in the high winds. Even now, seventy years later, if I take the train north, I always glance across and nod in admiration.

By comparison, my young brother David, was much more canny. A year after me, he transplanted a seedling from the same paddock. But he planted his almost in the middle of the yard, just across from the small orange tree. He was also more trusting of the trampling of his brothers, but he did give some protection with a stake. This tree thrived and grew into a grand noble and most attractive monolith. I was jealous. Mine might have been higher for a while but it did not draw admiring glances. Ah, but David’s is on more. When we finally sold our home of sixty years it just had to go- it took up so much of that extra ground in our triangular block. Sad really. Must have paid good money to the council to remove that monumental tree!  Now, the new two storied mini-mansion, with a superb view down to the river has little green around it. But, my feisty, ‘little’ fighter still stands as a sentinel over this sacred site.

This gianT must be at least 400 yrs old- DINKUM.




  It was many years later before I was able to indulge my passion again. I moved to Parra Marist in 1958. The Brother’s residence had attractive lawns, tended by Eugene and a thriving veggie garden which was Martin’s pride and joy. The school, as most Catholic schools at the time, was squashed in a mean little space, hard up against St. Patrick’s church- all tarred playground. In a  new development, a fine two storied primary wing has been added. In front of that there was a straggly, neglected scrap of lawn. That gave me scope to lavish some creativity and transform into something that welcomed the boys in the morning. Soon enough, I’d top dressed the lawn, added some garden beds and then planted some trees and shrubs.

In those days, the real wealth and wisdom of planting natives had not struck. It was nearly all exotic. But first I needed some research. What would grow best in this area. And so I commandeered the community car and one of only two drivers, Br Claudius. (My dodgy Queensland licence gotten by false pretences was not valid). On Saturday afternoons we ventured and foraged around the district in search of best prospects. North Parra and Dundas had some attractive enclaves where the wealthy dwelt. I would sidle up to some unsuspecting gardener and engage him with certain flattery and then pry him with questions. It generally worked well and the information was carefully filed away. One large corner block with its steep pitched roof in an English style really caught my fancy. Apart from the bright flowers and beautiful shrubs , all beautifully set out in best practice of the time and probably earning at least an honourable mention in the Sydney Morning Herald Garden Competition, there was a crowning masterpiece. It was a pine or a cedar or….well I wasn’t sure. It was near six metres high, had graceful, symmetrical branches arching gently out and down and was a wonderful blue-green colour. It looked like it had been plucked from a Scandinavian snow slope.

After some conversation with the eager, sweating gardener about the flowers, I asked “What is the name of that beautiful tree in the lawn over there?”

“That’s a blue spruce, my pride and joy. It’s near 20 years old now and often stops people in their tracks. In fact, a few weeks ago, some keen young feller offered me 400 pounds!!” In those pre-decimal days that was a king’s ransom. He expanded on the generous offer.

“In fact, he was prepared to take the risk in its transplanting. No mate, I said, I’ll never part with that one.”

Armed with all this I launched the beautification program. I couldn’t afford a blue spruce but a very comely cedar was planted in the middle of the lawn. Some golden tipped retinospera graced the front of the school, plus a “pendula glauco” to add a rare effect. By the time the astras were romping along in the garden beds there was appeal and some compliments from passers by. But I did give up the forays to the gentler suburbs when my cover was blown. One particularly perceptive woman busy about her garden but willing to help an aspirant, smiled at me and said “I can pick you, you’re just married aren’t you and the wife has got you cracking”!!!



My sacred gum at the Arboretum

 The grounds around the monastery offered more scope. All carefully planned it featured a range of shrubs and trees to soften the façade of an otherwise grim building. The glory of it all, and the only survivor some fifty years later, is the “Cedrus Deodara” which looks across Villers St to a fine Alfred Park.

Thanks to Br. Peter Codd, a questing botanist, I saw the light and moved across to embrace my Meadowbank roots again. Pete was a great promoter of native plants. And so it was that we planted one blue gum and one lemon centred gum at the end of a sweep of lawn. And there was Geraldton wax and eriostemum in the mix as well. It opened up great vistas.

I went into hibernation for a few years when buried in the cramped buildings and concrete at Auburn. The small space was offered no appeal or possibility. But, the spirits slept on, ready to burst with a good shower and more sunshine.

And then I entered the Promised Land. From Auburn I leapt across the Parramatta River to Dundas. The Brother had a spread of some fifty acres of fine land. Over the years they had run a dairy there and hoped the property would prove profitable as an investment. For many years the dairy herd provided milk forover five hundred boarders at Joeys for their Kellogg’s cornflakes for breakfast. Then the beautiful Dundas valley turned into a scene of depredation and destruction as the bulldozers and other monsters moved in and ripped and gouged and dozed and graded. They ripped out most of the bushland to set up a new, raw suburb and move the  inner city folk into new and strange surroundings. In the fifties in the Marist Education Revolution we built an enormous red brick teacher training establishment, Champagnat College. Soon it was thriving with scores of young Brothers plouging through uni courses, plundering a swag of prizes or following teacher training.

Just down the road at Rydalmere a different drama was playing out. Accepting the challenge to an expanding Catholic population the Cardinal had approached the Benedictines to set up and staff a school at Subiaco, where they had been a presence since the very first Archbishop Polding. All started well. At Parra I remember noticing these boys and grey with a black and white tie on their way to the swimming centre. Then the roof fell in. The school abruptly was closed down. Apparently, a large company, Rheems, had offered a huge price for the land and the boys were sold down the creek!! Well, that seems to be the story. The homeless students were farmed out to Eastwood, Ryde and Parra Marist took up most of the slack with Br. Mark heading up the salvage effort.

In the early 60s, the Cardinal leaned on us Brothers and behold a new school and monastery arose along

Kirby Street in Dudas. I arrived when the first class had proceeded to sixth grade. As a demonstration school it did have other demands. But this new, revolutionary style school strung out along the street and with a puzzling, slightly penitentiary style monastery attached was surrounded by acres and acres of ‘virgin’ landscape was just begging for the skill and sweat of a demented Des.

Again, it needed some careful planning and landscaping to capitalise on the setting. I must have drawn up dozens of plans which included trees, both native and exotic, shrubs, garden beds and lawn….as grass had barely poked through the clay platform. For the next two years, on Saturdays, I was saddled up early and rode rough through the whole day. After school, during holidays I was an unstoppable force in transforming the land. I was lucky in meeting Ced Abood who ran a transport company was a godsend. For months I roared around on this rather basic front end loader, shifting so much soil and detritus. I used to dismount in the near dark and my right leg was so sore I could barely work, with all that clutching.

Even years later I would stroll around the grounds and greet my “babies”. Most special among them is a row of swamp eucalypts. What survivors they are. There was need for some shade in the playground. On the eastside there was a cutting down to clay and shale. I decided boldly. A truck with a huge augur turned up on the Saturday and took some hours to drill a 4 foot wide hole down to near 6 feet. That called for a lot of soil to fill them. Then the small trees were planted with lots of hope and a little prayer. Well, they defied my wildest hopes. They burgeoned and in a few years they became sturdy and very thick foliaged trees. They will last as long as those that Governor Macquarie had planted in the Botanical Gardens in the 1830s!



A family enterprize- Carmel., Brigid, Kassie.

 Such a relentless drive  of energy eventually slowed down after four years and apart from a short burst when I remodelled Lidcombe playground with brush box and rock garden Then it practically lay dormant for near 13 years while I was in the islands. But when it reignited it even surprised me with the passion released.

Oh, I almost forgot. In my attempt to add some greenery to the front of the Brother’s residence I did plant a lemon-scented gum, far too close to the house. Subsequent generations of Marists never let me forget it. It became a great nuisance and the colossal fee to remove it nearly sent them broke!

During my many visits to Mittagong post 1988 I was delighted with the unfolding story and development or our land as well as extraordinary impact and influence it exerted with the constant round of retreats and the most creative Easter Celebrations at the Farmhouse. When Br. Chris Wilsl led the team it moved into a new era. It was his vision that saw the first trial vine growing. Which is now an ‘industry’. He made a deal with the Water Catchment people and soon the willows were removed along the creeks as they were fenced it. A costly dam/spillway was added. Then in a great team effort with the young folk who formed community they planted out thousands of native trees. It would transform the landscape. The future took on another hue.

While I was snooping around the ‘backyard’ one day I happened in the glass house. I got a shock. There were hundreds of tubes, seemingly abandoned and drying out. I learnt that they would probably be thrown out as the big planting out was finished. Lights went on. “How about if I take over and make sure they are planted?”

Go for it, Des.”

That started an amazing chapter where I became a switched-on, no-holds-barred GREENIE. Over that year, any day I could slip away from wherever I was I would scoot down to Mittagong and continue the planting. There were various places that had missed the planting and I lavished care there, using my new small digger to insert and then water the stressed out trees. (some of them had become root bound). I even dreamt of carpeting the whole property in carbon credit forest of native trees. Thankfully, I was disabused of this crazy idea.

Once I’d planted those ailing and regenerated trees I became really creative. Why not collect my own seeds and propagate them I must have gathered near 1000 tubes that had been left in the paddocks along the rows of young trees. The began a phase that last a few years where I got to know some 20-30 types of eucalypts and other natives and would gather seeds and plant in my new nursery back at Dundas. Why,I even haunted the Botanical Gardens where there were swamp guns that were planted in Macquarie’s time, in the 1830s. It had become an obsession as I put every spare moment in tending some hundreds of seedlings. When they had reached some thirty cm I would motor down to Mittagong and plant them out.



Chrissie checking the little scribbly gum

 I had dragooned some Brothers to help during one of our conferences there. And more inclusively, the whole family came down to help. So, we had Carmel and her Chrissie and Brigid with her eight year old Kassie, all part of this great project, romping around as well as working hard to plant out those iron barks and blue gums above the dams. A great picnic day it was.

But then a dark cloud covered the sky and black menace threatened the land.

Quite by accident the whole dreadful conspiracy fell into my lap. I was chatting with Br. Frank at the Centre when he happened to mention quite casually that they had received a good offer to sell some sixty acres of “pretty useless land up in that top corner” to a neighbour who needed to expand in able to build another house.

“And guess what, he’s offered double the market price. We should cream over $300,000 for it.”  Luckily, he didn’t see the disbelief, horror and slight panic in my eyes. I was dumbfounded This surely couldn’t happen! This was our land, our birthright, bristling with sacred sites. I needed time to fully comprehend the full extent of this ‘crime’.

I vowed to stop it. I must be clever, calculating, win allies. And so I launched a campaign. Included in my arsenal were separate letters to the different members of our Provincial Council, putting my case, photos and maps showing them the extent of the diminishment to our four hundred acre property. I “lobbied”, chatting to each key person to put the case and enlist support.

I was even moved to write poetry, recalling a remarkable incident when a bunch of us novices in 1950 saw for the first time, a sugar glider, almost an endangered species. One of my most skilful and secretive allies was Fred, who vetted all my correspondence to give it more force and incision! If I couldn’t stop the deal I was aiming for a fall back position which might ignite more support.

I was insisting that “OK, if you really need the money, please make sure the Brothers feel they are being consulted and it’s not just a done deal, like the previous sale of Webb’s property”. That gained some traction as they saw I was at least being amenable. The provincial, Br Michael gave me generous time to discuss. He’s probably forgotten it but I pointed to the thousand acres we owned at Campbelltown, then locked up in zonal restrictions.

“Now, Mick, how long do you think we’ll need to wait before that’s been rezoned to cater for our burgeoning population?” What a prophet I was! As I write some six hundred acres of this precious land is being developed. The flow of money should see us cope with our needs in the future.

At last, I won a reprieve. They were prepared to broach the matter at a conference of community leaders at Mittagong. That played right into my hands. With Br.Chris Wills on side and leader at the Farmhouse, he used the opportunity to show them the disputed terrain and urge delay at least. The first I heard that the plan had been scuttled came through the backdoor. It appears that at the next Council meeting, one aggrieved member, harried by letters and questions, said abruptly



The A team -  Terry, Kassie, Brigid, Chrissie, Carmel.

 “Why don’t we just drop this and more on?”

The majority assented, though I did hear at least one was not well pleased. It could be just gossip of course.

So, the “Man of the Trees” continued. I planted a little grove of Silky Oak, as requested by Br. Quentin. Down closer to the water of the bottom dam I planted some Casuarina, or She Oak which look so graceful by the rivers and creeks. The image was so appealing to me. Often enough I was spend hours taking water to the scattered plantations.

Disastrously, the drought started to bite and the paddocks yielded scarce feed. So, against the agreement with Catchment Authority  Frank opened the gates and let the hungry cattle in along the creeks where I’d planted so much. I’d actually, put some tree guards of chicken wire around the silky oak and Casuarina. What a joke!  There was a general rampage of cattle as they ravaged all. Trees were chomped, trampled, destroyed. After some time I came back to see the destruction. I was a little upset, but that’s life in the country!! Many other just didn’t make it through the dry. But, thankfully there are hundreds that did and embellish our priceless acres at Mittagong.



St. Marcellin planted this oak 1825

 I think my blazing reaction to the threat was bred into the genes over the centuries, the millennia even. I reckon it’s got to be part of my Irish background and the savage story of dispossession and oppression that climaxed in the famine. Is it any wonder that, back in 1969 and the group dynamics we enjoyed as part of the course in Manila I chose a mighty symbol. When asked to design a badge with a distinctive symbol as central, what did I chose, but a tree? And when they do lay me to rest among the forest red gums, and grey gums and box up in our little cemetery, among my Brothers, as the magpies morning warble, and the butcher birds break into their mirthful cackle and song, they will make sure there is a sprig of gum on my casket.

They are like trees that grow beside a stream,

that bear fruit at the right time,

and whose leaves never dry up,

They succeed in everything they do.

Psalm 1:3.

PEACE PILGRIMAGE - HIROSHIMA, NAGASAKI

19. PEACE PILGRIMAGE TO HIROSHIMA AND NAGASAKI (1992)



Millions of Paper Cranes from all over Japan

 I’d read plenty of accounts of the horrors of the atomic immolation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I had squirmed to accept that “we”, the victors, had inflicted such unspeakable destruction on a civilian population. I had also read and argued the justification of such an awesome weapon, pitting the possibility of one million allied lives in a Normandy- style landings with ensuing battles against an enemy which had shown the kind of savagery in Iwo Jima. But it wasn’t till I had read Paul Glynn’s simple book, THE SONG FOR NAGASAKI that I became convinced that it is never justifiable to use atomic weapons. Pope John Paul 2 proclaimed this with passion. I also became more personally involved as Marists had done much in the continuing challenge of  reconciliation.

In fact, it motivated me to make a mini pilgrimage to Cowra, a few hours south west of Sydney along with my two brothers, David and Denis. I got caught up in Fr. Tony Glynn’s crusade of reconciliation as part of his long mission at Nara in Japan. Many former diggers had handed over their WW2 prize trophies, the ceremonial officers’ swords as a sign of peace and reconciliation.

That was no easy gesture as the memory of the ghastly atrocities many prisoners had suffered in the Pacific War. Here just outside Cowra town among this softly rolling landscape the Japanese Gardens are a sheer delight. Visiting in the spring or autumn is a real treat with the blossoms in riot. The attendant buildings are all in traditional Japanese style, where light plays through the papered walls, feet shuffle over gleaming wooden floors and all is exquisitely simple. Winding tracks take you through a range of delightful aspects and the lake gleams with coloured carp. In a simple garden I found the smiling, bespectacled face of Fr. Tony in terra cotta portrait.

Why Cowra? Well, we three Murphy boys drove on to the site of a mass breakout of Japanese prisoners in World War 2. It was bold, swift and ultimately suicidal. Some Australian guards were killed as the prisoners  breached the fences and scattered through the countryside. Where to go? There was some plan of jumping on a train but the plan was not thought  through. But according to the Bushido code that impelled so many, it was preferable to die in the attempt than return home to undying shame as some kind of non-person. In the following days squads of soldiers searched through the surrounding areas. Eventually, only a small number gave themselves up while the rest had used various means of ‘hari-kiri’ in an “honourable death”.

While studying at the Jesuit University of Ateneo, in the East Asian Pastoral Institute in 1969, I had become a close friend of  Naoko Ishida or Sister Elizabeth, SSND. He was a survivor of the Tokyo Fire Bombing in 1945. It became a rare and precious friendship. Over the years we had kept good contact through letters, tapes, cards and a rare call.

So, when I accepted the invitation to a course in Rome in 1993, with an obligatory stay in Paris, my mind went into over-drive in planning the route. That’s when inspiration kicked in. Why not fly north to Japan and then across to the US and onto UK and Paris? Brilliant! Why not, as well, make a peace pilgrimage to Hiroshima and Nagasaki with my friend, Sr. Elizabeth?



Friends since 1969

 And so it was that I landed in the evening at Osaka, followed Naoko’s instructions and took the train to Nagoya. On the way, I phoned from the train to confirm my arrival and there she was to greet me on the station. Like myself you could see the burnishment of wisdom and age and grace; but I had forgotten just how small she was! It was a “blessed” reunion. Soon enough we arrived in the Catholic compound. A strange set up. Within a large, fenced, walled square there was a large church, and even larger kindergarten school, an impressive priests’ residence (all smiling Indonesian MSCs) and a range of smaller cottages around the periphery. A sisters’ community lived there as well as a Marist novitiate! Fr. John Walsh had one Japanese novice. I was their guest.

I was there some five days and did get a real taste of Japanese culture, including an unforgettable bath in a local “club” that Fr. John insisted on. I was so impressed with this throbbing city, replete with a magnificent castle and temple.

The highlight, of course, was the Peace Pilgrimage. Hiroshima was a brief train trip away. (With the super efficient rail system- which made me realise how far we were trailing behind) The resurrected city was a revelation. Maybe, I hoped for a quiet day where I could stroll meditatively about and roam around to take in something of the enormous tragedy when a clear, blue day was suddenly engulfed in unimaginable horror. There is no such day. Every day there are hordes of school children from all over this country of 100 million, who stream to this hallowed spot in a plea for peace. Each of them comes laden with a “weapon” of peace, a paper crane. Together they string them and they hang in garlands in every available place. Each of them is a prayer to ward off any such demonic destruction in a hazardous future.

Together we strolled around, taking in the various monuments. A large mound like some gigantic boil hides a horror at the heart. Here there are numberless remnants of people, fathers, mothers, children all bulldozed into one huge unmarked grave.

The large, imposing modern building at the centre is a museum. I had an unnerving experience there. The centre piece is a large model of the old city and the impact of the bomb. Hundreds examined it and you could feel the mounting emotion as they took it in. It suddenly hit me that I was the only Caucasian person there. Were they accusing eyes pointing my way?  Maybe, they thought, I could have been the son of the pilot of Enola Gay, who, apparently, never felt any remorse. I tumbled downstairs and into the sunlight.

I captured our visit in photos. There we are standing by the monument to commemorate Pope John Paul II’s visit on his quest for peace. And in every photo there are these countless garlands of cranes. For a place of immense death and grief the children are like a  springtime of life and flowers.



Masses of School Children Visit.

 Nagasaki was very different. In fact, this is where Fr. Paul’s story is played out. The hero is a catholic doctor, Takashi Nagai. By some quirk….miracle his hospital, quite close to ground zero had survived the blast, being shielded by a hill. It was in the terrible aftermath that so many victims, walked, crawled, dragged themselves, or were carried through the seared landscape to this hospital. For days, the doctors and nurses worked around the clock, giving what little succour with their pitiful resources. It was only after some ten days that our doctor Nagai was able to take time and search through the ashes for his home, where his wife and family had been. In this vaporised setting there was no sign of his people. Eventually, scratching among the ashes he glimpsed some metal. There was a congealed lump of metal and plastic. He was holding his wife’s rosary in his hand.

His wife had been a rare survivor of that Catholic remnant that had survived the most  bitter persecution ever visited on Christians. With a ruthlessness and terrible efficiency over many years the Shogun Tokugawa had hunted down, rooted out, tortured and killed every Christian. It was in reading that remarkable novel, THE SILENCE by Japan’s  most famous novel and a catholic, Endo that I experienced a horror of torture that eventually broke the Jesuit superior who headed the catholic mission. A pitiful few were able to survive to some rocky islands well off the coast. For 300 years they had struggled through so much misery. With no priest, bible and dwindling resources they eventually made contact with the early Franciscan missionaries, who arrived as part of an opening to the west, after the American fleet, under Admiral Perry opened the country to western influence….and trade.




Dr. Nagai's Home

  So, in some way Nagasaki was the Catholic centre in Japan,  that boasted only 1-2% Christian after countless missionaries had laboured there. There is a magnificent monument to the twenty six martyrs crucified on the hill. Behind it there is startling church by Gaudi, the Spanish architect. It writhes and shouts. The two towers, instead of lifting magnificently to the sky in glory to God, are two twisted arms, raised to the skies and begging for mercy. An old Franciscan wooden church, restored, has some rich connection. Here, working for some years before returning to his homeland to be engulfed in another holocaust, was Saint  Maximilian  Kolbi.

For me, the most precious sacred place is the old “shack” that doctor Nagai where he lived and worked for many years in his research into atomic radiation. Eventually, this mysterious disease claimed him as well. Surely a saint but maybe not with the backing for the full pontifical process!!

We attended a Mass in the rebuilt cathedral where the piety of the people so impressed me. The façade of the cathedral still features some of the statues that survived, minus a nose or arm, with the mutilation giving a message as well. Outside, strewn around are large chunks of the original cathedral. Only a short walk away in a Peace Park is a towering sculpture. A massive hero, of   powerful physique, is sitting on one leg , one arm pointing to the sky and the other to the east. Again, it’s a plea for peace and justice.

The two days had provided many moving experiences for me. I felt I had somehow touched the spirit of doctor who inspired so much hope for our uncertain future. Since his time, near fifty years we have lived through some perilous times when fingers seemed poised over nuclear triggers. Our prayer would be that the Spirit of Peace work in the hearts of leaders and so prevent another cataclysm.

The fruit of friendship that Naoko and I had shared and celebrated had been one of the most unexpected and marvellous gifts. As we were passing a beautiful sculpture of a young Japanese geisha, in exotic attire, with a swishing fan outstretched, I grabbed the opportunity of a last photo.

The title of this masterpiece was MADAM BUTTERLY !! Was Pinkerton again moving on?



A Plea for Peace





Left- Monument to Martyrs. Right - Gaudi's Church



A Plea for Peace

NEW YORK FILM FESTIVAL 1984

26. NEW YORK FILM FESTIVAL (1984)

“Here, feel my head” said Victor, the star of the PNG movie showing at the New York Foreign Film Festival in Feb 1984.

Gingerly I pushed into his Afro hair and there was a sizable lump on his cranium.

“That’s where Peter Leonard hit me with a four by two”

That wild American monk certainly left his mark.

It was a strange encounter. Here I was in the Big Apple from August 1983 to September1984 while attending Fordham University in the Bronx. It was quite a magical year for me. This encounter with a Bougainvillean was just one of many unexpected and fascinating experiences I had.

Coming from a renewal course in Switzerland I lobbed into a community of young Brothers in the ‘Gold House’

Murdock Street

in the “upper” Bronx. Now, that had not been my intention at all. In planning this Master’s course, I had hoped to live with a large community of Brothers at “the Mount”- Mt. Saint Michael’s Academy with its 1400 mixed race high school students. In such a large institution I was guaranteed a dream run as far as services provided. No cooking, no house keeping, and other fringe benefits with a range of some twenty Brothers whose company I would surely enjoy. That plan was derailed when the Provincial approached me and requested that I beef up the small community across the road.  Without my addition the community there would collapse. When a Br. Tom Lee left, it meant that two unprofessed Brothers- Tom and Mike were left stranded. Canon Law demanded a professed Brother accompany them. If not, they would have to decamp across the road.

 I was hesitant. But in a burst of manic good, will I acquiesced. God was most gracious in response, because in a matter of a month I realised the decision plunged me happily into the culture in so many lively ways. Certainly, in the institutional setting I would be cast into a formalised monastery eco-system. Besides, I do believe I have the rare distinction of being the only Australian Brother to appear on the US appointment list…..and as SUPERIOR.



Kieta harbour. Marist school at Rigu (foreground)



It wasn’t long before I realised this was the best mistake I had made in a long time. Mike and Tom were great company, both teaching at the “Mount”, full of enthusiasm and so very entertaining. This was a most pleasant immersion in the US culture. We had others joining our community for several months like Br. George Fontana  and for four months, I enjoyed the company of Justin, an Aussie of great charm and wisdom. (In fact WE WERE THERE to see Alan Bond’s billion dollar yacht, Australia II, wrench that fabled American Cup and cart back in triumph to Australia.) The ‘young guys’ would invite their friends and through them I met quite a few of the teachers. We took turns to cook and shop and that certainly extended my skills. Hard to believe that I found I always cooked better if I had a scotch while perched over the stove. Most days I would be caught up in study for most of the day, and in the evening I would head for Fordham University where the Jesuits carried on their great tradition of education. The whole experience was so enriching and exciting.



Br. Danile and his ambulance

 Another rare stroke of luck was the appointment of the new Solomon Ambassador to United Nations. Francis Saemala, an ex-student of Tenaru in Solomons, who had risen and risen after some wild years after graduating.  Now, with his wife and two children he luxuriated in a penthouse in Manhatten, several solar systems away from his village in Malaita! We became good mates and enjoyed various outings together. One such treat was an invite to the NY Foreign Film Festival. The fact that a PNG movie had made it to this exalted stage demanded our attendance.

The movie was well received. It chose a familiar enough theme: the impact of rapid transformation of culture, where one’s world is suddenly upended and you find yourself drowning in this revolution and anomie with all its destructive power which embroils you in a whirlpool of self destructiveness. Much of it was very familiar to me as it was filmed in Bougainville and Port Moresby. At that stage, the island of Bougainville and its people were in state of upheaval with the arrival of western power and culture with the development of a huge copper mine at Panguna. (Much later this would unleash a war of such viciousness and human cost that the country even now struggles to cope)

The “hero” in the movie, Victor was but one of a generation of smart boys who were selected for university, far away from home in Port Moresby,and where they would be exposed to so many challenges and crises. It was a brutal uprooting and a monumental culture shock.

But, it was the high school part of his story that fascinated me. It was set at our school, St. Joseph’s at Rigu in Bougainville. Among the extras there were several of my mates- like Br. Peter Page, as Principal and Br. Danny McEwan as the infirmarian/nurse who had set up his own ambulance service!!

One notable absentee was the “soldier of fortune” Marist Brother from the States- a very redoubtable Brother Peter Leonard. He had lobbed into Kieta direct from a warzone, South Vietnam. Here he had been engaged in the tactic of “strategic villages”. Walled around and with high powered security they were supposed to keep the Viet Cong at bay when they rampaged during the night. Peter had some leadership here. But in a deal between the Australian and American province there was a swap and we scored this tough missionary who could have stepped out of Fort Bragg. I recall a fascinating conversation with him in Sydney when a bunch of us Brothers showed some disapproval of the U.S. tactics where patrols seem to roam through the jungle, radios blaring and the odd grunt smoking pot! He listened intently and then drawled.

“Yeah you Aussies are pretty good and return to base in good order, but we deliberately draw fire and then pound them with artillery or gunships.”

I sadly reflect on that monument in Washington where 50,000 young men are commemorated in that futile war.




Miilitant at Panguna mine.

  Back to the movie: there were class scenes and sport scenes, and there were work scenes.  Here, in the gardens the boys grew much of their own food- kau kau, pana and cassava. In a third world country this was so necessary to help keep the school afloat and the boys well fed. In one such scene, Alfred was less than industrious or willing. While the others slashed and dug, he was “swinging the lead.” Unhappily for him, “Brother” caught the culprit red handed. But, there was a twist: the American Brother in the movie, was a rather gentle Louis Dubois. Well, Louie administered punishment well enough, a slap with the shover on Albert’s backside. Ah, but the truth had been doctored with a kinder spin put on this explosive reaction of our Brother who had spent time in Vietnam and was noted for his toughness..

Alfred was able to put this right that evening in New York.

When I accosted him, after introducing myself with “Alfred I said:

“ I’ll bet that was Br. Peter and not Louis who made his mark on you.”

With a certain passion, and maybe some pride, he was able to highlight the real scar he still carried buried under all that afro hair.