The Poison Apple Needs to Go”. The piece is full of sharp barbs, from the title to the line, “It’s difficult to imagine that this type of unbridled fear-mongering and propaganda would be coming from the mouth of a man who served in our armed forces”. The article went on to describe the US president as “the petulant child of the most powerful military on earth” before concluding, “I wish Donald Trump did not have power”. The piece by writer, playwright and actor, Peter Kelly, has gained much attention in Australia since it was published online, but has also led to a significant reaction online in the US, particularly from journalists who have described his views as disgraceful. “Your disgusting hatred of Trump has made your heart blacker than it already was,” wrote a commentator called “The Truth About You” from Los Angeles. Another said, “Just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get worse.” I’ve been through a couple of iterations of the Trump wars myself, but usually I see little point in responding. These wars seem to be, for the most part, the kind of things people say to sound more or less morally superior. That said, I have recently returned to teaching Shakespeare, and one of the plays that I frequently use in my classes is Richard II. My students will have to read and watch Shakespeare’s plays if they want to be able to respond to them critically. Their comments can be found at the bottom of this blog post, if you wish to follow the conversation. In “Richard II” one of the most famous scenes is when the king has a conversation with Sir John of Lancaster who tries to tell him not to fear anything, that he is the most powerful man on Earth. Sir John: “I have no fears” Henry: “That makes thee less fearful.” Sir John: “And nothing hurts me.” Henry: “Why, that it should hurt thee might seem a wonder, for every [man’s] condition is by his apprehensiue finding out. The worst that may befall thee is death; and if that befall, thy children shall live.” We all know from US President Donald Trump, from US Attorney General Jeff Sessions to Defence Secretary James Mattis that our national conversation about refugees is more and more aggressive and hateful. The message Trump and his men sent on Twitter this morning is so horrifying that I can hardly bear to write it. I have taken this photo and shared it on Facebook in the hope of encouraging conversation with others about what it means to be a part of a community which is both welcoming and inclusive. I have also decided to reproduce it here in the hope that it can also be reproduced elsewhere, as a sign of protest against the Trump administration’s words and actions. In the aftermath of Charlottesville it’s easy to forget that refugees and immigrants are the subject of our anger and aggression. The media in Australia love to portray refugees and immigrants as “economic migrants” even though only a tiny fraction of Australia’s population is of non-European background and many have been here for generations. The only time it is easy to forget that refugees and immigrants are under threat is when we don’t see them. If we’re not actively looking for them, they tend to be invisible. That’s why this photo is so important. It makes visible what it’s important to remember: that it’s easier to feel compassion when a refugee and immigrant from another country stands in front of you. There’s a great photograph by photographer Nick Ut, which shows two young children, one holding a hand grenade, the other a doll. The photo was captured after the American Civil War ended and was published in Life magazine under the title, “The Children of Vietnam’s War”. The photograph, taken in 1972, is almost universally known as “Napalm Girl” (right). It shows a naked nine-year-old girl running away from an exploding napalm bomb, carrying a Vietnamese doll in her arms. I find the photograph so powerful that I’ve used it on the cover of one of my books about photography. I also use it for my academic presentations. Sometimes it serves to open a seminar or lecture by focusing on the issues of conflict and terrorism, but usually it’s used to illustrate a key point or concept. This year on ANZAC Day I again use the photograph in a more positive light, as part of the opening slides for my short presentation. ANZAC Day, for me, is not just about remembering soldiers who have died in wars. I am also thinking about the families who have lost a loved one, a young son or daughter, or a husband or wife. Each year there is a range of topics that I could discuss, including current refugee policy in the Middle East, terrorism and the history of the war in Vietnam, but today I want to speak about terrorism and violence. Because that’s what the photograph of Napalm Girl reminds us. It’s easy to forget that in some parts of the world in the recent past, life was so bad that families had to decide whether to live together in an urban area or flee in desperation. Sometimes this decision involved fleeing to a place where bombs were constantly falling from the sky, making it impossible for children to learn and play, or where bombs were buried underground, or where soldiers on every street corner reminded the children of the dangers of living. It reminds me of a photograph taken during the Vietnam War by Nick Ut (left) which shows nine-year-old Kim Phuc, who lost part of her face to an explosion. What I find so interesting is that Kim Phuc, like the family in the photograph by Nick Ut, is Vietnamese. Their faces are also marked by the wounds of war. Both of them lived in Saigon, which is now Ho Chi Minh City. That’s where the photograph was taken. There’s a photograph of Kim Phuc shown here in her hospital bed with a bandage over one side of her face, and her mother crying. What’s so interesting is that this photograph has become a symbol of global solidarity and support for those who have suffered in wars. The photograph reminds us that the families fleeing with Kim Phuc were also from the South and refugees from the north of Vietnam, like Kim Phuc’s father and mother. We sometimes forget the refugee crisis that unfolded on our own doorstep more than forty years ago. The image is so powerful and it reminds us that many people still face such uncertainty and fear. You can view the photograph by Nick Ut at the bottom of this page. It’s probably one of the most famous photographs of the Vietnam War. In a short post yesterday I wrote about the impact of social media on our thoughts and ideas, even if we are not using social media ourselves. I mentioned social media and how some people find it difficult to separate what is said in social media and how they react to it from the reality of their everyday lives. A few days ago I attended the launch of Mark O’Connor’s book, “The Best Things: How the End of Bad Things Leads to the Rise of the Good”. The book is full of stories which help to illustrate Mark’s belief that “we can find the new good when we look for what we don’t know is bad”. Perhaps my favourite story was about his travels through the American Southwest in the years following the financial crisis of 2007. On one trip, he visited the city of El Paso, Texas. On his last visit he was confronted by two elderly women in the middle of the day, as he walked down the middle of the road. “How do you feel about what happened yesterday?” they asked. “The question took me by surprise because in all my travels in places like El Paso, I had never been asked about yesterday,” he said. The women had been living in El Paso for more than a century. They moved to the border city from Mexico before World War II and had witnessed a lot of hard times, including two wars. But now they told him their own sad stories of the time during the Great Depression when the Dust Bowl forced thousands of Americans from the Great Plains onto the roads in their hope of finding work. “You’re welcome to come to our apartment and take a bath,” they said. “We’ll make you lunch.” The women were on the last leg of a journey from Mexico which involved traveling thousands of miles to get to El Paso. They had lived in El Paso, not far from the border with Mexico, for more than half a century. They had witnessed the violent history of their country, from the Mexican Revolution to the Mexican Civil War, the Mexican revolution, the Great Depression and World War II. But they hadn’t lost their belief that good things were possible. As they looked at the sky, they told him about the beautiful skies and fresh air of Mexico. As they looked at the town of El Paso, they told him about its beauty and prosperity, and how good things were happening. “When you reach a place like this you don’t need a map,” he said. “The beauty is all around you. You can see it even if it’s not there.” The