My Dad.
Unique doesn’t even begin to explain him.
Let me try again: Honourable. Humble. Generous. Gracious. Confident. Eccentric. Hilarious. Clever.
Other words that describe my dad: Without vanity. Without ego. Full of integrity.
A good man.
I’m thinking about him because today is his 70th Birthday.
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When Dad was 29 he took his wife and 2 daughters from their home in Adelaide to live in Java. Six months later, I was born. He had a PhD in Agricultural Science and a desire to help others. He spent 11 years in Indonesia. He worked as an educator, an agricultural scientist, and a humanitarian.
When I was 11 he took us to live in the Philippines where he worked for World Vision. He developed programs to help communities all over Asia and the world. Grass roots stuff. Pig farms, fish farms, food co-ops, small sustainable businesses.
After 3 years in Manila, we moved to Sydney where he continued his work. He helped communities in Papua New Guinea and the South Pacific. After that, he worked for other charitable organisations. His resume is long. Too long for me to recall all the details. He helped people everywhere.
Since retiring, Dad has worked tirelessly as a volunteer. At the moment he is a committed advocate for asylum seekers in Villawood Immigration Detention Centre. He visits them every fortnight, works on researching their cases, liaises with specialist lawyers, and writes submissions to the Minister and other officials.
He is still helping people.
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Aside from the official things my father has achieved, his lasting legacy will be his compassion for human beings. I have observed it since my childhood. He didn’t just help people for his job. He lived and breathed compassion every day.
Down the road from our house in Java he noticed families living in cardboard boxes. He immediately started helping them, enlisted the support of World Vision (who he didn’t work for yet), and created a project to give health care and education to many families. There were many times that people in need would drop by our house. He provided food and basic medicine. Several times he sheltered homeless beggars in our front porch, providing regular meals and taking them to hospital.
This continued throughout our years in Sulawesi and the Philippines as well. Dad had a heart for people who lived in poverty and despair. He sacrificed his time, money, energy to help hundreds of people.
When I was 20 I accompanied him on a trip to Cambodia. I observed how his colleagues respected him immensely. I also observed his reaction to seeing amputee children on the street, victims of landmines, begging for money. He was overwhelmed with sadness. I could see him breathing compassion.
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And then there is the very personal side of my memories of Dad. I will always remember him for being a loving father. As a child he listened to me. He was affectionate and gave us lots of cuddles. One of my earliest sentences was (in Indonesian) ‘Minta gendong Daddy’. Which literally translates as ‘Can I carry you Daddy’ – when what I really meant was ‘Can you carry me Daddy’. And he did. He carried me often.
As I grew older his interest continued in my life. He appreciated my writing. He helped me with college assignments. We exchanged ideas. I am grateful that he gave me the freedom to think for myself. I am grateful to him for opening my mind to possibilities. And for teaching me to question and analyse the world in the way I do.
I will also remember Dad for his enormous love for my mother. His respect for her is inspiring. He adores her. He has been her greatest fan and admirer from the day they met. I remember him standing up for her many times, and singing her praises. At one church we attended the question of women in leadership was being debated. Dad, an elder at the time, graciously pointed out that his wife was more intelligent and gifted than he’d ever be. I think there were a few gobsmacked people in the pews that day.
I have many unforgettable memories of my dad. Funny, tender, and incredible memories. I’ll try to recall one of each.
The funny: When I was 8 we lived in the middle of nowhere on the island of Sulawesi. Dad was at the height of his scientific experiments. And so, for two years he required us (his wife and three daughters) to wee in a red bowl – which we then funnelled into a Jerry Can that lived in our bathroom. We were doing good work, you see. We were fuelling his experimental gigantic bio-gas unit in the back yard. It looked something like a steel elephant in a rusty swimming pool and produced excellent methane gas which I’m sure we cooked a few good dinners with. I fondly refer to these as the ‘mad scientist’ years.
The tender: At my wedding 8 years ago I was dreading my father’s speech. Dad’s quirky humour has been responsible for some interesting speeches in his lifetime. But to his credit, he has always delivered them eloquently. What happened next was a complete surprise. He uttered the most touching and heartfelt words I have heard from him in my life. On that day I was stunned by his insight into my personality, and I was blown away by his humility. I’ve asked him many times for a copy of that speech. He promises that it is being looked for. Even if I never have the paper it was written on, I will always treasure how it made me feel on the day.
The incredible: This is the story that will always be imprinted in my memory. The story that personifies my father. It happened 20 years ago when my parents and I travelled back to the town in East Java where I grew up. We hadn’t live there for 13 years. Much had changed, but we enjoyed a week of catching up with familiar faces and places. As we left we hopped into a taxi to get to the airport. Dad was in the front seat and started chatting to the taxi driver in Indonesian. Mum and I listening in the back. The taxi driver asked us where we were from. My dad answered. The taxi driver then launched into a recollection about how he once knew a man from Australia. A man that used to live in the town about 15 years ago. A man that helped his children receive an education. A man that helped his family. A kind man. A good man. His name was “…{my dad’s name}…” .
The taxi driver didn’t realise that he was talking to the very man himself. My dad said nothing. In humility, my dad just nodded. He didn’t need the taxi driver to know. He didn’t need the glory.
In the back seat, my jaw dropped. And prouder of my dad I could not be.
A good man.
