Mao Comes to Sydney

On the night Gough Whitlam was elected prime minister of Australia in December 1972, my parents held a party at our home in Sydney. It was summer and my mother wore a long Indian kaftan; my father wore a seersucker shirt and casual slacks. My brothers and I were meant to be in bed and watched from upstairs as the grown-ups drank red wine in the courtyard off our kitchen and ate dolmades, Lebanese bread and hummus from plates covered with vine leaves. They cheered loudly when the election results were announced. The country was going to change for the better, my mother told us later. Even my father, who was more conservative, was excited at the prospect of a new leader, someone who would give us our own national identity, he said proudly. The Labor Party was in power for the first time in twenty-three years but we didn't understand the significance of what had occurred. My mother tried to explain that it meant better rights for women, for Aboriginal people; improved health care and education. She needn't have bothered; we were already barracking for Whitlam and his ideals because that is what you did: you went for the party your parents backed.