From behind him, the horse rested its great chin on Bruce’s shoulder and lit up the veteran’s face with a smile born from appreciation recognized. Later on, his two little cats would do the same as they sat on his lap, knowing that dinner time was close.
Because of these hands, that were gently stroking the ginger tom, called Mao, numerous people had been temporarily saved from the mystery of death.
Bruce was not only an anesthetist, but much of his 32 years on the job had been spent in rescue helicopters. He was the Doctor who dropped out of the sky when you were trying not to drop further. The stranger who joined you in your desperate fight, with his arsenal of skills, a gently disarming wit, and a heart so big that you would see its warmth beating inside his focused eyes.
He’d also volunteered for seven warzones and fought fires as a volunteer for the regional fire services, and more, much more; sucking the marrow out of his time by living on the edge where ironically, most of us would meet him.
But then Covid struck, and he had questions, lots of questions, which he wrote down and sent to his local MP, only to have the MP send the police to his door:
Bruce filmed this and in the video, the police officer tells Paix that his emails “have come to the attention of the police and are drawing attention to you, which you probably don’t need or don’t want.”
Paix called the policeman out on the fact that his visit was politically motivated.
“Just so I understand the purpose of your visit: you’re here to do a firearms-check which is not random, you’re actually doing it in context with the fact that I’m in dispute with my local politician—because you’ve already admitted that to me,” he said.
The police officer admitted that he was not aware of any criminal offense contained in Paix’s emails.
“As far as I’m aware, no criminal offense has been committed,” he said. “My aim is just to let you know that police are aware of these emails.”
“So, I’m not allowed to have robust discussions with my MP?” Paix asked.
WATCH THE VIDEO
Next, because of the mandates, he lost his job, and so wondering what to do to stall, what he knew was an incoming tsunami of tyranny, he set off for Canberra to join the largest protest the ACT would ever see.
But as most of the protesters set up camp in the carpark of the national library, Bruce would be arrested while on his way to a protest at the airport. The charge? Attempting to run over a man who was setting up a roadblock.
For the next six days Bruce, after being processed and strip searched, would be locked in a tiny isolation cell, cut off completely from his loved ones, and aware that he was being exorcised, by the State from the country that he’d given so much service to.
Ultimately the charges were proved to be false, as too all the police who testified, were proved to be lying, but previous to this, when he was finally released, Bruce ended up on the back of a truck, being driven around the world’s first temporary anti vaxxer city, Epic Park, where he was received there for what we all knew he was, a hero.
Now he is here, self-exiled on his little farm, where he let us use his tools to repair and maintain Florence The Freedom Bus.
How do we, as a community, benefit from not allowing Bruce to do what Bruce does best, save us and our loved ones?
How did our country reach here, this point in history where when our living national treasures, medical specialists, who dare to ask questions, are penalized? Is there a parallel with other birthing, communist countries who early on slay their giants and intellectuals, to frighten the rest of the community into complying?
Last year, on a remote cattle station, Luke White, another hero of mine, ran over a defiant rogue bull with his four-wheel drive buggy that had been decked out like a mad max vehicle.
Trapped under the buggy the proud beast snorted in anger and pain, as other cowboys bound his hoofs, before he was left here, to spend the night lying under the vast afternoon sky, until somewhere in the morning, the truck that would take him to the meat works, arrived.
Luke told me, as we drove off in search of other bulls, that the farmers must root out these rogues. Born in the wild, without any knowledge of man, he would have spent a few years believing that he was the boss of these trees, as all this space and freedom, surged through his veins and his balls. This made him dangerous, for left to his own devices he could breed a whole herd of cattle who were prepared to fight that, that was coming, rather than walk placidly into their final yard.
The bulls we didn’t attack, were the brahmas. Impressive looking animals with no fight in their balls who bred with compliant cows and fathered slaves.
Slaves are much easier to handle, Luke paraphrased.
And so, another year into my journey of documenting what appears to be the orchestrated decline of my wonderful culture, I am sitting on his porch listening to the stories and views of a rogue bull, except this bull, this man, this great doctor, is convinced that the cowboys, masquerading as the police or even the army, might one day soon come for him.
History, he smiles, read it. It’s all there. It is all in there.
Have you ever read about a country that stopped totalitarianism as it was forming? I asked.
His reply was a wry smile, then, as the cat purred in his aging and healing hands, he looked out over his land at the storm which was getting dressed before us, in all its various shades of darkness.
The sad thing is, Bruce told this gathering storm, is all they have to do is say no.
It was raining when I wrote this, I could hear the drops tapping on the bus’s roof as I tapped on the keyboard.
Tomorrow we would be leaving early, as the road, to who knows where, was calling in a tone, that these days made it very hard to sleep.
Michael Gray Griffith