Showing posts with label Main Roads Western Australia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Main Roads Western Australia. Show all posts

Sunday, August 16, 2026

Health and Activism

            John Kinsella


Activism is rarely without stress, but if we believe in the cause we are working for and towards, some of that stress is alleviated by the act of doing. At least I’ve found that to be the case. I don’t mean that one expects that ‘success’ will alleviate stress given most often ‘success’ is either measured in tiny increments, or is constantly beyond reach, but rather that the ability to persist, and believe that improvement of negative conditions might eventually come in some way, instils or restores a degree of equanimity. Activism is, essentially, an act of belief.

 

However, systemic bodily breakdown, or ill health in general, will inevitably result in a compromised ability to maintain activist intensity. Whatever the cause of a health issue, it's certain that stress will make it worse or at least harder to recover from. And, indeed, stress might be at least part of that health problem in the first place. We are stressed by the issue that leads us to act, we are stressed while acting, we are stressed worrying about aftermaths. It is an obvious loop.

 

I mention all this because though it wasn’t the cause of my stroke/s per se, seeing the extent of the damage done by Main Roads, Western Power and contractors to habitat alongside Toodyay Road — clearing and works that now extend for 25 kilometres — certainly increased the stress on my body prior to stroking. I am not suggesting direct cause and effect, but there’s no doubt in my mind that my distress accelerated my vulnerability before any preventative action might have been taken. I have rarely been as upset as I was some months ago (after seeing what was being done to bushland we knew so well, had observed so closely for so long), when things started to go physically very wrong for me. Medically, that’s all subjective, but I also know my own body and how it responds to shock — to such horrific external stimuli.

 

My prime regret in all of this, apropos of the destruction, is that I had just started a campaign of recording, writing, corresponding and was on the verge of co-ordinating with others in an attempt to halt/redress the works, when I collapsed. Each encounter with the damage led to more distress, more efforts to record what I was witnessing, to write poems that might help as intervention.

 

Around that time I had just done an activist reading for an environmentalist group and was delighted with their engagement, enthusiasm, deep commitment, and their local successes down in the city. I had high hopes of linking with them in this more northern, ‘rural’ protest. And then I stroked and went silent. I wasn’t ‘there’ when I most needed to be, even if I could have done little to stop anything in reality (I am more than aware of my limitations to influence the machinery of development!).

 

I came close to my physical demise, and it’s a long haul back to the way things were before I stroked... if ever that will be the case. As soon as I was basically functional, I started writing again and addressing the issue. I did not, however, belatedly follow up on an earlier reply to me by a senior figure in Main Roads who defended the road works (modern roads stuff) while insisting that other parties were also involved (i.e. Western Power and a gravel pit company). He did, I have to say, mention that he’d be willing to meet and hear what I had to say.

 

That was a strange sort of ‘progress’, and I hoped that it might be the start of a serious conversation which in turn might lead to some kind of cessation of works. This might seem deluded, but all environmental and rights activists have to cling to the hope, the belief, that both individually and collectively they can make a difference. I doubt the Main Roads person ever wondered why they never heard back, but this was the reason.

 

So, I say again, when I started my campaign I realised that it was probably ‘too late’ for any effective prevention other than through a mass physical protest (which I had hoped would eventuate if I got people peacefully motivated), but I have never let that stop me and I never give in. I work through pacifist justice methodologies, and refuse to ever say it’s too late.

 

I am still writing about the issue, of course, but I can’t do anything in person — in situ — and I can’t organise larger campaigns or even contribute at this stage. This ‘compromise’ in my activism has been deeply distressing to me and yet I’ve had to come to grips with it. My disappointment in the lack of any ‘on the ground’ opposition (such as there was over the Roe Highway extension in the Beeliar wetlands) has been challenged by my own inability to act as I would if I could.

 

I would, if I could, be present — holding a protest sign, speaking with people, trying to convince them to down tools, to oppose from within the works themselves. People can’t change what they don’t see, and most of those ‘making a living’ have other more dominant considerations in their lives. I get that. I respect different ways of seeing and we all need to co-exist, but sometimes information that benefits the environment is not transmitted in the most effective way — and by that way, I mean through showing how care for the biosphere is essential to who we all are, and what the future might be. How empathy for all life is also respect for ourselves.

 

Having said all this, I expect no one else to be doing what I consider my protest work — we all have to make our decisions regarding how to act according not only to our consciences but our ‘means’. Protest is not a simple thing — and there have been degrees of this over the years by various groups regarding this road ‘realignment' which have led to less damage than would have been without such behind-the-scenes protest attempts and advocacy for the natural habitat. What it would have been like without such interventions I can hardly imagine. The horror.

 

In order to survive, I've stopped using Toodyay Road — the witnessing (any more than I have) is too much for my health at present. Will I ever use it again? That is always the question — the potential for irony is overwhelming. The damage done, it is too easy to accept the new ‘reality’. All road-making has resulted in damage, most of it extreme, but this ‘project’ was never ‘necessary’ in any way and was a work that, once developed, was never going back. Too many vested interests, I feel. I have written about how wrong I think it is on all levels on this blog prior.

 

Also, displaced wildlife (as I am told by others, aside from personal observations) is so at risk that it is a dynamic I wish to avoid. All roads in the country entail this risk of fatal or injurious encounter with animals — that is part of the general horror of vehicles and the fact we all need to measure our travel in terms of ‘necessity’ or otherwise with regard to the brutal facts of global warming (and, unfortunately, electric vehicles have certain obvious and harsh environmental impacts as well) — but at the moment, on that stretch of destruction, risk of car-animal contact is particularly heightened. Animals killed by road-work machinery, with survivors then wiped out by traffic.

 

None of this is an excuse for ‘failing to act’ — that would be disingenuous given what I’ve been through (as well as my family who have been so supportive) — but it is an explanation for all those who follow this blog and care about the state of the planet, and the well-being of all life on it. To be as physically well as possible is part of my activism — I need to be able to do all I need to do. But whatever the state of my health, I will do what I can for as long as I can, always.

Saturday, April 18, 2026

Mass Destruction of Habitat on Toodyay Road, Western Australia... it has biospheric implications

The horror of witnessing more and more habitat destroyed along and near Toodyay Road, Western Australia, is so overwhelming that it is causing post-traumatic stress disorder for some of us, and for the biosphere itself. And it's ongoing. Soon, large swathes of bushland will remain only as photos and memories. Then people can forget it was ever there and adjust to the new reality? No.

This 'road realignment' and 'improvement' for safety reasons, to bring into accordance with 'modern road standards', is excessive and counter-intuitive. The violence of driving patterns is in evidence for all to see on any journey along that road and that's a huge part of the safety problem. Upgrading doesn't have to mean mass destruction. Further, the extraction industries and their trucking patterns are a doom in themselves. Trucks are supposed to be speed-limited to 100kmh, and I can promise you that's frequently not the case — I have seen trucks overtaking cars that were doing 100kmh. The plus or minus in their limiting must be truly flexible.

Associated (above ground) power line installation (and the wide clearing for fire-safety reasons required around power lines), the nearby mining of gravel for road-building, and ongoing agricultural land clearing (clearly some are escaping scrutiny or working the laws to their advantage) are part of a package from Dante's Inferno. 

Yesterday, nearer Toodyay, we also saw machinery tearing down vegetation around a creek, with the tracks of the diggers embedded in the stream bed itself. Have permissions been obtained from the Noongar community/elders? These are sacred waterways, as is very well known in the region. 

The environmental 'sign-offs' on these kind of 'works' is reprehensible, and the gall of the justifications, including a specious argument that because there's nearby national park, animals have other habitat available to them, is appalling. And as soon as you read that some of the bush being cleared is 'degraded', you get the (il)logical rhetoric at work. And a sign on the road saying a section being cleared is 'dieback affected' is not going to prevent its spread!

Every crunch of the bulldozer kills innumerable smaller creatures — reptiles, rodents, marsupials — and demolishes bird nests and so on. We have for many years watched white-tailed black cockatoos roosting in the very trees that are being literally plucked out by the roots —it's an inventive array of machinery the destroyers have got at their disposal.

It bemuses me to see the operators of these machines chatting between killing sprees. Sure, people are compelled to make a living, but all of us have consciences, and surely these must be bothered? It reminds me of the 'just-war' scenarios and the military tyranny we are all being affected by, some catastrophically. A pseudo-theological debate just as governmental 'environmentalism' is a pseudo-ecological fait accompli. And these demolitions are yokings of government and business — the twin arms of the modern Western state doing their best to cover each other's complicity in ecocide by fulfilling 'promises', 'contracts', and meeting 'outcomes'.

This is a local issue with planetary implications — if habitat can be treated with such disdain, then all life is devalued, and we all know where such degradation leads. We all have an obligation to act, including those doing the damage and hiding behind specious justifications. We are all in this together, let's start acting as a community that recognises that all roots reach into the planet itself, and roots around here are specifically Noongar and without ongoing Noongar consultation, there's no way through on any level.


Stages of Planet Killing on Toodyay Road

 

It starts in offices and conferences room,

unless it is that grim whisper on the road

as drivers overtake on double

white lines or thrash the speed limit.

 

It echoes through government,

through departments, to business —

that search for quotes combining

frugality, outcomes, and brag sheets.

 

The surveyors come — neat harbingers

with their deft theodolites, stakes

through hearts, pink ribbons

streaming like dead arteries.

 

Environmental clearances an exquisite fait

accompli, ultimately, and sacred water-

ways re-mapped to be entered by tracked

machinery, banks undone, water stained.

 

There is the language of minimisation,

which we’ve come to expect, thanks, and down-

loads to offset the distress. And as old trees

are yanked out by the roots, and buttressed

 

bulldozers mount vegetation

before crushing, carrion vehicles

buzz like powerlines, the land rewritten

outside so many memories — but not all.

 

Wildlife told there are other places

it can go as it is slaughtered. Contract

killers anonymous as, later, efforts to tidy

with a few plantings, or just guiderails.

 

 

            John Kinsella

Sunday, April 10, 2022

Campaign to Save Trees on the Northam-Pithara Road

Tracy (not in the pictures, of course, but as committed as any of us!) and I are not long back from time spent out at the site of Mains Roads' destruction of salmon gums and other trees on the Northam-Pithara Road about 10-12ks outside Northam heading north, on Ballardong Noongar boodja. Tracy took photos and videoed me speaking against the damage and reading my 'Sammies' poem originally written to help support efforts by many to stop Main Roads' destruction of ancient trees (we're talking up to 400 years old) along the York-Quairading Road a few years back (gathered in the collection I co-wrote with Yamaji poet Charmaine Papertalk Green, False Claims of Colonial Thieves). You can see that poem here.

Main Roads have an ongoing campaign of roadside (and beyond roadside) habitat destruction that is remorseless and gathering pace. Road widening, road realignment, remaking to suit increasing truck traffic and exploitation of country... with only the bare minimum effort applied to ecological concerns. Good people are out there campaigning constantly to stop this catastrophe, and sometimes they have small successes, but it's hard to be everywhere. The philosophy of utility and development needs shifting on a fundamental level. The destruction of these trees is the destruction of heritage and history, it is the deletion of vital elements of the sacred. It's an ongoing disaster on a massive scale (consider the fate of bush along the Toodyay-Perth road, along the Great Eastern Highway near Wooroloo etc). It's a deeply ingrained systemic problem. 

I am delighted that campaigners who spent time on site through the week succeeded in saving trees — or at least to have them tagged as being saved (in my experience, sadly, this doesn't necessarily mean they will be saved in the long run, so extra vigilance is required and the road design plan has to change). I fear, looking at the markings and pattern of road-widening (and sadly from much experience), that whatever they have tagged in the short term as to be left will in fact be removed unless it's changed at the planning level. I celebrate the communal work of the on-site protesters who at least had the workers listening to them. Good on them all — it's how and where change is really made. At the face of things. I arrived days after this, but documented nonetheless and worked on site on a new poem of peaceful but determined resistance.

I stood between two sammies (salmon gums) close to the road and the poem located itself. 




As it also located itself in the chopped down two/three-hundred-year-old trees further down the road... one with the word 'owl' painted on its corpse. 




Here is the on-site poem:

O Sammies Sammies — Ancient Trees on Northam-Pithara Road

 

 

O sammies sammies,

deep reach, earth to sky,

and location location

for so many birds,

written into their DNA.

 

O sammies sammies

deep reach, earth to sky,

part of the elemental sacred,

essential to health of country,

cut to the quick, deleted.

 

O sammies sammies

deep reach, earth to sky;

owl markers, cockatoo compass,

honeyeater spires, insect plumage —

hold out against the onslaught.

 

O sammies sammies

deep reach, earth to sky;

O sammies sammies

deep reach earth to sky,

deep reach earth to sky.

 

 

            John Kinsella





Monday, February 25, 2019

Another Poem for the Slaughtered Trees on Toodyay Road (just south of Toodyay town)



Seeing an Excavator Tooth-extractor Push Over an Old-growth Wandoo
            On the Road to Perth Just South of Toodyay

Subset of incantatory praise of CAT planet-wrecking machinery —
the 50-ton excavator with range of buckets — shears groomers
grabs skeletons mud rock batter teeth — that will debranch and tear
a trunk will twist to push and rip out the old-growth wandoo

before your eyes as workaday as time sheets. Watch the headstrong
tree pushed over to tilt at planners’ windmills tumbling into gully
and reach for your mouth your maw always that bloody dental
analogy tedious as jawing and mouthing on and on so phobic and gory.

Excavator tracks knuckle by knuckle scallop by scallop levered
forward chain of command steel confrontation with tree flesh
resilience till give — root and nerve sans anaesthetic bare to the gaze
of sadists or maybe just the blithely indifferent. Cruel and clear sap bloody.

Subset of incantatory and cruel as therapy designed to get you back
to work that damages, keep you dulled to pulling and pushing,
tearing teeth from the jawing and mouthing the wordy planet —
induce an illiteracy of presence, an exclamation of pain without

vocabulary. After all, who can speak with a numbed lip anyway?
This CAT-induced literacy of being the excavator that pulls and pushes
as well as digs, this deployment of rough surgical equipment, this grooming
of planet to run roughshod and unmake syntax to realign sense.

Where is this room for finding in a subset of incantatory praise?
Surely there’s room to find a way in and back out via the gap
made by the CAT 50-ton excavator’s work ethic, its showing
the way to what will be — bloody mouth empty of tree-teeth; smiley-faced?


            John Kinsella

Wednesday, February 13, 2019

Poem of Anger, Sadness and Frustration at the Destruction of Trees Along the Toodyay-Perth Road



Tyrant Spells in Excessive Heat Sees Old Trees Uprooted Alongside Toodyay-Perth Road as the Biosphere Collapses In a Heap to be Mulched (Seeds Collected for Later Resowing in the Spirit Of...) in The Name of Safety

            ‘But a tyrant spell has bound me, 
            And I cannot, cannot go. 

            The giant trees are bending’ 

                        Emily Brontë



These trees I see now on this surveyed zone
are not ours per se, but we have responsibility
under the tyranny. Even if we plant
a seed and it grows to sapling and tree
we do not own the growth or even
the tree’s body when it deceases.

And so the local naturalist club does
a deal with government tree-killers incorporated —
‘give some up to save some’ — and ‘stakeholders’
who are informed make their cases and seeds
are collected and deep-seated flooded gums

are tumbled. Offsets. In the jaws of the embodied
hologram of an arcade claw machine transmigrated
to do its coin-feeders’ bidding, always responding
where aimed and succeeding in grabbing the killed trees’
fluffy ‘all the same’ canopy and dropping down

the mulcher’s gullet — steel-capped grin. The personal agony
of failed protest before protest can even happen aside —
it’s on your doorstep and signed off on righteously
(road trauma is real but there are other ways of holding back
the slaughter) — vested interests tearing down life-towers,

intensive housing project for non-human life along the roadside —
and the compulsory reclamation of what’s
outside the reserve to enact the vision
of transport. Giant trees bend then are torn out
like teeth, the heavy snow of fallout in the overheating —

I cannot pass without the pain deluding
me into an acceptance of falls with machine’s
anaesthetics offering nothing more than a brief
respite from culpability — ‘the community’
having answered in all our names, Babbeled tree-talk.

Why not travel slower, speak slower? Take
curves gradually with shade against the burn?
Let life-growth show a way through office-decisions
all bravado in the field — suits mingling with work clobber
hard to get clean: break the tyrant spell, and let us all go,
go through unbreaking unbroken less excessive less overheated.


            John Kinsella