The late Brandon Sia - teenage hard man
Now before you come on all limp and squishy on me and accuse me of not only condoning violence, but actively celebrating it, I want to say right here and now that all violence is wrong.
I also feel that we mostly live our safe lives, comparatively well protected from the harshness of life on the edge. But we still generally harbor a crippling suspicion – convinced that death stalks each and every one of us and that survival for another day is a remote possibility.
I suggest that this is because we buy a fair selection of the avalanche of shit in the media designed (successfully, one gathers) to keep the majority of us afraid, compliant and ready to live in trepidation under whatever dickwad cheesy governments and laws, regulations, expert advice and rules that are thrown at us. Let’s be very afraid of a high cholesterol diet, a future carbon tax (shriek !), one too many standard drinks, and on and on and on. Not for a minute suggesting that the ABC is complicit in this unending shock and awe campaign. Not for one minute. 59 seconds, maybe. Tops.
And I’m not suggesting that the subject of today’s rant was a model citizen and head choir boy. He might have been. I just don’t know. It’s a fair bet that the lead up to the murder was not a disagreement over a theology assignment down at the local seminary. But I suspect that by his last few actions in the land of the living, we could just possibly surmise that he knew perhaps a little too much of the hard side of the tracks than is good for a boy of 16.
Today the ABC reported (no, not on deeply intellectual complex matters…. how surprising and totally shocking is that ! ) that Brendan Siaa pulled from his own chest the knife with which he had been stabbed, and by way of reply stabbed his (allegedly) 22 year old assailant in the face, the neck, the wrist and in the leg before himself dropping dead on the Bankstown railway station platform. Not a lot of problem identifying the assailant. Sorry, ALLEGED assailant. Bedside court appearance to come. The ALLEGED murderer had form, allegedy, apparently, quite possibly.
I think you have to hand it to a guy who, surely knew the curtain was coming down in a hurry, managed to get in one last square-up. They breed ’em bloody tough in Bankstown.
It’s frightening, really. The ABC report also said that the incident was captured on CCTV and that the security guard who was on duty on the platform amidst horrified peak hour commuters “acted appropriately”. WTF did that entail ? Running away at a million miles an hour ?
I’ve no doubt that the CCTV footage will make its way onto Youtube (if it hasn’t already been there and been taken down) – much like the recent footage of a schoolkid beating the crap out of another kid who bullied him. And I think that the issue will polarise people along the lines of secretly admiring an underdog who had a glimpse of a win – at least this time as fleeting as it was – but condemning the whole farrago – versus those who applaud a bloke who went down swinging some other killer’s blade.
It’s a tough call. Particularly for Brendan’s 15 year old brother who survived with a stab wound to the leg.
Quite a lot of hatred on the streets of Bankstown – a lot more these days, I’m sure – just a spit from where Gez and I spent our youth.
I don’t go back to Banky any more and I’m not wanting to advocate psycho violence, But I have to confess just a tiny feeling – a sense of admiration – for anyone so unafraid.
Story on the ABC
Picture for anxious punters:
Window Dresser's Arms, Pig & Whistle 
Anger and fear!
What a combination!
Reminds me of the very first time, which, incidentally was also the very last time, that I got really, really, really angry and afraid.
I would have been probably about ten years old. I had no idea that the city (Salonica) was divided into gang territories. Gangs of ten year-old youths! So, one day I stranded into what was obviously the wrong territory. Suddenly I saw myself surrounded by THE gang. Probably about twenty kids. I don’t remember what words or deeds were exchanged, only that, at some point, I turned and ran. Ran fast and furiously for a very long time until I got to my friend’s house. I knocked, he opened and I got in. Noe of his family was there. He was alone.
The gang was right behind me. They began, first to yell obscenities at me and then to throw stones at the house, some of which hit the windows. My friend was frightened. I was frightened. My friend began worrying about what his parents would say when they came home and broken windows so he told me to go. There was a back yard but no access to any way out of the place. However, in that yard, I saw a tree. I walked quietly to that tree, tore a little branch off it and then got back inside.
Then, I stood a couple of steps behind the close door, took a deep breath and finally told my friend to open the door.
I rushed out screaming and yelling and waving my branch and my fists about the place. To my horror, both fists and branch connected with the faces of the enemy.
It would have lasted no more than a couple of minutes. The enemy gathered its collective tail beneath their sorry carcass, dropped their shields and spears and ran away, like a whole lot of Cleons (look him up!) in Thrace.
I was untouched by human fist or weapon.
The next thing I remember was that I was in a gathering of the gang on my area -that’s when I found out there were delineated and agreed upon borders- and was declared the “hero of the year.” Stories, nay, legends were told of how I had broken people’s teeth, and that the leader of the enemy gang was crying in his mother’s apron strings! The gathering was very… elevating, exhilarating even, spiritually wise!
But I do remember the fear and the anger! The two sides of the combination. The one that makes you run away and the other of facing the enemy.
Never felt that combination again, at least not at that intensity.
LikeLike
Great story, ‘Mou. Our remembered stories of past triumphs often carry us through the minor daily defeats, do they not ? Thanks also to Voice for her pithy observation “Anger trumps fear” .
Reflecting a little more on your story, ‘Mou, in the case of your little mate, fear (of his parents) trumped loyalty to his mate (you). So whereas you have a memory that helps to keep you strong, he could still be carrying the guilt and shame – that could have been so much more severe, had you not come out on top .
Many thanks, Emm.
LikeLike
Successful story. Excites comment.
I’ve got Bankstown stories too. It was there my son attended at the Emergency Department of the hospital seeking the help of the mental health services and in the queue got a telephone call from the Bankstown Police station asking him to attend at their counter. He left the queue and attended at the Police Station, was arrested and spent 5 days in a lock up without any medical help or medication and from there … too terrible. The environment of Bankstown and the potential for its inhabitants is well known to me.
LikeLike
Thanks for your story comment, ‘Shoe.
Sorry to hear your son’s Bankstown story. Being locked up is awful, even for a well person, but disastrous for someone who is not so well.
Lest we dwell too long on what a fuckin’ hole in the ground Bankstown (hospital) is, I have three good stories from there.
1. I had childhood asthma – before the invention of bronchodilator drugs. I can recall two occasions when I wound up there on oxygen. Maybe saved my sorry little arse. 2. My Dad was bitten on the big toe by a funnel web spider (late 1950s). Ambos came and took him there. He was sweating like a horse and stiffening up when they arrived. It was before the invention of antivenin and they pumped him full of stimulants to keep his ticker going – and put him on oxygen for three days. (Aside – he recovered, but he said he felt stuffed – Parkinson’s style shaky for nearly a year afterwards). 3. More recently, my Mom was having a regular rheumatologist check-up and the doc suspected a deep vein thrombosis, sent us next door for an ultrasound – which confirmed the provisional diagnosis > Bankstown hospital, don’t pass go > onto the Warfarin etc. Probably saved her life too – notwithstanding that she was about 80 and in early stage dementia and saving her life did her no big favour.
But that’s what they do, isn’t it. Save you if they can. No matter what.
Cops on the other hand provide different services – sometimes somewhat more of the two-edged sword variety. I can’t imagine a posting to Bankstown local command is a plum post, though, Can you ?
LikeLike
Hello emmjay,
Interesting how when we experience abuse we become pin-pointed on that experience and reference what we expect from there on in to that specific experience/knowledge. I only thought of that explanation of my feelings about Bankstown after reading what you have sketched out regards your familial experience of the hospital. That is interesting reading, riveting considering the fragile grasp on life you describe each of you had, likely other than for the intervention of the staff of the hospital. Matter of fact, I had to telephone the hospital (Bankstown) to enquire was my son still in the queue or was he hospitalised that he went out of communication with me, given the journey he was on that night involved me closely and Mike, the staff were at their near wit’s end managing emergency as it was but still managed to eventually furnish me with information he had been there and was not hospitalised, but also was not seen by a practice doctor, that he had disappeared. Mind you I had to stand my ground for the information as nobody had time they wanted to spare. And it was lucky he did as I told (not asked) him, that he named me as his emergency contact when he signed on at Reception.
I can’t repeat what my own dad said at 65 about having ‘his life saved’ when he had a heart attack, Mike (you reflect ‘saving’ hers was not a big favour for your mum at 80 and in her condition). It was blue. He was so angry.
A post at Bankstown police shop is likely not a plum commission. I had conversations with the aforesaid desk. My idealistic streak wishes the brightest and the the bravest, the most highly skilled and motivated are selected and sent to manage such an environment, willingly. That’s not the way it works, huh, can’t be. 😦
Thanks for the reply.
LikeLike
And thanks for yours too, our dear ‘Shoe 🙂
LikeLike
Nobody’s life is ever saved. It is only prolonged. Which is usually a GOOD thing, but not the SAME thing.
I wonder why your father was unhappy, ‘shoe. Not meaning to pry. But even in the days when they had virtually no treatment, people could recover quite well sometimes. My grandfather lived another 10 years after his first heart attack, and his only treatment was absolute rest for several months. (I wasn’t there but that’s what I was told. I guess they had oxygen, but no surgery or anti-clotting drugs or anything like that.) The artery eventually rerouted.
LikeLike
It’ll get worse.
LikeLike
What a horrid but real story. When I lived in the Gong some of my week was spent working in Bankstown, near Stacey St if that rings any bells, anyhoo at that time it was full of Vietnamese people who I learned to really admire and of course the best lasksa I have ever tasted. Later working at a submarine maker I met 4 brothers from Vietnam, great blokes and very hard workers.
LikeLike
What a sad sad story…but well told, Emmjay.
Gerard wanted to visit the old Bankstown Square few months ago. Daughter and I took the opportunity to buy some T-shirts for the little ones. I was absolutely horrified by the mess and disarray at the Myers Store, clothes on heaps on the floor, customers walking happily over them…I could not get away from there quick enough.
LikeLike
Yes, I saw the footage on the Telly last night as well and immediately wondered if the pulling out of the knife killed him. Yes, Bankstown always was a kind of rough and tumble place. At the late fifties I had put a deposit on a block of land in Padstow. Turned out the Mayer of Bankstown, a bloke called Little, had a nice scheme going selling same blocks of land as many times over to whoever wanted to buy them.
I turned up, overlooking my block together with another one who had also put a deposit down.
My mum together with Mrs Lee used to go to Bankstown square in winter just to warm up a bit. Mr Lee was forever sandpapering his wooden fence, but took so long in painting it, that by the time he came to the end of the job, he would start all over again. Still, it kept him off the streets.
Have you looked at the ensign plastered on the front of Revesby Workers Club? It has a Hammer and a Wrench crossed. The hammer and sickle design must have just not passed the Board of Directors and one can just imagine the discussions going on what design would be suitable.
LikeLike
It really is the stuff of novels, isn’t it. Of course, in the theatre of war, the same action would gain some posthumous award, the man who selflessly went down fighting until he drew his last breath, etc. Perhaps he was just mightily pissed off?
LikeLike
Anger trumps fear.
LikeLike
Yes, I guess so.
Gez’ s point – that pulling the knife out could have made the difference between living and dying. The consequences of having no fear, perhaps ?
LikeLike
Yes, I’ve seen the embedded knife/axe/glass shard/tool pulling out episodes on the TV, and presumably they are based on reality. Perhaps he hadn’t. Then again it is surprisingly difficult to make good split second decisions when you are in extreme pain, and blocking out fear can be a survival necessity to avoid paralysis.
We could as well speculate that he thought it was kill or be killed i.e. if he didn’t at least majorly disable the other guy, that guy would have made sure of him.
Or perhaps he just doesn’t (didn’t) react quickly in real time i.e. he was proceeding down a particular path (violence) and the momentum carried him forward before he reacted to his circumstances.
Which reminds me, time to stop rambling on.
LikeLike