@ asyncmind
2025-01-18 23:07:02
I leaned back in my chair, staring out the window of a quiet suburban café in Melbourne. Rain trickled down the glass in half-hearted streaks, as if even the weather couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to commit. I sipped my lukewarm chai, the spice muddled beyond recognition, and shook my head at the headlines flickering on my phone.
"Privies and staties," I muttered, half to myself. "The great cultural war, fought with memes and moral outrage."
The waitress, a twenty-something with blue streaks in her hair and the harried look of someone juggling rent and an art degree, glanced at me, but I waved her off. She didn’t need to hear the rant bubbling inside me. But you do.
Let me tell you about these Australians and their bizarre tribes. On one side, you’ve got the privies, the products of private schools with Latin mottos, boat shoes, and a chronic inability to read the room. These are the ones who learned how to debate the ethics of colonialism before they could tie their shoelaces. They grew up in manicured bubbles, tutored in piano and privilege, and now lead the charge in the great cultural revolution.
Oh, they’ll cry for social justice over their oat-milk lattes, but God forbid you mention their family’s ties to real estate empires or mining conglomerates. They protest with passion, but it’s always the kind of passion that ends before the rain starts or the Uber surge pricing kicks in.
Then there are the staties, the self-proclaimed champions of the "real Australia." They’re the salt-of-the-earth types who can’t stand the privies. Too posh, too preachy, too disconnected. The staties fight their wars with beer in one hand and a smartphone in the other, spamming their feeds with angry rants about "wokeness" and how things were better in the '80s. They see the privies as the enemy—elitists, virtue-signaling snobs who wouldn’t last a day on a construction site.
And yet, the staties are no saints themselves. They scream about freedom while demanding the government fix everything that annoys them. They sneer at art and academia, unless, of course, it’s a Hamilton ticket or a Netflix drama. They don’t want to change the world; they just want to win enough of it to tell everyone else to shove off.
Caught between these two warring factions, I—an Indian old boy from a legacy school where discipline and ambition were drilled into us like multiplication tables—sit here, baffled. I grew up in a world of contradictions too, but at least ours came with good food and a soundtrack of classical ragas. This Australian version of the culture wars? It’s a pantomime, all sound and fury, signifying nothing.
Take the debates about statues. The privies want to tear them all down—symbols of oppression, they say. The staties clutch their pearls, howling about history being erased, as if the only thing holding civilization together is a bronze guy on a horse. And in the middle? Nothing changes. Rent still skyrockets, climate disasters loom, and the housing market remains about as accessible as Doon School admissions to a street vendor’s child.
The irony is that both sides are just cogs in the same ridiculous machine. The privies rail against capitalism, but live off trust funds and well-paying jobs courtesy of their networks. The staties mock the pretensions of the elite but secretly envy their polish and privilege.
Meanwhile, here I sit, with my scuffed shoes and tired eyes, watching this farce unfold. We had our own clown shows back in India, of course. Macaulay’s little brown gentlemen, striving to out-English the English. At least we had masala chai and biryani to soften the absurdity. Here, it’s bland chai and vegemite sandwiches.
I chuckle, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. The waitress, still hovering nearby, gives me a curious look. I gesture for the bill, deciding I’ve indulged in enough cynicism for one afternoon. The cultural wars will rage on without me.
As I step out into the drizzle, I can’t help but think: if this is the best they’ve got, maybe it’s time for the old boys to show them how it’s done. After all, we’ve been navigating the tightrope of hypocrisy and ambition for centuries. What’s one more circus?