Vale Malcolm Bell

Malcolm Bell dropping Stephen Zaborowski and myself at Hamilton No 4 Wharf in Brisbane in August 1977. We were trying to stop the Uranium trains from leaving the port of Brisbane. Photo: Stephen Zaborowski

The tribute “Malcolm Bell – Man of God 1944-2022” may well be how some people in the church saw Malcolm but I remember a different Malcolm Bell. Malcolm was a member of the Thorneside Anti-Uranium Action group. Jessica Harrison from Friends of the Earth sets the scene: “In 1976, Friends of the Earth (FoE) Brisbane moved office to the Learning Exchange in Boundary St, West End. I lived and worked there, so I jumped head first into the anti-uranium campaign. Mary Kathleen uranium mine near Mt Isa had re-opened in 1974, and uranium was transported in shipping containers down the east coast railway line. At the Learning Exchange, we started getting calls from railway workers, warning us that uranium was heading south to the Brisbane wharves. A small radioactive symbol was the only marking on the shipping containers carrying uranium.” – Jessica Harrison published in Friends of the Earth’s Nuclear-Free Campaign.

One story that captures the Malcolm I knew was his friendship with Stephen (pronounced Stefan) Zaborowski. Stephen was building a steel yacht at Thorneside and, like Malcolm, was a member of the anti-uranium group there. Malcolm was a man of peace, no doubt, but when you are surrounded by violence what do you do? Some remember that Malcolm poured blood on the stock exchange during the American war in Vietnam. The entry in Queensland: Live to Fight, Fight to Live read thus:

1972 May 15 – Eight people throw blood over Stock Exchange in Vietnam Protest.

One of the others arrested and charged on that day was John Stanwell who wrote about the incident in the Queensland Review.

But that Malcolm is a stranger to me too.

I met Malcolm during the pickets in opposition to uranium mining and export organised by Friends of the Earth (or Friends of the Dirt as Bjelke referred to them). I remember Malcolm dropping Stephen Zaborowski and me off at the Hamilton No 4 wharf in Brisbane where the state government was exporting yellow cake to places like Hamburg in Germany. Some of the enriched uranium from the yellowcake mined in Australia probably ended up in Chernobyl and Fukushima reactors that both melted down.

After our rally on the railway line, Joh banned street marches to stop the anti-uranium movement in its tracks.

On 3 December 1977 there was a big democratic rights rally in King George Square jointly organised by the CLCC and the Trades and Labor Council. TLC President, Harry Hauneschild, put the motion to march to the crowd of over 3,000 people. Further speeches ensued and at the end of the rally, people marched once again into Albert Street to be encircled by 700 police. While people were being arrested in the ‘valley of death’, Albert Street, a plain clothes police officer, John O’Gorman, was mistakenly accosted by police while he was bashing marchers, taken about five meters and then released. He returned to the fray.

Meanwhile Malcolm and Stephen were linked arms attempting to march when an undercover cop and later Special Branch officer, Gary Hannigan, punched Malcolm in the stomach. Stephen Zaborowski retaliated by punching Hannigan on the nose … when they went to court Maris Element from the Civil Liberties Co-ordinating Committee (CLCC) got Stephen a lawyer whom we called Spencer Tracey. His real name was Leon Taafe. Criminal barrister Taafe advised Malcolm’s friend not to elect for a jury trial which was his right under such a serious charge. He told him to request a summary hearing before the ‘beak’ (magistrate). When barrister Taafe cross-examined, he put it to Hannigan that it was unlikely that a protestor would make an unprovoked attack on a police officer in broad daylight with over 300 police nearby. Our Spencer Tracey grilled Hannigan closely on the circumstances of the arrest. He knew all the cops well from drinking with them.

Special Branch officers, Gary Hannigan (left) and Barry Krosch (right) at University of Queensland with Joh Bjelke-Petersen in 1980 (or 1981).

Spencer Tracey then suggested to the young Hannigan in the witness box that it was the influence of his father, a high ranking Assistant Commissioner, that made it possible for the young Gary to be a detective. Hannigan was known to lurk undercover in demonstrations wearing an anti-uranium badge and pushing demonstrators into the waitingarms of task force. Taafe understood Hannigan’s weakness, his desire to prove himself to his father and to other police. Under heavy cross-examination, the immature Hannigan eventually cracked, he stood up in the witness box and blurted out ‘he hates me!’ pointing at Stephen in the dock.

It immediately became clear to the magistrate who had committed the ‘unprovoked assault‘.  It was not Malcolm Bell nor was it Stephen Zaborowski. The magistrate had no choice but to acquit our friend on the charge of ‘common assault’. Malcolm was charged with disobey direction.

Malcolm was arrested by Special Branch officer Michaen on 4th March 1978 with a charge of inciting to resist police during a street march that managed to leave King George Square toward Roma Street Forum. Malcolm, representing himself, defended that charge successfully. Like many of us during this period Malcolm was unemployed, sacked by the church. Dean George, the Anglican prelate in Brisbane, refused to speak on the same platform as the CLCC representative, Jane Gruchy, in a large public meeting on democratic rights in Festival Hall in 1978. Fortunately for us, Christians like Malcolm Bell were on our side.

Leon Taffe akaSpencer Tracey’ (at right) in front of statue of King George V talking to cops at a right-to-march rally in King George Square in 1978

There was another side to Malcolm Bell that I knew. The street marches where Stephen and Malcolm were arrested were chaotic events. One tragic incident occurred when a baby died in a hot car driven to one of the marches by the parents. It was Malcolm Bell that stepped up to conduct the funeral service for the parents of the baby. They wanted their child to be buried at sea. Stephen Zaborowski was a competent sailor and took the body with the grieving parents beyond Cape Moreton out towards Flinders Reef. Malcolm conducted the burial service. How hard that must have been for everyone involved.

In my book, Malcolm wanted to build a more humane, just, compassionate, and democratic society. He was both pragmatic and ethical.

In more recent years Malcolm used to conduct services at St Peter Chanel Church on North Stradbroke Island. Whenever I passed by that church and saw Malcolm’s name on the noticeboard I would remember our common struggles to make positive change in Queensland.

Vale old comrade, my condolences go out to your family, friends and fellow travellers in struggle.

Ian Curr
19 Nov 2022

Malcolm’s funeral will be held at St John’s cathedral in Ann Street Brisbane on Tuesday 22 Nov 2022 at 11 am.

One thought on “Vale Malcolm Bell

  1. This poem by Malcolm was read by Peter Wertheim at Malcolm’s funeral on 22 Nov 2022 at St John’s Cathedral.

    Black in the hazy forest-past, decked in trees of memory-pine, the scythe has cut her path before; will go on cutting more. Fain I think of being nought. Could I be scythed by consequence, to dream no more, ungrown and unbeknown to man for all I am.
    Might I die tonight?
    Deal me the fated Ace of Spades on some moon-blooded night. For though I walk through the Valley of Death, I will fear no evil (too proud to fear, he died (apologies to Dylan Thomas, wherever he may be). And who will weep on my fearless cask? Who will write love-songs, their bodies remembering?
    If I should die tonight:
    While I fear no evil, what of oblivion? What of unremembered pasts, and tragic presents? Who will write love-songs for me? Will you?…..will you? –
    The moving hand has writ its tale
    And having writ will leave
    The cold-passed life has left a trail
    But who will see to grieve?

    Betrayed. Will any feel betrayed? Can I, in all sincerity and honour, leave unfinished, duties to be done? No man is an island – shit! All men are islands, joined by rice-paper bridges, with sharks patrolling, Waffen Stuzschaffel, killing puppies in their black-gloved hand. Reach out and touch, but only at your own risk.
    The sun has passed its final ray, fought through the valley-pit-train and tanker black. Tonight has come (I told the sun not to set, but it did, just the same.) The blackness covers, smothers, – Frightens me…..there, I said it. What creeps in with the lack-light? Death? Life in death? – Death in life? (Does Death walk, Mummy, or does he drive a car, like Daddy?)

    Darkness comes, and comfort passed, and I am Lord of all, at last. Lord of all I survey (which may be nothing in the fence-rail black, but at least I/m lord of it.)
    And I am lord at last
    Your body is a highway shrine
    And all my priests have passed

    My priests, my patient, obedient, trusty priests; my arms, my fingers, eyes, my tongue, – Druid servants, – priests, in death, are rebels: they won’t obey my wordless wants, and they will not move as I want in death. Do, Lord, remember me.

    I was flowers once, on a mountainside. All yellow, red, and sometimes blue. Maybe I still am flowers. Maybe there’s more than yellow, red, and blue to come. There’s a man with a mower, though. Mows the meadows.

    – and he might mow tonight.

    Yes. All this is fine. But WHO WILL weep on my fearless, proud – foolish cask? Who will write love-songs for me – sobbing quietly in a once-shared room, crying at an empty chair, or singing the songs I sang once, and cried so much I couldn’t sing again?

    But I might die tonight. (someone exploded an atom-bomb today, but it wasn’t anybody I knew). Must I die tonight? I’ve got work to do – a Life to live. Commitment – that’s a thought – a reprieve. Let me just finish this one duty, then I’ll come willingly.

    Work away today
    Work away tomorrow
    Just my life and me.
    Did you feel it, gently swaying
    When the evening slipped away?

    If you only knew what’s inside me now; would you want to know me? Who will love me this night? – who, alone, will see me in the morning, battered in the glory of forgiven sins? –

    And who will write love-songs for me should the Death of Milkwood, of Hobbit, should the Heart of Darkness, the Reaper, knock at this forgotten, fearless door, and lie in the proferred bed, offered in hope or hopelessness, till the morning, unseen, creeps in the world.

    – Malcolm Bell

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