OPINION
The whole office was abuzz.
We had the afternoon off, and Bob* our boss gesticulated excitedly. “Let’s get the champers on,” he grinned widely.
Work stopped and we would all trudge downstairs towards the TVs where the Race That Stops The Nation was playing.
I know I was supposed to be really bummed when the horse I nominated as part of the tipping competition didn't win. I’m trying to muster up enthusiasm and not be a spoilsport. Corporate culture, integration, fitting in, one of the boys, Straya, you know.
If that means celebrating a race that is soaked in booze and gambling - two things that even as a not-so-great Muslim I try to avoid, well 'it’s called being a team player, love'. (Two caveats that ironically don't stop the wealthy Gulf nations from co-sponsoring events.)
Don’t get me wrong. I find communal cultural traditions important and valuable. I am curious and respectful of them. They bind us. They tell stories about who we are.
There’s not a non-western country I’ve travelled to that doesn’t feature some ancient tradition or a story retold in processions spilling out in the streets. From mourning Shi’ite crowds furiously lamenting the death of their ancient leader Hussain for Moharram, to Galungan in Bali where incense fills the streets and locals celebrate the triumph of good dharma over bad - to the little boys and girls dressed in white for the Corpus Christi procession in Spain, flanked by proud Aunties with fans in colourful flamenco dresses - I find them all deeply moving.
But this year the shine is wearing off, and I am so glad to breathe a sigh of relief with others who seem to be also coming out with indifferent shrugs to the whole spectacle, saying #NuptotheCup. “You mean I didn’t have to pretend all those years?!” I feel like exclaiming.
For a long time I rationalised it, half heartedly smiling along, as a form of respect to Anglo culture. Melbourne Cup is our venerated secular tradition on par with a religion celebration, I reasoned.
I mean it’s the one time of the year I see legendarily casual Anglo-Australians actually dressed up to the nines in brilliant desi colours.
Every time I’d go past Randwick racecourse and see women dressed in bright pinks and yellows, huge hats and pointy heels and men in suits spilling out of the stadium on race days, I would smile. It felt festive and fun, inaccessible to me, but something that was part of the culture in a way that felt important. Like an Australian church. Except most of the churchgoers ended passed out drunk on the greens, with empty wallets, by the end of the day.
I also thought, 'hey, this racing stuff is linked to Australia’s convict heritage, for those from the bottom tiers of society forced to the corners of the Earth as part of England’s colonial project'. The idea of life as a great gamble. The adrenaline of the sport, right? Taking a chance! The maverick or outsider coming up from behind. It’s a recurrent theme in Australian mythology - from Ned Kelly to the Man from Snowy River.
But I also wondered why all of Australia’s dominant myths I had to participate in were rooted in exclusively male and white stories of heroism and mateship? Where were the work-stopping Indigenous cultural narratives I could share in?
And just because something is a tradition, it doesn’t mean we blind ourselves to its dark undercurrents. It shouldn’t mean these traditions can’t be opened up, changed or evolved.
The hero of the racing myth is the horse. But as a recent has revealed - it’s not a hero we treat very well. Many of these prize-winning horses, many of them still viable, end up tortured and slaughtered for pet food, going against industry policy to rehome race horses.
The horses who have been bred and ruthlessly trained to make millions for the big business racing industry end up incinerated by the same corporate machinery that has literally been built on these poor animals' broken backs.
Doesn’t seem very fair go to me.
It’s ok to interrogate our celebrations. This is how cultures evolve. And it’s when our legends and myths start suspiciously being co-opted for commercial profit and animal torture - we know it’s time do better.
So this year when the ladies hit the greens in their colourful finery, I’ll continue to pass on by.
I've moved on from Bob's tipping competition but otherwise I would have told him: I think I’m sitting this one out.
*Name has been changed.
Sarah Malik is the Deputy Editor of SBS Voices. You can follow Sarah on Twitter
