Finding Home: “An Autobiographical Account of a Child Migrant Growing up on the Edge of the Tasmanian Wilderness”

© 2012 by Erik Peacock. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 01/10/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4670-0136-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-0137-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

STORY ONE

WE ARRIVE

STORY TWO

OF BIBLES

AND BULLETS

STORY THREE

OF GOATS,

BOTTLES

AND MUSHROOMS

STORY FOUR

A BACK HOE

AND A MOVE

STORY FIVE

OF FIRE, WATER

AND A HOUSE

STORY SIX

OF CARS, COPS,

AND TOMATO PLANTS

STORY SEVEN

A BUSHFIRE

STORY EIGHT

A NEW CAR

STORY NINE

MOVE

TO NEW NORFOLK

STORY TEN

HOME EDUCATION

STORY ELEVEN

OF MONKEYS

AND MEN

STORY TWELVE

TRANSITIONS

STORY THIRTEEN

STEPPING UP

STORY FOURTEEN

HOUSE OF FOOLS

STORY FIFTEEN

FLAT MATES

AND FALAFEL

STORY SIXTEEN

THE POWER

AND THE PASSION

STORY SEVENTEEN

THE ROAD

TO NOWHERE

STORY EIGHTEEN

HIGHWAYS

AND BYWAYS

STORY NINETEEN

THE

SPICE ISLANDS

STORY TWENTY

HARD LANDING

STORY TWENTY ONE

THAT

OTHER PLACE

STORY TWENTY TWO

A RIOT

AT CRONULLA

STORY TWENTY THREE

PLANE TALKING

STORY TWENTY FOUR

FINDING HOME

EPILOGUE

APPENDIX A

CONNECTIONS

BETWEEN INDUSTRY AND GOVERNMENT

NOTES

APPENDIX B

CHRISTIAN

ENVIRONMENTAL LINKS

END NOTES

INTRODUCTION

Home. Most of us have one. Some of us spend our lives looking for one. Some never feel they belong here and, like cosmic refugees, only expect to go home after they leave this place. Others seem to belong wherever they are, as if possessing some solid immovable core which they carry with them like a snail carries its shell.

Perhaps it has something to do with life’s path; you know, that thing that most of us bumble along, driven by our fears and desires but with no clear sense of destiny, something that happens to you while you are making other plans. But for some the path is laid out before them from birth. I was one of those people. Born a fourth generation Seventh Day Adventist to English parents, my future was already determined. I would be vegetarian and keep the Sabbath. I would get a good job and live in the UK. I would visit America, meet a girl there or in the youth group, get married, and make more Adventists. I had a destiny. It might have involved a lot of textured vegetable protein and tofu, and some very boring sermons but it was a destiny. In between times I might do mission and aid work, and I would be regularly assured that we were living in the ‘end times’, but I would be saved. I would belong. It didn’t happen. This is the story of what did happen, of migrating to a small wilderness island at the bottom of Australia, and being home educated on the fringes of the fringe. Destiny or not, this is a story about the long journey to finding home.

All of the events described in this book did happen and I have been careful to avoid exaggeration and stick to the facts. However, they are my recollections and if others recall them differently, their recollections are no less valid. Most of the names in this book have been changed, either by request, or for legal reasons, or because I am no longer in touch with the person and was not able to ask their preference. There are plenty of life events which are not related in this book, either because they may not interest, or out of respect for the sensitivities of others. This is a drum beat of a life and the intervals of silence are just as important.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author would like to acknowledge the work of his editors Helen Gee and his wife Jenny in completing the manuscript.

I wish to acknowledge Dr Jean-Pierre Candelone for his review of the chapter ‘Monkeys and Men’.

Special acknowledgement also goes to Peter Hay, my former lecturer, whose seminal work on environmental thought helped join so many of the dots.

Finally, to my parents John and Camille who, if they had done what was expected of them, would have lived very different lives.

STORY ONE

WE ARRIVE

Mc Guires Marsh was a place that lived up to its name. Some 25 kilometres past the township of Ouse, and perhaps half a dozen from the nearest huddle of farm houses known as Osterley, lies McGuires Marsh. A boggy valley in winter and sweltering Australian bushland in summer, it sits on the edge of the Tasmanian highlands. McGuires Marsh is literally where the winding gravel road ends, at a farm gate, next to a creek.

It all started in 1979 when, as fresh faced Pommy immigrants, my parents looked out of the aircraft window expecting to see beaches, beer cans, bikinis, and lots of desert; after all, this was Australia, a recent colony known for kangaroos, koalas, BBQs and ten pound Poms. The term ‘Pom’ we discovered was something the locals used for referring to British migrants. Originally meaning ‘prisoner of mother England’, it was a term originating with the transportation of convicts. My parents had immigrated for a two year stint on the strength of a job contract and a sense of adventure. I was barely four years old and my older sister Gudrun was seven, or thereabouts. Adam was born a couple of years later.

Dad was not so keen on the move as his first love was Scandinavia. Forests, mountains and lakes were his scene, and if they were populated by blonde Scandinavian beauties so much the better. When we lived in England, my parents had a summer house in Sweden, all timber and set on the edge of birch woods. I still remember the ferry ride across from the UK. The summer house was in a beautiful place on the edge of the woods although as a three year old mostly I remember the mosquitoes, the native blueberries, and the local cakes. Their name was one of the first words I spoke. My affinity for Swedish confectionary started at a local festival where there were long trestle tables covered with white cloths laden down with local foods. The white cloths reached down almost to the ground and people stood around the tables with food piled up on little plates. The tables gave me a hideout from which I could reach out and steal cakes off the plates of those standing around. When my distraught parents searched me out I was discovered under one of the tables surrounded by a piled up ring of confectionary and blissfully happy.

We spent no time in Australia proper, boarding a domestic flight to Tasmania instead. As is the nature of islands, Tasmanians have their own island identity and consider themselves only nominally part of Australia. We were to learn that the big island to the north is known to them as ‘the mainland’ and those who hark from there as ‘mainlanders’. Perhaps the difference stems from Tasmania having a significantly different environment. Thus it was that instead of seeing the expected desert and beach scenes my parents looked out on glittering mountain lakes, distant ranges, sparkling ocean, and rolling green forests. In this there were some similarities to Scandinavia but otherwise Tasmania was very different from, well, just about anywhere.

This was a new country in every sense of the word. There were still frontiers unexplored by white people, and areas where law and civilization meant little. Particularly it was a country in which you didn’t have to inherit the right family name to own property. A land where you could still pioneer, tame a piece of bush, and make it your own; and in those days land was cheap. Here the constraints of modern living could be put aside for a simpler life.

Nobody really knew where Tasmania was. The rest of Australia tended to leave it off the map, while letters from friends were often re-directed from Tanzania where they had been mistakenly sent. It was hard to believe that this was Australia when small fairy penguins swam up from Antarctica to breed. It seemed a world away from the bronzed Oz we were expecting. Once our bags were unpacked and jobs and schools found, it was time to look around.

Not that life wasn’t simple. We lived first in Hobart, a teaming capital of approximately one hundred and fifty thousand souls, nestled between Mt Wellington’s steep slopes, and the southern ocean. Hobart boasts one of the world’s deepest natural harbours and hosts both aircraft carriers and cruise ships that can tie up at the wharf. The Derwent River cuts the city in half, emptying into the ocean in a broad tidal flow that is spanned by a broadly arching concrete bridge. Suburbia reaches north along both banks. In those days everybody smoked. Shopping was taken home in paper bags, no one wore digital watches, and desk top PCs were unknown. Pac Man had not been invented but Space Invaders had. Muscly young men in tank tops would sit in takeaways at large tables with a small screen and a couple of buttons, put down their can of coke, and for 20 cents zap the aliens that streamed down in ever descending lines from the top of the screen. There was no such thing as electronic commerce. If you forgot to withdraw cash from the bank by 5 pm you could purchase nothing in the evenings. Not that that was really a problem because the only businesses open after 5 pm were the Casino, some greasy Greek fish and chip shops, a few pubs, and a couple of expensive restaurants. Out of town you had better have a full tank of petrol. Petrol stations opened and closed according to a government roster, shop opening hours were restricted on Saturday and Sunday, and bread and milk prices were regulated.

Hobart could hardly be described as city life, but Dad had a long cherished dream of a home in the woods, and Tasmania seemed a good place for it. Besides by 1980 the cold war was at its height. The USA, Western Europe, and the U.S.S.R had hundreds of nuclear warheads aimed at one another, and many more in the air and under the sea in nuclear armed bombers and submarines to ensure a devastating retaliation or a final coup de grace once the initial exchange of land based missiles had taken place. Notwithstanding a nuclear winter and the end of civilisation that would, on any scenario, accompany ‘winning’ a nuclear war, Tasmania seemed like a good place to survive a nuclear holocaust.

Australians were fairly relaxed about world war three, as they were about most things. If it was going to happen it was going to happen, and besides it was far away. Pine Gap would probably get nuked but really, who would miss it? Perhaps this nonchalance had its basis in the fact that Australia had already been nuked. We had the dubious distinction of being the only nation in history to allow a foreign nation (Britain) to detonate nuclear weapons on our soil. In the 1950s they fried a lot of desert, contaminated some servicemen, and poisoned a lot of Aboriginals who didn’t really understand or believe what was going to happen on their tribal lands. Apart from them, no one else much cared. In Europe, everybody cared. Nuclear war was not an abstraction sent to distract academics and left wing peace-nicks, the preparation for it was a very present reality. By 1980, Sweden, a neutral non-nuclear state had built enough tunnels to put not only much of its air force, but a considerable part of its citizen population underground behind massive blast proof doors. They planned to survive. A second Viking colonisation would follow in a devastated Europe. In Britain only a small number of elite military and political figures had state built underground shelters, but smaller ones could be purchased privately with air filtration and some weeks supplies. Continental Europe relied on the nuclear deterrent provided by Britain, France, and the USA. Switzerland had a citizen army of around one million, and vast underground military assets. Australia had diddly squat but we were not in the firing line.

Perhaps another reason why we tended to think about these things more than our neighbours was that Mum and Dad came from a church where they were taught all their lives that the end was nigh. Most folk, of course, saw this for what it was—a cheap trick to stop people dancing, drinking or generally having fun. Dad, who had been to Bible College, unfortunately took it seriously.

In any-case, it was enough to prompt a search for quiet and affordable lodgings in the countryside. A hundred acres of Tasmania was advertised at McGuires Marsh. No one knew where McGuires Marsh was but in England one hundred acres is a viable farm. It was enough to conjure up visions of an alternative lifestyle based on self-sufficient agriculture and hobby farming. For an academic Dad skimped a bit on his preparatory research. Neighbouring farmers measured their properties in the thousands of hectares and none of them were particularly wealthy. That hundred acres would change our lives forever.

Others were also looking around in the late seventies and early eighties for a piece of land to call their own. Friends of ours had built houses out of bush poles and mud brick, and they were not alone. People from all walks of life and for all sorts of reasons were heading bush. Some, with small incomes and big dreams were heading bush in kombi vans to flee a troubled world. The kombi vans were brightly coloured and usually filled with small children and many-stringed guitars. Peace symbols and gaudy colours were the order of the day. What may have been passé in California was still vibrant in Australia. There in the bush two cultures collided because others, also seeking to throw off some of the constraints of civilization, were heading bush in four wheel drives and utes. The four wheel drives and utes were usually filled with small children, high powered rifles, and a whole different set of drugs. Other settlers of course had been there since their ancestors killed off the ‘black fellas’, and not all welcomed new visitors.

Our property, as I have said, was literally where the road stopped. The road ended at a creek that ran down a grassy valley and skirted around some northerly hills. It was a strong permanent creek that not even the willows could choke. To the east, steep hill sides were cleared, fenced and accommodated cattle. To the west and south were more hills, some forested and some cleared. The road ended in a cattle fence that marked the boundary of land owned by a local farming family who had raised sheep and cattle there for several generations. Our selection was mostly forested but land was cleared around the creek and river flats at the bottom of the valley. Deep in his heart every Englishman knows that he is born to rule the world, and if he can’t, he must rule what he can. The hills and flats weren’t a huge estate but they were ours.

Dad determined that this was our refuge from the world. We would call it simply ‘the Land’. We were by then a family of five. Wisdom and settler tradition would have dictated that we first build a house with a reliable septic system and water supply and then move into it. That done, an ‘everything-proof’ fence should be built around the house, then a respectable vegie garden and fruit trees planted inside the fence. Once the immediate house surrounds were in order, one could then look at options for raising livestock. Dad was ignorant of the sequence the settlers took, and decided to do everything at once.

Transport and accommodation were to be organised for Mum and new baby Adam, me, and older sister by three years, Gudrun. Dad killed two birds with one stone by purchasing an old Bedford school bus. It was broken down but with some repairs the engine made it almost 100 km to the Land. It might have been useful to have built a bridge across the creek before transporting the bus. It might also have been sensible to have checked the brakes. As it happened neither were required. The bus careered down the hill towards the creek. The family inside without seat belts clung to whatever internal fixtures offered support. A huntsman spider, big as a dinner plate in a child’s memory, bounced through the air. The battery leads parted company with the battery which bounced off the motor and flew out of the door. The bus cleared the creek in a jump and where it landed was pretty much where we lived. No planning approval, no sewerage, no worries. I was seven and thought it a grand adventure.

The bus was our home. It was pre-fab insulated with curtained windows and a strong cast-iron wood heater. It was toasty warm in winter, and what it lacked in air conditioning in summer could be compensated for by sitting in the creek. The wood stove was strong enough to burn willow logs and hot enough to boil water on the top plates. Hissing gas lamps gave enough light to read by, and books by Tolkien were never so wild or so cozy as when read in the wilds by gas light. Night time visitors were drawn to the light, a crazy collection of insects large and small, beautiful red moths as wide as a hand, a possum that pushed its snout up against the glass and stared uncomprehending through the window, and a cat.

Where it had come from and how it had got there no one knew, but Cat shot out from under the bus one day and gobbled up cold chips like the emancipated half starved thing that it was. Cat had trust issues. It would hide away from us and flee to the darkness under the bus when we approached, there to stare at us with wide suspicious eyes. But as flesh grew on Cat’s bones, trust also grew. It would stare more and run less. One day a sniff, the next day a pat, and soon Cat was purring and preening and generally acting as though it owned the place. Cat was good to us too. It assiduously hunted down mice, and was known to pull down small rabbits and wallabies. Cat became our friend and companion.

Life on the land was harder than we expected. Dad dug a tool shed into the side of the hill. A roof beam fell and hit him on the head sending him to hospital. He surveyed the creek. There was sufficient fall for a generator. Over summer we worked hard with friends to build a concrete dam wall across the creek. It was an impressive structure when built, but winter floods cut around it and pushed it down. Mum complained about sluicing dirty cloth nappies in cold water. As winter came and frost spread up the valley we felt the lack of a hot water service. There wasn’t room for Cat in the bus, or for the older siblings so Gudrun and I made our home in a kombi van next door. It was a fun place to sleep but it was not warm.

Our neighbours, human and animal, were wild. Of the animal kind we stumbled across blue tongue lizards that looked like snakes and made us jump. We met real black snakes and tiger snakes that moved silently through the long grass. Of course there were hundreds of wallabies. Kookaburras laughed at us when we ventured out to the long-drop toilet in the rain. We would catch our breath at the rare sight of wild deer running through the forest. A big old wombat lived on the river flats. A possum slept in a crack in one of the gum trees and would reward any attempt at prodding into wakefulness with a yellow shower from the branches above. Mr Wombat quickly put paid to any notion we might have had of growing vegetables on the river flat. Wire netting was a nuisance but not a barrier. We got chickens. The Tasmanian Devils ate them. We put them behind chicken wire. The Devils chewed through the chicken wire and then ate them. We built them a tin shed. The Devils pushed the door in and ate the chickens. We drove a stake into the ground in front of the door. The next clutch of chickens were saved. We put up a large polythene tunnel hot house with a concrete base to stop Mr Wombat. For most of the year it provided us with excellent hand watered vegetables. Later we built concrete bases (which stopped Mr Wombat), and put up frames of wood and wire netting over the top to completely enclose the ‘grow beds’. They worked brilliantly and gave us a reliable supply of fresh tasty vegetables.

STORY TWO

OF BIBLES

AND BULLETS

For my part I liked the kombi and thought Gudrun a sissy for complaining about sub-zero temperatures and bullets. Our first major social interaction in the valley came in the form of bullets. They were usually high-powered and directed with the aid of a spotlight and copious amounts of alcohol. Typically, they were fired from the back of a ute or land cruiser. What they were directed at was not always clear, but we soon ascertained that any form of non-privately owned animal, especially the small and furry ones, were considered vermin to be shot on sight. Possums played in the willow trees, so possums were to be shot at from the road. We lived behind the willow trees in the line of fire. But shooting was sport. It was tradition. It was manly. It was necessary to feed copious numbers of baying dogs. The dogs were necessary to help hunt. Hunting was necessary to feed the dogs. Guns were necessary for self-defence; crazed kangaroos, assorted neighbours, and lost tourists being a real threat to public safety. Anyway, the folks had been shooting in that valley for time out of mind and they weren’t going to stop just because people were living there. At least, that’s what we were told. The morons firing from the road were mostly up from Hobart and surrounds. Chief among them was a man named Joe who was famous for being so drunk on a shooting trip that he fired at his own reflection in his ute’s side mirror thinking it was a kangaroo. They must have felt powerful and immune from the law. They were heavily armed and the nearest police officer was a long drive away.

The first thing you have to understand about my family is that we were religious. Not the ‘do the right thing, keep out of trouble, go to church for special occasions’ religious. We were the kind that got martyred as heretics in times past. In fact, we could arguably trace our spiritual heritage through the English protestant reformers to John Wycliffe who translated the Bible from Latin into English. My grandfather, a second generation Seventh-day Adventist, was a conscientious objector during World War Two. His religious affiliation saved him from prison but not from duty. Pop and his family lived in Coventry which was one of the most heavily bombed cities in England during the war. Churchill knew what was coming for Coventry but a determined defence would have revealed England’s secret knowledge of radar to the German forces. For the greater war effort Coventry was sacrificed. The fire storm of Dresden was England’s bloody revenge for Coventry. Pop was put to work as a roof spotter, sitting up on the roof of the factory where he worked looking out for bombers that might target it. He was to be the first to sound the klaxon and the last in the bomb shelter. Pop became a very good sprint runner. This may have suited him because Pop was a wrestler and an athlete who was known to have cycled from Coventry to Wales in a day, broken the ice on a frozen river to swim, and to have swum underwater until he blacked out to see how far he could get. He loved the thrill of going toe on toe in competition wrestling bouts and won many. Pop was not averse to personal self-defence or to violence in the controlled environment of a sporting ring, but for him religion and killing didn’t go together. ‘Thou shalt not kill’ was a non-negotiable command. He would not do combat duty.

The Seventh-day Adventist church came out of the maelstrom of political and religious upheaval that greeted the start of the nineteenth century. Like many sects, it started in America. The founding fathers were mostly Puritans with deep roots in English Protestantism. The Puritans fled the religious conflicts of Europe to start again in a new land. American Protestants inflicted their own violence against indigenous peoples, blacks, and the British, but otherwise followed a strict personal moral code. In the mid-1800s John Miller led a movement that attempted to predict the date of the ‘second coming’ based on Biblical prophetic writings. When Jesus failed to turn up as predicted in 1844 Miller and most of his followers, after overcoming their embarrassment and disappointment, returned to their churches. One group instead changed the date and became the Jehovah’s Witnesses. The other group did some fancy theological footwork, changed the event, and proclaimed as their prophet a lady by the name of Ellen G White.

Her followers looked back to the Old Testament Hebrew writings to found a new movement. To this day Seventh-day Adventists keep the Jewish Sabbath, worship only on Saturday and do no work or sport between sunset Friday and sunset Saturday. Mrs White wrote extensively on health and education, and was at least a century ahead of her time on some issues. The church she led continued after her death and became quite wealthy, perhaps because members are required to tithe, that is, give one tenth of their income to the church. For around one hundred and fifty years her followers have been vegetarian, abstained from drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and coffee, and refused to go to war.

In 1995 I visited my grandfather in the UK for the last time. He was convinced Christ would return before he died. His generation of Adventists harboured an almost pathological fear of the Roman Catholic Church founded on centuries of its religious persecution of non-Catholics in Europe. We went looking one day for a monument to some followers of John Wycliffe, who for some reason were known as Lollards. In the 1300s they had tried to break the church’s monopoly on scripture and were exterminated without mercy for their troubles. We found the monument eventually on a cold overcast day. It was a small tarnished brass plaque on a rough piece of stone in the middle of a traffic island with no crossing. It was faded but we could still make out the names of nine men and two women who were burned alive on that spot for defying the ban on giving away or reading copies of Wycliffe’s English Bible. The church establishment knew what would happen to their position if people could read the scriptures for themselves. Only clergy were then allowed to own or read the Bible, and only in Latin.

As a young man Dad had been to Bible College and then out to convert the masses. Youth ministry was exciting. He, Mum and some friends started a folk music and coffee club called GATE (God’s Answer To Emptiness) and pretty much anyone could turn up and perform. Elton John turned up well before he was famous and a lot of other folk turned up who never became famous. Since it was the seventies it was a decade before talking about the meaning of life become daggy and GATE was a forum to talk about God with people who would only make it into church as a corpse. GATE was an unqualified success. It may have been during this time that I felt something powerful and beautiful. I know it involved music so it is likely it was at a GATE meeting. I had no words for it then, being perhaps three years old, but I definitely recall the feeling. I now know it to be the presence of the Holy Spirit. Whatever, I felt my evangelistic efforts started early and I was given no ‘say’ in them. It started with handing out Bible colouring in books to the other kids from my pushchair.

Then things got really interesting. One of Dad’s students Peter started dating Amy. Amy was a beautiful, dark skinned girl from a Bangladeshi family. Amy fell in love with Peter and fell in love with Christ. They eventually got married. The story would have ended happily except that her father was a leader in the local Muslim community. We went around to their place once to talk about the problem of her conversion and fraternisation with a Christian boy. I was three years old and too young to remember what was said but I recall the vibes and they were not good. Amy was sixteen and her father asserting his parental authority, tried to control her movements, and subjected her to a regime of bright lights and sleep deprivation in an attempt to persuade her to return to Islam. Amy refused, and eventually came to live with us for a while. Her family held a funeral service as she was now dead to that Muslim community. However she was not dead to us. Things did settle down to an uneasy truce until Amy asked for adult baptism as a Christian. This meant serious loss of face for her family in the eyes of their community. It was a bridge too far. Some sort of fatwa was issued and a death list was drawn up by her family. I was number three on the list after Gudrun and Dad. How much this was about brinkmanship and avoiding loss of face within the community, and how much of it was really serious, we didn’t know. We felt though that we had no choice but to take it seriously. No one came and knocked on our door but we became fairly mobile nonetheless. Some of my earliest memories are of running feet, and fear, and being picked up off the floor late at night and of being driven somewhere in a van. As promised, people did come to the baptism with hand guns but were foiled by a last minute change of venue. Dad was still at the original venue when they showed up. They showed Dad their pistols (at that time the British police did not carry guns preferring a short baton and moral force backed by specialist units if required). Dad told them they were crazy. They said they were honourable, and it was the will of Allah. Few in Britain at that time would have heard the term ‘honour killing’, but they soon would hear it, for a new form of fundamentalism had come to her shores.

That was all behind us now. Australia was a new country. It was also a challenge to faith. Dad had left the Seventh-day Adventist Church over matters of doctrine. A key doctrine was known to be false, but the church leadership couldn’t believe that a man would leave a wealthy and secure organisation over a matter as trivial as its defining beliefs. After all, the church did a great deal of good, sponsored hospitals in developing countries and helped evangelise in hard-to-get-to places. Why pass that up over an argument about doctrine? Dad needed time and space to think. What indeed should be the relationship between churches, bibles and bullets?

Clearly guns were bad, but the consequences of pacifism seemed unacceptable. In essence we were forced to confront the basic theological dilemma of all doctrinaire believers. Is an action right or wrong in and of itself, or does its rightness or wrongness depend on its real world outcome. Philosophers call this the difference between virtue ethics (something is either good or bad) and consequentialist/situational ethics (something may be