Every day, after I wake up in our huge (albeit rented) house, make a delicious coffee, prepare a tasty breakfast, browse the news on my phone and kiss my wife goodbye knowing I’ll see her again tonight, I wish I’d been born in East Germany.
Ah, the romance of deprivation. The excitement of imminent arrest and indefinite imprisonment. Guessing who’s an informant, who’s a traitor. Seeing our kids indoctrinated with Bolshevism, and fearing they’ll turn in their Christian parents. The cold, the hunger, the hopelessness. And we missed it all.
We’ve had the misfortune to have been born in, or increasingly to have immigrated to, boring, safe, rich Australia.… Read the rest