I’m Not Political. But I’m Deeply Worried About the World We’re Handing Our Kids

I’ve never thought of myself as “political.” I’m a parent, a practitioner, someone who spends their days working with children, families, and systems that are already stretched thin. But lately, as I watch the way we are responding to fear, harm and difference, I find myself asking a question I can’t shake:

What kind of world are we actually handing to our kids?

From where I sit, it doesn’t feel like progress. It feels like we’re going backwards.

When leadership normalises cruelty

Look at the United States. A country once seen as a reference point for democracy is now being torn apart and radicalised under a leader who treats public office as a stage for dominance, not responsibility. He lies, manipulates, refuses to apologise and shows little conscience or compassion. He is entangled in serious sexual misconduct allegations and longstanding ties to a man convicted and later charged over sex trafficking before his death. Yet he remains in charge of a global superpower.

What troubles me just as much is not only what he does, but the way so many otherwise intelligent, decent people stand by him, no matter what. Some call it loyalty. Some say they don’t like the behaviour but like the policies. Others are terrified of the alternative.

I see something deeper at play: politics as a team sport. Once your identity is wrapped up in “your side”, admitting that your leader is doing harm feels like betraying yourself. It becomes easier to minimise, excuse, or deny than to rethink your position. In that environment, cruelty is rebranded as “strength”, lies as “spin”, and empathy as “weakness”.

That culture doesn’t stay contained within one country. It trickles out through our media, our algorithms and our conversations. It shifts what we accept as normal.

The Australian version: fear dressed up as policy

Here in Australia, we like to think we’re different. In many ways, we are. But we are not immune to the same currents.

Almost daily, I see a new survey, headline or talking point: Should public prayer be restricted? Should certain religious head coverings be banned? Should young women who were groomed and coerced into joining ISIS be permanently barred from returning, regardless of their age, circumstances, or level of manipulation?

I am not naïve about risk. I am not suggesting we simply put people on a plane and send them home with a “good luck” card. But I am suggesting that a mature, confident country should be able to hold more than one thought at once.

We can acknowledge that some individuals returning from conflict zones may pose a risk that needs serious assessment and management.

We can also acknowledge that many of these young women were themselves exploited, abused and subjected to extreme trauma. They are someone’s daughters, sisters, nieces. Some were minors when they were drawn in. Their stories can teach us vital lessons about how grooming works and how to prevent it from happening to other young Australians.

Surely a nation like ours can design secure, specialist, trauma-informed programs that combine rigorous risk management with genuine rehabilitation and, where safe, pathways back to family and community. That is what it means to take both safety and humanity seriously.

After tragedy, the temptation to turn on each other

The horror of what happened at Bondi Beach is beyond dispute. Families were shattered. A community event became a scene of terror and loss. People are entitled to feel grief, anger, and fear.

The danger is what we do next.

Too often, heinous acts committed by individuals become excuses to treat entire communities as suspect. Muslims are looked at differently. Religious clothing becomes a target. Online commentary quietly shifts from condemning an ideology to condemning a whole faith, or anyone who “looks like” they might be connected.

That’s when division takes root. It makes our country uglier and less kind. It tells children from minority communities that they are forever one act away from being seen as a threat instead of a neighbour.

I believe if you choose to move to Australia, you should integrate into our society: follow our laws, contribute positively, and participate in community life. But integration is not the same as erasure. It does not give the majority the right to dictate someone’s religion or identity.

We live in a country where clothing that would once have been considered nudity is now widely accepted. We celebrate people’s “freedom to choose” their outfits until that choice is a hijab or niqab. We tolerate masks at festivals, balaclavas in certain sports, and face coverings for sun protection, yet keep circling back to bans on particular forms of Muslim dress, despite no evidence of systematic use of the hijab in Australia to conceal identity for criminal purposes.

If we are honest, that’s not about safety. It’s about fear and discomfort.

At some point, we have to stop, take a breath and ask: Are we responding to facts, or to feelings that are being inflamed for clicks and political gain?

Punishing the products of our own systems

I see the same reflex in my own backyard, in Queensland’s response to youth crime.

The community was hurting. Victims were (and are) real. People were scared and frustrated. Demanding action is understandable.

But instead of asking hard questions about the systems that shape young people’s child protection, disability, mental health, education, housing, we reached first for harsher penalties. We doubled down on detention. We turned up the volume on “adult crime, adult time”.

In doing so, we focused on punishing the product we helped create, rather than changing the conditions that led there.

As someone who has worked across child protection, disability and education, I have met so many young people whose “offending” sits on top of layers of trauma, neglect, neurodivergence, racism and exclusion. That doesn’t excuse harmful behaviour. It does explain why a purely punitive response doesn’t work.

Governments feel the pressure to “do something now.” So they announce big, bold, tough measures that play well in a press conference. The public often cheers because it feels decisive.

But decisive is not the same as effective. Loud is not the same as wise.

What kind of country do we want to be?

When I step back and look at these threads together, the global normalisation of cruel politics, our domestic debates over prayer and headscarves, our reactions to terror, our approach to youth crime, I feel deep sadness for our kids.

We are teaching them, by example, that:

• If we are afraid, it is acceptable to turn on each other.
• If we are angry, it is acceptable to dehumanise entire groups.
• If someone has done wrong, it is acceptable to abandon any attempt at understanding how they got there.

I don’t think that’s who we want to be.

We need leadership that unites rather than divides. But we also need everyday people, parents, workers, neighbours who refuse to be swept along by narratives that pit us against each other.

Equality is not a slogan. It is a discipline.

It means if we believe in freedom of religion, it must apply to all faiths, not just those that feel familiar. If we believe in rehabilitation, it must be available even to those we find confronting. If we believe every child deserves safety and dignity, that must include the child in youth detention, the child on a watch list, and the child who is suddenly scared to walk down the street because of the way they look.

We can design policies that keep us safe and keep our humanity intact. We can invest in prevention and early support instead of relying on punishment and exclusion. We can insist on responses that are evidence-based, not headline-driven.

I may not wear a party badge. But I am a parent, a practitioner and a citizen. I care deeply about the world our kids will inherit.

Right now, I’m worried. But worry can be a catalyst. It’s time we stopped letting fear do the driving and started rebuilding a country where equality is not just a word we proudly use, but a standard we stubbornly live by.