The Principle of Justice and Dignity
Lately, I’ve found myself thinking more deeply about justice
and dignity—what they mean to me, and how consistently they are lived out in
the world around us. As a Christian, I hold a deep belief in the inherent worth
of every person. I believe true justice is not shaped by ideology or
allegiance, but by a commitment to fairness, courage, and care for the
vulnerable.
I try to hold my convictions with humility. I don’t believe
in imposing beliefs on others, yet I do believe we have a responsibility to
speak up when people are harmed. For me, the challenge has been learning how to
do both at the same time: remaining faithful to truth while acting with
compassion and restraint.
This sounds simple in theory. I’m learning how difficult it is in practice.
As Scripture reminds us in Micah 6:8, we are called “to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.” I find myself returning to this often—especially when justice feels uneven or difficult to apply consistently.
Noticing the Contradictions
As I’ve reflected more on conversations around women’s
rights, I’ve begun to notice some uncomfortable tensions. Again and again, I
see moments where the principles we speak about—justice, compassion, and human
dignity—are applied unevenly. Some stories are elevated and defended with
clarity, while others are quietly set aside or treated as too complicated to
confront.
What has been hardest for me to sit with is the realisation
that women themselves can sometimes, consciously or unconsciously, contribute
to this imbalance. Often this happens within strong cultural, political, or
ideological frameworks that reward loyalty and discourage dissent. Still, the
outcome can be that policies, silences, or justifications end up harming other
women.
One moment that stayed with me was in the aftermath of the
October attacks in Israel carried out by Hamas. Reports described women being
taken hostage and subjected to extreme violence. These accounts were widely
available, yet in many public conversations—particularly among pro‑Palestinian
advocates—the suffering of Israeli women seemed to receive far less attention
than the suffering of civilians in Gaza.
I want to be clear: the suffering of Gaza’s civilians is
real and devastating. Holding space for that should never be optional. What
unsettled me was the sense that acknowledging one injustice required the
minimisation of another. I found myself struggling with the idea that
compassion could become selective—that some women’s suffering could be treated
as secondary depending on the political narrative being defended.
I noticed a similar tension closer to home during the 2022
federal election in Sydney, particularly in the seat of Warringah. Katherine
Deves ran as a Liberal candidate and became a highly controversial figure due
to her views on women’s sport and single‑sex spaces. She argued that biological
sex should remain central in these contexts. Her opponent, Zali Steggall, a
teal independent, took a different position, emphasising inclusion and broader
definitions of equality.
What struck me wasn’t simply that two women disagreed. Women
disagree all the time, and rightly so. What troubled me was how quickly the
conversation hardened into opposing camps, as though there were only two
acceptable ways to speak about women’s rights—and any attempt at nuance was
treated as hostility or harm. I remember feeling unsettled by how easily
complexity disappeared, replaced by slogans and certainty.
More broadly, I’ve noticed how these tensions continue to
surface in Australian public life around questions of sex, gender, and
identity. There is still no shared understanding of what it means to define a
“woman” across all contexts, particularly in law, sport, and public policy.
Different political leaders and parties approach this question from very
different perspectives, attempting to balance biological realities, gender
identity, inclusion, and rights.
Watching these debates unfold, I’ve often felt that the lack
of consensus is interpreted not as complexity, but as moral failure. Women in
politics are frequently expected to stand united on issues affecting women, yet
these debates reveal how unrealistic that expectation can be. When women take
different positions, disagreement is sometimes framed as betrayal rather than
good‑faith argument.
I want to say this clearly: I don’t share these reflections
to blame women. I’m increasingly aware of how much pressure—cultural,
ideological, relational—shapes the positions people take. Fear of exclusion,
desire for belonging, and deeply held beliefs all play a role. Still, I can’t
ignore the impact of these inconsistencies. When certain injustices are
overlooked, the consequences can include silence, marginalisation, and, in some
parts of the world, ongoing harm or violence against women.
Simply noticing these contradictions has been confronting
for me. But I’m beginning to believe that this kind of honest awareness is an
essential first step toward a more consistent and compassionate approach to
justice.
Why Double Standards Persist
I don’t think there are easy explanations. Human societies
are complex, and moral clarity is often clouded by ideology, fear, ambition, or
group loyalty. Even people with good intentions can struggle to see injustice
clearly when it threatens their sense of identity or belonging.
Recognising this doesn’t excuse harm—but it does help me
approach these tensions with greater humility. I’m learning that naming
injustice and acknowledging human vulnerability must exist together.
A Spiritual Perspective
For me, faith is not about standing above others with
certainty, but about being willing to change—starting with myself. Growth, both
personal and collective, often begins with discomfort. Even when situations
feel deeply unjust, I believe there is still an opportunity to respond with
courage and integrity.
As I sit with these reflections, I feel called to speak up
for those whose voices are silenced, to defend human dignity without forcing my
beliefs onto others, and to remain committed to truth even when narratives are
conflicting or inconvenient. I don’t experience this as a call to judgment, but
to alignment—between belief and action, conviction and compassion.
Thoughtful Action
I keep asking myself what faithfulness looks like in the
face of these contradictions. For now, it means paying attention—especially to
the moments that make me uncomfortable. It means resisting the urge to accept
easy answers, and being honest about where silence feels safer than speaking.
It also means wanting to defend the dignity and rights of
all women consistently and courageously, while choosing dialogue over dismissal
and understanding over outrage. I’m learning that conviction does not require
coercion, and respect does not require agreement.
Closing Reflection
I don’t believe that respect requires agreement, but I do
believe it requires honesty. My own view is that no one can redefine what a
woman is without doing real harm, even when the intentions are framed as
compassionate or progressive.
What I cannot ignore is this: why is there such fierce
controversy over what a woman is, while there is no equivalent debate about
what a man is?
If equality is truly our goal, why does womanhood alone seem
so open to revision?
