From hatred to forgiveness and social change

By Martin Flanagan
October 25, 2004
Tony Kelleher aims to help men with issues of violence change their behaviour.

Photo: Jason South

The nameplate on the outside of Tony Kelleher's small weatherboard house in the western suburbs says Butterfield. Inside, he has a 19th-century trade union certificate awarded to his grandfather, Durham coal miner William Butterfield.

The old man came to live with Kelleher's family when Tony was a boy. Stooped from years working underground, he was a gentle old man with a wry sense of humour. William Butterfield was Kelleher's first model of a non-violent man.

Kelleher's father was violent. But he previously was beaten by his stepfather. Kelleher's father was the bastard son of a British soldier and an Irish woman from rural Tipperary, who subsequently married another man and had 12 children by him.

"He (the other man) hated my father and belted the shit out of him," says Kelleher.

He describes his father as a Catholic who had the Protestant work ethic, an electrician who was never out of work. He was also a socialist "who left his socialism at the front door".

He describes the violence he witnessed as a child in a frank but neutral way. Did your father punch your mother, I ask. "Oh, yes," he replies, "and kicked her and headbutted her. It's a wonder he didn't put her into intensive care."

Nonetheless, the most violent act he saw concerned his mother's tea set. It wasn't an expensive one but it had belonged to her grandmother. His father broke the entire set in front of her, piece by piece.

Kelleher describes his mother as his best friend. From the age of five he tried to defend her, as did his younger brother, and they were beaten for their efforts. He admits he hated his father.

Alf helped him. Alf was the tradesman at the place in London where he did his toolmaking apprenticeship. "He was a good teacher. I was a toolmaker for 10 years and I've still got all my fingers."

Alf was small and rotund with gout. "I don't remember him ever talking about having a partner. I had the sense his trade, his craft, was his life." One day he found himself telling Alf about his father. "He didn't say anything. He just listened." At the end, Alf gave the 16-year-old his handkerchief to dry his tears.

I came to realise that my dad was flawed and that he was a product of his upbringing."
Tony Kelleher

He ended his apprenticeship amid the ferment of the '60s. He became political, wanting to create social change, and was attracted to social work. He saw his father change. What happened? He realised his best friend wasn't at the pub or at the bookies. She was at home. He realised he loved her and always had. Did he apologise? "Yes," he says. "I was present." His mother died Christmas Day 1973. His father went downhill and died 18 months later.

I ask him about his feelings towards his father at the time of his death. "Neutral. I came to realise that my dad was flawed and that he was a product of his upbringing," he says.

When I ask him what advice he would give to a woman in a parallel situation to his mother's, he says: "Never lose sight of your individual importance." He says that his mother had to cop the treatment she did because she was economically dependent on her husband, that women's shelters didn't start opening until the 1970s.

In London in the early '70s, Kelleher met Jean Simpson, the daughter of a Collingwood truck driver. She worked with children with intellectual and physical disabilities. He worked with children and youth. They were together 28 years until her death from cancer at 52, and never had children because there were always children in their lives. He admires the dignity of her dying. "She didn't complain. She just said these were the cards that life had dealt her."

There is a solidity about Tony Kelleher. When I ask him where that comes from, he says: "My mother. She endured."

He went to university when he was 49 to qualify as a community development worker and now runs men's behaviour-change groups. He has the remains of a London accent and knows the value of using words economically.

I suspect he's good at what he does. He is one of those people who can acknowledge violence, its awful depths, without creating violent images in his listeners' mind.

He says he aims to create an environment in which men are free to express their true feelings. Tony Kelleher says changing men is his way of creating social change.

Men seeking help can contact the Men's Referral Service 9428 2899 and 1800 065 973.

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