A gracious smile, a glistening eye, a warm 'good morning, Zoe', a mischievous grin, grace, elegance, brilliance and beauty, moderation, conviction, consensus and community—Helen Haines has been a lioness in this place but not through a roar or booming words and not by table-banging or by shouting from the sidelines. Never a sharp word nor a sledge during question time—no, not Helen. But don't mistake the quietness for indifference. Helen notices. She notices when one of us speaks from our soul. Like Gordon, our House chaplain, who I affectionately refer to as our 'grief angel', Helen never misses her moment. Speak from the heart in this place and she will appear. There will be a more poignant 'hello' in the corridor and a more directed smile. She was a midwife, after all. At the rawest moments of human emotion, Helen's has been the outstretched hand.

I wanted Helen to know the response of my community to what happened to her a week ago. People were startled, but not just that—they shuddered in pain for her. They asked me plainly how we could just keep getting up the next day and doing the same thing—not just the practice of politics but the physical fortitude of getting up and doing it all again when the worst-case scenario that sits behind online and real-world abuse has now grown so much darker. Our traditional 'suck it up' approach, all of a sudden, felt so stupid. My constituents channelled their grief for Helen into care for us. People randomly turned up at my electorate office to check that my team were okay. My phone filled with messages of care for me and for my staff.

My local Climate 200 candidate suggested we do a video together 'to bring the community together, as a sign of leadership and solidarity'. With regret, I politely declined, reminding him that the conduct and character of his team and supporters regularly made my team, my volunteers and me feel unsafe, requiring the Australian Federal Police and Victoria Police to be engaged in the 2025 campaign. We talk of hope in this place today that things will be done differently, but let us not let hope blind us to the hypocrisy of some who call for it.

Elsewhere, my community took to their keyboards to share their grief. One group, so emblematic of others, wrote to me:

On behalf of Dromana Bowls Club let me take this opportunity to offer you and your colleagues, no matter what side of the political divide they represent, our heartfelt condolences in the aftermath of the shocking recent attack on Helen Haines.

Zoe … Your compassion, interest and care for every member of my club has been unequivocal over a number of years now, and your ability to engage with those you meet has always been an outstanding quality that you possess.

I am sure that the people of Indi … along with their local clubs and organisations such as ours here on the Peninsula, would say the exact same thing about her.

The job you all perform is never easy, and as we now know, dangerous in the random cycle of violence our own society, is currently experiencing.

What happened this week is a tragedy, and not what our great country should be seen for.

No decent individual, no matter what their politics may be, nor their calling in life, should have to contend with the vile individuals who perpetuate hate while wallowing in, contributing to, and nourishing the dark, heinous underbelly of social media.

We all pray for the survival, and eventual full recovery, of your esteemed colleague Helen Haines.

I would like to add to the spirit of the words expressed by my community the words of someone who should be here beside me today and who I hope one day will be back soon, the former member for Menzies, Keith Wolahan, to whom Helen Haines is so dear through their work together on the National Anti-Corruption Commission. He reflected:

When I first heard she had been hurt, I reached for my phone to send her a message.

As I realised how serious it was, I knew she wouldn't get it.

So I scrolled back through what she had sent me over the years.

When we worked together on the NACC, she would often invite me over for tea and homemade cake from her electorate.

She would put her case, but she also genuinely listened when I disagreed.

Sometimes the invitation had no purpose other than to reunite me with a long-lost friend: "Keith—I have a chum of yours in my office, who is keen to have a cuppa—we have a substantial 'bunghole'—his term, not mine."

For Hansard, "bunghole" is army-speak for the cake issued in ration packs.

It is nowhere near as good as Helen's.

She continued to stay in touch after I lost, checking in on me and my family.

Helen listened as generously as she argued.

It was an honour to serve with her.

Get well my friend—

from all of us.