90 years ago, Yorta Yorta leader William Cooper petitioned the king for Aboriginal representation in parliament

Cooper walking on Nicholson Street Footscray. Obtained with permission. Esmay Mann Collection.

Bain Munro Attwood, Monash University

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are advised this article contains names and images of deceased people.

Ninety years ago, Yorta Yorta leader William Cooper dreamed of Aboriginal people being represented in the Commonwealth parliament. In August 1933, he set about petitioning the British king, George V. The key demand was for:

a member of parliament, of our own blood or white men known to have studied our needs and to be in sympathy with our race, to represent us in the Federal Parliament.

As the referendum for a First Nations Voice to parliament draws near, it’s worth looking back on this important part of Australia’s history.

‘Thinking Black’

What Cooper was asking for was a means by which Australia’s lawmakers could be informed of the views of Aboriginal people. He believed this fundamentally important to his people’s wellbeing, because he knew those who governed their lives acted without any consideration of their views.

He also knew those views differed from the ones held by white Australians. This was because, he asserted, only Aboriginal people could “think Black”.

“You may read the views […] of sympathetic white men. But they are not our views”, Cooper told a white journalist in September 1937. “We are the sufferers; the white men are the aggressors.”

Blackfellas, Cooper was saying, had different views to whitefellas because of their historical experience of dispossession, death, decimation, displacement, deprivation and discrimination.

This was a matter of what Cooper once called “racial memory”. It was something “in the blood […] which recalls the terrible things done to them in years gone by”.

A ‘moral duty’

Petitions tend to be couched in deferential terms – Cooper characterised the plea in his petition as “humble”, sought to “respectfully sheweth” the matters it presented, and “humbly pray[ed]” the king would intervene.

But they usually suggest a government has an obligation to respond – Cooper argued the British Crown had a “moral duty” to do so because he believed it had issued a commission in 1788 stating “the [country’s] original inhabitants and their heirs and successors should be adequately cared for”.

Petitioners also tend to assume there is a higher form of authority than a local one to whom they can appeal. British responsibility for Australian affairs had ceased with the founding of the Australian nation in 1901. Despite this, Cooper believed the British monarch continued to have a special right to intervene in those affairs, and that Aboriginal people had a right of appeal to him or her on the grounds they had reserved certain powers in this respect.

Getting signatures for what Cooper called “this great work” was very difficult, not least because he had limited means.

Several frustrating months passed before government authorities reluctantly agreed to grant him permission to circulate his petition among Aboriginal people who lived under so-called Protection Acts. But Cooper was tenacious. He believed it was the duty of every Aboriginal man and woman in the country to sign and hoped to get the signatures of all of them or at least those living on missions and reserves.

Dismissed but not deterred

By 1935, the petition was ready to be submitted. But Cooper decided to hold it back in the hope a major meeting of all the administrators of Aboriginal affairs would see the federal government adopt its recommendation of a new policy to “uplift” his people. Yet this came to nothing.

“We did look to this [meeting] as marking an epoch in our history”, Cooper told a federal minister.

“We have got nothing definite except the refusal of our claim for representation in the federal parliament”, he exclaimed; “no result but … 80,000 aborigines [sic] in Australia […] refused one representative in parliament. Yet in New Zealand the same number of natives have four members and one minister for Native Affairs”.

Soon after, Cooper sent the petition to Prime Minister Joseph Lyons and asked him to forward it to the king. Lyon sought the advice of the relevant government department.

The permanent head of the department of the interior was dismissive of Cooper’s plea for parliamentary representation. Lyon was more sympathetic, something a well-informed political observer attributed to the fact he remembered the wholesale slaughter of Aboriginal people in his own state, Tasmania.

Lyon called for legal advice and directed his office to tell Cooper he had “the fullest sympathy” with Cooper’s wish that the interests of the Aboriginal people be “adequately safeguarded”.

In the end, Lyons’ cabinet accepted a recommendation from the department of the interior that no action be taken. This was on the grounds its own minister could represent Aboriginal people and there was nothing to be gained from forwarding the petition to King George VI (who, by then, had succeeded King George V). With that, it seems the petition roll was consigned to a dust bin.

Yet Cooper never gave hope. In 1939 and 1940, he repeatedly asked Prime Minister Robert Menzies to grant his plea.

He died shortly afterwards, but his dream of parliamentary representation for his people did not, living on in the hearts and minds of another generation of Aboriginal campaigners.

Bain Munro Attwood, Professor of History, Monash University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Farewell to 2021 in federal politics, the year of living in disappointment (from The Conversation)

Wes Mountain/The Conversation, CC BY-ND

Frank Bongiorno, Australian National University

Some will recall it as 2021. For more, it will be Year 2 of COVID. Either way, it will have been a time of disappointment for many. And the nation’s politicians need to bear a large share of the responsibility for that feeling.

It’s easy to imagine a different scenario. As 2020 ended, there were disappointments, too, with parts of Sydney in lockdown. But most imagined that, with vaccines on the way, our future would be brighter.

While there had been a tragic second wave of infections in Victoria that reflected poorly on its Labor government, the country’s decision-makers had taken advantage of Australia being an island nation, imposed external and internal border controls, and established an effective tracing system.

There had been some failures, and several hundred fatalities, and many Australians abroad were treated harshly. But governments succeeded in their primary duty of preserving our safety, and they seemed to have done well in propping up the economy in tough circumstances.

By the end of 2020, mistakes had been made – particularly in Victoria – but by and large governments had protected Australians from the worst of the pandemic. James Ross/AAP

What an opportunity this scenario offered!

An efficient vaccination program delivered rapidly in the first half of 2021, targeting vulnerable groups first, then extending quickly to the rest, would have provided substantial protection from COVID’s Delta strain when it arrived. The construction of quarantine facilities could have allowed the safe return of Australians stranded overseas.

Instead, the federal government mismanaged vaccine procurement, muddled its messaging, did nothing much about quarantine and stuffed up the “rollout” – both of Australia’s national dictionaries embraced “strollout” as their Word of the Year.

Millions unnecessarily spent much of 2021 locked down. Some paid with their lives, and others with their health, jobs and businesses. The economy has suffered another multi-billion-dollar shock.

It would be easy to blame the Morrison government. After all, its indolence and squalor became increasingly plain during 2021.

But there is something more alarming at the heart of these failures: a basic frailty in national government. So energetic when chasing down “welfare cheats” and in persecuting whistleblowers, Australia’s federal government is just no longer very good at the hands-on delivery of anything of serious complexity.

The JobKeeper scheme acclaimed as a national saviour in 2020 was revealed this year as an efficient scheme whereby the already filthy rich could become even filthier and richer.

Unleashed in haste, it lacked basic mechanisms for checking whether those claiming its benefits had actually suffered their anticipated losses. The result has been an unprecedented looting of the country’s treasury, all within the law.

Hailed in 2020 as a national saviour, JobKeeper was soon revealed to be a way for the already rich to become even richer. Mick Tsikas/AAP

JobKeeper contributed to a larger narrative that has gathered a hold: that the Morrison government lacks honesty and integrity. Its resistance to creating a proper anti-corruption commission is widely seen as prima facie evidence of its own fear of what one would find.

Scott Morrison instead raises the furphy of ICAC’s treatment of the former New South Wales premier, Gladys Berejiklian, as an objection to a federal body on anything like that model.

Australian conservatives and some on the Labor side, too, have long resolutely opposed the concept of a bill of rights, yet now we find just one right being elevated above others – religious freedom – which in the hands of the government amounts to an enhanced right to discriminate against sexual minorities.

Predictably, its effort has done little more than draw adverse attention to the expansive right that already exists to do just that in the Sex Discrimination Act, the result of lobbying of the Hawke Labor government by the churches.

The Morrison government is certainly interested in accountability, but not in the accountability of politicians to voters. Its preferred version is the accountability of the people to their political masters. So, far from protecting whistleblowers against government illegality and wrongdoing, it prosecutes them with vigour. It sought to impose US Republican-inspired voter ID laws to deal with a problem that only it seems to believe exists.

And it wants to make it easier for politicians to sue members of the public who say objectionable things about them on social media.

The same politicians who tell you that they believe resolutely in protecting women’s right to be free of sexual harassment maintain a workplace in Canberra, with its adjuncts in their electorate offices, that would disgrace the most rancid feudal regime.

Women have been harassed and even assaulted with impunity. Ministers have slept with staffers. Staffers have filmed themselves masturbating on desks. There is no recourse for the victims of this regime unless, like former Liberal staffers Brittany Higgins and Rachelle Miller, they go to the media.

Women have been treated disgracefully within Parliament House. This year some brave women, such as Brittany Higgins, called it out. Lukas Coch/AAP

The reckoning in these matters has arrived, but the prime minister repeatedly displayed his inability to understand what is at stake. On one occasion, he began a media conference expressing his sympathies with the plight of women but ended up issuing a thinly veiled threat to the female journalist most prominent in reporting of the issue.

Which brings us to Morrison himself.

The idea that he routinely lies now clings to him like a politician to a freebie. The extraordinary attack on him by French President Emmanuel Macron, over the mismanagement of the submarine contract and the AUKUS agreement, confirmed a sense of Morrison as a small-time Sydney politician morally and intellectually out of his depth, and lacking in the necessary gravitas or judgment to deal with complex international affairs and major world leaders.

It seemed odd, at the beginning of 2021, that we still didn’t have a single book about him. Was he too uninteresting to bother?

Now we have several, but the turn in Morrison’s fortunes was so rapid that it defeated the efforts of authors to keep up. When Wayne Errington and Peter Van Onselen’s How Good is Scott Morrison? went off to the printers, the authors were convinced he was a shoo-in for the next election. By the time it appeared in the bookshops, the edited extract that appeared in The Australian suggested they were rather less sure.

The year saw a remarkable leeching of Morrison’s standing and authority, not least in relation to state and territory leaders.

But they too had their problems: Berejiklian lost her job when ICAC announced it had launched an investigation into her conduct. Daniel Andrews in Victoria suffered a serious back injury at the beginning of the year and faced large “freedom” protesters waving the Eureka Flag at the end of it. Mark McGowan seems a little less shiny than a year ago, as Western Australia’s severe border restrictions extend into 2022.

And we have a federal election to come.

Labor leader Anthony Albanese, having kept his powder dry for years, is beginning to drip-release policies, seeking just enough distance over issues such as climate policy for product differentiation without frightening the horses. He seems to wish to slip quietly into office rather as numerous Labor state and territory opposition leaders have done over the past 25 years.

Labor’s Anthony Albanese: hoping to slip quietly into office? Dean Lewins/AAP

Morrison is now transformed from goofy Scomo into biblical Moses, leading his people out of the COVID desert into the Promised Land of “Freedom”.

But he still must try keeping the increasingly wild right flank of his Coalition government solid while attending to the threat that independent and Labor candidates pose to metropolitan Liberal seats.

His government ended the year by losing two ministers to scandals, with another announcing his retirement at the next election. Morrison’s grip on the Coalition party room was now so loose that it called into question his grip on the House of Representatives itself.

The election result seems less certain than in the months before the 2019 election when it was all rather obvious that Labor and Bill Shorten were heading for a famous victory.

Readers will understand if I refrain from offering a prediction.

Frank Bongiorno, Professor of History, ANU College of Arts and Social Sciences, Australian National University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Friday essay: creation, destruction and appropriation – the powerful symbolism of the Rainbow Serpent (from The Conversation)

A mural of the Rainbow Serpent in the NSW town of Bourke, pictured in 2015. Mick Tsikas/AAP

Shino Konishi, Australian Catholic University

Prior to colonisation there were approximately 250 different Aboriginal languages spoken by some 500 clans throughout Australia. Each clan possessed numerous Dreaming stories, depicting how the land was traversed and marked by the Ancestral Beings, who created land-forms, people, animals, plants and celestial stars.

Their experiences, and often the consequences of their actions, formed the basis for Aboriginal kinship systems, laws, ways of caring for Country and connecting to land.

These ancestors are not relegated to the past, for their presence is still felt at sacred sites, and they are still responsible for providing the resources that sustain the clan. Some Aboriginal people maintain their connection to these powerful beings by continuing to perform the songs and dances they gave them, and marking their bodies and objects with their sacred designs.

Thus Aboriginal cultures are necessarily rich with symbolism. Towards the end of the 20th century, Aboriginal culture was increasingly being called upon to provide a symbol of nation – representing Australia as a whole – by groups of non-Indigenous Australians who believed it offered a depth and richness of symbolic meaning that more conventional symbols had lost (or perhaps had never had).

Rainbow Serpent mural created by teacher Jenny Noble and the children of Rosebank School, New South Wales, 2000. Rosebank Public School

The most widely known Ancestral Being is the Rainbow Serpent, or Rainbow Snake, the English names for the figure that appears in the Dreamings of many different Aboriginal language groups across the continent.

It features as an important creator figure, guardian of sacred places, bringer of monsoonal rains and storms, bestower of powers upon healers and rainmakers, or a dangerous creature that punishes people who violate laws, or dwells in waterholes threatening to swallow unwary passers-by, to name just a few incarnations.

It is also strongly connected with fertility, both human and ecological. In all of its guises and geographies the Rainbow Serpent is associated with water, an essential resource, and the rainbow, whose shimmering light and curved form reflects the scales and body of the snake. The rainbow is also an important bridge between the water and the sky, the sky yet another resting place for the Rainbow Serpent.

The Rainbow Serpent is associated with water and the rainbow. shutterstock

Just one of the many Rainbow Serpents who travelled the land is Yingarna, whose story is told by Kunwinjku-speaking people from western Arnhem Land. In one of many stories she was said to be the first Rainbow Serpent, and all of creation burst from her body. The Kunwinjku also possess Dreaming stories about Yingarna’s child, Ngalyod, who is associated with the “potentially destructive power of the storms and the plenty of the wet seasons”.

The immense power that Yingarna and Ngalyod have is both creative and destructive: these Rainbow Serpents are not simply benevolent symbols of unity, but can also be threatening, so their resting places should be avoided. This menacing aspect has been symbolised in Dick Nguleingulei Murrumurru’s painting from the National Museum of Australia’s collection, which depicts Yingarna with terrible crocodile’s teeth and tail, and a round, emu-like body capable of holding all she has swallowed.

The idea of the Rainbow Serpent as a composite of many other animals and even plants appeared elsewhere; western Arnhem Land rock paintings portray Rainbow Serpents with the head of a kangaroo, body of a snake, tail of a barramundi, and yam-shaped protrusions from the body. The oldest of these rock paintings have been dated to 6000 years, supporting the argument that Rainbow Serpent stories are among the world’s oldest continuous religious traditions.

This makes it especially useful as a national symbol, claiming for modern Australia both universality and longevity.

Read more: ‘Dreamtime’ and ‘The Dreaming’: who dreamed up these terms?

For Aboriginal people the Rainbow Serpent is not relegated to the past and time of creation, but remains an awesome source of power that shapes the contemporary world. When Cyclone Tracy devastated the city of Darwin in 1974, local Aboriginal people interpreted it as a “warning to stop neglecting their traditional law and associated rituals”, and succumbing to the temptations of “lawless” city life.

Attaching meaning

Non-Indigenous Australians have known stories about other Rainbow Serpents since colonial times. Francis Armstrong, the first government interpreter of the Swan River Colony (now Perth), recorded an account of the Waugal (also spelled Wagyl), a Noongar Rainbow Serpent, in 1836, seven years after the establishment of the settlement. He observed that there were

certain large round stones, in different parts of the Colony, which they [Noongar people] believe to be the eggs laid by the waugal … On passing such stones, they are in the habit of making a bed for it, of the rushes of the blackboy [balga, grass tree or Xanthorrhoea preissii].

This was because, according to Noongar elder Clarrie Isaacs, the Waugal had created the Swan River and all its associated waterholes, and “has the power of life and death over Aborigines and demands the respect due to it”.

However, despite noticing the reverence that the Noongar paid these stones, the settlers still removed them from their place, indicating that they accorded them no significance.

This instance suggests the difficulty of translating the symbolic significance of an object and story across cultures, especially when there is such disparity in power relations. But in addition it reveals the way the very land contained symbolic meaning for Indigenous people, whereas for the increasingly utilitarian colonisers the land was reduced to little more than an economic resource.

The Rainbow Serpent, then, means different things for Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. Armstrong’s example demonstrates that in the early period it was considered a mere curiosity and disregarded, for the colonists were busy transforming and re-purposing the land.

Conflicting attitudes about the Waugal arose again in the 1980s when the state government wanted to redevelop the site of the Old Swan Brewery, also known as Goonininup, a resting place of the Rainbow Serpent.

Perth’s Old Swan Brewery is a resting place of the Rainbow Serpent. Harry and Rowena Kennedy/flickr, CC BY-NC

Again, a century and a half later, few non-Indigenous Western Australians sympathised with Noongar protests, and received the idea of the Waugal with great scepticism. Isaacs attempted to find equivalences in European systems of belief:

They say because when they drive past the site that because they cannot see some sort of ridiculous fire breathing dragon-like creature poking its Loch Ness Monster-like head from the waters that it does not exist. It is as ridiculous as myself making an assertion that God is actually a large white man sitting on a throne atop some puffy clouds.

But the developers ignored inconvenient arguments about religious symbolism, preferring a more self-interestedly rational interpretation which, according to cultural studies scholar John Fielder, demonstrates the imperial nature of Western rationality, where our logic renders all other logics as essentially illogical, irrational – not to be thought of as logic at all.

The Noongar saw the Waugal as a “spiritual being”, while their opponents saw the Waugal as “some wildly primitive superstition” and the Noongar themselves as troublemakers.


However, non-Indigenous Australians have attached a range of other meanings to the Rainbow Serpent, for the most part far from hostile. This is partly due to the influence of anthropologists who, in the early 20th century, became interested in what they called “myth”.

Anthropologist AR Radcliffe-Brown compiled a survey of stories from different Aboriginal language groups across Australia, and concluded that the Rainbow Serpent occupied “the position of a deity”. Despite noticing many differences in these stories, Radcliffe-Brown assumed that there was just a single Rainbow Serpent, and that it was akin to a god, “the most important nature-deity”. It was a view that greatly influenced non-Indigenous Australian understandings.

Taken out of the particular contexts of each language group’s Dreamings, the Rainbow Serpent has been stripped of its numerous ambivalent symbolisms and iconographic forms, and frequently reduced to a singular entity – a benevolent mother/creator-figure in the form of a brightly coloured snake.

Read more: Indigenous cultural appropriation: what not to do

Perhaps this is in part due to the snake’s particular morphology; it is easy to imagine its enormous sinuous body carving out the rivers and creeks in the ancient “Dreamtime” (as it used to be described), whereas the meaning of the multiple symbolisms and composite form of Yingarna, Ngalyod and other Rainbow Serpents discussed by Aboriginal clans eludes outsiders.

It could be argued that this new rendering as a benevolent snake is a process of intellectual colonisation, for the settlers have domesticated the Rainbow Serpent, making it comprehensible and palatable to Western ideas. It was a case of non-Indigenous Australia connecting to Aboriginality only on a disembodied and superficial aesthetic level rather than at a level of deep understanding.

In the 1970s, celebrated Australian artist Sidney Nolan painted two large murals depicting Rainbow Serpents. Snake, a 45-metre long mosaic was said to be Nolan’s “homage to Australia’s Aborigines”.

Snake by Australian artist Sidney Nolan, at the Museum of Old and New Art, in Hobart, Tasmania. Wikimedia Commons

The second work, Little Snake was inspired by the sight of the Central Australian desert blooming after years of drought. Nolan used the Rainbow Serpent to represent “the magical power of water that brings life from a state of stasis”.

It is this “domesticated” image of the giant brightly coloured snake with which Australians are probably most familiar, and which would prove most suitable for representing the Australian nation as a whole.

A commonplace symbol

Since then, images of Rainbow Serpents have slithered across school walls and community murals in suburbs and towns throughout the nation, at least those with large Indigenous or left-leaning populations.

The education system has taken the Rainbow Serpent to its widest audience. For many young Australians the Rainbow Serpent has been packaged as an Indigenous fairytale. From the 1970s, Australian children have read illustrated books depicting the life and adventures of the Rainbow Serpent.

The Rainbow Serpent features in many children’s books. goodreads

By the 1990s, children could paint their own Rainbow Serpent designs during NAIDOC Week, Harmony Day, or other events celebrating Australia’s multiculturalism. For adult Australians, the Rainbow Serpent has a number of other connotations. Tourists have been able to buy prints, T-shirts, books and jewellery or even underpants decorated with the great snake’s sinuous form, as an exotic souvenir of Australia.

Walkers and leisure-seekers can photograph, sit on or picnic by large public sculptures of the snake in public spaces, where it was intended to acknowledge and commemorate Aboriginal people. And since 1997 New Agers, ravers and ecotourists can come from “across the globe to dance a common dream” at the annual Rainbow Serpent Festival in Lexton, central Victoria, to camp and dance, but also learn from local Dja Dja Wurrung and Wadawurrung peoples and other Indigenous people from the Pacific and north America.

The New Age market has been one of the most avid consumers of the Rainbow Serpent symbol, reading in it positive messages about the earth and people’s spiritual relationship with it. Anthropologist Sallie Anderson has noticed that:

The authors of many New Age books on Aboriginal culture and spirituality pick and choose characteristics from ethnographic descriptions of various rainbow serpent myths that seemingly support their comparisons with the Kundalini, electromagnetism, Vishnu, fertility and death, vibration and energy sources and various other themes.

The Rainbow Serpent Festival, 2019. Raimbow Tomcat, Wikimedia Commons

The Rainbow Serpent’s winding form and brilliant colours have become a commonplace symbol within Australian pedagogical, cultural, economic and built environments.

This widespread familiarity with the image, and the apparent tangibility of the concept in its domesticated and aestheticised form, has led to it being understood as a preeminent symbol of Aboriginal identity, especially apparent in public events celebrating the centenary of Federation.

The turn of the century saw a groundswell of interest in Aboriginal people and their place in Australia. The first year of the new millennium was supposed to mark the end of the ten-year journey towards reconciliation between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australia.

In June 2000, hundreds of thousands had participated in the Walk for Reconciliation and in September Australians cheered for Indigenous athlete Cathy Freeman at the Sydney Olympics. These milestones meant that a feelgood emblem of the newly reconciled nation was needed for 2001, when Australia’s national identity was celebrated in the centenary of Federation. The Rainbow Serpent was called into service.

Fireworks at the Sydney Opera House in 2001: the two symbols on the bridge are the Rainbow Serpent and the Star of Federation. Russell McPhedran/AAP

On 1 January 2001 the Journey of a Nation – Centenary of Federation parade through the streets of Sydney included a float shaped like a huge coiled snake, with dancers wearing costumes decorated with Rainbow Serpents designed by Bundjalung artist Bronwyn Bancroft.

Then, at Canberra’s 2001 Floriade festival, the Rainbow Serpent again appeared, this time in the “Century in bloom” display. On this “floral walk through the decades”, viewers passed through plantings of humble vegetables representing the hardships of the Depression and beds of flowers planted in the shapes of the German Iron Cross and the Japanese Rising Sun, indicating World War II.

The 1970s were represented by a display of tulips and native flora planted in the design of the Rainbow Serpent, ostensibly symbolising “Australia’s Aboriginal heritage”. These examples suggest that the Rainbow Serpent was used by the event organisers as a metonym for Aboriginality, so audiences could embrace Aboriginal peoples’ place within Australia’s national identity.

However, the Rainbow Serpent was also used to symbolise Australia as a whole, and not just its Indigenous peoples. In Sydney’s annual New Year’s Eve fireworks display, the grand finale is always the lighting of the mystery symbol that adorns the eastern side of the city’s beloved Harbour Bridge. In 2001 that symbol was the Rainbow Serpent, depicted alongside the Federation Star. The maxim of that year’s show was “100 years as a nation, thousands of years as a land”.

Thus the Rainbow Serpent was used to give modern Australia an ancient past, and, in conjunction with the star, was appropriated to represent Australia.

The use of the Rainbow Serpent was no doubt well intentioned, but this plainly benevolent and amorphous meaning was far removed from that connoted by the original, highly ambivalent Rainbow Serpents of the Dreaming.

A Rainbow Serpent mural in Sydney. Newtown graffiti/Flickr, CC BY-SA

Aboriginal people have also adopted new symbolic meanings for the Rainbow Serpents. Due to the history of colonisation and the emergence of Indigenous political organisations and media, Aboriginal societies have become more mixed and cosmopolitan, and a pan-Aboriginal identity has emerged.

Instead of identifying solely with one’s clan or language group, Aboriginal people have formed a community that encompasses the entire continent. As such, they have needed to develop their own symbols to represent this new pan-identity, and the ubiquity of the Rainbow Serpent in both Indigenous and non-Indigenous societies makes it well placed to act as “a symbol of unity … amongst urban Aborigines”.

The image of the Rainbow Serpent has been used in a number of ways. The Rainbow Serpent has provided a logo for Aboriginal corporations such as the Northern Land Council. Victoria’s Rumbalara Oral Health Centre depicted the Rainbow Serpent as dental floss, “twisting through an orange tangled web, which represents plaque on teeth”.

For the Aboriginal community of Moree, it was a symbol of unity when they constructed a 17-metre long Rainbow Serpent for the Black + White + Pink Reconciliation Float, entered in the 1999 Mardi Gras parade.

Chinese Vice President Xi Jinping (left) is presented with a bark painting of the Rainbow Serpent by Gagadju Aboriginal elder Alfred Nayinggul (centre) and Michael Bangalang (2nd right) during a visit to Kakadu National Park in 2010. David Hancock/AAP

Inscribing new meaning

The Rainbow Serpent has been an important symbol in Aboriginal societies for thousands of years, and by the start of the 21st century it was also a recognised symbol for the wider Australian society. In making that transition it lost its particular “traditional” meanings of creation, water and fertility, and its ambiguous combination of creative and destructive forces.

Although it has not featured much on the national stage as a symbol since the Federation centenary in 2001, it remains a potent symbol of local Aboriginal community spirit and reconciliation. For example, Bundjalung artist John Robinson’s Rainbow Serpent artwork was installed at a shopping centre in East Maitland, New South Wales to celebrate 2018’s Reconciliation Week.

In 2019 a Rainbow Serpent water feature designed by a collective of Kamilaroi women artists was commissioned for the Gunnedah Civic Centre, and the Perth Royal Show showcased a public performance by Noongar elder Walter McGuire, featuring a “35m long Wagyl inflatable creation … illuminated by the colours of the rainbow”.

It is evident then, that the supple skin of the Rainbow Serpent continues to provide an ideal canvas for inscribing new meanings and symbolisms for both Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians.

This is an edited extract from Symbols of Australia: Imagining a Nation, edited by Melissa Harper and Richard White, published by NewSouth Books. Footnotes for this article can be found in the book.

Shino Konishi, Associate professor, Australian Catholic University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The last squawk? Alan Jones finally seems to have nowhere to go (from The Conversation)

AAP/Dan Himbrechts

Denis Muller, The University of Melbourne

So the Parrot, as H. G. Nelson called him, has been pushed off his perch, Sky News having refused to renew his contract.

Over 36 years, Alan Jones became one of the most powerful, divisive and socially destructive voices the Australian media has ever produced.

At the same time, in rating terms, he became a phenomenon. In April 2020, he achieved his 226th ratings win in the Sydney breakfast time slot, a performance that has never been equalled and probably never will be.

It was an accomplishment built on three foundations. He was articulate in the red-blooded language of conservative outrage that his listeners felt but could not put into words. He had an unerring instinct for the issues that would inflame them, and he persuaded them that he was their champion in the corridors of power.

His broadcasting career began in 1985 when he joined Radio 2UE in Sydney as its mornings host. He moved to the breakfast shift in 1988 and soon took it to number one.

In 2001, he moved from 2UE to 2GB, taking a large slice of his audience with him and making that station number one in the Sydney breakfast market, a position it has recently regained after slipping briefly when Jones left in May 2020. For a long time, he was politically untouchable.

In 1999, he was caught up in what became known as the cash-for-comment scandal. His evidence to the ensuing Australian Broadcasting Authority inquiry was dismissed by the counsel assisting, Julian Burnside, QC, as defying belief.

Read more: The times suited him, then passed him by: the Alan Jones radio era comes to an end

In 2000, the inquiry made adverse findings against him.

Politically, he remained untouched. Within a few weeks, he was hosting an event for John Howard, who was then prime minister, and in 2001, he was dining with the Labor premier of New South Wales, Bob Carr, to discuss government policy.

The following week, Carr dispatched his police minister-designate, Michael Costa, to Jones’ home to discuss law-and-order policy.

For his part, Howard used Jones’ program to reach that audience segment known as “Howard’s battlers”, occupants of what Jones called Struggle Street, of which Sydney’s western suburbs have a plentiful number and where Jones rated strongly.

To the extent he was able to put the issues of this audience directly to the likes of Howard and Carr, Jones was indeed a voice for the otherwise voiceless in the corridors of power. Whether this had any effect on voting intentions is another question.

Author and social researcher Rebecca Huntley has written that after 15 years of research, she had not found Jones to be any more influential with voters than ABC Radio or The Sydney Morning Herald. She concluded:

For a long time at 2GB, he was commercially untouchable, too.

In 2007, he was found by the Australian Communications and Media Authority to have breached the radio code of practice by inciting violence against people of Middle Eastern ethnicity in a series of incendiary broadcasts leading up to the race riots at Cronulla Beach in 2005.

The ACMA characteristically decided it was sufficient to enter into a “dialogue” with 2GB.

In 2012, he said Julia Gillard, who was then prime minister, should be put in a chaff bag, taken out to sea and dumped. At about the same time, he made a speech to the Sydney University Liberal Club in which he said Gillard’s recently deceased father had “died of shame” at the lies his daughter told.

In the aftermath of this, social media pressure on big advertisers such as Harvey Norman, Big W and Mercedes-Benz was so intense that Jones’ employer, Macquarie Radio, suspended all advertising on the show to take the pressure off them.

In 2019, Jones told Scott Morrison, who had by then become known as the “2GB prime minister”, to shove a sock down the throat of New Zealand’s prime minister, Jacinda Ardern. Jones was outraged Ardern had said Australia would have to answer to the nations of the Pacific on climate change. https://www.youtube.com/embed/hsaVpepMyA8?wmode=transparent&start=0

This time, advertisers boycotted the Jones show in droves, costing 2GB an estimated 50% of the show’s revenue.

Macquarie Radio was getting sick of him. In addition to these advertising losses, in 2018, he had cost the network $3.75 million in a defamation action brought against it by four brothers whom Jones had wrongly accused of causing the deaths of people in Grantham, near Toowoomba, during the Queensland floods of 2011.

In May 2020, he retired from 2GB, but was snapped up Sky News amid great fanfare for a personal nightly spot at 8pm.

His ratings were poor. He routinely came fourth behind other Sky-at-Night luminaries such as Andrew Bolt, Paul Murray and Peta Credlin.

The COVID-19 disinformation he routinely spread on the program was a factor in Sky’s being suspended by YouTube for seven days in early August.

Shortly before that, Sydney’s Daily Telegraph had dropped his column, which he had also used to spread COVID disinformation.

Whatever his talents, and however impressive his record, he has been a canker on Australian democracy.

Finally he seems to have run out of platforms, not because of the harm he has done to the social fabric but because he is no longer rating well and bringing in big advertising dollars.

That is the way it was always going to end.

Correction: this article originally said the ACMA ruling was in 2005. In fact, in was in 2007.

Denis Muller, Senior Research Fellow, Centre for Advancing Journalism, The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Land, culture, livelihood: what Indigenous people stand to lose from climate ‘solutions’ (from The Conversation)


Robert Hales, Griffith University; Rowan Foley, Indigenous Knowledge; Tim Cadman, Griffith University, and Toni Hay, Indigenous Knowledge

In the first major deal of the Glasgow climate summit, more than 100 nations have pledged to end, and reverse, deforestation by 2030. As the declaration states, forests store vast amounts of carbon dioxide and are essential to stop global warming beyond 1.5℃ this century.

This new pledge is an example of so-called “nature-based solutions” – using ecosystem restoration and protection, better forest management and forest plantations to tackle climate change. Research suggests, if done appropriately, they could provide 30–40% of the CO₂ reductions required by 2030.

But these approaches should not take away from the need to stop burning fossil fuels. There’s also a glaring omission in the new declaration: no mention of the need for Indigenous people to give our/their prior informed consent, or be the decision makers on our/their own land.

This is significant, because some nature-based solutions can negatively affect Indigenous people around the world. For this reason, more than 250 organisations, networks and movements have signed a new statement against nature-based solutions, calling them nature-based “dispossessions”, and a scam.

Indigenous people should have a seat at the table in Glasgow, and a voice in decisions about our/their lands. The best pathway forward for Indigenous people is to manage carbon projects themselves. This is true self determination.

Disrupting livelihood and culture

Indigenous people manage or have tenure rights over at least 38 million square kilometres in 87 countries on all inhabited continents. This represents over a quarter of the world’s land surface, intersecting about 40% of all land-based protected areas and ecologically intact landscapes.

And yet, disadvantage is still widespread. International carbon policies such as nature-based climate schemes continue to contribute to a variety of poverties.

girl carries buckets of water from stream
The rights of Indigenous people to their land should be respected. EPA

Examples abound. Take, for instance, the REDD+ program which operates under the auspices of the United Nations. It aims to reduce emissions from deforestation and forest degradation, such as through sustainable management of forests to increase carbon stocks.

A review in 2018 revealed how REDD+ projects disrupted local peoples’ livelihoods and culture in various ways. The more serious impacts included:

  • creating food insecurity by reducing the availability of agricultural land
  • loss of land through shifts in land tenure and forest management to outside corporations
  • unfair consent processes which do not include all people affected by projects
  • the clearing of forest to make way for monoculture plantations with higher carbon storage
  • limited formal frameworks to maintain local livelihoods and biodiversity.

Read more: ‘The pigs can smell man’: how decimation of Borneo’s ancient rainforests threatens hunters and the hunted

woman carries slender logs
Nature-based climate schemes often fail to take the views of Indigenous people into account. EPA

Indigenous people must benefit

Less than 1% of climate finance from developed nations supports Indigenous and local community tenure security and forest management.

But research suggests securing the rights of Indigenous People to our/their homelands would help conserve more carbon in the territories under our/their control. Land managed by Indigenous people tends to have lower rates of deforestation and store more carbon than lands managed or owned by non-Indigenous People.

Under a best-case scenario, First Nations ownership of land would be recognised under law. Projects should be designed to acknowledge Indigenous participation and priorities. And the practices should draw on western science and Indigenous science and knowledge.

And when nature-based solutions are proposed, land tenure issues need to be resolved, and Indigenous rights need to be respected. These are the preconditions that lead to benefits for both Indigenous people and the climate.

The Aboriginal Carbon Foundation in Australia is an excellent example of such a scheme. It involves savanna fire management projects in northern Australia to reduce the frequency and extent of late dry season fires. This results in fewer greenhouse-gas emissions and more carbon stored in dead organic matter.

Core benefits are developed by Traditional Owners and later verified. They include:

  • improved social ties as community members work together on projects using a peer-to-peer framework
  • elders sharing traditional ecological knowledge with young people
  • Indigenous-led land management that protects the environment, rock art and sacred sites
  • meaningful employment that aligns with the interests and values of Traditional Owners
  • increased pride and self-esteem of Indigenous people.

Read more: Indigenous expertise is reducing bushfires in northern Australia. It’s time to consider similar approaches for other disasters

ring of fire surrounds tree
Savanna fire management projects in northern Australia reduce dry season fires. Shutterstock

The real culprit

Indigenous people are not just vulnerable to the effects of climate change solutions, they can also be disproportionately affected by climate change itself. Traditional Owners often live on lands directly affected by climate change and can also lack the social and economic infrastructure to ensure resilience to respond to these changes.

This underscores why Indigenous people should be at the centre of decision-making about climate change and solutions to address it.

Recognition of this need is slowly growing. But more needs to be done – including enshrining the rights of Indigenous people in Paris Agreement rules governing carbon trading.

Read more: Why UNESCO’s ‘nature based solutions’ to water problems won’t work in Africa

man in traditional Brazilian head-dress
securing the rights of Indigenous People to their homelands would help conserve more carbon in the territories under their control. EPA

What’s more, the high cost of global travel and accommodation and restrictions during the COVID-19 pandemic hinders the attendance of First Nations leaders at international talks.

A Local Communities and Indigenous Peoples Platform was formalised at COP21 in Paris. But it remains to be seen whether this will influence negotiations at COP26.

Finally, while nature-based solutions have the potential to be an important response to reducing human-caused emissions, they are fraught with danger. The real culpability for climate change lies with nations and regions that burn large amounts of fossil fuels.

First Nations people should not be forced to carry the burden of climate action. Instead, world leaders must prioritise reducing CO₂ emissions at their source.

At the same time, they must recognise the rights and interests of Indigenous people and guarantee climate solutions are determined by Traditional Owners on our/their land.

Robert Hales, Director Centre for Sustainable Enterprise, Griffith University; Rowan Foley, CEO of Aboriginal Carbon Foundation, Indigenous Knowledge; Tim Cadman, Research Fellow with the Law Futures Centre and the Institute for Ethics, Governance and Law, Griffith University, and Toni Hay, Expert in Indigenous climate adaptation, Indigenous Knowledge

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Why do some people delay getting vaccinated or pretend COVID doesn’t exist? Paradoxically, denial of death (from The Conversation)

Ross G. Menzies, University of Technology Sydney and Rachel E. Menzies, University of Sydney

Vaccines save lives, and have been doing so since the development of the smallpox vaccine more than 200 years ago.

However, for vaccines to keep entire communities safe they need to be taken up by very large proportions of the population. Only then can the vaccinated offer protection to the unvaccinated, known as “herd immunity”.

Unfortunately, too often this doesn’t occur. Hesitancy around the measles vaccine, for example, contributed to a 30% increase in cases globally in 2019.

So, why does vaccine hesitancy occur? There are many reasons, and these will differ between people.

But, as clinical psychologists who study anxiety and avoidance, we think one big factor is fear – specifically the fear of death, and how we manage that fear.

Vaccination rates increasing, but fear still out there

According to the World Health Organization, vaccine hesitancy is one of the ten leading threats to global health.

In the case of COVID, refusing or delaying vaccination has been a significant problem, with anti-vax and freedom marches dominating news cycles over recent months.

In Australia, the issue of vaccine hesitancy remains significant, despite some reports to the contrary.

Vaccine rates are on track to reach 85% or even more than 90% in many parts of the country. And last month a Sydney Morning Herald survey showed only 9% of adults indicated they were unlikely to get vaccinated.

The article also claimed “vaccine fears have plunged to a record low”.

However, while the data were real, in our view, the interpretation of them was flawed.

Fear hasn’t substantially diminished. Instead, mandatory vaccination of certain groups in the community, and significant disadvantages for those who refuse to be vaccinated, is driving increases in vaccination uptake.

In several Australian states, mandatory vaccinations are in place for many professions, including quarantine workers, health workers, teachers, construction workers, aged-care workers and other groups. When you need to work to put food on the table, the decision to stay unvaccinated can become an impossible one.

What’s more, politicians have foreshadowed various freedoms for the vaccinated. For example, the freedoms currently afforded to fully vaccinated Sydneysiders, but not the unvaccinated, include: visitors to your home and access to gyms, pools, retail stores, hairdressers, nail salons, pubs, zoos, cinemas, theatres, museums and galleries.

If people weren’t vaccine hesitant, mandatory vaccinations and incentives wouldn’t be necessary. A substantial portion of the community don’t want to be vaccinated, and would choose not to be vaccinated, if it wasn’t for the strong arm of government.

Read more: Heroes help us cope with fears of dying – that’s why we love them

So why do people delay or refuse to get vaccinated?

The WHO lists complacency among the leading reasons for vaccine hesitancy.

But how can this be the case? After all, COVID has already killed nearly five million people globally and infected over 240 million. In the face of these numbers, how could anyone remain complacent? Why do we see unmasked protesters, apparently oblivious to the threat?

The psychological theory that best explains these behaviours is “terror management theory”. According to this theory, humans are unable to face the stark reality of death, and often engage in various forms of denial.

We see ourselves as grander than the animals, immune to many of their problems, and destined for immortality with our gods. As one group of researchers put it, humans

could not function with equanimity if they believed that they were not inherently more significant and enduring than apes, lizards, or lima beans.

Hundreds of studies in social psychology laboratories have shown that subtle reminders of death (known as “death primes”) lead participants to vigorously defend their religious and cultural beliefs, and their freedoms.

When reminded of death, participants even show aggression towards those with different political or religious ideologies. We cling to our “rightness” and “specialness”, to help assuage our terror of death.

In the process, we may defy the warnings of modern medicine, convinced of our own superiority. Researchers at the University of Chicago Divinity School reported half of their participants, all of whom indicated some religious affiliation, agreed with the statement “God will protect me from being infected”. To cope with our dread of death, we delude ourselves into thinking we are invincible: death might happen to other people, but not to me.

This effect will be magnified even further if the social groups to which we belong also endorse similar views. Reminders of death lead people to fiercely defend the values and beliefs of their group. In the context of COVID, this means we may become more individualistic, more distrustful of science or government, or more trusting in our god’s ability to protect us, if these attitudes are valued and shared by our culture or subgroup.

Living in the times of COVID has made us all participants in a social psychology experiment. Daily death counts and case numbers are regular reminders of death that have produced all the behaviours we see in the laboratory.

These include denial of risk and aggression against those who are different from us. For example, the racism against people of Asian appearance when the pandemic began.

Early deaths associated with the vaccines themselves became another “death prime” that drove additional caution and avoidance.

Vaccine hesitancy will remain an urgent problem globally while we refuse to see ourselves for who we really are.

As COVID continues to mutate, the speedy uptake of vaccines may remain a pressing issue over coming years.

Vaccine hesitancy will continue to kill tens of thousands globally until its roots are fully understood and confronted.

Ross G. Menzies, Professor, Graduate School of Health, University of Technology Sydney and Rachel E. Menzies, Postdoctoral research fellow, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

COVID exposed our fractured national identity, but state-based loyalties were rising long before (from The Conversation)

Wes Mountain/The Conversation, CC BY-ND

Judith Brett, La Trobe University

The formation of Australia’s federation in 1901 was both practical and sentimental. Pressing policy matters in the areas of immigration, trade and defence required the coordination of a federal government. As important was the growing nationalist feeling that the people in the different colonies were defined by the challenges and opportunities of the great south land. They were Australians, as well as Tasmanians, Queenslanders, Victorians and so on.

Nationalism is a modernising project, building identities and moral communities which transcend regional and parochial identifications. Compared with the regional identities of the old world, the colonial identities of Australia’s 19th century European settlers were weak, but they existed nonetheless.

The enthusiastic young men of the Australian Natives’ Association, which pushed hard for federation in the late 19th century, may have thought of themselves first and foremost as Australians, but colonial identities persisted after federation, due to their roots in the different histories, economies and social worlds of the six colonies. Time and again during the first decade of the new Commonwealth, Alfred Deakin, the country’s second prime minister, would conjure up the map of Australia and tell people they needed to think of themselves as Australians first and to approach political problems from a national perspective.

Alfred Deakin
Alfred Deakin, one of the founding fathers of federation. Wikimedia Commons

An intriguing historical question is when people’s identities as Australians transcended their state-based identities. I have always thought it was during the second world war. Prior to the war, the decisions and policies of state governments had greater effect on people’s day-to-day lives than those of the federal government. Health, education, transport, law and order, land management, local government, roads, sewerage, water and power were all state responsibilities. As yet, Commonwealth welfare responsibilities were limited and there was no federal income tax.

Read more: Politics podcast: Judith Brett on The Enigmatic Mr Deakin

When Australia was threatened by Japan, the federal government assumed primacy. In addition to responsibility for defence, the Commonwealth assumed the power to re-allocate resources, including labour, to support the war effort, as well as taxing people’s incomes.

The different experiences of the states and territories with the COVID pandemic and the closure of state borders raise the question of whether state-based identities are stronger now than they were, say, 20 years ago. I’d suggest three reasons this might be the case, based on historical observations, rather than hard quantitative data.

The first is that much of the colonies’ individual differences in political culture survived federation. Separatist sentiments have survived in Western Australia. Queensland, which is less dominated by its capital city than the other states, still has a strong strain of rural populism.

Sydney and Melbourne have also maintained their inherent political differences. In The Sydney Melbourne Book, political scientist James Jupp contrasts the reformist, Protestant, middle-class political culture of Melbourne with the hard-nosed materialism of Sydney. Melbourne was patrician, idealistic and internationalist; Sydney proletarian, masculinist and cynical.

For much of the 20th century, this made Victoria the natural home of the Liberal Party, until the early 1970s when Gough Whitlam lured a section of the moral middle class over to a social democratic Labor Party.

Victoria’s political culture is still more progressive than that of New South Wales, but this now tilts it towards Labor and the Greens rather than the Liberals. The Liberals’ centre of gravity, meanwhile, has shifted to the more proletarian and anti-intellectual culture of Sydney.

Read more: Queensland to all those #Quexiteers: don’t judge, try to understand us

The second reason state-based identities might be strengthening is the differing impact of neoliberalism on our two levels of government. After the second world war, Australia had three decades of confident, government-led nation-building: the postwar immigration and Snowy Mountains schemes, the development of manufacturing, and the expansion of the nation’s universities and scientific capacities. The effort culminated in the cultural nationalism of the Whitlam government.

This nation-building momentum was stalled by the onset of stagflation in the mid-1970s, and it gradually petered out as governments turned to neoliberal remedies to restore economic growth.

A major casualty of neoliberalism has been the capacity of the federal government to deliver services, as it privatised and outsourced many of its responsibilities. Steering not rowing was the mantra. Government would pay the bills for the private sector to do the work.

In the September issue of The Monthly, John Quiggin ponders how the Commonwealth government of 50 years ago would have handled the pandemic. Back then, it operated quarantine facilities, had a Department of Works that was able to expand them as needed, owned an airline that could have flown Australians home, ran a network of repatriation hospitals and owned the Commonwealth Serum Laboratories.

Above all, mid-century federal governments had the confidence and capacity to lead. They were, writes Quiggin, far better equipped to deal with the pandemic and would have seen themselves as having the obvious responsibility to do so. Quarantine management would not have been handballed to the states, and the vaccine rollout would have been less shambolic.

Pretty well the entire political class subscribed to the neoliberalism of the 1970s and ‘80s, but state governments have been far less successful than the federal government in offloading their core responsibilities, such as health, education, policing and emergency services. Hence, state governments have retained more capacity. As they have become more effective in these regards, and the federal government less so, people have been drawn back into their orbit. Differences between the states in people’s political experiences have been enhanced, along with people’s sense of the distinctiveness of their state.

The third reason Australians’ state-based identifications may have strengthened is the development of the two-speed economy since the 1980s. The reduction of tariffs since the 1980s damaged the economies of the manufacturing states, especially Victoria and South Australia, which turned to services such as education and tourism. At the same time, mining boomed in Queensland, Western Australia and parts of NSW. People in the different states have experienced very different economies. Horizontal fiscal equalisation, the transfer of resources between jurisdictions, softened the impact of this on the service delivery capacities of the states, but we were not all in the same economic boat.

The political impact of this has played out most obviously and destructively in the inability of our federal governments since 2000 to develop a coherent response to climate change. Coal has been weaponised, with effective policy held to ransom by mining electorates, especially in Queensland.

At the 2019 election, the number of Australians voting for Labor and the Greens was marginally higher than the number voting for the Coalition, although this did not translate into a majority of seats. In Queensland, for example, the Coalition won 23 of the 30 seats. In the winner-takes-all commentary, election victories are interpreted as telling us something about all Australians, the country at large. But they don’t.

Perhaps I am speaking as a Victorian here, but for the past decade or so I have been feeling more strongly identified with Victoria and its progressive politics, as Labor loses federal elections in Queensland and Western Australia. COVID has simply strengthened a pre-existing feeling.

Read more: Australia’s devotion to coal has come at a huge cost. We need the government to change course, urgently

The author will be appearing on a panel to discuss federalism in the time of COVID on Friday, October 22, as part of Australian Catholic University’s Friday Forum series. Please email IHSS@acu.edu.au for more information.

Judith Brett, Emeritus Professor of Politics, La Trobe University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

New research finds a growing appetite for Australian books overseas, with increased demand in China (from The Conversation)

Actor Nicole Kidman and Big Little Lies’ Australian author Liane Moriarty at the Emmys in 2017. Peter Mitchell/AAP

Paul Crosby, Macquarie University and Jan Zwar, Macquarie University

Many authors dream of overseas success for their work, but how Australian books find publication in other territories and languages is not well understood even in the publishing industry.

Our new research has found that between 2008 and 2018, the number of international book rights deals made for Australian titles grew by almost 25%. This was driven, in part, by the international success of adult fiction titles from 2012 onwards and increased demand for Australian books in China.

Interestingly, during this time, over half of all deals were for children’s books. Still, there was a significant increase in the number of deals struck for adult fiction, which now accounts for around 30% of deals each year. More than 9,000 deals were made over the decade.

While almost one in five deals specified the title would remain in English, 13.7% were made for Chinese translations, followed by Korean (7% of deals). The data also reveals the increasing importance of Eastern European markets such as the Czech Republic and Slovenia, along with decreased demand for German, Dutch and Spanish translations.

13.7% of deals were for Chinese translations. shutterstock

Read more: Friday essay: is this the end of translation?

This is the first major attempt to measure the scale of Australia’s international book rights sales. Advances from them deliver a total of around $10 million each year to Australian writers, providing a valuable additional income stream.

Large, medium and even small Australian publishers are negotiating rights deals for their authors, and Australian literary agents are an established part of the international scene.

The success is across a broad range of genres including crime, romance, action thriller, contemporary women’s fiction, self-help and literary fiction.

Rights management involves a seller (who could be a publisher, literary agent or author) licensing the right to make and sell copies of a print, ebook or audiobook, and adaptation rights such as television, film and theatre.

63% of senior agents and publishers told us they felt there had been an increase in international interest in Australian authored books over the ten-year sample period.

Our findings include a report and case studies that aim to shed light on this important commercial and cultural aspect of the book industry.

The kids are alright

Titles aimed at younger readers (picture books up to young adult) were very popular with overseas buyers.

The reasons are not entirely clear: ultimately, the books themselves must work on their own terms in overseas markets. In addition to well-known series such as the Treehouse books by Andy Griffiths and Terry Denton, Judith Rossell’s books featuring Stella Montgomery, and John Flanagan’s Ranger’s Apprentice and Brotherband adventure series, there are hundreds of lower-profile titles which have “travelled”.

The decades-long expertise of Australian authors, publishers and agents in specialist children’s genres (often overlooked in the industry before the success of the Harry Potter series) is also likely to be a factor.


Since the 1980s, Australian publishers and literary agents have quietly been building international networks based on years of attendance at key book fairs in Frankfurt, Bologna, New York, London and more recently, Shanghai. These fairs, along with welcoming delegations of publishing executives and other strategies, help them find exactly who might be receptive to a pitch about their latest Australian books.

As Libby O’Donnell, Head of International Rights and International Business Development at HarperCollins Australia, puts it, “Every book can potentially have some readers overseas but not every book can have a market overseas that makes it viable to publish.”

While attendance at book fairs and personal relationships are key to successful deals, we observed different models of deal-making. O’Donnell was involved in international auctions for Trent Dalton’s Boy Swallows Universe and Meg Mason’s Sorrow and Bliss.

A theatrical production of Boy Swallows Universe at QPAC. David Kelly

Read more: Boy Swallows Universe: theatrical adaptation of hit novel blends pain with nostalgia to astonishing effect

She describes developing a carefully timed international campaign to draw out the biggest bids for these books. Six groups competed for the television rights to Boy Swallows Universe.

But rights sellers who work for some of the largest Australian publishers also described their passion for finding overseas publishers for books with less commercial potential. For Ivor Indyk at the highly respected literary press, Giramondo Publishing, it’s about forming alliances with like-minded literary publishers enabling overseas publication of Australian books that may become part of a literary canon.

Although publishers and agents benefit financially and in terms of prestige, ultimately, the biggest beneficiaries are authors. For most authors, the majority of their income will be from the Australia and New Zealand market. Rights income is “icing on the cake”.

A small proportion of Australian authors can live off their rights income, or sell substantially more books overseas than here. But most authors are excited by the opportunity to have their work read and appreciated overseas; offering another income stream and enhancing their international reputations.

However, the pandemic has hit the international book industry hard – with international travel on hold for so long.

Our report recommends initiatives such as mentoring arrangements and continued investment by industry and government in outgoing and incoming trade delegations (including to key book fairs). This will be more important than ever as publishers and agents re-establish connections after a hiatus of nearly two years.

Paul Crosby, Lecturer, Department of Economics, Macquarie University and Jan Zwar, Faculty Research Manager, Macquarie University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Who’s who in Glasgow: 5 countries that could make or break the planet’s future under climate change (from The Conversation)


Matt McDonald, The University of Queensland

The climate talks in Glasgow are just days away, and may be the last chance to coordinate global efforts to stop the planet warming beyond 1.5℃ this century.

More than 100 world leaders will attend the summit to try to agree on the details of crucial issues, such as timetables to deliver on emissions reduction commitments. So which countries hold the cards?

Well, the nature of these particular climate talks make it less likely one or more states – regardless of their power or contribution to climate change – will determine the summit’s success. But this wasn’t always the case.

In 1997 Kyoto Protocol talks, all developed states needed to agree on targets, timeframes and what could be included or excluded from calculations. This meant Australia was able to hold the agreement to ransom by threatening to withhold support, unless demands were met.

In 2009 talks in Copenhagen, the plan was to develop a new post-Kyoto Protocol agreement, based on new binding emissions targets. The reluctance of China, and even the United States, ultimately prevented a new agreement being reached.

Organisers of the Paris talks of 2015 learnt their lesson. Rather than aim to agree on a fair allocation of responsibility across almost 200 countries, organisers allowed states to develop their own nationally determined contributions – targets for reducing emissions.

But unity in Glasgow is still crucial

While the success of the Glasgow summit doesn’t depend on a consensus across all participating nations, there are three big reasons international cooperation is still crucial.

Climate negotiations in Glasgow will begin on October 31. Shutterstock

First, the summit serves as the default target date for nations to articulate new emissions reduction commitments since the Paris Agreement. States will also need to agree on the next deadline for updated national climate targets.

Second, it will determine commitments from wealthy countries to finance developing states’ transition away from greenhouse-intensive development like building new coal stations, and manage unavoidable effects of climate change, such as more severe and frequent disasters.

Perhaps most fundamentally, the clock is ticking on an effective response to climate change, with serious doubts already over the feasibility of limiting climate change to 1.5 or even 2℃: the goals of the Paris Agreement.

So, who are the key players this time around?

United States

The US is the second largest contributor to global greenhouse gas emissions. As the world’s largest economy, it plays a crucial role in influencing pricing signals relevant to greenhouse emissions, such as energy markets, and facilitating agreement on transferring resources from developed to developing countries.

Since stepping into office, the Joe Biden Administration has demonstrated a significant commitment to international climate action, promising to cut emissions 50-52% from 2005 levels by 2030 and announcing a plan to double funds for developing countries – up to US$11 billion by 2024.

The big question is less about its ambitions, which are on the table, and more about whether the US can convince others to do more. This clearly applies to countries reluctant to take stronger action like Australia, but also to countries where bilateral relations have been less friendly: principally China.


China looms as possibly the most important state for the Glasgow talks: it’s the world’s largest greenhouse gas emitter, the world’s largest producer of coal and the second largest economy in the world.

While we’ve seen promising signs with a commitment to net-zero emissions and to no new coal-fired power stations abroad, we’ve also seen no new emissions reduction target since Paris and no confirmation President Xi Jinping will attend the summit.

Official sources suggest cooperation on climate action can’t be wholly separated from broader relations between states. This raises the prospect that China’s deteriorating relations with the US – over human rights, the South China Sea and Taiwan, for example – pose a key impediment to Chinese ambitions and, therefore, to global climate action.

For China, it’s arguably important not to be seen bowing to international pressure, which seriously complicates effective diplomacy from states eager to see strong action.

United Kingdom

The UK is the host of the Glasgow talks, and host states always feel some sense of ownership over these summits. They also develop formal conference “priorities” that influence the focus of negotiations and criteria for their success.

We’ve seen the UK’s diplomatic efforts through its role hosting recent international summits and consistently raising the issue in bilateral talks. It has also announced one of the world’s most ambitious climate targets: a 78% reduction of emissions from 1990 levels by 2035.

Given the recent mishandling of the COVID-19 crisis and Brexit, Prime Minister Boris Johnson will be under serious pressure at home to ensure the talks are a success.


Russia has been a belated and apparently grudging participant in the last two major international climate agreements. The Kyoto Protocol only entered into force when Russia eventually ratified the agreement in 2004 – some seven years after signing. Its ratification of the Paris Agreement was similarly belated.

Russia is one of the top five greenhouse gas emitters and the world’s largest oil producer. Russian President Vladimir Putin has consistently downplayed the risks of climate change, with Russia emerging as the most vocal opponent to discussing the security implications of climate change within the UN Security Council.

But there are some positives in the lead up to Glasgow. Putin announced a new climate strategy in June, and enacted new climate laws in July. Meanwhile, reports suggest Moscow is considering both a net-zero goal and a new emissions reduction target.

Arguably, Russia’s position will tell us much about the momentum behind international climate action.


As the world’s third largest greenhouse emitter, India is a de facto leader of developing countries concerned about sustainable development and the costs of climate action.

We’ve seen no new targets from India since Paris in 2015, even given its commitment to invest in renewable energy since. Most recently, we’ve seen Indian leaders focus on the importance of wealthy states funding any transition away from fossil fuels in the developing world.

Ultimately, the capacity to secure Indian support for key Glasgow initiatives will depend on whether developed states are willing to reach into their pockets to finance an energy transition.

Matt McDonald, Associate Professor of International Relations, The University of Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Who can’t have a COVID vaccine and how do I get a medical exemption? (from The Conversation)

Margie Danchin, Murdoch Children’s Research Institute

As Australia works towards getting 80% of over-16s fully vaccinated against COVID and higher, there’s more pressure to mandate vaccination across a range of sectors.

Some sectors in certain states and territories already have a COVID vaccine mandate in place, such as health and aged-care staff. Victoria last week mandated COVID vaccination for all authorised workers in the state, which has been a tough but necessary decision. Governments and businesses are also considering mandates for many other groups.

Vaccine passports are also on the way, meaning you’ll need to show proof of being fully vaccinated to do things like travel internationally, and to visit venues in hospitality, entertainment, retail and others in certain states and territories.

But there are some people who can’t get a COVID vaccine for medical reasons, though these are very rare. So what are these conditions, and if you have one of them, how can you prove it?

Permanent exemptions

It’s recommended all Australians over 12 receive two doses of a COVID vaccine. We have robust data now on these vaccines, so we know they’re safe and effective. Serious adverse events are very rare.

There are few situations where someone can’t have a COVID vaccine for medical reasons. The criteria to receive a permanent medical exemption are very narrow and rarely required.

The only criteria are:

  • anaphylaxis following a previous dose of a COVID vaccine
  • or previous anaphylaxis to any component of a COVID vaccine.

For live vaccines, such the measles, mumps, and rubella (MMR) and varicella vaccines, people who are significantly immunocompromised can get a permanent medical exemption. But this isn’t relevant for COVID vaccines because they’re not live vaccines.

There are some conditions people commonly believe may require a vaccine exemption, but the following are not reasons to be exempt from COVID vaccination:

  • egg allergy, even severe
  • a chronic underlying medical condition – these individuals are often at higher risk of more serious disease from COVID, such as people who are immunocompromised who can still receive the COVID vaccines because they’re not live vaccines
  • family history of any adverse events following immunisation.

Temporary exemptions

There are some situations when a COVID vaccine may need to be temporarily deferred. For example, if someone has an acute illness with a fever of 38.5℃ or over. However, this would usually be for a short period only and wouldn’t require them to obtain a written temporary medical exemption.

But there are also some “acute major medical illnesses” where people may be able to get a temporary immunisation medical exemption form. This needs to assessed and given by a medical provider, and only temporarily exempts you from a COVID vaccine.

Last week ATAGI, the Australian Technical Advisory Group on Immunisation, which provides medical advice to the federal government on the use of vaccines including COVID vaccines, released expanded guidance on which of these conditions may warrant a temporary medical exemption.

Read more: Soon you’ll need to be vaccinated to enjoy shops, cafes and events — but what about the staff there?

These exemptions include people with acute major medical conditions such as major surgery or hospital admission for a serious illness.

Temporary exemptions are only recommended to be provided for up to six months. Ideally, they’re reviewed within six months to see whether the person has recovered and can now be safely vaccinated. They’re also only given if another COVID vaccine isn’t suitable or available.

Temporary exemptions may also be specific to a certain vaccine, such as:

  • if a person has a history of heart inflammation (myocarditis or pericarditis) attributed to a previous dose, or has had another illness causing heart inflammation in the past six months, or acute decompensated heart failure. This is only for mRNA vaccines, including those by Pfizer and Moderna
  • if a person has a history of specific very rare bleeding and clotting conditions including: capillary leak syndrome, cerebral venous sinus thrombosis, heparin-induced thrombocytopenia, idiopathic splanchnic thrombosis, or antiphospholipid syndrome (with thrombosis and/or miscarriage). This is only for the AstraZeneca vaccine.

If possible and safe, individuals who can’t get one of the above vaccines for one of these reasons should receive an alternative COVID vaccine.

Temporary exemptions may also be for people who:

  • have had COVID, until they’ve completely recovered. ATAGI recommends vaccination can be deferred for up to six months, because past infection reduces the chance of reinfection for at least this amount of time. However, they don’t need to delay vaccination if they’ve recovered from COVID and their job requires them to be vaccinated, or they’re at higher risk of COVID due to exposure or personal risk. Having chronic symptoms following COVID, known as “long COVID”, isn’t a medical reason not to receive a COVID vaccine. If people who’ve recently had COVID are unsure about whether to get vaccinated, they should talk to their medical provider about the best time to proceed with vaccination
  • have had a serious adverse event from a previous COVID vaccine dose that can’t be attributed to another cause. An adverse event is considered serious if the person is hospitalised or it causes persistent or significant disability. These events need to be reported to the adverse event surveillance system in the person’s state or territory and/or to Australia’s medical regulator, the Therapeutic Goods Administration (TGA). They’re carefully assessed on a case-by-case basis by an experienced specialist to work out how likely a recurrence of the serious adverse event is if another dose of COVID vaccine is given
  • are assessed to be a risk to themselves or others during the vaccination process. For example, this could be due to a severe neurodevelopmental condition such as autism spectrum disorder. Specialist services may be available that can help facilitate safe vaccination for these individuals, such as with the assistance of distraction or awake sedation.

Pregnancy isn’t a valid reason for exemption, in the absence of any of the criteria listed above.

How would I get an exemption, if I’m eligible?

COVID vaccine medical exemptions can be obtained from general practitioners, paediatricians, clinical immunologists, infectious disease, general or public health physicians, gynaecologists or obstetricians.

If someone thinks they qualify for an exemption based on the above, it’s often best to visit a GP first to discuss.

The federal government will introduce a certificate system for people to prove they have a medical exemption later this month. These would be available through the Services Australia app.

With mandates looming, GPs and other providers will feel pressure to dispense exemptions to people not wanting to be vaccinated. Employers will be seeking clarity about who can receive one. This can often cause distress and conflict if the request for an exemption is denied, for both the provider and patient.

Also, if mandates aren’t applied equally and fairly, there’s a risk of compounding disadvantage.

These mandates are made at a jurisdictional level, so there may also be differences regarding which groups are affected depending on the state or territory.

The stakes are high for those who remain unvaccinated, so it’s vital employers, individuals and medical providers are aware of the new ATAGI clinical guidance regarding the medical exemption criteria and that jurisdictions provide additional clarity about the process.

Margie Danchin, Paediatrician at the Royal Childrens Hospital and Associate Professor and Clinician Scientist, University of Melbourne and MCRI, Murdoch Children’s Research Institute

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.