Remapping the Future: History, Culture and Environment in Australia and India [1 ed.] 9781443858083, 9781443850612

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Remapping the Future

Remapping the Future: History, Culture and Environment in Australia and India

Edited by

Raelene Frances and Deb N. Bandyopadhyay

Remapping the Future: History, Culture and Environment in Australia and India, Edited by Raelene Frances and Deb N. Bandyopadhyay This book first published 2013 Cambridge Scholars Publishing 12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2013 by Raelene Frances and Deb N. Bandyopadhyay and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-5061-6, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-5061-2

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface ....................................................................................................... vii Raelene Frances Part I: History: Colonial Past and Indigenous Issues Chapter One ................................................................................................. 2 “Innamincka”: Life Narrative, Heritage, Transnationalism Gillian Whitlock Chapter Two .............................................................................................. 15 “A Beginning”: Reviewing Australia’s Colonial Past in Indigenous Film and Television Therese Davis Part II: History: Explorations/Exchanges Chapter Three ............................................................................................ 34 “Raining Rupees”: How Australian Cricketers Came to Embrace the Subcontinent Tom Heenan and David Dunstan Chapter Four .............................................................................................. 52 “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie: Oi, Oi, Oi”: The Backpacker-led Reinvention of Australia Robert Kelly Chapter Five .............................................................................................. 69 Intercultural Knowledge: Jules Joubert and Calcutta International Exhibition (1883) Deb Narayan Bandyopadhyay

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Part III: Place, Space and Environmental Sustainability Chapter Six ................................................................................................ 80 Gossip from which Forest? Tom Keneally, History, Culture and Environment Paul Sharrad Chapter Seven............................................................................................ 94 Scarce Water and the Australian Progress Trap: A Commentary James Arvanitakis and Paul Brown Part IV: Critiquing Politics and Legal Issues Chapter Eight ........................................................................................... 114 Cartoon Wars: The Interpretation of Drawn Images Helen Pringle Chapter Nine............................................................................................ 128 Ritualized Humiliation and the Shaming of Vulnerable Groups: Australian Culture and Dealing with Past Wrongs Claudia Tazreiter Part V: Diasporic Presence and Multiculturalism Chapter Ten ............................................................................................. 140 Dandenong’s Little India: Australian Multiculturalism and the Suburbanisation of International Migration Mark Gibson Chapter Eleven ........................................................................................ 158 The International Education-Crime Nexus: Australian and UK Perspectives Helen Forbes-Mewett Contributors ............................................................................................. 179

PREFACE RAELENE FRANCES

The first decade of the twenty-first century has seen an increasing trend in the field of Australian Studies for scholars to situate their research within a broader international context and conversation. In some cases this involves exploring how concepts developed in other national contexts can be employed to illuminate aspects of the Australian experience; in others, the focus is on the transnational movement of people and ideas between Australia and the rest of the world. This collection of essays represents a selection of this recent scholarship, particularly in relation to conversations between scholars in Australia and India, auspiced by the Indian Association for the Study of Australia. The essays are drawn from a variety of disciplinary and interdisciplinary perspectives – history, literature, film, education, sociology and politics, cultural studies and environmental studies. Our first two chapters deal with the question of Australia’s relationship to its colonial past and the unreconciled relationship between the invaders and the Indigenous peoples of this continent. Gillian Whitlock’s essay challenges us to think about new ways in which we can imagine and locate Australian literary heritage, using a transnational frame. She shows how the use of concepts drawn from Indian scholarship on Subaltern Studies can help decentre the nation in studies of Australian literary history, producing a more ‘provincial’ and ‘vernacular’ understanding of heritage to sit alongside the national foundational story. Whitlock argues that ‘provincial reading can challenge the optical illusions of nation and narration’, making it possible to ‘recognise the powerful and affective presence of an unreconciled past in Australian literary and cultural production.’ Therese Davis’ survey of films by and about Indigenous Australians over the last decade places particular emphasis on the phenomenon of films and television documentaries produced by Aboriginal Australians – the so-called ‘Black wave’. These Indigenous films, she argues, constitute a ‘new mode of Indigenous remembrance’ which contributes to Indigenous community strengthening. As importantly, they make Indigenous stories

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accessible to white audiences both in Australia and internationally in ways that films by even the most sympathetic of non-Indigenous filmmakers are not. Films that successfully engage white Australians in seeing the past from an Indigenous perspective thus provide the basis for white Australians to commence a meaningful dialogue with Indigenous Australians about the future. In the second section of this volume, three chapters explore different ways in which attitudes to Australia and Australian identity have been shaped historically. Tom Heenan and David Dunstan’s chapter looks at the ways in which Australian cricketers attitudes to India have evolved over time. From a predominantly racist and colonialist sense of superiority, over the last decade Australian cricketers have been forced by India’s increasing economic dominance of the game to engage with India in a more equal and respectful way. Robert Kelly’s chapter on the backpacker-led reinvention of Gallipoli draws on responses recorded in visitors’ books kept by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission to chart changing responses of visitors to the Gallipoli battlefields since the 1960s. His analysis demonstrates the shift in recent decades towards celebration alongside commemoration, paralleling the increasing importance of patriotic tourism relative to family or personal pilgrimage in the motivation of visitors. He predicts a future in which the celebration of Australian patriotism will be increasingly expressed through the invocation of Anzac. Deb Narayan Bandyopadhyay sheds new light on the phenomenon of exhibitions in the nineteenth century through his examination of the transnational personality and ‘exhibition wallah’, Jules Joubert, and the 1883 Calcutta Exhibition. Through his close reading of Joubert’s engagement with Indian culture, he challenges the monolithic interpretation of American and European exhibitions as showcases of superiority. He argues that in this case the exhibition’s organiser was genuinely interested in opening a space for cultural exchange between Australia and India. Engagements with the Australian environment form the focus of the next two chapters. Paul Sharrad’s wide-ranging analysis of Tom Keneally’s fiction and nonfiction writings offers new insights into this author’s portrayal of the environment. While his exploration reveals environmental aspects of Keneally’s work that have largely been overlooked, he concludes that it is the ‘gossip’ rather than the ‘forest’ that has been Keneally’s central preoccupation: culture and history, not their interlinking with nature.

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Paul Brown and James Arvanitakis’s provocative commentary adopts an inter-disciplinary approach to the case of Australia’s scarcity of water. In identifying Australia as in danger of succumbing to a ‘progress trap’, they chart a new approach that aims to better manage the environment in the interests of a more sustainable future. In particular, they identify an urgent need to integrate and extend participatory environmental management processes based on trust, hybrid ‘ecological’ knowledge and an understanding of cultural context and power relations. The final section of this volume looks at various aspects of Australia’s approach to its multi-ethnic, multi-religious population. Helen Pringle considers the case of cartoons and their significance in relation to the law. The well-known 2005 controversy about cartoons in the Danish press depicting representations of the Prophet Muhammad raised questions about the relationship of drawn images to freedom of speech, blasphemy and religious toleration. Pringle takes a different example – that of a New South Wales case involving cartoons depicting children as engaged in sexual acts – and asks whether cartoons present any distinctive problems in terms of freedom of speech not posed by other forms of expression. She concludes that in certain circumstances such cartoons can be legitimately classified as child pornography or child abuse. This conclusion, in turn, has implications for the legal status of cartoons as a form of racial/religious vilification. Claudia Tazreiter is concerned with the politics of humiliation and shame. She argues that both Australia’s recent treatment of asylum seekers and its historical treatment of its Indigenous population amount to a form of institutionalised ritual shaming and humiliation which has left a lasting impact on culture and identity as national projects. Helen Forbes-Mewett tackles the sensitive topic of international student security in her comparative study of Australia and the United Kingdom. Drawing on interviews with industry professionals, she identifies four main themes that contribute to an understanding of the nexus between international education and crime: international students tend to be victims rather than perpetrators of crime; fundamental differences in support and safety structures in Australia compared to the United Kingdom; international students tend to live within ‘delinquent prone communities’; and international students are often at risk from crime committed from within their own national groups. A better understanding of this evidence in relation to student security provides a stronger basis for policy and practice in this area. Mark Gibson’s study of recent Indian migration to Melbourne focuses on the implications of its predominantly suburban location. He raises

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important questions about the ways in which the porosity of suburbs produces different interactions between host and migrant populations, and different possibilities for the future of multicultural Australia. The value of these different perspectives on Australia’s past and present is that they suggest a variety of ways in which we can imagine, or re-map the future.

PART I: HISTORY: COLONIAL PAST AND INDIGENOUS ISSUES

CHAPTER ONE “INNAMINCKA”: LIFE NARRATIVE, HERITAGE, TRANSNATIONALISM GILLIAN WHITLOCK

In 2009 a new anthology of Australian literature was published—for the first time since the Macmillan Anthology of 1990. The Macquarie PEN Anthology of Australian Literature, published internationally as the Norton Anthology of Australian Literature, both reaffirmed and questioned Australian literary heritage. 1 In the general introduction its editor, Nicholas Jose, reflects, “our work has taken place against the background of a sense of crisis, real or imagined, in the standing of Australian literature” (Jose, 2009, 1). The work of editing a nation-based anthology is generically anxious, and not specific to this particular project. By promoting a deliberate textual construction of the country and its literary heritage that readers are invited to join, anthologies are, Robert Lecker argues, deeply conflicted books. The anthologisation of literary texts is essential to the work of social memory and cultural heritage. Literary anthologies “construct a narrative that depicts an evolving but often tension-ridden national ethos” and become focal points in debates about literary canons and cultural literacy that are actually debates about national identity (Lecker, 1995, 92). 2 Jose’s comment is an example of a widespread sense of crisis in nation and narration in Australian literary and cultural studies in the recent past, produced, Chris Healy argues, by the exhaustion of some forms of heritage discourse following the celebration of the bicentenary of settler colonization in 1988. The Indigenous boycott of key events during the bicentenary celebrations—such as the re-enactment of the First Fleet Landing in January 1988—was a powerful statement about the foundation narratives of settler colonialism, which were reframed as occasions for mourning and remembrance of conquest and dispossession. Following the bicentenary there has been an on-going questioning of the inherited

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foundation stories, and their place in formations of national identity in a postcolonial nation. In this essay I want to focus on the renewal of foundation narratives as cultural heritage now, focusing on the recent anthologisation and republication of the First Fleet journal by Watkin Tench. Healy argues that the bicentenary revealed there was little nationalist meat in celebrating the establishment of a small penal colony (Healy, 2008, 108). Given this, how are foundation narratives such as this renewed as cultural heritage now? The recent republication of Tench’s journal suggests it retains its power to generate affective images and narratives of the national. Why is this so? In his General Introduction to the anthology, Jose writes as an “Australian traveller”, imagining an optic produced from great height and at great speed, that produces a remote yet intimate perspective on the land, its literature, and its readers. This account suggests that the narration of literature, land and nation is organic, sequential, and experienced personally as reading the country: Looking from my window seat as the plane crosses Australia, I can’t help reading stories into the country that unfolds below…Like many an Australian traveller before me, I reflect on the intimate relationship between this extreme, subtle land and the human experiences it has shaped and been shaped by. My contemplation begins with the long custodianship of the land by Aboriginal Australians, and continues on to later visitors from across the seas, including those who became settlers—none more decisively than the small band of mainly British Europeans who landed at Sydney Cove in 1788 (Jose, 2009, 1).

First Fleet narratives are ‘decisive’ in the national story. Jose’s vision is sequential: the “long custodianship” (Jose, 2009, 1) of Indigenous Australians and then the decisive event: colonization by the “small band of mainly British Europeans” (Jose, 2009, 1). As a result, Indigenous, settler, and migrant writers struggle to shape a national literary language through speech and writing in English. Australian literary heritage is embedded in the long aftermath of settler colonialism, and on-going debates about reconciliation and social justice. Jose maps the country from an elevated Cartesian viewpoint, which “reads stories into the country” (Jose, 2009, 1) in anthropocentric space and time. This is, as Robert Dixon remarks, the singular vision of cultural nationalism, “which sees land, literature and nation as expressive of a distinctive organic identity” (Dixon, 2011, 2). The framing of that “decisive” event when a “small band of mainly British Europeans” landed at Sydney Cove in 1788 is central to the perceived crisis in discussions of literary heritage and social justice in Australia now. In this essay I want to focus on the recent history of the First Fleet memoir

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by Watkin Tench as symptomatic. The status of this account as literary heritage has been affirmed in its inclusion as one of the first extracts in Jose’s Anthology of Australian Literature, its recent republication in a new edition by Tim Flannery with the new title, 1788, and the widespread adoption of Tench’s autobiographical “I” in recent historical fiction and ethno-history. My reading of 1788 is grounded in a specific location in the central desert region of Australia, a small town called Innamincka. Here numerous heritage sites commemorate human and non-human histories across different coordinates of space and time. Named after two Aboriginal words meaning “your shelter” or “your home”, Innamincka and the adjacent central desert region are significant in histories of Indigenous peoples: for thousands of years the Cooper Creek was a major Aboriginal trade route and a source of abundant food and water. Later routes of European continental exploration and settlement converged here. The inland expeditions of the explorers Charles Sturt and the ill-fated Burke and Wills, who died nearby, are commemorated at the Innamincka visitors centre and at memorial sites nearby. The great stock routes and camel trains of the pastoral industry in the late nineteenth century cross the region. Later, in the twentieth century, Innamincka was the site of an Australian Inland Mission hospital, an icon of a pioneering settlement now restored as the site of the visitors centre. For much of the last century Innamincka languished as a ghost town, devastated by drought, and it was reoccupied in the early 1970s after the discovery of major gas and oil reserves in the region. These days Innamincka is a remote township in a regional reserve that supports diverse industries: mining, cattle, and heritage tourism. At Innamincka entangled histories trouble singular or foundational narratives of Australian literary heritage that focus on a small band of British Europeans. In the midst of a booming tourist season in 2009, when tourists converged on the region to see a natural wonder, the flooding of the massive Lake Eyre basin after a decade of drought, Tim Flannery’s recent edition of Tench’s First Fleet journal, 1788, was prominently displayed for sale at the Innamincka roadhouse amidst other popular books—romances, mysteries and travel guides, all selected to attract the passing trade at this point where travellers, tourists and local inhabitants converged. Several questions recur throughout this paper about the associations of this book and this place in terms of cultural heritage, environmental history, and remembrance of things past in contemporary Australia. Firstly, how are books like this one, a First Fleet journal originally published in the late eighteenth century, marketed and read as cultural heritage in Australia

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now? The inclusion of Tench’s journal in Jose’s edition of a new anthology is one sign of its status as a heritage text, and this recent republication is another. Secondly, what happens when we turn to explore these issues in a transnational frame? Most particularly, why do a series of recent Australian studies suggest the particular value of Indian and Australian connections in re-thinking literary heritage? “Heritage” refers to “inherited customs, beliefs and institutions held in common by a nation or community…[and] natural and ‘built’ landscapes, buildings and environments held in trust for future generations” (Davison as qtd in Healy, 2008, 278). Heritage is connected to social memory: the ways a community understands itself and its relation to the past, and the way individuals understand their being in history. Heritage, then, is plural, performative, and connected to multiple and conflicting archives of social memory. The community of common interest and sentiment might be the nation, or small communities within the nation shaped by alternative kinship and commemoration. Healy makes a critical point about heritage as a concept. In the shift from thinking about “history” to talking about “heritage” we are turning to question how historical understanding is put into effect and experienced subjectively, thereby playing a role in governance and citizenship. Heritage is about how people experience the past in everyday life customs and practices, beliefs and institutions. It is one of the key modes in which the past is carried into the present. When we are thinking about the national community, heritage is fundamental to how people understand and experience citizenship and belonging in the course of embodied practices in everyday life. The presence of Tench’s canonical text at Innamincka is emblematic of a critical conjuncture in debates about heritage and the marketing of canonical heritage texts in Australia now. At Innamincka unreconciled and incommensurate histories produce heritage sites that archive multiple human and environmental histories and chronotopes. Tourists and travellers encounter ways of being in history that cannot be simplified in a singular heritage discourse, particularly the foundation narratives that privilege a small band of Europeans at Sydney Cove in 1788. Reading the country here involves entangled human and non-human histories, with the country itself as an agent rather than a passive setting. Jose’s reading of country sustains a resolutely human-centred focus, placing land as a passive component of anthropocentric space and time. Increasingly this speciesism and exclusion of non-human living things is called into question as environment is included in heritage discourse. At Innamincka, where landscape and settlement is determined by drought and flood, and settlement is tenuous and has been reduced to a spectral presence in the

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recent past. The skeletal remains of deserted buildings are everywhere here. In 1788 Flannery draws together two journals, A Narrative of the Expedition to Botany Bay (1789) and A Complete Account of the Settlement at Port Jackson (1793) originally published by Watkin Tench, a lieutenant in the marine corps on board Australia’s First Fleet. This is the “small band of Europeans” that Jose refers to: a transport of 1,000 people, 700 of them convicts, aboard 11 ships that set sail from Plymouth on May 13th, 1787 to establish a British colony at Botany Bay. It was a controversial project: both a settler colony and a penitentiary. Tench was by that time already an experienced marine. He had been a prisoner of war in Maryland during the American War of Independence in 1778, and after his tour of duty with the First Fleet he returned to England in 1793 and saw active service in the Napoleonic Wars, when he was again captured and held as a prisoner of war. Later he published another journal, Letters Written in France, his impressions of the French Revolution. 3 Tench was a cosmopolitan man, and his account of the first settlement is generally considered to be the most eloquent and literary, the one that captures the landscape, people and settlement with the most engaging eye. Tench is a powerful and graphic narrator, translating the new world into his journal self-reflexively: he is taking notes, and shaping his account from the midst of the new settlement itself, a vivid work in process. Tench’s account of the voyage and settlement is recognised as one of the five “foundation books” of Australian colonial history. The other accounts were by more authoritative authors, but Tench’s was the first eyewitness account of the settlement to be printed, rushed to press in England and published as a pocket-sized pamphlet on April 24th 1789, just two years after the Fleet sailed from Plymouth. Tench’s second journal, A Complete Account of the Settlement at Port Jackson, was published for the first time when Tench returned to England in 1793. Publication was in London, Dublin and New York, and it was translated into French, German and Dutch. The career of the Narrative late in the eighteenth century indicates the interest of the general public in the Australian settlement at Port Jackson, and the vividness of Tench’s eyewitness account. But the history of this foundation narrative is a chequered one. It was not republished until 1938, and then again in 1961. At this stage of its career it was regarded as an historical document, a key text in the national heritage, extracted and anthologised for a specialist and academic reader. This century it has been revived and read in its entirety as a vivid and powerful life narrative, 1788, and marketed as a trade paperback to a general public, stocked in mass outlets such as roadhouses, airport bookstores, and

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supermarkets. Its publisher, Text, is associated with new ways of writing Australian history that emphasize the civic, ethical and personal responsibility of public intellectuals in a national public sphere (Carter and Ferres, 2001, 152). Although I was taken aback to find this First Fleet journal in a remote roadhouse at Innamincka, I shouldn’t have been. This is a key site in the heritage industry, shaped by pilgrimages that retrace pioneering trails such as the Birdsville track, the Strzelecki Trail, and the Canning stock route. 1788 enters a vibrant contemporary heritage industry, but how does it respond to that heritage crisis which calls into question the role of the First Fleet in Australian heritage? The cover of Flannery’s edition is indicative. Tim Flannery is a powerful patron and advocate—an editor whose name on the cover of some editions is in larger font that the original author’s. He is a celebrity scientist, environmentalist, humanitarian and writer. As an eminent public intellectual, Flannery has the power and authority to make interventions in how heritage is defined and understood in Australia now, and the paratexts of 1788 suggest how important his endorsement is to attract a broad twenty-first century readership. On the back cover4 we see Flannery’s celebration of Tench’s journal as “a brilliant eyewitness account of the British settlement of New South Wales” (Flannery, 1996) is reinforced by a formidable selection of eminent contemporary Australian public intellectuals: the historians Robert Hughes and Inga Clendinnen, author Thomas Keneally, poet Les Murray, and Indigenous writer and activist Marcia Langton. Indigeneity is one reason why this eyewitness account is renewed as a significant cultural heritage. The front cover features a quotation from Tench’s journal: “I do not hesitate to declare that the natives of New South Wales possess a considerable portion of that acumen, or sharpness of intellect, which bespeaks genius”.5 The journal brings Indigenous Australians into view in a humanitarian frame: Tench introduces Indigenous people such as Banneelon, Abaroo, and Colbee as individual and memorable people; he learns their language and puzzles over the problems of translation; he describes walking along the beach, hand-inhand with a young European child, to engage with Aborigines personally, and he recalls moments of joyful caper and dance together. It is Tench who appeals to the reader with a “candid and humane mind” (Flannery, 1996, 45), recognizing Aborigines as fellow humans, drawing on late eighteenth century humanism and romanticism to shape his account. Like Jose, Flannery is an editor in search of an engaged readership, and he too folds foundation narratives such as this into a sweeping and sequential

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history. Both humanitarianism and environmentalism shape Flannery’s editorial gaze: The European settlement of Australia occurred so swiftly, and altered the land and indigenous cultures so profoundly, that it can be difficult to imagine what the country was like before the first white settler walked ashore. If we wanted to picture that different land, and think about how it has been transformed, there’s no better guide than Watkin Tench’s extraordinary accounts of Australia’s first European settlement (Flannery, 1996, 1).

Flannery’s “land” is not the passive and compliant “country” that Jose’s incorporates into an anthropocentric national estate. Here the land and Indigenous people are imagined in a pristine state prior to colonisation—this, too, is a way of “forgetting” Aborigines, and telling a foundation story that occludes the specific historical and cultural locations of Indigenous presence. The renewal and endorsement of this First Fleet account is a sign of shifts in practices of remembrance that we can track in the ebb and flow of life narratives such as Tench’s journal. Life writing includes autobiographical and biographical accounts of all kinds, for example journals, diaries, memoirs, and letters. It gives an intimate insight into who is empowered to write autobiographically, and what lives count in discourses of heritage and commemoration and citizenship. This suggests shifting relations of power and authority, indicating whose lives are remembered, and why. Flannery appeals to a new readership for Tench’s narrative, in the wake of that sense of crisis in the politics of race and reconciliation that engaged Australian public intellectuals late last century. It also returns to foundation narratives with the new ecological awareness of the fragility of land and settlement which emerged early in this new century. Editors of anthologies and First Fleet journals, such as Jose and Flannery “read the country” subjectively, and so too do tourists, travellers and inhabitants. If, as Healy suggests, “heritage” is fundamental to how we experience citizenship and belonging in the course of practices of everyday life, then our understandings of the past in the present are not abstract and theoretical but imaginative, embodied and subjective, experienced in the various and shifting registers of specific localities. At Innamincka multiple heritage sites testify to irreconcilable histories. There are the inhabited territories of the prior inhabitants, dispersed from the area after violent conflict as the pastoral industry expanded in the nineteenth century.6 The mapping of Indigenous pasts becomes even more complicated on the ground at heritage sites around Innamincka itself. What are memorialized there are the remains of its first inhabitants in

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Aboriginal middens and rock art. Indigenous artefacts are preserved as heritage alongside monuments that record the remains of European inland exploration. Most famously, the relics of the Burke and Wills expedition of 1860-61 are commemorated with rock cairns as memorials to the explorers, as well as the “Dig Tree”, carved to mark the location of their depot camp. This expedition introduced camels to the central desert region. The overland routes of the animals and Afghan and Pakistani cameleers mark the multicultural population of Asian people and exotic animals introduced to serve the pastoral industry in the nineteenth century. All of this became spectral when Innamincka was abandoned to become a ghost town last century. Here, amidst multiple heritage sites, the instabilities and uncertainties of national heritage discourse and foundation stories are readily apparent. What happens when thinking about literary heritage is projected transnationally? Can issues of race, heritage and belonging be imagined differently beyond the nation? In Australia in the recent past these questions are pursued with a turn to Indian postcolonial criticism. Paul Sharrad argues that complex and less nation-centred studies of Australian literature are emerging from transnational scholarship: Australian literature extends far beyond the geographical boundaries of the nation, and interesting things happen to its identity and character when we turn to perspectives that leave home and go offshore, or when comparative perspectives respond to transnational literary networks that reframe local and national narratives (Sharrad, 2010, 3). Graham Huggan’s recent book, Australian Literature: Postcolonialism, Racism, Transculturalism, also argues that writers, researchers and teachers who look at Australia from the outside have a vital contribution to make to debates about cultural heritage and belonging in a settler society. Huggan is particularly interested in issues of cultural heritage: It goes without saying that no single cultural heritage exists for Australian literature, any more than one exists for Australia. Despite this, the battle over heritage—which is also a battle for ownership—has been keenly fought. Race, as this book will suggest, represents the often hidden face of the continuing struggle for cultural ownership in Australia (Huggan, 2007, viii).

Huggan turns to critical race theory to analyse this battle over heritage in Australia now, arguing that we need to consider not just Indigeneity but also the politics of whiteness, and how the politics of a white settler culture continue to surface in Australian writing and criticism in, for example, a preoccupation with “first settlement” and that small band of

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Europeans. For Huggan too, the transnational turn can raise new perspectives on the ways that the colonial past continues to haunt the present in Australian writing. Sharrad suggests that Australian literature is reconstructed in India, where it is studied by scholars with their own agendas, different social dynamics, different curricula and pedagogies, and different kinds of access to primary and secondary materials—what is affordable, available (Sharrad, 2010, 3). If we think of Australian literary studies in India as a transnational project we immediately get to questions about how it is “creatively reconstructed” in the Indian spaces of Australian literature. How might different ways of thinking about Australian literature arise from this conversation? How does the Australian context reframe discussions of Indian literature and criticism? How does transnationalism introduce new perspectives on the issues of literary heritage that are the subject of this paper? What is critical here are the traditions of postcolonial scholarship that have been generated by the Subaltern Studies project. Although this project has been influential in postcolonial, historical and cultural studies internationally, the connections between Subaltern Studies and Australia are close. Some of its leading exponents, Ranajit Guha and Dipesh Chakrabarty, have worked in Australian academia. The critique of nationalism that grounds Subaltern Studies is timely at a critical conjuncture in Australian Studies where cultural nationalism produces conflicted histories. Chris Healy turns to India to think about ways of developing a new idiom for citizenship and models of sovereignty and collectivity that might respond to the issues of diverse cultural heritage. Healy turns to Ranajit Guha’s work on vernacular histories in postcolonial India, a different yet related colonial context. Guha is best known as the editor who gathered together the group of scholars known as the Subaltern Studies Group, an Indian historian and political economist resident in Australia when the first volume appeared.7The project called for new self-reflexive historiography from the view of the masses, using unconventional sources such as popular memory, oral discourse and colonial administrative documents. “Vernacular” is a contested term in recent criticism in India (Krishnaswamy), and concepts and methodologies such as this derived from the Subaltern Studies project are adapted and reformulated as they circulate in transnational scholarship elsewhere. What the turn to vernacular might mean in Indian literary historical criticism is suggested by Guha’s recently republished analysis of Bangla vernacular literatures of the nineteenth century. Here he elaborates the various temporalities and vernaculars of everyday life in the colonial city, and the new prose forms

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that emerged to represent Indigenous (as opposed to official) experiences on the streets of Calcutta. Heterogenous space/time trajectories are mapped out here, for example the co-presence of Indigenous and official ways of seeing in Calcutta’s “everyday”, as opposed to the singular, authoritative narration of colonial time. The intertextuality of Bangla and British literary forms—in this case the Dickensian sketch and Kaliprasanna Sinha’s Hutom—produces new discursive forms that are both complicit with and resistant to colonialism, appropriate to “the advent of a new temporality rivalling one that was habitual and sanctified by custom” (Guha, 2011, 336). For Healy, this concept of “vernacular” and the multiple chronologies that co-exist in Guha’s thinking on postcolonial “time(s)” translates to ways of thinking about Australian heritage in terms of specific or microhistories that remain unrecognised in registers of national heritage: “vernacular heritage can describe those understandings of heritage which are marginal to, or silenced by, the authority of ‘official’ heritage…” (Guha, 2011, 127). Healy turns to Guha’s vernacularity of “accents, idioms and imaginaries” foreign to the language of post-enlightenment reason and “unspeakable” in the rationality of colonisation to argue that vernacular pasts must find a place in the terrain mapped by national history. Vernacular histories are not more authentic or accurate—this is not an evaluative term, there is no “authentic subalterneity” recovered here (and it is this association of “authenticity” and “vernacularity” that has been contentious in the Indian debates discussed by Krishnaswamy). Vernacular histories exist in tension with official history, replacing the singular and unified national heritage with narratives articulating different temporalities, idioms and feelings in a space of translation and exchange. One of Healy’s examples of vernacular history is the performance of Indigenous ceremonies during the bicentennial in January 1988 at the place where Captain Cook came ashore at Kurnell near Sydney. This gathering of Indigenous and non-Indigenous people replaced the celebration of heritage as an inclusive patchwork, the official discourse of the bicentenary, with “an articulation of vernacular heritage as a shared commitment to reconciliation” (Healy, 2008, 130)—which is to say an active process of citizenship. For Healy, the transnational turn places the unresolved questions around colonialism at the centre of attempts to articulate the nation. Foundational narratives are disaggregated and decentred, taken out of sequence and cast into local, regional, national and transnational contexts. Recently Robert Dixon also turns to Indian postcolonial scholarship to explore transnational methodologies for Australian literary studies, in his

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case Dipesh Chakrabarty’s concept of “provincialisation”. Like Healy, Dixon is looking to establish new settings for critical reading, using coordinates that map local and transnational associations, defamiliarising the national so that its claims on the individual are “relative and provisional” (Dixon, 2011, 2). “Provincialisation” and “vernacularity” migrate from Subaltern Studies into Australian studies as ways of displacing (not replacing) the national as the necessary horizon of interpretation. To return to the metaphor of the visual optic that begins this essay: transnationalism is a strategy that alters the limited vision of cultural nationalism and its reading of country through the lens of sequential and anthropocentric space and time. By taking 1788 to Innamincka in this essay I have been arguing that provincial and vernacular readings of foundational narratives recognise the powerful and affective presence of an unreconciled past in Australian literary and cultural heritage. New editions of national anthologies and foundation narratives—such as The Literature of Australia and 1788—and the work of editors such as Jose and Flannery are signs of the key role literature plays in mobilising historical understanding and experiences of citizenship in the postcolonial nation. They also suggest that much remains to be done to reframe ways of seeing the place of the small band of Europeans that came ashore in 1788. The hierarchies of relations that anchor foundation stories of Australian settlement as national heritage resist provincialisation, as we see in the recent editions by Flannery and Jose. The specific attention to contexts that elude the prism of the national is a feature of the Indian postcolonial (Boehmer & Chaudhuri, 2011, 4) that surfaces in different ways of thinking about literary heritage in Australia now. New ways of reading the country occur unexpectedly: by relocating literary heritage in terms adapted from this very different and in some ways remote scholarly project. The provincial and the vernacular bring heritage close, to the grounds of our experience in everyday life, to the sentimental feelings and the ethical obligations of citizenship. At Innamincka, heritage refuses to cohere into a single foundation story. 1788 has a place here, where provincial reading can challenge the optical illusions of nation and narration.

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Notes 1. This anthology was published internationally as the Norton Anthology of Australian Literature. 2. Significantly an anthology of Indigenous Australian literature was produced alongside the new Norton anthology, edited by Anita Heiss and Peter Minter. 3. For an excellent article on Tench’s Letters written in France see Gavin Edwards, ‘From Chester to Quimper via Sydney: Watkin Tench in Revolutionary France’. http://www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk/uploads/docs/s2_5.PDF. Accessed 8 October 11. 4. An image of this can be seen at the site of Text Publishing, which has produced several versions of Flannery’s edition—as, for example, a single text, and in association with other explorer journals. 5. See the image online as above. 6. See the Aboriginal Australia map at http://www.aiatsis.gov.au/asp/map.html. Accessed 8 October11. 7. In September 2011 a conference at the Humanities Research Centre celebrated the Australian connections to the Subaltern Studies project on its 30th anniversary. See http://hrc.anu.edu.au/events/subalternstudies. Accessed 12 October 11.

References Carter, David and Kay Ferres. 2001. “The Public Life of Literature.” Culture in Australia: Policies, Publics and Programs. Eds Tony Bennett and David Carter. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 140-60. Dixon, Robert. 2011. “Scenes of Reading: Is Australian Literature a Word Literature?” Unpublished Paper. Flannery, Tim, ed. 1996.1788: comprising A narrative of the expedition to Botany Bay and A complete account of the settlement at Port Jackson / Watkin Tench. Melbourne: Text Publishing. Guha, Ranajit. 2011. “A Colonial City and its Time(s).”The Indian Postcolonial: A Critical Reader. Eds Elleke Boehmer and Rosinka Chaudhuri. Milton Park (Oxon): Routledge.334-354. Healy, Chris. 2008. Forgetting Aborigines. Sydney: University of New South Wales Press. Huggan, Graham. 2007. Australian Literature: Postcolonialism, Racism, Transnationalism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Jose, Nicholas. 2009. Ed. The Macquarie PEN Anthology of Australian Literature. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Krishnaswamy, Revathi. 2006. “The Condition of Indian Writing in English Today.” English: The Condition of the Subject. Ed. Philip W. Martin. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan. 68-77.

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Lecker, Robert. 1995. Making It Real. Concord (Ontario): Anansi. Macintyre, Stuart & Anna Clark. 2003. The History Wars. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Sharrad, Paul. 2010. “Seen Through Other Eyes; Reconstructing Australian Literature in India.” JASAL.10. http://www.nla.gov.au/openpublish/index.php/jasal/article/viewFile/15 31/2232.Accessed 10 October 2011. Tench, Major. 1796. Letters written in France to a friend in London, between the month of November 1794, and the month of May 1795. London: J Johnson. http://openlibrary.org/books/OL6902808M/Letters_written_in_France

CHAPTER TWO “A BEGINNING”: REVIEWING AUSTRALIA’S COLONIAL PAST IN INDIGENOUS FILM AND TELEVISION THERESE DAVIS

Ivan Sen’s film] Dust (2000) offers the potential of a beginning–the commencement of an exchange–as it recognises that, before dialogue for the future can be accomplished, Indigenous people who lie in the ground and the past they inhabit need to be recognised and commemorated so that the burden carried by elders … can be lifted. This can only be done when white Australia takes vigilant responsibility for its own past (Birch 2007, 114) (emphasis added).

Since the inception of the Indigenous Branch of the Australian Film Commission in 1993, Indigenous filmmaking has developed at a phenomenal rate.1 It has become what Maureen Barron, former Chair of the Australian Film Commission, describes as “one of the most critically lauded and successful sectors of the Australian film industry” (Barron, 2007, v). In the past five years it has set the standard for larger sectors across all industry benchmarks: innovative production initiatives, national and international awards, bold storytelling, box-office successes, and television sales2 It is a diverse body of work, with filmmakers adopting and adapting a wide range of film and television formats (shorts, features, documentary) and genres (drama, comedy, historical documentary, musicals) to tell Indigenous stories. 3 These works are more than films about Indigenous Australians; they differ from a larger body of film and television featuring Indigenous subjects made by non-indigenous filmmakers (from ethnographic film dating back to the late 19th century to recent popular feature films such as Phillip Noyce’s Rabbit-Proof Fence) in a number of significant ways, including creative control of content. The Indigenous Department of Screen Australia (as it is now known) defines Indigenous film as works “where Indigenous Australians have been credited

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in the key creative roles of producer, director, writer or director of photography (DOP)” (Screen Australia, 2010, 3). For the past twenty years the unit “has provided a sustained funding, training and screening platform that is unprecedented anywhere else in the world, for any filmmakers” (Riley, 2007, 2). This successful strategy has resulted in a small (but rapidly growing) “community of filmmakers” who represent a wide range of Indigenous communities from across the country (Gallasch, 2007, 14) and many are counted among Australia’s most talented filmmakers. It is, however, important to recognise that the training and professional development of Indigenous filmmakers is not simply a programme of equal opportunity. Nor is Indigenous film defined simply by authorship. The Indigenous Department’s vision to create a sustainable Indigenous sector within the Australian screen industry is historically tied to the wider political project of Indigenous self-determination. It was established as a direct result of a long running campaign by Indigenous activists and filmmakers for the right to self-representation and to greater control over Indigenous screen content, past and future (Bostock, 2007, 7-11). (In addition to providing a unique model of training and funding projects, the unit has also developed world-leading protocols for filmmakers working with Indigenous communities).4 So while professional Indigenous film and television is not a counter cinema, in the sense that it receives government support and operates in the mainstream, it is a deeply political cinema. It involves filmmakers actively drawing on Indigenous cultural knowledge, protocols and their personal and collective life experience as Indigenous Australians to devise culturally specific (and appropriate) models of filmmaking that result in films and television programmes viewed by multiple audiences (including Indigenous and non-indigenous; Australian and international). In doing so, these filmmakers use film and television as a key cultural sphere for developing what leading Indigenous filmmaker Rachel Perkins describes as “much needed Indigenous perspectives” (Perkins, 2008, 26) on Australia and its history. This chapter reflects on the theme of “remapping the future” by considering how Indigenous perspectives on Australia’s colonial past in the films and television series by Indigenous filmmakers can, as Aboriginal writer and historian Tony Birch suggests, potentially shape future relationships between Indigenous and non-indigenous Australians. For Birch, this potential is dependent upon film enabling two distinct forms of historical recognition. The first is the remembrance and commemoration of “Indigenous people who lie in the ground and the past they inhabit” (Birch 2007, 114). The second involves white Australian viewers’ recognising that these histories of colonial violence and loss are

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of our making. Birch argues that only when the latter recognition occurs, lifting the “burden” of remembrance currently carried by Indigenous elders, can we begin a dialogue for the future. This chapter examines two well-known Indigenous screen projects that deal with colonial histories in very different ways. It argues that these works do more than bring “hidden” Indigenous histories to light. They also employ audio-visual aspects of film and television in ways that allow viewers to see that colonial histories continue to impact on Indigenous people’s lives in the present time. It argues that this latter form of historical consciousness–that is one that connects the present and the past–is a crucial step for the beginning of meaningful cross-cultural dialogue on Indigenous and nonindigenous co-existence and our shared future.

The “Problem” of Indigenous Perspectives in Australian History In the first half of the twentieth century Australian histories routinely combined stories of pioneer hardships—“the battler’s story”—with legendary accounts of survival and failure (Burke and Wills, lost child stories, Gallipoli, and so on) (Curthoys, 2006, 7). Writing about their role in the Australian historical imaginary, Ann Curthoys describes these histories as “narratives of reversal” or stories that deny Indigenous ownership of the land. As she writes: Like so many others, from the United States to Canada to Israel and elsewhere, settler Australians have tended to see themselves as victims, not oppressors … They have seen themselves as the rightful owners of the land in contrast to Indigenous peoples, perceived as nomads, whose hold upon it is tenuous and undeserved (Curthoys, 2006, 7).

By the 1960s onward many Australian historians had begun to contest pioneer narratives, bringing to light stories of the nation’s history of land seizure, frontier conflicts and massacres, Indigenous dispossession and economic exploitation and other forms of social control of Indigenous Australians (Curthoys 2006, 8). By the mid-1980s, these revised histories had become the new orthodoxy, influencing tertiary education and fostering a new generation of Australian historians. In the 1990s the new orthodoxy was adopted by the Australian Labor government, as evidenced in legislation from this period on Indigenous rights and the then Prime Minister Paul Keating’s landmark reconciliation speech in which he challenged pioneer histories and famously called on white Australians to take responsibility for colonial atrocities: “We took the traditional lands

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and smashed the traditional way of life. We brought the disasters. The alcohol. We committed the murders. We took the children from their mothers. We practiced discrimination and exclusion” (Keating, 1992). Yet, as Curthoys observes, while these revised histories were accepted in many areas of Australian society they “met bedrock resistance in non-indigenous Australian popular culture” (Curthoys, 2006, 7). Certainly this was the case in film. Up until the twenty-first century, films about Indigenous people, issues and/or historical episodes received national and international critical acclaim while at the same time failing to attract popular audiences.5 Conservative politicians exploited this popular resistance. When the Keating government was defeated in 1996, the new conservative Prime Minister, John Howard, set himself the personal task of contesting the revised histories. He fostered a working relationship with Australian historian Geoffrey Blainey, the latter known for helping to popularise the term “black arm-band history”, a phrase that characterises the new orthodoxy as a white guilt-producing history.6 Howard’s determination to reinstate a heroic, pioneer-type narrative of Australia’s past as the official national story marked a major turning point in the popularisation of debates about Australian history that have become known as the “Australian History Wars” or the “Aboriginal History Wars”.7 This chapter is not the place to revisit all of these debates, but it is important to note that public battles over Aboriginal history reached a climax in the early 2000s, dividing the nation. A long running campaign against the findings of the federal governments into what is now known as Australia’s Stolen Generations8conducted by a handful of high-profile print journalists and the conservative magazine Quadrant resulted in what Robert Manne describes as a noticeable “hardening” in public attitudes toward the question of historic injustices suffered by Aboriginal people (Manne, 2003, 7). The other half of the nation remained committed to a groundswell of support for Indigenous reconciliation that had grown as a result of a number of important national events in the 1990s. These events included the monumental Mabo judgement in 1992, which overturned Australia’s common law by recognising Native Title, the formation of the Aboriginal Reconciliation movement, Indigenous protests at the Olympic Games in 2000, and the popular demand for an official national apology to the Stolen Generations. In Australian Cinema After Mabo, Felicity Collins and I examined the role cinema played in this period of the history wars of mediating revisions of the nation’s treatment of Indigenous Australians in a way that the written histories cannot (Collins and Davis, 2004). We addressed a significant cycle of historical dramas released in 2002, arguing that these

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films contributed to debates on Aboriginal history by engaging audiences in the history wars through popular fictional genres such as adventurequest (Rabbit-Proof Fence), frontier parable (The Tracker) and courtroom drama (Black and White). Rabbit-Proof Fence successfully reversed the longstanding lack of interest by Australian audiences in Indigenous stories by becoming the second highest grossing Australian film that year. Yet, like the many films on Indigenous people and issues that came before them, their stories of conflict between Indigenous and settler cultures are shaped by western modes of narrative and historiography. They are also addressed primarily to non-Indigenous audiences through techniques such as the use of lead non-Indigenous characters. For example, the story of Rabbit-Proof Fence was first published as a work of history based on the author’s mother’s oral history but later scripted for the screen as an adventure-quest film structured around a contest of wills between AO Neville (played by international film star Kenneth Branagh), the Chief Protector of Aborigines in Western Australia from 1915 to 1940, and three young Aboriginal girls (played by non-professional actors). Adaptation of history to drama is not uncommon and not necessarily a bad thing to have happened in this case, for the film’s appeal to large numbers of nonIndigenous audiences served as an important intervention in the “history wars” (Collins and Davis, 2004). My point is that Rabbit-Proof Fence is not an “Indigenous film” in the sense discussed earlier, and nor does it offer an Indigenous perspective on this historical episode. Less noted in discussion of this period is the fact that 2002 was also a pivotal year for Indigenous filmmakers. It saw the release of Ivan Sen’s Beneath Clouds, the third (and at that time the most successful) feature film directed by an Australian Indigenous filmmaker. It was not as popular with audiences as Rabbit-Proof Fence. It did, however, win widespread critical acclaim, with Sen pipping veteran director Philip Noyce to the post by taking the award for Best Achievement in Directing at the 2002 Australian Film Institute Awards (more on this film below). Also in 2002, Indigenous screen writer, director and producer, Rachel Perkins seized an opportunity presented to her by Australia’s Special Broadcasting Service (SBS TV) to develop the first Indigenous history for Australian national television. The series was six years in the making but it is important to remember that First Australians (2008) was conceived in an atmosphere of heated ideological debate about Aboriginal history. Perkins has commented that she and the series’ co-producer Darren Dale felt the full weight of the responsibility of getting their series “right” for future generations (2008, 26). She has also admitted that in the beginning they had no idea what shape this history should take (2008, 27). She and Dale

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consulted widely, including with Gordon Briscoe, the first Australian Indigenous scholar to be awarded a PhD in history. Like many other historians, Briscoe contributed to debates in the history wars, but he has also been critical of the ways in which the battles have been fought. For example, in a generally favourable review of non-Indigenous historian Bain Attwood’s Telling the Truth About Aboriginal History (2005), Briscoe acknowledges the book’s important contributions to debates about Aboriginal historiography. However he concludes his review with a simple yet nevertheless pointed statement: “But the problem of Aboriginal perspectives remains” (Briscoe, 2006, 28). Briscoe’s remark refers to the problematic lack of opportunity for Indigenous perspectives in Aboriginal written histories while also raising a wider question about what constitutes an Indigenous perspective. Tony Birch has addressed this issue in a highly original analysis of the history wars in which he describes much of the later period as “waging a war around the footnote” (Birch, 2006, 26). Birch argues that while it is true that historian Keith Windschuttle viciously attacked the work and reputations of non-Indigenous historians, the most sustained attack by conservative anti-“black arm-band” critics was targeted at ordinary Indigenous men and women, challenging the credibility and honesty of their testimonies in Bringing Them Home. Conservative arguments against the findings of the enquiry hinged on the idea that a traumatised subject cannot be a reliable historian, a line of argument that (wrongly) asserts that all Indigenous people, by nature of the trauma of their historical dispossession, are incapable of historical speech and witnessing. Furthermore, Birch argues that the focus on footnotes in the history wars has contributed to a destructive disconnect between past and present events, that is, historians “waging a war around the footnote” (Birch, 2006, 26) while failing, in his words, “to recognise the impact of on-going denials of a history of state violence on young Indigenous people in Australia today” (Birch, 2006, 26). Birch’s critique suggests that an Indigenous perspective on Australian history has the potential to disrupt prevailing narratives and logics of non-Indigenous historiographies by prompting people to make connections between past and present forms of colonialist racist violence. From this we can conclude that an Indigenous perspective on the past originates not solely in identity–being Indigenous– but in Indigenous forms of critical reflection on the ways in which a history of colonial violence continues to impact on Indigenous people’s being, that is their opportunities and choices in life, and on their culture and land. As Perkins argued in a key note address in 2006, “Documentary research and the archives”, the history wars “are not just being fought in

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the academic world and in the papers. They are also being fought on the landscape across Australia” (Perkins, 2006, 4). In this talk Perkins recounted a story about traveling with her First Australians crew to Bull Cave in Camden (NSW): We went to film there because that was where the First Fleet’s cattle escaped and they wandered down South and they went into Dharawal Country and the Dharawal people painted this extraordinary image of this massive bull on the cave wall. It is one of the first pieces of contact art, a really important site. We went down there to film and of course, someone has spray painted across it in red letters: “This is bullshit” and painted a big penis across it, so of course we can’t film there (4-5).

Perkin’s screen projects are concerned not only with telling stories about the past. All her work addresses in some form the ways in which histories of colonial violence have been covered over in the historical record and, further, how these forms of continued denial of the colonial past and negation, indeed, in the instance quoted above, defacement of Indigenous culture impacts Indigenous people’s everyday lives in the present.

First Australians: An Inter-cultural History As “a beginning”, First Australians marks the start of a new strategic policy in Indigenous film and television toward mainstream production. Until recently, Indigenous-produced content for television has been largely confined to “special interest”, low-budget, magazine slots such as Living Black (SBS TV) and Message Stick (ABC TV), which are shown in offpeak time slots and largely ignored by non-Indigenous audiences, as evidenced by their low ratings. First Australians consciously broke with this mould to become a landmark mainstream production. At an industrial level, to date it has the highest budget and is the largest documentary series undertaken in Australia. Its initial broadcast in 2009 involved the then latest strategies and techniques in cross-platform media, including a cutting-edge internet portal, DVD distribution and an accompanying high-quality book.9It also represents an historic production collaboration: for the first time ever Australian federal and state film agencies (Film Australia, Film Finance Corporation, NSW Film and TV Office) came together with a national television service (SBS) and a leading Indigenous film company (Perkins and Dale’s Blackfella Films) to produce a long-running documentary series about Indigenous history made in consultation with featured Indigenous communities.10 The series showcases the work of many leading Indigenous filmmakers (Warwick Thornton, as a cinematographer; Beck Cole, as a

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director). In addition, the scale and success of this cross-platform production has consolidated Perkins’ place as one of Australia’s most accomplished and powerful film and television producer/directors.11 The form and content of the series is also groundbreaking. Perkins has stated that many viewers and critics expected that First Australians would focus on Australia’s pre-history, that is the 80,000 years or more prior to the written records that came with the British invasion (Perkins, 2008, 27). She also states in the film’s media kit that she and Dale quickly decided against that course of action. Firstly, because there are no photographs or written records to explain what happened in the past. As she explains: Rock paintings and engravings, carved objects such as bone fish hooks, carved trees and ancient pathways…illuminate the lives of the ancient Australians...but any attempt to draw out the relationships, emotions, and intellectual life of those involved is speculation, however insightful, wellinformed and knowledgeable (Perkins, 2008, 27).

Clearly, Perkins and Dale did not want to produce a story that relied on western disciplines such as archaeology and anthropology. Nor were they interested in dramatising the lives of ancestors. Perkins freely admits to “loathing” the docu-dramas about ancient peoples popularised through the rise of Foxtel’s The History Channel: “We particularly disliked the representations we viewed of people in earlier times, represented by blacked-up white actors playing grunting savages with low intellects, hiding in bushes” (Perkins, 2008, 29). Instead, the aim was to develop an Indigenous perspective that could contest racist assumptions about Indigenous peoples that inform Australian popular histories and connect the present with past. On another occasion, Perkins told The Canberra Times that one of the main reasons she wanted to make the series was to challenge the popular view of Indigenous Australians as, in her words, “not really Australian”: Indigenous people are seen as this other small group that no one really knows much about and are not really Australian. Somehow, I think it’s really strange. The first Australians aren’t really seen as Australians, they’re seen as these Aborigines who were different or something (Perkins, 2008, 3).

Instead of telling the story of the first Australians as a “different” group of people that focused on the pre-settlement period, Perkins and Dale devised a bold, postcolonial approach that re-narrativises Australian national history from an Indigenous perspective as a clash between two cultures. As stated on the series’ website, First Australians:

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Chronicles the birth of contemporary Australia as never told before, that is, from the perspective of its first people. First Australians explores what unfolds when the oldest living culture in the world is overrun by the world's greatest empire (under “About the Series”).

In doing so, the series serves to contest constructions of the first Australians as people belonging to a time outside of history. For as Johannes Fabian has argued, anthropologists’ denial of Indigenous peoples’ coevality has been a key feature in colonial constructions of alterity and the forms of colonial violence and subjugation that follow from this thinking (Fabian, 1983). At the same time, its historical documentary approach takes us beyond the histories of the new orthodoxy by providing an Indigenous perspective on that work that shifts Indigenous experience away from the margins of history. As a strategic act of cultural intervention, the series situates Indigenous Australians at the centre of the narrative of the development of the Australian nation, with a focus on individual lives and personalities that simultaneously engages viewers emotionally while expressing complex and often contradictory aspects of inter-cultural conflict and exchange. Each episode of First Australians focuses on the stories of several Indigenous individuals from a specific period from 1788 to 1993. These stories combine over seven episodes in a chronological epic narrative that encompasses the entire continent. Many of these individuals are well known Indigenous leaders, such as Bennelong, Doug Nichols and Eddie Koiki Mabo. It also includes stories of Indigenous leaders that deserve to be better known: Barak, Jandamara and William Cooper. In addition, it tells the stories of ordinary Indigenous individuals whose lives were shaped by historical policies and practices, such as Gladys Gilligan, for example, one of more than 50,000 children forcibly removed from her family nationwide in the Stolen Generations (mentioned earlier). In addition to telling the stories of Indigenous leaders and ordinary individuals, the series intertwines these stories with the lives of relevant, non-Indigenous historical figures, demonstrating the historic interrelationship between Indigenous and settler cultures. The first episode in the series, for example, tells the story of Bennelong, an Aboriginal youth kidnapped and befriended by the colony’s first Governor, Arthur Phillip, for the purpose of acting as an interpreter and mediator between the invading settlers and Aboriginal groups. It also looks at the warrior Pemulwuy, who shot and killed a gamekeeper, John McIntyre, revenging the deaths of Aboriginal people killed by McIntyre for stealing cattle. And finally it tells a less well-known story of a collaboration, and, as the series suggests, a possible intimate relationship, between an Aboriginal woman

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Patyegerang and Englishman William Dawes; a collaboration that led to the first Aboriginal language dictionary. This carefully crafted structure allows the series to open up wellknown historical episodes from Australia’s past in new and more emotionally affecting ways. There has been strong criticism by professional historians of popular history as being too emotional and thus superficial.12In opposition to that view, documentary film scholar John Corner argues that the audio-visual nature of television documentary allows it to connect audiences with “the moods, subjectivities and materiality of the past” more effectively than other medium by engaging viewers’ “historical imagination” (Corner, 2010, 26-7). The narrative of episode five of First Australians draws heavily on a series of letters recovered from the historical archive written by Gladys Gilligan, a young Aboriginal woman, to A.O. Neville. As mentioned earlier, Neville played a major role in the design and implementation of government policies of forcible removal of Aboriginal children from their families. But unlike Rabbit-Proof Fence’s narrative of Molly Craig’s extraordinary escape from the Moore River Native Settlement, the dramatic reading of Gilligan’s letters expresses the experience of ordinary Aboriginal people living under protection acts. The series also invites the audience to make connections between the present and the past by juxtaposing these readings with interviews with Gilligan’s descendants who bear witness to the ways in which the trauma of Gladys’ separation from her family continues to impact their lives and its potential to continue to shape future generations if such injustices are not properly recognised. These interviews and others throughout the series with descendants and elders also recognise the cultural significance of oral stories and testimony in Indigenous communities. According to the official website, the series was also produced in strict accordance with Indigenous protocols, upholding Indigenous cultural values and practices surrounding transmission of Indigenous cultural knowledge and intellectual property (under “About the Series”). Similar care was taken with the historical visual archive. Conducting one of the largest single acts of Indigenous reappropriation, the project team developed a database of over eight thousand images and worked closely with communities to correctly name as many of the depicted individuals as possible. Aboriginal historian Marcia Langton also contributes to the series’ reframing of this archive through her powerful on-screen presence and use of a distinctive rhetorical device. Interviewed throughout the series, her presence helps to link the various episodes, and in each she calls on us to imagine what a particular event would have been like for an Indigenous person at that time. Most

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Australians have, for example, seen historic images from the colonial frontier of chained gangs of Aboriginal men (and often women as well). As Perkins admits, it is impossible now to recover the names of these photographed subjects. But it is, as Langton suggests, possible for us to imagine how these subjects may have felt. In episode five, an image of this kind is used to help contextualize a segment from the colonial history of Western Australia and the story of Rottnest Island prison. Over an image of a dozen or so chained men, Langton’s commentary is used to solicit a particular way of seeing the image: “Try to imagine”, she says, “the thoughts of one man, in one of these chained gangs, who walked thousands of kilometers across Western Australia, to an almost certain death”. As the camera slowly zooms in on two faces, she suggests, “It must have been absolutely terrifying”. This technique serves to activate not only the viewer’s historical imagination but also an ethical imagination, enabling a new kind of historical consciousness. Langton calls upon us to actively participate in the construction of historical meaning by going beyond just knowing about Indigenous history. Indeed, knowing this history is not the main problem, for as mentioned earlier these stories are well documented in written histories. As Perkins claims, the problem the series specifically addresses is that despite that knowledge, Indigenous people and their personal and collective stories, are not popularly accepted or understood as Australian history. Langton’s commentary combines here with a visual record of this history to invite us to understand these stories through the specific work of moral interrogation of the complex social relationships between black and white Australians. For these reasons and more First Australians is a powerful intervention in Australian national historiography which has raised important questions about how best to view Australia’s history of colonisation and dispossession of its first peoples. It does this by offering viewers a perspective that allows them to see how that past continues to impact contemporary Indigenous Australians’ lives. But the construction of Indigenous perspectives on Australia’s past is not limited to historical genres. For as important as First Australians is, its underlying premise of an ultimate compressive history, the history of the nation, is only one of the ways in which Indigenous filmmakers and television producers are “doing history”. We need to also look to fictional works and to works set in the present as well as the past.

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Beneath Clouds: Recognising the Past in the Present Like many of Ivan Sen’s films, Beneath Clouds addresses issues of Aboriginal identity, drawing upon his personal experience as a young Aboriginal man of “mixed heritage” raised by his Aboriginal mother. It tells the story of Lena, a fair-skinned Aboriginal teenage girl who leaves home in search of her absent Irish father. Throughout the film, Lena’s identity is ambiguous. She is perceived by most of the people she encounters as white Australian, allowing her to experiment in passing herself as nonindigenous. But despite its setting and strong focus on questions of identity, Beneath Clouds is also about history or, more specifically, about the role of history in identity formation and subjectivity. In a study of assimilation experience, which combines critical and subjective perspectives, Indigenous academic Ian Anderson explains that in the postwar assimilationist era children of mixed descent, like Lena, were officially categorized as “mixed blood”, “urban”, “non-traditional” or “hybrid” Aborigines (Anderson, 2003, 46). He argues that the “hybrid” Aborigine was “constructed as ambiguous” and subsequently perceived as “belonging nowhere” and as having “no history” (emphasis added) (Anderson, 2003, 46). Lena bears the marks of the imposed construction of the “hybrid Aborigine” on Aboriginal people of mixed decent as an internalized shame, which, as Collins and I have discussed elsewhere, is articulated in this film as a desire to escape that history by passing as white (Collins and Davis, 2004, 162-8). Retreating from her socially constructed hybrid Aboriginality, Lena hopes that she may find a less oppressive identity in her white ancestry, a history that might properly include her. Her journey east toward the city takes her through the dry, dusty country of western New South Wales. On the road, she crosses paths with Vaughan, who is also Aboriginal. He is also on the run, having just escaped from a juvenile detention centre. And, like Lena, Vaughan is searching for a lost parent, in this case his dying mother. But whereas Lena is conflicted about her identity, Vaughan strongly identifies with his Aboriginality: a proud, young Black man. Being dark-skinned, however, means that Vaughan’s identity is framed in and through a different set of historical racialising images from Lena’s, in particular the stereotype of the angry, black delinquent. In scene after scene, while Lena is either warmly welcomed or at worst politely ignored by white Australians, Vaughan is at best regarded with suspicion and in the worst cases verbally and physically attacked. Vaughan and Lena eventually part ways, but not before Vaughan serves as a catalyst to Lena’s consciousness of her Aboriginal history.

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Throughout their long journey, Vaughan constantly asserts knowledge and connection to land. He also invites Lena (and us, as the audience) to see the history of colonial conflict in the Australian landscape through his Indigenous point of view. This occurs most powerfully in a scene that takes place on the roadside at the outskirts of Vaughan’s (and Sen’s) hometown. As he and Lena, on foot, turn a bend in the road they confront a looming thickly forested ridge of an Australian mountain range known as the Great Dividing Range. “Pretty, hey”, says Vaughan. Lena nods. “My pop”, Vaughan continues, “used to tell me about that place. The farmers chased all the black fellas up there a long time ago. They just shot them and pushed them off.” The film then cuts to a wide-shot of a family of tourists pulled over to one side of the road with their heads buried in a road map, oblivious to the ridge towering above them. Vaughan continues, “Now, no one gives a shit. Suppose they’ve got their own shit to worry about.” Lena’s gaze is fixed on the ridge, recognising for the first time the history embedded in the land, a history she now shares with Vaughan. For the white Australians below, however, the history in this towering ridge remains unrecognized. As with many instances in the works of Indigenous filmmakers, the past is invoked in this scene not through a model of linear time. That is, not through film techniques such as the flashback that takes us back in time only to return us to the present point in time. Rather, as in this scene, past and present collide, figured simultaneously within a single frame. For Indigenous viewers this technique may be considered consistent with an Indigenous worldview that conceives past and present time differently from the Western linear model. For non-indigenous viewers scenes such as this one from Beneath Clouds and other films allow access to an Indigenous perspective on the past. Our gaze is not aligned with the white Australian tourists in this scene who cannot see the history in the ridge above them but rather with Lena’s. Like her, we are invited to see the past embedded in the landscape. This scene from Beneath Clouds and its work of connecting the present and the past does not end here. Vaughan’s remembrance of victims of the massacre of his descendants is quickly tied to contemporary forms of violence and alienation. As Lena looks up at the magnificent ridge, Vaughan’s thoughts unexpectedly turn to his mother, “No wonder she left me. She must have known how I was going to turn out. Fuckin’ criminal for a son”. Lena turns her gaze away from the ridge towards Vaughan and quietly confesses, “My dad left me, you know. Mum blames me. Says he wanted his life and all that”. Vaughan responds with puzzlement, “Never knew any white fella before. Not like you, anyway”. This is Vaughan’s first inkling of recognition of Lena’s ambiguous identity. Later, Lena’s

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choice to pass as white is also challenged when an Aboriginal elder the pair encounter seems to recognize her identity when she asks Lena, “Where your people from, girl?” But rather than have Lena’s identity exposed, the film allows for ambiguity. We watch as Lena’s face registers an inner conflict between her (enforced) shame of her construction as a “hybrid” Aboriginal and her denial of that identity, for in the course of her journey she has come to see that to pass as white is to not only deny her own history but those of her ancestors. The film does not offer an easy solution to this profound dilemma. Instead it ends by forcing Lena to choose between the two options that are available to her: staying with Vaughan (her people) or continuing her journey away from the dead end of her life in a racist rural town. It is Vaughan, however who takes decisive action. With the two teenagers now being pursued by the police, signaled through off-screen police sirens, Vaughan rejects Lena’s gesture of solidarity, shouting at her to get out, to leave him and thus effectively saves her from imprisonment. The final scene of Vaughan and Lena parting wordlessly as she boards a train seconds before it pulls away from the platform is not only heartbreaking. Its refusal to offer a clear-cut ending prompts the audience to ponder the uncertainties the future holds for both of these young characters living in a nation that continues to deny their complex histories.

Conclusion Many of the films and television series produced by Indigenous filmmakers are shot through with moments that invite viewers to connect the present with the past such as those I have described in First Australians and Beneath Clouds. It is important to acknowledge that these moments speak not only to white audiences but also to Indigenous audiences, although in different ways. In an essay on the making of her award-winning, short fictional film The Farm (2009), Romaine Moreton describes her film as a work of “Indigenous remembrance”: “It was an opportunity for my community to remember who we are and how we once lived. It was an opportunity for us to create a film memory of that time, a shared story” (Moreton, 2011). As a new mode of Indigenous remembrance, film is used in many Indigenous communities as a means of community healing and strengthening. My analysis of First Australians and Beneath Clouds suggests that just as Indigenous film can strengthen Indigenous communities, it also has the potential to strengthen bonds between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. White Australians’ recognition of our colonial histories will, as Birch suggests, lift the burden

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of the past currently carried by Indigenous elders. Greater receptivity to Indigenous stories in film and television in recent years by white audiences might then be taken as a sign of a growing willingness to accept this responsibility. This constitutes a different kind of success for Indigenous film beyond international awards and box-office takings. It is the mark of a beginning: that important first step that ensures future dialogue and exchange.

Notes 1. “Indigenous” is an inclusive term that refers to Aboriginal peoples of Australia’s mainland and Tasmania as well as Torres Strait Islanders. Spelling of “Indigenous” in this chapter follows the Australian Federal Government Parliamentary Counsel Drafting Direction No. 2.1 on English usage (September 2008), “Part 4, Spelling of ‘Indigenous’”. It states: “Always capitalise ‘Indigenous’ when it refers to the original inhabitants of Australia - as in “Indigenous Australians” and ‘Indigenous communities’. It needs no capitals when used in a general sense to refer to the original inhabitants of other countries.” www.opc.gov.au/about/drafting_series/DD2.1.pdf. 2. For example: Beneath Clouds (Ivan Sen, 2002) won awards for Best Achievement in Direction and Best Cinematography at the 2002 Australian Film Institute (AFI) Awards; The Circuit (SBS TV, 2007-2009), won Best Telefeature or Mini Series at the 2007 AFI Awards, along with many other awards for directing and acting; Samson and Delilah (Warwick Thornton, 2009) won the prestigious Cannes Film Festival Camera d’Or prize; Bran NueDae (Rachel Perkins, 2009) is one of the top 50 Australian films of all time at the Australian box office; First Australians (SBS TV, 2008) is to date Australia’s largest and most expensive television documentary series. 3. For a list of more than 1,000 feature length and short works, see The Black List: Film and TV Projects since 1970 with Indigenous Australians in Key Creative Roles (Screen Australia: Sydney, 2010).www.screenaustralia.gov.au/documents/sa_publications/blacklist.pdf. 4. See Terri Janke, Pathways & Protocols: a filmmaker’s guide to working with Indigenous people, culture and concepts (Sydney: Screen Australia, 2009). 5. Prior to 2002, the only film with an Indigenous lead role in the top 100 Australian feature films of all time (ranked by total reported gross Australian box office) was the children’s film Storm Boy (Henri Safran, 1976), starring David Gulpilil. See “Top 100 Australian Films”, http://www.screenaustralia.gov.au/research/statistics/mrboxaust.asp. 6. For an overview of the concept of “black armband” history in Australia, see Mark McKenna, “Different Perspectives on Black Armband History”, in Australian parliamentary library - research paper five (1997-98), http://www.aph.gov.au/library/pubs/RP/1997-98/98rp05.htm. 7. See Stuart McIntyre and Anna Clark (eds), The History Wars (Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing, 2003).

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8. Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission, Bringing them home: report of the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families, (Sydney: HREOC, 1997). For more information, see Australian Human Rights Commission website, http://www.hreoc.gov.au/social_justice/bth_report/index.html 9. For more information, see First Australians website, http://www.sbs.com.au/firstaustralians/. 10. For an analysis of collaboration in First Australians, see Therese Davis, “Indigenising Australian History: Contestation and Collaboration in First Australians”, Screening the Past, 24, 2009, http://www.latrobe.edu.au/screeningthepast/current/issue-24.html. This chapter uses sections from this essay with permission. 11. Perkins serves on the board of the National Indigenous TV service (NITV) and the board of Screen Australia. She has won five Australian Film Institute’s awards, including the prestigious Byron Kennedy Award for “her vast amount and breadth of her work as writer, director, producer, executive producer and instigator across drama, documentary and television; for her dynamism and creativity; for her outstanding ability to inspire others and work collaboratively; and for her passionate championing of indigenous filmmaking and filmmakers”, under Byron Kennedy Winners 1984 – 2010, Australian Film Institute Webpage. http://www.afi.org.au/Content/NavigationMenu/Archive/Library/AwardsHistory/P astWinners/default.htm. 12. For an excellent critique of this tendency and a rethinking of Australian television history, see Michelle Arrow, “Broadcasting the Past: Australian Television Histories”, History Australia, 8:1 (2011): 223-246.

References Anderson, Ian. 2003. “Black Bit, White Bit.” Blacklines: Contemporary Critical Writing by Indigenous Australians. Ed. Michele Grossman, 43-51. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Arrow, Michelle. 2011. “Broadcasting the Past: Australian Television Histories.” History Australia, 8 (1): 223-246. Barron, Maureen. 2007. “Preface.” In Dreaming In Motion: Celebrating Australia’s Indigenous Filmmakers, ed. Keith Gallasch, v. Sydney: Australian Film Commission. Beneath Clouds.2002. Directed by Ivan Sen. Produced by Teresa-Jayne Hanlon. Australia: Magna Pacific, Dendy Films, Becker Entertainment. DVD. Birch, Tony. 2006. “‘I Could Feel it in My Body’: War On a History War.” Transforming cultures eJournal, 1 (1): 19-32. http://epress.lib.uts.edu.au/ojs/index.php/TfC/article/view/188.

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—. 2007. “‘The invisible fire’: Indigenous Sovereignty, History and Responsibility.” In Sovereign Subjects: Indigenous Sovereignty Matters. Ed. Aileen Moreton-Robinson. 105-117. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Black and White.2002. Directed by Craig Lahiff. Produced by Helen Leake and Nik Powell. Australia: Scala Productions Ltd. Film. Bostock, Lester. 2007. “Indigenous Screen Culture: A Personal Experience.” Dreaming In Motion:Celebrating Australia’s Indigenous Filmmakers. Ed. Keith Gallasch, 7-11. Sydney: Australian Film Commission. Briscoe, Gordon. 2006. “Review of Bain Attwood’s Telling the Truth about Aboriginal History.” History Australia, 3 (1): 251-53. Collins, Felicity Collins and Therese Davis. 2004. Australian Cinema After Mabo. Melbourne and Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Corner, John. 2010. “‘Once Upon a Time..’: Visual Design and Documentary Openings.” Televising History: Mediating the Past in Postwar Europe. Ed. Erin Bell and Ann Gray, 13-27. Basingstoke, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. Curthoys, Ann. “Disputing National Histories: Some Recent Australian Debates.” Transforming Cultures e Journal, 1 (1): 6-18. http://epress.lib.uts.edu.au/ojs/index.phpTfC/article/view/187. Davis, Therese. 2009. “Indigenising Australian History: Contestation and Collaboration in First Australians.” Screening the Past, 24. http://www.latrobe.edu.au/screeningthepast/current/issue-24.html Fabian, Johannes. 1983. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Columbia University Press. First Australians. 2008. Produced by Helen Panckhurst and Rachel Perkins. Australia: New South Wales Film and Television Office, Blackfella Films, Enhance TV, SBS-TV, Screen Australia, Screenwest and South Australian Film Corporation. TV Series. —. Official website. SBS TV. http://www.sbs.com.au/firstaustralians/. Gallasch, Keith. 2007. “Australian Indigenous Film: A Community of Makers.” In Dreaming In Motion: Celebrating Australia’s Indigenous Filmmakers, ed. Keith Gallasch, 13-20. Sydney: Australian Film Commission. Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission. 1997. Bringing them home: report of the National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families. Sydney: HREOC. http://www.hreoc.gov.au/social_justice/bth_report/index.html Janke, Terri. 2009. Pathways & Protocols: a filmmaker’s guide to working with Indigenous people, culture and concepts. Screen Australia: Sydney.

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Keating, Paul. 1992. “The Redfern Address.” 10 December 1992, Redfern Park, Sydney, Australia. http://www.keating.org.au/shop/item/redfernspeech-year-for-the-worlds-indigenous-people---10-december-1992 Manne, Robert. 2003. “Introduction.” Whitewash: On Keith Windschuttle’s Fabrication of Aboriginal History. Melbourne: Black Inc. Agenda. McIntyre, Stuart and Anna Clark. Eds. 2003.The History Wars. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing. McKenna. “Different Perspectives On Black Armband History.” Australian Parliamentary Library - Research Paper Five (1997-98). http://www.aph.gov.au/library/pubs/RP/1997-98/98rp05.htm. Moreton, Romaine. 2011. “The Farm and Indigenous Remembrance.” Screening the Past, 31. http://www.screeningthepast.com/?p=1084. Perkins, Rachel. 2006. “Documentary research and the archives.” Key Note Address, 2Deadly: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Library and Information Resource Network Conference. Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, 20 November. http://www1.aiatsis.gov.au/exhibitions/conference/conf06/papers/Rach el%20Perkins.doc. —. 2008. First Australians Media Kit. Sydney: Blackfella Films. —. 2008. “Unearthing our first voices.” The Canberra Times, 14 October, 3. Rabbit-Proof Fence. 2002. Directed and produced by Phillip Noyce. Australia: Australian Film Finance Corporation Ltd, The Premium Movie Partnership, South Australian Film Corporation and Jabal Films. Riley, Sally. 2007. “Revolutions: The AFC Indigenous Branch.” In Dreaming In Motion: Celebrating Australia’s Indigenous Filmmakers, ed. Keith Gallasch, 1-6. Sydney: Australian Film Commission. Screen Australia. 2010. The Black List. A directory of film and TV projects since 1970 with Indigenous Australians in key creative roles. Sydney. The Tracker. 2002. Directed and produced by Rolf de Heer. Australia: Madman Entertainment. DVD.

PART II: HISTORY: EXPLORATIONS/EXCHANGES

CHAPTER THREE “RAINING RUPEES”: HOW AUSTRALIAN CRICKETERS CAME TO EMBRACE THE SUBCONTINENT TOM HEENAN AND DAVID DUNSTAN

In early 2010 the then Victorian State Government Labor Premier, John Brumby, announced the possibility of appointing the former Australian cricketer, Shane Warne, as Victoria’s goodwill ambassador to India. According to Brumby, Warne was “highly regarded and “much loved” in India and, as well, had a “great sense of the Australian psyche” (Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 2010). Despite Warne’s cricketing prowess and his high profile on the subcontinent, Brumby’s announcement was met in some quarters with a mixture of mirth and incredulity. Warne was not an obvious choice for an ambassadorial post of any sort. Though he remains Australia’s leading Test wicket-taker, his career was dogged by controversy. Serial sexual dalliances, the acceptance of money from an Indian bookmaker in exchange for reports on match conditions, and a twelve-month ban from cricket for taking his mother’s diuretic would have disqualified most applicants from any form of “diplomatic” posting, but not Warne. Furthermore, India was not an obvious destination for him. On his early tours he had struggled with the food. Cans of baked beans and spaghetti had to be airlifted to him in what the Indian press dubbed “Operation Bean” (Indian Express, 1998). But Warne had grown to love India. Since his retirement from Test cricket, he had forged a new career in the Indian Premier League (IPL), captaining the Rajasthan Royals to the inaugural IPL title, and pocketing around $450,000 for six weeks work. The spectacular success in India since only 2008 of the shortened Twenty/20 form of the game, as opposed to its longer variants, has helped shift the epicentre of world cricket to the subcontinent, offering huge markets and audiences for sponsors and cricket authorities, not to mention a new lease of life and riches for

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ageing stars like Warne (Gupta, 2009). But as Warne told the London Daily Telegraph’s Simon Hughes, he wasn’t there for “the money” (Daily Telegraph, 2008). The IPL season slotted snugly with his commitments to family, Australian cricket and poker. Warne’s success with the Royals not only raised his price, but also enhanced his celebrity status in India, a factor that Brumby sought to exploit. Brumby’s approach emanated from a wave of attacks on Indian students in Melbourne streets in mid-2009. The attacks were widely reported in the Australian and Indian press, and had prompted tit-fortat exchanges between the Australian and Indian governments over the extent of suitable protection for the latter’s citizens while in Australia. At risk, reputedly, was Australia’s $17AUD billion per annum international student market. Many Indians considered the attacks indicative of Australian racism and warned against their nationals undertaking studies in Australia. Australian authorities, however, downplayed the racist aspect, preferring instead to portray the attacks as a law and order problem. The Victorian Police Commissioner, Simon Overland, advised Indian students to avoid living in Melbourne’s less affluent suburbs, and not to display the trappings of wealth when out and about. Overland downplayed the racist card, stressing instead that the attacks were based largely on economic factors and suggesting that the Indian students were “soft targets” because of their habits of dress in public places (Age, 2010, 2; Dunn 2011). But the Indian press painted another picture. The populist Indian magazine, Outlook, ran a front-page cover story entitled “Why the Aussies hate us” (Outlook 2008). Meanwhile, according to a statement issued by the Indian Government, the Indian Foreign Minister, SM Krishna, told his Australian counterpart, Stephen Smith, it was “becoming increasingly difficult to accept the attacks were devoid of any racial motives” (Age, 2010,1). Although he had no formal responsibility for foreign affairs, Victorian Premier, John Brumby, was under pressure to act, because its capital, Melbourne, was the principal location of the attacks and given the importance of international students to the economy (Austin, 2010). Warne certainly had his work cut out for him. Undaunted, he declared, “[i]f I can help th[e] friendship, the relationship between both countries and make a difference and help, then I’m putting my hand up to do that” (Times of India, 2010). Within weeks Brumby had organized Vindaloo against Violence Day and shortly afterwards Warne was pictured in a Melbourne park munching on curry puffs with a group of happy Indian students. Brumby’s involvement of Warne

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was heartily endorsed by the Chief Executive of Cricket Australia, James Sutherland. He felt that cricketers like Warne were “capable of bridging any divide” (Deccan Herald, 2010). Sutherland’s remark echoed the populist sentiment that sport can build bridges between diverse peoples. Warne’s near cult-status on the subcontinent would be enough to make Indians forget about the attacks and come together with Australians in cricket-led harmony. But a short perusal of IndianAustralian cricket history would have revealed to Sutherland and Brumby a story consisting mainly of racial and cultural arrogance on Australia’s part. With the rare exception, Warne and Australia’s embrace of Indian cricket is a recent development based more on economic opportunism than cricketing friendship. Exploiting extensive global media networks and a well spread diaspora; India has developed into the game’s dominant market, which Australian players and administrators ignore at their peril. This media-led market has changed the face of cricket, with the introduction of player auctions and franchised teams, competing in 20-over a side, made for television affairs. It has obscured the fact that for much of the two nations’ cricketing history Australia’s attitude towards the subcontinent was one of indifference punctuated with rare moments of mainly reluctant engagement on the part of Australian cricket authorities and most players.1 The conventional wisdom promoted by the authorities and cricket historians such as Richard Cashman is that there was a more positive shift in attitudes to India from the 1980s on, and that this was part of a broader discovery of and growing sympathy among Australians for Asia generally.2 Many Australians, however, still believed the English were their traditional opponents with the Ashes the game’s most significant contest—an assumption that not even a sequence of weak English sides and the supremacy of the West Indies could dispel. A wider interpretation suggests that in the final decades of the twentieth century cricket, as with many sports, experienced a postcolonial revolution, culminating in the Indian takeover of the International Cricket Council in the 1990s. The boycott of South Africa on the grounds of its Apartheid policies, and the increased media marketability of West Indian and sub-continental teams, marked the beginning of the end for cricket’s old Imperial order. By the 1990s the world had changed—or so it seemed. Apartheid had been defeated and international cricketers were now well rewarded for their efforts on the field. Australian tours and individual player initiatives were undertaken with a variety of cricketing nations and were now more

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frequent. Yet despite these positive initiatives, plenty of continuing evidence remained in administrative planning decisions, player behaviour—both on and off the field—and general continuing disquiet about Indian cricket’s emergence as the dominant financial and political force in world cricket. Did Australia have more of a problem with its sub-continental northern neighbours and visitors than perhaps it knew or understood? Within days of leaving Brumby’s office in 2010, Warne was pictured at Lord’s Cricket Ground in London. He was not promoting racial harmony or Australia’s cricket interests, but the Rajasthan Royals and the 20-over game. In a first for Indian franchised cricket, Rajasthan had just joined England’s Hampshire Royals, South Africa’s Cape Cobras and Trinidad and Tobago to form a global alliance under the brand name, Royals 2020. Under the alliance, these teams would be used to promote the Royal brand year round in multiple markets. The previous July, amidst much Bollywood razzamatazz, Warne had led the Royals to victory over the Middlesex Panthers in his last playing appearance at Lord’s in front of 22,000 spectators. Now, Warne stood before the members’ pavilion, the home of the game’s traditional powers, the Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) and the Imperial Cricket Conference. Since 1909, they had been the bastions of AngloAustralian cricket power. As foundation members of the Conference, the MCC and Australian Board of Control had run the organisation to conform to their own interests until the 1990s. To reflect the broadening base of the game, the Conference was renamed the International Cricket Council (ICC) in 1989 and in 1993 the MCC ended its administration of the organization. In 2005, the ICC shifted from Lord’s to Dubai. The move was largely prompted by the United Arab Emirates’ more lenient taxation laws and Dubai’s proximity to cricket’s emerging powerbase. At Lord’s Warne was pictured in what appeared to be a throwback to cricket’s colonial age. But he now stood before the cameras as a representative of the game’s semi-global era, with its cult of celebrity, promoting an Indian-orchestrated cricketing alliance at the game’s traditional home. As with so much in contemporary cricket the images, if not the metaphors, were mixed in origin. The image suggests that Australia and India have come a long way in fostering better cricket relations. But the history—both distant and recent—suggests otherwise. Australian cricket administrators and players have always cherished the Ashes Test series above all else. For most Australian players, the pinnacle is still playing at Lord’s in a Test

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match. The Australian Cricket Board (ACB) regarded all other cricketing nations other than England as “lesser” and drew up its international itineraries accordingly. Inevitably, lesser importance was placed on Test series against sub-continental teams, though this is gradually changing since India—albeit briefly—became the leading Test playing team. But it is hard to escape the conclusion that Australian players, administrators and writers on the game, have over the years treated Indians and other sub-continental cricketing nations predominantly as second-raters. This is not surprising, as traditionally Australian and Indian cricketing paths rarely crossed. Both preferred to test their mettles against the English. For Australians, victory over the ‘mother country’ seemed proof that the British racial strain had not wilted under the antipodean sun. For many years it was considered there was little need to play against so-called racial and cricketing inferiors (Cashman, 2009). When their paths did cross it was usually through the prism of the Ashes. The so-called Indian cricketing prince, Ranjitsinhji, his cousin KS Duleepsinhji, and the Nawab of Pataudi, all represented England against Australia in the period from the 1890s to the 1930s. Indeed, Ranjitsinhji—or Ranji—was arguably the most charismatic cricketer of the pre-Bradman era and feted by Australians during the 1897-98 English tour of Australia. Waiving racially based restrictive immigration laws and putting aside their prejudices, Ranji was considered by Australian colonials to be more English than Indian. He was a product of Harrow and Cambridge, rather than Rajkumar College, which Ranji had captained from 1884 until 1888, and his silken manners and cricketing apparel, as well as his dusky exoticism, purportedly made the colonial ladies swoon wherever he appeared. As with Duleepsinhji and Pataudi, his selection for England reinforced the old Imperial order. For Australian cricket administrators and players, however, their selections reinforced India’s lesser place in the game’s Imperial order. Indian cricket was not considered a distinct entity, but incorporated within the game’s dominant contest—the Ashes. When Australian teams did visit India, they were either en route to, or returning from, an Ashes campaign. Their preferred port-of-call was Colombo, not Bombay, which was considered poverty-stricken, pestilence-ridden and a cricketing backwater. Though India was granted membership of the International Cricket Conference in 1928, and played its first Test match against an England team in 1930, it did not meet Australia until 1947. The Second World War undoubtedly hampered cricketing contact, but so too did the

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attitude of the Australian Board, which ignored requests from the Board of Cricket Control for India (BCCI) for an official visit. The Australian Board only gave lukewarm endorsement for an unofficial tour in 1935, by a side comprising ageing veterans and serviceable Sheffield Shield types under the captaincy of the 45 year-old former Test player and Australian captain, Jack Ryder (Coward 1990). The push for an official Indian tour came from the Indian High Commissioner to Australia, the BCCI and the Chifley Labor Government’s External Affairs Minister, HV ‘Doc’ Evatt.3A major figure politically, but also a cricket administrator and historian of the game, Evatt recognised cricket’s potential to foster relations between British Commonwealth nations in the post-war period of decolonization. When the teams finally locked horns in the Australian summer of 1947-48, India was reeling from the ravages of Partition, undermanned and no match for Don Bradman’s Australians who used the series as preparation for the 1948 Ashes tour of England. The Indian series became a footnote in the mythology surrounding Bradman and his team of so-called “Invincibles”. The Australian Board noted that the Indian series, financially, had just broken even. Consequently, it recommended against future Indian tours of Australia. As far as the Board was concerned the financial bottom-line would determine Australia’s future cricketing relations with the subcontinent (Haigh, 2006, 125). The Australians’ disregard for the Indians was apparent on the 1948 team’s voyage to England. With the ship docking en route at Bombay, the Indian Board organized a function in honour of Bradman and his team. But the Australians and Bradman, in particular, had left their manners at home. As team captain and an Australian Board member, Bradman was obliged to attend, particularly as many Indian cricketing dignitaries had travelled great distances to meet him. Bradman, however, stayed holed-up in his cabin and only a handful of Australians attended the function. An Indian delegation, including leading administrator, Anthony De Mello, did visit Bradman in his cabin. But as Bradman noted in his autobiography, the Indians had to be hurried off so the ship could set sail for England (Bradman, 1994, 150-1; Fingleton, 1949, 27-9; Rosenwater, 1978, 332-3). His snub was a portent of future cricketing relations between the two countries. It would be twenty years before another Indian side toured Australia. Australian sides did tour the subcontinent in subsequent years, but managers were instructed by the Board to discourage talk about future Indian tours of Australia. The Australians conducted a whirlwind tour

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of the sub-continent over a mere three weeks in 1956 on their return from an Ashes defeat in England. Three Test matches were played in India (Australia winning 2-0) with a one-off Test in Pakistan. Pressure for a more substantial engagement and additional matches had come from the Indian High Commissioner to Australia, KM Cariappa, and the Liberal Prime Minister, Sir Robert Menzies. 4 With India under Nehru adopting a non-aligned foreign policy and consorting with communists, Menzies sought to bolster relations through cricket. He was no lover of Indians, finding them incomprehensible, and he disagreed with the Nehru Government’s non-aligned foreign policy. But Menzies was a cricketing enthusiast and a missionary for extending its appeal to Commonwealth nations especially. He believed the game instilled “civilised” values and “mutual understanding”, and would reinvigorate the old values of Empire in Britain’s former colonies at a time when they were on the wane (Menzies, 1967, 341). These values were certainly on the wane in English cricket and Whitehall, confronted with decolonizing forces, further prompted Menzies’ foray into cricketing diplomacy. In November 1952, the Jamaican Governor, Sir Hugh Foot, had approached him about the possibility of an Australian tour of the West Indies in 1955 to celebrate the 300th anniversary of British colonization. Foot formalized his approach in a letter to Menzies in February 1953 (Haigh, 2006, 69). Fortuitously, they met while Menzies was in London for the Coronation and, coincidentally, for the Australian cricketers’ tour of England. Undoubtedly, Foot was motivated by the growth of antiBritish sentiment, which peaked with Whitehall’s dismissal of the popularly elected government of Cheddi Jagan in British Guiana in 1953, and the crowd disturbances and hostile press that greeted Len Hutton’s English team during their 1954 tour of the Caribbean. A professional cricketer had captained the English side for the first time. A no-nonsense, blunt, win-at-all-costs type, Hutton had no time for mixing with opposition players or diplomatic niceties. Consequently, the tour was a diplomatic disaster, marred by riots and the rudeness of English players towards their Caribbean hosts. Such behaviour was repeated by a team of English second stringers on a tour of Pakistan in early 1955. Upset by umpiring decisions, the English players kidnapped an umpire and ducked him in a bath. While the Pakistani and Indian press called for the team to be sent home, the Englishmen downplayed the incident as public school hi-jinx. On their return to London the players were whisked to Lord’s for a head-masterly dressing down from the MCC’s hierarchy.

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Menzies and Foot were well aware of the diplomatic damage caused by these incidents. To a lesser extent, so too was the Australian Board. In 1954 it appointed the ageing Victorian off-spinner, Ian Johnson, as the Australian captain over the mercurial but individualistic Keith Miller, who was at the time one of the best known figures in the cricket-playing Commonwealth. With Australia about to embark on its first tours of the West Indies and the subcontinent, Johnson’s was a diplomatic appointment. Unlike Hutton and his players, he was convivial and gracious in praising his West Indian hosts and democratic in mixing with the locals. He ensured that his players followed suit. Australia’s ensuing tour of the subcontinent occurred at the height of the Suez crisis. With the positions of Menzies and Nehru at loggerheads over the Canal, Johnson steered clear of politics and praised his hosts at every opportunity. Though he led Australia to two Ashes’ losses, Johnson was one of Australia’s most important cricket captains, shepherding Australian cricket through the challenges posed by tours of the Caribbean and the subcontinent during a tense period of decolonization. At a time when English cricket had lost its sense of Imperial mission, Menzies, Johnson and, to a lesser extent, the Australian Board stepped into the breach. The Australian Board usually tacked the Indian tours onto the homeleg of an Ashes series. The scheduling was indicative of the Indians’ lesser status. But by the mid-1960s, the Board found that one month in India proved more profitable than a five month campaign in England. The bottom line decreed greater cricketing contact between the two countries. But Indian tours were unpopular with Australian players who struggled to overcome well-ingrained cultural and racial prejudices. Player memoirs paint the Indians and Pakistanis as cunning and dishonest. They doctored wickets to suit the home side, while their umpires were either inept or biased. The hotels were dirty, the food inedible and the water was undrinkable. The players were blind to the difficulties encountered by their hosts in staging these series. The cricketing infrastructure and resources were far more limited than in developed countries, as were the administrative and playing experiences of their hosts. Rather than attempting to understand the problems faced by their hosts, many Australian players resorted to racial stereotypes. Confronted with poverty and fearing pestilence, they retreated behind the walls of their hotels and cultivated a culture of complaint.5 This was particularly evident in the 1969 Australian tour of India under Bill Lawry. Previous Australian captains had been schooled by diplomats on what to expect. Lawry received no such training and it showed. As with Hutton, Lawry was a blunt, win-at-all costs captain with little time for the

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press or the humbug of social engagements. As with many of his teammates, he lacked the cultural breadth and curiosity to engage with India. During the Calcutta Test match Lawry was accused of assaulting a photographer, while the Australian team bus was stoned and an angry mob attempted to storm the Australians’ hotel. Lawry was condemned in the Indian press for his poor sportsmanship, rudeness and racial arrogance (Talyarkhan, 1969). The Australian Board didn’t help matters. Prior to the tour they had threatened to play three instead of five Tests if Indian Government restrictions on foreign currency transfers weren’t waivered, as they threatened to diminish the Board’s potential profits. External Affairs were so concerned that it considered dipping into funds set aside for cultural activities to bridge any shortfalls in the Board’s books.6 Also, the Board had scheduled a South African Test series immediately after the Indian tour. Undoubtedly, this hardened attitudes against the team, particularly in radical Calcutta. Beset by internal political strife, the occasional Naxalite attack and mass migrations from Bihar and East Pakistan, Calcutta was not a city to send insular Australians to play a Test match under a prickly captain. Though the match proceeded with a heavy police and military presence, it was marred by riots and a stampede for tickets that killed five people. With the Australians approaching victory and the grandstands burning around him, Lawry insisted the game continue, even though the score-box had been torched and the Indian scorer had called it a day. It is unclear if Lawry knew of discussions between the Australian team management and the Australian High Commission about plans to abandon the game in the event of crowd disturbances. 7 Given their attitude, it was questionable that the game should have proceeded at all. The Australian team then left India for South Africa just as anti-Apartheid demonstrators disrupted the Springbok rugby tour of Britain. On his arrival, the Australian opening batsman, Keith Stackpole, noted with relief that South Africa “was a great country; so similar to Australia it didn’t matter”. Unlike his arrival in India, there was no sea of “coloured” faces to spook Stackpole. He no longer felt fearful of opening his hotel door to let India in. For Stackpole and his teammates there was no coloured problem in South Africa (Stackpole, 1974, 66, 79). Australian and Indian cricket authorities split over South Africa’s policy of racial segregation known as Apartheid. Though the Australian Board chairman, Sir Donald Bradman, cancelled the 1971-2 South African tour, he discussed in private the possibility of a 1975-76 tour with the McMahon Liberal Government. The election of the Whitlam Labor Government in 1972, with its policy of non-sporting contact with South

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Africa, put paid to Bradman’s plans and averted a split in the game between black and white nations. But Bradman and the Board could not halt the push by India for a greater say in the game’s governance. Cricketing relations between Australia and the subcontinent changed significantly in the 1970s. With the emergence of world-class players such as the charismatic Pakistani all-rounder, Imran Khan, and batsmen, Zaheer Abbas and Majid Khan, their Indian counterpart, Sunil Gavaskar, and a bevy of world-class spin bowlers, India and Pakistan developed into competitive combinations. In 1971 India won its first Test series in England, while Pakistan lost to the latter in a closely fought three-Test series. Though Pakistan toured Australia in 1972-73 and 1976-77, securing a series draw on the latter occasion, India’s tours were far less regular. Defeated 4-0 on their four Test tour of 1967-68, the Indians were not invited back until 1977-78. The Australian Board still considered the Indians second-raters. In an age when gate-takings remained the main source of revenue, the Board believed the Indians were unlikely to attract sufficient crowds. As Bradman told the Indian press in 1969, the Australian Board had not only “to fulfill her commitments with other countries”; it also had “a relatively small population” in comparison to India, which created “an economic hazard” in inviting teams of lesser caliber to tour (Times of India1969, 4 November). The 1977-78 Indian tour seemed to herald a change in the Australian Board’s attitude. It was staged in opposition to Kerry Packer’s cricket circus, World Series Cricket, which had by-passed the Indian game. Indian cricketers were contracted to local government authorities and corporations, which provided them with adequate remuneration, time off for cricket and a job for life, and so there was limited scope for earning an income from the game in other markets. Though India’s miniature batting maestro, Sunil Gavaskar, flirted with Packer, he was not a prime target. World Series Cricket was a fusion of cricket, media and marketing. As Australians still largely considered Indian players second-raters, there was no place for them in Packer’s media-driven circus. Instead, the Indians lost a tightly fought five-Test series to a second-string Australian team. The tour seemed to enhance the Indians’ stocks with the Board and it appeared they would be rewarded with greater access to the Australian cricket market. But as Haigh and Frith uncovered, the Australian Board’s settlement with Packer’s PBL Marketing in 1979 necessitated the Board securing two touring teams each summer for a series of Test matches and one-day internationals (Haigh and Frith, 2007, 201). From the Board’s perspective, India’s increased involvement in Australian cricket stemmed from necessity rather than altruism. Though scheduled to tour Australia in

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1979-80, the Indians’ visit was postponed until the following season to accommodate visits from the more marketable West Indies and English teams. With the settlement of the Board’s dispute with Packer, the English and West Indians were considered greater television ratings attractions than the Indians. The Indians would tour again in 1985-86 for a Test series, while the Australians reciprocated only once in1986. It was not until 1996 that another Australian team would venture on a fully-fledged Test tour of India. It was during the 1980s that the subcontinent emerged as a force in the game. On the playing side, Pakistan was second only in strength and marketability to the all-conquering West Indies, while India surprised all by winning the 1983 World Cup, the 1984 Asia Cup and the 1985 World Championship of Cricket in Melbourne. Most significantly, in 1987 India and Pakistan jointly hosted the World Cup. For the first time the tournament was staged outside England, and it reflected the growing clout of Indian cricket. Though the Australians won the Cup, the Australian Board and the game’s marketers, Kerry Packer’s PBL Marketing Ltd, were tardy in recognizing the tournament’s significance. While previous finals at Lord’s had been televised in their entirety, this one in Calcutta was only partially seen in several major Australian cities. The previous year, Australia and India had played the second only tied Test match in the game’s history. It was also not seen on Australian television screens and has been accorded lesser significance than the previous tie against the West Indies as a consequence. India’s rise coincided with a steelier resolve to touring India amongst Australian players. Under the captaincy of Alan Border and later Steve Waugh, the coaching of Bob Simpson and the work of administrators like Alan Crompton, the old “Delhi belly” culture was replaced by a more professional approach to sub-continental tours. The new professionalism was often sorely tested. This was evident on the 1988 Australia tour of Pakistan when a petulant Border and team manager, Col Egar, threatened to boycott the tour in protest against the alleged ineptitude of local umpires. But the tied Test and World Cup victory had sparked some Australian interest about cricket on the sub-continent, exemplified by the 1990 publication of Mike Coward’s Cricket Beyond the Bazaar. Though Coward’s work was an invaluable addition to Australia’s largely Anglocentric cricketing history, it only dealt with Australia’s forays to the subcontinent and not the total cricketing relationship. But Bazaar did contain pointed forewords from Imran Khan and Sunil Gavaskar about Australian players’ attitudes to the sub-continent. They accused the Australians of narrow mindedness and—to paraphrase Imran—of an

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expectation of first world treatment in “third world countr[ies] with [their] own culture[s].” This expectation was evident in the writings of the Australian spinner Tim May, who toured both India and Pakistan in the late 1980s. In 1998, May drew on his experiences in publishing a fictionalised diary of an Australian tour of the subcontinent. It featured countless “craps”, hangovers and doses of “stoppers”, and much racial stereotyping. May even elaborated on the “viscosity level” of the subcontinental strain of diarrhoea in comparison to its “European equivalent” (May, 1998, 42). May’s toilet humour drew on the well-established “Delhi belly” line peddled in numerous Australian cricketing autobiographies since the 1950s (Stackpole,1974, 66-78; Redpath, 1976, 57-62; Walters, 1981, 67-76; Chappell, 1976, 64-6; Mallett, 1973, 40-58). At the time of the book’s publication, May was the Chief Executive Officer of the Australian Cricketers’ Association and hence far from an insignificant voice in the game. But these attitudes altered radically in the 1990s with the liberalization of the Indian economy, the development of global media communications, and the BCCI’s challenge to the traditional Anglo-Australian ruling bloc in the ICC. By the late 1990s India had emerged as the game’s dominant market and the Indian batsman, Sachin Tendulkar, had become cricket’s highest paid player. By 2005 the Indian one-day cricket shirt was worth more in sponsorship than the football shirts of Juventus, Chelsea, Manchester United and Real Madrid.8 By 2007 India was generating seventy per cent of the game’s global income (Sydney Morning Herald 2008). Given its financial clout, the BCCI has become the dominant force in the ICC. The architect behind this shift was the Bengali construction magnate, Jagmohan Dalmiya, who sought to align the game’s political hegemony with its financial base. To do so, Dalmiya—initially as President of the BCCI, and later as Chairman of the ICC—challenged the right of Australian and English administrators to determine ICC policy. As ICC founding members the Australian Board and MCC had the power to veto decisions agreed to by the organization’s Test playing nations. Dalmiya rightly considered this a throwback to colonialism and sought, successfully, to remove the veto power and broaden the voting base within the ICC to include associate members. With the BCCI prepared to fund the game’s development in associate member nations, it was well situated to determine the game’s politics. Under Dalmiya’s presidency of the ICC from 1997-2000, the organization’s coffers swelled from £16,000 to £16 million fuelled by corporations keen to use the game as a means of promoting their wares in an expanding Indian market (Majumdar, 2004, 425). The political power this brought was apparent in 2002 when India,

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Pakistan, Sri Lanka and Bangladesh signed a memorandum of understanding (MOU) in which each party assured the other it would refuse to play in any country that boycotted a tour of one of the signatories. The Australians’ unwillingness to tour Pakistan was one of the prime factors behind the MOU. So concerned was the Australian Board that it plotted the establishment of a rival cricket bloc with New Zealand, the West Indies, England and perhaps South Africa. Nothing eventuated, though Cricket Australia’s then Chief Executive Officer, Graham Halbish, thought it a viable way of loosening India’s stranglehold on the game (Halbish 2003, 8-26). A more realistic scenario is that India, as the game’s financial powerhouse, would have used its coffers to lure across the Anglo-Australian bloc’s best players. Indeed, a similar scenario led to the establishment of the BCCI-backed IPL, which has changed the face of global cricket. In 2007 Subhash Chandra’s Zee Telefilms established a rival cricket market, the Indian Cricket League (ICL). In not being officially sanctioned, the ICL challenged the BCCI’s monopoly over Indian cricket. Backed by the Essel Group, the ICL had the capacity to deplete the cricketing stocks of not just India, but all Test playing nations. To protect its monopoly, the BCCI, with the backing of the ICC, established the IPL. Adopting a US business model, the BCCI based the competition on franchised, city-based teams and player auctions. Though the season extends for only six weeks, players of Warne’s calibre can expect to earn in excess of one million AUD. Since its introduction in 2008, the IPL has added in excess of one billion US dollars in television rights to the BCCI’s coffers (Australian, 2008). Currently, Australian cricket authorities work with the BCCI and IPL to ensure the availability of players for international commitments. But this will surely change as the IPL season expands and the players’ commitments to their franchises assume precedence over playing for their countries. National cricket boards will not have the financial capacity to compete with sub-continental media interests and other business concerns keen to enter the world’s most lucrative cricketing market. But this should not bother Warne who since retiring from Test cricket has done very nicely out of the game because of the IPL. For 15 years he journeyed to Lord’s as an Australian cricketer. In July 2010, he ventured there to promote the Royals as a global brand, tapping into Britain’s vast Indian diaspora. After the Royals victory over the Panthers, Warne was pictured with the Indian actress, Shilpa Shetty. She was no stranger to Britain, having appeared on Celebrity Big Brother in 2007. Her racist treatment by some of her British-born housemates led sponsors to withdraw their support for the show, and the lodging of a diplomatic

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protest from the Indian Minister of State for External Affairs, Anand Sharma, to the British Prime Minister, Tony Blair. At Lord’s Shetty stood as the Royals’ part owner in a consortium that included her husband, the London-based businessman, Raj Kundra. Her appearances and those of the Royals at Lord’s were indicative of the global shift in the game. The MCC’s Chief Executive, Keith Bradshaw, declared it “a great honour” for Lord’s to be hosting the match, suggesting that it “demonstrate[d] the MCC’s commitment to globalizing our brand and venue”.9 Bradshaw, an Australian, failed to mention that this form of globalization involved the cross-fertilization of Indian capital, diasporic flows of people and Bollywood razzamatazz all rolled into a three-hour made-for-television run spree. To the background of the symbol of cricket’s Imperial age, the Lord’s Members Pavilion, a new cricketing era was ushered in to the strains of the Royals’ anthem, Halla Bol. On 10 October 2010 the Royals were expelled from the IPL for financial irregularities. On appeal to the Mumbai High Court the franchise was reinstated and participated in the 2011 season. After an Australian summer in which Warne’s romance with British celebrity model, Liz Hurley, attracted headlines, he returned to India to captain/coach the Royals for a reported $1.8 million US (Sydney Morning Herald, 2011). Of the ten franchises’ coaches, Warne was one of six Australians.10 Of the 72 Australian players who were nominated for the 2011 auction, 34 gained contracts with franchises.11In cricket’s emerging global order, the Australian game’s playing stocks may face depletion as top players and coaches are lured into an expanded and more lucrative Indian 20/20 market. This trend started with the enticements to India of former Test players Warne, Gilchrist, McGrath, Symonds and Hayden. In time, Australian cricket may become a feeder of labour to the game’s dominant market. The bottom-line, which has determined India-Australia cricket relations, will continue to do so. But now it would seem that cricket will be played the Indian way. On the 1979 Australian tour of India, Australian players passed some of their spare time by playing a game they called “raining rupees”. From the windows of their Kanpur hotel, they would drop money to the pavement beneath. When enough locals had gathered, the Australians would tip water on them. The pastime, which was mentioned in Allan Border’s 1986 autobiography, signified the cultural insensitivity and racial arrogance in Australian cricket’s traditional treatment of India and the subcontinent (Border, 1987, 33). Border has since become a respected figure in the game, and with Warne is arguably one of the best-known Australians on the sub-continent. Of Border’s 1979 teammates, the Sri

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Lankan-born Dav Whatmore coached the Kolkata Knight Riders during the 2011 IPL season, after stints with Sri Lanka and Bangladesh, while former Australian paceman Geoff Lawson fulfilled the same role for the Kochi Tuskers after a short-lived spell with Pakistan. The former Australian cricket captain Steve Waugh has taken a different path. He has distinguished himself by raising funds and awareness for leprosy sufferers and their families at Udayan outside Kolkata (Waugh, 2005, 475-82). But the predominant relationship remains one of economic self-interest. Shane Warne and the many Australian cricketers who now earn considerable amounts of money coaching and playing in the IPL have learned to embrace India. With the BCCI generating much of the game’s revenue, Australian players ignore India at their financial peril. As the IPL’s tentacles spread beyond the sub-continent, more Australians will seek contracts in the game’s most lucrative market, perhaps preferring to exchange their “baggy greens” for a bucketful of rupees.

Notes 1. Scholarly studies of Australia’s cricketing engagements with the subcontinent are rare. Mike Coward, Cricket Beyond the Bazaar, North Sydney, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1990, the most complete study, is a cricketing journalist’s history to 1990. Gideon Haigh and David Frith, Inside Story: unlocking Australian cricket’s archives, Southbank, Vic: News Custom Publishing, 2007, offers a useful focus on cricket administration. Its one thematic chapter dealing with the subcontinent deals with Australian player frustrations with pitches, umpires and match fixing. Michael Roberts and Alfred James eds. Crosscurrents: Sri Lanka and Australia at Cricket, Petersham, NSW: Walla Walla Press, 1998, offers a similar account of these frustrations within the Sri Lankan context. 2. Richard Cashman, “Australia” in Brian Stoddart and Keith A.P. Sandiford, The Imperial Game: cricket, culture and society, Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press 1998, 50; see also “India” in Richard Cashman et. al. The Oxford Companion to Australian Cricket, Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1996, 26165. 3. High Commissioner (India) to Australian Board of Control for International Cricket (31 July 1945) cited in Haigh & Frith, Inside Story: Unlocking Australian Cricket’s Archives Southbank, Victoria. News Custom Publishing.2007, 97. 4. On Cariappa see David Walker, “General Cariappa encounters ‘White Australia’: Australia, India and the Commonwealth in the 1950s”, Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History, 34, 3, 2006-09, 389-406; also Menzies Papers, National Library of Australia. 5. See the player autobiographies: Ken Mackay (with Frank Callaghan) Slasher Opens Up, London: Pelham Books 1964, 78-87; Wally Grout (with Frank Callaghan), My Country’s Keeper. London: Pelham Books 1965, pp. 52-62. Les Favell, By Hook or by Cut. Adelaide, SA: Investigator Press 1970, 125-143;

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Norman O’Neill, Ins and Outs. London: Pelham Books 1964, pp. 42-53; Neil Harvey, My World of Cricket. London: Hodder & Stoughton 1963, 121-133; Richie Benaud, Anything But…An Autobiography. London: Hodder & Stoughton 1998, 159-172. 6. Cablegrams from the Australian High Commissioner, New Delhi, to the Department of External Affairs, Canberra, 28 April 1969 & 4 May 1969. NAA 1838, 169/10/1, Part 13. National Archives of Australia. 7. Cablegram from the Australian High Commission, New Delhi, to the Department of External Affairs, Canberra, 11 December 1969. NAA1838, 196/10/2, Part 15. (National Archives of Australia). 8. 23 December 2005. Accessed 27 September 2011. 9. Accessed 21 September 2011. 10. Accessed 21 September 2011. 11. Accessed 21 September 2011.

References Age 2010a Melbourne. 1 February. Age 2010b Melbourne. 7 February. Austin, Paul. 2010. “Indian Students, Racism and a Debate Spiralling out of Control.” Age (Melbourne), 11 February. Australian, 2008, 15 January. Australian Broadcasting Corporation 2010 Accessed 10 March 2011. Benaud, Richie. 1998. Anything But…An Autobiography. London: Hodder & Stoughton. Border, Allan. 1987. Allan Border: An Autobiography. North Ryde, New South Wales: Methuen Australia Pty Ltd. Bradman, Don. 1994. Farewell to Cricket, Sydney: Tom Thompson Editions. Cashman, Richard. 2009. “Asia’s Place in the Imaging of Australian Sport,” Sport in Society, 12,7, 937. —. 1998. “Australia.” The Imperial Game: Cricket, Culture and Society. Eds. Brian Stoddart and Keith A.P. Sandiford, Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press. —. 1996. “India.” The Oxford Companion to Australian Cricket. Eds. Richard Cashmanet.et. al. Melbourne: Oxford University Press: 26165. Chappell, Ian. 1976. Chappelli. Ian Chappell’s Life Story. Richmond, Victoria: Hutchinson Group Australia Pty Ltd.

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Coward, Mike. 1990. Cricket Beyond the Bazaar. North Sydney, NSW: Allen & Unwin. Daily Telegraph. 2008. London. 22 April. Deccan Herald, 5 February 2010. Dunn, Kevin. Danielle Pelleri and Karin Maeder-Han. 2011. “Attacks on Indian Students: the Commerce of Denial in Australia,” Race & Class. 52: 71-88. Favell, Les. 1970. By Hook or by Cut. Adelaide, SA: Investigator Press. Fingleton, Jack. 1949. Brightly Fades the Don. Sydney & London: Collins. Gupta, Amit. 2009. “India and the IPL: Cricket’s Globalised Empire.” In The Round Table, 98, 401: 201-11. Grout, Wally and Frank Callaghan. 1965. My Country’s Keeper. London: Pelham Books. Haigh, Gideon and David Frith. 2007. Inside Story: Unlocking Australian Cricket’s Archives. Southbank, Victoria: News Custom Publishing. Haigh, Gideon. 2006. The Summer Game: Cricket and Australia in the 50s and 60s. Sydney, NSW: ABC Books. Halbish, Graham. With Rod Nicholson. 2003. Run Out: My Dismissal and the Inside Story of Cricket. Melbourne: Thomas C Lothian Pty Ltd. Harvey, Neil. 1963. My World of Cricket. London. Hodder & Stoughton. Indian Express. 1998, 6 March. Mackay, Ken. 1964. With Frank Callaghan. Slasher Opens Up. London: Pelham Books. Majumdar, Boria. 2004. Twenty-two Yards to Freedom. A Social History of Indian Cricket, New Delhi: Penguin Viking India. Mallett, Ashley. 1973. Rowdy. Blackwood, SA: Lynton Publications Pty Ltd. May, Tim. Mayhem. 1998. The Trueish Story of the Australian Cricket Team on Tour. Sydney, Ironbark Pan: Macmillan Australia. Menzies, Sir Robert 1967.Afternoon Light: Some Memoirs of Men and Events. Melbourne, Victoria: Cassell Australia. O’Neill, Norman. 1964. Ins and Outs. London: Pelham Books. Menzies, Sir Robert, Papers, National Library of Australia. Outlook, 2010, 8 February. “Why the Aussies Hate Us.” Redpath, Ian. With Neill Phillipson. 1976. Always Reddy. Toorak, Victoria: Gary Sparke & Associates. Roberts, Michael and Alfred James. Eds. 1998.Crosscurrents: Sri Lanka and Australia at Cricket Petersham. NSW: Walla Walla Press. Rosenwater, Irving. 1978. Sir Donald Bradman: A Biography. London: B. T. Batsford.

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Stackpole, Keith. With Alan Trengrove. 1974. Not Just for Openers. Abbotsford, Victoria, Stockwell Press. A. F. S. Talyarkhan, 1969. Times of India, 22 December. Sydney Morning Herald, 2008, 7 January. —. 2011, 27 January. Times of India, 1969, 4 November. —. 2010, 25 January. Walker, David. 2006-09. “General Cariappa Encounters ‘White Australia’: Australia, India and the Commonwealth in the 1950s”. Journal of Imperial and Commonwealth History. 34. 3: 389-406. Walters, Doug. With Ken Laws. 1981. The Doug Walters Story. Sydney: Rigby Publishers Limited. Waugh, Steve. 2005. Out of My Comfort Zone: the Autobiography. Camberwell, Victoria: Viking. “Why the Aussies Hate Us.” 2010. Outlook 8 February.

CHAPTER FOUR “AUSSIE, AUSSIE, AUSSIE: OI, OI, OI”: THE BACKPACKER-LED REINVENTION OF AUSTRALIA ROBERT KELLY

Australians have been visiting significant battlefields where Australian soldiers have fought overseas since the 1920s. However, modern visitors differ from their predecessors of the interwar period, in both number and type. The pilgrims of the early periods have been largely replaced by backpackers and mass-tourists, particularly since the 1980s. Drawing on the comments of visitors recorded in the visitor books from the Commonwealth War Graves Commission office in Canakkale, Turkey, this paper plots this shift through examining the change in visitor responses to Gallipoli, from the mid-1980s to the present. The paper argues that the increasing nationalist fervour, evident in the books, emanated from the new nationalism of the 1970s and 1980s. The paper contends that the books indicate that Gallipoli has become a site devoid of its original meaning in the eyes of many visitors, and reflects a reduced understanding of the campaign and Australia’s role in it. In 1983 a small number of Australian visitors journeyed to Turkey to commemorate Anzac Day at Gallipoli. Comments found in the visitor books held by the Commonwealth War Graves office in Çanakkale indicate that contrary to the expectations of these visitors, no dawn service occurred to mark the occasion. Understandably, the comments of this small band of visitors reflected their disappointment. As one lamented “very well kept cemetery, but where was the service?” (Comment extracted from visitor book held by CWGC. Tony W, Greymouth, NZ. 25/4/83), indicating that they were expecting some semblance of formal recognition of the significance of the day and the site. Inside a generation, the number of visitors to Gallipoli for Anzac Day swelled from a handful in 1983, to well in excess of 15,000 Australian and

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New Zealand visitors in 2005, many of them young backpackers. Defining what a backpacker is can be problematic, as they are an ever-evolving group. Backpackers were once seen as young travellers, typically under the age of 30, travelling on a shoestring budget (Loker-Murphy & Pearce, 1995, 829). Recent research in the field has widened this definition, as Anders Sørenson suggests “backpackers are most often characterized as self-organized pleasure tourists on a prolonged multiple-destination journey with a flexible itinerary, extended beyond that which it is usually possible to fit into a cyclical holiday pattern” (2003, 851). However, Sørenson further argues that such a definition can only serve as a basic guideline and that “backpackers cannot be defined by means of unambiguous criteria” (852). The media frequently refers to these visitors as “pilgrims” and suggest that visiting Gallipoli is a modern day pilgrimage. However, it is my contention that to describe all visitors as pilgrims is misguided, as many are simply mass tourists drawn to the site not because of any great connection, or even full understanding, but rather that Gallipoli has become a major stopping point on many travellers’ itineraries of Turkey and Europe, and that the Dawn Service at Gallipoli is now akin to Oktoberfest in Munich or the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona; that is, merely a “tick-box” agenda item for some young travellers. The path that Gallipoli took from an almost ignored corner of Europe to one of the major destinations for young Australian visitors can be couched as much in terms of tourism development as it can in a change in the way Australians understand the importance of Anzac Day. This paper seeks to examine how Gallipoli has become re-invented as a mass-tourism destination. By doing so, Gallipoli manages to fall across the chasm between a mass-tourist destination, and a backpacker destination. Mass tourism can simply be defined as the act of visiting a site that attracts large numbers of tourists at any one time, which Gallipoli certainly does. Masstourism has been seen as the anathema of backpackers, who traditionally have spurned such ideals and sought unique and off-the-beaten-track experiences, things which arguably no longer apply to Gallipoli. Yet, still, Gallipoli, along with Oktoberfest and Pamplona, has paradoxically remained very popular with backpackers. Perhaps this reflects a shift in backpacker behaviour, still seeking unique experiences, but happy to partake in mass-tourism at popular events. As noted in the Melbourne Age, “Since becoming a magnet for Australian backpackers, Anzac Cove has become victim to tourism’s paradox: that what draws people there is in danger of being trampled by enthusiastic visitors” (Age, 27 April 2005).

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Gallipoli has had a long history as a site of visitation and pilgrimage. The first Australian pilgrims visited in 1928 as part of an organised tour courtesy of the Turkish Government and the Imperial War Graves Commission (Scates, 2006, 69; Inglis, 2008, 257). Following the Second World War, the first major pilgrimage of Australians to Gallipoli was in 1965, sponsored by the Returned Servicemen’s League (RSL) (Inglis, 2009). However, the major turning point for Gallipoli as a site of visitation was the 1990 pilgrimage of campaign veterans led by then Prime Minister Bob Hawke. Following this visit, tourist numbers to Gallipoli increased each year, peaking in 2005 for the ninetieth anniversary. However, the understanding of the significance of Gallipoli has changed over time, and therefore how commemorations take place. This is central to why visitor numbers have increased substantially over time. Ken Inglis’ Sacred Places examines this change in commemoration. Though largely concerned with war memorials and cemeteries, his work on “sacred” areas does include battlefields such as Gallipoli. Inglis expresses the importance of Gallipoli both as a site of supreme historical significance to Australia, and in forging national identity, without losing track of the fact that it was a defeat. It is arguable that the fact that Gallipoli was a defeat is irrelevant, as commemoration is as much about loss as victory. However, the changing nature of commemoration at Gallipoli to celebration has led to a distortion of history, as seen in the response from a young Australian, interviewed in an Andrew Denton documentary, in relation to Turkish losses at Gallipoli: “Yeah, we really kicked their arse, didn’t we?” (Enough Rope with Andrew Denton, 2007). Inglis further discusses that nature of pilgrimage to Gallipoli, both in terms of C.E.W Bean’s view of it becoming a “goal of pilgrimage”, and also with recent changes in interpretation to the concept of pilgrimage (Inglis, 2008, 257). Looking at recent developments in pilgrimage to Gallipoli, Inglis tracks briefly the changes from the dignified memorial service in 1990, to that of the 2005 service, which included sound and light shows, a didgeridoo accompanying chamber music, and videos of the Bee Gee’s singing Staying Alive (Inglis, 2008, 569). Whether or not this song was used intentionally is not clear, but it was a peculiar, if not a tasteless choice given that the dawn service is to remember the dead. More importantly, it shows a shift from “commemoration” to “celebration”, or even an “entertainment event”, in line with a rock music festival, and the creeping crassness of the day. Certainly, such music is more indicative of the then Federal Minister’s (De-Anne Kelly) taste in music, and not a reflection on the tastes of the majority of the audience. It is examples such as this that are crucial to the

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argument that many Australian visitors to Gallipoli have lost the understanding of the original nature of the site as a place of memorial. That anyone suggested such music and entertainment would be suitable, let alone allowed it to actually happen suggests that Gallipoli has become demeaned as a site of pilgrimage and reflection, and has moved to a mass tourist site that bears little in common with the site that Hawke attended in 1990. Yet this change does not happen without a shift in the understanding of Anzac Day as a whole. Following the Second World War, Anzac Day became less and less popular, especially during the Vietnam War period, not only with the Australian public, but also the media. In 1965, doubts were appearing in the media as to the future Anzac Day had, and whether it would continue to be observed. The Mirror in Sydney asked “Will Anzac Day be as meaningless to future generations as Trafalgar and Waterloo, once so cataclysmic, have become today?” (Macleod, 2002, 151) and blamed the RSL for making it too narrowly focused on exservicemen and ex-servicewomen. We see now modern newspapers with dedicated issues, wrap-around covers and extensive coverage of Anzac Day in Australia and overseas, demonstrating the importance that Anzac Day now holds (or at the very least, the importance the mass media believes it holds). The manner in which Australians do commemorate Anzac Day has also changed. Whilst the Dawn Service was once the domain of returned servicemen, upwards of 40,000 people attended the 2010 service at the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne (Rintoul, 2010). A further 100,000 people attend the annual Anzac Day clash between Australian Rules Football League powerhouse clubs Essendon and Collingwood, a selfproclaimed “tradition” that dates back to 1995. Football did exist on Anzac Day prior to 1995, but no significance or connection to Anzac Day commemorations was attached to the matches (except for a one-off match in 1975). The match is now viewed, in some circles, as an integral part of Anzac Day in Melbourne. A similar match has been held in Sydney between National Rugby League clubs St George Illawarra Dragons and the Sydney Roosters since 2002. An international Rugby test, held between Australia and New Zealand also occurs around Anzac Day (though typically in the week before). Though once known as the Anzac Test, it now carries the name of various sponsors, though it still retains its connections to Anzac Day. In 1990, the Gallipoli campaign returned to the news in a significant way with the seventy-fifth anniversary. Prime Minister Bob Hawke, keen to generate some patriotic fervour and gain some political mileage

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following his March election victory, accompanied a group of fifty-nine remaining Gallipoli veterans to the Dawn Service at Anzac Cove. This event was widely televised from the moment the chartered Qantas jet touched down in Istanbul right through to Hawke’s speech at the service. Ken Inglis credits the event and associated media coverage as sparking a resurgence of interest in Anzac Day (Hall, 1999). Many thousands of Australians and New Zealanders attended, estimated at 7,500 in total (many of whom were backpackers), making it the largest gathering at Anzac Cove since 1915 (Inglis, 2008, 418). What was seen on this day is much like what occurs some twenty years later, with thousands of young people arriving at Gallipoli, to sit through the cold April night in order to be part of the Dawn Service. Hawke spoke at the Dawn Service, the first Australian Prime Minister to ever attend a Dawn Service at Gallipoli. In this speech, Hawke championed Gallipoli as a site of supreme national importance to Australia, affirming a notion that had been raised in the Australian media during the late 1980s that it was a sacred site: “we have not come in order to dedicate this place- it is already sacred because of the bravery and bloodshed of the Anzacs” (Hawke, 1990). The use of the term sacred site in reference to Gallipoli and other war memorial sites was beginning to gain momentum. It was first used by Tony Stephens of the Sydney Morning Herald on Anzac Day in 1987: “Anzac Cove has become an Australian sacred site” (Inglis, 2008, 418). By 1990, its use was commonplace, and in 2010 it is used frequently and with such conviction, it is hard to think of Gallipoli in any other way. Of course, this is not to suggest Gallipoli had no meaning or significance prior to the 1980s. Gallipoli has always been a significant part of Australia’s history and will remain so. The “Anzac Legend” was born at Gallipoli. It emanated in the war reportage of C.E.W. Bean, and also Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett. Ashmead-Bartlett was a British war correspondent, whose dispatches from the front line were published in Australia before those of Bean. Ashmead-Bartlett wrote of the Anzac soldiers in unashamedly heroic terms, unrestrained by the need for accuracy which hampered Bean’s dispatches throughout the Gallipoli campaign. In describing the landings at Anzac Cove, Ashmead-Bartlett wrote: [The Anzacs] waited neither for orders nor for the boats to reach the beach, but, springing out into the sea, they waded ashore, and, forming some sort of rough line, rushed straight on the flashes of the enemy’s rifles. Such images of the rugged Australian soldier captured the public imagination (Australian War Memorial).

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Russel Ward’s 1958 book The Australian Legend further amplified the Anzac Legend, as he drew links between the egalitarian nature of the Australian bush, and that of the Anzac soldiers. However, Ward’s radical nationalism and subsequent views on Australian national identity were criticised for being overtly and unashamedly masculine. Nonetheless, these books, along with Bean’s histories (and his diaries which were published in 1983) have been instrumental in the creation of the Anzac legend in Australia.i In helping to establish the Anzac legend, Bean, Ashmead-Bartlett and Ward, along with institutions such as the RSL, the Shrine of Remembrance and also the Australian War Memorial, perhaps inadvertently, helped influence a different type of pilgrim to the shores of Gallipoli, as seen in today’s “modern pilgrim”. However, there have been many other influences on tourists to Gallipoli in the modern day, including Bill Gammage's The Broken Years (1974) which was used in schools and universities throughout the late 1970s and 1980s; the release of several films pertaining to the battles of Gallipoli in the early 1980s (the most notable of which is Peter Weir’s eponymously titled feature film starring Mel Gibson, and the 1985 five part mini-series Anzacs), and possibly the key turning point, the seventy-fifth anniversary visit by then Prime Minister Bob Hawke and a group of remaining Gallipoli veterans. Perhaps it was also the passing of these last veterans since 1990, and with them the loss of the living memory that spurred an interest in visiting Gallipoli in Australians. Perhaps it is also that the current younger generation of travellers to Gallipoli (the so called generations X and Y) have not had the same war-time experience as their forebears. With no threat of national service or the like, and with no war that has directly affected many of them, perhaps they need to seek such an experience through visiting Gallipoli. Many comments made in the Gallipoli visitor books, especially after 2000, support this theory. Comments such as “honouring your memory and sacrifice” (Brooke H, Hervey Bay, Qld. 25/4/09) and “beyond my lifetime but forever grateful” (Ben P, Brisbane, Qld. 25/4/09) indicate that this may be true. Bean himself envisaged Gallipoli as becoming a “goal of pilgrimage” (Inglis, 2008, 257). Whilst it is certainly true that group tours were being made to the trenches of France and Belgium as early as 1919, and some independent Australian travellers made it to Gallipoli in 1922, it wasn’t until 1928 that the first organised tourist party landed at Gallipoli, courtesy of the Turkish Government and the Imperial War Graves Commission (Scates, 2006, 69; Inglis, 2008, 257). Following the Second World War, the first major pilgrimage of Australians to Gallipoli was in 1965,

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sponsored by the Returned Servicemen’s League (RSL) (Inglis, 2009). Statistics are difficult to come by during the 1960s and 1970s, so it is difficult to chart visits in these decades with any precision. However, although some London-based overland groups such as a Top Deck Travel and Contiki journeyed to Istanbul from London, (James, 1999, 212) continuing to Gallipoli, it seemed that visiting Gallipoli was more dream than reality for most Australians. Air travel was still comparatively unaffordable, and the instability of Turkey due to successive coup d’états (1960, 1971 and 1980), and also the 1974 invasion of Cyprus (and ongoing tensions with Greece) undoubtedly deterred many travellers. The 1980s saw a slow increase in interest, but since 1990, the numbers of Australian travellers to Gallipoli have increased steadily, peaking at around 17,000 in 2005, before dropping to 9,000 in 2007 (Inglis, 2008, 566). The rise in tourists up to 2005 can be attributed not only to the development of interest, and the ninetieth anniversary, but also the advent of cheap air-travel. Compared to the 1980s, or even early 2000s, air travel to Europe has become increasingly cheaper and flying times shorter, making it an easier and much more attractive option than previously (Heasley, 2010). It should also be noted that attending the dawn service at Gallipoli is a popular attraction for many young Australians living and working in London, with many budget travel agencies in London offering cheap deals to Turkey for this period. The Dawn Service is seen as one of the “must do’s” of any working holiday (Scates, 2006, 193-5). As suggested in promotional material for a teaching recruitment agency in London, “in terms of popularity, the Dawn Service on Anzac Day is up there with the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain, and Oktoberfest in Munich as the quintessential European experiences for young Aussies and Kiwis living in London”.ii In some respects, visiting Gallipoli, for Anzac Day or otherwise, is becoming a rite of passage for these young travellers. While the cost and ease of travel is certainly a factor, increased visitor numbers to Gallipoli is also a product of renewed interest in Anzac Day as a whole. By the mid-1990s the focus of Anzac Day had definitely changed from that of the 1960s. It was no longer a commemoration of Australian achievement as part of an Imperial force, but rather had become a celebration of the Anzac soldier as a representative of Australian nationalism. This was promoted by John Howard, though undoubtedly the Imperial element of the day has been swamped by the surge of nationalism. John Howard also played a significant role in bringing about the celebratory nature of Anzac Day. As Judith Brett suggests, Howard’s encouragement for everyone to be an Anzac and to convey the “Anzac

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Spirit” was more of a revolution than a resurgence of values and solemnity about Anzac Day (Brett, 2005, 38). This eventually led to more of a “party” themed Anzac Day, with alcohol, temporary Australian flag tattoos, Australian flags being used as capes and green-and-gold clothing in abundance, particularly at Gallipoli, as opposed to a solemn remembrance of the lost lives. Australia no longer “commemorated” Anzac Day, but rather “celebrated” it, an important and telling distinction. Within this shift there has been a loss of understanding and an appreciation of the reasons behind Anzac Day’s significance. This can be clearly demonstrated in the events of Anzac Day 2005, the ninetieth anniversary of the landings. This was the year that attendees at the Anzac Day Dawn Service at Gallipoli were treated to something akin to a rock concert the evening before as they waited for the service to begin. After the service ended, it was clear that many visitors had treated it exactly as they might a Big Day Out (a popular music festival that travels Australia and New Zealand each summer), with empty beer cans and other rubbish littering the ground. Then Prime Minister Howard didn’t seem to take issue with this behaviour, asking: “Is that any different to what you would see on New Year’s Day around Sydney Harbour?” (Glover, 2005). This is an odd comparison, but one that has increasing validity, as people continued to treat Anzac Day as a celebration, rather than a day of solemn commemoration. This shift from commemoration to celebration can also be found in the comments entered in the visitor books held at the Lone Pine chapel. These visitor books produce a fascinating snapshot of attitudes and opinions of Gallipoli visitors. Comments are written in a small space, during or immediately following a visit to the battlefields, or after the Australian Service at Lone Pine following the Dawn Service in the case of an Anzac Day visit, thereby tapping in to the raw emotion of the visitor. Viewing these books was done with the assistance of the Commonwealth War Graves office in Çanakkale, and random samples were taken from each book that was able to be viewed. The majority of samples were taken from around Anzac Day, as this is when the majority of entries have been made, particularly post-2000. It is interesting to note that the years between 1982 (the earliest year available) and 1989 were held in a single book, whereas 2000 alone spread over four books. Comments entered between 1982 and 1989 (prior to the Hawke visit) are sporadic, with most people opting to only record their names, and not offering reasons for their visit. Those who did comment usually only offered simple messages, such as “Lest we forget” (Ian M, Brighton Vic. 13/9/82).

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Many comments by visitors, not just Australians, point to a family connection as the reason for visiting Gallipoli. As one remarked, “[r]emembering Granddad–Don’t let it happen again” (Paul F, Melbourne, Vic, 10/10/83). Another stated, “I found my Great Uncle buried here. I’ll never forget this day, or those who fought to save us” (Julie C, Sydney, NSW, 2/1/84). This comment feeds on the idea that the soldiers who fought and died at Gallipoli did so for patriotic reasons and generational debt, suggesting that at this time, Gallipoli was very much a pilgrimage destination for families or descendants of veterans. As Scates says in Return to Gallipoli: At one level the sudden popularity of pilgrimage has much to do with the flourishing of family history in Australia. The same urge that leads distant descendants to scour shipping lists in search of convict ancestors now takes hundreds every year to ... Gallipoli (101).

What begins to emerge from the visitor books at this stage is that a majority of visitors to Gallipoli fall into one of three broad categories: Government representatives, relatives of the fallen, and the veterans themselves. Each of these categories has a connection to Gallipoli beyond that of simple interest, indicating that the visitors who did make the journey often did so for a specific purpose or had a particular association. Comments made in the visitor books reflect this formalised response to Gallipoli. However, also evident were some signs of patriotism towards Gallipoli by Australians at this time. Christine S of Melbourne wrote, “for one who has never felt overly patriotic - extremely moving” (15/3/84). Mick D, of Parkes noted, “your sacrifice gave birth to Australia” (21/5/84). However, this type of response was in the small minority of comments. In the 1980s the equating of Gallipoli with the birth of the nation was seemingly not widely expressed, as responses appear restrained, considered but largely unformed. However, as interest and visitor numbers began to increase, Gallipoli becomes a place where the history of Australia is reduced to a base level. The first few comments for Anzac Day 1988 are at odds with the general tone of comments throughout the visitor books of the 1980s. One notes, “Fantastic! Lest we forget” (Darryl C, Sutherland, NSW. 25/4/88). This juxtaposes two distinct emotions - exhilaration for being at Gallipoli, and solemnness for the war dead. It is also a transitional comment, one of the first to combine a party mood and commemoration. Another states: “A Great turn out!!!” (Darrell G, Tauronga, New Zealand, 25/4/88). This comment is more festive and celebratory, suggesting an informality in its

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colloquial style, but reflecting an increasing interest. However, the remaining comments are much more in keeping with past comments describing emotions of sadness and reflection, such as a “very moving, touching experience”(Craig W, Cairns, QLD. 25/4/88). By 1989, the visitor books began to get far more frequent use, and the comments became lengthier and more thought out or considered. Possibly, this was a consequence of Gallipoli becoming more than just the site of a battle featuring Australian soldiers in the minds of visitors. Simple messages of remembrance were still used, but people began to write longer entries about the honour and sacrifice of the Anzac soldiers. Anzac Day itself saw a good number of comments being written, but also the week around Anzac Day saw a greater number of entries than in previous years. This suggests that people came for the Dawn Service, but stayed and toured the battlefields in the days prior to and after Anzac Day. It is also at this time the first mention is made of a tour guide, suggesting that commercial tourism was developing on the peninsula to exploit this developing market. Indicative of this was the opening of Anzac House in 1989 in Çanakkale. It was the first hostel in the area for Western backpackers (Anzac House) and it offered packaged tours of the Gallipoli peninsula. These tours were (and still are) sold from the numerous travel agencies in the Sultanahmet area of Istanbul, and are aimed squarely at Australian, New Zealand and, to a lesser extent, the British backpacker market. As demand grew, so too did infrastructure such as this hostel. By making it easier and simpler for tourists to visit Gallipoli, it increased tourist numbers over many years. With this influx, comments in the visitor’s books began to show a more deeply rooted patriotic bent. Almost all entries by this stage were by Australians, and many displayed pride and admiration at being so. As one remarked: “I am extremely proud to be Australian - long live the ANZACS” (Geoff B, Lugarno, NSW, 25/4/89). Still others continued to espouse the Anzac Legend line of thinking, viewing the Anzacs as “[t]he Aussie[s] who made Australia what it is today!”(Megan J, Sydney, NSW. 25/4/89). But this blending of war and nationalism is tantamount to historical reductionism. Gallipoli, in effect, becomes a way of celebrating Australianness, rather than a site for commemorating the war dead. Comments and entries from Anzac Day 1990 paint a very interesting portrait. As mentioned above, being the seventy-fifth anniversary, the Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke took advantage of the rise in nationalistic fervour in Australia in planning this visit. Hawke was keen to exploit Labor’s recent Federal election victory and more importantly, put

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behind him and his government the Bicentennial celebrations of 1988. Riddled by the acrimonious protests from Indigenous Australians, the Bicentenary was arguably a failure, and so Hawke sought to promote a more unifying myth in Gallipoli. The number of entries for Anzac Day 1990 outstrips those for any other Anzac Day to that point. There are entries from a number of dignitaries, including the then Minister for Veterans Affairs, Ben Humphreys, who wrote “a day to be remembered by all Australians”; and the Opposition Leader John Hewson. He had been Liberal Opposition Leader for a matter of weeks and wrote “Humbling yet inspiring.” Humphreys’ entry is of particular interest. The inclusive “all Australians” signifies a complete turn from the view of the 1960s when Anzac Day was largely a day for veterans and families. It now encompassed all Australians irrespective of their connection to war and demonstrated that the Anzac myth had become a unifying feature for Australians. His and Hewson's comments were fairly typical of entries made by politicians in that they were thoughtful but brief and surprisingly free of political rhetoric. The Anzac myth had the capacity to cut across political lines. A notable omission from the entries was that of Bob Hawke. This is surprising, as given his speeches and passion for the event, it would be logical, even expected for him to have signed the book at some stage. However, no such entry could be found in the available books. A couple of simple comments made in 1997 display a cruder shift to latent nationalism. “On Ya Diggers!!” one visitor noted (G.K, Northam, WA. 25/4/97), a remark more appropriate to a football match than a reflection on a visit to Gallipoli. It was the first of many such comments that have become more prevalent in later years. One visitor exclaimed, “Aussies Rock! Go you Diggers!” (Illegible, Barooga, NSW. 25/4/02) while another remarked, “cheers to the diggers” (G. McD, Kellyville, NSW. 25/4/97). Other comments are more restrained but still overtly nationalistic, evident in the entry: “The light of God still shines on our great nation” (David M, Mt Lawley, WA. 25/4/97). Overall, these comments reflect the undeniable national significance of Gallipoli. But they also reflect the larrikin nationalism – almost a form of nationalistic barracking - that is beginning to establish itself in the books. By replacing sacred commemoration with this assertiveness, Gallipoli was reinvented to become the major focus of Australian nationalism. But in so doing the site became a place of festival rather than reflection, as the historical and commemorative aspects were secondary to Gallipoli as a place of vacuous nationalistic expression.

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At the centre of this shift was the Dawn Service, in that people came to take part in it as their primary motivation, with exploring the site and its history secondary considerations. Generally, however, around this time it seems that comments had shifted to reflect the purpose of people’s visits to Gallipoli, not to see the site itself, but to attend the Dawn Service. Many more comments now reflected on the service rather than the location, such as “a moving ceremony” (Sallyanne C, Terang, Vic. 25/4/97), “a special moment shared by all” (Julie B, Chermside, Qld. 25/4/98) and “an incredibly moving service” (J.H., Echuca, Vic. 25/4/98). Though there was solemnity these comments suggest that this was fused with a festival spirit. This was about asserting the centrality of the place and our military past as an expression of Australianness. The Dawn Service was beginning to become more of a celebratory event rather than a moment of commemoration, and was featured on the itineraries of Australian tourists in Europe in a similar fashion to Oktoberfest or the Running of the Bulls. It was establishing itself as a backpacker rite of passage. These comments show the changes in the type of tourist visiting Gallipoli, with the movement away from special interest to mass tourism. Some revealed they were “[c]oming here on the backpacking circuit”, adding “it is so easy to see the parallels in young people looking for a European adventure - and it is very sad” (Jill M, Perth, WA. 27/5/98). This is a very telling comment, as it demonstrates an understanding of the history of the Gallipoli campaign, and also highlights how by 1998 Gallipoli had become very popular with backpackers in Europe, as a result of cheap airfares. It would continue to be a stopover on the so-called “backpacker circuit” for young Australian travellers. Furthermore, as the latter suggests, travellers began to equate their own adventures with those of the Anzacs. Hence Gallipoli became a way in which some travellers could reaffirm that they too were part of the legend and hence true Australians. The Anzacs were reinvented in the image of the travellers further distancing the latter from the real history of the campaign. Another subtle change is the increase in comments that are less sombre and more celebratory in nature. Whilst many people wrote comments with a solemn tone, others were more cheerful. This is particularly true of comments following the services on Anzac Day. In 2002 for example, entries included, “Excellent! Unforgettable experience,” (Carmen P, La Trobe, Tas. 25/4/02) and “so proud to be an Australian, and just to have a great time with a bunch of fellow Australians” (Kym S, Cronulla, NSW. 25/4/02). Another simply wrote “wonderful” (Chris O’s, Queens Park, NSW. 25/4/02). All these entries highlight a change in attitude towards

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Anzac Day, from a day of commemoration to a festive celebration of what it is to be Australian. Furthermore, a number of comments in the visitor books were inappropriate or silly, particularly post 2000. Entries such as “tanks-amill” (S.D. Unknown, Australia. 25/4/03), or “you little beauty”, written by someone from “Brisvegas” (Lee W, 25/4/03), and “one fantastic party this year” (G.B. “All over”. 25/4/03) reflect the growth of a subset of Australian tourists who had little understanding of the site and saw it only as another party stopover in Europe. This type of comment is a precursor to the events of 2005, and the controversy surrounding the pre-Dawn Service entertainment. Anzac Day for this group was not a time for solemn reflection, but for alcohol fuelled hedonism. However, it is important to note that by no means do these comments refer to the majority, and such a group is a very small minority of those who visit Gallipoli for Anzac Day. The national pride and patriotism amongst Australian visitors was palpable around this time as well. Many comments reflected the overwhelming patriotism felt by visitors. As one remarked: “This is what being an Aussie is all about” (Debbie C, Sydney, NSW. 25/4/02); while another suggested that she “could never be prouder to be an Australian as I am today” (Catherine McI, Melbourne, Vic. 25/4/02). Despite the patriotic fervour gripping these visitors, there is again an inability to fully express their understanding of the site. The phrase “Proud to be an Aussie” or variations of it appear frequently in entries around Anzac Day from 2000 onwards. One entry indicated that it took a visit to Gallipoli for the visitor to realise their patriotism. As she remarked: “Unbelievable! I am now a proud Australian” (Rebecca D, Sydney, NSW. 25/4/02. Their emphasis). Again, this is reflective of the change in the portrayal of Anzac Day from commemoration to celebration. Increasing numbers of Australians were making the journey to Gallipoli for the Dawn Service, evident in the move of the service in 1999 from the Ari Burnu cemetery to North Beach due to the lack of space at the cemetery. The idea of pilgrimage and sacred ground still remains strong in the early-to-mid 2000s, with comments reflecting personal feelings of the nature of the site. One visitor remarked: “A pilgrimage everyone needs to experience” (J.B. Griffith, ACT. 25/4/02), while another suggested, “I touched the Holy Grail” (L.C., Willetton, WA. 25/4/04). Another entry reflected a slightly different perspective: “a pilgrimage to commemorate peace and celebrate courage” (Dianne P, South Melbourne, Victoria. 25/4/04). It would seem that the belief of Gallipoli being a pilgrimage had taken hold of some people, but it far from dominated comments. Around

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the time of Anzac Day these comments now contend with an increasing number that reflect that the day for many visitors to Gallipoli is one of drunken revelry, and the site is just another stopover on Europe’s backtracker trail. The ninetieth anniversary of the Gallipoli landings in 2005 attracted the largest crowd attendance at a Dawn Service on record, and is likely to remain so until the centenary in 2015. This crowd was indeed a mixed crowd, with young and old alike in attendance. However, contemporary newspaper articles suggest that young people were in the majority (WarneSmith, 2005). Indeed, a conservative Canadian newspaper, National Post, described the Gallipoli crowd as “young people who spent much of the weekend drinking and partying at a camp-out near the site of Australia’s most significant losses of the First World War”, further labelling the event as a “piss-up that rivalled any major concert weekend” (Dye, 2005). As expected, the large crowd led to a large number of entries in the visitor books. Many people made reference to the anniversary, often in a fairly simple manner, such as “Great to be here on the 90th anniversary” (Steve K, Brisbane, QLD. 25/4/05). One person referred to the number of people who were in attendance, stating “90 years ago and still so many come” (Claire R, Riverhills, QLD. 25/4/05). Another reflected on the experience of attending the anniversary, remarking “Being here to share the 90th anniversary is something to remember” (Claire M, Tingara Heights, NSW, 25/4/05). But one visitor noted the tenor of day was “[m]ore light hearted and fun than expected” but that it was “[w]orth doing the pilgrimage at least once”(Jamie H, Cessnock, NSW, 25/4/05). This reflects the controversy surrounding the 2005 Dawn Service, when live music and entertainment was provided during the evening immediately prior to the Dawn Service. Such a move brought condemnation in Australia and New Zealand. The New Zealand Prime Minister, Helen Clark, was quick to criticise, though surprisingly John Howard seemingly approved of such a move. Again, this demonstrated the change in Anzac Day from commemoration to celebration and festivity, particularly at Gallipoli. Throughout the latter part of the 2000s, the comments remained much the same with frequent uses of “Lest we forget” and “thank you”, but also more patriotic and sentimental comments about the Anzac spirit. Entries like “Australia spirit was born here [sic]” (Illegible, Perth, WA. 12/7/07), “defined a nation” (Illegible, Sydney, NSW. 25/4/08), and “I feel so connected to Australia’s past” (Belle L, Bentleigh East, 25/4/09) illustrate such attitudes. Other entries reflect the change in attitudes towards visiting Gallipoli, away from an interesting place to visit, to somewhere that

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should be visited by all Australians. As one visitor remarked: “Necessary for all Australians” (Ellie-Mae S, Dubbo, NSW. 25/4/09) and “we should visit to remember and so are not doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past” (Peter M, Traralgon, Vic. 25/4/08). However, by 2009 the rhetoric of patriotism had died down, and was replaced by more sombre entries reflecting other emotions felt by visitors, such as “sobering, humbling yet beautiful. Will always be remembered” (Alex B, Crows Nest, NSW. 25/4/09), and “honouring your memory and sacrifices” (Brooke H, Hervey Bay, QLD. 25/4/09). Where patriotism did exist in the comments, it was much less overt and more restrained. One comment sums up this attitude quite well: So much of our Aussie spirit and values were born on this day 94 years ago. The sacrifices you young blokes made were massive and I hope our great nation continues to commemorate you all (A. Y. Malmsbury, Vic. 25/4/09).

Generally, this is true of most entries in 2009/2010. They were restrained and respectful, and showed a reasonable understanding of the history and significance of Gallipoli. There were more frequent references to the kindness and hospitality of the Turkish people in allowing Australians to visit (“a credit to Turkey” [Maurice S, Melbourne, Vic. 25/4/09]), and overall there were fewer entries for Anzac Day than in previous years. However, this can be explained by a drop in visitor numbers due to the Global Financial Crisis (2009), and the Icelandic Volcano eruption in 2010 which closed many of Europe’s airways, and restricted travel to Turkey from Continental Europe and the UK (though air routes to/from Australia were still open). Overall, there has been a shift in attitude and understanding of visitors regarding Gallipoli, and Anzac Day in general over the past twenty years, exemplified in the first visitor books. The early 1980s provide few entries, with one book covering a seven year period (1982-1989). This reflects the relative isolation of Turkey and Gallipoli from Australian tourists, but also the lack of desire for Australians to visit. However, as the profile of Gallipoli rose again in Australia, especially following Hawke’s 1990 visit, and Howard’s visits in 2000 and 2005, more people began to visit Gallipoli, not only for pilgrimage purposes, but also as mass tourists visiting a site of historical significance for Australia. Yet, despite the greater numbers of Australian tourists visiting Gallipoli, there was a lessening of understanding of the site. As shown in the visitor’s books, most tourists viewed Gallipoli, particularly those attending

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the Anzac Day Dawn Service, as a rite of passage or as a festive stopover on their European itinerary, rather than as a historically significant site. As we approach the centenary of the Gallipoli landings, this may change. Undoubtedly, there will be a huge focus in the media around the one hundredth anniversary, and the Prime Minister of the day will almost certainly attend the Dawn Service at Gallipoli. How the event is spun politically will help dictate how Australians continue to view Gallipoli as a site of significance in their history. Going by current trends, Gallipoli will continue to become a site of overt patriotic sentiment, and less one of pilgrimage and solemnity. Generations, further removed from those who have endured war, may continue to visit as a check-box agenda item on a tour of Europe, and will associate Anzac Day with a day of chest-beating patriotism, rather than a memorial day to the fallen. Indeed, it will not come as a surprise if in the future the phrase “Lest we forget” is replaced by “Anzac Anzac Anzac, Oi Oi Oi!”

Notes 1. For further information on the Anzac Legend, consult the following: Graham Seal, Inventing Anzac: The Digger and National Mythology (St Luica: University of Queensland Press, 2004). Jay Winter, “Anzac Legend” The Oxford Companion to Australian History. Ed. Graeme Davison, John Hirst and Stuart Macintyre. (South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 2001). Patrick Lindsay, The Spirit of the Digger, (Pymble: Harper Collins, 2011). 2. Taken from promotional material by a recruitment agency for WHM”s in London. The relevant section was entitled “What to visit whilst living in Europe”

References Australian War Memorial: Dawn of the Legend. http://www.awm.gov.au/exhibitions/dawn/legend/ashmead.asp Brett, Judith. 2005. “Relaxed and Comfortable: The Liberal Party’s Australia.” Quarterly Essay No. 19. 1-79. Dye, Phil. 2005. “The gold diggers land on Gallipoli”, Age (Melbourne). 28 April. Enough Rope with Andrew Denton, episode 130: Andrew Denton’s Gallipoli Brothers in Arms. 26/04/2007 http://www.abc.net.au/tv/enoughrope/transcripts/s1907354.htm Glover, Richard. 2005. “On sacred soil”. Sydney Morning Herald. April 30. Hall, James. 1999. “Monumental book earns nice reward”, Australian (Sydney), September 15.

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Hawke, Bob. 1990. Speech by the Prime Minister, Dawn Service, Gallipoli. April 25. Electronic copy held by Hawke Centre, University of South Australia. Heasley, Andrew. 2010. “Air Fares at a 17-year low - for now.” Age (Melbourne). March 24. Inglis, Ken. 2009. Gallipoli Pilgrimage: the 1965 return. Public Lecture, Shrine of Remembrance, March 26. Inglis, K.S. 2008.Sacredplaces: War memorials in the Australian landscape, 3rd ed. Carlton: Melbourne University Publishing. James, Bill. 1999. Top Deck Daze. Avalon, Halbooks Publishing. Lindsay, Patrick. 2011. The Spirit of the Digger. Pymble: Harper Collins. Loker-Murphy, Laurie and Phillip Pearce. 1995. “Young budget travellers: Backpackers in Australia.” Annals of Tourism Research 22, no. 4.819843. Macleod, Jenny. 2002. “The rise and fall of Anzac Day: 1965 and 1990 compared.” War & Society 20, no. 1.149-168. Rintoul, Stuart. 2010. “A great day that was on for young and old”.Australian (Sydney). April 26. Scates, Bruce. 2006. Return to Gallipoli. New York, Cambridge. Seal, Graham. 2004. Inventing Anzac: The Digger and National Mythology. St Luica: University of Queensland Press. Sørenson, Anders. 2003. “Backpacker Ethnography.” Annals of Tourism Research 30, no. 4.847-867. Visitor books held by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission branch office in Çanakkale, Turkey. Warne-Smith, Drew.2005. “In the morning we will remember them”. Australian (Sydney). 27 April. Winter, Jay. 2001. “Anzac Legend” The Oxford Companion to Australian History. Ed. Graeme Davison, John Hirst and Stuart Macintyre. South Melbourne: Oxford University Press.

CHAPTER FIVE INTERCULTURAL KNOWLEDGE: JULES JOUBERT AND CALCUTTA INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION (1883) DEB NARAYAN BANDYOPADHYAY

I Introduction This paper grows out of my long engagement with the nineteenthcentury exhibition movement, with particular reference to the Calcutta International Exhibition (1883) organized by an Australian of French origin: Jules Joubert. While working on this research area, I was convinced that it received less attention than it deserved; and it is unfortunate since the Calcutta International Exhibition seems to form a distinctive focal point in which diverse critical ideologies of the empire intersect. As we review the critical works on exhibition movement, it seems that there is a desperate attempt to form a monolithic containment.1By confining themselves chiefly to Euro-American exhibitions, they formulate an ethic of the empire’s design of self-display and showcasing. Such analyses try to construct a cultural praxis evident in Euro-American participatory politics in the exhibition movement at the cost of effacing the vigour and energy of the colonial exhibitions, chiefly in India and Australia. This paper will particularly discuss the importance of Jules Joubert’s contribution to the organisation of the international exhibition in Calcutta in 1883. Joubert was regarded as the “exhibition man” in Australia and India in the nineteenth century. But it is surprising that so little has been written about Jules Joubert in recognition of his great work in terms of inter-colonial cultural transactions. It is surprising that even the Australian Dictionary of Biography omits this splendid aspect of Joubert’s

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achievements. In its bullet points on Joubert’s career, ADB mentions only the following:

Occupation x x x x x

Builder Ferry owner Landowner Land speculator Local government head2

This evidently shows how even the ADB underestimates Jules Joubert’s achievement in organizing exhibitions in the colonies. Before I proceed further, I would like to use a distinct theoretical model developed by Clifford Geertz in The Interpretation of Culture (1973). In this book, Geertz includes an essay “Thick Description: Towards an Interpretive Theory of Culture”. The idea of “thick description” challenges and contests the linear chronology of cultural developments evident in traditional historiography. In other words, Geertz argues for a search for moments in the history.3.This theoretical formation comes to be later developed by Dipesh Chakraborti in his formulation of History.4 These arguments therefore develop a new search for apparently invisible incidents, sporadic and disjointed episodes that finally form a cumulative design to promote a fresh reading of alternative history. A similar contention led Stephen Greenblatt to become contentious about the monolithic, linear and developmental ideologies of history. History becomes, therefore, a practice of multiplicities, an opposition to homogeneity.

II “You can still face the world boldly” It is extremely difficult to understand why Jules migrated to Australia5. But if we search far into the entrepreneurial history, we find that there has been a distinct French presence in Australia. The Joubert brothers, Didier Joubert and Jules Joubert, were perhaps inspired by the success of the French entrepreneurs in Australia. They came to Sydney in 1834 as the agents of Barton Fils in Bordeaux. Though Didier, after a brief visit to New Zealand, returned to settle in Hunter’s Hill and gradually emerged as a successful merchant, Joubert had been still trying to determine his

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distinctive individual space. He left Sydney as an interpreter and later came back to become the Chancellor of the French Consulate. He writes in his autobiography Shavings and Scrapes from Many Parts: I returned to Sydney, when, at the death of Mons. Bareilhes, I was appointed the Chancelier of the French Consulate, a position I held until the Revolution of 1848 (Joubert 1890, 35).

His wife Florence Sarah Imlac, whom he married in 1848, died in 1850. In 1849 he began to develop an interest in property development. While in Adelaide, he invested in land. But in 1851 he was imprisoned for debt. In 1852 he went to Mount Alexander goldfield and obtained a contract to build government quarters. He refers to this new turn in his life in his autobiography: Contracts were called for commissioners’ quarters, treasury, escort officers’ barracks, stables, court house, gaols, hospitals, etc. A civil engineer –Mr. Mather –secured the contract, and entrusted me with the work (Joubert 1890, 39).

He also set up a store in Sawpit Gulley. But he later “sold up his business in the township in 1853 (which consisted of a ‘well-built Store, a Bakery and a Butchery’) and went on to become a successful entrepreneur in NSW, South Australia, Tasmania and New Zealand”6. After the failure of Sawpit Gulley General Store in Elphinstone, he once again “craved for a ramble over the wide world, more particularly for that dolce far niente which can only be found on board ship and the broad expanse of the ocean” (52). After his return from maritime adventures to New Caledonia and the South Sea Islands, he built his house in Hunter’s Hill. Although Hunter’s Hill, situated between Paramatta and Lane Cove River, had been a disreputable place7, he decided to enter into the business of land speculation. But it can be easily surmised that he had been definitely inspired by the success of his brother Didier who had made substantial progress in this field by purchasing Figtree Farm from one of its earliest settlers Mary Reibey. Jules however built his own house in Hunter’s Hill and his biography shows that he liked the new job he assigned to himself. There has not been adequate critical writing on Jules Joubert. Beverley Sherry has published a short sketch of “Hunter’s Hill” in Sydney Journal in which he briefly discusses Jules’ role as a property developer. He says:

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Chapter Five …they ( Didier and Jules) began building sandstone villas and laying out subdivisions, the area of Ernest and Ady Streets from Alexandria Street to the Lane Cove River” (Sherry, 2009, 98-106).

Again James Reveley in Australian Economic History Review published an essay in which he discusses Jules’ autobiography Shavings and Scrapes as a narrative contributing to the entrepreneurial business history of Australia. Reveley in his essay “Using Autobiographies in Business History: A Narratological Analysis of Jules Joubert’s Shavings and Scrapes” points out that this autobiography “stabilize[s] and publicise[s] the colonial entrepreneur’s narrative identity, thereby benefitting their business career” (Reveley, 2010, 284). Hoffenberg in his celebrated book An Empire of Display: English, Indian, and Australian Exhibitions analyses the Australia-India trade connections and briefly refers to Joubert’s enthusiasm for trade and commercial linkages between Australia and India: Jules Joubert shared this new enthusiasm for Australian-Indian trade, particularly the potential market in India for Australian manufactured products and raw materials (Hoffenberg, 2001, 119).

These critical discussions seem to project Joubert as merely promoting business interests. Sherry and Reveley consider him primarily engaged in entrepreneurial business adventures. But they fail to see a distinct shift in Joubert’s career. If we carefully study the autobiography of Joubert and his other pieces of writings such as his letters and reports, we find that he gradually moved away from his original role as a property developer to that of an “exhibition wallah”. However after the failure of Agra Bank, he incurred a huge loss of £54, 000 and decided to move in a new direction. As he says in Shavings and Scrapes: It is not in my nature to throw up the sponge, nor am I given to moping over pecuniary losses…I had built for myself on the banks of the Lane Cove river. There I stayed, looking around for a new field (Joubert, 1890, 79).

Joubert perhaps could not foresee that he had been moving towards a completely new phase of his life when he proposed to revive The Agricultural Society of New South Wales by organizing an exhibition in the Cleveland Paddock on 26th August, 1867. Although his bold proposal for the revival of the Society surprised some members, he could successfully procure co-operation and help:

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I had very little trouble, with the co-operation of such helpmates, in reconstructing the society on a new and firm basis. I gladly entered into my new honorary functions (Joubert, 1890, 80).

On becoming the Secretary of the Agricultural Society of New South Wales, he moved the annual show from Paramatta to Sydney and even enlarged it by including non-agricultural exhibits in 1870. This exhibition was so successful that other colonies came to be inspired in forming similar institutions (Joubert, 1890, 81-2). The success of the Agricultural Society Exhibition, however, became a turning point in his life and this led him to decide on organizing international exhibitions in Sydney and Melbourne “as a sequel to the Expositione Universalle of 1878” ( Shavings, 83). In order to give shape to this exhibition, he was even deputed to go to France as Secretary of the New South Wales Commission (Joubert, 1890, 83). He began to take part in different exhibitions such as the Philadelphia Exhibition (1876), acted as Secretary to the New South Wales Commission, took part in the Paris Exhibition (1878) and arranged the French participation in the Sydney Exhibition (1879). He also organized the exhibition in Perth in 1881, in Christchurch (New Zealand) in 1882, in India in 1883, the Melbourne International Exhibition (1888), in Dunedin (1890), in Launceston (1891) and Hobart (1894-5). It is worthwhile to contest the assessment of Jules merely as a property developer contributing to Australian business history. In matters of business, he had been a great failure. For instance, he began to invest in land in 1849 in Adelaide, but in a few years (1852), he was imprisoned for debt. In 1887 he built Alexandra Theatre as a theatrical agent and he again went bankrupt. He rather saw life as an adventure, an opening for multifaceted experiences. He therefore says in his autobiography: “What is life? A perpetual see-saw with fortune–man at one end, the fickle jade at the other” (Joubert, 1890, 1). He saw himself as a Robinson Crusoe of the nineteenth century and his autobiography devotes a whole chapter with a subtitle Robinson Crusoe Realised, thereby implying a picaresque model for his life. And although an unsuccessful business entrepreneur, he ultimately proved to be immensely successful in organizing exhibitions, earning for himself the title “Exhibition Wallah” ( the exhibition man) which became almost a household name in India. In this role, he arguably made a significant contribution to intercultural knowledge.

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III Exhibition Wallah in Calcutta Jules Joubert’s Shavings and Scrapes may be regarded as a narrative encapsulating the problematic of intercultural knowledge. Chapters on India may be regarded as an Australian’s perception of a strange alien culture. It is an amazing record of how he confronts an alien culture and tries to make sense of his perception of Indian cultural tradition. The chapter on the Calcutta International Exhibition is particularly significant. The entire chapter may be regarded as a mode of resistance to British colonial perception of India. He points out that the British colonial government of India discouraged Jules’ idea of organizing an international exhibition in Calcutta on specific grounds: 1. The idea of Exhibition is far beyond the average Indian’s ability to perceive its true potential and 2. Women population in particular, being confined to a conservative social system believing in Purdah, will never feel inclined to visit the exhibition.

Jules’ re-description of the central events of the Calcutta International Exhibition is a definitive assertion of the British failure to perceive the Indian mindset. He was therefore welcomed by the native nobilities who encouraged him in his project of organizing an international exhibition in Calcutta. He lectured at Hindu and Mohammedan colleges and he was assured of help everywhere. In common Indian parlance, the Exhibition began to be referred to as “Burra Bazaar” (a huge market centre). Even while he had been visiting different parts of India, he came to be identified as the wonderful showman, the “Exhibition Wallah”. The native presses also gave substantial publicity to this great event. He gratefully acknowledges the friendship of many Indian natives of Calcutta8. Such incidents described by Joubert distinctively falsify the British claim that the exhibition movement would go beyond the perception of Indian natives. Again the British apprehension of non-participation of Indian women came to be challenged by Joubert. Considering the conservatism of Indian society, he kept aside the Sunday afternoons especially for women visitors. Moreover some Indian nobles purchased the sole rights of the exhibition for a few hours. With such clever steps taken by Joubert, women’s participation increased significantly. Even when he visited the households of Indian nobles, he was asked to sit at the centre of the room, so that the

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women of the household through their peep-holes could have a look at Joubert: Wherever I visited native gentlemen, I was always asked to sit in the centre of the drawing room, in order that invisible ladies of the household might, through “peep-holes”, have a look at the man to whom they owed their view of the Burra Bazaar (Joubert, 1890, 183).

These remarks once again prove the British wrong as far as their perception of Indian women is concerned. Joubert therefore claimed that he helped the Indian women conquer their liberty through the Calcutta Exhibition: The revolution was complete. The women of India had conquered their liberty, and, as Lord Ripon publicly stated, I may claim to be their liberator (Joubert 1890, 183).

After the Exhibition, he travelled extensively through different parts of India. His chapter on Benaras is a distinctive indication of his close understanding of some of the significant aspects of Hindu culture and religion. His analysis of the Hindu mind in terms of the “lingam god” (the phallic symbol of the Hindu divinity Siva), the Adi Vishweshara Temple, the temple of Annapurna or “Sika” (maybe Goddess Sitala , the divinity preventing small pox) should be particularly noted. On his first visit to Calcutta, he was also fascinated by the greatest religious celebration of Durga Puja (worship of the Mother Goddess Durga). He was particularly impressed by scenes of festivities all over India and, particularly, in Calcutta. He compares the grandeur of such “gorgeous display” with “tales from Arabian Nights” (Joubert, 1890,166). He has even tried to recreate the scenes of gaiety and merriment: Bands of music, heading hundreds of glittering pagodas; images of gods and goddesses of huge proportions being carried and paraded through the streets, followed by dancers. Mimes, imps, and devils, elaborately painted and going on with the most extraordinary antics; balconies and windows being loaded with people gaily adorned in costly silks, and glittering with jewels, gold and silver laces, spangled banners, etc. (Joubert, 1890,16667).

Joubert’s re-description of fun and festivity during the Durga Puja distinctively shows a Euro-Australian epiphanic perception of Oriental exoticism. The festival associated with the worship of Durga displays ever-broadening terrains of reciprocities between two well-defined cultures.

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His account of the long journey after the Exhibition through a large part of India seems to read like a travel narrative. The grand reception given by the Maharajah of Benaras in honour of Joubert’s arrival has been mediated through an intercultural perception: The hospitality of Indian princes is something beyond description. They, who are most abstemious and simple both in food and drink, must look upon Europeans as a voracious and thirsty race. Whilst with Indians, we were everlastingly pressed to either eat or drink; and wherever we went – sight-seeing, hunting, boating or riding –coolies were sent ahead of us with tents, provisions, and all the most luxurious appliances (Joubert 1890, 189).

Conclusion The Calcutta International Exhibition marked a significant moment of history. Monolithic forms of history have looked upon it as a celebration of the British Empire’s showcasing of imperial power. But the Exhibition became an iconic representation of intercultural transactions between Australia and India. Jules Joubert is probably the first Australian to have produced a narrative of his perception of India. This perhaps created competing structures of cultural perception in terms of India. As against the imperial history of India, Joubert moved towards a new cultural formation. Wherever he went, he was welcomed with great generosity by the Indians. He therefore felt pleased to remember how the Indians recognized him as “Exhibition Wallah”: Indian natives have an excellent memory for faces. We had not been many minutes in the Dinapure Bazaar before we were recognized as the “Exhibition Wallahs”, and treated accordingly. Indeed, throughout the whole of our trip, we met with similar treatment, which doubtless had a great influence in the good feeling we all have, and shall ever cherish, of India and the Indians (Shavings 185).

Joubert’s initiative in organizing the Calcutta Exhibition formed a new narrative of inter-colonial cultural transaction. As against the imperialist monolithic paradigm of the exhibition movement, Joubert in fact initiated a counter-discourse that could validate a new cultural space for linkages between Australia and India.

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Notes 1. Peter H Hoffenberg in An Empire of Display: English, Indian and Australian Exhibitions from the Crystal Palace to the Great War (University of California Press, 2001) constructs on the ideology of shared experiences of the Empire and its colonies. Paul Greenhalgh in Ephemeral Vistas: The Expositions Universelles, Great Exhibitions and World’s Fairs 1859-1939 (Manchester University Press, 1988) shows that the exhibitions brought about a new configuration of cultural activism. Marjory Harper in Emigrant Homecomings: The Return Movement of Emigrants, 1600-2000, (Manchester University Press, 2005) chiefly essentialises the relationship between Great Britain and Australia, though it becomes indirectly relevant to other colonies. Andrew Sayers in Australian Art (Oxford University Press, 2001) identifies two distinct types of exhibitions: exhibitions promoting the possibility of marketing colonial production and those specifically devoted to fine arts. Brian Galligan, Roberts Winsome and Trifiletti Gabriella in Australians and Globalisation: The Experience of Two Centuries point out that the exhibitions were largely prompted by an interest in overseas markets. These critical assessments largely emphasise the elements of self-display and commercial networking promoted by the Empire. 2. http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/joubert-jules-francois-de-sales-3874. Accessed 20 April, 2012. 3. Geertz derives the terms from the philosopher Gilbert Ryle and develops it in his essay “Thick Description: Toward an Interpretive Theory of Culture”, The Interpretation of Culture, New York: Basic Books, 1973. 4. See Chakrabarty, Dipesh. 2000. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 65-8. 5. Jules seems to have been inspired by his elder brother Didier’s departure for Australia in 1837. He says in his autobiography: “…his letters describing the voyages, his landing, and the prospects of this new world so preyed on my mind that I at once decided to follow in his tracks” (Joubert, 1890, 7). 6. https://www.stampboards.com/viewtopic.php?f=13&t=16494&start=150. Accessed 20 April, 2011. 7. Jules Joubert decided on developing an area near the estuaries of Port Jackson situated between the Paramatta and Lane Cove rivers. But he was aware that it had been a place inhabited by, as he says in his autobiography, disreputable persons: “…some 6,800 acres of land which was, and had been, ‘jumped’ by some very rough people –old convicts, runaway sailors, and jail-birds –who eked out a living by stealing timber and boating firewood to Sydney” (Joubert, 1890, 70). 8. Jules Joubert writes: “Maharajah Sir Jotindra Tagore, Bart.; Maharajah Bahadur of Cooch Behar, Rajah Krishna, Rajah Rajendra Mullick, Prince Mahomed, Furruck Shah, the Maharajah of Paikpara; and, above all, my worthy friend the late Kristodas Pal (the able and learned editor of the Patriot), Nawab Abdool Luteef, and last though not the least, my doctor Kanny Lall Dey–were my friends and helpmates, as far as the Hindu portion was concerned”. (Joubert, 1890, 181)

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References Joubert, Jules. 1890. Shavings and Scrapes from Many Parts. Dunedin: J. Wilkie. Hoffenberg, Peter H. 2001. An Empire of Display: English, Indian and Australian Exhibitions from the Crystal Palace to the Great War. University of California Press. Reveley, James. 2010. “Using Autobiographies in Business History: A Narratological Analysis of Jules Joubert’s Shavings and Scrapes”, Australian Economic History Review. Vol. 50.No. 3. 284-305. Sherry, Beverley. 2009. “Hunters Hill”, Sydney Journal. 2 (1). 98-106.

PART III: PLACE, SPACE AND ENVIRONMENTAL SUSTAINABILITY

CHAPTER SIX GOSSIP FROM WHICH FOREST? TOM KENEALLY, HISTORY, CULTURE AND ENVIRONMENT PAUL SHARRAD

Thomas Keneally is one of Australia’s most prolific novelists and perhaps its best-known writer. Since Bring Larks and Heroes, in 1967, his work has sold well if not always spectacularly, he has had overseas as well as local success, and followed up on his two national fiction prizes (the Miles Franklin) with several shortlisting’s for and a final win in the Booker Prize (for Schindler’s Ark in 1982). Since then, public recognition has been maintained through media appearances due to his work on professional bodies such as PEN and the Fellowship of Australian Writers, and for activist groups such as the Australian Republican Movement and refugee support. It also helps that two international feature films were made of his fiction (Fred Schepisi’s The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith [1978 from the 1972 novel] and Stephen Spielberg’s Schindler’s List [1993]). As a result, he has been awarded an Order of Australia, declared a national living treasure, and his face circulates on a postage stamp (Wyndham 2010). Keneally is also increasingly known for his non-fiction. He produced a travelogue of rural and northern Australia (Outback) in 1983 and went on to publish a record of his visit to Ireland in From Now and in Time to Be (1992), a travelogue of southwest America (The Place where Souls are Born 1992), a history of the Irish Famine and diaspora in The Great Shame (1998), and a comparative history of Ireland, Bengal and the Sudan, Three Famines (2010). Most recently he has responded to the supposed crisis in history education in Australia by working on a threevolume history based on the nation’s colourful characters: Australians (volume one, ‘Origins to Eureka’ 2009, and volume two, ‘Eureka to the Diggers’ 2011 are out), having already written on convict settlement (The

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Commonwealth of Thieves 2005) and its possible future (Our Republic 1993). He wrote an autobiography of his childhood, Homebush Boy in 1995 and biographies of a Civil War general (An American Scoundrel 2002) and Abraham Lincoln (Lincoln 2003). All of these books find equivalents in his fiction, and indeed, Keneally has become (in)famous because of his ‘faction’: fiction based on documentary fact, usually of an historical kind. Gossip from the Forest (1975), from which I have adapted my title, is a dramatic recreation of the key figures negotiating terms for the end of World War One; Season in Purgatory (1976) records the messy campaign against the Germans in World War Two Yugoslavia; Blood Red Sister Rose (1974) re-imagines the campaign of Joan of Arc against the British. Schindler’s Ark created a furore when it won the Booker Prize because critics declared it was not a novel (Hiscock, 1982; Raphael, 1982). Its author freely admitted piecing together interviews from Holocaust survivors and archival research but claimed novelistic artifice for his characterisation and dramatic focusing (Willbanks, 1991, 139). He and others pointed to Truman Capote and models of creative ‘faction’ (Hergenhan, 1986, 456). Many of his novels—such as A River Town (1995), Keneally’s fictional history of Kempsey in northern New South Wales where his grandparents settled— refer to real or invented newspaper items as an indication of his method of generating a story (Keneally 1975a). His novel Towards Asmara (1989) is based on travel to the front line of Eritrea’s battle for independence from Ethiopia, arising out of Keneally’s interest in how famines occur and how international aid works, and this led to his spending time in the Sudan and the Darfur refugee camps, later integrated into Bettany’s Book (2000), which is otherwise another story of Keneally’s Australian ancestors. Both the novels and the non-fiction reveal Keneally’s astute sense of contemporary issues and his commitment to social justice. His dedication to Gossip from the Forest, for example, records his opposition to French nuclear testing in the Pacific and he talks of the debate in The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith about newly-federated Australia’s proper relation to Empire and the Boer War as an allegory for his opposition to the Vietnam War (Stretton, 2002, 19). One item on current affairs bulletins over the last decade or so has been the turn to Greens politics and books about the environment (Tim Flannery’s being the most obvious instance). In Australia, with ten years of drought followed by major flooding through its eastern half, and a river system spoiled by excessive agricultural activity, environmental concerns with damming rivers, logging, global warming, pollution of air and water, and so on have been major points of social conflict and on-going heated debate. Given all this, one might

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expect a writer like Keneally, publicly engaged in social issues and clearly interested in “the politics of world hunger” (Baker, 1987, 124), to also engage with ecological themes. My argument is that he does so, but in ways somewhat different from any romantic visions of Gaia and pre-modern oneness with nature such as the press and wildlife fund calendars repeatedly invoke: “tree huggers” and pristine wilderness. If we look at Keneally’s book Three Famines, his focus is on the politics of state-induced hunger and voiceless masses rendered irrational by starvation. Reading between the lines, we can suspect that his agenda is to attack the kind of heartless economic rationalism pilloried by him in the story of the Irish famine and resurfacing in modern Australian politics from Paul Keating through John Howard and beyond. But it is clear that Keneally’s focus is on people and their responses to crisis rather than on nature and the network of conditions that produce the crisis as a natural disaster. So in the case of the Bengal famine, he sets up a drama of desperate people on the move to Calcutta, an unbelieving and uncaring government in England and effective or ineffective administrators in Bengal. As one chapter heading has it, it becomes a story of “Villains and Heroes” and—like his later history of Australia—a gallery of personalities: Churchill, Gandhi, Subhas Chandra Bose, viceroys Linlithgow and Wavell, with a note approving “the moral courage and strength of character” of the latter in challenging Westminster (Keneally, 2010, 98). Someone like Keneally, consistently interested in the colonial history of Australia, cannot help but be aware that Australian literature is heavily invested in landscape and the forces of nature. But Keneally’s particular bent as a writer has been to depict the social landscape, and the moral struggles of well-meaning individuals set against blundering systems of convict management, church, the war machine, bigotry and so forth. I am not unique in seeing this: Peter Pierce, in the one major study of Keneally’s fiction, calls his work a “melodrama” charting nuances in the battle between good and evil (Pierce, 1995a). Keneally himself describes his work as consistently interested in decent people, innocents being tested by malign fate and massive historical movements to make moral choices (Hergenhan, 1986, 454-5; Willbanks, 1991, 136-7). The culture and environment in all of Keneally’s history is then a moral and social one: the natural world does appear, but mainly as a backdrop to human dramas. Keneally’s first novel, The Fear (1965, rewritten as By the Line 1989) records his own wartime childhood, the often fierce rivalries between Catholics and Protestants in Sydney, and the machinations of Communist workers personified in the child protagonist’s drunken neighbour whose

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self-aggrandising results in death for two of the boy’s friends. The book is mainly set in the drab streets of Sydney’s then outer suburbs and communicates the oppressive fears in the protagonist’s mind engendered by the church, war and the threatening neighbour. This is a built environment and exudes the claustrophobia, at once protective and stifling, of the 1940s, close-knit family and the Irish-Catholic community. Later in the book, the boy narrator is sent north to relatives in a coastal village to break free of his menacing urban world, and he discovers both freedom and beauty in the natural landscape: We had arrived at the mountain end of the small beach. A bald lump of sandstone and conglomerate formed its headland and sheered down to a blue, rock-bottomed bream hole. A small wax-leaved tree survived there, one of its tap-roots exposed between two layers of rock. Its dark arms cringed. It had the look of being bullied by the wind and cheated by the salt air. Yet it was also inordinately beautiful. Without it, the green heights behind us and the steppes of the sea would have been oppressively splendid, an elegantly vast and muscle-bound landscape (Keneally, 1967, 134).

The environment here continues to evoke a white-settler sense of oppressive vastness such that the narrator identifies with the tree as a lonely battler against greater forces and finds a comforting humanistic aesthetic of tenuous poise and existential resistance. But its beauty is produced out of a sense of the aw(e)ful sublime that is not available in the city, even in the lofty spaces of the church. Nature also carries tokens of an Aboriginal presence, anticipating Keneally’s later fictional engagements with Indigenous Australia: It was such a place as had bred totemism in an honest race of Stone Age men and crawling over its scalp, I too felt a totemist reverence. Here you were aware of a sad, alien spirit, hidden somewhere in the eucalyptus clumps like a prince among commoners. It was among the scrawny paperbarks, standing on one leg and ochred white. It stood close to the darkling trunks of she-oaks and hid its blazing eyes behind their draperies. You could feel the glaring of the dark old trees that Finnie called the messmates. Rounding on some red-gum, you found its maniac limbs frozen in the act of hurling something. You had the intuition, even Fy had the intuition, that up here it was best to be reverent (Keneally, 1967, 137-8).

Simon Schama talks of Europe’s grounding of nationalist feeling in forests constructed as God’s cathedrals (Schama, 1996, 75-242). Here Keneally offers us an Australian version of such romantic sublimity; it is both reduced in scale (scrawny, hidden) and infused with threat (lurking

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alien spirits, maniac spearmen) and does not take Keneally very far. Reverence here perhaps aligns the young protagonist with Aboriginal predecessors, but the white imagination cannot conceive even amongst them of anything other than a suspicious respect for the bush, and the scene sets up a distance between humans and the natural world. In The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith, where the protagonist is not as alienated from the land or Aboriginal culture, there are moments in which the text can convey sympathetic reconstructions of traditional Aboriginal song and belief, and the two central Aboriginal characters are able to disappear into and live off the natural environment. But the land as nature cannot sustain them in the old ways, and Jimmie himself has become alienated from it except as a space for colonial farming. Jimmie has decided to make his way in white society. Frustrated by illiterates who scorn him even as they cheat him, Jimmie takes vengeance on a white family and flees into the bush. A moment of religious awe similar to the vision of nature in The Fear does occur when Jimmie and his full-blood relative, Morton, take shelter in an old ceremonial ground on a rocky hilltop (Keneally, 1979, 146-7). But by 1901, with the new nation in throes of birth, this site has already been desecrated by local white youths. It retains a residual power for Mort, a bewildering echo of something for Jimmie, and inflicts guilt for what has been lost on their white teacher hostage. However, the culture that has been part of it, and the accompanying harmony with natural cycles is no longer accessible: in Jimmie’s words, “It’s buggered an’ no help fer it” (150). The site stands as a sign of white conquest but also as a marker for the “buggered” beginnings of black-white contact and the new Federation of dusty white farms battling to survive in prejudice and parsimony. The only hope for a decent future seems to lie in isolated liberal-minded parsons and teachers ignored by the rest of the nation. Australia is out in its towns and cities celebrating a federated commonwealth in an orgy of sporting events as Jimmie is finally hanged (Keneally, 1978, 178). There are some hints of an interest in ecology in this book. Jimmy leaves his western plains country to work on farms around Muswellbrook, “a green town on river flats”: Earlier in the year… the valley had flooded, enriching the top soil of the lower flats to a pitch of improbable green. The sweet pastures and vineyards resounded in Jimmie Blacksmith’s nervous system, conveying the fact of tidy white ownership… Out on visitation, Jimmie used to drive Mr. and Mrs. Neville in their light new dray. Mr. Neville’s conversation was often instructive.

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‘That tree there is Eucalyptus gigans. It has been introduced to the island of Cyprus, I believe, with resounding results.’ Oxalis ran yellow up and down the aisles of the orchards. ‘The gold is welcome,’ said Mr. Neville. ‘But there, that purple on the embankment, that is far from welcome. It is Mediterranean bugloss. The Hunter River people call it Patterson’s curse’ (Keneally, 1978, 8-9).

Here we can detect Keneally being ironic about a white man teaching an Aboriginal what a gum tree is, and can see how the empire’s spread of plant species around the world is already changing the face of countries everywhere, sometimes against the interests of those same settlers and scientists introducing new species to Australia. We can also see a trace of the future water management conflict between necessary wetland flooding and farming control of rivers. It is suggested that Jimmie might get work in the new open-cut coal mine at Greta (Keneally, 1978, 12), in the text uncritically presented as economic promise; in society now a major site of political struggle over carbon emissions. In the novel it is the white world of either towns or dusty grazing paddocks, riverbank vineyards, exploitation of natural resources and Patterson’s Curse that dominates. The brooding atmosphere of the forested north coast of New South Wales celebrated in The Fear recurs in A River Town (1995), the fictional version of Keneally’s family history, in which his grandparents established a store in the pioneering town of Kempsey (Steinberg, 1995, 40). There we find references to the tough life of timber-getters in the semi-tropical hinterland and of dairy and sheep farmers on properties days away by bullock cart or horse-back. Despite his sympathy for the plight of Aborigines, apparently stemming from his childhood in Kempsey (NLA), it seems that most of Keneally’s Australian-based fiction contains a critical but at heart celebratory or at least fatalistically accepting account of colonial settlement. A reading that finds that the novels fail to critically reflect on white-settler relations to the natural environment has to consider the contradiction that while author Keneally was fighting Prime Minister Howard’s attempts to whitewash our past and keep out refugees, his writing presented the very vision of pioneering triumphalism that Howard sought to institutionalise as national dogma. To some extent, this was inevitable, given that Keneally’s reliance on historical research dictates that views of the land be those of the white settler characters he depicts. In The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith we get both the racist views of white characters persecuting Jimmie and a whitecentred outlook from Jimmie himself. Consequently, the land throughout is a space for clearing and fencing and owning and building on. Keneally’s first novel to claim widespread public attention, Bring Larks and Heroes,

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sets the central character, corporal Phelim Halloran, an Irish marine, in an unspecified version of Australia’s first convict colony. There, dreams of houses and farms are not yet formed, and the book opens with Halloran immersed in the natural environment of a forest: he “moves without any idea that he is caught in a mesh of sunlight and shade” (Keneally, 1968, 7). The imagery draws on medieval religious iconography to imply inevitable tragedy: “The afternoon sun is hot in this alien forest. The sunlight burrows like a worm in both eyeballs” (Keneally, 1968, 7). Keneally’s elaborate prose—born of early reading in Dylan Thomas and Gerard Manly Hopkins (Homebush Boy)—conveys the torments of minds writhing in finer points of Protestant damnation and Catholic doctrine set loose amid an indifferent “desert” of trees and sky where human ties are the feeble gestures of “castaways” aimed at “warding off oblivion” (Keneally, 1968, 16). This screen of nature in fact throws a particular light over the action of the book. The environment is perceived as hostile, of being at “the wrong end of the world”: the malign summer…December had come rampaging amongst the carnations along Government Road, had trampled on the last blooming of expatriate stocks. It had crushed the title Advent, which the two parsons had tried to lay upon its back, until every hint of juice and fruitfulness had been ground out. In dutiful vegetable gardens, the leaves of carrots and turnips had tettered and split, shot full of holes by antipodean summer. The grain had already rusted hard beside the little creek called Collett’s Brook: and there would be no harvest at Government Farm, where muddied stooks of young corn stood like the camp wreckage of a beaten army (Keneally, 1968, 21).

The ‘blank’ Antipodean environment reflects its European-made image back onto the society being slowly forced into its space. It ridicules the attempts at regimentation, both military and agricultural, but it also screens out the Indigenous inhabitants, who are briefly mentioned as dying out from smallpox. The environment serves to show Halloran as an innocent doomed idealist. Poetically and religiously-minded, he finds himself in “a sackcloth forest, in a forest that mad, prophetic, excessive, had heaped dust on its own head” (Keneally, 1968, 23), and he proceeds to heap misfortunes on his own head as a kind of fallen prophet in a hellish penal colony where the soldier’s “breech-loading Ferguson, wonder of its times” (Keneally, 1968, 25) counts for nothing as game disappears and clothing rots. In the end, we see the mechanics of society grinding their way relentlessly towards some kind of investment in the new land, but it appears to be blind to any poetic appreciation of local beauty and the

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divine and too rigid to adapt to local conditions. The new society is marked by tyrannical brutality, even amongst those dogmatically quoting scripture, and—perhaps in evidence of Keneally’s persistent interest in famine—its crimes and punishments are all driven by a frenzy of hunger. Betrayed by a bumbling side-kick when they steal stores to aid a charismatic rebel to escape by sea, Halloran is hanged as an existential sacrifice that just might indicate possible redemption for the future of an unpromising proto-nation. Nature, however, plays no part in this, save to supply the writer with some Patrick White-like (or Gerard Manley Hopkins-style) symbols of spiritual possibility and an indifferent or hostile fate. (Keneally was very keen on Hopkins in his Catholic high school days and admits to being very influenced by White in his early years as a novelist [Pierce, 1993, 121; Willbanks, 1991, 134]). We can identify three central concerns in all of Keneally’s work: moral conduct and social-political relations (arising from his early training for the priesthood); history, and in particular, war (linked to his exploration of Australia’s foundational experiences and his father’s military service); and ethnic minority rights (related to his own Irish ancestry, Aborigines, Jews, Eritrean liberation fighters, refugees). As the title of his projected threevolume national history indicates (it is Australians, not Australia), the connecting focus and one that links his non-fiction to his fiction, is his interest in people, their characters, complexities, and their stories. Keneally found work post-seminary as a drama teacher (Beston, 1973, 48) and we can see his sense of character and dramatic scene in Gossip from the Forest, in which strong and eccentric personalities are thrown together in a railway carriage in a forest to determine the fate of Europe postArmistice. Dramatic interest is evident, too, in the early scriptwriting for Schepisi’s film Devil’s Playground (1976) and the translation of Bring Larks and Heroes into a stage play, Halloran’s Little Boat. It is this focus on dramatic incident and colourful character that perhaps keeps Keneally from following a logical line of interest in relation to his work on refugees and famine, namely to look at environmental issues. It has been the gossip rather than the forest—culture and history, not their interlinking with nature—that Keneally has concentrated on. As a left-liberal republican, growing up through the years when Australian literature was beginning to establish itself as a national culture, Keneally’s sympathies are with the egalitarian bush myth of Russell Ward and Manning Clark. He shares their wonderment that a bunch of thugs, illiterate, poor and disaffected dreamers abandoned on the other side of the world could turn into ‘Australians’ and make a nation of themselves (Leadership for Women 2001). He is fascinated by the others who came

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later and merged experiences of European war with Australia’s blithe ignorance of civil upheaval (as we can see in his novel A Family Madness [1985]), and of alienated Indigenes who were recognised as citizens much later than Jimmie Blacksmith’s Federation era (Keneally “My Fiction and the Aboriginal”). The history of first contact between Aborigine and white colonist is taken up in Keneally’s biggest novel, Bettany’s Book (2000). It is in this work that many of Keneally’s interests converge and nature begins to appear as more than a mere backdrop to human dramas (though one would have to say that the latter remain the dominant feature). This novel is a saga of pioneering interspersed with the tale of two sisters, one attempting to turn this family history into the kind of national feature film that emerged in the 1970s, the other an aid worker in the Sudan. The Sydney-based film-maker is given diaries and letters that turn out to be by her great-grandparents, the son of an educated convict from Van Diemen’s Land and a Jewish convict from England. Jonathan Bettany establishes a squatter’s run for cattle and sheep in the high country around what is now Canberra, rhapsodising about the open grasslands. He is echoed later in Australians when Keneally records Lieutenant William Dawes arriving on the First Fleet noting that the Sydney landscape “‘is as Mr. Cook remarks very much like the moors in England, except that there’s a great deal of very good grass and some small timber trees’” (Keneally, 2009, 73). Pastoral Australia is figured as Arcady, as primal Adamic nature, though not altogether Edenic, being “dominated by the sun, and more perilous” than the forests of Van Diemen’s Land, more barbarous than the English parkland they resembled (Keneally, 2002, 98;102; 113). Keneally explores how the expansion of sheep runs, even with the best of intentions, destroys Aboriginal food supplies and leads to conflict and disruption of the nomadic hunter-gatherer culture. While he clearly laments lost opportunities to do better, he does not engage in white guilt in relation to the colonial dispossession of Aborigines. Rather, Keneally adopts the historian’s stance of coming to an understanding of the conditions of the time of first contact as a social ecology with inevitable outcomes. Perhaps unwittingly, the result is not unlike the comforting colonial myth that the Indigenous population would just fade away. In the history Australians, Keneally again makes a commendable effort to write Aborigines into the national story and to present their probable view of the arrival of the First Fleet, but the narrative remains very much located on board the ships and on the writing desks of the British intruders, the author making the point repeatedly that they would never have thought of themselves as such. There is an air of exoneration here, though not intended. Nonetheless, Darwinian ecological necessity becomes

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an uncomfortably morally neutral way of expressing the tragedy that awaited the Indigenous population. For the Cadigal/Eora: their good fortune had passed. For longer than any other population of Homo sapiens, and excepting the Makassan contacts in the far north, the ancestors of the Aboriginals had been genetically and culturally cocooned from the rest of the species. Phillip’s sailors, soldiers and convicts, already preparing to depart Botany Bay for the more promising Port Jackson, were walking incubators for viruses and bacteria barely before seen on this coast. These micro-organisms too were looking for new landfalls (Keneally, 2009, 79).

So it was the germs’ fault, an outcome of the law of nature that says a cocoon is meant to be broken open. The white role of passive carrier, however, is altered when colonists disparage local nature (redgum and ironwood couldn’t be cut and wouldn’t float; animals were ‘vermin’ and there were no ‘fruits’ worth eating), and, more significantly, when they introduce European beasts: “As the Eora possessed a Dreaming, so in a sense did the British—a dreaming of harsh-hoofed livestock. For the first time, cattle kicked up the dust of an inadequately super-soiled continent” (Keneally, 2009, 84). Here we do get the beginnings of environmentalist critique. This takes us back through Bettany’s Book to Bring Larks and Heroes and the interest in famine: history as the story of a struggle for adequate food supply. Across the stories of personalities and their relationships in Australians volume one (Phillip and Bennelong, King and his convict mistress Ann Innett, the grumpy Ross versus the cheerful Dawes), Keneally’s narrative depicts relations between white and black as largely determined by raids by each group on the other’s food resources (Keneally, 2009, 170). The depletions of fish stocks and the slaughter of 170,000 mutton birds are mentioned (Keneally, 2009, 133), along with the gradual success of James Ruse in growing crops at Parramatta on the country’s first land grant to a private farmer (Keneally, 2009, 153). In the fictional account of Bettany’s Book, it is the willingness of Jonathan Bettany to sample the natural abundance of Bogong moths that provides one connection with the Aborigines who come to the mountains every year to feed on them, just as it is his introduction of sheep and cattle that leads to conflict between them and his workers (Keneally, 2000, 219; 229). Jonathan Bettany is troubled by his own moral weaknesses and complicity with what becomes of the tribes. But he treats his natural surroundings as merely a backdrop for this drama of the soul, and when his community goes sour on him, he feels ejected from Eden, and sets off for the dry plains of the Riverina to run his merinos on saltbush. There he

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becomes an upright pioneering agriculturalist and state politician. Bettany as a man of his time sees only his success in having “taken a vacuum and given it substance” (Keneally, 2000, 237), in having put antipodean nature to work within a European construct. However, his story is set in an ironic light of judgement, not just because we see him aware of his own contradictory morals and actions, but because his past is counterpointed by the present of his descendants. They are faced with the political challenge of Aboriginal Land Rights legislation, and with the drought and desertification in the Sudan, likened to Australia’s desert interior. It is the surplus of agricultural wealth resulting from Australian pioneer farmers like Bettany that forms the basis in Keneally’s fiction for Australia’s contemporary aid to drought-stricken Africa (Keneally, 2000, 194), and although the novel does not overtly interrogate the environmental costs at home, the juxtaposition implicitly points to them. A key feature in Keneally’s later work is the perceived connection between Australia and Africa in their similarly dry landscapes. In Towards Asmara, theories of the unified continents of Gondwana and the migration from Africa are the basis for a white worker with Aborigines leaving to report on the revolutionary war between Eritreans and Ethiopians. The same mix of desert experience and personal disappointment drives Prim Bettany to take work with an aid organization in the Sudan. There, she visits the south to determine the state of the drought-affected peasants. The landscape echoes the appearance of ravaged people drifting away from farming dust to refugee camps: .

On the way north out of the city, they were in the presence of the great mountain which filled the sky to the west: Jabal Marra. Above the dirt road, raggedy tracks ascended the great austere peak, its orange, brown, blue and grey slopes massive yet without snow, a barren mother (Keneally, 2000, 51).

There is an echo here of the many poems about Australia’s dry interior, and it finds direct expression when Prim Bettany meets Dr. Sherif Taha. “‘The Sudan of the southern hemisphere, Australia,’ he remarked with a languid smile. ‘Another desert country’” (Keneally, 2000, 65). In the various narratives within Bettany’s Book, there is perhaps another echo between the seasonal round of hunger and harvest in Sudan and the natural hunter gathering of pre-contact Aborigines, with the implied message that both cycles are unnaturally disrupted by modern global and state activities and that both groups should be seen not as helpless victims but as heroic people engaged in an unrelenting battle to survive against the odds

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(Keneally, 2000, 284-5). Representing famine as a political problem does suggest that action can be taken to remedy natural disasters. Dorothea Mackellar’s famous poem about drought and flooding rains (Mackellar 1982) sets up Australia as a country of extremes, its wide brown land in opposition to the small greenness of England. Keneally has spread his vision across this Europe and ‘us’ binary (Baker, 1987, 135), to take in other dualisms: Catholic and Communist, religious and secular, convict and free, black and white, male and female, democratic republican and monarchist Tory, and a contrastive relation between human society and nature. If he depicts droughts and famines, Keneally only deals with Mackellar’s “flooding rains” once; when in Woman of the Inner Sea (1992) the real 1990 floods in the western New South Wales town of Nyngan are turned into the stuff of folk legend. Here the old “man versus nature” theme is figured in a battle to save the town from inundation, but its explosive denouement works the cultural trope of the amateur bush expert who knows more than any government official. The levee banks of modern controls on nature threaten to channel waters into the town and our folk hero dies dynamiting them in a paradoxical act that violently disrupts the landscape but also works to restore the natural ecology. Thinking about this leads me to a final note on the cultural environment in which Keneally’s work and reputation has circulated. Peter Pierce alludes to this in his seminal article “The Critics Made Me” (Pierce 1995), where he summarises the two stories framing the writer’s achievement. The first is the great success story of national acclaim; the second is one of early promise followed by a decline in literary reputation—in almost direct inversion to the public presence of the writer. As Pierce suggests, this discrepant narrative tells us something about Australia’s systems of cultural value and the often contradictory location in them of the “middlebrow” writer, the commercially successful writer who aspires to something more than formula entertainment, the artist who also takes up topical issues of social activism, the public celebrity who seems also to have a foot in an academic literary world. This is my current project—still in its infancy—to chart a writer’s career, not only as the writer himself sees it developing, but also as the systems around the writer produce and delimit it. It will be a mix of literary history, biography and cultural studies that ideally will capture a particular ecology of both Keneally’s evolving oeuvre and Australia’s post-war literary environment.

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References Baker, Candida. 1987. “Thomas Keneally.” In Yacker 2: Australian Writers Talk about their Work. Ed. Candida Baker. Sydney, London: Picador. 116-42. Beston, John. 1973. “An Interview with Thomas Keneally.” World Literature Written in English. 12.1: 48-56. Clark, Manning. 1962-87. A History of Australia. Carlton: Melbourne University Press. Flannery, Tim. 1994. The Future Eaters. Chatswood: Reed Books. —. 2005. The Weather Makers. South Yarra: Text Publishing. Hergenhan, Laurie. 1986. “Interview with Thomas Keneally.” Australian literary Studies. 12.4. 453-7. Hiscock, Eric. 1982. “Book of the Month.” The Bookseller. October 16. 1475. Keneally Thomas. 1967. The Fear. South Melbourne: Sun Books. —. 1968. Bring Larks and Heroes. South Melbourne: Sun Books. —. 1978 (1972).The Chant of Jimmie Blacksmith. London: Fontana. —. 1975. Gossip from the Forest. London & Sydney: Collins. —. 1975a. “Doing Research for Historical Novels.” The Australian Author. January: 27-9. —. 1982. “My Fiction and the Aboriginal.” In Writers in East-West Encounter. Ed. Guy Amirthanayagam. 32-45. London: Macmillan. —. 1989. Towards Asmara. London & Lane Cove: Hodder & Stoughton. —. 1992. Woman of the Inner Sea. London & Lane Cove: Hodder & Stoughton. —. 1995. A River Town. Port Melbourne: Heinemann. —. 1995. Homebush Boy. Port Melbourne: William Heinemann. —. 2009. Australians: Origins to Eureka. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin. Keneally, Tom. 2000. Bettany’s Book. Sydney, London & New York: Doubleday. —. 2010. Three Famines. North Sydney: Knopf/ Random House. Leadership for Women. 2001. “Thomas Keneally.” http://www.leadershipforwomen.com.au/interviews/tomkeneally.htmA ccessed 11 June 2011. McKellar, Dorothea. 1982 (1913). “My Country.” My Country and Other Poems. South Yarra: Currey O’Neill. NLA. National Library of Australia, Canberra. Manuscript Collection. MS6428. “Thomas Keneally.” Box 10, Folder 93.

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Pierce, Peter. 1995. “‘The Critics Made Me’: The Receptions of Thomas Keneally and Australian Literary Culture.” Australian Literary Studies. 17.1. 99-103. —. 1995a. Australian Melodramas: Thomas Keneally’s Fiction. Studies in Australian Literature. St Lucia: University of Queensland. Pierce, Todd J. 1993. “The Founding Future of Australian Literature: An interview with Todd J. Pierce.” Nimrod: International Journal of Prose and Poetry. 36.2. 119-24. Raphael, Isabel. 1982. “But is it a novel?” Times. October 21. Schama, Simon. 1996. Landscape and Memory. London: Fontana Press. Steinberg, Sybil. 1995. “Thomas Keneally: ‘A Continuity of Theme’.” Publisher’s Weekly. April 3. 40-1. Stretton, Andrea. et. al. 2002. “Running in the Family—Novels, Films and Nations.” The Sydney Papers. Autumn: 9-23. Ward, Russell. 1958. The Australian Legend. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Willbanks, Ray. 1991. “Thomas Keneally: Interview.” In Speaking Volumes: Australian Writers and their Work. Ed. Ray Willbanks. 12842. Ringwood: Penguin Books Australia. Wyndham. Susan. 2010. “Australia Post gives stamp of approval to literary legends.” Sydney Morning Herald, January 21. Books.smh. com.au. Accessed on 3 July 2011.

CHAPTER SEVEN SCARCE WATER AND THE AUSTRALIAN PROGRESS TRAP: A COMMENTARY JAMES ARVANITAKIS AND PAUL BROWN

Introduction Australia is the driest continent on Earth. Although some areas may have annual rainfall of over 1,200 millimeters, many regions are susceptible to drought, and the Australian climate is highly variable, changing dramatically across the continent and from year-to-year (Bureau of Meteorology 2011). This variability in weather patterns means Australia is subject to certain “natural” disasters, particularly droughts, bushfires and floods. For the first decade of the twenty first century, severe drought gripped Australia. In the country’s most important irrigation region, the Murray– Darling Basin, water flow dropped to just 17% of historical levels (Nicholson et.al., 2011). Then, as the drought broke in the Australian summer of 2010-11, the northern state of Queensland experienced record rainfall and ensuing floods which killed 25 people and wreaked havoc everywhere from rural waterways to urban neighbourhoods (Dragun, 2011). Simultaneously, bushfires destroyed or damaged 87 homes on the outskirts of Perth as 72 kilometres per hour winds raged; and while this was happening, the southern state of Victoria experienced floods where almost two years before, fires had claimed the lives of 173 people (Malkin, 2011). These extremes of cyclic flood, fire and drought give context to the Australian water crisis, a challenge which communities and policy makers have addressed in many ways, sometimes with complex outcomes. For example, studies show that Australian attitudes are very positive towards water conservation and water saving appliances. But across the country

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this is not consistently translated into actual behaviour, and even where there are signs of significant change, there are lost opportunities for public policy makers to further encourage savings (Dolnicar and Hurlimann, 2010). Australia’s relationship with water needs to be placed within a broader socio-cultural context of post-colonial management of landscape and resources extraction. Historically, it is a relationship about control and modernity: one that is dominated by an instrumentalist approach to usage with little or no consideration for the natural constraints of a dry continent (Holt-Damant, 2009). This reflects a human/nature relationship underpinned by faith in on-going and limitless growth, and confidence that an unruly landscape can be “tamed” (Lines, 1991). In pursuit of such a tamed landscape, colonial governments, individuals, and organisations (such as the famous “acclimatisation” societies) attempted to re-shape the local environment to conform with European sensibilities—with tactics which range from introducing European plants for domestic gardens to implementing mass irrigation schemes in the twentieth century (Howitt, 2002). Two hundred years after the original episodes of European colonialism, attempts to re-shape the environment continue. To give one example, Sharon Beder’s well-known work on late twentieth century engineering culture within the then Sydney Water Board, explores the techno-scientific fabric of the colonial enterprise of taming the land and in particular controlling the water. Her findings indicate a “pipes and pumps” approach in which engineering is privileged over service to the community’s needs, and a closed technocratic culture stifles public involvement in deliberative processes. Beder’s focus was mostly on sanitation in a metropolitan context, but she offers wider insights into how deep-seated organisational culture, traditions of expertise and technical knowledge of construction, and assumed economic imperatives arising from broader social agreements, lead to dominant modes of exploitation (Beder, 1989). While utilisation of resources has created abundance and wealth for certain sections of the community, the downstream environmental costs and economic consequences are now manifest with implications for all Australians. Colonial exploitation has created many of the environmental challenges that we now confront—particularly with regard to water. In this paper, we will consider the implications of this, with initial focus on what Ronald Wright describes as a “progress trap”: that is, the circumstance in which the very path that leads a society to success can also sow the seeds of its collapse (Wright, 2005). Wright argues that a society’s past successes along particular pathways of development create tunnel vision in

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decision-making, so that in times of crisis alternative courses of action are not even considered. In this paper, we sketch out various dimensions of Australia’s contemporary environmental challenges by focusing on management of water within the post-colonial cultural context; and we look at how communities might adopt alternative management practices, seeking to avoid such progress traps.

Understanding progress traps in a post-colonial environment Before considering the Australian condition, for comparison we can explore how progress traps work through the example of one of Australia’s neighbouring countries, Nauru. The vast majority of Australians know little about Nauru despite it being one of our nearest neighbours – except that it once housed refugees on behalf of the Howard government, and that it will again be used for this purpose under new procedures for off-shore processing of refugees introduced after heated public debate in 2012. Writing recently in the New York Times about climate change, the President of Nauru, Marcus Stephen, stated he understood that most people are unaware of the history of his nation (Stephen, 2011). Like many Pacific Island states, Nauru was the subject of colonial interference throughout the 1800s and 1900s as England and Germany fought for dominance over the region. At different times, both nations controlled mining leases on the island. Although only eight square miles with a population of 14,000, Nauru was per capita the wealthiest nation in the world when it gained independence in 1968. In contrast, today it is besieged with problems – both economic and social – and it is now among the poorest countries in the world (McDaniel and Gowdy, 2000).There is more obesity per capita than any other nation, and at least two out of every five people suffer from diabetes (Brinkley, 2010). How did this turn around occur so quickly? Nauru had some of the world’s richest sources of phosphate – an important ingredient for boosting agricultural production in places such as Australia. The country’s good luck took the form of excrement piled up for thousands of years courtesy of Nauru’s native birds, and combined with decaying oceanic micro-organisms to produce a rich source of phosphorous. Exploitation of these deposits made the islanders exceedingly wealthy. At the height of phosphate mining, journalists visiting Nauru described people who did not need to work because of the royalty payments they received, and who spent their wealth with little consideration for the future (Brinkley, 2010).

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But by the 1990s the luck of the islanders had all but evaporated. Available phosphate has been depleted, leaving an ecological wasteland made from decades of strip mining, and many financial, legal, and cultural problems. With its vegetation and soil destroyed and agriculture therefore in ruin, Nauru’s people were forced to import nearly all of their food, much of it highly processed and high in fat; and poor diet drove the island’s health problems. Mining had also de-skilled the population, since with little incentive for people to work, centuries-old survival skills were lost between generations. Not long after the phosphate ran out Nauru’s central bank declared bankruptcy (Australian Phosphate, 2011). Nauru’s fate is not unique. The better known historical example of Easter Island likewise shows the demise of a once prosperous society in the face of over- exploitation (Wright, 2005). Such histories indicate simultaneous ruin of both ecosystem and social fabric, made inevitable by unimaginative policy making. The progress trap is sprung because, although solutions might have been envisaged, necessary changes to technological and social systems are deemed too politically risky to implement. The historical examples confirm that just because a country is lucky enough to be blessed with natural wealth, this doesn’t guarantee that economic success or sustainability will necessarily follow. Further, natural wealth can be a curse when resource exploitation leads to neglect of other areas of the society and economy (McAuley, 2010). At the time of writing, Australia is experiencing a highly profitable mining boom, set to continue across decades. But already in public and parliamentary debate and on the front page of newspapers, fears about the likely impact on other economic sectors and on the environment are growing, as fast as the plans for new mines (Cleary, 2011). The rapid onset of a mining boom, and the rapacious mode of development that it signifies, add to already significant evidence that Australia now risks decline into a progress trap.

Water: the drive towards scarcity In his recent book, Too Much Luck, Paul Cleary describes an embedded attitude within Australian society that treats mining resources as if they are limitless and assumes the physical environment, no matter how fragile, is always available to meet economic needs (Cleary, 2011). The country’s colonial history has helped form the enduring contemporary attitude that the natural environment can be controlled and re-shaped; and large scale twentieth century hydro-electric, mining and irrigation projects highlight this.

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There is a strong link between water availability and agricultural production, and water is also essential for mining, in all stages of exploratory drilling, production, and site rehabilitation (Roberts et.al., 2006). Characteristic of water exploitation for both agriculture and mining is faith in boundless expansion with no consideration for limits; and what makes this all seem acceptable is the associated scaffolding of scientific method, rational decision-making, and capitalism. The rational scientism of the colonial and post-colonial enterprise has shaped Australian attitudes to water, and these attitudes have been normalised in the concept of water rights. Always a legal and economic battleground for commercial activity, industrial and agricultural water rights have complicated histories and manifestations, with details varying in significant ways between States. In general, allocations are provided directly to users. Where water agencies are involved in allocation, technically they also usually have the power to alter or even cancel licenses, even though full exercise of this power has rarely occurred. Therefore in most circumstances, water rights have come to be viewed by their holders as rights in perpetuity. By the 1970s it was evident that many water systems had been overallocated, and levels that could be extracted by entitlement holders could exceed any realistic measures of sustainable use. For example, by the end of the twentieth century, New South Wales had issued licenses and water allocations that were estimated to equal 120% of the total available water resources (Melville and Broughton, 2004). Though governments at all levels have implemented various reforms, none meets the demands for the security of water or for sustainability. The National Water Commission’s biennial report on water reform was released with much fanfare in late 2009. One commentator described it as one of the “most dispiriting government reports ever compiled” (Keane, 2009). Amongst other things, the Commission criticised the provision of government assistance for irrigation infrastructure for grossly distorting the decision-making process for investors and irrigators. More recently, the Murray Darling Basin Authority argued that the natural environment should be viewed as a “user” of water, deserving of allocations that would reduce current usage for agriculture by up to 25% (Kevin, 2010, 1). This has created outrage in farming communities which have thrived on the over-allocation of water and now will suffer if these rights are removed. This situation is diagnostic of a progress trap, of the kind we have outlined above. The 2011 report was similarly concerning, with the authors noting that:

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Nationally there has been disappointingly slow progress in the explicit identification of over allocated and over used systems and in restoring those systems to sustainable levels of extraction (National Water Commission, 2011, 6).

Today’s increasingly urgent need to respond to Australia’s water crisis must be understood within the broader human/nature relationship – a relationship that is encompassed by a cultural belief of on-going and limitless growth and endless abundance. Urban Australians grow up assuming every tap provides an endless supply and that all tap water is potable. As a result the waste of water is extraordinary by world standards. Washing cars and hosing down city pavements with drinking water are images of a nation living beyond its means. The picture is somewhat different in rural areas, where both danger and scarcity are more obvious, and there is a wider cultural context for our relationship with water, evolving since colonial times. In the recent book Landscape Place and Culture: India Australia Linkages, essayists Paul Sharrad (2011) and Rick Hoskings (2011) use “literary takes on rivers and landscapes” to explore the historical love/fear relationships Australians have with water in rural settings. These relationships pay little heed to Indigenous knowledge about water, but arise nonetheless from living in close proximity to the power and the precariousness of the natural environment. These two essays confirm the ambivalence European settlers felt towards the Australian landscape – with anxiety about floods or scarcity set in counterpoint to the confident optimism of the settler-colony enterprise. This ambivalence characterizes present-day environmental crisis as it is experienced “in the bush”, and as it should be understood by all Australians. But it is important to recognise that whatever the wasteful habits of city dwellers, or the consequences of natural cycles, the Australian relationship with water is now fundamentally altered through the activities of industrial water users. Nineteenth century narratives about rivers may have shaped (regional) identities around a “powerful nature” discourse, but in the twenty first century we are face to face with organised and statesanctioned misuse of water resources on a transformative scale. The example of industrial water use for uranium mining will explain the scale of this transformation, symbolised in the fate of iconic “mound springs” along the western edge of the Great Artesian Basin. The story is unfolding well away from the consciousness of coastal Australians in the South Australian desert where a decisive assault on water resources is under way on Arabunna territory south east of Lake Eyre. Here, at Olympic Dam near the company town of Roxby Downs, Australia’s

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largest corporation BHP Billiton is developing its uranium and copper mine, aiming to make it the world’s largest uranium mine. It will help supply increased demand from nuclear industry expansion (potentially and controversially including sales to India). At Olympic Dam, the mining techniques have always demanded huge quantities of water, with these needs satisfied by piping groundwater from the Great Artesian Basin (Wroe, 2011, 3). This system, which currently uses 42 million litres per day, draws from the western fringes of the basin, where traditional Arabunna land owners and more recently farmers acquired their water supply from springs erupting at the surface of the desert. These springs form sizeable mounds alive with biodiversity and have important cultural significance. If and when the mine expansion occurs, the water usage will jump to a daily use of 240 million litres. Yet the mound springs are already threatened, and in some cases destroyed (Friends of the Earth, 2011). The mining company has obtained the water free of charge, paying only for the pipes and pumps infrastructure, while Aboriginal people have been provided only restricted access to the water from the company pipes that traverse their land (Reg Dodd, Arabunna elder, personal communication 2004). The fate of the mine water is as feedstock for leaching techniques by which uranium is extracted, a process generating vast quantities of tailings contaminated by radioactive materials. Australia is depleting high value water stored underground to create this poisonous legacy stockpiled in the desert.

The Commons: sketching a response to post-colonial living As noted above, one of the fundamental challenges of dealing with water in the current environment is that those who have been granted water rights now see them as a right in perpetuity regardless of the consequences. This marketisation of water rights has turned water into a scarce commodity that is there to be traded, with the natural environment seen as a competitor rather than a resource to be appropriately managed. In such circumstances, water management is left to the market with little consideration of inter or intra-generational equity. It is a progress trap set to snap shut. An alternative approach is to consider water as a commons that is best managed not by the profit motive but by demand for equity. This proposition has been strongly championed by renowned economist Elinor Ostrom, who argues that our relationship to water has to be operationalised not as a “market” but as a “commons”. She regards “economic man” as a complex creature and argues that humans work in cooperation not

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competition. Ostrom’s behavioural economics proposes that while resource markets often fail, in contrast, approaches treating water as commons create robust management structures and programmes built on cultures of cooperation, communication and reciprocity (Ostrom, 1990). This is not arguing that the market has no role—rather that we need to distinguish different functions of water management, with only some, such as water pricing, reliant on competitive market mechanisms. Other functions are best managed through processes of cooperation and collaboration, and in this frame, it is important to look at those who do not have a voice in market transactions, including nature and future generations, and to explore how the provision of equity can be operationalised. Before going further, we should state what we mean by “the commons”. As traditionally defined, the commons are the tangible aspects of the environment that no one owns but everybody enjoys. Forests, the atmosphere, fisheries, grazing land and water are elements of the commons. More contemporary interpretations of the commons, by authors such as David Bollier (2002), are more inclusive, also describing the cultural and creative sphere as a commons—to include literature, performing arts, visual arts, community arts and sites of heritage; and we can think of the airwaves used for radio and television as commons. In the broad sense, the commons can be viewed as: the social and political space where things get done and where people have a sense of belonging and have an element of control over their lives, [providing] sustenance, security and independence (The Ecologist, 1996).

For the commons to thrive, we must work to protect and enhance our natural environment and promote aspects of our cultural heritage as well as this sense of belonging and control. An important aspect of this is the sharing of information and the education of the wider public. According to the Ecologist, true commons possess a number of important features (The Ecologist, 1996). The first is that commons cannot be commodified – and if they are they cease to be commons. The second aspect is that while they are neither public nor private they are often managed by local communities, even though commons cannot be exclusionary and they cannot have borders built around them. If a community were to erect a border the commons become private property. The third aspect of the commons is that, unlike commodified resources, they are not scarce but abundant, and in fact, if managed properly, they work to overcome scarcity. This leads to our consideration of the principles and practicalities of managing water (and other resources) as elements of the commons.

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Ostrom has identified a set of design principles that are considered prerequisites for stable management. These principles include a congruence between accessibility and local conditions, a democratisation of resource management, effective monitoring, and, in the case of larger common pool resources, multiple layers of governance. In her recent work, The Challenge of Common-Pool Resources, Ostrom goes on to describe the concept of adaptive governance as a method for the management of complex common-pool resources that are uncertain and fragmented (2010). For Ostrom, a fundamental aspect here is accurate and relevant information and governance structures that encourage adaptation and change, as well as systems that allow communities to address previous errors and new developments. Importantly, Ostrom argues that in common property regimes, access to resources is not necessarily free, as commonpool resources are not public goods. These costs should not exclude appropriate use, however. Communities monitor access to the resource and can actually make a decision to make accessibility more difficult for members outside the community. For water then, the community has the ability to allow appropriate access for users who need water for survival, while simultaneously excluding those that abuse the resource or use it for purposes other than servicing the local community. We don’t see Ostrom’s proposals as a panacea for solving all the challenges in the Australian relationship to water. In fact, rather than offering a simple solution, Ostrom herself acknowledges the limitations of a one-size fits all approach, arguing that her study: does nothing more than shatter the convictions of many policy analysts that the only way to solve common pool resource problems is for external authorities to impose full private property rights (Ostrom, 2010, 182).

Critics of Ostrom’s approach, for example defenders of strict (libertarian) private property rights, notably Walter E. Block, argue that Ostrom’s case studies are merely examples of “private property partnerships”, downplaying the prospect that access to commons can be negotiated rather than a “free for all” (Block, 2011). Block points to the difficulty in operationalising a management approach based on co-operatively negotiated access to the commons, and this ties to another criticism leveled at such an approach— that it relies on vague and non-falsifiable concepts such as trust, an essential element of co-operation (Durlauf, 2002). But in our view, a more insightful critique is offered by David Harvey who, reflecting on Ostrom’s approach, argues that it fails to account for power relations (Harvey, 2011). Ostrom appears to repeat the same mistakes made by mainstream economists, in seeing negotiations around the commons taking place on a

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level playing field. Despite such criticisms, we note that a 2010 study in Ecology and Society analysed 91 evaluations of Ostrom’s principles and found that they can be empirically supported and successfully applied. However a key finding of that same study was that successful application of Ostrom’s principles requires detailed contextual understandings (Cox et.al., 2010, 38).

Priorities for Action In the framework discussed above, we mention below four priority tasks for managing the commons generally, and water more specifically, within an Australian post-colonial context. Taken individually, not one of these is a new suggestion, and that is our point. There is unfinished business in the re-design of decision making required for sustainable development, and we may be walking into a progress trap even though the means to escape has already been mapped. In the late twentieth century, principles of precaution, inter- and intra-generational equity and the need for high levels of public participation were articulated in the far-reaching international debate about the links between environment and development (UNCED, 1992). As we set about managing the commons there is an urgent need to integrate and extend participatory environmental management processes based on trust, hybrid ecological knowledge and an understanding of cultural context and power relations. First, there is a need to bring various knowledge systems together to confront the complexity of water management. This is a matter of equity, but also a recognition that the universal findings of science need complementing with context-dependent Indigenous knowledge and traditions, as well as other “lay” knowledge (e.g. farmers’ understanding of the land and water) (Harding, et.al,.2009). Knowledge, whether scientific or hybrid, can be troublesome to the advocates of progress, either because it charts specific negative impacts arising from exploitation of the commons, or because it reveals uncertainty about whether ecosystems are resilient in the face of human-induced change. For this reason, provision of resources for the development of hybrid ecological knowledge has not been a traditional priority of government or industry, though it needs to be. In practical terms, this means, for example, provision of resources for interactions between scientists and other knowledge makers, for new databases of contextual knowledge, and for inclusive monitoring and reporting programmes that draw on a range of knowledge systems.

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The second task is to extend and sophisticate the range of participatory processes, paying particular attention to the need for skillful leadership and facilitation. Late twentieth century reforms, for example the introduction of environmental impact assessment for both public and private sector developments, seemed to deliver guarantees of close public involvement in environmental decision making. Yet some of these processes have been wound back, for example the trend in New South Wales to diminished the rigour of environmental assessment, while perhaps ironically the options for public involvement continue to evolve, an example being proposals for community consultation forums associated with Australia’s implementation of carbon trading arrangements (Carson, 2011). This type of model offers the opportunity for citizens to confront “wicked” problems and escape progress traps by “advocating an organised expression of that same willingness to meet together, to wrestle with difficult decisions and circumstances, and, collectively, to recommend actions” (Carson, 2011, 39). There is a particular conceptual task required in order to consolidate participatory decision making, and that is to develop more detailed models for the operation of trust in consultative processes. One of the best proposals is Gavan McDonell’s explanation of “suspended doubt”, a provisional form of trust which circulates yet often remains unacknowledged in community consultation processes. McDonell shows how participants who would otherwise remain combative in decision-making may unite around a common goal. Unwilling to ever fully trust each other, they suspend their doubts about each other’s values for long enough to determine viable actions (McDonell, 1997). The “wicked” problems of water management in rural areas can be resolved through careful facilitation that harness suspended doubt, creating through its use the space and time for deliberative processes which foster valuable ecological knowledge. Third, is the need to look beyond governance mechanisms that privilege technocratic decision-making to reflect on and harness a cultural approach. “Culture” is an elusive concept that can be as broad as the way we make meaning out of life. However, concrete practices which constitute a cultural approach have evolved over the last four decades, with the general objective of understanding the construction of value systems and public positions held by parties to decision making. Common tools include ethnographic studies, analyses of how different groups wield power in controversies, oral history and social science survey techniques. In our own practice, we have also advocated and used the creative arts as a methodology for exploring value positions, undertaking social negotiations and producing new knowledge. We have already mentioned

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the way our social agreements about water are represented in literature and other creative arts, work that is important in setting down “markers” of how far we've travelled. A play, or a film, or a festival or a book or a comic, or a cultural development workshop, become the most explicitly performative elements of realigned relationships between society and water, and such artworks constitute statements representing socially negotiated decisions about how to sustainably manage water resources and other commons. In Australia the most powerful use of the creative arts is through the practices of Community Cultural Development (CCD), in which community capabilities are enhanced through participatory and selfdetermined structures built around use of the creative arts. Concrete proposals about how such processes might work in relation to water management are put forward in the Australia Council’s publication Art and Wellbeing (Mills and Brown, 2004). This shows how CCD processes could sit alongside planning systems now in place for the Murray Darling Basin: in search of the “deep clues” about seemingly intractable land and water management problems… [providing] research-based participatory processes that could develop and negotiate common understandings of natural resource management issues. At stake is the need for essential changes at social, cultural, technical and economic levels, which will involve re-negotiation of values and management systems (Brown, 2008, 235).

Finally we mention a fourth key task, which is to install a decisionmaking tradition that is adaptive and which builds resilience. Progress traps can be avoided through iterative processes which bring to light then act upon the feedback between policy decisions and their impacts. Such responses reflect Ostrom’s advocacy of governance structures that must be open to information flows—both quantitative and qualitative—and which encourage adaptation and change. Likewise they reflect one of Jared Diamond’s key observations that flexibility of response is crucial in overcoming the threat of systemic collapse (Diamond, 2005). In adaptive responses, the capability of communities becomes more important than the adoption of any singular solution. Without going into detail, we would advocate, as the front line of capability building, the powerful combination of environmental education (or in more contemporary terms “learning for sustainability”) with distributed and networked governance structures that foster self-determination and resilience within communities (Eggers, 2008).

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Concluding comments It may seem odd to end a paper on water with a story about fire. But we need to return to the 173 deaths noted in the introduction, deaths which occurred in February 2009, the hottest summer month in Australia, when bushfire ripped through the southern state of Victoria on what became known as “Black Saturday”. The causes of the 31 individual fires that raged that day are complex. The Australian Government’s science body, the CSIRO, explained the deadly combination of dry strong winds blowing from the centre of the continent, natural topography and vegetation, high temperatures and years of drought resulting in “tinder-dry fuel that was very easily ignited and very difficult to extinguish” (CSIRO, 2009). This fire story reveals the role of apologists for the post-colonial approach to environmental management. Only three days after the fires, provocative populist commentator Miranda Devine claimed in a respected broadsheet that environmentalists were at fault. Her reasoning was that “greenies” did not support forest clear felling including clearing to create fire breaks. She made the following statement: If politicians are intent on whipping up a lynch mob to divert attention from their own culpability, it is not arsonists who should be hanging from lampposts but greenies (Devine, 2009, 16).

In one way, it is difficult to disagree with Devine’s logic that clear felling stops bushfires: no bushfires have been recorded in car parks after all. Devine’s blame-shifting implies that the many natural elements that resulted in the devastating fires could be overcome with further acts of landscape taming. Fortunately the Victorian fires also brought more comprehensive analyses and with these common sense. The following statement by the Climate Institute’s John Conner is as important for the water crisis as it is for the threat of fire: Climate change is having an impact on bushfire severity… Longer fire seasons, more extreme days and greater extremes of bushfire conditions….there will be times when no force known to mankind can suppress these bushfires...we have to dramatically increase our preparedness for these fires, fires that are establishing a new frame of reference for fire-fighters and our communities (Connor, 2011).

We need to take on board the implications of climate change for our relationships with both fire and water. Yet it was the Queensland flooding which provided a stark reminder of how difficult it can be to deviate from post-colonial progress logic. The leader of the Australian Greens, Bob

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Brown, was savaged by media and political foes for daring to make the connection between flooding and systemic climate change. His politically risky request for coal companies to pay for flood disaster relief, since they are the profiteers of our coal-addicted economy, was hailed by both major parties as insensitive. In the aftermath of the Queensland floods, once the tide of public sympathy and grief dissipated, Australia has simply picked up where it left off: with a typically anthropocentric technical and economic policy response. To mainstream politicians and economists, discussions of “new dams”, “raised levee banks” and raised funding levies dominated their consideration of solutions, as if a good flood may well prove a boon to Australia’s gross national product. In our view, the progress trap is set, and it is guarded by a cast of characters that include corporate advocates of continuing colonial exploitation of landscape and resources. Also present are the majority of politicians too frightened to deviate from tried and true policies, and the apologist commentators all too willing to lay the blame, even for natural disasters, at the feet of environmentalists. Hope lies in a realignment of management approaches towards protecting the commons, using prescriptions such as Ostrom’s for structuring new social agreements underwritten by the cooperative rather than the competitive features of the human/nature relationship. We acknowledge the optimism in such ideas particularly in the context of Australia’s history of undervaluing and cheaply selling off our commons in competitive markets (Arvanitakis, 2007).

References Arvanitakis, James. 2007. The Cultural Commons of Hope. Berlin: VDM. Australian-Phosphate. 2011. Peak Phosphate: Phosphate Importing. http://www.australian-phosphate.com/peak-phosphate.html Beder, Sharon. 1989. Toxic Fish and Sewer Surfing. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Block, Walter E. 2011. “Review of Ostrom’s Governing the Commons.” Libertarian Papers, 3: 21. Bollier, David. 2002. Silent Theft: The Private Plunder of Our Common Wealth. New York: Routledge. Brinkley, Joel. 2010. “Consider the Plight of Nauru, its Prized Bird Dung Gone.” Press of Atlantic City. http://www.pressofatlanticcity.com/opinion/commentary/article_cd8ad abe-8d9d-5faf-a329-765df07d5949.html

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Brown, Paul. 2008. “Knowledge Power and Cultural Policy: Social Understanding through the Arts.” In Making Meaning Making Money: Directions for the Arts and Cultural Industries in the Creative Age, Ed. Lisa Anderson and Kate Oakley. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Bureau of Meteorology. 2011. Living with Drought. http://www.bom.gov.au/climate/drought/ livedrought.shtml. Carson, Lyn. 2011. “Dilemmas, disasters and deliberative democracy.” Grifitth REVIEW. 32 (Autumn): 38-46. Cleary, Paul. 2011. Too Much Luck, Melbourne: Black Inc. Publishing. Connor, John. 2011. Melbourne Future Leaders Conference. http://rich-bowden.suite101.com/report-climate-change-the-cause-ofbushfire-a97680#ixzz0TUnmcOOC. Cox, Michael, Gwen Arnold and Sergio Villamayor Tomás. 2010. “A Review of Design Principles for Community-based Natural Resource Management.” Ecology and Society. 15(4): 38. CSIRO. 2009. “Fact Sheet: What Caused the Fires in Victoria on 7 February 2009?” http://www.csiro.au/ resources/Victorian-BushfiresQA.html#1 Devine, Miranda. 2009. “Green ideas must take blame for deaths.” Sydney Morning Herald, 12 February. Diamond, Jared. 2005. Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Survive. London: Allen Lane. Dolnicar, Sara and Anna Hurlimann, 2010. “Desalinated Versus Recycled Water—What Does the Public Think?” In Sustainable Water for the Future: Water Recycling Versus Desalination. Ed. Isabel Escobar and Andrea Schäfer: 375-388. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Dragun, Andrew. 2011. “After the Deluge: The Problems of Managing the Brisbane Floods.” The Australian, 19 January: 16. Durlauf, Steven N. 2002. “The Empirics of Social Capital: Some Skeptical Thoughts.” Social Development Strategy. World Bank. http://siteresources.worldbank.org/ INTRANETSOCIALDEVELOPMENT/2145781112888617281/20549292/Durlauf2.pdf Eggers, William. 2008. “The Changing Nature of Government: Network Governance.” In Collaborative Governance: A New Era of Public Policy in Australia, ed. Janine O’Flynn and John Wanna, 23-28. Canberra: ANU ePress. Friends of the Earth. 2011. “Impacts of Nuclear Power and Uranium Mining on Water Resources.” http://www.foe.org.au/anti-nuclear/issues/oz/water-nuclear/nph2o/

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Harding, Ronnie, Carolyn Hendriks and Mehreen Faruqi. 2009. Environmental Decision Making: Exploring Complexity and Context. Sydney: Federation Press. Harvey, David. 2011. “The Future of the Commons.” Radical History Review. 109 (Winter): 101-7. Holt-Damant, Kathi. 2009. “Emerging Urban Futures: Land, Water, Infrastructure.” Emerging Urban Futures in Land Water Infrastructure, New Model Cities, Ed. Mojdeh Baratloo and Kathi Holt-Damant, 8-13. New York: Columbia University Press. Hosking, Rick. 2011. “Magic of Dawn: Early Travelling Along the Murray.” Landscape, Place and Culture: Linkages between Australia and India, Ed. Deb N. Bandyopadhyay, Paul Brown and Christopher Conti: 33-53. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Howitt, Richie. 2002. “Inequality: local injustices, invisibility, blindness and their legacies.” Without Prejudice: Access and Equity a Service Guarantee. Local Government Community Services Association NSW State Conference, November. http://www.es.mq.edu.au/rhowitt/INE_007A.htm Keane, Bernard. 2009. “National Water Commission Report: Going Backwards on Environmental Management.” Crikey. 13 October. http://www.crikey.com.au/2009/10/13/national-water-commission-igoing-backwards-on-environmental-management/ Kevin, Tony. 2010. “Murray Murmurings: What Happens when Two Extremist Ideologies Meet.” Crickey, 20 October. http://blogs.crikey.com.au/rooted/2010/10/20/murray-murmuringsmurray-darling-prescience/ Lines, William. 1991. Taming the Great South Land: A History of the Conquest of Nature in Australia, Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Malkin, Bonnie. 2011. “Australia’s Extreme Summer Continues as Bush Fires Destroy Dozens of Homes.” The Telegraph, 17 February. http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/australiaandthepacific/ australia/8308384/ McAuley, Ian. 2010. “Living off Our Resources.” In More than Luck. Ed. Mark Davis and Miriam Lyons, 185-200. Sydney: Centre for Policy Development. McDaniel, Carl N. and John M. Gowdy. 2000. Paradise for Sale: A Parable of Nature, California: University of California Press. McDonell, Gavan. 1997. “Scientific and Everyday Knowledge: Trust and the Politics of Environmental Initiatives.” Social Studies of Science.27: 819-63.

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Melville, Fiona and Peta Broughton. 2004. “Trading in Water Rights, Water and the Australian Economy.” Growth. 52. Melbourne: Committee for Economic Development of Australia. Mills, Deborah and Paul Brown. 2004. Art and Wellbeing: A Guide to the Connections between Community Cultural Development and Health, Ecologically Sustainable Development, Public Housing and Place, Rural Revitalisation, Community Strengthening, Active Citizenship, Social Inclusion and Cultural Diversity. Sydney: Australia Council for the Arts. National Water Commission. 2011. The National Water Initiative— Securing Australia’s Water Future: 2011 Assessment. Canberra: Australian Government. Nicholson, Margaret, Sarah Bruce, James Walcott, and John Gray. 2011. Elements of a National Drought Policy: The Australian context. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Agricultural and Resource Economics and Sciences (ABARES). http://adl.brs.gov.au/data/warehouse/pe_abares99010702/CP11.18Aust DroughtPolicy_20110822.pdf Ostrom, Elinor. 1990. Governing the Commons: The Evolution of Institutions for Collective Action. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ostrom, Elinor. 2010. “The Challenge of Common-pool Resources.” Environment: Science and Policy for Sustainable Development. 50 (4): 8-21. Roberts, Rowan, Nicole Mitchell and Justin Douglas. 2006. Water and Australia’s Future Economic Growth. Canberra: Australian Treasury. http://www.treasury.gov.au/documents/1087/PDF/ 05_Water.pdf Sharrad, Paul. 2011. “The River Is Three-Quarters Empty: Some Literary Takes on Rivers and Landscape in India and Australia.” In Landscape, Place and Culture: Linkages between Australia and India, ed. Deb N. Bandyopadhyay, Paul Brown and Christopher Conti: 54-70. Newcastle Upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Stephen, Marcus. 2011. “On Nauru, a Sinking Feeling.” The Opinion Pages, New York Times. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/19/opinion/19stephen.html?_r=1 The Ecologist. 1996. Whose Common Future? Reclaiming the Commons. London: Earthscan. UNCED (United Nations Conference on Environment and Development). 1992. Agenda 21. Geneva: United Nations. Wright, Ronald. 2005. A Short History of Progress. Toronto: House of Anansi Press.

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Wroe, David. 2011. “BHP's $45b Giant: The Bigger, Deeper Olympic Dam.” Sydney Morning Herald. 11 October: 3.

PART IV: CRITIQUING POLITICS AND LEGAL ISSUES

CHAPTER EIGHT CARTOON WARS: THE INTERPRETATION OF DRAWN IMAGES HELEN PRINGLE

“Even a dumb cartoon may not be so dumb if it calls out to someone” (Kimmelman, 2006, 1).

In political and cultural contexts, the term “the cartoons” has become shorthand for the controversy following the publication of twelve drawings on Islamic themes commissioned by the editor of the Danish newspaper Jyllands-Posten in 2005. However, my topic in this chapter is “the Australian cartoons”. The case on which I draw here is the New South Wales case of McEwen v Simmons (2008). Alan McEwen was prosecuted for accessing and possessing child pornography, specifically, cartoons featuring characters from The Simpsons engaged in sexual activities.The question with which the courts were concerned in this case was whether a cartoon character is a depiction or representation of a “person”, such that the materials would fall under legal provisions against child pornography (it should be noted that the relevant law in New South Wales now uses the term “child abuse materials”, rather than child pornography, and I prefer to use that term where possible). However, I want to consider this case more in terms of questions about the power of drawn images, and the interpretation of images more generally. I argue against the view that such images are “representational” rather than real, the implication being that they are thus improper targets of laws aimed at harm prevention. To consider images as mere representations or fantasies overlooks what makes them so intriguing for both artists and their audiences: their ability to shape our thoughts and actions and more, to give form to our world. This chapter then considers whether cartoons present any distinctive problems in terms of freedom of speech that are not posed by other forms of expression, and suggests the lines along which they should be interpreted in order to take notice of their power for good or bad.

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I first briefly set out the circumstances of the case of McEwen v Simpson, and the questions it was considered to raise. The resolution of the case was met with considerable derision in the Australian media, primarily on the basis that the materials at issue were “mere” cartoons and hence had little if any relationship to the harm, exploitation and victimisation recognised as lying at the heart of child pornography (e.g. Holland, 2008; Barns, 2008; and in more academic terms, Simpson, 2009). As discussed below, criticism of the case implied that a primitivist interpretative protocol had been employed by the courts, a protocol that failed to understand the proper relation between persons, things, and representations of them. I then note the convergence between the lines of this critique and criticism of Muslim reactions to the publication of the Danish cartoons as evincing a childish confusion between reality and image. In this context, recall that the Danish controversy began in regard to the illustration of a children’s book on the Prophet (Rose, 2006). I conclude by noting that the (putative) harm or injury involved in both the Danish and the NSW cartoon controversies is better cognizable where the cartoons are understood as performative rather than representational in character. I do not, however, provide an answer as to whether the cartoons in either case are in fact harmful or injurious, but only sketch the context within which I think a claim of harm or injury may be appropriately assessed. I also do not broach directly the question of punishment in regard to such an assessment of harm.

The New South Wales cartoons controversy In February 2008, Alan McEwen was convicted in the Parramatta Local Court of possessing child pornography and using his computer to access child pornography material, contrary to NSW and commonwealth criminal provisions.1 The material at issue was a series of cartoons depicting figures modelled on the animated television series The Simpsons, with sexual acts performed by the “children” of the family. The question on appeal when McEwen’s conviction was considered at the NSW Supreme Court in late 2008 was: “whether a fictional cartoon character is a ‘person’ within the meaning of the statutory offences or, to be more precise, is a depiction or representation of such a ‘person’” (McEwen 2008, Adams J at 112). Mr. McEwen contended that, where a cartoon figure is in a form that clearly showed it was not, or did not represent, a human being, it could not be a “person” in the terms of the legislation–and hence that the materials did not constitute child pornography. However, the appeal was unsuccessful and McEwen’s conviction was upheld, with

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Justice Adams ordering each party to pay its own costs, given that it was the first case in NSW dealing with what he characterized as a “difficult” issue. This is not an isolated case outside of NSW, however. Other courts in the United States, Canada, New Zealand, and Sweden, inter alia, have dealt with cases of (alleged) child pornography material not involving the abuse of children in its production. For example, in the United States in 2002, the Supreme Court considered the constitutionality of the 1996 Child Pornography Prevention Act (CPPA) in the case of Ashcroft v Free Speech Coalition. The CPPA had expanded prohibitions on child pornography to include “virtual” pornography, that is, material produced by the use of youthful-looking adults or through computer-imaging. The Act covered “any visual depiction, including any photograph, film, video, picture, or computer or computer-generated image or picture [that] is, or appears to be, of a minor engaging in sexually explicit conduct”, and any sexually explicit image that is “advertised, promoted, presented, described, or distributed in such a manner that conveys the impression [of] a minor engaging in sexually explicit conduct”. On the basis that the primary rationale of the prohibition on child pornography is to protect actual children abused in its production, the US Supreme Court found that the CPPA violated the First Amendment protection of the freedom of speech. The Court noted: [The case of New York v Ferber] upheld a prohibition on the distribution and sale of child pornography, as well as its production, because these acts were “intrinsically related” to the sexual abuse of children in two ways. First, as a permanent record of a child’s abuse, the continued circulation itself would harm the child who had participated. Second, because the traffic in child pornography was an economic motive for its production, the State had an interest in closing the distribution network. Under either rationale, the speech had what the Court in effect held was a proximate link to the crime from which it came. In contrast to the speech in Ferber, speech that is itself the record of sexual abuse, the CPPA prohibits speech that records no crime and creates no victims by its production. Virtual child pornography is not “intrinsically related” to the sexual abuse of children [in-text citations have been omitted].2

That is, the US Supreme Court reasoned that, insofar as digital imagery, virtual pornography and cartoons do not involve the use or abuse of actual named children in their production, they fall outside the reach of legitimate prohibitions on child pornography (it should be noted however that in some circumstances such materials may, alternatively, be classified as

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“obscene”, a category unprotected under the First Amendment but subject to different criteria of regulation from child pornography). In the McEwen case in NSW, similar considerations as to the “victimless” character of virtual pornography and cartoons were canvassed by McEwen’s counsel, in the context of the question of what constitutes a person for the purposes of interpreting legislation against child pornography. Justice Adams argued in response that there is indeed a “fundamental difference in kind” between depictions of “actual” persons and those of “imaginary” persons, as he explained at length: The distinction is perhaps made clearer by considering the various depictions in video games and comics of imaginary persons involved in terrible violence, involving the infliction of torture and death. If the persons were real, such depictions could never be permitted. And their creation would constitute crimes at the very highest end of the criminal calendar. Imaginary depictions of that kind are largely (some may consider, unfortunately) taken for granted. They are widely advertised and marketed to young people without compunction or much disapproval. They are permitted only because they are merely imaginary constructions. I am not, of course, suggesting that the laws against child pornography are in any way inappropriate: they are obviously completely necessary. I am simply seeking by a stark example to point out the fundamental difference between depicting real people and imaginary constructions. Real people can, of course, be fictional, in the sense that they adopt or play the role of others than themselves or fictional characters but they are still real people. There was a tendency in the arguments before me to suggest that the distinction is merely one of degree. This is quite wrong. Such an approach would trivialise pornography that utilised real children and make far too culpable the possession of representations that did not. Of course, the use of the imaginary material to groom children would make its possession more serious (McEwen 2008, Adams J at 113).

However, for Justice Adams, notwithstanding that there is a difference in kind between an image depicting an actual child and that depicting an imagined or fictional child, the latter is still capable of being recognised as “child pornography”, depending on the context. That is, the law does cover both actual and imaginary persons–and Justice Adams found that the material at issue in McEwen did indeed qualify as child pornography. It is important to note here that cartoons are not completely sui generis in the problems they raise, but are closely related to the problem of the status of fictional and “imaginary” characters more broadly. For example, Justice Adams’ discussion in McEwen made reference to the 2005 Western Australia case of Holland, which involved the importation of fictional narratives of an adult man’s relationships with boys under the age of 16

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(McEwen 2008, Adams J at 115).3 It is quite common that prosecutions for child pornography involve a cache of materials, some of which involve real children in their production, along with cartoons and narratives that do not (e.g. see Puhakka 2009). Some cases involve materials that make use of pornographic cartoon characters, scripts or scenarios superimposed on otherwise realistic (and benign) videos of children at play (e.g. the case of Evan Emory discussed in Goode 2011). Or other cases involve materials where an actual child’s likeness is edited into sexual scenes of adults.4

The interpretation of cartoons: good and bad readers As noted above, Justice Adams’ reasoning in the McEwen case was widely criticised in media reports for his apparent inability to properly distinguish images and words from things and persons, which then involved the courts and law in the policing of fantasies and of the imagination. As Brian Simpson argues in relation to the case, “the harm the prosecution of such material seeks to prevent is not so much that done to children, but the harm done to the moral character of the community by making such images viewable to individuals. It is therefore not a justification based on harm to others but rather it is based on an ambiguous notion of moral harm connected with the inappropriateness of having certain thoughts, constructing particular fantasies and imagining specific scenarios” (Simpson 2009, 256). On such a view, virtual pornography and cartoons alike are simply a fantasy of the mind over which the law and state have no legitimate right of surveillance or control. Such a view underlies a common critical reaction to broadly similar cases in the US, Sweden, Canada, and New Zealand. In the US for example, the 2010 case of Kutzner involved a man accessing and possessing cartoon images, including cartoons of the Simpson children engaged in sexual activities (Kutzner, 2010).5 Other cases have involved Japanese anima, manga or lolicon comics and cartoons (e.g. Whorley, 2008; and Handley, 2007 and 2008). In 2005, the New Zealand Film & Literature Board of Review ruled against the publication of the anime PuniPuniPoemy, arguing: … that it does “promote or support or tend to promote or support” the exploitation of children or young persons for sexual purposes. It also shows acts of torture or the infliction of extreme violence or extreme cruelty without showing consequences for the perpetrators. The Board finds that the amount of extreme violence and extreme cruelty does “tend to promote or support” the activities even if in anime form (2005).

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The New Zealand classification of PuniPuniPoemy directly raised the question of whether the decisive consideration in assessing cartoon child pornography is harm or injury done in its production, or whether its distribution, use and effect might also raise legitimate concerns. By pointing to concerns around distribution and use, however, I do not mean to focus here on the view often associated with conservative critics of pornography in particular, that the display of obscene images can do “moral harm” through, for instance, causing damage to the fabric of community life. This view is voiced in the 1973 US case of Paris Adult Theater I v Slaton, in consideration of the impact of commercialised obscenity on a “decent society” (1973, 58-9). I also do not mean to focus here on the view about the triggering effect of images, and in particular pornographic images, that is suggested in the formula of “promote or support” used in the PuniPuniPoemy case. For example, Catharine MacKinnon has likened the action of pornography in some cases to the order “Kill” given to a trained attack dog (MacKinnon, 1993, 12). That is, my concern here is not with whether and how pornography or images more generally cause people to act against others in certain ways. But I do mean to shift the focus away from questions of harm involved in producing images, and towards the power of the image itself. To put the question in this way is to admit the possibility of harm being done even where no child is involved in the original making of the pornographic image–but doing so then invites the counter-assertion that images do not do anything, but are simple representations at best, and perhaps not even that in the case of cartoons or comics. For example, Brian Simpson’s analysis of McEwen noted above seems to attribute no reality at all to cartoons; they are simply fantasy. There is however a long tradition of interpretation and analysis of cartoons and comics in the social sciences and humanities that is based on the idea that images, including drawn images, do more or other than simply represent reality, but instead in some sense perform and shape the reality of the world. One of the most striking early examples of such analysis was Para leer al Pato Donald, or How to Read Donald Duck, published in 1971 by Ariel Dorfman and Armand Mattelart. Dorfman and Mattelart argued that the comic strip Donald Duck was not only a reflection of capitalism in the United States, but an active participant in the making of the capitalist world, of how it imagined itself, and of how imperialism colonized the imagination of the Third World: In the imaginary realm of Disney, the rosy publicity fantasy of the bourgeoisie is realized to perfection: wealth without wages, deodorant without sweat. Gold becomes a toy, and the characters who play with it are

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The argument of How to Read Donald Duck is that the Donald narratives do not simply reflect the “American Way of Life”, but rather embody the “American Dream of Life” (1975, 95), a dangerous dream in this world. Accordingly, Dorfman and Mattelart send Donald home with this note: “Mr. Disney, we are returning your Duck. Feathers plucked and wellroasted. Look inside, you can see the handwriting on the wall, our hands still writing on the wall: Donald, Go Home!” (1975, Preface to the English edition, 10). Following on the analysis of Dorfman and Mattelart, there is now a thriving academic industry in the analysis of cartoons and comics or, to use the term of Hillary Chute, “graphic narrative” (Chute and DeKoven 2006, 767-768).6 An important spur to academic inquiry in this area was the publication of Art Spiegelman’s Maus (1986),7 an attempt to address the Holocaust through cartoon narratives. Moreover, the Danish cartoons controversy of 2005 provided material for scholars across the board to analyse the impact of cartoons on the real and dream worlds of modernity (see On the Background and Aftermath of the Danish Cartoon Affair, Klausen 2009, a book that itself became a subject of further controversy in regard to the publication of the cartoons). Art Spiegelman himself wrote about the Danish controversy in an article that republished the twelve cartoons, and in which he lamented the apparent inability of Muslims to read the cartoons in the appropriate way. Spiegelman argued, “In fact, the most baffling aspect of this whole affair is why all the violent demonstrations focused on the dopey cartoons rather than on the truly horrifying torture photos seen regularly on Al Jazeera, on European television, everywhere but in the mainstream media of the United States. Maybe it’s because those photos of actual violation don’t have the magical aura of things unseen, like the damn cartoons” (Spiegelman, 2006, 47). Spiegelman implied that if the “dopey” or “dumb” cartoons were heard to call out to someone (to use Michael Kimmelman’s phrase noted above), it was because that person was a “bad reader” who had confused image and reality, or at best, who had conflated levels of reality.8 “Bad readers” are like children who scream out in a cinema because of not being able to tell the difference between reality and, say, the image of a train speeding towards them on the screen–or like children who believe that Wily Coyote is really dead when he slams into a wall. Such a criticism of bad readers and bad readings as that made by

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Spiegelman rests on the notion that that images are merely images and the most an image or a damn cartoon can “really” do is to provide offense to those with a thin skin. In contrast, writers like Saba Mahmood and Naveed Khan have pointed out that the problem at issue with the Danish cartoons is primarily not what the images in contention contain, show, represent, or reflect, but what they do (Mahmood, 2009; Khan, 2010; and see the useful discussion in Keane, 2009). In particular, Khan draws on the work of Henri Corbin, who coined the term “imaginal” in order to get away from the connotations of unreality attaching to the term “imaginary” (Corbin 1964). Although for Corbin the imagination is the faculty of cognition of images, it is not seen as addressing a realm of fantasy or the imaginary, but of a reality in which images “capture” our gaze, rather than vice versa. In a slightly different but related approach, W.J.T. Mitchell has also addressed the question of the power of visual images as instruments or agents of domination, seduction, persuasion, and deception (Mitchell 1996, and at greater length in Mitchell 2005). That is, images are conceived of as neither inert objects nor fantasies, but as exerting a certain force in the world, and indeed, as assisting in the creation of the world or indeed, of the world’s reality. This is perhaps clearer in secular terms if we consider, as an example, how advertising works through what billboards, say, do or perform. In regard to public advertising, Deborah Lott has posed the question of what do we want when we look at ads like a Calvin Klein billboard for example. Lott writes: Advertising uses images to evoke a state of desire. Less and less often these days do ads even direct that desire toward a specific product; more often their intent seems to be to evoke a sort of dreamy trance of diffuse desire, to keep us in a state of prolonged yearning that may attach itself to any number of different material objects over the course of time. The standard image employed to invoke this state is the beautiful face, the tender body of a young woman. Usually she looks right at us; implores us to enjoy her, provokes us with the plea in her eyes. What is it that we want when we gaze at her? To be her? To have her? To have what she has? Or to merge with her image in some kind of hazy, adrenalin surge of continuously sustained consumption, continuously sustained desire? (Lott,1999).

Lott argues that our desires and even our very sense of our erotic identity have been formed, not merely affected, by the way in which advertising captures our erotic gaze, “Calvin Kleins” it, and then sells it back to us as what we really deeply yearn for, as our very own fantasy in fact.

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These different arguments about the traction of images help us to understand their power, and to recognize them as performative rather than as reflective of the world. Cartoons have long served as vehicles of persuasive political propaganda and cultural education. The long tradition of scholarly analysis of cartoons as effective forms of political persuasion has indicated the power of cartoons, of what they are capable of doing in the service of humanitarian ideals and of inclusive justice. But insofar as we can recognise this power of cartoons, and/or images more broadly, it is also important to recognise how they can act, and be enacted, so as to denigrate, humiliate and harm not only directly but in creating the world.

Conclusion The specific problem with which I began this chapter is that of cartoons as child pornography, that is, where pornography does not involve actual children in its production. There are certain forms of the representation of children that are almost universally conceded to be pornographic, and actionably pornographic, as for example, videos of objectively and recognizably adult persons (although usually men) having sex with objectively and recognizably underage or infant children. The wrong and injury in this case is clearly identifiable as the “physical” abuse of the child, which is in turn recorded and perpetuated in the image of it. It seems that very little of this material is manufactured in the countries of its consumption; the great majority appears to be made in Third World countries.9 In fact, associations in the US such as the Free Speech Coalition have offered a qualified defence of the downloading of child pornography on precisely this basis: that there is very little commercial production of it in the United States, and that the problem of its circulation can be severed from the problem of its production, and assessed on different grounds (see similar arguments by Amy Adler, quoted in James, 2010; and more broadly Adler, 2001; see also Basbaum, 2010). My argument here is that images can, in certain circumstances and contexts, be legitimately classified as child pornography or child abuse materials even where they do not involve abuse in their initial production. In order to begin to make this argument, I have focused on cartoons, as their production clearly does not directly involve the use of the physical bodies of actual children. If the argument works for cartoons, it should be possible to shift the analytical focus for other forms of child abuse as well, such that the emphasis is on the harm of the material and not just on their status as a record of previous abuse. Indeed, in many cases, the abuse of children is staged precisely for the purposes of creating such a “record”

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(see cases cited in Pringle, 2011), much as certain forms of abuse at Abu Ghraib were staged for the camera, with the photographs then being circulated as “trophies”. In that sense, I would argue that it is important to return to JL Austin’s notion of performatives, of speech that acts: just as there are speech-acts, so there are image-acts. On this pre-supposition, the injury of images can be made intelligible in principle at least. There is seemingly then no necessity to treat cartoons as raising distinctively different problems in terms of freedom of speech from other forms of action or expression. However, whether the Danish or the Australian cartoons are in fact harmful or injurious is the topic of another paper. Here I have simply attempted to sketch an interpretative framework for such further investigation.

Notes 1. I wish to thank the anonymous reviewer of this chapter for engaging with its arguments in such a stimulating and helpful manner, and thank you also to IASA (ER) for the opportunity to present an earlier version as a paper in Kolkata in 2011. 2. Respectively, Crimes Act 1900 (NSW), s 91H (3) [see now s 91FB], and Criminal Code Act 1995 (Cth), s 474.19(1)(a)(i). 3. Ashcroft v Free Speech Coalition 535 US 234, 235-236 (2002), distinguishing the earlier decision of New York v Ferber 458 US 747 (1982). There is a very large body of literature on the Ashcroft case and wider questions about virtual child pornography and virtual reality in regard to freedom of thought and speech, with useful recent introductions including Duncan 2007; and Malamuth and Huppin 2007; more broadly, see Blitz 2008. 4. Referring to Holland v The Queen [2005] WASCA 140, a case brought under s 233BAB of the Customs Act 1901 (Cth). 5. I am grateful to the reviewer of this chapter for references to these cases: US v Bach 400 F3d 622 (8th Cir 2005), and US v Hotaling 634 F 3d 725 (2d Cir 2011). In both cases, the material was held to be child pornography, although I note that the 2011 similar fact case of Gerber in California was decided differently. 6. US v Kutzner, No. CR 10-0252-SEJL (Idaho District Court, 2010), Plea Agreement. As noted above, the US Supreme Court in Ashcroft (2002) held virtual child pornography to be protected speech under the First Amendment, but American obscenity jurisprudence (unlike child pornography jurisprudence) does allow for the criminalization of images even if they do not depict real victims. Kutzner was charged with violating obscenity law, even though the materials were similar to virtual child pornography. 7. Some recent key works in the analysis of comics and cartoons include McCloud 1993; Eco 2002; Carrier 2000; Inge 1990; Magnussen and Christiansen 2000; see also Pringle and Castle 1993, and most recently Pringle 2012, on the Yagan cartoon controversy considered in Bropho v Human Rights and Equal Opportunity

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Commission [2004] FCAFC 16, and on the “Judensau” cartoons of medieval Germany. 8. Spiegelman’s Maus (1986) was followed by a series of other graphic narratives in the series by the cartoonist. 9. Mahmood for example writes of criticisms made of “an improper reading practice, collapsing the necessary distinction between the subject (the divine status attributed to Muhammed) with the object (pictorial depictions of Muhammed)” (2009, 844). 10. See the remarks of Justice Simpson in the NSW case of R v Booth [2009] NSWCCA 89 (2009): “In sentencing for such a crime, it is well to bear firmly in mind that the material in question cannot come into existence without exploitation and abuse of children somewhere in the world. Often this is in underdeveloped or disadvantaged countries that lack the resources to provide adequate child protection mechanisms. The damage done to the children may be, and undoubtedly often is, profound. Those who make use of the product feed upon that exploitation and abuse, and upon the poverty of the children the subject of the material.”

References Legislation and Cases Ashcroft v Free Speech Coalition 535 US 234 (2002). Bropho v Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission [2004] FCAFC 16. Crimes Act 1900 (NSW). http://www.austlii.edu.au/au/legis/nsw/consol_act/ca190082/. Criminal Code Act 1995 (Cth). http://www.austlii.edu.au/au/legis/cth/consol_act/cca1995115/sch1.html. Holland v The Queen [2005] WASCA 140. McEwen v Simmons [2008] NSWSC 1292, (2008) 222 FLR 111. New York v Ferber 458 US 747 (1982). Paris Adult Theater I v Slaton 413 US 49 (1973). Puhakka v R [2009] NSWCCA 290. R v Booth [2009] NSWCCA 89 (2009).http://www.austlii.edu.au/cgibin/sinodisp/au/cases/nsw/NSWCCA/2009/89.html. US v Bach 400 F3d 622 (8th Cir 2005).http://caselaw.findlaw.com/us-8thcircuit/1461647.html. US v Handley, Crim. No. 07-CR-030 (US District Court, Southern District of Iowa, Western Division, 2007), and Order (2008). http://www.iasd.uscourts.gov/iasd/opinions.nsf/55fa4cbb8063b06c862 568620076059d/20a96a77c04347ed86257480006ae8c5/$FILE/Handle y.pdf.

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US v Hotaling 634 F 3d 725 (2d Cir 2011). http://caselaw.findlaw.com/us2nd-circuit/1557163.html. US v Kutzner, No.CR 10-0252-SEJL (Idaho District Court, 2010), Plea Agreement. http://www.reason.com/assets/db/12876937541067.pdf. US v Whorley, No. 06-4288 (4th Circuit Court of Appeals, 2008). http://pacer.ca4.uscourts.gov/opinion.pdf/064288.P.pdf.

Other references Adler, A. 2001. “The Perverse Law of Child Pornography.” Columbia Law Review 101 (2): 209-273. Barns, G. 2008.“Sex and ‘The Simpsons’.” On Line Opinion, 17 December. http://www.onlineopinion.com.au/view.asp?article=8292. Basbaum, J.P. 2010. “Inequitable Sentencing for Possession of Child Pornography: A Failure to Distinguish Voyeurs from Pederasts.” Hastings Law Journal 61: 1281-1305. Blitz, M.J. 2008. “The Freedom of 3D Thought: The First Amendment in Virtual Reality.” Cardozo Law Review 30: 1141-1243. Carrier, D. 2000.The Aesthetics of Comics. University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press. Chute, H., and M. DeKoven. 2006. “Introduction: Graphic Narrative.” MFS Modern Fiction Studies 52 (4): 767-782. Corbin, H. 1964. “Mundus Imaginalis or the Imaginary and the Imaginal.” Trans. Ruth Horine http://henrycorbinproject.blogspot.com/2009/10/mundus-imaginalisor-imaginary-and.html. Dorfman, A., and A. Mattelart. 1975. How to Read Donald Duck: Imperialist Ideology in the Disney Comic. New York: International General. Duncan, K. 2007. “Child Pornography and First Amendment Standards.” Mississippi Law Journal 76: 677-703. Eco, U. 2002. “Four Ways of Talking about Comics.” Trans. Levana Taylor.http://www.bdquebec.qc.ca/forum/detail.php?forumid=9&id=1 055&p=1#7362. Goode, E. 2011.“Michigan Town Split on Child Pornography Charges.” New York Times, 7 March. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/08/us/08muskegon.html. Holland, G. 2008. “Helen Lovejoy Gets Her Way.” New Matilda, 12 December. http://www.newmatilda.com/2008/12/12/helen-lovejoy-gets-her-way.

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Inge, M.T. 1990. Comics as Culture. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi. James, S.D. 2010. “‘Misty Series’ Haunts Girl Long After Rape.” ABC News, 8 February. http://abcnews.go.com/Health/internet-porn-mistyseries-traumatizes-child-victim-pedophiles/story?id=9773590. Keane, W. 2009. “Freedom and Blasphemy: On Indonesian Press Bans and Danish Cartoons.” Public Culture 21 (1): 47-76. Khan, N. 2010.“Images That Come Unbidden: Some Thoughts on the Danish Cartoons Controversy.” borderlands e-journal 9 (3). www.borderlands.net.au/vol9no3_2010/khan_images.htm. Kimmelman, M. 2006. “A Startling New Lesson in the Power of Imagery.” New York Times, 8 February: 1. Klausen, J. 2009. The Cartoons that Shook the World. New Haven: Yale University Press. Lott, D.A.1999. “Kiddie Pants or Kiddie Porn?” Salon. http://www.salon.com/life/feature/1999/03/12feature.html. MacKinnon, C.A. 1993. Only Words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Magnussen.A., and H.-C. Christiansen, eds. 2000.Comics and Culture: Analytical and Theoretical Approaches to Comics. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, University of Copenhagen. Mahmood, S. 2009. “Religious Reason and Secular Affect: An Incommensurable Divide?” Critical Inquiry 35: 836-862. Malamuth, N., and M. Huppin. 2007. “Drawing the Line on Virtual Child Pornography: Bringing the Law in Line with the Research Evidence.” New York Review of Law & Social Change 31: 773-827. McCloud, S. 1993. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art. New York: Harper Perennial. Mitchell, W.J.T. 1996. “What Do Pictures ‘Really’ Want?” October 77: 71-82. —. 2005.What Do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. NZ Film and Literature Board of Review. 2005. Decision, 21 June. Noted at http://www.hikari.org.nz/stuff/otaku/ppp/. Pringle, H. 2011. “Civil Justice for Victims of Child Pornography.” In Big Porn Inc: Naming the Harms of the Global Pornography Industry, edited by M.T. Reist and A. Bray. Melbourne: Spinifex Press. —. 2012. Pringle, H., and J. Castle. 1993. “Sovereignty and Sexual Identity: Political Cartoons.” Debutante Nation: Feminism Contests the 1890s, edited by S. Magarey, S. Rowley and S. Sheridan. Sydney: Allen &

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Unwin. Rose, F. 2006. “Why I Published those Cartoons.” Washington Post, 19 February. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/02/17/ AR2006021702499.html. Simpson, B. 2009.“Controlling Fantasy in Cyberspace: Cartoons, Imagination and Child Pornography.” Information & Communications Technology Law 18 (3): 255-271. Spiegelman, A. 2006. “Drawing Blood: Outrageous Cartoons and the Art of Outrage.” Harper’s no. 312: 43-52. —. 1986.Maus I: A Survivor’s Tale, My Father Bleeds History. New York: Pantheon.

CHAPTER NINE RITUALIZED HUMILIATION AND THE SHAMING OF VULNERABLE GROUPS: AUSTRALIAN CULTURE AND DEALING WITH PAST WRONGS CLAUDIA TAZREITER

This paper considers two related issues of “marginality” and seeks to relate them to a broader understanding of Australian society and what becomes popularly understood as a national identity, or a national culture. The paper considers two recent High Court decisions which have called into question the treatment of asylum seekers and second, a national apology to Indigenous Australians through the Federal Parliament. The paper draws on these two case studies in exploring the politics of shame and humiliation as a set of processes as well as human emotions that leave a mark on both the subject of humiliation and shaming penalties as well as on a shared national identity and culture, embodied in public representation of the collective values, histories and imaginaries of a “people”. The treatment of asylum seekers and Indigenous Australians are drawn on as examples of a politics of shame that leave a mark on national identity and culture. Asylum seekers, particularly those arriving by boat, have been treated as pariahs by successive Australian governments since the beginning of the mandatory detention regime in 1992. In the last decade this approach has intensified, most recently manifested in ‘offshore’ processing of boat arrivals. Two recent High Court decisions have ruled on the validity of this approach. More importantly it reminds Australians that asylum seekers are vulnerable individuals who may well need protection and should not be denied access to Australia’s court system. In February 2008, shortly after taking office, the then Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd, offered an apology to Australia’s Indigenous people, following more than a decade of “practical”, rather than

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“symbolic” reconciliation under the Howard Coalition Government. The apology marked in particular the wrongs done to Indigenous Australians through the colonial policy of taking children from families and placing them in institutions as part of a “cultural genocide”. This paper draws on these two examples as official practices as shaming and humiliating first on the targets of these practices and second on the “national collective” in whose name such practices are carried out. Further, the paper asks what bearing such practices have on culture and identity as “national” projects.

Human vulnerability, shame and humiliation Traditionally, vulnerability has been theorized in social and political thought as a state of “abject” being, thereby associated with individuals needing special attention or treatment to remedy a deprivation, dependency or pathology (Fineman, 2008). In other words, vulnerability has been understood as victimhood. More recently, literature on global, or transnational human rights, development and capabilities as well as postcolonial literature and feminist literature understands vulnerability in a thoroughly different way; as a shared human condition associated with the fragility manifest in our embodied selves. In the two examples developed here, we see vulnerability enacted as “victimhood”. In the acts of “othering” vulnerable groups, the collective psyche and the mentalities that make up a “national culture” privilege certain tropes of such victims or enemies which become familiar through the practices of collective memory making in public cultural events of remembrance, in museums and public monuments. These “signs” in turn become the representations of a culture to others: the way a national culture or identity is known and understood. Shame is an important human emotion that is understood as important in moral and social development, as well as in setting social norms and in imposing sanctions against those deemed to have transgressed the boundaries of acceptable behaviour or social standards (Nussbaum, 2004, 211). In modern societies, where increased complexity and differentiation is the norm, direct, face-to-face relationships are possible with only a small number of individuals. To a large extent, interactions are entrusted to, and mediated by political and social institutions (Misztal, 1996, 247). Administrative uses of shaming penalties are not appropriate “justificatory measures”—enacted into law. If you are guilty of something and admit that guilt, one says sorry, and perhaps even makes reparations. However, one can feel guilt for an act without feeling shame. Shame is the more powerful emotion, one that may well cause us to reflect more deeply on our actions and to change them in the future. While guilt is usually

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experienced in relation to action, shame is felt in relation to fundamental aspects of our humanity; our more hidden and private emotional life. Shame can strip away dignity and respect, causing us to hide or to recoil from social interaction—in fear of humiliation. The shamed person can be ostracized by a social group and withdraw from social interaction. Shaming takes place relationally and is thereby also socially demanding. That is, culture and identity are shaped through social interactions as well as through institutional acts and practices including those enacted on marginalized groups such as asylum seekers and Indigenous Australians. While processes of shaming have an effect on the individual who is the target of such penalties, how ought we to consider the effect on those who instigate the shaming penalty? The shamed must deal with the immediacy of ritualized or bureaucratically enacted forms of humiliation, while the society in which these practices are enacted has to digest the guilt of the perpetrator or bystander associated with the harm done to others through practices of ritualized shaming and humiliation. As a human emotion, guilt is experienced both individually and by a collective – a group or even extended to the sphere of society. Following this line of argument, while we may all experience humiliation during social interaction in moments when our “bare” humanity is revealed and we are vulnerable, what is at issue here are the ritualized and institutionalized forms of humiliation, enacted and legitimated through legal and administrative means (Agamben, 1998; Nussbaum, 2004). That is, it is quite a different thing for the social institutions of a society and legal norms as “justificatory systems” to cause shame and humiliation through the law than for shame through social interaction. Nussbaum draws a useful distinction between guilt and shame in that shame is linked to a trait or feature of a person whereas guilt is related to an act. Thereby we see that while guilt may be “got over” through paying a penalty of some kind, shame is likely to remain with the shamed as a form of social stigma for instance. In turn, processes of justice, of reconciliation and of recompense are enacted as part of coming to terms with periods of violence and rupture. The geographies and politics of the colonial era and its aftermath have an extensive part to play in these histories (Cohen, 2001). While the binaries, insider/outsider, us/them, stranger/native have been challenged through new interpretations of human experience as marked by heterogeneity that defies such straightforward classification, nevertheless the exclusionary logic of rigid binaries remains potent: drawn on in times of perceived crisis. Through the two case studies developed in this paper I would like to argue that the treatment of vulnerable individuals and groups is of particular significance in relation to the culture in which an

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“administration of harm” comes to take place. In other words, the realm of law and its enactment through administrative, securitizing and policing of individuals and groups leaves traces in the society in which such action takes place. While the “justificatory structures” that we understand as the legal and administrative means of a society driven by normative reason are rightly differentiated from the more emotive and reactive questions of culture and the constitution and reconstitution of identity, there is also an inter-penetration between the two spheres (Scheffler, 2007, 94). The interpenetration between justificatory structures of the law and culture will be explored later through an analysis of the case studies in relation to the emotion of guilt. I turn now to the case studies. Asylum seekers and Indigenous Australians present us with two quite distinct examples that nevertheless have similar impacts on collective memory making as national projects of imagining the nation. This is as both examples are potent reminders to Australians—as citizens and residents—of the recurrence of colonial mentalities in postcolonial times.

Asylum seekers and Australian culture As a country of immigration, Australia has a long history of pro-active selection of immigrants according to specific categories. It is notable that the first piece of legislation enacted in the newly federated Australia in 1901 was the Immigration Restriction Act, popularly known as the White Australia Policy. Careful selection of immigrants and an increasingly bureaucratized approach to the categorization of arrivals has meant that Australia, both as an identity nation as well as a governing state, does not easily digest spontaneous or unauthorized arrivals such as asylum seekers. Indeed, over the last two decades Australia has enacted one of the harshest surveillance, detention and deportation regimes in the world in reaction to asylum arrivals (Tazreiter, 2004). Since the introduction of mandatory detention for unauthorized arrivals in 1992, it is the mode of arrival that has determined the reception individuals have received. From the perspective of international law it has long been argued that asylum seekers who arrive without travel documents are treated as if their claims for protection were manifestly unfounded (fraudulent) on arrival. As a signatory to the Refugee Convention, Australia is obliged to establish the bona fides of an individual’s claim for protection and to ensure their basic welfare during an administrative determination process to establish whether a protection visa ought to be issued. An intensification of policy measures directed at asylum seekers has been introduced since 1992 alongside the escalation of political

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rhetoric by prominent politicians from both major political parties that over time has evoked a fear of strangers and in turn has given the detention regime legitimacy. Asylum seekers have been demonized as threatening and as undeserving (Marr, 2007, 46). This paper is not intended as an in-depth analysis of Australia’s asylum policy. Rather, my intention is to highlight some significant milestones in Australian jurisprudence that indicates a recognition of institutionalized harm. Numerous episodes can be drawn on to illustrate the experience of asylum seekers. Here, I draw on three such episodes of tragedy that cover a ten-year period.

Story 1 In October 2001, 353 asylum seekers, mostly women and children seeking to join husbands and fathers already in Australia, drowned when the boat they were traveling on, known as the SIEV X (Suspected Illegal Entry Vessel X) sank. After much conjecture and a Senate enquiry it was established that the Australian coastguard had notified the Defense Force of the vessel’s whereabouts and that it was in trouble, needing rescue. A decision was taken not to act. A memorial to the dead has recently been built in Canberra, designed by school children (See http://www.sievx memorial.com/index.html).

Story 2 A few weeks later, another vessel carrying asylum seekers became embroiled in the so-called ‘children overboard’ incident also occurred in October of 2001, and led to a Senate inquiry, the Select Committee for an inquiry into a certain maritime incident – (see http://www.aph.gov.au/ Senate/Committee/maritime_incidentctte/index.htm.) The then Foreign Affairs Minister, Peter Reith claimed that a photograph released by the Australian Navy showing asylum seekers in distress in the water after their boat was sinking, shows the end result of asylum seekers deliberately throwing their children into the water to engage Australia’s protection obligations. Intense media probing ensued and a Senate Enquiry found that the asylum seekers were saving their children from a sinking vessel.

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Story 3 Ten days before Christmas, 2010, a small boat carrying asylum seekers foundered on the rocks off Christmas Island. Later this boat was to be called the SIEV 221. Early news reports told of a small Indonesian vessel, believed to be carrying around seventy Iraqi and Iranian asylum seekers: men, women and children. Photographs and television footage of the tragic circumstances quickly followed, graphically showing the perilous conditions. Locals had rushed to the area and were attempting to help where they could from land while the Navy and Customs had launched a rescue effort in inflatable boats. Forty-one people were rescued and thirty bodies recovered. The total death toll will never be known, but is estimated to be fifty. It took several months to identify all the bodies recovered and funerals were held successively. A young Iranian boy had been on the boat and had lost both his parents and brother in the accident. A standoff developed at the time of the funeral of his parents and brother in February 2011. He had been held in the Christmas Island Detention Centre since the accident. The Minister for Immigration authorized his temporary release to attend the funeral in Sydney. A lively public debate ensued on a number of related issues. Should the government pay for the funerals of asylum seekers who had perished off the coast of Christmas Island? Should the government pay for the transportation of detained family members to attend the funerals? Should children, such as the boy in question, be returned to detention in a remote location after the funerals, or should he be permitted to stay in Sydney in ‘community detention’ where he could also be close to extended family members? During the most recent Federal Election Campaign in Australia in 2010, the issue of “boat people” surfaced once again as a key issue of public policy for both major political parties. Both the Labor party and the Liberal/National Coalition promised a return to “regional processing” of asylum seekers – though in differing forms. For the Liberal/National Coalition “turning the boats back” was second only to reducing taxes as priorities at their recent campaign launch. In November, 2010 the Australian High Court upheld a challenge mounted by lawyers for two Sri Lankan Tamil asylum seekers who had their refugee claims rejected. The court found that the Federal Government cannot deny asylum seekers who arrive on areas of land excised from the Australian migration zone by boat access to the nation’s administrative and court systems in determining their bona fides as having well-founded protection needs and hence having access to refugee status (ABC Radio National Nov 11, 2010. www.abc.net.au Accessed 15thNovember, 2010).

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In short, the court confirmed what human rights activists had been arguing since the introduction of off-shore processing in 2001 after the so-called Tampa affair. The Tampa, a Norwegian cargo freighter, rescued some 433 asylum seekers who were attempting to reach the Australian coastline in August 2001, when their small vessel foundered in heavy seas and they faced drowning. The Australian Government refused to allow the asylum seekers permission to land and a raft of rapid legislative changes brought in off-shore processing, whereby boat arrivals were removed to a third state for a refugee determination process. The decision by the High Court to allow asylum seekers access to Australia’s court system to review their applications for a protection visa, was even more startling in the context of previous High Court decisions on immigration matters. In 2009, 11 per cent of High Court decisions involved immigration and asylum decisions made by the Minister for Immigration and Citizenship or his delegate. The Minister won all cases. Indeed 65 per cent (179 of 276) unsuccessful applications for leave to appeal to the High Court in 2009 involved the Government and an unsuccessful visa applicant. In other words, in 2009, out of 185 decisions involving the Minister for Immigration and Citizenship, the Minister won all 185 (Australian Policy Online accessed 18/1 /2010). The Government has recently responded to this High Court decision announcing on 7th January, 2011 that from the beginning of March a new Protection Obligations Determination would be put in place. Essentially the new system has an additional safeguard for asylum seekers who a departmental officer would reject as having an unfounded claim and then be subject to removal. It is noteworthy that over the past decade, human rights activists and scholars in Australia have been able to document individual cases as well as patterns that indicate the forced return of socalled “failed asylum seekers” has constituted refoulement – the return of a person who is owed protection to an “unsafe” place - the origin of their persecution. In some cases such forced return has resulted in death. In early 2011, the Australian government first proposed a refugee swap deal with Malaysia, whereby asylum seekers who arrive in Australia by boat (usually without authorisation), were to be sent to Malaysia for processing and in return Malaysia would send individuals who had already completed a determination process were to be resettled in Australia as refugees. On 31st August, 2011, the High Court found the Minister of Immigration and Citizenships declaration of Malaysia as a country that asylum seekers could be sent to as invalid (see http://www.hcourt.gov.au /assets/publications/judgment-summaries/2011/hca32-2011-08-31.pdf. Accessed, 31st August, 2011). This second decision of the Australian High

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Court related to the government’s approach of circumventing access to due process and a presumption of “innocence”, or in the case of asylum seekers, legitimacy or honesty, demonstrates the politics of shame and humiliation that asylum seekers are subject to. I turn now to briefly sketch the second case study of the treatment of Indigenous Australians.

Indigenous Australians, the ‘stolen generation’ and a National Apology In 1997, the Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission published a report into the so-called stolen children (HREOC). This has proved to be a land-mark report, making public to a widespread Australian audience, the testimonies as well as stark visual material in the form of archival photographs of the experiences of Indigenous children who were forcibly removed from their families by the state and placed in institutions and fostered by white families as part of a policy of “cultural genocide” accompanied by a deliberate politics of forgetting. Although the practice of forcible separation of children from their families had been a widespread practice from 1910 to 1970, the narrative of this abuse was not a familiar one in Australia’s self -understanding and collective memory. On the 13th February 2008, Prime Minister Kevin Rudd offered an apology to Indigenous Australians for past wrongs committed through the history of colonization. The apology spoke of “a future where all Australians, whatever their origins, are truly equal partners, with equal opportunities, and an equal stake in shaping the next chapter in the history of this great country” (Commonwealth Parliamentary Debates, 13 February 2008, 167). A central tenet of the apology was the open acknowledgment of the harm done to the Stolen Generations and the importance of a holistic, rather than partial, account of the history since colonization, or “settlement”, to foster a transformative relationship between Indigenous and non-indigenous Australians. As outlined earlier, an exclusionary “politics of whiteness” was entrenched in the first Bill passed by the Commonwealth of Australia after Federation in 1901, the White Australia Policy. Though initially aimed at the expulsion of Pacific Islanders (Kanakas), the White Australia Policy discriminated against all people wanting to enter Australia on the grounds of race. White Australia was protecting itself. In addressing parliament in 1901, Attorney General Deakin said:

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Indigenous people were also the target of this sentiment. By 1902 the White Australia Policy was extended through the Franchise Act, which granted full political rights to white women, while denying male and female Aboriginal people the federal vote. The repugnant politics of racial purity and racial hygiene remained dominant tropes enacted with legislative power in many parts of the world through to the mid twentieth century. Collective memories have been powerfully deployed in imagining the nation. While it is the individual who remembers, remembering is social and thus influenced by a number of discourses that are similarly relational: Collective memory is not just historical knowledge, as it is the experience mediated by representation of the past that enacts and gives substance to the group’s identity. Memory helps in the construction of collective identities and boundaries (Misztal, 2010, 28).

Colonization, themes of protection from threats, both external and from within, have been legitimated and remain as popular myths and legends that are either carried in “mentalities”, or enacted through contemporary forms of exclusion of outsiders/strangers. The Aboriginal population has long been one such “wild”, unpredictable enemy in the white imaginary. Immigrants have, at various moments in Australian history, also appeared as fearful and polluting figures, with the figure of the asylum seeker the most recent example. Indeed, White Australia justified its exclusionary logic through regular reference to these wild hordes from within and from outside (Lake & Reynolds, 2008). The founding myths of colonization in Australia, as well as its origins as a penal colony, carry significant lessons when reflecting on an Australian national imaginary (Tazreiter, 2002). White Australia was founded on imprisonment, fear and exclusion. Rapidly, such themes were extended from management of the convict population to the treatment of the Indigenous population through settlements, missions and later the policies of removal of Aboriginal children from their families; all strategies aimed at containment, separation and purity. Suspect populations were to be contained, separated from citizens; citizens who were to be kept safe. We see a continuation of this logic in the domain of contemporary migration management where again we see practices of containment and “camps” (detention and off-shore processing). Hence, my rationale, in drawing

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together the two examples explored in this paper of asylum seekers and Indigenous people, are the enactment of a politics of humiliation. Australia, as many contemporary states, has grappled with the dilemma of granting rights and entitlements to various groups within, as well as newcomers to, the political community. Australian Indigenous knowledge and collective memory can serve the nation well in numerous domains in the contemporary era in domains where global forces have resulted in increased risk and uncertainty; in health, land-care and in sustainability. An individual must be recognized as part of a community in order to access rights: “fringe dwellers” or “denizens” have limited access to rights and to membership both formally and as “belonging”. What has been discussed in the early part of the paper is the precariousness of the human condition in terms of vulnerability as a shared rather than individual condition.

Conclusion In conclusion, by bringing together two seemingly disparate examples in the treatment of asylum seekers and Indigenous Australians, I have sought to highlight first, the shared vulnerability of these two groups and second the deep marks the practices of humiliation and shaming have on the national culture within which such practices are enacted. Here, I have argued that the justificatory structures of law and administration do interact with the domains of culture and identity in non-linear and often unpredictable ways Through the use of shaming penalties, the guilt of the shamed is assumed by those who are witnesses to acts of shaming. This means that if indeed ritualized shame and humiliation is utilized in inappropriate ways, it can result in substantial harm – of reputation and of the psyche of an individual or group subject to humiliation. The dignity of the shamed party is harmed. What must not be overlooked though, are the attendant consequences for the society implicit in such shaming penalties enacted through the law and administrative means.

References Agamben, Giorgio. 1998. Homo Sacer, Sovereign Power and Bare Life. California: Stanford University Press. Arendt, Hannah. 1958. The Human Condition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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—. 1973. The Origins of Totalitarianism. San Diego: Harcourt Brace and Company. Cohen, Stanley. 2001. States of Denial: Knowing about Atrocities and Suffering. Cambridge: Polity Press. Fenichel Pitkin, Hannah. 1988. The Attack of the Blob. Hannah Arendt’s Concept of the Social. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Fineman, Martha. 2008. “The Vulnerable Subject: Anchoring Equality in the Human Condition.” Yale Journal of Law and Feminism. 20. 1. 123. Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission. 1977. Bringing Them Home. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service. Lake, Marilyn and Reynolds, Henry. 2008. Drawing the Global Colour Line. White Men’s Countries and the International Challenge of Racial Equality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Marr, D. 2007. “His Master’s Voice, The Corruption of Public Debate under Howard.” Quarterly Essay. 26. 1-105. Misztal, Barbara. 1996. Trust in Modern Societies. Cambridge: Polity Press. —. 2010. “Collective Memory in a Global Age: Learning How and What to Remember.” Current Sociology. 58. 24. 24-44. Nussbaum, Martha. 2004. Hiding from Humanity. Disgust, Shame and the Law, Princeton: Princeton University Press. —. 2004. Hiding from Humanity. Disgust, Shame and the Law, Princeton, Princeton University Press. Nash, Kate. 2009. The Cultural Politics of Human Rights. Comparing the US and UK, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Scheffler, Samuel. 2007. “Immigration and the Significance of Culture.” Philosophy & Public Affairs. 35.2. 93-125. Tazreiter, Claudia. 2004. Asylum Seekers and the State: The Politics of Protection in a Security-conscious World. Aldershot: Ashgate.

PART V: DIASPORIC PRESENCE AND MULTICULTURALISM

CHAPTER TEN DANDENONG’S LITTLE INDIA: AUSTRALIAN MULTICULTURALISM AND THE SUBURBANISATION OF INTERNATIONAL MIGRATION MARK GIBSON

Australia has seen increasing migration from India in recent years. Over the five years to 2009, the Indian born population grew by 44,012 or 17 per cent, the largest increase of any single group in the country (Colebatch, 2010). The total numbers are still small relative to more established groups: in the 2006 census, there were just short of 235,000 Australians who claimed Indian ancestry, compared with 852,000 with an Italian background, 700,000 with a Chinese background and 3.5 million with one or more parent born in the British Isles (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2006). The rate of increase nevertheless suggests an important development in the relation between Australia and India. Migrants bring with them family and business connections, knowledge of the homeland, food, languages and other cultural practices. Since the Second World War, the broadening of official migration programmes—first to Southern and Eastern Europe then to the Middle East, Asia and Africa—has profoundly changed Australian society and culture, producing a different sense of Australian identity and relation to the world. There is every reason to think that the rapid growth of the Indian Australian population will contribute to this in important ways. Numbers alone, however, are only part of the story. We also need to understand the particular ways in which migrants interact with the host society—their patterns of employment, areas of settlement, integration in schools, workplaces, sporting associations and everyday life. My aim in this paper is to consider one significant feature of recent Indian migration to Australia—its largely suburban character. This contrasts with the postwar migrants of the 1950s and 1960s, which established many of the

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paradigms for Australian multiculturalism. The first major groups to appear following the broadening of the official migration programme after the second world war—Southern and Eastern Europeans—established strong communities close to the centre of Australia’s largest cities, particularly Sydney and Melbourne (Burnley, 1972; Burnley, 1976). This was not the exclusive pattern; some migrants did also settle further out in areas close to industrial employment or migrant accommodation. Even in these cases, however, migrant settlement was characterised by relative concentration. In contrast to this, the tendency of the past twenty years has been one of dispersal and dilution within a more formless outer suburban terrain. The word “suburb” is a slippery one with different meanings in different contexts. It is used in Australia in two different ways. The first is merely as a neutral term for a local area, usually associated with a postcode, within a larger metropolis. Once it is established that someone lives in metropolitan Sydney, Melbourne or Perth, an Australian might ask “what suburb do you live in?” This usage is idiosyncratic and often causes confusion, even in exchanges with those from closely related societies such as the United Kingdom or the United States, where the word is not used in this way. In this first sense, all urban dwellers live in one suburb or another—even if that suburb is near the centre of the city—leaving little room for distinguishing between some phenomena as “urban” and others as “suburban”. The second usage has more international currency and is the one I will be assuming in what follows. It starts from the dictionary meaning of “an outlying district of a city, especially a residential one” (“Suburb” Oxford Dictionary of English). “Outlying” is, of course, a relative description, so that “suburban” in this sense is a comparative rather than an absolute term. A district can be “more” or “less” suburban depending on its distance from the city centre. There is also a further layer of meaning opened up in the adjectival form, as “suburban” has come to mean not just a literal distance from the city but also a symbolic distance. Fastening on to the frequent negative associations of the suburbs, the Oxford Dictionary offers an extended meaning of suburban as “contemptibly dull and ordinary” (as in “Elizabeth despised Ann’s house-proudness as deeply suburban”— “Suburban” Oxford Dictionary of English). With less prejudice as to the positive or negative value of the suburbs, Jerilou and Kingsley Hammett (2007) suggest that even the quintessential modern city, New York, is becoming “suburbanised”, adopting characteristic patterns and ways of life that are suburban in origin.

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The primary sense I want to give to the idea of a suburbanisation of international migration is simply that the areas in which new migrants have settled are increasingly “outlying”. This tendency is not unique to Australia. It is an international phenomenon which can also be observed in other migrant nations, including the United States, Canada and New Zealand (Li, 2006). It is driven by a number of factors, but particularly rising housing costs in the city centre. One of the main reasons for the urban concentration of migrants in the post-war period was that the inner city was, at that time, cheap. With the rise of motor transport and improved building construction methods, established communities were attracted by the possibilities of modern, spacious living in the suburbs. The city became identified with poor services, decaying infrastructure, social problems and crime. However, the past thirty years have seen a major process of inner city gentrification (Luckins, 2009; Shaw, 2008; Bridge & Dowling, 2001), led first by students and young professionals attracted by the cultural vibrancy and “bohemian” feel of the city, but later becoming much more broad-based. At the same time, the earlier appeal of the suburbs has partly worn off, as many people have become disillusioned by commuting in congested traffic and the time and cost involved in maintaining a large house and garden. The combined effect has been that inner city housing is now some of the most expensive in Australia, indeed some of the most expensive in the world, putting it well beyond the reach of recent migrants. However, I also want to leave open a slightly more extended sense of suburbanisation—not only as a movement outward from the city centre, but also as a more general process of social attenuation and dispersal within a metropolitan form. It would be wrong to suggest that all post-war migrants arrived in the centres of Australia’s major cities. Apart from pockets of rural and regional migration, there were also concentrations in places such as Fairfield in Sydney and Footscray in Melbourne. But even for these cases, it may still be possible to trace a tendency of suburbanisation in the extended sense as many new migrants are no longer arriving in identifiable “centres” but are increasingly scattered or diffused on an expanding outer suburban frontier. The fact of this change has still not been fully absorbed in Australia and old images of city and suburb have persisted long past the point where they have any real foundation. There are paradoxes here, not dissimilar to those which have often been remarked on in relation to urban gentrification: some of the things which first attract wealthier populations to inner city living are later displaced by the gentrification process (Palen and London, 1984; Ley, 2003; Atkinson & Bridge, 2005). A significant

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attraction of city living in Australia has been the cosmopolitanism brought by the presence of migrants. This has been expressed particularly in food, with the Italian and Greek restaurants and cafés established in the 1960s and 1970s being set in contrast with the bland fast food outlets of suburban shopping malls. But as patterns of migration have changed, the cosmopolitanism of the city has increasingly come to rest on reputation and representation, being maintained more through real estate promotions and tourism marketing than new migrant flows. It is now more the suburbs, still often represented as mono-cultural and bland, that are the more active sites of cross-cultural exchange. A good example is the outer Melbourne suburb of Dandenong, which in many ways typifies the new pattern of migrant settlement in Australia. Located some 30 kilometres south-west of central Melbourne, it is one of the most culturally diverse municipalities in the country, with residents from 156 different birthplaces. 56% of its population was born overseas and 51% from nations where English is not the main language, compared with a metropolitan average of 24% (City of Greater Dandenong 2007). It is particularly known for its Indian community and a “Little India” has been formally marked out with street signage and a thematic colour code (gold on pink) in an area around Foster and Mason Streets, where there is a concentration of Indian food, clothing, jewellery and entertainment products. But the suburb also has significant populations of migrants from many other countries, including Vietnam, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, China, Bosnia and Afghanistan. The research for this paper began while conducting interviews in Dandenong on a project on creative industries in the suburbs. The project, “Creative Suburbia”, was designed to test assumptions that creative practitioners always cluster in the inner city (Flew, 2012). The association between creativity and the city is an old one, but has been given new life in recent years by the work of urban geographers such as Richard Florida (2002; 2005), who argue that creative practitioners gravitate to buzzing downtown zones with high “gay” and “bohemian” indices. In this perspective, the suburbs are represented as relatively uncreative places, organised around functional relations and the delivery of material needs (Gibson, 2012). It is a perspective, however, which is at least questionable (Gibson & Brennan-Horley, 2006). There has been a general suburbanisation of employment over the past twenty years. In metropolitan Melbourne, the average distance of jobs from the city centre is now around 16km, an increase of more than 25% since the early 1980s (Davies, 2009).

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If this is a general tendency, it would seem likely that creative industries have been affected along with other areas. Against this background, the “Creative Suburbia” project set out to explore the extent of suburbanisation in creative industries and to examine the situation of suburban creative practitioners—the nature of their work, their social and professional networks and their relation to their localities. Creative industries were defined according to the six-category definition proposed by the Creative Industries National Mapping Project (Higgs et al, 2007), a definition itself derived from the British Department for Media, Culture and Sport (DCMS, 2001). The creative industries were taken to include film, television and entertainment software; writing, publishing and print media; advertising, graphic design and marketing; architecture, visual arts and design; and music composition. The research involved interviews with 133 creative practitioners in six suburban locations across two metropolitan regions—three in Melbourne (Frankston, Dandenong and Caroline Springs) and three in Brisbane (Redcliffe, Springfield and Forest Lakes). The questions asked in the research were designed to establish some basic demographic information about suburban creative practitioners—their cultural backgrounds, ages, genders, education levels, employment histories and living patterns—but also to gain a better general understanding of creative enterprise work practices and to identify some of the contextual factors affecting them. It will be clear from this that the project was not directly focused on migration or cross-cultural issues. However, it did intersect with these issues in significant ways. One of the key reasons why the city has historically been seen as creative is that it has been culturally diverse. It has been the place one has gone to encounter difference—to hear different languages spoken than in the mainstream society, to eat different food, come across different cultural and religious practices, be challenged by different smells and sounds (Binnie et al, 2006). The cosmopolitanism of the city has always been one of the major reasons for its cultural ascendancy, provoking its inhabitants to rise above the parochial and giving them an edge over those from more homogeneous environments. What occurs, then, when some of the most important sites of cultural difference are no longer to be found in the city—or at least in the inner city? This was an important supplementary question for “Creative Suburbia”, spurring an interest in suburbs with large migrant populations such as Dandenong. An initial hypothesis of the project was that the increasing multiculturalism of the suburbs might provide a significant stimulus to the development of creative industries. This has been the experience of the

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inner city. The migrant contribution to a sense of creative possibility has perhaps been particularly important in Australian cities, helping to break colonial assumptions about the “derivative” nature of their cultural life and their “isolation” from the rest of the world. The post-war migrants who appeared from the 1950s onwards contributed to a growing sense of worldliness and cultural sophistication in inner city areas like Newtown in Sydney and Carlton in Melbourne, helping to provide the conditions for a new confidence in creative expression. Australia could be seen as no longer a cultural backwater, but as a bold experiment in cross-cultural exchange between groups from all over the world. If this has been the case in the city, should we not also expect it in the suburbs? This hypothesis was to some extent confirmed. Certainly, the “Creative Suburbia” project established that there are significant numbers of creative practitioners in the suburbs (Collis, Felton and Graham, 2010; Flew, 2012). There was also evidence that the cultural diversity of places such as Dandenong has broadened the range of creative possibilities. Some migrants are involved, themselves, in creative work and others who are not migrants are stimulated by cultural diversity. As a community librarian put it: This is a fascinating place to work…I can honestly say I have no idea what will happen during the course of the week. Something interesting will happen, I mean really interesting where you’ll think God, okay, I didn’t know that was going to happen” (Librarian, Dandenong).

However, it also became clear that there are important differences between the experiences of the city and the suburbs. While both are, or have been, sites of cultural exchange between migrants and established populations, the nature of this exchange has not been the same. The differences throw light on the kinds of cross-cultural relations which are developing in suburban migrant populations, such as those of the growing Indian community. One of the first clues to this was the initial invisibility of migrants involved in creative work. This was not because such people do not exist. It is sometimes suggested that recent migrants are occupied with concerns relatively low down on Maslow’s “hierarchy of needs”, organising their lives around the basic requirements of housing, employment and family and having little time or energy for the “self-actualisation” associated with creative work. There may be some truth to this, but there is also a fallacy in thinking that cultural expression is only “secondary”. It is often precisely at times when the existential being of groups is challenged that culture becomes most important. As it was put by the librarian cited above,

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“a lot of these people are carrying it with them like a flame that they’re keeping burning, all they need is a venue to express it and they are off”. And after some persistence, we were able to locate migrants in Dandenong who were involved in creative work – an Indian DJ; a Pakistani fashion designer; some Afghan writers, publishers and singers; an Iranian multimedia artist; an Egyptian artist; and a Rumanian makeup artist. The point is rather that finding any group in the suburbs is more difficult than it is in the city. The geography of the outer suburbs is diffuse, difficult to read. Most groups, not just migrants, are relatively scattered, with members hidden down small residential cul-de-sacs or in obscure light industrial zones and small shopping strips. This is particularly true of Melbourne, one of the lowest density large metropolitan areas in the world. In an excellent recent study of Indian students in Australia, Dutch ethnographer Michiel Baas describes his bewilderment on first realising the sprawling extent of the city: Doing fieldwork in Melbourne…provided me with a sense of urban distance that I had never been familiar with before. Coming from Amsterdam…where any location can be reached on a bicycle, to living in a city where going from one corner of the city to the other can take hours by train or car, was simply a novelty (not to mention a nuisance at times). The sheer size of Melbourne, locations being spread out all over the map of a city with many hearts…gave me the type of experience which Indian overseas students might also experience: that of desperation, loneliness, being overwhelmed by what lies ahead, not quite getting a clear sense of where it starts and where it ends (Baas, 2010, 209).

The Indian students in Baas’ study were not concentrated in any particular location: they were “sometimes close to their campuses, sometimes more than an hour away. Sometimes they would live in areas with other Indian migrants, but often also not” (Baas, 2010, 210). Making connections in such a geography is often difficult, with a great deal of time spent in moving between sites and following small clues which may lead only to dead ends. The significance of this can be seen most clearly if we compare again with the urban migrant experience of the 1950s and 1960s. As historian Graeme Davison has pointed out, an important feature of the migration of the post-war period was its visibility. The inner city had long been in the public spotlight. Even if people of influence did not live there, they saw it regularly, had some sense of what went on there and maintained an interest in it:

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While the middle classes generally lived in the outer suburbs…they often worked in the central city, commuting through the inner suburbs each day by rail, tram or, from the 1950s, by car. The characteristic social geography of the city meant that, while the rich may not have been closely acquainted with the lives of the poor, they continued at least to register their existence and to note at least some of the surface features of their lives (Davison, 2009, 9).

The inner city was a focus of social and political attention. It was written about and spoken about and many of its problems were widely known. It was also host to a range of charitable organisations, government welfare units and other agencies which had been set up to address them. This means that the urban post-war migrants found themselves immediately in a more structured relation with Australian society. The theme of urban visibility versus suburban invisibility has a history in the literature on cities going back at least to the early twentieth century, when it was becoming clear that the suburbs would emerge as a significant, if not dominant, urban form. One of the best-known points of reference here is Lewis Mumford’s idea, in the 1930s, of the city as a scene of theatre: The city, in its complete sense…is a geographic plexus…a theatre of social action, and an aesthetic symbol of collective unity. The city fosters art and is art; the city creates the theater and is theater. It is in the city, the city as theater, that man’s more purposive activities are focused, and worked out, through conflicting and cooperating personalities, events, groups, into more significant culminations (Mumford, 2011, 93).

Mumford’s writings on cities are erudite and encyclopaedic, his canvas stretching from the early formation of urban settlements in Egypt and Mesopotamia to the great metropolises of the twentieth century (Mumford 1961). But his motivation often appears quite specific, developing as a response to the emergence of the suburbs in North America. This response was one of alarm: [I]f there is deep reluctance on the part of the true city dweller to leave his cramped quarters for the physically more benign environment of a suburb—even a garden suburb!—his instincts are usually justified: in its various and many-sided life, in its very opportunities for social disharmony and conflict, the city creates drama; the suburb lacks it (Mumford, 2011, 93).

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The perspective is unabashedly anti-suburban: the city is to the suburb as dramatic to mundane, as art to the merely functional, as the “significant culmination” of purposive actions to enervation and entropy. The contempt for the suburbs of critics like Mumford can be dismissed as unfair and extreme. As Rosalyn Baxandall and Elizabeth Ewan argue in their history of the suburbs in the United States, the critics have generally failed to listen carefully to the voices of those who have made their home in the suburbs—“white, black, immigrant, gay, straight, old, young, married, divorced and single—who have selected to live in suburbia and have inscribed their signatures on its landscape” (Baxandall and Ewan, 2000, xxi). Those who have done so have found much greater richness and diversity than is conjured up in images of monotonous streetscapes and undifferentiated outer suburban “sprawl” (see also Ferber, Healy and McAuliffe, 1994; Hartley, 1992). Nevertheless, there is something worth preserving in Mumford’s analysis. There are qualities in the city which cannot be reproduced in the suburbs. To give an absolute privilege to these qualities is unwarranted—we could equally turn the comparison around and suggest that the city “fails” to match the qualities of the suburb—but it is important nevertheless that the differences are recognised and understood. It may help in this to consider a concrete site of inner-urban multiculturalism in the Australian context. A good example is Lygon Street, Carlton, the best-known centre of Italian Melbourne (see Jones, 1964). Lygon Street is, in Mumford’s sense, a scene of urban “theatre”—a status which was established well before the arrival of Italian migrants in the 1950s. At the city end, for example, sits the Victorian Trades Hall which has been, since the mid nineteenth century, the centre of the trade union movement in Victoria and one of the most important sites of labour radicalism in the country. It was from Trades Hall, for example, that the Eight Hour Day demonstrations departed in the late nineteenth century, setting an international benchmark for the labour movement. A monument sits opposite to recognise the first recognition anywhere in the world of a right to an eight hour working day, in Victoria in 1856. And Lygon Street has had a theatrical quality ever since. It is a place to see and be seen, where, again to recall Mumford, “purposive activities are focused, and worked out, through conflicting and cooperating personalities, events, groups, into more significant culminations” (Mumford, 2011, 93). The opportunities provided by this urban theatricality have been embraced by the Italian community. Some caution is needed here, admittedly, as the Italians who migrated to Australia in the post-war period were not, in general, urban people. They were from small towns and villages in Veneto-Friuli, Basilicata, Sicily, Calabria and the Abruzzi, who

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were thrust by circumstances into an urban environment rather than choosing it as a result of natural affinity. In some ways, however, this helps to make the point: it was not their intrinsic qualities that gave Italian migrants an “urban” identity; it was the structural location in which they found themselves, a location determined by their time of arrival. What became identified as a sophisticated Australian-Italian urban culture— exemplified by good coffee, outdoor dining and an appreciation of la Dolce Vita—could be seen, in fact, as a complex fusion of Australian urbanity and the Italian village square. There is no doubt, however, that as the Italian community in Carlton has matured, it has made full use of the theatrical opportunities which Lygon Street provides. Notable recent examples include an attempt to break the Guinness World Record for the world’s longest pizza, with a 974 metre Margarita cooked at the La Dolce Italia Festival (Merrett, 2011), and a convoy of 60 Ferrari sports cars followed by a flame red Formula One vehicle to celebrate sixty years of Ferrari and to mark the opening of the Melbourne Grand Prix (Ballantine, 2007). But the theatricality of Lygon Street is also a more everyday affair, to be found as much in the gleaming chrome of a twelve cup espresso machine, the suave good looks of a row of young waiters at outdoor cafes and restaurants or the flamboyant presentation of super-sized pepper grinders. There are few opportunities to match this in Dandenong. As with most outer suburbs, its spatial layout is flat and open, with significant distances between shops, offices and other buildings. The central area is transected by a busy road—indeed a major highway—making it unfriendly to pedestrians and disrupting any sense of visual focus. Exchanges in such a space tend to be privatised and discrete rather than public and generalised. The migrant creative practitioners which were located in the “Creative Suburbia” project were largely engaged in specialised activities for their own communities – the Afghan magazine journalists and publishers for the Afghan community; the Pakistani fashion designer for Pakistani and other Muslim women; the Indian DJ performing at Indian weddings and other family occasions. Little India could be seen as an exception to this pattern, presenting a more public face for at least one migrant community. The area near the railway station has had a number of Indian-run businesses since the late 1990s, but was more formally marked out by the city council following a plan commissioned in 2007 as part of a larger urban development project, Revitalising Central Dandenong. It has had some success in raising the profile of the Indian community in Dandenong and has also provided a focus for projecting this profile more widely, in general promotions of the

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area and through cultural tours organised by the council. These tours have drawn visitors from throughout metropolitan Melbourne, sometimes leaving by bus from the city centre, to “experience the wonderful smells, colourful sights and tantalising flavours of Little India in Dandenong”. They include “visits to exotic shops, an introduction to Bollywood films and music, Indian cuisine, authentic spices and ingredients, Punjab sweets and colourful sari fashions” (City of Greater Dandenong 2011). But Little India is also an exception which proves the rule. It has been a relatively self-conscious act of identity creation, formally marked out with street signage according to a plan developed for the city council by “place-making” consultants Village Well. This is not to criticise the initiative: it has been important in making the area something more than the sum of its parts. It is rather to point out that Little India must work against its environment to achieve anything close to the profile that the Italian community has gained in Lygon Street. The area is not heavily frequented, being very much a fringe retail zone with a fraction of the trade of Dandenong Plaza, the large shopping mall in the area. It is now very much under threat, as the area is to be redeveloped by the Victorian State Government agency, VicUrban (Precel, 2011). The Council has invited the Little India businesses to continue trading in the new precinct, but many believe that the rents will make this impossible (Paigan, 2009). At the time of writing, the future of Little India remains uncertain. Another significant point of difference between Little India and older inner urban migrant zones such as Lygon Street is that interactions between the migrant community and others are more clearly structured as a form of tourism. Travelling from elsewhere in Melbourne to experience something of India in Dandenong has a different character from “going into town”, where one might have a plate of pasta or visit an Italian café for a cappuccino and cannoli, but where this is likely to be mixed with other activities – shopping, seeing a movie or visiting a museum or gallery. The intention is more specific, with an overt focus on crosscultural exchange. There are some positives in this. It means, particularly, that the exchange may have more depth: tours to Little India are clearly educative, with explanations by guides on Indian food, fashion, music and film; whereas cross-cultural exchange on Lygon Street is more accidental and serendipitous. But this explicitness also involves limitations. The proportion of the population interested in this kind of cultural tourism will always be relatively small. The self-conscious emphasis on cultural difference also produces a tendency to exoticism, or what Ghassan Hage (1997) has called “cosmo-multiculturalism”, where certain features of the

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migrant culture are isolated and accentuated for the purpose of tourist promotion. To use a metaphor from media studies, we could say that exchanges in suburban contexts have a “narrowcast” character, somewhat like those which form through the internet. Nodes or points are connected with other nodes, with relatively little “leakage” to those who are not immediately party to the exchange. There are, obviously, strong connections internal to migrant communities themselves, allowing members to buy a bridal sari, find an onion roti or hire a Hindi or Tamil language DVD. There are also connections between migrant and established communities, such as those facilitated by local migrant services networks or the tour bus from central Melbourne to Little India. But these connections are relatively insulated from those who are not immediately involved in the exchange. They have a private character which places them in contrast to the “broadcast” modes of interaction which are possible in more urban spaces such as Lygon Street. The point of this analysis, again, is not to cast suburbia in negative terms, but simply to locate its specificity. Newcomers have often found the Australian suburbs impersonal and indifferent, the insulation from others making it difficult to establish connections beyond an immediate circle. Many of those we interviewed in the Creative Suburbia project—even those who had only moved from other parts of Melbourne—regretted not having stronger networks. But as Graeme Davison points out, the suburbs have also shown a “capacity to absorb newcomers without visible conflict or strife” (Davison, 2009, 17). They have a “porosity” or openness, which allows many different forms of life to coexist without intruding on each other. People may not welcome strangers, but they do not hate them either. As Davison puts it, “they just slide past each other” (Davison, 2009, 17). There is one obvious piece of evidence which might trouble this analysis: a series of attacks on Indian students in 2009, which received extensive media coverage both in Australia and India. This was very much a suburban phenomenon. Most of the reported incidents occurred at night in sparsely populated areas around outer suburban railway stations, parks and fast-food outlets. For most Australians, they were also inexplicable. The most tragic case was probably that of Nitin Garg, a 21 year old accounting graduate who died from a stabbing while walking through a park on the way to his job at Hungry Jacks in Yarraville in Melbourne’s west. The killer was only 15 years old and no clear motive was ever established. It was reported in the trial that he had said to a friend “that bloke’s phone looks nice”, but the phone referred to was left on the ground

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following the stabbing, making it difficult to ascribe even the motivation of theft (Lowe, 2011). The suburban character of the attacks on Indian students was widely noted in public comment at the time. It became caught up, however, in a debate over whether the attacks reflected a continuing racism in Australian society. Reference to the circumstances became associated with an argument that the crimes were “opportunistic”. An example was the interpretation of Chief Commissioner of Victoria Police, Simon Overland: “International students can be vulnerable…they’re working late, they’re travelling on public transport because they don’t have cars…they’re travelling alone, they’re travelling straight from university so they have laptops and other things with them and they’re simply vulnerable and they’re being picked on because of that” (qtd in Sara, 2009). There was considerable controversy in response to this interpretation, both in Australia and India, over whether it deflected attention from racism (Doherty 2011). While Overland did also say that some attacks “were clearly racist in motivation”, he was criticised for giving the impression that the majority were more random, that the victims were simply unfortunate to be “in the wrong place at the wrong time” (Austin 2010). There are clearly important questions around the extent of continuing racism in Australia, questions which should not be evaded. But these questions do not always lead to careful analysis. As Michiel Baas argued in relation to the media response to the attacks on Indian students, they often cause a “kind of ‘white noise’ that drowns out all the other sounds/voices that need to be heard in order to understand how a particular situation could come into being” (Baas, 2009, 42). Part of the problem is that explanations around racism are often set in opposition to explanations around the concrete circumstances in which people live and interact. References to the latter do not always have to be a form of denial; they may be, on the contrary, an attempt to understand better how racism is grounded in the conditions of everyday life, or how, as Amanda Wise (2010, 935) has put it, it is “deeply embodied, habituated and sedimented into the very fleshly fibres of our beings”. The attacks on Indian students are clearly evidence that different social identities do not always “slide past” each other in the suburbs. They sometimes collide violently with tragic results. But this does not necessarily invalidate Davison’s general insight about the “porosity” of the suburbs, their capacity to absorb an enormous diversity of cultures and lifestyles with little open conflict. It might lead us rather to refine the insight to account for those incidents where conflict and violence do occur. The metaphor of private motor transport may be useful here: in general,

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vehicles pass each other as cocoons conveying little worlds both in proximity and insulated from each other. But they sometimes also collide, with consequences ranging from minor property damage to profound injury and loss of life. Although collisions are represented as “accidents”, they are never entirely innocent. They are inherent in the design of motor transport systems and are unlikely ever to be eliminated. They are often also mixed up more directly with criminal negligence or outright malice, in a lack of care for others, drink driving, reckless speeding or road rage. It is not the place here to attempt a comprehensive phenomenology of Australian suburbia. My intention above has been merely to point out that if we are to understand the reception in Australia of recent migrants such as those from India, we need to understand the suburban context in which it is largely occurring. This context is, in many ways, more difficult to grasp than urban post-war migration. Relations between cultures are less visible and less structured through public spaces and institutions. They appear diverse and contradictory, ranging across genuine interest and delight in cultural difference (the community librarian from Dandenong), earnest forms of suburban cultural tourism (Little India), benign indifference (probably the majority response) and inexplicable violence (the knifing of Nitin Garg). There has no doubt always been a diversity of interactions between migrants and the host society, but the difference in the suburbs is that they exist almost in parallel universes, with very little pressure for them to be ordered, synthesised or reconciled. This is, however, the reality we must try to comprehend.

References Atkinson, Roland and Gary Bridge. Eds. 2005. Gentrification in a Global Context: The New Urban Colonialism. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Austin, Paul. 2010. “Indian students, racism and a debate spiralling out of control.” The Age. 11 February. http://www.theage.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/indianstudents-racism-and-a-debate-spiralling-out-of-control-20100210nsau.html. Accessed November 2011. Australian Bureau of Statistics. 2006. Census of Population and Housing. Census Tables. Cat. No. 2068.0 – 2006. Baas, Michiel. 2009. “Curry Bashing: Racism, Violence and Alien Space Invaders”, Economic & Political Weekly. 44. 34. 22 August: 37-42. —. 2010. Imagined Mobility: Migration and Transnationalism Among Indian Students in Australia. London: Anthem Press.

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Ballantine, Derek. 2007. “Ferrari Paints Lygon St Red”. Herald Sun. 4 March. http://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/victoria/ferrari-paints-lygonst-red/story-e6frf7kx-1111113093073 (Accessed November 2011) Baxandall, Rosalyn and Elizabeth Ewan. 2000. Picture Windows – How the Suburbs Happened. New York: Basic Books. Binnie, Jon, Julian Holloway, Steve Millington and Craig Young eds. 2006.Cosmopolitan Urbanism. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Bridge, Gary & Robyn Dowling. 2001. Microgeographies of Retailing and Gentrification. Australian Geographer. 32(1): 93-107. Burnley, I.H. 1972. “European Immigration Settlement Patterns in Metropolitan Sydney 1947–1966.” The Australian Geographer. 10(1): 61–78. Burnley, Tan. 1976. “Southern European populations in the residential structure of Melbourne 1947-71.” The Australian Geographer. 14(2): 116–32. City of Greater Dandenong. 2007. “Summary of Social Conditions in Greater Dandenong”, http://www.greaterdandenong.com/Documents.asp?ID= 10768&Title=Summaries+of+social+information+CGD&Type=d 2007 update. Accessed November 2011. —. 2011. “Little India Cultural Tours.” http://www.greaterdandenong.com/Documents.asp?ID=6442&Title=Li ttle+India+Cultural+Tours&Type=d. Accessed November 2011. Colebatch, Tim. 2010. “Asia-born population matching local born.” The Age. 30 July. http://www.theage.com.au/national/asiaborn-populationmatching-local-born-20100729-10y2h.html#ixzz1kASmSoj5. Accessed November 2011. Collis, Christy, Emma Felton and Phil Graham. 2010. “Beyond the inner city: Real and imagined places in creative place policy and practice.” The Information Society. 26(2): 104-12. Davies, A. 2009.“Jobs in the Suburbs. The Structure of Suburban Employment in Melbourne.” Paper presented at Creative Suburban Geographies, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane. http://www.slideshare.net/C_C_I/creative-suburban-geographies-alandavies. Accessed November 2011. Davison, Graeme. 2009. “Melbourne—The Porous City?” Multilingualism in Urban and Suburban Settings. The Inaugural Language and Society Centre Annual Roundtable, Monash University, Clayton, 19-20 February (Unpublished Paper). DCMS. 2001. Creative Industry Task Force: Mapping Document, London, UK: Department of Culture, Media and Sport.

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Doherty, Ben. 2011. “Pilloried in India over student assaults.” The Age. June 17. http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/pilloried-in-india-overstudent-assaults-20110616-1g64a.html#ixzz1nrhRaBtl (Accessed November 2011). Ferber, Sarah, Chris Healy and Chris McAuliffe eds. 1994. Beasts of Suburbia – Reinterpreting Cultures in Australian Suburbs. Carlton, Vic: Melbourne University Press. Flew, Terry.2012, forthcoming. “Creative Suburbia: Rethinking Urban Cultural Policy – The Australian Case.” International Journal of Cultural Studies. Special Issue “Creative Suburbia”. Florida, Richard. 2002. The Rise of the Creative Class. New York: Basic Books. —. 2005. Cities and the Creative Class. New York: Routledge. Gibson, Chris and Chris Brennan-Horley. 2006. “Goodbye pram city: Beyond inner/outer zone binaries in creative city research”. Urban Policy and Research. 24(4): 455-71. Gibson, Mark. 2012, forthcoming. “Bildung in the ’Burbs.” International Journal of Cultural Studies. Special Issue “Creative Suburbia”. Hage, Ghassan. 1997. “At Home in the Entrails of the West”. Home/World—Space, Community and Marginality in Sydney’s West. Eds. Helen Grace, Ghassan Hage, Lesley Johnson and Julie Langsworth. Annandale(NSW): Pluto Press. 99-153. Hammett, Jerilou and Kingsley Hammett. 2007. The Suburbanisation of New York— Is the World’s Greatest City Becoming Just Another Town? New York: Princeton Architectural Press. Hartley John. 1999. “Suburbanality (in Cultural Studies).” in Uses of Television. London: Routledge. 189-203. Higgs, Peter, Stuart Cunningham and N. Pagan. 2007. Australia’s Creative Economy: Basic Evidence on Size, Growth, Income and Employment, Technical Report. http://eprints.qut.edu.au/8241/. Accessed 20 March 2009. Jones, F. Lancaster. 1964. “Italians in the Carlton Area: The Growth of an Ethnic Concentration.” Australian Journal of Politics and History 10(1): 83–95. Ley, David. 2003. “Artists, Aestheticisation and the Field of Gentrification.” Urban Studies. 40. 12: 2527-544. Li, Wei. Ed. 2006.FromUrbanEnclavetoEthnicSuburb: New Asian Communities in Pacific Rim Countries. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

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Lowe, Adrian. 2011. “13 years for Nitin Garg murder.” The Age. 22 December. http://www.theage.com.au/victoria/13-years-for-nitin-gargmurder-20111222-1p6cb.html#ixzz1nrjeBUHQ. Accessed January 2012. Luckins, Tanja. 2009. “Gentrification and Cosmopolitan Leisure in InnerUrban Melbourne, Australia, 1960s–1970s”.Urban Policy and Research. 27. 3: 265-75. Merrett, Melissa. 2011. “Fired up with Festa Fever.” Whittlesea Leader. 20 February. http://whittlesea-leader.whereilive.com.au/news/story/fired-up-withfesta-fever/. Accessed November 2011. Mumford, Lewis. 1961. The City in History. San Diego: Harcourt. —. 2011. “What is a City?” The City Reader. Eds. Richard T. LeGates and Frederic Stout. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. 91-95. (Originally published in The Architectural Record, 1937). Paigan, Jennifer. 2009. “Little India Faces an Uncertain Future.” Multicultual Media Exchange.14 January, http://www.newaustraliamedia.org/node/74.Accessed November 2011. Palen, J. and B. London. Eds. 1984.Gentrification, Displacement and Neighbourhood Revitalization. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Precel, Nicole. 2011. “‘Dandenong’s’ Little India Stores under Threat.” Dandenong Leader. 22 March. http://dandenong-leader.whereilive .com.au/news/story/dandenongs-little-india-stores-under-threat/ (Accessed November 2011). Sara, Sally. 2009. “Governments Urge Calm as Protests Continue.” The World Today. ABC Radio National.10 June 12:10:00. http://www.abc.net.au/worldtoday/content/2008/s2594296.htm. Accessed November 2011. Shaw, Kate. 2008. “Gentrification: What It Is, Why It Is, and What Can Be Done about It”. Geography Compass. 2: 1697–728. “suburb noun”’. 2010. Oxford Dictionary of English. Edited by Angus Stevenson. Oxford University Press .Oxford Reference Online. Oxford University Press. Monash University. http://www.oxfordreference.com/views/ENTRY.html?subview=Main &entry=t140.e0825950. Accessed 29 March 2012 “suburban adjective”. 2010. Oxford Dictionary of English. Edited by Angus Stevenson. Oxford University Press. Oxford Reference Online. Oxford University Press. Monash University. http://www.oxfordreference.com/views/ENTRY.html?subview=Main &entry=t140.e0825960. Accessed 29 March 2012.

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Wise, Amanda. 2010. “Sensuous Multiculturalism: Emotional Landscapes of Inter-Ethnic Living in Australian Suburbia.” Journal of Ethnic and Migration Studies. 36. 6: 917-37.

CHAPTER ELEVEN THE INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION-CRIME NEXUS: AUSTRALIAN AND UK PERSPECTIVES HELEN FORBES-MEWETT

Introduction Creating a bridge between nations and peoples, international education has also created divisions between national leaders and communities within and between cultures. Like globalization, it “divides as much as it unites; it divides as it unites” (Bauman, 1998, 2). For decades, many have sung the praises of international education, particularly in Australia, which has fared well from the process. Currently, the tide has turned because Australia is now seen to have less to offer in terms of permanent residency, monetary exchange rates and safety. Monetary exchange rates and visa conditions are often cited as the reasons for the downturn in student numbers to Anglophone countries. In Australia, however, the main reason is thought to be safety concerns stemming from a series of assaults on Indian students in Melbourne in 2009 (Siegmeire, 2011). Not surprisingly, the issue of safety rates highly when students consider their study destination (Marginson, et al., 2010). Indeed, in 2007 safety was ranked the second most important influence for a vast majority of international students when choosing Australia as a study destination—the first priority being that Australia was an English speaking country (AEI, 2007). It has been argued that the issue of international student safety was ignored by governments and institutions for fear it would “undermine the global reputation of Australia as safe and secure” (Marginson, et al., 2010). It was an approach that appears to have ‘backfired’.

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International students and the issue of crime There have been numerous tragic cases of crime committed in Australia against international students of varying nationalities. The most recent and possibly the most cited being the case of Nitin Garg—an Indian international student murdered in the western suburbs of Melbourne in 2010. The case was reportedly neither race or gang-related, but associated with the victim being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The circumstances reflect the tendency of international students to live in “delinquent prone communities” where they can be accommodated by the lower end of the housing market (Weatherburn and Lind, 2001). These neighbourhoods are likely to have a higher incidence of violence and street crime that is often associated with economic and social stress. In Australia, the Corruption and Crime Commission has highlighted the fact that the international education-crime nexus is not only linked to poor neighbourhoods and violence (Corruption and Crime Commission, 2010). In a case showing the potential for corruption through the process of fee-paying students seeking permanent residency, the Commission investigated the case of a university lecturer who offered female international students an exam pass in exchange for sexual favours. Such cases tend to be the subject of investigations rather than studies. In a more general study concerning students in an Australian university, Schweitzer found that the incidence of sexual harassment or assault against female students was often underreported but nonetheless 10-22% of all female students were victims of this form of crime (Schweitzer, 1996). The reporting of sexual related crimes is hindered by factors relating to shame, guilt and fear (Sable, et al., 2006). Marginson et al. suggest: “These factors are likely to compound for international students because of communication barriers, differences between home and host society values,…unfamiliarity with support and legal systems, [and] fear of loss of visa status” (Marginson, et al., 2010). Information relating to the incidence of sex-related crimes appears equally or even more scarce in the United Kingdom (UK). Nonetheless, compared with Australia there appears to be a much greater level of openness relating generally to student safety and crime. In the UK it was widely accepted that students (both domestic and international) were more vulnerable to becoming a victim of crime compared with the wider population. As a consequence, there was a specific safety website and research focused on crimes against students long before Australia paid attention to the issue (Barbaret, et al., 2004). The UK Home Office reported a higher level of offences against students compared with the general population—this included higher rates of

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burglary, theft and violence that occurred on campus (UK Home Office, 2007), with shared housing adding an extra dimension (Wilkes, 2003). It was believed that incoming international students were often from countries with lower rates of crime and were therefore not accustomed to the necessary safety precautions required by their host nation (Home Office, 2004). Attention to safety and security appears to have further increased in the UK in recent years. For instance, Prime Minister Blair in 2005 included safety in his Second Initiative on International Education (PMI2) (Merrick, 2007; Humfrey, 2008). This initiative followed the historically important Criminal Justice Act 2003, which was introduced after the tragic case of Stephen Lawrence, a black British teenager murdered in 1993 in southeast London – the case was believed to be racially motivated. While the case does not bear quite the same circumstances as those associated with the murder of Nitin Garg, some similarities cannot be overlooked. In both cases the perpetrators were local youths and in an environment of crime and fear both incidences were pivotal points compelling authorities to act to increase the safety of community members. Unlike Garg, Lawrence was not an international student; however, his case played a pivotal role for those belonging to minority groups who experience discrimination in the UK. After five suspects in the Stephan Lawrence case initially escaped conviction subsequent investigations found that the Metropolitan Police Service was incompetent and “institutionally racist” (Holdaway and O’Neil, 2006). The UK interview participants believed the case had ultimately improved safety and security for international students. Further evidence of racial and other forms of discrimination in the UK was revealed in a survey of medical students that found “35 out of 253 (16 minority students and 19 white students) reported experiencing abuse associated with ethnicity, sexuality or gender in the first 15 months” of their study (Craig and McNamee, 2005, 7). The report states: “Most episodes of abuse were associated with ethnicity and place in the surrounding community” of the medical school (Craig and McNamee, 2005, 7). From a survey of more than 3,000 international students, the British Council concluded that safety and security had increased and numbers of students experiencing crime continued to be low (British Council, 2010). Nonetheless, the British Council expressed concern about the dangers of town and city centres, particularly in relation to drunken perpetrators (Brown and Seller, 2010). It held that while socially disadvantaged community members were more likely to be arrested and charged with criminal offences, more ‘savvy’ and socially powerful

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criminals commit offences that are less likely to be investigated (White and Haines, 1996). This paper explores findings from in-depth interviews conducted in 2010 with professionals in Australia and the UK whose work relates to international student safety. The research approach is outlined before presenting four main themes emerging from the interviews. In separate sections, discussions relate to the commonly held view that international students tend to be victims rather than perpetrators of crime; the differing support and safety structures in Australia and the United Kingdom; the dynamics and risks associated with international students living in delinquent-prone areas that offer low-cost housing; and international student vulnerability to those within their own national group.

The Study The findings of phase one of a four-year project concerning International Student Safety from Crime form the basis of this study. A total of 45 face-to-face, semi-structured, in-depth interviews were conducted in 2010 with professionals whose work related to international student safety. Thirty of the interviews were conducted in Australia and 15 in the UK. The participants included 23 males and 22 females from diverse racial and cultural backgrounds, describing themselves as Chinese, Indian, British, Scottish, Australian, Eurasian, Zambian, African, White European, European, Polish, Anglo/Celtic, and American. The participants included police officers, university security, counseling and support staff, legal practitioners, student organisation representatives, accommodation providers, academics and government officials. The rationale for choosing a wide range of interview participants working in different areas was to capture an array of perspectives relating to the complex nexus between international education and crime. The participants were asked questions concerning the types and level of crime and related circumstances of which they were aware through their work with international students. They were also asked about safety and security structures and practices, as well as other contributing influences. Prior to the interviews, the participants were provided with a detailed explanatory statement outlining their right not to answer any questions that may have raised sensitivities or to withdraw from the interview at any stage. All participants were generous with their time and provided many new insights without displaying any discomfort. The interviews were audio-taped and subsequently transcribed. The transcriptions were coded with a number for the purposes of participant anonymity, for example, P7 UK or P38 Aust.

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Issues frequently mentioned were noted as emerging themes (Bryman and Burgess, 1994), which are discussed in the following four sections.

International students tend to be victims rather than perpetrators of crime Overwhelmingly, the participants agreed that international students were more likely to be victims rather than perpetrators of crime. As victims, the most commonly mentioned crimes were theft and robbery, particularly of computers and mobile phones. It was explained by one police officer that many youths did not understand what constituted robbery, but that “robbery is quite simple. It’s a theft with the use of a bit of force [and]…if you’ve got a stick in your hand while you do it, it’s what we call an armed robbery” (P8 Aust). It was believed that students in both Australia and the UK needed to be constantly reminded not to display possessions. It was thought that international students were more vulnerable to crime than local students and that this involved a visible vulnerability, as described by a student organization representative: [S]tudents will stick out as students. And because of that reason, international students will stick out even more,…they’re likely to dress different, act different, potentially walk different, look different…You’d be able to probably tell that they’re foreign…criminals know that when they see a student they see vulnerability. They know that they’ll likely be carrying money on them. They know that they won’t know the area so well. They know that they may well be carrying laptops. They know that they may be very easily intimidated (P24 UK).

The vulnerability of international students related to what Fisher et al. referred to as “target attractiveness” and the fact that most of the students lived away from their family indicated a “lack of guardianship” (Fisher, et al., 1998). A manager of student services elaborated: Certainly there seems to be a prevailing view that they’re more likely to be a victim of crime here because they’re in a non-familiar environment. So everything from when they arrive and they’re standing in Heathrow or in a tube station with their map and they’ve got their brand new laptop at their feet, they are such an easy victim for property crime…they don’t know which areas of town are safe, …which modes of transport are safe…they don’t know the kind of danger signals… and therefore we have an increased duty of care in terms of looking after them, and informing them of those risks (P3 UK).

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The vulnerability was also frequently associated with carrying large amounts of cash. A student services manager commented: “[W]e do know that you still get students from particular countries who will arrive with a suitcase full of cash to pay their fees….” (P3 UK). These perspectives were representative and consistent across both the Australian and UK interviews, as was the following comment from a legal representative: …this sounds probably a bit harsh, but a lot of the students that I dealt with, even if they were in their mid to late-20s, they’d often been living at home and didn’t have much in the way of life experience as perhaps we would understand it. So there was a certain kind of naivety about many of them (P12 Aust).

Offences committed by international students were believed to be few and associated with either ‘need’ or ‘greed’. However, at times it was difficult to differentiate between the two. For instance, there were frequent comments about false reporting in both Australia and the UK. One incident that was initially incorrectly reported as an Indian student being set on fire by four men in a street in Melbourne, Australia, was later found by police to be fraudulent: …he’s just been convicted so I’ll speak about it openly…he claimed that he’d been assaulted and set on fire by a group of Australians…that was right at the height of all the media attention into what was happening with overseas students…I wouldn't might betting that he was thinking that it’s natural the police would believe this, because there are all these bad local Australian ‘fellas’ running around robbing Indians and belting them on the head because it’s all in the media…What was it in the end? It was just a false insurance claim. I have heard through associates in the police force that finances were that individual’s main motive…It’s either needy or just greedy (P8 Aust).

The importance of the above case is not diminished by the fact that the person involved was not an international student but rather the spouse of a female international student. Furthermore, the case may be a reflection of strain on students’ families and perhaps a lack of understanding of the seriousness of fraudulent claims. Police believed the case was not in isolation: …they [some students] went through a phase where they were making a lot of false reports of being victims of crimes, specifically of armed robberies…That was in response [to what was being reported]. When it all hit the media here and it was all a big issue about what was happening with overseas students, I think it was possibly an attitude of a little bit of payback…to come in and report that they were the victim of a crime

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A police officer in the UK provided a similar but less serious account: I think you can create a perceived problem that isn’t actually there. One case would be mobile phones. If you want a new mobile phone…one way of getting one is to say, ‘I’ve been robbed’, we record it as a crime, and the service provider will provide you with a new phone. Has a crime actually taken place? In the majority of cases I think no, it hasn’t…so we’ll get an aberration in the figures…It’s fraud. Oh yeah. What we did in Essex, we said, ‘If you’re going to report that type of crime you have to come in, in person, you can’t record it on the phone’ and immediately the numbers dropped dramatically. Because then you have to lie face to face don’t you? (P23 UK)

A number of UK interviewees mentioned fraud involving the internet. As one UK police officer commented: [I]nternational students fall victim of a lot of online type frauds. Certainly here they do…we have had a particular problem with students who answer adverts on the internet for work and it ends up being a money laundering scam. The job will be something along the lines of, we will send you a cheque for however much money. You go and deposit it in a Western Union bank account and then you keep a percentage of that cheque having cashed it. Because they are restricted on the work they can do and they are quite naïve I suppose. So we get quite a few students falling victim of that (P4 UK).

This issue of internet related fraud appeared more prevalent in the UK than Australia; however, the Australian interviewees believed that media attention relating to cases of theft and robbery had created an environment of opportunity for fraud. According to a police officer, the students “thought that we would just believe that [an offence] had occurred because they were so over-represented as victims” (P8 Aust). Allowing for this distortion, it was still believed that for a period of time Indian students were over-represented in terms of victimization in the Western suburbs of Melbourne: …the fact is also the numbers. I still can’t deny that they were way over-represented and now those numbers have come back down to being very similar to the rest of the community. They [Indian students] are the

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victims of robberies no more than a local student, a local Italian, Greek, Australian, Caucasian, Asian, you name it (P8 Aust).

Fitting with the notion that “need” was an underlying motive, several interviewees indicated that desperate financial circumstances were often the reason students commit crimes. A police officer in the UK commented: A lot of the students who come over here…are very, very poor—I really don’t know how they fund it… We have crime committed actually by foreign students, we had one fairly recently, a Chinese guy who was breaking into rooms and stealing telephones…Mobiles…it’s not a cheap country to live in…I don’t understand how they do it, to be honest…this poor guy…was stealing his fellow students’ phones…Because he was halfway across the world, a bit of a loner and I could imagine it was hell to get him here, for his parents. And he has got the shame and the indignity of having to go back now having been arrested and charged with theft, burglary. So you have to take yourself out of the crime sometimes and think about, he’s done wrong, but there is a bigger story here (P5 UK).

The empathy expressed above was not in isolation. In a number of instances it was perceived that offences committed by international students were related to circumstances involving a lack of financial and other support. The identification of “a bigger story” is indicative of the complexities and unexplored circumstances relating to many incidences of crime concerning international students. Examples of serious crime involving international students as perpetrators were few. However, one international student services manager in Australia commented on a case that required her involvement: Being involved now with international students over a long period of time, I’ve seen extreme cases…there were four of them living in the house. One of them picked up a knife and killed the other one…The student was doing cookery and he had a knife and they had a bit of an argument. So he just pulled out the knife and stabbed him…There’s no way of thoroughly collecting information on this. It’s just basically if a student decides to come forward. So he made some contact with us…He couldn’t go to the house. So like we do any particular case of this nature, you just provide what support you can (P9 Aust).

Unlike the more recent violent street attacks, these tragic circumstances did not attract media attention. Nonetheless, cases involving international students as perpetrators were thought to be the exception rather than the norm. The prevailing view was that students tended to be victims requiring well-established support and safety structures.

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Support and safety structures in Australia and the UK There appeared to be a fundamental difference between the support and safety structures in the UK compared with those in Australia. The Australian research participants believed many international students were disadvantaged and at risk while UK interview participants believed their systems were serving students well, regardless of local or international student status. The UK participants believed they were working within well-advanced safety and security structures, particularly since the landmark case of Stephen Lawrence, whose murder on racist grounds saw the introduction of the Criminal Justice Act 2003. The structures in place were designed with programmes offering advice and support as well as extensive monitoring and surveillance associated with a long history of experience with incoming groups from diverse parts of the world and a constant threat or fear of terrorism. Proponents of the protective measures believed that students benefitted along with community members in general. Given that many local UK students from diverse backgrounds tend to live and study away from home, the provision of support services was believed to be appropriate for students originating from both the UK and abroad. One practice that distinguished between local and international students was the requirement of international students from particular countries to register with the police on arrival in the UK. This measure was related to the threat of terrorism and was thought by senior officials to be unnecessary: ...if they’re staying for more than six months to study, they have to take their passport, or have their passport stamped as registered with the police…And we know that not all international students who are required to register, register…the people are saying it’s humiliating, “They’re discriminating because not all other nationals that I am in class with have to register”. So it causes a lot of animosity. The new immigration rules…similar to your Australian model, and I know it was modeled on your model; the students have to have biometrics now. So it almost seems that…[it] is not relevant…In their own countries…police are not necessarily trusted and [the students]…don’t want the label of saying I’ve been into a police station and people see them going because people will think they’ve done something wrong (P7 UK).

The requirement of students to provide biometric information involved the scanning of fingerprints and a digital photograph (Home Office, 2010). Despite reported student objections to the system, a survey conducted in 2007 by the Home Office indicated that “a lot of [responses] were favourable, especially if the police went on campus and registered them”

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(Home Office, 2007). In contrast to Australia, high levels of surveillance and security in the UK seemed a part of everyday life. It was believed in the UK that universities had a heightened risk of unwittingly harboring individuals who posed a threat: [They are] at special risk of violent extremism, which is the politically correct way the government now speaks about Islamism [but the] security force [was] doing a very good job of keeping a cap on terrorism and radicalisation leading to violent extremism (P25 UK).

The above participant also believed that there was little distinction between “home grown” or international terrorism and so “the issue of international students and visas…becomes a security concern” (P25 UK). It was revealed that 15 to 20% of convicted terrorists have been international students. The circumstances of one convicted student were outlined: He was radicalised and encouraged to become a terrorist in the UK. We know about that…you have an example of an international student whose experience in the UK allows him to think that the way you deal with western values is try to blow people up on aeroplanes. If you’re dealing with a religion that says, ‘The West is run by money. It’s corrupt. They’ll take the money off you but they won’t deliver’ etcetera, this is a breeding ground [for extremism] (P25 UK).

In contrast to the research participant’s deep concern regarding religious and cultural conflict, the issue of international students becoming terrorists was thought to be “a very small problem” (P25 UK). Overall, there appeared to be a general willingness to acknowledge student-related crime and to discuss the practices and procedures in place to respond. There also appeared to be an enthusiasm to remain aware of developing risks and to respond proactively: I think the basics certainly are out there, and I think increasingly even for instance the fact that a lot of universities will have community relations officers who are trying to…spot and address tensions between students and local population…But you can’t…be complacent. There will always be risks (P3 UK).

The publication of a booklet by the Home Office entitled The Student Survival Guide outlines the types of danger students need to be aware of and what best to do in situations involving risk. The booklet was indicative of the openness of discussion in the UK relating to safety and crime. For example, on the first page the booklet states: “Crime levels are falling, but

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statistics show that one in three students will still be a victim while studying at college or university” [in the UK] (Home Office 2008). This frankness provided a stark contrast to the reluctance in Australia to acknowledge safety and security as an international student issue (Nyland, et al., 2010), at least until the numbers of students commencing study in Australian began to fall away. In reference to the Australian state of Queensland it was claimed that the issue of international safety was approached only because of the economic imperative associated with host reputation: To be honest,…the issue of student safety and student experience is not one that’s really easily explained. It doesn’t seem to be one that politicians care about. I know in my time when I was working in Government all they wanted to know was how many bums on seats we had, and why we weren’t doing better than the other States (P38 Aust).

And in the state of Victoria, Australia: You can’t bring an extra 100,000 people into the State, into the suburbs of Melbourne, which is basically what happened, and not forward plan about sort of police resources and emergency response resources and that’s exactly what they did. It’s just absolutely idiotic. Fucking idiotic really (P36 Aust).

Adding many thousands of new residents to an already under-resourced area that is subject to a changing ethnic profile and is heavily populated with socially disadvantaged groups presents circumstances that are associated with “social disorganization” (Kapsis, 1978; Reid, et al., 2005). This conceptualisation provides an explanation for the crime-related problems that occurred in a number of locations including the western suburbs of Melbourne.

International students in delinquent-prone communities The influx of international students to areas with a crime-prone reputation that is reinforced by cheap housing (Bottoms et al., 1992; Bottoms, 1994) creates a greater number of potential victims without the necessary resources to protect themselves and their property from crime (Butcher and Piehl, 1998). These circumstances appear to be associated with the problems that arose in a number of locations, and at the time of the interviews particularly in the western suburbs of Melbourne, Australia. As one police officer commented: “suddenly all these Indian students were

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being robbed, and I was saying well suddenly there’s just so many of them” (P21 Aust). Another reinforced this view: I think that what’s happened of recent years is just a reflection of a massive change that just happened, bang. It was just like an explosion happened one day and people in certain parts of Melbourne looked up and there’s all these strangers here now, ‘what’s going on’…everywhere you looked, your train was full of overseas students. Your bus was full of overseas students. Your streets were teeming with them. So I think that we’ve probably just seen the explosion of crime and distrust and all those things that happen when two completely different communities all of a sudden butt heads and now we’re probably all getting a little bit more used to it now, even the disaffected kids. That’s reflected in crime stats to show that after this explosion of everyone not liking the change…it’s all just coming back down to start to represent the multicultural society that we are…I’ve been born and raised and lived in the western suburbs my whole life. I’ve been a policeman for [many] years. It was like I just looked up one day and said ‘where did they all come from?’…So what do you think the disaffected youth who are born and raised in the homes that I spoke of before, how do you think they react to something like that? (P8 Aust).

The international student population explosion had impacted on both wellestablished and disaffected community members. For the well-established it seemed only a matter of becoming accustomed to the changed landscape. However, as surmised by Reid, et al. (2005), the disaffected youth responded violently. Although international student numbers in the UK had not reached the levels of Australia, it was thought that the local youth may be envious of the newcomers: When they go into their flat across the road and they’re in town and they’re walking home past the off-licence [liquor store] with the local youths hanging about who don’t go to university, who don’t have their level of education, who maybe envious of them for what they have that they don’t have, that’s where people have their problems (P29 UK).

The mention of possible envy of local youths in the UK suggests a similar understanding to the violence against international students in disadvantaged areas in Australia where local youths do not have access to resources. While many international students are poor, compared with some sections of the host country’s population, they have greater access to opportunity (Waldinger, 1997; Reid, et al., 2005). The perpetrators of street crime committed against international students in delinquent-prone communities tended to be disengaged local youths, described as “yobs” by one UK police officer (P5 UK) and by an

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Australian police officer as “recidivist” (P8). In Australia, however, descriptions of the perpetrators of street crimes varied and were often referred to by the police as “mixed ethnic groups” or gangs: Africans are doing it. Asians are doing it. White people are doing it. Kids are doing it. But it’s easier to say the majority of our offenders are under 18 years of age. So it’s a youth problem and it’s a youth problem connected to people from low socioeconomic backgrounds (P2 Aust).

There was, however, evidence of groups or gangs formed along ethnic lines. Indeed, a youth worker asserted that gangs were primarily “ethnically based and associated with particular suburbs” (P1 Aust). In reference to the western suburbs of Melbourne, Australia, a police officer offered the following information: …there’s always one ringleader and that one ringleader was then driving the other groups … involved with Pacific Islander groups. Whether it’s boredom or nothing to do…or not working or even if they did go to school, they’d be out late at night…I’d be walking around and see groups of Pacific Islanders, Africans roaming the streets 11/12 o’clock at night. You’ve got to say to yourself, ‘Well why; there’s nothing open; it’s unlike the CBD; there’s nothing open within suburbia’. So there is a potential, but unfortunately, they’re not being challenged by the police because of a lack of police resources, so it’s compounded itself. So they just go around basically willy-nilly and they see a target, ‘Right, let’s do him’. It’s driven by one particular guy…[The] age group, when I was at Footscray, was between 13 years of age up to late teens/early 20s… They were lying in wait, because it soon got around that the Indian students were travelling late at night (P11 Aust).

Police indicated by early 2010 that a small number of youths were held responsible and incarcerated for the violent attacks on Indian students in the western suburbs of Melbourne, Australia. This development in conjunction with an increased police focus was believed to have dramatically reduced the number of attacks on the Indian students. The police accounts indicated that the perpetrators were socially disengaged community members such as those discussed by Weatherburn and Lind (2001). One police officer commented: “It’s frightening to look into their backgrounds” (P8 Aust). The space occupied by the disadvantaged groups had to be shared with many thousands of newcomers in the form international students who also experienced social challenges but appeared to have greater access to the already scarce resources. In accordance with the work of Reid, et al. (2005), the newcomers had re-shaped the urban demographic and economic structures and in the cases discussed above the

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increase in criminality was associated with both the ‘native-born’ and other groups that may have had greater claims than the newcomers in terms of length of residency. The notion of established and outsider groups seemed to apply (Elias and Scotson, 1994; Hage, 2006), as does Kapsis’ claim that changing ethnic community profiles increase the rate of crime (Kapsis, 1978). That police did not publically share descriptions of the Islander or African ‘groups’ was most likely to avoid “moral panic about ‘ethnic youth gangs’”, such as described by Collins (Collins, 2002, 2). The approach, however, seemed to create an impression that white racists were targeting Indian students. For example, a government employee commented, “My first stereotypical view would be young white Australian men who are racist and don’t want international students taking their jobs” (P39 Aust). In most cases the offenders did not fit this perception but their circumstances were typical of those who are socially disengaged. A youth worker commented that: “Many do not attend school and are unemployed” (P1 Aust). This perspective supported previous studies (Reid et al., 2005; Collins, 2002), and was generally thought by the research participants to hold true. It also seemed that matters of territory and length of residency came into play. Most interview participants believed the crimes committed by youth against international students related to circumstance and opportunity rather than the nationality of the victims. One police officer commented: These kids were just oblivious to all that. They’re just looking for someone to rob. ‘I want something. To have something, I’ll take it…they’re [the victim] a person alone. They’re vulnerable. We’ve got an opportunity. Let’s take it’ (P2 Aust).

Nonetheless, another police officer asserted that in a number of cases, crimes committed against international students were ‘racially motivated at times. They’d go “Punji hunting” as they’d call it, because they knew that they [Indian students] didn’t fight back and they were easy soft targets’ (P8 Aust). Crime against international students in general was not always perpetrated by pre-established members of the community. Most interview participants indicated that at times it “would be international students themselves, against international students” (P39 Aust). Furthermore, it was widely held amongst the research participants that international students were most at risk from offending members of their own national group in the host country.

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At risk within their own national groups Almost all interview participants believed that international students were most at risk from crime perpetrated by those from within their own national groups. This was one of the most salient findings from the interviews. The claim applied to many forms of victimisation including violent crime in some instances, and tended to relate to offences that were not made public. The perpetrators were not thought to be students, although some may have been previously. It was believed they may have had Australian permanent residency or citizenship status. One participant captured the views of most by commenting that international students were ‘quite vulnerable to exploitation and pressures from more unscrupulous elements within their own national groups’ (P34 Aust). The finding suggests that those who were able to gain trust through shared cultural backgrounds had greater opportunity to commit crimes against international students and/or involve them in criminal activity: a lot of those…are fellow nationals of the international student’s country of origin, particularly in the fraud space, and also the organised crime sort of gambling, drugs, all that sort of thing … the cases I’ve seen there tends to be someone who connects them back to their home country, who’s an Australian resident or citizen themselves, that the international student can get involved with (P38 Aust).

Students were believed to be too trusting and there were frequent mentions of students falling victim to or implicated in fraud particularly in relation to forged documents, credit cards, housing and money laundering: Fraud would be a big one … or the gambling-related crime…I even remember at the time sitting in a presentation from Queensland Police [Australia], which would have been maybe five or six years ago, where they said “And this is severely under-reported…Fraud would be a big one” (P38 Aust).

In the UK, fraudulent activities involving human trafficking were also believed to be prevalent: I think there’s more human traffic that we haven’t properly kept an eye on…we’ve seen an increase in foreign national gangs in the UK [and] we’ve got more hidden communities now. And we haven’t turned the stone enough to see what’s really there. Because to some degrees [if] you don’t turn the stone you don’t have to deal with it, do you? (P23 UK)

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Students in both Australia and the UK who collaborated with fraudulent activities were also guilty of committing an offence: …in this category would be those who target people wishing to enter the UK illegally and encourage them to come falsely under the student route. I mean they are… in a sense, international students who are victims of crime. They’re a group where the government is very keen to stamp out that kind of trafficking/flouting of immigration laws…we’ve come across accounts of agents helping students to gain their visas using false documents, even in cases where the students didn’t need false documents which is just so frustrating for the students who then get caught up. But sometimes it’s students who’s degree wasn’t quite good enough to get them ‘A’…as far as I know this is mostly within the Chinese community, but it may be other groups as well… (P3:13 UK).

While not always the case, particular forms of offences tended to be associated with particular communities: I have found that at the time at the university there has been internet crime committed by members of the African community. Scams—‘You have won money’, that sort of thing. It’s not a race or cultural thing…I had them reported from English students, overseas students, everybody…it will be, ‘You have won so much money. You need to phone this number, you need to do this, you need to pass us your details’. And some of the ways that they actually get the credit cards—I’ve actually seen them taking money out of the bank accounts without the credit cards…It shouldn’t be a surprise…. it is a very, very good university, you’ve got some of the leading brains in the world there. So, you know, if you are that way inclined, that’s the place to hone your abilities (P5 UK).

The incidence of fraud was thought to be relatively widespread in both the UK and Australia and was related to many forms of deceit including: …fraud of document, employment documents, of funding, access to funding, marriage fraud,… international students marrying for money. [Interviewer: Is this for immigration purposes?]… Yep. (P38 Aust).

One participant of Indian background suggested that it was not uncommon for female Indian students who had gained a student visa to marry for the purposes of providing permanent residency opportunities to an Indian male in exchange for money. The arrangement was thought to be creating circumstances of domestic violence or bullying committed by Indian women against their spouses (P19 Aust). Three other participants commented on cases where ‘the girls’ were considered to be the problem. For example:

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Chapter Eleven The girls are a bit of a worry … [they] can get a bit pushy with the boys…very strong with some of the boys. You have these incredibly passive boys sometimes in these dependent relationships. It’s not always that the male or female is the dominant one, but we hear a lot about the female dominance and pushiness and the desperation and the feeling that they can control the boys just as with the other cases with the boys thinking they can control the girls. I’m not saying it’s one way or the other, but you get surprised when you see these tiny little...Asian girls. Boy, do they pack a punch in terms of just the level of force in trying to control somebody else’s behaviour (P13 Aust).

These examples stood out against the more common belief that men were the perpetrators of domestic violence against woman, including forced marriages within some national groups. Cases of stalking, sexual harassment and domestic violence were thought to be relatively common and tended to occur within cultures. It was noted that the female interview participants in particular reported these forms of crime, as demonstrated by the following cases: I mean other than some of the things that may be socially or culturally acceptable in their home, I know with Pacific Island students here in Queensland, we have a large number of students from PNG, from Vanuatu, who actually culturally have very different views about how to treat women, and abuse and domestic violence is actually common practice…Most of the examples that I’ve seen here…were from Pacific Island students who’d either been drinking too much and had gotten themselves in trouble on a Saturday night, or who were actually violent against their partners (P38 Aust).

Differing cultural mores meant that sexual harassment or assault was often not identified as such and this was reinforced by an unawareness of the host country laws: Sometimes they don’t even know it’s sexual harassment…. So it might be some unawareness until they get physically abused and they know, but they won’t report…. I’m more inclined to say it’s just within their own ethnic group itself rather than across boundaries (P10 Aust).

That most offences were perceived to have been committed by individuals more likely to be known or trusted by international students is fitting with much crime literature.

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Conclusion The rapid increase in student numbers has been associated with crimerelated problems both in the UK and particularly in Australia. International students were overwhelmingly perceived as victims rather than perpetrators of crime. Interview participants believed international students were more vulnerable to crime than local students because they tended to be attracted to ‘delinquent prone’ areas associated with low-cost housing and higher than average crime rates. The data suggests that many international students were experiencing financial hardship and living in communities where their presence was not particularly welcomed by other vulnerable groups. In both the UK and Australia, it was acknowledged that international students were vulnerable to opportunistic and to a lesser extent racially motivated street crimes committed by local delinquent youths from a variety of backgrounds. On occasions they were also vulnerable to crimes committed by other international students. The most common form of visible crime was thought to be theft or robbery, particularly of computers and mobile phones. The interview participants in Australia expressed particular concern that too many students had located in particular areas too quickly and that others at the bottom end of the social stratum had been displaced. Furthermore, in both Australia and the UK the students were thought to be unaware of safe practices and were readily identifiable as “soft targets” particularly when newly arrived in the host country. The UK was presented as being more advanced than Australia in terms of safety and security structures. High levels of student support and safety in the UK were commonly associated with the Criminal Justice Act 2003; security and surveillance as a result of the threat of terrorism; and a long history of dealing with problems associated with incoming diverse cultural groups. Furthermore, domestic students in the UK tend to live away from home for study purposes and the consequence of requiring support and guardianship was likely to have contributed to a general acceptance that support and safety measures should be and were in most cases provided for international students. In contrast, the interview participants in Australia were mostly critical of a lack of international student support and safety, believing that there had been too much focus on the economic imperative associated with international education. A lack of infrastructure and planning was believed to have been the main contributor to the problems experienced in Australia and in particular the western suburbs of Melbourne.

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Overwhelmingly, international students were believed to be most at risk from crimes perpetrated by members of their own national groups. This finding is fitting with notions of trust on behalf of the victims and the opportunity to offend on behalf of the perpetrators. Rarely discussed and unreported offences that tend to remain hidden included cyber-related fraud and extortion (particularly in the UK); and domestic violence, sexual assault and harassment, was more commonly discussed by the interview participants in Australia. These last three categories were reported by female interviewees who expressed the view that international students often did not think of these offences as crimes due to differing cultural beliefs and a lack of knowledge of the host country law.

Notes 1. This case was of historic importance as it put an end to the double jeopardy rule where individuals could not be tried for the same offence more than once.

References AEI 2007.2006 International Student Survey: Report of the Consolidated Results from the Four Education Sectors in Australia. Canberra: AEI. Barbaret, R., B. Fisher & H. Taylor. 2004. University Student Safety in the East Midlands, Home Office Online Report 61/04, United Kingdom. Bauman, Z. 1998. Globalization: The Human Consequences, Polity Press: Cambridge. Bottoms, A. E. 1994.“Environmental Criminology.”Oxford Handbook of Criminology, Eds. M. Maguire, R. Morgan and R. Reiner. Oxford (U.K.): Oxford University Press. Bottoms, A. E., A. Claytor, A. and P. Wiles. 1992. “Housing Markets and Residential Community Crime Careers: A Case Study from Sheffield.” Crime Policing and Place: Essays in Environmental Criminology. Eds D, J. Evans, N. R. Fyfe and D. T. Herbert. London. 118-44. Brown, G. and T. Seller. 2010. Creating Confidence, International Student Safety Survey. British Council, UK. Butcher, K.F, and A. M. Piehl.1998. “Cross-city Evidence on the Relationship between Immigration and Crime,” Journal of Policy Analysis and Management. 17. 457-93. Collins, J. 2002. “Youth Ethnicity and Crime in Australia.” paper presented to the Les Recontres du CEDEM, Centre for Studies on Ethnicity and Migrations, Universite de Liege.

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Corruption and Crime Commission. 2010. Report on the Investigation of Alleged Public Sector Misconduct by Dr NasrulAmeer Ali as a Session Academic Employed by Curtin University of Technology. http://www.ccc.wa.gov.au/Publications/Reports/Documents/Published %20Reports/2010/20100902-Report-Investigation-Dr-Nasrul-AmeerAli-Curtin-University-of-Technology.pdf. Accessed September 2010. Craig, G. and McNamee. 2011. A Survey of Medical Students’ Experience of Abuse and Harassment in Hull and York. Hull: Centre for Social Inclusion and Social Justice, Department of Comparative and Applied Social Sciences. Hull (U.K.): University of Hull. Elias, N. and J. L. Scotson. 1994. The Established and the Outsiders, A Sociological Enquiry into Community Problems. 2nd. Edition. London: Sage. Fisher, B.S., J. J.Sloan, F. T. Cullen and C. Lu, C. 1998. “Crime in the Ivory Tower: The Level and Sources of Student Victimization.” Criminology. 36. 3. 671-710. Hage, G. 2006. “Insiders and Outsiders.” P. Beilharz and T. Hogan, Sociology, Place, Time and Division. South Melbourne; Oxford. Holdaway, S. and M. O'Neill. 2006. “Institutional Racism after Macpherson: An Analysis of Police Views.” Policing and Society, vol. 16.4. 349–69. Home Office, UK. 2007. University Student Safety. www.homeoffice.gov.uk/rds/pdfs2/r194.pdf. Accessed 26 January 2009. Home Office. 2008. Student Survival Guide, Produced by COI on the behalf of the Home Office, UK Government, London. Home Office, UK Border Agency. http://www.ukvisas.gov.uk/en/howtoapply/biometricvisa/. Accessed 12 Jan 2010. Humfrey, C. 2008.Towards a New UK Quality Standard for International Student Services: Executive Summary. http://www.ukcisa.org.uk/about/material_media/reports_papers_review s.php. Accessed 10 January 2009. Kapsis, R. E. 1978. Residential Succession and Delinquency: A test of Shaw and McKay’s Theory of Cultural Transmission. Criminology. 15. 4. 459-86. Marginson, S., Nyland, C., Sawir, L. and Forbes-Mewett 2010. International Student Security. Melbourne: Cambridge University Press. Merrick, B. 2007. “Preparation for Success: Key Themes in the Prime Minister’s Initiative for International Education (UK).” Paper presented at the 2007 ISANA International Conference—Student

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Success in International Education, Stamford Grand, Glenelg, Adelaide. 27-30 November 2007. Nyland, C., H. Forbes-Mewett and S. Marginson. 2010. “The International Student Safety Debate: Moving Beyond Denial.” Higher Education Research and Development. 29. 1. 89-101. Reid, L.W., H. E.Weiss, R. M. Adelman C. and Jaret. 2005. “The Immigration-Crime Relationship: Evidence across US Metropolitan Areas.” Social Science Research. 34. 757-80. Siegmeier, M. 2011. International students leave in droves. http://www.goldcoast.com.au/article/2011/07/31/337105_gold-coastnews.html. Accessed 31 July 2011. Waldinger, R. 1997. “Black/Immigrant Competition Re-assessed: New Evidence from Los Angeles.” Sociological Perspectives. 40. 365-86. Weatherburn, D. and B. Lind. 2001. Delinquent-Prone Communities. Cambridge Criminology Series, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

CONTRIBUTORS

James Arvanitakis is a senior lecturer in the Humanities at the University of Western Sydney and is a member of the University’s Institute for Culture and Society researching citizenship, piracy and activism. James has worked as a human rights activist throughout the Pacific, Indonesia and Europe. A regular media commentator, he has published widely. He is a former banker and advocate for free trade, but having witnessed child and indentured labour, has worked to develop a more socially just society with organisations such as Oxfam Australia and Aid/Watch Paul Brown works freelance as a consultant, editor and author, and holds an adjunct position at the University of New South Wales. His current projects include an international ‘Waterways’ project involving collaboration with Indian, Thai and Bangladeshi researchers; and an oral history and performance project on South Asian development issues. Paul was foundational Head of the School of Humanities at UNSW, and played a co-coordinating role in the Environmental Humanities Programme for the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences. He is also affiliated with the UNSW Institute of Environmental Studies, where he contributes to research on water issues. Therese Davis is a senior lecturer in Film and Television Studies in the School of English, Communications and Performance Studies at Monash University. She is the author of The Face on the Screen: Death, Recognition and Spectatorship (Intellect, 2004) and co-author with Felicity Collins of Australian Cinema After Mabo (Cambridge University Press, 2004). She is currently working with Romaine Moreton on a new book on Indigenous Australian filmmaking for Screen Australia. Her essays on Australian film and television have appeared in Screening the Past, Continuum: Journal of Media and Cultural Studies, Studies in Australasian Cinema, and Australian Historical Studies.

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David Dunstan is a Senior Lecturer with the School of Journalism, Australian and Indigenous Studies at Monash University. He is an historian, a graduate of Monash and Melbourne Universities and a contributor to the Australian Dictionary of Biography. He has written extensively on aspects of Australian cultural, social and political history. His work on exhibition culture includes Victorian Icon:Melbourne’s Royal Exhibition Building (1996). Together with Professor Deb Narayan Bandyopadhyay he is writing a book on the 1883-84 Calcutta International Exhibition. With his colleague Dr. Tom Heenan he is researching the political and diplomatic history of international sport. Helen Forbes-Mewett is an Australian Research Council Postdoctoral Fellow and Lecturer in Sociology, School of Political and Social Inquiry at Monash University. Her work focuses on international student security and cultural diversity. Helen’s work spans the sociology of education, organisations, work and communities, particularly in terms of cultural diversity, social inclusion, gender relations and crime. She has published in highly regarded scholarly journals and is co-author of International Student Security (2010). In 2012, Helen was a recipient of a Monash University Vice-Chancellor’s Social Inclusion Award: Commendation for significant contribution to supporting the University’s commitment to social justice and human rights. Raelene Frances is Dean of Arts and Professor of History at Monash University in Melbourne. She is the author/co-author of five books on aspects of Australian labour, gender and war history and is currently working on two collaborative projects: one on the history of sex work led by the International Institute for Social History in Amsterdam and the other on the history of Anzac Day at home and abroad, led by Professor Bruce Scates at the National Centre for Australian Studies at Monash. Mark Gibson is Coordinator of the Graduate Communications and Media Studies programme at Monash University and Director of the Film, Media and Communication Programme within the Monash Institute for Graduate Research. He is author of Culture and Power – A History of Cultural Studies (Oxford: Berg, 2007), Editor of Continuum – Journal of Media and Cultural Studies and has published widely on suburbia, everyday life, cultural geography and creative industries. He has recently completed a major funded research project on creative industries in the outer suburbs of Australian cities.

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Tom Heenan lectures in Australian Studies at Monash University’s National Centre for Australian Studies. He is the author of From Traveller to Traitor, the controversial biography of the Australian journalist Wilfred Burchett, and a contributor to the Australian Dictionary of Biography. With David Dunstan, he wrote the internationally acclaimed essay, “Just a boy from Bowral” on the Australian cricketer, Sir Donald Bradman, for the Cambridge Companion to Cricket. He and Dunstan are currently working on a biography of Bradman which will be published by Routledge in 2013. Heenan has also provided specialist commentary for Indian media on Australian cricket. Paul Sharrad teaches postcolonial writing at the University of Wollongong. He was the founding editor of The CRNLE Reviews Journal and editor of New Literatures Review. He has published books on Raja Rao, Albert Wendt, and Indian English fiction, edited work on Kate Llewellyn, Pacific literature and textiles and texts, and currently is the New Literatures editor for The Years Work in English Studies. Claudia Tazreiter is Senior Lecturer in sociology at the University of New South Wales. Her research focuses on contemporary human rights discourses, forced migration and new theories of citizenship, civil society, post-conflict reconciliation, trauma and memory, and cosmopolitanism. She is managing co-editor of the Australian Journal of Human Rights. She is the author of Asylum Seekers and the State: The Politics of Protection in a Security-Conscious World, 2004, Ashgate, Aldershot,reissued, 2006, and Globalisation and Social Transformation in Two Culturally Diverse Societies: The Australian and Malaysian Experience, 2012, Palgrave MacMillan, Aldershot, edited with ThamSiew Yean. Rob Kelly teaches undergraduate Australian Studies at Monash University’s National Centre for Australian Studies. He is currently researching the attitudes of Australian tourists visiting key Australian battlefield sites overseas, and the role of experiential teaching in Australian Studies pedagogy. Rob is also undertaking doctoral studies in dark tourism at the University of Ballarat.

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Gillian Whitlock is an Australian Research Council Professorial Fellow at the University of Queensland. Her research project focuses on the archives of asylum seeker letters at the Fryer Library. Her most recent publications include a special issue of 'Biography' called Posthuman Lives, and an article on object biography called 'Embridry' in the MLA journal 'Profession' (2012). She is currently working on a book for Oxford University Press, 'Postcolonial Life Writing', that will be completed in 2013. She is a board member of the Australia India Council and Vice President of the Academy of the Humanities. Deb Narayan Bandyopadhyay is a Professor in the Department of English, Burdwan University. He is the Honorary Director of the Centre for Australian Studies (Burdwan University). He is the Adjunct Senior Research Fellow at Monash University. He edits a journal Australian Studies: Themes and Issues (Centre for Australian Studies, Burdwan University). He is the Secretary of the Indian Association for the Study of Australia, Eastern Region. He has been recently nominated international contributing editor of Journal of American History (Indiana University, USA). He worked at the University of Northern Illinois, University of Chicago, State University of New York on a Fulbright Summer Institute Programme. He held several visiting positions in Monash University, University of New South Wales and Wollongong University.