Will we ever be satisfied with less?

I can’t imagine the old normal returning unaltered after COVID-19 but worry that the rush towards a new normal will entail too much focus on growth and profits and not enough on caring for the vulnerable and the environment. If that happens, we will have squandered an opportunity to reset how we value health, work and leisure.

Anthropologist James Suzman has written a history of work that gives us plenty to consider as we navigate our way out of the pandemic towards that new normal. Here’s my review (which first appeared in The Weekend Australian 19-20 September) of Work: A History of How We Spend Our Time, published by Bloomsbury.

Why, in an era of unprecedented abundance, are we preoccupied with scarcity and therefore aspire to more and more growth? Anthropologist Suzman employs the second law of thermodynamics, also known as the law of entropy, to answer this question. His idea is that entropy – the energy not available to do useful work, like the steam that escapes from an engine – ‘unpicks whatever order the universe creates’. Entropy, Suzman argues, has ‘driven humans to direct energy surplus into something purposeful’. This is the book’s leitmotif but repetition does not make the concept easier to grasp. Nevertheless, most of this history of work is accessible and thought-provoking.

To explain contemporary attitudes to work, Suzman traces the convergence of the way humans use energy with our evolutionary and cultural history. After the hunter-gatherers, whom Suzman knows well from his work with the Ju/’hoansi bushmen of eastern Namibia, came mastery of fire. This began a process of capturing energy that has changed the way people live, produce and value time. I found the chapters about early human endeavour the most interesting and enlightening. They lead to the proposition that, after fire, farming (which triggered population growth) and then the exploitation of fossil fuels in the Industrial Revolution have had dramatic effects on work, society and the climate.

What Suzman admires about the Ju/’hoansi is their satisfaction with just the resources available to nourish them. He appreciates their bewilderment at the notion of scarcity, which now drives the pursuit of growth in modern economies, although he also acknowledges that, for subsistence farming societies, scarcity was often a matter of life and death. His critique is that when ‘hardly any of us now produce our own food, … the sanctification of scarcity still underwrite[s] how we organise our economic life’.

Suzman shifts across centuries as he tells the story of how we spend our time. He illustrates his points with references to individuals, some famous, some anonymous, some like Thadeus, an urban dweller on the outskirts of Windhoek, Namibia. Thadeus’s story illustrates an important development: increased urbanisation, with 2008 a landmark year when more people lived in cities than in the countryside for the first time in human history. But the story of cities goes way back, to the communities built by termites and to ancient Rome where the first guilds were established.

The book is a feat of synthesis: Suzman draws on anthropology, archaeology, economic history and philosophy. He humanises many of the thinkers he quotes, offering snippets about their lives that illuminate or just entertain. For example, he tells us that Sir John Lubbock, the person behind introducing the bank holiday to encourage work-life balance, also tried to teach his poodle, Van, how to read. One person Suzman does not mention, strangely, is Thomas Piketty, the French economist whose work on the concentration of wealth and rising inequality, must have influenced Suzman’s analysis.

When he reaches the recent past and discusses the rise of the consumer society and then the dominance of services, Suzman’s opinions and prejudices rather than scholarly insights come to the fore. He hates management consultants and is scathing about bloated university bureaucracies. In the latter case, his criticism is not accompanied by a discussion about the trend towards demand for higher skills and mass tertiary education. This change in perspective raises the question as to when Suzman’s history of work should have stopped? I suggest in the 1980s when his lived experiences fog up the historical lens.

Most of the contemporary analysis is in Western countries, though Suzman does talk about the Japanese phenomenon of ‘karoshi ’: death by overwork. He also mentions those whose health can be affected by boredom at work, and workaholics. Suzman strikes me as one of these, given the enormous breadth of his canvas and his forensic search for interesting anecdotes. He is, however, ambivalent about ambition as well as affluence. Durkheim’s idea of anomie, a ‘malady of infinite aspiration’, caused by people’s sense of dislocation during the Industrial Revolution, is, Suzman fears, becoming a permanent condition of the modern age.

This has resulted in the blurring of work and leisure, with people finding it more and more difficult to be idle. It is a shame Suzman did not investigate further the consequences of this blurring. But his real omission is inadequate discussion about the individual and social effects of unemployment in modern economies, especially in the time of COVID (which he does mention) when work is proving to be an important psychological as well as economic prop. Indeed, the role of work in building social capital and self-esteem deserved greater attention in this history.

Suzman is now the director of Anthropos Ltd, a think tank that applies anthropological methods to solving contemporary social and economic problems. Work does not provide solutions. We still do not know how to reach the Keynesian dream of valuing ends above means and preferring the good to the useful. Nevertheless, this survey of human endeavour gives us plenty to think about as we navigate the post-COVID fourth industrial revolution and try to make better work for all, with less waste, less carbon and more leisure.

 

West Bank annexation – dead and buried or just comatose?: Peter Rodgers

If Trump is re-elected and revives Netanyahu’s ambitions, Australia must have a plan to make the existing “suspension” permanent.

 

In November 1967, the passage of UN Security Council Resolution 242, following the Six-Day War, was accompanied by lively debate about language. For some UN members the resolution’s call for “withdrawal of Israel armed forces from territories occupied in the recent conflict” lacked two vital words. Should it not have been “all” territories, or “the” territories, ideally “all the” territories?

Fast forward 53 years and beneath the hoopla of the US/UAE/Israeli Abraham Accords, signed on September 15, also lurk questions of language and intent.

The joint statement issued by the three countries on August 31 said that the breakthrough in relations between the UAE and Israel (and subsequently Bahrain) resulted in “the suspension of Israel’s plans to extend its sovereignty” in the West Bank. The UAE’s ambassador in Washington, Yousef Al Otaiba, said the agreement “immediately stops annexation and … maintains the viability of a two-state solution”.

Yet at the same time, Netanyahu declared on Hebrew-language television that there had been “no change in my plans for annexation, with full co-ordination with the US”.

During an earlier media briefing in Washington, President Trump declared that “right now” annexation is “off the table. I can’t talk about some time in the future”. He then turned to David Friedman, the US ambassador to Israel (and an unabashed supporter of Israeli settlement activity), asking: “Is that a correct statement?”

“Yes,” Friedman replied, “the word ‘suspend’ was chosen carefully by all the parties. ‘Suspend,’ by definition, look it up, means temporary halt, it’s off the table now but it’s not off the table permanently.”

Trump’s senior adviser on the Middle East, Jared Kushner, offered more in this vein. Israel had agreed not to move forward without US approval. “We do not plan to give our consent for some time,” said Kushner. It was a discussion that would be had, though “not in the near future”. Asked about “temporary”, Kushner defined it, with Trumpian precision, as somewhere “between a long time and a short time”.

In early September, Reuters reported that differences in the English and Arabic versions of the August 31 joint statement had been “seized upon” by Palestinians to argue that the UAE had overstated Israel’s readiness to drop its annexation plans. According to Reuters, the English-language version of the text used “suspension”, while the Arabic language version talked of “Israel’s plans to annex Palestinian lands being stopped”.

A senior UAE official reportedly attributed the differences to a translation issue. The senior PLO figure, Hanan Ashrawi, countered that it was a “forked tongue” aimed at misleading Arab public opinion.

Whether annexation is truly dead or merely comatose, only time will tell. In the short term, two factors will decide its fate. The first is the outcome of the US presidential election. Democratic contender Joe Biden has made clear his opposition to annexation and declared he will reverse Trump administration actions “which I think significantly undercut the prospects of peace”.

The second factor involves Netanyahu’s legal troubles over allegations of corruption and whether he goes to jail. His trial is scheduled to start hearing evidence in January.

In mid-September, the Foreign Minister, Marise Payne, welcomed the normalisation of relations between Israel, the UAE and Bahrain and “Israel’s commitment to suspend plans for West Bank annexations”.

There are two things Australia should now do. The first is to use its close relationship with Israel to urge it to abandon annexation altogether, clearly and unequivocally. The second is to consider how it would respond to a perfect storm of a re-elected Trump, an at-large Netanyahu and a resuscitated drive for annexation.

This would demand more than the tardy and featherweight comment by Foreign Minister Payne on July 1 that Australia had “raised its concerns with Israel in relation to indications of annexations”.

Meaningful action could include marshalling an international effort to impose sanctions on Israel, as Australia did with Russia’s annexation of Crimea. One prompt and cost-free action would be to close Australia’s Trade and Defence Office in West Jerusalem.

Opened in March 2019 without fanfare and little real purpose, its stated aim is to complement Austrade’s work in Tel Aviv. Precisely how is unclear, given that Tel Aviv remains Israel’s trade and technology “capital” and headquarters of the Israeli defence establishment.

The perfect storm might not eventuate, sparing the government the awkwardness of taking issue with Israel. Still, the Prime Minister has declared that if need be Australia will “openly rebuke a sincere friend” on issues such as land appropriations and settlements. Australia should work to make “suspension” of annexation permanent. But is also needs a plan B.

First published by Plus61J Media on 2.10.20; published by Pearls and Irritations on 7.10.20

IMAGE: Montecruz Foto, Flickr, Creative Commons

Cicada time

People are talking about cicadas, again. That reminded me I’d written  a post about how to pronounce ‘cicade’ in spring 2017:

By the turn of the 21st century, most British references gave “kah” as the primary variant, with “kay” still holding sway across the Atlantic.

More intersting really is the extraordinary lifecylce of these creatures. The carcas I found this morning tells of the adult cracking through the shell of its nymph to fly off and feast on spring’s vegetation and, if male, to serenade us . This article on the ABC RN website explains the cycle and shows the moment of liberation. 

Bundanoon is a favourite place for cicadas. That’s why the local school has been part of a citizen science program, the Great Cicada Blitz. Australia has the richest diversity of cicadas in the world (350 of around 100 have been identified).  This project is asking people to help with understanding the ecological preferences of Australian cicadas, including how they have adapted to urbanisation.  You can send in photos or sound recordings to add to the database. Now there’s a good way to use social media. 

 

 

Higher education reform: use and abuse of Menzies

by Francesca Beddie

 

When Australia was rebuilding after World War II, then Prime Minister, Sir Robert Menzies, recognised the important role of universities in educating Australians to power our economic recovery.

Funding and enrolment growth for universities increased sustainably under Menzies, and more Australians were given the opportunity to obtain a degree.

Australia harnessed its higher education system to drive its recovery from World War II and make our nation stronger than before the war started.

By harnessing our higher education system once again we can drive our recovery from COVID-19.

Like so many nods to the past deployed by politicians, this reference distorts the historical record. Menzies repeatedly made it clear that the value he saw in higher education went well beyond the economic. Take this extract from his 1942 Forgotten People speech:

Are the universities mere technical schools, or have they as one of their functions the preservation of pure learning, bringing in its train not merely riches for the imagination but a comparative sense for the mind, and leading to what we need so badly — the recognition of values which are other than pecuniary.

David Furse-Roberts presented an excellent account of Menzies’ attitudes and actions on education in an essay published last year in Quadrant called ‘A Rugged Honesty of Mind: Menzies and Education’. It should be compulsory reading for all education ministers wanting to recruit Menzies to their reformist ventures. They would see that Menzies was fully aware his plans to expand universities would cost the federal government an enormous amount of money. Nevertheless, he persisted.

Furse-Roberts does not discuss the Martin review Menzies commissioned in 1961 to ‘consider the pattern of tertiary education in relation to the needs and resources of Australia, and to make recommendations to the Commission on the future development of tertiary education’. But it too deserves consideration by contemporary policy makers, who purport to be striving for an integrated tertiary education sector. The principle underpinning the Martin review, which resulted in the binary system of universities and colleges of advanced education, came from Sir Harold Robbins who was tackling the same questions in the United Kingdom of how to expand tertiary education:

tertiary education should be available to all citizens according to their inclination and capacity.

Most regrettably, Tehan’s proposals ignore that vital ingredient for success in both learning and life: motivation.

Menzies supported the idea of a national university that would focus on researching issues directly relevant to the national interest. But he also championed pure learning and ‘the unfettered search for truth’. He considered that these things contributed to a civilised life, the goal of his education policies.

Today’s proposed reform of humanities education, as well as the government’s lacklustre support for arts and culture and for the ABC, suggest our leaders are retreating from the aim of creating a better Australia to one that can produce good-sounding statistics about jobs and growth. The latter are important but without the fulfilment of talent, the creation of social wellbeing and a celebration of beauty, the numbers add up to a nation in decline.

Historians do, sometimes, point out inconvenient facts: Cook did not circumnavigate Australia; Australia did have slave labour (and arguably still does); Menzies believed in learning for its own sake. That is no reason to send a price signal to students dissuading them to study history, which offers policy makers so much if they choose to overcome the presentism of contemporary debate. Were they to champion the humanities and agree with Menzies that progress means embracing not just the utilitarian and profit but also ideas of tranquillity and leisure, we would be heading towards real prosperity.

Surely, in these weird days of COVID-19 we deserve leaders who share Menzies’ yearning for the company of books and conversation with friends, rather than people who selectively quote or misquote him and focus only on the prosaic and the next poll.

[This post first appeared at https://johnmenadue.com/francesca-beddie-higher-education-reform-use-and-abuse-of-menzies/]

 

Bushfire haiku

Red sun smoky skies
Surely not the new normal
Though it’s been weeks now

Stop checking the app
Blue diamonds are not that close
Can’t just hope for rain

Have a bushfire plan
Know what to take, when to leave
Impossible choice

Life goes on, prepare
Pre-Christmas celebration
Down at the seaside

There too fire invades
Its acrid smell permeates
Nostrils, then psyche

Smoke wakes me at 5
Reach for the phone, Fires Near Me,
No danger here, yet

The sun’s not up but
Turns the sea-mist apricot
An ominous dawn

Whitest sand in world
is grey under smoky sky
The water is still clear

The sea is calm now
An easy swim brings relief
Tiny shells sweep in

Childhood memory
Collecting dozens of shells
Making necklaces

A short-lived respite
Further along the bay it’s
Not shells but embers

Black gum leaf fragments
Mark the pattern of the waves
No escape today

Social media:
Hawaii holiday snaps
ScoMo with Aussies

Cave Beach next morning
Ripples catch the orange light
Burnt leaves fall from sky

Surfing with embers
Finishes the holiday
Pack up, leave early

Hot and dry at home
No more the green oasis
Water gutters, plants

Evening news: fire kills
Two young men, fathers of babes
Where is the PM?

A Facebook call out
Our local firefighters need
Chapstick, lozenges

I can help out here
Drop off a bag of supplies
Add mince pies as thanks

Family of firies
Deputy captain and son
Battling deadly blaze

Smoke in nostrils, dreams,
In every room: cannot sleep
Start the to-leave list

8am, gym class
Keep up the normal routines
Walk dog, exercise

Festive fun-filled class
Christmas yoga, breathing smoke
Downward dog with flies

Catastrophic day
A waiting game: should we leave?
Nerves fray, we are mute

Inside try to work
39.6 degrees
A new fire, closer

Panic scrapes my throat
Finish packing, spray the house
Check the app, again

Papers in the car
Along with clothes, did I pick well?
Plus some precious things

5pm, 20⁰
The fire 20k away
Down to watch and act

Sky is grey, briefly
Teased that it might bring moisture
Now a sallow glow

Variety show
Yes, life must keep going on
Scrooge, angels, bagpipes

Talent, cheer and hope
Hat goes round for firefighters
It’s time for Christmas

Francesca M. Beddie © December 2019

The Golden Country: review

I follow migration matters closely, so Tim Watt’s survey of the White Australia Policy and subsequent immigration policy was familiar territory. For those who don’t, there is much to recommend in the story he tells and his demonstration of the economic benefits of skilled migration. But his analysis has flaws.

Watts is a Labor MP married to a Chinese Australian. They have two children. This gives him a personal interest in how Asian Australians see their country and its history. In The Golden Country (a reference to Australia’s changing complexion), he takes us back to the 19th century. He uncovers tales of the Chinese on and off the goldfields and on the front during World War One that were absent in the history and myths he learned as a child. This biographical thread runs through the book, which traces the creation of the “Australian Legend”. To understand how a sense of Australianness comes about, Watts draws on anthropologist Benedict Anderson’s idea that nations are shaped by “an imagined political community” with a shared history, culture and values.

Australia’s national identity was forged as explicitly white and Western. The East “was seen to be home to immortality, irrationality and psychological weakness, whereas the West was the home of virtue and rationality, discipline and physical strength”. We are living, Watts says, with the hangover from that dichotomy, which saw a century of nation building defined by the exclusion of Asian Australians. He uses statistics to show how such exclusion still pervades our political institutions, the nation’s boardrooms and top echelons of our public service and universities.

Now that 13 per cent of Australia’s population, over three million people, has Asian heritage – more than the percentage of African Americans living in the United States – this bamboo ceiling must be dismantled. Before suggesting how, Watts says this change in demography is primarily the result of John Howard’s immigration policies. He has evidence to back this up. The emphasis on importing skills during the Howard years doubled the total permanent-migrant intake. Even more significant was the increase in temporary migrants deployed to address skill shortages in a booming economy.

Watts focuses on the contradiction between this policy and Howard’s insistence that Australia was neither an Asian nor a racist country and his refusal to condemn Pauline Hanson’s anti-Asian vitriol. That’s a fair observation, as is Watt’s conclusion that, by allowing the anxieties Hanson stoked to enter the political lexicon, Howard reshaped the electoral strategies of both conservatives and progressives. The latter came to see “race, immigration and national identity as dangerous political terrain”. Nevertheless, as Watts shows, most Australians have not been much influenced by the shrill, offensive “ethno-nationalism” of recent years, with the political debate about migration being fuelled by “unrepresentative conservative political parties”.

This being so, Watts goes too far when he says Howard’s culture wars “hindered our collective ability to talk openly about the implications of the societal shifts he set in train”. That has meant, he asserts, governments haven’t invested in the urban infrastructure needed to cope with more people nor anticipated problems like foreign interference with diaspora communities. He can’t shaft these unresolved matters of public policy home solely to Howard or to one side of politics.

Where Watts stays silent on John Howard is the latter’s decision to take Australia to war in Afghanistan and the Middle East and the ramifications this has had on immigration, namely the influx of refugees from Pakistan, Iraq, Syria and North Africa. This silence has two possible explanations: Watts’ focus on Asian migration; his own party’s shameful record on asylum seekers and offshore detention.

Benedict Anderson’s imagined community turns out to be more than an explanatory tool. The concept shapes Watts’ ideas for today’s multicultural Australia. He wants to reimagine Australia, starting by arguing that racism in Australia is untypical. With a nod to Noel Pearson, he wants a set of contemporary Australian values that include respect for difference and inclusiveness but otherwise embody those in the Australian legend: the fair go, egalitarianism, mateship, pragmatism and irreverence. Watts wants everyone living in the golden country to embrace these values.

Our community, he thinks, is already there (although he does concede there are significant differences between multicultural urban areas like the one he represents in Melbourne and the bush). It’s the national political imaginings that must catch up. This needs leadership but can also happen by injecting new Aussie stories, for example about Chinese Anzacs and Indian traders, into mainstream history and by elevating Asian-Australian talent into the top echelons of Australian political, business and cultural circles. Watts should also have made mention of voices from other corners of the world.

When it comes to his policy prescriptions, Watts changes his analytical hat for one full of nostalgia for Anzac, with an Asian twist. And he doesn’t do enough to link his desire to see skilled immigration continue apace for the sake of productivity with other pressing domestic problems. These include environmental sustainability, inter-generational disadvantage among Indigenous Australians and the long-term unemployed, persistently poor innovation and management in Australian enterprises.

Nor does Watts properly factor in the impact of changing patterns of labour mobility. His justified concerns about current problems in immigration – the exploitation of lower skilled temporary migrants and underfunded settlement programs – prevent him from imagining a new global citizenry who embrace not one nation’s values but who thrive by being connected across the planet.

[This review first appeared in The Weekend Australian.]

Capturing Antarctica

Nowhere but in Antarctica is the light such a shade of lemon

Some people say a visit to Antarctica changed their life. I don’t but months after my trip the other-worldly beauty of the seventh continent is still with me and I am still grappling with how to put the experience into words. Someone who managed to capture the spirit of the place, long before the I-phone and cruise ships made it easy to photograph penguins and icebergs, was Frank Hurley.

Hurley’s photographic genius has been recorded by Alisdair McGregor. Here’s an extract from my review of the biography:

Hurley could be lyrical in conveying the personality of Antarctica. Of ice floes he wrote:

Newly born ice spotless and lily-like, larger adult masses in the pride of their beauty and gnarled decaying fragments in the senility of old age … Time will disintegrate all.

Little would Hurley have imagined how much more quickly the ice shelves are melting a century on from his first encounter with their majesty.

Frank Hurley: A Photographer’s Life, by Alasdair McGregor. NLA Publishing, 460pp

See also:
https://www.nla.gov.au/selected-library-collections/hurley-collection

Cross cultural non-communication

‘We will always choose perfection over politeness.’ That, a German friend explained, is why a stranger sitting at the next table outside on a glorious spring afternoon got up, came over to me, took my cutlery and started to demonstrate how to deal with a Weißwurst. The skin must not be eaten. It must be surgically removed. The man assumed I spoke no German, though I was asking him, in German, why I could not eat the skin. He did not answer. His first incision was ragged; the skin did not peel away. The second was more successful. Satisfied, he had conveyed the lesson, he returned my knife and fork and resumed his seat.

Not knowing that I should only order these white minced pork and veal sausages, with sweet mustard and a pretzel before midday, I had done so at two in the afternoon: a light meal to keep me going after the long flight from Australia. I had started cutting the first of my sausages into pieces, offering a morsel to my companion to taste. Neither of us suffered from this first mouthful of white sausage eaten after midday with the skin on. Modern sanitation practices should have rendered the rule that no Weißwust hear the noon chime of the church bells obsolete. But traditions remain strong in Germany: there is a right and wrong way to do many things.

While the big guy from Bavaria – when he went to the bathroom his wife, in trademark German socks and sandals, sort of apologised for her husband’s intrusion and told me they came from Bavaria – felt no compunction instructing me in the art of sausage eating, it’s more usual for Germans to keep their distance. That we soon discovered when we, two Antipodeans, joined eleven domestic tourists in Leipzig. We were to be together for three days, discovering the city of Wagner’s youth in the day and attending his Ring Cycle in the evening.

Standing outside the designated building for our first encounter, I blundered in. A roly-poly, happy man from Frankfurt approached us, thinking we may be part of the Ring group. Yes, I said, proffered our names and asked for his. Roland was the only person to tell us his name. We spent the rest of the trip on no-name terms with our fellow Wagner fans. An architect from Berlin with a shiny bald pate and hip round-rimmed glasses – he had at least two pairs, one with bold red frames, the other tortoiseshell – exchanged a few jokes with us and showed us dozens of pictures of his house. His wife sported very shiny Egyptian-blue hair, short at the back with shaved zig-zags patterns. She wore only black and white clothes, usually with something polka-dotted. Avant-garde in appearance perhaps but both were as German as they come. When our guide — he didn’t introduce himself either – arrived, the first think Mr Goggles did was point out to the guide that his shoelace was undone. Perfection not politeness.

Six degrees of separation: where the files can take you

Rose Holley Special Collections Curator watches as Francesca Beddie opens the new Special Collections Repository

There’s a great sense of satisfaction when you come across the needle you have been looking for in a haystack of files. For me, the greater thrill is the unexpected gem that leads down new tracks and expands the horizons of the picture you are trying to put together.

More often than not, those leads prove the rule of six degrees of separation. The track that brought me to have the honour to cut the ribbon at the opening of a new repository the University of NSW Canberra.

In 1970, my father, Brian Beddie, left the ANU to take up the Foundation Chair in Government at the University of New South Wales at Duntroon. He retired in 1984 just before the new campus was opened. He used to quip that he’d spent his whole life in huts, first at Childers Street at the ANU and here in a row of green sheds on the ridge.

Last year I received an email from Paul Dalgleish Special Collections Archivist at the Australian Defence Force Academy Library about a set of papers the library had found – documents my father had amassed for various writing projects and lectures. Would I release these to the archive? I didn’t need even to see them to say yes but I did come to Canberra, where I met a tremendous team. We talked for much longer than either side had anticipated. Rose Holley, Special Collections Curator at the library, enthused about her plans for a new archival space.

Rarely does one hear these days of an expansion in library storage. Indeed, when my father died in 1994, we couldn’t find a library in Australia willing to take all the books he had collected on Max Weber. We mentioned this to Hans Brunn, who had been a young scholar Brian became friendly with at the Max Planck Institute in Munich in 1968. Hans was by 1994 a senior Danish diplomat –  his and my paths had crossed again during the heady days of Baltic independence in the early 1990s. He found a solution. The books became part of the shipment of belongings of someone returning to Denmark from the Danish embassy in Canberra. From Copenhagen the books were sent to Riga, where the university was hungry for tomes to supplement its Marxist-Leninist collections.

Paul’s partner is Russian — another connection, made stronger by the fact that a few years after my father’s death I found myself here on this campus doing a research master’s on the missing bourgeoisie of early 20th century Russia. This came about thanks to an introduction by a school friend to an academic working here at the time. Her topic was, remarkably, late Russian imperial taxation systems. Who would have thought such paths would cross at a defence academy in Canberra!

Back to that first meeting with Rose, Paul, Annette McGuiness (UNSW Canberra Librarian) and Peter Stanley (research professor in history at Australian Centre for the Study of Armed Conflict and Society). As we spoke about the plans for the archive, I grabbed my chance to tell them about the boxes my partner, Peter Rodgers, and I had stored for over a decade. These were the papers of Peter Hastings, one of the most prominent journalists of his era, my father’s closest friend and Peter’s mentor at the Sydney Morning Herald. Peter had taken the files after Hastings’ death — he had a great book proposal to honour Hastings and his connections with PNG and Indonesia but could not find a publisher. So the boxes stayed untouched and unsorted.

I thought if my father’s set of papers qualified for the collection, so would Hastings’. But Rose made it clear I would first have to demonstrate that the papers were interesting enough and in an acceptable condition to be handed over. The archive was a mess but I found enough to prove their significance. Paul has found more gold for the researchers who will soon have access the documents now in miraculous order.

As well as material relevant to Australia’s security, the UNSW Canberra Special Collections include many literary files. Last week Nicole Moore (Associate Dean for Special Collections at UNSW Canberra)  reminded me that the discipline of English has a long history here. In 1918, Leslie Allen became Professor of English at the Royal Military College at Duntroon. For those of you who know the ANU, Allen is one half, so to speak, of the Haydon/Allen building. Perhaps not surprisingly given the size of Canberra in the middle of last century, the connectivity continues. This track leads to the south coast of NSW. When my mother came to Canberra with Brian in the 1950s, she fell in love with the bush and the coast. She wanted a beach house and started combing the area around Batemans Bay. I gather my father was less enthralled but when he heard that Professor Haydon’s house at Broulee was for sale he mentioned it to her. She bought it and gave us and many others a wonderful haven. Professor Allen also holidayed at the coast, at Mossy Point across the bay from the headland where the Haydon house stood. The story goes that the two professors would sometimes finish their game of chess from their respective houses, signalling their moves using Morse code! Nicole has more to add to the seaside story: she can tell you about the logistics of getting books to Mossy Point for Allen to review when he was on the Literature Censorship Board.

Speaking of logistics, Rose told me she has become more knowledgeable than she ever expected to be about road and sea freight during this project, which has demanded precision measurements to ensure the compactuses and even their handles comply with the OH&S rules. She has suggested innovations to the company making the system – like the retractable handles — that will now be made available to other buyers.

ADFA and UNSW Canberra have come a long way from those green huts to having a state-of-the-art repository. What hasn’t changed is the spirit of inquiry that makes all those files so enticing. We are certainly very lucky that they are in such good hands.

[This is the speech Francesca Beddie made at the opening of the repository on 2 May 2018.]

A plea for a gutted-free New Year

GuttedWith 2016 soon upon us I challenge all sportsmen, sportswomen and especially sportswriters to promise that they won’t use the term ‘gutted’ for a whole year.

Australian families have enough stress to deal with already; the threat of terrorism and falling behind in the mortgage and having to use public transport all their life. They’re stuck with that. Why inflict the linguistic and anatomical laziness of gutted upon them?

The way we’re headed, four-year-olds will soon be arriving home from pre-school to announce they came second in the colouring in competition and ‘feel gutted’. If only they could just use a word like devastated, downcast, done-in, perhaps even defeated? But even at that tender age they’ve heard far too much sports commentary and their parents, also victims, don’t know better. Otherwise they’d reach for the castor oil.

And pity the medical profession. When Wallabies star David Pocock was injured in 2013 a breathless Canberra Times reported: ‘A gutted Pocock ruptured his anterior cruciate ligament … and needs a knee reconstruction.’ The surgeon wouldn’t know where to start.

Or take the case of English cricketer, Joe Root. He hurt his hand, couldn’t play in an international Twenty-20 competition and declared that he too was gutted. He was lucky he wasn’t taken to hospital for a finger stall and end up with a new liver. Come to think of it, though, that might have encouraged him to choose his words more carefully.