Australian Book Review – October 2023, no. 458

Welcome to a special Indigenous issue of ABR. The timing feels momentous, two weeks out from a referendum which will decide whether there will be a new body within the Australian parliament advising on Indigenous concerns and interests: an ancillary instrument acknowledging Aboriginal peoples’ long-standing custodianship of land and the ongoing, adverse effects of colonisation.

An Indigenous issue in a magazine which has been at the forefront of Australian critical culture since 1961 raises thorny questions. ABR has for decades published knowledgeable, eloquent, and sophisticated analysis of books, and, more recently, of the arts and society, both from Australia and abroad. It should also be remembered that ABR commenced in a distinctly nationalist spirit, founded by Max Harris, Rosemary Wighton, and Geoffrey Dutton in 1961 for the purpose of ‘noticing’ every new Australian book. Readers of the burgeoning ABR archive might raise an eyebrow when they come across the review of a sheep-dog-rearing manual from 1979 (one year after ABR was revived in a second series), but there was a serious intent behind this project: to recognise, engage with – even just ‘notice’ – Australian culture and output, given its historically marginalised position in a publishing and cultural environment dominated by London.

This conception of Australian culture, as the ABR archive also confirms, was not inclusive of cultural activity that was occurring across Australia – most notably, among Indigenous people. And yet, as in so many archives, the story is not total: folded into reviews, here and there, we glimpse the voices of Indigenous people and the recognition of fuller histories.

And so, it is nothing new (as nothing is new!) to notice, elevate, and advance the voices and experiences of one section of society. It is nothing new to do this for historical purposes –as Harris, Wighton, and Dutton did.

It is also nothing new for there to be argument about this, and for this argument to make us consider why we read –indeed, what function we want critics, editors, magazines, and publishers to serve. In his An Anthology of Australian Verse (1952), George Mackaness organised poems according to those that had ‘intrinsic poetical value’ and those that had ‘historical importance’. This was to the dismay of many critics and poets.

When in 1963, as poetry reader for Jacaranda Press, Judith Wright picked up a manuscript by Noonuccal woman Kathleen Walker, she felt the poems’ ‘merciless accusations,

their notes of mourning and challenge’ and ‘could almost hear the voices of the critics in advance denying that this was poetry at all’. The title poem of that collection, We Are Going (1964), concluded: ‘the scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter. / The eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this place. / The bora ring is gone. / The corroboree is gone. / And we are going.’ We Are Going became the second highest-selling collection of Australian poetry (after Banjo Paterson). Critics kept asking was it ‘poetry at all’?

Walker, for her part, had the idea to change her name to Oodgeroo, meaning paperbark tree in Noonuccal language, while Queen Elizabeth II was visiting Australia in 1970 to celebrate the bicentenary of Captain James Cook’s exploration of the east coast of Australia. Oodgeroo had by then, for ten years, been state secretary of the Federal Council for the Advancement of Aborigines and Torres Strait Islanders (FCAATSI), and that same bicentennial day was part of an early service at La Perouse in Sydney to commemorate ‘the dead tribes who had been wiped out by the early English invaders’, as she wrote in that landmark publication, Paperbark: A collection of Black Australian writings (1990). Pastor Don Brady told her that morning that the success of her poetry – its capacity to communicate to Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians – came from her connection to the land: ‘Kathy, you must be a tribal sister to the paperbark trees because you write so good.’

What was good, and who said it was, was starting to shift. Oodgeroo was clear about it: ‘whatever comes from the heart is good’.

At this moment, two weeks out, we’re taking stock. Our reviewers and commentators, poets and interviewees, have taken us, time and time again, to Indigenous lives, to those who have felt ‘totally powerless’, as Lowitja O’Donoghue once described her younger self, to those who like Oodgeroo and O’Donoghue found a way to make their voices blaze.

You may have noticed the preponderance of Indigenous women in this issue. It is both an accident and, in retrospect, a reflection of our own inclinations and interests as guest editors. We want to ‘notice’ the voices of Indigenous women.

We hope you enjoy this issue featuring the strongest-ever representation of First Nations reviewers, commentators, interviews, poems, and books in ABR’s complex history. g

Lynette Russell and Georgina Arnott (guest editors)

Australian Book Review

October 2023, no. 458

First series 1961–74 | Second series (1978 onwards, from no. 1)

Registered by Australia Post | Printed by Doran Printing

ISSN 0155-2864

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Image credits and information

Front cover: Ngayuku ngura - My country (2010) by Tjungkara Ken. © Tjungkara Ken/Copyright Agency, 2023 (Art Gallery of South Australia and reproduced courtesy of Tjala Arts, APY Lands, South Australia)

Page 23: ‘Go Rogue’ by Kirli Saunders from Returning (Magabala, forthcoming). The artwork sits together with the poem in the forthcoming collection and is also by Kirli.

Page 51: Melissa Lucashenko (Glenn Hunt via University of Queensland Press)

Page 63: Anthony LaPaglia as Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman at Her Majesty’s Theatre (Jeff Busby)

ABR October 2023

LETTERS COMMENTARY HISTORY

Miranda Johnson, Sue Bond, Richard Mills

Melissa Castan and Lynette Russell

Alexis Wright

Shino Kinoshi et al.

Zoë Laidlaw

Mark McKenna

Leonie Stevens

Sheila Fitzpatrick

Clinton Fernandes

Elizabeth Tynan

TheVoice to parliament

The sovereign time of Country

An Indigenous Australian Dictionary of Biography

An Indigenous history of the University of Melbourne

Killing for Country by David Marr

Everywhen edited by Ann McGrath, Laura Rademaker, and Jakelin Troy

The Red Hotel by Alan Philps

Empire, Incorporated by Philip J. Stern

Operation Hurricane by Paul Grace

THE VOICE

INDIGENOUS STUDIES

ANTHOLOGY POEMS INTERVIEW

MEMOIR

Bronwyn Fredericks

Sandra R. Phillips

Philip Morrissey

Kirli Saunders

Julie Janson

Anita Heiss

Yasmin Smith

Julie Andrews

Jacinta Walsh

Yves Rees

Jacqueline Kent

Everything You Need to Know about the Voice by Megan Davis and George Williams

The Welcome to Country Handbook by Marcia Langton

Close to the Subject by Daniel Browning

‘Go Rogue’

‘Minyerri (now marked for fracking)’

Open Page

Publisher of the Month

Auntie Rita by Rita Huggins and Jackie Huggins

Reaching Through Time by Shauna Bostock

A Real Piece ofWork by Erin Riley

Unfinished Woman by Robyn Davidson

LINGUISTICS

TIWI ISLANDS

BIOGRAPHY

ECONOMICS

POETRY

MEDIA

FICTION

Thomas Poulton

John J. Bradley

Jason M. Gibson

Tom Wright

Declan Fry

Bebe Backhouse-Oliver

Julie Janson

Patrick Mullins

Claire G. Coleman

Jeanine Leane

Mindy Gill

Giselle Au-Nhien Nguyen

J.R. Burgmann

The Oxford Guide to Australian Languages edited by Claire Bowern

The Old Songs Are Always New by Genevieve Campbell with Tiwi Elders and knowledge holders and Tiwi Story by Mavis Kerinaiua and Laura Rademaker

Line of Blood by Craig Horne

Donald Horne by Ryan Cropp

Hoodie Economics by Jack Manning Bancroft

The Body Country by Susie Anderson

She Is The Earth by Ali Cobby Eckermann and More than These Bones by Bebe Backhouse

Storytellers by Leigh Sales

Firelight by John Morrisey

Edenglassie by Melissa Lucashenko

West Girls by Laura Elizabeth Woollett

But the Girl by Jessica Zhan Mei Yu

Prophet by Helen MacDonald and Sin Blaché

SOCIETY

ESPIONAGE

ABR ARTS

FROM THE ARCHIVE

Zora Simic

Michael Sexton

Michael Sun

Diane Stubbings

Ian Dickson

Tony Birch

The Shrinking Nation by Graeme Turner

The Eagle in the Mirror by Jesse Fink and My Mother the Spy by Cindy Dobbins and Freda Marnie Nicholls

Past Lives

Death of a Salesman

The Chairs

Mullumbimby by Melissa Lucashenko

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The ABR Podcast

Our weekly podcast includes interviews with ABR writers, major reviews, and creative writing. Here are some recent and coming episodes.

How the Voice would work

Lynette Russell

Killing for Country

David Marr and Mark McKenna

Kate Grenville’s grandmother

Penny Russell

Intemperate Australia

Joel Deane

The OED in Oz

Sarah Ogilvie

Young Rupert Murdoch

Jonathan Green

Yunupingu’s song

Desmond Manderson

20 years of the Porter Prize

Six winning poems

Our partners

Australian Book Review is assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council for the Arts, its arts funding and advisory body. ABR is supported by the South Australian Government through Arts South Australia.

We also acknowledge the generous support of our university partner Monash University; and we are grateful for the support of the Copyright Agency Cultural Fund; Good Business Foundation (an initiative of Peter McMullin AM), Australian Communities Foundation, the City of Melbourne; and Arnold Bloch Leibler.

Arts South Australia

The

consequences

of

engaging Dear Editor, Bain Attwood’s article ‘A Referendum in Trouble’ and the responses to it from several historians (ABR, August and September 2023) raise important issues about the role of scholars in public debate. The stakes are high given the topic at hand – the upcoming constitutional referendum on the Indigenous Voice – and the fact that this is being argued about in good and bad faith.

I see an overarching issue of moral imperative: should scholars engage in public debates on matters of political significance? What are the consequences of not engaging in them?

First of all, it’s worth pointing out that all the correspondents to the ABR agree on the importance of Attwood’s essay, and none of them has questioned his reasoning or evidence. This is not a repetition of the History Wars of two decades ago, when matters of evidence were a central issue.

What does concern some are matters of timing and allyship. Clare Wright (ABR, August 2023) criticises Attwood for not being an ‘ally’ of Indigenous advocates of the Voice. She further argues that historians should wait until after the October referendum to present historical interpretations that may lead to different opinions. Following these proposals offers scholars the opportunity of maintaining a degree of cleanliness, rather than getting down ‘in the gutter’, as Wright puts it. Given that few historians do engage in public debates on such controversial topics, it would seem to be the preferred stance of many. However, those who make decisions otherwise might also be credited with incurring social costs, a calculus based on a sense that what they have to say might help to clarify a political issue. Their decision about timing can be respected without having to agree with the opinion offered.

This leads into a second issue concerning scholars as contributors to public debates. Peter Cochrane (ABR, September 2023) proposes a Janus-faced stance: the historical profession as a whole is to present a united position publicly, while debating issues ‘internally’. Yet for many academics, particularly those of us regularly teaching in the history classroom, the distinction frequently breaks down as students

prod us for our thoughts and we strive to create spaces for them to express theirs. Moreover, we are incentivised by current university funding policies to demonstrate ‘public impact’. Beyond these realities, generations of historians have acted out of a sense of public duty: that is, of putting their expertise, knowledge, and skills to the test in public forums in ways they hope are beneficial for the wider community. This is a valuable tradition that we could seek to reactivate and support. Modelling civil debates in public may have tremendous value, even in a world now highly mediated by algorithms.

The question thus becomes: should a soundly argued and presented historical interpretation that leads to the expression of an opinion be made public at a fraught time, and on what basis should we make such a decision? One basis might be in terms of allegiance to a political side. However, as Wright implies, to do this will likely mean remaining silent if one’s scholarship is not to be criticised for partisanship or falling foul of disciplinary ethics, as in the History Wars. Yet remaining silent is not a value-free decision. There may be costs involved in not presenting information, knowledge, and sound interpretation to a wider public, which deserves the opportunity to assess it. Another option is to discuss these debates with our students, modelling a kind of public square for them in the context of the classroom, and encouraging them to engage in these debates at home or in their communities. A third option is to make one’s argument public to a wider audience, in good faith.

Each of these decisions is beset with difficulties and risks, as well as affording opportunities and benefits. There are good reasons why those who are more precarious – whether in terms of employment, social situation, or emotional and psychological context – are not bound by a moral imperative to make knowledge public. In certain contexts, cultural prohibitions also play a role in decision making about what may be brought to public attention. However, especially for those us with secure academic positions, assessing the risks and making decisions about public speech is a responsibility that comes with relative privilege. Indeed, this is a cornerstone of the principle of academic freedom, which is now challenged in many quarters. I believe it is critical for us – as scholars and

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citizens – to think through and discuss the implications of our decision making concerning how we contribute to the wider public good.

Miranda Johnson

Intemperate times

Dear Editor,

Joel Deane has written a fascinating and thoughtful essay (‘The Great Australian Intemperance’, September 2023). I particularly liked this comment: ‘Public health, in other words, operates like the Australian governments of the parental era defined by collectivism, yet many Australians –especially casual and gig workers – live in a neoliberal marketplace defined by individualism.’ We like to talk now, in the age of the Covid pandemic, about kindness. This is as it should be, but such talk – without due recognition of what is happening to the working class, with respect to economic conditions and rights – perpetuates the problem.

It is easy to talk about kindness, less so to actually make change to facilitate it in a real way. Governments working for people – ensuring proper wages and working conditions, affordable housing, medical care free at the point of service, and a focus on public education over private – is what we need to help us make our lives better (and kinder), but, increasingly, it is what we do not see. Robert Kennedy Jr is an interesting presidential candidate, though much maligned for his supposed ‘anti-vax’ views. As a lawyer, he has also fought for environmental causes, winning major cases against such environmental criminal corporations as Monsanto. Kennedy is undoubtedly complicated; I don’t support, for example, his

Indigenous Issue

views on the Israel–Palestine situation. But he should not be written off, for he has invigorating ideas about American empire.

Thinking about this brief response to Deane’s substantial essay, I am conscious of a previous online comment, from Patrick Hockey. It highlights, I think, a problem of ‘us’ and ‘them’, the ‘masses’ and their ‘ugly goings-on’. I don’t consider myself outside ‘the masses’, just one of that large group of people who are trying to get by in this increasingly hostile and neoliberal economic world.

Sue Bond (online comment)

No débutante

Dear Editor, I would like to point out with the greatest respect that the appearance of Saioa Hernández in the Sydney concert performance of La Gioconda was not her Australian début, as claimed by Peter Rose in his excellent review (ABR, September 2023). Miss Hernández made her Australian début in Melbourne in 2014, in a concert performance of Norma by Victorian Opera.

Moreover, Pinchas Steinberg was active in Australia in 1978–79 as principal guest conductor of the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra, and also gave a memorable Bruckner Eighth Symphony with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra around that time – way before he was even thought of by Opera Australia.

I would be grateful if this correction was recorded for the sake of Victorian Opera.

Richard Mills, Artistic Director, Victorian Opera

Advances

ABR will launch its Indigenous issue at Readings Carlton on 6 October at 6.30 pm, with not so much as a backward glance to Zoom launches. Guest editors Professor Lynette Russell AM, Sir John Monash Distinguished Professor and ARC Laureate at the Monash Indigenous Studies Centre and ABR Assistant Editor and author Dr Georgina Arnott will be in conversation about the issue.

Everyone is most welcome. The event is free, but bookings are essential and can be made via the Readings Events page.

Prizes Galore

Poets from around the world have until midnight (AEST) on 9 October to submit their poems to the Peter Porter Poetry Prize. Now in its twentieth year, the Porter Prize is worth a total of AU$10,000 – with a first prize of $6,000. The five shortlisted poems will be published in the January–February 2024 issue, and the winner will be announced at a ceremony later that month.

The 2024 Calibre Essay Prize opens on 23 October, with a closing date of 22 January 2024 and total prize money of $10,000. This is the eighteenth time we have offered the

Calibre Prize, now one of the world’s leading awards for a new essay written in English. We welcome non-fiction of between 2,000 and 5,000 words – on any subject.

All of the winning Calibre essays are available in our digital archive, to which ABR subscribers have full access. This year we are able to offer a third prize, worth $2,000. (The winner will receive $5,000, the runner-up $3,000.)

Continuing thanks to founding Patrons Peter McLennan and Mary-Ruth Sindrey, whose generous support enables us to offer Calibre in this lucrative form.

The Indigenous Literacy Foundation

ABR is delighted to support the Indigenous Literacy Foundation in this issue, an organisation which provides books to remote Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities. As well as distributing books from around the world, the ILF facilitates the publication of books created by these communities, many in First Languages and for children. To date, the ILF have published 109 books in thirty-one languages.

For more details of the ILF’s impressive work, visit https:// www.indigenousliteracyfoundation.org.au/

Ancient sovereignty shining through

A Voice to parliament, not a Voice in parliament

by Melissa Castan and Lynette Russell

On many occasions throughout our nation’s history, change seemed imminent, perhaps even just on the horizon, but it has always receded into the distance. The instigation and then closure of successive important representative organisations such as the National Aboriginal Consultative Committee, the National Aboriginal Conference, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission, and the National Congress of Australia’s First Peoples illustrate the impacts of electoral politics and the vagaries of political ideologies. Each decade seems to have brought a different structure, some more and some less representative than others. But there has been little continuity or coherence, in either the national or state administrative and political arrangements, in addressing the specific concerns of Indigenous people.

In stark contrast, the 2017 Uluru Statement from the Heart deliberately asserts the authority of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians over the key claims for sovereignty and self-determination – well-known and accepted concepts of political autonomy and authority in international law. The statement declares these concepts are based on spiritual connection to, and being first possessors of, the land of Australia. The statement’s claim to authority represents a pluralist expression of law, a concept that is common in countries that are former colonies where a traditional (or customary) legal system sits alongside the laws of the former colonial authority. Australia can accommodate many laws, many people, and many nations.

The Uluru Statement calls for two substantive reforms. The first is constitutional amendment to incorporate a ‘Voice to Parliament’, an advisory body of Indigenous representatives that would influence and participate in the development of Commonwealth law and policy regarding matters that impact Indigenous communities and peoples. Constitutional entrenchment, rather than simple legislative enactment, is sought to protect the advisory body against dissolution due to changes in political support for such a body, and also to engender popular support for the recognition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait peoples’ rights in the Constitution.

The second reform is the establishment of a Makarrata Commission, an agreement-making body with responsibilities for developing treaty or agreement-making processes, and supporting a national truth-telling process about history, past abuses, and colonisation, among other matters.

Together, these reforms are expressed in the Uluru Statement as ‘Voice, Treaty, Truth’. We understand these elements as working in concert to deliver structural and substantive reform to the legal and political processes that have until now excluded Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination from AngloAustralian public law.

The referendum process itself may have wider effects on Australian society at large, much as the 1967 referendum and the national apology each represented a nation-wide shift in attitudes. Given that Australian public law and public policy have generally been dismissive, derogatory, and often destructive towards Indigenous laws and governance structures, there are strong arguments for the federal Constitution to include acknowledgment of the first occupation, ownership, and sovereignty of Australia by Indigenous peoples.

Now, through the broad Indigenous community consultations that led to the Uluru Statement from the Heart, through numerous Australian parliamentary committees and inquiries, through the affirmation of governments, many law-makers, civil society organisations, and the private sector, we have a proposal for an Indigenous-led advisory body known as the ‘Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice’. That advisory body would be included in our Australian Constitution by way of a referendum, which is the only way we can alter the words of our constitutional document. And it needs to be in the Constitution, not only to protect the body from the changing whims of governments, but also because this is what the Uluru Statement asks of us:

With substantive constitutional change and structural reform, we believe this ancient sovereignty can shine through as a fuller expression

of Australia’s nationhood … We seek constitutional reforms to empower our people and take a rightful place in our own country.

Despite the political debate that has ensued around the Voice proposal, we observe that the choice of an institutional advisory body that informs parliament and the executive government is entirely unremarkable. It is a modest proposal. We barely cast a glance at the work of the Productivity Commission or the Australian Law Reform Commission (ALRC), both of which are mainstream advisory bodies to the national government. They inform law-making; their advice may be considered, or not. Similarly, the Voice to Parliament will have the capacity to inform policy and reform, but it is not a third chamber of parliament. It will not make laws or distribute funding. It will not undertake program delivery. It will have no veto. The Bill that amends the Constitution makes it clear that ‘the Parliament shall have power to make laws with respect to matters relating to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice, including its composition, functions, powers and procedures’. Parliament retains control over the way the Voice works.

There are already a series of guiding principles as to what the Voice will be, how it will be composed and how it will operate. The Calma and Langton report titled Indigenous Voice Co-design Process: Final Report to the Australian Government, delivered in late 2021, sets out some key frameworks for how the Voice would work. Like any government agency or advisory body, the final structure and arrangements for the Voice will be decided by parliament when it passes the laws that establish the body. So politicians will retain the final say on how the Voice operates, while the existence of the body is enshrined in the Constitution.

The Calma and Langton co-design report was based on widespread consultation and feedback within communities. The model they propose would have twenty-four representative members, comprising state and territory representatives, Torres Strait representatives, and five additional representatives from remote areas around Australia. It would be gender-balanced and would include youth representatives. The members would be selected by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities, not appointed by the executive government, and they would serve on the Voice for a fixed period to ensure regular accountability to their communities. Also with respect to accountability, as well as transparency, it is intended that the Voice be subject to standard governance and reporting requirements, and its members would come within the scope of the newly established federal National Anti-Corruption Commission.

Once established, the Voice would be tasked with making representations to parliament and the executive government on matters relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples. The Voice would be funded to adequately research, develop, and make these representations, which could be in response to requests from the government and parliament (just as the ALRC

responds to references from the government), or they could be proactive representations (just as the Victorian Law Reform Commission is able to initiate its own inquiries). Ideally, of course, the parliament and executive government would seek representations from the Voice early in the development of proposed laws and policies.

If the referendum is successful, a process will be undertaken, involving Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities, the parliament and the broader public, to definitively settle the design of the Voice. The legislation to establish the Voice will then proceed through standard parliamentary processes to ensure adequate scrutiny by elected representatives in both houses of parliament. Only then will membership of the Voice be decided, and the process of feeding advisory representations to parliament and the government begin.

There are many other valid bases for addressing the potential impact of the Voice, be they moral, ethical, philosophical, economic, policy, or political rationales, but next we will canvas the national values and goals that flow from having the Voice structured in this way, and having this advisory role. In this sense, we engage here with the question of the national interest of the Voice body.

Despite the myriad positive consequences of the Voice as described above, many myths and much misinformation have been propagated about it. To be clear, what is proposed is a Voice to parliament, not a Voice in parliament. It will have no role in passing legislation; that will remain in the hands of elected representatives in the federal parliament, as required by the Constitution. The Voice can make representations to parliament, but it will be up to parliament to decide what it does with those representations; it should pay attention to them, but it will always take into account a wide range of advice from across the community. The Voice does not create special rights for Indigenous people or give them a veto – it just establishes an advisory body. Parliament will be better informed about the impact of proposed laws on First Nations peoples and can amend its laws where that is appropriate. So, for example, it will inform how Closing the Gap and other initiatives can best work to improve outcomes.

The Voice will not damage our democratic institutions; it will enhance them. It will not ‘put race into the Constitution’, as the Constitution already allows for racially discriminatory laws by virtue of section 51(xxvi) (the race power). It will ensure that the silence and omissions of the past can be addressed in the future. g

Melissa Castan is a Professor at the Monash Law Faculty and the Director of the Castan Centre for Human Rights Law. She is a Fellow of the Australian Academy of Law. ❖

Lynette Russell is Sir John Monash Distinguished Professor and ARC Laureate at the Monash Indigenous Studies Centre in the School of Philosophical, Historical, and International Studies at Monash University. She is a widely published author specialising in Aboriginal history.

This is an extract from Time to Listen: An Indigenous Voice to parliament (Monash University Publishing, 2023).

Australia can accommodate many laws, many people, and many nations

KILLING FOR COUNTRY

A gripping reckoning with the bloody history of Australia’s frontier wars

The maths is indisputable: we each have sixteen great-great-grandparents. Reg Uhr was one of mine. I don’t believe he’s tainted my blood. I don’t believe I am responsible for his crimes. But when I learned what he had done, my sense of myself and my family shifted. I grew up in a tribe of engineers. We celebrate a blacksmith who came from Scotland and became an iron founder. Marrs made iron in Sydney for a century. We were never very curious about who else might be up in the tree. Occasional discoveries were a source of amusement. My mother was disturbed – and we were delighted – to find convicts lurking up there. But the past mattered only so much to us. We grew up knowing we had to make our own lives.

We can be proud of our families for things done generations ago. We can also be ashamed. I feel no guilt for what Reg did. But I can’t argue away the shame that overcame me when I first saw that photograph of Sub-Inspector Uhr in his pompous uniform. I checked with Wikipedia. The Native Police were exactly who I thought they were. Wikipedia even had thumbnail accounts of Reg’s and D’arcy’s massacres. I pulled from my shelves everything I had on the frontier wars. The brothers were there but I hadn’t made the connection. It embarrasses me now to have been reporting race and politics in this country for so long without it ever crossing my mind that my family might have played a part in the frontier wars. My blindness was so Australian.

–David Marr, from the afterword of Killing for Country

David Marr’s books include Patrick White: A Life, The High Price of Heaven, Dark Victory (with Marian Wilkinson), Panic, My Country and six best-selling Quarterly Essays. He has written for The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age, The Saturday Paper, The Guardian and The Monthly, and served as editor of The National Times, reporter for Four Corners and presenter of ABC TV’s Media Watch

“This book is more than a personal reckoning with Marr’s forebears and their crimes. It is an account of an Australian war fought here in our own country, with names, dates, crimes, body counts and the ghastly, remorseless views of the ‘settlers’. Thank you, David.”

–Marcia Langton

The sovereign time of Country

Living in the pulse and heartbeat of an infinite clock

by Alexis Wright

Ihave often spoken of trying to write in some meaningful way about what it means to belong to all times in this place that we call our traditional homeland. Aboriginal people know that we have been here since time immemorial. We have never lost track of the wisdom and knowledge that generations of our ancestors had developed over thousands of years about the powerful nature of this country. It was their knowledge that ensured the survival of our culture to this day.

We know that their wisdom, handed down through the ages, was essentially about keeping our interconnected and interrelated world strong. We continue to understand the power held within Country, and we know that the ancient laws governing our land are important for ensuring our continual survival on our traditional lands. We say that we belong to this place, and we say that we are Country, that Country is alive, that Country is within us, that if we care for Country, then Country will care for us. We belong to the all times on this oldest continent on Earth, and this means that all times will remain important for our survival, because no time has ever been resolved.

This was how we learnt about Country and how the powerful creative spiritual world must be looked after and kept strong. This enormous responsibility was always undertaken by our interrelated families through their spiritual connections to the story lines of Country. Aboriginal people have continued to work hard to hold their connections to the deep knowledge embedded in these powerful story lines of Aboriginal Law that, in total, essentially encompass all parts of the country. This enormous cultural responsibility has continued over sixty thousand years. In recent years, scientific research has demonstrated time and again that many of the ancient stories contain truths about events that had once occurred on this land, shaping it into what it is today.

It was for no particular reason that Reverend Dr Djiniyina Gondarra, the most respected wisdom teacher and Senior Yolngu elder, Ceremonial Lawman and Clan Leader of the Dhurili Nation of North East Arnhem Land, said that ‘the colonial system is a disease. It is a system of Government that makes you a victim’. He said: ‘We are the natural farmers of this country. We maintain, and we look after the land and that is according to our law. We never change that law, it is still the same today, and forever.’

Why is this ancient law wisdom important? It is important to understanding the powerful nature of Country. The power within the country we all stand on today is always present, and belongs

to all times – past, present, and future. You might say we live in the infinite clock of Country – its pulse, its constant heartbeat. The country moving to an eternal pulse covering all of time. We are part of this same heartbeat that is ancient, still evolving and renewing itself. We cannot step out of, or apart from the pulse of Country. We need to keep in tune with its heartbeat. In the Aboriginal world, we often say that we are of one heartbeat – the heartbeat of Country. We also know that Country can be stirred up, that it has the power to destroy, renew, or remain constant. This knowledge of interlinked time – where all time is important and not resolved – is still with us. This is the time that is embedded in our spirit, in who we are, and forms a cultural identity that is tightly enmeshed in the stories about our existence. This, for me, is our bond with Country. All time swirling within us. We have trouble with the importance attached to the linear time of Western ideas and its literature. We are not of the coloniser’s time, a timeline that began in 1788. We beat to a different, much older sovereign time of Country. Within this ancient bond with Country, we have a relationship with the land that gives us our sovereignty since time immemorial that cannot be broken, not by any other law, or new law-making that does not come from the all times continuing knowledge of Aboriginal culture. This is why our old wisdom people keep telling us, our laws never change –they are stronger than whiteman’s laws. Their law is weak, it changes all the time.

This way of thinking is deeply etched in my mind, and I am eternally grateful that I have come from a culture that is so closely interconnected and related to the world in which we live. We do not aspire to be a conqueror of other people’s land, nor to destroy their heartbeat, nor to separate ourselves from the interconnectedness with all things on our place that nurtures us, and gives us joy. We are not into creating false narratives about the past, to falsify it, or to distort it. We try not to breed dictators or despots. Nor are we into wreaking havoc on scarce resources, or bent on the idea that the planet needs to be exploited until it is sucked bone-dry.

The important Mambaliya and Garrara artist Jack Green, in my homelands up North, once described what it was like when he and other custodians and traditional owners tried visiting their traditional Country, now a mining lease in the Gulf of Carpentaria. He said: ‘At the place where McArthur River had been cut and diverted, at the place where they dug The Snake Dreaming,

cutting the snake line, cutting the kujika (song), the Junggayi (ceremonial manager or policeman) for that place wept … As the day went on it got worse. We were out in Gudanji Country, a place some of us older people know well. But we didn’t know where we were. The river had gone, huge mountains of waste rock were piled high in the sky, blocking our view of The Barramundi Dreaming. We couldn’t see the sacred sites in relation to each other. The whole place has been destroyed. There were roads everywhere … We were lost in our own country.’1

I am not saying that the past shapes the future in a totally dogged way, where I have needed to constantly tell myself every moment of the day that I must always say something about the all times in a predetermined prescriptive manner to influence how I write.

A writer cannot work this way. A writer can only work with what is in their soul. Some things are either there, or they are not. I do not necessarily believe that other people have a predetermined mindset either. Although, when you see people who are bent on destroying others by creating false narratives of some delusional glorious time in history to repeat, replicate, or prolong misery, you wonder what belongs to the spirit in the era in which we now jointly belong, and while our planet is being propelled into an irreversible man-made global warming emergency. I am not sure. It feels as though we have lost our common sense.

Irecently heard a young Indigenous woman, a youth advocate in Alice Springs, describing the youth crime crisis engulfing the town. What she said of the young children she works with was this: ‘They’re hurting inside, deep inside. They can’t see beyond five minutes in front of them. They don’t think they’re gonna live to see tomorrow.’2 Many of these children were born in the years of the government’s dictatorial policy of Intervention, a cruel and ultimately failed, massively expensive policy of great cost to Aboriginal people. Another failed policy. The Intervention was primarily aimed at totally removing any government that Aboriginal people had in their communities in the Northern Territory, to destroy our cultural spirit. In a way, I feel that we are all failing to see what lies ahead, that we cannot think in terms of planetary well-being. We cannot see beyond five minutes in front of us. It feels as though there is a failure of imagination all around, of not being able to imagine how to prevent a local crisis in Aboriginal cultural terms, and having no hope of imagining how to prevent the scale of a global warming crisis already upon us.

Mostly, my literary attempts in book building have been leaps into trying to understand the longevity of our culture, our interconnectedness with Country, and our interconnectedness with the world. We are all in this together. It feels like I have been reaching into, or travelling imaginary roads through both the wonder and the crisis, and trying to keep up with the flight path of an almighty ancestral serpent leaving on its creative journeys, rearranging thought, or what can be thought in its wake. This is the challenge of writing the all times, of chasing infinity itself through word after word through the building of a world of imagination incorporating all times, not just colonial time – yes, important, and we spend our lives fighting for justice, against oppression, and against the scourge of racism, but that is not our

box for others to put us into or where we belong. We come from the long ago, and our work is to continue the importance of our world of foreverness, and this brings us to our interconnectedness with the world in the era of the most dangerous time of our existence, man-made global warming.

We cannot see beyond five minutes in front of us. There is a failure of imagination all around

We know the ancestors are still here. We keep them here while we must keep up with the quickening pace of unprecedented changes taking place in the world. As a writer working in this field, I wonder who will write the important epics of scale of the era, the coming world? Who will have time to write substantial stories about this time, for this century incorporating all times, if writers are discouraged from writing works of depth and importance by the devaluing of literature in a time of its most need?

All these hopes! In practical terms for a future-focused world, it means that we will need to build the capacity of writers, with more highly skilled writers capable of the deepest thinking and the hunger to write major contemporary epics; writers capable of exploring, skilled and experienced enough to imagine the scale and scope of complexities in this rapidly changing world.

We, including publishers, will need to embrace new forms of literature that will absolutely challenge how we think. But it is no good for writers to visualise and commit to writing these all-encompassing epics, or to find the courage to write at this capacity, of imagining the greater world, if we remain broken writers, broken by national cultural policies devaluing literature, that lessen our understanding of the scope of the complexities of where we are at, by governments that have no idea and exclude the possibility of writers creating major works of scale and importance.

Governments need to teach every child – no matter where they live or who they are – the importance of being literature literate. They must know why a higher level of literature literacy is important in a fast-changing world. To know why they must think like a mountain. Or think like an ancestor. Or like an old creation spirit. Or like a future ancestral creator. They need to be challenged to imagine more and truly understand the rich interconnectedness of the world where they know that all times are important, and where no time has ever been resolved in this world we call home. A global home, the only place where we can survive. g

This is an edited version of the opening address at the Sydney Writers’ Festival 2023.

Alexis Wright’s latest novel is Praiseworthy (Giramondo, 2023).

Endnotes

1. Arena Online: Jack Green, Sean Kerins, 20 May 2021.

2.‘A dangerous game’ by Matt Garrick and Maani Truu, ABC News, 18 December, 2022 – https://www.abc.net.au/news/ 2022-12-18/a-dangerous-game-youth-crime-crisis-alicesprings/101735492.

Follow the sheep

An unflinching contribution to frontier history

Mark McKenna

Killing for Country: A family story

by David Marr Black Inc.

$39.99 pb, 432 pp

Forty-three years ago, David Marr – journalist, broadcaster, biographer, political commentator, and public intellectual –published his first book, a sharp, memorable biography of Garfield Barwick, former Liberal attorney-general and chief justice of the High Court. After the appearance of Patrick White: A life in 1991, long considered one of the best biographies ever written in Australia, he might well have followed the more predictable path of the serial biographer. But Marr’s trajectory has proved to be anything but predictable.

As with the best writers, his work has always been driven by a restless curiosity and a readiness to go anywhere in pursuit of a story. As he explained in the introduction to My Country (2018), his collection of essays, articles, and speeches: ‘[Australia] is the subject that interests me most, and I have spent my career trying to untangle its mysteries.’ Over the past four decades, those mysteries have included political censorship (The Henson Case, 2008); the politics of race (Dark Victory, with Marian Wilkinson, 2003); the failures of clerical authority (The Prince: Faith, abuse and George Pell, 2014); and the lives of political leaders: Quarterly Essays on John Howard (2007), Kevin Rudd (2010), Tony Abbott (2012), Bill Shorten (2015), and Pauline Hanson’s One Nation (2017).

Even with this impressive array of publications, few would have expected frontier history to be Marr’s next port of call. Yet, despite its radical departure in subject matter, Killing for Country: A family story is entirely consistent with Marr’s modus operandi. Remain focused. Track down every last detail. Compile, sift, and test the evidence. Write with razor-like clarity. Don’t waste a word. Know the law. Scrutinise the press. Closely examine the words and self-serving manoeuvrings of those in power. And follow the money – or, in this case, the sheep.

Long driven by the desire to stare down those ‘dark angels’ that he believes must be defeated if Australia is to change, Marr, in this exhaustive history of his ancestors’ involvement in the

theft of Aboriginal lands and frontier violence, confirms the brutality and horror that accompanied the British invasion of Australia. Painstakingly researched and eloquently told, Killing for Country is the story of a nation without moral foundation. ‘Australia,’ writes Marr, ‘was fought for in an endless war of little, cruel battles.’

Prompted by an ‘ancient uncle’, who asked him to find out what he could about his great-grandmother Maud, Marr discovered ‘in the lower branches’ of his family tree, Sub-Inspector Reginald Uhr. Like his brother D’arcy, Reg was a member of Queensland’s notorious Native Police force – ‘a professional killer of Aborigines’. Marr knew immediately what he had to do. ‘Writing is my trade ... I had to tell the story of my family’s bloody business with the Aboriginal people.’

Marr’s ‘family story’ begins with the arrival in Sydney in 1809 of the Shropshire-born merchant Richard Jones. Jones, a smooth talker adept at convincing those in power of his impeccable propriety and moral rectitude, quickly became one of the wealthiest men in New South Wales. His fortune, built largely on tea, whaling, and, from 1825, the import of sheep from Saxony, endeared him to many in the governing class. Massive land grants followed in quick succession. Unimpeded by any obligation to compensate Aboriginal people for his theft of their land – ‘all revenue earned from the black lands of Australia flowed to the Crown’ – there seemed to be no end to Jones’s rapidly expanding empire. In 1822, he married Mary Peterson, whose mother’s second marriage, to Johan Uhr, produced five sons, including Edmund Uhr, Mary’s half-brother and father to Reg and D’arcy.

The chronological and geographical sweep of Killing for Country is vast. Marr tracks Jones’s land grants as his acquisitions (managed by Edmund Uhr from the late 1820s) move steadily north, eventually reaching south-east Queensland. He follows Jones’s fortunes through the boom of the 1830s to the depression of the early 1840s; from untold riches to bankruptcy and financial revival. He tracks the Uhr brothers throughout Queensland, including the Gulf Country, and then to Darwin, until, in the 1890s, D’Arcy ends up as a butcher on the Coolgardie minefields in Western Australia. As few other writers can do, Marr creates a gripping narrative from the rise and fall of private fortunes, the ineptitude, cowardice, and hypocrisy of successive governors and their London overlords, the avarice of squatters and settlers, and the endless parade of killings on the frontier.

Although the starting point for Marr’s history is his family’s involvement in the frontier wars, his gaze shifts far beyond his ancestors to the broader history of land management (or lack of it) in colonial New South Wales and Queensland. As he draws evidence from the press, colonial despatches, government reports, and other primary sources, he remains alive to the larger frame-

David Marr (Lorrie Graham via Black Inc.)

The Bird Art of William T. Cooper

By Wendy Cooper

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work of imperial policy and governors’ previous postings in other parts of the empire, which often helped to explain their thinking regarding the plight of the Aboriginal people the British were rapidly dispossessing.

As ever, for a writer who believes that ‘character is the great neglected subject in politics’, there are striking portraits of key figures and bit players. On Richard Jones: ‘a great white carp in the colonial pond, half hidden in the weeds, always feeding and always dangerous’. On Morris Townsend Somerville, who found land for squatters, recruited Blacks as guides, and shot them when they got in his way: ‘a genial and unscrupulous gentleman of the warrior class’. On William Charles Wentworth: ‘that great windbag of liberty’.

By the time Marr follows Reg and D’arcy Uhr’s wanderings to their bloodstained careers in Queensland’s Native Police force in the 1860s and beyond, the many reports of their unrestrained killing of Aboriginal people make for difficult reading. There were several times when the gory details were so unsettling I had to stop reading. It is clear that this was a difficult book to write and an enormous challenge for Marr, not only to research but to keep sufficient distance from the material in order to understand what happened and why. But his eye throughout is unwavering. Although sections of the book become a relentless blow-by-blow account of killing and destruction – and Marr gives free rein to newspaper reports that document horrific violence – he also gives voice to the minority who dared to question what Noel Pearson has called the ‘casual parsimony’ of Australia’s frontier violence: a shameless, unequal war of conquest which refused to recognise the basic humanity of Indigenous Australians.

As Marr shows, even before Governor Charles Fitzroy established a small Native Police force in 1848, the patterns of frontier violence in colonial Australia were already evident. As Governor George Gipps told the squatters in 1838, because Aboriginal people were British subjects it was not within his power ‘to authorise the levying of war against them’. Regardless, on the ground, the vast majority of squatters saw no need to comply with the terms of their lease by protecting the interests of Aboriginal people on their runs. Instead, they wanted them removed. They took up land beyond the official ‘limits of location’, inadequate government legislation trailing behind them as their hunger for land and wealth drove rapid invasion and increasing warfare.

The descriptions of Aboriginal people in the colonial press – ‘incarnate fiends’, ‘savages’, ‘wretches’, ‘vermin’, ‘a race of bloodthirsty miscreants’, ‘the enemy’ – licensed the ‘state of warfare’ that so many observers described. Settlers demanded ‘protection’ from the government. When it failed to arrive, white vigilantes, ‘driven mad for revenge’ after some of their own were murdered, killed scores of Aboriginal people indiscriminately. They had to be ‘taught a lesson’.

Like others before him, Marr shows that after the Myall Creek massacre in 1838, settlers learnt to hide the killing behind euphemisms such as dispersal, or to pin frontier violence on ‘evil shepherds and runaway convicts’. Bodies were burnt to destroy the evidence. Inquiries ‘ventilate[d] disgust and [took] no action’. During the ‘bloodiest years’ of the conflict, Aboriginal testimony was not accepted in court. Aware of the carnage that was taking place, Queensland governments in the second half of the

nineteenth century scrupulously avoided written instructions, ‘limiting, with any clarity, the actions the Native Police could take against Aboriginal Australians’. The Native Police and the war they prosecuted with impunity ‘would never be properly established in law’. Although many of the records ‘have disappeared, presumed destroyed’, Marr notes that scholars estimate that at least 40,000 Aboriginal people died at the hands of Queensland’s Native Police. ‘Slaughter,’ he concludes, ‘was bricked into the foundations of Queensland.’

While the book is one slice of Marr’s ‘family story’, it’s one in which his personal presence is largely absent. As is his wont, he keeps himself out of the narrative. Not until the brief Afterword, a collection of signposts that wait to be unpacked, does he permit himself time and space for reflection. When he first discovered his family’s complicity in frontier violence – a discovery that could await any of us – he felt shame and embarrassment, but not guilt or responsibility. Somehow, the knowledge changed him. What ‘shifted’, he explains without elaboration, was ‘my sense of myself and my family’. He sees the book as ‘an act of atonement, of penance by storytelling’. The intimation of self-punishment and duty embodied in Marr’s ‘penance’ points to the days of ‘dread and disgust’ he experienced while writing the book: disgust not only at the appalling violence of Australia’s frontier but also at the vulgarity that characterised so much of the invaders’ culture.

Unlike Judith Wright’s family history, Cry for the Dead (1981), which, although equally outraged by the killings and massacres, is also a lament for the environment that was desecrated in the wake of invasion, the Aboriginal people killed and the whites who dispossessed them, Killing for Country is driven more by disciplined fury and barely contained revulsion. Yet for both writers, immersion in Australia’s frontier history leads inexorably to a call for action. For Wright, it became inseparable from her involvement in the Aboriginal Treaty Committee (1979); while Marr, who writes in the tradition of frontier history established by historians such as Henry Reynolds, finishes Killing for Country with a call for the Australian War Memorial to commemorate the ‘untold thousands’ killed by the Native Police in the ‘conquest of this country’.

Finally, I was struck by a remark in Marr’s Afterword. In Brisbane, he talked with another descendant of a member of the Queensland Native Police who warned him that today was another time and place. ‘We were different then,’ he told him. ‘No,’ Marr insists, ‘times change, not people.’ I’m not so sure. The people of the past are not earlier versions of ourselves. Context, knowledge, and beliefs determined their behaviour: what they assumed to be true, what they believed to be right or wrong, and what they deemed to be possible. As Marr writes in the Note that prefaces Killing for Country, ‘Language keeps shifting ... the language of today and the values it represents were not in the minds of settlers then.’

Killing for Country joins what is now a vast body of scholarship on Australia’s frontier history. But it stands out for its unflinching eye, its dogged research, and the quality and power of its writing. g

Mark McKenna’s most recent book is Return to Uluru: A killing, a hidden history, a story that goes to the heart of the nation (Black Inc., 2021).

What got us there

A skilful explanation of change

Bronwyn Fredericks

Everything You Need to Know about the Voice

by Megan Davis and George Williams NewSouth

$27.99 pb, 224 pp

As I read Everything You Need to Know about the Voice, I was acutely conscious of the significance of the timing – just weeks before Australians are due to vote in a referendum on whether we should establish a constitutionally enshrined First Nations Voice to parliament or not. Over the months leading up to the referendum, we have witnessed a significant rise in lies, disinformation, and misinformation, all intended to influence voters, and hence the outcome. This book provides timely and essential reading that rebuts the tide of misinformation.

Co-authored by Cobble Cobble woman and constitutional expert Megan Davis and fellow constitutional expert George Williams, Everything You Need to Know outlines what a constitution is, and how Australia’s was developed, along with the change made in the 1967 referendum, and what is proposed with the Voice to Parliament. The authors chart the history of Indigenous agency and advocacy over decades and demonstrate the continuum of struggle and activism – not only to be recognised but also to have a say. (Megan Davis and George Williams also co-authored Everything You Need to Know about the Uluru Statement from the Heart.)

They highlight the failings of multiple governments that have lacked the political appetite and will to do much other than tinker around the edges, formulate policies, and have numerous discussions, roundtables, meetings, consultations, and national gatherings. They detail the long history of broken promises from government. The authors’ words prompt me to think about the generations before us, along with their efforts and activism, and their continued belief that change was possible.

Before television and radio, and long before the age of social media, people, including Indigenous people, faced issues and concerns that were pressing during the times they lived in. That is, some of our issues are relevant to the times in which we live but not to the times in which the people before us lived. There are also issues and concerns that have been carried through the years – they had them, and we have them today. The Voice occupies this position of being important in the past, and important now.

Davis and Williams provide a useful timeline that charts key events in relation to Indigenous recognition, rights, and the Constitution, commencing from the time before James Cook, Arthur Phillip, and the First Fleet to the debates of the first federal constitutional conventions in the 1890s, which did not include Indigenous peoples, through to the Voice to Parliament

referendum in 2023.

Davis and Williams demonstrate that the Voice hasn’t come out of the blue. Nor has there been inadequate consultation or community input. They explain how the pathway towards Indigenous recognition and self-determination was devised through the meetings, regional dialogues and the federally funded First Nations Constitutional Convention on the lands of the Anangu people in 2017. The Convention built on the consultation and the outcomes from the thirteen regional dialogues run by the Referendum Council. Indigenous peoples at the Convention identified five options for constitutional change, one being establishing the constitutionally enshrined First Nations Voice to Parliament.

I didn’t attend the regional dialogues. I trusted the people nominated and those nominated at that dialogue to attend the National Convention. I knew deep down that they wouldn’t intentionally attend such an event to disrupt it or do the wrong thing by Indigenous peoples as a collective. I also trusted Indigenous people with law qualifications and experience who have been trained in this work. How could I not when I expected people to value the skills, knowledge, and experience that I possess through gaining a university qualification and my past work?

Everything You Need to Know helped me to fill in parts of the story of those regional dialogues, and the National Convention, along with the Voice Treaty Truth outcome that I hadn’t completely understood before. I’m confident it will do the same for others, both Indigenous and non-Indigenous.

No other public policy matter has existed for this long, or had such a history of advocacy and denial. Reading the book, one will gain an understanding that the Voice has a history, a present, and a future. It provides a mechanism for Indigenous people to have input on their own terms on matters of concern and importance, which the parliament might consider. The co-authors outline why such a mechanism cannot simply be legislated like the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Commission (ATSIC), which was abolished following a political decision, rather than being restructured as per the recommendations of the ATSIC review. ATSIC was abolished in the same way that all the other representative bodies have been abolished. Enshrining the Voice in the constitution enables Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people to have a form of political leverage that cannot be disbanded or abolished at the will of government or based on a political decision or opinion of a minister or Cabinet.

Davis and Williams skilfully explain the change process with respect to the Australian Constitution. I came to understand that the federal government is in fact undertaking a standard constitutional change process. This is not how the media reports the process, along with a select few academics and small number of Indigenous people. Such reporting exists despite the continued statements and articles from constitutional lawyers and leading law experts who reiterate how the Voice aligns with Australia’s Constitution and maintains parliamentary supremacy. No doubt we’ll also see a few social commentators and a select few academics critiquing this book and raising issues that aren’t substantial, for the same reasons.

As explained in the book, the Voice is far from a token gesture. A positive outcome in the referendum will give the Voice and the Australian Parliament a mandate and will to act. Both will

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need to report on the work caried out. This offers accountability and assurances. The Voice will be beyond the politicisation of Indigenous affairs that currently undermines Indigenous participation and policy outcomes. While it is unique to Australia, there are ways in which it aligns with international law, and also with some similar aspects in the way Indigenous peoples in other parts of the world have a voice on the policies and laws that impact on their peoples. Davis and Williams also explain why there are differences from what happens elsewhere in the world, and why some other countries’ processes and mechanisms will not work in Australia.

If the Yes case is successful, the Voice will enable all Australians to understand themselves better as people who live on a continent with the world’s oldest living cultures. It will not erode two hundred years of European history and the histories

Draw closer

Sandra R. Phillips

The Welcome to Country Handbook: A Guide to Indigenous Australia

by Marcia Langton Hardie Grant Books

$32.99 pb, 286 pp

Walking into Sydney’s iconic Abbey’s Bookshop, I noticed a prominent display of books devoted to the campaign to recognise Indigenous peoples in the Australian Constitution. Some of the books were new to me; all were written with great care and doubtless published for the moment. Marcia Langton’s The Welcome to Country Handbook: A guide to Indigenous Australia wasn’t among them, perhaps because of its newness, perhaps because it transcends the moment, its title signposting a broader remit. Langton’s wide-ranging knowledge, irrepressible curiosity, and longstanding engagement with culture, education, and politics bring a breadth to the work that few others could offer.

The Welcome to Country Handbook will serve the general reader; it would also be at home in senior secondary, as well as higher education curricula. Its numerous examples of Indigenous peoples’ heritage and lived cultures also make it relevant for workplace cultural awareness training courses. I can imagine many workplaces finding distinct chapters and case studies relevant to their professional learning programs. When seeking the Handbook, it will be useful for the reader to know that there are other Langton/Hardie Grant titles with Welcome to Country as lead title (2018, 2019, 2021).

This volume stands alone; while it contains much of the content published in Langton’s Welcome to Country: A travel guide

of migrant communities, but it will bring these together in the Constitution with Indigenous people’s continuous histories. The book demonstrates with clarity how the Voice offers a uniquely Australian way forward that offers formal recognition, a mechanism to enact that recognition, and a means that will bring together the past, present, and future.

I encourage people to read the book ahead of the Voice to Parliament referendum on October 14 and to make an informed decision as to how to vote. After the referendum, the book will still be important as a testament to all that has gone before and understanding what got us there. It will help us share the consequence of the Voice’s history and also its legacy. g

Bronwyn Fredericks is the Deputy Vice-Chancellor (Indigenous Engagement) at the University of Queensland. ❖

to Indigenous Australia (Hardie Grant Travel, 2021), it meets the moment of the 2023 referendum. It helps to prepare us for it, as well as helping prepare us for the aftermath, irrespective of the outcome. The Travel Guide, true to its genre, is oriented to the experience of travel, with its revised and extended directory of Indigenous-owned or -operated tourism experiences, including maps and stunning photography by renowned photographer Wayne Quilliam.

It is possible that the decision to bring a largely narrativebased version of the seminal content from 2018 and 2021 was intended to give readers access to the history, evidence, and persuasive argument in more condensed and timely form than that of the other Welcome to Country titles. With an eye to the next generation, there is also a Welcome to Country youth edition (2019).

The Handbook’s glossary and index enable the reader to navigate the world’s oldest living cultures through its seventeen chapters, pithy introduction, and conclusion. Langton creates an accessible narrative along a spine of linear history, starting with Pre-colonial History and Becoming Australia, and closing with Undoing Racist Australia and Looking to the Future for Indigenous Australia. In between, chapter themes analyse core features of Indigenous cultures and experiences. Language and Country, Kinship and Country, Knowledge, Art, Performance, Storytelling, Native Title, The Stolen Generations, and Business and Tourism form the heart of this work. Readers from outside Indigenous cultures, communities, and kin are encouraged to develop positive relations with Indigenous peoples. A chapter called Cultural Awareness for Visitors offers guidance on how to do this.

Langton, Foundation Chair of Australian Indigenous Studies at the University of Melbourne since 2000, respects Indigenous and non-Indigenous scientific expertise. The Handbook also has the voice of a writer who for decades has worked to improve systems and policies.

Readers can undoubtedly learn new things here. For example, light is shone on land management agency Gunditj Mirring’s Master Plan for the Budj Bim National Heritage Landscape and their securing of UNESCO World Heritage listing for the cultural values of Budj Bim as ‘one of the world’s most extensive

and oldest aquaculture systems’. The work of Ngangkari to heal and the use of language in their practices, and the Ngaanyatjarra Pitjantjatjara

Yankuntjatjatjara (NPY) Women’s

Council dictionary app and poster promoting positive mental health through ‘words for feelings’, are revelatory. The ‘remarkable abilities of Aboriginal people to track animals and people over very long distances’ is discussed alongside the film Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002). Indigenous peoples’ knowledge, cultural strength, creativity, and agency are present throughout.

New phraseology inspires new ways of understanding. Langton refers to us as ‘descendants of the first people to come here sixty-five millennia ago’. We are situated as peoples who can strengthen Country and one another. For readers who want a primer in what to call us – a primer on appropriate nomenclature – this is the book, not because it simplifies the possibilities but because it generates them. Becoming more fluent in understanding members of the world’s oldest living cultures requires a book like this.

Archaeological and ecological evidence is presented here, woven together with a deep appreciation of contemporary culture through references to books, films, documentaries, art exhibitions, cultural festivals, music, theatre, and dance. Langton reserves the largest section for her chapter on art. Indigenous art is one of Australia’s most symbolically potent exports. As Langton writes, Indigenous artists from Australia are ‘acclaimed around the world and their works are held in major public and private galleries locally and internationally’. In direct, informed prose,

The

Dreaming

A vessel to hold past, present, future

Leonie Stevens

Everywhen: Australia and the language of deep history

edited by Ann McGrath, Laura Rademaker, and Jakelin Troy

UNSW Press

$49.99 pb, 320 pp

It can take an enormous intellectual effort for non-Indigenous people (such as this reviewer) to grasp Indigenous concepts of time. This is partially due to what Aileen Moreton-Robinson has described as the incommensurability of Indigenous and Western epistemological approaches. In settler-colonial terms, land is a resource to be appropriated, surveyed, and exploited. Temporality is generally used to situate the colonisation event, the before and after, from a perspective where time is linear and forward-looking. By contrast, in Indigenous cosmological approaches, land, culture, and time are co-dependent and in perpetual conversation. Country and time are indivisible.

So, while Western understandings of the Dreamtime situate Indigenous cultures in a deep, discrete past, befitting settler-

Langton reminds readers that this art assumes many forms and styles, with media and material diversity also continuing to expand. She refers to ‘bark painting and canvas and acrylic formats, to … fabric and fibre weaving, screen-printing, linocut prints, sculptures in materials such as metal, multimedia presentations using communications technology and computer imagery, virtual reality, photomedia and sound’.

Persuasively, Langton describes the many dynamic material expressions of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures and mounts an implicit and compelling argument that these expressions and applications are all knowledge-based. It is knowledge of First Peoples that Langton champions; she believes that this knowledge, honed over millennia, is what can animate a better future.

Marcia Langton invites the reader to draw closer. With her political acuity, she encourages readers to be part of rebuilding this nation on ‘principles of human dignity and equality that also accommodate cultural and historical differences’. Now that’s a road we can all travel, emboldened by a deeper appreciation of this land’s many footprints, whatever outcome is delivered on 14 October 2023. g

Sandra R. Phillips is Associate Professor and Associate Dean (Indigenous) in Humanities at a comprehensive Australian university and a member of the management board of University of Queensland Press.

colonial notions of immutable cultures locked in the Stone Age, Indigenous conceptions of the Dreaming are complex, relational, and, as Deborah Bird Rose wrote, best described as synchrony. The diversity and complexity of Indigenous cultures, languages and world views across mainland Australia, Tasmania, and the Torres Strait means that no single interpretation can be extrapolated to reflect the whole, further complicating how Country and temporality are understood.

Country and time are indivisible

Everywhen: Australia and the language of deep history offers a guide through this complex terrain. The ‘Language’ in the title does not refer only to linguistics but also to music, cultural performance, ideas, settler myths, archaeology, the retelling of stories, and, most importantly, Country itself. This collection provides a multidisciplinary survey of concepts of time, the language around it, how it is represented, and the complex way this is all linked to land and culture. This is an important, timely, and wideranging collection.

Ann McGrath and Laura Rademaker’s introduction outlines some of the key concepts raised in this volume. In exploring notions of time and how it is represented, ideas about what constitutes and qualifies ‘history’ are challenged. This overview

In Indigenous cosmological approaches, land, culture, and time are co-dependent and in perpetual conversation.

is essential and provides a sense of cohesion to a series of papers which, without it, may seem disparate.

The papers are organised into three interrelated themes. The first section, ‘Songs of Country in Time’, focuses on music, song, and performance, and takes the reader from the eastern high country to the west coast, then to the central desert. A key theme between the four papers in this section is relationality. Jakelin Troy’s exploration of Ngarigu continuity in the Victorian/New South Wales High Country is a powerful and poetic meditation on Country, culture, and the reclaiming of identity. Sarah Yu, with Yawuru elders from the Broome area of Western Australia, raises themes of language, culture, and Yawuru cosmology, and the role of cultural performance in keeping language alive. To the south, and Noongar Country, Clint Bracknell examines the role language, song, and performance traditions play in highlighting the connections, rather than divisions, between past, present, and future. This theme of the link between present, and deep past, and how it is achieved through performance, is extended by Linda Barwick in her chapter on Warlpiri music and performance, where performers are ‘embodiments of ancestral knowledge’.

The second section, ‘Time’s Archive? The Language of Words’, has a linguistic focus, and comprises papers with a technicality appropriate to the discipline. James Bednall looks at the complexity of the way time and temporality are expressed in the Anindilyakwa language of North-east Arnhem land. Michael Walsh and Harold Koch offer an overview of some of the key challenges in searching for evidence of the deep past in Indigenous languages, when linguistic analysis can only reliably extend to about three thousand years. Marie-Eve Ritz and Maïa Ponsonnet discuss how time and tense are conceptualised and expressed in Indigenous languages, and how this is comparable to languages across the world. This challenges essentialising tropes of Indigenous peoples inhabiting and experiencing time differently.

The final section, ‘Transforming Time’, is interdisciplinary and concerns movement, change, and interaction. Archaeologist Catherine J. Frieman surveys archaeological models and critiques

the tendency to focus on revolutions and innovations, rather than the time in between. Historian John Maynard looks at the word yuraki (long ago, past or history) to challenge Eurocentric depictions of Indigenous peoples as being ahistorical and trapped in the Stone Age, and highlights instead power and dynamism. Anthropologist Peter Sutton revisits his own earlier work to explore variations in the Wik oral traditions of the Dutch at Cape Keerweer, and the role of the individual storyteller. Laura Rademaker focuses on Mission history, conversations about time, and the implications for conversion, where Indigenous people co-opted missionary concepts of time (the eternal Logos) to support ideas of eternal sovereignty and Dreaming.

The final chapter, by Shannon Foster on D’harawal engagement with ancestral knowledges, reminds us why all of this is important. Foster’s focus on rock engravings in the area now known as Sydney is enriched by a much deeper connection across time and using the metaphor of weaving barumu (kangaroo grass), she writes ‘We work within the gaps, the space in between, to create a form, to build a vessel, that can hold our past, our present, and our future.’ Like a number of chapters in this volume, it is at its most compelling when seen through the lens of family, community, and culture.

This book is a valuable instalment in the long response to W.E.H. Stanner’s coining of the term ‘everywhen’, and provocation to address the great Australian silence. Like language of deep history, these chapters are diverse but paradoxically specific: time is relational and place-based. Reading this collection is akin to weaving barumu. Ideas and concepts raised in a discussion about word use, music, performance, archaeology, or family history spread out, thread together, travel on surprising tangents, then loop back upon themselves. The patterns then emerge, best seen with distance and reflection. g

Leonie Stevens is a novelist and ethnographic historian. Her most recent book is Me Write Myself: The free Aboriginal inhabitants of Van Diemen’s Land at Wybalenna (2017). She is a Research Fellow on the Global Encounters and First Nations Peoples project at Monash University. ❖

Gawura, the whale, engraved into the sandstone (from the book under review)

Art and identity

Conflicted times at the ABC Philip Morrissey

Close to the Subject: Selected works

by Daniel Browning Magabala Books

$34.99 pb, 362 pp

The vibrant state of Aboriginal intellectual life is immediately evident upon reading Melissa Lucashenko’s foreword and Daniel Browning’s introduction to his Close to the Subject: Selected works. Lucashenko combines insight with an engaging, colloquial style; Browning, without apology or artifice, weighs up the successes, failures, and resentments of almost three decades as a journalist.

Legacy media and talkback radio were still all-powerful when Browning commenced at the ABC as a cadet journalist in 1994. Entering a jealous, competitive work environment he finds his race and sexuality are fetishised by some of his white colleagues and used to diminish him as a person and a professional. In what used to be referred to as lateral violence, an Aboriginal colleague greets him with a ‘vampiric half-smile’, occasionally hailing him as ‘countryman’, with an emphasis on the first syllable. Faced with this Succession-like ruthlessness Browning admits, ‘Instead of unmaking the craft to fit my own values, I had learned bitterness and self-protection just to survive.’

What unfolds as we read the introduction is an image of a proud, sensitive man who acknowledges that he ‘didn’t rise above the slurs or bullying’. Is it better now? Maybe not for Browning. It still seems to rankle him that he has never been nominated for a Walkley Award. He writes of an unsolicited approach from a university headhunter who holds out the tantalising possibility of a prestigious appointment, commensurate with his achievements, as a professor of journalism. Daring to dream, Browning envisages teaching a subject that would introduce students to the ethical responsibilities of reporting on Indigenous issues. He eventually learns that at some higher level the appointment is vetoed.

The force and honesty of his introduction does ensure that his voice resonates throughout Close to the Subject’s diverse content and provides a unity in what might otherwise have been a difficult read. In addition to his work as journalist, Browning has a profound knowledge and commitment to First Nations visual art. This is in evidence in his review of ‘hand in hand: Sexy and Dangerous’, a cross-cultural exhibition of work by First Nations artists from Australia and the Pacific curated as part of the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. There is a specific appreciation of works by artists as diverse as Tracey Moffatt and Darrell Sibosado, and a broader critique of the exhibition’s conception and success in realising its aims. In discussions with artist Vernon Ah Kee on the requirements for a First Nations art criticism Browning

argues that ‘an [Indigenous] artist who reckons with colonialism, institutional racism, or ethnocide, articulating their lived experience of Aboriginality in terms of deficit and loss, is functionally no different to those artists who paint their jukurrpa’. He doesn’t resile from pointing out the challenge this poses for artists with tenuous connections to Aboriginality but for whom Aboriginality is part of their cultural capital.

For those of us who know him only as a journalist and critic, Browning’s poetry will come as a pleasant surprise. ‘Stuck’ is a post-mortem of the aftermath of an incendiary relationship. ‘Disguise’ is an extended poetic narrative on the disruption of a rugby match between the Australian Wallabies and the South African Springboks when the Burgmann sisters Verity and Meredith (in disguise) invaded the field as an Apartheid protest in 1971. ‘Brigid the Bone’ is a minimalist drama written for St Brigid’s Day in 2020. Convened under the auspices of the Irish Consulate, St Brigid’s Day is an annual celebration for Australian women who claim Irish heritage. As well as being a patron saint of Ireland, St Brigid was popularly believed to be the patron saint of children born outside wedlock and has now morphed into a feminist icon. Superb in its precision and austerity, the drama includes interior monologues, legal statements, newspaper reports, and Gaelic. Bessie and Henry Curran are two nineteenth-century Irish immigrants. Henry leaves his family for a younger woman and starts a new life in San Francisco. Bessie’s and her daughter Ann’s monologues are interspersed with prayers to St Brigid. Years later, another of Bessie’s daughters reflects that she is the end of the family line. It’s true there are numerous descendants of Henry and Bessie, but once family members drift away from the folk piety and culture of Irish Catholicism their connection with their ancestors, and to an extent each other, disappears. One wonders if its performance gave the St Brigid’s Day attendees pause for thought.

Browning’s essays are impressionistic. One of the most effective is ‘Shrewdly Innocent’. He reflects on the invasion and trashing of his psyche by an ‘emotional thief’, then on a foreign virus that has silently colonised his body, entering through ‘the point of a needle’. Browning confesses that he has spent too much time ‘thinking about what I am, not who am I’. This intertwines with his family’s preparation of a Native Title claim and the blinkered, colonial nature of the process. Although that was a disheartening experience for him, a gospel verse gifted by his grandmother when he was leaving home to commence an Arts/Law degree in Canberra reminds Browning who he is: ‘No anthropologist needed, no burden of proof. I’m a son, a brother, an uncle. An ancestor waiting to be born.’ This enduring cultural debt to women in his family is aptly summed up in the poem ‘Phalanx (Woman’s Work)’:

Granny Hannah didn’t have a tribal name.

No totem either

We think of paucity

What they didn’t

When we owe them the air that we breathe.

Philip Morrissey’s books include Kim Scott: Readers, language, interpretation (2019) and Reading the Country: 30 years on (2018)

Go Rogue

I latch onto the mantra let them go and go off the grid switch the phone to moon mode [do not disturb me] and later switch it off

go rogue go smoke signals forged in a fire boiling yabbies we caught in the creek go clouds of white in blue wren open sky backdropping scribbly gums and their scribbly gum moths frilly wings enchanting

go salt water rock pools with sea foam icing go strangler fig jutting roots like benches for the broken

heartbreak will not break me go snow go sand under foot go river pebble paperweight in hand go back to the land back to the land to the land

and let her heal you when an ending arrives

Kirli Saunders

Who’s your mob?

An Indigenous Australian Dictionary of Biography

by Shino Konishi, Julie Andrews, Odette Best, Brenda L. Croft, Steve Kinnane, Greg Lehman, and Uncle John Whop

In his 1968 Boyer Lectures, After the Dreaming, anthropologist W.E.H. Stanner lamented that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples had been omitted from narratives of the nation’s past. Contending that this omission was ‘a structural matter’, he likened Australian history to ‘a view from a window which has been carefully placed to exclude a whole quadrant of the landscape’. He proposed that the kinds of stories which could bring Indigenous history into view for Australian readers would focus on the lives of individuals.

The history I would like to see written would bring in the main flow of its narrative the life and times of men like David Unaipon, Albert Namatjira, Robert Tudawali, Durmagan, Douglas Nichols, Dexter Daniels and many others. Not to scrape up significance for them but because they typify so vividly the other side of a story over which the great Australian silence reigns.

Stanner was ahead of his time in his call for biographical approaches. Indigenous life writing did not flourish until the 1980s, when, in the lead-up to the nation’s Bicentenary, such works revealed that ‘white Australia has a black history’, as the National Aborigines and Islanders Day Observance Committee (NAIDOC) put it in 1987. Prior to 1968, few biographies of Aboriginal people had been published, and only two Aboriginal autobiographies: David Unaipon’s My Life Story (1951) and Theresa Clements’s From Old Maloga: The memoirs of an Aboriginal woman (1954).

The only other Aboriginal biographies published at that time were the handful included in the inaugural volumes of the Australian Dictionary of Biography (ADB). Volume I (1966) contained five Indigenous subjects in 575 entries – Arabanoo, Bennelong, Biraban, Bungaree, and Colebe – all men from early New South Wales who were either captured by, or seemingly served, the British. Of the 607 entries in volume II (1967), four were on Aborig-

inal individuals – Jackey Jackey, Wylie, Yuranigh, and Yagan – all of whom were categorised as ‘Aboriginal guides’, except for Yagan, who was outlawed by the colonists. While Stanner’s vision of the kinds of individuals who exemplified Indigenous history echoed the ADB’s exclusive focus on men, his list differed in significant ways. Rather than depicting figures mainly in terms of their contributions to or impact on the early colonies, Stanner’s selection of individuals comprised an inventor, an artist, an actor, a warrior, a pastor and future state governor, and a trade unionist. These were men who had achieved success, advocated for Indigenous rights, or striven to maintain cultural autonomy and connections to kin in the face of interventionist government policies.

In many respects these differences in approach reflect two broad trajectories in Indigenous history. One illustrates an outdated but not obsolete historiography that arguably homogenises Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people and only considers their lives in terms of colonisation (or settler-colonialism), while the other strives to illuminate individual agency and to understand the past in ways that are meaningful to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Peoples in terms of Country and ancestors, or local languages, cultures, and knowledges. Thinking through these different approaches and their implications for the stories we tell has been a key driver of our research project, An Indigenous Australian Dictionary of Biography.

The project began formally in 2017. Our main aim was to redress the under-representation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in the ADB, which by then had published nineteen volumes. This included a 2005 Supplement: an earlier ameliorative response to criticisms about the lack of entries on women and Indigenous people, including calls for change by Marduntjara and Pitjantjatjara historian Gordon Briscoe. Despite this earlier initiative, by 2017 the ADB, over the course of its fifty-year history, had still published only 210 Abori-

ginal and Torres Strait Islander entries out of some 13,000 biographies. This represented 1.5 per cent of entries, or about half of today’s Indigenous proportion of the Australian population. Our initial target was to almost double the number of entries in the ADB and to produce 190 new biographies. Over the course of our project, we have prioritised First Nations involvement in our project. In order to achieve this, we have revised our target to one hundred new articles, with a high proportion written and edited in collaboration with Indigenous people.

Another key aim of the project was to ensure that it was Indigenous-led and represented community interests. The Indigenous Working Party (IWP) comprises First Nations researchers from across Australia (including the authors of this essay). It has played a crucial role in these endeavours by overseeing the project, being actively involved in producing the biographies, and advocating for the project to communities and families of potential biographical subjects. To this end, we have had significant involvement from First Nations contributors who have authored or co-authored more than forty per cent of our published and inpress articles, including several who have written multiple entries, such as Yuwaalaraay/Gamilaraay historian and filmmaker Frances Peters-Little and Quandamooka scholar Galiina Ellwood. While the ADB had previously commissioned Aboriginal authors such as IWP member Steve Kinnane, a Mirriwoong scholar, and Yugambeh writer Ysola Best, who wrote five biographies, our current project has considerably added to the number of First Nations contributors, several of whom are first-time biographers.

Moreover, many authors are related to the people they are writing about, or have consulted with families for their input. This was also a significant departure for the ADB, which embraced Western traditions privileging impartiality and distance. From Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander perspectives, however, identifying connections and relatedness are precursors to dialogue (i.e, ‘Who’s your mob?’), and crucial to building trust, including trust in the biographers’ account. Intent on highlighting such relationships, we insisted that our entries include author biographies, usually omitted from ADB articles. Further, to acknowledge traditional owners and remind readers of Indigenous sovereignty, these usually include the Country on which the author resides. Finally, we urged the ADB to implement a cultural warning on its website. Such initiatives strive to encourage First Nations readers to feel that the ADB is for us too, that our ancestors are part of Australia’s history, and that we are welcomed as expected readers. All too often Indigenous people are not imagined as part of the audience; we are made to feel spoken about, rather than spoken to.

Our imagined Indigenous reader also guides how we prepare our biographies in collaboration with the ADB research editors

Rani Kerin and Kiera Donnelly. In addition to the ADB’s usual fact-checking and stylistic protocols, we strive to ‘Indigenise’ the entries in subtle yet significant ways. It is important to identify the person’s Indigenous name(s), as well as their language group or clan and the names of their kin, and to use local language terms if appropriate. We try to avoid ‘normalising’ colonial perspectives, which often inflect non-Indigenous sources and can include euphemistic terms for violence or back-handed colonial stereotypes.

Our project has also faced several challenges. Some we anticipated but underestimated, such as the difficulty in commissioning biographies of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women. While women in general are grossly under-represented in the ADB, we only managed to improve the representation of Indigenous women from twenty-two to twenty-six per cent (of our new entries). This is partly an effect of colonial sources paying more attention to men than women, as evident in Stanner’s biographical list, but is also arguably a consequence of greater sensitivity towards female figures who might be apical ancestors or have been subjected to doubly offensive racist and sexist treatment or depictions by colonisers. In these difficult or confronting cases, invited authors felt that consultation with all descendants would be essential before they could proceed, an impossible task with our available resources.

Our aim was to redress the underrepresentation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in the ADB

We also underestimated the difficulty of commissioning new biographies of Torres Strait Islander people, even with the exceptional expertise of Mabuiag Elder, Uncle John Whop. The ADB had published only eight entries, all on men, before our project began. To date we have added only four new biographical subjects – including one woman, the Mabuiag pioneer of Moa Island, Uraba Demag Ware, written by her descendant Moilang Ware – and Paralympian Harry Mosby, written by non-Indigenous sports historian Gary Osmond. We have commissioned a few more.

While we have identified further potential subjects, finding appropriate authors willing to write biographies has had its challenges. This may be due to the high demands on the relatively small number of scholars involved in Torres Strait Islander research. But it could also reflect the ADB’s long-term failure to foster Islander interest in its national biographical project: having been overlooked for five decades, and still represented by only a dozen individuals, it is unlikely that Torres Strait Islanders see themselves reflected in the ADB or feel compelled to contribute.

We have also faced unforeseen challenges such as the Covid epidemic, and growing concerns over the place of non-Indigenous scholars in the writing of First Nations biography. While the question of who should write Indigenous history has circulated since the early 1980s, it seems like a more pressing concern now, perhaps fuelled by growing calls to decolonise the academy in the wake of the Black Lives Matter movement, or the wider adoption of Indigenous research ethics protocols. Consequently, a not insignificant number of non-Indigenous historians are uncertain whether it is politically and ethically appropriate for them to engage in First Nations matters. While we encourage non-Indigenous researchers to write Indigenous biographies, we recognise that this is not a sentiment shared by all communities, and respect each community’s right to have a say in who tells their history. Some communities welcome new research to record their Elders’ stories to support cultural revitalisation initiatives, or to produce new histories, including biographies, to pass on

to future generations. Other communities, stung perhaps by earlier exploitative research practices, are determined to control how research will be conducted in their community. Given the need for, and the value of, sharing the unique histories and diversity of Indigenous individuals and communities, instead of adopting a universal stance on whether or not to engage in

understandings of Indigenous land management practices. More significantly, there are still many aspects of our historical experience which remain untold, especially within the ADB. While this first phase of our project is drawing to a close, we remain committed to widening our view of Australia’s past to better include First Nations experience, particularly in terms of the lives of First Nations women and Torres Strait Islanders. g

Indigenous biography, we encourage scholars to critically reflect on their own research ethics and approach it on a case-by-case basis. Just as members of the IWP have done throughout our lives as we worked to share stories of our families and communities – our individual trials, collective triumphs, and sense of belonging – here we seek recognition of Indigenous agency and support understandings of the past in ways that are meaningful to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.

More than fifty years ago, Stanner drew our attention to ‘the great Australian silence’. While Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander histories and biographies have proliferated in important and innovative ways since then, the view onto our past is still partially obscured, sometimes wilfully, for example in the aggressively sceptical reception of works which seek to recast

Shino Konishi, DAATSIA Fellow, Australian Catholic University; Julie Andrews, Academic Director (Indigenous Research), La Trobe University; Odette Best, Pro Vice-Chancellor (First Nations Education and Research), University of Southern Queensland; Brenda L. Croft, Indigenous Art History and Curatorship, Australian National University; Steve Kinnane, Co-Chair of Indigenous Studies, University of Notre Dame; Greg Lehman, Pro Vice-Chancellor Indigenous Leadership, University of Tasmania; and Uncle John Whop, PhD Candidate, Batchelor Institute.

This research was supported by the Australian Government through the Australian Research Council’s Discovery Projects funding scheme (Project IN170100012). The views expressed herein are those of the authors and not necessarily those of the Australian Government or of the Australian Research Council.

This article is one of a series of ABR commentaries on cultural and political subjects being funded by the Copyright Agency’s Cultural Fund.

magabala.com

From Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander perspectives identifying connections and relatedness are precursors to dialogue and crucial to building trust

DISCOVER THE CONTRAST AND COLOUR OF EXOTIC INDIA

India’s rich tapestry of culture, colour and history has enthralled travellers for centuries. From the bustling cities of Delhi and Mumbai to the tranquil backwaters and tropical beaches of the south, the snowy peaks of the Himalayas to the grandeur of the palaces of the north — the charm and contrast of India is alluring.

When you travel to India with A&K, prepare to go beyond the extraordinary with privileged access to authentic and immersive insider experiences, and stay in exquisite palace-turned-luxury-hotel accommodation. With unrivalled insight, expert guides and a longstanding presence on the ground, A&K sets the benchmark for bespoke itineraries in India. No matter your dream, A&K can curate the perfect luxurious India tailor-made adventure just for you.

Splendours of Rajasthan

Step back into a bygone era of emperors and princes in royal Rajasthan as you discover Delhi’s colonial grandeur and delectable cuisine. Behold the marbled elegance of the iconic Taj Mahal and the enchanting ‘Pink City’ of Jaipur. Explore Udaipur’s Taj Lake Palace after dark while staying in India’s most regal hotels on this Tailor-Made Journey.

9 days from $5,795 pp

Indian South: Coast to Coast

From the Bay of Bengal to the Arabian Sea, experience a vibrant sensory feast on this Tailor-Made Journey of South India. From the French influence of Puducherry to the tranquil backwaters of Kerala, the cultural charms of Kochi to the ancient temples of Tamil Nadu, expect extraordinary wildlife, ancient history and colonial-influenced culinary delights.

16 days from $6,790 pp

Ladakh: A Breathtaking Himalayan Journey

Venture into India’s remote northern reaches to Ladakh and experience an extraordinary life amidst the peaks of the Himalayas on this Tailor-Made Journey. Hike soaring mountains to find ancient monasteries and fluttering prayer flags. Meet local families and immerse yourself in remote village culture before bedding down each night surrounded by every luxury imaginable.

9 days from $6,370 pp

take um up my land for me’

An Indigenous history of the University of Melbourne

by Zoë Laidlaw

Like the nation at large, the University of Melbourne has a troubling history. Stretching back to Victoria’s early colonisation, that history is entwined with the oppression and dispossession of Australia’s Indigenous peoples.

Indigenous people in Australia experience the consequences of that history daily, but the #blacklivesmatter and #blaklivesmatter protests of 2020 pushed questions about the relationship between Australia’s past and present more forcefully into the non-Indigenous consciousness. In the university sector, they added momentum to efforts to dismantle racist legacies crystallised at the University of Cape Town in 2015 by #RhodesMustFall. Against this context, Melbourne University Publishing will soon publish two volumes on the history of the University of Melbourne’s relationship with Indigenous Australia. Volume 1, Truth, presents contributions from Indigenous and non-Indigenous experts, solicited by editors Ross Jones, Marcia Langton, and James Waghorne. They cover the university’s entanglements with Indigenous Australia from its 1853 foundation to the present through four themes: Place, Indigenous Knowledge, Human Remains, and Settler-Colonial Knowledge.

Some of the questions Truth addresses echo those asked in other Australian, US, British, Irish, Canadian, and South African colleges and universities: where did the money come from? What else should we know about the philanthropists and academics that universities celebrate so fulsomely? Other questions are more locally specific: what is the relationship between the university and the Traditional Owners – the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung – of the Country on which its main campus stands? How have Indigenous students and staff navigated an institution created to advance settler-colonial aspirations? How have Indigenous knowledges, places, objects, and, indeed, bodies featured in the university’s activities? To walk around the Parkville campus or survey a list of founders and benefactors is to encounter a particular version of history. Unsurprisingly, as Truth documents, this history diminishes colonisation’s historical and contemporary impact. It obscures as much as it reveals.

A confrontation with this particular history is overdue. More generally, truth-telling projects are today a feature of Australian life: often – as in the case of the University of Melbourne –encompassed by a Reconciliation Action Plan. While (potentially) mortifying in the short term, a frank appraisal of the past and a commitment to do better can help an institution accrue social

capital, not least with non-Indigenous and international audiences less concerned by questions of restitution and reparations. On the other hand, Indigenous people bear a far greater share of the burden such ‘reconciliation’ projects require, often while themselves navigating the intergenerational legacies of colonial harm. Intended to be restorative, truth-telling demands significant emotional labour from Indigenous people.

Given this imbalance, whether in terms of rewards or labour, non-Indigenous Australians should do more to recognise how the histories embedded in, and sometimes embodied by, the nation’s university campuses, private schools, and cultural institutions often take colonialism for granted, even when they do not celebrate it. In practice, this means looking beyond the most egregious of colonial crimes to the underlying structures of colonisation. When there is no smoking gun – no compelling evidence of participation in a massacre, no Indigenous remains undoubtedly robbed from graves – institutions are quick to sigh in relief. Non-Indigenous Australians routinely remark on the unlikelihood of any society being able to scrutinise past practices without a sharp intake of breath. They are reluctant to question the generosity of philanthropists whose mores were ‘of their time’. But a benefactor who wasn’t a murderer may still have been a thief.

The University of Melbourne was established in 1853, one of early Victoria’s most enduring and successful creations. Its founders stressed their commitment to ‘civilisation’ and Britain’s imperial mission. The university was intended, in the words of one benefactor, to make Melbourne ‘the Athens of Australia, and the Oxford of the Southern Hemisphere’. Such assertions depended on colonisers’ claims to legitimately occupy the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung Country on which the university was built. Both the university’s very foundation and the knowledge it generated and imparted to students served to validate the presence of settler colonisers, and especially their prosperous élites, in the lands around Port Phillip Bay.

Profits made by those élites on unceded Indigenous Country flowed into the early University of Melbourne, supporting its late-nineteenth-century expansion. In 1874, when the colonial government refused to provide funds to build a ceremonial hall befitting the young university’s sense of itself, Samuel Wilson stepped in with a gift of £30,000: Wilson Hall opened in 1879. In the 1880s, Francis Ormond gave the university £20,000 to

‘You

establish a chair in Music; Ormond also provided more than £112,000 to establish a college for young Presbyterian men studying at the secular university or training for the clergy. His co-religionist, John Dickson Wyselaskie, bequeathed £12,000 to create university scholarships in six subjects; today each pays $20,000 annually. In 1866, John Hastie left more than £19,000 to support student exhibitions, still awarded by the university, in Philosophy, Logic, and Ethics.

All these benefactors were prominent participants in the rapid expansion and consolidation of Victoria’s pastoral industries. If not themselves (and it is difficult to be certain) directly violent towards the Indigenous peoples whose lands they occupied, each was aware of this violence and profited from it. Wilson, for example, arrived in Victoria in 1852. By then, his two older brothers were well established in the Wimmera, although ‘being afraid of the natives’ they had abandoned their first property in 1845. In partnership, Wilson and his brothers acquired huge pastoral leaseholds across Victoria’s north-west and the Riverina.

By the time he donated to the university two decades later, Wilson’s annual income was estimated at £100,000 and he owned more than 600,000 sheep. As an Honorary Correspondent for Victoria’s Board of Protection of Aborigines, Wilson distributed government rations, blankets, and clothing to the Wotjoboluk people. Reporting to the colonial government, Wilson acknowledged that his estate, Longerenong, ‘once had no other owner’ than the Wotjoboluk. He lamented the consequences of their dispossession, while emphasising that he (sometimes) paid Indigenous workers comparable rates to their non-Indigenous counterparts. Wilson framed the expropriation of Indigenous land as an unavoidable corollary to ‘progress’.

In 1873, Wilson relocated to Ercildoune, a pastoral property to the west of Ballarat, for which he paid a staggering £236,000. Indigenous workers were less numerous there than in the Wimmera and Wilson ceased reporting to the Board of Protection. He did come into sustained, if superficial, contact with at least one Wadawurrung man, Mullawallah (c.1821–96), also known as ‘William Wilson’ and ‘King Billy of Ercildoune’. Mullawallah resided intermittently at Ercildoune, where Wilson presented him several times as an amusement to visiting British dignitaries. Misleading contemporary press reports described Mullawallah as ‘the last of his tribe’, and implied that he used the surname ‘Wilson’ to acknowledge Wilson’s largesse. The same sources reveal Mullawallah was abused by Wendouree larrikins, subjected to state incarceration, and suffered a pitiful and public death. Mullawallah’s reiterated claims to his land – he sang ‘You take um up my land for me’ – were reported in a tone that veered between elegiac and mocking.

Wilson’s gift to the university helped secure him a knighthood in 1875, and he was elected to the Victorian Legislative Council the same year. In 1881, Wilson returned to Britain, leasing the grand Hughenden Manor from the estate of former prime minister Benjamin Disraeli. He entered London society and sat in the House of Commons for Portsmouth. Two of his children married into the English aristocracy. He died in 1895, in his early sixties.

Back in Parkville, the University of Melbourne’s ceremonial

life played out in Wilson Hall for generations before it was destroyed by fire in 1952. A rebuilding appeal raised nearly £100,000, although the government (again) refused to contribute. The modernist replacement, opened in 1956, retained the name Wilson Hall and remains a dominant feature of the campus. In this way, Wilson’s original legacy continues to shape, and to be commemorated by, the University of Melbourne.

Those other notable university benefactors – Francis Ormond, John Dickson Wyselaskie, and John Hastie – all established their pastoral ventures in western Victoria even earlier than Samuel Wilson. They were, if anything, even more proximate to the murderous dispossession of the Wadawurrung, Djab wurrung, and Djargurd wurrung from whose land they profited. Their hugely successful businesses, like Wilson’s, operated alongside those they had usurped and sometimes depended upon their labour.

Histories similar to these underpin the foundation and shape the continuing prosperity of numerous Australian endeavours, including schools, churches, and cultural institutions. Together, they represent a profoundly important and unfair transfer of economic resources from Indigenous to non-Indigenous peoples. Unthinkingly celebrating the philanthropic largesse of those who themselves excused Indigenous dispossession as a civilising or imperial project is to be complicit in this theft. Institutions and their constituent communities should do better. This raises, as such projects tend to do, troubling questions beyond history itself. Most importantly of all, what comes next? How will the University of Melbourne and its counterparts address the ongoing benefits derived from their settler-colonial origins? g

Zoë Laidlaw is a Professor of History at the University of Melbourne with a particular interest in the connections between slavery and settler colonialism. ❖

This article is one of a series of ABR commentaries on cultural and political subjects being funded by the Copyright Agency’s Cultural Fund.

The University of Melbourne, 1905. Gift of Elizabeth Bullard, 1967 (Powerhouse Museum Collection via Wikimedia Commons)

Open Page with Anita Heiss

Anita Heiss is the author of non-fiction, historical fiction, commercial women’s fiction, poetry, social commentary, and travel articles. She is a Lifetime Ambassador of the Indigenous Literacy Foundation and a proud member of the Wiradyuri nation of central New South Wales.

If you could go anywhere tomorrow, where would it be, and why?

If there hadn’t been such devastating fires on the island of Maui, that would be where I would fly to tomorrow – because it is one of the very few places where I allow myself to absolutely and completely relax without guilt. The sunsets touch my heart. And the cocktails help me sway among the palm trees.

What’s your idea of hell?

Sitting on a plane with screaming babies. There’s one near me as I write this flying from Wagga Wagga back to Brisbane.

What do you consider the most specious virtue? Confidence.

What’s your favourite film?

The Sapphires.

And your favourite book?

Kath Walker’s We Are Going, published in 1964. It was the first book of poetry published by an Aboriginal person. Kath Walker later changed her name to Oodgeroo Noonuccal in 1988 in protest against the Bicentenary.

Name the three people with whom you would most like to dine.

I think dining with Michelle Obama, Oprah Winfrey, and Larissa Behrendt would be one hell of an experience. Deadly women left and right.

Which word do you most dislike?

I could do without ‘epistemology’.

Who is your favourite author?

That is an unfair question. But, I’ve read everything the late Ruby Langford Ginibi ever wrote, and she was a huge influence on me as an emerging writer.

And your favourite literary hero or heroine?

I don’t know why, but when I was younger, I really liked Jane Austen’s Emma. When I re-read it a few years ago, I thought to myself, ‘She’s a bit of a bitch.’

Which quality do you most admire in a writer?

I love it when place is written about so vividly that it makes me want to go there. I recently read Susan Johnson’s Aphrodite’s Breath (while I was in Maui in April 2023) and it transported

me mentally to Kythera, but now I would really love to visit.

Name an early literary idol or influence whom you no longer admire.

I once admired J.K. Rowing, but then ... transphobic comments ... Do you have a favourite podcast, apart from ABR’s one of course?

Black Magic Woman and I do love Oprah’s Super Soul.

What, if anything, impedes your writing?

Commitments to too many other projects, so essentially, a lack of hours in the day, FOMO, and an inability to say no without guilt, sometimes!

What qualities do you look for in critics, and which ones do you enjoy reading?

I appreciate a critic who will be honest and say that a work doesn’t speak to them, or that they don’t understand a work, rather than just trashing the story or its creator.

How do you find working with editors?

I generally love the editorial process. By the time I have submitted my manuscript I’ve looked at it so many times, I can’t see what needs to be fixed. I know the job of the editor is to bring an eye that I don’t necessarily have. There are rare moments when I’m frustrated by the process, and that’s when the editor knows less than me about the content and therefore, I’m having to educate and explain why characters say or do certain things. Also, with six books out this year, I have found dealing with editing and proofing etc has been over-the-top challenging.

What do you think of writers’ festivals?

As someone who likes to be fully prepared for all my sessions, festivals are a lot of work (and for me some anxiety), before even arriving on site. After attending festivals for nearly three decades, the novelty of the travel etc. has long worn off. I really appreciate the smaller, more intimate festivals where locals relish the opportunity to talk to authors, and where every writer is treated as someone special, not just the ‘big names’.

Are artists valued in our society?

After an incredible three-month residency earlier this year at the Cité International des Arts in Paris thanks to the Australia Council, I think artists – particularly writers – are valued in French society, but far less so in Australia.

What are you working on now?

A new historical novel about the Wiradyuri Wars in the 1820s. g

(Morgan Roberts via Simon & Schuster)

Mother and daughter

Lived Aboriginal history

Julie Andrews

Auntie Rita: The classic memoir of an Aboriginal woman’s love and determination

by Rita Huggins and Jackie Huggins Aboriginal Studies Press

$29.95 pb, 186 pp

Family photographs add so much to Aboriginal autobiography. Aboriginal people will scan them to see who they know and what the buildings, clothes, and area looked like then. Photographs are an open invitation to connect with your people, no matter where they are from.

In Auntie Rita: The classic memoir of an Aboriginal woman’s love and determination, first published in 1994, Auntie Rita (1921–96), a Bidjara woman, and her daughter Jackie Huggins, a Bidjara/Birri Gubba Juru woman, have produced a blended narrative and autobiography that tells of Auntie Rita’s early years living under the Queensland government assimilation polices and her adult life as a wife, widow, and single parent. Jackie – author, historian, academic – is a formidable woman. Together they share a strong and caring story interwoven with the injustices of living under government policies. They tell of the oppressed black people working with white supporters to create opportunities and address inequality for those in Brisbane.

Auntie Rita’s story begins with recollections but then lives in the present. The mother-and-daughter collaboration makes the story come alive, and in doing so provides teaching and cultural awareness to the reader. To broaden the discussion on behalf of her mother, Jackie adopts the role of protective daughter when detailing the racism her mother experienced. Her parents had no control over their lives while living under government surveillance on the mission. Jackie arrives to set the story straight – why such injustices were allowed to happen to her mother – and then leaves. Jackie states: ‘My mother does not want to talk even to me about the kinds of bitter treatment she experienced. I respect that, but I will not forget nor forgive the people who inflicted that pain.’ There are many of our people who have been child labourers, beaten by those they worked for and even worse – thus began trans-generational trauma, now being addressed by Aboriginal people. Auntie Rita and Jackie’s story is an important historical piece of writing and voice that is healing and truth. Such autobiographies keep Australian Aboriginal history alive.

Auntie Rita recounts how her family was forcibly displaced from Country onto an Aboriginal reserve in Barambah, now known as Cherbourg, in Queensland. She relates how those on Cherbourg were forced to speak English and give up their cultural ways, and what it was like living under government

control, unable even to attend their children’s funerals, which is what happened when Auntie Rita’s son died. Jackie explains the cultural responsibility to attend family funerals, the emotional burden, and potential judgement from others.

There are gems. Despite the oppression, there is an endearing moment of young love and sweetness between couples. I just wish there were plenty more for her and other young Aboriginal people who grew up on government missions. Auntie Rita commenced her education when she was eight years old; by the time she was twelve, she was living in the Cherbourg girls dormitory, not allowed to return home, even on weekends. When she was thirteen, she was relocated away from her family and the Cherbourg community to work as a domestic servant for non-Aboriginal people. She laboured from dawn until late evening with a weekly payment of ten shillings, of which she received two shillings; the government department that controlled Aboriginal people kept the rest. There were no holidays, no more education – only chores and being bossed about.

Auntie Rita’s memories of growing up inside the Cherbourg Aboriginal community demonstrate that young people were acutely aware that their lives were burdened by government policies that did not provide the basic necessities of life: education, good employment, mobility to relocate for better opportunities. Although her memories sometimes reflect a sense that this was how life was meant to be for them, this acceptance is balanced by her daughter’s strong voice. Jackie explains why and how injustice was occurring. The most powerful interlude occurs when she speaks on behalf of her mother and Aboriginal women in general. The daughter has to lead for the mother when the world is changing, yet the mother is still living in history, trying to understand. Jackie steers the conversation into the political domain of Aboriginal oppression without the reader realising they are being educated. I particularly liked the way in which they regarded playing cards as an education game – counting, strategy, teamwork, and decision making. For Aboriginal people, Auntie Rita’s story will be familiar. So many were forced to live on Aboriginal missions, yet everyone’s story is unique.

Auntie Rita’s journey took her to Brisbane, where she became a member of the large Aboriginal community and involved in the organisation One People of Australia League (OPAL), an Aboriginal political group of the 1960s and 1970s. What attracted Auntie Rita was that the organisation spoke about integration of Aboriginal people rather than assimilation, which was the aim of the government mission. Here the reader can gain insight into Aboriginal self-determination aspirations in Brisbane. Auntie Rita was committed to the organisation for more than thirty years, and became a director. Having experienced the assimilation policies of the government, OPAL’s integration strategy influenced her beliefs about black and white people co-existing and treating each other equally. Jackie writes that ‘Assimilation policies didn’t recognise the worth of Aboriginal culture and ways of life. They didn’t see how important solidarity and community are to us, and that we must reject some white ways for the sake of our own survival.’

I like the way she was so open to being a woman, a single mother who enjoyed life. She was so lonely after her husband passed away and had boyfriends, risking judgement by others,

which still happens today. Jackie stands by her mother, saying how hard it was for a black single mother and that she had nothing to be ashamed of. Pride in the family is so important for Aboriginal people; more of us should help with that. It is often the beliefs to the contrary, made-up stories, and secrets inside a family that can destroy them. Auntie Rita had no regrets about the choices she made for her family. How can Elders become Elders to help the next generation otherwise? It is about the sharing of life experiences – to reflect, engage, and discuss; to help heal and

‘Treasure every word’

The linguistics of Australian Indigenous languages

Thomas Poulton

The Oxford Guide to Australian

Languages

edited by Claire Bowern

Oxford University Press

£145 hb, 1,168 pp

Kado Muir – a Ngalia man – will never be able to have another conversation in his mother tongue. He tells the story of witnessing each of his elders dying and, in the process, his language. Successively, he had fewer and fewer people to communicate with. In the case of his language community, younger contemporaries shifted to English as the language exerted its colonial power – until at last Kado Muir became the last speaker of Ngalia.

Kado Muir’s story is not unique. He is not the only one to experience such a devastating loss, nor will he be the last. Of the approximately five hundred Indigenous languages of Australia, only thirteen continue to be passed down to the next generation. Even these are at risk. Each lost language had a last speaker, one who endured the same pain.

Language, however, is not lost in isolation. The relentless forces of colonisation have severed and continue to sever the connection to generations of accumulated knowledge, stories, and traditions. Ultimately, language documentation is no panacea. It can’t restore everything that’s gone, but it serves as a resilient counter-measure in modern Australia, helping to shape the future vitality of Indigenous Australian languages.

Enter The Oxford Guide to Australian Languages, edited by Claire Bowern, Professor of Linguistics at Yale University. This substantial and hefty Guide, introduced by Kado Muir’s poignant and powerful account, stands as an invaluable resource. It is the fifth instalment in the Oxford Guides to the World’s Languages series (at least eight more are on the way). The series is intended to offer readers thorough and methodical overviews of various linguistic studies tailored for specific language families and regions. Each Guide boasts insights from prominent authors who shed

guide others. The Brisbane Aboriginal community that Auntie Rita and Jackie grew up in is very prominent today. Auntie Rita contributed to the development of a thriving community. She did not judge people arriving in Brisbane, homeless, seeking employment and a better life. Her own life experiences taught her what to do to make life better for others. g

Julie Andrews is Academic Director, Indigenous Research at La Trobe University. ❖

light on diverse subjects, such as language evolution, the nuances of language interaction, sociolinguistic patterns, structural language variations, in-depth textual analysis, and the intricate differences in grammar, phonetics, and semantics across languages.

Bowern and her seventy-six contributors (fifty-five of them based in Australian institutions) masterfully deliver on the book’s promise advanced in several thoughtfully detailed introductory chapters exploring both the historical landscape and taxonomies of these languages (both old and new) and the intricacies of documentation methods that aim to preserve them. The Guide is then divided into four other parts. Part II contains the structurally oriented chapters, which delve into the typology at all levels of the linguistic system. We begin with the smallest elements of language: phonetics and phonology, moving our way up to morphosyntax, and concluding with semantics, pragmatics, and discourse. Each chapter stands as a testament to the stateof-the-art advancements in its respective domain, making it the authoritative reference on these topics.

In Part III, the narrative takes a sociolinguistic turn. This section examines linguistic variation, touching on pivotal subjects such as code-switching, the emergence of multilingual societies, nuances of child-directed speech, auxiliary linguistic registers, and the intriguing dynamics of languages in contact.

The Guide does not stop there: Part IV pushes the boundaries of the series’ original ambit by addressing the intrinsic role of language within a community. It navigates policy, acquisition, and the crucial methods of revival and reclamation – essential for the sustained vitality of these languages.

Part V is anchored by illuminating case studies. These studies not only celebrate the richness of individual languages, but also contain a meticulous analysis of linguistic zones, all contributing to a comprehensive portrait of these languages’ uniqueness and complexity.

Comprehensively, the Guide elevates Indigenous languages to international prominence, underscoring the profound influence Australian languages have had on our collective comprehension of linguistic phenomena. These languages challenge and break away from entrenched Eurocentric views. Moreover, the Guide goes the extra mile to correct widespread misconceptions stemming from broad over-generalisations about the capabilities and characteristics of Indigenous languages, ensuring that they are presented in an authentic light and given just representation.

No reference book is without gaps. Despite offering such a thorough and comprehensive overview of the languages found in Australia, the more the volume covers, the more, in a way, it

feels as though something is missing. Indeed, Bowern concedes the lack of several topics: the common feature of ‘associated motion’ found in Pama-Nyungan languages but rare elsewhere; lexicography; grammar writing; and further explorations in the domain of lexical semantics. But for spatial constraints, these aspects would have enriched the book.

In a candid moment, Bowern acknowledges the lack of Indigenous authors. This isn’t a deliberate oversight but rather an inadvertent result of the long-standing divide between the academic circle and the very communities that are central to such studies. Change, however, is afoot. The prevailing sentiment in the field is now gravitating towards empowering Indigenous communities to spearhead the documentation and revitalisation of their languages, with linguists playing a more collaborative and supportive role. This philosophy is echoed throughout this volume. While the representation gap is yet to be completely bridged, it is paramount to appreciate, as Bowern emphatically and gratefully notes, that the entirety of the Guide’s content is rooted in the wisdom and expertise of Indigenous communities. Its foremost utility should be to serve, acknowledge, and enrich those communities.

Despite the unequivocal losses discussed both here and in the Guide, and despite significant threats to their survival, Indige-

nous languages remain symbols of resilience, pride, and identity. While the Guide highlights the undeniable challenges faced by Indigenous languages, it also underscores their enduring spirit and strength. As we witness a slew of language revitalisation initiatives, let us hope that this volume plays a pivotal role in bolstering their outcomes.

Claire Bowern’s aspiration for this Guide is clear: she wants readers to ‘mourn, witness, remember, respect and celebrate: mourn what has been lost and the circumstances under which that happened; witness the consequences and remember what has happened; respect individuals and communities for their choices they make about their lives, land, and languages; and celebrate the work currently being done so these languages continue across the land and are handed on’. To that end, the Guide shines as the current standard in understanding the linguistics of Indigenous languages and, more importantly, the historical and cultural context of those languages. As Kado Muir himself writes: ‘Pick it up, read it. Wonder, be inspired, and treasure every word.’ g

Thomas Poulton is a Linguistics Lecturer at La Trobe University. His research focuses on the intersections of language, cognition, and culture. ❖

Minyerri (now marked for fracking)

Old Pelican sits by the billabong, he scratches his white hair sighing. Long time olden time, he says, this little girl goanna place. Wark wark crow listens, whistling duck swimming.

Them whitemen come from South African Cold Storage Company. Reckon want Alawa land, clearim for cattle, might be 1929.

‘My mum born that year,’ I whisper. Hot and sweaty. Want blackfella gone. Clearim up.

Big mob whitefella on horseback yarraman come, ammo crossed chest, you know.. Like big Europe war. Lotta rifle. Enfield I reckon. Youai Enfield. Make grandfather, father, all fella chop up wood, big mob. Chop. Chain im up on dis tree, see metal ring, for chain. Tree got pink flower. Pretty one.

‘I see it uncle.’ I sit quiet in the orange dust, eyes down, fingers clasped.

Them whitefella shootim all, like they nothin, burn im up. Womens run, run with little ones. But they ride im down. Hit im, kill im. Knock im down with stirrup. With stick, not wantim waste bullet, smash im against rock, see red there.

‘I see, I mumble,’ staring at the crawling white ants.

Me save by coolomon, just little fella sleepin.

‘Sorry Uncle’. Youai. Dis place like that.

Julie Janson

Songlines in action

Tracing five generations

Jacinta Walsh

Reaching Through Time: Finding my family’s stories

by Shauna Bostock Allen & Unwin

$34.99

pb, 347 pp

Reaching Through Time: Finding my family’s stories is the epitome of Indigenous family life writing. Predominantly set in New South Wales, on the east coast of Australia, Reaching Through Time is a journey through more than 200 years of Australian history, from early invasion and colonisation to the present day, through the lens of Indigenous family lived experience. This collection of life stories – skilfully located in the archives, family memory, and secondary sources – traces five generations of the authors’ family. Reaching Through Time is a rich, engaging contribution to Australian history. Bostock is writing against Australian historiography, which has excluded the voices of Indigenous families. As Shauna Bostock says: ‘This book is written for people who want to know our history from an Aboriginal perspective.’

Bostock is a historian, a former primary school teacher, and a Bundjalung woman whose ancestral homelands are located on the Tweed River, close to where the Queensland and New South Wales borders now meet. From the outset, Bostock welcomes us into her world, centring a family’s love for themselves and their connections with Bundjalung Spirit and Country. She says:

My ancestors woke up in that sunshine, drank from crystal-clear streams, hunted game, were guardians of the forest and the mountains, and maintained and preserved sacred sites of earth Magic […] the greatest, most heartwarming reward has been the discovery of an unbroken connection to pre-colonial ancestors – and time immemorial.

This affirmation of cultural connection is an important assertion that despite the story of colonisation about to unfold, Spirit and Country for the Bostock family remains centre.

victed of slave trading in Africa, and that his grandson Augustus John married Bostock’s great-great grandmother, a Bundjalung woman named ‘One My’. This is an ironically humorous start to an Indigenous family’s history.

Next, we are taken into the frontier violence and colonisation of Wollumbin/ Mount Warning on Bundjalung Country in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. We see the Land Act 1842 come into effect and white settlers like Bostock’s

great-great-grandfather Augustus John Bostock applying for ‘Free selection’ land under conditional purchase. We see the arrival of gold prospectors and pastoralists in the early 1850s, the fencing of land, and the beginnings of the segregation of Aboriginal peoples. In the 1900s, we see the emergence of government policies designed to exclude Aboriginal people or to target and control them. We see the establishment of the ‘Board for the Protection of Aborigines’ in 1883, the introduction of the Apprentices Act 1901, the Neglected Children and Juvenile Offenders Act 1905, the Aborigines Protection Act 1909, and the Protection Amendment Act 1915, which collectively legislated the unpaid labour of Aboriginal people, the segregation of Aboriginal families, and the removal of Aboriginal children from their mothers.

Bostock shares family memories from the Kyogle Aboriginal station, the Box Ridge Reserve, the Dunoon Aborigines Reserve, the Nymboida Aborigines Reserve, and the Ukerebagh Island Aborigines Reserve. We see how families moved from one reserve to another to escape the reach of the Aborigines Protection Board’s control. Bostock honours family members who, over generations, served in the Australian military forces, and who were excluded from mainstream war entitlements.

Shauna Bostock’s great-grandmother Lena Bostock surrounded by her grandchildren. L–R: Lester, George, Lindsay, Gerry, and a local boy

Bostock’s search for the truth begins with a phone call in 2008, revealing family ancestry links to the African slave trade in England from as early as the 1600s. She learns that her ancestor Robert Bostock, who arrived in Sydney in 1815, had been con-

After the 1967 referendum, Bostock notes the movement of thousands of Aboriginal families to the inner city of Sydney in the 1960s and 1970s, and with it the rise of Aboriginal family activism. There is the formation of the Aboriginal Australian Fellowship, the Foundation of Aboriginal Affairs (FAA) and the Redfern Aboriginal Legal Service, the first free legal aid service in Australia. We are given a window into the creation of the Tent Embassy in 1972. We witness the rise of ‘Blak’ Theatre movements in Melbourne and Sydney and subsequent Indigenous community artistry, cultural expression, and political activism.

Through all of this storytelling, the names of many Indigenous and non-Indigenous family members and research collaborators are honoured. Bostock knows that there is agency in a

Bostock is writing against Australian historiography, which has excluded the voices of Indigenous families

name. In the textual records created in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the names of Aboriginal people are often incorrectly noted, changed through time, or omitted altogether. Grand Australian narratives have historically failed to name, honour, and celebrate Aboriginal people individually. Bostock’s storytelling provides a correction to this erasure. She says:

Family history research is in fact a way to counteract my Aboriginal ancestors’ erasure; its enabled me to pull them out of the collective noun ‘the Aborigines’ used by white Australian’s and restore their individual humanity. Its deep, heartfelt, spiritual resurrection.

Reading how Bostock has located and pieced together this complex web of family stories is as interesting as the stories themselves. The complexity in Bostock’s narrative correlates with her access to and forensic analysis of family oral histories, historical textual records, and the scholarship of others. Bostock shares her insights into the challenges she and many other Indigenous families face in gaining access, in particular, to the textual records created and held by state organisations. Bostock calls out the systems that deny Aboriginal families their access to all the records that are about them or relate to them. I commend Bostock for utilising her voice to bring public attention to this important issue; archival access and cultural safety for Aboriginal families.

What a joy and a privilege it was to read and review this book.

Ripples of impact

Two new books on the Tiwi Islands

John J. Bradley

Tiwi Story by Mavis Kerinaiua and Laura Rademaker NewSouth, $39.99 pb, 209 pp

The Old Songs Are Always New by Genevieve Campbell with Tiwi Elders and knowledge holders Sydney University Press $40 pb, 362 pp

Just to north of Darwin is the country of the Tiwi people, spread over Bathurst and Melville Islands. These two new books give voice to Tiwi oral traditions and to the power and resonance within that tradition of orality that encompasses song, narrative, and the ways in which they sustain family and relationships to ancestors and to kin.

The Old Songs Are Always New: Singing traditions of the Tiwi Islands explores the world of Indigenous song composition and maintenance among the Tiwi people of Bathurst and Melville Islands. For many years in the sphere of anthropology and ethnomusicology, Indigenous music was considered arcane; in the world of linguistics song and music, it was rarely explored. In academic terms, this book is a rich and delightful repository of

Bostock’s storytelling is engaging and compassionate. She has invited us into her family’s conversations and into the kitchens and loungerooms of her family’s homes. This is Songlines in action, Songlines through storytelling. Bostock brings history alive, for generations to cherish.

Shauna Bostock is one of many Indigenous scholars who, for decades now, have emerged as a formidable force in Australian history making. Writers such as John Maynard, Jackie Huggins, Stephen Kinnane, Natalie Harkin, Faye Blanch, Tony Birch, Lynette Russell, Cindy Solonec, Betty Lockyer, Debra Dank, Elfie Shiosaki, Aileen Marwung Walsh and Judi Wickes have blazed their way in Australian historiography. They are smashing apart old and outdated homogenous and nameless misrepresentations of Aboriginal people and their families, creating new truths, and enabling processes of reconciliation and healing.

Bostock jokes that her family is like the ‘Forrest Gumps’ of blackfellas. They certainly are for the Bundjalung mob, at least. For any Indigenous community members who are fortunate to read this book, I hope it serves to encourage them, too, to be the ‘Forrest Gump’ storytellers for their mobs; to ensure that individually and collectively we represent the diversity that exists within the lived experiences of Australia’s First Nations peoples. g

Jacinta Walsh is of Jaru, Yawuru and Irish heritage and a PhD Candidate and researcher with the Monash Indigenous Studies Centre. ❖

the knowledge of song held by the Tiwi women and men who worked with Genevieve Campbell, a professional musician who is currently a research affiliate at the Sydney Conservatorium of Music

Tiwi Story: Turning history downside up is related to the first new release in regard to its deep exploration of orality and how communities value such traditions. In a world where the calls for truth telling become more urgent, in an Australia where the debate rages about a Voice to parliament, here are books that speak to the truths as experienced by Tiwi men and women of Bathurst and Melville Island, and speak also to a wide range of events that are held within the oral traditions of the Tiwi people.

Both books reveal clearly that despite the dominance of Western ways of knowing, of the power of Western historical positioning of music and narratives as the ultimate story, this has never actually been the case. For everything that has happened on the country of Indigenous people, there is always the version told or sung that is told by Indigenous people themselves – full of humour and pathos, sadness and grief – that never makes it into the ‘objective’ accounts of Western history. These books are primers that enable non-Indigenous readers to come to know how any one event can have another story, another way of it being interpreted.

These books also are also about colonisation. Read in a sensitive, nuanced, open manner, they show the reader that two things are going on. One is that the issues of colonisation dealt with in these books expose the forces of assimilation and suppression of Tiwi culture. The reader will also realise that to call Australia

postcolonial is an oxymoronic term. Colonisation is not benign or static: it creates ongoing ripples of impact for Tiwi and other Indigenous cultures.

In these books, Tiwi storytellers and singers are placed at the centre of what is being committed to print. Consequently, the customary Western way of dealing with such stories as non-objective is completely bypassed. The Tiwi voices disrupt dominant Western notions of so-called intellectual rigour and legitimacy, and the reader discovers that Tiwi truth in these stories rests on an empowerment of their own understandings of worth, their own power in controlling situations that have never been acknowledged by Western historians. What is truth in these stories is a pre-colonial reality that Tiwi truth, if not all Indigenous truth, rests on the empowerment of Indigenous family, land, and sovereignty that needs no validation from colonial states or ideas of modernity.

Particularly telling in these books is the notion that any knowledge production is personal; that storytelling and singing is also agential and participatory. It becomes evident that the Tiwi singers and storytellers have never been silent in the face of colonial violence that attempted to subvert and neutralise forms of resistance. Far from being idle, the Tiwi have worked through their own understanding and participatory ways of sharing knowledge to sustain Indigenous ways of being and living. In this way, history is indeed is turned downside up; old songs are always new because the role of storyteller and singer is central to the exercise of agency and renewal; through the spoken and written word, they shape a particular view of the past for their communities. The stories, then, are not only about agency and the individual tellers: they are also communal sharings that bind communities together relationally, to family and Country.

The stories become a kind of medium for the Tiwi people to both analogise colonial violence and resist it in substantial ways. There is a kind of embodied reciprocity between the people and

The enigmatic Howitt

A troubling, intriguing colonial type

Jason M. Gibson

Line of Blood: The truth of Alfred Howitt

by Craig Horne Melbourne Books

$34.95 pb, 303 pp

Alfred William Howitt is a well-known yet enigmatic figure in Australian colonial history. Born in England in 1830 and raised by literary and politically active parents, Howitt grew up amid an erudite and socially progressive milieu. With his father and brother, he arrived in Australia in 1852,

their stories and songs, so contrary to liberal notions of stories as some depoliticised acts of sharing. Both books demand that we recognise them as acts of creative rebellion; there is a decolonial agency going on in these texts that speaks to how the very acts of storytelling and singing imply breaking free from Western notions that stories are a kind of multicultural ‘show and tell’.

As with all cultures, the narrative and musical arts are sites of innovation, for taking a tradition and giving ‘it a twist’. This is an important factor considered: the place of song, history, and stories in a contemporary setting; the use of song and narrative, inspired by the past, can give voice to matters of the present. These discussions remove any lingering doubt that these books are just about ‘traditional’ forms. What is demonstrated is the way things from the past are made new, how other new things can then be created. There is a thread of commonality running through both these books, but this is also a source of tension. How does the past speak to the present, speak to future generations? What is the place of old ways of knowing the Tiwi language and a new way of knowing the language? Can one ever really create an archive of narratives that speaks to these understandings.

These are compelling questions that both books raise, they are important ones as Indigenous cultures and languages that still rely on the power of oral traditions come into contact with ideas and beliefs that somehow all things can and should be recorded, that somehow in this act of recording all things will be known and saved for the future.

These books speak so powerfully to the idea of words and music as living and creative acts. They are in part an archive of pain, suffering, and resistance, but in their telling they are also healing. Hearing them, reading them, allows us to reimagine the world. g

hoping to ‘make it big’ on the Victorian gold fields. Enthralled by the natural environment and the liberties afforded to a gentleman bushman in the colony, Howitt decided to stay on while his family returned to London.

What happened next has become the stuff of Australian legend. Howitt demonstrated his aptitude as a bushman, led exploration expeditions into the interior, and received considerable public acclaim after discovering the bodies of the explorers Robert O’Hara Burke and William John Wills in 1861. His curiosity and intellect also saw him make significant contributions to early geological, botanical, biological, and anthropological collecting, and to research.

In Line of Blood: The truth of Alfred Howitt, Craig Horne –speechwriter and member of the extended Howitt family – seeks to better understand Howitt ‘the man’. Though he was eulogised for his many achievements and talents, Howitt’s motivations and character have remained elusive. The book engages in a journey of discovery as Horne attempts to understand how Howitt, a man who relished Australian bush life and had such close engagements with Aboriginal Australians, could continue to harbour racial prejudice.

John J. Bradley is an Associate Professor at Monash Indigenous Studies Centre, Monash University. ❖

Horne argues that Howitt benefited from his parents’ intellectualism yet resisted their spiritualism and liberalism, and grew into a politically conservative personality. Once in the colony, Howitt – to find his feet – used his family connections with the British élite and a string of new ‘landowners’ who had either participated in or profited from colonial violence. He ‘hit the streets looking for a good time’, Horne explains, and via these strategic alliances and his recognised skills, built a name for himself.

Howitt’s relationship with Indigenous Australians was far

the crimes of settler colonialism; Horne at times engages in some speculative history and creative writing to fill in some of the gaps. Use of the primary source material, which is far more accessible now than in Mary Howitt Walker’s time, may have resulted in greater illumination. The voices of contemporary Gunaikurnai and Yuin people are also notably absent from the narrative. This feels like a missed opportunity, given that Howitt’s writings

from unequivocal, and this is what makes him such an intriguing and troubling character. Early on, as he trekked across the Victorian goldfields, he made few kind remarks about First Nations people, but his subsequent interactions with the Yandruwandha on his expeditions into the remote desert country of South Australia opened his eyes. He understood that the ingenuity and kindness of the Yandruwandha had saved the life of John King, the sole survivor of the Burke and Wills expedition. In ‘one of the few demonstrations of European appreciation for Aboriginal peoples’, Howitt successfully called for public acknowledgment of their role. Nonetheless, Indigenous Australians remained both ‘repugnant’ and ‘curious’ to him, according to Horne. After being appointed Aboriginal Protector for the Gippsland region in 1868, Howitt used his position to study the local Gunaikurnai as exemplars of antiquity, as he had studied the geological, biological, and botanical features of the Antipodes.

His first book of anthropology, Kamilaroi and Kurnai (1880), co-written with the Wesleyan missionary Lorimer Fison, assembled information on Indigenous kinship, language, and social organisation from across the continent. That book is now considered one of the foundational works of the discipline. Many of the Gunaikurnai and Yuin people who worked on Howitt’s ‘Eastwood’ farm in Bairnsdale provided rich cultural information that ended up in Howitt’s numerous anthropological papers, but Horne is right to point out the questionable ethics that underpinned some of this work. Howitt’s ‘ambition’ permitted him to employ unscrupulous methods to extract secret information from people, but perhaps more important to Horne’s narrative is that Howitt stood by silently as the injustices of settler-colonialism continued to damage Indigenous communities towards the end of the nineteenth century. William Barak, the prominent Wurundjeri leader, for example, acted as an interpreter and informant to Howitt, and yet his influential ‘friend’ failed to make representations on Barak’s behalf at a time when the Aboriginal population at Coranderrk were being progressively destabilised.

Powerful as these stories are, Horne draws heavily on Come Wind, Come Weather (1971) – the previous biography of A.W. Howitt, written by another Howitt descendant, Mary Howitt Walker – and his book could have been deepened by greater use of the extensive Howitt archives. There is considerable conjecture in this book about why Howitt did not shine a brighter light on

have been so vigorously interrogated and utilised by Aboriginal communities, and other scholars, in recent decades. Not engaging with these more recent reassessments of Howitt’s legacy means that the book fails to break new ground. Nonetheless, Line of Blood is an act of truth-telling, unapologetically framed within the context of the Uluru Statement from the Heart, which aims to help us come to grips with our nation’s difficult foundations.

Horne should be applauded for resisting the oversimplification of history. He wants readers to know that his ancestor, although someone who conveniently turned a blind eye to colonial violence, also spoke truthfully about the frontier wars as being ‘bloody, and often piteously exterminating’. Howitt engaged with First Nations people, valued, and documented Indigenous knowledge of Country, and took people’s ceremonies, songs, and material culture seriously at a time when most others could not have cared less. We are left with the impression of a man who, despite his deep interest in Aboriginal Australia and his valuable contributions, accepted ideas of racial inferiority and later social evolutionism that now greatly tarnish his memory. g

Jason M. Gibson’s book Ceremony Men: Making ethnography and the return of the Strehlow Collections (2020) was nominated for the Prime Minister’s Literary Award in Australian History. He is a senior ARC DECRA Research Fellow and Lecturer in Cultural Heritage and Museum Studies at Deakin University. ❖

Howitt’s relationship with Indigenous Australians was far from unequivocal, and this is what makes him such an intriguing and troubling character

Alfred William Howitt c.1861 (State Library of New South Wales via Wikimedia Commons)

Cooperative economics

A new chapter for AIME Declan

Fry

Hoodie Economics: Changing our systems to value what matters

by Jack Manning Bancroft Hardie Grant Books

$34.99 pb, 203 pp

In Hoodie Economics, Jack Manning Bancroft, the founder of the Australian Indigenous Mentoring Experience (AIME), offers an outline of the organisation’s next chapter. AIME, established in 2005, paired Indigenous secondary school students with university mentors. Since 2015, AIME has begun to

latest incarnation, the IMAGI-NATION [University], is a ‘global community of problem-solvers and change-makers’ earmarked to end – intentionally – in 2033, leaving behind ‘a legacy of tools, case studies, and a healthier system for all species on earth’. In the meantime, the ‘innovative platform is set to revolutionize how we solve global challenges, fostering a community of thinkers, dreamers, and doers’. In other words, AIME has entered the economies of algorithmic data, decentralisation, and gamification.

Like Nigerian alternative jazz singer muva of Earth singing, in ‘Feed My Mind’, ‘Dnt talk 2 me / If u ain’t gonna help me grow / Dnt talk 2 me / If u ain’t gonna help me evolve’, Bancroft, by his own admission, is not interested in small talk; he likes to talk about big ideas. An example of such thinking occurs in the ‘Potential’ section of Hoodie Economics, which comprises nine chapters: ‘Note from a Platypus’, ‘Processes of Emergence’, ‘An Invitation’, ‘Small Big Talk’, ‘Inheritance’, ‘Potential’, ‘Relations’, ‘Imagi-nation’, ‘Death’.

‘Potential’ concerns systems limitations, how to accommodate differences between people, between what is sometimes called ‘fit’, the interface between an idea and a pre-existing system, the square peg and the round hole – an organisation, say, and the people who work within it. Bancroft dates the problem to the British Empire of the seventeenth century, noting that this is only one way of framing things. In Australia, Captain Cook discovers that the British coin, circa 1770, has no real currency outside of Britain; similarly, Bancroft suggests, organisations might consider how their operational process might be informed by the pre-existing knowledge of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, rather than seeking to simply slot people into organisations. The ongoing revolution of climate change, along with digitisation and automation, are a challenge, Bancroft suggests, but they can also act as a spur to growth and change.

transition, in collaboration with PwC’s Indigenous Consulting and alliance partner Salesforce, into a learning and mentoring resource network. As the organisation’s website puts it, AIME’s

Reading the chapter titled ‘Relations’, I was reminded of the British jazz pianist Alfa Mist’s words at the beginning of his song ‘Nucleus’: ‘I guess I gotta say, one of my aunties, she was saying, “when we were growing up, we used to get beat when da-dada-da-da”. Crazy level of remorse and maturity. Cause when the kids challenged them and tried to tell them something they’d get frustrated. They weren’t eloquent enough to express their lessons and so on and so forth. They didn’t have the passion, you know?’ I admit, sometimes I misheard the words ‘express their lessons’ as ‘express their relations’, which may be applicable to Bancroft’s concept of relations, in which the idea of the relation itself chal-

The gift of ABR

Recipients can access new issues, archival material going back to 1978, and discounted prize entries. Gift subscriptions cost $80 for digital only and $100 for print plus digital.

Jack Manning Bancroft (Hardie Grant Books)

lenges the fear-based mindset of zero-sum strategising, along with models predicated on extraction or endless supply and demand, towards a more reciprocal, interconnected approach. Such an outlook would prioritise our imbrication in all things rather than view the human subject in isolation from its surroundings.

Bancroft invites readers to contemplate a relational economy comprising seven different elements. Among these, the first, ‘See through a systemic lens – everything is in relation’, can be considered in terms of the butterfly that flaps its wings and precipitates a seemingly unrelated major event halfway across the globe. (It has been said many times, but bears repeating, that Covid exemplifies this chain of causality.) As the Kev Carmody and Paul Kelly tune has it – a song which Bancroft and his partner Yael Stone sing together in New York City, finding themselves falling in love as AIME is being launched globally – from little things big things grow. Moreover, these apparently little things become larger than any individual part considered in isolation. Bringing new ideas into different contexts is not straightforward work – Bancroft relates the difficulty of bringing AIME to New York, employing words which located things in a perspective that invited challenges surrounding the translation of race and colour across different histories, communities, and cultures –but there is no way of entering into relationality and attempts at cultural translation without encountering and responding to such complexity.

The third point, ‘Emergence as an impact tool and area of investment’, draws on Charles Eisenstein’s book Sacred Economics (2011), which examines the possibility of a cooperative rather

than competitive economics. This is perhaps the largest challenge, one which sits at the heart of Hoodie Economics: can economics be cooperative? Gift economies and other relations which traditionally took place outside the dictates of the market economy show that perhaps it can; whether this is possible within the frame of capitalism as it currently operates is a difficult question. The risk is always that capital and cultural industries will simply co-opt and assimilate other knowledges and ways of thinking – including, naturally, Indigenous knowledges, any alternatives proffered by Hoodie Economics, and all other ‘fixed, fast-frozen relations’, as Marx wrote. Bancroft writes – in addition to observing that ‘any fixed rule is flawed’ – that ‘From nature we have models that give us a chance to regenerate and lift up our own systems [...] This is the moment in history when relations can spread further and faster across the world than ever before. There is no reason why we can’t emerge in deeper relation with a plan for human custodial life on Earth for another 60,000 years.’

Capitalism has undergone many regenerations already, shifting and evolving such that it remains with us many centuries after the economic crisis of the late Middle Ages, the analysis and critiques of Adam Smith and Karl Marx, nearly eight decades after the Bretton Woods accord, and several other evolutions. How much of the status quo can be retained – and how much of it is capable of regeneration – is the question Hoodie Economics invites us to ponder. g

Declan Fry, born on Wongatha country in Kalgoorlie, is a writer, poet, and essayist.

Prop, stage, star

Ode to Country

Bebe Backhouse-Oliver

The Body Country

by Susie Anderson Hachette $26.99 pb, 95 pp

There is no denying the power of poetry as thoughtful storytelling, a form of expression free from rules, conventions. It allows a safe environment for experimentation, free from the confines of traditionalism. Portraits in words, detailing the ride of life and thoughts of the mind are painted onto the canvas, where the placement of verses on a page can matter as much as the choices of words themselves.

Susie Anderson’s collection of fragmentary odes to the connection she has to her country, her body, and her life experiences, is a perspicacious example of the creativity and spirit of First Nations poetry.

Beginning with ‘time, place and country’, Anderson gently reminded me of a truth I had inherited from my own family and ancestors: ‘boundaries of Country are rivers / mountains / sea’. It was a fitting introduction to understanding her views on world, presence, and self. I imagined the different settings of inspiration that might have presented themselves during Anderson’s writing. Raised in Horsham, she descends from the Wergaia and Wemba Wemba, the latter being Country I used to work on in my early twenties, pushing me to picture the small hills and dusty plains, bordered by the dry and scant woodlands which dot its landscape. What began as a memory of the Mallee morphed into a yearning of my own Bardi Jawi homeland, and certainly its rivers and seas.

Concluding with ‘territories’, a homage to galactic origins and grounded destiny, this final chapter depicts a full circled coda to the journey Anderson was on, highlighting her progress and evolution; a reminder that so much can, and will, happen in life – you can be removed from your mother Country by choice or force; you can be excluded from the sounds of your native tongue; and you can fall in love without ever saying a word. Through all of this, and whatever else, your body is with you. It will not desert you. It will be the container for your mind when you witness and decipher art. It will be the portal for your memories when you want to feel like a child again. It is a finite machine which allows an infinite existence in spirit. As an Aboriginal woman, Susie has cemented this in her own legacy of self.

There are complexities and simplicities throughout the collection, connected by an essay Anderson wrote for the Faber Aca demy in 2019, aptly titled The Body Country. In her own words, the book recognises that ‘a tension between loving and knowing your body is important, while fearing its frailty and temporality’. I felt drawn into her academic prompts, and questioned how

I feel when I am in the open; how I connect to the universal elements of the natural world; and, perhaps most importantly, how I feel about myself in moments of turmoil and doubt, and even tranquillity. Between the bookends, in the realm of ‘chorus’ – a delicate suite of animalistic dedications – I walked down the garden path of my own infancy: ‘The trampoline was simultaneously a prop, the stage, the star.’

Throughout the section ‘when artists talk about country’, Susie responds to artistic prompts over varying times and differing places, from sound blasted into the Lutruwita sky from a helicopter at Dark Mofo, to the entire contents of the National Gallery of Victoria. In a piece written after artist Amala Groom, it seems that Anderson prophesied the content in the subsequent chapters: ‘Sis, where are you trying to go / I am going to where I am known.’

Deploying splashes of Wergaia words, Anderson deliberately chose to reference an early dictionary of the language as a dedication to her great-grandmother, who contributed to the creation of that publication. This honouring serves as one of many commitments to the roots and origins which birthed her and speaks to the essence of First Nations people the land over. Dedications to Water Country inspired in me a refreshed need to be mindful and careful, while taking pride in where it is I come from.

Further on and going within, she writes of love, desire, and the pain which accompanies this, perhaps all too often. Here, I found a different side to her, one which was fragile yet determined; vulnerable yet confident. Like reading a journal filled with unsent love notes, at times I felt I was peering into my own past, exploring my romances and losses, and words unspoken for fear of unreciprocated responses: ‘If I could have seen your lips once more I would have written down their shape.’

What struck me throughout this collection was Anderson’s ability to weave each chapter together with threads of growth; a confidence which comes from committed endurance. Driving these, of course, were those muses of art, romance, heartache, and belonging, catalysed by a life which could only be lived in the place she grew up.

The Body Country is an incomparable read which took me by surprise. My perspectives were challenged and refreshed. I travelled through imagination and history. I relived love-induced anguish and remembered the temporality of life, which triggered me; but before I closed the book, Susie was sure to give me a gift. When recommending how I could fall in love with my hometown, she noted the sky’s role in creating certainty during periods of chaos or cloud: ‘it knew everything then / knows everything still / including which way you will go next’. Suddenly, I was calm and powerful; determined to traverse the vastness of my body, to hopefully know my own depth, that of my love, and meditate on the deep, time-igniting energy that is a connection to Country. g

Bebe Backhouse-Oliver is a descendant of the Bardi Jawi people of the Kimberley region of north-Western Australia. His début solo poetry collection is more than these bones (Magabala, 2023). It is reviewed on page 42. ❖

Publisher of the Month with Yasmin Smith

Yasmin Smith is an editor, writer and poet of South Sea Islander, Kabi Kabi, Northern Cheyenne, and English heritage. She has worked across literary fiction, non-fiction, children’s books, and poetry, with a focus on supporting First Nations creatives and their stories. She is currently an editor at University of Queensland Press, where her work includes overseeing its groundbreaking First Nations Classics series.

What was your pathway to publishing?

Somewhat traditional, somewhat lucky. I did a Fine Arts degree thinking that I’d like to write. One day I attended a guest lecture by editor Sue Abbey, who was speaking about Indigenous literature. She later encouraged me to apply for an editorial internship at the black&write! Project. There I spent two years developing my editorial skills and being mentored by the managing editor, Ellen van Neerven. A few years later I found an email in my spam from University of Queensland Press publisher Aviva Tuffield. I started doing some freelance work for UQP, then became an assistant in their marketing, publicity, and sales teams. I spent just as much time on the editorial wing, where I put my hand up to read and proofread manuscripts or shadow their editors on anything from picture books to poetry. A year later, I was offered an editorial role. My first lead project was working on the First Nations Classics series.

How many titles do you publish each year?

UQP publishes around forty titles each year: fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and children’s books.

Do you edit the books you commission?

As the series editor working on the First Nations Classics, I was able to commission and edit new introductions from authors including Tara June Winch, Larissa Behrendt, Evelyn Araluen, and others. More generally, I love working closely with all the publishers at UQP, who acquire new books throughout the year. It’s a rewarding experience to collaborate with publishers who are dedicated to their authors and who genuinely champion their books.

What qualities do you look for in an author?

Open-mindedness, generosity in sharing ideas, and good communication skills.

In your dealings with authors, what is the greatest pleasure – and challenge?

The greatest pleasure is assuring an author that it’s doable. Each book I get to work on vastly expands the way I connect and build relationally with each author. My greatest challenge might just be impostor syndrome (that’s on me, not because of

the authors.) It’s confronting when you have to engage with a work that might be completely beyond your knowledge or outside your own life experience. That said, I love the challenge of learning new things.

Do you write yourself? If so, has it informed your work as a publisher?

Sometimes. I am terrible at working on anything in long form. so instead I’ll write a poem in the Notes app of my phone or start a short story in ‘drafts’ on my Outlook, fully knowing I’ll never finish it. I’ve performed a lot of my poetry, and I think there are benefits to starting off as an aspiring writer. It keeps me connected to communities of story.

What kinds of books do you enjoy reading?

Nowadays I’m not too fussed what I read and will give anything a go. I like a good book that will alter the way I see the world. Mostly I adore picture books, because they blend all the good bits of storytelling with artwork, illustration, and design. They allow us to believe in stories that are weird, wonderful, and impossibly bizarre.

Which editors/publishers do you most admire?

Mainly because they are good (and smart and kind) publishers or editors who have championed or inspired me along the way: Aviva Tuffield, Sue Abbey, Ellen van Neerven, Grace Lucas-Pennington, Rachel Bin Salleh, Jacqueline Blanchard, Anne-Marie Te Whiu, Bridget Caldwell-Bright, Cathy Vallance, Ian See, Clair Hume.

What advice would you give an aspiring publisher?

I don’t think you need a higher degree to be successful in this industry. You do need to be curious and know how to ask hard questions with empathy. Small beginnings are never insignificant, so be willing to work hard in roles that don’t appear as a first choice for a foot in the door. Kindness keeps you connected with the right people. And always check your ‘Spam’ inbox: you never know what opportunities are sitting in your own personal slush pile.

What’s the outlook for new writing of quality?

Promising, truth-telling, and brave. g

Siren song

Two new Indigenous poetry collections

Julie Janson

She Is the Earth

by Ali Cobby Eckermann Magabala Books $27.99 pb, 91 pp

More Than These Bones

by Bebe Backhouse Magabala Books

$27.99 pb, 235 pp

Ali Cobby Eckermann is an award-winning Yankunytjatjara/Kokatha poet and artist. In the words of Yugambeh writer Arlie Alizzi: ‘She Is the Earth is hypnotic, healing and transcendental.’

She Is the Earth is redolent of First Nations’ musicality, reminding us of Northeast Arnhem Land Yolngu song cycles and Central Australian Inma, but also of an Ancient Greek chorus, where women sing the epic tragedy. But is it a long poem, a collection of interrelated poems, or a verse novel? In Eckermann’s own words: ‘I know our struggle continues as First Nations people who are deprived of our true standing on our sacred land.’ Her poetry is a siren song.

Understanding the context of identity in the case of Eckermann’s work is essential to connect with her truth, that of her Yankunytjatjara/Kokatha heritage. Her identity sings from the pages of this work. That caravan home on the edge of a red desert is etched in our vision of her.

The dreamlike quality of her verse novel resonates in a musical cadence. We can imagine the poet swaying in a ceremonial dance and her hips rocking in time with other Aboriginal women, swept together in a timeless performance – body to body, breasts alongside painted breasts. She stands with the traditional song makers.

Many First Nations poets shoot flames of rage and indignation, for good reason: the indignity of racism and colonisation. Eckermann sings in a serene, dreamlike way of her Country and of her connection to a meditation on her own modernity. She

ARCHAEOLOGY

sings out to all readers of her connection to the Aboriginal bough shade and windswept land of her birth, places of intense longing and memory and of her tribal affiliation. She sits like a bird and uses antithesis (‘between soil and sky’) and humour (‘sometimes we sit / often it is just me’).

The frequent use of words from Latinate vocabularies leaves the reader perplexed as to why there is little exploration of Aboriginal words. Readers sometimes long to hear those languages; the attempt by colonial invasion to erase whole languages is painful and a constant reality. Language and song can ‘wake up the country’.

The poetic journey of the verse novel is built on the rhythm of clap sticks or the thump of women’s thighs by hands in ceremony. The repetition of blood imagery jolts our sensibilities: ‘I remove my tongue / plant it in the ground / savour the blood.’ As a result of the action, the poet becomes mute. She tells us of the wisdom of not speaking (‘it is wise to wait’), the idea that sitting and listening to the wind, water, birds, or sky can be a useful thing. I had a realisation that this is the way we read Country. It is born in us as Indigenous people, this listening to birds, the observance of rock scratching, the drinking of Australian bush nectar, or watching native bees. We are on guard, attuned to the bush; it is in our inherited genes. We see the centrality of fire to human existence, fire that makes a home, a place to warm a baby: ‘fire is medicine / it is my homeland / my house a bough shelter / built from ancient trees’.

Eckermann celebrates the connection with birds as spirit guides ‘when the owl dies / I gather it to me / brush dirt from its beak / wash its face and feathers’. There is tenderness here, a connection with a bird renowned by First Nations people, a bird of warning, a bird of great consequence, often portending death. The gentle reverence for the owl becomes anthropomorphism; she attributes a mourning ritual given to human beings. The presence of ‘an old woman’ who sings is a recurring motif, a wise magic woman, a Clever woman who can see into the truth seeker: ‘she sings to birds / she sings to me’.

The novel alludes to a Christian baptism: ‘I feel water flowing / from my head’ juxtaposed with the presence of a dingo. The poet is frightened, curling into her mind. The animal is part bird, with ‘eyes are wrens / red backed and fairy’. Then a stone, ancient, prehistoric, asking: ‘who was here / how long ago?’ The novel offers a constant reawakening of the spirit in the natural world,

A Study of Acculturation, Adaptation and Change

Neville A. Ritchie

Ali Cobby Eckermann (Magabala Books)

AND HISTORY OF THE CHINESE IN SOUTHERN NEW ZEALAND DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

“The go-to reference for archaeologists and historians involved in the Pacific Rim Chinese diaspora.” - Gordon Grimwade

‘on country’ in the geographical and spiritual homeland, a sense of ancient connection, timeless and past and present and ongoing. Eckermann sings of the body disappearing in a cosmological universe, of ancient 70,000 years old ancestors.

The brevity and ellipsis, the minimal style of her poetry, is a search for interiority. Female readers are under her skin and in her heart, and we recognise that whispering. The novel ends with a ‘soft breeze / understanding’ and a summons of the biblical ‘a sanctified story / not quite genesis’. Her poetry is deeply feminine, sisterly in tranquil celebration of her body and heart. The political underbelly is apparent: ‘Ahead my future / fills with colour / my referendum’ and the wish to honour the Uluru Statement of the Heart.

Bebe Backhouse is a descendant of the Bardi Jawa people but lives in Narm Melbourne. He is a classical pianist, composer, and poet. He has excelled in producing and directing youth theatre across Australia. His début publication of poetry, ‘more than these bones’, is a stellar introduction to a very talented poet. In these interrelated poems – set in a bar, beach, shore, bush, and, occasionally, the bedroom – we hear a polyphonic voice from a young Indigenous man who embraces his sexuality and sensuality and blak queer identity.

The photographs and drawings enhance and illustrate the text, adding layers of depth of feeling. This memoir in verse is naked and aching in its sense of loss and romance.

Young love and breaking up is always a difficult journey. Bebe takes us through the gradual breakdown: ‘I held my breath / as you placed your hand on my shoulder / as you pulled me into your chest.’ The emotions are raw and full of simile and imagery that move us to feel his pain. ‘I could tell you / I won’t hurt you again / but it’s safer / for me to let you go.’

The echoes of a strength of loving pour from the verse ‘shielded in leather / I beg for your fingers around my neck / your fire blazes down my neck’. The subtext of secrets run through some of the imagery: ‘but only meet me when the suburbs are quiet / and the sky is dark / close to midnight / when she’s asleep.’

The pain of watching a woman die beside him is poignant and bursting with compassion: ‘she’d fight / with every ounce of strength / in her saltwater blood.’ The power of grief pours from the verse and the poet leads us through the long process of holding onto memory”

‘I’ll never forget the lifetime of stories / passing between your shoulder and my head.’ The inclusion of Aboriginal language in flashes reminds us of his lineage. ‘I know your heart will beat better / your mind will feel right / your liyarn will reconnect.’ This is a sublime work from a poet with a fresh, confronting voice. g

It's time for an economic revolution

Embrace Indigenous thinking and ideas from outside the margins. Let's build a relational economy together.

Julie Janson is a Burruberongal woman of Darug Aboriginal nation and a novelist, playwright, and poet. She has a poem on page 29.

Bebe Backhouse (Magabala Books)

Tips and tricks

The same old reverence for journalism

Patrick Mullins

Storytellers: Questions, answers and the craft of journalism

Leigh Sales Scribner

$36.99 pb, 320 pp

When the first season of Aaron Sorkin’s Newsroom premièred in Australia in 2012, Foxtel had its own onscreen news talent cut a series of promos. A bevy of ageless news anchors – all dense hairdos and blazing white teeth – talked admiringly of how the series portrayed their profession. Journalism, in their telling, was fast-paced, often self-righteous, occasionally fallible, but ultimately always a noble occupation that served the public’s interest. Leigh Sales’s new book, Storytellers, follows a similar line, with the content and even the cover art – a black and white photo of Sales at her news desk, shot from behind, à la Will McAvoy – evincing the same reverence for journalism. Implicitly, too, there is the same nostalgia for the days when everything was just a bit more straightforward.

Some of this feels warranted. Technological change has dramatically reshaped the news media industry, while disinformation and debates about bias in news reportage have washed in atop successive waves of redundancies that left many newsrooms in Australia drained of knowledge and experience. If that drain has been stoppered in recent years by revenue from the News Media Bargaining Code, the people left behind are still, as Sales writes, swamped by information, besieged by deadlines, and grappling with new challenges without the guidance of old hands. In Storytellers, Sales aims to provide that guidance by passing on tips and tricks from Australia’s finest.

Like more than a few of her colleagues, Sales is ambivalent about the university journalism courses that should be providing this. She notes the absence today of a textbook comparable to Robert Jervis’s News Sense (1985), which was the ‘bible’ during her studies at Queensland University of Technology in the early 1990s, and she rubbishes the use of theory-based academic work as a substitute. ‘I don’t know what any of that means,’ Sales writes of a phrase drawn from one paper given out by a friend and journalism academic, ‘but I can tell you this: it has zero to do with learning to be a good journalist.’

Admittedly, knowing what ‘hegemonic epistemologies and ontologies’ means is unlikely to be as immediately useful to a deadline-bound journalist as knowing how to ‘write to pictures’. But being able to reflect on how the tenets of modern journalism have been underpinned by Western views and beliefs – as that specific paper discusses, and as many university journalism courses also do, alongside their courses of practical experience – has a lot to do with becoming a good journalist, not in the least because

of the prompt it provides to question the wisdom received via those tenets. The absence of such questions is the biggest let-down of Storytellers: it includes little interrogation of the profession and its current challenges that one might have expected from a journalist who has worked for a long period at the highest levels across multiple media in Australia and abroad.

Sales is unapologetic about this. Hers is not a book about media ethics, Rupert Murdoch, fake news, or any of the other issues that populate that catch-all genre, current affairs. ‘My focus in this book is entirely on the practicalities of the craft,’ she writes. ‘Where do story ideas come from? How do you make contacts? What does a good voiceover sound like? How do you make a one-minute video story compelling? How do you know when to interrupt a politician during an interview?’ If these concerns are niche, they are at least recurring and urgent for young journalists.

Storytellers offers in ample supply puckish and entertaining accounts of lives spent dealing with these concerns every day. Divided into ten sections focused on different areas of the profession, Sales uses a Q&A format to document her interrogating, wheedling, and prompting conversations with interviewees. Tips are sewn into the anecdotes like smuggled jewels. On one page, there is editor Fred Shaw discussing the use of progressive shots and detail to build a sense of character; on another, reporter Robert Penfold advises you drive, not fly, if the news is breaking less than five hours away. There is Samantha Maiden’s thoughts on the specific utility of getting the shits, and there’s Karl Stefanovic’s discussion of ‘sphincter-tightening nerves’. There’s Richard Fidler saying what to do when you realise an interviewee is a dickhead, and there’s Annabel Crabb talking about the real meaning of a column about nits. In the number of people mustered and the areas they discuss, Storytellers offers a flavour of how journalism is performed in Australia and the individual experience of doing it – including the emotional toll. Belying the stereotype of the cynical and hard-bitten reporter, Sales’s interviewees are open with her about their concern for the people they interview and write about, and the demands their profession puts on them to navigate fraught ethical dilemmas.

The fact that her interviewees go there underscores Sales’s ability to adapt to the dynamics of the discussion at hand. Her interview with Laurie Oakes is conspicuous for the direct and concise questions she asks him – aping, it seems, his recommendation for questions of that kind. In her interview with an excitable Benjamin Law, however, Sales confesses that she has not asked him a single thing on her list of questions. Law replies with a joke but then, more seriously, muses that sometimes he has to ‘hold space’ for his interviewees to tell their stories, for them to lead the interview – just as, the reader sees, Sales has held space for Law.

It is one example in a book that may prove useful for new journalists. If not as provocative or nourishing as one might have hoped, Storytellers follows yet again in the vein of Sorkin’s Newsroom, where reverence and nostalgia made for a show concerned with what journalism was, rather than what it could be. g

Patrick Mullins is a visiting fellow at the National Centre of Biography at ANU and most recently co-author of Who Needs the ABC? (2022).

At the Hotel Metropole

Stalin’s manipulation of the media

Sheila Fitzpatrick

The Red Hotel: The untold story of Stalin’s disinformation war

by Alan Philps Headline

$34.99 pb, 451 pp

Stalin really knew how to lock a country down. Western intelligence services had virtually no secret information sources in the Soviet Union in the 1940s, in contrast to the Soviets’ striking success with Kim Philby, the mole who held a senior position in British intelligence. Western diplomats in Moscow had no direct contacts with members of the Russian population, other than the various watchful helpers supplied by the state. During the war, there were no foreign tourists or visiting businessmen in the country, and just a few Western journalists. The journalists lived together in the Hotel Metropole in the centre of Moscow (the Red Hotel of the title of Alan Philps’s new book), drinking and lamenting the strictness of Soviet censorship and their inability to cover the war except from official handouts.

The Metropole was (and is) a grand though somewhat shabby art deco building in the centre of Moscow, across the road from the Bolshoi Theatre. Its restaurant and bar were more or less off limits to all but specially chosen Russians in the 1940s. The journalists lived there in moderate discomfort (though enormous privilege, compared to ordinary Russians), socialising with each other and the diplomats, waiting for briefings from the much-disliked Nikolai Palgunov, head of the Press Department. On rare occasions, they would be taken, en masse, to a carefully curated war site. The Katyn Forest, site of the massacre of Polish officers, was one such expedition; and the journalists later duly reported the (false) Soviet claim that the Germans were responsible, however fishy it sounded, for want of any other story to file.

For so-called war correspondents, it was the most boring job in the world. Cultivation of personal idiosyncrasy was one of the few outlets for creativity. Since almost all of the journalists later wrote books about their Moscow years, spiced with more or less bitchy comments about each other, there is plenty of material for Philps to go on in recreating their collective life in Moscow. A few of them, like Times correspondent A. T. Cholerton and Alexander Werth, later author of the classic Russia at War (1964), had good Russian and knew something about the society. Others, like the hapless Ronald Matthews, Catholic correspondent for the leftist British Daily Herald, were totally dependent on their Soviet secretary–translators. Ralph Parker, a journalist with MI6 connections, was seen as too pro-Soviet and was thought to have been ‘turned’ by the Soviets. There was even an Australian correspondent: Godfrey Blunden, reporting for the Sydney Daily Telegraph

A few women turned up as correspondents to enliven the scene. Alice-Leone Moats, a tiresome young American socialite without journalistic experience, played up her family’s connection with US Ambassador Lawrence Steinhardt, who was embarrassed by the resultant gossip. British Charlotte Haldane, who actually did have journalistic credentials, was the separated wife of the well-known communist scientist J.B.S. Haldane.

To be a woman was to miss out on one of the main perks of the foreign correspondents’ life: provision by the Soviet authorities of a young, attractive, English-speaking secretary–translator–fixer, who generally became the journalist’s lover in addition to other duties. Matthews had the good luck to get Tanya Svetlova, who provided him with ‘a daily supply of journalistic colour and bottles of vodka, while also securing him a bigger room at the hotel, procuring a radio (possession of which was illegal for Soviet citizens in wartime) so he could listen to the BBC, and darning his socks’. They married in 1943 (good timing, as a few years later, marriages between Soviet citizens and foreigners were forbidden), and she left the Soviet Union with him the following year. Blunden was allocated Nadya Ulanovskaya, wife of a senior official in military intelligence, who, in the 1930s, had accompanied her husband to Shanghai (where they worked with the most famous Soviet spy, Richard Sorge) and New York. At Blunden’s request, Nadya broke the rules and took him to meet some real Russians, cultured friends of hers from the old upper classes who had many stories of Soviet terror to recount. After he left Moscow, he published a thinly disguised roman à clef about Nadya and her friends, A Room on the Route (1947).

Philps refers to this novel, but seems not to have read it. This is a pity, as it would have offered an additional view of Nadya, a central figure in Philps’s book as well as Blunden’s. (I am following Philps’s practice in referring to his female characters by their first name, and males by their last.) Whole chapters of Red Hotel summarise the memoir Nadya and her daughter Maya (a dissident who emigrated to Israel in the early 1970s) later published in Russian. Nadya’s story is indeed remarkable, even if one might take with a pinch of salt her self-image of unadulterated bravery, independence, and moral rectitude, which Philps reproduces. Tanya Matthews, who took over Matthews’s job as BBC correspondent in the Middle East after his death in the 1960s, was another remarkable woman whose story, as told in several books of memoirs for British audiences and summarised in Red Hotel, should not be taken as gospel.

Ambiguity was built into the job of these secretary–translator–lovers, who, regardless of any affection they might develop for their foreign charges, had, after all, been sent by Soviet authorities to keep an eye on them. The women must have been writing regular reports on their men, reports which, judging by those I have seen in the Soviet archives, were often shrewd and funny, a credit to the authors’ powers of observation and analysis, if not to their moral principles.1 The question of why they so often went ‘off message’, as Nadya did in taking Blunden to meet her friends, is interesting. Of course, being a police informer is not incompatible with having a personal agenda, as Tanya clearly did in her cultivation of Matthews. It was also not without danger: Cholerton’s long-time secretary–lover was abruptly arrested in 1943, while he was absent in England, and dispatched to the

Gulag, and the same thing happened to Nadya a few years later, after Blunden’s departure and the subsequent publication of his book. Had Nadya and Tanya not been risk-takers, they probably would have sought other employment.

With a subtitle about Stalinist disinformation in time of war, Red Hotel ends by likening Stalin’s manipulation of the media to Putin’s attempts at information control during the current Ukraine war. No doubt the present Russian government has similar intentions, but Putin – with open borders and an internet that is not effectively restricted – is simply not in Stalin’s league. When Putin tries to spin the story one way, the Western media automatically reverses the spin. Imagine Putin’s men sending a bunch of Western journalists to a contemporary equivalent of the

The state as sleeping partner

Imperialism via the joint-stock company

Clinton Fernandes

Empire, Incorporated: The corporations that built British colonialism

by Philip J. Stern

Harvard University Press

US$39.95, 399 pp

Asenior public servant writes that the history of corporations shows that there are ‘some things which a Government cannot do officially, and which are best accomplished when the people take the lead, while the State lends its support, remaining in the background until it is required to interfere’. This is ‘almost forgotten now in these days of international law, of diplomats, and of quick intelligence sent to headquarters by wire from the uttermost parts of the earth’.

These words may look as though they come from today’s newspaper headlines, as corporations explore space, launch satellites, and plan to mine the Moon and colonise Mars. In fact, they were written by a British Empire official in 1898 and quoted by Philip Stern in Empire, Incorporated: The corporations that built

Katyn massacre site, showing them bodies, and telling them the Ukrainians did it. Nobody would believe the story for a moment, and if it got published at all in the Western press, it would simply be as an example of ‘Putin’s lies’. g

Sheila Fitzpatrick’s recent books include White Russians, Red Peril: A Cold War history of migration to Australia (2020) and The Shortest History of the Soviet Union (2022). She is a professor at Australian Catholic University.

Endnote

1. See Sheila Fitzpatrick and Carolyn Rasmussen, eds, Political Tourists (2008)

British colonialism. Taking the reader through six ‘ages’ (discovery, crisis, projects, revolutions, reform, and imperialism), Stern shows how ‘venture colonialism’ financed and shaped empires through the means of joint-stock corporations. Stern traces the evolution of joint-stock corporations over four centuries, beginning in 1566 with the Muscovy Company, the British firm founded to trade with Russia, and ending with the 1982 Falklands War, prior to which the Falkland Islands Company still controlled the major newspaper and television station, nearly half the land, and enterprises with interests in Antarctic exploration. Along the way, we encounter the distant pirates of Jamaica and the more familiar South Australian Company, with characters like Edward Gibbon Wakefield and George Fife Angas. Had Stern used data from the Legacies of British Slavery project at University College London, he would have added that Angas received compensation for the emancipation of 121 slaves in Honduras in 1835. He could, therefore, set up the Union Bank of Australia in 1836 and the South Australian Banking Company in 1840. He could buy 4,000 acres of fertile land on the Rhine and Gawler Rivers in the Barossa Range in 1840. Data from this project may result in more light being shone on the origins of key investors in Australia and across the British Empire.

Empire, Incorporated is both a history of the modern jointstock corporation and as an important reframing of the British Empire, because it shows how that empire was built by investors, entrepreneurs, and landowners, not just by politicians. Stern is well placed to undertake his study. His first book (The CompanyState, 2011) examined the business model of the British East

India Company from its founding in 1600 until 1757, when it consolidated its position as the ruler of Bengal after the Battle of Plassey. As its title suggested, it was a commercial enterprise with the powers of a government. It waged wars, created and enforced laws, collected taxes, engaged in diplomacy, and made jurisdictional claims over land and sea.

With Empire, Incorporated, Stern expands his horizons to the full gamut of British ‘company-states’, from English charter companies in Ireland and Australia to the Western Hemisphere. He shows how joint-stock corporations assembled and coordinated resources to deliver riches to metropolitan investors. They were vital players in the centuries of global confrontation between the West and the rest of the world, described variously as imperialism versus anti-colonialism, developed versus developing countries, liberal democracy versus the rest, core versus periphery, and the North–South conflict.

As others before Stern have shown, the advantage of the joint-stock corporation was that it could draw funds from a wide array of people while tolerating risk and loss. This entity had an independent legal personality that could live forever and accumulate rights, property and immunities unavailable to human beings. It had rights but few obligations; transferable shares; a separation between owners and managers; and limited liability. Stern examines its similarity to organisations that preceded it in the late medieval world – not just commercial institutions but also civic ones, like universities and municipalities, and religious ones. He shows the philosophical connection to the concept of a universal Church incorporated in the body (‘corpus’) of Christ. Like the Church, the business corporation consists of individuals and is also an entity in its own right. Medieval jurists recognised that this form of ‘associational life’ could be used to legitimise the sovereignty of the Crown, which could thus be conceived of as possessing two bodies: the natural, mortal body of the monarch; and the corporate and permanent body of the monarchy. Unlike

Double daylight

The horrors of British atomic testing

Elizabeth Tynan

Operation Hurricane: The story of Britain’s first atomic test in Australia and the legacy that remains

by Paul Grace Hachette

$34.99 pb, 367 pp

In April 1952, during the long voyage from Portsmouth around the Cape to the Montebello Islands off the coast of Western Australia, HMS Narvik and HMS Zeebrugge anchored at the Cocos Islands in the Indian Ocean. After a slow, lurching trip, the palmy islands and their azure seas were a tonic.

kings and governments, however, venture colonial companies had no dignity to violate and no national flag to dishonour. They could make diplomatic compromises that were sometimes outside the scope of governments, especially great powers, whose prestige and credibility might otherwise result in a crushing display of force or a refusal to back down.

Stern’s analysis reveals that today’s tech titans – from Alphabet to Amazon and Microsoft to Meta – act like states in regulating and administering their territories. Of course, they lack the direct coercive ability of the British East India Company, which had an armed force of more than 200,000 troops – twice the size of the United Kingdom’s. But, as we have seen, they rely on the United States and some other governments to negotiate and enforce international trade and investment agreements that have given them global reach and effective control over food, finance, communications, entertainment and much more. Empire, Incorporated calls to mind the observation of the late structural macroeconomist, Lance Taylor: ‘In the long run, there are no laissez-faire transitions to modern economic growth. The state has always intervened to create a capitalist class, and then it has to regulate the capitalist class, and then the state has to worry about being taken over by the capitalist class, but the state has always been there.’

Just how to deal with multinational corporations is a critical issue in today’s age of environmental upheaval, labour insecurity, global supply chains, and emerging technologies such as machine learning or artificial intelligence. Stern’s study shows how closely integrated these public–private partnerships have been over time. It offers a deep analysis of the structure of the modern corporation and the ways it has been linked with political power to increase its economic heft. g

There, the crew of the British ships met for the first time with the legendary RAAF No. 2 Airfield Construction Squadron that had built the Woomera rocket range in South Australia and was then building a civil airport on the islands. Five British crew decided, against an explicit order from the Australian Commander, to take a swim. In the treacherous reef waters, they quickly got into trouble and RAAF servicemen went to rescue them. The Prologue to Operation Hurricane gives a harrowing account of how three men drowned: one of the Brits and two of the Australian rescuers.

This tragic augury hangs over the story and sets the scene for the horror and the folly of British atomic tests in Australia. Narvik and Zeebrugge continued their journey and would, in six months’ time, be part of the small flotilla present for Britain’s first atomic weapon test at Montebello.

On 3 October 1952, esteemed British mathematical physicist and Manhattan Project veteran Dr William Penney gave the goahead for the detonation of the Hurricane bomb at that remote Australian atoll. He was aboard another ship in the flotilla, HMS Campania. This maritime test for a maritime nation played out a

Clinton Fernandes is Professor of International and Political Studies at the University of New South Wales. ❖

scenario that was exercising British minds: what would happen if an atomic bomb was detonated in a port? The device, designed by Penney, was stowed in the hull of a surplus Royal Navy vessel, HMS Plym, anchored just off Trimouille Island, part of the Montebello group.

Montebello had been chosen after an extensive search. Britain took care to exclude its own territory from consideration on the grounds of physical and political risk. Many former colonies were assessed, Canada prominent among them, but in the end the British settled upon some flat, uninhabited islands 120 kilometres off the coast of Western Australia.

What occurred there was a momentous, but largely unknown, event in Australian history. Paul Grace has captured the story of Operation Hurricane in honour of his grandfather Ron Grace, who was a RAAF Dakota pilot flying coastal monitoring sorties. In doing so, he has told a compelling tale of British ambition and the people who suffered for it.

Australian Prime Minister Robert Menzies quickly gave his assent to the top secret British plans. Grace raises the interesting (though unanswerable) point that a Labor government would probably have agreed to atomic testing too.

Grace’s strength is his ability to build dramatic tension and confront readers with the emotional heft of extraordinary events. He recreates the atmosphere of that momentous first British fission weapon blast by taking the reader through the countdown, performed with clinical precision by Ieuan Maddock, assistant director of the telemetry and communications division of High Explosives Research, a British organisation that was later known as the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment, maker of the British bombs.

Curiously, for a book rich in anecdote and fascinating detail, Grace does not mention Maddock’s evocative nickname, ‘the Count of Monte Bello’, conferred for that famous countdown.

‘Maddock’s cool, calm voice crackled out over the radio every 30 seconds … For the last 30 seconds, the intervals between Maddock’s announcements shrank, and the tension increased exponentially: “25 … 20 … 15 … ten … five … four … three ... two … one … NOW”.’

The ‘NOW’ has a gut-punch. At that moment, the twentyfive-kiloton explosion (around 10kt larger than the bomb dropped on Hiroshima in 1945) tore the Plym apart, spewed out radioactivity, gathered up the seawater all around and burst violently upwards. What then rained down on the men, the ships, the aircraft, the islands, and the mainland was as dangerous as it was downplayed by the authorities.

Sapper Fletcher on Zeebrugge described the scene: ‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning … sunlight, broad daylight, and the whole world just lit up. Double daylight, as you might say.’ Where Plym had been moored, the crater on the seabed was over 300 metres wide and six metres deep. The grotesque spectacle of dead sea creatures rising to the surface traumatised many present.

Grace is not without sympathy for the British scientists. ‘The British boffins were not stupid – they were quite brilliant in many ways – and they got a lot right. But they did not get everything right. They made lots of mistakes here and there, and being rather arrogant and obsessed with security, they responded by covering them up.’ This is a good summing up of all British atomic tests in Australia, which continued into the 1960s, mostly at Maralinga in South Australia.

Grace has a light, easy (sometimes laconic and vernacular-laden) storytelling style that gives sound and movement to the tale. His book is fast-paced and peppered with new and interesting information, with few missteps. He misnames the British committee called HUREX (Hurricane Executive) as Hurrex, and there is only passing mention of the shadowy figure who drove much of then Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s thinking at this time: Frederick Lindemann (Lord Cherwell).

But the politics is not really the point. This book is filled instead with the stories of the people who were present, whether as service personnel, scientists or journalists (always referred to as ‘press men’). Indeed, the book has a surprisingly exciting account of the work of the West Australian newspaper. Also fascinating are stories of the long, squabble-ridden trip to Montebello aboard Campania. Hurricane technical director Leonard Tyte loathed the Task Force Commander, Admiral Arthur Torlesse, and their disputes deepened the divide between scientists and service personnel, with unfortunate consequences. Torlesse’s paranoia about any Australian, no matter how senior or security-cleared, is alarming as well as illuminating.

Grace declares at the start: ‘it became clear that if I wanted to read a full history of the operation from an Australian perspective, I would have to write it myself’. He has done just that, and thereby done his grandfather’s memory proud. g

Elizabeth Tynan is an Associate Professor at the James Cook University Graduate Research School in Townsville and the author of The Secret of Emu Field: Britain’s forgotten atomic tests in Australia (NewSouth, 2022).

Britain’s first atomic weapon detonation, 1952 (Australian War Memorial via Wikimedia Commons)

A time of transness

A new phase in trans literature

Yves Rees

A Real Piece of Work: A memoir in essays

by Erin Riley Viking

$24.99 pb, 252 pp

Alot can change in a few years. In March 2020, on the eve of the Covid-19 pandemic, I wrote a review essay for ABR about the proliferation of trans and gender diverse (TGD) life writing. Back then, the most notable examples came from overseas, and – with the exception of established names like ABC’s Eddie Ayres (now Ed Le Broq), author of the 2017 memoir Danger Music – major Australian publishers had yet to take a chance on local trans voices.

Three years on, the publishing landscape has been transformed. During the early 2020s, Australian readers have been treated to a smorgasbord of TGD life writing, a feast that includes Kaya Wilson’s As Beautiful As Any Other, Bastian Fox Phelan’s How to Be Both, Candice Bell’s The All of It: A bogan rhapsody, Danielle Laidley’s Don’t Look Away, Ed Ayres’s Whole Notes, Madison Godfrey’s Dress Rehearsals, Ellen van Neerven’s Personal Score, Kris Kneen’s Fat Girl Dancing, the edited anthology Nothing to Hide: Voices of Trans and Gender Diverse Australia (of which I am a co-editor), and my own All About Yves: Notes from a transition – not to mention essays from the likes of Sam Elkin, Jasper Peach, Vivian Blaxell, Jinghua Qian, and Oliver Reeson. Then there’s the preponderance of trans voices in the Australian poetry scene: Scott-Patrick Mitchell, Dan Hogan, Rae White, Alex Gallagher, Gavin Yuan Gao, Godfrey, van Neerven, and more. Significantly, much of this new work has been released by major publishers: Penguin, Allen & Unwin, UQP, and Text. No more is trans writing relegated to the underground press. Indeed, as I write, it’s just been announced that Hachette, one of the global ‘Big Five’, has acquired a short story collection by Sydney trans actor Zoe Terakes, to be published in 2024.

The latest addition to this fast-growing canon of Australian trans literature is Erin Riley’s A Real Piece of Work, a ‘memoir in essays’ that emerged from a 2021 Penguin Random House Australia Write It Fellowship, a fellowship scheme designed to nurture unpublished writers from under-represented communities. A Sydney-based social worker, Riley is a non-binary transmasculine millennial who has previously published standalone essays in Kill Your Darlings and Bent Street. Their début book, A Real Piece of Work, is a slim volume composed of twenty-one essays – some brief sketches only a few pages long; others deep dives into thorny topics that merge storytelling with structural analysis. The topics are wide-ranging: ocean swimming, wrestling, marriage, home ownership, obsessive-compulsive disorder, social work, routine

and exercise all come under the microscope. What unites these varied foci is a concern with questions of family and care. How do we navigate our natal families and build our chosen ones, and what form can these families take? How do we look after ourselves and others in a world that undervalues – even disdains – the labour of care?

Although the question of Riley’s transness is a recurring theme, and gender affirmation surgery forms the book’s climactic moment, gender transition is not the central story here. Rather, A Real Piece of Work is better described as a work of cultural criticism written via a trans and queer lens; transness as a way of seeing, as opposed to the preoccupying subject. This project is made explicit in the essay ‘Maggie and Olivia or’, in which Riley draws upon queer theorist Eve Sedgwick’s concept of reparative and paranoid readings to explore how transness might allow us to view the world anew. For Riley, ‘reparative reading is a trans reading, one less concerned with binaries and definitions than it is with playing a role in the expansion of queer understandings and possibilities’.

As a work of trans criticism, A Real Piece of Work is best understood within the tradition of queer essayists such as Maggie Nelson, Olivia Laing, Alexander Chee, and Fiona Wright, all of whom use their life as raw material to interrogate contemporary culture. Despite what the marketing materials may suggest, a straight memoir this is not. This departure from conventional life writing is in part an act of self-effacement – in the Afterword, Riley acknowledges their reluctance to write about themselves –but it can also be seen as evidence of a welcome new phase in local trans literature. No longer is transness such a novelty that it must form the central subject of any writer who inhabits that identity. We can now accommodate authors who happen to be trans, who use that transness to interpret the world, but who are also threedimensional humans with capacity to think and write on many things.

The most compelling essays are those in which Riley grapples with social work, a caring profession embedded in histories of colonial and class violence that nonetheless aspires towards justice in the present. By presenting composite case histories from their work, Riley forces us to look at the human fallout of systemic inequities, while asking to what extent social workers can pick up the pieces. Also notable are Riley’s pieces on everyday routine and ritual, gentle ruminations in which the quotidian rituals of drinking coffee or walking the dog are afforded a nobility often missing in the rush towards the more Instagrammable moments of travel and achievement.

Whereas essayists often come to the page armoured by theoretical references and ironic distance, Riley writes with an unwavering earnestness so heartfelt that it promises to wear down even the most cynical reader. Everything has been left on the page, including the author’s still-beating heart. At moments, especially when the author’s familial estrangements are under discussion, it hurts to look. This here is the wound, most definitely not the scar. While it can feel almost voyeuristic to witness such vulnerability, Riley’s distinctive voice offers a refreshing alternative to the unspoken rule that critical intelligence must take the form of prose drained of emotion and sharpened to a fine point. In these pages, Riley is modelling a new way to be smart: soft and tender and sweet. g

Striding beyond boundaries

The life of an enigmatic traveller

Jacqueline Kent

Unfinished Woman

by Robyn Davidson Bloomsbury $34.99 pb, 285 pp

Robyn Davidson is still best known as the ‘camel lady’, the young writer whose account of her desert trek from Alice Springs to the Indian Ocean with four camels and a dog made her internationally famous. Tracks, published in 1980, has never been out of print. Since then Davidson has led a nomadic life – sometimes living in London, sometimes New York, and often exploring the world’s remote places and writing about them and her encounters with desert dwellers. Now, in her early seventies she has returned to her roots, spurred – like many writers at the same stage of their lives – by the need to examine her own past.

Davidson, the younger of two girls, grew up on her father’s cattle property in Queensland. Her descriptions of her early life – its sounds, smells, textures – and her passionate connection to the natural world provide some of the most evocative writing in this book. Much of this connection she owed to her father. ‘By example rather than instruction he taught me to be unafraid of snakes, spiders, cyclones, ocean waves, gekkos, solitude and the dark,’ she writes. ‘He taught me how to listen to the silence of nature so that its silences opened all the way out to the rim of our exploding universe.’ Her mother, recognising that her younger daughter was musically talented, sent away for books about composers and dancers. Davidson enjoyed music but felt that these books could not compare with the family encyclopedias featuring ‘coloured plates of such things as radiolaria, peridots, tiger iron, fish with electric lights in them, naked people with towers of feathers on their heads’. How, she asks, could anyone not want to understand these things?

The family moved down to Brisbane, driven off the land by drought and financial disaster. And one afternoon Robyn, having had a fight with her mother that morning, came home from school to find a group of strangers outside her house. Her mother had hanged herself from the garage rafters, using the cord of an electric kettle. In one afternoon, eleven-year-old Robyn had to deal with her mother’s death and being told she was being sent away to live with an aunt, without taking her dog with her. Her father never spoke to her about what had happened.

Davidson describes these traumatically searing events in matter-of-fact, almost clinical detail (she did not mention them in Tracks). She says she has intellectualised her response to her mother’s death, as she did at the time. ‘I have imagined the act, what it required [for her] to do it, but I imagine it as one sees a scene in a film. It seems to hold no special significance for me.

Perhaps by the time she killed herself I was already quite far away. In any case, when I touch the area around that day, I can feel only callus.’ Here, Davidson does not supply the emotional response that might be expected: she never tries to ingratiate herself with readers or to appeal for sympathy. Her business is always to describe her states of feeling as honestly and deeply as she can.

Unfinished Woman moves quickly through her Brisbane adolescence, her move to Sydney and student life, and her decision to live overseas. She mentions her relationship with ‘a well-known writer’ – presumably Salman Rushdie, as their three-year affair was widely reported in the 1980s – and briefly describes her life in the Himalayas, where she fell in love with a Rajput prince with whom she lived, on and off, for more than twenty years until his death. But Davidson circles back almost obsessively to her childhood in rural Queensland, to Malabah where she grew up, and to her parents – especially to her mother, whose death seems like a scar she cannot help touching. Even so, she repeatedly shies away from exploring its implications for her: ‘I came to terms with the fact that my mother could not, could never be found, that the only wisps remaining of her tiny moment on earth were encoded in me … We take our mothers into us, that is where they live.’

Davidson’s skill in describing the natural world, and her honesty in describing the small details of childhood, make Unfinished Woman a delight to read. Her tone is wry, confidential, often seductive. Yet I found her book a little frustrating, despite its brilliance. It is always a tricky business to turn the spotlight on yourself, especially if, like Davidson, your reputation has come from writing about different worlds and ways of living in remote places. Though she is good at describing childhood moments – many people who grew up in Australia then will feel a sense of familiarity – she could have given more detail about some other people in her story. Apart from her father, they are rather shadowy presences, especially her mother. And I sometimes wanted her to display a greater degree of self-reflection. How does Davidson think that the sights, sounds, and events of her childhood have influenced her as an adult? She grew up in Queensland: what is it about the Himalayas and its people that continually draws her back there? Has she ever questioned her need to lead a nomadic life?

With its promise that Davidson has other adventures before her – she’s not done yet! – Unfinished Woman is a good title for this book. I only wish she had written more about her adult perceptions or her sense of how she has grown and developed. Davidson is clearly a solitary being; this book shows that she can also be an elusive one. g

Jacqueline Kent’s most recent book is Vida: A woman for our time (Penguin, 2020).

Lay down the book

Stories as containers of emotion

Claire G. Coleman

Firelight

by John Morrisey Text Publishing $32.99 pb, 237 pp

The best literary short fiction gives the author an opportunity to stretch their limbs from poetry into abstraction, painting emotion in words without the need to make figurative or even internal sense. The story does not need to be a medium for delivering ‘story’, as such, but can become a container of emotion, for the feelings the artist intends to deliver. The emotion delivered by literary fiction teaches us to feel empathy for the characters, making the short form an effective empathy delivery vehicle.

Speculative short fiction, on the other hand, is a machine built to fill us with wonder and make us wonder (both the noun and the verb forms are appropriate). It could be said that the job of short speculative fiction is to make us lay down the book at key moments and reflect. Our imaginations are engaged, which can help us to understand worlds and cultural contexts we would not normally be exposed to.

In that cultural and literary landscape, Firelight, written by Melbourne-based Kalkadoon writer John Morrissey, is an exemplary collection of Indigenous literary speculative fiction. It engages with both a sense of wonderment and our innate capacity for compassion, wonderful and abstracted at turns, often simultaneously. Literary spec-fic is a genre to which Aboriginal people seem well suited, for a number of reasons; one of them is that Aboriginal literature is constantly and instinctively engaged with the fantastical. Morrissey’s stories, those of a new writer stretching his mind and experimenting with form, demonstrate that perfectly.

The opening salvo, ‘Five Minutes’, engages with storytelling and story itself, with the way our personal story, our political story, and our storytelling can be entwined and difficult to separate; it engages with how we as Indigenous storytellers can suffer from a collision with mainstream culture and from its failure to understand that we can be separate from our stories. It is difficult in this work to separate the artist from the narrator/protagonist, in a way that shows us how personal writing can be. It made me consider my own place as a writer, and how, in the end, most, if not all, writing is autobiographical to a degree, telling us as much about the writer as their story.

‘Autoc’, the central novella, in ten parts, is a meandering work of science fiction that walks the border between hyper-realism and surrealism in a way reminiscent of J.G. Ballard, a master of

surrealist short fiction. It takes the reader on a journey that is part parable and part fever dream. Time, space, and people become unhinged, leaving the reader in a world of fable and myth, lost in a dream world. There is an aroma of Aboriginal realism to the novella, despite the fact that it appears to be set on a planet far from Earth. Our culture is displaced, and the displacement of the characters in the overwhelming and confusing novella is reminiscent and analogous of the Indigenous experience of displacement and the cultural effects of losing connection to Country.

Firelight is an exemplary collection of Indigenous literary speculative fiction

Like ‘Five Minutes’, the story engages with writing and storytelling as art forms, and we consider in this novella how stories define who we are. At the end of ‘Autoc’, when you leave the story and the world without an obvious conclusion, you are left delighted by having more questions than answers. The story will be with you a long time; it might enter your dreams as your unconscious tries to unpack it, you might wake thinking about it. This is the sort of story that people could be talking about for some time.

I don’t enjoy being critical, but this book, like most before it, is not perfect. The storytelling and pacing could be considered uneven; at times it moves too fast, at others it slows and stops. Some works are beautiful and poetic, others less so. It could have done with one more edit to take off the rough edges and even out the pacing. However, as this is a collection in which the stories are not connected, some unevenness might be expected and is definitely acceptable.

In the end, though, and near the end, I am in love with the story ‘The Last Penny’, which is the penultimate story in the collection. The characters, even the tragic villains of the piece, are compelling. We feel for the protagonist narrator and for two men in her family, her father and brother, despite the fact that nobody in the story is very likeable. In the end universal love leads us to forgive these deeply flawed, even monstrous people. We are reminded that there is no such thing as an evil person, merely evil acts.

This all comes together in a piece about redemption, forgiveness, community, and family, wrapped up in a surreal ghost story.

Short fiction has always been an important part of speculative fiction, a genre that gained its initial popularity in journals rather than in book form. It is gratifying to see an Aboriginal writer claiming this space, the speculative short fiction landscape, and making it their own. I don’t believe we can ever do enough to encourage the development of Indigenous speculative fiction, an intersectional beast of a genre that opens up opportunities to, perhaps, finally make mainstream Australia understand our Indigenous worlds. Not the first or even only collection of Indigenous short fiction, Firelight is a fitting early move in what is sure to be a growing movement. g

Claire G. Coleman is a Noongar writer, born in Western Australia, and now based in Melbourne. Her most recent books are Lies Damned Lies (Ultimo Press, 2021) and Enclave (Hachette, 2022).

Where to now?

Melissa Lucashenko’s cyclic arcs

Jeanine Leane

Edenglassie

by Melissa Lucashenko

University of Queensland Press

$32.99 pb, 306 pp

Edenglassie is the seventh novel by acclaimed Bunjalung novelist Melissa Lucashenko. Set in a brief historical window – a little-known interim of time and place after transportation of convicts had ended but before Queensland became an independent colony in 1859 – this narrative moves seamlessly between what whitefellas might call past, present, and near future. In this interface, Lucashenko creates characters that cause the reader to not only ask – what if? but also where to now?

In 2024, we meet the feisty centenarian Granny Eddie –Brisbane’s oldest Aboriginal resident; her fiery granddaughter Winona; Doctor Johnny Newman (aptly named, since he has recently discovered his Gomeroi heritage); healer Gaja Opal; and pesky whitefella journalist Dartmouth Rice. From the mid-nineteenth century we meet members of the Goorie Federation of the five Yugambeh rivers, ‘which fell like wide blue ribbons from the western ranges’; warriors Dalapai and Yerrin, his son Murree, and his wife Dawalbin; their adopted Yugambeh son Mulanyin; his lover, Nita; and the Petries, one of the first white families to claim land in Edenglassie since the invasion.

Lucashenko delves deep into themes of reciprocity, entanglement, trust, betrayal, resilience, and connectedness, set against a visceral canvas involving actual and cultural Indigenocide (to use Raymond Davis and Bill Thorpe’s term) – a genocide unique to settler-invaded colonies where the First Peoples are valued less than the land they inhabit and that invaders desire.

In the case of Edenglassie, Blak lives are not valued at all. Granny Eddie is both the glue that holds two narratives together and the thread that connects past to present to future and back again. The story begins when Granny Eddie trips on ‘the tiniest jutting tree root’ outside the maritime museum, and ‘[in] outrage the earth flung itself up at her insisting she join it’. Neither the tree nor the earth is inanimate as they draw Granny into an act of remembering where time begins ‘thumping sharply on her left temple’ and her ‘brain slowly began to crochet together a looped understanding of events’.

The events that begin looping are not just those of the present. Time shifts in cyclic arcs, but place does not. On the same ground where Granny fell, time shifts to the 1840s. Dalapai and Yerrin meet when ‘less than three hundred foreigners remained in Magandin’. Yerrin hopes that the strangers will be gone by the next Mullet Run now that ‘the sufferers’ (convicts) are no longer coming. Dalapai cautions though that there is word that ‘free white

men are now welcome in our lands’. This scene is pivotal: the narrative is poised on a precipice of what if and what could have been.

After this, dual stories loop and twine. Lucashenko breaks from the temporal and geographical confinement of Western time to a mode of storying place/s that has its origins in the pre-invasion cultures of Aboriginal peoples. From her hospital bed, Granny Eddie speaks of the colonial entanglement in the early days of colonial encroachment, and warns the precocious Dartmouth to be wary of reconstructed history from ‘white historians and university lecturers overflowing with moral rigour and cultural discretion’. Granny reclaims the Goorie history of place when she asserts: ‘I’ve heard my history straight from the Old People, see. I know the truth of what was done and what was not done.’ In assuming control of what settlers call history, Granny unwrites settler claims to knowing the future, the present, and the past, and re-establishes Goorie ways of knowing, being, and telling.

Granny is joined in her hospital room by a presence who speaks of unfinished business. Initially, health professionals dismiss her sentience as a symptom of Granny's age and concussion. But here and throughout Edenglassie, Lucashenko rejects the limits of Western rationalism for characters grounded in their abilities to understand and accept all times simultaneously through embodied experiences. Granny continues to commune with her visitor, even though she is initially confused as to who it might be. This is one of two non-human but animate characters who thread through the narrative. The other is a fish – the matriarch who, without speaking, carries a message of continuance and resilience.

Concurrent with Granny’s story is that of Mulanyin and Nita. As colonial violence peaks and land theft increases, Mulanyin and Nita fall in love. Mulanyin has dreams of buying a whaleboat and going home to Yugambeh Country. But colonial law encroaches. Two hundred years later, outspoken activist Winona meets Doctor Johnny in Granny’s hospital room. The tensions and connections between the two are evidence that colonial legacies and Aboriginal resilience intertwine.

All Goorie characters are grounded in and impassioned by place – their locale – Country. There is no starker contrast between Goorie and colonial thinking than that which relates to land. Mulanyin asks Tom Petrie:

what goes through the brain of an Englishman when he arrives in another man’s country to steal his land, water, game and then with a straight face calls those he steals from thieves?

Tom answers;

It’s different, their Country holds no Dreamings to keep them at home.

Edenglassie moves in a great concentric arc with many ripples, like those in the river that is central to the action; and which is an ancient, unbroken vein that pulses life from past to present to future in a continuous cycle. Despite horrific colonial injustices meted out to Goories, this is a story of strength and love. It is an accumulation of all times – a testimony to the continuation of Aboriginal storytelling, value systems, intellectualism, scientific and technological literacy, and understandings of time, non-human agency, and Country. g

Jeanine Leane is a Wiradjuri writer, poet, and academic.

Polyphony

consequences, Luna’s act of deception remains a source of empowerment. She is proud of the way that she has taken control of her life, and her ‘ticket out of that arse-end of the city at the arse-end of the earth’ is proof to herself of her uncompromising ambition.

West Girls

by Laura Elizabeth Woollett Scribe $32.99 pb, 240 pp

Laura Elizabeth Woollett demonstrates her mastery of the polyphonic novel in West Girls. The book, Woollett’s fourth, comprises eleven nimbly interwoven chapters that explore origin, agency, and delusion in a patriarchal society.

The central character is Luna Lewis, whom we first meet as a pre-teen visiting family in Malta. Luna projects an innate confidence that often belies – or is belied by – her own naïveté. We learn that her mother has whisked them away from Perth to Europe following her ex-husband’s remarriage to Indah, a former ‘Princess of Indonesia finalist’. Luna boasts of her unusual family dynamic to her sheltered and religious younger cousin, Stefania: ‘I’m a bastard’, she says proudly, showing her a picture of Indah ‘in a sunshiny kebaya with a jewelled black bun’ nestled in the pages of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. She goes on to list the worldly things that fascinate her –squat toilets, amputees, and the Dark Arts in Harry Potter – an early suggestion of her governing principle where living an artful life means embracing the unconventional or the macabre. It’s a salient portrait, one that shadows Luna as the reader follows her into her many lives across continents and decades.

During Luna’s six month-long travels with her mother, she becomes increasingly aware of her complex feelings towards other women. Invigoratingly, though, she accepts her sexuality matter of factly, with curiosity rather than confusion. Her emotional conflict stems from her inability to separate jealousy from reverence, pity from attraction, and she compulsively reassesses the beauty – and value – of other women. This becomes most acute after she befriends the aspiring model Caitlyn, also known as CB, a member of the clique nicknamed ‘the Blondes’. When CB casually suggests that Luna audition at her modelling agency (‘They’re on the lookout for mixed girls’), Luna doesn’t contradict the assumption that she isn’t white. Her rapid infatuation with CB, and with her own self-image, soon paves the chemin de l’enfer where Luna Lewis becomes Luna Lu, the half-Indonesian, half-Australian international model who famously ‘pos[es] for Vogue UK’s “Asian Invasion” feature’. Regardless of the possible

For readers inclined to accuse the author of promoting cultural appropriation, a more figurative style of analysis may offer helpful redress. Woollett is an impressively unsentimental writer – which is not to say an unempathetic one – with a rare ability to resist authorial intrusion into her characters’ lives. The fallout from Luna’s actions is as resonant as it is because the denouement, and the coda that follows, are refreshingly free from allegory. But this is not to suggest that the narrative is insular – it is rather the opposite. West Girls is fraught with the commodification and exploitation of identity that is so persistent in our cultural lives. What it refuses to do is tell the reader how to think about it.

Another one of the author’s central concerns is systemic misogyny – both internalised and societal – which she revisits here with condemning clear-sightedness. While the first half of the book unflinchingly depicts male sexual violence, its second tackles the insidious culture of the beauty industry. These critiques are, for the most part, seamless. It is only the novel’s first four disparate chapters that risk monotony in their representations of violence against women and girls. While not always the primary focus, each narrative’s emotional turning point hinges on the actions of a predatory male, often a paedophile. It may be a soberingly accurate reflection of how widespread, and seemingly inescapable, sexual violence is, but real life can get away with more parallelism than fiction.

After Luna reaches the limits of her infamy abroad, she eventually makes her way back to Perth. These final sections of the novel have an almost coda-like quality and are unexpectedly arresting in how they contemplate what it means to make the most of one’s circumstances. The forward-looking nature of these chapters breathe fresh air into the narrative, while at the same time providing a sense of having been given a bird’s eye view of these characters’ histories and possibilities. While Luna and CB’s reunion reveals the many ways in which they have radically changed, those who know them intimately – the reader included –see the lodestar of the imprint of their early lives. One may feel a certain ambivalence towards some, or even all, of their chosen paths, yet there is little temptation towards scrutiny or criticism. Rather than casting judgement on her characters’ lives or attempting to ‘puppet’ them, Woollett gives her cast the space to be human. The deft execution of this sprawling, interlocked narrative is due in large part to the author’s willingness to surrender her control. The result is a witty, thought-provoking novel that serves as a reminder of life’s ultimate indifference towards us. g

Mindy Gill’s poems have recently appeared in Griffith Review and The Penguin Book of Indian Poets

Laura Elizabeth Woollett’s unsentimental new novel Mindy Gill

Laura Elizabeth Woollett

Celebrating twenty years of great world poetry!

Entries are now open for the twentieth Peter Porter Poetry Prize, one of Australia’s most prestigious poetry awards. Worth a total of $10,000, the prize honours the great Australian poet Peter Porter (1929–2010).

This year’s judges are Dan Disney, Felicity Plunkett, and Lachlan Brown.

For more information, visit: australianbookreview.com/prizes-programs

First place $6,000

Four shortlisted poets $1,000 each

Entries close 9 October 2023

Girl and Sylvia

An invigorating work of many faces

Giselle Au-Nhien Nguyen

But the Girl

by Jessica Zhan Mei Yu Hamish Hamilton $32.99 pb, 224 pp

In the modern literary landscape, the novel about a novelist writing a novel has become de rigueur. It can provide an ideal setting for a meditation on the complexities of living a creative life. Jessica Zhan Mei Yu’s début novel, But the Girl, follows in this contemporary tradition, but offers something more compelling than navel-gazing: a critique of classical literature, specifically the work of Sylvia Plath, through personal and academic lenses.

The novel considers Plath as both woman and writer through the eyes of its protagonist, referred to simply as Girl: an Asian-Australian student undertaking a residency in Scotland in order to write a postcolonial novel and a PhD on Plath’s poetry (‘Seriously, another Plath scholar? More ink spilled on this white woman in perpetua?’ asks another student incredulously). It takes a metatextual form, both inhabiting and deconstructing itself and its influences – Yu’s opening sentence riffs on the first lines of The Bell Jar, and she frequently pokes fun at the pretensions of the academic and literary worlds (Girl admits that she calls her work-in-progress a ‘postcolonial novel’ rather than an ‘immigrant novel’ even though she doesn’t know exactly what postcolonialism is).

Girl falls in love with The Bell Jar as an undergraduate student – ‘I felt something new, brand new… [it] kidnapped my mind clean away’ – and is just as quickly ‘hurt like hell’ to read Plath’s description of her own reflection as ‘a big, smudgy-eyed Chinese woman staring idiotically into my face’. Exploring the contradiction of being simultaneously seen and erased by literature, Yu dissects Plath’s mythology in a way that reflects the modern parlance of a ‘problematic fave’.

Girl’s inner monologue speaks to the common experience of internalised racism and misogyny: ‘I felt instinctively that while on the outside I was always going to be “Asian”, on the inside I was the brown-haired girl whose clothes spoke of a woman with a conspicuous and interesting inner life.’ When Girl is a highschool student, a male teacher who teaches but dislikes Plath takes a liking to her. She suppresses her growing fascination with the poet to parrot his opinions and gain his approval; when she summons the courage to offer her own vastly different interpretation, the approval is immediately revoked. It is an early example of a power struggle that plays out further in the academic setting and throughout within the family unit; much of the novel concerns Girl’s learning to reclaim interpersonal and intellectual space.

The thorny implications of race within institutional and personal relationships have been examined in recent Australian literature, such as Jessie Tu’s A Lonely Girl is a Dangerous Thing (2020). That novel and this one both interrogate expectations and impacts of filial piety and family sacrifice within the structure of a Künstlerroman.

Domestic and family life and history are an important element of the novel and wind throughout; Girl’s knotty family relationships are the first basis for her personhood, as important as the literature she later discovers. Her novel-in-progress is a work of diasporic contemplation, ‘made up of the past, of my family’s past, and how it felt to always be looking back at what happened’.

Memories and interactions concerning Girl’s parents, Ma and Ikanyu, and her grandmother Ah Ma, are threaded throughout But the Girl – some loving, some emotionally tense. Yu’s portrayal of these relationships is often brutal in its honesty. As in Alice Pung’s One Hundred Days (2021), the line between Asian cultural norms and what may appear to an outsider’s eye as abuse is blurred, but Yu applies both realism and sensitivity. She is unsentimental yet tender as she sketches these contours, but the walls break down when Girl’s disparate spheres collide and a loss tilts her world on its axis.

The novel also considers the intersection of class and race, particularly within the educational setting. One key relationship is with fellow student Clementine, a ‘frenemy’ of sorts who uses Girl as a subject for her painting. It is a hall of mirrors: Clementine perceives Girl through the making of art as Girl perceives Plath through the consumption of art; through both Clementine and Plath, Girl perceives herself, making and remaking the image reflected back at her.

Microaggressions within these ostensibly progressive social circles place Girl as a perpetual outsider. She feels defined by her race, even as she tries to transcend it, and the way she is perceived externally is immovable. When Clementine reduces Girl’s work to ‘diversity’ and she finally fights back, the white woman immediately bursts into tears. This interaction embodies the way in which white women can perpetuate racism through a victim complex, bringing to mind the theories laid out in Ruby Hamad’s White Tears, Brown Scars (2019).

The 2014 setting and Girl’s relative youth at twenty-two make some of these insights seem more profound than that time or age might have realistically offered; in life, many of these lessons are gleaned with the power of hindsight and experience, and these conversations are more likely to have happened in the last five years. But in giving her protagonist such a vivid interior dialogue through first-person narration, Yu allows the reader to access the looping and often contradictory thought patterns that might lead to these revelations, or at least sow the seeds for their later discovery.

On reading Plath’s journal, in which the author refers to herself as ‘faceless’, Girl thinks: ‘no immigrant in the West has ever thought of themselves as faceless because that would be to think of oneself as raceless’. With But the Girl, Yu offers a challenging and invigorating work of many faces. g

Giselle Au-Nhien Nguyen is a Vietnamese-Australian writer and critic based in Melbourne.

The perils of nostalgia

Helen MacDonald’s surprising new book

J.R. Burgmann

Prophet by Helen MacDonald and Sin Blaché

Jonathan Cape $34.99 pb, 480 pp

For those familiar with Helen MacDonald’s popular nature memoir H is for Hawk (2014), her latest work will come as a surprise. Prophet is many things, most of which bear little resemblance to any of MacDonald’s previous work. To begin with, Prophet is a co-authored work of fiction, a rare feature in the world of novelists, in which co-authors are often compelled to conceal such paratextual detail, as in Daniel Abraham and Ty Franck’s The Expanse series, published under the pen name James S. A. Corey. Where other narrative arts enjoy the cachet of collaboration, literature – in particular literary fiction – prefers the toil of the sole creator. It is only right, then, that Prophet is a bona-fide page turner made of equal parts spy thriller, science fiction, and romance. Germinated in collaborative back and forth over Zoom at the height of the pandemic, friends MacDonald and Sin Blaché have produced an action novel that, while carrying the troubling traces of the time, leans into the comforting diet of cultural nostalgia millions embraced during the binge-filled days of lockdown.

Prophet begins with the sudden and distinctly X-Files-like appearance of an American diner near a NATO airbase in Suffolk. Lit up and decked out in full postwar American glory, the ersatz diner has no foundations, plumbing, or source of electricity. Meanwhile, elsewhere on the base other curios appear out of nowhere – a Cabbage Patch doll, a Scrabble box, a Pac-Man arcade machine, and so on – around the same time as an airman’s self-immolation and death in a bonfire.

Enter Lieutenant Colonel Adam Rubenstein of the US Special Forces and Sunil Rao, a decadent, British-educated Indian man with former lives as an art and jewellery appraiser and MI6 agent, his suitability for which derives from a subtle superpower: Rao can tell a lie from the truth, what is fake from what is real.

Rao and Rubenstein begin as reluctant partners on the case; we learn via tense flashbacks that they previously worked together as operatives in Uzbekistan. But sure enough, as pages of turnedup clues and judo-chopped henchmen flick by, our reluctant globe-trotting detectives fall into raillery and even bromance. And yet, far from the narrow view of masculinity to which the buddy genre is normally shackled, MacDonald and Blaché paint an expansive and moving picture of male relationships that uncouples traditional treatments of identity in popular fiction, all still within a wonderfully pulp frame. Indeed, it is easy to see how primed Prophet is for progressive adaptation to the screen,

ideally – in this reviewer’s mind – directed by Rian Johnson, starring Dave Bautista as the burly Rubenstein and Dev Patel as the chaotic Rao.

With the ultimate narrative cheat code – Rao’s uncanny ability to discern truth – at their disposal, MacDonald and Blaché bypass much of the routine exposition and tiresome side missions that can weigh such novels down. As Rubenstein observes:

Rao’s knack for zeroing in on a person’s vulnerabilities, coupled with his extraordinary talent, his knowledge of the truth, makes Rao one of the most important intelligence assets in the world. Espionage rests on trust … on leverage, on betrayal, and Rao’s existence breaks the whole system.

The pair makes short work of an otherwise convoluted conspiracy, arriving eventually at a facility in Aurora, Colorado. Here they discover how the incident on the NATO airbase involved accidental exposure to a bioweapon, the eponymous Prophet, a virus-like substance that induces lethal nostalgia in its host, the curious symptoms of which include blissful stupor and a supernatural ability to conjure replicas of cherished childhood objects out of thin air. As our heroes edge closer to the entity behind the nefarious innerworkings of Prophet, they become increasingly entangled with the clandestine project’s stakes, and matters turn more Christopher Nolanesque, or, as Rao would have it, ‘more Twilight Zone’.

At this point in the novel’s latter half, those inclined towards nitpicking might find narrative threads to pluck at, unwinding the fabric of the text. But as its world building and internal logic stretch to their limits, so too its more captivating features are exposed. Beneath its blockbuster veneer, Prophet is a deceptively cerebral novel. As the plot ventures into more mind-bending, psychological terrain, continuity and consistency are not so much discarded as relegated beneath the more interesting aspects of the novel. For MacDonald and Blaché, it is clear the (b)romantic connection between Rubenstein and Rao drives the story; but it is through them, particularly their banter-filled dialogues, that larger questions concerning the nature of reality also arise. Rao’s supernatural ability might appear a crude and reductive shortcut along such lines of enquiry, but it his counterpart in Rubenstein, for whom he suffers a curious blind spot, that draws out the more philosophical, or more precisely epistemological, positions.

More strikingly, towards the denouement, as the nostalgiainducing Prophet wreaks havoc, this pacey novel provides an extensive critique of nostalgia itself. As a central organising feature of the text, or ‘novum’ as the cultural critic Darko Suvin would have it, the substance Prophet and how it affects its hosts comes to stand as a warning, albeit an ambivalent one, about the regressive temptations of nostalgia, particularly at a time when we face an uncertain social and planetary future. As Rubenstein ponders: ‘There must be something about Prophet that seeks out the part inside you that yearns for safety … Some kind of lure. A light to entice, an escape. An escape that’s a trap.’ g

J.R. Burgmann is a researcher at the Monash Climate Change Communication Research Hub. His first novel is Children of Tomorrow (Upswell, 2023).

Lucky Donald

Australia ‘spellbound in boredom’

Tom Wright

Donald Horne: A life in the lucky country

by Ryan Cropp

La Trobe University Press

$37.99 pb, 383 pp

‘I hold the view that the luckiest thing that happened to this country was being colonised by the British.’

John Howard

Here we are again, luck ringing over the land. Ryan Cropp’s new examination of the life and work of Donald Horne (1921–2005) comes out as we resume unpicking the gordian knot of what exactly is Australia. As Cropp observes, it has become impossible to describe this nation without the word luck, as if a continent rolls dice. It is the language of gamblers, of the complacent. It wasn’t introduced by Horne – any survey of the country’s newspapers will find Australia panegyrised or dismissed for riding its luck, but with the publication of The Lucky Country in 1964 Horne caught a truth in a sentence: ‘Australia is a lucky

country run by second-rate people who share its luck.’ It was Horne’s personal stroke of luck, changing him as it changed his country. In later years, when Horne became one of those people who ran the place, had Donald joined the second-raters, sharing the spoils of chance?

Antithetical to ‘luck’ is the idea of planning – preparation, work, systems, structurally leading to just sustainability. Cropp paints a young Horne bridling at the perfectionist rhetoric of centralised government; an anti-communist ideologue, something of a prig. John Anderson (professor of philosophy at Sydney) and Brian Penton (of the Sydney Daily Telegraph) loom like Gog and Magog as he ingratiates himself, impressing and annoying in equal measure, destined to become a Canberra mandarin. A young man easy to admire but hard to like, who falls into journalism, copies of Dickens, Tolstoy and Waugh under arm.

But what book is this? Is it another Great Expectations, where the wise reader waits for the protagonist to abandon erroneous beliefs? Is it a War and Peace, where a Cold War brawler shows his soft belly in times of plenty? Is it a Brideshead Revisited, wistful reassessment of a bygone time?

Cropp’s Horne of the 1950s is portrayed as sporadically brilliant, consistently hard-working, with the certitude of youth, if not recognisable as the future Seer of Woollahra. He is fundamentally a Packer man, learning concision and that curse of the journo – how to churn stuff out. (We come to see that these suit a reporter more than the feuilletonist. Just because you can churn stuff out doesn’t mean you should.) But Frank Packer’s world wasn’t only bullying and money, it was institutions (Smith’s Weekly, The Bulletin, Women’s Weekly) that defined the complacency

Writing that matters, wherever you go.

Horne was later to eviscerate. Up until the late 1960s he is a component of the Packer machine; it was only an enforced gap between editorships at the Bulletin that made The Lucky Country conceivable. Horne wasn’t an outsider, despite his protestations –he was an insider, and had been since the war. But, for a moment, he wasn’t inside the machine. (Even then, he was making a crust in advertising, still forming the images and desires of the country he found so problematic.)

We meet Horne walking around Edgecliff in 1962 in a dark night of the soul, his world view collapsing. It again feels like the behaviour of the heroes of those nineteenth-century novels Horne devoured in his youth. Much of his thinking wasn’t about Australia – to 2020s eyes, the absence of sustained interest in Indigenous Australia or the environment seems neglectful. But he was thinking deeply about Asia when few others were. And he was, by Australian standards, well travelled, repeatedly visiting Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Singapore, the Philippines, Malaysia, Indonesia. You would be forgiven for concluding that in the decade leading up to The Lucky Country he spent more time – literally and intellectually – in Asia than he did in Perth, or Hobart, or Broken Hill.

The overnight phenomenon of The Lucky Country –Cropp emphasises just how quickly it became ground zero of national navel-gazing, a genuine ‘event’– can obscure a subtle interpretation: deep down, Horne’s target is Robert Menzies and Arthur Calwell – the paternalism, complacency, patrician stodge of the former; the lumpen philistinism, unveiled racism, protectionist timidity of the latter. Add Robin Askin, Henry Bolte, Robert Cosgrove, David Brand, Thomas Playford, and, for that matter, Frank Packer. Cropp notes that the young Horne believed in the idea of the Great Man, but what happens when the men – as they all were – aren’t great?

After all, as The Lucky Country acknowledges, the deficiencies of mediocre leaders were laudable qualities in the anonymous Australian. The pragmatism and scepticism of the citizen in Pitt Street manifests as anti-intellectualism and mistrust of expertise at the top. A country ‘without a mind’. Horne’s gripe with those men was that they held Australia ‘spellbound in boredom’.

But what is this ‘Australia’ of which he wrote so confidently? The nation he inhabits in the years before The Lucky Country begins in Palm Beach and ends around Woden Valley. Horne’s progress is a Sydney story, and another meme of our history emerges: what happens in Sydney is of national significance, the rest is camping out.

It is clear from Cropp’s careful examination that Horne’s genius was as an explainer. From his culture-warrior youth to his days as the Dumbledore of Bondi Junction he could contextualise, cross-reference, articulate what had previously felt abstract. After The Lucky Country, he metamorphosed into a celebrity. It brought privileges of which even the Packer/Quadrant/advertising man couldn’t dream. When it became indisputable that the CIA had been funding most of the pages on which he’d waged his campaigns, that perhaps the principal foreign intervention in the intellectual life of the nation had been from Washington, not Moscow or Beijing, he was sanguine, moved on with a shrug. That was

then, this is now. Horne was reversing the old adage, making himself the story of a man who finds his heart, even if he loses his head.

And so Cropp takes us to the masterwork of Horne’s life, his ‘sociography’ The Education of Young Donald (1967), one of the great Australian books of the twentieth century: critical, readable, perspicacious. It works because Horne is fascinated by Donald Horne, with the solipsism and sheer front to interpret his life as emblematic of the nation. The existence of autobiography, as always, both complicates and eases the task of the subsequent biographer. If A Life in the Lucky Country might feel light on gossip, private details or colour, the man himself can provide that. But the biographer can point out that The Education of Young Donald didn’t just emerge from the ether. The Australia

that Horne had helped fashion via The Lucky Country found the confidence to describe itself. Cropp draws attention to the (male) fictional-autobiography-as-nationalist-exercise that was a feature of the early 1960s. My Brother Jack, The Watcher on the Cast-Iron Balcony, and The Merry-Go-Round in the Sea were all published within four years of Horne’s self-portrait. Add to that Robin Boyd’s The Australian Ugliness, which set up the idea of the Australian (male) public intellectual as a Jeremiah bemoaning our featurist failings, and the soil was rich for The Book of The Lucky Donald.

Horne saw a great deal of the world, and in his later years criss-crossed the continent, ‘lecturing to the windscreen’ salient facts of each town. He apotheosised into National Treasure, defender of the High Arts, advocate of the Republic, causes which to younger Australian minds now might seem quaint or recherché. It isn’t Waugh, or Tolstoy, or Dickens. It’s something else – ours. And in Ryan Cropp, old Donald has found a portraitist up to the task. g

Tom Wright has written for the stage for thirty years and has been artistic associate at Belvoir Street Theatre since 2015.

Donald and Myfanwy Horne in Europe in the late 1970s (courtesy of Julia and Nick Horne)

Capturing the mood

A new addition to a tricky genre

Zora Simic

by Graeme Turner

University of Queensland Press

$32.99 pb, 232 pp

‘State-of-the-nation’ books are a tricky genre: for every The Lucky Country (1964), Donald Horne’s bestselling indictment of 1960s Australia, there must be at least a dozen more which fall swiftly into obsolescence. Yet this common fate is not necessarily a bad thing: such books are meant to be timely, not timeless. As an intervention into the contemporary moment, such texts’ success or value resides in fresh and useful analysis which is currently lacking elsewhere; and the ability of the author to capture a mood that is, if not ‘national’, at least pervasive enough to be widely recognisable. At the same time, it helps if that mood has not yet been properly articulated. To raise the bar further, the best of them offer both vital historical perspective and a path forward, and are written in a persuasive and accessible style which stops short of polemic but resists hesitant equivocation.

Historically, the ‘state-of-the-nation’ book has been a masculinist genre, dependent on a notable degree of established cultural authority, though there have been feminist challenges or alternatives, and notable exceptions and shifts (Julianne Schultz’s widely praised publication The Idea of Australia: A search for the soul of the nation [2022] springs to mind). Relatedly, the authors are typically invested in something called the ‘nation’, however critical they may be of its present manifestation. In Horne’s case, it was a nascent sense of what the nation could be or was slowly becoming, as it unshackled itself from decades of complacent parochialism, epitomised by the White Australia policy, then still in effect, but under increasing public scrutiny as well as political reform.

On the basis of the generic criteria sketched above, Graeme Turner’s latest (and approximately thirtieth) book, The Shrinking Nation: How we got here and what can be done about it, hits its marks. His argument that the nation has shrunk – ‘that it is now less than it was, and less than it should be’ – is compelling, especially as he begins with the ‘dysfunctional state of Australian political culture’. The features he identifies – rotating leaders, most of them ‘professional politicians’ devoid of vision beyond political survival; systemic corruption with a corresponding lack of accountability; and the punitive cruelty of bipartisan border

policies, to name just a few – are so entrenched that most readers will find a catalogue of them depressing and familiar reading. Still, it is a necessary starting point for a wider discussion of the corrosive effects of rolling cultural wars and economic rationalism, or more broadly neoliberalism, on public life and its key institutions, including the public service, universities, and the media.

An adept synthesiser and generous scholar, Turner navigates the terrain with due recognition of the contributions of others, from well-known political and economic commentators such as Laura Tingle, Bernard Keane, Sean Kelly, Ross Gittins, Richard Denniss, and George Megalogenis (currently Australia’s most prolific and consistently insightful ‘state-of-the-nation’ writer) through to academic experts such as Harvard historians Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, authors of How Democracies Die (2018), and fellow cultural and media studies scholars, including Mark Andrejevic, author of Automated Media (2019).

Turner does not always entirely concur with those he cites (when it comes to the pros and cons of social media, for instance, he veers towards the pessimistic camp), but he does model a respect for knowledge and expertise which he argues has been devalued by mainstream politics and media. In making this case, Turner acknowledges US writer Tom Nichols’s book The Death of Expertise: The campaign against established knowledge and why it matters (2017), while pointing out what is distinctive about Australia. Here, the ‘public engagement of academics’ has ‘shrunk significantly over time’, a development that Turner explains is at least partly due to the ‘manner in which the politicians and the media have treated them’ and ‘Australia’s residual anti-intellectualism – which is always there to be revived, even when apparently dormant, in the service of political interests’.

Throughout, Turner draws on his own past research. It is at these points that The Shrinking Nation begins to transcend the limits of the ‘state-of-the-nation’ genre. As a long-time observer of, and participant in, ‘national’ culture (variously defined, including by him), Turner – an inaugurating and hugely influential figure in cultural studies and its offshoots in Australia – is uniquely and generatively placed to explain ‘how we got here’ and to defend a positive sense of the ‘nation’ against its more insidious and divisive variants. Harking back to one of his best-known books, Making it National: Nationalism and Australian popular culture (1994), Turner notes ‘the many warning signs’ that prefaced our contemporary moment, including how high-profile businessmen like Alan Bond and John Elliott harnessed the cultural nationalism of the time for their own profitable interests. Elsewhere, Turner laments what he sees as the dismal state of ‘legacy media’, such as television news and current affairs, with reference to his book Ending the Affair: The decline of television current affairs in Australia (2005).

Ever alert to the contradictory effects of social and cultural change, and keenly aware that ‘the project of nation formation has gradually moved into background of most western democracies’,

The Shrinking Nation: How we got here and what can be done about it

Graeme Turner (Russel Shakespeare via University of Queensland Press)

Turner carefully argues for its updated continuation and for the benefits of Benedict Anderson’s now unfashionable concept of an ‘imagined community’. On this front, he is most convincing when offering specific suggestions, as he does when citing his recent collaborative research on shifts in Australian cultural policy to argue for an updated version of the Keating government’s Creative Nation policy statement of 1994.

When surveying the contemporary cultural landscape for positive signs of national culture or renewal, however, Turner is on shakier ground – not because there are no examples (he provides plenty), but because he missed opportunities to offer nuance or closer analysis at crucial points. Public mourning over the death of cricketer Shane Warne, for example, is uncritically elevated to a ‘national celebration’ which delivered ‘the pleasures of belonging’. And while sensitive to the enduring racism and sexism of dominant national imaginaries, Turner approvingly notes the ‘heightened visibility’ of ‘young, Indigenous women in public debate’ without naming any of them, or engaging with their ideas. Then again, if he had foregrounded Chelsea Watego’s Another Day in the Colony (2021) or any number of challenges

Of spies and lies

Two books about the dangers of deception

Michael Sexton

The life of a spy is based on lies, but both these books make an attempt to separate fact from fiction in the stories of their subjects.

The first book tells the remarkable story of how an Australian from a rather unlikely background rose almost to the top of Britain’s foreign spy service, MI6, and was later accused of being not just a double but a triple agent. Charles Howard Ellis, always known as Dick, was born in 1895 in Sydney’s inner-west suburb of Annandale. His mother died when he was four years old. Together with his father, he led an itinerant life as a child and adolescent, even working as a professional cellist in Melbourne. In June 1914, he took ship for England. Arriving just as the Great War commenced, he enlisted in the British Army. Wounded at the Somme and promoted to captain, he finished the war engaged in military intelligence operations in Persia and Russia.

In the decade after the war, Ellis moved to the same kind of work in the Foreign Office and then, after Russian language training at Oxford University, to MI6, with postings to Constantinople, Berlin, and Geneva. Sometimes his real role was dis-

to ‘so-called Australia’ from First Nations writers, the notion of a ‘people’s nation’ would be harder to envision and defend. State-of-the-nation books can capture the Zeitgeist, but always run the risk of being outrun by history itself. As a new addition to the genre, The Shrinking Nation is thoughtful, wellinformed and sometimes rousing, elegantly written by a cultural historian who has long valued publicly engaged scholarship. While some aspects are already inevitably dated (the notion of an Indigenous Voice to Parliament has become much more divisive), much of what Turner describes is still playing out, and will do so for some time. But even as Turner impressively meets the state-of-the-nation brief, he also leaves the ‘we’ to whom his assessment is addressed unexamined. With the proliferation of alternative perspectives on Australia, from the writings of Behrouz Boochani to the edited collections of Sweatshop – developments Turner does not canvass – the limits of the genre have arguably never been more apparent. g

Zora Simic is a Senior Lecturer in History and Gender Studies at the University of New South Wales

guised as a member of British Embassy staff in these places, but more often he was nominally employed as a foreign correspondent for the Morning Post newspaper. After spending most of the 1930s in London, he went in 1940 to New York, now with the rank of colonel, to be second in charge of the British intelligence presence in the United States, where he helped set up the Office of Strategic Services, later converted into the CIA. In 1944, he returned to the United Kingdom and was put in charge of operations for the Far East and the Americas. Six years later, he was in Canberra to advise on the operations of the newly formed ASIO. After alternating for some years between England and Australia, he retired to the United Kingdom in 1957 but was soon back with MI6.

My Mother the Spy by Cindy Dobbin and Freda Marnie Nicholls Allen & Unwin $34.99 pb, 320pp

The Eagle in the Mirror by Jesse Fink Viking $34.99 pb, 352 pp

Ellis’s defaced student portrait, Oxford University, 1921. The notation in Russian reads ‘Anarchist’ (National Library of Australia from The Eagle in the Mirror)

In the mid-1960s, Ellis was interrogated at length inside MI6 about allegations that he had provided information to the Germans in the 1930s and to the Soviets in the years after the war. None of this was public at the time, and Ellis died in 1975, but in 1981 the British journalist Chapman Pincher published an explosive book, Their Trade is Treachery, alleging that Sir Roger Hollis, a former head of sister agency MI5, had been a Soviet agent and that Ellis had been a triple agent. These charges were reiterated in Spycatcher (1987), by Peter Wright, who had been Pincher’s chief source and one of Ellis’s interrogators. Spycatcher was the source of litigation in Australia when the British government unsuccessfully attempted to prevent its publication here after successfully doing so in Britain.

Masson was born in Sydney in 1913 and worked as a journalist in Melbourne and Newcastle in the late 1930s and early 1940s. It was while working for the Daily Telegraph in Sydney in 1945 that she began to act as a source for naval intelligence and then for the Commonwealth Investigation Service. She moved between the Commonwealth bureaucracy and journalism while still carrying out this double role, albeit seemingly without payment. She was picked up as an informant by ASIO soon after its establishment in 1949. ASIO did provide some financial support to Masson, but its extent is unclear.

At this time, ASIO was largely concerned with the Australian Communist Party and its front organisations. Until the election of the Whitlam government in 1972, ASIO saw nearly all threats to national security as coming from left-wing organisations and individuals, including innocuous opponents of the Vietnam War in the 1960s. But in the immediate postwar years, Communist Party members were loyal only to the Soviet Union and, as the book makes clear, were prepared to spy for it if able to obtain access to classified information.

It is not always easy to track these confusing events through the book, which really needed a good editor, but the author, who is a strong defender of Ellis, concludes that there is no real evidence to support the theory of his having been a Soviet agent. As to the provision of information to the Germans in the 1930s, it may be that Ellis admitted to this, and it may also be that it was done, if at all, on orders from superiors who wanted to maintain contact with German intelligence. It must be remembered that in the 1950s and the 1960s Western intelligence agencies were obsessed with the notion of the mole who had infiltrated their ranks and supplied all their secrets to the Soviets. There were, of course, moles – Kim Philby at MI6 was the most famous of them. Often these mole hunts took over the whole organisation and paralysed its operations. If this book tells us anything, it is the difficulty of knowing the truth of anything in the world of the security services.

As already noted, Ellis had an involvement with ASIO in its early days. It is this organisation that is at the heart of the story of Mercia Masson, as told by Freda Marnie Nicholls with the assistance of Masson’s daughter, Cindy Dobbin.

One of Masson’s communist contacts was a journalist with the party’s newspaper Tribune, Rex Chiplin, who was a member of the Canberra press gallery. Masson and Chiplin confronted each other at the Royal Commission established in 1954 to consider Soviet espionage activity in Australia in the light of the defection of Soviet diplomat Vladimir Petrov. Although her evidence was to be given in secret session, Masson did not want to appear before the Commission, but it insisted. The public was duly excluded, yet Chiplin was present as a subject of the Commission’s interest. He was no doubt astonished when Masson’s double role was revealed. He retaliated by suggesting that she had given him classified material when working in one of her public service positions, although the Commission rejected this as untrue.

Chiplin may have had the last word. In an article in the British Guardian in December 1955, Masson was named as an ASIO agent and described as a ‘florid, gushing, gossipy, neurotic woman’ who was ‘loyal to nobody’. The article was then reprinted in Tribune. Even before this publication, however, her evidence before the Commission had been made public and, although her name was not used, her identity would have been clear to quite a number of her friends and acquaintances.

Over the next twenty years, until her death in 1975, Masson went back to journalism, largely with the ABC, and became involved in the arts world in Sydney. Sometime after her death, her daughter discovered that ASIO had paid for her mother’s funeral, showing some loyalty to its former agent in this final gesture.

Both these books demonstrate that in a world based on lies, however necessary they may be in the national interest, there are just as many dangers for spies as there are for the victims of their deception. g

Michael Sexton is Solicitor-General for New South Wales.

Mercia Masson at Kilcare (from My Mother the Spy)

The motions of romance

Celine Song’s first feature film

Michael Sun

One trope of the film business concerns the bright young débutante who is lavished with praise. In this narrative, the first-time director emerges from the soil in full bloom. They have made a competent movie, perhaps even a good one – though certainly not the epochal effort the adulation would have you believe. Critics and industry Svengalis latch on, lubricating the hype machine. The thrill of discovery always prevails over the film’s quality.

Such is the case with Celine Song, whose semi-autobiographical first feature, Past Lives (StudioCanal), premièred at Sundance earlier this year to rapturous approbation. Early festival reviews crowned it one of the best films of 2023 – in January.

Those with one eye trained on the Hollywood press might feel hoodwinked while watching Past Lives, a film which reaches for giddy emotional heights while remaining altogether too earthbound. Its ambitions are clear: spanning multiple decades and continents, it is ostensibly the tale of two grand tragedies. The first is a love, found and lost; the second is a series of immigrations. Both engender heartache, a yen for people and places forfeited to history.

After a brief prologue set in the present, we are shuttled back twenty-four years and meet the central pair whose paths will converge twice more in the film. Here, they are tweens: the precocious, stubborn Na Young (Seung-ah Moon) and her schoolyard crush, Hae Sung (Seung-min Yim). Na Young’s family, preparing for an imminent move from Seoul to Canada, pack the detritus of their lives into cardboard boxes. The childhood sweethearts convene for one last hurrah: a date at a sculpture park.

We are never privy to the precise impetus behind the move. Why would anyone in no immediate danger uproot their life, but for the distant fantasy of opportunity? They are immigrating, sniffs Na Young, ‘because Koreans don’t win the Nobel Prize in literature’. She’s meant to be the stubborn one, but it is Hae Sung who will think of her again and again as their lives spiral away from one another.

The narrative ruptures, flashing forward twelve years. It is the early 2010s, made startlingly clear by a Skype tone ringing from a laptop – that carol of displacement. Na Young is now Nora (Greta Lee), a recent transplant to New York City; Hae Sung

(played as an adult by Teo Yoo), back in South Korea, has just completed his mandatory military service. They have not spoken since childhood, but – buoyed by the nascent thrills of social media – they reconnect over stuttering video calls.

At first, the pair can merely gawp at each other, incredulous. They practise a kind of necromancy, communing with their tween-aged selves. The illusion cannot hold. Skype streams blister into a splutter of pixels; their conversations become a parade of stilted sounds and lagging frames. ‘Can you hear me?’ they repeat like a prayer. Soon, their reunion falls prey to an antagonist impervious to their human travails: the internet. Their love story is doomed to evanescence. Nora watches Hae Sung slip away into the imposing void of a blank screen.

Song, who wrote and directed Past Lives after a decade-long career as a playwright, frames these initial two acts deftly. They are economical fragments of storytelling which compress tidal waves of fervour into compact gestures: the way Hae Sung cracks open like a sunburst when he first witnesses Nora as an adult; or, later, once they have ceased communications, the creeping smile across Nora’s face as she peers into the crepuscular landscape of an artists’ retreat upstate, imagining her future unravelling before her. The success of both characters relies on Lee’s and Yoo’s adroitness as actors conjuring something close to childish glee.

The problem lies in the film’s final third, which hops forward another twelve years to the present. Nora is a flourishing playwright married to a fellow writer, the nebbish Arthur (John Magaro). Hae Sung, whose life remains mysterious to us beyond the basic facts of his job and his continued longing for Nora, visits America for a weeklong sojourn, hoping to glimpse his childhood sweetheart once more.

Past Lives, thus far, has been building towards a seismic conclusion. Nora and Hae Sung have not seen each other in person for more than two decades; we wait breathlessly for all the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ tension to erupt when they finally meet as thirty-somethings. But the moment is oddly devoid of frisson. We cut away to a flashback from their sculpture park date as testament to the longevity of their spark, but it only heightens the gulf between these two adults who, despite Song’s best efforts, remain acquaintances at best.

The film grows tedious as Nora and Hae Sung, for the duration of his trip, meander through the city, any hint of desire sublimated beneath the patter of small talk. These longueurs are aggressively tasteful, soundtracked by noodly strums and celestial twinkles, rendered in gauzy light speckled with the patina of film grain. And yet Song mistakes aesthetic beauty for true profundity. There is no entropy to her characters’ relationship; they perform the motions of romance without ever succumbing to its unruly instincts. Desire, like immigration, must entail a degree of violence – a part of one’s being sacrificed to the heat of yearning. In Past Lives, both experiences leave their sufferers unscathed. Nora, per her own admission, is content in America; the film is shorn of jealousy, grief, or even pleasure, in favour of a placid, chaste maturity. Tethered to their current lives, Nora and Hae Sung simply accept the immutability of things. What they once shared floats above them like a dream. But to vocalise a dream is to rob it of its immediacy, to render it trite. Sometimes it’s best kept to yourself. g

Greta Lee as Nora and Teo Yoo as Hae Sung

Inside Willy’s head

A magnetic production of Arthur Miller’s classic Diane Stubbings

are cancelled by lapses of time, by events occurring in separate places, by the hiatus of memory’ – is heightened by the presence on the bleachers of those friends and acquaintances who people Willy’s memory, a relentless reminder of his own failures. They watch Willy as he struggles to drag himself out of the chasm between his dreams and his reality. They are spectators, looking down on him, judging him. In Anthony LaPaglia’s Willy – in his gait, his breathlessness, his irritability – we feel the burden of their presence.

The advantages are, however, outweighed by the disadvantages. The staging runs counter to one of the central calamities of Willy’s life – that he is a man who passes through the world unnoticed. It distances us from Willy’s reality and robs us of its depth, an effect heightened by a soundscape (Alan John and David Greasley) whose tone, at times, seems at odds with the play’s mood.

In his survey of the notebook Arthur Miller kept while writing  Death of a Salesman (1949), John Lahr, in  Arthur Miller: American witness (2022), relates that early in its composition Miller considered calling the play ‘The Inside of His Head’. Correspondingly,Miller envisioned the stage ‘designed in the shape of a head, with the action taking place inside it’.

Miller’s instinct to discard the blatant symbolism of both the proposed title and its related design aligned with his realisation that much of the play’s drama arises from the tension between past and present; between a man’s vision of himself and the way the world receives him. As Miller writes in his notebook: ‘We live in a world made by man and the past. Form is the tension of these interconnections: man with man, man with the past and present environment. The drama at its best is a mass experience of this tension.’

Death of a Salesman was moving into production when, under the creative team of director Elia Kazan and designer Jo Mielziner, a solution was found to how the play might best be staged. The design encompassed ‘a series of platforms, with Willy’s house as a haunting omnipresent background’, a set rendered by Miller in his stage directions for the subsequently published text of the play as a place of ‘towering angular shapes … a solid vault of apartment buildings around a small fragile-seeming home’.

In his new production at Melbourne’s Her Majesty’s Theatre (ends 15 October), director Neil Armfield transfers the action from Willy’s house to a set of steeply raked bleachers looking out over Ebbets field, the high-school stadium where Willy Loman’s elder son Biff shone as captain of the football team (design by Dale Ferguson). As we will soon learn, Biff’s glory days are shortlived: ‘His life ended after that Ebbets Field game. From the age of seventeen nothing good ever happened to him.’

Armfield’s decision to stage the play not in a version of the Loman home but in the more emblematic space of Ebbets Field has its advantages. Miller’s intention for the play – as his notebooks tell us, to dramatise that ‘we’re thinking on several planes at the same time … [t]hat life is formless – its interconnections

A card table and a few chairs on the edge of the stage are unable to ground us in the sense of a present moment, in the daily reality with which Willy’s memories, his regressions into the past, are in constant conflict. We see none of the material accumulations of his life, the appliances that break down just as they are finally paid off, the house that is being devoured by the ravenous city around it. When, at the beginning of the play, Willy says to his wife, Linda (Alison Whyte), ‘It’s alright. I came back’ – lines which, according to Miller, encapsulate the entire tragedy of the play – it is not clear to what Willy is returning. Nor does it indicate anything of that other place – literal and metaphorical – at which he has failed to arrive.

As Willy, LaPaglia lumbers about the stage, seeming at times to shrink inside himself. When he says he is a man ‘tired to the death’, the exhaustion is there in the way he carries himself, the hand that touches constantly at his chest, unconsciously recognising the pain he carries within himself, a sorrow to which he can’t, or won’t, give expression. This is a man who knows he has nothing left to sell, yet there is a bullishness within him that will not abandon his determination that ‘the greatest things can happen’, and that he and his sons – Biff and Happy – will be the root and branch of those ‘greatest things’.

Crammed with the belief that his own life might yet be salvaged by his sons’ triumphs – Happy’s future work prospects, his promise that he’s getting married; a sporting goods company financed by one of Biff’s former bosses – LaPaglia’s Willy seems to grow taller, struts about and slaps his hands together as though, at last, his time has come. When the stark reality hits – that Happy is, as Linda stresses, ‘a philandering bum’ and any potential greatness Biff possessed has been long ago wrung from him – Willy roars, defying to the last his own realisation that he is a man who has not been, and never will be, noticed. For an actor to find the balance necessary for the role, one that embodies Willy’s invisibility to the world while also saturating Willy’s life with an ambition so blighted we cannot look away from him, is not an easy thing. LaPaglia triumphs. It’s a magnetic and moving performance.

LaPaglia is finely supported by the rest of the cast. Josh Helman as Biff reminds us that this is as much Biff’s tragedy as Willy’s. In those scenes where the boy-Biff readies himself for his big game, for the college scholarships that will be his if he gets through high school, there is in Helman’s face and in his bearing a frightening uncertainty, as though Biff knows, even as a boy, that

Alison Whyte as Linda Loman and Anthony LaPaglia as Willy Loman in Death of a Salesman at Her Majesty’s Theatre (Jeff Busby)

Willy’s assertion that he will, one day, be magnificent – that magnificence is no less than Biff deserves – is a delusion. In his final battle with Willy, there are in the slump and weariness of his body hints of the same burdens, the same unrealised dreams, that have oppressed Willy. This is a man who knows that his entire life has been sacrificed to Willy’s impossible aspirations and to the future of never-ending failure that accompanies such aspirations. Even so, Biff cannot tear the love he has for his father from his heart.

Alison Whyte is terrific as Linda, the wife who has enabled her husband’s self-deception and his aggrandising visions of their sons’ futures. Her harsh doses of the truth – telling her sons they are ‘a pair of animals’ – cut through like a knife. Despite the straight-backed strength with which Whyte imbues her, Linda recognises both the tragedy that is unfolding before her eyes and her own inability to stop it.

As Happy, Sean Keenan has the matinee-idol innocence of a man who can blithely sleep with his colleagues’ fiancées

into the African jungle, discovered diamond mines, and walked out four years later a wealthy man. Piper’s characterisation pushes too hard at Miller’s stage direction that Ben should have ‘an aura of far places about him’, an effect not helped by a costume that makes him look more like a plantation owner from the pre-Civil War south than a business tycoon.

Italo Calvino defined a classic as a text that ‘has never finished saying what it has to say’. Despite speaking very much to its times – an America that, in 1949, had come through the Great Depression and then, according to Lahr, ‘fought a world war to keep the nation’s democratic dream alive; that dream was, broadly speaking, a dream of self-realisation’ – the play resonates keenly with our own times. Like Miller’s other great classic, The Crucible  (1953),  Death of a Salesman now tells both a historical story and a contemporary one.

In the decades after World War II, American aspiration morphed into, Lahr contends, a culture of envy, ‘a process of invidious comparison that drives society forward but also drives it crazy’. As Miller himself noted of the times, individuals fight and compete against each other ‘not because it’s flowing from me but because it’s flowing against him … You’re living in a mirror. It’s a life of reflections. Emptiness. Emptiness. Emptiness.’

This urgency to get ahead at the expense of others, to sell yourself to attain some impossible dream, to feed the agitation and anger emanating from the sense of a world conspiring against you – a world that refuses to notice you on your own terms – is perhaps the defining affliction of our own times. From the politicians who govern against the opposition rather than for the people, to the social media selfpromoters who sell themselves in exchange for a nanosecond of notice, all are grasping at this same emptiness.

without arousing anyone’s suspicions. Keenan is all good looks and superficiality, prepared to say whatever is necessary to avoid a confrontation. Tom Stokes as Bernard is a revelation, pivoting with ease from the nerdy teenager who idolised Biff to a dignified lawyer about to argue a case before the Supreme Court.

Perhaps the only false note is Richard Piper as Willy’s hyper-successful brother Ben who, at the age of seventeen, walked

When, in the play’s final scene, Linda laments over Willy’s grave, telling him that their mortgage is finally paid and that ‘We’re free … We’re free … We’re free’, the irony is palpable. Biff and Happy might now have access to an insurance pay-out, but we sense the ‘greatest things’ are unlikely to ensue from it.

In the end, Willy’s suicide is, as Lahr stresses, ‘the ultimate expression of his belief in winning at all costs’, a refusal to recognise that there is no winning when you have, as Miller says of Willy, competed yourself to death. g

Diane Stubbings is a writer and critic based in Melbourne.

Death of a Salesman at Her Majesty’s Theatre (Jeff Busby)

Words, words, words

An early absurdist play from Eugène Ionesco

Ian Dickson

iOTA and Paul Capsis (Phil Erbacher)

The French-Romanian playwright Eugène Ionesco’s ambivalent attitude towards the power, even the usefulness, of language played out throughout his career. Speaking of Jean-Paul Sartre, Ionesco (1909–94) said that he ‘wrote an important book called  Words  and there he noticed that he had talked too much all his life. That words are not saying anything.’ Later, Ionesco claimed that ‘[w]ords no longer demonstrate anything. Words just chatter. Words are escapism. Words prevent the utterance of silence.’

Writing in the shadow of World War II, the Holocaust, Hiroshima, and Theodore W. Adorno’s maxim that there could be no more poetry after Auschwitz, Ionesco was one of the leading playwrights profiled in Martin Esslin’s hugely influential The Theatre of the Absurd (1961). In Ionesco’s description: ‘Absurd is that which is devoid of purpose … Cut off from his religious, metaphysical and transcendental roots, man is lost: all his actions become senseless, absurd, useless.’

This repudiation of language did not prevent Ionesco from writing countless essays, an autobiography, and several plays. While his fellow absurdist Samuel Beckett gradually moved towards silence in his works, Ionesco became more verbose. But the words his characters utter have little effect. In The Killer (1958), Ionescu’s everyman, Berenger, is faced with a homicidal maniac. In a lengthy, bravura speech, he uses every kind of argument to make the giggling grotesque desist. But his desperate platitudes are useless and he ends up another of the killer’s victims.

The Chairs (1952) is an early exploration of this theme. In a gloomy tower surrounded by water, an ancient couple reminisce and bicker as they prepare for the appearance of guests who will come to hear the husband’s message to mankind, a message he claims will save the world. As the guests – invisible to us in the audience but real to them – arrive, chairs are dragged out and the couple become more frantic as the crowd grows and the Orator, who will present the husband’s message, delays his arrival. Eventually, to the couple’s ecstatic relief, he appears but, this being Ionesco, the message remains a mystery.

In our post-truth world, flooded with increasingly insane

conspiracy theories, climate-change denialists, and blatant political lies, Ionesco’s question – do words really any longer have meaning? – has an ominous relevance.

The play’s first production, at the tiny Théâtre Lancry in Paris, though meticulously rehearsed, was a somewhat ad hoc affair, with Ionesco still trying to scrounge chairs from local cafés on the day of the première. At the equally tiny Old Fitz in Sydney, director Gale Edwards and designer Brian Thomson –whose previous excursion into absurdism for Red Line,  Krapp’s Last Tape, was a highlight of the 2019 season – have cleverly conquered the logistics of the piece. A red circle is backed by a clutter of untidily stacked chairs leaning against walls that are painted with large-headed stick figures who will become standing members of the capacity crowd. In a corner and out of focus, a screen depicts the stage action. Even in this remote location, the couple are being observed.

There are two ways of presenting the couple. Either they can be played naturalistically, as a recognisable old pair in a surreal situation, or you can abandon any attempt at naturalism and present them as expressionistic grotesques. When you cast Paul Capsis and iOTA in the roles, it is obvious in which direction you want to go. What makes this production so poignant is that, even at their most farcical, Capsis and iOTA still manage to find the humanity in their characters.

In this gender-fluid production (which continues at the Old Fitz until 15 October 2023), Capsis plays the character Ionesco calls the old woman and the old man calls Semiramis. Capsis is hilarious as he beats off the advances of one guest and races off another. As the crowd grows, he scurries around maniacally, dragging in yet more chairs and eventually selling programs and the odd ice cream. But Capsis never lets us forget that this is being done out of the devotion and belief Semiramis has for her husband. Her constant proposition that he could have been a great success if things had turned out differently comes across as both balm and irritation to her conflicted spouse.

iOTA’s old man is a more complicated character. Convinced that he has the answer to the world’s problems, he can still be reduced to a weeping wreck calling for his mother. He is both steely and vulnerable. At one point, as he rants about the world he wants to create, one can imagine the sort of leader he would have become if given the chance. He has the self-belief and narcissism of the born autocrat.

Angela Doherty’s costumes morph from institutional burlap to somewhat tacky finery as the pair ready themselves for the occasion. Benjamin Brockman’s lighting and Zac Saric’s sound design work effectively.

Given the limitations of the Old Fitz stage, compromise was inevitable, but Edwards’s rejigged ending works brilliantly, and she remains faithful to Ionesco by having the audience sit quietly as we hear the ghost audience leave. Which gave this reviewer a chance to contemplate his next outing with words.

P.S. Red Line, could you please reassemble the team for a production of Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi g

Ian Dickson has degrees in drama from Yale and the University of New South Wales, and is the co-author of the musical  Better Known As Bee

From the Archive

It is a truism that First Nations literature has received serious critical attention only in the past decade. The ABR archive confirms the under-representation of Indigenous voices and critical appraisals of foundational works in Indigenous literature. But it also contains gems – works by and about Oodgeroo, Lionel Fogarty, Kim Scott, Alexis Wright, and many more, plus this review of Melissa Lucashenko’s Mullumbimby by Tony Birch, published in the May 2013 issue of ABR. Novelist, poet, historian, and short-story writer Tony Birch described Lucashenko’s novel as ‘funny and sad … endearing and abrasive’. See page fifty-three for Jeanine Leane’s review of Lucashenko’s latest work, Edenglassie.

Mullumbimby is a humorous, heartfelt, occasionally abrasive and brave work by a writer with an acute ear for language, an eye for subtle beauty, and a nose honed to sniff bullshit at a thousand paces. A sculptural work, produced by the author and photographed for the cover of the novel, is a bird’s nest, crafted from twigs, various grasses, and earth. It conveys a sense of sanctuary and genuine protection (as opposed to the institutional and violent ‘protection’ Indigenous people have been subject to throughout colonial occupation). But look a little closer at the image and you will notice that the nest is woven into a thorny crown of rusting barbed wire; a simple but effective invention that for the past one hundred and fifty years has maimed, ensnared, and enclosed animals, people, and land.

The image, weighty with symbolism, is also relevant to the story. Jo Breen, the protagonist of Mullumbimby, is a single mother, Goorie (an Aboriginal person from far northern New South Wales or south-eastern Australia), and as tough and stubborn as her increasingly free-thinking teenage daughter, Ellen. Jo is also, as the nurturing environment of the nest evokes, fiercely protective of her family, warm, and generous. She takes no prisoners in defending her family, her identity, her culture, her (freehold) piece of land, and her beloved animals.

When we first meet Jo, she is tending the grass between the graves at the cemetery, a place where the local Dugai (whitefellas) are not only buried but commemorated and remembered with certainty, while Jo’s own legitimacy as an Aboriginal woman, and the legitimacy of Aboriginal history and culture more generally, remain suspect Her relationship to land, expressed throughout the novel, is conveyed through the struggles and community disputes erupting as a consequence of Native Title, white Australia’s arrogant coveting of land, and the daily interaction with and immersion in land, experienced in an at times visceral manner by Jo, through blood, mud, tears, and death. She also knows the land spiritually, not so much in words but intuitively and organically. An inspirational aspect of Jo Breen’s connection to land is that it is a lived experience, absorbed by her with respectful humility.

The novel ranges over tough issues, such as who is a ‘real Aborigine’? It deals with the fractious consequences of Native Title legislation, domestic violence, and the spectre of child abuse. In the hands of a lesser writer, the outcome could have been a didactic and polemical work. Instead, Lucashenko has produced a story suffused with dark humour (half a pun intended), emotion,

and sensuality. It involves an ensemble cast of misfits, both black and white, human and non-human animals, the living and the revered dead. It is both a funny and sad novel, endearing and abrasive.

Jo is a wonderfully rounded character. While it appears that she might be about to bite off the nearest head at any moment, she is much smarter than that. She knows who and when to bite, when to comfort, and when to love. She also knows a good-looking (and potentially dangerous) catch when she sees one; such as Twoboy, the handsome, dreadlocked Aboriginal man who suddenly turns up from down south, to lay claim to his ancestral land; a man who, like many characters in the novel, defies stereotype (‘fuck me sideways he’s carrying a book’).

References to literature and books appear at important moments in the novel. While Dugai outsiders may dismiss Jo as a poorly educated, uncultured ‘fringe-dweller’, she is not only invested in and always learning from her own culture, but she also knows the whitefella stuff thank-you-very-much, such as quoting Walt Whitman. The complexity of her personality is vital to the success of the book. Jo is a whole person. She is fully dimensional as opposed to an Aboriginal caricature or the walking, talking cliché of a comfortable whitefella Dreaming we are often exposed to.

While the novel is written with an ear for the vernacular, Lucashenko is a fine literary writer. The ‘mongrel’ ingredients of Indigenous language, Aboriginal English, and a regional collective slang produce an aural and visual poetry. Language is used to heighten drama, as well as to offer poignancy and comic relief, a humanist quality of the book. There is a longish scene in the novel, written with such craft that I have already gone over the passage several times. To avoid a spoiler, I will not discuss the scene in detail. It involves Jo in her search for one of her loved horses, Comet. When, desperately looking for her horse, she searches the farm after heavy rain, we are drawn into the search with her and share Jo’s frustration, anger, and sadness.

Melissa Lucashenko is an intelligent writer who, with Mullumbimby, has gifted readers an opportunity. Race relations between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people in Australia are a difficult issue to comprehend, while attempting to comprehend relations within Aboriginal communities is an equally difficult terrain to navigate. This book will most likely leave you laughing and crying at the same time. As importantly, it will leave you thinking. g

Tony Birch, Matthew Condon, Andrew Fuhrmann, Hayley Katzen, Jan McGuinness, Rachel Robertson, John Tranter