Land of hope

There were times in our past when Australia was seen as the great hope of the world – when it offered a vision of a new democratic life free from the failures of the past and the old world. It seems we have turned from our history, from the bright vision of the nineteenth century and the great nation-building vision of the period after World War 2, with its sense of optimism and fairness, towards something much more pinched and narrow – mean and weak-willed. For such an optimistic nation we seem to have developed a ‘half empty’ rather than ‘half full’ view of the glass – and the world. If we want to live in a land to be proud of, a fair country that truly inherits the best of Australia’s traditions, while consciously abandoning the less desirable ones, we need to change course – otherwise we will have to rebadge Australia not as the land of hope but instead as the land without hope.

There were times in our past when Australia was seen as the great hope of the world – when it offered a vision of a new democratic life free from the failures of the past and the old world.

There were two such times, when Australia had the chance and rose to the occasion. The first was in the 19th Century when it was seen as the land of opportunity unshackled by the limitations of the ageing, ossified, constricted world of Britain and Europe. The second opportunity was in the late 1940s and the 1950s when thousands of migrants flocked here to build a new life after the carnage and devastation of World War 2.

Pine Tier Dam was one of the earliest dams in the vast network of infrastructure in the Central Highlands of Tasmania, setting the scene for its modern equivalent, the National Broadband Network. The parallel network of social, educational and cultural infrastructure was even more important in giving direction for a modern Australia in troubled times.

It seems we have turned from our history, from the bright vision of the nineteenth century and the great nation-building vision of the period after World War 2, with its sense of optimism and fairness, towards something much more pinched and narrow – mean and weak-willed.

A navigator on a Lancaster bomber

Sometimes I think Australia has lost its way. It’s like a ship that has sailed into the vast Pacific Ocean and then lost its bearings. It seems to have turned from the great nation-building vision of the period after World War 2, with its sense of optimism and fairness, towards something much more pinched and narrow. We might look like a go ahead, interesting kind of country, heading calmly into our future, but are we actually two different countries going in opposite directions?

Sometimes I think Australia has lost its way. It’s like a ship that has sailed into the vast Pacific Ocean in search of gaudy treasure, glimpsed the beckoning coast of Asia and then lost its bearings, all its charts blown overboard in squalls and tempests.

A father and his boy, Bronte Park, Tasmania 1950s. Almost, but not quite, the last man standing.

It seems to have turned from the great nation-building vision of the period after World War 2, with its sense of optimism and fairness, towards something much more pinched and narrow – mean and weak-willed.

Black Diggers – telling war stories

‘If you are convinced you have heard all of Australia’s great stories, think again. If you consider you know something about Indigenous Australia you probably need to start from scratch. Black Diggers, “the untold story of WW1’s black diggers remembered” is a great Australian story. Why over a thousand Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians left their communities in remote Australia or our regional cities or the big state capitals to travel overseas to fight and die in the European trenches far from home is part of a larger Australian story. Why they would bother when they were not even recognised as Australian citizens in their own land is a story all their own – but a story relevant to every Australian’.

If you are convinced you have heard all of Australia’s great stories, think again. If you consider you know something about Indigenous Australia you probably need to start from scratch. Last night I went out through a cool Canberra night to see ‘Black Diggers’, described as ‘the untold story of WW1’s black diggers remembered’. It was such a story that I got up before dawn to write about it.

It’s a great Australian story. Why at least 800, and possibly over 1,300 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Australians left their communities in remote Australia or our regional cities or the big state capitals to travel overseas to fight and die in the European trenches far from home is part of a larger Australian story. Why they would bother when they were not even recognised as Australian citizens in their own land is a story all their own – but a story relevant to every Australian.

Memorial to the fallen outside School of Arts, Burrawang, Southern Highlands NSW

The play is sparsely presented and sparsely written, as a series of extended vignettes. You barely have time to take it in before another story is unfolding. You would think the subject is grim in so many ways but there is an undercurrent of humour throughout – goes with the culture, I guess. It’s a tough tale but oh so fascinating - and the detailed research that underpins it is excellent.

In praise of the Berra

When I first moved to Canberra, almost as an accidental intersection of geography and employment after the Sydney Olympics, I used to say “if you had lived in Sydney and one day you woke up and discovered you were in Canberra, you would think you had died.” Then I changed my mind. It took ten years but it was inevitable. Berrans are a hardy bunch – they can withstand the hot winds of summer and of Australia’s Parliament, the chill flurries from the Snowy Mountains and the chilling news of budget cuts. The Berra is half-way between everywhere.

When I first moved to Canberra, almost as an accidental intersection of geography and employment after the Sydney Olympics, I used to say ‘if you had lived in Sydney and one day you woke up and discovered you were in Canberra, you would think you had died’.

Canberra in the rain from Black Mountain

Then I changed my mind. It took ten years but it was inevitable.

Remembering Dresden

Silly dogmas and empires and failed social experiments cannot withstand the power of the everyday, the desire to live long and quietly and productively.

The age we live in is one of small, short wars. It affects some of us in large ways, but most of us, hardly at all. This is a return to the norm, for the widespread horror of world war is unusual this century—at least, so far.

A lesson for our fragile times

When I was growing up, my experience of wars was handed down from a father too young to enlist, despite misguided attempts, and a batch of uncles, loaded up with decorations and unexpected survival. For me this legacy was a defining factor in my sense of history—as was the Depression for my parents.