Bulpadok 2009

Bulpadok

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Bulpadok The Arts Journal of Trinity College

2009

Bulpadok is published by its Editor for and on the behalf of Trinity College for presentation to His Grace the President in Council, The Fellows, & The Members of Trinity College, in the University of Melbourne.

Editor Miss Payal Kaula Committee Mr. Joshua Crowther Mr. Jack Lang Miss Antonia Morris Mr. James Ramsay Miss Rachel Shen Miss Tiffany Teoh Miss Irini Vazanellis Special Thanks Revd. Dr. Andreas Loewe Catologue-in-Publication Bulpadok, 2009 1.

Australian Literature – Periodicals 2.

Trinity College, The University of Melbourne A820.5

Copyright © Trinity College and others named, 2009 The moral right of the authors has been asserted All rights reserved Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written premission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this journal.

Set in Adobe Garamond Pro Premier Typeset by James Ramsay (www.jramsay.com.au) Printed and bound by S.A.S. General Printing trinity.unimelb.edu.au A limited number of back copies of this magazine are available at the Leeper Library, Trinity College.

The Bulpadok is the literary journal of Trinity College and was first published in 1987 by the Editors M. Brazil, M. Gronow, J. McMahon, K. Moore, S. Mulready, and S. Ware.

It seeks to offer an outlet for the creative life of the College and to express the vitality of the Trinity Community. The name Bulpadok emphasizes the source of this collection: by all the members of Trinity College, both past and present, for everyone.

The Editor would like to sincerely thank those who have contributed to bringing the Bulpadok to print, especially recognising the efforts of the contributors and committee.

The Editor of Bulpadok, and through her the College, is not responsible for, nor does she necessarily agree with, the views of the contributors expressed herein: issues should be raised with the copyright holder.

Contributors Mallika Bajaj An immensely pampered ‘daddy’s little princess’ who is happily busy carving her niche in her new cocoon and home away from home at Trinity.

Meleesha Bardolia A second-year Arts student studying Lit and History. She enjoys situationism but does not enjoy re-enacting the Chomsky/Foucalt debates with baller Rob White.

Julian Breheny A first-year Arts student who likes 80’s music and has a whiteboard on the back of his door.

Xian Buggy A first-year Arts student that excels at being an arts student (in sleeping, dietary, and social habits) whilst looking for the unexpected and wondrous in everyday life. Is inspired by: hot air balloons and weeds in the pavement.

Angus Cameron Studying Arts, Angus has a lot of time to persue other interests, like cleaning his room.

Matthew Chalk An Arts student of indeterminate year. To commit the Intentional Fallacy, see prose poem.

Rin Cheok A second-year Architecture student who is nomadic and celebrates eccentricity. She prefers to use British English but pronounces everything American, much to her own disdain.

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Joshua Crowther A first-year Arts student whose oratory and idle scribblings have contributed to his election as the secretary of the Dialectic Society.

Margot Eliason A first-year Commerce student who prefers studying restaurant menus over textbooks and whose ambition is an ‘eating tour’ of world.

David Foster A third-year Media and Communications/Law student who enjoys grammatical pedantry and attempting to guess which political party unidentified backbenchers belong to using nothing but stereotype and instinct.

Charlotte Guy A second-year Architecture student with an interest in Fashion. Trinity’s own Little J. Payal Kaula A second-year Biomedicine student whose optimistic outlook on life is contagious. Her photographic tendencies are dominated by fashion, emotions and people.

Joy Liu A first-year Biomedicine student who is still hunting for that elusive H1 in Life. Other defining interests include a penchant for sherbet lemons and other delicious morsels. Oh, and bubble wrap too.

Daniel Loudan A first-year Engineering student who thinks he knows how to write things other than proofs and MATLAB code. He is sadly mistaken.

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Mika Pejovic A first-year Science student who has recently taken up drawing again because she finds the human form, both in Science and Art, a fascinating subject.

Katie Possingham A second-year Arts student who loves Psychology because one day it will allow her to read other people’s minds, and Theatre Studies because it allows her to show off.

James Ramsay A second-year Computer Science student who seems to be a closet Arts student, enjoying photography, drawing, typography and even the odd essay.

Benjamin Sim A second-year Music student who often wonders why anyone in their right mind would write for one viola, let alone two.

Evan Tan A second-year armchair dreamer with random impulses to vent.

Tiffany Teoh A first-year Environments student who likes both the arts and sciences and can be quiet at times. Tiffany loves her guitar, camera and pencils.

Irini Vazanellis A first-year Engineering student who has memorised the lyrics to an alarming number of Disney songs, and secretly wishes to one day marry Aladdin.

Phoebe Williams A first-year Arts student intending to major in Literature and History. Phoebe loves to draw and enjoys the challenge of trying to capture life, confining it to a single page.

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The Quiddity George Herbert

M

Y God, a verse is not a crown, No point of honour, or gay suit, No hawk, or banquet, or renown, Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute.

It cannot vault, or dance, or play; It never was in France or Spain; Nor can it entertain the day With a great stable or domain.

It is no office, art, or news; Nor the Exchange, or busy Hall: But it is that which, while I use, I am with Thee : and Most take all.

Herbert, George, The Poems of George Herbert, (Ernest Rhy, ed. London: Walter Scott, 1886), 64 v

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Contents If Only ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������3 Julian Breheny (C. L. H. Pullar Prize) Callandoon ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������5 James Ramsay The Cathedral of the Lighted World ������������������������������������������� 7 Matthew Chalk (Wigram Allen Essay Prize) Sunrise over Bishops ������������������������������������������������������������������������12 Richard Kelly The Global Citizen ��������������������������������������������������������������������������13 Joshua Crowther Uprooted ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������18 James Ramsay Where All Good Ideas Have Gone ���������������������������������������������19 Daniel Loudon Morning Breaks ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 23 James Ramsay Grandpa’s Clock �������������������������������������������������������������������������������24 Tiffany Teoh Machinery of Mine �������������������������������������������������������������������������25 Rin Cheok The Revival of the Word ���������������������������������������������������������������27 Joshua Crowther (Leeper Scripture Prize) Of the Light ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 38 Irini Vazanellis

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Of the Darkness ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 39 Irini Vazanellis Dulcinea ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 40 Evan Tan Marginalia ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 41 Matthew Chalk Yellow ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������44 Payal Kaula The Librarians ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������48 Benjamin Sim Philandering �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������50 Rin Cheok Fashion ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 52 Charlotte Guy Cast Adrift �����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������55 Joshua Crowther (Franc Carse Essay Prize & ICAC Writing Competition - 1st) Flamenco Dancer �����������������������������������������������������������������������������61 Mika Pejovic We the Lonely Few ������������������������������������������������������������������������� 62 Angus Cameron Thalassa ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 65 Irini Vazanellis Birds ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������66 Margot Eliason 1967: Psychological Deadlock Or Turning Point? ����������������67 Meleesha Bardolia (ICAC Writing Competition - 2nd)

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Cassie T ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������78 Tiffany Teoh One Stone, Two Birds ��������������������������������������������������������������������79 Joy Liu Broken ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������80 Rin Cheok Leaving Moana ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������81 Katie Possingham The beach that day was: �����������������������������������������������������������������85 Xian Buggy The Sudds-Thompson Controversy �������������������������������������������� 89 David Foster Illustration ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������99 Phoebe Williams Birthday Cake ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������100 Tiffany Teoh Daddy’s Princess Grows Up ��������������������������������������������������������101 Mallika Bajaj An Ode to the Bul �������������������������������������������������������������������������104 Joshua Crowther Bishops’ ivy’d tower ���������������������������������������������������������������������106 James Ramsay

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Established by Clare Pulllar, Director of Development, Trinity College 1997-2007, The C. L. H. Pullar Prize is awarded to the best literary contribution to the Bulpadok The winner for 2009 is If Only Julian Breheny

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If Only Julian Breheny

Time doesn’t slip or run away but stand behind and push forcing us into the unknown but already decided a maze with no turns a rope pulling you through to feel, to touch, to think is to ask too much.

If only we had a day to ourselves not even a lifetime A boy is born into the world but a vessel for its keepers School vests to law suits to middle aged with wife grow old, grow apart then smile to hide the distance dreams fall behind the cracks under piles of expectations for that house, that car just like everybody else a cubicle in an office in a brick in a wall

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If only we had a day to ourselves not even a lifetime before we know it time has gone pushed us right along past the plains and off the cliff into sweet relief no path or road to follow just falling into the abyss hurtling through the winds, whilst laughing through the times If only we had a day to ourselves not even a lifetime

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Callandoon James Ramsay

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Established through an endowment to the Dialectic Society in 1883 by Sir George Wigram Allen, K.C.M.G., Speaker in the Parliament of New South Wales (1875-1883), & father-in-law of Dr. Alexander Leeper, having been reinvigorated in 2008 The Wigram Allen Essay Prize is awarded to the best reading of an essay of up to 1500 words, being both substantial and entertaining.

The winner for 2009 is The Cathedral of the Lighted World Matthew Chalk

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The Cathedral of the Lighted World Matthew Chalk

I

AM now ready to die. Here follows how. But first I must outline my purpose here, in all senses of this word, if the following remarks are to seem sensible at all.

Mine is a religious enterprise, though founded on no god or outer power. This world is all I have, though the absence of some central, figuring trope, like capital ‘G’ God, or ‘T’ Truth, has not rendered my life meaningless. What, then, do I have? I know I shall die, and you will too. Though you may think yourself the world in which you walk this place shall survive you as it survived before you – with indifference. And you will not be remembered, not for long.

Memories of you will go. Digital fragments, film, your voice, your laughter, perhaps, shall strangely loop some bit of you through time. But you, here as you are, you will never survive. In death, your very atoms shall disband, as children do when called home.

Mine is a godless religion: I am a sect of one. My vocal testament is the scripture of the Imagination, Self-Reliance, and Power. In the absence of a Celestial Beard we are apt to make new capitalised gods: Science, Atheism, Reason, Death: we find ourselves in their claws, our being an admixture of fear and awe, all the while praying, whether we hear it or not, that they shall keep us from death, just one day more.

Time, chance, death: we secretly rage against our contingency, and in our hopeless moments we see these frailties as ourselves, and curse this form, this life, this world. We call these necessities of submission – really just a cruel form of the avoidance of our

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freedom – not beasts we can tame, and corral. Do you truly think that turning from your death and running will burn it out, tire it – make it easier to bear? Do you suppose that lives self-consciously wrought by ignorant and refusing minds are really worth any more than the cowardice and garbage that filled them? Do you seize each day? Do you truly think that you are alone?

Experience leads us to conclude that we are fundamentally alone, a floating gaze tethered to a fatal body, that no one can dissolve the mask. We think ourselves creatures of depth, and profundity; beings whose primary world is some hidden personal firmament or vault, some precious silver mine. Look at your interior riches: the hardened silver seams, this fresco of arcs and fissures, these tender filaments, this frail veining of stars: how often do others catch these? Rarely, and always slantwise, obliquely – slenderly seen. What comes, comes to the eye by slight, and soon finds itself conscripted to my soul. A line has been drawn between us: a single silver thread. You have marked me. These are the hard stars of intuition, the marks that irresistible enlightenment burn: these are the stars we navigate our lives by, and, whomever you are, though I pass you just once, you have winked in me, into the constellation of my self. How else are we to be seen, but with – light?

Now I wish to share with you my epiphany – if you have been paying attention you will have noticed that my speech has proceeded largely by means of metaphor. Vladimir Nabokov wrote: “We speak of one thing being like some other thing, when what we are really craving to do is to describe something that is like nothing on earth.” More and more I am coming to believe that metaphor is not the ornament of thought, buts its very condition. This is an article of conscious faith for me, having observed it at work in my mind for years. I cannot “prove” this – though doubtless others have, or tried. I know simply that metaphor, in all its forms and guises, is what has allowed me to make sense of everything in this world. But I diverge.

My epiphany: I was sitting at Café Royale. It was morning, the air was cold and sharp, as though cut by diamonds. Through the spartan winter arcs of the trees I saw that the day was precisely blue,

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and perfectly vast, an infinite recess of colour that drew everything to the surface. The taste of coffee lingered on my lips, and I licked them, and then I dissolved. The eyes unfocus. What little sight you have no longer matters: you are on the periphery of the world. The mind faces itself. I breathed. I saw everyone I loved, dead – all of them, just dead. What we talk about when we talk about death is our dying and our dying alone, no others’ – as if death were the end of the world. With their each death I flaked away, unwound, withdrew, became nothing. What of me remained was language; and in the world, my words, ever lessening. Without them, without you, I am nothing: that is to say of me that you form a part and past. I am more than the sum of my living and my dead, but without them I am nothing. When I talked of my personal tenets, I said “Imagination, Self-Reliance, and Power” – under each there rests the principal deep etymology of “Influence”, which originally meant “streaming ethereal power from the stars acting upon the character or destiny of men” – in turn from “Influentia,” meaning a “a flowing in” – influence that in its present sense now means “the exercise of personal power by human beings.”

I know that to some of you this might sound to verge or plunge on pious, platitudinous mysticism, a torrent of unifying, innocenteyed blather and cant. Well, it is “cant”, but the “cant” that means “the sudden movement which tilts or overturns” – not the cant of shallow goodness and moth-eaten charity.

Something in me has overturned. Something in me is changing.

Imagine I was standing on some wind-buffeted mountain peak, my hair flapping and my eyes wild, frost forming on my cheek, and my entire being filled with the sense of something rising. This is my private cliché of the solitary Romantic poet, especially Shelley, surveying the vastness of the world and charged with the power of his resplendent solitude atop Mont Blanc. And in my isolated hours this is how I have felt, though with no world to behold, or wonder, no power, just an unstirred grey – like a cup of that foul unsweetened coffee from the dining hall machine, nestled coldly in a corner of Behan’s cloisters, alone: that is what depression is like (and that is also why we should return our mugs). What we talk about when we talk about death is our dying and our

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dying alone, but we neglect to mention that each life is a cast of thousands. Imagine that my life is like a tree – with each successive branching the limbs and twigs grow evermore intricate, frail, and beautiful: from the solid strength of an arterial trunk, the life of each tree complicates itself as it progresses. This is much the way that metaphor works too – from seeming solidity and strength the associations the metaphor’s made grow ever outward. Some west wind cross-pollinates it all, and new thoughts grow, or, better, some resourceful child takes a cutting from a tree and, defying probability, the branch takes root, and new life begins.

I am trying to describe something that if rendered in ordinary words would instantly lose what I see as the essential strangeness of ordinary life. Part of coming to terms with death has meant realising the extent to which I am implicated in the lives of others and, by extension, the extent to which other people are implicated in me. To do so, I had to travel through the omen- strange land of my living memory, and in a weird way this speech is a sort of journalism of that journey. In a sentence, I decoded parts of myself that I love, sourced them – and what I discovered was that these things I love weren’t even me at all. I love to smoke – but it is not the smoking itself I enjoy but the smoking with friends. I love coffee, but it is not the taste of coffee I love, but the people who make it for me over at Café Royale. I am a greedy mango eater, I devour them over the sink at home: but it is not the mango that I love but the memory of the tree we had in the backyard when I was a child, and the contemporary memory of my father, back when he had a beard, of swinging us around and around, my sisters and I, and then lightly launching us back onto our little feet, whence we would stagger about the hot yard like drunkards. Mahler’s 5th Symphony is linked for me to love and loss – I must have listened to it about fifty times over the course of those two weeks, stirred by the power of something outside my shattered heart. And it is the folk music of the American Civil War, and the Enigma Variations of Edward Elgar, which bring the serene face of my Grandmother back to life, once more. Metaphor is ancient Greek for transfer, a “carrying over”; and it is in this sense I regard the soul as the most beautiful flowering of this word.

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All things are in me, and teach me to myself, if I will listen. To me it is no longer ‘I’ that matter, or my death – it is the world. “Death is the dark backing a mirror needs if we are to see anything.”

Saul Bellow wrote that – possibly my favourite Yid. Otherwise, life to us will just be so much warped silver skin, distorted, pointless. Everything can be written in me: all the minutiae and magnanimity, madness, greatness, and animality; my sorrow and failure, my grief, my justice, my triumph and pride, my isolation, solitude, creativity and lust, all my desires and rage and jealousy and striving, my capacity to love. I celebrate all things. My tongue leaps with eloquent fire and this cadenza’s flame. In me is the refining of this human immensity, I dart and surge, unplaceable, an acrobatic soul – and I know that without you I am nothing, for who will there be to laugh if I don’t have you? You – you are my life, and it is you alone, whatever our future selfish failures, I celebrate and love.

You are my purpose, my power, my plenitude, my poem.

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Sunrise over Bishops Richard Kelly

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The Global Citizen Joshua Crowther

C

ITIZENSHIP has traditionally been understood within the context of the nation state. Its modern construction accompanied the birth of modern nationalism, its central principle revolving around the shared obligations and fellowship that emerge from national kinship. The binding between these two notions has decayed, however, assaulted by the decline of sovereign power due to intensifying global integration, and the loss of loyalty to a civic ideal amongst citizens of western nations.

The nation state has gradually ceded its authority to global institutions which are not distinguished by any national loyalty.

This emasculation has occurred whilst the forces unleashed by rampant economic integration have created uniquely global challenges to human societies. The global financial crisis, climate change and terrorism each transcend political boundaries, presenting nation states, accountable to electorates defined by a narrow interpretation of citizenship, with dilemmas that they are unable to resolve. Although the political and cultural differences between nations constitute barriers to truly global responses to global crises, the essential constraint is psychological. To tackle dilemmas created by the success and breadth of global economic integration, citizenship itself must be redefined. Instead of defining citizenship according to shared cultural or ethnic origins, the obligations that it represents must be acknowledged as being owed and received by all humanity. Only when shared humanity, rather than common nationality, is the basis of citizenship and its contingent responsibilities, will societies be able to counteract the global threats that menace them unconstrained by the bonds of national interest.

The birth of the nation state was the catalyst for fundamental revisions in the structure of personal loyalty. The substitution

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of fealty to a monarch, fief, or region with the personification of the nation as the property of the people was the basis for the definition of civic responsibility through what Simon Schama calls ‘a patriotic culture of citizenship’.1 Citizenship represented a web of obligations owed by individuals to the state, and indeed civic duty was distinguished by its lack of self-interest. Robespierre’s cautions against egotism and his invocation of virtue as central to public life are evidence of this sacrificial element within the revolutionary concept of the citizen.2 Yet although the citizen subverted hierarchical social distinctions within societies it acutely distinguished those within the body politic from those outside. Nationalist definitions of citizenship inevitably depicted foreigners and minorities as subversive. As Schama argues, in order for the nation to thrive ‘it was necessary to root out Uncitizens’.3 The justification this lent to national rivalries and the eagerness of governments to capitalise upon national sentiments is apparent not only in the mass participation that marked warfare from 1792 onward, but also in the hatred of the enemy that characterised conflict. Opposing nationalities were stripped of their humanity, dehumanised in an effort to grant military campaigns a higher moral purpose. The use of citizenship to bind together national identities has thus had a paradoxical legacy. While it has enabled egalitarian political and social development, the struggle for supremacy between states has been magnified to such a point that armies driven by nationalist ideals have perpetrated horrors unequalled in the annals of warfare. The partnership between citizenship and nationalism has produced unity, yet also exacerbated the divisions amongst nations.

The nation state was not conceived in order to co-operate with his peers. Nationalism is founded upon the assumption of innate and incontrovertible supremacy. National institutions and governments are constrained by the need to attend to the ‘national interest’. The resulting confederacies of political actors in constant competition to maximise national gains and minimise concessions, is utterly at odds with the requirements to combat the global issues that threaten nations today. Global integration, 1 2 3

Simon Schama, Citizens, (London: Penguin, 1989), p.xvii Ibid, p.641 Ibid, p.725 14

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though enabling the accumulation of unparalleled wealth across the world, has reduced the national identities that nations have laboured for centuries to preserve to a state of porous impotence.

For as Naomi Klein has perceived, ‘globalization is in essence a crisis of representative democracy’,4 a process which is driven by forces mightier than government power. Climate change and the financial crisis have no respect for the artificial distinctions of national borders. However, despite the superseding of national power by global phenomena, the competitive element of nationalism continues to dominate international politics and has systematically thwarted attempts to combat the forces that menace the entirety of the globe.

Nationalist sentiment, judging initiatives according to their effect on individual countries rather than the world as a whole, has helped to ensure that any international treaties are pockmarked with concessions and caveats, included to appease the multitude of conflicting agendas. Even concerted efforts to achieve multilateralism, such as the United Nations, have suffered for, as Geoffrey Robertson notes, ‘obeisance to membersovereignty is the UN’s systemic defect’.5 Hence climate change is not understood as an incentive to restrain economic growth, but rather a challenge for governments to minimise their own carbon reductions lest such measures reduce the prosperity of the electorate, while pledging their dedication to stem global warming on the international stage. Governments are driven to protectionism by the need to preserve jobs, though at the cost of other nations’ exports and the jobs which rely on them. Pressure is constantly exerted on governments to restrict the number of refugees admitted, even branding them as ‘illegal immigrants’,6 in order to pander to populist fears of threats to national identity and social cohesion. The nation state’s decline has reached a crossroads.

Its authority has been eroded by the transfer of power to global 4 5 6

Naomi Klein, ‘Reclaiming the Commons’, New Left Review, Vol. 9 (2001), p.86 Geoffrey Robertson, Crimes Against Humanity, (London: Penguin, 1999), p.xxxi Philip Ruddock, cited in Robert Manne and David Corlett, Sending Them Home: Refugees and the New Politics of Indifference, (Melbourne: Quarterly Essay, 2004), p.10 15

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institutions outside of its jurisdiction, yet it retains enough authority to undermine the political integration and co-operation that the ramifications of globalisation demand. The solution lies not in reconstituting the nation state, but in confining it to history through a fundamental re-evaluation of citizenship.

Citizenship has been understood in the modern era through the paradigm of nationalism and the subordination of personal ambition to the national interest. Paradoxically this has strengthened unity within states, yet fatally undermined internationalist institutions and social pluralism. Citizenship’s role in overcoming the difficulties of economic integration is crucial; however it requires the subordination of the nation state to a global identity. The catalyst of citizenship must be common humanity, irrespective of time and space. For as George Monbiot notes, ‘internationalism... means choosing the option that delivers most good and least harm to people, regardless of where they live’.7 The appropriate response to economic integration is thus greater civic cohesion. Each human being is bound to others and obliged to subordinate their personal desires to the common good of humanity generally. The freedom to emit greater quantities of carbon dioxide is superseded by the responsibility to preserve the lives of those most threatened by climate change. The temptation to restrict refugee related immigration due to cultural and political pretensions is overwhelmed by the obligation to preserve human life, regardless of cultural xenophobia.

Although this can be partially achieved by reforming international institutions, particularly through the incorporation of greater democratic participation in the arena of international politics, the main solution is psychological. Citizens must acknowledge the distinctions of custom, political affiliation and culture as being of secondary importance to the common facets of humanity that bind all together, in spite of the ruptures of history and geography.

Individualist tendencies to claim personal rights whilst ignoring duties must be questioned, for the obligations that characterise citizenship are founded upon eschewing personal desire for the 7

Monbiot, George. 9 August 2005. ‘The New Chauvinism’.

Available from http://www.monbiot.com/archives/ 2005/08/09/the-new-chauvinism/; [29 August 2009] 16

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good of all. In a world where climate change and financial crisis have been provoked by the rampant accumulation of wealth, yet threaten most those who lack it, the introduction of responsibility to globalisation is urgently required. The interpretations of the foreign and seemingly abstract ideas of citizenship and globalisation are ultimately dependent upon the prism of attitudes and motivations that distinguish audiences. Consequently it is necessary for citizens to reform their own perceptions of the world, and reject the individualist and national priorities that have driven, and yet menace, progress.

The global citizen is a profound test for modernity. It asks nations to renounce the self-interest that has defined their essence since their inception and calls upon individuals to consider the common good to be greater than their own. In spite of the nationalism that has characterised and scarred the modern world, history yields precedents for this vision. Augustine, writing amidst the chaos and disintegration of state authority that was the fall of the Western Roman Empire, envisioned a community where ‘both those put in authority and those subject to them serve one another in love’,8 and are united by a higher allegiance than those owed to states. Though his perception was of a religious nature, it still represents an ability to see the realm of humanity as wider than confines of state authority allow. In a world where human intelligence has created so much, it is time to accept that humanity cannot achieve everything, and that what has been gained must be distributed fairly. It is time to, as James Lovelock concludes, ‘temper our strength with decency’.9 The nation state has reached its nadir, becoming an obstacle to human success. To replace it, society not only needs global institutions and markets, but to accept internationalism as the only effective means to mitigate the threats and inequalities of a truly globalised world. For failings of humanity shall change the world, whether they are overcome or not.

8 9

Saint Augustine, City of God, (London: Penguin, 2003), p.593 James Lovelock, The Vanishing Face of Gaia, (London: Allen Lane, 2009), p.150 17

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Uprooted

James Ramsay

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Where All Good Ideas Have Gone Daniel Loudon

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ECENT trends in entertainment media have suggested that there is a severe drought in creativity. Whether it’s the greatly increasing prominence of non fiction books or the majority of new films being adaptations, remakes, sequels or highly generic, there seems to be a distinct lack of originality in the main outlets for creativity. This is because of the nature of ideas and how they are expressed, and importantly, who can express them. The majority of creative ideas are lost or not seen for what they are, and this essay will address why.

Firstly, the origin of creativity must be discussed. When new ideas are formed, they come from many sources. Some come from incidental situations; direct experiences being re-expressed as creative ideas. The majority of ideas are formed in this way. Some come from the subconscious. Einstein believed the theory of relativity came to him in a dream. Some are forced; coming from a laboured process in the mind with the intention of making an idea. The common link is that an individual’s experiences led to the idea, making the ideas themselves, in theory, unique.

It’s the way in which that creativity works that leads to the first reason why there’s a seeming lack of ideas: the good ones are already taken. There are very few experiences that are entirely unique to an individual, and only so many ways to construe any experience into a new idea. Therefore, it follows that there is a limit on originality as well. Original ideas, formed as new, are often already taken just by coincidence. The best example of this is when children ask why they can’t subtract a larger number from a smaller number.

The idea of negative numbers was independently formulated, but the creativity was wasted on a very commonly understood thing.

There is also the phenomenon of cryptomnesia, where memories

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are misinterpreted or imagination. This was George Harrison’s defence when he was sued for plagiarising “My Sweet Lord”. As past experience is fundamental to the creation of new ideas, in this way seemingly original ideas can turn out to be very similar and uncreative.

Furthermore, the majority of truly original ideas are not realised.

On the simplest level, many ideas are simply forgotten. The limitations of memory for new ideas are quite well known. This is because there is no reason for the average person to remember ideas for things such as films or music that will never be realised.

Since ideas are unique in their generation, the larger the range of people giving ideas, the more originality. However, most people believe they are not a position to have their ideas realised. This often accurate perception is due to the limitations on an average person. In the example of film, the majority of people in the world lack the time, funds and determination. To be in a position to make a film exactly to a vision requires a lifelong dedication and a lot of luck. This means that almost all of the potential ideas for films, which could be formulated by anyone who’s seen a film, can’t be individually realised.

There is also the problem of being able to conceptualise ideas.

An idea for a painting is useless if the person with the idea can’t paint. An idea for a piece of music can not even be shared if the person can’t play or write music. Hence the ideas are lost. Even in the widely available written medium, the ability to express an idea properly through language is not entirely simple. Worse still is the fact that the most widely exposed forms of creative expression are the most difficult ones to use properly, which means that the forms ideas will take will often be the impossible ideas that are dismissed.

Inherent social structures influence the perception of an idea. Shy people are likely to be shy about their ideas, and not express them socially. Thus creativity is not realised. Good ideas coming from unlikely people are likely to be dismissed. Social factors also hinder the possibility of collaboration. While all the aforementioned examples could be remedied by telling someone the idea, in the case of artistic creativity, it’s very rare to even know someone with

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the means necessary to make good on an idea. Also, ideas are not often shared due to an absolutist attitude; people usually don’t want their intellectual property altered or expressed by anyone other than themselves. These social factors lead to creative ideas never being expressed.

Even if an idea is pursued, the matter of sharing it often means that the ideas are never heard. In order for an idea to be taken seriously, the person must have a great deal of respect in the field. For example, the theory of relativity, based mostly on prior thought experiments, would have been ignored if not coming from someone with the scientific training and prowess of Albert Einstein. This is more troublesome in the arts, as the ability to be taken seriously usually depends on previous output, which raises the important issue of how to get the credibility in the first place.

In the end, the ability to make something concrete out of creativity lies with very few people, and the ideas of everyone else will never be seen regardless of quality. Hence, the majority of great ideas are lost.

Furthermore, the aforementioned people with the power to implement ideas are often limited in their capacity to formulate them. The creative ideas expressed in commonly seen media are forced more often than not, in order to meet quotas, and forced ideas are never as captivating as those which are normally conceived.

There is also a limit to a person’s ability to make new ideas. There is only a limited amount of experiences a person can have, and given previously mentioned factors, very few of them can be made into concrete ideas. Furthermore, the people with the power to express their creativity fully come from a narrow range of people. These people tend to share similar experiences, which leads to similar ideas. This leads to a very narrow range of ideas that are actually seen, and the lack of originality seen in creative media.

There are also ulterior motives at the top level that lead to good ideas not being expressed. The people behind creative expressions

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often abandon originality in favour of already used ideas that will be more readily accepted by the consumer. Original ideas have to contend with the things that the consumer expects, which compromises the originality and integrity of the idea. This is the source of all the remakes, sequels and generally unoriginal films that make up mainstream cinema. In the end, this further restricts the ability for creativity to be seen.

Finally execution is a significant factor in the perceived lack of creativity being expressed. Good ideas are often not widely seen because they are poorly executed. In extreme cases, poor execution can also lead to the dismissal of the idea itself, meaning that the creativity is never realised. This leads to originality being dismissed.

Overall, there is not a lack of ideas, but a lack of people able to express their ideas. There are numerous factors that lead to a narrow range of people demonstrating the entire creative output of the human race. Also, the perception of creativity, and how it is influenced by factors such as social structures, means that ideas are arbitrarily limited. That’s where all the good ideas have gone.

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Morning Breaks James Ramsay

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Grandpa’s Clock Tiffany Teoh

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Machinery of Mine Rin Cheok

This machinery of mine is very undesirable.

It is bulky and almost obsolete, other people have models far more sleek.

That’s it.

I want a slimmer machine.

This machinery of mine is ugly through and through.

Corroded at the bottom and at the handles, with unsightly buttons and dials, a cheap facade; heavy in weight.

I put a drape on it.

But it’s no use.

I want a prettier machine.

This machinery of mine has served me well, But it could be better.

Now I hide in my garage, with my tools, including a welder.

My machine will be transformed after this Summer.

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Established by a bequest under the will of Dr. Alexander Leeper, first Wardent of Trinity College, who was a life-long student of the New Testament and who sought to encourage a similar interest among the members of the College.

The Leeper Scripture Prize The topic for 2009 being: “The Letter kills, the Spirit gives life”: Can a religion based on an ancient book be life-giving? is awarded to, The Revival of the Word Joshua Crowther

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The Revival of the Word Modernity and the Bible Joshua Crowther

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ODERN thinkers have developed an instinctive scepticism of the value of religious texts in contemporary society.

Western philosophy has gradually divided the human experience into ‘secular’ and ‘spiritual’ elements. The anti-religiosity of Hume, deism of Voltaire, and atheism of Nietzsche are often referred to by later thinkers as proof of their status as standard-bearers in humanity’s struggle to ‘break free from the vice of religion altogether’1. The vilification of spirituality has been combined with attempts to re-evaluate the worth of human knowledge derived from different historical periods. The concerted arguments by empiricists levelled against mysticism, which emphasises the personal interaction between God and humanity,2 have ensured that ‘there is little understanding of the intelligence and discipline that is essential to this type of spirituality’.3 The tendency to distinguish concepts that have not yet acquired scientific proof as ‘though not technically disprovable ... very, very improbable indeed’,4 demonstrates the insistence by modernity that alien notions must possess genuine and incontrovertible evidence of their existence in order to be accepted and gain recognition. This burgeoning empirical categorisation of the human knowledge has eroded the role of religious institutions in contemporary society.

1 2 3 4

Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, (London: Bantam Press, 2006), p.6 Karen Armstrong, A History of God, (London: Vintage, 1993), p.243-244 Ibid, p.244 Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, (London: Bantam Press, 2006), p.109 27

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Indeed the suspicion of dogma is such that contributions by religious movements to social and political life are often perceived as inappropriate, or even a threat to the political liberalism that western nations prize and which insists upon the institutional separation of Church and State as being among its core principles.

The retreat of established spirituality behind the walls of religious houses completes the expunging of spiritual movements from the secular sphere of western society, to the extent that where once faith offered the hope of salvation and comfort from the woes of the human condition, now ‘it is a disease born of fear and ... a source of untold misery to the human race’.5 This reversal has been catastrophic for the Bible, as well as other religious texts.

The exploration of humanity, offered by both the Old and New Testaments, in all its majesty and horror, has been reduced to being simply an idle fable amassed by self-interested propagandists. Yet the enduring value of the Biblical text, and of religion in general, lies in its portrayal of the paradoxical juxtaposition of wisdom and folly that is the essence of the human condition. The Bible is not an historical document that seeks to list empirical facts, but ‘must be read metaphorically like poetry if it is to yield that sense of the sacred’.6 The wisdom and interpretation of life’s meaning that the Testaments provide cannot be proven or disproven by reference to objective ‘facts’, for morality and wisdom are abstract rather than physical entities. What the reader finds spiritually fulfilling and logical depends almost entirely on ‘the decision of the individual personality’,7 and consequently the philosophy and spirituality of human beings cannot be reduced to a single interpretation, founded upon objective analysis. As such the narrative aspect of Biblical tales should not dictate the value of their role as moral precedents that provide inspiration and nourishment to their audience. The crude attempts to treat the Bible as objective evidence in favour of God’s existence undermines the text’s purpose of examining humanity as much as the divine and misinterprets the nature of 5 6 7

Bertrand Russell, Why I Am Not A Christian, (London: Routledge, 1992), p.27 Karen Armstrong, A History of God, (London: Vintage, 1993), p.444 Paul Tillich, A History of Christian Thought, (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1967), p.423 28

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belief in God, which ‘sprang from an immediate apprehension that had nothing to do with concepts and rationality’.8 Modernity has imposed constraints upon Biblical teachings that distort their value, forcing metaphorical and spiritual notions to justify their worth in empirical terms. It is necessary to abandon this analysis and instead accept the Bible as being a philosophical evaluation human error and redemption, for only then can the text be acknowledge as an achievement of eternal importance, inspiring generations across the globe throughout history.

The conflict between metaphorical and literal interpretation has blighted the study of the Bible, for both fundamentalist and atheists contend that the Biblical texts were intended to recount historical truth. The creation myth in ‘Genesis’ has been stigmatised as an example of archaic allegiance to a religious doctrine defying the ‘liberating benefactions of science to the human spirit’.9 This apparent clash between ‘creationism’, or more recently ‘intelligent design’, and evolutionary theory has ensured that the Biblical script has been submerged beneath a scientific dispute between competing theories of creation. The atheist case against the ‘illusion of design’10 has itself been provoked by the threat that many Christians, as well as other denominations, perceive as emanating from scientific discoveries.11 This literal interpretation of Biblical doctrine represents a distortion of the relationship between the spiritual and the secular. Instead of acknowledging the ‘symbolic nature of scriptural narrative’,12 and its role in addressing questions that scientific empiricism is incapable of answering, both sceptics and fundamentalists instead seek to use empirical methods of analysis to either deny or inflate the value of the Bible and religious structures more generally. Genesis can be neither understood nor appreciated under these circumstances and the obsession over the single phrase, ‘in the beginning God created the heavens and the 8

Karen Armstrong, A History of God, (London: Vintage, 1993), p.444 9 Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, (London: Bantam Press, 2006), p.374 10 Ibid, p.114 11 Karen Armstrong, A History of God, (London: Vintage, 1993), p.453 12 Ibid, p.454 29

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earth’,13 reduces debate over the purpose and importance of the Bible to the point of absurdity.

Genesis’ account of the creation and early history of humanity is, according to any accepted scientific analysis, fiction. However this classification does not deprive the text of significance.

Ancient societies often developed creation myths not to acquire a historically accurate recounting of past events but rather as template upon which to ‘speak to the deepest needs of men and women’.14 The purpose of myth is not to analysis the mechanism of the physical world. It provides a cultural medium in which the dominant motifs and ideals of a society can be made accessible to all. In this sense Genesis does possess some value to the historian, for the tales provide a ‘concise summary of the underlying infrastructure of biblical spirituality’,15 and depict the early Israelites’ understanding of the world and their role within it.

Although Genesis has regained some of its status as legitimate source for the study of the culture of the Israelites, critics continue to dismiss the tales of the Biblical text more generally as ‘fantastic and unreal’.16 The essential themes of the Biblical epic contradict this, depicting dilemmas in the human condition that have endured across the ages and even gained greater relevance as a result of the threats menacing modern humanity. In a world where climate change and the possibility of the disintegration of financial markets, each stemming from humanity’s inability to appreciate the virtues of self-restraint, threaten to undermine prospects of future human prosperity. The folly of the builders of Babel, the tower ‘whose top is in the heavens’,17 is a parable that all the proponents of endless economic growth and ‘progress’ must heed. The dangers of human hubris, the hollowness of constant self-indulgence, and the alienation of the human experience from the divine are each as consequential in the modern age as they were 13 14 15 16 17

Genesis 1:1, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.1 John Drane, Introducing the Old Testament, (Oxford: Lion Publishing, 2000), p.256 Ibid, p.256 G. B. Bentley, The Resurrection of the Bible, (Westminster: Dacre Press, 1940), p. 18 Genesis 11:4, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.7 30

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in the ancient.

There has been a failure by modern critics to acknowledge these connections and a tendency instead to emphasise contextual differences between the ancient author and modern reader.

However the parables and fables that dominate the Old Testament were intended to formulate wisdom that endured the passing of time. Consequently ‘these stories have a universal appeal to people in all times and places’,18 an assertion clearly demonstrated by the desire to debate their purpose and significance several millennia after their composition. Criticism of the Old Testament’s relevance is thus not only based on the misinterpretation of the text’s original purpose, but also the dismissal of myth’s worth as both a legitimate resource in the study of cultural history and a compilation of wisdom that attempts to answer ‘questions that have perplexed the world’s greatest thinkers’.19 The fact that critics ignore the importance of these attributes and their ‘disregard of the proper limitations of their science’,20 indicates that the fading presence of the Bible in popular discourse is not necessarily due its inability to engage with modern audiences, but rather the prejudice against religious scripture that characterises much of contemporary criticism. The significance of Biblical teachings and the enduring relevance of the wisdom of the Old Testament’s parables cannot truly be appreciated unless theorists cease to patronise it as ‘a regretful hankering after the past’,21 and instead treat the text as a legitimate comment upon the human condition.

The importance of the Old Testament ultimately is equal to the willingness of modern audiences to consider its philosophy without pre-conceived opinions concerning the value of religious scripture.

The Old Testament in its entirety does contain historical elements, yet these are intertwined with profound strands of philosophical 18 19 20 21

John Drane, Introducing the Old Testament, (Oxford: Lion Publishing, 2000), p.256 Ibid, p.256 G. B. Bentley, The Resurrection of the Bible, (Westminster: Dacre Press, 1940), p.19 Bertrand Russell, Why I Am Not A Christian, (London: Routledge, 1992), p.26 31

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thought that are, in their language and perceptions, timeless.

The chronicle of the trials and tribulations of the early Israelites interlaced throughout the Books of the Old Testament, from Exodus to Kings, could be perceived as being irrelevant to the majority of a modern readership. However these are not thorough accounts of past events, but rather the attempt by the Israelites to define their cultural identity and to ‘show the origins of names and places and peoples’,22 at a time when other Near Eastern powers were encroaching upon their frontiers. The historical context of the Old Testament’s composition is related to the perceptions of its ethics, but does not necessarily constrain them. The Biblical histories, which examine the relationship between humanity and the divine and the nature of human societies, enable modern readers ‘by looking into [the Israelites’] history ... [to] learn about the values of our own history and our goals’.23 The endurance of the influence of the Ten Commandments, and indeed ‘all of Biblical history may be called a theology of the covenant’,24 in the centuries and millennia following the writing of Exodus evidences the resilience of the ethics of Biblical texts in spite of the passing of their original contexts. The uniqueness of each historical period ensures that ethics that acquire audiences in otherwise radically different geographical and historical contexts possess a timeless relevance.

The essential quality of the Bible that has enabled it to achieve this feat is its promise of ‘a way of life based on discovering and obeying a loving god’.25 This philosophical examination of the nature of humanity’s role in the world is best epitomised by the Psalms.

Their purpose lies not in the advocating of a particular history or interpretation of the divine, but in reflecting the ‘kaleidoscope of conflicting experiences and emotions’26 that characterise the human experience. These resounding reflections on humanity contain both wisdom and the ability to inspire, thus ensuring 22 23 24 25 26

Robin Lane Fox, Travelling Heroes, (London: Allen Lane, 2008), p.373 Lawrence Boadt, Reading the Old Testament: An Introduction, (New York: Paulist Press, 1984), p.14 Ibid, p.174 Ibid, p.14 John Drane, Introducing the Old Testament, (Oxford: Lion Publishing, 2000), p.111 32

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their survival throughout subsequent centuries. The torment of the author of Psalm 90 who concludes that though a person might live eighty years, ‘yet their boast is only labor [sic] and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away’,27 can be perceived throughout human history, for the fear of death is intrinsic to human nature and is a constant presence in the cultural psyche irrespective of time and space. These ponderings contrast with the resounding belief that ‘many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivers him out of them all’,28 and a ceaseless hope in the possibility of the redemption of humanity from the deficiencies of its nature. The relevance of the sorrow and hope that comprise the paradox at the heart of the Psalms has not diminished over the centuries, for they are the essence of what it means to be human. The Psalms provide the ultimate rebuttal to the notion that wisdom reflects the extent of technological development.

Indeed they demonstrate the distinction between wisdom and technological progress which, though it demonstrates the ability of humans to exploit the physical world, is not qualified to address the contradictions and dilemmas that beset human nature. Far from tending to ‘perpetuate inhumanities which the moral conscience of the age would otherwise outgrow’,29 the Psalms seek to forge a canon of wisdom that is universal, capturing the essence of the human condition.

Although human civilization has evolved ceaselessly in the ages following the composition of the Psalms, it would be erroneous to suppose that the structures and technology of the modern age can change the essence of the human condition. Human nature remains constant, and consequently ‘the Bible still speaks to modern people’.30 This reality is frequently ignored by modern critics, who self-indulgently define wisdom as being analogous to technological development, thus dismissing the philosophical significance of scripture as a whole. Throughout history the Bible has been, and 27 28 29 30

Psalm 90:10, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.405 Psalm 34:19, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.380 Bertrand Russell, Why I Am Not A Christian, (London: Routledge, 1992), p.31 Lawrence Boadt, Reading the Old Testament: An Introduction, (New York: Paulist Press, 1984), p.14 33

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continues to be, a timeless reflection upon the glory and folly of human behaviour. However in order to appreciate the teachings of the Psalms and other Books, the reader must re-evaluate the accepted axiom that the success of modern civilization in ‘pushing against the limits of understanding’31 requires the abandonment of the perceptions of past eras. Knowledge is universal, and the Bible provides a conduit through which a dialogue between the ancient author and modern audience might take place, thus demonstrating that time is no barrier to the survival of wisdom.

The examination of the human condition through the prism of the divine that occurs throughout the Old Testament continues in the New Testament, where the Gospels and Epistles provide fertile for reflection upon the paradoxical relationship between the common layman and the divine. Indeed, in contrast to the Old Testament’s focus upon the interaction between God and the leaders of the Israelites, Christ spurns the wealthy and instead chooses as his dictum ‘blessed are you poor’.32 However the New Testament provides critics of religiosity with much of the essence of their argument. The fact that much of Christ’s theology appears to be bound together with acts of divine power, such as the miracles and ultimately the resurrection, seems to equate faith in the message of the Gospels with belief in ‘monkeying with the laws of physics’.33 The union of humanity and the divine in the form of Christ and the express purpose of the Gospels to ensure ‘that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God’34 appears to afflict theologians with an acute contradiction between reason and religion. There have been attempts in recent years to circumnavigate this contradiction by stripping Christ of his divine aura and recasting him in the more secular roles of revolutionary

31 32 33 34

Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, (London: Bantam Press, 2006), p.374 Luke 6:20, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.694 Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, (London: Bantam Press, 2006), p.60 John 20:31, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.732 34

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ethicist or early socialist. Dawkins’ notion of ‘Atheists for Jesus’35 is a particularly misguided attempt to distinguish Christ’s politics from his spirituality. This attitude stems from the modern concept that the secular and the spiritual are in essence separate entities and that the former can be purified through the latter’s removal.

Yet to allow secular politics to usurp Christ’s divinity is to fatally confuse Christian doctrine and undermine the foundation of Christ’s teachings.

The Gospels were composed at a time when politics and religion were so inter-twined as to be indistinguishable. This can be seen in the confusion attached to the term ‘Messiah’, which Christ’s disciples interpreted as ‘a powerful figure who would have Godgiven resources to inaugurate a new age for his people’,36 although Christ attempted to mitigate these expectations by referring to himself as ‘the Son of Man’.37 Christ’s religious doctrine and politics derived inspiration from each other. His advocacy of the poor was combined with a profound challenge of the established social hierarchy, for as Christ states in the Gospel of Luke ‘everyone who exalts himself shall be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted’.38 The Gospels constantly seek to include references to divine favour in order to lend authority to Christ’s teachings. In this context the miracles appear to be little more than propaganda, enabling a struggling cult to accrue members during the early years of its existence. However the miracles themselves are a challenge to the established order. Christ uses divine powers to redeem those ostracised from the social organism, such as lepers,39 and by doing so questioned the ‘inhumanity of the social regulations which

35 36 37 38 39

Richard Dawkins, ‘Atheists for Jesus’, Free Inquirer, Vol. 25, No. 1 (2005): 9-10, in Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion, (London: Bantam Press, 2006), p.250 A. E. Harvey, A Companion to the New Testament, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p.288 Mark 2:10, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.674 Luke 18:14, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p.706 Mark 1: 40-45, The Holy Bible: King James Version, (U.S.: Thomas Nelson, 1982), p. 673-674 35

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added so much suffering’.40 The subversive political elements of this are clear, and yet the presence of the divine implies something more profound.

The resurrection is the epitome of this transcending spirituality.

Many theologians have contended that Christianity could not survive the removal of the resurrection from the canon, for ‘the life of Jesus is now viewed in terms of the death of Jesus. And the death of Jesus is seen in terms of the resurrection of Jesus’.41 However the miracle, by its very nature, is impossible either to prove or disprove.

The facet of the resurrection that is clear is not its potential as a historical event, but rather as a symbol of human resilience.

Christ, who ‘stressed his weak, mortal humanity’,42 demonstrates the ability of an ideal and way of life to survive the torment of persecution. It is an example that generations of disciples would adhere to, even though state-sponsored repression meant that they had no rational motivation for doing so. The assertion by critics that worshippers must either consider the resurrection to be a literal historical event or deny it completely is a fallacy, for such an objective judgment is beyond the capacity of a modern audience, two thousand years after the event. The resurrection provides the modern age with the illustration of an ideal worth dying for, and the hope that life might be renewed from sacrifice. It is a lesson that all human beings can always heed, regardless of their many conflicts and differences.

The Bible has reached a nadir in its history. Stigmatised as irrelevant and archaic, its message has been submerged beneath the frantic energy of the modern world. This loss has, marked modern life, for increasingly wisdom and spirituality have been superseded by materialism and self-indulgence, creating ‘emptiness and desolation’43 in place of spiritual meaning. The Bible’s attempt to counter this has spoken to an essential human need and as such 40 41 42 43

A. E. Harvey, A Companion to the New Testament, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), p.111 A. N. Wilson, Paul: The Mind of the Apostle, (London: Pimlico, 1997), p.117 Karen Armstrong, A History of God, (London: Vintage, 1993), p.100 Ibid, p.457 36

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it has survived the passing of temporal political and social entities.

The power of this message, and its ability to engage with societies throughout history, is apparent in the fact that ‘man himself was the formulator of the impossible Christian ideal and tried to uphold it, if not live by it, for more than a millennium’.44 However a text can only nourish its audience so long as they are prepared to listen. The restoration of the Bible to its proper place in social discourse thus requires contemporary audiences to put aside their prejudice and admit that for all the successes of modernity, modern insights are of no greater value than those of the past.

What the Bible requires in order to be understood, and what it teaches, is that characteristic that human beings find so difficult to acquire, humility.

44

Barbara W. Tuchman, A distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century, (London: Penguin, 1978), p.xxi 37

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Of the Light Irini Vazanellis

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Of the Darkness Irini Vazanellis

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Dulcinea Evan Tan

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Marginalia Matthew Chalk

I

MARVEL at bright water, the way a fixed point only lives in sight while all about it burbles, content, with the meaningless complexity of getting on with the job of becoming. Human figures rise and fall in the water like an alphabet of fruit that fell off the side of something going somewhere else, and lifeguards on enormous yellow surfboards play their forms into the water, intrepid pilots of erect bananas symbolising whatever you want. Seems what I was aiming at was a “freeing up” of I-don’t-know-what, and now it’s here, well, I wish you…

Summer holidays in early life were one long beach, that is, from this seat in time my saturated landscapes have been knit together by some common currency of colours which weave the intensity of their collated sights along the one gold thread. It’s all very imprecise, this thing called “I”, but I wonder why it ever mattered to us this was the case? I am “attached” to my memories as much as the next symbol-jumble in the other room (more exacting would be to say “I am my memories” for the duration of their remembering – but who’s counting?), and somehow, now, I am precluded from the anxiety of detachment.

Tentative title for this poem: “Depersonalisation – An Autobiography” (ha ha ha).

I am philosophising with a hammer like crafty Nietzsche did, banging at old statues to see what goes “tong!” goes “ping!”

Nietzsche was the greatest ratcatcher of our tradition, tapping walls with his iron moustache to sound out the nests of greedy Metaphysics we’d let breed and stay the night. The “I” is one such nest we’ve realised from taxonomy: grammar’s poltergeist: our haunt and site of all our spectral conjugations where the species goes to be specious, at times, or grieve over spilled life yet again. How can we waste what we haven’t had (the question is more complex than it seems)? Do I mean time or life? Are they

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separable? Who’s asking? What’s the address? And just who am I kidding?

You exist there in the splendour of solidity like an empty bottle waiting to be – what? Collected? Shattered? Refilled? Recycled?

Reprieved from the duty of being?

Soon as you start asking what you are the whole thing goes to pieces like a dowager mourning her cat – and though her figure is comic must I remind you some trace somewhere long-forgotten of her image is real? Fiction is more serious now than then though I can’t quite help but feel we lost its import once the academic beards began banging on about “textual politics” (like it was so much scripture).

Right now my Will-to-Power is to eat more fruit: those feminists haven’t realised that nihilism is negated by mangoes, so have a banana. If Heidegger grew up in Brisbane he would not have turned to Nazism – fact.

Derrida is a Mango: I am certain of this much.

Analytic Philosophy should only be taken seriously with cheese and a thick smear of quince.

Trust no philosopher who won’t make a hat of his fruity convictions.

The family has arrived at last! This is Dr. Nantucket, the opulent solipsist and salesman of false beards. Meet Ulrich the Chimp and his wife Beagle Patagonia (they are geniuses, and the reigning world champions of Whist). Lord Flanghammit was taken into custody this morning by the Fashion Police, when his hoverpants indecently exposed him to a bus of pensioners. His genitals have been impounded, though we all know this is of no consequence whatsoever. There are more members additional to the bunch, though I don’t know them either as I have not yet made them up. So, till such time you must content yourself with a tour of the manse and the varied planes of immanence the creator built it into

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on the cheap. Admire and gasp as I sweep my extravagant hand before you like a cartoon Mâitre d’ – voilà! the famed “Garden of the Eternal Shoe”, whose flowers zigzag upwards round each other in the air as though a manic lace though the eyes of a schizoid boot.

O! the wonder I could disclose of this place to you if you would just get off your workhorse and visit me once, in a blue moon, and you can because tickets are cheap and the guardians of identity have been fed and the world was long ago lullabyed to sleep.

But I am bored of this place and shall move on like any sane prophet placard-clad and ranting at the injustices of oceanic traffic and the spun-silver moon – I was brought up on fruit and as such have been cast in the Mango’s pragmatic mould and have its generosity with fellow fools and animals and children and share my lunch with the mad.

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Look at the stars, Yellow

Payal Kaula

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Look how they shine for you

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And everything you do,

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Yeah, they were all yellow

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The Librarians Viola Duet

Allegro

            Viola I      = 120

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Benjamin C. Sim

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14               

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pizz. arco pizz. arco

                                  The B.C.S. Librarians 2009 Benjamin Sim

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pizz.

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pizz.                          

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        B.C.S. 2009

arco

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pizz.

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Philandering Rin Cheok

This sinister fairy tale that is seldom told Has been revolving around couples since days of old, It starts out unknowingly with an I Do embrace, Then leaves its victims with an acrid taste.

The first few years are absolute bliss, Where no one gets tired of a kiss, But as time passes, familiarity builds, Boredom would be hard to miss.

His eyes start to wander, Temptation grows and this he knows, “There is so much more to explore, Can’t I just have a little bit more?”

And so it begins: the late nights at the office, the odd expenditures, the frequent calls from Clarice.

And so do the lies: “Oh, the boss is cruel, my darling wife...” “...it’s all part of establishing ties,” “She’s a clueless secretary, she has no life...”

A formula dictates what happens next, First, Suspicion.

Next, Investigation.

Then it’s the Final Revelation.

She holds the baby in her arms In denial at first, then logic takes command, Oh God, the anger; harsh words are exchanged, The baby silently implores, “What is there to gain?”

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Two options are considered, Should they split or should they stay?

He begs for forgiveness; she gives him none, But she stays on because of their only son.

The cruel experiment repeats again and again, Everything’s held constant except for Time and Pain, The boy grows up amidst animosity Fighting against all odds to retain his sanity.

Ask the boy about marriage and this he’ll reply: “Bah! The entire concept may sound pretty, But the slightest change in one mate or the other Is all it takes to provoke matrimonial disaster.”

Dare you take the risk?

Of investing yourself in something so uncertain, Proven to be folly half the time. In the endIt is the children who pay for a careless crime.

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Fashion

Charlotte Guy

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Established in memory of Captain Franc Samuel Carse, Member of Trinity College who was killed in the First World War at Bullecourt in 1917, The Franc Carse Essay Prize is awarded for an essay on a topic of national or international importance.

The topic for 2009 being: “The exile is a singular, whereas refugees tend to be thought of in the mass ... What is implied in these nuances of social standing is the respect we pay to choice. The exile appears to have made a decision, while the refugee is the very image of helplessness.”

Mary McCarthy Discuss, with reference to international refugee issues.

The winner for 2009 is Cast Adrift Joshua Crowther

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Cast Adrift The Forgotten Refugee and the Myth of the Exile Joshua Crowther

T

HE distinctions between ‘exile’ and ‘refugee’ in contemporary culture are ambiguous and the two concepts mingle in the public consciousness. Both notions are commonly perceived as synonyms of the same central definition. There is a crude logic to this juxtaposition, in the sense that each insinuates ‘the terrible experience of dislocation’1 and the plight of those driven from their homeland. However this analysis disregards crucial contradictions between the two themes in western society and culture. The traditional interpretation of the ‘exile’ is not only predominantly based upon the persecution of individuals, but also the state’s practice of isolating those deemed contrary to its interests.

The undertones of individualism, particularly in the context of repression by ‘brutally authoritarian’2 regimes, associated with the historical exile of opponents to state authority have contributed to an idealistic depiction of the ‘exile’ in the artistic evolution of western culture, glorifying the ‘exile’ as the champion of political liberalism. This portrait contrasts profoundly with that of the ‘refugee’. While the ‘exile’ owes their suffering to separate and distinct confrontations between individuals and the society in which they live, the ‘magnitude of mass migration and refugee flows’3 is evidence of the wider geopolitical realities that govern 1 2 3

Robert Manne with David Corlett, Sending Them Home: Refugees and the New Politics of Indifference, (Melbourne: Quarterly Essay, 2004), p.iv Geoffrey Robertson, Crimes Against Humanity, (London: Penguin, 2008), p.612 Don McMaster, Asylum Seekers: Australia’s Response to Refugees, (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2001), p.9 55

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refugee-based migrations. Despite the 1951 ‘International Convention of Refugees’ forbidding states to return a refugee to a country ‘to which he is unwilling to go owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted’,4 developed nations ‘simultaneously criminalise the search for asylum’.5 This represents a profound political dilemma for western countries. Unlike the ‘exile’, the ‘refugee’ challenges states to accept obligations that transcend traditional political boundaries, and while the ‘exile’ embodies an exclusive interpretation of citizenship, the ‘refugee’ threatens national distinctions. The distinction between ‘exile’ and ‘refugee’ is consequently a task of considerable cultural and political importance.

Exile has long been used by governments as an effective political device in the marginalisation of intransigent elements of society.

Although the practice has long been associated with authoritarian regimes, it has been imposed by forces across the political spectrum in order to enforce uniformity. The fate of Themistocles, ‘ostracised by his resentful fellow citizens’,6 and exiled from the city of Athens during the zenith of Athenian democracy, demonstrates the capacity of supposedly democratic states to match the cruelty of autocracies. The history of democratic societies provides a reminder to contemporary liberal democracies that the role of persecutor, even if indirect and unacknowledged, is not always the monopoly of absolutist tyrants. The departure of French émigrés in the years following the collapse of Louis XVI’s government in 1789 was inspired as much by the ‘climate of chronic lawlessness’7 dominated by the popular politics of the Paris Commune as the later tyranny of the Jacobin Republic.

However the exiles of revolutionary France fled not as a collective mass, but rather as individuals who had seen their political capital in the body politic liquidated and even turned against them.

4 5

6 7

International Convention on Refugees, cited in Geoffrey Robertson, Crimes Against Humanity, (London: Penguin, 2008), p.112 Matthew J. Gibney, ‘“A Thousand Little Guantanamos”: Western States and Measures to Prevent the Arrival of Refugees’, in Kate E. Tunstall (ed), Displacement, Asylum, Migration, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), p.143 Tom Holland, Persian Fire, (London: Little Brown, 2005), p.364 Simon Schama, Citizens, (London: Penguin, 1989), p.519 56

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Indeed the revolutionary notion of the patrie and national unity contrasts with the flight of individuals determined to survive the ‘dark storm of the Revolution’.8 The revolutionaries themselves deeply politicised exile through the decree of 9th November 1791, outlawing all émigrés who refused to return before the New Year.9 Exile has evolved as a political weapon wielded with the political organism. Its purpose, both in despotic and democratic societies, is to demonise and extradite individuals deemed to be hostile to the national interest. Unlike the ‘refugee’, the ‘exile’ is evidence of the might and reach of state authority, and the extent to which that power is threatened by individuals within society.

The tradition of political expediency that characterises the ‘exile’ has been accompanied by the evolution of a cultural perspective redeeming the ‘exile’ and indeed romanticising the concept. The desolation and tragic aura of exile has been reforged to cloak the ‘exile’ with the defiance and redemption of a martyr. Ovid, who produced much of his most poignant poetry during his own exile and provided his successors with the model of exile’s tragedy, captured in Hughes’ portrait of Niobe eternally imprisoned on a desolate cliff, where ‘as the weather wears at her / her stone weeps’,10 represents the unity of the political and cultural characteristics of exile which otherwise appear to endow the ‘exile’ with its greatest paradox. Rome itself claimed descent from the exiled Aeneas, who was ‘fated to be an exile ... [and] met many tribulations on his way both by land and on the ocean’,11 and the symbolism of the Trojan exile incorporated both the horror of the sack of Troy and flight of its remaining inhabitants with the cultural mythology of Rome’s founding. However the ramifications of this approach provide ample scope for subtle manipulation by political actors.

In the modern mind the quintessential exile, being grounded in the political conflict between the individual and the state, and by choosing to oppose state power or pursuing particular political objectives, is partially responsible for their own predicament.

8 9

Ibid, p.730 Peter McPhee, The French Revolution 1789-1799, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), p.93 10 Ted Hughes, Tales from Ovid, (London: Faber & Faber, 1997), p.223 11 Vergil, The Aeneid, (Penguin: Penguin Classics, 1956) p.27 57

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When faced with the onslaught of refugees, western governments have resorted to this psychology, insinuating that many asylum seekers are ‘economic refugees’, ‘immigrants in pursuit of the benefits of welfare state at the expense of citizens’.12 This policy was crudely summarised by Philip Ruddock when he referred to asylum seekers as ‘forum shoppers’,13 and implied that they were ‘queue jumpers who stole the places of worthy refugees’.14 The emphasis on individuals’ economic interest not only overshadows the dire circumstances that compel refugees to abandon their homeland, but also represents the corrosive effects of the individualist tradition of the ‘exile’ when imposed on the contemporary politics of the ‘refugee’. The concerns of the vast swaths of refugees must be addressed via a different logic to that associated with the ‘exile’ which, although based on historical fact, reflects the interests of individual political and literary personas more than the majority of humanity. The refugee-based migrations currently confronting the developed world emphasise the need to deconstruct the myth of the ‘exile’ before its relevance to the modern world can be ascertained.

The ‘refugee’ is symptomatic of political failure. The breakdown of order and the destruction of stable societies create the ‘movements of people escaping persecution or oppressive forces’15 that characterise the political persona of the ‘refugee’. Refugee status is ultimately imposed upon peoples by forces outside their control. Unlike the ‘exile’, the plight of the ‘refugee’ stems not from the abuse of authority, but rather from its fragmentation.

Consequently there is little romanticisation of refugees in western culture, for they provide an ineffectual template on which to 12

13 14 15

Matthew J. Gibney, ‘“A Thousand Little Guantanamos”: Western States and Measures to Prevent the Arrival of Refugees’, in Kate E. Tunstall (ed), Displacement, Migration, Asylum, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), p.146 Philip Ruddock, cited in Robert Manne with David Corlett, Sending Them Home: Refugees and the Politics of Indifference, (Melbourne Quarterly Essay, 2004) p.10 Robert Manne with David Corlett, Sending Them Home: Refugees and the Politics of Indifference, (Melbourne: Quarterly Essay, 2004) p.10 Don McMaster, Asylum Seekers: Australia’s Response to Refugees, (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2001), p.11 58

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mount any ideological or political pretensions. Paradoxically however the rising tide of refugees, though caused by the apolitical need to survive, has presented developed states with a seemingly irreconcilable policy dilemma. Although the 1951 International Convention on Refugees provides the legal definition of the refugee and outlines the ‘non-refoulement’ principle, which emphasises that ‘no state can expel from its territory any persons likely to be murdered or maltreated at their destination’,16 developed nations continue to adopt policies designed to hinder or prevent the arrival of refugees. Detention, as exemplified at Woomera, is the antithesis of the individualist persona of the ‘exile’, compressing the identities of a wide spectrum of refugees into a single stereotype. The fact that governments and the public that provides their mandate are prepared to ‘endorse xenophobia, barbarism and outright cruelty’17 stems from the perception that refugees are a threat to the cultural, economic and political cohesion of developed nations. The response to the refugee crisis has been understood by some as evidence of the presence of the ‘significant other’,18 defined as ‘a group or race that is perceived as the most important threat to the existence of a nation or national identity’.19 The reactionary attempts to prevent the arrival of refugees in order to stymie their attempts to claim legal status as refugees faintly resembles the imprisonment and isolation associated with the history of the ‘exile’. Yet exiles were evicted due to their actions, refugees’ very existence is the cause of their persecution. This attitude is partially derived from the fact that the ‘refugee’ constitutes an acute ‘other’ in the developed world, yet in addition to this the numbers of refugees threaten the established order within western societies.

The settled economic and political boundaries of the developed world are circumnavigated by the ‘refugee’, provoking a contradiction between states’ humanitarian obligations and their 16 17 18 19

Geoffrey Robertson, Crimes Against Humanity, (London: Penguin, 2008), p.112 Mungo MacCallum, Girt by Sea: Australia, the Refugees and the Politics of Fear, (Melbourne: Quarterly Essay, 2002), p.10 Don McMaster, Asylum Seekers: Australia’s Response to Refugees, (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2001), p.3 Ibid, p.3 59

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national interests. The mass of helpless humanity besieging their frontiers challenges developed countries to reconsider the ethics of the nation state. The exclusive understanding of citizenship embodied by the isolation of the ‘exile’ form the body politic is deeply subverted by the onset of the ‘refugee’. Indeed, the flow of refugees challenges states to consider whether a person can belong ‘to more than one history and more than one group’.20 The ‘good Samaritan’ logic that characterises the 1951 International Convention of Refugees implies that the rights of the citizen extend beyond the artificial constraints of national identity.21 The ‘refugee’ presents traditional cultural constructs with the destruction of the assumptions that have long moulded national and personal identity. Exiles, defined by what they oppose, thus provide a fitting template upon which exclusive notions of identity can be grounded, are the antithesis of refugees, who are stripped of identity and among the ‘wretched of the earth’.22 Refugee politics are marked by the mingling of these two fundamentally different protagonists. The exclusive rhetoric and mentality of the ‘exile’ serving to override and degrade the inclusive obligations of states’ refugee treaties, in an effort to restrain the ‘globalization [sic] of asylum’.23 Whereas the ‘exile’ is ingrained in the cultural history of the western world, the ‘refugee’ calls upon nations to redefine themselves and their politics; a challenge that few have dared to meet.

20 21 22 23

Edward W. Said, Culture and Imperialism, (London: Chatto & Windus, 1993), p.xxxi Geoffrey Robertson, Crimes Against Humanity, (London: Penguin, 2008), p.112 Don McMaster, Asylum Seekers: Australia’s Response to Refugees, (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2001), p.8 Matthew J. Gibney, ‘“A Thousand Little Guantanamos”: Western States and Measures to Prevent the Arrival of Refugees’, in Kate E. Tunstall (ed), Displacement, Asylum, Migration, (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), p.147 60

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Flamenco Dancer Mika Pejovic

61

We the Lonely Few Angus Cameron We, the lonely few, Who sit and wish for Freedom Of expression, Thought, Sink quietly into eternal apathy; Within the walls that round about Our little world of sorrow, We sit and wish – We the lonely few.

Our lives are measured by the moving Bookmarks through our books, The little squares of crosswords, Fill themselves softly in; While the mindless herds, Give us puzzled looks, As if our lives were sin.

We slip in stealth into the shadows, And relish the anonymity of the dark.

With fleeting moves in halls and hollows, We try not to leave our mark.

Gazing in the mirror Watching the dust become the dust, Seeing the hatred and the lust We feel the need for more – What’s missing in our core?

In the four corned god who tells no lies, Keeps death his court

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Accompanied by his spies, Who laugh at us in the fickle way We raise each morn, day by day.

Wilted with mediocrity we sit, With ersatz expressions Of hopeless ambitions Within the nighttimes claustrophobic pit.

Alone in the darkness Together we mourn Exposed in our starkness With the faces we’ve drawn.

Rising like Lazarus To the call of the sun, We get up and get on With the mundane chores of our lives, This arid circle of life Which boxes us in; This noose which pulls tight The more we try to fight The more we pull away The more colour turns to grey – So silently we sit And wish…

We the lonely few.

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Thalassa

Irini Vazanellis

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Birds

Margot Eliason

66

1967: Psychological Deadlock or Turning Point?

Meleesha Bardolia

I

N the historiography on the Six Day War, historians’ facile application of absolutist phrases like ‘turning point’, ‘new political reality’ and ‘watershed moment’ to describe the significance of 1967 have caused all nuances or mitigating aspects of the event to be subsumed by vague generalisations.

The assumption that 1967 is associated with a change of ‘seismic proportions’ in Israel’s politics, religion, military and psychology stems from the fact that the physical landscape of Israeli society was radically altered after the war; Israel occupied the Golan Heights, the West Bank, the Sinai Peninsula, Jerusalem and the Gaza Strip.

However, according to Michael Oren, the question of whether six days of war truly changed the Middle East is equivocal as the ‘essential issues’ of Israel’s right to exist and Palestinian statehood remained unresolved1. Haim Gordon contends that this is because Arab-Israeli and Palestinian-Israeli relations have been perennially governed by Bauber’s dictum of an ‘I-It’ mentality of manipulating the Other for needs and interests rather than an ‘I-Thou’ mentality of relating dialogically and sharing with the Other2. Therefore, although the Six Day War resulted in new physical developments, 1

2

Michael B Oren, ‘Aftershocks: Tallies, Postmortems and the Old/New Middle East’, in Six days of war : June 1967 and the making of the modern Middle East (New York : Oxford University Press, 2002.), p. 318 Haim Gordan, ‘A Lost Opportunity: A Buberian Outlook on the Occupation’, in Haim Gordan, Looking Back at the 1967 War (Westport, Conn : Praeger, 1999), p. 62-70 67

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it did not change the psychology of the warring parties as their irreconcilable desire for territorial exclusivity and fear of annihilation continued to characterise relations between Israeli Jews, Israeli Arabs, Palestinian Arabs and Israeli Palestinians.

Although the occupation of territories has become an intractable issue in Middle Eastern politics, I will offer a nuanced examination of the degree to which the main results of 1967 which were the emergence of Israel as a military power, the emergence of the Greater Israel Movement and the rise of Palestinian extremism can be regarded as major ‘turning points’ based on the extent to which they were novel and resulted in radical movement either towards or away from peace after 1967.

Israel’s emergence as a military power and occupying force did not result in changes to the way Arab-Israeli relations were conducted as it merely strengthened each groups’ disquietude about acquiring unitary states and continued the psychological impediments to the conflict. After Israel’s trouncing defeat of the Arab nations in 1967, it was no longer perceived as a victim but as an ‘expansionist power’.3 The idea that this perception of Israeli invincibility was felt on the inside is reified by Moshe Dayan, the Israeli Foreign Minister’s, assertion that he was ‘waiting for the phones to ring’ or until the Arab government came to the table.4 According to David Wurmser, a former American Middle East adviser, starting in 1967, Arab nations began the process of recognizing Israel as a permanent entity because a serious Arab military threat became impossible.5 This statement encapsulates the misconception many people have about a change occurring in the two groups’ psychologies after 1967. Wurmser suggests that Israel’s psychology changed from fear to complacency and insinuates that Arab states’ psychology had become weak and defeatist. Although the Arab armies attack at the Battle of Karameh in 1968 was unsuccessful, 3 4

5

Howard Zinn, The Poisons of Nationalism: Israel 60 years later, (Tikkun 23.3, May-June 2008), p. 89 Michael B Oren, ‘Aftershocks: Tallies, Postmortems and the Old/New Middle East’, in Six days of war : June 1967 and the making of the modern Middle East (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002.), p. 313 Martin Sieff, Six Day War altered Israeli, Arab views Aftermath still affects world 30 years later, (Washington Times, June 4, 1997), p. 1 68

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the fact that they did not concede showed that their belligerent psychology was still intact and that their desire for territorial exclusivity still existed.6 According to one guerrilla, the battle ‘prevented Israel from achieving a political victory after its military triumph’.7 This sentiment conveys how the continuity in Arab’s desire for statehood counterbalanced Israel’s military preponderance and precluded peace. Thus, the ‘push and pull’ movement or deadlock which characterised peace relations before 1967 continued.

Moreover, the idea that Israel’s self-esteem received a striking boost is questionable. The occupation and subjugation of several million Palestinians in the occupied territories did not enhance Israel’s security but endangered it.8 By scrutinising the language used by various Israeli leaders explaining the situation after 1967, it becomes obvious that Israel still suffered from insecurity about its safety. In outlining ‘Principles Guiding Israel’s Policy in the Aftermath of June 1967’, Prime Minister Eshkol referred to the need to ensure ‘Israel’s security’ four times and stated that ‘the government endeavours to maintain fair and equitable relations with the population in the new areas while maintaining order and security.’9 The inclusion of the phrase ‘while maintaining order and security’ belies the existence of fear in Israel’s psyche and suggests that measures to protect its objective for territorial exclusivity would continue to affect its relations with Arab states. Thus, Gilbert asserts that, like Ben-Gurion, Eshkol was suspicious of any agreement which did not mention Israel by name and subsequently 6 7

8 9

Abdallah Frangi, The PLO and Palestine, Translation Paul Knight, (London: Zed Book; Totowa, N.J.: U.S. distributor, Biblio Distribution Center, 1983), p. 115 Guerilla quotes in Yazid Sayigh, Armed Struggle and the Search for State : the Palestinian national movement, 1949-1993, (Oxford: Clarendon Press; New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), p. 173 Howard Zinn, The Poisons of Nationalism: Israel 60 years later, (Tikkun 23.3, May-June 2008), p. 89 Extract from ‘Principles Guiding Israel’s Policy in the Aftermath of the June 1967 War as Outlined by Prime Minister Eshkol, Jerusalem, August 9, 1967’, found in Bickerton, Ian and Carla L. Klausner. Turning point: June 1967, in ‘A History of the Arab-Israeli Conflict, ( New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2007), p. 158 69

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rejected UN Resolution 242’s call for ‘mutual recognition’ and the ‘termination of belligerency.’10,11 Furthermore, despite writing an appeal for peace in the London Sunday Times after a Moroccan Arab Summit in 1970, the Foreign Minister of Israel, Abba Eban, reluctantly concluded that ‘Israel’s moral security is the overriding imperative in this dispute’.12 Although some argue that the government’s fixation on security was merely used to justify its expansionist practices, unlike other Israeli leaders, Eban’s explicit mention of ‘security’ with regard to the capacity for ‘Arab sovereignty’ shows how, like in 1948, Israel’s main concern was its fear of Arab nationhood rather than its own ability to expand.

This shows how the elusiveness of peace was not caused by Israel’s annexation of new territories but by its congenital antagonism towards Arabs’ desire for statehood. Therefore, although many historians cite 1967 as a turning point because Israel emerged as a military power, it is clear that for all its military conquests, Israel was still incapable of imposing the peace it craved and that the Arabs could still mount a military campaign.13 Furthermore, Israel’s increase in strategic depth did not result in newfound power nor did it impel or hinder the peace process.

According to Abba Eban, since the acquisition of the new territories, there was ‘no turning the clock back to 1957 or 1948’.14 This statement suggests that Israel now had the leverage to assert Israel’s power and get Arab states to recognise the right of its existence. However, the Arab states were unwilling to engage in negotiation and stated in the Kharthoum declaration that there

10 11 12 13

14

Martin Gilbert, Israel: A History, (London: Black Swan, 1999), p. 339 UN Resolution 242 from Bickerton, Ian and Carla L. Klausner, Turning point: June 1967, in ‘A History of the Arab-Israeli Conflict, (New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2007), p. 133-157 Ibid Michael B Oren, ‘Aftershocks: Tallies, Postmortems and the Old/New Middle East’, in Six days of war: June 1967 and the making of the modern Middle East,(New York : Oxford University Press, 2002), p. 318 Abba Eban quoted in Ibid 70

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would be ‘no recognition of Israel, no peace and no negotiations’.15 According to Yehezkel Dror, the Arabs’ intractable position was a response to Israel’s new strategic depth16. However, the Arab League’s reasons for rejecting Israel’s proposal mirrored the situation after the war in 1948 when Arabs were demoralised after a humiliating defeat. For example, at the armistice talks between Egypt and Israel which took place in 1948 under UN auspices, Mahmoud Riad, a member of the Egyptian delegation stated that the Arabs ‘cannot make peace right now for to make peace would mean that we have to accept that [Israel] is here to stay’.17 Similarly, in 1968, Nasser stated that ‘any discussion on political concessions is only a reward for aggression’18. Despite the gap of twenty years, the similarity in the sentiments which equate concession with recognition suggests that the idea of Arab states being in an inferior position to Israel in any way has always precluded peace. The idea that the annexation of territories in 1967 was not that different to the asymmetrical power relations which characterised their relationship before is echoed by Smith who states that in ArabIsraeli conflicts, Arabs have ‘refused to negotiate from a position of weakness to avoid a permanent solution’ which excluded the idea of Arab sovereignty over Israel19. Thus, contrary to Abba Eban’s earlier assertion, the parallels which existed between 1948 and post 1967 show that although the physical landscape and strategic depth of Israel changed, the Palestinians unremitting desires for a unitary state were still intact. Therefore, rather than this new strategic depth causing the conflict to move away from peace, it merely represented a continuation of mutual distrust 15

16

17 18 19

Resolution adopted from the Kharthoum Conference, September 1, 1967 found in Bickerton, Ian and Carla L. Klausner, Turning point: June 1967, in ‘A History of the Arab-Israeli Conflict, (New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 2007), p. 133-157 Yehezkel Dror, ‘The June 1967 War as a Turning Point in Israel’s Strategic Outlook: Amplified Power with Limited Steering Capacity’, in Gordan, Haim, Looking Back at the 1967 War, (Westport, Conn: Praeger, 1999), p. 44-56 Con-Sherbok, Dan, The Palestine-Israeli Conflict: A Beginner’s guide, (Oxford: Oneworld, 2003), p. 152 Excerpt from Nasser’s Speech from Dowty, Alan, Israel/ Palestine, (Cambridge: Polity, 2005), p. 119 Charles Smith, Palestine and the Arab-Israeli conflict, (New York: St. Martin’s Press, c1992.), p. 311 71

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and enormous asymmetry which precluded conditions from the beginning.20 Furthermore, the preponderance of Israel’s newfound strategic depth was undermined by the fact that international organisations and even the United States – Israel’s closest ally – would not accept Israel’s annexation of Jerusalem.21 Therefore, despite the physical difference in Israel’s strategic depth, the psychological problem of Israel’s right to exist remained.

The emergence of the Greater Israel Movement merely brought dormant religious feelings to life and did not become an obstruction to peace until the late 1970s. On the 28th of June, the Israeli Knesset formally annexed the Old City and passed three laws to ensure that Jerusalem would not be divided again.22 According to many historians, most notably Moshe Zuckerman, the ideological dimension of this ‘transformation’ turned very soon into ‘a religious prop of the new military-political reality’.23 Although the Greater Israel Movement became prominent in 1967, it cannot be regarded as an absolute turning point because, twenty years earlier, messianic nationalism was prevalent in the Zionist discourse. This is evident in an Old Zionist Labour leader, Yitzhak Tabenkin’s, rejection of the Peel Partition plan in 1949 because it was an ‘unnatural division of the land of Israel’.24 The fact that a religious premise was used to reject a political peace proposal shows that a religious element was already prominent before 1967 and that the establishment of Israel as a state was not 20

21

22 23 24

Kirsten, E. Schulze. “The Aftermath of War,” in Kirsten, E. Schulze, The Arab Israeli Conflict, (London: Longman, 1999), p. 39-41.

Even in 1922, Arthur Rapin asserted that “on every site where [jews] purchase land, the present cultivators will be dispossessed Aaharon, S. Kliemann, ‘Jerusalem’, in Compromising Palestine: a guide to final status negotiations, (New York: Columbia University Press; [Ramat Aviv, Israel]: Jaffe Center for Strategic Studies at Tel-Aviv University, c2000), p. 400 Hershel Edelheit, Israel and the Jewish World, 1948-1993: A Chronology, (London: Greenwood Press, 1995), p. 81 Moshe Zuckerman, ‘The June 1967 War and Its Influence on the Political Culture in Israel’, in Gordan, Haim, Looking Back at the 1967 War, (Westport, Conn: Praeger, 1999), p. 152 Martin Gilbert, ‘The Dilemmas of Victory’, in Israel: A History, (London: Black Swan, 1999), p. 400 72

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merely furnished, as Zuckerman contends, by ‘secular sources of legitimization in political practice’.25 Furthermore, after the 1948 war, large numbers of Jews from Arab lands entered the settlements as a result of growing nationalism reinforced by religion.26 Thus, messianic nationalism did not result but merely re-emerged as a result of the 1967 war. Therefore, Zuckerman’s use of the words ‘transformation’ and ‘new’ to describe the ‘political reality’ of 1967 appears slightly sensationalist.

Furthermore, Guyatt states that the magnitude of the 1967 victory and the symbolic return of Jerusalem ‘licensed more ambitious visions of the future Israeli state’.27 This is because in 1968 a group of religious Zionists settled in Hebron. However, in 1968, the Labor Party only authorized ‘legal settlements’ in particular areas of strategic importance such as the Golan Heights but did not condone the ‘illegal’ settlements which occurred in places of historic religious significance such as Hebron.28 This was in line with the primacy of secular law and politics over the religious realm which the Labour government tried to uphold.29 Thus, contrary to Guyatt’s opinion, because the Labour government did not initially condone the settlement at Hebron in the years immediately following the 1967 war, these visions were not ‘licensed’. However, this essay acknowledges the limitations of discerning the government’s intentions as Moshe Dayan, who was part of the Labor party, encouraged the ‘creation of facts’ and provided financial incentives to get individuals who were averse to the religious justifications to move to the settlements.

Therefore, a homology seemed to exist between the psychology of the Labour government and the religious groups. Nonetheless, 25 26 27 28 29

Moshe Zuckerman, ‘The June 1967 War and Its Influence on the Political Culture in Israel’, in Gordan, Haim, Looking Back at the 1967 War, (Westport, Conn: Praeger, 1999), p. 155 Aarhon Bregman, ‘The Six-Day War and Afterwards, 1967-1973’ in A History of Israel, (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), p. 72 Nicholas Guyatt, ‘Greater Israel’ in The absence of peace: Understanding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, (London: Zed, 1998), p. 397 Alan Dowty, Israel/Palestine, (Cambridge: Polity, 2005), p. 112 Moshe Zuckerman, ‘The June 1967 War and Its Influence on the Political Culture in Israel’, in Gordan, Haim, Looking Back at the 1967 War, (Westport, Conn: Praeger, 1999), p. 150-155 73

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according to Guyatt, it was only in the late 70s that the settlers enjoyed government support when the sympathetic Likud party was in power.30 In his first meeting with Rabbi Tzvi Yehuda, Kook, the spiritual leader of Gush Emunim (Bloc of the Faithful), Begin kneeled and paid tribute to the ideological settler movement for their contribution to his victory.31 Although some might argue that this shows that the force of the settler movement was already in place before 1977, it is more useful to question the potency of their existence without formal representation and investigate whether the reality that this government body gave them greater representative powers suggests that the settler movement reached its height and became a turning point after 1977. This is supported by the evidence that after 1977, the settler movement went into over-drive as even after the Sinai settlements were dismantled Begin launched an assault on Lebanon to crush the spirit of the Palestinians as a ‘precursor to further Israeli settlement’.32 This suggests that unlike the earlier tentativeness of the Labor government to align with the tenets of the religious Zionists, the appearance of the Likkud in 1977 represented the apogee of the implementation of the Zionist vision.

Although many attribute the rise of Palestinian extremism to the Six Day War, it existed before 1967 and did not have significant repercussions until the 1980s. Like most historians, Sieff contends that the existence of Israeli Palestinians in the territories led to a generation of increasing extremism in Israeli society.33 However, according to the Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the idea that the occupation led to Palestinian extremism is historically flawed.

This is because Palestinian terrorism against Israel existed prior to the Six Day War of June 1967. Most noticeably, on the 1st of January in 1956, Palestinian terrorists bombed the National

30 31 32 33

Nicholas Guyatt, ‘Greater Israel’ in The absence of peace: Understanding the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. (London: Zed, 1998), p. 12 Ibid, p. 9 Ibid, p. 12 Martin Sieff, Six Day War altered Israeli, Arab views Aftermath still affects world 30 years later, (Washington Times, June 4, 1997), p. 2 74

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Water Carrier.34 Furthermore, on November 7 1965, a Fatah cell blew up a house in Moshav Givat Yeshayahu.35 This thought is echoed by Gazit who states that it could even be argued that the activities of the Fatah organisation, which began its terrorist attacks in January 1965 were an important factor in the escalation process that led to the outbreak of the Six Day War.36 Moreover, the idea that Palestinian extremism was not based on the results of the six day war is encapsulated in a statement made by Arafat which shows that the extremism which resulted was mired in an ancient psychology about the need for a Palestinian state to exist. On August 1970 he declared that the Palestinians ‘are not concerned with what took place in June 1967 or in eliminating the consequences of the June war’ and that ‘the Palestinian revolution is concerned with uprooting the Zionist entity from our land and liberating it.’37 Clearly, 1967 did not lead to a psychological turning point as it merely continued the ‘I-It’ mentality of the need to manipulate the Zionist entity to create a Palestinian state.

Furthermore, the notion that Israel’s annexation of new territories is the only factor inhibiting peace is negated by many Palestinian and Arab rejectionist factions’ claims that ‘even if Israel would fully withdraw from the territories, they will continue their attacks since they refute Israel’s basic right to exist.’38 Most significantly, the ‘extremism’ which occurred in the years straight after 1967 was not that significant as the centre of gravity in Palestinian nationalism moved into exile.39 Thus, the balance 34 35 36 37 38

39

Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Which came first: Occupation or Terrorism, available from http://www.mfa.gov.il/MFA. (October 2003) Ibid Shlomo Gazit, Trapped Fools: Thirty Years of Policy in the Territories, (New York: Routledge, 2003), p. 22 Yasser Arafat quoted in Martin Gilbert, ‘The Dilemmas of Victory’, in Israel: A History, (London: Black Swan, 1999), p. 417 Guerilla quote from Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Which came first: Occupation or Terrorism, available from http:// www.mfa.gov.il/MFA, archived at the Israel Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Volumes 1-2 1947-1974 [16 Feb 2003] Abdallah Frangi, The PLO and Palestine, Translation Paul Knight, (London: Zed Books; Totowa, N.J.: U.S. distributor, Biblio Distribution Center, 1983), p. 115 75

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was not shift significantly until the eruption of the Intifada in December 1987. Unlike the small attacks launched directly after 1967, according to Dowty, the Intifada was of a ‘scope’ and duration like nothing before.40 Furthermore, after the Intifada, support for the status quo as a permanent solution in Israeli society dropped from 40% to 2%.41 Additionally, it was only in 1988, after the Intifada, that the PLO formally accepted Resolution 242.42 In terms of the extent of moving towards or away from peace, it is more likely that 1987 could be regarded as a turning point as it shows a shift in psychology rather than a manifestation of a perpetual psychological gripe. Therefore, 1967 cannot be adequately defined as a turning point because the continuity of this extremism and the persistence of fundamental truths negated any idea of novelty in this historical episode.

Since the main outcomes of 1967 were characterised by weak manifestations of change such as the recrudescence of irredentism, latency of extremist positions and re-emergence of asymmetrical relationships, the Six Day War was not as much of a ‘turning point’ as historians suggest. Furthermore, the ‘push and pull’ between moving towards peace in the case of negotiations and moving away from peace with regards to both sides claims to irredentism show how 1967 merely sparked oscillation rather than a full swing in the direction of a complete vicissitude in Israeli society and its interactions with the Palestinian and Arab communities.

Furthermore, the creation of settlements, the increase in Jewish immigration and the incorporation of Palestinians into Israeli society merely internalized the same conflict over historical claims to the land which have existed since time immemorial.

According to Shlomo Gazit, Israel’s policy in the territories cannot be separated from Israel’s general policy and general approach to the entire conflict.43 For example, Naomi Shemer’s ‘Jerusalem of Gold’ song which was popular in the settlements stated that ‘the marketplace is empty’ and revealed that to the Jewish Settlers, the 40 41 42 43

Alan Dowty, Israel/Palestine, (Cambridge: Polity, 2005), p. 119 Ibid, p 115 Ibid, p. 125 Shlomo Gazit, Trapped Fools: Thirty Years of Policy in the Territories, (New York: Routledge, 2003), p. 49 76

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Palestinians of Arab Jerusalem did not exist.44 Similarly, in the territories, Palestinian Israelis declined to bring claims to Israeli courts as they were afraid such appeals would look like recognition on their part of the Israeli occupation.45 In this way, despite radical physical changes taking place in Israeli society, the psychology of both parties was still locked in Buber’s ‘I-It’ mentality. Thus, although this essay acknowledges that Israel’s occupation of territories became an intractable point of contention between Israelis, Palestinians and Arab states, the extent to which the ancient psychologies of irredentism and the ‘I-it’ mentality were perpetuated by all sides suggests that 1967 resulted in a deadlock on the conflict. Therefore, glibly referring to 1967 as a ‘turning point’ without questioning the validity of the reasons for this can cause the historian to inadvertently simulate the methods used by the Israeli government to legitimise settlement and result in the dangerous ‘creation of facts’.

44

45

Extract from Naomi Sharma’s “Jerusalem of Gold” found in Aahron Klieman, ‘Jerusalem’, in Compromising Palestine: a guide to final status negotiations, (New York: Columbia University Press; [Ramat Aviv, Israel]: Jaffe Center for Strategic Studies at Tel-Aviv University, c2000), p. 161 Ibid 77

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Cassie T

Tiffany Teoh

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One Stone, Two Birds Joy Liu

I

II

You told me Take what I see Love later (It’s easy)

I am alone And so are you You are too (A victim)

So I took the first That quenched the thirst Snapped him up (No refund policy)

The two of you As we are known Friendly tone (But careless)

You, so sly Alone, free to fly While I was tied (To brown paper and string)

In one soft line A simple tease We are peas (Rolling in emptiness)

And the bird in my hand Slips like sand While you two on the tree (Sing sweetly)

We become Birds of a feather Locked together (One tangled boa)

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Broken Rin Cheok

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Leaving Moana Katie Possingham

I went back last summer. To the old beach house. To our Moana house. The door was locked, but the key was still under the same rock.

The security system had long gone, but there’s nothing left to steal there anyway. I pushed open the door and stepped inside as grains of sand on the worn floor boards crunched under my feet. Sweeping had never been a high priority. Someone had left the Monopoly board in the middle of the room and it sat there, expectantly, waiting for the boot to roll the dice. My eyes explored the house which had once been so familiar. I leant against the wall and breathed in the smell of sunscreen and wet furniture – the smell of summers past. And that’s when I found it. It dug into my shoulder from its hiding place in the doorframe. There it was. The letter. The letter that reminded me of the summer that still filled me with shame. The letter from Pie.

W

E used to go there every summer. My mother, my father, my brother. Me. Often my auntie and uncle were there too, and my two young cousins. Our days would be spent in a summertime bubble, all warm and filled with sunlight. Swimming in the morning. Back for breakfast. Lazing around the house, listening to its creaks and moans in the breeze. Lunch was outside, under the house where it was cool and infested with ants. We’d rest then, usually. The hot sun always made our eyes droop. We’d swim again in the late afternoon; not returning home until mum called us back for dinner time. Sweet watermelon was sucked while she cooked in the tiny kitchen, and then we’d spill out onto the balcony to eat. We could watch the sun go down over the sea, and then it was bedtime for the children, while the adults would sit around the kitchen table playing cards and talking quietly. Tomorrow would be the same as today, until the summer ended and we returned to our real lives. The pattern was followed year after year without fail.

Until the summer I was about eleven. Maybe twelve, at the most.

That was the year I met Elizabeth Katherine Brown, introduced to me as Pie one morning when she walked up to our front door and caught me on the way down to my first swim of the day. She was

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barefoot, and had a grin that would have charmed even the most ill-tempered of school teachers.

“Hi!” she stuck out her hand in front of my face. “I’m Pie. I’m your new best friend.”

That was how it began. I’m Pie. I’m your new best friend. So from that moment on, she was. When you’re eleven years old and are used to spending your summers building sandcastles with your older brother and watching your baby cousins in the surf, you don’t question an invitation to be somebody’s best friend.

That summer was a particularly hot one. Pie and I spent it in and out of the water, as she fit comfortably into our beach-time routine. Without fail she would appear on our doorstep at the exact time we would head down for the before breakfast swim, and she wouldn’t leave again until the sun set behind the waves at night. Some nights she didn’t leave, and she would crawl into my camp bed with me. We would hide beneath the covers and whisper the secrets that eleven year old girls whisper when they have nothing else to say. As summer drew to its close, the days seemed to grow more urgent and intense. Life was lived with energy which had long since been washed away by salty water and gritty sand, and bedtimes were pushed back as far as would be allowed. Pie and I knew that our time together was nearing a close and as a result, every waking minute was spent by each other’s side. Come the end of January though, we both knew our time was up. We said our farewells the evening before the morning of the long drive home, and promised that this would be a friendship that would last forever.

A year later, a few weeks before Christmas, our car pulled into the driveway at number thirteen Fourth Avenue. I got out first, as was customary, and ran to open the gate. My knees remembered the feel of dry scratchy grass as I bent down to undo the latch. I stood watching, my toes curling in my thongs, as my father drove the car up the driveway and parked. Everything went as it always had done, except this year I had a tight, nervous feeling inside of me as I wondered if Pie would return. That first day was spent in

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anticipation. My cousins were yet to drive down from Sydney, and the weather was too cool to spend long at the beach. The traditional Monopoly game begun, but I played half heartedly – aware that if Pie did indeed show up on the doorstep the next morning, we would need to begin the game again so that she could join in. Whatever fears I may have held in my heart were dispelled early the next morning as I awoke to hear Pie calling my name from under my window. Like me, she was a year older, but our closeness had not changed. We began again as if our year apart had not occurred. The pattern of last summer began again. Swimming in the surf. Running along the beach flying kites. Exploring the creek. Hunting for buried treasure in the sand. Each day brought new adventures, yet each day was the same as the one before.

We would return to our Moana house summer after summer and as I grew from a young girl into a young woman, so too did Pie. As I went through the awkwardness of growing up, so too did Pie. I never questioned what she did when I left her every January.

Those summers were spent living in the moment enjoying what we had, and there was little time to reflect about how she spent her days when I was not around to be in them. Our activities hardly changed throughout those years. We still swam and explored rock pools and rode our bikes to the park with the play equipment by the inlet. Summer was a perpetual childhood, a welcome relief from the growing pressures I faced at home and school.

Then there was that last year. The summer I was seventeen. The summer just before my last year at school. My brother had finished his first year at university, and had decided he was too old for family holidays by the beach. It was more than his marked absence that changed things, though. That summer, for the first time, I had somebody to miss. That summer, my head wasn’t occupied with simple plans for swimming and wave jumping and diving. It was occupied with thoughts of home and the he who I’d left behind, and Pie noticed my distance. I started sleeping in, and although she was there without fail every morning, I would roll over and put the pillow over my head. While Pie was still able to be caught up in an endless childhood, for the first time I was not. Acutely aware that I was growing up, and that soon I would have to behave

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as such, I found I had little time for running along the beach trying to catch the sea spray in my hands. I knew that like my brother, I too would soon be too old for childish summer time games. The summer passed by in an awkward fashion. Pie was still there every morning at our doorstep and just as I could not ignore her, neither of us could ignore the tension that hung in the air. While Pie danced along the sand, making sandcastles which housed princes and princesses, I sat on my towel with a book. While Pie rode her bike with the vigour and energy of a girl who had not a care in the world, I found every push of the pedal to be struggle. While Pie played throughout the summer as if summer was all there was, I could not help but wish I was back home with the he I was still getting to know. What I had with him was new, and it seemed to pale in importance to the old friendship I shared with Pie. Looking back, I regret my coldness to her. She was my best friend, after all. We didn’t say goodbye that summer. I did not yet understand that growing up meant summer time was no longer summer time. My family and I left one cool morning, and just like I had left the he behind back home, I left her behind in Moana.

“I’m leaving Moana. I don’t mean leaving like you do every summer, either. I mean I’m leaving. Goodbye. I’ll miss you. Pie.” I sighed and closely examined the note. I could recognise that handwriting anywhere. It was my own. Wedged into the door frame and accompanied with a handful of shells on the window ledge by me on the last day of our last family summer trip. At seventeen, I knew I was too old to still have an imaginary friend. And so I set myself free.

I left Moana, too.

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The beach that day was: Stormy, Fragile and Imperfect Xian Buggy

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The SuddsThompson Controversy Revealing early colonial Australian society1 David Foster

I

N Sydney in 1826, New South Wales’ Governor Ralph Darling increased the sentences of two soldiers – Privates Joseph Sudds and Patrick Thompson – who, preferring the prospect of life as convicts, had brazenly committed a robbery. The subsequent death of one of these soldiers precipitated a major controversy, stretching over ten years, which saw the Governor confronted by the vicious attacks of a fledgling free press, a vigorously independent judiciary under Francis Forbes – the first Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of New South Wales – and the zeal of William Wentworth and others who were promoting a freer, more liberal government. This essay closely examines the controversy and the insights it provides into the developing colonial society. It suggests that subsequent interpretation of the episode has depended chiefly upon historians’ assessments of the character of Governor Darling, and argues that the controversy had both legal and social significance. Its outcome represented an early assertion by the courts of the freedom of the press and the separation of powers between the executive and the judiciary, and it was important in a social context of increasing agitation for civil and political rights by colonists desirous of an end to New South Wales’ autocratic, military-style government.

1

Note that while many of the original footnotes in this essay have been removed, those which attach to a direct quote have been retained.

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On 20 September 1826 Privates Sudds and Thompson stole calico from a Sydney shop and were willingly arrested. They saw transportation to a penal settlement such as Norfolk Island (the expected sentence) as preferable to life in the army, and knew that they avoided risking the penalty for desertion because they would be dismissed from the Regiment on the expiration of their sentences. Unfortunately for them, Governor Darling was aware of similar incidents recently and was concerned about poor military discipline. He unilaterally added to the severity of the sentences of transportation imposed by a Court of Quarter Sessions by decreeing that the men would be worked on a chain gang for the duration of their seven years’ punishment. In addition, on 22 November they were ‘drummed out’ of their Regiment, a humiliation in which they were paraded in front of the garrison at the barracks, stripped and dressed in convict clothes, and then, each wearing specially designed chains including a spiked collar, walked out to the sound of drummers beating the ‘Rogue’s March’.

The two men may have been forgotten, however, had Sudds not been sick at the time of the ‘drumming out’. On 29 November 1826 the government-aligned Sydney Gazette noted that Sudds ‘died on the morning of Monday last [the 27th]’. It was this death which was seized on by elements hostile to the Governor, precipitating the controversy which was to scandalise Sydney for years. Before the controversy is addressed further, though, its background must be examined.

The European settlement at Sydney was in 1826 just thirty-eight years old, and a substantial number of its 12,000 people were convicts. A significant population of merchants and landowners, however, made the city in which newly appointed Governor Ralph Darling arrived in December 1825 a ‘contradictory one’: Darling’s biographer Brian Fletcher notes that it ‘had already moved far in the direction of becoming a free society’.2 A noisy group, led by the young William Wentworth, demanded a liberal constitution, their chief claims being for a representative assembly and trial by jury.

Wentworth had in 1824, with his barrister friend Robert Wardell, 2

Brian H. Fletcher, Ralph Darling: A Governor Maligned (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1984), 81 90

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founded the Australian, a newspaper that constantly demanded greater civil rights for colonists. Along with the Monitor, an even more radical newspaper founded in 1826 by Edward Smith Hall, the Australian ‘liberated the colony’s newspaper press, giving impetus to and providing outlets for political disaffection.’3 Sydney society at this time was characterised by the division between the ‘exclusives’ and the ‘emancipists’. The exclusives were a small but influential group of wealthy landowners, of free rather than convict origin. This group already had political power – some of them sat in the appointed Legislative Council, and they were connected to government, both in the colony and in England – and so viewed the potential establishment of an elected body as damaging to their interests. The ambitious Wentworth, on the other hand, saw himself as leader of the emancipists – a term broadly used to describe ex-convicts. Born in 1790 in Sydney to a convict woman and the surgeon to the Second Fleet, his family (despite their eventual wealth) was shunned by the exclusives, who would have nothing to do with anyone of convict ancestry or who identified with the emancipists. This hurt Wentworth: in 1819 he wrote that ‘[t]he covert aim of [the exclusives] is to convert the ignominy of the great body of the people into an hereditary deformity’;4 but eventually, as Peter Cochrane suggests, ‘[h]e adopted exclusion as a badge of identity. It defined him. It fuelled his fire.’5 The challenges in this context were great for a military man such as Darling, who demanded ‘strict adherence to regulations, and the unquestioning personal allegiance of his subordinates’.6 The fierce debate over Darling’s character is crucial to the controversy and will be dealt with later in this essay, but it suffices here to note that 3 4

5 6

John Ritchie, The Wentworths: Father and Son (Carlton: Melbourne University Press, 1997), 223 W. C. Wentworth, A Statistical, Political and Historical Description of the Colony of New South Wales and its Dependent Settlements in Van Diemen’s Land (London, 1819), 308 Peter Cochrane, Colonial Ambition, 513 ‘Darling, Sir Ralph,’ in Australian Dictionary of Biography Vol 1, 1788-1850, A-H, general editor Douglas Pike, (Carlton: Melbourne University Press, 1966), 283 91

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he was undoubtedly a disciplinarian with extremely conservative views. He believed the colony needed to be governed firmly; indeed, Commissioner Bigge’s report had only recently recommended reforms to heighten the punitive effects of transportation to New South Wales. He instinctively sympathised with the exclusives.

In his first nine months as governor, Darling achieved significant reform of the public service, and his hard-working nature won the respect of many. Champions of civil liberties like Wentworth, Wardell and Hall, however, soon resented him for his inflexibility and hostility to greater constitutional rights for colonists. It was the death of Joseph Sudds, in November 1826, that provided the catalyst for a concerted attack on Darling by these men, through the liberal press.

‘Joseph Sudds dead,’ C H Currey has noted, ‘was far more troublesome to Ralph Darling than Joseph Sudds alive had been or could be.’7 It only took until 29 November 1826 – two days after Sudds’ death – for the Australian to suggest that Darling had, by overriding the soldiers’ sentences, exceeded his powers, and to accuse him of torture. The Monitor claimed that the episode was ‘proof of the defectiveness of autocratic government which required to be curbed by the grant of trial by jury and a legislative assembly’,8 explicitly characterising the issue to fit the newspaper’s liberal agenda. The Sydney Gazette supported the Governor: on 2 December it published a lengthy rebuttal of the allegations in the Australian, and on 13 December it stated, with exasperation, that the Australian was publishing lies ‘concocted to keep alive the sensation which [it] had attempted to create’. Governor Darling belatedly asked for an advisory opinion from the Supreme Court – then only two years old – and was told by Chief Justice Forbes and Justice Stephen that he had acted illegally, having effectively usurped the role of the judiciary. This decision was significant for its assertion of the separation of powers between the executive and judiciary, and it prompted Darling to withdraw Thompson from the chain gang in which he was working. By late December the crisis seemed to be abating. The Monitor acknowledged that 7 8

C. H. Currey, Sir Francis Forbes: The First Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of New South Wales (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1968), 195 Ritchie, The Wentworths, 225 92

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Darling had not known of Sudds’ illness and that, while he may have been unduly severe, he had not been deliberately cruel.

Wardell, of the Australian, conceded that the iron collars used on the men were ‘exceedingly light’, and, though he maintained that Darling’s actions had been illegal, he blamed medical staff, rather than the Governor, for Sudds’ death.

Wentworth, however, was not content. On 15 December 1826 he wrote to the Secretary of State for the Colonies, Earl Bathurst, claiming that Darling’s actions had prompted a ‘universal feeling of horror among all classes except the immediate dependants of Governor Darling’9 (a claim acknowledged by historians to have been misleading).10 Wentworth was keen to seize the opportunity to discredit the government; some have argued that, knowing the New South Wales Act of 1823 was to be reviewed, he saw an opportunity to promote constitutional change. This forthcoming review certainly prompted the 26 January 1827 petition, addressed to the King, signed by local reformers led by Wentworth. This petition requested greater liberties and described the government as ‘an oppressive and rapacious oligarchy’,11 and Darling forwarded it to England after appending his own dismissive comments.

Certainly Darling did not see the crisis as abating; he recognised that the Sudds-Thompson affair had become a cause célèbre amongst those campaigning for political rights. He reviewed the government’s newspaper policy in the belief that the press had shown itself to have ‘grossly abused’ the privilege of its freedom.12 Any proposed legislation, however, had to be approved by the Chief Justice as consistent with English law, and infuriatingly for Darling his attempts to licence the press were rejected by Forbes.

In May 1827 Forbes wrote to the new Secretary of State for the Colonies, Sir George Murray, justifying his decision: he stated that ‘[b]y the laws of England … every free man has the right of using the common trade of printing and publishing newspapers; by the proposed bill this right is confined to such persons only 9 Fletcher, Ralph Darling, 247 10 Ibid, 247; Ritchie, The Wenworths, 225 11 Currey, Sir Francis Forbes, 196 12 Ibid, 199 93

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as the Governor may deem proper’.13 Murray agreed, and with Forbes’ rejection of another act, this time to impose a stamp duty on newspapers, a ‘decisive and irreparable conflict’ between him and Darling was confirmed.14 The controversy had thus prompted key milestones in Australia’s legal development: the judiciary protected the freedom of the press, prescribed limits on executive power, and asserted the separation of powers between it and the executive.

Darling now turned to the law of libel, which today is usually invoked in a civil context but which then was often a criminal charge – ‘seditious libel’. While detailed examination of these cases – fought between 1827 and 1830 – is beyond the scope of this essay, it should be noted that many of them involved Wardell, Hall or Wentworth allegedly having libelled Darling or his supporters.

‘Actions in libel’, notes New South Wales’ current Chief Justice Spigelman, ‘were to become a Sydney sport’.15 Losses in some of these cases only increased Darling’s dislike for Forbes; he came to believe, baselessly, that the Chief Justice was colluding with Wardell and Wentworth.

In these court cases the Sudds-Thompson affair was mostly at the periphery, but in mid-1828 Darling’s dispatches regarding the issue were made public in the British House of Commons and published in the Sydney Gazette. Both the Australian, now under the editorship of Atwell Edwin Hayes, and the Monitor resumed their attacks on the Governor with vigour (Hayes, for example, wrote that Darling was not ‘a fit person to rule over a British colony’).16 These attacks continued for months: in January 1829 a reader of the Sydney Gazette complained that he had only to see the names ‘Sudds and Thompson’ in the newspaper 13 14

15 16

Currey, Sir Francis Forbes, 216 The Hon. J. J. Spigelman AC, Chief Justice of New South Wales, Foundations of the Freedom of the Press in Australia – the Inaugural Australian Press Council Address, speech delivered in the Banco Court, Supreme Court of New South Wales, Sydney, 20 November 2002. Available [Online]: <http://www.lawlink.nsw.gov.au/lawlink/supreme_court/ ll_sc.nsf/pages/SCO_speech _spigelman_201103>.

Ibid Currey, Sir Francis Forbes, 352 94

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to ‘fling it down with rage, burn my lips with hot coffee, quarrel with my servants, and [be] completely a prey to ill humour for the remainder of the day’.17 In April 1829 Wentworth, apparently attempting to capitalise on this furore, submitted his case for impeaching Darling, for his handling of the Sudds-Thompson affair, to the Secretary of State in England. In this lengthy and ‘intemperate’18 letter he accused Darling of ‘murder’ and of having laid a ‘train of fraud and falsehood’.19 Darling was not troubled by this, and nor was the Secretary of State; indeed, Fletcher suggests that ‘[a]ll the available evidence contradicted Wentworth’.20 Furthermore, as copies of Wentworth’s letter circulated in the colony, the broader community increasingly turned against the agitators and their extreme stances. Darling finished his term and left Sydney on 31 October 1831 (to his opponents’ vocal delight), but it took until 1835 for a committee of the House of Commons to effectively clear him of the charges made against him (the agitation having been continued in England by the disenchanted soldier Captain Robison).

Later interpretations of these events have depended significantly upon the view taken of Governor Darling’s character and conduct.

Most accounts broadly agree, for example, about the motivations 17 18

Sydney Gazette, 29 January 1829, 3 This is the description given in Wentworth’s Australian Dictionary of Biography entry: ‘Wentworth, William Charles’, in Australian Dictionary of Biography Vol 1, 1788-1850, A-H, general editor Douglas Pike, (Carlton: Melbourne University Press, 1966), 585 19 Letter from W. C. Wentworth to the Right Honourable Sir George Murray, Principal Secretary of State for the Colonies, Sydney, NSW in A Return of all the Letters addressed by the Right Hon the Secretary of State for the Colonies, in reply to Governor Darling’s Despatches, relative to the Punishment and Death of Private Joseph Sudds, late of His Majesty’s 57th Regiment, dated 4th and 12th December 1826, and 20th April and 28th May 1829; - Also for the portions of Mr Wentworth’s Letter of Impeachment which have been omitted in the Returns laid upon the Table of the House on 1st July 1830 (1832) Ordered by the House of Commons to be printed, 22, 31.

20 Fletcher, Ralph Darling, 273 95

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for the press agitation and Wentworth’s pursuit of the cause, and that Sudds and Thompson essentially became pawns in the much bigger debate about civil freedoms. Forbes was at one time dismissed as ‘little more than a self-opinionated partisan’21 but has been generally better treated since Currey’s 1968 biography. There is even broad agreement that Darling acted illegally in altering the sentences. Whether the actual punishment was wantonly cruel – in other words, whether Darling was a wantonly cruel man – is, however, much debated.

Roderick Flanagan believed Darling to have acted harshly, in 1862 writing that the case ‘presents forcible indications of the oppression and cruelty with which it has always been associated’.22 In Marcus Clarke’s 1871 account Darling is savaged, though this is unsurprising given that Clarke admits to using Wentworth’s letter of impeachment as his chief source.23 John Dunmore Lang in 1875 praised Darling for many aspects of his administration, but believed him to have exacerbated the situation by attempting to restrict the press.24 Over a century later Robert Hughes denounced Darling as a ‘tough, censorious [and] narrow-minded’ man who ‘soon alienated everyone except the Exclusives’.25 Darling’s Australian Dictionary of Biography entry is more measured. It suggests that he ‘was an able administrator’ and that his problem was that ‘an unkind fate … pitchforked him 21

22

23

24

25

As noted in the editor’s introduction to Some Papers of Sir Francis Forbes: First Chief Justice in Australia (edited by J M Bennett) (Sydney: Parliament of New South Wales, 1998), vii The History of New South Wales; with an Account of Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania), New Zealand, Port Phillip (Victoria), Moreton Bay, and other Australasian Settlements (London: Sampson Low, Son and Co, 1862), 273 ‘Governor Ralph Darling’s Iron Collar’, in Old Tales of a Young Country (1871). Available [Online]: <http://www. telelib.com/words/authors/C/ClarkeMarcus/prose/ OldTales/index.html> accessed 17 September 2009 An Historical and Statistical Account of New South Wales, from the Founding of the Colony in 1788 to the Present Day (London: Sampson Low, Marston, Low and Searle, 4th edition 1875); the account of Governor Darling’s time in New South Wales is at 187-222 The Fatal Shore (London: Collins Harvill, 1987), 427 96

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into the governorship of New South Wales at a time when the penal settlement was rapidly becoming a free colony’.26 The entry downplays the extent of antipathy towards Darling, noting that ‘his avowed enemies, however vocal, were few’.27 Similarly, Geoffrey Blainey argues that, while Darling ‘was sometimes arrogant and cantankerous’, he was right to be concerned with the maintenance of order in a convict colony.28 Fletcher emphasises the difficulties faced by the Governor given New South Wales’ rapid evolution,29 and argues that ‘[b]y the standards of his own time … he was not cruel and he should not be held entirely responsible for the harshness of the penal system.’30 Ultimately, the most likely conclusion seems to be that Darling was simply ill fitted for the governorship of New South Wales at that time – a strict man and a product of his military background, but not a tyrant or sadist as he has often been portrayed.

The Sudds-Thompson affair reveals much about early colonial New South Wales: it had real legal significance, and was also an important event in the context of ongoing agitation for civil and political rights. Legally, it represented an early assertion of both the freedom of the press and the separation of powers between the executive and the judiciary. Chief Justice Spigelman argues that the controversy was ‘the most serious conflict between the judiciary and the executive that has ever occurred in Australian history’.31 By refusing to sanction Darling’s proposed laws aimed at curbing press freedoms, Forbes simultaneously asserted the freedom of the press and placed limits on executive power, both crucial developments in the evolution of New South Wales from a convict colony ruled autocratically to a more mature, free society.

Indeed, Currey argues persuasively that, by having the courage to apply the law of England correctly, Forbes ‘saved the press … from subservience’.32 Examination of the controversy helps, too, to illuminate the profound conflicts present in colonial public life 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

‘Darling, Sir Ralph’, 286 Ibid, 286 A Land Half Won (South Melbourne: Macmillan,1980), 112 Fletcher, Ralph Darling, 81 Ibid, 129 Spigelman, Foundations of the Free Press in Australia Currey, Sir Francis Forbes, 234 97

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at the time. In particular, the vigorous manner in which Sudds’ death was used by those campaigning for rights such as trial by jury and representative government is indicative of the deep feelings held by many about the future of the colony as a liberal society.

This depth of feeling is also revealed by the lengths to which the campaigners were prepared to go to further these ends; vicious, even seditious, attacks on the Governor were seen as warranted.

This essay has analysed the Sudds-Thompson affair in detail and examined the historical debate surrounding it. The ultimate significance of the Sudds-Thompson controversy lies in its occurrence during a time of extensive change in Sydney and its catalytic role in accelerating that change. As the proportion of free settlers in its population grew, so too was the colony transforming itself from a convict settlement to a more mature society. The manner in which a case such as that of Sudds and Thompson played out – featuring as it did an overreaching governor, a zealous press and a liberal-minded judiciary – indicates much about how the colony functioned then, and how its members wished it to function in the future.

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Illustration Phoebe Williams

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Birthday Cake Tiffany Teoh

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Daddy’s Princess Grows Up In A Home Away From Home Mallika Bajaj

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HE pampered ‘daddy’s little princess’ finally waved her father goodbye, as he sat in the cab to go to the Tullamarine Airport. She stood standing at the corner of a main entrance gate, which seemed like the gates of hell. With a heavy heart and teary eyes, she tried to walk back but could barely lift her feet to step back into her new room. While the wind ruffled and played with her hair, all she could feel was the warmth of her father’s hug he gave her just before he left her to face this whole new world and stand tall and strong on her own two, as of then, weak and shivery feet. She was now in ‘college,’ and miles away from home, where no one knew her and she knew no one. And she didn’t know what to think.

A football was being kicked around on the green lawns and in the air by a team of boys, sporting candy striped jerseys, while some girls sat on another corner soaking the sun, making merry. She paid no heed, busy scheming how she would manage to call her father back for just one last time and take her back with him. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to stay. Yet, somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew that this was probably it. She was now all by herself, all alone, at a new place, city, and country- a whole new world.

She slowly gathered the pieces to her shattered heart and carried herself self up the stairs of a building named ‘Cowan.’ Flight one took a good 10 minutes. Flight 2, step one, and a door opened with a bang. She flew across to the railing edge and blacked out.

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As she slowly got back to her senses, she found herself in a noisy room full of unfamiliar faces; looking at her and speaking among themselves, a fake smile line drew on her face, just out of politesse.

In her head though, she felt a bit like Alice, lost in wonderland.

“Are you ok?” Popped the first question, and then followed her first hug, in this wonderland full of strangers. She didn’t know what she felt, except that the hug happened to be strangely almost as warm as her father’s hug. This time she genuinely smiled, and her life changed just thereon. She had made her first friends.

The night passed with her trying to fall asleep and yet absorb everything that had passed in the last few hours. Morning dawned and she found a box of ‘koko black’ chocolates and a “hope you feel better card” outside her door. She collected her presents and had just turned around, when a knock on the door caught her attention again. She was scared, shy, and slowly pepped out to an angelic face that awaited her to be introduced to her as her first friend at college; her buddy, assigned by the college, to help her feel at home.

Days, weeks, months flew by. Years later, as the girl sat in her room, Cowan, on a pretty rainy spring ‘arvo,’ with her buddies, accompanied by her trademark room goodies; mud cake, cupcakes, coffee and candies; the thought that all this could possibly be a few of the last laughs, chats and cupcake sessions in Cowan, sent shivers down her spine. She doesn’t want to go. Again, She doesn’t want to be alone.

With every passing day, she had loved college more. She loved waking up to the most perfectly musical neighbourhood and having meals with her buddies. She cherished every aimless walk to Lygon with sister-like pals, and taking care of her super drunk lads; sharing the happiness of handing in essays and drinking cups of calming teas; sharing the stress and ironing tresses; having conversations that bore each other to sleep or become interesting enough to keep you awake until you the morning crows shriek. She now loves it all, and she wants more.

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Like all that college gave her was not already enough. It gave her, her freedom, independence, personal space and individual identity too. It allowed her to be and it helped her grow, stronger and better each day.

The little daddy’s princess had grown up. She went from being amongst strangers, friends, buddies mentors to her newly found family; life had come a long way and so much had changed. The shy, hesitant, apprehensive little girl who once feared her first solitary step on the Cowan staircase in Trinity College, today had a fleet of friends and bundles and bags of memories, experiences and learning that walked with her, up every step to her room.

It seems only like yesterday that I saw this little girl stand in the gates; but today as I see her in the mirror, I see her true self. Trinity had made her who she was today.

I cannot thank God enough for blessing me with such an amazing set of two families and homes. But most importantly, I cannot thank my families enough for the trust bestowed and love showered upon me. Thank you Trinity for making me, ME!

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An Ode to the Bul Joshua Crowther

Beneath the boundless skies of clear turquoise, The fount of joyous memories from days Long condemned to the shelves of history, There you shall find the swathes of ripe lawn that Stretch before all that ever was, and is Yet to be, the glory of Trinity.

Tortured by the agonies of a drought, Cracked, torn and pitted by the dearth of rain, The Bul, prize of Trinitarians from Generation to generation, had Lost its lustre, the desperation of Its keepers, taut and tearful, as that fine patch Of earth was gutted, disembowelled, reduced To a crumbling wreck of former greatness.

Defying nature, summoning all the Ingenuity of modernity, the Restoration of the Bul challenged drought, Heat and all the ravages of this harsh Continent, tormented by the horrors Of an unforgiving sun, and besieged By barren sands, impenetrable seas.

Yet the Bul lives, but as a thing divine, Not to be touched by mortal hands or soles.

Scales of iron bar the way, and what was Once shared by all Trinitarians is Now pined for by all. Not here the echoes Of garbled voices, of friendships crafted In the flight from study, the chaotic Debris of human interaction that Is the tangled string of that web of life.

Banished from the green-tinged beauty of Our

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Bul, we retreat to mahogany Butteries and common rooms, there to mourn The passing of Bul and Künting Chair to Realms of mysterious oblivion.

Will the Bul be resurrected? Will the Celebrated Trinitarian lawns Be reclaimed by the inheritors of Their glorious and remembered founders?

Only time, the ultimate creator and Destruction of all human endeavours Can release the Bul from its iron jail.

Then shall Trinity be whole again, for All that has arisen and changed this year, All that has been achieved and forged by us, All the immaculate memories and Immortal friendships that have been sculpted In the days since the heat of that final Week of February, have occurred in The shadow of the Bul’s resurrection.

When the fences are dragged away, and the grass Declared fit for Trinitarians’ use It shall be a different college that Reclaims the Bul to that which sacrificed It, six months ago, in summer’s stark heat.

As anticipation builds, and the point Of reclamation arrives, let us not Forget what the Bul is to Trinity.

Greater than any mere field on this earth, The Bul’s triumphs and tribulations are A wide vaunted mirror unto our own, It’s metamorphosis symbolic of Every evolution, great and small, Individual and collective, made by Friends and colleagues, even in this brief time.

Its future, perhaps, is the future not Only of this college, but of us all.

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WHERE Bishops’

lifts its ivy’d tower and Clarke’s long cloisters run

THE College Oak

stands spreading forth its branches to the sun.

AND here are joy

and laughter and loyal friends as well;

Bishops’ ivy’d tower James Ramsay

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THE Bulpadock

rejoices in our efforts to excel.

AND whene’re we

think on all these things, wherever we may be,

WE shall raise

our voices higher and sing of Trinity The College Song

Evan Laurie Burge (1933-2003) Warden Trinity College (1974-1997)

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Soft balls of white dust, Floating about my bedroom; I need to vacuum.

Holidays Are Over Angus Cameron