In a few days, a new satellite that can detect changes on Earth’s surface down to the centimetre, in almost real time and no matter the time of day or weather conditions, is set to launch from India’s Satish Dhawan Space Centre near Chennai.

Weighing almost 3 tonnes and boasting a 12-metre radar antenna, the US$1.5 billion NISAR satellite will track the ground under our feet and the water that flows over and through it in unprecedented detail, providing valuable information for farmers, climate scientists and natural disaster response teams.

Only when the conditions are right

Satellites that image the Earth have been an invaluable scientific tool for decades. They have provided crucial data across many applications, such as weather forecasting and emergency response planning. They have also helped scientists track long-term changes in Earth’s ecosystems and climate.

Many of these Earth observation satellites require reflected sunlight to capture images of Earth’s surface. This means they can only capture images during daytime and when there is no cloud cover.

As a result, these satellites face challenges wherever cloud cover is very common, such as in tropical regions, or when nighttime imagery is required.

The NISAR satellite – a collaboration between the national space agencies of the United States (NASA) and India (ISRO) – overcomes these challenges by using synthetic aperture radar (SAR) technology to take images of the Earth. This technology also gives the satellite its name. NISAR stands for NASA-ISRO SAR.

So what is SAR technology?

SAR technology was invented in 1951 for military use. Rather than using reflected sunlight to passively image the Earth’s surface, SAR satellites work by actively beaming a radar signal toward the surface and detecting the reflected signal. Think of this as like using a flash to take a photo in a dark room.

This means SAR satellites can take images of the Earth’s surface both during the day and night.

Since radar signals pass through most cloud and smoke unhindered, SAR satellites can also image the Earth’s surface even when it is covered by clouds, smoke or ash. This is especially valuable during natural disasters such as floods, bushfires or volcanic eruptions.

Radar signals can also penetrate through certain structures such as thick vegetation. They are useful for detecting the presence of water due to the way that water affects reflected radar signals.

The European Space Agency used the vegetation-penetrating properties of SAR signals in its recent Biomass mission. This can image the 3D structure of forests. It can also produce highly accurate measurements of the amount of biomass and carbon stored in Earth’s forests.

Sang-Ho Yun, Director of the Earth Observatory of Singapore’s Remote Sensing Lab, is a key proponent of using SAR for disaster management. Yun has previously used SAR data to map disaster-affected areas across hundreds of natural disasters over the last 15 years, including earthquakes, floods and typhoons.

NISAR, which is due to launch on June 18, will significantly build on this earlier work.

Monitoring Earth’s many ecosystems

The NISAR satellite has been in development for over a decade and is one of the most expensive Earth-imaging satellites ever built.

Data from the satellite will be supplied freely and openly worldwide. It will provide high-resolution images of almost all land and ice surfaces around the globe twice every 12 days.

This is similar in scope to the European Space Agency’s Sentinel-1 SAR satellites. However, NISAR will be the first SAR satellite to use two complementary radar frequencies rather than one, and will be capable of producing higher resolution imagery compared with the Sentinel-1 satellites. It will also have greater coverage of Antarctica than Sentinel-1 and will use radar frequencies that penetrate further into vegetation.

The NISAR satellite will be used to monitor forest biomass. Its ability to simultaneously penetrate vegetation and detect water will also allow it to accurately map flooded vegetation.

This is important for gaining a deeper understanding of Earth’s wetlands, which are important ecosystems with high levels of biodiversity and massive carbon storage capacity.

The satellite will also be able to detect changes in the height of Earth’s surface of a few centimetres or even millimetres, because changes in height create tiny shifts in the reflected radar signal.

The NISAR satellite will use this technique to track subsidence of dams and map groundwater levels (since subsurface water affects the height of the Earth’s surface). It will also use the same technique to map land movement and damage from earthquakes, landslides and volcanic activity.

Such maps can help disaster response teams to better understand the damage that has occurred in disaster areas and to plan their response.

Improving agriculture

The NISAR satellite will also be useful for agricultural applications, with a unique capability to estimate moisture levels in soil with high resolution in all weather conditions.

This is valuable for agricultural applications because such data can be used to determine when to irrigate to ensure healthy vegetation, and to potentially improve water use efficiency and crop yields.

Further key applications of the NISAR mission will include tracking the flow of Earth’s ice sheets and glaciers, monitoring coastal erosion and tracking oil spills.

We can expect to see many benefits for science and society to come from this highly ambitious satellite mission.

Steve Petrie, Earth Observation Researcher, Swinburne University of Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Ever since the first fragments of pterosaur bone surfaced nearly 250 years ago, palaeontologists have puzzled over one question: how did these close cousins of land-bound dinosaurs take to the air and evolve powered flight? The first flying vertebrates seemed to appear on the geological stage fully formed, leaving almost no trace of their first tentative steps into the air.

Taken at face value, the fossil record implies that pterosaurs suddenly originated in the later part of the Triassic period (around 215 million years ago), close to the equator on the northern super-continent Pangaea. They then spread quickly between the Triassic and the Jurassic periods, about 10 million years later, in the wake of a mass extinction that was most likely caused by massive volcanic activity.

Most of the handful of Triassic specimens come from narrow seams of dark shale in Italy and Austria, with other fragments discovered in Greenland, Argentina and the southwestern US. These skeletons appear fully adapted for flight, with a hyper-elongated fourth finger supporting membrane-wings. Yet older rocks show no trace of intermediate gliders or other transitional forms that you might expect as evidence of pterosaurs’ evolution over time.

There are two classic competing explanations for this. The literal reading says pterosaurs evolved elsewhere and did not reach those regions where most have been discovered until very late in the Triassic period, by which time they were already adept flyers. The sceptical reading notes that pterosaurs’ wafer-thin, hollow bones could easily vanish from the fossil record, dissolve, get crushed or simply be overlooked, creating this false gap.

For decades, the debate stalled as a result of too few fossils or too many missing rocks. This impasse began to change in 2020, when scientists identified the closest relatives of pterosaurs in a group of smallish upright reptiles called lagerpetids.

From comparing many anatomical traits across different species, the researchers established that pterosaurs and lagerpetids shared many similarities including their skulls, skeletons and inner ears. While this discovery did not bring any “missing link” to the table, it showed what the ancestor of pterosaurs would have looked like: a rat-to-dog-sized creature that lived on land and in trees.

This brought new evidence about when pterosaurs may have originated. Pterosaurs and lagerpetids like Scleromochlus, a small land-dwelling reptile, diverged at some point after the end-Permian mass extinction. It occurred some 250 million years ago, 35 million years before the first pterosaur appearance in the fossil record.

Pterosaurs and their closest kin did not share the same habitats, however. Our new study, featuring new fossil maps, shows that soon after lagerpetids appeared (in southern Pangaea), they spread across wide areas, including harsh deserts, that many other groups were unable to get past. Lagerpetids lived both in these deserts and in humid floodplains.

They tolerated hotter, drier settings better than any early pterosaur, implying that they had evolved to cope with extreme temperatures. Pterosaurs, by contrast, were more restricted. Their earliest fossils cluster in the river and lake beds of the Chinle and Dockum basins (southwest US) and in moist coastal belts fringing the northern arm of the Tethys Sea, a huge area that occupied today’s Alps.

Scientists have inferred from analysing a combination of fossil distributions, rock features and climate simulations that pterosaurs lived in areas that were warm but not scorching. The rainfall would have been comparable to today’s tropical forests rather than inland deserts.

This suggests that the earliest flying dinosaurs may have lived in tree canopies, using foliage both for take-off and to protect themselves from predators and heat. As a result of this confined habitat, the distances that they flew may have been quite limited.

Changing climates

We were then able to add a fresh dimension to the story using a method called ecological niche modelling. This is routinely used in modern conservation to project where endangered animals and plants might live as the climate gets hotter. By applying this approach to later Triassic temperatures, rainfall and coastlines, we asked where early pterosaurs lived, regardless of whether they’ve shown up there in the fossil record.

Many celebrated fossil sites in Europe emerge as poor pterosaur habitat until very late in the Triassic period: they were simply too hot, too dry or otherwise inhospitable before the Carnian age, around 235 million years ago. The fact that no specimens have been discovered there that are more than about 215 million years old may be because the climate conditions were still unsuitable or simply because we don’t have the right type of rocks preserved of that age.

In contrast, parts of the south-western US, Morocco, India, Brazil, Tanzania and southern China seem to have offered welcoming environments several million years earlier than the age of our oldest discoveries. This rewrites the search map. If pterosaurs could have thrived in those regions much more than 215 million years ago, but we have not found them there, the problem may again lie not with biology but with geology: the right rocks have not been explored, or they preserve fragile fossils only under exceptional conditions.

Our study flags a dozen geological formations, from rivers with fine sediment deposits to lake beds, as potential prime targets for the next breakthrough discovery. They include the Timezgadiouine beds of Morocco, the Guanling Formation of south-west China and, in South America, several layers of rock from the Carnian age, such as the Santa Maria Formation, Chañares Formation and Ischigualasto Formation.

Pterosaurs were initially confined to tropical treetops near the equator. When global climates shifted and forested corridors opened, pterosaurs’ wings catapulted them into every corner of the planet and ultimately carried them through one of Earth’s greatest extinctions. What began as a tale of missing fossils has become a textbook example of how climate, ecology and evolutionary science have come together to illuminate a fragmentary history that has intrigued paleontologists for over two centuries.

Davide Foffa, Research Fellow in Palaeobiology, University of Birmingham; Alfio Alessandro Chiarenza, Royal Society Newton International Fellow in Palaeontology, UCL, and Emma Dunne, Assistant Professor in Paleobiology, Friedrich-Alexander-Universität Erlangen-Nürnberg

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

People have been celebrating the summer solstice with elaborate rituals since prehistoric times. But humans aren’t the only species to take mark June 21 as a special time. Studies are showing the summer solstice is an important cue for plants too.

Recent studies, including one of my own, have proposed that trees may use the longest day of the year as a key marker for their growth and reproductive cycles. The solstice seems to act like a calendar reminder for trees.

Many people think of plants as nice-looking greens. Essential for clean air, yes, but simple organisms. A step change in research is shaking up the way scientists think about plants: they are far more complex and more like us than you might imagine. This blossoming field of science is too delightful to do it justice in one or two stories.

This story is part of a series, Plant Curious, exploring scientific studies that challenge the way you view plantlife.

For example, at the solstice, trees growing in cold places slow down the creation of new wood cells and focus their energy on finishing already formed but still incomplete cells. This ensures trees have time to complete cell construction before winter hits. Incomplete cells are damaged by freezing winter temperatures, rendering them useless for water transport the following year.

Along similar lines, trees use the solstice to fine-tune the “winding down”, or senescence, of their leaves in preparation for autumn. Senescence allows the tree to reabsorb critical nutrients from the leaves before they fall. This process is timed to balance missing out on sunlight from “winding down” too early, against leaving it too late and losing nutrients if still-green leaves are killed by autumn frosts.

Satellite observations of forests, and controlled experiments in greenhouses, reveal that warmer temperatures immediately prior to the solstice cause the onset of leaf browning to start earlier that autumn. In contrast, warmer temperatures just after the solstice slow down the senescence process.

This means a longer transition period from green to fully brown leaves. This fine-tuning enables trees to extend the period of photosynthesis in years when temperatures stay warmer for longer, so they don’t miss out on these favourable conditions.

But not all scientists is convinced. From an evolutionary perspective, the solstice may not be the best seasonal marker for timing these transitions. For example, in forests in the far north, leaves do not appear until early June, only days before the solstice, and the growing season can extend late into October. In these forests, using the solstice to initiate the winding down process makes little sense for trees that have only just started growing for the year.

Nevertheless, there is more consensus about plants using the solstice to synchronise reproduction.

In many plants, especially trees from the temperate mid-latitudes, the number of seeds they produce varies dramatically year on year, known as masting. A large European beech tree can produce hundreds of thousands of seeds in a bumper year (a “mast event”) and forgo reproduction altogether in other years.

Beech trees vary their annual seed production in step, often on a continental scale. They do this to increase the efficiency of their reproduction.

A small moth, Cydia fagiglandana, lays its eggs in beech flowers. When the grubs hatch, they eat and destroy the developing seeds. Cycles of famine and bumper years help protect their seeds from these moths.

UK beech trees typically lose less than 5% of their seeds to Cydia because the cycles starve the moths into low numbers ready for masting years. But when trees are out of sync, seed loss can increase to over 40%.

For decades we have known that beech mast events happen in the year after a warm summer. These warmer temperatures trigger an increase in the formation of flower buds. More flower buds usually lead to a greater crop of seeds that autumn.

Scientists have long puzzled over how beech trees across Europe seem to use the same seasonal window to control mast events. Their seed production is determined by temperatures in late June and early July, irrespective of where they grow in Europe. But how can a beech tree know the date?

In my team’s 2024 study, we showed that they use the solstice as a seasonal marker. As soon as the days start to shorten after the solstice, beech trees across Europe seem to simultaneously sense the temperature.

Anywhere temperatures are above average in the weeks following the solstice can expect to have a mast event the next year. Weather conditions in the weeks before the solstice, by contrast, seem to be irrelevant. As seen on weather maps, warm and cool spells tend to occur simultaneously over large areas.

This allows beech trees to maximise the synchrony of their reproduction, whether that is investing in a mast year (warm temperatures), or forgoing reproduction for a year (low temperatures). Using a fixed marker like the solstice is the key to achieving this synchrony, and the benefits that come from it.

The evidence for this phenomenon has come from observations across dozens of forests across Europe. However, my research group is collaborating with about a dozen other groups in Europe to test this effect by manipulating the temperature of beech branches before and after the solstice at different sites. Ongoing research I am involved with seems to show flowering genes are activated at the summer solstice.

Also, studies into the circadian rhythms of plants show they have mechanisms in their molecules that allow them to detect and respond to tiny changes in day length. This is the basis for that extraordinary scale of synchronised reproduction.

If the weather is warm over the next month or so, then there is a good chance that beech trees in your local area will have heavy seed crops next autumn. What’s more, trees across the UK and into northern and central Europe will probably be doing the same.

Andrew Hacket-Pain, Senior Lecturer, School of Environmental Sciences, University of Liverpool

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

With her latest album Something Beautiful debuting at number four in the Billboard 200 and in contention to reach the top of the UK album charts, Miley Cyrus’s commercial appeal appears as strong as ever.

Something Beautiful is Cyrus’s 9th studio album, described by the singer-songwriter as an attempt to bring the divine into the day to day. It’s an ambitious, sprawling record, but, despite its commercial success, its eclecticism has led to a polarised reaction among critics.

Negative reviews are, of course, not uncommon, and we need look no further than The New York Times’ 1969 review of Abbey Road to see that even the most celebrated and acclaimed artists aren’t immune to the critic’s poison pen. But, while some degree of criticism is inevitable for all artists, when it comes to discussing experimentation and musical identity, female and male artists seem to be treated differently.

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During her Billboard Music Awards woman of the year speech in 2016, Madonna commented that “there are no rules – if you’re a boy. If you’re a girl, you have to play the game.” In the same year Björk observed that female artists are criticised if they sing about anything other than their boyfriends. She might have been exaggerating a little, but Björk’s and Madonna’s points are clear: if you’re a woman in music, you should stay in your proverbial box.

Most of the negative reviews that Something Beautiful received were along these lines. Pitchfork, for example, criticised Cyrus’s “nonsensical lyrics” (translation: stick to writing about relationships). The i Paper claimed her weird and experimental choices created a distance from her listeners (translation: don’t do anything your fans won’t like). They also condemned the lack of accessible, radio-friendly pop (translation: be one-dimensional). And the Guardian said that it fell short of the hits that made her a star (translation: as Beach Boy Mike Love allegedly said, “don’t fuck with the formula”).

For two of Cyrus’s male contemporaries, Justin Bieber and Harry Styles (both around one year her junior), it’s a very different story. While the Guardian also notes the absence of “hits” on Bieber’s 2020 album Changes, instead of presenting it as a negative as it did with Cyrus, it’s seen as a sign of maturity on a fitfully lovely album by a pop star who no longer wants chart domination.

In the case of Styles’ 2019 album Fine Line, artistic innovation was praised by the Guardian, which observed that the most endearing moments occur when he experiments. And where Pitchfork lambasted Something Beautiful’s genre-hopping eclecticism for being tonally confused, Fine Line is praised for the “incredible” sound produced due to its “flock of influences”.

Identity politics

Cyrus has been told by critics that she must choose between being an accessible pop star or an unconventional artist and “can’t have it both ways”.

Even if she did decide to plump for one camp or the other rather than ably straddling both, it’d still be debatable as to whether the ever-fickle critics would be satisfied.

Pitchfork’s 2020 review of Cyrus’s album Plastic Heart suggests it’d be a “no” in their case, at least. Complaining that the heavier songs on the album sounded like “canned, Muzak versions of rock songs”, the publication proposed that Cyrus might sound like an actual rock star if paired with someone like producer Jonathan Rado.

When Cyrus and Rado did collaborate on Something Beautiful, however, they remained unimpressed. You just can’t please some people. Thankfully, Cyrus is either oblivious to such noise or chooses to ignore it, and recently teased that Something Beautiful is merely “the appetizer” for a “an extremely experimental” upcoming album.

In an era where formulaic pop music dominates the charts and AI-generated content threatens to make things even more generic, we should be encouraging the idiosyncrasies of our female artists, not labelling them as having identity problems when they are brave enough to be different.

In her woman of the year’ speech, Madonna also noted that, as a female artist, “to age is a sin: you will be criticised, you will be vilified, and you will definitely not be played on the radio”. Perhaps, then, Cyrus’s biggest offence isn’t her refusal to become a stereotype or her desire to experiment and make music that she likes. It’s daring to grow up.

Glenn Fosbraey, Associate Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Winchester and Sarah Shawcross, Music Educator, Lecturer & Songwriter, University of Winchester

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Our experience of the world often involves hearing our environment before seeing it. Whether it’s the sound of something moving through nearby water, or the rustling of vegetation, our fear of the unseen is rooted in our survival instincts as a species.

Cinematic sound and music taps into these somewhat unsettling instincts – and this is exactly what director Steven Spielberg and composer John Williams achieved in the iconic 1975 thriller Jaws. The sound design and musical score work in tandem to confront the audience with a mysterious killer animal.

In what is arguably the film’s most iconic scene, featuring beach swimmers’ legs flailing underwater, the shark remains largely unseen – yet the sound perfectly conveys the threat at large.

Creating tension in a soundtrack

Film composers aim to create soundscapes that will profoundly move and influence their audience. And they express these intentions through the use of musical elements such as rhythm, harmony, tempo, form, dynamics, melody and texture.

In Jaws, the initial encounter with the shark opens innocently with the sound of an offshore buoy and its clanging bell. The scene is established both musically and atmospherically to evoke a sense of isolation for the two characters enjoying a late-night swim on an empty beach.

But once we hear the the low strings, followed by the central two-note motif played on a tuba, we know something sinister is afoot.

This compositional technique of alternating between two notes at an increasing speed has long been employed by composers, including by Antonín Dvořák in his 1893 work New World Symphony.

John Williams reportedly used six basses, eight cellos, four trombones and a tuba to create the blend of low frequencies that would go on to define his entire Jaws score.

The bass instruments emphasise the lower end of the musical frequency spectrum, evoking a dark timbre that conveys depth, power and intensity. String players can use various bowing techniques, such as staccato and marcato, to deliver dark and even menacing tones, especially in the lower registers.

Meanwhile, there is a marked absence of tonality in the repeating E–F notes, played with increasing speed on the tuba. Coupled with the intensifying dynamics in the instrumental blend, this accelerating two-note motif signals the looming danger before we even see it – tapping into our instinctive fear of the unknown.

The use of the two-note motif and lower-end orchestration characterises a composition style that aims to unsettle and disorientate the audience. Another example of this style can be heard in Bernard Herrmann’s car crash scene audio in North by Northwest (1959).

Similarly, in Sergei Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite, the opening of the second movement (Dance of the Pagan Gods) uses an alternating D#–E motif.

The elasticity of Williams’ motif allows the two notes to be played on different instruments throughout the soundtrack, exploring various timbral possibilities to induce a kaleidoscope of fear, panic and dread.

The psychology behind our response

What is it that makes the Jaws soundtrack so psychologically confronting, even without the visuals? Music scholars have various theories. Some suggest the two notes imitate the sound of human respiration, while others have proposed the theme evokes the heartbeat of a shark.

Williams explained his approach in an interview with the Los Angeles Times:

I fiddled around with the idea of creating something that was very … brainless […] Meaning something could be very repetitious, very visceral, and grab you in your gut, not in your brain. […] It could be something you could play very softly, which would indicate that the shark is far away when all you see is water. Brainless music that gets louder and gets closer to you, something is gonna swallow you up.

Williams plays with the audience’s emotions throughout the film’s score, culminating in the scene Man Against Beast – a celebration of thematic development and heightened orchestration.

The film’s iconic soundtrack has created a legacy that extends beyond the visual. And this suggests the score isn’t just a soundtrack – but a character in its own right.

By using music to reveal what is hidden, Williams creates an intense emotional experience rife with anticipation and tension. The score’s two-note motif showcases his genius – and serves as a sonic shorthand that has kept a generation behind the breakers of every beach.

Alison Cole, Composer and Lecturer in Screen Composition, Sydney Conservatorium of Music, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

There are many routes to artistic obscurity. The surest path, of course, is to have never been discovered in the first place. But this wasn’t the case with the late Eric Smith (1919-2017).

His story is not that of Vincent Van Gogh or Vivian Maier, who only achieved fame after death. Nor did he go out of his way to try and remain obscure, like Ron Gittens or James Hampton.

Rather, Smith’s is a story of a major artist who quite simply, and unexpectedly, vanished from public life.

A new exhibition at the Macquarie University Art Gallery, which I am co-curating, will display a range of Smith’s work – including paintings from the last four decades of his career that have never been shown before.

From fame to phantom

Smith was an artist constantly in search of ways to “express truths in our times”, and employed diverse ways of doing so across a career that included religious paintings, portraits and large abstract works.

Between his breakthrough year in 1956, when he won the first of six Blake Prizes with The Scourged Christ, and 1982, when he won the last of his three Archibalds with a portrait of Peter Sculthorpe, Smith was as lauded as an artist could be.

He had a significant role in launching Australian abstract expressionism in the famous group show, Direction 1. His art was installed in churches and public buildings, and collected by major institutions. He was quoted and photographed in the press.

Then, while working as prolifically as ever, he seemed to disappear. Why?

The death of Rudy Komon

Rudy Komon was a Czech emigrant and a larger than life bon vivant and gallerist who launched the careers of many of Australia’s finest painters.

Komon represented Smith, who he called “meister”, from 1963 and throughout the most publicly productive part of Smith’s career. Smith even won the 1981 Archibald with a painting of Komon.

However, Komon died the following year.

And according to David Taylor, an art collector and later a patron of Smith’s, “Eric’s art career died with him”.

“When Rudy died Eric had no one to connect him to the art world anymore. He was a modest man and no self-publicist,” Taylor explained to me.

“It was pretty much only me that was left buying his paintings.”

And there were a lot of paintings. Despite Smith’s exhibiting career grinding to a near halt, with no major-gallery shows after 1989, he spent the next four decades on an 8am to 6pm studio regime punctuated only by lunch and tea breaks.

“He’d finish just in time for the 6pm news”, Barbara Smith told me.

Barbara is Smith’s daughter and the manager of his legacy.

“Dad was always driven by what he saw as the challenges in his work and resolving them in the studio.”

Smith was also heavily self-critical. He admitted to destroying more than half of his artistic output – completely repainting or throwing away paintings that didn’t meet his vision.

At the age of 90, ever the self-critic and despite his successes, he said to his family: “You can’t change styles like I did and hope to get anywhere.”

Forms that express deeper feelings

Smith converted to Catholicism in the 1950s and was a life-long consumer of art-history and philosophy. These tendencies can be seen in his 1950s religious paintings and later abstract works.

In the 1950s he found inspiration in the works of the Fauvist painter Georges Rouault, and later in the works of Alfred Manessier. We see these influences in the bold outlines and church-window-esque colours used in paintings such as The Raising of Lazarus (1953) and The Scourged Christ (1956).

Smith’s later large abstract paintings such as Eternity I (1998), Orange Dawn (1999) and Untitled (Fools Gold) (2004) are evidence of his artistic quest to “find forms that express the deeper feelings” he wanted to convey.

Some of these later works share concerns aligned with Mark Rothko and Barnett Newman’s explorations of the “sublime” (influenced by Immanuel Kant’s ideas on the sublime), Richard Pousette-Dart’s soulful paintings of geometric forms, and Paul Partos rectangular forms representing inner emotions.

Smith was also skilled in portraiture, as evidenced by his depictions of fellow artists Leonard Hessing, Norman Lindsay, Louis James and Hector Gilliland, as well as his Archibald-winning portrait of Rudy Komon.

His luminous Portrait of Diane (1998), a family friend and patron, is a particularly powerful image which Smith described as his Mona Lisa.

It’s easy to see why writer and critic Paul McGillick argues Smith should be considered “one of Australia’s most visionary portraitists”.

Yet, without exhibitions and dealers and auctioneers to champion him over the decades, Smith’s work has largely vanished from the public.

Then again, “not having exhibitions didn’t bother him too much, it was the painting and process that really mattered to him,” said Barbara.

An exhibit 40 years in the making

Luckily for posterity, a number of Smith’s masterpieces survived his destructive self-critique.

These works, which are now mostly privately held, will be on display at Eric Smith: The metaphysics of paint. It is the first major exhibition of Smith’s work since the 1980s, and the first retrospective or survey of his work since his death in 2017.

“I’m sure Dad would have been extremely excited and honoured,” Barbara said.

Eric Smith: The metaphysics of paint is showing at the Macquarie University Art Gallery from June 19 to August 1.

Tom Murray, Professor in Screen Media and Creative Arts, Macquarie University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Pterosaurs were an amazing group of flying reptiles that occupied the skies around the same time that dinosaurs roamed on land. Appearing in the fossil record around 230 million years ago, pterosaurs survived until 66 million years ago, when an asteroid impact helped wipe them, and many other life forms, out.

The pterosaurs are often the animals in the background, while the dinosaurs occupy the foreground. However, they are worthy of much more recognition than they are commonly given, not just as interesting ancient animals, but because they could also inspire aircraft designs.

Pterosaurs were the first vertebrates to evolve powered flight. They were in the air 80 million years before birds and around 180 million years before bats. However, their flight apparatus was rather different to either. The wings of bats are supported by multiple digits (like our fingers). Birds use feathers as structural units in the wings.

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But pterosaurs primarily had one finger to support their wings. Their main wing was composed of a single giant “spar” – a structural unit – made of up of the bones of the arm and the greatly elongated fourth finger, with a membrane that stretched from the tip of the finger down to the ankle. This membrane acted as a flight surface.

As a group, pterosaurs were diverse – some were specialist fishers, filter feeders, terrestrial predators, insect hunters, seed crackers, and more. Some could climb well and many species were highly mobile on the ground.

They also got very large. The biggest pterosaurs had wingspans of over 10m and could weigh over 250kg. Even the smallest pterosaurs could fly: juveniles with 10cm wingspans were probably capable of flight within days or even hours of hatching.

The bones of pterosaurs, like those of birds and many dinosaurs, were filled by extensions of the lungs called air-sacs, and they were extremely thin walled. This made the skeletons of the animals very stiff for their weight (rather important when flying). It also made their skeletons very fragile after death, and so pterosaur fossils are rare.

However, in a handful of sites around the world – most notably in Germany, Brazil and China – where the preservation of fossils is exceptionally good, we have huge numbers of pterosaur fossils with both complete skeletons and a lot of soft tissue. This gives us an incredible insight into the shape and structure of their wings and how they flew.

In addition to the main wing surface, pterosaurs had two other smaller subsidiary surfaces that would have given them extra control. At the front of the main wing sitting in the crux of the elbow was a small membrane between the wrist and the base of the neck, supported by a unique long wrist bone called the pteroid.

At the back of the body, earlier pterosaurs had a single large sheet of membrane between the legs, supported in the middle by a long tail and on each side by long fifth toes on the feet. Later pterosaurs split this rear membrane and had only a small piece of membrane running from the ankle on each leg to the base of a short tail.

As well as the outer skin-like layers, the wings had at least three major layers, comprising blood vessels, a layer of muscles, and a layer of stiffening fibres. Some might well have had extensions of the airsacs in the main wing membranes too, which could presumably be inflated and deflated to a degree. The wing as a whole was therefore extremely elastic and flexible.

This would have given pterosaurs extraordinary control over their wings. All of this makes them an intriguing model for future aircraft design.

Flight challenge

Aircraft wings are not (and cannot) be perfectly stiff. Adding flexibility, or better still, actual shape changing potential, could give them substantial performance benefits. But stiffness and flexibility need to be balanced. Problems with aeroelasticity – the tendency of a soft wing to vibrate in ways that greatly reduce performance (or even cause flight to fail outright) – limit how pliable the wings can be.

Pterosaurs had multiple mechanisms to address this challenge, from passive mechanisms, such as fibres within the wing, to active mechanisms, such as the muscles that ran throughout the wing and could tighten on demand. This wing tensioning anatomy is*is?* among the most sophisticated aeroelastic control systems known to science.

The key to applying our knowledge of pterosaurs to future aircraft design comes not in closely mimicking the exact shape and form of pterosaurs, but instead, in understanding and extracting core principles from their anatomy.

The membranous wings of pterosaurs were great at changing shape. The leading edge could lie flat or depress to a sharp angle, thanks to the small anterior membrane. The main wing surface could change its curvature, or camber. There is even evidence that the wing could manage what is called reflex camber – a shape in which the trailing edge of the wing curves upwards.

Even the stiff portion of the wing (the spar) made of bone and surrounding muscles, was mobile – through motions of the shoulder, elbow, and wrist and flexibility within the bone itself near the wingtip. This soft, shape changing structure gave pterosaurs exceptional control over their moment-to-moment wing performance, optimising for lower speed or higher speed within fractions of a wingbeat. This would have made them particularly adept at slow speed flight – good for tight turns and precise, soft landings.

Greater manoeuvrability and pinpoint landings are a premium for autonomous vehicles working in busy environments – such as cities or natural disaster zones full of debris. So future survey and rescue drones could take lessons from pterosaur wing control systems.

The jointed, flexible wing anatomy of pterosaurs also meant that the wings could fold tightly, and unlike the wings of birds, the folded wings of pterosaurs doubled as powerful walking limbs. Because the hands contacted the ground while walking, the forelimbs were available to help push the animals into the air during take-off leaps. Mathematical models predict half-second launch times, from a standing start, in even the largest pterosaurs.

The exceptional mechanical loads associated with these launches were handled by one of the highest stiffness-to-weight skeletons to ever evolve. This folded-wing, rapid-launch system has great potential for applications to future technologies.

So much so, in fact, that a prototype folding wing system modelled on pterosaurs has already undergone some testing (through a Nasa-funded university project on which one of the authors, Michael Habib, consulted). A folding, flapping wing that doubles as a launch system could allow future drones to take off with limited space – perhaps while on ships at sea. It could also be used to allow small flying drones to land and launch again out of craters on Mars.

The red planet has just enough atmosphere to make flapping wing and rotor wing systems work. But it’s energetically costly and hovering is tough – better to land, measure and launch again. Similarly, rapid take offs from uneven terrain, precise landings, tight turns, and on demand tweaks to improve performance are all features that could be applied to the drones of the future, in wingsuits, and more.

As the control systems for drones become increasingly driven by intelligent software, we will need a new generation of hardware to match. Pterosaurs may hold the keys to unlocking a future of highly manoeuvrable autonomous aerial vehicles that are competent in harsh conditions and urban environments. These would be ideal for search and rescue or surveys in locations that are too dangerous for humans.

So despite having been extinct for 66 million years, the pterosaurs have huge potential as the inspiration for aircraft design. Sometimes looking back can be the best way to look forward.

David Hone, Senior Lecturer in Zoology, Queen Mary University of London; Liz Martin-Silverstone, Technical Specialist in Earth Sciences , University of Bristol, and Michael Habib, Adjunct Professor, Biology, College of the Canyons

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

To the discerning eye, other mountains are visible – giants between 23,000 and 26,000 feet high. Not one of their slenderer heads even reaches their chief’s shoulder. Beside Everest they escape notice, such is the pre-eminence of the greatest. (George Mallory, 1922)

The climbing season on Mount Everest peaks in late May and early June every year. Extreme weather patterns at this location and altitude mean the main climbing season is remarkably short, perhaps only a few weeks between the winter freeze and monsoon storms.

Even within that time, the precise location of the jetstream that accelerates wind speeds at the summit creates pinchpoints of ideal climbing conditions, leading to images of long queues of mountaineers at particularly challenging points such as the Hillary Step – named after one of the two men who first climbed Everest on May 29 1953.

In the 30 years after Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay first stood at the summit, only 150 men and women matched their feat. But since then, the number of climbers has sky-rocketed. In 2019, a record 877 people summited the mountain, and in 2024 ascents were only just shy of this.

Rebecca Stephens, the first British woman to climb Everest in 1993, has described how the “global obsession with the world’s highest mountain is shaping its future and the future of the people who work on it”.

Stephens said her ascent in 1993, when there was only one commercial expedition on the mountain, felt like a watershed moment. Since then, commercial expeditions have mushroomed on Everest’s southern base camp on the Khumbu glacier (altitude: 5,364 metres), which now boasts a wide range of facilities including coffee shops and party tents.

The explosion of interest in climbing Everest has been aided by the fact that, despite its altitude and dangers, it is far from the most difficult high-altitude mountain. A member of the Tibet Mountaineering Association who had summited five times told me, on a good day, Everest was “very straightforward” – and that climbing Denali in Alaska (North America’s tallest peak) had been much more difficult.

By the end of 2024, there had been 12,884 ascents and 335 deaths on Everest, a survival rate of 97.4%. But the so-called “death zone” above 8,000 metres, combined with avalanches, extreme weather and frostbite, will always present significant hazards to the people who visit these slopes.

This climbing season, a Scottish former marine described quitting his attempt 800 metres below the summit after encountering two dead climbers. Meanwhile, four other ex-British special forces soldiers including UK government minister Alastair Carns used xenon gas and hypoxia training to travel to Everest and summit in under a week – leading to concerns that this could further increase the number of people attempting to scale the increasingly crowded mountain.

But while images of high-altitude queues and stories of occasional fatalities hog the headlines, most visitors to Everest do not attempt to climb it. And by far the majority of these tourists are on the “other side of Everest”, in China-administered Tibet.

China’s “economic miracle”, combined with its desire to develop peripheral regions, has meant that Qomolangma (the Tibetan name for Everest) is now easily accessible, with tarmacked roads all the way to the northern base camp at Rongbuk (altitude: 5,150 metres).

From having lower numbers of visitors than the Nepalese side 20 years ago, the Tibetan side of Everest now welcomes more than half a million tourists a year – the vast majority from mainland China. Short Chinese holidays mean most of these visits are whistlestop trips that also take in the nearby high-altitude cities of Lhasa and Shigatse. Because of the lack of altitude acclimatisation time, many tourists carry oxygen bottles or wear oxygen backpacks during their visits.

Retracing the earliest routes

To better understand the impact of tourism on Everest, I visited the Tibetan side in June 2024 as a guest of Linsheng Zhong, professor of human and tourism geography at China’s Institute of Geographical Sciences and Natural Resources Research.

The date of our visit was significant, being a century since the disappearance of early Everest adventurers George Mallory and Sandy Irvine on June 8 1924. We set out to examine both the human and environmental changes that have occurred over the intervening hundred years – using century-old journals and photographs as a baseline.

As geographers rather than high-altitude mountaineers, our aim was to retrace some of the reconnaissance routes used by the British in the 1920s – a time when Nepal was closed to foreign visitors. Between 1921 and 1924, three expeditions organised by the Royal Geographical Society and the Alpine Club visited Tibet with the aim of being the first recorded people to climb Mount Everest. None, as far as we know, reached the top – and the remains of the two leaders of the final expedition, Mallory and Irvine, were only discovered on Everest many years later.

While the vistas are equally spectacular today, climate change has had a significant impact on glaciers throughout the region. Recent scientific estimates suggest that there has been between a 26% and 28% reduction in the glaciers surrounding Everest between the 1970s and 2010.

In 1921, the leader of the first expedition, Charles Howard-Bury, camped just below the Langma pass – the highest but most direct easterly route to Everest – and photographed “a peak of black rock with a glacier just below it”. It is apparent from this “slider” comparison, using a photograph I took from the same spot, how much this hanging glacier has retreated over the past century.

The human impact on Everest

Everest’s permanent northern base camp at Rongbuk in Tibet now welcomes up to 3,000 visitors a day in high season. Tourists are initially disgorged into a regimented tented village – modern versions of Tibetan yak herder accommodation.

Some of these jet-black tents, made from thick yak hair which breathes when dry and is waterproof when wet, provide simple (but heated and oxygenated) accommodation for the hardier tourists who want to be at the mountain early for the best photo opportunities.

Wandering up the astroturf lining the central boulevard, we meet a range of souvenir sellers before reaching the “world’s highest post office” and a circular plaza commemorating the various scientific and political achievements of the region. The near-landscape is largely brown: when he was here, Mallory described the contrast between the rain-shadowed “monotonously dreary, stony wastes” of Rongbuk with the beauty of the snowy mountains looming above.

Today, a boardwalk takes tourists marginally further to Rongbuk monastery – founded in 1902 and rebuilt after being damaged during the Chinese Cultural Revolution – and a final viewpoint of the north face of Everest. A yellow sandstone band is clearly visible just below the summit – evidence that this mighty mountain was once at the bottom of the ocean.

The mood on our trip was a sharp contrast to my visit in November 2007, when our Tibetan guide had been keen to evade any security checkpoints (albeit to maximise his personal profit, rather than any ethical standpoint). With only a few thousand annual, mostly international, visitors, the facilities back then were very limited, beyond a warning to tourists to proceed no further or face significant fines – and a shiny new sign proclaiming mobile phone coverage.

However, we were able to walk to the snout of the Rongbuk glacier, a jumble of shattered sandstone rocks at the terminal moraine. Today, tourists cannot go far beyond the monastery and are corralled on new boardwalks.

Tourism has brought rapid economic change to this region of the Tibetan plateau – including diversifying from traditional livelihoods. Central government efforts to reduce overgrazing in the fragile ecosystem have led to a system of payments to traditional herders – and a drop in livestock numbers from a peak of nearly 1 million in 2008 to below 700,000 today.

In contrast, the permanent human population of the Qomolangma National Nature Preserve (the protected area that includes the Tibetan side of Everest) has more than doubled since the 1950s to more than 120,000 people, with especially accelerated growth over the last decade coinciding with the rise in tourism. The Pang La pass which crosses into the Rongbuk valley, described as “desolate” by English mountaineer Alan Hinkes in the 1980s, is now festooned with souvenir shops and mobile coffee baristas.

Concern about the environmental impacts of these tourists led to the introduction of a fleet of electric buses in 2019, with visitors instructed to park their vehicles in the small town of Tashi Dzom before taking a 30-minute electric bus ride to the northern Everest base camp.

Now there are plans to move the bus transfer station to a gleaming new park centre closer to the main highway, to save tourists having to drive the numerous switchbacks over the Pang La pass to Tashi Dzom, then negotiate traffic jams and parking challenges nearer the peak.

This is partly to cope with another western import to China: the concept of the “road trip”. For Chinese car enthusiasts, the 5,000-kilometre Route 318 from Shanghai to the foot of Everest is now one of their most popular long-distance drives.

‘The most beautiful valley in the world’

We visited the east and north faces of Everest in Tibet armed with photographs and accounts from those three early British expeditions more than a century ago – the first recorded attempts to climb the world’s highest mountain.

The first (1921) expedition led by Howard-Bury, an army lieutenant-colonel, botanist and future Conservative MP, was a detailed scientific and topographical survey of the area. In their attempts to find a route to the summit, approaches via the northern (Rongbuk) and eastern (Kama) valleys were reconnoitred.

Although less visited than the Khumbu base camp in Nepal or the Rongbuk base camp in Tibet, the eastern approach to Everest via the Kama valley is a wonderful trek with unobstructed views of the immense eastern face of Everest. Howard-Bury described the allure of the valley which remains today:

We had not been able to gather much information locally about Mount Everest. A few of the shepherds said that they had heard that there was a great mountain in the next valley to the south … They called this the Kama valley, and little did we realise at the time that in it, we were going to find one of the most beautiful valleys in the world.

The valley is accessed from the settlement of Kharta, a small-but-booming town on the banks of the Bong Chu-Arun river. Just below Kharta, the river enters a steep gorge, dropping from nearly 4,000m to 2,000m as it enters Nepal. Today, the Kama valley route is becoming popular with Chinese trekkers, although there are very limited facilities to deal with their impact on the area – notably, the human and plastic waste.

The 1921 expedition selected Kharta as the location of its second base camp after several months of exploration at Rongbuk. All were relieved to find such an amenable climate and greenery after the dry and cold of the Tibetan plateau. With the help of the dzongpen (village head) and a local fixer, they rented a farmhouse where many of the photos from the expedition were later developed. Located in a grove of poplar and willow with small streams trickling along its boundary, we also visited this farmhouse – now owned by a Tibetan farmer who cheerily showed us around and introduced the three generations of his family.

The British expeditions’ investigations of the Kama valley are of particular interest as this valley sits on the climatic boundary between drier and wetter areas to the north and south of the Himalayan range. Howard-Bury described thick mists coming up the Kama valley each evening, providing significant moisture to the region:

As usual, in the evening, the clouds came up and enveloped us in a thick mist … When we started the following morning, there was still a thick Scotch mist which made the vegetation very wet … On the opposite side of the valley were immense black cliffs descending sheer for many thousand feet.

Still evident today, this precipitation, combined with great variations in altitude and temperature, supports a profusion of plants – as well as animal life that our predecessors described as “extraordinarily tame”. Now as then, in summer, the hillsides are covered with the yellow, white and pink flowers of rhododendrons and azealas, and huge juniper trees grow in the lower valley. Howard-Bury described spending “the whole afternoon lying among the rhododendrons at 15,000 feet – admiring the beautiful glimpses of these mighty peaks revealed by occasional breaks among the fleecy clouds”.

Adorned with prayer flags, the high passes are still used by local people as portals to the sacred Kama valley. In 1921, when he crossed the Langma pass to enter this “sanctuary”, Mallory wrote that the grumblings of his previously stubborn porters had suddenly transformed into “great friendliness” and “splendid marching” – such that they were “undepressed with the gloomy circumstance of again encamping in the rain”. Descending into the Kama valley, Howard-Bury effused:

To the west, our gaze encountered a most wonderful amphitheatre of peaks and glaciers. Three great glaciers almost met in the deep green valley that lay at our feet. One of these glaciers evidently came down from Mount Everest.

While the topography here remains largely unchanged, the very significant reduction in the volume of the central glacier is evident in these comparison images:

In 1921, the expedition wrote that the outflow from the Kangshung glacier (which descends from Everest) had to “hurl itself into a great ice cavern” in order to flow under the Kandoshang glacier (from Makalu, the world’s fifth-highest peak) and become the Kama river. Today, as a result of glacial retreat, that ice cavern is no longer present and the main stream from the Kangshung glacier flows unimpeded along the snout of the Kangdoshang glacier.

Further up the valley, the 1921 expedition established another base camp in the high meadows towards the head of the valley at Pethang Ringmo, which, as well as a final camp stop for trekking groups today, remains an important grazing area for migratory yak herders. These herders were important sources of information for the early explorers, but today there is some evidence of overgrazing. Howard-Bury commented:

We found ourselves among pleasant grassy meadows – it was a most delightfully sunny spot at 16,400 feet, right under the gigantic and marvellously beautiful cliffs of Chomolönzo – now all powdered over with the fresh snow of the night before and only separated from us by the Kangshung glacier, here about a mile wide. Great avalanches thunder down its sides all day long with a terrifying sound.

A century later, avalanches continue to show us this is a dynamic landscape in a state of constant flux. Often, we would glimpse the rapid tumbling of ice and snow in a long white cloud, rushing down the steep couloirs seconds before the terrifying sound reaches you – reminding us of one of the major threats to climbers.

At the head of the Kama valley, the Kangshung face of Everest is perhaps the most impressive of all the sides of the mountain, towering some two miles above the glacier below. Both the north-east (Tibetan) and south-east (Nepalese) ridges – the most popular routes to the summit – are clearly visible from here. The Kangshung face itself was not climbed successfully until an assault by an American team in 1983, and the first British ascent of Everest without oxygen by Stephen Venables in 1988.

While initially, the mountains and peaks look remarkably similar to the 1920s, the drop in the level of the glacier quickly becomes apparent. The ordered glacial flow has been replaced by rocky detritus and numerous perched lakes, leaving a lunar-like landscape.

During his first visit, and despite having spent much of his life in the mountains of Europe, Mallory wrote that he was in awe of the vista here:

Perhaps the astonishing charm and beauty here lie in the complications half-hidden behind a mask of apparent simplicity, so that one’s eye never tires of following up the lines of the great arêtes, of following down the arms pushed out from their great shoulders, and of following along the broken edge of the hanging glacier covering the upper half of this eastern face of Everest.

While Everest was the prize sought by all the expeditions, the sight of the Makalu massif, dominating the Kama valley to the south, appears to have had a greater impact on both the climbers. Howard-Bury claimed it was by “far the more beautiful mountain of the two”, while Mallory “saw a scene of magnificence and splendour even more remarkable than the facts suggest”. He wrote:

Among all the mountains I have seen, and, if we may judge by photographs, all that ever have been seen, Makalu is incomparable for its spectacular and rugged grandeur. It was significant to us that the astonishing precipices rising above us on the far side of the glacier as we looked across from our camp – a terrific awe-inspiring sweep of snow-bound rocks – were the sides not so much of an individual mountain, but rather of a gigantic bastion or outwork defending Makalu.

In fact, according to Howard-Bury, “the shepherds would insist that Makalu was the higher of the two mountains, and would not believe us when we said that Mount Everest was the higher”.

The future of the Everest region

This historical comparison of hundred-year-old images and quotes represents both the enduring mountains but also the rapid changes that the Himalayas now face. Forces of tourism on one hand and climate change on the other are posing huge challenges for these marginal environments.

Our research shows that tourist and climbing activity is having significant impacts on the region. The causes are both directly at the mountain but also at home, particularly in the damage that all of our consumptive lifestyles are having on Himalayan glaciers.

Of course, these activities have also brought much-needed development opportunities to local populations, and the residents of both the Nepalese and Tibetan sides are generally much better off than populations in less-visited areas of their respective countries.

The expected redesignation of the Qomolangma National Nature Preserve as a national park in the current Chinese central government plan may bring opportunities for further management locally as the crowds continue to grow. However, we also identified a shortfall in protecting the significant cultural heritage and longstanding spiritual relationship to the mountain, which is often eclipsed by its physical size.

Perhaps a more balanced relationship to the mountain and its people is required, one that reevaluates our rather unhealthy obsession with just one peak. Reading the accounts from the 1920s, one is aware that there was a deep reverence for the region – not only from local people but also from its British visitors.

In the intervening years, summit bids on the Tibetan side have historically been much lower than in Nepal. Closed to outsiders for much of the latter half of the last century, Tibetan ascents briefly became more popular in the 1990s and 2000s, with a few well-organised commercial operators. But closures in 2008 during Olympic preparations, and again during the COVID pandemic from 2020 to 2023, once again meant a much-reduced number of attempts.

Combined with less reliance on foreign exchange, China has been able to exert much more control on the climbing industry, and in 2024 did not charge a permit fee at all, preferring to ensure climbers were appropriately experienced. There may be merit in this approach, as no one was killed on the Tibetan side in 2024, as opposed to the eight climbers who perished on the southern side.

But on both sides of the mountain, it is highly unlikely that our global obsession with Everest will wane. As longtime chronicler Alan Arnette notes, the mountain has an “immutable attraction that is oddly perverse”. So, it is important we continue to monitor the changes in this dynamic landscape wrought by both its visitors and climate change.

To counter the rising commercialisation of both mountaineering and mountain tourism requires, above all, greater respect for our mountains and the people who reside on them. According to Lakhpa Puti Sherpa, president of the Nepal Mountain Academy, notes:

The Himalayan mountains are holy spots – and we, the Sherpas, worship them. Before climbing any mountain we worship it, begging apologies on having to step on it on the top, and asking to absolve the sin we are going to incur from this particular violence.

Watch more image comparisons of the Everest expeditions here. All historical photographs are published courtesy of the Royal Geographical Society. Slider comparisons built using Juxtapose.

For you: more from our Insights series:

• Fifty years ago, Junko Tabei became the first woman to summit Everest – why do so few people know her story?

• A century ago, the women of Wales made an audacious appeal for world peace – this is their story

• ‘Deep inside, something told me I had found the earliest human ancestor; I went numb’ – Yohannes Haile-Selassie on his lifetime quest to discover ancient humanity

To hear about the latest Insights articles and much more besides, join the hundreds of thousands of people who subscribe to our daily newsletter.

Carl Cater, Associate Professor in Tourism Marketing, Swansea University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Jaws turns 50 on June 20. Last year, Quentin Tarantino called Stephen Spielberg’s film “possibly the greatest movie ever made”. Though he was quick to add that it isn’t the best film in terms of script, cinematography or acting, he was convinced that its overall quality as a movie remains unmatched.

I’m not so sure if Jaws is the best movie ever made – but it’s certainly the movie that I like to watch the most. It is as fascinating and multilayered as it is entertaining and depressing. As a researcher of political propaganda, I believe that Jaws had political purpose.

I have watched Jaws well over 50 times and still, with every viewing, I spot a new detail. Just last week I noticed that when police chief Brody (Roy Scheider) leaves his office after the first shark attack, he opens a gate in a white picket fence.

The white picket fence is often used to symbolise the American dream and Brody’s actions are likely intended to symbolise the disruption to the dream’s pursuit of capitalism as he seeks to close the beaches and potentially ruin the town’s tourism season.

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The film was released in June 1975. Just in time for summer holidays spent splashing in the waves (or not!). However, despite its continued acclaim, it didn’t win any of the big Academy Awards in 1976. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest dominated that year. Composer John Williams did, however, win the Oscar for best original score, which I assume you are now humming in your head.

The film is based on the book by Peter Benchley, published a year earlier in 1974. The book’s plot is somewhat different to the film. For example, Matt Hooper – the shark specialist played by Richard Dreyfuss in the film – is eaten by the shark, possibly as an act of retribution for his sins on land. He survives in the film.

Benchley was US president Lyndon Johnson’s (1963-1969) communications advisor before he became an author and so knew Washington’s priorities well. The film was then commissioned before the book had time to become a commercial success, which is somewhat unusual.

The shark – powerful, mysterious, dark eyed, stalking the American people and killing without emotion – represents the threat posed by communism. The defeat of this “menace” will require the reunification of American society following its disastrous and fractious involvement in the Vietnam war and political scandals like Watergate.

Hence, the white public sector worker (Brody), the scientist (Hooper) and the military veteran (Quint), put their differences aside to band together on a rickety and ill-equipped boat – the Orca – which was possibly meant to symbolise the wobbling US of its time.

So while Jaws is a parable of societal repair, it is also a story of exclusively white unification amid external threats. The civil rights movement and Vietnam are inextricably linked through the service of young black men to the cause, and yet black characters are conspicuous by their absence from the book and the film. The only black presence in the book is an anonymous gardener who rapes wealthy white women.

Human will to dominate the natural world

In the book, the horror focuses upon human, rather than animal, behaviour. This comes in the form of political corruption, mafia influence, adultery, snobbery, racial prejudice, community disconnect and dishonest journalism. And it occurs as much on land as it does at sea. There is a large section midway through the book where the shark plays no part in the, at times, highly sexual plot.

Spielberg removed many of the undercurrents and insinuations of the book for his adaptation. The film gives less attention to life in the town of Amity and focuses largely on the shark and the horror of its actions.

The irony is that so many characters feel personally offended by an animal capable of instinct alone, when they as humans – capable of reason and choice – behave so badly towards each other. Indeed, the lack of an eco-centric character to defend the shark in both the book or the film is telling.

The overwhelming horror is instead found in the treatment of the shark and the assertion that it must be killed rather than respected and left alone. Indeed, Jaws represents a parable of the modern human perception of battle against nature. Wherein Brody, Hooper and Quint, despite their differences, are united in their assumption of human superiority and their perspective that the problem ought to be dealt with using violence.

The story of Jaws also speaks to George Orwell’s essay Shooting an Elephant from 1936. It captured the author’s dilemma while working as a police officer in colonial Burma when an elephant disrupted the regular process of capitalism by trampling through a local market.

The philosophers Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno referred to the enlightenment as having created a “new barbarity” wherein humans are engaged in a project of destruction. Here then, a shark has had the audacity to behave in an inconvenient way to man’s profiteering from tourism and must be killed.

Indeed, one of the biggest criticisms of the film, which Spielberg has subsequently acknowledged, is its inaccurate representation of shark behaviour and the extent to which the film’s success contributed to the decline of the species.

Ultimately then, Jaws – the book, the film and the reaction of audiences to it – serves as a testimony to the role played by fear within human decision-making. The fear of “others”. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the natural world. Fear of loss of status or reputation.

It’s a testament to the susceptibility of humans to become insular and violent when they are scared, but also to the distorting influence of propagandists in determining what they ought to be afraid of.

This article features references to books that have been included for editorial reasons, and may contain links to bookshop.org. If you click on one of the links and go on to buy something from bookshop.org The Conversation UK may earn a commission.

Colin Alexander, Senior Lecturer in Political Communications, Nottingham Trent University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In The Spare Room, Judy Davis lights up the stage with a singularly vivid performance.

Adapted by Eamon Flack from Helen Garner’s 2008 novel of the same name, Davis plays sharp-tongued Helen (or Hel) to the irrational Nicola (Elizabeth Alexander), who visits seeking alternative treatments for her cancer-ridden body.

But unfortunately, the production does not match Davis’ star performance.

A shaky reality

Set and costume, by Mel Page, echo Garner tropes: bed linen, windows, back door onto shared backyard with family as neighbours, curtains, lounge, kitchen, vodka, music, bicycle and miniature pink backpack.

But I’m increasingly unable to suspend belief in stage designs whose purpose is to mimic reality. A curtain is used inconsistently to indicate a change of space. The kitchen table is appropriated for medical professionals’ desks and magician’s table without any change of lighting or further demarcation of space and time.

Kitchens and cooking are important to Garner’s domestic settings. There’s a brief smashing of apricot kernels. Bananas, licorice bullets and lemonade get a mention. But Hel’s chopping of a limp celery comes out of nowhere, and means very little.

If the adaptation is going to use food, meal preparation and cooking, then use it substantially as a motif.

For time changes, Hel yells out the day. The pace is speedy, with Davis firing off dialogue and scampering across stage. We get no sense of the dragging time that Hel experiences as carer.

The same actors playing multiple characters without much change of physical appearance lacks credulity. Nicola, in particular, is presented as a cliché of an older, suburban woman – not Garner’s wealthy bohemian. Nicola is based on Jenya Osborne – a friend of Garner and her third husband, Murray Bail, who described Osborne as “alternative virtually everything”.

Garner is the queen of sustained metaphor. In the novel, a broken mirror and a creature scuttling in dried leaves are early images of death.

In Flack’s adaptation, the mirror is only spoken of, accompanied by a strum across the cello by Anthea Cottee (music composed by Steve Francis).

There may have been a flourish of flamenco on the cello as Hel prances in imitation of the liveliness of her granddaughter, Bess (who is only referred to once), but it is too unimpactful to recall.

At one point, Hel plays on a toy piano accompanying the cello, a comedic reference to Garner’s most acclaimed novel The Children’s Bach (1984).

On death and dying

The clearest image of dying and death is central in the play: a magician’s show that Hel has to review. “The most beautiful things happen secretly and privately”, the magician (Alan Dukes) says, as he whisks away then recovers various objects.

A failure of both Garner’s book and the stage adaptation is that Hel complains of exhaustion after only a few weeks caring for Nicola. But many people spend years caring for a sick loved one, giving up another possible trajectory of their own lives.

The balance is wrong, too, between the humanity of Hel and Nicola: the audience guffawed at Hel’s exasperated wit and Nicola’s investment in fraudulent therapies. This, perhaps, is a feature of Garner’s work. While Garner is self-critical in her writing, she also consistently exposes others.

Bail is critical of Garner’s use of their friend’s life as fodder for a novel. He writes:

[Osbourne] was all kindness and consideration, which was rewarded as she was dying by being portrayed in [Garner’s book], where her harmless foolishness was pitied and scorned.

In Garner’s novel, Nicola and Hel “[dissect] with cheerful meanness the latest escapades” of her ex-husband. But in the play, Hel recounts her acts of revenge against him in their Sydney flat, drawing on Garner’s third diary, How to End a Story: Diaries 1995–1998, published in 2021. Bail is not named in either play or novel, but fans of Garner’s work know of whom she speaks.

The play is part monologue by Davis. Monologues and choruses effectively give oversight and insight to the narrative, but here it only further spotlights Hel’s story, not Nicola’s who is the one dying in pain.

With some details in the dialogue of Nicola’s dying processes – and with her plan to take an entourage for residency in an expensive hotel – Hel then “handed her over”.

As the play opens with a reference to the life-filled antics of Hel’s granddaughter, we know that the granddaughter, now assumed to be recovered from a cold, can be handed over to her. It is a rational ending, but lacking vitality.

The Spare Room is at Belvoir, Sydney, until July 13.

Moya Costello, Adjunct Lecturer in Creative Writing, Southern Cross University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Travel back 20,000 years into the last Ice Age, to a time when the upper reaches of the Blue Mountains were treeless and the ridgelines and mountain peaks laden in snow and ice.

At an elevation of 1,073 metres, you will find Dargan Shelter, an ancient rock shelter resembling a large amphitheatre. Looking around, you could easily assume this cold and barren high country was too difficult for people to spend time in.

But our new research, published today in Nature Human Behaviour, indicates Dargan Shelter was occupied as early as the last Ice Age and repeatedly visited during this cold period.

Our excavation results provide the earliest known evidence of high-altitude occupation in Australia, establishing the Blue Mountains as Australia’s most archaeologically significant periglacial landscape – that is, an area which goes through seasonal freezing and thawing.

Cultural perspectives

This is a highly significant landscape concentrated with tangible and intangible cultural values for Aboriginal people.

For millennia, Aboriginal people have passed down the knowledge and stories of Country.

Knowing our Ancestors have lived here, in this Country, for thousands of years was on our minds as the team headed down into the site where we would sit alongside our Ancestors of yesterday.

We chose this site because of its location on a known Aboriginal travelling route, high elevation and its potential to hold deep deposits.

Archaeologically, a deep and undisturbed deposit is one of the most important things to look for. The sediment buildup over time preserves cultural material, and allows us to reconstruct past activities by associating cultural objects within distinct layers or bands of time.

When we enter the site, we pay respects to the Country and Ancestors before us. As part of the opening of the site for the archaeological works, a lyrebird song and dance were performed and, magically, a handful of lyrebirds began approaching the cave and singing out as if they were communicating between the current and old worlds through song.

We do not know who exactly the Aboriginal people who moved through the Blue Mountains in the deep past were, nor where they came from. But Dargan Shelter was probably an important stopover point for people to attend gatherings and ceremonies that could have included people from the western interior, the Cumberland coastal plains, and Country to the north and south.

Finds from the Dargan Shelter excavation

New evidence provides definitive proof of repeated occupation in this once frozen high-altitude landscape. It is now believed to be the oldest occupied site in Australia at high elevation.

We unearthed 693 stone artefacts, including 117 flakes from stratigraphic layers older than 16,000 years, and documented a small amount of faded rock art, including a child-sized hand stencil and two forearm stencils.

Charcoal from hearths (campfires) underwent radiocarbon dating, indicating Dargan Shelter had been continuously occupied since 22,000 to 19,000 years ago.

Among the findings, most of the stone tools were locally sourced and made. But, very interestingly some stones from the Jenolan Caves area, approximately 50 kilometres to the south-west, and the Hunter Valley region, 150 km to the north, were also found. This indicates people were travelling into this mountainous region from both the north and south.

We found a sandstone grinding slab, dated to 13,000 years ago, consistent with shaping bone or wooden artefacts such as needles, awls, bone points and nose points. A basalt anvil with impact marks consistent with cracking hard woody nuts and seed shells was dated to 8,800 years ago.

Greater Blue Mountains and world heritage

The Blue Mountains was listed as a UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) World Heritage area in 2000 for its outstanding biodiversity values.

Although the cultural heritage is remarkably intact and connected with an environmental system and natural features, the parallel nomination for cultural values listing failed due to a paucity of archaeological and cultural heritage information.

Our new research should be considered in a nomination for the UNESCO World Heritage area to also encompass cultural heritage alongside biodiversity.

The Blue Mountains landscape shrouds a silent yet rich tapestry of Aboriginal heritage.

Our people have walked, lived and thrived in the Blue Mountains for thousands of years. The mountains are a tangible connection to our Ancestors who used them as a meeting place for sharing, storytelling and survival. They are a part of our cultural identity.

We need to respect and protect our heritage for the benefit of all Australians.

Our results align Australia for the first time with ice age data from the world’s other inhabited continents, including sites in other places not traditionally thought of as cold climates, such as Mexico and Spain.

We now have a truly global story of people entering and living in high-altitude landscapes during the last ice age.

The continuation of research projects like this one, and the invaluable evidence it provides across the region, will allow Aboriginal people with connections to the Blue Mountains to begin to stitch back together much of the history and many of the stories that until now have had gaps.

The more we discover and piece together the movements, ceremonies and stories, the stronger we are as a community.

Erin Wilkins, Aboriginal Cultural Educator, Trainer and Facilitator, Indigenous Knowledge; Amy Mosig Way, Archaeologist, Australian Museum, and Lecturer in Archaeology, University of Sydney; Leanne Watson, Artist, Educator, Book Illustrator, Indigenous Knowledge, and Wayne Brennan, First Nations Mentor, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Every three seconds, someone in the world develops dementia. Alzheimer’s disease is the most common form of dementia, accounting for between 60% and 70% of all cases.

Although scientists have made significant progress in understanding the disease, there’s still no cure. That’s partly because Alzheimer’s disease has multiple causes – many of which are still not fully understood.

Two proteins which are widely believed to play central roles in Alzheimer’s disease are amyloid-beta and tau. Amyloid-beta forms sticky plaques on the outside of brain cells. This disrupts communication between neurons. Tau accumulate inside brain cells, where it twists into tangles. This ultimately leads to cell death. These plaques and tangles are the hallmark features of Alzheimer’s disease.

This understanding, known as the amyloid hypothesis, has shaped research for decades and led to treatments that aim to clear amyloid from the brain. Monoclonal antibody drugs have been approved in recent years for this purpose.

But they only work in the early stages of the disease. They do not reverse existing damage and may cause serious side-effects such as brain swelling and bleeding. Most importantly, they only target amyloid-beta, leaving tau untreated.

But in a surprise twist, recent research published by my colleagues and me has found that a protein from Helicobacter pylori – a bacteria best known for causing stomach ulcers – can block the toxic buildup of both amyloid-beta and tau. This unexpected finding may point to a new strategy for the fight against Alzheimer’s disease.

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Our discovery began with a very different question. We were initially studying how H pylori interacts with other microbes. Some bacteria form protective communities called biofilms, which rely on amyloid assemblies (similar in structure to the plaques which form in the brain) as a structural scaffold. This led us to wonder: could H pylori influence bacterial biofilms by also interfering with amyloid assemblies in humans?

We turned our attention to a well-known H pylori protein called CagA. While half of the protein is known to trigger harmful effects in human cells (referred to as the C-terminal region), the other half (the protein’s N-terminal region) may have protective properties. To our surprise, this N-terminal fragment, called CagAN, dramatically reduced the formation of both bacterial amyloids and biofilms in the bacterial species Escherichia coli and Pseudomonas.

Encouraged by these results, we tested whether the same protein fragment could block the buildup of human amyloid-beta proteins. To do this, we incubated amyloid-beta molecules in the lab: some were treated with CagAN, while others were left as normal. We then tracked amyloid formation using a fluorescence reader and an electron microscope.

We found that treated samples had far less amyloid clump formation during the testing period. Even at very low concentrations, CagAN almost completely stopped amyloid-beta from forming amyloid aggregates.

To understand how CagAN worked, we used nuclear magnetic resonance (which allows us to look at how molecules interact with each other) to examine how the protein interacts with amyloid-beta. We also used computer modelling to investigate possible mechanisms. Remarkably, CagAN also blocked tau aggregation – suggesting it acts on multiple toxic proteins involved in Alzheimer’s disease.

Blocking the disease

Our study has shown us that a fragment from the Helicobacter pylori protein can effectively block the buildup of the two proteins that are implicated in Alzheimer’s disease. This suggests that bacterial proteins – or drugs modelled after them – could someday block the earliest signs of Alzheimer’s.

What’s more, the benefits may extend beyond Alzheimer’s disease.

In additional experiments, the same bacterial fragment blocked the aggregation of IAPP (a protein involved in type 2 diabetes) and alpha-synuclein (linked to Parkinson’s disease). All of these conditions are driven by the accumulation of toxic amyloid aggregates.

That a single bacterial fragment could interfere with so many proteins suggests exciting therapeutic potential. Though these conditions affect different parts of the body, they may be linked through cross-talk between amyloid proteins – a shared mechanism that CagAN could help disrupt.

Of course, it’s important to be clear: this research is still at an early stage. All of our experiments were conducted in lab settings, not yet in animals or humans. Still, the findings open a new path.

Our study also uncovered the underlying mechanisms for how CagAN blocked the amyloid-beta and tau from forming amyloid aggregates. One of the ways in which CagAN did this was by preventing the proteins from coming together to form clumps. They also prevented small, premature amyloid aggregates from forming as well. In the future, we will continue the detailed mechanism study and evaluate the effects in animal models.

These results also prompt a question: could H pylori, long seen only as harmful, also have a protective side? Some studies have hinted at a connection between H pylori infection and Alzheimer’s disease, though the relationship remains unclear. Our discovery adds a new layer to this discussion, suggesting that part of H pylori may actually interfere with the molecular events that lead to Alzheimer’s disease.

That means in the future, we may need to take a more precise and personalised approach. Instead of aiming to eliminate H pylori completely with antibiotics, it might be more important to understand, in different biological contexts, which parts of the bacterium are harmful, and which might actually be beneficial.

As medicine continues to move toward greater precision, the goal may no longer be to wipe out every microbe, but to understand how some of them might work with us rather than against us.

Gefei Chen, Associate professor, Karolinska Institutet

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Our experience of the world often involves hearing our environment before seeing it. Whether it’s the sound of something moving through nearby water, or the rustling of vegetation, our fear of the unseen is rooted in our survival instincts as a species.

Cinematic sound and music taps into these somewhat unsettling instincts – and this is exactly what director Steven Spielberg and composer John Williams achieved in the iconic 1975 thriller Jaws. The sound design and musical score work in tandem to confront the audience with a mysterious killer animal.

In what is arguably the film’s most iconic scene, featuring beach swimmers’ legs flailing underwater, the shark remains largely unseen – yet the sound perfectly conveys the threat at large.

Creating tension in a soundtrack

Film composers aim to create soundscapes that will profoundly move and influence their audience. And they express these intentions through the use of musical elements such as rhythm, harmony, tempo, form, dynamics, melody and texture.

In Jaws, the initial encounter with the shark opens innocently with the sound of an offshore buoy and its clanging bell. The scene is established both musically and atmospherically to evoke a sense of isolation for the two characters enjoying a late-night swim on an empty beach.

But once we hear the the low strings, followed by the central two-note motif played on a tuba, we know something sinister is afoot.

This compositional technique of alternating between two notes at an increasing speed has long been employed by composers, including by Antonín Dvořák in his 1893 work New World Symphony.

John Williams reportedly used six basses, eight cellos, four trombones and a tuba to create the blend of low frequencies that would go on to define his entire Jaws score.

The bass instruments emphasise the lower end of the musical frequency spectrum, evoking a dark timbre that conveys depth, power and intensity. String players can use various bowing techniques, such as staccato and marcato, to deliver dark and even menacing tones, especially in the lower registers.

Meanwhile, there is a marked absence of tonality in the repeating E–F notes, played with increasing speed on the tuba. Coupled with the intensifying dynamics in the instrumental blend, this accelerating two-note motif signals the looming danger before we even see it – tapping into our instinctive fear of the unknown.

The use of the two-note motif and lower-end orchestration characterises a composition style that aims to unsettle and disorientate the audience. Another example of this style can be heard in Bernard Herrmann’s car crash scene audio in North by Northwest (1959).

Similarly, in Sergei Prokofiev’s Scythian Suite, the opening of the second movement (Dance of the Pagan Gods) uses an alternating D#–E motif.

The elasticity of Williams’ motif allows the two notes to be played on different instruments throughout the soundtrack, exploring various timbral possibilities to induce a kaleidoscope of fear, panic and dread.

The psychology behind our response

What is it that makes the Jaws soundtrack so psychologically confronting, even without the visuals? Music scholars have various theories. Some suggest the two notes imitate the sound of human respiration, while others have proposed the theme evokes the heartbeat of a shark.

Williams explained his approach in an interview with the Los Angeles Times:

I fiddled around with the idea of creating something that was very … brainless […] Meaning something could be very repetitious, very visceral, and grab you in your gut, not in your brain. […] It could be something you could play very softly, which would indicate that the shark is far away when all you see is water. Brainless music that gets louder and gets closer to you, something is gonna swallow you up.

Williams plays with the audience’s emotions throughout the film’s score, culminating in the scene Man Against Beast – a celebration of thematic development and heightened orchestration.

The film’s iconic soundtrack has created a legacy that extends beyond the visual. And this suggests the score isn’t just a soundtrack – but a character in its own right.

By using music to reveal what is hidden, Williams creates an intense emotional experience rife with anticipation and tension. The score’s two-note motif showcases his genius – and serves as a sonic shorthand that has kept a generation behind the breakers of every beach.

Alison Cole, Composer and Lecturer in Screen Composition, Sydney Conservatorium of Music, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In Australia, there are around 235,000 emergency service volunteers who help communities respond and recover after natural disasters and other traumatic events.

These include volunteers with metropolitan and rural fire services and other rescue organisations.

As natural disasters grow more frequent and severe with climate change we rely on these volunteers now more than ever. Yet volunteer numbers are shrinking.

Our new research reveals an important but often hidden toll from natural disasters – the mental health of emergency service volunteers, who risk physical and emotional burnout.

In our study, we interviewed 32 Victorian State Emergency Service (SES) and Country Fire Authority (CFA) volunteers. They told us they’re often not getting adequate support.

Exposure to death

Death is something commonly hidden behind clinical curtains. But for emergency service volunteers, exposure to dying and death is just part of the job. Death on jobs arrives unpredictably – on roads, in burned homes, after storms, floods and suicides.

Given their work often takes place in the local community, victims are frequently known to the volunteer, which can further complicate grief. As one participant told us:

You’re bound to come across someone you know, or someone you love at some point […] in a bad situation.

Another recounted a colleague’s experience:

It wasn’t until the next day that she found out that she actually knew the deceased person, but didn’t recognise them.

Volunteers described often being first on scene to assist but not fully prepared for what they find. They recounted experiences including retrieving children who had drowned, watching people dying on the roadside, and finding burnt and maimed human remains.

These encounters provoke intense emotional responses, from shock and sadness to feeling powerless and vulnerable. For many, feelings of helplessness and grief reverberate into everyday life. As one volunteer told us:

I was in a semi-breaking-down sort of place […] having flashbacks […] struggling to hold emotions and do my day job.

A lack of formal support

We identified over-reliance on informal team support and individual resilience to cope with difficult emotions.

Structured debriefs depended on leadership and team dynamics. Leaders with “tough it out” mindsets unintentionally perpetuated stigma around seeking help. One participant explained:

People generally will just sit there and not talk about how they feel […] They’re feeling ashamed or embarrassed.

The mindset of some teams seems to be that those who can’t manage the demands of the job should leave. One volunteer said:

It’s mostly very hard and tough. But if you’re going to survive in the game, you gotta be hard.

Support programs exist, but often focus on major disasters rather than the more everyday jobs. Referral depends on leaders flagging those seen as at-risk or individual volunteers asking for support. One participant explained:

We do a debrief with peer support, but some people put on a brave face […] There needs to be more follow up.

What’s more, support is sometimes difficult to access. One participant, a team leader, explained what happened when a volunteer in their team wasn’t coping:

I called the mechanisms that [we] were told that we need to access. I’ve got somebody here that’s suicidal, nobody escalated it. I still hadn’t heard back six hours later.

Importantly, our findings also highlighted that a one-size-fits-all approach doesn’t work. For some, peer support is a lifeline for processing experiences and building resilience, but not for others.

Five women killed. And the peer support was all over us. You know, we got to the stage where it was ridiculous. We’ve had enough, we don’t want this. It re-traumatises people who want to move on.

Protecting those who protect us

Talking to emergency service volunteers from only two organisations in one jurisdiction may limit the extent to which we can generalise our findings to other regions, countries or cultures.

However, Victoria does have the second largest number of emergency service volunteers in Australia (behind New South Wales).

Emergency service volunteers are extremely proud and passionate about serving their community and show up with care, calm and strength. But our findings show this comes at a personal cost, especially without the right supports.

Volunteer exposure to death and dying must be recognised as a serious occupational health and safety issue, not just an emotional side effect of the job. We need proactive, not reactive reform if we want to recruit, retain and protect the people we count on in a crisis.

Legislators and organisations should work collaboratively with emergency service volunteers to develop and implement responsive and consistent support services, culture and leadership.

Without targeted, systemic and consistent support, we risk the future of our community-based emergency response. It’s time to protect those who protect us.

If this article has raised issues for you, or if you’re concerned about someone you know, call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636.

Natalie Roche, PhD Candidate, Centre for Ergonomics and Human Factors, La Trobe University and Rwth Stuckey, Associate Professor, Ergonomics, Safety and Health, La Trobe University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Last week, the Queensland government launched the ambitious Destination 2045 tourism plan, which aims to make the state a global leader in tourism. The plan highlights that one in six jobs in tropical north Queensland are supported by tourism.

However, earlier this year the same government tentatively withdrew support from a campaign to add Cape York to the UNESCO World Heritage List.

If the goal is to position Queensland as a leader in tourism, then linking Cape York’s landscapes to the World Heritage brand would certainly help achieve that.

Consultation is key

In June 2024, Steven Miles, Labor’s then-premier in Queensland, and Tanya Plibersek, the federal environment minister, announced they had placed seven of the cape’s national parks on Australia’s tentative World Heritage list.

In January, however, the newly elected Liberal-National government, under Premier David Crisafulli, ordered a review of the decision. The government cited concerns over a lack of sufficient consultation around the nomination.

If a lack of consultation is the main issue, there is an opportunity for the Crissafulli government to thoughtfully reopen negotiations.

Getting this step right could help conserve and encourage tourism to one of Australia’s most diverse landscapes – in line with the Destination 2045 plan.

How to get onto (and kicked off) UNESCO’s list

Cape York covers some 137,000 square kilometres. According to the 2021 census, it has a population of less than 8,000 people, including 3,678 Aboriginals and Torres Strait Islanders.

Inscription to the World Heritage list doesn’t mean the entire cape would be listed – just specific sites and landscapes within it.

It’s usually the responsibility of a country’s various governments to convince UNESCO, in a nomination bid, a certain place has the necessary “outstanding universal value” and meets at least one of UNESCO’s ten selection criteria.

Sites that are physically altered or damaged after receiving World Heritage status can be de-listed, either by a state party or by UNESCO. This has happened in Oman, Germany, the United Kingdom and Georgia.

We also recently saw the Murujuga Cultural Landscape in Western Australia, with its extraordinary record of rock engravings (petroglyphs), denied World Heritage inscription. This was mainly due to the threat of ongoing damage from industrial emissions from Woodside Energy’s nearby Karratha gas plant.

World Heritage status: a risk or benefit?

A carefully considered World Heritage inscription doesn’t necessarily block industries and tourism from the listed area.

Many of the archaeological sites of the Willandra Lakes World Heritage Area in New South Wales are located on sheep stations. These stations, established in the late 19th century, have individual property plans that ensure the sites are conserved while remaining viable for agricultural activity.

Another example is the tourism seen at the extraordinary eel trap system of Budj Bim in southwest Victoria. Budj Bim is one of Australia’s most recent additions to the World Heritage list. It is also the first site to be inscribed solely for its cultural value.

The Budj Bim eel traps were engineered some 6,600 years ago, and represent one of the world’s oldest aquaculture systems.

This cultural landscape is now home to a thriving tourism program that attracts thousands of visitors each year. The World Heritage listing ensures there are enough resources for the Gunditjmara Traditional Owners running the site to improve the health of Country through cultural and environmental management.

World Heritage often boosts international tourism, funding opportunities and local branding. The Lake District in the UK is a good example of this, although the site has faced some controversy recently.

While Queensland’s current government has cited concerns over planning restrictions, these types of concerns are typically based on perception rather than proven harm. In Queensland, they were also clearly addressed in government memos and communications.

Tasmania’s forestry sector resisted World Heritage expansion (there were four expansions between 1989–2013), yet tourism in the region remains economically valuable.

It’s unlikely the Cape York nominations would threaten the pastoral or mining industries, since most of the nominated sites are already protected as national parks.

What makes a World Heritage site?

The list of Cape York sites submitted for World Heritage consideration has some strong contenders. Quinkan Country is undoubtedly the most significant site on the list, distinguished by its diversity and richness of Aboriginal paintings and engravings.

But the list isn’t exhaustive. There are several other Aboriginal cultural landscapes in Cape York that also deserve to be considered by UNESCO. These include the giant shell mounds around Weipa, Jiigurru (Lizard Island), and the Flinders Island Group with its extraordinary rock art galleries.

Moving forward

World heritage listings in Cape York have great potential to allow Aboriginal people to care for the landscapes and create tourism infrastructure that centres Aboriginal perspectives.

Appointing Aboriginal rangers in the Flinders Island Group could help deliver a unique and sustainable cultural tourism experience, similar to that provided at the World Heritage-listed Kakadu National Park. Destination 2045 highlights the importance of developing Aboriginal ranger programs in such landscapes to boost cultural tourism and economic growth.

The Crisafulli government now has the opportunity to meaningfully engage with the Traditional Custodians of the Cape York landscapes that have been put forth. We argue that the World Heritage listing outcome could help the cape’s economic development and support its communities.

Michael Westaway, Australian Research Council Future Fellow, Archaeology, School of Social Science, The University of Queensland; Anna M. Kotarba-Morley, Future Making Research Fellow, University of Adelaide; Denis Rose, Indigenous Knowledge Holder, Indigenous Knowledge; Olivia Arnold, PhD candidate, The University of Queensland, and Rylee Smith, Leadership Academy Coordinator at Cape York Institute for Policy & Leadership, Indigenous Knowledge

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In Australia, an estimated one in ten men experience mental health issues such as anxiety and depression before and after their child is born (the perinatal period).

Alongside emotional ups and downs and exhaustion, new dads may also be facing greater practical demands, such as caring for the baby, supporting their partner, and providing financially.

It’s not surprising, then, that becoming a dad may be linked to increased psychological distress. But it’s concerning because many men don’t access help. There’s also growing evidence a father’s mental state may affect his developing child in the short and long term.

Our new review brings together the international evidence about the relationship between fathers’ mental health and children’s development for the first time.

We found consistent associations between dads’ psychological distress before and after birth and poorer outcomes in children’s social, emotional, cognitive, language and physical development, from birth until the early teens.

The good news? There are effective ways to intervene early.

Barriers to getting help

There are complex reasons why new fathers might not access help for mental distress.

Notably, a 2024 review of Australian and international research found fathers are not routinely asked in health-care settings about their wellbeing at any point before the birth of a child, or after – when support is often most needed.

Men may also feel they need to be strong and push past tough emotions to “get on” with looking after the family.

They may be reluctant to acknowledge their own difficulties, and instead avoid the issue, through strategies such as working excessively, or using alcohol or other drugs.

Working hours can also make accessing services difficult.

As a result, men may have trouble recognising mental distress and it may go undetected by the people around them and in the wider health-care system.

We don’t know the true impact

Research on early risk factors for poorer child development is around 17 times more likely to focus on mothers’ health and lifestyle, compared to fathers.

This focus is understandable, given up to one in five women experience perinatal anxiety or depression in the transition to motherhood.

Strong evidence links mothers’ mental distress to poorer child outcomes. For example, mothers experiencing perinatal anxiety or depression may withdraw and find it difficult to interact with their child. This may be linked to delays in children’s developing social and emotional skills.

Yet similar research on fathers has been lacking.

This imbalance affects health policy and clinical practice, leaving many fathers feeling excluded from family health care. The impact on their children has also been poorly understood.

What we looked at

Our new research aimed to understand how men’s mental health before and after birth is related to their child’s development, from birth through adolescence.

We looked at the findings from 84 longitudinal studies which track people over long periods of time, including from Australia, Europe, Asia and North America.

The review included any study that measured an association between perinatal depression, anxiety or stress in fathers (biological or adoptive) and child development. These included social and emotional skills, thinking and problem-solving, language, physical development and motor skills.

Our study had three main findings

First, mental distress in fathers during pregnancy and after birth was consistently linked to poorer development in their children.

Specifically, this included lower ratings on social, emotional, cognitive, and language skills, such as the capacity to interact with others, understand feelings, process information and communicate. It also affected physical health outcomes, such as body weight, sleep and eating patterns.

Second, associations were evident from early development (infancy) through to the early teens (13 years). This suggests that, without support, a father’s perinatal mental distress may be related to child development well beyond infancy.

Third, fathers’ mental distress after birth was more strongly related to how children developed than their mental distress during pregnancy.

This is not surprising, because it’s when fathers begin to interact with infants and may more directly influence their development.

So, what should change?

Our findings underscore that getting in early to support dads – both before and soon after the arrival of a new child – is crucial.

Routine screening for signs of mental distress is effective in identifying mothers who might benefit from help. This could be extended to all parents, through family planning, antenatal and postpartum clinics, and GP check-ups.

Research shows 80% of men see a GP or allied health practitioner in the year before having a baby. Asking about other aspects of wellbeing – such as sleep quality – can be an effective and non-stigmatising way to ease into conversations about mental health.

This can help connect men with support services earlier, to improve their health and their children’s.

What should men look out for?

Studies suggest men may often express their distress through relationship strain, rather than sadness. They may also report self-harm, suicidal ideation and feeling isolated.

Common signs a new dad might be struggling with mental health include:

• fatigue
• sleep problems
• difficulty concentrating
• racing heart
• sweating
• muscle tension
• changes in appetite
• feeling worried or out of control
• irritability
• anger
• increased use of alcohol or other drugs.

Is there support?

Options for men who want more support include counselling, peer group support and online apps that use mindfulness and cognitive behaviour therapy to help manage moods.

For fathers needing more immediate support, crisis support services offer 24/7 live counselling via chat, telephone or video:

• PANDA
• MensLine
• For When
• 13YARN.

If this article has raised issues for you, or if you’re concerned about someone you know, call Lifeline on 13 11 14. In an emergency in Australia, call triple 0.

Delyse Hutchinson, Associate Professor, Clinical Psychologist, and NHMRC Leadership Fellow, SEED Centre for Lifespan Research, School of Psychology, Deakin University; Genevieve Le Bas, Clinical Psychologist and Research Fellow, Deakin University; Jacqui Macdonald, Associate Professor in Psychology, Deakin University; Samantha Teague, Senior Research Fellow in Psychology, James Cook University, and Stephanie Aarsman, Research Fellow, Deakin University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

If you have cancer, a disease such as diabetes or dementia, or need to manage other complex health conditions, you often need expert care from a specialist doctor.

But as our new Grattan Institute report shows, too many people are forced to choose between long waits in the public system or high costs if they go private.

Governments need to provide more training for specialist doctors in short supply, make smart investments in public clinics, and regulate the extremely high fees a small number of private specialists charge.

High fees, long waits, missed care

Fees for private specialist appointments are high and rising.

On average, patients’ bills for specialist appointments add up to A$300 a year. This excludes people who were bulk billed for every appointment, but that’s relatively rare: patients pay out-of-pocket costs for two-thirds of appointments with a specialist doctor.

Increasing GP costs make national headlines, but specialist fees have risen even more – they’ve grown by 73% since 2010.

People who can’t afford to pay with money often pay with time – and sometimes with their health, as their condition deteriorates.

Wait times for a free appointment at a public clinic can be months or even years. In Victoria and Queensland, people with an urgent referral – who should be seen within 30 days – are waiting many months to see some specialists.

High fees and long waits add up to missed care. Every year, 1.9 million Australians delay or skip needed specialist care – about half of them because of cost.

Distance is another barrier. People in regional and remote areas receive far fewer specialist services per person than city dwellers (even counting services delivered virtually). Half of remote communities receive less than one specialist appointment, per person, per year. There are no city communities where that’s the case.

Train the specialists we’ll need in the future

Specialist training takes at least 12 years, so planning ahead is crucial. Governments can’t conjure more cardiologists overnight, or have a paediatrician treat elderly people.

But at the moment there are no regular projections of the specialists we’ll need in the future, nor planning to make sure we get them. Government-funded training places are determined by the priorities of specialist colleges, which approve training places, and the immediate needs of public hospitals.

As a result, we’ve got a lot of some types of specialist and a shortage of others. We’ve trained many emergency medicine specialists because public hospitals rely on trainees to staff emergency departments 24/7. But we have too few dermatologists and ophthalmologists – and numbers of those specialists are growing slower than average.

The lack of planning extends to where specialist training takes place. Doctors tend to put down roots and stay where they train. A shortage of rural training places leads to a shortage of rural specialists.

To fix these problems, governments need to plan and pay for training places that match Australia’s future health needs. Governments should forecast the need for particular specialties in particular areas. Then training funding should be tied to delivering the necessary specialist training places.

To fill gaps in the meantime, the federal government should streamline applications for overseas specialists to move here. It should also recognise qualifications from more similar countries.

More public clinics where they’re needed most

Public clinics don’t charge fees and are crucial in ensuring all Australians can get specialist care. But governments should be more strategic in where and how they invest.

There are big differences in specialist access across the country. After adjusting for differences in age, sex, health and wealth, people living in the worst-served areas receive about one-third fewer services than people in the best-served communities.

Governments should fund more public services in areas that need it most. They should set a five-year target to lift access for the quarter of communities receiving the least care in each specialty.

We estimate 81 communities need additional investment in at least one specialty – about a million extra appointments in total. Some communities receive less care across the board and need investment in many specialties.

With long waiting times and unmet need, governments should also make sure they’re getting the most out of their investment in public clinics.

Different clinics are run in very different ways. Some have taken up virtual care with a vengeance, others barely at all. One clinic might stick to traditional staffing models, while the clinic down the road might have moved towards “top of scope” models where nurses and allied health workers do more.

Governments should lay out an agenda to modernise clinics, encouraging them to adopt best practices. And they should introduce systems that allow GPs to get quick written advice from specialists to reduce unnecessary referrals and ensure services can focus on patients who really need their care.

Curb extreme fees

Even with more public services, and more specialists, excessive fees will still be a problem.

A small fraction – less than 4% – of specialists charge triple the Medicare schedule fee, or more, on average. These can only be described as extreme fees.

In 2023, an initial consultation with an endocrinologist or cardiologist who met this “extreme fee” definition cost an average of $350. For a psychiatrist, it was $670.

There is no valid justification for these outlier fees. They’re beyond the level needed to fairly reward doctors’ skill and experience, they aren’t linked to better quality and they don’t cross-subsidise care for poorer patients. Incomes for average specialists – who charge much less – are already among the highest in the country. Nine of the top ten highest-earning occupations are medical specialties.

The federal government has committed to publishing fee information, which is a positive step. But in some areas, it can be hard to find a better option, and patients may be hesitant to shop around.

The federal government should directly tackle extreme fees. It should require specialists who charge extreme fees to repay the value of the Medicare rebates received for their services that year.

Specialist care has been neglected long enough. The federal and state governments need to act now.

Peter Breadon, Program Director, Health and Aged Care, Grattan Institute and Elizabeth Baldwin, Senior Associate, Grattan Institute

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

As consumption of traditional news continues to fall, audiences are turning to social media personalities and influencers for their information. These figures are increasingly shaping public debates.

But Australian news audiences are sceptical. More Australians believe social media influencers are a major misinformation threat than other sources, according to new research.

The Digital News Report: Australia 2025, released today, also reveals general news avoidance remains high, with 69% of people saying they try not to engage with it. This is particularly the case among women, young people and those in regional areas.

So if people don’t want to engage with traditional news, but are suspicious of influencers, how can we ensure they get reliable information when they need it? There are some solutions.

Suspicious of influencers

The Digital News Report: Australia is part of a global annual survey of digital news consumption in 48 countries, commissioned by the Reuters Institute for the Study of Journalism at the University of Oxford.

The survey was conducted by YouGov in January and February 2025. The data are weighted for age, gender and region. Education and political quotas were also applied.

For the 11th iteration of this study in Australia, we surveyed 2,006 online Australian adults. We asked people about sources and platforms they believe to be major misinformation threats.

More than half of participants said online influencers/personalities are the major risk (57%), followed by activists (51%), foreign governments (49%), Australian political actors (48%), and the news media (43%).

This is in stark contrast to the United States, where national politicians are seen as posing the biggest threat of misleading information (57%) and is ten percentage points higher than the global average of 42 countries in the survey (47%).

Navigating truth online

The report also finds Australians continue to be the most concerned about what is real or fake online, with 74% saying they are worried about it.

This is especially true on social media, where Australians see Facebook (59%) and TikTok (57%) as the two platforms that are the biggest threat of spreading misinformation.

Given the proportion of people using social media as their main source of news has increased (26%, up eight percentage points since 2016) and TikTok is the fastest growing social media platform for news (14%, up 13 percentage points since 2020), concern about misinformation will likely remain an issue in Australia.

This problem is not necessarily with the platform itself, but who audiences pay attention to when they are on it.

On TikTok, Australians are more likely to turn to information shared by influencers, particularly younger audiences.

Less or more intervention?

Deciding what is true or fake online is a complex issue. This was highlighted during the political debate over the federal government’s controversial Combatting Misinformation and Disinformation Bill, which was eventually withdrawn late last year.

Much hinged on questions around who gets to decide what the truth is, and who might be responsible for tackling it. Is it the job of digital platforms to remove harmful and misleading content? Or do audiences need more media literacy education? Or both?

As debate over how to reduce harm while balancing free speech continues, we asked people about the removal of harmful and offensive social media content.

One third (33%) say social media and video networks like TikTok and YouTube are not removing enough harmful or offensive content.

Fewer people (21%) think platforms are removing too much.

This indicates Australians want more action from social media companies.

Boosting media literacy

The data also tell us improving news literacy across the community may be key to tackling the problem.

We asked people what they do when they come across suspicious information. Thirty-nine percent said they fact-check using trusted news sources, official websites and search engines.

But there were important differences in fact-checking behaviours between those who had received some kind of news literacy education and those who had not.

People who had received training about how the news works were much more likely to use a reputable news source or go to an official website to verify information.

However, few people have had such education, with only 24% of those surveyed saying they had received some.

The data show not only are people with news literacy education more likely to fact-check, they also avoid news less, have higher interest in it, are more likely to trust the news, and more inclined to pay for it.

This suggests increasing news literacy can help users navigate the complex online environment, and could also have both civic and economic benefits.

While there is no single solution to reducing misinformation online, this year’s data points to two key areas for further action: increasing access to media literacy training for all Australians, and compelling digital platforms to remove more misleading and harmful content.

Sora Park, Professor of Communication, News & Media Research Centre, University of Canberra; Ashleigh Haw, Senior Lecturer in Communication and Media, University of Canberra; Caroline Fisher, Associate Professor of Communication, University of Canberra, and Kieran McGuinness, Postdoctoral Fellow, News & Media Research Centre, University of Canberra

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

If you’ve been on social media lately – perhaps scrolling in the middle of the night, when you know you shouldn’t but you just can’t sleep – you might have seen those videos promoting a get-to-sleep technique called “cognitive shuffling”.

The idea, proponents say, is to engage your mind with random ideas and images via a special formula:

1. pick a random word (such as “cake”)
2. focus on the first letter of the word (in this case, C) and list a bunch of words starting with that letter: cat, carrot, calendar and so on
3. visualise each word as you go along
4. when you feel ready, move onto the next letter (A) and repeat the process
5. continue with each letter of the original word (so, in this case, K and then E) until you feel ready to switch to a new word or until you drift off to sleep.

It’s popular on Instagram and TikTok, but does “cognitive shuffling” have any basis in science?

Where did this idea come from?

The cognitive shuffling technique was made famous by Canada-based researcher Luc P. Beaudoin more than a decade ago, when he published a paper about how what he called “serial diverse imagining” could help with sleep.

One of Beaudoin’s hypothetical examples involved a woman thinking of the word “blanket”, then thinking bicycle (and imagining a bicycle), buying (imagining buying shoes), banana (visualising a banana tree) and so on.

Soon, Beaudoin writes, she moves onto the letter L, thinking about her friend Larry, the word “like” (imagining her son hugging his dog). She soon transitions to the letter A, thinking of the word “Amsterdam”:

and she might very vaguely imagine the large hand of a sailor gesturing for another order of fries in an Amsterdam pub while a rancid accordion plays in the background.

Sleep soon ensues. The goal, according to Beaudoin, is to think briefly about:

a neutral or pleasant target and frequently [switch] to unrelated targets (normally every 5-15 seconds).

Don’t try to relate one word with another or find a link between the words; resist the mind’s natural tendency toward sense-making.

While the research into this technique is still in its infancy, the idea is grounded in science. That’s because we know from other research good sleepers tend to have different kinds of thoughts in bed to bad sleepers.

People with insomnia are more focused on worries, problems, or noises in the environment, and are often preoccupied with not sleeping.

Good sleepers, on the other hand, typically have dream-like, hallucinatory, less ordered thoughts before nodding off.

Sorting the pro-somnolent wheat from the insomnolent chaff

Cognitive shuffling attempts to mimic the thinking patterns of good sleepers by simulating the dream-like and random thought patterns they generally have before drifting off to sleep.

In particular, Beaudoin’s research describes two types of sleep-related thoughts: insomnolent (or anti-sleep) and pro-somnolent (sleep-promoting) thoughts.

Insomnolent thoughts include things such as worrying, planning, rehearsing, and ruminating on perceived problems or failings.

Pro-somnolent thoughts on the other hand involve thoughts that can help you fall asleep, such as dream-like imagery or having a calm, relaxed state of mind.

Cognitive shuffling aims to distract from or interfere with insomnolent thought. It offers a calm, neutral path for your racing mind, and can reduce the stress associated with not sleeping.

Cognitive shuffling also helps tell your brain you are ready for sleep.

In fact, the process of “shuffling” between different thoughts is similar to the way your brain naturally drifts off to sleep. During the transition to sleep, brain activity slows. Your brain starts to generate disconnected images and fleeting scenes, known as hypnagogic hallucinations, without a conscious effort to make sense of them.

By mimicking these scattered, disconnected, and random thought patterns, cognitive shuffling may help you transition from wakefulness to sleep.

And the preliminary research into this is promising. Beaudoin and his team have found serial diverse imagining helps to lower arousal before sleep, improve sleep quality and reduce the effort involved in falling asleep.

However, with only a small number of research studies, more work is needed here.

It didn’t work. Now what?

As with every new strategy, however, practise makes perfect. Don’t be disheartened if you don’t see an improvement straight away; these things take time.

Stay consistent and be kind to yourself.

And what works for some won’t work for others. Different people benefit from different types of strategies depending on how they relate to and experience stress or stressful thoughts.

Other strategies to help create the right conditions for sleep include:

• keeping a consistent pre-bedtime routine, so your brain can wind down
• watching your thoughts, without judgement, as you lie in bed
• writing down worries or to-do lists earlier in the day so you don’t think about them at bedtime.

If, despite all your best efforts, night time thoughts continue to impact your sleep or overall wellbeing, consider seeking professional help from your doctor or a trained sleep specialist.

Melinda Jackson, Associate Professor at Turner Institute for Brain and Mental Health, School of Psychological Sciences, Monash University and Eleni Kavaliotis, Research Fellow in the Sleep, Cognition, and Mood Laboratory at Monash University, Monash University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Ever find yourself unable to stop scrolling through your phone, chasing that next funny video or interesting post?

Or maybe you’ve felt a rush of excitement when you achieve a goal, eat a delicious meal, or fill your online shopping cart.

Why do some experiences feel so rewarding, while others leave us feeling flat? Well, dopamine might be responsible for that. Here’s what it does in our brains and bodies.

It’s a chemical messenger

Dopamine is a neurotransmitter – a chemical messenger that facilitates communication between the brain and the central nervous system. It sends messages between different parts of your nervous system, helping your body and brain coordinate everything from your movement to your mood.

Dopamine is most known for its role in short-term pleasure, and the boost we get from things such as eating tasty foods, drinking alcohol, scrolling social media or falling in love.

Dopamine also assists with learning, maintaining focus and attention, and helps us store memories.

It even plays a role in kidney function by regulating the levels of salt and water we excrete.

Conversely, low levels of dopamine have been linked to neurodegenerative disorders such as Parkinson’s disease.

How dopamine motivates us to pursue pleasure

Dopamine is not just active when we do pleasurable things. It’s active beforehand and it drives us to pursue pleasure.

Say I go to a cafe and decide to buy a doughnut. When I bite into the doughnut, it tastes fantastic. Dopamine surges and I experience pleasure.

The next time I walk past the cafe, dopamine is already active. It remembers the doughnut I had last time and how delicious it was. Dopamine drives me to walk back into the cafe, purchase another doughnut and eat it.

From an evolutionary perspective, dopamine was incredibly important and it ensured survival of the species. It motivated behaviours such as hunting and foraging for food. It reinforced the pursuit of finding shelter and safety and keeping away from predators. And it motivated people to seek out mates and to reproduce.

However, modern technology has amplified the effects of dopamine, leading to negative consequences. Activities such as excessive social media use, gambling, consuming alcohol, drug use, sex, pornography and gaming can stimulate dopamine release, creating cycles of addiction and compulsive behaviours.

Our dopamine levels can vary

Our brain is constantly releasing small amounts of dopamine at a “baseline” rate. This is because dopamine is crucial to the functioning of our brain and body, irrespective of pleasure.

Everyone has a different baseline, influenced by genetic factors such as our DRD2 dopamine receptor genes. Some people produce and metabolise dopamine faster than other people. Our baseline levels can also be influenced by sleep, nutrition and stress in our lives.

Given we all have a baseline of dopamine, our experience of pleasure at any given time is relative to our baseline rate and relative to what has come before.

If I play games on my phone all morning and get a dopamine release from that, then I eat something tasty for morning tea, I may not experience the same level of fulfilment or enjoyment that I would have had I not played those games.

The brain works hard to regulate itself and it won’t allow us to be in a constant state of dopamine “highs”. This means we can build a tolerance to certain exciting activities if we seek them out too much, as the brain wants to avoid being in a state of constant dopamine “highs”.

Healthy ways to get a dopamine boost

Thankfully, there are healthy, non-addictive ways to boost your dopamine levels.

Exercise is one of the most effective methods for boosting dopamine naturally. Physical activities such as walking, running, cycling, or even dancing can trigger the release of dopamine, leading to improved mood and greater motivation.

Research has shown listening to music you enjoy makes your brain release more dopamine, giving you a pleasurable experience.

And of course, spending time with people whose company we enjoy is another great way to activate dopamine.

Incorporating these habits into daily life can support your brain’s natural dopamine production and help you enjoy lasting improvements in motivation, mood and overall health.

Anastasia Hronis, Clinical Psychologist, University of Technology Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In less than three years, artificial intelligence technology has radically changed the assessment landscape. In this time, universities have taken various approaches, from outright banning the use of generative AI, to allowing it in some circumstances, to allowing AI by default.

But some university teachers and students have reported they remain confused and anxious, unsure about what counts as “appropriate use” of AI. This has been accompanied by concerns AI is facilitating a rise in cheating.

There is also a broader question about the value of university degrees today if AI is used in student assessments.

In a new journal article, we examine current approaches to AI and assessment and ask: how should universities assess students in the age of AI?

Why ‘assessment validity’ matters

Universities have responded to the emergence of generative AI with various policies aimed at clarifying what is allowed and what is not.

For example, the United Kingdom’s University of Leeds set up a “traffic light” framework of when AI tools can be used in assessment: red means no AI, orange allows limited use, green encourages it.

For example, a “red” light on a traditional essay would indicate to students it should be written without any AI assistance at all. An “amber” marked essay would perhaps allow AI use for “idea generation” but not for writing elements. A “green” light would permit students to use AI in any way they choose.

In order to help ensure students comply with these rules, many institutions, such as the University of Melbourne, require students to declare their use of AI in a statement attached to submitted assessments.

The aim in these and similar cases is to preserve “assessment validity”. This refers to whether the assessment is measuring what we think it is measuring. Is it assessing students’ actual capabilities or learning? Or how well they use the AI? Or how much they paid to use it?

But we argue setting clear rules is not enough to maintain assessment validity.

Our paper

In a new peer-reviewed paper, we present a conceptual argument for how universities and schools can better approach AI in assessments.

We begin by making the distinction between two approaches to AI and assessment:

• discursive changes: only modify the instructions or rules around an assessment. To work, they rely on students understanding and voluntarily following directions.

• structural changes: modify the task itself. These constrain or enable behaviours by design, not by directives.

For example, telling students “you may only use AI to edit your take-home essay” is a discursive change. Changing an assessment task to include a sequence of in-class writing tasks where development is observed over time is a structural change.

Telling a student not to use AI tools when writing computer code is discursive. Developing a live, assessed conversation about the choices a student has made made is structural.

A reliance on changing the rules

In our paper, we argue most university responses to date (including traffic light frameworks and student declarations) have been discursive. They have only changed the rules around what is or isn’t allowed. They haven’t modified the assessments themselves.

We suggest only structural changes can reliably protect validity in a world where AI use means rule-breaking is increasingly undetectable.

So we need to change the task

In the age of generative AI, if we want assessments to be valid and fair, we need structural change.

Structural change means designing assessments where validity is embedded in the task itself, not outsourced to rules or student compliance.

This won’t look the same in every discipline and it won’t be easy. In some cases, it may require assessing students in very different ways from the past. But we can’t avoid the challenge by just telling students what to do and hoping for the best.

If assessment is to retain its function as a meaningful claim about student capability, it must be rethought at the level of design.

Thomas Corbin, Research fellow, Center for Research in Assessment and Digital Learning, Deakin University; Danny Liu, Professor of Educational Technologies, University of Sydney, and Phillip Dawson, Professor and Co-Director, Centre for Research in Assessment and Digital Learning, Deakin University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

If you live in the southern hemisphere and have been stopped in your tracks by a recent sunset, you may have noticed they seem more vibrant lately. The colours are brighter and bolder, and they linger longer in the sky.

Why are sunsets “better” at some times of the year compared to others? We can use science to explain this.

There are many ingredients for a “good” sunset, but the main three are clear skies, low humidity, and the Sun sitting low in the sky.

From light to colour

To understand why we get such vibrant sunsets in the colder months of the year, we first need to know how colours appear in the sky.

All visible light is actually energy that travels in waves; the length of those waves determines the colour that our eyes see.

Although sunlight might look white to us, it’s actually a mix of different wavelengths of light that make up all the visible colours – from fiery reds and oranges (longer wavelengths) to deep blues and purples (shorter wavelengths).

These individual colours become visible when sunlight is “scattered”, which is precisely what happens when it passes through the invisible gas molecules in Earth’s atmosphere – mostly nitrogen and oxygen.

When sunlight hits these molecules, it’s absorbed and shot back out (scattered) in different directions. Blue and violet light is scattered more strongly than red and orange light – this is also why the sky looks blue during the day.

The path of the Sun

In the middle of the day when the Sun is high in the sky, sunlight travels a more direct path through the atmosphere.

But when the Sun is closer to the horizon, the path is less direct. This means that during sunrises and sunsets, sunlight travels through more of Earth’s atmosphere. And more atmosphere means more scattering.

In fact, during sunsets, the blue and violet light encounters so many oxygen and nitrogen molecules that it is completely scattered away. What we’re left with is the longer wavelengths of light – the reds and oranges. In other words, more atmosphere means more fiery sunsets.

But why are sunsets especially magnificent during winter? One reason is the Sun’s position in the sky during different times of the year.

Earth rotates on its axis every 24 hours, giving us day and night. But this axis isn’t perfectly “upright” relative to the Sun – it’s tilted at an angle of about 23.5 degrees. This tilt is why we have seasons. The southern hemisphere is tilted towards the Sun around the start and end of the calendar year (southern summer), and away from the Sun around the middle of the year (southern winter).

Because of this tilt, the Sun sits lower in the sky during winter, which is why the days are shorter. And because the Sun sits lower, it spends more time near the horizon as it rises and sets. That’s why winter sunsets often seem to last longer.

The quality of the air

Humidity and air quality also play a big role when it comes to vibrant winter sunsets.

In winter, humidity is typically much lower than in the warmer summer months, meaning there’s less moisture in the air. Humid air often contains tiny water droplets, which can scatter incoming sunlight. This scattering is slightly different to how the oxygen and nitrogen molecules scatter light – here, even red and orange light can be affected.

When humidity is high, the extra scattering by these small water droplets can cause sunsets to appear softer or more washed out.

In drier winter air, with fewer of these water droplets in the way, sunlight can travel through the atmosphere with less interference. This means the colours can shine through more vividly, making for crisper and more vibrant sunsets.

If you’re looking to a catch a spectacular sunset, you’ll want to wait for a nice, clear winter’s evening. Cloud cover and air pollution can block the sunlight and mute the colours we see.

So the next time you find yourself wrapped up in a warm jumper at dusk, be sure to look up – there could be a spectacular light show playing out just above you.

Chloe Wilkins, Associate Lecturer and PhD Candidate, Solar Physics, University of Newcastle

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Brian Wilson, leader, songwriter and producer of the Beach Boys, has passed away at age 82.

He leaves behind a legacy of beautiful, joyous, bittersweet and enduring music, crafted over a career spanning six decades.

While this news isn’t unexpected – Wilson was diagnosed with dementia last year and entered a conservatorship after the loss of his wife, Melinda – his passing marks the end of a long and extraordinary chapter in musical history.

A life of music

Formed in the early 1960s in Hawthorne California, the Beach Boys were built on a foundation of family and community: brothers Brian, Dennis and Carl Wilson, their cousin Mike Love, and school friend Al Jardine.

Growing up, the Wilson household was a turbulent place; their father, Murry Wilson, was strict and at times violent. Music was the one way in which the family could connect.

During these early years Brian discovered the sounds that would shape his musical identity: Gershwin, doo wop groups, early rock and roll, and, a particular favourite, the vocal group the Four Freshmen, whose tight-harmony singing style Wilson studied meticulously.

It was an unexpected combination of influences for a pop band. Even from the Beach Boys’ earliest recordings – the surf, the cars, the girls – the stirrings of the complexity and musical adventurousness Wilson is known for is audible. Listen to the unexpected structure of The Lonely Sea (1962), the complex chords of The Warmth of the Sun (1963), or the subtle modulation in Don’t Worry Baby (1964).

These early innovations hinted at a growing creativity that would continue to evolve over the rest of the 1960s, and beyond.

A story of resilience

In later years, Brian Wilson often appeared publicly as a fragile figure. But what stands out most in his story is resilience.

His ability to produce such an expansive and diverse catalogue of work while navigating difficult family relationships, intense record label pressures, misdiagnosed and mistreated mental health conditions, addiction and much more, is extraordinary. Wilson not only survived, but continued to create music.

He eventually did something few Beach Boys’ fans would have imagined – he returned to the stage.

Wilson’s unexpected return to public performance during the Pet Sounds and SMiLE tours in the early 2000s began a revival interest in the Beach Boys, and a critical reconsideration of their musical legacy. This continues with a consistent release of books, documentaries, movies and podcasts about Wilson and the legacy of the Beach Boys’ music.

The focus of a thesis

I grew up near Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast in Queensland. Their early songs about an endless summer had a particular resonance to my hometown, even if, like Brian Wilson, I only admired the beach from afar.

I chose to study the Beach Boys’ music for my PhD thesis and spent the next few years charting the course of their musical development from their early days in the garage to creating Pet Sounds just five years later.

I was fascinated by how a band could create such a ground-breaking volume of work and progress so quickly from the delightful, yet wobbly Surfin’ to the complex arrangements of God Only Knows.

To understand their music, I spent years listening to Beach Boys’ tracking sessions, take after take, to hear how their songs were so cleverly and delicately put together.

What struck me just as powerfully as the music itself was the sound of Brian Wilson’s voice in those recordings. Listening to Wilson leading hours of tracking sessions was to hear an artist at the top of their game – decisive, confident, funny, collaborative and deeply driven to make music that would express the magic he heard in his mind, and connect with an audience.

One of the more unexpected discoveries in my analysis of the Beach Boys’ music came from their lyrics. Using a word frequency tool to examine all 117 songs in my study, I found that the most common word was “now”.

In many cases, it appears in a conversational sense – “Well, she got her Daddy’s car, and she cruised through the hamburger stand now” – but on a broader level, it perfectly encapsulates what Brian Wilson’s music offered so many listeners.

He created an endless present: a world where the sun could always be shining, where you could feel young forever, and you could visit that world any time you needed to.

In 2010, I had the remarkable experience of meeting Brian Wilson in his dressing room before his performance at the Enmore Theatre in Sydney. He was funny and kind. He sat at a small keyboard, taught me a harmony and for a moment, we sang Love and Mercy together.

It was one of the most magical moments of my life. It is also one of Wilson’s most enduring sentiments: “love and mercy, that’s what we need tonight”.

Farewell and thank you, Brian. Surf’s up.

Jadey O'Regan, Senior Lecturer in Contemporary Music, Sydney Conservatorium of Music, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Imagine you’re a copper miner in southeastern Europe in the year 3900 B.C.E. Day after day you haul copper ore through the mine’s sweltering tunnels.

You’ve resigned yourself to the grueling monotony of mining life. Then one afternoon, you witness a fellow worker doing something remarkable.

With an odd-looking contraption, he casually transports the equivalent of three times his body weight on a single trip. As he returns to the mine to fetch another load, it suddenly dawns on you that your chosen profession is about to get far less taxing and much more lucrative.

What you don’t realize: You’re witnessing something that will change the course of history – not just for your tiny mining community, but for all of humanity.

Despite the wheel’s immeasurable impact, no one is certain as to who invented it, or when and where it was first conceived. The hypothetical scenario described above is based on a 2015 theory that miners in the Carpathian Mountains – in present-day Hungary – first invented the wheel nearly 6,000 years ago as a means to transport copper ore.

The theory is supported by the discovery of more than 150 miniaturized wagons by archaeologists working in the region. These pint-sized, four-wheeled models were made from clay, and their outer surfaces were engraved with a wickerwork pattern reminiscent of the basketry used by mining communities at the time. Carbon dating later revealed that these wagons are the earliest known depictions of wheeled transport to date.

This theory also raises a question of particular interest to me, an aerospace engineer who studies the science of engineering design. How did an obscure, scientifically naive mining society discover the wheel, when highly advanced civilizations, such as the ancient Egyptians, did not?

A controversial idea

It has long been assumed that wheels evolved from simple wooden rollers. But until recently no one could explain how or why this transformation took place. What’s more, beginning in the 1960s, some researchers started to express strong doubts about the roller-to-wheel theory.

After all, for rollers to be useful, they require flat, firm terrain and a path free of inclines and sharp curves. Furthermore, once the cart passes them, used rollers need to be continually brought around to the front of the line to keep the cargo moving. For all these reasons, the ancient world used rollers sparingly. According to the skeptics, rollers were too rare and too impractical to have been the starting point for the evolution of the wheel.

But a mine – with its enclosed, human-made passageways – would have provided favorable conditions for rollers. This factor, among others, compelled my team to revisit the roller hypothesis.

A turning point

The transition from rollers to wheels requires two key innovations. The first is a modification of the cart that carries the cargo. The cart’s base must be outfitted with semicircular sockets, which hold the rollers in place. This way, as the operator pulls the cart, the rollers are pulled along with it.

This innovation may have been motivated by the confined nature of the mine environment, where having to periodically carry used rollers back around to the front of the cart would have been especially onerous.

The discovery of socketed rollers represented a turning point in the evolution of the wheel and paved the way for the second and most important innovation. This next step involved a change to the rollers themselves. To understand how and why this change occurred, we turned to physics and computer-aided engineering.

Simulating the wheel’s evolution

To begin our investigation, we created a computer program designed to simulate the evolution from a roller to a wheel. Our hypothesis was that this transformation was driven by a phenomenon called “mechanical advantage.” This same principle allows pliers to amplify a user’s grip strength by providing added leverage. Similarly, if we could modify the shape of the roller to generate mechanical advantage, this would amplify the user’s pushing force, making it easier to advance the cart.

Our algorithm worked by modeling hundreds of potential roller shapes and evaluating how each one performed, both in terms of mechanical advantage and structural strength. The latter was used to determine whether a given roller would break under the weight of the cargo. As predicted, the algorithm ultimately converged upon the familiar wheel-and-axle shape, which it determined to be optimal.

During the execution of the algorithm, each new design performed slightly better than its predecessor. We believe a similar evolutionary process played out with the miners 6,000 years ago.

It is unclear what initially prompted the miners to explore alternative roller shapes. One possibility is that friction at the roller-socket interface caused the surrounding wood to wear away, leading to a slight narrowing of the roller at the point of contact. Another theory is that the miners began thinning out the rollers so that their carts could pass over small obstructions on the ground.

Either way, thanks to mechanical advantage, this narrowing of the axle region made the carts easier to push. As time passed, better-performing designs were repeatedly favoured over the others, and new rollers were crafted to mimic these top performers.

Consequently, the rollers became more and more narrow, until all that remained was a slender bar capped on both ends by large discs. This rudimentary structure marks the birth of what we now refer to as “the wheel.”

According to our theory, there was no precise moment at which the wheel was invented. Rather, just like the evolution of species, the wheel emerged gradually from an accumulation of small improvements.

This is just one of the many chapters in the wheel’s long and ongoing evolution. More than 5,000 years after the contributions of the Carpathian miners, a Parisian bicycle mechanic invented radial ball bearings, which once again revolutionized wheeled transportation.

Ironically, ball bearings are conceptually identical to rollers, the wheel’s evolutionary precursor. Ball bearings form a ring around the axle, creating a rolling interface between the axle and the wheel hub, thereby circumventing friction. With this innovation, the evolution of the wheel came full circle.

This example also shows how the wheel’s evolution, much like its iconic shape, traces a circuitous path – one with no clear beginning, no end, and countless quiet revolutions along the way.

Kai James, Professor of Aerospace Engineering, Georgia Institute of Technology

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Everyone has heard of Nasa, a name synonymous with every aspect of space exploration. Yet talk about Esa, the European Space Agency, is more likely to result in a blank stare.

Esa is not such a highly recognised brand, yet it has been central to the development of space exploration and to space science in Europe, delivering world class science at the frontiers of knowledge and allowing the continent to compete commercially with the wider world.

Europe compares favourably with the US on the level of space science it delivers, and Esa has sometimes “gone boldly” where even Nasa has not. Now that Esa has turned 50 years old, it’s a good time to look at the organisation’s history, celebrate its achievements and look towards the future of European space in its hands.

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As an agency, Esa is completely unique. While all other space agencies are federal in nature, funded directly by the government to which they belong, Esa is more like a club. European countries form the club’s membership and each pays a contribution, based on gross domestic product (GDP), to cover the cost of activities.

Esa has its origins in two separate agencies, one to develop a launch system, the European Launch Development Organisation (Eldo) and a second to develop spacecraft, the European Space Research Organisation (Esro). These came into existence in 1964, when the conventions governing them were signed.

Esro was hugely successful, establishing itself as a leader in space exploration, but Eldo had many political, cost and technological challenges.

As a result, Eldo was downsized and merged with Esro to form Esa in 1975, with ten founding members: Belgium, Germany, Denmark, France, United Kingdom, Italy, The Netherlands, Sweden, Switzerland and Spain. Ireland joined later that year. The membership has continued to expand alongside the enlargement of the European Union, although not all Esa members are part of the EU and vice versa. Fortunately for the UK, withdrawal from the EU did not mean leaving Esa.

At present, Esa has 23 member states, three associate members and cooperation agreements with five others, including Canada. The enormous diversity of membership of Esa makes it a complex organisation.

It is led by a council and a director general. The council represents the member states (with Canada also having seat on council). The director general is appointed by the council to represent the agency in the delivery of the programme. They oversee the agency’s various functions in space such as human spaceflight, Earth observation and space science.

About every three years, the council meets at ministerial level to consider funding, agree budgets for the following three-year period and set the direction of travel for the agency. The focus on representation and input from member states allows for wide engagement between Esa and the space community at-large. However, the price of this “democracy” can sometimes be seen in bureaucratic processes.

Measuring the contribution of Esa is not straightforward across the complexities of the organisation, but some benefits and successes are very clear. A relatively small country, like the UK, could never deliver science on the scale and scope of an organisation like Nasa. Membership of Esa allows us to join with other countries to compete at this level.

Europe has an independent ability to launch satellites into space in the form of the Arianespace company, which was created by Esa and the French space agency (Cnes). Esa also has an astronaut programme and access to the International Space Station, with the agency having provided part of the space station’s structure. The agency has leading space, planetary and Earth observation science programmes.

Scientists, companies and the public in member states benefit from all the investment in Esa. Esa has also had some unique successes. It was the first space agency to land a probe on an icy moon, Titan, the largest moon of Saturn, and on a comet.

Esa’s Copernicus Earth observation programme uses satellites to monitor the health of our planet, helping understand climate change and supporting the lives of individuals through improvements to agriculture and air pollution. In space science, the Gaia mission has provided a high precision map of our galaxy, revolutionising our knowledge in every area of astronomy.

Esa’s success has been built on thoughtful and regular planning. In the next few years, we will see Esa land a rover on Mars, to search of evidence of life. Large new space observatories are under development to study gravitational waves and X-rays from the Universe.

We are about to embark on the next phase of space science, called “Voyage 2050”. This will look towards landing on an icy moon in the outer solar system in search of a sub surface ocean and possible life within it.

Esa is not a perfect organisation. Its wide membership can make it challenging to organise projects and take decisions about the direction of the agency. However, it is not subject to the whim of any single government, and it offers a stable backdrop to space activities across Europe.

Without it, our economies, social capital and science programmes would be poorer. Therefore, I would like to toast Esa on its 50th birthday, say thanks for all it has given me as a space scientist throughout my career and wish it an amazing future.

Martin Barstow, Professor of Astrophysics and Space Science, University of Leicester

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In recent years, artificial intelligence (AI) has taken centre stage across various industries. From AI-generated art to chatbots in customer service, every sector is seemingly poised for disruption.

It’s not just in your news feed every day – venture capital is pouring in, while CEOs are eager to declare their companies “AI-first”. But for those who remember the lofty promises of other technologies that have since faded from memory, there’s an uncanny sense of déjà vu.

In 2017, it was blockchain that promised to transform every industry. Companies added “blockchain” to their name and watched stock prices skyrocket, regardless of whether the technology was actually used, or how.

Now, a similar trend is emerging with AI. What’s unfolding is not just a wave of innovation, but a textbook example of a tech hype cycle. We’ve been here many times before.

Understanding the hype cycle

The tech hype cycle, first defined by the research firm Gartner, describes how emerging technologies rise on a wave of inflated promises and expectations, crash into disillusionment and, eventually, find a more realistic and useful application.

Recognising the signs of this cycle is crucial. It helps in distinguishing between genuine technological shifts and passing fads driven by speculative investment and good marketing.

It can also mean the difference between making a good business decision and a very costly mistake. Meta, for example, invested more than US$40 billion into the metaverse idea while seemingly chasing their own manufactured tech hype, only to abandon it later.

When buzz outpaces reality

In 2017, blockchain was everyone’s focus. Presented as a revolutionary technology, blockchain offered a decentralised way to record and verify transactions, unlike traditional systems that rely on central authorities or databases.

US soft drinks company Long Island Iced Tea Corporation became Long Blockchain Corporation and saw its stock rise 400% overnight, despite having no blockchain product. Kodak launched a vague cryptocurrency called KodakCoin, sending its stock price soaring.

These developments were less about innovation and more about speculation, chasing short-term gains driven by hype. Most blockchain projects never delivered real value. Companies rushed in, driven by fear of missing out and the promise of technological transformation.

But the tech wasn’t ready, and the solutions it supposedly offered were often misaligned with real industry problems. Companies tried everything, from tracking pet food ingredients on blockchain, to launching loyalty programs with crypto tokens, often without clear benefits or better alternatives.

In the end, about 90% of enterprise blockchain solutions failed by mid-2019.

The generative AI déjà vu

Fast-forward to 2023, and the same pattern started playing out with AI. Digital media company BuzzFeed saw its stock jump more than 100% after announcing it would use AI to generate quizzes and content. Financial services company Klarna replaced 700 workers with an AI chatbot, claiming it could handle millions of customer queries.

The results were mostly negative. Klarna soon saw a decline in customer satisfaction and had to walk back its strategy, rehiring humans for customer support this year. BuzzFeed’s AI content push failed to save its struggling business, and its news division later shut down. Tech media company CNET published AI-generated articles riddled with errors, damaging its credibility.

These are not isolated incidents. They’re signals that AI, like blockchain, was being over hyped.

Why do companies chase tech hype?

There are three main forces at play: inflated expectations, short-term view and flawed implementation. Tech companies, under pressure from investors and media narratives, overpromise what AI can do.

Leaders pitch vague and utopian concepts of “transformation” without the infrastructure or planning to back them up. And many rush to implement, riding the hype wave.

They are often hindered by a short-term view of what alignment with the new tech hype can do for their company, ignoring the potential downsides. They roll out untested systems, underestimate complexity or even the necessity, and hope that novelty alone will drive the return on investment.

The result is often disappointment – not because the technology lacks potential, but because it’s applied too broadly, too soon, and with too little planning and oversight.

Where to from here?

Like blockchain, AI is a legitimate technological innovation with real, transformative potential.

Often, these technologies simply need time to find the right application. While the initial blockchain hype has faded, the technology has found a practical niche in areas like “asset tokenization” within financial markets. This allows assets like real estate or company shares to be represented by digital tokens on the blockchain, enabling easier, faster and cheaper trading.

The same pattern can be expected with generative AI. The current AI hype cycle appears to be tapering off, and the consequences of rushed or poorly thought-out implementations will likely become more visible in the coming years.

However, this decline in hype doesn’t signal the end of generative AI’s relevance. Rather, it marks the beginning of a more grounded phase where the technology can find the most suitable applications.

One of the clearest takeaways so far is that AI should be used to enhance human productivity, not replace it. From people pushing back against the use of AI to replace them, to AI making frequent and costly mistakes, human oversight paired with AI-enhanced productivity is increasingly seen as the most likely path forward.

Recognising the patterns of tech hype is essential for making smarter decisions. Instead of rushing to adopt every new innovation based on inflated promises, a measured, problem-driven approach leads to more meaningful outcomes.

Long-term success comes from thoughtful experimentation, implementation, and clear purpose, not from chasing trends or short-term gains. Hype should never dictate strategy; real value lies in solving real problems.

Gediminas Lipnickas, Lecturer in Marketing, University of South Australia

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

You may have come across those “what I eat in a day” videos on social media, where people – usually conventionally attractive influencers wearing activewear – list everything they consumed that day.

They might seem like harmless fun but in fact they can reinforce dangerous ideas about food, weight and body image.

I’ve worked with people with eating disorders who watch these videos and have seen first hand how harmful this content can be.

Here’s what the research says and what you need to know.

Videos that promote ‘health’ can be unhealthy

“What I eat in a day” videos have been popular for over a decade, with views reaching in the billions.

They target both men and women and many claim to promote health and nutrition. Yet videos such as these can do more harm than good.

Very few of these creators have formal qualifications in health or nutrition, increasing the potential for misinformation.

They often depict low calorie diets, exclude entire food groups or promote “clean eating” (a problematic idea at best).

Some even encourage dangerous behaviours such as skipping meals, eating very little or using laxatives to purge food.

They can also send harmful messages about body image. Many such videos use beauty filters to create images promoting unrealistic body ideals.

These videos often feature shots of how the person looks from the front, the side, in the gym, and in tight, form-fitting clothes. There may even be some “before and after” weight loss pics, sending the harmful message this should be everyone’s goal.

The subtext is clear: “eat what I eat in a day and you can look like me”.

But that’s not just a dangerous idea – it’s a totally false and erroneous one.

Knowing what a certain person “eats in a day” doesn’t mean you’ll look like them if you follow their lead.

In fact, a 24-hour rundown of one person’s food intake doesn’t even provide accurate information about that person’s nutritional health – let alone yours.

You are not them

Like our health, our nutritional needs are unique to us and can vary day to day.

What constitutes a “healthy” choice for one person might be totally different for another depending on things such as:

• genetics
• environment
• age
• what we enjoy eating
• how much energy we use and
• our medical history.

Links between health and diet are best examined over time, not in a single day.

Basing our food intake on a brief snapshot of what someone else eats is unlikely to lead to better health. It might leave you worse off overall.

5 ways these videos can affect mental health

What we watch online can affect our mood, behaviour and body image.

Alarm bells should ring if you frequently see these videos and notice you’re doing or experiencing these five things:

1. disordered eating. Eating less than your body needs, skipping meals, cutting out entire food groups, binge eating and purging are all signs of disordered eating that can lead to serious mental health problems such as eating disorders

2. low mood. Watching videos promoting low-calorie diets can worsen our mood; you might find yourself feeling deflated after comparing yourself to others (or rather, to the version of themselves they promote online)

3. poor body image. Research shows watching “what I eat in a day” videos can leave people feeling worse about their bodies and appreciating them less

4. obsessive thinking and anxiety. Obsessing over the “perfect” diet can increase anxiety about food and eating. Diets that encourage a very detailed approach to nutrition – including breaking meals down into components such as carbohydrates and proteins or weighing food – can further fuel obsessive thoughts

5. narrow life focus. Having your social media feed filled with these types of videos can create an overemphasis on the importance of food, eating and body image on your self-worth. This ultimately affects your health and wellbeing.

OK, so what can I do?

If you’re encountering “what I eat in a day” videos often and find they’re affecting your mood, eating behaviour or sense of self-worth you can try to:

• understand that these videos are not tailored to your individual health or nutritional needs and that many contain harmful messaging
• avoid engaging with videos that promote disordered eating, idealised beauty standards or that make you feel bad after you watch them
• unfollow accounts that regularly post such videos, or tap “not interested” on the TikTok video to stop the algorithm showing you more of them
• balance your social media feed with content focused on other areas of life besides food and eating (such as art, design, animals, books, sports or travel). Fill your feed with interests that improve your personal sense of wellbeing
• consider taking regular breaks from social media and seeing if you feel better overall.

If you do want to view posts about food, seek out creators attempting to buck these negative trends by focusing more on fun and taste.

And if you’re experiencing low mood, disordered eating or body image issues, seek help from your local GP. They can connect you with practitioners who provide evidence-based therapies such as cognitive behavioural therapy.

If you have a history of an eating disorder or suspect you may have one, you can contact the Butterfly Foundation’s national helpline on 1800 334 673 (or via their online chat).

Ultimately, “what I eat in a day” videos aren’t really helpful. They contain very little useful information to guide your health or nutritional goals.

If you are considering making changes to your diet, it’s important to consult a qualified professional, such as an accredited practising dietitian, who can learn about your situation and monitor any risks.

Catherine Houlihan, Senior Lecturer in Clinical Psychology, University of the Sunshine Coast

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

For two centuries, scholars have sparred over the roots of the Piasts, Poland’s first documented royal house, who reigned from the 10th to the 14th centuries.

Were they local Slavic nobles, Moravian exiles, or warriors from Scandinavia?

Since 2023, a series of genetic and environmental studies led by molecular biologist Marek Figlerowicz at the Poznań University of Technology has delivered a stream of direct evidence about these enigmatic rulers, bringing the debate onto firmer ground.

Digging up the dynasty

Field teams have now opened more than a dozen crypts from the Piast era. The largest single haul came from Płock Cathedral in what is now central Poland.

The exhumed bones were dated between 1100 and 1495, matching written records. Genetic analysis showed several individuals were close relatives.

“There is no doubt we are dealing with genuine Piasts,” Figlerowicz told a May 2025 conference.

The Poznań group isolated readable DNA from 33 individuals (30 men and three women) believed to span the dynasty’s full timeline.

Surprise on the Y chromosome

The male skeletons almost all carry a single, rare group of genetic variants on the Y chromosome (which is only carried and passed down by males). This group is today found mainly in Britain. The closest known match belongs to a Pict buried in eastern Scotland in the 5th or 6th century.

These results imply that the dynasty’s paternal line arrived from the vicinity of the North Atlantic, not nearby.

The date of that arrival is still open: the founding clan could have migrated centuries before the first known Piast, Mieszko I (who died in 992), or perhaps only a generation earlier through a dynastic marriage. Either way, the new data kill the notion of an unbroken local male lineage.

Yet genetics also shows deep local continuity in the wider population. A separate survey of Iron Age cemeteries across Poland, published in Scientific Reports, revealed that people living 2,000 years ago already shared the genetic makeup seen in early Piast subjects.

Another project that sequenced pre-Piast burials drew the same conclusion: local Poles were part of the broader continental gene pool stretching from Denmark to France.

In short, even if the Piasts were exotic rulers, they governed a long-established community.

A swamp tells its tale

While the DNA work progressed, another Poznań team dug into the history of the local environment via samples from the peaty floor of Lake Lednica near Poznań, the island-ringed stronghold often dubbed the cradle of the Piast realm.

Their study of buried pollen, published in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, shows an abrupt switch in the 9th century: oak and lime pollen plummet, while cereal and pasture indicators soar. Traces of charcoal and soot point to widespread fires.

The authors call the shift an “ecological revolution”, driven by slash-and-burn agriculture and the need to feed concentrated garrisons of soldiers guarding local trade routes carrying amber and slaves.

Modelling boom and bust

Using this environmental data, historians and complexity scientists constructed a feedback model of population, silver paid as tribute to rulers, and fort-building. As fields expanded, tributes rose; as tributes rose, chiefs could hire more labour to clear more forest and build forts.

The model reproduces the startling build-out of ramparts at Poznań, Giecz and Gniezno around 990. It also predicts collapse once the silver stopped flowing.

Pollen data indeed show the woodlands recovered to some extent after 1070, while archaeological surveys record abandoned hamlets and shrinking garrisons.

The early Piast state rode a resource boom as the Piasts controlled part of the amber and slave trade routes that linked the shores of the Baltic Sea to Rome.

The impact of Mieszko’s conversion to Christianity on that lucrative trade remains subject to scholarly debate.

Reconciling foreigners and locals

How do these strands fit together? Evidence of a Scottish man in the Piast paternal line does not necessarily imply a foreign conquest. Dynasties spread by marriages as well as by swords.

For example, Świętosława (the sister of the first Piast king, Bolesław the Brave), married the kings of both Denmark and Sweden, and her descendants ruled England for a time. The networks of Europe’s nobility were highly mobile.

Conversely, the stable genetic profile of ordinary folk suggests that, whoever sat on the ducal bench, most people remained where their grandparents had farmed.

The broader research engine

None of this work happens in isolation. Poland’s National Science Centre has bankrolled a 24-person team across archaeology, palaeoecology and bioinformatics since 2014, generating 16 peer-reviewed papers and a public database of ancient genomes.

Conferences at Lednica and Dziekanowice now bring historians and molecular biologists to the same table. The methodological pay-off is clear: Polish labs can now process their own ancient DNA rather than exporting it to Copenhagen or Leipzig.

What still puzzles researchers

Three questions remain. First, does that British-leaning male line really start with a Pict? The closest known match to the Piasts may change as new burials are sequenced.

Second, how many commoners carried the same genetic variant? Spot samples from Kowalewko and Brzeg hint that it was rare among locals, but the data set is small.

Third, why did the silver dry up so fast? Numismatists suspect a shift in Viking routes after 1000 AD, yet the matter is far from settled.

A balanced verdict

Taken together, the evidence paints a nuanced picture. The Piasts were probably not ethnic Slavs in the strict paternal sense, yet they ruled, and soon resembled, an overwhelmingly Slavic realm.

Their meteoric rise owed less to outsider brilliance than to the chance alignment of fertile soils, cheap labour, and an export boom in amber and captives.

As geneticists conduct more DNA sequencing of remains, such as those of princes in crypts at Kraków’s Wawel castle, and palaeoecologists push their lakebed pollen samples back to 7th century, we can expect further surprises.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Historian, Australian Catholic University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Since the late 19th century, sauropod dinosaurs (long-necks like Brontosaurus and Brachiosaurus) have been almost universally regarded as herbivores, or plant eaters.

However, until recently, no direct evidence – in the form of fossilised gut contents – had been found to support this.

I was one of the palaeontologists on a dinosaur dig in outback Queensland, Australia, that unearthed “Judy”: an exceptional sauropod specimen with the fossilised remains of its last meal in its abdomen.

In a new paper published today in Current Biology, we describe these gut contents while also revealing that Judy is the most complete sauropod, and the first with fossilised skin, ever found in Australia.

Remarkably preserved, Judy helps to shed light on the feeding habits of the largest land-living animals of all time.

Plant-eating land behemoths

Sauropod dinosaurs dominated Earth’s landscapes for the entire 130 million years of the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods. Along with many other species, they died out in the mass extinction event at the end of the Cretaceous 66 million years ago.

Ever since the first reasonably complete sauropod skeletons were found in the 1870s, the hypothesis that they were herbivores has rarely been contested. Simply put, it is hard to envisage sauropods eating anything other than plants.

Their relatively simple teeth were not adapted for tearing flesh or crushing bone. Their small brains and ponderous pace would have prevented them from outsmarting or outpacing most potential prey.

And to sustain their huge bodies, sauropods would have had to eat regularly and often, necessitating an abundant and reliable food source – plants.

Although the general body plan of sauropods seems pretty uniform – stocky, on all fours, with long necks – these behemoths did vary when we look more closely.

Some had squared-off snouts with tiny, rapidly replaced teeth confined to the front of the mouth. Others had rounded snouts, with much more robust teeth, arranged in a row that extended farther back in the mouth. Neck length varied greatly (with some necks up to 15 metres long), as did neck flexibility. In addition, a few of them had taller shoulders than hips.

Absolute size varied too – some were less enormous than others. All of these factors would have constrained how high above ground each species could feed and which plants they could reach.

Food in the belly

Sauropod discoveries are becoming more regular in outback Queensland, thanks largely to the Australian Age of Dinosaurs Museum in Winton.

In 2017, I helped the museum unearth a roughly 95-million-year-old sauropod, nicknamed Judy after the museum’s co-founder Judy Elliott.

We soon realised this find was extraordinary. Besides being the most complete sauropod skeleton and skin ever found in Australia, Judy’s belly region hosted a strange rock layer. It was about two square metres in area and ten centimetres thick on average, chock-full of fossil plants.

The fact this plant-rich layer was confined to Judy’s abdomen and located on the inside surface of the fossil skin, made us wonder – had we unearthed the remains of Judy’s last meal or meals?

If so, we knew we had something special on our hands: the first sauropod gut contents ever found.

Multi-level feeding

Analysis of Judy’s skeleton, which was prepared out of the surrounding rock by volunteers in the museum’s laboratory, enabled us to classify her as a Diamantinasaurus matildae.

We scanned portions of Judy’s gut contents with X-rays at the Australian Synchrotron in Melbourne and at CSIRO in Perth, and with neutrons at Australia’s Nuclear Science and Technology Organisation in Sydney.

This enabled us to digitally visualise the plants – which were preserved as voids within the rock – without destroying them.

We did destructively sample some small portions of the gut contents to figure out their chemical make-up, along with the skin and surrounding rock.

This revealed the gut contents were turned to stone by microbes in an acidic environment (stomach juices, perhaps), with minerals likely derived from the decomposition of Judy’s own body tissues.

Judy’s gut contents confirm that sauropods ate their greens but barely chewed them – their gut flora did most of the digestive work.

Most importantly, we can tell Judy ate bracts from conifers (relatives of modern monkey puzzle trees and redwoods), seed pods from extinct seed ferns, and leaves from angiosperms (flowering plants) just before she died.

Conifers then, as now, would have been huge, implying Judy fed well above ground level. By contrast, flowering plants were mostly low-growing in the mid-Cretaceous.

Based on other specimens (especially teeth), scientists previously thought Diamantinasaurus browsed plants relatively high off the ground. The conifer bracts in Judy’s belly support this.

However, Judy was not fully grown when she died, and the angiosperms in her belly imply lower-level feeding, as well. It seems likely, then, that the diets of some sauropods changed slightly as they grew. Nevertheless, they were life-long vegetarians.

Judy’s skin and gut contents are now on display at the Australian Age of Dinosaurs Museum in Winton. I’m not sure how I’d feel about having the remains of my last meal publicly exhibited for all to see posthumously, but if it helped the cause of science, I think I’d be OK with it.

Stephen Poropat, Research Associate, School of Earth and Planetary Sciences, Curtin University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Released 50 years ago, Sunday Too Far Away deals episodically with a group of shearers led by Foley (Jack Thompson), and the events leading up to the national shearers’ strike of 1956.

The shearers are a ragtag group held together by rum, unionism and competitiveness – as Foley must deal with the camp cook from hell, as well as a threat to his “gun” status.

As we celebrate the anniversary, it is hard to overstate its importance for the Australian film industry and for its producer, the South Australian Film Corporation (SAFC).

The beginnings of a funding body

After the Liberal and Country League had held control over the state government for 32 years under a “Playmander”, named for premier Thomas Playford, the Labor party, lead by Don Dunstan, was elected in 1970 on a progressive platform.

As part of Dunstan’s project of moving the state’s economy away from its Playford-era reliance on manufacturing to more knowledge-based service industries, the SAFC was founded in 1972.

Central to Dunstan’s plan was the imperative that the SAFC should produce feature films – despite an initial consultant’s report that advised against this.

Dunstan’s plan was visionary, making South Australia the first state government to directly produce features. But it was also flawed.

The Dunstan government authorised the SAFC to borrow A$400,000 (approximately $5 million in 2025 money) for the production of up to five features per year, with the remainder of the budgets coming from Commonwealth funds and private investors.

The plan was that the SAFC’s productions would be self-supporting within five years, with the initial pump-priming loans repaid.

By 1973 a slate of features was in the works, though none would reach production.

One of these was Gallipoli, to be made in conjunction with Melbourne-based Crawford Productions, with screenwriter John Dingwell attached.

The film was shelved, but Dingwell maintained his relationship with Matt Carroll, the SAFC’s head of feature production. They developed a script titled Shearers, based on anecdotes from one of Dingwell’s relatives.

Sunday Too Far Away (as the film was retitled) was budgeted at $231,000, with the Commonwealth Government’s Australian Film Development Corporation, established in 1970 to invest in local films, providing half this figure.

An ‘emotional experience’

Gil Brealey, the SAFC’s first CEO, was desperate to get a feature started and was prepared to find the whole of the budget if necessary. (The SAFC would put up an additional $14,000 in budget overruns caused by wet weather in the semi-arid locations around Port Augusta and Quorn.)

It was a remarkable demonstration of maximum involvement by a government body intent on intervening dramatically to generate a production industry in a state that would otherwise lose out to the larger states on the eastern seaboard.

At the recent 50th anniversary screening hosted by the SAFC, producer Matt Carroll referred to the film shoot as “an extraordinary emotional experience” for all involved, stressing the strong camaraderie among the actors, which mirrored that of the shearers in the film.

It is useful to compare Sunday to 1971’s Wake in Fright.

Both centre on rural male mateship, but while Wake in Fright is revolted by it, Sunday strives for an elegiac celebration that might have drawn from Henry Lawson, of union-based mateship as the only defence again the harshness of life.

Fraught politics

Brealey and the SAFC were functioning under enormous political pressure for this film to be not only a critical, but also a popular success.

From the outset, the SAFC had been identified with Dunstan, and it was under almost daily attack in Parliament, led by Liberal frontbencher Stan Evans.

Quoted in the Adelaide Advertiser in May 1975, Evans denounced the SAFC “for actively producing and manufacturing films when its role under the Act precluded it from this field”.

He was joined in these attacks by elements of the local press, as well as a handful of filmmakers who felt slighted by talent imported by Brealey.

The board was forced to issue a statement, complaining of

a very small vocal minority who, apparently, find the success of the corporation personally offensive and make every effort to ‘knock’ its work.

The acceptance of the film into the Directors’ Fortnight at Cannes, the first Australian film bestowed the honour, was a godsend. It went on to win eight of the 12 awards on offer at the Australian Film Institute Awards.

Brealey wryly told me that “we had this appalling reputation in Adelaide and everyone else thought we were marvellous”.

The film renaissance

In order to shore up its local standing, the SAFC ran a film day at the Adelaide Festival Centre, culminating in a “world premiere” of Sunday attended by Gough Whitlam.

The next day, the SAFC released the film itself in Adelaide, hiring the Warner cinema where it ran for 26 weeks under an arrangement that gave the producer the entire gross, less the exhibitor’s expenses.

Brealey was extremely suspicious of Australian distributors. Roadshow distributed the film throughout the rest of Australia. By October, they were reporting box office grosses of over $182,000 – though the SAFC had only received $11,000 in returns.

The bitter lesson was that SAFC had clearly been founded on overly optimistic expectations of returns to producers. Feature production in Australia would need on-going government support.

The success of Sunday Too Far Away, followed closely by Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) and Storm Boy (1976) succeeded in establishing the SAFC as a prime mover in Australian film.

Locally, it won bipartisan local support for the SAFC and nationally it established a model for emulation by other states.

It demonstrated that Australian films could combine local and international appeal, and that government agencies had a vital role at the heart of the film renaissance.

Michael Walsh, Associate Professor, Screen and Media, Flinders University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Was Jane Austen the first writer to show how it really feels to be a middle-aged woman?

Before Austen, literature’s iconic perimenopausal woman was the Wife of Bath in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, who regales the medieval pilgrims with a scandalous account of her five marriages, including the fact she enjoyed sex with her last husband despite a 20-year age gap.

It’s very All Fours (Miranda July’s wildly popular midlife crisis novel from 2024). The Wife of Bath is charismatic and original, but not hugely sympathetic. Then there’s Gertrude in Hamlet, another middle-aged lady with a vibrant sex life and an ambivalent attitude to her adult son.

Micro-portraits of women of a certain age – foggy, tired, rather bad-tempered, with diminishing bone-density, putting on the pounds – are scattered across Jane Austen’s six finished novels.

Lady Bertram in Mansfield Park sits on the sofa all day “thinking more of her pug than her children”. And there’s Mrs Musgrove in Persuasion, whose “large fat sighings” for her dead son, and her tendency to talk too much, amuse Anne Eliot. Mrs Bennet in Pride and Prejudice is the most flamboyant of these middle-aged women: irritating but hugely alive and oddly sexy, determined to stay in the game socially, if only by way of her five daughters.

Alongside these vignettes, Austen makes us think about why realist novels, as a genre, resist paying close attention to the uncomfortable transitional period of menopause for women. Why, in other words, so many 18th and 19th-century novels left many of the crucial parts of women’s lives unseen.

‘Menopausal bore’ Miss Bates

Her situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed! You, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her …

Austen fans will quickly recognise this passage as Emma Woodhouse’s most shaming moment. Mr. Knightly is scolding Emma after their ill-fated outing to Box Hill, where she has impulsively and cruelly ridiculed their older friend and neighbour, Miss Bates.

Miss Bates is an ordinary middle-aged woman, childless and unmarried. She has very little money and is caring for her “failing mother”. Emma has made a mean joke about Miss Bates being boring. The older woman catches her drift and is flustered and hurt. It’s an excruciatingly recognisable moment in which Emma oversteps the mark to score cheap points and impress the other young people. Mr. Knightly points out, none too compassionately, Emma’s failure of compassion.

But the thing is: Emma’s right. What makes Miss Bates an important character is that she is entirely unimportant, or as Austen tells us early on: “a woman neither young, handsome, rich, nor married.” Miss Bates is a menopausal bore. But Austen’s brilliant stroke was to make her the moral centre of gravity in Emma.

Miss Bates is a stealth proxy for Austen herself, who was born into a well educated but relatively poor family. She was one of eight children with a clergyman father who had no independent income. Austen knew that without marrying well she would face an adult life of genteel impoverishment, dependent on charity from wealthier brothers. She knew she was headed for Miss Bates’ fate, caring for an ailing mother, with very little money.

I felt a pang for Miss Bates when I first read Emma in my late teens. Now, in middle age, I see a whole life and person in the few scenes Austen gives us. Miss Bates belongs to a cluster of Austen’s characters who are liable to distraction and poor health, who are overwrought and anxious and manage social interactions unskillfully. For many of these women, their children have grown up, their husbands are elderly, or they’re unmarried and childless.

They’re confronting what it will mean to grow old and infirm in Regency England.

But I can see why Emma forgets to feel compassion for Miss Bates and her plight. Novels didn’t generally ask readers to think deeply about these marginal female characters, down on their luck and too old to be interesting to the plot. Indeed, Miss Bates is the kind of character novels discouraged readers from paying much attention to.

The continuing ‘rage for Jane’

It’s the 250th anniversary of Austen’s birth this year, and if anything, the rage for Jane has increased. Last year, there was the charming new film Jane Austen Wrecked My Life. A Netflix adaptation of Pride and Prejudice is in production, written by Dolly Alderton, and starring Emma Corrin and Jack Lowden (Slow Horses), with Olivia Coleman as Mrs Bennet.

But we’ve stayed fixated on the unlikely couplings and happy endings, overlooking what those endings owe to the women whose stories never take centre stage. When we read Austen’s novels for their stories, we see a densely textured and non-conformist landscape of very different lives and experiences.

Austen paid attention to the women novels had been invented to ignore, allowing readers to see their thoughts far more clearly. She made them relatable, endowing them with the vulnerability that came from us being able to see they wanted things they couldn’t have.

These women often remain at the edges of the action. Miss Bates in Emma, of course. Mrs. Smith in Persuasion, just a few years older than the heroine Anne Elliot, in vastly different circumstances.

Austen makes it clear Mrs. Smith is of no use to a marriage plot, since she is “a widow and poor […] living in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost excluded from society.” But again, Austen presents Mrs Smith as worthy of the reader’s attention because of “that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself”, which give her inner strength.

And younger women who don’t fit the patterns and requirements of marriage novels are shown with a complexity usually missing from the genre. Colonel Brandon’s ward Eliza, in Sense and Sensibility, falls pregnant out of wedlock, and Austen encourages readers to feel compassion and understand her situation, although Eliza’s social world has judged her harshly.

Mary Bennet, the least charming and playful sister in Pride and Prejudice, is nerdy, coded as possibly neurodivergent or queer: she avoids social gatherings, studies all the time and takes no pleasure in male company. She’s also called Mary, suggesting an echo with the radical feminist Mary Wollstonecraft, who wrote a decade before Austen.

When Lydia describes a fun afternoon riding in the coach, Mary replies dourly,

Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures. They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for me.

Austen could have scorned Mary Bennet for being a bluestocking, but instead her vulnerability elicits compassion because she can’t fit in to the social world thrust upon her.

Austen’s capacity to depict vulnerable women clearly, even if only fleetingly, is one of her greatest achievements as a writer. And it’s the moral gravity and visibility of characters on the social and sexual margins of Austen’s novels that gives happier, more normcore characters and stories their heft.

There’s a whole gallery of characters in Austen novels who are NPCs (non-player characters) from the viewpoint of the marriage plots, but who are struggling with many of the same feelings as the main players. Sometimes Austen writes these characters for laughs, but there’s always a moment where we see them laid bare, exposed, wanting something they can’t have, soliciting our compassion.

Mrs. Bennet, in Pride and Prejudice, is depicted as erotically alive and probably still quite attractive in her mid 40s – which we know because she’s quite flirty with the young men and socially confident. She’s vulgar and embarrassing, but that’s partly because she has middle-aged desires, which her daughters don’t like.

There’s a moment late in the novel where Lizzie sees that her father exposes her mother to repeated social humiliation by not bothering to help out. Our sense of Mrs. Bennet changes completely. But fascinating as the Bennets’ middle-aged marital dynamic might be, it stays on the margins of the story. Novels were not created to accommodate later-life longings and hormonally driven mood swings.

Solving compassion through novels

The realist novel had come into being precisely to solve the problem of compassion. The premise of novels, which depicted daily life in ways that felt familiar and plausible, trained readers in the social value of feeling adequately and correctly for other people.

Robinson Crusoe (1719) is usually called the first novel in English, and the genre rapidly became a phenomenon. In a Britain with a fast-expanding overseas empire, a rising middle class, rapidly growing cities, new levels of prosperity and widespread leisure, people wanted and needed a popular kind of writing that could show them what ordinary life was like for other people – and what it felt like to be inside another person’s mind and body.

Samuel Richardson achieved this spectacularly with his mid-century novels Pamela and Clarissa, showing with unprecedented intimacy the under-the-skin experience of being a vulnerable young woman in a rigid society where marriage and inheritance counted for everything.

As Ian Watt and countless other literary critics have explained, novels emerged to do the imaginative work philosophers René Descartes, John Locke, David Hume and others had made possible with books such as Essay Concerning Human Understanding and A Treatise of Human Nature. They had explained what human inwardness was and offered a working picture of how humans perceived the world and made social choices and decisions.

The 18th-century novelists Austen learned from (Samuel Richardson, Henry Fielding, Laurence Sterne, Frances Burney, Ann Radcliffe and others) reflected the Enlightenment idea people could know much more about others’ inner lives than in previous eras. By understanding their own and other people’s thoughts and feelings, 18th-century Britons believed, humans could be happier and make better social judgments.

But the realist novel hadn’t been created to pay attention to middle-aged nobodies like Miss Bates. Novels weren’t built to spotlight women on the blurry borders of social hierarchies, who weren’t rich or young or beautiful. Novels were interested in young women and men who could marry, change their social standing, make fortunes and pass their newly created social and financial capital to children.

The menopausal, the hormonally dysregulated, queer characters and anyone else at the margins of social and sexual viability were, quite literally, non-narratable. There were no readymade story arcs for such people in early realist fiction, because in the social ideologies of the day, no story arcs were needed for them.

We see Austen was challenging and questioning the constraints of the novel itself. Even as she perfected the marriage plot, she pushed back against its core assumptions.

It’s Miss Bates who provides the occasion for one of the most moving and important lines in Austen’s oeuvre. Despite her many disadvantages, “she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will”. What Austen is telling us in that unassuming sentence is that women do not need youth or beauty or wealth or good marriages to be happy. They do not, in other words, need marriage plots.

What they need is deep feeling and compassionate curiosity from the people around them – during all the stages of their lives.

Sophie Gee, Vice Chancellor's Fellow, English literature, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

For the first time in its 124-year history, Treasury will be led by a woman.

Jenny Wilkinson’s appointment is historic in its own right. Even more remarkable is the fact she joins Michele Bullock at the Reserve Bank and Danielle Wood at the Productivity Commission.

Australia’s three most powerful economic institutions are now led by women economists. In economics, this is not normal. But it certainly does matter.

Stubbornly male

Imagine if only 17% of economics professors were men. It would feel unusual; people would ask why the field was so heavily skewed. But the reality is the opposite: 83% of economics professors in Australia are male.

And yet, this imbalance is almost invisible. Women make up just about one-third of secondary pupils studying economics and 40% of students enrolled in economics courses at university.

In the private sector, women economists are roughly one in three.

So while the appointments of Wilkinson, Bullock and Wood feels ground-breaking, the profession as a whole remains stubbornly male. Still, the leadership story is worth celebrating. When young women see leaders who look like them, they’re more likely to imagine themselves in those roles too.

As women increasingly take the helm, the old stereotype of a suit-clad man with a briefcase gives way to a broader, more inclusive image of what an economist can be.

The public service is leading the charge. As of 2023, women held 53% of senior executive service positions in the Australian Public Service, up from 46% in 2019.

Merit and diversity

Thankfully, unlike other parts of the world, we live in a country where these appointments haven’t triggered claims of so-called “diversity hires”. To be clear: these female pioneers weren’t appointed because they are women.

Each has decades of experience, technical firepower, and deep policy credentials. Wilkinson has led the Department of Finance and the Parliamentary Budget Office. Bullock has held almost every senior role at the Reserve Bank. Wood has shaped public debates on intergenerational equity and tax reform with clarity and rigour.

The idea that diversity is somehow in tension with merit is a false binary. Diverse groups make better decisions and are more creative, especially in high-stakes settings.

Decades of economics and business research has shown that incorporating diverse perspectives into decision-making only strengthens the outcomes. Decisions made and executed by diverse teams delivered 60% better results than those by non-diverse teams.

Merit isn’t just what’s on paper, it’s shaped by how we judge it.

When men and women perform equally well, success is more often credited to skill for men and to luck for women. Swap a male name for a female one on a CV, teaching evaluation or reference letter, and perceptions of competence, leadership and hireability start to shift.

These unconscious biases don’t just affect who gets ahead; they shape how we define merit in the first place.

Will it make a difference?

Economics often prides itself on being objective and neutral. While the economic models may be technically gender-blind, the questions we ask and investigate rarely are.

This is where gender diversity matters – not just in who holds the top jobs, but in what gets researched and how decisions are made. There’s growing evidence male and female economists don’t just ask different questions, they also approach problems differently.

One study found female central bankers tend to act with greater independence and deliver lower inflation. A United States study and another in Europe showed striking gender differences in how economists think about a range of areas, including labour markets, taxation, health and the environment, and more broadly on public spending – everything from welfare to the military.

Having more diverse perspectives doesn’t dilute economics – it deepens it. It makes the discipline more responsive to the diversity of the real-world challenges it’s meant to address.

Economic policies impact the whole society. So does the composition of economists.

So, what’s next?

Of course, three women in top economic roles won’t create miracles overnight – they all operate within existing systems and structures.

So, what can we expect from Wilkinson’s leadership? Her time at the Department of Finance suggests a steady, pragmatic hand: consultative, strategic and deeply experienced.

Wilkinson brings bipartisan credibility, a sharp grasp of fiscal discipline, and the capacity to act decisively in a crisis, as we saw during COVID. She won’t remake Treasury overnight, but she’s well placed to lead it with rigour, integrity and a long-term view.

This moment matters for women in economics. It shows change is possible in the profession, and it could mark the start of economic policy that truly reflects the diversity of the people it serves.

Duygu Yengin, Associate Professor of Economics, University of Adelaide

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Released 50 years ago, Sunday Too Far Away deals episodically with a group of shearers led by Foley (Jack Thompson), and the events leading up to the national shearers’ strike of 1956.

The shearers are a ragtag group held together by rum, unionism and competitiveness – as Foley must deal with the camp cook from hell, as well as a threat to his “gun” status.

As we celebrate the anniversary, it is hard to overstate its importance for the Australian film industry and for its producer, the South Australian Film Corporation (SAFC).

The beginnings of a funding body

After the Liberal and Country League had held control over the state government for 32 years under a “Playmander”, named for premier Thomas Playford, the Labor party, lead by Don Dunstan, was elected in 1970 on a progressive platform.

As part of Dunstan’s project of moving the state’s economy away from its Playford-era reliance on manufacturing to more knowledge-based service industries, the SAFC was founded in 1972.

Central to Dunstan’s plan was the imperative that the SAFC should produce feature films – despite an initial consultant’s report that advised against this.

Dunstan’s plan was visionary, making South Australia the first state government to directly produce features. But it was also flawed.

The Dunstan government authorised the SAFC to borrow A$400,000 (approximately $5 million in 2025 money) for the production of up to five features per year, with the remainder of the budgets coming from Commonwealth funds and private investors.

The plan was that the SAFC’s productions would be self-supporting within five years, with the initial pump-priming loans repaid.

By 1973 a slate of features was in the works, though none would reach production.

One of these was Gallipoli, to be made in conjunction with Melbourne-based Crawford Productions, with screenwriter John Dingwell attached.

The film was shelved, but Dingwell maintained his relationship with Matt Carroll, the SAFC’s head of feature production. They developed a script titled Shearers, based on anecdotes from one of Dingwell’s relatives.

Sunday Too Far Away (as the film was retitled) was budgeted at $231,000, with the Commonwealth Government’s Australian Film Development Corporation, established in 1970 to invest in local films, providing half this figure.

An ‘emotional experience’

Gil Brealey, the SAFC’s first CEO, was desperate to get a feature started and was prepared to find the whole of the budget if necessary. (The SAFC would put up an additional $14,000 in budget overruns caused by wet weather in the semi-arid locations around Port Augusta and Quorn.)

It was a remarkable demonstration of maximum involvement by a government body intent on intervening dramatically to generate a production industry in a state that would otherwise lose out to the larger states on the eastern seaboard.

At the recent 50th anniversary screening hosted by the SAFC, producer Matt Carroll referred to the film shoot as “an extraordinary emotional experience” for all involved, stressing the strong camaraderie among the actors, which mirrored that of the shearers in the film.

It is useful to compare Sunday to 1971’s Wake in Fright.

Both centre on rural male mateship, but while Wake in Fright is revolted by it, Sunday strives for an elegiac celebration that might have drawn from Henry Lawson, of union-based mateship as the only defence again the harshness of life.

Fraught politics

Brealey and the SAFC were functioning under enormous political pressure for this film to be not only a critical, but also a popular success.

From the outset, the SAFC had been identified with Dunstan, and it was under almost daily attack in Parliament, led by Liberal frontbencher Stan Evans.

Quoted in the Adelaide Advertiser in May 1975, Evans denounced the SAFC “for actively producing and manufacturing films when its role under the Act precluded it from this field”.

He was joined in these attacks by elements of the local press, as well as a handful of filmmakers who felt slighted by talent imported by Brealey.

The board was forced to issue a statement, complaining of

a very small vocal minority who, apparently, find the success of the corporation personally offensive and make every effort to ‘knock’ its work.

The acceptance of the film into the Directors’ Fortnight at Cannes, the first Australian film bestowed the honour, was a godsend. It went on to win eight of the 12 awards on offer at the Australian Film Institute Awards.

Brealey wryly told me that “we had this appalling reputation in Adelaide and everyone else thought we were marvellous”.

The film renaissance

In order to shore up its local standing, the SAFC ran a film day at the Adelaide Festival Centre, culminating in a “world premiere” of Sunday attended by Gough Whitlam.

The next day, the SAFC released the film itself in Adelaide, hiring the Warner cinema where it ran for 26 weeks under an arrangement that gave the producer the entire gross, less the exhibitor’s expenses.

Brealey was extremely suspicious of Australian distributors. Roadshow distributed the film throughout the rest of Australia. By October, they were reporting box office grosses of over $182,000 – though the SAFC had only received $11,000 in returns.

The bitter lesson was that SAFC had clearly been founded on overly optimistic expectations of returns to producers. Feature production in Australia would need on-going government support.

The success of Sunday Too Far Away, followed closely by Picnic at Hanging Rock (1975) and Storm Boy (1976) succeeded in establishing the SAFC as a prime mover in Australian film.

Locally, it won bipartisan local support for the SAFC and nationally it established a model for emulation by other states.

It demonstrated that Australian films could combine local and international appeal, and that government agencies had a vital role at the heart of the film renaissance.

Michael Walsh, Associate Professor, Screen and Media, Flinders University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Brian Wilson, leader, songwriter and producer of the Beach Boys, has passed away at age 82.

He leaves behind a legacy of beautiful, joyous, bittersweet and enduring music, crafted over a career spanning six decades.

While this news isn’t unexpected – Wilson was diagnosed with dementia last year and entered a conservatorship after the loss of his wife, Melinda – his passing marks the end of a long and extraordinary chapter in musical history.

A life of music

Formed in the early 1960s in Hawthorne California, the Beach Boys were built on a foundation of family and community: brothers Brian, Dennis and Carl Wilson, their cousin Mike Love, and school friend Al Jardine.

Growing up, the Wilson household was a turbulent place; their father, Murry Wilson, was strict and at times violent. Music was the one way in which the family could connect.

During these early years Brian discovered the sounds that would shape his musical identity: Gershwin, doo wop groups, early rock and roll, and, a particular favourite, the vocal group the Four Freshmen, whose tight-harmony singing style Wilson studied meticulously.

It was an unexpected combination of influences for a pop band. Even from the Beach Boys’ earliest recordings – the surf, the cars, the girls – the stirrings of the complexity and musical adventurousness Wilson is known for is audible. Listen to the unexpected structure of The Lonely Sea (1962), the complex chords of The Warmth of the Sun (1963), or the subtle modulation in Don’t Worry Baby (1964).

These early innovations hinted at a growing creativity that would continue to evolve over the rest of the 1960s, and beyond.

A story of resilience

In later years, Brian Wilson often appeared publicly as a fragile figure. But what stands out most in his story is resilience.

His ability to produce such an expansive and diverse catalogue of work while navigating difficult family relationships, intense record label pressures, misdiagnosed and mistreated mental health conditions, addiction and much more, is extraordinary. Wilson not only survived, but continued to create music.

He eventually did something few Beach Boys’ fans would have imagined – he returned to the stage.

Wilson’s unexpected return to public performance during the Pet Sounds and SMiLE tours in the early 2000s began a revival interest in the Beach Boys, and a critical reconsideration of their musical legacy. This continues with a consistent release of books, documentaries, movies and podcasts about Wilson and the legacy of the Beach Boys’ music.

The focus of a thesis

I grew up near Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast in Queensland. Their early songs about an endless summer had a particular resonance to my hometown, even if, like Brian Wilson, I only admired the beach from afar.

I chose to study the Beach Boys’ music for my PhD thesis and spent the next few years charting the course of their musical development from their early days in the garage to creating Pet Sounds just five years later.

I was fascinated by how a band could create such a groundbreaking volume of work and progress so quickly from the delightful, yet wobbly Surfin’ to the complex arrangements of God Only Knows.

To understand their music, I spent years listening to Beach Boys’ tracking sessions, take after take, to hear how their songs were so cleverly and delicately put together.

What struck me just as powerfully as the music itself was the sound of Brian Wilson’s voice in those recordings. Listening to Wilson leading hours of tracking sessions was to hear an artist at the top of their game – decisive, confident, funny, collaborative and deeply driven to make music that would express the magic he heard in his mind, and connect with an audience.

One of the more unexpected discoveries in my analysis of the Beach Boys’ music came from their lyrics. Using a word frequency tool to examine all 117 songs in my study, I found that the most common word was “now”.

In many cases, it appears in a conversational sense – “Well, she got her Daddy’s car, and she cruised through the hamburger stand now” – but on a broader level, it perfectly encapsulates what Brian Wilson’s music offered so many listeners.

He created an endless present: a world where the sun could always be shining, where you could feel young forever, and you could visit that world any time you needed to.

In 2010, I had the remarkable experience of meeting Brian Wilson in his dressing room before his performance at the Enmore Theatre in Sydney. He was funny and kind. He sat at a small keyboard, taught me a harmony and for a moment, we sang Love and Mercy together.

It was one of the most magical moments of my life. It is also one of Wilson’s most enduring sentiments: “love and mercy, that’s what we need tonight”.

Farewell and thank you, Brian. Surf’s up.

Jadey O'Regan, Senior Lecturer in Contemporary Music, Sydney Conservatorium of Music, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

A unique archaeological find has recently expanded our knowledge of Neanderthals’ capacity for symbolic thought. The object in question is a granite stone, on which a red ochre dot was deliberately applied to reinforce the image of a human face. It is, to date, the oldest example of portable art associated with Neanderthals.

The most remarkable aspect of this discovery was the identification of a fingerprint in the pigment, at a level we have unequivocally dated to more than 42,000 years ago.

The fingerprint means the find is direct evidence of a symbolic action that we can attribute to a Neanderthal human (Homo neanderthalensis).

This discovery is the fruit of over two years of research, and was published in May 2025 in Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences. In addition to the team of archaeologists and geologists, our paper was co-authored by members of the Central Identification Unit of the General Commissary of Scientific Police, whose contributions were vital to the work’s success.

The last Neanderthal

The red-spotted stone was found at the Abrigo de San Lázaro archaeological site – in the Eresma river valley, downstream from the Spanish city of Segovia – where we found remains of occupations of the last European Neanderthals.

The stone was in a level where we have previously found Mousterian (Middle Paleolithic) industry. These are stone tools clearly associated with Neanderthal occupations, such as those documented in the known areas of Abrigo del Molino and other nearby sites.

A red spot for a nose

In our study, we hypothesise that the object was chosen and collected from the riverbed because of its peculiar natural features. Put simply, it looks like a human face.

Facial pareidolia, the psychological phenomenon whereby we perceive faces in inanimate objects, identifies the upper and lower indentations as eyes and a mouth in the stone. The application of red pigment to make a nose reinforces the perception of a face, and acts as a symbolically charged visual marker.

The possibility that we are dealing with a symbolic representation of a human face adds a particularly significant interpretative dimension to the archaeological find.

Forensic police identify the fingerprint

One of the most remarkable aspects of this research was its cross-disciplinary collaboration between archaeologists, geoarchaeologists and members of the General Commissary of the Spanish Scientific Police.

To reach our conclusions, a combination of techniques were applied to the object. First, we performed detailed 3D mapping using high-precision scanners and digital models, which helped to rule out that the stone had served any any functional purpose, such as that of an anvil or hammer.

We then carried out non-invasive analyses, such as X-ray fluorescence and scanning electron microscopy. The results confirmed that the red pigment was externally applied ochre, as opposed to a natural mark resulting from the decomposition of minerals in the granite itself.

But the most surprising breakthrough came from multispectral analysis. This is a well-known technique that the Spanish General Commissary of Scientific Police developed and adapted specifically for the study of the stone. By using this method, Samuel Miralles Mosquera, a forensic imaging expert, revealed a fingerprint that was invisible to the naked eye, printed directly into the pigment.

The image was later analyzed by Mª Carmen Sastre Barrio, Encarnación Nieva Gómez, Mª Remedios Díaz Delgado and Elena Ruiz Mediavilla, identification specialists of the same team. They confirmed that it matched the fingerprint of an adult human male.

Their work allowed for the identification of the fingerprint with a previously unprecedented level of detail in the context of Paleolithic study.

Their help made the research a pioneering reference in the field of applying archaeology and forensic identification to prehistoric times. It provides a new window on the symbolic world of the Neanderthals, and opens new avenues for the study of their artistic expression, their visual sensitivity and their capacity for abstraction.

Combining these scientific techniques reinforces the authenticity of the find, and underlines its exceptional nature. It is one of the most complete physical testimonies of a symbolic act performed by a Neanderthal, whose fingerprint was deliberately left in the pigment.

Who would have imagined that, more than 40,000 years later, not even Neanderthals could escape being identified by forensic scientists.

A groundbreaking discovery

The origin of humans’ symbolic behaviour – and with it the emergence of art itself – is one of the most hotly debated questions in research on humankind’s cognitive evolution. While both phenomena did not emerge simultaneously, they are deeply interconnected, since the capacity for symbolic thought is ultimately the foundation of all forms of artistic expression.

For decades, it was claimed that this ability was exclusive to “modern” or present-day human beings (Homo sapiens). However, the development of new methodologies and the discovery of increasingly solid evidence have challenged this view to the point of refuting it.

There is now a growing consensus that Neanderthals also possessed a complex symbolic repertoire, manifested through modified objects, use of pigments, ritual behaviours and other unambiguously symbolic expressions.

One of the key milestones in this shift in opinion was the publication – in the journal Science in 2018 – of the dating of several cave paintings found in three Spanish caves: Ardales, La Pasiega and Maltravieso. These were the first paintings with a symbolic character attributed to Neanderthals.

They included simple, geometric shapes, including discernible patterns. Their study revealed the ability of this human group to deliberately generate symbolic images charged with shared meaning. While the representations are simple, they appear repeatedly in different places on the walls of the caves.

To this list of findings, we can now add the work of another anonymous Neanderthal. This male, one of Europe’s last Neanderthal inhabitants, saw a face on a rock collected from the river, intentionally painted a red dot with ochre, and left his mark on history.

David Álvarez Alonso, Profesor Titular de Prehistoria, Universidad Complutense de Madrid, Universidad Complutense de Madrid; Andrés Díez Herrero, Profesor de Investigación (Dr. Ciencias Geológicas), Instituto Geológico y Minero de España (IGME - CSIC); María de Andrés-Herrero, Departamento de Prehistoria, Historia Antigua y Arqueología, Universidad Complutense de Madrid, and Miguel Angel Mate Gonzalez, Personal Docente e Investigador - Contratado Ramón y Cajal , Universidad de Salamanca

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Whooping cough (pertussis) is always circulating in Australia, and epidemics are expected every three to four years. However, the numbers we’re seeing with the current surge – which started in 2024 – are higher than usual epidemics.

Vaccines for this highly infectious respiratory infection have been available in Australia for many decades. Yet it remains a challenging infection to control because immunity (due to prior infection, or vaccination) wanes with time.

In 2025, more than 14,000 cases have been recorded already. Some regions, including Queensland and Western Australia’s Kimberley region, are seeing a marked rise in cases.

In 2024, more than 57,000 cases of whooping cough were reported in Australia – the highest yearly total since 1991 – including 25,900 in New South Wales alone.

What is causing the current surge?

A few factors are driving numbers higher than we’d expect for an anticipated epidemic.

COVID lockdowns in 2020 and 2021 reduced natural immunity to many diseases, disrupted routine childhood vaccination services, and resulted in rising distrust in vaccines. This has meant higher-than-usual numbers for many infectious diseases.

And it’s not only Australia witnessing this surge.

In the United States, whooping cough cases are at their highest since 1948, with deaths reported in several states, including two infants.

In Australia, vaccine coverage remains relatively high but it is slipping and is below the national target of 95% .

Even small declines may have a significant impact on infection rates.

Who is at risk of whooping cough?

Young babies, especially those under six weeks of age, are extremely vulnerable to whooping cough because they’re too young to be vaccinated.

Infants under six months of age are also more likely to require hospitalisation for breathing support or have severe outcomes such as pneumonia, seizures or brain inflammation . Some do not survive.

However, the greatest number of cases occur in older children and adults. In fact, in 2024, more than 70% of cases occurred in children 10 years and older, and adults.

Can you get whooping cough even if you’re vaccinated?

The whooping cough vaccine works well, but its protection fades with time. Babies are immunised at six weeks, four months and six months, which gives good protection against severe illness.

But without extra (booster) doses, that protection drops, falling to less than 50% by four years of age. That’s why booster doses at 18 months and four years are essential for maintaining protection against the disease.

A whooping cough vaccine is also recommended for any adult who wishes to reduce the likelihood of becoming ill with pertussis. Carers of young infants, in particular, should have a booster dose if they’ve not received one in the past ten years.

A booster dose is also recommended every ten years for health-care workers and early childhood educators.

One of the best ways we can protect babies from the life-threatening illness of whooping cough is vaccination during pregnancy, which transfers protective antibodies to the unborn baby.

If a woman hasn’t received a vaccine during pregnancy, they can be vaccinated as soon as possible after delivery (preferably before hospital discharge). This won’t pass protective immunity to the baby, but reduces the likelihood of the mother getting whooping cough, providing some indirect protection to the infant.

How contagious is whooping cough?

Whooping cough is extremely contagious – in fact, it is up to ten times more contagious than the flu.

If you’re immunised against whooping cough, you’re likely to have milder symptoms. But you can still catch and spread it, including to babies who have not yet been immunised.

Data shows siblings (and not parents) are one of the most common sources of whooping cough infection in babies.

This highlights the importance of on-time vaccination not just during pregnancy, but also in siblings and other close contacts.

How do I know it’s whooping cough, and not just a cold?

Early symptoms of whooping cough can look just like a cold: a runny nose, mild fever, and a persistent cough.

After about a week, the cough often worsens, coming in long fits that may end with a sharp “whoop” as the person gasps for breath.

In very young babies, there may be no whoop at all. They might briefly stop breathing (called an “apnoea”) or turn blue.

In teens and adults, the only sign may be a stubborn cough (the so-called “100-day” cough) that won’t go away.

If you have whooping cough, you may be infectious for up to three weeks after symptoms begin, unless treated with antibiotics (which can shorten this to five days).

You’ll need to stay home from work, school or childcare during this time to help protect others.

What should I do to reduce my risk?

Start by checking your vaccination record. This can be done through the myGov website, the Express Plus Medicare app or by asking your GP.

If you’re pregnant, get a whooping cough booster in your second trimester. A booster is also important if you’re planning to care for young infants or meet a newborn.

Got a cough that lasts more than a week or comes in fits? Ask your GP about testing.

One quick booster could help stop the next outbreak from reaching you or your loved ones.

Niall Johnston, Conjoint Associate Lecturer, Faculty of Medicine, UNSW Sydney; Helen Quinn, Senior Research Fellow, National Centre for Immunisation Research and Surveillance & Senior Lecturer, Children’s Hospital Westmead Clinical School, University of Sydney, and Phoebe Williams, Paediatrician & Infectious Diseases Physician; Senior Lecturer & NHMRC Fellow, Faculty of Medicine, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

As winter settles over Australia, it’s not just the drop in temperature we notice – there’s also a sharp rise in respiratory illnesses. Most of us are familiar with the usual winter players such as COVID, influenza and RSV (respiratory syncytial virus), which often dominate news headlines and public health messaging.

But scientists are now paying closer attention to another virus that’s been spreading somewhat under the radar: human metapneumovirus (hMPV).

Although it’s not new, hMPV is now being recognised as a significant contributor to seasonal respiratory infections, especially among young children, older people, and people with weaker immune systems.

So what do you need to know about this winter lurgy?

What does a hMPV infection look like?

hMPV is a close relative of RSV, and can cause infections in the upper or lower respiratory tracts.

Like other respiratory viruses, hMPV infection causes symptoms such as cough, fever, sore throat and nasal congestion. While most people experience relatively mild illness and recover in about a week, hMPV can lead to serious illness – such as bronchiolitis or pneumonia – in babies, older adults, and people with weakened immune systems.

hMPV spreads much like the flu or SARS-CoV-2 (the virus that causes COVID) – through tiny droplets from coughs and sneezes, and potentially by touching surfaces where the virus has landed and then touching your mouth, nose, or eyes.

Most people will catch it at some point in their lives, commonly more than once. While an infection confers some immunity, this wanes over time.

hMPV generally follows a seasonal pattern, tending to peak in winter and spring.

hMPV around the world

By the end of 2024, China saw a surprising spike in cases of hMPV – enough to catch the attention of public health experts. While there were some suggestions hospitals were becoming overwhelmed, exact numbers were not clear.

The World Health Organization subsequently issued a statement in January indicating this rise in hMPV infections in China aligned with expected seasonal trends.

Other countries, such as the United States, have also noted increases in hMPV infections since the COVID pandemic. Realising hMPV might be playing a more significant role in seasonal illness than we’d previously thought, and with improvements in diagnostic technology, global health agencies have ramped up their monitoring.

In Australia, comprehensive national data on hMPV is limited because hMPV is not one of the viruses with mandatory reporting. In other words, if a patient is found to have hMPV (through a PCR swab sent to a pathology lab) there’s no requirement for the doctor or the pathology lab to make a public health report of a positive result, as they would with another illness such as influenza, RSV or measles.

However, selected medical clinics voluntarily participate in systematic data collection on specific health conditions, which give us an idea of the proportion of people of people who may be infected (though not the absolute numbers).

The Australian Sentinel Practice Research Network (ASPREN) is a national surveillance system funded by the federal department of health. In 2024, up to December 15, based on ASPREN data, 7.8% of patients presenting with fever and cough symptoms tested positive for hMPV.

This year, to June 1, ASPREN data shows us hMPV has made up 4.2% of infections among people with flu-like illness, behind RSV (7.7%), COVID (10.9%), influenza (19%) and rhinovirus (a virus which causes the common cold, 46.1%).

What about vaccines and treatments?

hMPV is likely to be part of the array of respiratory viruses circulating in Australia this winter. If you have a cold or flu-like illness and have done one of those at-home rapid tests for COVID, flu and RSV but came up all negative, it’s possible hMPV is the culprit.

There’s currently no specific treatment or vaccine for hMPV. Most cases are mild and can be managed at home with rest and symptom relief such as taking medication (paracetamol or ibuprofen) for pain and fever. But more serious infections may require hospital care.

If your baby or young child has a respiratory infection and is having trouble breathing, you should take them to the emergency department.

Researchers and companies such as Moderna, Pfizer and Vicebio are actively working on vaccines for hMPV, however they’re not yet available.

The best way to protect yourself and others against hMPV and other respiratory viruses is through simple hygiene practices. These include washing your hands often, covering coughs and sneezes, staying home if you’re sick, cleaning shared surfaces regularly, and considering wearing a mask in crowded indoor spaces during virus season.

Lara Herrero, Associate Professor and Research Leader in Virology and Infectious Disease, Griffith University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

A persistent cough can be embarrassing, especially if people think you have COVID.

Coughing frequently can also make you physically tired, interfere with sleep and trigger urinary incontinence. As a GP, I have even treated patients whose repetitive forceful coughing has caused stress fractures in their ribs.

So, why do some coughs linger so long? Here are some of the most common causes – and signs you should get checked for something more serious.

Why do we cough?

The cough reflex is an important protective mechanism. Forcefully expelling air helps clear our lungs and keep them safe from irritants, infections and the risk of choking.

Some people who have long-term conditions, such as chronic bronchitis or bronchiectasis, have to cough frequently. This is because the lung’s cilia – tiny hair-like structures that move mucus, debris and germs – no longer work to clear the lungs.

A wet or “productive” cough means coughing up a lot of mucus.

A cough can also be dry or “unproductive”. This happens when the cough receptors in the airways, throat and upper oesophagus have become overly sensitised, triggering a cough even when there’s no mucus to clear.

Causes of a chronic cough

A cough is considered chronic when it lasts longer than eight weeks in adults, or four weeks in children.

The three most common causes are:

• post-nasal drip (where mucus drips from the back of the nose into the throat)
• asthma
• acid reflux from the stomach.

These often go together. One study found 23% of people with chronic cough had two of these conditions, and 3% had all three.

This makes sense – people prone to airway allergies are more likely to develop both asthma and hayfever (allergic rhinitis). Hayfever is probably the main cause of persistent post-nasal drip.

Meanwhile, prolonged, vigorous coughing can also cause reflux, possibly triggering further coughing.

Chronic cough is the primary symptom of two other conditions, although these can be more challenging to diagnose: cough-variant asthma and eosinophilic bronchitis. Both conditions inflame the airways. However, they don’t rapidly improve with ventolin (the standard clinic test to diagnose asthma).

Coughs after respiratory infections

Coughs can also persist long after a viral or bacterial infection. In children with colds, one systematic review found it took 25 days for more than 90% to be free of their cough.

After an infection, cough hypersensitivity may develop thanks to inflamed airways and over-responsive cough receptors. Even minor irritants will then trigger the coughing reflex.

The body’s response to infection makes the mucus more sticky – and more difficult for the overworked, recovering cilia to clear. Allergens in the air can also more easily penetrate the upper airway’s damaged lining.

This can trigger an unhelpful feedback loop that slows the body’s recovery after an infection. Excessive and unhelpful coughing tends to further fatigue the recovering cilia and irritate the airway lining.

Could I still have an infection?

When a cough persists, a common concern is whether a secondary bacterial infection has followed the first viral infection, requiring antibiotics.

Simply coughing up yellow or green phlegm is not enough to tell.

To diagnose a serious chest infection, your doctor will consider the whole picture of your symptoms. For example, whether you also have shortness of breath, worsening fever or your lungs make abnormal sounds through a stethoscope.

The possibility you have undiagnosed asthma or allergies should also be considered.

What treats a persistent cough?

People with a persistent cough who are otherwise healthy may request and be prescribed antibiotics. But these rarely shorten how long your cough lasts, as irritation – not infection – is the primary cause of cough.

The most effective treatments for shifting sticky mucus from the airways are simple ones: saline nose sprays and washes, steam inhalation and medicated sore throat sprays.

Honey has also been shown to reduce throat irritation and the need to cough.

The effectiveness of cough syrup is less clear. As these mixtures have potential side effects, they should be used with care.

Signs of something more serious

Sometimes, a cough that won’t go away could be the sign of a serious condition, including lung cancer or unusual infections. Fortunately, these aren’t common.

To rule them out, Australia’s chronic cough guidelines recommend a chest x-ray and spirometry (which tests lung volume and flow) for anyone presenting to their doctor with a chronic cough.

You should seek prompt medical attention if, in addition to your cough, you:

• cough up blood
• produce a lot of phlegm
• are very short of breath, especially when resting or at night
• have difficulty swallowing
• lose weight or have a fever
• have recurring pneumonia
• are a smoker older than 45, with a new or changed cough.

What if there’s no clear cause?

Very occasionally, despite thorough testing and treatment, a cough persists. This is called refractory chronic cough.

When no cause can be identified, it’s known as unexplained chronic cough. In the past, unexplained cough may have been diagnosed as a “psychogenic” or “habit” cough, a term which has fallen from favour.

We now understand that cough hypersensitivity makes a person cough out of proportion to the trigger, and that both the peripheral and central nervous systems play a role in this. But our understanding of the relationship between hypersensitivity and chronic cough remains incomplete.

These are disabling conditions and should be referred to a respiratory clinic or a chronic cough specialist. Speech pathology treatments may also be effective for refractory and unexplained coughs.

There are a class of new medications in the pipeline that block cough receptors, and seem promising for persisting, troublesome coughs.

David King, Senior Lecturer in General Practice, The University of Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Measles has been rising globally in recent years. There were an estimated 10.3 million cases worldwide in 2023, a 20% increase from 2022.

Outbreaks are being reported all over the world including in the United States, Europe and the Western Pacific region (which includes Australia). For example, Vietnam has reportedly seen thousands of cases in 2024 and 2025.

In Australia, 77 cases of measles have been recorded in the first five months of 2025, compared with 57 cases in all of 2024.

Measles cases in Australia are almost all related to international travel. They occur in travellers returning from overseas, or are contracted locally after mixing with an infected traveller or their contacts.

Measles most commonly affects children and is preventable with vaccination, given in Australia in two doses at 12 and 18 months old. But in light of current outbreaks globally, is there a case for reviewing the timing of measles vaccinations?

Some measles basics

Measles is caused by a virus belonging to the genus Morbillivirus. Symptoms include a fever, cough, runny nose and a rash. While it presents as a mild illness in most cases, measles can lead to severe disease requiring hospitalisation, and even death. Large outbreaks can overwhelm health systems.

Measles can have serious health consequences, such as in the brain and the immune system, years after the infection.

Measles spreads from person to person via small respiratory droplets that can remain suspended in the air for two hours. It’s highly contagious – one person with measles can spread the infection to 12–18 people who aren’t immune.

Because measles is so infectious, the World Health Organization (WHO) recommends two-dose vaccination coverage above 95% to stop the spread and achieve “herd immunity”.

Low and declining vaccine coverage, especially since the COVID pandemic, is driving global outbreaks.

When are children vaccinated against measles?

Newborn babies are generally protected against measles thanks to maternal antibodies. Maternal antibodies get passed from the mother to the baby via the placenta and in breast milk, and provide protection against infections including measles.

The WHO advises everyone should receive two doses of measles vaccination. In places where there’s a lot of measles circulating, children are generally recommended to have the first dose at around nine months old. This is because it’s expected maternal antibodies would have declined significantly in most infants by that age, leaving them vulnerable to infection.

If maternal measles antibodies are still present, the vaccine is less likely to produce an immune response.

Research has also shown a measles vaccine given at less than 8.5 months of age can result in an antibody response which declines more quickly. This might be due to interference with maternal antibodies, but researchers are still trying to understand the reasons for this.

A second dose of the vaccine is usually given 6–9 months later. A second dose is important because about 10–15% of children don’t develop antibodies after the first vaccine.

In settings where measles transmission is under better control, a first dose is recommended at 12 months of age. Vaccination at 12 months compared with nine months is considered to generate a stronger, longer-lasting immune response.

In Australia, children are routinely given the measles-mumps- rubella (MMR) vaccine at 12 months and the measles-mumps-rubella-varicella (MMRV, with “varicella” being chickenpox) vaccine at 18 months.

Babies at higher risk of catching the disease can also be given an additional early dose. In Australia, this is recommended for infants as young as six months when there’s an outbreak or if they’re travelling overseas to a high-risk setting.

A new study looking at measles antibodies in babies

A recent review looked at measles antibody data from babies under nine months old living in low- and middle-income countries. The review combined the results from 20 studies, including more than 8,000 babies. The researchers found that while 81% of newborns had maternal antibodies to measles, only 30% of babies aged four months had maternal antibodies.

This study suggests maternal antibodies to measles decline much earlier than previously thought. It raises the question of whether the first dose of measles vaccine is given too late to maximise infants’ protection, especially when there’s a lot of measles around.

Should we bring the measles vaccine forward in Australia?

All of the data in this study comes from low- and middle-income countries, and might not reflect the situation in Australia where we have much higher vaccine coverage for measles, and very few cases.

Australia’s coverage for two doses of the MMR vaccine at age two is above 92%.

Although this is lower than the optimal 95%, the overall risk of measles surging in Australia is relatively low.

Nonetheless, there may be a case for broadening the age at which an early extra dose of the measles vaccine can be given to children at higher risk. In New Zealand, infants as young as four months can receive a measles vaccine before travelling to an endemic country.

But the current routine immunisation schedule in Australia is unlikely to change.

Adding an extra dose to the schedule would be costly and logistically difficult. Lowering the age for the first dose may have some advantages in certain settings, and doesn’t pose any safety concerns, but further evidence would be required to support this change. In particular, research is needed to ensure it wouldn’t negatively affect the longer-term protection that vaccination offers from measles.

Making sure you’re protected

In the meantime, ensuring high levels of measles vaccine coverage with two doses is a global priority.

People born after 1966 are recommended to have two doses of measles vaccine. This is because those born before the mid-1960s likely caught measles as children (when the vaccine was not yet available) and would therefore have natural immunity.

If you’re unsure about your vaccination status, you can check this through the Australian Immunisation Register. If you don’t have a documented record, ask your doctor for advice.

Catch-up vaccination is available under the National Immunisation Program.

Meru Sheel, Associate Professor, Infectious Diseases, Immunisation and Emergencies (IDIE) Group, Sydney School of Public Health, University of Sydney and Anita Heywood, Associate Professor, School of Population Health, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Cricket’s third World Test Championship final will begin on Wednesday night in London. Reigning champions Australia will compete with South Africa to be crowned the world’s best men’s Test cricket team.

This new tournament has faced controversy because of the points system used to determine the two finalists, with South Africa also criticised in recent years for allowing many key players to compete in T20 tournaments instead of Test matches.

Despite this, South Africa has earned its right to take on the Australians at Lord’s Cricket Ground.

What is the World Test Championship?

The World Test Championship is a tournament played between nine full members of the International Cricket Council (ICC): Australia, Bangladesh, England, India, New Zealand, Pakistan, South Africa, Sri Lanka and the West Indies.

The previous winners were New Zealand (2021) and Australia (2023).

The ICC introduced this tournament as a way to increase the relevance and importance of Test cricket in a world dominated by popular Twenty 20 tournaments such as the Big Bash and Indian Premier League.

Each country plays three series of between two and five Test matches at home, and three away.

The tournament takes two years to complete because each Test match can take five days and there are no dedicated times for Test match cricket throughout the year. This is because many cricketers also play in T20 and one-day tournaments.

Teams are awarded points for wins (12 points), ties (six) and draws (four) – there are zero points for a loss. Teams lose points if they bowl their overs too slowly.

While this point system is simple enough, ranking teams in the results table is more confusing, because some teams play more Tests than others.

Bigger, wealthier countries such as England, India and Australia commonly play four or five Tests in a series, whereas less affluent countries often play series with only two or three Tests.

Because of this difference, the results table is based on the percentage of points teams have won (how many points they won divided by how many points they could have won).

For example, if a team played ten tests, the maximum points they could earn would be 120 (10 x 12 points for each win). If they earned 60 points, then they would be ranked on the results table as winning 50% (60 divided by 120).

How did Australia and South Africa reach the final?

South Africa finished on top of the table by winning series against the West Indies, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka and Pakistan. They also drew with India and lost to New Zealand.

Australia beat Pakistan and India at home and New Zealand and Sri Lanka away. They also drew series with England (away) and the West Indies (home).

The final will be played at the “home of cricket”: Lord’s in London.

Neutral territory

Test matches are rarely played at neutral venues but the World Test Championship final is played in England for a variety of reasons.

The current two-year World Test Championship cycle ends in June, which is early summer in England and winter or monsoon season in most other major cricket nations.

England also offers good infrastructure, strong crowds, a time zone that aligns favourably with prime time viewing hours in India, and pitches that offer a fair contest between bat and ball, allowing for exciting and competitive cricket.

Despite these reasons, the repeated scheduling of finals in England has been criticised, predominantly by India.

Criticisms of the championship

South Africa’s qualification for the final has been criticised because they have played the least number of Tests and avoided playing some stronger teams.

While these criticisms are not unfounded, they are also not South Africa’s fault: the ICC is responsible for ensuring scheduling is fair.

Richer countries such as Australia, England and India face a dilemma in that five-Test series between them are generally high quality, exciting and profitable but are also difficult to win.

Smaller nations playing two-Test series receive less interest and money but also easier opponents and less fixture fatigue. This situation can make it easier for smaller, less affluent teams to have a higher winning percentage.

Other criticisms have focused on the points deductions for slow overs and the exclusion of Test playing nations Afghanistan, Ireland and Zimbabwe. When the World Test Championship was launched in 2019, only the nine full members were included. No specific reasons were given for the exclusion of Zimbabwe, Afghanistan and Ireland.

Including these countries and having two six-team divisions – with teams being relegated and promoted each year – has been suggested as way to make the Test championship more fair and more competitive.

However, this idea has also been criticised as focusing on profits instead of protecting and nurturing the game around the world.

These deductions and divisions, and other potential changes, were considered at a recent ICC meeting but no changes were made.

Final preparations

Australian players have prepared for the final in a variety of ways, such as playing in the IPL, county cricket in the United Kingdom and practice sessions at home.

They are favourites for the final and have a strong squad to choose from.

South Africa also has a strong team with several key players returning from injuries and a drugs ban.

A win for Australia would solidify its standing as the premier Test cricket team in the world. For South Africa, a victory would showcase a remarkable turnaround after being criticised for picking a weak squad for a tour of New Zealand, with most of its better players instead competing in T20 tournaments.

There is also record prize money at stake.

If the match is a draw, tie or washed out, Australia and South Africa will share the trophy. But there is a reserve day available in case of wet weather.

Vaughan Cruickshank, Senior Lecturer in Health and Physical Education, University of Tasmania

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The enamel that forms the outer layer of our teeth might seem like an unlikely place to find clues about evolution. But it tells us more than you’d think about the relationships between our fossil ancestors and relatives.

In our new study, published in the Journal of Human Evolution, we highlight a different aspect of enamel. In fact, we highlight its absence.

Specifically, we show that tiny, shallow pits in fossil teeth may not be signs of malnutrition or disease. Instead, they may carry surprising evolutionary significance.

You might be wondering why this matters. Well, for people like me who try to figure out how humans evolved and how all our ancestors and relatives were related to each other, teeth are very important. And having a new marker to look out for on fossil teeth could give us a new tool to help fit together our family tree.

Uniform, circular and shallow

These pits were first identified in the South African species Paranthropus robustus, a close relative of our own genus Homo. They are highly consistent in shape and size: uniform, circular and shallow.

Initially, we thought the pits might be unique to P. robustus. But our latest research shows this kind of pitting also occurs in other Paranthropus species in eastern Africa. We even found it in some Australopithecus individuals, a genus that may have given rise to both Homo and Paranthropus.

The enamel pits have commonly been assumed to be defects resulting from stresses such as illness or malnutrition during childhood. However, their remarkable consistency across species, time and geography suggests these enamel pits may be something more interesting.

The pitting is subtle, regularly spaced, and often clustered in specific regions of the tooth crown. It appears without any other signs of damage or abnormality.

Two million years of evolution

We looked at fossil teeth from hominins (humans and our closest extinct relatives) from the Omo Valley in Ethiopia, where we can see traces of more than two million years of human evolution, as well as comparisons with sites in southern Africa (Drimolen, Swartkrans and Kromdraai).

The Omo collection includes teeth attributed to Paranthropus, Australopithecus and Homo, the three most recent and well-known hominin genera. This allowed us to track the telltale pitting across different branches of our evolutionary tree.

What we found was unexpected. The uniform pitting appears regularly in both eastern and southern Africa Paranthropus, and also in the earliest eastern African Australopithecus teeth dating back around 3 million years. But among southern Africa Australopithecus and our own genus, Homo, the uniform pitting was notably absent.

A defect … or just a trait?

If the uniform pitting were caused by stress or disease, we might expect it to correlate with tooth size and enamel thickness, and to affect both front and back teeth. But it doesn’t.

What’s more, stress-related defects typically form horizontal bands. They usually affect all teeth developing at the time of the stress, but this is not what we see with this pitting.

We think this pitting probably has a developmental and genetic origin. It may have emerged as a byproduct of changes in how enamel was formed in these species. It might even have some unknown functional purpose.

In any case, we suggest these uniform, circular pits should be viewed as a trait rather than a defect.

A modern comparison

Further support for the idea of a genetic origin comes from comparisons with a rare condition in humans today called amelogenesis imperfecta, which affects enamel formation.

About one in 1,000 people today have amelogenesis imperfecta. By contrast, the uniform pitting we have seen appears in up to half of Paranthropus individuals.

Although it likely has a genetic basis, we argue the even pitting is too common to be considered a harmful disorder. What’s more, it persisted at similar frequencies for millions of years.

A new evolutionary marker

If this uniform pitting really does have a genetic origin, we may be able to use it to trace evolutionary relationships.

We already use subtle tooth features such as enamel thickness, cusp shape, and wear patterns to help identify species. The uniform pitting may be an additional diagnostic tool.

For example, our findings support the idea that Paranthropus is a “monophyletic group”, meaning all its species descend from a (relatively) recent common ancestor, rather than evolving seperatly from different Australopithecus taxa.

And we did not find this pitting in the southern Africa species Australopithecus africanus, despite a large sample of more than 500 teeth. However, it does appear in the earliest Omo Australopithecus specimens.

So perhaps the pitting could also help pinpoint from where Paranthropus branched off on its own evolutionary path.

An intriguing case

One especially intriguing case is Homo floresiensis, the so-called “hobbit” species from Indonesia. Based on published images, their teeth appear to show similar pitting.

If confirmed, this could suggest an evolutionary history more closely tied to earlier Australopithecus species than to Homo. However, H. floresiensis also shows potential skeletal and dental pathologies, so more research is needed before drawing such conclusions.

More research is also needed to fully understand the processes behind the uniform pitting before it can be used routinely in taxonomic work. But our research shows it is likely a heritable characteristic, one not found in any living primates studied to date, nor in our own genus Homo (rare cases of amelogenesis imperfecta aside).

As such, it offers an exciting new tool for exploring evolutionary relationships among fossil hominins.

Ian Towle, Research Fellow in Biological Anthropology, Monash University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In June 2024, the Australian government ended the Women in STEM Ambassador program. The decision followed a report that urged a broader, intersectional approach to diversity in the fields of science, technology, engineering and maths (STEM).

For six years, under the leadership of astrophysicist Lisa Harvey-Smith, the program contributed to research, tools and resources aimed at breaking down structural barriers that limit women’s and girls’ participation in STEM education and careers.

At the time, the move to scrap it was framed as a step toward more inclusive progress.

Does that reasoning still hold one year later? As diversity and inclusion efforts face global cutbacks, it’s more important than ever to reflect on where Australia is heading. Are we truly building a more equitable STEM future?

Why diversity in STEM matters

Structural barriers have long limited participation in STEM for women, people of colour, First Nations communities, people with disabilities, and those in low socioeconomic groups.

Such barriers include stereotypes and bias, a lack of role models, limited flexible work arrangements, and inadequate parental leave and childcare support.

If we achieved equity in STEM, everyone – including entire groups who have been systemically excluded in the past – would have equal access to opportunities, resources and recognition.

For a young Aboriginal woman studying engineering in a regional town, it would mean the same chance to apply for internships at top firms as peers who live in cities. She would have the same access to well-equipped labs and mentoring programs, and an equal likelihood of being nominated for academic awards or leadership roles.

Improving diversity in STEM is also critical to Australia’s capacity for innovation, particularly as we face global challenges such as climate change, disruption from artificial intelligence, and geopolitical instability.

Diverse STEM teams are more likely to approach problems from multiple perspectives. They embody democratic values, driving innovation and strengthening resilience in the face of complex issues.

Yet, despite decades of gender-focused programs, meaningful progress has been limited. STEM Equity Monitor 2024 data show that while the number of women in STEM has increased, only 37% of university STEM enrolments are women. When it comes to STEM jobs in Australia, only 15% are occupied by women.

If not an ambassador, then what?

The lack of diversity in STEM is driven by systemic barriers such as persistent stereotypes, a shortage of diverse role models, and unequal access to opportunities.

An independent report released in February 2024 recommended looking at diversity in a more inclusive way.

Instead of focusing only on women in STEM, it suggested we consider how different aspects of a person’s identity – such as their gender, race, or background – can combine and affect their experience.

This means some people may face additional challenges. For example, a migrant woman of colour in STEM might deal with more obstacles than a white woman in the same field, because of the way her different identities overlap.

So … where are we now?

While adopting this view is commendable, the practical changes that have happened over the past year raise important questions about whether Australia is truly moving toward a more inclusive STEM landscape.

In August 2024, the government announced a $38 million boost to STEM programs, aligning with recommendations from the independent report. Two long-standing programs were closed, while seven other initiatives received additional funding.

However, many of the funded programs still leave major gaps.

For instance, one of the few initiatives targeting school-aged students, the National Youth Science Forum, is mostly limited to Years 11 and 12. Yet we know that girls’ disengagement from STEM begins as early as primary school.

Similarly, while the Superstars of STEM initiative continues to receive investment, its focus remains on “inspiring” students through role models.

Inspiration alone is not enough. We need a sustained, systemic approach that changes attitudes and builds structures to support and retain diverse students throughout their STEM journey.

A key tool may have been left underfunded

Of all the initiatives announced, the STEM Equity Monitor received the smallest share of funding, despite being the key tool for tracking Australia’s progress on diversity in STEM.

The 2024 report still relies on some data last updated in 2022, reflecting a lack of commitment to maintaining a consistent, annual pulse on equity outcomes. Moreover, the monitor doesn’t provide intersectional analysis, limiting its ability to inform targeted, evidence-based actions.

In principle, it still makes sense to shift Australia’s strategy on diversity in STEM towards a more intersectional and systemic approach. However, the practical steps taken so far don’t seem to align with that vision. Funding decisions, program closures, and limited investment in data and accountability tools suggest a disconnect between intent and implementation.

Without clear action plans, inclusive design – which ensures STEM initiatives genuinely serve people of all backgrounds – and robust monitoring, there is a risk the new direction will be symbolic rather than transformative.

Maria Vieira, Lecturer, Education Futures, University of South Australia

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Treasury head Steven Kennedy will become Anthony Albanese’s right-hand bureaucrat, while Treasury will get its first female secretary, with the appointment of Jenny Wilkinson, who currently heads the Finance Department.

Kennedy, to be the new secretary of the Department of the Prime Minister and Cabinet, replaces Glyn Davis, who announced after the election he was leaving the post after just three years.

Kennedy, 60, has had a close working relationship with Treasurer Jim Chalmers. He also served Chalmers’ Liberal predecessor, Josh Frydenberg, during the pandemic, when the Treasury was the main bureaucratic architect of the JobKeeper scheme that provided subsidies to business to keep on workers.

Wilkinson, 58, has been secretary of the Finance Department since August 2022. She was previously a deputy secretary in Treasury, where she worked on the pandemic economic stimulus measures. She is also a former head of the Parliamentary Budget Office.

As Treasury secretary, Wilkinson will take Kennedy’s place on the Reserve Bank.

Chalmers described Kennedy and Wilkinson as “the best of the best”, saying they were “outstanding public servants”.

Finance Minister Katy Gallagher said Wilkinson’s appointment not only recognised her talent, skills and expertise, “but it also serves as an important reminder for women and girls across the country that all positions in the Australian Public Service – no matter how senior – are roles that women can hold”.

The prime minister announced the bureaucratic reshuffle during his Tuesday address to the National Press Club on his second term agenda.

With Chalmers already having named productivity as his primary priority for this term, Albanese said he had asked the treasurer to convene “a roundtable to support and shape our government’s growth and productivity agenda”.

The summit, at Parliament House in August, will bring together a group of leaders from business, unions and civil society. More details will come in a speech on productivity by Chalmers next week.

“This will be a more streamlined dialogue than the Jobs and Skills Summit, dealing with a more targeted set of issues,” Albanese said.

“We want to build the broadest possible base of support for further economic reform, to drive growth, boost productivity, strengthen the budget, and secure the resilience of our economy, in a time of global uncertainty.

"What we want is a focused dialogue and constructive debate that leads to concrete and tangible actions.”

Albanese said the government’s starting point was clear, “Our plan for economic growth and productivity is about Australians earning more and keeping more of what they earn.” The aim was for growth, wages and productivity to rise together.

The Productivity Commission recently released 15 “priority reform areas” to further explore as part of the five productivity inquiries that the government has commissioned it to undertake.

The commission’s March quarterly bulletin shows a 0.1% decline in labour productivity in the December quarter, and a 1.2% decline over the year.

COVID produced a temporary lift in productivity but that soon passed.

In general Australia’s labour productivity has not significantly increased in more than a decade.

Welcoming the roundtable, Australian Industry Group Chief Executive Innes Willox said it was “critical that this tripartite summit focus on getting private sector investment moving again. Our economy and labour market has been unsustainably reliant on government spending for a prolonged period now.”

Michelle Grattan, Professorial Fellow, University of Canberra

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The video of a Los Angeles police officer shooting a rubber bullet at Channel Nine reporter Lauren Tomasi is as shocking as it is revealing.

In her live broadcast, Tomasi is standing to the side of a rank of police in riot gear. She describes the way they have begun firing rubber bullets to disperse protesters angry with US President Donald Trump’s crackdown on illegal immigrants.

As Tomasi finishes her sentence, the camera pans to the left, just in time to catch the officer raising his gun and firing a non-lethal round into her leg. She said a day later she is sore, but otherwise OK.

Although a more thorough investigation might find mitigating circumstances, from the video evidence, it is hard to dismiss the shot as “crossfire”. The reporter and cameraman were off to one side of the police, clearly identified and working legitimately.

The shooting is also not a one-off. Since the protests against Trump’s mass deportations policy began three days ago, a reporter with the LA Daily News and a freelance journalist have been hit with pepper balls and tear gas.

British freelance photojournalist Nick Stern also had emergency surgery to remove a three-inch plastic bullet from his leg.

In all, the Los Angeles Press Club has documented more than 30 incidents of obstruction and attacks on journalists during the protests.

Trump’s assault on the media

It now seems assaults on the media are no longer confined to warzones or despotic regimes. They are happening in American cities, in broad daylight, often at the hands of those tasked with upholding the law.

But violence is only one piece of the picture. In the nearly five months since taking office, the Trump administration has moved to defund public broadcasters, curtail access to information and undermine the credibility of independent media.

International services once used to project democratic values and American soft power around the world, such as Voice of America, Radio Free Europe and Radio Free Asia, have all had their funding cut and been threatened with closure. (The Voice of America website is still operational but hasn’t been updated since mid-March, with one headline on the front page reading “Vatican: Francis stable, out of ‘imminent danger’ of death”).

The Associated Press, one of the most respected and important news agencies in the world, has been restricted from its access to the White House and covering Trump. The reason? It decided to defy Trump’s directive to change the name of the Gulf of Mexico to Gulf of America.

Even broadcast licenses for major US networks, such as ABC, NBC and CBS, have been publicly threatened — a signal to editors and executives that political loyalty might soon outweigh journalistic integrity.

The Committee to Protect Journalists is more used to condemning attacks on the media in places like Russia. However, in April, it issued a report headlined: “Alarm bells: Trump’s first 100 days ramp up fear for the press, democracy”.

A requirement for peace

Why does this matter? The success of American democracy has never depended on unity or even civility. It has depended on scrutiny. A system where power is challenged, not flattered.

The First Amendment to the US Constitution – which protects freedom of speech – has long been considered the gold standard for building the institutions of free press and free expression. That only works when journalism is protected — not in theory but in practice.

Now, strikingly, the language once reserved for autocracies and failed states has begun to appear in assessments of the US. Civicus, which tracks declining democracies around the world, recently put the US on its watchlist, alongside the Democratic Republic of Congo, Italy, Serbia and Pakistan.

The attacks on the journalists in LA are troubling not only for their sake, but for ours. This is about civic architecture. The kind of framework that makes space for disagreement without descending into disorder.

Press freedom is not a luxury for peacetime. It is a requirement for peace.

Peter Greste, Professor of Journalism and Communications, Macquarie University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

On June 11, Australia marks 50 years since the Racial Discrimination Act became law. This important legislation helps make sure people are treated equally no matter their race, skin colour, background, or where they come from.

But the act didn’t happen overnight. It took nearly ten years for Australia to follow through on the promises it made to the world to fight racism when it signed the International Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination in 1966.

When Australia first signed that agreement, it still had laws and attitudes shaped by the White Australia Policy.

Even after Australia started moving away from the White Australia Policy, federal leaders held off on making anti-racism laws. They weren’t sure it was allowed under the Constitution, worried about the cost, and didn’t want to upset the states. Many also feared that Australians wouldn’t support it.

It took the courage of Gough Whitlam, Australia’s 21st prime minister, to pass Australia’s first anti-discrimination law. Between 1973 and 1975, Whitlam and his government made four attempts to pass laws against racial discrimination. The act was the result of their fourth try – this time, it worked.

An uphill battle

The first time the Racial Discrimination Bill was introduced was in 1973, it was alongside a Human Rights Bill. Together, they were part of a bigger plan to give people in Australia more rights and fair treatment.

People had mixed feelings about the idea of a law to protect individual rights. Most of the concern was about the Human Rights Bill, but some also doubted whether a Racial Discrimination Act was needed.

There was debate about whether it would really work or just be a symbolic step, and whether or not it would take away from people’s freedoms.

In the end, the 1973 bill lapsed and did not become law.

The Whitlam government reintroduced the bill twice more in 1974, once in April and then again in October.

The April version added protections for immigrants and focused more on conciliation and education, but it wasn’t debated before an election.

The bill returned in October with minor updates, mainly to strengthen education efforts and clarify that it used civil, not criminal, enforcement.

Still, it was withdrawn in early 1975 because of ongoing political instability.

The 1975 Racial Discrimination Bill was the Whitlam government’s final, and successful, push to make laws tackling racism.

Familiar debates

Labor MPs backed the 1975 version of the bill, highlighting its importance for Indigenous people and other marginalised groups.

But the Liberal–Country Party Coalition, then in opposition, pushed back hard.

While the opposition claimed to support equality, they questioned the legal basis of the bill, feared it gave too much power to the race relations commissioner and warned it might threaten free speech.

Some opposition voices, especially in the Senate, went further, downplaying racism altogether. Senator Ian Wood claimed Australia was “singularly free of racial discrimination”.

Senator Glen Sheil argued immigration was the issue:

Australia over recent years has adopted an immigration policy that has allowed the immigration into this country of blacks, whites, reds, yellows and browns […] because of these problems, once again created by governments, we are now faced with this Racial Discrimination Bill. In my opinion if this bill is implemented it will create more discrimination, not less.

The opposition successfully weakened the bill by removing several key parts, including:

• criminal penalties for inciting racial discrimination

• the ability of the commissioner to start legal proceedings in court or ask a court to make someone give evidence

• and criminal penalties for publishing, distributing or expressing racial hostility.

Despite these setbacks, the Racial Discrimination Act passed.

Change takes time

Even with all the compromises, the passing of the act was a major moment in Australian history.

As Whitlam acknowledged:

it is of course extraordinarily difficult to define racial discrimination and outlaw it by legislative means. Social attitudes and mental habits do not readily lend themselves to codification and statutory prohibition.

The act has not erased racial discrimination, nor is it perfect.

It continues to spark debates and needs to be further strengthened to meet the changing needs of our society.

However, the laws have been used in real cases to protect people’s rights, shown the federal government does have the power under the Constitution to make laws about human rights, and has sent a strong message that everyone deserves to be safe and free from discrimination, regardless of their race, colour or national or ethnic origin.

The story of the Racial Discrimination Act is a reminder that real change takes time, resolve and tenacity.

While the laws finally passed, the Human Rights Bill introduced alongside it in 1973 did not.

More than 50 years later, Australia still does not have a national Human Rights Act. As more people call for stronger human rights protections in our laws, the Racial Discrimination Act stands as both a reminder of what progress can look like and a challenge to imagine what bold leadership could achieve today.

A Human Rights Act is now needed more than ever to protect those most at risk. It will take the same political will, moral clarity, and bravery that brought the Racial Discrimination Act to life.

Azadeh Dastyari, Director, Research and Policy, Whitlam Institute, Western Sydney University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

My professional life revolves around the academic study of song lyrics. So it may seem like a strange move to write about how some of the most powerful and emotive vocal moments in popular music have come when singers reject words. But it’s impossible to ignore that sometimes a song needs something more universal, more innate and more guttural than language.

Some vocalists have eschewed words entirely in their songs, like Ella Fitzgerald scatting throughout Flying Home (1945), or David Crosby da da dumming his way through Song With No Words (1971). More frequently, though, these wordless singalong moments appear as hooks.

Think the “la la la las” of Elton John’s Crocodile Rock (1972); the “duh duh duh duhs” in The Fratellis’ Chelsea Dagger (2006); the “ooh-aah-aaahs” of Fun’s Some Nights (2012) and Coldplay’s Viva La Vida (2008); or the ear worm “eh, eheu, eheus” of Bastille’s Pompeii (2013).

To paraphrase Ronan Keating (for the first and probably last time), sometimes singers say it best when they say nothing at all. And here are my four favourite examples of where they do just that.

1. The Great Gig in the Sky by Pink Floyd (1973)

When Richard Wright brought his song The Great Gig in the Sky to the studio during Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of The Moon recording sessions, the band felt something was missing. They wanted a “foreground element to make it really transcend”, and versatile session vocalist Clare Torry was brought in to provide it.

Receiving little musical direction from the band apart from that they wanted the vocal to be wordless, she ad-libbed a few different ideas before leaving the studio, fully expecting nothing more to come of it. To Torry’s surprise, her vocal not only made it onto the finished record, but arguably became a pinnacle not just of the album, but of Floyd’s entire canon.

With a jaw-dropping wail that elevated the track to near-celestial heights, Torry managed to express the full range of human emotion without relying on words. Her contribution was eventually recognised with a co-authorship credit alongside Wright.

2. Anywhere by Rita Ora

If my championing of non-lexical sounds in songs is to dabble in unfamiliar waters, then praising anything by Rita Ora is to sail into “here there be monsters” territory. And yet the hook of her 2017 song Anywhere is just so dang good that it demanded to be include here.

Heavily-treated and chopped-up by producers Alesso, Andrew Watt and Sir Nolan, Ora’s vocal flirts with decipherability as the occasional word emerges from the wonderful confusion, but then veers joyously off into digitised gibberish again.

It’s a prime example of what a crucial role production can play in a song’s success. Such is the manipulation of her original take, even Ora herself admits that she has no idea what she’s singing. Sadly, public and media pressures eventually led her to reveal what the lyrics were before they were “chopped up”.

If you really want to know, watch this Live Lounge performance. For me, though, the power of the song lies beyond language, so, in this case, ignorance is indeed bliss.

3. Blue Moon by Elvis Presley (1956)

There have been some great falsetto singers over the decades, with the likes of Frankie Valli, Brian Wilson, The Bee Gees, Smokey Robinson and Prince all true masters of the craft. My favourite ever example, though, comes from Elvis’s eponymous 1956 album and his cover of Blue Moon.

After spending the first two minutes of the track in the trademark croon of his lower register, Elvis then soars into wordless falsetto at various points in the last 30 or so seconds. It’s unexpected. It’s delicate yet somehow strong. And it’s musical heaven.

4. Gimme Shelter by The Rolling Stones (1969)

Similarly to The Great Gig in the Sky, The Rolling Stones wanted something that would transform their new song Gimme Shelter from good into great. The solution was soul and gospel singer Merry Clayton, who was brought in to sing the heavy, dark chorus, first alongside Mick Jagger, then solo. The rest, as they say, is history.

I can’t include Clayton’s vocal itself in this list, seeing as it contains words, but I can include a by-product of it, which, for me, is one of the greatest, most natural moments ever caught on record: Mick Jagger’s reaction.

At 3m 02s, when the intensity of Clayton’s third go-around of the line “rape, murder, it’s just a shot away” has caused her voice to crack under the strain, we hear Jagger whooping in the background, unable to contain his amazement and joy at what he was witnessing.

Gimme Shelter’ has become one of the Stones’ most enduring tracks and is a staple of their live shows, which include some great performances of Merry’s section from Lisa Fischer and Chanel Haynes, and a not-so-great one from Lady Gaga. As with so many things, though, nothing will ever come close to the original.

Glenn Fosbraey, Associate Dean of Humanities and Social Sciences, University of Winchester

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Impressionism is the world’s favourite art movement.

Impressionist paintings create an oasis of beauty into which a viewer can escape from a sometimes dark and troubling world, or simply from the mundane boredom of urban living.

The Impressionist master, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, once famously observed:

To my mind, a picture should be something pleasant, cheerful, and pretty. Yes, pretty! There are too many unpleasant things in life as it is without creating still more of them.

The new Impressionism exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria brings together over a 100 of these pleasant, cheerful and pretty paintings and graphics. It features some of the greatest names in French Impressionism, including Claude Monet, Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Edgar Degas, Camille Pissarro, Édouard Manet, Mary Cassatt, Berthe Morisot, Paul Signac and Alfred Sisley.

For the first time in Australia

Initially, the Impressionist painters had difficulty in selling their work amid the torrent of negative criticism.

But then their Parisian art dealer Paul Durand-Ruel established a gallery in New York City, and the American artist Mary Cassatt – who worked with the Impressionists in Paris – found increasing popularity. By the 1880s and 1890s, American collectors started to buy Impressionist paintings by many of the top French artists.

This explains why the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston possesses such an outstanding collection of Impressionist paintings. Yet, unlike the museums in New York, the Boston museum is less well known and Australians are seeing many of these paintings for the first time.

To say that most works in this exhibition have never been previously seen in Australia is only partially true. Four years ago, just before Melbourne was locked down for COVID, the NGV launched a similar show. Apart from a handful of art lovers posing as media, that show expired under lockdown and was packed up and returned to Boston without being widely exposed to Australian audiences.

The new reiteration is supplemented with six additional paintings, including the early and deeply moving painting by Degas of Degas’s Father Listening to Lorenzo Pagans Playing the Guitar (1869–72).

The whole exhibition has been totally reimagined as part of an immersive interior design. It moves far away from the clinical white cube of a modern exhibition space and closer to the 19th century posh domestic interiors in which the paintings first appeared.

An extensive and in-depth exhibition

Chronologically, the exhibition charts the development of French Impressionism from the mid-19th century and the so-called Barbizon school and realism, through to late Impressionism in the early 20th century.

It includes the great paintings by Cézanne and Manet, and memorable paintings from early to late Impressionism. There is an abundance of important works by the main Impressionist masters including Monet (16 of his canvases in one room), Degas, Sisley, Renoir, Pissarro, Cassatt and Morisot, and a few unexpected gems by van Gogh and Signac.

It is an extensive and in-depth exhibition.

The depth of the Boston collection enables rare insights. For example, when we see Édouard Manet’s Street Singer (1862), we may be aware that he employed his favourite model Victorine Meurent. Apart from being a model, Meurent was also an artist in her own right and in the same exhibition there is a self-portrait of her from 1876.

Strictly speaking, perhaps neither painting can be described as “Impressionist”. But it is a wonderful encounter of a woman being observed and, in the same exhibition, this woman looking out of the picture space and doing the observing. The self-portrait is one of those additions that was not in the original show.

If we glance at a handful of some of the outstanding paintings in the show – including Monet’s Grainstack (snow effect) (1891), The water lily pond (1900), or Water lilies (1905); Renoir’s Dance at Bougival (1883) or The Seine at Chatou (1881); Pissarro’s Spring pasture (1889); Degas’s Racehorses at Longchamp (1871/1874); and Morisot’s Embroidery (1889) – we have all of the beloved features of French Impressionism.

Light and bright

While the French Impressionists were not a monolithic group, their art was generally characterised by three things.

Firstly, a lighter and brighter palette with a conscious move to the ultraviolet end of the colour spectrum.

Secondly, a divisionist application of colour with juxtaposed dabs of pigment allowing for colour to blend in the eye rather than on a mirror-smooth surface of the canvas.

Finally, a move to a more democratic subject matter with landscapes, gardens, drinking parties, picnics and street scenes easily outnumbering images of pagan gods in complicated embraces.

Australian audiences never seem to tire of French Impressionism. This exhibition brings a fresh crop of rarely seen major paintings and graphics of the highest order.

If you love Impressionism, French Impressionism from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, is a must-see exhibition. This new exhibition will change the history of Australian art exhibitions from Australia’s greatest Impressionist show that no one had seen, to Australia’s greatest Impressionist exhibition that everyone has seen.

French Impressionism from the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, is at the National Gallery of Victoria until October 5.

Sasha Grishin, Adjunct Professor of Art History, Australian National University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Ah, the 90s. A decade when the future seemed bright, technological modernity was pregnant with promise, and Britannia was revelling in a rediscovered sense of cool. The pop-culture emblem of this was Britpop.

After the economically turbulent 1970s and the intense industrial restructuring of the 1980s, Britpop bands hearkened romantically back to the 1960s with a reimagining of a swinging Britain as the place to be.

Looking back on Britpop today echoes something of what those bands were themselves doing: peering across three decades of cultural and technological change.

Britpop was a preface to what cultural critic Simon Reynolds later called “retromania”, a pop culture obsessed with its own archaeological detritus. Reynolds, along with despondent contemporaries like the late Mark Fisher, were critics of a future irreverently assembled within a growing repository of the past.

Against the grain of Britpop’s 1960s upcycling, however, were Pulp.

After a big breakthrough in the 90s, Pulp were strongly associated with the retro-maniacal, “hey look, Britain still swings” Britpop era. Unlike the Blurs and Oases of the time, though, Pulp had traipsed their way through the decidedly unswinging 1980s indie scene. They shunned the tropes of repurposed mod fashions and appeals to the spirit of John Lennon, and some of their lyrics even read like critiques of Britpop’s cultural romanticism.

For example, in Common People the band caution that working-class life is not an opportunity to indulge in immersive performance art. Between the lines of Disco 2000, meanwhile, is a musing on how weird it would probably feel to revisit the past at some point in the future.

Pulp sang in counterpoint to their contemporaries, offering something different to the flaccidly nationalistic, wistful nostalgia common among the other acts of the time.

And now, returning with More, their first album since Britpop, how might Pulp reflect upon our experience of the present? A time in which digital media has etched deep divisions across society and the only surety seems to be socioeconomic uncertainty. Amid all of this, Brexit Britain doesn’t feel so cool any more.

If the lead single, “Spike Island”, is anything to go by, it looks like the retro-maniacal Britpop ethos might have registered belatedly with the band.

The sonic vocabularies of britfunk, disco and early indie converge in a texture of juicy synth bass, lively hand claps and sharp, edgy guitar sounds. These musical components are roughly contemporaneous with Pulp’s formation in 1978, but the pristine 21st-century production quality assures us we are listening in the present.

Lyrically, meanwhile, singer Jarvis Cocker seems to be reaching through the disastrously absurd cultural kaleidoscope of the 2020s in search of something more certain, back in the 90s perhaps.

Here, the refrain “Spike Island come alive” references a concert by Manchester indie band The Stone Roses, which became mythologised in British music history.

Held in 1990 on Spike Island in Widnes, Merseyside, the gig was a makeshift, outdoor, all day event, which attracted around 27,000 people. The warm up acts were back to back DJs, creating a rave atmosphere ahead of the band’s headlining show. This combined two of the currents that set Britain’s 1990s cultural optimism in motion: rave culture and “madchester”, a musical and cultural movement born in Manchester in the late-80s. Madchester birthed bands like The Stone Roses and The Happy Mondays, who injected indie rock with a rave-like hedonism.

By referencing the concert, Cocker effectively romanticises a time three decades gone, just as Britpop did its peak. The Spike Island concert, where rave and madchester met, represents a twin-headed crest of pop-culture. The pent up energy of this swept through the 90s with a wave of promise before it abruptly met the epochal breakwater of 9/11 and sluiced terminally into the bottomless drains of social media.

In the way it looks back on more jubilant times, Spike Island suggests the return of Pulp in a spirit more wistfully Britpop than the band were back in the day. What could reviving the essence of Britpop mean in 2025 when comparing the climate with the heady optimism that carried the movement 30 years ago?

Like Pulp, Gen Z are nostalgic for the 90s, a now mythical period that predates many of their births. From the vantage point of 2025, the 90s perhaps seem simpler, cooler and rather more stable socially and economically.

In a world now saturated by the distractions of digital media, it might be a stretch to hope for a 1990’s style period of collective optimism anytime soon. The sounds of that decade echo on, though. Maybe with More we can join Pulp for a moment in briefly reanimating the spirit of a time when the winds of change felt like they were blowing in a rather more positive direction.

More by Pulp will be released on June 6, 2025

Mark RJ Higgins, PhD Candidate, Department of Music, University of Bristol

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

When getting ready to take exams, it can sometimes feel as though there’s no way all the information you need to remember is going to fit in your brain. But there are ways to create the right conditions to make your studying as efficient as possible.

My research into the science of memory shows that both novelty – new experiences – and familiarity can affect memory. You can use novelty to prime yourself for learning, and familiarity to organise your memory and retain knowledge.

To start with, this might mean going for a walk in an unfamiliar part of your neighbourhood or looking at some art for the first time – in person or online – before you even start studying.

In the lab, colleagues and I have observed that chances are higher that you will remember new information if you just visited an unfamiliar place.

In a typical experimental set-up, participants came to the lab to familiarise themselves with a virtual environment on a PC or with a virtual reality headset. This consisted of a fantasy island with unexpected elements, such as streetlight-sized candy canes. We invited our research participants to come back on two other occasions. During these sessions, they explored the same – now familiar – virtual environment, and one they hadn’t seen before.

After each round of virtual exploration, the experiment participants were presented with a series of words to try to commit to memory, which we then tested them on after a completely different “distractor” task that consisted of solving simple maths problems. Interestingly, the participants who had explored a new environment typically remembered more words than those who had explored a familiar one. This suggests that novelty may prepare the brain for learning.

After you’ve prepared your brain with a foray into the unknown, it’s time to harness familiarity.

Why the familiar is important

Learning entirely new information is often very challenging. Students sometimes report reading several pages, but having no recollection of what they read.

There may be several reasons for this, but a common one is that it is difficult to memorise something if it is very different from anything you have learned before.

The brain likes to categorise and label information, and our memory is organised in semantic categories. For example, if I mention “swivel chair”, “computer”, and “filing cabinet”, the overarching term “office” may pop to mind.

Memory associations like these are crucial during memory retrieval, as linked information can work as a memory cue. In memory research we sometimes refer to these interlinked concepts as “memory schema”.

When you have to learn something new, your brain will try to categorise that novel information. If a link can be made with something you already know, this information can more easily be integrated into an existing memory schema.

Based on research, we would predict that studying for a test is more effective if you already know something about the topic, as it allows you to put novel information in your existing memory schema, and allows you to retrieve that information more easily at a later point in time.

For example, imagine eating a yellow kiwi for the first time. Your previous experience with green kiwis will allow you to recognise the fruit. The novel experience of eating this slightly sweeter kiwi is easy to integrate in your existing knowledge of kiwis, including what they look, feel and taste like.

Making connections

But studying for exams often means learning abstract concepts. The related memory schemas are underdeveloped for less concrete information, which makes new information hard to remember.

In a biological psychology course I teach, students have to learn about the transfer of information between brain cells. One of the crucial aspects of this topic is the change in chemistry of the neuron, from when it is at rest to when it is firing, and the potassium and sodium chloride ions involved.

Exam results showed that students found these processes hard to remember. One year, I decided to introduce a simple visual memory aid: an image of a banana with a container of table salt on top.

Most students know that bananas are rich in potassium, while table salt is sodium chloride. This simple picture shows the situation of a neuron at rest: A lot of potassium on the inside, and a lot of sodium chloride on the outside of the cell. But when the neuron is firing, ion channels open, and due to laws of diffusion, potassium will flow out, and sodium chloride into the cell.

After I introduced this memory aid, the performance of students on the exam question about this topic increased significantly. In fact, last year it was labelled as “too easy” by our exam monitoring tool, because so many students got it right. The image made integration of novel knowledge into an existing schema easier because it linked new, abstract information to well-known elements – the banana and the table salt.

When preparing for an exam, then, it can be helpful to think about how the new information you are trying to memorise relates to things you already know, even if this information is not directly relevant for the exam. Knowing that bananas are high in potassium, for instance, is not a learning objective of a biological psychology course.

And if you go for a walk somewhere new first, even better. Hopefully these tips will help you turn difficult exam material into lasting memories.

Judith Schomaker, Assistant Professor, Department of Health, Medical and Neuropsychology, Leiden University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Head lice, fleas and tapeworms have been humanity’s companions throughout our evolutionary history. Yet, the greatest parasite of the modern age is no blood-sucking invertebrate. It is sleek, glass-fronted and addictive by design. Its host? Every human on Earth with a wifi signal.

Far from being benign tools, smartphones parasitise our time, our attention and our personal information, all in the interests of technology companies and their advertisers.

In a new article in the Australasian Journal of Philosophy, we argue smartphones pose unique societal risks, which come into sharp focus when viewed through the lens of parasitism.

What, exactly, is a parasite?

Evolutionary biologists define a parasite as a species that benefits from a close relationship with another species – its host – while the host bears a cost.

The head louse, for example, is entirely dependent on our own species for its survival. They only eat human blood, and if they become dislodged from their host, they survive only briefly unless they are fortunate enough to fall onto another human scalp. In return for our blood, head lice give us nothing but a nasty itch; that’s the cost.

Smartphones have radically changed our lives. From navigating cities to managing chronic health diseases such as diabetes, these pocket-sized bits of tech make our lives easier. So much so that most of us are rarely without them.

Yet, despite their benefits, many of us are hostage to our phones and slaves to the endless scroll, unable to fully disconnect. Phone users are paying the price with a lack of sleep, weaker offline relationships and mood disorders.

From mutualism to parasitism

Not all close species relationships are parasitic. Many organisms that live on or inside us are beneficial.

Consider the bacteria in the digestive tracts of animals. They can only survive and reproduce in the gut of their host species, feeding on nutrients passing through. But they provide benefits to the host, including improved immunity and better digestion. These win-win associations are called mutualisms.

The human-smartphone association began as a mutualism. The technology proved useful to humans for staying in touch, navigating via maps and finding useful information.

Philosophers have spoken of this not in terms of mutualism, but rather as phones being an extension of the human mind, like notebooks, maps and other tools.

From these benign origins, however, we argue the relationship has become parasitic. Such a change is not uncommon in nature; a mutualist can evolve to become a parasite, or vice versa.

Smartphones as parasites

As smartphones have become near-indispensible, some of the most popular apps they offer have come to serve the interests of the app-making companies and their advertisers more faithfully than those of their human users.

These apps are designed to nudge our behaviour to keep us scrolling, clicking on advertising and simmering in perpetual outrage.

The data on our scrolling behaviour is used to further that exploitation. Your phone only cares about your personal fitness goals or desire to spend more quality time with your kids to the extent that it uses this information to tailor itself to better capture your attention.

So, it can be useful to think of users and their phones as akin to hosts and their parasites – at least some of the time.

While this realisation is interesting in and of itself, the benefit of viewing smartphones through the evolutionary lens of parasitism comes into its own when considering where the relationship might head next – and how we could thwart these high-tech parasites.

Where policing comes in

On the Great Barrier Reef, bluestreak cleaner wrasse establish “cleaning stations” where larger fish allow the wrasse to feed on dead skin, loose scales and invertebrate parasites living in their gills. This relationship is a classic mutualism – the larger fish lose costly parasites and the cleaner wrasse get fed.

Sometimes the cleaner wrasse “cheat” and nip their hosts, tipping the scale from mutualism to parasitism. The fish being cleaned may punish offenders by chasing them away or withholding further visits. In this, the reef fish exhibit something evolutionary biologists see as important to keeping mutualisms in balance: policing.

Could we adequately police our exploitation by smartphones and restore a net-beneficial relationship?

Evolution shows that two things are key: an ability to detect exploitation when it occurs, and the capacity to respond (typically by withdrawing service to the parasite).

A difficult battle

In the case of the smartphone, we can’t easily detect the exploitation. Tech companies that design the various features and algorithms to keep you picking up your phone aren’t advertising this behaviour.

But even if you’re aware of the exploitative nature of smartphone apps, responding is also more difficult than simply putting the phone down.

Many of us have become reliant on smartphones for everyday tasks. Rather than remembering facts, we offload the task to digital devices – for some people, this can change their cognition and memory.

We depend on having a camera for capturing life events or even just recording where we parked the car. This both enhances and limits our memory of events.

Governments and companies have only further cemented our dependence on our phones, by moving their service delivery online via mobile apps. Once we pick up the phone to access our bank accounts or access government services, we’ve lost the battle.

How then can users redress the imbalanced relationship with their phones, turning the parasitic relationship back to a mutualistic one?

Our analysis suggests individual choice can’t reliably get users there. We are individually outgunned by the massive information advantage tech companies hold in the host-parasite arms race.

The Australian government’s under-age social media ban is an example of the kind of collective action required to limit what these parasites can legally do. To win the battle, we will also need restrictions on app features known to be addictive, and on the collection and sale of our personal data.

Rachael L. Brown, Director of the Centre for Philosophy of the Sciences and Associate Professor of Philosophy, Australian National University and Rob Brooks, Scientia Professor of Evolution, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

A week ago, the Australian Financial Review released this year’s “Rich List”. It reported the number of billionaires in Australia increased from 150 to 166 between 2024 and 2025.

A very different story is happening at the other end of the market. On Tuesday the Fair Work Commission awarded the lowest paid 20% of wage earners a 3.5% increase as a result of its annual review.

The commission acknowledged even with this increase, our lowest paid employees will not be earning as much in real terms as they did before the post-COVID inflationary surge of 2021-2022.

Why such a meagre increase?

In Australia it has long been accepted that – all things being equal – wages should move with both prices and productivity.

Adjusting them for inflation ensures their real value is maintained. Adjusting them for productivity means employees share in rising prosperity associated with society becoming more productive over time.

This “prices plus productivity” model of wage rises is, however, subject to economic circumstances. In recent times the key circumstance of concern has been inflation.

Depending how it is measured it peaked at between 6.5% and 9.6% in 2022-2023.

Since 2022, economic agencies such as the Reserve Bank and state treasuries, along with finance sector economists, have been preaching about the threat of inflation persisting.

Cutting real wages to control inflation

Interest rates were increased to tame the inflation dragon. And these agencies all issued dire warnings about the threat of long-term inflationary pressure if wages were adjusted to maintain lower and middle income earners living standards.

In its last three decisions the Fair Work Commission accommodated this narrative. Since July 2021 it ensured wages for the lowest paid 20% of employees did not keep up with inflation.

Unsurprisingly, real wages for award-dependent employees fell.

The commission has done its best to look after those on the absolute lowest rates: that is the 1% or so on the national minimum wage.

Their wages have fallen by 0.8% over the period since July 2021. For those in the middle of the bottom 20% of employees dependent on awards the fall has been in the order of 4.5%.

For example, this is the fall experienced by an entry level tradesperson in manufacturing dependent on an award.

Because inflation is currently running at about 2.4%, the 3.5% increase marks a modest 1% real wage gain for a worker on or close to the entry level manufacturing tradesperson rates.

In making this increase, the commission argued if real wage cuts continued, the entrenchment of lower minimum award rates was likely. It noted the economy is in pretty good shape – not just in terms of inflation and employment – but also many firms are turning a profit.

What about productivity?

The other striking feature of the post-COVID economic recovery has been poor productivity performance. It initially went backwards and more recently has flatlined.

The commission rejected arguments recent poor performance in national productivity numbers should prevent raising the minimum award higher than inflation.

It did this because it distinguished between productivity in the market and non-market sectors. In the former, productivity growth has been modest, but positive.

Poor numbers in the non-market sector like health and social services were an artefact of both measurement problems and the need for more workers per unit output to boost the quality of these services.

Silver linings?

It is always a judgement call as to what is the appropriate scale of any wage increase. Given low paid workers were not the source of recent inflationary pressure, it is reasonable to claim now is the time to reverse the recent trends of cutting their real wages.

Whether the increase had to be so modest is something the commission has indicated it is open to considering in future hearings. It has sent this signal by floating two novel arguments.

The first argument concerns how cuts in real pay are calculated. In its decision it makes the very important point that conventional measures of real wage movements use monthly measures of inflation but wages only increase annually.

It’s on this basis the 4.5% cut for the benchmark entry level trade worker in manufacturing was calculated.

The commission notes, however, that if you take into account wages only rise once a year and inflation rises continuously, the overall loss of earnings power for such workers has been 14.4% since July 2021.

This is a much higher account of real wage cuts than has previously informed debates on wages policy.

Secondly, the commission has noted consideration should be given to phasing out some of the lowest classifications in the award system. This is something it has done in the past.

In this way it does not have to “increase rates” for low paid classifications as such. Rather, it just eliminates the possibility of having rates for exceptionally low paid jobs – and so raises the base rates dramatically for the lowest paid workers.

Next year, things could be better. Australia has a long history of having a wages system that takes seriously the needs of all workers, and especially the low paid. This decision marks a break with the recent habit of using the lowest paid workers as a shock absorber for macroeconomic policy.

The 3.5% rise is a modest increase but an important one. More important is the framework the commission has set up for decisions in future years. Devising a more accurate measure of real wage cuts and noting the importance of abolishing whole classifications of low paid work lays the foundations for potentially very exciting developments in Australian wages policy in coming years.

John Buchanan, Professor, Discipline of Business Information Systems, University of Sydney Business School, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Harewood House, with its impressive history and classic English beauty, is a magnificent place to visit in Leeds, west Yorkshire. The house frequently hosts remarkable exhibitions and cultural events devoted to art, poetry and history.

This time, its doors are open for a new exhibition Austen and Turner: A Country House Encounter, which marks the 250th anniversaries of the landscape painter J.M.W. Turner and the novelist Jane Austen.

The anniversaries have presented an opportunity for the co-curators of Harewood House Trust and the Centre for Eighteenth Century Studies at the University of York to unite the incredible works of two outstanding personalities of the Regency era.

Their masterpieces reflect their common engagement with the cultural and societal significance of British country houses and their landscapes. Though the pair seem to have never met, the expressiveness of Turner’s paintings are complemented by the literary richness of Austen’s manuscripts.

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The exhibition creatively highlights the common threads within Austen and Turner’s work through shared themes. The first is Austen Meets Turner, which explores how Austen and Turner’s interests and experiences intersected in the country estates that inspired their works.

I was especially struck by Harewood House from the North East (1797). Turner captured the magnificent building with such softness and light. The painting makes the landscape feel peaceful and alive, showing his ability to transform a real place into something almost dreamlike.

It highlights the grandeur of the landed aristocracy of the time, symbolising wealth, influence and a strong social hierarchy that was rooted in land ownership. Austen also used houses as symbols of status and wealth in her novels. Pemberley in Pride and Prejudice (1813), for example, reflects the class, riches and style of the love interest, Mr Darcy.

Another theme that attracted my attention was Encounters with Austen and Turner, located at the heart of the Harewood House library. Here, among the letters is another of his well-known paintings, Harewood Castle from the South East (1798). A visit to the exhibition can be complemented by a short walk to the real castle ruins in the Harewood grounds.

You just cannot take your eyes off this painting. Turner captures the ruin bathed in soft, natural light, blending the architectural detail of the castle with the surrounding pastoral landscape. His delicate use of colour and atmospheric perspective evokes a sense of romantic nostalgia, highlighting the harmony between human history and nature – a key feature of his style.

Objects of genius

The theme Interior Worlds deserves special attention. It is especially engaging because it offers the opportunity to feel the presence of Austen and Turner through the very objects that once made them famous.

Turner’s travelling watercolour box from 1842, for example, was made by the artist using two cards attached to a linen cloth. It was designed to hold a new kind of watercolour block, variations of which are still manufactured today.

Another such item is the original handwritten version of Austen’s unfinished novel Sanditon, penned during the last months of her life in 1817.

A first edition of Sense and Sensibility is also on show, with a fascinating explanation of the history behind its creation. Originally titled Elinor and Marianne and written in 1795, it was intended to be a novel in letters. But Austen later revised the text, and the version as we know it was published anonymously in 1811.

Finally, a collection of period costumes from Austen adaptations makes this exhibition truly memorable. An impressive collection of costumes from Sense and Sensibility (1995), Pride and Prejudice (1995) and Emma (2020) are on display.

Each garment reflects the elegance and social nuance of the Regency era, bringing Austen’s characters vividly to life. The craftsmanship and historical detail in the costumes evoke a sense of timeless charm that deepen the viewer’s connection to the novels.

This incredible exhibition is sure to move everyone who really wishes to engage with the high art and experience the historical spirit of the Regency era.

Oksana Hubina, Research Fellow, English literature, University of Leeds

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The America we thought we knew is not coming back. America in 2028 will be different, perhaps worse. And Australians, along with much of the world, are eager for something different.

In polling conducted by The Australia Institute in February 2025, 44% of respondents agreed that it is in Australia’s interests to pursue a more independent foreign policy. The way we think about our relationship with the United States, and our role in the world, is changing and changing quickly.

Those who insist that we can carry on as we always have, that we can just ride Trump out, or that we have to remain close to his version of America because that is the way we have always ensured our “security” are leaving the field open to bad-faith actors, making our world even less safe.

Proponents of the status quo also have a shallow and ungenerous understanding of what “security” really is.

Supporters of the AUKUS deal, and blind supporters of the US, typically exaggerate the threat to Australia of countries like China while deliberately obscuring the risks to our security and the security of our region if we unquestioningly follow the US.

Those risks include miscalculations or deliberate provocations of war between great powers. They also include threats such as catastrophic climate change, another global pandemic, nuclear annihilation, and the breakdown of the rule of law.

But to our current leaders, those real threats don’t appear to matter, because our current understanding of security doesn’t consider so-called “soft” issues such as environmental catastrophe or the collapse of international law as genuine threats.

The Australian government says that it considers climate change a threat to regional stability and international security. The 2024 Australia–Tuvalu Falepili Union, for example, committed both countries to

enhancing their partnership to promote and protect the Parties’ shared interest in each other’s prosperity, stability and security, including by responding to current and emerging security challenges, such as climate change.

The Union also recognised that “climate change is Tuvalu’s greatest national security concern”. But that rhetoric is not matched by action. Australia’s subsidies to fossil fuel producers and major users totalled $14.5 billion in 2023-24.

That number is an increase of 31% on the recorded figure in 2022-23. Since 2022, the federal environment minister has approved 10 new coal mines or expansions. The hypocrisy is breathtaking.

What about international law?

The same applies to Australia’s stated commitment to the “international rules-based order”.

In January 2025, Defence Minister Richard Marles was asked if Australia would support Trump’s attacks on the foundations of international law, perhaps a unilateral takeover of Panama, or annexation of Greenland.

The best response Marles could muster was that “our alliance with the US is really the cornerstone of our national security, our foreign policy”.

No one in the current government is able to say that such a move – or a US “take over” of Gaza, for that matter – would be a clear breach of the international rule of law.

It is extraordinary that a Labor government refuses to state unapologetically that Australia has a longstanding, and continuing, commitment to the institutions and structures of international law and that it is in both our and our closest ally’s interests that that system survives.

We are choosing to forgo our responsibility to protect and uphold the rule of law, to accept the significant risks to our security keeping Donald Trump on our side. Sometimes, as Phillip Coorey wrote in the Australian Financial Review in early 2024, “cosying up to a madman” is “a necessity”.

Self-harm is never a necessity.

What kind of security is that? What do we think security actually is?

As Trump sets about dismantling what is left of the international rules-based order, destabilises the US and global economies, undermines public health, increases already rising inequality, unleashes white supremacy at home and abroad, accelerates catastrophic climate change – exactly as he told us he would – we need a better answer to that question. And we need it quickly.

We can and we must think about our security differently.

Letting the powerful off the hook

Real security is more than just the temporary prevention of war. In Australia, and across much of the Western world, foreign and security policy is built on the assumption that war is inevitable. This assumption is based on a selective understanding of history and of human behaviour that ends up reinforcing, rather than challenging, the worst trends in international relations.

Pundits and politicians then make claims like “we live in the worst strategic circumstances since World War II”, that we face a “new Cold War”, that “great power competition” is necessary and completely beyond our control, without ever facing much challenge. Anyone who disagrees can be dismissed as an “appeaser”.

Those historical analogies are appealing and comforting, because the world is a dangerous place. But that isn’t how history works, and all those assumptions do is let those in power off the hook for their actions (or inactions).

The suggestion that we face the worst strategic circumstances since the last global war, for example, implies that it doesn’t matter what we do. In our circumstances, it suggests that our latest existential enemy is coming for us because that is what great powers do, and all we can do is prepare for the worst.

That is the basic assumption of the ANZUS Treaty and Australian foreign and security policy more broadly; Australia is always threatened by enemies from the north. Those enemies don’t look like us, and the only way we can protect ourselves from them is to fall in line behind another great (white) power.

That, in the end, is what AUKUS is all about. AUKUS was, as it was described at the time, always about the revival of the Anglosphere. It is the fatalism that induces paralysis.

Both the US and Australia often behave as if the provocative behaviour of the Anglosphere has nothing to do with how other nations respond. Any perception of Chinese aggression is framed as unreasonable and threatening.

Anything that Australia does – such as embarking on a plan to acquire nuclear-powered submarines clearly designed to engage in conflict far from Australian shores – is necessary and self-evidently defensive.

China is, undoubtedly, a risk to be managed. But it is not a direct, immediate threat to Australia, and it is not inevitable that it will become one. Diplomacy, genuine engagement, cultural exchange, people-to-people contact: these are all tools available to us, tools that Australia has been historically good at using when we have chosen to.

That genuine engagement – real relationships – requires a clear understanding of what our interests and values truly are. Right now, our approach to the world is undermined by the way our foreign and defence policy, and our alliance with the US, actively contradict those values.

Both Australia and the US pride themselves on their democracies, on their democratic values. China is, rightly or wrongly, regarded as an existential enemy because it is not a democracy. And yet the way Australia approaches our engagement with China in the world is a very, very long way from democratic.

The alliance is anti-democratic

Australian foreign and security policy is marked by intense secrecy. AUKUS is the epitome of this practice: it was conceived entirely in secret and sprung on the Australian people overnight without any consultation. It still has not been subject to any serious parliamentary or democratic scrutiny.

This is how critical decisions about national security are made in this country: in secret, mostly by men in suits or uniforms, with no democratic accountability.

The AUKUS deal probably would not have survived independent, democratic scrutiny from Treasury, or Defence, at least not in its current form. But foreign and security policy in this country isn’t subject to that kind of accountability, which results in unnecessary and eye-wateringly expensive agreements such as AUKUS.

Agreements that do not make us safer; agreements that fundamentally misunderstand what does threaten us and thus dramatically increase our insecurity.

Secrecy does not create security. Secrecy undermines security, as it undermines democracy.

And these kinds of secretive deals also undermine what we are often told are the “shared democratic values” of our alliance with the US. As AUKUS shows, the alliance is actively anti-democratic, and it is very far from transparent.

An alliance with the US that genuinely valued transparency, and democracy, would look very different. It wouldn’t allow the revenge fantasies of men like Boris Johnson to dictate the future of our security, and the ability of future Australian governments to make independent decisions in the national interest.

It wouldn’t allow our closest ally to persecute an Australian citizen for publishing the truth. It wouldn’t allow for the punishment of whistleblowers and publishers exposing war crimes, as the only people to be punished for war crimes committed in the name of that alliance. It would value the truth. It would value transparency.

These are things we can aspire to in Australian foreign policy that would make us more secure. It’s not inevitable that we go without. It is entirely possible for Australia to reform our secrecy and whistleblower laws. In a democracy, we all have a right to contribute and to hold our leaders accountable for their decisions and actions.

A healthy democracy is built on the understanding that human security is the wellspring of national security. Human security – real, lasting security – means addressing inequality, building prosperity, acting on climate and protecting the environment on which we depend.

Australia has considerable power and agency, more than enough to pursue this kind of security. We are a rich country. We have the 13th largest economy in the world. When that world is on fire, we could choose to focus on fighting the flames instead of fanning them.

Instead of spending upwards of $368 billion on escalatory military hardware, we could invest in things that make us safer. That could involve simple, practical choices.

As of early 2024, for example, Australia had a fleet of just six large fixed-wing air tankers, 15 large helicopters, 70 medium and small helicopters, 56 small fixed-wing firebombers, and 15 light fixed-wing aircraft available for firefighting. Most of that fleet is privately owned; the government leases them as required.

Annual government spending on this fleet totals around $125 million. Over a 30-year period – the same delivery timeline imagined for the AUKUS deal – that’s about $3.75 billion.

Put another way, that amounts to about 1% of the AUKUS budget. That it seems so unrealistic or even unreasonable to suggest that we might spend that kind of money on firefighting equipment instead of weapons is a marker of our current politics. But what would actually make us safer?

Investment in that kind of security is something we could do. We could decide, like Norway, that instead of charging our kids to go to university and subsidising fossil fuels to the tune of $14 billion, we could instead tax fossil fuels and make university free.

We could invest in public education, in public health, and action on climate change. We could operate in genuine partnership with countries in our region to build collective security.

As the former treasurer Josh Frydenberg said when asked about the eye-watering amount of money his government had committed to AUKUS: “everything is affordable if it’s a priority”.

Genuine democratic solidarity

None of that means abandoning our relationship with the United States. It does mean that relationship must change. We can rebalance and reprioritise that relationship away from its blind focus on a hollow understanding of “security” towards a genuine democratic solidarity.

Australia can seek out, and support, those with an interest in the revival of American democracy, in Congress, in the courts, and in civil society. We can try to be the kind of friend that brings out the best in someone and pushes back on their worst instincts. The kind of friend that rejects demands for blind fealty. A real friend.

We, and the rest of the world along with us, have choices, power, and agency. We do not have to weather whatever Trump’s America throws at us, hoping in vain for rare and costly scraps of his benevolence.

As the Board of the Doomsday Clock explained in early 2025, we are in this situation precisely because “despite unmistakable signs of danger, national leaders and their societies have failed to do what is needed to change course”.