People are becoming more divided and ill informed. In January 2024, a report by the World Economic Forum identified misinformation and disinformation as “the most severe global risk anticipated over the next two years”.

As a result, it predicted “perceptions of reality are likely to also become polarised” – and that unrest resulting from unreliable information may cause “violent protests … hate crimes … civil confrontation and terrorism”. Many people would agree that something is needed to bridge the ever-widening gaps between ourselves.

In my view, this is not just a problem of alternative sets of facts, but a failure to perceive and empathise with that which is outside of our own experiences.

While the smartphone, with its capacity to provide users with sources from across the world, can provide endless opportunity to learn about other perspectives and experiences, research suggests social media increasingly cocoons users within their own interests.

This algorithmically encouraged self-importance means we are stuck in a feedback loop – the echo chamber – where our own experiences, values and desires are seen as the norm.

In contrast, by encouraging people to imagine beyond their own experience, reading poetry can serve as an exercise in seeing things from a different perspective.

Poetry has always been political. The writer and civil-rights activist Audre Lorde argued it produces “a revelatory distillation of experience”. In other words, by distilling aspects of an experience, poetry can reveal powerful truths about reality.

Lorde’s poem Afterimages (1981) records her memory of turning 21 in the same year that 14-year-old Emmett Till was lynched in Mississippi. The poem’s revelation is a simple one. For black Americans, coming of age means coming to terms with the constant threat of extreme racial violence.

Poetry’s success often relies upon showing people aspects of the world which they might otherwise have ignored, repressed or simply missed.

Some poetry experiments with form itself to produce this revelatory effect. Estate Fragments (2014) is a long poem written by Gavin Goodwin, exploring the Bettws council estate in Newport. It juxtaposes quotations from academic writing alongside interviews with residents – a practice referred to as “found poetry”.

Goodwin attempts to consider the effect that seemingly abstract political decision-making and discussions have on a particular place and community. Take this stanza:

Increased inequality

ups the stakes

‘People that were younger than you

were more dangerous.’

The first two lines quote Common Culture by Paul Willis (1990), a sociological study in the cultures of young people. The latter are from an interview with a resident of the Bettws estate. Together, they tell a story: national economic inequality causes people in a working-class community to fear each other.

Looking closer and looking deeper

More conventional lyric poetry can still reveal sociopolitical realities. Canadian Métis Nation writer katherena vermette’s collection North End Love Songs (2012) explores the North End in Winnipeg, Canada. In a CBC interview, vermette discussed how the local community are:

The people that get picked on [and] blamed … but what I’m trying to do in my work is to go into looking closer and looking deeper … and seeing that they’re not what they seem.

Misinformation and polarisation cause social tension, as particular groups are generalised and blamed. Vermette’s poem indians explicitly explores the devastation caused by preconceptions of peoples and places.

The poem recalls vermette’s brother going missing, before being found in the Red River, a powerful body of water that moves through Winnipeg. It focuses on the apathy of Winnipeg’s police service, who tell the family that there is “no sense looking”, as the man will return when “he gets bored/or broke”. The authorities come to this conclusion not through investigation, but by reducing the speaker’s brother to racist stereotypes.

This is then contrasted with what the family “finds out”. Not only has the brother drowned, but the “land floods/with dead indians”. The speaker discovers the fate of her brother is also the fate of many other Métis people in Winnipeg. This personal experience of loss comes to speak for many other loses:

indians get drunk

don’t we know it?

do stupid things

like being young

like going home alone

like walking across a frozen river

not quite frozen

Vermette links grief to struggles against systematic apathy and oppression. The poem’s sense of politics, people and place are a central part of its poetics.

Such explicitness means the poem meaningfully connects to important political issues – drawing attention to the startlingly high number of missing people found and suspected to be in the Red River. As such, it can also link to important grassroots initiatives like Drag the Red, which aims to “find answers about missing loved ones” which might lie in the river.

While North End Love Songs was published two years before Drag the Red’s formation, the poem and initiative are clearly formed by the same kind of traumatic, sociopolitical events.

Newsfeeds increasingly silo us into comfortable ways of thinking and perceiving. Forty years on, Lorde’s declaration that poetry “is not a luxury” takes on a whole new meaning. Now, it might be a political necessity.

Get your news from actual experts, straight to your inbox. Sign up to our daily newsletter to receive all The Conversation UK’s latest coverage of news and research, from politics and business to the arts and sciences.

Alex Hubbard, Associate lecturer in English Literature and Creative Writing, Aberystwyth University

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

You need fibre. That much is true. But in the world of online health trends, what started out as sound dietary advice has spiralled into “fibremaxxing” – a push to consume eye-watering amounts in the name of wellness.

In the UK, NHS guidelines suggest that an adult should consume at least 30g of fibre a day. Children and teens typically need much less.

Yet despite clear guidelines, most Britons fall short of their daily fibre target. One major culprit? The rise of ultra-processed foods, or UPFs. UK adults now get over 54% of their daily calories from ultra-processed foods. For teenagers, it’s nearer 66%.

This matters because UPFs are typically low in fibre and micronutrients, while being high in sugar, salt and unhealthy fats. When these foods dominate our plate, naturally fibre-rich whole foods get pushed out.

Studies show that as ultra-processed food intake increases, fibre consumption decreases, along with other essential nutrients. The result is a population falling well short of its daily fibre target.

Dietary fibre is essential for good health as part of a balanced diet. And it is best found in natural plant-based foods.

Adding high fibre foods to your meals and snacks throughout a typical day, such as switching to wholegrain bread for breakfast, keeping the skin on fruits like an apple, adding lentils and onions to a chilli evening meal and eating a handful of pumpkin seeds or Brazil nuts between meals, would help an average person hit their 30g-a-day dietary requirements.

Displacement

With fibremaxxing, what might make this trend somewhat dangerous is the removal of other food groups such as proteins, carbohydrates and fats and replacing them with fibre-dense foods, supplements or powder. This is where the potential risk could mitigate the benefits of increasing fibre, as no robust studies in humans – as far as I’m aware – have been conducted on long-term fibre intakes over 40g a day. (Some advocates of fibremaxxing suggest consuming between 50 and 100g a day.)

Eating too much fibre too quickly – especially without enough water – can lead to bloating, cramping and constipation. It can also cause a buildup of gas that can escape at the most inconvenient moments, like during a daily commute.

Rapidly increasing fibre intake or consuming too much can interfere with the absorption of essential micronutrients like iron, which supports normal body function, as well as macronutrients, which provide the energy needed for movement, repair and adaptation.

However, it’s important to remember that increasing fibre in your diet offers a wide range of health benefits. It supports a healthy digestive system by promoting regular bowel movements and reducing the occurrence of inflammatory bowel disease.

Soluble fibre helps to regulate blood sugar levels by slowing the absorption of glucose, making it especially helpful for people at risk of type 2 diabetes. It also lowers LDL (bad) cholesterol, reducing the risk of heart disease. Fibre keeps you feeling full for longer, which supports healthy weight management and appetite regulation. These findings are all well documented.

Additionally, a high-fibre diet has been linked to a lower risk of certain cancers, particularly colon cancer, by helping to remove toxins efficiently from the body. Gradually increasing fibre intake to recommended levels – through a balanced, varied diet – can offer real health benefits.

Given the evidence, it’s clear that many of us could benefit from eating more fibre – but within reason.

Until we know more, it’s safest to stick to fibre intake within current guidelines, and get it from natural sources rather than powders or supplements. Fibre is vital, but more isn’t always better. Skip the social media fads and aim for balance: whole grains, veg, nuts and seeds. Your gut – and your fellow commuters – will thank you.

Lewis Mattin, Senior Lecturer, Life Sciences, University of Westminster

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

Images of flashy sports cars. Lavish lifestyle shots. These are just some of the red flags consumers should watch out for when they turn to social media for financial advice.

Consumers should not believe everything they see on Instagram, TikTok or YouTube from the growing numbers of “finfluencers” – content creators who build their audience by giving out financial advice.

The regulator responsible for financial products and advice, the Australian Securities and Investments Commission (ASIC), has issued warning notices to 18 social media finfluencers. ASIC said it suspects they have broken the law by promoting high-risk financial products or providing unlicensed financial advice. ASIC did not name them.

So, why is regulated financial advice important and what are some of the common practices finfluencers use to attract followers and customers?

Financial advice rules explained

Australian Financial Services laws are designed to protect consumers and investors, while promoting the integrity of financial markets. It is both unethical and illegal to promote financial products without proper authorisation.

In Australia, it is an offence under the Corporations Act to provide financial advice without an Australian Financial Services licence. Penalties include up to five years’ imprisonment or fines of A$1 million or more.

ASIC issued a similar warning to online finfluencers in 2022. Since then, the number of social media posts by unauthorised finfluencers have substantially reduced.

Many finfluencers became licensed or authorised representatives of a licensee, along with being more diligent about what they were posting online. Natasha Etschmann, with 300,000 Instagram and TikTok followers at @TashInvests, became licensed immediately after the 2022 warning.

Some other finfluencers were arrested, issued fines or ordered to take down their websites.

High-risk products

However, some finfluencers who style themselves as “trading experts” continue to provide unauthorised financial advice, usually for a fee or commission. They promote high-risk, complex investment products that can cause consumers substantial harm.

These products include contracts-for-difference and over-the-counter derivative products that do not trade on an exchange. ASIC says its current concerns lie with these content creators:

Their social media content is often accompanied by misleading or deceptive representations about the prospects of success from the products or trading strategies they promote, sharing images of lavish lifestyles, sports cars and other luxury goods.

What to watch on socials

About 41% of young Australians aged 18 to 30 look online for financial information or advice.

While budgeting tips can be helpful, it’s important to be extra careful with online financial advice. Consumers should not believe everything they see on social media.

Conducting due diligence and checking finfluencers’ credentials on ASIC’s Professional Registers search tool is crucial. Choose expert and licensed finfluencers rather than accounts with large followings and exaggerated or misleading claims. Popularity does not always mean credibility.

There are certain red flags to watch out for. Some finfluencers use pseudonyms. They promote “exclusive” financial advice content and access to “invitation-only” online communities for a fee. In many cases, they lack credible experience or certified financial planning training to provide financial advice.

Your finfluencer vetting toolkit

When choosing to follow or acquire the services of a finfluencer, ask:

1. is this finfluencer licensed or authorised?

2. how realistic are the promised financial outcomes? Are they too good to be true?

3. does the finfluencer disclose their personal financial position or investments when discussing financial products or strategies?

4. are they transparent about their track record of accuracy or accountability?

5. do they address publicly a case when their audience lost money from a strategy they recommended?

6. does the finfluencer tailor content to different investment risk profiles or financial maturity levels in their audiences?

Are you being sold a dream?

Social media finfluencer content can often come with misleading or deceptive representations (such as the sports cars and luxury goods that ASIC has warned about). Content may overstate the prospects of success and potential profits.

Some – usually unlicensed – finfluencers use social media content as “proof” of their financial expertise. One common practice is to try to lure consumers by creating a hyped world around their own personal lifestyle. Many finfluencers often extend invitations to consumers to join closed forums to “learn” their hidden secrets to success or copy their “famous” trading practices.

These finfluencers usually try to convince consumers they can achieve a similar lifestyle by following their advice.

Finfluencers are global

ASIC issued the warnings as part of a recent global week of action. ASIC and eight regulators from the United Kingdom, United Arab Emirates, Italy, Hong Kong and Canada took coordinated action to disrupt unlawful finfluencer activity.
The global campaign aims to raise awareness about unlawful finfluencer activity, protect consumers, and prevent them from investing after encountering misleading content.

Consumers need to distinguish between credible financial advice and self-serving or misleading content before trusting their money to anyone.

Spotted unlicensed influencer activity? Report this misconduct to ASIC.

Dimitrios Salampasis, Associate Professor, Emerging Technologies and FinTech | FinTech Capability Lead, Swinburne University of Technology

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

I first read John Hirst (1942-2016) as an undergraduate in the late 1990s as part of a subject on 19th-century Australian history. We discussed convict history and explored contrasting views about its role and function in the early colonies. What was life as a convict like? Was transportation a cruel punishment or a ticket to a better future? Could we compare the convict system to slavery?

Hirst’s Convict Society and Its Enemies was one of our required readings and I studied it with interest.

Review: John Hirst: Selected Writings – edited by Chris Feik (Black Inc.)

I had devoured Robert Hughes’s The Fatal Shore the previous summer and had been powerfully swayed by his descriptions of visceral cruelty in the penal colony. There were convicts who rubbed lime in their own eyes because blindness was preferable to working in the kilns. Others were whipped until flesh hung in strips from their backs and collapsed on treadmills from exhaustion.

Hirst demurred. Yes, there was violence, he agreed, but England was a violent place in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Rather than judge, historians must understand the broader context of that world. Comparing convicts to slaves overlooked historical evidence that pointed to the relative freedom convicts enjoyed in colonial society.

Due to the dire shortage of labour, for example, convicts were able to control aspects of their own lives, working on their daily tasks for the state in the morning and then having their “own time” after the day’s work was done. This not only facilitated considerable freedom for convicts, but also their power in the fledgling society.

Following their sentences, convicts were free to own property and, from 1842, even to vote and stand for the New South Wales Legislative Council. Critically, the children of convicts were all born free, not into servitude.

Impact and legacy

The central arguments of Convict Society and Its Enemies are reproduced in an essay included in this posthumous collection of Hirst’s writings, edited by Chris Feik. The book catalogues some of Hirst’s major contributions to Australian historiography, spanning 50 years of scholarship from the mid 1970s.

How Did a Penal Colony Change Peacefully into a Democracy? is classic Hirst. The prose is crisp and succinct, avoiding jargon and calmly outlining the logic of its contention, drawn from a deep reading of the sources. Hirst critiques what he sees as convict research motivated by ideology rather than the evidence of this period in Australia’s past. In doing so, he sets himself apart from historians who viewed the convicts as victims of a brutal, dehumanising system.

Selected Writings also includes short personal reflections from a fellow historian, a former student, and a colleague, which help frame the impact and legacy of Hirst’s work. His intellectual independence is noted by each of the three contributors.

“Hirst prided himself on his resistance to the current of fashionable opinion,” notes Frank Bongiorno, “and he was above all else a fiercely independent individual.” This wasn’t about being contrary, adds Alex McDermott, but a process of applying the same critical analysis to the field as he did to his primary sources. Hirst “viewed his project as more than mere provocation”. He was both a passionate believer in Australia, as well as a fiercely independent voice, writes Robert Manne.

Bongiorno, McDermott and Manne all emphasise Hirst’s personal generosity and commitment to teaching and the profession – he was clearly loved by generations of students. Upon the book’s release, I was struck by comments on social media and at conferences from colleagues and former students who remembered acts of kindness that accompanied Hirst’s rigorous commitment to debate.

This collection feels like a faithful reflection of that contribution to Australian history.

A historian’s conscience

Selected Writings covers several major themes Hirst pursued in his research. We see a persuasive defence of democracy and an ongoing interest in the emergence of Australian democracy, in particular. Hirst’s account of national sentiment as a driver towards federation is compelling, as it understands the important imaginative leap required to hold a nation together beyond the establishment of political institutions. And his belief in republicanism is a thread he returned to across his career.

Another substantial theme is Hirst’s belief in, and support for, the history discipline. At the heart of his approach and practice is a contention that evidence and source criticism fundamentally broaden our knowledge of the past. Ideas are tested, and debates between historians are equally intrinsic to evaluating hypotheses and arguments.

Reading this diverse collection, I find Hirst’s writing provocative in a good way. I often had to pause and ask myself, do I agree or disagree here? What is my argument? Where is the evidence for my opinion?

Hirst’s body of work represents an implicit but powerful defence of evidence-based history at a time when the truth is under attack from venal Trumpism and students are submitting dispiriting essays written by GenAI. He was a powerful advocate for the discipline, advancing what history educators would call a form of historical literacy or historical thinking.

In response to the Howard Government’s proposal to develop a national history curriculum in 2006, for example, Hirst agreed with the need for a more rigorous and coordinated approach to the subject. Yet he also insisted that history’s purpose must be to teach the skills of empirical research and criticism, rather than jingoism.

Given the spread of these essays and the genealogy of Hirst’s career, it was a curious decision to organise the collection thematically, rather than chronologically. I am aware this criticism is likely framed by my own interests, and a thematic approach allows for a different organisation of ideas, but I did wonder what context was perhaps missed by not seeing the evolution of Hirst’s writing over time.

For example, the essay Changing My Mind appears first, but reflects back on Hirst’s career in Australian history. I was also surprised that one of his most well-known (and controversial) essays was not included in the collection or cited in the select bibliography. It’s another piece I first read as an undergraduate – a pointed critique of Creating a Nation by Patricia Grimshaw, Marilyn Lake, Ann McGrath and Marian Quartly, published in Quadrant in 1995, in which Hirst questioned whether a gendered history of Australia could and should be written. “A history of gender relations,” he argued, “is something less than the history of the nation.”

Obviously, all edited collections require curatorial decisions based on all sorts of reasons, but the exclusion of this essay was notable, given its prominence.

Other pieces in Selected Writings include Hirst’s critiques of what he termed the “black school” of Australian history writing. He was referring to the movement of historical revision advanced by labour, feminist, migrant and First Nations histories, which have challenged Australia’s understanding of its historical “progress”.

Hirst resisted this movement for being ideologically driven. But that is not to say he wasn’t interested in the “historian’s conscience”. He was, deeply. The essay that opens the collection was published in a volume on that very topic.

Yet his commitment to the history discipline also ran up against a growing acknowledgement within the field that empirical history has been complicit in and essential to exploitative systems of imperialism and colonisation. Hirst wanted historians to understand the past in context. “History writing will always reflect our current preoccupations,” he argued, “but as a disciplined enquiry it is also committed to understanding past people in their own terms.”

It’s a view that has been challenged in recent decades, as historians have sought to understand the ways history itself has legitimised and storied the settler-colonial project by curating its own archives and rules of historical evidence. As well as uncovering the past, history also has its own “blind eyes”, as Catherine Hall famously acknowledged.

Given Hirst’s commitment to debate, and his belief in collegiality and the sharing of ideas, that is a spirited discussion I reckon he would have been up for.

Anna Clark, Professor in Public History, University of Technology Sydney

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

When you’re on a camping trip, you might have to pack your own food and maybe something to filter or treat water that you find. But imagine your campsite is in space, where there’s no water, and packing jugs of water would take up room when every inch of cargo space counts. That’s a key challenge engineers faced when designing the International Space Station.

Before NASA developed an advanced water recycling system, water made up nearly half the payload of shuttles traveling to the ISS. I am an environmental engineer and have conducted research at Kennedy Space Center’s Space Life Sciences Laboratory. As part of this work, I helped to develop a closed-loop water recovery system.

Today, NASA recovers over 90% of the water used in space. Clean water keeps an astronaut crew hydrated, hygienic and fed, as it can use it to rehydrate food. Recovering used water is a cornerstone of closed-loop life support, which is essential for future lunar bases, Mars missions and even potential space settlements.

NASA’s environmental control and life support system is a set of equipment and processes that perform several functions to manage air and water quality, waste, atmospheric pressure and emergency response systems such as fire detection and suppression. The water recovery system − one component of environmental control and life support − supports the astronauts aboard the ISS and plays a central role in water recycling.

Water systems built for microgravity

In microgravity environments like the ISS, every form of water available is valuable. The water recovery systems on the ISS collect water from several sources, including urine, moisture in cabin air, and hygiene – meaning from activities such as brushing teeth.

On Earth, wastewater includes various types of water: residential wastewater from sinks, showers and toilets; industrial wastewater from factories and manufacturing processes; and agricultural runoff, which contains fertilizers and pesticides.

In space, astronaut wastewater is much more concentrated than Earth-based wastewater. It contains significantly higher levels of urea – a compound from urine – salts, and surfactants from soaps and materials used for hygiene. To make the water safe to drink, the system needs to remove all of these quickly and effectively.

The water recovery systems used in space employ some of the same principles as Earth-based water treatment. However, they are specifically engineered to function in microgravity with minimal maintenance. These systems also must operate for months or even years without the need for replacement parts or hands-on intervention.

NASA’s water recovery system captures and recycles nearly all forms of water used or generated aboard the space station. It routes the collected wastewater to a system called the water processor assembly, where it is purified into safe, potable water that exceeds many Earth-based drinking water standards.

The water recovery and treatment system on the ISS consists of several subsystems.

Recovering water from urine and sweat

The urine processor assembly recovers about 75% of the water from urine by heating and vacuum compression. The recovered water is sent to the water processor assembly for further treatment. The remaining liquid, called brine, still contains a significant amount of water. So, NASA developed a brine processor assembly system to extract the final fraction of water from this urine brine.

In the brine processor assembly, warm, dry air evaporates water from the leftover brine. A filter separates the contaminants from the water vapor, and the water vapor is collected to become drinking water. This innovation pushed the water recovery system’s overall water recovery rate to an impressive 98%. The remaining 2% is combined with the other waste generated.

The air revitalization system condenses moisture from the cabin air – primarily water vapor from sweat and exhalation – into liquid water. It directs the recovered water to the water processor assembly, which treats all the collected water.

Treating recovered water

The water processor assembly’s treatment process includes several steps.

First, all the recovered water goes through filters to remove suspended particles such as dust. Then, a series of filters removes salts and some of the organic contaminants, followed by a chemical process called catalytic oxidation that uses heat and oxygen to break down the remaining organic compounds. The final step is adding iodine to the water to prevent microbial growth while it is stored.

The output is potable water — often cleaner than municipal tap water on Earth.

Getting to Mars and beyond

To make human missions to Mars possible, NASA has estimated that spacecraft must reclaim at least 98% of the water used on board. While self-sustaining travel to Mars is still a few years away, the new brine processor on the ISS has increased the water recovery rate enough that this 98% goal is now in reach. However, more work is needed to develop a compact system that can be used in a space ship.

The journey to Mars is complex, not just because of the distance involved, but because Mars and Earth are constantly moving in their respective orbits around the Sun.

The distance between the two planets varies depending on their positions. On average, they’re about 140 million miles (225 million km) apart, with the shortest theoretical approach, when the two planets’ orbits bring them close together, taking 33.9 million miles (54.6 million km).

A typical crewed mission is expected to take about nine months one way. A round-trip mission to Mars, including surface operations and return trajectory planning, could take around three years. In addition, launch windows occur only every 26 months, when Earth and Mars align favorably.

As NASA prepares to send humans on multiyear expeditions to the red planet, space agencies around the world continue to focus on improving propulsion and perfecting life support systems. Advances in closed-loop systems, robotic support and autonomous operations are all inching the dream of putting humans on Mars closer to reality.

Berrin Tansel, Professor of Civil and Environmental Engineering, Florida International University

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

Spotify currently has 675 million active users. Now, as it expands into video for music streaming and as more people use Spotify, the app’s environmental footprint is set to increase.

In-video advertisements that aim to increase ad revenue involve AI to tap into a users’ preferences. This means lots of individual videos with minor differences requiring additional processing scaled to the user’s streaming resolution.

But while Spotify used to publish data on its environmental costs, its reports have been incomplete since 2021. As American author and scholar, Shoshanna Zuboff points out in her book The Age of Surveillance Capitalism, many tech companies lack environmental accountability.

The Carbon Trust, a consultancy that helps businesses reduce their carbon footprints, works to globally promote a sustainable future and has calculated the European average carbon footprint for video streaming as producing 55g of CO₂e per hour. This CO₂e or carbon dioxide equivalent is a comparable measure of the potential effect of different greenhouse gases on the climate: 55g of CO₂e is 50 times more than audio streaming and the equivalent of microwaving four bags of popcorn.

As a music technology and AI researcher, I’m aware of the shift in responsibility that comes with Spotify’s video innovations. While companies’ significant role in generating emissions should not be diminished, the shift of responsibility fromt he platform to users and content creators means that better informed choices about their streaming devices and streaming quality settings larger screens need to be made. Streaming at higher resolutions becomes significant factors in increasing video’s carbon footprint.

This increased responsibility means that end users needs to make better informed choices about their streaming devices and streaming quality settings.

While companies’ significant role in generating emissions should not be diminished, this shift of responsibility to the end user means that larger screens and streaming at higher resolutions become significant factors in increasing video’s carbon footprint.

Location also affects how carbon emissions are managed. Germany has the largest carbon footprint for video streaming at 76g CO₂e per hour of streaming, reflecting its continued reliance on coal and fossil fuels. In the UK, this figure is 48g CO₂e per hour, because its energy mix includes renewables and natural gas, increasingly with nuclear as central to the UK’s low-carbon future. France, with a reliance on nuclear is the lowest, at 10g CO₂e per hour.

There is an absolute burden of responsibility on tech and media companies to reduce their carbon emissions and to be transparent about their efforts to do so. In fact, net zero cannot be achieved without commitments from the major technology companies, many of which are based in the US whose government has not ratified the Kyoto protocol and withdrew from the Paris agreement in 2020 which are both significant global efforts to combat climate change.

Eco-conscious music streaming

A French thinktank called the Shift Project advocates for people and companies to adopt “digital sobriety” (the mindful use of digital tech) to ensure efficiency and sustainability. For example, research shows that the UK could reduce its carbon output by more 16,433 tonnes if each adult sent one less thank you email a day.

Certainly aimless streaming should be avoided because video decoding can account for 35-50% of playback energy on user devices. However, music video is more than mere music. As I have argued in my own work, video “provides a layer of meaning making not present in lyrics or audio alone”.

Video can bring marginalised music makers, cultures and ideas to the foreground by tackling difficult subjects. Like the work of Syrian-American rapper, poet, activist and chaplain Mona Haydar’s Wrap My Hijab or UK grime rapper Drillminister and his critique of neo-liberalism and trickle-down economics Nouveau Riche.

To minimise the environmental footprint of your own music streaming, use Wi-Fi rather than 4G or 5G. If you listen to a song repeatedly, purchase a download to play. Use localised storage rather than cloud-based systems for all of your music and video files. Reduce auto-play, aimless background streaming or using streaming as a sleep aid by changing the default settings on your device including reducing streaming resolution. And turn your camera off for video calls, as carbon emissions are 25 times more than for audio only.

Don’t have time to read about climate change as much as you’d like?
Get a weekly roundup in your inbox instead. Every Wednesday, The Conversation’s environment editor writes Imagine, a short email that goes a little deeper into just one climate issue. Join the 45,000+ readers who’ve subscribed so far.

Hussein Boon, Principal Lecturer - Music, University of Westminster

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

A cinematic firecracker of a film exploded onto international screens 50 years ago this week, blending martial arts mayhem, Bond-esque set pieces, casual racism – and a distinctly Australian swagger.

From its audacious visual style; to its complex, life-threatening stunts; to its pioneering status as an international co-production, Brian Trenchard-Smith’s The Man from Hong Kong has solidified its place as a cult classic.

The plot is deceptively simple. A Sydney-based crime lord’s activities come under the scrutiny of a determined Hong Kong detective, Inspector Fang Sing Leng. A fiery East-meets-West martial arts showdown explodes across the Australian landscape, pushing both sides to their limits.

Jimmy Wang Yu (known at the time as Asia’s Steve McQueen) plays Inspector Fang Sing Leng. Fang delivers justice with his fists and uses his wits navigating greater Sydney, with help from the local constabulary and its adoring female population.

The movie is a playful pastiche that confidently combines martial arts action, police procedurals, spy thrillers, and Westerns, all filtered through a distinctly Australian “crash-zoom” lens.

An Australia–Hong Kong co-production

The Man from Hong Kong was the first official Australia–Hong Kong co-production, uniting Hong Kong’s Golden Harvest studio with Australian producer John Fraser.

This model would pave the way for numerous future collaborations – the film demonstrating that Australia was open for international (film) business, albeit with some constraints, such as shooting locales.

In The Man from Hong Kong’s case, the financial arrangement was 50/50. As a result, half of the film had to be shot in Hong Kong, despite 85% of the storyline being set in Australia. Many of the interiors were filmed in Hong Kong studios to meet this production requirement.

An example of this is the interrogation scene, which alternates between its Sydney exteriors and a fight scene taking place in the interior film set shot thousands of miles away at the Golden Harvest studios.

In a genius bit of montage, the scene jumps from a shot of a kick in the crotch to a close-up of pool balls breaking on a table.

A film of cunning stunts

The Man from Hong Kong served as a reunion of sorts for many of the cast and crew, either starring in Stone (1974) or featuring in Trenchard-Smith’s documentary about martial arts films, Kung Fu Killers (1974).

The film was an influence to Quentin Tarantino and paved the way for films such as Mad Max (1979), particularly in what Trenchard-Smith and his partner in film, stunt legend Grant Page, might call its “cunning stunts”.

The elaborate car chases and explosive stunt setups in The Man from Hong Kong served as prototypes for iconic sequences that would inspire the Mad Max films, among others, a testament to a bygone era of practical effects and thrill seeking audacity.

Car crashes and other explosive stunts were executed without permits or road closures. This sense of chaos is heightened by the stunts being performed by the actors themselves, adding a sense of immediacy and peril.

An example of this is set on the cliffs at Stanwell Park. Wang Yu drives at speed towards the waiting Caroline, executing a precision gravel slide that misses Caroline’s car by under a metre, the shot continuing as he exits the car to greet her.

Part character, and part tourism advert

Trenchard-Smith’s script wasn’t shy in its depiction of culture clash, especially when it came to the racist attitudes of the Australian characters.

But as Trenchard-Smith recalls:

Our lead character, a Chinese Dirty Harry/James Bond upends these racial stereotypes by being smarter, sexier, and tougher than his opponents.

Cinematographer Russell Boyd brings a sharp, dynamic (did I mention the crash-zooms?) visual style to the film that deftly matches the on-screen action.

The film’s Australian setting is part character and part tourism advert – from the “Ayers Rock” (Uluru) cold opener, to the cafe scene on the Opera House forecourt.

Pure cinema

Stunt legend Grant Page appears in multiple villainous roles throughout the film, with the martial arts choreography handled by the legendary director Sammo Hung, who also played the role of Win Chan.

The cast was a fascinating mix of talent and personality. Wang Yu, a martial arts icon, was also an established film director, leading to creative clashes on set with Trenchard-Smith.

Playing the film’s villain is George Lazenby, whose casting added another layer of meta-textual intrigue, positioning him as an antagonist to a character who was explicitly a Bond villain archetype.

The Man from Hong Kong remains an exhilarating piece of pure cinema, despite its relatively small budget. It’s an exemplar (and occasional cautionary tale) for filmmakers in terms of international co-production, its cunning stunts, and genre blending.

The film is a testament to a moment when Australian cinema was confidently looking outwards, ready to take on the world, one explosive car crash at a time.

Gregory Ferris, Senior Lecturer, Media Arts & Production, University of Technology Sydney

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

“Earning a humanities degree was not only life changing, in terms of opening up a world of knowledge otherwise beyond my reach, it also turns out to have been enormously productive – for me and many, many people around me,” said Tim Winton this week. “My little arts degree has created jobs and cultural value for over 40 years.”

Winton is one of more than 100 high-profile Australians with Bachelor of Arts degrees who have signed an open letter by the Australian Historical Association (AHA). It urges Anthony Albanese to abolish the Morrison government’s widely condemned Job-Ready Graduates package and establish an equitable university fee system that “does not punish students who choose to study the humanities and social sciences”.

Writers who have signed include Nam Le, Helen Garner, Tim Flannery and Kate Grenville, who said her humanities and history studies were “absolutely essential” to the writing of her books. The signatories range widely across Australian intellectual life, from Megan Davis, co-chair of the Uluru Dialogue and chair of Australian Studies at Harvard, to musician and former Labor minister Peter Garrett.

In the lead-up to the 2022 election, Labor promised a review of the scheme. Two years and two federal elections later, it remains in place. “The idea that a Labor government would do nothing at all to right this wrong is utterly mystifying,” said Winton.

A sustained political attack

Job-Ready Graduates claimed to guide students toward areas of national need by reducing fees for degrees in STEM, education and nursing – while raising fees for other degrees, including the humanities. Philosophy, history and literature bore some of the steepest increases.

The cost of an arts degree now exceeds A$50,000. History fees alone jumped 117% when the policy took effect. The result? Humanities enrolments have dropped to a ten-year low.

Historian Michelle Arrow, AHA president, is the convener of the letter. “There has been a sustained political attack on the humanities,” she recently told Good Weekend. That attack now spans two governments and three education ministers.

The Job-Ready Graduates policy did not increase places in those cheaper degrees. Instead, it penalised students who chose disciplines with more ambiguous career outcomes. These shifts reinforced a message: that such choices are self-indulgent and economically irrational.

Universities, meanwhile, face escalating costs and volatile revenue from international students. In that context, humanities departments are an easy target.

At the University of Wollongong, up to 124 full-time jobs are being cut as part of a $30 million cost-saving restructure, with significant losses across the humanities. At Macquarie, entire majors in sociology and politics are being eliminated. The University of Tasmania is shedding up to 13 arts and humanities roles.

These are not isolated incidents; they are part of a broader pattern of disinvestment. This is not drift; it is deliberate dismantling.

Humanities faculties are being restructured not because they cost too much to run, but because they are perceived to return too little. Yet the skills they foster – interpretive reasoning, ethical judgement, historical understanding – remain essential to democratic life.

Teaching us to sit with contradiction

Teaching literature at university, I have seen how the study of complex texts fosters not just critical thinking, but a slower, more deliberative mode of engagement.

Wrestling with Alexis Wright’s Carpentaria, Kim Stanley Robinson’s The Ministry for the Future or George Eliot’s Middlemarch is not about extracting quick answers.

Wright’s novel grapples with sovereignty, environmental stewardship and intergenerational trauma. It invites us into a kind of intellectual disorientation – which is the beginning of serious thinking. Robinson imagines a near-future world on the brink of climate collapse, and how we might respond to its challenges. Middlemarch is a slow education in moral attention.

These works cultivate patience, tolerance for ambiguity and the ability to sit with contradiction. These are not only academic skills; they are habits of mind essential to civic life.

At St Andrew’s College within the University of Sydney, I recently observed students engaging with the poetry of John Keats and Emily Dickinson, Pascal’s Wager and the Ship of Theseus, an ancient paradox regarding identity and change over time. Not as academic curiosities, but as frameworks for judgement and moral reasoning.

Students practised a kind of learning that is increasingly rare: slow, rigorous and open-ended. It required nuance, comparison and a tolerance for uncertainty. These were not exercises in arriving at answers, but in developing the capacity to think clearly when no obvious answer exists.

Take Keats’s idea of “negative capability”: the capacity to remain “in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason”. In a world of polarisation and misinformation, this disposition is more relevant than ever. Reading Keats doesn’t just inform us about Romantic poetry – it models how to remain intellectually and ethically open.

Pascal’s Wager, a philosophical argument that frames belief in God as a rational bet under uncertainty, reframes the question of belief. Rather than ask if God exists, it does not ask is it true?, but what happens if you bet wrongly? It opens a door beyond theology – to ethics, probability and decision-making under uncertainty.

This is something the broader university system is increasingly struggling to preserve: learning as a form of ethical formation, rather than mere information transfer.

This kind of learning is slow. It resists metrics of productivity. It can’t be sped up or automated. But it is precisely what builds ethical capacity in future lawyers, teachers, doctors, journalists and citizens.

We risk leaving students ‘soul starved’

There is irony in this moment. As Nick Bryant writes in his Good Weekend article, history podcasts are booming. Philosophy books routinely shape national conversations. Humanities graduates remain employable across sectors precisely because they can read closely, write clearly and think critically. The appetite for big, messy human questions is real – and yet the institutions that trained people to ask them are shrinking.

Reports from employers continue to cite communication, judgement and adaptability among the most desirable graduate traits. These so-called “soft skills” are essential in law, health, diplomacy and policy – all fields where decisions carry real moral weight. When pandemic responses required weighing privacy against public safety, or vaccine equity against speed, the skills in play weren’t just technical. They were interpretive. Ethical. Human.

This is not abstract. During myriad global crises, humanities-trained advocates and writers play key roles in reshaping public messaging. Indigenous-led campaigns for Voice, Treaty and Truth from the Uluru Statement of the Heart have drawn not only on legal frameworks, but on storytelling traditions, cultural knowledge and historical understanding – all core to the humanities. These moments remind us: change isn’t only engineered. It’s narrated, debated, imagined into being.

The Universities Accord Final Report has now acknowledged that the Job-Ready Graduates scheme “failed to meet its objectives” and recommended urgent reform. Not all learning is “job-ready.” Some forms of knowledge are valuable because they deepen our understanding, sharpen our empathy, or expand our imagination.

The erosion of the humanities is not just a policy failure. It is a failure of imagination. We make students ready for the job market. But without the tools to think deeply, imagine ethically and reason clearly, we risk leaving them soul-starved.

Caitlin Macdonald, PhD Candidate, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, University of Sydney

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

If you slipped back through time to taste a dish from the Roman Empire, you’d likely be sampling some fermented fish sauce.

Surviving Roman recipes add this to anything from barley porridge to a sweet custard made with pine nuts, olive oil, wine, honey and pepper.

Although it is often referred to as garum, the exact meaning of this term is surprisingly uncertain.

A fish sauce by any other name

Fish sauce is called garum, liquamen, or garon (in Greek) in various ancient Roman texts, including labels on containers.

It’s unclear whether these were different products or if the name changed over time.

According to one recent theory, garum may have been an expensive condiment, of short-lived popularity, made with the blood and organs of large fish.

Liquamen was a low-cost cooking sauce popular across the centuries and made by fermenting whole small, cheap fish.

The fish were layered with salt in covered vats or pots, and left in warm sun for two to three months to liquefy and ferment.

The method has been replicated by experimental archaeologists and even instagrammers.

Such umami-flavoured sauce would have transformed the cheap food of ordinary people in the Roman Empire. Most of the population had no access to the expensive spices, meats and sweet raisin wine on the tables of the wealthy.

In an edict listing prices issued by the Emperor Diocletian in 301 CE, second quality fish sauce is half the price of cheap honey.

Containers found in the humble houses and food shops of Pompeii show ordinary people had access to fish sauce.

An even longer history

Its origins go back thousands of years.

As was also the case for wine and olive oil, the roots of this dietary practice lay in earlier and originally eastern Mediterranean foodways.

Clay tablets from around 1700 BCE record a Babylonian recipe for poultry pie pastry flavoured with a fish sauce called siqqu.

Also used in Greek and Phoenician (middle eastern) cooking from at least the 5th century BCE, fermented fish sauce was adopted enthusiastically by the Romans and spread within the cultural melting pot that was the Roman Empire.

Roman conquest brought not only roads, baths and gladiators, but also diet and food customs to millions of peoples of varied ancestries and traditions across three continents.

Thriving industry and trade

In the Roman period, processing factories with huge vats were set up at the sites of the seasonal migrations of mackerel, sardines, anchovies and tuna around the Straits of Gibraltar and on Atlantic and Black Sea coasts.

Cuts of large fish were salted for transport while small fish were fermented for sauce.

The vats at these factories were called cetariae, and the name survives today as the town of Cetara in southern Italy near Pompeii, which still produces a fermented anchovy sauce called colatura di alici.

In a Roman shipwreck recently found off the island of Mallorca, skeletal remains from fish sauce were identified as anchovy (Engraulis encrasicolus).

Recent DNA analysis of fish remains from an ancient production workshop in north-west coastal Spain shows the fish fermented there were sardines (Sardina pilchardus).

The tens of thousands of tiny fish bones found in vessels at a town workshop in Pompeii came from picarels (Spicara smaris), anchovies, and other fish, which were being fermented whole, heads and all, at the time of the volcanic eruption.

Chemical analysis also revealed traces of wine and Mediterranean herbs which may have been mixed with this sauce.

Spanish archaeologists replicated the chemistry by using anchovies from a Cádiz market with typical Roman ingredients of thyme, oregano, coriander, celery, sage, poppy seeds, fennel, mint and rosemary.

In spite of its reputation, the fermented sauce was not unpleasantly smelly, since the salt and processing neutralises odours.

Fish sauce was shipped to the city of Rome, northern Europe, the eastern Mediterranean, and to the armies in Croatia or northern Britian, supplied to soldiers as part of their rations.

A Roman ship wrecked in deep water off the coast of Sicily, explored by maritime archaeologists using remotely operated vehicles, was carrying Tunisian olive oil from the port of Carthage (now Tunis) to Rome.

On board was also a shipment of fish sauce which had travelled more than 2,000km from what is now Portugal.

A useful food

Fermenting fish was a way to make it long-lasting. Salting and fermentation were essential to preserving seasonal products in the ancient world, which lacked any effective means of sealing, freezing or refrigeration.

While there is evidence for malnutrition and dietary deficiencies such as scurvy among the population of the Roman Empire, fish sauce would have provided year-round protein, vitamin B12 and minerals such as iron and calcium (from the fish bones).

It was also used in medicine, especially as a laxative – including for horses.

After the end of the Roman Empire, it continued to be valued by medieval monks who were forbidden to eat red meat.

Roman sauce was almost identical to the fermented fish sauces that have been a staple of Asian cuisines for centuries.

For a hint of ancient Mediterranean flavours, try some with egg custard and honey.

Tamara Lewit, Honorary Fellow, School of Historical and Philosophical Studies, The University of Melbourne

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

Sydney is gaining on Melbourne’s long lead as a literary city, with a new partnership between Sydney Writers’ Festival and the State Library of New South Wales. This year-round program of literary events, programmed by the festival (with many hosted by the library) presents a serious injection into Sydney’s literary scene. The budget is A$1.5 million, creating over 300 paid opportunities for writers over 12 months.

The events program, which starts in September, will kick off with events featuring Hannah Kent, Bob Brown, romance writers Melanie Saward and Saman Shad, and Michelle de Kretser. There are plans for international guests in the rotation too.

The Sydney/Melbourne rivalry may be highly competitive for hospitality or international events – but Melbourne has long been the frontrunner for literature, especially after it became the second city in the world to be designated a UNESCO City of Literature in 2008. Its Wheeler Centre, a literary hub dedicated to books, writing and ideas, was established a year later, in 2009 – hosted by the State Library of Victoria, with significant support from the state government.

The Guardian suggests Sydney’s new initiative will be “a rival to the Wheeler Centre”. The recently refurbished 344-seat auditorium underneath the historic Mitchell Library reading room will reportedly be the headquarters for many of the program’s events.

This news is welcome for Australian readers, writers and publishers. It will provide a valuable added source of author income – and a series of opportunities to engage with books and writing, at a time when Australians are reading less. It’s also a good thing for Sydney nightlife.

Helping writers get paid

The New South Wales government calls it the first part of “a sector-wide strategy” to position writing and literature at the heart of the state’s “cultural, educational, and economic life”.

Such investment is critical at a time when writers are facing the multiple crises of cuts to the university sector (where many work casually), low incomes from freelance work and pressures on book sales. On average, Australian writers earn around $18,500 per year from their writing practice.

The budget for this initiative is huge in terms of literature funding. In 2023-4, the total budget for literature from Creative Australia was $7.8 million: so this is equivalent to nearly one fifth of the federal budget for literature. That said, it is a fraction of the funding the NSW government gave music last week: $9.3 million to support touring, recording and promotion.

Australia Society of Authors rates are set at $336 for an “in conversation” (where the author is interviewed). For an author to reach this level from sales alone at a bookshop event, the bookseller would need to shift around 100 copies (assuming a 10% royalty on a $30 book).

Authors’ receipt of money from sales is significantly delayed: royalties are most often paid twice a year. Paid appearances mark a significant boon to an author’s income – and they get the money much quicker, too. For these events, it’s likely the State Library Bookshop would also have books for sale.

Enlivening Sydney’s nightlife

While Sydney hosts regular literary events, events have traditionally been tricky in the city. Barriers include the high cost for venues and difficulties connecting audiences from different parts of the city. Sydneysiders have long been jealous of Wheeler Centre as a central venue hosting regular events.

Literary events take place at booksellers such as Gleebooks in the inner-west, with their newly renovated space, megabookstore Kinokuniya in the CBD and Gertrude & Alice, at Bondi Beach. Also in the inner west, Balmain’s Roaring Stories hosts events, including at a rum distillery. But authors are usually not paid for bookseller events, so the author’s income is only from book sales.

There are fewer booksellers in Western Sydney, but the area does host its own literary festivals, including Parramatta’s Lit and Write Out West, which present opportunities for authors and readers.

Sydney’s nighttime economy was struggling before COVID, including as a result of the change in licensing laws after two violent assaults a decade ago. The pandemic depressed the local nightlife further – and the city hasn’t quite recovered.

This new initiative will help enliven one of the city’s most beautiful buildings – which has already been focused on bringing in people after hours, with a rooftop bar and literary trivia nights.

Future opportunities?

There are other synergies between Melbourne’s established hub and Sydney’s new one. The Wheeler Centre administers the Victorian Premiers’ Literary Awards. Similarly, the State Library of NSW is responsible for the NSW Premiers’ Literary Awards.

The money these awards deliver to writers are significant, but are predominantly for well-established authors. The Wheeler Centre is also in its 13th year of administering its Hot Desk Fellowships for emerging writers, which provide a stipend, a dedicated workspace in the building and access to the writing community. It would be marvellous to see an equivalent program for emerging authors make its way to Sydney.

The partnership between State Library of New South Wales and the Sydney Writers Festival is the latest in a string of government announcements addressing the arts in the state. The upcoming tax reform roundtable, scheduled for late September, presents another opportunity for structural reform to a sector under pressure.

Alice Grundy, Visiting Fellow, School of Literature, Language and Linguistics, Australian National University

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

A recent landmark court decision could have significant ramifications for several million social security recipients.

The ruling means the federal government will need to recalculate more than A$4 billion in debts owed to the Department of Social Services, which administers Centrelink.

Some of the debts – which occurred due to overpayment of benefits – stretch back decades.

Reminiscent of Robodebt, the problem occurred because an unlawful method – income apportionment – was used to calculate the money Centrelink claimed it was owed.

The judgement

From the early 1990s until 2020, more than 5.3 million welfare debts were calculated using income apportionment.

In the test case Chaplin v Secretary, Department of Social Services, the full Federal Court approved a method proposed by the government to recalculate the debts.

The court was not asked whether the debts were unlawful – a point the department had already conceded – but whether its remedy was legally sound. In a two-judge majority, the court ruled it generally was.

Following the judgement, the department swiftly resumed debt recovery, which had been paused in 2023, pending the legal decision. It said in a statement:

now there is certainty to the legal position, assessments will recommence in line with the court’s decision.

The scale of the problem

The unlawful debts are worth $4.31 billion in total, and affect almost three million Australians. About 91% of these debts – $3.93 billion – has already been repaid to Centrelink.

Another 170,000 debts – totalling $347 million – remain outstanding.

All the debts – either repaid or still owing – must be recalculated using the revised method approved by the court.

According to the government, the median debt is $330 and has been owed for 19 years, on average.

But the judgement does not compel the government to actually recover the money. Some media reports suggest a waiver is being considered.

For its part, the government says it will “evaluate” the court decision and develop a “suitable response”.

What is income apportionment?

An internal anti-fraud policy meant Centrelink was obliged to calculate a person’s income when it was “earned” rather than “received”.

This led to the use of income apportionment – essentially an educated guess about a person’s fortnightly earnings when their pay cycle didn’t align with their income reporting period.

This process, which typically produced overpayments to recipients, spread income outside an instalment period, which was contrary to the applicable law. It also attributed earnings to a person for days and fortnights they hadn’t worked.

Income apportionment was discontinued in 2020. Three years later, the Commonwealth ombudsman found the method was unlawful.

Is this different to Robodebt?

While Social Services has sought to distinguish income apportionment from Robodebt, the two methods of calculating debt are comparable.

Both attributed a person’s daily income beyond the timeframe permitted by law.

But there are differences in source and scale.

Where apportionment was personalised by using individual customer payslips, Robodebt used Australian Tax Office records to raise debts en masse.

Significantly, while the ombudsman said the department’s understanding of the law relating to apportionment was “incorrect”, it was also “genuinely held”.

On the other hand, the infamous Robodebt scheme was designed to ramp up debt clawbacks. Claims of misfeasance in public office continue to be litigated.

Other troubling overlaps remain.

Many individuals affected by apportionment debts raised after 2015 will be the same people served with Robodebt notices.

Evidentiary burden

A troubling aspect of the test case was the suggestion by the majority judges – citing High Court precedent – that the evidentiary burden could shift to the welfare recipient when overpayments are believed to occur through “wrongdoing”.

This could force an individual to disprove their alleged debt if a decision-maker concluded the recipient had accidentally under-reported – as occurred in the test case – and a lack of evidence made it difficult for the government to prove its allegation.

The finding arguably runs counter to the Robodebt Royal Commission’s observation that most welfare recipients lack the power to disprove a debt because their historical records are unavailable.

The dissenting judge in the case rejected the government’s proposed recalculation method, finding it “not proper” for recovery action to be taken without probative evidence.

He said the majority decision meant Centrelink could reassess debts in the future after evidence had been lost, and recipients would be powerless to disprove them.

Expensive fix

The administrative burden of reassessing these unlawful debts is immense.

Late last year, a team of 150 public servants, each costing $117,400 per annum, was assigned to rectify income apportionment.

Their internal sampling revealed 64% of people issued debt bills were overcharged, 29% were undercharged, while 4% are owed a total refund.

The remediation process has been chaotic.

In the year following the ombudsman’s report, recipients lodged 531 appeals and made 530 complaints, highlighting the human impact of income apportionment.

But in a five-month period, a mere 83 cases have been finalised.

Controversially, Social Services offered to process debts on request, contrary to a provisional finding of the Administrative Appeals Tribunal, which dismissed the method being used by the department.

Political choice

While the Federal Court has seemingly given the government a legal victory, the ultimate outcome will be costly – especially if the debts are waived.

The court ruling requires recipients be afforded “procedural fairness”, meaning resource-intensive investigations will need to be undertaken into the millions of cases yet to be reviewed.

The final price tag is yet unknown. In the 2025–26 budget, income apportionment was recorded as a “contingent liability – unquantifiable”.

Almost all of the outstanding debts would have already been resolved if the government had implemented the Robodebt Royal Commission recommendation that welfare overpayments should not be pursued if they are more than six years old.

The court’s decision also fails to address the 159 Australians believed to have been criminally prosecuted over unlawful debts since 2018. These people – and likely many more before that year – may have been convicted on defective evidence.

The response to these issues will be a test for the government.

Has it learned the lessons of previous egregious mistakes, or will it allow the ghost of Robodebt to continue to haunt our welfare system?

Christopher Rudge, Law lecturer, University of Sydney

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

I first read John Hirst (1942-2016) as an undergraduate in the late 1990s as part of a subject on 19th-century Australian history. We discussed convict history and explored contrasting views about its role and function in the early colonies. What was life as a convict like? Was transportation a cruel punishment or a ticket to a better future? Could we compare the convict system to slavery?

Hirst’s Convict Society and Its Enemies was one of our required readings and I studied it with interest.

Review: John Hirst: Selected Writings – edited by Chris Feik (Black Inc.)

I had devoured Robert Hughes’s The Fatal Shore the previous summer and had been powerfully swayed by his descriptions of visceral cruelty in the penal colony. There were convicts who rubbed lime in their own eyes because blindness was preferable to working in the kilns. Others were whipped until flesh hung in strips from their backs and collapsed on treadmills from exhaustion.

Hirst demurred. Yes, there was violence, he agreed, but England was a violent place in the late 18th and early 19th centuries. Rather than judge, historians must understand the broader context of that world. Comparing convicts to slaves overlooked historical evidence that pointed to the relative freedom convicts enjoyed in colonial society.

Due to the dire shortage of labour, for example, convicts were able to control aspects of their own lives, working on their daily tasks for the state in the morning and then having their “own time” after the day’s work was done. This not only facilitated considerable freedom for convicts, but also their power in the fledgling society.

Following their sentences, convicts were free to own property and, from 1842, even to vote and stand for the New South Wales Legislative Council. Critically, the children of convicts were all born free, not into servitude.

Impact and legacy

The central arguments of Convict Society and Its Enemies are reproduced in an essay included in this posthumous collection of Hirst’s writings, edited by Chris Feik. The book catalogues some of Hirst’s major contributions to Australian historiography, spanning 50 years of scholarship from the mid 1970s.

How Did a Penal Colony Change Peacefully into a Democracy? is classic Hirst. The prose is crisp and succinct, avoiding jargon and calmly outlining the logic of its contention, drawn from a deep reading of the sources. Hirst critiques what he sees as convict research motivated by ideology rather than the evidence of this period in Australia’s past. In doing so, he sets himself apart from historians who viewed the convicts as victims of a brutal, dehumanising system.

Selected Writings also includes short personal reflections from a fellow historian, a former student, and a colleague, which help frame the impact and legacy of Hirst’s work. His intellectual independence is noted by each of the three contributors.

“Hirst prided himself on his resistance to the current of fashionable opinion,” notes Frank Bongiorno, “and he was above all else a fiercely independent individual.” This wasn’t about being contrary, adds Alex McDermott, but a process of applying the same critical analysis to the field as he did to his primary sources. Hirst “viewed his project as more than mere provocation”. He was both a passionate believer in Australia, as well as a fiercely independent voice, writes Robert Manne.

Bongiorno, McDermott and Manne all emphasise Hirst’s personal generosity and commitment to teaching and the profession – he was clearly loved by generations of students. Upon the book’s release, I was struck by comments on social media and at conferences from colleagues and former students who remembered acts of kindness that accompanied Hirst’s rigorous commitment to debate.

This collection feels like a faithful reflection of that contribution to Australian history.

A historian’s conscience

Selected Writings covers several major themes Hirst pursued in his research. We see a persuasive defence of democracy and an ongoing interest in the emergence of Australian democracy, in particular. Hirst’s account of national sentiment as a driver towards federation is compelling, as it understands the important imaginative leap required to hold a nation together beyond the establishment of political institutions. And his belief in republicanism is a thread he returned to across his career.

Another substantial theme is Hirst’s belief in, and support for, the history discipline. At the heart of his approach and practice is a contention that evidence and source criticism fundamentally broaden our knowledge of the past. Ideas are tested, and debates between historians are equally intrinsic to evaluating hypotheses and arguments.

Reading this diverse collection, I find Hirst’s writing provocative in a good way. I often had to pause and ask myself, do I agree or disagree here? What is my argument? Where is the evidence for my opinion?

Hirst’s body of work represents an implicit but powerful defence of evidence-based history at a time when the truth is under attack from venal Trumpism and students are submitting dispiriting essays written by GenAI. He was a powerful advocate for the discipline, advancing what history educators would call a form of historical literacy or historical thinking.

In response to the Howard Government’s proposal to develop a national history curriculum in 2006, for example, Hirst agreed with the need for a more rigorous and coordinated approach to the subject. Yet he also insisted that history’s purpose must be to teach the skills of empirical research and criticism, rather than jingoism.

Given the spread of these essays and the genealogy of Hirst’s career, it was a curious decision to organise the collection thematically, rather than chronologically. I am aware this criticism is likely framed by my own interests, and a thematic approach allows for a different organisation of ideas, but I did wonder what context was perhaps missed by not seeing the evolution of Hirst’s writing over time.

For example, the essay Changing My Mind appears first, but reflects back on Hirst’s career in Australian history. I was also surprised that one of his most well-known (and controversial) essays was not included in the collection or cited in the select bibliography. It’s another piece I first read as an undergraduate – a pointed critique of Creating a Nation by Patricia Grimshaw, Marilyn Lake, Ann McGrath and Marian Quartly, published in Quadrant in 1995, in which Hirst questioned whether a gendered history of Australia could and should be written. “A history of gender relations,” he argued, “is something less than the history of the nation.”

Obviously, all edited collections require curatorial decisions based on all sorts of reasons, but the exclusion of this essay was notable, given its prominence.

Other pieces in Selected Writings include Hirst’s critiques of what he termed the “black school” of Australian history writing. He was referring to the movement of historical revision advanced by labour, feminist, migrant and First Nations histories, which have challenged Australia’s understanding of its historical “progress”.

Hirst resisted this movement for being ideologically driven. But that is not to say he wasn’t interested in the “historian’s conscience”. He was, deeply. The essay that opens the collection was published in a volume on that very topic.

Yet his commitment to the history discipline also ran up against a growing acknowledgement within the field that empirical history has been complicit in and essential to exploitative systems of imperialism and colonisation. Hirst wanted historians to understand the past in context. “History writing will always reflect our current preoccupations,” he argued, “but as a disciplined enquiry it is also committed to understanding past people in their own terms.”

It’s a view that has been challenged in recent decades, as historians have sought to understand the ways history itself has legitimised and storied the settler-colonial project by curating its own archives and rules of historical evidence. As well as uncovering the past, history also has its own “blind eyes”, as Catherine Hall famously acknowledged.

Given Hirst’s commitment to debate, and his belief in collegiality and the sharing of ideas, that is a spirited discussion I reckon he would have been up for.

Anna Clark, Professor in Public History, University of Technology Sydney

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

Transparency is vital to our democratic system of government.

It promotes good government, spurring those in power into better practice. Even when what is revealed is pretty revolting, transparency means those transgressions are known, and accountability for them can follow.

Transparency is particularly important for people who otherwise do not have access to government, who are not “in the room” or “at the table”, whether that be directly or through lobbyists or other connections.

But recent data reveal government transparency in Australia is on the decline. Given the connection between transparency and a well-functioning democracy, this is deeply concerning.

The Albanese government’s compliance rate with Senate orders for documents is the lowest of any government since 2016, and the second-worst of any government since 1993. Disclosures under freedom of information laws have dropped dramatically over the past decade.

The problem isn’t a lack of solutions, but that governments appear perpetually unwilling to open up.

How should transparency work?

In Australia, there is a complex system of institutions and laws that provide government accountability and transparency.

Outside of the blunt instrument of electoral accountability through the ballot box, the parliament, and in particular the non-government-dominated Senate, plays a key role in providing accountability and transparency.

The transparency work of the Senate is supplemented by a number of regimes, chief among them freedom of information. Under freedom of information, members of the public can request specific information from government departments and agencies, and this is supported by a “freedom of information champion”, the Office of the Australian Information Commissioner.

To work properly, these schemes and regimes need the ongoing support, cooperation and buy-in (literally in the form of funding) from government. This has, at times, been less than forthcoming, which can hobble their operation in different ways.

There are also several reasons why a government might refuse to publicly disclose what it is doing. Former High Court Chief Justice Harry Gibbs said “government at a high level cannot function without some degree of secrecy”.

But limits and exceptions to transparency regimes are controversial. Does there need to be an exception at all? Does a particular document fall within the exception?

The government holds the upper hand in asserting whether a document falls within an exception, because they are the ones who know what the documents are. This gives rise to cynicism that these exceptions can be and are being abused.

Documents remaining buried

This cynicism may be warranted, as two recent reports by the Centre for Public Integrity show successive governments lack true commitment to transparency.

The first report was about Senate orders for the production of documents and how often the government complies with them.

One of the Senate’s most powerful tools in holding the executive to account is its ability to order the production of government documents.

But governments have a long history of avoiding compliance with Senate orders. They either outright refuse to respond, or offer broad claims of “public interest immunity” over sensitive documents, such as those relating to national security, Cabinet, federal relations or law enforcement.

While the Senate can sanction ministers who refuse to comply with its orders, such as through suspending them from the chamber, it has historically done little in response to government insouciance.

This means we don’t know whether the public interest immunity claims being made over the documents are valid, and there is currently no mechanism to find out.

The recent data show the government’s compliance rates with Senate orders to produce documents have fallen from 92% in 1993–96, to approximately 33% for the current parliament.

This is a low that only the Abbott/Turnbull government in the 44th parliament has the ignominious record of beating in the past 30-odd years.

It is coupled with the government increasingly claiming public interest immunity. Public interest immunity rejections as a proportion of non-compliance sat at 61% over the 46th Parliament, this rose to almost 68% over the Albanese government’s first term.

These averaged roughly one claim per week under Albanese, compared with about one claim every three weeks under by the Morrison government in the 46th parliament.

What about freedom of information?

The second report is on the operation of the Commonwealth’s freedom of information (FOI) regime.

The Albanese government’s performance on delivering transparency this way is a mixed bag.

First, the good news: the Office of the Australian Information Commissioner is better resourced, first-instance processing times have improved, and more of the reviews received by the OAIC are being finalised.

But the plaudits end there.

Whereas the proportion of requests granted in full stood at 59% in 2011–12, by 2023–24 it had fallen to just 25%.

Over the same period, outright refusals have ballooned from 12% to 23%.

The precipitous decline in the “refusal gap” (the difference between the proportion of requests granted in full and those refused) is alarming.

Moreover, it’s difficult to have confidence in the correctness of these refusals. In 2023–24, almost half of initial decisions were found to be flawed following internal review.

Processing timeframes are also cause for significant concern. Average processing time for Office of the Australian Information Commissioner reviews has blown out from 6 months in 2016-17, to 15.5 months in 2023-24.

Fixing the mess

Of course, numbers are not a full story. But they also cannot be denied, and these tell a damning story for government.

So how could they be addressed?

The Senate should adopt an independent legal arbiter to oversee claims for public interest immunity. This would discourage secrecy by providing an independent review mechanism for parliament to check the government’s immunity claims.

For this reform to work, the Senate must not shy away from flexing its enforcement muscles either. The government must know that lack of transparency has consequences.

In response to the freedom of information crisis, there’s a number of reforms that could improve transparency. These cover:

• legislative changes such as clarifying that existing applications are not invalidated with a change in minister or portfolio title

• greater resourcing to support information officer training and ongoing monitoring

• and increasing parliamentary oversight of the regime.

Transparency is not an elite concern, but one of those who are otherwise not in the room. It is the peoples’ concern. Governments, however, have incentives to keep the status quo.

So even though Labor spoke a big transparency game in opposition, they have done little in government. We need to demand that they do.

The author would like to thank Catherine Williams, Executive Director of the Centre for Public Integrity, for her contributions to this article.

Gabrielle Appleby, Professor of Law, UNSW Law School, UNSW Sydney

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

Loneliness is not a word often associated with young people. We tend to think of our youth as a time spent with family, friends and being engaged with school and work activities. Loneliness is an experience we may be more likely to associate with older people.

In a new report looking at loneliness in young Australians, we found 43% of people aged 15 to 25 feel lonely. That’s more than two in five young people.

While one in four felt lonely when asked, one in seven had felt lonely for at least two years (what we call persistent loneliness).

There’s more we should be doing in Australia to address loneliness among young people and more broadly.

What else did we find?

In this report, we analysed data from the Household, Income and Labour Dynamics in Australia survey from 2022–23. This helped us understand what sort of factors increase the risk of loneliness among young people.

We found having poor physical health and mental health can double (or more) the likelihood of persistent loneliness among young people.

Life circumstances, as well as socioeconomic and behavioural factors, also play a role, as shown below.

Worryingly, young people who report persistent loneliness are over seven times more likely to experience high or very high psychological distress compared to those who aren’t lonely.

But loneliness in young people should not be seen just as a mental health issue. Research shows it can have consequences for physical health too. For example, a study published in 2024 found loneliness is linked to early signs of vascular dysfunction (functional changes to the arteries) in adults as young as 22.

Why does loneliness persist?

As well as analysing data, we also interviewed young people aged 16 to 25 from diverse backgrounds about what helps them make healthy social connections, and what hinders them.

One of the things they flagged was a need for safe community spaces. A male participant from metro New South Wales, aged between 22 and 25, said:

After lectures, someone’s hungry, you go to eat together. We used to go to [Name of restaurant] after almost every lecture. Talk or discuss somethings so it gave us that extra opportunity to mingle amongst each other and take that next step towards building a good friendship.

We found technology could both help and hinder social connections. A female from regional Victoria, aged 22 to 25, who identified as LGBTIQ+, told us:

If you’re in school or something like that and you don’t really have […] many people within your community to look to, it’s really nice being able to connect with people and make those friends online.

On the flip side, a female participant from metropolitan Victoria, aged between 16 and 18, said:

a lot of maybe like mean stuff or like bullying and stuff happens over the Internet […] there’s a big group chat and like everyone’s texting on it or something. And then a lot of the time, people will break off into a smaller chat […] or they’ll break off into one on one and be like, ohh, do you see what she said?

The high cost of living was also regarded as a hindrance to maintaining social connections. As a male aged 22 to 25 from metro NSW told us:

you’ll go on [a] drive [with friends] or whatever […] but that is so like incredibly expensive. Having to pay for your own car and like petrol and insurance and maintenance. Sometimes it’s hard to […] even like […] sit down in peace and have a chat. All the cafes will close at 2 and by the time everyone gets out of their jobs, you’re having to go to a restaurant and [you’re] spending 50 dollars.

So what can we do?

Loneliness has long been treated as a personal issue but it’s increasingly clear we have to shift our approach to include community-wide and systemic solutions.

The World Health Organization’s Commission on Social Connection recently released a report pointing to loneliness as a public health, social, community and economic issue.

In Australia, the economic burden of loneliness stands at A$2.7 billion each year for associated health-care costs including GP and hospital visits.

And there are additional costs including lower workforce productivity and educational outcomes that have yet to be accounted for.

Some countries have already developed and implemented strategies to address loneliness. In 2023, Denmark, for example, commissioned the development of a national loneliness action plan led by a consortium of organisations. This was underpinned by an investment of around 21 million Danish kroner (roughly A$5 million) over 2023–25.

Australia now stands at a crossroads.

Australia needs a national loneliness strategy

A national strategy underpinned by evidence and by lived experience is crucial to effectively address loneliness. This approach would:

• coordinate efforts across sectors: health, education, social services and business

• identify effective strategies that should be included in a comprehensive response, and the principles to guide their delivery in communities and other settings

• highlight sub-groups at risk of persistent loneliness who should be prioritised within population-wide strategies

• commit to the delivery of a national awareness campaign that can educate the public and reduce stigma around loneliness.

With the right national strategy, we will be able to increase our capacity to help all Australians, not just young people, connect in meaningful ways.

If this article has raised issues for you, or if you’re concerned about someone you know, call Lifeline on 13 11 14. You can learn more about youth loneliness and how to help at Ending Loneliness Together.

Michelle H. Lim, Associate Professor, Sydney School of Public Health, University of Sydney and Ben J. Smith, Professor of Public Health, University of Sydney

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

Is there anything you can do to protect your superannuation from dodgy providers or questionable financial advice? And if someone rings you out of the blue and tempts you with a better return on your savings – what should you do?

Around 12,000 Australians with A$1.2 billion in retirement savings have been caught up in three collapsed or frozen funds: First Guardian, Shield and Australian Fiduciaries.

People have described being cold-called or seeing ads on social media, suggesting they could earn more by leaving their current super fund. Several financial advisers linked to these funds have now been banned for giving “inappropriate advice” to clients, containing “false and misleading statements”.

As a former financial adviser and now researcher, here are the questions I wish more people asked to screen out scammers and dodgy financial advisers faster – and places to seek help if you need it.

What do I do if someone calls with an unexpected sales pitch?

The first thing you need to know is that in Australia we have anti-hawking legislation. This prohibits people making cold calls or unsolicited face-to-face approaches for financial products, such as superannuation.

If you get a phone call like that, the official advice is now to hang up immediately. If they persist, you could say:

I didn’t request this cold call. Did you know you’re breaking the law and I can report you?

They will probably put the phone down! They know they’re not doing the right thing. If they keep talking, hang up.

Block their number. Tell a family member if you need help. If you’ve shared personal information, call your super fund or bank.

I’m thinking of switching super funds. What should I ask first?

Whether you’re talking to a super fund or a financial adviser, my first three questions would be about their fees, what’s known as “the 4Ps” – philosophy, people, process and performance – and risk profile.

What are the fees?

Don’t just look at a super fund’s returns: look closely at their fees.

Your super fund statement will disclose how much administration, insurance premiums, transactions, buy/sell spread and investment fees and costs are being deducted.

High fees charged by a trustee eat up your super balance over time. If a fund earns 7% annually and charges fees of 0.63% annually, then your actual return is only 6.37%.

Is the fund a good match on “the 4 Ps”?

Go to the provider’s website to understand whether the fund’s philosophy reflect your core beliefs about investing and risk.

Learn about the reputations of the people behind the fund who lead and invest your money.

Find out what process they use to select and manage investments. Finally, consider how well and consistently the fund has performed over the past five to ten years.

What’s the risk profile?

Super funds classify investment options into risk profiles (such as conservative, balanced or growth) to provide you with investments to match your risk tolerance and age.

You can find a fund’s risk profile on the fund’s website under investment options, in the product disclosure statement and target market determination.

How can I compare my super fund?

Want to check if your retirement savings are in an underperforming fund? For the past few years, the Australian Prudential Regulation Authority (APRA) has called out MySuper funds that aren’t performing to standard.

Compare funds with the Australian Tax Office’s YourSuper Comparison Tool.

How I can find out if a financial adviser’s been in trouble?

On advisers, you can investigate their reputation or past complaints at:

• MoneySmart’s financial advisers register to confirm registration, qualification and authorisations
• banned and disqualified register to see if they’re authorised to provide financial products and services
• register of disciplinary action for Financial Advice Association members who’ve been investigated by the conduct review committee.

If you’re comfortable using OpenAI, such as ChatGPT or CoPilot, you can try searching with the following prompts.

• “Can you find any complaints or disciplinary actions against (name of adviser/fund)?”
• “What is the public reputation of (adviser/fund) in financial forums or news?”
• “Has (adviser/fund) been mentioned in any ASIC enforceable actions, bans or media reports?”

More action promised, but not yet delivered

There are echoes in what’s allegedly happened with First Guardian and Shield of Storm Financial’s collapse in 2009, which also hit thousands of people.

There are bad apples in every industry. Whether it’s in finance or medicine, it’s often colleagues who know who the dodgy operators are. Then it’s a question of whether anyone does anything about it.

In the case of First Guardian and Shield, other financial advisers helped raise the alarm – unfortunately several years before the corporate watchdog, the Australian Securities and Investments Commission, acted.

The commission says they’re now working with the federal government on more “reform options”. But that won’t help the thousands of people currently without access to their retirement savings, uncertain how much of those funds they’ll recover.

You can seek free counselling and advice from the National Debt Helpline (1800 007 007); Mob Strong Debt Helpline (1800 808 488) for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people; or the Consumer Action Law Centre.

Disclaimer: this is general information only and not to be taken as financial advice.

Angelique Nadia Sweetman McInnes, Academic in Financial Planning, CQUniversity Australia

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

Australia’s First Nations history stretches back many tens of thousands of years, rich in depth and diversity.

Archaeological research has revealed much about this deep past, but it has rarely captured the gestures of the ancestors – their movements, postures and physical motions. Material traces like tools and hearths tend to survive; fleeting movements usually do not.

Newly published research in the journal Australian Archaeology has revealed something different: traces of hand movements preserved in soft rock deep within GunaiKurnai Country.

In a limestone cave in the foothills of the Victorian alps, a team of researchers led by the GunaiKurnai Land and Waters Aboriginal Corporation in partnership with Monash University and international archaeologists from Spain, France and New Zealand studied finger impressions dragged into the walls and ceilings. They reveal the hand movements of ancestors from thousands of years ago.

The glittering Waribruk

The cave, referred to by GunaiKurnai Elders as Waribruk, contains a pitch-black chamber beyond the reach of natural light. To enter and mark these walls, the ancestors would have needed artificial light: firesticks or small fires.

The cave’s deeper interior walls became soft over millions of years as underground waters penetrated the limestone, slowly weathering and dissolving the rock into cavernous tunnels.

The remaining wall surfaces and ceilings became spongy and malleable, much like the texture of playdough.

Over time, cave-dwelling bacteria living on the soft, moist rock produced luminescent microcrystals, so that today, the walls and ceiling glitter when exposed to light.

It is on these glittering surfaces that the finger grooves are found.

We don’t know exactly when they were made, but people would have needed artificial light to reach this part of the cave. They would have either carried firesticks or lit fires on the ground.

Archaeological excavations below and near the panels failed to uncover evidence of fires on the ground, but we did find millimetre-long fragments of charcoal and tiny patches of ash, likely dropped embers from firesticks.

These were found buried in the cave floor under and near the decorated walls. They date between 8,400 and 1,800 years ago, about 420 to 90 generations past.

This, then, is the best estimate for how long ago the old ancestors moved through the dark tunnels of the cave, firelight in hand, to create the finger impressions on the walls.

Rare ancestral gestures

What they made when they dragged their fingers along the soft rock surfaces deep in the cave is remarkable, revealing rare evidence of ancestral gestures: fleeting bodily movements captured in soft cave surfaces.

On one panel, 96 sets of grooves were recorded. The first marks run horizontally, made by multiple fingers, sometimes both hands side by side. Later, vertical and diagonal grooves were added, intersecting the earlier ones.

Among them are two parallel sets of narrow impressions, only 3 to 5 millimetres wide for each finger. They are each set a short distance apart, indicating they were made by a small child. However, they’re so high up, the child must have been lifted by an adult.

Deeper in the cave, a low ceiling panel bears 262 grooves above a narrow clay bench sloping steeply toward a creek bed. The grooves indicate people moved along the ledge, crawling, sitting, or balancing to reach the ceiling.

Farther along, 193 grooves trace a path above the creek bed. Fingers were pressed into the soft ceiling, gradually releasing 1.6 metres farther along as the people walked forward.

All impressions point the same way, suggesting arms and hands raised overhead, capturing a deliberate, embodied gesture as the ancestors moved deeper into the cave.

A place only few could enter

Altogether there are 950 sets of finger grooves deep within Waribruk. Their meaning remained unclear for years, but a close analysis of where the marks appear, and where they don’t, offers key insights.

The grooves are always located in areas where calcite microcrystals coat the cave walls or ceiling, sometimes just extending past the glitter’s edges. They never appear in areas of the cave where the soft walls are without glitter.

Crucially, they occur far from any archaeological evidence of domestic life: no hearths, no food remains, no tools.

This absence matters. GunaiKurnai oral traditions hold that such caves weren’t used for ordinary living. They were only frequented by special individuals, mulla-mullung – medicine men and women who wielded powerful knowledge.

Mulla-mullung healed and cursed through ritual, using crystals and powdered minerals as part of their practice.

In the late 1800s, GunaiKurnai knowledge-holders told the pioneer ethnographer Alfred Howitt about the powers of these crystals, and of the caves. The role of mulla-mullung, they explained, was usually passed on from parent to child, and when a mulla-mullung lost their crystals, they lost their powers.

The finger grooves at Waribruk matches these traditions. They are not casual decorations. They are deliberate gestures, linked to crystal-coated surfaces, made in places only a few could enter.

The grooves reflect movement, touch, and sources of power for special individuals in the community: an embodied record of people interacting with the sacred.

What survives is not just ancient “rock art”. These are the gestures of ancestors, mulla-mullung it now seems, who ventured into the deepest darkness of the cave to access the power of the glittering surfaces.

Through these finger trails, we glimpse not only a physical act, but a cultural practice grounded in knowledge, memory and spirituality. A momentary movement, preserved in stone, connecting us to lives lived long ago – and breathing the cave to life through the actions of the ancestors and culture.

Acknowledgements: The authors are just three of the 13 authors of the journal article, including Olivia Rivero Vilá and Diego Garate Maidagan, who undertook the photography to create the digital 3D models of the panels to record and measure the size of the finger grooves.

Russell Mullett, Traditional Custodian — Kurnai, Indigenous Knowledge; Bruno David, Professor, Australian Research Council Industry Laureate, Monash University, and Madeleine Kelly, Research Associate, College of Science and Engineering, Flinders University

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

Australia has flourished as an export powerhouse for decades. Much of this prosperity has been driven by the nation’s natural endowment with two important raw products for producing steel the traditional way: iron ore and metallurgical coal.

Worth more than A$100 billion in 2024, Australia’s iron ore shipments to China make up about 55% of everything we export there. But a transformation has been taking place in China’s steel industry, which is under intense pressure to decarbonise.

Earlier this year, Beijing formally expanded its national emissions trading scheme to cover steel production. And just this month, it issued another decree requiring steelmakers to increase their share of green energy in steel production.

Prime Minister Anthony Albanese’s recent visit to China may have looked like a celebration of normalised diplomatic or trade ties. Behind the scenes was a quiet but critical economic pivot.

Australia’s economic future depends on whether it can green its exports fast enough to meet the decarbonisation needs of its biggest market.

A greener China

In China, no new permits for coal-based steelmaking appear to have been issued since early 2024. However, China has been approving new, greener steelmaking capacity, using electric arc furnace (EAF) technology, the main low-emissions technology in steel.

These furnaces use high-voltage electric arcs, powered ideally by green energy, to melt scrap steel or what’s known as direct reduced iron (DRI). Through that process, they limit carbon emissions by reducing the use of thermal coal for electricity and metallurgical coal for iron making in blast furnaces.

In total, China has now installed enough electric arc furnaces to produce more than 160 million tonnes of steel annually. That’s about the same as the total steel output of Japan and the United States combined.

China’s current 10% share of steel production from electric arc furnaces still remains below the country’s 15% target. But overall, China’s total domestic steel production continues to fall. With real estate, infrastructure and heavy industry slowing, steel consumption is forecast to drop by more than 20% this decade.

Rather than prop up its old blast furnaces, rapidly falling green energy prices and increased capacity should allow China to accelerate its shift towards green steel.

Why Australia is so exposed

China’s transition directly threatens two pillars of Australia’s export model: coal and iron ore.

The use of thermal coal is poised to decline as China ramps up renewables and needs to burn less coal for electricity.

The other coal type exported from Australia, metallurgical coal (sometimes called “coking” coal), is needed for the traditional “basic oxygen process” of making steel. This is already being squeezed by lower demand and the shift to green steel production.

In the past five years, Australia’s metallurgical coal exports have already fallen by about 15%, despite persistent predictions for growing demand.

Australian iron ore reserves, meanwhile, are primarily composed of hematite, meaning they’re less suited for green steelmaking. Unprocessed, these reserves lack the grade needed for direct reduction using green hydrogen. That incentivises Chinese mills to move to cleaner inputs from elsewhere.

This transformation won’t be immediate. But the nature of long-term investment cycles means Australia faces a choice: start integrating into these greener supply chains, or face key national assets becoming stranded.

Invest in a green future or face irrelevance

Australia can adjust to this new reality. While coal may not have much of a future, iron ore can be processed to make it suitable for green steel production. Yet, significant investment in research and development is required to produce competitive green iron pellets from hematite.

For some in the industry, this transition is already under way. Fortescue, for example, has committed to real net-zero emissions by 2030, without relying on offsets. It is also investing in the development of green iron products. This is not just for climate leadership, but to preserve competitiveness.

The company is also pushing for Australia to adopt a national 75% emissions reduction target by 2035.

Albanese’s trip might mark a turning point

Ambition alone won’t suffice. Australia also needs demand and policy certainty to attract domestic and international investment — including from China.

That’s where Albanese’s recent trip to our biggest trading partner may mark a turning point. One of the most consequential outcomes of this trip could turn out to be the establishment of a new policy dialogue on steel decarbonisation.

This signals an intent from the Australian and Chinese governments to align on standards, contracts and investment frameworks — not just for iron ore, but for green iron, hydrogen and low-carbon steel.

But talk is cheap. Turning this dialogue into real outcomes will require Australia to address difficult questions. Can Australian companies secure sufficient demand from China to justify investments in green supply contracts — not just for iron ore, but for hydrogen, green iron or even finished steel?

And can Australia attract international investors – including from China – to green energy and iron processing, despite recent decisions by Australia’s Foreign Investment Review Board to block or unwind certain Chinese investments?

Unlocking investment

New financial instruments may also be needed to unlock investment. One option is green steel certificates.

Similar to renewable energy certificates (RECs), green steel certificates would allow producers to generate a credit for producing green steel that can be sold to interested “green” buyers, while the steel itself could be used in close-by markets to avoid emissions related to long-distance transport.

While much of the commentary on Albanese’s trip revolved around diplomacy and geopolitics, its real legacy may be economic.

As China continues – and in all likelihood, accelerates – its transition to a low-carbon model, Australia can no longer count on sustained demand for its coal and iron ore exports.

Christoph Nedopil, Director Griffith Asia Institute, Griffith University

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

In Australia, there is growing recognition that children and young people are not just witnesses to domestic, family and sexual violence, but victim-survivors in their own right.

While we are getting better at understanding how coercive control operates in adult relationships – particularly where men use it against women – much less attention has been given to how children experience this kind of abuse, especially when it comes from a parent or caregiver.

New research interviewing teenage victim-survivors reveals how parents can coercively control their children under the guise of parental discipline.

What is coercive control?

Coercive control is a pattern of abusive behaviours used to instil fear, dominate or isolate someone over time. It can include:

• physical violence

• sexual abuse

• surveillance

• threats

• humiliation

• limiting access to money

• technology-facilitated abuse

• animal abuse, among many other abusive tactics.

Focusing largely on adult victim-survivors, research has found experiences of coercive control can have cumulative and long-lasting negative impacts.

Studies of children show how coercive control can erode a child’s mental health, self-esteem and sense of safety.

Fear, guilt and manipulation

For young people, within the context of the family, coercive control may be perpetrated by parents, step-parents, caregivers, siblings and other family members. The tactics used may mirror those seen in adult contexts.

But there are different circumstances at play for children. They are typically dependent on their caregivers, still mentally developing, and often have limited access to external support.

My new report, Silence and Inaction, released by the South Australian Royal Commission into Domestic, Family and Sexual Violence, draws on interviews with 53 young people aged 13–18 who have experienced different forms of domestic, family and sexual violence in that state.

In this study, young victim-survivors spoke of rules imposed by abusive adults in their family to control their friendships, communication, bodily autonomy and emotional expression. These were often enforced through fear, guilt or manipulation. One child told me:

I kicked the wall when I was eight, and my parents came in and they stripped my entire room bare, just got rid of everything […] I was either in my room or was at school […] I got water brought to me, food brought to me three times a day […] they said, “You have abused this home. It was a loving place, and you’ve abused it so when people do things wrong, they go to prison”. I was very fearful of my parents.

Several young people described experiences that reflect the dynamics of coercive control, even if they did not use that language themselves. They spoke of environments where control, surveillance and isolation were constant, and where resistance or independence was met with punishment.

Experiences of gaslighting

Several young victim-survivors interviewed described being made to feel “crazy” or “overdramatic” when they challenged the behaviour they were experiencing. Others were punished for asserting boundaries or seeking help.

A number of young people described experiences of gaslighting – being told their memories or feelings were wrong or exaggerated.

This was particularly apparent among young people who had tried to speak up about the violence they were experiencing. One young victim-survivor told me:

I was very much gaslighting myself, and then also was being gaslit for years prior by my father and not made to feel that I could ever tell anyone.

Some young victim-survivors described beginning to question their own perceptions or feeling responsible for the harm they experienced. One young person said:

I always have a fear in my head that everything I’ve said and done [is] just a massive lie, which is why I documented a lot of things […] I have photos and videos of things that have happened […] it kind of keeps me a little bit sane.

For the young people interviewed, the dynamics of coercive control were further compounded by their legal and financial dependence on the person using violence.

Young people described having limited avenues to escape or resist the abuse, and having little access to alternative sources of care or trusted adults for support.

Discipline or control?

Many of the young people I interviewed said the abuse they experienced was explained away by parents as “discipline”.

Reasonable parenting involves setting boundaries and enforcing rules through clear communication and respect for a child’s emotional and physical safety. What the young people in the study described went well beyond that.

The young people interviewed described being physically punished – through beatings, slaps or threats – as a way of “correcting” behaviour or “teaching respect”.

For young people, this led to confusion and self-doubt about whether what they experienced “counted” as abuse.

This mislabelling of abuse as discipline was particularly difficult for young people to challenge when it was reinforced by religious, cultural or generational norms. In some cases, violence was deeply embedded in family tradition and viewed as an expected method of parenting.

Young people interviewed expressed a strong desire for this cycle to be broken, including through education for caregivers. One young victim said:

it’s not just kids who need to learn – adults need to unlearn the stuff they were taught too.

The need for change

Several young people believed some parents may be unaware of the impacts of these forms of punishment. They called for targeted awareness campaigns and community education. One young victim-survivor suggested:

they feel that is still part of discipline, whereas they are actually going extra miles […] I think parents too need to be educated on how they treat their children.

Several young people said their experiences of abuse were often minimised or dismissed as necessary or appropriate acts of discipline by extended family, caregivers or other adults in their community.

This highlights the need to better engage families and communities to change understandings of discipline, particularly through culturally responsive, trauma-informed approaches to education.

We must develop deeper understandings of coercive and controlling behaviours as they are experienced by children and young people in families.

Without such awareness, there is a risk that controlling behaviour will continue to be minimised as “strict parenting”, or young people’s disclosures will be dismissed.

These experiences highlight the problem of the normalisation of violence in some households and the need for greater prevention and early intervention efforts, both for young people and caregivers.

Kate Fitz-Gibbon, Professor (Practice), Faculty of Business and Economics, Monash University

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

The Albanese government has decided to include YouTube accounts in its ban on access to social media for those under the age of 16.

The decision will be controversial with many social media users, especially young people, and face resistance from the company. YouTube, owned by Google, has threatened to sue if it were included in the ban.

The government said in a statement that it was “Informed by advice from the eSafety Commissioner”.

The eSafety Commissioner, Julie Inman Grant, said in her advice to the Minister for Communications Anika Wells last month, “YouTube currently employs persuasive design features and functionality that may be associated with harms to health, including those which may contribute to unwanted or excessive use”.

Apart from YouTube, platforms that will be age restricted are Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok, and X, among others.

Platforms will face fines up to $49.5 million if they are found to fail to take responsible steps to prevent underage account holders using them.

Young people would still be able to access YouTube through a search, but would be unable to set up an account.

Argument has raged about whether YouTube should be included in the ban, with those opposed to capturing it arguing it has educational value to younger people.

“YouTube is a video-sharing platform, not a social media service, that offers benefit and value to younger Australians,” a YouTube spokesperson said in its defence.

A range of online gaming, messaging apps, health and education services are being exempted from the ban. “These types of online services have been excluded from the new minimum age obligations because they pose fewer social media harms to under 16s, or are regulated under different laws,” the government said in a statement.

The ban comes into effect on December 10 this year. Age-restricted social media accounts are defined as services that allow users to interact and post material.

Prime Minister Anthony Albanese said:

Our government is making it clear – we stand on the side of families. Social media has a social responsibility and there is no doubt that Australian kids are being negatively impacted by online platforms so I’m calling time on it.

Social media is doing social harm to our children, and I want Australian parents to know that we have their backs.

Wells said there was no perfect solution to keep people safer online, “but the social media minimum age will make a significantly positive difference to their wellbeing. The rules are not a set and forget, they are a set and support.”

Michelle Grattan, Professorial Fellow, University of Canberra

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

Parents are often told fruit is “bad” because it contains sugar, prompting concerns about how much fruit they should allow their child to eat.

This message has been fuelled by the “sugar-free” movement, which demonises sugar with claims it’s fattening and causes diabetes. The movement promotes arbitrary lists of foods to avoid, which often include kids’ favourites such as bananas and berries.

But like many claims made by the diet industry, this one isn’t backed by evidence.

Naturally occurring versus added sugars

Sugar itself isn’t inherently harmful, but the type of sugar kids eat can be.

The good news is whole fruits contain naturally occurring sugars that are healthy and provide kids with energy. Whole fruits are packed with vitamins and minerals needed for good health. This includes vitamins A, C, E, magnesium, zinc and folic acid. All fruits are suitable – bananas, berries, mandarins, apples and mangoes, to name just a few.

The insoluble fibre in fruit skins also helps kids stay regular, and the soluble fibre in fruit flesh helps keep their cholesterol in a healthy range, absorbing “bad” cholesterol to reduce their long-term risk of stroke and heart disease.

Added sugars – which add calories but no nutritional value to kids’ diets – are the “bad” sugars and the ones to avoid. They’re found in processed and ultra-processed foods kids crave, such as lollies, chocolates, cakes and soft drinks.

Added sugars are often added to seemingly healthy packaged foods, such as muesli bars. They’re also hidden under 60-plus different names in ingredient lists, making them hard to spot.

Sugar, weight and diabetes risk

There’s no evidence backing claims that sugar directly causes diabetes.

Type 1 diabetes is an autoimmune disease that can’t be prevented or cured and has no connection to sugar consumption. Type 2 diabetes is typically caused when we carry excess body weight, which stops the body from working efficiently, not sugar intake.

However, a diet high in added sugars – found in many processed, ultra-processed foods (for example, sweet and savoury packaged snacks) – can mean kids consume excess calories and gain unnecessary weight, which may increase their chance of developing type 2 diabetes as they get older.

On the other hand, research shows that kids who eat more fruit have less abdominal fat.

Research also shows fruit can reduce the risk of type 2 diabetes, with one study finding kids who ate 1.5 servings of fruit daily had a 36% lower risk of developing the disease.

Nutritional deficiencies

A diet high in added sugars can also result in nutritional deficiencies.

Many processed foods offer low-to-no nutrition, which is why dietary guidelines recommend limiting them.

Kids filling up on these foods are less likely to eat vegetables, fruits, whole grains and lean meats, producing a diet lacking in fibre and other key nutrients needed for growth and development.

But these “discretionary foods” make up one-third of Aussie kids’ daily energy intake.

My advice? Give kids fruit in abundance

There’s no need to limit how much whole fruit kids eat – it’s nutritious, filling and can protect their health. It’s also going to fill them up and reduce their desire to scream out for the processed, packet food that is low in nutrition, and calorie-rich.

Just go easy on juiced and dried fruits because juicing leaves the goodness (the fibre) behind in the juicer, and drying strips fruits of their water content, making them easy to overconsume.

The nutritional guidelines recommend just two serves of fruit a day for those nine years of age and older, 1.5 serves from 4-8, one serve from 2–3, and half a serve from 1–2 years. But these guidelines are dated and need to be changed.

We do need to reduce kids’ sugar consumption. But this needs to be achieved by reducing their intake of processed foods that contain added sugars, rather than fruit.

Added sugars aren’t always easy to spot, so we should focus on reducing kids’ consumption of processed and packet foods and teaching them to rely on fruit – “nature’s treats” – as a way to keep unhealthy sugars out of their diets.

Nick Fuller is the author of Healthy Parents, Healthy Kids – Six Steps to Total Family Wellness.

Nick Fuller, Clinical Trials Director, Department of Endocrinology, RPA Hospital, University of Sydney

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

You’re so ugly it hurts.

Maybe if you lost some weight, someone would actually like you.

No filter can fix that face.

These are the sorts of comments teenage girls see online daily, via social media, group chats, or anonymous messages. While some may dismiss this as teasing, these comments constitute appearance-related cyberbullying.

Our previous research shows appearance-related cyberbullying is one of the most common and harmful forms of online abuse of young people. It not only hurts feelings – it changes how teens, particularly girls, see themselves.

In a new study, we’ve looked at brain images of teenage girls viewing appearance-related cyberbullying. We’ve found even just being exposed to online body shaming directed at others can activate regions of the brain linked to emotional pain and social threat.

What is appearance-related cyberbullying?

Appearance-related cyberbullying is any online behaviour that targets the way someone looks. This includes comments about their face, clothes or body. It often happens in public forums, such as comment sections or social media posts, where other people can see it, join in or share it.

The most damaging type focuses on someone’s body, such as their weight, shape or size. These messages don’t need to be long or explicit to hurt. Sometimes a single word, hashtag or even emoji is enough.

While appearance-related bullying can affect anyone, previous studies have shown teenage girls are particularly vulnerable.

During adolescence, the brain is still developing – especially the parts that shape self-esteem and help us make sense of how others see us. This means teenagers can be more affected by what people say about them.

What’s more, girls often feel strong societal pressure to look a certain way. This combination makes body shaming especially harmful.

How common is it?

In a survey of 336 teenage girls we published last year, 98% had experienced some form of cyberbullying. For 62% of them, the abuse targeted their appearance.

Most of those girls said this bullying had lasting effects on their body image and mental health, with 96% saying it made them want to change how they looked. More than 80% felt they needed to consider cosmetic procedures.

Studies from around the world have shown appearance-related cyberbullying is a strong predictor of body dissatisfaction, which is one of the biggest risk factors for eating disorders in teenage girls.

What does it do to the brain?

To understand how body-shaming content affects girls on a deeper level, we designed a brain imaging study.

First, we created a set of social media posts based on typical comments teenage girls see online. Some posts were neutral, while others included body shaming comments.

More than 400 girls rated how realistic and emotionally powerful these posts were. This helped us validate the content so it could be used in current and future studies on how young people respond to body shaming online.

We then invited 26 girls aged 14 to 18, from the Longitudinal Adolescent Brain Study – a five-year research project at our university seeking to better understand how the teenage brain develops and how this relates to mental health – to take part in a brain scan study.

We used functional MRI, a technique that shows which areas of the brain are more active during certain experiences. Alongside the scans, participants completed questionnaires about their recent experiences of cyberbullying and their body image.

When girls viewed body-shaming posts, we found certain brain regions “lit up” more than others. These included areas involved in emotional pain, self-image, and social judgement. These are regions the brain uses to interpret how others see us, and how we deal with feelings such as shame or rejection.

Girls who had recently been cyberbullied showed more activity in memory and attention regions. This suggests they were reprocessing earlier, painful experiences. Girls with more positive body image, meanwhile, showed calmer, more regulated brain responses, suggesting healthy self-image might be protective.

Girls are affected even when they’re not targeted

Notably, the girls in our study were viewing posts aimed at others – not being subjected to bullying directly. But even so, we saw changes in the way their brains reacted, and how they felt about their own bodies seemed to affect these reactions.

This tells us something important: body-shaming content doesn’t just hurt the person it targets. When appearance is constantly judged and criticised, it can change what girls think is normal or acceptable. It may also affect how their brains respond to social and emotional situations.

What needs to change?

Appearance-related cyberbullying is not just about teenage conflict. It’s a wider, societal issue. Social media platforms reward content that grabs attention, even when it causes harm.

All of this is happening during a sensitive period of brain development, where social feedback shapes how teenagers see themselves and others.

To reduce harm, we need to act on multiple levels:

• start early: while some schools offer lessons on body image and online safety, these topics are not taught consistently. Many young people say they want more support in dealing with appearance-related pressure online

• support parents and educators: adults need tools, resources and language to talk with young people about what they see online, without shame or blame

• hold platforms accountable: social media companies should strengthen reporting systems, and better moderate content that may promote appearance-related abuse such as “before-and-after” posts or other viral trends that target how someone looks

• celebrate all body types: schools, media and influencers can help by showing real people with different body types and focusing on strengths such as kindness, talent, or what bodies can do.

Adolescence is a time of major change in how teenagers think, manage emotions and build relationships. What teenagers experience during these years can shape how they see themselves and understand the world.

Online body shaming may seem like just words on a screen. But if we want the next generation to grow up confident and well, we need to take it seriously.

In Australia, if you are experiencing body image concerns, you can contact the Butterfly Foundation’s national helpline on 1800 33 4673 (or use their online chat).

Taliah Jade Prince, Postdoctoral Research Fellow in Youth Mental Health and Neuroimaging, University of the Sunshine Coast and Daniel Hermens, Professor of Youth Mental Health & Neurobiology, University of the Sunshine Coast

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

In late June, the Scientific Advisory Group for the Origins of Novel Pathogens (SAGO), a group of independent experts convened by the World Health Organization (WHO), published an assessment of the origins of COVID.

The report concluded that although we don’t know conclusively where the virus that caused the pandemic came from:

a zoonotic origin with spillover from animals to humans is currently considered the best supported hypothesis.

SAGO did not find scientific evidence to support “a deliberate manipulation of the virus in a laboratory and subsequent biosafety breach”.

This follows a series of reports and research papers since the early days of the pandemic that have reached similar conclusions: COVID most likely emerged from an infected animal at the Huanan market in Wuhan, and was not the result of a lab leak.

But conspiracy theories about COVID’s origins persist. And this is hampering our ability to prevent the next pandemic.

Attacks on our research

As experts in the emergence of viruses, we published a peer-reviewed paper in Nature Medicine in 2020 on the origins of SARS-CoV-2, the virus that causes COVID.

Like SAGO, we evaluated several hypotheses for how a novel coronavirus could have emerged in Wuhan in late 2019. We concluded the virus very likely emerged through a natural spillover from animals – a “zoonosis” – caused by the unregulated wildlife trade in China.

Since then, our paper has become a focal point of conspiracy theories and political attacks.

The idea SARS-CoV-2 might have originated in a laboratory is not, in itself, a conspiracy theory. Like many scientists, we considered that possibility seriously. And we still do, although evidence hasn’t emerged to support it.

But the public discourse around the origin of the pandemic has increasingly been shaped by political agendas and conspiratorial narratives. Some of this has targeted our work and vilified experts who have studied this question in a data-driven manner.

A common conspiracy theory claims senior officials pressured us to promote the “preferred” hypothesis of a natural origin, while silencing the possibility of a lab leak. Some conspiracy theories even propose we were rewarded with grant funding in exchange.

These narratives are false. They ignore, dismiss or misrepresent the extensive body of evidence on the origin of the pandemic. Instead, they rely on selective quoting from private discussions and a distorted portrayal of the scientific process and the motivations of scientists.

So what does the evidence tell us?

In the five years since our Nature Medicine paper, a substantial body of new evidence has emerged that has deepened our understanding of how SARS-CoV-2 most likely emerged through a natural spillover.

In early 2020, the case for a zoonotic origin was already compelling. Much-discussed features of the virus are found in related coronaviruses and carry signatures of natural evolution. The genome of SARS-CoV-2 showed no signs of laboratory manipulation.

The multi-billion-dollar wildlife trade and fur farming industry in China regularly moves high-risk animals, frequently infected with viruses, into dense urban centres.

It’s believed that SARS-CoV-1, the virus responsible for the SARS outbreak, emerged this way in 2002 in China’s Guangdong province.

Similarly, detailed analyses of epidemiological data show the earliest known COVID cases clustered around the Huanan live-animal market in Wuhan, in the Hubei province, in December 2019.

Multiple independent data sources, including early hospitalisations, excess pneumonia deaths, antibody studies and infections among health-care workers indicate COVID first spread in the district where the market is located.

In a 2022 study we and other experts showed that environmental samples positive for SARS-CoV-2 clustered in the section of the market where wildlife was sold.

In a 2024 follow-up study we demonstrated those same samples contained genetic material from susceptible animals – including raccoon dogs and civets – on cages, carts, and other surfaces used to hold and transport them.

This doesn’t prove infected animals were the source. But it’s precisely what we would expect if the market was where the virus first spilled over. And it’s contrary to what would be expected from a lab leak.

These and all other independent lines of evidence point to the Huanan market as the early epicentre of the COVID pandemic.

Hindering preparedness for the next pandemic

Speculation and conspiracy theories around the origin of COVID have undermined trust in science. The false balance between lab leak and zoonotic origin theories assigned by some commentators has added fuel to the conspiracy fire.

This anti-science agenda, stemming in part from COVID origin conspiracy theories, is being used to help justify deep cuts to funding for biomedical research, public health and global aid. These areas are essential for pandemic preparedness.

In the United States this has meant major cuts to the US Centers for Disease Control and the National Institutes of Health, the closure of the US Agency for International Development, and withdrawal from the WHO.

Undermining trust in science and public health institutions also hinders the development and uptake of life-saving vaccines and other medical interventions. This leaves us more vulnerable to future pandemics.

The amplification of conspiracy theories about the origin of COVID has promoted a dangerously flawed understanding of pandemic risk. The idea that a researcher discovered or engineered a pandemic virus, accidentally infected themselves, and unknowingly sparked a global outbreak (in exactly the type of setting where natural spillovers are known to occur) defies logic. It also detracts from the significant risk posed by the wildlife trade.

In contrast, the evidence-based conclusion that the COVID pandemic most likely began with a virus jumping from animals to humans highlights the very real risk we increasingly face. This is how pandemics start, and it will happen again. But we’re dismantling our ability to stop it or prepare for it.

Edward C. Holmes, NHMRC Leadership Fellow and Professor of Virology, University of Sydney; Andrew Rambaut, Professor of Molecular Evolution, University of Edinburgh; Kristian Andersen, Professor; Director of Infectious Disease Genomics, The Scripps Research Institute, and Robert Garry, Professor, Department of Microbiology and Immunology, Tulane University

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

This week, the World Health Organization (WHO) raised concerns about a surge in the number of cases of a mosquito-borne viral infection called chikungunya.

Diana Rojas Alvarez, a medical officer at the WHO, highlighted an outbreak occurring across La Réunion and Mayotte. These small islands in the Indian Ocean were previously hit during an epidemic of the virus in 2004–05.

Between August 2024 and May 2025, more than 47,500 confirmed cases and 12 deaths from chikungunya were reported in La Réunion. Some 116 cases were reported in Mayotte between March and May this year.

But more than 100 countries have seen local transmission of this virus to date, and the WHO has also flagged recent cases in Africa, Asia and Europe.

So, what is chikungunya, how does it spread, and should we be worried here in Australia?

What are the symptoms?

The main symptoms of chikungunya include fever, joint pain and joint swelling. However, other symptoms may include headache, rash, muscle pain, nausea and tiredness. On rare occasions, chikungunya can be fatal.

Some people are more prone to having worse symptoms, including infants, older adults, and people with pre-existing medical conditions.

Symptoms can take up to 12 days to appear, but most people start to experience symptoms three to seven days after being bitten by an infected mosquito.

There’s no specific treatment for chikungunya other than managing the pain with medications, such as paracetamol.

Most people recover after a few weeks, but some people can experience ongoing tiredness and joint pains for many months, or even years.

How does it spread?

Infected female mosquitoes spread chikungunya. The mosquitoes become infected when they feed on a person carrying the virus in their blood. Once infected, the virus reproduces in the mosquito, and then they can transmit it to other people when the mosquitoes bite them.

There are more than 3,000 different types of mosquitoes on Earth, but only two are commonly involved in transmitting chikungunya: Aedes aegypti and Aedes albopictus.

A. aegypti and A. albopictus look similar and can be easily confused. Both are about 4–7 millimetres in size and have similar black and white markings on their thorax and legs.

Both are day-time biters, unlike other mosquitoes that typically bite at dawn or dusk. They’re known as “ankle biters” because they mainly bite exposed legs and ankles. These aggressive mosquitoes bite multiple times and are known to follow people indoors to get their meal of human blood.

These species also transmit dengue virus, yellow fever virus and Zika virus.

Where does chikungunya occur?

Chikungunya was first documented in Tanzania in 1952. While outbreaks initially occurred across Africa and Asia, over time the virus has spread around the world. As of December 2024, local transmission of chikungunya had been reported in 119 countries and territories.

The 2004–05 epidemic was the largest so far, with hundreds of thousands of people infected. The epidemic started in the Indian Ocean islands, but eventually spread across to India. Since then, outbreaks have become more frequent and widespread.

A key contributor to the proliferation of chikungunya is climate change. Warmer temperatures, altered rainfall patterns, and increased humidity are creating ideal conditions for mosquito breeding. This allows the mosquitoes to adapt to new environments and therefore expand into new habitats.

The increase is also partly because chikungunya has evolved and been introduced into new populations, whose immune systems have not previously been exposed to the virus.

So, should we be worried?

While evidence suggests A. aegypti has been present in northern Queensland since the 1800s (outbreaks of dengue occurred in Townsville in 1879 and Rockhampton in 1885), A. albopictus is a more recent arrival, first documented in the Torres Strait in 2005.

A. aegypti mosquitoes are now found in areas across north, central and southern Queensland, while A. albopictus is currently still only found in the Torres Strait.

Nonetheless, to date, there have been no recorded cases of chikungunya transmission within Australia.

But cases do occur in people who have recently travelled overseas, most often to South and Southeast Asia, or the Pacific Islands.

In 2023 there were 42 cases of chikungunya recorded in Australia, 70 in 2024, and 90 so far in 2025. Previous years have seen figures above 100, however numbers in recent years may have been lower due to COVID impacting travel.

As climate change continues to support the spread of A. aegypti and A. albopictus, the risk of transmission within Australia increases.

That said, there is some evidence we might be lucky in Australia, with potential immune protection from a related local virus, Ross River virus.

I’m travelling, what should I do?

Two vaccines are approved for use in the United States against chikungunya, but there’s currently no vaccine approved in Australia. The only way to reduce your risk of infection is to avoid being bitten by mosquitoes.

People travelling to places where chikungunya is known to occur should wear loose-fitting and light-coloured clothing with enclosed shoes, use insect repellent, close windows and consider using mosquito bed nets. Taking these steps also reduces the risk of other mosquito-borne infections, such as dengue fever.

If you travel to a place where chikungunya occurs and you get bitten by mosquitoes, monitor yourself for signs and symptoms.

If you become unwell, see a doctor immediately.

Jacqueline Stephens, Associate Professor in Public Health, Flinders University and Jill Carr, Professor, College of Medicine and Public Health, Flinders University

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