Historians estimate more than 1,000 Aboriginal Australians served in the first world war. After the war, many expressed their disappointment that “fighting for our King and country” had not resulted in any improvement in Aboriginal rights or living conditions.

Unlike white soldiers, they were not feted as heroes. Instead, they faced racism and discrimination. The fight for Aboriginal rights and justice during the 1920s was driven by this tension between Aboriginal servicemen’s expectations of war and their subsequent disillusionment. It was crucial for the rise of organised Aboriginal political activism during the 1920s.

The Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association was founded in 1924. Led by my grandfather, Fred Maynard, it is recognised today as Australia’s first united all-Aboriginal political organisation.

Two key organisers, Maynard’s close friend Dick Johnson and Edward Walker, had both served in the first world war. Another significant member, Tom Lacey, was the father of two soldiers who served (and another close friend of Maynard). Their exposure to international conflict helped them connect racism in Australia with an international struggle for black liberation.

In a 1927 letter to New South Wales Premier Jack Lang, my grandfather referenced the key values of Anzac, emphasising the “loyalty, fidelity and bravery” of Aboriginal men “when conditions have called for the exercise of such virtues”. In the letter, he unleashed his anger at the NSW government’s draconian policies, shocking mistreatment and severe control over Aboriginal lives.

Aboriginal Australian servicemen

Until May 1917, Aboriginal Australians were prohibited from volunteering for the Australian Imperial Force (AIF). The Defence Act of 1909 precluded from service men who were “not substantially of European descent”.

Instructions for enlisting officers at approved military recruiting depots issued in 1916 stated that “Aboriginals, half-castes, or men with Asiatic blood are not to be enlisted – this applies to all coloured men”.

Official barriers to Aboriginal enlistment were relaxed in the latter years of war as the need for volunteers became acute. But discretion remained in the hands of authorities, and overt racism prevented some Aboriginal men from serving.

In 1917, 16 Aboriginal volunteers were suddenly discharged from a training camp in Queensland because “white men have an objection to a ‘blackfella’ being associated with them at the camp”. Despite this racist legislation and attitudes within the military, many Aboriginal men still tried to volunteer.

Why did Aboriginal soldiers join to fight for a country that discriminated against them?

While they shared some of the same reasons as white soldiers – such as the opportunity for pay and the excitement of adventure – Aboriginal soldiers may also have been motivated by the hope for “equal rights during and after the war”. Some said they were “willing to fight to a man if they were accepted by the military authorities”.

In some cases, “joining the military was one of the few acts Aboriginal men living under the Protection Acts could undertake” without asking permission from the authorities. Some managed to convince the medical authorities, which vetted recruitment, to allow them to join, their Aboriginal appearance notwithstanding.

Activist roots in service

Dick Johnson was one. A Yuin Aboriginal man, born at Batemans Bay, NSW, in 1886, he married Mabel Stewart from Wallaga Lake Mission in 1914. Dick worked at the Bawley Point and Kioloa saw mills. Tragedy followed when Mabel died after delivering their stillborn son.

Devastated and grieving, Dick enlisted in the first world war in June 1916, presumably to escape the trauma and heartache of his loss. He was one of 20 Aboriginal men from the Ulladulla region who served in the war.

On his enlistment form he was noted as being of dark complexion with dark brown eyes and black hair – a common descriptor used by military authorities for Aboriginal volunteers. Some Aboriginal men accepted at their initial point of recruitment were later discharged when they had a medical examination.

Another Aboriginal volunteer, Ernest Lacey, initially enlisted in March 1916, but was medically discharged with the comment: “unlikely to become an efficient soldier not due to misconduct”.

This may have been due to racial discrimination, although Ernest was listed as having deformed little toes on both feet. (About 5% of men trying to enlist for the AIF were found unfit because of deformity of their feet.)

Ernest enlisted again, this time successfully, at Wollongong in September 1916. He was recorded as a hatter and set sail on the Ascanius. It docked in Devonport, England on December 28 1916. However, Ernest returned to Australia as medically unfit onboard HMAT Runic on July 6 1917. He was discharged on August 12 1917. He tried to enlist for a third time, but was refused.

His brother, Louis, enlisted on August 15 1916 at Sydney. He was recorded as a glassworker and noted as a “coloured lad”, with a “dark complexion, brown eyes and black hair”.

As Louis was just 18, his mother, Emily, wrote a letter of consent from Redfern to the military authorities saying she was “willing to let her son Louis go to the front with his brother Ernest”. Tom Lacey was their father.

Edward Walker was one of another set of Aboriginal brothers who enlisted or attempted to enlist in the war. A Yuin man from the south coast of NSW, Edward was born in Kiama in 1893. At the time of enlisting, he was working as a horse breaker at Casino. His brother, Tom Walker, was the first to join up in 1916 and served on the western front.

Edward then enlisted and was shipped to England onboard the Medic alongside several Aboriginal men from Queensland. He joined the 25th Battalion in January 1918 at Neuve Eglise in Belgium. Tom was in the same battalion but in a different company.

‘Mateship’ and racism

Phillipa Scarlett has argued the popular memory of “mateship” overshadows the extent of racism in the Australian Imperial Force.

“The AIF was dominated by the overarching philosophy of White Australia and believed it was fighting to keep Australia white,” she reports, citing evidence of white soldiers refusing to eat with Aboriginal men in the ranks and disproportionate punishment of Aboriginal soldiers for offences.

It seems likely this shaped the stories of the Lacey brothers, who set sail from Sydney on HMAT Ascanius and disembarked at Devonport. Both had come under the notice of military officers.

Before their departure in May 1916, Ernest had been charged as absent without leave. He had to forfeit three days’ pay. On the voyage to England, he was awarded a further 72 hours’ detention. Similarly, Louis was recorded as absent without leave on the voyage to England. He was given 96 hours’ detention, despite being confined to the ship. He was found to have contracted venereal disease on shore leave at Sierra Leone.

Louis continued to draw the ire of military officers. In England, he was disciplined on another two occasions. The second, in September 1917, was for drunkenness and behaviour conducive to the “prejudice of good order and military discipline” – while he was at Fargo Hospital, he behaved “in a disorderly manner”.

As Scarlett notes, Aboriginal soldiers were subject to excessive discipline in relation to alcohol use. Some military police attempted to enforce Australian legislation prohibiting Aboriginal men from drinking.

While many Australian soldiers displayed insubordination in the military, for Aboriginal soldiers, repeated records of military discipline may indicate racism among the ranks.

In November 1917, Louis was finally shipped to France to join the 17th Battalion. Again, he was in trouble, for using insulting language to his superior officer and taking another 14 days’ absence without leave. Louis was clearly one severely irritated soldier, evidently not coping with the military discipline of the AIF.

In June 1918, he was charged with desertion: it was claimed “when the Battalion was in the forward area [on 17 May], he absented himself without leave and remained so absent until arrested”. He was sent back to England under escort.

The 17th Battalion War Diary shows that at the time Louis Lacey deserted his battalion, it was in the front line near Sailly-le-Sec on the Somme. It also records that just prior to his desertion, the battalion had been involved in heavy fighting and repelled an attack. This resulted in the capture of thousands of German prisoners.

The battalion itself suffered 17 killed and another 36 wounded. On May 16 1918, it was relieved from the front line and sent back to a reserve position. That night, the reserve area came under heavy cannon fire. Another member of the battalion was killed and 11 were wounded.

It appears, then, that Louis was traumatised from his experiences. He was arrested at Oisemont, more than 60 kilometres from Sailly-le-Sec. This distance suggests he was desperate to get away from the front line. He was sentenced to five years in jail at H.M. Prison Gloucester.

‘Trees of flame’

Dick Johnson left Australia onboard HMAT Ceramic on October 7 1916 and arrived in Plymouth on November 21. On February 15 1917 he was shipped to France and arrived in Étaples to witness “immense concentrations of Commonwealth reinforcement camps and hospitals”. By 1917, there were 100,000 troops camped there.

Johnson joined the 13th Battalion, which was soon involved in some of the heaviest fighting on the western front at Bullecourt. One survivor recalled this terrible and futile battle:

A tornado of thunder and flame fell upon us, beyond anything I had known or imagined. Close as trees in a forest were the trees of flame. […] A score of men just in front melted in bloody fragments as a big-calibre shell landed. […] The plain was carpeted with bodies, most lying still, but some crawling laggingly for cover […] But there was no sound of human voice in all the storm.

In early June 1917, Johnson was admitted to hospital with an injury to his right heel. He rejoined his unit on July 14. For the remainder of 1917, the battalion was in Belgium advancing on the Hindenburg Line.

In June 1918, Johnson was wounded again. Eventually, he was invalided back to Plymouth with a knee injury. Convalescing in the United Kingdom, he met a Scottish woman, Thomasina Douglas, and they were married on January 4 1919 in Edinburgh. The couple returned to Australia on SS City of Exeter eight days later.

Thomasina clearly helped Johnson heal from the pain of the loss of his first wife. They would be together for the rest of their lives.

Loss and recovery

Meanwhile, Edward Walker, seven months after arriving in France, was wounded in action in July 1918, then shipped to England for treatment at the Southern General Hospital in Plymouth. From there, he wrote a concerned letter to the Red Cross seeking information on his brother Tom.

He had heard Tom had been killed in action, but received no official notification. Sadly, it was confirmed Tom had been killed on August 11 1918 at Bayonvillers. A low-flying German plane had dropped a bomb directly onto the trench, killing him instantly.

Tom left behind his wife, Lily, and two young children, living on the Aboriginal reserve at Ulgundahi Island on the Clarence River. Months after the loss of his brother, Edward was released from hospital – only to contract Spanish influenza.

The impact of the Spanish influenza, which the returning soldiers brought back to Australia, was devastating, with an estimated 15,000 people dying during the pandemic. Walker survived, but “was deemed no longer fit for active service”.

Just after the Armistice was signed in November 1918, he sailed back to Australia onboard HMAT Bakara. He returned to Ulgundahi Island and lived with his family there.

Battles at home

At war’s end, men of the AIF suffered physical and psychological wounds. Aboriginal soldiers did not have the same level of support that many returned soldiers enjoyed. Only a handful of Indigenous soldiers were successful in their applications under the soldier resettlement scheme. Even then, they faced blatant racism.

One Aboriginal man was granted a block near Forbes in western NSW, but his application for a loan to develop the land was rejected by an inspector: “This case is unsatisfactory … the holder is a blackman … altogether the wrong sort of man.” At least three other Aboriginal men faced overt discrimination that blocked their claims.

While Aboriginal soldiers were entitled to repatriation benefits, the policy was likely not “applied equally across the board”, with “sporadic complaints about discrimination against Aboriginal war veterans during the 1920s and 1930s”. Aboriginal soldiers had the additional burden of facing continued racism and prejudice when they returned home.

Not even a second-class citizen

Edward Walker’s postwar experiences starkly illustrate this. In 1919 he was forced to appear in court when a publican was charged with serving liquor to him and two friends in NSW. Edward was summoned to the trial, where the defence argued the publican should be let off because Edward was a returned soldier and it was unclear whether he was Aboriginal.

No white soldier was hauled to court for drinking a beer in a pub. Four years later Edward was back in court, this time “charged with using insulting words to Allan Cameron, manager of the Aborigines settlement on Ulgundahi Island”.

Cameron alleged Edward had assaulted him. Yet it appears Edward was the one under assault. “He caught my coat and said that I was bludgeoning on the returned soldiers’ badge,” he said.

Cameron claimed not to have known of Edward’s severe wartime injuries: “I did not know that defendant was a cripple, he gets the same wages as any other man and is able to work as well as any other.” Yet Cameron had known Edward for years. In 1918 he had commented on the Walker brothers’ experiences of war.

A witness, J. David, corroborated that Cameron was the aggressor and had the “defendant down and bumping his head on the ground”. Despite this evidence, the police magistrate decided to convict Edward on both charges, fined and bound to good behaviour for three months. Edward appealed.

Instead of being celebrated as a war hero, Edward Walker discovered he was a pariah – and not even a second-class citizen back in his own country.

Struggles with the law

Other soldiers had struggles with the law. In the UK, Louis Lacey had his five-year sentence commuted to one year. On release with good conduct, he was admitted to hospital with a septic foot and sent back to the AIF. Again, he went absent without leave after escaping lawful custody.

His father, Tom Lacey, was concerned with his son’s wellbeing and whereabouts, writing to military officials in September 1919:

I have a son at the front 6086 Private Louis Lacey 17th Battalion, and I have received no letters from him for the past four months and he said that he thought he would be returning to Australia in July, and I have had no word from him.

Louis finally sailed for Australia on September 22 1919. Yet even onboard ship, he took part in a disturbance on the troop deck and received 28 days’ detention.

Back in Australia, Louis remained a disturbed individual. It is not known whether he re-established a relationship with his family. In the early 1920s, it is recorded that he embarked on a boxing career.

That career, however, seems to have been short-lived. In 1928, he was recorded as living in the Salvation Army Shelter in Melbourne. In 1932, he was serving two years’ hard labour in Long Bay Gaol. At this point, Louis Lacey disappears from the historical record. Although we cannot know what his issues were, he clearly struggled with military discipline – and almost certainly with racism, both in the army and out of it.

Louis’ brother, Ernest, by contrast, appears to have lived a quiet life after the war. When he passed away in 1957, he was described at his funeral as the best known and most respected Aboriginal in Nowra, NSW.

More than 60 ex-servicemen attended to pay their respects at the Nowra War Cemetery. The funeral was carried out with full military honours and a rousing farewell from the Nowra branch of the RSL. Ernest’s casket was draped in a Union Jack with a digger’s hat and reversed spurs.

A speaker at the gravesite said: “We would like to remember the deceased as a young man, forgetting all colour of skin; he offered his life for his country along with the rest of Australia.” His community’s recognition of his service echoes the limits of mateship extended towards Aboriginal servicemen during the war.

As Scarlett shows, expressions of mateship with Aboriginal soldiers by white soldiers often positioned them as “white inside”, passing over the soldier’s Aboriginality, yet still marking it as inferior.

Postwar activism

In the early 20th century, Aboriginal political mobilisation was catalysed by the revocation of Aboriginal independent farms, and the escalation in Aboriginal child removal by the NSW Aborigines Protection Board.

Aboriginal soldiers returning home faced the devastating news that some of their families had been forced from their independent farms by the Aborigines Protection Board. Some of these men also learned that during their absence fighting for their country, their children had been removed from their wives’ care and placed into government institutions.

The Aboriginal community response to the establishment of the Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association, six years after the end of the war, was staggering. Within six months it had opened offices in Crown Street, Sydney, with a membership of more than 600 across 13 branches and four sub-branches around the state.

As a wharf labourer in Sydney, Maynard was a part of the Waterside Workers Union, which opposed conscription for overseas service, so he didn’t serve. But he carried a deep awareness of international events from his time on the Sydney waterfront. He and other Aboriginal dockworkers had developed close connections with visiting international black merchant sailors.

He was particularly influenced by Marcus Garvey’s Universal Negro Improvement Association (1920–24, with its message of racial, cultural and historical pride. An Australian chapter was established in 1920.

A powerful 1922 speech in Harlem resonated with the Aboriginal activists’ thinking about the dissonance between the supposed aims of the Great War and the reality of Aboriginal peoples’ lives:

You are asked to go and fight the Germans who had done you no wrong. You were told to give the Germans hell, while they were giving your mothers, sisters and sons hell in Mississippi, Georgia, Alabama and the Negro asked, “Which is better, to make the world safe for democracy, or to make his home safe for his wife and children?”

At the first association conference at St David’s Church and Hall in Sydney in April 1925, with more than 200 Aboriginal people in attendance, Johnson referenced Aboriginal military service and loyalty during the war. Months later, at the Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association’s first half-year meeting, he was reported in the press as a man “who wears the returned soldier’s badge”.

He was elected secretary of the Association’s Central Branch. Johnson remains one of the many important, but overlooked, Aboriginal political activists of the 20th century.

A fervent fighter for justice

Tom Lacey, father of Ernest and Louis, likely carried the trauma of his sons’ experiences with him. He assumed the position of treasurer when the Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association was formed, inspired by the surge for self-determination by oppressed peoples across the globe.

In a 1924 letter to Garvey’s central branch in Harlem, published in the Negro World, Lacey pledged the support of 10,000 Aboriginal people in NSW and 60,000 nationally.

He revealed the tight and restrictive controls Aboriginal people lived under, and that they had trouble reaching

some of our people, as the missionaries have got the most of them […] The authorities won’t allow us to see them unless we can give them [the Aboriginal Board] a clear explanation of what we want them for.

Yet he asserted that, given the opportunity, Aboriginal people were capable of gaining the same position “as the coloured people of the United States of America, who have their own colleges and universities”.

When he passed away in 1930, the press described Tom as “one of the most forceful advocates of the cause of his people – the Australian Aborigines […] His death is a distinct loss to his people, and he will be sadly missed.”

As for the Walker brothers, it was Edward who carried his experience of war into activism. Suffering serious wounds, he should have returned to a hero’s welcome. Instead he was greeted by the severe restrictions and blatant racism of continuing discrimination against Aboriginal Australians.

He would become the secretary of the Clarence River branch of the organisation. A fervent fighter for Aboriginal rights and justice, he joined the organisation only a year after he was assaulted and racially vilified by Cameron.

Edward was a prominent figure in 1925 and 1926. Alas, press reports tell us little more than his name. He died in 1976, aged 82.

Aboriginal veterans and Anzac

The motives of the Aboriginal men who joined the AIF in 1914–18 were not recorded in any official capacity. But surely they anticipated their service on behalf of Australia would enhance their claims to full citizenship rights on their return.

Instead they confronted deeply embedded racism. This continued in Australian military service. In the second world war, for example, Private Russell Amato went AWOL three times from three different units, because he “couldn’t stand the other soldiers making derogatory remarks about Aboriginal people, particularly women, about whom the talk was sexual”.

In Amato’s court-martial, the defending officer reported that Aboriginal soldiers routinely faced such discrimination: “it appears that there is a certain element in the camps that brings up the colour bar against such men”.

The marginalisation of Aboriginal soldiers from the mainstream Anzac narrative was only addressed from the 1990s, with a concerted effort to draw attention to the service of Indigenous soldiers in the prelude to the centenary in the 2010s.

The Australian Aboriginal Progressive Association disappeared from public view after 1929, harassed, hounded and smashed out of existence by a coalition of the Aborigines Protection Board, the missionaries and the police. However, its legacy continued as its members remained active in pressing for Aboriginal rights.

This is an edited version of John Maynard’s essay in Challenging Anzac: Stories that don’t fit the legend, edited by Mia Martin Hobbs, Carolyn Holbrook and Joan Beaumont (New South).

John Maynard, Director/Chair of Aboriginal History - The Wollotuka Institute, University of Newcastle

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

The shortlist for the Turner prize 2026 brings together four artists whose practices are firmly rooted in sculpture and installation. Their work, in diverse ways, tests how material form can carry political, ecological and symbolic meaning.

This year’s Turner prize jury (chaired by Alex Farquharson, director of Tate Britain) is composed of Sarah Allen (South London Gallery), Joe Hill (Yorkshire Sculpture Park), Sook-Kyung Lee (The Whitworth) and Alona Pardo (Arts Council Collection). They praised the shortlisted artists for their material intelligence and their capacity to link sculptural language to wider systems of power, memory and belief. Here is a round up of this year’s shortlisted artists.

Simeon Barclay: performance, place and British ruin

Simeon Barclay is nominated for The Ruin, shown at the Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA), London in January 2025 and later at the Hepworth Wakefield in Yorkshire. His work combines performance, sculptural installation, spoken word and live brass music. This combination nods obliquely to the industrial and musical traditions of his Yorkshire upbringing.

Barclay’s practice frequently returns to British national identity as something shaped by labour, landscape and decay. In The Ruin, industrial materials become resonant rather than merely symbolic: scaffolding, sound and breath are choreographed to produce an atmosphere that feels both ceremonial and unstable. The presence of brass instruments (historically tied to civic pride and working-class culture) introduces a solemnity that is repeatedly undermined by fragmentation and collapse.

Barclay’s work stages Britishness as something assembled and disassembled in real time. Spoken language slips between declaration and hesitation, while the sculptural setting refuses to settle into monumentality. It is a practice less concerned with nostalgia than with the ways national identity is continually rehearsed, strained and repaired.

Marguerite Humeau: sculpting belief systems

Marguerite Humeau is nominated for Orisons (2023), originally produced for the Black Cube Nomadic Art Museum, and for her subsequent exhibition Torches at ARKEN Museum in Denmark. Her contribution to the shortlist brings an overtly speculative dimension into dialogue with sculpture.

Humeau’s work often begins with research into non-human intelligence and biological communication systems. In Orisons, a large-scale sculptural elephant emerges as a central figure. However, it is not as an image of wildlife, but a stand-in for matriarchal knowledge and collective memory. Elsewhere in her practice, attention shifts dramatically in scale, from insects and wasps to ecosystems that exceed human comprehension.

The jury highlighted Humeau’s “cinematic” approach, and this is apt. Her installations are immersive, carefully lit and choreographed, producing a sense of narrative without storyline. Yet the work resists being pinned down. Instead, sculpture becomes a speculative tool for imagining belief systems that sit outside rationality: an attempt to materialise what cannot be directly known, only inferred.

Kira Freije: softness, armour and the human figure

Kira Freije is nominated for Unspeak the Chorus, her exhibition at the Hepworth Wakefield in Yorkshire. Her sculptures take the form of life-size hybrid beings – part animal, part human, part automaton – constructed from fabric, metal and aluminium casts taken from her body and the faces of people close to her.

Freije’s work consistently plays hardness against softness. Industrial materials such as aluminium are used not for rigidity, but for their capacity to receive impressions through casting. The results are surfaces that appear armoured yet vulnerable. Faces emerge as partial traces, embedded within bodies that refuse stable identity categories.

These figures don’t dominate space so much as inhabit it uneasily. Suspended between animation and stillness, they suggest forms of collectivity that are fragile, negotiated and embodied. The jury noted her transformation of everyday and industrial materials, but it is the emotional economy of the work – its careful calibration of exposure and defence – that gives it weight.

Tanoa Sasraku: sculpture and petro-politics

Tanoa Sasraku completes the shortlist with Morale Patch, exhibited at the ICA in 2025. Her work looks at oil as a system of power, examining how petro-politics shapes corporate identity, military culture and national symbolism.

In Morale Patch, Sasraku disrupts minimalist sculptural grids by inserting objects laden with meaning: paperweights awarded to mark milestones in oil extraction, flags mounted on crates that evoke pallets or coffins, and repeated references to military terminology. The title points to the symbolic language used to maintain cohesion within structures of extraction and violence.

Sasraku juxtaposes American and Scottish flags, drawing attention to unexpected national entanglements within global energy systems. Sculpture here operates as a critical inventory, cataloguing how abstract economic forces find expression in objects designed to reassure, reward or commemorate.

Sculpture and the institutions that shape it

This year’s prize arrives at a moment when sculpture, funding structures and art education are becoming unusually entangled. For the first time, the prize will be hosted within a university setting, Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art (known as MIMA, part of Teesside University). The Turner prize is run by Tate, an Arts Council England (ACE) National Portfolio Organisation (NPO) – as is MIMA. This means that ACE funds a national prize presented in an ACE-funded space, which also functions as a teaching and research environment.

In recent years, there have been clear connections between funding and nomination with some shortlisted artists holding NPO status. This is a pattern that my research has identified as part of the wider instrumentalisation of British art funding.

Then there are the concerns raised by the Independent Review of Arts Council England’s critical assessment of ACE’s increasing institutionalisation and its sidelining of artistic quality.

Together, these issues raise questions about how closely programming, funding frameworks and art education may begin to mirror one another. Universities, some of which are NPOs or host NPO-adjacent arts centres (as we do at the University of Lincoln), risk reproducing rather than challenging dominant artistic norms.

Yet this year’s shortlist complicates that concern. It’s notably strong on artistic grounds, driven less by identity-led rationales than by a renewed commitment to sculpture as a way of thinking about power, ecology and belief.

Marguerite Humeau stands out as a possible winner. Her work exemplifies a post-postmodern sensibility shaped by new materialist thought: sculpture no longer represents the world so much as participates in it, modelling forms of non-human intelligence and agency through matter itself.

Humeau’s ability to combine speculative research with rigorous fabrication gives her work both intellectual ambition and genuine aesthetic appeal. These are qualities that suggest the Turner Prize, for all its institutional entanglements, still has the capacity to reward artistic excellence.

An exhibition of the shortlisted work will open at Middlesbrough Institute of Modern Art (MIMA) on September 26 2026.

Martin Lang, Senior Lecturer and Programme Leader in Fine Art , University of Lincoln

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

April 25 1896 was a significant date in the history of women’s legal rights in Australia.

Two things happened on this day: women, including Aboriginal women, voted for the first time in Australia, thanks to a Constitutional Amendment passed by the South Australian parliament in 1894; and, in a world first, women in Australia became able to sit in parliament and participate in government.

The 1894 amendment wasn’t the first South Australian bill that gave women the right to vote, but it was the first to became law. So what was different this time?

From legal non-person to political actor

Prior to 1870, a woman living in a country based on English common law (which included Australia) would have her legal identity absorbed by her husband’s upon marriage. She would became a feme covert, a legal non-person. And any assets she brought to the marriage, or earned, would belong to her husband.

However, one of the most influential British political philosophers of the 19th century, John Stuart Mills (1806–73) argued the only way for societies to progress was for this legal subjugation to stop, and for women to be viewed as equals.

Living in Victorian England, Mills contributed to the 1870 Married Woman’s Property Act which allowed women throughout the Commonwealth to legally maintain control over their own income and some property in marriage.

Partially as a result of this, women across the Commonwealth were increasingly seen as equal partners in marriage by the late Victorian era (about 1870 to 1901).

While they were still firmly responsible for the domestic sphere, middle and upper-middle class women began to take on more public roles to drive reform in education, public health and policing. Trade unions were more supportive of women working, and middle-class women were increasingly working outside the home.

These cultural and legal changes made it easier to pass further new laws.

In 1893, both New Zealand and the state of Colorado, in the United States, saw women gain the right to vote. South Australia was eager to be a part of this global wave of change.

Many of the women who campaigned for universal suffrage in South Australia were involved with global suffrage movements. They travelled internationally, while suffragettes from other countries visited Australia.

One of the most influential South Australian suffragists was Catherine Helen Spence (1825–1901). She was vice-president of the Women’s Suffrage League of South Australia, a journalist, advocate and public intellectual who toured the US and Canada.

A polarising trailblazer

At the same time as suffragists were learning from global political movements, male politicians in Australia were also looking beyond Great Britain for ideas on how to govern.

Charles Cameron Kingston (1850–1908) was the Premier of South Australia from 1893 to 1899, and would go on to become a key figure in the establishment of the Federation in 1901.

Kingston was a contradictory and polarising man. He was both a terrible bully in the political arena, and also an incredibly hardworking politician dedicated to the betterment of the people.

He originally opposed women getting the vote, but later changed his mind, both due to cultural shifts taking place in Australia, as well as ideas of liberalism being developed globally.

In 1894, a fellow parliamentarian asked Kingston why he had changed his position on women getting the vote, and introduced the bill. His response:

It is only very stupid people who refuse to change their views when they see them as wrong, and it is a characteristic of the wise that as they grow older, they grow wiser.

After the bill was passed, 70,000 adult women came forward to register to vote. Kingston’s wife, Lucy, was the first woman registered.

Adult Aboriginal women were also legally able to vote in South Australia, and some did in the 1896 election. However, others were not informed of their right and some were actively discouraged from voting.

The ability for women to stand for election was also a world first, and an integral part of the 1894 amendment. Women in South Australia wasted no time in exercising this new right.

Catherine Helen Spence not only registered to vote and voted in the 1896 election, but also stood for election in 1897 to be part of the Constitutional Convention. The Constitutional Conventions were a series of meetings to determine and debate the content of Australia’s Constitution.

She ran against Kingston and other well-known politicians. Although she wasn’t successful, her efforts were honoured in a commemorative $5 banknote issued in 2001.

Who was left behind

Following Federation, Kingston was instrumental in ensuring women who had voting rights at the state level were granted the right to vote at the Commonwealth level. This paved the way for the Commonwealth Franchise Act 1902, which gave women the ability to vote in federal elections.

However, this act was more restrictive than the South Australian voting laws. It excluded people who were “Aboriginal native people of Australia, Asia, Africa or the Islands of the Pacific”. The only exceptions were those who already had the right to vote in state elections.

So while Aboriginal women in SA could vote in federal elections, those in other states such as Queensland (where state laws did not permit them voting rights), were barred from federal voting.

These barriers were only removed in 1962, after which all Australian citizens (still considered British subjects) were able to vote in state and federal elections.

Ultimately, women in Australia gained the right to vote in part because of powerful people who were willing to rethink their positions. This history reminds us social progress has always depended on people’s willingness to collaborate and consider other points of view.

Alice Neikirk, Program Convenor, Criminology, University of Newcastle

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

David George Joseph Malouf AO, one of Australia’s most accomplished, internationally renowned and beloved writers, has died aged 92.

Malouf’s novels are cherished by readers – from Johnno (1975), An Imaginary Life (1978), Child’s Play (1981) and Fly Away Peter (1982) to Harland’s Half Acre (1984), The Great World (1990), Remembering Babylon (1993), Conversations at Curlow Creek (1996) and Ransom (2009).

He also wrote numerous short stories, producing four thematically coherent collections. All these works draw from and transmute elements of his own life, his detailed memories of places, people, things and experiences. Yet Malouf always maintained a clear separation between his personal, private life and his public self as a writer.

Malouf made an indelible mark on Australian literature. His many distinguished honours and awards included an Order of Australia, the Neustadt International Prize for Literature (2000), election as a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature (2008) and an Australia Council Award for a Lifetime Achievement in Australian Literature (2016).

He was in every sense a man of letters. He was a great reader and profoundly erudite. He was a sociable, assured and generous contributor to literary and public conversation. These same qualities imbue his writerly voice, his regular invocation of a communal “us” or “we”. His intimacy of address marks his poetry and prose, inviting trust and drawing in readers.

A writer’s life

Malouf was born in Brisbane in 1934 to first-generation migrants to Australia, a Lebanese-Melkite Christian father and a European-Jewish mother. The latter had grown up in England, until financial misfortune prompted her family to emigrate to Australia.

His mother’s Anglophilia transmitted itself to the young Malouf. Unable to speak the language (Arabic) of his paternal grandparents, who lived nearby when he was young, Malouf knew of but did not identify with either his Lebanese or Jewish ancestry. He grew up reading the Anglo-European canon and learning several languages, as well as piano and violin.

He saw himself as a writer in English – not as a writer of the migrant experience. Likewise, he did not want his writing to be defined by his sexuality. These aspects of his life are, however, present in his writing, and they mark its character and preoccupations in both subtle and tangible ways.

Having graduated from the University of Queensland, 24-year-old Malouf embarked in 1959 for England, where he taught for the next decade in secondary schools. During this period, he travelled extensively in Europe, worked on his poetry and began early drafts of his first novel, Johnno.

Returning to Australia in 1968, he took up a teaching post in English at the University of Sydney. The next decade was immensely productive, with publication of Johnno and An Imaginary Life and two arresting poetry collections, Bicycle (1970) and Neighbours in a Thicket (1974).

In 1978, Malouf relinquished his university post and went to live for ten months each year in Campagnatico, an isolated village in Italy. There he dedicated himself to writing without distraction, but maintained connections with Australia and his peers.

He returned to Australia in the early 1980s, settling in inner Sydney for the next few decades, close by the university and its library. His last move, in about 2017, was to return close to his home base in Brisbane, to an apartment in Surfers Paradise, near his family and the places of his earliest memories.

Living landscapes

Malouf introduced readers to the subtropical regions of his home state of Queensland, to fertile, watery landscapes imbued with time and memory.

His writing often starts from the small, the inconsequential and the ordinary, and unfolds from there into vibrant particularity. And then it moves outward, opening long perspectives and distant horizons, whether of nation, world or the earth itself. His figures travel towards strangeness and mystery at the edges of the self.

Malouf’s writing is sensitive to living landscapes in both regional and urban settings. His remarkable prose memoir, 12 Edmondstone Street, recalls the now-demolished South Brisbane house that had been the “first place” of his early childhood. It unfolds through successive rooms and tells of its story-laden objects.

The idea of this first house as a storehouse of memory, imagination and writing was central for Malouf. He once described the experience of writing his successive books as like building a house, to which he was adding rooms. Each new room is “part of that house, and not another house”, and yet adds something that reconfigures the whole.

Malouf’s fiction works on multiple levels, engaging with history and collective memory. Johnno, for instance, tells what it was like to grow up in Brisbane during and after the second world war. It is a sensory hymn to a ramshackle town that becomes a city, seen intimately and from afar as it alters beyond recognition. Harland’s Half Acre, Fly Away Peter and The Great World span the generational experiences of Australians involved in the two world wars.

Remembering Babylon and Conversations at Curlow Creek move back to the pre-Federation, colonial era. Their publication coincided with the settler nation’s first tentative reckonings with its brutal colonial history and legacy – a reckoning still far from complete. These novels spurred Malouf’s wider public engagements in the 1990s.

In the wake of writers such as Kenneth Slessor and Patrick White, Malouf forged new pathways for settler Australian literature. Through his writing, he aspired to cultivate interiors – a sense of the mysterious or numinous dimensions of life and things. He sought to reconcile these interior qualities with outer worlds.

This also drove his attempt to imagine an interior history for Australia, to tell the untold stories of inner, collective experience behind or within external events. He believed in the role imagination and storytelling could play in recognising the darkness of settler-colonial history and moving towards reconciliation with Australia’s First Peoples.

In 1998, he presented the Boyer lectures, published as A Spirit of Play: The Making of Australian Consciousness. In these he canvassed the “complex fate”, sensibility and potential of a settler people, “children both of the old world and the new”.

Malouf’s public commentary on civic and national matters was matched by his quiet work on peace and reconciliation behind the scenes. In 1999, with Jackie Huggins, Malouf co-wrote the draft Declaration for Reconciliation, intended for consultation with the Australian people. He advocated the freedom of writers around the world through his long involvement in PEN Sydney, of which he was a life member. He was a lifetime ambassador of the Indigenous Literacy Foundation.

A poet from first to last

From first to last, Malouf was a poet. From Four Poets (1962) – a joint endeavour with fellow poets Donald Maynard, Rodney Hall and Malouf’s close friend Judith Green (later Rodriguez) – to Earth Hour (2014) and An Open Book (2018), and many prize-winning collections in between, the luminous quality of Malouf’s poetry belies the complex dimensions it unfurls.

A poetic imagination, as Yvonne Smith says, infuses all Malouf’s writing with music, creating what Ivor Indyk calls its “pulse”. For Vivian Smith, the precise observations in Malouf’s poetry are sensual, “rooted in the tentacular, in the life of the body”.

Malouf is most known around the world, however, for his fiction. His books secured such prizes as the Miles Franklin Literary Award, the Prix Femina Étranger and the inaugural International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. He was thrice winner of Australia’s oldest literary award, the Australian Literary Society’s (ALS) Gold Medal, a feat so far matched only by Patrick White and Alexis Wright.

But Malouf also possessed a rare ability to work across genres with flair and elegance. He composed libretti for at least four operas, starting with Voss, based on Patrick White’s novel. His play Blood Relations (1987) reworked Shakespeare’s The Tempest.

Beyond national horizons

Though anchored in beloved Australian places, Malouf’s writing seeks coordinates beyond national horizons with world literature, from the classics of antiquity to the modern transatlantic canon. His writing converses with the works of, among others, Marcel Proust, Joseph Conrad, Henry James, Honore de Balzac, James Joyce, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Rainer Maria Rilke, Wallace Stevens and William Faulkner, and with the ancient poetry of Homer, Horace and Ovid. His lifelong love of classical languages is manifest in his writing.

Malouf felt a personal affinity with Ovid, with whom he shared a birthday. His internationally acclaimed second novel, An Imaginary Life, recreated the experience of the ageing Ovid in exile on the remote edge of the Roman empire. Here, through his encounter with his opposite, a wild child, the poet opens himself newly towards experience of the world, and towards his own bodily and mortal being.

Malouf’s last novel, Ransom, circles back to the ancient world. Reworking the last book of Homer’s Iliad, Ransom cultivates the interior history of the epic. While the epic tells of great events in heroic terms, Malouf explores the thoughts and feelings of the aged, grieving King Priam and the furious avenger Achilles. It ultimately returns us to Priam’s companion, an ordinary man and the bearer of the story, the carter Somax, and Beauty, his favourite mule.

Ransom creates, amid hostilities, a little pocket of stilled time. From here, the story expands to the past and the future. New models of being are ventured. The weight of convention, of royalty, of war, is balanced by the myriad “prattling” voices of the living world. The epic finds its counterweight in this novel, which attends to the small, the humble and the inconsequential.

The reality of the small and the inconsequential crystallises once more in Before or After, the very last poem in his last book, An Open Book:

… It is the small,
the muted inconsequential,
at this point that comes closest

to real.

With its evanescent and mysterious refractions, with its threading of connection between ancient and modern worlds, Malouf’s writing gives us a vision of life even at the edge of destruction.

He will be a remembered as a writer of wisdom, grace and generosity, and for the richness of his poetic imagination. He will be remembered for his curiosity and dedication to literature. He’ll be remembered as someone not bowed down, as only lightly touched, by time.

Brigid Rooney, Associate Professor (Affiliate), Australian Literature, University of Sydney

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

If the news of former ABC Sydney radio presenter James Valentine’s death hit you hard, and you’re wondering why, it makes sense to me.

For many listeners, the strange part is not just the grief but having to account for it. He wasn’t your friend. Or was he? He wasn’t someone you’d meet for coffee. And yet it can feel like that kind of relationship. The sense of loss is real.

I’m in that position too. I didn’t know James personally. I knew him the way listeners do, through the radio. I did speak to him once, years ago, when I was a junior broadcaster trying to get better at the job. He agreed to talk to me about how he thought about his work in a project that became a PhD.

What struck me then, and has stayed with me since, is how clearly he understood his connection with his listeners. He understood it was a strange asymmetrical relationship, but that didn’t mean it was one-sided.

The first question I asked him was how different he was off-radio compared to on. He told me:

I don’t think [it’s] very different at all. People walk up to me in the street and start talking to me like they’re my friend and in fact they are. They are my friend. I don’t know them very well but they know me extremely well.

He didn’t see this as something mistaken. He understood how the relationship worked and it was as important to him as it was to his listener. It wasn’t something to correct. He had a way to hold the tension. He told me:

I conceive of them as a collective mass, one at a time.

A relationship over the airways

The affection James had for his listeners was genuine. “I love the audience. They’re my people.”

It might not look like other kinds of reciprocal friendship, but for James the connection wasn’t abstract or imagined – it drove the way he made radio.

What mattered to him, he told me, was what the program did for listeners in the middle of the mundane. To lighten the load. To make people laugh. To bring a bit of joy, or, as he liked to say, whimsy, to an otherwise unremarkable afternoon.

“It’s all about them,” he said. “If I make it all about them, I get my jollies.”

Listening back to the interview now, what also comes through is how deliberate that way of being on air actually is. It sounds easy, like someone simply talking. But that’s the work. As he put it,

you become experienced at drawing on yourself … finding the bits that you’re comfortable about bringing in […] well aware of the areas you don’t want to touch upon.

Knowing what to say, what to leave out, how much of yourself to bring in and how much to hold back. Done well, a voice starts to feel familiar. Part of the rhythm of the day. Something you return to without really thinking about it.

There is a word for this kind of relationship: parasocial. It’s used to describe that sense of friendship you feel with someone on the radio or TV. But we don’t often get to hear about it from the other side. What came through in the way James talked about his work was that he understood it and valued it.

As a listener it can feel weirdly one-sided. You know a lot about someone who doesn’t know you at all. But that isn’t how he understood it. He knew exactly what was going on. He knew you knew him. And he knew you were real. Not in some abstract sense, but as a person who had made space for him in their day, who had let his voice become part of their routine.

He could only ever encounter his audience as a collective, one at a time. But he didn’t reduce them to that. He worked with the relationship as it was.

It was about the listener

When I asked him what he takes from the work his answer was simple. It was about the listener. Sometimes people told him “I love it when you’re back after the holidays”. Or “I missed you the other day”. Or “I’m always happy when I’ve got to do the laundry at that time because I know I can listen to you”.

James’ response to that was:

Thanks! That’s a pretty good thing to carry away … you create a great lasting sense of having done something for somebody that’s quite a nice thing to have done.

It can feel strange to grieve someone you never met. To try to make sense of why it matters. But from what he told me, I don’t think James Valentine would have questioned it. He understood the relationship he had with you, and he took it seriously. He recognised it. So if it feels real, that’s because it is.

Helen Wolfenden, Senior Lecturer in Radio, Macquarie University

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

When the Crusaders descended upon the eastern shores of the Mediterranean at the end of the 11th century, they had to communicate with each other, with traders and with locals.

Many of them spoke different Romance languages: Italian (especially from the then powerful city-states of Venice and Genoa), Provençal, French or their forerunner, Latin.

Most Westerners in southern Europe were French, especially from between Marseilles and Genoa, from where ships and traders sailed towards the Middle East. These Westerners, as a whole, came to be called Franci (Franks, or French) by Arabs and Greeks.

Around the time of the Fourth Crusade (1202–04) – and perhaps earlier – a mixed language gradually emerged in the eastern Mediterranean, and later spread to the west.

This common language used by the “Franks” and those who traded and fought with them was also known as Sabir, Bastard Italian and Bastard Spanish. But you might be most familiar with the term Lingua Franca: literally, Franks’ language.

The Frankish language was a mixture of simplified Italian, French and Spanish, with a smattering of Arabic and Turkish, and was in use across the Mediterranean shores in the Middle East until the late 19th century, before it faded away.

Written with lower case, lingua franca refers to any language used between people who have no other language in common.

An ancient tradition

Lingua francas go back to antiquity.

Sanskrit was a lingua franca throughout Southeast Asia and Central Asia in the first millennium CE, via trade and religion.

Around the Mediterranean, Greek was a lingua franca from about 300 BCE until about 500 CE, used in trade, literature and education, and in spreading early Christianity.

Between the second and the fourth centuries, standard Latin replaced Greek as the lingua franca of the expanding Catholic Church. Latin took over as the pan-European language of religion, culture and scholarship, and continued well into the 19th century.

From the 17th century, Arabic has been a lingua franca across the Islamic world, connecting communities across Africa and Asia.

That same century, with the rise of France as an economic power, French gradually replaced Latin in many areas as the first “global” lingua franca in politics, diplomacy, trade and education. French was the language of royal courts; scholars, aristocrats, merchants, and diplomats would use French to talk and to write to each other.

French continued to be the main language of international relations up until the end of the second world war.

After the 1940s, partly due to the growing influence of the United States, English has become the main lingua franca across the world.

Crafting a new language

With the colonial expansion of imperialistic powers and their languages Spanish, English, French, Portuguese, German and Dutch, since about 15th century, the name lingua franca came to be used as a common noun.

Throughout European colonisation, people from different language groups were forced to work together as slaves or indentured workers. They would communicate with each other, and with their masters, using a simplified language, for limited purposes – simple commands, questions and statements using a mixture of what each of them knew.

Such makeshift means of communication is known as pidgin language (from the English word business).

Pidgins can be used as lingua francas. Once speakers of a pidgin start marrying each other, a pidgin may become the sole language spoken by the next generation of children. It then expands into a fully-fledged language – a Creole – used for all purposes.

Creoles such as Tok Pisin in Papua New Guinea, Sranan in Suriname, Kristang in Malaysia, and Haitian Creole in Haiti are lingua francas used across these countries.

A global language can also be of artificial origin.

The end of the 19th century saw an explosion of interest in constructing global languages. The most prominent of these was Esperanto, “the language of hope”, created by Ludwik Zamenhof in 1887 as “the international language”, or a general lingua franca. Esperanto still boasts a couple of thousand native speakers, and many more enthusiasts, but is gradually on the wane.

Today’s global lingua franca

Lingua francas arise when required, and fade when replaced by others.

German faded as a lingua franca with the loss of German colonies after the first world war. Portuguese remains a lingua franca across Brazil, and Spanish across other South American countries.

And the global use of French is still there: we send a letter par avion, or to poste restante.

But there is one winner, well ahead of the rest. English has now grown to be the global language, spreading well beyond native speakers and the former colonies of English-speaking powers. English is the language of world-wide diplomacy, scholarship, and especially technological advances, social media and artificial intelligence.

Does the aggressive spread of English threaten to put an end to all other languages, minority languages and other lingua franca alike, and language diversity across the world? The jury is still out.

The growing importance of Mandarin Chinese as a main lingua franca across China, of Arabic across Africa and the Middle East, and people’s resilience to keep their languages going – and with them their cultures and histories – may well keep English at bay.

Alexandra Aikhenvald, Professor and Australian Laureate Fellow, Jawun Research Institute, CQUniversity Australia

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

Your brain is currently expending about a fifth of your body’s energy, and almost none of that is being used for what you’re doing right now. Reading these words, feeling the weight of your body in a chair – all of this together barely changes the rate at which your brain consumes energy, perhaps by as little as 1%.

The other 99% is used on the activity the brain generates on its own: neurons (nerve cells) firing and signalling to each other regardless of whether you’re thinking hard, watching television, dreaming, or simply closing your eyes.

Even in the brain areas dedicated to vision, the visuals coming in through your eyes shape the activity of your neurons less than this internal ongoing action.

In a paper just published in Psychological Review, we argue that our imagination sculpts the images we see in our mind’s eye by carving into this background brain activity. In fact, imagination may have more to do with the brain activity it silences than with the activity it creates.

Imagining as seeing in reverse

Consider how “seeing” is understood to work. Light enters the eyes and sparks neural signals. These travel through a sequence of brain regions dedicated to vision, each building on the work of the last.

The earliest regions pick out simple features such as edges and lines. The next combine those into shapes. The ones after that recognise objects, and those at the top of the sequence assemble whole faces and scenes.

Neuroscientists call this “feedforward activity” – the gradual transformation of raw light into something you can name, whether it’s a dog, a friend, or both.

In brain science, the standard view is that visual imagination is this original seeing process run in reverse, from within your mind rather than from light entering your eyes.

So, when you hold the face of a friend in mind, you start with an abstract idea of them – a memory or a name, pulled from the filing cabinet of regions that sit beyond the visual system itself.

That idea travels back down through the visual sequence into the early visual areas, which serve as your brain’s workshop where a face would normally be reconstructed from its parts – the curve of a jawline, the specific shade of an eye. These downward signals are called “feedback activity”.

A signal through the static

However, prior research shows this feedback activity doesn’t drive visual neurons to fire in the same way as when you actually see something.

At least in the brain regions early in the vision process, feedback instead modulates brain activity. This means it increases or decreases the activity of the brain cells, reshaping what those neurons are already doing.

Even behind closed eyes, early visual brain areas keep producing shifting patterns of neural activity resembling those the brain uses to process real vision.

Imagination doesn’t need to build a face from scratch. The raw material is already there. In the internal rumblings of your visual areas, fragments of every face you know are drifting through at low volume. Your friend’s face, even now, is passing through in pieces, scattered and unrecognised. What imagining does is hold still the currents that would otherwise carry those pieces away.

All that’s needed is a small, targeted suppression of neurons that are pulled by brain activity in a different direction, and your friend’s face settles out of the noise, like a signal carving its way through static.

Steering the brain

In mice, artificially switching on as few as 14 neurons in a sensory brain region is enough for the animal to notice it and lick a sugar-water spout in response. This shows how small an intervention in the brain can be while still steering behaviour.

While we don’t know how many neurons are needed to steer internal activity into a conscious experience of imagination in humans, growing evidence shows the importance of dampening neural activity.

In our earlier experiments, when people imagined something, the fingerprint it left on their behaviour matched suppression of neuronal activity – not firing. Other researchers have since found the same pattern.

Other lines of evidence strengthen our theory, too. About one in 100 people have aphantasia, which means they can’t form mental images at all. One in 30 form these images so vividly they approach the intensity of images we actually see, known as hyperphantasia.

Research has found that people with weaker mental imagery have more excitable early visual areas, where neurons fire more readily on their own. This is consistent with a visual system whose spontaneous patterns are harder to hold in shape.

Taking all this together, the spontaneous activity reshaping hypothesis – our new theory that imagination carves images out of the steady stream of ongoing brain activity – explains why imagination usually feels weaker than sight. It also explains why we rarely lose track of which is which.

Visual perception arrives with a strength and regularity the brain’s own internal patterns don’t match. Imagination works with those patterns rather than against them, reshaping what is already there into something we can almost see.

Thomas Pace, Researcher and Lecturer at the Thompson Institute, University of the Sunshine Coast and Roger Koenig-Robert, Senior Research Fellow, Graduate School of Health, University of Technology Sydney; UNSW Sydney

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

From October people will no longer have to pay to receive help with showering, dressing and support in managing continence, in changes to home care packages to be announced by Health Minister Mark Butler on Wednesday.

Under the aged care reform program brought in by the Albanese government, clinical care is free but showering and similar personal help fell into the category of services for which the person is charged a co-payment.

From the start, it was pointed out by stakeholders that showering is essential and should belong in the free category.

The government says in a statement, “The changes respond directly to feedback from older Australians, their families, advocates and providers, who have made it clear that these personal care services are essential for people’s independence and ability to stay at home”.

When he was asked on The Conversation podcast last year why showering wasn’t being entirely funded as a necessity, Aged Care Minister Sam Rae said: “We’ll be monitoring this very closely.

"We want to make sure that every single older person gets the care that they need and that they deserve. So there are very modest co-contributions associated with some services, such as showering, that we are asking people who have the means to contribute to, to do so.”

In the statement announcing the changes, Rae says:“Showering, dressing, continence care – these aren’t optional extras. They’re the basics of ageing with dignity, and no older Australian should miss out because of cost.

"Older Australians, their families and providers told us these services needed to be protected. We’ve listened, and we’re acting.

"As our population ages, we’ll keep doing the work to make sure the system is strong enough, and fair enough, to meet the moment.”

Butler will announce the cost of the aged care changes on Wednesday, when he appears at the National Press Club to outline the government’s overhaul of the National Disability Insurance Scheme.

The NDIS changes are to cut the scheme’s unsustainable growth in cost and number of entrants. Currently the cost is growing at 10% annually, even after earlier reforms to rein it in. The government wants to cut this to 5% annually.

On Tuesday Treasurer Jim Chalmers met his state counterparts in a virtual conference for preliminary talks about managing the scheme. The states need to take extra responsibilities for disability services as the Commonwealth pulls back, but they have proved difficult to persuade.

Queensland has not signed up to the “Thriving Kids” program that followed earlier reforms to shift some of the burden for disability services to the states.

The states said after Tuesday’s discussion that they had been given little detail of the coming round of changes.

Michelle Grattan, Professorial Fellow, University of Canberra

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

This week, we learned older people in home-based aged care will no longer have to pay out-of-pocket for showering, dressing and continence care.

This backflip will provide relief for those currently receiving services under the Support at Home program and the 100,000 or so people on the waiting list for home care.

For people with continence issues, wounds and other issues that make showering essential, this is welcome news and something both advocates and consumers have been calling for.

This announcement comes as the government grapples with the cost of providing health care in various forms, prompting major changes to the National Disability Insurance Scheme, aged care and private health insurance.

In fact, the government plans to pay for increased funding for aged care, including the Support at Home program, by scrapping the additional private health insurance rebate for the over-65s.

One key issue now is how Australia subsidises this type of aged care without shifting excessive costs onto future generations.

Equitable but at what cost?

A key push of the Support at Home program, which started in November 2025, is that people who can afford it should fund more of their own care. The aim of this so-called “vertical equity” is to ensure the system is sustainable.

In theory, this protects funding for those who need it most. In practice, it has raised questions about whether it has undermined access to necessary care.

There’s a list with three types of services requiring the person receiving care to contribute at different levels:

• Clinical support services require no co-contribution, regardless of means. This includes services such as wound care or podiatry.

• Independence (including personal care) requires a contribution of 5–50% of the fee depending on income and assets. This currently includes services such as showering, social support and respite care.

• Everyday living requires the biggest contribution of 17.5–80%. This includes cleaning, home maintenance and gardening.

Let’s see what this means in dollar terms. Currently, if a shower costs about A$100 an hour (not unreasonable given this hourly rate has to include superannuation, travel, workers compensation, for instance), a person on a full aged pension would have to pay $5 per shower and a person at full rates would pay $50.

You can see how this adds up quickly with payments also required for other services, such as cleaning and gardening eating into a fixed age pension. Getting help to shower every day becomes impossible – particularly with higher rates paid at the weekend.

Some people may be able to get friends and neighbours to help with some tasks, such as mowing the lawn or putting out the bins. But showering is intensely personal. It isn’t something you want to have to ask of a friend.

However, the recent announcement means personal care – showering, dressing, continence care – moves from being classified as “independence” which attracted a co-payment to “clinical support”, which requires the participant to pay nothing out-of-pocket.

This ensures a different type of equity, known as “horizontal equity”. In other words, everyone with similar clinical needs can access the same support.

But there’s a flip side. This change means people who could afford to contribute to personal care will no longer need to do so. This increases the share of costs borne by taxpayers.

Why are there different subsidies?

When people start to have difficulty managing their daily activities, they often turn to requesting help doing the cleaning, cooking and gardening rather than working on improving or regaining their capacity to do those tasks.

The idea behind setting varied prices for the different types of services is to shift this pattern.

It’s to encourage people to get the clinical support they need and promote capacity building – via using services with no out-of-pocket costs – so people can continue to manage daily living at home. This may mean bringing in a physiotherapist to help someone move about, and maintain muscle mass and stability, making it easier for them to manage at home.

This logic makes sense early on, where people are capable of reversing or preventing frailty. We want to encourage people to stay active and well. But this isn’t always possible.

Requiring co-payments for support services – such as support to prepare meals or do the laundry under the everyday living category – when capacity can’t be regained can feel like a punitive measure. It’s this part of the funding equation that the latest announcement doesn’t touch on.

How about the future?

Currently, we don’t know if the Support at Home program is delivering its intended effect of increasing access to clinical and capacity building services while charging more for those who can afford it to pay for their care.

But we have a great opportunity to find out. We can compare the types of services people receive under the previous version of the home aged-care scheme before November 2025 (which some people are still on) with the current scheme.

As the Support at Home program matures, we also need to review the level and type of services that attract co-payments. We need to understand if people are forgoing some types of care due to the co-payments and whether other adjustments to the program are needed.

As people progress and need more care, we may need to consider whether co-payments for certain services are still a good idea, or are creating new inequities. As one example, cleaning may need to be provided without a co-payment for people with greater care needs and less ability to pay.

We also need to consider whether wealthier older people should pay more.

A delicate balance

This announcement addresses a clear and important equity concern by removing financial barriers to essential personal care. But it also highlights the delicate balance governments must strike in designing a sustainable aged-care system – one that protects access for those with the greatest needs, while fairly sharing costs across the community.

As Support at Home matures, equity will need to be monitored and government must be prepared to make changes where needed.

Getting that balance right will be crucial to ensuring older Australians can age with dignity, without causing intergenerational inequity by shifting excessive costs onto future generations.

Tracy Comans, Professor, School of Public Health, The University of Queensland; The University of Melbourne

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

Every welfare program negotiates a fundamental tension: between fiscal responsibility and consistency on one hand, and care for real people with complex needs and situations on the other.

Over the past decade or so, one Australian program after another has tried to absolve itself of that tension by handing off part of its decision-making to a computer.

Robodebt automated welfare debt recovery, with devastating results.

The National Disability Insurance Scheme (NDIS) is moving towards computer-guided planning tools to generate budgets after participants’ support needs are assessed. Many worry this amounts to a form of “robo-planning”.

Since November, the new Support at Home program has used a rules-based algorithm called the Integrated Assessment Tool to decide how much home-care funding older Australians receive.

Each of these systems promises to replace fallible human judgement with something more consistent, efficient and fair.

Now, the Commonwealth Ombudsman is investigating complaints about the aged care assessment tool.

This is just the latest moment to ask: what do we lose when we automate decisions that really should be difficult and made case by case?

What’s the controversial aged care algorithm?

The Integrated Assessment Tool is a structured digital assessment used during a home interview with an older person seeking government-subsidised care. Assessors enter information about mobility, cognition, daily living and the person’s broader circumstances.

The tool converts these inputs into scores. It then applies rules to sort the person into one of eight funding classifications.

Assessors are barred from overriding the tool’s classification except in a small set of pre-defined circumstances.

Despite requests for the technical specifications, and for the identity of the team that designed the classification logic, details have not been released.

Is this really the new Robodebt?

Some commentators have drawn parallels between the Integrated Assessment Tool and Robodebt, but the comparison doesn’t quite work.

Robodebt was implemented at arm’s length from both welfare recipients and compliance officers. Debt notices were sent without human involvement in individual cases.

However, the Integrated Assessment Tool still involves an assessor sitting down to interview an older person in their home.

The closer parallel is with NDIS assessment reforms. These appear to be moving in the same direction with scoring tools that convert disability into numerical metrics, and opaque algorithms with weighting that has not been made public.

The health department insists the Integrated Assessment Tool for aged care is not artificial intelligence (AI). It says it is a rules-based classification algorithm, not a machine-learning model. But whether a system involves AI or not is beside the point.

Deeper issues sit underneath the technology.

There are deeper issues

The key ethical problems in algorithmic decision-making relate to opacity, discretion and accountability. In other words, problems relate to whether the people affected can see how the system works, whether the professionals using it can exercise judgement, and whether anyone can be held to answer for its decisions.

A standardised tool does deliver consistency: everyone is processed the same way. But consistency is not fairness, especially when the standard is hidden and applied to people whose needs do not fit standard categories.

US public policy researcher Michael Lipsky made the case in his classic 1980 study Street-Level Bureaucracy – discretion is a defining feature in frontline public service work.

Teachers, social workers, nurses and aged-care assessors exercise judgement precisely because rules are always incomplete, resources are constrained, and every client is unique. Strip discretion out of these encounters, and the assessment can no longer respond to what it finds, only to what the tool allows.

The appeal of the algorithm is partly a belief that machine thinking is less biased than human thinking. One review calls this the “perceived mechanistic objectivity” of computer-generated analytics. In other words, people defer to algorithmic outputs because they appear neutral, and may even override human judgement.

This is partly what aged-care assessors mean when they describe feeling “handcuffed” by the new system. The algorithm’s apparent objectivity makes their professional judgement look like bias, even when they know better how to respond to the person in front of them.

This appearance of objectivity also does political work some have called “agency laundering” – distancing oneself from morally consequential decisions by attributing them to an algorithm. Responsibility is diffused, and it becomes hard to say exactly who decided that a particular older person should receive less support this year than last.

None of this is abstract

By late March this year, some 800 people had formally requested reviews of their Support at Home assessments.

Media reports describe older people being reassessed under the new system at lower funding levels than they received previously, even where their needs had increased.

Minister for Aged Care Sam Rae has defended the reforms by pointing out that A$4 billion was incorrectly allocated under the previous system.

This may well be true. But fixing allocation errors is not the same as building a system that older Australians can understand, question and contest where necessary.

What happens next?

The Commonwealth Ombudsman has rightly said it cannot comment on the substance of its investigation while the investigation is underway.

So the government should pause using the classification algorithm until the investigation concludes.

Failing that, the minimum owed to older Australians and the public is transparency: publish the algorithm itself and its classification logic, reveal who designed it and how, and open all of it to scrutiny by sector experts, advocates and the people it affects.

Eligibility criteria and funding rules are public documents. A scoring system that determines whether someone can safely stay in their own home should be held to at least the same standard.

Laura Davy, Senior Lecturer, Crawford School of Public Policy, Australian National University

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

Politically, it’s a very bad time to be a baby boomer.

It is not just that intergenerational equity has become, rightly, a priority for Labor.

It’s also that this government, which always has an ear cocked to public opinion, is fully aware of the resentment towards boomers from many people aged 25–45 who see themselves paying for their elders while often unable to afford the housing that was more readily available to a “lucky” generation.

When on Wednesday Health Minister Mark Butler announced the government would scrap the top-up private health insurance subsidy for those over 65, brought in by John Howard, he cast the decision in generational equity terms.

The extra subsidy “means two households on the same income receive different levels of government support, based only on their age,” Butler said. “That’s not fair between generations.”

Removal of this (income-tested) benefit will save the government $3 billion over the forward estimates. With an ageing population putting an increasing burden on the budget, the government is repurposing this money into aged care, including paying the full cost of showering for those on home care packages. (So, the government might argue, there are swings and roundabouts for boomers.)

Treasurer Jim Chalmers will make intergenerational equity a major thread woven through his May 12 budget.

The politics says housing unaffordability remains red hot among voters. It is now accepted the capital gains discount will be hit; also, negative gearing is likely to be altered.

Other sweeteners in the tax or housing areas are possible – if they come they would have, at least in part, an intergenerational equity lens.

The government is under pressure not to splurge in the budget, not least because the Reserve Bank will be watching closely. But Butler’s announcement of a “reset” of the National Disability Insurance Scheme has given Chalmers some funds to play with.

The estimated savings from the NDIS overhaul are huge: $22 billion over a four-year budget period.

The government is absolutely right to tackle the NDIS’s multiple problems. Despite initial curbs in Labor’s first term, when Bill Shorten was its minister, the expenditure trajectory was still unsustainable.

But achieving the projected savings will be a herculean endeavour. The states will drag their feet and drive hard bargains. Much detail hasn’t been worked out, and discussions with stakeholders will be difficult. Stories of people thrown off the scheme by the cuts will abound. The program’s new rate of cost growth will be only 2% annually in the next four years – a big cut in real terms.

But much of the pain will be delayed until long after this budget. And getting the NDIS announcement out now means Chalmers’ budget night can concentrate on the good news.

Early signs are the opposition will back the thrust of the changes (while noting that when the Morrison government tried to make some reforms, they were demonised by the then Labor opposition).

As the government puts together its budget – with the prime minister saying “resilience” will be at its centre – the context is dominated by the Middle East conflict and the alarming prospects for fuel supplies if the situation is not resolved soon.

The government is now confronted with a campaign, that has considerable community support, for a new tax to be imposed on gas exports, as companies stand to benefit from the higher prices brought by the international crisis.

This week the battle over the tax was ventilated in often heated hearings at a Senate inquiry, chaired by the Greens, which will report before the budget.

One of those arguing for a new tax is Ken Henry, formerly head of treasury, who chaired the far-reaching tax inquiry commissioned by the Rudd government (which recommended a mining super profits tax).

In his submission to the Senate inquiry, Henry dwelt on generational equity. Canvassing how the proceeds of a gas tax could be used, he said, “Consideration might be given to three dimensions: public debt management, nature repair, and boosting productivity.

"All three dimensions are highly significant for the living standards of future generations and thus offer the opportunity to address sources of intergenerational inequity.

"Revenue raised from a windfall gains tax could be invested in a sovereign wealth fund for the benefit of future generations.”

While that thinking would fit naturally with the inclination of Chalmers, other considerations are pushing against the government going down this path.

These include warnings about the potential disincentive for investment coming from the companies, which have an advertising campaign running, and from countries that take our gas.

In his recent “fuel diplomacy” trips to Singapore, Brunei and Malaysia, Anthony Albanese’s mantra was that Australia is a dependable supplier of LNG.

His messaging has flagged that he is disinclined to the tax. In a podcast this week with The Daily Aus, Albanese rejected the suggestion the companies were paying little tax.

“Some of the facts haven’t been out there,” Albanese said. “The truth is that the gas taxes in the last financial year […] were around about $22 billion. So, I’ve seen there are reports suggesting that there’s more on beer tax than gas. It’s just not true.” Pressed for detail, he pointed out the Petroleum Resource Rent Tax was not the only relevant tax – the gas producers also paid company tax.

Albanese said he understood people would like to see more taxes paid. “In budgets, we look at the full suite of measures. What I am saying very clearly though is that we honour contracts and we honour those arrangements with countries.”

Resources Minister Madeleine King is cautious with her words but is obviously against a new tax.

Perhaps more important is what Western Australian Premier Roger Cook said this week, when he opposed a new gas tax. “I don’t think it’d be good for Western Australia and I’ve made those views clear to the prime minister,” he said. Cook’s views hold a lot of sway with Albanese.

Japanese Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi will visit Australia in early May, just before the budget. She is likely to get reassurance there will be no new gas tax.

Michelle Grattan, Professorial Fellow, University of Canberra

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

The government will slash spending in real terms on the National Disability Insurance Scheme over four years, as it undertakes a massive “reset” of the program.

People with lower support needs will be moved off the scheme and over the next two years the average spend on social and community participation plans will reduce to about A$26,000 – back to where it was in 2023 – down from the current $31,000.

Spending on third parties who manage most NDIS plans and claims will be cut by 30%, and more providers will need to be registered, particularly those giving personal care.

Announcing the crackdown, Health Minister Mark Butler said the changes would cut the number on the scheme, currently 760,000, by 160,000 to about 600,000 by the end of the decade, instead of the number growing to well over 900,000.

Spending will be about 2% a year for the next four years, only half the current inflation rate, before rising to about 5% annual growth after that. At present the NDIS cost is growing at 10%.

Instead of a projected $70 billion in 2030, the cost of the scheme will be about $55 billion, Butler told the National Press Club. Currently the scheme is costing about $50 billion.

In aged care changes, Butler also announced the government would scrap the higher subsidy for private health insurance for people aged over 65. Butler said this was “not fair between generations”.

“This budget will return the rebate for older Australians back to the level paid for everyone else and divert the money back into aged care,” Butler said.

This includes spending $1 billion to scrap the co-payment for showering and other personal services in home care packages, support the construction of an extra 5,000 aged care beds each year by 2030, and invest more than $200 million to expand dementia care.

Butler described the NDIS reforms as “a move away from the let-it-rip market”.

“You need more ID to get into a licensed club than to be an NDIS provider, that will change,” Butler said.

Butler will introduce legislation for many of the changes as soon as parliament resumes for the budget session next month. The drastic federal government changes will throw more of the burden for disability support onto the states, which have been reluctant to do a lot more.

New South Wales premier Chris Minns said the NDIS needed to be on a firmer financial and economic footing.

“I’m not going to throw sand in the gears of the federal government. They’re grappling with an issue that, if I were in their shoes, I’d be doing the same thing.

"I just think we need to be clear. We can’t provide at the state level the same services that were currently provided by the NDIS. This is going to be billions. We don’t have billions. We don’t have billions to throw into it,” Minns said.

Despite earlier speculation, the reforms do not remove particular conditions from NDIS eligibility. Eligibility will depend on people’s level of disability.

Changes will apply to those presently on the NDIS as well as to new entrants.

There will be tighter criteria for unscheduled reassessments of plans, as well as tighter assessment of support for new entrants.

Plan rollovers will be ended and a stop will be put to unspent funds being rolled over. Diagnosis lists will be removed as the means of entry to the scheme.

Butler said: “Part of the challenge we face is that the NDIS has become a soft target for shonks and rorters – as well as the worst elements of organised crime”.

“These reforms are about much more than budget savings. This is about saving the NDIS itself,” Butler said.

“If we act now, we can safeguard and strengthen it, so that it serves Australians it was created to help.

"Then we can make sure that – like Medicare – the NDIS is still changing lives, three decades from now.

"But if we wait, if we hang back, if we imagine that hard choices can wait for easier times, then the decision will simply be taken out of our hands.

"The social licence will be lost. And the NDIS will not be able to deliver what Australians with disability deserve.”

The government faces a sharp backlash from disability representatives.

Its aim to get its changes flowing quickly will depend on how soon it can get legislation through the Senate. This is likely to depend on the opposition’s attitude.

Michelle Grattan, Professorial Fellow, University of Canberra

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

Winter respiratory illnesses are often thought of as a nuisance that can keep you in bed and away from work or school for a few days. But if you’re susceptible to severe infection, they can land you in hospital.

Most people are familiar with influenza and COVID vaccines, which are recommended for people at higher risk of severe infection. But these don’t protect against another virus, respiratory syncytial virus, or RSV, which tends to cause severe illness in young infants and older people.

To reduce this risk the government yesterday announced a vaccine to protect against RSV will be available for free for older people in Australia from May 15.

So who is eligible? And what should you consider if you’re thinking of getting vaccinated?

Remind me, what is RSV?

RSV is a virus similar to influenza, causing acute respiratory illness in winter. In temperate areas, reported RSV case numbers increase in autumn and winter and usually peak in June and July, a little before or around the same time as the flu season.

RSV spreads from person to person, either directly through contaminated secretions or indirectly by contaminated surfaces. People can be infectious before they report symptoms, and for around three to eight days after symptoms begin.

Like influenza, most infections are mild, with cough, fever, sore throat and runny nose.

In some people, the infection can then progress to the lungs, causing a viral pneumonia, with wheezing and shortness of breath.

RSV can also worsen pre-existing illnesses, particularly chronic lung diseases, and cause complications such as heart attacks and strokes.

The highest risk group for RSV is young infants. Encouragingly, a prevention program that combines a maternal RSV vaccine with a monoclonal antibody (called nirsevimab) in infants has been successful in reducing disease in infants.

RSV also causes severe infection and death in older people. In 2025, RSV was the third most common cause of older adults being hospitalised with a respiratory viral infection, after influenza and COVID. In 2025, 587 deaths in Australia involved RSV.

What is the new RSV vaccine?

The vaccine, known as Arexvy, will be available for adults aged 75 or older, and First Nations people aged 60 or older. It’s a single dose given as an injection.

Unlike influenza, where updated vaccines are required each year, RSV has fewer genetic changes. Protection appears to last at least two to three years.

Although protection does appear to wane over several years, there are no current recommendations for subsequent (booster) doses.

A different vaccine, Abrysvo, is available in pregnancy to protect infants. It’s also available for older adults but isn’t funded. While clinical trials haven’t compared these vaccines head to head, they broadly seem to provide similar degrees of protection.

RSV vaccines are also recommended, but not funded, for people with medical risk factors over 60 years of age. This includes people with heart, respiratory, neurological and liver conditions, immunocompromising conditions, diabetes, chronic kidney disease and obesity.

A third vaccine, mResvia, an mRNA vaccine similar to COVID vaccines, has been approved but is not yet available in Australia. In clinical trials, this vaccine seems broadly similar to the other vaccines, in terms of protection and side effects.

How effective are RSV vaccines?

The original clinical trials primarily evaluated protection against any confirmed illness. In these studies, RSV vaccines were shown to reduce illness from RSV by more than 80% in the first season after vaccination.

Subsequent studies have looked at protection against hospitalisation, as a marker of severe infection. These studies from the United States and United Kingdom suggest it also reduces the risk of hospitalisation with RSV. People who are vaccinated but get RSV appear to have a milder illness and are less likely to be hospitalised.

In Australia, the vaccine was first approved in 2024 for use in people over 60 years of age.

Similar national programs for RSV vaccines in older adults have been gradually introduced in several European countries, including Sweden, as well as the UK and the US.

Is the RSV vaccine safe?

In older adults, side effects following Arexvy appear to be similar to other vaccines. The most common reported side effects were:

• pain at the site of injection
• fatigue
• headache
• generalised muscle and joint pains.

These are usually of mild to moderate severity and resolve within a day or so. These side effects are slightly more common if the RSV vaccine is given at the same time as the influenza vaccine.

A small number of cases of a rare neurological disease, Guillain-Barré syndrome, have been reported after RSV vaccines. This risk was estimated at around two cases per 100,000 people vaccinated.

However it’s important to note RSV infection is also associated with a greater risk of developing Guillain-Barré syndrome in the absence of vaccination, with the risk similar to that after vaccination.

How can I get the vaccine?

Free vaccines are available from May 15 at GP clinics, pharmacies, community health centres and Aboriginal health services. The easiest way to find a provider is to use HealthDirect’s service finder. Search your location under “immunisation”, but call ahead to check if they have supplies available.

In addition to all adults over 75 years and First Nations people over 60 years, a free RSV vaccine is also available for pregnant women after 28 weeks of gestation.

Babies may also be protected after birth using an immunisation product, called nirsevimab.

For people over 60 years, particularly those with chronic medical conditions, the vaccine is available but on the private market at a cost of around A$300.

Allen Cheng, Professor of Infectious Diseases, Monash University

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

After two decades of declining cash use, Australians are handing over more banknotes and coins for regular purchases again, a new survey by the Reserve Bank has found.

The decline in the use of physical money had accelerated during the COVID pandemic, but bottomed out between 2022 and 2025.

Around 15% of payments in 2025 were made using cash. Cash is more likely to be used for small transactions, with a quarter of transactions below $10 paid in cash.

Cash therefore accounts for a smaller proportion (8%) of the total value of payments we made than of the number of payments.

One decision that may stabilise the use of cash is that since January 2026 the federal government has mandated that most grocery stores and petrol stations must continue to accept cash.

Who are the main users of cash?

About half of Australians use cash in a typical week, the survey found.

Around 7% of the population use it for more than 80% of their transactions. These high cash users tend to be older, poorer and more likely to live in regional areas than the average Australian.

Cash use is notably higher in remote areas, including in some First Nations communities where digital services are less reliable.

People making illegal transactions are also likely to be higher cash users, but this may be understated in the Reserve Bank’s survey. There are $50 billion of $100 notes in circulation – almost 20 for every Australian. Given most people rarely see one, the suspicion is they are used and hoarded by criminals.

Among the biggest declines in cash use were for dining out and takeaway food, and transport, reflecting the increased use of card payments and digital payment methods.

Why do people prefer cash?

A third of Australians highly value being able to pay with cash. They say they would face a major inconvenience or hardship if they could not use it.

The most common reasons were they transact with sellers who only accept cash; find it simplifies budgeting; prefer it for giving money to family and friends; or have security or privacy concerns.

Another reason why consumers may prefer to use cash is to avoid surcharges imposed by many merchants for using alternatives. From October 2026, these surcharges will be banned.

Even people who rarely make payments with cash often like to keep some in their wallet.

Three-quarters of Australians hold some cash in their wallets. The median amount held is $65. The most common reason stated is concern about the reliability of electronic payment methods. The Red Cross has suggested families keep some cash, as payment systems may not operate in an emergency.

While there is still substantial demand for cash, it is becoming harder to access. There are fewer bank branches. The number of automated teller machines, particularly those owned by banks, has fallen from a peak of more than 30,000 to under 25,000, the Reserve Bank said.

What are the alternatives?

A previous survey for the Reserve Bank conducted in 2022 showed about half of all payments were made using debit cards and a quarter using credit cards. BPAY and Paypal each accounted for 2% of payments.

Data from the Bank for International Settlements show that cash in circulation in Australia is equivalent to about 4% of annual gross domestic product – about the same as in Canada and the United Kingdom. By contrast, it is less than 1% in Sweden but around 20% in Hong Kong and Japan.

Other countries have also experienced the decline in the use of cash flattening out recently.

John Hawkins, Head, Canberra School of Government, University of Canberra

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

Winter respiratory illnesses are often thought of as a nuisance that can keep you in bed and away from work or school for a few days. But if you’re susceptible to severe infection, they can land you in hospital.

Most people are familiar with influenza and COVID vaccines, which are recommended for people at higher risk of severe infection. But these don’t protect against another virus, respiratory syncytial virus, or RSV, which tends to cause severe illness in young infants and older people.

To reduce this risk the government yesterday announced a vaccine to protect against RSV will be available for free for older people in Australia from May 15.

So who is eligible? And what should you consider if you’re thinking of getting vaccinated?

Remind me, what is RSV?

RSV is a virus similar to influenza, causing acute respiratory illness in winter. In temperate areas, reported RSV case numbers increase in autumn and winter and usually peak in June and July, a little before or around the same time as the flu season.

RSV spreads from person to person, either directly through contaminated secretions or indirectly by contaminated surfaces. People can be infectious before they report symptoms, and for around three to eight days after symptoms begin.

Like influenza, most infections are mild, with cough, fever, sore throat and runny nose.

In some people, the infection can then progress to the lungs, causing a viral pneumonia, with wheezing and shortness of breath.

RSV can also worsen pre-existing illnesses, particularly chronic lung diseases, and cause complications such as heart attacks and strokes.

The highest risk group for RSV is young infants. Encouragingly, a prevention program that combines a maternal RSV vaccine with a monoclonal antibody (called nirsevimab) in infants has been successful in reducing disease in infants.

RSV also causes severe infection and death in older people. In 2025, RSV was the third most common cause of older adults being hospitalised with a respiratory viral infection, after influenza and COVID. In 2025, 587 deaths in Australia involved RSV.

What is the new RSV vaccine?

The vaccine, known as Arexvy, will be available for adults aged 75 or older, and First Nations people aged 60 or older. It’s a single dose given as an injection.

Unlike influenza, where updated vaccines are required each year, RSV has fewer genetic changes. Protection appears to last at least two to three years.

Although protection does appear to wane over several years, there are no current recommendations for subsequent (booster) doses.

A different vaccine, Abrysvo, is available in pregnancy to protect infants. It’s also available for older adults but isn’t funded. While clinical trials haven’t compared these vaccines head to head, they broadly seem to provide similar degrees of protection.

RSV vaccines are also recommended, but not funded, for people with medical risk factors over 60 years of age. This includes people with heart, respiratory, neurological and liver conditions, immunocompromising conditions, diabetes, chronic kidney disease and obesity.

A third vaccine, mResvia, an mRNA vaccine similar to COVID vaccines, has been approved but is not yet available in Australia. In clinical trials, this vaccine seems broadly similar to the other vaccines, in terms of protection and side effects.

How effective are RSV vaccines?

The original clinical trials primarily evaluated protection against any confirmed illness. In these studies, RSV vaccines were shown to reduce illness from RSV by more than 80% in the first season after vaccination.

Subsequent studies have looked at protection against hospitalisation, as a marker of severe infection. These studies from the United States and United Kingdom suggest it also reduces the risk of hospitalisation with RSV. People who are vaccinated but get RSV appear to have a milder illness and are less likely to be hospitalised.

In Australia, the vaccine was first approved in 2024 for use in people over 60 years of age.

Similar national programs for RSV vaccines in older adults have been gradually introduced in several European countries, including Sweden, as well as the UK and the US.

Is the RSV vaccine safe?

In older adults, side effects following Arexvy appear to be similar to other vaccines. The most common reported side effects were:

• pain at the site of injection
• fatigue
• headache
• generalised muscle and joint pains.

These are usually of mild to moderate severity and resolve within a day or so. These side effects are slightly more common if the RSV vaccine is given at the same time as the influenza vaccine.

A small number of cases of a rare neurological disease, Guillain-Barré syndrome, have been reported after RSV vaccines. This risk was estimated at around two cases per 100,000 people vaccinated.

However it’s important to note RSV infection is also associated with a greater risk of developing Guillain-Barré syndrome in the absence of vaccination, with the risk similar to that after vaccination.

How can I get the vaccine?

Free vaccines are available from May 15 at GP clinics, pharmacies, community health centres and Aboriginal health services. The easiest way to find a provider is to use HealthDirect’s service finder. Search your location under “immunisation”, but call ahead to check if they have supplies available.

In addition to all adults over 75 years and First Nations people over 60 years, a free RSV vaccine is also available for pregnant women after 28 weeks of gestation.

Babies may also be protected after birth using an immunisation product, called nirsevimab.

For people over 60 years, particularly those with chronic medical conditions, the vaccine is available but on the private market at a cost of around A$300.

Allen Cheng, Professor of Infectious Diseases, Monash University

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

Fish or sharks on cocaine might sound like something dreamed up in a Hollywood writers’ room, but the reality is far less entertaining. Increasingly, scientists are detecting cocaine and other powerful drugs in aquatic environments, and even in the brains and bodies of wildlife.

A 2024 study from Brazil made headlines after finding cocaine in the muscles and liver of wild sharks caught off the coast of Rio de Janeiro. While this may seem surprising, it reflects a broader and growing issue: human drugs are making their way into rivers, lakes and oceans around the world.

In our new study, published today in Current Biology, we set out to understand what this means for wildlife.

Tracking ‘cocaine’ fish in the wild

We explored how environmentally relevant concentrations of cocaine affect the behaviour of fish in the wild. We also looked at the effect of a chemical called benzoylecgonine, which is the main thing left over after our bodies break down cocaine.

To do this, we conducted an experiment in Lake Vättern in Sweden, the country’s second largest lake, where we tracked juvenile Atlantic salmon over eight weeks.

Using slow-release chemical implants, we exposed fish to either cocaine or benzoylecgonine, then followed their movements using acoustic telemetry. This allowed us to monitor how fish behaved in a natural environment, rather than in laboratory tanks.

What we found was striking. Fish exposed to benzoylecgonine swam up to 1.9 times farther per week than unexposed fish and dispersed up to 12.3 kilometres farther across the lake. Fish exposed to cocaine showed a similar pattern, but the effect was weaker and less consistent.

From wastewater to waterways

So how do these substances end up in aquatic environments?

After cocaine is consumed, the body rapidly breaks it down, mainly into benzoylecgonine. Chemicals such as this – leftovers from the body’s use of a different substance – are called metabolites. Both the original drug and the metabolite are excreted and enter wastewater systems.

However, wastewater treatment plants are not designed to fully remove these compounds, meaning they pass through treatment and are discharged into rivers, lakes and coastal waters.

This is not a localised issue. Cocaine is now one of the most detected illicit drugs in aquatic environments worldwide.

A global analysis found average surface water concentrations of about 105 nanograms per litre for cocaine and 257 nanograms per litre for benzoylecgonine, with maximum concentrations reaching into the thousands of nanograms. While these levels are low, they remain a concern because the compounds target brain systems shared across many animals, meaning even small amounts have the potential to affect wildlife.

Why behaviour matters

Changes in behaviour are often one of the earliest and most sensitive indicators that something in the environment is affecting wildlife. These changes can affect everything from how animals find food and avoid predators to how they interact, reproduce and survive.

When contaminants alter behaviour, they can have ripple effects that extend well beyond the individual. Small shifts in how animals move, feed or respond to threats can scale up to influence the dynamics of whole populations, interactions between species, and the way entire ecosystems work.

The changes we saw in how fish move through their environment after cocaine exposure could mean they use more energy, enter poorer-quality habitats, or expose themselves to greater predation risk.

For species such as Atlantic salmon, which are already under pressure from climate change, habitat loss and other pollutants, even subtle behavioural disruptions could add to the challenges they face.

Why the metabolite matters

One of the most surprising findings from our study was that benzoylecgonine had a stronger effect on fish behaviour than cocaine itself. This is important because environmental risk assessments typically focus on the substances humans put into themselves, such as cocaine, rather than the chemicals they put out afterwards, such as benzoylecgonine.

These metabolites are often more abundant and persistent in waterways. Our results suggest we may be underestimating the ecological risks of these pollutants.

Our study focused on behaviour, not long-term health outcomes. We have not yet tested whether these changes affect survival or reproduction.

However, previous research shows cocaine and related compounds can alter brain chemistry, increase oxidative stress, and disrupt energy metabolism in aquatic animals. These processes are closely linked to health and fitness, suggesting the potential for broader impacts.

The idea of “fish on cocaine” may grab attention, but it points to a much bigger issue. Aquatic environments are increasingly contaminated with complex mixtures of human-derived chemicals, from pharmaceuticals to illicit drugs. Many of these substances are biologically active at very low concentrations, and we are only just beginning to understand their effects.

Marcus Michelangeli, Lecturer, Environmental Sustainability and Management, Griffith University and Jack Brand, Researcher in Behavioural and Movement Ecology, Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences

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

For many of us, flu can mean a nasty few weeks of illness. But for the very young and old, and those with health complications, it can be extremely serious, leading to around 3,500 deaths in Australia each year.

You likely know vaccination is the best protection against the flu (influenza), and may have even read our recent article about the best time to get vaccinated.

So, what are your options? And are you eligible for a free flu shot?

Here are the answers to some common questions I’ve been getting: about which strains this year’s vaccine protects against, whether the brand matters, if there are egg-free options, and what to do if you’re scared of needles.

Will the vaccine protect against the ‘super K’ strain?

Each year, influenza strains accumulate small mutations that are different enough from each other that the immune system doesn’t recognise them well. This is why vaccine components need to change each year, to anticipate what will circulate the following season.

One strain of influenza, called subclade K – also known as “Super K” – was responsible for many influenza infections in late 2025, both in the southern hemisphere, and during the usual northern hemisphere winter season.

In 2026, the southern hemisphere vaccine contains two new components, with one closely related to subclade K. This should lead to better protection against subclade K infections.

Does the brand make a difference? And will I have a choice?

Vaccines can vary in the way they are manufactured – either in eggs (Vaxigrip, Fluzone, Influvac) or cells (Flucelvax). Studies suggest cell-based vaccines provide at least as much protection, and possibly slightly more, than egg-based vaccines.

But the most important point is that any influenza vaccine provides protection, and the difference between vaccine types is relatively small.

Certain formulations are designed to elicit a stronger immune response. These are designed for older people, whose immune systems tend to produce a weaker response. These “enhanced” vaccines include those with an adjuvant, a substance that stimulates the immune system to respond (Fluad), and those with higher doses of influenza vaccine strains (Fluzone High-Dose).

There is also a new nasal vaccine for children (Flumist).

If you want a specific type of vaccine, call ahead to your vaccine provider to discuss the options available.

Where can I get the flu vaccine?

The easiest way to find a vaccine provider is by searching on the government’s HealthDirect website under “Influenza (flu) vaccine” and your location.

In general, influenza vaccines are available at GP clinics, pharmacies, community health services and Aboriginal Health Services. Your school, university or workplace may also have a program.

There are special arrangements for aged care facilities and other group accommodation settings. Immunisation services are also available for staff and patients in public hospitals.

Who is it free for? Does it depend where you live?

Unfortunately this is somewhat complicated, as there are both national and state/territory programs.

Under the National Immunisation Program, influenza vaccines are free for high risk groups:

• anyone over 65 years of age
• all children aged between six months and four years (inclusive)
• people with certain chronic illnesses
• those who are pregnant
• all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people (over six months of age).

Free state and territory programs may cover additional groups or different vaccines:

• Queensland and Western Australia provide influenza vaccines for anyone over the age of six months who is not covered by the national program
• some states provide the nasal vaccine (FluMist) for children as an alternative to the injectable vaccine: 2–4 years in New South Wales and South Australia; 2–5 years in Queensland; and 2–11 years in WA
• SA has a program for people experiencing homelessness.

Most health-care services and aged care services also provide free influenza vaccines for their workers. Some other employers choose to arrange similar workplace programs.

For those not covered by free state or national government programs, influenza vaccines are widely available at clinics and pharmacies. Costs range from around A$20 (for standard egg-based vaccines) up to $50–70 (for nasal vaccines in children).

Some private health insurance policies also include free flu shots, so check with your provider.

Is there an egg-free option? And why are eggs involved?

Since the 1940s, influenza vaccines have been manufactured using chicken eggs. Flu strains grow efficiently in them, and are then inactivated, purified and processed.

The amount of residual egg protein in vaccines after processing is now very small (less than one microgram). Even people with an egg allergy can generally receive egg-based vaccines safely. But if you have an allergy, discuss this with your vaccine provider.

For people who want an egg-free option, a cell-based vaccine, Flucelvax, is manufactured in animal cells (MDCK cells, derived from canine kidneys), before purification and processing.

Other vaccines use insect cells but are not yet available in Australia. There aren’t any products that don’t involve eggs or animal cells, although mRNA vaccines (similar to COVID-19 vaccines) are being developed.

What if I’m scared of needles?

In Australia, the nasal vaccine FluMist is only registered for use in children. But this may eventually change, as in some other countries it’s also available for adults under 50.

If you’re extremely scared of needles, there are evidence-based options to help make immunisation less distressing. These include psychological techniques (such as breathing exercises), distraction devices (that cool and vibrate the skin), or local anaesthetic or sedation,

So if you’re concerned, speak to your GP or pharmacist to make sure you don’t miss out on the opportunity to protect yourself against influenza.

Allen Cheng, Professor of Infectious Diseases, Monash University

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

Until a few years ago, no one had heard of bixonimania. Then, in 2024, a group of scientists posted findings online announcing the condition, which they claimed affected the eyes after computer use. However, the scientists had made it up – not just the work, but the authors’ names, affiliations, locations and funding, which was the University of Fellowship of the Ring and the Galactic Triad.

Large language models like ChatGPT and Gemini treated it as real anyway, and in doing so, helped turn a fictional disease into a legitimate-sounding health concern.

Bixonimania is not an isolated case. Being deceived – whether you are a person or an AI model – is concerningly common, in science and beyond. Whether we’re talking about AI hallucinations, state-backed disinformation or just everyday lies, humans have a remarkable knack for naivety, owing to our biases and increasing need to outsource learning to others. These are problems we – individually and collectively – urgently need to better understand and overcome.

Our shared fascination with deception may help explain the popularity of The Traitors, a TV programme built around the tension between trust and suspicion, where contestants must decide who among them is deceiving the group.

The show captures something intrinsic to being human: the persistent threat of being unsure about whether we’re placing trust effectively. Yet in the modern era of mass digital communication and AI, we’re now almost constantly faced with a similar threat, often without realising it.

At a recent event at the Cambridge Festival, we aimed to highlight this risk through a Traitors-themed science event. Four panellists presented work, all of which could have been a lie. The audience was asked to vote on which of the presenters was deceiving them and why.

We deliberately made the presenters and their work outlandish. From their varying backgrounds and with varying accents, the panellists presented their work in global health, climate, media and astrophysics. Some dressed formally, while one – a Nigerian researcher presenting her work on immigration in a healthcare context – wore clothes linked to her ethnic identity.

We were interested in exploring which of these signals – accent, gender, ethnicity, and dress and presentation style – influenced the audience’s decisions. Both content and presentation styles influenced them, but the signals they relied on led them to the wrong conclusions, rating the traitors as more credible than honest researchers.

The ones who received the most votes were the two “faithful” researchers (to use the language of The Traitors) – Ada, from the non-profit Development Media Initiative, and Sarah, an astrophysicist working in galactic archaeology.

Ada’s team had saved lives by sharing health information with communities in the global south through running ten radio broadcasts daily. The audience thought the results were implausibly impressive.

“Ada’s data is too good to be true,” one person reported in our questionnaire. She was also presenting work she hadn’t personally contributed to. Even though this is common in large collaborations, this distance led to perceptions of a lack of confidence, undermining her credibility.

Sarah, an astrophysicist, had presented her subfield of galactic archaeology – the study of the Milky Way’s formation history through the chemical signatures of ancient stars. Yet with only four minutes to speak, she was unable to convey significant depth. The audience read that as a lack of understanding.

The outlandishness of her field’s name also harmed perceptions of her legitimacy. “Galaxy [sic] archaeology is too cool a name to exist,” one audience member wrote.

By contrast, the two traitors, Jack and Joyce, received the fewest votes. Jack was an actor who created the persona of a climate researcher specialising in rain. Joyce presented her own work but falsified the results.

Interestingly, Joyce’s personal connection to her work – she is a Nigerian woman conducting research into Nigerian communities – helped to convince the audience of her authenticity. “Joyce’s presentation sounded very considered and genuine – the process of her research and recounts of her personal experiences sounded like she had lots of interest in the area,” one person wrote.

The event was meant to be fun and engaging. Yet we also wanted to illustrate the many ways people can misrepresent themselves, whether in science or beyond. Our traitors showed that lies don’t just have to be about who you are (Jack is an actor, not a researcher) but about what you say (Joyce is a researcher but falsified her results).

Misinformation has always existed. What’s new is the speed at which it spreads, the tools that generate it, and how convincingly it mimics the real thing.

Why maths isn’t enough

Our collective capacity to recognise false information is also at risk. This is because, as a society, we continue to promote the importance of hard science subjects at the expense of the critical thinking skills derived from studies of the arts, humanities and social sciences.

This can be seen, for example, in the 2023 UK governmental push to require all school students to take maths until age 18. No such push exists to promote and develop the critical thinking skills of young people. It’s easy to see how increasingly convincing falsehoods like bixonimania’s existence can be accepted as truth, especially when touted by AI models.

Tools are helpful. AI is a tool, the internet is a tool, the media is a tool. But it’s up to us to ensure that we are using them and not being manipulated by them.

In The Traitors, we have little to go on to determine what is true. Yet in the real world, we have the ability to check the truth of claims. With effective caution and critical thinking, it is entirely possible to determine what is trustworthy, but it requires thinking for ourselves. Trust is ours to give, and we need to learn to give it wisely.

Jonathan R. Goodman, Assistant Research Professor, Psychiatry, University of Cambridge and Mariam Rashid, Isaac Newton Trust Postdoctoral Fellow, University of Cambridge

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

Think of how many surfaces you touch every day, from your kitchen bench to the hand rail on the bus or train, your work desk and your phone screen.

A range of nasty viruses and other germs can easily spread via these surfaces. The typical route of infection involves touching a contaminated surface – and then touching your eyes, nose or mouth.

Of course, it’s possible to clean surfaces with chemical products. But these can wear off, harm the environment or contribute to antimicrobial resistance, where germs no longer respond to medicines because of repeated exposure.

In our new study, published in Advanced Science, colleagues and I created a thin plastic surface with tiny nanoscale features, billionths of a metre in size, that mimic the nanotextured surface of insect wings and can physically rupture viruses – specifically human parainfluenza virus type 3 (hPIV-3).

This new material offers a cheap, scalable way to make surfaces such as phones and hospital equipment far less likely to spread disease.

The downsides of disinfectants

Current methods for combating the spread of viruses via surfaces usually involves cleaning to remove dirt and disinfection to remove hidden contaminants.

Disinfectant must remain wet for some time to kill germs. This can be challenging in some real-world settings.

Surfaces can also be recontaminated quickly when other people touch them. And disinfection often involves the use of harsh chemicals which can damage equipment and the environment.

Scientists have previously developed antiviral surface modifications. These strategies often involve incorporating materials such as graphene or tannic acid and other natural agents into personal protective equipment such as masks, gloves, goggles, hard hats, and respirators.

These coatings are efficient. But they can pose a risk to human health. They can also be environmental hazards due to chemical leaching and have declining effectiveness over time as the potency of the active ingredients weakens.

A decade-long journey

Our journey toward a virus-bursting surface started more than a decade ago.

We initially aimed to engineer a surface so smooth that germs would simply slide off. Surprisingly, we discovered the opposite. Bacteria adhere quite readily to nanoscopically smooth surfaces.

Nature offers examples of bacteria-free surfaces. Take the water-repelling wings of cicadas and dragonflies. While these wings are self-cleaning, they act less by repelling bacteria and more as natural bactericides. That is, they kill bacteria. Natural bactericides are nature-derived “agents” that can kill germs, rather than inhibit their growth.

Experiments my colleagues and I did with gold-coated wings confirmed this bacteria-killing effect is not driven by surface chemistry, but rather by topography.

The physical nanostructures on the surface essentially force bacterial cell membranes to stretch and rupture.

Our earlier work showed that nanospike-covered silicon effectively destroys viruses on contact. But its rigid nature restricts its use on complex objects.

A lightweight, flexible and virus-bursting material

In this new study, we addressed this problem by creating a virus-bursting material that was lightweight, cost-effective and flexible.

This material is a thin acrylic film covered in thousands and thousands of ultra fine pillars. The nanotextured materials are smooth to touch. However, these nanopillars grab and stretch a virus’s outer shell until it ruptures. This kills viruses through mechanical force.

Lab tests with hPIV 3, which causes bronchiolitis and pneumonia, found up to 94% of virus particles were ripped apart or fatally damaged within an hour of contact with this material.

We discovered the distance between nanopillars matters far more than their height, with tightly packed pillars about 60 nanometres apart working best.

The mould we used to create this material can be easily scaled to provide wide-ranging industrial opportunities, from food packaging to public transport systems to hospital equipment and office desks.

Nanostructured surfaces are built for durability. But they are susceptible to the same physical, chemical, and environmental stressors as any other material, and will degrade over time.

Much remains to be discovered in the search for germ-free surfaces. But these nanotextured surfaces have enormous potential in the fight against viruses and provide an alternative to traditional, chemical-based methods.

Elena Ivanova, Distinguished Professor, Physics, RMIT University

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

You check your smartwatch after a run. Your fitness score has dropped. You’ve burnt hardly any calories. Your recovery score is really low. It’s telling you to take the next 72 hours off exercise.

The worst bit? The whole run felt amazing.

So why’s your watch telling you the opposite?

Ultimately, it’s because smartwatches and other fitness trackers aren’t always accurate.

Smartwatches can shape how you exercise

Using wearable fitness technology, such as smartwatches, has been one of the top fitness trends for close to a decade. Millions of people around the world use them daily.

These devices shape how people think about health and exercise. For example, they provide data about how many calories you’ve burnt, how fit you are, how recovered you are after exercise, and whether you’re ready to exercise again.

But your smartwatch doesn’t measure most of these metrics directly. Instead, many common metrics are estimates. In other words, they’re not as accurate as you might think.

1. Calories burned

Calorie tracking is one of the most popular features on smartwatches. However, the accuracy leaves a lot to be desired.

Wearable devices can under- or overestimate energy expenditure (often expressed as calories burned) by more than 20%. These errors also vary between activities. For example, strength training, cycling and high-intensity interval training can lead to even larger errors.

This matters because people often use these numbers to guide how much they eat.

For example, if your watch overestimates calories burned, you might think you need to eat more food than you really need, which could result in weight gain. Conversely, if your watch underestimates calories burned, it could lead you to under-eat, negatively impacting your exercise performance.

2. Step counts

Step counts are a great way to measure general physical activity, but wearables don’t capture them perfectly.

Smartwatches can under-count steps by about 10% under normal exercise conditions. Activities such as pushing a pram, carrying weights, or walking with limited arm swing likely make step counts less accurate, as smartwatches rely on arm movement to register steps.

For most people, this isn’t a major problem, and step counts are still useful for tracking general activity levels. But view them as a guide, rather than a precise measure.

3. Heart rate

Smartwatches estimate your heart rate using sensors that measure changes in blood flow through the veins in your wrist.

This method is accurate at rest or low intensities, but gets less accurate as you increase exercise intensity.

Arm movement, sweat, skin tone and how tightly you wear the watch can also impact the heart rate measure it spits out. This means the accuracy can vary between people.

This can be problematic for people who use heart rate zones to guide their training, as small errors can lead to training at the wrong intensity.

4. Sleep tracking

Almost every smartwatch on the market gives you a “sleep score” and breaks your night into stages of light, deep and REM sleep.

The gold standard for measuring sleep is polysomnography. This is a lab-based test that records brain activity. But smartwatches estimate sleep using movement and heart rate.

This means they can detect when you’re asleep or awake reasonably well. But they are much less accurate at identifying sleep stages.

So even if your watch says you had “poor deep sleep”, this may not be the case.

5. Recovery scores

Most smartwatches track heart rate variability and use this, with your sleep score, to create a “readiness” or “recovery” score.

Heart rate variability reflects how your body responds to stress. In the lab it is measured using an electrocardiogram. But smartwatches estimate it using wrist-based sensors, which are much more prone to measurement errors.

This means most recovery metrics are based on two inaccurate measures (heart rate variability and sleep quality). This results in a metric that may not meaningfully reflect your recovery.

As a result, if your watch says you’re not recovered, you might skip training – even if you feel good (and are actually good to go).

6. VO₂max

Most devices estimate your VO₂max – which indicates your maximal fitness. It’s the maximum amount of oxygen your body can use during exercise.

The best way to measure VO₂max involves wearing a mask to analyse the amount of oxygen you breathe in and out, to determine how much oxygen you’re using to create energy.

But your watch cannot measure oxygen use. It estimates it based on your heart rate and movement.

But smartwatches tend to overestimate VO₂max in less active people and underestimate VO₂max in fitter ones.

This means the number on your watch may not reflect your true fitness.

What should you do?

While the data from your smartwatch is prone to errors, that doesn’t mean it is completely worthless. These devices still offer a way to help you track general trends over time, but you should not pay attention to daily fluctuations or specific numbers.

It’s also important you pay attention to how you feel, how you perform and how you recover. This is likely to give you even more insight than what your smartwatch says.

Hunter Bennett, Lecturer in Exercise Science, Adelaide University

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

Bruce the kea is missing his entire upper beak. Yet he is the alpha bird of his circus (the apt collective noun for a group of New Zealand’s famously playful alpine parrots).

As our latest research shows, Bruce achieved his alpha status not despite his disability, but because of it.

In a remarkable example of behavioural innovation, he has developed a novel technique to fight his opponents.

Bruce essentially weaponised his disability by using his sharp lower beak to joust other kea, propelling himself forward with such vigour that he nearly topples over, but not before the other birds jump back in a flurry of orange and green feathers.

Like other kea, Bruce will also kick to establish dominance, but the other birds simply can’t match his secret weapon because their intact upper beaks curve over the bottom beak, rendering this spear-like weapon unusable.

It is his jousting behaviour that has enabled Bruce to win every one of his contests and become the undisputed king of the circus.

So effective is this novel behaviour that Bruce seldom has to fight, making him more relaxed than the other birds over whom he reigns supreme.

Bruce’s origin story

In 2013, Bruce was found in the mountains of the South Island of New Zealand – the kea’s usual habitat. Missing his upper beak, he was brought into captivity at Willowbank Wildlife Reserve in Christchurch where it was believed he would have a better chance of survival.

Bruce was so small he was initially mistaken for a female and called Kati before genetic testing revealed he was male. How he lost his beak remains a mystery, but Bruce has used the intelligence for which these parrots are known not only to survive, but thrive.

We studied the dominance hierarchy of 12 captive kea at the wildlife reserve by observing all aggressive encounters between the birds, and measuring who displaced who and how often.

As is typical of kea, this circus is not a linear hierarchy, but rather one with some fluidity about ranks – except for Bruce, who never lost a fight and had sole access to food at feeding time, with other birds only coming in to eat once Bruce had his pick.

Curious about how stress hormones (corticosterone) mapped onto the circus hierarchy, we collected faeces from all birds and found that Bruce, contrary to our predictions, had the lowest level.

This was possibly because he was so dominant he simply did not need to scrap for position as much as the other troupe members.

Behavioural innovation

The beak of a parrot is like a third limb. It is used to dig for food, to climb, to grasp objects and to pry things open.

Without an upper beak, Bruce‘s disability should put him at a disadvantage. But necessity is the mother of invention and Bruce has developed many novel behaviours to compensate for the loss.

He uses sharp stones he carefully selects from within his enclosure as tools to help preen himself. Being the alpha male, he also solicits and receives grooming from subordinate males. This includes them carefully cleaning out food stuck in his lower beak.

Instead of masticating with his upper beak, Bruce also uses rocks, fence posts, human feet and any number of handy objects in his enclosure to grind food to a fleshy edible pulp.

Animal minds have much to teach us

Kea don’t typically use tools in nature, but they are known to be exceptional problem solvers, comparable to primates. This is possibly because they need to find food such as tubers buried underground or dig for grubs in rotting logs.

It is this very attribute of cleverness that suggests well-meaning humans who might otherwise attach a prosthetic to a disabled animal may actually be doing them a disservice. Bruce’s disability has forced him to overcome problems and flourish in doing so.

Perhaps the ability to innovate behaviours is restricted to animals with complex cognition and the capacity to overcome a disability through invention may be limited to very smart species.

However, recent research shows many animals – including a cow named Veronika that uses a stick to scratch herself – astonish us in developing new behaviours. I would not be surprised if we have further revelations ahead, not only from Bruce the kea or Veronika the cow, but from many animals, including bumblebees and possibly other invertebrates.

Ximena Nelson, Professor of Animal Behaviour, University of Canterbury

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

A homelessness worker in regional Victoria has seen a 200% increase in people living in free campgrounds – and a big increase in families “sleeping rough”, he told the ABC this week. For many people, finding a rental is “nearly impossible”, he said.

At the same time, disputes over homeless encampments are happening across Australia. Lately, local governments have abandoned their “welfare first” approach to people camping on public land, seizing and destroying tents and personal belongings.

In Queensland, legal action supported by Basic Rights Queensland recently found that eviction of a homeless camp by Moreton Bay City Council, north of Brisbane, violated human rights, with those evicted “not treated as humans”.

Such cases highlight growing tensions between local authorities and people forced to live in tents, vehicles or makeshift shelters as the housing crisis deepens.

Post war housing shortage

These camps are often treated as a new problem – but Australian cities have faced similar informal settlements before.

My research into postwar housing reveals that, in the 1940s, tent cities and “shanty” settlements appeared across the country, as families struggled to find homes.

Long before today’s debates about homelessness, Australians were improvising shelter in parks, decommissioned military camps and vacant land, forcing governments to confront a severe housing shortage.

By 1945, Australia’s postwar housing deficit was enormous – approximately 300,000 homes – leaving up to a million people homeless or living in overcrowded housing. Private builders could not keep up, so people resorted to ad hoc solutions.

Newspapers describe tent villages and tin-roofed “humpies” emerging on city fringes – from Sydney’s northern beaches to Adelaide and Lithgow in New South Wales, where a “tin town” of corrugated-iron dwellings housed workers and their families.

Brisbane’s housing camps

The housing shortage in Brisbane alone was calculated at 13,500 houses in 1945 – a time when the city’s population was 380,000 people. New house construction was “not keeping pace with the needs of a growing population”. By 1949, an estimated 30,000 to 40,000 people were considered homeless.

During World War II, Brisbane was a major United States military base. After the war, pressure mounted to convert abandoned sites, such as the US Army camp at Barrambin (Victoria Park), into temporary housing for families.

At first, the state government refused, stating that facilities designed for men would need upgrades if they were to be used by women and children. Undeterred, families started squatting in these disused facilities across the city.

My research identified a total of 11 informal settlements across Brisbane in this postwar period, including eight housing camps in former military facilities, and three on public parkland.

Living conditions were poor. Residents relied on kerosene stoves and there was no running water.

In 1947, dozens of children were hospitalised with gastroenteritis – and 14 died.

Faced with rising public pressure, including a campaign led by the Courier Mail, authorities recognised the futility of threatening eviction and began taking a position of tolerance.

The Queensland Housing Commission requisitioned military camps. Brisbane City Council and the Queensland government supplied drinking water, toilets and tents to families camping in the bush on the city’s fringe.

What solved the shortage?

After the war, housing shifted to being seen as “not only the need but the right of every citizen”.

The fastest housing supply expansion in Australian history occurred during the postwar decades. Construction surged as state and federal governments invested directly in the construction of homes.

At the peak of government investment in Australian housing construction, 20% to 30% of new homes were funded by government, compared to 1% to 2% today.

In the years 1945–50, construction accounted for 84% of building activity. The construction labour force doubled, mostly through migration. In Brisbane, public authorities constructed housing on the grounds of housing camps at Holland Park and Chermside, allowing former camp residents to remain within their communities.

Many residents were given government loans to purchase these homes, at construction cost.

However, even at this level of construction, it took two decades to alleviate the housing shortage. Informal camps were a common band-aid that persisted for almost 20 years.

Lessons for our housing crisis

As housing affordability has worsened in the 2020s, informal encampments of tents, vans and makeshift shelters have re-emerged in urban parks and on the fringes of cities.

Like their postwar predecessors, these settlements are improvised solutions, created by people excluded from the formal housing market.

The 1940s informal camps provide three important lessons:

1. People will always find somewhere to live – even if it’s unhealthy, unsafe, or unlawful.

2. Governments will oscillate between tolerance and punishment. In the 1940s, they fluctuated between threatening eviction and installing water and toilets in camps.

3. The only durable solution is supply, but not market supply – public supply.

In the postwar era, state housing authorities tackled severe shortages with innovative mass construction — demonstrating that modern, serviced homes could be delivered at scale.

Addressing today’s structural shortage similarly demands a stronger housing system – anchored by sustained, large-scale public investment in construction.

Rachel Gallagher, Lecturer, Griffith University

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

Plants are often seen as passive organisms, rooted in one place and largely unable to react to the world around them.

But a new field of research is challenging these assumptions and showing that plants are as sophisticated as animals in detecting and adjusting to environmental signals.

Plants can perceive light through specialised proteins, detect sound vibrations and respond to touch via mechano-sensitive channels, recognise chemical signals released by neighbouring plants, and even retain memories of past experiences through changes in their DNA.

My own research focuses on how plants detect the passage of time as part of their seasonal cycle, but that is merely one aspect of a major reconsideration of their sensory capacity – and the parallels with animal senses.

Plants can see colours

Anyone who has noticed a flower turning its head to track the sun knows plants can detect light. Like animals, plants sense light signals using specialised receptors, each for a different wavelength (or colour) of light.

Phytochromes detect red and far-red light and cryptochromes and phototropins respond to blue and ultraviolet light. These sensors transform light cues into molecular signals to coordinate a plant’s daily circadian rhythms.

Emerging research suggests trees can even identify the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. This cue may act as a seasonal switch, triggering a transition in key physiological processes such as leaf ageing and bud setting.

My research identified a specific gene, known as Early-Flowering-3, in European beech trees (Fagus sylvatica) which seems to control seasonal responses such as energy storage, changes in plant hormone signals and preparing for winter.

But light detection is only one sense plants use to perceive their world.

Tuning into their environment

Plants can also listen. Studies show they can detect vibrations caused by chewing insects or the buzz of pollinating bees, and they respond to the sound of flowing water by directing roots towards it.

Plants can also generate their own vibrations. When under stress, tobacco and tomato plants emit ultrasonic clicks that provide information about the plants’ condition, including the level of dehydration or injury. These clicks can be heard using a sound recorder.

Scientists also documented what happens when they play sounds to plants. They observed changes in the membranes of their cells and the chemical signalling along ion channels. While plants do not have nerves, these channels function in a similar way, acting as tiny gateways to transmit information in and out of cells.

The exact receptors plants use to perceive sound remain unclear, but we are now investigating whether they sense vibrations through tiny hair-like structures on leaf surfaces.

Don’t touch me

Beyond vibrations, plants also respond directly to physical touch, often in striking ways.

Familiar examples include the touch-me-not plant (Mimosa pudica) or the Venus flytrap (Dionaea muscipula), which respond to touch by rapidly closing their leaves.

These examples illustrate plants’ ability to perceive and respond to mechanical stimuli. But beyond these rapid movements, plants also detect rain and damage caused by browsing herbivores. The latter prompts plants to activate defence responses such as the production of toxins or depositing lignin to make themselves less palatable.

Just like animals, plants contain specialised proteins that detect these physical forces. These mechanical sensing proteins convert physical stimuli into biochemical signals, often through calcium signalling.

Plants remember the past to decide the future

Changes in temperature provide a good example of plants remembering that winter has passed. Remembering cold temperatures helps them flower at the right time when spring arrives.

As observed in animals, these memories are stored through epigenetic mechanisms – chemical changes to DNA that don’t affect the genetic code.

Epigenetic changes alter the way genes are packaged and read, creating a molecular record of past conditions.

In New Zealand, for example, trees remember temperatures from previous summers to synchronise their reproduction across entire forests – a phenomenon known as masting.

Masting triggers widespread seed production – and subsequent pest outbreaks that can threaten native wildlife. Researchers revealed that removable markers generate temporary chemical tags that can switch genes off. This allows masting plants to carry information from one year to the next.

Together, these findings show that plants can see, hear, feel and remember in ways parallel to our own sensory systems. Far from being passive or unresponsive, plants respond to environmental clues in sophisticated and complex ways.

Rethinking plant life in this way challenges long-held ideas about intelligence, awareness and communication in the natural world.

Samarth Kulshrestha, Research Fellow in Molecular Biology, University of Canterbury

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

Nighttime. A dim and dingy car park. Woefully inadequate fluorescent lights flicker and buzz overhead. Two men stand in half-shadow. One is barely visible, his face almost entirely swallowed by darkness. His voice is low and gravelly:

The list is longer than anyone can imagine. It involves the entire US intelligence community. FBI, CIA, Justice. It’s incredible. The cover-up had little to do with Watergate. It was mainly to protect the covert operations. It leads everywhere. Get out your notebook. There’s more.

The other man is lost for words. He just stands there, mouth slightly open and eyes wide, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. The exchange ends with a warning: his life, along with that of his colleague, in is grave and immediate danger.

This is a pivotal moment in Alan J. Pakula’s All the President’s Men, which has just turned 50. The film was based on the 1974 book by journalists Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, who investigated the Watergate scandal for the Washington Post.

The man doing the talking in the scene I’ve been describing is Mark Felt (Hal Holbrook), then associate director of the FBI, better known as “Deep Throat”. His interlocutor, temporarily stunned into silence, is Woodward (Robert Redford).

A masterpiece of political cinema, All The President’s Men remains one of the finest films about investigative journalism ever made.

Steeped in a fog of paranoia and distrust – an atmosphere shaped in no small part by cinematographer Gordon Willis’ matchless treatment of light and shade – it is as relevant now as it was on first release.

Uncovering the Watergate scandal

“At its simplest,” journalist Garrett M. Graff writes about the scandal,

Watergate is the story of two separate criminal conspiracies: the Nixon world’s ‘dirty tricks’ that led to the burglary on June 17 1972, and the subsequent wider cover-up. The first conspiracy was deliberate, a sloppy and shambolic but nonetheless developed plan to subvert the 1972 election; the second was reactive, almost instinctive – it seems to have happened simply because no one said no.

What started out as an ostensibly ordinary break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters in Washington, DC during the US presidential election cycle soon revealed a broader pattern of political espionage, illegal surveillance, campaign sabotage and the systematic misuse of state power. Much of it targeted perceived political enemies.

As the indefatigable Woodward and Bernstein pursued the story, it became clear the burglary was part of a much larger operation – one that reached all the way into the heart of the White House.

Their probing would ultimately lead to the disgrace and resignation of Richard Nixon, who faced near-certain impeachment.

Figuring out the puzzle

Redford was the driving force behind All the President’s Men.

He became interested in the Watergate story while working on The Candidate, a 1972 satire about the backstage machinations underpinning an idealistic Senate campaign that, in an instance of uncanny timing, overlapped with the unfolding scandal.

Redford followed Woodward and Bernstein’s investigation as it panned out in real time. In 1972, he reached out to Woodward directly, hoping to better understand both the facts of the case and the methods of the reporting.

Convinced that the story demanded a restrained, quasi-documentary approach, Redford initially envisioned a black-and-white film shot in a pared-back style, with an emphasis on process rather than star power.

Warner Bros, with whom he had a production deal, thought otherwise. Having already agreed to finance the film, the studio insisted that Redford take a leading role – and marketed the as yet-unmade project as “the most devastating detective story” of the century.

There were early discussions about casting Al Pacino as Bernstein, fresh from the success of The Godfather (1972), but the part ultimately went to Dustin Hoffman. Pakula then signed on to direct, bringing with him a conceptual and tonal sensibility ideally suited to the material.

A quandary remained: how do you build suspense out of a story who outcome is already common knowledge? Film scholars Robert B. Ray and Christian Keathley suggest the filmmaking team’s response to that challenge is “the key” which unlocks the movie.

At one point, during his first meeting with Deep Throat, Woordward admits:

The story is dry. All we’ve got are pieces. We can’t seem to figure out what the puzzle is supposed to look like.

We share the confusion of the reporters as they struggle to get to the bottom of things. What might, in the wrong hands, have been a disastrous mistake turned out to be a masterstroke.

The result is an endlessly watchable and quotable (“Follow the money”) film that generates narrative and dramatic tension through the sheer difficultly of knowing anything at all.

In age beset by disinformation, brazen political deceit, strategic obfuscation and collapsing trust in public institutions, that lesson feels less historically distant than it does disturbingly prescient.

Alexander Howard, Senior Lecturer, Discipline of English and Writing, University of Sydney

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

In September, the Australian Recording Industry Association (ARIA) excluded catalogue music (recordings more than two years old) from the Australian bestseller single and album charts.

From a marketing perspective this decision is logical, as it creates room to expose new recordings to the market. However, it also obscures the reality of the new music economy in Australia.

My latest research – which looks at new music releases in Australia from 2000 to 2024 – shows a significant decline in the sale of new music since the adoption of music streaming.

These findings point to a crisis for new and emerging artists in the Australian market.

The new music market is shrinking

In 2017, music streaming platforms, led by Spotify, became the dominant form of recorded music distribution in Australia. The shift from a purchase-based (CDs, vinyl and downloads) to an access-based (streaming) economy represented a fundamental change in the music business.

Streaming platforms, with close to unlimited repertoire, enable and encourage passive listening via playlists and algorithmic recommendation. The result is that catalogue music has become the mainstay of the recorded music industry.

From 2000 to 2018, new release music made up 99% of the ARIA annual top 100 singles, and 78% of the top 100 albums. But from 2022 to 2024, these figures dropped to 62% and 28%, respectively.

The data indicate that since 2000, new music revenue in Australia has declined by 55% in actual and 71% in inflation-adjusted value.

The rise of streaming has led to us spending more on music overall, but less of this is going to new music. My estimates suggest new music revenues in Australia have grown by just 4% since 2014, in a market that has doubled in value.

A similar trend is evident overseas. In the United States, new music accounted for an estimated 65% of recorded music revenue in the pre-streaming economy, compared to 25–30% post-streaming.

New talent can’t rely on industry

From an Australian perspective, the challenges for new music have created concern about pathways for emerging artists, and the music industry’s commitment to developing them.

Industry insiders I interviewed for the research highlighted how labels were playing a diminishing role in artist development.

The stress on the new music economy – combined with the reduced presence of Australian artists in the ARIA charts – has led to ongoing calls for the government to support the industry via cultural policy initiatives.

The recorded music industry also has a role to play in addressing the environment which it helped to create – particularly in regards to how artists are remunerated.

The current “pro-rata” model used by streaming platforms places equal value on all streams, regardless of whether it is a catalogue track or new release. Under this model, there is no business incentive to prioritise new music.

Adjusting this model, so that new releases are valued higher than catalogue music, could create this incentive.

Major labels will likely resist change, as they reap the rewards of selling back catalogue at pure profit. But the idea of valuing new music over catalogue is not new.

Before the streaming era, new release CDs were sold at full price and catalogue CDs were often sold at mid-price. This model reflected the costs associated with developing new products and provided business incentive by attaching greater profit margins to new releases.

Prioritising long-term industry health

Australia’s new music economy has experienced significant revenue decline and reduced industry commitment to new and emerging artists.

For independent labels, which are largely dependent on new release revenue, the ability to compete in a catalogue market is limited. For artists, the lack of pathways to earning revenue may lead to disconnection with the sector.

The role of Australian major record labels as generators of local talent is also in question.

In addition to policy, a business incentive for record labels to invest in new music could enable the long-term health of the sector.

Tim Kelly, PhD Candidate, Department of Design and Society., University of Technology Sydney

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

Those who venture into Foul Air Cave, below Buchan township in eastern Victoria, quickly realise how it got its ominous name. In its deepest chambers, bacteria consume oxygen and excrete organic gases to produce a toxic stench.

The cave is also a natural pitfall trap. Its water-worn entrance offers no escape to any creature unlucky enough to tumble in. The smell of death clings to your nostrils as you navigate vertiginous drops and calf-deep, sucking mud.

Tens to hundreds of thousands of years ago during the Pleistocene Epoch, Foul Air Cave accumulated remains of diverse, often-giant mammals known collectively as Australia’s megafauna.

One of these mammals was the giant echidna Megalibgwilia owenii, as we report in a new paper published today in Alcheringa: An Australasian Journal of Palaeontology. We recognised this extinct monotreme, twice the size of Australian echidnas today, from a newly identified fossil collected almost 120 years ago.

And the specimen is enough to verify for the first time that this species once roamed Ice Age Victoria, spanning a 1,000 kilometre gap in its previously known distribution.

Scores of ancient bones

The first scientific expeditions to Foul Air Cave were made in 1906–7 by Frank Palmer Spry who worked for what’s now called Museums Victoria, local caves curator Francis Moon, and geologist Thomas Sergeant Hall.

They were among the first to enter the cave. They encountered scores of fossil bones loosely buried in damp earth, including powerful, clawed mega-marsupial palorchestids and predatory marsupial “lions”.

They deposited their finds in the state collection, now housed at Melbourne Museum.

Over a century later, the fossils of Foul Air Cave have granted us a further insight into deep time.

A robust creature

Previously described fossils of Megalibgwilia owenii derive from a handful of sites in Western Australia, South Australia, Tasmania and New South Wales. They’re sparse, too: one well-preserved skeleton, four skulls of varying completeness, and a range of isolated bones.

Together, they illustrate a robust mammal a metre long and weighing in at 15 kilograms – roughly as big as a four-year-old child.

The meaning of its name is straightforward. Mega-libgwil-ia joins the ancient Greek prefix “mega-”, meaning large or mighty, with “libgwil”, the name for the echidna in the language of the Wemba Wemba people of northern Victoria and south-eastern NSW.

We can combine this with the species epithet owenii (acknowledging prolific 19th century anatomist Sir Richard Owen) to coin a common name: “Owen’s giant echidna”.

Using its fossil remains as a guide, Owen’s giant echidna most resembled the long-beaked echidna (Zaglossus), which today occupies the wet tropical cloud forests of New Guinea. Its broad limbs and shoulders bore prominent bony scars indicating it was more heavily muscled than other monotremes. It also had a wide, long and straight untoothed beak, with bony ridges across its palate.

This suite of differences implies Megalibgwilia was adapted to a different lifestyle than its modern relatives. One can imagine it tearing to pieces fallen logs or digging hard soils to seek out moth and beetle larvae, rather than feeding on termites or earthworms.

A fossil awaits its finder

Our new fossil came to light during the systematic documentation and maintenance of thousands of fossil bones, teeth, and skeletons preserved by Museums Victoria.

But even this obscure seven centimetre fragment of skull was sufficient to identify the unique proportions of M. owenii – especially when we examined material in museum collections across Australia.

As well as identifying the fossil, we also researched its connection to Foul Air Cave by drawing on collection notes, hand-drawn maps, diaries and public newspaper archives.

These historical ephemera established Spry as the fossil’s collector. And they inspired a return to the cave in his footsteps.

Ready for re-examination

Spry and Moon wore their everyday outfits of breeches, jacket and waistcoat for their fossicking. They lit their path with candles or kerosene lamps, and entrusted their life to stiff, heavy nautical rope. The trained geologist Hall never ventured into the cave himself. Under those conditions, who would judge him?

By comparison, modern caving is a technical affair. Brilliant headlamps illuminate entire caverns. Heavy-duty nylon oversuits protect from skin-shredding rocky surfaces. And the climbing ropes and devices are strong enough to suspend a small car.

The collaboration between Spry, Moon and Hall combined an informed perspective, fluent local knowledge, and technical know-how to succeed. Despite obvious advances in technology and disciplinary knowledge, our success is rooted in the same foundation as theirs – curiosity and community spirit.

During my own investigations at Buchan, families spanning generations have shared local history and acted as subterranean guides. Parks Victoria rangers have facilitated and overseen work on public reserves. Recreational cavers from the Victorian Speleological Association have been a wellspring of enthusiastic support.

The long residence of this specimen in Victoria’s state collection epitomises how, thanks to past work, palaeontological discoveries arise from “collection-based” fieldwork as often as investigations outdoors.

And if one illuminating specimen can lie unnoticed across a century, why not others?

Sparse fossil bones of large, slender echidnas, seemingly distinct from Megalibgwilia owenii, have been noted from Victoria and South Australia. These warrant re-examination to test if Owen’s giant echidna adapted to different conditions over space or time, or if another unknown species co-occupied the landscape.

The latter option is intriguing in light of the proposition that Zaglossus may even have occupied northern Australia until as late as the 20th century.

If true, then surely one of its ancestors awaits recognition – either among the landscape or preserved carefully among the nation’s public scientific assets.

Tim Ziegler, Collection Manager, Vertebrate Palaeontology, Museums Victoria Research Institute

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

Isn’t it funny
How a Bear likes honey
Buzz buzz
I wonder why he does

Just over a century ago, the satirical writer and playwright A.A. Milne, suffering from the after-effects of fighting in the trenches of World War I, started writing some poems for his only child, Christopher Robin.

They were published in a collection, When We Were Very Young and they caused a literary sensation for a reading public looking for comfort in difficult times.

Two years later, Milne followed up with the stories of the Hundred Acre Wood in his book Winnie-the-Pooh, based on the tangle of scrub and trees at the bottom of his garden and populated by Christopher Robin’s toys.

Winnie-the-Pooh, Piglet, Rabbit, Eeyore, Tigger, Kanga and Roo, and Owl, each distinctive characters in their own right, chatted and played, going on adventures, solving problems, presided over by Christopher Robin, the wise child who knows what to do.

Not every critic loved it: “Tonstant Reader fwowed up” wrote the acerbic Dorothy Parker in her New Yorker Constant Reader column. She found the stories saccharine and cloying. But for those who enjoyed the simple humour, cameraderie and warmth of the stories, Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends became part of the children’s literary canon. And so they have remained to this day.

Winnie-the-Pooh has been translated into over 50 languages, including Bengali, Swedish, Polish and Latin (with the wonderful Winnie Ille Pu). In Poland, a Warsaw street, Ulica Kubusia Puchatka, was named after Winnie-the-Pooh by the children of the city.

In 1961, Disney acquired the rights to Winnie-the-Pooh, resulting in a popular television cartoon and merchandising. In China, in 2018, a film version of Winnie-the-Pooh was banned after internet memes compared his gentle laziness to the President, Xi Jinping. More than 20 million copies of the books have been sold worldwide.

Winnie-the-Pooh contains a perfect mixture of sweetness and sharp observation, shifting between light and dark, between funny and tragi-comic. The stories of Pooh and his friends, each one flawed but also delightful, demonstrate the ups and downs of life, held in a delicate and optimistic balance.

Take, for instance, the depressive toy donkey, Eeyore, continually miserable yet somehow contented in his misery, bouncy toy tiger, Tigger, causing mayhem with every move, or timid Piglet, Pooh’s best friend. All (along with Pooh) have problems that are solved with one another’s help and particularly with the help of the boy-hero, Christopher Robin. Problems occur, are solved, and life carries on.

A romance of community

The Winnie-the-Pooh stories are what we might think of as a romance of community. The inhabitants of the 100 Acre Wood show resilience and resourcefulness in dealing with difficulties, largely because they deal with them together.

They are also pastoral, set in a comfortable and nonthreatening rural place, offering readers (often weary urbanites) a holiday from their busy lives. And as such, they allow us to gently contemplate what makes life tick, and what makes life worth living.

This philosophical streak runs through all Milne’s work for children: in his follow-up to Winnie-the-Pooh, The House at Pooh Corner (1928), and his second collection of poems, Now We Are Six (1927). In 1929 he adapted another children’s classic, Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, for the stage. Also a pastoral, featuring anthropomorphised animals rather than toys, it promoted the English countryside as a space for gentle reflection on the good life and friendship.

The Wind in the Willows has a wild quality. Such wildness does not impinge greatly in the Pooh stories: the characters are toys rather than animals and the god-figure is Christopher Robin.

Asked, for instance, to help resolve a squabble between Eeyore and Tigger, after Tigger’s loud sneeze has frightened Eeyore into falling into the river, Christopher Robin concludes: “Well, … I think – I think we all ought to play Poohsticks”. This is a simple game in which players drop sticks on the upstream side of a bridge over running water and wait to see which one emerges first. (See: How to Play Pooh Sticks)

Living in the moment

Why is Winnie-the-Pooh called Winnie-the-Pooh? The name Winnie comes from a North American black bear at the London Zoo, which was brought to Britain from Winnipeg, Canada. Like many London children, Christopher Robin was taken to the London zoo to see the animals, and he shortened the name Winnipeg to “Winnie”. “Pooh,” on the other hand, came from a swan, encountered on a family holiday. This mixture of inside-joke and idiosyncratic names created by a very young child adds to the book’s whimsy.

In their appeal to the good life and emphasis on friendship and community, these books have struck a chord with readers well beyond the nursery. Best known in this vein is Benjamin Hoff’s book The Tao of Pooh, a philosophical work that connects the behaviour of Pooh and friends with the principles of Daoism, which emphasise the importance of simplicity, naturalness and effortlessness.

In this regard, the innocent everyman Pooh exemplifies the ability to live in the present moment, and to live a life of simple “being”.

As such, he is the valuable sounding-board for the other characters, beset by life difficulties and behavioural dysfunction: the hyperactive Tigger, the depressive Eeyore, anxious Piglet, busy Rabbit and so-on. He offers solutions to their problem, without criticising them, in doing so providing stability for them and for readers.

Certainly, when one visits the 100 Acre Wood, one is aware of entering a place of calm, of smallness, a place attuned to nature where the oddities of human character and behaviour are distilled into small, funny, calming stories. It is a world close to beauty, but also tolerant of imperfection.

According to Daoism, the secret of life lies in accepting things according to their true nature, neither blaming nor praising.

What of Christopher?

It helps, too, that Pooh Corner is visually lovely: the illustrations by E.H. Shephard present Pooh and friends as cute and appealing, while remaining faithful to the toys that inspired them.

Pictures such as one where Pooh and Piglet climb a gate together show the odd-couple balance of their friendship – brave Pooh, fearful Piglet – trusting one another in difficult circumstances.

Christopher Robin Milne had a somewhat difficult time as a child thrust into the spotlight when the books found fame. It is hard enough having one’s childish cuteness paraded around family and friends; harder still when one’s reputation precedes one.

In adult life, Christopher Robin owned a successful bookshop and before he died in 1996, he did reach a measure of acceptance of his father’s work. In 2001, Disney Corporation paid a large sum of money to Milne’s estate and other rights holders of Winnie-the-Pooh. His wife Lesley and daughter Clare decided the money should be used to fund a charity supporting people with disabilities. The Clare Milne Trust has been in operation since 1999.

2026 will be a year of busy celebration for Winnie-the-Pooh. Disney, unsurprisingly, will launch new merchandise. An academic conference on 100 years of the 100 acres will be held at the University of Cambridge.

For the rest of us, it may be time to dig out our childhood copies of Milne’s books, to spend a little time with old friends from these best of old stories, hanging out in the 100 Acre Wood, doing not very much and thinking a little about life.

Elizabeth Hale, Senior Lecturer in English and Writing (children's literature), University of New England

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

Have you ever tasted a word, or seen colours while listening to music?

If you have, you may be among the 1% to 4% of people who have a fascinating trait known as synaesthesia.

Synaesthesia is a neurological phenomenon where the activation of one sense, such as hearing, triggers the activation of another usually unrelated sense, such as sight. This means people with synaesthesia often experience additional sensations compared to the rest of us.

We’ve devoted a lot of time to understanding this rare phenomenon. While there’s much more to unpack, what we do know shows we don’t all perceive the world in the same way.

What is synaesthesia?

People with synaesthesia are known as synaesthetes. Research suggests synaesthesia may be more common among women, although this could reflect sampling biases, and may be influenced by genetics.

There are many different types of synaesthesia. Some people have auditory-visual synaesthesia, meaning they see colours when they hear sounds. Others see colours when they read, hear or think about letters or numbers. This is known as grapheme-colour synaesthesia. Another example is mirror-touch synaesthesia, where a person feels sensations on their own body when they see another person being touched.

All of us naturally combine information from different senses. For instance, when you watch someone speak, your brain blends what you see and hear to understand them better. In synaesthesia these links are a bit different – a sound might, for example, trigger a visual experience – but may still depend on the same mechanisms.

People with synaesthesia don’t have any control over how their senses collide. Instead, these are spontaneous, vivid experiences that usually stay the same over time. For example, today a person with grapheme-colour synaesthesia may perceive the letter “A” as being red. And they’ll most likely see it as being the same shade even years later.

It’s worth noting synaesthesia is not an illness or disorder. And it doesn’t cause harm or impairment, although some people may find their synaesthesia overwhelming at times. For example, if they feel pain every time they see someone else in pain, going to the movies can be quite disturbing. However, on the whole it does not seem to interfere with daily life. In fact, many people don’t realise they have synaesthesia because it’s simply how they perceive the world.

What causes it?

We don’t yet know exactly what causes synaesthesia. But scientists have come up with two main theories.

1. Synaesthetes have more connections in their brain

According to this view, known as the cross-activation theory, people with synaesthesia have more connections between different parts of their brain. This could happen because their brain hasn’t gotten rid of unused connections between brain cells. This process, known as synaptic pruning, helps the brain work more efficiently and is part of normal development.

Under this theory, a person with grapheme-colour synaesthesia for example, would have the region that recognises letters directly linked to the part that processes colour. So when they see a letter, they perceive it with a colour.

2. Synaesthetes have slightly different activity in their brain

The other main theory is that people with synaesthesia have the same neural connections as non-synaesthetes, but certain pathways might be stronger or more active. Synaesthesia does seem to build on mechanisms we all have. For example, when you see a picture of a grey banana, you know bananas are usually yellow. We even see patterns of brain activity that reflect this. Grapheme-colour synaesthetes might also do this with letters so that when they see black letters, their brain activates specific colours.

Simply put, the debate about what causes synaesthesia comes down to whether synaesthetes have a different brain structure or just use their brains in an alternative way.

Does it make you more creative?

You might’ve heard artists such as Kandinsky or musicians such as Lorde describe their synaesthesia-like experiences. And there is some evidence to suggest synaesthesia is more common among people in creative fields.

One large survey of Australian synaesthetes found roughly 24% had creative occupations, such as being an artist, musician, architect or graphic designer. This is compared to the less than 2% of people in the general population who have these jobs. This gap is striking, even though we don’t understand what’s behind it. One reason may be synaesthetes link ideas and sensations in unusual ways, helping them think more creatively. Research suggests people with certain kinds of synaesthesia may form stronger memories or have more vivid imaginations, but only to a limited extent.

Synaesthesia is a powerful window into how our brains make sense of the world. It reminds us perception is not a fixed, one-size-fits-all process. Rather, it’s something the brain actively builds in ways that are often more varied, and far richer, than we might expect.

Sophie Smit, Postdoctoral Research Associate in Cognitive Neuroscience‬, University of Sydney and Anina Rich, Associate Professor and Head of Synaesthesia Research Group, Macquarie University

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

The two of us can often be found in a patch of scrubby bushland, phone in hand, slowly scanning for plants. Or crouched behind a tree trunk with binoculars, pausing mid-breath to find the source of a bird call. It often feels like a treasure hunt. What will turn up today? And how can we share those observations with the world?

Activities such as these are part of citizen science, where volunteers record observations of the natural world and share them with others.

Science lives far beyond the lab, and it’s not just done by scientists.

In this series, we spotlight the world of citizen science – its benefits, discoveries and how you can participate.

We are both professional ecologists, but our most joyful moments with nature often begin with a simple act: stepping outside and paying attention to it. And our research suggests these experiences may do more than support science. They may also benefit our mental health.

Some days it’s a common species we’ve seen a hundred times before. Other days it’s something unexpected that brings a surge of excitement.

Being outside like this can feel freeing. You focus on the present, move your body and think about where to place your feet, without worrying about your email inbox or endless other demands on your attention. You begin noticing small details you might usually rush past.

That sense of curiosity, connection and shared purpose is something many people recognise when they take part in citizen science.

Supporting mental wellbeing

Citizen science projects invite people to collect data about the natural world.

Platforms such as eBird, iNaturalist, FrogID and Redmap allow anyone armed with curiosity and a smartphone to record wildlife observations and contribute to scientific research. Millions of people around the world now take part in these kinds of projects.

In a recent study of citizen science participants, we examined how taking part in wildlife monitoring projects affects people’s mental wellbeing.

Participants consistently described feeling better after taking part. One volunteer told us:

I come home tired, but it’s a good tired. My head feels clearer, like I’ve pressed reset.

Another explained that learning to identify species changed how they experienced everyday walks:

I don’t just see “green” anymore. Now I notice the differences between plants, their ecological value and the pressures they face.

Part of the explanation is simple: spending time in nature is already known to reduce stress, improve mood and support mental wellbeing.

But citizen science goes a step further.

Rather than simply visiting a park, people actively engage with the environment. They observe closely, record what they see and contribute to something larger than themselves. This sense of purpose can deepen the benefits of being outside.

Citizen science is also inherently social. Many projects bring people together to collect data, share observations or learn from others. These interactions can help reduce social isolation, which is a major risk factor for poor mental health.

For some participants, particularly older adults, citizen science can also be empowering. It provides opportunities to use existing skills, learn new ones and feel that their contributions matter.

Taken together, elements of nature exposure, physical activity, learning and social connection create a powerful mix that supports wellbeing.

How you participate matters

Not all citizen science experiences are the same, and this may influence their health benefits.

In a 2025 study we explored this using a concept borrowed from public health called dose-response – how much participation is needed to produce benefits?

Three ingredients appear particularly important: frequency (how often someone takes part), duration (how long activities last) and intensity, which can include the richness of the environment, the diversity of species encountered or the depth of interaction between participants.

Short, one-off activities can still boost mood and encourage movement. But regular participation is more likely to produce longer-lasting benefits. Like exercise, small amounts done often may be better than one big effort followed by long gaps.

Citizen science can also bring physical health benefits. Many projects involve walking, bending, standing or light hiking. These activities support mobility and cardiovascular health.

For communities at risk of social isolation or physical inactivity, these benefits may be profoundly valuable.

How can citizen science do even more?

Despite this potential, most citizen science projects are not designed with health outcomes in mind. That means opportunities are being missed.

A 2025 study suggests even short nature-based citizen science activities can quickly improve mood and reduce stress.

Longer-term mental health conditions are influenced by many factors and usually require sustained support. Citizen science will not replace medical care. But it can help strengthen the foundations of wellbeing: positive emotions, physical activity, social connection and a sense of purpose.

At a population level, these building blocks matter. They build our ability to cope with challenges and recover from stress.

To maximise these benefits, citizen science projects must be inclusive. People who already feel connected to nature are more likely to take part.

But this is also the group that tends to report better mental and physical health, meaning participation can unintentionally reinforce existing health inequalities.

Field-based projects may unintentionally exclude people with mobility challenges, limited time or poor access to green space. Yet many of these individuals could contribute meaningfully if projects were designed with accessibility in mind.

Recognising citizen science not only as a research tool, but also as a way to support public health opens new opportunities.

When designed thoughtfully, citizen science can benefit both biodiversity and people. And for participants, it offers something simple but powerful: a reason to step outside, pay attention, and reconnect with the living world around them.

Richard Fuller, Professor in Biodiversity and Conservation, The University of Queensland and Rachel Oh, Research Assistant Professor, National University of Singapore

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

Scientists can’t be everywhere all at once, as much as they’d like to. Many of the problems citizen science helps solve are concerned with spreading the net wider – or getting more helping hands on the task.

Biosecurity managers can’t make it to every regional town in their state. But if members of the public report suspicious species, such as through the popular iNaturalist app, they can take action.

Astronomers need more eyes to sift through vast databases of stellar explosions. Climate scientists can learn from our history, but deciphering the records takes time.

Below we introduce five citizen science projects where large numbers of people have contributed impactful results, or yielded new knowledge. Some of them even have new project stages you may be able to participate in.

Science lives far beyond the lab, and it’s not just done by scientists.

In this series, we spotlight the world of citizen science – its benefits, discoveries and how you can participate.

Atlas of Living Australia’s Biosecurity Alerts Service

Andrew Turley, Team Leader – Applications and Biosecurity – Atlas of Living Australia, CSIRO

Australia is one of the world’s most biodiverse continents, but we’re constantly at risk from introduced and invasive species. Even with current border controls, some pests, weeds, and diseases inevitably slip through.

The Atlas of Living Australia (ALA) is the nation’s largest open source biodiversity data source. In partnership with the Department of Agriculture, Fisheries and Forestry, a Biosecurity Alerts Service was set up to connect this trove of data – much of it collected through citizen science – with biosecurity managers across Australia.

The service delivers weekly email notifications to biosecurity managers about new reports of introduced and invasive species of concern in their area. In 2020, this led to the first report of globally invasive Asian shore crab (Hemigrapsus sanguineus). In 2024, an iNaturalist user recorded the first report of the invasive freshwater gold clam (Corbicula fluminea). Early detection allowed biosecurity managers to monitor and mitigate these species’ spread to other areas.

In 2025, an iNaturalist citizen scientist recorded Siam weed north of Brisbane. This record was more than 1,000km from the nearest known infestation, near Townsville. The resulting alert allowed Biosecurity Queensland to eradicate the new infestation. Likewise, reports of the tree cholla cactus, red imported fire ants, honey fungus and many other species have triggered local responses.

This work ultimately helps protect our environment and agricultural systems from the impacts of these introduced and invasive species.

The Biosecurity Alerts Service is ongoing, and every week we send alerts to biosecurity managers across the country. If you use one of the ALA-linked apps – such as iNaturalist, eBird or FrogID, among many others – and choose to share your data publicly, the data you collect will be automatically checked as part of the service.

If you’re lucky, you may even be contacted by a biosecurity officer for more information or to collect a sample to help confirm the species. To get involved, just be curious, visit the outdoors with a biodiversity app, and make sure to record anything that looks odd or out of place.

Climate History Australia

Linden Ashcroft, Senior Lecturer, Climate Science and Science Communication, University of Melbourne

There are millions of valuable weather observations scattered across the world that only exist on paper. It would take thousands of lifetimes for scientists to transcribe these precious records on their own.

But with the help of citizen scientists, we’ve been able to rescue these vital observations from being lost to time. The data they provide have improved the coverage and accuracy of global data models used to understand how our climate is changing.

Climate History Australia was modelled on similar projects from the United Kingdom and New Zealand. Scanned images of historical weather data from the National Archives were split into chunks, allowing people to help us rescue these observations in a manageable way at home.

Across two projects in 2020 and 2021, more than 1,700 citizen scientists transcribed at least 67,400 weather observations recorded in the 19th century. The journals contained meticulous weather data including descriptions of the clouds, type of rainfall, and other activities of the day. The project attracted amazing volunteers, including students, historians, and people who wanted to contribute to climate science.

Thanks to the recovered data, we have now filled gaps in weather observations in Adelaide and Perth, allowing us to build near-continuous records of the weather of these two cities back to 1830 and 1843 respectively. We now know more about extreme weather events in Australia, which is so important because changes in the extremes are what will affect us the most as the world warms.

The rescued data have also fed into global weather and climate datasets, improving our understanding of weather and climate change in the entire Southern Hemisphere. While there are no active Climate History Australia data rescue projects, similar activities are happening in Ireland, Africa and Italy.

Kilonova Seekers

Duncan Galloway, Associate Professor in Astrophysics, Monash University

Since 2023, the Kilonova Seekers citizen astronomy project has been sharing the excitement of transient astronomy, engaging citizen scientists in the discovery of some of the most exciting and energetic events in the universe.

Transient astronomy refers broadly to the study of cosmic objects that vary with time. Many types of normal stars, particularly those that have an orbiting companion, vary in brightness.

But of particular interest are short-lived explosive events that produce gamma-ray bursts, such as the supernova explosions of massive stars, or rare collisions between pairs of neutron stars.

Kilonova Seekers provides observations from the Gravitational-wave Optical Transient Observer (GOTO) telescope network to members of the public. GOTO collaboration members Lisa Kelsey from the University of Cambridge and Tom Killestein from the University of Warwick built an image comparison platform on the popular Zooniverse website.

To contribute, participants were invited to play “spot the difference” by comparing new images to old and looking for changes. This work helps astronomers to distinguish genuine new objects in the sky from imaging artefacts and other spurious signals.

The project has attracted thousands of volunteer observers and yielded more than 200 discoveries to date. A major discovery was published last year – an extremely bright star explosion, GOTO0650, captured as it took place. Once flagged, astronomers were able to look at it more closely with Earth-based and space observatories. The object was so bright, amateur astronomers could capture high-quality images, too.

Kilonova Seekers has just gone through a hardware and software upgrade and relaunched in February this year – so you too can have a hand in trying to discover new objects in space.

Mozzie Monitors

Craig Williams, Professor and Dean of Programs (STEM), Adelaide University

Mosquitoes are the world’s deadliest animal. It’s crucial for health departments and local governments to keep up mosquito surveillance to protect public health. But it takes a lot of resources to do so, leading to gaps in the system.

Launched by the University of South Australia in 2018, the Mozzie Monitors program comprised two main activities citizen scientists could help with. The first was setting low-tech mosquito traps at home and taking photos of the collections so experts could identify them remotely. The second was submitting mosquito images to the project page on the iNaturalist platform. It has been an amazing collaborative effort nationwide, with thousands of records submitted.

Originally, the program aimed to expand mosquito surveillance in Australia, detect exotic mosquitoes entering the country, and educate the public about mosquitoes and the diseases they carry.

It has since evolved to assisting remote communities in exotic mosquito surveillance, tracking mosquito-borne viruses, and running an education program in South Australian and Northern Territory schools. Hundreds of students aged 5–17 have participated in learning activities and even trapped some mosquitoes.

We designed and built Mozzie Monitors as we went along. It’s led to new mosquito trapping methods citizen scientists can use, has taught the participants a lot about mosquitoes, helped to establish a mosquito database with new species records, and even led to the discovery of mosquitoes not previously known to be in Australia.

The project continues to grow and evolve. In the Northern Territory, the small town of Tennant Creek has experienced repeated invasions of exotic dengue mosquitoes. Currently, readers in the Northern Territory anywhere between Katherine and Alice Springs, can become involved in Mozzie Monitors Tennant Creek. While Tennant Creek is the focus, we would dearly love to have participants across the region.

WomSAT: Wombat Survey and Analysis Tool

Julie Old, Associate Professor in Biology, Zoology and Animal Science, Western Sydney University

Hayley Stannard, Associate Professor in Animal Anatomy and Physiology, Charles Sturt University

Wombats are ecological engineers – they dig burrows to sleep in during the day and protect them from predators, but these burrows also provide shelter for other animals. Turning over the soil when they dig their burrows also helps plants grow, moving nutrients and water through the soil.

Due to their importance to ecosystems, there is a need to understand more about wombats and where they live, so that we can manage threats and aid their conservation. Sadly, wombats are at risk from several threats – these include collisions with vehicles, a devastating disease called sarcoptic mange, and habitat loss.

Started in 2015, WomSAT is a citizen science program that allows the public, researchers and wildlife carers to record evidence of wombats across Australia. It collects real-time data on wombat sightings – dead or alive, the location of their burrows, and whether they appear to be affected by mange. Wildlife carers also use WomSAT to track the treatment of sarcoptic mange.

To date, the impacts have been significant: WomSAT has been pivotal to determining roadkill hotspots and tracking sarcoptic mange, and even the factors that affect mange occurrence. In collaboration with the Wombat Protection Society of Australia, the project also created online training courses for the public who have an interest in wombats and wish to learn more, and for wildlife carers on how to safely treat sarcoptic mange in the field.

WomSAT is an ongoing project. Anyone can become a “wombat warrior” by logging sightings of wombats on WomSAT to help identify roadkill hotspots and track the occurrence of sarcoptic mange. You can also follow #WombatWednesday on social media.

Signe Dean, Science + Technology Editor, The Conversation

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

Ever wondered what it might feel like to spot giant spider crabs while you’re snorkelling? Or check plants for the circular holes that indicate native bees are collecting nest materials?

Citizen science relies on people like you – more than a million of them in Australia, actually – to collect and analyse valuable data about the world around us.

Here, we introduce five citizen science projects you can take part in. For most of them, all you need to get started is an app on your phone.

Science lives far beyond the lab, and it’s not just done by scientists.

In this series, we spotlight the world of citizen science – its benefits, discoveries and how you can participate.

Spider Crab Watch

Elodie Camprasse, Honorary Fellow – School of Life and Environmental Sciences – Deakin University

Every winter in Port Phillip Bay in Naarm/Melbourne, tens of thousands of great spider crabs gather in shallow water to moult – shedding their shells and growing new ones that grow to about 16 centimetres. But scientists know surprisingly little about them. The gatherings can be unpredictable and short-lived, making them difficult for scientists to monitor alone.

Spider Crab Watch helps researchers fill these knowledge gaps. By bringing together observations from the public – including divers, snorkellers and fishers – scientists can better understand when and where gatherings occur, how long they last, and what environmental conditions might trigger them.

Citizen scientists have already logged hundreds of observations, helping researchers identify new gathering sites and better understand when aggregations occur. Participants can log when and where they see spider crabs – whether a single crab or a large group, in Port Phillip Bay or elsewhere. Photos are helpful but not essential. Empty shells washed up on beaches can also be logged.

NOBURN

Sam Van Holsbeeck, Research Fellow – Forest Research Institute – University of the Sunshine Coast

NOBURN (the National Bushfire Resilience Network) is a citizen science project aimed at improving our understanding of the role of vegetation in bushfire risk. Using an app, people around Australia can log their observations – including site photographs – to support research into fuel dynamics, fuel load and bushfire risk.

Guided by the app, participants assess vegetation at a site, noting factors such as shrub density and overall fuel hazard. Observations typically take 10–15 minutes and can be conducted by community members, landholders, students or land managers. To date, we have collected 154 verified site observations and more than 160 registered users.

Observations supplied by citizen scientists help researchers understand the structure, density and dryness of forest fuels. Combined with AI, this data allows for better prediction of the likelihood and severity of fires. While this data is not as detailed as a full expert assessment, they provide useful indicative information, particularly in areas where formal fuel monitoring is limited.

FrogID

Jodi Rowley, Curator – Amphibian & Reptile Conservation Biology – Australian Museum – UNSW Sydney

Australia’s frogs are in trouble. At least four species have been lost and dozens more are on the edge of extinction. Yet we lack the information needed to make informed decisions about how to conserve them. Frogs are very sensitive to environmental change. This makes them great indicators of environmental change (they’re often referred to as the “canary in the coal mine”). By monitoring them, we also gain insight into environmental health.

FrogID taps the keen eyes and ears of people across Australia to gather the data needed to help save Australia’s frogs.

Using our free app, people can record frogs wherever they hear them. The best time is after rain and in the first few hours after dark. Once submitted, Australian Museum frog experts listen to the recordings and identify species.

There are more than 100,000 registered users of FrogID who have together gathered almost 1.5 million records of frogs from across Australia. It’s safe to say this dataset has revolutionised our understanding of frogs in Australia – including finding 13 frog species new to science.

1 Million Turtles

James Van Dyke, Associate Professor in Biomedical Sciences – La Trobe University

Freshwater turtle numbers have fallen 60–90% across most of the rivers and wetlands of Australia, amid engineered flows and increasingly dry conditions. As turtles disappear, they leave a large gap. Turtles are the “vacuum cleaners” of the waterways, eating decaying organisms and vegetation and improving water quality.

The 1 Million Turtles project aims to increase survival rates of freshwater turtles and turtle nests, and increase Australia’s turtle population by at least one million animals.

People of all ages can download and record any turtles or turtle nests they see in Australia. They can also volunteer for other activities, such as nest protection, via our website.

To date, our citizen scientists have logged nearly 34,000 turtle records across the country. They have also saved more than 2,600 turtles from dangerous road crossings, and protected more than 1,940 turtle nests from invasive foxes and pigs.

Assuming each nest held an average of 15 eggs, and half of the turtles saved on roads were adult females of reproductive age, our program has given 400,000 turtles the chance of a future in just the past five years.

Data from this community conservation program has led to the conservation status of turtle species being upgraded to threatened or endangered. It has also prompted the development of state conservation programs for turtles in New South Wales, Victoria and South Australia.

Australian ‘leafcutter’ bees

Kit Prendergast, Research Fellow – School of Science – University of Southern Queensland

Native bee numbers are declining and we have limited information about them. There are more than 2,000 species of native bee, including the Megachile bee. Some species of Megachile bee use plant leaves or even petals to build their nests, giving them the common name of leafcutter bees.

We don’t yet know which plants these bee species rely on. This citizen science project allows the public to use an app to identify which plants the bees are relying on. By noting preferred plants, we’ll have a better idea of how to create habitats for these gorgeous native bees and pollinators.

Most native bees cannot be identified by citizens, due to the specialised skills required, and most diagnostic features being microscopic. But when it comes to plants, these are much better known among the public and can be identified easily by photos.

Members of the public can download the free iNaturalist app and when they see a plant that has distinctive discs cut out, or see a Megachile bee in action, they can take a photo of the leaf “damage”. Once completed, gardeners, land managers and farmers will be able to access an evidence-based list of which nesting plants should accompany food plants.

Miki Perkins, Environment & Energy Editor, The Conversation

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

On the shores of the west coast of Australia lies a window to our past: the stromatolites and microbial mats of Gathaagudu (Shark Bay).

To the untrained eye they look like a collection of rocks and slime – but they are in fact teeming with microbial life. And these stromatolites are living “relics” of ancient ecosystems that thrived on Earth billions of years ago.

If you wade past, it feels like you’re walking back through time. In fact, the first bubbles of oxygen that filled the atmosphere on early Earth likely came from ancient stromatolites. You could say we owe our very existence to these piles of rocks.

So, what other secrets of our past could these ecosystems tell us? Through decades of research, we know how early life has woven its path through these “living rocks”. But most recently our team embarked on the greatest genealogy search of them all: searching for our great microbial ancestors, the Asgard archaea.

And in a new paper, published today in the journal Current Biology, we report how this search led to the discovery of a key clue that could help explain how complex life evolved on Earth.

The cells that comprise complex life

Asgard archaea were originally named after Norse gods. This fascinating group of microbes sits on the cusp of one of the most significant events in the evolution of life: the origin of the complex cells that make up plants and animals, known as eukaryotes.

Evidence suggests Asgard archaea are the closest relatives of eukaryotes. And that on an early Earth it was the “marriage” of an ancient Asgard archaeon and a bacterium that led to the first eukaryotes.

They formed an ancient partnership. They shared resources and physically interacted, leading to the first complex cells. Like a Romeo and Juliet tale of two distant families coming together, Asgard archaea and bacteria decided it was time to break from traditional family values.

But we have never seen a model of how this may have occurred. Until now.

Holding up a mirror to the ancient past

Our team used the mats of Shark Bay as a “seed” to establish cultures of these ancient microbes. We are one of only four groups worldwide to achieve this, through years of research with a dedicated team of graduate students nurturing the Asgards like offspring.

But the Asgards were not alone. We found them together with a sulphate-loving bacterium. Could this be a model of how complex life may have started on a primitive Earth?

We began by sequencing the Asgards’ DNA to decipher exactly how these microbes tick at the genetic level. We also used artificial intelligence to model how proteins could have behaved in a world before eukaryotes. Evidence suggested these two microbes were sharing nutrients. In other words, they were cooperating.

But we wanted to delve deeper. What do our great microbial ancestors look like? Here we turned to electron cryotomography, a high-resolution imaging approach that allowed us to observe cells and structures at a nanometre scale.

And here we showed – for the first time – an Asgard archaeon and a bacterium directly interacting. Tiny nanotubes were connecting the two organisms – perhaps reflecting what their great-ancestors did on an early Earth that ultimately led to the explosion of complex life as we know it.

Weaving western science with Indigenous knowledge

This was a major discovery – one that originated in Gathaagudu, a World Heritage Site with significant environmental and cultural values.

Aboriginal people first inhabited Gathaagudu over 30,000 years ago. We wanted to recognise and celebrate the language of the Malgana people, one of the traditional language groups of Gathaagudu. We also wanted to connect western science with Indigenous Knowledge in a meaningful way.

To this end and working closely with the world’s foremost Malgana language expert, Kymberley Oakley, and Aboriginal elders, a name was granted for our novel Asgard archaeon from the language of the Malgana people: Nerearchaeum marumarumayae. The species name – marumarumayae – is derived from the Aboriginal language of the Malgana people, meaning “ancient home”, a reference to stromatolites being of ancient origin in Earth’s history.

Weaving Aboriginal language into the naming of our new microbe represents a fitting connection between unique Aboriginal culture in Australia and the ancient microbe discovered that calls the mats of Gathaagudu “home”.

Gathaagudu is under threat from global change, from increased heatwaves, cyclonic events and human activity. And among the values to preserve and conserve are the significant Aboriginal connections as well as the trails of life going back through evolutionary time.

With our study we have peered into our past. And maybe like the Montagues and Capulets of Shakespeare, we see distant families of microbes coming together to bridge the divide and ultimately form the early eukaryotes that eventually led to us: a fragile branch on the evolutionary tree of life.

Brendan Paul Burns, Associate Professor, School of Biotech & Biomolecular Science, UNSW Sydney and Kymberley Oakley, Indigenous language expert, Indigenous Knowledge

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

It’s a simple thing we encounter many times every single week – often while in a hurry. You pull up at a parking spot, scan a QR code and pay within seconds. Or you sit down at a cafe, scan a code to view the menu and order your meal.

At the train station, you scan the code on the poster for timetable updates. QR codes are increasingly used in public transport systems worldwide for ticketing, payments and accessing real-time information.

Because QR codes are so widespread, scammers naturally find them appealing too. Here’s what you need to know to stay safe.

What are QR codes?

A QR (quick response) code is a type of barcode that stores information and encoded data in a square pattern of black and white pixels. They were first developed in 1994 by Japanese company Denso Wave for labelling automotive parts.

Today QR codes are widely used because they’re quick to create and easy to scan without needing a specialised scanner – a smartphone camera will do. They’re designed to remove friction: you scan, and something happens instantly.

However, a QR code doesn’t show you where it leads until after it’s scanned. Your device can perform a range of functions after scanning a QR code: open up a web page, check you in to a location, or even connect your device to a wireless network without needing to type anything.

That’s what makes it so useful, but also potentially risky. Malicious QR codes can redirect users to fake websites or prompt them to download harmful content. QR codes are so familiar and widespread, we tend to trust them without question. That’s exactly what scammers rely on.

What to look out for

Phishing – where cyber criminals “fish” for sensitive information – is the most common type of cyber crime, typically sent by email or text. When a QR code is involved, that becomes “quishing” – short for QR phishing.

Scammers now include QR codes in emails or text messages instead of clickable links. When scanned, the code directs users to fake login pages or payment sites. Because there’s no visible link, these messages can seem more trustworthy and can even bypass some email security filters.

Malicious downloads

Some QR codes don’t just take you to a website – they trigger an app or file download, which could contain malware. This can give attackers access to your device, data or accounts. Because the action happens quickly, you may not have time to question whether the download is legitimate.

Fake QR codes in public places

One of the simplest methods to trick people involves placing a sticker with a fake QR code over a legitimate one. For example, scammers have been caught sticking fraudulent QR codes on parking meters. When drivers scan the code, they are taken to a fake payment page and asked to enter their card details. Posters, flyers and other signs in public places may also contain malicious QR codes.

Redirect scams

Even when a QR code looks legitimate, it may redirect you through multiple websites before landing on a fake page. This makes it harder to detect suspicious activity. By the time you see the final page, it may look convincing enough to trust.

How to stay safe

The good news is you don’t need to stop using QR codes. You just need to use them more carefully.

Treat QR codes like unknown links. If you wouldn’t click a random link, don’t scan a random QR code.

Check for signs of tampering. In public places, look closely at the code. Is it a sticker placed over another one? Does anything look out of place?

Look at the web address before proceeding. Many phones now show a preview of the hyperlink retrieved via the QR code before opening it. Don’t just hit “go”, take a moment to check it looks legitimate.

Avoid scanning codes from unsolicited messages. If you receive a QR code via email or text asking you to log in or make a payment, don’t use it. Go directly to the official website instead.

Don’t rush to enter personal details. If a site asks for sensitive information, pause. Double-check you’re on the correct website.

Keep your phone updated. Security updates may sometimes feel like a nuisance, but they do help protect your device against malicious sites and downloads.

QR codes are not dangerous by themselves. They are useful tools that make everyday tasks easier. But they remove a key safety step: the ability to see where you’re going before you get there.

The next time you scan a QR code, take a second to think. In a world where scams are getting smarter, the safest habit is simple – don’t trust the code and verify where it leads.

Meena Jha, Head Technology and Pedagogy Cluster CML-NET, CQUniversity Australia

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

Australian kids’ TV shows are now few and far between. During the pandemic, the Australian government scrapped decades-old quotas for minimum hours of children’s content to try and bail out flailing commercial television networks. They were never reinstated.

In 2023, the Australian Communications and Media Authority reported the local kids TV sector decreased by more than 84% between 2019 and 2022. Certainly, Bluey continues to top global streaming charts. But beyond this phenomenon – which only financially benefits BBC Studios – local children’s TV has been in grave danger.

Last year, new laws were introduced in Australia to force streaming giants to invest in local content, including children’s programming. But these laws don’t include any minimum title numbers, or hours, per genre, so their tangible impact on kids’ TV remains unclear. For instance, Netflix’s 2026 Australian production slate includes no new kids content.

Essentially, it’s up to our national broadcaster the ABC, and advocacy organisations such as the Australian Children’s Television Foundation (ACTF), to carry the mantle and deliver this valued content.

The latest collaboration between the ABC and the ACTF is the new live-action family adventure series, Caper Crew. The first children’s series from acclaimed production company Easy Tiger, it demonstrates how good Australian kids TV can be, with a bit of resourcing.

Heists, hijinks and heartwarming fun

In Caper Crew, 12-year-old Amelia and 9-year-old Kai Delaney live in Woodspring, which they consider to be “the most boring town on Earth”.

Its only claim to fame is that 27 years ago the infamous Kangaroo Gang stole the town’s priceless golden meteorite, “The Nug”. Despite a $100,000 reward, its whereabouts remain a mystery. The series draws inspiration from the true story of the Kangaroo Gang, a group of Australian crooks who pulled off daring jewellery heists around Europe in the 1960s.

Just as Amelia embarks on a campaign to become the Year 6 school captain – against her nemesis and heir to the town’s dynasty, Emilia Katinkatonk – her glamourous con-artist grandmother Queenie mysteriously appears.

Queenie starts to teach her grandchildren the art of the grift, imparting a series of mischievous “con-mandments” from her personal playbook. As she shares her wisdom, Amelia and Kai can’t help but wonder: was this grandmother they never knew about once the Kangaroo Gang’s leader? Does she know where The Nug is?

Amelia and Kai, along with their friends Penelope and Ophelbert, form their own gang called the Joeys. They’re hell-bent on finding The Nug and claiming the reward.

The young cast of Caper Crew are very endearing, even when they precociously break the fourth wall. Tina Bursill’s Queenie is magnetic, Annie Maynard’s Mayor Katie Katinkatonk is gloriously grating, and ABC-favourite Michael Theo as drama teacher Jo Jo Encore will captivate the whole family.

For parents and carers watching with kids, Caper Crew combines a nostalgic ode to millennial classics such as Matilda and Harriet the Spy, with a Wes Anderson-esque visual quality. The series will likely charm young viewers into taking up magic or planning their own heist; parents be warned.

Family viewing key for the ABC

Caper Crew is emblematic of the ABC’s recent strategic shift to make shows optimised for co-viewing between parents and kids.

In June 2024, the ABC rebranded its ABC TV Plus channel (a more general family entertainment channel) to ABC Family, which is described as a “destination for big kids and their parents, with comedies, game shows, natural history, and movies”.

According to the ABC’s then-head of programming, acquisitions and streaming, Roberta Allan, this shift sought to capitalise on how most viewers were engaging with the ABC: via smart TVs, rather than on desktop or mobile browsers. As Allan explained:

Creating a brand like ABC Family will mean that we’ll be able to transition children as they get older with their families into that co-viewing safe environment. And expose them to some of the other content we have.

It’s a smart and appealing way to bolster kids programming at the ABC and to encourage a new generation of Australian families to watch together.

Caper Crew is available now on ABC iview and broadcasting on ABC Family.

Alexa Scarlata, Lecturer, Digital Communication, RMIT University

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

Very few Roman emperors died natural deaths. Most were assassinated, some died in battle and one was even struck by lightning. Some emperors sensed the danger and got out of Rome altogether.

But only one laid down his power and retired.

Diocletian, who ruled for 20 years in the late third and early fourth centuries CE, went back to his home town to grow cabbages.

A dangerous job

In a highly militaristic and competitive society, it is perhaps no surprise Rome’s rulers sometimes met violent ends. Eccentricity, military failures and economic problems saw their allies abandon them.

Caligula (37–41 CE), Domitian (81–96 CE) and Caracalla (who was sole emperor from 211–217 CE) were killed in conspiracies hatched by their bodyguards.

Severus Alexander (222–235 CE) and Gallienus (253–268 CE) were killed by senior military officers.

Some emperors met untimely ends at the hands of foreign enemies. Gordian III (238–244 CE) died in battle against the Persians. Decius (249–251 CE) and Valens (364–378 CE) died fighting the Goths (a Germanic people that conducted frequent raids on Roman territories).

Some unusual examples include Carus (282–283 CE) who was reportedly struck by lightning, Claudius II (268–270 CE) who died of plague, and Nero (54–68 CE) who took his own life.

The emperor Tiberius (14–37 CE) decided to quit Rome in 26 CE because he feared assassination. He ruled the empire from the island of Capri near Naples until his death 11 years later. The remains of Villa Jovis, where he lived, can still be seen.

Some emperors died in office of age-related illnesses, including Constantine in 337 CE and Marcus Aurelius in 180 CE. Both were around 60, which might not seem so old today but it was an advanced age in antiquity.

So when Diocletian declared he would abdicate and retire in May 305 CE, it was a highly unusual development.

Rise of the tetrarchy

Diocletian hailed from the province of Dalmatia in modern Croatia.

He came from a humble background and rose through the ranks of the Roman army. A number of third-century emperors came from similar backgrounds.

The many crises Rome faced during this period saw seasoned military men become emperor.

Diocletian held a range of senior military positions before becoming emperor in November 284 CE. He commanded the army in the important border province of Moesia (modern Serbia and Bulgaria). He was commander of the short-reigning emperor Numerian’s bodyguard when the latter was killed; Diocletian became emperor in his place soon after.

Diocletian is traditionally seen as a reformer, making significant administrative, economic and military changes. These reforms tried to address the many problems emperors of the third century faced before him.

As emperor, Diocletian introduced a system known as the tetrarchy, which divided the rule of the empire between four emperors. Two were senior (Augusti) and two were junior (Caesars). This limited the possibility of internal revolts and made fighting foreign enemies easier.

Scholars now think Diocletian wasn’t quite so innovative; he may have drawn more on reforms developed by his predecessors than was previously thought.

But he had clearly been busy over the 20 years he was in power.

So, in 305 CE he decided, at around age 60, to hand in his notice and retire.

Illness – or divine retribution?

As with most ancient stories, it probably wasn’t as simple as that.

The ideology of the tetrarchy was also about renewal. The other senior Augustus, Maximian, abdicated at the same time as Diocletian. The two junior rulers, Galerius and Constantius I, became the senior rulers and two new junior rulers were recruited. This became known as the Second Tetrarchy.

Diocletian had also suffered a prolonged illness before his abdication. He had taken ill early in 304 CE and wasn’t seen in public for months. As one of the emperors responsible for horrific persecution of the Christians in 303–4 CE, this was seen by some as divine retribution.

Diocletian retired to an impressive palace at Spalatum (modern-day Split in Croatia) near his home town of Salona in Dalmatia. Its extensive remains can still be visited today.

It was here that he famously grew cabbages.

Choosing cabbages over chaos

A later historical account claimed Diocletian was asked to come out of retirement to deal with a political stalemate. The second tetrarchy had quickly descended into chaos.

But Diocletian wanted nothing of it, reportedly replying:

If you could see at Salona the cabbages raised by our hands, you surely would never judge that a temptation.

Diocletian had grown to love the quiet life after years of reforms and the ever-present possibility of assassination. Retiring to grow cabbages was far more appealing.

And cabbages were seen as a miracle food in ancient Rome. Their health benefits were known to many, and ancient recipes using them are still available today.

Diocletian was unique in Roman imperial history for choosing retirement. He would die in 313 CE approaching the age of 70, his last years ones of contentment.

Knowing when time is up remains a key challenge for leaders to this day. For many, the trappings of power remain too tempting compared with life’s simple joys.

Peter Edwell, Associate Professor in Ancient History, Macquarie University

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

As Britain’s longest‑reigning monarch, and one rarely out of the public eye since childhood, Queen Elizabeth II left behind a wardrobe so extensive and meticulously archived that the curators at Historic Royal Palaces have had an embarrassment of riches to draw upon for a new exhibition at the King’s Gallery in Buckingham Palace.

Queen Elizabeth II: Her Life in Style bills itself as the largest exhibition of the late monarch’s wardrobe ever mounted, and the scale alone is arresting. More than 300 items, many on public display for the first time, attempt a sartorial biography spanning every decade of a life that lasted almost a century.

The result is a masterclass in what the Royal Palaces do best: celebrations of the British monarchy – their pomp, pageantry and performativity – delivered through the medium of clothes. It also underscores why Her Life in Style, rather than in fashion, is such an apt title.

Queen Elizabeth II valued constancy, a deliberate contrast to the restless churn of high fashion. As a figure who embodied Britishness while standing on a global stage, her appearance had to resonate widely, and what read as high style in Britain could easily have seemed out of place in parts of the Commonwealth. In such a negotiation subtlety trumped bravura.

The Queen’s wardrobe reads like a roll call of British heritage makers: Molyneaux, Burberry, Hawes and Curtis, Kinloch Anderson, Bernard Weatherill Ltd, Philip Somerville, and Gieves Ltd. Norman Hartnell and Hardy Amies appear with predictable regularity, which will come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the Queen’s sartorial loyalties. But the exhibition also highlights the quieter and long-enduring relationships with tailors, dressmakers and milliners who helped craft her public image.

For example, her dresser Angela Kelly created a style for the Queen which she favoured in her later years. As an assistant dresser, then dresser and finally called designer, Kelly was intimately familiar with the Queen as a woman long before her sartorial interventions. But the exhibition seems to reveal more about the designers, who saw the dress as the main event, than about someone like Kelly, for whom the Queen herself was always the focus.

What emerges most strongly is the centrality of collaboration in the crafting of her style. The Queen was not a mannequin at the mercy of designers, but a woman who presided over her wardrobe with clear autonomy and a keen understanding of the symbolism her clothes carried.

Public service, personal style

The exhibition opens with a brisk chronological sweep from infancy to early adulthood. The transition from baby clothes to the military ensembles worn during her late teenage years make plain how abruptly she was thrust into public service.

Here, however, as is the case throughout, the curators favour the makers over the meaning. The garments are beautifully displayed, but the interpretive text often stops short of probing the “why” behind stylistic shifts and choices. For instance, the Queen’s later‑life preference for a straighter silhouette is asserted but not explored, a missed opportunity given the exhibition’s ambition to chart a life through her style.

The exhibition curation borrows liberally from recent V&A fashion blockbusters to great success. Most notably the double‑decker display technique used to kaleidoscopic effect in Gabrielle Chanel: Fashion Manifesto and the circular and tiered arrangements of Dior: Designer of Dreams. In Queen Elizabeth II: Her Life in Style a double-stacked rainbow wall of colour‑blocked coats and suits is visually striking but also underscores the sameness that defined the Queen’s wardrobe.

That said, individual garments indicate occasional moments when she embraced stylistic choices that felt markedly more daring, such as a First Nations jacket that she wore with an evening dress in 1970. The exhibition makes clear, however, that once her style was set in the 1950s, evolution was subtle and nuanced rather than flamboyant or bold.

Her sartorial consistency seems to have become a kind of representation of national reassurance: a stability of taste, of choice of makers, and silhouette across a near century of life defined by political and social change.

The contributions by Erdem Moralıoğlu, Richard Quinn and Christopher Kane, who have produced contemporary reimaginings of the Queen’s style, are well executed but ultimately redundant. Her fashionable legacy speaks loudly enough without reinterpretation.

Meanwhile navigation through the exhibition can be challenging. The King’s Gallery becomes a rabbit warren of narrow corridors and bottlenecks, exacerbated by the otherwise informative audio guide that slows foot traffic to a crawl. Still, the text panels are excellent – clear, concise, and often illuminating – and the overall display is both attractive and thoughtfully arranged.

The final room is a crescendo of encrusted and bejewelled gowns, which almost, but not quite, overwhelm the coronation dress. It is a fittingly theatrical conclusion, a reminder of the Queen’s ceremonial presence and the role fashion played in projecting it.

Even in death, she seems to transcend mortality here. Despite the diminutive stature of the mannequins proxying the royal body, her physical and ceremonial presence evoked through her luxurious couture gowns feels mighty.

The exhibition has arrived at a moment when an evocation of her popularity and a celebration of the British royals is needed for their brand now more than ever. Public appetite to celebrate the woman who represented an untarnished royalty – which now seems more remote than ever – is clearly voracious judging by the queue outside the exhibition. In this setting, even as the nation moves on, her reputation has settled into a rich and celebratory one.

Ultimately, the exhibition succeeds not simply because it dazzles, but because it reveals Queen Elizabeth’s harnessing of the soft power of clothing in shaping a public life. Through tweeds and tiaras, coats and coronation gowns, the exhibition charts a life defined by duty, diplomacy, and an unwavering sense of self, expressed always through fashion.

Hannah Rumball-Croft, Lecturer in Cultural Studies and Fashion Design, School of Arts, University of Westminster

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

Knee osteoarthritis is a complex disease that affects the whole joint, including bone, cartilage, ligaments and muscles. Osteoarthritis is a common cause of pain and movement difficulty, affecting 8.3% of people in Australia.

When pain persists, many people look for quick, convenient options, such as injections. Clinics offer several types of knee injections, including:

• corticosteroids
• hyaluronic acid
• platelet-rich plasma
• stem cells.

Some are heavily marketed with promises to “repair” or “regenerate” the joint. But what does the evidence actually say about these claims, or the ability of knee injections to reduce pain and improve mobility?

Corticosteroid injections

Corticosteroids are anti-inflammatory medications that can reduce pain and swelling in the joint.

They are conditionally recommended in guidelines because they can be helpful for short-term relief, particularly during a flare-up.

However, a 2024 systematic review found meaningful benefits only in the first few weeks. They lose their effectiveness after about six weeks.

There are also some concerns about repeated use. One trial found corticosteroid injections every three months over two years did not improve pain, and were associated with greater cartilage loss than a placebo.

For this reason, guidelines recommend using corticosteroid injections cautiously for short-term relief rather than ongoing treatment.

Hyaluronic acid injections

Hyaluronic acid is a substance naturally found in joint fluid. These injections aim to improve “lubrication” or “shock absorption” within the joint.

While this may sound promising, a large systematic review found the benefits are small and unlikely to be meaningful. There was also a higher risk of serious adverse events compared to placebo.

Because of this, guidelines do not recommend these injections for knee osteoarthritis.

Platelet-rich plasma injections

Platelet-rich plasma (PRP) injections use a person’s own blood, which is processed to concentrate platelets and then injected into the joint.

As platelets contain growth factors, chemicals that help signal the body to heal tissue, the idea is they may help repair the joint.

These injections are widely marketed but expensive: typically A$300–$900 per injection, or up to $2,700 for a course of three injections.

It’s generally considered safe, with the main risks being those of any joint injection, such as infection.

Some systematic reviews report benefits, but findings vary considerably, with other reviews finding weak effects when compared to placebo. Some larger, rigorous trials show little or no benefit. So the overall picture is mixed.

A key problem is lack of standardisation, with different clinics using different concentrations and methods. This makes it hard to know what works for pain and mobility. However there is no good evidence platelet-rich plasma injections repairs or regrows joint cartilage.

Current guidelines do not recommend platelet-rich plasma injections, though this may change with more high-quality research.

Stem cell injections

Stem cells are often promoted as a way to regenerate damaged tissue. They can be taken from a person’s own body, or prepared from donor cells in a laboratory. But despite the hype, the evidence is still very limited.

A recent Cochrane review found stem cell injections may provide small improvements in pain and function. But the results were uncertain and from low-quality evidence.

There is also a small risk of adverse events, including infection.

So far, no published studies have evaluated whether they repair cartilage or change osteoarthritis progression.

Guidelines currently recommend against their use due to limited evidence, high costs (often $5,000 or more per injection), and regulatory concerns about how they are made and prepared, and how they are marketed to patients.

More high-quality research is underway, including a clinical trial in Australia measuring whether they can slow osteoarthritis progression.

Why isn’t the evidence clearer?

Many studies are small or low quality.

Placebo effects are also particularly large with injections, meaning studies without placebo controls may overestimate the benefits.

For platelet-rich plasma injections and stem cells, variable methods used across clinics further complicates interpretation.

So what can I try for my knee osteoarthritis?

Treatments that are recommended include:

• any type of exercise
• weight loss, if appropriate
• over-the-counter medications, such as short-term use of anti-inflammatories.

These approaches are backed by high-quality evidence, are generally safe, and are less expensive than injections.

What if I want to try an injection?

If other recommended treatments haven’t helped and you decide to try an injection without a strong evidence base, such as platelet-rich plasma injections, there are a few things worth keeping in mind.

First, weigh up the costs, risks and benefits. All injections carry a small risk of joint infection, so it’s not completely risk-free.

It’s also worth knowing it’s unclear exactly how these injections work.

Some of the benefits you may experience could be related to placebo effects rather than the injection itself.

If you do go ahead, any reduction in pain should become apparent within six weeks, or sooner with corticosteroids.

Bottom line

Most injections offer limited or uncertain long-term benefit for knee osteoarthritis. Despite the marketing, there is no good evidence any injection can repair the joint.

A corticosteroid injection can be a reasonable short-term option during a bad pain flare. There may be some evidence to support platelet-rich plasma injections, but preparations aren’t standardised. Hyaluronic acid and stem cell injections are not currently recommended.

Before paying for any injection, consider what the evidence says and whether your time and money might be better spent on options such as exercise and weight loss, which have higher-quality evidence and additional health benefits beyond the knee.

Belinda Lawford, Senior Research Fellow in Physiotherapy, The University of Melbourne; Kim Bennell, Professor of Physiotherapy, The University of Melbourne, and Travis Haber, Postdoctoral Research Fellow in Physiotherapy, The University of Melbourne

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

It’s a simple thing we encounter many times every single week – often while in a hurry. You pull up at a parking spot, scan a QR code and pay within seconds. Or you sit down at a cafe, scan a code to view the menu and order your meal.

At the train station, you scan the code on the poster for timetable updates. QR codes are increasingly used in public transport systems worldwide for ticketing, payments and accessing real-time information.

Because QR codes are so widespread, scammers naturally find them appealing too. Here’s what you need to know to stay safe.

What are QR codes?

A QR (quick response) code is a type of barcode that stores information and encoded data in a square pattern of black and white pixels. They were first developed in 1994 by Japanese company Denso Wave for labelling automotive parts.

Today QR codes are widely used because they’re quick to create and easy to scan without needing a specialised scanner – a smartphone camera will do. They’re designed to remove friction: you scan, and something happens instantly.

However, a QR code doesn’t show you where it leads until after it’s scanned. Your device can perform a range of functions after scanning a QR code: open up a web page, check you in to a location, or even connect your device to a wireless network without needing to type anything.

That’s what makes it so useful, but also potentially risky. Malicious QR codes can redirect users to fake websites or prompt them to download harmful content. QR codes are so familiar and widespread, we tend to trust them without question. That’s exactly what scammers rely on.

What to look out for

Phishing – where cyber criminals “fish” for sensitive information – is the most common type of cyber crime, typically sent by email or text. When a QR code is involved, that becomes “quishing” – short for QR phishing.

Scammers now include QR codes in emails or text messages instead of clickable links. When scanned, the code directs users to fake login pages or payment sites. Because there’s no visible link, these messages can seem more trustworthy and can even bypass some email security filters.

Malicious downloads

Some QR codes don’t just take you to a website – they trigger an app or file download, which could contain malware. This can give attackers access to your device, data or accounts. Because the action happens quickly, you may not have time to question whether the download is legitimate.

Fake QR codes in public places

One of the simplest methods to trick people involves placing a sticker with a fake QR code over a legitimate one. For example, scammers have been caught sticking fraudulent QR codes on parking meters. When drivers scan the code, they are taken to a fake payment page and asked to enter their card details. Posters, flyers and other signs in public places may also contain malicious QR codes.

Redirect scams

Even when a QR code looks legitimate, it may redirect you through multiple websites before landing on a fake page. This makes it harder to detect suspicious activity. By the time you see the final page, it may look convincing enough to trust.

How to stay safe

The good news is you don’t need to stop using QR codes. You just need to use them more carefully.

Treat QR codes like unknown links. If you wouldn’t click a random link, don’t scan a random QR code.

Check for signs of tampering. In public places, look closely at the code. Is it a sticker placed over another one? Does anything look out of place?

Look at the web address before proceeding. Many phones now show a preview of the hyperlink retrieved via the QR code before opening it. Don’t just hit “go”, take a moment to check it looks legitimate.

Avoid scanning codes from unsolicited messages. If you receive a QR code via email or text asking you to log in or make a payment, don’t use it. Go directly to the official website instead.

Don’t rush to enter personal details. If a site asks for sensitive information, pause. Double-check you’re on the correct website.

Keep your phone updated. Security updates may sometimes feel like a nuisance, but they do help protect your device against malicious sites and downloads.

QR codes are not dangerous by themselves. They are useful tools that make everyday tasks easier. But they remove a key safety step: the ability to see where you’re going before you get there.

The next time you scan a QR code, take a second to think. In a world where scams are getting smarter, the safest habit is simple – don’t trust the code and verify where it leads.

Meena Jha, Head Technology and Pedagogy Cluster CML-NET, CQUniversity Australia

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

The way Australians are assessed for home-based aged-care funding is being investigated by the Commonwealth ombudsman.

Critics say assessment for funding under the Support at Home program is flawed, leaving some older people unable to access the right level of care they need to safely live at home.

Complaints about the process are increasing significantly. Even an expert who helped design the system is unhappy.

Here’s why the Commonwealth should reconsider its approach.

What’s the key issue?

The new Support at Home program was introduced in 2025. One of its aims is to support more Australians to remain at home rather than moving into residential aged care.

When an older person wants to join the program, they are assessed in an interview with a structured digital assessment known as the “Integrated Assessment Tool”. This tool assesses the support they need – physical, cognitive and psychosocial. It also assesses the urgency and the level of assistance required.

An algorithm then analyses the answers and determines Support at Home funding levels.

To be useful, assessments need to predict the actual service levels required for high-quality outcomes for older people with different levels of need.

In developing assessment tools, the gold standard is to first conduct a large number of assessments to see what kind of care older people need, and at what level. The next stage is to determine if the services actually provided produce high-quality outcomes for people with different levels of need.

But there is no publicly available evidence this has been done.

Instead, a second-best option was adopted. Experts gave a score to estimate what level of support someone would need based on answers to assessments.

But there is room for expert disagreement even when they use well developed tools.

The Integrated Assessment Tool includes 11 separate validated tools, each with an inherent error rate. These error rates compound when they are combined.

Worse, given there are no studies of the extent to which integrated assessments predict actual services and outcomes, it is difficult to say how good the algorithm is. Lack of transparency means it’s a black box, which is why the ombudsman’s inquiry is welcome.

This is particularly true because funding determined by the algorithm may be systematically lower than funding determined by experts. This means elderly people may have their cognitive, safety and complex care needs underestimated.

How about human oversight?

Despite the limitations and against expert advice, the Commonwealth has explicitly removed the power to manually override the algorithm’s allocation of support levels. The idea is for the algorithm to provide consistent results for thousands of older people.

However, this approach has a number of serious potential consequences.

The Support at Home Program has eight levels of support ranging from A$10,731 a year for level 1 (the most basic support) to $78,106 a year for level 8 (the highest level of support).

If the algorithm allocates one level of support higher or lower than what a person actually needs, this can mean a difference of between $5,300 and $20,000 a year depending on the level.

Appeals are increasing

If an older person or their family wants to question the funding allocation, they can appeal. But they often don’t know the specific reasoning behind the scoring that led to their allocation. And the appeals process can be cumbersome and stressful.

Some 800 older people have requested a review of their assessment since the introduction of the new system.

The Older Persons Advocacy Network says requests for information and advocacy have gone up by 50% in the three months in the same period.

One of the system’s designers, Lynda Henderson, said she felt “fury” that the tool she helped design has been turned into a prescriptive algorithm.

What needs to happen next?

The Robodebt Royal Commission warned government agencies that automated systems must ensure transparency, fairness and human oversight.

But this has not happened when assessing individuals’ circumstances for home-based aged-care funding.

The best approach is to use the algorithm as a guide for making individual decisions about older people’s support needs and to allow assessors to override the algorithm when the circumstances warrant it.

Systems-level data should then be used to refine the algorithm and provide guidance to assessors as the system matures.

Hal Swerissen, Emeritus Professor of Public Health, La Trobe University

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

We usually have to wait until winter approaches before we see an increase in cases of influenza, or the flu. But we have already seen a lot of flu this year, with 25,000 cases reported from January to March – and that’s only a fraction of actual case numbers.

Most people with the flu recover without treatment. But it can cause serious complications in older people, young children, pregnant women and those with underlying chronic diseases such as asthma or heart disease. Influenza kills around 3,500 Australians a year and lands 18,000 in hospital.

Vaccination is the best way to protect against flu and is recommended for everyone over the age of six months.

Flu vaccines are free for certain risk groups. Others can access them (usually for a fee) at pharmacies, GP clinics and local council clinics in some states and territories. Some employers also offer vaccinations for staff.

Influenza has been unpredictable since the COVID pandemic, with off-season circulation. There are also concerns protection might lag at the end of winter. So when is the best time to get vaccinated?

What are the symptoms and how does it spread?

Flu symptoms include a cough, sore throat, fever, body aches and fatigue.

Flu spreads from person to person via small respiratory droplets when you talk, cough and sneeze. It may also spread by touching a surface or object where infected droplets have landed, but this is less common.

So if you have flu-like symptoms, it’s important to stay at home.

Flu spreads more in winter months due to increased contact between people and time spent indoors. Some studies also suggest influenza viruses transmit better in the cold.

What strains are around this year? And what is super-K?

Typically, human flu cases are caused by four virus strains, A(H3N2), A(H1N1), B/Victoria and B/Yamagata.

So far this year in Australia, almost 98% of cases have been influenza A(H3N2) and the remaining have been influenza B/Victoria.

In late 2025, a new variant of the H3N2 strain known as subclade K or “super-K” emerged in the northern hemisphere winter.

Super-K contributed to the unusual increase in flu numbers over summer in Australia. But there is no evidence to suggest it’s more severe than other H3N2 strains.

What does this year’s vaccine protect against?

Each year, the flu vaccine is designed to protect against a mix of different virus strains, depending on what strains are currently circulating.

This year’s flu vaccine contains two new strains for the influenza A(H1N1)pdm09 and A(H3N2) subtype virus components and an existing B strain:

• an A/Missouri/11/2025 (H1N1)pdm09-like virus
• an A/Singapore/GP20238/2024 (H3N2)-like virus
• a B/Austria/1359417/2021 (B/Victoria lineage)-like virus.

The Singapore strain in the vaccine is closely related to the super-K strains that have been circulating, so should provide better protection than the vaccine used last year in the northern and southern hemispheres.

The composition of the southern hemisphere vaccine for use in Australia is different to the northern hemisphere composition for the 2025–26 winter.

How effective will this year’s vaccine be?

It’s too early to know how well the vaccine will work against preventing infection and severe disease.

Preliminary Australian data suggests people who received the flu vaccine in 2025 were 53% less likely to be hospitalised with influenza or visit a GP for flu symptoms compared with unvaccinated people.

In the UK, during the 2025–26 winter, influenza vaccines were 72–75% effective at protecting against flu cases needing medical attention in children and adolescents, including infections caused by super-K.

Herd immunity from influenza vaccines can also help prevent transmission to others who are unable to get vaccinated.

A three-year study in the United States, which ended in 2020 found influenza vaccines were 21% effective at preventing infection among others household members.

Another study in the UK and Ireland from 2010 to 2017 found vaccinating school-aged children reduced the amount of respiratory illnesses GPs saw across all age groups.

When does the flu season peak?

While we see flu cases throughout the year, the “flu season” in temperate Australia typically lasts from May to October, peaking in June to July.

Theoretically, the best time to get the flu vaccine is about two weeks before flu cases start to rise.

However, this is difficult to predict and the rise can start anywhere between April and July in temperate Australia, and even earlier in tropical northern Australia.

How long does the flu vaccine last?

There is some evidence the protection provided by influenza vaccines falls over six months. Immunity to flu is optimal for three to four months after you are vaccinated.

However, some studies suggest this may be an artifact of the methods by which vaccine effectiveness is measured.

Other factors may also be important. Waning protection may be more prominent in older people and may also depend on the degree to which mutations in circulating influenza strains accumulate during the season.

So when is the best time to get vaccinated?

When working out when is the best time to get your flu vaccine, you might be balancing a theoretical benefit by waiting, against a chance of actually getting the flu before you get vaccinated.

Our advice is to get the vaccine when it’s available and convenient, sometime around April or May.

But if you’re travelling overseas, particularly for those travelling to the northern hemisphere in winter, aim to get your flu vaccine around two to four weeks before you leave.

If you’re pregnant, an ideal time to get the influenza vaccine is with RSV (respiratory syncytial virus) and pertussis vaccines from 28 weeks of pregnancy. This protects both mother and baby.

Finally, young children getting their first flu vaccines should have two doses four weeks apart. Getting their first dose in earlier in the season will leave plenty of time for the second dose before the influenza season starts.

Meru Sheel, Professor of Infectious Diseases and Global Health, University of Sydney and Allen Cheng, Professor of Infectious Diseases, Monash University

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

As Britain’s longest‑reigning monarch, and one rarely out of the public eye since childhood, Queen Elizabeth II left behind a wardrobe so extensive and meticulously archived that the curators at Historic Royal Palaces have had an embarrassment of riches to draw upon for a new exhibition at the King’s Gallery in Buckingham Palace.

Queen Elizabeth II: Her Life in Style bills itself as the largest exhibition of the late monarch’s wardrobe ever mounted, and the scale alone is arresting. More than 300 items, many on public display for the first time, attempt a sartorial biography spanning every decade of a life that lasted almost a century.

The result is a masterclass in what the Royal Palaces do best: celebrations of the British monarchy – their pomp, pageantry and performativity – delivered through the medium of clothes. It also underscores why Her Life in Style, rather than in fashion, is such an apt title.

Queen Elizabeth II valued constancy, a deliberate contrast to the restless churn of high fashion. As a figure who embodied Britishness while standing on a global stage, her appearance had to resonate widely, and what read as high style in Britain could easily have seemed out of place in parts of the Commonwealth. In such a negotiation subtlety trumped bravura.

The Queen’s wardrobe reads like a roll call of British heritage makers: Molyneaux, Burberry, Hawes and Curtis, Kinloch Anderson, Bernard Weatherill Ltd, Philip Somerville, and Gieves Ltd. Norman Hartnell and Hardy Amies appear with predictable regularity, which will come as no surprise to anyone familiar with the Queen’s sartorial loyalties. But the exhibition also highlights the quieter and long-enduring relationships with tailors, dressmakers and milliners who helped craft her public image.

For example, her dresser Angela Kelly created a style for the Queen which she favoured in her later years. As an assistant dresser, then dresser and finally called designer, Kelly was intimately familiar with the Queen as a woman long before her sartorial interventions. But the exhibition seems to reveal more about the designers, who saw the dress as the main event, than about someone like Kelly, for whom the Queen herself was always the focus.

What emerges most strongly is the centrality of collaboration in the crafting of her style. The Queen was not a mannequin at the mercy of designers, but a woman who presided over her wardrobe with clear autonomy and a keen understanding of the symbolism her clothes carried.

Public service, personal style

The exhibition opens with a brisk chronological sweep from infancy to early adulthood. The transition from baby clothes to the military ensembles worn during her late teenage years make plain how abruptly she was thrust into public service.

Here, however, as is the case throughout, the curators favour the makers over the meaning. The garments are beautifully displayed, but the interpretive text often stops short of probing the “why” behind stylistic shifts and choices. For instance, the Queen’s later‑life preference for a straighter silhouette is asserted but not explored, a missed opportunity given the exhibition’s ambition to chart a life through her style.

The exhibition curation borrows liberally from recent V&A fashion blockbusters to great success. Most notably the double‑decker display technique used to kaleidoscopic effect in Gabrielle Chanel: Fashion Manifesto and the circular and tiered arrangements of Dior: Designer of Dreams. In Queen Elizabeth II: Her Life in Style a double-stacked rainbow wall of colour‑blocked coats and suits is visually striking but also underscores the sameness that defined the Queen’s wardrobe.

That said, individual garments indicate occasional moments when she embraced stylistic choices that felt markedly more daring, such as a First Nations jacket that she wore with an evening dress in 1970. The exhibition makes clear, however, that once her style was set in the 1950s, evolution was subtle and nuanced rather than flamboyant or bold.

Her sartorial consistency seems to have become a kind of representation of national reassurance: a stability of taste, of choice of makers, and silhouette across a near century of life defined by political and social change.

The contributions by Erdem Moralıoğlu, Richard Quinn and Christopher Kane, who have produced contemporary reimaginings of the Queen’s style, are well executed but ultimately redundant. Her fashionable legacy speaks loudly enough without reinterpretation.

Meanwhile navigation through the exhibition can be challenging. The King’s Gallery becomes a rabbit warren of narrow corridors and bottlenecks, exacerbated by the otherwise informative audio guide that slows foot traffic to a crawl. Still, the text panels are excellent – clear, concise, and often illuminating – and the overall display is both attractive and thoughtfully arranged.

The final room is a crescendo of encrusted and bejewelled gowns, which almost, but not quite, overwhelm the coronation dress. It is a fittingly theatrical conclusion, a reminder of the Queen’s ceremonial presence and the role fashion played in projecting it.

Even in death, she seems to transcend mortality here. Despite the diminutive stature of the mannequins proxying the royal body, her physical and ceremonial presence evoked through her luxurious couture gowns feels mighty.

The exhibition has arrived at a moment when an evocation of her popularity and a celebration of the British royals is needed for their brand now more than ever. Public appetite to celebrate the woman who represented an untarnished royalty – which now seems more remote than ever – is clearly voracious judging by the queue outside the exhibition. In this setting, even as the nation moves on, her reputation has settled into a rich and celebratory one.

Ultimately, the exhibition succeeds not simply because it dazzles, but because it reveals Queen Elizabeth’s harnessing of the soft power of clothing in shaping a public life. Through tweeds and tiaras, coats and coronation gowns, the exhibition charts a life defined by duty, diplomacy, and an unwavering sense of self, expressed always through fashion.

Hannah Rumball-Croft, Lecturer in Cultural Studies and Fashion Design, School of Arts, University of Westminster

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

Almost half of surveyed Australia’s school principals face physical violence in their jobs. Almost 90% say they encounter offensive behaviour from students, parents and even colleagues, according to new survey results.

The latest instalment in an annual survey of Australian principals shows how their exposure to aggression risks becoming normalised in schools.

Principals also report they work an average of 54 hours a week. They say the sheer quantity of work is their biggest source of stress. As one principal from a Catholic high school told us, “this job is getting harder every year”.

What can governments and education systems do to help?

Our research

Since 2011, our study has collected the experiences of 2,000–2,500 Australian school principals per year.

This is now the 15th year of the study and over that time, 8,100 individual school leaders have completed at least one survey. This includes principals as well as other senior teachers, such as deputy principals.

Respondents come from primary and high schools around the country, and across the public, private and Catholic sectors.

Given there are less than 10,000 schools across the nation, this is a strong sample of the people who lead our schools.

When this many leaders speak, we should listen.

Reports of violence are growing

In 2025, nearly half of school leaders reported being subjected to physical violence. Almost 54% experienced threats of violence. Students were the most common source of physical violence, while parents were the main source of threats.

As the chart below shows, these reports have increased significantly since the survey started in 2011.

Rates of violence at this magnitude would be considered unacceptable in many other professions.

Meanwhile, almost 90% of respondents say they are subject to some form of unacceptable/offensive behaviour in their jobs. This includes physical threats, sexual harassment, unpleasant teasing, cyberbullying and gossip.

As one primary school teacher told us:

When I became a principal I didn’t expect to be mired in managing adult behaviour. I thought it would be about instructional leadership and inspiring educators. I didn’t realise how I would be subject to manipulation and need to respond like a lawyer – with extreme care and explicit language which leaves no room for interpretation.

What else did we find?

School leaders continue to work long hours, averaging 53.9 hours per week during term and 19.6 hours during holidays. This is well above an average working week in Australia (about 38 hours). There has been some reduction in reported hours worked. In 2011, 27% of participants reported working 60 hours or more, which has reduced to 22% in 2025.

Unsurprisingly, principals report mental health issues and plans to leave their jobs:

• 25% scored at least a “moderate” rating for anxiety and 23% scored at least a “moderate” rating for depression

• 54% agreed or strongly agreed with the statement, “I often seriously consider leaving my current job”. This is up slightly from last year.

As one respondent from a private high school told us:

The challenges of reduced funding combined with growing expectations from all stakeholders make it more and more difficult to meet the demands of the role […] I am not sure how this will be sustainable for the next generation of principals.

New rules for schools

Across the life of the project, we have seen important changes to try and improve conditions for principals.

The Victorian, Queensland, and NSW governments have introduced programs to reduce administrative loads, and public campaigns have tried to build community respect for the teaching profession.

Some states have developed programs to support aspiring principals.

Just last week, the NSW government introduced legislation to address aggressive parental behaviour, similar to Victorian laws. This will mean those who have engaged in threatening or abusive behaviour can be banned from coming within 25 metres of a school.

What else do we need?

But clearly more needs to be done to improve the conditions for school leaders.

In 2011 we also saw the release of the Australian Standard for Principals which sets out what principals are expected to “know, understand and do to achieve in their work”.

It is time to review this.

Our last three reports show student and teacher mental health have become acute sources of stress for principals – this should be reflected in a revised standard. There is not one mention of teachers’ mental health throughout the document, despite it now consistently ranking as a top source of stress for principals.

And much has changed in our wider society. Since the standard was published, we’ve had a royal commission on child abuse in school settings, COVID and growing understanding of the need to manage young people’s healthy use of screens.

It’s time to honestly and openly acknowledge the life of the school principal has radically changed – and update our expectations and support.

We know principals have a huge influence on the culture and expectations of a school. So their welfare matters not just to principals and those who aspire to these jobs. It is also vital to families who value their children’s education and governments who rely on education for our national good.

Paul Kidson, Associate Professor in Educational Leadership, Australian Catholic University; Herb Marsh, Distinguished Professor of Educational Psychology, Australian Catholic University, and Theresa Dicke, Professor, Institute for Positive Psychology and Education, Australian Catholic University

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

Around the world, democracy as a system of government is backsliding. After more than 50 years of liberal democracy in ascendancy, democratic progress plateaued around the turn of the century and is now going backwards.

In 2025, there were only 31 liberal democracies out of 179 countries assessed. And the United States – once the poster-child for democracy – was downgraded from “liberal democracy” to “electoral democracy” because of declining checks and balances on power, freedom of expression and civil rights and equality before the law.

Australia is one of the few remaining liberal democracies, and a leading one at that. But we are not immune to anti-democratic forces or the fraying international rules-based order.

A new Grattan Institute report, For the people: Future-proofing Australia’s democracy, identifies the main vulnerabilities for Australia’s democracy and opportunities to build a better, more resilient democratic system.

A bright light in a dark landscape

Australia comes from a place of strength. We are one of the world’s leading democracies, consistently ranking highly on international measures of democratic health, as well as on a suite of economic and social measures – including life expectancy, human development, employment, and GDP (gross domestic product) per capita.

This is no coincidence. Our democracy underpins our prosperity and safeguards our rights and freedoms. International evidence shows democracy supports peace and economic growth, while delivering longer lives and more education.

Social trust matters too. Countries with higher interpersonal trust – like Australia – tend to have higher economic growth and lower income inequality, which in turn support democratic resilience.

But the world order in which Australia has flourished is now being seriously tested. These are more turbulent times not just for our economy or standard of living, but for liberal democracies themselves.

Fuel for discontent is building

Our report takes stock of Australia’s greatest asset: the health of our democracy.

The good news is that Australians’ support for democracy has been consistently strong – even growing over time. Only a small share of the population is discontent or disengaged with the system, and the data do not suggest either have been spreading.

The bad news is that our social compact is under pressure. This is showing up in growing economic pessimism, worry for future generations, concern about unfairness, declining sense of belonging, and low trust in political actors.

While support for democracy remains high in Australia, satisfaction with how our democracy actually works is more fragile.

Satisfaction with democracy is typically lower among groups who are less well served by the status quo. Most obviously, our institutions have persistently failed First Nations Australians, and don’t fully support new migrants.

Lower-income Australians and those with financial concerns tend to report lower trust and satisfaction with democracy.

Renters are less satisfied than homeowners, and people in regional areas tend to be less satisfied than people in cities.

Migrants are an interesting exception here. Migrants (except for those from the United Kingdom) are typically more satisfied than people born in Australia with the way democracy works here, despite the disadvantages they often face living here. This may, at least in part, be due to direct experience with other systems.

Everyone needs confidence that the system can work for them, even if it doesn’t always. Groups who persistently lack security, opportunity, or solidarity under the current system cannot reasonably be expected to trust or defend it.

3 big risks

Where there is fuel for discontent, there is increasing risk that global challenges could spark a blaze. Three inter-related global risks are particularly testing for democracies.

First, the decline in traditional news media and the rise of online and social news sources are fragmenting our fact base, and making misinformation and extreme views more salient in people’s daily lives.

Second, global political tensions and the rise of anti-democratic forces overseas are testing Australia’s social cohesion at home.

And third, the heightened probability of economic, social, and environmental shocks increases the challenges democratic governments face to deliver better outcomes for their people.

These are risks – not eventualities. The resilience of our democracy is in its capacity to recognise challenges and collectively respond.

And 5 ways forward

Our research and consultation identified five priorities for Australia to build a better and more resilient democracy:

1. Make the most of our parliament

Our elected federal parliament sits at the centre of Australia’s democracy. An independent review should consider how to make it more representative and better functioning – to rebuild trust in politics, improve administration of government and enable better long-term decision-making.

2. Nurture belonging and engagement

We need more ways to have a say and be heard and clearer pathways to citizenship. Our public sector leaders should also be actively stitching public engagement into the fabric of our existing institutions.

3. Protect our public sphere

A healthier public sphere requires ensuring the sustainability of our news media and investing in institutions that produce trusted information. We should also experiment with responses to misinformation, to work out which approaches are effective at scale.

4. Tackle the known policy challenges

In a democracy, process matters, but so do outcomes. Australians need confidence that our system of government can work for them and build something better than the status quo.

5. Prepare for the future

Crises are the moments that build trust, or lose it, and the future will almost certainly be more volatile. Governments can prepare by reducing our vulnerability to known risks, building fiscal buffers and calibrating expectations about what governments can reasonably do to cushion the blow.

Governments can and should lead on this. But we mustn’t forget that in a democracy, we govern ourselves. This is a task for all of us.

Kate Griffiths, Democracy Deputy Program Director, Grattan Institute; Aruna Sathanapally, Chief Executive, Grattan Institute, and Matthew Bowes, Senior Associate, Economic Prosperity and Democracy, Grattan Institute

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

Mining is a critical industry for the Australian economy and has the potential to offer secure, well-paid and meaningful careers.

But the evidence from our review of the 29 studies of 40 years of research on women working in the Australian mining sector is clear: gender inequality is built into the structures, cultures and places that define the industry.

Until those are addressed, progress will remain partial and many women will continue to decide that entering or staying in the mining industry is not worth the cost.

This is not a pipeline problem

The latest data from Workplace Gender Equality Agency, released last month, shows mining remains one of the most unequal industries in Australia when it comes to gender and pay.

In addition, under new legislation in effect from April 1 this year, employers with more than 500 staff are now required to commit to action targets to improve the gender pay gap.

Companies that are heavily involved with mining make up four of the top ten biggest companies listed on the ASX: BHP, Rio Tinto, Fortescue and Newmont. Although their gender pay gaps are smaller than those of the major banks, they remain substantial, ranging from 7.2% to 12.8%.

Across Australia’s mining sector, women remain significantly under-represented, making up only 23% of the total workforce according to the latest Workplace Gender Equality Agency data.

However, this hides the facts that the majority of women in mining work in the lower-paid and feminised clerical and service occupations (69% and 45%, respectively), rather than the higher-paid site-based technical or senior management roles (10% and 25%, respectively).

Gender equity in mining is often framed as a pipeline problem, meaning not enough women are entering the industry, particularly into technical and operational roles.

But this explanation is incomplete, and our review paints a different picture. The issue is not simply who enters mining; it is how mining work is organised, and who that organisation works for.

Who is the ideal mining worker?

Mining work is not neutral. Work is designed and structured around a particular model of the “ideal worker”. This is someone who is continuously available, geographically mobile and able to work long, uninterrupted shifts.

In practice, this means fly-in fly-out (FIFO) arrangements where staff fly from cities and stay on site, or drive-in drive-out (DIDO) where staff live in remote towns but still have to commute into the mine, often several hours each way.

On mine sites, operations run 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. So work schedules are often based on people working 12-hour shifts for two weeks, before they can return home for a break.

These conditions are central to how mining operates. They disproportionately disadvantage those with caring responsibilities, or people who are not constantly available. This is one of the key reasons why women’s participation declines over time, even when recruitment improves.

Working in remote sites, living in camps, and being far from towns or cities can amplify both how work is organised (like job design and rosters) and the workplace culture (for example, more dominant or hyper-masculine behaviours).

Skewed gender ratios, limited access to external support networks, and the conditions of camp life can increase risks of exclusion and harassment.

These factors matter because they embed inequality into the everyday experience of work. They shape not only what work looks like, but how it feels to be there.

Hyper-masculine norms

Mining continues to be characterised by hyper-masculine norms that shape how competence, leadership and belonging are understood. These norms privilege traits such as endurance, toughness and emotional stoicism, qualities historically associated with masculine identities.

Women working in these environments frequently report exclusion, social isolation and exposure to sexist behaviour, hostility, harassment and assault. A parliamentary inquiry in 2022 was told, for example:

I had men come in to my camp room and push me on to my bed and kiss me, I was lucky that it stopped there, it didn’t for some girls and guys. I came home to my camp room on some occasions to find men passed out in my bed and others going through my underwear drawer.

These incidents, or everyday micro-aggressions such as “throwaway” comments, build over time. They are linked to lower job satisfaction, poorer mental health, and higher intentions to leave the mining industry.

Promising to make progress

Over the past decade, mining companies have made visible commitments to diversity and inclusion. Gender targets, leadership programs and reporting frameworks are now common across the sector.

Staying in mining requires both resilience and navigating environments that were not designed with women in mind.

This all helps explain why interventions that focus solely on policy or representation often fall short. They do not address the environments in which the work is actually carried out.

Key areas for reform include:

• changing work schedules, so people can keep doing the job in a healthy and manageable way
• allowing flexibility in operational roles, rather than treating it as an exception
• rethinking leadership models that continue to privilege narrow definitions of competence.

It also requires greater accountability for workplace culture, including how work is allocated, how behaviour is managed, and whose contributions are recognised.

Michelle Gander, Associate Professor, Business, Murdoch University

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

Injectable peptides are the new anti-ageing trend sweeping the beauty industry.

These compounds are promoted on social media as tools for skin repair, collagen production and “cellular rejuvenation”. They are widely available online from overseas sellers, despite many peptides being unregulated in Australia.

But what’s in them? And are they safe?

Earlier this year, three people in the United States were fined thousands of dollars for their role in providing peptide injections, at an anti-ageing festival in Las Vegas, to two women who later became critically ill. The pharmacy board was unable to determine why they got sick, and what precisely the serums contained.

Our work with colleagues at Steroid QNECT, a hotline where people can seek confidential advice about enhancement drugs, tell us people are already injecting peptides in Australia.

But regulation is not keeping up. And there are still major gaps in the evidence about whether peptides’ anti-ageing claims stack up, and whether they are safe for humans.

What are injectable peptides, and why are they trending?

Peptides are short chains of amino acids – the building blocks of proteins. They act as chemical messengers in the body and play a key role in many processes. These include helping repair skin and calming inflammation.

The body naturally produces peptides. Synthetic peptides are manufactured to mimic or enhance these natural functions.

Certain peptides have clear medical uses. For example, glucagon-like peptide-1 (GLP-1) drugs, such as semaglutide, are approved for diabetes and weight management – sold as Ozempic and Wegovy. This is based on strong clinical trial evidence they are effective.

But a growing number of peptides are being marketed for cosmetic and anti-ageing purposes, without approval from Australia’s therapeutic goods regulator.

Peptides such as GHK-Cu, BPC-157 and TB-500 are sold online with claims they can enhance collagen production, accelerate skin repair, reduce wrinkles, and even reverse aspects of biological ageing.

Are these products legal in Australia?

Currently, regulated injectable peptides fall under prescription-only medicine categories. This means they should only be accessed through a qualified health professional for a legitimate medical indication.

Australian regulators have already issued fines to companies for illegally promoting weight-loss injections directly to consumers.

The Therapeutic Goods Administration (TGA) lists other synthetic peptides not yet approved for human consumption, such as BPC-157, as Schedule 4 poisons.

To get around this, many products circulating online are sold as “research chemicals” labelled “not for human consumption”.

Yet in practice, they are packaged, dosed and marketed in ways that clearly anticipate human use. Online sellers typically require minimal verification of age or identity, and promise rapid shipping and high purity (for example, “99%+ tested”).

This creates a parallel market operating outside clinical oversight and regulatory safeguards. While importing or possessing prescription-only peptides without authority can lead to fines or legal penalties, enforcement is challenging in global, digital markets.

At the same time, injecting appears to be becoming less taboo, particularly in the cosmetic and wellness industry. Most cosmetic injectables (including anti-wrinkle injections and dermal fillers) also involve prescription-only substances. Yet there are many clinics that offer injections with very little oversight from prescribing doctors.

This broader “injectable culture”, with simulataneous increases in steroid use, may be lowering barriers to more experimental practices, including peptide use.

What does the evidence actually say?

For many peptides promoted for anti-ageing and skin health, high-quality human evidence remains limited.

Claims peptides such as GHK-Cu, BPC-157 and TB-500 can help regenerate and repair tissue and calm inflammation are based on a handful of laboratory studies – in cells or animals, not humans.

For example, there is some limited evidence GHK-Cu could play a role in collagen production, and wound healing in mice. But these findings have not been confirmed in humans.

Similarly, some research suggests BPC-157 can promote new blood cell growth, reduce inflammation and heal tissue in rats.

But human evidence is extremely limited. Only three small studies have looked at BPC-157 and these were not well designed, and lacked a control group to compare the reported effects (such as improvement in knee pain). No large clinical trials exist. So its safety and effectiveness in humans remain uncertain.

A consistent pattern emerges:

• evidence is mostly limited to animal studies

• human studies, where they exist, are small and short-term

• there are no high-quality trials reflecting real-world use, including combinations, higher doses or long-term administration.

So currently, we don’t have enough quality evidence to support the many anti-ageing claims made for peptides.

And there are risks

First, there is the issue of unknown product quality. Unregulated peptides may be mislabelled, contaminated or incorrectly dosed – a problem already documented in adjacent markets, such as counterfeit steroids.

Second, there are biological risks. Peptides that influence growth, repair or hormonal pathways may also stimulate unintended processes. In theory, this could include promoting the growth of existing tumours or disrupting normal endocrine function. This cancer risk is amplified by the high presence of heavy metals in illicit enhancement drug markets.

Third, injecting carries its own risks — including infections, abscesses and tissue damage, particularly when products are self-administered without sterile technique.

At Steroid QNECT, we are already seeing people seeking advice after using peptides they bought online – often unsure what they have taken, how much, or what to expect.

In some cases, dosing far exceeds anything studied in clinical trials.

What needs to change?

We need clearer, more consistent regulation of peptide supply and marketing. But this is unlikely to be enough on its own, given the global and digital reach of peptide supply chains.

A more effective response would also include clear, accessible public health information on the potential benefits and risks of peptide use.

Importantly, responses need to reflect reality: people are already using these substances.

Timothy Piatkowski, Senior Research Fellow in Public Health, The University of Queensland; Bahareh Ahmadinejad, PhD Candidate in Public Health, The University of Queensland, and Samuel Cornell, Honorary Fellow in Public Health, The University of Queensland; UNSW Sydney

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

Nearly four months into Australia’s social media ban for under-16s, the online regulator today released its first detailed compliance update report on how the world-first policy is progressing.

eSafety’s report comes at a crucial time, with many other countries eyeing the progress of the ban. Since the ban took effect on December 10 last year, I have spoken with journalists from Canada, France, Germany, Japan, New Zealand, the United Kingdom and elsewhere. Everyone asks two questions: how successful is the ban, and are children still accessing social media platforms?

The new report paints a complicated picture – and leaves other key questions about the social media ban unanswered.

A number of compliance concerns

The report acknowledges social media companies have taken “some steps” to comply with the social media legislation (which restricts account holders to those aged 16 and older). Some 4.7 million accounts were removed by mid-January and another 310,000 by early March.

However, the report also highlights “compliance concerns” in four key areas:

1. Messaging to under-16s on some platforms encouraged children to attempt age assurance even where they declared themselves to be underage

2. Some platforms enabled under-16s to repeatedly attempt the same age-assurance method to ultimately pass age checks

3. Pathways for reporting age-restricted accounts have generally not been accessible and effective, particularly for parents

4. Some platforms appear not to have done enough to prevent under-16s having accounts.

The report explains the eSafety Commissioner, Julie Inman Grant, is now investigating Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok and YouTube for “potential non-compliance”. None of these companies has yet been fined. A decision about any enforcement action will be made by the middle of the year.

The report comes a week after the Australian government registered a new legislative rule to ensure the definition of social media platforms includes those “that have addictive or otherwise harmful design features”. These include:

• infinite scroll, which shows new content with no end point
• feedback features, such as displaying “likes” or “upvotes”, which can pressure people to compare themselves to others, and
• time-limited features such as disappearing “stories” that create a sense of urgency and encourage constant checking.

This rule change was implemented in the same week Meta and Google (parent companies of Instagram and YouTube) were found liable by a jury in the United States for the addictive features of their social media platforms.

A ‘constantly evolving’ landscape

The removal of more than 5 million accounts in four months sounds impressive. But this does not equal the number of social media users.

Many people hold several social media accounts. So it remains unclear how many children under 16 still remain on one or more platforms. The report also doesn’t detail how many new accounts children created since the legislation was implemented.

The report also does not estimate the number of under-16s who now use alternative platforms. However, there have been reports of a significant spike in downloads of non-mainstream platforms (such as RedNote, Yope and Lemon8) since December.

The report acknowledges the social media landscape is “constantly evolving” and that it’s impossible to maintain a complete list of platforms that fall under the age restrictions. However, eSafety does maintain a list of the initial platforms included under the ban legislation, and those that have self-identified and agreed to comply. These include Bluesky, dating platforms (such as Tinder) and Lemon8, but other platforms remain accessible to under-16s.

Since December, there have also been questions about whether Australia’s ban should extend to other platforms.

Reports point to the legislation’s “loophole” for gaming apps and exclusions for messaging apps such as WhatsApp and Messenger, as well as other platforms that include social networking features.

Roblox, which was initially considered under the ban and then exempted, has also made headlines related to child safety.

It is currently being reviewed by the government over concerns about child grooming.

Unanswered questions

As eSafety continues to investigate issues related to compliance with the legislation, several key questions remain unanswered.

One is to do with the “reasonable steps” social media companies must take to comply with social media age restrictions. The report says this is “ultimately a question for the courts to determine”. It also explains that defining what steps are reasonable must be considered “in the context of the platform’s service, technological feasibility, and the regulatory landscape”.

But if a company uses age-assurance technologies, whose inbuilt error rates allow some children to slip through the checks, will that company be considered to have taken reasonable steps to control account access?

A second question is whether eSafety will extend its compliance checks beyond the five mainstream platforms currently being investigated.

As new platforms are launched, and as children continue to seek new ways to connect with peers online, the potential spaces where they can encounter harm continues to grow. Is self-assessment by technology companies sufficient to enforce legislation intended to apply to all platforms that meet the definition of an age-restricted platform?

Finally, will the government continue to add new rules to keep kids safe?

One key limitation experts like me have highlighted since 2024 is that restricting access to accounts does not address the actual harms posed by content, algorithms and other platform features.

The government has completed consultation on its digital duty of care legislation. But it is still unclear when this legislation will be introduced.

The new report on social media restrictions shows there is a long road ahead for compliance. And if we want to fully address the harms posed by these platforms, new legislation that actually targets the root problems is needed.

Lisa M. Given, Professor of Information Sciences & Director, Social Change Enabling Impact Platform, RMIT University

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

As school holidays continue around Australia, many parents are looking for educational ways to keep their children entertained.

If you own an Android device and have young children, you may find yourself browsing Google Play for educational and age-appropriate apps. If you go to the children’s section, you will be led to a page with “Teacher Approved apps & games” featuring apps for children under 13 according to different age ranges and themes.

Popular “Teacher Approved” apps such as learning app Lingokids and the game Bluey: Let’s Play have been downloaded more than 50 million times. YouTube Kids, another “Teacher Approved” app, has been downloaded more than 500 million times.

Google says “teachers and specialists” rate the “Teacher Approved” apps. But in our research we argue it’s unclear who exactly those teachers and experts are. The educational value of Google Teacher Approved apps can also be unclear at times.

What is ‘Teacher Approved’?

Google launched the “Teacher Approved” program in 2020 to set a quality standard for apps for children aged under 13.

To be included in the “Teacher Approved” section, an app needs to adhere to Google’s family policies, which includes having an easy-to-understand interface and content that is appropriate for children. Any ads, in-app purchases or cross-promotion “must be appropriate” too.

Google has an online course for developers who want to be included in the Teacher Approved section. We took this as part of our our research.

In the course, Google states “an app doesn’t have to be educational” as long as it is “enriching” and “support(s) a child’s healthy development”. At the same time, Google says teachers are assessing apps for “learning impact”. However, it is not clear how learning is assessed, especially for apps that are not educational.

Our research

In our study, we analysed how apps were presented in the children’s section on Google Play to make them seem educational.

We also interviewed five industry stakeholders (three founders/chief executives and two design specialists) from different companies developing apps for children.

We chose to involve industry rather than parents, as anecdotal evidence suggests parents have little understanding of the “Teacher Approved” program.

Confusing labels and categories

We found “Teacher Approved” apps are often categorised with vague or interchangeable labels such as “enriching apps”, “enriching games” and “games for kids”. This can make it difficult to understand the purpose of the apps, or to know whether they are educational or not.

We also found some apps with a “Teacher Approved” badge were labelled by the app developer as entertainment rather than “educational”. For example, Paw Patrol Rescue World was “Teacher Approved”, despite being labelled as “action-adventure” by the developer.

With the Teacher Approved badge Google creates the impression of educational value and trustworthiness for all sorts of apps. As one of the developers we interviewed explained:

how many people would look at a little graphical badge and go ‘oh, I trust this now, because they’ve got this badge’.

Who approves the apps?

The Teachers Approved badge implies teachers are used to evaluate the apps that appear in the children’s section on Google Play.

However, on the developer’s section of its website, Google notes it is not exclusively teachers who assess the apps. It says “teachers and children’s education and media specialists recommend high-quality [Teacher Approved] apps for kids on Google Play.”

In 2020, Google shared the names of two experts who were “lead advisers” at the time – a developmental psychologist and an education and media expert. But it is not clear who the “teachers” and “specialists” who currently rate the apps are and how many of them are actually teachers.

The Conversation asked Google where the teachers or specialists are located, whether they are paid, and what criteria non-teachers need to meet to be included in the program. The company did not respond before deadline.

What can parents do?

Our research suggests the current situation is confusing for parents. In the meantime, there are some things parents can do if they are not sure about apps their kids are using:

• use independent sites such as Children and Media Australia that evaluate the educational content of apps

• don’t rely on the content description on Google Play, but test the apps yourself

• don’t use apps with advertising, as this will interrupt the learning experience.

Chris Zomer, Research Fellow at the ARC Centre of Excellence for the Digital Child, Deakin University and Niels Kerssens, Assistant Professor in Digital Media and Society, Utrecht University

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

Roblox has announced significant changes to its gaming platform to enhance safety for children under 16.

The announcement comes just days after a man in the United Kingdom was jailed for 28 months for “obsessively grooming” a 14-year-old girl he met on the platform.

It also comes after the Australian government put Roblox on notice in February over ongoing concerns about online child grooming.

So what are the new safety features? And will they help keep kids safe online?

What are the changes?

Roblox is a massive virtual gaming universe which allows users to create, play and share games with others, globally. It has more than 150 million daily users and hosts more than 44 million user-created games.

The new safety features will start in May in Australia (and June, globally). They’re designed to build on features the company introduced last year, including age assurance checks, making accounts private by default, and grouping users of similar ages.

The company will introduce two new, age-based accounts: Roblox Kids for 5 to 8-year-olds and Roblox Select for 9 to 15-year-olds.

The accounts will have distinct background colours so parents can easily see what account their child is using. Users will be allocated to age-appropriate accounts through Roblox’s facial age estimation checks or via parental controls.

Roblox Kids and Select accounts share several features. These include having the chat function set to “off” by default in Australia (though chat will be “on” by default for Select accounts in most other regions).

While Australian Select accounts will gradually introduce chat for older children, both accounts will have parental controls to manage chat and block access to specific games for children under 13.

Once children turn 16 they will transition to Roblox’s standard accounts.

Successful age checks are crucial

In January, Roblox announced it would require age checks for users to access chat. It will now strengthen its approach to user age checks, using the same technology.

Access to content will be limited to a selection of minimal and mild-rated content, and with chat turned off, until age checks are complete.

Roblox says it will continuously monitor accuracy and require additional checks where player behaviour is inconsistent with the user’s registered age. Parents will be able to correct a child’s age where needed.

1. Developer verification requires content creators to either complete a formal ID verification or maintain links to a parent’s account, use two-factor authentication, and maintain an active, paid subscription to the new Roblox Plus accounts.

2. Real-time evaluation involves a real-time multimodal moderation system assessment to compare game content with Roblox’s rules, followed by gameplay by users over 16 to provide feedback and data on how people play the game before it’s made available to younger users.

3. Content eligibility where only content rated “minimal” or “mild” will be available in Roblox Kids, with “moderate” content introduced for older children in Roblox Select accounts. Any content tagged as “restricted” (for example, content that has graphic and realistic-looking depictions of violence or sexual themes) will only be available on Roblox’s full platform, for users 18 and older.

Changes to game classification

Roblox will also replace current content maturity labels with country-specific content labels under the International Age Rating Coalition. In Australia, the platform will use the Australian Classification Ratings.

This harmonisation is designed to make it easier for parents to identify age-appropriate content, using Australia’s current advisory ratings.

The new Roblox accounts are designed for children under 16. So they would exclude R18+ games, which will only be available to users 18 and older.

However, if games rated MA15+ are available on Select accounts, parents could decide to allow access for 15-year-olds.

Positive changes with some caveats

Roblox’s new account features and ratings are welcome.

But they show parents must be actively involved in managing children’s accounts, including enabling chat and assessing age-appropriateness of game content and features.

For example, the games and features included in each account will vary by region. So children may ask parents to add games to their accounts that are not included by default.

Parents may find age discrepancies between ratings when assessing games available in other countries. In the United States, for example, ratings include “Teen” (13 and older) and “Mature17+” (17 and older) that do not align easily with Australia’s PG, M, and MA15+ ratings. This means parents will need to carefully assess whether games are age-appropriate.

It’s also unclear if turning on the chat function in the new accounts in Australia will restrict chatting to others within the same age group, or whether parents can extend chat access to “trusted connections” in both accounts.

Currently, Roblox allows children under 12 to choose trusted friends, with parental approval. But children aged 13–17 can accept a friend request, directly. Creating trusted connections is not yet available in all countries. Even where it is, parents must always be extremely cautious when allowing children to chat with other people.

The inability of age assurance technologies to restrict social media accounts for as many as seven in ten children under 16 – due to age estimation errors and people’s ability to circumvent age checks – shows significant technical challenges.

Digital duty of care is needed

While some parents believe gaming apps such as Roblox should be included under Australia’s social media ban, the introduction of digital duty of care legislation is a better approach.

This would require technology companies to take steps to prevent foreseeable online harms – as Roblox is doing with their new accounts – and hold companies accountable for content and system design.

The government introduced, and later paused, digital duty of care legislation in 2024. But Minister for Communications Annika Wells has pledged the government will bring this to parliament this year.

Lisa M. Given, Professor of Information Sciences & Director, Social Change Enabling Impact Platform, RMIT University

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

New, more powerful artificial intelligence (AI) models are announced pretty regularly these days: the latest version of ChatGPT or Claude or Gemini always has new features and new capabilities that its makers are eager for customers to try out.

But now Anthropic has announced a new model with great fanfare, but is only giving access to a select handful of users. In what the New York Times calls a “terrifying warning sign” of the model’s power, the company has instead started an initiative called Project Glasswing to use the model for good instead of evil.

Why? Early reports indicated that the model, with instruction, had been able to move outside a contained testing “sandbox” and send an email to a researcher.

A little alarming, perhaps. But more significantly, Anthropic claims Mythos has uncovered software vulnerabilities and bugs “in every major operating system and every major web browser”.

Finding hidden vulnerabilities

In one remarkable example, the model found a flaw in OpenBSD, a security-focused operating system used in firewalls and routers, which had gone undetected for 27 years. According to Anthropic, it also found a 16-year-old vulnerability in FFmpeg, a little-known but widely used behind-the-scenes piece of software that helps computers, apps, and websites handle audio and video files.

Anthropic also says Mythos found several vulnerabilities in the kernel of the Linux operating system, and chained them together in a way that could give an attacker complete control of a machine.

Anthropic’s internal assessment of the model highlights both its technical promise and the need for vigilance.

The report outlines a hypothetical risk that an advanced AI might exploit its access within an organisation, but concludes that the model poses a very low threat of harmful autonomous actions. In other words, it is unlikely to “go rogue” – but may follow human directions to do things that cause harm.

Why Anthropic is keeping Mythos off‑limits

Anthropic says it decided not to release the model publicly because of its capabilities and the potential risks it poses. At the same time, the company launched Project Glasswing.

The effort brings together a broad coalition of tech companies such as Microsoft, Amazon, Google, Apple, Cisco and NVIDIA, open-source organisations such as the Linux Foundation, and major financial actors such as JPMorganChase, to channel Mythos towards cyber defence rather than misuse.

The idea is to give defenders a head start to find and fix weaknesses in critical software before similar AI capabilities become widely available to attackers.

Reading between the lines of Anthropic’s messages

This is not the first time an AI firm has decided a model was too powerful to release widely. In 2019, years before the ChatGPT era, OpenAI did something similar with its (now quite primitive-looking) GPT-2 model. (Dario Amodei, now chief executive of Anthropic, was a key OpenAI researcher at the time.)

However, this doesn’t mean these announcements should not be taken seriously.

Anthropic has published unusually detailed material for a model it is not widely releasing. Reports suggest US authorities convened major US bank CEOs in Washington to discuss the cyber risks associated with Mythos.

However, we should exercise caution about Anthropic’s claims, because outsiders cannot yet verify most of the underlying evidence. Anthropic says more than 99% of the vulnerabilities it found are still undisclosed because they have not yet been patched. That is responsible disclosure, but it also means the public is being asked to trust a great deal it cannot fully inspect.

What Mythos could mean for the future of cybersecurity

Cybersecurity failures can have real effects on individuals. In Australia, the Optus breach exposed the personal information of about 9.5 million people. In another case, stolen Medibank records included sensitive health information, and some of the data was later released on the dark web.

These were not just database problems. They became crises of privacy, identity and trust.

That is why Mythos matters. Mythos and other AI models like it could change the basic economics of cybersecurity.

In the past, serious vulnerabilities have often stayed hidden simply because nobody found them. And this in turn was because finding them took rare skill, patience, and time.

If models like Mythos can scan the hidden plumbing of the internet – operating systems, browsers, routers, and shared open-source code – at an unprecedented scale, then what is now specialised hacking could become a routine and automated process.

For organisations and software development firms, Mythos is a double-edged sword. It could rapidly uncover hidden flaws in their own code, but it also raises the fear attackers could find the vulnerabilities first.

The implications reach well beyond tech companies. Much of that underlying, invisible software supports many of the services people rely on every day, from electricity and water to airlines, banking, retail and hospitals.

What now?

So far, cybersecurity and software companies have been remarkably quiet in public about Anthropic’s Mythos. Many firms appear to be waiting and watching, unwilling to signal their stance in case the model exposes weaknesses in their own systems.

But developments like Mythos are a reason to stop treating cybersecurity as somebody else’s problem. For now, for individuals, the response is simple: basic cyber hygiene matters more than ever.

Update phones, laptops, browsers and routers. Replace unsupported devices. Use a password manager. Turn on multi-factor authentication. Do not ignore patch notices.

Those are the immediate steps. Beyond them lies a harder set of questions about AI and cyber security – about who gets access to powerful AI models, who oversees their use, and who decides what counts as the “right hands”.

Stan Karanasios, Professor in Information Systems, The University of Queensland and Saeed Akhlaghpour, Associate Professor of Business Information Systems, The University of Queensland

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