“Cashback” apps make an enticing promise. You download an app or click on a web browser extension. You go about your online shopping as usual, spend money, but then get some cash back. It sounds simple, right?

In recent years, cashback programs have made a serious splash with online shoppers.

The Singapore-based company ShopBack, for example, currently has more than 55 million customers worldwide and was last valued at A$1.4 billion.

And it’s competing in a crowded market, alongside companies such as Freecash, Honey, Kickback, Boost your Super and Grow My Money.

Even some of the big banks are getting in on the cashback trend. Westpac has partnered with Shopback, NAB has its own “NAB Goodies Program”, and Commonwealth Bank has “CommBank Yello”.

Of course, nothing is free. When a “middle man” cashback company is involved, either you or the retailer is paying somehow. Here’s how these programs work – and some of the risks you should be aware of.

Money for nothing?

Cashback programs entice shoppers with incentives such as cash, discounts and rewards when they make a purchase.

Some might be a free app, others a browser extension to use while online shopping. But they’re almost always designed to serve consumers with advertisements and collect consumer information.

The typical model is to track purchases using an app or browser, and then deal out “rewards” once certain conditions are met.

This could include:

• meeting a minimum spend
• purchasing particular products
• waiting until your purchase is tracked and approved.

To avoid products being returned after rewards have been granted, wait times for cash back can be long and indefinite.

Where does the money come from?

There are a few different ways these companies make money.

One is by providing a simple advertising service. Cashback companies will often channel online traffic to retailers in return for a commission. They then use this commission to offer consumers rewards for their purchases (and keep some for themselves as profit).

But they also typically collect extensive data about their users’ online behaviour – including searches for products they’re interested in, shopping history and more.

Your data is valuable

When you download an app or use a web extension, you may need to enter information or “accept” that the software will collect your information.

However, even when you “consent” to disclose your personal information, you may not realise the extent of what you’re handing over, including your sensitive information.

Most data collection, use, storage and disclosure is difficult to detect and track. Sometimes consumers won’t know what privacy implications their app or web extension usage will have in future.

In the worst case scenario, a consumer’s identifying data may be sold and bought multiple times online without their knowledge. (However, some apps specifically state they don’t sell that data.)

Consumer data is valuable to companies who are trying to understand consumer behaviour, such as purchasing habits. This data also appeals to companies trying to market products, networks involves in identity thefts, and scams and criminals who take advantage of data breaches.

What the law says

Information privacy is protected by the Privacy Act and the 13 Australian Privacy Principles that restrict how an entity can handle a consumer’s personal information.

This includes strict rules about management, notification, use, cross-border disclosure and security of personal information.

Private information can be subject to a data breach if adequate data security systems are not in place. And even large, well known and trusted companies are not immune to this risk.

For example, in 2023, Singapore’s data privacy watchdog fined Shopback S$74,400 (A$83,300) over a 2020 data breach that impacted more than 1.4 million people.

Private, personal and sensitive information can cross borders without detection and this can lead to wider exposure of information that may be used to identify or impersonate an individual.

Buyer beware

So, while getting 5% back on your purchases, there are a few key things to be aware of.

Consumers need to be careful when disclosing information to these companies and this includes information that can identify them as an individual. For example, personal information might include names, a signature, an address, phone number, date of birth or a photograph.

Sensitive information might include ethnicity, gender, health data or beliefs.

Generally, sensitive information has a higher level of privacy protection than other personal information, and should be treated with an extra level of care.

Financial information is a special category of information and consumers should think carefully before disclosing financial details to a third party – even if there is an incentive offered.

Mirella Atherton, Lecturer in Law, University of Newcastle

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

Social media platforms Instagram and YouTube have a design defect which means they are addictive, a jury in the United States has ruled.

The Los Angeles jury took nearly nine days to reach its verdict in the landmark case brought by a woman known as KGM against social media platforms. It awarded US$3 million in damages, with Meta (owner of Instagram) being 70% responsible and Google (owner of YouTube) 30%. The jury later awarded a further US$3 million in punitive damages.

Both TikTok and Snap settled on confidential terms before the six-week trial commenced.

This is Meta’s second big loss in the US courts this week, with a New Mexico jury finding the company guilty on March 24 of concealing information about the risks of child sexual exploitation and the harmful effects of its platforms on children’s mental health.

KGM’s case is the first of its kind, but won’t be the last: it is one of more than 20 “bellwether” trials due to go to court soon. These are essentially test cases used to gauge juries’ reactions and set a legal precedent.

As such, the verdict is set to have far reaching ripple effects. It could be big tech’s big tobacco moment, with thousands more similar cases waiting in the wings.

Machines designed to addict

KGM – now 20 years old – said she began using YouTube at age six and Instagram at age nine, and allegedly developed compulsive use patterns, including up to 16 hours in a single day on Instagram. The platforms’ design features, she argued, contributed to her anxiety, depression, body dysmorphia, and suicidal ideation.

Her case argued that Meta and YouTube made deliberate design choices – for example, “infinite scroll” – to make their platforms more addictive to children in order to boost profits. It alleged the companies borrowed heavily from the behavioural and neurobiological techniques used by poker machines and exploited by the cigarette industry to maximise youth engagement and drive advertising revenue.

KGM’s lawyer Mark Lanier told the jurors:

These companies built machines designed to addict the brains of children, and they did it on purpose.

Lanier cited an internal Meta study called “Project Myst”. This allegedly found that children who had experienced “adverse effects” were most likely to get addicted to Instagram, and that parents were powerless to stop the addiction.

He said:

The moment [KGM] was locked into the machine, her mom was locked out.

The jury heard that Meta’s internal communications compared the platform’s effects to pushing drugs and gambling. The jury found this internal awareness was the kind of corporate knowledge that supports liability.

In addition, a YouTube memo reportedly described “viewer addiction” as a goal, and an Instagram employee wrote the company was staffed by “basically pushers”.

Mark Lanier drew a direct parallel to tobacco litigation, arguing that where there is corporate knowledge, deliberate targeting, and public denial, liability follows.

Pointing the finger at the family

Meta argued KGM faced significant challenges before she ever used social media, and that the evidence did not support reducing a lifetime of hardship to a single factor.

Meta’s lawyer highlighted KGM’s family dynamics as responsible for her mental health struggles, and argued social media may have actually provided a healthy outlet for her when she faced difficulties at home.

Meta’s chief executive Mark Zuckerberg gave evidence for the defence:

I’m not trying to maximise the amount of time people spend every month.

On safety tools Meta added in recent years Zuckerberg said:

I always wish we could have gotten there sooner.

In closing arguments, YouTube’s lawyer argued there was not a single mention of an addiction to YouTube in KGM’s medical records.

The companies centred part of their defence on Section 230 protections, arguing they cannot be held liable for content posted on their platforms.

However, the judge instructed the jury that the way content is delivered is a separate consideration to what the content is. This limited Meta and Google’s ability to rely on Section 230 protections.

Challenging a legal protection

This was one of the first cases against big tech which was a jury trial – something companies have previously been keen to avoid.

For example, in June 2024, a few months ahead of a scheduled jury trial in the Department of Justice’s challenge to Google’s advertising technology monopoly, Google paid more than US$2 million (A$2.8 million) to the Department of Justice.

This was treble the damages claimed, plus interest.

In the US, a jury trial is only required when monetary damages are at stake. By paying the full damages amount upfront in that case, Google eliminated the damages claim and with it, the right to a jury.

Until now, US courts have largely denied motions that focused on design.

This includes infinite scroll and notification systems. The distinction between “platform design” and “content curation” has been central to how courts have analysed First Amendment arguments in this litigation.

The effect of the jury’s verdict in KGM’s case is to demonstrate the limitations of the Section 230 protection.

The first – but not the last

This is the first big tech case, on a global basis, that has examined addiction as a cause of damage. Other cases have focused on breaches of law.

For example, in the case in New Mexico against Meta, the jury concluded the company made false or misleading statements and engaged in “unconscionable” trade practices that exploited children’s vulnerability and inexperience. It identified thousands of individual violations, resulting in a total penalty of US$375 million (A$539 million).

KGM’s case paves the way for the many other actions seeking damages from social media platforms for the effects of addiction.

There is logic for these cases to be heard concurrently in a class action in the US. The verdict could also be used as the basis for both class actions and individual actions on a global basis.

Meta and Google have said separately they plan to appeal the verdict.

Rob Nicholls, Senior Research Associate in Media and Communications, University of Sydney

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

On October 6 1973, the Yom Kippur War – mainly involving Egypt, Syria and Israel –triggered one of the biggest energy crises of the 20th century. Eleven days later, several Arab members of the Organization of the Petroleum Exporting Countries (OPEC) announced they would stop selling oil to countries supporting Israel and would cut production.

The effect was immediate. Within a few months, global oil prices quadrupled.

After decades of price stability, the world faced a severe shortage. Petrol stations ran dry, with some displaying a red flag to signal empty pumps; drivers queued for hours.

In parts of the US, fuel was rationed by licence plate number. By March 1974, time spent waiting in line had raised the cost of petrol by around 50%, because drivers were also “paying” through lost time — hours that could otherwise have been spent working.

Across Europe, governments imposed fuel-saving measures. The Netherlands and West Germany introduced car-free Sundays, while Britain cut speed limits to reduce petrol consumption.

Today, as the United States and Israel continue a widening war against Iran, energy markets have again reacted: disruptions in the Strait of Hormuz, a key artery for global oil, have pushed prices above US$100 per barrel, echoing the supply shocks of the 1970s.

These pressures make it timely to revisit 1973 and why its effects were so economically severe.

When OPEC gained influence

The scale and persistence of the 1973 oil shock reflected not just the embargo itself, but how it interacted with the economic system at the time.

One important shift was that the US stopped being the world’s main “backup supplier” of oil. For decades, American production had been large enough that output could increase when global supply tightened, but production peaked around 1972.

Without this buffer, markets became far more sensitive to disruptions. At the same time, oil-producing countries in the Middle East gained political leverage by coordinating production through OPEC, strengthening their influence over prices.

Moreover, the international monetary system that had kept postwar inflation under control had collapsed in 1971. This agreement, known as Bretton Woods, had tied currencies to the US dollar. The result was that oil prices, like most commodity prices, were already rising before the embargo began.

Inflation surged, and so did wages

Higher oil prices pushed up the cost of almost everything. Transport became more expensive. Electricity bills increased. Businesses faced higher production costs and passed these costs onto consumers.

Inflation surged across many advanced economies. Workers tried to protect their living standards by asking for higher pay. In many countries, strong labour unions negotiated big wage increases to keep up with rising prices.

Expectations made the shock worse: fearing shortages, firms and households stocked up, reducing available supply and pushing prices even higher.

At the same time, economic growth slowed sharply. Factories produced less, unemployment rose and investments fell.

The economic consequence of this shock was a decade of stagflation: high inflation amid stagnating growth.

Governments tried several ways to respond. Some countries, such as the US, introduced price controls to limit how much petrol companies could charge. Others, such as the UK and France, imposed rationing rules to manage shortages.

Trouble for central banks

Central banks also faced difficult choices: raising interest rates could reduce inflation by slowing borrowing and spending. But higher rates also risked pushing the economy deeper into recession.

During the 1970s, many central banks including the US Federal Reserve struggled to strike the right balance. The Fed kept cutting interest rates to support the economy, but this only added to inflation.

The result was an “inflationary psychology” where expectations of higher prices become self-fulfilling.

The world today has stronger defences against an oil shock. Central banks now have clear mandates to keep inflation low and the credibility to act quickly. Research suggests the economic impact of oil price shocks has declined over time because wages adjust faster, central banks act decisively to keep inflation in check, and oil now makes up a smaller share of the economy.

Recent shocks confirm this transformation: the Russian invasion of Ukraine pushed up energy prices and inflation, but did not trigger a deep recession.

There is another difference as well. Today, high oil prices may encourage investment in renewable energy, and have the potential to accelerate the shift toward cleaner energy sources.

Modern economies are better prepared

The events of 1973 still offer an important lesson.

The damage caused by an energy shock depends not only on the size of the disruption but also on the economic environment in which it occurs. In the 1970s, heavy dependence on oil, rigid wage systems and uncertain economic policy amplified the crisis.

Modern economies are better prepared. Constraints on energy supply, however, remain real and the disruption to the Strait of Hormuz highlights this uncertainty. The duration and objectives of the current conflict remain unclear, and uncertainty itself is costly to businesses and the economy.

History is therefore less useful for prediction than for perspective. The size of a supply shock is only one piece of the puzzle; what matters is the system it hits, how long the shock persists and how it affects expectations.

Laura Panza, Associate Professor, Economic History, The University of Melbourne

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

Denim is present in practically every country in the world and is widely adopted as one of the most common forms of everyday attire. Its appeal spans generations and social groups: jeans are worn worldwide by those who follow fashion and those who do not, by people seeking to stand out and by those who prefer to blend in. However, many of us have never found the perfect pair.

Although denim has been produced since the 16th century, its association with American culture and durable workwear emerged during the Californian gold rush of the 1850s. It was during this time that Levi’s – now arguably the most recognisable denim brand – was established.

Levi Strauss, an immigrant entrepreneur who arrived in California from Bavaria in the 1850s, opened a dry goods business catering to miners. One of his customers, the tailor Jacob Davis, developed the innovative use of metal rivets to reinforce stress points in work trousers, making them more durable. Strauss and Davis jointly patented this technique, and the Levi’s brand was born.

Blue jeans were originally a seen as symbol of labourers (like the miners) and they also gained a strong association with cowboys. In the decades that followed, denim jeans evolved from practical workwear into one of the most iconic and enduring symbols of global fashion and culture. Film stars such as Marlon Brando and James Dean popularised the jeans and t-shirt look to a young generation in the 1950s. These films personified motorcycle-loving nonconformists, and 1950s Hollywood embraced denim as the garment of rebellion.

Today, the cultural significance of denim jeans has moved beyond early associations with workwear, the cowboy and the teenage rebel, to become a staple worn by people of all ages and backgrounds.

Finding the perfect pair

Denim jeans are often seen as a problematic fashion product in terms of sustainability, because their production leaves a considerable environmental footprint.

Cheap prices on the high street can encourage consumers to treat denim products as short-term items, reducing their lifespan. Cotton, which is commonly the main fabric for denim, is incredibly water intensive; the production of one pair of jeans uses approximately 7,500 litres of water.

Different components involved in the making of a single pair of jeans, such as denim, thread, cotton and buttons, can originate from different countries all over the world. This raises questions regarding the environmental costs involved in the production process. Further issues include that jeans are often not made from single fibre materials and therefore cannot be recycled.

Adding to sustainability concerns, at the consumer level, the perfect pair of jeans remains an elusive concept. But in a recently published book chapter, I explain that the perfect pair of jeans is elusive for a reason. Jeans have to be correct for the individual wearer in terms of comfort, social and personal identity, and also the complexity of fit.

Previous reports have focused on women’s struggle to find jeans that fit and are flattering. The inability to find the perfect pair of jeans may encourage overconsumption, due to repeated purchasing based on poor fit.

My research shows that this is an issue which applies to all genders. The men I spoke to noted how they resented paying a higher price for brands like Levi’s, so spent less by purchasing cheap, high street alternatives. This attitude can lead to overconsumption, as low price points achieved through low-quality production often compromise product longevity.

This demonstrates the perpetuating cycle of fast fashion, driven by cheap, low-quality production, and contradicts the original purpose of jeans of being highly durable and having longevity. The combination of highly environmentally damaging production processes with overconsumption results in even greater environmental harm.

Retailers can make efforts to reduce the trend of overconsumption with better fitting garments. However, fit is a complex issue for retailers as well as consumers. For the retailer, producing jeans in a wide range of sizes and styles is often not cost effective, and complex sizing systems can also confuse the consumer.

Technology could provide future solutions to improving the accuracy of fit. Personalised virtual fitting, made possible through improvements in 3D human shape recognition, could ensure improved fit for the consumer. This would benefit online shoppers, although the technology does remain in its infancy, and is yet to be adopted by major online fashion retailers. Virtual fitting rooms also cannot replicate the feeling of denim next to the skin, so although the fit may be perfect, comfort could be compromised.

Ultimately, the enduring challenge of finding the “perfect pair” of jeans highlights not only the garment’s cultural significance but also the opportunity for the fashion industry – and consumers – to move toward more sustainable, better-fitting and more thoughtfully designed denim for the future.

Rose Marroncelli, Lecturer, Nottingham Trent University

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

Insects first took to the skies about 350 million years ago, some 200 million years before birds first flapped their wings.

By the end of the Carboniferous period, 300 million years ago, some flying insects had become gigantic. Huge dragonfly-like insects called griffinflies had wingspans of 70cm – five times the size of the largest modern dragonflies.

These giant insects lived in a time when Earth’s atmosphere contained more oxygen than it does today: around 30%, compared with the modern 21%.

Because large flying insects lived in a time of high oxygen levels, scientists have proposed that they required these high external oxygen levels to power the rapid burn of energy during flight.

In new research published today in Nature, we studied the muscles of dozens of modern flying insects and made a surprising discovery: there is no reason the griffinfly could not survive in today’s atmosphere.

The structure of the insect flight respiratory system

Flying takes more energy than running or swimming, because a flapping flier must constantly work against gravity to remain in the air.

Consequently, the flight muscles use a lot of oxygen, and the rate of oxygen consumption increases roughly in proportion to the weight of the flier. The highest rate of oxygen consumption per gram by any known tissue occurs in a flying bee.

Oxygen is supplied to insect flight muscles through the “tracheal system”, a tree-like branching system of air-filled tubes that lead to the smallest branches, called “tracheoles”, where oxygen moves into the muscle tissue.

Each tracheole is a dead end, which means oxygen delivered to the muscle travels primarily by diffusion. First it diffuses through the air inside each tracheole, and then through the muscle tissue itself.

The old hypothesis

In modern insects, oxygen levels near the oxygen-consuming mitochondria that power the flight muscle are very close to zero. This implies that the structure of the tracheal system was just adequate to supply sufficient oxygen.

A larger insect would need a greater supply of oxygen, which would mean a greater driving force for diffusion, which in turn means more oxygen in Earth’s atmosphere.

The idea that the structure and function of the insect tracheal system limits body size has prevailed for the past 30 years and appears in educational textbooks.

Our interest in the theory arose 15 years ago, when we looked at thin slices of the flight muscle of locusts. The tracheoles appearing between and within the muscle fibres were few and took up only about 1% of the area, compared with the mitochondria that were occupying about 20%.

New evidence

We initially thought all an insect had to do to increase its oxygen delivery would be to increase the number of tracheoles. After all, this is where oxygen is supplied to the mitochondria.

To be sure the locust was not exceptional and to properly understand the effect of body size, we measured 44 species of flying insects of different body masses and metabolic rates. The project required five years and 1,320 transmission electron micrographs.

But the results were essentially the same: the tracheoles occupied only about 1% of the cross-sectional area of the flight muscles regardless of body size. In contrast, the blood-filled capillaries in the flight and cardiac tissue of some birds and mammals occupy about 10% of the area.

This shows there is plenty of scope to increase the number and volume of tracheoles without weakening the muscle. So the structure of the tracheal system is not an important constraint on body size.

Evidence from developing insects shows insects can grow more tracheoles in flight muscle in lower oxygen levels, and they pass this trait to their offspring. The conclusion is that the body size of flying insects has never been limited by the structure or function of their tracheal systems.

There is no physiological reason why insects the size of griffinflies could not fly in today’s atmosphere. And yet they don’t exist today.

The simpler reasons may be that larger animal species are more prone to extinction than smaller ones – and 300 million years ago, the griffinfly had no bird or mammal predators to watch out for.

Roger S. Seymour, Professor Emeritus of Physiology, Adelaide University and Edward Snelling, Faculty of Veterinary Science, University of Pretoria

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

Morgan le Fay is one of the most infamous characters of Arthurian mythology. A powerful sorceress and, in later stories, King Arthur’s half-sister, Morgan was a healer, a mathematician, murderer, adulteress and queen.

In later versions of the legends, Morgan is shown most often as the lover or enemy – and sometimes both – of many of Arthur’s closest allies, including Sir Lancelot and the powerful wizard Merlin.

Her surname, le Fay, is thought to be a combination of the French and Gaelic words for fairy, and refers to her fantastical powers.

Modern versions of Arthur’s story, such as the BBC program Merlin (2008–12) or the Irish/Canadian series Camelot (2011), continue this trend. They pair Morgan with Mordred, the knight who kills Arthur, pitting the two of them against the king and his knights in epic battles of good and evil.

Off screen, however, Morgan’s story starts completely differently.

A healer and mathematician

We first see her in approximately 1150 as part of an epic poem called Vita Merlini (Life of Merlin), by Welsh cleric Geoffrey of Monmouth.

She appears when Merlin brings the mortally wounded Arthur to Avalon (an island of magic) in the hope Morgan can heal him.

Curiously, this journey to Avalon is the only part of Morgan’s story consistent to nearly every version of Morgan that we see in later texts.

Unlike later versions, Morgan’s earliest form in the Vita Merlini is entirely positive.

The queen of Avalon, she rules alongside her eight sisters, of whom she is the most beautiful.

As a healer, she is an expert in herbology. She is also a shape-shifter, allowing her to visit cities famous for being centres of learning in medieval Europe.

Geoffrey also tells us Morgan teaches mathematics to her sisters. In 12th-century terms, this means she was probably trained in maths, finance and astronomy. While nearly every noblewoman of this time would have known enough maths to run her castle, Morgan’s education is definitely outside the norm.

The powers Geoffrey of Monmouth gave her reflected the early forms of natural philosophy, the earliest form of the scientific process. Natural philosophy was about seeking to understand nature and the world around you through reasoning, rather than religion.

Morgan’s powers fall under two key branches of natural philosophy: the science of medicine, and the science of necromancy according to physics.

The science of medicine is pretty much as it sounds. The science of necromancy according to physics, however, was not about bringing people back from the dead – it was the study of what was and was not possible.

In a period before biology and physics, many of the simplest processes – such as the creation of frogs from frog spawn – were considered occult.

The ability to manipulate these processes was considered the educated (and thus proper) practice of magic.

This early version of Morgan, although not herself a real person, was partly based on a very powerful medieval woman who was actually real – the Empress Mathilda, daughter of King Henry I.

Geoffrey was a supporter of the empress and this likely influenced his decision to depict Morgan as positive and chaste.

A personality change

As Arthurian legends were adapted by the French chivalric romances (a 12th–15th century literary genre), Morgan began to change.

She is still a fantastic healer, but is no longer queen of Avalon.

Instead, she has become Arthur’s half-sister (same mother, different fathers).

In the slightly later texts, she becomes vindictive, jealous and cruel, and begins to use her magic selfishly. Instead of healing, she becomes a master of illusion and enchantment, often using her magic to trap Arthur’s knights (particularly Lancelot).

In one example, from a text called the Lancelot-Grail cycle, Morgan is rejected by a knight who loves another woman.

Furious, Morgan creates the Valley of No Return (or the Valley of False Lovers). No man who has been unfaithful to his lover, even just in thinking, can leave the valley. The spell lasts for decades, until it’s broken by Lancelot and the men are freed.

We also see sleeping enchantments in texts from this time, which Morgan uses to kidnap Lancelot.

In later texts, things get much darker. Morgan enchants a mantle, a type of cloak, so it will burn its wearer to death. She sends it to Arthur as a gift.

He is stopped from putting it on by the Lady of the Lake, who suggests the messenger puts it on instead. Morgan’s assassination attempt is foiled.

This shift in Morgan’s character happened, among other reasons, because of increasingly complicated beliefs about what it meant to be a witch in medieval Europe.

Powerful, independent and vindictive

Finally, the nature of chivalric romance also had some influence.

This type of storytelling operated by strict rules in which a knight and his lover faced various obstacles in their attempt to be together.

Morgan, as a very independent figure even when she is married, helps fill the role of the obstacle for the knight – the bad guy.

Even so, Morgan le Fay is a much-loved character of the Arthurian legends.

Powerful, independent and vindictive, Morgan set the standard for witchy women.

Her influence appears today in everything from fairy tales to comic books – think of the wicked fairy from Sleeping Beauty, the White Witch from The Chronicles of Narnia and as herself in both DC and Marvel comics – making her possibly the most famous medieval witch we have.

Nicole Kimball, Casual Academic, School of Humanities, Creative Industries and Social Sciences, University of Newcastle

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

Every few months, someone in the superannuation industry declares that Australians now “need” around A$1 million to retire comfortably. It’s a big, scary number.

But consumer advocates say most people can retire with far less.

Independent estimates suggest something closer to $322,000 is enough for many retirees who own their own home. So who’s right – and what assumptions drive these wildly different targets?

It’s easy to put off thinking about superannuation when retirement is years away. In this five-part series, we ask top experts to explain how to sort your super in a few simple steps, avoid greenwashing, and set goals for retirement.

What the two key benchmarks say

Two key organisations publish retirement benchmarks in Australia, and they paint very different pictures.

The Association of Superannuation Funds of Australia (ASFA), the lobby group for the super industry, publishes two lifestyle options in its 2026 Retirement Standard. This was recently updated to reflect a higher cost of living:

Modest retirement: Covers the basics – a budget car, basic private health insurance, one domestic holiday a year. This costs around $35,503 a year for a single homeowner, and the age pension (the regular government payment available to eligible retirees aged 67+) covers most of it. You’d only need around $110,000 in super.

Comfortable retirement: Includes top-level private health insurance, a newer car, regular dining out, and overseas travel. ASFA puts this at around $54,240 a year for a single homeowner, requiring roughly $630,000 in super. For couples, it’s about $77,375 a year, needing around $730,000.

These are significant sums – but well below $1 million.

Then there’s Super Consumers Australia, an independent consumer group that recommends a substantially lower amount.

Rather than imagining a lifestyle, the consumer group uses actual Australian Bureau of Statistics data on what retirees really spend. Its headline finding: a typical single retiree spending at the middle level out of three options needs just $322,000 in super.

Remember, retirees don’t have work-related expenses and they also enjoy a range of discounts on things such as council rates, electricity and medicines, which can really add up.

Part of the difference is the industry body, ASFA, has an interest in encouraging people to contribute more to their super. Its “comfortable” standard is higher than most Australians’ standard of living while working.

Why the numbers differ

The gap comes down to what each benchmark is measuring.

ASFA describes an aspirational lifestyle. Super Consumers describes what real retirees actually spend.

The age pension does a lot of the heavy lifting either way. At Super Consumers’ medium spending level, about 67% of retirement income comes from the age pension, and the remainder from your super balance.

But here’s a crucial new factor: the age pension isn’t keeping up with what retirees actually spend money on.

While the pension is indexed to inflation, retirees’ major expenses – insurance, rates, utilities, health care and food – have been rising faster than general consumer prices.

That means retirees who rely heavily on the pension are seeing more financial pressure than the headline inflation numbers suggest.

There’s a housing catch

Here’s the crucial fine print: every one of these benchmarks assumes you own your home outright when you retire.

That assumption is becoming shaky. Research shows the share of Australians aged 55–64 still carrying mortgage debt has tripled since 1990, and the average debt for that age group now exceeds $230,000. More than one in three Millennials expect to retire with a mortgage still running.

The ASFA budgets are built on the assumption of full home ownership. That means they do not include rent, mortgage repayments or major housing costs.

If you’re renting or carrying a mortgage into retirement, the required super balance can rise dramatically. ASFA estimates renters need $340,000–385,000 for a modest lifestyle – more than a homeowner needs for a comfortable one.

Super Consumers Australia presents a similar gap, estimating that a renter requires about $659,000 in superannuation, compared with only $322,000 for a homeowner.

With more people retiring with mortgage debt today than previous generations, both key benchmarks may underestimate housing-related stress for future retirees.

The gender gap in retirement

Retirement targets are often discussed as if everyone starts from the same position. They don’t.

Australian women retire with about 25% less super than men. The gender pay gap (currently around 21%) compounds over a working life into a much larger retirement savings gap. Women also live longer on average, meaning their money needs to stretch further.

The government began paying super on parental leave in July 2025 – a meaningful step forward. But the gap remains significant.

What this means for you

There’s no single right number. But ask yourself these questions before chasing any benchmark:

• will you own your home outright?
• do you want to travel or are you a homebody?
• are you planning for one income or two?

The gap between ASFA comfortable and Super Consumers medium is $8,497 a year in spending – but nearly $308,000 in required super. That difference is almost entirely lifestyle choice.

For a personalised estimate, the free MoneySmart Retirement Planner is a good starting point, or call the government’s free Financial Information Service on 132 300.

The $1 million figure isn’t evidence-based for most Australians. But the lower benchmarks all carry the same caveat: they assume you’re a homeowner. As more people retire with debt or as renters, even those more modest numbers may understate what you actually need.

Disclaimer: This article provides general information only and is not intended as financial advice.

Angel Zhong, Professor of Finance, RMIT University

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

The Mediterranean diet – rich in olive oil, fish, vegetables and legumes – has long been linked to better heart health. Growing evidence suggests it may also help support brain health as we age, with a brain-focused variation of the diet drawing increasing scientific attention.

It is called the Mind diet. The name stands for Mediterranean-Dash Intervention for Neurodegenerative Delay – though what matters more than the acronym is what it actually involves: plenty of green vegetables, beans, whole grains, nuts, berries, poultry and fish, with olive oil as the main cooking fat, and limited amounts of red meat, butter, cheese, fried food and sweets. It combines the most brain-friendly elements of two well-studied eating patterns: the traditional Mediterranean diet and the Dash diet, which was originally developed to lower blood pressure.

A recent analysis from the long-running Framingham heart study examined the diets of adults aged 60 and over and assessed how these dietary patterns were associated with brain scan data collected later in the study. Those who followed the Mind diet most closely tended to have more grey matter – the tissue associated with memory and decision-making – and showed less overall loss of brain volume over time.

Both findings point in the same direction: that this way of eating may help keep the brain in better shape as we get older.

This is not the first study to suggest a link between diet and dementia risk. An earlier analysis combining 12 observational studies found an overall reduction in dementia risk of between 15 and 22% among people who followed Mediterranean-style diets, with the Mind diet showing the strongest effect of the three patterns studied. That is a meaningful difference, even if it cannot be taken as proof that diet alone is responsible.

Within the Framingham study, berries and poultry stood out as particularly beneficial for grey matter. This fits with what other research has suggested. Blueberries, for instance, have been the subject of several small trials, with one recent study finding improvements in memory even in people already showing early signs of memory problems.

Since red and processed meat have been linked to higher dementia risk in other studies, replacing them with chicken may be part of why poultry appears beneficial.

Some of the findings were less straightforward. Fried food, as expected, was associated with worse outcomes. But whole grains, generally considered one of the healthier staples, produced a surprisingly weak result.

The reasons are unclear, though large amounts of bread and pasta – even wholegrain varieties – may raise blood sugar enough to offset some of the benefits. The evidence on whole grains and brain health remains mixed, and this is one area where more research is needed.

It is also worth noting who, in the Framingham study, was most likely to follow the Mind diet. They tended to be women, non-smokers, well-educated, and less likely to be overweight or to have diabetes, high blood pressure or heart disease. All of these factors are independently associated with better brain health, which makes it genuinely difficult to untangle how much of the benefit comes from the diet itself, and how much from the broader lifestyle it tends to accompany.

What the science can and can’t tell us

This is the central challenge facing all research in this area. Most of the studies are observational, meaning they track what people eat and what happens to them over time, rather than randomly assigning people to follow a particular diet and measuring the results.

Observational studies can show associations, but they cannot prove cause and effect. Self-reported diet data is also unreliable at the best of times – and particularly so among people whose memory is already beginning to fail.

The few trials that have actually put the Mind diet to the test have produced mixed results. One small three-month study found no improvement in memory or thinking skills, though participants did report better mood and quality of life.

Another trial found improvements in both brain scans and mental performance, but the participants were obese middle-aged women who also lost weight during the study, making it hard to know how much the diet itself contributed. Three months is also a short window in which to expect measurable changes in brain structure, and longer trials may yet tell a different story.

None of this means the Mind diet is not worth following. The broader evidence – across multiple studies and populations – consistently points in the same direction, and there is little downside to eating more vegetables, berries, fish and olive oil.

But diet is only one piece of a much larger picture. Not smoking, staying active, keeping blood pressure and blood sugar under control, and maintaining social connections all appear to matter at least as much when it comes to keeping the brain healthy in later life.

The Mind diet is not a cure for dementia, and it would be misleading to present it as one. What the evidence does suggest is that the food choices we make over decades – not just in later life, but across adulthood – may quietly shape the health of our brains in ways that only become visible much later. That is not a guarantee, but it is a reasonable basis for eating well.

Eef Hogervorst, Professor of Biological Psychology, Loughborough University

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“Boy kibble” is the latest food trend that has young men (and some women) preparing simple meals that – you guessed it – look like dog food, or “kibble”.

Typically, boy kibble is made up of rice and minced or ground meat, usually beef, along with various other optional ingredients.

Social media loves it because it’s cheap, easy to make and high in protein.

But is it healthy? Let’s break down the nutritional content and see what else you can add to boost nutrients and flavour.

What’s the appeal?

Boy kibble is especially popular among young men and those who want to build muscle. It is a high-protein meal, meaning it can help support muscle maintenance and growth.

But boy kibble is also a simple recipe with only a few, relatively affordable, ingredients that can be adjusted according to personal needs and preferences.

The dish can be cooked in bulk and portioned out for multiple meals in advance. It’s also quick to prepare and doesn’t require advanced cooking skills.

And while it may look like dog food, the unassuming dish single-handedly overcomes many of the barriers young adults commonly report to healthy eating, such as lack of time to prepare food, the cost of healthy food, and a preference for convenience.

How healthy is boy kibble?

The two main ingredients in boy kibble are white rice and minced meat. Mince is the main source of protein in the meal and is also a source of fat, iron, zinc, phosphorus, potassium, selenium and some B vitamins.

The white rice is a source of carbohydrates but is very low in any other nutrients.

These two ingredients do provide some nutrients on their own, potentially hitting macronutrient targets. For example, a dish of boy kibble likely provides enough protein to meet the recommendation for young adults to maintain their muscle mass: eating more than 0.24 grams of protein per kilogram of body weight at each meal (this is roughly 22g of protein for a 90kg adult).

But for a main meal, it is important to also be getting fibre and other vitamins.

Luckily, there are many easy ways to bulk up the nutrients in your boy kibble, while also adding flavour.

How can I boost nutrition?

The simplest way to boost vitamins, fibre and other beneficial compounds is by adding vegetables.

You can still keep it low-key. This could look like adding mixed frozen vegetables, frying off onion and garlic with the meat, or serving with a quick stir fry of broccoli, capsicum and spinach.

Choose your favourite vegetables and go for a few different colours for maximum nutrition and health benefits.

Canned beans, such as kidney beans, are also a great addition or alternative to meat, as they provide protein and fibre.

Another simple switch to increase fibre and mineral content is to use brown rice instead of white rice.

Herbs and spices can add flavour to your meal, and also have the benefit of containing various health-promoting compounds.

The positives

Yes, boy kibble is a very basic recipe. But as an expert in nutrition, I am optimistic. It’s promising to see young men engaging with food planning, preparation and cooking – all essential skills for supporting health and wellbeing.

Confidence in cooking ability and preparing meals at home are both associated with overall healthier dietary patterns among young adults, which can last a lifetime.

And it’s very easy to turn basic boy kibble into a nutritious and delicious meal that is still simple, practical and affordable.

But there can be downsides

Research shows that, among young adults, body ideals that are reinforced by peer and media influence can contribute to body dissatisfaction and disordered eating and exercising. This includes behaviours focused on muscle building.

When muscle building is motivated by appearance and aligning with body ideals, it is more likely to lead to risky behaviours such as restricted eating or excessive exercising, compared to when this behaviour is motivated by improving health, longevity and strength.

From a nutritional perspective, focusing too much on any single nutrient – including increasing protein intake – can lead to an imbalanced diet, overlooking other important nutrients.

Viewing meals as purely functional can also detract from the enjoyment and pleasure of eating. Research shows if you enjoy eating, you are more likely to eat well. So enjoying the food you eat may help with sustaining healthy eating habits.

The takeaway

Boy kibble can be a nutritious, convenient and affordable meal – that is even better if you enjoy it. But while your dog may eat kibble every day, for humans variety is key.

A dash of creativity on the “bowl” dinner idea can spice up your weekly menu rotation: a taco bowl, burrito bowl or poke bowl usually involves rice with fish or meat, but these also pack in plenty of veggies, herbs, spices and interesting textures, and may include yoghurt or cheese too. Bowl dinners are delicious, nutritious, and can easily be adapted to suit your tastes and budget.

For even more variety, you could also try using a boiled or baked jacket potato – skin on – as a base with different toppings.

Margaret Murray, Senior Lecturer, Nutrition, Swinburne University of Technology

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

While most Australians embrace multiculturalism, migration remains a contentious topic in Australia. Negative opinions, often unsubstantiated, are regularly aired in public debate.

Our new report, Settling well in regional Australia: experiences of people from refugee backgrounds, uncovers a different picture.

Our team surveyed 628 people from refugee backgrounds in cities and towns across regional Australia. We also interviewed more than 300 people, including refugees and members of the broader community.

Consistently, we encountered stories of welcome, belonging, and regional Australian towns embracing refugee communities – and benefiting from their contributions.

Regional focus

Refugees make up just a small proportion of Australia’s annual migration intake — approximately 20,000 arrive each year through the refugee and humanitarian program.

Refugees are people who’ve been forced to flee their countries due to conflicts and fear of persecution for reasons including ethnicity, religion, gender, political opinion and sexuality.

Historically, most refugees who have come to Australia have settled in major cities such as Sydney, Melbourne, or Brisbane.

Since the early 2000s, however, Australian government policy has encouraged migrants and refugees to settle regionally, to reduce population pressure in cities and boost regional economies.

The Settling Well project

Settling Well investigates the impacts of refugee settlement in regional Australia, for people from refugee backgrounds and the communities where they live.

Unlike other large studies on refugee settlement, we focus on regional Australian cities and towns: Albury, Wodonga, Mildura, Nhill, Orange, Cowra, Rockhampton and Townsville.

Our project involves 15 local community researchers who have experienced both forced migration and settling in regional Australia. We also benefit from the guidance of Gumbaynggir, Bundjalung and Dunghutti Custodian, Bernard Kelly-Edwards, around First Nations’ engagement in refugee settlement.

What we found

We found that regional towns generally support wellbeing and belonging for former refugees. Specifically:

• 81% of survey respondents felt welcome most or all of the time when they arrived
• 97% said their experience of living in their town has been good
• 76% of respondents want to stay long term
• 93% are satisfied with how safe they feel in their town.

One former refugee told us:

Every day when I walk the streets of Albury, you see people saying, “G’day. Good morning”. People are giving you a new life or birth – I call it birth because I lost hope in humanity, but I now call myself human.

Others noted how living in regional Australia makes it easier to learn to drive, find work and buy a home. One told us:

There’s still that psychology that this isn’t actually our country. But I think having a home changes that […] It’s a sense of security.

Another said:

I want to live in a tranquil place […] a quiet and peaceful place where I don’t have to deal with noise, pollution and all that […] I’m very happy in Mildura […] It’s very quiet and small and lovely […] I love it, actually.

Regional towns benefit, too

Long-time locals of the towns where our research is taking place noted that refugees boost the working age population, fill workforce gaps and allow businesses to remain open. One said:

It’s just a breath of fresh air, wanting to work, to do the overtime, to learn new skills […] without these blokes, your [business is] dead in the water.

Essential services, schools, and sporting clubs told us refugee communities make them viable. One person said:

There’d be probably four kids in our under-17 football […] To be blunt, if we didn’t have them playing we wouldn’t have a team.

Another noted:

They bring more children for the school [and] the school gets […] more funding for a support person – that’s good for everyone.

Refugee communities also introduce diversity to regional towns. One community member said:

Like anywhere else once you start to bring in more diversity it enriches a community […] the community is better for it. [There are] new ideas, new things [and] people enjoy that.

Challenges remain

Challenges include a lack of suitable rental housing, patchy public transport, discrimination, and limited access to diverse higher education opportunities:

• 53% of survey respondents said it’s hard or very hard to find housing in their town
• 45% have experienced racial discrimination, often on public transport or at work.

One former refugee told us:

I think the homeowners […] are worried, especially when they see many kids, they think [we] are going to trash or destroy, damage their home […] you just know it’s going to be hard.

Some former refugees told us they might need to relocate in the future for better housing, employment, or education opportunities, or to live closer to friends and family.

How can these findings be used in practice?

Overall, our research shows that regional settlement is working well in many places.

Former refugees are settling well in regional Australia, many want to stay, and local communities are reaping the benefits.

Efforts from policy makers, settlement practitioners and community stakeholders to address the challenges we have identified can ensure these benefits are sustained.

Eliza Crosbie, Research Fellow in Migration and Health, The University of Melbourne; Karen Block, Research Fellow Community Engagement and Social Health, Jack Brockhoff Child Health and Wellbeing Program, Melbourne School of Population and Global Health, The University of Melbourne, and Natascha Klocker, Associate Professor in Geography and Sustainability, and Interim Head of the School of Social Sciences, University of Wollongong

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

At the end of the day, as the sky begins to darken, many people instinctively retreat indoors, turn on the lights and miss the arrival of dusk.

A small but growing movement suggests people can benefit from doing the opposite: stepping outside and observing the slow transition from day to night. This practice, often described as “dusking”, involves watching the light start to disappear, noticing the changing colours of the sky, the emergence of evening sounds, and the quiet rhythms that mark the close of the day.

This practice is rooted in historical traditions found in places as diverse as the Netherlands and parts of Africa. The idea has recently been revived by artist Lucy Wright and by Dutch poet Marjolijn van Heemstra among others.

Wright performs a style of Morris dance that encourages participants “to dance the old sun down”, drawing attention to the moment when daylight fades.

Van Heemstra describes dusking as taking time to simply watch the sunset and the gradual fading of light as a way of reconnecting with natural rhythms. In a world dominated by relentless digital stimulation, she believes that taking time to look at the sky can help restore awareness of our surroundings. She now organises regular dusking events across the Netherlands. “All you need is a chair and a view,” she said.

Across cultures, dusk marks the shift from activity to rest, from work to home, and from light to darkness; a boundary where social rhythms change. These in-between moments can invite reflection on the environment.

Across many cultures, dusk has also been associated with uncertainty and imagination. The fading of light has long been linked to folklore, ghost stories and childhood fears of the dark, moments when the familiar landscape becomes slightly unfamiliar.

When the sun goes down

Dusk also marks a particular point in the daily rhythm of the natural world. Many species become active during this transitional period, including bats leaving their roosts to hunt, while moths and other nocturnal insects begin to fly, and mammals such as deer, foxes, and hedgehogs emerge to forage. Biologists often study dawn and dusk because animal behaviour shifts notably during these times of the day.

The idea behind dusking aligns with studies indicating that briefly focusing on natural surroundings can enhance wellbeing and relaxation. Simply observing changes in light, sound, and atmosphere may also encourage a shift from the constant hustle of the work day to winding down, potentially moving people towards sleep.

Sounds of twilight

In our research, carried out in the North York Moors National Park, participants said that while walking at twilight, or in darkness, they became more aware of natural smells and sounds. The group noticed the transitions from daytime birdsong, with the robin last to tweet, to nighttime animal sounds and the hoot of an owl. These moments frequently produced quiet reflection.

In the last century, the places where people can experience darkness have reduced dramatically because of increasing artificial light glow from homes and office buildings. Now only 10% of the people living in the western hemisphere experience places with dark skies, where there is no, or little, artificial light. And the number of people who can see the Milky Way is reducing all the time.

Previous generations were more accustomed to navigating in low light, using their senses to move through landscapes after sunset. Today, this sensory knowledge has become increasingly rare in our artificially illuminated world.

Artificial lighting frequently masks the subtle environmental cues that once dictated the rhythm of everyday life. Noticing dusk, even briefly, can bring those rhythms back into focus.

The sky darkens, the air cools, birds shift their calls, and the world moves quietly toward night.

To quote the 18th-century poet Thomas Gray: “Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds.”

Of course, watching the sunset is hardly a new idea as Gray’s poem shows, but one it seems we may have forgotten to value to our detriment.

Jenny Hall, Associate Professor in Tourism and Events, York St John University and Brendan Paddison, Professor of Tourism Geographies, York St John University

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Beyond the Meeting of the Waters is the life story of academic, activist and Yorta Yorta man Wayne Atkinson, which he has co-authored with Catherine Guinness. It recognises the long history of Aboriginal activism by Atkinson’s people – a fight for land justice and self-determination that will continue beyond him.

Review: Beyond the Meeting of the Waters: A Yorta Yorta Life Story – Wayne Atkinson and Catherine Guinness (Melbourne University Publishing)

The Yorta Yorta people first petitioned for their land in 1881. They walked off Cummeragunja Mission Station near Barmah, Victoria, in protest in 1939. They campaigned for land rights and cultural heritage in the 1980s, and for their native title in Australian courts in the 1990s. They are campaigning for treaty and truth-telling today.

From the 1970s, Atkinson has been involved in these moments of organising and uprising, as opportunities have emerged, failed and faded. Beyond the Meeting of the Waters explains his involvement, how the Yorta Yorta organised and the experiences they drew upon. Atkinson also acknowledges the Elders who have influenced and shaped him.

He does all this without heroics or grandstanding, bitterness or dispute, and always with reference to the many Kooris who were involved. He explains his approach to making change for Yorta Yorta and Kooris as “chipping away”. He sees his life’s work as being an “agent of reform” and sees himself as a pragmatist: someone who understands the process of change as “two steps forward, one step back”.

We come to know him as a musician, worker, intellectual, student, educator, community builder, footballer, researcher, commissioner and Elder, who speaks with authority on the people, movements and ideas who have shaped his world.

Atkinson’s Yorta Yorta life story opens with a hand-written family tree that does the work of situating Yorta Yorta and Dja Dja Wurrung people and histories.

The book is organised into six sections. The first introduces people and Country. The second explains family connections and Atkinson’s childhood, from the “riverbank to town life”, moving on to his working life and the start of his university studies, which often play second fiddle to the pull of activism, but are a constant point of return.

The book goes on to detail the many movements for political change in the 1970s, underpinned by a Koori “cultural renaissance” full of possibilities. Campaigns for land rights and cultural heritage are featured; successes and disappointments are canvassed.

Native Title would become the vehicle for Yorta Yorta people to organise. They would spend decades seeking recognition, and much heartache ensued. The book’s commentary on the Yorta Yorta land rights claim lodged in 1994, the legal ruling against it in 2002, and the personal toll it took provides unique insights.

The final two sections of the book share Atkinson’s innovations as an educator at the University of Melbourne, where he introduced his students to “on Country learning”, and reflect on “unfinished business”.

Dismantling the tools of oppression

Atkinson describes the Yorta Yorta as river and forest people. Their Country straddles the colonial state borders of NSW and Victoria. This has made them subject to an array of sometimes contradictory and confusing laws in two jurisdictions and always under-resourced Aboriginal protection regimes.

For the Yorta Yorta people, everyday life was thickly governed, so it is not surprising that Atkinson has dedicated his life to closely examining the colonial project in order to dismantle the destructive tools of control and oppression.

Central to this dismantling is self-determination. Atkinson cites the definition in the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples; specifically, he notes that Indigenous peoples are “free to determine their political status” and “pursue their economic, social and cultural development”.

He offers a simple translation: community control. Kooris should be able to determine their own destiny and have control over their own affairs. Self-determination means “handing the reins to First Peoples”.

Atkinson acknowledges that all Australian governments maintain a commitment to Aboriginal self-determination, but there is a “gap between the policy rhetoric of real self-determination and its implementation as a policy commitment”. Governments often treat “consulting” First Peoples as self-determination. As Atkinson explains, however, genuine self-determination is “about embedding change and handing over power and handing over resources”.

Traditions and practices

Another theme that emerges is the importance of cultural traditions and practices, along with adaptation, in order to maintain sacred relationships with the land. This includes challenging archaeologists to think differently about cultural heritage.

In the 1980s, Atkinson was part of the Koori Heritage Working Group, which developed a charter with the aim of regaining control of heritage. Until this time, Koori cultural heritage was managed exclusively by the government and archaeologists and referred to as “relics”.

Through consultation, the group devised a definition of heritage that included “those distinctive spiritual, material, intellectual and emotional features that together make up our present and past identity as Koori people”. These include “physical and non-physical things”.

The definition sought to recognise survival, through and despite the devastating impacts of invasion and colonisation.

In the early 1980s, the newly elected Cain government in Victoria, in which Jim Kennan, the minister for Aboriginal affairs, also served as attorney general, was well-placed to proceed with land rights and self-determination. Atkinson reflects on this as a period of revival: a cultural renaissance that confidently expressed “being and seeing the world though Koori eyes”.

But when it came to the campaign for land rights – a campaign that was running alongside the one for cultural heritage reforms – there were other forces to contend with. Atkinson explains the hostility that emerged from a coalition of industry, hostile rural communities and conservatives when he was working on the Yorta Yorta land claim for the Barmah Forest alongside his cousin, Sandra Bailey Cooper. He still ranks one public land rights meeting in the 1980s as “the most hostile meeting I have ever attended”.

Racism and fear eventually flatlined the Victorian government’s land rights agenda. It was another two decades before a historic partnership between the Yorta Yorta Nation and the State of Victoria was signed in 2004, returning to them a role in management of their Woka (lands) and Walla (waters).

Native title

After decades of working towards land justice and cultural heritage rights, the High Court’s decision in the Mabo case in 1992, which overturned the legal fiction of terra nullius and gave rise to the commonwealth government’s Native Title Act in 1993, created a new opportunity to pursue land justice.

One year after native title laws were enacted, Yorta Yorta people were again organising and strategising. Atkinson reminds us that this was the 18th time in the preceding 150 years that they had sought formal application for the return of their Country.

Over this time, they had limited success appealing to politicians, so taking land justice to the courts seemed like the best strategy.

Yorta Yorta people were the first mainland group to seek application to recognise their native title rights. They were full of optimism and carried the strength and weight of their people’s history. Atkinson was one of 16 principal applicants for the claim. He also worked as senior researcher, gathering extensive evidence and oral histories from older people about their Country, traditions and customs.

There has been plenty written about the Yorta Yorta native title litigation, but less so from a Yorta Yorta perspective. Atkinson speaks eloquently about the injury that these processes inflict on the people who spend decades in preparation and negotiation, only to find themselves sidelined, as the native tile industry – lawyers, barristers, expert witnesses and competing interests, including state and local governments and farmers – debate the merits of their claim.

Regional racism and a hostile media fuelled public fear. Others became emboldened to challenge identity claims. The newly formed National Native Title Tribunal provided little hope for negotiation. Confidential discussions found their way into media reports and the meditation failed.

In hindsight, Atkinson reflects that it was a “mistake” to have entered mediation. “Our experience,” he says, “showed how hard it was to steer a course through a minefield of bias, bigotry and the conservative rural elites.”

A travelling circus

In October 1996, Yorta Yorta people embarked on a huge undertaking, presenting their claim in the Federal Court. Sixty Yorta Yorta witnesses gave evidence, along with members of neighbouring groups. Hearings were heard on Country and the entire entourage visited cultural sites.

Atkinson describes the number of witnesses as “formidable”, the whole thing resembling a “travelling circus”.

Two years later, in 1998, Justice Howard Olney returned his verdict to a crowded and anxious courtroom. Taking 19 seconds, he informed the court that the Yorta Yorta case had failed. The full judgement ruled that the “tide of history” had “washed away” traditional Yorta Yorta laws and customs.

The Yorta Yorta appealed, on the grounds that the decision failed to recognise the capacity of traditional laws and customs to adapt to changed circumstances, rather than being “frozen in time”.

The case eventually reached the High Court. In 2002, Atkinson was joined in the courtroom by several of his students of Aboriginal political history to hear five of the seven judges rule against the Yorta Yorta claim.

The majority decision marked the end of the road to secure their land rights through the courts.

Deep thinking

Atkinson’s life story provides a compelling perspective on the Yorta Yorta experience of the native title process. They were the first group on the mainland to pursue their land rights through the native title system. Their claim covered a region that was heavily settled and populated, so they came up against powerful organised interests and a system yet to comprehend Aboriginal worlds in settled places.

The decision put native title beyond the reach of many Aboriginal groups in south-eastern Australia.

Atkinson’s account reveals the sense of history that permeates Aboriginal justice claims. “I still think a lot about all those relatives who suffered from this terrible judgement,” he says, “and those who are no longer with us and did not see the justice they rightly deserved.”

Yet Atkinson and Yorta Yorta people show us a path forward. This lies in a “refusal to yield” and the resilience to “bounce back”. Atkinson describes the grief and hurt after the decision, the need to step back, to heal, and for goopna ngarwu (deep thinking). The “gentle words” of activist Uncle William Cooper (1861-1941) offered consolation and inspiration. “Our pen is our spear,” Cooper wrote in 1938.

After some time recovering, the Yorta Yorta’s settled-upon strategy was to return to “base camp”. They would return to local political campaigning for land justice and a renewed focus on recovering the Barmah-Millewa Forest country.

Fighting back

The 2023 referendum to enshrine a “voice” for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples in the Australian constitution seemed to reawaken old biases in political life.

Some attribute the defeat of the proposition to the withdrawal of cross-parliamentary support as the campaign was emerging. Others have pointed to a new global politics that has had a destabilising effect on issues that promote democratic participation. Still others have suggested the proposal needed more evidence to convince the voting public.

It was a disappointing outcome for millions of Australians and will be a reference point for years to come. Atkinson explains that, in Victoria, despite the disappointment, the Yorta Yorta continue to focus on treaty, self-determination and sovereignty. He sees the focus on local issues as a “fight back position” that will allow “more energy to be concentrated on Treaty matters and truth and justice”.

Beyond the Meeting of the Waters takes us into the world of Aboriginal political activism in south-eastern Australia with heart and compassion. It reminds us that the campaign for justice is a long and abiding process. It is not measured in moments, but generations.

It is a gift to read Atkinson’s life story and learn about his Yorta Yorta Country, the strategies and ideas that drive change, and the resilience needed to make change happen. Beyond the Meeting of the Waters should be on university and school syllabi and read by an interested public. It will inspire and guide activists and allies.

Heidi Norman, Professor of Australian and Aboriginal History, Faculty of Arts, Design and Architecture, Convenor: Indigenous Land & Justice Research Group, UNSW Sydney

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